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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years ago

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Earth is Space Australia, “Blood of the Gods.”

Humanity humanity is a strange thing,

She plays with the elements

Holds hands with the stars

And is rocked to sleep by the fury of nature

- Preface from the “Human Enigma” By Dr. Krill

Rain thundered down from above.

Rivulets of water as large as small waterfalls cascaded over the side of the room and onto the soft-sandy dirt below. The sky above was a deep cloudy grey shot through with veins of white sunshine managed to peek through the cloud cover. Dr Krill poked his head around the side of the door and out onto the porch.

Adam was sitting there in a T-shirt and shorts just on the front step not a few inches away from the cascading water. Little droplets of water had already beaded on his exposed skin.

“What are you doing out here?” Krill wondered stepping onto the porch and raising his voice just to be heard over the cascading water.

“I like watching the rain.” he motioned krill over with a hand, “Come, sit, watch with me.”

Krill was not so sure about all this. He didn’t see the appeal of water falling, but walked over anyway and floated on the step next to the human. Water still continued to pool in great puddles by the side of the house, and the air around them was unusually humid and hot.

The human tilted his head back and took a long deep breath, “Too bad you don’t have a sense of smell doctor.”

“Why?” He looked around, “Water doesn’t usually have a smell.”

“But RAIN does.” He took another deep breath, “Probably one of the best smells in the world…. It's comforting, refreshing, makes you feel like mother nature singing you to sleep with her most beautiful lullaby.”

“Waxing poetic this morning?’

“Days like this do that to me.”

“I thought you would hate the rain.”

The human turned his head to look at Krill frowning, almost as if he was offended by such a suggestion, “What would make you think that?”

“Can’t fly on a day like this.”

The human shook his head, “I COULD it would just be inadvisable. Besides flying and the rain like this are two different things. One is a release, and the other is just…. peaceful .”

Krill turned his head back to the cascading water and the darkening sky above. He supposed it made sense, the white noise mixed with the slight darkness would be enough to put a human to sleep. He had used some of the same principles in medical work to calm agitated humans

“Some scientists think our love of the smell of rain is an evolutionary response to how important rain is for humans.”

That too made sense. Humans were more than half water.

Adam closed his eyes, “The word for the smell of water is petrichor from the greek roots Petri which means stone and ichor which means blood of the gods.”

“That is… surprisingly poetic.”

“I always thought so.”

The human sighed and lay back onto porch letting the warm water cascade over his bare feet. Krill watched quietly as the human napped peacefully on the wooden planks of the front porch simply listening to the rain.

After a while, the human opened an eye and looked over at him, “There is one other great thing about warm rain.”

Krill sighed and waited for whatever the human was about to do or say that was completely dumb.

The human smiled at him, and as he waited the smile grew bigger and bigger until the human was grinning fit to burst.

“PUDDLES!”

Arms raised knees churning, the human raced out into the rain becoming immediately drenched in the torrential downpour. Krill hurried to the edge of the porch in shock and concern and bewildered fascination as the human danced around in the thundering rain.

His clothes were already soaked, his hair was plastered to his head, and water dripped down from his chin in a cascade.

He whooped with glee as he danced through the rain kicking up water with his feet from the large puddles that had accumulated in the yard. Some of the puddles were so deep they went up over his ankles, but the deeper the puddle the better as the human splaished and frolicked in the rain.

Dr. krill sat back and watched shaking his head as he watched the human playing out in the elements, seeming so happy and carefree as water poured from the sky. Mist rose up around him from the once hot pavement giving the air a sort of hazy quality.

He spun around in a wide circle amrs threw out to either side.

He paused and looked at Krill still standing under the protection of the roof. With one hand he waved him over. His T shirt and short were dark with water and sagged against his frame, sticking to his chest and legs, “Come on, its fun.”

Krill shook his head, “I think Observation is enough to sate my curiosity.”

“Oh come on Dr. Water wont kill you, and besides, there is no better way to learn than from experience.”

“I don’t think so.”

The human shook his head and trotted up the sidewalk. Krill tried to back away, but a hand passed through the torrent of water from the roof -- now spilling over the gutters-- and dragged him into the rain.

Krill was suddenly doused with a cascade of warm water that had him sputtering before he came out the other side.

Rain roared down from above spattering against his skin and rolling off his antenna.

It was surprisingly warm as it pooled around his feet.

The human tugged him along as he danced through the puddles sending waves of contaminated water up against krill’s chest.

The human tilted his head back, arms held out to either side allowing the rain to fall onto his exposed face.

Krill watched him for the longest time before finally tilting his head back allowing the rain to roll down over his face. Then, with some trepidation he held his arms out to either side.

The sensation was surprising. He suddenly felt as if he was falling upwards into the sky. Warm water trickled down his body and his mind stilled a bit as the rhythm of the rain took over. Rivulets of water ran from his hands and arms and off his legs onto the water beneath.

Beside him, the human was doing the same.

They were close to the porch now still looking up at the deafening sky.

Krill turned to look over at the human still playing in the puddles when he suddenly stopped and grew very still. Krill saw his eyes go wide as, around them, a sudden buzzing seemed to fill the air. It even began filtering in over his radio receptors.

The hairs on the human’s arms were standing up despite the rain.

Krill didn’t have time to react as suddenly the human launched forward tackling him back onto the porch, through a runnel of water. They hit the deck hard, rolling over the damp wood and onto the dry patch just beside the wall of the house. Krill yelped in surprise and pain ready to yell at the human for his strange behavior.

But the human had his ears covered and eyes shut.

Krill had no time to react as he was suddenly blinded by a horrific bolt of light so blinding it took up his entire vision, and then a massive repeating explosion that sent shockwaves through the air around them. The ground shook and sparks flew in every direction as the massive sound rubbled away into nothing leaving him dazed, blinded and reeling.

The human sat up from where he had landed on the deck.

“Hot damn! That was close.”

Krill turned his head to glower at the human as another distant bolt of lightning cut across the sky.

“What was that!”

“That my friend was a lightning strike.”

“A LIGHTNING STRIKE! A lightning strike! You mean to say you brought me out during an electrical storm! You wanted to play in the WATER during an ELECTRICAL STORM! I cannot believe you!”

“Hold on, now in my defence I didn’t KNOW it was an electrical storm.”

“Well you were WRONG and we almost DIED.”

“You were enjoying it before earth decided to be a bitch.”

Krill turned in an exasperated and panicked circle, “Is this something that you humans do a lot! Like intentionally go out into electrical storms and dance in the PUDDLES.”

The human shrugged, “Getting struck by lightning is a very rare occurrence, and I had no idea that one was coming to visit.”

“This planet with all of your unchecked electricity running rampant!”

“Well what do you want me to do, control the weather! Harness the elements, krill?”

Krill waved his hands over his head, “I am going inside. I should never have trusted your judgement about earth weather. Electrical storms! Honestly!” He turned around and marched inside, followed by the human a few moments later dripping wet and rolling his eyes just slightly.

Off in the distance, another crackle of lightning lit up the interior of the room sending a rumble through the ground. Krill toweled off while the human went to change his close.

The room darkneened, and suddenly there was another horrific flash of light and thunderous eruption. All the lights went out and krill squealed in shock hiding behind the couch as hail began pelting the windows now darkened.

Another crack of lightning sent stark white light to illuminate the front room before plunging them into blackness.

The hail grew heavier,

Krill curled up in the corner.

A light flicked on somewhere in the distance, and he looked up to find Adam walking down the hall spinning a little lever on a flashlight which grew brighter with every rotation of the elver.

“Pretty cool huh!”

“COOL IT JUST TOOK OUT THE POWER. WE ARE GOING TO DIE.”

“Calm down and take a chill pill my four legged friend. IT does this all the time, probably just hit a transformer or something. The power will be back on soon.” He set the flashlight down on the table beside Krill and went scrounging around in a nearby drawer, “We will be safe just as long as we stay away from the pipes and outlets if we can.”

He withdrew a small box, reaching inside and striking a small wooden stick against the outside of the box. There was a sudden flare of fire the stick sparked to life. Krill leaped back as the human held the little fire stick between his fingers, reaching into the drawer and lighting a string protruding from a block of wax. He set the block on a dish and then out on the table.

The flame flickered and cast orange light around the room as he walked over to sit next to krill leaning his head back, “That was always one of my favorite sounds.’

“What?” Kril Asked still staring at the open flame the human had left unattended on the table

“Thunder”

Krill glowered at him, “you like the sound of eminent destruction.”

He shrugged, “I don't know what to tell you. Its Calming.”

Kril was about to explode on the human about how NOT comforting the sound of thunder was when he raised a hand to silence him, “Well not when its right next to my head, but from a distance it is so…. remote , beautiful, and powerful. Lightning and thunder are the greatest unchecked power of nature, the bolts of which can burn hotter than the surface of the sun. He stood, walking over to a chair not far away and retrieving a blanket which he wrapped around himself before coming to sit back down, throwing his legs up on the couch as he leaned his head back to rest against a pillow.

He almost looked sleepy as the rain intensified.

Waffles walked over and jumped up to lay with him resting her head atop his chest with a soft grumble.

Krill stared at the both of them in near horror.

How was this ok?

Outside the window just before them, distant bolts of lightning cut purple and blue branches across the sky. In a way it reminded krill of human veins and arteries. As the candle flickered on the table, Krill’s mind was brought back to the word petrichor. Rock and the blood of the gods. In a surprisingly human turn of thought he mused at how the forks of lightning were like the veins of those gods that brought the rain leaving the human body a distant echo of something much greater.

He turned his head to the side, where the human now lay sleeping, wrapped like some kind of strange burrito with his head sticking out of one end and his feet sticking out the other.

Topped with a dog.

Krill sighed and rested in the darkness continuing to watch the storm as it passed overhead.

Beside him, the human hummed gently in his sleep once or twice.

Rocked to sleep by mother nature.

#humans are insane #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #Earth is space Ausralia #earth is a deathworld

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 43: Jon

There aren’t words to describe what being home feels like.

It’s not just the four walls of the house they’ve bought together, or the warmth and beauty of a March sunset, or the sounds of a London evening. It’s Charlie flying down the sidewalk to attack Jon with a hug and a bright smile and a flurry of words about how much they’ve all missed him and then coming back two hours later, pleased as Punch and bearing a “welcome home” cake he baked himself. It’s Sasha calling, not texting, to tell Tim she’s home safe and then asking to talk to Jon so they can reassure each other that they’re both okay. It’s Martin gently tending to the marks on his wrists and ankles, still raw from his desperate attempts to pull free before his strength started to desert him, and singing the song he remembers from when he was a little boy and his father came back from a voyage. It’s Tim cooking Jon’s favorite dinner, but serving him in small helpings so that he doesn’t overstretch his stomach after two weeks while still making sure he eats his fill. It’s the cool, clean sheets and the thick, warm quilt and the weight and security of Tim and Martin on either side of him as he falls asleep, and it’s Tim and Martin soothing and reassuring him, as much with their presence as with any actual words, when he wakes up screaming in the middle of the night.

Going back to the Institute is harder than he would have thought. Only the fact that he knows he can’t be away from it for long gets him to go back—that and the fact that he can’t, won’t, leave his team alone to deal with Elias. Once there, though, he slips back into the routine easily enough. Despite Elias’s snide insinuations, the Archives ran fine without him, but he knows they’re glad to have him back.

They take Tuesday morning to regroup and plan. It’s all very well for both Elias and Jon Prime to tell them to find Gertrude’s notes, but Gertrude was, in Tim’s words, a paranoid old bitch, and it’s not likely that they’ll find a conspicuous notebook with detailed plans on how to stop the Unknowing. More likely that whatever they find will end up being more memory aids than anything, cryptic jottings that only mean something to Gertrude, and sussing it out won’t be easy. But it’s a place to start nevertheless, once they figure out where those notes are.

In the end, Tim and Martin take to looking through the shelves of statements—Tim looking for anything to do with the Stranger, Martin looking for a few of the tantalizing little threads they’ve noticed weaving through the tapestry of their database. Sasha attacks the filing cabinets, with the logic that Gertrude may have pretended to file something important. And Jon takes his counterpart’s advice and goes through his office.

It’s not like he doesn’t know what’s in all the drawers of his desk, but he does his due diligence, pulling everything out of each drawer, tapping for false backs or false bottoms. He does find, stuck in the back of the drawer where he keeps the spare statement forms, a creased and faded concert program printed on green stock from 2003; it doesn’t seem to have any immediate significance, though, so he sets it aside with the intention of looking into it later. Perhaps it’s simply a concert Gertrude attended that she enjoyed, but it might also be a clue to the Unknowing. He’ll have to research.

It isn’t until Wednesday morning that he finds the laptop, hidden along with a key under a floorboard that’s been creaky as long as he’s been working in the Archives. There are scratches on some of the floorboards that Jon’s always hoped aren’t fingernail marks, but several of them are loose and one of them levers up fairly easily, revealing Gertrude’s hidden stash. He digs around a bit but finds nothing else, only the laptop and the key. He sets both on his desk next to the concert program and goes to tell the others.

The laptop is dead, of course. Jon vaguely remembers seeing a charger for it when he was in Gertrude’s apartment, but he didn’t grab it then and it’s far too late to go back now. Luckily, Sasha’s laptop is almost the exact same model, so she simply swaps over the cable and lets it charge while they go over what they’ve found so far. Tim has three statements he thinks might be Stranger ones, but hasn’t looked at yet to be sure; Martin found a third statement involving the Daedalus, which Tim seems positive is a Dark statement, and another statement involving Salesa. Sasha hasn’t found anything in the filing cabinets—yet—but she does have Elias’ schedule, so they’re able to plan their briefings when they know they won’t be observed.

She also kindly hacks into Gertrude’s laptop for him, once it’s charged, and he spends most of Thursday painstakingly going through the files, emails, and Internet history. The latter is by far the most voluminous. It almost makes him laugh to discover the account name “grbookworm1818”—how had he not figured out that was Gertrude, attempting to buy Leitners? She seems to have obtained three, one of them being the copy of The Key of Solomon he found fragments of in the tunnels and the other two being ones he’s never seen or heard of. There are also purchase reports for Archival supplies, airline tickets and travel bookings, and sporadic but suspiciously large orders for petrol, lighter fluid, pesticides, and high-powered torches.

When he comes out of his office at the end of the day, eyes bleary and with no clear plan, he finds a number of dusty boxes scattered about and his assistants attempting to find space for them, but they refuse to tell him where they came from or what they’re for. The next morning, however, Martin and Tim usher him into one of the storage rooms they’ve never really got around to sorting out the second they arrive in the Archives. It’s completely empty, save a table, four chairs, a low set of shelves, a whiteboard, and a corkboard, to which Sasha is tacking a large map of the world. The shelves hold fourteen boxes of the kind designed to hold photographs, a large box of pushpins, three different-colored balls of string, and a laptop cord, ready and waiting.

“We thought we needed a war room,” Tim explains, obviously trying to fight back a grin. “You know, somewhere we can keep everything together and not…get mixed up with the rest of the work we’re doing.”

“Allegedly doing,” Sasha says over her shoulder. “I’m still not sure how much of this job is what was presented to us when we took it and how much is the sort of thing we’re doing right now…can one of you give me a hand here?” she adds as the upper corner of the map flops over onto her head, just above her outstretched hand. Tim comes over to assist.

Jon looks around, surprised and pleased, and opens his bag to pull out Gertrude’s laptop. “Why did you pick this room, out of curiosity?”

Martin pulls the door shut behind him. “The molding.”

“What?” Jon frowns at him.

Tim gives the map a firm stroke to smooth out any air bubbles and presses the pushpin deep into the cork, then turns to give Martin a warm, approving smile. “You know how Elias always seems to know what’s going on in the Archives whenever it’s least convenient for us? Martin realized why the other day.”

“It was an accident,” Martin insists, face turning slightly pink.

“It was brilliant.” Tim claps him on the shoulder. “Those fancy decorations at all the joins in the molding? You know, those elaborate carvings at the top of the fake columns and the corners of all the doorframes and whatnot?”

“Not…I’ve never paid much attention to them.” Jon’s only five foot seven, and since he’s never had to worry too much about clearance or anything like that he’s never really looked too much at anything over his head.

“It’s at the corners of all the shelves, too,” Martin offers. “At least the ones where the statements are stored, the ones that are pretty obviously original to the Institute. You know, with what looks like a medallion in the middle?”

Those Jon has seen. “It’s the Institute seal, isn’t it? Or the Magnus family crest?”

“That’s what I always thought, too, but Martin got a good look at one the other day while he was getting down a statement for me.” Sasha’s eyes sparkle behind her glasses, which instantly puts Jon on edge; these days, anything that excites Sasha is likely to have bad ramifications for them. “It’s an eye.”

“And if he can ‘see through any eye, real or image’…” Tim spreads his hands out invitingly.

Jon sets the laptop down harder than he probably should, eyes wide. “He’s been watching us through the moldings!”

“Yep. It’s anybody’s guess whether or not Gertrude knew about it. I ran it down right after I told them and got a lot of stammering and profanity. Although not from who you might expect,” Martin adds with just the tiniest bit of a smirk. Sasha practically cackles. “Anyway, this room doesn’t have anything like that, we double-checked. So we just…cleaned out all the stuff that was in here and set this up. Give us a bit of breathing room, anyway.”

“At least until Elias comes down to the Archives to figure out why he can’t see us easily,” Tim adds. “But, you know, it’s a head start.”

Jon is six inches shorter than Tim and a full nine inches shorter than Martin, so there’s no way to make it look less than deliberate if he attempts to give either one of them even the most casual kiss on the cheek, but good Lord, he wants to. Instead, he just beams at them both. “God, you’re brilliant. Right, let me get a cup of tea and we can get started.”

“I’m on it.” Martin slips out of the little room.

Sasha smirks at Jon behind Tim’s back, but he does his best to ignore her and focuses on the boxes. “What are these?”

“Tapes. We made copies of all the recordings we’ve done so far of the real statements and sorted them by which fear they belong to.” Sasha taps the lid of one of the boxes and indicates the label on the front. It’s a bright yellow set of concentric circles—no, Jon realizes, it’s a spiral. “Tim did the labels.”

Jon glances up at Tim, both impressed and worried. “You didn’t—”

“Nope.” Tim pulls out a box and shows him the label, simply the word US in a rich, vibrant green. “I don’t know how detailed the ‘image’ has to be, but I’m not risking it. Everything else I tried to do the symbols they described, or…something that made sense. Like antlers for the Hunt.”

“And the ink colors? Is that corresponding to—it’s not the labels we use.”

“No. Those are the colors I’m pretty sure the fears are.”

Martin comes back in with four mugs of tea. Jon takes his with a grateful smile. “Actually, let’s start there. We’ve never really talked about the colors, beyond…”

“What I told Elias,” Tim completes.

“And the little bit you described when you took a look at all of us.”

Tim takes his own mug from Martin, and for some reason Martin’s ears turn slightly pink. Jon’s distracted for a moment until Tim muses, “It’s…weird. Some of them are obvious. Like I said, it’s super obvious the Eye is green and the Stranger is indigo, because I saw that one at the Trophy Room with no other colors interfering. And the Corruption being yellow-green is obvious because of—”

“Me,” Martin finishes.

Tim nods. “And the Spiral being yellow—Christ, that door. The others I…sort of had to guess. Even with…you know…it was hard for me to suss out. The Eye is everywhere. Looking at him is like looking at the shelves in the Archives. The scars are pretty obvious, but not completely.” He frowns. “Like the Hunt and the Slaughter. They’re really close in color. I think the Slaughter’s got a bit more orange in it, the Hunt’s a true red, but especially under the cover of the Beholding, it’s hard to tell the difference. And, actually, sometimes it’s hard to tell the Stranger from the Web at a glance. I mean, until you really start looking at them. The Web is purple, so if it’s not by itself…I mean, it’s a subtle distinction.”

Jon glances uneasily at the carefully-inked purple spiderweb, then turns away. It still bothers him.

They manage to get nearly two hours into their discussion, moving from the colors to the Stranger threads they’ve picked up to what Jon’s gleaned from Gertrude’s laptop. Tim is just jabbing a pin into Nairobi on the map when Sasha stiffens and glances over her shoulder. “Incoming.”

Jon’s about to ask what she’s talking about when the door opens and Elias pokes his head in with a patently false smile. “Knock, knock.”

Tim and Martin make nearly identical noises of frustration. Jon clasps his hands behind his back and gives Elias his best I’m-annoyed-at-being-interrupted-but-you’re-my-superior-so-I’ll-be-polite look, which is only partly put-on. “Can we help you, Elias?”

“I simply wanted to see how you were progressing with finding out about the Unknowing.” Elias looks around the room with interest, and Jon has to work hard to use the tricks Jon Prime has been teaching him to keep his excitement from being obvious. Martin and Tim are right; Elias can’t see into this room. “What have you uncovered so far?”

Jon is immensely proud of his team. They manage to weave an incredibly tight explanation of how much they’ve learned, within limits, that doesn’t let on how much information they were given ahead of time, listing steps without revealing that anything other than chance led them to it. Elias completely acts the part of the mildly interested academic and bureaucrat, but he’s also obviously fishing for information. Martin does a masterful job of acting like he’s falling directly into Elias’ traps while neatly sidestepping them, Tim cracks jokes at the appropriate times to distract him while putting just enough bite into them that Elias will assume they’re simply angry and sarcastic jabs, and Sasha throws a flurry of technical terms into the discussion that are certainly relevant to the topic at hand but serve to make Elias change the tack of his questioning. Like Jon, she knows the value of a well-placed info dump.

There is no redirecting him from the map, however. While he must have known about Gertrude’s travels, at least in a general sense, it’s clear he knew little about her actual movements. Jon masks his reluctance with annoyance and gives Elias a clipped version of his findings.

“Is there any significance to the colors of pins you have used?” he asks, gesturing to the map, where they’ve been marking out Gertrude’s travels. “Or is it random? Or for the…aesthetic?”

“We were trying to do it by what year she took the trip, but we only have so many colors,” Jon answers. “We’ve just switched over. Red are trips that were very definitely expensed back to the Institute, white are ones that were not, and yellow are the ones where we aren’t quite sure.”

“Mm…Gertrude did request a rather high travel budget, comparatively. Of course, if the Archivist job was as simple as it is in other institutions, she would have required no travel whatsoever, but in her capacity to stop the rituals…” Elias seems particularly fascinated by the pin on Beijing. “Why is this one in blue?”

“We just haven’t swapped the pin over yet. That’s one of the last trips we have a record of in Gertrude’s laptop.” Tim tilts his head at Jon. “From, what, six months before she died?”

“Closer to nine. Actually, Martin, can you change that one out, please?” Jon gestures at the box. “It’s a yellow one, I think.”

Martin mumbles an excuse me and switches out the pin. Elias purses his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t recall there being a ritual anywhere near Beijing at the time. What could have sent her there?”

“No idea. What’s bothering me is that we don’t know where she went from there.”

That draws Elias’ attention away from the map and back to Jon. “Surely she came back to London.”

“No.” Jon folds his arms over his chest. “Or at least, not that we can find. As I said, we’re largely tracing these trips from booking confirmations sent to Gertrude’s email address, and she largely purchased one-way tickets. Her last flight purchased out of London was to Paris, and then she booked a flight from Paris to Beijing. From there…I don’t know. I suppose she was buying tickets as she went along. It’s not like her credit card statements list where the flights went, only what airlines she flew and when she purchased the tickets. No hotel accommodations, though. Doubtless she paid cash, or else Gerard paid for those.”

“Gerard?” Elias says with interest. “Gerard Keay? Who told you he was traveling with Gertrude?”

Panic strikes Jon. Most likely it’s something he gleaned from Jon Prime—but on the other hand, did the Primes actually mention that? Flustered, he stammers, “I—someone must have—”

“No, no one told you. You Knew.” Elias sounds delighted.

“I probably just—gleaned it from the statements.” Jon glances at the shelves.

“No, Jon, this is a good thing. You’re getting stronger! It’s one thing to be able to—” Elias gestures vaguely and almost dismissively at Tim and Martin “—glean something from somebody in the room, but just Knowing something like that, that’s a big step.”

He sounds like a proud father, and it makes Jon feel incredibly uncomfortable. He balls his hands into fists, gathering up the cuffs of the sweater he definitely didn’t steal from either Tim or Martin, to stop himself from reaching out to one of them for protection. It’s stupid. Elias won’t hurt him, not here, not now; he needs him too much. He knows he’s safe. It just feels…dangerous, and he wants them to make him feel safer. Rather than risk Elias knowing how much he depends on them and doing something about it, he grips the sweater.

Elias practically beams at him. “It seems to me your next step should be obvious.”

“It should?”

“You should start retracing her steps. Are her notes from this trip on there?”

“Ah—no.”

“Then you’ll need to go where she was. Find out where she stayed, what she did.” Elias clasps his hands behind his back. “Where she went from there. How soon do you think you can leave?”

Jon blinks. This is going a bit faster than he expected. He turns to Tim and Martin. “Do you two have a passport?”

Martin looks a bit stunned. “N-no, I’ve never—never needed one?”

“Mine’s still in good standing,” Tim answers. “But if Martin needs one, that’d be—what, four weeks, at a minimum?”

“Jon, I asked when you would be able to leave,” Elias says, mildly enough but with a bit of steel behind it. “Your assistants need to stay here. We do need to get all of this straightened out still, and there’s research that needs to be done from here. You can relay whatever information you find back to the Archives, and I’m sure they can assist you if needed, but really, the Institute can’t spare the funds to reimburse more than one of you for an extended trip.”

Jon is pretty sure that’s a lie, but he knows Elias won’t reimburse them, and he also knows that neither Tim nor Martin can actually afford to pay their own way to come along, not with the house payments and Martin’s mother’s medical bills. He sighs heavily and fights to maintain eye contact with Elias. “I can get a flight out Sunday night or Monday morning.”

“Monday will be fine,” Elias says without batting an eyelash. Jon knows Sunday, statistically speaking, is the most expensive day to fly, so anything to save the Institute a few pence, he supposes. “Well, it seems you’ve all done marvelously well. I think you all deserve to take a half-day today. With pay. Finish up what you need to do here, and you can leave at twelve. Jon, do keep me appraised of your flight information.” He flashes them an absolutely terrifying smile, turns on his heel, and leaves the room.

The second the door shuts behind him, Jon sags, bracing himself against the table. “God.”

Sasha collapses into a chair, looking absolutely wiped out. “Tell me about it.”

“Hold on.” Martin picks up Jon’s mug, then Sasha’s, and slips out of the room.

Tim tentatively reaches out and touches Jon’s arm. “Sit down before you fall down. You look almost as bad as she does.”

“I’m all right.” Jon sits down anyway, grateful for Tim’s concern.

A phone buzzes from somewhere; Jon instinctively reaches for his pocket before remembering that he hasn’t replaced it yet. He spent longer than he should have trying to resurrect his shattered phone after Martin silently handed him its remains, but finally had to give up. “Is that yours, Tim?”

“No, I think it’s Martin’s.”

With that rare sort of timing that almost never happens, Martin comes back in, bearing two brimming mugs of tea; he hands one to Sasha, then one to Jon. He has to bend over to do it, and Jon brushes a quick kiss against his cheek as it comes past before he loses his nerve, then tries to play it off like he didn’t notice he did it. “Your phone went off.”

Martin’s ears are pink, and he goes to pick up his phone rather quickly. He actually snorts with laughter and shakes his head, a slightly amused smile on his face as he taps out a reply.

“Everything okay?” Tim asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, it’s from Melanie. Just says ‘Jet lag sucks balls.’ I’m guessing she’s back in town.” Martin slips his phone into his pocket and sighs. “What do we do now?”

“Unfortunately,” Jon mutters, “I think we do what Elias said. Finish up what we’re doing here, and leave early.” He looks over at Sasha. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Sasha manages a smile that even Jon can tell is fake, then drops it immediately and sighs. “I was trying to keep on top of how much he knew, or thought we knew. It’s a weird sort of balancing act…thing. Like keeping just the right tension on a rope.”

“Sasha.” Martin sounds upset. “You were reading his mind?”

“Just—skimming the surface,” Sasha protests.

Jon sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have to stop doing that. I know it’s tempting. God knows I know that. But you can’t just—and you knew he was coming. Was that intentional?”

“Sort of. It’s not like I’m constantly trying to read his mind or whatever, but…I don’t know. I just got a sense of…something.”

“All right, Gwen Stacey,” Tim says with a smirk. “Jon’s right, though, you’ve got to quit feeding it or it’s going to start feeding on you.”

Sasha sighs heavily. “I’m…trying to try.”

“Well, it’s a start.” Jon takes a sip of tea.

They get the room straightened up, then head back into the Archives. Martin keeps periodically replying to text messages on his phone, but the others don’t ask. It’s not until Jon, having brought his laptop out to join the others, is finalizing his booking that he frowns at his screen and looks up at the others. “Melanie wants to know if the rest of you’d like to join us for lunch, seeing as we’ve got the afternoon off and everything.”

Jon hesitates. On the one hand, he’d like to decline; he and Melanie tend to prick at each other whenever they interact, despite his best intentions. On the other hand, he admittedly wants to spend as much time with Tim and Martin as he can before he leaves on this trip. Heaven knows how long he’ll be gone and he’ll miss them, he knows that.

“If I’m included in that,” he says at last, “I’d be honored.”

They lock up at twelve and head to the pub Jon has begun to think of as “theirs”, even though they don’t go often. It’s cool and overcast, and there are definite signs it rained earlier, most notably the worms on the sidewalk. Jon notices Martin carefully avoiding treading on them and reaches over to take his hand comfortingly just as Tim throws his arm around his shoulders from the other side. It makes Sasha laugh, which makes them laugh, too, and at least gets Martin to stop watching his feet.

Pat waves when they come in and gestures to one of the tables, and Martin steps forward with a warm smile as Melanie King rises from a chair and meets him with a hug that would probably make Jon jealous if he didn’t know Martin was gay, and also if he had any right to be jealous. “God, it is…surprisingly good to see you.”

Martin huffs a laugh. “I’m not sure how to take that.”

Melanie actually laughs and gives Martin a friendly punch on the arm. Martin laughs in earnest as he reels back in an exaggerated manner, rubbing at his arm. “Ow! Hey, I need that!”

“Sure.” Melanie turns and offers Sasha a smile and her hand. “Sasha, good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too.” Sasha shakes her hand, then turns slightly. “Sorry, don’t think we’ve met.”

Jon turns, too, and his brain pulls up short. She’s changed up her hairstyle and shed her glasses, there’s a tattoo peeking out from under the collar of her t-shirt, and he’s pretty sure there are a couple additional holes in her ears, but the smile is unmistakable to someone who’s spent six years running from it.

“Georgie,” he stammers.

Georgie Barker’s smile gets a bit more uncertain, but there’s at least no hostility in her eyes. “Jon, hello. I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I, ah—” Jon gestures vaguely, either at Martin or at Melanie, he’s not sure which.

Melanie shrugs. “I did say the invitation was open to everyone. Kind of didn’t expect you to accept, to be honest, but—”

“Frankly, it’s been a shit month and we’re an all-or-nothing deal right now,” Martin says. He looks slightly quizzical and slightly worried as he eyes Georgie. “I—did I talk to you on the phone once?”

“Right, introductions. Georgie Barker, Martin Blackwood, Sasha James, and—” Melanie waves at Tim. “I actually haven’t got a clue who you are.”

“There are some who call me….Tim?” Tim quips with an arch of the eyebrows.

It’s the right thing to say to diffuse the tension, especially as Melanie and Martin both let out exaggerated groans as Georgie, who consumed every bit of media even vaguely associated with Arthurian legend during a time when she was obsessed enough to qualify as a minor expert on the subject, bursts into laughter. The six of them arrange themselves around the table as Pat brings over a tray of pints, then takes their food orders and heads off to get them together.

Martin takes a sip of his pint and evidently starts to speak three times before saying in a carefully neutral voice, “I hope you had a…successful trip.”

Melanie lifts an eyebrow at him. “You were a lot less cagey before. Is it them?”

“No, I’m a bit tired,” Martin says. “Like I said, it’s been…a lot.” He hesitates, glancing at Georgie for a brief second, then evidently gives up. “Remember how I said we all had…weird stuff we could do? My thing is that I can make people answer questions when I ask them. And if I’m tired or not really paying attention, sometimes I do it without meaning to, and that’s not fair to you.”

“I don’t believe you.” Melanie folds her arms over her chest. “Prove it.”

Martin hesitates. “Okay, um…what made you so upset when I asked if you wanted to come to lunch with me when we met?”

“If you weren’t a bloke, you’d be exactly my type and I had just a second where I wondered if I was actually a lesbian,” Melanie answers automatically, then blinks. “Fuck.”

Martin’s face catches fire. Tim grins and winks. “That just proves you’ve got taste.”

“Yeah, well, still.” Melanie presses her lips tightly together. “S’pose I can’t get too mad. I did tell you to prove it. Not your fault I didn’t actually expect it to work.” She snorts. “Successful? Yeah, I guess. I found out what I went to find out. And I didn’t die, so…promise kept?” She shrugs. “I owe you the whole story, but maybe not here.”

“Come by the Institute on Monday,” Sasha offers. “We can get your statement—oh, right.” She looks at Jon. “That okay with you?”

“No, that’s fine. Ah, take your pick on who you want to tell it to,” Jon says to Melanie, indicating the other three. “I promise you don’t have to deal with me.”

“I don’t mind all that much,” Melanie says with a sideways glance at Georgie. “You’re not…actually that bad to talk to. At least you’re trying not to be a prick.”

Georgie turns a laugh into a cough. Jon studiously avoids looking at her. “Thank you, I think, but I didn’t mean that in a ‘you can choose to talk to someone else’ way. I meant that as in ‘I’m leaving on a business trip Monday morning, so I won’t even be there.’”

“A business trip—for an Archivist? What, are you going to the Library of Alexandria or something?”

“No, the last one blew that up,” Tim says under his breath.

Jon kicks Tim under the table. “Beijing. My…predecessor traveled there some time before her death, but she didn’t leave any notes behind on what she may have learned there. So, lucky me, I get to follow behind her and try to pick up a three-year-old trail.”

“You can’t tell me the idea of piecing together something like that doesn’t appeal to you,” Georgie says, sounding amused. “What’s your—hang on, what was it called—your PFX count these days?”

“I haven’t—yes, all right, I suppose the idea of the hunt’s not altogether unwelcome,” Jon admits. “I just…would really rather not be doing it right now. For God’s sake, I only just got back from my last—unexpected absence.”

Martin’s hand tightens on his glass. Tim takes a huge swallow of his. Georgie looks back and forth between the two of them, then frowns at Jon. “So why are you leaving so quickly? If it’s been three years, it’s not like the clues are going anywhere.”

“Yes, but the situation is…somewhat time-sensitive.”

“Critical,” Martin supplies.

“Life-or-death, you might say,” Tim offers.

Georgie’s frown deepens. “You’re an Archivist. Which I’m still wrapping my brain around, by the way. You were a researcher, Jon. I know you don’t just have a degree in library science lying around.”

“No,” Jon says with a sigh. “The Archives at the Magnus Institute are…interesting, let’s put it that way. Library training in the actual Archivist is surprisingly less important than you might think. Besides, we have Martin, and what he doesn’t know about organizing and categorizing isn’t worth knowing.”

“Christ.” Martin buries his face one hand. Both Sasha and Melanie snicker at him. If the two of them are going to be friends, Jon thinks, God help them all.

Only Georgie can manage to frown while simultaneously arching an eyebrow in a knowing fashion. Jon tries very hard to pretend he doesn’t understand what she thinks she knows. “So you have a degree in library science.”

“No,” Martin says, voice still muffled by his palm. “I don’t have a degree. But I worked in the library at the Institute for ten years before I got assigned to the Archives, so I kind of know what I’m doing.”

“Right. Still. What do you have to do, as an Archivist, in China, that is life or death?”

Protect my team, Jon wants to say but doesn’t. The ritual, according to the Primes, can’t succeed; Orsinov’s Unknowing will collapse on itself. They’re probably going to try to stop it anyway, because he doesn’t doubt that Orsinov will survive the ritual’s failure and try again, and they can’t let anyone else fall prey to that. This world tour, retracing Gertrude’s steps, won’t give them any information to help them with that. But Elias doesn’t know they know that, and Jon can’t risk what he might do to the people he loves if he doesn’t obey orders.

“It’s…a long story,” he tries.

Georgie shrugs. “I’ve done my recordings for the week and I’ve got plenty of time for editing. And I thought you got off early today.”

Pat turns up then with everyone’s lunch. Jon waits until he heads back behind the bar to say, “I don’t…know where to begin, honestly. Trust me when I say it’s all pretty unbelievable.”

“You’re an archivist. We left believable behind a while ago.”

“Ha, ha.” Jon gives Georgie his best glare. As usual, she sticks her tongue out at him and rolls her hand for him to continue. “I—really, I don’t know where to—”

“Jon.” Martin sets down his glass, reaches over, and covers Jon’s hand with his own. Jon meets his eyes instinctively. “In thirty words or less, what is the story behind this trip?”

“There are monsters in the world, tied to different fears,” Jon answers immediately. “They’re trying to reshape the world in their own image and basically kickstart the Apocalypse. We’re trying to stop them.”

Martin sits back, looking miserable, and it’s only then Jon registers the wash of static receding from his mind. “Sorry, Jon. I really should have asked first.”

Jon grabs Martin’s hand before he can pull it away and squeezes. “I’d have sat here dithering to the end of time if you hadn’t. Thank you, Martin.”

Martin manages a tentative smile. Georgie’s frown has eased back a little. “Huh. How many of these things are there?”

“Monsters? Or rituals?” Jon blinks at Georgie. “You believe me?”

“Well, yeah.” Georgie waves a hand as if to say duh. “It’s not like I didn’t know there are monsters in the world.”

Sasha’s hand tightens on her fork, and she pushes back from the table abruptly. “Be right back. I—I need a minute.” She strides purposefully for the front door.

“Sasha, don’t—” Jon begins to call after her, but too late; she’s out the door.

“Did I say something wrong?” Georgie looks concerned.

Martin sighs heavily. “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you’ve seen…monsters before.”

“Yeah? What’s that got to do with anything?” Georgie asks with a deepening frown.

“Oh…damn.” Jon looks at Georgie, and now he can feel it, too—the static building behind his eyes, an almost imperceptible itch beneath his skin. This shouldn’t be happening, he’s taken two statements already this week, first Michael’s and then Tim and Martin’s, and even if Sasha siphoned off most of that one…he can’t possibly need one this badly, not now. But it’s not need, it’s want, it’s a desire at this point, so he can fight it…

“The Institute serves one of those fear things we’re talking about,” Tim tells her, his voice subdued. “In our case, it’s about knowledge and secrets and…hidden information and stuff like that. We usually just call it the Eye, it’s quicker than most of the other names. But one of the ways it sort of feeds itself is with other people’s stories of their spooky encounters. Usually with something touched by one of the other beings.”

“You’ve got a story to tell,” Martin explains. “The Eye wants it. And Sasha and Jon can both…” He hesitates, looking at Jon. “Sense it?”

“Better than saying ‘smell it,’ I suppose,” Jon says softly. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, forcing the static back.

Georgie blinks. “I mean…I’ll tell you about it. If you want.”

“That…would probably not be a good idea. I can’t—we can’t take but so many statements in any given period of time.” Jon opens his eyes, feeling a bit calmer. “Not without wearing ourselves out, or hurting ourselves. And I’ve had two already this week.”

“And we’ve had one each,” Tim adds, gesturing to himself and Martin. “Right? You just read—”

“Statement of Manuela Dominguez, regarding her unconventional religious beliefs and their intersection with her project aboard the space station Daedalus,” Martin recites. “And you read yours yesterday, it was—”

“Not, as it turns out, a Stranger statement. The Web. Statement of Darren Harlow, regarding a failed psychology experiment at the University of Surrey.” Tim rubs his forehead and sighs. “Actually, I need to talk to you two about that one. We may have a problem.”

Melanie looks back and forth between the two of them, blinking. Jon sighs, too. “Anyway, yes, it’s…there’s a lot. The ritual we’re trying to stop right now is the Stranger’s. It’s—kind of the opposite of the Eye? The ritual’s called the Unknowing. We’re still piecing together what it’s all about, but anyway, that’s what I’m about to go haring off around the world about. Which I would really rather not do, but I don’t have much of a choice. Our boss made that perfectly clear.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Sasha comes back in, looking much calmer, and slips back into her seat with an apology. Melanie looks at Tim. “So what about you, then? If he can ask questions and make people answer, and they can tell when someone’s got a story—”

“It’s not quite that. It’s more—” Sasha spreads out her hands. “Less stories and more secrets. Things people haven’t told. At least, that’s how it is for me. The ones who come to make statements and will talk to anyone, they’re not as interesting to me. It’s the ones who just…don’t want to talk about it, I guess. Or choose not to. Sometimes I know things without meaning to, but I’m trying to throttle that back. Jon is more…all of it.”

Jon nods. “I have the—the question thing, too. And the knowing, although it’s not just hidden things, it’s facts or important information. It’s not as bad as it could be, but it’s getting worse. On top of that, there’s the compulsion to read out the statements, and…it’s just a lot.”

“None of which actually answers my question,” Melanie says. “What did you get out of all this?”

“Oh. I can…look at people, or things, and see if they’ve had anything to do with one of the fear…things,” Tim says. “They glow different colors.”

“You can see auras,” Georgie supplies.

“Not—exactly. I mean, I can’t say ‘oh, you have a calm personality’ or ‘you’re a very troubled person’ or anything like that. But if you’ve bumped into one of the powers, if I concentrate, I can see where it marked you and…usually figure out from there.”

Georgie folds her hands on the table and meets his eye. “What color is mine, then? Or am I making it up?”

Tim hesitates, then takes a deep breath. His eyes go slightly unfocused, and Jon feels the faint crackle of static—not quite the same as when Martin asks questions or Sasha blurts out a secret, but close, like the dial on a disused radio station turned a single click in a different direction. After a moment, Tim’s shoulders relax and he blinks. “White. Bright white. The one you’ve met is Terminus. The End.” He hesitates. “Death. Am I right?”

There’s a short pause before Georgie looks at Jon and says, “You’ve got a good bunch here.”

Jon looks at both Tim and Martin and says, softly, “I know.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartim #emotional manipulation tw #implied blackmail tw #slight misuse of beholding powers

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annathewitch · 5 years ago

Text

An Apple A Day

Summary: Leonard McCoy x Reader. An unexpected encounter with Leonard McCoy at the Academy leaves you with a poor impression. Will he manage to redeem himself when you encounter him again years later?

Word Count: 6,000

Warnings: Little bit of swearing, and a tiny bit of angst. Incidental o/c death.

A/N: My entry into @thefanficfaerie’s West Wing Challenge! I LOVE The West Wing and it has some really quotable lines. I chose “Nature, like a woman, will seduce you with its sights and its scents and its touch, and then it breaks your ankle, also like a woman.” It screamed cynical post-divorce Bones to me... This is the first thing I have written to completion in a long-while - I hope you enjoy it!

..........

Your training as a cadet is intended to prepare you for the unexpected and unexplained. After all, there’s so much out there in deep space that cannot be predicted. However, you’re more than a little startled by the man lurching out of the bushes with a shout, as you take your usual shortcut across the Academy grounds from the botany lab back to the dorms.

You find yourself assuming a defensive stance, noting with detached surprise that Lt Commander Ono’s persistence in teaching you basic combat skills has actually paid off. Still, it’s a relief when you don’t have to test your tenuous muscle memory further, as the man — another cadet judging by the reds — simply grunts a string of inventive obscenities and sits heavily on the path in front of you clutching a tree branch.

He’s most likely drunk, but, just as you’re thinking you should really check, you realise that you actually know him.

“Cadet McCoy? Is that you? You, uh, startled me.” You crouch down beside him and he squints at you, a little unfocussed in his gaze. You gesture towards yourself. “Cadet Y/L/N? We have an advanced xenobiology class together?”

He grunts again and you try not to feel too hurt that he clearly doesn’t recognise you. The class you take together is compulsory for all science track cadets and you’re not the type to draw attention by debating with your professor. Not like McCoy. It still stings just a tiny bit because by any standard, even in his less than pristine current state, he’s an attractive guy.

“Are you okay?” You wave vaguely around in the direction he came from.

He shifts a little and winces, and just when you think he’s not going to answer, he sighs. The whiskey scent of his breath confirms your initial suspicion that he’s had more than a couple of drinks.

“I’m fine. I just need a minute.” It seems like a dismissal, but as you stand he actually looks at you properly and bites out, “Dammit. Help me up would ya.”

“How could I refuse such a gracious request.” You roll your eyes, wishing that he had stumbled across some other poor unsuspecting cadet and that you could be back in your dorm. Still you stick an arm out and brace yourself as he uses it to lever his unstable frame from the ground.

It becomes apparent that he is less than fine the minute he tries to take a step away from you. He bellows like an enraged bull, and does what looks like an awkward pirouette before toppling towards you. It’s all you can do to catch him under the arms and stop him crashing to the ground again. Unfortunately, this means he practically faceplants in your boobs and you’re on the receiving end of another boozy exhale.

“Shit, McCoy, you’re no ballet dancer. How much have you had to drink?”

“No more than usual. It’s my damned ankle!” McCoy protests, righting himself on one foot. “Stupid fucking tree.” Turning pink around his collar, he glares at the fine specimen of an apple tree that was probably here long before the Academy built a dorm right next to it and long before an intoxicated cadet decided to take exception to it.

“What did the tree ever do to you? Besides produce perfectly edible fruit?” A single apple, presumably from the branch McCoy was wielding, is sitting at the edge of the path and you pick it up. “White Pearmain. Dates back to the 1200s.”

McCoy looks at you with a raised eyebrow as if you’ve grown an extra head. “What are you? Some kind of fruit historian?”

“Botanist, actually.” You pocket the apple. “Look, can you manage from here?” You ask, more out of hope than expectation.You’re vaguely curious about the situation and, before this evening, would have jumped at the chance of spending some time with the tall, dark and brooding cadet, but right now he just seems grumpy and ungrateful.

“There’s a satellite med-centre just around the corner. Can you help me there?” It takes a pointed look for him to mutter something unintelligible and growl, “Please?”

You smile as if to say ‘there that wasn’t so hard now’ and he huffs impatiently.

“It won’t be staffed at this time of night,” you point out.

“Doesn’t matter.” He does a kind of wobbling hop in the direction he wants you to go. “Are you gonna help me or not? Please?” He adds without any prompting this time. When he’s being polite, there’s a pleasing southern lilt to his voice.

You glance around, but there’s no one else in sight and by the time you could comm security you could have deposited McCoy where he wants to go. Even if it seems patently pointless.

“Fine. But I want to know why you were lurking in the bushes in the first place.” You stand on the cadet’s good side, and let him lean his weight across your shoulders. You reprimand the part of your brain that insists on making you aware that underneath the liquor he smells warm and spicy.

With you as a crutch, you make steady shuffling progress to the med-centre, mostly in silence except for McCoy’s occasional cursing when he tries to put too much weight on his injured ankle.

The centre, one of the daytime ones for check ups and routine treatment, is in darkness when you get there and you resist the urge to tell him ‘I told you so.’

“What now? You can’t just sit out here until morning?”

“Don’t intend to darlin’,” he grins crookedly as he places the palm of his free hand against the entry pad and to your surprise the door slides open. “Doctor’s privileges,” he stage whispers.

“You’re a doctor?”

“Got it in one Sherlock. On rotation at Starfleet Medical between classes.” He steers you both towards the exam room which also swishes open at the touch of his hand. “Physician heal thyself,” he announces with a flourish and a smug grin.

He hops around the small room leaning on the counter and furniture, rummaging in drawers and cupboards while you loiter awkwardly by the door unsure if you should just make your excuses. Doctor or not, surely this is breaking one of Starfleet’s many regulations?

“Uh, are you sure this is okay?” You ask tentatively. “Maybe I should just leave you to it?”

McCoy glances up from the cupboard where he’s going through vials of what look like hypospray cartridges. “It’s fine. Anyone asks, you had nothing to do with it.” He puts some medication on a little trolley next to the biobed, and hauls himself onto it swinging his good leg up then more carefully lifting his injured one up after. “You mind giving me a hand here?”

It’s not really phrased as a question, and part of you would dearly like to leave him to it, but for some inexplicable reason — maybe its the way he’s looking up at you from under his messy fringe — you find yourself asking, “What do you want me to do?”

“Play Doctor with me,” he drawls and you belatedly remember that this man is most probably drunk and not more than fifteen minutes ago jumped out of the bushes at you. You file away a reminder to reconsider your life choices when you eventually get back to your dorm.

Thankfully, McCoy seems sincere about the doctoring part, and all he wants is some assistance removing his boot. He administers his own hypo first, which he tells you is a painkiller, but he still muffles another string of curses as you ease the boot over his heel while he steadies his swollen ankle.

After a few breaths, he presses a few buttons on a tricorder and passes it to you. “Move this over my foot and ankle, slowly,” he instructs before tacking on a hasty, “please.”

You do as instructed, waving the instrument methodically up and down making sure that you don’t miss any spots. You can see an image forming on the display behind the biobed, but have no idea what it means.

McCoy is twisted around to look. “That’ll do, thanks.” He squints and mutters under his breath, something about a Jim or maybe a John.

“Is it bad?”

“Nah, just a sprain. An hour under the regen unit and it’ll be good as new.” McCoy has you bring over a piece of equipment sitting on the countertop, and talks you through setting it up around his ankle. He adjusts the settings himself though and it’s not long before he’s reclined comfortably with the unit gently whirring and bathing his foot in blue light.

There’s no other seats in the room, and so you perch on the countertop. Five more minutes, you tell yourself, and you’ll leave the doctor to it.

“You still haven’t told me why you were hiding in the shrubbery, McCoy.”

He glares at you, eyebrow raised and the pinkness creeping up around his collar again. “I was hoping you would forget about that.”

“If I’m going to get kicked out of Starfleet for breaking into a med-centre, an explanation is the least I deserve.”

You hold his gaze and eventually he huffs sulkily and looks away. “We didn’t break in. And I fell. Fell and sprained my damned ankle.”

You frown. Fell, not tripped. It dawns on you after a moment — the tree branch and the apple. “You fell? Don’t tell me you fell out of the tree?” His silence and flushed face is incriminating. “Why the hell were you in the tree in the first place?” A horrible thought crosses your mind. “Were you... spying on someone?”

“No!” McCoy protests, “I’m an idiot not a voyeur! My fool of a roommate managed to lock me out! I was trying to break in to my own damned dorm. Climbing the tree seemed like a good idea at the time.” He grumbles something about hypo-ing someone’s ass, presumably directed at his roommate.

His indignation seems genuine and you’re a little relieved that you haven’t managed to find yourself alone in a deserted med-centre with some kind of creepy stalker. Though on reflection he’s still a drunk who thought climbing a tree was a sensible course of action.

“You know you could have called security, unless you make a habit of breaking and entering?”

He props himself up on one arm to glare at you again, though you’re starting to think that perhaps it’s just his default expression. “I told you already we didn’t break in. And clearly,” he waves an arm in the general direction of his foot, “I’m not a very successful cat-burglar.”

Your lips twist in a wry smile. McCoy looks just a little bit self-satisfied and settles back with his head resting on his arms.

“So, you’re a botanist then?”

“Yup.”

“Rather you than me.” He chuckles a little as he says this and though a second ago you were starting to warm to him, now you bristle at his tone.

“You’re not a fan of nature then?’ you ask archly. “You seem pretty fond of trees.”

“Touché, darlin’.” He grins again at you, not seeming to register the coolness of your question. “Me and the natural world rub along just fine, as long as we maintain a respectful distance from each other. Trouble is, you botanists and geologists and biologists, you get all starry eyed at the thought of all those new worlds to explore, those billions of new specimens to examine — Vulcan vines, seventy different kinds of Denobulan phosphorescent moss.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Sure they look pretty, but you know what I see? A billion new potential bio-hazards that you scientists are just desperate to expose us all to, and it’s doctors like me that are going to have to pick up the pieces. People think that its red shirts who give doctors the most trouble, but give me a phaser burn or shrapnel injury over a blue shirt who’s inhaled a mystery pollen any day.”

This outburst is unexpected, and you’re unsure whether you want to laugh or be offended. Maybe both. “Well that’s a remarkably cynical view of Starfleet’s scientific research programme,” you say drily. “And here I was thinking we were discovering the wonders of the universe.”

McCoy props himself up on an elbow again and jabs a finger at you. "Discovering the wonders of the universe my ass. Nature, like a woman, will seduce you with its sights and its scents and its touch, and then it breaks your ankle, also like a woman.”

You think the noise you make is a disbelieving snort. Any sense of warmth evaporates as the doctor incriminates himself as just another egotistical, opinionated ass. He looks so utterly cocksure it makes your blood rise. You pull out your comm theatrically and flip it open.

He frowns. “Who you calling?”

“The Cretaceous period. They want their dinosaur back.”

“Very funny. That’s cute.”

Cute? You snap the comm shut, and throw your hands up in the air. “I mean, seriously?” You don’t even know where to begin. “I help you and then you insult my profession and my gender. Is there anything else you’d like to criticise - my family perhaps?”

McCoy jerks upright, looking surprised. “I meant women like my ex-wife and her cronies. Not you.”

“Why thank you for exempting me from the seducing, ankle-breaking majority. Though I guess I’m still a reckless botanist.” You berate yourself for staying as long as you have, swayed by a pretty face, and hop down from the counter. “I think I should be going.”

“Come on,” he drawls, “we were getting on so well. You know this is actually the best date I’ve been on in years.” He winks at you. An actual wink. The man is delusional.

“You need to seriously rethink your definition of a date.”

“Okay. I’ll take you out for coffee sometime then.”

“It’s tempting.” You mime an exaggeratedly thoughtful pose. “I mean, what with you being an irascible divorcé with a ton of emotional baggage that you’re dealing with by getting drunk, falling out of trees and insulting women you barely know and all. However, I fear I must decline.”

“Ouch!” he clutches a hand to his chest. “A simple no would have worked.”

You remember the apple you stuffed in your pocket earlier, and throw it at McCoy who catches it awkwardly before it thumps him in the chest.

“What was that for?” he grumbles.

You shrug. “You know what they say. An apple a day...”

As you turn to leave, you imagine for just a second that a look of disappointment flashes across his face. He’ll get over it. A guy like him will forget all about you in a couple of days.

You don’t regret turning McCoy down, even if you pause for a moment when the flowers arrive a few days later, with a comm number and a request to let him make it up to you. You don’t regret it either when he catches your eye in class, while he’s defending the point you were trying to make to the professor, though you have to remind yourself that he thinks you and your colleagues are nothing more than accidents waiting to happen.

By the time you get your first posting on the science ship USS Intrepid, the night you had to help a cadet who fell out of a tree has become nothing more than an amusing academy anecdote, and you’re far too busy to ever think about what might have been, had Cadet McCoy been a little less of an ass.

...........

It’s amazing then, how clear your recollection is of that night years ago as you’re being wheeled through the corridors of an unfamiliar ship inside some kind of stasis tube. It’s the unmistakeable southern drawl, alternating barked orders with unexpectedly gentle reassurance, that sends you straight back to a long-forgotten exam room light years away in San Francisco. If you could focus, you know there would be a messy dark fringe and pair of serious hazel eyes hovering over you.

It’s getting harder to breathe and the tube feels more and more claustrophobic. The overhead lights start to flash by more quickly as you realise the medical team has started moving at a run.

“Don’t worry Y/N, we’ve got you,” you hear McCoy say gruffly. “You hang in there.”

It goes dark.

There’s unconnected flashes of things — a spray of warm water with the sharp tang of antiseptic, hooded faces, the feeling of a mask that pinches across the bridge of your nose, piercing beeps — but the first thing you’re really aware of is waking up in a biobed with the gentle whir of a tricorder being waved over your chest. You try to sit up and a hand presses down on your shoulder.

A figure in a familiar biohazard suit leans over you. “Well hello there.”

“McCoy?” Your voice is little more than a croak and from somewhere behind you another pair of hands swabs your cracked lips with something syrupy.

“Got it in one, Sherlock. How’s my favourite fruit historian feeling?”

His brow is arched expectantly. He remembers.

“Like an elephant sat on my chest.” There are bands of tightness around your rib cage, but you take a deep breath anyway. “Or maybe like I fell out of a tree.”

McCoy barks a laugh, and you attempt a smile. But he’s quick to resume his serious doctor demeanour. “Y/N, you were exposed to toxic spores from a fungal sample that an Ensign was working with. You started bleeding into your lungs. You had us all worried for a while.”

“I remember,” you whisper as it comes flooding back — the shrill of the bio-hazard alarms, Ensign Collet’s containment chamber not quite properly closed, and the quiet Frenchman coughing up blood. You remember triggering the containment protocols on your lab section and dragging Collet into a decontamination chamber while the rest of your team look on from the other side of the glass. “Collet?” you ask, already knowing what the answer will be.

The doctor shakes his head. “His exposure was more serious than yours. By the time the Enterprise team arrived planetside it was too late. I’m sorry Y/N. It was a miracle no one else was exposed, you were very brave.” His gruff sincerity is too much.

“Stupid and reckless more like,” you growl, as you squeeze your eyes tightly shut so you can’t see the ‘I told you so’ expression on his face. Tears drip down the sides of your face into your ears. “I think I need to sleep.”

“Okay.”

A hand presses your shoulder again, then there’s the clunk and hiss of an airlock and then silence.

The next time you wake up, everything seems a little less sore and your breathing is easier. You focus on the room for the first time. It’s a tiny little box, with an observation window on one wall and the biobed, a little table and two chairs. Apart from the airlock, there’s another smaller door, which you assume must be a bathroom. You sigh — it’s just like every other isolation unit you’ve seen.

McCoy comes in, still in the suit, and helps you sit up in the biobed. He checks your vitals, murmuring approvingly every so often. When he’s done he sits in the chair beside your bed.

You try and scrutinise his expression through the plastic visor. “Hit me with it McCoy. How long am in in quarantine for?”

“Until you’ve been asymptomatic for three weeks. Spock, Commander Spock that is, is ninety-nine percent certain that will cover the maturation cycle of any spores that might have survived decontamination.”

“Three weeks.” You blow out a breath and nod. “Okay, I can do that.”

“I’ll get you a padd to help pass the time and Uhura will hook you up with a comm link if you need to contact anyone. It’s going to be pretty dull though.” He reaches out a gloved hand and rests it on your arm. You stare at it mildly surprised at how nice McCoy is being, given, well... before. He seems to remember himself and pulls away, flexing his fingers.

“Will you come and talk to me?” you find yourself blurting out. “I mean only if you’re not busy. Of course you’re busy, but, I don’t know anyone else.”

“Me?” The eyebrow is doing its thing again. “I could find you someone a bit less... irascible.”

“Oh. Right. That. I was probably a bit harsh.” You’re surprised to find that you’re disappointed.

The doctor stands up and paces the few steps towards the window. He rocks back and forth on his toes a couple of times, before turning back to face you.

“No Y/N. I was an arrogant, self-absorbed, asshole, with a chip on my shoulder a mile wide, and within a hair’s breadth of becoming a drunk. You punctured my ego with ruthless efficiency. I was hurt at first, and determined to prove you utterly wrong, but the more I thought about it, the more obvious it was.” McCoy lifts a hand to his head as if to run his fingers through his hair until he realises he can’t and he just ends up smoothing the top of his hood awkwardly. “Dammit Y/N, I’m just surprised you want to even speak to me after what I said. It’s been years and I still cringe.”

You grin wickedly. “Come on. I thought we were getting on so well!”

The doctor groans. “Are you going to remind me of everything I said word for word? If you are I’m going to get Spock in to sit with you instead. You’ll be begging me for mercy after three weeks.”

“Not word for word...”

You’re surprised by how much you start to look forward to McCoy’s visits. He brings cards and you argue good-naturedly over the cheat rules of Ferengi poker and he teaches you the basics of chess. Sometimes you just talk. He asks you questions about botany and where you’ve been posted since leaving the academy and seems genuinely interested in your replies. In return he tells you all about the less glamorous side of serving on the flagship, with an unexpected flair for the dramatic. You wonder if he notices that neither of you talk about anything too personal.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a tiny bit disappointed on the days where the doctor can’t spend more than a few minutes with you, taking vitals and swabbing for spores. Usually Christine Chapel comes and sits with you then, and you try and slip unobtrusive questions about McCoy into the conversation. If she notices, she’s too polite to say anything.

It’s one day towards the end of the third week, that the person in the suit is someone new. Though you’ve ever met him, you’ve seen his face in holo-form a million times and would recognise the Starfleet poster boy anywhere.

“I’d stand to attention, Captain, or salute or something, but I’d probably fall over.”

Kirk smiles dazzlingly, “Relax, this is a social call. Call me Jim.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jim. Take a seat.”

He sits, leaning back with one leg crossed, looking for all the world like he’s lounging in his quarters not sat in an isolation unit with a stranger.

“Bones sends his apologies, he was called away. I offered to come and keep you company and it’s past time I introduced myself to you as a guest on my ship.”

“Bones? You mean McCoy?”

Kirk grins. “Yeah, it started as a joke at the academy and kinda stuck. I don’t think he minds, much.” He sweeps a glance over the room and shudders. “I’ve spent my fair share of time in these units, but not three weeks. I’m amazed you’re not climbing the walls.”

The corners of your mouth lift into a half-smile. “I’m too tired to climb anything, Captain. Jim. McCoy’s been kind enough to distract me.”

Jim leans forward propping has elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “So I hear. You know, when I’ve been in isolation he usually just visits me to stab me with hypos and yell at me that I’m ‘out of my corn-fed mind’.” He does a passable imitation of McCoy and you giggle. “I like to think grumpiness is his form of affection.”

He spots the chess set. “You play?”

“Badly.” You scrunch up your nose. “McCoy’s been teaching me, but I’m not as quick on the uptake as usual.”

He rub his hands together in a rustle of fabric. “Well then let me teach you a couple of moves to help you beat him.”

You play for a while, Kirk coaching you through a couple of Vulcan gambits. It’s only when you’ve begun to relax a bit that he turns the conversation back towards you and McCoy.

“You know I didn’t ever think I would get to meet The Botanist,” Jim says as he casually moves to take one of your rooks.

“What do you mean.” You eye the Captain suspiciously. He clearly knows more than he has let on so far.

“You’re her, aren’t you? The botanist from the Academy. The One That Got Away.” Jim wiggles his fingers in air quotes around the last part.

“That’s ridiculous,” you snort. The idea that your encounter had meant anything more than a bit of wake-up call to McCoy was madness, wasn’t it? You move a piece blindly.

Kirk shrugs. “All I know is that one night he met you, you turned him down — quite spectacularly by all accounts — and he couldn’t think about anything else for weeks.” He moves his queen. “Check.”

“But he got over it after that, right?” You hop a knight over one of his pieces and capture a pawn.

“Sure, he stopped crying into his cereal after a while. But I think you were always his biggest regret. There’s more than once when he’s in one of his more reflective moods that he’s wondered what if he hadn’t screwed it up with the Botanist. Checkmate, by the way.”

You’ve lost all interest in the game now anyway. Surely this is an exaggeration. “Why are you telling me this Jim?”

He stands and puts the chair back at the table. “I know McCoy. Even if he denies it, there’s a part of him that thinks maybe this is a second chance. His feelings run deep Y/N, I’d hate to see him get hurt if he’s wrong.”

“So you want to know if I plan to, I don’t know, seduce him, then break his ankles — metaphorically speaking?” This is a lot to take in, but it’s clear that you’re getting The Talk from Jim. It’s hilarious and mortifying at the same time.

“Metaphorically speaking, yes. He’s different than he was in the Academy Y/N, if you give him a chance.”

“I already know that, Jim. And I’ve never been the ankle-breaking type.”

“He’s still the grumpiest man I know.” Jim shakes his head.

“Irascible.” You smile. “But I think I’m getting to appreciate irascible.”

“Well... good.” As if a switch has been flipped, Jim’s serious expression is replaced by one of pure sunshine and he give’s you a jaunty wave as he let’s himself out of the airlock.

You flop back on the bed, hugging a pillow. There’s far too much to think about here when all you want is to sleep.

The final couple of days in quarantine drag. Something has shifted between you and McCoy, with the knowledge of what Kirk said hanging between you and you wonder how much of that Kirk has shared with his friend.

Though he visits as usual, the doctor seems more on edge, a little more watchful. It’s impossible to really tell anything, though, with the biohazard suit masking the truth of his expression. You’re itching to be out of this room, to have some privacy, to actually look into his face and tell him... tell him what?

Hi Doctor McCoy, I used to think you were an asshole, but now I want to jump your bones?

“Did you say something?” McCoy looks up from the biobed display and you realise you must have been mumbling. You feel heat rush from the tips of your toes to the roots of your hair.

“Nope,” you choke out. “Nothing.”

He regards you with his customary raised eyebrow. “So, we’ll being doing your final decontamination tomorrow and then you’re free to go. Everything looks normal here and all your swabs have been clear for weeks.”

“Oh!” You knew it was coming, but it’s only just hit you now that it means the end of your almost daily visits. “We should have an end of quarantine party or something!”

McCoy busies himself entering some data into the panel on the wall. “Well, actually, Doctor M’Benga is going to oversee your procedure tomorrow.” He looks up at you frowning a bit. “I’ll hope to check in on you later when you’re settled in your quarters though.”

Hope to. You nod, deflated. This is it then. You think you should say something. You thought you would have time to prepare, but he’s making his way to the door so it’s now or never.

“McCoy!” He pauses at the airlock and looks back at you, just as your mind goes blank. “Thank you, for everything. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you better.” You kick yourself mentally at your brilliant choice of words, which convey exactly your strength of feeling towards the doctor.

“Me too. Uhm, you that is. Getting to know you.” He clears his throat. “See you tomorrow Y/N.”

Emerging back into the real world is a bit of an anti-climax. Sparse white rooms seem to be the norm on the Enterprise rather than a particular feature of the isolation unit, you realise when Christine wheels you into your quarters for the first time. Still at least you have more than about 90 square feet of space to explore, and not everything whirs and beeps at your every movement. Still, it could use some plants.

Christine gives you a quick tour, before retrieving a bag from the wardrobe. She looks at you knowingly.

“Doctor McCoy mentioned that you have nothing with you. So I thought you might appreciate some clothes.” She opens the bag and pulls out some comfy looking loungewear that’s positively luxurious after weeks of disposable scrubs. “Someone will replicate you up some uniforms, but I thought it might make you feel a bit more human.”

You rub the soft fabric between your fingers. “Thanks Christine.”

“I, uh, also threw in a bit of make-up and a hairbrush and stuff. I can help you get ready if you like?”

You’re only going to be sitting on the couch, and then the bed, at least for the next 24 hours, but the thought of looking a bit more presentable sounds nice, and you’d be lying if there wasn’t a small part of you hoping that if McCoy comes later he sees you as more than a patient. “Sure, why not.”

Christine takes it more seriously than you expected, and really ‘a bit of make-up’ turns out to be a full on beauty kit, but by the time she leaves you’re brushed and moisturised and subtly glowing like you’ve spent three weeks in a spa not in quarantine with dubious lung function. Now there’s nothing to do but wait.

Being shaken awake by a large warm hand is unexpected. As is the voice edged with concern calling your name. “Y/N, wake up for me darlin’.” After a beat, “Please.”

You crack open one eye, thinking how southern he sounds when he’s being polite. “M’awake McCoy,” you slur sleepily. He’s perched on the edge of the couch next to you in all his rumpled gorgeousness. “Been breaking and entering again?”

“Doctor’s privileges,” he says with a wry smile. He helps you sit up and you revel in the warmth of his ungloved hands. “You look different. Nice. Nice different not...” he stumbles and tails off.

Though he’s avoiding your gaze, you’re enjoying being able to see him properly again, to see the flush creeping up his neck. You take pity on him.

“Why thank you. I washed my hair in actual water. And Christine worked a bit of magic to make me look human.”

He nods and meets your eyes finally for a second, before jumping up. “I brought you something,” he says, retrieving an arrangement of brightly coloured flowers from the counter. “I checked them out with the botany lab, they’re officially the least dangerous plant in the Alpha Quadrant. Some kind of daisy from Risa. I thought you might be missing some greenery.”

“Leucanthemum Risaii — totally harmless. Thanks McCoy.” You fuss with the flowers a bit, smiling and put them on the table beside you. “So, do you want to check me over?”

He looks at you in confusion. “Um no. Unless you need me to? Dammit, I should have asked how you were feeling.” He reaches out to take your hand pressing his fingers against your pulse.

“No! No, I’m fine McCoy. I just thought you’d need to do some... doctory stuff.”

“Oh.’ His expression clears. “Right. So I, uh, passed your care over to Doctor M’Benga. He’s going to do all the ‘doctory stuff’ from now on.” He turns your hand in his to hold it properly, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. After weeks of restricted contact, it feels electric. Kirk just might have been right.

“Why?” you ask tentatively, trying to ignore the fluttering feeling in your stomach. If it’s true, you want to hear it from him.

He gazes at you with dark eyes and breathes deeply, like he’s steeling his nerves. You feel a little bad that he’s so uncertain, so much the opposite of the first time you met.

“Because I think you’re smart and beautiful. And so I could ask if this idiot doctor might take you out for coffee. Properly this time, not like a drunk entitled asshole. What do you say darlin’?” He squeezes your hand, smiling hopefully and your insides do a flip flop.

“No,” you whisper. His face falls and he swallows thickly looking down at your hands. You place two fingers under his chin and tilt his face until he has no choice but to look you in the eyes. “Coffee’s first date territory. I think we’re way past coffee, McCoy.”

“We are?” His voice is gruff and disbelieving.

“Are you kidding? These last few weeks we’ve had the best dates I’ve been on in years.”

McCoy growls. “Dammit Y/N, are you trying to kill me? You promised me you weren’t going to remind me of that!” He runs his free hand through his hair. “Okay then, not coffee. Dinner?”

“Yes.” You grin stupidly, and without thinking peck a kiss on McCoy’s lips to seal the deal. After a second of stunned silence he briefly kisses you back before leaning back on the couch with you in his arms. He smells warm and spicy just like you remember.

“Jim told me you’d changed your mind about me. He said you promised him you wouldn’t break my ankles. Hell, he couldn’t have made that up, but I hardly dared to believe it.”

“You know he gave me The Talk?”

“He didn’t!” McCoy looks down in horror.

“Oh he did,” you laugh. “It was sweet, but by then I didn’t need convincing.”

“He’s going to be insufferable when he finds out.” The doctor sighs. “Speaking of the infant that is our glorious Captain, he sent you a housewarming gift. It’s on the counter.”

You heave yourself up to standing with a groan and totter the few paces across the room and back again on unsteady legs. “I’m going to need that dinner sooner rather than later McCoy. I need feeding up.”

He chuckles and kisses your hair. “Sure thing sweetheart. Now come on, what’s in the box?”

It’s a plain box wrapped with a big blue ribbon, and it’s heavy. You pull the bow loose and lift the lid. It’s full of perfect red apples, and a scrawled note sits on top — An apple a day!

“Goddammit, Jim! That’s not funny!”

“You told him about the apple? What must he think — I was so mean to you!”

“He heard me call you my favourite fruit historian and wouldn’t let up until I told him the whole thing. He thought it was hilarious, said I deserved it. And I did.” He picks an apple out the box. “I told you, he’s going to be insufferable,” he grumbles.

“Are you not afraid I’m going to start throwing them at you again?” You ask putting the box out of sight on the floor and snuggle back in under McCoy’s arm.

“Are you?”

“No!”

“Well then, there’s your answer. Besides you forget, I’m not your doctor anymore. Apples have no power over me.” He takes a bite out of the one he’s holding and wiggles his eyebrows. “You can throw all the fruit you like at M’Benga.”

“Idiot.” You swat him playfully across the chest, enjoying this less serious McCoy. Something tells you if you can make this work you’re going to be very happy. “Okay so I have a very important question.”

“Fire away. I have an encyclopaedic knowledge of many things.”

“If apples keep doctors away, how do you get them to stay? Pineapples maybe?”

McCoy hums thoughtfully and the vibrations in his chest tickle your cheek. “How long are we talking?”

You prop yourself up so you can see his face, brushing a piece of his fringe out the way. “A good long while.”

His lips curve in a satisfied smile. “Not pineapples then. That’s gonna need kisses.”

“Kisses?” You lean in further so that your lips are brushing his. “Like this?” you whisper pressing your mouth against his more deeply than the pecks you gave him earlier so you can taste the sweet tang of apple juice. He responds with a moan, until you both break away slightly breathless.

“Perfect darlin’,” he murmurs. “Plenty of kisses just like that.”

..........

Taglist: Tagging Urban Shitposters and a few other people I think may be interested. It’s been so long since I tagged I’m not sure who is on my general list. Just ask if you want to be added, or taken off!

@musikat18 @bkwrm523 @bookcaseninja @queenmismatched @outside-the-government @space-helen @starshiphufflebadger @yallneedtrek @feelmyroarrrr @mad-girl-without-a-box @kawaiiusagichansan @bonesmccoybones @thefanficfaerie @janeykath318 @fear0fdeathkeepsusalive @goingknowherewastaken @star-trekkin-across-theuniverse

#leonard mccoy x reader #bones x reader #star trek reader insert #west wing quote challenge #star trek fanfiction #leonard mccoy #star trek aos

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lolhahahano · 4 years ago

Text

Young Love - Helsa one shot.

For Day 6: What If? of @helsa-week 2020

Summary: A "What if?/ AU". Hans and Elsa fall in love while Hans is stationed in Arendelle to shadow her Father and his Navy. While Hans plans to make their relationship official, Elsa reveals some shocking news that will change their future together.

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,000+

started: 06/25/2020

finished: 06/26/2020

A/N: okay so this was written in two days and it turned out pretty decent. I apologize in advance for semi-rushed plot. I just wanted to submit something for Helsa week. Enjooooy!

---

The first born Princess of Arendelle scurries down the halls, clutching her skirt in her gloved hands, hoping to make it in time to a meeting that's about to take place. Her platinum blonde hair nearly falls out of her neatly braided bun as she picks her pace after glancing at grandfather clock.

A few more steps and Elsa reaches the library door, nearly yanking it open to enter. She gasps, seeing some frost cover the door handle and the area around it. Grabbing a handkerchief out of her pocket, Elsa tries to dissolve the frost by rubbing the handkerchief on the parts affected to melt it.

It doesn't.

She tries a few more times but hears the clock chime to signal the beginning of the afternoon. Elsa panics then glances at the hidden door in the library knowing she must choose between the two situations. She takes a deep breath and stuffs the cloth back into her dress pocket hoping that the warm summer heat will melt her tracks when she leaves.

Elsa shuts the door quietly but the sound reverberates against the empty room. She spots the familiar blue book sticking out against the brown and green ones that nestle beside it. She runs towards it and pulls it down slowly, trying not to break the ancient lever. The door creaks open, groaning with every gear shifting. Elsa cringed as the noise echoes down the steps to the hidden room.

Once the door is parted enough for her to fit through, Elsa squeezes herself through the small opening and runs down the steps one by one to meet her lover.

Elsa is nearly to the other door in the passageway when she hears an older familiar voice.

Her father’s voice.

Her eyes widen and hold back a breath as if she let out one, they would both discover her in the hidden space.

Elsa tiptoes gracefully to the door and raises her head slightly to peer into the study through a small window on the door.

“So Prince Hans, what did you want to discuss with me this afternoon?” Her father, King Agnarr asks.

His arms are crossed behind his back with a stern look upon his face. An expression that Elsa knows all too well.

“As you know, Your Majesty, your eldest daughter and I have spent the past year growing close to one another.” Hans stands there like the navy man he is. “And we have grown very fond of each other as well.”

Elsa sees her father raise a questionable eyebrow at Hans. “Are you wanting to court my daughter, Prince Hans?” The King blatantly asked the Prince.

Elsa lets out an audible gasp from behind the door, startlingly the two men. They look around to pinpoint the source of the noise. She clamps her hands over her mouth to keep from sobbing as tears flow her flushed cheeks.

Hans, from inside the room, is startled by the sudden question even though he knows the answer to it. Before he can respond, he hears a gasp that he knows all too well. He searches for it by scanning the room then he finds it.

His green eyes catch a familiar blue glistening with tears peeking through the small window of the door behind the King.

Hans stands a bit straighter to let her know that he will be silent of his knowledge of her hidden presence. He then goes on to respond to the King’s question.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He says. Agnarr’s eyes land back on him. “I do want to court your beautiful daughter. Only if you would allow me to do so.”

Back in the dark passageway, Elsa starts to ease back to a calm state and a hand automatically lands on her slightly bulging stomach.

Their baby. She smiles softly. Elsa feels the little life within her, movement with excitement from sensing their mother's touch.

Though with tears still glistening in her eyes, she sees that Hans has spotted her and stands a bit straighter to let her know that he will keep hush. Elsa’s eyes shoot back to her father as he speaks again.

“May I ask why, Prince Hans?” Her father presses. “Besides the fact that two have grown close? You know I have had suitors pursue my daughters only because they want to overtake their rank in this kingdom and I will not let that happen.”

“Sir,” Hans responds. “I have grown to love this kingdom as if it were my own and I was grateful when you allowed me to shadow as a rear admiral in your Navy. I would even die in war to protect it. Even if Elsa didn't want to marry me, I would still serve and protect Arendelle at no cost.”

Agnarr walks over to a desk and pulls open a drawer. Right before he reaches in to grab a small velvet box, he looks up at Hans to get a final answer. “Are you sure about this, my boy?”

Hans gives a simple nod, making Elsa giddy with glee. The King grabs the black box and walks back to Hans, placing it in his hand.

“This was my grandmother’s engagement ring which I gave to Iduna when I proposed to her.” Agnarr explains. “It is a tradition for it to be given to the eldest princess of Arendelle from her suitor.”

Hans stares at the small box in disbelief. He was planning to just give Elsa something he found from a royal craftsman but to receive her mother and grandmother's engagement ring, he knew that he was being held to high standards. He places the box in his pants pocket for safe keeping.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I am honored to have this ring for when I propose to Elsa.” Hans gives him a respectful bow.

Elsa nearly bursts at the seams with glee at her Father’s actions but she soon realizes the question that he is going to ask him next.

“Hans, are you aware of Elsa’s… predicament?” Agnarr slowly asks.

He keeps a stone face while contemplating his response. “Yes, Your Majesty. I do know about Elsa’s magic.”

The King’s hands ball into fists with surging protectiveness of his eldest.

“But, Your Majesty!” Hans blurts out, surprising all three of them. “Elsa showed me personally her magic because she felt like she could trust me. And I vow to keep her secret safe until she is ready to tell it herself because I love her no matter what.”

The room is dead silent after Hans’ declaration. He and Elsa exchange quick nervous looks from their spots until Agnarr does the unthinkable.

He hugs Hans.

The Prince stands there awkwardly and gives a small pat on the King’s back. This makes Elsa hold back a laugh from her side of the door.

“Thank you Hans.” Agnarr whispers.

He pulls back and beams with a huge grin, gripping the Prince’s shoulders. “Now, Iduna and I will draw up the engagement announcement then we will talk with you and Elsa about when to announce it. How does that sound?”

“Absolutely perfect, Your Majesty.” Hans anxiously agrees.

Agnarr pats his shoulder. “Hans, you can call me Agnarr. You're part of the family now.”

Hans gives him a nodded smile. “Yes, Your Maj- I mean Agnarr.”

They shake hands and exchange goodbyes. Agnarr then takes his leave to go tell his wife the exciting news. Before twisting the knob, he looks back at Hans.

“Thank you, Hans.” He tells the young Prince but this time with a different connotation.

“You already told me that, Agnarr.” Hans quirks an eyebrow.

The King looks down at the floor. “No, thank you for loving Elsa. I always felt that I hurt her in some way by making her conceal her magic. She used to be so scared of being around others including myself but with you, she is truly happy. I know I have hurt her by keeping her sheltered and with your help, you can fix her hurt. I pray that I will live long enough to see you two become a family together.” Then he leaves, shutting the door with a soft click.

Elsa’s mouth drops open in shock at her father’s declaration while Hans takes a moment to process the words.

When he finally does, Hans drops his head and cradles it in his hands. He stands there a few moments when a small knock occurs. “You can come out now.” He states.

The secret door carefully opens and Elsa peaks out just to make sure that it's just them. Once she sees it's just the both of them, she breaks out into a small sprint to her lover. Hans catches Elsa's by her waist and they spin together, with him lifting her a few feet in the air.

Hans brings her back down close to him and they share a passion filled kiss. After a few minutes, they come for air, placing their foreheads together.

“So…. I guess you heard all of that?” Hans asks teasingly.

Elsa lets out a string of giggles and nods to answer. “Mhm.” she murmurs.

“Well, I might as well propose to you now in private since you already know my little secret!” Hans replies, getting down on one knee and pulling out the small box.

“Will you, Elsa Caroline Nicolette Nikolai, marry me?” He opens the box to reveal a winter blue diamond on a single band with two small clear diamonds on it's two sides.

Elsa’s breath catches at seeing the ring in all it's beauty. She has never seen her mother and grandmother’s ring before and seeing it for the first time, makes her cry and overjoyed all at once.

Hans gets a bit nervous, not predicting this reaction from her even though she knew about him proposing.

“Is that a yes?” He speaks up a timid voice. She lets out a tearful yes and nods. He breathes out a sigh of relief and slips the ring on to her shaking left hand.

He stands up and hugs her close, gently swaying to comfort her. Elsa's sobs turn into sniffles and buries her face into Hans’ chest and she automatically relaxes.

A nagging thought soon interrupts her peacefulness. You have to tell him. This is the only chance you two have alone.

Her eyes fly open while they are still holding each other. “Hans?” Elsa asks. “I have something to tell you.”

“What is it, my love?” He murmurs in response.

She takes a deep breath and tells him the life changing words. “I'm pregnant, Hans.”

“You're pregnant..” He mumbles with eyes closed, the words not fully registering in his mind.

“You're pregnant…” Hans says once again, now adjusting his head to sitting on top of Elsa and opening his eyes.

“You're- Wait, What?” He says a third time, the statement finally clicking in his brain. He pulls away from her to look her in the eyes.

She gives him a small shoulder shrug and sheepish smile. “Surprise?”

He stands there with an agape expression, holding her arms. “Are you sure that you're pregnant?” Hans stammers out.

“Yes.” Elsa says in a miniscule voice. “But I also went to the village midwife in secret who confirmed it and I paid her to keep quiet about it!” She suddenly spills out. Elsa clamps a hand over her running mouth with widened eyes.

Hans lets go of her arms and walks to the windows of the room. He tangles his hair nervously between his fingers then he suddenly stops.

“How long have you known?” Hans asks.

“I suspected that I was when I felt nauseous during our outings but didn't confirm it till last month. The midwife says that I'm around three months along already.” Elsa explains.

Hans doesn't respond and continues to stare out the windows.

“I know you have every right to be upset at me.” She says. “I was the one who started the events that night, not you.” Elsa's eyes cast downwards in shame. She wrings her hands out of habit, frost glazing them over.

“I'm not upset at you, Elsa.” Hans breaks his silence. “It's just that when your Father told me that he received suitor invites for you and your sister, he brushed them off as men who were seeking power and overthrowing both of you. And with you now pregnant, he just might suspect that!” He turns to face Elsa and ends his outburst with a loud huff.

“I know Hans. I heard all of it.” Elsa replies. “But I will tell him that I was the one who asked you to sleep with me, not the other way around.”

“Even if you do, your father will suspect that I just lied to his face and pressed you into marriage because you're pregnant with my child!” Hans says with a slightly raised voice. “Your Father is a king, Elsa. he knows that royals in this day and age have children for only one reason, power.”

"He would exile me, Elsa." He goes on. "Or worse, hang me for treason! Plus the Southern Isles would be held accountable as well! I would have to leave Arendelle in order save my, your's and our child's reputation."

Elsa stands there fuming with rage, arms crossed over her chest. “So you're implying that you would break off this courtship, sail away to some unknown land, and leave me alone with our child rather than trying to reason with my Father?!”

Hans, overwhelmed with frustration, yells back. “Well, maybe I should!”

Elsa gasps at his harsh response.

“Then I don't need this anymore.” She ends the sentence by throwing her maternal ring on the floor and turning back towards Hans.

She crumples to the floor with uncontrollable sobbing and starts a small rapid flurry of snow around her.

Hans grabs the ring as soon as it lands in front of him. He takes one good look at Elsa and unconsciously runs to her, crouching down to her level and hugs her from behind.

“I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.” He whispers in her ear, rocking her oh-so gently.

The two of them stay in their position for at least ten minutes. Hans ceases his whispering apologies and rubs her back to calm her down.

Tears streak down his face as well, seeing the woman he loves so much, hurt from his harsh words. He props his head on her shoulder and plants a comforting kiss on it.

“I should be the one that apologizes.” Elsa speaks through her soft weeping. She wipes away her tears haphazardly. “This is all my fault. Maybe you should just leave me and let me deal with all this.”

Hans catches her hands in mid-action and holds them in a loving grasp. “Elsa, it's no one’s fault.” He says, releasing one of her hands and opens his own to reveal the ring she threw. “And you see this ring? It's one of the many symbols that represents that we are a team and will get through anything together. That includes our child as well.”

She nods in agreement and relaxes her body into Hans’. “I just hope that this child will know that they will always be loved and acknowledged no matter what occurred before their birth” She whispers.

He kisses her hair again in agreement, slipping the ring back on to her finger and places his hand back into hers once again. They sit together in silence, soaking in the comfort of one another. At the same time, the two pairs of hands unknowingly cradle Elsa's bump.

To put her more at ease, Hans plants a line of kisses down her face and neck, sending Elsa into a fit of laughter and in a happier mood.

“Hans! Your sideburns are so ticklish!” She says, trying unsuccessfully to avoid his silly facial hair.

“Oh, are they now?” He titters back and continues to plant kisses on her skin to tickle her even more.

She goes on giggling and while doing so, she releases her hands from his to create a calm and steady snowfall above the both of them

“Elsa! You're getting snow in my hair now!” He jokingly mocks her.

They both burst into bouts of laughter at their similar actions, still holding each other close.

Elsa tugs gently on of Hans’ arms to signal that she wants to stand up and he helps her do so. She dissipates the snowfall above them and brushes the small flakes off of her dress with Hans doing the same. Elsa waves away the remaining snow and takes a deep breath.

“I think we should go tell my parents now.” She tells him, wringing her hands again.

A terrified expression crosses his face. “That you're pregnant?” He asks in a wavering voice.

She closes the gap between them by snuggling into his chest and lets out a laugh. “No, silly. That we're officially courting now.” He lets out a breath without realizing that he was holding for so long.

“I plan to tell them about the baby in a couple weeks, probably right before you start your navy drills.” She says, her voice muffled.

“Elsa?” Hans timidly inquires.

“Hm?” She hums back.

“You do know that your Father runs said navy drills, right?” He states. “And I highly expect him to try to murder me during those drills for getting his daughter and heir to throne pregnant.”

“Oh!” She pulls back from his chest to address him. “He won't try that! Maybe try to injure you. But we'll be there together when I tell him so don't worry about it!” Elsa gives her Prince a small smile. “You'll have this Princess to protect you!”

Hans lets out a shaky laugh. “Okay.. If you say so.”

Elsa stands on her tiptoes, placing a small kiss on his nose then his lips. “Thank you, Hans.” She places her feet back down on the ground and moves to be at his side.

The simple action makes Hans smile and kisses her back, stroking her baby bump at same time. He holds out a hooked arm to escort his future wife.

“Together?” He asks.

She confidently hooks her arm through his and grins.

“Together.” She replies.

They walk to the door and Hans turns the knob to open it. He lets Elsa lead the way and she slightly drags him into the hallway. The both of them break into a sprint and chuckle at their silliness.

They reach the end of the hallway where her parents’ room lies. Elsa knocks three times on the barely ajar door and waits for a response.

“Come in!” Her mother's voice rings from inside.

Elsa and Hans give each a smile one last time before heading in, ready to announce their future together.

The End.

some ending notes;

no, this does not exist in my helsa one shot series universe :(( sorry but I might do something similar if y’all give me some prompts to work with.

I really don’t know what are official signs & symptoms of pregnancy so what I wrote was just a quick look and guess so pls don’t get maddd.

If you guys want me to do a follow up one shot to this, let me know! I’m always up for a challenge.

I will upload this to Ao3 and FF.net later today when I have time. (its currently midnight right now and Im half awake plus hangry.)

Thank y’all for the love and support <3

#lolhahahano posts #helsa week 2020 #what if #alternate universe #my writing #helsa #helsa fanfiction #disney fanfiction #frozen #frozen fanfiction #elsa x hans #hans x elsa #hansla #iceburns #prince hans #queen elsa #i honestly should have taken more time to write this but oh well!#day 6 prompt #fanfiction

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thetorturerwrites · 5 years ago

Text

Puer Deus: Strings

This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @faestae-writes. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

***

Captured / Hurricane / Sustenance / Liar / Scars / Proof

Summary: When he wants more

A/N: OK YOU GUYS -- Look, if you're here this far in, you know this is some dark shit. So, please heed this warning: This is a DARK, heavy kink chapter. SO, some things... 1. The content herein has been dramatized for effect, but this is real shit that happens in the real world. Please feel free to ask me any questions. 2. If you feel the need to explore anything here further, do your research and be risk aware. 3. Strap in. This is some shit. 4. 50 points to your house if you spot the FYA reference. :)

Word Count: 9.3k (I AM NOT SORRY)

Day Seven

It was a flicker of a moment, a subtle jolt of injected power, when the night cycle ended and day officially began.

What day is it?

Today was the first time you wouldn’t stumble to consciousness or fight through a fog. You were still embroiled in questions, though. Ren told you that you’d been here four days, but how many days ago was that?

You decided it was simply too surreal for you to actually be here, to be in your body, in Ren’s room, on board his ship. Each time you thought up a level, you felt smaller and more insignificant. Maybe you really had died. Maybe you’d bled out on his floor, and this was your afterlife.

No, not that lucky…

Your eyes were dry and red from so much crying. Your body was beyond battered, a landscape of harm and wound, mania and furor. You wore the hue of bruise like a new catsuit, covered by Ren’s painful passion from throat to toes.

The idea that some part of you would hurt, sting, throb, or ache every day you were with Ren had been hard to swallow; but a week into this persecution, you knew it to be fact.

How long until he breaks bones?

Sitting in the center of his great, wide bed, you ran your fingers over the still-bloody sheets and contemplated the last however many hours. Ren made it clear that he still meant to keep you, and the idea was solidifying more and more in your brain. You pondered whether or not you would be allowed to leave this fucking room as his personal pet.

Having spent a lifetime under open skies, being caged inside four walls for days, weeks, maybe months sent your anxiety into overdrive. The notion that you would only ever see light cycles and never again sunlight strangled you, chased away all your air. At some point, you knew you would try to flee again just for a damn change of scenery.

After he’d left, you complied with Ren’s instructions insomuch as you did eat and did not try to escape. Sleep, on the other hand, was put to the back burner because you were still in his chambers. Even if he didn’t spend all of his time here, these were his things, and they could tell you a great deal. With the guard outside this time, you simply could not pass up the opportunity to explore.

The room was eloquent in its simplicity and deliberate in its function. You ran fingers and palms over all of the flat surfaces, seeking out hidden drawers or levers in the walls and along the sides of the bed. Everything was dark gloss, industrial in its execution and easily maintained.

Of note, there was a threshold of polish right at the door, a long stretch just on the inside where the shine was high. However, that luster faded two or three steps inside. Ren did not allow people in his room often, even a cleaning crew.

Defeated, you slunk back to the bed. You’d checked all of the hiding places you would use, but you found nothing. Ren either didn’t have anything to hide or he was exceptionally good at it.

Sometime in the night cycle, you’d awoken alone in an empty bed, struggling with this swirling sense of loneliness. Captors didn’t usually sleep with prisoners, but weren’t you more than a prisoner now? With a scowl, you shook the stupid thought from your head.

You were an object to him, easily discarded and forgotten.

You hadn’t slept much after that. You curled onto your side, facing the vacant side of the bed and overrun with disquiet, anticipation. You were faced with warring options. Relent and become the devil’s plaything or escape and be hunted. The bitter truth was you wanted both, and this was not the sort of universe to grant such possibilities.

Morning came, food was delivered, and you were still alone.

Now, you were trying to forget the familiarity you thought you’d seen in Ren’s eyes yesterday, trying to wash it down the damnable drain. He was no more capable of gentleness than you were of speech. Trying to smother the ache, you turned the shower up as hot as you could handle and drifted into distraction, turning inward in a forlorn bid to comfort yourself.

The darkness that had always been there for you, though, was an empty consolation. Ren had blown apart every part of you and stomped on the ashes; he’d even taken your blessed darkness, the one place you could hide. Because when you closed your eyes to sink into that blissful nothingness, you saw him, his bloody face, his burning eyes.

Kylo Ren had infected every part of you, right down to the subconscious.

When you could pity yourself no more, you turned off the shower, scraped the water from your body as best you could, and purposefully avoided your reflection. The woman in the mirror wanted you to make choices you weren’t sure you could live with.

Exiting the bathroom, you were stopped dead in your tracks by the sight of Ren sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. He had a smallish black case to his left and was resting with one arm on a bent knee, his long body relaxed and waiting for you.

You were irked by how beautiful and calm and unhurried he looked. Must he always look so put together when you only ever felt on the verge of shattering into dirty, unrecognizable pieces of yourself?

Hi...

“You haven’t eaten today.”

He gestured over his shoulder to the tray that still had food on it. You were flushed from the hot water and stark fucking naked, but you burned redder at the idea that you were going to be punished like a child for not eating. Again.

Canting your head a bit, you gestured towards the shower. You’d wanted to wash away the feel of dry, endlessly recycled air, dirt, and shame before you did anything else. Conquering the day wasn’t on your agenda, but surviving it was.

“Good,” he looked you over speculatively, and your eyebrows shot to your hairline.

He’d shoved food directly into your throat to make sure you were decently-nourished; and now, he didn’t care if you ate? The speed with which this man changed course made your head swim, and you just stared at him, complete irritation plastered all over your face.

Fucking pick one, would you please?

The withering look he leveled at you set your blood to boiling. You’d forgotten that he could hear you now; but by the darkness in his eyes, you knew he’d be sure you didn’t forget again.

“Come here.”

You tensed, arms crossing over your chest as though you could armor yourself against him. For a second, you couldn’t make yourself move. He wanted you to willingly deliver yourself to his torment.

A shiver worked its way up your spine, blossoming into sparks at the back of your brain, but you couldn’t tell if it was from fear or pining. If you refused, he would simply put his angry hands on your body and bend you to his whim. You didn’t know what would happen if you complied without a fight.

Taking in a steadying breath, you closed the distance on tender steps, the soles of your feet still bothered at bearing weight so soon. Stopping when you were within arms reach, you looked past him to study the kit he’d brought, uncertainty wrinkling your forehead.

It was a med kit, a field kit. You’d carried one yourself for years, but your wounds had already been tended. You were littered with surgical tape and Bacta patches.

What could he possibly need a field kit for?

Are you hurt?

Ren’s rough hand slid up along the curve of your body, settling at your waist and sending fissures of desire playing along the swell of your belly. Your knees and thighs pressed together, and you shifted under his appraisal. He’d seen you naked before. Multiple times, in fact. But this felt different, affectionate. He had stripped you completely bare, laid out your mind and soul for him to reanimate at will.

Feeling naked in front of this man was about more than just your flesh.

Digging his fingers in, he maneuvered you to sit on the edge of the bed in front of him. All of the tension you’d washed away in the shower came barreling back. Every muscle was tight, and every synapse was screaming that you needed to get away.

Sat like this, unrestrained before him, you fidgeted, frightened. Your heart drummed so loud you thought he could certainly hear it. When he was silent and calm like this, you were lost to apprehension, images of lightsabers inside your body where they shouldn’t be flooding your mind. You could likely conjure up more ways for him to murder you than he could.

Just as worrisome, you couldn’t look away. He captivated you each time he was in the room. His dark irises gleamed as he held your stare, his full lips curving up on a smirk. He was daring you to look away first.

He won.

You wilted from the intensity of his gaze, turning your inflamed face away and averting your eyes. In your stupor, you didn’t realize that he was talking to you. The only thing you could hear was the metronome of your heart, its pace quickening moment by moment.

Displeased that he had to draw back your attention, Ren’s hand was around your calf, fingers pushing in between the muscles and rubbing demandingly. You glared and hissed, twisting your legs together, knees tight.

What!

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and swept his thumb along your mouth, smoothing away the bothered sneer. When your lips relaxed, he pushed in and hooked his thumb into your teeth the way you hated, the way you loved.

Your core clenched as he tugged you forward. He brought you nose to nose, so close you could feel his warm breath. He cleaved apart your desire to fight, soothing you into compliance with weaponized stillness.

“Open,” his voice was melodic, low, and rousing.

Your forehead crinkled in confusion. Lifting a hand to settle at his wrist, needing the contact to go on, you shook your head ever so slightly because his thumb was already in your mouth. It already was open.

You felt his fingers tapping on your knee, then, and you burned red from ears to toes. Whining, you tugged against his grip in a bid to keep him from seeing the way your thighs rubbed together at the very idea.

“I will not be repeating myself today, puppet.”

Blanching, you stiffened, building up any courage you could muster. Finally, as though your maidenhead was actually still intact and valuable, you hesitantly parted your knees.

Other than his eyes trailing downward to watch your legs barely obey, Ren didn’t move or speak. When his fingers dug harshly into your cheeks, cutting the weak skin inside against your teeth, you lurched and struggled. This only tightened his hold, and you thought he might break your jaw. Clutching his forearm, you fought to settle back onto the bed and opened your knees wider and then wider still.

He didn’t release his rough grip on your face until your thighs were splayed far enough apart that your pussy opened for him, too, and your face ignited with humiliation. You rubbed at your abused jaw and cheek, wondering how long it would take the finger-sized discolorations to develop.

Are you hurt, though?

You surprised even yourself with the repeat question, circling back oddly and still not certain why you should be bothered. He turned his beautiful, dusky eyes to you, and your breath caught. Was he pleased with your concern? Did it satisfy him to think he’d brainwashed you into caring?

He trapped you there, pinned by his mesmerizing eyes, while his fingers slid up your calf, thigh, hip. You were nearly lulled into thinking his light touch would extend to your aching cunt, but he gripped your outer labia into such a tight pinch that you felt punched in the stomach.

You yelped and surged forward, folding in as much as you could, hips from screwing side to side trying to lessen the pressure. He squeezed and tugged upon the tender flesh until it puffed up, swelling under his ministrations.

A satisfied sound bubbled up from his throat, and you slowly brought your focus back to him.

Kylo..please...

In a hot second, he switched and snatched up your left labia, digging his fingers in so deep you could feel the nails. You shouted out, the wheeze of it tapering off as your breath heaved. Mirroring his grip, you dug your fingers into his arm but didn't try to push him away.

Screwing your eyes shut, you shuddered and tried to roll through the pain.

The whole middle of your body throbbed in time to your heartbeat, and you groaned when the endorphins finally kicked in to flood you with acceptance, the sound of it indecent even to you. The sting and pulse abated slightly, and your head fell back, lips parting on a relieved sigh.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice smooth like honey. “Open your eyes.”

You very nearly refused and vaulted from your perch, but it was inevitable. You wanted to obey nearly as much as you wanted to fight, and it was this internal war he wanted to witness every time. Willing your breathing to steady, you relaxed your fingers at his sleeve and opened glassy eyes.

The look of him, the utter craving displayed on his godlike features, was arresting, intoxicating. His eyes shone a shade of twilight you’d never get used to, and his lips trembled, barely keeping his hunger contained. The way he was looking up at you was erotic and evoked a terrible longing.

Kylo!

Your face twisted into a pained frown as he switched back and forth between the two bloated lips. He clucked in condescension when warm juice tracked down onto his fingers, and you buried your face in your hands. When he finally stopped crushing you in his vice grip, the gratitude rushed out unchecked.

THANK you…

Absent his touch, you pressed a hand at your abdomen and forced yourself to breathe deeply. You were wholly disgusted with your response to such vulgar treatment. Would you blossom under every madness he put upon you?

Your eyes lit upon his hands and the case he was holding, and you forgot to feel repulsed.

Dread filled your chest, squeezing your lungs back into panic. You had no fucking idea what he was about to do, and you were too terrified to look away. You didn’t think you could curtail his plan, but maybe you could persuade him that you would be good.

If you’ll just let me, I’ll go do it right now...

Ignoring you completely, he produced and threaded a slender surgical needle. Your torso hunched of its own volition, trying in vain to put more distance between you and that curved metal. You mewled and whined, begging him to look and not do whatever this was, but he brushed your hands away, reaching out to tug and pinch at your labia again, inching nearer to his goal.

Fuck, Kylo..I’ll eat dammit! Please stop...

He looked at you, smug and cruel, and you finally understood that he was swelling your labia on purpose and with clear intent, and it had absolutely nothing to do with whether or not you'd eaten.

You shook your head wildly, leaning forward and pushing at his arm in a different spot every time he would wave you off. Desperate, pleading tears sprang to your eyes, and you clung to him.

No no please no not that please no…

Finished with your begging, Ren anchored you in place with the Force, preventing you from even twitching from the waist down. He hummed at the sight of you, flushed and heaving, thighs spread wide.

You were in the middle of the next pitiful appeal when you felt the needle pierce your most-sensitive skin.

You were too shocked to move, to shout, to implore him to spare you this torture. The thin suture line dragged through the perforation, and your eyes slammed so tightly shut you thought they might bleed.

It wasn’t until the second stab of his suture needle that you fully understood what was happening. You’d thought he simply meant to pierce the bulging, inflamed lips in order to decorate them; but when he tugged the line taut, pulling the swollen folds together, you sputtered and choked on your own spit. You pawed at his shoulder imploringly, foolishly hoping he would surrender this plan if you appeased him with your touch.

Kylo..please don’t do this...please don’t do this...

He crooned and cupped your face, the supple tone of his voice belying the very atrocity he was committing upon you. He straightened up to nudge your jaw with his nose, dragging the tip through your tears. Your fingers curled so tight into his sleeve that you popped stitches in the black fabric, but he offered you no more solace than this.

He wasn’t indifferent to your suffering; he reveled in it, enjoying seeing it up close.

“You need strings, puppet.”

You whimpered helplessly, thinking you’d likely launch yourself into a dying star if he told you to with that almost-adoring voice.

He released your face, and you dissolved into wretched sobs. There was no escaping his iron will, his demented punishment. Pressing the heels of your shaking hands into your eyes, you openly wept, not bothering to try to be strong for this, for him. Expecting you to endure this easily was too much.

Ren had treated you like property from the moment he saw you. He’d proven to you that you were little more than an object to be toyed with, and his words from that day in the shower resounded in your ears. But in this, he was taking away your humanity entirely. Any pretense that you might have been afforded some pleasure for your endurance bled away.

Stitch by stitch, Ren sewed your labia together, rendering you an androgynous receptacle, suitable for nothing more than receiving pain.

When he was finished, your clit was hidden snug behind a fleshy hem, but your vagina was open, accessible. That was the part he needed, you thought morbidly.

The Force pressure dissipated, your legs instinctively pressed together, and you curled into yourself. Digging ruddy fingertips into the mattress, you tried to flee, to crawl across the bed and away from him.

You’re a monster...

He captured you around the hips and hauled you onto your feet. He didn't care that you were awash in pain; it didn't factor into his plans and was, thus, negligible. He gathered you into his arms, and you wished, for the hundredth time, that he had just let you die.

The sutures were neat and tidy, but every movement tugged at them, reminding you of your place in Kylo Ren’s world. You erupted into a new bout of tears and pushed at his chest, angry and gutted.

“Walk,” he pressed his lips to your temple, murmuring the order into your hair, “or crawl.”

On an offended snort, you jerked your head away from his kiss. Battling yourself into some semblance of calm, you sniffled and nodded. He absolutely would make you crawl down the halls of this ship wearing nothing but those fucking sutures, and you’d rather not be so debased as that.

Suffering for Ren was one thing; suffering for an audience was too much.

He had stepped away to shake out clothes for you to wear when the epinephrine crested and dropped you over a black cliff. Thunder roared in your ears, and your eyes rolled into white. Chased by a wounded gasp, your legs lost all ability to hold you and buckled, but Ren was at your side in an instant, snatching you up before you hit the floor.

Righting you, he held your weight until your breathing regulated and you pushed back onto your feet. Not wanting to meet his eyes, you nodded against his shoulder, a silent report that you were here with him. He helped you dress in the gauzy black shirt and pants and tipped your face up.

You had no idea what he was looking for, and you were too tired to fake whatever it was.

Wrapping his great hand around your upper arm, he steered you from the room and down a dark corridor. He wouldn’t go through all the trouble to maim you if he was going to kill you, and you wondered what fresh hell you were being delivered to now. Your steps were slow, hesitant, but he didn’t rush you.

Probably enjoying watching you hobbled in a fantastic new way...

He stopped on a chuckle, turned you to face him, and looked down at you with sardonic amusement. You met his stare, fresh out of any damn to give over whether or not he heard you. You knew you were in no way threatening to this brute, but you leveled him with a searing gaze anyways.

“Supreme Leader Snoke is pleased with my progress.” Ren offered, pulling you flush against his body. “He thinks I have no further need for you…” He reached out to brush his thumb across your glowering mouth. “...but I find that I want more.”

Overwhelmed and nervous at the admission, your mouth dropped open and you stared, dumbfounded. While your mind tumbled over what else you could possibly offer him, he brushed past, leaving you to follow.

More? What else was there? Hadn’t you already given him everything? He’d broken through your safety wall. He’d all but bathed in your blood. He’d sewn your fucking cunt shut so you couldn’t even use it like a human being.

What the fuck else could you possibly want from me…

You were so angry that you stupidly followed him into a blindingly white room. You slammed to a stop and blinked, forcing the room into focus. In the center, there was a surgical table, a tray of neatly-arranged instruments, and a man, dressed in gray scrubs and donning a clear splash guard at his face. On the opposite side sat Ren’s black helmet, dented and busted apart.

Hand at your elbow, Ren led you further in and stroked your face with his wide palm, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the table. He nudged the shell of your ear with his nose, and you quivered to feel so near to him, almost like a lover. You clutched at his shirt, molding your body to his and trying to hide from the coming onslaught.

You shook your head, already disbelieving, not wanting to hear what he was going to say next.

“I want to hear you scream,” his voice was hushed, as though this was a romantic secret.

All the blood drained from your face, and your mouth went bone dry. You looked from Ren, who was gazing down at you in a way that seared your insides, to the man waiting to enact his orders. He stood there silently, waiting for his Commander’s direction, and you wondered if he’d been threatened into this room, too.

Ren turned you into the very middle of this insanity and hunched down to bury his face into the crook of your neck, crowding you back into the table. Dancing on your toes, you laid petrified and quaking fingertips at his neck, needing to impress upon him how crazy this was.

Kylo...you can hear me...I’ve already given you everything..please don’t do whatever this is...

Paying no attention to your pleas, Ren slid his hands into the roomy waistband of your pants and nudged them down your body, kicking the paltry fabric away before you could get them. He lifted you onto the table and situated you at its very end, legs dangling in an eerily familiar way.

He stepped into the space between your legs, scooting your hips out to meet his. You felt blistered every time you came into contact with his body, fingers, nose. He tipped your head back to lick at the scars crossing your larynx and rocked his body against yours. He was thick against you, his body hardening at the pitiable display you were putting on, and you whimpered in shameless response.

“Be good, puppet,” he hummed against your ear, enjoying the way your body reacted to his vicious dominance.

He stepped back, tugging out the table's stirrups, and you didn’t know who to be more afraid of. The doctor positioned his tray nearer to your head, stepping in so close you could smell the antiseptic soap.

You pushed at Ren’s hands when he guided your heels into the braces.

Kylo..please...You can’t… I can’t…

It was fluid now, automatic. Your mouth opened when his fingers drew near, and he yanked you forward by that wicked hook. He slid his thumb slowly against your tongue and looked directly up into your eyes. Your knees knocked together, and you cried out in pain, having forgotten in your terror that your pussy was sewn up tight.

“You will.”

He did something to you when he said those things, and you stopped squirming. You would never win this war. You would only tire yourself out with the fighting. Beyond that, some delirious part of you wanted to prove him right, to show him that yes, you could do this.

Clenching your hands into tight fists, you closed your eyes to quell anxious tears. He finished arranging your legs into the stirrups and scooted your ass down to the end of the table.

Shame flooded you, barely contained by the bruised membrane that was your skin, because anyone who walked into the room would be treated to a view of your mistreated cunt.

Over you, the two men discussed what was about to happen as though you weren’t even there, and you felt more infinitesimal than ever before. The doctor agreed that this was, indeed, a minorly invasive surgery, but it was what came next that launched you forward, panic-induced frenzy telling you to get the fuck out now regardless of whether you died in the process.

“There’s no need for a sedative. She will be fine. Topical if you need it, but nothing stronger.”

You were a rabid animal up against an unstoppable force, but you howled and thrashed anyways. You clawed at his arms and tried to kick him in the stomach and groin. You screamed and sobbed because even Santcha, who had done nothing but beat, stab, and take from you, had never been so cruel.

Each day you were here, Kylo Ren was disassembling you and rearranging your parts. He was building himself a better puppet, piece by bloody fucking piece.

You cannot do this! You cannot do this...Kylo..you fucking cannot...

The doctor hunched over, holding his groin and floundering. Ren smirked, punching you into place with his trunk of an arm at your stomach. Looking down at you, he stroked the inside of your knee with lazy circles, no doubt in a patronizing attempt to settle your fraying nerves.

“Calm down, puppet. You’re hurting the good doctor here.”

In your hysteria, you were pushing your feelings, your pain, out into the world around you. If you still hadn’t believed Ren about your Force-sensitivity, you’d just manifested all the proof he would ever need.

Exhausted from your outburst and ashamed for assaulting someone who hadn’t harmed you, you swallowed down air and fixed your stare upon the ceiling. You counted heartbeats until the muscle didn’t feel like it was about to explode from your chest.

Angrily, you pushed Ren’s hand away. You needn’t be pitied by the very man who was causing all of this.

With a chuckle, he pulled a rolling stool over to sit like it was just another fucking day of endless meetings. Lifting your head up to glare at him, your chest seized, breath hitching, because you could see his shoulders, neck, and face between your spread thighs.

Kylo please...

Maybe it's what he thought you were begging for because the Force slid over you like a weighted blanket, pinning you to the table, and you were never so grateful for being relieved of your autonomy.

The doctor turned your head into place and secured a metal brace on your throat, prohibiting any movement. He applied a foul-smelling ointment to your skin, and you shattered, horrified to your very marrow.

You no longer had eyes, only faucets spewing forth an endless stream of angry, mournful tears. You tried closing them to staunch the flow because the doctor said you were moving too much, but you couldn't stop your body now. You weren't in control of it anymore.

The stress response to this terror was unforgiving, and you thought it might never end. He was going to have to cut you open from ear to ear because stopping the chatter of your teeth and the rattling of your shoulders and chest was simply not within your power.

Your fingers uncurled, reaching for Ren even though you knew he would never offer you this comfort.

Instead, warmth pooled around your breasts, licking up your sternum, and you drew in a tremulous breath. The Force that held you in place lavished attention upon your torso, cupping, massaging, and squeezing your breasts together. Warm and wet nipped at the hard peaks, and your calves flexed in response.

“Quiet now.”

Ren's voice was even, demanding. He had indulged your fear long enough, and it was now time to obey. You concentrated on the invisible hand tugging your breasts into an aching throb and reminded yourself to wiggle your toes and fingers. Your lips quivered on every exhale, but you were trying so hard to keep yourself together.

You knew how to process pain, but this affliction could hardly be classified as pain.

As the doctor set to his task, you felt pressure at your neck but not the sting of the scalpel. Ren seemed to want that sensation only for himself, and you conjured the image of him painted with your blood, preferring the memory of beautiful torture to this reality of sanitized mistreatment.

The doctor, asking Ren something you didn't catch, stuck his fucking fingers into your throat, and your panic kicked back up. You jerked against the stirrups, and your lips curled into a snarl, readying to shout curses at this man, consequences be damned.

Shushing you, Ren dipped his face between your thighs, and you nearly vaulted off the table when you felt his lips connect with the supple, bruised skin. His kiss was soft, his lips smooth, and you bristled with ire that he would deny you the sight of him between your legs.

Alongside the doctor, you cursed him and tightened your hands into angry fists.

He chuckled against you, clearly entertained by your fit. The sensation at your breasts increased, the rippling heat licking, sucking, and biting at your nipples. The throb bubbled over and spread down your sides, slithering across your stomach. It was rousing and teasing and distracting, exactly as it was meant to be.

Ren’s mouth traveled from one thigh to the other, and your whole face pinched with the effort to be as silent as possible. It was clear that any noise you made, any vibration in your throat, would do more damage and prolong this bastardized treatment.

He didn’t want you to damage his property with your foolishness, you realized.

He murmured an agreement to the thought and kissed up the insides of both legs, sucked on his bruises, and nipped at the highest point of your thighs. Your insides pooled, and he dipped his thumb into the wetness building for him, tugging ever so gently upon the weeping slit.

The doctor reached across your body to the tray that held the destroyed helmet, but you were too wrapped up in Ren’s wicked scheme to notice him plundering the debris for a specific part. The tension in your legs and hips had lessened under his mouth, and your vulnerable thighs had dropped further apart.

Abruptly, the pressure of the Force increased upon your entire body, and you were unnerved all over again because what was coming next surely was worse than what you’d already endured if he needed to hold you down more.

You sniffled through your fear but poured every ounce of brute determination into remaining calm, to keep yourself still and under some measure of composure. You weren’t sure if he was speaking aloud or in your head, but you heard Ren praising you for how well you were doing, how beautiful and strong you were to endure this for him.

As though you had any choice in the matter.

When his lips connected with your cunt, you thought you would certainly swallow whatever the doctor was lodging into your neck. You could feel the pressure more insistently now as he crammed or screwed or stitched whatever the fuck it was he was doing.

Ren kissed and sucked upon your stretched labia; the sounds lewd and consuming. He plucked each stitch with his tongue, and you thought you were going to lose your mind. You could feel every tight tug followed by the warm flat of his tongue gliding up the length of the vicious seam.

You marveled at how easily this man could conjure new tortures, how simple it was for him to corrupt something so mundane and turn it into exquisite torment.

Master of the Knights of Ren, indeed...

You cursed him again for taking away any hint of pleasure you might eke out from this whole experience. It was barbarous and merciless to lay his mouth upon you like this and prevent you from actually feeling it, enjoying it. It was the pinnacle of painful foreplay, and you hated him for it.

You hated the doctor for being a party to this whole fucking thing. You hated everyone on this ship for bowing to the tantrums of a Child God, and you promised yourself you’d murder Supreme Fucking Leader Snoke himself for creating such a beast.

Ren bit into your thigh harshly at that last thought, directly into the center of the deep bruise, and your toes curled tight. That mark certainly went down to the bone and would likely scar, little indentations from his teeth puckering more each time he revictimized the area.

Kylo...

Sweat broke across your brow, and a feverish tremble began as your body tried to deal with the absurd number of sensations warring inside.

The doctor pushed his tray away and told you both that he would need to test the calibration before he could close the window. You blinked up at his masked face in confusion. Test the calibration of what? How were you meant to do that, exactly?

Ren stood and you jerked at the brush of his body. You could feel him rustling, but it was driving you mad that you couldn’t see what he was doing. He hooked his thumbs into the very tops of your thighs and tugged the opening of your vagina just slightly wider. The stitches strained, and you whimpered, unable to contain it any longer.

Your eyes flew wide open because the sound was strange, louder, reverberating.

The swollen head of Ren’s cock nudged at your entrance, and you knew your heart was going to explode from your chest. He’d been working you, tinkering with those fucking puppet strings, to flood your pussy and make it ready for him; and like a damn fool, you’d given him exactly what you wanted.

You burned with humiliation and ragged desire as he pushed in, breaking the seal and stretching your cunt into something pliable for his sizable dick. It was endless, the sting and scorch of each inch, and you wanted to beg that he please just let you reach for him. It was all becoming too much, and you were disjointed, disconnected from everything.

Ren pushed and leaned into you until he was fully seated, pulsing at the very center of your body. You could feel every throb, every carnal twitch. Ren was fucking you from both ends, his dick stuffed far into your pussy and his depraved will stuffed down deep into your neck. The very idea of it sent you into a spiral.

“Fuck, that’s tight,” he groaned, voice gravelly. “Relax, puppet. Open for me.”

Kylo, not like this...

You were truly his object, denied any relief from his harassment or any pleasure at his hand. Digging his fingers into your hips, he began a slow, thorough stroke, pulling nearly all the way out only to plunge back down to the hilt.

“Out loud, girl.”

Your head ticked, a screaming internal alarm preventing you from shaking it outright, because you couldn’t do it; you could not obey this order. You couldn’t even remember the sound of your own voice, and you didn’t want to mourn something you couldn’t recall. You also didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Fuck you...

Ren’s hips thrust harder into you, though, and you yelped. The high-pitched fabricated sound shocked you, and you trailed it with a hiccup, breath catching on the implications of this new reality.

“Lower,” Ren nodded to the doctor, who adjusted the implant in your throat.

You seethed. He was tailoring the sound of your voice to his fucking preference, and you thought you surely would rip the damned thing out of your neck if you had your hands free.

Dissatisfied with your reaction to his steady pace, Ren rutted into you stubbornly, fucking you with more force. Your ire fizzled, the anger dribbling out of your cunt on a steady trickle of hot slick. He stretched you, and you moaned at the fullness of it. You desperately wanted to arch and rock your hips against him, but you were completely paralyzed, not even given room to wiggle.

“Kylo. Fuck. Please.”

He all but purred at the modulated sound of your voice, the one he’d given you, and rewarded you with a long series of strokes so deep you saw stars.

“Lower,” he ordered, and the doctor moved to his bidding.

“Now, puppet, what’s that mantra of yours?”

Ren’s cunning was staggering. He was demanding the only thing that had allowed you to survive him. Your throat burned, tingling around the foreign implant, and you swallowed, trying to moisten the metal. Sniffling, you cleared your throat, focusing on the task you’d been given and not the ruthless invasion of your pussy.

Taking as deep of a breath as you could, you concentrated on making the sound as even as possible.

“In...suffering...there...is...beauty.”

“That’s right,” he praised you and then nodded to the surgeon. “That’s it.”

Having gotten what he wanted, Ren bent over you and nipped at your stomach before tucking himself back into his pants. In moments, the doctor had your throat stitched up, a Bacta patch applied, and was giving instructions to Ren about no solid food for 24 hours, watch for infection, and apply Bacta as needed.

He also advised that you should be silent for the next 24 hours due to inflammation but that he understood if something happened to prevent that.

You narrowed your eyes at the ceiling when he said it because of fucking course something was going to prevent that. Curling your hands into fists again, you renewed your vow to slaughter every soul on this ship.

With the doctor gone, the Force hold you’d been kept under released, and you shot upwards to confront Ren. This wasn’t fear or flight; this was anger and malice.

You slammed both fists into his chest and shoved. Pressing your lips into a hard line, you jammed your knee in between your body and his, intent upon sprinting past him and away from here, from him.

Jerking your legs back apart, he stepped in and wrapped his massive hand around your throat, burning you with his gaze and squeezing you back into muted compliance. Satisfied you would be still, he wrapped you tight into his chest, fingers still stroking your throat.

Shock and absolute fury coiled into the pit of your stomach, and you just sat, boiling in your hatred that he could so easily disfigure you and, then, so easily divest you of your rage.

The severity of what he’d done registered, and panicked spikes drove into your heart. You quaked anew, tears spilling, and you dug your fingers into the shirt at the small of his back.

What did you do…

“Out loud,” he pressed, voice endearing as he brushed your tears away.

Licking your lips, you stared at him for a long moment, eyes glossy. Ren waited patiently as you gathered the fortitude to obey. Even he seemed to understand this was a lot to take in.

“What did you do?” You whispered it, the haunted voice faltering, betraying the depth of your despair.

He hummed hungry delight against your jaw. Using the leverage he always seemed to have at your neck, Ren turned your head for you to take in the broken bits of his helmet on the tray. In the vortex of fear and lust and terror, you’d completely forgotten it had been there at all.

“This voice,” he breathed the words out, stroking the bandage, “is mine.”

You gaped at him, eyes swiveling from the tray to his face and back. It broke over you like lightning. He had taken the modulator from his helmet and had it implanted in your throat.

Ren dropped his head into your neck again and sucked a mark into the skin. You were too frozen to respond, your back rigid but your arms and legs hanging limp and useless.

“This body,” he said into your neck, “is mine.”

Slithering his hands between your bodies, he pushed your thighs apart wide and ran his fingers up the plump seam. You shuddered, feeling the pulse of your sequestered clit battering against the wall that should not be there.

“This pussy,” he bit at your jaw, “is mine.”

He had succeeded in reducing you to a nameless doll, a puppet tailored exactly to his liking for his entertainment and use. You were dazed, thunderstruck, and empty. He had put you through absolute hell today, and you weren’t capable of filtering your thoughts, now words, anymore.

You were past the point where you could even care if he punished you for insolence.

“Why did you stay with me?”

The question startled you more than the alien sound of your new voice. You managed to look at him and concentrated on his alluring freckles. You searched his starry eyes for something to latch onto, something that would tie you here.

You had no childish thoughts of love or support. But right now, having borne the brunt of so much of his persecution, you needed something.

One question, though, led to more, and they began to spill from your lips on this new capability.

“Why didn’t you kill me? I was ready, and I would have gladly given you that. Why did you need to do this to me? You were already in my head, listening.”

Your ire and emotion were rising, the mechanical undertone in your voice lifting in pitch. You blinked, really truly trying to understand the whims of a mad man.

“What difference is there between me screaming in my head and screaming out loud? Why couldn’t you just leave me the way I was? I was surviving your punishment just fine without this unnatural, bastard tongue!”

You fisted both hands into his shirt and pounded against the chest beneath. Your lips wobbled, and you tipped your head back, furious at the tears that wouldn’t fucking stop.

You had learned to survive without a voice. The silence you offered the universe became your salvation, your solace. People expected nothing of you when they knew you couldn't speak, and you’d used it to strengthen yourself, to fortify your will to endure and withstand all manner of ego and abuse.

Frantic, you settled on the most important question, the one that you needed answered.

“Why did you do this to me?”

Ren captured your face in both hands and smothered your tirade with a kiss. His beautiful pink lips slanted over yours, and you melted against his mouth. He sucked at your lower lip, licked the roof of your mouth, and slid his tongue against yours until you were breathless and squirming.

He curled your limbs around his shoulders and waist and carried you around the side of the table. Setting you down, he plucked the scalpel from the tray, his hands disappearing between your legs. You whimpered and scooted backwards, but he hooked a hand beneath your knee and pulled you back into place.

“I did this,” he cut one of the sutures, “to focus your attention away from the procedure."

“Is that not…” he nipped at your pulse, “...merciful?”

He made quick work of the remaining sutures, slicing through them and pulling the remnants away. You whined, head lolling, as your freed labia parted, blood beginning to redistribute to the abused skin and shooting pins and needles into your cunt. He followed the sharp stings with his thumb, rubbing between the swollen folds until you gasped and tipped your pelvis into his touch.

Tugging you against his body, Ren ground his erection between your tender lips. You moaned low, the sound warbled, wanton, and needy, and he captured it with a deep kiss, swallowing on a growl.

He tore at his own clothes, freed his swollen cock, and pushed inside of you, not bothering to be gentle. Your eyebrows drew together tight at the invasion, the time between the first fucking and this one having been enough for your body to re-acclimate to his absence.

Sinking your teeth into your lip, you lifted your hips to his assault because the utter completion you felt was too good to resist.

“And I did..fuck…,” he faltered, bottoming out into your tight heat; “...I did this,” he dipped his face down and licked the bandage, the only truly new scar he’d ever given you; “...so that you would remember,” his breath was broken now, his voice ragged with lust; “...that every sound you make belongs to me.”

You held tightly to his back, hugging his sides with your legs, and trying your damnedest to stay here in this moment. The second adrenaline crash of the day threatened to consume you, but you fought against it because the man who’d teased you for a week had his dick so far inside you that you thought you could taste it.

You were desperate for this bliss, whining in raw need, and you shuddered when he rocked your body against his in the manner and tempo he liked, large fingers splayed across your ass and moving you to his pleasure. Your tortured cunt clenched and all but sucked his dick in deep.

You cried out, feeling the lines between you as a person and you as Ren’s personal fucktoy bleed together. Your whole body contracted, squeezing him hard and coming absolutely alive under his thumb. You clung to his back like he was your own personal savior.

Stretching long fingers around your neck, Ren lifted your face and forced you to look, always wanting to watch you agonize for him. The now-familiar warm sensation blossomed at your clit, and your eyes fluttered shut on a loud moan. He shook you until your eyes opened again, demanding your stare.

“You’re no victim," he sneered.

He punched himself so far into your cunt that you felt the nudge at your cervix and erupted into an echoing shriek. The Force engulfed your clit, every single one of the thousands of nerves swarmed by the hot vibration and spreading a delicious jolt up through your abdomen.

“You’re a depraved, filthy thing,” he dug his nails into your jaw, “and your body was made for me.”

You couldn’t look away, couldn’t shake your head or disagree. Accepting that hard truth on your behalf, your pussy flooded him with a new surge of molten slip, and he growled possessively. He licked at your mouth and squeezed your neck tighter. The pressure arched you into his chest and set your cunt to clutching feverishly.

“See? Not happy unless you’re being hurt.”

Pressing into the veins below your jaw, he stunted the flow of blood to your brain, sending you into floating oblivion. You convulsed against him, the jerk of your body trying to fight off unconsciousness drawing a hungry moan from your captor. The suction at your clit intensified, and you begged, lips working on impotent words, breath choppy, and fingers clamoring and raking against his biceps.

You were nothing but a vibrating mess, well-fucked and wholly obliterated by his embrace as he choked and ravaged your body. The stab of his dick was relentless, and you were very nearly gone, your eyes glazing over, eyelids heavy.

“Cum for me, puppet. Show me how much you like it."

He dipped his mouth to your ear, voice commanding, dripping with derision and desire. Shifting his fingers, he allowed blood to rush back into your dizzy head, and you gasped hard. Married with the hot pressure at your clit and the pistoning of his cock, you seized in deference to his order.

Your entire body shrunk into a tight ball against him, knees drawing up high, ankles hugging at his back. Your fingers and toes curled, your legs and arms shook, and your abdomen and ass clenched hard and tight.

The orgasm blew through you like a comet, and everything loosened on a series of soul-shattering quakes.

You shouted and wailed, the altered, digital howl sounding almost like it truly belonged to you. Your cunt spasmed, alternating between trying to push Ren’s invading cock out and trying to draw it further and further in.

You were drowning in euphoria, endorphins, and emotions, and you had no protection, no wall with which to keep everything at bay. Every single thing Ren had done, was doing, roiled through you and radiated off of your body dangerously, and he was caught in the blast zone.

“Fuck..fuck..FUCK!”

His hands dug caverns into the meat of your ass, fingernails leaving crescent trenches. He bit into the side of your neck, buried himself as far into you as he could, and emptied his cock into the flood you were offering him.

Three more thrusts pushed his seed in deep, and he moaned, low and liquid, into your skin while bucking through his orgasm. You were barely clinging to consciousness, weak and overwhelmed by the events of the afternoon, the day, the week.

For the third time today, Ren held you, stroking your back until your mind came back to your body. When you lifted your head, he leaned back, taking in your mottled cheeks, swollen mouth, and glassy eyes.

“Open.”

He lifted his hand to your mouth and purred when it opened for him naturally. He hooked his thumb into your teeth, just the way you liked, and you shifted against him, leaking all manner of bodily fluids onto the table.

You hadn't hesitated at all, too sated to bristle that it was beneath you or too eager for whatever demeaning paradise he was willing to offer.

He held your jaw right there, thumb playing with the inside of your teeth. He was looking at you as though he was ready to bathe in your blood again, and you weren’t sure that you wouldn’t let him. His eyes were dark and nefarious and hypnotic.

What he did next was so unexpectedly obscene that you choked. He tilted your head back and spat into your mouth, watching his saliva pool on your tongue.

Your body’s reaction was immediate, suffused with want and something you might later identify as pride. Your fingers tightened into his shirt, and your chest arched up into him. You let loose a low sound that even you didn’t even recognize, and your hips rocked beseechingly against him.

“You belong to me,” he said, watching the bubbles slide down your throat. “This is the last time I'll explain myself to you."

He allowed you to close your mouth, and you stared at him, awed and searching. Before you could second guess yourself, you curled his trembling fingers around your throat, swallowing beneath the grip.

If this was the closest you would ever get to an intimate gesture, you needed it now more than you needed oxygen.

Satisfied for the moment, Ren squeezed your neck and rubbed his nose against yours.

Too soon, the moment ended, and Ren grasped your hips and lifted you off of his dick with a low groan. You watched openly as he tucked himself away and righted his clothing. You flushed, pleased at the idea that he was going to spend the rest of today with your cunt lingering on his dick.

You blinked at the thought, troubled at the ease with which you joined him in such vulgarity.

Your reverie was interrupted by a slender man in all black walking into the room uninvited and unannounced. Ren’s head shot up on a snarl, and he reached out to wind that unfortunate soul into the Force and lift him off of his feet.

You tiredly glanced over at Ren’s newest victim, surprised by his bright red hair. Knowing better than to interfere, you simply looked from Ren to this intruder, wondering how long it would be before one of them spoke.

“The...Supreme...Leader...demands...your………………...presence!”

Ren released his hold, and the uniformed man hit the ground with a crash, scrambling back out into the hallway. Bending down, he scooped up your black pants and handed them to you.

Ren's gaze hardened considerably, and you were amazed at how dark became void in his eyes. Reaching back to the tray, he grabbed the scalpel, broke off the blade, and lifted it to your mouth.

“If he tries to hurt you or move you,” his voice was dangerously low, and your eyes flitted around his arm to the door, “get away. Find the Knights of Ren.”

The questions played across your face, and your brow knit. Were you in danger? Why were you in danger? You leaned forward, meaning to ask, but he shook his head, instructing you back to silence. You sat up straighter, concerned and more alert.

“That voice is for me, only.”

Understanding, you parted your lips and accepted the weapon, moving it with your tongue and tucking it into the roof of your mouth. Ren's battle face changed for just a second, his beautiful lips turning up into a smirk, knowing full well this wasn’t the first time you’d had to hide a blade.

You accepted that he would push you until you broke for him, over and over, but it satisfied you to no end that he wasn’t prepared to allow anyone else to harm you. That pleasure was afforded to him alone in the Galaxy.

“Hux!” He barked it out, and the man, who was still rubbing his tender throat, turned into the room to look.

“You will personally deliver her back to my chambers.”

Ren didn’t waste time asking if the man understood his instructions. He would be obeyed, or someone would die. In seconds, he had collected the remnants of his helmet and was gone from the room.

You sagged, feeling like the universe was somehow less bright without the scorch of his presence. Stuffing your aching, wobbly legs into the black linen, you cautiously descended from the surgical table and righted the material over your hips.

Turning, you faced your new escort, whose name was apparently Hux, and gestured for him to lead on.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #puer deus

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pangolin-404 · 4 years ago

Text

The Ink Demonth, Day 4: Denial

Hnnng Tumblr nerfed my links in the tags so I'll cave and pop it here. This one does deal with trauma and denial as per the prompt, so tread lightly if you need to!

"Oh, my! Shawn? Shawn Flynn?" A voice sang from above. "Or are you a slug who stole his hat?"

The lost one didn't respond. He looked like he'd been thrown into a washing machine. One leg, torn to shreds, left a trail of ink as he limped through Heavenly Toys. One of his eyes lacked the golden hue it should've had, and the black socket left behind dripped thick beads of ink down his face. Part of his lower ribs seemed to have simply caved in. Ink dribbled down the side of his head. He stared up at nothing, his arms dangling limp at his sides. He wore a scully cap that was scuffed and torn and soaked with ink.

"What are you doing tracking your filthy, tainted ink all over my floors?"

He jolted, but didn't speak. The thing called Shawn looked around the room. Before turning and limping into a particular room. It had a conveyer belt for toys that hadn't been turned on in a while.

"Are you deaf? Answer me!" The voice turned sharp and snappy. She growled from a place unseen.

Shawn's working eye landed on a Bendy plush sitting on the belt. Without a second of hesitation, he picked it up and launched it across the room. It hit the opposite wall with a squeak and bounced onto the floor. His breathing picked up and he turned away from the plush, only to see a poster that held Bendy's grinning face. Work hard, work happy.

Soon it was facing his wrath, too, as he tore it town, his breath catching in his throat in a bubbling whine. He crumbled up the paper in shaky, bleeding hands. It became unrecognizable mush as his ink trickled into it. He let it drop into a nearby waste bin. After looking around and seeing no other posters that held Bendy's likeness, he turned his attention to an unfinished Alice Angel doll. He was shaking and breathing hard.

"...did you encounter the Ink Demon, by any chance?" The voice turned sickly sweet. "Oh! You poor thing! I-"

Shawn mumbled something. He picked up a train without wheels and examined it.

"What was that?"

"I said, shuddahp, lass, I'm...tryin' ta do me job..."

The voice gasped, as if scandalized. "Are you telling me, an angel, to shut up? You lowlife, cruel-" but she wasn't being heard.

Undeterred, Shawn pulled open a drawer. It was full of various sizes of wheels. He picked one up.

Without another word, he stuck the wheels onto the train. He tilted his head. "This little guy...needs to be painted, don'tcha think? Now, maybe black..."

A glob of ink fell over his working eye, and he idly wiped it away. The glow was dull, but he didn't seem bothered much by it. He set the train on a desk shoved against a corner. He started pulling open desks and taking out brushes of various sizes.

"Paint, paint, do we got no paint in- aha!" He took out an ink well. "This'll do just fine and dandy!"

Shawn dipped a thin brush into the ink and started painting, humming merrily to himself. He coated the train with practiced strokes, muscle memory waking up from its dormancy. He traced the lines of its wheels and coated its top in smooth, black ink.

"...have you lost your mind?"

"The only thing I'm losin' is my fookin' patience! I wanna do my job for once, lady, we can chitchat or go out for drinks o- or whatever ya want la-" his voice caught and he doubled over, dropping the brush as he fell into a coughing fit. He clutched the desk, his frail body shaking with every violent cough. He gasped for air and then retched. Thick strands of ink fell off of his arms and splattered to the ground.

"Hm...you lost ones don't fare well against injury, do you?"

Shawn responded by throwing up.

"Oh, that's disgusting."

He wiped ink from his excuse of a mouth and shuddered. "Ugh..." He shook his head and straightened his cap despite not needing to. It seemed practically glued to his head.

A tremble ran through his arms as he picked up the paintbrush. He cleared his throat. It sounded wet. "I'm a tad bit under the weather, so stop makin' me talk! Need me a cup 'o dirty bean water and I'll perk right up..."

"Oh, you've lost it. I'll let you die in peace, then."

The toymaker looked over the train and set it aside. He stumbled over to the conveyer belt. With great effort, he pulled down the lever and turned it on. The machine groaned before the belt began moving.

Apparently satisfied, he picked up an unfinished plane from the floor. He brought it to his desk and set it down. Then he started opening up drawers and crates at random, looking for the parts he needed. All the while, ink dripped off of his arms and legs. The hole in his side still bled thick strings of slimy ink that stuck to his hips and spine. Ink was beginning to drip over his lightless eye and cover it.

Still, though, he worked. As if it were a normal day in the studio, many years ago. Toy planes were put together and lined up on a shelf. Little trains got fresh, inky paint jobs. Alice Angel and Boris plushies were packed into their respective crates and stacked in corners.

Even as he fell apart, he hummed to himself and did his job.

#the ink demonth #bendy and the ink machine #my writing #batim #alice angel #shawn flynn

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60schickgroovy · 4 years ago

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Valentine’s Day

(Peter)

“I can’t wait for Valentine’s Day!” Peter smiled into my hair. “Really?” I sat up on his lap so I could look him in the eyes. “Most guys dread this holiday, you know?” I said leaning close, with my hands on his back to hold him near, just to tease him. “But, I’m not like most guys, I love you and I’m gonna spoil you rotten!” I laughed as he peppered kisses on my neck. “I am going to do this holiday right! Because my girl deserves to know exactly how much she means to me!” I pressed my chest to his as he tugged at my lips. “I am going to shower you in gifts!” He smiled tucking my hair behind my ear. “Oh, Peter, you don’t have to get me anything. Just having you here with me is all I’ll ever need.” He pouted at me and I stroked his silky hair as he rubbed gentle patterns on my back. “What is the point of making rock star money if I can’t use it to spoil my girl?” As he kissed me he let a hand slide down my back, over my hip, down my thigh and up to rest comfortably, just under my skirt. “Well, far be it from me to impede any pleasure of yours, love.” I smiled and pulled away to stroke his cheek, “Just know I don’t expect anything.” He covered my hand with his and turned to kiss my palm.

I woke up on the 14th of February, the day after Peter’s birthday, I became aware of the warm sunlight on my back. Reaching across the soft sheets, I ran my hand across the empty pillow beside mine. I stretched and sighed before opening my eyes. The sunlight warmed the white sheets and in the spot where I would usually find Peter there was enormous bouquet of my favorite flowers. Sitting up I took the bouquet, it was beautiful, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of the fresh, fragrant, dewy blossoms. When I opened my eyes I realized this wasn’t my only surprise, there were wildflowers scattered over the whole room! “Ah!” I gasped taking in the magical sight. I turn to my side table to check the time, but my clock was hidden! On top of the pile was a letter with a wax seal and my name in a familiar hand on the front. Peter knew how much I loved letters in general, but especially ones like this. Saving it for last I picked up the book, a beautiful hard copy of one of my favorite stories, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I felt the binding and opened it to a random page, ‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’ I laughed setting it aside with the bouquet, I needed two hands to lift the last box. It was the most enormous box of heart shaped box of chocolates I had ever seen. I hadn’t noticed the little string connected to it but when I picked it up it pulled a lever on the little record player I had in my room. I watched the needle fall on the spinning record. “If I could hide, ‘neath the wings, of the bluebird as she sings…” I pulled my letter opener out of the drawer and tore the crisp paper of the envelope seam. I pulled out the letter inside and unfolded it:

My Sweetheart,

Good Morning and Happy Valentine’s Day! I hope your sleep was as full

of peace and love as this day will be. You deserve nothing less. You are my sun, moon

and stars. You are the reason I get up in the morning and the face I see each night in my

dreams. You are so beautiful you must be an angel! And you are so smart you should be

hanging out with scientist and philosophers, not a bunch of Monkees! You make me better,

I don’t know what you saw when you met me, but you made me better in every possible

way. I was alone and sad, now I’m happy, at peace and in love. You freed me. My only hope

is that I can make you as happy as you’ve made me. I love you, Y/n, and I always will.

Love,

Your Peter

Xoxoxoxo <3

I bit my lip, trying not to cry. Just then I heard a gentle knock on the bedroom door. “Come in!” I said, still holding the letter to my chest. I saw the door knob slowly turn and the door popped open, then it swung slowly. I watched Peter walk in carrying a tray, he was wearing his Monkee pants and sideways belt with no shirt on. He was concentrating on balancing the tray and making his cute concentration face. “Peter!” He hadn’t yet noticed how emotional I was. “Moring, Beautiful!” He said glancing up at me with a smile. But when he saw my face, his fell as he set the tray on the now empty bedside table. “What’s wrong, Love? We’re the flowers too much, I’m sorry I…” He sat down on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair he spoke. “Oh, Peter. This is the most wonderful… I…” I was still trying not to cry and the words were getting caught in my throat. The smile returned to his face and I leapt into his waiting arms. “I’m so sorry, Peter! Look at me!” I laughed as he handed me a handkerchief to wipe my eyes. “This…” I gestured around the room, “Is the sweetest, kindest most amazing thing that anyone has ever done for me! I’ve never really celebrated Valentine’s day before, the guys I’ve dated just blew it off and no one else seemed to care, I’d see those giant boxes of chocolates and wonder who they were for. I don’t… I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who cared about me enough to do anything like this.” He kissed my cheek as I finished, head resting against his chest. “I told you I was going to spoil you rotten!” He lifted my chin so I looked him in the eye, “I love you, y/n, and this doesn’t even begin to express how much.” “Come here.” I kissed him as I climbed on top of him. He moaned into my mouth as dragged my fingers down his chest. “I love you, Peter Thorkelson! And I mean to show you just how much…”

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Happy Valentine’s Day, all!! xoxoxoxoxo -Mary

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*I dont own the Monkees or anything under their brand, I just wrote the story!*

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teriwrites · 5 years ago

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I was restocking spell-infused chocolate - designed to instantly lift any bad mood - when the bell above the front door chimed, and an alarm began to wail. I’d had that alarm installed six months ago, and it hadn’t gone off once. Jumping at the sound, I rose from behind the shelves to see a young woman, hands lifted in shock.

“I didn’t take anything!” she called out as soon as she’d spotted me. “I swear! You can check my bag.”

But the alarm hadn’t been built to sniff out thieves - I had a tracking charm on merchandise for that. No, this meant something far different, though perhaps just as bad.

As I made my way to the front of the store, the young woman began to take in the contents of my store. Floating planters twirled lazily from the ceiling, jars of spells lined the shelves filled with strands of colorful light. Posters with moving pictures decorated the walls, hung beside mirrors that aggressively complimented anyone who looked into them. I slid by a large, clear medicine cabinet that held potion ingredients, snapping shut a drawer with red vials as I passed.

“What is this place?” the young woman asked, tucking a tightly coiled strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“Welcome to Flo’s Magical Emporium,” I greeted. The alarm continued to blare out, until I pulled a lever behind the check-out counter. I shut off. “I’m Flo. And you are?”

“Natalie,” she replied, gaze still tracing my shelves.

“Do feel free to continue staring in awe, my shop tends to have that effect on most of the unprepared.”

Natalie snapped her gaze towards me, dark eyes narrowing. “So, what, it’s a magic shop?”

I waved a hand in the direction of the shelves. “Spells, enchanted items, charms, whatever your wandering, wayfaring wizard might need. Not sure it would do you much good, though.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t tell me none of this stuff works for normal people!” Natalie groaned. She had been steadily eyeing the basket labeled ‘Lost Belonging Compass’ on the front counter.

I shoved my hands into the pockets of my favorite cardigan - black, warm, and with a mischievous red and purple dragon that had the habit of not keeping put. “I mean, enchanted items, sure. The enchantment’s already there, it’ll stay until it fades. But Typics wielding spells has a nasty tendency to result in disaster.”

Natalie blinked rapidly and shook her head, as though trying to come to her senses. Her hands found her hips, and her gaze narrowed as she looked past to me to the eternal hand warmers, little flame charms that were popularly sewn into coat or hoodie pockets during the harsh Canadian winters.

“What the hell did I eat last night?” Natalie mumbled, barely audible. More clearly, she asked, “I’m dreaming, right? Magic is stuff from fairy tales. If it was real, why wouldn’t I know about it?”

“We tend to keep it on the down low.” With one eye trained on Natalie, I started back for the center of the store to continue restocking shelves. “Historically, people haven’t reacted well when they meet others with access to something they can’t have.”

“Like the Salem witch trials?”

“Oh no, those were just a mix of drugs and idiots holding too much power. I was thinking more along the lines of genocide.”

Natalie followed me as I headed back, eyes darting about to take in all she could. As the mischievous dragon on my cardigan ran from where he had been reclining on my shoulder, I could feel Natalie staring at him.

“His name’s Nathaniel.”

“The little knit dragon?”

“Embroidered, actually. Friend of mine did it as a Christmas gift.” I bent down to continue organizing the chocolate bars in rows. “Anyways, as I was saying, people don’t like what they can’t have, so we decided to hide it from them.”

“You own a magic shop in the middle of downtown Trelis, it’s not exactly well-hidden,” Natalie argued. She absently twisted coils of hair as she watched me work.

I glanced up at her. “What else were we supposed to do, go live outside society like hermits? That would draw suspicion. Much easier to hide in plain sight.”

As I finished emptying my box, I pushed off from my knees to stand. “It does unfortunately lead to some discoveries, but they’re surprisingly few and far between.”

Natalie was beginning to realize what I was implying, and her eyebrows shot up into her bangs. Her mouth opened slightly, silently forming an ‘oh’.

“I’m not supposed to be here, am I?” Her voice was steady but unsure.

“Not exactly,” I answered honestly. “That alarm isn’t for thieves.”

I grabbed the handle of my cart and wheeled it for the back room. Natalie trailed behind me silently, an unspoken question raging inside her. At least, I assumed it was, because I hadn’t gotten through the back door before she burst out, “What are you going to do to me?”

This time, her voice faltered, and, as I turned to face her, I saw that she was picking at her hoodie strings nervously. Guilt began to rise in me before I could stop it. She hadn’t done anything but step into the wrong store, and I was sure that I could like her if I got to know her.

“Well,” I began, drawing the word out as I pieced together the rest of my answer in my head. “Normally, I’m supposed to have you turned into a newt.”

The idea sounded so ridiculous that even Natalie couldn’t help but crack a smile. “You’re not serious?”

“Not always a newt,” I conceded. “Those are most popular, but there are a great assortment of plants and animals to choose from. Mind-erasure is an option, too, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Too many side effects.”

My speech was too long. Natalie was stumbling back, lips parted in horror.

I rushed through the rest. “I could use a little help around the shop, so here’s my offer: you can take on a job here as my assistant, or you can pick something to turn into.”

“How am I supposed to help out in a magic shop if I’m not magical?” Natalie asked weakly. She hadn’t quite found steadiness in her voice yet.

“There’s a lot more to running a shop,” I pointed out with a wink. “But personally, I’d suggest taking the offer before you convince me it’s a mistake.”

Natalie stuck her hand out immediately. “I’ll take it.”

I shook her hand enthusiastically. “Welcome aboard, Natalie! Feel free to stop by any time this weekend, and we can go over the details.”

As Natalie and I exchanged numbers, I couldn’t help reflecting that what I was doing was more than slightly illegal. Not reporting discoveries to the proper authorities could get me a serious fine. Hiring a Typic would be seen as borderline treason. But when Natalie had left the shop, and I had returned to the back room, I found that I couldn’t make myself regret my decision.

#teri writes #my writing #flo's magical emporium #writeblr #writing community #short story #ongoing #original fic #original fiction #character: Flo Kim #character: Natalie Baker

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graphicaudio · 4 years ago

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Another advantage of magnetic locks is that they keep doors and drawers completely closed to prevent small fingers from getting trapped. Other locks can partially open your fingers and clamp them in, but this is because you can turn the lock off when your child is not there and the cabinet is much easier to turn on and off. FEATURE TO REMOVE: When children are not around and you have to move freely into a drawer or a cupboard, the locks can be released by pulling the "release lever" on the lock. Munchkin Xtraguard cabinet locks require you to press two buttons at the same time on one bolt to release the bolt, which can cause problems for a person trying to get their place in it.

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cilldaracailin · 4 years ago

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A Kind Of Magic

Thanks for all the lovely love. Here is the next part :)

“Never underestimate the lingering effects of a dash of spontaneous comfort.”

The first thing Taron did once Robyn left, was change out of his heavy jeans into a clean pair of shorts that Robyn had washed for him the previous day, the smell of fabric softener light and delicate. She had left his clothes folded neatly on one of the empty shelves in her closet, ready for when he needed them. He walked bare foot into the kitchen and next he made himself another cup of coffee and carefully sat in the corner of the couch.

“Hey Alexa, play Joni Mitchell.”

After a few seconds, the music started and Taron closed his eyes, inhaling the fresh scent of coffee, enjoying the cool breeze from the air conditioning. It was utter heaven for Taron, peace beyond explanation. It was very rare for him to have moments like this where he knew no one was going to interrupt him or call him to set or wake him after he fell asleep in the make-up chair. Even if Robyn had of been in the apartment with him, he knew he would still feel relaxed because she would let him be. Robyn never felt the need to fill the silence with conversation, happy to sit and read or listen to music or watch TV. She never pestered him, allowing him to rest and sleep. He still hadn’t quite figured out how she knew what he needed without question, how she was willing to share her home, life and everything with a stranger, a man she had only known for nine days without a single thought or question, including her bed.

“Though it is pretty big bed.” Said Taron to himself, thinking to last night how they had both slept soundly on their sides having lots of room to move if needed.

The conditions under how they met were extraordinary and Taron felt as if he had known Robyn for years, not days and he absolutely trusted her beyond a doubt, their friendship one he knew would be strongly bonded for life. He slowly sipped his coffee, in no rush to hurry, looking around Robyn’s apartment as he did so. Pictures and trinkets, he hadn’t noticed before were decorated around the place, on top of the piano and on the wall. He snuggled back into the cushions, a happy sigh leaving his lips. The time two weeks ago he was deep into filming, literally running around the set in New York, sweating buckets in his suit as he was fixed to a harness jumping over yellow taxi cabs. Now he lay with his feet up, drinking coffee in a homely apartment belonging to the woman who has saved his life. It still sent startling shivers down his spine when he thought about it but it was getting easier with every day and it became part of their conversation now too, both remembering something else that had happened in the 7/11, taking the time to talk it through with each other. Taron was happy to talk to Robyn about anything to do with the 7/11 because not only did it ease his fears, it subdued Robyn’s too and led to another peaceful night’s sleep for her.

Taron yawned and stretched a little, a little guilty for feeling far too comfortable. He finished his drink and stood up carefully, moving to the kitchen to wash the cup at the sink, leaving it to drip dry beside their clean breakfast dishes. He looked around the kitchen, obvious signs of his presence in Robyn’s home such as the coffee maker which she had insisted on leaving out for him as well as his tablets, phone charger and shirt on the island. A small smile filled his lips as he recalled eating from the same fork as Robyn last night as she sat on the island. It was an action of mischief that he thought was going to get him into trouble until Robyn played along delightfully. Shaking the images from his head, he moved out of the kitchen and towards the fish long fish tank that partially separated the eating and living areas.

“They are only goldfish.” Robyn had explained to him when he asked her about it. “I don’t have a great reputation with tropical fish. Kind of boiled the last ones I had so I just stick to cold water fish.”

Underneath the tank, her bookshelf, filled messily with a number of books of varying topics. A full collection of Terry Goodkind along with Lord of the Rings were worn and well read. Harry Potter looked even more so, Taron picking up a copy of the first book which was in Irish, only recognising it by the picture on the cover and inside words were written in pencil in English, Robyn finding the need to translate the Irish even though she spoke it. Another shelf was full of baking and cook books and on the very bottom shelf, bulky lever arch files took up the whole row. Taron pulled the first one out and opening it, was met with a results page in which Robyn was awarded ninety-eight percent for her work inside. He skimmed through the poly pockets, the information inside relating to Robyn’s job, realising he was looking at her college work, recognising her writing, coloured pages, drawings and pictures filling each page. He carefully put it back in its place and moved over to the piano.

He would love to be able to sit and play like Robyn could and had contemplated looking into taking lessons but he was just so busy he wouldn’t be able to full commit it. On top of the piano were a few picture frames, pictures of Robyn with various people smiling back at him. He recognised her mam in one and the man standing the other side, Taron figured was her dad. Another was Robyn and a brown and white dog in the snow, another Robyn sitting in a park with some girlfriends. Above the piano, she had four glass frames with her college certificate awards and wounded around the frames a string with little clothes pegs, instant photos hanging down decorating the wall, pictures of Robyn and her life along with stunning sunsets and dolphins. Seeing the frames of the instant photos, Taron wondered if she had her own camera or did it belong to her friends. He hoped she owned one and would be willing to snap a picture with him to add it to her wall and maybe snap another so he could keep it too.

Moving past the television he browsed her DVD’s. Even though Netflix and streaming became the norm, Robyn still held tight to her DVD’s and Taron wasn’t surprised to see a vast collection of musicals and out of pure interest moved to the ‘R’ section and smiled as he pulled out Rocketman. Carrying the DVD back to the kitchen he routed out a marker from the drawer that Robyn called her ‘bits and bobs’ drawer and quickly signed the front of it.

“‘Not too sure about the guy who played Elton’.” He wrote, the words he had said to Robyn in the 7/11 when the argument had started between her and Maggie. “‘Your rocketman, Taron.”

Grinning he replaced the marker and put the DVD back in its place and as his curiosity grew, he moved to the ‘b’ section and found Bohemian Rhapsody.

“Of course.” He laughed and walked back into the kitchen and took the marker from the drawer again. “‘Really? The sooner we have this Elton/Freddie sing off, the better…’” He wrote on the cover of the DVD.

He replaced the DVD and glanced over the titles again, his head titling when he got to the ‘w’ section, his fingers pulling out a copy of ‘We Will Rock You’.

“Kilcreen musical society presents, We Will Rock You, April 2018.” He read out, looking at the picture of the cast on the front. There in the middle was Robyn, her blonde hair crimped and styled in two messy high pony tails, the rest of her hair streaked pink and purple around her shoulders. As he held the slim box in his hands, Taron knew what was going to keep him occupied for the morning. He left the chosen DVD on the coffee table and wandered into the bedroom. Again, his belongings were scattered around the place, the jeans he had taken off thrown on the bed, one converse at the door, the other under the television, the bed unmade as they both rushed to get ready to leave earlier.

He wandered into the closet and chuckled. He vaguely remembered it when Robyn showed him around her house when he first arrived and there was some sort of organisation to the closet but now clothes were strewn everywhere. To his right there was a railing and hung very nearly were what Taron assumed were Robyn’s work clothes, trousers and blouses, shirts and an odd skirt ready to be used for the working day. To his left a section just for shoes, Robyn not lying when she said she was converse girl at heart. She owned many a pair of many colours along with some winters boots and flip flops. He could see two pairs of heels as well. An unusual shoe, caught his eyes, buried under the flip flop and he reached into pull it out, some sort of tap show in his hand, but he didn’t look the ones he had seen his friend Jamie wear, as there was a silver buckle tied through the laces. Then it clicked with him. An Irish dancing shoe. Digging a little deeper he pulled put two soft leather shoes, with criss-crossed laces from toe to ankle. Definitely Irish dancing shoes.

“More secrets Robyn?” He said to himself. He was going to have to ask her about these when she was home.

He turned around and behind him were shelves and cubby holes with her t-shirts, jeans and his freshly cleaned clothes and though he was tempted to look in the drawers underneath the cubbies, he stayed away.

He already knew the ins and outs of the bathroom and walked back into the bedroom and over to the white make up table in the corner of the room with the large oval mirror. Only now did he notice the jar with make-up brushes and few make-up products scattered across the table, not that he really recognised many of them. He still had yet to see Robyn wear any make up, something she didn’t really seem too bothered about.

He stood at the glass doors, looking out into the bright sunshine of the morning, the garden one of his favourite parts of Robyn’s home. His flat in London had no garden and although his home in Aberystwyth had a small garden, a larger one in his mam’s house, it didn’t have the comfortable seating that Robyn’s had and as she had an Alexa set up almost everywhere in her apartment, music could be heard in every room, even the garden.

Taron moved away from the hot windows and back into the living room, picking up the DVD from where he left. He had seen Robyn set up the DVD and was sure he could work it out and once he realised there wasn’t actually a DVD player, it took him a good five minutes to figure out that the disc went in to the side of the television.

“Alexa Stop.”

Shaking his head, he took up his favourite spot in the corner of the couch and thankfully the musical loaded itself so he wasn’t posed with the challenge of getting it started. Legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, Taron smiled as the recognisable sound of Freddie Mercury filled the air of the room as the amateur musical started.

Taron realised he was in big trouble with his sing off with Robyn, when on the DVD she sang that first note to Somebody to Love, the third song in the musical, pitch perfect with no band behind her. He found his mouth open at the end of the song, absolutely taken back with the power behind his host’s voice. She made it look effortless and easy and when the duet of Under Pressure started with the character Galileo, Taron was wondering what else he could offer her instead of a sing off.

He thoroughly enjoyed the production Robyn’s home town had put on, the whole cast nailing their roles perfectly, and found himself singing along quite a few times along the way. As the cast took their bows, he got to his feet and headed back to the DVD’s. If Robyn had one production she had been in, he was curious to see if there were more. He grinned as he pulled out Les Misérables and Into the Woods along with Hairspray and Jesus Christ Superstar.

He took out We Will Rock You from the television and slipped Les Misérables into the slot, the DVD loading itself. He walked into the kitchen and made another cup of coffee and as it brewed, carefully pulled his shirt back on, the air condition making the room a little too chilly. After adding two sugar cubes to his coffee, he carried it back to the couch and got comfortable again, the familiar music filling his ears.

Completely different to the comedic role of Scaramouche, Epionine was emotional and heartbroken and he was sure Robyn’s tears were real as she got to the pivotal moment in On My Own. He was again immediately impressed with the production and as the music for the second act began, his phone rang. He balanced his second cup of half-drunk coffee on the couch, but changed his mind and left it on the table and walked into the bedroom and routed through his jeans to his pocket and pulled out his phone.

“Hey mam.”

“Taron, love. How are you?”

“I am good mam.”

“That’s what you always say and I have to get the truth from Robyn.”

Taron chuckled. “I am currently chilling on Robyn’s couch, drinking coffee in the air conditioning while watching Robyn on the TV in her musical societies production of Les Misérables. I am good Mam.”

“Taking your pain killers?”

“Yes.”

“Sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“Eating?”

“Yes.”

“Sorted out your filming schedule?”

“Yep. Matthew rang me the other day. I will be back in New York at the start of November.”

“Taron, Christmas?”

“Don’t worry. I have the time off for Christmas at home and New Year’s too.”

“And how is Robyn?”

“She is doing really good. Gone to some really important meeting today for her work to help get funding to upgrade their garden.”

“And you will be coming home to me when?” Tina rapid fired the question’s Taron’s way but she heard her son sigh on the end of the phone. “Taron love, you do not have to explain anything to me. I am still desperate for that hug but I can hear such a change in your voice. You sound so much happier and more relaxed and I know Robyn is taking really good care of you.”

“She is.”

“And you better be taking care of her too Taron.”

“I am mam and I will be home.”

“When you are ready love. Not before.”

The conversation between mother and son continued for half an hour, another fifteen minutes with his sisters before Taron was able to start the musical again. He found himself wiping a lone tear from his eye as Eiponine and Marius had their last moment together, Taron completely engrossed in the show.

When the DVD finished, Taron’s stomach rumbled. Looking to his phone he saw it was well past three in the afternoon. Bringing his cup with him, he washed it out and added it to the mounting dishes on the sink. He popped two slices of bread into the toaster and took a plate from the press, a knife from the drawer and left them ready to use. He started to think about what he could make for them for dinner, Robyn not getting in until late that evening and knowing she was working through her lunch break today, she was bound to be hungry. He dried the dishes on the sink and packed them away while he waited for his toast, still thinking about dinner. The toast popped and he buttered it.

“That is the best butter in the world.” Robyn’s voice came to him. “It’s Kerrygold. Best butter ever.”

He smiled as he took a bite of the warm toast, the light snack hitting the spot perfectly. He was sure he had seen some sort of chicken in her freezer when he was routing the other day and once he had finished his toast, routed in the drawer and pulled out two plain chicken pieces and left them on a clean plate to start defrosting. He knew Robyn had some mozzarella in her fridge too.

“And potatoes.” He smiled. With dinner sorted in his mind, Taron moved back to the television and switched the DVD’s out, Hairspray his choice this time, needing something a little lighter, Robyn’s name cast as Amber Von Tussle. He felt extremely honoured and proud to be able to watch these DVD’s of Kilcreen’s past musicals from the last ten years, watching as the performances went from strength to strength, seeing a much younger Robyn in Hairspray. He stretched to reach for the DVD box, cringing as he stretched a little too far and looked at the year.

“Two thousand and eleven.”

Doing some calculations, Taron’s eyes looked to the screen to see a twenty-two-year-old Robyn, in what was probably her first lead role on stage. Just as he had to learn and grow with each movie he took on, so did Robyn and she had only bloomed in her stage presence and confidence. Taron thought he should have looked at the years on the DVD boxes before he started, working his way forward rather than backwards but it was nice to watch a younger Robyn, feeling it fair as she could easily watch the first Kingsman movie.

At five thirty Taron moved from his spot, a long yawn leaving his lips as he gently stretched, before making his way to the bathroom. Even though he had been by himself, he felt like Robyn had been with him the whole time as he watched her perform on stage.

Strolling back into the kitchen, he made a start on some food for them, defrosting the chicken in the microwave for a few minutes before he stuffed it with the cheese and rashers he had found in the fridge. He chopped up some potatoes into little cubes and flavouring them with some garlic and chilli, adding various vegetables to the roasting tin too, putting both the chicken and sides into the oven baking away at a low temperature.

He resumed the musical, sinking into the couch again curling his legs under him his time, worried that if he got too comfortable he would sleep and burn dinner, already feeling tired after lazing around all day.

He was putting two plates into the oven an hour later to warm them up, ready to serve dinner when Robyn arrived home.

“Hey Taron.” She called as she closed the front door.

“Hello, chicken!” Called Taron back, laughing when he heard her groan his name from the bedroom where she went to first once she was inside. “You hungry Robyn?” Taron turned to look for her when she didn’t reply, moving to the bedroom looking for her, walking back out to the kitchen when she wasn’t here.

“Robyn?”

“On the couch.” She replied.

Taron walked around the side of the couch and found her laying on her back, her pony tail hanging off the edge, still dressed in her blue trousers and white top now untucked from the waistband of her pants suit and she had taken her shoes off, the reason why he hadn’t heard her come back from the bedroom.

“Robyn? You ok?” He asked concerned at seeing her laying on her back, eyes closed, her left leg bent at the knee, her hands resting low on her stomach under her top, the tiniest silver of skin noticeable in the gap between her top and trousers.

“Yep I am good.”

“Are you sure?” Asked Taron as he sat on the poof beside the couch, moving it down so he was sitting opposite her side. She turned her head to look at him, those same green eyes now staring at her that had been a constant distraction for her all day. “You really don’t look like someone who had had a good day.”

“I got the funding.” She answered. “And…” She began as Taron started to congratulate her. “Valerie handed in her notice today. She leaves on Friday and…” She lifted her left hand to stop Taron from speaking. “I already have interviewed her replacement and she starts tomorrow to be trained in.”

She put her hand back down and turned away from Taron moving a little bit finding a comfortable position again.

“For someone who has had such an accomplished day, you don’t give off the happiness vibes.” Taron watched as Robyn moved again, her eyes creasing a little as she did so. “Congratulations by the way with the funding. I knew that pants suit would get you what you wanted.”

Robyn laughed gently. “Yep it was all the pants suit. Nothing to do with my years of experience, expertise and wonderful way with words.”

Taron chuckled along with her but his hand went to hers on top of her stomach, when she winced again. “Robyn seriously, what is wrong? I don’t think I have seen you sit this still by your own accord since I have met you.”

“So, you know that thing that happens to a woman once a month?” She turned to look at him, his face changing from understanding to sympathy, his hand gripping hers a little tighter. “Not something I am normally bothered by, but I think because I have been on the go for the last two weeks, sleep deprived and run down, my body just hates me at the moment.” She moved again on the couch, her left leg laying down, her right one bending. “I am just going to crash here for a few minutes.” She moved Taron’s hand up a little so her right hand was free to rub her lower stomach a little, his now resting on her rib cage. “It has been a day and half but a very good day all round.”

“Ahh shit Robyn. What I can do for you?” Asked Taron.

“Nothing at all. I just need fifteen minutes or so to lay here and do nothing and then I shall be right as rein.”

“Robyn surely there is something I can get for you?” He asked again, his previous experience of what Robyn was going through had him routing for heat pads, hot water bottles and chocolate, lots of chocolate.

“Taron, honestly, I am going to lay here with my eyes closed for a while. That’s all I need.” She could feel his thumb gently rubbing her side through her top. “I am so low maintenance, Taron, I don’t need anything but some time to sit still. I haven’t stopped all day. I promise.” She could see worry fixed in his eyes and his lips were turned down as a frown filled his features, the bruising on his face making him look even more worried. She lifted her right hand to his left cheek. “You are sweet for wanting to help but I doubly promise.” She took her hand away from his face and placed it back on her stomach under her top.

Taron was at a loss. He was used to being ordered around at times like this but Robyn was so different, happy to just have him sit beside her. He tried to think of something he could do for her.

“Give me two seconds.” He lifted his hand from her and standing up, walked into the kitchen and turned the oven down to the lowest setting, so the dinner he had made would finish cooking very slowly. He then walked back over the couch and stood at the edge. “Will you sit up for a minute?” He asked her, looking down to her while she opened her eyes to look up.

“Huh?”

“Can you sit up for me for a minute.”

“Taron I really just want to lay here for a little while.”

��I know that. You can still lay there but trust me.” Robyn winced as another small nuisance cramp bothered her but did as Taron asked, sitting up. She felt the couch sink a little as Taron sat down behind her. “Ok now lay back.” Taron picked up one of the softer of Robyn’s blue cushions and placed it on his lap, guided Robyn down so her head lay on it, her whole upper back, neck and head supported by his legs. “Now you can keep laying still.”

“Taron what…”

“Hey Alexa play Ludo Euvi…”

“Hey Alexa, play Ludovico Einaudi.” Corrected Robyn, smiling up to Taron as he tried his best to play her favourite piano music.

“Yeah it’s going to take me a long time to learn how to say that name. Now lay back, close your eyes and relax. Take your fifteen minutes or however long you need.”

Doing as Taron asked, Robyn relaxed right back into him, another sore twinge making her twist her hips a little until it passed. She absolutely knew this was her bodies way of creating payback for her for putting it through hell the last few days. Normally Robyn never experienced a rough of a time as she felt now when a woman had to go through that monthly period but her insides were churning with misery. Her day had been full of every possible positive outcome, everything falling into place until she was back in her office late afternoon and the torment started. She was so happy to get home to her couch, and just wade out the wave of grief but Taron had insisted on making her more comfortable and attempted to play music he knew she loved.

“Do you want to pull out your pony tail Robyn?” He asked. “Can’t be comfortable on the back of your head.”

“Yeah of course.” She lifted her head a little from the cushion and moved her hands to her head but Taron got there first and she felt him press the clip of her pearl and diamond slide open and gently fluff her hair out so it wasn’t tied up any more, before his hand dipped to the back of her neck gently kneading warm skin that his fingers touched. It felt wonderful for her hair to be free from the pony tail but even more so what Taron was gently doing as he applied light pressure to the base of her skull.

“Lay back down.” He instructed to her, Robyn doing as she was asked, her hands now resting on the waistband of her trousers. Taron placed his right hand on top of Robyn’s, his left on the crown of her head, fingers manipulating through her hair, making sure he kept the weight of the movements light. He moved to brush her hair away from her face, long strands sliding through his fingers, before coming back to her left temple and he softly ran his index and middle finger in circles on her skin, his strokes moving over her forehead back down to her left cheek. He immediately saw Robyn relax under his touch, and repeated the light caresses over and over, running his hand through her hair in between his attention to her face. At one point he left a feather light trail down her nose, just as he did when he was trying to get Robyn back to sleep and when she didn’t recoil with the new source of affection, Taron did it again, sure he felt her move her face the slightest bit closer to his hand. He swept his fingers down her nose again. “Have I told you that I like your freckles?” He said as he brushed her nose once more.

Robyn’s lips grew into a smile. “You might have mentioned it.” Keeping her eyes closed she tried to hide the delightful shiver that ran from the back of her neck and down her spine as once again Taron, almost lovingly scratched her head so wonderfully. She turned her right hand over and linked her fingers with his, the back of his hand now resting on her stomach.

Taron left hand now kindly ran across the top of her left shoulder. “Lots of freckles.”

Robyn grinned. “Kisses from the sun.” She opened her eyes and looked up to him, his green eyes warm. “It’s what I tell the children freckles are.”

“Kisses from the sun. Well the sun must really like you.” Laughed Taron as he tapped the tip of fingers on each one on her shoulder.

“They only come out in the sun Taron and as I have been in Florida for six months, there are quite a few.”

“I like them.” He said again. “Do you feel a little better now?” He asked, his left hand running through her hair again, before he stopped.

“Hmm give me five more minutes and I will let you know. Hair. Please.” She answered him using the exact same words he had when she was scratching his head. She felt his body move as he laughed but doing as she asked, Taron fingers resumed their light kneading. It was a perfect distraction from her insides as were still giving her a beating. Taron’s hand was cool on her warm skin as they linked fingers and she pulled their joined hands up a little so they were resting further up on her ribs rather than her stomach, the weight just a little uncomfortable for her at the moment.

“Robyn?”

“Hmm?”

“Is that your scar from your appendix?” Taron had watched as she moved their hands, revealing more skin to him and as he watched golden skin become more exposed, part of it was tarnished with a long thin scar which travelled under the waistband of her trousers.

“Pretty eh?” She felt Taron freeze under her and opening her eyes, she looked up to him. “Taron?”

“That’s what Frankie called you. Pretty.”

“Ah shit Taron, I didn’t even think. Wrong choice of word.” She lifted their linked hands and placed a quick kiss on the back of his.

“It’s ok. Just another memory I would rather forget.” He looked down to her, blue eyes staring up at him. “Nice scar though.”

“Yep another one to add to my ever-growing collection but it tells a story and you know I love to tell a good story.”

Taron found himself smiling as his left hand started to trace over her forehead again. “So, any better now?”

“You owe me two more minutes of hair playing.” Robyn snuggled a little into the cushion. “Then I will think about doing something more productive.”

“Our dinner is going to be ruined.” He commented.

“Dinner?”

“Yeah dinner Robyn. I made us some food.”

“You did?”

“Yeah I did. I knew you worked through your lunch break and had a lot of pressure on you today so I thought the least I could do was pull something together for us.” Taron scratched her head again. “And I had a very interesting day.”

“Doing what?”

“Snooping.” He answered tapping her nose, her lips lifting in a brilliant smile. “So, I have three questions for you.” Taron continued to play with her hair as he spoke. “One, do you Irish dance? Two, do you have an instant camera and if so, can we take a photo for your wall and three, Bohemian Rhapsody? You traitor!”

Robyn found herself laughing again. “First off that was four questions, not three. One, as a kid, yes Irish dancing but not anymore. Not for years and I just kept the shoes ‘cos we use them in work to show the kids. Two, yes I have an instant camera. Three of course we can take a picture for my wall and four, you know I adore Queen.”

“I also have another suggestion for our karaoke off.”

“Ok...”

“So maybe I could invite you to a movie premier or something instead.”

Robyn let go of his hand and sat up fast, Taron’s hand falling through her hair and turned so she could look directly at him, kneeling beside his legs. “You backing out Egerton? What else have you been snooping through?” She asked grinning widely at him.

“So, I might have found your DVD’s of the performances you were in with the musical society.”

Robyn grinned some more. “You afraid Taron that little old me might beat you in the sing off?”

“Yes. I know you will and can!” He turned so he could look at her. “So, want to take up my offer of attending a movie premier instead?”

“Absolutely not. I made that deal, which we shook on by the way, because I wanted to hear you sing, not because I wanted to win. I wanted to hear you sing because you have a beautiful voice.” She watched as he looked down at his hands. “Don’t even act shy about Taron. You practically sang Elton’s whole catalogue and you know you can sing and I have no interest in movie premiers. I would much rather sing a song with you. If you want, I will hold back when we eventually have our sing off. I will go easy on you!”

“Somehow I don’t think you will.”

“Probably not.” Robyn loved how she could make him blush. “Thanks Taron. Now I feel better.”

“Of course you do.” He replied sarcastically but his scowl didn’t last long as Robyn placed a kiss on his right cheek and it was so light, it didn’t even sting his sore skin.

“I am going to have a quick two-minute shower.” She stood up, still feeling a little achy but her mood had definitely been lifted and Taron’s thoughtful actions had helped a lot.

“You sure I can’t get you anything Robyn?”

“You have already done loads Taron. After dinner, we can take those instant photos. I have the camera but I have the instax printer too so we have the best of both worlds. We can take a picture on a phone and print it out.”

Taron’s eyes followed her as she walked around the couch and into the bedroom, letting a breath he didn’t know he was holding. What he did know was that every moment he got to spend with Robyn the more he wanted to spend with her. Robyn was so different, independent and strong but also had this softer side that she was slowly sharing with him.

He eased himself up from the couch and heard the shower going in the bathroom as he walked into the kitchen. He picked up a tea-towel and carefully took the plates from the top oven which had been heating and placed them on the island. Opening the main oven door, he took out the large dish with the chicken, potatoes and vegetables and placed it on the heat protector Robyn had so it wouldn’t burn the countertop. Pulling a large spoon from the jug behind the hob, he began to dish the dinner out onto the plates. Opening the fridge, he took out the bottle of iced tea he knew Robyn liked and filled two glasses with it. He set the breakfast bar up with the plates, two glasses and cutlery when Robyn walked out of the bedroom, in a black pair of shorts and long-sleeved blue top.

“That was a quick two minutes.”

“Told you I would be.” She walked past him and pulled open the drawer beside the cutlery one, taking out a packet of paracetamol and popped two out.

“I could have gotten those for you Robyn.” He said.

“Yeah I know but I am just used to doing all these things for myself.” She walked back over to him. “This looks delicious. Again, I commend you cooking skills Taron.”

“So maybe can I cook you a three-course meal instead of having a sing off?”

“Uh-uh.” She took a drink from one of the glasses. “Nope.”

“Yeah didn’t think so.” He took a seat on one of the stools

“Plus, I am the baking queen of this developing relationship.” Robyn took the seat beside him.

“Three course meal out. I shall keep thinking.” Taron was ready to change the subject of their conversation. “So, you got the funding and a new staff member in one day?” He asked.

“Valerie has gotten a new job as a personal assistant for manager for some company in Dublin. Best career change for her. She can potter around pretending she is a big shot in her high heels, shorts skirts and sun glasses.”

“Meow!”

Robyn laughed. “She just doesn’t have the passion to work with children. You need to have a certain temperament and personality and she just wasn’t suited to the job. I get to have her exit meeting on Friday.”

“An exit meeting?”

“Hmm where you get to talk to the employee about their work and experience with the company.”

“You are going to slaughter her, aren’t you?”

“As much as I would love too, I won’t. I still haven’t forgiven her for what she said about you and me in the office but no, I will be very nice and Emma will be there as well because to be fair, I have only known her a week.”

“I don’t think I will ever do anything that will piss you off Robyn. I don’t want an exit meeting”

Robyn grinned. “I have a feeling we won’t ever need an exit meeting Taron. We are going to be in each other’s company for a very long time.”

#Taron Egerton #Taron Egerton Fanfiction #Taron Egerton Fanfic #Taron Fanfic #love #Friendship #Loyalty #Trust #Working Together

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anchoredtether · 5 years ago

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Title: The Ghost in the Machine

Chapter: 1/13

Series: Another Way to Die

Author: AnchoredTether

Rating: M [graphic depictions of violence, dark themes, slight horror]

Pairings: Pidge | Katie Holt / Lance [Plance]

Tags: Danny Phantom AU, Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters (kinda), ghost!Lance, Pidge is slightly goth, Keith is also half-ghost, angst, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, disturbing themes, slight horror elements, dark, claustrophobia, implied/referenced torture, double life, angst and humor, body horror, graphic description

Summary: “So this is how I die. In some Holt laboratory device when ALL I WANTED WAS STRING CHEESE!"

Artwork: The lovely @numbah34 made several arts for this work and they are fantastic! Check out her art here! She also has more concept art which I will link once it’s posted~

A/N: Here is my contribution for the @planceminibang! A special thank you to @amicuscordis for beta-ing! Vague summary is vague.

Read below the cut or over here at Ao3 >>

001 || THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE

---

“We should probably get back to studying,” Pidge announced after both their characters died on the retro gaming system and the eight-bit funeral dirge played. “Since, you know, you came over here to study.”

“Yeah yeah, I know…” Lance sighed. He currently had a D in his physics class and Pidge happened to be a genius at anything related to science, so they started study sessions at her place a few weeks ago. “I needed a break though! All this talk of kinetics and energy was putting my head for a spin.”

“Killbot has killed us seven times in a row so I think that’s as good a time as any to quit while we’re ahead.”

“Seven times the charm?” Lance put down the controller and pulled his textbook back onto his lap, stretching his legs out onto the coffee table. “Maaaan, who studies on a Friday night??”

“Smart people who want all day Saturday and Sunday to themselves.”

He snapped his book shut again and stood up. “You know what? I’m starving. I’ll be right back with some snacks.”

She sighed. “You have the attention span of a magpie, Lance.” After five good minutes of studying he’d go on some tangent and she had to redirect his attention, or he’d want to do a video game break or a snack break or a bathroom break and she swore that boy drank water like an alcoholic downs free shots because he was constantly needing to relieve himself. When she called him out on ‘faking’ bathroom breaks to get out of studying he simply lifted up his massive water bottle and told her he drank six of them a day. He progressed on a long spiel about how great water was and she couldn’t decide whether she was impressed by how much science he had to back up his arguments or annoyed by the fact that he couldn’t shut up about water.

She called out to him as he started down the hallway. “Can you bring me some peanut butter cookies? They’re on the top shelf of the fridge.” He held up a hand to indicate he heard and she pulled out homework from one of her advanced placement classes to work on while she waited for his return.

The Holt house was confusing. The whole family was geniuses - Sam was a revered engineer and Colleen a brilliant chemist and botanist. Half the rooms in the house were labs or conservatories (or a combination) and so many parts of the house were added on or obscure extensions that made it a strange maze of plants and machinery. Lance usually had to ask Pidge to remind him which way was to the bathroom or kitchen but he didn’t want to bother her this time. It shouldn’t have been too hard to figure out, right? He had an innate sense of direction.

The other issue was the fact that Sam upgraded all their normal appliances. Their washer and dryer did not look like the standard because he invented ones that worked better. Lance found a room that might possibly be a kitchen but just as easily a lab. There were a few black knives left on one of the counters and some strange looking vegetables. Knives and vegetables were found together in kitchens, right? Then again, half the rooms had vegetables, but he figured a kitchen utensil and an edible looking plant had to be a good indicator.

He walked up to what looked like could be a fridge and tried pulling the giant red lever that could have been the door handle. When nothing opened for him, Lance let out a dissatisfied hum and walked over to some double doors that might have been a pantry or fridge and pulled them open. They were heavy and made a hissing and whirring sound as they slowly opened. The area inside was well lit and the walls looked like they were lined with drawers, but when he walked up and tried pulling on one of the panels it wouldn’t budge.

“Pidge distinctly said ‘shelf.’ So obviously whatever this is, it’s not the refrigerator.” He took one last look before turning to leave, but the doors just barely finished closing on their own without a sound. He let out a short yelp before rushing over and pushing on the thick metal doors but there were no handles and they weren’t budging against his weight. Suddenly the lights in the room snapped into an electric green and he could hear an ominous whirring of something powering up gradually increase in volume.

He pounded on the door, yelling Pidge and her parents’ names in a vain attempt to grab someone’s attention. He started to panic, looking around frantically for some escape latch or emergency button within the walls of the room. When he exhausted all his options he backed up into a corner and braced himself for whatever was about to happen, his limbs plastered against the walls.

“So this is how I die.” He sucked in a sharp breath. “In some Holt laboratory device when ALL I WANTED WAS STRING CHEESE!”

The lights turned off and he screamed, but his scream slowly died out as he realized he wasn’t being evaporated. Nothing happened except for a sudden nausea that overcame him and then his senses quickly faded into blackness.

---

When Lance came to, he was lying on the ground of the fridge-not-fridge, the hospital-white lights were back on, and the double doors were left open. He looked over his body and patted himself in random spots and let out a sigh of relief. He seemed to be alright and figured he simply passed out from fear and adrenaline. He stood up and quickly left the room, finding his way back to Pidge.

“You can’t find the fridge, can you?” she asked in a dour tone.

She didn’t seem concerned that he was gone for a long time, so Lance figured he was only passed out for a minute or so. It would have been logical to tell her what had just happened but a part of him hesitated. Nothing happened and he didn’t want to get in trouble with her parents. He didn’t want her to get in trouble with her parents when he was being an idiot. He’d seen the way Colleen and Pidge interacted and Mrs. Holt was a scary woman when she wanted to be. He let out a nervous laugh before answering. “No, it appears I’m helpless at your house.”

Pidge stood up as she finished typing something on her phone, her green-painted nails clacking against the touch screen as she led the way without having to look up. “Follow me, goofball.”

They acquired the snacks from the strangely designed fridge - which he could have sworn it did not look like that two weeks ago - and returned to the living room (and he tried to make a mental note of the directions they took through the hallways to get there). They resumed their study of kinetic motion but the only motion Lance could focus on was the swaying of the room.

“I think I need to go home,” he said in the middle of Pidge’s explanation.

“Really, Lance? We haven’t studied five min-” She frowned a moment as she looked him over. “You’re… actually really pale. Are you alright?”

“Um… I think… yeah. I think so.” His voice was starting to slur ever so slightly and he had a feeling it would only get worse. “I just need to… to lie down, or something.”

“You can lie down on the couch or I’ll get you a bed! I don’t think you should be walking home in the state you’re in.”

“No really, I’ll… I should go home.” He stood up and swayed, but Pidge quickly stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“At least let me walk you there,” she insisted.

His house was just a few blocks down from hers so the walk wasn’t long, but they still had to take a few rest stops for Lance to catch his breath and steady his nausea. Mrs. Villanueva kindly greeted them and took Lance in, thanking Pidge for her help (and referring to her as ‘Katie’). Pidge walked back home and wondered what could have overcome her friend. His constitution had gone from perfectly fine to on his deathbed within minutes. She made it a note to check in on him tomorrow if she didn’t hear from him.

---

Mama Villanueva put Lance immediately to bed, completely tucking the blankets around him and leaving him with bottles of water, a sleeve of saltines, and a throw-up bowl. He had a feeling that whatever was wrong with him wasn’t some kind of flu or virus, and a dread gained weight in his chest that he’d have to tell the Holts what happened to him in their lab if he ever wanted to get better.

What if he never got better?

What if he was dying?

After several runs of overthinking, Lance eventually passed out from mere exhaustion. Not even his worried, rambling brain could keep him from the fatigue that soon overtook his body. He had stressful dreams of things chasing him, as if the mysterious sickness was something he could not run from or escape. When he awoke in the middle of the night, he was fairly sure it was a false awakening and he was still in a dream.

Because he was floating above his bed.

It wasn’t the weirdest thing that had happened in his dreams but it started to get freaky when he saw his whole body was slightly translucent. And for whatever reason, instead of his sleepwear he was dressed in what he wore yesterday and his clothes were inverted in color. His jacket was now a pale frosted gray, the orange bands around his sleeves now a vibrant blue. His jeans became a light tan while his shirt and shoes darkened into a charcoal gray.

“Of course I’d dream myself as a ghost after worrying about dying,” he muttered to himself as he looked at his hands with a calm fascination. He also knew he was dreaming because the sickness that consumed his body before was magically gone. He knew if he had woken for real, he would have felt like death.

He tried moving to the ground and floated on down with ease, his feet touching the floor without a sound. He started to walk out of his room but then decided to try floating instead because if he was a ghost why bother using the energy to walk? He discovered he could do it without much thought, his feet hovering a few inches from the ground with knees relaxed as if he were making his way through zero gravity.

Lance was about to open his door but his hand phased through it, causing him to let out a startled yelp. He covered his mouth with his hand that wasn't halfway through the door and waited, listening to hear if he woke anyone up. He shook his head, realizing this was a dream and it didn't matter if he woke up his parents or siblings. Although for all he knew, in this dream world there might have been monsters or something equally as terrifying he did not want to awaken.

He returned his focus to his hand in the door. It didn't hurt but he could feel where the doorknob began through his wrist and where the door ended halfway through his fingers like a precise singeing upon his skin. It didn’t burn, exactly, but Lance didn’t want to linger through a solid object for too long.

"This is the weirdest thing…" He experimented by moving his hand in and out through the door through various parts, testing how it felt at different angles. He slowly made his way phasing his whole body through the door, pausing here and there with curiosity. It wasn't long after he passed through the door that a chilling sensation passed up his spine and caused him to let out a squeaky wheeze. Some strange feeling overcame him, urging him to go outside.

Now knowing he could phase through solid objects, he passed through the bathroom in the hall and straight to the outside of his house. He turned towards the street, completely silent and serene in the middle of the night, and saw a figure in the distance. Normally a stranger out in the street at three in the morning was a major red flag but Lance could afford to follow his dangerously unhealthy curiosity when it was only a dream. He might get chased and murdered by a serial killer with an axe, but he could phase through walls now so it might not be nearly as scary (at least that's how he justified it).

Upon hovering closer, he saw that the figure was semi-translucent as well, although the stranger had his feet planted on the ground like a normal person. Perhaps everyone in this particular alternate universe were ghostly. Lance must have spent way too long staring at the stranger because when he spoke it completely startled him.

"What are you doing out here?"

Lance struggled for a moment as his mouth worked but only sputtering came out. "B-bold of you to say that when you're out in the middle of the street in the middle of the night… in the middle of my dream," he added for emphasis, as if that mattered. "So what are you doing out here?"

"It's not safe out here, you should go back to your home," the stranger said in a kind but cautious tone. He was interesting looking and perhaps that's why Lance was staring so intensely before. The stranger had purple skin with darker stripes curving up his cheeks, his eyes an electric yellow with bright purple irises. Lance had to wonder if he looked just as strange but the color of his skin was its usual warm tone.

"My home is right there," he jabbed a thumb behind him. "So I might as well see what's going on."

"No, really." The stranger almost looked nervous. "You should go."

"Aww come on, do I really look that pathetic?" Lance scoffed, confident that he could handle whatever this dream verse would throw at him. He had played enough video games to improvise and figure out how to survive.

"Considering you no longer have legs, yes."

He stared at him in confusion for a moment, then dared to look down to see his legs were gone, a translucent ghostly tail curling down from his waist instead. "Oh! Wha… what does that mean?" This dream is turning out weirder by the minute.

"Either you're an emotional wreck or you have no control over your ghost powers. Or both," he answered flatly. "Don't you know you don't need your tail unless you're traveling at high speeds or maneuvering quickly through solid objects?"

Lance lowered his brows. "I- wh?- No. I have no idea how to be a ghost."

The stranger looked a hundred percent done. "You are a ghost."

"Yeah, just for right now in this weird dream. I always have weird dreams when I'm sick."

"This is real life. It's not a dream."

"See? That's exactly what someone in my dream would say!"

The stranger rolled his bright eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Die for all I care."

"Aren't we already dead? We're ghosts."

His eyes narrowed, his expression intense. "You… you aren't normally human, are you?"

"Of course I'm 'normally' human," he answered with air quotes. "What kind of a question is that?"

The stranger suddenly looked apprehensive. "You really need to go home. And stay there."

Lance placed his hands on his hips, his face turning into a frustrated pout. "You're not the boss of me."

He turned on him, his face only inches away as his voice tugged an urgency from Lance's chest. "Your kind are rare and there is a hunter out on the loose looking for ghosts like you. Believe me when I say you do not want to be caught. If you care at all about your own self-preservation you will run and hide. I can mislead him from your home but only if you promise to stay there."

Lance was silent a moment, his eyes wide as he tried to process the severity of his words, but something stuck out to him more than the imminent danger or the implication that he was no longer human. "Why would you want to help me?"

The other ghost hesitated but his answer felt sincere. "Because we're more similar than you think." His golden eyes moved to the house and back to Lance to indicate he should go back, and with that, he gave him one last look and flew away, out of the streetlight and into the darkness.

"… I guess that's one way for my dream to wake me up." He shrugged and hovered back towards his house, phased through the walls and went back to his room. As soon as he approached the bed, the same chill from earlier traveled up his spine except this time he felt it worse.

He had a feeling that whatever the stranger was running from had arrived.

And whatever it was, it felt like a horribly bad omen.

#plance #plance mini bang #plance au #plance fanfic #flirtyrobot #danny phantom au #plance danny phantom au #ghost au #fanfic #vld #voltron #voltron fanfic #voltron au #vld au #ghost!lance #vld lance #vld pidge #my fanfiction #anchoredtether

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crayonwriting · 5 years ago

Text

Irreplaceable You: 4 (Bucky Barnes)

Summary: Unexpectedly diagnosed with a terminal disease, you embark on a mission to find a new love for your fiancé and childhood best friend, Bucky Barnes.

Disclaimer: This story is a rewrite of the movie of the same title on Netflix. Directed by Stephanie Laing and written by Bess Wohl. Go check it out!

— CHAPTER FOUR —

Six Weeks Later...

You were alone in the apartment, still recovering from your surgery. You had the masses removed in an attempt to rid and cure yourself of cancer. The doctors said it was a long shot but it was worth the try.

You lay on the soft carpeted floor in just your sweats and a hoodie you borrowed—more like stole—from Bucky’s wardrobe. They say after surgery you're going to experience some minor discomfort. It's Stage 4 cancer. Nothing is minor. Nothing is comfortable.

You were curled up in a fetal position, biting your lips in an attempt to ease the numbing pain and soreness you were currently feeling. Panic! At The Disco was blasting through your earphones and you did your best to focus on that.

—

Bucky sat by his desk, his hand covering his face as he tried to dry up the tears in his eyes that were threatening to fall. He shuddered lightly and scoffed to compose himself. He re-adjusted his glasses, reading his notes once again. He stood up in a firm manner and started writing on the whiteboard.

“So, let's, uhm, let's take another look at the proposed model for auto-associative memory and its constituent neural network.” He finished a diagram—rather slowly to his liking—and turned to his students. Like him, their minds were elsewhere: two students were staring out the window; some were doodling mindlessly on their desks or notebooks; others were already half-lidded and were seconds away from dreamland.

“Or not. Let's not and say we did. Class dismissed.” Bucky almost slammed the marker against his desk. He was out of it. He kept thinking about how you were alone at home and was probably in pain. He was worried about you. He always was. He hastily shoved his things in his messenger bag and rushed out of the classroom. His class followed soon after.

—

You tapped your foot to a silent melody against the white-tiled floor. You looked around the hospital waiting room clutching your coat and purse tight in your fists. Today was the first day of your chemotherapy and you were beyond scared. Luckily, your mom had accompanied you and has been coming back to and fro every other week to check up on you.

"Ms. Y/L/N?" The receptionist called out. You raised your hand automatically. You stood up and approached her desk. She smiled at you and handed you a piece of paper. “Please fill out this form and a nurse will come and assist you shortly.” You did as she told you and as soon as you signed at the bottom of the page, a nurse in a blue scrub suit approached you with a clipboard.

“Hi! My name’s Scott. How’s it going?” He held out his hand in greeting. Scott was tall, had hair that was a bit messy and a contagious smile. You shook his hand and mirrored his grin.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Y/N and this is my mother, Y/M/N.” He shook your mother’s hand and smiled to her too.

“I’m gonna be running your treatment suite. If you could please follow me.” He turned his back to you and started walking down the hall. You and your mother trailed after him.

“Uh, treatment suite?” You asked.

“Oh, yeah, don't get excited. It doesn't even have four walls.” He replied, nonchalantly. You looked at your mother and raised your eyebrow at her in question. Scott looked at you and smiled. He approached a room, two doors from the end of the hall and opened it. “You go ahead and grab a seat right there.” He pointed to a complicated-looking chair in the middle.

True to his word, your ‘suite’ didn’t really have four walls. The room was cut into small cubicles with thin, opaque, glass dividers—a chair in each one. You passed by an elderly man who has fallen asleep and a woman who had several snacks and books propped on her lap—you gave her a small, awkward smile when she looked up. Finally reaching an empty chair, you did as Scott said, putting your bag beside you on the floor. Your mother pulled up a chair and sat on your left.

“There, so you can relax.” He grabbed his own chair, pulling with him a small cart of what looked like needles and various bags of medicine. “For the next time, you're probably gonna want to bring your own pillow in from home. You're also gonna need your cell phone with headphones and a magazine.” He put on a pair of blue latex gloves and a matching face mask. “Some of these guys tend to hoard ‘em. You're gonna end up reading an old ripped up copy of Duck Enthusiast.”

“Oh. It's okay, I don't read…Duck Enthusiast.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, “You will. All right, feet up.” He pulled the lever on the right side of your chair, making a foot rest pop up, elevating your feet. “Yep, there you go.” He pulled down his mask to his chin and looked at you. “Okay, so uhm, before we start yes, you will feel like shit after this, but it's different for everybody.” You stared at him wide-eyed, thinking how he must’ve done this a thousand times being so cool and calm about it. Your mother opened her mouth, about to ask something but Scott raised his finger and said,

“And no, your hair isn't gonna fall out right away. And besides, it looks like you have plenty of it, so you're doing good. Uh, and if you need snacks, you got to bring them from home.” He finished and flashed the both of you another smile. “Any more questions?”

An old man in a fancy suit and tie, complete with shiny black shoes and a top hat to match passed by your cubicle, raising his hat in greeting to the three of you. He walked slowly until he was out of sight.

“I feel underdressed.” You said, amused by the old man.

“Oh, that guy?” Scott leaned over to look at the man. “Yeah, I don't know why he does that.” He looked up, putting his fingers to his chin in thinking. “I think he thinks it helps.” He pursed his lips.

“Does it?” Your mother asked, holding your hand tight in hers.

“I don't know. He's not dead yet, so it's got to be doing something, right?” Scott joked. He put his mask back on. “Well, shall we get started?”

—

You sipped your smoothie slowly as the elevator you were on rattled upwards. ‘Seventh floor of the Prime Tower on Baker Street’ your doctor instructed. During a check-up, he suggested joining a support group that could help with your emotional health. You rolled your eyes at him, not caring that he could see you. Dr. Kessler just sighed and wrote the address on paper ‘if you ever change your mind.’

You didn’t really want to go. The thought of sitting around in a circle with a bunch of people who also has cancer and talking about it doesn’t quite fit your idea of fun. And yet, here you were.

The elevator doors open to a clear room. A few art materials and empty easels sat on your right by the corner. On your far left, cabinets, drawers and a long island stood with rolls of cloth, string, pins and other sewing materials atop. In the middle was a group of what looked like six people, sat in a circle.

The man who was facing you, saw you immediately when you stepped out of the elevator. He was wearing a green shirt with a brown coat over it. His hair was peppered with a mix of gray and white. He looked to be the leader of the group.

“Hey.” He raised his hand to you. “Come on in. We're just getting started. Go grab yourself a hook and yarn.” He pointed to the island you saw earlier and went to it. As you passed by the group, you overheard one of them talking.

“Have you heard of Catholic yoga? It's a full Latin Mass with vinyasa yoga positions, and I come out…”

“You serious?” The man in the green shirt asked.

“Yeah! I feel like I'm in touch with the beyond. So, that's… that’s neat.”

“Whatever... Whatever works.”

You picked up a ball of blue yarn and a hook beside it before approaching the circle. You saw an empty chair amongst three of them who were huddled together.

“Last month? Twelve thousand dollars on treatments. Plus, I'm currently unemployed.” A girl with a shaved head and brown eyes stated, looking down at her clasped hands.

“Cancer is your job.” Another man, this time with dark hair and eyes. He seemed to have an accent too. He was pale and was sitting rather poshly on the small plastic chair.

“Well, I'd rather be unemployed.” The red-headed girl argued.

“I wouldn't sit there.” You turned to the man beside you. He looked like he was in his late thirties and he had well maintained facial hair. “This is the VIP Section.”

“Yeah, we don't listen to the pretenders.” The Posh Man said, gesturing to the other three members of the small group.

“We don't listen to each other, really.” Facial Hair Man beside you spoke.

“Hey, guys, c’mon. Make her feel welcome.” Green Shirt Man said. The Posh Man moved his seat so that you all were sitting in a complete circle.

“Yeah, come on. Only kidding.” Facial Hair Man adjusted his own seat beside you so that you could come closer to the circle.

“Welcome to the last group you ever wanted to be a member of. What's your name?” Green Shirt Man asked.

You exhaled loudly and wiggled uncomfortably on your chair. You brushed a stray hair away from your face and said your name.

“Hi Y/N.” The girl in front of you whispered. She had long red hair with a charming smile. Green Shirt Man, who was sat beside her on her left nodded and smiled at you too. Everyone was looking at you which made you feel a little self-conscious.

“But, you know, don't get attached.” You added, chuckling half-heartedly. Green Shirt Man raised his eyebrows and nodded

“Got it.” He answered. He looked at the person on the left of the red-haired woman. “You okay, there, Thor?”

Thor, had blonde shoulder-length blonde hair—which was tied up in a low bun—and steel blue eyes. He was staring at you with a sad smile on his face and eyes spilling with tears. His grip on his yarn work was tight.

“She's so pretty.” He whispered.

“You don't even know her.” Posh Man bickered. Thor’s expression immediately changed into an annoyed one.

"Well, I... I like the name Y/N." Thor tried to defend.

"Okay, let's…all let Thor have his process.” Green Shirt Man then turned to you, his hand placed on his chest. "Let me introduce myself. My name's Bruce. Bruce Banner."

“My name’s Wanda.” The red-headed girl in front of you smiled and gave a small wave.

“You already know, Thor.” Bruce gestured to Thor, who was still teary-eyed smiling at you. “Beside him is his brother, Loki.” He referred to Posh Man. “This is Nebula.” The bald girl. “And this is—”

“Tony.” The guy beside you held out his hand and you carefully shook it. Tony pointed his finger to the bundle of yarn in your lap. “Here. Just find the end.” He lifted the ball into his hands and handed you the end of it. You awkwardly took it and did your best to ‘knit.’

“Thor, that's so pretty. What is that?” Wanda asked, pointing to what Thor was working on. The man smiled lovingly at his work.

"Well, it's gonna be a teddy bear." He answered

"Ah. Is that for your nephew?" Wanda questioned, crossing her legs.

"No. It's, uh, for me to be buried with." Thor smiled. Wanda's eyes grew a bit wide before biting her bottom lip and glanced to the rest of the group—mostly you and Bruce.

"Ah. Well, I like that you're thinking ahead. Smart man." Wanda carefully nudged Thor with her elbow, chuckling slightly. She shifted her position so that she was facing the inside of the circle.

"Hey, Tony, your doily is really coming along." Bruce praised.

"Yeah. I... I wish I could say the same for the rest of my life." You looked down at your hands as Tony continued. "Every morning I wake up, new lease on life, lasts about 20 minutes." he paused for a moment, eyeing each one of us. "Then I remember…the Mets suck, there's construction on the F train, I got a leak in my roof that's gonna cost $3,500. Apparently, I still sweat the small stuff." He shrugged, leaning back on his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and sat tall.

"Hard not to." Bruce agreed, nodding solemnly. "How is Pepper holding up?" Tony's lips lifted into a small smile.

"She's good. There's a new hawk in Central Park. Every morning we go out there and watch the little guy. I hope she keeps up the bird-watching after I'm gone. You know…," Tony shrugged once again. "With whatever new guy she's banging." Tony bit his lip and thrusted his hips playfully.

You widen your eyes at how nonchalant he is about the idea of his partner, ‘banging’ someone else. The rest of the group just laughed and chuckled for a bit like it was a normal thing. How could they think like that?

"Welcome to group." Wanda said, seeing your uneasy expression. "It's the way we roll." She motioned with her hands, trying to make you relax which really did nothing.

"We have fun." Tony piped up beside you, softly patting his hand against your shoulder. You looked at him and to the rest of the group who were all staring at you, waiting for your reaction. You laughed uncomfortably

"Yeah, yeah. That's cool." You managed to blurt out.

—

Tags: @blueskiesbleakeyes / @justanothergirlwithdemons / @butteryoptimisticpeanut / @likes-to-smell-books / @hennessy0274-blog

#b writes #irreplaceable you series #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan x reader

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welllpthisishappening · 6 years ago

Note

Well, in your honor, I made a donation to Mission Hope: Opioid Task Force and the ACLU. Granted one is a bit self-serving as you're already aware. Now, I am going to get baseball fic out of you, one way or another. What I'm asking is kinda more frenemies!Captain Charming with Sox!David and Yankee!Killian with Emma as baseball clueless sibling to David who kinda has no idea that the dude she's been talking to is her brother's rival. Kisse

You are fantastic! And this is fantastic! And here is some more baseball fic! Remember when these prompts were going to be, like, 2K? Yeah, they’re not. Here we have: not quite what you asked for, baseball rivals, my husband’s opinions on the Auburn athletic program, some in-depth discussion of whether or not win-loss records should affect a pitcher’s Cy Young chances (cough, cough Jacob deGrom) and SECRET DATING. The last one is probably the most important. I wrote this during the last Yankees-Sox series to distract myself from how depressing it was.

This is a continuation of The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway and I’m taking prompts (and filling the ones I’ve got so far) through the end of the month. Also available on Ao3 if that’s how you roll.

She honestly doesn’t mean for it to happen.

If there is a string of words that is the exact opposite of this is what Emma Swan meant to happen, then that is exactly what she would be because she absolutely, positively did not mean for this to happen.

The happening, as it is, is David pacing in front of the Yankees team hotel in Boston, something that might be actual steam coming out of his ears because he’s just realized his sister is dating his sworn baseball enemy.

His words.

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles, staring at her feet and Killian looks torn between slinging an arm around her shoulders and challenging David to a duel in the middle of the sidewalk.

The whole thing is absurd.

That’s a good word for it.

It’s absurd and ridiculous and literal years in the making. Emma takes a step back, David’s eyebrows flying into his hairline and Mary Margaret presses her lips together, presumably so she doesn’t actually dissolve into hysterics.

The situation feels a little hysterical.

And whatever sound David makes when Emma laces her fingers through Killian’s and she can just make out the scar under the pad of her thumb. He squeezes back.

“So, uh,” Emma says, doing her best to make her voice even and calm and Killian kisses the top of her hair. “This is a thing that’s happening.”“And has been,” Killian adds. “Ok, that’s not helping.” “I’m being honest, Swan.” “That’s still not helping.” “Has been?” Mary Margaret repeats. Emma nods, eyes flashing to David who, it appears, has evolved into marble at some point. “How long?” “Uh...awhile.” “You’ve go tot start at the beginning,” David mutters, but it sounds like a demand and a bit like a plea and they’re all wearing far too much team-branded clothing for any of this to feel like a legitimate conversation.

Killian kisses her hair again.

And, really, Emma’s not even entirely sure how it did begin because it wasn’t like they were friends.

Emma didn’t even really know him. She knew of him, heard David grouse about Jones’ power at the plate like he hadn’t used alliteration to describe some guy on a different team nearly every time she talked to him that spring. It was, of course, true, Killian Jones had ridiculous power at the plate, but Emma knew better than to agree and David hated him.

“He’s a threat to our Series chances, Em,” he’d shout, and Emma’s eyes would flicker towards Mary Margaret who’d just shrug in response because it was almost comforting to hear David repeat the same string of words twenty-two times every other day.

Emma never met him. She didn’t know anything about Killian Jones, all-SEC third baseman, except that he regularly hit over .300 and had a ridiculously strong arm on cross-field throws. David regularly yelled about that too.

But then something happened.

And she didn’t mean for that to happen either.

David hit Killian Jones.

He promises, still, always, forever, it wasn’t on purpose and Emma believes him, but she doesn't ever quite forget what it looked like to watch Killian crumple at the plate, the hiss of his pain echoing in between her ears. David barely makes it off the mound, the guilt of it all obvious on his shoulders because they take Killian away in an ambulance and there are murmurings about hospitals and broken hands and Emma’s never really sure who suggests they go visit him, but it’s probably Mary Margaret.

She’s that kind of person.

So they do. They get in Emma’s car and it’s definitely against team rules, but David can’t hold her gaze and she knows he’s got to apologize in person.

And that's how Emma Swan meets Killian Jones.

He’s only vaguely cognizant, something about painkillers and an attempt at a smirk that doesn’t even come close to hitting its mark. He grins at her the entire time they stand in that room, David running through apologies and promises that he’s so sorry and didn’t mean it and Killian hums distractedly.

“What did you say your name was?” he asks, and Emma has to blink, approximately, seventeen times to make sure he’s actually talking to her.

His voice is kind of slurred.

She assumes there’s morphine involved.

“Emma,” she repeats. Mary Margaret’s got a look on her face. Emma wishes she wouldn’t. “My name is Emma Swan.” “Swan.” “That’s what I said.” “But your angry brother’s name is Nolan.” “Ok, I’m not angry,” David argues, but Mary Margaret actually shushes him and Emma takes a cautious step towards the hospital bed. Killian arches an eyebrow. He tries, at least.

“You’re not entirely coherent, right now, are you?”He shakes his head. “I’m perfectly coherent. And perceptive. Why the different last names?” “Adopted.” “Ah.” “That’s it?” “Were you looking for more of a reaction?” “Maybe not while you’re high on Vicodin.” “Morphine,” Killian corrects, but that word doesn’t sound much like a word either and Emma wishes she weren’t so charmed by this. “Only the good stuff here.” “Seems to be a matter of opinion, doesn’t it?”

He’s closed his eyes at some point, but Emma swears she can still feel him looking at her and Mary Margaret is actively trying to get David to leave. They brought Killian flowers. And a card. The whole thing is absolutely absurd. “Do you have a lot of opinions on how my recovery should go, Swan?” Killian drawls.

She resists the urge to swat at him. She’s pretty positive his hand is actually broken. “None,” Emma promises. “At all.”“That’s disappointing.” He’s high on painkillers. His eyes are still closed. He has no idea who she is. He probably thinks she’s some kind of baseball angel.

That’s actually almost kind of romantic.

Maybe Emma’s the one who’s suffering from too much morphine.

“Is it?” she asks, not sure why she’s prolonging this conversation. He hit a double earlier in the game though, and the whole thing did something absurd to her heart and possibly the way her brain worked and he was a really good baseball player.

David thought so. And David wouldn’t lie.

Killian hums, scrunching the pillow under his head when he nods. “Decidedly.”“If this is supposed to be charming it’s--” “--Don’t bother trying to tell me you’re not charmed, Swan, I absolutely know it’s working.” “You can’t even open your eyes.” “That’s because I’m exhausted and your brother tried to kill me.”

“Hey, c’mon, that’s not true at all,” David cries, but he’s got one foot already out the door and Mary Margaret is actually tugging on his shirt.

“It’s a little true,” Killian mumbles. “What do you think, love? You think he was actively trying to kill me or just make sure Auburn wins a conference title this season?”“You’ve covered the gamut of nicknames, haven’t you?” Emma asks, and his eyes snap open like they’re on a lever. They’re distractingly blue. She assumes they look very good while he’s wearing a Vanderbilt uniform.

She assumes he looks very good while wearing a Vanderbilt uniform.

And like...anything.

“Hit for the cycle,” Killian mutters. She can’t quite stop her answering laugh. He looks like he just hit a grand slam every time he got up to bat.

“You think you’re far funnier than you actually are.”

He hums again, smile a bit easier and almost kind of natural and Emma’s eyes widen when she glances over her shoulder at Mary Margaret. Who appears to be trying to communicate with her telepathically. It almost, kind of works.

“I think you think I’m funny, Swan,” Killian challenges. “And I think your brother would like to leave this hospital as soon as possible.”“You’re a goddamn mind reader, Jones,” David mutters.

Emma rolls her eyes. “David, give the guy a break. He’s hopped up on morphine and--”

“--Endorphins,” Killian cuts in.

“What? That doesn’t even make any sense.”“Endorphins. Because you’re rather distracting, you know that, Swan? And your eyes are going to get stuck that way.” She doesn’t argue – possibly because she’s lost control of the situation entirely and possibly because she’s still being stupid charmed by it and it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. But then Emma’s groaning and mumbling a string of curses under her breath and she's certain, under pain of death, or hit by a pitch, that Killian's eyes actually flash when he realizes what she’s doing.

There’s a pen on the table next to his bed, a piece of garbage notepad that barely holds together when she yanks it out of the drawer. “Not exactly the Ritz Carlton is it,?” Emma asks.

“I’d hardly expect that from your area hospital when your school's mascot is some god awful cartoon tiger and occasionally an eagle,” he says. “Make up your mind.”“What even is a Commodore?” “It’s a military rank.” “That’s not a mascot.” “Only because you lot are hoarding all of them.” Emma laughs again. She wishes he would stop making her do that. He doesn’t. For years. Because she, for reasons she never entirely understands, writes her name and number on that piece of garbage notepad and at some point she almost, kind of considers Killian Jones, first-round draft pick by the New York Yankees, a friend.

A good friend.

Not, like, her best friend, or some guy who is maybe an almost what if because that’s absolutely, positively not how she operates. But, like, a guy. A good guy friend.

They talk. They text. He, sometimes, calls her when the team flight is delayed and maybe more often during Spring Training that year because “it’s a contract year, love” and he’s admittedly a little nervous and Emma promises “you’ll hit a hundred RBIs.”He tells her RBI shouldn’t have a plural.

“It’s already a multiple, Swan,” Killian laughs, stretched out in a bed that’s almost comically small for him and she makes a mental note to critique the Yankees for their less-than-impressive facilities in Tampa. “You add that extra ‘s’ and it’s what? Runs batted ins. That’s not even English.”“You don’t have a degree,” Emma points out. “You don't get an opinion on this.” “That doesn’t mean I don’t understand the English language, love.” She rolls her eyes, but mostly so she can better ignore that little jolt her heart gets every time he calls her that and David has no idea. Killian’s not his friend. “ESPN uses RBIs in its stories,” Emma counters. “I don’t care what the right grammar is. If the Worldwide Leader is doing it, then--” “--Who is calling them that?” “Should they not be?” “Not when they don’t think we have a chance of winning the Division.”

“That’s because you don't,” Emma smiles, mostly so she can get him to make that face, a mix of disgust and a century’s-old rivalry that involves curses and benches clearing brawls and, now, maybe a few familial issues. “And when do you even find the time to watch ESPN?”

“When do you find the time to read articles about the state of the American League?”“Just the AL East.” “Ah, of course.” “I’ve got a vested interest, you see.” Killian blinks, all blue and hopeful and they are friends. Friends. Friends. David would kill him. He’d hit him again. The bullpens would join the inevitable fight. She’s got every New York-Boston series circled on her calendar already.

“That so?” Killian asks, an almost impressive effort at normal. His voice cracks slightly though and it seems to time up perfectly with whatever Emma’s pulse is doing. Possibly trying to beat its way out of her body.

That’d probably make the FaceTime call weird.

“Well, it’d be easier if you signed with the Yankees again,” Emma reasons. “I’d hate to have to schedule these phone calls when I’ve got to worry about time zones as well.”“Wouldn't be right to inconvenience you like that, love. Plus, you know, pinstripes, very slimming.” She laughs, a breath of normal and friendship and she’s never hated either word more in her life. “Make sure you mention that to your agent, ok? And maybe the ridiculous on base you’ve got this spring.” “That’s just training, Swan. We played a college team this afternoon.” “Still. Hitting is hitting. And college teams can be good. You know, winning World Series and impressive victories in Omaha and all that.” “There’s no need to rub it in.” Emma grins, a flush of something shooting down her spine that feels suspiciously like several words she’d like to avoid and never expected. Someone calls Killian’s name, his head jerking towards the open doorway and he’s nodding and agreeing to dinner and film sessions and maybe some time in the cage.

Because it’s a contract year.

It’s an important year.

“I’ve got to go love,” Killian says, and she’s not counting endearments. She’s not. She’s noticing them. In passing.

There is no obsession. There is only friendship.

Emma nods. “Yeah, of course. But you know you can do damage to your rotator cuff if you hit in automated settings too often. ESPN mentioned that too.”“I’ll keep that in mind. Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you after you guys wreck another local college team.”“Deal.”

The Yankees open the season as the Wild Card favorites, Boston’s the favorite to win the Division and third to win the entire goddamn World Series and Emma texts both her brother and Killian after every single one of their games.

“Because we’re friends,” Emma explains. Elsa tilts her head, a silent objection that’s almost louder than any words she could actually say, sitting cross-legged on her couch in Toronto and Emma’s only there for the weekend, a visit because she hadn’t been in awhile and maybe the Yankees are in town that weekend, but it doesn’t really matter and--

“You want to kiss him,” Elsa says.

“That’s not true.”

“Yuh huh.”“Don’t do that. You sound like Mary Margaret.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Emma admits. “And this is not like that. We’re...I mean David plays for the Red Sox, you think I can just…”

Elsa’s eyes widen to an almost comical size when Emma trails off and he texted her the day before – tickets waiting at Rogers if you want ‘em, Swan. It might have been the only thing she’d thought of in the last twenty-four hours. She should probably apologize to Elsa at some point.

“It’s ridiculous that you think you can’t,” Elsa says evenly. “You know that, right? This is not some baseball Romeo and Juliet.”“I’d really it rather wasn’t, honestly.”

“Then we should probably go to the game, don’t you think?”

Emma nods before she can think better of it. And Killian goes two-for-five in another Yankee victory, someone in a team-branded polo finding them after the final out because they’re sitting in special seats or something that doesn’t sound quite so lame and Elsa actually giggles when they’re told Mr. Jones hopes you’ll wait outside the team exit for him.

“That’s the fanciest sentence I’ve ever heard,” Elsa mutters, nudging Emma in the side like she wasn’t also there. She’s having some trouble hearing over the ringing in her ears anyway. “How come David doesn't ever invite us to the team exit?”“There are probably rules,” Emma reasons.

“And your brother doesn’t want to date you.”“The opinions just get more and more pointed, don’t they?” Elsa simply smiles in response. And it takes some time, sitting in incredibly plush chairs with the Blue Jays emblem stitched into the back and Emma really doesn’t mean for her breath to actually hitch when Killian walks into the room.

He beams at her.

“Huh,” Elsa says. “So that’s what that looks like.”Emma glares at her, but it’s pointless because she’s already introducing herself and thanking Killian for the tickets and telling him helooked good out there today like she’s ever cared about sports in her entire life.

“Thanks,” Killian says, distracted and quick, like he’s trying to rush over the letters to make sure the conversation doesn’t have a chance to linger in that room for too long. His eyes keep darting to Emma, tongue flashing between his lips which is absolutely distracting and, at some point, she should really figure out how endorphins works.

She figures they probably shouldn’t make her feel like her head is spinning.

She’s not a scientist.

“Good seats?” Killian asks. Emma blinks. And laughs. “Ok, I know they were good seats. I...that’s common courtesy, Swan.”“Yuh huh.” “It is. You catch any foul balls?” “We were in a suite.” He blushes, running a hand through his hair and Elsa makes a noise that’s both judgmental and a little unfair, all things considered. Emma wonders if the endorphins in her body will do her a real solid and make sure she melts into the floor.

“That’s a very good point,” Killian admits. Elsa’s eyes are like tiny, little pinballs, bouncing and appraising and Emma rocks forward because she wants to walk forward and, maybe, make out with Killian Jones, third baseman for the New York Yankees, but her brother is still on the opposite side of the baseball spectrum and there are rules and regulations and probably contract issues because that’s how it always works.

He’s probably dating someone in New York anyway.

He’s a catch.

Or so Mary Margaret would say.

Emma bites her lip.

“So, uh…” Elsa starts. “I’ve got a ton of work that I was ignoring today--”“--It’s Sunday afternoon,” Emma interrupts, but her jaw feels like it actually snaps in half and Elsa is way better at glaring than she is.

“Yup, and I’ve got a lot of work that I didn’t do. But would you look at that, you’re kind of on vacation! Isn’t that weird? Weird. It’s weird.”“Weird.” “Exactly. So, I’m going to go and…” She waves her hands through the air, the threat of a far-too-confident smile tugging at the ends of her lips. “I’m going to leave you guys….to it. Where’s that fancy team person? Can they make sure I don’t get yelled at by security?” “Or arrested by mounties,” Emma adds. “That’s not how Canada works. Thanks again for the tickets, Killian. It’s a very long game.” “Yeah, that’s kind of baseball’s schtick,” Killian mutters. He’s still staring at Emma.

The team person appears suddenly, like she’s been summoned there by the sheer force of Elsa’s almost too obvious will, and Emma can’t remember the last time she took a deep breath.

It’s only kind of uncomfortable – especially when Killian moves first and his fingers are rough when they brush over the back of her wrist.

“You need, like, a manicure or something,” Emma mumbles, drawing a scoff out of him and a groan out of her and that is the last thing she expected to say.

“I’m not sure that would really help, actually.”“Don’t you wear baseball gloves?” “Not all the time.” “Rebel.” He nods, and it’s like the world gives them a second to catch their breath and figure out what’s happening and it’s all impossibly slow and far too fast and Emma sighs against his mouth when he kisses her. Or she kisses him.

It honestly does not matter.

Because she’s been thinking about this for far longer than she’d ever be willing to admit and he’s as good as it as she figured he would be, or maybe the other way around because he kind of groans against her mouth when her fingers find the back of his hair and oxygen is pointless anyway.

They’re an out-of-breath mess by the time they finally break apart, eyes wide and shoulders heaving and Emma isn’t entirely sure when they decided to occupy the same few inches of spaces, but her right foot is on top of his left.

Killian doesn’t seem to mind.

“God, I’ve wanted to do that forever,” he whispers, and Emma wonders if anyone has ever survived after their whole soul has kind of just imploded in a fit of happiness and finally.

“Are you kidding me?”Killian makes a noise in the affirmative, another quick brush of lips over hers and they’ve probably scandalized the team worker. “I’ve got some very fond memories of a flower-bearing deity who refused to believe I was as funny as I absolutely am.” “Oh, my God.” “You think I’m funny, Swan, I know you do.” “Your ego knows no bounds.” “It’s a contract year, I’m just trying to prove my worth to the franchise.”

Emma presses up on her toes, the nerves in his voice almost reaching out and slapping her or inadvertently hitting her in the batter’s box and that, at least, is kind of cyclical. She’s not sure when she’s become the positive one, but Mary Margaret will probably appreciate not having to bear the brunt of it all anymore.

“No need,” Emma mumbles, mostly against his mouth and the words get a bit jumbled when Killian’s hand finds its way under the hem of her shirt. “But, like, really since the morphine incident? You were super high.”“And still had eyes, strange as that may seem.” “Yeah?” “Yeah,” Killian echoes. “I like you. I was trying to show off today.” “I mean, it kind of worked. You want me to write like a letter of recommendation to Brian Cashman or something?”

His laugh is loud and easy and Emma tries to make sure it imprints itself on her memory. And she’s so goddamn happy that they’re as good at making out in visiting team’s facilities as she hoped that she almost forgets her brother is going to kill her because she’s dating the enemy. And he’s really good at hitting baseballs.

That is, of course, before the August series in Boston and the Yankees are three games out of first and the whole thing is as chaotic as it is exciting and Emma can’t stop fidgeting in the family box at Fenway.

“What’s going on with you?” Mary Margaret asks. She’s got head-to-toe red on, David’s number painted on her face like the entire city of Boston isn’t almost painfully aware how in love they are, and Emma’s surprised she didn’t make a sign.

The series is that important.

Killian’s on a six-game hitting streak.

Emma’s not supposed to know that. And no one is supposed to know she went to New York three weeks ago. There was kissing. Like. Just a copious amount of kissing.

Maybe that can happen again after the game.

She wonders how quickly she can get away from her brother. And out of this Red Sox gear.

“What is that?”

Emma jerks her head up, and she didn’t even realize she was doing it. That should be the subheadline of her life at this point. It’s not really anything – she keeps telling herself, has to remind herself almost daily because it’s absurd and sentimental but he’d driven in five runs during that game in New York three weeks before and his bed was absurdly comfortable and Emma made some crack about getting the bonus just to keep this mattress and Killian had kissed her silent; before asking, with slightly hooded eyes in a voice that she certainly still wasn’t thinking about, if she’d maybe, possibly, consider wearing the ring he always kept around his neck. Even during the season. ESPN had tried to do a feature on it.

Killian wouldn’t talk about it.

“It was, uh….it was my brother’s,” he explained, and Emma was going to do permanent damage to her lip from biting it. It didn’t make much of a difference. She cried anyway.

And she’d known about Liam, had heard the stories and the goddamn tragedy of it all, but she’d never seen Killian without that ring on a chain around his neck and it was probably only a matter of time before the New York tabs realized it.

“For good luck,” he said. He smiled. Emma kept crying. And kissed him. He hit a triple the next day. She kind of figured that was for her too.

She’d started tugging on it, though, unconsciously or subconsciously and the specifics of it don't matter, especially in the family suite at Fenway with Mary Margaret doing her best impersonation of a relationship-scouting hawk.

“Emma,” she says. “What is that?”“Nothing.” “You’re going to want to try that again if you want me to believe you.” “It’s nothing.” Mary Margaret shakes her head, gaze falling on the ring that’s now hanging over Emma’s shirt and this is a disaster. David hasn’t even thrown the first pitch yesterday – that’s a very strange sentence she’s not certain she’ll ever understand, and just the day before he was complaining about Killian’s hitting streak while Emma was texting Killian updates about it under the table in the apartment in Back Bay.

“It’s not,” Emma continues, but talking is only making it worse and Fenway gets impossibly loud during Yankees series.

“It looks new.”“It’s not.” Emma grits her teeth when she realizes what she’s said and she’s given Mary Margaret fuel - fed the eagle as it were. They’ve missed the entire first at bat already. “Did he strike him out on three pitches?” Emma asks, the pride practically radiating through the suite. Someone’s already humming Sweet Caroline under their breath.

“He’s in some kind of zone,” Mary Margaret says. “Was sitting on the couch yesterday after you left, honest to God, practicing his grip on his cutter.”“That’s insane.” “Nah, that’s a series against the Yankees when the pennant’s on the line.” “It’s August.” “On the line,” Mary Margaret repeats, emphasizing every word and Emma can’t get her response out because the boos are that distracting. She’s a little disappointed it’s an away game because that means there are no pinstripes and Killian Jones looks unfairly good in pinstripes, but Emma figures that’s honestly for the best.

Mary Margaret has evolved into some kind of basset hound anyway – sniffing out lies and deflections and however endorphins work. Emma ignores the weight of her stare, pulling her lips behind her teeth and David throws a strike on the first pitch.

“Practiced the hold on that cutter all night,” Mary Margaret mutters.

“It’s not like he doesn’t know who he’s pitching against.”“Ah, that’s not exactly what it is.” Ball one. And two. And Killian steps out of the box, David’s shoulders going obviously tight when he calls time. Emma’s lungs are on fire.

She hopes the endorphins can fix that eventually.

“I don’t understand,” Emma admits, and strike two is swinging and definitely outside and she knows Killian’s frustrated as much as she knows David is overjoyed.

The boos get louder.

“It’s a Yankees-Sox series,” Mary Margaret shrugs. “Us and them. And, I mean, you know that history.”

“Between franchises?”“Between David and Killian Jones.” Emma’s pretty impressed her legs don’t actually buckle but she does have to brace her hands on the glass in front of her, and she’s not sure if she imagines Mary Margaret’s gasp or not. Killian flys out. David fist pumps.

The whole thing is epically absurd.

“What does that mean?” Emma asks, as the next Yankee hitter lines out to short and it’s a quick inning and she should probably be happier about that. She probably shouldn’t have come to the game at all. “Like baseball enemies?”“Of course not.” “Because that’s even more ridiculous than practicing a hold on a cutter David learned when he was eleven and--” “--Emma, oh, my God, seriously, what is going on with you? And don’t say anything, you’re like...shaking.”

She is. Her whole body is vibrating, nervous energy and excited energy and she’d suggested dinner at a restaurant near the Yankees hotel so she could get to the Yankees hotel easier and she wanted both teams to win.

That was impossible.

God, they should have told David already.

“What are you talking about?” Emma challenges. The Red Sox already have someone on second. “What do you mean David and Killian have a thing.”Mary Margaret’s eyebrows defy gravity. “Killian?”“That’s not weird. We know him. We met him. We brought him flowers!” “Like...six years ago.” “And?” “And, nothing, I guess. Just, you know, David’s a pitcher and Killian’s a great hitter and Vandy did win the SEC when he came back that year and then he got drafted ahead of David--” “Because the Yankees didn't need a pitcher. David would have raged if he got drafted by New York.” “That’s not necessarily true.” “Would you like to try again?” Emma asks, and she has to shout the question over the cheers and they’re winning. Or the Red Sox are winning. She’s not sure where her baseball allegiances lie anymore. That’s definitely the most ridiculous sentence she’s ever thought.

“Ok, ok, ok,” Mary Margaret says. “So maybe David’s unfairly biased against New York teams, but you know him and Jones...they’ve always kind of...just toyed with each other. And he feels bad about hitting him still, but that was years ago and now they’re in the same Division again and, you know, this series is important.”Emma doesn’t respond. She does not trust herself to.

So she takes advantage of complimentary food and drink and the general hospitality of the family suite at Fenway and she digs her nails into her palms so she doesn’t cheer when Killian hits a three-run homer in the top of the eighth to give New York the lead.

The hit streak sits at seven games.

And the Red Sox lose the series opener.

“Can you believe I end up with a no-decision now?” David grouses, hours and post-game press conferences later and he’s already ripped apart the pre-meal bread like it’s the reason people still care about win-loss records.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Mary Margaret says. It’s not the first time. It will not be the last time.

“Still a Cy Young contender,” Emma adds.

David’s going to get arrested for his attack on the entire bread industry. “It’s not about individual awards, Em. It’s about this series and holding our lead and--”“--The race for the pennant.” “Yeah, exactly that. And making sure they’re as far away any sort of trophy as possible. God, you know how obnoxious Jones would be as a World Series champion? Totally insufferable. Perfect for New York of course, but just...that can’t...God, he’s so good at the plate, you think he won some kind of genetic lottery?”

Emma knocks her glass over. Her elbows suddenly want to make a run for the nearest exit and there’s wine on her jeans and her ring is back over the front of her shirt and she nearly sends her chair into the very nice looking couple next to them when she mumbles a quick apology and bolts onto the sidewalk.

And, really, she shouldn’t be surprised that he’s sitting in the lobby across the street because they did say some time around nine’ish and he’d always been ridiculously good at reading her and knowing her, even when he was hopped up on painkillers and twisted in an uncomfortable hospital bed.

“Swan?” Killian calls, already halfway out the door and he makes a face when the first three cars in the street don’t immediately stop so he can cross. He jogs towards her, post-game tie loose around his neck, which seems kind of unfair, but it makes it easier to tug and pull him towards her and they’re so goddamn good at kissing each other. He startles slightly at the force of her mouth on his, but it takes less than a full second for him to just sort of melt into it and Emma’s feet are only kind of touching the ground when he pulls her closer to him.

They linger in each other’s space for what feels like a very long eternity, fingers drifting and tracing and Emma almost forgets about her wine-jeans until Killian’s lips drag across her jaw and she shivers.

Someone nearby whistles.

“You want to tell me what this is about now, love?” Killian asks.

“I honestly have no idea. Just like...series-inspired insanity and did you know that my brother thinks of you as some kind of baseball frenemy and possible scoring threat?”“No to the first one, but definitely yes to the second. As he should, really, you see that homer today?” “I was there.”“Cheering?” “Trying very hard not to.” Killian chuckles, a kiss so quick it barely registers. Emma knows they’re on borrowed time. It was inevitable that the troops would rally or something equally ridiculous, and she can hear the footsteps behind them, but Killian’s fingers are still moving and his ring is around her neck and-- “I love you,” she says, certain and sure and at the worst possible time.

He nearly drops her.

“What?” Killian breathes, David behind him and making a sound like an umpire just missed an obvious strike call. “Swan…”

Emma shakes her head, pressing her lips together and the next few moments are a blur of explanations and the phrase I wasn’t really expecting it repeated several dozen times. David’s expression doesn’t change, even when some kid in his jersey stops him to ask for an autograph and glares pointedly at Killian.

“We’ve evolved into complete farce now,” Emma grumbles, and she’s not sure she’s entirely prepared for the look on Mary Margaret’s face. Like she knew all along. Like she knew as soon as they walked into the goddamn hospital room.

She shrugs. “I had some suspicions when I saw the distinct lack of ring when he was jogging the bases and you called him Killian like that was a thing you’d been doing.”“And you guys have been…” David starts, trailing off when Killian’s arm tightens around Emma.

“No, no,” Emma sputters. “No...that just kind of…”She cuts herself off, biting her tongue in the process and her eyes don’t do anything except meet Killian’s slightly cautious smile when he steps in front of her. “Hey,” he mutters, thumb ghosting just under her lower lip and she’d never moved the ring back. “I love you too.” Emma’s dimly aware of David’s rather loud too but Mary Margaret shushes him and the whole thing still feels kind of cyclical.

And like hitting a bases-clearing double in the bottom of the ninth.

“Yeah?” Emma asks, an absurd response to declarations in the middle of the sidewalk, but that’s kind of them and kind of this and she wants to ignore baseball for the foreseeable future.

She wants to focus on the force of Killian’s responding smile instead.

“Yeah,” he nods. “I kind of thought that was almost obvious. I’ve pining for awhile.”“Before Toronto?” “Way before Toronto.” “Wait, Toronto?” David shouts. “What happened in Toronto?” “Not anything you actually want to know about,” Emma promises. “You going to be weird about this? Like...for the rest of the season or your careers?”

“More weird than your wine incident?”“Is that what happened to your jeans?” Killian nods, and Emma blushes because he was totally checking her out. David groans.

“I’m not going to be weird about this,” he promises. “I mean...I’ll totally wreck you at the plate if you do something stupid, but our set-up guy is garbage anyway and you’re on that ridiculous streak. It was only a matter of time before you played hero.”“And probably tried to impress Emma,” Mary Margaret mutters.

Killian tilts his head. “It’s more likely the second one.”“Figured.” He takes a deep breath, still twisted and in front of Emma with her finger hooked through one of his belt loops. “I may be a little weird about it,” Killian admits. “We’re totally coming for your divisional title. Wild Card stresses me out.” Emma laughs, some of her nerves evaporating and his chest is very solid when her head crashes against him. She’s fairly certain he mumbles I love you in her hair again and she smiles into his shirt, something that feels like a pitching rhythm and striking out the side. She needs to stop making baseball puns in her head.

They go inside the restaurant eventually – after another Boston fans yells get back to New York, Jones from the other side of the street – and Emma manages to keep all her wine in her glass for the rest of the evening. And the Yankees don’t win the Division, but they win the Wild Card game and Emma doesn’t sit down for any of the six games the ALDS lasts.

They win the series in New York.

She’s wearing pinstripes.

David’s only a little annoyed by that.

“I told you I was going to support whatever city I was in,” Emma says, and he rolls his eyes and Killian’s smile, somehow, gets wider and Mary Margaret looks overjoyed. She has since August.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” David grumbles. “Easy now with just one All-Star to root for.”“Your words, not mine.”

Killian kisses her. There’s a photo snapped somewhere behind them, but that’s become fairly normal in the last few weeks because it only took a few games for the New York tabs to realize he wasn’t wearing the ring and start speculation on the location of the ring and Emma was sitting along the first baseline when someone in a throwback Devil Rays jersey three seats away noticed the ring hanging over the front of the Jones t-shirt she was wearing.

They weren’t very subtle about it.

They actually planned it that way.

“What’s that you always say, Nolan?” Killian asks. “It’s not about the personal accolades, it’s about the team and the trophy.”“Agh, wait at least twenty-four hours after my season ends before you start taunting me with my own quotes, huh?” “That seems fair. Doesn’t it, Swan?” Emma nods, still charmed and happy and she’s got a good feeling about the rest of the playoffs because no one expected a Yankees run and she’s got World Series aspirations. Killian Jones, third baseman of the New York Yankees and World Series champion does, after all, sound pretty good.

It looks even better, a playoff run for the ages with an improbable sweep in the ALCS and a hit streak that ESPN claims is legendary and the New York tabs dub the rivalry over when Emma, David and Mary Margaret are spotted cheering in the team suite in the Bronx.

She doesn’t cry when they win, but she might when Killian kisses her, feet off the ground and arms slung around his neck and there’s not enough oxygen in the world to help Emma say everything she wants to.

Everything.

So, naturally, Killian says something to surprise her, because Emma’s not sure how she got on the field without security yelling at her.

Probably because they were distracted by David signing copies of the goddamn New York Post.

“When’s your lease up?” Killian asks.

“What?”“Your lease?” She has to blink three more times before she understands, and then she kisses him instead of answering him, and that’s kind of an answer anyway. “Yeah,” Emma says. “Yeah, that’s what i want to do.”

He signs his contract extension the same day she signs the lease and Emma keeps wearing Yankees gear and Red Sox gear depending on what city she’s in, but her allegiances become a little more obvious when she gets a slightly different ring.

That makes the New York tabs too.

#cs ff #captain swan fic #captain swan #cs #cs fic #laura rambles #i have written so much baseball fic in the last few weeks #it's genuinely ridiculous #the hardest part of this fic was deciding where to make killian play #he's less of a defensive liability than andujar #anyway i miss aaron judge #and i wish the yankees would play better #distant-rose

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