#BUT ENOUGH DRIVE TO MAKE MY LITTLE VEST TO GO OVER MY LITTLE LINEN SHIRTS???? yes

[sheliesshattered]

In my last couple of Batuu bounding prep posts, I've referenced my latest sewing project for that upcoming trip (3 weeks from now!!) but I've been buzzing along on it so well that I haven't done more than pause to take a picture now and then while I work. It's getting close to finished, so I figured it was time for a post about it!

Last sewing update, I was working on my blue linen vest, drafting the pattern and fitting the lining. The issue with the bust seam that was driving me crazy turned out to be a mistake with my notch markings, which didn't transfer correctly between patterns, so the two edges were mismatched. Once I figured that out, I was able to correct the error, get that bust seam sewn, and try on the lining for fit.

There are a couple of small things I want to change before I cut out the exterior layer of the linen, but the major thing that fitting revealed was that I needed to decide on which shirt I'm going to wear under it -- or at least, the thickest shirt I'm likely to wear under it. I tried a couple of things in my closet to see what color and texture looked best with the blue linen of the vest and the gray and black herringbone of the hooded wrap. The white shirt was too bright, the black shirt was too dark, the gray shirt too flat, the green waffle knit okay but still not quite right.

And while I was going in and out of my closet looking for options, I kept seeing the Solstice dress I sewed in December, with its pretty blue-gray cotton sweatshirt knit fleece. Since all the shirts I tried on just weren't working, I put on the Solstice dress instead and put the linen vest and the hooded wrap on with it. The color was perfect, just a lovely mid point between the blue of the vest and the gray of the hooded wrap. The dress itself wouldn't work, but maybe a shirt made out of that fabric?

The only problem was, I didn't have very much fabric left over after making the Solstice dress and the wide-legged pants I layer underneath it on especially cold days. I had a couple of pieces that were a yard or yard and a half long, but only one scrap with that sort of length that was 14" wide. Everything else was in the 6" to 12" wide range, and all with curvy uneven edges left over from the princess seams of the dress. I thought about maybe ordering another yard of the same stuff, but that would mean waiting for it to ship, then washing and drying it before I could even start on this shirt. And everything else I'm sewing for this Batuu day are all stash-busters, using fabric I already had on hand, nothing but a zipper and some thread bought new.

So I decided not to order more, and just draft my pattern around the blue-gray sweatshirt knit fabric that I do have on hand -- and thus the 'scrappy sweatshirt' was born. After looking through all the scraps I had, I drafted a pattern based on a fitted rashguard I made in 2021, which had princess seams (because that's the only way to get something actually fitted on me, lol), and a narrow contrast stripe on the body under the arm and a matching one on the underside of the sleeve. I used the neckline from the Batuu vest so those V-neck angles will match, made a couple of adjustments to the bust shaping, then cut out the pattern and started looking for scraps big enough for all the pieces I needed -- 14" wide center front and center back, shaped side front and side back pieces, narrow rectangular side pieces, and six pieces total for the long sleeves.

I decided to do lapped seams throughout the project, for a couple of reasons: First, I know from sewing the Solstice dress that regular old plain seams end up being a bit bulky in this fabric, especially on places like the bust seam where both sides of the seam allowance like to fold to one side, creating an area that's three layers of heavy knit fleece stacked together. Since this shirt will be going under a fitted vest, the less bulk the better. And secondly, since I was working with so little fabric, I knew that I'd get more mileage out of what I do have with lapped seams rather than plain seams. With a plain seam, I lose 1cm on each side of the seam, but with a lapped seam it's only about 1cm total -- and with fabric scraps this narrow, every centimeter counts, lol.

I tried a couple of techniques on some scraps that were too small to be much use in any other way, and decided on a tiny raw edge on the exterior, with one line of stitching, and 1cm of seam allowance on the pieces that go underneath in the lapping process. I had to use chalk to mark out that 1cm from the edge distance on every under piece, and then draw on markings for any notches, but besides that being a bit tedious, the seams went together nice and easily, and I very quickly had a front and back of three pieces each, connected at the shoulders with an under-lapped piece about 2.5" wide.

I cut similar 2.5" wide strips for the side seams and for the tops of the sleeves (since I'd had to split the sleeves down the middle just to be able to find enough fabric to cut them out of). The sides of the body went on easy as can be, exactly the right length -- and then I started in on the sleeves and realized that I had cut four strips to the shorter length of the body, rather than two at that length and two more at the ~5" longer length for the sleeves.

I had one moment of feeling like I'd screwed the whole thing up and wondering if I could possibly find enough fabric to re-cut those long thin on-grain strips. And then I realized, wait, this is the scrappy sweatshirt project, and the unusual piecing of the whole thing is half the point. So rather than even try to find enough fabric to cut out new sleeve stripes, I decided to do some intense (and decorative) piecing on the wrist end of the sleeve. The hooded wrap covers to about my elbows, and the vest will cover the main body of the shirt, so really that lower section of the sleeve is the thing that will be most noticeable, anyway.

I cut out 16 little rectangles at the same 2.5" width, and about 3.2cm tall (literally just the width of my metal ruler I use as a cutting guide, lol) and marked the 1cm overlap so I could start sewing them together. My plan has been to do an edge facing in that same ~3.2cm length at the neckline, hip-level hem, and sleeve hem, so making those all match seemed like a good idea.

I really like the final effect of this funny little shingled detail, especially for something that came out of a mistake in my pattern drafting and the restrictions of my very limited fabric. Once I had the shingles all added to the end of the long strip, I sewed them into the center of the sleeve, what will be the outside of the arm, with that same under-lapped style I'd done at the shoulders and the side panel of the body of the sweatshirt. It's a little bit similar to the pleated panel I'm adding to Jack's jacket, but without the pleating and with more raw edges.

With those panels set in, I then trued up both sleeves so that they match each other and the long seam is the same length on both sides, then added that 3.2cm wide hem treatment, for this final look:

The shingles end just below my elbow, so even with the relatively tight fit of these sleeves and the extra stiffness from all that stitching, I'll still have full comfortable range of movement. The strip at the hem is cut with the grain of the knit running perpendicular to the sleeve, which means it won't curl up or fray as much as the knit going the usual up-and-down direction.

The only place I couldn't do a lapped seam is in turning the sleeve into a tube -- or, I could have, but I would have had to handsew it, and I am so not about that right now, not with three weeks to go and Jack's jacket still needing handsewing too, lol. So I did a regular old plain seam with the raw edges facing inwards, but it's so normal looking that it really just melts into the background of all these other interesting looking lapped seams and raw edges.

So to repeat the first pic in this post, here's the current state of the sweatshirt, with my little leather gloves as an accent:

Tomorrow's tasks will be to attach the sleeves to the shoulders with another lapped seam (after possibly bringing in the edges of the shoulder top under-lap a little bit, so it matches the sleeves perfectly). Once I can try it on with the sleeves attached, I'll mark any changes I want to make to the neckline, then do the same hem facing treatment there as I did on the sleeves, with the narrow on-grain strip. The very last thing will be to even out and level the lower edge of the sweatshirt, and apply a similar hem treatment there, too.

I'm hoping to be able to get through all those steps tomorrow, and officially be able to call this piece of my Batuu outfit done. Then I'll be able to wear it while I do a final fitting of the vest lining, make any changes to the vest pattern based on those changes, and cut out the exterior fabric. After that point, I'm hoping the vest will come together pretty quickly, and we'll see if I have any time for adding little detail bits like functioning pockets or loops for code cylinders.

At the very least I would love to have a pocket specifically for my pilot's license, just so I can keep it both handy and safe from getting scratched up. But that's the sort of thing I can think about once the sweatshirt and the vest and the pleating stripes on Jack's jacket are all done. Three weeks isn't a ton of time, but on the other hand, three weeks ago I hadn't yet started on the pleating for Jack's jacket, much less these two other scratch builds. So if I can keep up a good rate of progress, I think I'll be able to get through all the projects and detail work I want to finish before our Batuu day.

And with that, I should wrap this post up and go get some sleep, lol.

[dragqueenpentheus]

STARTING ON MY LITTLE BROCADE VEST OHOHO

[woodelf68]

Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out

My long-promised homage to @worryinglyinnocent‘s Playtime ‘verse, because she managed to write fifty installments without doing hippies, and I had to rectify that. Also my contribution to @rumbelleishope. Rated E. 

***

The large cardboard box bearing items from the estate sale was like a time capsule from the late 1960s. Gold sorts through the items, fond memories of his early childhood stirred by such things as the beaded curtain and concert posters and the heavy stack of albums, their cardboard covers worn along the edges but still bright with the distinctive graphics of the era. The Who, Jefferson Airplane, Country Joe and the Fish, Iron Butterfly. Donovan, too, Glasgow-born like himself. He can hear them in his head, like a soundtrack to the Summer of Love, and he wonders if Belle will like any of them. He’s fairly certain that she’ll like the clothes, and holds up a loose, flowing smock with wide sleeves and delicate flowers embroidered around the neckline and hem.  It’s a pretty thing, and he can easily see Belle wearing it, hopes that she’ll want to.

Methodically he sorts through the contents of the box, dividing everything into three piles. One to be priced and sold – the two posters were what had drawn him to bid on this lot in the first place, and he knows that he can sell them for a pretty penny – one of things he thinks Belle might be interested in, and one of a few items of clothing that he looks at doubtfully, unsure if he wants them to fit or not. But he thinks of Belle in the short dress, thinks of surprising her with a scenario they haven’t played out yet, knows he won’t regret any temporary feelings of silliness at wearing what are, after all, fairly normal clothes compared to some of the things he’s put on for her. Making up his mind, he goes into the shop’s small bathroom and locks the door.

Several minutes later he’s studying his reflection, and surprisingly not feeling too ridiculous. although he would die of embarrassment if anyone other than Belle were to see him wearing a suede leather vest adorned with long fringes. But the undyed linen shirt with the open neck and band collar is soft and comfortable, and if it’s a little too big, it’s not overly so, and he can roll up the sleeves. Same with the trousers, he’s sure that the flare-legged rust denim was originally meant to fit a bit more tightly than they do on his frame, but although he knows that Belle would no doubt appreciate that, he’s gotten used to more freedom of movement. With a belt and the cuffs turned up if he doesn’t want them to drag on the ground, the jeans fit well enough. The clothes remind him of his childhood, those years after he had been taken in by his aunts, where he had learned the feeling of security, and being wanted, and what it was like to be praised and encouraged instead of constantly belittled. Whether it’s the warm memories associated with the era, or simply the fact that he knows his ten year old self would have loved to have had a fringed leather vest, he’s satisfied with his image.  Now all he has to do is suggest a scene. He thinks about it as he changes back into his suit and tucks the vintage garments into a bag. The shop is small, and would be easily decorated, but far too public for more than a quickie. The large Victorian house filled with fine antiques is not right at all. That leaves the cabin, he decides.

Saturday morning, he drops Belle off at the library and hands her a box tied with string that he’d stashed in the back seat of the Cadillac. “Don’t open it until lunchtime,” he says, knowing the pleasure of an anticipated surprise. “I won’t be in the shop today; I’ve got some other business to take care of.”

“All right; see you later.” Belle watches him drive off, mystified by the package in her hands. By the time lunchtime rolls around, she’s more than ready to tear off the box lid and find out what’s in it. A piece of paper sits on top of some tissue paper-covered contents, with the heading “Playtime?” She forces herself to read the rest before folding back the tissue paper and seeing what awaits her. “It’s 1968. Fibre artist and co-founder of Storybrooke’s new “Enchanted Forest” commune “Rumpelstiltskin” Gold has agreed to an interview with the hip young reporter from the local newspaper.  Please confirm interview at 6 pm Saturday.”  Intrigued, she folds back the tissue paper and nearly squeals with delight, instantly picking up the beaded, white leather headband that lays on top of the other items and tying it around her head. She gets out her compact mirror to admire how it looks for a moment before texting Rum back.

“Interview confirmed. Looking forward to it.”

He must have been waiting for her reply; his return message is swift. “Dove will have the car there for you at five; I’ll see you later.”

Dove arrives with the keys to the Cadillac before she closes the library at five, and as soon as she locks the front door, she retires to the restroom to change into her outfit. It’s a beautiful day, warm and sunny, and she drives out to the cabin as instructed, deciding what she’s going to say when she gets there.  Parking, she starts to head for the door of the cabin when she hears music coming from around the side of it and alters her course.  Gold is there, sitting on top of the picnic table, his spindle hanging down and twirling as he spins a smooth yarn from the basket of wool roving in the basket beside him. He is dressed – well, he is dressed to match her, obviously, and it suits him. It suits him incredibly well.  He looks softer, younger, his dark hair set off by the off-white linen shirt, feathering out over the band collar, the open neckline displaying the line of this throat and a string of love beads, mostly black with a few white and sky blue ones mixed in at regular intervals.  The rust-coloured denim of his jeans sits low on his hips and flares out below the knees and the fringed vest…she’d like to see him move with it on, see the fringes flare out. She kind of wants to borrow it herself, and thinks about what it would feel like to wear it with nothing on underneath.  Preferably while she was riding him in bed, rocking back and forth, the open edges of the leather rubbing back and forth against her bare skin… She swallows hard, and pushes that image back to take out and play with again later. Gold looks both snuggly, and sexy, and she wants nothing more than to go over to him and slide her fingers into his hair to hold him still while she kisses him breathless, but she has a part to play first.

”Mr. Gold?” she asks, approaching. “I’m Belle French, with the Storybrooke Mirror. You agreed to an interview.” She holds out her hand and he lets go of the dangling yarn forming between his fingers to reach out and shake it.

“Call me Rum, please.” He goes back to smoothing the spinning fiber into a smooth, even yarn, and Belle can’t help but watch his hands.

“That’s a nickname, right?” She takes out a pen and notebook from her purse, ostensibly jotting it down. “For Rumpelstiltskin, because of the spinning.”

“It is. I quite like it.”

“How did you get into spinning?”

“My aunts taught me. We had a wee croft, a few sheep, chickens, that sort of thing. Turned out that I was quite good at it. I like the rhythm of it, and there’s a lot of satisfaction in taking a bit of dirty, rough wool and combing it clean and spinning it into a strong, even twist of yarn that can be made into things.”

“Do you use the yarn yourself? Make it into things?”

“Aye, we do a fair bit of that here, at the commune. Granny’s our champion knitter, ponchos and scarves and mittens, they always sell really well at the Miner’s Day Festival. And my son and his girlfriend like to make dreamcatchers with the wool; they’re another popular item. And of course we make things for ourselves as well.”

“So is that part of your goal here? To be as self-sufficient as possible?” Belle drops her bag on the grass and sits down beside it, cross-legged, resting her notebook on her thigh and glancing back up after scribbling a few things down in it.  It’s a lazy sort of day, and for once she isn’t in a hurry to rush to the sex, instead interested in the unusually detailed background story he’s made up about himself, and hinted at in the letter he’d written. She wouldn’t mind being a journalist if she wasn’t a librarian, she thinks, and wonders if the Mirror might be interested in her starting a weekly column about books.

“Aye, I suppose. It’s cheaper to make your own bread than to buy it, for example, and better for you. You’ll have to talk to Anton, our crops expert, if you want to know more about that side of thing. He’ll talk your ear off about beans if you show even the slightest bit of interest.”

Belle grins, thinking of the gentle giant who ran the local health food store, and knowing it was actually true. “You mentioned your son; tell me about him.”

Gold smiles fondly. “He’s an artist. Does portraits when he can get a commission, freelance political cartoons, sign painting, anything really.”

Neal is indeed a good artist, she knows, even if he has chosen the steady paycheck that came with a job at the hardware store over any artistic dreams, preferring to keep it a hobby. “You sound very proud of him .”

“I am.”

“What about those other people you mentioned? His girlfriend, and Granny. Do they live here, too?”

“Aye, Emma and her parents are fairly new here. Her mother’s our respectable member of society – she’s a teacher at the school – and her father can do just about everything around here. Good with the animals, construction work, anything that needs doing. And I can’t even be jealous of him because he’s so nice, too.”

Belle laughs; it really is a good summation of David.

“And Granny, well, she’s been here since the beginning.”

Belle makes a note, and looks back up to watch the whirling spindle, his fingers never still as he forms the yarn between his fingers. “Tell me about the beginning. What made you decide to start a commune?”

“Well, we didn’t, not really, certainly not at first. When my son was young – “ he hesitates, and then continues. “His mother left us, and there I was, needing to go to work and having a wee boy to take care of at the same time. We didn’t have any family, or friends. But I knew the woman in the flat across from ours had taken in her granddaughter recently and was raising her on her own – there’d been some scandal with the mother, from what Milah had gathered. But the lass looked hearty enough, so I figured that the woman knew how to take care of a bairn and I was desperate. I went knocking on her door, thinking she might be willing to look after Neal for what little money I could offer her, since it would be in the convenience of her own home. And he was a sweet, well-behaved boy, no trouble at all.”

Belle looks up at him uncertainly, knowing that he was talking about his own real life here; at least as far as Neal’s mother leaving them went, and wonders about it. He normally never talks about that period of his life, maybe this was one way he could do so?  She isn’t sure about the Granny part; they don’t seem to have that sort of relationship. She stops herself from asking if Granny had really watched Neal, though, not wanting to break character yet. Rum has gone through a lot of trouble putting together a backstory for this particular scenario, and she doesn’t want to break the mood. She realises that she knows even less about Granny’s past, or Ruby’s parents, and makes a note on her pad to ask later. She squints against the sun, positioned behind his head and outlining the locks of hair falling forward into his face, and tries to think what would be the next question that a journalist would ask.

“Were you working as a spinner then?”

“Lord, no, an accountant. It’s only been in the last few years that people have begun appreciating handcrafted items again, enough to pay a little more for them than mass-produced factory goods. It was when the last of my aunts died that I took it up again. They’d left me their cottage, and everything in it, including their wheels and a good stash of both raw wool and spun yarn. I would have moved back to Scotland and lived there, but Neal had his friends and his life here, and wanted to stay, so I sold the place and brought as many of their things home with us as possible, things that I remembered from my childhood, even though I had to place most of it in storage. But I made Neal a scarf for Christmas from the yarn, and his friend Emma then asked if I could make her a hat, and paid for it with her allowance money, and then Granny’s Ruby wanted one, and pretty soon the boutique in town contacted me about selling some of my stuff there. I took a leap of faith and quit my job, but if I was going to spend all day at home spinning and weaving, then I wasn’t going to do it in my tiny apartment. This cabin was for sale, needed a lot of fixing up, but Neal was old enough to help by then and enlisted a bunch of his friends from woodshop at school as well. We had it fixed up and livable in quite a short amount of time, and well, that was the start of things.”

Belle mentally sorts out the facts from fabrication. His aunts had been real, she knows, but the cabin has never been more than a weekend getaway place. She is saved having to think of another question by the music in the background coming to a stop and Gold putting aside his spindle and going over to the record player to flip over the disc. A new song begins playing, with what she thinks is a bass line, a deep, thumping riff that gets under her skin and makes her want to move. She stands up, leaving her notepad and pen lying on her bag in the grass, and goes to meet Gold. “I like this song,” she says, beginning to sway in place as he turns back around to face her.

“Do you?”

“Mm-hm.” She takes his hands, trying to get him to dance with her. “In-a-gadda-da-vida, honey, don’t you know that I love you,” she sings, and nearly laughs at the way his eyebrows go up in surprise, biting back the remark that Storybrooke does have an oldies radio station, and it’s kind of hard to forget a song that seems to go on forever. “In-a-gadda-da-vida, baby, don’t you know that I’ll always be true?” She lifts his arms up, spinning beneath him, and smiling; he helps twirl her,  her lightweight skirt flaring out around her.

“Oh, won’t you come with me,” she sings, and her mind completely derails in a sexual direction. “Won’t you take my hand?” With a filthy smirk on her face she tugs at his hands, backing away, and he follows, entranced, helpless to do otherwise. “Oh, won’t you come with me and walk this land? Please, take my hand.” She stops as they reach the picnic table, putting her hands on his shoulders, swaying to the music, forcing him to move as well, his feet staying planted but hips and shoulders moving to the beat.

“That’s it,” she encourages, and he smiles, drawing her close with his hands on her hips, pulling her flush against his body. She loops her arms around his neck, playing with his hair, her gaze drawn to the open collar of his shirt. “You look good,” she says.

“Do I?’ He tilts his head, grazes his lips against hers.

“Mm-hm. You should wear light colours more often.” She dips her head, pressing a kiss against his collarbone, mouthing against the warm skin.

“Have we moved into the second portion of the programming?” he asks, amused, leaning in to run his tongue around her earlobe.

“New questions. Like, do you believe in free love?” She runs her hand up his back, feeling each bump in his spine through the soft shirt, and then back down again, slipping up underneath the sun-warmed fabric.

“Oh, most definitely,” he assures her, his breath ghosting over hers as the music throbs in the background, a primal beat that makes him want to move against her, inside her. He debates the practicalities of just lifting her up onto the top of the picnic table and taking her right there.

“And is there a reason for that picnic blanket that you spread out so thoughtfully in the shade of the tree over there?”

“There are twigs and bugs in the grass,” he says, and Belle snorts. “And I thought, if any visitors should wish to recline in comfort…”

“Well, then,” she says, and takes his hand, leading him behind her towards the blanket. She sinks down upon it and he sits down beside her, facing her,  and she can’t think of anything else to say, because all she wants to do is touch him. She slides her hand beneath his hair at the nape of his neck and draws him closer and he tilts his head and then they’re kissing languorously, need slowly building between them. Belle slips her hands up under the hem of his shirt, then back out again, tugging at the hem. “Off,” she instructs.

Gold breaks away from the path he’d been nuzzling along her neck to grin at her. “Run out of questions, have you?”

“The only thing I want to know is what you’re going to look like spread out naked before me,” she says, her voice gone a bit husky.

Gold sheds his vest first and then reaches back and yanks his shirt off over his head, his eyes darkening. The light breeze rustling the leaves above them feels good on his heated skin as he shakes his hair out of his eyes, reaching out to splay his hands over Belle’s ribs before she can touch him herself, very much aware that she isn’t wearing a bra and grazing his thumbs over her nipples. Her breathing quickens and her head falls back as he rubs them, back and forth and back and forth, feeling them tighten and swell until she moans and reaches down to grab the hem of her own shirt. Gold obligingly drops his arms so that she can pull it off and cast it aside, the motion lifting her breasts and stretching out her taut belly. She kicks off her sandals and Gold takes the opportunity to remove his own low cut boots and socks, shifting more comfortably now onto his knees, and drawing Belle forward to straddle one of his thighs before kissing her again, more urgently than before.

Belle begins moving, riding his hard thigh, rubbing herself against him. His belt buckle digs into her stomach, and she reaches down, tugging it open and free impatiently, and then going for the snap and zipper of his jeans, wanting only warm skin against her, feeling Gold slide his hands up under her skirt, his palms smoothing along her legs. She slips her hand inside his jeans, palms his growing hardness, and Gold makes a desperate sort of noise, pressing up against her and then pulling back, scrambling to his feet to shove down his jeans and underwear together, while Belle makes quick work of removing the rest of her clothes and tossing them to the side,  where she spots his discarded vest and, with a small smile, pulls it on over her bare chest.  It feels as good as she had imagined, the suede soft but with just enough of a roughness to its texture to make her very aware of it as it shifts over her breasts, the edges grazing her nipples. Gazing up at Gold, she thinks it’s a good angle, his cock already half hard and lifting away from his body, and she thinks about rising back onto her knees and taking him into her mouth,  but as she shifts onto her knees and curls a hand around his ankle, he braces his hands on her shoulders and lowers himself back down to the blanket, stretching out above her, one hand supporting her lower back, and she lets him ease her down, enjoying the weight of his hips pressing her down against the ground. They kiss, long and slow, and then he begins working his way down her body, touching and tasting, fingers and lips and tongue as her head falls back and her body arches into him.

She buries her fingers in his hair and gazes up into the branches of the tree as he suckles at her breasts. Something glints there, catches the sun and magnifies it. She closes her eyes briefly against it, becomes more aware of the pulse of the music in the background, the pulse of her blood in her veins. She opens her eyes again as his mouth leaves her and he moves further down, leaving her nipples wet and swollen and aching. She looks down at her body as she lifts her hands to cup her own breasts, to tug and pinch at the nipples and sees small rainbows dancing over her chest, her skin dappled in light and shade from the sun filtering through the leaves. She looks up in puzzlement, and then smiles in delight and reaches up as if she could reach the crystals she spots hanging from the branches of the tree, their prisms catching the light and breaking it up into the bands of colour that paint her skin and increase the dreamlike quality of the moment. She knows at once where they’re from, thinking of the box in the shop’s back room full of dismantled chandelier parts, but the knowledge doesn’t lessen their magic.  She traces one along her skin, then takes one of the vest’s long fringes and shifts it back and forth over her nipple, sucking in a breath as it catches briefly before rolling over. Gold runs a hand along her thigh and she lets her legs fall apart and half closes her eyes as his fingers slip inside her, drawing out her moisture and using it to draw slow circles over her clit.

He watches her rolling the fringe back and forth over her nipple, the flesh visibly puckering around the hardening nub,  and his own cock hardens in response. He longs to take her into his mouth, but cannot look away.

“You would fit right in at Woodstock,” he says huskily. “Imagine us there, listening to the music, and I’m standing right behind you, and we’re swaying to the music. You’re wearing nothing but your skirt and that vest, and it’s open, and I’m cupping your breasts in my hands, and playing with your nipples.“

Belle’s hips jerk, as the image goes straight to her core.

Gold dips his fingers into her again, and feels the effect his words are having on her. There’s plenty of slick now, for his thumb to glide easily over her flesh, that light, grazing touch that causes her clit to swell and harden in response. His voice drops in pitch, his Scottish accent strengthening without him being quite aware of it. “There’s people all around us, but it doesn't matter, no one does more than glance our way.” He searches his memory for images from the documentary of the famous concert. “It’d been pouring rain earlier, and your shirt had gone drenched and transparent in minutes. Other people were stripping off their wet things, and you’d boldly done the same; there’s no shame here, no constraints. Bodies are natural, they’re beautiful, there’s no need to hide them.  There’s people with body paint, offering their services. Perhaps we’ll ask one to decorate your breasts; would you like that?”

Belle can’t keep from squirming, her eyes wide as they rake over his smooth, lightly tanned chest and lower, his cock blatantly erect for her.

“If we could paint you, too.  What about you? Is your shirt off?”

“Oh aye, my chest is bare against your back, and my jeans are clinging to me like a second skin, and my cock is straining against the zipper; anyone who looks at me would know how much I want you. I want to take you away from the crowd and find a place to lay you out on the ground and rut into you like a wild beast, but I need you to come first, come on my hands, come for everyone to see  – “ He slid his free hand up her chest, pushing the suede leather of the vest aside, completely baring her front, and cupped her breast in his warm hand, his hips shifting and pressing down against her pubis as he leans over her, thumb being replaced by middle finger, changing the angle, rubbing relentlessly. “Come on, sweetheart,” he urges, kneading her breast, his touch rougher here where she prefers lighter down below. 

The music pulses in time with her blood and Gold’s hair falls forward to hang in his face. He blocks out the sun, he is haloed by it, sun and shade and the scent of grass and incense and she is here and she is there at the same time and his cock is heavy and stiff against her thigh and the hard knot of pleasure bursts within her and she comes with all her muscles clenching tight and her fingers digging into his skin where she’d reached for him. His finger stills against her, knowing not to move again until she relaxes, the tension sagging out of her body, and she feels good but it’s not enough, there’s an aching emptiness inside her that needs to be filled. She sits up abruptly, tumbling him onto his back, and straddles his hips, taking hold of his cock and stroking it firmly. 

“We’ve gone away from the crowd now,” she tells him. “Found a place by the lake, behind some bushes. They offer us some privacy, but we can hear people nearby, going down to the lake, to bathe, to swim. Someone could easily come upon us, if they came in just the right direction.”  She rubs her thumb over his slit, coaxing out a bead of moisture, and he lets out a nearly inaudible whine. “I don’t care, though. I want you, and I don’t want to wait. Are you willing to risk it? Willing to risk someone seeing me riding you into the ground?” 

“Hell, yes.” He can’t wait, either. “Let them see. Let them see a beautiful woman like you wants someone like me.”

“You say “someone like me” as if I’m not dripping wet for you, as if I don’t want to have you buried inside me more than anything in the world,” she says, and rises up, positioning him at her entrance so he can feel the truth of her words. “You have to be quiet,” she warns, mischievously, and sinks down. 

Gold swallows down the noise that wants to escape his throat as she engulfs him. “I don’t know if I can promise that.” He splays his hands out on her waist, just under the edge of the vest, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. Hanging open as it is, the vest only half covers them, baring a lovely wide strip of pale flesh right down the center of her body, adorned only by the love beads she still wore around her neck. As she shifts above him, the edges of the vest fall back, just revealing her nipples, and his cock throbs in response. He bucks up, everything feeling tight, and hot, and urgent. “That vest is a good look on you; we should keep it.”

Belle grins. “I’m glad you think so; I quite like it myself.” She leans forward over him, resting her weight on her hands, and begins to ride him, deliberately shifting continuously in a way that keeps the edges of the vest moving and rubbing against her breasts, her nipples staying hard and sensitive from the teasing friction. She undulates; rising and falling and pleasuring herself on his shaft, the long fringes falling forward as she lowers herself above his body. 

Gold arches up as the leather fringes trail over his belly and swing forward to drag over his nipples, driving himself deeper inside her as he seeks more of the teasing sensation. He cups his hands over her breasts, rolling her nipples between forefinger and thumb, and Belle moans. He grins. “I thought we had to be quiet.”

"I never said I would be." She lifts herself up until just the head of his shaft remains within her, glancing down to see the hard column of his flesh joining their bodies. She tightens her muscles around him, squeezing as hard as she can. 

Gold's whole body jerks as he cries out, his balls tightening and drawing up. He drags her back down upon him and rolls them over, pulling back out just enough to slam forward into her, rocking her backwards. He thrusts into her again, all control gone, feeling his climax rapidly approaching. 

"That's it." Belle braces herself with drawn up knees and urges him on. "Come on, Rum, give it to me." He is all lean, wiry muscle, and dark hair falling forward and shielding his eyes from her view. She arches up into his next thrust, digging her fingers into his lean buttocks and feeling him long and thick and solid inside her. "That's it, so good, come on, come for me."

He snaps his hips forward, driving deep again and again until his body seizes with pleasure and he stills, braced on his forearms with his hips sealed against hers while the hot flood of his release spills inside her. After a few seconds his muscles unclench and he lowers himself to lay atop her, panting and letting his eyes fall shut as he savours the fading rush of ecstasy, his cock twitching a few times in aftershock as he softens inside her. He feels her fingers run through his hair and turns his face into her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin and the smell of crushed grass beneath the blanket, the air moving lightly over his sweaty back. A bird chatters above them, and he realises that the record had stopped playing at some point, unnoticed. He takes in a deep breath and rolls off to the side, blinking up at leaf-dappled sunlight and rainbows dancing in the air. He turns his head to the side and the corner of his mouth quirks up as Belle does the same and meets his eyes. She looks as debauched as he feels. 

"So, Rumpelstiltskin," she says, reaching out to twine her fingers with his. She feels thoroughly well-used and it is about all she has the energy for at the moment. "Do you have any final words for the readers of our paper?"

Gold's smile widens into a grin. "Yeah. Turn on," He draws their joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles.  "Tune in, and drop out." He lifts his free hand and flashes her a peace sign, feeling utterly sated and stupidly happy. He thinks of the box from the estate sale. 

Best buy ever. 

[kevintor]

I Watch a Movie I Should Have Seen: “Pretty in Pink”

I did not know much about this movie. I only knew that some people in high school said I reminded them of “Duckie” and I knew enough to know it probably wasn’t a complement. At least not in 1995.

My thoughts:

Close-ups of a quirky, 80s girl getting ready for school start the movie. It’s sexy, yet dowdy!

How many girls got their hair cut like Molly Ringwald (Andie) in this movie and had the worst 8 months of their high school lives?

Andie dresses like a 1st grader on the 100th day of school all movie.

Andie’s mom left and she lives with her depressed, yet supportive dad. He doesn’t have steady work. They don’t have a lot of money. Andie is forced to make her own terrible clothes.

She has a pink car. OH MY GOD! When she’s driving she’s pretty IN pink! This is the greatest.

Duckie dresses a lot like Andie. He’s really into her. They say if you want to get with someone, dress exactly like them.

Duckie offers to get two girls pregnant before the holidays. One of the girls decks him. If he’s so into Andie, why would he do this? I know making someone jealous is a tactic for getting that someone to notice you, but impregnating two women is a real long con.

The rich kids are mean to the poor kids. You can tell them apart because the rich kids wear a lot of linen pants and the poor kids wear a lot of pork pie hats with blazers.

What Annie Potts dresses like throughout this movie:

Like a dominatrix that touched a static ball

Like if Madonna method acted as Evita and went to a funeral

Like Sia if she didn’t have stage fright and performed a concert in a Tim Burton movie

Like the hottest 50s teenager

Like if Cousin Larry on “Perfect Strangers” lost all his clothes in a fire and had to borrow from Balki

James Spader is a rich kid that resents Andie because she’s not into him and his richness. He wears dress shirts that only need a single button located somewhere towards the bottom.

Andrew Dice Clay plays the bouncer at the poor kid club. He doesn’t ever let Duckie in. “One little Duckie went out one day, over the hill and far away. Mother duck said, “Quack, quack, quack, quack.” But Duckie didn’t hear. He was blowing a load out back. OH!!!” (I’m sorry.)

Blane is a rich boy that is interested in Andie. Andie gets vibes from him that he might be different rich. Better rich.

In two consecutive scenes, Duckie asks Andie’s dad for her hand in eventual marriage and leaves 5 answering machine messages for Andie between 6 and 6:30. Duckie needs a restraining order. Are they expensive? Could Blane pay for it?

Blane asks Andie out. James Spader does not approve. Her pearl-collared cardigans would not play well with their crowd.

RUPAUL’S DRAG RACE REFERENCES ALERT: Duckie lip syncs for his life to “Try a Little Tenderness.” Unfortunately, Andie has a date with Blane so she tells Duckie to sashay away.

Duckie’s heart is broken which means it’s time to sulk in the rain!

Blane takes Andie to a rich kid party. She’s bothered by their rich judgment. They leave and go to the poor kid club. Blane’s probably bothered by all of the vests.

Blane and Andie kiss and it’s magical. Because the kiss was good, he asks her to prom.

There is a random scene with Duckie doing amazing bike tricks. Does Andie know about this? It might change everything.

The next date is at the “Hunt Club.” It’s where the rich people keep their hunting horses. Or where they hunt horses. It’s not clear.

We find out the mom always wore pink. Andie probably wears pink as a way to hold on to her. You should always wear things to remember the people in your life that sucked.

Societal pressures push Blane and Andie apart and he rescinds his prom invite. She channels her anger into making the best prom dress no money can buy.

Andie tells her dad that it’s time to stop pining for his wife. In order to let her go, he puts her picture in a drawer. The picture is in black and white. Is Andie’s dad a time traveler? If he is, the mom didn’t leave. She just had to return to her time.

Andie makes a dress that looks like what I would make if I snuck onto “Project Runway” by locking a contestant in a closet and stealing his clothes.

I would have bet all my money on James Spader having an untied bowtie at the prom and I would have been rich!

Duckie wears 3 too many rings on his hands. (He has 3 rings on his hands.)

Blane and Andie get back together at the prom and kiss in the rain to the end of the longest version of “If You Leave” I’ve ever heard. It started with like 10 minutes left in the movie.

This movie was fine. It had fun moments and moments that felt dated. They probably felt dated because they’ve been copied by so many teen movies since. Having seen this, I’m now more bothered by my high school “Duckie” comparisons.

[aliciameade]

Baby - Ch. 5

Title: Baby Author: aliciameade Rating: *** M *** Pairing: Stephanie Smothers/Emily Nelson Summary:  That tearful kiss shared between Stephanie and Emily wasn't their first—and it certainly wasn't their last.

(Chapter 1)

Also on AO3.

Stephanie knows she’s in over her head.

She knows it the minute she picks up the phone to call Miles’s grandmother to tell her Miles wants to spend the weekend with her when he has done no such thing. But that doesn’t make her a bad mother! Miles loves his grandmother. He doesn’t get to see her that often being as she lives a few hours away in Boston and she’s more than thrilled to have him visit. So is he.

(She knew she was in over her head the very first day Emily invited her into her home.)

She drives him up to Boston Friday after school—she notably did not see Emily at school—and they have dinner together before she returns to Warfield.

The entirety of her Friday evening is spent pampering herself with as many creams and lotions as she can find in her cabinets. She has a glass of red wine while she soaks in the bath. She exfoliates. She shaves. She moisturizes. She puts fresh linens on her bed and allows herself the luxury of sleeping nude knowing her son isn’t going to burst into her room in the middle of the night needing a hug after a bad dream.

She sleeps in. It’s well past 9:00 am when she finally glances at the clock and then she rolls over and lets herself sleep until 10:00 am.

She cooks breakfast for herself, eggs and bacon and fresh fruit all from the farmer’s market. She tidies up around the house. Makes sure her bed is made. Opens the windows to let the crisp fall breeze air out the place. She showers. Shaves. Moisturizes.

She spends an inordinate amount of time deciding which new lacy thong she should wear and ultimately decides to forego one altogether.

The one she stripped from Emily and kept lays in the drawer amongst her own. It’s inconspicuous; no one would know it doesn’t belong to Stephanie.

But she knows.

She does put on the new black lace bra she purchased specifically for today, though.

She hopes Emily likes it.

Her makeup is light but she has a little fun with her hair, parting it on the side instead of the middle; she doesn’t want to seem as though she’s trying too hard. This is just another Saturday. Laundry day. And she always wears coral-hued dresses that stop at mid-thigh when she’s home alone doing laundry.

When she closes the washing machine lid, she has to lean against it for a moment to slow her pulse. Just being in the laundry room arouses her now.

Once it’s past noon, she decides to make herself a real martini. She’d bought a set of high-end cocktail glasses a few days ago. She keeps them in the freezer next to the bottle of Aviation Gin she bought the same day. Vermouth. Gin. A nice big twist of lemon. She sits on the couch with her feet up as she sips it.

She puts on the playlist she’s spent a few days curating to play through the surround sound system. It’s mostly quiet jazz with as many 60s-sounding French songs as she could find online that reminded her of Emily’s house. She reads the newspaper, an actual, physical copy of the newspaper. It’s yesterday’s; she’d picked it up from Davis’s mother’s house, but she doesn’t mind.

She’s on her way back to the kitchen, mind pleasantly warm, to make a second martini when a shadow outside stops her in her tracks.

It passes the curtained window and comes to a stop in front of her door.

Stephanie holds her breath but nothing happens. No knock, no doorbell. The figure just stands there perfectly still.

It’s enough to make Stephanie shiver. She knows who it is. She has a feeling Emily saw her shadow, too, and is deliberately waiting.

So she sets her glass on the counter. Fluffs her hair. Spritzes a tiny bit of Dennis Nylon’s fragrance, Chastity, down her cleavage.

And she opens the door.

She prides herself in not falling flat on her face as she nearly did the last time Emily showed up at her front door. She’d had time to mentally prepare for today and she thinks she keeps her cool, though she doesn’t try to hide the way she can’t seem to get her eyes to move from Emily’s very bare chest.

Emily’s outdone herself this time. Truly. Her black slacks sit high on her waist and the white blazer she wears conceals her breasts—and that’s it. There is no shirt, no vest, at least not that Stephanie can see, between her body and her coat. It’s skin from her neck to her abdomen where the jacket’s single button closes it. Skin that still has the fading marks Stephanie made with her mouth a few days ago.

She finally manages to look up and feels the need to exhale. Emily is stunning as always. Picture perfect. Emily lifts her head, then, too, and Stephanie can feel her eyes rake over her until they’re staring at her from beneath the brim of a black fedora.

“You look beautiful.”

Stephanie has to blink a few times. That’s what she’d been about to say but Emily said it first. “So do you. Um, come in?” she says as she steps aside to let Emily pass.

She removes her hat once she’s inside and places it on the counter next to Stephanie’s empty glass. “Martinis already?” she says as she picks up the glass and twirls it. “Make me one?” It’s not a question so much as a demand.

“Of course, yeah,” Stephanie says as she closes and locks the front door. She has to approach Emily to retrieve her glass. It feels like gravity pulling her across the room until she’s in front of her to reach for the glass.

Only Emily holds it out of reach.

Stephanie’s about to protest when she feels Emily’s other hand land on her lower back to pull her in until Emily’s leaning down to kiss her.

She hears herself whimper the moment their lips touch and while she maybe should be ashamed by how obvious her desire is, she decides not to care. Emily is the one who’s come to her. The one who invites her in. Invites herself over. Kisses first.

The kiss is slow and Stephanie loops her arms around Emily’s neck. She feels Emily’s free arm wrap around her waist to pull her closer and Emily sighs when Stephanie glides her tongue through her mouth.

“How ‘bout that drink?” Emily says with a smile when they part.

“Yeah, just…” Stephanie says before pulling Emily down to kiss her again, still soft and slow, until she can convince herself to step away from Emily.

She leaves the glass with Emily, remembering she has three more in the freezer and feels Emily’s eyes on her as she places two on the counter to make the drinks.

“I taught you well,” Emily says with a smile as Stephanie tosses out the splashes of vermouth into the sink and pours the frozen gin.

“I like to think I’ve taught you a thing or two, too,” Stephanie says as she finishes with the twist and carries the drinks back to where Emily is waiting.

Emily takes up one of the drinks and gives it a little swirl. “And what have you taught me?”

“How to make a lonely, single mom come harder than any man ever could.” Stephanie taps her glass to Emily’s without waiting for a response. “Cheers.”

Emily’s drink remains untouched as she stares at Stephanie. It feels like an eternity before she sniffs a little in laughter and takes a drink. “You didn’t teach me that, baby.”

“Well, I’m not as smooth with words as you are and it’s the only sexy thing I could come up with on the spot,” Stephanie says with a wave of her hand as she takes another drink.

“You don’t have to try to be sexy, you know.” Emily won’t stop looking at her and it’s almost uncomfortable. “Is that true?” Emily says after another moment.

“Mm. Very.” Stephanie takes another sip, then laces her fingers with Emily’s to lead her through the house.

“Where are we going?”

“You said you wanted to see my bedroom.”

Stephanie expects to be flooded with memories every time she steps into her laundry room. She did not expect to be flooded with desire and anticipation the moment she stepped into her bedroom hand-in-hand with Emily. It makes her stop short and she hears Emily do the same a beat later. She doesn’t know what to say so she says nothing at all, not until she feels Emily’s lips on the bare skin of her left shoulder.

“So...this is it.”

She hears Emily chuckle in her ear before a tongue traces its edge. “This is cute,” Emily says as she breaks away and starts surveying the room as she did the kitchen last weekend. “Like you,” she adds with a wink that makes Stephanie hide her blush behind another sip. “Let’s see...the second drawer of your dresser.” She watches Emily stop in front of the piece of furniture and glance over her shoulder. “This dresser?”

She nods; she’s opened that drawer at least a dozen times to look at it, to remember what it felt like to have Emily inside her that way. She’d been tempted to use it on herself but she’s managed to wait, knowing Saturday—today—was only days away.

“This drawer?” Emily says unnecessarily as she pulls the drawer open. “Oh, my little Stephanie…” she says what seems to be to herself. “You do like to feel sexy.” She turns halfway with a handful of Stephanie’s new lingerie dangling from her fingers.

Stephanie half-expects her to just pocket them all but she drops them back into the drawer and reaches again. This time she closes it and returns, martini in her right hand, harness and toy in the left.

Stephanie finishes her drink and sets her glass on the vanity. She knows she’s staring at it too long by the way Emily shakes it to get her attention and she smiles shyly when she meets Emily’s gaze.

Emily finishes her drink, too, as she tosses the items onto the bed. She places her glass on the vanity with Stephanie’s and suddenly she’s close enough for Stephanie to reach out and touch again, but she refrains.

“House is pretty quiet. I like the music, though. You’re not going to Single White Female me, are you?”

“What? No!” Stephanie wishes could change the music but she’s left her phone in the living room. “I just like it, I would never -”

“Steph, chill,” Emily says with a laugh. “I’m kidding.”

Stephanie takes a breath. “Funny.”

“Is Miles here?” she asks as she steps out of her heels. She still towers over Stephanie by several inches but it’s not as severe now.

“Spending the weekend with his grandmother.”

“Oh?”

Stephanie fidgets for a second until she finds her resolve. “I want you to spend the night. And I don’t want us to worry about waking up our kids.”

“You think I want to spend the night?” Emily asks.

Stephanie can see try she’s trying to be cold, but her eyes haven’t left Stephanie’s cleavage since she put down her glass so Stephanie reaches for her hand. She guides it under her dress, between her legs, higher and higher until she’s pressing Emily’s fingers against her body. The way Emily’s eyes darken betray any attempts at rebuffing Stephanie’s boldness.

“I know you do,” Stephanie breathes as she controls how and where Emily’s fingers touch. “And I want to hear you moan my name.”

She feels Emily come alive at that. Fingers slip into her and an arm wraps around her waist. “No underwear?”

“Didn’t want to slow you down,” Stephanie says, voice a little weak as Emily starts fucking her, right there standing in the middle of her bedroom.

“You’re so wet already.” Emily takes a step forward and it forces Stephanie to take a step back. Closer to the bed.

“Have been since I woke up knowing I’d see you today.” Stephanie keeps stepping backward until she feels the bed behind her.

“You want me that bad, baby?” Emily says with a smirk down at her. She feels fingers playing with the zipper on the back of her dress.

“I’ve never wanted anyone more.” She gasps as Emily’s fingers curl inside her. She thinks she might come, still dressed, still standing, if Emily keeps doing that. She reaches for the button on Emily’s blazer and unbuttons it. Stephanie’s hands move right to her bare breasts, covering them both, then leaning in to capture one in her mouth. She hears Emily’s breathing change and it spurs her on. She unbuttons her pants with her free hand, nipple between her teeth as she shoves them off Emily’s hips to the floor. Her hand roams over the cool flesh of her ass to her waist where she grabs the thong to pull it down one-handed as far as she can reach.

She has Emily undressed in less than a minute.

“Put it on,” she says after letting the nipple slip from her teeth.

“Bossy,” Emily says as she shucks her blazer and kicks her pants aside. She reclaims her hand, then, and Stephanie holds back the groan of loss as she watches Emily suck her off her fingers and strip off her thong before she reaches for the harness to step into it. She slips the toy into place next. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Stephanie dumbly asks before thinking. Then she moves. She turns and climbs onto her bed on her hands and knees and waits there.

She feels Emily following her. “Oh, really?” Hands land on her hips and she has to drop her head; she feels dizzy. “My innocent little Steph isn’t so innocent.”

“You can’t be surprised,” Stephanie manages to tease. “Not after everything.”

“I’m not.” Those hands flip her skirt up and then they’re on her ass, petting her, taking turns slipping between her legs and through all the wetness there, over and over until she’s ready to beg.

But she doesn’t have to.

She feels Emily pressing into her. Slowly. Steady. Completely.

That’s when she finally lets herself moan for the first time. It’s loud and she doesn’t care. She widens her stance a little and presses back, trying to take her even deeper.

“Oh, you sound good, baby,” Emily says and she sounds good, too. Her voice is like velvet and her hands feel like it, too, as they glide over Stephanie’s skin.

She’d intentionally kept her dress on; she wanted to feel like a naughty mistress being taken hard and fast. The only thing, though, is that while Emily is taking her, she’s not taking her hard, nor fast, and all Stephanie wants is to feel her hands on every inch of her body and too much of it is covered.

“Take my dress off,” she breathes before Emily’s even pulled back to thrust in the first true time.

“Little late for that,” Emily replies, though Stephanie feels hands on the zipper again, this time drawing it down all the way. The dress gets pushed up, next, and Stephanie grabs it with one hand to pull it over her head and toss it to the floor.

Emily’s hands feel like they’re petting her as they stroke down her back, between her shoulder blades, once, twice, a third time until they come to rest on her hips. She’s slow. She’s so agonizingly slow every time she pulls back and presses forward that it makes Stephanie groan in frustration as much as it makes her moan in pleasure.

“Faster,” she says through a moan.

“Mm, no, I don’t think so.”

The reply is almost infuriating and Stephanie lifts her head to look over her shoulder. Emily’s smiling at her, as serene as could be while she fucks Stephanie slowly. “Why not?”

“You said I make you come harder than anyone. Don’t question my methods.” Emily says it with a wink and such a genuine smile that it makes Stephanie groan again and give in to however Emily wants to take her. She grabs a pillow and lowers herself to her elbows to rest her head and close her eyes.

Emily’s pace is so steady that it’s maddening. Stephanie thinks she could truly be driven insane with the need for release that she is nowhere near achieving. Every thrust feels like the first, never picking up speed or pushing harder. Giving her a taste but never the meal.

She groans in frustration and tries to speed things up herself, rocking back and forth quickly, only for Emily to tsk at her and move with her instead of against her to negate her efforts.

“Emily…” she says with a whine into the pillow.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“You’re killing me.”

She hears Emily chuckle. “No, I’m fucking you.”

Stephanie flips her middle finger at her. “And killing me. Just—just—”

“Just what?”

“Go faster. Please?”

“Since you asked me nicely…”

She groans when she feels Emily finally, finally begin to speed up. She almost bites the pillow to muffle it but remembers she doesn’t have to. Instead, she lets the sounds spill from her lips freely hoping they spur Emily on, begging without words.

And then she feels Emily pull out.

“No, why -” A hand to her back keeps her in place when she tries to sit up in protest.

“I said don’t question my methods.”

Emily’s slipping back into her a moment later, this time feeling cool and extra slick and the recognition of what it is, that Emily stopped to supplement Stephanie’s own arousal, makes Stephanie reach a hand out to brace against the headboard.

She holds her breath.

And Emily pulls back and thrusts into her.

Again.

And again.

Faster and harder until Stephanie can’t do anything but moan and try to keep her soul from leaving her body.

It does, though. It leaves her the second Emily grinds her fingertips into Stephanie’s clit.

She can’t breathe and she thinks she might die as every muscle in her body tenses. Coils. Prepares.

“You’re so beautiful when come, baby,” Emily pants behind her. “Come for me.”

She does.

Her eyes tear and the fire that’s been burning for so long engulfs her. She can hear herself; she would be embarrassed by it if she didn’t know how much Emily liked hearing her. She feels the tickle of hair brushing her arms, lips on her neck, breasts against her back as Emily holds her, buried deep, fingers still but pressing firmly, as she comes.

“Oh, my God,” she says with a sob when she finally can.

Emily’s still kissing her—her neck, her shoulders, her back. Fingernails trace her skin leaving goosebumps in their wake across her back. “Should I stop?”

“No,” she whines but gasps when Emily starts thrusting again. “Yes, I mean. I can’t...stop. But...don’t.” She knows she’s not making sense but Emily stops and she feels her slip from her body. That’s when Stephanie’s body finally gives out and she falls flat to the bed.

She feels Emily move with her, still over her body but the harness is gone and Stephanie revels in the sensation of every curve fitting over her own so perfectly. She hums as Emily’s hands trace down her arms to pull them out from under the pillow and intertwine with Stephanie’s.

They’re both still, then. Stephanie gathering herself. Emily lying over her, holding her hands, until Emily breaks the silence. “Turn over,” she whispers into Stephanie’s ear as she moves onto her hands and knees to give Stephanie the space to do so.

Her limbs are slow to listen but she gets herself turned onto her back and opens her eyes.

She’s grateful she’s lying down when she does because seeing Emily, disheveled hair, face flushed, and smiling at her would be enough to make her knees weak. Instead of collapsing, she can smile back.

“You don’t want me to stop?” Emily says, still smiling as she settles over Stephanie again, this time lying next to her with a leg thrown casually over one of Stephanie’s. She uses it to pull a little and spread her legs.

“Like I could ever tell you ‘no’?”

Stephanie thinks that response is a little too daring, too honest. If Emily considers it as such, she doesn’t make it known. Instead, she brings their lips together and Stephanie feels her fingers tracing lines down her chest, circling the nipples prominent under the thin lace of her bra, down her stomach until they’re framing her clit. They close against it and pull gently and it makes Stephanie’s hips lift and she forgets how to breathe.

Emily’s kiss disappears just when Stephanie’s growing desperate for air. It disappears because Emily’s mouth is on her neck and making its way lower until it’s sucking on her nipple, through the bra that might as well not exist for how good it feels. It moves lower still, to her stomach, and Stephanie parts her legs and watches Emily settle between them. They hold each other’s gaze as Emily’s tongue draws through Stephanie’s wetness.

She groans at the sight and the sensation and she can see the effect it has on Emily. Her eyelashes flutter and her lips close over swollen, sensitive flesh to gently suck and Stephanie’s head falls back.

She doesn’t even try to reach down and grab Emily’s hair.

She doesn’t have the strength after what she just went through.

Instead, she feels. And she listens to her own moans. To Emily’s that come in response. To the indecent wet sounds of Emily’s mouth on her working her up again, coaxing her toward another orgasm that Stephanie so desperately wants to give her.

At the sensation of Emily’s tongue sliding into her, she finds release again. The moans she hears aren’t hers and it thrills her to know how much Emily enjoys this. How much she must like how it feels as Stephanie clenches around her tongue. Pulls it in. Comes on it.

She squeezes it again, purposefully this time, once it’s passed when she senses Emily about to pull back.

The groan of satisfaction that follows confirms her guess and she relaxes. She feels Emily not stopping, though not really working to start anything new. She’s lapping at her. Teasing a little. She feels her cheek rest on her thigh as her tongue continues to play with her, and Stephanie thinks she could fall asleep from how relaxing it is.

Except it’s the exact opposite of relaxing.

Emily Nelson licking her is anything but relaxing.

She sits up a little to watch it again, how she’s in no hurry, has no apparent plan or pattern or intent to move things along. How content she is to be there, making Stephanie feel good. Apparently oblivious that she’s even being watched, so Stephanie bounces her hips a little.

“Excuse you, I’m busy,” Emily says with a glance before going back to her task.

“It’s my turn.”

“I’m giving you your turn.” Emily’s particularly firm with her tongue and Stephanie’s too sensitive for it; it makes her hiss and she reaches to push her away but ends up grabbing her hair and pulling her away. “Oh. I see.”

It takes a second for her to realize what she’s done. How she’s pulled Emily’s hair, how she still is, holding it tightly so she can’t move. It’s a rush of sexual power just like the moment Emily had submitted to her and her belt.

She gives her a little shake. “I said, it’s my turn.”

She watches Emily’s jaw drop at her tone and then it snaps shut. “What are you going to do to me?”

“I’m open to suggestions.” She smiles at Emily and releases her and they both sit up. Stephanie finally sheds her bra as they seem to size one another up, though Stephanie knows she has been given the upper hand now. “I might not grant your request, but I may consider it. What do you want?”

“I want…” Emily’s eyes flit about the room as though she’s looking for something, but they land on Stephanie and they seem softer. “I want you.”

Stephanie smiles at her and sits up on her knees like Emily is to bring them eye to eye. She frames her face gently, thumb tracing her cheekbone. “I’m right here.”

“I don’t want you to fuck me.”

The answer takes her aback a little and she hopes it doesn’t show. As much as she wanted Emily to fuck her senseless tonight, she’d wanted to do the same. “That’s okay, we don’t have to do -”

“No,” Emily interrupts. She takes Stephanie’s hand, the one not touching her face, and starts guiding it between her legs. She’s so wet it takes Stephanie’s breath away. “I don’t want you to fuck me. I want you...to make love to me. Like last time.”

If she hadn’t just forgotten how to breathe, that would have done it for her. She knows she’s in over her head and Emily isn’t making it any easier.

She nods and leans in to kiss Emily gently. She’s soft with her touch, too, when Emily’s hand falls away to allow Stephanie to continue on her own. She focuses more on the kiss than anything, slow and deep and she feels Emily sigh into it.

She’s slow with her fingers, too. They caress and tease and Emily’s so wet she uses three fingers instead of two and Emily’s hands slide through her hair to hold her there, or hold on, as they kiss. As Stephanie touches her slowly.

She doesn’t know Emily’s even close until she’s gasping against her lips and shuddering in her arms.

“Oh, Em,” she whispers as she holds her until she’s still. The moment is dangerous. The silence between them is dangerous and begs to be filled with dangerous words of affection and Stephanie kisses her to prevent that.

Emily shakes her head and starts kissing her back harder. More passionately. More deeply until Emily’s pulling Stephanie down to lay with her.

She feels Emily’s hands roaming her body, grabbing and scratching and it feels needy. It makes Stephanie feel possessed. It makes her hips rock against the lithe body beneath her and she feels Emily’s lift in response. There’s a moan against her lips and it makes Stephanie rock into her more quickly and suddenly they’re on a track again.

That is until Emily catches her hips with her hands and stops her.

“What? What’s wrong?” Stephanie asks, already breathless.

Emily shakes her head and brings her down with a hand to her neck to kiss her again, hard and deep. She feels Emily’s other hand leave her hip and she can tell she’s moving, reaching without looking, and when their kiss breaks, Emily’s smirking at her.

“Now what?” Stephanie says, body on full high alert.

The ting of metal and hush of leather get her attention and she looks to her right to see the harness in Emily’s hand.

“Oh.”

“You still think you can fuck me better than Sean?”

Stephanie feels her heart stop. “I mean…”

“Show me.”

Chapter 6

[quentinsquill]

Fic “Once More, With Fairies” (The Magicians)

Once More, With Fairies

Author: Lexalicious70

Fandom: The Magicians

Rating: Teen and up

Word Count: 3,726

Warnings: Mild show spoilers S1-3

Summary: A group of hedges cast a spell over Brakebills with stolen fairy magic, turning it into a fairytale land. Can our hero, Quentin Coldwater, (along with a familiar cast of characters,) decipher all the musical clues given to him as he quests across campus to save Prince Eliot, who has been spirited away and locked up in the bell tower?

Author’s Notes: This is for @whitespiresarmory’s Armory, Round 8, “Music.” I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun. Comments and kudos are magic, dear readers and, as always, enjoy!

 Read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20694734

Once More, With Fairies

By Lexalicious70 (all-hale-eliot)

  Once Upon a Time . . .

 There was a magical place called Brakebills, where young people from all over the world came to practice magic. It was a wonderous place full of Poppers and potions, of daunting deeds and personal discoveries. Those who called it home protected its secrets ands guarded its borders. But alas, Brakebills was not impenetrable: a group of hedge witches, jealous of the magic given to the students of Brakebills, stole fairy magic and placed a curse on the land and on those who lived there.

 Thus it was that Quentin Coldwater, magician, awoke from slumber and found himself at the center of a land that was no longer a place of learning, but a fairytale land of danger and mystery. As he rose from his bed and pulled back the curtain to reveal an expanse of land occupied by thick forests, a rambling hedge maze and, in the far distance, a lofty stone tower, its peak obscured by low clouds, he wished to understand his purpose in this place that seemed familiar yet was no longer his home. Music swelled from a place he couldn’t pinpoint and he began to sing:

 O what is this, o’er my land there’s a curtain,

O yes of this, I’m quite certain,

But tell me, what can it be?

 My magic, it seems, is still with me, Quentin sang as he raised his hands at chest level and created a mini sun, which revolved around his head as he continued his song, an expression of mild confusion in his dark eyes. But tell me, o Gods, I prithee, am I a hero or fool?

 “You’ll be a flipping fool!” Margo broke in as she pushed his door open. She was dressed in a simple white homespun shirt, a brown leather vest, breeches, and leather boots. Her long hair streamed over her petite shoulders. “A flipping—a freakin’—oh Gods, don’t tell me I’m not allowed to swear? What the heavens—” She scowled and crossed the room and Quentin turned to her.

Margo can it be,

that everything we see, is not truly what is meant to be?

 Margo’s scowl deepened even as she sang back to him.

 Oh, something isn’t right,

We have to stand and fight!

It will do no good to flee . . .

 She took Quentin’s hand and began to tug him out of the room, and Quentin blinked as he saw himself in the mirror. He wore a blue jerkin over a white cotton shirt, a long dark green cloak, knee-length trousers tucked into brown leather boots. His tawny hair was tied up in a cockernonnie at the base of his neck. More song bubbled up his throat and he swallowed them back down as Margo led him down the cottage stairs and out the door.

 “Wait, where are we going?” He asked, and Margo motioned to two horses she had waiting there.

 “Where do you think? To the Wizard Fogg! He may know a way to free Prince Eliot!” She swung up onto her horse, a prancing palomino, and Quentin felt compelled to follow. He climbed up onto his mount, a bay with four white stockings, and glanced back at the foreboding tower in the distance.

 “Prince Eliot . . .”

 “Yes! Prince Eliot the Forlorn, formerly the Prince of the Land of Brakebills!” Margo kneed her horse into a brisk walk. “We have to find a way to free him before the sun sets on the third day of his imprisonment, or we’ll all become slaves of the one who took him!”

 Quentin settled himself in the saddle, experienced the unpleasant sensation of being strangled by his own cloak, then rose up long enough to pull it out from under himself as he adjusted its ties. His horse blew out in what almost sounded like amusement. Margo glanced over her shoulder.

 “Come on! We don’t have much time!”

 ***

 The Wizard Fogg lived in a cavern made of obsidian. Because he rarely saw the light, he wore dark glasses that shielded his eyes from all angles, the posts made of thin, curved metal. He stood inside the mouth of his glossy cavern, frowning as he watched Quentin and Margo approach.

 “I knew you’d come,” he said to them as they left their horses in a nearby copse of trees. Quentin gave the stocky dark-skinned man a respectful bow.

 “You know about the curse?”

 “Any fool can see that things are not as they were.” Fogg led them into the cavern, where he consulted a large book that laid open on a glittering table. As he turned a page, Quentin saw the pages were made from thin sheets of obsidian. “Even a fool such as you.”

 “That hardly seems fair,” Quentin muttered to Margo, who lifted a shoulder in weak solidarity. Fogg flipped another page and adjusted the leather hat he wore. The pointed tip sagged one way, then another, as he shifted it around on his bald pate.

 “Sometimes a fool can be an unlikely hero!” Fogg looked up from the book as musical notes began to swirl from the pages. Margo groaned.

 “Oh, bull dung, not again,” she said as a rather jaunty tune formed and Fogg began an impromptu dance, his hat nodding from side to side as he began to sing.

 If you listen closely to my story,

You’re sure to find an allegory,

Cos that’s what fairy tales are all about!

 Where a fool or a clumsy zero

Can transform into a shining hero! Fogg interrupted himself long enough to touch a willow wand to a lump of obsidian, which forms itself into a statue of Quentin in a heroic pose. Quentin reached out to touch it, only to have Fogg whack his wrist with the wand.

 But this not be as easy as it seems . . . He led Quentin and Margo to the mouth of the cave and pointed toward the distant tower, where the low clouds began to flicker with blue light.

 Mark that glow around the tower,

It comes from a terrible magic power!

 Tis no dragon or hellhound sniffin’—no!

What guards the fair prince is a Niffin!

Be brave, young Fool, and face her icy stare . . .  

 “Wait what—me?” Quentin asked as Fogg pointed at him with one long finger. “It can’t be me! I’m a fool, not a hero! You said so yourself!”

 The Wizard Fogg sighed and glanced over at Margo.

 “Did I sing-stutter?” He asked before grasping a handful of Quentin’s hair and turning him back toward the obsidian statue. “This is what you can become, if you are brave enough to pursue it! Now go, across the Verdant Sea and into the hedge maze beyond. Seek out the Wise Woman, for only she can tell you how to defeat the Niffin!”

 “Why can’t you tell me?” Quentin asked, and Fogg ushered them out of the cave.

“Sorry Quentin, only one expositional song per minor character.” A seal slammed shut behind him and Margo, and she scowled over her shoulder.

 “I’m guessing that’s a fourth wall.” She put her hands on her hips. “So now what?”

 “You heard Fogg. We have to ride through the Verdant Sea and into the hedge maze to find the wise woman.”

 “How in a frog’s rear are we supposed to even know what she looks like?”

 “Maybe we’ll just know.” Quentin brought their horses and he swung up into the saddle. “Sometimes even a fool like me gets lucky.”

 ***

 “This isn’t much of a way to make a living.”

 Penny the Thief glanced up as partner spoke. Kady the Highwayman was scowling over a small pot of gruel, a long, thin blade tucked into her belt catching the light as she added an anemic carrot to the mix. Penny scoffed.

 “Course it’s not. No one ever comes through here. But since we’re as lost as anyone else here, might as well lay claim to it.”

 Kady stood and stretched. Her linen breeches, leather boots and homespun shirt and vest did nothing to detract from her beauty. Wild, brunette curls broke over her shoulders like ocean waves on jagged rocks.

 “There’s—” She paused and cocked her head. “Listen! Someone’s coming!” She leapt into the nearest hedge, dragging Penny with her. He made an indignant sound of protest but went silent as two riders came around the corner of the passageway.

 “Look!” Quentin reined his horse to a stop. Margo frowned at the tiny soup pot bubbling away.

 “It’s a little late to be introducing leprechauns into the story, isn’t it?”

 “Halt!” Penny called as he emerged from the hedge with Kady, who drew her knife. Quentin’s horse tossed its head in offense and nearly knocked him senseless from his saddle with the arch of its neck. Quentin felt his forehead for signs of blood and blinked at the two thieves.

 “We’re halted. Who are you?”

 “We’re highwaymen! Hand over all your valuables!” Penny snapped. Margo scoffed.

 “Do we look like we have any valuables? We’re not exactly traveling royalty.”

 “Then we’ll take those horses,” Kady countered, and Quentin shook his head.

 “I can’t let you do that. We’re on our way to the Stone Tower to free Prince Eliot and believe me, if you don’t let us go, you’re going to regret it. We’ll all be slaves of the Niffin who guards him if I don’t face her!”

 “You?” Penny asked, his dark eyes narrowing before he snorted a laugh. “You look like you couldn’t find your chamber pot in broad daylight!”

 “At least I’m not some thief cooking dirt soup in a hedge maze.”

 “Wait, hold up,” Kady interrupted. “Are you serious? Will everyone in Brakebills become slaves if you don’t defeat the Niffin and free Prince Eliot?”

 “We’re searching for the Wise Woman right now,” Quentin nodded. “Only she knows the Niffin’s weakness.”

 “Better a thief than a slave,” Kady said to Penny, who rolled his eyes but nodded as she threw both arms in the air and then brought them down to point at Quentin and Margo as a hard-driving musical beat rose from the hedges around them and she began to sing:

 The life of a thief, well it’s filled with pain!

Waiting on a score in the snow and the rain!

Scrabblin’ for a meal when your coppers are low,

And runnin’ from the law, the noose and the bow!

 But let me tell you, boy, the price that we pay,

Means runnin’ our own lives and finding our way,

Free from the hoe, the axe and the plow,

Livin for the here, the day and the now!

 So let’s make a trade, I swear I’ll be true!

I don’t wanna be slave, and neither do you.

The Wise Woman lives nearby, and I’ll take you there,

For the price of a pie, a roast or a hare!

Bring us some food and I’ll show you the way,

Cos we can’t live on this gruel another day!

 Kady kicked over the pot as she sang the last word and it went spiraling off into the hedge. She looked up at Quentin, her green eyes flashing.

 “Deal?” She asked, and Quentin hesitated.

“Do I have to sing my answer, or . . .”

 “We’re all gonna be slaves,” Penny muttered, and Kady shook her head.

 “Just yes or no.”

 “Deal, yes,” Quentin replied. “We only have another day or so before all of this becomes permanent. Margo, will you go hunting while Kady takes me to the wise woman? Penny can catch you up after you bring them a deer or some hare.”

 “Fine,” Margo replied as she unslung her crossbow and eyed Penny from her saddle. “You’re not going to sing at me, are you?”

 “If I break out in song, just use that bow on me, please,” Penny replied as she pulled him up behind her and they trotted off in search of game. Quentin offered Kady his hand and she sprung up with almost no assistance. As they headed west, toward the setting sun, the blue lights at the crest of the Stone Tower grew brighter.

***

 Julia the Wise was a petite, freckled woman with knowing, sad eyes that made Quentin homesick for a place he couldn’t recall or perhaps had only visited. She lived in a neat, two-room cottage on the far side of the hedge maze. A natural pond the size of a large wagon wheel occupied one corner of the main room of the cottage and, to Quentin’s bemusement, was occupied by a bespectacled talking koi fish that interrupted constantly until Julia tossed it chunks of fresh bread.

 “The Niffin is all powerful and wishes to rule all of Brakebills,” Julia told Quentin and Kady as she sat cups of herbal tea in front of each of them. “But under that is a deeper spell, I fear. One I cannot quite touch.”

 “The Wizard Fogg said you would know how to defeat the Niffin,” Quentin said, sipping his tea.

 “Yes. There is an amulet that will make her human again.” Julia went to the cottage window and gazed across the land at the tower.

 True love lies trapped on high, she sang,

Alone and frightened in the tower

And only you, Fool, have the power to set it free.

 “True—what?” Quentin asked, but Julia continued her song.

 “Prince Eliot is dreaming,

Bound in the Niffin’s spell,

Forlorn, his magic teeming

With hexes and dark magic rare . . .

As she sang, Julia crossed the room with measured, almost dancing steps and opened a cupboard that was well warded. She then withdrew a silver amulet from its depths, the edge gilded with blue crystal.

 “This will bring the Niffin back to her human state. Inside is magic that she will not be able to resist. You must see that she touches it, Quentin. Only then will the spell come to life.” She touched his face.

 “Do not deny what you feel,

For without it we are lost,

Bring Prince Eliot to life with your kiss,

Or our freedom is the cost.”

 “And she doesn’t mean a kiss like you’re greeting your grannie!” The bespectacled koi chimed in. “Really lay one on him, taste him like you mean it—ooh!” The koi interrupted itself to nip at a few fresh chunks of bread Julia tossed it from her apron pocket. Quentin put the amulet around his neck and bowed to the wise woman even as his head spun with her revelation.

 ***

 Penny and Margo rejoined Quentin and Kady outside the exit of the hedge maze, about half a day’s ride from the Stone Tower.

 “I have to go alone from here,” Quentin told them. “The rest of the quest is mine to complete alone—only I can awaken Prince Eliot and turn the Niffin human.”

 “You really are a fool,” Penny scoffed, but then his expression softened. “I hope you make it.”

 Margo kissed him on the cheek. “Good luck—and please, fix this before I end marrying some tinker out of sheer boredom!”

 “I’ll do my best.” Quentin swung up onto his horse and headed toward the tower. The unlikely trio watched him ride off, Margo’s horse loaded with fresh game for the thieves, and Margo sighed.

 “We’ll all be bound to make the beast with two backs if that’s not good enough.”

 ***

 The Stone Tower crackled with blue light that made the hair on Quentin’s arms stand at attention. His horse planted its feet as they reached the gates and Quentin swung down, frowning.

 “Some hero’s horse you are! Fine . . . stay out here then!” He crossed the open gate’s threshold and a furious screech went up all around him. “Oh, dung balls,” Quentin muttered, touching the amulet as he ventured into the tower and began to climb the steps. The moaning and angry noises grew louder with each turn of the winding staircase, and then the blue light was all around him, twisting and curling like a furious snake. Quentin teetered on the edge of the narrow stone step he occupied as a face rose out of the light—a beautiful face framed with crackling blonde hair and furious eyes filled with a malignant topaz light. The mouth dropped open in a fierce shriek and Quentin willed himself not to cringe as he fumbled the amulet out from under his shirt.

 “Niffin!” He called. “It is I, Quentin the Fool! I bring you a gift!”

 “Pathetic worm!” The Niffin hissed, curling around him until Quentin could feel the untamed magic sparking against his skin. “I accept no gifts! I take what I want, when it pleases me!” The coil tightened. “I will crack your bones open and drink the magic from them as easily as you drain a cup of water!”

 She’s going to kill me, Quentin thought as he lost half his air. I don’t have a chance, unless . . .

 “It’s—just as well!” Quentin wheezed out. “The gift is a puzzle that I doubt you even have the skill to open!”

 The Niffin paused and brought Quentin up to her eye level, her beautiful, awful visage filling his vision.

 “What did you say, worm?”

 “The gift!” He managed to get one hand free to hold up the amulet. “Only the wisest of creatures can reap its rewards. None yet have been able to open it, but if you don’t think you can either . . .” He began to drop the amulet back under his shirt when the Niffin ripped it free and dropped him on the stone steps.

 “There is no magic I cannot control, Fool!” She snarled, closing her hands around the amulet. It lit up from the blue edges inward, light spiraling down toward the center until it broke open and showered the Niffin with a copious shower of hot, crispy bacon.

 “The cured meat of the hog!” She cried even as she scooped sizzling pieces of it into her mouth. “No, I cannot resist . . . NOOOO!”

 Quentin watched, his eyes wide, as the blue light faded from her form and she shrunk down into a pale blonde human. She blinked at him as she sagged down onto the tower’s steps.

 “Where am I?” She murmured, and Quentin got to his feet.

 “I’m not sure how to answer that. But, uhm—just stay here and—” Quentin gave a vague gesture as he bolted up the tower steps, leaving the girl to lick bacon grease off her fingers.

 Quentin climbed three more floors before he found Prince Eliot laying on a plush couch, his dark, curly hair spread out across a white pillow embroidered with purple flowers. His chest rose and fell in even breaths, causing the gauzy aubergine shift he wore to give a mild flutter every few moments. Quentin’s heart answered that flutter.

 “Do not deny what you feel . . . bring Prince Eliot to life with your kiss,” Quentin sang the line softly as he went to one knee and touched Eliot’s smooth cheek. His lips were parted just enough to make Quentin want to meet them with his own, as he’d wanted to—when? Another lifetime? Yes, one he could barely remember, yet the desire was still there. He lowered his head and claimed Eliot’s lips, kissing him with a firm, coaxing pressure until Eliot’s eyes fluttered open. Quentin pulled back, their lips parting with a soft pop, and light filled Eliot’s amber eyes as the fairytale spell collapsed all around them.

 ***

 Two Days Later

 “I still can’t believe we all had to sing to get out of that mess.”

 Eliot looked up from the bar that ran along one side of the Physical Kids cottage as Margo spoke.

 “You all got to sing!” He pouted as he mixed her a drink. “I was just the damsel in distress!”

 “And a fine damsel you were.” Margo got to her feet and accepted her drink as Quentin came down the steps. She winked at Eliot. “Here comes your fool.” She vanished down the hall with her glass, and Quentin paused at the bottom of the stairs.

 “Uhm . . . hey, El.”

 “Hi. Want a drink?”

 “Yeah—wine, I guess.” He sat down on the couch and watched Eliot fill two glasses, which he brought over.

 “So . . .” he handed a glass of pink merlot to Quentin. “That whole spell issue. Fogg said it was cast by a group of hedges that had gotten hold of a chunk of fairy magic.” He sipped his wine. “Jealousy is such an ugly thing.”

 “Well, we managed to work it out,” Quentin replied.  Eliot nodded and swirled his wine around a moment.

 “Q . . . you said Alice was a Niffin?”

 “Yeah. She was the thing that guarded you in what I guess is the campus bell tower.”

 “Why do you figure she was the guardian and not your damsel? Why . . . do you think it was me?”

 Quentin considered this and then slid over until there was little space left between them. Eliot watched, his expression surprised but delighted underneath.

 “That’s the thing about magic, El. Even when it turns reality upside down, there’s just some truths it can’t change.” He leaned in and touched his lip’s to Eliot’s, and Eliot’s sable eyelashes swept closed at the kiss. When Quentin pulled back, Eliot opened his eyes to find the younger magician smiling at him.

 “What truth?” He asked, and Quentin kissed him again, his lips sticky sweet and delicious.

 “That even curses understand ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

 FIN

[amongdistantstarsfic]

Drabble: Exposed

Co-written with helloljparis.

After traveling at sublight for more than two weeks, Leia was concerned she was running out things to do aboard the Falcon. The ship felt smaller by the hour. She’d come to both love and hate her late night watch shift. She loved the quiet, but the ship’s hum was starting to drive her crazy. She could’ve sworn the Falcon’s nav system tried to convince her it was named L3 last night while correcting for drift, but she was more inclined to believe she accidentally fell asleep.

Another night shift down, she stretched out of the captain’s chair in the cockpit and pulled herself to Han’s quarters. “Good morning, flyboy. It’s your turn.”

Han didn't believe in setting alarms. His internal alarm clock, no matter what planet he was on, where in the galaxy the Falcon was, always woke him up at precisely the time he needed to be awake. At least, that's what he told himself, and hearing Leia come into the captain's quarters while he was already finishing washing up in the 'fresher only confirmed everything he already knew.

He stepped out of the 'fresher, a lazy morning smile on his face, and rubbed an old towel against the sides of his still bare neck. "Just in time, princess," he drawled. "Bed's all yours."

In the two weeks she’d been forced into close quarters with Han, she had managed to keep their relations, well, proper. It seemed unreal and surprising this was the first time she had seen him shirtless and it was, unfortunately, distracting. Leia wasn’t sure what she expected Han looked like underneath the vests, jackets, and old linen shirts, but a defined stomach wasn’t part of what she expected. She cleared her throat. “Just make sure you don’t leave that dirty towel on the bed like you did yesterday.”

Han looked at said towel, having just run it over his hair. “I resent that. My towel is perfectly clean.”

“Han, have you smelled it lately?”

“What? Yes.” But he did take a moment to sniff it after shaking out his hair. A little musty, perhaps, but not dirty.

She leveled a look at him, and sighed in that exasperated way that only Han Solo made her sigh. Before he could argue again or, worse, toss the towel onto the bed, she crossed the small room and sat on the edge of the bed, bending forward to tug off her boots.

Han turned to watch her. For him, it seemed unreal and surprising that this was the first time he was seeing her on his bed. Their bed, maybe, he could say now. No, not theirs. They weren't sharing it. Earlier, several days earlier, he might have thought that eventually he could maneuver it so that they were sharing the bed, but he had already given up on that.

She looked up, looked at him, her hands stilling where they had begun to unwind the crown of braids from the top of her head. "Someone needs to be up front, Solo," she said, the corner of her mouth twitching. Just a little.

It occurred to Han that he’d also never seen her take her hair down. He actually sort of assumed they were stuck in place, and just always looked good. His gaze fixed on the end of a braid for a moment before he fixed his gaze back on her face. “Is the person up front going to see anything except space?”

“Likely not. Though we did pass under a hyperspace lane last night. Sorry you missed the excitement.” She realized he wasn’t moving, and he needed a push to get out of his quarters. Dropping her braids down her back, she stood and walked into the closet, fetching him a clean shirt—navy blue, a shirt she’d never seen on him. “You’ll probably want this,” she said, holding it out to him.

Han looked at her and then at the shirt, which he took in exchange for tossing the towel onto the floor. "Uh, yeah, thanks," he said. "Might get cold up there all alone, huh?" He stepped away from her and quickly pulled the shirt down over his head, realizing belatedly that it wasn't his shirt at all. It was too thin, too tight, too silky—one of Lando's. He ended up with it twisted and stuck around his face. "Not my shirt," he said, the words lost around the fabric trapped against his face.

Leia blinked. "Then whose shirt is it?" she blurted out.

“It’s—” Han grunted and tried to get the shirt off, but his shoulders were a little too snug inside Lando’s shirt. When Leia did not come to his aid, he simply stretched until the seams gave way and he could get it off. “—the former owner’s shirt. I’ve been meaning to give it back to him. The friend we’re going to see, Lando? It’s his. Now I can give them back.”

Leia took the damaged shirt from him and examined the tears Han inflicted at the shoulders. “I don’t think he’ll want it back now. Did you really have to rip it off?”

“Well you weren’t helping.”

Leia had a dozen questions, and another half-dozen retorts. She snapped her mouth shut instead of asking any of them. Then she yawned and fingered the shirt, which was soft and, she imagined, probably smelled like Han even if he'd only been tangled in it for a brief moment. "I'm going to go to bed now," she told him. "Get dressed and get out of here." A beat. "Please."

Han turned and looked at her, smiling at the addition of the please. He retrieved his own shirt from the closet, but threw a second one of Lando’s at her before pulling his on and quickly pulling his boots over his trousers. With a final smile over his shoulder, he left Leia to her peace and sleeping.

Though she wanted to ask about the shirt she’d be thrown, she realized it was the same soft texture as the one Han had just ripped. Must be another of Lando’s shirts. But, to her surprise, it had the same musky smell that Han did. That was probably thanks to the close proximity to his own clothing. Deciding that was good enough, she stood to shut the cabin door, slid out of her clothes, into the shirt he’d offered, and curled up for a good morning’s sleep.

[iceillanightbane]

Let’s See what you Got

To say she was surprised when Hyperion told her he wanted her to take him to the Broken Isles wouldn’t be right.  She had seen it talking and had talked about it a few times as he had toyed with the idea.  But now that he has actually come out and told her he wanted to go... That was another thing entirely.  Especially since he claimed that he wasn’t a fighter even though he said he wanted to do something.

Iceilla looks at the water as they stood near Oliver’s pond.  “It is always good to fight for a cause.  But you already know why I worry.” 

Hyperion’s face takes on thoughtful expression as his eyes follow hers out towards the pond. “I have fought before... Not well.  You are fight though I am not a fighter.  I lack...”  He pauses, searching for the words he wanted.  “A fuel.  Anger... hate?  Pain maybe?  I have had pain... but it is used wrongly...”

Ice turns her white eyes back to him.  “If you are going to fight... You are going to need to find your trigger.”

Iceilla feels his arm that is around her give her a squeeze as he pulls her more against his side.  “I do... I will not allow myself to lose those close to me... not again.” His eyes still stare out at the pond, intense, focused. “My kin then... You... Cirkos, Sael.  Those who can’t.  That is who I should do it for.”

Shaking her head Iceilla turns in his arm to look at him.  “You need another reason.  One on why you would fight for yourself.  Fighting not to loose ones you care about and those that can’t are all well and good.  But why do you need to fight?”

Hyperion’s eyes fall to hers, searching her face as if trying to find meaning to her words. “What would that be? To rid Azeroth of the Legion? To fight because I want to? Why do you do it Iceilla?”

Why do I do it? It is a question she has been asked a few times since Lady Maria Karnord had set her family free and her need to fight became a choice.  Iceilla smiles as she looks at him. “Some people use fear, others pain. Some use glory and some power. I fight for control.  Even when I was a slave, how I fought, each stroke of my blade, was under my control.”  She looks at his cloth covered chest and slides a hand over it slowly. “I could control the pressure of which I gripped the blade and how it went into my targets.  I could control a bit of myself even with someone else holding the leash.  Now I still fight for control.  But it is to control my life how I want it to be.”

Hyperion had listened to her quietly for a bit.  “I can not say I have felt the same... I have not been through what you have been through.  Hel-” He stops but shakes his head. “Helbrecht fights, because he is good at it.  It is all he knows how to do.”  His lips purse in thought.  “Perhaps, that is what I am good at.  The skills I have learned, my abilities, fire... Arcane... What is it used for if not to fight?”

Iceilla looks at him, her eyes narrowing slightly.  “It is dangerous to think that way. I will always be a fighter.  A killer.  It is what I am good at and what I was trained and in a sense born to do.  But that doesn’t give me a reason to fight.”  She pulls out one of her daggers and offers it to him.  “A blade is just a blade until it is put into someone’s hands. In mine, this blade can kill, torture, maim... You get the idea.  However put this same blade in a whittler’s hands... If it was his only tool he could create a master piece with it. Fire is fire. It can give life or destroy it.  I don’t know much about Arcane so I can’t tell you that.  Even frost... It can suspend life, or rob it from people. You need to figure out if yours is to fight, or something else. You need a reason to fight if you are going to.”

Hyperion looks down at the blade, his eyes pondering its meaning to him. “I feel... Sometimes as if I must.  Because of what I am.  I must fight, or I will be weak and I will die.  I can not die Iceilla, there is few... Very precious few left. Gannar wishes me to remain as far from the fighting as I can be, but that is not what I want.  I want to fight because I must.  I do not what to be weak.”

“So fight for strength to keep moving forward. To over come what wishes to push you down and snuff you out.  There is your reason.  Now you need your drive.”  She takes his hand and starts moving backwards, leading him away from the water and towards the fenced off area by the pond. “To win a fight I find two things must exist. The reason to fight, and that which sharpens you.” Once they get to the spot she lets go of his hands and takes off her blades and boots, putting them along the fence.  “Normally it is during a fight the second one is discovered.  However... That which sharpens you... Can also cripple you.”

She feels Hyperion’s eyes watching her.  “I’m not going to enjoy this... am I?”  A look of uncertainty crosses his features but he still reaches to his belt which holds his sword and begins to unbuckle it.  “You wish to find this in me.  Don’t you?”

Iceilla can’t help the smile that graces her lips.  She was happy she had found someone willing to trust her and seems to go along with what she was planning, trusting for an explanation along the way. “Probably not. But I would rather know enough about how you fight so we are both not caught unaware.”  She turns to face him, thankful she is only wearing a simple blue linen cloth shirt with a grey vest over top as well as blue working linen pants. “If I know what cripples you, I can cover the weakness.  However if what cripples you also sharpens you, we should find the middle point of it.”

Hyperion reaches up and unties his cloak and tosses it over the sheathed sword and belt.  “I see...”  His words trail off, his eyes still watching her closely as he prepares himself for anything.

“The fight itself is what sharpens me.  The danger in it.  If I let too much fear settle in then I won’t fight as well as I should.  But I can use it just enough to wake me up.  I know some use pain.  Once they feel it, they will do anything to not feel it again.  That was the technique my ex-lord had used.  It made fast fighters of us but for some, to much pain and they can’t tell friend from foe. They will rage util they are spent.”

He unbuttons his blue jacket and white under shirt, tossing it over his cloak and smiles as he catches Iceilla slowly admiring the view of the chest he presents to her after he turns around to face her.  “I see.”   

Ice smirks at him as she takes a step back to give them some space to work.  “I am not expecting you to have something that sharpens you as you are not a fight. Or a seasoned one anyway. But I want to know if you will cripple or rage.”  She spreads her hands out, the jester inviting but that smirk that graces her lips makes her seem like she is daring him.  “I know if I say try to tell me you won’t... But do at least put effort in trying to knock me out.”

And did they fight.  Hyperion had surprised her though she had suspected he was a lot better at using spells than he was at hand to hand combat. Plus that mage trick where there was four extra of him... Gods now I remember why I hate fighting mages.  Stupid spells... Stupid shields... Duck! She dusk under a blast of arcane and she feels the tiny hairs on her arms stand up as she flips back and lands in a crouch. Hyperion than leaves her little time to think of much else while she does the same to him. 

By the end of it Iceilla is a bit winded while Hyperion braces himself on his hands and knees panting, both grinning.  “Well?”  He asks, looking up at her as some of his hair falls into his face.  

Iceilla smiles and walks over to the fence, sitting down and putting her boots back on.  “I can work with it as long as you don’t pull and stupid stunts.”  

Hyperion smiles and moves over to sit beside her.  “Don’t worry.  I will be good.”  He leans into her and places a gentle kiss on her cheek.  “I promise.” 

[ranwing]

Kadam Fic: All’s Faire In Love and War (1/1)

Title: All’s Faire In Love and War Pairing(s), Characters(s): Kadam, Kurt Hummel, Adam Crawford, Blaine Anderson, Original Characters Rating: PG13  Genre(s): slight canon divergence, major lol Klaine and Blaine (I mean this - am not at all nice to him here.  Parts: 1/1

Summary:  Taking a summer job at the New York Renaissance Faire provides some interesting opportunities for Kurt, both professionally and personally.

Read on AO3

This is something that I've had sitting on my hard drive for some time and wanted to share. It's an offshoot of my misspent youth as a Rennie and proud member of the International Wenches Guild at the NY Renaissance Faire at Sterling Forest (with the corset scars and compromising photos to prove it). Some of this is based on my real experiences in attending the faire and the friendships I made their with my fellow Rennies and the members of the cast.

It's a slight AU, where Kurt did not meet Adam at NYADA and they meet for the first time at the faire. It's a one parter now, but I may expand on it later. Ta!

Kurt turned to get a look at his reflection from the rear and had to admit that the leggings were doing wonderful things for his ass. Well, the leggings along with two semesters of brutal dance classes under the guidance of Cassandra July. That was more than enough to burn off the last of the puppy fat.

The entire costume was very flattering and showed off his toned physique nicely. The white shirt was loosely laced up the front and with the leather vest displayed the broadness of his shoulders and chest. His muscles had gotten considerably more defined with regular exercise and weapons training. The high leather boots brought attention to his long legs. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows so he could display the leather braces that emphasized his strong forearms.

“Hey Kurt, if you’re done admiring your gorgeous self, could you help lace me up?”

Kurt turned to see Nataly standing behind him, trying to hold the pieces of her corset to her chest so that she wasn’t totally exposed. She’d managed to get the corset loosely laced but was in danger of losing a piece or two.

“I’ve got you. Turn around,” he instructed. Nataly was playing a member of the queen’s court, and as such, her costume was a bit more complicated than most. The corset laced both along the sides and down the back and needed a second person to get the fit right. He’d gotten quite good at getting the ladies laced into their costumes since they’d started dress rehearsals and it was rare that he wasn’t approached by at least a few over them over the course of the day for corset adjustments. Apparently a corset could never truly be too tight, and if Kurt were a straight man, all that adjusting probably would be a lot of fun.

The young redhead smiled thankfully as she adjusted her substantial cleavage, her breasts displayed attractively by the tight-fitting garment. She gave a little shimmy to check the fit. “Thanks so much,” she said appreciatively. “They’re not going to move at all during the chess melee.”

“My pleasure,” Kurt insisted. “Let me know if you need me to tighten it later on.”

She gave him an appreciative peck on the cheek, leaving him to finish his own preparations.

This was going to be an interesting summer job, he thought as he put the finishing touches on his hair. When he saw the notice at NYADA that the Renaissance Faire was looking for actors for the summer season, especially those with weapons training, he jumped at the chance. The pay was more than he would earn at the diner and while the work would be hard and the conditions more rustic than he might prefer, it was still a professional acting job. He quickly signed up to audition and was pleasantly surprised to find that not only was he hired, but he had been cast in on of the major supporting roles and not just one of the atmosphere players.

He’d convinced Rachel to audition as well, hoping to cheer her up. She was still in the midst of an epic sulk over her failure to get the lead in Funny Girl, but was not exactly enthusiastic about the prospect of an acting job that was nowhere near Broadway. She ended up being offered a part as one of the wench singers but turned the job down because it wasn’t a prominent enough role for her. Kurt had tried to explain that because she’d never taken any of the stage combat classes, she couldn’t be offered any of the more significant parts because they all required some fighting, but she just turned him out and decided to take the summer off to mentally regroup.

Kurt thought that she was making a mistake. Sure, the faire wasn’t exactly the most important acting job around, but it was still a professional job. While some in the cast made their careers doing faires year round, there were quite a few performers in the cast who had extensive credits outside of the faire circuit and at least half the cast were professional, full time actors. Kurt would now have a professional credit to put on his CV, which was more than Rachel could claim at this stage.

And if wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have time to relax during the summer. Now that the season had officially kicked off, the cast had most of the week to themselves since the faire was only open on the weekends. A bus picked up the cast who lived in New York and drove them up to the faire grounds on Friday where they would have cast meetings and a chance to do a run through of the small changes to the shows they made from week to week. There was a campsite for them to stay at over the weekend, with a decent shower facility and his meals were provided. All Kurt had needed was a tent and sleeping bag.

So maybe the lodging options were a bit more rustic than he’d normally prefer, as he hadn’t slept in a tent since his ill-fated three months as a Cub Scout. But it wasn’t totally awful. He had bought himself a decent tent and a good mattress pad, so he was relatively comfortable. The shower were more than decent and kept surprisingly clean, and he didn’t have to walk too far for a flushing toilet. It could have been far, far worse.

And he actually enjoyed staying with the rest of the cast. They were a fun loving bunch and once the faire closed for the evening, they got to cut loose and really have a good time. Their nights were either spent at a local faire-friendly bar in town, or sitting around the bonfire at the campgrounds, singing and telling stories. He was already making friends and was looking forward to the rest of the season.

“Kurt!”

Except for that. Kurt had very much hoped that Blaine would decide to join Rachel and use the summer to relax, but his ex-fiancé had decided to audition too. Much to Blaine’s chagrin, his acting and stage combat skills were not strong enough to warrant a major role in the cast, and he’d been hired to play a wandering troubadour. His job was to walk about, flirt with the girls and sing romantic songs, which as far as Kurt was concerned was right up Blaine’s alley.

And Blaine’s costume was as much an eyesore as his normal attire could be. With the bright yellow hose, red doublet and a hat with an enormous (albeit slightly scraggly) plume, he reminded Kurt of a half-plucked rooster. He carried a mandolin, which was enough like a guitar that he could strum out a simple tune while he sang.

“What’s wrong Blaine?” Kurt asked as he adjusted the belt on his costume and looked in the mirror again. It needed a little something… maybe he’d pick up that necklace he saw one of the venders selling later on. Just to add a bit of flair.

“I was thinking… that bit before the chess game… I was wondering if I should come out onto the field and maybe try to serenade one of the princesses. And maybe try to comfort her during the match. Do you think that would work?”

Blaine trying to expand his role came as absolutely no surprise to Kurt. His showboat of an ex was never going to be content to be a background player while Kurt would be at the center of the action. It had been a source of frustration to the assistant director, who spent way too much of her time trying to corral Blaine’s flights of fancy.

“No, because once we’re all on the field, we have to focus on the show,” Kurt reminded him tersely. “There are going to be a lot of weapons flying around and it’s not safe. Besides… aren’t you supposed to be by the Kissing Bridge while the game is on?”

“But there’s no one down there but little kids,” Blaine complained. “Everyone is going to be at the chess game.”

“Blaine… it’s only our second weekend of faire. Can’t we just do what we’re supposed to without improvising for a little while?” Kurt asked. His eyes narrowed when he saw something amiss with Blaine’s hair. “Are you wearing hair gel?”

His ex shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. “Just a little bit.”

“Blaine, you know that we’re supposed to look like we’re from the middle ages. You should wash that crap out before Renee sees you.” The costuming director had already warned Blaine twice about his anachronistic hairstyle and had threatened to wash it out herself in the horse trough if she saw his hair slicked back again.

“But it looks awful without the gel,” Blaine whined. “You know how sensitive I am about it.”

Of course Kurt knew. Because Blaine complained endlessly whenever confronted about it. And Kurt had thrown out multiple sets of perfectly good bed linens after breaking up with Blaine because he couldn’t get the stains out of the pillow cases. Blaine had insisted on even wearing gel to sleep, which was a major bone of contention between them.

“Blaine, what do you want from me? If you get fired because you can’t follow instructions, that’s not my problem,” Kurt said dismissively. He was tired of trying to keep Blaine from going off the rails when he had his own job to focus on. “You should get out to the gates to work the crowd and let me finish getting ready.”

He turned away and hurried over to the prop room to pick up his assigned weapons. The prop master handed him a rather impressive looking medieval sword and matching dagger that were a lot nicer than the practice weapons he’d been using. Once the scabbard was belted on, he was no longer Kurt Hummel, NYADA student. He was now Beau, second in command to the Sheriff of Nottingham’s guards.

He rather liked this character and was enjoying the opportunity to play a villain. On paper, Beau was the pretty boy nephew of the Sheriff and it was being broadly implied that he got his job based on nepotism. But Kurt and Ben, the actor playing the Sheriff, had been playing around a bit with dialogue and by the end of the day, Beau would be seen as a lot smarter and more dangerous than he started out as. Kurt would be kept very busy over the course of the day with various shows that his character would be involved with, walking around the fair with the rest of the guards and harassing the other players and faire attendees, as well as the human chess game and grand melee at the joust.

Blaine’s character was sometimes on the receiving end of that harassment, and Kurt could tell that his ex hated it. He seemed to be having a problem in recognizing that this was strictly within the confines of their roles and was still nursing a stung ego about the role he was given. Kurt’s sympathy was… well, pretty non-existent. If he could play Officer Krupke with some semblance of dignity and grace, then Blaine could play a minstrel while Kurt got a chance with a bigger role for once.

It was getting close to the gate opening time and Kurt went to join Ben and the rest of the guards at the top of the hill where they could see the crowd already waiting. It looked to be a good sized number, and there were quite a few wearing costumes easily as realistic as worn by the cast. He’d already learned that the “rennies” (as they called themselves) often came every day during the season and were deeply invested with the faire. They knew all the shows well and most were more than willing to help out and loved to be pulled into the fun.

Blaine and a few other minor characters were already working the crowd, his ex-fiancé flirting with a few young women dressed as wenches, singing to them to maudlin ballad of love and they seemed torn between being flattered and laughing outright. It was cheesy, but in a rather fun way. Kurt didn’t know why Blaine was so resentful over his part, as it gave him license to be as over the top as he wanted and interact closely with his audience.

He watched as the actors playing Robin Hood and his band took over the entrance gate to warn the crowd about the nefarious sheriff and his henchmen, and couldn’t help from admiring the actor playing Will Scarlet. Adam, Kurt remembered his real name dreamily. Now that was a man who knew how to fill a pair of hose. Gorgeous, fit body, and actually British to boot. Just listening to him speak was enough to make Kurt’s toes curl.

They had gotten to know one another, at least on a professional level, during rehearsals and their interactions only heightened his interest in the older man even more. Adam was witty and funny and just a lot of fun to be around. He was exactly what Kurt could use to nurse his bruised heart after the ugly, seemingly never ending break up with Blaine.

But there was no time for daydreaming about making out on the Kissing Bridge with that beautiful piece of man. Or place, since Kurt’s leggings hid absolutely nothing and there was only so much his dance belt could contain. He needed to get his stage game on.

“Alright boys,” Ben commanded, now firmly in his headspace as Sheriff with a malicious glint in his dark eyes. “Everyone ready? Let’s go clear some rabble.”

Kurt felt his mouth curl into a lazy sneer and his eyes grew flinty as he slipped into character. Showtime.

* * *

The morning went smoothly, the cast having managed to work out most of the kinks the opening weekend. After the morning procession the guards followed the Sheriff around the shire, playing at keeping the peace when they seemed to spend most of the time kicking around whatever unfortunate shire residents they came across. Kurt was having a good time with his character, who played at being lazy and a bit dim despite being anything but.

The mid-day human chess game was always a highlight, with all of the major cast members involved and plenty of swordplay to excite the crowd. The audience took sides and more than a few made sure to sit on the side of the Sheriff’s team and were openly rooting for the bad guys. Kurt had found a few fans of his own, including several members of the Wenches Guild (local 69) who flirted playfully and called out to him. In fact, it seemed like most of the wenches from the Guild chose to sit on their side of the field, ready to cheer on their favorite villains. Both sides lead their fans in cheers, with those rooting for the villains yelling out “Blood makes the grass grow! Kill! Kill! Kill!” Kurt had a lot of fun egging them on now that he had gathered his own group of wench cheerleaders.

Ben was calling the plays for the villains in his role as Sheriff, while Robin Hood directed the heroes. Kurt sprawled lazily on the ground while he waited for his cue, letting the actress playing the wicked Lucrezia Borgia lean flirtatiously against him (partly to keep in character and partly because it took the strain off of her sitting on the ground so long bound in a tight corset). He was letting her press kisses on his neck, cooing in nonsense Italian while he played with her blond curls.

“Beau!” Ben yelled, coming up being Kurt to kick him and get his attention when he didn’t respond fast enough. “Stop fooling around and deal with this outlaw scum!” He grabbed Kurt by his collar and pulled him to his feet before shoving him out onto the dueling field. Awaiting him was gorgeous Adam with his sword drawn.

“So this is who you send to me?” Adam laughed. “I thought I would be fighting a guard and not a pretty, beardless boy.”

Kurt drew his sword and casually advanced on his handsome opponent. “Well, this should be easy,” he drawled.

“For me,” Adam retorted as they began to circle one another. “After all, the only reason you’re here is because your mother begged your uncle to give you a job.”

They launched into their duel, and Kurt was pleased that all his weapons practice was paying off. Adam had several years more experience with his kind of thing, but Kurt was more than holding is own with the complicated choreographed fight. It would certainly look impressive to the audience and it began to look as if the outlaw would win. Kurt followed their choreography and let Adam continue his advance when he drew the dagger that he’d had sheathed on the back of his belt and got it pressed up against Adam’s throat.

“Not such a useless pretty boy now, am I?” Kurt snarled dragging the tip of the blade up Adam’s chin. “You’re finished.”

“Sherriff!” the actress playing the queen shouted. “Have your man stand down! We will have no blood spilled on this field today.”

Kurt gave Adam a cruel grin and pressed the tip of the dagger dangerously against Adam’s jaw before pulling back. He raised his fist in victory to a chorus of boos and cheers from the audience before turning to his place on the sidelines. The actress playing Lucrezia threw herself into his arms, kissing him soundly. It wasn’t much later that the whole game dissolved into a wild melee that would finally be broken up by the Queen, announcing that the battle would be decided at the royal joust at the end of the day.

Kurt picked himself off the ground where Adam had him pinned face down into the grass and followed the other guards off the field. Once out of sight of the audience, he checked the time and calculated that he had just enough time to grab something to eat before he was to join the rest of the guards for another patrol around the shire. Then they had the Trial and Punishment show where they held a mock tribunal and convicted faire attendees of absurd “crimes” before making a mad dash to the jousting field to close out the show.

Grateful for the chance to catch his breath and take a short break, he obtained a ploughman’s lunch from one of the concession stands and got his tankard filled with iced tea. He then made his way to the backstage area behind the jousting stand to eat and cool off. Several other members of the cast were already there and he nodded to his friends before digging into his meal.

“That was a nice bit of swordplay earlier, Kurt,” a voice with a natural British accent that Kurt had become quite familiar with said. “You’re really talented for a first timer.”

He looked up and saw Adam standing over him. Nervously swallowing the mouthful of bread and cheese that he’d just bitten into, he nodded. “Thanks. You nearly caught me with that last parry, though. I almost lost my grip.”

“Nah… you had everything well in hand.” He gestured at the empty space on the bench next to Kurt. “Mind if I join you?”

“Of course,” Kurt said, moving his tankard so that the other actor would have plenty of room.

“Thanks. I’ve got about twenty minutes until my next set and if I don’t eat now, I’ll have nothing in my tank for the joust.”

Kurt eyed his choice of meal dubiously. “And a sausage on a stick is going to hold you over?”

Adam grinned and gave Kurt a saucy wink. “Well, I am a man who enjoys his meat,” he quipped, then took a large bite out of the rather phallic looking food item.

Kurt was again reminded that his leggings hid absolutely nothing and tried desperately to keep his mind off of anything inappropriate, but Adam was not making it easy.

Adam looked down at Kurt’s perfectly healthy lunch, then back up to his face. “I would have thought that you were more a meat eater as well.”

Kurt felt his cheeks starting to heat because he was definitely being flirted with. Giving Adam his most winning smile, he nodded. “Oh, I am. But I’m also partial to those frozen bananas that they’re selling. Something hard that I can suck on when things get too hot.”

The older man’s eyes darkened when he saw that Kurt was more than willing to flirt back with him. “Well, that’s a good fact to keep in mind. Because I’ve been trying to figure out a way to talk to you when we’re not rolling on the ground, acting like we’re trying to kill one another.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow flirtatiously. “Well, we could roll on the ground together for other reasons, but this is a family show.”

Adam laughed, taking another bite of his lunch. “Ah yes… ‘family shire’ as we keep being told. But seriously… I would like to have a chance to talk with you when we’re not working. Are you going to the bar tonight after the show?”

“Am I being invited?” Kurt asked teasingly.

Adam licked his lips and nodded. “I am inviting you.”

Kurt was about to agree to join him when he saw Blaine coming into the backstage area carrying an absolutely enormous roasted turkey leg and waving frantically at him.

“Oh crap,” Kurt groaned, wishing that he could crawl under the sod and hide from his ex.

“I’m sorry,” Adam said apologetically. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Kurt looked up at Adam and saw the distraught expression on the older man’s face. His half-eaten sausage even looked like it was losing its rigidity.

“Oh, it’s not you,” Kurt quickly assured his suitor, trying to control his excitement about Adam being his suitor in the first place. “It’s my ex who has some serious boundary issues.”

Adam looked at the outrageously dressed man coming in their direction and his jaw dropped slightly. “That’s your ex-boyfriend?”

“Ex-fiancé,” Kurt corrected. “Don’t judge… it was a strange period of my life that is over and done with. I just can’t seem to get the message through to him.”

“That’s good to know,” Adam said sympathetically. “Because I was starting to question your taste there for just a second.”

Kurt laughed ruefully and shook his head. “Like I said, it was a weird phase that I’m past.”

“Good,” Adam said agreeably. “I’ll see you after the show tonight.”

“Definitely,” Kurt assured him, trying to contain his excitement over Adam asking him out. He knew that hook ups among the cast were pretty common place, but this felt like it was something more. At least, he hoped it was.

Adam surprised Kurt by taking his hand and pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles that left Kurt all but tingling all over. “See you at the joust,” Adam said softly, giving Kurt a playful wink.

Blaine came trotting over, the feather in his cap flopping in his wake and saw the other man walking away. “Kurt, what was that all about?” he demanded, his brows furrowing in anger. “What were you talking about?”

Kurt looked up at his ex-fiancé and grinned widely. “He asked me out tonight after the show. On a date,” he clarified.

Blaine could only stare of him, his face getting as red as his costume. “A date! But Kurt, we’re…” he started, only to be quickly cut off.

“We’re nothing, Blaine,” Kurt snapped. “You just don’t learn, do you? We’re not dating and we’re sure as hell not friends. Not with the way you’ve been hounding me for months!

“Now I have been more than patient, but enough is enough. We may have to work together this summer, but you do not get a say in anything that I do. Is that understood?”

Blaine seemed shocked by the level of anger directed at him. “What is the matter with you?” he demanded, growing angry himself.

Blaine didn’t seem to care that all their dirty laundry that was about to be revealed to their cast mates, and for once, Kurt didn’t care. Blaine was about to get an earful and what their coworkers were going to learn wouldn’t make him look especially well.

“What is the matter with me? How about me being sick and tired of my cheating ex inserting himself into everything that I do? We’re not together anymore and I find it amazing that you spend a lot more time around me now than you did when we were actually a couple,” Kurt informed him sharply. “What’s the matter? You can’t find someone else to fuck? Because you never seemed to have that problem when we were together.”

“Kurt, it was one time…” Blaine started, but withered under Kurt’s harsh glare.

“One time that you admitted to,” Kurt agreed. “But do you think I’m stupid, Blaine? Do you think that I didn’t notice the odd phone calls or your sudden trip to the free clinic after we both tested clean? Why do you think I ended things with you? Because you are completely incapable of keeping your dick in your pants!”

Blaine’s face flushed nearly as red as his costume when he heart the muffled laughter of the other cast members that had heard Kurt’s rant. One of the wench singers seemed especially amused and began to trill, “A wandering penis I, a thing of thread and patches…”

Kurt knew at that instant that Blaine’s faire reputation had just been cemented and that he’d never escape the label of being an untrustworthy cheater by his own admission. He would have felt sorry had Blaine not made himself such an utter pain.

Utterly humiliated now that he had admitted in front of their cast mates that he had cheated on Kurt, Blaine stormed away, the ridiculous plume on his hat limp and betraying his embarrassment. Kurt huffed, glad that he might have finally gotten that things between them were over through Blaine’s thick, gel covered skull. And it felt refreshing to have admiring and sympathetic looks coming from their fellow actors were admiring and supportive towards him, rather than accusatory.

In the meantime… he had a show to focus on and a date in the evening to look forward to.

[jarienn972]

Fighting Back

From the moment we saw the Kraken in last week’s promo, I’ve had ideas swirling in my head envisioning a scene like this.  We all know that a certain pirate has been way overdue to do something stupid that puts him in mortal danger. This is probably the fastest I’ve ever put together a little fic - just two days so please forgive any editing errors. This probably won’t even be close to what we’ll actually see on screen, but I figured I’d share my little headcannon anyway. Something tells me that this one might be right up @killian-whump ‘s alley....

Word count <2500

“I’ll distract the beast!” he recalled shouting to the Princess and the genie.  “Get back to the ship! Have them ready the harpoons!”  He remembered vividly the Princess' warnings that the deadly Kraken would kill him, but the pleas went unheeded as he tossed a rock at the creature from the shoreline to draw its ire toward himself and away from his friends trying desperately to drive it away from the rowboat using only the oars.  They were likely correct in their assumption, but if they didn’t manage to collect a supply of the beast’s blood, they would still be trapped here in this realm and if there were no way for him to return to mend Emma's broken heart, perhaps he was better off dead.

For the moment at least, he was still forging ahead with the battle. Kraken's blood… Of all the bloody ridiculous things to fuel a ship, it had to be the blood of a sea monster?  He hurled another heavy stone toward the creature and continued to goad it until a huge tentacle swung his direction and swept his legs out from beneath him.  He managed to regain a portion of his balance, landing on his knees, but as he pushed himself back upright, the tentacle whipped backward, encircling his upper body, lifting him off of the beach with his arm pinned uselessly against his sides. As he twisted and contorted his torso attempting to escape its grasp, the offending appendage only tightened its grip, dragging him momentarily under the surface of the shallow water, constricting tighter as he fought.

He could hear the monster’s fearsome roar as its tentacle raised him into the air yet again, drawing its prey closer to its gaping mouth with row after row of razor sharp teeth lying in wait. 't'will be a fitting end for a pirate, he thought – to meet his demise at the wrath of a sea monster.  Perhaps this was always meant to be his fate, his mind taunted him as he caught a glimpse of the Princess striking another of the Kraken's tentacles with an oar.  A valiant effort, but likely for naught, his own thoughts betrayed him yet again, reminding him he'd never make it back to his own princess – not that he was deserving to anyway.  The vice grip holding him forced his arms tighter against his body which now was erupting in the intense, agonizing pain of bones cracking and snapping and the crushing sensation of air being forced from his lungs by the pressure.  All he could be thankful for at this moment was that he would at least die before the creature swallowed him whole.

The lure of the blackness was intoxicating – urging him to stop fighting and surrender to unconsciousness and he was nearly there when he saw the glint of light – a flash of sunlight reflecting off of a metal object – a mere moment before a harpoon sunk into the fleshy tentacle less than an arm's distance from where it clung to him.  The creature howled in pain at the assault as additional sharp objects struck near the center of its body.  Reeling from the injury, the Kraken loosened its grip on Killian's now nearly motionless body, flinging him toward the boulder strewn shoreline as a blade severed a portion of the tentacle previously wrapped about the pirate.  

Killian himself was already far too dazed from injury to realize he was falling and didn’t even attempt to cushion the impact – not that his wounded limbs would even respond.  He landed with a dull thud, his head glancing off of a boulder that tore a jagged gash across his temple.  He could hear voices shouting his name, concerned queries for his well-being, but he couldn’t force his eyes to focus.  A figure before him bellowed an order to get help as they collected the severed tentacle to gather the valuable fluid to refill the canister. He recognized the voice as Liam's and heard him say that they'd obtained the necessary blood to allow them to return to Storybrooke.

“Tell Emma I love her…,” Killian whispered with a week smile.  “Tell her I’m sorry…I tried…” his voice trailed off as the blackness consumed him, leaving him with only a vision of the face he so desperately wished to return to.

  She remembered sprinting to the harbor after Jasmine and Ariel had found her, each of them bearing the same forlorn expression on their face – the same sense of urgency in their voices.  They’d informed her that the Nautilus and her crew had returned from their unplanned adventure, but not unscathed. There had been casualties in their hunt for and violent battle with the Kraken to obtain the creature's blood which was necessary for their return and much to Emma's dismay, Killian had been one of the unlucky. She had left the two princesses far behind as she rushed to reach her love, clutching to the hope she wouldn’t be too late.  Jasmine had briefly relayed what had transpired, but she still wasn’t quite certain what to expect.

His half-brother, Liam, greeted her as she approached, fully prepared for her curt “Where is he?” query.  She'd swallowed hard, almost regretting the harshness of her tone as her eyes took in the scars present on the vessel's hull.  They had all been through a traumatic event losing two crew members in the scuffle with others injured, but she could only focus on one particular passenger at the present.

“Captain’s quarters,” had been his response.  “Nemo is with him.  I’ll show you the way…”  Emma had only nodded her reply.  She would have to properly thank him later, but she was too preoccupied with her own doubts about her ability to aid her beloved pirate.  Liam escorted her below deck to the Captain’s stateroom, roughly the same size as Killian’s quarters on the Jolly, but more lavishly appointed.  The younger Jones then stepped away as Captain Nemo greeted her with a tepid smile – equal parts friendly yet distant - as though warning her that it may already be too late.  He stood between her and the narrow bunk where Killian lay, moving aside only after he'd locked eyes with her, absorbing all of the emotion that radiated from her - anger, fear, sadness, betrayal, but he could still sense that the strongest emotion was pure love.

“We did all we could,” the Captain insisted, and in her heart, she knew they had, but in the middle of nowhere, what could they have done.  “The Nautilus is well known for her swiftness, but I fear her speed was not enough.”  The thought of what Gideon had done to separate them made her stomach churn with anger, but she would have to deal with that little pain in the ass later as her task at hand was finding a way to heal her stubborn but incredibly brave wounded pirate.  He'd taken on a Kraken for God’s sake!  She wasn’t certain if she should be proud or horrified at the thought of it and now, at the first sight of him lying before her motionless, all of the anger, frustration and bitterness were pushed aside.

There was little space on the bunk, but she squeezed in next to his hip, craving the closeness to him as she assessed his injuries, concern renewed in her own abilities to save him. Most obvious was the gash on his forehead which had been hastily bandaged with strips of torn linen cloth – likely part of an old uniform or bedding.  His hair was matted with traces of sand, still damp with sea water and blood – both his own and that of the Kraken. The shape of the laceration was visible even beneath the makeshift bandages and it was clearly still bleeding, crimson rivulets escaping from the linen intended to soak it in.  His leather coat lay on the floor beside him and while an indigo woolen blanket had been draped over him, his vest and shirt had been unbuttoned to bare his chest in an effort to examine the extent of his crushed rib cage. Darkening patches of deep purple and black had formed across his torso indicating where he was bleeding internally, the only other visible clue to how severe the Kraken had assaulted him. She tried to isolate just the sound of his breath – short, shallow and labored which meant his lungs were probably damaged as well and perhaps even his spine as no one had witnessed any movement from him from the time he landed on the shore. Was she really up for this? she asked herself as she could now taste the saline from the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I know what Gideon did,” she whispered to him as she focused, concentrating on tapping into the magic flowing through her veins.  Already wrought with emotion, her hand began to tremble, but she shook it off.  Not this time, she had to remind herself.  Not letting the tremor get the best of me… “I know you didn’t abandon me and I’m not going to let you leave me this way either.”  She squeezed her eyelids closed as tightly as she could forcing herself to think only of the powers she needed until she could feel the magic emanating from her palm.  She passed her hand over his midsection, mending broken bones, healing bruises and repairing the damage inflicted by the monster, but it wasn’t until she opened her eyes again that she realized she’d been concentrating so hard on her magic that she’d failed to notice that he’d stopped breathing. His skin was still pallid and as she lowered her fingertips to brush along his face, it was cool to her touch.  “No…,” she sobbed as the tears flowed faster now.  “You can’t leave me like this…”

Ariel and Jasmine, who’d at last caught up to the distraught Emma, arrived just as she’d completed healing Killian’s injuries, fully expecting that she would be able to bring him back from the brink, but even they looked on in disbelief when he didn’t stir.  It was their worst fear come to pass – they hadn’t made the journey back in time.  All wanted to comfort Emma, to relay Killian’s message to her, yet none dared speak.  There were no words that would possibly ease the pain so evident in her blank stare.  But Emma herself wasn’t yet ready to give up so easily.  Ever since the tremors started, she’d doubted her magic, doubted herself.  She’d been able to heal Ashley, but only with the full support of Killian.  Now they’d come full circle and no matter what his faults, he was the one unwavering voice of encouragement.  He may not have believed in his own strength, but he was confident in hers and she couldn’t fail him again.

Maybe magic wasn’t the answer she began to theorize, still sensing his presence even as he lay deathly quiet beside her.  She drew her hands up to cup his jawline for a moment, thumbs gently stroking the scruff of his beard before allowing the fingers of her right hand to drift lower onto the cords of his neck where she realized she could feel a slight pulsation against her touch.

He was still alive!

Unconcerned that she had an audience she forced his lips apart as she shifted her position so that she was kneeling above him then dipped her head to bring her mouth to his.  When Zelena and Gold had attempted to drown him to force her to sacrifice her magic to save him, she’d brought him back sharing her own breath and maybe she could again.

“Killian…come back to me…,” she pleaded just as she had back then – back when her feelings toward him were just as conflicted as they’d been for the past few days.  Magic had failed her then as it had now, but she was just as determined that he wouldn’t die today either.

And a single breath was all it took for as soon as her lips met his and sealed their reunion, a blast of light burst forth, shaking the entire ship as though the Kraken had been unleashed yet again, but it took less than a second before she felt her gesture being returned as a gentle kiss, then he broke free, his lungs greedily sucking in a deep breath as his eyes flickered open. Tears were still rolling down her face, even falling onto his skin as he awoke, but now they were at least joyful ones.

“Emma…,” he stammered, still partially reeling from the shock that he was alive and both ashamed and grateful that she was here at his side.

“We’ll talk later you stupid, stubborn, asinine pirate…” but then she interrupted herself by pressing her lips back into him, the tension of the past few days being released in the passion of being reunited.  Yes, there was still much to hash out, but audience be damned, she was just elated to have her love back, not even yet realizing that a True Love’s kiss may have just opened the next chapter of their story.

A grinning Captain Nemo quickly ushered the others out of the stateroom, allowing his friends a moment of privacy, overjoyed to see that they were back on their proper path.

“I thought I’d lost you – that I’d pushed you away,” she confessed.  “I know I overreacted a bit, but you still should have told me the truth.”

“It was never you I didn’t trust,” he replied. “I’d no faith in myself not to make the same mistakes again.  You have to understand that I’d no idea what I’d done all those years ago that changed all of our fates… I just couldn’t forgive myself…”

“As I said, we’ll talk about all of that later – and you definitely need to sit down and have a man to man talk with my dad, but it will all be alright in the end.  I know you’re not that same man, Killian and so does my father.  It’ll sting at first, but eventually, he’ll realize that it was the villain, Captain Hook who committed the crime, not Killian Jones.” She smiled as he lowered his eyes, still harboring the guilt of his past, but she knew forgiveness would ease his troubled mind one day.  “Right now, can we just go home?”

“I’d love nothing more, Swan.”

“Good - because we are definitely going to have to work together to deal with a certain little Golden brat!”