Character A is a bit of a magical mixologist and has the ability to be transported into any fictional bar through the mixing of peculiar drinks, from a “Shaken, Not Stirred” Bond Martini to a Groundhog Day Sweet Vermouth on the Rocks with a Twist. This leads to many strange adventures until they happen upon the striking Character B, who is in reality their favorite character. Will they continue on their trip through famous watering holes, or will they stop to smell the fictional roses and potentially ruin their favorite story?
to anon from waaay back then, only posted the picture but never got around to posting this, sorry. btw, sorry if it’s ooc, idk how to write Emma. this is the first and only draft I did for this.
Emma doesn't get many calls, but lately she does. They've been mostly about stupid things - fighting, yelling contests; broken public property. The perpetrator is usually, if not all of the time, a certain demonic fuckboy.
Emma was called, a panicked voice asking for her presence; it’s late but also very early.
She feels tired, grumpy, angry, and partially murderous. It's 4 fucking AM in the morning and she knows she was going to shoot someone if it was for something stupid.
There's a small crowd gathered in a circle. Emma, who has to shove her way into the center for the last three minutes, hears screaming, highly pitched and furious. She looks once, twice - a third time even, surprised to see what she does.
It’s the Darling girl.
Wendy, kicking and yelling, arms flailing as Neal tries to restrain her and flinches when the girl lands a fist to his eye. Ouch. Another one, she doesn't know which, comes up running to her trying to explain but failing terribly. There's one more, too. On the ground, groaning and clutching his stomach. Double ouch.
Peter Pan is there as well, Emma cannot help but notice him. Pan, with a grin so wide and arrogant it makes her want to hit him until he's unconscious.
Or dead.
Emma likes dead better.
"Aw," he coos, pawing at Wendy's hands and arms, trying to crowd her into himself, "you really do love me."
Emma snorts.
Wendy bristles, shoving him in a huff and sneers, "Be quiet! One more word and I swear, Peter, I'll punch you, too!"
And snorts again.
He grins harder, the little shit, white teeth flashing through a Cheshire smile and clings onto her anyways.
Emma doesn't like a lot of thing when it comes to the Darling girl. Doesn't like the way the girl flushes around Pan, the way he whispers into her ear, the way she let's Pan walk her away like a show. She doesn't like the way Wendy doesn't look back to spare a glance at her brothers or at Neal.
She does't like it.
She can't wrap her head around it.
The girl. The way she sticks herself to Pan, preferring his company more so than anyone else's as if she needs his contact like a lifeline. It's obvious she has Stockholm Syndrome, yet she denies it, says it isn't and sometimes gets angry.
Henry thinks it's True Love. Which is utter bullcrap if Emma says so herself.
The Pan cannot love, surely the girl understands that.
She sees Wendy the next day, Pan gone and she serves Henry his drink with a mega-watt smile.
Wendy turns to look at Emma, a "What can I get you?" on her lips and -
"Aw, gross! You didn't!"
Wendy blinks owlishly and Henry looks so very curious.
Emma groans, bangs her head against the table with a loud thus, and orders coffee.
like, it’s been a couple of decades but i decided to make my drinking au a legitimate thing. sort of. it’ll primarily be a series of related prompts, drabbles, etc. since there really isn’t an official plot line.
Peter indulges himself. hi guys, it’s been FOREVER ahaha, missed the fandom and everyone in it. forgive me though, i forgot how to write like always.
It’s late and there’s a buzz – always a buzz.
Peter’s head aches and he tips just so, enough to wobble enough to stumble, enough to kid everyone in the room. Nobody looks at him, too busy drinking and laughing and grinding against another in their foul modern way of dancing.
He groans, reaches for his flask but grasps on nothing.
Frowning, he remembers, stupid Wendy.
Stupid Bird, she took it away.
He’ll have to wing it. Act awake, act alive, act sober.
He smirked, Ha! What a thought.
Peter leaned against the counter, eyebrow cocked as he sends the bartender a smirk.
No one of importance has decided to come tonight to watch him.
It’s been so long.
He climbs onto the counter, standing straight, his teeth bared through a grin as the attention began to falter.
He lets himself indulge in his growing magic, allowing theatrics to play as the dazed eyes of drunken strangers garnered to him.
It has been so, so long.
He spots Wendy though the window, her thin figure trying to follow the rush of late night customers.
His blood thrums and he is eager; he wants to pop in, grab the girl, and run knowing she would follow.
But he won’t. Can’t.
Not enough magic in him yet and he’s too excited to really think, to really plan.
So he does his best, breathes heavily and presses on to open the door to Granny’s. Wendy spots him with wide, weary eyes. She doesn’t want to deal with him during work. She wouldn’t be able pay enough attention to her tasks.
He stares at her heavily and feels triumph when she sighs, flags down Ruby, and makes her way towards him.
“Peter.”
“Bird.”
He smiles again, lips curling in a mischievous delight that it sends Wendy’s heart beating a spot faster as he grabs at her arms and pulls her close to him.
“I feel it, Wendy,” he whispers in her ear, pressing her close as possible, reveling in her quickened pulse, “my magic.”
although he is not Harry Potter, Peter is still the boy who lived. really just Wendy in her dysfunctional relationship with Peter.
Wendy wakes up cold and alone in the mornings.
This does not faze her as it is a regular occurrence and like all the regularly functioning inhabitants of Storybrooke, she gets up to ready for the day ahead.
She looks at herself, dressed and pressed – her hair in brushed curls and her skin grime-free, her night gown is gone – ratty and frayed and hidden away – and she wears a dress that showcases an innocence that only Wendy Darling could show.
Wendy feels around her dress collar, it is rounded and girly but sickenly stifling in a way that only she can comprehend.
They’re called peter pan collars and she wears them like a comfortable noose, like a brand to show the others who she is in an unbelieveablely subtle and dignified way.
And when she passes the bed to leave for school she spots a lump nestled in sheets and blankets, just softly mumbling.
“Bye, bird.”
It makes her smile.
-
Wendy is caught in public fighting with a drunken Peter.
She was talking to Edward, a nice boy she befriended upon entering school, smiling and laughing and holding a shine in her eyes that Peter has not seen for more than a half century.
It takes Peter no more than a glare to scare away Edward and in seconds had called Wendy all sorts of derogatory terms that would make even Hook blush scarlet.
Later at night, in the secrecy of their little home, Wendy had asked him in a defiant anger.
“Because you’re Wendy Darling and I’m Peter Pan,”
“You’re the girl who grows up and I’m the boy who lived,”
“And as long as I’m alive, you will never, ever, love somebody else more than you love me. And do you know why?”
He doesn’t finish his question and he doesn’t need to because Wendy knows the answer and they both know how true it is.
“Because you’re mine.”
Wendy takes the time to stay awake and admires the crescent marks dug deep and bright red in the moonlight.
-
She likes to look at him and compare. He doesn’t have blonde hair or eyes of a mischievous green nor does he have red hair and brown eyes that burst with adventure. He’s a cruel boy with hair like forest wood and eyes so dark and demented that she just can’t help but to get lost.
It’s the smile, she later realizes, they’re all the same. Charming and cheeky and just so damn boyishly bright that it dazzles all of everything else away from her thoughts and makes her into a puppet for his own.
It’s also much later that she realizes that they’re all fake, that she isn’t the girls with golden brown hair and baby blues, and that she is the only fool because she’s the one that’s alive.
Yet still, like the others, she is very much in love with her Peter Pan.
