#a comb missing half its teeth but I can’t remember if it was a gift or not so I keep it just in case

[legolaslovely]

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A/N: Hello friends! Happy happy Fili Friday! I am very excited to share this story based on this ask that took on an insane life of its own! Thank you to the anon for sending the lovely idea in and for giving me permission to run with it! The Fili heart wants what the Fili heart wants.  This is based on this video = the dance scene from Tangled! I listened to this while writing if anyone wants to know! It’s fun!  Listen guys, my impatient ass is counting this as a slow burn because the end is just so comfortinggggggg and fluffffyyyyyy so I hope you guys enjoy! Thanks for reading!

Pairing: Fili x Reader

Word Count: 4,270

Warnings: ... none?

Summary: Based on an ask! I’m not telling any more!

Link to the photoset below

It was only after months of rough traveling that Thorin decided to stop and spend a full day and night in a village along the route of the quest to Erebor. This much needed break came just in time for you, and more specifically your pack, which had continued to wear with every step you took and at this point, started to look as though a warg’s teeth had got a hold of it. You had been waddling around with its one serviceable strap slung over your shoulder for days and if you didn’t buy at least a replacement strap soon, you were sure you’d end up shrinking- hunched to half your size by the journey’s end.

Luckily, though this village was quite small, it did have a rather extensive market. As soon as Thorin made clear the details of the company’s overnight plans, you set out to comb through the many tents in the square. Most of the crafters fawned over the princes and king, leaving you free to browse without distractions. It didn’t take long for you to find a leather shop that boasted gorgeous weaponry, armor and tools. 

You were running your fingers over a strong leather strap, enjoying the geometric designs so common in classic dwarvish craftsmanship, when Fíli spoke from just over your shoulder.

“Will this do? I know it’s a bit larger than the one you have, but I think it will serve you well.”

The pack he was holding was extremely fashionable and even from the outside, it was clearly quite handy. Though it was currently empty, the sturdy leather still held it’s strong boxy shape. From the top and sides fell straps and hooks for your bedroll, canteens, weapons, and tools and what’s more, the design almost perfectly matched the strap you’d been admiring. The leather was tastefully embroidered and stamped with sharp triangles that weaved and folded into one another to wrap all around the body of the pack. Such a commendable creation was overwhelming and left you silent. 

“I should have asked first,” he said. “I’m sure I can return this one and we-you can pick out one you’d like. I shouldn’t have-”

“Fíli,” you said, taking the pack from him. Despite its size, it was light in your hand. “It’s beautiful. But I’m sure it was expensive- I mean, not that you don’t have the... I just... you didn’t have to- oh! I’ll pay you back. Here.”

You wanted to crawl into a whole. Who were you to talk money with the prince of Durin’s Folk? All the same, you were sure he expected you to pay for it. Maybe he’d merely grabbed the best pack for you before it was gone, bought by someone else. He was simply doing you a favor, watching out for you as company members do. You dug into your ripped pack for your coin purse, though you knew you wouldn’t have enough money. Mortification was rolling through you and if you allowed it, tears could have gathered in your eyes.

Then a hand covered yours.

“No, (Y/N). I don’t want anything from you. This is a gift. Come over here, we’ll transfer your things.” He led you over to a bench on the edge of the square.

“I can’t accept such a thing,” you said, sputtering. “I- really, this is too much-”

He took your torn pack from your shoulder and set it open on the ground before he moved to the new, pristine one, holding it still for you. “(Y/N), you need a good pack. We still have a long journey ahead of us.”

“I can go buy one. Actually, I was just going to buy a new strap to mend this one-”

“(Y/N),” he said, lifting your fallen chin with gentle fingers. “Please accept my gift, hm? I want to do this for you.”

“Thank you,” you nodded, accidentally shaking away his touch. 

He hummed and gave you the soft smile he so often sent your way. As you transferred your belongings into your new pack, you marveled at the many pockets and layers you found inside. There was a place for everything you’d brought with you- food, bathing and eating utensils, blade sharpening and repair tools. Apparently, Fíli was entertained by your ogling and when you looked up to the sound of his low chuckle, he was shaking his head at you. But you knew it was fond.

“I suppose I’ll see you at the inn then,” he said. “I have a few more things to look for in the market, so-”

“May I come with you?” you asked. “Everyone else is driving me mad. Even your brother is haggling with the archery merchant! I can’t bear it.”

“Of course,” he said, holding a hand out to you and lifting you to your feet. “Did you hear Dwalin at the ax vendor earlier?”

“ ‘What am I meant to do with this blade? Do they think I have time to hack through a warg’s leg?’ ” you mocked.

“I said it would be a good challenge for him,” Fíli said, leading the way back to the tents. 

“What did he say to that?”

He leaned to your ear. “You don’t want to know.”

As Fíli studied the tables of the shops, running hardened fingers over knitted scarves, lifting bars of soap to his nose for a sniff, taking in the shine of intricately decorated blades, your attention was pulled to the other end of the market. A fiddle in the corner slowly creaked into tune before erupting into a jig that was wealthily accompanied by a lute, a whistle, and a cajon drum. The shoppers barely paid the musicians any attention, but your feet couldn’t help but tap to the deep thumping of the hand drum. 

The music reminded you of home, but instead of sending you into a bout of homesick blues, the tune lifted your spirits and brought back fond memories of dancing around a crackling fire during crisp summer nights. Even the dance steps that you hadn’t performed in years came flooding back to your mind and soon, your feet. Heel, toe, hop ‘n turn. Kick, ball change, circle round. Not a soul in the small village’s plaza around you seemed at all moved by the music and though you itched to dance, you turned your bopping head back to the tables.

It seemed your yearning to enjoy the music hadn’t gone unnoticed.

You let out a surprised noise when an arm wrapped around your waist and a hand yanked you to spin around. Only when the tents stopped revolving around you were you able to focus on a bright grin and messy, brown hair.

“Kíli!”

“I know you want to dance, lass. Come on.”

He led you, hopping in time with the speeding fiddle, to the center of the square. Together you circled through the gathering crowd with precision and speed like a pair of bumblebees through a lush garden.

“Kíli!” You heard Fíli’s voice. “Not so fast!”

But Kíli spun you around him, yelling, “She doesn’t need your protection all the time, brother!” 

You laughed- even now the brothers bickered! But it added to your amusement. However, as Kíli lost himself in the fun, he also led you too close to the market tables and captivated audience members and you soon wished Kíli would heed his brother’s advice. 

You squeaked his name in fear as the fabric of your trousers caught on the corner of a display table of glass trinkets. It was clear he paid your worries no mind. Instead of slowing his lead, he chuckled lowly in return and tightened his grip on you, balling your tunic in his fist before he whirled you around him once more.

“I gotcha, (Y/N),” he said. 

Then the music shifted. You raced out of his arms into the open, unobstructed space where he could stand across from you like an opponent ready to lunge. 

“I love this song!” you cried as the fiddle weaved into a familiar tune- one that filled your heart with melodies and memories of adolescence. Your nerves seemed to disappear, as did the years since you’d learned the traditional dance of the dwarvish culture, and every nuance of the jig came flooding back to your memory. 

“Kíli! Remember the steps?” you asked as you hopped around him, hands on your hips and head turning side to side. 

“Not a bit!” he said, attempting to keep up with you anyway. 

Your sight grew blurry with laughter as you watched his stuttering feet, but when you looked up, you saw you weren’t alone in the dance. Others from the village had joined in. You were now surrounded by a hive of hoofers, some forming graceful and evolving formations, others giggling and stepping on unsuspecting toes. All was just as it used to be when you celebrated feast days in your own home town.

The musicians played louder and faster, encouraged by the participation and indulgence they saw before them. The sound of echoing claps brought your attention to the edge of the crowd while you continued your dance with the well known steps. There, Gandalf was grinning at you, lifting his hands to applaud you. Beneath him stood Bilbo, hairy feet tapping, hopping, and stepping in place so as not to get trampled by the sturdy, and quite passionate dwarves. Even Thorin and Dwalin seemed a bit beguiled, but as your head swiveled round you couldn’t find the dwarf you were looking for. 

You leapt on top of the large stone fountain in the center of the square, skittering around its edge and looking for a golden head of hair. But it was nowhere to be found. Even your frolicing heart sank a bit at the thought of Fíli missing this fun. 

“Kíli!” you cried as he bounced past. “Where’s your brother?”

He gave no answer and instead knocked at the back of your knees, plucking your legs out from under you. You fell from the high fountain, too startled to scream, but not too surprised to give Kíli a good smack on the shoulder when he caught you. Through the village plaza he raced, carrying you in his arms like a dangerous bird through the whirlpool of bees. You hid your face in his vest as he narrowly missed a few of the villagers, only opening your eyes when he set you safely on the ground. Before you, Thorin and Dwalin shook their heads, sporting deep smirks and cocked brows. 

Lucky for Kíli, by the time you turned around to catch him, he had vanished, safely hidden in the crowd of dancing dwarves. A bright pat pat came to your ears, sounding just over the music and when realization of its origin dawned over you, you grinned. “Are those… tapping toes I see, Mister Dwalin?”

Dwalin shared a look with Thorin. “I see no such thing, little lass.”

“Come and dance,” you said. You took his hand, finding it before it could disappear behind his back, and pulled. He didn’t budge. 

“Find yourself a different dance partner, (Y/N). There are many here,” he said, sliding his hand from your grasp. 

“Come now, Mister Dwalin,” you said. There was a twinkle in your eye that he recognized. It seemed you had learned a few things from Kíli in your weeks of traveling together at the company’s caboose. “Don’t be boring.”

“Oh, I’m boring, am I?”

“Yes!”

You had no time to run from him. One moment you were standing firm on the ground, the next you were in his arms being spun like the wheel of a wagon. The sky reeled, puffy clouds blurring into long white circles and dancing dwarves into blears and blobs of color. You screwed your eyes shut to save your frenzied mind, but it plainly made the dizzying effect worse. 

“Dwalin!” 

You screamed over the music, but the sound seemed to evaporate into the swirling air around you. Even when your feet eventually touched the flat ground, you were still twirled by your hands, shoulders, and waist. Just when the tormentor had finally relented, a familiar, smooth voice distracted you just enough for one foot to trip over the other and send you hurdling to the ground. Luckily, someone caught you.

“Are you all right?”

You opened your eyes to a blur of gold. It was Fíli who had caught you and you now lay in his able arms, helpless to stand. 

“I called Dwalin boring.”

“Oh, not your smartest idea, lass,” Fíli said, slowly moving you upright. 

You held his shoulders as your head continued to spin. “I think I may need a moment,” you said.

Fíli chuckled. “Let’s go sit, hm?” He led you to the fountain, watching just one of your wobbly steps before deciding to lift you in his arms once more and carry you to the stone seat. It was a smooth wave of movement you didn’t at all mind enduring. Once sat, he smoothed your hair behind your ear, marveling at your lips that were still grinning, even as you rocked back and forth in the aftermath of Dwalin’s “dancing.”

“Where were you?” you asked him. 

“Why? Did you want a better dance partner than Kíli?” he asked. You just saw his wink.

“Your brother is a good dancer!” you said with a slap to his shoulder. “He just dances to his own beat.”

Presently, Kíli was arm in arm with Bofur, skipping and hopping through the other dancers with precious little grace. You waved as they passed. Bofur barely made it past the fountain with Kíli’s dangerous lead. You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“If you can call that dancing,” Fíli chuckled. His form had finally stopped swaying in your vision. “When you can stand on your own again, I’ll have to show you how it’s really done.”

You nudged his shoulder with yours. “Why do you think I was looking for you in the first place?”

As the afternoon passed, other members of the company shopped through the market with notably lifted spirits. However, as the sun slid through the sky, it stretched gangly shadows of the pair who still made their perch on the fountain in the middle of the village plaza. Though you protested, sure Fíli had many other things to do rather than sit and listen to the music with you, he remained by your side, clapping to the beat as his feet collided with your swaying boots every once in a while. 

It wasn’t until the sun had completely disappeared behind the horizon that Kíli ran back into the square calling for his brother.

“Fíli! Have either of you moved all afternoon? We’ve been waiting for you at the inn.”

Fíli sputtered and stood, pulling you to your feet. “No, I lost track of time.” He sandwiched you between him and his brother as you followed Kíli through the small streets to the inn. A heavy hand on your new pack kept you close when dwarves filled some especially crowded pathways. 

When the inn came into view on the far end of the lane Kíli turned over his shoulder and said, “There are taverns full of beer and food all over this village and you two spend the entire day sitting on a rock in the sun!”

You shook your head. “I would much rather spend the day outside in the sunshine than in a dark bar, getting a sore belly from too much ale and smelly dwarves.”

Kíli, of course, had something to say about your reaction but you didn’t hear his reply. You were too distracted by Fíli leaning to your ear and running his fingers past your hand. 

“And I’d much rather spend the day with you than anyone else,” Fíli said.

Before you could discern his exact meaning, his hand found your back and led you through the door to the tavern. The moment you stepped through the threshold of the bar, he seemed to disappear, joining his uncle and helping to make the arrangements for the company’s overnight stay.

He stood tall next to Thorin- shoulders back, hands on his belt before one rose to shake that of the inn owner as Thorin dropped a few coins on the counter. Despite the months of travel, his clothes and hair were neat, even shining in the low light of the dark tavern. He turned over his shoulder and immediately found you watching him, giving you a high browed look as if he caught you stealing a treat from the kitchens. 

“That’s a nice pack, (Y/N).” Kíli’s voice interrupted your long distance facial feature conversation with Fíli. 

You hummed. “Thank you.”

The first thing you did when you reached your private room was bathe. You were given a large tub full of steaming water and fresh soap- no fish, plants, sharp rocks or sweating dwarves in sight. It should have been the most soothing event to occur in the past weeks. However, instead of relaxing and sinking deep into warmth and peace, your mind whirred and your body remained tense. Before the water had even run cool, you leapt out of the tub and dressed to run across the hall.

The hair by your neck was still damp and curling by the time you knocked on Fíli’s door. But it was Kíli who answered. You should have known they’d be sharing a room.

“Is Fíli in here?”

“Yeah, he’s in the bath. You want him?”

“No,” you said, jealousy rising and peaking above even your frustration at your endless jitters. “Will you just tell him I wanted to speak with him?”

“It’s not about the pack, is it?” Kíli asked.

“What? No-”

“Because he just wanted to give you something he knew you needed. It doesn’t even really count! He’s told me how badly he wants to make your gift, but there aren’t exactly any forges he can take advantage of while-”

Fíli’s voice stopped him. “Kíli! Who are you talking to, brother?”

“(Y/N)!” Kíli answered.

“(Y/N), our (Y/N)?” On the other side of the open door, you could hear water slosh onto the floor accompanied by Fíli’s incomprehensible grumbling. Then he peeked around the door with a sheepish smile. You could just see the soaked ends of his hair sending streams of water down his bare chest. “What were you two talking about?”

“The pack-”

“I just wanted to speak with you,” you said over Kíli. “Not right now. Later. When you’re… ready. I’m across the hall.”

Fíli nodded, forcing a smile that looked more like a wince. It didn’t reach his now stormy eyes. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

“Take your time,” you got out as he slammed the door shut.

Before you stepped back into your own room you heard Kíli cry out, “What! What did I do?” 

You closed your own door quickly, not wanting to eavesdrop any more. But it didn’t stop you from thinking about what Kíli had said. Had Fíli wanted to make you a pack once Erebor was reclaimed? Why would you need it then? Maybe Thorin was planning to ask you to travel back to Ered Luin once it was safe to lead the people back to the mountain. Imagine a trip free of wargs and orcs, you thought. 

You jumped when the door vibrated with his knock. 

“Come in, Fíli.”

You had never seen his hair loose and untied before. Its waves fell around his face like sweet rays of sun and the dripping ends left sheer wet clouds on the chest of his tunic. Did Kíli usually braid his hair? Had their mother taught them the traditional styles? Or did Fíli do it himself, never needing to ask for help with something so trivial? You were sure you could manage it. The braids weren’t so intricate and they were similar to yours if you thought about it. Which you often did.

He was looking at you with that “caught ya” grin again. “What did you want to talk about, lass?”

You turned, digging through your pack that was laid out on the bed. “Not so much talk,” you said. “I wanted you to have these.” In your hands sat the strap you had been admiring from the market. While you were alone in the morning, you’d paid to have it fashioned into a scabbard and a matching pair of bracers. It was simply coincidence that the pattern on your new pack happened to match these gifts you’d picked for Fíli. “I saw the engraving and immediately thought you’d like it. I know your bracers were torn by the trolls a few weeks back.”

He looked at you before he took the gifts. You couldn’t quite place his expression, you were sure that even after months of traveling together you’d never seen it before. He flipped the bracers over and could have seen his reflection in the shine of the buckles. They were immaculate and new- obviously made this morning- however they seemed comfortably broken in as if they’d been worn for days previously. He could imagine what custom gifts like these would have cost you.

“I can’t take these.”

You waved his hands away. “Fíli, please accept my gift,” you said, repeating his words from earlier in the day.

He ran his rounded fingertips over the familiar triangular etchings and hummed. “Thank you, (Y/N). They’re perfect.”

“You like them?” you asked. Your nerves were starting to build again, as you took one of the bracers from him. “Are you sure? I was wondering if these straps were long enough. I can go back to the seller in the morning and get them adjusted-”

His hand covered yours. “They’ll fit fine.”

“And you like them? They’ll be of use?”

“I love them.” He set the leather pieces in the seat of a chair by the door. “However, I believe there is still one thing you owe me.” His eyes shined. Mischievous. He too had learned a few things from his little brother.

“Oh?”

You let him lace his fingers in yours and wrap an arm around you. “I never got my dance.”

“Ah,” you said, melting into his embrace. “And I suppose you’ll tell me we don’t need music?”

“You read my mind.” You could just feel his thumb waving back and forth against your tunic as he seemed to tuck you into the crook of his elbow. “And just for you, I’ll go very slow. Can’t have you getting dizzy again.”

“My hero.”

He hummed and held his cheek to yours. His skin was so warm- not from the bath, not from his soft, thick beard blanketing the side of your face, but just from Fíli. He glowed. Finally, you were close enough to feel the beams radiating from him and you couldn’t stop yourself from burrowing into the heat, eyelashes tickling his skin, nose nestling into silky, clean hair. You bathed in his sunlight, blinded to anything other than his arms around you and chest supporting you, his lips caressing the side of your head. 

“Dizzy?” he asked.

“A little.” 

“Me too.”

He only just rocked you back and forth, barely swaying as if to merely keep up the pretence of dancing. Safe in his arms, he led you along to the melodies of your beating hearts, steady breaths and unspoken confessions. You leaned your head on his shoulder and that tiny movement seemed to break a spell. Fíli’s voice, however, brought a new kind of magic.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what Kíli meant?”

You breathed out a laugh, sending cool air over his neck that made him shiver around you. “I was going to let you tell me when you were ready.”

“(Y/N), I’ve been ready.” You lifted your head, but he tightened his grip on you, keeping you close to him. “The pack was meant to be a courting gift- a proposal. But you deserve much more than that. I want to make something for you with my own hands. Something grand and gorgeous that you could love forever and would possibly begin the greatest adventure of our lives.” He swept tender fingers through your hair and held your cheek, feeling his own warmth still radiating from your skin. “But I don’t know how long it will be before I can do that for you and I don’t want to wait that long. I don’t want to wait another moment, so I’m asking you now. Will you allow me to court you?”

“Yes.” You nodded. “Yes.” You turned your face into his hand and kissed his palm. “But Fíli, of course I want to treasure something you’ve made for me and have it with me always, but what matters to me is being with you. I don’t need gifts. Only you.”

You saw his radiant smile before he pulled you close, pressing his forehead to yours. The tip of his nose nuzzled yours and then settled. The two of you shared the same air for long, peaceful moments, before he went digging into his trouser pocket. 

“Wait,” he said, drawing away. He pulled out a hair piece, the one he wore on the bottom of his backmost braid, and held it flat in his palm. “I have this. I can secure a courting braid with it, though it’s a tad unusual.” He took your chin in his fingers, running his thumb back and forth. “It can be a placeholder.”

Pride bubbled in your chest. You kissed him. “A placeholder.”

Taglist: @emrfangirl​ @misslongcep​ @raindancer2004​ @ladybugg1235​ @xxbyimm​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @fire-flv​ @nerdbirdsworld​ @dashesofink​ @teagarages​ @dreams-of-wander​ @winchesterandpie​ @bluebellcotton @tumblinglringlring @fxngsfogxarty @specialagentsnark @afeistyfairy12 @queenofmankind @karlthecat15722 @sagabriar @marymegger @daydreamer-in-training @aidan-kili-mitchell-forever

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Speaking of home movies can we imagine; late at night, Ryan watching old home movies of him and Danny, thinking everyone is asleep. Nate walks in from behind and sees how Danny was before Bram. A little kid running around the yard with the same red hair and the same eyes, but now they are filled with joy instead of fear. Corrine's voice says how handsome her boys are. And maybe he watches from the doorway and sees Ryan with tears running down his cheeks as he takes another sip from his drink.

(tagging @finder-of-rings, @bleeding-demon-teeth, @special-spicy-chicken, @spiffythespook, and @whumpywhumper since I feel like this got long enough to count...

TIMELINE: Immediately after I Have Never Been Brave)

“What’s that?”

The little boy’s finger points, and the woman smiles down at him indulgently. “That’s a gardenia, darling.”

“Gar-deen-ya.” The boy considers, then nods all at once, and races to the next section of flowers. The woman, dark-skinned and with her thick dark hair pulled back low against her neck, followed him. She’s wearing a white linen dress that sets off the brown of her skin beautifully, and there is a second boy who hangs back beside her, younger than the first.

The second, younger boy looks like her - brown-skinned, black-haired with a wild riot of curls that don’t seem to know what to do with themselves. He holds the woman’s hand and toddles behind. “Danny! Danny! Danny wait! Wait for Mama an’ Ryan!” The little boy looks up at the woman. “Mama, he not waiting for us.”“That’s okay,” The woman replies, in a low, melodic voice. She holds out one hand and a butterfly alights on it, opening and closing its wings very slowly. “He hasn’t seen these kinds of flowers before, baby. This is all new to him.”

“He not seen flowers?” The little boy watches the butterfly, and when the woman crouches down and lowers her hand, the boy’s eyes nearly cross to keep the butterfly in his vision. 

“The yard where he came from was all paved in concrete, baby. Like our driveway, but his whole yard.” She holds out her hand. The toddler boy holds his hand out, too, and the butterfly seems to walk from her finger into the palm of the boy’s hand. “He has to learn about flowers just a little later than you do. I think he loves them.”

“I think so, too, Mama. I also think that. He loves flowers. I love flowers too because Danny loves flowers.” The boy nods, solemnly, but his eyes are still on the butterfly. “Can Danny hold the flutter too?”

“No, sweetheart. They won’t come to him.” The woman looks up, and lets out a burst of laughter, just as a redheaded tornado bowls into the both of them, nearly knocking Ryan over in his enthusiasm. “Danny! What is it?”

Danny holds out a fistful of purple flowers in both hands, pushing half of them at the woman and half at the little boy. “They said I could have these! They said so!”

“Well, yes, honey,” The woman replies, with an edge of laughter to her voice. “Those are violets, they grow wild. We have plenty in our yard, too.”

“But these violets came from here, and they were a gift,” Danny says, and his own face goes more serious. “And I want to give them to you, for taking me to the garden. Thank you, Mrs. Michaelson.”

The woman pauses, smiles a little, and ruffles his head hair. There’s a hint of real compassion on her face, something beyond the way she normally looks at the boy. The boy’s smile widens in return, wrinkling a face full of freckles that stand out against his pale skin, his blue eyes sparkling and so vibrant, brilliantly blue that they almost seem false in the old home video. She takes the handful of violets, already a little rumpled looking, and holds the to her nose to smell. “That’s lovely, sweetheart. Thank you, Danny, for giving me flowers.”

“Me also! I also want flowers!” Ryan says excitedly, and grabs the other handful from the older boy with delighted excitement, dropping two or three in the process. “Mama look! I have flowers too! He give me flowers!”

“Violets,” The woman says, with patient adoration for her youngest son. “Danny gave you violets.”

“Vye-let. Violet.” Ryan smiles, makes a show of also smelling them just like his mother did. “Mmmn, good smell.”

The woman laughs, and the older boy laughs a little bit, too. Then the woman makes a mock-stern face. “What do you say, darling, when someone does something nice for you?”

Ryan scrunches his face up in thought and the turns to Danny, throwing his arms around the older boy who is only a little taller than him. They are often mistaken for friends of the same age, only the way Danny’s face is angular and has less of the baby fat giving away that he is two full years older than his new adopted brother.

“Thank you, Danny,” Ryan says, squeezing tight, and Danny hugs him right back, giggling, the two of them rocking back and forth until finally they lose their balance and fall over, laughing madly in the grass. 

“Mrs. Michaelson, can we-… can we go play?” Danny looks up at her, and the camera catches the glint of something in the little boy’s eyes that might be tears. “While I get to see the gardens, can I play in them?”

“Of course, Danny. But… we can always come back here, you know.”

“We can?” Danny’s eyes light up, take up the whole screen even though he’s only a small part of the image caught there. “We can just come back?”

The woman laughs, gently, and pats him on the back as he stands, helps the littler boy stand, too. “Of course we can, Danny. All you have to do is ask me”

Danny hesitates, like he’s looking for the lie there, and then he slowly nods. “Okay. Okay, okay, okay. You mean it, though?” He holds up one hand, his face screwed into serious concentration, and holds out his little finger. “Pinky swear? You swear it?”

The woman grips his pinky with hers, a playful smile on her face as she nods. “I pinky swear. Cross my heart and hope to die-”

“-stick a needle in my eye,” Danny finishes. Then he flashes that brilliant smile again. “C’mon, Ryan, let’s go run.”

“Hooray!” The little boy shouts, throwing his arms in the air, violets flying everywhere around him. “Running!”

The two boys take off, and the woman pushes herself to her feet, watching them with her arms crossed in front of her. Then she turns back to the camera and says, in a slightly softer voice, “This is going really well, don’t you think?”

The camera turns off, and Ryan sits on the couch with a glass of wine in his hand, staring at the television screen as it flicks back to the baseline blue, movie ended.

It’s just a bad day, he tells himself. Just a Red day. Tomorrow Danny will get up, and he’ll have a Danny day, and they won’t go anywhere where people can talk to him or touch him without his consent. Tomorrow, they’ll keep him safe, and he’ll stay Danny all day long.

It was just a bad day.

“What’s th-th-that?” The voice asks behind him, and Ryan turns to see Nate watching him, wearing his pajama shirt and pants, hair rumpled from sleep. “Was th-that Danny?”

Ryan takes a deep breath, and he debates telling Vandrum to fuck off, but he’s lonely. And he misses his brother.

And it’s not Vandrum’s fault, not really, that Danny has bad days.

“Yeah. When he first came home with us. You want me to start it over? There’s a whole bunch of clips. Mrs. Verona used to follow us around with a camera all the time when Danny first came home.”

Nate hesitates, his eyes going from Ryan to the glass of water in his hand. Considering. Then he nods, and walks around the couch, dropping down onto the other end from Ryan. “Y-Yes, please. I w-w-want to see him… before.”

“Sure.” Ryan picks up the remote, starting the DVD over, smiling faintly to himself. “The first one I don’t remember… it’s the day he walked in the door with his little backpack and Vandrum, that backpack had every fucking thing he owned in the whole world. Some clothes, and a toothbrush and comb, and this stupid fucking stuffed puppy he slept with until he was sixteen.” Ryan pauses. “Don’t tell him I told you that.”

“C-Cross my heart,” Vandrum says, and Ryan can’t hold back the laugh. “And hope to d-d-d-die.”

“Stick a needle in my eye,” Ryan finishes, takes a drink, and presses PLAY.

[bubblemagician]

Merry Thneedmas Mads!

Eyy, I wrote this as my gift to @traveling-madness, I hope it isn't TOO out of character, I definitely took some liberties because I couldn't ask you or else the surprise would be ruined. That being said, I really hope you enjoy this despite it being extremely sad and depressing, but it was a very inspiring part of Clara's story and I'm happy I could get a chance to write her!

“Any progress on the Leandres case, Roberto? Anything- anything at all?” The redhead spoke with an urgency that was borderline manic.

“I’m sorry Clara, I’m following all the leads But-”

“You’re not trying hard enough! Don’t you understand, ABBY HAS BEEN MISSING FOR TWO WEEKS NOW!?”

Roberto winced at her voice and immediately Clara felt awful. She knew her fellow officers were trying their hardest to find Abby, it wasn’t fair to take out the stress of losing her best friend on them. Especially not in the middle of the late shift at the police station.

“I’m sorry…” She swallowed “I’m sorry, Roberto”

“It’s okay, Clara. I know this is hard on you. We’ll find her, okay?” Roberto gave Clara an encouraging nod “We’ll definitely-”

“Esther.” A voice commanded interrupting the two officers. Clara’s fists clenched hearing the Chief’s voice, she did NOT have the capacity to deal with him right now.

“Yes, Chief?” She answered througH gritted teeth.

“What’s the commotion here?” He leered at her. Roberto quickly stood from his desk.

“It’s nothing Chief Ruben! Officer Esther was just-” the man injected, trying to dissuade the much older man from Clara

“I didn’t ask for you to speak, Diaz. Get back to work. Esther, in my office now.”

Roberto gave Clara a hopeless look but Clara shook her head. It was ok, she’d get this over with and then continue to investigate what she could on Abby’s case. Sullenly she followed the crooked cop into his office.

“You’re distraught, Esther.” The chief took a seat at his desk and stared at her with a piercing look. Clara knew there was no sympathy in that gaze, only dishonorable intent.

“I’m fine” she answered automatically, folding her arms over her stomach.

“You’ve been acting up since the Leandres kidnapping.” He retorted “Don’t think I haven’t noticed an even sharper decline in your work, Clara”

Her skin crawled at the way he said her name, but she persevered “Nothing has affected my cases, SIR.”

In fact she had been flying through her paperwork so she could spend all her remaining time and resources to find Abby. Walter Ruben was BS-ing as usual, trying to put her down and degrade her.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to my in tray-” she turned to leave

“Clara.” He said again in his sleazy tone “I’m watching you”

The officer clenched her fists “Yes, Chief.” And she left as quickly as she could to get away from the creep who was unfortunately her boss.

~

RRRRINGGG

Clara bolted up from bed at the sound of her phone. She blinked in the dark (it had to be past midnight) and reached for the device “Hello?”

“Clara? It’s Roberto.”

Immediately the cop Sat straight up in her bed, clutching the phone to her ear. “Any news??”

“Maybe? It’s just speculation at this point, technically I shouldn’t even be telling anyone-”

“What did you find, Diaz?” Clara’s heart was beating erratic, hoping, PRAYING for something- anything to find Abby.

“There was a kidnapping from the local elementary school and…”

Clara got up and paced around to keep herself from trembling “Go on”

“Well the witnesses say the man had a woman in the back of his car- fitting the description of Abigail Leandres”

Clara dropped to her knees, holding back a sob. Finally after combing through every lead she had gotten some sign that Abby WAS alive.

But she must have been in terrible danger.

“I need to find her” dropped out of her mouth as she pulled on a coat.

“Clara, you can’t! We’re working on it, don’t get involved, Chief is already hard on you, don’t give him another reason-”

“Send me the coordinates of the perimeter you’re investigating.” Was all she said before she hung up.

~

The cop made her way down the road in her police cruiser, alarms silent and lights off. She was technically off duty, if Rueben caught her using precinct gear off the clock she’d be in a world of trouble. She could usually weasel her way out of these kind of situations but the damn chief just had it out for her.

Besides, finding her best friend was the most important thing right now.

She felt an ache in her heart, remembering her entire childhood with Abby right there by her side. Always supportive, always caring, always there with a loaf of garlic bread when Clara was feeling down.

How the heck a cops best friend was kidnapped right under Clara’s nose made her stomach churn with anger at herself.

She HAD to get Abby back.

The cop scanned the dark homes, most lights were out, the occasional dog barked. But it was otherwise silent in this neighborhood. No signs of the missing child, and definitely no sign of Abby.

Wait what was that?

Clara perked her ears as she heard a thud, followed by a shrill cry. A child’s cry.

There was no way any kid would be awake at this hour. Clara jumped out the car, not even bothering to take out the keys as she crept up to the run down house ahead of her.

As she approached, she could hear the faint sounds of sobbing. Following the noise she saw the tiny grilled opening of the basement, mostly dark, but she could sense people in there.

Straining her ears to listen she crept towards the small gap. Yes, a child was crying and a voice snarled.

“Shut up!” Male, mid 40s possibly, definitely angry. “You had better keep quiet or I’ll cut that tongue straight out of your mouth!”

A door slammed and the kids voice quieted.

Clara felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise and fury seep throughout her. She was about to March up to the house and kick the crap out oc whoever was abusing this child when suddenly she paused.

“Shh…it’ll be OK.” A soft voice tried to comfort the child “Someone will come rescue us…”

Abby.

Clara’s vision blurred, and in a moment she was up on her feet, at the front door. Kicking it with strength she wasn’t aware she had, she entered the decrepit household.

“What the-” the voice from earlier was a filthy looking middle aged man, standing in front of a basement door, holding a roll of duct tape and glaring at the cop.

“This is the Police” Clara felt the words tumble out her mouth as she unholstered her gun and pointed it at the man’s face “Put your hands up”

The criminal looked daggers at Clara and promptly ran down the basement steps. Clara screeched and shot at his retreating back but the bullets missed as he made his way down. Clara raced after him.

“Stop! There’s no where for you to run!” Clara screamed out.

“Clara!?” Abby’s voice called out in surprise.

“HELP! HELP US PLEASE!” The child must have screamed with everything in its lungs.

“Shut up!” The man hissed and Clara’s heart stopped as the sickening sound of a rifle echoed and her fears were confirmed as she came across the freshly bloodied corpse of the small child laying at the bottom of the basement.

Clara looked up from the scene. The man was holding the rifle against Abby’s ribs, but his eyes were fixed on Clara.

“Let me go, or this one’s next” He growled at the officer.

“Don’t- don’t let him, Clara!” Abby pleaded, eyes looking desperately at her best friend.

The crook cocked his still smoking weapon, pushing it into Abby. Abby gave a whimper and shook her head at Clara.

Clara’s heart was thundering like a stallion. She stepped closer as adrenaline rushed throughout her veins. If only she’d gotten here half a second sooner.

“Alright!” Clara lowered her arm “Alright, I won’t hurt you, I won’t shoot. Just please… Please let her go”

Despite wanting to fight, in a hostage situation, she had to relent. And Abby’s safety was more important than getting justice for the deceased child at her feet.

The man wickedly stepped aside the cop, dragging Abby with him towards the staircase.

Having a clear path up the stairs, he finally shoved the frightened woman towards Clara.

“Abby!” Clara grabbed her in her arms. Abby’s clothes were ripped and covered in blood and dirt but the red head had never been more relieved to see her. “Abby! I’m-” a sob escaped her throat as she cried “Abby I’m so sorry I couldn’t find you”

Abigail clung to Clara, crying profusely as she tried to comfort her “You’re here now” she sobbed “You’re-”

The sound of Abby’s soothing voice immediately silenced as the CRACK of a bullet shattered through the air.

“Abby!? ABBY!” Clara screamed as Abby’s eyes widened in shock and pain as a bloom of fresh blood started to grow over her heart, soaking her shirt and Clara’s uniform in red.

The murderer stood at the basement stairs, grinning maniacally as Abby expired in Clara’s arms, eyes once so bright and full of life fading into a stony cold emptiness.

“Abby…” Clara’s voice broke “Abby please…”

But it was too late. She was gone.

Clara couldnt move. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t breathe as everything around her seemed to close in, seemed to suffocate her as she slowly lost feeling in her body, sinking to the ground with what remained of her best friend for over twenty years.

Abby. Abby. Abby.

The image of her empty eyes was burned into Clara’s mind. She sat there for what seemed like hours.

But it was only a second. The sound of the murderer’s footsteps running up the stairs amplified in Clara’s ears.

HE killed her.

A gear switched within the cop and she was on her feet, racing after the killer. The pig, the damned murderer who took away ABBY.

Gun in hand, Clara was after him as he went out the house straight towards her cruiser.

“Stop! STOP!” She cried in an unearthly scream at the man. But he had no intention of being arrested. Jumping into the car, he turned on the ignition.

The sound of glass breaking into a trillion pieces followed the echo of the police bullet finding it’s way between the man’s eyes.

Clara stood on the driveway, glass shards ripping her bloodied uniform as the police glock smoked in her hands. The criminal was slumped over the steering wheel of her car, bleeding a puddle onto the dashboard.

Clara heard screams and gasps as the neighborhood seemed to wake up. Murmurs and voices, curious, frightened, aghast.

But the cop was frozen in place.

Sirens bared loudly as the police approached, but Clara was a world away.

“Clara…” Roberto’s voice reached her, but just barely. The younger cop had to pull her into an ambulance so the paramedics could look her over. But despite all the people surrounding her, Clara was numb.

Abby was lost forever. And she, Clara.

She’d Killed.

“It’s okay, Clara…” Roberto’s voice sounded “You tried your best, you stopped the murderer… He can never hurt anyone again… You’re a hero…”

Clara hardly listened as she saw medics wheel away the body of the child, the body of the crook. The body of her best friend.

If she was a hero… This certainly didn’t feel like a heroic win.

[atc74]

A Study in Love - Part 2

Title: A Study in Love - Part Two (This will be a three part mini-series)

Square Filled: none for this part

Rating: R for this part for explicit sexual content, but extreme amounts of disgusting fluff. Rob is a dreamboat, really. YES that is a warning!

Summary: Reader x Rob are friends attending the same college and he assists her in studying for a final. What happens when Rob finds out the reader is spending Christmas alone on campus?

Word Count: 3072

Characters: Rob Benedict, Reader, Brenda and Eddie (OC’s)

Series Masterlist

A/N: I have modeled my reader after Briana because she is just so beautiful and when I saw that picture of her and Rob together I knew I had to do it. I make no apologies. Thank you to @just-another-busy-fangirl for her constant advice and support, and for being my go to beta, as I navigate the craziness that is this bingo!

Part 2

It was Christmas Eve and you had just returned home. You had worked today and brought home a few different dishes from the restaurant where you worked; chicken fettuccine alfredo, a carbonara and two slices of lasagna. The head chef also packed you salad and bread. You were set for the week and the restaurant was closed for two whole days. Glancing at your watch, it was only half past five; you had time for a shower then dinner before sitting down and starting the next episode of ‘A Christmas Story’ on cable.

Fresh out of the shower, you left your hair in a towel, pulled on your flannel pants, an old hoodie over a tight tank and fuzzy socks then padded back out to the kitchenette. You made a quick salad, tossed a bowl of pasta in the microwave and checked your email while you waited. A soft knock on your door startled you. You knew for a fact that there was no one else on your floor for at least another week. You tiptoed to the door, grabbing your umbrella as you passed the closet, holding it behind your head like a bat.

“Who is it?” you demanded sharply, one hand on the handle, one on the umbrella.

“Y/N, it’s Rob,” the voice answered on the other side of the door.

“What?” you wondered.

“Rob. Rob Benedict, Eddie’s roommate…” he reminded you.

You shook your head and opened the door to Rob, who immediately held up his hands in defense. “I know who you are. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at home?”

“I would feel more comfortable answering that if you could put the umbrella down,” Rob replied, rubbing one hand across the back of his neck, the other pointing at the umbrella still clutched tightly in your hands.

“Oh, yeah, sorry ‘bout that; wasn’t really expecting anyone for another week or so,” you snickered, sensing his nervousness, stowing the umbrella back in the closet. “Rob, what are you doing here?”

“Well, I spent a whole week with my mother and although I love her, I was probably very close to being suffocated to death. We celebrated yesterday with my family and it just didn’t feel right, you here all alone, so I hopped a bus this morning and came back,” Rob admitted. “I come bearing gifts…” He held out a small gift bag.

“Rob, you didn’t have to get me anything,” you waved him off, shaking your hair out of the towel and combing your fingers through it.

“I know, and technically I didn’t get it for you, but for the both of us. Truth be told, I lifted it from my mothers cellar,” he grinned sheepishly, holding up two bottles. “Bottle of red? Bottle of white?”

“It all depends upon your appetite,” you replied, offering him his choice of pasta. He opted for the same as you were having and you doubled the portions as he uncorked the white wine and poured some into the coffee mugs you had taken out. You sat down on the floor, using the coffee table and began eating, the television playing low in the background. Rob filled you in on his Christmas and you entertained him with stories of your worst customers over the last week. The bottle of white was now empty and Rob got up to clear the table and returned with the second bottle.

“That’s not even all of it,” you shook your head and a shudder overtook your body at the thought.

“What? What else happened?” Rob probed you for more information, a concerned look on his face.

“This, guy... some drunken creep is more like it, he grabbed my ass last night,” you revealed. “My manager kicked him out, but he is a local and he’ll probably be back.” You looked up and were taken aback, having never seen the look on Rob’s face before that he was giving you. It was a cross between sadness and anger; you had only ever seen him stressed or happy.

“That is not okay. I am so sorry that you had to go through that. No one should touch you without your permission, ever,” he growled, but his face now conveyed something else, as he reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from your face. You closed your eyes at the ghosting of his fingers over your skin.

“Rob…” you whispered. “I give you permission.”

His hand cupped your cheek near your ear, long fingers tangling in your hair. He leaned closer, his hot breath fanning over your face and your eyes fluttered shut at the first feel of his lips on yours, just a brush of skin on skin, a barely there kiss. A soft moan rumbled through his chest and you pressed forward just enough to feel the warmth of him seep through his lips to yours.

A content sigh left your mouth and Rob took the leap, his tongue sweeping across your lips, hesitantly licking at the inside of your mouth. You could taste the slight sweetness of the wine, the tang from the dressing and the bitter garlic left behind by the bread. Your senses were on overload as you opened freely, wanting to taste more of him.

You reached out and cupped the back of his head, playing with the short curls you found there. Rob tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and you felt like you were flying. That first perfect kiss wasn’t like fireworks at all; pyrotechnics were starting. It was like watching a butterfly float on the breeze on a warm spring day, peaceful and serene. You broke apart, barely breathing, your mouth slightly agape, eyes still closed, taking in the moment.

Rob’s thumb lightly caressed your cheek where it rested and your eyes fluttered open and met his. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you whimpered at the loss of his lips. “That was…”

“It was about time I did that,” Rob smiled down at you and leaned in for another taste. What could have been minutes or hours or days passed, the two of you laying on your floor reveling in the taste of each other, pressed tightly together, until you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“I like this,” you whispered into his shirt as you lay cuddled in your bed, still clothed.

“I like you. I just wish I would have said something earlier,” Rob pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I could have been kissing you for months!”

“I like you, too. We have two more weeks until Brenda gets back. What are we going to do?” you pondered, looking up at him through dark lashes.

“Stay right here, maybe move to the couch once in a while; can’t let our muscles atrophy,” he snickered, pulling you tighter to him.

“There are plenty of ways we can exercise those muscles,” you trailed off, your neck craning up to kiss him. He growled and pulled you up so you were laying on top of him, his hands holding you firmly to his body.

“Don’t tempt me, Y/N. I have wanted this - you - for so long, I don’t even remember what it was like not to want you. I waited this long, I can wait some more. We don’t have to rush this, you’re worth the wait,” Rob professed.

“Are you serious? That long?” you marveled, looking down on him from atop his chest.

“Basically since day one. Remember that econ class with Professor Joel? He was a terrible teacher, but entertaining. But yeah, since then,” Rob recalled with a laugh.

“Boy, we really have wasted an entire year and half,” you said under your breath.

“Yeah, we did. But it’s late, let’s sleep on it and see where this takes us, huh?” Rob suggested, rolling you both to your sides so he could sit up and remove his jeans as you slipped your hoodie off, sliding back under the covers.

“Good night, Rob,” you mumbled, sleep already taking over.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N. Sweet dreams,” he murmured, kissing your forehead gently and closing his eyes.

~*~

You rolled over, feeling the spot next to you empty, a small frown pulling at your lips. You grumbled and pulled the covers back up over your head; the small breeze it created brought a familiar and desirable scent with it: coffee. Flipping the comforter back, you took a deep breath in through your nose, a smile finding its way to your face. Hopping out of bed earlier than you expected to on your first day off in a week, you rushed to the bathroom. With your business out of the way and teeth brushed, you examined your face in the mirror. Your cheeks were flushed, maybe from sleep, maybe from the realization that Rob liked you just as much as you like him.

You ran a finger over your lips, rosy and slightly swollen from the hours spent kissing the man you had liked since your first day of classes. Rob’s beard did something to you and the evidence was all over your face. Smiling to yourself, you made your way to the small kitchenette, the promise of coffee calling your name like a siren. Two steps out of the bathroom and your dorm room swung open, Rob slipping through and trying to shut the door quietly. He had a takeout bag in one hand, but he didn’t see you standing there.

“And just what do you think you are doing, Mister?” your voice broke the silence and scared Rob so much, he jumped back about a foot. You clutched your belly and your body bent over laughing.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N! You scared the shit outta me!” Rob dropped the bag on the counter after he removed his boots and coat, stowing them in the closet. “I thought you would still be sleeping.”

“I was, but I woke up and you were missing from my bed and it was cold...and I had to pee. Where did you slip out to?” You wrapped your arms around his neck as you stepped closer to each other. “I missed you.”

“Yeah?” He pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, his tongue gliding over them, giving you just a taste of him - mint and a hint of coffee.

“Mmm hmm, but first coffee. We have the next two days to make out and other things,” you replied suggestively before releasing your grip on him and making for the coffee pot. “Sooo, what’s in the bag?”

“A surprise. Coffee first, remember?” he laughed, his arms closing around your waist as you fixed your coffee just the way you liked it. “Cream, easy on the sugar, just a hint of sweetness.”

“Mmmmmm, heaven. You and coffee? I can get used to this,” you sighed, content with your morning so far as the coffee settled in your stomach. “Okay, I have coffee and you. Now what’s in the bag, sir?” You turned around in his arms, pecking him on the lips.

“I grabbed breakfast. Luckily, our favorite place was open and I didn’t have to resort to doughnuts,” Rob informed you as he let him hand slide to yours, grabbing the bag as he lead you to the loveseat.

“Is that what I think it is?” Your mouth was already watering at the thought.

“Chocolate chip pancakes with extra whipped cream from the Parkway Diner, with a side of bacon.” Rob opened the two take out containers and placed them on the table. He laid out napkins and plastic utensils. He barely had popped the covers off and you already had one finger dipping into the sweet cream, popping it into your mouth. “Hey!”

“Want some?” you repeated the process and held your finger in front of his mouth. Rob didn’t hesitate as he leaned forward. He opened his mouth and snaked out his tongue running it up the length of your digit, curling the tip around as he licked the cream off. You heard a moan somewhere in the room and he laughed, which was the moment  when you realized it came from you.

You knew he could kiss after last night, but you felt a tightening in your abdomen, a fire filling your belly. Sitting up on your knees you grabbed his face with both hands and pulled him to you. He responded quickly, wrapping both arms around you and crashing his lips to yours. This kiss was so different from those you shared last night. This was hot and burning, lighting you up from the inside. He leaned forward and you slipped your legs out from underneath you, following his lead as he lowered you to your back, your legs on either side of his waist as he wedged himself between them, pancakes long forgotten.

Rob tilted his head slightly, his nose brushing yours as he deepened the kiss, his hands playing with the hem of your tank top. You pulled away for a breath, lifting your arms over your head, giving him permission to remove it. He looked you in the eye before breaking the silence. “You sure, Y/N? I told you last night we don’t need to rush this. I waited this long, a little longer won’t hurt.”

“Rob, I’m sure. We wasted a year and a half, I don’t want to wait anymore,” you whispered and he lifted your top, revealing your chest to him, your nipples turning to hard peaks as the cool air hit them. A breath caught in his throat.

“You’re even more beautiful than I imagined, honey. I want to make you feel good,” he murmured, his tongue already sneaking out between his lips as he lowered his head and took one rosy bud in his mouth, kneading the other with his hands, twisting the tip perfectly. You arched up into him as he switched his attention, fueling the fire. Your hands couldn't find his shirt fast enough; you wanted, needed, to feel his warm skin on yours.

“Rob…” you moaned as he resumed his place at your breast. You wiggled your hips as you tried to remove your pants with the hand that was not holding his head to you. He got your message and moved both his hands down, sliding into the waistband of your flannel bottoms and slipping them off of you in one fluid motion. “Yours, too.” Within seconds you both lay against each other, nothing separating you but your underwear. Rob rolled his hips as he settled back against you and you could feel his hardness as it pressed against your simple cotton panties, already wet.

“Rob, please…” you sounded needy and you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

“Tell me what you want, honey. Tell me how to make you feel good,” Rob’s beard tickled your neck as he licked lightly over your pulse point, before sucking a small mark there.

“I just want you inside me...now….please,” your words were broken as you felt and you hadn’t even had sex yet. “Condom?” He pulled away and reached down into his pants, pulling one out of his wallet. You took a moment to peel off your panties, tossing them over your head. He quickly ripped open the foil package and rolled it down his length after removing his own boxers. It was now time for your breath to catch in your throat. You weren’t sure what you were expecting. It wasn’t like he was a large guy, but you didn’t expect the whole package and then some.

Your body tensed and Rob quickly quelled your concerns, peppering you with kisses. “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you. I never want to hurt you.” You felt his hands on your soaking center. “You’re already so wet for me.” Rob lined himself up and slowly inched his way inside your hot channel.

“Ohhhh,” your breath came out in short gasps at the pressure, but he stilled his motions and you relaxed as he kissed you. The pressure soon gave way to pleasure as he pushed in another couple of inches. The fire spread through your veins as he slowly seated himself inside you fully.

“Oh God, Y/N, honey, you are so warm and tight,” Rob moaned. You could feel his arms shaking as he held himself above you. You gave your hips an experimental roll and pleasure rippled through you with the small motion. Rob growled lowly in his chest before pulling out and slowly thrusting back home. His pace was slow but steady, firm but loving.

“Oh God, Rob, faster. I need you to go faster,” your breaths come out in pants, sweat breaking out over your body.

Rob pulled one of your legs farther up his hip, changing the angle and thrusting faster. His forehead pressed to yours, slick with sweat. “Feel so good.”

“Oh yeah, that, yes, oh, God!” you screamed as each drag of his cock brushed you just perfectly, the friction of his pelvic bone rubbing just right. Rob had you falling over the edge faster than you had ever experienced before and you clenched around him, pulling him to his own release moments later.

Rob collapsed on top of you, but you were comforted and instinctively wrapped your arms around him, rubbing smooth circles over his back as it cooled. “I can’t believe we waited this long. Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

“Me neither. We’re never waiting that long for anything ever again. Merry Christmas, Baby,” you giggled and placed a quick kiss to his lips. “I worked up an appetite, let’s eat!”

Rob laughed and pulled out of you, both of you wincing at the feel. He got up and headed to the bathroom, you admiring his perky ass as he did. He returned quickly with a warm washcloth and wiped you down tenderly. “You were checking out my ass, weren’t you?”

“Can you blame me? My boyfriend has a nice one,” you boasted.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Rob perked up and slipped his boxers back on.

“Well, we spent all night kissing, had sex before breakfast, so I was hoping...:” you looked at him coyly.

“In that case, can I say that my girlfriend has a smokin’ body?” he asked you jokingly.

“Yeah, you can. But only to me, we don’t need everyone finding out.” You kissed him quickly before pulling your pants and tank top back on.

Taglist - you know what to do: @iwantthedean @d-s-winchester @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @mamaredd123 @ellen-reincarnated1967 @tankcupcakes @katymacsupernatural @winchesterprincessbride @chelsea072498 @meeshw777  @tmccarney @ruprecht0420 @theoriginalvicki @hexparker @nanie5 @docharleythegeekqueen @megansescape @notnaturalanahi @impalaimagining @mrswhozeewhatsis @blacktithe7 @emoryhemsworth @dracotomanddeansprincess23 @bringmesomepie56 @devilgirlsarah @spnbaby-67 @emilycollins11 @myoutletforfanfiction @deansangelgirl @mizzzpink @jerk-bitch-and-an-angel @kayteonline @percussiongirl2017 @fanfreak07 @tattooedmomster13 @sandlee44 @moonstar86 @uttertrash--butlikecutetrash  @squirrel-moose-winchester @growningupgeek @charliebradbury1104 @evansrogerskitten @feelmyroarrrr @itseverythingilike @smoothdogsgirl @evyiione @ashstrom87 @supernatural-jackles @ryantherandomhero @love-kittykat21 @kathaswings @crispychrissy @paintrider13-blog  

AU Bingo Tags: @luci-in-trenchcoats @oneshoeshort

Rob tags: @natasha-cole​

[captainvictoryboat]

Behind The Scenes 4 (1/?)

Author’s note: So all this scene is from my rough draft (and the part from the sneak peek) so i am sorry that if some details aren’t too good and all. Again, I’m sorry that i cant finish the series, but as i explained i just can;t keep writing this anymore. I will also not be putting the link to the other parts because for some reason i can’t get it to work. So think rest of the posts will be in my blog profile.

This posts wont be linked to the rest of the series, they will just be linked to each other (when i post the rest of what i have) since there are not too many posts. This series also does not have it’s own GIF since i finished neither BTS 4 or the GIF for it. 

Summary: Jin finally sees Jinjin after the tour.

Word Count: 4013

WARNINGS: Physical abuse

Part 2| ALL PARTS 

This is my GIF. I made this for the last part, but i didn’t make a new one.

It was a cold 6 am as he walked down the snow packed sidewalk toward the familiar neighborhood. The exhausting performance of the night before were over ridden by the excitement he had over today.

In one arm he carried a bag of gifts meant for his son while his other arm adjusted the strap of his backpack filled with a change of clothes and other essentials.

Throughout his relatively quiet walk, he mentally prepared himself to the idea of sleeping on the floor of his son’s room for the next few nights and he day dreamed of the activities he had planes for the both of them.

Suddenly there was a distant sound of annoying barks that busted him out f his bubble. Soon he saw a tiny dog appeared almost out of nowhere. It was dressed in a pink sweater with matching pink booties and it was dragging a blue leash from its collar.

It yapped as it ran awkwardly in his direction. Jin couldn’t care less about the dog. He didn’t pay much mind to it until it began nipping at his pant leg. Under normal circumstances, he would have kicked the dog off and walked away, but today was different. Not even the annoying pup could piss him off this early, heck, he even found the small animal to be a bit cute.

He placed down his bag of gifts and picked up the golden furball.

“And who are you?” he asked it.

He noticed the dog’s purple collar “Hmm, let’s see, your name iiiiis… Peach? Wait… isn’t that the names of Jinjin’s dog?” he asked himself.

He brought the dog closer to his face to make eye contact with it. “Are you Jinjin’s puppy? Huuuuh? Are you?”

“Peach?!? Peach?!? Where are you?!?” Jin could hear a small voice from the direction he saw the dog run from.

Within 2 seconds, his now six year old son appeared from around the corner. Jinjin was in his thickest green jacket, a pair of black sweatpants (probably wearing a second pair under them) and in his snow boots. Wrapped around the little face that looked so much like his father’s, was his favorite Mario themed scarf and atop his head was a red beanie with a Mario logo.

“Peach?!? Peach- Dad? Daddy?!?” his son’s eyes lit up when he spotted him. “Daddy!” he squealed as his small legs moved faster.

Jin stood frozen as he took in the image of his son. Jinjin had grown taller since he last saw him. The chubby cheeks he pinched so much were not as chubby as they used to be and he shaven hair was now long enough to be combed down and poke out from his beanie.

Jin placed the dog down, leash still in hand, and opened his arms for his son to run to him.

Jin’s heart melted when Jinjin’s little body jumped to him.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy!” Jinjin chanted as he wrapped his arms tight around him, “Finally you are home!”

Jin didn’t care of his son’s cheerful and loud voice would wake neighbors, he was just happy to see his boy. “Ugh, I missed you Jinjin!” he pulled his mask off and covered his son’s face with kisses. “But, my little Jinsoo, what did I tell you about talking to strangers?!? For all you know, I was a bad man that could have stolen you!” he said with a slightly serious tone.

“But I knew it was you! You always wear the same bear mouth!” his son stated as he pointed to the bear mouth print on his face mask.

“Aish, you got me there, but why are you out here by yourself?!?”

Jinjin shook his head. “I am not alone. I was with Peach and Greg!”

“Greg? Who the fu- Who is Greg?”

“Jinjin?!? Jinjin where are you?!?” a man’s voice called out.

From the same corner his child came from, emerged a tall, thin man. Even at a distance it was easy to tell the man was taller than Jin. What was most noticeable was the blond hair that refused to stay in his black beanie.

“I’m over here!” Jinjin shouted as he waved his arms in the air.

The stranger’s blue eyes locked on Jin and his long legs pushed through the snow. “Hey! Put that boy down!” he shouted with an awkward accent.

Jin simply scoffed, “No!”

The “Greg” person was soon two strides away, his arm already loaded to land a punch when Jinjin finally said. “Greg, look! My dad is here!”

Instantly, Greg stopped in his tracks, slipping on the ice a bit. It took him a moment to catch his balance. “Oh!” he huffed. His cheeks grew even more red. “So, uh, you must be Seokjin?”

“The one and only.” Jin half smiled.

Greg nodded. “I’ve, uh, heard a lot about you…” he mumbled as his eyes danced between Jin and his son.

“And you are?”

“Oh! Where are my manners?” he gave a quick bow and then his hand shot out to give a handshake. “I’m Greg! I-“

“He’s mom’s boyfriend!” Jinjin finished

Jin’s eyes narrowed at the flushed faced man. “I didn’t know that Mina was in a relationship… and with a foreigner no less” he added under his breath.

“Dad, who is Mina?” Jinjin asked in confusion.

He couldn’t help let out a chuckle at how adorable his son was. “Jinjin, that’s your mom’s name.”

“What?!? Mommy’s name isn’t mommy?”

“I can’t believe I missed out on all this cute!” Jin smiled as he squeezed his son’s still pinchable cheeks.

Jin turned back to the man. Greg’s hand was still out for a handshake. However, instead of shaking his hand, he gave him the dog’s leash. “So, Mina’s boyfriend?” He asked in a darker tone. “How long has this been going on?”

“Almost a year.”

Jin blatantly scanned Greg from head to toe. “A year? Is that so? And where are you from Greg? You obviously aren’t from here.”

“I’m from England.”

“And you met Mina how?”

“Friends of friends.” Was Greg’s vague answer.

“I see… Well… Why don’t we get out of this cold?” Jin suggested with a fake smile

The walk to the house was not as awkward as it could have been, Jinjin spoke the whole time. He mostly talked about being so excited for Jin to come home that he stayed up all night and that Greg suggested they walk Peach as they waited for him. His son was a good distraction to his boiling rage. However, just like the small dog, this Greg guy wasn’t going to be enough to upset Jin, at least not yet anyway.

-

His ex stared at him in confusion. “Seokjin? I didn’t expect you here this early.” She said as she let them in the warm house.

“Well hello to you too. As I recall, I told a little someone that I would be here first thing in the morning.” Jin turned to the boy in his arms in fake anger. “Jinjin, I thought I told you to tell your mother.”

“Haha, I forget!”  Jinjin admitted as he hid behind his hands.

His ex rolled her eyes, “That’s what happens when you trust a six year old.”

Jin scoffed.” One has no other choice than to trust a six year old when the mother is acting like a six year old and won’t pick up her phone!” he said through his teeth

“Not answering my phone doesn’t make me a six year old. I was just busy doing some adult things.” She smirked, her eyes gliding towards Greg.

“So that’s what you do instead of being a mother?” Jin asked out right.

Mina’s head whipped back at him, her eyes warning him not to start anything,

He tried hard to hold himself back from doing something he would regret.

“C’mon Jinjin, why don’t we go up to your room and you show me your toys.” he huffed. Jin walked up the stairs, escaping the woman he only somewhat regretted meeting, carrying the boy that made up for that mistake.

He entered Jinjin’s room, it only looking slightly different from when he last visited a few years ago. The walls were still blue, covered in all things Mario. There were more toys thrown everywhere if anything and the bed was a bit bigger for his growing frame.

Jinjin slid out of his hands and ran over to his toy box. “Daddy! Do you want to see my toys?”

“Jinjin I think that can wait a minute. Why don’t you let daddy test out your new bed?” He suggested as he threw himself into the mattress. The bed was too small for him and his feet hung over the edge, but he was so tired, it didn’t matter.

“Jinjin, it is really early, why don’t we take a nap.” He yawned.

“Ok!” Jinjin moved some of the small toys he had left on his bed and crawled up next to him, still dressed in his outside clothes. With his son nestled in his arm, Jin fell to sleep quickly.

-

He awoke to the feeling of little fingers trying to pry his eyes open. “Jinjin, why aren’t you letting daddy sleep?”

“Cake?”

“Jinjin, it is still morning.” He stated as he took a look at his cellphone screen showed 10:45 am.

“But cake!”

He stood up from the bed and took a quick stretch. “Jinjin, let me show you the gifts I got you! We will make the cake later.”

He grabbed his backpack, kneeled by the bed and called Jinjin over.

“Wait! Where is Peach? I want her to see my presents with me!” Jinjin jumped from the bed. “Peach!” he called out as he ran out of the room.

He soon returned carrying his tiny dog. Jinjin jumped on the bed and made Peach sit next to him. “Peach are you ready?” he asked the dog.

Jin kept the bag hidden behind the bed.

“Okay, here is the first present!” At random, he pulled out the gift Jackson had picked out for him. “So this is from your daddy’s friend Jackson. You remember Jackson from GOT7 right? He knew you liked Mario and picked this out because he thought it was a mushroom from Mario” He lied.

Jinjin snatched the box, examining it up close. He was neither frowning nor smiling at his gift. “Hm… Pokemon… I don’t know pokemon a lot.”

“But?”

“But what?”

“But, it is still nice that he remembered you and likes you enough to buy you a toy right?” Jin said, pulling the gratitude out of his only slightly spoiled son.

“Yeah!” Jinjin smiled. “Can you tell him thank you!” he asked, remembering his manners

“Of course! Now time for the stuff I got you!”

Jinjin’s eyes widened once more and he pulled himself up straight trying to peek over the edge of the bed.

“Ok, so I ordered this online so I left it in the box. I only took it out to make sure it was the right size.”

He handed Jinjin the box and the young one attacked it. The box flew across the room as Jinjin found the Mario onesie within it.

“Wow!” Jinjin cheered. “I can be Mario!”

He didn’t even waste time. He ripped off his top winter layer and pulled on the onesie. When all was done, it was only a size or two too big. Good, so that it would last him a while.

“It fits!”

Jin couldn’t help but smile as Jinjin ran over to his Mario hat and put it on.

Jin then pulled out the next gift. “I was in Japan and I remembered how you told me your DS broke, so I got you a new one! They ran out of red ones, but I got you a green one.”

Again Jinjin was in a fit of glee, jumping onto his father with open arms.

Jin’s last gift was a handful of age appropriate games for the new DS, that only made Jinjin more excited to play it.

It wasn’t until his son had calmed down and was indulged in one of the new games, that he decided to get serious.

“Jinjin?”

“Huh?” Jinjin’s eyes were glued to the double screens.

“Why didn’t you ever bring Greg up before?” He asked this softly, scared that Mina could be in the hall and overhear.

“Mommy said not to.” Jinjin said in a zombie like tone.

“Why?” He could feel his anger toward his ex growing.

All the small boy did was shrug his shoulders

“Jinjin, what else has Mommy told you not to tell me?” He tried to keep his voice calm.

“Um…” Jinjin was too focused on the game to really think.” Uh.”

“Jinsoo, pause the game.”

Jinjin did as told. “Um, we might go to Greg’s house this summer.” He finally said.

“Greg’s house? Where exactly is Greg’s house?”

Jinjin shrugged again. “In English. That is what mommy said.”

“English? What do you- England?!?

“Yeah that!” Jinjin said as he played his game again.

“That motherfucking bitch!” Jin thought. “First she doesn’t tell me about that buck-tooth brit and now she is going to take my son to England!” he stood up. “Jinjin, why don’t you put that game away and let’s go down to the kitchen and start baking your cake.” He needed to get his mind off this. He couldn’t afford to get mad now. He wasn’t going to let that bitch ex of his ruin his mood.

Now in the kitchen, Jin searched for the ingredients. He let the stories of Jinjin’s last few months drain out the sounds of Mina’s and Greg’s giggles coming from the living room.

“Uh-huh… Wow…That’s great Jinjin…” He said robotically.

His frustration grew as his search came to an end and the only ingredients he had were eggs.

“What the fuck?!?” he grunted so that Jinjin couldn’t hear him.

He took a deep breath and decided to look a second time. This time with each failed attempt, he was beginning to slam the cabinets and drawers shut harder and harder.

Jinjin not at all phased by his father’s little tantrum, continued to play on the floor with Peach still in his Mario onesie.

However, the boy’s mother soon walked in.

“Jinjin, is that you playing hide and seek with Peach again?” she asked as she walked into the room. She still had a hint of a smile on her face.

Just seeing her face made Jin pissed. “Where the fuck are the fucking ingredients I asked you to get?!?” he snapped

“Ooh! Dad said a bad word!” Jinjin snickered. “Now you have to put a dollar in the swear jar!”

Jin quickly realized that he was still in the presence of his son and tried to calm down for a moment. “Jinjin, take Greg up to your room and show him the presents I got you.”

“Ok!” Jinjin jumped up and ran to the living room. “Greg! Greg! Come see my presents!”

Jin’s angry eyes then locked on Mina once more. Her arms were crossed and she was rolling her stupid ass eyes at him. “I was busy.” Was her sad ass excuse.

“Busy being a whore?!?” he spat

She furrowed her brow at him. “Just because I have a boyfriend doesn’t make me a whore! I have a fucking life Seokjin! I got out, I work, I take care of Jinjin all by myself!”

Jin couldn’t help but laugh at her saying the word “work”. “What do you mean you work?!? You make crappy ass DIYs and sell them to fat lazy bitches online! I am the one that works! I am the one that is providing for you and Jinjin!” he reminded, slowing moving in on her. “I am working my ass off and worried about my son and your over here fucking some random dude!”

“Don’t give me shit just because you are jealous!” she had the audacity to say.

Again he couldn’t help but laugh at her stupidity. “Jealous? Me? Me?!?”. He took a big step towards her. “If anything I feel nothing but pity for Greg because he hasn’t found out what a stupid conniving little bitch you are!” he said through his teeth.

She squinted her beady eyes at him. “I am neither stupid or conniving!” she stated in an actual attempt to defend herself.

Jin pushed her up against the fridge, “Yes you are!” he growled.

“How so?!?” she stood back up only to get pushed back again.

“How about lying about your parents kicking you when they found out you were pregnant. That you wanted to live with me because they were going to force you to have an abortion and move you away somewhere else?!? Or how about threatening to have an abortion when I wanted to break up with you when I found about that lie?!? Then going above and beyond to keep me away from my son for two years, but still take my money to pay for your damn lifestyle!”

“Fuck you!”

Ticked off by her voice, his hand cut through the air and slapped her across the face.

Her hand covered her throbbing cheek, but she still didn’t seem to want to back down.

“And then, you go and bring this European motherfucker into my house and you bring him around my son-“

“He is my son!”

Again his hand attacked her cheek. “How dare you introduce him to Jinsoo! I will die before I let some other motherfucker raise my son! And how stupid can you be to trust someone who can expose everything at a whim?!? He can tell everyone that Jinsoo is my son! The whole world will turn on Jinsoo if they find out!”

“Oh so you can date and let some random bitch around Jinsoo, but I can’t do the same?!?”

Jin could not believe what he was hearing. “Who the fuck could I possibly be dating?!?”

“I know you and Y/n are dating!” she accused.

“How fucking stupid are you?!? Jungkook fucking proposed to her last night you stupid bitch!”

“Oh please! I know you are fucking her! I see the pictures of you and her that Jinjin refuses to remove as his home screen on that stupid tablet you got him. All he ever talks about is dad and y/n dad and y/n dad and y/n!”

“You’re such a fucking-“

This time it was her hand that slapped him. “No! Don’t you dare finish that sentence! I know for a fact that you are dating her! Jinjin told me you all slept in the same bed together!” Mina was too busy blabbing away to notice the fury in Jin’s eyes, his nostrils flaring, his knuckles turning white.

“She and Jungkook are fake and are covering the fact that you are dating her! You all say they have been dating for two over two years or whatever, but she never showed up until a year ago and a half ago! That doesn’t add up! So If you get a girlfriend, I sure as hell can get a boyfriend, so don’t-“

It wasn’t until he punched her mid sentence that Mina let out a scream loud enough to be heard through the house.

He continued to punch her in a fit of rage.

“You fucker!” Greg’s irritated voice shouted as he tackled Jin off Mina. He was able to pin Jin down and unleash a series of blows.

Jin however was not as overpowered as Greg thought. Despite his larger frame, there wasn’t much power behind Greg’s hits. He was nothing compared to Rap monster, Jungkook or V.

All Jin did was let out a grunt as his hands clamped down on Greg’s sweater and pulled him down until their foreheads collided. It was a risky move, but an effective one. Jin wasn’t that dazed and he was able to pin Greg down. Now he was the one on top and he showed Greg what real punches were supposed to feel like.

“So you- think that- you- can just- walk up in- here- like you- own the place?!? You think-you can just- take my place,- take- my family?!?”

His knuckles were more and more raw as he continues beat on Greg, who proved to be a bigger wimp than he thought.

What Jin didn’t see coming was Mina hitting him over the head with the kitchen wok. The slam to the head was enough to daze him but not knock him out

He struggled to his feet and his eyes locked on Mina once again. “Fucking bitch!” he groaned

He made his way up to her only having the strength to pounce on her and bring her to the ground. With the wok out of her hand, she screamed out in fear, her only other form of defense lay across the kitchen floor in pain. “Jinjin! Jinjin! Jinjin call the police!”

“Shut up!” Jin slapped his hand over her slobbery mouth.

He was yelling now. He could feel his throat on fire, but he couldn’t actually hear himself say anything.  At this point he had no control over what he was doing. Not even as his fists continued to hit Mina. They just hit and hit and hit. He let himself go wild because how dare she. How dare she risk ruining the plan they kept up for so long, how dare she decide things for his son without his knowledge, who was she to judge him when she knew nothing about anything!

“Mommy!” Jin heard a small cry.

He looked up to find Jinjin standing frozen a few feet in front of him.

Jin stopped immediately “…Jinjin…?” He moved toward him, but at his slightest movement he saw his son flinch.

Instantly Jinjin began to hyperventilate, his young eyes scattered around the room absorbing the scene in front of him.

“…Jinjin…” He said softly as he slowly lifted himself off the floor.

At that move, tears leaked out of the boy’s eyes, terrified of being the next victim.

“Jinjin run!” Mina screamed in her muffled sobs.

“Shut up!” Jin shouted automatically.

This only made Jinjin scream and cry more. He dropped the new DS he had been clenching on to, covered his ears and crouched into a small ball.

Suddenly Jin was tackled down once more and Greg’s wiry body was pinning him down. “Jinjin run to your room!” he ordered as he landed a punch on Jin.

The life left his body as he heard little foots steps run up the stairs and slam a door shut.

Greg got a few good punches in before Jin came to his senses. With one hit, Greg was down. Jin jumped up from the floor and ran to the stairs. He took three steps at a time until he reached the top

The only door closed was the bathroom and he ran to it as fast as he could. The door was locked of course, but just fidgeting with the doorknob, Jinjin began to cry from the other side.

“Jinjin, open the door!”

“No! “his son screamed.

“Jinsoo… please open the door.” He said in a softer tone. He could feel his heart tearing as he heard Jinjin continue to cry. He felt a lump in his throat as he forced out the words “Jinsoo please, please, please open the door.”

Still there was no response other than crying.

“Don’t fucking talk to him!” Mina’s shrill voice screamed.

Jin turned to his right. Mina stood at the end of the stairs. Her face was bloody, her clothes a mess. In her hand she held a frying pan that she kept aimed at him. “Fucking leave!”

Greg soon appeared behind Mina, armed with a kitchen knife.

“Greg called the cops, so leave now before I tell them exactly what happened when they get here!”

“…Jinjin …” he tried one more time.

“I said leave!” Mina screamed loading the pan behind her head.

“…Fine…” Jin sniffled.

Eventually i will post the next part. There aren’t too many posts so after the official parts, I am going to post the outline i have and the few pictures of the edit.

If you have any feedback or questions about the series. feel free to send me an ask or a message.

[dunmerofskyrim]

9

In Simra’s mind the days lined up. They passed by, lined off and behind, becoming hazy — at least as hazy as his sober memories ever grew with time. But the plains of the Northern Deshaan were good for that. Nothing to stand out save what did, and what did loomed large as idols in amongst that ocean of nothing.

In the landscape, a standing tree, or snarl of scrubland shrubbery. A patch of brown groundwater that mirrored the sky in sepia. In the distance once, a shining line in the afternoon sun: the arm of a stream bending tribute to the River Dathan. Crossing the latter would mark their halfway point. They’d find it either way, but opted towards the stream, to follow it, so at least they’d have fresh water until they did.

And that was good.

It meant no thirst.

It meant fish sometimes that Tammunei caught, sitting by the streamside and just waiting, humming at intervals, as the minnow-skinny smallfry came to the shallows to be snatched up into an open-mouthed pot. They would’ve been better dredged in flour and fried – the crunch of their tiny bones indistinct from the crunch of the golden crumb on them; Simra had had them that way in Narsis, and enjoyed them pretty well – but as soups with forage-greens and lengths of succulent reed they staved off hunger.

It meant having a kind of road to guide them. The stream always by them, to judge progress, keep their bearings.

It meant being able to steal away and wash. Face, hands, hair, with leech-lily scented soap, til at least the parts of him the sky and wind saw felt scoured clean. For the rest he had his cantrips, and water to cast them with.

In two batches, Simra had laundered his clothes in Bodram. Or rather he’d had them laundered for him. And that was something new. An expensive novelty to which he’d like to get better used.

A shirt in morning-blue scribsilk, folding diagonal across the breast to fasten in a line of brass buttons. Two were crescent-shaped, one was missing, and replaced with a toggle of polished wood. Band collar, trim shoulders, both embroidered in dark thread with a beehive pattern of hexagons. Launder it as he might, fond and sour memories both clung to it like a lingering scent. He’d bought it in Suran, all but four years ago.

Longer years still hung on his woollen Riftfolk tunic, and yet it held out. Well-made, but it ought to’ve been for the price — or how steep it had seemed at the time. Beasts ran in black-stitched thread around its bottom hem; red-stitched curls of foliage and flower petals around its wide deep collar. A freckling of faded red-brown stains still dappled its front after all this time. He wore it over the other, loose fit over slim, layered against the cold.

Deep-brown leggings too, close-cut and made from kreshwave. The fabric was combed til soft and supple, but teeth-pulling-hard to tear, and in trousers that was a blessing. At the back, attached at the waist, was a kind of train made from netch-leather. Hanging down like coat-tails it could flutter at the backs of his knees, but these days he wore it in front, buttoned around his hips in a lopsided kilt.

Body clean, they all kept mostly clean too, save for the dust. Those and the others. Ragpicker’s patchwork scarf. The once-gift of his goatskin mantle, napped smooth with wear and age and rain. Strange, but his jacket – his sister’s jacket – seemed to keep clean by itself, worn between his capelike mantle and shirts.

His boots were the exception, but weren’t they always? How many pairs had he had down the years? Ruined? Things were simpler – cheaper – before he wore shoes, but by now there was no going back, was there? These ones were two-toed native-made things, made from guar-leather and rising to just over the knee. There they led into a pair of quilted-leather kneepads – scuffed, gashed open, restitched – and tied in at the rear of his legs with bows of red-dyed ribbon. Those were pretty at least. There were plenty of times he liked them better than the boots themselves…

The soles and heels though would need mending before long. But why should that come as a surprise, when his feet did so much work of late? When he’d had them – what? – eight months now, and since had run them ragged. It was only fair that they’d beg for a break. Just like it was fair that he’d ask them to wait a while longer. Stockings, leggings, shirts — he had bone needles, a little redware thimble, and could darn them well enough if never good-as-new. Cobbling was different. Boots were expensive. Making and mending them took skill he lacked.

Soon, Simra thought, without knowing when.

The days formed stanzas. Same rhythms, same shapes, and struggling along with the same trudging theme.

But the grey had ended as it always did, and by contrast everything shone, everything sang — until there’d been shine and song enough to take them both for granted again.

The sun began to set.

Noor was singing again. Birdsong, wolfsong — a drone down in her throat that rose up by and by, offering high head-notes to the wind.

Tammunei had caught an eel. Better that by far than the smallfry they usually landed. With the fire already lit, Simra began filleting it, the way Tammunei had taught him.

He had a knife for it: a skinny fisherman’s filleting blade with an uptrailing point, living as part of a pair in a pocketlike sheathe that hung from his swordbelt. Almost funny how he’d had it two years and only just began to use it for its actual-made purpose. Almost.

Simra set to work. In behind the gills then round in a slit circle. Tugging away the mottled skin from head down to tail. Teasing along the spine, blade flat to bone, freeing a long strip of fatty meat from each side. It was meditative after he’d gotten past the constant urge to wash his hands.

“Got any idea what she’s doing?” he asked Tammunei, nodding at Noor. “Or’s your guess good as mine? Is it the same thing every night, or different songs? I can’t tell.”

They sat by the streamside, perched on a flat dry rock. Catkinned reeds rose around them, downy heads bobbing. The water whispered as it journeyed by. Tammunei looked at home by water, Simra reckoned — at ease.

“Herding-songs,” Tammunei answered, cutting away two stiff green skewers of reed with a use-knife and passing them to Simra. “I think that’s what they are. Sort of.”

“‘Sort of’..?” echoed Simra. He remembered the stories his father used to tell, of whistles and songs to call his guar together across the Grazelands in the evening. A moment later it came clear. “Dust and bones, she’s not hurrying along some herd of invisible guar I don’t know about, is she? No. It’s them!” He lowered his voice. “The ghosts she tied together in Bodram. What was it she said? A whisper of them’ll come with her? She’s herding them along. Calling. Making sure that whisper knows where to find her…right? Is that right?”

His voice was eager, wolf-paced, like this new curiosity was a hunger that he was scoffing answers to sate. Tammunei was neutral, voice small and flat, less certain though in sureness they knew more about this than Simra could hope to.

“They’re with me too,” Tammunei said. “She helped them grow and get strong, but I’m still there at the roots…”

Simra pierced and threaded the fish, switchback onto the lengths of reed. Neat work. Satisfying. He held them over the flames to roast. As the fire-warmth seeped into his bones, a fever-itch set into his right hand, beneath the dirty bandage he couldn’t bring himself to remove.

“I can hear them,” Tammunei continued. “Quiet, but I can hear if I listen.”

Simra frowned, both not-knowing and half-knowing how that might feel. When memory overlayed the present it put faint ghosts in everything. “What’re they saying?”

“Mostly they’re happy. They think she’s bringing them home…”

Tammunei was frowning too. Their tongue pointed brief and red over their lips. A hand rose to the long line of their neck, stroking, then gripping uneasy at their throat.

Something in this sat ill with them, Simra reckoned. Strange, when keeping ghosts happy had been all Tammunei wanted for so long…

Noor stopped her singing and went over to her baggage where it was heaped outside the yurt. She travelled light. Just a covered basket strapped to her back and the pockets in her robes. But now Simra watched over the fire and the skewers of sizzling eel as she opened the basket and reached inside to bring out a leather drawstring bag.

She hummed under her breath again as she walked a ways from their camp, through the grasses of the plain until she was out of earshot and almost out of sight. Her hand went into the bag. Came out in a fanning fling of motion, scattering something — like planting seedgrain.

“What’s she doing?” Simra whispered. She couldn’t hear them now, surely. Not at a whisper, and too far off for them to hear her.

“Bones,” came Tammunei’s thin voice. “She’s seeding them. So that those who weren’t Vereansu will be bound to the plains as much as to Bodram. More maybe. Like she is. Like her ancestors b—”

They stopped abrupt. Noor was walking back. New lines crossed her brow, it seemed, and sweat stood out on her face. When she reached the fire she had eyes for neither of them. Mute like her tongue was still elsewhere. She only slumped down beside the fire, a pile of rags and bones once more.

She’d spent herself, that much was clear, but on what great change? Her ghosts, Tammunei said, thought she was bringing her home. All of them, when so many had lived and died in Bodram. She was starting to change what home meant to them — where home was.

Simra set his lips and tried not to think anymore. About it, or Noor, or where the limits of her power might lie. Or of the drawstring pouch in his gathersack, smaller than Noor’s but with almost the same rattle.

They ate the eel, shared off the skewers. Its fatty white-grey flesh roasted well, and had turned red-gold in the heat. Simra imagined it with sticky saltrice, the fish glazed in black mazte vinegar and sprinkled with crushed pink pepper. The snap and crunch of pickled vegetables. But remembering them only made him taste their absence, bitter in each mouthful.

The stars came out. Tonight there was nothing to hide them.

Tammunei offered first watch.

[bonniejstarks]

The Pink Jumpsuit: An essay about the bubbles we live in

‘It seems like someone else’s dream of my past.’ For Emma Neale, the painting ‘Wanderlust’ by Dunedin artist Sharon Singer stirs memories of her childhood, and new understandings of guilt and forgiveness.

There were gifts from my father when he came home from overseas trips. Love offerings; a bit like those a cat might bring home after night revels. Placations. Mixed messages. Guilt trips. Gilt traps. 

Top 40 albums and band memorabilia for my younger sister. Leather pants for me, the anxious girly swot he called ‘Stude’ to rhyme with ‘dude’, to make praising my studiousness — and maybe that studiousness itself — seem cool. 

After unwrapping the leather trousers, I went to a school social with my bottom half dressed like a biker chick; the top half in a turquoise T-shirt borrowed from my mother, which sported a black panther and swirls of gold glitter. The ensemble was a look I wasn’t sure how to carry, though I still drew a lot of attention from the senior boys. “Are you really a junior?” “Whoa, hot pants.” “Hey, Olivia Neutron-Bomb!”

My svelteness was wasted on me, at that age. I couldn’t see it: I just felt awkward, uncoordinated. Even if I had seen it, I was probably still too sensible and bookish to flaunt it, cash in on it, or let it give me confidence. The attention was just unsettling. I got the same feeling in my throat as when I’d seen an aggressive male pigeon treading a female — the flutter and scramble of it, the poor hen hard-scrabbling to get away. There had been no preamble dance of bobbing beak-link, glossy necks shimmering at each other, like panels of sequins. It was all panic, claw, shake, the female’s coos like bottled sobs.

Sharon Singer ‘Wanderlust’, acrylic on canvas, 2019

From the pod of my teenage awkwardness, however I could see that my mother absolutely knew how to cut a figure; elegance was, if not a weapon, a kind of armour. When Mum unwrapped her own gift from Dad that year, my sister and I thought it was hilarious — and dizzyingly bold. He had given her a slim-fit boiler-suit in a light denim fabric, its colour the pink of smoker’s candies. It had fake gold ventilation grommets, a long front zip; and I think it had stitching in a batwing bust. Usually Mum wore deep plums, aubergines, black, russet-red. They were the shades of polished piano wood, tooled leather hardback book covers, candlelight, the heavy, hushed velvet of theatres: colours with body and weight The colours of thought, and of night. The suit was racy, playful, youthful, almost saucy — and she looked stunning in it: dark and sultry like Anni-Frid Lyngstad, from ABBA, with a shiver of haughtiness.

We crowed at Mum when she tried on the new outfit. “You look great! It’s fabulous!”

Silence.

“Are you brave enough to go out in it? Don’t you like it?”

Her quiet reply: “I’m not sure about it yet.”

“Do you think it’s too tight-fitting?” 

We knew she and our father often worried about their weight. Weren’t the ‘80s a decade of extreme food weirdness? Hadn’t they tried the bread diet, the grapefruit diet, the cottage cheese diet, the Jane Fonda workout, skipped meals, taken up running, talked about the Lebanese Army Food Diet (which I think involved eating only eggs or chicken)? 

Dad sometimes made dark jabs at Mum about her figure. “If only your [x or y] was smaller, you’d be perfect.” His nickname for me was Lumpy. If he found me and my sister eating, he often said with acerbic, Basil Fawlty-esque disdain: “Having a little snack, are we?” 

I became anorexic when I was 17. As a schoolboy at Nelson College, Dad had been harassed for his own weight, so his attitude had a backwards logic, even for a man who could be deeply empathetic. He was a close listener, and loving enough that, if I think too hard about his sudden death at age 48 (from a heart attack while he was out jogging), it feels as if a trench is being excavated in my stomach. He repeated what he knew, I guess. He criticised us to pass on the urgent and venomous message he had received from that all-boys’ boarding school culture: fat means failure, slender is status, beauty is, yes, narrowly defined. 

‘Wanderlust’ by Sharon Singer, 2019 (detail)

Mum stood side-on to the mirror, hand swiping quickly over her stomach, as she pulled it in: as if women’s bellies should at least sit level with the hip-bones, the way lager should sit level with the rim of the glass, Mum’s swipe a bartender’s beer comb trimming the foam head. She turned this way, that way, a whether vane in the mirror: should she wear it, should she not?

“You look lovely, Mum!” We wanted her to be wedding-day glad at Dad’s return from his travels; we wanted the normal routine to have landed with him. We wanted that ordinary rhythm to mean we were safe: safe to be as selfish as kids need to be, to get on with the job of growing up and eventually, wanting to leave… which makes no sense, it makes no sense, but what does, when…

“I’m just not sure how your father really sees me,” Mum said.

I don’t know if I put two and two together then — the candy-pink overalls and the other time I’d seen her taken aback by a gift. I think it was about five years earlier, when we lived in America, but memory shuffles together events and settings from different packs to come up with a stacked deck. Dad’s not here to contest the dealer’s version.

One Christmas, he gave her some jade and silver jewellery. She loved nephrite; we kids were far too ‘70s-expat-Pākehā-Kiwi to know the word pounamu then. We were busy learning to hide our accents and swap ‘cookie’ for ‘biscuit’, ‘bug’ for ‘beetle’, say ‘jerk’ and ‘turkey’, ‘Get off the grass’, ‘No duh’, ‘Catch my drift’, ‘Mondo bizarro’… And maybe because my dad was a nephrologist, the word nephrite drew the family language to it. The words share a relationship: the root links them through the Spanish piedra de (la) ijada or yjada (1560s), where ijada means loins or kidneys. Jade was thought to have healing properties, for kidney and lumbar complaints. Even the thought of pressing a cool, polished jade amulet over an ache seems soothing.

I suppose if this scene did happen in America, the jade was unlikely to be from Te Wai Pounamu anyway, given jade is also found in California, where we lived at the time. Either way, when Mum opened the gift there was confusion and collapse in her face, which she fought against. 

There was something going on here that we hadn’t seen before. I only recall seeing her cry one other time, and that was when she was in pain, from a minute shard flicking into her eye as she clipped my baby sister’s toenails. I had never seen her look so stricken. American TV in the build-up to Christmas hadn’t revealed this kind of reaction in all the seductive ads for toys, toys, toys … Presents were meant to be opened in great communal teeth-baring, group hugs, a festival of cleanliness, perfect skin, efficiency, friendship-joy and great hair. We were all in our dressing-gowns, three of us no doubt with bed-hair, Mum probably the only one who’d brushed hers for the occasion. I can remember looking at the Christmas wrapping to try to figure out what had gone wrong. 

Something was very awry. The jewellery was already broken? The jewellery had something missing? It seemed elegant, queenly to me — but the sadness in Mum’s face made me think, are the necklace and bracelet really so ugly? How do I find the ugliness? How do I understand it? 

I thought the gifts would look enchanting on her. My mother has very green eyes: she really does. She tells me that green eyes are more common in fiction than in real life. I wonder if that might have subliminally helped to make her a writer? 

When she found her image in novels, saw her statistically exceptional eyes and her difference reflected, was that unconsciously affirming?

Mum hid her face in her chestnut brown hair. In the Californian sun, her hair bleached ginger on the tips, which she hated, though she loved candied ginger, and my sister had a giant teddy called Ginger Bill, and ‘gingerly’ was a beautiful word, but what was wrong with the present?

Perhaps I didn’t truly begin to understand until I was 16, when a boyfriend brought me gifts after he’d been away overseas: gold fan earrings, gold fan charm on a necklace, a tropical flower perfume: frangipani or hibiscus, the name lost, now along with its thin sugary fragrance. When I received them, I was confused about what to feel; the offerings weren’t at all to my personal taste, but the gesture seemed wildly generous, and it gave off a thin buzzing edge of a new experience, even though it was also conventionally, stiflingly romantic. Yet as soon as I’d unwrapped the gifts, the boyfriend went at me with a force and insistence that seemed to say I owed him something. He was extracting payment; pushing me down on the bed, so that I felt like the poor flustered female pigeons I’d seen, pecked and trampled and somehow, at the same time, bizarrely, completely ignored by the grinding bull of a bird. 

I must have understood it, then, as now it feels as if the two events are filed in the same memory compartment: terrible, terrible presents. 

Mum’s jewellery was a kind of hush money. Or an apology. Or a bribe? They weren’t a gift of  time. They weren’t companionship. They weren’t home when he said he would be; home at the weekend. 

The gift was also a celebration of her beauty, of course: which is fine, and human — don’t even babies spend longer looking at symmetrical features? But that isn’t enough to underpin and make-good the architecture of love. 

I also seem to remember that part of the shock was the expense; the gift can’t have really been within our means. The sense of disproportion was all part of the strange scene. If it had been books, or notebooks, pens, typewriter, foolscap, or even a cheap T-shirt with a favourite author’s portrait and some bad but forgivably literary pun printed on it, the gift would have said more about Dad listening to Mum, really knowing her. 

I think I remember my father’s devastated expression, too, from that day, and him hugging her as she cried. I’m in the child’s position of feeling for them both; a bad place to be when there are irreconcilable differences. He just wanted to show that he loved her. He thought she would be happy. He thought the receipts for the jewellery were like  … billets doux, a love letter. 

What can anyone outside a marriage really understand about what goes on inside it? When I said as much to my paternal grandfather once, when he was in his early 90s, he answered, ‘Sometimes even the people inside the marriage don’t have a clue what is happening, either,’ and he told me an extraordinary tale of a house call he had made once, as a GP in Wellington in the 1950s or 60s. When he arrived at the house, the woman patient reported severe abdominal pain. Gramps examined her and told her that she was quite far advanced in labour. She insisted — with real vehemence — that he must be wrong. The husband fully backed her up. He told my grandfather, privately, that it was impossible as there “hadn’t been marital relations for some considerable amount of time”. Gramps was confused; he doubted himself. As he prepared to re-enter the bedroom, to examine the woman again a ‘poor little frightened probationer nurse’, as he called her who had accompanied him that day, called out, “Doctor, I can see a tiny hand!” My grandfather helped the mother deliver a live, healthy baby. He said to me, “I’ve always wondered what on earth became of that poor couple. I’ve thought about them, all down the years.” And, shaking his head, “Not every child is a gift, though it should be.”

‘Wanderlust’ Sharon Singer (detail)

Every Christmas and birthday my own husband says the best gift I can give him is nothing. I think about that, too when I see Sharon Singer’s painting, ‘Wanderlust’, and its arid, red-planet setting. I feel dread at my own covetous impulse to have the painting, partly because I’m not sure I can explain the impact of the strange sideways slipping trail into memory it’s leading me along. 

The image itself touches on everything from a scorched earth, to climate refugees, perhaps even to the avoidance of infection. (Sharon Singer has other creepily premonitory paintings of people socialising with face masks in outdoor settings.) It also suggests space exploration; a sense of adventure; threat and fragility; the ludicrousness and the tenacity of so much human aspiration. Yet it also seems like someone else’s dream of my past.  

The child in the painting could be my dark-haired little sister, her sweetly rounded limbs when she was under five. She could be in a child’s androgynous, asexual version of the strange gift overalls from the 1980s: a little like a child dressing up as a superhero. The image brings back memories of our guinea pigs: we sometimes carried them in the kind of pet transport cage seen in the painting, and of course, they tried to escape us. It brings back the time well before them, when I tried to run away, with a small, brown, ginger-nut textured zip-up school-case. (I sat happily on a street corner, telling the adults in a car that stopped to ask if I was all right, that I had left home forever. I had a book, a warm jersey, a toy rabbit and maybe an apple so I was going to be fine.) 

The small child astronaut in the image, with her long, untied shoelace (such a loving, funny, apt detail) trails its own clouds of meaning: vulnerability, inattention, slap-dash, innocence, the tiny hazards that persist amidst the colossal breaks from the norm and the known.

Those shoes and the carry-case also make me think of my sons, their pet rabbits, my boys’ laces trailing like mouse-tails, the constant reminder, you’ll trip up! (I would still be saying it on the moon, on Mars, on the moons of Mars … ). 

None of this has anything to do with a husband in the 1980s imagining his wife in tight-fitting, distinctly non-utilitarian coveralls. My sister points out that the gift was telling Mum she was gorgeous. Was that so out of the norm by then that it unsettled her? It seemed to set off detonations of silence, anxiety, disapproval, contraction, retreat, mystery and the unspoken  — which, of course, is different from the silence. 

But what if our real life is lived in the silences? The thoughts, and the in-between-the-thoughts, not what we manage to put into words? What we intuit, intimate. (The visual arts and music can both exquisitely, expertly, seep into and explore these interstices, I think.) 

The people close to us can never truly know us, and we can never truly know them. Maybe real love is when you feel you do understand the silences — when it’s in what you don’t say that you agree to meet. What if the person you share that with isn’t someone you live with? Or, to complicate things, what if the main way you fight in a family is actually the silent treatment, when it seems as if you are all wearing opaque glass masks, air-locked in the head-gear of your own hurt and anger?

It doesn’t make sense that this dumpy little cosmonaut with her luggage, her pet travel crate, her heedlessly undone basketball boot, brings back memories of my tall, slender mother standing in front of a full-length mirror, looking intent and also a little crushed, trying to smooth her stomach and hips away as she strokes the fabric over the planes and curves of her body. 

But what does, what does, when your father buys your mother a parachute suit, a flight suit, a jumpsuit, and then reels with shock, when finally, she makes the leap, she bails, she decides to leave?

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