#he would spit on the grannys grave

[noodleshark]

we've seen feral six, and feral mono rights, but where is feral Runaway :(

#he would spit on the grannys grave #ngl #this kid electrocuted a grandma #HE 👏🏻 IS 👏🏻FERAL👏🏻 #little nightmares #six little nightmares #mono little nightmares #The secrets of the maw #runaway #run away kid little nightmares #runaway kid

[tcsauaskblog]

OH MAN I GUESS IT’S TIME NOW HUH???? THEN HERE WE GO KIDS

So Abner is one of the older cousins (about 7 years older than Fethry). He’s not much bigger or taller then other kids his age, but he’s built like a brick wall and stronger than he looks FOR SURE. He’s a rowdy kid, often getting into lighthearted trouble and roughhousing with other boys in the school yard, but all in all, he really is a good kid. 

He helps his dad out with the chores on his gran’s ranch without complaint, does the nitty gritty jobs so that his gran doesn’t have to, and isn't afraid to give his mom a hug and a kiss in front of the other school boys (even if they’ll make fun of him later for it, which he’ll then get into a tussle about, but more for the sake of principle than actually denying that he’s a momma’s boy and is embarrassed by her affection.) He really is, truly, a good kid. Just a bit rough around the edges is all.

He’s not good around kids though. He never really payed much attention to his younger cousins till they were old enough to actually hang around with. Donald was always a little too feisty and eager to prove himself, which Abner could respect, and he was fun to wrestle with once he was actually able to hold his own. Della talked a lot, but momma said that was just a girl thing, despite her being just as eager to wrestle and get down and dirty with the boys. Gladstone showed off too much, but sometimes his luck would get them free ice cream down at the shops on Sunday afternoons, so he wasn’t too annoying to hang out with. And it helped that Gus was around his age, and able to help him round up the little gang of hooligans when it got a little too much for Abner to deal with sometimes.

And then Fethry came around. 

And he was small. Smaller than the others had been, almost tiny in comparison, and Abner felt his heart flinch every time someone asked him to hold his baby brother. (Either for a family pic for granny or to help momma out sometimes when she was busy) 

It wasn’t like Abner didn’t like Fethry. He was a relatively easy baby. Hardly ever cried, compared to what Abner remembered of his cousins as babies, and usually was content just to be held and giggle. Abner just didn’t know what to DO with the kid. 

He was just. So. Little. little enough that one wrong move from Abner and his baby brother would break into a million pieces. Not to mention the kid was so adored by everyone around him and was the complete opposite of Abner in every way. Abner didn’t think he could stomach the idea of being the reason this little kid, who was all smiles and stars in his wide brown eyes, cried or got hurt.

So Abner did was any kid his age could do in his situation and just sort of,,, avoided Fethry. Not to be mean or difficult, but just to be safe. Just until Fethry was a little older, a little less breakable.

As the years went by though, it became harder and harder to break this avoiding game they were playing, despite Fethry’s BEST efforts. Because the kid LOVED his cool and distant older brother. He’d follow Abner everywhere he went, would try to copy some of Abner’s poorer choice habits (which horrified Abner to no end, thus furthering his efforts to keep away from Fethry so as not to taint the kid) And even though Fethry got older and wasn’t the baby he used to be, he somehow got even more fragile, even more precious before Abner’s eyes. The kid was as pure hearted as could be, while Abner, entering his early teen years, became more and more rambunctious with his shenanigans and got into a lot more trouble than he was probably worth. He became to hard to be near the kid, a shining beacon of everything good in the world, where Abner was bordering on the darker side of that shadow the beacon cast.

Abner didn’t really mean to get into as many arguments about his estrangement with his kid brother with his folks, mostly his dad. But it was hard to explain himself. Abner was a little too much like his father, where words were hard to come by and actions always did the job of conveying his thoughts anyway. His mother, a kind hearted and gentle spirit, was always able to see through his rough exterior and understand him perfectly, but even she was having difficultly understanding his hesitance to be around Fethry. Abner wished he could be a little bit more like Fethry, the spitting image of his mother’s kind soul, But alas, he was too much like Eider, and that made the two butt heads more often than not. 

It was Gladstone’s 7th birthday when the incident occurred. 

The party was being held at granny’s ranch, and it was a big family todo, (family events always were) and Abner was getting a little too smothered with all the constant chatter and loud music. He had only stepped away just to catch his breath, to be able to breathe a little easier without all the commotion. He had taken a walk down to the little pond at the bottom of the hill. 

He didn’t really like water all that much. He wasn’t a very good swimmer, and after the summer he broke into the movie theatre with some friends to see an R-rated horror film about a sea monster when he was 9, he’d never really been able to look at a body of water the same again. But he had half an egg sandwich he swiped from the buffet table in his hoodie jacket, and feeding the bluegills was always something that calmed him down, so standing on the little dock didn’t seem too scary.

Abner didn’t realize Fethry had followed him down to the pond. He should have. Of course he should have known the kid would. Fethry followed him everywhere, like a little duckling would. Abner should have realized Fethry would have trailed along right behind him.

But he didn’t. He was too stuck in his own head, trying to calm himself down from getting too overstimulated from the party. He didn’t realize Fethry was right behind him. 

He didn’t mean to jerk as hard as he did, when Fethry has reached out towards him, he really, honestly, didn’t. The kid had startled him, and Abner was acting on school yard protective reflexes faster than he could stop himself.

To this day he doesn’t really know if he actually pushed Fethry in or not. It hurts to think about. All he knows for sure is two things. 

That Fethry fell into the water.

And that Abner didn’t jump in to save him.

Someone did though, Donald a few seconds later. Where he had come from, Abner couldn’t bother to ponder about. Donald had always been a little too protective over Fethry, acting on those big brother instincts far better than Abner ever did. He must have followed after Fethry when he noticed the little 4 year old duckling toddle away from any adult eyes. He had jumped in the water immediately to save Fethry. 

Abner wasn’t even sure if the Donald could swim. It didn’t matter if he could though. That wasn’t the point. The point was that Abner didn’t jump in, regardless of whatever excuse he could come up with.

And he tried, for years. Abner spent countless hours trying to wrap his head around why he never jumped in. Why he couldn’t move. Why is heart felt like it broke the second Fethry’s signature, stupidly big hat, disappeared under the water. Why it didn’t feel better when both he and Donald broke the surface again, whole seconds later.

The coming days would be a blur after that. A hazy blur that Abner didn’t like thinking too hard about. 

The adults had come to the rescue a few minutes later, Gladstone and Della must have ran to get them after Donald had jumped into the water after Fethry. Fethry ended up ok, if not a little water logged and shaken, understandably. They had demanded to know what had happened.

And Abner couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even make eye contact. Just stared at his own feet, his hands clenching in his hoodie pockets hard enough to leave bruising as he willed the pain in his chest to go away. Donald had no such reservations, and told the story as he saw it. 

That Abner has pushed Fethry into the lake.

Abner couldn’t very well refute it, no matter how much he wanted to. He didn’t mean to push Fethry if he did, he didn’t mean to not jump in after him. He didn’t mean to hurt Fethry. He never did. Fethry was the last person on the earth that Abner wanted to hurt. But that didn’t change the fact that he did hurt Fethry, and that he didn’t do anything to change that.

He was sent away to a boarding school the following week. A school for lost and wayward boys. Boys who had caused so much havoc in their lives, that their parents didn’t know what to do with them or how to help them anymore. It was, for a lot of cases, a last ditch effort to save some reckless boys from causing any more damage to themselves and the people around them. Abner was one of those cases.

He didn’t want to go. Had begged and pleaded and fought tooth and nail not to go. Momma, the sweet soul that she was, didn’t seem like she wanted to send him away either. But Fethry had almost drowned, and neither of them could deny that Abner was the cause of it, and had said nothing to his defense against it. But Pa’s word was final, and Abner couldn’t do anything about it.

The school was strict, but it had never met a challenger quite like Abner Duck. Stubbornness was something tangible, flowing in his veins like the rest of the spitfire Duck traits he inherited, and Abner proved himself to be quite the problem child that everyone had always painted him out to be. 

It was about a year later, that Abner got the letter from his gran that his mother had fallen ill. She died the following spring. 

Abner felt out of sorts in his suit that didn’t fit him quite right as he stood in the spring rain at his mother’s grave spot. It was under the little oak tree on the hill overlooking gran’s ranch. The pond Fethry had almost drowned in was just a little bit away, in viewing distance at the bottom of the hill. Fethry was on the other side of his father. Abner felt bile creep up in his throat whenever Fethry would peek over at Abner with wide brown eyes that reminded Abner too much of their mother, and try to give him a smile. Abner tried not to hate him in that moment. It wasn’t Fethry’s fault. He was only 5. He didn’t understand what was going on. Didn’t realize the weight of momma’s death. Still didn’t really understand why Abner hadn’t been around the past few months, but still. There was a pit of anger burning itself into Abner’s stomach that he didn’t know what to do with.

He hadn’t seen his mother in almost a year, and now he’ll never get to see her. Never get to hold her hands or give her hugs or eat her brown sugar cookies that was the only thing she could bake without burning. The last memory he has of her alive is when she hugged him goodbye before the boarding school bus took him away. Abner was too upset and angry that he didn’t hug her back. If he had known that was going to be his last moments of her, he would have turned around in his bus seat, to at least see her wave him off, with little Fethry, not understanding the situation at all, waving good bye too.

Abner was incredibly heartbroken, but more than that, he was furious. Furious that his father had sent him away in the first place. Away from his mother, the only person who really saw him for his worth. They had gotten into another fight that night, screaming at each other so loudly that they neighbors dogs, a whole acre away, could hear them and started barking in turn. Abner doesn’t remember a whole lot of the fight. Just that they were both raw from grief and heartbreak, and that Abner knew, that without his mom, he couldn’t stay in that house. Not with a dad who was a little too much like him, and a baby brother who couldn’t have been more different. Abner left for the school again the next morning. He hated being in the school, but it was the only place that was familiar enough to return to, without feeling like it was a home. 

Abner got the news that his father died half a year later. Abner didn’t bother going to the funeral, no matter how devastated he was about the news. The only person left from their broken little family, the only person who would, undoubtedly, be waiting for him, was Fethry. And Abner couldn’t see him. Not now. He didn’t know when, but certainly not now. Not after everything that had happened between them.

Abner decided it was best to keep the distance between himself and Fethry. Nothing good came from them being near each other, and this way, Abner knew that at the very least, Fethry would be safer without him around. Fethry had granny to take care of him, and Donald and Della and Gladstone to keep him company. He didn’t need Abner.

Fethry would be better off without him.

#tcs ask #TCS au #Teenage Cousin Shenanigans #abner duck #boy sorry this was long #had a lot of thoughts about the boy #but there you go #that's why abner wasn't in fethry's life growing up #the long awaited abner story #the abner fic would have started out after this all happened #with fethry trying to reconnect with abner because he doesn't remember why abner left and no one would tell him the truth

[jackson--t]

Hate me, adore me. Part III.

Summary: Ivar, Heahmund and a desk.

Words: 3.3 k

Warnings: smut, swear words, dumb behavior.

Tag buddys: @youbloodymadgenius​ @jadelynlace​ @punkrocknpearls​ @neverwantedagony​

AO3? Here.

Ivar pulled his already folded arms in front of his chest even tighter and clicked his tongue deprecatingly; his eyes were still fixed on the scene just a few meters in front of him, in the middle of the city, happily bathed in afternoon sunlight.

It was Heahmund.

And as Ivar unfortunately had to get to know him even better while on duty, the older cop was once again busy giving friendly, disgustingly smiling directions to older people; Ivar was careful not to spit on the ground in public, but all this over-the-top friendliness sent sheer shivers of disgust down his spine. He had leaned to stand sideways against a lantern and did nothing but watch Heahmund; as his boss had already said, he would learn something. Only what, Ivar was doubtful.

"Can you tell me the way?" squawked an elderly voice beside him, and Ivar turned his gaze to a slightly older lady beside him; for a moment he was considering doing as Heahmund had done - but then he remembered that he didn't get a stomachache from watching for nothing. He looked at the older lady for a moment, then snorted softly, "Do I look like Google Maps? Fuck off."

He heard the old lady ranting two more streets away before Heahmund stood in front of him with a slightly furrowed brow and looked in the direction of the rant.

"What happened?" he asked, and Ivar shrugged. He chewed another piece of gum, and made no effort to remove it either, when he saw Heahmund's clear eyes land on his lips. He knew the expression on Heahmund's face by now, that "Ivar-please-leave-that-be" that he couldn't stand to death.

"She asked for directions," he snarled, and Heahmund raised his eyebrows.

"So, what's she scolding you for?"

"Because I said I wasn't Google Maps, you retard."

Heahmund snorted and ran his right hand lightly over his forehead; he stared in the direction of the older lady for a moment before looking at Ivar again. Ivar returned the look without any emotion, as ice-cold as ever. The only thing he did was make a bubble with his gum, and almost burst it in front of Heahmund's face. He could see exactly the slight frown line forming on Heahmund's forehead.

"You what? Ivar, in the regulations of the police union it says that the police should always have an open ear for the citizens," Heahmund said clearly, while Ivar just rolled his eyes.

"It doesn't say that! It doesn't say anything about me showing old grannies the fucking way to the next grave - they'll find it on their own," Ivar mocked, and followed the visibly annoyed Heahmund to the patrol car.

"You are by far the very worst cop ever! How did you even get through the exams?" Heahmund snorted; both of them irritably buckled their seat belts and avoided looking at each other, and Ivar braced his feet against the dashboard.

"I'm not stupid, okay? Just because I'm not smiling disgustingly and giving directions to every full-on jerk doesn't mean I have nothing in my head!"

"You have no education, that's what! And no manners! And no decency. Shoes off the dashboard."

Ivar exhaled in annoyance but left his legs where they were. "You've got too much of everything for that! You're disgustingly normal, boring, and the biggest square ever! If you weren't the boss's son, you'd be as much of a nobody as anyone else. I'm sick of your shitty ways," Ivar hissed; he looked angrily out the window, ignoring Heahmund, who glanced over at him.

For a moment he didn't answer, but then he cleared his throat quietly as he headed towards the guard. "That's not true. Feet down there. If we have an accident, you'll break your legs."

"I'd rather have broken legs than a stick up my ass."

"Fine. They're your legs."

"Exactly! Thanks, motherfucker!"

Heahmund rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."

They were silent for the rest of the ride, and even as they got out of the car. Only when Ivar was about to make his way to his own car did Heahmund whistle.

"Will you come to my office for a minute? We need to talk."

Ivar's mouth dropped open and he stared at Heahmund. "What, you're not my supervisor, no."

"Ivar, let's go. God, damn it…!" Heahmund murmured, and before Ivar could say another word, Heahmund grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him along with him.

Ivar resisted only slightly; but for the most part he allowed himself to be pulled along. God damn it, there was something about the nervous Heahmund, who was on the verge of a tantrum and wanted to go for Ivar's throat. Ivar bit his lip lightly as he thought about what Heahmund would be like in bed: was he rough? Did he need to be provoked?

For a moment Ivar's eyes just followed Heahmund's back, then slowly they slid lower, and he felt soft heat spreading across his cheeks. He'd almost repressed the fact that he'd jerked off on Heahmund yesterday and had come pretty damn good. Oh yes, and how. But that didn't change the fact that Heahmund was still the biggest douchebag on the planet. A good-looking one, unfortunately. Even if Ivar was sure he had seen a few little wrinkles around Heahmund's mouth when he laughed, which he was guaranteed to rub his nose in.

When they arrived at Heahmund's office, Heahmund closed the door behind him while Ivar walked through the office with curious eyes. He saw a hell of a lot of course certificates, awards, and honorary certificates. Some of them were even on the desk. Ivar looked at the things on the desk with a furrowed brow; he scratched his forehead lightly before turning to Heahmund and asking, "Tell me, do you clean these fucking things too?"

Heahmund exhaled a deep, annoyed breath before looking angrily at Ivar. "Yes, you should be clean in general... Besides, offices are to be kept clean. What yours looks like, I don't even want to know."

"Guaranteed not like the puked-up glitter from Marry Poppins. Heahmund, you're an abnormal person."

"That's not why we're here. Ivar, we have to get along. It's ruining the fun of the duty for both of us, and besides- are you nuts?" Towards the end of the sentence, Heahmund got louder, and jumped towards Ivar, who had gently nudged one of the awards to the edge of the table. It was just short of falling before Heahmund caught it with a soft growl; Ivar grinned slightly.

"Oops. Didn't mean to." he snarled in amusement, fascinated by the way red spots slowly formed on Heahmund's face in anger. The taller cop looked at Ivar, glinting with anger, and slapped Ivar's hand away from another award before hissing, "What's your problem, Lothbrok, huh?"

Ivar bit his lower lip; he had his lower back pressed against the edge of Heahmund's desk and was staring openly into the older man's face.

"You want the honest answer?"

"Oh, finally, yes!"

"I hate you."

"Ah, wonderful. You know what, Ivar?"

Ivar raised his eyebrows; Heahmund was standing in front of him by now, his strong forearms crossed in front of his chest. "What?"

"I hate you, too. Even more so. And yet I strive to go by the book and be professional!"

"You with your fucking duty rules! Do you get off on it? Is there anything that goes without regulations with you?" Ivar hissed; he smelled it again, Heahmund's perfume. It was heavier than usual today, and it burned slightly in Ivar's throat. But it was not a bad burn....

"Of course, although regulations make life easier.", Heahmund answered darkly; they still looked at each other deprecatingly, and Ivar snorted slightly. He tried not to get too lost in the soft gray of Heahmund's eyes, not to feel the tingle in his loins that spread like fire. It was hot in here, he thought.

"You must be fucking by the book," Ivar said harshly, and suddenly, without warning, Heahmund's arms were to the left and right of his body, like an iron body of fury. Ivar immediately felt the heat emanating from Heahmund, became muffled in the big man's intriguing, slightly beguiling scent; and though he did not break eye contact, he snorted. And swallowed, because he felt even hotter than before. He barely noticed his own slight movement that his legs made, unconsciously opening a little to let Heahmund closer. The air was on fire.

"How would you know? You would never get the taste. Not even if it was my last fucking day on earth," Heahmund growled; Ivar felt the warmth of his breath on his lips, and let his folded arms open slightly.

"I don't want that, either. Who wants wallflower sex?"

Heahmund snorted. "You are limited and full of prejudice."

"Am I?" Ivar said softly; they continued to stare at each other, and Ivar felt the tiny, tiny movement that Heahmund's hand made; it slid closer to Ivar's body, closer and closer, until it minimally touched his skin.

And then, suddenly, a fuse blew in Ivar.

He hadn't even taken a proper breath before both his hands clung around Heahmund's face, and he pulled the older cop into a series of frantic, breathless kisses, which, to Ivar's inward fire, Heahmund also returned directly. Ivar couldn't count the seconds, not even close, when his butt landed on the table, and Heahmund's body landed wonderfully firm and hard between his legs; Ivar moaned softly as he felt Heahmund's rough hands on his bulletproof vest, ripping the Velcro securely open, not hesitating for a second.

Oh, this man knew what he was doing. Ivar was still aware of that before, with a soft gasp, he tore open Heahmund's vest as well, immediately running his hands greedily over the tight-fitting black shirt underneath; and he felt a tingle so fierce, a desire so hard, as he found individual outlines of hard abdominal muscles with his fingertips, that his arousal rose to boiling.

Their kisses were hard, demanding, and anything but squeamish. Ivar felt the hot skin of Heahmund's tongue against his own far too readily to think now of what was actually happening here; his moans were lost in the sound of his heavy vest landing on the floor, dragging one of Heahmund's trophies with it.

"What regulation is that against now, huh? Oh fuck, Heahmund...", Ivar breathed provocatively, while his hands were already tearing the black T-shirt from Heahmund's body; he felt some seams cracking, but he didn't care. Nothing in his mind was there anymore, nothing but this body, this hot body, this man who was already tampering with his pants. Heahmund's grip was sure and confident; very different from what Ivar had imagined. And it made him hotter than ever. His thighs squeezed tightly around Heahmund's waist, and he let out a whimper when he felt Heahmund's erection between his legs, pressing against his, challenging him.

"Against 17b. No private relations on duty.", Heahmund bluntly groaned before his hands deftly pulled Ivar's black pants off his legs. Ivar grew dizzy; his gaze on Heahmund's steel-hard, trained torso breathing beguilingly under the heat between them.

"You look like photoshopped, you nerd. God, you're so gross!" Ivar whimpered between the feel of his own hands and fingers on Heahmund's pants button, between the feel of the hard erection throbbing underneath that he finally wanted to feel.

Heahmund kissed him breathlessly and so desirously that Ivar slumped slightly; he groaned again before Heahmund whispered with a slight bite to his lower lip, "Stay fit on duty."

"Stop it already, punk."

Heahmund's hands ripped Ivar's boxers down so quickly that Ivar almost didn't notice; his rock-hard erection sprang free, immediately enveloped by the pressure of Heahmund's pelvis, releasing another moan from Ivar's throat.

Ivar's fingers were by now clamped tightly around Heahmund's big cock, and he was busily hardening the already hard shaft even more. He hated to admit it, and would be guaranteed not to say it: but Heahmund was far better built than he had thought. It even drove a slight blush of shame to Ivar's face before his lips breathlessly rejoined Heahmund's. He could feel the pressure of Heahmund's cock between his legs, which by now he had willingly opened for the big man - it was so hot, so wet from precum, that Ivar was almost impatient.

"Do you have a condom?" Heahmund whispered hastily between hot kisses, and Ivar felt his erection already near his inner thighs, rubbing hard, demanding. He fluttered his eyes shut briefly, and he was gasping for air.

"Do… we... ah fuuuuck... don't need to, I'm healthy."

"But don't you think it would be-"

Ivar curled his fingers hard into Heahmund's chin, and let out another harsh moan, as Heahmund's cock pressed ever closer against his entrance; "Fuck, no! Spit on your cock and you'll be fine."

For a moment Ivar felt Heahmund's twitching in his upper arms, which were like a cage around him, like a warm, hard embrace; he felt the heat, the arousal that these words triggered in Heahmund, and almost had to whimper when Heahmund actually spat on his own cock with a rough and quick movement, making a few motions with his hand to spread the wetness. Ivar swallowed. He was dizzy with pleasure, and he never thought he would want a cock inside him as much as this one.

"Go ahead."

"No foreplay, Ivar?" Heahmund grunted, amused, and Ivar looked at him, annoyed; his eyebrows drew together slightly, and deep down he loved the kiss Heahmund pressed to his forehead before his dark and rough voice whispered softly against Ivar's ear, "I knew you were a little pain slut."

 Oh fuck.

Ivar's hands clawed fiercely at Heahmund's shoulders, far too tightly, as the older man slowly entered him; he opened his lips softly, gasping for air. Of course, it hurt - but that wasn't what turned Ivar on so madly that he lost his breath: it was the fact that Heahmund had just said a dirty word.

"Say that again.", Ivar groaned roughly, when Heahmund had almost completely penetrated him, the strong arms holding him; he clamped his legs tightly around Heahmund's waist and stared into Heahmund's beautiful eyes. The taller man paused first; he pulled Ivar's waist tighter to him, and the resulting jerk made Ivar see stars now, elicited a firm exhale. Fuck, who would have thought.

"I said I knew you were a little pain slut. I like that.", Heahmund murmured, before starting firm thrusts into Ivar's heated entrance.

„Ah, fuck.“

At the first moment, Ivar was left breathless. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't feel anything except the burning sensation of wild sex; he was numb to everything else. A guttural moan escaped him, and his hands clawed tighter as Heahmund began thrusting into him regularly and firmly, at just the right angle.

Ivar couldn't believe it. Heahmund was not only an overachiever in duty, but also in fucking. He just couldn't believe how fucking perfect, deep and wonderful those thrusts were, how deep that cock was inside him, how much it stretched him and yet blew his mind. It was the best fucking sex Ivar had ever had so far, yet they were only doing it for a few moments.

With a gulp, however, Ivar swore to himself that he wasn't showing any of his fascination and goodwill to the outside world, no way. He would never and could never forgive himself for that, and it certainly wouldn't do Heahmund's ego any good.

A stifled gasp escaped him as Heahmund intensified the thrusts even more, harder, while Ivar propped his upper body lightly on the table with his elbows. His gaze slid over the perfect body that was fucking him, grinning slightly.

"I hate you anyway.", Ivar breathed in amusement as his legs clenched tighter. God, this was too good. The thrusts were just right, and Heahmund's hard grip around his waist didn't make it any better for Ivar.

"I don't care. You'll forget about it when you come in a minute," Heahmund replied breathlessly; he pulled Ivar's hips a little closer, thrusting harder, and Ivar put his head back slightly.

"I'm coming guaran - guaranteed not first. You're always first in all races and stuff, you fucking...damn, Heahmund! - fucking nerd."

"The nerd who just gets to fuck you?"

Ivar reached out with his slightly sweaty hand to Heahmund's face, slapping him lightly before his hand anchored on the back of his neck. He consciously tried to resist his body's firm urge towards his orgasm, even though his belly was already feeling the warm knot now. When Heahmund grazed his prostate with another thrust, Ivar opened his lips again and closed his eyes.

"I know exactly what I'm doing. And you will never question that again, do you hear me?" Heahmund moaned darkly; Ivar heard exactly how close Heahmund was to orgasm as well, to that heated, pent-up, long overdue orgasm, but he couldn't let that stand. Under no circumstances would he come first. Ever.

"Fuck you, Heahmund." was all Ivar could get out between hard thrusts into his prostate; he gasped, feeling his first muscles at his entrance contract slightly. Heahmund had to feel it; the dark moan he let out left pure goosebumps on Ivar's body, which now began to tremble slightly.

"Come, Ivar." A rough whisper against his skin, a strong, heated upper body pressing lightly against his torso; Ivar closed his eyes, breathing in the heady scent of that closeness.

"Oh no, you'll be the first... to come." he whimpered; his hand scratched lightly against Heahmund's skin as he felt a hand of Heahmund's detach from his hip and creep down his neck; hungry lips found his, and with a sudden , slight ache, Ivar took burning notice of Heahmund pulling at his braided hair, pulling his head back ever so slightly; they looked at each other, fire in their eyes, and Heahmund murmured, "Come."

He kept that firm grip in his hair, even as his upper body straightened a bit again - he was fucking Ivar harder now, and Ivar felt exactly how his body was slowly slackening. He was already contracting internally again and again now, was on the verge of peaking again and again. But the firm grip on his hair, the unerring thrusts into his prostate - all of it drove him inevitably toward his climax.

"Dare you, Heahmund." he pressed out breathlessly, but Heahmund didn't stop, not even when Ivar tried to push away from him a little. But it did no good at all, only made Heahmund thrust his pelvis even harder against Ivar's body, fucked him even harder.

And Ivar came.

He didn't know where to slam his hands, what to do; he only felt Heahmund's hand stifle his hoarse cry, and how his body inevitably let the orgasm burst out. He didn't even feel if or when Heahmund came - he just knew that Heahmund was inevitably fucking him through his climax, not letting him go for a second.

Heat burned in his face, impossibly fierce heat, as he silently accepted Heahmund's handkerchief to breathlessly clean himself up; he couldn't believe what he'd just done, even as his eyes were already slowly sliding back over to Heahmund, who was putting his pants back on.

"Don't say a word now." he hissed softly, and Heahmund gave him a slight wink.

"I'm not the redneck after all. A real gentleman has decency.", Heahmund said softly, earning a light kick from Ivar. And though Ivar bit down hard on his lower lip, he couldn't hide a slight grin.

"I didn't come because of you - I was thinking of someone else," he said with a grin, and Heahmund snorted.

"Of course. Ivar, you're like 12."

"And you're a fucking retard."

"Does this ever stop?"

Ivar chuckled lightly. "You must be dreaming about that."

#vikings #ff #fanfic #modern ivar #modern heahmund #enemies to lovers

[ebaeschnbliah]

Creator of a legend ..... 

Suddenly touched by fame - joy and sorrow of an aspiring author 

Outtake of NRH Halifax

Last time Dr Watson had visited The Strand, his publisher gave him some useful advice regarding the stories he wanted to write about Sherlock Holmes, the extraordinary detective with whom he shares lodgings at Baker Street 221b  (Advice at The Strand).

Dr Watson revised his story .... and it got published.

°

TBC below the cut  (with a lot of pics and all the spoilers)  …

Fierce knocking at his door and loud voices interrupt John, while he is drafting another story for The Strand.

His flatmate Sherlock Holmes and his landlady Mrs Hudson demand entry ... rather forcefully. A very angry Sherlock thrusts a newspaper under John’s nose. ‘Was it you? Did you do this? How dare you?’ Sherlock wants to know and without further ado he pushes the puzzled doctor aside and walks up to the window.  Mrs Hudson watches but remains alarmingly silent.

Looking for help, John turns to his landlady and wants to know what has happended.  ‘You’ve been touched by fame, doctor. Look out of the window’, she tells him calmly .... too calmly for his liking.

As it turns out, a crowd of people has gathered unter the doctor’s window. The moment Sherlock looks out, they start shouting his name enthusiastically. Some of them are waving newspapers in their hands. Outraged Sherlock shouts back at them ‘What do you want? Go away! These are all fantasies, lies! Leave immediately or I’ll call the police! Go away!’  ... without any success. 

‘What are you writing, Doctor?!’ Sherlock demands to know furiously as he turns again to his flatmate. ’You can fantasise as much as you want. You can write about how you dissect frogs. But do not suck me and Mrs Hudson into this abomination! Do not, I repeat, do not write the exact address!’ 

Then, as quick as Sherlock had rushed into John’s room, he’s out of the door again ... the doctor’s boxing gloves tucked under his arm. Before he reaches his own chamber, Sherlock turns on his heels again and calls John a ‘filthy hack writer’. 

Desperate John trys to calm the waves somewhat. He turns once more to Mrs Hudson and assures her that he never meant to insult anybody. Not the best idea, as he finds out immediately. ‘Really? Is that why you described me as an ancient granny?’ Mrs Hudson spits at him angrily. 

John has barely recovered from his shock before a still fuming Sherlock comes at him again and continues his rant. The doctor has hardly a chance to get a word in and Sherlock doesn’t listen to him anyway. He is convinced that his flatmate needs to be punished.

‘I’m going to teach you a lesson’ Sherlock announces emphatically. John stays calm and tries to withstand that storm of anger. Only when Sherlock hints at a  payment of ‘thirty in silver’ and calls John’s pseudonym ‘foppish’, the doctor's patience comes to an end. Apparently a boxing match can’t be avoided. 

(My humble guess .... that ‘foppish’ pseudonym is Arthur Conan Doyle  :)))

John has exceptional fighting skills. Compared to him, Sherlock is less than an amateur. One can safely say that the clever detective is quite talent free in all matters of martial arts. But then, Sherlock knows this very well ....

Calmly John puts on the first boxing glove and the next moment he throws it away with a cry of pain. ‘Well? How does it feel?’ Sherlock asks, both pleased and intrigued, while Mrs Hudson starts screeming in horror. ‘That’s exactly how Mrs Hudson and I feel right now!’, he adds with satisfaction. John is at a loss for words and examines his tormented hand. 

Sherlock carefully gathers his eight legged pet animal and vanishes inside his room ... once more he calls John’s literary activity ‘an absolute abomination’.

Meanwhile Mrs Hudson has regained her composure, but she’s still a far way from being pacified, as Dr Watson soon learns. ‘You paid for the flat until the end of this month. So you’ll have plenty of time to find yourself new lodgings.’ she tells John and rushes downstairs without a further word. 

With a deep sigh of frustration John returns to his own room. He takes the  newspaper with his ‘offending’ story with him. After risking a cautious look out of the window, John sits down and starts reading ...

The satisfied look on his face seems to indicate that Dr Watson ... alias ACD ... is very pleased with his first published story .... ‘A Study in Scarlet’.

The atmosphere of piece and quiet doesn’t last long though before Sherlock calls for his flatmate in a loud voice again. Stay or go .... that’s the question. 

Eventually John decides to follow Sherlock’s call. He opens the door to his flatmate’s room consciously .... and is immediately summoned for a new intriguing case. Sherlock’s rage and anger have dissolved into nothingness. 

But this aren’t the only ripples John’s newly published story causes. While Sherlock works on the case and eagerly searches a dark tunnel for possible traces, Inspector Lestrade uses the time to exchange some words with Dr Watson. It becomes a somewhat one-sided conversation .....

‘Wherever you go, poets are everywhere .....’, Lestrade utters cryptically. John has no idea what the Inspector is driving at. Not yet ... but he feels a bit uneasy .... watching Lestrade fingering his gun in thoughts.

'It’s just me going to work and I don’t write any poems there’, the Inspector continues. And John’s uneasiness increases when Lestrade wants to know how much a writer gets payed for a line. 

Finally the Inspector comes to the point: ‘By the way. Why don’t you write about us? About us simple folk, who guard your peace every day? It’s true, we’re not angles, we’re the same common people who, sadly have to do with criminals, with murderers and with offenders. And there you are, writing some filth about us. For ten pence ...’  

Thankfully John is spared the answer because by now Sherlock has finshed his investigations inside the tunnel and interrupts Lestrade’s outpourings. A change of location is necessary. 

But John is not yet off Lestrade’s hook. At the next best opportunity the Inspector grills the doctor a little bit more.

John tries to enjoy his meal while Sherlock is experimenting and Lestrade continues reading the doctor’s first published story. “Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word - RACHE” .... ‘You sure can exaggerate’, comments the Inspector. And later he asks sceptically: ‘The murderers are masons?’ John is still at a loss for words.

Luckily the trio has to change the location again. Then the case reaches its peak and there is no time for expressing literary opinions anymore. 

The next day comes. The case is solved. Inspector Lestrade thanks Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson for their commitment. He also adds a stern warning - mainly directed at John - if anything regarding that case should find its way to the newspapers.  

Inspector Lestrade is in a hurry then, because he has to welcome an apparently special and rather distinctive guest at the Yard. A tall, lean man steps out of a carriage. He wears an Inverness Cape and a deerstalker cap and he smokes a pipe while greeting the Inspector gravely. 

Watching the scene, Sherlock has a sudden and quite unexpected proposal for his flatmate. ‘In your stories, John, if you still plan on writing them ... describe me as him.’

John clearly is very pleasantly surprised. Who would have predicted such an outcome after Sherlock’s fit of rage only a short time ago. John has already ideas .....

And he really can call himself a very lucky man, because Mrs Hudson’s wrath has subsides as well by now. :)

°

HALIFAX    part one    part two

A big thank you to @spiritcc  and everyone who made it possible to watch and understand this wonderful Sherlock Holmes adaptation.

Links to watch the series can be found HERE

°

January, 2021

#new russian holmes #nrh #halifax #episode six #creater of a legend #dr watson #suddenly touched by fame

[captain-emmajones]

Love, Emma (6/7)

(Art by the wonderful @carpedzem​ <3)

Loosely based on Love, Rosie (2014).

Killian and Emma are best friends and neighbors. They’ve always been – until he leaves for the Navy when his brother dies. When he comes back, nine months later, summer has begun and childhood is ending. Emma can tell something is changed in him, but she doesn’t know what. Until she does. He’s fallen in love with someone else.

And then, suddenly, they’re kissing on her nineteenth birthday. When she asks him to forget their night out, and never talk about it again, Killian thinks she means to tell him she regrets the kiss they exchanged. Except she has no memory of it.

Killian and Emma will dance around each other, until their heads spin and their legs hurt, and everything becomes blurry and it has to stop – for both of their sake.

A huge thank you to @profdanglaisstuff who beta’d this and gave me her precious thoughts <3

Friends to Lovers - Mutual Pining - Angst - Fluff - 6000 words - ao3

Part 1 - MIRRORBALL, Part 2 - AUGUST , Part 3 - HOAX, Part 4 - PEACE, Part 5 - THIS IS ME TRYING,  Part 7 - INVISIBLE STRING

Note: Everyone gives a lot of love to @carpedzem​ who drew this wonderful art for this fanfic :’)) 

Quick Summary: Last chapter ended on Neal finding Killian's love letter to Emma. This chapter opens on Emma, a week after Killian and Emma's kiss.

Reminder: Present time is Emma’s wedding to Neal, and that scene on the balcony during which Killian congratulates Emma on her wedding -- although he’s mostly dying inside. The words “I love you” slip out of his mouth, however he’s quick to add “as a friend” which leaves us with two very sad individuals who are both committing a grave mistake.

PART 6 - CARDIGAN

Six months before Emma’s wedding, a week after Emma and Killian’s kiss.  

Emma tosses and turns in her bed. She does not want to glance at the clock sitting on her bedside table. It’s probably joyfully, painfully displaying a horrendous number set between 1am and 5am and Emma wants nothing to do with it.

 There is not a spark of light in the room she shares with Neal, the heavy window shutters closed down.

 Emma wishes there was some kind of light. Perhaps then the weight over her chest would feel less terrifying, would feel less like the terrible, dark blue waves of a tormented sea she watches swallow her alive and spit her back onto the sand. 

 She’s battered between the waves, back and forth, back and forth, skin rocking against water, until she manages to reach the surface and breathes in deeply.

 But she’s only inhaling sea water and it fills her lungs and brings her to tears and it’s bitter, and it’s shit, and she cannot forget the taste of Killian’s lips.

 Another turn, a grunt of anger and despair.

 How dare he kiss her and let her leave him when he was in pain. How dare he.

 It was inevitable, whispers another part of her, but that part she ignores diligently. 

 Nothing is inevitable. Especially cheating on her future husband. With her friend whose feet were barely out of the surgery block.

 Well, she didn’t properly cheat if he was the one to kiss her…that would have been true, had she not furthered their kiss.

 Had she not backed him into his chair and sucked his breath away and marked his scalp with her fingers and tugged on his hair and filled his entire being with her, and her only. It was long overdue, after all.

 She turns, more aggressively this time, nearly knicks Neal out of the bed, her right foot whizzing past him. 

 She kissed him back because he was clearly seeking support and comfort and because a part of her will always love him, has always loved him and there’s nothing wrong with that.

 Horseshit.

 It is wrong. Utterly, completely, wrong.

 Nobody deserves to be cheated on. Nobody. Period.

 She’s just a piece of shit, now, is she?

 She glances on the side. Neal is still laying on his back, peacefully snoring, one arm flung across his face. She nearly hates him for it. She totally hates him for it.

 His chest raises up and down, comfortably, peacefully. What would Emma give for just an ounce of peace in her veins.

 Her breath is coming out in short puffs.

 It was inevitable, stammers once again her inner voice.

 “NO.”

 And the scream she thought only existed in her mind causes Neal to startle next to her, and this time she’s thankful it is complete darkness in their room, because he cannot see the flush on her cheeks.

 She can make out the shadow of his head lifting in the dark, and she imagines his features groggy with sleep. “You okay, Emma?”

 She turns back, grumbles. “Yeah, don’t worry. It’s just a nightmare.” And she definitely sounds like she’s blaming him for it.

 .

A long, tortuous week flies by. Emma’s under-eye circles darken with each passing day, and she is alarmly pale when Graham asks her in a weary tone: “You’re sure everything’s okay, Emma?”

 She nods and glances down at where Graham has been looking, and she realizes she’s been holding the files upside down.

 Well.

 “Shit. Yes. Sorry, Graham. I’ve been having a rough couple of days, is all.”

 And then Graham does this thing where he leans into her space, with his big brown eyes, and this kindness in his smile, and he inquires again: “Everything okay with Neal?”

 And Emma nods a bit too abruptly for it to be believable, and she knows Graham is smart enough to see it, but she nods harder, it’s the only movement her brain seems to know. “Neal? It’s never been better.” And a quick, lively chuckle to seal the deal. 

 And really had she laughed harder she would have choked on her fears.

 (Her fears have blue eyes and are missing a limb now, and she does not dare to send him a text, to ask him “How are you?” because he must be feeling like shit, and in part it is because of her, she left him, but he had no right to kiss her like this and she had no right to kiss him back.)

 .

 She has David on the phone later this week.

 “Hello, Emma. I’ve arrived in Portsmouth. I’ll be spending the week with him.”

 She hates the feeling of guilt that circles her heart, even as she sighs her biggest sigh of relief. 

“Thank you, David, it means the world. I would have come, you know, but I’m so busy with the wedding and the sheriff station and—”

 “Sure thing, Emma,” he blurts out and Emma thinks he sounds so accusative, it nearly knocks her out. She is convinced she deserves it. “I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.” A few words more, and he hangs up.

 For the first time in ages, Emma feels like Killian and she are on opposite teams, and David has chosen his.

 She swallows a lump down her throat. 

 .

 Emma caves in on Saturday night. Outside, the rain is pouring heavily against her windows. The wind is also howling, curling around the walls of the house and threatening to crush it under its strength. 

Neal is out at Granny’s watching a soccer game with friends when Emma sits down on the hard wooden floor of their living room. Her legs are crossed and her heart is drumming in her ears, and she calls him. There’s a bottle of red wine in front of her, and it’s looking at her with a lot of judgement in its glassy eyes but Emma doesn’t care.

 She cannot go on like this. She needs to know that he is alright, and that this was all a grave, stupid mistake, and she needs him to say something like “I’m fine, Emma, I’ll survive this” but also “I meant to do that for years” and then it would be her cue to nod under the ceiling light, tears in her smile and she’d say some stupid shit like “Oh god, I’ve been waiting for you to say that” and then she’d drop everything to fly back to him and they’d be happy together or some shit.

 Ring, ring, ring.

 That’s a lovely dream indeed.

 Ring, ring, ring.

 And just as Emma gets impatient, not to say she gets scared, a voice answers her. It’s a groggy, foggy voice, and it does not belong to Killian.

 “Hello, what is it?” The voice echoes, chuckles, as music resonates behind it, and it is the voice of a woman.

 Emma figures they must be in some kind of pub, just like Neal is.

 “Is this Killian’s phone?” attempts Emma, fingers clutched onto the phone, and heart on her sleeves.

 “Yup...” Another giggle. Emma decides she hates the voice. “But he is currently unavailable. Do you want me to give him a message?”

 And then Emma hears his voice, emerging from a twirl of songs and other talks. “Why are you using my phone, Tink?”

 Emma thinks Killian’s voice irrupts into her empty house just as a gust of wind rattles her shutters. She flinches. And for a minute, glances above her shoulder, afraid that he might appear behind her back. 

But silence is her only companion. And this house is so impressively, distinctively silent. 

 Something clicks inside of Emma’s brain. Tink. She knows Tink. What’s her real name? Mary something. They went to high school together, and she had a disgustingly big crush on Killian, and, and –

 “I dunno, some chick.”

 And Emma barely has time to hear Killian’s “Which chick?” before she hangs up on a whim.

 She heaves, hands trembling around the phone, and something grotesque disfigures her face.  

 She was worried about him and he’s been having the time of his life with this Tink, and, and – what was she expecting?

 She stares at the floor as though she is able to distinguish the broken bits of her heart spilled there, and the bloody marks they leave, and it’s such a goddamn mess, and how could she allow herself to feel this way after all these years, after having been shown all the goddamn reasons why Killian Jones will never love her back a hundred fucking times.

 .

 Rose-Mary, of her surname Tink, tosses and turns in Killian’s bed. He is fast asleep next to her, one hand thrown across his face. He snores lightly.

 Tink has this tingling desire deep within her, this desire to grab the phone he left on his nightstand and delete Emma Swan’s call from it.

 “Give me the phone, Tink!”

 Back in the bar, she was quite lucky to find out in the shape of his raised eyebrows that Killian Jones wasn’t actually serious, that he was seriously hammered and couldn’t have cared less for his phone if he had tried. As her only answer, she had simply locked her lips to his and pressed his phone’s home button to switch it off.

 Because Tink knows Emma Swan.

 Killian Jones was already in love with her when Tink asked him out, during their senior year. She cannot forget the look on his face, as she was standing in the middle of the hallway, risking her heart. Behind her, Emma Swan was leaning against a locker with Mary Margaret and Ruby, and Killian simply, positively wouldn’t look Tink in the eyes.

 “I’m sorry, love,” he said, “but my affections lie elsewhere.” And Tink remembers thinking he surely didn’t have to sound like he escaped from one of Shakespeare’s plays, and she turned to discover the pretty blonde smiling at Killian, waving with mischief, and his arm around her shoulders as soon as he reached her.

 Some things were truly unfair.

 As luck would have it, Killian’s path crossed hers years ago – when he moved to Portsmouth to join the Navy whilst she began Nursing school. But even then, he didn’t seem interested, was dating an older woman.

 And then, finally, two days ago, their paths crossed again in a bar. He is missing a hand now, but he is still the same handsome guy she crushed on in high school. Perched on a stool, he looked disheveled, desperate, nose in his rum glass, and he welcomed her into his warm, solid arms.

 “Still in contact with Emma Swan?” she asked, and it wasn’t like she cared. She didn’t want more than he could offer. But still, she asked.

 “Emma? Who’s Emma? I only see you.”

 Although she knew that to be a lie, she still decided to kiss him back, knowing the instant Killian Jones heard Emma Swan’s name again, well then, he would find a very gentle, delicate way to make her go away.

 And that’s fine. But if she can prevent it, well –

 Tink stands up as silently as she can, and like a feather in the wind, grabs his phone. He casually gave her his pin number earlier during the night — change this bloody song Tink will you — and Tink deletes Emma’s call in the blink of an eye.

 Satisfaction sparkles in her heart. No one will bother them anymore.

 .

 As Neal and Emma go on tasting wedding cakes, Emma thinks about how Killian never called her back. Not the morning after her conversation with Tink, not the night after, not the day after, he did not call. Period. It’s the only answer he is willing to give, and she accepts it.

 He doesn’t care about her. Not like she cares, anyway.  

 “The chocolate one,” Emma mumbles, trying not to spit crumbs of cakes out of her mouth and failing, “it’s perfect.”

 Delicacy remains a skill she has yet to learn.

 But Neal doesn’t seem to mind when he chuckles and kisses her cheek. Emma grabs his face and doesn’t care that there are still chocolate chunks in her mouth and she kisses him, hard, to forget the taste of Killian Jones’ lips.

 .

 Killian stares at the picture of Emma and himself on his fridge. It’s been a month, stammers his heart. She will not call, now.

 Tink is still sleeping in his bed. He needs to call things off with her as well. She’s too attached, he’ll break her heart. That’s one too many hearts to be responsible for.

 He swallows stone, but he takes the picture off the fridge. It’s too painful to stare at what ifs.

 .

 A few minutes before Emma and Neal say “I do”.

 Taking a picture off a fridge is simple enough. Not racing towards the town hall of Storybrooke to try, one last time, and stop Emma’s wedding, isn’t nearly as easily done.

 Hope and denial are, after all, two very close kingdoms and both of them inhabit Killian’s heart.

 At least he’s got that going for him. However, Mary Margaret and David – who are also running beside him – really have nothing going for them except for their foolishness.

 How dare they show up in his home and tear him out of his cobweb of misery and self-pity. How bloody dare they.

 “There’s no use arguing, I’m not going!” he yelled, and then Mary Margaret had this very dangerous smile, and before he knew it, his ass sat on a plane between the two of them and he was wearing his most expensive tie.

 “And look sharp, Killian.” 

 Which is why, as Killian races down that street corner, and up that small hill by Granny’s, and then down again Main street, towards the town hall, Killian no longer expects Emma and Neal to come out of the building, holding hands, married. 

 But that’s exactly what happens.

 They come out as a crowd of strangers surrounds them, and they look like the sun has set all of its rays of sunshine on them, they are shining, shining, much like the waves of fear down Killian’s belly because he is too late. Of course he is. 

 And he wants to turn around and hit David in the face. 

 But what’s the use of fighting anymore? The war is lost. Lay your weapons down. Bring the soldiers home.

 And in that moment, as the sun seems to align with some divine power and its golden beams shine on Emma’s eyes, glittering green lakes, she gazes at him and he holds his breath. In spite of everything, he still thinks she is the most beautiful woman on earth. He smiles, as his heart shatters to the ground, as Neal kisses her open mouth. 

What is there else to do but smile?

 “Fuck,” exclaims Mary Margaret next to him, and Killian sure does nod.

 “Aye. Couldn’t have said it better myself.”  

 .

 Present day – Neal and Emma���s wedding reception.

 Neal watches as Emma shuts the large French windows that lead to the balcony behind her. He puts down his glass of champagne on the white table in front of him. The bubbles fizz inside, as if to mock him.

 For there’s not the shadow of a smile on his wife’s face. In fact, she looks utterly devastated. Her complexion is pale, her cheeks have lost all the colors they gathered during their dances, and there is not one sparkle of happiness left in her green eyes.

 A frown. Why does his wife look devastated at their wedding?

 He sees her glance down, seemingly lost, and she does this thing when she doesn’t know where to put her hands, so she folds them in front of her. And she plays with the bracelet around her wrist, twists the little charms, twists, twists his heart.

 And then he realizes. She’s waiting. But for what? Or rather, for whom?

 He wishes the answer didn’t come quite as soon, not quite as sharply, he wishes the room did not start spinning as Killian Jones leaves the balcony in his turn – devilishly handsome as he’d say and looking entirely like a mess.

 What a picture. They both look devastated. They look like the bride and groom, him in his white shirt and her in her white dress. Two bleeding snowflakes under a golden chandelier.

 Neal watches as Emma risks a glance back, but Killian doesn’t look up, only stares at the hard wooden floor, Neal watches as she presses her lips together and straightens her back, but still glances back at him.

 Always back at him. Of course. 

 And that’s when one realization hits Neal quite hard.

 His wife… His wife is in love with someone else. He just married someone who is irrevocably and for all of eternity in love with someone else.

 Why did he do this to himself? For the longest of times, Neal thought it didn’t matter that Emma’s gaze was filled with green, shimmering clouds of pain whenever Killian Jones’ name was mentioned in a conversation, he really thought it didn’t matter that her cheeks would always flush whenever she received a text from him, because he was the one kissing her lips and sleeping between her sheets.

 He was such a fool.

 He married a woman in love with someone else.

 Such a fool.

 Neal grabs his glass of champagne again, downs it in a few angry mouthfuls, and gathers courage and legs to stand and stride towards his wife.

 Emma might be in love with Killian, but she loves him too, surely she does, or she wouldn’t have agreed to this marriage, right?

 And there is something very scary vibrating in his chest, fear, a green and viscous fear, he’s losing her, she’s slipping between her fingers…

 “Neal,” Emma’s voice is very soft as it greets him, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

 How dare she, how dare she be in love with Killian, when Neal gave up everything for her, when he…

 From the corner of his eye, Neal can see Killian lean against the wall. He is looking at them. Perfect. Now watch, you little fucker.

 “Hello, baby,” two words, and Neal dips Emma and savagely presses his lips onto hers.

 A burst of applause rattles the crowd. 

Neal tries his best to muffle the voice inside his head that sneers that the only thing their guests are cheering at, is the end of their love.

 .

  “I’m going back to our room, I’m really tired” mumbles Emma over her empty mojito glass.

The sea whispers behind her back. Neal doesn’t look up from his piña colada. 

 On the terrace of this luxurious hotel by the French Riviera, Neal and Emma are sitting and everything sucks.

 It is the third day of their honeymoon, and for Neal, it is the last straw. There is no way in hell he can keep up this charade. They both deserve better than this.

 She’s been looking miserable since they arrived here – it isn’t for a lack of trying to conceal it. Actually, no, it’s worse than that. She’s been looking miserable since Killian Jones left their wedding without a look back at her. Should have seen her face, Eurydice left by Orpheus in the depths of hell.  

 It’s killing him to see her like this, to know there’s nothing he can do to make things better. Purely and simply because, as much as he’s tried to, Neal Cassidy will never replace Killian Jones in Emma Swan’s heart.

 And as she bends towards him to give him a quick peck on the lips, a very vicious sentence tickles his tongue and he lets it out without a second thought.

 “Bet you looked more eager to kiss Killian.”

 It is a dick move, yes, but after all he isn’t the one who cheated on her, and Neal thinks she deserves a little karma.

 The look she darts on him then would have probably killed him, had there not been empty glasses standing between the two of them to shield him.

 “What the hell are you talking about?” she spits out in a sharp, defensive tone. 

Neal is surprised she tries to deny it all.

 “Your lover sent you a letter,” he hisses back.

 Satisfaction sparkles in his heart at the sight of her face turning crimson under the moonlight.  

 He watches as she angrily gulps a last mouthful of rum, watches as her knuckles whiten around her glass and her jaw clenches. “Who are you talking about?”

“Who the hell do you think I’m talking about?” 

And then the god forsaken, sacrilegious name. “...Killian sent me a letter?”

 And from guilt to anger, there is only one, treacherous step. And she seems eager to jump it.

 “Oh yeah, he did. Said it all about your kiss and loving you, and I nearly vomited…”

 And then it is really upsetting because he wants to be mad but her face does that thing where it just freezes, mouth open wide and eyes even wider, and it would have been funny had he not been putting an end to their short-lived marriage.

 “He…he loves me?”

 She cannot possibly not know it. She can’t be that oblivious to reality.

 “I’m telling you I know you cheated on me and that’s your only reaction?” A roll of eyes, his voice coming out shriller, to mock her, mock her pain, because he wants to hurt her like she hurt him. “ “He loves me?” Of course he loves you, Emma!” he blurts out, because the entire world knows it except for her, apparently.  

 He can’t have married someone as oblivious.

 Well, you did marry her knowing she was in love with someone else.

 And she stands up, cheeks hot and burning and red, and she isn’t making any sense anymore. “What the hell are you talking about? Killian doesn’t love me, he never has.”

 And seeing her wrath, the way her body trembles and shakes, he knows she is truly convinced Killian Jones isn’t in love with her.

 But how…

 “You really don’t know, do you?”

 “Where is that letter?”

 “I got rid of it, of course!”

 “Then you have no proof! How convenient.”

 He wants to stop her then, to yell “Hey YOU cheated on me,” but he can tell that in her grand order of things, her cheating on him has nothing on Killian Jones possibly loving her.

 And then a small, mad chuckle jolts out of her mouth. “Killian would never write a letter. You made that up.”

 “But how would I know about the kiss?”

 “I don’t know, and I don’t care, and I, I—” A turn, and then she is gone, disappearing in a tornado of anger and guilt and sand.

 Neal doesn’t try to hold her back, remains very still on his seat, lets her go, much like he should have years ago. He glances down at the empty drink between his fingers.

 The waves crash against the sand, whoosh, whoosh, and Neal feels terribly lonely.

 But at peace.

 But mostly lonely.

 Damnit, she is stubborn, and she is lucky he’s in love with her. That he’ll always be, somehow, even if he is a fucking idiot who probably blew his only chance at love when he stole those watches.

 .

 Later that night, Neal finds her sitting on their king side bed and its perfectly white blankets, hands folded in front of her like he knows them to, shoulders down and head bent towards the floor, and Neal desperately wants to hug her.

 There is not an ounce of anger left in his body. Only sadness. 

 There’s not a flicker of light in their room as he sits down by her side. The rustle of the waves can be heard from their room. It’s the only reason why he chose it. He knows she loves that sound. 

(He doesn’t know she loves it because of him, but that’s fine.)

  “Hey…” he begins softly, and his shoulder gently bumps against hers. “You okay?”

 She’s twirling her wedding ring around her finger. Of course she is. She always has been. And that should have been a clue, too.

 “Are you being sincere right now?” she asks, and her voice is nothing like the voice he’s grown to love.

 Emma’s voice has always been soft, but vibrating with a very triumphant confidence as well.

 “What do you mean?” he asks, because precisely he doesn’t know what she means.

 He’s never understood her like Killian can, in spite of how much he loves her. And while he spent most of the beginning of his adulthood hating him for it, he realizes now it is simply a battle he cannot win.

 She lifts her face up, and he makes out her shimmering eyes in the darkness.

 “I cheated on you. Aren’t you mad?”

 A gigantic sigh shakes his shoulders as these past six months flash before his eyes.

 “I was angry, Emma. But it’s been too long, I’m not anymore.”

 “Too long?”

 Oh, right, that. She’ll hate him, but well, she deserves the truth. He winces, fidgets with the collar of his shirt.

 “I might have been hiding this letter from you for a good six months now…” he whispers, and forces a smile on his face as an apology. 

 “You what?”

 She doesn’t sound nearly as angry as he expected her to. In fact, she doesn’t sound angry at all. She sounds defeated, hopeless.

 “I was so scared that if I confronted you, you would just run and never marry me, and I thought I could hold on to you by not telling you…But I was wrong. There was no holding on to you.”

 And something terrible rattles her body then, as she cups her face and disappears even more in a small, scared puddle over the bed.

 “Fuck. I’m sorry Neal. I ruined everything.”

 And he shakes his head then, grabs one of her hands. “There’s no need to apologize, Emma. We both fucked up. I should have let you go a long time ago.”

 His throat is tight, but he knows this is the right thing to do.

 “What are we going to do now?” she whispers, just as one of his arms comes to wrap around her shoulders.

 She muffles a sigh in the crook of his neck while he gently brushes her hair.  

 “I don’t know. Is there some kind of three weeks wedding notice?”

 She chuckles then, but he can clearly imagine the tears rolling down her cheeks as she sniffles into his neck.

 “You’re an idiot.”

 “I am.”

 Silence. By then, it’s somehow raining in the room and his shirt is soaked.

 “I’ll always love you. You know that, right, Emma?”

 She nods in the darkness, her hand clutching onto his shoulder, and she seems to him a firefly caught between a child’s chubby hands.

 “I know, Neal.”

 “Good.”

  .

 Moving out of this house is one of the weirdest things Emma has ever had to do.

 “Emma, you’re not coming?” calls David’s voice, and Emma looks up to see his head peering from the driver’s seat of his old, orange truck.

 Safely packing all of the pieces of furniture was a collective effort. Mary Margaret, Ingrid and Ruby also came to help, and Emma is quite thankful. It’s such a blinding, sunny day of August, and if not for the fresh breeze that swirls between the tree branches, it would be unbreathable.

 Emma simply shakes her head. “No, don’t worry. I’ll join you guys later at Granny’s.” 

Her right foot nearly knocks out the small cardboard box at her feet, sending a loop down her stomach. 

This one she’ll carry herself.  

 Neal and Emma agreed to sell the house and the furniture, and Neal – well Neal decided to move to Boston, and Emma cannot quite blame him.

 This last month has been…weird, on so many levels, and Neal wasn’t the weirdest thing about it.

 “Alright. Call us if you need anything.”

 As David drives away, Emma stares back at the house. Her feet seem buried into the doormat, the door still open wide, and her fingers clutch onto the keys.

 It is a bittersweet sight, those empty walls.

 She thinks life has a funny way of coming around. She thinks she thought she’d have a family there, with Neal, she thinks she thought this was what she wanted, what she could bear to have and risk losing.

 She’s glad that Neal showed himself braver than she ever could. That he refused to settle, for both of their sakes.

 She inhales deeply.

 Exhales.

 And lets it go. All of it.  

 Click, she locks the door, and turns her back on her past.

 A summer breeze greets her face, swirls around her legs and tangles her hair, and she closes her eyes into the warm embrace. It carries childhood smells, this smell of burnt wood, and Rocky Road ice-cream, and Killian’s cologne.

 “Heard you needed help moving out?” Her eyes snap open. Her heart skips a beat.

 It’s August in Storybrooke, Maine, and anything is possible again. 

 The wind carries the first fallen leaves to her feet and his scent to her heart. Something mystical splits her face as she takes a step towards him. She nearly trips on the cardboard box at her feet, again, grunts and picks it up in a blink, and she hears it – his laughter in the wind.

 As she looks up, a flower blooms in her chest, carries blood to her heart and her face with its roots, and her lungs are soon filled to the brim with petals. 

 “Yeah.” A quivering whisper, it is hard to breathe when the sun drops golden and blue beams into his eyes. “Thank you, Killian.”

 And in a few strides he imprisons the cardboard box she held against her chest, the one containing memories of her childhood, and his eyes are so warm on her face that he steals her breath away.

 “Any baggage left?” he asks, and it is a hoarse whisper as well. 

She swallows hard.

 She shivers beside him. She’s a fallen leaf herself, caught in a whirlwind. Her eyes are open wide and she feels completely swallowed by his gaze but it is a wonderful kind of fear.

 “Not at all.”

 And he smiles then, and it is one of the most gentle smiles she’s seen on his face, and at last, he is Killian and she is Emma.

 “Good.”

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

@yasbio2015​ @bubblegum1425​ @daenerysmyhsa​ @dancingnancyy​ @elizabeethan​ @farewell-courgette​  @beca0912​ @stina-g​ @tenaciouskittynightmare​ @noensnaringnet​ @klynn-stormz​ @sekretny13​ @tiganasummertree​ @vvbooklady1256​ @brustudyblog​ @peggyyswan​ @thisonesatellite​ @ohmightydevviepuu​ @courtorderedcake​ @snowbellewells​ @kingofmyheart14​ @teamhook​ @mariakov81​ @folkloreismylullaby​ @officerrogers​

#cs ff #cs fanfics #captain swan #my stuff #love emma #thank you guys again for your support <3

[bssaz97]

I have to ask how did Qrow and Juanes family react to the kids in Missing for a Year

Missing For A Year Part 3

Ruby: “Miss Goodwitch, thank you so much!” *Large Anime Tears fall down her face*

Glynda: “You’re welcome Miss Rose, although I do recommend keeping a closer watch of your children while at events in the future.”

Both Ruby and Jaune nodded rapidly to her sound advice, who will make sure to take the advice to heart.

Ruby/Jaune: “We promise we will!”

Glynda: “Good. Now.” *lifts up her riding crop directly at the ice block*

*CRACK!*

The ice prison around the two newlyweds had been broken apart, freeing them so that the two can freely move again. Much to the joy of the two leaders and displeasure of a disgruntled ice queen.

Qrow: *approaching* “Well I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Does it kiddo.”

Ruby: “Uncle Qrow!” *petal bursts out of the ice cube and launches herself at him*

Qrow: “Oof!” *catches her while laughing* “Geez pipsqueak! I’m not as young as I use to be, you could be a little gentler...”

Ruby: “Sorry I’m just so excited to see you again!”

Qrow: *hugs her tightly* “Yeah me too.”

Ruby: “I’m sorry it took so long.” *hangs head in shame*

Qrow: “Hey none of that alright. What’s happened has happened, no use in crying over spilled milk. Just seeing that you’re alive and well is all I need.”

Ruby: “You too. I know we’ve been gone for awhile but we missed you all so very much and I wished we could’ve come back sooner to you all.”

Qrow: “Well maybe remember to stamp your letters next time.” *he jokes*

Ruby: “It was a honest mistake!”

Qrow: *laughs and ruffles her hair* “Whatever you say kiddo.”

Ruby: “Meanie...to think I almost named one of my children after you.”

Qrow: “Probably a good call that you didn’t. Don’t need to have a kid named after me until I’m at least in the grave.”

Ruby: “Oh ha-ha.”

Jaune finished swiping of all the ice residue on his person then rubs his hands together rapidly to warm them up. Being trapped in a large ice cube wasn’t very comfortable in the least. His mother helps her son by removing her scarf and wrapping it around his hands.

June: “Are you alright sweetie?”

Jaune: “Yeah just a bit frosty.”

Yang: “...Did he?”

Taiyang: “I think he just did.”

Jaune: “What? I can make puns too. You all didn’t originate them.”

Taiyang: “Ok fair enough.”

Jaune: “Oh yeah by the way...are we cool?” *gestures between himself and his father-in-law*

Taiyang: “Well considering that you pretty much married my daughter behind our family’s back, I should be furious. But since you’ve already made me a grandfather I can’t really stay mad at you.”

Jaune: “Really?”

Taiyang: “No.”

Jaune: “Figured.”

Taiyang: *laughs* “Relax kid, I’m just messing with you. Glad to have you in the family.”

Jaune: “Thanks.” *smiles*

June: “Speaking of grandchildren...YOINK!” *takes an infant Rowan/Summer from Taiyang and Yang*

Taiyang/Yang: “Hey!”

June: “Hello my little darlings~ I’m so happy to meet you two. Look at how big you two are already. I’m your Granny June and I love you both so much! Oh you’re both so cute~” *she coos as she cradled the two infants rocking them to and fro*

Jaune: “Uh mom, I know you’re excited about your new grandchildren but you should really-.”

June: “Oh come now Jaune I’ve raised eight kids including you so I think have this under-!”

Summer: *gurgling noises with her face turning green*

June: “...oh no.” *face paled*

*BLEEEGH!*

What Jaune tried to warn his mother about was that Summer was unfortunately cursed with his inherited motion sickness. As such Summer did not like to be rocked otherwise it would lead to her spit up all over said person’s shirt.

June: “....oh dear.” *looks down at her ruined dress*

Ruby: *gasp!* “Mrs. Arc I’m so sorry!” *grabs a tissue and tries to clean it off*

Jaune: “I tried to warn you.”

June: “That’s ok, this isn’t something I haven’t gone through before. Although I would be more than grateful if you could take back these two while I get cleaned up.” *handing their babies back to them*

Ruby: “Are you sure you don’t want me to help? I feel really bad.”

June: “It’s alright dear. I’ve raised eight children after all, so there’s nothing to worry about. Jaune, be a dear and introduce your children to the rest of the family before your sisters complain about not seeing their new niece and nephew, ok?”

Jaune: “Sure.”

As June Arc was making her leave most, of not all of Jaune’s sisters swarmed them just as she said they would.

Rouge: “Oh my goodness look at you two!”

Saphron: “You’re so small and look so cute!”

Vert: “What’s their names little bro?”

Jaune: “Uh, This is Rowan and Summer.” *points at each of his children*

Bleu: “Do they have all their necessary shots?” *adjusts her glasses*

Jaune: “What? No, they’re barely three months old!”

Noir: “Why didn’t you tell us you two eloped?”

Blanc: “And how did you get pregnant so fast?”

Ruby: “W-Well we wanted to marry after the war so that’s what we did.”

Violet: “How can you tell which is a boy and girl?”

Arc Siblings/Ruby: .....

Violet: “What? It’s a legitimate question.” *shrinks in embarrassment*

Nicholas: “Girls.”

At the sound of his voice all the Arc women made way for the patriarch of their family. He walked towards the brand new couple/parents, his towering figure nearly encompassing them in shadow.

Nicholas: “Son.”

Jaune: “Hey Dad...long time no see. Heh”

Arc Sisters: *winces*

Terra: *facepalms*

Ruby: *whispering* “Really?”

Jaune: “Uhhh. So! ...How are you?”

Saphron: *mouthing ‘NO!’*

Jaune: “I mean. What I mean to say is-!”

Nicholas: “Stop.” *raises his palm*

Jaune: 0x0

Nicholas: “What’s done is done. There’s no use to bringing up the past.”

Jaune: “Right...”

Nicholas: “But I am very happy to see you alive.....and apparently with a wife and children.” *rests his raised hand on Jaune’s shoulder*

Jaune: “...Thanks Dad.”

Nicholas: *nods then removes his hand* “So if I heard correctly, this one is Rowan and this one is Summer right?” *gestures to the two infants*

Ruby: “Yessir. My tiny little blessings.”

Nicholas: “...heh. I see you’ve adopted June’s nicknaming habit.”

Ruby: “Yep.”

Nicholas: “Mm. Looks like you have a keeper my son.”

Jaune: “I’m lucky to have her.” *one arm hugged Ruby*

Ruby: *smiles*

Nicholas: “Good. Don’t do anything stupid to mess it up. You hear me boy.”

Jaune: “Wouldn’t dream of it sir.”

Rowan/Summer: “Ahh!” *make curious baby noises*

Nicholas looks down to see both Rowan and Summer then bends his knees, lowering his large frame to look into the little ones. They looked at the older Arc curiously, looking at his aged but still strong facial features and Summer was brave enough to reach out touch the older man’s beard. This caused Summer to giggle as the hair tickled her tiny fingers, causing Nicholas to laugh softly at the child’s pure laughter. Rowan followed soon after Summer and he giggled as well once he felt Nicholas’ beard.

Nicholas: “Hello little ones, I am your grandpa. I am pleased to meet you.” *he said with what could be called a genuine smile*

Ruby: “ohhhh” *she watches the display in amazement* <3

Qrow: “WOW Nicky, I think you just made a genuine smile on your face.”

Nicholas: “Qrow...”

Qrow: “Hey don’t scare the babies now! They’re impressionable.” *while smirking*

Ruby: “Qrow be nice.” *she chides her honorary uncle/mentor*

Qrow: *raises his hands in mock surrender*

Ruby: “Hey Rowan, look this my Uncle Qrow. Isn’t he cool?”

Rowan: *head tilts* “Ah?”

Ruby: “Yes he’s the coolest uncle ever. You want him to hold you?”

Qrow: “Uh Ruby I don’t-.”

Ruby: “Here you go.” *moves Rowan into his arms*

Qrow: “Wait Ruby don’t-! Ok here we go. Uh hey there kid. Nice to...meet you.”

Rowan: ....

Ruby: “It’s ok Qrow, he’s only a baby. He won’t bite.”

Qrow: “Right. Um, heh, You look a lot like your mom. Kinda surprised that your supposed to be the boy.”

Rowan: .... *hrk!* *BLEGH!*

Qrow eyes widen but it was already too late, all he could do was look down and see that Rowan had just spit up all over his new shirt. Both parents gave nervous looks but also tried not to laugh at Qrow’s expense. Taiyang, Yang, Nicholas, and the seven Arc sisters, however, did not follow their example, laughing their guts out.

Rowan: *giggles and points at Qrow*

Qrow: “Oh now you find me funny. Don’t ya, you lil’ gremlin.” *eye twitches*

Ruby: “Hey I’m sure he didn’t mean to do that!”

Yang: “Hahahaha! I don’t know Ruby, he seemed pretty determined to puke all over Qrow!” *covering her mouth*

Qrow: “Well at least I know you’re your Mother’s kid. You’re a brat through and through.”

Ruby: “Hey!”

June: “Ok I’m back what did I-...Oh dear. Apparently both children have motion sickness.”

Nicholas: “No dear, it’s just the boy knows how to get back at others.” *he smiles in pride of his progeny*

-Fin-

A/N: Boy did this one take me awhile to get done. I had a lot of ideas for how this were to go and tried to fit them all in so hope I met your expectations. Thanks again for your support! 😊

P.S. I did my best to make names for the remaining Arc sisters and I decided to simplify and translate the names of the girls in accordance to their color from the portrait we saw in Volume 6 in Saphron’s house. Also keep in mind I have no idea what the age difference is just know I did my best and this will be my head canon until proven otherwise.

Rouge = Eldest (Red w/ Short Hair)

Saphron = Second (Orange that was Upside down. Her name is closer to orange so yeah)

Vert = Third (Green)

Blanc/Noir = Twins (Ok so they had blue bows but the also look to be wearing black and white so I went with that to avoid confusion)

Bleu = Sixth (Blue w/ Glasses)

Violet = Neña (Violet, no brainer)

Jaune = Youngest (Yellow. Ok so he appears to be the youngest from the photo as most of the time the most recent child is at the center of most family pictures. But again I could be wrong but I stand by what I said until CRWBY says otherwise...probably)

#rwby #ruby rose #jaune arc #rwby lancaster #lancaster #yang xiao long #arc family #rwby saphron #saphron cotta arc #qrow brawnwen #rwby qrow #rwby taiyang #taiyang xiao long #anonymous asks #missing for a year

[hoetachi]

I truly wanna rock gaara’s shit. His weird ass gets on my damn nerves too much. He’s definitely on my top 5 list of anime characters i would spit on their firstborn and granny’s grave

#mulan’s anime rants #mulan’s rants #naruto #gaara

[themadlostgirl]

Not Dead Yet (Part 83)

*Fuck it. This is what we’re doing.*

Pairing: Reader x Peter Pan

Warnings: language

I wished I could have stayed asleep forever. In my dreams I was blissfully unaware of all the pain reality had. But even on Neverland you can’t pretend that much. I woke up and ran my hand along the upturned earth next to me.

Peter…

I couldn’t bring myself to leave the spot for a long time. It wasn’t until Candace flew overhead and landed in front of me that I even stopped staring at the grave. “Hey girl,” I placed her in my lap, “I’m glad you’re still around.”

She gave a small chirp and nestled her head against my chest. I took a deep breath and stood up with Candace still cradled in my arms. The island was cold. Why is it--right--I’m the new tie to the island. I focused on the warmth Candace was emitting and forced it out into the world until everything was balmy again.

I made my way back to camp and saw the boys were quiet and subdued. Upon my arrival they watched as I passed by. I came upon Peter and I’s tent and set Candace down outside it. I looked back at the boys and drew myself up as tall as I could.

I’m the leader now. I need to be strong.

I saw Felix in the shadows glaring. He stood up and made his way over to me. “It’s you now huh?” he said.

“Seems so. Is that a problem?” I asked.

He shook his head. “God knows I don’t want to be in charge of these idiots. Sorry you got stuck with it.”

“I will be needing a second in command if you’re interested.”

He gave me a small smirk. “It could be worse I suppose. At least I’m not taking orders from Verne or Devin.”

“I’m right here, Felix.” Verne grumbled.

“I know.” he kicked him lightly, “What’s your point?”

“Okay then. Boys!” I stood up on a nearby rock so I could see the entire camp, “My brothers. Last night I made a horrible mistake and it ended in our leader, Peter Pan, dying. I cannot bring him back though I wish with every fiber of my being I could.”

“The ones responsible for this unspeakable loss think they are safe back in their little town of Storybrooke. They think that we are dead. But we are not! We are here. We have survived. We will continue to survive for we are more than lost children. We are more than brothers in arms. We are the family we sought. Here we were granted a new life away from those that shunned us or abandoned us. We are feared! We are deadly! And we will not go calmly into the night! We make our own rules and break them again!”

The boys cheered.

“I am going to go back to Storybrooke and I will eradicate the miserable lives of those that wronged us. For this is more than retribution for the death of our leader. It is a personal slight against all that he created. Peter gave us a home here. He gave us a family among one another. I will not let those heroes’ efforts to destroy that go unpunished. Who is with me!”

The boys cheered louder and louder until it turned into a thunderous chant.

“Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!”

“Devin!” I shouted and he was at my side.

“Yes my leader?” he smirked and gave an exaggerated bow.

“Shut up. Felix, you get over here too.” I motioned for him to get closer, “First thing is first, with Peter dead and me as the new leader we need to keep the peace. I know I wound them up with that speech but that doesn’t mean we won’t have defectors. Felix, I want you to take Ben and try and weed out the bad seeds. Nip that shit in the bud. Got it?”

“Understood.”

“Good. Devin, you are coming with me to Storybrooke. Before that I want you to get Nick and Cubby. Give them the magic bean to start a new crop. After we have things settled here we’ll head out to Storybrooke. I think my shadow should be able to get us there without any issue.”

“Of course.”

The boys split up and I went about the camp keeping on a brave face and twirling my club in hand. I passed by Peter and I’s tent and sighed. I can’t bring him back but killing an entire town would definitely make me feel better.

~~~

When I was satisfied that things on the island were in order I called my shadow. It grabbed Devin and I and lifted us into the sky as it flew us out of Neverland. The fact that I have this power so suddenly is gonna take some getting used to. Maybe after I destroy all of Storybrooke I’ll come back and practice.

“This is where you were?” Devin looked around at the town.

“Yep.” I felt no bittersweet emotions stepping foot back in this place. The familiar streets only served as a reminder of all that had been stolen from me for twenty eight years. “Follow me. There’s someone I need to pay a visit to.”

We walked down the street until we got to an apartment building. I told Devin to wait outside and went in myself. I knocked on the door and waited. When it swung open there was Emma who took a step back when she saw me.

“Marigold!” Emma clasped me in her arms, “You’re here! How? We saw Gold push you over the ship.”

“Yep…he said that he wasn’t going to wait to kill me like he did last time.” I spat, “Next thing I know I’m over the edge of the boat and falling to my death. Peter caught me and brought me back to the island.” I walked around the apartment. Mary Margaret, David, Regina and Henry were looking at me like I had risen from the dead. “Not that any of you turned around to get me or anything.”

“Marigold, I swear we--”

“My name is Y/N.” I snapped and she shut up. “I am the Lost Girl and now that you killed the love of my life I am the new leader of Neverland.”

“You remember?” Henry asked.

“Yes I do. Rumplestiltskin also shoved me over the edge of the town line so I would forget who I am. You brought me to Neverland to betray the one person I care about most in this world. Now because of you people Peter is dead!” I yelled unable to mask my fury, “I am not here as a friend. I am here to massacre this town and all your miserable lives. Thought you’d like to know why. So make peace with yourselves for nothing can stop me now.”

“Wait, Marigold--” Mary Margaret started but even sooner stopped, “Y/N, please, that was not what we wanted.”

“Yes it was. You knew that I was from Neverland. You knew that Peter was important to me. Then you brought me home and turned me against the person I love to save your brat. The only use that little shit had was to die and save Peter and you screwed us out of that!” The lights in the room popped casting the apartment in darkness.

“Y/N,” Regina approached me. “You need to calm down.”

“No.” I forced my anger out, “I need to avenge Peter’s death.”

“And an entire town of innocent lives is worth the life of one?”

“He’s worth so much more. Shouldn’t you know as much, Regina? You are the reason this town exists. All in revenge for the love that you lost. It’s like a poetic irony that it should be destroyed for the same reason.”

“It won’t make you feel better. Trust me.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe this won’t make any difference but I’d like to test the theory for myself.” I flew back out the door slamming it shut behind me. I met Devin at the end of the stairs and grabbed him.

There was fire in my veins and power in my step. I felt something like a gut reaction settle in me and the next moment I was standing in Regina’s vault. I only knew it because sometimes I would need to fish Henry out of here while I was babysitting him.

“Oh geez,” Devin hunched over looking like he was about to hurl, “How did you do that?”

“I’m not sure. It was like an instinct.” I shrugged, “Guess I was used to it from how often I teleported around with Peter.”

“And the feeling of wanting to puke my guts out? Is that normal.” he took a deep breath to force down the nausea.

“I think you just have a weak stomach, buddy.” I pat his back, “You gonna be okay?”

“Yep. Yep, I’m good.” he gave me the thumbs up.

“Good. Now let’s stop talking and find something to help us destroy this place. Regina has got to have some massive curse or poison for the water supply lying around here somewhere.”

“Yes ma’am.” he gave a mock salute and started rifling through the drawers of the vault.

As I was looking through things I could feel Devin watching me. “Spit out whatever it is you wanna say, Devin.”

“I was wondering how you were doing.” He said.

“Doing?”

“With Pan being gone. I know what he meant to you. How are you holding up?”

Shit. I was hoping I didn’t have to do this. But Devin is my best friend. If I can talk freely to anyone it would be him.

“It hurts. It hurts a lot.” I muttered, “Peter’s dead and I’m the reason he is. I can blame these assholes as much as I want but in the end it was me. If I hadn’t gone to Neverland with them then he wouldn’t have put his guard down. If I could have remembered who I was sooner then I could have helped him instead of betraying him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I guess you didn’t know.” I sighed, “The adults brought me to Neverland to trick Peter and rescue Henry since my memories had been erased. I didn’t know who I was and they made me believe that I was doing the right thing. I got my memories back too late though and it killed Peter.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I had no idea.”

“You couldn’t have. It’s okay. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Keep looking.” And with that the subject was closed.

As we were looking I could feel a dark energy coming from inside a box. I opened it to find a little scroll inside. The language was strange but it seemed to translate right before my eyes. This was magic. Not regular magic either, dark magic.

“Find something?” Devin asked.

“The Dark Curse.” I showed him the scroll, “It’s the curse I got trapped in for years.”

“So much trouble from one little scroll.” he tsked, “Can we use it?”

“Yes, I believe this will be perfect for wiping this town off the map.” I tucked the spell away and gathered the ingredients to go with it. “We have everything we need. There’s only one more thing to do.”

I grabbed Devin again and we were transported back into town. We were out at Granny’s Bed and Breakfast. Devin looked at me as if he was going to ask what we were doing here. I shushed him and handed him the ingredients for the curse. “Stay out here. I’ll be right back.”

I walked inside and the attendant smiled across at me when she saw me approach. “Hello, I wasn’t sure you were coming back for your things or not, Marigold. Did you find a place in town to stay?”

“Oh no, I’m looking for a friend right now. Wendy Darling?”

“Yes, she’s in room four. Just walk right up.”

“Thank you.” I sped up the steps and knocked on room four. There was some shuffling and the door opened to reveal some older man.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Is Wendy here?”

“Why?”

“Come off it,” I shoved past him. Wendy and another man were sitting at a table and ceased their conversation when they saw me barge in.

“Hey you just can’t come in here.”

“Shut it.” I brandished my dagger at them and shut the door. Wendy stumbled back in fright. “Don’t be scared, bird. It’s only me. I won’t hurt you.”

“Y/N?” She rushed to me and crushed me in her arms, “B-But how are you here? What are you doing?”

“I don’t have a lot of time to explain. I’m giving you a chance.”

“What chance?”

“I needed to know before I leave. Do you want to come with me?”

“What are you talking about? Come back to Neverland? After I’ve finally been reunited with my brothers?”

“They could come too so long as they don’t cause too much trouble. You’re my friend, Wendy, I would like it if you came back with me.”

“No. I’m sorry but I can’t. Even if my brothers were with me I just couldn’t. I’ve been young far too long, I want to grow up. I can’t expect you to understand.”

“I do. The life of a Lost One isn’t for all. It certainly wasn’t for you. I understand.” I gave her a tight hug, “If you won’t go with me then I can only warn you to get out of town as fast as you can. Bad things are going to happen and I don’t want you involved in them.”

“What bad things?”

“That’s not your concern. I’m going to go and I want you all to load up and head out of town as soon as possible. Can you do that for me, bird?”

She nodded solemnly. “Will I ever see you again?”

“Who knows.” I stepped away and opened the door, “See you around, Wendy-Bird.”

“See you.” She whispered softly. I left the room and walked back outside.

I grabbed Devin again and he braced himself as I transported us into the woods to the old well that which spouted the town’s magic. We started unpacking all the ingredients for the curse and laying them out on the mossy stones.

“You know how to cast this?” Devin looked down into the well.

“Kinda. I’ve never done this before but there’s something in me that does. An instinct like with the teleporting. I can’t explain it.” I fumbled with the vials. I wish there was a simpler way to do this.

With a heavy heart I started dropping the ingredients into the well. A small burst of magic exploded from deep in the well with each vial. When I had run out of things to put in I stopped and stared down into the dark depths of the well. I could feel the magic swirling and pulsing, waiting for the final ingredient that would unleash the curse.

“Did it work?” Devin asked peering over my shoulder to look inside.

“Not yet. There’s one last thing to add.” I stepped away.

“What?”

“The heart of the thing I love the most.” I whispered.

“But Pan is--”

“Yes I’m aware. Which leaves only one other option.” I turned to Devin tears in my eyes. He read my mind and bowed his head. “You’re my best friend. You’ve always been there for me and I love you like a brother...which is why this is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Devin grabbed my hand and placed it on his chest right above his heart. I could feel the faint thumps beating rapidly through his ribs. “I want you to be happy and if that means cursing this pathetic land for what they did to Pan then I’ll gladly oblige.”

“This sucks.” I choked out.

“Yeah it does.” Devin’s voice trembled as he tried to joke.

“You’ll die.”

“I know.”

“Devin, promise me something.” I bunched my hand in the fabric of his shirt.

“Anything.”

“If you see him down there tell him...I’m being the best I can.”

“Of course. And promise me you won’t go getting into anymore trouble.”

“Never.”

“There’s my sister.” He took in a deep breath and nodded, “Let’s get this over with.”

I reached into his chest and pulled his beating heart out. We both stared at the dark glowing organ in amazement. I held it over the well and squeezed. The tighter I squeezed the tighter I shut my eyes so I didn’t have to see Devin’s pained expression. If only I could have shut out the strangled sound of pain he let out when I did so. The heart broke and I dropped the dust into the well. Devin’s body had collapsed to the ground. “I’m gonna miss you.”

I waved a hand and my shadow appeared to take Devin’s body and I back to Neverland. I wouldn’t let him be buried here.

Green smoke started to erupt from the bottom of the well and float up over the sides. It’s done. I watched the curse billow around my feet as it started to wind its way through the forest and towards the town.

I looked back at my shadow which cradled Devin’s body in her arms. I nodded to her and grabbed the shadow’s ankle. We ascended into the air and flew back home.

(First) (Previous) (Next)

#slowburn #this ever loving slowburn is almost done! #ouat peter pan #peter pan ouat #ouat #peter pan x reader #peter pan imagine #neverland

[hlwim]

Not All of Me Will End [3/3]

Summary: Nothing remains of her but what must be left behind. Tags: Character Death, Cancer, Tragedy, Angst, Bittersweet, Post-Canon Pairings: Royai, Edwin, Havolina AO3  ff.net

who tells your story

From the peak of the roof, Ed can see the long and lonely stretch of the rail line disappearing into the mountain. He still loves the cool whisper of its whistle far-off and heading in, but it doesn’t fill him with a longing for the road the way it used to. He’s a husband now, and teacher frequently and village councilor sometimes, and soon—alarmingly soon—a father.

The nearness of coming change is what’s driven him up a ladder, to straddle the shingles and, with nails clamped between his teeth, to patch holes and join new trestle to old. The house is getting cramped—the front half’s a real clinic now, with a proper doctor hired in from Rush Valley and the automail shop having swallowed all the basement. They get patients and clients and more visitors than they reasonably have beds for, and three months now Winry’s been asking when he’d get around to building that extension. He tried putting it off until Al was back, because of course alchemy will speed the work, but excuses are excuses are excuses.

“I’m not holding my knees closed for another four months!” she’d said, jabbing dead-center of his chest. “You’re plenty handy at carpenter work, and you’re owed about a million favors in town.”

And this was true—Ed never liked charging for his services, as the dregs of his state stipend are enough to keep them flush for ten lifetimes. But people around here insisted on showing gratitude in practical ways, like extra pounds of meat from the butcher or hand-wrought yarn for Granny’s knitting. Ed had had a crew up for most of the day: boys that hang around after class to hear his stories and poke at the holes, and the girls who spend summers baling hay and shearing sheep. In the space of a morning and an afternoon, they’d raised walls and laid the floor and wedged in a dozen or so windows. He sent them off to their homes for supper and admonished them not to return tomorrow, knowing anyway that there would be a cart of eager hands on its way back by dawn.

He sets the hammer against his knee and leans back, breathing deep. The breeze carries to him the quiet lull of church bells, and then Winry’s voice.

“There’s a telegram come for you,” she calls up, as Ed slides down the ladder and tosses his work gloves over a rung. She’s getting slower, huffing and waddling adorably, which Granny keeps mentioning is a sure sign the baby will be along any day now. “It came in with the invoices, but I didn’t open it.”

“Brigadier General Mustang,” Ed snorts, raggedly tearing the envelope open with his thumb. He only reads the first line before his fingers go numb, letting the delicate carbon sheet flutter to the ground.

“Ed, what is it?”

Breath seems suddenly hard to come by—though not from exertion.

“It…”

He wants to read it over again and won’t.

“It says Riza Hawkeye’s died.”

He has to be the one to tell Al. No telegram is going to find him in the chaos of the Chang clan’s village. It takes long enough to connect a call—Ed listens to the tick and buzz and tick for a good twenty minutes, and he holds the telegram flat beneath his hooked thumb and index finger. The words flash disconnected in his gaze: regret and informand Hawkeye and died. Funeral tomorrow—the telegram was a day late in arriving.

Mei Chang’s grandmother answers, and Ed has to negotiate with the little Xingese he knows to be passed from house to house and reach his brother. Al answers with a breathy laugh, expecting happy news.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw her,” he says, voice cracking.

“Me either,” Ed replies quietly. The kitchen is black with night, and the light switch is too far for him to reach. “I think it was Central. Their engagement party? She looked so happy.”

“She did.”

There is a long silence where they can both cry, quietly, connected even through this distance.

“I’m going to have to decide soon, aren’t I?” Al asks helplessly. “I can’t have two homes forever. When I’m here, I feel like I should be there. And I should be, now, of all times…”

He takes a shuddering breath.

“I can’t believe she’s gone. Just… someone else we didn’t get to say goodbye to.”

Winry refuses to be left behind, so Ed pays extra for the private sleeping car, where cushions keep her from jostling left and right with the train’s sway. They’re west-bound, to some spit of a village called Wellesley and then ten miles farther. He’s received the instructions from Jean Havoc, who answered the telegram’s indicated number with a thick sigh.

“How long was she sick?” Ed had asked, twisting his empty hand against his leg.

“Not long,” Havoc said. “But too late to do anything about it.”

“How is he?”

“Bad. You’re probably going to miss the funeral, but there’s a thing after, at their house.”

“We’ll come.”

He expects the platform to be busier and maybe wreathed in black drapery, but it’s a little place hardly bigger than Resembool’s station. There are two benches inside, empty and facing the only window—rosette, perched high in the roof beams.

The village is small and packed densely, houses circled close against the encroaching trees. Half the streets are paved, but enough mud has tracked across the cobbles to paint them the same indistinguishable red-brown. Ed hates the car ride, for the way the poorly-upholstered bench forces them tightly together. The temperature seems to rise as they crawl farther and farther west—he’s the first to step out of the car when they arrive, and humidity nearly knocks him back against the fender.

The front door of the house is closed, and it seems no one is waiting to let them in.

“It’s lovely,” Winry says, huffing her way out with the help of Ed’s hand. “Except for the trees, we could almost be home again.”

Which is bizarrely true—unlike the wattle-and-daub look of West City or even the river-stone cobbles of Wellesley, the Hawkeye house rears back symmetrical and clad in white, imperiously simple in its understated decoration of blue paint on its shutters and doors. The windows look mottled in the sunlight: glazing thicker at the bottoms of each pane and fogged up, with the vaguest of colors and shapes moving behind them. He expects somehow for the house to extend up into the clouds, but it stops after two stories, beneath a slate tile roof and a chimney that lists against the tide of winds high above the trees.

Ed helps the taxi driver stack their bags on the grassy pavestones.

“Do we go and knock?” he asks, but Winry is already halfway up the walk. The door opens before she can reach for the knob—Jean Havoc on the other side, looking somewhat narrower than the last time they saw him, in his dress uniform and black sash.

“You made it,” he says, leaning in to Winry’s greeting hug. “I hope it wasn’t too hard.”

“It was nothing,” Winry says. “But we’re not imposing?”

“No, there’s plenty of room to stay. Someone’ll get your bags upstairs. We thought—”

He sighs, stepping aside to let them pass. The house is many degrees cooler than outside, despite the quiet hum of the implied crowd further in. The hall extends straight through to the back of the house, splitting two rooms on either side, and it is lined with tastefully sparse chairs and hanging lamps.

“We thought, it was better he wasn’t alone.”

“Where is he?”

“Kitchen, I think. Führer's receiving in the sitting room here. If you’re hungry or something, there’s food set out banquet-style, so help yourself.”

“Is—is she…?”

Ed can’t quite form the thought into words. The air is dense with cold and feels closed, dusty, disused.

“We buried her this morning,” Havoc says. “Real nice place, by some trees. Rebecca and I were here the day before she—”

It’s a visceral reaction, a wince that travels to a shudder.

“She didn’t want people to see her like that.”

“I wish we could have said goodbye at least,” Winry says.

“You did. Last time you saw her—whenever that was, that’s how she wanted you to remember her.”

At the far end of the hall is a closed door, puzzled together out of narrow squares of glass. The garden beyond bounces sunlight off its leaves and paths, tainting the white paneling green and yellow. No one outside—the wind that bothers the treetops can’t reach the ground, and the world enveloping this house is motionless as a painting.

“Let’s go on through, and you can get some food,” Havoc says. “I have to get back to Rebecca.”

He heads for the front room, and they follow. Winry keeps a hold of Ed’s hand.

The room is too crowded for furniture—he can guess at the location of a chair by the awkward gap between mourners, but for the most part, the memorial is standing room only. A sea of dress uniforms broken by the occasional black hat or short veil. The führer is sequestered behind his guards on the far left and snuffling into a handkerchief, surrounded by a crowd of lower officers Ed doesn’t recognize.

“Let’s go over to Mr. Armstrong,” Winry says. “Didn’t that other man there with him used to work with General Mustang?”

“Falman, yeah. He stayed up at Briggs after the big fight.”

Lieutenant General Armstrong is concealed by her brother’s broad, bowed shoulders, and she keeps one hand resting habitually on the hilt of her ceremonial saber, but her frown seems a different inflection.

“Hello, Fullmetal,” she says. “They weren’t sure you’d make it.”

“Gave up that title a few years ago. Now I’m just Ed.”

“Of course, Edward.”

Alex, gravelly and grave as ever, turns slowly to bring them into the small circle.

“I hope your journey here was not particularly arduous, considering your current condition.”

“Oh, I get into more trouble now than I did before,” Winry says with a small smile. “Lieutenant General, ma’am, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It wasn’t really mine.”

But her gaze doesn’t quite connect.

“Captain Hawkeye was a gifted officer—one of the finest I’ve had the privilege to serve with. She performed her duties as adjutant admirably, and she left me with a decent replacement.”

“I try my best,” Falman says, briefly tipping his wine glass. “It all happened so quickly towards the end—I saw her only a few months ago, and part of me was so certain this was all a hoax or a big misunderstanding. She never wavered. Never looked ill. It’s madness that she’s gone.”

“I gather it was a family affliction,” the lieutenant general says. “Her father died in a similar way, although I understand he had a little more time.”

Ever so lightly, Winry touches the back of Ed’s hand.

“I think I’d like to find a place to sit down.”

She won’t want company, but it’s as good an excuse as any to duck out. Winry finds an empty seat in the corner, on some antique-looking lounge, and she waves him aside.

“Go on,” she says. “Plenty of people around to get me whatever I need.”

He bends down to kiss her hairline and then straightens up again, catching the eye of Heymans Breda across the room.

“He’s not going to thank you for being here, but it really means a lot to him, to have us all around.”

“Havoc told us not to make arrangements for lodging,” Ed says, keeping his wrist straight and grip firm. Breda’s always been a bit of a hand-crusher, but Ed’s grown enough now to equal him out.

“Plenty of bedrooms,” Breda confirms. “Falman’s gotta go back with the Armstrongs, and the führer should be leaving any minute. But me, Havoc, you guys, Rebecca, and Gracia are all set upstairs. Not that you have to stay—if there’s something more pressing back home.”

“No,” Ed says. “We’re here, and we want to be here.”

Breda jams his hands back into his pockets.

“So how’s it been, being back home? Kept man—you miss the road at all?”

“A bit,” Ed says with a shrug. “But not enough to go out again. Al’s stories are enough for me.”

“His name’s always coming up in reports from Xing,” Breda says. “He thinking about making the move permanent?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he could be away from home like that. I think he likes going between. Especially now, with little niece or nephew on their way.”

“Congrats, by the way. We put your postcard up on the wall at work.”

Ed thanks him, and they fall silent for a while.

As predicted, the führer is gradually making his exit and filtering the crowd of most unfamiliars. Ed shifts slightly, half-wishing he had left his hair down to better hide his face. His gaze falls on a collage of photographs littering the wall to their right—shots of buildings and crowds and the insides of pubs he’s never seen. Only one of just the two of them that he can see: embracing in a snowfall, surrounded by friends.

“When were they married?” he asks.

“Right after they moved here. They were planning on a long engagement, until she made major and got moved out to Central as Armstrong’s proxy. Sounded like it was only a few weeks away, when…”

Breda grimaces.

“I hate this. I really hate it.”

They watch the führer and his guards file out. The old man walks heavily, leaning most of his frame on an ornate stick, gold-tipped and dark wood.

“Granddaughter’s fucking funeral, and he still has to show off his trophies.”

“That’s seditious,” Ed says, eyebrow raised.

“Who gives a shit? He’s gonna retire in a couple months anyway, and then we’re under Armstrong’s thumb.”

“Really? Not…?”

Breda shakes his head.

“So who would take over Briggs?”

“Whoever’s next in line, I guess. Funny how we put in all this work, and nothing changed.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Ed says. “A lot of people down around us are talking about organizing district conventions.”

“That should be fun to watch,” Breda sighs. “First woman führer in the history of this country, toppled by democracy.”

The entourage passes by Armstrong, but she doesn’t glance, keeping that imperious chin high in the air. She doesn’t look bored, exactly, but contemplative—as though always waiting for the start of the next engagement.

“I should go find him,” Ed sighs. “Tell him… whatever the hell you’re supposed to tell someone.”

“Look for Gracia. He’ll be nearby.”

She is found not far from the closed kitchen door, and she hugs him long enough that Ed can still smell her perfume after she steps back.

“It’s Mrs. Cotter now, actually,” she says, a bit sheepish.

“Oh, that’s—”

He stutters his way through it.

“I’m so happy for you. Is he… here?”

“No, he stayed back home to mind the shop. We have a bookstore together. He—”

She half-smiles.

“Herman and I met at a social group for widows and widowers—he lost his wife young, to sickness, and all of this… it’s too close for him still.”

She falters a moment, and then brightens again, like instinct.

“He’s really a wonderful man. They didn’t have children of their own, but he loves Elicia so dearly. And he likes Roy, and he liked Riza, too, but—someone had to run the shop.”

“What about you?” Ed asks. “Are you alright?”

“Maes was different,” she says, after a pause. “It was sudden. There was a lot we hadn’t had the chance to talk about, and there was so much left… undone. With this—with Riza, and with Herman’s wife—there was time. Decisions and plans that could be discussed.”

“Hard to know which one’s worse.”

She smiles again and gently squeezes Ed’s hand.

“He’s just in the kitchen. He needed some time away from the crowd, but you can go in.”

The door is heavy and seems only recently white-washed. The kitchen beyond is dazzlingly bright and decorated with jar after jar of wildflowers. Roy Mustang sits at the table with a faraway look in his eyes, one hand upturned and held loosely by Elicia. She has a canvas and palette set out and idly paints a quiet meadow scene.

Ed pulls out a chair, and as he drops into view, Roy blinks, suddenly focused.

“Have I seen you already?” he asks. “It’s been such a long day.”

“No, we just got here,” Ed says. He feels obligated to speak softly, to half-smile with sadness and temper his gaze with gentle understanding—but that is not, and has never been, how they were with each other. “I’m really sorry, Roy. But I wish you’d told us.”

“It wasn’t on purpose this time, I promise.”

“Yeah, Havoc said as much. That it’s how she wanted it.”

Roy nods, and beneath his elbow, Ed can see the glint of silver.

“You smoke now?” he asks. And Roy looks down, following the point of Ed’s finger, surprised almost to see the lighter.

“No,” he says. “It was hers.”

Something is engraved on the front, but it’s probably rude to ask. Elicia mixes blue and green on her palette.

“Where’s big brother?” she asks.

“He’s in Xing. He couldn’t make it back in time.”

Her nod is as slow as Roy’s was—she still wears her hair in twin bunches, but it’s long enough now to plait over each shoulder, and she doesn’t bother to look up. Her brush moves the canvas slightly on the polished wood, but she doesn’t let go of Roy’s hand.

“You know you can’t call me little brother anymore,” Ed says. “I’m gonna have a baby soon.”

“Mommy told me. She said you’re having a girl.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Well, I know it,” Elicia says. “I know everything. What’s her name gonna be?”

“We’re still not settled on one.”

Roy has returned to the blank stare—although it has shifted to the window and the empty garden beyond.

“I should go out,” he says, wearied by exhalation.

“Grumman just left,” Ed offers. “It’s probably safe.”

Elicia lets go without a look upward, focused solidly on her artwork. It’s encouragement, not callousness, as Roy closes his eyes and then stands, scraping the chair back. Every movement seems drawn up from a deep well of pain.

“Winry’s here?” he asks, focusing on Ed. They’re the same height now, but the hunch of shoulders shortens Roy—his uniform is hanging so horribly loose.

“Yeah, in the parlor. She needed to rest her feet a bit.”

He feels, half-heartedly, that he should offer a shoulder for Roy to lean on, but, soldier that he is, Roy straightens up, takes a breath, and steps through the door with shoulders square. No one notices—or at least they all have the courtesy to pretend otherwise—and Roy exhales, eyes focused on the floor. He still holds the lighter tight between his fingers, little flashes of silver catching Ed’s gaze now and again.

Winry is alone, but someone’s brought her a glass of water and a plate of little pastries. She smiles at seeing them and Ed smiles back, half-relieved, before realizing that Roy is no longer beside him.

He must have looked up at some point, and landed his gaze squarely across the room, on an over-large portrait of Riza Hawkeye. Ed can’t remember if he himself had noticed it until now—the führer had been standing in front of it, with his coterie of hangers-on, and Ed had always done his utmost to never again attract the attention of military men. Maybe there’d been a curtain draped across it.

It is clearly a depiction of Riza—blonde hair, brown eyes, pointed nose and chin, sharp jaw—but something about it is fundamentally, unshakably , flawed. He remembers a piercing gaze that could read a room and every man’s intentions in ten seconds flat, a quirk at the corners of her mouth that betrayed the arrival of a rare smile, and a squareness to her shoulders, as though she couldn’t fathom any posture but parade rest. The woman in the portrait wears Riza’s face, but she isn’t. Distant, demure, wrapped in some old-fashioned frock the color of sour milk. This woman sees nothing, feels nothing—sits silent and unblemished, pressed like a dead flower between sheets of cracked wax paper.

“Why?”

Roy is ash—unable to break the painting’s stare, knuckles white, swallowing hard against the tears watering his eyes. Gracia materializes at his elbow, arms ready to brace him from dropping like a stone.

“The führer wanted it out for display,” she says quietly. “I tried to tell him no.”

“All her pictures—”

“They’re safe. We’ll put them back up.”

“It’s not real.”

His voice breaks barely over a whisper, and Ed looks away, half-ashamed and unsure why. It seems most of the guests had the same instinct—only Breda and General Armstrong are watching, silently angry in their own separate ways.

“That’s enough for today,” Gracia says. “You don’t have to do anything else. Let’s just go upstairs, alright?”

He is, in so many ways, diminishing by the second. He speaks to no one as they move back through the parlor to the hall, and Ed has a vision suddenly of a hammer suspended by spider silk above a sheet of glass.

Winry slides her arms around his shoulders as he sits heavily on the cushion beside her.

“Everybody said the service was nice,” she tells him.

“But it wasn’t her?”

He feels her shrug and leans into it.

“Funerals are more for the people left behind. They’ve always been.”

A door closes somewhere upstairs, and Breda crosses the floor, seizing the painting at the corners. It lifts awkwardly, and he turns it to lean face-down against the wall, exposing an expanse of white paint and a series of empty nails.

The house empties in a trickle not long after—enough will be taking the same train back to Central that any residual mourning can be wrapped up at the station. Havoc takes up the mantle of awkwardly gracious host, shaking hands at the door and thanking each guest for their exit. Rebecca gathers Winry up to deal with the kitchen. They’ve been eating small plates all day, with no time to stop for a proper meal.

“Come on,” Breda says to Ed. “Let’s put things back the way they were.”

The portrait goes first—they carry it into the cellar together, to the pile of paper wrapping and snapped twine that had clearly been protecting it from view.

“When was this made?” Ed asks, draping the scraps as best he can.

“Couple years ago, I think. I guess he had one made of her mom once. Riza hated this thing.”

“They didn’t put in the scar on her neck.”

“Does that surprise you?” Breda sighs.

“No.”

The oil lamp hanging from the ceiling is set too high up—the shadow of a floor joist cuts sharply across the face, from cheek to cheek.

“I’d hate it too,” Ed mutters.

There’s several couches and tables to carry up and arrange, rugs to unroll, and lamps to dust off and plug in. Sunset floods the room as Ed adjusts the final cushion, frowning, and Breda stands at the empty wall with a handful of photo frames.

“I don’t know what order they were in,” he says, when Ed joins him.

“Does it matter?”

“I think it did.”

They try—the position of each nail gives a hint at the pattern, but something in the arrangement is definitely wrong to Ed’s eye. The muted swirl of colors, when viewed from a distance, are unbalanced, but he can’t think how to fix them. There isn’t even a common theme in the photos themselves to act as guide: flowers, rainy street scenes, crowded bars, books spilling from shelves all take equal space in simple frames. Breda gives up with a shrug.

“That’s gotta be good enough.”

Dinner is stew and bread at the table where Elicia’s left out her paintings to dry.

“I’m going to give one to Herman,” she says, kneeling on her seat to reach equal height with the adults.

“Can I have one?” Ed asks.

“If you pay me,” Elicia says with a shrug.

“Hey, I have to save money for the baby.”

“That’s not true. Uncle Roy says you’re loaded.”

Breda laughs, and smiles slip across a few other faces.

“You were an alchemist like him,” Elicia accuses. “And he said alchemists get lots of money from the military, so you’ve got lots of money to pay me.”

“Darling, please,” Gracia scolds, biting down her own smile. “It’s rude to discuss money at dinner.”

“Someone’s gotta fund that tuition,” Havoc says quietly.

Winry reaches beneath the table and squeezes Ed’s hand. He wonders if she’s thinking too of similar quiet moments of levity after a hard day of mourning. After Mom’s funeral, Granny had made them dinner and tucked them in and read funny stories from the newspaper until they all fell asleep. He’d felt wrong laughing, but it helped some.

Havoc and Rebecca are sorting through stacks of condolence cards and telegrams at the opposite end of the table, organization as soothing instinct. One pile is for strangers, diplomats, and sycophants—and a much smaller pile for the few that merit response, although Ed doubts Roy will be writing them himself.

“Poor kid,” Havoc sighs, setting another telegram on the response pile.

“Fuery?” Breda says, and Havoc nods.

“Where is he?” Ed asks.

“Middle of the Aerugian sea. Testing long-range communications. Still has six months on the tour.”

“That’s awful.”

Havoc nods at the piles.

“Especially now.”

Having picked the chair nearest the hall, Ed is the one to see the front door creak open, though Havoc hastily excuses himself to greet the newcomer—a large, stately-looking woman wrapped in black furs and a veiled hat, who sets down a pair of polished cases and envelopes Havoc in a hug.

“That rotten bastard had all the rail lines shut down like he was the only one who needed to be here. Where’s my boy?”

“Upstairs.”

“His mom,” Breda says quietly, to Ed’s unasked question. “Call her Christine.”

She leaves her bags for Havoc and takes each step heavily.

There’s no call for nightcap. Everyone is tired—Gracia collects plates as though to wash them, but Breda stops her.

“This isn’t important. It can wait for morning.”

Elicia leads Ed and Winry upstairs to their room: a study at the end of the floor, with desk and chairs pushed against the wall to make room for a low bed. A fireplace is set between the windows, but only as facade. The grate has been bricked over, and the old opening covered by a decorative screen.

“Mommy and me are next door,” she says. “Other side’s a bathroom and then Uncle Roy’s room. You got enough blankets?”

“We’ll be alright,” Winry replies for him. Elicia kisses them both on the cheek and closes the door—she has to use both hands and walks backwards to manage the weight.

Ed can’t find sleep. Winry hardly has a choice in the matter, barely settling on the mattress before she’s out. He doesn’t mind, though, loving the sweet openness of relaxation that smoothes every wrinkle of worry from her brow. He sets a hand on her belly to check, but really he hopes the baby will let her sleep.

Unfamiliar houses at night always seem to belong to another world entirely—he steps with care, knowing he has no chance of predicting which footfall might produce a creak. Every door is pulled shut, and there’s no sliver of light beneath any to betray whether he’s less alone than he feels.

Breda took the the sitting room for himself, and Ed hesitates at the top of the stairs, waiting in a long silence until the radio is switched off, and the rustle of fabric and cushions has stilled. He will not be able to explain to anyone who asks what he is doing, or why it must be done now, when stillness has closed over the house.

He at least remembers that the door to the basement is inside the kitchen, and that a box of matches is sitting beside the oil lamp at the bottom of the steps. It’s as cold as he’d expect, and he curses himself a bit for not bringing shoes. His automail foot might not mind, but the flesh one is burning on the dusty flagstones.

The portrait has already shed some of its paper veil—there must be a draft down here—and the peaks and valleys of paint pick up the lamp’s approaching glow and begin to glitter.

Again, he thinks, it’s not really Riza. Just the ideal of her: a porcelain mask with her lips and nose and something like the serious tilt of her brow. He’d only seen her hair down a handful of times—never styled in such old-fashioned curls. The dress as well is an oddity, lace and low-cut and gathered at her shoulders in little puffed sleeves. It reminds him a bit of Winry at five, in the church dress she ruined with mud.

Too much is missing. That thick line of flesh on her neck which stretched from ear to clavicle, the little spray of freckles perched at the end of her nose. She even had a thin scar on her cheek—he presses a finger to that stretch of canvas, knowing it’s wrong, knowing that he is diminishing what was intended as perfection. But hadn’t Breda said she hated it? And of course she would, knowing better than anyone the futility of hiding from all the ugly little truths she had to carry with her every day.

Ed wishes the artist had painted her looking away. The effect of unreality is greatest in her eyes, its eyes, with that dead stare straight forward, soulless and immobile. He would expect the sensation of being tracked—but shifting left and right, the pupils don’t seem to move. Fixed, forever. He wants to look over his own shoulder, seek from the shadows what must be lurking, what must be holding that frozen gaze, but he won’t.

She looked like this and not like this at the end, he’s certain—though he couldn’t bear the idea of asking, when the memory of his mother’s face is swimming so close beneath the surface. The stitched-shut eyes, the puffy dusting of powder to hide her already sinking features, the hands linked by fingers that were too stiff to bend right. It fills him with an aching hollow to think of Riza the same way. Like a scissors set beneath his ribcage and sawing straight across.

He cannot remember the last thing he said to her—it may have been as simple as good night.

Before leaving, he turns the portrait to face the wall, letting the shreds of paper spread limply across the floor beneath.

Only an hour of rest—then he’s up again, defeated, braiding back his hair and sliding uncomfortably into yesterday’s clothes. The sky outside is just beginning to gray, and he doesn’t want to bother anyone with running water. Breda’s still asleep in the sitting room. His snore rattles the glass a little, and Ed smiles, nudging into the kitchen door.

Someone else is awake. The coffee on the stove is warm, and there’s fresh crumbs of bread beside the butter dish. An apple core, perfectly cylindrical and neat, rests upright on the counter, just beginning to brown. But nothing else in the kitchen is disturbed—the chairs are pushed in, the dishes stacked in the sink, the empty jars lining every window sill sparkle with dust. Ed takes an apple for himself and pours a cup of coffee, not bothering to reheat it first.

The house seems to have gotten smaller somehow, overnight. The steps between the study upstairs and the basement could have covered a quarter mile, but now he hesitates even to lean against a table, as though the smallest scrape of sound will jolt everyone sleeping on the other side of a fragile curtain.

Haze dabbles the garden. The sun will have to work its way up through the trees, so lingering shadows fill the lawn like fallen leaves. Ed stands as close to the windows as he can, staring blankly through the mottled glass, thinking of nothing.

It takes a moment to notice the little bistro table sitting outside, one of its chairs askew on mossy flagstone. There’s a mug on the table, and an empty plate, and half a folded newspaper spilling from the cushion. Early risers always seeking solitude of some kind—he can smile at this, knowing it now so intimately himself.

From the right, Hayate suddenly enters the frame, trotting purposefully, sniffing out a path. And, behind him, swinging a stick to throw and be fetched, is Roy: gaunt, pale, grayed out and wavering through the window, like a branch caught beneath rushing waters. He whistles, and tosses the stick high, and then he returns to the chair and the table, neatening up his discards and pulling a thick leather satchel Ed hadn’t noticed, from the seat of the unused chair.

Their eyes meet through the window, and Roy raises a hand, either greeting or goodbye. Grateful he’d thought to put on his shoes, Ed crosses quickly into the hall and then outside, breathing the dewy air deep and coughing.

“Hey,” he says, wary.

“Hey,” Roy replies. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No. I didn’t sleep much.”

Ed feels the sting of rudeness. What does that matter? Roy only nods, and Ed half-expects his head to shear from his neck completely, like tearing wet cardboard.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” Roy says. “They all did so much yesterday. Figure they need their rest.”

“What about you?”

Roy glances down at the satchel, slung over his opposite shoulder. There’s something inside, something bulky and solid.

“That part hasn’t hit me,” he says. “I know it’s coming. Grief is exhausting, and your body doesn’t know what to do but sleep—but I’m not there.”

The yet doesn’t come. They stare at each other, fifteen feet apart, shoes sponging up every bit of water clinging to the grass. Ed feels a knot balling up in his stomach, and Hayate comes trotting back from the brush, happily depositing the stick at Roy’s feet and leaning against his leg with a contented huff. Roy’s fingers drum against whatever’s in that satchel.

“Listen—” he says, and stops himself with a grimace. “There’s something I need to do.”

Ed’s fingers go cold.  He shoves them into his pockets, hoping to hide the blanch.

“Could I come with?” he asks, knowing either answer is pointless to his intentions.

“Yeah,” Roy says, as a little awful smile flits across his mouth. “I think she’d like that.”

They go on wordlessly. Roy leads, stepping into the brush while Hayate gallops back and forth, more interested in the worried birds than the stick Ed helplessly tosses ahead. A twinging part of him worries about poison oak, so he follows almost directly in Roy’s wake, figuring he’ll at least get some warning this way.

The trees rise up fast around them, dense almost as soon as they leave the lawn. It’s not too dissimilar from the forests at home, if a bit thicker, and Ed is warmed by the sudden rush of memory, of trailing along behind his mother while she scoured the forest floor for blackberries.

Distantly, crows scream themselves awake and are answered by the trill of songbirds irritated at the interruption. Vaguely, Ed can see rodents scampering through the branches and starting fights over the meaty rinds of not-quite-ripe walnuts. The branches overhead protected everyone from the night’s rain, and the air as well feels thinner and cooler threading through his lungs.

Roy stops suddenly and points up.

“Do you know what that is?” he asks, and Ed can see a small, sturdy lashing of planks jutting out from a tree, maybe fifteen feet up. No ladder, but the greenish remains of rope hang from one corner, hinting at past ascensions.

“No,” he says.

“It’s a deer blind.”

Roy is smiling, eyes fixed on the wood.

“She built it. And then it collapsed, so she built it again until it stayed up. She never had anyone to tell her how—she learned it all in books. What to do.”

“How old was she?”

“I think seven or eight. It was before I met her, anyway.”

Ed feels a little strange for having assumed the place belonged to Mustang—which of course made little sense in the context of Mustang’s money and the sparse living style Ed had seen of Hawkeye’s apartment in Central and, later, her quarters up at Briggs. He’d always felt a kind of kinship in pragmatism with her.

Of course Roy is city-bred—it shows mostly obvious in his shoulders and the casual disregard of his stride. He’s moved a few steps, close enough to rest a hand on the tree’s mossy bark.

“Sometimes I’d climb up with her, when I was bored or her father was in one of his moods. I’m sure I always ruined hours of work—drove every animal in a square mile far away with the noise I made climbing up. But she liked it. She’d ask me to read sometimes. So I’d bring whatever text I was studying and just drone. I don’t know how it didn’t drive her crazy.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“What?”

“You grew up together.”

Roy shrugs.

“Sort of. I asked her father to take me on as his apprentice in alchemy, and he agreed.”

Ed cranes his neck up, as though he could see the top of the blind with just a shift of perspective.

“Sometimes I’d bring her food, if she’d been out a while. We’d climb down at night, and she’d always stop to check her traps before going. I never understood how she could see, but I think she just had it memorized.”

Roy laughs a little—he looks down, and Ed follows, seeing now the narrow, clear path of dirt sheltered by overgrown weeds. They turn back and walk on, and Roy eagerly points out various landmarks that barely rise above the overgrowth. A split-rail fence where she used to walk and balance and then overtip in his waiting arms, a jagged boulder which marks the end of the property in only a technical sense, a tree that forks half-dead and points on one end to a deep pool.

“She said we couldn’t go too far,” he says, pausing to whistle Hayate back. “I never found out why, but I think she was just messing with me. She did that a lot. I knew nothing, and I was a fun target for teasing.”

He breathes deep, with a ragged half-smile.

“We’re almost there,” he says. “Over left.”

The path slopes down and turns craggy—Ed follows Roy’s cautious lead in picking his way down the jutting stones and roots. Somewhere very nearby, a creek is whispering its way through pebbles. Roy stops about ten feet down the incline, jostling between the satchel and Hayate’s thumping tail, and he pulls aside a section of hanging leaves.

“Here,” he says, nodding at Ed to step through first.

On the other side of the curtain is a strange, squat room lined in crumbling stone and mortar. A few wood beams remain of a roof, and flowered ivy grows thick as thatch across. Part of the collapsed wall on the eastern side forms a narrow shelf, and Ed can see a series of dirty glass jars and small animal bones strewn across it as decoration. The stream must be nearby—it echoes quietly around his ears.

The floor is half stone and half dirt, pitted with moss and soft under every step. Pollen perfumes the air, and the haze of coming sun swamps the small space.

He feels—enveloped. Warm, solid, as though the air could take shape and form itself into comfort. The quiet here is reverent, a stillness so close to the peace of an undisturbed pond moments before a pebble stumbles from the shore and breaks the surface.

“What is this?” Ed breathes.

“It used to be a mill,” Roy says, dodging. He nudges a patch of moss, revealing the cool glisten of old leaves beneath. Decay, but a sweetness of promised renewal. These ruins sit untouched by rot.

“A mill?”

“Probably a hundred years ago. They dammed the river up in town, and all the little creeks like this one dried up. You can still see the wheel outside.”

He points, and then indicates the shadow of a long pole past their feet.

“They’d hook a donkey to a harness, and he’d drag the wheel into the water and out, as they needed.”

Roy goes silent, and Ed nods.

It’s a nice place—this deep in the woods, truly indistinguishable from home. Here, Ed can conjure the memories of stick forts he’d built with Al as easily as if he could step back through that curtain of vine and find his baby brother, mud-splattered and impatient to play.

“This was her temple,” Roy says quietly. His voice is thick—he’s staring down at the leather satchel on his hip, and Hayate leans patiently against his leg. “When she was little, they taught her about Xerxes—how they had a hundred gods, and all the gods had temples. But she got it wrong. She thought—she thought that the people built the temples first, and then waited for the gods to show up.”

There’s the slightest streak of blackening against one wall—a fire she built as she built the blind? Where she might have sat and she might have watched, willing the effort to be something less than vain?

“So she made this. She’d used it before, as a place to rest during a hunt or as a shelter when her father was in one of his moods. But she thought it would do good as a temple—she planted those vines and cleared space, and tried to assemble an altar.”

Even now, gone, Ed cannot picture her as anything but the woman she was. Full grown, she parts the veil and passes through, solid determination painting her face as she gently twists the flowering vines around the roof beams, as she gathers wildflowers into the glass jars, as she arranges the littlest bones into the vague shape of an invented summoning ritual.

“But no one ever came, of course. So she gave up on it. She kept using the place because she needed it, but she said it sometimes felt a little like failure. When she first brought me here, and told me, there was so much disgust for herself in her voice… but I thought it was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.”

The satchel unbuckles beneath his careful fingers, and then Roy is lifting a small vase into the air—a flat, reflectionless glaze stoppered with a dark wood lid. No bigger than a milk jug, and hefted so perfectly in the cradle of Roy’s palm. He catches Ed’s stare and nods.

“Yeah. She told me, when it came down to it, what happened after was my choice. Funerals and burials—she said whatever it was, I’d be the one who had to live with it. When she wanted to come back here, to—”

The tiniest little split. It had happened, it was happening, even now. Even with all that she was, contained in so small a space.

“To die,” Roy finishes, as though the word might pull all his insides out. “I knew immediately this is what I wanted.”

“Did you tell the old man?”

“No,” Roy says. “He thinks he buried her next to her mother and the man they both hated. He has no right to this.”

A sentiment Ed can find no fault in.

“I always thought we’d…”

A tear escapes, twisting towards the corner of Roy’s mouth and then disappearing down his chin.

“I thought if we had a daughter, we’d bring her here.”

He rotates the urn around in his hands, gently caressing the surface.

“This is where you should be,” he says to it, and then steps forward, clearing a little space between the jars and bones, and he nestles the urn at the center.

The sun follows them back to the house, tracing their steps and silence. Even from the edge of the lawn, Ed can see movement inside the kitchen. Winry will still be asleep, and hopefully it’s early enough that no one will have thought of sending a search party.

Roy pauses at the table on the patio, still with its dirty plate and folded newspaper.

“I wonder,” he says, “if I could ask you a favor.”

“Anything.”

Too quick—Ed winces, hoping it won’t fester into regret.

“She spent a lot of time writing. Towards the end.”

“Memoirs?”

“Some of it.”

Slowly, imperceptible maybe from the right distance, Roy is beginning to crumble. It’s over, and it’s just starting to catch up with him. Without a thought, Ed sets one hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm, and he guides Roy to sit in the empty chair, clearing the cushion of the other for himself.

“She had so many ideas,” Roy says. “Things she wanted to say, things she wanted. Not for herself—for everyone. The future of the country.”

The last he says like he’s quoting something. Tears fill his eyes and spill over—more blind now than when he crossed through the Gate, all those years ago. Ed wonders, idly, fleeting, if she’ll wait for him there, if she’ll rise and meet him with hand outstretched, all time and distance collapsed to the infinite they still step through and see together.

“I can’t look at it. Not yet.”

A ray of light hits his eyes directly, and Roy blinks, shutting it out for only a moment.

“But it’s not right to hide it. Everything she wrote is important, and people should see it.”

The door behind them opens: Gracia steps outside with a cup of coffee, approaching them slowly.

“I had ulterior motives putting you and Winry in the study.”

“So you need an editor?” Ed asks.

“Only if you’re willing.”

“I’m honored that you asked.”

Gracia crosses to his side, glancing at the empty bag between his feet.

“So it’s done?” she says, rubbing gently between his shoulders.

“Yeah. Ed came with.”

“It was beautiful,” Ed says with a nod. “It felt like the right place.”

“I’m glad.”

“I’m tired,” Roy sighs. “I think I’m going to sleep now.”

He rises with a sudden heaviness, as though his center of gravity has suddenly rushed upwards above his heart. Hayate curls along beside him, a brace to rest against once or twice on the long walk back inside the house.

Everyone else is up and filtering through the various rooms, maintaining a reverent silence. Even Winry, having folded the bed linens neatly at each corner before heading into the bathroom. Through the walls, Ed can hear alternately the thrumming chant of water rushing through the pipes and the indecipherable murmur of Elicia’s voice.

He closes the door and crosses to the desk pushed up against the wall. Too dark or too distracted last night to notice, he sees now the cascade of papers spread across its surface.

This cannot be disturbed just yet—he feels this commandment sharply, so instead he simply looks. Leaning over, scanning his gaze across the jumbled words, picking up only flashes of the sentiments contained within. A torn shred, somewhat standing free of the pile, makes him turn his head against his shoulder to read more closely.

It’s a list—of titles, by his guess. Anarchist from the Deathbed, Non Omnis Moriar, Rights of the Amestrian Citizen: strong, stout, even a little seditious.

The chair is still pulled out a little ways, and with a bit of effort, he manages to sit without moving it. The window on his right pours sunlight across the desk top. A pen lies between his hands, he realizes, tossed against a seam of parchment and then rolled back to rest in a crease, sideways, careless of a dribble of ink, as though any moment she might return and take it up again.

He sets his fingers along the grooves—she was right-handed, and held the tip between three fingers, leaving her little finger to trail on the page, to guide the lilt of her writing.

He holds it just the same. He breathes. He pulls the first, the last, of her words forward, and he begins to read.

And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on this earth.

“Late Fragment” by Raymond Carter

#edward elric #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #royai #fmab #hlwim fic #not all of me will end #long post

[eatbreathewrite]

The Adventures of Todd and Granny

(Alternatively: “I Saw Granny Ethel with the Devil”)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Yard Work

Of the many lessons instilled in him by Granny Ethel, the one that Todd knows best, is that good, hard, honest work keeps the devil at bay.

It’s only a saying. But he takes it to heart, if only to reassure himself that his brethren don’t know or care where he’s disappeared to for the past few months.

Really, they shouldn’t care. They’re often called away and sent on wayward tasks by superiors and skilled summoners alike. Sometimes for years.

Todd wouldn’t mind living like this for a decade, or two.

The Human Todd—Theodore—though, doesn’t seem to hold the same morals.

“Ugh—why won’t the damn thing just start?” he gripes at the old push lawn mower, rusted and peeling with age, as he yanks the motor’s rip cord for the third time in a row—unsuccessful. Not even a stutter. The heel of his shoe bounces off of its faded red deck with a dull, metallic thump as he tries to kick it into submission, but hitting machinery never inspires it to suddenly, magically work.

It isn’t that it doesn’t have gas—Todd has made sure it’s well taken care of in its old age and properly filled. It isn’t that it’s missing its grass-catcher bag, either. That’s another issue to be met further down the road.

Ultimately, it’s just Theodore’s poor luck and impatience. And a dirty carburetor, perhaps.

He’ll let him struggle obliviously for a few moments more—but only a few. Granny Ethel’s lawn is overgrown with a wily mass of green-yellow grass up to his shins, in desperate need of taming. But for now, he just shakes his head and minds his business at the stone-bordered garden on the other end of the lawn, getting his claws dirty pulling stray weeds from between herbs and taking notes on which ones need pruning.

More importantly, he only allows Theodore to swear so loudly because Granny Ethel is currently absent.

Their friend Sam from the grocery store kindly drove her to her routine check-up at the local clinic earlier that afternoon, though they probably would have walked if it wasn’t in the next town over.

Being who she is, he’s still a bit surprised they didn’t.

Another kick echoes off the metal body of the lawn mower—followed quickly by a strangled yell and the sound of something heavy—someone—hitting the grass with a sharp rustle. A soft landing.

Maybe he’s lucky after all.

Todd still ignores him, and pauses briefly to admire the ruby red glare of a ladybug landing on the back of his dark hand. Even as the swishing of disturbed grass only grows closer, until a distorted human shadow blocks the bright patch of sun reflecting off of the ladybug’s fragile shell.

Theodore clears his throat.

The ladybug’s wings unfurl in a flutter and it flits away, following the wind.

Again, he clears his throat to garner attention—and Todd ignores him. But he does keep him in the fringe of his peripheral vision.

“No help at all.” He huffs out an insulted breath as he stomps away, unkempt, sweaty blond hair flouncing with each step. It must be the hardest he’s worked out in ages, to get so worked up.

But Theodore doesn’t return to the lawn mower—this time he heads toward the far corner, to the small brown shed topped with a patchy, bright yellow roof. Unpainted, unfinished. It’s something Todd will take care of at an appropriate time. Granny Ethel’s birthday, perhaps…though she hasn’t mentioned it just yet.  

The doors rattle as he gives them a shake—locked, naturally. He sets his hands on his hips and hangs his head in defeat. Bends down and almost collapses in the grass, ready to give up, but stops. Frozen, as if struck by inspiration. His head tilts dramatically as he peers toward something in the corner, resting in the shadows between the shed wall and the fence.

Todd has to admit, this interests him greatly—he turns his head to watch, but doesn’t move from his spot beside the herb garden.

Theodore straightens up and slinks toward the shadowed nook, reaching a hand out into the blackness. And when he draws it back, a scythe handle is gripped in his palm.

It’s dusty. Rusted and bent at the edges, probably dull—and complete with another hand grip protruding from the main rod like a functional tool. Made of old wood; reliable wood. Hand-carved. Theodore wheezes out a laugh of disbelief and quickly turns. Todd can’t turn around fast enough and catches the brunt of the victorious grin wrinkling his face. Knowing, and so triumphant. The absolute epitome of foolish Pride.

He doesn’t even know what he’s holding, certainly. Not with those pristine, clean hands that have only been pricked by a splinter today.

Todd rises to his feet, to his full height. There’s no need to heed ceilings—not outdoors. When he takes the first step, Theodore’s smile crumbles. He clutches the scythe to his chest and takes a step back, shoulders tense. He holds the eye contact just to spook him. Just a bit.

But he doesn’t walk to him. He reaches the lawn mower and kneels to pass a hand over its motor, clearing it of whatever issue remains.

Ah. Like he thought. It’s the carburetor.  

He takes the rip cord in one hand and gives it a brisk yank—the motor stutters. Again, he pulls it, and the machine roars to life. Obedient, like a well-tamed beast.

Theodore’s strangled yelp of outrage satisfies the primal human vengeance he’s come to know as “pettiness.”

As the lawn mower idles, Theodore sets the scythe carelessly aside, dropped against the shed, and trudges through the tall grass toward it. He seizes it by the handle bar without sparing Todd a second glance even as he towers over him, still kneeling, thanks to the height of his spiraling horns.

Still, he doesn’t seem to know just how to operate the machine he snatched away. He pushes it forward, too rough—and jumps back with a start, cursing as the fresh-cut grass clippings pepper his navy-blue slacks in a rush of green.

But the beast has already been released, and as his fingers slip from the handlebar, it creeps its way forward without prompt and with surprising speed.

Straight into Granny Ethel’s beloved and flourishing lantanas.

Then right over them.

Both, speechless and stock still, stare at the vermillion whirl of shredded petals spit out in the lawn mower’s wake. Even as it bumps into the fence and tries to continue on, unaware—until it topples over and chokes itself out, blades whirring to a halt beneath its casing.

Just in time, too. In the distance, but not too far away, a car door slams shut. Swift and familiar, shuffling footsteps fast approach. The wooden side gate creaks open.

“We’re back at last, dears! I’m sure you’ve been working hard. Why don’t we take a break? I saw the most charming bakery on the way home and couldn’t help but—”

Something crashes against the cobblestone walkway. Soft—covered in a plastic bag. Bread. No, cinnamon buns. Todd can smell the sugary vanilla sweetness through the package. But he can’t quite turn to face Granny Ethel as a red hot glare fills his eyes, aimed only at Theodore.

But—no. It isn’t entirely the man’s fault.

It’s his, too, for playing a jealous, petty little game. Because he could have stopped the lawn mower and didn’t.

Sometimes, standing idly by is the worst sin of all.

Todd’s heart caves in as Granny Ethel breathes in and exhales, speechless, and presses her hands to her mouth when he turns to face her.

“Oh, my… The lantanas.”

Her eyes dart to the ruined mess of flowers and she takes a tiny step forward, over the fallen bag of sweet bread. Drops her hands from her mouth and holds them out in front of her as she ambles forward—and stops, a safe distance away from the destruction.

“Oh, my dudes, yikes,” Sam breathes, hissing in through his teeth and rubbing a brown hand across his frowning, pursed lips. “I, uh—I’ll go in and mix up some juice or something. You’ll need it.” He picks up the fallen bag of buns on the way.

Todd’s shoulders hunch as he very nearly curls in on himself in shame, wrapping his shawl tight around himself—because the heat never bothered him and it’s his it’s special and it was a gift from her and, somewhere deep down, he vows to never disappoint her, to hurt her, in such a way again. Ever.

Theodore, flushed deep red from neck to ears ever since his grandmother walked in, shuffles half-heartedly in front of the straight line of shredded lantanas, at least self-aware enough to realize he’d made a grave error. His hands knead roughly together, pale skin turning whiter from the pressure. Sweating, still, but not only from the summer heat.

“Gran, I…”

“Charles grew that patch for me.” Her soft poofs of cloud-white hair twist in the breeze as she closes her eyes and dips her head toward her chest, eyes closed. “Oh, they’ve been there ever since he planted them. Every single one.” She folds her hands in front of her loose, sunflower-yellow dress and shakes her head, saying no more on the subject.

“Oh my God. I’m so—Gran, I don’t… I didn’t mean to, it just… It wasn’t my fault!”

His frantic cry goes unheard by Granny Ethel as she stands with her head bowed in silence.

“There’s a silver lining, here, my dear.” When she looks up, her eyes shine behind her glasses, unshed tears catching sunlight, but her stare is hardened. And harsh.

Even with that small, tired smile, her fury is a cold-burning flame.

“You see, these particular flowers can live again. We will collect the undamaged stalks that are left and root them. Replant them. Then…” Her voice trails off into the silence of an unspoken thought. “For now, I’ll leave you two in peace to finish the yard work.”

Neither speaks a word, stuck in mortified silence, even as Granny Ethel disappears into the house.

The silence is only broken moments later when Sam makes his way back outside holding a tray filled with a glass pitched and three glasses, as well as a small pile of cookies. Peanut butter, of course.

But no sweet cinnamon buns.  

“Here’s that drink! Lavender lemonade with honey—and Granny’s special peanut cookies,” he smiles, trying his best to keep up a positive atmosphere as he sits cross-legged on the lawn with the fine silver tray in his lap. “She helped put it together, dudes, so don’t forget to thank her later.”

Theodore scoffs and grumbles out, “I’m allergic to peanuts,” but Todd knows that isn’t true. He’s seen entire containers of peanut butter disappear overnight, at times. And Granny Ethel simply wouldn’t do something that selfish, so he’s the only suspect.

But if the man is going to be that way about it, then all the more treats for him and Sam. He drains one of the glasses in a single gulp and devours two of the delicious, crispy cookies, nodding in appreciation. Because it’s what Granny Ethel would want—and he’d rather die than let her hospitality go to waste. Her happiness always comes first.

He hopes she’s not crying.

“She’s busy crocheting something in the den, by the way. Humming, and everything. Boy, am I glad she’s not mad.” Sam also eats a cookie and speaks around the crunchy bits in his mouth, providing him with just the answer he sought. “But, man, that’s some gnarly garden carnage, there.” He nods his head toward the lantanas and whistles low. “Did you apologize?”

“Why would I?” Theodore snaps, arms crossed tight as he refuses to look at the flowers and their faces, still evident in his guilt by the way he answers so quickly. When no one gives him an immediate response, he breathes a theatrical sigh and clomps toward the fallen path of ruined flowers. Hands on his hips, now, he observes the mess. “Is any of this even salvageable? None of the stems look un-shredded!”

“You should apologize,” Sam insists lightly, taking another cookie when he finishes the first. He meets Todd’s eyes and they share a knowing glance. Then, his brown eyes light up. “Oh—and by the way, Granny’s appointment went great! She’s fit as a fiddle.”

By now, Theodore is squatting amongst the flower shreds, combing through the mess for anything that looks particularly helpful and root-able. “Of course she is. Her energy knows no bounds.”

Todd can only nod. Granny Ethel’s health is nigh infallible. But—that aside, it’s time to return to work. He finishes his cookies, brushes the crumbs off his palms and carefully makes his way to the flower patch to pick out the lantana stems they can still save.  

There are few—but a few is better than none. And for the rest, they can grow from the seeds.

It will take some time to return Granny’s beloved lantana garden to its former glory, but not forever. And before they know it, this day will be nothing more than a mistake of the past.  

So, they continue their yard work until the day’s chore is done.

The remaining lantanas: neat. The lawn: trimmed. The herb garden: weeded and pruned.

When the tools have been returned to their proper place, they leave the yard behind, and Todd gives one final, sweeping glance around the space as he slides the back door shut.

Something is out of place. He can’t quite pin down what, but later, when he curls up in his small twin bed and drifts to sleep in the room he shares with Theodore, he dreams of a rusted scythe that he can’t quite remember putting away—one that he promptly forgets when he wakes.

#Todd and granny #original #original writing #writing #fresh off the press! get it while it's hot! #also thank you for a thousand followers #i am so glad you're all here

[lamiaward]

Swan Queen Week: parent trap

I do not own OUAT.

There were several reasons Regina did not like it that her son and sister were bonding. She could be a nice list of it actually, titled reasons why my migraines are increasing in frequency. If she had told this with her monthly appointment with Archie, he probably would have jumped at the idea as the man had an obsession with making lists.

Her list reasons why my migraines are increasing in frequency would look like this.

A.    Zelena’s influence on Henry seems greater than vice versa

A2. The pest in her house had managed to convince Henry to participate in several pranks, which were amusing when Snow was the target or Mulan, but insufferable whenever she was the target

B.     Henry thought it absolutely necessary to introduce ‘auntie Z’ to all the movies and TV series, especially the Disney ones

B2. Regina was forced to join the film nights, which meant enduring Zelena’s comments

B3. Her sister now made constant references to that infernal Disney movie about Regina herself, such as saying ‘magic mirror on the wall who is the fairest of them all’ if Regina as much as walked past a mirror

B4. Her sister hid a new Disney-related gift in her house every few days and once, Regina had even woken up in a nightshirt with the evil queen( as well as Maleficent) on it that definitely had not been what she was wearing when she went to sleep

C.      Zelena was addicted to horror movies , which she found hilarious, and now liked to imitate things from them.

C1. Regina’s TV had been blown apart when Zelena had gotten it into her head to enchant it so it seemed that the pit girl from the ring was coming from it

C2. Regina and Henry were constantly on edge, as Zelena’s horror creatures could jump out at any moment

D.     Her sister had no regards for privacy

D1. She had asked Regina several questions about Regina’s search history, which Zelena shouldn’t know about and definitely should not joke about to Henry

D2. Bath time was not the right moment for Zelena to walk in and try to rope Regina into a discussion she was having with Henry about which comics could be considered canon and which couldn’t

D3. Zelena didn’t knock when she entered Regina’s room. This could get very awkward

D4. Her sister in only a very short towel, trying to steal Regina’s favourite shampoo, should not be what Regina woke up to

Things might have been better between her and her sister , and still getting better each day, but that didn’t mean Regina accepted all those things from Zelena with a smile. Emma might find it amusing, but Regina would slip and accidentally murder her sister one of these days, and they couldn’t have that. She had gone without murdering someone for years, and she would have to start seeing Archie weekly again if she slipped.

And that was just unacceptable.

She was massaging the side of her head to lessen her headache and hopefully finally being able to focus on the request in front of her again when the door opened, and her best friend walked in. Emma didn’t have a sister wreaking havoc and being more work than a small child living in her house, but she somehow looked about as tired as Regina herself felt.

Still, she smiled when she held up the take-out bag from Granny’s. Regina gave a small smile back, and waved her hand so that Emma’s chair moved back and Emma could sit down on it. Two glasses appeared on her desk, after on it levitated to a corner of the room. Plates followed, as well as napkins.

“ How is it going?” Emma asked, vanishing the glasses with a small grin and handing Regina her root beer. Regina rolled her eyes, but decided to just accept it lest she got involved in another vanishing competition, like the last time. She wasn’t really looking forward to Emma accidentally vanishing her blouse again, and avoiding her for a week.

“ As well as can be expected” Regina groused, drinking her root beer.

Emma put her grilled cheese, and Regina’s salad on the plates.  “ Is it the paperwork, the stupid complaints or your sister?”.

“ All of them, honestly”

Emma hid a grin, rather unsuccessfully. “ You’ve got to admit though, Zelena is kind of funny”.

“ Invite her to move in with you, and see whether you still think that”.

“ She is doing better though, right?”.

“ Emma , you are supervising her … redemption with me. You already know how she is doing”.

Emma shrugged. “ Yeah, but I don’t have that much time because-  “ she cut herself off, and quickly changed the subject. They didn’t really talk about Emma’s marriage.  “So apart from the pranks and the various attempts on Hook’s life- “ .

Regina was the one to hide a grin this time. “ She did not attempt to murder him, she merely transformed him into an orangutan”.

“ And tried to sell him to a zoo”.

“ She has no form of income, as the establishments in this town do not wish to hire her”.

“ Regina”

“ Redemption never goes smoothly. If you remember, I made very grave mistakes”.

Emma’s scowl immediately disappeared, and a vaguely panicked look replaced it. “Don’t beat yourself up- we did dumb shit too”.

Regina knows Emma is probably thinking of that disaster with the dreamcatcher, or maybe just taking Henry away from Regina in general.  “ I did not make it easy to believe me, and you thought you were protecting Henry”.

“ Still. I understand it now – what losing Henry feels like, and the kid was miserable as well. He just pushed it down”

Regina’s heart starts racing, and she can’t control her expression properly. She wants to look indifferent, or at least something appropriate, something friendly but instead she just knows she has that stupid look she gets sometimes around Emma.

(But then, Emma’s eyes are so gentle and there is small, sad smile and it is almost enough to get Regina to believe she isn’t alone in this godawful pining)

Emma pushes at her grilled cheese for a moment, then quickly changes the subject. “ So uh anything else I missed, any tornado’s or time spells or whatever?”.

“ A tornado is hardly something you can miss”

Emma makes a gesture.  “ Small tornado’s “.

“ Small- That still constitutes an enormous force, capable of picking up your beloved metal coffin on wheels and finally destroying it. I doubt you would miss that”

“ I thought Robyn had displaced signs of magic”

“ Yes, but those were more small storms than tornado’s “

“ Should we do something about that? I mean, if she already can do that, it’s only going to get worse and she can’t control it”.

“ I have already protected my house”.

“ what about the town?”.

Regina sighs. “ We can enchant Robyn’s buggy, so that any magic she accidentally starts will be contained and stopped”.

“ Sounds good”

Emma happily tears into her grilled cheese, quickly swallowing and taking another bite. Regina nudges the napkins her way, earning herself an eyeroll like usually. “ So- “ Emma swallows her next bite at Regina’s arched eyebrow “ did anything else happen?”.

Regina shakes her head.  “ No, just the usual. Although – “

“ Although what?” Emma says, between sips of root beer.

“ My sister has arranged a blind date for me”.

Regina gasps and stares at Emma when she is showered with root beer as Emma does a spectacular spit take. “ What “

“Miss Swan” Regina hisses, wiping at her face. Emma’s odd expression vanishes as she realizes what she has done, and she quickly rounds the desk with her hands clutching several napkins. Before Regina can stop her, Emma is trying to wipe the droplets of root beer of Regina amidst apologies as well as snorts.

“ Why would Zelena do that- can we even trust her, what if she like arranges a date with a monkey?”

“Is the poor saviour traumatized from her relationship with another monkey? “ Regina says, showing way too much teeth as she smiles.

“ That’s not funny, Hook isn’t – totally different things, Regina”.

Regina sniffs. “ If you were to date another flying monkey, I would think it an improvement. The worst you can catch from them is flies, while your pirate – “

“ He doesn’t have any STD’s, you know I had him tested”.

“That is a – miss Swan”  Regina even forgets to make a snarky remark about Hook when Emma’s hand suddenly are no longer on her face, but on her chest. She looks down, then at Emma. She almost smirks when she sees Emma has frozen, and swallows for a moment. There is another look, one of the ones that sometimes makes Regina think she isn’t alone in her feelings-

Then Emma shrugs and says “ There was root beer there as well”.

“ How on earth did you manage that? “ Regina says, looking down at herself. Emma is actually right, as her blouse is slightly wet and she can feel little droplets glide down her neck, and into her shirt.

Emma shrugs. “ So – who is Zelena setting you up with? “

“The term blind date suggests I do not know, Emma “

“ Do you want me to find out, so I can make sure it isn’t a creep?” Emma smirks. “ Or that they are at least human”

“As long as they do not like rums, boats and have good personal hygiene, I will be fine”.

“ Am I really supposed to believe forest guy had good hygiene?”.

Regina stiffens, and glares at Emma. “ At least he brushed his teeth”.

“ A true stellar guy” Emma says drily.

“ You have no right to judge, miss Jones” they both freeze. Emma hasn’t asked why Regina still calls her Swan, and Regina hasn’t questioned why Emma looks happy with it. Now they know why, as Regina looks angrily heartbroken and Emma –

Emma just looks lost.

“ Hook changed for me, and we’re happy”

Regina could counter that, there’s so much she could say. She could remind Emma that Hook tried to kill everyone, tried to kill Henry. That he has hurt Emma so many times, that he didn’t believe her, didn’t trust her. That they lied to each other and ignored each other’s wishes. But if Hook is what Emma wants-

“ I know you love him” is all she offers.

Emma nods, and Regina knows what is going to happen. Emma is going to walk away, and go to that goddamn pirate. “ Zelena feels guilty”

“ What?”.

“ The blind date. It is Zelena’s way of apologizing about what happened with Robyn, and Hades”.

Emma snorts. “ What? My boyfriend tried to kill you and everything, but here is a blind date so you can feel better? “.

Regina sighs. “ I argued against it as well, but -  “ she looks down. “ It would be nice to have someone”.

“You have your family. You have Henry and – “ Emma shrugs, then quickly says “ Snow and David and everyone. Me “

“ I know, and I am very grateful for that but it is different” she hesitates.

“ Why? What’s it?”.

Regina wonders whether she should say anything.

“Trust me “ Emma says

Regina swallows, then takes a deep breath. “ I adopted Henry, because I needed something more in my life. And he was everything I could have hoped, and I love him. But I really- “

“ You want another child?” Emma doesn’t sound surprised, not even a little bit.

“ Yes. I am thinking of adopting another child, and I could obviously raise them on my own again but I do not necessarily want to “

Regina’s heart is racing again, but it is for an altogether different reason this time. She has been thinking off this for a while, and has even already had a long talk with Henry about it, but she had been hesitant to tell Emma.

Before she can find out whether Emma’s reaction would be everything she hoped, everything she feared, or something in the middle, the door to her office opens. Regina’s secretary gapes at them. Regina can’t blame her

Emma’s hands are still pressed to Regina’s chest, somewhere during the conversation they both started to lean in and their expressions – well. Safe to say, all parties involved are uncomfortable. Emma quickly stumbles back, tossing the napkin at Regina with a smile. Before Regina can explain anything, Emma is taking her grilled cheese with her with a promised ‘we will talk later’.

If her secretary weren’t so competent, Regina would possibly fire her.

Turn on the TV!! Watch ‘Good morning Storybrooke’.

Regina is understandably confused when she receives the text from Emma, especially since Emma knows she is probably struggling to get Henry out of bed, as Emma is rather familiar with that particular fight.

Why?

Just do it, trust me

Regina sighs, and looks down at her son. He is laying on stomach, hugging his pillow and refusing to do more than groan and grouse at her. If he would actually be able to see Regina’s expression right now, he would quickly roll out of bed and sprint downstairs.

But alas, he doesn’t see her expression turn very ‘evil queen’.

He certainly feels the cause of it though.

“ ¡Qué mierda! “ he screams, nearly falling on the ground in his haste to get away from the small rainstorm above his head. He immediately turns and faces her, an exact copy of her own glare on his face.

“ Go take a shower” she commands, walking away from the room and stopping the rainstorm with a snap of her fingers.

“ I THINK THE RAIN ALREADY TOOK CARE OF THAT “ he screams

She just chuckles, and goes downstairs to the kitchen. As soon as she enters it, she summons a small TV and turns it on with a flick of her wrist. She leans against the counter with a cup of coffee, which she immediately drops as soon as the TV is turned on.

“ Good morning Storybrooke!” her sister says cheerfully, over the sound of what suspiciously sounds like muffled words. Regina mutters a curse, and mentally adds ‘breaks into a TV studio and possibly ties the actually presentation up’ to her list.

There is another sound of muffled words, and she sees Zelena kick something (someone?) with a scowl and a hissed ‘quiet’. She quickly smiles again. “ One of your hosts wasn’t feeling well, so I got to replace him! And his less insufferable and smarter colleague is here as well , to help me. “

She smirks at Goldie locks, who looks understandably weary. In fact, she nearly falls of her chair as she trying to subtly scoot away from Zelena  “ Aren’t you?”

“ S-sure- “ she says, with a pained smile. “ You were v-very clear about that, miss wicked witch”.

Zelena smiles, and cackles. Goldie locks almost jumps of her chair( Regina has told her sister that she shouldn’t cackle but laugh, and this is exactly why)  “ Zelena is fine, sun shine”.

“ It is Goldie locks actually”

Zelena stares at her. “ Goldie – are you bloody Rapunzel?”

“ Eh, no. I am Goldie Locks, from the- “.

“ Whatever” Zelena straightens in her chair and looks into the camera.  “Today , Storybrooke, is your luck day. This morning’s program is completely dedicated to finding my dear, dear sister a date” .

Goldie locks blinks. “ Madam mayor is approving this?”.

“ Approving isn’t the right word” Zelena says.

Goldie locks looks rather pained, but still manages to keep smiling. Regina thinks that is admirable. However, it also means this has gone on long enough, and it is time to stop her sister. She waves her hand, meaning to transport to the studio-

“What” she growls as nothing happens. After ten times and ten fails, she finally gives up and stalks out of the kitchen- or at least that is her plan, except then she suddenly feels a familiar warmth and only barely manages to avoid walking into an invisible barrier.

“That’s it. I am revoking her magic rights, until the end of time” she mutters, and turns back to the TV.  Goldie Locks has apparently resigned herself to being Zelena’s partner-in-crime and seems her usual cheerful self. Regina squeezes her eyes, but she can’t be sure whether the woman’s smiles are faked.

She texts Emma while she follows the program.

You will have to solve this issue on your own. I cannot leave my house.

She nearly drops the phone and throws it at the screen when it fills with a picture of her. It was of her several months back. She is wearing a suit and tie, and the first three buttons of her shirt are open. She is grinning at something, the exact opposite of the emotion she feels right now.

That picture was taken without her consent. She is locked in. Her sister has probably kocked someone out. She is going to make her sister pay.

Another picture, of Regina in- one of her evil queen dresses. Which she definitely didn’t pose for, so how the hell did Zelena get that picture? And is she really stupid enough to think that people would possibly want to date her after a reminder of who she had been?

“ I am glad you didn’t wear that dress to Emma’s wedding” Henry comments, walking inside the kitchen.

“ What?”.

He nods at the picture. “ The dress. That’s the one you wore to grandma’s wedding, right?” he grins at her.  “It would’ve been cool if you would have interrupted the wedding the same way, but I really don’t want to see that dress”.

She tries to walk out of the kitchen, hoping that Henry’s arrival means the spell is broken. She glares as soon as she feels the barrier, and throws a fireball at it. She gives up after trying four more, and leans against the counter.

“I have done some research, and my sources say you’ve got to name good characteristics of the person you are trying to find a blind date for so I started with the obvious. As I am sure you leering hypocrites know, my sister is attractive”.

Zelena sighs theatrically.  “Sadly, my sis isn’t just looking for one-night-stands, although I know she desperately needs it, so if you just want to lay one of her, you probably don’t have much of a chance”

Regina’s foul curse makes Henry stare at her, but she doesn’t pay him attention. She is too busy staring completely horrified at the TV screen as Zelena smirks wickedly and says “ However, I did make a special account for people just wanting to taste my sister’s forbidden fruit”

“ That is not even meant to be sexual” Regina protests.

Henry snorts. “Yeah, right”.

Regina gives him a warning look. He just grins and kisses her cheek with a ‘¡Buenos días!, mom” , and helps himself to a small mountain of pancakes. He munches on them as Zelena has Goldie Locks dictate a number

“You know, I really never wanted to think of this” he says calmly

“Do not worry, mijo, I will kill my sister for talking about a private part of my life on TV” she assures him.

Henry just continues serenely eating his pancakes.  On the TV, Zelena winks. “ So dearies, I will try to change my sister’s mind but it’s probably not going to happen. So other good characteristics-  Rapunzel, do you want to do the honours?”.

“ I am not Rapunzel – “ .

“ Yeah yeah, just name some characteristics my sister has that make her good dating material”.

“Oh, I don’t actually really know madam mayor all that well- “.

Zelena sighs. “ I have to everything, don’t I? All right. She is smart, funny and makes delicious food. She seems to enjoy taking care of people, and is a gifted witch” Zelena says this all like she is pulling her own teeth out, but it is still rather sweet. Regina almost forgives her, when she says the next thing.

“ She is obsessed with Star wars, which she never admits but I have been in her closet. She is also addicted to several TV shows, and has horrible taste” Regina vows to destroy her sister’s happiness, redemption be damned.

Zelena looks at Goldie Locks.  “Are you finally make yourself useful?”.  

Goldie Locks actually dares to glare, although she quickly drops it. “ If you are interested in dating mayor Mills, you just have to call the number that will appear beneath me. You will be contacted by her sister for a blind date”.

The camera zooms in on Zelena. “ So if you’re under fifty, attractive, of reasonable intelligence and not a munchkin or royalty, please call this number. Don’t bother calling if you hate children, healthy food or fireballs”.

Regina suddenly gets an idea. She might still be unable to leave, but her phone works. She quickly punches in the number.

And that is how the entirety of Storybrooke gets treated to a fight between Regina and her sister.

Zelena’s plan still has, somehow, worked.  Regina is now the proud owner of no less than 85 ‘booty call numbers’ ( as her sister referred to them when she threw the book they were written down in at Regina’s head) , a sore voice and a new date outfit, courtesy of Zelena and Henry.

“I had to go with her, to keep it appropriate “ he says, when she asks him why he would subject himself to this

“ I do not trust Zelena, but I do trust her fashion sense” she says, as it is true that her sister usually is dressed well.

Henry gives her a look, and looks down at his phone. He doesn’t even say something, just shows the pictures to Regina.

“ Henry, why am I looking at a prostitute’s clo- why is that nurse outfit- that is not how batgirl looks”.

Zelena walks in, pouting. “ Those outfits would’ve been amazing”

“ No, they would have been ground to arrest me for impropriety” Regina protests.

“ See, horrible taste” Zelena comments

Regina looks at Henry. “ Can I even trust her to choose the right people for these blind dates”

Henry smiles at her, and kisses her cheek. “ I will be supervising”

Regina slowly exhales.  “All right”.

She never sees the twin devious look exchanged between Henry and Regina.

--

Eagle 2, what do you think?

I am at school eagle 1

Don’t be such a hero.

You haven’t send me anything. Kind of hard to have an opinion on NOTHING

Description:  dad of one, loves nature but also likes to stay indoors and watch TV. 40 years old, athletic and trying to get a masters in marine biology.

Mom doesn’t really like camping and such. And the marine biology thing might make her think of Hook. I am surprised you thought about setting her up with him

You told me to only send you the boring ones. My choice was the pretty blonde who included lap dances in her description

Gross!

I am sure your mother would enjoy that more than someone who can make her some weird fish dish

Stop talking about that, that is my MOM you are talking about

Prude. What about this one: forty-two, mother of a grumpy teenager, a horrible cook but very good at cleaning, likes to read, speaks multiple languages.

Oh my god, send a picture

Why?

I think it is the mom of one of my classmates.

Well, in that case she is a total MILF.

Not cool! And where did you even get that word? Urgh, it’s like listening to Nick

One of those brats got into trouble for calling your mom that while Emma was behind him

What? WHO?

Your mom already took care of it. I didn’t know golden girl could be so .. wicked.

It’s her.

Who?

The picture, it is the mother of one of my classmates

Do you think Grumpy McMayorpants will like her?

Your nicknames are weird. And yeah, I think so.

On the small pile of yesses she goes!

Anything else?  Grandma is looking at me disappointedly.

Can’t we let her in on the operation?

No! My moms would know in like a minute, and then operation Happy Ending will fail.

Fine. Should I sort out the rest myself?

Okay, but don’t choose anyone YOU like. My mom and you look for different things in people.

Of course, Zelena still picked someone who Henry wouldn’t have, which ended with the rather scarring moment where Henry is dropped off by Emma and they almost walk into his mom pressed against the wall, with her date pressed against her, kissing the other woman.

The only good thing is Emma’s reaction.

It is almost worth it

Twelve blind dates, three fights, a mistletoe incident and one divorce later and operation Happy Ending still hasn’t succeeded.

Emma is actually staying with them, after her rather bad divorce and the consequent realization of ‘what the fuck have I turned into’. They have family nights and outings and Regina has even started the adoption process, but they still haven’t figured it out. Emma is in therapy, again, and she still seems completely clueless that she has feelings for Henry’s other mom.

This is why Henry and Zelena meet at his castle, in the middle of the night as Zelena claims that it is the proper way to do it. Henry shivers in his wonder woman pyjama’s and glares at her

“ Couldn’t we have gone to the farm house or somewhere else it is warm?”.

“No. So what is the next stage?”.

Henry sighs. “ I don’t even know anymore. We could wait?”.

Zelena swats him. “ Don’t be stupid! “

“ I don’t want to wait until they figure it out, but nothing has worked. And they’re trying to adopt another child, together. Surely that must be enough to make them see they’re not only friends? “

Zelena and Henry share a despairing look. They both know better.

“ I can’t believe my sister is so oblivious. I can understand Emma , but Regina as well?”.

Henry shrugs. “ To be fair, I think mom knows she is in love. She might even know ma is totally in love with every part of her. I think she is just scared, because she keeps losing people “

Zelena makes a disgusted sound.  “What are we going to do about that?”

Henry throws his arms into the air , and falls down dramatically.  “I no longer have any ideas”.

He nearly falls of the castle as Zelena leans over him, startling him. He stares at the flashlight in her hand. “ Where did you get that?”.

“ I have two ideas left. But we will start with the one”.

It is a true sign of desperation that he doesn’t think about stopping her when she says , with a very wicked, and more than a little insane, grin  “ enchanted mistletoe”.

He hangs the mistletoe in his mom’s study. It ends with her kissing Maleficent, rather enthusiastically, and Henry threatening to write Zelena ‘the crappiest story ever’ if she doesn’t stop recounting it to him.  He hangs the mistletoe in the library, because he knows when his moms will be there and what book they will need. Grandpa spends a week placing mom on a new curse every day ( just minor things, like her hair changing colours or her voice becoming squeaky) and Belle can’t look at her without blushing for a week. He hangs the mistletoe in the dinner, and Regina and Jefferson spend an entire day beneath the mistletoe before he accepts Regina’s apology and gives in.

Regina locks herself at home, and refuses to go outside. This lasts several days, and Henry still has to find something to convince his mom that she can leave the house ( or that she can let him stay at home as well, instead of having to go to school) when he receives the text.

You have such a bloody brilliant aunt, little hen.

Please don’t call me that. And why?

I managed to lock love bird 1 & 2 in a closet with enchanted mistletoe.

So they can literally come out of the closet?

I knew you would get it. They seem to be enjoying themselves, so maybe we’ve finally succeeded

Never mind.

What happened ? Henry only gets to reply when class is over, as his grandma had decided to actually follow protocol and make him hand in his phone. They’re now walking to Granny’s for their Friday night family dinner, and she is softly scolding him for still being busy with his phone.

Sis’ hair was all rumpled, and our saviour had lipstick all over her face but THEY DECIDED IT WAS JUST SO THEY WOULDN’T BE TRAPPED THE IDIOCY IS STRONG IN YOUR MOMS

I am so annoyed I am referencing that stupid film

Zelena does indeed look very annoyed as Henry walks into Granny’s and sees her next to Regina, with David and Emma across from her. There is already a chair from him, and he sits down it while Snow kisses her husband and sits down next to him. Zelena keeps sulking throughout the entire evening, which is why the conversation immediately stops when she suddenly smirks.

Regina lowers her drink, and narrows her eyes. “ Zelena what is-  “ as soon as she starts coughing, Emma is by her side. Snow leans forward and David leans in as well. Regina tries to wave them off, but she is coughing too furiously.

“ What- “ it sounds really unpleasant, Henry notices “ have you done?”.

“ A potion of confession “Zelena says, smugly.

Regina’s head shoots up, her eyes widening. “ What does that do?  “ Emma asks, glaring at Zelena like she hasn’t since they were enemies.

“What the name suggests, saviour”.

Regina stands, but before she can use magic, she slams her hands on the table and curses. Snow grabs David’s arm, Charming and Emma both threaten to lock Zelena up for the night and even Henry is worried when there is blood coming from his mom’s mouth.

“ Don’t fight it sis “ Zelena voice is almost gentle.

Regina tries, because of course she would , but eventually it rushes out. “ Emma and I are sleeping with each other”.

Zelena’s almost-gentle expression vanishes. “ WHAT?” she shrieks.  “I have helped little hen parent trap you and you were already-  “.

“ I love you” Regina admits, her eyes closing. Henry is kind of pissed at Zelena, because this might be going too far. With the enchanted mistletoe, people had to at least be attracted to each other for it to work .

Regina looks at Emma. “ I do not even know when I fell in love with you. You were this intruder in my town, stealing my son’s affection and ruining everything I had sacrificed my father for. And then you saved my son and broke the curse and- you started working with me and you didn’t give up on me. And then you cursed me”

Mom’s voice actually breaks. “ I could not stop loving you, not even when you were endangering our son by running off for someone so unworthy of you- you idiot”

He thinks his ma thinks it, but grandma is the one who actually says it. “ Why didn’t you tell her? “  

“ Because I do not deserve Emma” she never looks away from Emma.  “I am the reason for all that pain you went through, and all the fighting. Without me, you would not have been an orphan or the saviour. Every single one of your friends have suffered, because of me”

Emma laughs, and slowly stands up. “ Regina, you idiot, you are my friend” she says, tears slipping even as she smiles at Regina. It’s shy and awkward and Regina looks at that smile with the usual pining expression.  “I uh am not really good with words. I didn’t really know at first, and then I thought we were just friends and I didn’t want to ruin that – but I already told you”

Regina is closing herself off, obviously thinking she is going to be rejected and Henry thinks it is heart-breaking. “ You are not making sense, miss Swan”.

Emma slowly exhales.  “I already showed you I am in love with you as well. I thought I was being pretty clear actually, but – “ she shrugs, self-deprecatingly. “ I guess I shouldn’t have been a coward, and actually said it. But after the divorce- I wasn’t really- you deserved something better than that”.  

Regina takes a step towards her. “ You are an idiot “ she says

“ I think we can safely say we’re both idiots” Emma says.

Regina slowly leans in, and kisses her. It’s short and gentle and Henry can see them smile into it. When they pull apart, Regina leans her head against Emma’s and Emma reacts by tentatively hugging her. They don’t let go after that, just hug with Emma’s face nestled in the crook of Regina’s neck.

Operation Happy Ending?

Totally a success.

#swan queen week #parent trap #emma x regina #blind dates #mistletoe #potions

[theygotkakyoin]

Imagine Dio’s remains being collected after the end of Stardust Crusaders. Imagine, after the dawn turns them to ashes, they’re taken because Joseph and Jotaro know the body he took belonged to Jonathan and they wouldn’t have wanted to just leave them in the sand knowing who their original, rightful owner was. So they collect the ashes and have them stored in an urn–engraved “Jonathan Joestar”, the body Dio stole and defiled finally reclaimed.

It’s Joseph who suggests taking it back to England to bury it with his Granny Erina; blinking away tears as he remembers how dearly she missed him even as she lay dying, herself, all he can think of is that’s what she would have wanted.

The funeral is a very small, quiet affair, with just a few of Jonathan’s closest living family members in attendance: Joseph, Suzi Q, Holly (Sadao is still on tour but he sends his regards–Joseph is less than thrilled and Lord knows he’s still seething about this) and Jotaro, and the Anglican minister presiding over the burial. Everyone lingers for a bit, Joseph only leaving at Suzi Q’s insistence, Jotaro himself wondering if he should leave to give his Jiji some space when he hears Joseph walking away with Holly and Suzi Q.

Jotaro is alone at his ancestors’ grave, now, quietly reflecting on the one hundred years of turmoil the Joestar bloodline has endured that’s finally come to an end. His eyes linger, however, on a name engraved on the Joestar family tombstone; after George and Mary, after Jonathan and Erina, before George II and Elizabeth…

Dio.

Dio’s name, engraved a hundred years prior with Jonathan’s, because that’s what Jonathan would have wanted. Dio, because Erina saw the love Jonathan still had for his brother in the way he cradled him in his arms, in the way he gazed at him and muttered about their bizarre friendship, even as he bled out from the neck wounds Dio inflicted on him. Dio, even though Erina had to force back bile as she requested his name also be engraved on the Joestar tombstone, even though she afterwards wanted to scream and cry and hit something because she was honoring her husband’s murderer, but she did it anyway because she knew that’s what Jonathan would have wanted.

Were it not for the others buried and honored at that gravesite, Jotaro would have considered spitting on his name.

#jonathan joestar #dio brando #jjba hc #jjba headcanon #joseph joestar #jotaro kujo #erina pendleton #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #my writing #kinda sorta writing anyway #op

[plopstories-blog]

Blue Barry

He gallops through the aisles, jumping and bouncing here and there against what he meets, like a frenetic rubber ball.

He does not have full control of his legs, because between his thighs he straddles a rocking horse which prevents him from properly moving his hips, forcing him to strut with a wide gait. A blue feather boa keeps slapping him in the face, tickling his uvula every time he opens his mouth. He checks behind his shoulder, noting two security guards trudging after him, banging against clients and stumbling on the goods. Every once in a while, some of the things he has loaded himself with slip off, falling on the ground and obstructing the path of the two poor men trying to catch him. He turns, pivoting on the rocking horse and using a huge stuffed dolphin to bolster his path. Big sunglasses prevent him from seeing properly, but he lets himself be carried by the flow and he runs bouncing and falling and banging and grabbing and dropping but always, always, running; and for every object he loses he takes two, while he keeps moving through the aisles frightening the clients.

Today he woke up this way. He has opened his eyes deciding he would grab every single blue thing he found on his path. And so the rocking horse, the dolphin, the blue feather boa, the sunglasses with the American flag, the pyjamas with the waves, the elegant hat of a distinguished lady having breakfast at the bakery, a pair of shoes with the heel in shining light blue painting, a colander – now bouncing on his head at every step – a poetry book, a purple savoy cabbage head that looked almost blue, a box and a car. Yes, on his way he tried to lift up a blue car he met just before entering the supermarket. He had looked at it for a while, and after a brief reasoning he had decided that it was truly blue and so he had to carry it with him. So he had gone under it, pushing with his legs – that at the time were still free of the horse - teeth clenched and muscles pumped; but he could just not do it, and he would have still been there, trying to carry the car with him, if not for the distinguished lady with the elegant hat, and this being of a light shade of cornflower, he had decided that he could have been free of the car burden, honouring anyway his intention to grab every blue thing met on his path and also avoiding to be stuck under the car that in that moment was moving with the owner cursing from the window.

Barry is a master of the flow: from morning to evening he let himself be carried by the flashing input inside his head which links together random details telling him what to do, with no syntax, no stops, no breaks. Those flashes give birth to one thought after another, give one order after another to the muscles, and Barry executes every instruction without asking why, carried by that internal wave. But a true flow master knows that the wave is not only inside, because it is more often outside than within; for example, in that moment it wasn’t his decision to turn right, but he had hit against a shopping cart, falling inside it, and the man driving the cart startled, pushing it away, so now Barry is inside the shopping cart which bounces against a pillar and make him turn right.

Emerging from the shopping cart he thinks: “This cart is full of Barry” and it wasn’t a wrong thought, because the cart was really full of Barry and the things stolen – but “stolen” is a strong word, better say “taken” – by Barry. And because the things taken by Barry were all blue, he also thinks: “This cart is full of blue and Barry” and the wave inside his head tells him: “Blueberry!” and so now it happens that he starts thinking he want to eat blueberries – which are blue, and because they are blue they are fine – and so he jumps out the cart and starts running to the produce section, still with the two desperate men looking for him. Then he, seeing the blueberries, starts eating the blueberries, and while he eats the blueberries he thinks: “I am a blueberry” and so he tries to get into the shelf pushing his head on the blueberry baskets which squish his face painting it blue.  

The two security guards locate him from far away while he tries to make little jumps in the hope to push himself more inside the blueberry shelf, surrounded by all his blue things. Barry sees them coming but he doesn’t care much because he thinks: “Surely they cannot arrest a blueberry, the might put it on a cake, or inside the yogurt”. He also thinks that the yogurt his granny gave him for breakfast was blue and maybe it was a blueberry yogurt, but Barry is not sure because his granny never said: “Here, eat this blueberry yogurt”; she just said: “Eat this yogurt, I’ve put a secret ingredient inside just for you”; and she never wanted to reveal the secret ingredient, but she was right, otherwise it would have not been a secret, even if Barry now starts thinking that it might have been blueberry syrup. But Barry doesn’t eat anymore blue yogurt because the yogurt they gave at “The House” is plain white and he doesn’t like it because it makes him pucker his lips and it doesn’t have his granny’s secret ingredient, because his granny is dead and took the secret ingredient “to her grave” as they say when somebody dies. And because the granny died it has been many months that Barry hasn’t see her and he misses his granny and the granny’s secret ingredient in the yogurt. Barry thinks he would like to be with his granny and not at “The House”, and because his granny is dead, now the waves inside his head tell him: “You are dead!”; and he stops making the little jumps and lets himself slide to the ground. The two men find before their eyes a man covered in blueberry juice, surrounded by a rocking horse, a blue feather boa, a colander – that fell nearby while Barry tried to put his head in the shelf – a pair of sunglasses with the American flag (still on his face) - pyjamas with the waves, an elegant hat, a pair of shoes with the heel in shining light blue painting, a purple savoy cabbage head that looked almost blue, a poetry book, a box and a pair of blue lips. Because the dead don’t breathe and Barry, which was dead, has to stop breathing and he is trying, correctly, to hold his breath, so much so that his lips turned blue. The two poor security guys, holding on their knees after the run, don’t know what to do and, after they stopped wheezing, try to lift up the blue man, but because Barry is dead he cannot help them, and so, already tired, they have to leave him on the ground again. Then, one of the two realise that the lips are not blue for the blueberries but because Barry is not breathing, so he jumps on him, opens his mouth and Barry gives a loud cough, spitting blueberries and saliva on the poor man.

And the waves inside Barry’s mind tell him: “You are alive!”. But Barry thinks: “What do you do when you are alive?” and he doesn’t know, because it has never happened that the waves tell him to be alive. He thinks: “It is much easier to be a blueberry than to be alive”, but now the waves told him: “You are alive!” and so he has to try to be alive and not a blueberry.

While the two men hold him by his arms and one of the two says inside a phone: “Hello? Hi, we need and ambulance at the supermarket”, Barry keeps thinking, trying to understand what do you do when you are alive, and, while thinking, he let the two men carry him to the back room.

Blue Barry

Galoppa per le corsie, saltellando e rimbalzando da una parte all’altra contro quello che incontra, come una pallina idiota e impazzita. Non controlla le gambe, perché tra le cosce tiene un pony di plastica che gli impedisce di muovere adeguatamente le articolazioni delle anche, costringendolo ad avanzare a piedi larghi. In faccia, un boa di pelo azzurro gli sbatte sul naso, andando a sollazzargli il velopendulo ogni qualvolta gli finisce in bocca. Si guarda alle spalle, vedendo i due uomini della sicurezza che gli arrancano dietro, sbattendo contro i clienti ed inciampando contro la merce. Ogni tanto uno degli oggetti che si è caricato addosso gli sfugge, cascando per terra e intralciando ancora di più i due poveri uomini che cercano di catturarlo. Compie una curva, facendo leva sul pony e utilizzando un grosso peluche a forma di delfino come sponda. I grossi occhiali da sole gli impediscono di vedere adeguatamente di fronte a lui, ma lui si fa trasportare dal flusso e corre rimbalzando e cascando e sbattendo e afferrando e mollando ma sempre, comunque, correndo; e per ogni cosa che lascia cadere per terra ne riprende due, mentre avanza nelle corsie spaventando i clienti.

Oggi si è svegliato così. Ha aperto gli occhi e ha deciso che avrebbe afferrato tutte le cose blu che avrebbe incontrato. E quindi il pony, il delfino, il boa di pelo, gli occhiali dalla montatura con la bandiera americana, il pigiama con le onde, il cappello con la velina di una distinta signora che faceva colazione in pasticceria, un paio di scarpe con il tacco di vernice azzurra, un colapasta – che ora gli rimbalza sul cranio ad ogni passo –, un libro di poesie, un cespo di cavolo verza viola che però sembra un po’ blu, uno scatolone e una macchina. Sì, lungo la strada ha provato anche a sollevare una macchina blu incrociata poco prima di entrare nel supermercato. L’aveva guardata a fondo, e dopo una breve riflessione aveva deciso che era proprio blu e quindi avrebbe dovuto portarsela dieto. E quindi c’era andato sotto, facendo leva sulle cosce – che all’epoca erano ancora libere dal pony –, stringendo i denti e gonfiando i muscoli; ma non c’era stato verso, e ora sarebbe ancora lì a cercare di tirarsi dietro una macchina se non avesse visto la vecchietta con il cappello con la velina, ed essendo anche quello di un tenue color fiordaliso, aveva deciso che poteva farla franca, perché avrebbe comunque potuto rispettare il suo proposito di afferrare ogni cosa blu che avesse incontrato sul suo percorso, evitando anche di rimane incastrato sotto la macchina, che per altro in quel momento stava partendo con il proprietario che gli inveiva dal finestrino e quindi: via a prendere il cappello!

Barry è un maestro del flusso: dalla mattina alla sera si fa trasportare dalla scarica intermittente dentro la sua testa che collega insieme particolari casuali e gli dice cosa fare, senza sintassi, senza pause, senza fermi. Le scariche costruiscono un pensiero dietro l’altro, danno un comando ai muscoli dietro l’altro, e lui esegue ogni istruzione senza chiedersi perché, trasportato da quell’onda interna. Ma un vero maestro del flusso sa che l’onda non è solo interna, perché spesso più che interna è un’onda esterna, ad esempio ora non è una sua decisione quella di girare verso destra, ma ha sbattuto contro un carrello, finendoci dentro e il signore che lo guidava si è spaventato e quindi ha spinto il carrello lontano e lui ora è sul carrello che è andato a sbattere contro una colonna di sbieco e lo ha fatto girare verso destra.

Emergendo da dentro il carrello pensa: “Questo carrello è pieno di Barry” ed in effetti non è un pensiero del tutto sbagliato, perché il carrello è davvero pieno di Barry e delle cose rubate - ma rubate è un termine forte meglio dire “prese” – da Barry. E visto che le cose prese da Barry sono tutte blu, lui pensa anche: “Questo carrello è pieno di cose blu e di Barry” e le scariche nella sua testa gli dicono: “Blueberry” e quindi gli viene da pensare di voler mangiare dei mirtilli – che poi sono blu e visto che sono blu per oggi vanno bene - e quindi salta giù dal carrello e si mette a correre verso il reparto frutta, con ancora i due disgraziati che lo cercano, ma che ormai lo hanno perso di vista. Poi lui, vedendo i mirtilli, si mette a mangiare i mirtilli e mentre mangia i mirtilli pensa: “Sono un mirtillo” e quindi cerca di entrare tra gli scaffali della frutta infilando la testa sopra i cestini di mirtilli che gli si spiaccicano in faccia e gli pitturarono pelle di blu. I due uomini della sicurezza lo trovano mentre con le gambe compie piccoli saltelli nel tentativo di darsi la spinta per incastrarsi ancora meglio nello scaffale dei mirtilli, circondato da tutte le sue cose blu.  Lui li vede arrivare, ma non se ne cura un gran ché, perché pensa: “Mica possono mettere in galera un mirtillo, al massimo un mirtillo lo mettono su una torta, o nello yogurt.” E pensa che anche lo yogurt che gli dava sempre sua nonna a merenda era blu e forse era uno yogurt ai mirtilli, ma Barry non ne era sicuro perché la nonna non gli diceva mai: “Tieni, mangia questo yogurt ai mirtilli”; gli diceva solo: “Mangia che questo ti piace, l’ho preparato io e ci ho messo dentro un ingrediente segreto solo per te.” E non gli voleva mai dire quale fosse l’ingrediente segreto, ma faceva bene, se no non sarebbe stato un ingrediente segreto, anche se ora Barry gli viene in mente che l’ingrediente segreto potesse essere succo di mirtilli. Ma Barry non mangia più yogurt blu da un po’ perché gli yogurt che danno alla ‘Casa’ sono bianchi e a lui non piacciono perché gli strizzano le papille gustative e non hanno l’ingrediente segreto di sua nonna, perché sua nonna è morta e si è portata l’ingrediente segreto “nella tomba”, che è come si dice quando una persona è morta. E visto che la nonna di Barry è morta, sono tanti mesi che non la vede e a lui manca sua nonna e gli ingredienti segreti blu degli yogurt di sua nonna. Barry pensa che vorrebbe essere con sua nonna e non alla ‘Casa’ e visto che sua nonna è morta, ora le scariche nella sua testa gli dicono: “Sei morto!”, perché vorrebbe essere con sua nonna e lui smette di fare i saltelli con le gambe e si lascia scivolare a terra. I due uomini della sicurezza si trovano davanti un uomo con la faccia impiastricciata dal succo blu dei mirtilli, circondato da un pony blu, un boa di pelo blu, uno scolapasta – che mentre Barry cercava di infilare la testa tra i mirtilli gli era scivolato a qualche passo di distanza - un paio di occhiali con la bandiera americana – che gli sono rimasti storti sul naso – un cappello, un pigiama con le onde, un paio di scarpe con il tacco di vernice azzurra, un libro di poesie, un cespo di cavolo verza viola che però sembra un po’ blu, uno scatolone blu e le labbra che cominciavano a diventare blu. Perché i morti non respirano e Barry, visto che è morto, non deve respirare e sta cercando quindi, giustamente, di trattenere il fiato, tanto che le labbra gli sono diventate blu. I due poveri uomini della sicurezza, con le mani sulle ginocchia per la gran corsa, non sanno cosa fare e, ripreso il fiato, provano a sollevare l’uomo blu, ma visto che Barry è morto non può collaborare con i loro tentativi di sollevarlo, e loro sono già stanchi e quindi lo lasciano di nuovo cadere per terra. Poi uno si accorge che forse le labbra non sono blu per i mirtilli ma perché Barry non respira e quindi gli salta addosso e gli apre la bocca e la bocca di Barry fa uscire uno sfiato fortissimo, sputacchiando mirtilli e saliva addosso al pover’uomo.

E le scariche dentro la testa di Barry gli dicono: “Sei vivo!”. Ma Barry pesa: “Come si fa ad essere vivi?” E non lo sa, perché non gli è mai capitato che le scariche gli dicessero: “Sei vivo!” e quindi rimane immobile mentre cerca confuso di capire come si fa ad essere vivi. Pensa: “È molto più facile essere un mirtillo che essere vivi”, ma ora le scariche gli hanno detto: “Sei vivo!” e quindi deve cercare di essere vivo e non un mirtillo.

Mentre i due uomini della sicurezza lo prendono sotto braccio e uno dei due dice dentro un telefono: “Sì, salve, ci serve un’ambulanza al supermercato di via Taddei”, Barry continua a pensare, cercando di capire come si fa ad essere vivi, e, mentre pensa, si fa accompagnare dai due uomini nella sala sul retro.

[lilacmoon83]

Dreaming Out Loud

Dreaming Out Loud

Chapter 14:

The Dreamscape

Emma tried to put a smile on her face, as she found herself in the Dreamscape once again. It had been a rough night to say the least. Mary and David had been there for her and she was grateful for that. David had comforted her as much as he could without raising suspicions from those around them. Right now though, Emma needed her parents as badly as ever. But she was torn, for she hated to spoil their happiness they usually enjoyed in the Dreamscape. But her fake smile couldn't fool her parents.

"Emma...honey, what's wrong?" Snow called, as she spotted her daughter. The blonde couldn't hold it back any longer and collapsed into tears, alarming Snow and Charming greatly. They rushed to their daughter and enveloped her in their embrace. Charming cradled her head, as she cried on Snow's shoulder.

"Sweetheart...what's wrong?" Snow asked. Emma sniffed and pulled back from them.

"Do you remember the Huntsman?" she asked, though she knew the answer.

"Of course. He saved our lives and defied the Queen," Charming replied.

"He sacrificed his heart for mine," Snow added.

"Yeah...well in Storybrooke, his name is...was Graham and he was the Sheriff," Emma said.

"Was?" Snow squeaked.

"He remembered, Mom. He got his memories back and then he just...died right there in front of me," Emma cried.

"Oh no...oh honey…" Snow cried, as she cradled her daughter in her arms.

"She did this...didn't she?" Charming asked. Emma nodded.

"I think so. She still had his heart...all this time," she replied.

"It seems like every time I make a little progress, Regina just strikes back and I feel like we take two steps back," Emma confessed.

"Oh Princess...I wish we could be there with you," Charming soothed.

"You will be. She's not going to get away with this," Emma growled.

"No...she's not. I know when things like this happen that it seems like darkness will win. But it won't; it just fools you into thinking it will," he reminded. She nodded and took comfort in her father's words. And for now, she was content to let her parents hold her, as they had all her life in her dreams.

Two days later

As Emma awoke on the morning of the second day since Graham's death, she knew what was ahead of them on that day. The entire town was mourning their Sheriff and was going to be nearly shut down to turn out for his funeral in just a few hours.

Breakfast was meager, as none of them were really very hungry and once they were all ready, they left for the cemetery.

Mary Margaret drove them in her station wagon and they arrived within just a few minutes to what was already a large gathering around the burial site.

Emma took a deep breath and clenched her fist and tried to prepare herself for the emotional roller coaster she was about to embark on. She felt two hands on her shoulder and saw David and Mary flanking her.

"Are you ready?" Mary asked softly. She nodded.

"We're right beside you every step of the way," David added, as she started toward the gathering. David slid his arm around Mary's waist and she leaned into his comforting embrace, as they followed her.

When they arrived at the burial site, to someone paying attention, they would have noticed the positively murderous looks that passed between Regina and Emma. The blonde clenched her fist, wanting nothing more than to lash out at Regina for what she had done. But she couldn't, mostly because no one would believe such wild things could be true; save for a few. And she was the law enforcement in this town now. She had to keep a cool head and show the people that she was more than capable of stepping into Graham's shoes.

The ceremony began and Emma barely heard a word, as a few people spoke and then Mother Superior led them through a prayer. A processional of people proceeded to toss white roses on the casket, except her parents. She noticed they had specifically picked snowdrops. The curse couldn't take everything away, for they were still her mother's favorite. Mary could never quite understand her aversion to roses, even innocently de-thorned white ones, but there was a bone deep urge in her to avoid them at all costs. Now Emma was more determined than ever to break this curse. Only then would everyone know what really happened to Graham. Only then would everyone regain what was taken from them. Only then would they be the family they always should have been. And only then would Regina pay for everything she had done.

They didn't linger too long at the grave site and found themselves following Gold and Belle to the diner for the wake. That was where Regina decided to approach them just outside the diner on Granny's outdoor patio.

"We need to talk, Miss Swan," Regina stated, as she and Sidney approached.

"Do I have a choice?" Emma drawled sarcastically, causing Regina to purse her lips in annoyance.

"This conversation doesn't require any of you," the Mayor hissed.

"Well, I'm going to tell them anyway, so you might as well just spit it out, Mayorzilla," Emma retorted. Regina clenched her teeth and then slowly let out a breath, as her demeanor turned smug.

"I'd like you to meet your new boss," she stated, gesturing to Sidney. Emma frowned.

"What?" she asked.

"I have appointed Sidney Glass as our new Sheriff," she announced.

"A reporter as a Sheriff. There's nothing that could go wrong there," Gold commented sarcastically.

"You can't do that!" Emma exclaimed. Regina smirked.

"I can and I have," she replied.

"I was Graham's deputy. I should succeed him!" Emma protested.

"And I highly question your qualifications," Regina retorted.

"Oh but you hire this guy? Storybrooke's biggest gossip weasel?!" Emma shouted, quickly drawing attention.

"I would watch your temper, deputy," Sidney purred, as his eyes roamed over all of them. It was that exact moment that David remembered exactly where he had seen this individual back in their land. He hadn't put it together at first, for he had never actually seen this man with a body. He was the entity in Regina's magic mirror. The reason that he and Snow had covered every single looking glass in their palace.

"Actually...if two people want the job, there has to be an election, I believe," a voice chimed in and all attention turned to the pretty brunette beside Mr. Gold.

"Excuse me?" Regina hissed and Gold gave her a death glare that would have made most people cringe away.

"I was reading the town charter when David asked me about the old mining tunnels and certain positions in the town leadership must be settled with an election if more than one candidate wants the job. The Mayor actually doesn't have the power to pick one over the other," Belle stated. David hid a smirk by pressing his lips against Mary's hair, disguising it as a kiss. Gold didn't hide his mirth though and chuckled outright.

"Belle is most certainly correct. If both Mr. Glass and Miss Swan want the job, then there must be an election. The people will decide who our new Sheriff will be," Gold agreed. Regina had never missed being able to rip people's hearts out more than at that moment and the look on her face was almost comical. But she managed to keep her composure and her rage remained contained; albeit barely.

"Fine...if it is an election you want, then it is an election you shall have," she purred.

"Then may the best candidate be victorious," Sidney added.

"You should save time then and just let Emma have it," David chimed in.

We're leaving Henry," she snapped angrily, as she stalked off. Henry gave them a sad look and reluctantly followed his furious mother, as Sidney slithered away as well.

"I was sure it was going to happen. I was sure that vein in her neck was going to pop this time," Mary quipped, making them all laugh, even Gold, as they went inside the diner.

Oz

Approximately 3 years before the Dark Curse

As Hades returned to the Emerald palace with Zelena, he took a moment to appreciate the decor. Sure, in the Underworld, with magic, he could conjure just about anything. But it was still the Underworld. Not even the finest decor could change that.

Zelena approached the viewing pool

"So your wife is the fairest of them all?" Zelena asked. He smirked.

"That is the term that was coined, centuries ago. It used to make Aphrodite livid, but it is true. I was once infatuated with Persephone and in my angry youth, I abducted her for my own. I knew how much it would piss Zeus off. She may not be his daughter, but he thinks of her as such," Hades explained.

"Hmmm...I always read that she was his daughter," she mentioned. He smirked.

"You can't believe everything in the mortal account of all our exploits. Some of it's true, but a lot of it is highly exaggerated," he said.

"So that part where you...forced Persephone into your bed?" she asked tactlessly. But he took it in stride.

"I was very angry and brazen in my youth. But then she betrayed me with that mortal prince," he hissed.

"I am a mortal," she reminded. He smiled.

"Oh, my you my dear are extraordinary among mortals," he said. She smirked.

"And even though you now want me, you still want to make your current Queen pay for her betrayal," Zelena replied. He smirked.

"I knew you'd understand my need for revenge. Show me this Princess they say is the fairest of them all," he said. Zelena smirked and waved her hand. Her viewing pool rippled and the image of a woman in tattered rags, wearing a hood and carrying a bow, but her back was to them.

"This ragamuffin is the fairest of them all?" he drawled. But that's when she turned and Hades took an audible gasp. It was uncanny and he did a double take. Those raven tresses, that skin white as snow, lips red a rubies, and the eyes. Yes, it was the emerald eyes that gave her away.

"Yes...this is Snow White. She was a princess, until my sister chased her out of her own castle. She wants her head on a spike, so you have that in common," Zelena commented.

"Oh my dear Persephone...I should have known. Only you would name your little halfbreed such a pretentious name," he hissed.

"Thank you Zelena. I must return to the Underworld for a time now. I have a message to get to my right hand. He will be as pleased as I am that we have finally found her," Hades said.

The diner was buzzing with the news that there would soon be an election for Sheriff. Mary and Belle were already deep in conversation about Emma's campaign with Ruby and Granny at the counter, leaving Emma, Gold, David, and Jefferson at a table out of earshot.

"Is that your second basket of onion rings?" Jefferson commented.

"Don't judge me," she warned, as she continued to polish them off.

"Emma...you're going to do great. Anyone that would vote for Sidney Glass needs their head examined," David said.

"Maybe if people weren't cursed...but I'm the outsider here. Not to mention that my past is far from squeaky clean," she replied.

"The people will see that you're the best person for the job," David insisted.

"I hate to rain on your parade, chisel chin, but Regina will play dirty and if that doesn't work, she'll cheat," Jefferson warned. David sighed.

"Then what do you suggest? We can't let Sidney Glass run the Sheriff's department," he said.

"We might have to play dirty in return," Gold muttered. Emma eyed him wearily.

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," she replied.

"Like it or not, in a cursed Storybrooke, Regina still runs this town. The ones that don't follow her blindly will follow her out of fear," Gold said.

"Not to mention that they aren't even questioning why a healthy thirty-year old man just dropped dead. I mean, Regina didn't even invent a plausible cause of death for him. An aneurysm or something. But just plain heart failure...and no one blinks an eye," Jefferson complained.

"They're cursed...so it makes sense. Doesn't Granny have a heart attack like once a year, because Ruby tries to leave and the curse just repeats? No one seems to question that either," Emma commented.

"Guess you have a point," Jefferson agreed.

"So...what do you have in mind to help Emma win?" David asked, steering them back to that topic..

"The less you know the better," Gold stated vaguely, as Belle and Mary returned to the table.

"We think we have a good design for your campaign posters," Mary announced.

"Already?" she asked.

"Absolutely," Belle said, as she looked at Gold.

"Do you think we can go by the print shop on the way home to put in the order?" she asked. He smirked.

"Of course," he agreed.

"Great...then tomorrow we can start putting them up all over town. Will you help me?" Mary asked to David and he responded with a kiss to her cheek.

"Anything for you...and Emma," he agreed.

"I think I'm getting a cavity," Jefferson deadpanned, as Emma got up.

"Where are you going?" Mary asked.

"I think I'm going to head to the station for a while," Emma replied, noticing the worried look on the raven haired beauty's face. So she gave her a small smile.

"I'm fine...I promise. You and David go home and I'll see you later," she assured.

Persephone found herself wandering the town that evening, lost in thought. She had learned a great deal since her arrival, as she watched the cursed citizens of this town. Regina had far less control than she would have thought. It seemed her granddaughter's arrival had pulled on one loose thread and began to unravel her supposed perfect revenge. It was a good thing, but she still worried, for she knew it would make the Queen even more desperate to regain a handle on things. That meant her actions would be unpredictable and there was no telling what horror she had had in the works for her family.

There was Deimos or Damon, as he was known here, to complicate things as well. One attack on her daughter would certainly lead to another and the next one would be even bolder. She knew for certain she had to take some sort of pre-emptive strike against him. But without magic, that wasn't exactly an easy thing to do.

She had gathered one surprising fact though and was shocked to realize her son-in-law was fully awake. The fact that the Queen hadn't noticed yet told that she was still too wrapped up in all her other problems to realize it. But she knew it wouldn't be long.

As she stopped on the street, she saw a light on in the shop and debated the same thing she had all day. That was whether or not to reveal herself to the Dark One. Normally, she wouldn't even entertain such an idea, but she was aware of David's partnership with him and the Hatter. They were working together toward a common goal and perhaps it was time she joined that cause. Making any deal with this man could backfire, but if David was able to get past his dark deeds, then she was willing to entertain the idea as well. After all, many of his actions involved doing such for his lost child. As much as she loathed to admit, they were probably not so different.

So with the decision finally made, the Queen of the Underworld marched toward the shop and ignored the closed sign, as she walked right in. The man behind the counter didn't look surprised by her arrival in the least, which was unnerving to say the least.

"Persephone," he greeted.

"Rumpelstiltskin," she greeted in return.

"I'll admit, I was surprised when I realized you were here," he said.

"Yes...well, I went through twenty-eight years without a glimpse of my sweet Snow. And then, one day, it was like someone flipped a switch and there she was again. I could finally see her again and all her surroundings. And I decided that Zeus' accursed rules weren't going keep me from her any longer," she explained. He smirked.

"I'll admit, I would love to see the tantrum Hades threw when he became aware of your escape," he mentioned. She allowed herself a small smirk.

"If we're lucky, his blue hair lit the rest of him one fire," she joked, as she suddenly became captivated by the unicorn mobile before her.

"If I had to guess, it is Emma's arrival that allowed you to see into Storybrooke," he said. She nodded.

"I knew I had to find a way here when I saw Deimos attack my little snow drop. I do not like to entertain what would have happened had David not been there," she said.

"Then you are aware your son-in-law is awake?" he asked.

"It is the only reason I would come to you. If there is one thing I know about my Snow's husband, it is that he would never do anything to endanger her or Emma. That means you can be trusted...to a point," she replied. He smirked.

"Your son-in-law and I want the same thing. The curse broken and our families back," he stated simply.

"And I want that too. I want to finally know my daughter and I want to destroy Deimos once and for all," she stated in return.

"I hope you have more information than I do then. Because when I gave Snow and Charming the information that he could be killed during the blood moon, it was to eliminate the very real threat he became," he said.

"The threat that you created," she accused.

"Because you told me of the contract Hades had for my second born child if there should ever be one," he countered.

"I did that so no other child would be ripped from their parents like my Snow was from me! And it still happened! Emma was ripped away too by your curse!" she cried.

"The curse was needed so I could find my son," he hissed.

"Do not pretend you would not have done the same if it was Snow that was lost. You just defied Hades and Zeus to come after her," he reminded. She sobered and let the tension ebb away slightly.

"Fighting does not get us anywhere," she stated.

"No...it doesn't," he agreed.

"We must work together," she said.

"I agree, but there are a few things I'd like to know. This dreamscape…" he said.

"Yes...that was me, at Morpheus' request. I have...favor with him and he gifted the dreamscape to my family," she explained.

"And Deimos? Because I went to great lengths to make sure Snow and Charming killed that nuisance. How did he come back from that?" he questioned.

"My...Hades is responsible for that. I can tell you exactly how Deimos was revived," she said, preparing to tell him the tale...

Mary's eyes fluttered open, as their lips parted again. They lay tangled beneath the bedsheets, bathing in the afterglow of their lovemaking.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, as he caressed her beautiful face.

"That I'm so happy," she replied and he smiled.

"That's good," he said, but noticed the pensive look on her face.

"Isn't it?" he asked.

"I...I guess I just feel guilty for feeling so happy while Emma is so sad. I mean, I'm sad for Graham too, but not like she is. I think she had feelings for him," she confessed.

"Emma would never begrudge us our happiness," he reminded.

"I know...it just makes me wonder how long it can last. Graham was taken from her. What if you're taken from me?" she fretted.

"Mary…" he started to say.

"I know it sounds crazy, but I keep getting this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach sometimes," she tried to explain.

"Your feelings are never crazy. Tell me," he requested, as he held her close, their bare limbs still entangled beneath the bedclothes.

"Being with you is like something out of a dream, except for the first time that I can remember in my life...I'm awake. You make me happier than I ever dreamed I could be and that's when I get this terrible feeling in my gut that something is going to take you away," she confessed.

"My darling...I wish there was something I could do to convince you that nothing is going to take me away from you," he said, as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Believe me, I wish I could shake these uncertain feelings. Being in your arms helps though," she replied, as she pressed her lips to his.

"Then I'm going to make sure that's where you always are," he replied, as he held her close and she managed to fall asleep against him. He gently stroked her naked back and stared at the ceiling. If Regina had her way, they would be torn apart. He clenched his fist. No...he wouldn't let that happen, not again.

"Never again, my love," he quietly promised, before he finally managed to join her in sleep.

The Dreamscape

In the dreamscape, Snow and Charming spent their time until Emma came by walking together along the well worn, mysterious pathway in this dream world. They didn't know who had created this beautiful place, but outside the residence that served as their home in this place, there was a gorgeous fountain surrounded by a garden alive with flora, especially snow drops and a pathway they had taken many walks together.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"About how we used to walk like this with Emma between us when she was little. I can still hear her laughter when you used to run around and play with her," Snow mentioned.

"And then we would gather her in our arms and tell her stories about our adventures and our friends," he recalled.

"We'd watch her sleep against your chest and then you would hold me while I cried when she faded away, because she awakened before us," she mentioned, as he folded her into his arms.

"I know we are lucky to have this place; that she could have grown up without knowing us at all, but I want to be there for our daughter when she is awake! I want to experience her life and not her dreams! I want to actually wake up with you as we used to," she cried, as he held her.

"And we will, my darling. I promise. Emma will break the curse, I know it. Please have faith," he pleaded. She sniffed.

"I will...listen to me. How selfish am I? We have so much and I wish for more," she lamented.

"You are not selfish. Wanting the things that were stolen from us is not selfish. We can be grateful for what we do have and still want what should rightfully be ours," he reminded, as they saw their beautiful, grown daughter emerge from the mist.

"Emma…" Snow called, as she ran to them, like she had many times as a girl and still did as a woman. They enveloped her in their arms and Charming cradled her head, as he always did.

"I'm okay, Mom," she assured, as she heard her mother sniff.

"But I know how hard today must have been for you and I couldn't be there to hold you through it," Snow cried. Emma saw how broken her mother seemed and decided it was time to share just a little of her life in Storybrooke.

"That's not completely true," she stated. Snow and Charming looked at her expectantly.

"I haven't told you a lot of what's going on in Storybrooke, because I know how hard this is. To be here, but not there for me when I'm so close. But...in Storybrooke, we're friends. I actually live with your counterpart," Emma confessed.

"You do?" she asked. Emma nodded.

"You both were there for me during the funeral. It was exactly the same, but I wasn't alone. I'm not alone anymore," she replied, bringing smiles to their faces.

"That's wonderful…" Snow said, as she suddenly started to fade.

"Snow…" David called. Not enough time had passed for it be morning already.

"I...something's happening. I'm waking up," Snow called, as he disappeared.

"Mom!" Emma called, as David put his hands on her shoulders.

"I'm sure she'll be back soon," he said, as he felt funny too now.

"I think you're waking up too, Dad," Emma said.

"I...I hear your mother...she's crying out…" he said in alarm.

"I think her counterpart is having a nightmare, so it would make sense that yours is waking up," she explained.

"But that would mean…" he started to say, but then faded away. Emma smiled slightly, knowing they would be back.

"It means you're together," she said into the mist.

It was true that Mary never remembered her dreams, but there had always been impressions of something wonderful. She never remembered ever having any nightmares, so it came as a complete surprise when she awoke screaming that she had indeed not only had the most horrible dream, but she remembered every detail with frightening clarity.

"Mary...Mary, it's okay. I'm here...I'm here…" he pleaded, as she broke down sobbing in his arms as soon as she saw his face. He held her hysterical form and slowly rocked her, while rubbing a soothing hand along her back.

"Mary...please talk to me," he pleaded.

"David...oh David…" she cried.

"Shh...I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," he assured, as she finally pulled back and he cupped her tear stained face in his hands.

"It was horrible. I...I was in a strange place and it was like it wasn't me, but it was! I...I had long hair and I was searching for you," she tried to explain, as he listened intently.

"I think...maybe I was injured, because it hurt to walk and then I found you," she said, as the tears started falling again.

"My love…" he said, as he gently cradled her against him.

"You were lying on the floor in a pool of blood...so much blood. I pulled you into my arms and I kissed you...but you wouldn't wake up," she sobbed. He was stunned, as he realized that was not a nightmare, but a memory. And not just any memory, but one of Snow's. He obviously couldn't tell her that and for now, he had to treat it as what she thought it to be. A nightmare.

"Shh...it was only a bad dream, my darling. I'm here and you're in my arms," he reminded, as they settled back into bed. He held her and his soothing hand rubbing her back slowly lulled her back to sleep. He took a moment to think about what this could mean. If Mary was having Snow's memories, then that meant she was starting to remember their lives...didn't it? He could only hope, though he hated that her first memory to surface was such a traumatic one. He contemplated it for a few moments more, before finally joining her in slumber again...

#Snowing #Snowing fanfiction #true love