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goblinkingdomsblog · 3 years

Note

Hello I hope you are doing well !! I was wondering if it okay to request the mafia universe where they meet the agent y/n have a moment but then the agent smile and go away in like we will meet again kinda way I’m sorry if it’s too much you don’t have to do it I appreciate your writing and love it thank you for your hard work 💕

They get hurt while running away from the police, but agent y/n helps them - part 1

Members: hyung line.

Genre: mafia!AU, reaction.

Premise: during a police chase, one of the mobsters ends up getting injured. Suddenly, you appear when he least expected it, willing to help him. You say you will see each other again in the future. With complete certainty: after all, you will guarantee it yourself.

TW: (V) = Violence.

Mafia Series Masterlist

Mafia Series Plot

Hii!! I hope you enjoy this post, and that it meets well your request!

I'm really happy to know that you like the things that I write! Thank youu!!! 💜❤😁

+ Sorry for the delay, I wanted to make a long version of this reaction. The part 2 is already posted!

"We'll see each other again, don't worry."

Namjoon:

The damn right leg. It was always that damn leg.

Namjoon gasped, lowering himself against the wall of the dark alley. The smell there was not at all pleasant, and the humidity certainly wouldn't leave his expensive suit unpunished, but he was too busy to care about that at the moment.

Everything happened in a flash: one hour, he was sitting comfortably on a soft leather sofa, talking to the leaders of the other two most important gangs in Seoul (maintaining good relations between partner companies was essential); on the other, he was running down the wet sidewalk, after escaping from the building through a side door. The damned police had somehow discovered the secret meeting, probably through a traitor, and had invaded the place, trying to kill three birds with one stone.

Even his security guards had stayed behind, exchanging shots with the police to give him enough time to escape. He hated having to escape, looking like a coward, but he knew it was necessary.

Another thing he hated: he couldn't run fast without dropping at least one of his weapons, or himself. It was in a fall on the wet street that he had injured his leg, the same one that had broken twice before, and that now was hurting again thanks to his shitty motor coordination. He knew he was being chased, so he got up and forced himself to run for several more blocks, until the pain became too unbearable to walk. It was at that moment that he hid in the alley, where he was until now.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the wet darkness. Without a gun, he could do nothing but watch, hoping his bad luck wasn’t that glaring that day.

When you turned into the alley with your weapon in your fists, using its wall for protection, you saw him immediately.

The mafia boss, sitting on the floor, with an empty expression.

Frowning, you checked if that was a trap and if there was someone around, but he seemed completely alone. Raising your voice, you announced your presence, and the first thing he saw was your well-equipped uniform.

- Hands up. Put them behind your head. - you said, with controlled calm.

Namjoon sighed, obeying slowly.

- I'm unarmed. You don't need to be alarmed.

- Get up and come over here. - you ordered, ignoring his words.

The mobster started to get up, but then he slid back down the wall. He tried a couple more times, until he gave up and lay motionless on the floor.

- Hurry up.

- I am unable. I think I broke my leg again. - he murmured, almost as if admitting it was a shame.

Suspicious, you didn't move forward initially. You checked the alley again, but no one was in sight. So, you decided to use a different strategy: you approached with the gun pointed at his head, after all, none of the henchmen would dare threaten the life of their leader (or at least that was what you hoped to be true).

- If you try anything "funny", I swear I'll kill you, okay? - you hissed, bending down in front of him.

The man's legs were stretched out in front of him, and the right was in an ugly position, proving that he was telling the truth. The bone must have torn the flesh, because a bloody wheel was beginning to form in his pants. It would be disgusting to anyone who was not used to brutality.

- How did you get hurt like that?

- Let's say that this specific bone is not the strongest. It is already the third incident that occurs with the poor thing. - he tried to laugh, perhaps to feel better about himself, but the pain prevented him.

You then took a deep breath. You couldn't leave the man bleeding there, even if he wasn't the best of people. It went against your values.

By slowly lowering the weapon (but keeping it within immediate reach), you began to roll up your uniform sleeves. The basic first aid classes you took when you joined the police would have to do.

- What will you do? - he asked, lost in hesitation and fear, as he noticed your approach.

- I will help you not to bleed a river. But it will really hurt, and it will be a really temporary solution. - you answered, seriously.

Without saying anything more, the man just fell silent, a thoughtful expression appearing on his face.

You put your hands firmly on his leg and, using the techniques you had learned, started to push. The pain was absurd, but he preferred to bite his lip until it bled rather than scream. Of course, being a fugitive from the police should be part of the motivation for not making too much noise.

The cracking of bones when they went back to place was hollow and dark, but at least the meat stopped being kept open. Taking a serious look at him, you noticed that the man was pale with pain, looking like he was about to pass out.

- Breathe in. The worst is over. - you replied, rummaging through your belt until you found the bandages you always carried along, in case of personal emergencies.

Carefully but firmly, you started to bandage his leg, just to stop the bleeding and keep the leg in place for as long as possible.

- Don't move too much, or you could make your situation even worse.

The man remained silent for a few minutes, just watching your serious expression and your nimble hands as you bandaged his leg. He wasn't sure about how to react, after all, that kind of situation was not quite what a mobster would expect from a police agent.

- Uh... why are you helping me?

You lifted your head, facing him directly.

- One of the most important parts of doing justice involves not letting anyone bleed to death. And even if your wound is not that deadly, I believe that waiting for a long time in a wet alley is not the most ideal healing scenario. - letting go and wiping your hands on the leftover gauze, you took your gun out of your belt and stood up - I'll give you the advantage of not immediately telling them where you are. But hope your henchmen find you fast.

He watched you walk away, going back cautiously to the exit of the alley.

- But... I... - unable to formulate a coherent sentence and not wanting to look like an idiot, Namjoon just gave up asking questions - I suppose that's what it means to be on the good side. Thank you anyway.

Surprisingly, you turned around one last time. The smile that shone on your face exposing all your teeth and lifting the corners of your mouth, giving you an air of extreme cleverness, took away the little breath that was left to Namjoon.

- Oh, but you don't need thank me now, because we will meet again. And next time, I'm not going to be that good. - clicking your tongue, you took a step towards the darkness - You better be well prepared.

So, you're gone, leaving him alone in the alley until the moment he would be found by the other gang members (which took a little longer than it should have).

Seokjin:

Shit!

That whole day was being terrible. First, Jin had started by clashing with members of a rival gang. Then the police arrived, shooting anyone they saw ahead. It was in the middle of so many fights that he ended up being shot in the palm of his hand, and his dominant hand!

Pressing his hand against his now-stained shirt chest, he continued walking through the seemingly empty industrial quarter, unsure of how to hold his revolver straight.

Everything should have been a simple negotiation, but things got off track too quickly.

His palm had already bled so badly that the entire front of his shirt was red. In addition, he could no longer move his fingers, which was a really bad signal. Containing a sob, he let a few tears roll down his face.

He was concerned with his own hand, but his biggest concern was if it would lose its usefulness forever. How would he be a hacker after that, without being able to type?

It was at that moment that you found him wandering alone and desperate. You had been looking for the fugitives in the more distant streets, to make sure they didn't get far. However, when you found the boy crying, a part of the adrenaline that dominated your mind dissipated. He barely held a gun, after all.

With patience, you announced your presence. When he saw you, he threw his head back in mourning, as if he were indignant at the heavens.

- I can't handle it right now! - he whimpered.

Rolling your eyes, you approached, your gun in hand.

- Don't worry, I won't shoot if you don't do anything stupid.

Eyes widening, he pulled his hand away from the body, in a strangled cry.

- How would I do it if there's a hole in my hand?!

Even a few feet away, the fact that it was possible to see through his hand was disturbing. The bullet had gone in and out, leaving a hole with color of blood, bones and nerves showing. Yes, the boy's despair was justified. You just kept calm because you've seen a lot of complicated situations like that before.

- You have to stop the bleeding!

- How am I going to do this with one hand?! - the silent tears continued to run down his face.

Sighing, you finally approached, scaring him by holding his hand.

- What is this?!

- A basic aid, considering that the nearest hospital is two kilometers from here. - you replied simply, taking improvised bandages from inside the jacket of your uniform.

There was not much to do about that hand other than to stop the bleeding. Avoiding looking at his blood-soaked shirt (which was not a pleasant sight at all), you began to wrap the wound with the fabric, covering the hole and tightening the bandage tightly.

He let out a sob of pain, but he didn't back down, knowing he needed to put up with it.

- Take good care of this wound.

He wiped his wet face with his healthy hand, sniffling.

- I don't even know if I'll have a hand after this! - the reaction would be comical if it weren't tragic. The panic in his voice was real.

So, you closed your expression, getting completely serious.

- You will take care of your hand and you will stop being pessimistic. It'll be there the next time we meet. - so, you gave a smile of certainty, small but absolute.

Then, moving away, you raised your weapon again, passing by him.

It took a few seconds for Seokjin to understand what you had said. The pain left him with slow thinking.

- Hey, next time?! - he exclaimed, turning in your direction.

Unfortunately, you were too far away to be stopped. He watched you leave for a much longer time than the expected.

Yoongi:

He was no longer able to walk, so he didn't force himself anymore. It didn't matter that he was inside the same building that the police were still in: he just couldn't get away anymore.

Limping painfully for a few more steps, he sat down in the narrow hall, resting his back against one of the walls. He and his two customers had been caught during the delivery of a shipment of heroin, and one of the damned customers had stabbed him to have time to escape. Literally.

With a small knife stuck in his thigh, Yoongi was actually slower than the others, easier to be captured. He was just lucky to be in the company of his most trusted friends, who came into conflict with the police just so he could run. He was worried about them now, of course, and he couldn't even repay their sacrifice and really escape. The pain was so much, and the blood on his clothes was so much, that his veins seemed to be filled with acid, which caused a burning sensation in his entire body.

Closing his mouth to try to hold his breath and feeling the sweat on his forehead, he leaned his head against the wall, looking at the ceiling for a few moments. The knife was still stuck in his leg and needed to be pulled out. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and counted to three. Then, lifting his trembling hands, he put them on the handle of the knife. That gesture alone was enough to make more cold sweat run down the back of his neck.

Then, as he prepared to pull the knife out, you appeared at the end of the hall. Wide-eyed, you observed the injured man and what he intended to do.

- Wait! Don't pull it! - you exclaimed, startling him.

I mean, Yoongi got scared, but the only thing he did was to turn his head slowly towards you, without really expressing fear.

You turned the other way, knowing that your colleagues were close. Specifically, a colleague who hated mobsters, and who would certainly have no mercy when shooting a man who was already injured. There was even a trail of drops of blood on the carpet, which went as far as the dealer was left.

- Why not? Sometime it will have to go. - he said, in a weak voice, with the tone of someone who no longer cared.

You slowly lowered your weapon when you realized that he was not carrying any gun. Then you looked at him again, snorting when you realized that you would need to act quickly.

Too many people had been hurt that day. You needed to fix the situation. Then, running up to him, you bent down in front of the man.

- You were stabbed in your thigh, that is full of important blood vessels. In addition, you are already bleeding too much. - you said, scolding him with some anger - If you pull the knife, it can make the situation worse and cause a much worse bleeding. Even though it hurts, the knife seems to be stopping the wound.

Too impressed by how straightforward you were, he just remained silent, nodding his head to signal that he would obey. In the distance, you heard your angered colleague's voice. Then you faced the mobster again, running your hands over his shoulders.

- I'm going to get you out of here and put you in a place where you're not in the immediate sight of a gun. But I can't do anything else. You will need hospital care.

Yoongi opened his eyes wide when you started to help him up, shocked by the situation as a whole.

- Why are you doing this? - he asked, his voice low and strangled with pain.

With effort, you managed to get him upright, but you were practically carrying his full weight.

- Because I think people should go through a fair trial, and not just get shot in the head like will happen if I leave you here. - striving to walk, you started down the corridor, towards the basement of the building - And make sure that your leg does not leave a trail of blood behind us, even if you have to tighten the fabric of your pants around the wound.

Again, he obeyed without protest, containing a cry of pain as he prevented the blood from dripping on the floor. He was shaking and sweaty, and the pain he was enduring must have been scary. Still, that was better than leaving him to die.

You followed as quickly as possible to the staircase, and each step was a sacrifice for Yoongi. The black mask you were wearing, part of the uniform, prevented him from seeing your face, but your eyebrows were frown at the smell of blood and the man in agony.

When you reached the basement, you hid the man behind a tall and heavy closet. The place was small, dusty and probably untouched for months. Still, you left him on the floor, sitting.

Stretching your aching back, you searched for the bad and cheap phone you used when you went to work, for emergencies. You turned it on and handed it over to the injured man, just before standing.

- Use this to call someone who can help you. It's the most I can do for you. - you said, as soon as he held the little electronic device.

Pale but with lively eyes, Yoongi took another deep breath to be able to speak through the pain.

- Thanks. - he said simply, closing his eyes when a flash of pain passed through his body. Then, he opened his eyes again - Isn't this phone tapped? It would be pretty easy to track me, then.

With a mysterious expression, you walked away. Even though you were wearing a mask, he could see the corners of your mouth going up to form a mysterious smile.

- You will have to find it out until the next time we meet. - you replied, taking your weapon from the belt just before leaving by the same staircase you had traveled before - Do not expect me to help you again.

Hoseok:

Hoseok was crying, something he hated to do. However, getting shot in the chest was not something that happened every day, and it was okay to cry in a situation like that.

With his hands pressed to the bleeding wound, he staggered down a deserted road in the hot dry night. The road was flanked by plantations, since it was located in the countryside, and the only noises there were that of the plants moving with the wind and that of the nocturnal animals.

He was afraid of those animals, after all, he smelled of blood. Still, nothing too dangerous should be there, as farmers would exterminate any creature. Even the "creature" himself, probably, if he appeared bleeding and wanted by the police in one of the houses far from the road.

He stumbled forward, needing to lean on one of the wooden fences. The pain in his chest was so strong that he had no idea where he was running to.

Suddenly, he felt the cold muzzle of a gun at the back of his head. As he bent over the fence, he stopped paying attention to the environment, and didn't notice when you approached silently.

- Hands up! - you hissed between teeth.

With a high-pitched cry, he remained in place.

- I'm using my hands to stop the bleeding from the shot your colleague gave me in the chest! - he exclaimed, his voice exuding real pain.

Swallowing hard, you wondered if it was true, and ordered him to turn around. When he did it, weak, the front of the shirt soaked in blood was proof enough.

The man's luck was that the shot had hit the right side of his chest and not the heart. The bullet was still lodged in his chest, but the bleeding was not aggressive enough to had hit an artery. That man was very, very lucky.

- Give me your gun. - you said, forcing the man to hand over his revolver. As soon as you made sure he was unarmed, you lowered your own weapon - Let me see.

By taking the man's hands away and looking more closely at the wound hole, you were sure that no very important veins had been hit. Then you started to take off the man's coat.

- Hey, what are you doing?! Isn't it enough that you invaded our place and killed 4 people?! - he exclaimed, irritated and scared.

Hearing those words was not pleasant, but they were true. So you didn't answer, just folding the jacket efficiently and wrapping it diagonally around his body, tying it tightly on his back.

- I'm helping you, you bastard.

Arching his eyebrows, he realized you were telling the truth.

- Why? - he asked, confused.

- Because nobody else is going to die today. I'll make sure of that. - you answered seriously - Now tighten the wound again. Prevent too much blood from being lost.

The man was already pale, but when he heard of blood, he became even more so. He swallowed hard, his face still wet with tears.

- Are you sure that I will not die?

You started to smile wryly, wanting to laugh at his crybaby face. However, as you watched his expression, you realized that his panic was real. You then changed your expression, smiling without showing your teeth but confidently.

- I am sure. We will meet in the future, because I will keep you alive. - you said, walking away - Now, run to the house after this plantation behind you and ask for help. I have to go back to the mission.

He wanted to say something else, but you were already walking away. The courage you gave him through your steady smile was enough.

He had the strength to run to the nearest house and ask for help.

Maknae line here.

The images used on this post are not mine, credits to the owners!

Kisses from the Goblin Kingdom! :)

#fanfiction #writing #bts #bts mafia au #bts mafia fic #kpop imagines #kpop mafia #imagines #books and libraries #goblin king #hyung line #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #bts x reader #agent reader

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melodious-madrigals · 3 years

Text

the last shred of truth (in the lost myth of true love)

Pairing: wondertrev Rating: T Word Count: 4277 Tags: amnesia!fic, hurt/comfort, happy ending, steve and diana being soft for each other Summary: When Diana wakes up alone in a hospital room with no memory of who she is or how she got there, she panics. But even though she doesn't remember anyone, there's someone who seems fundamentally familiar... AKA: the "i may have amnesia but i trust you implicitly" trope, wondertrev edition

Read it below the cut or on [AO3].

***

Notes: @svgurl410 this fic is Your Fault™ (affectionate) because you posted a thing about the amnesia trope and WHOOPS my hand slipped, so, uh, due to the stars aligning for some very convenient timing, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

***

She wakes up in a too-sterile room, white and soundproofed and empty, but for her and her bed and a battery of too-sterile machines, all hooked up to her.

The first thing she takes in is that everything hurts. Ache blooms down her body and her head feels like it’s about to split open.

She tries to lift a hand to knead away the pain, and that’s how she discovers thing number two: she is restrained here, in this strange place, by herself. Strapped to the bed with no recollection of where she is or how she got here.

Or, for that matter, her own name.

Normal hospitals don’t look like this, she thinks. Not that she can remember ever being in one, but she’s got the vague impression that there are usually windows, or people, or doors that look like they don’t require a top-secret clearance to exit through.

She’s in trouble, then; maybe the people tying her down are the reason for her faulty memory. (Retrograde amnesia, supplies a tiny voice in her brain that she doesn’t have time to examine.)

All she knows is that she needs to figure out how to get out. If she can’t remember anything, then she can’t rely on there being anyone who would help her out, which means she needs to rely on herself and only herself.

She struggles against the bindings—they’re tight, well-constructed, but she thinks she feels some give. With a little extra effort, she pulls, and low and behold, yanks the straps straight out of their holdings.

So she’s strong, then. Good to know.

She detaches her legs next, and is partway through unhooking herself from the plethora of machines when two doctors—scientists?—beep themselves into the room.

“Code yellow, she’s awake,” says one of them into a radio.

“Miss, you need to lay back down,” says the other.

“Where am I? What’s going on?”

“You’ve been gravely injured. You need to stay calm.”

The first one is still talking into the radio. “—and the patient is agitated. We need to put her on another macro dose of the sedative,” he adds to his colleague.

“No!” She wants to know what’s going on, not be drugged back into oblivion.

A frenzied swipe of her arm sends the man flying into the padded wall with a crunch that she’d feel bad about if there wasn’t panic rising in her throat.

Three more personnel, all bigger than she is, which is saying something, rush into the room and she leans back into a defensive stance until—

“Wait!” says a new male voice, and a tall, well-dressed man with the remnants of a cut over his eyebrow steps into the room. The orderlies stop their forward motion, but they don’t leave, and she’s scanning them for signs of weakness before she’s even aware she’s doing it.

“Diana, you need to calm down.”

Her attention snaps to the new man, and she eyes him warily. “Who are you? How do you know me? Where am I?”

“You don’t remember me?” He seems hurt when she shakes her head. “You’re at a hospital facility. You took a bad blow to the head, and now you’re in recovery.”

That would make sense, except, wait— “A head wound requires being tied down?”

“It was for your safety and theirs.”

“It seems more the thing you would do to a prisoner.”

“You’re safe here.” The man catches her hand as she tries to sidestep away from his advance. “Diana, you can trust me.”

There’s half a beat as she considers, where he makes eye contact, looks at her imploringly—

—but nothing good ever comes of people telling you to trust them, of this she’s sure, and when his grip tightens almost imperceptibly as he shifts, at the same time that one of the orderlies off to the side flinches forward, she throws him off, breaking his grasp and sending him flying into the hospital bed and related machinery.

The orderlies advance, but she’s properly panicked, now, desperate to get out of here, find something—anything—familiar, and it’s muscle memory that takes over, dodging around them and hurling them to the ground, blows strong enough to make sure they don’t get back up without hurting them too badly.

She’s out in the corridor when an alarm starts blaring, sending loud noises and flashing lights through the hallway that make her already-splitting headache throb as more people rush at her. Most seem to be technicians of some sort, but two are security guards carrying guns.

She doesn’t know how she knows how to fight—can’t even confirm with herself that her name is Diana—but she knows being here is not the answer and sets to work, lashing out at each successive wave of people.

As she’s dispatching with the last of this group, she hears a new set of voices and almost starts to cry—will these people stop at nothing to keep her locked up?

“—has gone crazy!”

“What the hell did you do to her?” At the sound of this newest shouting voice, another man’s, she counterintuitively feels her muscles involuntarily relax a little.

She turns around, dropping the last of her would-be attackers just as the man to whom the voice belongs skids around the corner and comes to a stop in front of her.

He is beautiful: dirty blonde hair and an angular jaw and striking blue eyes that have fixed themselves on her. There is fear in them, and anger, but it is not the same fear or anger of the scientists holding her in this place. She has the sudden, inexplicable thought that it might be for her rather than of her. Indeed, the second their eyes meet, she notices him deflate, relief evident in the lines of his body.

She sees him, and she feels—calm. He is familiar, somehow, even if her mind can’t pull him up.

“Diana,” he says, and the shape of her name in his mouth is a balm, like honey drizzled in tea or a whiff of lavender on the breeze under a hot summer sun.

Time dilates a little, as she drinks in the sight of him, whispers flitting in the corners of her brain that she can’t quite catch.

She takes half a step forward and sees the owner of the first angry voice fling an arm out in front of the man in warning.

“Stay back, Agent Trevor. She’s disoriented and extremely dangerous.”

“You’ve done more than enough already, and I’d thank you to stay out of it.” The man pushes the arm away and steps towards her, slowly, telegraphing the move before it happens. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, Angel.”

Like the chiming of midday bells, a dozen discordant memories of him saying Angel like that flicker through her brain before fading back into foggy nothing. She’s moved instinctually, before her brain has time to approve the motion, and then she’s in his arms, holding tight.

Home, her brain supplies, and she feels her cheeks getting damp from silent tears that she does her best to blink away.

“Hey, I’m here,” the man says, pulling back just enough to swipe the moisture away. “I know you must be scared right now, but you’re going to be okay.”

“I don’t know why I’m here or what’s happening,” she admits, whispering into his ear. “I just want to get out of here.”

Before he can reply, another wave of security floods the hallway, and the man reacts accordingly, twisting out of her arms and nudging her behind him.

“Everybody, stand down,” he commands.

The alarm stops, but the personnel don’t move and there are several holding what look like big-game tranquilizer guns.

“They’re technically friendlies,” he says over his shoulder to her, “even though they’re doing a shit job of it right now. Everyone, back off.”

Finally, the woman he appeared with nods, and with a wave of her hand, people start to retreat back down the corridor.

“You could convince her to stay, Agent Trevor,” the woman says, somewhere between imploring and accusatory.

“Maybe,” the man agrees. “But I won’t.”

“Think of her treatment. Be reasonable—”

“I am.” His voice brooks no refusal, and she’s strangely relieved. “After the way you’ve bungled this, she isn’t going to be comfortable here and I’m not making her stay. She wants to leave, so we’re leaving.”

“Her memory—” The woman’s face is pinched, like she’s swallowed half a lemon.

“Will not be improved by you poking at her. Diana?” He turns to her, offering her his hand, and she slips her own into it without question, letting his guide her down the hallway.

“Oh,” he says, over his shoulder, “and tell Bruce to expect my call.”

The parking lot outside is just asphalt and concrete, but it’s a relief to be out of the building and in the sun.

“I’m taking you to one of our houses,” the man says. “You’ve been there before, and you liked it.”

“Anything’s better than that lab.”

Something in his jaw ticks, and he nods before sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Thank you, Agent Trevor,” says Diana, once they’re speeding away from that awful facility. The way he flinches tells her it’s a mistake, somehow.

Her brow furrows. “Is that not your name? I thought I heard them call you that, but I don’t know your name. I feel like I must know you, but I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

The man next to her takes a deep breath. “You remember the important things,” he says reassuringly.

“I don’t see how that can possibly be true.” She can’t remember a single name or face, or any of the events that precipitated the memory loss.

He’s quiet for a moment, and then he reaches out and takes her hand, ever so gently, and slow enough that she could pull away. (She finds she doesn’t want to.)

“You remember how I make you feel, otherwise you wouldn’t have come with me,” he says finally. “The name stuff is a bit trivial compared to that.”

“Still,” she says, frustrated.

“Steve,” he relents. “My name is Steve Trevor.”

“Steve.” She turns the name over on her tongue and sees his mouth quirk out of the corner of her eye. Then he sighs.

“We’re about three hours away from the safe house. There’s plenty of time for a nap, and I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

“No, the copilot’s in charge of the music,” Diana says automatically, surprising herself. Beside her, Steve glances her way, a bemused look on his face. In her seat, Diana just sags. “I have no idea why I said that. I’m exhausted.”

“You said that because it’s our road trip rule,” Steve explains gently, “but I think today calls for an exception. Get some sleep.”

She nods and lets her eyes flutter shut. Her eyelids have been heavy since she woke up the first time, but it’s only now she feels comfortable doing something about it. She’s asleep before they hit the next mile-marker.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, leaning in for a kiss that Steve is only too happy to provide.

“The hazards of loving someone who’s constantly saving the world,” Steve jokes.

“Alas, it was only a museum trade agreement this time.”

“As long as no artifacts were harmed in the process.”

“No, none at all,” Diana says, grinning. “What smells so delicious?”

“It’s—”

Her phone, on the Do Not Disturb setting that only Steve and the Justice League line can get through, pings angrily.

“Damn, I have to go.” She hands him her phone so he can read the sitrep from Alfred.

“I’d come with, but I have the meeting with Waller tomorrow.”

“I know,” says Diana ruefully. “It’s not worth an eight-hour flight for you. I should be home by tomorrow evening, anyways. It looks pretty standard.”

“Be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“You are absolutely not. That’s why I’m telling you now.”

She laughs and kisses him. “Don’t forget to buy new basil plants again on the way home from the market.”

He huffs good-naturedly and rolls his eyes. “Diana—”

“Diana.”

She jolts upright, still looking at Steve’s face, but in a different time and place. She tries to hold on to the memory, but it filters away like the tide receding on a beach, out of her grasp before she can catch onto its ephemeral quality. When she tries to chase it, pain stabs through her head.

“Diana, are you okay?”

“Fine,” she says, wincing.

He looks unconvinced but doesn’t press. “We’re here.”

It’s a little cottage in a secluded wooded area, and it feels welcoming even from the outside.

“Is this where I live?” she asks, trying to figure out if this is the type of place she would want to live, as he unlocks the door and ushers her in.

“No, you mostly use this house when you come to the US for long business trips,” Steve replies. “You live in Paris, most of the year.”

Her brain conjures up an image of the Eiffel Tower, but it doesn’t feel like hers, just something clinical that she knows about Paris. She finds she also knows French, though once again, she doesn’t remember learning.

“I figured we could stay here a few days to see if your memory comes back on its own. If not, maybe going home will help.” He pauses. “Is that okay with you?”

“It sounds reasonable. I don’t—I don’t really know how to make my memory come back, though.”

“I don’t think there’s an established protocol for that,” Steve says, cracking a smile. “Except to make yourself comfortable and try not to stress too much.”

They stand there, staring at each other for a moment, and she gets the intense, sudden urge to kiss him. To see if that would help, like some sort of fairy tale. She’s halfway towards working up the nerve to close the distance between them when Steve clears his throat.

“You should take the shower first,” he says. “I know you hate the smell of hospital.”

As soon as he says it, she knows it’s true.

“Will you answer my questions after?”

“As best I can, yeah.”

How long she stands under the pounding hot water, she’s not entirely sure, but it feels good. Her muscles relax, and she closes her eyes, letting the water stream over her body.

A phantom touch on her shoulder, gentle but blazing with heat, and eyes to match, and the sudden feel of cold tile against her back—

—her eyes fly open, and she gasps, scrabbling to chase the feeling, one she’s sure is a memory, but the harder she tries to catch it, the more painful the stabbing sensation in her head becomes, and she’s forced to give up, tired and frustrated.

When she finally emerges from the bathroom, hair still damp and curling, it’s to find Steve finishing a call. Even as he’s occupied on the phone, she sees him gravitate towards her and then consciously stop, hovering a few meters away.

“I have to go. We’ll talk later,” he says tersely, and hangs up. Then to her, “That was Bruce.”

He says it like the name should mean something to her, but it doesn’t, and she shrugs helplessly.

Steve sighs. “Someone you work with,” he explains. “You encountered him earlier. Sent him flying clean across the room.”

She feels a stab of guilt—she’d sent a number of people flying across the room in her desperation, and she hopes that if he’s her colleague, he’s okay and that she’ll be able to properly apologize. Until then, “The one in the pretentious suit?” she clarifies.

It startles a laugh out of Steve—fluttering white curtains and mischievous bright blue eyes and that laugh, warm and infectious, snatched away in a flicker of pain—who just says, “That’s the one.”

She nods once, and then looks around, unsure. “Can you tell me why I’m like this? What happened?”

“Let me put the kettle on,” says Steve. “It might take a while.”

He tells her about the extent of her abilities, surprising in the abstract, and yet not so much when she thinks about the thrum that ignited in her veins when she felt like people were closing in on her. He tells her about the mission she left for, last night, that was pressing but apparently standard enough in scope. He tells her that something went wrong, that something powerful and unidentified was used to deal her a blow to the head, that she was unconscious for eight hours, that he got there as fast as he could but not soon enough because transatlantic flights take time, even when you’re the pilot on a requisitioned jet. He tells her that the explanation that he was given was that she’d been convulsing in her sleep, and really had been restrained only to prevent injury to the attending doctors. He tells her that the doctors—who never really had a chance to examine her, but for a single CT scan while she was unconscious, and who have no precedent since her physiology is so different than any other being on Earth—aren’t sure whether her memories will return or not. (One of them said to give it a few days; the other wasn’t optimistic at all, based on the scans.)

Through it all, he barely references himself, but she can see the contours of him woven in: he has intimate knowledge of the things she can do, and the ways in which she uses them. He was with her when she was called away on the mission; indeed, he is clearly with her often. He speaks about her with delicate care and a small smile on his face, and she can’t help but think that given the chance, she would probably talk about him the same way.

“And you?” she prompts finally, when he’s done, when the tea has long since gone cold and dinner is prepped and in the oven.

“Me?” says Steve. “What about me?”

“You’re clearly important to me. I trust you, somehow. But you’ve said almost nothing about yourself, and I’m not quite sure how you fit in.”

“I guess it wasn’t relevant.”

It’s a bullshit answer, and they both know it.

“I love you.” It’s a question phrased as a statement, but Steve has the uncanny ability of hearing it just as she meant it.

“Yes.”

“And you love me.”

“Yes.”

It confirms everything she heard in the subtext of his words, his tone. They’re something, something powerful, and she’s gone and thrown a wrench in it by forgetting everything about him, about them. The absence plagues her, but she can barely imagine the weight he must feel at the loss of their history, of being the only one to carry it. For the first time, she really contemplates the implications of the gaping holes in her mind.

“What happens if I never get my memories back like the doctors said?”

Steve scuffs a hand over his face, the only overt sign so far that he’s feeling the stress of the situation.

“Well, I’ll go on loving you all the same, and you can decide whether you still love me.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Love isn’t simple, Diana, but loving you is the easiest thing in the world. I’ll love you no matter what happens, and no matter what you decide when it does.”

She regards him for a moment. Now that she’s looking, she thinks she can see lines of tension in his body. He’s good at covering it up, but there’s worry there. Then the understanding hits.

“You’d let me go.”

His eyes fall shut, and she thinks maybe it’s so she can’t try to read them. It doesn’t matter: she can already see that he’s pushing down his pain to put her first, a clear character sketch if she ever saw one.

“Yeah.”

That one word, it makes her heart break for him.

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d like to.” He looks up at her, confusion dotting his features. “Go on loving you, that is,” she clarifies, and is rewarded by an absolutely incandescent grin.

“Well, that’s neat.”

The sacredness of the moment is shattered by the insistent dinging of the oven timer, signaling that dinner is ready, and Steve ducks his head, breaking eye contact as he gets up to retrieve the food.

They’re not very talkative for the rest of the evening, but even though the mood is heavy, the silence is not uncomfortable. There is an unspoken agreement that they can deal with the ramifications of the day tomorrow since it’s been such a long and stressful day for them both.

The house is small, one bedroom only, and given the conversation they had earlier, she just assumes that they’ll share the bed, but Steve, apparently, does not seem to share that assessment, because when he leaves the bathroom, he picks up the spare blanket off the foot of the bed and heads for the door.

“You could stay,” she says, so soft she’s not sure for a second if he even heard.

“Are you sure?”

“I feel better when you’re close by,” she admits into the darkness, and a moment later, she feels the bed dip next to her as he slips under the covers.

Her hand finds his under the duvet, and she links their fingers together. She wants so badly to remember him properly, but every time she pushes, there’s a searing pain that drives its way through her skull.

“Goodnight, Diana.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

It takes surprisingly little to drift away on the current of sleep.

The air is acrid, thick with smoke and gunpowder. She’s been here before; she knows this place. It is dark, but there are fires burning all around and the thunder of bombs, lighting up the horizon.

The earth shakes somewhere close by.

Then there’s Steve, in front of her, telling her he loves her, that he wishes they had more time. She doesn’t understand; as far as she can tell, he’s young and healthy. They have time, don’t they?

Time fuzzes and suddenly she’s staring at the sky, and a plane that she knows to be carrying Steve explodes, high above her in the cold dark air.

“NO!”

This can’t be how it ends. He can’t leave her like this. Think, Diana, she tells herself. The pain in her head is unbearable, but it is nothing compared to the one in her heart. If she can only push through, maybe she won’t have to feel this way anymore. Maybe she can change the ending. Maybe they’ll have more time.

…a cerulean ocean, and a diving plane.

…the soft shimmer of snow in lanternlight.

…a plane exploding high overhead.

…the weight of arms, too long gone and miraculously here, enfolding her.

…dancing in the late-night glow of streetlamps on a bridge over the Seine.

A thousand tiny flashes, all swirling together as her past and present unfold before her, and there at the heart—

“Steve!”

Diana sits up with a gasp, struggling for air as her brain tries to sort through the influx of information that it suddenly has access to once more. It’s all out of order and too much at once, but it’s there.

A hand on her shoulder tells her that Steve’s woken up too, and she slumps back against him, relishing the way he rearranges his arm so that she’ll be more comfortable.

“Did you remember the basil plants this time?” Diana asks, exhausted.

He lets out a little huff. “I was a little busy, what with—” She feels him stiffen under her, the whole of his body silently asking the question that his mouth isn’t. “Diana?” he manages, hesitantly.

She twists a little in his arms so that she can see his face. “I’m so sorry I forgot you.”

Everything in him relaxes. “You didn’t; not really.”

“No,” she corrects, “I think it would be impossible to forget you entirely. You’re written in my soul.”

He chokes a little at that, squeezes her closer, shifting just enough so that he can rest his forehead against hers.

“I’m glad you’re back, Angel.”

Diana kisses him softly, feels the dampness on his cheeks. “Oh, my love. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he insists.

“No, but I ache for what you must have felt, and yet you handled it all so calmly.”

“Shit, Diana, I was terrified,” Steve admits, somehow managing to pull her even closer, like he’s scared she might physically disappear, too. “It was only a day, but it felt like a century. I mean, we’ve had some pretty good times, and I didn’t want to be the only guardian of those memories.”

“That will never happen.”

“You can’t know that,” he says helplessly.

“I can. We always find our way back to each other, my love. I believe in us.”

“And you say I’m the one that spouts the romantic lines.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” He kisses her, soft and slow, and any quip she might have had flies directly out of her head in favor of this feeling.

“Don’t forget me between now and tomorrow,” Steve whispers later as they drowse next to each other.

“I wouldn’t even dream of it,” Diana promises, tucking her face back into the juncture between his shoulder and neck, before falling asleep herself.

(She doesn’t—her promises, after all, are unbreakable.)

***

#wondertrev #wondertrev fic #wonder woman #diana prince #steve trevor #Diana x Steve #lenci writes

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

For the Meet Ugly Prompts-38, NSFW Danbrey?

Here you go! Note: there are mentions of blood in this.

38: overhear you ordering your coffee in a coffee shop and I’m trying to place your voice when I realize that you’re the phone sex operator I’ve been calling on and off for the last few months but the realization startles me so much that I accidentally spill my drink on you and you’re pissed

“One spiced mocha, one oatmilk latte!”

Aubrey reaches for her mocha just as a painfully cute blonde in overalls grabs the latte.

“Oh, excuse me” the blonde calls over the counter, “could I get a lid, it looks like you’re all out at the station. Thanks, you’re the best.” She smiles at the teenager who hands he the lid while Aubrey tries to figure out where she’s heard “thanks, you’re the best” said that exact way before.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

She’s heard that voice every Tuesday and Friday when she calls LoveBites, the premiere service for people who really like vampires. Really, really, like vampires.

Honeysuckle, as the woman on the other end of the line calls herself, probably isn’t a vampire. Aubrey figures most of the people who work that line are just very good at pretending to be fictional monsters. She is, however, incredibly good at getting Aubrey to cum with vivid descriptions of where she’s going to sink her teeth.

“AH! Hey, watch what you’re doing.”

Aubrey snaps back to the coffee shop to discover her drink is now all over Honeysuckles shoes.

“Ohmygod, I’m, I’m so sorry.” She grabs a fistful of napkins, drops down to clean the mess of coffee and chocolate syrup from the floor. She reaches to help clean off the other woman's shoes only for her to wave her away.

“It’s fine, I got itshit” she glares as Aubrey, in her attempt to get out of her space, stands too quickly, bumping her head into Honeysuckle’s cup and sending it all over both of them.

Okay, she can totally salvage this. Right?

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

“...then I just ran away.”

Duck laughs so hard on the other end of the phone that he startles Dr. Harris Bonkers.

“Oh come on, like you’ve never done something embarrassing in front of someone cute.”

“Dunno, you might have just beaten my ‘six Freudian slips in a row trying to ask ‘Dird how his weekend was.’”

“Ugggggggggggggggh.”

“It’s okay, Lady Flame” he manages to sound genuinely sympathetic through his giggles, “lots of cute folks out in the world who you ain’t spilled two cups of coffee on.”

“Yeah.” She checks the neon orange clock on the wall, “I gotta go practice my tricks for this weekend. Thanks for listening to me whine.”

“Any time, Aubrey. See you at the show.”

She gets through two tricks, including the one where Dr. Harris Bonkers disappears from a box, but she can’t focus. It’s not nerves; instead, she feels like if she got off just once, she’d stop feeling so tense and be able to run through the rest of her act without issues.

It’d be a very bad idea to call LoveBites when she spilled a drink on her favorite operator. She doesn’t feel like talking someone new through her preferences, and she knows with Honeysuckle she’s guaranteed to get off, which wasn’t always the case with previous operators. Besides, the length of her calls must be enough to pay for a replacement drink.

She grabs her phone and dials. Soon a familiar voice purrs down the line.

“Hi, Aubrey. How’s my favorite human tonight?”

“Good?”

“You don’t sound so sure about that, fireblossom.” It’s a new pet name; ever since she mentioned her stage name, Honeysuckle likes to give her ones woven through with flames.

“I, um, I'm fine?”

“Did something happen today, hot stuff?”

“Uhhhhh. Um. I, uh, I made a fool of myself in a coffee shop. I, um, I spilled my drink on a cute girl. Also hers.”

Honeysuckle goes quiet.

“I, um, I think the person I spilled them on was you.”

“..............spiced mocha?”

“Yeeeeah” Aubrey curls inwards, trying to cringe away from her phone, “I’m really sorry about your shoes. And your overalls. And your drink. I, um, I wasn’t gonna mention it but it feels, like, weird not to and I really was going to offer to replace your coffee except I was kinda worried I’d somehow spill that too. I’m, I’m sorry. I just really like talking with you.” She smiles shyly, “you’re my favorite vampire.”

Dead air, then “you really want to make it up to me with another drink?”

“Yes!” Aubrey sits up, hopeful.

“Even if the drink isn’t coffee?”

“Sure it, it can be whatever you want.”

A hungry purr that makes Aubrey reach for her trusty vibrating wand, “In that case, don’t go anywhere.”

“What? But you’re-”

The line goes dead. Aubrey stares at it, frowning. What is she supposed to do now? Did they get disconnected accidentally? Should she just call back?

She shoves the toy back in the drawer, paces back and forth between the kitchen counter and the table where her cards and flashpaper are strewn about, unsure whether she should make dinner, practice, try to get off, or just give up on everything and go to bed.

From his hutch in the corner, Dr. Harris Bonkers honks, thumps his feet in alarm, then turns his bugged-out eyes on Aubrey and thumps again as if to say, “what the fuck, why aren’t you heeding my warning?”

“Aww, it’s okay buddy. Is that cat on the fire escape again?” She looks out the window, finds nothing but some mist. Mist that’s hovering on her tiny balcony and no one elses. She blinks.

Honeysuckle is standing on the other side of the glass; she’s wearing a loose green tank top and grey yoga pants, golden hair taking on the tint of the nearby streetlights. She gives a demure wave as Aubrey throws the back door open.

“Holy fuck I thought the vampire thing was just, like, a gimmick.”

A shrug, “There’s more humans than vampires working the line, but some of us are the real deal. I know a few vampires who do it because it lets them work nights and keep an actually nocturnal schedule. But some of us do it as a side job and go out during the day. Which means we see cute girls in coffee shops who we think we might ask out who then spill drinks on us.”

“Aw beans. Wait, were you checking me out for real.”

“Uh huh. You must have been doing something super interesting on your phone to not notice.”

Aubrey resolves to delete Candy Crush immediately.

“Um, so, not that I’m not happy to see you again, but like how did you find my house?”

“We can trace numbers on our end. It’s a security thing; back when the line started some hunters kept trying to use it to go after vampires, so we needed to know where calls were coming from.”

“Blegh, that sucks.”

“Yeah, not my favorite.” She flutters her eyelashes, “any chance I could come in?”

“Absolutely, uh, here” she holds the door--which has no risk of closing without a lot of force--so the vampire can step into the apartment.

“Do I, um, should I still just call you what I always have?”

Golden eyes look her up and down hungrily, “Dani is fine.” Then she squeaks, “ooooh, hi there little guy, can I say hi? Oop, okay, some other time.” Dani smiles as the rabbit ducks into his covered box, “animals can be kind of skittish around me at first. Which makes sense.” When she turns to look at Aubrey, her fangs are visible.

“Hooboy that’s, that’s, uh-”

Dani steps back, “I can back off. I just, um, I thought since we’re both into each other and you were, um, already in the mood for some lovebites maybe we could -”

“NoItotallywantto!” Aubrey grabs her hand, pulling her towards the bedroom, “sorry, the fangs are apparently an insta-horny button in my brain.”

“Good to know” Dani spins her by her shoulders and pushes her back onto the bed, fangs now on full display, “take your clothes off, fireblossom.”

Aubrey thanks herself from two hours ago for changing into her pajamas so she doesn’t have much to rid herself of. When she gets her shirt off, Dani is down to her underwear, green boyshorts showing off her legs and completely distracting Aubrey from any unwelcome self-consciousness.

“Mmmmmm” Dani crawls onto the bed with her, “I thought you were cute before but fuck, you look incredible like this.”

“Thanks” Aubrey’s breath catches as Dani bumps their noses together, “can, can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

She raises up on her elbows, mapping Dani’s mouth with her own. Aubrey’s kissed plenty of people in her life, and there have only been a few where the gesture felt like coming home, like she was slotting against a body that was meant to be with hers. All of those pale in comparison to the way Dani’s body seems to meld with hers. She gasps when the vampire cups her right breast, teasing the nipple with her thumb as she eases Aubrey all the way down. Her other hand finds her face, traces from there to the base of her neck, touches moving from light to sharp as she curves her nails down her skin.

When the fangs scrape her sternum she moans. Dani snickers against her, kisses and nuzzles her way down her chest, sighing when Aubrey threads her fingers into her hair.

“So, my pretty snack, what were you going to ask me for when you called?”

“I, I was kinda hoping we’d talk about you eating me out.”

A kiss above her belly button, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“OhgoodOH, ohfuck” she opens her legs wider as Dani dips her head between them, “ahhhn, please, a little higher, ohfuck, god.” Her hips twitch as Dani sucks her clit. There’s a muffled laugh as two fingers tease her cunt.

“Wow, you really do like the fangs.”

“I mean yeah, but that’s more because you’re really hotOH, ohyesfuckthat’sgood.” She moans as Dani presses two fingers in, stroking and rubbing in time with the vampire’s increasingly wanton groans.

“Fuck, Aubrey, that’s it, you look so pretty like this, be a good girl and cum for me.”

“Trying” Aubrey squeaks as Dani laves her tongue across her clit and curls her fingers inside her, “fuck, right there, yeah, ohyes, that, just like that.” She squeezes her eyes shut, clinging to Dani’s head and to the hand gripping her thigh. When she cums it’s intense enough that she’s terrified she’s going to kick Dani accidentally, but the vampire simply holds her thighs down, lapping at her until her moans die down.

“Fireblossom?”

“Uh huh?”

“You still owe me a drink. Whatever I want, remember?”

“Yeah? Oh, oh fuck yeah.” She squirms in excitement as Dani drops to the floor and pulls Aubrey towards her until she’s able to hook her knees over her shoulders.

Dani pushes stray hairs from her face, “If you start feeling lightheaded, tell me okay?”

Aubrey gives a thumbs up, winces at how dorky it is, then giggles when Dani cranes forward to kiss it.

The vampire kisses a line from her right knee to her inner thigh, sighing loudly when she noses a certain patch of skin.

“Perfect.”

Fangs sink into her skin and Aubrey clamps her hands over her mouth to avoid waking the neighbors. It’s a sharp, precise pain, flooding her body with the urge to lay back and let Dani take her fill. Then the teeth retreat and Dani’s tongue takes their place, licking the red rivulets and moaning as she sucks at the punctured skin.

“Such a perfect snack.” Dani looks up at her, heavy-lidded and scarlet-mouthed.

“Dani” Aubrey reaches for her, not sure what she’s even asking for.

The vampire takes her hand, rubs it against her cheek, “Does it still feel okay?”

“It feels so good.”

Dani smiles, turns her head to pierce the left thigh, Aubrey moaning weakly as she drinks from her. The moan is echoed, and when she manages to lift her head she sees Dani’s hand is not between her own legs.

“Oh god that’s hot.”

The vampire grins at her, “I get dinner, you get a show. It’s perfect.”

Aubrey watches her lick the bites until they cease bleeding, her moans pitching higher as she fucks herself, getting off on the taste of Aubrey’s blood-tinted skin. Then she tenses, tipping her head back, fangs glinting in the light from the windows, and gasps Aubrey’s name as she cums.

Then a blonde head rests on her knee. Aubrey sits up, Dani’s hair as they catch their breath.

“I, um, I should clean you up. Do you have band-aids?”

“Bathroom.”

Dani stands, cheeks much pinker than before, and returns a minute later with the Pokemon band-aids that Aubrey bought solely for the Charizard ones. She wipes her legs with a warm hand towel, gently pats the bandages into place, stealing giddy glances at Aubrey the entire time.

“You know that fucking ruled, right?” Aubrey rests her head on her shoulder when Dani joins her on the bed.

“Glad you liked it, fireblossom. Can’t believe I’m lucky enough that the hottest human I’ve met in years has a thing for vampires.

“Pretty sure I just have a thing for you. Which, um, I mean this can totally stay casual but, um, do you want to go out sometime?”

Dani nods, leans in for another kiss. She must have borrowed Aubrey’s mouthwash, since she tastes of mint instead of iron.

“I’d love to, Aubrey. But, um, let’s avoid coffee shops for awhile?”

“Good plan.”

#danbrey #aubrey little/dani #taz amnesty #meet ugly #vampire girlfriend

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panharmonium · 4 years

Photo

@captain-jaybird @solo-by-choice - i love you guys XD

So, the fic in question was originally a collection of ten location-based vignettes following the development of Obi-Wan and Padme’s friendship from AotC to RotS. I wrote it seven years ago and only ever showed it to my sister and @dyingsighs, so unless I fall hard back into Star Wars at some point, I probably won’t ever post it in its entirety, because I don’t think I have quite enough energy to do the kind of rewriting it would need in order for me to feel like it meets my current standards. HOWEVER - given your replies, I pulled the only two vignettes from it that I do actually still like, because I know it has been literal years since I made any Star Wars-related work for you, and I feel like this is the least I can do to thank you for your many years of fandom friendship! 😊

@all my old Star Wars peeps: Ancient fic snippets under the cut! Consider this an affectionate “hello there” from me - I hope you guys are all doing well out there! <3

-naboo-

Anakin is insistent.

“Come on, Padmé,” he cajoles her. “Just a little walk. I get to be here without breaking any rules for once and you want to just sit inside?” He flings open the embassy’s balcony doors and gestures out over the city. “Look at this day!”

Sunny skies or not, Padmé can’t quite wrench her gaze away from the festival itinerary in her hands. However many times she’s been over it, she can’t help but feel they must have missed some small detail, and in a situation as precarious as this one, the slightest slip could be deadly. “I can’t, Anakin.”

Anakin’s carefree expression starts its rapid but familiar descent into a scowl. “Why not? No one’s going to bust a Senator for showing one of her Jedi guests around. We can just walk the perimeter of the Festival platform – ”

“Anakin – ”

“You can pretend to show me the security arrangements or something – ”

“Anakin! You’re supposed to be here to prevent an assassination attempt on the Chancellor. This isn’t a social call.”

Anakin lets out his breath in a huge gust, waving a hand dismissively. “That? We’ve got that under control, Padmé. Don’t even worry about it.”

“I am worried about it.” Anakin opens his mouth as if to make another placating remark, but Padmé cuts him off. “This is serious. I can’t leave the embassy right now. I’m not going out for a stroll. I’m not doing anything until the Festival is over and done with tonight.” When Anakin’s scowl does not subside, she sighs and makes a passing attempt at smoothing things over. “I’m sorry, but the Festival of Light is enough of a headache without adding assassination threats into the mix. I’m just a little tense right now.”

Anakin comes extraordinarily close to signing his own death warrant by rolling his eyes at her, but he stops just short of an irrevocable mistake. “Yeah, you and everyone else,” he says instead, a very particular brand of irritation edging into his voice. “But whatever. Go ahead and read that thing again. I’ll just come back when everyone’s got their bad feelings under control.” He sweeps out of the room with the type of stormy bluster only he can manage.

Wrestling down a surge of irritation of her own, Padmé tosses the itinerary onto the desk. Anakin, for all his moodiness, is partially right – she has the elegant program memorized back to front, and poring over it further is only going to make her feel worse. And, come to think of it, there are a few other security measures she needs to double check with the rest of the Jedi task force.

Pushing back her chair, she sets off in search of Anakin’s derisively referenced “everyone else.”

Most of the embassy’s guests, including the recently arrived contingent of Jedi knights, appear to have vacated the premises – emulating Anakin’s shining example and enjoying the day, perhaps, or, in the case of the Jedi, probably walking the security perimeter in preparation for tonight’s festivities. After making inquiries, Padme finds a staff member who directs her to the rear of the ornately decorated building, where she discovers Everyone Else in the courtyard, boots and cloak discarded against the wall, dappled sun playing over his inner tunics.

She hesitates on the steps. It’s bad form to interrupt a Jedi in meditation, not that she has much opportunity to commit such faux pas. Anakin rarely meditates, resorting to the ancient art only when he has failed in his attempts to outrace or outright beat his troubled thoughts into submission.

But this doesn’t seem like meditation, exactly, not the kind she recognizes. Obi-Wan is performing what looks like some kind of kata with a ritual slowness, pivoting and stretching with unhurried grace, flowing smoothly out of one stance and into the next, like liquid filling a clear vessel. He holds himself suspended for an interminable count between each position, bare feet rooted on the sun-warmed flagstones, the only thing moving around him dust motes drifting through heavy beams of sunlight.

She doesn’t really mean to stay and watch, but there’s an almost hypnotic quality to the rhythmic motion – exertion of the body, sun and warmth and muscle and bone intertwined with stillness of the mind, an empty calm space, peace in the eye of the storm.

He sinks into a low stance with his back to her, head bowed, upward-facing hands loosely fisted, elbows bent and tucked in at his sides. Then, after a long, still stretch of time, the calm murmur of his voice, rippling with something like amusement. “Good morning.”

She blinks. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“That’s quite all right.” He seems to come back from some far place, and straightens, turning to address her. Holding her gaze for a moment, searchingly, he draws some private conclusion. “You are disturbed.”

She presses her lips together by way of response, grudgingly impressed yet cursing Jedi perception to the lowest pit of Chaos. “It’s not important,” she says. “Just the festival.” She changes the subject. “What’s that you were doing?”

Obi-Wan paces over to the courtyard wall to retrieve his footwear. “One of the alchaka forms,” he says, pulling on the soft nerfhide boots. At her blank look, he adds, “It’s...a type of moving meditation. One of the oldest known to the Order.”

“It looks relaxing,” Padmé says. Would that she could expunge her own anxieties with such artfulness.

He shrugs slightly. “In theory.” He bends down and scoops up his cloak with an easy physicality. “The intended goal is to clear one’s mind. To...release troubled thoughts.”

Something about the crease in his brow seems to belie this statement. Thinking back, she remembers suddenly what Anakin had said earlier, and, surprised, frowns. “Are you worried about the festival tonight? About the assassination attempt?”

He blinks at her for a moment, as if she had only just reminded him about the possible catastrophe. “No. No, I don’t think so. Even if the intelligence we’ve gathered is accurate, I doubt the Separatist forces will be able to achieve much when they must first go through six Jedi. And Naboo’s finest,” he adds, glancing up at the overhead balconies, where far-away security personnel stand sentinel, their uniforms smears of dark red across the golden walls.

“But you are worried about something.”

A beat. Then, “No. Merely practicing good habits.”

She laughs humorlessly and sinks down onto the steps. “Tonight could be a disaster.”

Obi-Wan thinks for a moment before responding. “If so,” he reminds her carefully, “it is one which all your worries will be completely unable to prevent.”

“I know. But when it’s my people concerned...and the Chancellor, obviously...” She ticks things off on her fingers. “Public support for Queen Neeyutnee...the well-being of the Republic...”

“Fate of the galaxy.”

“Little things.”

They exchange almost shy grins, private smiles. Padmé feels one tiny knot of tension uncoil inside her, and she breathes out an exasperated sigh, ineffectually commanding the rest of her anxieties to untangle and be gone. “I need some of that alcha-whatsit business, clearly,” she says ruefully. “I’m a mess.”

Obi-Wan takes a step back and looks her up and down. “I agree,” he says.

Excuse me? Padmé suppresses a surge of indignation.

“You will forgive me for saying so, but a senator is no good to her people preoccupied. She must keep a cool head about her at all times.”

“I beg your pardon –

“Therefore,” Obi-Wan plunges ahead, and Padmé suddenly sees the glint of humor starting in his eyes, “I feel it is my duty in this case to help you attain such calm.”

She narrows her eyes at him in mock severity, but inside, she feels her mood beginning to lighten. “By insulting my competence?”

“By exposing you to some of that alcha-whatsit business,” he says. “If you like.”

Padmé hesitates. This is Jedi business for sure, far outside her arena. But Obi-Wan just smiles reassuringly at her and extends a hand.

“Not to worry, Senator. I have it on good authority that I am a reasonably competent teacher.”

Padmé eyes his hand for another moment, then slaps her own lightly into his open palm. “Very well then,” she says. “I submit myself to your reasonably competent tutelage.”

“Obi-Wan, I don’t think this is for me.”

Padmé looks down at her bare feet, torn between luxuriating in the warmth of the sun-soaked stones and fretting over the ever-widening stance Obi-Wan is asking her to assume.

“Patience.” He sticks his own soft-booted foot against the inside of her ankle and slides one of her feet out to the left.

“Obi-Wan – ”

Still applying a gentle pressure against one foot, he pushes the other further away.

“I don’t know how to do a split, Obi-Wan,” she warns him, tamping down on a little flare of alarm.

“That’s far enough.”

Thank goodness she’d worn a relatively uncomplicated dress today. Senatorial garb was nowhere near so flexible as the Jedi’s simple tunics.

She looks up at Obi-Wan, who, by virtue of her lowered, bent-kneed stance, is now slightly above her. “What now?”

“Now,” he says placidly, sinking into the same low stance beside her, albeit with considerably more familiarity and ease, “you do as I do.”

All right, then. She waits for him to begin, but the only thing he does is close his eyes, and she can’t close hers if she’s going to follow him, so she waits, doing nothing. Her legs begin to protest the prolonged exertion in this unfamiliar position, but the trace of fire starting to bloom in her muscles doesn’t bother her. It’s...ferocious. It burns the way she does inside, sometimes.

Obi-Wan cracks an eye open and looks at her. Padmé doesn’t flinch. “What?” she challenges. “You aren’t doing anything yet.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “I am breathing,” he says.

“So am I.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” he says, and in the span of a moment, he seems to grow in authority before her. His voice shifts into the calm certainty of a millennia of tradition, the well-worn tracks of an ancient, unbroken line of instruction. “Attend.”

He closes his eyes again, and this time she watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, the slight shift of tunic as his ribs expand. “All meditation begins with the breath. You breathe in life, I breathe in the Force; without either of those things both of us are nothing.”

What a strange thing to say. “I’m not Force-sensitive, Obi-Wan.”

“It does not matter. You are not Force sensitive, but the Force is in you nonetheless. We are all of us full of it. Your people are full of it. Your planet is full of it.” He breathes in, slow, and she attempts to follow him. In. Full. “Your breath must fill more than your lungs. Without breath, the body starves. Without the Force, life starves. Therefore you must let it suffuse you. Breath; the Force. Everywhere. Small, forgotten places. Empty places. You must allow yourself to be full. A gas expands to fill a container – your breath will expand to fill you, if you allow it.”

She does not answer. She is breathing. He falls into silence beside her, joining her rhythm. Inhale, beat, exhale, beat. She does not count the minutes. They slip by into nothing.

“Now,” he says. “With me.”

She trains her eyes on him and follows as he moves, one bright light and its smaller, slighter reflection, moving in a bumpy sort of unison. The fire in her leg muscles climbs higher, but it doesn’t faze her. She breathes it out, from everywhere, the small, forgotten places. She exults in it.

“Balance,” he says, maneuvering her hands to the proper places, the knuckles of one fist pressed flat against a vertical open palm, two hands meeting just in front of her lower abdomen. “Two opposing forces.” He sticks his foot back against the inside of her ankle, and she slides her feet apart without needing to be told, dropping back to the correct position. “Close your eyes. Breathe.”

In. Full. Small, forgotten places.

“Now,” he says, stepping back from her. “You will count.”

“How high?” she asks. Her legs are screaming with a pleasant sort of exhaustion, but she’s wobbly, and this position isn’t easy to maintain.

“One hundred,” he replies. Then – “Three times.”

Her eyes fly open. “Obi-Wan, that’s – ”

His eyes are glowing with suppressed mirth. “Three times, apprentice.”

If she starts laughing, she’s going to fall. “Obi-Wan, three times is too many – ”

“Protest again and it shall be six.”

“You know,” she grunts, wriggling down in an attempt to find a slightly more comfortable position, “I’m beginning to think I’ve done Anakin a disservice.”

He raises an eyebrow archly. “Because...?”

“All this time, he was telling the truth about you.”

Obi-Wan snorts. “Impudence. I’d have been running circuits around the Temple for that kind of insolence.”

“Somehow I doubt that ever stopped you.”

And there’s the smile – trademark Kenobi, dimples and all, subtle and half-hidden behind the close-trimmed beard. “No,” he agrees. “You are quite correct. I became an accomplished marathon runner.” Dropping down to the same low, planted stance she is struggling to maintain, he returns to the matter at hand. “Let us begin.”

“Obi-Wan.”

“Mm.” He has already closed his eyes. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already made it to twenty while she’s still dithering around trying to get her breathing in order.

“This is the silliest thing I’ve ever done with anybody.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but the corners his mouth curl up.

“But,” she says, never one to skimp on gratitude, “I like it.” Her legs are shaking and she can’t count the number of joints she’s heard crack since they started this ridiculous exercise, but the anxious tangle in her chest is now tiny threads blowing in the wind, unwound and strewn about by breath and motion. “And I do feel better about tonight. So thank you.”

“I come to serve, Senator.”

Formal response, for someone who just moments ago had been shoving her into positions more suited to a gymnast than a senator. She smiles to herself in private amusement and closes her eyes. Reminds herself to breathe, full, everywhere.

And begins to count.

-chandrila-

Padmé has to give Obi-Wan credit. By now, she has watched him extricate himself from Senator Se’lab’s clutches three times, and while a moonlit cocktail party in a garden of this size provides the Jedi with plenty of spaces to hide, the shadow cast by a group of hulking Ithorian senators is a more creative choice than she had expected, even from him. Observing him from her position on the other side of the lush garden, she bites her lip in an attempt not to laugh at the deadly seriousness with which Obi-Wan keeps the Ithorian delegation between himself and the beverage table towards which the Bothan senator had stumbled.

She cannot pass up such a rare opportunity to tease him. Excusing herself from her group of colleagues, she sidles across the garden towards him, ensconcing herself in the shadows behind the wide backs of Ithorian senators Stonk and Bendon. “Master Kenobi,” she greets him, smoothly.

Obi-Wan’s cool voice betrays nothing. “Senator.”

Padmé fights to keep a straight face. “I see you’ve made Senator Se’lab’s acquaintance.”

“I have made his acquaintance several times,” Obi-Wan replies. “He had little memory of our first meeting at our second, and no memory of our second at our third. Forgive me, but if I can avoid a fourth such performance, I will. I grow tired of introducing myself.”

Padmé stifles a smile. It isn’t fair, that one so skilled in diplomacy to earn himself a galactic-wide nickname should hate it so much. “And did the Honorable Senator from Bothawui tire of your company?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Then how – ” She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. “You didn’t – ”

Obi-Wan gives her an affronted look. “Senator Amidala, what sort of nefarious rogue do you take me for?” He chances a harried glance past the Ithorians, checking for any signs of his unwanted companion’s return. “Along with the memories of our previous two meetings, the good Senator appeared to have forgotten how exactly it was that he’d been able to achieve such an impressively amnesiac and befuddled state. I merely reminded him about the open bar.”

“Formidably underhanded,” she says, approvingly. “But then, that’s why they call you the Negotiator.”

Obi-Wan makes a face at the nickname. “Yes,” he says. “And if I could only negotiate myself out of this whole affair, I would perhaps believe the title to have been aptly bestowed.”

“Obi-Wan,” she chides him. “The best negotiators know when to call for assistance.”

He raises an eyebrow, just slightly, in what might be a faint feather-brush of amusement, then follows her gaze over his shoulder, to where the clearly intoxicated Bothan senator is making his weaving way through the festive crowd back towards them. Obi-Wan’s eyes widen very slightly, in definite alarm. “Indeed. Very well said. In that case, my lady, consider my distress signal activated.”

She extends an arm to him formally. “Walk with me.”

Thanks to the friendship she and Bail share with Mon Mothma, Padmé knows the Chandrilan Diplomatic Gardens better than most in attendance. She knows Obi-Wan, too, better than most, not because he opens himself to her, exactly, but – well, being in her position, one hears things, and Padmé is well-practiced at extracting trivia and truth from Anakin’s well-worn litany of complaints, worries, and fears.

She guides them serenely down a lesser-used path, the raucous festivities behind them fading into a murmur. “Here,” she points. They turn through a simple, cream-colored arch into a wider space, far-away party sounds now faint, distant enough not to grate on the nerves. All about them, only the cheerful babble of water, tumbling from multiple small falls into a network of mossy pools and rock-bordered streams.

Obi-Wan turns his head from side to side to take in the shimmering falls and eddying pools, chin rising as if in response to some sound only he can hear, features lightening. “We’ve a place very like this, in the Temple,” he says. “The Room of a Thousand Fountains.”

Padmé knows this. Knows too that it is a favorite haunt of his, though she will not tell him so. Better he think her fortuitous choice a welcome coincidence, for she knows what she knows about him from Anakin, and, strictly speaking, should not have access to such confidences.

“I’ve heard of it,” she says instead. “It’s much larger than this, though, I think.” She waves a hand at the small garden.

“Size matters not,” Obi-Wan intones, as though reciting an oft-repeated adage, and extends a hand gracefully under one of the falls’ streams. To Padmé’s surprise, the water curves around his upturned palm, bending as if repelled by an invisible barrier before continuing its swan dive into the clear pool below.

“Just a game,” Obi-Wan says, in answer to her unasked question. “And an exercise in control. One practiced by Temple younglings.”

Not any game Padmé knows. She and her sister – then later, her handmaidens – were more apt to occupy themselves with jumping straight into the water, shrieking with glee, than with avoiding its flow. “What’s the objective?”

“Just this,” he says. “Stay dry.” He curls his fingers up to his palm and then flat again in a gentle wave, the water above his hand twisting in a delighted dance before resuming its tumble around an untouched sleeve. “Even the youngest initiates, when exhibiting proper control, can easily redirect a flow of water around their forms. One stands under the falls, keeping dry, while their agemates or teachers attempt to break their focus.” He quirks a smile, one laced with equal parts memory and mischief. “One gets distracted, one gets wet.”

She smiles at him. “I take it you were good at this game?”

“I was passable,” he says with a diffident shrug. “But I did not win every time. My own clan members’ antics were at times difficult to ignore.”

“And Anakin?” she asks. She can’t help herself.

Obi-Wan pull his arm out from the falls, hand disappearing back into the long sleeve of his robe. “Terrible,” he says bluntly. “Without a doubt the worst in his class.”

Padmé refrains from making an unbecoming snort. So she will have something amusing to hold over Anakin’s head when she returns to Coruscant.

“You mustn’t misunderstand me, of course; Anakin is highly capable and could easily manipulate the water were he left to his own devices, but I’m afraid his mental discipline left much to be desired.” Obi-Wan sighs and shakes his head. “Anakin is so easily distracted – he reserved his limited ability to focus for very singular pursuits.”

“Such as...?”

Obi-Wan looks to be almost on the verge of rolling his eyes, but that would be un-Jedi, and he settles for a narrowing of them and crooking his fingers sardonically into the universal sign for quotes. “‘Fixing stuff,’ I believe he said.”

Padmé can’t help but laugh at that, and Obi-Wan indulges her merriment graciously. Looking re-energized, far more hale and hearty than he had in the reception area proper, he stretches out a hand. Ribbons of water arc away from the falls all around them, streaming through the air and coalescing into a shining globe above his palm, a miniature model of Mon Cala. The sphere’s globular surface ripples and turns slowly, casting small refractions of moonlight over the courtyard. Small-scale beauty, to be sure, but Padmé only has eyes for Obi-Wan’s face, lit with reflected light from below, a study in simple happiness.

A Jedi at play, she realizes. Most people didn’t believe there really was such a thing.

“That’s lovely,” she says, peering into the globe’s transparent yet distorted depths. Something about it...she is suddenly reminded of Anakin, in another time and place, levitating a muja fruit in much the same way, and with the same burst of simple enjoyment. “But I thought frivolous uses of the Force were discouraged.”

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows at her, accepting the friendly challenge. “Frivolous?” He turns his hand so that the palm now faces outward. Rippling with light, the globe coasts several feet away and comes to rest over a pathetically drooping momus bush, its leaves yellowed and cracked, balmgrass spiky and dry around its exposed roots. Obi-Wan twitches his fingers downward, and the globe disintegrates, water sluicing down in a joyful shower onto the parched earth, transforming the yellow dust to a rich, wet brown. He gives her a significant look. “The preservation of life is never frivolous, Senator.”

Her smile climbs its way out of her with ease. Of course. An answer for everything. “I stand corrected.”

In the distance, a chorus of laughter rises above the sound of burbling water, followed by what sounds like someone calling for a toast. Obi-Wan casts a lingering glance at the falls, then back at the arched entrance to the grotto. “We should return,” he says, and if that is reluctance in his voice she will not comment on it.

She nods in agreement. “You’re right. Typho will start to worry.”

Taking her outstretched arm, Obi-Wan frowns. “I am quite certain I gave Captain Typho my word that no harm would come to you whilst I am your escort. He must learn to trust me.”

“He does trust you. But he’s a worry-woolamander. It’s his job.” It was, after all, why she had personally selected him to replace his retired uncle as her new head of security. But, at the same time, she had grown weary of the constant trail of guards orbiting her at all times, rings of human satellites, so many she can hardly blink without catching a glimpse of security burgundy in her peripheral vision. Far preferable to have an escort of one Jedi, especially this Jedi, than that wall of armed guards.

And besides, Obi-Wan had promised. While Captain Typho may not appreciate the import of such a gesture, Padmé does – Obi-Wan Kenobi’s word is worth his weight in solid aurodium bars and more. He has nothing left to prove to anybody, on that count.

At the threshold to the main garden, wide flowering pathways thronging with diplomats and officials and lackeys alike, Obi-Wan takes in a resigned breath. “Once more into the breach,” he proclaims, with tragicomic stoicism.

She cocks her head at him in sympathy. “Straight to the dance floor,” she advises, and they set off, she steering him in the proper direction. “I doubt even a Bothan will try to cut in on a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan snorts under his breath. “Her Highness is grown very devious, in her slippery Senatorial position,” he murmurs.

“And Master Kenobi very witty, in his old age,” she shoots back.

Obi-Wan favors her with a grin, a real grin, full and shining with rarely displayed pleasure. He bows to her, ushering her onto the formal dance floor with a graceful sweep of his hand. “You had better hope your earlier supposition is correct,” he says, eyes glinting with the same clever playfulness she’d seen in him earlier. “The Bothan senators have hooves, you know.”

#pan sharing star wars fic in 2021 - no one could have predicted #anyway as i said these are seven years old #please forgive them #XD #star wars #fic

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beholdme · 3 years

Text

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 13

Chapters: 13/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

If someone had asked Martin where he had least expected to be on the day after his thirtieth birthday, the veterinarian probably wouldn’t have been at the top of his list, but it definitely would have made the top ten.

Honestly, Martin didn’t think he had ever stepped foot into a vet clinic before in his life. He had never owned so much as a pet hamster, and now here he stood, clutching a tiny ball of mewling fluff and trying not to get distracted by the pet toys.

He felt positively inundated with new information on all sides. There were about a million different types of pet food lining the walls, and everything seemed to be a new bright colour to draw his distracted eyes. Warning signs that made very little sense to him filled the space, most memorably ‘Large birds must be kept leashed at all times inside the practice’, and ‘Reptiles need to be secured inside their travel enclosures.’

There was indeed an iguana in a massive glass enclosure sunning itself under a heat lamp, but it appeared to be a permanent resident, not a guest. Seemingly opposite to this was the massive tabby cat draped across the reception desk.

Martin begins to panic slightly.

He desperately wished he had allowed one of his lovers to accompany him, but he had sent Gerry back to bed to sleep and Jon had been shooed off to work, both quite thoroughly hung-over.

Now here he stands, alone with his new fluffy friend, and doesn't even know where to start. Neither of his partners have ever actually had a kitten before, but at least they had both owned cats before.

Gerry had been adopted by Saturn as a full-grown boy when he arrived at the window of his shitty little flat in Edinburgh and demanded to be let in. Gerry had confessed to a romantic feeling of instant affection for the fluffy beast and had taken Saturn in without a moment’s hesitation. They had moved together as he traveled the country, eventually settling together in London, where he had found Jon again.

Jon had been raised with several cats that had all been born before him and had liked them, but he had told Martin once that he heavily associated cats with his Grandmother and his slightly cold upbringing. That was all the pet experience he had until he met Saturn and fell in love with him as easily as they’d both fallen in love with Gerry. Like goth, like feline companion, apparently.

Nevertheless, Saturn did not appreciate being taken to the vet and had never gone once since Martin had met him.

"Can I help you, sir?" A kind-looking older lady sat at reception, and she beaconed Martin forward gently.

"I- I-" He started, stuttering badly. He closed his eyes and shook himself to dispel the unfortunate remnant of his childhood. “I found this kitten, and I was hoping the vet could check on it for me?”

“And will you be wanting to surrender it into our care?” She asks, tapping away at her keyboard.

“What?” Martin shies away, pulling the cat protectively even closer to his chest.

“You’re more than welcome to keep it, but we do also take in strays if you aren’t able to.” She smiles at him soothingly.

“Oh, I want to keep her please.” Martin flushes a bit. “I already gave her a name.”

The woman smiles at him knowingly. “The vet can see you in 15 minutes then.”

She takes his contact information, and they weigh Martin’s new friend. She guesses the kitten's age to be about 2 weeks and sends him off to sit close to the iguana.

An hour later, Martin stumbles out the door, armed with more supplies than he could ever have imagined he needed to raise one small animal. His head is spinning, alternating between fond adoration and complete anxiety over this new task that he has given himself. Luna meows at him supportively, happy to be clean and have a full belly.

Out on the street, he finds Jon. It’s raining slightly, and he’s wrapped in a long peacoat, with a scarf Martin is certain was once his.

“What are you doing here?” Martin demands, shocked. He stumbles over to his partner, and Jon reaches out to steady him. “I thought you were at the library."

Jon presses a quick kiss to his shocked mouth, before taking several things out of his overcrowded arms.

"I know you said that you were going to do this on your own, but I wanted to be nearby in case you needed me, so I called off." He shrugs a bit, "I reckoned that I had earned it, what with all the overtime I work and don't get paid for."

Martin is filled with warmth, eyes welling a bit. "Oh, Jon."

"Oh no, don't cry. I'm sorry." Jon's face pinches in concern. "I can go if you want me to."

"No, I'm so happy you're here. I was just wishing for you, and there you were. Thank you." Martin steps towards him as best he can, and they kiss softly for a few moments, out in the rain.

In time, the kitten, haphazardly clutched to Martin's chest, makes her displeasure at the soggy conditions known. Gripping hands tightly, Jon and Martin set off towards the bookstore, just a couple blocks over.

It’s quiet when they arrive, the morning pre-work rush over, and the student and lunch crowds far off yet. The two baristas and Tim descend upon them immediately when they see the small head poking out of Martin’s coat. There is much cooing and fuss over Luna, and Martin recounts the tale of discovering her in the back alley of Gerry’s bar.

Once they return to work, Jon and Martin settle on one of the sofas, a coffee table before them. They make up a small cat bed, which Luna explores for a few moments, before sitting at the edge and staring at Martin imploringly. He scopes her up and plops her inside, before placing the tiny bed right in his lap. She happily passes out after that, the wild adventures of the morning catching up with her little kitten body.

Deciding to truly have the day off, Jon does not take out his laptop and start working on it, instead ordering their tea, picking a book to read from the store, and bringing it all over to settle with his partner.

“Thank you for coming,” Martin tells him, a soft look on his face. He leans an elbow on the back of the couch, head resting on his fist. “I didn’t even realise how much I needed you until I saw you there.”

“I know,” Jon starts, frowning in concentration, “that I’m not always the best at sensing these things, that sometimes I can be too focused on myself and the things going on in my head. I do hope that I always manage to catch the important moments, and I trust that you’ll always let me know when I don’t.”

Jon pauses, and sighs, a self-deprecating smile lining his face. He continues, “I want to learn to be who you need me to be. I want to be for you, what you always are to me. I love you, Martin.”

“I love you too, Jon.” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, before placing a sweet kiss in his palm. “You are exactly who I need you to be.”

It is a soft, hazy sort of day. The rain pours outside, and Jon lies against Martin and reads two books before lunchtime. Martin practices bottle-feeding Luna, every few hours, and Jon sits nearby watching nervously. He wonders vaguely if his partner is alarmed to be around an infant of any kind for a while, but on the third feeding, Jon seems to rouse himself and offers to give it a try.

Each time a new client comes in, there's a round of cooing and petting, and Martin worries that she’ll be spoiled rotten in no time. He imagines that if she spends much time here, he’ll have to sell cat treats and Luna will one day be as fat as a house.

At one point, Jon starts to read aloud, and Martin seems to fall asleep gently propped against his shoulder. He wakes to find Jon laughing softly and Luna learning to use him as a climbing frame.

"I think she likes you, love," Martin whispers into his hair.

"Well, I think I might like her too," Jon confesses, a world away from his scepticism of just this morning.

After lunchtime, Gerry flies into the store very manically, clutching a very strange backpack to his chest. It has a weird clear window, reminiscent of a ship’s porthole, and the rest of it is hard structured plastic.

He ducks down to kiss first Martin, then Jon, before thrusting the backpack into Martin's hands.

"What is this?" Martin asks, holding it away from himself as if it might bite.

"It's a cat backpack. Saturn has always preferred it to a normal cat basket, and I thought it might be useful if we need to take her to work with us and then back to various flats." Gerry walks around the table, bodily picking up Jon's legs and sitting beneath them. He looks like nothing so much as a large, damp bat, black trench coat flapping around him like over large wings. "I ordered her one of her own, but it won't be here for a few days, so I brought Saturn's in the meantime."

There's a beat of shocked silence, so Gerry adds, "Only if you want it, obviously."

"I- I do, thank you." Martin can feel himself blushing with odd pleasure.

He had made sure to ask them if they were okay with Martin keeping Luna, but he hadn't really expected them to embrace the situation with such gusto, and his heart burns with an odd intensity at their gestures of support.

It's almost-

It's almost like they love him, and care about all the things he cares about.

Martin sits, staring at a cat backpack, and allows the realisation to wash over him. It hits him like a tidal wave, despite the dozens and maybe hundreds of times they've said the words to him.

He feels very foolish, left floored by the fact that his lovers- well, that they love him!

Martin knows, understands even, that he has been left slightly broken by his father leaving, his mother hating him, the things that he chose to do to survive in his early adulthood. He does understand that, and yet he never realized that he was hearing Jon and Gerry say they love him and saying the words back, and yet subtly holding on to the (clearly mistaken) understanding that they don't really mean them.

It makes a sick kind of sense, clinging to the idea that they don't really care about him, so when they decide that they don't anymore, it doesn't leave him broken beyond repair.

Martin puts the cat bag down on the table, hands Luna to Gerry, and gets up. He waves at them reassuringly when they try to ask him what's wrong, before walking to the bathroom, locking the door, and sobbing like a child for several long moments.

As Luna grows, she spends time with each of them.

Gerry takes her most of the first nights, feeding her through the evenings and then handing her back to Martin as he leaves for the bookstore.

This means she spends quite a lot of her formative life in a bar, but when Martin goes in to check on them, he finds Gerry's plastered clientele just as enamored with the kitten as his own tea-drinking patrons.

Jon likes to have her in the late afternoons, keeping her at the library for a few sleepy hours before he leaves for the day. He tells Martin once that the children's reading group comes in during that time, and he likes to sit in with them and let Luna listen along.

The children, of course, adore her and Jon tells Martin very primly, "Listening comprehension is a very important skill in a developing infant."

Martin finds it hilarious and adorable and can't help but pull Jon into his arms and kiss him breathless, an unimpressed Luna trapped between them.

Saturn does not appreciate Luna at first, disappearing in a huff the first few times Martin brings her over to the studio.

"Don't worry about it, love." Gerry had waved away his concern casually. "He's just a jealous baby. He'll figure out that she wants to play with him eventually, and then they'll be the best of friends."

Indeed, Martin walks into the kitchen one morning to find the two cats curled together in a shaft of sunshine. Saturn is gently giving her a bath, and Luna purrs sweetly at the attention.

When Saturn notices him watching, he untangles himself, shows Martin his bum, and then disappears. He's reminded of nothing so much as Gerry himself, caught eating ice cream for breakfast, or smoking during the day, an activity he would insist is a nighttime pursuit only. The same drama is employed as a distraction technique, and Martin wonders whether the cat learnt it from the goth, or the goth learnt it from the cat.

Luna grows and settles, and Martin adores having her more than almost anything.

He takes the time, as they raise her, to force himself to accept his life for what it truly is. He puts aside the constant nagging fear that Jon and Gerry will lose interest in him one day and begins to notice all the ways they show him they love him, which makes the words all the more precious to him when they take the time to tell him.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #jongerrymartin #fic #also on ao3

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prurientpuddlejumper · 4 years

Text

A Lipless Face I Want to Sit On

K!nktober 2020 Kink Bingo!: Facesitting

<- Chapter 9 (continuation of A New Arrangement)

Summary: Post Red-Dragon Chilton refuses to take his mask off again after the first time you were together. Getting him over his insecurity about his face might require a little kink. NSFW.

Frederick Chilton x Female Reader

For @thatesqcrush’s kink bingo! @caked-crusader USED YOUR TITLE XD

2,139 words

A month into your arrangement with Dr. Frederick Chilton, and he was still devastatingly insecure about his appearance. He paid you, officially, as a financial consultant for his estate. Unofficially, he was paying you for sex. Technically—as that would be illegal—he was paying for your company, and you just happened to usually (though not always) have sex. Occasionally, he really would have a financial question for you, or he wouldn’t be up for it and you would just cuddle together and watch movies.

But he wouldn’t remove the mask for you again.

You had already seen his face once, scarred, singed bare of hair and eyebrows, lips absent around his white teeth. You didn’t mind it nearly as much as he did—it was different, and what happened to him was tragic, but he was handsome. He seemed happy with the unconditional acceptance you offered, and the kisses you pressed to his not-lips, and you thought he would start letting his guard down.

Yet when he greeted you at the door on your next visit, though he leaned seductively against the door frame, his cocky smirk was hidden behind a stone-faced mask. The more you flirted and prodded for him to take it off, the more prickly and defensive he became.

“I just want to know all of you,” you pouted.

He snapped, “I am not paying you to know me.”

And with that died not only your hope of greater intimacy, but also your plans to tell him to forget about the money. You were going to admit that you only took it in the first place because of how excitingly taboo it was, and that you would rather be his girlfriend, but a ball of ice sank in your stomach as you read between the lines of his cold words. If it wasn’t on his terms, he didn’t want you.

The fact that you had seen his face had been acceptable only briefly, during a moment of intense passion that overrode the alarm bells of anxiety, and now that the moment had passed, knowing you had seen it only made things worse.

He took to fucking you from behind, bending you over a table or pushing your face into the mattress, rather than let you look at him, even with the mask on. He pinned your hands if you tried to touch his head, his neck—anywhere close enough to mask to threaten its security. It was disheartening to think he was withdrawing from you emotionally, but you enjoyed hearing his noises as his cock sank into your tight entrance. “Oh god—oh god,” he moaned for you. He was very vocal in his pleasure, surprised every time to know that you would have him. No matter how much you voiced your own pleasure, every time you showed up to one of your “appointments” and let him claim you, he still half expected you to run away in disgust. Every time his cock slid between your ass cheeks and found your cunt dripping with arousal for him, he was like a grateful puppy. His vulnerable whimpering behind you turned you on, and his fingers interlaced with yours, squeezing for dear life as he came. It was still intimate. Despite his trying to pull away, he was still intimate in his own, guarded way.

One day you discovered something about Frederick Chilton quite by accident, and that knowledge began to change everything. He gained strength every day, but he was still easily exhausted, so you often catered to him when he was needy. He was getting a little too comfortable treating you as a pet at his beck and call, and so on this particular day when he whined for you to make him a cup of Earl Grey, you whipped about and demanded, “Get it yourself!” He looked shocked by your defiance, unaccustomed to not getting his way, but did as he was told. “Bring me one, too!” you added. He complained the whole time, but did.

When you begged him to do something—pouting, saying please—he might tease you, deny you, or snap with annoyance if he didn’t like the question.

If you told him to do something, he obeyed.

And it seemed, as much as he enjoyed being served, he also gained great satisfaction from being of service. In bed, doubly so. While you first took him to be very dominant—considering his natural role as the wealthy doctor skulking in his mansion who “bought” you, and the way he could get very particular about telling you how to dress, and undress, and what positions he wanted you in—you slowly recognized how much he enjoyed being subservient.

The first time you challenged him when he wanted you to face away from him again, telling him, “No. I’m on top today,” a fire came into his eyes. You grew more assertive in telling him where you wanted him to touch you, and how hard, how fast, and he was eager to please you. He always wanted to please you, and was thrilled when you let him know exactly how—even if it meant looking into your eyes as you fucked. A whole different connection began to grow as you had conversations about it, about who was in charge when, what sorts of things you could ask each other to do, and how to refuse. It wasn’t as though you were doing anything particularly extreme, but it was becoming more of a game, and as such, needed rules. The more he trusted you, the more you took control, and the more you took control, the more he finally relaxed.

When he surrendered to your will, he didn’t have to doubt or question himself, or how desirable he was. Every day, you made him feel that much more confident.

“I’m going to ride your face,” you growled, pushing his shoulders down onto the pillows so his head was up at a slight angle. You crawled on top of him, straddling his chest with your naked thighs. “Mask, or your mouth?” you asked, the timber of your voice demanding an answer, giving him a few seconds to choose.

Behind the mask his eyes were pale, pupils narrowed to pinpricks at the thought of being exposed, and from his throat issued a small tense noise but no words. He was obviously still too nervous to think about removing it, even for your pussy.

“I’m gonna use that mask to make myself come.” You narrowed your eyes and smirked at him, running the tip of your finger down the smooth porcelain contours, your tongue flicking over your lower lip as you crested its pointed nose. He let out a soft moan, chest rising and falling. “When I’m done you can fuck me, but only if you’re a good boy.”

“Yes, mistress.”

You could feel his breathing quicken as you straddled his face, warm puffs of it whistling out the sides of the mask tickling your thighs. His excitement alone was already getting you aroused. You slowly lowered yourself and gasped as your sensitive flesh met cool porcelain. There was no give to its surface, but the smoothly sculpted swell of its lips was tantalizing against your clit. You grasped the headboard for balance, and began to rock, gently at first, spreading your wetness over the hard lips to lubricate them, then grinding your hips against them and feeling shockwaves of pleasure course through your spine as they massaged your clit.

Frederick’s hands gripped onto the back of your thighs, supporting your movements, and spreading your ass cheeks. He groaned. The mask must have been uncomfortably pushing into his face with your weight on it, but his eyes were darkened with lust. He breathed in deeply, smelling you and the slippery essence you were sullying his mask with, and he let out a long, intoxicated moan. He circled his chin, moving the mask against you as his long fingers dug into your thighs, trying to add to your pleasure—which could have been better, honestly. Warm, wet flesh always beat cold, hard porcelain.

“You wanna taste me, Frederick?” you asked, voice thick. He moaned, whimpering with frustration. “I know you want a taste,” you said, rolling your hips against his false mouth. You met his eyes very carefully and held the gaze. “Take off the mask.”

It was a command, but he knew he could refuse it if he wanted to. If it was too far. But signaling you to slow down would be letting you win, and he never admitted defeat. He would never break, never fail to serve you. He admired you, and you deserved anything you wanted from him. His hands left your ass, and you backed off of him as he reached under his chin, and tipped the mask up.

Without any lingering hesitation other than a brief, sweet smile at him, your pussy crashed back down against his face and rode him, hot and dripping, his tongue lapping up your juices. Everything was worth the drawn-out, pornographic, moaning, slurping, voracious noises he made as he ate you out. You nearly came unseated with how intense the waves of pleasure were washing over you, your whole body immediately going warm and tingly and slack, so dizzy you almost forgot where you were. Fortunately his arms wrapped around your hips to draw you in closer, and held you firm against him.

“F-fuck,” you muttered, regaining some of your senses. “Fuck me with your tongue, Frederick.” Your head rolled back as he pointed his dexterous tongue and slipped into your cunt, muffling his groans as he savored your sweet taste. You bucked your hips into his mouth as he plunged his tongue in and out, writhing inside you.

His cock was rock hard, jutting straight upward out of his unzipped pants, weeping with precum. He reached down to jerk himself off, but you caught his hand and pinned his arm under your leg. “Tut-tut. Me first. Your hands are only to touch me, understand?”

“Yes, mistress,” he rasped.

“Good boy.” You stroked his head, caressing the burned stub of an ear as you lowered yourself back onto his tongue and the lewd wet noises continued. He slid a hand down your ass and between your legs to penetrate you, fucking you with two long, thick fingers, while the other hand angled itself to aid his tongue in working your clit. His lack of lips meant his mouth was lacking a few of the usual functions, like sucking, but the way he used his fingers so expertly to add pressure, gently pinch, and work in tandem with his tongue to increase your sensitivity, you would never have missed it.

A warm floating feeling overtook you without warning, and you felt yourself losing control. “Oh god, I’m gonna come, Frederick,” you whimpered. “I’m gonna come in that mouth. Oh god, Frederick—oh god—”

His fingers dug into your hips leaving deep impressions in your skin, holding you firm onto his face as he licked you through your orgasm, you writhing and crying out his praise. Wave after wave shook you, until your cries became ragged and desperate—he was holding you in place and overstimulating you. You might have let him, giving in and letting the warm pleasure build up inside you again, even fiercer this time, every muscle burning and overworked, but you hadn’t asked him to do that. You poked him a little roughly in the middle of the forehead, and told him, “That’s enough.” He whined and loosened his tight grip so you could get up. “Such an eager little slut, Frederick. You’d eat me out all day if I’d let you, wouldn’t you?”

“Y-yes.” He swallowed, eyes gleaming wickedly at the idea. A mingling of your wetness and his saliva dripped down his chin.

You laughed, low and teasing. “I thought you would be excited… it’s time for your reward now.” Leaning back, you reached for his hard and waiting cock. It throbbed in your hand, and he sucked a shallow breath.

“May I fuck you now, mistress?”

His voice was soft and eager, but you didn’t miss the edge of something more demanding creeping into it. “Ask nicely,” you said.

“Please let me fuck you.”

You grabbed a towel from the side of the bed and wiped off his chin. He didn’t flinch as you touched his face, well beyond that now. A smile slowly spread over your lips. “Since you were such a good boy, getting me off so well...” you pretended to think it over, “Fuck me, as hard as you want.”

#frederick chilton #Frederick Chilton x reader #hannibal #Raúl Esparza #kinktober #thatesqcrush kink bingo #my writing

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vannahfanfics · 3 years

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Before you read, here’s the previous chapter. New? Start from the beginning!

Skyward

Ao3

Chapter 2: Orphans Gotta Stick Together

Something soft and feathery embraced Ochako as she slowly rose into consciousness. As she groaned and rolled her head to the side, her sleep-addled mind wondered if she’d plummeted into a cloud and become buoyed by its fluffy, pillowy surface. Was she miles up in the sky, dozing on the white cloud with the endless blue stretching all around her? She could feel sunlight dancing on her skin and warming her arms. She reached out to chase rays of light as her eyes fluttered halfway open, feeling for a moment that perhaps the terrifying ordeal in the airship had all been a long, grueling nightmare…

She was not greeted with the familiar sound of the mountain birds tweeting, nor the gentle brays of her yaks drifting from the nearby barn. Instead, wind whistled in through an open window to flutter the thick blue-black curtains framing the sill, carrying with it the excited yips and howls of distant dogs and the cawing of buzzards. She knitted her eyebrows in confusion; there were no dogs on her farm, nor buzzards in the mountain valley in which it was nestled. As her mind swirled in confusion, she realized that this was not her bed, not her bedroom, and not her house.

Her arm flopped down against the side of the bed, bouncing off the soft mattress before falling still. Had she truly fallen from the airship? She must have, for how else could she have ended up in a stranger's bed? Had Tomura somehow rescued her from the terrifying plummet, or the pirates, perhaps? She groaned, reaching up to rub at her aching eyes with the heels of her palms. After a minute or so of falling headfirst through the open air, she’d lost consciousness out of a combination of fright and difficulty breathing in her freefall.

Frightened tears sprung to the corners of her eyes as she lay there in the bed. The last twenty-four hours were a scary whirlwind of emotions; plucked from her farm and spirited away to somewhere unknown while evil government men and pirates lusted after her family heirloom for unknown reasons. As much as she wanted to sit there and bawl her eyes out,, she forced herself to dry her tears and get out of the bed. For better or for worse, she had to discover who rescued her after she fell from the sky.

She walked to the window and peered out, curious as to where she was. She was greeted with the yellow-brown expanse of a canyon cliff, sharp bluffs carved into the surface of rock with a village clustered alongside the large train track system running the sandy bottom. The buildings even clung to the canyon walls, linked by small stone pathways. The house she was in was nestled on a grassy hill on the top of the canyon, with a winding well-worn path tracing down to the distant city. Skinny, short-haired dogs pranced in the yard chasing around buzzards who were picking at some unknown carcass by the shed.

“A canyon mining town…” she realized in wonder. She knew of the mining settlements on the other side of the mountains, but it amazed her that the airship had traveled so far in just one night.

As Ochako pulled away from the window, the mouthwatering aroma of eggs and bacon wafted into her nose. She salivated immediately; she hadn’t eaten until the previous night, and peckishly because anxiety had nearly torn her stomach apart. Though she was nervous to discover who had saved her, hunger guided her; she eased out of the bedroom and tip-toed down the stairs, peering around the landing into the kitchen.

A blush immediately bloomed on her cheeks. A tall, muscular boy about her age stood at a small stove, a hand on his hip as he used a spatula to flip some fried eggs and sizzling bacon in a skillet. He was incredibly handsome, with poofy ash-blond hair and strictly vermilion eyes just visible underneath his bangs. He was dressed in some black work pants, a white cotton shirt, and a brown vest. So handsome, she thought with a shy smile. Had this cute boy saved her?

“You gonna just stand there, Cheeks?” he said suddenly, glancing at her with a frown. Ochako squeaked and straightened like a rod; his expression and voice were fierce, sending an electrical impulse through every nerve in her body because oh my , it was so strangely attractive! Obediently, she skittered off the stairs and into the kitchen with a face as red as the apples resting on his kitchen counter. He gave her a once-over, then snorted and went back to his cooking.

“You’re not hurt, are ya?”

“N-no!” She had a small headache that she attributed to falling from the airship, but otherwise, she was remarkably unharmed. She fisted the skirt of her dress nervously, trying not to watch his arm muscles flex as he scraped at the grease simmering on the bottom of the skillet. “Did you… Did you save me?”

“If yer askin’ if I caught you when you fell, yeah,” he responded simply, “though I wouldn’t call it savin’ . You came floating down from the sky.”

“Floating?” Last she recalled, she had been in a freefall. How did she end up floating ?

The boy snorted as he switched off the stove, leaving the eggs and bacon to sizzle in the pan. She squeaked when he suddenly marched over to her, leaning down to squint suspiciously at her necklace. It glittered around her neck, the pink opaline surface gleaming in the moonlight.

“Yeah. This necklace o’ yours was glowing and making you all floaty-like.” He frowned. His eyes flickered up to meet hers, making the heat rekindle in her cheeks just as it had begun to fade. “Lemme see it.”

“Wh-what? This is a family heirloom; I don’t think I should—”

“Relax, Cheeks, I ain’t gonna steal it. I just wanna test somethin’ real quick. I’ll give it back,” he asserted, holding out his hand demandingly. Ochako was uncertain, but it didn’t seem this boy was related to either Tomura or the pirates. Besides, she was curious about the strange magical power the necklace supposedly possessed. Reluctantly, she unclasped the necklace and dropped it into his hand. His fingers immediately closed around it, the silver chain swinging as he clutched it in his hand and pushed past her to begin walking up the stairs. She scurried after him, dress swishing around her legs.

“W-wait, what are you doing?” He ignored her as he marched up the two flights of stairs to the small peak of the house, exiting out an open square window onto the flat roof. Ochako shimmied out after him, on her hands and knees on the shingles while watching him stomp over to the edge of the roof. He secured the necklace around his neck, swung his arms a little in preparation, and then jumped off the edge of the roof.

“Oh my gosh!” Ochako screamed in alarm as the crown of his head disappeared from sight. She then cringed as a loud crash immediately followed. She scrambled across the roof on all fours, the rapid pitter-patter of her hands and knees joining the sound of crumbling bricks and loud curses.

“Are you okay?” she called when she peered over the edge of the roof. Far below, there was a hole through the roof of a small room. Dust rained down and a few bricks dislodged from the loose structure to clunk down into the already large pile in which her savior was sprawled. The boy just cursed loudly in response.

“Damn it! That fucking hurt !”

“Just wait! I’ll come down to help you!” she shouted and turned around so she could slip down. She carefully picked her way across, but when she approached the edge of the hole, the loose brick gave way under her feet. She screamed as she fell into the open air. Shouting, the boy lunged forward, attempting to catch her in his large arms, using his body to shield her fall. He grunted as her behind collided right with his face.

“I’m so sorry!” she wailed in embarrassment and hurriedly crawled off of him. He groaned, rolling his head in the brick while rubbing his nose.

“Damn, Cheeks… The fuck you so heavy for?”

“Excuse me?” she gasped in affront. “And my name isn’t ‘Cheeks’! It’s Ochako!” As soon as he sat up and unclasped the necklace, she snatched it and went to put it back on. However, her fingers shook with the anger and embarrassment thrumming through her body. After watching her struggle for a few seconds, the boy snorted and slapped her fingers away so he could secure it for her. Scandalized as she was, she couldn’t help but flush at the feeling of his calloused fingers skimming over the skin of her neck.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly get a chance to ask your unconscious ass your name,” he huffed. Such a pottymouth… Why did that make her heart flutter? He smoothed down her hair once he finished clasping the necklace, then stood up, balancing himself on the destroyed brick. “Damn it… The necklace didn’t work and now I gotta a fuckin’ hole in my roof!” he groused. He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking out the dust, before offering her a hand. “You all right, Cheeks?”

“Yes,” she said, simmering down after all the excitement. It looks like he’s going to keep calling me that nickname. She took his hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She clutched it as he guided her down the precarious, continuously shifting pile of brick. Once her feet were flat on the ground, she brushed the brick dust off the skirt of her dress and smiled. “Thank you. This is the second time you’ve caught me.”

“Don’t know why you’re makin’ a habit of it. My name’s Katsuki, by the way.” He dusted himself off as well, scowling as the particles rained out of his ash-blond hair. “Ugh… Well, that’s enough excitement for the day. You hungry?”

“Oh, yes!” With all the commotion, she’d forgotten about the savory breakfast that the boy had been preparing. Her stomach gnawed at her belly, determined to begin tearing her apart if it wasn’t granted nourishment soon. Katsuki guided her back into the kitchen and prepared a plate, slapping a sunny-side-up egg and two thick slices of bacon onto the tin plate. While Ochako sat at the small table, he turned to make his own; by the time he sat down across from her, Ochako had wolfed down everything and was licking the yolk off the metal plate.

“Damn. You were hungry,” he chuckled, making her stop mid-lick and blush. Trying to regain some sense of dignity, she set the plate down and cleared her throat.

“Yes… I haven’t eaten much since…” Nervously, she fingered her necklace, unsure of how much to reveal to him. Katsuki eyed her suspiciously, crunching on the bacon. He did save me, so he at least deserves to know how dangerous it is to have me here. Maybe he’ll send me away… She found herself scared at that, being abandoned in a foreign town, but she wouldn’t blame Katsuki if he acted in the interest of self-preservation. “... Since the men came and took me away.”

“Wait, wait, wait—you were kidnapped ?”

“Yes. A man named Tomura came with the military and took me away from my farm, though they wouldn’t tell me why. I live alone, and so I was frightened… We were traveling in an airship and last night, pirates attacked us!” she revealed, drawing up her body as if to defend herself from the thoughts alone. “When I was trying to escape, I fell...”

“And I found you floating down from the sky.” Katsuki frowned deeply. She could see him trying to put the strange riddle together. Ochako knew that the military and pirates were both after her necklace for some strange reason. Her mother had always insisted that she never show it to anyone, and for most of her life, it had been kept a secret, locked away in a hidden compartment in their fireplace. It had only been worn for special ceremonies. After her parents’ death, she’d taken to wearing it as a reminder of them.

I don’t want to trouble Katsuki. Both the pirates and Tomura will be searching for me… I should get away from here as soon as possible so I don’t drag him into my mess.

“Oi, Cheeks. You goin’ spacey on me?”

Katsuki’s inquiry made her eyes flutter, and she looked at him with slightly pink cheeks. He pointed his fork at her, frowning. “It sounds to me like you’re wrapped up in something big.” Before she could apologize for involving him, his face suddenly split in a wide grin. “It’s about damn time something exciting happened around here.” He scarfed down his food and then grabbed both their plates, tossing them in the sink to wash later. “That Tomura guy and the pirates have probably been looking for you all night and will eventually come to town lookin’ for ya. We should probably make ourselves scarce. Let me take care of some things around here, and then I’ll take you into town.”

“Are you sure? You’ve already done a lot for me… I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“It’s better than you fumblin’ around here by yourself. If you don’t know where you’re goin’, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. You’ll blend in much better with me,” he pointed out, and the sternness in his expression told her that she wouldn’t be able to argue the matter. Plus, his explanation did make sense, though she still felt guilty— especially because she was really relieved Katsuki was willing to stay with her despite the danger.

They took some uncooked bacon outside and were immediately swarmed by the dogs Ochako had seen moseying around the lawn that morning. There were about a dozen of them, slim and wiry-haired. At first she was frightened, ducking behind Katsuki nervously; the boy just laughed when they bolted up to him, excitedly jumping up to snap at the half-empty package of bacon he held above his yet.

“Oi, you mongrels, behave in front of the lady, or ya ain’t gettin’ none!”

Obediently, they settled down, though they still whimpered longingly at the bacon. Katsuki removed a piece of the raw meat and held it out to one of them, and despite its initial excitement, the dog was careful and tender as it took it from Katsuki’s fingers. It chomped on the food, jaw smacking and tail thumping the sandy ground happily.

“A lot of these dogs belonged to guys who died in the mines,” Katsuki explained as he fed the strays one by one. “There ain’t no one to take care of ‘em. They used to wander town but were chased off ‘cuz they were nuisances, rummaging through the trash and stealing food from the vendors and shops— so they ran up here. I know what it’s like to be alone with no one to take care of ya. I felt sorry for ‘em, so now I feed ‘em when I can and let ‘em stay up here.”

“Katsuki… You’re an orphan, too?”

“Yup,” he said, strangely unemotional about the matter. He wiped his greasy hands on his pants once he fed the dogs the last piece of bacon, then looked at her. “Us orphans gotta stick together, because the only ones who can look out for us are each other.”

One of the dogs, a long-haired white female, nosed at Ochako’s thigh, thinking she may be hiding more bacon. Ochako looked down at her, at her pretty blue eyes and pleasant face, and wondered how no one would want her. One would expect her hair to be dusty and kinky, but it was neatly groomed and fluffy. I bet he bathes them, too, she thought warmly. She could imagine Katsuki sitting in a big metal basin trying to wrangle a dozen dogs into the bath. She scratched the dog behind the ears, chuckling when her tongue lolled out in happiness.

“Yeah.” She smiled sadly. “There is no one to take of us but each other…”

Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder how much trouble she was worth, and when Katsuki would decide that she just wasn’t worth taking care of anymore. Would she end up a lonely orphan sooner than she thought, a meek little lamb with lions closing in on all sides and no ram to protect her?

Enjoy this story? Here’s the next chapter! Please consider perusing my Table of Contents.

#kacchako #bakuraka #bakugo x uraraka #uraraka x bakugo #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo #ochako uraraka #uraraka ochako #my hero academia #mha #boku no hero academia #bnha

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wistfulcynic · 4 years

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The Bend of the Arc (2/ 4)

SUMMARY: Emma Swan hates Killian Jones at first sight. He's everything she despises in a man: arrogant, provocative, and a known criminal associate of the city’s most notorious gangster. She’s determined to put him behind bars, until a shocking event forces them together and Emma discovers that there’s a lot more to Killian than meets the eye.

So, the enthusiastic response to part one of this story has been amazing but also completely terrifying. I have no idea if this second part will live up to that or not. I AM VERY INSECURE ABOUT THIS AND DO NOT LIKE IT. Nevertheless I thought I’d post this part sooner rather than later so at least we’ll KNOW.

A profuseness of thanks to @thisonesatellite @ohmightydevviepuu and @katie-dub for attempting to soothe these insecurities.

Rating: M (language and eventual smut) Words: 9.2k (of 30k total) Tags: Modern AU, enemies to lovers, bounty hunter!Emma, criminal!Killian, smut, bedsharing

Part One | On AO3

PART TWO:

The car was silent as it moved through the dark city streets. Killian kept his eyes on the road while Emma stared out the window at the neon signs and streetlights smudged into watery blurs by the tears she kept having to blink back. It was a weighty silence, heavy with tension, but she felt no itchy discomfort or urge to fill it as she often did whenever she found herself alone with people she didn’t know well. She supposed this should surprise her, but she had no energy left for surprise. Now that the adrenaline was draining out of her she felt exhausted, and deeply, achingly sad.

She blinked again as more tears welled, fighting to keep them contained, not wanting to show any weakness in front of Killian. But they were too strong and she was too tired. They dripped down her cheeks and off her chin and she choked on a sob—then something soft brushed against her arm and she glanced over to see Killian holding out a handkerchief.

“Go ahead and cry,” he said.

Emma wiped her face with her palms. “I don’t need—”

“Yes you do. You’re human and you witnessed something terrible. Cry.” He shook the handkerchief at her.

She sobbed again and snatched it from his fingers, buried her face in it and let the tears pour out. Her mind kept replaying, over and over, the scene in the gallery—the blade sinking into Felix’s chest, the awful sound it made and the hiss of satisfaction from the elegant man—Robert Gold—as he pushed it in to the hilt. She cried until her tears dried up and her sobs were hollow gasps, and then she leaned her head against the window with the sodden handkerchief still covering her eyes.

The car stopped and she removed the handkerchief, squeezing her eyes shut then blinking rapidly to clear them. They were at the marina. That made sense, Emma thought. Killian’s boat was his pride and joy—a sailing yacht, sleek and elegant and above all, fast. The perfect vessel for making a quick getaway. Killian got out of the car and she did the same, turning to head in the direction of his mooring.

“It’s this way, Swan,” he said, and she turned to see him pointing at a mooring directly ahead of them.

“But your—”

“We’re not taking mine. Come, quickly now.”

She followed him to another boat, still in the yacht class but far smaller than his, and without sails. She stopped in front of it as he began to untie it from its mooring.

“This isn’t yours,” she stated.

“Aye, I believe we’ve established that.”

“So you’re stealing it.”

“Not precisely.”

Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “We’re taking a boat that isn’t yours and definitely isn’t mine, how is that not stealing?”

“Bloody hell,” Killian snarled as he tossed the lines up onto the boat’s deck, “you are the most infuriating creature.” He rounded on her with a menacing glower but she held her ground, arms still crossed, glaring back until he sighed and pressed his fingers to his eyes. “This boat belongs to an employee of mine,” he said. “We’re borrowing it. He’ll get it back in due course, and in one piece too as long as you bloody cooperate. We need to be as far away as possible before Gold realises I’m the one who helped you get away, and that means we need to leave now.”

“But—”

“Swan,” he enunciated through clenched teeth. “Get. On. The. Bloody. Boat.”

Emma released her breath in a hiss but did as he asked, stalking up to the deck and standing stiffly as he made the preparations to launch, his every action economical and precise. Well practiced. This may not be his boat but he knew it well, and she tried to let that reassure her.

Soon they were leaving the marina and heading for the open water. Emma watched Killian at the helm, steering the boat with tension in his shoulders and a frown between his eyes, but as they moved further and further from the shore with nothing untoward occurring he began visibly to relax. About twenty minutes after their departure, by Emma’s estimation, he turned to her with what was almost a smile.

“We’ll be on the water for several hours,” he said. “You should get some rest.”

She wanted to protest, didn’t want to let him out of her sight for a moment. But exhaustion weighed heavily on her body and mind, and the wind off the sea was cuttingly cold. “Where?” she asked.

He indicated a small door just to the left of the helm. “Down there. There’s a sleeping berth in the stern, with pillows and blankets in the drawer beneath it.”

She nodded, hesitating just a moment longer before opening the door to reveal a narrow set of stairs. Slipping off her shoes, she climbed down them and stumbled towards the rear of the boat where she found the sleeping berth, pillows and blankets just where Killian had said they would be. After a brief moment of wishing she had something to wear besides her evening gown she wrapped a thick woollen blanket around herself, curled up on the narrow bed and fell asleep.

“Swan. Swan!”

“Huh? Wha—”

“You have to wake up now, love. Hurry.”

Emma blinked hazily through the thick fog of sleep clouding her brain. Where was she? She rubbed her eyes and forced herself to focus. Wherever she was it was dimly lit, but there was a spicy scent in the air that she remembered and that voice—oh. Right.

She sat bolt upright as the memories came rushing back.

“Ah, there you are,” said Killian. “Good. Come with me, and bring that blanket.”

Emma opened her mouth to argue, then caught the look on his face and shut it again. Her mind felt clearer, she realised, sharper than it had before her nap, the horror at what she’d witnessed less acute—and the reality of the situation and the danger they were in struck her like a blow. Her life was linked to Killian’s now, her survival dependent on him, and if she argued and second-guessed him all the time they were going to get nowhere fast. She nodded her agreement and he huffed a sigh of relief, turning to head back up on deck. She grabbed the blanket and her shoes and followed him.

The boat was moored on a tiny pier in what to her surprise appeared to be not the ocean at all but a lake, a wide, calm one surrounded by tall trees with taller mountains rising up behind them. Aside from the pier, there was no sign of any human presence, no cabins or boat houses, not even a tent. The air was cool and misty, and with such a heavy stillness Emma almost fancied she could touch it.

Killian disembarked and she followed again, down the pier to where another, far smaller boat was tied. A basic motorboat, Emma observed, and not a new one, with an outboard motor and a single bench seat. Not suitable for long distances. Wherever they were headed, they must be close to it.

Killian reached into the motorboat and removed two waterproof jackets and life vests. “Put these on,” he said, handing one of each to Emma. She did, and he donned the others, putting them on over the tuxedo he still wore. When the jackets were zipped and the life vests secured, Killian stepped one foot into the boat and held out his hand. Emma scowled but took it without protest, shivering at the contact, and allowed him to help her into the boat. She settled down onto one side of the bench and Killian passed her the blanket.

“You’ll want to tuck this around your legs. We don’t have too far to go but it’ll be at least an hour and very cold.”

She nodded and did as he suggested, wrapping it securely around herself and digging her icy toes into the wool as Killian started the motor. Emma jumped in alarm at the noise, ear-splittingly loud in the soft, dense quiet. He sat next to her on the bench and took the rudder, piloting the boat in a wide arc that took them into the centre of the lake then veering left. It looked at first as though they were heading for the shore, but as they approached Emma could see the narrow mouth of a river peeking out between the trees. Killian steered them into it, navigating carefully between the banks until the river widened to a more comfortable size. They continued steadily along it for some time, the only view of water and trees and the sky beginning to lighten above them.

Emma had a million questions: where they were and how they had ended up there, where they were going and what would happen when they arrived, how Killian had known where to find her in that gallery and how he seemed to know what she’d witnessed there. Why he was going to so much trouble to help her. But she asked none of them. There would be time for that later, plenty of it, she sensed, and right now the cool calm of the morning and the strange peace that had settled between them, even the hum of the boat’s motor, was soothing, and she didn’t wish to ruin it.

The river widened steadily until it opened into another lake, this one long and slender and curved at one end. Killian took them around the curve and when they cleared it she could see a small pier with no boats moored but a dark green Jeep parked on the shore behind it.

He pulled the boat up to the pier and cut the engine, then looped a coil of rope around a piling to secure it. Bracing one leg against the pier, he held out his hand again and this time she didn’t hesitate to take it, or to lean on him for support as she climbed out. Killian released her hand quickly but remained close behind her as they approached the Jeep. He opened the unlocked rear door and tossed his life vest and waterproof jacket into the back. Emma did the same, shivering in the chilly air.

“Keep the blanket,” Killian said. “We’ve a bit of a drive yet.”

Keys were waiting beneath the visor on the driver's side and as soon as they were settled Killian brought the Jeep roaring to life and drove straight into the forest, steering them through a near-invisible gap in the trees Emma clung to the door handle and her calm as he navigated them over the rough terrain. They followed no path she could see, nothing but the faintest tire tracks barely visible on the forest floor ahead—though if she hadn’t been looking carefully Emma doubted she’d have spotted them.

Killian knew where he was going, though, that much was obvious. He’d known from the beginning. Every step of their escape had been meticulously planned and smoothly executed, which added at least another half dozen questions to her list.

Their way began to twist upward, climbing into the mountains. The Jeep jolted over rocks and fallen branches as it sped along a course that was far from straight and at times seemed actually to double back on itself, confusing Emma’s already tired mind and hopelessly scrambling her sense of direction. The sun was up by that time—she could see daylight through the leaves—but the canopy of trees was too thick to make out its location in the sky.

After thirty-seven minutes according to the clock on the Jeep’s dash, they turned into a clearing where a small cabin stood dwarfed amongst some of the tallest trees Emma had ever seen. Their height and the elevation of their lowest branches gave the impression of airy space within the clearing yet she doubted it could easily be seen from above—the trees’ thick canopy of leaves would appear solid, though enough sunlight filtered through to make it bright and relatively warm. The cabin sat at its centre, a small wooden structure with generous windows and a stone chimney and on its tiny porch a single chair, and when she got out of the Jeep Emma spotted what looked like a fire pit around the back of it.

Killian went onto the porch and opened the door. Emma frowned, surprised that it was unlocked, but once inside he pressed his thumb against a small screen in the wall, nearly invisible, and a panel slid open to reveal another, larger screen. Killian stood still as it scanned his face then when the display switched to a keypad, he typed in a very long code. When it was entered a red light on the inside of the panel flashed green, and Killian closed it over the screen once more.

“Hell of a security system,” observed Emma.

“We’ll be safe here.”

She followed him into a cosy, sparsely furnished room. A stone fireplace took up most of one wall, with a stack of logs beside it and a single armchair positioned at the perfect angle to catch the warmth of the flames. Next to the chair a table sat, with a reading lamp atop it. There was no sofa, but an old sea chest was pushed up beneath one of the windows, covered in pillows and a throw blanket to form a window seat. Tucked into the corner to her right was a well-equipped kitchen area with two doors beyond it—bedroom and bathroom, Emma presumed. Everything was austerely tasteful and looked expensive, which came as no surprise to her; Killian was a man who appreciated his creature comforts. What did surprise her were the books. Shelves and shelves of them, lining one entire wall from floor to ceiling. Emma would have suspected them of being for display, or even fake—the shelves could hide a secret escape passage, for example, she’d seen crazier things that day—except that they weren’t leather-bound or elegant, they were ordinary books. Hardbacks and paperbacks, some old and others much newer, lined up tidily but also plainly there to be read.

She turned to Killian with a sceptical look. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that this is actually your cabin.”

“It is, in fact,” he replied.

“Huh.”

“That surprises you?”

She shrugged. “You don’t exactly seem like the outdoorsy type.”

“I’m not. But despite the adage that the best place to hide a pin is amongst other pins, sometimes alone in the wilderness is the safest place to be.”

“Uh huh. Interesting that an innocent man like you would need a safe place at all,” she retorted. “Seeing as how you’re so completely innocent and all.”

“Yes, yes, point taken, love,” he said with a smirk and an exaggerated sigh. “But my innocence or lack thereof aside, my line of work remains dangerous and my associates highly untrustworthy. There’s always someone out to hurt me and no telling when they might find the opportunity to do so. I’m very good at what I do, but I’d be a fool not to prepare for contingencies.”

“You could just get a different line of work.”

He laughed. “Ah, Swan, things are very simple in your world, aren’t they?”

“Why make them complicated when they don’t need to be?”

“That is indeed the question.”

He went through one of the doors and emerged a minute later with an armload of clothing. “I’m afraid I wasn’t planning for visitors, so you’ll have to make do with my clothes,” he said. “The bathroom’s through there.”

The room he indicated turned out to be a surprisingly generous space given the size of the rest of the cabin, enough to accommodate a claw-foot tub with a shower head above it and a circular rail hung with a curtain. The sink was a deep pedestal flanked by tall shelves, and the toilet nestled in the corner.

Emma stripped off her dress, wincing at the state of it—dirty and wrinkled and stretched in odd ways—and draped it over the shower rail with a sigh of relief. She was never very comfortable in clothes like that, and the soft garments Killian had given her were an extremely welcome change. They included a plain white t-shirt and flannel pajama pants in grey and blue plaid, and a thick, fleecy charcoal grey sweatshirt that swallowed her up. Emma sighed, snuggling into it. Despite the blanket she felt like she’d been cold for forever, and the huge, toasty sweatshirt felt amazing.

He’d also given her a pair of thick socks, a toothbrush, and a washcloth. Emma sat on the edge of the tub to pull the socks on, sighing again at the warmth, then brushed her teeth and scrubbed her face with the washcloth, removing as much of her smudged makeup as she could. She found a comb on a shelf next to the sink and carefully combed the worst of the tangles from her hair, wishing she could pull it into a ponytail or braid, but she doubted Killian’s provisions extended to rubber bands or hair clips.

Still, she felt immensely better, warmer and less grimy, and very, very sleepy. Leaving the bathroom she found Killian in the kitchen, dressed in pajama bottoms similar to hers though his shirt was a blue henley. The clothes made him look softer, more approachable, and she had to remind herself that he was still the man she’d spent the past year loathing and that all the cabins and henleys and daring rescues in the world would never change that. She couldn’t allow them to.

He turned around and smiled at her, and held out a steaming mug. She took it, sniffing warily.

“What’s this?”

“Hot milk, with honey and a little rum.”

“Really?” She wrinkled her nose.

“Aye, an odd combination I grant you, but soothing. It’ll help you sleep.”

“I don’t think I’ll need any help on that front,” she said, stifling a yawn as though to prove the point.

“Quite understandable, you’ve had a hell of a day. Drink it anyway.” He nodded approvingly when she did, and when her eyebrows rose in surprise at the pleasantly sweet, creamy flavour. “You can take it into the bedroom if you like,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

It took her a second to register his words and then she nearly spit out her drink. “You’ll be—but—you don’t mean—”

He watched her calmly, one eyebrow quirked, clearly expecting this exact reaction. “It’s a small cabin, Swan, intended for one person. We’re going to be here for some time, weeks perhaps. I do not intend to spend those weeks sleeping in an armchair or God forbid the floor. We’ll share the bed. It’s the only way.”

“Oh, well isn’t that fucking convenient,” she spat, even as lust coiled low in her belly.

“Not really. I prefer to sleep alone.”

“That’s sure as hell not what you implied before!”

“Sleep, Swan, not sex.” Emma blinked at this, accustomed to smirky quips and innuendoes from him. “For that of course I like to have a partner.”

She wished there was some argument she could make, some reason she could think of why he had to sleep as far away from her as possible, but the direct, straightforward way he spoke and looked at her underlined the truth of his claim. That and his obvious exhaustion, the dark smudges under the eyes he was fighting to keep open.

Still she hesitated, biting her lip as she scrambled for an alternative. Maybe she could take the chair, she thought, or—Killian sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Look,” he said. “I realise I’ve given you compelling cause to believe otherwise, but I really have no interest in pursuing women who find me repugnant. I swear to you on every scrap of honour I have left that I only wish to get some sleep, and you should too. Can we do that, Emma? Please?”

That please, and the use of her name, the sound of it in his voice, did funny things to Emma’s insides. It was a genuine plea from an honest place, and she couldn’t refuse it.

“Okay,” she said.

He smiled, the first true smile she’d seen from him. It made him look boyish and almost sweet, and the funny feeling in her chest twisted painfully.

“You go on in,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute. And finish your milk.”

She smiled in return—she couldn’t help it—and retreated into the bedroom, sipping her milk. The bed was a decent size at least, laid with fluffy pillows and a thick comforter that she snuggled beneath with a hum of delight, yawning hugely and just managing to set her empty cup on the table next to her pillows before burrowing deep into them and pulling the comforter up to her chin, and by the time Killian slid into bed next to her she was sound asleep.

When she woke again the pillow beside her was empty, though she could see the indent where Killian’s head had rested and smell the faint traces of spice. Light shone through the bedroom’s tall window, dappled by the trees and angled in a way that suggested late afternoon. Emma listened carefully but heard nothing at all; the silence was so complete it was eerie.

She got out of bed somewhat reluctantly. It was warm beneath the comforter and the air in the room was cool, though the thick socks she wore protected her feet from the bare floorboards and made no noise as she crept across them to the door. She eased it open until she could see Killian, sitting in the armchair in front of a small but lively fire, still dressed in the clothes he’d slept in. A plate with half a sandwich and some apple slices sat on the table next to him, and in his lap lay a thick book. As she watched he reached for the plate and took an apple slice, munching it as he turned a page.

Emma pushed the door open completely and went through it, approaching him cautiously. “Um,” she said, and he looked up with a somewhat tentative smile.

“Swan. How did you sleep?”

“Pretty well,” she replied, moving further into the room. “I feel rested. I mean, I’m still—I still—” Her heart still ached with sorrow for Felix and clenched in fear when she thought of Gold, but trying to articulate either feeling had her throat closing up in protest. She wanted to talk about it but also she really didn’t.

His expression shifted to one of such gentle understanding it left her blinking in astonishment. “Aye,” he said. “The mind is like any other organ, damage to it will take time to heal. Don’t try to force it.”

She nodded gratefully just as her stomach chose that moment to growl, long and rumbly and very loud. “Oh my God,” she groaned, pressing a hand to her belly and another over her eyes. He laughed.

“Canapés were a long time ago,” he said. “What would you like to eat?”

“Um, a sandwich is fine, if that’s what you’re having.”

“Have whatever you like, I’ve got plenty of everything. We’re decently stocked to last a few months, if necessary. There’s bread and cheese and some lunch meat, and tins of tuna. Eggs, some bacon, soup. Apples and oranges, potatoes, meat in the freezer. Plenty of milk. What would you like?”

“Would it be okay if I made myself a grilled cheese?”

“Of course. Whatever’s in the kitchen, feel free to use it.”

Emma located some thick-sliced bread in a wooden bin and a block of real cheese in the fridge, and a slab of butter in a dish on the countertop. She scowled as she sliced the cheese as thinly as she could manage and spread butter on the bread. It was all undoubtedly better than the thin white bread and processed cheese she usually ate, but grilled cheese was about comfort, not quality. She wanted some damn junk food.

She strongly suspected that Killian Jones did not do junk food.

The resulting sandwich was good, though, very good she had to admit, even if it wasn’t precisely what she was craving. She hummed in enjoyment as she took a bite, salty and crunchy and oozing with cheese.

“You don’t have to stand over the stove, love.” Killian’s voice was amused. “You can sit here.”

“No, it’s okay.” Emma put her sandwich on a plate and carried it over to the window seat, sitting down and curling her legs beneath her. “I’m okay here.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

They ate in silence for a moment before she spoke.

“So how do you know Graham?”

A flash of genuine surprise crossed Killian’s face, and for a moment he was speechless. Emma licked a drop of cheese off her thumb with a small smirk.

“Er, he was my police contact when I was—”

She waved this away. “Yeah, yeah, your contact when you were undercover, but how do you know him?”

He looked at her warily. “What do you mean?”

“Oh come on,” she mocked, “you don’t think you’re the only one who knows how to read a tell?” When he didn’t reply, she gave an exaggerated sigh. “Graham trusts you. Despite knowing who you are and the things you’ve done he trusts you completely. The most upright cop I’ve ever known just takes it on faith that you’re telling the whole truth and that bringing down Pan was for the good of society and not just to benefit you, or to clear a path for you to take over crime in the city. So I have to ask myself why that is. What could possibly lead to that kind of trust between a cop and a gangster?”

Killian’s expression was still wary, but with the tiniest glimmer of admiration in his eye.

“And what was your conclusion?” he asked.

“Well, fortunately men are simple creatures and so the answer is pretty obvious.”

“Indeed?”

“Mmm hmm.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Do enlighten me.”

Emma watched him intently as she replied. “You were kids together.”

“Were we?” His expression didn’t change but Emma’s livelihood relied on pinpoint observation and she did not miss the tiny twitch of his eyelid that confirmed her conclusion. She suppressed the urge to do a fist-pump.

“Yep,” she said, not a little smugly. “Or maybe not kids, but still pretty young. I know Graham was kind of a loner growing up, so maybe you were his first friend. You shared some sort of very intense masculine bonding experience and even now, decades later, you still feel that bond, despite what you both have become. Stop me if any of this is incorrect.”

The corner of Killian’s mouth twitched as he tried to suppress a grin. “Graham says you’re the best at what you do,” he remarked wryly. “I can see why.”

Emma polished off the last of her sandwich and licked her fingers, then set the plate aside and leaned back against the windowsill with a triumphant smirk. “So what was it?” she asked. “Boy Scout camp? First orgy?”

“We were in the navy together.”

That wiped the smirk clean off her face. “You were in the navy?”

“I was,” he said with a smirk of his own. “Her Majesty’s Royal one.”

“But isn’t Graham Irish? What was he doing in the British Navy?”

“Northern Ireland, love. Part of the UK. Whether they like it or not, as I remind Graham as often as I can.”

“Huh.” Killian’s expression was amused but his eyes were cool and shuttered. She sensed he was deflecting, trying to distract her. “So what happened with you two?” she persisted.

He huffed a small sigh. “Is there a purpose to this interrogation, Swan?”

“Just trying to get to the bottom of you.”

“Why would you do that, when the surface of me is far more pleasant?” he asked, lowering his voice to a purr.

As innuendoes went it was a weak attempt, particularly from him, and Emma could see that his heart wasn’t in it. She could also see she wouldn’t get anything more out of him today. Which was fine. She could wait.

“So you think,” she retorted and picked up her plate, carrying it back to the kitchen. She felt his eyes on her back as she went, but when she’d rinsed the plate and put it in the rack to dry she turned to find his attention focused on his book.

He looked so different here, she thought, taking advantage of the opportunity to study him. It wasn’t just the casual clothes or the halfhearted innuendo—his whole demeanour had changed. Like he’d shed a layer of himself, or maybe a layer that was not himself. Emma knew better than most what it was to wear armour—that solid steel she kept between her heart and those who sought to harm it—and she did not care for the creeping suspicion that she and Killian might have this in common. That he might in fact be not be quite what she’d thought he was.

She didn’t care for it. But she couldn’t ignore it.

They passed the rest of the day in relative peace. Killian continued to read and Emma, after a quick exploration of the cabin revealed there was no television, decided she might as well join him. She spent a long time going through his bookshelves—he had an amazing range of books, both fiction and non, in every genre she could imagine. Including, Emma discovered with a triumphant cry and a pounce, romances.

“You read romance novels?” she exclaimed, waving the paperback with its illustration of a man and woman, embracing on what appeared to be the deck of a pirate ship, beneath Killian’s nose. “You?”

His lip curled in an almost-smile. “Why does that surprise you? You’ve spent nearly an hour perusing my shelves, you surely noticed that I read just about anything.”

“Sure, but this?”

“And why not that?”

“Well,” Emma hedged, feeling uncomfortably as though her attack had become an ambush, “because it’s dumb.”

“Oh? Dumb how?” He gave her a polite, attentive look edged with challenge, and she scowled.

“Dumb as in ridiculous,” she declared. “Cheesy and overblown and unrealistic, and seriously nobody looks like that!” She stabbed the cover with her finger.

“It’s fantasy, Swan. There are no wizards or dragons or aliens either, and yet books about all of them remain wildly popular. And besides”—he leaned towards her with a smirk and a glint in his eye that made her belly twist and tighten—“those books feature quite a lot of sex, written by women. What better way to learn what a woman likes than to read the fantasies she writes for herself and others like her?”

“Huh,” said Emma, frowning at the book to distract herself from the flare of heat his words ignited. "I guess—I’ve never thought about it that way before.”

“That one there is one of my favourites,” Killian informed her. “The chap is quite dashing. Pirate, you know. Miscreant.” He waggled his eyebrows at her and she snorted. “You should give it a try.”

It was an unmistakable dare, and though she tried to tell herself not to let him goad her in such an obvious way, one she couldn’t resist.

“I will,” she declared, and took the book back to the window seat, making herself comfortable with the pillows and blanket and beginning to read.

“Do you want some dinner, Swan?”

“Huh?” Emma jumped at Killian’s voice and looked up at him with a scowl. She’d been in the midst of a high-seas battle, all clashing swords and bursts of cannon fire and the heroine backed into a corner by the rival pirate captain, in danger of kidnap or worse unless she could fight him off with the cutlass she’d only just learned to use. Emma was rooting for her, and extremely displeased by the interruption. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you’d like some dinner.” Killian’s eyes twinkled with a knowing glint she did not care for. “I’m making some for myself. Just soup, but it’s a good one. You’re welcome to share.”

“Oh. Um. Yeah, thanks. Do you need help?”

“No, I’ve got it.” He grinned at her. “You go back to your book.”

By the time he returned with a large mug emanating delicious-smelling steam and a plate of buttered toast, Emma’s heroine had fought her way free of the rival captain’s clutches and been reunited with her lover—whom she had realised in the terror of the battle she could not live without—and they were making their way back to her home. The pirate was determined to return his lady to her family—for her own good, he said, a pirate’s life was far too dangerous for her—but Emma suspected that before the end of the book the lady would find a way to change his mind. There were still more than a hundred pages left in which to do it.

Reluctantly she set the book aside and accepted the mug and plate, along with a metal baking tray Killian offered her with a slightly sheepish look.

“It’s the best I can do for a table,” he said. “You’ve probably noticed this cabin isn’t exactly equipped for two.”

Emma sat cross-legged with the tray balanced on her knees and managed to eat a spoonful of soup without spilling. It was delicious—spicy but not excessively so, with beans and corn and shredded chicken in a thick tomatoey broth. She hummed as she dug her spoon back in for a second mouthful.

Killian resumed his place in the armchair—the table next to him was big enough to hold his mug and plate easily, Emma noted—and they munched in silence for several minutes.

Outside the window the sunlight was just beginning to dwindle into a cool twilight of blue and pastel pink, though the clock on Killian’s oven read 9:53. They must be quite far north, Emma thought, which called to mind another of her many unanswered questions.

“Where are we?” she asked abruptly.

Killian carefully swallowed his mouthful of soup and set the mug down before replying. “Canada,” he said.

“Canada?” Emma stared at him.

“That’s what I said.”

“But—I don’t have my passport.”

“No.”

“So how did we get over the border?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you really want the answer to that, love?”

“I—no.” Emma sighed. “I guess I don’t.”

“Wise.”

He began to eat again but she frowned into her mug, mind churning. “But how will I get back home?” she asked after a moment’s pause. “We are—you are planning to go back, right?”

“Of course.”

“So…” she made an sweeping gesture with her hand. “What’s your plan, then? Assuming you have one?”

“I do.” He spooned up the last of his soup, set his mug on his table and turned to her with a grim set to his jaw.

“Perhaps it is time we discussed this. All of it, I mean. What you saw and what it means and where I come in.” He met her eyes and his own were intense, full of an empathy that shouldn’t feel so right from him. “If you think you’re ready?”

Emma shivered as her memories of the night before returned, along with the ache and chill of fear. The quiet cosiness of the cabin and the escape of her book had dispelled them temporarily—and maybe also deliberately, she thought in a flash of comprehension. She’d needed that respite. But now—

“Yeah,” she said, with a deep breath and a nod. “I think I can be.”

Killian let out a long breath of his own and sat back in his chair. “Do you know who Robert Gold is?” he asked.

Emma shrugged. “Kind of? The papers always call him a philanthropist, whatever that means.”

“It’s meant to mean someone who donates great sums of money to multiple causes. Out of a sense of civic duty in the classic definition of the word, but in the case of Gold it means someone who donates just enough to just the right concerns to give people cause to turn a blind eye to his other financial interests.”

She frowned. “What other interests?”

“Art theft, forgery, and money laundering, among others,” he replied grimly.

“But—I thought all of Pan’s associates got arrested.”

“They did. Gold didn’t work for Pan.”

“So who does he work for?”

“No one. Himself.”

“What this whole time? While Pan was in power?”

“Pan never completely stomped out other criminal concerns, so long as they didn’t interfere with his own interests,” Killian explained. “Gold’s field was separate enough that the two of them rarely crossed paths, though...” he frowned, almost to himself.

“Though what?”

“I’m not sure really. It’s nothing I could ever put my finger on but I always had the impression that there was another layer to their relationship, one neither wished to discuss or have made public. At any rate they took pains to keep out of each other’s way. And then Pan went down.”

“And Gold—did what, exactly?”

“As of right now? Not much that he wasn’t doing before. But he’s laying the groundwork, building foundations for expansion. I was there when Pan did the same. Hell, I helped him do it. And now Gold is preparing to make a move for everything Pan once had.” He gave her a small smile, ironic with a bitter, razor edge. “You were right you know, Emma, to believe that someone would try to step into the breach when Pan went down. Your only mistake was thinking that someone would be me.”

Something stabbed at Emma, something that felt uncomfortably like remorse. She tried to shake it off but found she couldn’t—it settled in her chest and twisted there, heavy and sharp. “So, um, Gold has been what, just biding his time all these years?” she asked. “Waiting until Pan was gone so he could take over?”

“Not precisely.” Killian ran a hand over his chin, scratching at the scruff on it. “He’s been involved in the game for a long time, since before Pan came to this country. But he was content to stay in his lane, as it were. Pan had little interest in high-end crime so Gold could conduct his affairs without any conflict of turf. But now with Pan and his whole organisation gone, Gold saw an opportunity he couldn’t resist.”

“And from the sounds of it, you knew this would happen.” She gave him a probing look. “Did you?”

“Aye,” he conceded. “I suspected it might. Which was why I kept my eye on Felix.”

“On Felix?” The ache in Emma’s heart throbbed again.

“Indeed.”

“But why? He wasn’t anyone, just a—a lowlife—” she broke off with a little choking sob. Felix may not have been anyone important but he’d been a person and now he was murdered and—she jumped as a warm hand covered hers and looked up into Killian’s eyes, so blue and far too full of understanding.

He sat next to her on the sea chest and eased his arm around her, gently coaxing her head onto his shoulder. Emma held herself stiff for a moment then melted, unable to resist the comfort he was offering.

“Felix was a lowlife, just as you say,” he murmured, the low timbre of his voice soothing in her ear. “One who wasn’t even on Pan’s payroll, which is why he wasn’t implicated in the RICO case. But he did do the odd job for Pan, in exchange for drugs and some other privileges. He wasn’t a bright lad, and Pan held an odd sort of thrall over him.” He paused, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns on Emma’s shoulder, relaxing her further. “Anyway, Gold believes just as you do, that my role in Pan’s downfall was self-serving. He thinks that I held back records from the police, information on how Pan ran his businesses which I could then use to set myself up as the next kingpin in the city. He wanted Felix, as the only other person with ties to Pan who was still walking free, to obtain those records. Felix came to me and asked for them directly.”

Emma snorted. “Seriously?”

“I told you he wasn’t bright. I told him that they don’t exist.”

“Hmmm,” said Emma. “And do they?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

Emma sat up so she could see his face. It wore a dark expression that made her shiver. “I can tell when someone is lying to me,” she said. “It’s a gift, like a—a superpower. And right now it’s telling me that you are lying. Not entirely, but there’s something you’re holding back.”

“I turned over every scrap of information I had on Pan to the police, and I have not engaged in any new illegal activity since he was arrested,” he said, his voice flat and cool. “That is not a lie.”

“It’s not the whole truth, either. What aren’t you saying?”

Killian released her and stood, raking a hand through his hair. “Nothing that’s any of your concern.”

“How the hell do you expect me to trust you when you lie to me?” Emma snapped, irritated at how keenly she felt the loss of his warmth and support.

“How do you expect me to trust you when I saved your bloody life and you’re still trying to put me in jail?” he snarled. “It goes both ways, darling. I took a huge risk by moving overtly against Gold, and by bringing you here of all places. The very least you could do in return is stop looking at me like all you can see is the price on my head!”

“There isn’t a price on your head anymore, you saw to that!” she cried.

“Yes I did. Which was also a risk. I earned my pardon in ways you couldn’t even begin to fathom, and now I’ve put all that in jeopardy because I couldn’t bear to—” He broke off on a hiss, tugging at his hair again.

“To what?” Emma sneered. “What could you not bear?”

He turned to face her, angry and sincere and reckless. “To see you dead,” he said bluntly. “I couldn’t bear that, however bloody infuriating you can be.”

She caught her breath. “But you didn’t know—how could you have known my life was even in danger?”

“Because I’m the one who brought you into this.”

His voice was quiet, ragged with remorse and utterly truthful, but Emma shook her head. “I was chasing the bounty on Felix, it was nothing to do with—”

“I wanted to get Felix off the streets,” he interrupted her. “For his own safety. Once I learned what Gold wanted from him and that Felix would never be able to deliver it, I knew it was only a matter of time before Felix’s body turned up in an alley somewhere, dead of a single stab wound to the heart.”

She caught her breath and he raised an eyebrow, grim and knowing. “Gold’s signature move. I take it that’s what you witnessed?”

She nodded. “Gold—he asked Felix if he had it, and said don’t disappoint me, you won’t like the consequences. Then Felix said he couldn’t get it because ‘Jones said’ but Gold interrupted him, and said ‘don’t talk to me about Killian Jones.’ Then he held up his cane and Felix—he obviously knew what that meant for him.”

Killian’s mouth was a tight line, a muscle leaping in his jaw. “I’m so bloody sorry, Swan,” he growled. “I just wanted Felix out of Gold’s reach. He wasn’t worth much but I felt responsible for him, the way he was left at such a loss with Pan gone. Many of his failings were not his fault.”

“But why did you need me for that?”

“Don’t forget I’ve seen you in action, love, I know what you’re capable of,” he said with a poor attempt at a smile. “I knew you could infiltrate Gold’s party and that you’d make quick work of Felix once you were there. So I asked Graham to dig up what he could on Felix—I knew there had to be something—and then put you on his trail. The idea was for you to bring him in so the police could hold him until Gold lost interest. That way he’d be safe from Gold in a non-suspicious way that couldn’t be traced back to me.”

“That’s—actually not a bad plan.”

“Oh, aye. Except that it was a spectacular failure.”

“That’s not your fault, Killian—”

“It is,” he insisted, clenching his hands into fists. “I should have pointed you in his direction the moment I saw you, but instead I got caught up in—” his mouth twisted. “Well… you know.”

In sparring with her, Emma thought. In the ridiculous game they’d been playing just twenty-four hours ago, though it felt like years. “Yeah,” she sighed. “I do.”

“As soon as I saw Felix leave the party I knew what was likely to happen,” continued Killian, pacing up and down the short length of the room. “He didn’t have the records and Gold does not take kindly to being thwarted. His fate was sealed but there was still chance I could save you. I tried to get to you before you left to follow him but I was across the room and the crowd was too thick, I couldn’t move fast enough. So I got my car and got you out of the gallery, then followed my escape plan to bring us here.”

Emma’s heart was racing again. “How did you know where I’d be?” she asked quietly.

“Gold always holds meetings in that gallery, particularly ones he thinks will end as that one did. The room is well sealed and noise insulated and the carpet is made of pre-cut squares, like tiles. Easy to pick up and replace with fresh ones if they get stained.”

“So basically a perfect murder room.” Her voice sounded foreign to her ears, like it belonged to someone else.

His was rough. “Basically.”

“But—” Emma forced herself to breathe steadily, and to remember that she was safe. “What if—what if I hadn’t been near the door? What if Gold had caught me?” She looked up at Killian. “He almost fucking did.”

Killian’s jaw was tight again, the muscle flexing in it as he approached her cautiously. “I could only hope I got there in time,” he rasped. “There were far too many things I had to trust to luck. But what other choice was there? Do nothing and you would surely have been killed. Do something and you still may have been, but.. well, I had to try.” He swallowed hard. “I’m just glad that it worked.”

“Yeah.” Emma shuddered, thinking about how close it had come to not working. She hugged herself, sinking her fingernails into the soft fleece of his sweatshirt. “So what happens now?” she asked. “You said you have a plan?”

“Aye.” Slowly he sat next to her and she let him, let him pull her close again and tuck her head onto his shoulder. She sighed as some of her tension ebbed away and her body relaxed against his. “First we have to contact Graham,” he said. “I sent him a message when I woke up, telling him what I thought you had seen and that I would keep you safe. By now Gold certainly knows who you are and that I was the one who helped you get away. He’ll have people searching for both of us; it’s not safe to go back to the city until he’s neutralised.”

“Neutralised,” she repeated. “Fuck. What’s that gonna take?”

“Possibly not as much effort as you think. Gold is slick, but he’s not used to being the focus of attention. He gets away with things because for the right incentives people, the police included, are content to look the other way. It’s all a game for Gold, one he’s been playing for so long he believes he’s untouchable.” Emma shivered and his arm tightened around her. “But with Pan gone he’s gotten arrogant, and arrogant means careless. Graham’s been investigating him for a while and he’s got enough evidence to pursue the case. We just have to sit tight until he’s ready to make an arrest—he wants to be sure everything is airtight first. Which means”—he cleared his throat—“that you are going to need to tell him exactly what you saw. Can you do that, Swan?”

“I—” Emma took a deep breath, full of Killian's scent and the heat of his skin. His nearness shouldn’t comfort her so much but it did, and right now she would take any comfort she could get. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I want to do it.”

She felt his grin though she couldn’t see it, felt his cheek flex against the top of her head. “You’re a tough lass,” he said. “I admired that about you from the start.”

Graham answered his phone on the first ring. “Detective Humbert,” he said gruffly.

“Graham.” Emma couldn’t believe how good it felt to hear a familiar voice.

“Emma!” he cried. “How are you? Are you okay? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She flexed her fingers around the phone Killian had given her—a satellite phone he’d said, the size and heft of a cell phone circa 1989.

“Where are you?” Graham demanded.

She was in the bedroom, curled up on the bed with the door tightly shut. But that wasn’t what Graham was asking. “Uh, I don’t quite know. Killian said Canada, but that doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

“Killian.” Graham spat the name with a venom that surprised her.

“Yeah,” she said, frowning. “He’s—well, less awful than I thought. He saved my life.”

“And he hasn’t—” Graham cleared his throat “—done anything to you?”

“Like what?”

“Like—tried anything.”

Emma felt a surge of indignation on Killian’s behalf. “Okay, one, that’s a hell of a thing to say about your friend—”

“Who said he’s my friend—”

“And two, no, he’s not laid a finger on me since we got here.” Except to comfort her, but that wasn’t something Graham needed to know about. Nor did he need to know that the change in Killian’s behaviour, the complete disappearance of any innuendo or provocation, left her feeling oddly disgruntled and unsure what to think. She hadn’t wanted it in the first place so she should be glad it was gone, but its absence had changed their dynamic in a way that had her feeling a bit off balance.

“—did he say he’s my friend?” Graham was almost shouting. “Emma?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Graham, it doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “Whether you’re friends with Killian or not, that’s not important. I’m fine, he’s fine, and we both want to go home, so can we talk about how to make that happen?”

Graham took a deep breath, and when he spoke again his voice was calm and professional. “Yes we can. Tell me what you witnessed at Gold’s mansion.”

Emma took a breath of her own, wrapped her arms around her knees and began to speak.

When she hung up the phone she returned to the living room to find Killian leaning against the stone mantel above the fireplace, staring into the flames. He looked up sharply when she entered. “How was it?” he demanded. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “A bit bruised, but yeah, I’m okay.” She gave him a faint smile. “I’m okay. I’ll be oka—”

He hesitated for the briefest moment then strode across the room and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s okay not to be okay, you know,” he said softly. “If you’re not.”

“I—” Emma’s voice caught on a sob and she buried her face in his chest.

“Shhh, love, it’s all right,” he murmured. She felt his hand stroke her hair and the lightest press of his lips on the side of her head. Closing her fist on a handful of his shirt, she breathed in shuddering heaves as her tears continued to fall.

“I feel like I can’t stop crying,” she whispered. “Why can’t I? I never cry.”

“Because you’re a human being with a soul,” he replied, with an edge to his voice she hadn’t heard in it before. “You’re not a monster like Gold or—others of his kind.”

Or me, he was going to say, she realised. He thought he and Gold were the same.

“You like to think you’re tough, Emma,” Killian continued. “And you are. Tough and brave and bloody fearless. But beneath that armour you wear you have a soft and caring heart and that’s worth more than all the rest of it combined. You must never, ever let your heart grow hard. That’s not toughness, it’s death.”

She had no idea how to respond to that, or the ache of self-loathing she heard in his voice. So she said nothing, pressing closer to him as his hand moved down her hair in soothing strokes.

“Cry as much as you need,” he murmured. “Let yourself feel what you’re feeling. It’s the only way to heal.”

She clung to him, sobbing into his shirt until her tears were spent and she was exhausted, with a pounding ache behind her eyes. When at last she sniffed and straightened up, Killian let her go without hesitation.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she smiled wryly. “But my head hurts.”

“I can help with that, at least.” He went to the bathroom and returned a moment later with a bottle of Tylenol, which he handed to her then moved to the kitchen to fill a glass with water. “Take some of those and drink the whole glass,” he instructed. “Then go to bed and try to get some sleep.”

“Thanks.” Emma turned towards the bedroom then stopped and looked back. He was still standing there, watching her. “Are you—are you coming?”

He smiled. “Later. You go now.”

“Okay.” She turned to go again then immediately swivelled back. “And thanks, Killian,” she said. “For everything.”

His smile widened into the boyish one that made her chest feel tight, and too small to contain the leap of her heart. “You’re welcome, love,” he said. “Sleep well.”

Emma went to the bedroom and shut the door behind her, leaning back and letting her head fall against it with a soft thunk. “Do not do this, you idiot,” she whispered to herself. “Do not go there. Not again.”

@thisonesatellite @ohmightydevviepuu @kmomof4 @mariakov81 @katie-dub @spartanguard @darkcolinodonorgasm @courtorderedcake @squidvisious @cluttermind @teamhook @lfh1226-linda @shireness-says @stahlop

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan #sharing a bed #enemies to lovers #the bend of the arc #profdanglaisstuff

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silence-burns · 5 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 23

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on "Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki." by @thefandomimagine

Loki felt alive.

With newfound energy surging into his bones, he felt shaped anew, his personality finally dusting the Earth's dirt off its magnificence for all to see.

Loki marched back into your room, clad in the familiar, asgardian fabrics, tailored to fit into Earth's fashion better. All was good again.

You eyed him from head to toe with a look suggesting an utter lack of interest. To his dismay, you seemed more focused on the itch on your back, and finding a way to reach it, than his rebirth.

"I didn't expect you to understand, but this is saddening, even coming from you." Loki crossed his arms, picking some invisible fleck off his black suit.

"Sorry," you muttered, almost bent in half backwards while sitting on the bed. "I'd clap, but I need that hand for a moment longer."

"Forget it. I don't need your approval."

Relief softened your features when you finally scratched the itch. "Okay, I'm done. How do you fancy some coffee before we wander off to the streets?"

"Only if you promise not to add anything 'special' in it."

"Your lack of trust breaks my heart."

One look through the window convinced you to put on some warmer clothes. The snow started to fall only yesterday evening, but you could already see it piling on the streets. Taking a car in such weather could turn into an unpleasant surprise, if roads were blocked because of it.

You winced while getting ready. "I have no idea how you can be so full of energy, princess. Every part of my body hurts as if I were fighting monsters all day yesterday. I'm getting too old for this crap."

Loki scoffed, leaning by the door. "I can't imagine you in retirement. What would you be doing? Knitting socks for the poor?"

"Or I could babysit villains. I feel I have a knack for it."

"You're overestimating your capabilities," Loki said, but there was no malice in his words.

He watched you pull on shoes, struggling with bending far enough to reach the laces. It must have been the bruises you mentioned. His own healed through the night, and Loki was more than happy to discover that. He couldn't imagine living like that.

A tiny part of him almost offered to help you, but he leashed it before the words escaped him. Why, he couldn't say. Confusion clad his thoughts while you finished and marched to the door. You fished a metallic card out of your pocket and held it in front of Loki's eyes.

"I really shouldn't be telling you that you need one of these to enter or leave people's private rooms in this Tower, and a few other sections not meant for the public. And I really shouldn't mention that most of the important residents have one of these on them at all times. Security protocol and all that, you know."

With a soft click to the panel, you left the room with Loki following your steps. He had enough reason not to thank you for the thing you never said. Although, Loki had to admit, his confusion only deepened.

The walk to the kitchen area was blanketed in a silence Loki was surprised to find comfortable. It was a thrilling concept that he might start getting used to his companion, but Loki was saved from delving into that by a voice he might not have expected, but would always recognize.

He froze, instinctively sneaking closer to the wall. You frowned, turning to him.

"What's wrong? We're almost there—”

"I'm not going."

"...is there any reason behind this sudden change of that brilliant mind of yours, or…"

You gestured wildly to the right, but the answer came to you with the next burst of voices from the kitchen area. It was close by now, and close enough for you to recognize its newest occupant.

"You don't want to talk to him?" you asked, though it sounded more like a statement as you tried to keep your voice down, stepping closer to the shadows Loki was lurking in.

"Why would I want to do that? He always brings the worst news, looking for people to plaster blame on—"

"Hey, man. Chill." You put your hand on his shoulder in what you hoped was a reassuring gesture. "You don't have to flood me with reasons. If you don't want to talk to him right now, don't. I'll just make some coffee and we're off."

"It's not going to work, he's—"

"Loki, he might be a god, but in this Tower, he's just a man. I'll be right back."

Loki made to grab you and explain very thoroughly why exactly that was a disastrous idea, but you shook his hand off and walked away.

For a moment, he debated following you, if only to make a statement. He didn't, cursing his brother for ruining the day without trying.

"Hello, my fellow residents!" You marched right into the kitchen, heading for the coffee machine.

Clint muttered something from over his toasts, Natasha sitting next to him by the counter. They seemed to be in the middle of a conversation with Thor, clad in his armor as if it were a second skin to him. It smelled rightfully so.

The sudden silence echoed through the room. With all eyes on you, you stopped with two cups in your hands. You raised your eyebrows.

"Is there a bomb in this room, or is it always so nervous in the mornings? Not that I would know much about it, given how rarely I make it here in time."

Clint took his time with the toast. You'd never seen anyone mutilate it so thoroughly.

Natasha was looking at you, but didn't say anything. Her face was unreadable as always, but something deep beyond the usual expressionless mask seemed to be very aware of every gesture made by the people around.

"Where is he?" Thor was first to break the tension. He crossed his arms over his chest, one of them wrapped in a bandage. It seemed like he was right back from his duty of sealing the breaks the Avengers mentioned earlier.

"Excuse me?" You turned the coffee machine on. Hopefully, it wouldn't decide to break in the next ten minutes.

"Loki. Where is he?" Thor stepped closer, walking around the counter in the center of the kitchen to stand on your side. Clint and Natasha observed you from beyond it, the toast now cold and forgotten for good.

"I have no idea who you’re talking about."

"This is not the time for jokes," Thor rumbled, his voice deep and strained. "I have already heard about his little venture, and I'm less than happy about it. I need to talk to him. We had a deal—"

"What if he doesn't want to talk to you?" you shrugged, stepping in closer too. Just because he was taller than most people, it didn't mean you'd be intimidated so easily.

Thor let out a barked laugh, cut short by the temper you could already see rising in his eyes.

"I don't care what—"

"Maybe that’s the actual problem?"

"We had a deal and he broke it."

"Technically, that’s not what happened," Natasha cut in, eyeing Thor. It was not the savior you expected, but you appreciated it nonetheless. "He kinda helped with saving the city and trust me, I was surprised too."

You sent her a kiss.

Thor sighed. "He was not to leave the Tower."

"He made a choice to save people. I didn't force him," you said. The smell of fresh coffee filled the room. "He had my back and didn't run away. You brought him here to give him one last chance. I won't let you punish him for doing just that."

Clint smirked, pushing his plate away. It was more crumbs than the actual toast. "Looks like someone is finally enjoying their job. Did you get the bag I brought you? I only noticed yesterday Thor left it here."

"Yeah. Thanks, Clint."

You took the cups, the warmth spreading to your fingers and the delightful smell making it difficult not to drool. You sent another kiss to Natasha now smirking openly.

"You should be careful around him," Thor warned you on your way out. Thankfully, he didn't follow you.

"Thanks, Thunderboy. You know how much I love your life-saving advice."

Loki, still where you left him in the corridor, couldn't help but enjoy that last remark.

He wasn't eavesdropping, of course not. But it wasn't his fault that the voices were too loud to be ignored, and so he couldn't do much but follow the conversation involuntarily. He couldn't help but enjoy its outcome, either. Especially when it was clear enough that his joy of a brother would be off his back for a while longer—something always worth appreciating.

You joined Loki not a few moments later, with a smile shining bright on your face. He followed as you took a path that would spare him crossing the kitchen. Thankfully, the Tower was full of elevators.

Loki took the coffee you handed him, assessing it carefully.

"Don't worry," you patted his hand. "I made it as bland and boring as I could."

"My stomach rejoices with relief," he assured you. He wasn't even lying.

The ground floor welcomed you warmly with an open area filled with people focused on their own lives. You sometimes forgot how many people were actually employed and working on various floors of the building.

"So." Loki sipped his coffee as you neared the same exit you last rushed through under very different circumstances. "I can't help but wonder, what's the ingenious plan that's gonna get us out of here unnoticed?"

Your lips curved. "A good, old blackmailing, my friend."

"Oh, dear, now you piqued my interest."

"Listen and learn."

You fished your phone out of the pocket of your thick jacket. The call was picked after the third ring.

"Tony, dear, in about twenty seconds my best friend Loki and I are going to leave the Tower and have a nice little walk around the town. If you let the alarm go off, I'm gonna tell Ms. Potts exactly what kind of an accident happened to her absolutely favorite Valentino bag and where you threw the evidence away. Have a lovely day."

Loki had his eyebrows raised. You wondered if he'd get wrinkles because of you.

"As much as I'd be delighted to hear that story, are you sure this is going to work?"

"Nope," you admitted before linking your arm with his and crossing the exit.

Nothing happened. You stepped a few steps farther onto the sidewalk, just in case, looking up at the Tower.

"You see?" You shot Loki a smile. "Everything's fine."

"Indeed, although could you please indulge me on how you are going to stop people around from recognizing me? I have some doubts they have heard of the whole 'Loki's not here to destroy your planet this time'.

You pursed your lips into a thin, intense line. Loki looked around. He wondered when the first scream would sound.

"I've got an idea."

"I dread hearing that…"

Loki wasn't happy as you handed him your half empty coffee, but he held it anyway. His mood gradually lowered as you took a long, thick scarf off your neck, and got to devastatingly low levels when you put it on him instead, successfully covering half of his face. The upper half expressed his opinion perfectly clear, he was sure of that, although it did not seem to make you falter one bit.

"You know what," you looked at your work of art proudly. "It actually suits you."

He should have killed you in your sleep.

#Please Hate Me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki/reader #loki/you #loki #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki laufeyson/reader #loki laufeyson/you #loki marvel #mcu #loki imagine

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rhysreece · 4 years

Text

Fortified

2/7

When Logan once said he hated being restrained, he had meant it metaphorically. Now, however, he's adding the literal definition to the list, because his wrists have gone numb, and the blood is starting to dry rather uncomfortably. The stone of the cell is cold and too solid to be uncomfortable, just at the right angle to dig into his neck, above the iron shackle choking him slowly. Dirt and blood matt on his skin, as his flesh rots off his chest, the icy breeze from nowhere sending little flashes of pain across his chest. His chest that rattles as he breathes, constricted by so many open wounds, dripping blood onto the floor between his feet, forced into the upright position. Captivity is not where he thought he'd be yesterday.

Perhaps it is prudent to review the events of the past 24 hours, to understand how he was in the position he currently found himself.

This time yesterday, Logan was hunkering down in order to avoid the recurrent event of Patton's personality shift, beginning exactly seven days before midnight on All Hallow's Eve. For those seven days, hell on earth breaks loose, and the others suffer. However, through proper experimentation, he has discovered that he is the only one who remembers. The mirror, that blasted hall, the blood. Thanksgiving.

He shudders at the thought of Virgil, tears and blood mingling into one, sloppy stitchwork pulling at his skin, forcing a wide, eerie smile. Logan had hoped it wouldn't be as bad this year, because he'd prepared, blocking entrances into his room, stockpiling food, setting traps. Clearly, Patton had other ideas.

He'd noticed something was wrong at precisely 12:34 pm yesterday afternoon, when he'd heard Roman talking to himself, which in itself isn't alarming. No, what worried Logan was what was being said.

"Oh Roman you silly silly prince, you're supposed to protect people from threats and now Janus is dead and Logan is missing, and it's all not-"

The sudden, too-sharp silence was almost enough to get him to run out, wielding a weapon in desperation, but he decided against it, silently apologising to Roman as he fortified his defenses and huddled in a tense, paranoid silence. Every little shadow seemed to flicker and move malevolently, every tiny noise seemed to herald his inevitable doom.

Needless to say the overly-happy knocking at his cupboard door, from the inside, sent him screaming. Refusing to question how Patton got into his cupboard, he scrambled out of his bed, legs tangled in the layers of bedding he'd used to protect himself.

This gave Patton time to step out of the cupboard, brush himself off, look around at Logan's attempts to keep him out, and laugh. His cruel, sharp, borderline unhinged laugh that sent shivers down the bravest side's spine.

"Uh oh Logie Bear! Looks like my cutie little baby boy wasn't quite smart enough to keep me out! Tut tut tut, my little brainbox. Ah well, nevermind. You won't need intelligence where you're going. See, you're just a bit too clever for my liking. You're a threat, sweetie! I can't have you running around helping people, so I'm gonna have to put you in time out!"

Either too scared or too confused, Logan was rooted to the spot, and couldn't bring himself to fight back as Patton drew near, lightly kissing his forehead with such tenderness that it was like nothing else mattered in that moment, before hitting him round the head with a baseball bat, and knocking him out cold.

When he'd woken up, he'd thought for a moment that Patton had blinded him, and his blood froze. It took a while to adjust to the dim lighting, but he appeared to be in a cell, under Roman's castle judging by the pseudo-medieval architecture. His wrists were cuffed to the wall, holding him close with its iron grip, cold as death against what little unscarred skin he had left. Unfortunately, he wasn't alone.

"Hiya Lo-Lo! That nasty snake is taken care of, so now we get to play a game! Doesn't that sound fun?"

The way he tilted his head so playfully, the excitable, puppy-like expression, it was so close to being Patton. Real, sane, tangible Patton, but that blasted bow tie, stained red in places and dulled by vigorous washing and use, it was a sign that he was not in a safe position, spread open before that false god of a father figure friend.

"Patton, you must let me go, we - we can fix this, I can fix this, just let me go!"

The shackles like skeletal fingers around his wrist and neck didn't shift, as Patton brought down the whip, lashing across his stomach in a flaring, overwhelming line.

"Oopsies! You gotta listen to the rules before you start to play, or else you might get hurt!"

Damage must be kept to a minimum in order to sufficiently escape, which meant complying. Logan's newest hypothesis? His dignity would not survive this experience. Looking back on it, Logan has to agree, his hypothesis is correct. His dignity didn't survive the experience. Neither did he, really.

"Fine. I'll play your game."

"Wonderful! Here are the rules. I'm gonna ask you a question, you're gonna answer me. If I don't like the answer, then I'll beat that into you. If you succeed, we can even have some adult fun times later. So, ready to begin?"

Logan nodded, overwhelmed by the combination of pure fear and pain coursing through his body. It raced along his nerves like lightning, spreading pain and suffering.

"Good. Okay! Question one is this. Do you think of me as a father figure, Lo-Lo?"

An easy enough question, but Logan still hesitated, assessing the situation. If he answered wrong, if he didn't play along with his idealistic delusion, then his chances of survival were sure to plummet.

"I suppose I do, Patton."

"Excellent! Just one issue, Logie!"

"And what would that be?"

"You hesitated."

Logan's stomach dropped, as Patton's tone did, as Roman would put it, a full 180, polarising from his usual happy and somewhat deranged demeanor to entirely lucid and unimpressed, which gave Logan the distinct impression that this was going to hurt.

He heard the whip before he felt it, a deafening crack, followed by that blinding, searing pain in arcing lengths across his body, wet with blood and gore. Specks of blood stained Patton's sleeves and face, but he paid no mind, a look of false sympathy to hide the mocking laugh clearly building.

"This could have been avoided, baby boy. You didn't have to lie. If you'd just told me the truth, the punishment wouldn't have been as bad."

"Yes it would."

Logan had to bite back a screen as the whip came down across his face, knocking his glasses askew and leaving blood to dry across his cheeks, sticky and warm.

"You know I don't like it when you kiddos answer back."

Almost instinctively, not entirely of his own free will, Logan replied.

"Sorry, D-Patton."

Seeing Patton's face light up was somehow more terrifying than his anger, as he was pulled from the wall into a bone crushing hug. The snap and the flaring pain he felt in his rib were honestly not his biggest concern.

"Awww! Lo-Lo, baby boy, you're so cute! Gosh, I could just eat you right up! You're not forgiven, but that has really made my day, kiddo! Now, ready for the next question?"

He pulled away, and grabbed his chin, tilting Logan's face to meet his, inches from that sugar-sweet smile, those rounded glasses, those godforsaken eyes, usually the colour of a sunny day's sky, now red as the setting sun, with flecks of black like stormy clouds. His voice now quiet, soft, and caring, lulling him into a sense of security that he couldn't escape from, no matter how hard he tried.

"If you're good, baby boy, I'll take good care of you, after I give you my little prize."

Those 'questions' went on for hours. 17 hours, 58 minutes and 42 seconds, to be exact, before Patton 'had to go' and left him, sheets of flesh flapping off his body, coated in blood, and barely conscious. And that is where he is. On review, Logan realises he should have covered the mirrors, those blasted, cursed mirrors. He sighs, then goes entirely still as he hears a familiar sound coming down the stairs.

Virgil, hyperventilating and crying, looking for him, with a mock-concerned Patton following behind, a hand on his shoulder. On closer inspection, Virgil's eyes appear to be clouded white, as Patton guides him into the cell across from him, whispering far-from-sweet nothings to him.

Oh. So that's his plan.

Shit.

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yeojaa · 4 years

Text

TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why. Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds. When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you. "Yes." Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic. Always had been. It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary. You use your one brain cell for love. It doesn’t always end well.

pairing. who knows, honestly. the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.

tags. blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy.

rating. general (for now?)

word count. ~3750

chapter 4.

Time passes as it always does, swirling around you in the form of hungry patrons and waning sunlight.

Occasionally, it crawls and the words don't come, weighed by an anchor you can't quite lift. It feels heavy in your hands, a door that won't open no matter how much you fidget, graphite leaving dots across pristine white paper. It taunts you and tricks you every time you hazard a glance at your phone.

Other times, it's gone in the blink of an eye, the glowing numbers on your screen a reminder of its perpetual movement.

The only consistent is Jeon Jungkook.

You appreciate his presence, the familiarity it brings as he sits quietly, every so often chuckling to himself when he scrolls past something funny on his phone. A snap of his friend's face superimposed over a pig (don't ask); a meme off the front page of Reddit. You're grateful for the fact that he keeps otherwise quiet and doesn't try to share his finds, taking extra care not to disturb whatever creative process you're in. He knows as well as you - you take inspiration where you can get it.

Still, it's hard not to notice him.

There'd always been something about him that drew your attention, like he was a planet and you were caught in his gravitational pull. You couldn't avoid him if you tried.

Looking at him now - sneaking glances when you know he's miles down his Instagram feed and won't catch you - he's everything you remembered and so much that you hadn't. It makes your heart ache a little, just as it had in the first few months of radio silence. You'd honestly thought you'd gotten used to it - draped a cloth over the Jungkook-shaped hole in your life - but sitting there with him, you realize you definitely hadn't. It's like a cold draft that won't go away, curling around his gaping silhouette and rousing memories you don't mean to dwell on.

Maybe it was your fault. Maybe your refusal to explore the how's and why's had festered the wound and kept it from healing. But if you were to blame, then so was he. After all, you'd never meant for it to happen.

Isn't that how it always happened?

Things had been fine, for a while. Better than fine, in fact. You'd found a kindred spirit in the boy that'd taken up root beside you, discovering fragments of your dreams in his film vignettes and buried between the layers of his watercolour.

You'd gone through the motions of getting to know each other before casual conversations in the lecture hall had transitioned to harried 3 a.m. texts about whether you'd completed the assignment or not. (He always had; you, not so much.) The Friday editing sessions had even turned to weekend day trips in search of inspiration, not realizing - or not acknowledging - you'd found it in each other. Of course, you never addressed it, finding too much comfort in each other to dare turn the spotlight on it. You'd thought that maybe, if you acted like it wasn't happening, everything would be okay.

You thought whatever you were would be safe, hidden among the moon and stars.

After all, it was inevitable, like the changing of seasons. Spending so much time with someone else tended to open you up to them in ways you'd never expected.

Still, it had hit you like a freight train colliding with a pipe bomb when you'd drunkenly invited him back to your dorm and he'd agreed, enthusiastic and intoxicated. You'd been celebrating the completion of your thesises (or theses, as Jungkook had so sagely reminded you when you were four bottles of soju in and slurring your words).

Never in your wildest dreams - and oh, how you'd dreamt - had you thought it would happen.

You should've known it was a bad idea when your adoration had nearly swallowed you whole, the familiar desire to stick your tongue out at him replaced by one to use that muscle in a very different way. But everything had happened so quickly that night, intensity engulfing every single one of your sensibilities and igniting it in flames. He'd felt so good - so right - like he'd been created just for you, all of his sinew and bone a testament to a higher power that had deemed you worthy enough.

If you were a recovering addict, he was the 40 year old malt that sent you right back into inebriation.

You hadn't cared then, drunk off something other than liquor. All you'd wanted was him and that beautiful smile for a little while longer.

You'd even told yourself you could get past whatever repercussions arose. That was the strength of your friendship. And yet, you'd been wrong. You'd hardly been able to look at him the next morning, fleeing to the library with a note left on your pillow. You'd been the one to run away, leaving him to wake up to an empty bed.

It was the right thing to do, you'd told yourself. Better to avoid an awkward morning after.

Except that silence had stretched on and by the time you'd realized your mistake, it was too late. You weren't sure who was ignoring who and you were too afraid to ask.

"Do I have something on my face?" Your companion is swiping across his mouth, alarmed by the intensity with which you've been ogling him. God - how long had you been staring at him?

Heat spills over your neck and you can feel it rising into your hairline, sweeping across your ears and drowning them in red-hot embarrassment. "No. Sorry. I zoned out." You're stumbling over your words, a choked half-laugh crossing the threshold of enamel.

Jungkook looks at you like he could unravel your excuses with but a word but says nothing. His capacity for silence always surprised you.

"Should we get going?" He finally offers. Your saving grace.

"Oh, sure." A cursory glance at your phone has you near bolting out of your seat. "It's almost two?!" You're immediately shoving everything back into your tote with manic energy, nearly stabbing your pencil through the fleshy underside of your palm when you miss its rightful pocket. You'd never been good with time management.

"You'll be fine - the studio's close by." He's not wrong but his reassurance has you halting, strap of your bag looped around the hook of your elbow. For a second, you're confused. He can see it in your eyes.

He debates saying something, waiting for the cogs in your head to click into place.

They finally do and you finish your motion, hiking your tote comfortably onto your shoulder. Your over-ear headphones are tucked neatly into the pocket in the front and zipped in for security before a single AirPod replaces the quiet left behind by their departure. Habit. You always need music.

He knows them too, you remind yourself.

(You don't know how it hasn't come up yet. Maybe because it's been eight excruciating months of the Great Depression, as you tended to call it.)

You're about to bid him farewell, the words primed, when you catch his expression. It might just be your own emotions projected across the chiselled curvature, but he looks almost wistful. Like he's not quite ready to say goodbye.

You decide you aren't, either. "Do you want to walk with me?"

You know he doesn't take longer than a moment to consider the offer, though he plays at mulling it over, a decidedly artificial look of deliberation spreading.

"Fine, your loss," you state with an exaggerated roll of your eyes.

When you move toward the door, he's right there with you, and when you head into the early afternoon light, he's at your side. You try not to think about how close he is, how you're not sure whether the heat is from the sun or his body or the emotion that boils beneath your skin. It's hard.

"How long have you been interning?" He's sweetly curious, the picture of friendly attention.

"Since September."

"Do you like it?"

"I love it." He hears the animation that threatens to drag your words into overdrive, throwing ending syllables into one another. A quirk of yours - like your heart couldn't catch up with your mouth. "It's been a really incredible experience and I have so much respect for the people that put their entire lives into it. Namjoon and Yoongi - they've been so great. A little rough around the edges," Jungkook's hum is wrapped in understanding because he intimately knows what you mean, "but so, so good to me." You seem to realize you've taken off like a rocket and slow, allowing yourself to readjust as you plummet back to Earth. "It's like everything I'm feeling finally has a home, you know?"

"I get it." Something tender lingers in his gaze as your eyes meet. Your heart skips a beat. Then he's still, forcing you to do the same. You realize you're at your destination, imposing building rising high above your heads. "I guess this is goodbye."

You hate the sound of that more than you should. You offer a little wave as you begin backwards, shoulder meeting the glass door. You can't look away. "How about see you later instead?"

He looks like he's just won the lottery when you disappear inside.

They're two figures huddled together when you slip into the studio, your Dr. Martens replaced with soft Ryan slippers that stand in stark contrast to your neon green socks. You think they must not hear you by the lack of acknowledgment and take your time in setting your bag down, extracting your items one by one.

Phone, notebook, headphones. Your water bottle. Pencils and pens in every pastel shade you could find. If only you were this organized in school.

"So, you and Taehyung, huh?" Yoongi's low drawl has you whipping around but he hasn't even turned, instead still preoccupied with the melody that filters through his studio headphones, one side trapped against his head by the flat of his palm. You see more than hear the silent laughter that catches his shoulders, rolling over his lithe frame.

"Hello to you too, Min seonsangnim," you chirp, ignoring the question in favour of settling down behind them. It's your usual spot beside the electric piano, comprised of a sleek Herman Miller lounge chair and simple black table that you neatly arrange your belongings onto. You unfold your notebook and drag it into your lap, legs crossed in your seat, as you wait for them to finish whatever they're working on.

Namjoon hums to himself, fingers tracking with practiced precision as he lays a certain beat differently, dragging a note to the forefront. You watch, ever curious, as his deft movements transform the sounds that reach his ears, bringing an appreciative nod from the man beside him.

What you wouldn't give to hear what they were working on.

Instead, you focus on the litany of lyrics scrawled across the pages of your notebook. You drag them over and over in your head, letting them curve across different melodies in hopes one will stick. You know it's backwards - tune first, Namjoon always said - but you're stuck on these goddamn lines. You want them to make sense so badly.

You must look as frustrated as you feel, because you register a soft laugh and your name right as you're about to slash out another two lines.

"You're going to regret it." You know he's right. You huff, all but slamming your pencil down on the table as you meet the expectant stares of your mentors. It feels a little different today, as if you've crossed some invisible line you hadn't known existed. It's not an unwelcome feeling.

"Just another thing to add to the list," you answer, dryly.

"Woah now." There are tendrils of concern wrapping the words, something unspoken in the way Namjoon looks at you rather than the words he speaks. His chin cants, mouth pursed in that distinct way of his, and you can't help but feel a little childish, like a student caught red-handed by their principal. How fitting that that's what he was to you. "Is everything okay?"

The smile you offer is genuine, steeped heavily in appreciation. You're fine - you know you are. The past few days have just gotten weirder and weirder and it's a little hard to wrap your head around it. You're not sure how to explain that.

"Is it because you're pining over Tae?" It doesn't seem like he's going to let it go any time soon so you level Yoongi with a stare that would make him proud, reeking of barely concealed dissatisfaction. It's a complete facade, meant only to act as an apathetic mask. He knows that. You know that. He snickers, arms folding across his chest as he maintains that look of anticipation.

"I'm not pining over him," you retort. And really, you're not. You're just pleasantly intrigued.

"But you do like him." Now it's Namjoon locking you with the implications of his question, the words acting as proverbial blinders. You can't look anywhere but his eyes.

"I mean, I hardly know him." You know your answer isn't enough by the silence that meets it. You blow a steady stream of air through your nose, trying to find patience among the fluttering in your chest. "Fine, I like him. I'm interested." It feels strange talking to them about this. They've never involved themselves in your personal life. Not even when you'd asked them to help you with your songs, begged to pour your heartbreak into something material.

All things considered, you can't blame them.

"Good. Because he's a good guy." You don't doubt it but it's still nice to hear, especially from those whose opinions you hold in such high esteem. It lightens your burden a little, stripping worry away from your heart like daisy petals.

You like him, you like him not, you like him.

With a languid roll of your eyes, you edge closer, sock sliding back into your slippers. Your notebook is set down, forgotten temporarily, as you rock to your feet and cross to join them in front of the various monitors. "Can we focus on something other than my love life now?"

The sun is but a flicker of burnt orange over the horizon when you exit the building, drifting low behind buildings and casting faded warmth over everything it touches. It's colder than you'd anticipated, the soft knit of your cardigan doing little to rebuff the evening air. It's invigorating, if not a little unwelcome.

You slot your earphones into place before you begin walking, enamoured with the strike of ivory keys and unfiltered lyricism. A quick swipe through your messages, nothing immediately catching your eye. Good. You're ready to go home and dive into a bowl of ramyeon.

Or, at least, you were - before you're colliding with a solid mass.

You blink once, twice, trying to make sense of what's happened. You know this area like the back of your hand, have walked it both sober and drunk, in the afternoon and hours past midnight. There's certainly not supposed to be an obstruction in the middle of the street.

"I'm so sorry." The voice registers as desirable, heavy in its timbre, a sound you'd gladly tumble headlong into. It's also familiar, though that recognition comes more slowly, in bits and pieces that form a haphazard picture in your mind. It's fuzzy around the edges because you're not intimately familiar with it but oh, how you could be.

"Kim Taehyung?" You're not sure how many times you've uttered those same few words but it falls again, framed in surprise and perhaps a little hope.

"Hi." He breathes the greeting like it's a secret, his big boxy grin stopped short only by the way he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. There's a flash of pink as his tongue follows suit not long after, laving at the indents he's left behind. A tic of his, you notice. One that stirs butterflies in your chest and tension in your stomach. You mimic the action without realizing and it's his turn to inhale sharply, his attempts at suffocating the excitement with a lungful of air feeble. "Surprise?"

It's an understatement if you've ever heard one.

"What're you doing here?"

The reminder that this isn't normal - that your meeting isn't planned nor somehow caused by some sort of cosmic interference - seems to bring him to his senses. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hand rising to scratch at the nape of his neck. He's tonguing his lip again, the tell-tale flash of pink distracting you momentarily. In the open, like this, he's even more handsome than you remembered and you admire him with little hesitation.

"Namjoon-hyung mentioned they'd have a late night."

That certainly doesn't answer your question. "But what does that have to do with me?"

"He said he and Yoongi-hyung would be here all night but... that you were leaving soon." By the way he speaks, it almost as if he's ready for a reprimand or rejection. He won't even look at you fully, his gaze bouncing from your eyes to your mouth to some indeterminate spot behind your left ear. He looks like he's about burst when he finally meets your stare. "I thought you might want to get dinner. "

You can't deny how charming it is, how giddy it makes you feel. You're beaming as bright as the sun. "I'd love to."

The breath he'd been holding escapes as one giant laugh that reverberates his shoulders and crashes out of his mouth in unadulterated mirth. He tries to hide it behind his hands, palm pressed to his lips as his face contorts into a makeshift cage. He's a kid on Christmas morning and his excitement is infectious.

"I guess this is our first date then." There's that aching sweetness again, blanketing his words in promise as he extends his hand. Maybe it's a little too forward, a little too much - you can see the uncertainty buried deep in his irises - but you take it nonetheless, slotting your digits with his as if its the most natural thing in the world. You like the way he feels, the weight of his hand in yours. You're gladdened by the fact that you still feel sparks where your skin connects, a live wire linking the two of you together.

It hadn't just been all in your head.

"Where should we go?"

"Anywhere." You don't mean to sound the way you do, a girl on her first date. It causes a revolt against your cheeks, pretty pink painting the apples. "I'm not picky." A poor attempt at sounding somewhat blasé. Why you try, you're not sure, because Taehyung looks just as enamoured as you. It's both powerful and terrifying. "You choose."

So he does - and you like that, too, allowing him to lead the two of you to a nearby shop that specializes in jokbal. He won't stop talking about it the entire way, regaling you with stories of late night munchies with his hyungs and making you laugh so hard you shake.

He never drops your hand, not even when he's opening the door for you with his other.

You find your seats quickly, settling across from each other at the small table. It's reminiscent of the first time you'd met and you can't help but smile, mouth pursing so as to stave off the expression. It catches his attention, though you're uncertain it'd been anywhere else. "What?"

"I feel like we should be answering questions again."

There's playfulness curling his lips, stretching his cheeks and rounding them into his characteristic smile. "Do you want to?"

You're surprised. Why not? "Sure. It'll be like old times."

Now, he snickers, once again hidden behind the slope of his fingers. "What percentage did you put at the end?" It's like a flipped switch how quickly he goes from cherubic aegyo to serious, effortlessly handsome in his sudden gravity.

"I'm not telling you that!" You gasp as if affronted, voice warbling like an old widow asked about her dearly departed.

"Come on!" He comes back, just as quick. A hand cradles his heart now - lays right over where it lies beneath the soft cotton of his plain black shirt - and tenses. Some sort of very fake sob comes out, hushed in consideration of the other diners, and he levels you with a look that makes you want to kiss him. "You're breaking my heart, Cho Jiyeon."

A part of you wants to drag this on, keep that all-encompassing smile in place for as long as you can, but he's already shifting. He's leaning across the table and you can count each individual eyelash and every mole. You're once again left breathless by the sheer beauty of him.

"I put 100." The admission comes so easily from him that you almost feel bad for holding out. Almost.

You think you might if you weren't completely over the moon and lost to the stars above. "Me too."

He's never looked better than when he hears that and you try to memorize the way his eyes squint, the start of his smile when his mouth pulls subtly to the left, the deep lines that run the length of his chiselled cheeks. Like a painting by the old masters, it speaks volumes.

"You're not just saying that?"

The juxtaposition is laughable when he finally speaks. Here he is, devilishly handsome and brimming with euphoria, and yet his words sound like they've taken everything out of him. It makes your heart squeeze in a downright lovesick way. "One hundred," a pause that's meant to be cute, "percent serious."

Your bad joke has him laughing, sweeping you up in the sound. "You won't regret it."

You tell yourself you believe him because you're hopeless and you don't know better. But when he focuses on you like this, you can't help it. He's like every wish you've ever made, a shooting star across a spotless night sky, illuminating everything in its path. He makes you see in full spectrum colour, setting your vision to ultra HD. You don't want to go back to shades to grey.

notes. just when kook was getting some face time, in comes taehyung. whoops!

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villainousshakespeare · 4 years

Text

A Forest Interlude Chapter 24 - The Missing Bride

Summary: Eleonore (OFC) discovers a wounded man in the woods near her home and seeks to heal him. Little does she know that it is none other than the heir to the throne, Prince Hal of England.

Chapter: 24 of 28

Rated E

Warnings: smut, sex fluff, angst, oral sex, fingering, hand jobs

(spoiler - don’t worry, it will all work out okay in the end)

In this chapter: Hal confronts his past behavior with Poins, and discovers the abduction of his darling wife.

Read the entire story on AO3

@nrthmnsplbnd09 ; @nonsensicalobsessions @yespolkadotkitty@just-the-hiddles @from-hel-i-with-love livviedoo@hopelessromanticspoonie @arch-venus25 @caffiend-queen@dangertoozmanykids101 @kellatron55 @myoxisbroken@thecutestlittlebunbunfairy @vodka-and-some-sass @shiningloki@hiddlesholic @isitmadnessrpg

If he clenched his jaw any harder Hal was convinced all of his teeth would break. This was not at all how he had anticipated the afternoon proceeding. The warm bath that he had so looked forward to sharing with his eager wife was bordering on cold, and instead of her soft moans his ears were being assaulted with a steady string of mindless prattle from Ned Poins.

Ned, who was by some reckoning his closest companion. Who definitely was the his most frequent co-conspirator and partner in crime. How that had come to be the case, Hal was having a difficult time remembering now, for he found the steady stream of malicious gossip and cruel innuendo falling from the other man's lips grating to him. A month or two ago Hal would have been laughing at his latest conquest of some poor, unsuspecting baker's wife. Ned had managed to convince the woman that he wanted to run away with her in order to bed her, only to deny any such plans when her husband caught them, mid tryst. Now, Hal merely felt sorry for the poor woman. Her life had been ruined simply because she had a nice pair of breasts that had managed to catch the wandering eye of a bored noble.

A blessed silence stretched as Hal quickly washed himself, regretting it was not Nell's hands wandering over his body, all soapy and searching. He gave a soft sigh at the thought, his cock half heartedly twitching, and was met with a snort of derision. Looking up, he saw Ned was staring at him with shuttered, cynical eyes.

"I'll give you this, your wife's a pretty piece," Poins said, a twist of his lips substituting for a smile, "though not, for me, enough to risk a ring. Was wedding her in truth the only way that she would open up her legs to you? If so, I hope the prize was worth the price, for to my mind she's a controlling wench."

"I'll tell you once the same I told the king," Hal said, rising from the tub, naked and dripping, and crossing to tower over his friend in anger, "I will not hear a word against her Ned. Nell is my wife, and I do love her well. You would be wise to bear that thought in mind, or this my first will see to it you learn."

"A thousand pardons Hal, I meant no harm!" Ned replied quickly, raising both hands in defense and stepping back. "I see you are much taken with her now. Though I profess to hear you speak of love, and have the words be so sincerely meant, doth hardly reconcile with my old friend."

"I do suppose you have some cause in that," Hal was forced to admit, as he snatched up a bath sheet and began toweling himself dry. "When I think now of what my life hath been, and how I so mistreated the fair sex, I do begin to almost hate myself."

"Mistreat them? Hal, I hardly would say that!" Ned laughed. "For I was near at hand as oft as not, and from the sounds you brought forth out of them, those ladies that you tumbled for a night had nothing to complain of in your bed!"

Hal cursed himself for thinking that Ned would understand what he was saying. He did not mean that he had hurt the women, heaven forbid! Nor even that he had not done his best to make sure that they came away from the encounter thoroughly satisfied. It was just that he had never given a one of them any thought once the random coupling had ended. He had never wondered if they pined for him, or if he was getting in the way of a relationship that might bring them more joy in the long term. Short of doing his best to ensure that their were no royal bastards to follow him about, he had taken his pleasure without any further worry.

"I hope that you are right, but who can say?" was all he answered now, knowing it was useless to share his thoughts with the other.

"Well, I am going now to Jocelyn's," Ned said, laying back on Hal's bed with a groan. "Her babe at last is weaned, so now's my chance. Perhaps I'll ask her for you, if you like, if she did feel disgraced by your hand."

Apparently Ned thought this a capital joke from the way he laughed. Hal managed a grimace that passed for a smile and began dressing absentmindedly. Jocelyn was a lusty woman, and ran a thriving brothel. She was not the type that Hal had been worrying over hurting. All the same, he wished Ned would show her some respect.

"No doubt you will have other things to say," Hal suggested with a raised eyebrow, "and will not need to fall back on my name."

"Oh I do not plan to say much at all! My mouth shall be much happier employed. But come, shall you go with me good sweet prince? I hear she has a new girl in her house, a redhead with an ardency to match. I'm sure the girl would count it quite a coup if she could snare a prince into her bed."

"I have no need for whores, I thank you Ned. I am, if you recall, a man now wed."

"Well yes, I know that you did take a wife," Ned looked at him in almost comical alarm, "but surely that need not affect you much. Nell need not know whereto we two are bound, tis not like she will hear it from your whore! And I should think she may think it relief that she must not see to your needs today."

"You do not mark me, so I'll say it plain. There will from now be no more whores for me. I fear you must seek for another man to bear you company in your pursuits."

"But Hal, you must be playing at some jest - you surely do not mean you plan to be a faithful husband to your loving wife?"

"Yet that is just exactly what I mean," he nodded. "Now that the gods have granted me my heart, I would not put such happiness at risk by wasting of my time with random whores or ladies who would cast themselves at me. I want but one fair damsel in my bed, and much to my eternal wonderment, that woman is none other than my wife."

Ned stared at him in stunned disbelief. Hal knew that he deserved no less, and once more felt his shame rise. He could not truly fault Poins. Even discounting Hal's reputation as a rake, very few men of his rank were completely faithful to their wives. He supposed it came with the territory when most marriages were arranged more for money and alliances than for affection. He was a man most blessed that his life's companion was the owner of his very soul.

"My lord, my lord! I must see you at once!" Cecil demanded, barging into the room in a most undignified fashion quite at odds with his usual reserved bearing.

"What is it man? Here, sit and catch you breath," he instructed as his man doubled over and wheezed.

"There is no time, her Highness, Princess Nell..." Cecil gasped out, causing Hal's heart to stop beating.

"What Nell? Why what is wrong? Sir, speak to me!" he demanded, fear like a cold finger on his spine. "Is it the babe? Has she come to some harm?"

"No, no my prince, tis not as bad as that," Cecil hastened to assure him. "A troop of guard appeared here at our gate, and did insist that she should go with them!"

"What, take her from her home? I'll kill them all! Where were our own men that they stopped them not?"

"Your grace, she went with them of her own will, for they were dressed in colors of the king, and his own sigil did bedeck their breasts! Only the gateman knew what did occur until she had acceded to their will. Poor lad, he is beside himself in fear that he did put her life somehow at risk."

Hal began littering the air with every curse he knew. There had been no direct word from his father since their frightful encounter on his wedding day, and the lack of condemnation had lulled him into a false sense of security. It had never occurred to him that Henry would do something so extreme as to send armed guards to abduct Nell from their home! What could he possibly hope to gain by doing any such thing?

"Have Strumpet saddled for me straight away," he commanded Cecil, pulling his boots on as he spoke. "I ride at once to see our revered king. I hope he has some reason for this act, as patricide is still a grievous sin. But if he has caused any harm to her, I will not answer for my own reply."

"Your horse is waiting for you in the yard. It was not hard to think what you would do."

"I thank you, Cecil. Ned, I bid you well. You must excuse me, for I now depart."

"I would not think to keep you from your bride," Ned said with an odd voice Hal could not quite place, but thought might contain humor. He supposed seeing him cast as the avenging husband might seem humorous to someone else. To himself it was deadly serious.

Cecil was as good as his word, and Hal's favorite horse was saddled and waiting for him. It took him very little time to ride to the palace. Even were he not known on sight through most of London, one look at his furious face was enough to clear all out of his path. When he arrived at the castle, he threw his reins to a random groom and stormed inside, beating a path for the presence chamber. Not waiting to be announced, he thrust open the doors and barged inside.

"Where is she sir, for I will have her back!" he hurled the words at the old man sitting on the throne like a spear.

Henry, who until that moment had been in deep conversation with his master of coin, started in his seat as though a dragon had burst into his throne room, and indeed Hal looked like one. When he realized the accosting person was in fact his eldest son, his face turned red and his eyes lit with rage. Still, his voice was clam and cutting as he addressed Hal.

"You should be whipped for lack of manners, boy. Do you not know to whom it is you speak? How dare you come before us in such state, and so abuse our royal presence thus?"

"Forgive me if I do not curtsey, sir," Hal sneered, as the gathered court looked on in shock. "Perhaps if you had not kidnapped my wife I might have time for courtliness and grace."

"Has all the sac you drink gone to your brain?" his father demanded, glaring at him. "Why, tell me boy, would I abduct your wife?"

"Why that you must tell me, for I know not!"

"And do you see her here, you foolish sot? I have not set my eyes upon the girl since I did see you both the day you wed."

"Is this the truth? You did not send for her?"

"I have no need to lie to you, you wretch! In truth I have done all that I could do to put the two of you far from my mind!"

"Then this is even worse than I did fear!"

Hal was completely lost now. When he thought that his father had taken Nell, he had feared for their future, but never for her physical safety. Say what you would about Henry, and Hal had, but he was not a threat to women. The worst he had imagined was that his father intended to ship her off to a convent and dissolve their union. If it was someone else... the possibilities were as dark as they were endless.

"What put it in your head that I had her?" Henry's voice sounded begrudgingly concerned.

"The gateman said that guards did come for her, dressed in the livery of your own house."

"Flat lies, and that you can see for yourself! Why, you have known Renaldo all your life and here he stands as he has done all day. If I had sent my men on such a task as would require discretion in to be done, as to abduct my son's wife from their home, think you I would entrust it not to him?"

Hal had to admit his father had a point. Renaldo had been with them since Hal was a boy, as faithful to Henry as he was circumspect. His father was far too fussy to allow such an act as Hal was accusing him of to be done in a way to cause talk among the public. If he had sent for Nell, it would have been Renaldo that retrieved her.

Hal's mind spun. It made no sense. Who would want to take Nell? Could it be Northumberland, angry at the cancelled wedding? Or perhaps the Earl of Kent who he had provoked at the market? He could not think clearly, not when the dearest person on the globe was in such peril.

"But said your man that they were dressed as us?" Renaldo asked now, voice sounding almost concerned as he looked at Hal with searching eyes. "What men would have free access to our garb? My men are quartered close unto the king, and only one admitted to those rooms could hope to take one jerkin, far less six"

Six. They had been dressed in uniforms of Henry's household. And their had been six of them. Slowly, Hal lowered his head into his hands and laughed an almost unhinged laugh.

"I am as foolish, Sire, as you think," he said, shaking his head. "I pray you all, forget this freakish start. I did not mean to so disrupt your day. I'll leave you now and cause no more discord."

"I am, I think, an explanation owed," Henry said in a wry voice. "You do, I take it, know who has your wife?"

"I do believe I do, and if I'm right, they shall regret the day they hatched their plan."

"Renaldo then shall go along with you," Henry surprised Hal by saying. "She is, for now, a member of my house, and as such we cannot allow insult. When you have her extracted from this mess, I will expect you all to return here. I have some words which I would say to thee."

Hal did not miss the formal tone on the end of his father's decree, but for now he had more important matters to attend to. The pieces had fallen into place, and he was reasonably certain that he knew just where he would find Nell. Heaven help the men when he got there.

#the hollow crown #the hollow crown fic #Henry V #Prince Hal #Prince Hal/OFC #Romance #Historical Romance #Historical AU #Tom Hiddleston #Smut #fluff #angst #royal families #forbidden marriage #love #true love wins

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sablelab · 5 years

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Covert Operations - Chapter 97

DISCLAIMER: This is a modern AU crossover story with Outlander and La Femme Nikita. LFN and its characters do not belong to me nor do those from Outlander.

I am very grateful for the complimentary comments, likes and reblogs of the last chapter. It is a privilege for me to have people read my writing and I am honoured that you have enjoyed this story of espionage with our two main protagonists. You’re the best. THANK-YOU so much.

SYNOPSIS: @lincoln59 commented on the last chapter … Jamie got to her!!! Now they have to get out!!!! So …

Will Jamie and Claire get out of the monastery safely and without mishap or will they be blindsided? That is the question that will be answered in this chapter.

This chapter contains some violence. Previous chapters can be found at … https://sablelab.tumblr.com/covertoperations

CHAPTER 97 (V)

"Fergus ... I have Claire." James Fraser reported back to Section One. Section’s computer techie absorbed this intel for a moment then relief flooded his body that at long last, Jamie had found and rescued her. He couldn’t wait to tell Murtagh the good news of Claire’s liberation.

"Check. Do you need the support team?"

"Not unless the zone is dirty. Scan until we've reached the egress area." "Will do ..." Carefully carrying his Sassenach up the stairs James Fraser paused before opening the door into the corridor that lead back to the tunnel and their safe egress. If he was able to retrace his route they would be out of the monastery before any of the triad knew that their captive had been rescued. Safe in her avenging angel’s arms, Claire was starting to feel better and it was all because Jamie was here. He gave her the strength to do whatever was necessary to escape. The very fact that she was released from her bonds was having a positive effect on her mentally and physically too. She dug deep within herself and mustered all the inner strength her Section training had given her knowing that if they were to exit safely, she would need to be alert. Gently he lowered her to the floor and looking left then right he made sure that the passageway was clear for them to make their escape. The corridor was deserted except for the two dead guards he had taken out just moments ago. "All right, Jamie, you're clear. Proceed to egress." Tenderly he looked at Claire and noticed that she had bucked up a lot since they had come up the stairs.

"Can ye walk by yerself Sassenach?"

Reassuring him that she was capable of walking unaided, Claire replied, "I'm all right Jamie."

Was it sheer Adrenalin of being rescued that enabled her to feel better, or was it the fact that she had such inner strength because of her training to ignore her injuries despite her pain? It was obvious that his Claire had dug deep within herself to show some of that spunk and determination that she had displayed with her captors. His courageous Sassenach’s true grit was manifesting itself in the way that she spoke in reply to his question. He was so proud of her and admired her fighting spirit immensely.

"That’s good ... let's go. We've got to get out of here Claire."

Somewhere else inside the monastery … Karen Yee was seated in a winged chair near the parlour fire and looked up when she heard the door open. Jonathon Randall burst through the door first and was quickly followed by Wang Yu who had an enigmatic smile on his face. "Good evening gentlemen ... I see you are pleased to see me back." As the two men approached where she was sitting, Jonathon Randall fired a flurry of questions at her. "Karen ... are you okay? How did James Fraser manage to kidnap you? Did he hurt you? How did you get here?" "Jonathon! Stop! Enough questions ... we have more pressing problems." "What problems?" "Firstly, James Fraser has penetrated the security of the monastery ... and second he is somewhere in this building ... I suspect that he may already have found the torture room and rescued Claire Beauchamp." "That may be so but they have to make it out first .... I doubt if they are capable of that," Jonathon replied confident in his security guards being diligent. "Fraser made his way in without detention why wouldn't he make it out too?" Karen rebuked with her rhetorical question. "He is outnumbered ... there is no way we won't discover their movements ... it is only a matter of time," was his smug reply. "Do you think so?" "I know so ... security is tight inside the monastery ... Their capture is a "fait accompli" They cannot hide from our security forces and still make their way out undetected. We will eliminate them both." Karen looked Jonathon Randall in the eye. Although confident in his faith of their triad members to capture and eliminate James Fraser and Claire Beauchamp, she still had matter for concern.

"There is one other problem."

"What?" "We need him alive." Surprised at her statement, he wondered why Karen was hesitant to eliminate the couple given what they had inflicted on the Rising Dragons over the last couple of months.

"Why?"

"Mr Fraser placed an isotope to my hands ... I need the extracting agent or I will die." "Oh!" “My hands are already starting to peel. Next, I'll lose feeling in my arms. This is no joking matter Jonathon ... and Wang ... what are you so pleased about? ... You haven't wiped that smile off your face since you came into the room." "I'm happy that you are safe of course." Her father’s confidant looked directly at her, "We will get the antidote before anything serious happens as well." "Thank you." "But more importantly ... this Mr Fraser is the key to making Claire Beauchamp talk." "Explain." "If we capture him and use our ... persuasive techniques .... then I'm sure she will divulge the information we want." "Yes ... Once that happens ... then we can eliminate the two of them and I can get the extracting agent," Karen replied as his words began to make total sense. "Exactly ... Problems solved," Randal chipped in. "I agree. Where is Mr Fraser now then Jonathon?" "Well ... I ... don't have his ... exact location yet ... but we will soon," he stammered put on the spot by her query. "We must work swiftly in that case ... Check the security monitors ... Let's see if my theory is correct and he has found Claire Beauchamp. If so, we will give him time to rescue her. We'll throw up a few obstacles ... Unfortunately, we will have to sacrifice a few men ... but we must let James Fraser think that they have been able to get away ... then we'll surprise them." "Your father would be very proud," Wang Yu stated with pride in his voice that he couldn’t suppress. "Thank you Wang," Karen replied in response to his compliment. Meanwhile …

Despite Claire’s answer, Jamie placed one arm around her waist in support as the two operatives entered into the deserted passageway. With his gun at the ready, they moved carefully through the hallway and turned left before coming to the stairwell just up ahead of them. Once again, he stopped to see if all was clear but as he did so, suddenly Claire moved next to him and Jamie felt her pulling the gun out of the waistband of his mission pants. She fired over his shoulder just as a triad guard materialized behind him. The guard aimed his weapon and was about to fire at him but before he could get a shot off Claire felled him with precision accuracy. James Fraser spun around to see the man fall and topple down the stairs. However, another guard suddenly appeared next to the hit guard and shot back before Jamie or Claire were able to engage again. However, falling to the floor, Jamie was able to get another shot off, hitting the shooter before he could engage his weapon. Yet another guard entered through a nearby door. Rolling to the left, the Section 5 operative fired once more killing the man while Claire shot yet another triad guard that had entered into the skirmish. Getting up, Jamie sneakily clenched his arm rubbing the graze and looked away not wanting Claire to see that he was injured. However, she did see what he'd done and she rushed forward. "Jamie, you've been shot." Taking his hand away he saw the blood on his fingers. Not wanting to alarm her realising it was only a flesh wound he answered. "’Tis nothing Sassenach ... Let's go." Although still weak, Claire kept her gun drawn, holding it at the ready and covering her partner’s back as they began to descend down the stairs. As she went to step over a fallen guard a hand grabbed her foot knocking her off balance. Still weak she struggled against his grip but Claire found the inner strength she needed. Stepping on his hand with her boot, she reached down and slugged him in the face, knocking him out. At the same time Jamie turned back when he heard her soft gasp. He immediately opened fire with his silencer killing the assailant. The guard's hand fell away from Claire's foot and he lay lifeless on the stairwell. "Fergus ... this isn't clean!" James Fraser cautioned annoyed because of obvious flawed Intel.

Armed men were coming up the stairs and when another guard saw Jamie descend the flight of stairs with Claire close behind, he instantly recognized them and barked orders to the other men coming up the stairwell.

"That's him! Shoot him! And there she is ... get her!"

Taking stance, the two operatives prepared for a counter attack as suddenly four triads rushed at them. The bodyguards saw their fallen colleagues and knew that the two protagonists had nowhere to hide. The only way out was down. As they approached, the guards aimed their weapons to fire at the retreating couple. But the Section operatives knew they were there. They both instinctively took aim, and despite Claire's weakened condition, rapid fire was exchanged. The triad members shot at them. The Section operatives shot back. Jamie signalled for Claire to go to the right side of the stairwell as he covered the left. He threw his balaclava down; the assailants rose up to look at what was happening. As they did so, together they fired rapid shots in their direction blasting them away and taking out two more men. Others took their place and verged into the fray. They both ducked as two more men shot at them. Bullets were ricocheting everywhere yet Jamie and Claire edged further down the stairs. The triad members were no match for the Section One operatives and fell like nine pins toppling one over the other. "Are ye okay?" Jamie asked as Claire grabbed his arm to steady herself. "I'm fine." The Rising Dragons obviously knew they were there which made egress that much more difficult. "Fergus ... Is the egress route clear now?" Seeing no more indication of hot spots of hostile movement he answered, "You're good to go. All's clear ... proceed to the egress point." In next to no time Jamie and Claire reached the landing, then quickly proceeded down the stairs as they cautiously back tracked his route. They went along the corridor and down another flight of stairs without seeing another guard until they were near the room where Jamie had exited the tunnel. However, despite overcoming the triad obstacles and imminent escape, James Fraser had a gut feeling of uneasy quiet. Back at Section One …

Watching his computer monitor Fergus Claudel's eyes widened. They were glued to the screen as hot spot after hot spot unexpectedly started to appear on his screen. All had been clear just a moment ago. It seemed that these assailants were appearing as if out of nowhere.

"Jamie … We have trouble … Hostiles approaching from the stairwell and corridor!"

"Fergus ... what's going on? Ye said it was clean!" "It was ... I scanned everything ... I didn't see anything ... but not anymore. This doesn't add up." "How many?" "Too many ..." "What does yer sat-thermo say?" Fergus hesitated before answering particularly knowing that they had walked into a trap. "The entire egress area's a hot zone! ... You won't get ten feet." No sooner had Fergus relayed the Intel than triads came from every which way. Four appeared behind and in front of them until suddenly they were encircled. Six more men came from the corridor, then the door to the exit room opened and Jonathon Randall stood there with Wang Yu. Jamie and Claire were surrounded and outnumbered by hostiles. There was no escape. "Fergus ... We're surrounded." "Help is coming Jamie ... The team is on its way." ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Drop the weapon Mr Fraser... you too Claire ... we have you surrounded!”

Jonathon Randall’s arrogant words of triumph echoed in the corridor as the two Section One operatives were encircled by Rising Dragon triads. However, disobeying the command, Jamie immediately aimed his gun at the man who was responsible for the torture of his Sassenach, but as he did so, the simultaneous clicks of guns at the ready were aimed at him. Not only that, but one of the triad guards stepped forward on Jonathon’s command and held his gun up to Claire's head. She dropped her weapon and the guard kicked it away with his foot. Without taking his eyes from James Fraser, Jonathon Randall knew he had the upper hand. “If you make a move, I’ll have my guard shoot your woman. Now put the gun down. Put the gun down! Now!” he demanded; his supercilious tone hard to ignore. Each man stood at an impasse for a minute as each held the other’s gaze. The cold steel look of sheer hatred and repugnance was met with the arrogance and self-satisfaction of the other as the two enemies eyeballed one another. This was a man bent on vengeance and if looks could kill, Jonathon Randall knew that if given half a chance James Fraser would strangle him with his bare hands and think nothing of it.

The tension in the air could have been cut with a knife as those around the couple watched and waited for what would happen next.

“I’d advise you to drop the gun Mr. Fraser... that is unless you want to see Claire die. I really don’t think you would want that especially after going to so much trouble to rescue her.” Severing his gaze from Randall’s, Jamie turned towards the older man Wang Yu. Realising there was no other course of action; he gave him a blank stare then raised his arms in surrender. Holding his gun out with his fingertips he dropped it on the ground knowing that they would be dead before he had any chance of killing Jonathon Randall. Any indiscriminate move would endanger Claire and he was under no delusion that the trigger-happy guards would shoot to kill if given the order. “And your other weapons too,” Wang decreed not taking any chances with this formidable man. Jonathon and Wang Yu didn’t underestimate this Section One man James Fraser. If he was anything like Claire Beauchamp who had displayed tenacity of spirit to endure the worst torture techniques they could dish out, then he was indeed a dangerous man. Even though Fraser had dropped his gun and other firearms, it didn’t mean that he was weaponless. They had observed the aftermath in the torture room where they’d lost two good men because of this man before them. They had seen what he was capable of and knowing that he’d managed to enter the monastery as well as take out numerous well-trained guards in the process spoke volumes. Jonathon Randall watched him carefully ... very carefully ... conscious that James Fraser might try to make a move. If he did so, he would have no hesitation in issuing the order to kill him. Jamie’s eyes glanced from one man to the other before resting on Wang Yu once again.

The difference between the two men was discernible. He noticed the calm and composed manner of Wang Yu as opposed to Randall’s brash reaction ... yet he was under no illusion. This man too would take no prisoners if they would not cooperate. His and Claire’s fate were in their hands until the backup team arrived. Surely, they were close by now, he believed and hoping that any incarceration of the two of them would be short lived. Could his Sassenach tolerate being held captive again not knowing what their fate would be? Would he be able to protect her as he had promised, if he was separated from her? He silently prayed that the retrieval team was not too far away. Once James Fraser was disarmed, Wang Yu gestured to one of the guards. The man stepped forward and pushed his gun into the middle of Jamie’s back, while another did the same to Claire. “Take him and the woman,” he ordered dismissively to his men. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “Wait! ... Not yet.” All eyes turned towards the sound of the voice that had issued a counter order. Jonathon Randall and Wang Yu turned towards the door. Knowing just who had spoken, Jamie’s eyes followed their movements and watched as Karen Yee emerged from the room. “Hello Jamie ... Now isn’t this nice? ... We're back together again, just like old times.” She walked up to him and gave him a vicious slap across the face. “That’s for killing my boyfriend Andy.” Karen then punched him in the stomach ... “And that’s for me ... I’ll have that extracting agent now if you don’t mind?” “I don't know where it is,” he answered giving her the cold stare of one who couldn’t care less what happened to her but glad that what he had applied to her hands was having the desired effect. “Wrong answer ... where is it? ... You've got eight seconds to tell me where the antidote is.” Silence greeted her demand. The guard jabbed the gun harder into Jamie’s back perilously close to his kidneys. “Give it to me ... or you both will die.” Knowing that she was bluffing, James Fraser refused to give in and merely gave Karen Yee his blank stare which infuriated her. She needed him alive if she was to get hold of the extracting agent. He knew it and so did she. Karen wouldn’t kill either of them until she had the antidote, but when she did, he knew she would follow through with her threat. Stalling until the team’s arrival was their only chance. It was vital to their survival. Karen backhanded him once more. “Very well ... if that’s the way it is to be ... then so be it!” She glanced over towards Wang Yu. “Put them both in our special suite.” Wang signalled for four other guards to escort the couple as well not trusting that the pair wouldn’t try to make an escape if they were able. He then turned to face them both before the guards placed blindfolds over their heads. “Take them away! ... I’m sure you will both get to like your new accommodation.” Karen Yee’s condescending remarks and orders echoed as she watched the couple’s retreating backs satisfied that it wouldn’t be long before the Rising Dragons had all the information James Fraser and Claire Beauchamp had on the triad and, more importantly, she had the extracting agent. Then the couple would be eliminated once and for all. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* The two Section One Operatives were marched blindfolded through a series of dark corridors until they came to their new surroundings deep within the monastery’s labyrinth of rooms. When they entered the room, the guards escorting them removed their blindfolds then grabbed the couple by the arms while the others kept watch. Although the room was dark Jamie and Claire’s eyes adjusted to the diminished light and they quickly surveyed the space. Their “special suite” as Karen had described it, was anything but ... it appeared to be some sort of dungeon. Besides being dark the room was also damp and their new accommodation was two wire cages placed side by side suspended from the roof. Jamie’s eyes examined the metal frame of the cage doors mentally assessing the strength of the lattice bars of the cages before the guards pushed him into one of them. Curling his fingers around the framework, he refused to give in to the guards’ attempts to push him further into the cage and resisted all their efforts. Seeing the struggle their cohorts were having, the escorting guards came to their assistance. A rifle butt suddenly jabbed him in the kidneys while another guard bashed him on the hands. Jamie let go and as he fell to the floor the men slammed and bolted the door behind him. That done, Claire’s guards tried to force her into the cage next to where they had impounded James Fraser. She lashed out at them with her feet with what strength she still possessed but struggled to loosen their grip on her. However, her attempts were to no avail as the two guards overpowered her by brute force. Dragging her towards the opening they physically swung her into the metal cell. She fell heavily to the floor and the guards pushed her back hard against the wall of the cage. The impact of the fall was unbearable and her weakened body writhed with exacerbated pain, but Claire didn’t want her captors to see that she was hurt and suppressed the moan that nearly escaped from her mouth. Not a word was spoken. Locking her wire enclosure as well, the guards backed away and the cages were raised off the ground. Suspended above the floor the pens began to swing in the air with the captives inside. Once satisfied that the prisoners were secure, the guards turned and left the two to ponder the Rising Dragons’ next move. Claire’s head turned around towards Jamie and they both shared a look communicating volumes without speaking. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “Why haven’t they killed us yet?” The two operatives had been suspended for some time without anyone coming near them, when Claire’s quietly spoken question roused Jamie from his own thoughts. His eyes captured hers fixedly holding her gaze.

“They’re going to torture me to force ye to give them the information that Section knows about the Rising Dragons or vice versa. Plus, Karen needs the extracting agent ... by torturing me she hopes that I will tell her where it is.”

“How do you know?” “It’s the only leverage they’ve got Sassenach.” “Jamie ...” Claire gasped softly. She turned away. She couldn’t look at him.

A gamut of guilt feelings coursed through her mind at the validity of Jamie’s words. The triad would stoop to whatever means to achieve their information and they would use Jamie to do so. This was all her fault. If only she had listened to his warning the first time when he had met Karen then perhaps none of this would have happened. She was riddled with self-incrimination, guilt and despair at her foolhardy actions.

He knew what she was thinking ... Claire felt guilty that he had risked his life to rescue her and now they were both incarcerated.

“Mo nighean donn ... Look at me.”

The intonation of his words, spoken so tenderly reached her ears, but Claire couldn’t bring herself to look at him, for if she did, she knew exactly what Jamie would say. This is not your fault ... Sitting as far away from him as she could get, she held back the tears welling in her eyes. “Sassenach ... please ...” Moving her head in response to his voice she reluctantly turned towards him. Although putting on a brave face, Jamie saw his Claire’s distraught expression. “Don’t be sorry mo ghràidh ... This is not yer fault.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ to be continued on Friday 31st

#Jamieandclairefanfic #jamieandclairecrossover #jamieandclaireau #outlander fanfic #covert operations #the lallybroch library

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bigbadredpanda · 6 years

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Mo Dao Zu Shi extra: From night to morning

I hadn’t planned to translate another chapter but I recently discovered the extra story「朝暮」exclusive to the Taiwan physical book and it’s truly a hidden gem.

I also hadn’t planned to ever write explicit content. Oh well.

Warning: Graphic sex scene.

It was long past 9 pm and he still had not come back.

The paper lantern on the table was not yet extinguished, Lan Wangji was gazing at its hazy glow without blinking.

Rising after a long while, he walked to the entrance of the Jingshi and opened the wooden door.

He stood still for a moment. He appeared to be on the verge of stepping outside when a suspicious thud sounded from behind.

Lan Wangji abruptly turned round. All he could see was the window that had been opened at some point. The window frame stirred in the nocturnal breeze. A strange lump rolled into a big ball had suddenly appeared under the quilt of the bed as if it broke through the damaged window, rolled inside and huddled up trembling.

After a momentary silence, Lan Wangji softly closed the door. Returning inside the room, he blew out the lantern in passing and closed the window before going to bed.

He lay down beside the large lump, pulled the other quilt over himself silently and closed his eyes.

Not long after, something big and icy-cold suddenly made its way into his quilt.

This large and icy-cold figure crawled over his body until it fitted snugly against his chest. “Lan Zhan, I’m back! Quick, welcome me,” said a cheerful voice.

Lan Wangji raised his arms to pull him into a tight hug, “Why are you so cold?”

“I had to brave the wind for the better part of the day,” Wei Wuxian answered. “Lend me your warmth.”

This explained why he was covered all over by grass blades and dust, he must have led the disciples of the Cloud Recesses in the mountainous wilderness to hunt birds and beasts as well as all sorts of monsters.

Despite the fact that Wei Wuxian was covered in grime when he rolled into Lan Wangji’s bed and creeped inside his quilt, Lan Wangji who was naturally fastidious about cleanliness made no sign to rebuff him. Without speaking, he exerted more strength to embrace Wei Wuxian tighter in his arms.

After using his own body temperature to warm him up, Lan Wangji said, “Take off your boots at least.”

“Sure,” Wei Wuxian answered, kicking off his boots and snuggling back inside the quilt to chill Lan Wangji.

“Do not squirm,” Lan Wangji said in a monotonous tone.

“I'm on your bed and yet you don’t want me to squirm?” Wei Wuxian teased.

“Uncle returned,” Lan Wangji replied.

Lan Qiren dwelled not far from Lan Wangji’s Jingshi. As he disliked Wei Wuxian, if he heard any kind of scandalous noise, he would most likely foam at the mouth the next day and fly into a terrible rage against Wei Wuxian.

Nevertheless, Wei Wuxian inserted his knee between Lan Wangji’s legs and clandestinely grinded a few times with mischief, letting his actions speak for themselves to bluntly express his mood.

After a moment of silence, Lan Wangji abruptly flipped Wei Wuxian under him, pinning him.

His momentum was so great and his strength was so fierce that the two of them collided with a thud on the wooden bed.

“Slowly, slowly, slowly... SLOW... LY!”

Lan Wangji pressed down Wei Wuxian against the bed with an inexorable grip. He penetrated him with irresistible force and buried himself to the hilt in one sustained thrust until his abdomen pressed against Wei Wuxian’s bare ass. Only when he was unable to go deeper did he remain still.

Wei Wuxian inhaled sharply several times, head thrashing. He didn’t dare squirm much, he merely rolled his eyes and twisted his hips uncomfortably, trying to dislodge the cock inside him a little. But when Lan Wangji realised his intent, he clasped his waist and filled him again at once.

“Ah!” Wei Wuxian shouted, “Hanguang-Jun!”

After a moment of forbearance, Lan Wangji said, “You asked for it.” He paused briefly before starting to pump in and out.

Wei Wuxian was firmly pinned underneath him, legs curled up in the air, black hair in disarray, face flushed. His body rocked repeatedly in time with his movements. Lan Wangji thrust once and Wei Wuxian shouted in response. For two thrusts, two shouts answered in return. After a period of single-minded and strenuous effort, Lan Wangji could no longer allow him to scream like this. He managed with great difficulty to keep his breathing under control and his heart from bursting out of his chest, he said in a low voice, "Keep… Keep your voice down."

Wei Wuxian lifted a hand to stroke his face and thought inwardly that it was truly baffling that Lan Zhan's face could be so unaffected. Clearly his face was already burning terribly hot but no blush was visible and he was still pale as if touched by frost. So handsome it made Wei Wuxian’s heart pound and his soul sway. Lan Wangji exercised such self-restraint, the only indication was the pink faintly tinging his earlobes.

"Er-Gege, you don't want to hear me scream?" Wei Wuxian panted.

Lan Wangji, "..."

He seemed to find it difficult to speak the truth but he was also unwilling to break his convictions and outright lie. At the sight of this, a thrill pleasurable beyond words coursed through Wei Wuxian’s entire being. He wished he could also take Lan Wangji whole in his mouth. “You're afraid of someone hearing me scream,” he said. “That's a problem, you better silence me.”

Lan Wangji’s chest rose and fall wildly, eyes slightly bloodshot. Wei Wuxian egged him on, “Go on! Silence me, I'll let you do whatever you want to me. Even if you fuck me raw, I won't be able to scream...”

Before he could finish speaking, Lan Wangji had bent over him and sealed his lips with his.

After having his mouth shut, Wei Wuxian wrapped his arms and legs around him and the two rolled and tangled on the bed. The quilt that covered them earlier had fallen on the floor in the heat of the moment. In general, Lan Wangji would seldom change their position during the act. After being penetrated for one hour, Wei Wuxian already felt numb from his back all the way to his ass and his legs and he highly doubted that he wouldn't be pounded in the same position all night. Seeing that Lan Wangji did not look the slightest bit inclined to stop seemed to confirm his suspicions. Thus, Wei Wuxian took the initiative to flip their bodies in order to straddle and ride Lan Wangji. Arms wrapped around his neck, he bounced up and down of his own accord. While moving, he bit Lan Wangji’s earlobe and asked, “Deep enough?” The whisper at his ear was accompanied by wet sounds and warmth. Lan Wangji reached out a hand to grip his shoulder fiercely and push him down. A formidable thrust made Wei Wuxian cry out in surprise and hold him tighter. Lan Wangji rubbed the small of his back and returned the question, “Deep enough?”

Wei Wuxian had not yet recovered, his lips kept quivering but no answer came. Frowning, he let out a sudden shout, “Ah! Wait, wait! S-Slow… Slow down first before thrusting harder! [1]”

With one hand he made a futile effort to shield himself and with the other he clasped firmly Lan Wangji’s shoulder, fingers digging in the toned muscle. Almost alarmed, he yelled, "Lan Zhan! Don't you understand what 'Slow down first' means? Don't. Use. Each. Time. So much. So much…"

The rest of his sentence came out as a fragmented stammer due to the strength of the thrusts. Lan Wangji roared, "I cannot understand you!"

Later at night and after their two climaxes, despite the earlier wretched cry and begging ramblingly for mercy, Wei Wuxian's legs were locked securely around Lan Wangji's waist to prevent him from leaving.

Lan Wangji entirely covered Wei Wuxian with his body, carefully avoiding to put all his weight on him. Their two bodies were pressed against one another and the place connecting them together was dripping wet and slippery. Lan Wangji appeared as if he wanted to rise but as soon as he moved, Wei Wuxian restrained him with his legs and the part of the cock that slipped out immediately went back in to fit snugly inside him.

"Don't move," Wei Wuxian said languidly, "Have some manners and lie down."

Lan Wangji complied to his request and remained still. A while later, he asked Wei Wuxian, "Do you not feel full?"

"I'm full, so full I'm bursting", Wei Wuxian whined pitifully. "You kept ignoring me when I was crying out so miserably earlier."

"…" Lan Wangji said, "I am pulling out."

Wei Wuxian immediately changed his expression and stated bluntly, "I do like being filled by you, it feels so good."

He punctuated his sentence with a clench. Lan Wangji's expression changed at once and his breathing slowed down for a moment. After enduring for a moment, he uttered in a hoarse tone, “... Shameless!"

Seeing that he managed to annoy him, Wei Wuxian laughed heartily and pecked him on the lips. "Er-Gege, what haven’t we done together? Is there still anything to be ashamed of?"

Lan Wangji could only shake slightly his head, he said in a low voice, "Let me pull out, you need a bath."

Wei Wuxian was already feeling a little sleepy, he mumbled, "No bath, I'll wash tomorrow. I'm too exhausted now."

Lan Wangji lay a kiss on his forehead and said, "Bathe. Take care of your body or you will be unwell."

Wei Wuxian tiredly released him and weakly lowered his arms and legs. Lan Wangji got out of bed, he started by picking up the quilt that had fallen on the floor and tucked in Wei Wuxian's naked body. Then he collected one after another the clothes thrown haphazardly and hung them on the folding screen. He draped on his shoulders his own clothes, dressed rapidly and tidily and went out to draw water for the bath.

After some time [2], he carried the dozing Wei Wuxian and lowered him in the bath. The cask was situated near Lan Wangji's writing desk. As Wei Wuxian soaked in the water, he recovered his energy and high spirits. He patted the edge of the cask, "Hanguang-Jun! Not together?"

"I will wait," Lan Wangji answered.

"Why wait? Just come over now."

Lan Wangji glanced at him, looking as if he was pondering something. He finally said, "We returned four days ago and the bath in the Jingshi broke four times."

From the way he looked at him, Wei Wuxian felt the need to justify himself, "Last time it broke wasn't my fault." Lan Wangji placed the soap case in Wei Wuxian’s reach. He admitted in a monotonous voice, "My fault."

Wei Wuxian cupped water in his hands and poured it over his own neck. The cluster of red hickeys stood out even more with the glistening water. He said, “That's right. And the time before that wasn't my fault either. Actually, each time it was you who broke it if we think about it. You haven't learnt your lesson since the first time it happened.”

Lan Wangji rose to his feet. When he came back, he placed a jar of Emperor's Smile near Wei Wuxian's hand. He then sat at the writing desk. “True,” he acknowledged.

Wei Wuxian could reach Lan Wangji by extending his hand so he went to rub his chin. Lan Wangji picked up a thick stack of papers and started to write brief annotations and comments in the margins as he read. While soaking in the water, Wei Wuxian opened the jar of Emperor's Smile and threw back his head to drink a mouthful. He said casually, “What are you reading?”

“Night hunt notes,” Lan Wangji replied.

“Written by the children?” Wei Wuxian asked. “You're not usually in charge of correcting notes, right? I remember that it’s your uncle's responsibility.”

Lan Qiren was probably busy with more important matters so he must have assigned temporarily Lan Wangji to perform this task on his behalf. Wei Wuxian reached out his hand to take two sheets of paper, flipping them over, he said, “Your uncle used to write a comment running a few hundreds of characters in length for every two paragraphs written, he even concluded with a summary several thousands of characters long. I really can't imagine how much time he spends to write all those comments. Yours are really short.”

“Short? Is that bad?” Lan Wangji asked.

“It's good! Simplifying makes it clearer.”

Lan Wangji's succinct comments were not due to sloppiness at all. Even if the work was simple, he would be conscientious to the utmost. Whether it was spoken or written, he used words sparingly as it was his usual practice, paring down to what was strictly necessary. Wei Wuxian submerged his head underwater and then surfaced dripping wet the next moment. While using one hand to wash his hair with the soap, he grabbed a page on the writing desk with his other hand. After taking a glance, he chuckled in spite of himself, “Who wrote that? There are so many characters written wrong. Hahahahahahaha... I already know it’s Jingyi. You gave him a grade B.”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji said.

“That's the only B I've seen in that huge pile, how pitiful.”

“Numerous mistakes, verbose analysis.”

“He got away with a B?”

“No. Rewrite.”

“He should satisfy himself with that, it beats being punished to copy while doing a handstand.”

Lan Wangji silently gathered the papers Wei Wuxian had messily scattered, ordered them properly and tidied them up in a neat stack that he put aside. As Wei Wuxian watched his movements, the corners of his mouth spontaneously lifted up. He asked, “How did you grade Sizhui?”

Lan Wangji took out two pages of notes and handed them over to him. “Grade A.”

Wei Wuxian took the proffered pages and bent his head to read. “His handwriting is truly splendid.”

“Proper organization, clear ideas, meaningful substance, pertinent and precise,” Lan Wangji expounded.

After Wei Wuxian flipped the pages, he put them back in the stack. Noticing the pile of papers not yet graded, he asked, “You need to read all these? Can I help you and take one part?”

“All right,” Lan Wangji answered.

“If I see a mistake somewhere, I’ll cross it and put an annotation, that’s enough, right?” he asked.

He took more than half of the pile for himself but Lan Wangi tried to take it back. Wei Wuxian stopped Lan Wangji’s hand and asked, “What are you doing?”

“That is too many. You are bathing.”

Wei Wuxian took another swallow of Emperor's Smile and grabbed a brush. “I’m bathing, so what? I'm free anyway and I have nothing to do. Reading what the children wrote in their notes is pretty fun,” he said.

“You still need to rest after the bath.”

“Look at me, do I seem sleepy to you now?” bragged Wei Wuxian. “I feel like I can easily go another two rounds.”

He leaned over the edge of the cask and started to read attentively the notes. From time to time, he raised his arm that was propped on the writing desk to write. While watching him, Lan Wangji’s eyes seemed to flicker warmly with the reflection of lantern light.

Despite boldly boasting that he could go another two rounds and more, it was hard for him not to feel drowsy after spending the day leading the group of disciples deep in the mountain to throw them in total chaos, tangling noisily on the bed for half the night as soon as he returned and still afterwards correcting a heap of notes. Wei Wuxian strived in all seriousness to finish commenting his own pile. As soon as he discarded the heap of papers on the writing desk, he started to slide in the water. Thanks to his sharp eyes and quick reflexes, Lan Wangji picked him up with a gentle movement. He then wiped him dry and carried him to bed.

He finished his own bath quickly and went to bed. Being held in Lan Wangji's embrace, Wei Wuxian woke up a bit. Resting against Lan Wangji’s collarbone, he mumbled, “Your Sect’s children can write pretty well. However, they still need to improve a bit when going out on a night hunt.”

“Mmh.”

“But that's all right... I'll help them study hard during my stay in the Cloud Recesses. Tomorrow... I'll proceed and take them to attack the den of the Shanxiao [3].”

The one-legged Shanxiao was renowned for its prodigious strength, it was covered from head to foot by black fur and ate people as if they were slices of vegetables. If it were someone else speaking like that, it would sound like he was about to take a bunch of snotty kids on the rooftop to disturb a bird's nest.

The corners of Lan Wangji's mouth twitched as if they wanted to rise. “Were you also gone today to capture the Shanxiao?”

“That's right,” Wei Wuxian confirmed. “That’s why I said they still need to practice. The Shanxiao only has one leg and can barely run with it but in the future, they might meet lizards with four legs, spiders with eight legs, centipedes with hundreds of legs that won’t simply lie down and wait for their death... Oh, by the way, Hanguang-Jun. I don’t have any more money, give me some more.”

“The jade token you hold should raise sufficient money,” Lan Wangji said.

Wei Wuxian muffled a laugh, “You gave me that jade token so that I can cross the borders… Can it also be used to raise money?”

“Yes,” answered Lan Wangji. “Did you destroy some vendor's booth or someone's house?”

“No...” Wei Wuxian denied. “Where did you get... All the money was spent because I took them to that Hunan restaurant [4] in Caiyi Town after the night hunt... It's just that before I died, I wanted to drag you to that place but you always refused... I'm exhausted... Lan Zhan, let’s stop speaking...”

“All right,” Lan Wangji said.

“... Don't speak... Even if you say a single word, I can't help answering... All right Lan Zhan, let's sleep quickly, I… can't keep… Really need to sleep… Lan Zhan, see you tomorrow…"

He kissed Lan Zhan's throat and quickly fell in a deep slumber.

The inside of the Jingshi was plunged in darkness and silence.

After a while, Lan Wangji lay a gentle kiss on Wei Wuxian's forehead.

"See you tomorrow, Wei Ying," he whispered.

Translator’s Notes

[1] Wei Wuxian says originally 九浅一深 (jiǔ qiǎn yī shēn), meaning “nine shallow, one deep”. This is a sex technique where one deep thrust is performed for every nine shallow thrusts, the change of rhythm is supposedly very pleasurable for the receiving partner.

[2] The time unit here is one incense stick. There are contradicting definitions for its duration.

[3] 山魈 (Shānxiāo) means literally “Mountain Demon”, it is a legendary creature in Chinese folklore.

[4] Hunan cuisine is known for being especially hot and spicy.

#mo dao zu shi #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wangxian #mdzs translation #mdzs spoilers #my translations

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