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a-kind-of-merry-war · 3 years

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An act of total self-indulgence. After a tough fight with a wyvern, Jaskier has to tend to the deep wound left by the creature’s claws at the back of Geralt’s head. But for Jaskier to reach the injury, Geralt’s going to need a haircut.

5.6k words. Contains: wound tending and whump, middling blood and gore, bathing and - you guessed it - more shaving. Rated T for swears & suggestiveness.

The cramped little room built into the sloping roof of the inn is empty and quiet. Orange coloured sunlight filters in through the windows, the last rays of the setting sun illuminating little dust motes that float giddily in the air. Below the creaking floorboards the sound of the tavern’s patrons can be heard - drinking and carousing, celebrating.

A wide wooden tub rests next to the banked fire, the once steaming water now still and tepid. On the single bed lie the various accoutrements of a life lived on the road - packs and bedrolls, a little canvas bag spilling with medical supplies, a dust-coated doublet that once might have been a fetching green colour but is now closer to brown.

Beside these - a lute, resting against the lumpy pillow, and a thin satin chemise with a split shoulder seam bundled next to it, as if thrown aside in haste without care for creases. A needle, still threaded with cotton several shades too dark, sticks through the fabric, pinning the seams together.

There’s a distant crash - the sound of a door - and the rabble of the drinking clients below suddenly falls silent.

For a moment, nothing happens. And then the door to the room, made of old, nearly-rotten oak, bursts open, the hinges screeching in protest, and two men stumble in.

Rather: one man stumbles in - his face red with effort - half dragging and half carrying a second, slung over his shoulders, covered in blood and black, clinging viscera.

“For fucks—” Jaskier mutters, his fingers slipping on Geralt’s bloodied armour, “Fucking bastard thing—” Geralt murmers something against his shoulder, and Jaskier continues to complain. “You know if I hadn’t come looking for you, you’d be fucking dead right now? And these trousers are ruined and I’ll tell you, Geralt, this better be that creature’s blood and not yours, or else I'll, I'll… well I'll be very cross, I can tell you that much.”

With a laboured huff, he slides Geralt off of his shoulders and onto the bed, uncaring for the mess he’s inevitably going to leave behind. Sheets can be cleaned - or, more likely, burnt - but Geralt will be treated far less easily.

He kneels at Geralt’s feet, grabs his pale face - still sticky with monster ichor - and gently moves his head so he can see into his eyes. They’re a little unfocused, pupils blown wide through a mixture of potions and adrenaline. He blinks slowly, clearly concussed.

Jaskier swears, takes a deep breath, then begins the arduous task of peeling away Geralt’s armour, careful to breathe through his mouth so the stink of monster guts doesn’t make him heave. It’s a disgusting job, but one he’s well practiced at, and the unpleasant squelch of viscera against his hands is nothing compared to the lurching feeling in his stomach when he considers the state of the man beneath the armour.

The task is over quickly, largely thanks to his many years of experience. The armour is tossed aside - it can be cleaned later - and he moves to the clothes beneath. Geralt’s undershirt is sodden with sweat and blood - some his, some the monster’s - and that too goes on the pile with the armour. Perhaps it can be salvaged: Jaskier doesn’t stop to check.

Geralt appears to be coming to a little as Jaskier works. He watches him with a cautious gaze, and Jaskier wonders if he understands that he’s there to help him. He wants to force a vial of swallow down his throat, but he’d pushed one on him when he’d found him in the blighted field on the edge of the town, even worse for wear than he is now, and the dark lines creeping around Geralt’s eyes tell him that it’s not yet safe to risk another dose.

It had been - fuck - Jaskier isn’t even sure what the monster clinging to Geralt’s back had been. It hardly matters now: the thing is dead, and it will remain dead, while Geralt’s fate may still hang in the balance.

His armour had taken the brunt of the attack, but it's ripped in several places, buckles tugged away and straps sheared neatly in two, leaving large swathes of Geralt’s skin bloodied and bruised and torn. Jaskier heaves himself onto the bed behind him, then hisses through his teeth as he examines the back of Geralt's head.

His hair is a tangled, bloody mess. Not just blood, but that same black ichor, thick as tar. The beast’s claws have dug into Geralt’s skin, and only now can Jaskier begin to guess at the damage they've done.

“Come on,” he says, “we need to get you cleaned.”

Pulling off the rest of Geralt’s clothes and getting him in the tub is surprisingly easy, and while Geralt grunts at him a little when Jaskier pulls off his smalls, trying very hard not to think about what it is he’s doing, he gets into the tub with only a little complaint.

“Fuck,” he huffs - the first clear thing he’s said since returning to the room. “It’s cold.”

It’s good to hear Geralt talk again. The tightness in Jaskier’s chest loosens a little.

“It would have been warm if you’d come back when you said you would,” he says.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier squats beside the wooden tub, watching Geralt closely. The darkness has receded from his eyes, a little.

“How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

“Can you take another swallow?”

Geralt shakes his head, then winces. “Not yet.”

“We’re doing this the old fashioned way, then… hold on.”

Jaskier stands, and returns to the medical kit on the bed. He briefly examines the contents, then grabs the whole thing with a sigh and carries it over to the bathtub.

“Right,” he says, “You start on your arms, and I’ll get a look at your head, okay?”

Geralt mutters something that’s probably a sound of assent, then begins to wash water up and down his injured arms as Jaskier moves around to his back.

The most pressing problem is that it’s impossible to tell how bad the injury is beneath the tangle of hair and muck. He needs to clean the wound, and thoroughly - who knows what waste was lodged beneath the claws of that screeching monster - but he can’t even reach it to do so.

With a resigned sigh, Jaskier rises to his feet and heads towards their bags, grabbing the tools he’ll need for the job. His comb, another bar of soap, the earthen jug set out next to the basin. He pauses, for a moment, before grabbing the pair of silver scissors he'd picked up in Toussaint several years ago when he realised that travelling on the road meant cutting his own hair.

Geralt is carefully sluicing soapy water over the claw marks on his arm when Jaskier returns to his side.

“Right,” he says, settling behind him. “This is probably going to hurt. Sorry.”

The first job is to untangle Geralt’s hair. It’s fallen from the tie he usually keeps it back in, so Jaskier pulls the dark strip of fabric away and rests it on the side of the tub before attempting to pull the hair from the mess of blood. When he's separated as much as he can, he twists it together and ties it swiftly back into a messy knot at the top of Geralt’s head.

Even without the curtain of hair obscuring it, it’s virtually impossible to gauge the depth of the wound. It needs to be rinsed. Jaskier grabs the jug and reaches around Geralt’s body - his arm sliding against Geralt’s bare chest - and dips it into the water between his knees.

Geralt stills. Jaskier hesitates, worrying that he’s hurt him, somehow - his back and shoulders are marred with bruises and cuts, after all - and then, quite suddenly, he realises what he’s doing. Where he's leaning. The slick dampness of Geralt’s bare skin beneath him, his chest pressing to Geralt’s back.

And most importantly: he realises where he's just thrust his hand.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He quickly withdraws, taking the jug with him with an awkward splash, bumping the suddenly heavy receptacle against Geralt’s shoulder.

“I just…” he says, then starts again, feeling his ears burning, “I needed to get water. To wash. It’s…”

“Okay.”

Fuck. Right. Jaskier can ignore this, if he focuses on the wound at the back of Geralt’s head. The injury is more important than the embarrassment making his ears ring, or the sudden realisation of how close Geralt is.

He gently tips the jug over Geralt’s nape, pouring slowly, working through the tangles with his fingertips. It shifts only the barest amount of ooze, but now the hair is thoroughly soaked he can at least work the soap into a lather against it, the yellowish bar quickly staining red. Geralt grumbles a little as Jaskier presses his fingers to the wound, but doesn’t swear at him or tell him to stop, so he continues till the lather has turned a sickly brown colour then washes it away with another glug of water.

Now he’s getting somewhere. There’s a deep, angry-looking gash at the back of Geralt’s head, a few inches above the hairline. The blood is quickly clotting, taking the monster ichor and dirt with it. If Jaskier doesn’t hasten his pace, the wound will begin to heal over while still tangled with muck, the skin closing over Geralt’s hair.

Urgh. Jaskier shudders, the reaction automatic, then gets back to work. Now he can see what he’s doing he can move more efficiently, tugging away hair and using his fingers to carefully peel away the worst of the black ichor. It’s a difficult job - much of Geralt’s hair is tangled into unbreakable knots, slick with blood and slime, impossible to untangle.

He fiddles unsuccessfully at the mess, his face just inches from Geralt’s skin despite the unpleasant stench of monster blood, engrossed in the disgusting task.

After fifteen minutes of struggling, Jaskier sighs, resting his hands against the tub.

“I can’t clean this properly,” he shakes his head, feeling defeated. “Geralt, I didn’t want to do this, but…”

He moves around to the side of the tub so he can look Geralt in the eye. He looks better, now - much better - his skin no longer that awful pale grey and his eyes back to their typical, burning yellow.

“I need to cut it,” Jaskier says. “Your hair, I mean. Or it’s just going to—”

“No.”

“... get infect— what?”

“You’re not cutting it.”

“But...”

“No, Jaskier.”

Geralt spits it out - his tone clipped and angry. Jaskier hesitates, his fingers tapping gently against the rim of the tub. Geralt isn’t even looking at him.

“Geralt, I—”

“I said,” Geralt snaps around, and his face is furious. “No.”

Jaskier swallows down his next argument, shrinking back - but not moving away. He takes a breath, counting to ten in his head, keeping his eyes fixed on Geralt’s until the witcher finally turns back, picking up the soap from the bottom of the tub and returning to his scrubbing.

Right. It’s like that. Jaskier has grown used to this, now. He grew used to it a decade ago, and now he just has to work through it, picking the best route. No wonder Geralt is in a foul mood - he nearly got ripped apart by a… by a something-or-other, and now he’s wounded and bleeding and he can’t even take a potion to heal himself.

And, Jaskier reminds himself with another twist of embarrassment, he’s likely still annoyed for Jaskier getting so close, earlier, even if it had been accidental.

He takes another steadying breath - grounding himself so he won’t shout back if Geralt starts yelling - and grips the rim of the tub with renewed vigour.

“I can’t clean it like this,” he says, slowly. “It’s a mess, Geralt.”

“It’s fine.”

“Oh, and you’ve suddenly sprouted eyes in the back of your head, have you? Is that part of being a witcher, too?"

Geralt doesn't respond, so Jaskier continues, voice rising.

"Or is it that you’ve suddenly developed the ability to see through my eyes? Have you slipped into my head like Yen does to get a good look at the mess back here?"

He's being ridiculous, Jaskier knows, but sometimes it takes a little absurdity to snap Geralt around - to make him cross with Jaskier rather than whatever it is that's really bothering him. He rather hopes Geralt hasn't suddenly developed the ability to peer into Jaskier’s head: there are several incriminating things in there he certainly doesn’t need to see.

Geralt scowls at the soap in his hands. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Jaskier says, adding a sarcastic twist to the final word. “It’s fucked, actually.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, and Jaskier feels like he might be winning.

“Look,” he says, “it’s a mess of hair and blood and… and monster shit—” he hopes this is an exaggeration, because of course it could be monster shit, “—and if I don’t clean it out it’s going to get infected and disgusting and when your fucking head falls off I will not be taking the blame.” He pauses. “Alright?”

Geralt has gone very quiet. His hand stills, the bar of soap pressed to his leg. Jaskier feels suddenly a little guilty - like he’s prodded too hard, like he's been testing a fruit for overripeness only to find his finger sliding through the skin.

"Alright,” Geralt mutters, finally.

Jaskier wants to ask what's wrong. He needs to ask. But he needs to clean Geralt's head wound more, so he presses a reassuring hand to Geralt's shoulder with a soft squeeze then moves back around to his nape.

It's clear that Geralt doesn't want his hair cut, but it needs to be done. The very least Jaskier can do is make sure it looks good.

He picks up the comb again and begins to section Geralt's hair more neatly, pulling two thirds or so up into the knot and leaving the rest - most of which is a tangled mess - hanging down. He works carefully, fingers pressed to Geralt’s scalp, ensuring the line where the hair is parted is neat and even.

When he’s sure it’s perfect, he reaches down and grabs the little scissors, giving them a couple of experimental snips before moving them to the back of Geralt’s head. He slips then beneath the worst of the knots, the sticky ichor, and cuts.

If he’s expecting the satisfying snip of blades against hair, he’s disappointed. There’s so much dirt and blood that the scissors stick, and cutting through the mess is harder than he’d anticipated. He’ll need to throw these away when he’s done, he’s sure. Geralt doesn’t move as he slowly cuts away his hair, tossing the fallen strands to the floor in a neat little pile.

Soon, the hardest part of the job is done, and he’s left with a pile of discarded hair, a useless pair of scissors and the unevenly cut inch or so of hair at the back of Geralt’s head. Now he’s unimpeded, he rubs the soap between his hands again and easily cleans away the rest of the grime. Geralt jerks a little as his fingers brush the wound, and Jaskier mumbles a low apology before washing away the bubbles.

He pauses. The wound is deep, and while Geralt’s mutations grant him swift healing, Jaskier suspects it will still need a little help. Even this short, Geralt’s remaining hair is still in the way - which means he’s only left with one option.

“This needs stitches,” Jaskier mutters, fingers pressed to the red skin around the gash. “But I need to…”

He places the scissors down then walks back towards his pack, looking for his razor. It’s a simple thing - a steel folding blade with a wooden handle, the closest thing to a knife Geralt trusts him to carry. Everything he needs to actually suture the wound is in their little medical bag, so he takes the razor back to the tub, slides to his position on the floor and grabs the soap again, coating the back of Geralt’s head in a thick lather.

"Okay…" he breathes. "Don't move."

He's expecting Geralt to grouse at him, to warn him not to cut him or moan about getting a move on, but he doesn't say anything - just breathes. At least he's still, and Jaskier reaches up with the blade, positioning it against his skin with gentle care.

It's oddly intimate in a way that Jaskier is trying not to linger on. Binding Geralt's wounds or soothing salves across injuries he can't reach or even massaging him when he's aching after a hunt have all become such regular parts of their routine that he barely even considers them unusual any more - but this is new.

It's one thing for Geralt to trust Jaskier to tend to him when he's hurt and has no other choice, but now he's got a blade to his skin - even if that blade is only a few inches long - and Geralt doesn't even flinch.

For all Geralt's moaning and grumbling and empty threats to leave Jaskier behind if he doesn't keep up, he trusts him. And that's… not a thought that should surprise him, Jaskier knows, yet it does anyway.

He pulls the skin taught with his fingers, a sudden warmth pooling in his chest, and gently scrapes the blade across Geralt’s skin. He works from the bottom up, shearing away the hair and wiping the residue - bloodied hair and bubbles - on the fabric of his trousers. When he gets to the injury itself, he leans in closer with his tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth, using only the very tip of the blade, careful not to press too hard - not to slip and make it worse.

When he’s removed most of the hair, he moves to the boundary where shorn skin meets roots, making sure the line is even, his hands surprisingly steady considering how much blood he’s just wiped away - and how close his lips are to Geralt’s neck.

Finally, he’s done, and he leans back to check it’s even. There’s a couple of rogue patches of hair that he quickly sees off - and - there. Jaskier can breathe again as he drops his hands to his side.

He places the razor next to the scissors and reaches for the needle and thread. This he knows - and it's with a familiar sort of routine that he prepares the needle and presses the tip against Geralt’s skin.

“Ready?” He asks, voice low.

Geralt shifts in the water. “Ready.”

“Okay. On three, breathe. One, two, three—”

He pushes the needle in as Geralt exhales. Jaskier’s done this so many times that he hardly recognises the terrified young man he’d been when Geralt had first thrust the kit at him after a particularly hard fight and firmly talked him through the procedure, Jaskier’s hands shaking the whole time. He knows what he’s doing, now, and while he’s never had to stitch a head wound before it’s easier without the squeezing intimacy that had come with shaving Geralt’s head.

The injury only needs a few stitches and he’s quickly done, tying the thread off and using the razor to cut it short.

Geralt rolls his shoulders with a low grunt as Jaskier leans back. “Don’t forget the—”

“The ointment, I know.”

Jaskier places the needle to one side - he’ll need to clean it later - then pulls the tiny green pot from the bag and twists off the lid, peering inside. It’s still half full of the acidic smelling salve that Geralt uses on his wounds - on both their wounds - and with only the smallest grimace he dips his fingers in. He spreads it across Geralt’s skin, careful not to dislodge the stitches or irritate the injury, and then - at last - the grim task is finished.

“There,” he says, satisfied. “Now… now your head won’t fall off. Probably.”

He edges around to the side of the tub again. Geralt’s hands are resting on the rim, his eyes low, watching the surface of the water.

“Geralt?”

He looks - lost. Almost young. Jaskier’s heart breaks a little.

“Do you…” he chews on his lip, trying to find the best words. “I know you don’t, but do you want to talk about it?”

Geralt’s fingers twitch against the wood as he stares down into the murky water. Jaskier waits for a long while, letting him think. Finally, he can’t bear the silence.

“You don’t have to—”

“After the trials—”

Jaskier falls silent immediately, letting Geralt speak.

“My hair… it was red, when I was young. Bright red. But I reacted so well to the Trial of the Grasses that they put me through it again. I was… an experiment, to them. And afterwards, my hair....” He sighs, and pulls his hands beneath the water, shrinking in on himself. “After it went white, I was so angry. I didn’t recognise my own reflection, and I hated them for doing that to me. So… I hacked it off, with a dagger.” He pauses. “Eskel helped.”

Jaskier can’t speak - too struck with the image of Geralt, barely more than a boy, tearing at his own hair with a knife in a desperate attempt to regain control over his turbulent life. He reaches out, and places a gentle hand to Geralt’s arm. He doesn’t snatch it away, like Jaskier is expecting him to do.

“It grew back white, of course. And… I didn’t cut it again. At least, never that short.”

Jaskier squeezes his arm. “Geralt…”

“It’s stupid, I know. You were right. It needed to be cleaned.”

“Oh, Geralt. No. Don’t…” Jaskier swallows, nervously. “I should have asked. I should have known…”

Geralt looks at him. “How could you have known?”

He’s right, of course. But guilt bites at Jaskier anyway. He knows that Geralt’s childhood - his life - has been built around trauma and fear. He hopes he brings a little light to him, now, to balance it out. But sometimes he forgets, and is brutally reminded of just how much pain Geralt carries with him.

He can’t fix it. He can’t turn back the clock and wish it away. He can’t reach into Geralt’s chest and pull away so many years of hurt and replace them with the love he knows Geralt deserves. The love that Jaskier wishes - fruitlessly and foolishly - Geralt would accept from himself.

But he can help, in his own way.

“You know,” he says, smoothly, “when I was a student, back at the Academy… this was very fashionable.”

Geralt narrows his eyes at him.

“I mean, the whole… half-shaved hair. It was all the rage, for a while. Very popular.”

Jaskier can distinctly remember how popular it was. He can also remember how fond he was of that particular trend - the embarrassingly long list of those he wooed or attempted to woo simply because they sported some variation of it. Geralt, he thinks, does not need to know that. And anyway: Jaskier’s sure he’s grown out of the predilection by now.

Geralt frowns. “Since when have I cared about being fashionable?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Well, never, but seeing as it fell out of favour a good ten years ago, I rather think you don’t need to worry about that. But… let me see what we can do with it, hmm?”

“And what does that mean?”

A sly grin quirks across Jaskier’s face. “Don’t you worry about that,” he says. “Just… trust me.”

When Jaskier had told Geralt to trust him, Geralt assumed that meant that the bare patch at the back of his head wasn’t, perhaps, entirely a disaster. That it wasn’t so bad. Geralt had known that he was lying, of course - it likely looked ridiculous - but he had appreciated the effort regardless.

He’d wanted to say of course I trust you - even if he was placing that trust in a lie. But it was a white lie - the sort that Jaskier was best at - borne from an attempt to spare Geralt’s already fractured feelings rather than from malice.

Jaskier had told him to trust him, and Geralt had silently assented, and then… then everything had happened quite quickly.

The bard had demand he get out of the bath, quickly wrapping him in a sheet before bustling back down into the tavern below and shouting at the innkeep until he’d sent someone to sluice away the dirtied water and replace it with some that was fresh and clear and - best of all - warm.

Jaskier had slouched down behind him with a range of inexplicable oils and soaps and returned his hands to Geralt’s hair, cleaning away the last of the blood, rubbing it through his fingers and coating it with oil so lightly scented that it barely tickled Geralt’s heightened senses. Jaskier had washed his hair a hundred times before, but this time had been different.

It had been different in a way that he’d chosen not to think about - a way he's still choosing not to think about now, his skin flushed and scrubbed clean, the linen of his clean shirt itchy against his prickling chest. His remaining hair rests damply on his shoulders as Jaskier gently runs the comb through it, tugging it back from his temples.

Jaskier mutters as he combs - he’s always chattering, usually more to himself than Geralt, but for once the sound isn’t an irritation: it’s almost soothing. He basks in the gentle tug of Jaskier’s hands in his hair as he pulls it up into a ponytail, out of the way. It was only an hour ago - less - that those hands had been holding a blade to his skin, the fingertips gently pressed to his scalp, the hot huff of Jaskier’s breath fluttering against his neck.

Geralt shuffles on the spot, hands tingling, and tries not to think about that, either.

“Right,” Jaskier says, and as he steps away Geralt is suddenly aware of how close he’d been standing behind him, “Done. Turn around, then. Let’s see how it looks.”

He does as Jaskier asks, already prepared for the laugh he’s sure the bard is going to try his hardest to stifle. Geralt knows he must look foolish, no matter what Jaskier says about the style once being popular. He wasn’t lying, before, when he said that he didn’t care about fashion. Geralt doesn’t care how he looks: partly because it doesn’t fucking matter and partly because even if he did, all anyone else would ever see is a battle-scarred witcher.

Now, suddenly, it does matter. He’s horribly aware of the shorn skin at the back of his head, unpleasantly reminded of the bald patches that had lingered there when he was a boy.

If - when - Jaskier laughs at him, even if he pretends not to, it’ll hurt.

So he turns, already preparing an acidic retort - but the laugh doesn’t come.

In fact - Jaskier doesn’t say anything. He just stares. Geralt feels even more self-conscious, and reaches up a hand to feel the back of his head. His fingertips are cool against his scalp, but it’s not altogether unpleasant. It’s an odd feeling, being able to feel the shape of the base of his skull like this.

And Jaskier still stares. Geralt can’t take it.

“Well?” He asks impatiently, wishing he didn’t care.

Jaskier blinks, as if returning from some distant dream. He swallows, and Geralt can’t help but watch the movement in his throat. He nods - a small, constrained gesture.

“Good,” he says, simply. “It… it suits you, actually.”

Geralt frowns. “Really?”

“I… yeah. It looks good.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. He’s sure Jaskier is lying - but the sudden nervousness in Jaskier’s body language, the way he twists his fingers together and the pinkness mottling his cheekbones don’t seem to be betraying a deception, but something else.

Before Geralt can take a step closer - before he can hone his senses to figure out what, exactly, the bard is hiding - Jaskier plasters his face with a somewhat awkward smile and walks backwards towards the door.

“So,” he chirps, swinging out his arms. “Shall we head downstairs? Find something to eat?”

That’s not a bad idea. Geralt always feels hungry after a fight - especially after riddling himself with potions. Perhaps after a full meal and some good beer he’ll feel a little less unsettled, and he can examine Jaskier’s behaviour more closely.

“Fine,” he says. And then, feeling a little guilty as he remembers the hefty purse the alderman promised him for seeing off the wyvern: “I’ll pay.”

Jaskier grins at that. “Marvellous.” He gestures to the door, eyes twinkling. “After you, then.”

Geralt hesitates just for a moment, then grabs his purse and heads from the room. As he walks past, he can feel Jaskier’s eyes lingering on him. He can still feel them on him as he heads down the stairs towards the tavern below, Jaskier close behind.

When he reaches the narrow landing he turns just in time to see Jaskier’s gaze snap quickly away. His foot completely misses the bottom step and he stumbles forwards, crashing straight into Geralt’s shoulder, then quickly rights himself with a curse, face flushed. The tips of his ears are scarlet.

Geralt peers at him. Jaskier’s not laughing at him, that much is clear. But there’s something in that gaze - those sparkling eyes.

He just has to work out what.

It's with a wet thud that the Wyvern's head falls to the ground, black blood oozing across the grass. Geralt feels a little guilty at how easy the fight has been - and even guiltier when he aims a prolonged blast of Igni into the nest of eggs the creature had been so absorbed in guarding that it hadn't even seen him approach.

The eggs pop unpleasantly in the fire, and Geralt takes a swift step back, keen to not be caught in the crossfire if one should explode.

He realises, as he grabs the head and makes his way back to the town, that it's been two years since his last wyvern contract. Two years since the one that came close - but not too close - to killing him. Almost to the day, in fact. Jaskier will no doubt have something poetic to say about that, but for Geralt it only brings with it the gentle reminder of how quickly the time has passed, and how much has changed.

The scar on the back of his head is no more than a pale line, now.

It's barely a twenty minute walk back to the alderman's home, where Geralt trades the head for a heavy bag of coins, suspecting he's getting the better end of the deal. He doesn't stop to chat, but heads towards the inn, the sun still high enough in the sky that there's plenty of time left to enjoy the evening.

When he pushes the door open to their room, he’s half expecting Jaskier to be conspicuously absent - having found an eager audience in the town’s single tavern across the road - or possibly snoozing in the bed. But he’s reclining in the bath next to the fire, his back to the door, a book dangling from one hand over the rim of the tub. As the door opens, he half-turns, peering over his shoulder.

“You’re back early.”

Geralt walks past the tub, placing his pay upon the bed and beginning to remove his armour as Jaskier watches.

“Easy hunt,” he says, simply.

“Hmm,” Jaskier moves in the bath, the water sloshing a little over the side. “Looks it. I assume that means you won’t be needing the bath, then?”

Geralt is tugging away his tunic before Jaskier’s even finished speaking. “I didn’t say that.”

He shucks off his trousers and smalls, eliciting an appreciative hum from Jaskier, who drops the book to the floor and shifts back against the tub as Geralt steps in, lowering himself down between Jaskier’s legs. He leans against Jaskier’s chest - warm and damp and softly fuzzed with thick hair - letting his eyes drift shut.

It feels like an undeserved indulgence considering how swiftly he’d seen off the wyvern, but one he’ll allow himself, today. It’s not like either of them have anywhere pressing they need to be, and they’ve got the room till the next morning.

Jaskier wraps his arms around his middle, sliding beneath his arms, hands drifting lazily up and down Geralt’s torso. After a moment, Geralt plucks one of Jaskier’s hands from his chest and threads their fingers together.

“My hair needs a trim,” he says, finally. “At the back.”

With his hands occupied, Jaskier tilts his head, and Geralt can feel his lips pressed to the shorn hair of his nape, nuzzling exploratively.

“Hmm,” Jaskier assesses, “I think you do.”

“Can you…?”

Geralt doesn’t need to finish the sentence, of course: Jaskier’s been shaving his hair for two years now, keeping it in check every time it grows messy and unwieldy. His lips move from Geralt’s nape and down his neck, fluttering over his shoulder.

“Of course,” Jaskier mutters, his breath sending little shivers down Geralt’s spine. “But…” He opens his lips, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the bend between neck and shoulder, “...later.”

Geralt shifts beneath the touch, feeling Jaskier’s tongue hot against his skin. The hand not currently held in his own drifts down his stomach, sliding boldly beneath the surface of the bathwater.

“Did you know,” Jaskier continues, lips lingering above his pulsepoint, “that it’s been two years since we first…” his hand twitches beneath the water, and Geralt can feel him smile against his skin, “...cut your hair?”

“Hmm,” Geralt presses back harder, wriggling between his legs. “I did.”

The smile against his neck melds into a soft, open gasp - a little intake of breath.

“So,” Geralt says, a little smugly. “Shall I fetch the razor?”

The soft touch of lips and tongue is joined by the brief scrape of teeth - sudden and sharp. It’s Geralt’s turn to gasp.

“Like I said,” Jaskier whispers. “Later.”

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #look the undercut in tw3 is the best haircut in the game #undercuts for ALL #a little gorey and gross #because of wound tending and monster ichor

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samwontshare · 3 years

Note

Can you please recommend some good sad bucky fics or bucky whump fics?

Hi Nonny!

I had a similar ask the other week but Tumblr search is being a bear and won't pull it up. It should be under my 'asks' or 'fic rec' tag.

Otherwise, my bookmarks on AO3 have a bunch across various ships!

I just read 70k on Bucky's mask being permanently affixed to his face. So that was a journey.

If you want the Hydra years angst, here are some drabbles of Bucky's torture - 30 of them!

#asks #bucky barnes #fic recs #bucky hurt/comfort

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artistic-writer · 6 years

Text

Alii Dimidium Lunam (The Other Half of the Moon) - CS Werewolf AU - Ch 10

Title: Alii Dimidium Lunam (The Other Half of the Moon) by @artistic-writer artwork by @cocohook38 & @artistic-writer

Rating: E (overall rating) for explicit sexual content, language and themes throughout. Trigger warnings will follow and be added as they are needed to avoid spoilers.

Art by @cocohook38 - Poster - Emma - David - Killian - James - Walsh

Chapter Art by @cocohook38 - Ch1 - Ch2 - Ch3 - Ch4 (NSFW)

Art by @artistic-writer - 1 - 2 - 3 -

Also on: AO3 - FF

A/N: Here is ch 10! There is art for this fic that I made that I will post seperately. Also, this is a BIG reveal ch - so buckle up! Some of you will be pleased to know we are not even halfway through this fic! when I am sure of the number of chapters involved, I will start putting it in the title. Massive thanks to my wonderful betas, @hookedonapirate who has done a fantastic job keeping my rabble in line, and @kmomof4 to whom this fic is also gifted. Without your constant encouragement, I would have probably given up on this fic already. Thank you to my crew, @hollyethecurious @resident-of-storybrooke @courtorderedcake and special thanks to @killian-whump @killianmesmalls and @sherlockianwhovian for how they helped later on. And to @flipperbrainwho drew THIS piece of art for this fic in December, before it was even written!

Taglist: @cssns @resident-of-storybrooke@hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @hookedonapirate@winterbaby89 @courtorderedcake @initiala @cocohook38@branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan@sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says@wingedlioness @lenfaz @therooksshiningknight @ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr @blowmiakisscolin@deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld @chinawoodfan @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells@wordsmith-storyweaver @jennjenn615 @delightfully-difficult-pirate @doodlelolly0910 @tiganasummertree @hookedmom

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They talked for what seemed like hours about their dreams, each recalling the smallest details that might have seemed insignificant to anyone else. It was how they knew they were in the exact same dream world, experiencing the same reverie. From the softness of the grass under their feet to the smell of soon to be erupted flowers, the sounds of the forest and the chill of the midnight air, they were under no illusion their dreams were one and the same.

Emma was filled with conflict. On one hand, she was relieved to finally know that her dream meant something, and she was not just plagued by the nightmare of losing her father for no reason. But what was the reason? The only differing detail in both of their visions was the name on the grave, so they had deduced it had to mean something, only they had no idea what it was trying to show them. Killian assured her time and time again it didn’t necessarily mean her father was fated to die, but the fact that Killian couldn’t locate his own father alive meant he didn’t exactly believe his own assurances.

To take their mind off things, Killian had suggested taking Emma to dinner. They were in a part of town she would not be recognized and so, without hesitation, Emma had agreed. He picked a casual Italian place, and when he had entered with her arm looped through his, the owner had almost danced with glee to see one of his favourite patrons finally dining with another. Emma gave him a nervous smile and they were seated opposite each other in a private little booth away from prying eyes, but the minute they sat down she was invaded with Graham’s scent.

“Are you alright?” Killian asked her gently, reaching across the table to grasp her hand with his when he noticed she was busy scanning the restaurant. For what, he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t detect anything out of the ordinary, casually inhaling to try and find the scent she could quite clearly smell. “You seem distracted.”

Emma frowned a little. “I can smell someone from my pack here,” she almost whispered, eyes still scanning over the other diners, but unable to find what she sought.

“Can you see anyone?” Killian asked her quickly, trying not to draw any attention as he fidgeted with his napkin.

“No,” Emma shook her head a little, disguising the action by pretending to flick her lightly curled golden locks over her shoulder. “I can’t see him.”

“Is it Graham?” Killian offered casually, opening the menu with his free hand and pretending to browse the selection.

Finally, Emma looked at him and gave a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “Are you jealous, Jones?” she teased, relaxing a little. The scent was old, a few days at least, and it was possible that, with all of her recent stress, Emma was confusing what she could smell with what she had smelled recently. It was a mixture of musk and human aftershave that could have been worn by a thousand other human men, not just Graham, so when she couldn’t visually locate the Misthaven beta, she figured she was being paranoid.

“Of course,” Killian winked at her, giving her hand a squeeze.

“You don’t have to worry about Graham, trust me,” Emma said firmly, scooting to the edge of her bench seat and wrapping her other hand around his. “He would be the last wolf I’d want.” Emma’s words left her mouth with a little more disgust than she had intended for her pseudo-sibling, and Killian noticed.

“He’s your betrothed, isn’t he?” Killian asked with a soft tone, the pain evident in his words. Emma held his gaze and swallowed slowly.

“Yes.” There was no point in hiding it any longer. Killian knew about everything anyway, so why not divulge the name of who her pack wanted her to marry. “And he is also the beta in my pack, so me running away is a big deal.”

“Ah, I see,” Killian nodded in understanding. “The chance of you being able to smell him is more than an unlikely coincidence then?”

“I’m afraid so,” Emma agreed. “He’ll find me eventually.”

Killian sat back in the booth, pulling his hand from hers and lightly scratching over the stubble on his jaw. Emma could see him thinking, almost hear his thought processes as he looked around the restaurant. He ate here frequently and nothing seemed out of the ordinary for this time of the week - no new patrons, no new smells - but clearly something had Emma spooked, and he would not abide that.

Killian had waited his whole life to belong, to feel like he was accepted. Emma gave him that. She gave him a sense of humanity, as well as accepted him for the wolf he was. He was not much by werewolf standards, smaller than the average wolf and with no pack or status to offer her, but he was sure, without a doubt, that he would fight with everything he had for her.

He would fight to the death if necessary.

“Then let him come,” Killian nodded with a tight smile. He sat forward and claimed her hands in his once more, his fingers tangling with hers and interlocking their hands tightly. “I’ll fight for you, Emma. I promised you forever, and if it means a little bloodshed to get there, then-”

“I don’t want that,” Emma interjected quickly, clutching his hand tighter.

“Neither do I,” Killian admitted honestly. “But I will fight for you, Emma. I will fight with everything I have to keep you safe.”

“Graham would never hurt me,” Emma said slowly, her gaze locked with Killian’s across the table. As acute as their hearing was, neither of them heard a single voice or sound in the restaurant in that moment except for the thrumming of each other’s blood. Emma flushed hot, a nervous human reaction to what they were both thinking.

“But what of me?” Killian laughed nervously, vocalising both of their fears. He didn’t know much about pack politics, but he knew enough that if Emma was to be married to another, and they wanted her back at all costs, then killing him or any other wolf in their way was nothing. Emma’s silence confirmed he was right.

The owner of the restaurant, Tony, chose that exact moment to appear, dogeared notepad in hand and a half length pencil tucked behind his ear. Killian stood to greet him, shaking the man’s hand vigorously and then introducing Emma as his date, the slight blush that crept over his cheeks at his admission not going unnoticed. Emma blushed as well, a very human reaction she had rarely experienced before because of the way it revealed too much to a foe.

After some pleasantries, they ordered one of the restaurant’s speciality dishes; a huge plate of spaghetti and homemade meatballs gently tossed into a basil infused ragu. Emma had never tried meatballs before but after Killian’s insistence, she was in love. The meatballs melted in her mouth, the taste of herbs and cooked meat so exotic and peppery on her tongue, she couldn’t help but moan after every mouthful, much to Killian’s amusement.

Emma was an eclectic mix of someone who had seen everything the world had to offer and yet had experienced nothing at the same time. Killian loved the way simple things seemed to excite her beyond belief, like she had learned everything she knew from books alone, without ever setting foot outside. She had mentioned her pack were old school before, but Killian couldn’t stop his smile each time she became giddy over such trivial things.

After the restaurant, they were strolling down the nearly empty sidewalk when Emma spotted a poster for a local fair. It came to town every year, and Killian had gone before, but never with anyone. He used to go with his brother as a way for both of them to remember their mother, who loved to go to such things, but he never had the opportunity to take someone else. Emma’s enthusiasm upon learning what a fair actually was, prompted her begging, almost whining, for him to show her as she excitedly tapped the ripped poster upon the rough brick wall.

The fair was close to his home and after they had driven back to his place, Killian suggested they walk there to enjoy the night air. It was crisp and cool, but the lingering smell of the pastries from the nearby diner had Emma’s smile growing even wider as they strolled to their destination. Like a kid at Christmas, Emma almost ran through the barriers as Killian paid for two tickets, watching her enjoyment and feeling the swell of his heart at how happy she was.

There was no way that Emma would have ever been allowed to go to a fair if she had been with anyone from her pack. This would have been on the forbidden list of human activities. The Chronicle was clear, as her father constantly reminded her, that any human activity deemed frivolous or that dulled the responses was not allowed. Apparently, fun was at the top of that list, because Emma had never had so much.

Her arms were overloaded with soft toys, and the taste of cotton candy still lingered on her tongue as they called it a night. Spun sugar had made her fingers sticky, but she didn’t mind at all, and even eating a corndog was new. Emma felt human for a second and loved each and every time Killian used his supernatural abilities to his advantage, winning her everything that she requested. There was no weakness in what she felt, only love and compassion for the wolf at her side, and not for the first time, Emma began to question the laws by which she had been raised. Nothing was off limits for her, Killian had made that clear, and as they ducked through the trees, taking a shortcut back to his apartment, Emma stopped him suddenly by grabbing his hand.

“Thank you,” Emma smiled sweetly, tugging his arm gently until he turned to look at her.

“For what?” Killian frowned, shaking his head a little from side to side as he stepped into her space. His chest bumped into the pile of bears in her arms, the soft furs brushing his arms as he rubbed a hand over her shoulders.

“Everything,” Emma smiled at him, leaning into his body.

“I just took you to the fair,” Killian blushed modestly, reaching behind his ear to scratch there nervously. “It was no trouble.”

“No,” Emma said definitely, tossing the soft toys to the ground beside them. One squeaked as it hit the ground and Killian’s ears perked up a little at the sound, but he kept his gaze trained on her. “You’ve done so much more.”

“It was nothing, lass,” Killian smiled. He trailed his hand down her arms, clutching her fingers between his, lifting their hands and interlocking their digits lovingly. Emma tightened her grip and pulled him even closer to her, their bodies crashing together and their noses almost bumping in the darkness. Even though it was nearly a full moon, the canopy of trees overhead afforded them some privacy from the silvery glow.

“It’s everything,” Emma breathed, her eyes flicking between Killian’s and his lips, visible in the darkness because of their ability to see in low lights. Killian swallowed and his mouth twitched, the corners tugging into a small smile. He licked them quickly, leaning forward to offer her a kiss, but Emma pulled away and he frowned, confused.

Emma stepped back, untangling their hands, and in one swift motion, she lifted her shirt up and over her head. Killian felt a different kind of energy surge through him, more than just arousal as Emma undressed, a collection of feelings that set his nerve endings on fire and made panic set into his bones.

“Emma, what are you doing?” he asked nervously, fully aware of the only reason werewolves took off their clothes in the woods. He knew enough about werewolf lore to know that if they were discovered right now, he wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of any punishment.

“I want you to see me,” Emma told him softly, tossing the last remnants of her clothing aside and standing in front of him gloriously nude. Her nipples peaked in the night air, pebbling into hard nubs atop the fleshy mounds of her breasts and causing his loins to stir.

“I can’t,” Killian turned away, clenching his jaw tightly and exhaling hard into his hand that covered his mouth. He hadn’t realised what Emma meant until that second - her shift. “It’s...I can’t let you. If anyone finds out-”

Emma snorted a laugh through her nose and walked towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder and encouraging him to turn and face her once more. “They won’t,” she offered lightly. “Killian, I want to show you this part of me.”

“Emma,” he ground out through clenched teeth, pinching his eyes closed almost painfully. He could smell her change coming, could sense the shift of bones and muscle about to happen, the electricity flowing through her hand and into his, like an open current.

Their connection was something special, almost like twins in nature, where Killian could feel everything about Emma’s change at the same time she could, but what was even more unnerving was the way he was desperately attempting to halt his own change at the same time. Killian’s inner wolf howled to be free, clawing at his insides, yearning to join his soul mate in their true, free form.

“It’s okay,” Emma soothed, running her hand over the sweat of his brow, calming him instantly. Killian exhaled hard, eyes tightly closed, and his face twisted with a mixture of pain and the resistance to join her. Emma leaned forward, pressing her lips to his cheek only briefly before stepping back and letting their hands fall apart. “I want this,” she murmured, offering him a smile he couldn’t see as her shift ravaged her body.

When Killian opened his eyes, he was not met with the usual hazel green hues of Emma that he could get lost in for hours, but was staring out into the darkness of the forest. A soft whine alerted him, and he looked down, the dirt lightly disturbed by the huge grey and red she-wolf sitting at his feet. Even as a wolf Emma was beautiful, and Killian’s breath was taken from him, the softness behind her almond shaped eyes warming his heart.

“Emma, you could get into real trouble. You shouldn’t have done this,” Killian admonished weakly, finally relenting to her will.

Emma cocked her head to the side, her maw slightly ajar, halting its panting, and her ears pricked on her head. She watched him intently like a dog focused on a ball about to be thrown, and when Killian reached for the buttons of his shirt, she jumped back to her feet, her tail curled over her back where it began brushing her spine in a slowly increasing rhythm.

“Forever, right?” Killian arched a brow at her, finally pulling the edges of the shirt open and pulling his arms free. He tossed the material her way, smirking when she hopped out of the way with a playfully growl. “Just so you know, and I’m only saying this because I know you can’t argue back right now, you are buying breakfast,” Killian teased, pulling his belt open and feeling the ease in his muscles as his body surrendered to the beginning of his change.

Emma’s muzzle hung open once more, her happy dog smile lighting up her eyes when she realised he was about to change. When Killian was fully naked in front of her, his clothes a discarded mess of jeans and leather boots, Emma gave him one final whimper of encouragement before tearing off into the night, her feet skidding against the dried leaves under her paws as she swerved to avoid his legs.

“Wait!” Killian called out after her, twisting his body to watch her go. The sound of breaking branches echoed from the tree line, growing more and more distant, the sound indistinguishable from the creaking of his bones. Killian let out a cry and fell to his knees, falling forward onto his hands and clawing at the ground with a grunt. It was not advisable to fight one's change, he had always been told not to, and now the pain tearing through his body was a testament to why. “One of these days, I’ll stop chasing after this she-wolf,” he growled to himself, the syllables of his last words stretching out and turning into a full blown howl when his transformation was complete.

Emma stopped running as soon as she heard the howl, a quick exhale leaving remnants of condensation in the air in front of her nose and she spun on her heels to face the direction she had cantered from. The leather pad twitched at the end of her muzzle, desperate to find the scent of Killian in the non-existent breeze, the still of the forest offering him the perfect camouflage and the absence of wind the perfect opportunity to stalk her. Emma’s canine heart pounded thrice as fast in her chest, eyes flitting around the trees to try and guess the direction he would appear from.

She was tense, no doubt about it. Suddenly she was the prey, a feeling she had never experienced before, and the hackles on the back of her neck sprang to attention. Her ears swiveled on her head, twisting this way and that, trying to find a single indication of Killian’s presence nearby. Again she tilted her head back, inhaling hard into the night, but was met with nothing but the approaching rain and the damp, forest floor.

She froze, holding her breath, her eyes wide in an attempt to let in as much of the little light that was in the forest that night. She saw nothing, her paws flexing in the detritus in anticipation of running, her tail hanging low between her legs. She was deflated. She thought Killian would follow her, she thought he would be at her side and for a second, she missed his contact, whining into the night.

A twig snapped behind her and Emma turned instantly, staring intently into the bushes behind her. Every hair on her body stood on end and she couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of her blood. The shape of her ears funneled in the noises of the night, but it wasn’t until she saw the glow of blue between the dark green leaves that she shifted her weight backward and her tail began to wag. It brushed her hocks, and she stamped her paws forward in a playful bow gesture, enticing the blue eyed shadow out of his hiding place to join her.

Killian emerged slowly, the bushes snagging against his fur, his ears flattened to the top of his broad wolf skull as he pushed his muzzle through the prickly branches. Emma made a high pitched yelp, spinning on the spot in excitement of his arrival, glad to finally see him. He approached her cautiously, fur puffed out and ears erect on his head, his bush-like tail laying over his back in a tight curl. Emma halted her spin, meeting him with a puppy like submission, licking at his maw and pawing at his face in eagerness, loving his masculine demeanor as he let her.

There seemed to be a switch in roles; Killian suddenly became protective and dominant over her. Maybe it was their connection, maybe it was something else, but Emma felt helpless against him and rolled onto her back at his paws, tail tucked between her legs where it swiped to and fro over her hairless belly. Killian sniffed at her, avoiding her pawing with a dodge each time she tried to press her foot to his muzzle, until Emma suddenly slipped out from under him and sprang to her feet once more. Killian flinched back, slightly confused by her sudden innocent nature, but he didn’t have time to react before Emma turned and high tailed it back through the trees in the direction she had come from.

Killian took off after her, a low growl tumbling from his throat as he pounded the earth, newly formed branches snapping under the weight of his body as he forced his bulk through the narrow brush. A squeak tore through the forest, close by he could tell, and with a wolfish grin he increased his speed towards their discarded clothes. When he burst through the tree line Emma was waiting, her tail flying from left to right and her head shaking from side to side. In her mouth, she had one of the toys he had won her from the fair, the squeak inside of its soft, filled belly igniting the playfulness inside of her as if she were a puppy.

Emma closed her jaws around the toy, again and again, the high pitched squeaker piercing his eardrums everytime she chewed on it and growled at the toy in response. Killian inched forward, his own tail wagging furiously as he attempted to nip at the toy in her jaws, carefully teasing the leg of the fluffy, blue bear away from her muzzle with a gentle pull. Emma growled but there was no malice behind her tone, pulling the toy away from his reach just enough that he attempted to acquire it once more.

It was a game, a silly game that only domesticated dogs played, but somehow, under the cover of darkness, two fully grown werewolves had entered into a game of tug-o-war with a soft toy neither of them really wanted. It wasn’t about the toy, it was about having fun, Killian’s final acceptance to embrace his wolfish nature for more than just running to relieve stress. Emma wanted him to be free, hold onto his true nature and stop fighting what they both already knew.

Two halves of the same moon may never meet, but they will always fit together perfectly to make a whole.

Whilst Emma was distracted by the hoot of an owl, Killian managed to grab the toy, the squeaker shrieking under protest but soon fizzling away as his powerful canine popped the thin, plastic shell. Emma pulled, the muscles in her neck tensing under the strain, but Killian did not let go, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he declared to her that the toy was his. Emma growled back, her feet digging into the leaf littered floor as she pulled back, her equal size and impressive strength moving him with her.

Killian pulled even harder, moving around her in an attempt to twist it from her jaws, but Emma would not yield, her head turning unnaturally and her body soon following to straighten up. They were at an impasse for a few seconds, blue eyes staring into green, grunts of exertion through half muffled noses filling the air between them before, with one last tug, Emma managed to tear the toy in two, and paraded around with the head of the bear between her teeth.

Killian sat and dropped his half, white stuffing fibers stuck to his tongue. He shook his head, twitching it to the side as his tongue rolled in waves to eject the offending material from his mouth, his eyes trained on Emma who had stopped to mock him with a wolfish grin. She had dropped the decapitated head of the bear and was pacing towards him determinedly, and if Killian didn’t know better he would say she was swaying her hips in an attempt to seduce him.

When she reached him, her nose touching his and pushing against his face, he reared up onto his back legs like a begging dog and lost his balance, falling back against the tree behind him with a low groan. He shook it off, slouched against the rough bark when an all too human cry of anguish filled his ears, and he looked forward again to see Emma mid shift.

Killian was too late to look away; he had seen too much. Paws became hands, fingers long and delicate and Emma’s tail disappeared to reveal the soft, white curve of her behind. She cried out again and Killian felt a pull, as if an invisible thread had been tugged on and when she sank to the ground on all fours as human once more, Killian felt his own body change.

There was no pain with his shift, only amazement, and awe at the woman in front of him who had made sure he would watch her this time. Emma had made sure he could see, made sure he was distracted enough with their frivolous game that he would never see it coming until it was too late, and he was gazing upon the most intimate parts of her. And there was no taking it back now, the gnarled bark on the tree digging into his human spine going unnoticed as Emma looked over to him with a smirk.

“Forever,” she said softly, reiterating his earlier words before she sank to the forest floor exhausted.

The morning was cool, a light covering of fog hanging in the air, slowly disappearing as the morning sun grew hotter, evaporating it from existence. Emma walked along the sidewalk with a definite spring in her step, her newly acquired hoodie hanging off of one shoulder and her hair tied into a loose ponytail to the side. She was sure Killian wouldn’t mind her borrowing a few clothes, especially seeing as by the time he stirred, she would have returned with an aforementioned breakfast.

There were few people around at this time of the morning. Emma had always been an early riser, unless especially exhausted, and she had discovered a new found affinity for people watching. Humans were fascinating, barely awake themselves, and yet able to function from muscle memory alone as they made their way to their places of work under the thrall of tiredness. It felt good to be amongst them, like one of them, blending into a society that knew no more than she would allow - something Emma had never been afforded as a Misthaven wolf before.

The Chronicle was abundantly clear when it came to affairs of humanity. To protect all werewolf kind, living with or near humans was discouraged, lest their true identity become a revelation. There had never been a werewolf revealed to humanity, not in Emma’s entire bloodline, but it was the fear of discovery that kept many of the werewolves in her community petrified of even gazing upon a human. They were nothing to wolves, and as insignificant as the insects that inhabited the world.

If wolves never bothered humans, humans would never know.

Emma rounded the final corner on her way to the diner Killian had told her about, the scent of the freshly raised sweet pastry dough filling her nostrils. Killian had given her very quick instructions, but Emma was sure she could have still followed her nose and would have had no problem finding the place. The entire block was filled with a sweet smelling sugary aroma that was so enticing she didn’t notice the musky scent of another wolf until it was too late.

Two huge hands grabbed her, pulling her sideways into an alleyway that was darkened by shadows and a dead-end brick wall. One hand held her still, pinning her to the wall whilst the other clamped over her mouth to stop her from calling out. Emma’s back hit the rough brickwork with a thud, the air leaving her lungs on a squeal into the wolves hand that smelled salty and weathered against her face, her eyes pinched closed as she waited for an attack that never came.

“Shh, Emma, it’s me,” the wolf whispered, his body leaning into hers as he cast a quick glance to the sidewalk in case anyone had noticed him grab her. Emma recognised the voice instantly, the dulcet Irish twinge behind his words easily distinguishable from any accent she had ever heard. She peeled her eyes open and shook his hand from her face, huffing a little as she pushed against his weight.

“Graham,” Emma spat, her anger immediately evident. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you found me,” she groaned, straightening up the oversized hoodie she was wearing.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Graham assured her softly, taking a step back. “Or Killian,” he added nervously. Emma’s eyes widened and the hues darkened a little with her rage.

“How do you…” she began suspiciously, but Graham stopped her.

“I’ve been following you all week,” he admitted. “Your father sent me to bring you home.”

“I’m not going home,” Emma said defiantly, shifting her weight onto one hip and crossing her arms over her chest. “You can tell my father that. And stay away from Killian, he’s done nothing wrong.”

“Emma, this is serious,” Graham pleaded. “Your father gave me strict instructions to bring you home and to kill the wolf you were cavorting with.” Emma stared at him for a second, the muscle in her jaw twitching and her lip curling into a snarl. “He is very angry.”

“Of course he is,” Emma snarled, whipping her hair over her shoulder. In the tussle, it had come loose and was now a knotty mess of unbrushed blonde tendrils covering her shoulders. “His little princess has her own mind and he doesn’t like it, but Killian doesn’t even know who I am, so leave him out of this.”

“Emma, please,” Graham implored, rolling his eyes. Emma was stubborn, just like her mother, and sometimes he was irritated by her younger sibling act as much as she was annoyed by the way he acted like her big brother. “I’m not trying to argue here…”

“Good. Conversation over,” Emma snapped, heading back towards the entrance to the alleyway.

“Wait!” Graham lunged out and grabbed her elbow, quickly pulling her to a halt. “This isn’t about you,” he quipped angrily, grinding his teeth together. “God, you are still so…”

“Don’t say it,” Emma warned him, pointing a menacing finger in his direction. He used to call her selfish all the time as pups because Emma was raised with a sense of entitlement that she hadn’t realised was unbecoming until her wolf day, and Graham had never let her forget how much of a princess she had acted. She hated him for it, because even though they had matured, he had never outgrown his jibe. “I can kick your ass now. I’m not a little pup anymore. You can’t bully me and you most certainly cannot convince me to return to Misthaven.”

When they were pups, Graham had taken it upon himself to torment Emma with his larger than average size and strength, defeating her in every game they played. It didn’t help that David regularly pitted them against each other in practice bouts until Emma finally worked out how to outsmart him, using her cunning skills to defeat him, despite his size. In a way, it had made her an impressive fighter, but it was at the cost of her ego that Graham had relentlessly crushed each and every time she was beat.

“Just listen to me, will you?” Graham snapped, clenching his fist in frustration. “Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?”

Emma studied his expression, the fatigue etched across his features. Dark grey half circles sat under each of his eyes, the crows feet at their corners making him look much older than she knew he was. Tiny white hairs had sprouted from his browline and peppered his sideburns, the rugged growth on his chin unkempt and messier than usual. It had been a while since Emma had simply looked upon the wolf she loved as a brother, but something was clearly weighing heavy on his mind and manifesting itself in his weary appearance.

She relaxed a little, letting out a heavy sigh when he looked at her with pleading eyes. “I’m listening.”

“Good,” Graham exhaled with relief. “I need your help.”

The diner was surprisingly crowded for the early hours, and Emma suspected it was because of the delectable pastries. There was a long queue, so Graham had offered to grab them coffees and breakfast whilst Emma took a seat. She had calmed down somewhat after realising Graham wasn’t here to exact her father's orders, and when he had asked for her help, she was a little concerned.

Graham was a beta. He didn’t need help, and she was sure the last person he would need it from was her. She was nobody, not yet, not until they were married. If they were married, which if Emma had anything to say about it, would be never. Her connection with Killian was so intrinsic, she couldn’t imagine herself with anyone else, and if that meant she had to die to fight for her freedom to marry for love, she would.

The clatter of plates made her jump suddenly, and everyone in the diner looked to the bar area where a waitress had dropped a whole stack. As she hurried off, red faced and embarrassed beyond comprehension, Emma noted the other seated diners as they resumed their activities. There were four other people in the diner that morning, eating in - two men and two women - and Emma made a mental note of them and their physical attributes just in case there was any trouble.

Two of the men were dining together, suited and booted and both chatting into an earpiece whilst ignoring their company. There was a blonde haired woman typing away on a laptop, huffing at herself as she slammed her finger down on the delete key time and time again. The other woman was seated at the back of the restaurant, with long, dark hair and a pale complexion, unable to hide the glow emanating from her skin. She was smiling to herself, reading a thick paged magazine that lay out before her, and Emma noticed the faintest hint of increased hormones in her scent. If she didn’t already know, the woman was pregnant, but maybe that’s why she was smiling so broadly.

“I got you one of those disgustingly sweet pastries you like so much,” Graham announced, interrupting her from people-watching. He placed the small round white plate in front of her, the still warm bear claw almost making her drool.

“Thank you,” Emma said with a tight lipped smile, taking the mug of steaming coffee out of his hands so he could sit opposite her at the small square table. The whole restaurant looked more like somebody's house, the casual placement of a few well worn couches and a bookshelf near a disused open fire making it seem more homely.

Graham fidgeted in his seat, tugging at his shirt like it had twisted out of place, and shuffling his chair under the table even more. Emma watched him with a narrowed gaze, confused by his actions that were decidedly more human. “Are you okay?” She asked gently. “You’re acting weird.”

“Am I?” Graham asked nervously, his voice an octave higher than before.

“Yes,” Emma affirmed calmly. “Very weird.”

Graham cleared his throat, finally content with the position he had found most comfortable, and he covered his face with both of his hands. It was like he was trying to find the courage she knew he already had to tell her something, so she knew it had to be serious. Graham was nervous, but she could smell something other than fear on him - she just didn’t know what it was.

“You said you needed my help,” Emma prompted, trying to break the tension between them. She reached for the small bowl of sugar cubes in the center of the table and grabbed one, letting it fall into the blackness of her coffee with a plop.

“Yes,” Graham agreed with a nod before pausing. His short answer confused Emma, and she gave him a twisted look.

“Graham, will you quit acting so human and just tell me what’s going on?” Emma told him firmly. “I’ve never seen you so rattled,” she noted, lifting her mug to her lips and taking a sip of the acrid liquid inside. She winced at the taste, returning the porcelain to the table and reaching for a creamer in a second ramekin. She didn’t normally take cream, but the coffee was a little too strong without its sweetness.

“Okay,” Graham blurted, shuffling forward even more and leaning forward on his elbows. He beckoned her nearer with a crooked finger and Emma leaned towards him. “I can’t marry you,” Graham stated obviously and Emma fell back against her chair with a huff.

“I could have told you that,” she sighed.

“No,” Graham shook his head quickly. “I mean, I’m engaged to another.”

Emma’s bottom jaw dropped open and she almost knocked her coffee from the table, scandalized by his confession. “Who?” She demanded curtly, and before he even had time to respond, she gasped loudly with realisation. “My father doesn’t know, does he?”

Graham looked at her with a darkened stare. “You think I would still be alive if he did?”

Emma gave him a knowing look. “So, who is it?” Emma demanded a second time, swiping her mug up and taking another gulp of coffee. “Which pack?” She smacked her lips together, wiping them with the back of her hand.

“She doesn't belong to any pack,” Graham shrugged, casting a sideways glance to a man who brushed past them a bit closer than he would have liked. Emma matched his shrug and arched her back against the chair, the wooden legs creaking a little.

“A loner?” Emma asked nonchalantly. “I get that appeal,” she smirked, recalling the small smile on Killian’s face as he had slumbered beside her the night before.

Loners were pureblood wolves who had no pack and were usually ignored by others. They were often without a pack because of upheaval or conflict that had meant the end of any community they had known. Being a loner was a choice, not a punishment, and as such, they were permitted to interact with other purebloods freely. The Chronicle was indifferent to lone wolves, and in more recent times it had become acceptable that they join an established pack through marriage. The only aspect of interaction frowned upon was illegitimate children, which would result in exile for both parents.

Graham lowered his head and looked up at her sheepishly. “Not exactly. She’s human.”

Emma kicked the underside of the table as she jumped, half in shock and half in disbelief. She ignored the pain throbbing through her knee, eyes fixed on Graham’s for any sign that he was joking. He had to be. The beta of Misthaven was a force, one of the strongest wolves she knew. He was honest, dedicated and loyal to his pack and werewolf lore. He was not engaged to a human, was he?

“I don’t know what to say,” Emma swallowed, her face pale with shock. “I mean...” she stuttered, exhaling hard, her brow furrowing with thought.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” Graham whispered across the table when a few of the people in the nearby queue turned to look at what had caused the echoing bang of bone against wood.

“How long?” Emma asked eagerly. “How long have you...you know?” She made a weird gesture with her hands, not entirely sure what it was herself. There were no anatomical differences between wolves in human form and humans, so Emma attributed her odd behaviour to shock. Yeah, that was it. She was still in shock. Graham quirked an eyebrow.

“Going on three years.” He hadn't even finished his sentence before he winced in anticipation of Emma’s reaction.

“THREE!” She almost yelled and the entire diner paused and looked in her direction. Graham grabbed her arm, holding her down when she attempted to leap to her feet, a strange child-like chuckle escaping her lips at this new found information. “How? I mean, bravo for pulling it off,” she laughed, grinning broadly. “Really, I had no idea, and you’re still breathing so obviously my father doesn’t either…”

“And he never can,” Graham interrupted her rant, gripping her arm tighter and catching her gaze. His face was stoney, a real sense of panic plastered across his features that sobered Emma instantly. She calmed, her smile fading.

“There is more isn’t there?” Emma asked him coolly.

Graham released her arm, sitting back in the chair that groaned under his hefty weight. He licked his lips nervously, running a hand through his hair slowly as if he were signaling someone with a secret gesture.

Out of the corner of her eye, Emma watched as the lady with long, dark brown hair got to her feet, a very visible bump on display now that she was on her feet. She gathered up her things, tucking the magazine into her satchel and pushing her chair back under the table. The sound of wood on wood vibrated through the diner and Graham turned red, his face blushing and the scent of his sweat invading Emma’s nostrils. He didn’t say anything else, and Emma simply watched him squirm with a confused expression.

That was until the pregnant lady appeared at his side, bag slung loosely over one shoulder and gripped by one hand, drawing Emma’s attention. She watched in fascination as the woman’s other hand snaked its way over Graham’s shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her slender figure. He planted his hand firmly on the outside of her heavily pregnant belly, fingers splayed protectively over the unborn child, as he looked back to meet Emma’s wide eyes.

“Emma, this is Ruby,” he murmured, the pregnant brunette placing her hand over his on her stomach.

“Hi,” Ruby smiled brightly, which confused Emma even more. Did she know what she was? “Nice to finally meet you.”

#cssns #cs fic #cs au #cs werewolf au #cssns fanfic #Alii dimidium Lunam #the other half of the moon #killian jones #emma swan #wolves of misthaven #artistic-writer #ch10

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redd956 · 1 year

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Whump Drabble

CW: Violence, Injury, Non-con Non-Sexual Touch

Okay I know this fits more the in military whump category, but it’s something that’s truly been on my mind as an underrated trope in whump. When a Character does get injured, or needs important medical equipment/vital checks, but they’re wearing so much gear that Caretaker has to go through the process of frantically removing it or opening it all, just to actually get to whumpee.

Like imagine a situation where whumpee is wearing lots of armor, maybe a bullet proof vest, mixed with the layered uniform of a soldier. Caretaker needs to maybe use a defibrillator, has healing magic that needs to touch certain parts of the body in particular scenarios, just needs to get to whumpee in general. Time is of the essence, and here they are frantically trying to get through everything.

Imagine them panicking, fumbling with potentially unfamiliar equipment, trying to remove backpacks from whumpee’s shoulders, shoulder slung rifles, thick modern day soldier vests. Caretaker can’t do it alone, maybe they have a group, maybe they don’t. Them trying to wrangle pieces of equipment off of whumpee’s limp body. Attempting to turn them over, and trying to figure this stuff out on their own. Maybe whumpee’s awake, and they’re in agony with every movement they’re forced to make in order to remove the equipment.

A touch adversed whumpee suddenly feeling hands pulling up their clothing. Maybe a touch starved whumpee not having to expected to get what they yearned for in this way. Imagine character finally getting the final layer off only to be faced with a sickly sight. Maybe they accidentally discover a coating of scars whumpee never told them about. Maybe they find a hidden injury whumpee swore they didn’t have.

Caretaker trying to pull down a mass of cloth and protective wear away from the neck just to insert a syringe. Caretaker having to pry a fully obscuring helmet off of whumpee, only to finally for the first time ever meet their dazed glazed over eyes. Caretaker seeing whumpee’s eyebags for the first time, a ribcage that’s showing way too much, a nonhuman character trait hidden away.

Imagine how whumpee feels whenever they come to.

#whump #whump drabble #whump rabble #whump rambling #cw violence #touch starvation whump #whump ideas #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump idea #whump scenarios #clothing whump #injury whump #military whump #whump injury #hidden injury whump #non-con touch #non-sexual touch #redd is making this at 3 am it probs has so many typos

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artistic-writer · 6 years

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Alii Dimidium Lunam (The Other Half of the Moon) - CS Werewolf AU - Ch 8

Title: Alii Dimidium Lunam (The Other Half of the Moon) by @artistic-writer artwork by @cocohook38 & @artistic-writer

Rating: E (overall rating) for explicit sexual content, language and themes throughout. Trigger warnings will follow and be added as they are needed to avoid spoilers.

Chapter Word Count: 5414

Art by @cocohook38 - Poster - Emma - David - Killian - James - Walsh

Art by @artistic-writer - 1 - 2 -

Also on: AO3 - FF

A/N: Ch 8 is here, with art of our villain, Walsh! Thank you all for your patience in the delay of this chapter - and thank you all for your good wishes for my hubs <3 @hollyethecurious helped me a lot with David in this chapter, because I was a good child and never snuck out to go see my werewolf boyfriend, so has never actually been on the receiving end of an angry parent - thanks mom! Massive thanks to my wonderful betas, @hookedonapirate who has done a fantastic job keeping my rabble in line, and @kmomof4 to whom this fic is also gifted. Without your constant encouragement, I would have probably given up on this fic already. Thank you to my crew, @hollyethecurious @resident-of-storybrooke @courtorderedcake and special thanks to @killian-whump @killianmesmalls and @sherlockianwhovian for how they helped later on. And to @flipperbrain who drew THIS piece of art for this fic in December, before it was even written!

Taglist: @cssns @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @hookedonapirate @winterbaby89 @courtorderedcake @initiala@cocohook38 @branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan @sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says @wingedlioness @lenfaz@therooksshiningknight @ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr @blowmiakisscolin @deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld @chinawoodfan @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells @wordsmith-storyweaver @jennjenn615 @delightfully-difficult-pirate

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If Emma really sat and thought about it, she hadn’t missed Misthaven at all. She had missed her parents, that much she could admit, but her home was not what drew her back. It was her guilt. Graham had been right. Running out on an alpha was a poor choice to make, especially when that alpha was your father, and there was no way you could run forever. If an alpha wanted you found, you would be found.

Emma had showered and made her way back to her truck. It had taken her almost a day to drive home from God only knows where, and the second she heard the crunch of gravel under her tires, and the huge manor house looming into view, she could practically hear her father’s disapproval from the bottom of the mile long driveway. With a sigh, she slowed her truck to a crawl, dragging out the time it would take her to reach the house.

There was no doubt about it; Emma would have to first apologize, and then try to reason with her father regarding her fated marriage to Graham. Maybe she could negotiate? Maybe if her father just met Killian, he would see how much she liked him? Maybe she could explain her dream and how she felt they were connected in some way? Maybe she could talk to her mother first, or maybe she could have her mother present when she talked to her father?

Emma didn’t like maybes. There were too many variables.

The house was seemingly empty when she stopped the truck at the side, the engine clicking as it cooled down in the shadow of the nearby barn. Emma peered out of the windshield but there were was no movement in any of the windows, which she thought odd. Misthaven was more than just her family home. It was where the pack spent most of their time, planning, talking and arranging things, and Emma was not used to seeing the place so empty.

She pulled the brittle plastic handle on the inside of her truck door, letting it spring back with a thud as she pushed the door open. The scent of her father hit her instantly, wafting into the cab of the truck on a downwind that made her gulp with anticipation. Emma had been gone for nearly four days and that was more than enough time for her fate to have been decided by the council who governed Misthaven politics, but luckily for her, she could only find faint traces of them in the breeze, which meant they hadn’t been here recently.

Even though Emma was practically royalty, she was not immune to pack law. She only hoped that her father had seen her anger and outburst, which included running away, as a child like tantrum and nothing else. She had meant no disrespect to the pack by leaving, but Graham’s words played over and over in her head the longer she took to reach the house and Emma couldn’t help but feel like she might be about to be punished.

Werewolf children were not punished in the same way human children were. They were stronger, more robust, and it was not unheard of for werewolf parents to be seriously injured during a temper tantrum as they tried to corral their wildling cub into a safe place. Were kids were unpredictable at best, neither understanding or embracing their abilities in the correct way, which Emma remembered too fondly. Her father had a cage in the basement intended for interrogations of mongrels, but it wasn’t above him to use it as a time out for his spitfire of a child.

It was one of the reasons why Were kids had their own school system and were kept from human kids until they could control their heightened rage and quell the beast within them. As teenagers, most Werewolves had experienced many years of changes and knew how to control their shift, using the popular ruse of ‘just moved to the area’ to explain their sudden appearance in high school. Whilst werewolves lived life by the Chronicle, they still needed to learn the human ways in order to blend in more easily.

Emma reached the back door of the house, the white frame window on the top half of the door framed by some cozy curtains on the inside. They were for her mother’s privacy and because she was a homemaker, but they had always been there and reminded Emma of her childhood, even half expecting her mother to peer out between the floral bunches at any second and call her and Graham for their dinner.

With a deep breath, Emma twisted the doorknob, and the door swung open with a creak she knew everyone heard. Heightened hearing was one of the many werewolf traits, and in an attempt to lessen her presence, Emma toed off her shoes at the door and was left to pad barefoot across the kitchen. There was no noise around the lower level of the house which made Emma wary, only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall as she made her way to the staircase.

“Emma,” David murmured, his voice low and deep, but laced with a hint of relief that made Emma relax. He was her dad right now, and she could tell that just by the way he had uttered her name.

She froze, one hand on the huge oak staircase bannister as she turned around slowly, a sheepish smile spreading across her face. “Dad…”

“Where have you been?” David demanded, his hands balling into fists inside the pockets of his jeans, something Emma keenly noticed with a flicker of her gaze.

“Where’s Mom?” Emma asked nervously, trying to avoid his question. She accented the last word, almost calling it up the stairs as if her mother could come and save her from her father’s wrath.

“Where did you go?” David repeated firmly, taking in Emma’s disheveled appearance. She was, thankfully, no longer wearing the red dress but her now dried clothes were wrinkled beyond comprehension, smeared in dried dirt and littered with tiny specks of stone from where she had discarded them so hastily in the rain. “Have you been sleeping rough?”

For a second, Emma recognized the tone of worry in his voice and was tempted to lie to him. For a second, she forgot the kind of trouble that could get her into. And even worse, for more than a second, she had forgotten about the keen sense of smell all werewolves had until she saw David tilt his head backward and narrow his eyes at her.

“Dad, don't smell me,” she blushed, turning towards the stairs once more. All she had to do was make it up the stairs. All she had to do was make it to her room where her scent would overwhelm her body and hide what she had so idiotically forgotten to mask. “It’s weird,” Emma threw in casually, taking a step onto the stairs.

“Stop,” David commanded darkly, his voice now that of her alpha. He pulled his hands from his pockets and held his hand up to her, halting her excuses and her movement. Emma sagged on the first step of the stairs, looking down at her bare feet.

“Dad, I can explain,” Emma began but David closed his splayed palm into a tight fist to silence her, extending a finger to her as he let out an angry breath. Emma saw his jaw clench, the muscle along his face twitching under the grey of his stubble and he pinched his eyes closed in an attempt to calm himself. “Dad…”

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” David bit out through a clenched jaw. “Where have you been?”

“Nowhere,” Emma said softly, her cheeks reddening under his stare. It wasn’t a million miles from the truth. She didn’t actually know if she could point out where she had been on a map, only noticing a few town signs between here and there, but she knew she had at least crossed state lines.

“Okay,” David said with an eerie calmness. “Let’s try this one.” He took a step forward, watching his feet as he advanced on her, arms crossing over the rock hard muscles on his chest that, even at his age, spoke volumes of his power and strength. “Who have you been with?”

Emma’s face paled instantly, the rosy tint to her cheeks fading away instantly when her throat went dry and her entire body buzzed with anticipation. She knew he could smell Killian on her, there was no denying he had left his mark on every inch of her body, and Emma couldn’t even stop the next words falling from her mouth in a mumble. “No one.”

“Dammit, Emma! Don’t lie to me!” David’s voice boomed through the empty hall and the chimes in the old grandfather clock vibrated low in the casing. Emma jumped, her whole body turning rigid and her fingernails turned white as she clutched the railing harder, the back of her neck turning clammy with sweat.

“He’s a good wolf,” Emma grumbled, her heart pounding in her chest, the rush of blood in her ears almost deafening.

“Oh,” David mocked. “He’s a good wolf.” His face was unmoved, stony and a mixture of anger and disappointment that cut Emma deep. “If he is such a good wolf, why don’t you tell me his name?”

“What, so you can hunt him down and have him killed?”

David looked at her sternly, like she was reading a very open book, his thoughts out there for all to see.

“I don’t think so,” Emma laughed with a shake of her head.

“I thought you said he was a good wolf?” David arched his brow at her, watching her squirm.

“I’m not telling you,” Emma said firmly, staring at her father with the darkened stare of her inner wolf, her lips curling a little at his trickery.

“Yes. You will. You think I can't smell him on you?” David stepped forward again, his nose wrinkling up as he inhaled the foreign scent covering his daughter. “If you've spent time with another wolf I have a right to know about him and his pack.”

“As my father or as my alpha?” Emma said spitefully, her own anger bubbling to the surface.

“Both,” David growled. “I am both.” David pulled his arms tighter across his chest with his aggravation, his stare piercing right into Emma’s. They were both as stubborn as the other, and she did not look away. “Emma, you forget your place,” David snarled with a knowing glare, direct eye contact often a challenge from another wolf. If Emma were any other wolf, David would have ripped her throat out by now, but his daughter knew her rank and looked away quickly.

“I don’t know about his pack,” Emma muttered to her chest, her head tipped downwards in submission. “It never came up.”

“What about ours, Emma?” David chastised gruffly. “Does he know of your pack? Does he know who you are?”

Emma gave David a guilty, sideways glance like she used to as a puppy that gave him his answer.

“Of course he doesn’t.” David rolled his eyes, moving his hands to his hips. “He wouldn’t have touched you if he had known where you belong.”

“Where I belong?” Emma spat, the tears beginning to burn at her eyelids. An unwelcome lump formed in her throat, constricting her breathing, and she tried to swallow it down. David was the only person who could make her cry, but she wasn’t crying because of sadness; it was because she knew he was right. “I don’t want to marry Graham,” she sobbed softly, the hot sting of tears drawing lines down her face.

“I know you feel that way now, but in time you'll see the rightness of such a match.” David nodded, offering her a small, tight-lipped smile that Emma grimaced at.

“Don’t you think it’s time to break tradition?” Emma’s breath hitched in her throat. “I don’t love Graham. I can’t love Graham.”

Her voice was small and almost a whisper, her mind conjuring images of the black wolf she might never get to see again. Emma knew she would have to make a choice; Graham or Killian. The black wolf from her dreams, or the grey wolf from her reality that her father had promised her to. There was no choice that wouldn’t end in some sort of heartache, or worse still, someone getting hurt, exiled or killed.

“Tradition protects us. You know that. Without tradition what would become of our way of life?” David paused, inviting Emma to answer, but she did not, instead scraping her fingernail across the polished wood of the banister with a frustrated pout. “You're only refusing to love Graham because of some latent need to rebel. That's all this fling with the other wolf was; rebellion. Plain and simple.”

“It’s not that!” Emma cried. “You don’t know him like I do! Maybe if you met him…” Emma’s desperate words were cut off by David again, his voice echoing through the entire house as his ire grew.

“I won't have it, Emma! I won't have my daughter cavorting with some filthy wolf when there is a strong, noble wolf worthy of you and the position within the pack.”

“Filthy wolf?” Emma repeated his words with disgust, her teeth grinding together and her watery green eyes fixed on his in an absolute challenge of dominance. Emma didn’t care that he was her father. She didn’t care that he was her alpha. All she cared about was Killian because when she was with him, he never made her feel like this. Emma felt small and used, like a lamb to slaughter, the prized meat at a banquet that only the worthy could indulge in. “I hate you, and I hate this pack!” Emma screamed, feet pounding against the old oak steps as she ran upstairs. She was just inside her bedroom door when she saw the flash of her father’s figure through the crack reaching the top of the staircase, a scowl on his face and his cheeks prickled with red.

“Emma!” David shouted, her name lost in the slam of the door.

“What’s going on?” Snow called out, rushing out of the main bedroom in just a towel, her skin still tinged with pink from the scalding shower she had just taken. “Why are you shouting?” She panted, hurriedly walking barefoot down the hall toward David who turned to look at her with a grunt.

“Our daughter has been…” He paused, pressing his lips together and pounding a balled fist against Emma’s door. He couldn’t say the words out loud. It was hard enough knowing that his daughter was fighting his every intention, but to know that she was doing so with a strange, unknown werewolf really made his inner wolf snarl with fury. “Emma!”

“Hey!” Snow soothed quickly, grabbing David’s forearm and halting his assault on the white, wooden door. “Calm down and talk to me,” she pleaded lovingly when she felt him relax at her touch.

“There is a wolf,” David ground his jaws together tightly, the words leaving a foul taste on the tip of his tongue. “He’s defiled our daughter.”

“A wolf? He did what?” Snow gasped, now realising what the foreign tang in the back of her nostrils was. The scent must have wafted from Emma as she entered her room, strong and musky, lingering in the hall. “Did she tell you that?” Snow asked worried, casting a glance to the door in front of them. “Is Emma okay?”

A million thoughts crossed Snow’s mind in that exact moment. With the information she had been given, she immediately assumed Emma had been attacked, and some worthless mongrels who knew who she was, had decided to overpower her and have their way. It was a fear she lived with daily. Emma was a strong wolf, but what made her strong was her pack, and without them she was so vulnerable to the wannabe purebloods who hated the Misthaven pack.

“Emma?” Snow called out tentatively against the wood, her breath fogging back in her face. She could hear Emma sobbing behind the door, probably into her pillow, the sounds of her cries muffled. “Its Mom, can I come in?”

There was a sudden silence when Emma’s sobbing stopped and Snow looked at David with a worried expression. They barely had time to register each other's features before they heard the scraping noise of furniture against the wooden floor and then the thud of the dresser hitting the door. Snow frowned, her short, cropped hairstyle that was dusted with long grey hairs still wet and dripping onto her shoulders.

“What’s going on?” Graham’s Irish tones called down the hall. He had been sleeping, his t-shirt twisted around his torso as he emerged from his own quarters rubbing a finger against his eye socket.

“Emma!” David shouted, grabbing the brass knob of the door and almost headbutting it when it failed to move.

“Emma?” Graham repeated worriedly, his face flushed at her name said with such distress.

“Well, don’t just stand there!” Snow squealed, slapping David’s arm. “Break the door down!”

“What’s happening?” Graham was suddenly more awake, rushing to David’s side as his alpha braced himself for impact and slammed his shoulder into the solid mass in front of him. Graham didn’t get an answer, only a knowing look that told him to shut up and help. Graham’s bare feet slipped against the dusty wooden floor on the landing as he stood next to David and counted to three, both of them propelling all their weight against the door in tandem.

The door gave way on the third try, the hinges groaning as the door lock broke open and it swung open just an inch. Emma had pushed her dresser in front of the doorway, stopping the door from opening fully, but as David slid his head through the narrow crack he could see Emma swinging her legs out of the second story window and looking over her shoulder at him, sorrow in her eyes, as she pushed herself from the ledge.

“Emma!” David grunted, his head stuck in the doorway. He clenched his jaw and pushed with all his might, his arms shaking and a vein throbbing prominently on his forehead. Finally, the dresser gave in and moved, the grind of wood against wood echoing through the house. David and Graham burst into the room, reaching the window with stabbing pains in their shoulders that they ignored as Emma’s truck left a trail of dust in its wake, flicking stones out behind the tires as she sped from Misthaven once more.

“She’s going to him,” David mumbled darkly.

“Who?” Graham asked, panicked. He studied his alpha’s profile for a second before turning back to the distant speck that was Emma’s beat up red pickup.

“The wolf,” David snarled, annoyed that he didn’t know the wolf’s name or where he was from. So many variables posed a very real risk to his pack and it seemed Emma was the most volatile.

“Track her,” David commanded, fingers flexing at his side. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the conflict of his choice clearly weighing heavy on his mind. “Find her. Find him. Bring her home.” David’s voice was grave and Graham knew, because he had heard it before, he had more intentions.

“And the wolf?” Graham whispered gruffly, shooting a glance over to the doorway where Mary Margaret was studying the broken lock with a sigh. David turned to him, fire in his eyes and his lip curling back in a wolfish snarl.

“Kill him.”

Killian walks through the glenn, the grass under his feet soft but dewy, the glint of the water droplets silvery under the light of the moon. There is always a full moon and it hangs silently in the night, unobstructed by clouds, and as bright as the sun. The pull of the moon to werewolves is a myth, but there is something about his dream that has Killian yearning to return time and time again. It isn’t the moon that draws him though, but the sound of his companion as she stalks him through the woods.

She never leaves his side, always hidden behind the copse, but she can't ever hide the emerald glow of her eyes as they peer at him through the thicket. She pants softly behind the brush, ears on a swivel and golden tipped hairs like embers in the night. Killian’s sensitive hearing always hears her when she steps on a position revealing twig that snaps under her weight. He can smell her, the lady-wolf scent invading his human nostrils and coating his tongue in her musk - something that has his skin buzzing with excitement.

“I know you’re there,” Killian whispers through his smile, his eyes flicking to the ground beside his feet. She appears there, at his side like a trusty follower, exiting the trees and making herself known with a soft, wolf whine. “Come out, love,” he encourages with a sideways nod of his head, his hand itching at his side to feel the softness of her fur.

Her shadow looms across the clearing, the short grass littered with tiny flowers that are crushed silently under her massive paw pads temporarily before springing back into position when she lifts her feet. Killian can hear her approaching, the bristle of her fur in the gentle cool breeze making him smile to himself as he awaits her presence at his side. Each night they walk together, side by side, and Killian feels more connected to her than anyone he has ever known in the real world.

“There you are,” Killian smiles, sinking down onto one knee and extending his arm out to her. The green of her eyes cut through him, right to his soul, and at that moment Killian feels like she is the missing piece of his life. He feels like this is the wolf who has been sent to guide him, to show him how to be a werewolf, not the human he is expected to be. “Who are you?” he asks softly, his fingertips inches from the leather of her nose.

The she-wolf sits, the multi-coloured layers of her fur visible as the breeze picks up and tousles her fur in a swirl. The canopy overhead is shaken by the wind and there is a lingering smell of fragrant flowers that have yet to break through the surface soil, mixed with an approaching rainfall Killian has yet to witness in his reverie. The she-wolf lets out a high pitched whine, and her ears droop a little, her melancholy cry of loss hitting Killian with a chill.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, stepping closer. The wolf leans around his frame which blocks her vision. When he places his hands tentatively on her head, his fingers disappearing into the softness of her agouti fur, he feels her sigh. His touch doesn’t move her, only makes her emit a louder whine, her maw falling open as she pants excitedly, eager to show him something. With a frown, Killian follows her gaze, turning on the spot so he is standing beside her and his huge hand is lost in the mass of fur between her ears.

What Killian sees stops his blood in his veins. His heart skips a beat, the panic taking the air from his lungs so suddenly, his face pales. His fingers curl into the wolf’s fur, the slightly longer hairs on the scruff of her neck coarser to his touch, but it’s all he has to anchor himself to something that makes him feel guarded. He sees a tombstone, the edges nicked and damaged by the elements, and bright yellow and white lichen have taken up residence around the name etched into the stone, but he can still see it clear as day, even in the twilight.

Jones. The name is Jones.

Through his shock, Killian has not even registered the loss of the warmth around his fingertips, the rough hairs of the she-wolf turning into the warm flesh of skin as a hand grips his, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently. He looks up from their hands, half expecting to see his father comforting him because his name is on the gravestone and he has been searching for him for so long. It makes sense his father is dead, but instead, he sees the one person he feels like he knows more intimately than he knows himself. For the first time since he’d seen the she-wolf, she has transformed into the woman he has become infatuated with.

Emma.

Killian is confused, when a single tear rolls down Emma’s face, the salty droplet glinting in the light of the moon against the shadow of her perfect profile. She turns, sorrow etched across her face as a sob hitches in the back of her throat.

“He’s gone,” she whimpers, her voice cracking with emotion. “It’s over,” she adds, her voice fading away as a resonant bang echoes through the forest, sleeping birds flocking from the treetops, the moon becoming so bright it blinds him.

The same loud, thunderous bang shook Killian from his bed and he almost toppled out of it because he had been sleeping so close to the edge. The banging rang out again, his ears straining to pinpoint the source of the disturbance as he groggily threw the covers back and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. Killian rubbed the back of his neck, yawning lazily as he heard the noise again and in a moment of clarity, finally realised someone was trying to bash his door in.

With a growl, Killian pushed himself to his feet and stalked out of his room and across the minimalist apartment to the front door. Maybe his brother forgot his key? No, Liam wasn’t due back for a few more days and he would know where the spare one was. The soles of his feet stuck to the hardwood floor as he made his way to the door, his hand lazily scratching through the hairs on his chest and another yawn escaping his mouth.

“Alright!” Killian yelled, mumbling under his breath to whoever was so adamant on removing his front door from their hinges in the early hours. As he reached for the door handle, a familiar scent wafted under the door and he quickly yanked the door open, unsure if he was still dreaming. “Emma?”

“Hi,” she said shakily, her fingers laced together where she was wringing them nervously. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Killian frowned at her, confused.

“You were clearly sleeping,” Emma said, waving at him to indicate his semi naked appearance. Killian was dressed in only his dark blue boxers and Emma had to fight her gaze from lingering for too long over his body in the semi lit hallway of his apartment building. “And I am breaking all sorts of rules coming here.” She began pacing back and forth outside of his front door, her hands resuming their fidgeting.

“Are you alright?” Killian pressed, but she responded so quickly, his concern was lost in her rant.

“It’s a massive invasion of territory to just turn up like this,” Emma rambled, shaking her head at herself. It was considered rude to turn up at another wolf’s house uninvited, and some would take it as a challenge for territory, but it hadn’t crossed Emma’s mind until this exact moment.

“Don’t worry about that,” he assured her with a soft smile. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather invade my territory.” Emma turned on the spot, pacing back in front of him, and Killian could smell the forest on her, the scent of freshly broken tree stems and the night air overwhelming him. “Have you been running?” He asked gently, reaching out for her and stopping her with a hand on her bare forearm that was covered in dried mud and debris.

“Yeah,” Emma said with a shake in her voice. She looked up at him finally, her eyes watery from the tears that were about to spill from her eyelids. There was a smudge of red across her cheek, probably where she had hit a branch while running, and her skin had opened up, but it had stopped bleeding and was already half healed.

“It didn’t help this time, did it?” Killian whispered sadly. Emma shook her head and the dam broke, her hot, wet tears streaming lines into her face as she cried. She didn’t know how he knew her so well, or why she felt so drawn to him as if they were connected by an invisible string, but her only thought was getting back to him, so when her run hadn’t cleared her mind, she had run straight to him with only his scent in the wind to guide her.

“I don’t even remember where I left my truck,” Emma sobbed and Killian pulled her into his arms, cradling the back of her head in his hand and running his fingers through the warmth of her golden locks. Emma crossed the threshold of his apartment and felt instant relief, his manly scent invading her senses as she buried her face into his chest and clutched onto his arm.

“I’ll help you find it tomorrow,” Killian promised, his hand caressing the small of her back. He walked them back into his apartment and pushed the door closed with a soft click. The apartment was dark, but Killian could navigate perfectly, so he guided them to the couch and encouraged Emma to sit. When he joined her, Emma threw herself into his arms once more, tucking her head under his chin and absorbing the warmth of his chest through the side of her face.

“I’m sorry again,” Emma sniffed, her fingers raking through his chest hair in front of her face.

“It’s alright, love, honestly,” Killian assured her, turning his head and pressing his lips to her forehead. Emma heaved a sob, and Killian clutched her tighter to his frame, wrapping his arms around her with a protective instinct he had only ever felt for his own mother. Emma meant more to him than he cared to admit, and he was sure he was willing to die for the she-wolf in his arms without question. “I’m not going to ask you why you were running, but just know you can stay here as long as you want.”

“Can you hide me forever?” Emma laughed weakly, blushing as soon as the words left her mouth.

“If that’s what you need, Emma.” Killian pulled back from their embrace, hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face so he was looking into her eyes. The usual spark behind her eyes was dulled and she looked tired, so tired, and his heart yearned to take away her conflict. Killian brushed his thumb over the crown of her cheek, drying away her tears with his touch, and gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll give you forever. I promise.”

#cssns #cs fic #cs au #cs werewolf au #cssns fanfic #Alii dimidium Lunam #the other half of the moon #killian jones #emma swan #wolves of misthaven #artistic-writer #temporary dog au #ch8

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artistic-writer · 6 years

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Between Now and Nether :: Epilogue :: A CS AU [complete]

Title: Between Now and Nether by @artistic-writer [full res fanart]

Summary: On their way to a Nolan Charity Gala, tragedy befalls Emma and Killian who is given just seven days to set things right. Can he make Emma believe and escape the Nether before he is lost forever?

Rating: T+/M

AO3 Chapters: [1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [5] - [6] - [7] - [8] - [9] - [10] - [11] - [12] -[13] - [14] - [15] - [16] - [17] - [Epilogue] Fanart Full Resolution: [1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [5] - [6] - [7] - [8] - [9] - [10] - [11] - [12] - [13] - [14] - [15]- [16] - [17] - [Epilogue]

A/N: Here lies the final chapter of Between Now and Nether! I am actually crying as i post this, but that might be the hair dye (bye bye blue hair!). The journey with this fic as one of my only completed CS MC’s has been a fun one, with some many of you sending me comments of loveliness (and some not so much #sorrynotsorry). Behold - daddy!killian feels!

I would like to AGAIN thank @kmomof4 for betaing this entire project like a boss - mama K, I love you so much and at points, I have been glad for the ocean between us. Not that i feared for my life or anything ;) If any of you want, Krystal has this ability to describe a chapter in a single gif, so go ask her opinion before you read it :)

@hollyethecurious my wonderful friend, fellow January baby and kindred spirit when it comes to angst, whump and generally putting our beloved OTP through the ringer before their HE, I thank you. If it wasn’t for your muse and my muse sunning it up in far-off lands without us, this would have probably been finished before Christmas, but for all the time i faltered on details and needed a guiding opnion, you were there. You are my person and i would not hesitate to hide the bodies for you ;)

@resident-of-storybrooke thankyou for letting me watch you read a chapter live over webcam, even if you did tell me to ‘fuck myself’. I consider that kind of reaction a win win as an author, so yay! Here’s to fucking myself! *raises drink* And see, I told you, happy ending ;)

If you have requested a tag and have continued with this story, your name should be below - if it is not I am a terrible person and all i can do is apologise for losing you in the rabble, but know you are no less loved for seeing this through to the end! I read a post not that long ago, about fandom stats regarding people who read fics vs people who leave kudos and comments according to the target audience of the market at the time. In advertising, i believe the target is a 2% return in acknowledgment and you guys have made BNAN smash that, which a 4.8% return in views vs kudos! So, thank you all so much, i love you all!

Taglist: @mariakov81 @rouhn @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke@hookedonapirate @galadriel26 @aye-captn @the-captains-ayebrows@yayimallamaagain @i-nvr-wrote-it @officerrogerss@kiwistreetswan@wellhellotragic@depechemode75 @distant-rose @yrellow-bugs-and-pirate-ships @courtorderedcake @wellhellotragic @followbatb

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There was a time, when he had felt the warmth leave his body and had been trapped in the Nether, that Killian Jones had feared he might never see the moment Emma Swan had made him the happiest man in the world. When she had agreed to marry him, none the wiser for his recent week long absence and struggle to get back to her, he was overcome with tears of joy that had burned lines so deep into his face that he thought he might still feel them.

Emma had looked beautiful. Her dress, tailored by the famous seamstress Belle French, was a marvel, elegant enough to be refined by itself and not take a single glimpse of the bride’s beauty away from the awe inspired crowd. The gathering was small, with just them, the Nolan’s and some other close family friends, and Killian will never forget the look of surprise on Graham Humbert’s face when he asked him to be his best man. With a puzzled expression but a smile of pride Graham had accepted, none the wiser why Killian had even asked him.

How could he have not? If it hadn’t been for him, Killian might never have made it back to his family and for that, he would be forever, albeit secretively, grateful.

“Don’t worry,” Graham laughed, watching Killian pace the hospital hallway. The thick tread of his work boots squeaked against the polished tiled floor as he paced, his hand brushing some wayward strands of hair from his forehead.

“They said it would be soon,” Killian huffed, feeling himself halt when Graham laid his hand on his shoulder.

“These things take time,” Graham smiled, offering his friend a reassuring nod.

Killian's hands shook as he patted Graham’s with his own, mirroring his small, tight lipped smile with his weaker one. Graham has been more of a friend than Killian could have ever imagined since the academy days. Once Emma had taken her maternity leave, the rookie had been assigned to his charge, Graham’s gusto and resilience in the face of the Gold case not going unnoticed by the commissioner.

He trusted him with his life as a colleague, partner and more importantly a friend. It meant a lot that he was the voice of reason right now as Kilian was slowly wearing a track into the floor of the off white, fluorescently lit corridor. It had been his makeshift home for the last six hours, the steady buzz of overhead lighting and the mechanical beep of machines his only company when after thirty six hours of active labor, Emma had passed out and been rushed to surgery.

“It won’t be long, I promise,” Graham offered again. Killian let his weight fall back against the wall, the paintwork scuffed across the white at waist height from the inevitable collision with hospital equipment.

“It’s been over three hours since our last update,” Killian barked angrily.

“She’s strong,” Graham said firmly, his own voice quivering a little in his throat.

“She’s the strongest person we know,” Killian mumbled sadly, sliding down the wall until he was crumbled on the floor, head hanging between his knees. Killian felt Graham’s hand on the back of his head but he did not look up.

“Mr. Jones?” A small voice called from the nearby room he had recently been evicted from. The woman was small and much older than him and he instantly recognised her as Emma’s midwife.

“Emma?” He scrambled to his feet, clawing at Graham’s arms as he pulled his friend up to his feet.

“Emma is fine,” The midwife smiled sweetly, stepping from the room and closing the door softly behind her. Killian brushed his palms over his rumpled shirt, the clamminess seemingly stuck to his skin with the rush of adrenaline hearing the words had caused. Emma, his Emma, was fine.

“And the baby?” Graham interjected from behind Killian who gulped hard, looking between the two of them and finally resting his expectant gaze on the midwife. She paused, an eternal beat of time that Killian wished he could have sped up just like in the Om.

“A beautiful baby girl,” she grinned widely. “Healthy and perfect in every way.”

Killian almost jumped into Graham’s arms when the man spun him around and pulled him into a crushing hug. Hours of fatigue finally caught up with him and his defenses crumbled, the hot sting of tears pricking at the corner of Killian’s eyes and blurring his vision. He buried his face into Graham’s shoulder, soaking his shirt with tears as two manly thumps of congratulations echoed through his back and chest.

“I told you,” Graham smirked with relief. Killian pulled away from him and looked at his feet whilst he wiped at his tears, running his hand down his face and letting his stubble, that was edging on a full beard, absorb the salty droplets.

“Strongest person we know,” Killian smiled exuberantly and shook the hand Graham offered him.

Graham raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching sideways into a smirk. “You haven’t met your daughter yet,” he reminded Killian.

As if a sudden realisation had hit him, Killian turned back to the midwife, his heart pounding in his chest and his face turning white. He had known about his daughter for far longer than anyone else, but now he was suddenly terrified of the very notion of seeing her for the first time. Since the wedding, which had happened so quickly after his return from the Nether, Killian had devoted so much of his time to make sure that Emma and the baby had everything they could ever need. Emma was constantly telling him to stop fussing, but Killian had not, insisting on the very best for them.

Before Emma was too pregnant, they had decorated the nursery. A splash of blue colour on the wall opposite the window turned purple in the sunlight as it spilled through the sheer, pink drapes they had hung. The dark wood of the furniture contrasted with the plush, white carpet and was accented perfectly with the soft, pink linen that was tucked into the crib. They had decided that since she would most likely be their little princess, that she should be treated like one, so Mary Margaret, who as it turned out was a great artist, had painted a fairytale castle and part of an enchanted forest on one of the walls. David had insisted on as many Disney toys as possible, filling the nursery with a huge Dumbo plush, a smaller Sven (because she WOULD like Frozen) and a tiny mini set of plushies from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

“Would you like to meet her?” The midwife again shook Killian from his reverie and Graham nudged him in the back. “And I know Emma would love to see you.”

Killian nodded and when the midwife pushed the door open, he stepped through it almost silently. There was a soft yellow glow of light over Emma’s bed and she was sitting up with her arms crossed over her chest, the blankets tucked around her legs and a smile on her face. She looked exhausted, her alabaster face a stark contrast to the pink of her cheeks and the green of her eyes as she gazed upon their daughter in her arms.

“Hey, love,” Killian whispered as he stepped closer and his hand crept up to scratch behind his ear.

Emma looked up at him with the love only a parent can hold for their child plastered on her face, lighting up her eyes to an even more vibrant shade of emerald than before. She couldn’t hold back the tears as they fell, rolling over the apple of her cheeks silently and falling from her chin to the blanket below as she held out her hand for him.

They had no need for words as Killian gripped her fingers in his, letting her pull him towards her and immediately planting his lips to her brow. His other hand smoothed over the back of her head, holding it to his lips as he inhaled the medical scent of hospital from her hair and fought with the shake of his lips against her skin.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Killian sobbed, his emotional state already well and truly compromised before he had even laid eyes of his daughter. “Both of you.” Emma nudged her head harder against his face, loving the way his fingers tickled behind her ear and his lips ghosted over her temple.

“No chance,” Emma laughed, her voice watery in the back of her throat. She looked down at the tiny bundle in her arms and smiled harder. “We are not going anywhere.” Emma pulled her hand from Killian’s so that she could touch the tiny fingers of their daughter, the skin to skin contact something she had found so addictive already she thought she might never let her go.

“Oh, Emma, she’s so beautiful,” Killian grinned but was instantly taken by surprise when the boom of his voice made the tiny tot twitch in Emma’s arms. “She has your nose,” he whispered softly, cupping the pink baby bonnet covered head of his daughter in his gigantic palm.

“She has your ears,” Emma purred sweetly, tracing the outline of the baby’s elvish ears with the tip of her finger. The little girl scrunched up her face and balled her fist, grabbing the edge of the hospital issue blanket she was wrapped in before letting out a small, content sigh.

“Sorry about that, poppet,” Killian murmured at his daughter as he leaned over and pressed his lips to her forehead. She was so small Killian thought he might break her, his hands shaking as he brushed his lips over her soft, warm scalp. “Daddy’s sorry.”

Emma caught his attention as he pulled away from the babe, clutching the side of his scruffy cheek and pulling his face to her mouth. She pressed her lips to his cheek, tiny prickles of stubble poking her lips and making them itch across her smile as she hummed against Killian’s face. “I like the sound of that.”

“Daddy?” Killian raised an eyebrow at her.

“It suits you,” Emma smiled at him, scooting sideways on the bed and inviting him to perch beside her with a pat on the starchy hospital blanket.

“Now it does, but what am I going to do when she is sixteen and hates me? I’m sure she will have a more colourful moniker for me then,” Killian laughed nervously, gazing back at his sleeping daughter. “She’s so perfect like this. Can’t she just stay this small and call me Daddy forever?” Killian reached out and touched the softness of the baby’s cheek, feeling his worries fade away when the side of her mouth curved up into a reflexive smile.

“I think she’ll always call you Daddy,” Emma told him softly, watching their daughter yawn in her arms.

“And what do we call this little mite?” Killian cooed at the baby. “We should give you a name, shouldn’t we?”

Emma pulled the baby closer to her chest when she started to wriggle in her arms, feeling the warmth of the tot through the material of the blanket she was wrapped in. “Something meaningful,” Emma beamed proudly. “Something that speaks volumes about who she is and what she means to us.”

Killian lifted his leg and finally perched on the edge of the bed, wrapping a big, strong arm around both Emma and the baby. His fingers traced lazy circles under the sleeve of Emma’s gown and goose bumps sprang up from her skin, begging for more of his touch. Emma was right, and she didn’t even know it. Killian was the only one with memories of his time in the Nether, even though things had adjusted somewhat in their favour since his return. Leroy was in prison and the threat from Gold was non-existent now that he was on his way to a supermax somewhere in the deserts of New Mexico.

The whole time he was away, Killian knew there was only one thing he knew, he needed to have, more than anything. One thing that he needed to make sure Emma felt, and continued to feel so that he could return home to them both. Without it, they would have drifted apart, Killian stuck without his family, and Emma in a forever state of sorrow. Hope is what kept them strong and what held them together.

“Hope,” Killian whispered lovingly, resting the side of his head of Emma’s. “Hope Jones.”

The second they were home with their brand new bundle of joy, Emma and Killian were invaded by the Nolans. David and Mary Margaret had children of their own, but it seemed that when somebody else had one, Mary Margaret was set into an instant state of brooding that gave David a worried look on his face. Killian couldn’t help but chuckle as David had held Hope in his arms, the smile of pride quickly turning into one of panic the second Mary Margaret had mentioned another.

Emma was feeling a little better. Sore, but better. She had spent an extra week inside of the hospital because of some slight complications following her surgery, but the doctors were now confident she would be okay at home. It probably had something to do with the incessant way Killian fussed over her whilst she was in the ward, but he didn’t care if they thought he was overbearing in the slightest. If they had any idea what he had gone through to get back to them both, they might have understood.

Even Captain Lucas had visited them both, bringing with her a little stuffed wolf cub toy for Hope and a fruit basket from the entire precinct for Emma. There was something about work that always lit up Emma’s face, and she was excited to see all of her colleagues, especially Graham who she had wanted to thank for being there with Killian at the hospital for so long. Things had returned to how they used to be, all three of them spending more time together socially and getting on without the animosity there once was. Killian felt like Emma had her old friend back, he had made a new one with someone he had no idea had so much in common with himself, and he was an invaluable crutch during the end of Emma’s pregnancy.

As he waved goodbye to another set of visitors and pushed the front door closed with a soft click, Killian breathed a hefty sigh. If having a child wasn’t tiring enough, constantly catering to the whim of guest after guest would be the end of him. Or so he thought, until he ascended the stairs on muffled footsteps, entered the nursery and saw the love of his life gently swaying with his daughter in her arms.

“Alright, love?” He called softly as he entered the recently decorated room. The faintest smell of paint lingered in the air, but it would soon fade and be replaced by the sweetness of baby products. “You look tired.”

“I’m exhausted,” Emma laughed a little, offering him Hope as a tiny, swaddled bundle of fleshy softness. The tot was wrapped tightly in the hospital blankets she came home in (Mary Margaret had sworn by its swaddling ability) with a pink cotton cap covering her delicate head. She was soundly asleep and didn’t even move as they transferred her between them.

“I still cannot believe we have a child,” Killian smiled, looking down at Hope in awe.

“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” Emma fawned, watching her husband gently rock the baby in his powerful arms. Sliding her phone out of her back pocket, Emma swiped the camera open and let the lens focus on the scene before her. It was magical and maybe it was the hormones, but her eyes welled up with fat tears of pride as Emma clicked the button on the side of her phone, and the shutter sound signaled she had taken a photograph.

“She’s perfect,” Killian said softly, looking away from the babe for a second when Emma prompted him for a photo. “Our little poppet.”

Having a baby was nothing like Killian had imagined. The books could only prepare you for so much, and they most certainly did not take stock of the number of time you would wake up each night and deprived of sleep, inadvertently stick your finger into the side of a soiled diaper, or how utterly removed from society you would feel. If Killian was honest with himself, having a baby was very similar to being in the Om; Time moved so quickly it was gone before you even realised you had it to spare, and there was a constant urgency associated with being apart from Hope for too long.

Killian felt like he needed to be close to her at all times, not miss a single second, and sometimes even that was not enough. He wanted to watch her breathe, focus his entire energy on making sure that the tiny thumping of her heartbeat was normal and just as perfect as he had imagined. Which was why, at three-thirty in the morning every night since she had come home, he had crept into her nursery in anticipation of the inevitable wails that followed, just so he could hold her and let Emma sleep uninterrupted.

“There, there, poppet,” Killian cooed almost silently. He padded into the nursery barefoot, his pajama pants hanging low on his hips and his bare chest that was covered in a layer of almost black hairs on full display. He kept the lights off except for a nearby plug in bulb that emitted a soft, pink hued glow around the nursery that was never too bright but just enough to chase away the shadows.

Reaching the dark wood of the crib that he and David had painstakingly erected mere weeks before Hope’s arrival, Killian leaned over to rest his flattened palm to his daughter's chest. The tiny beat of her super fast heart pounded against his fingertips and as if by magic, she ceased her fussing and sighed heavily, the screwed up expression she always wore before crying disappearing instantly. Killian let his hand rest there for a full minute, just taking in the tiny creation before him.

Emma had been right. Hope had his ears, a smaller, pinker variation, but still undoubtedly curved at the bottom and tapering into an Elfish point. Along the outside of the shell was a fine dusting of black hair, something that the midwife had assured them she would grow out of, but Killian found endearing and unable to resist, often stroking them softly as she slept or nursed.

Hope’s hair was as black as night against the paleness of her skin, her tiny transparent eyelids hiding the ocean blue-green eyes that were the perfect mixture of both of her parents. They had been told they might change, but Killian felt confident that even with his dark hair, Hope had inherited everything else about her mother and her eyes would be just as beautiful as Emma’s and retain their emerald glow. She had a flush to her chubby cheeks, another of Emma’s traits, and a button nose that squeaked and snuffled with her quickened breathing. Even in the faint, cherise colouring that cast itself all around her, Hope was a vision of light, everything Killian had imagined she would be and more. She was perfect.

Killian leaned over the crib and scooped his hand under her soft skull, letting her head flop back into his palm like a warm pillow. At first, he had been worried about holding her, scared that he would somehow injure her with his strength, but he was starting to realise that babies were more robust than he had imagined and with his second hand under her diaper clad behind, Killian lifted her from the crib.

With a tiny whimper, Hope shifted in his hands. Just like her mother, she hated to be disturbed a moment sooner than she needed to be, and it made Killian smile at the thought. “Come now, my little poppet,” Killian soothed gently, holding her against his chest and slowly swaying a little from side to side. “There’s no need for that now.” Hope stiffened only slightly as Killian moved to a nearby rocking chair that faced out of the window, the square, padded cushion on the seat pink to match the rest of Hope’s room.

When he sat down, lowering himself so slowly the muscles in his legs tensed to hold him up, Hope relaxed against his chest, her face turned sideways with the steady beat of his heart under her ear like the rhythmic beat of a lullaby. Killian folded his arm over his chest, pining Hope’s tiny legs to his chest and supported her back with his other hand. Hope settled instantly, pinching a bunch of his chest hair in her fingers.

“That’s better isn’t it, my love,” Killian whispered. “Daddy’s got you.”

Hope let out a tiny wail, the sound catching in the back of her throat as she shifted her face against the coarse hair on Killian’s chest. Killian began to hum a lullaby his mother used to sing to him when he was a young boy, the words long forgotten but the melody as clear as day in his mind. He remembered it was an old sea shanty that his grandfather used to sing to her, the calming tune like the song of a siren to children. With a squeak Hope relaxed again, Killian’s hand moving slowly over the curve of her back and his chest vibrating with a low hum that seemed to calm her agitation. She would be due a feeding soon, but until absolutely necessary, Killian would leave Emma as long as he could.

“I know you will not remember this,” he began, inhaling the sweet scent of her in his arms. She smelled of baby powder and soap and Killian knew that once she aged a little he would miss it instantly. “But Daddy fought very hard to come home to you.” Hope let out another small squeal, her tongue clicking the roof of her mouth as she tried to suck an invisible teat. “Yes, I did,” Killian cooed as if he was answering a question she had posed and before he knew it a single tiny tear of happiness had rolled from his eyelid. “You made it so that your mother and I could talk between planes of existence, and even though you will never know what that means, you will always be the thing that gave me the tenacity to fight my way home.”

The tot wailed louder in Killian’s arms and he clutched her to his chest as he stood to his feet. “You are my light, poppet. You guided me through the darkness and back to the two people that I love most in this world.” Killian padded silently out of the room and down the hall towards their bedroom. Pausing outside of the door, he shifted Hope in his arms until she was laying on her back in the crook of his elbow, her legs instinctively lifting towards her chest and her arms stiffening, outstretched for the comforting curve of her mother’s breasts that meant food.

Killian wouldn’t mind the crying. He wouldn’t mind the sleepless nights and he wouldn’t mind the inevitable troubled teens that were sure to follow with a child who was the product of two parents who would fight, with everything they had, for what they loved and believed in. With a final, loving smile, Killian leaned forward and pressed his lips to Hope’s forehead. “You will never realise why I love you so dearly but it is because you gave me something, in name and in spirit, that kept me going. You gave me hope.”

#between now and nether #epilogue #its over #i am so sad #cs ff #cs au ff #cs fanfic #cs halloweek #cshalloweek #complete #artistic-writer

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