#drawn a hard line in the sand shes done putting up with this she wants better for herself she knows she deserves better and she hopes one | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vinylhazza · 4 years ago

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For Keeps (G.D)

Summary: Jesse knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to say it, or rather demand it. Grayson, who carries respect and dignity like a shield of armor, walks the line of being the vanilla boyfriend he always thought she’d want, or the guy that listens to the devil on his shoulder and embellishes on the fantasies that won’t leave him alone every night. There is a first for everything, a time and place to try something -- or some one new. There is a chance to set the fire in motion. He might just take it.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warning: Strong sexual content, giving head, fingering, spitting, explicit language

There is a first for everything.

The first time you ride a bike, the first time you try your favorite food, the first time you win an award, the first time you hear your favorite song, the first time you talk to the person you’re meant to spend the rest of forever with, the first time you overcome your worst fear, the first time you read your favorite book, the first time you travel to a different country, the first time you have thoughts that should damn you for eternity and for some...there is even a first time for eating pussy.

It’s an embarrassment he’d never wanted anyone to discover let alone put to the test. Sure his friends had their time to talk about their extensive knowledge on female anatomy, but whenever the topic of him and Jesse doing anything outside the box he himself had placed them in, his lips were sealed. For one thing it wasn’t their business, for two he’s not entirely sure what he would say. He knew the time would come. He didn’t view their relationship like a race and he knew Jesse didn’t either. They’d been friends for too long and knew each other too well for him to base their relationship off of sex.

Grayson keeps his eyes glued to his hands holding Jesse’s hips tight -- unsure of what to do now that he’s got her beneath him and wanting him to have his way with her. He knows what he wants, but doubts that he has the courage to pursue it within him. He’d watch her with careful eyes as she peeled off each article of clothing before pulling him close by his belt loop and on to the bed to kiss her rough busy day away. A picnic was nice, but his complete and undivided attention was better. Even if his eyes trailing up and down every part of her body made her nervous.

He’d done plenty of things with his ex before Jesse, but none of those things had involved his lips and tongue anywhere beneath the waist. Not anything like he’s inevitably about to do.

“Cat caught your tongue?” Jesse had snickered minutes ago, a sly smirk lacing up her ruby red lips from so much kissing -- moment’s before he’d gotten them both all hot and bothered. He couldn’t help it when he was with her, his self control falters and he’s drunk off her touch once again, swimming in a pool of despair he can’t control. All he can think about is her. Wanting her. Needing her. Touching every single inch of her velvety skin. Wanting to do things to her. Wanting her to do things to him. Things he would blush at in the future.

Jesse was a woman with desires he’d only dreamed of women having. She was shy at times but the devil danced in her bright eyes. Grayson knew she wanted things she’d never had the guts to say out loud and things she only wanted from him alone. It all made him a fierce kind of nervous, but gave him an electrified thrill. A challenge for him to explore the workings of her body and all the ways he can make her more satisfied than she’s ever been. He didn’t plan on letting her go anytime soon - and if he wanted to do her right, he had to go outside of his comfort zone for her.

Knowing Jesse was more experienced did things to him that he couldn’t begin to hide -- but more than anything it made him jealous of every set of hands that had ever touched her skin before his. It made him reckless and competitive, focused and haughty. He was better than them, he could be better than them.

He could rapture her into a whirlwind of pleasure that would ruin her image of every man except him, wanting no one's mouth but his, daydream of no one’s lips but his own, beg for no one else’s touch, want no one else’s hands but the ones holding her now. It wasn’t about him, this wasn’t about his pleasure for once, it was truly all about her.

Pulling him back into the flames, he’s burning up under her intense stare, waiting for him to do something, do anything. Anything but watch her long enough to find something less than stellar, less than grand, less than exceptional. With her fears unfolding she pulls him down for a kiss of her own, a soft feather of a thing he can feel all the way to his toes. She’d always been good at that, giving him more to miss when she’s away. The way she hugs him close is one of those things.

Grayson fell hard into love—which wasn’t particularly unusual for the hopeless romantic he was, but he always knew Jesse was set apart from the seasonal heartthrobs. He was truly bewitched by her creativity, wanderlust, unapologetic confidence, patience, and beauty.

An enchantress she was, beautiful beyond anything he could ever deserve. Drop dead gorgeous with the personality to match, there wasn’t a head that didn’t turn when she walked into a room, not a man that didn’t fumble over their words at any opportunity to talk to her, not a woman who didn’t want to be her friend. Sure her beauty was undeniable, but her benevolent heart beat it all.

He may never know why Jesse had leaned in to kiss him seven months ago save for three days in a hidden corner in Café Verona -- a quaint treasure he’d always hold dear to his heart. Fairy lights criss-crossed along the ceiling, soft Jazz waltzing with the beat of his heart, emerald green leather bench pressing into his thighs. But he’s glad she did. He’s glad she leaned in to kiss him when he’d been building up the nerve for weeks. So afraid to go there but more afraid of not knowing what would happen if he didn’t. He’s glad she took his chin in between her fingers to hold him still enough to feel her lips press to his securely, a warmth swarming in his chest where the heart shaped hole once was.

If he flipped through the pages of his memory, he would remember a statue-like stillness about him before he sunk into her touch, caging her head in his large careful hands. Feeling the gasp she tried to hide, the smell of grapefruit shampoo and the way her flushed cheeks felt under his stroking thumbs. He would see himself fall into her, around her and through her, off the edge of the rocky cliff and into the dark blissful deep of nothing but her.

He’d be eternally grateful she looked at him with utmost sincerity and whispered with a raw kind of intensity that he’d “driven her mad you see” -- and he’d heard it then, the brittleness of her voice because fear rattles her to the core, and she had been scared out of her mind. A crack that tracked through her careful confession and to the root of him. Jesse was scared of what he meant, what he was in terms of her heart, what he could be if she continued to kiss him the way she was.

In that quiet moment he remembered what made her so deeply rooted in his heart: the laugh that rattled him, the soft smell of peaches and vanilla, the way she never drives without sunglasses because her mom who passed away much too early did the same, the dance she does when she finally eats the first bite of food after damn near breaking the world in half in hanger, the way she punches the roof of her car after making it through a yellow light because her best friend in high school did the same, the way she always turns her spoon upside down when eating ice cream, and the way she always has answers for everything no matter what topic, even the way she laughs entirely too hard at Family Feud.

For that reason alone he waited for the physical parts to come when they may. It was new and exciting sure, and he’d always loved her heart of course, but her body was uncharted territory. He was patient, yes. A gentleman guarding some assumed virtue, even if he knew better than to think she was anything but a seductress. Patient enough to tell her no when she’s had one too many drinks and not enough discipline. They’d been friends before anything else - the best of friends with a foundation of trust. He’s spent years trying to gain that trust and he vowed to keep it.

Of course he could have been that guy on many occasions: possessive, selfish, greedy and crude. He could have played his cards and dealt his dirty hand at the wrong moment and still pulled out ahead. I mean hell, how often do guys get out of the friend-zone? But he wasn’t that guy. No matter the relationship status — they weren’t ready.

They hadn’t been ready to cross that carefully drawn line in the sand, not until now. With the strawberry White Barn candle burning in the corner on the cluttered desk one could expect from a college student and a half full can of Arizona tea on the night stand...her face lit with a mystical kind of magic he’d only ever seen the day she leaned back after their first official kiss.

“Hold my hair.”

Grayson found the words slipping off his tongue easier than they’d come all night. All he’s planned on was a simple date in the park that was tucked away and secluded from all the people that could interrupt, he’d even brought her favorite book and laid back on a soft patch of grass to listen to her melodic voice read to him. He’d planned to come back and share a peck or two while watching a new episode of Daredevil and holding her through the night. She’d had a long day full of texts to him, trying to get him to give her the okay to walk out of her low-paying job and not look back. He never planned on laying her down on his bed and caressing every inch of her skin until he was finally delving into a place he’d never been quite like this.

He was nervous but he could do anything, be anything with her hand in his hair and her kind eyes watching him defile her. He just knew from this moment on he would have a reputation to uphold, as cocky as it sounded. He had to prove he wasn’t as lost as he felt. He felt like a virgin all over again, like he was doing something raw and real and scary. A secret only the wrinkled sheets would remind him of later.

Her touch, her soothing him through something that frightened him has always been a crutch for him to lean on. When he got in a fight with his brother, she was there to comb through his hair and talk him through the proper apology, when he decided to change majors and had a breakdown so crippling he couldn’t breathe she rocked him through it until his breath was even once again, when he wrecked his new car on the way home from a party he never should have been at she was right there to give him a kiss on the cheek and help him call the insurance company and his erratic mother who loved her like a daughter. She led him through the rough parts of life and then some.

He never imagined she would be leading him through something so sensual, but he needed her bringing him back to earth all the same.

Jesse obliged with a grin of her own, feeling him shuffle down to trail a string of kisses across her torso and down to the base of her need and desire. The fireball of want burned in her stomach, turning her rational thoughts brown and charred. He was good at that, making her need him fiercely. She’d never wanted anyone so much, and even if she thinks back to past flings - she’d never been satisfied like she was with Grayson, and they’d done much less.

“What are you thinking?” Jesse wonders, distracted by his soft supple lips and his nibbling at her hip, but wanting to hear the inner workings of his brain. Her fingers fidget, wanting to push him by his brown mop of hair down lower - just to feel him at last. She needed this distraction, she just needed his help to forget. Not that she hadn’t been waiting for months for this exact moment, there was just urgency in the way she’s stripped herself bare before him.

She almost expects him to wait for her direction, but jerks against him when he takes the lead all on his own. How could he not with her as his complete mercy, giving him the fuck me eyes and twisting a lock if hair around her finger?

Grayson thinks on that as he trails his mouth down, down, down to slick his tongue up the base of her, smirking to himself when she wiggles against him. “I’m thinking that I like you this way.”

The contact was a shock to her nervous system and a promise of what was soon to come if she kept tempting him the way she was. She was a heathen with angel eyes. Someone infatuated with his innocence (at least he was more innocent than she) and curiosity to learn every curve and dip of her body. He made her feel powerful, unstoppable, undeniable. She craved it as much as he craved her own lips tracking across his skin - in the heat of the moment or in the still of the night.

“Naked you mean?” She laughs then, trying to keep herself at least somewhat under control now that he’s grown some balls and taken the first step. She’s shocked momentarily that she didn’t have to practically order him into touching her.

She grips her breasts at another bold swipe of his tongue. Rolling her hardened nipples between her fingers and tensing at the sparks flying up her center. The feeling of him spreading her open, blowing against her throbbing clit is almost too much to bear. Jesse curses then, a soft “fuck” she tries to reel back before he gets too big of a head. She knows it fell on eager ears when he delivers another bold stripe of his tongue up her center -- slow and deliberate.

“Unguarded,” he finally grumbles, rubbing away the goosebumps that pepper her thighs. She thinks for a moment that she could gave turned off the ceiling fan circling over top of them, but feared she might burn up if it wasn’t for the white blades blowing on her crown of hair going every which way on the pillow.

She ignores how right he is - that she’s never been this vulnerable with him before, but instead rolls her eyelids shut to feel him really delve into her - opening his mouth and pressing his tongue to her flat. This is just what she needed, her favorite person trying something new and succeeding at it.

For someone that’s never given head, he was pulling it off. He was going to ruin her.

Glancing down at the yellow glow of the lamp illuminating the right side of his face, Jesse curled her fingers into his plush head of hair once again, somewhere between heaven and hell with no real knowledge of the difference.

She moans at his lips wrapping around her, the suction to her lower region and the way his thumbs dig into her skin to hold her in place. No running this time, she had no choice but to feel it all. This is what she wanted right?

“This feel okay?” he teases, tentatively trailing the tip of his tongue around the place she wanted most. He loved to see her eyes alight with that devilish incomprehensible lust. He was truly winging it, doing anything he’d heard from friends or watched himself late at night, anything to further her soft pants and moans tumbling out of her O shaped mouth. She was too good to be true and felt like one lucky bastard.

Nodding down to him she groans, wanting him latched to her. “M-more than okay just keep going.”

He never knew it could feel so pleasurable to be the giver and not the receiver nine times out of ten. He didn’t know how selfish he’d been and the opportunities he'd missed to feel compliant and...obedient. He liked it. He loved it. He loved the position he was in - her looking down at him like the goddess she was and always had been, him crouching down at the end of the bed to devour her in the best way he could, his hair disheveled, eyes dark with hunger, hands gripping her tight.

He lets instinct take the wheel, peppering kisses to her clit and bringing his own hand down to slip in a finger to add extra stimulation - pleased when Jesse releases another string of curses. Fowl language huh? Wonder what she’d do if he stopped-

“You’re such a dick-“ she tugs at his roots, rolling her hips into his mouth that savors her now, lips slick with her wetness. She tasted good, he’d concluded. It wasn’t anything like what he imagined it would be, no, it was better. It felt better than all of the horror stories he’d made up in his head. He’s sure if he wanted to - he could stay right down between her legs for hours -- until his lips were sore and his tongue tired. Stopping wasn’t an option. Not when she’s been waiting so long, fantasized too often. She huffs out again “Thought you’ve never done this before.”

That must be a good sign, right?

“Never,” he slurps at her, shaking his head and groaning into her core. He felt the slickness of her on his cheeks now. Bowing down to eat her out was harder than it looked, especially with back problems as it was.

Focused and drunk on Jesse’s gentle hip thrust into his mouth he hugs her thighs and stands upright, just off the edge of the bed, bringing her lower half up in the air with him. He can feel her trembling now, wide eyes gleaming at him with surprise and delight at the new and better position.

She was losing it. She’d had him compliant at first, her soft-hearted boyfriend trying something new...but damn he was tugging the ropes from between her fingers and leading her to a path less traveled. Quick learner he was.

“Grayson put me down! Have you lost your mind?” Jesse squealed, grinning at his closed eyes and moving lips, deaf to her antics. She was expected something quick, maybe even simple, but him switching up positions was not in the game plan as great as it was.

She could see it now, the guy that was always hiding just beneath the surface. She could see how her sounds urged him on and made him try harder. She could see his arms shaking from the weight of her legs and the effort it took to hold her pussy as close to him as he could. She could feel the heavy breath fanning out across her pelvis from his nose. She could feel the tickle of his hair dangling down and whispering across the skin of her stomach. She could feel that same ball of fire seated in her stomach slip lower and lower with each passing second - until the words that fell out of her mouth were nothing but strings of profanity would make a sinner blush.

It was going to sear her in half, that fucking ball of fire. Hot lava stirring up a flood she couldn’t stop. It was splitting her in half just as his digits were now, pumping into her hard and fast, curling at his knuckles. His rings gleam from the yellow lamp-light and shock her when they touch her dewy skin. She had lost all sense of control.

Hearing his own moans, hearing how desperate he was to keep eating her pussy and make her feel better than anyone had, got her inching towards the edge. It was a low kind of growl itching at his throat.

The taste of her blurred his senses, the soft smell of her making his mind spin out of control, the tightening walls of her cunt around his fingers fucking her fast, the light sheen of sweat that glowed in the dim light of his room - he was a madman with no direction but forward. He had to keep going, for stopping would surely break them both. He would love to tease her, but knew if he stopped one more time she would kill him in a heartbeat.

“Open your fucking eyes and watch me.” He barked down to her, stopping only for a moment to glare at her. His fingers continued their fast paced in and out, in and out, in and out.

He’d figured if he was going to take it all the way, he needed to pull every string. Needed to pull out the nasty daydreams and make them a reality. This is something he would have for keeps. Something he’d want to do over and over, something he couldn’t wait to do again. Something he’d want to remember.

Peeling her eyes open she sobbed at the sight of him spitting into her pussy with a smile, staring at her darkly. Light eyes blacked into pits he ruined her through and through. He had to be lying, he just had to be.

“Fast learner,” Grayson sneers, leaning forward to smear his saliva around her slick folds, arms circling her midsection to hold her close again.

“ Fuckfuckfuckfuck- keep fu- keep going!” Jesse begs, barely holding on to the light threatening to slip away into the fire burning her up. “Doing so good Gray, so fucking good.”

She had discovered soon in the relationship and the minimal sexual acts they’d indulged in that Grayson was a man that adored praise. He wanted someone to tell him how good he was doing, even if he already knew it. He wanted someone to look him in the eyes just as she was doing now and watch him succeed. He wanted complete undivided attention, verbal acknowledgment.

He sucked at her still, sliding his tongue into her quickly then — remembering someone in a poorly shot amateur porn video did the same to the tatted up blonde he was practically fucking to death, and hoped it would have the same effect on his beautiful princess begging for him to keep going. He kept note while he watched the video, knowing one day he would be standing where he is now relishing in the gold mine that belonged to him. He fucker her with his tongue, humming into her cunt for the added stimulation.

Fuck all she was the end of him. “Pretty pussy all wet for me, yeah? Want to cum? Bet you doubt me huh? Thought I wouldn’t do you right…”

He chucked at the vigorous nodding of her head, the eyes rolling in the back of her head, the hand that leaves his hip to pull at her own hair. Her eyes squeezing shut in panic now that she feels the tip of the iceberg coming up fast.

“Don’t even know how crazy you drive me, how long I’ve wanted to do this to you.”

Hearing him admit it only made her thighs quiver against his strong arms, only made her want more, made her creep dangerously close to the edge she was for once in her life afraid to fall off of. The crash into the sea would be the biggest shock she’s ever had. Jesse tried to focus on her breathing, trading the heaving for squealing when he dipped his tongue in her entrance to give her something to fantasize about. She’d never had someone tongue fuck her, let alone stair into her soul while they did it.

Fuck he was good. Too fucking good.

“Baby you have t-to slow down,” she warns, the big splash terrifying and so close. He was a wicked man for doing just the opposite, spreading her legs wider and shaking his head against her again, eyes squeezed shut like he knew what would happen in only a few seconds.

“Grayson step back,” she tried to warn more firmly, afraid of the unfamiliar feeling of something new about to happen, embarrassed already but too worked up to stop it. “Shit - Grayson step back!”

And there it was, the strongest orgasm she’d ever had and certainly the wettest. Her release soaked the bed beneath, sheets spotted with her arousal and breath stolen from her lungs. She’s not sure when Grayson had dropped her, or whether her convulsing body wiggled out of his grasp during the black out she’d just had. She was spread on the bed in her own mess, her chest flushed, damp hair stuck to her forehead in waves, vision blurred, eyelids drooping in exhaustion, hand somehow in Graysons.

He’s there then. He’s everywhere and nowhere all at once, his hand a ghost on her forehead brushing away those tendrils of hair, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles with tender care, his lips smoothing the furrow of her brows. Grayson is lifting her without a word, caging her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, and smoothing her head against his chest to feel the weight of her there - just to feel the heat of her consume him.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes, spent.

“I hope it wasn’t too much,” he whispers into her hair, hand smoothing over the locks while rocking her around the room, mind racing with every image of what he’d just done and the feeling of complete bliss flooding his body.

He’s almost worried she fell asleep in his arms until he feels the shaking he can only assume is laughter, before she’s hugging him tighter. “Idiot. I can’t believe you’ve never done that. And I can’t believe I’m this tired. Feel like a rookie.”

“Guess I passed the test then?”

“Flying colors.”

Jesse nuzzles in as far as she can, tucking in her arms against his chest and letting the state of Nirvana wash over her. With a sigh Jesse thinks over the shocking events of her boyfriend being 100% nastier than she’d initially thought — not that she’s complaining.

She barely remembers Grayson running a bath, or setting her in the steaming tub with a kiss, or waiting for him to strip the bed with a giddiness sitting in his chest at all that they’d done, barely remembers him joining her in the tub and catching soap in the calm of his hand to smith the suds over her post-sex body. That’s the only way she would describe herself in the moment, her skin felt sensitive to the touch, sparks still shooting through her with the feeling of his hands on her.

What Jesse does remember is laying with Grayson in a bed freshly made, arm draped over his stomach, head resting against his arm, lips peppering kisses against his chest randomly through-out the night. She remembers the feeling of adoration and understanding. What they’d done was both the most foul thing she’d ever done, but also the most liberating and beautiful experience. To lose yourself in another person in such a way that you’re utterly consumed by them was...foreign to the pair laying together in the still of the night.

Jesse waited until Grayson was softly snoring until she said the only thing she’d never had the guts to tell him in the months they’d been dating. He’d been waiting on it patiently. It was different between friends, but it meant so much more when you don't want to say it to anyone else for the rest of your life. The moment she says it, she can’t ever take it back. Maybe that’s why she chooses the early hours of the morning to lean in and press her lips against his feather soft, blinking back the mist clouding her vision.

“Don’t know if you could tell...but I'm kind of in love with you...so just be patient with me please I’m trying for you.”

Maybe she would get the guts one day to say the words while he’s awake, maybe face to face or with the lights off because she has some kind of comfort in the dark, or maybe it would slip out on accident. In any way that it happens, she hopes he will smile. She hopes that he knows how insanely incandescently happy he makes her each and every day, and how honored she feels that she got to experience another first with him.She hopes he will be comforted that his feelings are 100% reciprocated. She hopes that she gets to see that beautiful smile he wears on special occasions -- the true smile that he doesn't show too often. For now she presses her lips to his once again, smiling softly as the slow ride and fall of his chest, arm holding her close, the ring she won him out of a shitty machine in the corner of a tattoo shop he’d stopped into on a whim secured on a thin chain around his neck, and the fluttering of his eyelashes while he dreamed.

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foli-vora · 4 years ago

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counting stars

A/N: I apologise if this is a mess—I’ve just written this on my phone while camping in the middle of nowhere 😅 truly inspired by the outdoors hahah. Yes I’m sitting incredibly still in a spot that I found had cell service so I can upload this because I’m Impatient™️.

Pairing: Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales x f!reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: depressive thoughts, insecurities, A SICKENING AMOUNT OF FLUFF

+++

The truck’s packed. That’s the first thing you notice when you pull into the driveway, eyeing the bags chucked neatly in the bed of the vehicle. The brief sharp stab of panic that impales your heart is drowned by a sickening twist of understanding. Of course he’d leave — why would he want you? Why would he waste time being with you when he could do so much better? You don’t blame him. You wouldn’t get in his way of leaving.

The sigh that leaves you as you exit your car is long and drawn out, each step towards the house drains the low level of energy you had leftover after your shift and you wonder if you’ll be in Frankie’s way if you take up the couch to sleep. Will he want to take the couch? He had bought it, after all. The bed, then. He wouldn’t leave you without a bed — maybe he’ll come back for it tomorrow.

Frankie’s coming down the stairs when you walk through the door, a dark backpack slung over his shoulder and Mena giggling in his arms. God you’re gonna miss those little giggles. He smiles when he sees you, dropping the bag next to a bright pink unicorn one on the floor before striding over to you.

You’re stumped when he slings an arm around your waist and brings you in close, hips bumping together, and Mena immediately dives in to press a wet kiss against your cheek. He kisses the other, sharing a little smile with his little girl before looking at you.

“You’ve got 10 minutes to pack some clothes.” He says, and you blink, stomach rolling.

Oh. Maybe he was packing your stuff.

Of course, it’s his house.

It’s in his truck because you couldn’t possibly fit everything in your car. He was helping you move out. He didn’t have to—you could have called a removal company or something. He shouldn’t have to go out of his way, especially with Mena.

You’re sullen as you answer, brushing past him with a quiet okay. The stairs are hard to climb, but eventually you reach your bedroom. You try not to look at the photos lining the walls—pictures of Mena, of her with Frankie or you, of all three of you, of you and Frankie snuggled together on various dates and trips, scribbles deemed masterpieces plastered proudly in expensive frames. Maybe you could ask for a few copies, or take the originals if he was just going to throw the ones of you away. Which he would, of course, why would he keep them?

He’s left a duffle on the bed for you—his old army one. He loves this one. He uses it for everything. You make a mental note to make sure to return it.

Tears choke your throat as you pack the bag, and it’s not until strong arms wind around your waist that they fall free. You won’t say no to a final hug. You try to memorise the tightness of his arms, the feel of his beard along your skin as he buries his face in your neck.

“You ready? Mena’s getting cranky,” you hear the chuckle in his voice and nod your head. He must feel the tension in your torso because immediately he’s turning you, frowning at the tears streaking your face. “What’s wrong, baby?” He’s gentle as he wipes them from your cheeks, the pinch between his brows deepening as your face crumbles in his hands.

“I don’t want to leave,” you admit, sniffling quietly, “but I will if that’s what you want. You and Mena deserve better.”

“What?”

“It’s okay—”

“No, it’s not.” Soon your face is pressed hard against his chest and he’s crushing you, hand tight on the back of your head as he holds you. “You’re not going anywhere, not without us, anyway. We’re going on a trip. All three of us—together.”

A trip? Your mind is a whirl as you try to catch up. He wasn’t leaving you? Or, more accurately, you weren’t moving out? Suddenly the packed bags, especially Mena’s unicorn one, and packed truck make a little more sense to your darkened mind, and you instantly relax in his arms.

He pulls back, dark eyes sad as he studies your face.

Frankie had watched you the last few days; watched your mood sour, watched the bags below your eyes deepen. You’d barely been sleeping — he could feel you toss and turn all night, could feel the shudder in your shoulders as you tried to keep your sobs quiet in fear of waking him. He’d seen the look of utter defeat wash your face when you accidentally spilt the milk trying to make a coffee yesterday, seen the immediate glaze of tears as he wiped the spill away. You were gone before he could even turn and comfort you, the door slamming as you all but ran to your car.

He knew what was happening—could recognise the signs a mile away after having to defeat his own monster lurking in the back of his mind telling him he wasn’t good enough, reminding him of all the awful things he’d done in his life, what he’d done to others. He’d gone straight to work, said he wouldn’t be able to do any shifts on the weekend, and had left at lunch to start packing.

“I love you.”

Your face falls, head shaking in automatic denial.

“I do,” his touch is gentle, brushing more tears away with his thumbs. “I know you’ve been struggling lately. I’m sorry for not saying anything—I should’ve made it clear when you came home. We’re going camping for the weekend, unless you don’t feel up to it which is fine. We can just order a pizza, cuddle up on the couch and watch movies if that sounds better.” He smiles warmly, reassuringly, and you know in your heart that he really truly doesn’t mind what you decide to do.

How you ever landed Francisco Morales, you’ll never know.

“No, I want to go.”

“Are you sure? Please don’t be scared to say no—”

“I want to go.”

For the first time for what feels like all week, you smile, and actually mean it.

His eyes flick across your face, searching for any signs of hesitation, and then he grins, your eyes automatically falling to admire the dimple creasing his cheek. You kiss it instinctively, relief washing through you as your mind and hearts calms. He stops you as you pull away, leaning in and letting his nose run along yours before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

He helps you put some clothes together, and with the two of you, you’re packed within a few minutes. He holds your hand on the way down the stairs, but stops to collect all the bags while you grab the little girl pulling at your legs. She babbles to you excitedly as you follow Frankie out of the house, her little fingers habitually pulling and fiddling with the chain around your neck.

You try to fend off the overwhelming feelings of unworthiness while you listen to Frankie talk animatedly back to Mena as you buckle her into her car seat, her little voice loud and bubbly as she claps her hands and bounces in her seat. You try to smile, try to reassure yourself that Frankie loves you, that Mena loves you, but you struggle truly believing it. How could they?

Music’s soon blaring throughout the cab of the truck as the familiar houses of your neighbourhood fly past, the Spotify playlist Frankie spent a good hour finding and adding songs to filling the quiet. He sings along, grinning at Mena’s attempts to sing along in her own little language, and when he looks at you, eyes shining with adoration, your chest feels tight and constricted.

You really didn’t deserve these two.

It takes a couple of hours to get to Frankie’s favourite spot—somewhere familiar to you from the many times he had taken you there. The small clearing is the same as it always has been, the large logs still situated around a small burnt patch of ground where leftover charred logs sat from previous campers. Frankie’s quick to erect the tent and organise the bedding inside, and soon he’s joining you and Mena at the edge of the wide lake glowing under the fading sun.

She’s dancing in the sand, little bare feet kicking up the grains as she twirls and twists and giggles when she goes too far and her toes touch the cool water. You sink to the ground and hug your legs, content to watch her enjoy the last bit of sunlight before it sinks beneath the horizon with a longing to feel as wild and carefree as she does.

“Papa!”

Frankie answers her call with a loud playful growl, and soon she’s squealing as he chases her across the sandbank. He catches her, throws her over his shoulder and spins, laughing at her wild screams of delight as he tickles her sides. Your chest warms, and the smile tugging at your lips is automatic as Mena runs on unsteady legs back to you, curls bouncing in her pigtails as she escapes Frankie’s arms and bolts to you for safety.

“Mama!” She climbs into your arms and your face drops in shock, wide eyes blinking up at Frankie who’s stopped dead behind her. The grin that widens his face practically blinds you, his eyes immediately shining with a sheen of tears as he drops beside you and smothers you both with a hug, pressing loud kisses to wherever he could reach. Mena giggles, pulling away to look between the pair of you with sparkling dark eyes. Little arms wind around both you and Frankie as she cuddles you close, her little head falling tiredly against your chest.

You catch Frankie looking at you, and return his fond gaze, smiling shyly under his admiration. The three of you snuggle together as the sun disappears, throwing bright hues of pink and orange across the cloudy sky, and finally, the tight feeling in your chest lessens under the pressure of two pairs of loving arms. Finally—you feel like you can breathe.

Frankie pipes up soon after the sun sets, “Who’s hungry?”

Mena’s head pops up instantly, the sleepiness that was just weighing her body down seemingly vanishing at the mention of food. She wiggles off your lap, and runs back to the campsite leaving you and Frankie chuckling quietly to yourselves as you follow. He and Mena sit together while he builds a fire, and you hear him talk through the process, Mena watching with curious eyes as he stacks the wood and lights it.

You all stay huddled together as the chill of the night drops over the camp site, sharing quiet laughs and keeping Mena entertained until her eyes start to drop. You stay mostly quiet, happy to just witness the two loves of your life share in each other’s affections.

Soon you and Frankie are left alone once Mena succumbs to sleep, and he brings two cups out with his phone playing quiet music, wiggling the bottle of whiskey he had hidden in his bag mischievously after putting her down in the tent. He pours a generous amount into both before sinking onto the log beside you, watching the flames dance in the dark before nudging you softly.

“Talk to me, baby.”

Sighing, your finger traces the rim of the cup and you shrug helplessly. “I don’t know. I just... I haven’t been feeling like myself lately.”

He nods, “Has something happened?”

You purse your lips, thinking over the last few weeks. Nothing jumps out and you shrug again, frowning at the flames. “No. My head just... I don’t know. I’m happy with my life—I love you, more than anything, and Mena, too... my job is fine—everything’s fine, but... my head just...” you struggle to finish your sentence, frown deepening.

You’re not making any sense. You never make sense. How can you possibly turn the jumble of thoughts in your head into words and make him understand? You barely understood it all yourself. What did you have to be upset over? Your life was picture perfect. Perfect man, perfect daughter, perfect job, a home full of love... so many people had it worse. You shouldn’t feel the way you do.

You must’ve spoken aloud because the next minute Frankie is reaching for your hand, rubbing the skin soothingly.

“I get it.” He says quietly, shooting you a comforting smile when you blink up at him, tears filling your eyes. “Our minds can be cruel sometimes, but just because there are others out there who may have it worse doesn’t take away from how you feel. You matter, just as much as others.”

You don’t try to stop the tears that fall from your eyes, instead letting them fall down your cheeks in a heavy flow. He moves closer in response, moving the arm holding your hand around your shoulder and pulling you in close to his side. The warmth from his body seeps into yours and you take a shaky breath as the tears continue.

“Is there anything I can do? Do you want to talk to someone? I know of a few good doctors around.”

Shaking your head, you lean your head on his shoulder and sigh deeply. “No, I think I’m alright for now, but if it gets worse...”

His arm tightens in response, and he nods quietly.

“I’m here for you, honey.” He murmurs, turning to kiss your forehead gently. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You smile through your tears, turning to gaze up at him gratefully. “Thank you, Frankie.”

Quiet conversation starts up once the flow of tears dies off, and soon he has you in fits of laughter, the whiskey loosening the last bits of tension from your frame as it warms your insides. When Frankie’s favourite song comes on, he’s up before you can even make a comment, holding a hand out to you with a wide grin once he throws back the last of his drink and tosses his cup aside without a care.

“What?” You ask, eyeing his open palm with a grin.

“Dance with me.”

How could you ever say no? You couldn’t. Not to him. Your grin turns shy as you take his hand, letting him pull you up and off the log and into his frame. He holds you close, arms winding securely around you as you sway softly. The stars catch your attention when you rest your head on his shoulder, and you feel a lump growing in the back of your throat when Frankie starts to softly sing in your ear. It’s not depressive thoughts that have you on the verge of tears this time. Instead, your heart is damn near bursting, the flood of love for this man so strong you have to stop yourself from squeezing him too tight.

Your eyes flick to watch a shooting star, but instead of making a wish, you tuck yourself impossibly closer to Frankie. You didn’t need a wish—you had everything you needed already.

Tags: @anu-simps @seasonschange-butpeopledont @withasideofmeg @you-got-me-starry-eyed

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #francisco morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #francisco morales x you #frankie morales #francisco morales #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal

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padme-amitabha · 4 years ago

Text

Anidala Week 2021

Day 2: Canon Divergence or Favorite Canon work

Padmé Amidala.

The name resonated in young Anakin’s heart and soul. He hadn’t seen her in a decade, not since he, along with Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, had helped her in her struggle against the Trade Federation on Naboo. He had only been ten years old at that time, but from the moment he had first laid eyes on

Padmé, young Anakin had known that she was the woman he would marry. Never mind that Padmé was several years older than he was. Never mind that he was just a boy when he had known her, when she had known him. Never mind that Jedi were not allowed to marry. Anakin had simply known, without question, and the image of beautiful Padmé Amidala had stayed with him, had been burned into his every dream and fantasy, every day since he had left Naboo with Obi-Wan a decade ago. He could still smell the freshness of her hair, could still see the sparkle of intelligence and passion in her wondrous brown eyes, could still hear the melody that was Padmé’s voice.

Anakin, though, didn’t see either of them. He focused on the third person in the room, Padmé, and on her alone, and if he had ever held any moments of doubt that she was as beautiful as he remembered her, they were washed away, then and there. His eyes roamed the Senator’s small and shapely frame in her black and deep purple robes, taking in every detail. He saw her thick brown hair, drawn up high and far at the back of her head in a basketlike accessory, and wanted to lose himself in it. He saw her eyes and wanted to stare into them for eternity. He saw her lips, and wanted to ...

Anakin closed his eyes for just a moment and inhaled deeply, and he could smell her again, the scent that had been burned into him as Padmé’s. It took every ounce of willpower he could muster to walk in slowly and respectfully behind Obi-Wan, and not merely rush in and crush Padmé in a hug ... and yet, paradoxically, it took every bit of his willpower to move his legs, which were suddenly seeming so very weak, and take that first step into the room, that first step toward her.

“Annie?” she asked, her expression purely incredulous. Her smile and the flash in her eyes showed that she needed no answer. For just a flicker, Anakin felt her spirit leap.

“Annie,” Padmé said again. “Can it be? My goodness how you’ve grown!” She looked down and then followed the line of his lean body, tilting her head back to emphasize his height, and he realized that he now towered over her. That did little to bolster Anakin’s confidence, though, so lost was he in the beauty of Padmé. Her smile widened, a clear sign that she was glad to see him, but he missed it, or the implications of it, at least. “So have you,” he answered awkwardly, as if he had to force each word from his mouth. “Grown more beautiful, I mean.” He cleared his throat and stood taller. “And much shorter,” he teased, trying unsuccessfully to sound in control. “For a Senator, I mean.” Anakin noted Obi-Wan’s disapproving scowl, but Padmé laughed any tension away and shook her head.

“Oh, Annie, you’ll always be that little boy I knew on Tatooine,” she said, and if she had taken the lightsaber from his belt and sliced his legs out from under him, she would not have shortened Anakin Skywalker any more.

Padmé sat at her vanity, brushing her thick brown hair, staring into the mirror but not really seeing anything there. Her thoughts were replaying again and again the image of Anakin, the look he had given her. She heard his words again, “... grown more beautiful,” and though Padmé was undeniably that, those were not words she was used to hearing. Since she had been a young girl, Padmé had been involved in politics, quickly rising to powerful and influential positions. Most of the men she had come into contact with had been more concerned with what she could bring to them in practical terms than with her beauty, or, for that matter, with any true personal feelings for her. As Queen of Naboo and now as Senator, Padmé was well aware that she was attractive to men in ways deeper than physical attraction, in ways deeper than any emotional bond. Or perhaps not deeper than the latter, she told herself, for she could not deny the intensity in Anakin’s eyes as he had looked at her. But what did it mean? She saw him again, in her thoughts. And clearly. Her mental eye roamed over his lean and strong frame, over his face, tight with the intensity that she had always admired, and yet with eyes sparkling with joy, with mischief, with ...With longing? That thought stopped the Senator. Her hands slipped down to her sides, and she sat there, staring at herself, judging her own appearance as Anakin might.

Padmé’s mind whirled as she tried to sort out Anakin’s thoughts, and his motivations. He was surprising her with every word, considering that he was a Jedi Padawan, and yet, given the fire that she clearly saw burning behind his blue eyes, he was not surprising her. She saw trouble brewing there, in those simmering and too-passionate eyes, but even more than that, she saw excitement and the promise of thrills.

She looked over at Anakin, who was sleeping somewhat restlessly. She could see him now, not as a Jedi Padawan and her protector, but just as a young man. A handsome young man, and one whose actions repeatedly professed his love for her. A dangerous young man, to be sure, a Jedi who was thinking about things he should not. A man who was inevitably following the call of his heart above that of pragmatism and propriety. And all for her. Padmé couldn’t deny the attractiveness of that.

“Naboo,” he said again, looking back to Padmé. “I’ve thought about it every day since I left. It’s by far the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

As he spoke, his eyes bored into her, taking her in deeply, and she blinked and averted her own gaze, unnerved. “It may not be as you remember it. Time changes perception.”

“Sometimes it does,” Anakin agreed, and when Padmé looked up to see that he was continuing to scrutinize her, she knew what he was talking about. “Sometimes for the better.”

Anakin smiled as he recalled the ornate outfits Padmé had often worn as Queen of Naboo, huge gowns with intricate embroidery and studded with gemstones, tremendous headpieces of plumes and swirls and curves and twists.

He liked her better like this, he decided. All of the decorations of her Queenly outfits had been beautifully designed, but still could only detract from the more beautifully designed Padmé. Wearing a great headpiece only hid her silken brown hair. Painting her face in whites and bright red only hid her beautiful skin. The embroidery on the great gowns only blurred the perfection of her form.

This was the way Anakin wanted to see her, where her clothing was just a finishing touch.

Anakin studied the holograph a moment longer, then looked up and laughed, seeing Padmé wearing that same long and stern expression. She laughed as well, then squeezed his shoulder and went back to her packing.

Anakin put the holographs down side by side and looked at them for a long, long time. Two sides of the woman he loved.

“It’s like that on Tatooine—everything’s like that on Tatooine. But here, everything’s soft, and smooth.” As he finished, hardly even aware of the motion, he reached out and stroked Padmé’s arm. He nearly pulled back when he realized what he was doing, but since Padmé didn’t object, he let himself stay close to her. She seemed a bit tentative, a bit scared, but she wasn’t pulling away.

“There was a very old man who lived on the island,” she said. Her brown eyes seemed to be looking far away, across the years. “He used to make glass out of sand—and vases and necklaces out of the glass. They were magical.”

Anakin moved a bit closer, staring at her intensely until she turned to face him. “Everything here is magical,” he said.

“You could look into the glass and see the water. The way it ripples and moves. It looked so real, but it wasn’t.”

“Sometimes, when you believe something to be real, it becomes real.” It seemed to Anakin as if she wanted to look away. But she didn’t. Instead, she was falling deeper into his eyes, and he into hers.

“I used to think if you looked too deeply into the glass, you would lose yourself,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

“I think it’s true ...” He moved forward as he spoke, brushing his lips against hers, and for a moment, she didn’t resist, closing her eyes, losing herself. Anakin pressed in closer, a real and deep kiss, sliding his lips across hers slowly. He could lose himself here, could kiss her for hours, forever ...

But then Padmé pulled back, suddenly, as if waking from a dream. “No, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m sorry,” Anakin said. “When I’m around you, my mind is no longer my own.”

He stared at her hard again, beginning that descent into the glass, losing himself in her beauty.

Padmé gave a helpless little laugh. “Are you going to use one of your Jedi mind tricks on me?”

“They only work on the weak-minded,” Anakin explained. “You are anything but weak-minded.” He ended with an innocent, wide-eyed look that Padmé simply could not resist.

Orange flames danced about his silhouette, dulling the distinction between Anakin and eternity. Padmé had to consciously remember to breathe.

He stared at her intensely for a moment, then looked back to the fire, seeming defeated.

“No, you’re right,” he finally admitted. “It would destroy us.”

Padmé looked from Anakin to the fire. Which would destroy her—destroy them—she had to wonder.

The action or the thought?

Anakin stared at her, hardly believing what he was hearing. He couldn’t resist, though, and his smile, too, began to widen. For some reason he did not quite understand, the Padawan found a good measure of justification in his abandoning the letter of his orders now that Padmé was in on, and agreeing with, the plan.

“Home again, home again, to go to rest,” Anakin recited, a common children’s rhyme.

“By hearth and heart, house and nest,” Padmé added.

Anakin looked over at her, pleasantly surprised. “You know it?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“I don’t know,” Anakin said. “I mean, I wasn’t sure if anyone else ... I thought it was a rhyme my mother made up for me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Padmé said. “Maybe she did—maybe hers was different than the one my mother used to tell me.”

Anakin shook his head doubtfully, but he wasn’t bothered by the possibility. In a strange way, he was glad that Padmé knew the rhyme, glad that it was a common gift from mothers to their children.

And glad, especially, that he and Padmé had yet another thing in common.

“I want him to know that I care about him, Threepio,” Padmé said quietly. “I do care about him. And now he’s out there, and in danger—”

“No, I’m a Jedi. I know I’m better than this.” He looked at her directly, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re like everybody else,” Padmé said. She tried to draw closer, but Anakin held himself back from her. He couldn’t hold the pose of defiance for long, though, before he broke down again in sobs. Padmé was there to hold him and rock him and tell him that everything would be all right.

The tunnel was dark and fittingly gloomy, and quiet, except for the occasional echo of cheering from the huge crowd gathered in the arena stands beyond. A single cart was in there, an open oval with a sloping front end that somewhat resembled an insect’s head with the top half cut away. Anakin and Padmé were unceremoniously thrown into it, then strapped in place against the framework, facing each other. Both of them jerked as the cart started into motion, gliding along the dark tunnel.

“Don’t be afraid,” Anakin whispered.

Padmé smiled at him, her expression one of genuine calm. “I’m not afraid to die,” she replied, her voice thick and soft. “I’ve been dying a little bit each day since you came back into my life.”

“What are you talking about?”

Then she said it, and it was real and genuine and warm. “I love you.”

“You love me?” he asked, overwhelmed. “You love me! I thought we decided not to fall in love. That we would be forced to live a lie. That it would destroy our lives.” But her words had brought a wash of contentment over him.

“I think our lives are about to be destroyed anyway,” Padmé replied. “My love for you is a puzzle,

Annie, for which I have no answers. I can’t control it—and now I don’t care. I truly, deeply love you, and before we die, I want you to know.”

Padmé leaned against her restraints and craned her head forward, and Anakin did likewise, the two coming close enough for their lips to meet in a soft and gentle kiss, one that lingered and deepened, one that said everything they both realized they should have spoken to each other before. One that, to them, mocked their false heroics in denying the feelings they’d had for each other all along.

On distant Naboo, in a rose-covered arbor overlooking the sparkling lake, Anakin and Padmé stood hand in hand, Anakin in his formal Jedi robes and Padmé in a beautiful white gown with flowered trim. Anakin’s new mechanical arm hung at his side, the fingers clenching and opening in reflexive movements. Before them stood a Naboo holy man, his hands raised above their heads as he recited the ancient texts of marriage. And when the proclamation was made, R2-D2 and C-3PO, bearing witness to the union, whistled and clapped. And Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala shared their first kiss as husband and wife.

— R.A. Salvatore , Star Wars : Episode II - Attack of the Clones

#anidalaweek2021 #anidalaweek #anidala #anakin x padme #aotc #novelization #attack of the clones #anakin and padme #sw books

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getitinbusan · 4 years ago

Text

10 years with Jungkook

California

You met Jeon Jeongguk in the summer of 2012. Two kids brought together by a calling to California and a chance at making it big. Best friends from the start, what happens when only one of you becomes successful? Do you ever forget your first love?

Childhood friends to lovers, angst and smut.

Words: 4600

Warnings: 18 plus smut. Oral F, Sex MF, Swearing. Pretty Mild for me. This is a previously posted fic that has been updated and reworked.

It was a rare rainy August day in California. The heavy drops created a sad melody on the window as you put the dishes away. Tired and lonely, the feeling in your gut kept nagging at you, maybe it was time to give up.

The savings account was drained, there were no jobs to be found and this was the second month of falling short on rent. Surely it would only be a matter of time before your roommates would stop exchanging house cleaning for money.

Hanging the threadbare towel over its hook you stood in the kitchen, your mood mirroring the dim light of the afternoon. Feeling frusterated and stupid, it had taken you way longer than it should have to realize that in LA, you were nothing. Not pretty enough, rich enough, skinny enough or talented enough to ever make it big. So this is how the great Califonia chapter of your life would end, not by choice but necessity.

Gathering up the mail that was strewn across the countertop, you shuffled through it sorting its priority. Junk mail, bills, personal…one in particular standing out. Your heart began pounding as you took in the details.

The penmanship was nice, black ink on an unassuming envelope. But it was the stamp that caught your attention. It was sent from Korea.

Flipping it in your hand you examined the torn top. The letter, having been read, was cradled back safely inside. Addressed to your roommate a frown crept onto your face. Why wouldn’t he write to you?

It was a ridiculously hopeful notion but you widened the envelope and inhaled trying to find a trace of his fragrance, something, anything to trigger a happy memory. Cool California nights were the best excuse. How many times had you borrowed his sweaters just to have his smell on you?

You missed him. It had been a year and a half and you couldn't help but once again ponder the nagging question that always crept back. If you hadn't forced him to break the rules would he still be a part of your life?

It was too tempting to resist, your fingers pinched the paper inside of the envelope and pulled it free.

I’m feeling low, I don’t know who I am, only who I’m supposed to be.

What would life be like if I had stayed in California? We could all be roommates, hanging out and having fun, going to the beach on weekends.

Does she even think about me?

It sounds greedy that with how much I have right now, it’s not enough. I would give anything to wake up in bed beside her everyday. I want more than anything to be able to talk to her about these things but I can’t. I’ve made the mistake of trading her for fame and now I’m destined to keep her at an arm’s length so she’ll never know the price I paid.

How does she even see me? As an Idol? As the boy who abandoned her? Has she forgotten the good days we spent together?

I’ve been wrestling with myself, whoever that is. I wish I could be the teenage boy from that long ago summer again. I wrote this song thinking about it…

~When I see you smile in the screen

You’re good at everything

You’re just perfect

Feels like I've never been you

Do you even see me?

Do you know who I am?

Or how do I look now?

You don’t like me like that

I want to be your decalcomania~

I’m afraid I may not get back for a while, please write. Your friendship and thoughts of her are the only things that are keeping me tethered to some semblance of reality.

Clutching the letter to your chest, your mind took you back to that day.

"Decalcomania, the art or process of transferring pictures and designs. Making a copy of the original on a different medium"

Reading the description on the wall you’d both stood laughing at the piece's strange name, Decalcomania. The gallery visit felt like lifetimes ago but you still remembered clearly. You remembered, not because the piece had struck you as particularly special but because that's where you had decided that Jeongguk's laugh was the best sound you'd ever heard.

California had lured you into its promise when you turned 14. Having been accepted to an intensive dance program at The Movement Lifestyle Studio you packed up and headed West for the summer.

It was July and it was hot, the dancers stepping off the bus one at a time took their places in the studio.

Looking around there were so many older kids, you were probably one of the youngest. Calling out names they put you into groups, it appeared to be by age so you made your way across the unfamiliar wooden floor to the tiny gathering of teens in the darkened corner.

Shy introductions were made as one more member was ushered over to where you had congregated. “This is Jeongguk.”

He had the cutest smile and barely spoke english but his eyes twinkled like the constellations. Immediately drawn to each other you became fast friends.

Absolutely exhausted by the end of the first few days he quietly knocked at your door.

He was homesick and lonely, used to being surrounded by his six members, he couldn’t sleep well without someone beside him. You let him crawl into bed with you, you were 14 and it was innocent.

Inseparable, days and nights were spent side by side, the others began referring to you as the twins. It was the best summer of your life but like every boy meets girl summer story, it had to come to a close. Promising through tears to keep in touch and stay friends you went your separate ways.

Jeongguk would send silly videos of his practice sessions, goofing around with the other members. He’d facetime and text but he always loved to send handwritten letters.

They lived in a box under your bed and contained stories of how hard he was working to become an idol. He always signed off with, "I miss you,” and a few lines of lyrics he’d written.

You didn’t know then how important they would become, the only tangible piece of him you could still hold on to.

Whenever he came back to America you did everything you could to see him. You always found a way to get to the small tour stops whenever they came through. 2015 was the first, then KCon in 2016, but 2017, it was different.

Facetiming you with the news that they were bringing the Wings tour to NY, Chicago and Anaheim, he asked if you’d be part of the dance crew. How could you turn down two weeks with Jungkook the hottest new K-pop Idol? They were getting bigger, more popular and their lives were changing rapidly.

He had strict rules, girls were completely off limits. No talking, no hugging, no smiling at one another, any little thing could be easily misconstrued by the fans. Everything had to be done in secret. Jungkook would sneak you into his hotel room where you would spend your nights together catching up. The boys would bring you in food and cover for him while you both stayed locked away out of sight.

While happy to be with him, you could tell there was an underlying sadness he was holding on to.

"I wish I could go and explore the city with you like we used to," his voice trailed off.

You were laying in each other’s arms cuddling on his bed. Leaning over he kissed the top of your head.

"All I really want is to take you on a proper date."

You snuggled closer into his side as he exhaled deeply, releasing his secret.

"I’ve been waiting so long to become someone, a man worthy of your affection. Now I’m stuck. I have everything I wanted and I’m not allowed to share it with you."

His arms gripped you tighter.

"I’m sorry, this is a terrible confession. I don’t expect you to love me back, not under these circumstances, I just need you to know, you’re the only girl I’ve ever loved and there won’t be anybody else, ever."

Every bit of his confession, every moment of that last night in the hotel room had stuck with you to this day. The words of a 19 year old boy whose life had become bigger than the feelings of two people.

He'd left in the morning without knowing. You were a coward, too afraid to tell him you loved him too.

LA became your home right after they left Anaheim. Focused on your dancing, if you became good enough, maybe you could join the tour with him.

A letter with a big bouquet of flowers arrived a few weeks later.

"Congratulations on your new house in LA!

I hope that all of you are getting along as roommates, it’s hard living with others sometimes.

Last night I dreamt that I was there with you and all of our friends. We were having a party on the beach and we sat together watching the sunset.

Do you remember after practice when we would skateboard as fast as we could to the ocean so we wouldn’t miss the colors?

Maybe one day my toes can feel the sand there again.

I miss you, I miss me… the me I am when I get to be with you.

We're coming back in October for a few days and I’m hoping I can see you, I’m lonely already.

Jeongguk

~Won’t you please stay in dreams

I can hear the sea from far away

Across the dream, over the bush

Go there where it becomes clear

Take my hands now

You are the cause of my euphoria

When I’m with you, I’m in utopia~

By the time The AMAs came, the plan had been finalized. You would steal Jungkook away so that you could take him on your first real date.

Having enlisted Namjoon to help, he was your inside man. The boys, happy to help finally get you together, would cover for his whereabouts with management. The day before the awards they were only scheduled for styling, as long as he wasn’t late for the press rounds the next afternoon your plan could work.

It was Namjoon’s job to get him out of the building. Telling him to follow his lead, Joon convinced the managers that Jungkook must have eaten something bad for lunch. Claiming to not feel well, he was whisked away to meet you at the hotel’s back receiving door.

Sitting in the shiny red rented convertible you tossed him a pair of sunglasses. What you wouldn’t give now to see that smile again.

Barely giving him time to get in you’d sped away heading straight for In And Out Burger.

"Kookie, I hope you’re ready for the best day of your life! We’re going to eat until we explode, drink and party at the beach and then, instead of returning you to your fancy 5 star hotel you’re staying the night in my crappy little house with a tiny uncomfortable bed!!"

He laughed, that perfect laugh. It was so pure and honest, thinking about it now made you sad. Was that the last moment he'd gotten to be his true self? Jeongguk the man not Jungkook the personna?

Knowing you only had one day to give him everything, one day to show him you loved him, you tried to make the best of it.

Picking up the food Jungkook held onto the red and white bags in the passenger seat, sneaking his hand in to steal fries when he thought you weren’t looking. If you weren’t sure you were in love with him before you you certainly were now.

Pulling up beside the tree on the beach he was stunned, "Ahhh Jagi, I can’t believe you brought me here."

Happy that it meant as much to him as it did to you, you both sat on the branch and ate. Two blocks from the old studio this used to be your escape. Every break you’d make your way to the tree for some time alone, together.

With the burgers done he turned to you and smiled. It felt like he wanted to say something, but stupidly, you'd cut him short leading him back towards the car.

Making your way through your checklist you brought him back to where you'd first met. The Movement studios students were starstruck when he walked in. After insisting that he teach some choreography, he reluctantly led the class.

Your eyes were glued to him as he moved in front of the mirrors, no longer that awkward teenager but a full grown man mesmerizing you with his every move.

Getting back to the car he stopped you before you reached for the handle. Putting his arms around you he pulled you in close. But again, you resisted him.

"You stink Jungkook, our next stop is the ocean."

You remember pulling away. How stupid you were, you should have held on to him longer. Reaching into the back seat you revealed a pair of swim shorts and a towel. He looked disappointed that you kept interrupting his attempts at intimacy. It broke your heart but you had a plan and limited time to execute it.

The Ocean was chilly but the wind was warm, he came out of the change room with the shorts on but still wearing his shirt.

"Kookie, this isn’t Korea, you don’t have to be so modest here. Plus, you should grab some sun, you may not believe it but when your skin is sunkissed," you grinned, "you look really sexy."

He raised his eyebrows and quickly removed the shirt at your request.

Running into the water you splashed and played and he took great pleasure in picking you up and throwing you as far as he could.

The sun was getting ready to set and you wanted to dry off before the cooler air set in.

Leading him back to the shore you both laid down on the towel. He put his arm around you and you cuddled into his side.

"My god Guk, look at your abs!"

He blushed like crazy as you traced the muscles on his stomach.

"Stop, it tickles," he giggled.

But you didn’t, you kept tickling him until he held you so tight you couldn’t move. He had you pinned, flipping you on your back he shook his wet hair flinging water droplets all over you. Pleased with himself he leaned in closer to you, his eyes asking for permission to kiss you. As the gap between you got narrower you could hear his name being shouted and footsteps running closer. He flopped onto his back and sighed as your roommates and friends piled on top of him.

Eating, drinking and catching up with everyone you watched each other from across the bonfire. Moving from person to person he slowly made his way back to your side.

"Welcome back." Running your hand through the back of his hair, it was now or never.

Pulling him closer your lips finally met in the way they were destined, soft, slow and full of love. His hands instinctively moved to cup your face as the world stopped around you.

"I love you," you whispered.

Nose to nose he smiled at you and it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

It didn’t last long, his phone started going off incessantly. The managers knew, you’d been careless, photos and videos of him from the studio had been posted online.

"I’m so sorry Jungkook, I didn’t mean for you to get in trouble."

His eyes turned hungry as he grabbed your hand.

"You promised I wouldn’t be going back to my hotel tonight, let’s get out of here."

If he was going to get in trouble anyway, why stop now?

The drive back to your place was quiet, adrenaline and hormones flowing like electricity through you both. The time for smiling was over as the seriousness of the situation lingered in the air between you.

It wasn’t just being in trouble or being caught, but the fact that you both knew what was going to happen when you stepped into your bedroom. One act that would change everything between you, it held the power to change the dynamic of your relationship forever.

Leading him to your room you closed the door and stood staring at him as he sat on your bed. He raked his fingers through his hair before he spoke.

"I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than to be able to make love to you. BUT I also know that when I leave I’m not going to get to see you again for a very long time." His head hung low. "Management is going to do everything possible to keep us apart and that won’t be fair to you. I think that maybe we should just let our happy memories of today be enough, I don’t want you to regret anything. "

Walking closer you stood between his legs and he wrapped his arms around your waist.

"The only thing I'll regret is never getting to experience all of you. I can’t live not knowing how it feels to be totally yours even if it's only for one night."

He rested his head against your chest, "You’ll always be mine."

His hands traveled to the hem of your shirt and his fingers ran over the soft skin of your stomach. Undoing the button of your jeans he slowly slid them down your legs and you stepped out of them.

Standing up he lifted the thin fabric of your shirt over your head and you stood before him waiting as he took his off too. Unclasping your bra he sighed as he looked at you taking in your shape, his fingertips hovering over your hard nipples.

"I’ve never done this before," he confessed.

"Me either," you whispered. "I've only ever wanted it to be you."

More relaxed he let his mouth start exploring your body. You were goosebumps and shivers beneath him as his tongue found it’s home between your legs.

He was soft and careful, placing his lips over your clit sucking it in delicately until your moans couldn’t be contained any longer. You could feel his eyes burning into you as he watched in awe as his finger slid inside you.

"It feels good Kookie, please…"

You could feel his mouth stopping to smile before he picked up speed. Moving your hips to eagerly meet his mouth you were unravelling quickly.

"The way you taste is better than anything I had imagined."

Devouring you in sessions between his words of adoration you came hard on his tongue.

"I'm really regretting running you all over town today when we could have just been here...doing that.. " You were out of breath.

"I was worried that I wouldn't be any good." He grinned at you pleased with himself.

Moving up to where your head lay on the pillow he pushed the dampened hair off your face, "Are you ok? Do you need anything?"

He placed his forehead against yours.

"I just want you. I need you to know I'm yours, forever.

Rolling a condom on he moved slowly to line himself up with your entrance.

"Tell me if you need me to stop okay?"

He pushed carefully, slowly stretching you around him. Watching intently for discomfort he froze when he saw the tears welling in your eyes.

"Shit, I’m so sorry, let’s stop, I didn’t mean to hurt you." He was apologetic as he thumbed away the tears.

"No," you delicately kissed his lips. "I’m okay… I’m just so happy, so overwhelmed with how much I’m feeling right now."

He smiled down at you, pressing his body closer he gave another push until he was fully inside. Your bodies fell into a beautifully choreographed rhythm until Jungkook was so lost in pleasure he began to move at his own pace. Quicker and deeper he moved until he finally spilled into the condom.

Laying together in euphoria you kissed, and kissed, and kissed until you finally found sleep while wrapped around one other.

Every few hours he’d wake you up. His hands running over your body checking to make sure you weren't just a dream. You’d made love each time, everytime better than the last.

It was 9 am when he caressed you awake once more.

"I have to leave soon. I don’t want to." He spoke in whispers nestled into your neck. "Please tell me to stay."

Your heart broke at his words. "If I ask you to stay, I’m selfish, you’ll always wonder if you made the right decision." The tears came, knowing you had to do what was right. "If I tell you to go, your dreams come true… ” your voice trailed off.

"And I’ll always wonder if I made the right decision,” he finished.

Your phone started ringing and you knew time was up.

It was Joon, "I’m outside. Sorry, I held them off as long as I could. I told them that I’d come get him so you could at least have time to say goodbye."

Your tears fell out in heavy ugly sobs, "Okay, five minutes… and Joon… thanks, I know you’re probably in trouble too."

Hanging up you turned back, Jungkook was already out of bed with his clothes thrown on. He stood with open arms bravely waiting.

"Thank you for yesterday I'll never forget it."

Laying your head against his chest you took a moment to listen to his heartbeat. You could hear him sniffle and knew he was crying too.

You flashed back remembering that night long ago when he came to you homesick, holding you so he could sleep while he tried to hide his tears. There was a knock at the door and Namjoon’s voice broke through the moment.

"We’ve got to go Jungkook."

Stepping away you’d left his shirt soaked in tears, handing him his sweater he pushed it back towards you. "You keep it."

He kissed you one last time before opening the door to reveal Namjoon's weary face. His Hyung put his arm around his shoulder and led him to the car.

Turning one last time he looked back, his eyes were filled with tears as he gave a small wave before getting in the back of the big black sedan.

For months you pretended that management was the only thing keeping you apart.

You held on to that silly notion until May when they were coming for the Billboard awards. For weeks leading up you waited for a message, a secret meeting arrangement, but you got nothing. His image was all over the TV and his voice echoed through your empty heart. Then, just like that, it was over and he was gone again.

Now, here you stood in your kitchen, his letter bringing him to the forefront of your mind and opening old wounds.

He was just as sad as you but what could you do?

Picking up a pen you began writing…

I shouldn’t have done it but I read it in your letter

You said to a friend that you wish you were doing better

I wanted to reach out but I never said a thing

You don’t ever have to be stronger than you really are

And honey, you don’t ever have to act cooler than you think you should

You’re brighter than the brightest stars

You’re scared to win, scared to lose

I’ve heard the war was over if you really choose

The one in and around you

You hate the heat, you got the blues

You’re changing like the weather, oh, that’s so like you

I’ll pick you up

I’ll catch you on the flipside

If you come back to California

We’ll do whatever you want, travel wherever, how far

We’ll hit up all the old places

We’ll have a party, we can dance till dawn…

Y/N

October came again and a chill was in the air, the smell of the ocean hit your nose and you stopped to take it in.

Bundled in Jungkook’s hoodie you threw your bag over your shoulder and began your walk to work. You'd gotten lucky, Movement had hired you just as you were about to give up and leave California. Filled with hope and excitement a new intensive program was scheduled to start today and you were going to meet the future superstars of the dance world.

Memories flooded your mind as you made your way through the familiar neighborhood. It still hurt, but things were beginning to feel happy again. Writing the letter had given you closure, he knew how you felt and beyond that there was nothing else you could do.

Opening the heavy door to the studio you caught a familiar reflection moving in the mirror. Chalk marker in hand he was writing something, It couldn’t be?

Hearing the door click back into place he turned to face you.

"Hi."

He walked towards you slowly. Unsure of what your reaction would be, he approached with caution.

"Hi."

You were breathless, in the months of not seeing him he’d only grown more handsome.

"I can’t change what happened… and for the rest of my life I’ll be sorry for all of the time we missed."

He was getting closer.

"But I can’t take another day not knowing if I can fix this… somehow…"

He reached for your hand but you pulled it away. His head fell in disappointment.

"Jungkook, I can’t listen to this… look at me."

Reaching for his chin you pulled his head up until he was facing you again.

"I refuse to listen to you apologize for something that is out of your control. Your life was decided before you met me and I am nothing but grateful that I got to appear in some part of your story."

He tilted his head and pressed a small kiss into the hand that was still holding his chin.

"God I’ve missed you." He wrapped his arms tightly around your waist.

"How long are you here? I’ve got to teach class.. It’s the first day but I’d love it if we could catch up?"

He laughed at you and your knees buckled at the sound of his happiness.

Taking his chance he pressed his lips to yours and you could feel the smile forming on his face.

"I’m your private lesson Jagi, I’ve booked you for the next two weeks."

Taking a step back you had to ask, "How Jungkook? What will you be giving up?"

Pulling you back to his embrace he began to dance with you.

"There is no more giving up, on anything. Our contracts were over and I only had one thing I wouldn’t negotiate on, that’s you."

He guided you to look at the mirror.

"I wrote you something."

~Please call my name one more time

I’m standing under the frozen light,

but I’ll walk step by step towards you

Still with you ~

"I promise I’ll never let you go again."

#jungkook #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #Jeongguk #jungkook x reader #kookie #nochu #10 years with jungkook #california #lana del rey

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the-bee-graveyard · 4 years ago

Text

The Fine Line: Chapter Four

Other Chapters

Summary: The glader’s trauma is finally discussed (I’ve been meaning to put it in here but this is the first chapter I could make it work) Minho goes rogue and takes matters into his own hands. We finally get somewhere with Newtmas? Sort of? (Not a lot of Brendresa this chapter I’m afraid)

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added/deleted): @izzymultifan @madmathis18

TW: MENTIONS OF DEATH, VIOLENCE, BLOOD MENTION

Chapter Four: Lines Are Erasable If They’re Drawn In Pencil

Part One: Thomas’s POV

The Last City burned in slow motion.

That’s what it felt like to the people who were there. It was a beautiful thing, watching that city burn, it felt like the final destruction of evil. Thomas didn’t have time to take in his victory, not as he dragged Newt through the ruins.

His friends shallow breathing made Thomas’s heart stop every time he heard it pause, even just for a second. He could collapse himself from exhaustion, but if he collapsed they both lied and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Newt die. He couldn’t let Newt die.

Then Newt woke up, and Thomas wished he’d stayed unconscious for just a few minutes more.

“Tommy, kill me,” Newt whispered at Thomas wrestled the knife from his hands. “Make amends. Do one right thing.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and Thomas could physically feel his heart breaking. “Please, Tommy, Please.” Newt relaxed a bit, giving Thomas just enough time to knock the knife out of his hands and send it flying, hitting the pavement again a few yards away.

Newt lunged for the knife, but Thomas pulled him into a tight embrace. Newt squirmed and punched at Thomas’s back, but Thomas kept a firm grip. He could feel his grip slipping though, and as Newt tried to pry him off again Thomas grabbed a large chuck of rock.

“I’m so sorry Newt,” Thomas said, tears flowing down his face like two rivers running beside each other. “I’m don’t want to do this. I don’t want to hurt you.” He hit the rock up against Newt’s head, hard enough to knock him out and he prayed light enough to do nothing else.

Newt sunk to the ground and Thomas sunk down next to him, shaking violently.

“Thomas! Thomas!” A voice called. Thomas spun around to see Brenda running towards him, the serum in her hands. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Newt. “He’s not-?”

“He’s not dead,” Thomas assured her. “But give me the serum, he’s damn close.” Brenda stuck the needle into Newt’s arm. It was supposed to do something. But it didn’t.

“Newt,” Thomas whispered. “Newt please, please come back to me.” But nothing happened. Thomas pressed his hands to his friends chest, but there was no heartbeat. “I love you Newt, please.”

Thomas’s eyes shot open. He almost fell out of his hammock as he climbed up and went over to the sleeping blonde next to him, pressing his hand to Newt’s chest making sure not to wake him. After watching Newt’s chest move up and down with breathing and feeling his heartbeat he went back to his own hammock and pulled something out of his pocket.

A necklace. The necklace.

The necklace Newt gave him back in the last city. Thomas blinked and the image of Newt begging him to take the necklace from him, Newt dying. Thomas quickly opened the necklace in hopes to get rid of the image, pulling out a piece of paper, a letter.

For a moment Thomas thought he shouldn’t read it. Newt wrote it when he was dying, maybe he only intended for Thomas to read it after he was gone. Thomas began to read the letter anyways, he was never known to say no to an impulse.

Part Two: Minho

So, none of their plans had worked so far. Minho really thought he had it with truth or dare, but of course Newt had to go and shut it down. Minho did see the look of disappointment on Thomas’s face had inspired him to continue on, and to go rogue.

Sonya was going to kill him for this. Thomas was going to kill him for this, if this didn’t work out. Maybe even if it did. Hopefully he’ll be too busy kissing his new boyfriend to assist Sonya in murder. Sonya didn’t need the help.

Minho skipped breakfast to break into the tech tent (where they kept all the technology). He could get something from Frypan later, he could not get what he needed later. It had to be now, while the tent was empty.

Minho dug through two crates before he found what he was looking for: a small handheld voice recorder. He stuffed it in his pocket quickly and begun heading for the exit when a raven haired blue eyed girl appeared in his way.

“Minho? What are you doing in here?” Teresa asked.

“Better question is what you’re doing in here,” Minho replied quickly, trying to look for places he could run or find excuses he could use.

“Vince sent me to work in here, do inventory and stuff like that,” Teresa said.

“I won’t tell if you don’t tell,” Minho said quickly.

“Minho, I’m the one who’s supposed to be in here,” Teresa replied calmly. Minho gave her a charming smile which usually got him out of situations. Teresa sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine, go. But we’re not done with this conversation.” Minho thanked her and dashed off to find his favorite clueless idiots.

Thomas found him first, almost ran into him really. “Minho,” Thomas gasped. “I’ve been looking all over the place for you.”

“That’s perfect, I’ve been looking for you too,” Minho said. “Now what's this about Tommy boy?” Minho expected to get the usual ‘only Newt can call me Tommy’ speech. Instead he got two pieces of paper shoved in his face.

“Read this,” Thomas said. “Would you consider this a love letter?” Minho took the pages from Thomas and began to read as quickly as he could.

He finished, and the fact that Thomas had to question whether that was a love letter or not was concerning. ‘From the moment you ran into the maze I knew I’d follow you anywhere’ was the gayest shit Minho had ever and would ever read.

Minho had to try his hardest to restrain himself from squealing. Another idea came to him (the creativity was really flowing for him today).

“Dude, that’s totally a love letter,” Minho said. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Thomas said, looking slightly confused.

“If you could respond to this letter, how would you?” Minho pressed the record button on the recorder in his pocket.

“I’d tell him since the minute I came up in that box, since he first looked down at me and I looked up at him there was never anyone else for me. That I realized that I was in love with him when he looked at me after he made me a runner, knowing he put all his trust in me and I couldn’t fail him. And that night in the scorch, I believed what he said to me, and I kept going because of him. And how I would have caught the flare a hundred times instead of him. That I have and always will love him.”

Minho would’ve teared up if he wasn’t so giddy with excitement. There’s no way that could be seen as platonic bro stuff, right? (knock on wood).

“Great thanks Tom, love you my dude,”Minho said before running off to seek on the other half of the boyfriends-who-weren’t-aware-they’re-boyfriends.

Part Three: Newt

Newt was immediately suspicious when he saw Minho running towards him with a stupid grin plastered on his face. Newt had been working in the gardens with Sonya and Harriet (they usually hunted but they were all stocked up on meat so there was no need today) when he saw his friend coming towards them.

Newt had been talking to Sonya about different types of plants. She’d ask a question about what type of plant it was or something like that and he’d tell her. He found he liked having someone to teach quite a lot, he liked having a sister.

“What the fuck is this about?” Newt sighed as Minho arrived at his side.

“Yeah, what the,” Sonya paused mid-sentence.

“Fuck,” Harriet inserted.

“Is this about?” Sonya finished, glaring at Minho suspiciously.

“I just need to talk to Newt in private about super secret bro stuff,” Minho said. The siblings and Harriet all glared at Minho was disbelief. “I want to talk to him about Brenda and Teresa’s undeniable chemistry.” Sonya and Harriet shrugged and went back to work. Minho grabbed Newt’s arm and began to drag him towards the beach, Newt trying to twist out of Minho’s grip. Newt was strong, but Minho was stronger.

“What’s this really about,” Newt said as his shoes hit the sand. He really hated being on the beach with his shoes on.

“Don’t talk, just listen, kay?” Minho said, pulling a voice recorder and hitting play before Newt could protest.

He recognized Thomas’s voice immediately. He quickly thought of Thomas pressing his hand to Newt’s chest this morning, Newt pretending to be asleep as his heart sped up.

Newt couldn’t stop the tears from spilling out of his eyes. Minho clearly didn’t expect this reaction, he quickly pulled his friend into a hug though.

“Is something wrong? I thought you’d be happy to hear that?” Minho said.

Newt was happy, he really was. He’d spent the past months pining hopelessly, praying Thomas would love him back even just a little bit. He remembered all the nights he’d woke up looking for Alby or Minho and Thomas was always there to hold him until he fell back to sleep, or if he didn’t think he could go back to sleep to stay up and talk with him. How one time on the move looking for Minho they almost kissed but Vince called them over before they could, how Newt had stayed up for days thinking about what could have happened that moment.

And now he was getting that opportunity again.

“Happy, so happy Min, just overwhelmed,” Newt said, wiping the tears on his sleeve. Minho grinned and hit him on the back lightly.

“Go get your lover boy then.”

#newtmas #newt tmr #Thomas tmr #Minho tmr #the maze runner #Teresa Agnes #Brendresa #Sonya tmr #Harriet tmr #soniet #tw death mention #tw violence #tw blood mention #damnit I've got nothing witty to add in the tags #the fine line

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sabraeal · 4 years ago

Text

Age of Reason, Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki AU Bingo 2021 Supernatural AU

The looming wrought-iron glares down at him; even choked with briars, it stands as proud as any guard, denying him entrance with a glance. She’d gotten in, she said, and out again even quicker. It’s possible. He just has to find the way.

His shoulders twitch, unimpressed.There’s a reason he wears gloves.

One hand wraps around a twisted bar, and a briar pierces through the leather like it’s paper. He recoils with a hiss, and to his extreme displeasure, the needle comes with him, broken right off near the glove.

He’s had worse splinters-- hell, he’s had worse stabs, but the thing’s hard to find even with the moonlight behind him. His head and shoulders keep falling into the worst angle, casting shadows shadows no matter which way he turns, leaving him to work half blind as he tries to pull it out. It makes it worse of course, each movement of his muscles sends the thing dancing around his palm, probing deeper into his flesh until he tears it out.

These damned gloves are supposed to protect him, but blood coats them still, shimmering black in the moonlight. He gives them a real contemplative look, some real consideration, and then cusses a streak so blue fire would be jealous. Damn that woman. If she’d gotten in, she owes him the professional courtesy of telling him how. He has half a mind to stomp right back to that tavern and shake her till she spills her secrets.

He takes a breath, holds it. It’s fine. This is far from the worst job he’s ever done.

The thing slides across the packed dirt, sand and scree skittering beneath its bare skin. It’s a woman in shape, diaphanous nightrail clinging so scandalously to its curves that wives clap hands over wandering eyes. She would have been a pretty girl in life, but in her undeath, she makes more than a convincing monster.

He stands in the holy circle of the Heavenly Maiden, salt staining his hands, and it hisses at him, back arched like a cat’s. Red stains its front, dribbling from full lips down to soak her gown.

“Kurei!” The name catches on the wind, already torn away. The mayor clutches at his door, lifting a hand to point through his wards. “It’s her-- the demon--”

“I know.” It’s an effort to lift the words out of a deadpan. “She’s no match for me.”

The spirit cocks its head; he knows that angle too well, the one that says, oh you think so? He lifts his shoulders, a subtle shrug. No hard feelings.

Her claws clench in the dirt. Ah, he’ll pay for that little line later. Already he’s at a disadvantage-- a full moon might have shone through, but with a chunk shaved from one side he’s stuck waiting for the wind to hurry it all along while he stands here, stalling.

His breath mists in the night air. Just one of the hazards of the job.

“You’re trapped in here with me, spirit.” In the dark, its hair is coarse, thick and black, rippling with each breath. The perfect hand-hold, should it dare tread close enough. “Your fight is with me!”

He grins as it growls, edging around his circle of salt. It follows, mimicking his movements, it on all fours and him on the balls of his feet. Already his cheek stings-- its limbs are long and strong but he didn’t expect the elbow to be so sharp-- but he doesn’t lift a hand to rub at it. Each moment here is the space between victory and condemnation, and he has none of them to spare.

Finally, the clouds part.

“I have you, beast!” Around him, the circle flares to life, the pure light of the heavens infusing it, glowing with an intensity would blind to those outside it. “Tempus fugit! Sapere aude! Ad meliora!”

For a moment its body leaps into the air, lunging for him, trying to tear his throat, but in the next it’s thrown to the ground, as if grabbed by heaven’s hand itself. With his last words still echoing in the square, the spirit spasms, voice railing to an unholy keen.

“Erat ergo sum! Quid pro quo!” He calls out, shaking holy water over it, black and red spotting her as he washes away its monstrous desires. “Non ducor duco!”

It gives a single, great heave of its body, and suddenly she’s limp, no longer a vengeful spirit but a girl once more. A mere husk that once held life. Mist rises from the circle as he lifts her body, curling coolly around his fingers.

“Caveat.” The night carrying his voice further than any earthy words should-- “Emptor.”

The villagers all peer out their windows, the more daring of them peeking out doors. Now that the danger’s over, everyone wants to see the monster hunter and his prey. He’s heard plenty talk about the noble nature of man, but none of them know the truth-- when fear strips away all else, it’s only cowardice and curiosity that remain.

“Kurei,” creaks the mayor. “What--?”

“It’s over,” he announces. “I must bring the corpse away from here, and bury it.” With a dark look, he adds, “Alone.”

He turns his back on them, letting the moon burn away the mist he leaves behind.

The barmaid here is all curves, coarse tawny hair tumbling down her back, meant to draw the eye straight to her swinging hips. A tempting morsel; at least by the way the men here follow her with their gaze, hungry for more than ale. The barman must have tripled his profits having a girl like her on; there’s no limit to drink a man can have while he’s thirsting with his eyes.

But not Shuuka. His stare is fixed right across the table, brows drawn tight in thought. “That’s some story, mister.”

“And all true.” He waits until the man takes a good, long draught from his cup to add, “I earn my keep traveling, finding spirits to soothe and monsters to cull. Or maidens to save, when the situation demands it.”

“Just maidens?” The barmaid sidles up to him, a frothing mug in hand, and already his mouth is watering. “Or are you looking to expand your repertoire?”

He lets his lips lilt into a leer. “I’m willing to help with any problem that needs solving, maiden or--” he lets his gaze rake up her-- “otherwise. Provided I’m welcome.”

Her own mouth is a mirror of his own. “You seem the sort to always be finding doors open, if you don’t mind me saying, mister.”

“Ah.” He hums, leaning close. The other men in the pub lean in too, faces ripe with envy. “That’s the trick of it-- I wait to be asked.”

Amusement flickers through her eyes, as amber as his own. She sets the mug in front of him, its thick head sloshing over the rim. “Here you are, on the house.”

The maid casts one last, linger look over at him, all hooded. The sort that says he could find more than a drink on the house if he played his cards right. And here’s him, a man who never lost a hand.

“So that’s what brings you here?” Shuuka says, voice tight. Nerves, he thinks, the sort a rational man might have in the face of the unknown. “Sh-- the prince’s mistress?”

Ah, or maybe that’s guilt, he’s hearing. “So it’s true, then? There’s a girl sleeping in that manor house?”

Shuuka’s fingers clench, knuckles white where they lay on the table. “If it was...?”

He doesn��t move, doesn’t breathe, just waits.

Dark eyes lift, glimmering as they meet his. “You could do something about it?”

He lets his mouth ease, swallowing down the victory in his throat. “I can’t do anything that would hurt.”

For a long moment, Shuuka sits still. Not the sort that comes from fear or hope but indecision. A man on a precipice.

And oh, how easy it is to see when they jump. “What’s your name? What do they...” He hesitates, swallowing. “What do they call you?”

“Lots of things. Jack of all trades, for one,” he hums, settling back in his seat. “Monster Hunter. Miracle Man. Savior.”

Shuuka’s brow draws tight. “You’re some kind of...priest?”

“Oh, no.” He lets his eyes linger when the barmaid bends at the waist, leaning over the counter to talk to the barman. “Not that. But you can call me...Nanaki.”

There’s a tree.

He surveys the old gnarled grandfather, its thinning leaves rustling in the wind, a single branch hunched over the briars. He should have guessed; it wasn’t like she was going to get her hands dirty and bleeding to take a look at a dead girl.

His hands flex, the leather around them creaking. His palm aches when he presses it to the trunk-- that’ll teach him to get impatient-- but he knows how to climb without relying on his grip. It’s nothing to shimmy right up, soles planted solid on grandfather’s inquisitive arm. He’d call this sloppy-- nobles often were, thinking that guards and dogs and a lady’s scream could keep them safe-- but...

Ten years. Plenty of time for even a well-trimmed tree to insinuate an elbow where it didn’t belong. Especially one that looked as nosy as this old grandfather did.

He edges out, the branch solid beneath his feet. Each step is inquisitive; impatient he may be, but enough tumbles from too high had taught him the value of respecting nature’s limit. The last thing he needs is for this to break over one of those fleur-tipped spears. Career limiting, his old master used to tell him, followed by one of those hideous braying laughs.

Dead was his preference. He might make his money putting on a show, but it didn’t serve to forget that some finales were final.

The branch bows beneath his feet, those iron-tips scraping at its bottom. Looks like he’s ridden this particular pony as far as it’ll go. With a breath and a wish, he leapt from the tree, tumbling down, down--

His feet catch, hard earth beneath them. No, stone, since his foot slips, nearly spilling him straight into a knot of brambles. Pretty ones, at least, dripping with roses as bright as an apple’s skin.

He whistles, plucking a petal off one. “Well now,” he breathes, letting it flutter away in the wind. “Isn’t that lucky.”

Cat calls and wolf whistles cleave through the din when the barmaid wraps her fingers around his wrist, leading him away from the table. There’s glares too, envy making eyes dark as he passes. There will be men who hate him in the morning for no other reason than he had what they couldn’t. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last.

Fine by him, anyway. Angry men are easy to predict-- they only want to do what will cause the most pain. It’s the ones that cheer him on that are dangerous; they need to be courted, molded.

Shuuka is neither. Curious.

“Hey, hero,” the barmaid purrs, pressing her body against his. “Keep your eyes where they belong.”

By the swing of her hips, she means on her. Well, it’s certainly not a bad view.

She sashays up those last few steps, shoving him into a room--

Torou’s smile is gone the moment the latch catches. “You are on your own with this one. I am out.”

Leaving Oberwald takes an extra day; the villagers keep him plied with ale until he tumbles into bed. When he wakes while the sky’s still moonless and dark, two sets of hands rubbing down his chest. Who is he to deny himself a reward so justly earned?

Still, waiting makes the spirits restless.

“Serves you right,” he grouses, rubbing at the new lump dulling the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “You’re supposed to make it look good, not actually hit me!”

The spirit folds her arms across her chest-- or under it, rather, framing their best asset when it comes to fooling these bumpkins. A barmaid with big tits never fails to turn heads, and should someone get suspicious of the girl who disappears when the evil spirit does, well-- no one can pick her face from a crowd.

“Oh, complain, complain.” The huff she lets out doesn’t even have a hint of remorse. “I’m sure you got those village girls to kiss it all better.”

He can’t help his grin. “Two of ‘em.”

“Ugh.” Her eyes roll, the kohl still clinging to the corner of them. It’s the most stubborn part of the makeup, but Torou makes do; by the next town she’ll have wings drawn on so sharp they could cut a man’s throat. “How is it you get to bed down with every miss looking for a good time, but I can only look at all those strapping young farm boys?”

“Pitchforks. Torches,” he reminds her. “Us, running away in the middle of the night...”

No one remembers the barmaid, except for an angry wife. And they know how to drum up some bloody-minded friends once night falls. That’s another thing that makes the spirits angry, but well, that’s not his problem. Maybe if they were more circumspect, they could tumble a few village boys-- or girls-- if they liked.

“Fine,” she mutters, itching at her neck. Some red flakes off, falling to the dirt below, lost beneath the tread of their boots. “Where to next?”

He’d thought he’d been mulling it over still, but the second she asks, it’s the answer at the tip of his tongue. The only one.

“Nowhere that needs a drowned girl!” Torou warns him, pitch raising to one that would make dogs howl. “My ears still don’t feel right after the last one...”

“Clarines.”

She scuffs to a halt. “Clarines? The ‘realm of reason?’ That Clarines?”

He doesn’t stop, just shortens his stride as he puts a jaunty skip in his step. “The very same.”

Her steps start again, hurrying to keep pace with his. “Why? I thought they were enlightened out there. Above all this folk talk.”

“No one is, if we play them well enough.” He slides her a sly smile. “And we will.”

“Best of the best,” she agrees. “So what’s the score?”

His grin pulls wide. “I hope you have your kissing lips ready. We have a princess to awaken.”

His hands fly up between them, trying to ward off her waggling finger. She’s carrying five knives at minimum, but of all the weapons on her body, that finger scares him the most. “Torou, come on--”

“Don’t you ‘come on’ me, Nanaki.” She doesn’t need a steel when her tone’s already so pointed. “I’m not going back there, not even if you beg me. Not even if you drag me. I’ll gnaw off my own leg if you try.”

“Torou, what--?” She shifts, just enough for him to see the wide stretch of her eyes, pupils blown and white all around the rim. “Are you...scared?”

“Scared? Scared?” Torou laughs, wild. “I’m terrified. We’ve played a lot of games, but this, this-- this curse thing, it’s real.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he huffs, leaning against a bedpost. “You know that’s not true. We’ve been running this grift for how long now, and the only supernatural thing out there is how easily everyone will believe it.”

“Listen, that’s what I thought. That’s what I always thought, you know that.” Her voice trembles, shoulders hunching around her chest. “But I went there. I went right into that manor to case the joint-- I knew there’d be stuff in there, stuff we could sell and get out of this rat race.”

His jaw slackens. They’d never talked about that, about what could lie at the end of a real good grift, of what they would do if they had enough coin to stop. He hadn’t even known she’d wanted to, let alone that she--

“I went in there,” she murmurs, rounding into herself. “And someone-- someone screamed.”

He licks his lips, brain jittering with the thought of this ending, or having somewhere to stop. “Screamed?”

“Don’t laugh.” Torou’s voice barely wavers above a whisper. “Someone screamed, and I-- I went to find them. Maybe some kid got in there and broke a leg. I could get some credit you know, really get those bumpkins eating out of my palm. But I walked in and--” she chokes, fingers clawing at her throat-- “there was blood, so much blood, just covering the floor, and then--”

Her breath fills his ears, so harsh, so pained. He’s only heard her like this once, back before, and his blood runs cold.

“And then.” Her hand comes out to grip his wrist, drawing him into her terrified gaze. “It sounded like someone was dying.”

#obiyukibingo21 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #supernatural au #sleeping beauty au #my fic #age of reason #ans #OKAY SO I GUESS THERE IS AT LEAST ONE MORE CHAPTER #for the set up at least #but perhaps you are all seeing the shape this fic is gonna take...#perhaps if you have read the folk versions of the fairy tale >:3c #also i don't know how i've ended up with so many stories with torou this time around #but here we are #this is the life i'm living this bingo

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ishouldgetatumbler · 4 years ago

Text

Kissed an cast into the sea

Fandom: HunterxHunter

Pairing: Mito Freecs/Illumi Zoldyck (Miumi)

Warnings: Alcohol, Illumi’s brain

Word count: 5343

AO3

A man was sitting at her kitchen table. He was tall, even sitting he was nearly as tall as Mito. He was watching her with the palm of one hand resting on the back of his other. His hair was long and black; it seemed expensively cared for. His clothes were clashing, and poofy, but his face was all business. Mito wanted to curl up in fear of his big dead eyes.

Right. Okay.

She was standing in the doorway of her home, holding a fish by the severed fishing line. Her hair was tied back and her dress was sky blue with clouds drawn from spilled bleach and white paint. It was darker blue at the knees and below, where the marsh water soaked it through. Her rubber boots squelched on the tiles of her kitchen, mud caked wellington boots oozing onto the floor.

Right. Okay.

She set down her catch on the cutting board before stepping on the toe of her rubber boot and working herself free of it. The next shoe she stood on one foot to pull off with her hands. She set the both of them in a tin caked with sand and dry and turned to the person sitting at her table.

He was still there, eyes on her curiously as she stood in soaked wooly socks. The fact he was still there made the fear worse.

Right. Okay.

"Ging isn't here right now."

The man cocked his head to one side, curiously.

"You're not the first person to try this. I don't know where Ging is and I don't know how to find him."

She'd said that to everyone who had come through looking for Ging. It was the truth, but she always imagined she could find Ging if she really wanted to.

"Gon Freecs? Do you know where he is?"

That was new. Gon really did take after his father.

"No."

The stranger looked at her reproachfully. He wasn't the first to believe breaking into her house would scare her. They'd come and gone, polite euphemisms for threats and poorly concealed weapons. She didn’t see any weapons, but the man was too calm to be threatening her without one.

"He broke my arm." He added after a moment, still reproachful.

She gave a tight smile with no humor or joy.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

The stranger continued to look reproachfully at her.

"He kidnapped my brother as well. Boys really should not be taken from home at such a formative age."

"Kidnapping? That doesn't sound like Gon."

"I'm very certain he did. Killua Zoldyck?"

Things clicked into place. She tried to remember his name, scrawled on loose leaf paper three times folded. Gon's handwriting was nearly illegible when he was excited. That name was in one of the three paragraphs reduced to squiggles as he talked about Killua.

"Illumi is it?"

He raised both his hands from the table, putting them up as if to say 'you caught me.'

"Hi."

He watched her as she gathered laundry for the drying lines, swept out the mud she'd tracked in and washed her hands again to begin preparing the fish. She hesitated for a moment before grabbing her knife. Good, she understood the situation.

She scraped the scales from the fish with the same intense focus Gon had broken his arm. So it was hereditary. She laid the fish on its side, deboning it and gutting it with a few sharp moves. She glanced at the fish as she set it aside, blindly reaching for another. Her hand found an empty countertop, and she turned to Illumi.

"Could you go to the market and buy another salmon?"

Illumi cocked his head to one side. She didn't seem unnerved. "Why?"

"Because I have two people to feed tonight." She grabbed her apron, using it to wipe at the bits of fish on her hands.

She’d moved on very quickly. She knew he was dangerous, she knew he was after her son by extension, but she didn’t know why. It was probably in her best interest to stay polite, in case he was there to help. But she knew about him, she knew his name. How much did she know? She was offering him dinner, so it couldn't be much.

He could kill her and puppet her, but maintaining that concentration would be harder than just waiting for his brother to return. Maybe a few needles, to make her more obedient. The Zoldycks were made to have power in any case.

He tutted his tongue as it occurred to him Killua would notice if he ever came back, and that attention to detail was why he'd tried to cut his prodigy brother out of the mix in the first place. Everything would be so much more… cooperative when he'd stuck a few needles in Killua's brain. He was twirling a needle now, spinning it end over end between his fingers.

Killua would be the head of the family, of course. Tradition had to be upheld, and it was easier to deliver bad news through someone else's lips. And maybe, for some mysterious reason, Killua decided never to marry or officially sire that duty would just have to fall to the eldest relative. And after having a son who could be heir, Illumi could-

Illumi noticed he was walking back up the hill, holding a bag in his other hand. He stopped, instinct stopping the needle he was holding in the throwing position. How had she done that? He stared at the ground, at the foot worn path back up the hillside and he waited for the feeling of nen to crawl over him.

Instead, he remembered what happened; his memories creeping out from hidden places like they were ashamed. He was embarrassed to see them.

She had just… asked him to go shopping again. He replayed it in his head over and over, trying to piece it together. He was distracted, thinking about the future, and she'd said, very firmly, "You're just going to sit there and think, go out to the store already!" He’d idly translated this, before saying "Guáng jiē", repeating the verb to indicate he'd do as he was told.

He'd only ever spoken Chinese with his mother and grandfather, and both of them spoke like that to him. Was that all it had taken?

Illumi started walking again; his steps short and angry. No, that was quite impossible. He'd worked very hard to remove such needless extremities from the brutal, exact machinery of assassination. Emotional blindspots were a luxury he couldn’t afford. The six dozen needles he kept lodged in various parts of his body were supposed to help with that.

He stopped, before digging his heel into the dirt with force enough to fold sheet metal. He was pouting, he knew he was pouting and he was basically stomping and whining, but it was a Command. A command he had listened to. He never wanted that to happen again, that's why he did any of this. Power is just the ability to say No.

Mito was halfway down the glass before she caught herself. She was thinking about the boys again, about Gon and Killua. Apparently her hands had grabbed the bottle and a pair of glasses from the cupboard. Scotch. She licked her lips, trying to chase it’s cruel taste away. The scotch laid plans on it’s own; oiling the inside of her skull to send her brain skidding across it.

They were probably in the forest somewhere, having an adventure. Chasing rumors and stipulation through the wild places. She scoffed at her own fantasy: it would be nice if the world worked like that, but it didn't. There were people out there, intelligent motivated people, who only wanted to hurt people. As she thought this to herself, she saw Illumi crest the top of the hill, gaunt form holding a gently swaying bag. He might kill her.

She took another drink and her eyes watered; at the taste, at the smell, but mostly at the fact she hadn't been strong enough to dump out the glass.

She could still see his silhouette from the road. He was tall, must have been more than six feet. His hands, fingers long thin and agile, sprang into her mind. It was easy to imagine them slipping gently around her neck. She gripped the front of her dress and tried to make that a scary image.

She was sitting at the table: brown skin and freckles, soft red hair cut short and strange. He gestured with the bag. She smiled at him.

"Thank you."

He made a noncommittal noise and nodded his head.

She stood, before walking closer, but he cut her off, stepping smartly to the counter's edge and placing the bag down on it, before looking at her.

"Yú."

Mito nodded, and took one or two slow, lumbering steps to the counter. He couldn't be bothered to count for once, he was busy watching her face.

You were supposed to be able to learn alot from watching someone's face, but Illumi had never quite got the trick of it. He could tell you what a face was like, if he liked looking at it and what it was doing, but had no idea what it was supposed to mean.

He could see the redness of her cheeks. The glassy, watery look in her eyes. Her eyelids were puffy as well, agitated and swollen. She took a short glance at him, before turning back to her fish and cutting board.

A moment later she said, "If you're just going to stand there gawking, go and close the door."

Illumi was halfway turned around when he caught himself. There it was again: that emotional blind spot. He turned back to her.

"You keep doing that. Do you mean to?"

Mito’s knife dug in at the base of the fish's spine, and froze there. Her eyes went wide looking at it. Fear was an expression he knew, but it was a volatile thing: it melted into other expressions and emotions so quickly it was useless to identify.

"No." She said, after a pregnant pause.

Illumi considered this, rolling it around in his mind, this way and that.

"You're lying," he concluded.

Fear pounded at the back of Mito's mind. She would have a headache from it later, if the scotch hadn't already taken care of that. He was looking at her like a child inspecting an ant. She wanted to be angry about this, but she was just scared. He could kill her.

She mustered the will to look him in the eyes. They were dark brown, she'd mistaken them for black from a distance. His nose was small and pointed. His mouth pressed into a thin, expressionless line. She looked away, back to the fish before deboning it.

He was tapping his finger on the counter. His body was contorted, bent at nearly every joint to put his face next to hers. His hair drooled down onto the cooled burners, and his eyes bore a hole in the side of her face.

She realized he was offended, and was waiting for her to apologize. She, an ant to his eyes, had told him to do something, and he'd done it. This was an affront to his power and oh, he's a boy. Roughly her age too, by the look of him. Boys never liked to be bossed around by a girl their own age; they were sensitive about that sort of thing.

Her mother and father had met in a similar way, albeit less veiled threats and mysterious intentions. She had walked into the wrong house, and was halfway through making herself a snack before she noticed. From her father’s perspective, a beautiful woman had wandered in and started eating his food.

It was like that, the scotch told her, before she tamped the thought down. The giddy feeling still bubbled up out from under her heel and let out of her in a soft teary giggle.

"What's funny?" He asked finally.

His tone was calm, speaking like the sound of an iced over lake cracking. Mito's brain whirred, and her hands gutted the fish on instinct.

"I was just thinking this almost feels like a date."

She shouldn’t have said it. She should have kept it to herself, but the sickening taste of booze made her tongue eager to move.

Illumi took a step back from her.

Oh. Oh. Why had he never thought of that? He had never considered she could be useful. He was daydreaming instead of planning. After he'd puppeted Killua, after his father retired as head and Killua succeeded him, Illumi would need to sire the next heir.

She had clearly raised a capable son. She would, as was tradition, kill his mother and take her role as matriarch and teacher. He could sculpt the next generation through her. It would be so eloquent. The same person he used to establish his power would solidify it.

Illumi sat at the table, brushing away imaginary dust.

"I suppose it is." He said finally.

They had never said a word.

Illumi had sat across from her, taking seconds and thirds without a moment of eye contact or conversation. He seemed to be judging her by the food, taking a moment or two sometimes to slowly chew, or try a sauce in isolation. He didn’t speak, perhaps waiting for her to crack. She could feel him watching her when she looked away. It was like the feeling of a spider crawling up your back.

Mito hadn’t spoken either, but she had no idea what to say. Her drunken suggestion had been taken all too seriously, and she really didn’t know what to do now that she had been taken up on it. What was she supposed to say? "Why do you want to kill my son?" The answer was obvious: Gon had stepped in Illumi's plans, sprinting down the muddy road towards Ging. He must have done it a hundred times on his journey.

And what about Illumi? What did he want in any case? Why sit down to dinner? She had decided not to ask based on a parable Abe had once told her, about asking a tightrope walker how he kept his balance. If you asked the wrong question, someone could die.

She dabbed at her mouth, cleaning the sauce and fat from the edges of her lip. Illumi looked up, fork laden with breaded fish and seared vegetables.

"Can I help you?"

It wasn't a rude thing to ask, and she was genuinely interested in the answer. He was on his third plate in any case, When someone's belly was full was the best time to ask probing questions.

Illumi set his fork down.

"Do you live alone here?"

Mito stood sharply up, turning to wash her plate. His hand was around her wrist. Her brain sloshed angrily around in her head as she jerked to stop, mashing into one side and the other. The back of her eyes hurt too, stinging and aching in turns. She tugged against his gripping fingers, the joints in her arm threatening to dislocate as she pulled

"You're very strong." He commented.

She looked back at him.

"Yes, I am. Those who live on Whale Island are hardy."

She tried to spin the inflection so that it sounded like they were a community. The truth was that she was so strong because she worked the pole barges and row boats by herself, refusing to split her wages with anyone. They'd needed that money once; doctors were expensive on Whale Island. Now that Abe was gone, she did it for the principle of the thing.

"You're angry." He said, slightly accusing.

"Never touch a woman without permission, you're liable to lose a hand."

He looked at her, and then cracked into a smile. She tried to not to be fascinated by that smile.

"You know I live alone," she finally answered.

Illumi nodded, saying "yes, I suppose I did. I was waiting for you to lie to me."

The anger and fear were mixing with something in her guts, probably the alcohol, and the mixture made her stomach froth with undigested butterflies.

“I don’t lie.” she said, lying.

“Then perhaps you’ll tell me the truth this time. Where is Gon Freecs?”

He wasn’t squeezing her arm, just holding his hand in an implacable shape around it; only touching her skin when she pulled against him. She tried to think, but found her mind stumbling back and forth over the warm pressure of his hand around her wrist as she pulled. She was still drunk, the processes of her mind mummified by alcohol.

“Do you really expect me to sell out my child?”

Illumi hummed.

“I hoped you would.”

Mito snorted, “You don’t know me very well.”

Illumi nodded, and said “I suppose I don’t, but I think you could be useful.”

He added, after a moment, “I could make you tell me.”

For the first time, he tightened his grip slightly around her wrist. It wasn’t a painful grip, like sailors would use, it was nearly promissory; implying he could squeeze much, much harder if he had to.

She could struggle, but part of her suspected he would tear her arm from the socket and that would begin the pain. He’d reacted well to an offer of dinner, perhaps he would be willing to sit through more. Or he would get tired of the charade and break her arm. The heavy meal was sobering her quickly, and aggressively apparently. She licked her lips, and tried to pitch the tone right.

“Drink with me.”

Illumi browsed over her liquor cabinet, and she busied herself with the dishes. Her pulse jumped when she suggested it, which meant she may have poisoned them. At the same time, he had no idea what he was looking for, and it’s not as though poison would do much. There were bottles of various heights all crammed into the cabinet, and at least a dozen of them were identical and unlabelled: frosted glass and rounded edges. He tapped a finger on his chin, and turned to look at her by the sink.

She was humming to herself. It was sad, and the tone tilted and swayed like a ship in the sea. He could feel his emotions stir inside their cage. One of the pins in his chest twinged, regulating his heartbeat. He looked back to the cabinet, before pulling out one of the identical bottles from the middle of the pack. He set it on the table as she wiped her hands on her apron.

"You can pick one of the nicer boozes." She said lifting his bottle to inspect it.

Illumi cocked his head to one side.

"Isn't it what you use the most of? I imagine you'd be less likely to poison those. Not that poison would do much mind you."

She scoffed, and delicately bit the cork and pulled it loose with her teeth.

"Boaster."

She made a good point. Why had he told her that? It served no practical use to mention, it was better to wait for the taste of poison. His father had once mentioned that he believed everyone could be seduced by power. This probably wasn't the seduction he meant, but Illumi supposed it would work. He could show his power to her, informing her the differences of their abilities.

Gently, he slid his fingers between hers, around the bottle. She turned slowly to face him, her other hand frozen while rooting through a cabinet for glasses. He took the bottle, pressing the mouth of it to his lips and drinking.

The taste was unpleasant.

He set the bottle on the table without looking at it. Her eyes were hazel, not the pure brown of her son. They were looking at him the way Hisoka looked at everyone, though perhaps not exactly the same. She wasn't like anyone else. After having this thought, Illumi realized two things.

One, his mother should have trained their tolerances for poison more broadly. She had insufficiently trained them for what she called "low poisons," or poisons people generally used for entertainment. This would be rectified when Mito was matriarch.

Two, whatever they were drinking was, at least legally speaking, unfit for human consumption. It had more in common with disinfectant alcohol than anything most humans could safely drink. Perhaps Gon's remarkable tolerance was genetic.

She looked him in the eyes as she turned her head slightly away from him, lifting the bottle and pressing it to her lips. She drank silently and greedily, and when she turned back to him, her mouth smelled of pungent moonshine. He wanted to kiss it. Instead, he took the bottle back from her, feeling the skin of her hands a much as he could before she relaxed the neck into his grip, and took his own drink.

Chasing the imagined taste of her lips, he drained the bottle through his Adam's apple, feeling it burn in the backs of his eyes and the weight of his stomach. He hadn’t been truly poisoned in such a long time, the feeling was nearly pleasant. He sat at the table, deliberately and carefully setting down the bottle with the care of someone who doesn’t trust his fingers. He adjusted his ass, having apparently missed the chair the first time. He looked up at Mito expectantly.

She grabbed another bottle, and a pair of glasses, before sitting across him, apparently less drunk. She poured each of them a generous glass of ethanol flavored like sulfur. She drank first, taking a long shallow drink of the stuff. He matched her pace, drinking less steadily and more deeply. He could feel the tight pressed spring of his instincts and reaction time starting to loosen. It made him feel vulnerable, insecure.

She was pouring him another glass, hardly looking at him. He furrowed his brows looking at her, trying to read her face.

“What are you thinking about?”

The clear, reeking liquid stopped in it’s journey to his glass, the bottle turned at an angle to stop it. She chuckled slightly.

“Gon and Killua,” she said.

Another needle jammed into the base of Illumi’s throat twinged, stopping a hiccup before it formed.

“He would be safer at home,” he said.

Mito chuckled.

“I don’t think Killua would see it that way.”

Illumi shook his head, before taking another few swallows of the stuff. It hurt, and the needle he’d used to stop hiccups would twitch every few seconds, hurting him to inform he was drunk. The tears dried behind his eyes made it clear they wanted out.

“ I’m not talking about Killua. Gon. The boy. Things would be easier for me too if he was home.”

He finally drained the glass again, and as he set it down Mito refilled it, expression blank, staring off at his chest.

“We want the same things,” he ventured finally.

She chuckled. It sounded like windchimes

“Do we?”

He nodded, ignoring the pain of bouncing his head.

“Safety for the people we love. A future full of choice. Power.”

She chuckled again. It sounded like rain tapping on the roof.

“You’re a very sad man Mr. Zoldyck.”

Illumi shook his head, making himself briefly dizzy.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Drink up.” she said, in that ordering tone of hers.

Illumi pressed the rim of the glass to his mouth, and paused.

“You’re poisoning me.” he said after a moment.

Mito hummed a questioning sound.

“You’re poisoning me.” he repeated.

“No,” she mused, “you’re poisoning yourself.”

He surged to his feet, but drunk he was too slow. Glass shattered and her hands were wrapped around his throat. She had to stand on tip toes to reach him. He could feel the cool edges of her fingernails scrape the skin. She’d overpowered him. A needle he’d stuck into his hip twinged, keeping his cock flaccid. They froze for a moment.

“What now?” he asked, airways unrestricted.

Mito looked him in the eyes, before finally answering, “you’re drunk.”

Illumi nodded limply.

She pushed and he keeled backwards, losing balance like he’d never had it to start. His view of the world sloshed and slid, like his eyes were made of water.

Why had he played this game? He would have never challenged father, or Killua, or even Gon to it’s like. Perhaps his mother. Perhaps any other woman. Did the Zoldycks have blindspots just the same as everyone else? That was a worrying thought.

Fortunately, his head impacted the floor a moment or two after he’d had it.

Mito tried to find her balance, her equilibrium apparently as drunk as she was. It swayed and tottered as her feet danced the sailor’s two step, then five step, then steadied her. She’d had to put her full strength and weight into shoving him over. His skull had dented the flooring. She wound one leg back and swiftly kicked him between the legs.

He didn’t make a noise, just rocked slightly in place. Then he was good and unconscious. She waddled drunkenly to his other end and tried to weave her arms under his armpits. It took a few tries, between drunken guesstimation and catching, vinyl fabric of his clothes. Once she had a grip, she crouched low and heaved. His body dragged and Mito took it with her as she took a few clumsy steps back.

His ass caught on the doorframe. She hadn’t actually thought this out past this. What was she going to do with him? Drag him out to a sandbar and leave him to drown at high tide? Drop him face first into a puddle? Somehow it all felt cruel. He hadn’t hurt her, and the fact he would if he could was hard to hold against him, seeing him laid out. In any case, he had to get out of her house.

She relaxed, letting his head hit the porch wood. She stretched out her back, wishing she hadn’t been so damn hard on her body when she was younger. She looked down at him. His shirt had hiked up to reveal skin across his stomach, equal parts toned and scarred. He clearly hadn’t had a terrific childhood either. He could just be a victim of circumstance.

She stepped carefully around his sprawled arm, grabbing a tacky high heel shoe with each hand before stepping back. She heard his head impact the wall as she tried to rotate him through the door, watching his body curl to fit. With a last, less-than-safe heave, she pulled him though. He would likely be in a lot of pain tomorrow anyway. Would a hangover and mountain of bruises not suffice?

She squatted low again, and a little sobered by the work, she tried to lift him. Carrying it like Abe’s bags of sweet trout, she laid him across her shoulders. He was dangerous, that much she could be certain. She could write a note, explaining he would be killed next time she saw him. But he was well mannered, human even, under the odd clothes and blank expression. She started waddling to the port. She wanted him off her island at the least.

She found a secluded jetty, a few rowboats with sailor’s most complicated knots tying them to the docks. She picked hers, farthest inland and threw, as best she could, 200 pounds of murderer into it. He landed feet first, the boat keeling and splashing as his full weight hit the bow. In a moment of surprise, she found her hands reaching for her apron tie, ready to strip the excess fabric and dive in to save him. The boat steadied.

She stepped in, carefully to avoid stepping on him. She let out a sigh. What now? She could row him to the Gzana, drop him at one of the hotels near the port. She hadn’t brought her coins, and she couldn’t risk him coming too while they were halfway there. She sighed, looking back at him.

He was pretty, and that might be the hardest part about killing him. It was a shallow reason to be sure, but she couldn't shake the feeling it would be wrong. The world would be a better place, but it wouldn't be the right place. She traced her hand along the line of his jaw, feeling the steady pump of blood. She hadn't killed people before, and it was supposed to change you to do so.

He was very pretty, lips softly parted and long black hair splayed out like an angel's halo. It mingled with the water, cast across the boat like the shadows of night. His eyes, wide and disconcerting, were closed.

She leaned down, careful to keep balance in the small row boat, and kissed him. Then she clambered back onto the pier, taking a sharp breath to bring down her blush.

One hand on the dock’s pillar for support, she got down on her knees to unmoor the boat, and, as an afterthought, snatched one of the oars, before gently shoving the boat out to sea with a bare foot

The tide around Whale Island is different than it is around most land masses; the sea seems to ignore it, like a sandbar or a sea stack. On clear night at low water, it's as good as riptide for getting out to sea. Mito watched as the horizon, blurred by fading moonlight, swallowed her small boat.

Illumi awoke to the scream of seagulls and the piercing pain of his headache. There were other aches and pains, spread out like paint smears across his body. Without open his eyes, fearing he would be blind with pain and sunlight, he stuffed his hand in his pocket and withdrew a needle, sticking it carefully between the ridges of his spine. The pain stopped, and he dared to open his eyes.

A sky blue dress with clouds of bleach and flour.

The needle in his spine was not something he liked to use, he was liable to forget it was there, and pain was useful for keeping track of damage, but worst of all it stopped his other needles from hurting. The only way he knew his heart rate picked up was the feeling of it, hammering in his chest. He sat up.

The ocean surrounded him, featureless. He might have imagined it was heaven or hell if not for the smell; too imperfect to be either. He withdrew his phone from one pocket, turning it on to ascertain his location.

He’d missed messages from his father. That would be trouble, but it could wait. He flipped on the GPS, and tried not to sigh. He was nowhere near anything, floating in the international waters between Azia and Yorbia. He looked around, trying to take stock of what he had. One oar, an empty tackle box, and his phone.

Only one oar. Quaint. It left him unable to row his boat, only to meander in circles. No doubt it was a popular way for amateurs to kill, they generally don't enjoy the crunchy parts of the work.

For a moment, he considered calling his family for help, but he knew better than that. He took a few minutes to braid his hair, holding the phone in his teeth, before stripping and folding his clothes in the boat. For a moment he took the phone in his hand, ensuring he understood the direction he had to go, before smashing against the floor of the boat. It would never survive the journey.

He tried not to think about her, and found it vexingly difficult. She could have killed him. She should have, by all rights. He was a danger to everything she held dear. He cracked his neck, then his shoulders, then his back.

She should have killed him. Why hadn’t she?

He dived.

#hxh #hunterxhunter #Illumi Zoldyck #Mito Freecs #Mito/Illumi #illumi/mito #fanfic #mystuff

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welllpthisishappening · 4 years ago

Text

But Once a Year (4/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: Another 9K or so, but with feelings AN: I had every intention of posting this on actual Christmas, but there was a Doctor Who marathon on and, well—I got distracted by other time travel. Hopefully my timelines are more consistent than River Song’s. Sorry, River Song. Here’s a whole bunch of kissing and feeling feelings.

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the start

————

“Were you ever actually going to paint?”

No eyebrow movement that time, although Killian’s actual eyes widen ever so slightly and that particular reaction is starting to do dangerous things to Emma's ego. He keeps his coffee mug hovering just above his lips, which she’s certain is a carefully calculated ploy to also keep her staring at his lips, but that’s not all that difficult and she’d spent at least seven full minutes kissing those same lips senseless that morning.

In bed.

The one they’ve slept in — for four days straight now, which is probably more time than it should be, but he was right. Falling asleep with his arm around her is far easier than the opposite, and he only occasionally complains about the frost-like tendencies of her feet. Mostly into the back of her neck. That’s just where his mouth ends up.

So, everything is still going great. Not potentially problematic. Because neither Regina nor Tinker Bell have come up with a working time-travel theory, and Emma’s baking endeavors haven’t gone over all that well either, but she’s discovered Killian’s tendency for stealing batter, and that’s even more ridiculously endearing information that’s only sort of skewing with her sense of reality, and— “Is this you volunteering?”

Startling, Emma almost forgot she’d asked a question. His mouth does something else. Stupid, and distracting and he uses almond milk in his coffee.

Claims it’s a modern convenience he’s more than willing to take advantage of.

Great, great, excellent. Possibly falling towards something, in a free-fall sort of way, and Emma shakes her head. Brushes away dangerous thoughts and hard-drawn lines in the much more metaphorical sand, and she wonders if sand ever lingers in their entry way during the summer.

They must go to the beach.

Spend time on the Jolly Roger, and she hasn’t seen much of the ship, but she’s starting to think it’d be nice to pass an afternoon on the water, with the sun and the salt and— “Swan,” Killian says, obviously not the first time he’s tried to draw back her attention. Chair legs scrape across their kitchen floor when he stands, and Emma’s brain barely acknowledges that particular pronoun before he’s crowding her space and bumping his hips against hers and nothing like that has happened yet, because that’s not just a line, it’s an entire rhombus or some other geometric shape that’s more like a tangled mess and knotted feelings and she flinches.

When his hook drifts under the hem of her shirt.

Floral patterned, and far gauzier than anything Emma would even think about owning now. Or then, she supposes. Tenses continue to be their own specific type of issue, and she’s starting to like the clothes hanging in her questionably large closet.

They’re soft.

Which is probably not a commentary, or observation of whatever tense she’s willing to use, but it’s definitely different and possibly better and Killian chuckles in her ear as soon as her head falls to his collarbone. He kisses the top of her hair.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Scoffing into his shirt threatens to rumple the fabric, and she doesn’t really miss the billowy fabric of what’s now years past, but she also wonders if he kept them and where he docks the Jolly during the winter, and she can’t start giving pirate ships nicknames. Not now. Not yet. Not when she’s got to leave, and that only makes, like, half her muscles ache, so it’s probably not as bad as it could be.

“They’re not worth that much,” Emma mumbles, the soft laugh she gets warming her from the inside out. A mix of magic and much more, and she’s back on the alliterative. As a defense mechanism or something.

For her heart, maybe.

“Luckily for you, I’ve got something of an eye for undiscovered treasure and—” “—Is this a line?” He laughs again, noses at her temple and the crown of her head and neither one of them mention how tightly Emma’s arms wrap around his middle. “If you can’t decipher when I’m flirting by now, we may have some issues.” “Some is a vast understatement.” “It’s going to be alright,” Killian promises, but it rings a little hollow and part of Emma knows. Still dark and distant, it doesn’t want to acknowledge everything it’s ignoring and a pointed voice echoes between her ears. With the same mantra.

Magic is emotion.

And Emma’s emotions are decidedly split. Just like Pan thought they’d be. Maybe she’s not just a coward; she’s selfish and greedy and inching dangerously close to a crying jag in the middle of the kitchen, but then Killian’s fingers drag across her spine and it’s a rhythm she can time her breathing to.

“We’re running out of time.” “That’s not entirely true. Time travel’s apparently heavily involved, makes deadlines rather defunct, don’t you think?”

Emma scrunches her nose, but the voice is back and it’s sharper and a little angrier and stamping on several different parts of her brain if the growing pain is any indication. All magic comes with a price. “Talk to me about paint instead.” “Not much to talk about,” Killian says, but the caution in his voice makes it obvious they’re both all too aware of what they’re avoiding. Possibly even dreading. Emma is, at least.

She’s going to strangle Peter Pan when she sees him.

“But you haven’t done it.” “Some other things have been going on, you see.” “Don’t you want to paint?” “It’s not particularly high on my list of ways to occupy my time,” he admits, one side of his mouth tugging up. Flirting is getting easier. Some joke about practice, Emma is sure. “But, if it’s something you’re willing to help with, and it will get those thoughts of yours to settle for a few moments, then—” “—Who says my thoughts aren’t settled?” Tapping the all-too-noticeable furrow of Emma’s forehead, Killian’s eyes widen again. “Absolutely God awful at masking them, m’dear.” “Maybe that’s just a you thing.” “Aye, my mind-reading talents have been well-documented, but I suppose if we’re going to wait for Her Majesty to come up with yet another pointless—” “—Kinda harsh,” Emma mumbles. He kisses the furrow. Traces the lines of her brows, and hovers just on the edge of her eyes, grazing cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, until Emma's skin is buzzing and her magic threatens to pour out of her, and she’s only just able to contain whatever wave joke is pressing against her lips. Good, since those lips can be put to much better use against Killian’s. “Better plan, anyway,” he mumbles, working his arm back around her waist. So he can tug her up, and pull her closer to him and neither one of those things feel like the multitude of other problems Emma’s overactive brain is dealing with and they do eventually get out of the kitchen.

Finish the coffee, and figure out where Hope’s favorite hat has disappeared to, because Emma’s rather quickly learned that this hat has legs that quite often move from its spot on the shelf into the hallway, and the overall width of Mary Margaret’s smile when she opens up the farm’s screen door isn’t as jarring as it would have been a week earlier.

Getting back home takes longer than it probably should — ducking into the alley behind Granny’s for at last forty-two seconds of totally uninterrupted kissing, and Emma’s not entirely sure this is what being a newlywed is like, or was, she supposes, but it’s still pretty fantastic and she doesn’t want to name the sound that works its way out of her.

Part giggle, a hint of overjoyed, and some sort of lingering fear because this isn’t quite real, but feels like the exact opposite, and they find old drop sheets in one of their half a dozen closets. Right next to the shirts she’d been wondering about before, and that’s probably not serendipity or fate or anything except Killian’s own sentimental tendencies, but she’s got to change her clothes anyway, and she doesn’t drown in the fabric like she worried she would.

Likely not a metaphor, either.

“Cheating,” Killian accuses, reaching for Emma anyway and moving the furniture isn’t the easiest thing in the world. Until Emma also remembers she’s got magic, and the ability to be very attracted to the guy who can’t seem to keep his hand off her, and she only has to blink once.

For the furniture to move into the basement, at least for the time being.

“Impressive, right?”

“Look who’s fishing for compliments now.” “C’mon, that was a shit ton of—” She doesn’t get the rest out, far too busy gasping and blinking and he’s swiped paint on her nose. “Are you kidding me?” Shrugging, he dances out of her reach before Emma can totally react and the paint’s already starting to dry. And crack. The signs are just getting obnoxious now. Makes much more sense to keep ignoring them.

“No, no,” she argues, not bothering with the brush stuffed into the top of her leggings. Twisting her wrist, paint soars towards Emma’s fingertips, curling around her wrist and practically vibrating with the energy she’s flush with.

Killian takes a step back. One more, another. A quick shake of his head makes the strands falling across his forehead shift again, and she’s not counting how often that happens, but she’s also paying fairly close attention to it and—“Revenge is never wise, love,” he advises, not able to keep the laugh out of his voice.

“Pots and kettles, and all that, right?” “I’m completely reformed now. Ask anyone.” Humming, Emma advances on him. Magic ripples up her arms, power she’s never quite experienced before and it’s oddly intoxicating. Not in an overwhelming, potentially villainous sort of way. It’s far too warm for that.

Villainy has to be cold, Emma’s sure.

As it is, she’s not quite sweating, but she’s decidedly comfortable and all of her internal organs are functioning with an ease that belies their situation, or the problems it presents, and none of the paint ever touches her skin. Hovers in the air around it, wholly controlled and that’s not something Emma’s particularly familiar with.

It’s nice. It’s—much more than nice, but she fell once while trying to do the long jump in that one Minnesota high school she spent a few months in when she was fifteen, and the prospect of something similar makes her wary of leaving the ground again. The line’s still there. Drawn with precision, and possibly permanent marker, and they can’t paint over that.

Not yet, at least. Not entirely.

“It does kind of match your eyes,” Emma says, hoping Killian doesn’t notice the shake in her voice. No such luck, she knows. Can see the flicker of concern in his gaze, but he’s able to push away. Not from the wall, and there’s something cyclical and symmetrical about this too, emotion almost visibly hanging between them. Another thing they haven’t talked about, and likely won’t have time for.

Totally fine. Absolutely great.

Falling for—

No, no falling. Standing and walking and Emma lifts her chin. Lets her magic twist its way up her spine, and flicker towards her bare feet, and Killian’s mouth twitches again.

“Care more about the dress, really.” “What’d it look like? And where was Elsa’s—you said it was a wedding, right?”

“Her wife was here, you saw Mulan yesterday.” “No shit!” “Always with the perfect response,” Killian grins, “but yes. Met while Mulan was doing ambassador work for Aurora and Phillip, and love conquers all or so I’ve been told.” “Say it again without making it a joke.” Not shuddering under the force of his ensuing gaze is another victory Emma’s going to relish, even when she’s wherever she’s actually supposed to be, and she hopes she remembers this. In picture-perfect detail. “Conquers all,” Killian repeats, “as far I know.”

“Personally?” “Deeply so.”

Emma licks her lips. Killian stares. Tries not to, but she really is getting better at reading him and he doesn’t put up as much of a fight about information anymore. Seriously, everything’s so fine, the word barely holds any meaning now. But, like, in a positive way. “So, we went to Elsa’s wedding because—” “—You and she are rather good friends. Hope’s godmother, in fact.” “Oh. That’s—wow, that’s kind of nice.” “It is,” Killian agrees, not adding to it. He doesn’t have to. They both hear what they haven’t said — how few and far between friends are for Emma, and she briefly wonders if he knows about Lily or the kids who showed up, only to disappear just as quickly, and it would be second-nature to tell him. Part of her wants to now.

Rehashing seems silly, though.

“Anyway,” he adds, “Elsa and Mulan got married, and there was a dress that I will admit to thinking quite a lot about still, and it was blue. With these…” His eyes flutter closed. Magic roars in the very center of Emma. “Little bits of twisted fabric on top, looked like starbursts.” “Like the candy?” Gods, she an idiot. An entertaining one, if Killian’s smirk proves anything, though. So that’s something, at least. “Did we dance?” Nodding, his eyes keep darting back towards Emma’s hand and the paint that’s become some part of a questionably romantic thing, but she’s also starting to get the suspicion he’s using the wall to stay upright. Something thumps into it.

Light bursts from the end of Emma’s hair.

“Oh,” Killian groans through clenched teeth, and a jaw that can’t possibly be comfortable, “that’s hardly playing fair, sweetheart.”

Huh.

The light grows. Flares, even — until it’s casting streaks across the floor and hovering just under Emma’s skin, because apparently she can glow now, and she almost feels like she’s floating. On endearments and sentiment and the air blowing through windows opened solely so they didn’t suffocate on paint fumes suddenly smells a little sweeter.

“You’ve got your hook embedded in the wall,” Emma points out, none of those words all that even either. She doesn’t sound like herself, but she also didn’t know she was a person who reacted quite like that to one ten-letter word, yet here they. So, whatever really.

Wider eyes and slightly parted lips meet her somehow still-lifted chin, and Killian’s nod barely warrants the description. Leaves his chest shifting, but Emma’s also admittedly staring at his chest because for as big as the shirt she’s wearing is, his is just as tight and touting a college she figures Henry thought about going to at some point, and she seizes her opportunity.

Paint flies — literally. Soars across the barley-there space between Emma’s toes and Killian’s socks, and she genuinely cannot cope with how he only ever takes his socks off to sleep. He gasps when color splashes his cheeks and his shoulders, hangs from the ends of his hair, and threatens to find the edges of his lips. “Gotta close your mouth,” Emma advises lightly, getting the exact spark in his eyes that she was hoping for and she yelps all the same. When he ducks his head, nosing at her neck and the line of her collar. Which is technically his color, but she’s been using all those collective pronouns, that it can’t possibly matter at this point and she definitely giggles. While his fingers trace patterns across her stomach and the side of her waist, dragging lines of blue paint over skin and fabric and she’s not sure when they fall over, just that they’re a tangle of limbs and slightly ripped sheets and— “Do you think I could magic the paint on the walls?” Emma asks, flipping her paint-covered head to her side. Without opening his eyes, Killian mumbles an agreement, his fingers fluttering against hers until they lace between them and she’s only like seventy-four percent positive he does it on purpose.

Concentrating on the twenty-six percent that absolutely knows it’s that same instinct and inherent habit from before, Emma twists her lower lip between her teeth. Feels the first brush of magic, and the small inferno that erupts between her ribs doesn’t actually set her on fire. So, more victories.

And it only takes about twelve seconds.

Give or take.

Blue walls appear around them as if by—well, magic. Not a streak out of place, or mark on the baseboards and Emma’s only a little annoyed that they bothered to move any of the furniture. “Single most impressive thing I’ve ever seen,” Killian mutters. “Your eyes are still closed.” “Aye, but I know it’s happening.” Not letting go of her lip or his hand, Emma’s heart thunders in her chest as soon as she notices the question sitting on her tongue. “When did that start? Because—well, as far as I know you can’t tell in Neverland.” He doesn’t respond. Not immediately, anyway. And that’s only momentarily terrifying, before a slightly different and passably darker shade of blue meets her. “That’s not entirely true. It gets a little confusing, though.” “Don’t offend me like that.”

“I’m not saying you won’t understand,” Killian laughs, “just—the other time travel adventure? Well, that happens rather early in my timeline. And, uh...well, by that point you’re feeling some things and—” “—Kissing as a distraction,” Emma breathes, realization shaking her and this version of the puzzle is equally surprising and wonderful.

“You’re an eavesdrop.” “Piracy excuse.”

He laughs again, kisses her cheek and pulls her closer to his side until nearly all of him is touching all of her and that’s another word much bigger than nice. “As far as I’ve been able to reason it, that sets off a chain of sorts. Magic exists in you, can be felt by me, I don’t entirely remember it—” “—You don’t entirely remember it?” “Making it difficult to tell the story.” Emma rolls her eyes. “Anyway, it’s always been this sort of—presence, I suppose. In the back of my mind, a reminder of something. Good and possible, and it makes it rather easy to tell when you’re agitated, actually.” “Seems like cheating.” “Piracy excuse,” he repeats, and Emma’s mind trips over itself. Falling across line and thoughts and leaving here might be one of the hardest things she’s ever done. Part of her wonders if she knows how, though.

“You know about Neal. Everything that—” Her breath catches, out-of-place tears already threatening to fall, and that’s kind of lame. Killian’s cheek brushes Emma’s. While he nods. “For what it’s worth, your parents do feel bad about the naming legacy one they realize.” “He’s not here.” “No, that would be rather difficult for him. He’s—” “—Dead?” “Honorably,” Killian says, even through the hint of acid and Emma drapes her arm across his stomach. “And he does care about Henry, quite ardently. But...well, I don’t imagine I’ll ever entirely forgive him for everything he did, and it was difficult to rationalize the Bae I knew with he Neal who acted like that.” “Probably weird to be attracted to that, huh?” Chuckling, his lips press against her hair. “Whatever way you’re willing to be attracted to me, is something I wholeheartedly approve of.”

“I’ve got another question.” “Waiting with baited breath.” “You’ve got a ship still, right?”

Tensing the way he does isn’t really the reaction Emma anticipates, although she should probably be ready for anything now, and Killian mumbles, “aye, I do.”

“Could we—I mean, I’m capable of teleporting, right?” “I’ve got no doubt. But it might be cold.” “Good thing you just radiate heat, huh?” His tongue pokes between his lips. Emma’s staring again. Has a hard time stopping, really. Which makes the magic return all the stronger and all the more suddenly, and Killian’s soft hitch of breath is oddly pleasing, even as the smell of salt replaces half-dried paint.

Strictly speaking, Emma hadn’t spent much time exploring the Jolly Roger before they got to Neverland. Portal-based travel, and those mermaids and massive rain storms, all made it difficult to notice much else, and it takes her a moment to realize she’s blinked them into the captain’s cabin.

“Efficient,” Killian observes, already perched on the edge of the room’s lone cot and the bedding looks crisp. Military-grade folds, and pillows that aren’t quite as fluffy as the ones in the house, but Emma’s already glancing at the shelves to her right. Books line them, in what is obviously alphabetical order, while the desk nearby is covered in instruments for navigation, and maps of several different realms, and she knows Killian’s watching her.

Feels the force of his stare as it tries very hard to read her mind again, baited breath that’s not quite as much of a joke anymore. He's hoping. For the response, and the reaction, and she belatedly realizes what a big deal this is.

Falling into the deep end of it all is really the only reasonable thing to do now. And appropriately water-based pun.

“Give me another random fact,” Emma says, failing to keep the demand out of her voice. “Royal decrees are coming much easier for you now, Your Highness.” “Something good.” “I’d hardly give you a bad fact.” “Weird, I’m still waiting for one.”

Stabbing a finger into the space next to him, Emma’s leg bumps Killian’s when she sits down and she’d been right about the body heat. All of the blankets stay exactly where they are. “We go to Boston one weekend, relatively soon after we get married. To—” He clicks his tongue, as if he’s deciding what details to include. “Get some stuff out of your apartment. That’s not the important part. But we bring Henry with us, and drive out there. Spend a few days, and go to all of the tourist spots you say we should avoid, but Hope learned that eye trick from Henry, and it works all the time. So we go to Quincy Market, and that one brewery. Tour guide makes some history jokes, which in turn make you roll your eyes, but we get free samples, and Henry tries very hard to steal one of his own.” “Doesn’t work?” Killian shakes his head. “Not as such, no. I’m rather good at observing, you see.” “All those nights as lookout?” “Something like that,” he agrees, “It’s the first time in a very long time that we don’t have any looming threats. Nothing to worry about, no villains to contend with. We sit and walk and eat, and then eat some more, and it’s not the first time I let myself believe this is real, but it might bet the first time that reality seems to linger.” She’s holding her breath. Lungs burn in Emma’s chest, letting go of a shuddering exhale that also comes with tear-filled eyes, and Killian’s fingers hover near her neck. With the chain around it, and Emma knows it’s important — that ring that hangs just behind her stolen shirt, but she doesn’t ask and she wants to live it, anyway.

Wants those moments to come of their own accord, at their own pace, until they linger as well. Settle into her and take root, building a foundation for everything else.

“Can I do something?” she whispers, another imperceptible nod and he doesn’t object. When she unbuckles the leather at his brace, trying very hard to keep her pulse steady and her magic relatively quiet, but neither one of those things work very well and it doesn’t take very long.

Snaps and pieces of metal give way under Emma’s touch, eventually pulling away from his skin and the scars aren’t worse closer up. Just more obvious, maybe.

It’s another stupid sign.

Following the lines with her fingers, Killian’s not much more than a statue. With exceptionally wide eyes and slightly erratic breathing, watching her like he’s bracing himself for impact or the inevitably of her disappearing. Emma sits. Presses her feet into the floor, and there’s no dust on the floor. She has to swallow more than once while she accounts for every mark on him, though — emotion clogging up her throat and her thoughts in equal measure, and it’s not really instinct to bend her neck and kiss the first spot she can reach, but it’s absolutely want and she wants far more than she’s supposed to have.

Right now, at least.

“Emma,” Killian exhales, without the regret it should hold, and honestly the goddamn symmetry is as good as it is awful. She smiles. Against his skin.

“You said, ‘until I met you.’ Did you mean it?”

Glancing up without moving is another hint of cowardice, but Emma’s neck isn’t all that interested in participating in the conversation anymore and it’s easier to notice the state of Killian’s jaw like this. “More than I realized, actually.” “Yeah, me too probably. If I had said—well, I’m the worst liar in the world, y’know?” “At least several different realms.”

Scoffing, Emma’s teeth graze the blunt edge of his wrist and that only gets her a noise she’s never heard before and it’s better than all the other noises, and she loses her shirt eventually. Nothing else happens.

Still can’t, still won’t. They’re both all too aware of the inability of this to linger, but want’s a funny sort of thing and contentment’s just as strange as ever. Falling asleep with her cheek pressed to his bare chest makes sense, though, the steady rock of the ship lulling Emma until her eyes close and her thoughts silence.

“So, you’re not even trying anymore, huh?” Emma sighs. “Here I thought we’d get through the afternoon without any pointed opinions.” “Well, that was just foolish of you,” Regina shrugs, sitting on the front steps of the farm with her legs stretched out in front of her and that’s almost strange. She’s wearing jeans. No one else is surprised by that. And Mary Margaret is leaning against the door frame behind her.

One arm wrapped around her middle, she doesn’t cross her feet at the ankles like Killian would, and that’s probably for the best. Emma’s brain can only cope with so much at one time, and she might not be trying anymore.

Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.

“You think the wisdom is our problem?” Mary Margaret asks, barely blinking at the sound that erupts from Regina. Snarl and sneer, and Emma rocks back on her heels. Like that will put some distance between her and the queen, who doesn’t appear all that evil anymore, but could be even more determined than ever and they’re still waiting for that goddamn bird to come back.

No one’s mentioned the knights in the forest, either.

Emma’s not sure they’re still there.

“Can’t steal intelligence from the dead,” Regina reasons, and Emma’s shiver doesn’t have anything to do with the cold. It smells like cookies, even outside. “Should that make sense to me?” she asks. Mary Margaret shakes her head.

“Not at all. Just—when Zelena did this...she had a bunch of ingredients.” “She has no idea who Zelena is,” Regina mutters, shrugging at Emma’s slack jawed expression. “Don’t bother telling me you’re standing right there, you’re very predictable and I am painfully aware of your continued presence.”

“Was anyone actually going to tell me who Zelena is?” Emma snaps, a better reaction than the magic she’d like to use. On Regina, and her judgmental face. Tinker Bell went to help in Wonderland. Where magic is failing, more than it was a week earlier.

“The Wicked Witch of the West," Mary Margaret replies. “Was bad, had strong magic, gave up her magic, got it—no, she never got it back, did she?” Regina makes a contrary noise.

“How can you possibly keep track of all of this?”

Mary Margaret’s smile isn’t entirely effective, but there’s still a bit of the friend Emma occasionally worries she’s lost and of all the things breaking the curse did, that’s probably one of her bigger issues. There just hasn’t been time to deal with it. “Living it helps,” she laughs, “but she was holding Rumplestilskin hostage when she built the spell, and that’s—” “—Wait, wait, Gold is dead?” “That’s a little harder to explain, actually.”

“Huh.”

She should be upset. She should mourn...maybe not the jackass who consistently ruined everything, but at least the idea of the person he could have been, or the help he occasionally offered, but Emma’s feeling a little vengeful, and is even more annoyed. By like—the entire state of the world, right now.

She’s definitely not trying. Magic is emotion, and all of hers are far too scrambled to be effective as part of a time travel spell a witch who—“Was she actually green?” Emma asks, before she can stop herself and Mary Margaret’s smile works better that time.

“Occasionally,” Regina drawls. “But as your mother pointed out, she’s also lacking any magic now, and with Robyn in the Wish Realm—” “—That can’t possibly be a real place. And who is Robyn, exactly?”

“You met her. She brought you to—” “—That was a witch’s daughter? You realize that none of the ages for any of these kids makes sense? She was an actual adult.” “Don’t think about it too hard,” Mary Margaret advises, “will only make your head hurt.” “That ship sailed, like, two weeks ago,” Emma admits, refusing to look at whatever face Regina is making while also growling softly. Fire dances between her fingers. “Keep interrupting like this,” she warns, “and I will put you under a sleeping curse.” Jaw dropping and air rushing out of her in a wholly undignified huff, Emma’s reactions are so loud that she hardly notices Mary Margaret’s quiet “that might not be all that bad.” But then it clicks and there’s another puzzle, and more words she should not be thinking about right now, and Regina’s eyes thin enough that it’s difficult to notice any color in them.

“Huh,” she says, echoing Emma and that’s not very comforting, actually. “Well, that’s fascinating isn’t it? Plus, we don’t have any innocence.” Mary Margaret’s shoulders drop. “Oh, yeah that might be right.” Emma’s mouth is already hanging open, and her jaw physically cannot separate, so she can’t quite react like she wants to. Magic rattles around her all the same, Regina’s eyebrows doing a fairly good job of masquerading as someone else’s because— “Back to the drawing board, it seems,” she says, all but jumping back to her feet and glancing at Mary Margaret on her way back into the house.

Moving is something of an impossibility for Emma, torn between embarrassment and objections and the second one isn’t entirely possible either, but her mother only looks passably amused and that’s not the right emotion for this situation at all.

“Sleeping curse could force us into all kinds of realizations,” she reasons.

“That’s fucked up, Mom.”

More titles. More feelings. Not enough time to deal with any of them.

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret agrees, “it kind of is. How much batter do you think the rest of your family has stolen?” “At least an entire cookie sheet’s worth.” “Sounds about right, let’s see if we can cop any of our own.”

“Where is everyone going to sleep?” Emma asks, sitting at a dining room table that’s nearly buckling under the weight of food covering it. “And where did they even get all this stuff from?” Fingers drift over her bent knee under the table, Emma’s hands preoccupied with doling out food and Hope’s a very big fan of mashed potatoes. As she should be, really. Less so by the small feast of vegetables her mother has provided, but certainly not cooked because Emma’s spent most of the afternoon with her mother and Regina, trying to figure out if they could replicate Zelena’s time travel spell, and it didn’t work. Like, at all.

Lack of innocence likely isn’t their biggest problem. “Not everyone stays here,” Killian explains, “although I doubt your mother would mind all that much if they did.”

“Doesn’t explain where they’re going to sleep.” “Are you concerned about privacy, love?” “Pirate,” she accuses, but it lacks any actual vitriol and someone whistles when Killian’s lips brush hers. “I just don’t want to sleep in the hallway, if there’s no more room at the inn.” “Very confident in your own brand of religion-based humor aren’t you?” “Oh, color me impressed with your knowledge.” “Not many of your jokes evolve much over time, that’s why. And I think you’ve proven your ability to relocate us fairly well, don’t you?” Twisting her lips only gets her a flash of amusement and eyebrows that move so quick, there should also be smoke involved. “As far as I know, Her Royal Highness Snow White has concocted a rather extensive and possibly color-coordinated sleeping arrangement, that ensures no one will be forced to sleep in the hallway, while also allowing for maximum comfort and the ability to ransack parents as early as possible tomorrow morning.”

Something drops into the bottom of her stomach. It’s dread. And fear, and what Emma knows is that growing selfish streak and if her hand finds Hope’s back, then that’s neither here nor there.

Plus, Killian can totally tell.

The overall volume of her magic helps too.

“Mary Margaret’s pretty in her element, huh?” Nodding, he ignores the brussels sprouts in favor of the broccoli casserole, and she’s resolutely not attracted to that. No sane person could be attracted to side dish choices. On Christmas Eve.

It’s Christmas Eve.

“She is, indeed,” Killian agrees, “which is why outsourcing made quite a bit of sense.” Emma’s eyes dart towards Granny, and no one’s introduced her to Ruby’s girlfriend yet, but Ruby also hasn’t announced that she quite obviously knows something about this family gathering is off, and that’s nice enough that pushing the issue seems like another asshole move.

No one can be an asshole on Christmas Eve.

Emma assumes, at least. Hopes a bit too, just for good measure. “Granny made all of this?”

“Eh, certainly tried. Coerced Ruby and Dorothy—” “—No,” she hisses, drawing a few curious glances and half of Hope’s plate is covered in mashed potatoes. Killian’s fingers tighten.

“Someone told you about Zelena, didn’t they?” “I met her daughter without realizing, I guess.” Making a sound of understanding, Emma doesn’t miss the length of Killian’s drink. From the wine glass next to his own mostly-filled plate. “Is that another reason they went to that Wish Realm? So she didn’t have to talk to Dorothy Gale?” “I’m sure it was a consideration.” “Keeping track of all these things is a full-time job. Ok, so—Henry’s staying here though, isn’t he?” More noise, another sip of alcohol that Emma’s strangely jealous of. Nearly knocking her own glass over, her drink is closer to a gulp her dad absolutely notices, and whatever this is, it’s not any wine she’s familiar with.

“Camelot vineyards are enchanted,” David says, answering another question Emma hasn’t actually asked. Ruby’s eyes noticeably flicker towards Henry.

Who is not very subtle.

“Something about the soil, right?” Regina asks, although it certainly sounds like she’s perfectly aware of the reason, and Emma’s less sure as to why her mouth immediately dries. Possibly because Killian’s fingers have gone vice-like.

Glancing at him isn’t very subtle either, but she couldn’t care less and curiosity’s always been a bit of a thing for her. He probably knows that, anyway. “Camelot wasn’t my favorite place,” he explains, like that’s a reasonable string of words, but this isn’t the time for that and the knights are gone. Disappeared entirely, it seems.

“No Arthur, huh?” Silence descends on the table, silverware clanking on plates and chairs scuffing when they’re pushed away from the table. Emma widens her eyes.

Challenging that no asshole on Christmas Eve policy.

“He was kind of a shitty king,” Henry shrugs, Regina glaring in that same maternal sort of way that immediately makes him look far more like a teenager than a grown man with a kid. Emma can’t figure out the timeline of Lucy at all, either.

“Redeemed himself a bit in the end,” Killian adds. “Had no trouble from that particular area.” There should be more to that sentence. Emma knows, can hear it in the clipped way his voice cuts off and his tongue swipes the front of his teeth, and—“Whatever happened to that girl Henry knew in court?” Ruby asks, and they all lack subtlety it seems.

Emma tilts her head. “Henry knew a girl in the court of Camelot?” “Very complex story,” he mumbles, dots of pink on his cheek and Ella laughing at his side.

“Should I be upset I didn’t know about this?” “He used music to woo her,” Mary Margaret adds, some of the tension hovering over them evaporating. Killian’s fingers don’t move. “Although I never entirely understood how the iPod managed to stay charged.” “Magic,” Henry reasons. “And Violet went back to Connecticut, with her dad.”

Groaning, Emma’s reaction to this wine is even stronger than anything she drank in the diner or the buttered rum, and Henry’s face might stay red for the rest of the night. Festive, at least. “A guy from Connecticut?” she asks. “In Camelot?” “Didn’t click for me at first, if that makes you feel better.” “He was too busy flirting, that’s why,” Killian adds.

Henry scowls. “Reminiscing about any of this is not nearly as fun as you guys think it is. Plus,” he slings an arm around Ella’s shoulders, kissing her temple for good measure, “it all worked out in the end, so—” “—So,” Ruby echoes, “did we decide on snowmen rules, or…”

Voices all but explode around them — shouting over one another, in what is another questionably competitive Christmas tradition, and there are apparently judges involved and boxes of decorations that Mary Margaret keeps stored in the basement. Which Emma assumes is a much better use for the space than hoarding weapons, but any thought about her house quickly gets lost in how delicious this food is and how Henry’s arm rarely leaves Ella, and at some point Hope clamors onto Killian’s lap before Lucy starts demanding snowmen and they’ve all turn into giant pushovers, it seems.

“The theme,” Granny announces from her spot on the porch, because she’s head judge, and that holds more weight than anyone else, “is whimsy. Delight me, or you’ll lose points.” “What does that even mean?” Ruby challenges. She’s already rolling snow together, Dorothy’s head barely visible while she digs through one of Mary Margaret’s boxes and produces a pair of plastic fairy wings.

“Why do you own these?” she demands.

It’s difficult to tell if the color on Mary Margaret’s cheeks is a blush, or simply a product of how cold it already is, but none of that matters as much as the inches Henry has on her and how easy it is for his arm to find her shoulders as well. “Like to be prepared for any potential theme, isn’t that right, Gram?” “Not too old for any of the parental figures around here to ground you, you know,” Mary Margaret threatens. As much as she’s able.

David throws a snowball at both of them. “Build your snowman, kid. You’re going to lose, and it will be something else we can reminisce about for holidays to come.”

“C’mon, love,” Killian says, directing Emma to their own patch of snow and overflowing box and Hope’s already discovered the plastic tub of glitter that’s inexplicably in there. “We’ve got a reputation to uphold.” “Do we win this a lot?” “Don't insult me like that.”

He kisses her to ensure she doesn’t. Emma doesn’t argue that.

And as promised, Regina magics everyone’s snow creations to ensure they won’t melt for “at least a month, maybe longer” and the dread in Emma’s stomach threatens to rise up her throat. Until there’s a hand tugging at the side of her jacket, and—

“Can you get him to smile, Mama?” Hope asks, what looks like a slightly lopsided snowman’s bottom behind her and Emma might be the biggest pushover of them all.

Waving her hand is easy, though. And magic’s getting closer to second nature than she’d like to admit, positioning shiny rocks that Mary Margaret inexplicably had into what actually looks like a smile onto another freshly-made mound of snow.

Hope is overjoyed.

Emma tries very hard not to cry.

And fails spectacularly.

Monopoly is an adults-only game. This takes Emma at least forty-two seconds to come to terms with, but then there’s more wine and it’s a miracle they don’t wake up any of the kids, and Killian really does cheat.

She just can’t figure out how.

Bills appear in front of him like he’s the one with magic in this relationship, and Emma’s definitely drunk enough not to care about her word choice. She’s admittedly far more concerned with the houses that keep cropping up on Killian’s properties and how close some of those properties are to forming multiple Monopolys and he grins at her. From across the board.

David made it very clear that couples weren’t allowed to sit next to each other.

For fear of collusion, or something — although Emma can’t imagine there are actually many alliances formed in this game, particularly after the snowmen and the judging and it took Lucy nearly an hour to come down from the understandable high of her win. Hope was more interested in getting glitter everywhere than properly constructing a snowman.

“What was that about revenge?” Emma asks archly, more than a few other alcohol-saturated adults groaning at what is blatantly even more obvious flirting. And he hadn’t been lying about the state of her parent’s tree.

More candles line the branches, not a fire hazard when the flames have been enchanted and that’s for the best because there’s just—a copious amount of tinsel on those same branches, and a few ornaments that are obviously hand-made by kids and grandkids and it’s nice to know that even descendants of fairy tale characters use popsicle sticks in their arts and crafts.

Mary Margaret probably has a box of those too.

“This has nothing to do with the snowmen,” Killian promises, quirking his lips when Ruby lands on Marvin Gardens. He owns Marvin Gardens. “Look at that.” “Are you playing with weighted dice, pirate?” Ruby cries. “Because that is—” “—Cheating,” David finishes.

Killian shrugs. His eyes don’t leave Emma. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. You owe me twenty-four dollars, Lady Lucas.”

She throws the bills at him.

“How would I even use the weighted dice I don’t own anymore—” “—Anymore,” Henry repeats, and he’s only got a few bills left in front of him. Killian ignores him. Emma is far too charmed by this.

She got a Monopoly on the green properties, though. And she didn’t cheat to get them, so she’s also in possession of the moral high ground. Gives her free room to be entirely charmed by her husband. Kind of. “To calculate what you’ll land on,” Killian finishes. “That doesn’t even make sense.

Shaking her head, Ruby’s hair nearly flies into her face, threatening the state of the board and several other player’s pieces. All of whom are very loudly offended by that. “I hate you,” she sneers, and she doesn’t get back to Go before she goes bankrupt.

In the end, the moral high ground doesn’t help Emma’s ability to turn profits when Killian gets the Monopoly on that yellow corner and immediately starts building hotels and she nearly snarls when she lands on Atlantic Avenue.

“I think I might have won, Swan.” “Shut up.” “You don’t have to actually give me all your money, I’m more than pleased to simply hear the words from you.” “Shut up,” Emma says, and her mom fell asleep at least an hour earlier. David rolls his eyes. When she leans across the board, knocking over pieces and hotels, and Killian built so many goddamn hotels. He’s smiling when she kisses him.

Nothing overly magical happens, but Emma swears one of the candles flickers in the corner of her eye.

They do get a room. Directly next to the one Hope and Lucy are sharing, but Emma’s finding it harder than she expected to walk away from the tree and she never had a Christmas tree when she was a kid. Lights start to blur the longer she stares at it, floorboards creaking in an unnecessary announcement of the hand that finds her and— “I put an ornament on, you know,” Killian says, staring ahead when Emma turns towards him. “Was worried you’d notice, but I’m actually rather good at—” “—Sneaking?” “Covert movements.”

Scoffing out a laugh, her head falls to his shoulder. With the magnets and the feelings, magic fighting against dread and a slew of other feelings that are now as twisted as any family tree they could create. “Is it wrong to ask you what you wished for? Or should we talk about why you hate Camelot?” “They go together, actually.” “Do they just?” He kisses her hair. More than once, like he’s grounding himself or reminding himself of something that may not happen if they don’t somehow fix all of this, and Emma’s tongue is doing that thing again. Taking up way too much space in her mouth.

She’s not sure what she’d say, anyway.

“Dying makes it rather easy to shuffle a man’s priorities, and—” “—You die?” Emma shouts, but Killian’s shoulder only bumps her cheek and half the candles flicker. “How is that—God, that’s…” More kisses. A few hand squeezes. Her knees shake all the same.

“Doesn’t stick any of the times.” “It happens more than once.”

His cheek shifts her hair when he nods, a picture of only passably believable calm, and that wasn’t a question. “Something of a stubborn lass, though. So you don’t accept it very often, and occasionally that doesn’t work very well, but—” Tears fall down Emma’s cheeks, hot in the way a brand is, or she figures it would be, and she swallows as his thumb brushes over her skin. “You save me. Several times over.”

“Does calling me lass ever end well for you?” “Not as such, no.” Sticking her lower lip out is definitely a misplaced attempt to regain control of the situation because Emma’s all too aware of just how quickly Killian’s gaze will drop, and she’s not disappointed. A little nervous, but she figures that’s to be expected and her voice only kind of shakes when she whispers, “That’s not just a you thing, you know that, right?” “A me thing, what?” “The saving. Being stubborn too, I guess, or holding onto this with both hands, and this is an us thing. I’m...well, maybe I’m not totally there yet, but—” Her lips are chapped. Cracking with more emotion than she’s entirely sure she’s capable of, and Emma swallows once. Her tongue doesn’t do anything else. “Is that what you wished for? The saving?” “Awfully selfish, I know, but I—I think I need that.” “No, it’s not,” she objects. “Might be sweepingly romantic, even.” Eyes trace over her face, like he’s memorizing all of it, all over again, and innocence was a long gone ideal when they made out in the jungle, but this feels entirely different and somehow more important and Emma has to push up on her toes. To press her lips to his, and make sure his arm pulls her flush against his chest, and there’s no music or rainbow, but that might have something to do with her greed and her want and neither one of them pull away.

While a clock chimes down the hall.

“Merry Christmas, love.” She closes her eyes. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

Something taps at their window. Incessantly, until it’s obvious Emma’s not dreaming the sound, and it takes her a few blinks and one grumbling, half-asleep pirate to realize it’s a bird. Without a sense of direction, it seems.

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes, pulling the blankets over her shoulders like that will keep them here and the bird outside and that’s an exercise in futility that lasts less than a full minute. Once the bird realizes he’s at the wrong room.

She counts. Seconds and breaths, trying not to give into the whimper that’s pressed behind her lips, and Killian’s fingers find hers. The floor creaks. Doors swing open, and David’s voice calls for them and Regina, and there are more squeaking hinges and calls to action because—

Mary Margaret knocks before she comes inside, already dressed with a full quiver of arrows strapped to her back. “Camelot’s gone,” she says, which may actually be the last thing Emma expects to hear at whatever time it is. Late, if the lack of sun is any sign. “Disappeared in a wave of...nothing.” “How can a wave be nothing?” Emma asks. “That—” “—It’s the opposite of magic,” Regina finishes, curled around the door with her hair twisted and there’s no fire in her palm. It’s in her eyes, instead. The end of reality turns Emma into something of a poet, apparently. “Get ready, we’ve got to head this off before it gets to the town and,” her gaze drifts towards Killian and his hand and his hook his on the bedside table, “might want to get your sword out of storage, Captain.”

Nodding silently, Killian doesn’t show any other signs of acknowledging his marching orders, but then he’s looking at Emma, a mix of expectant disappointment and unhinged longing and she blinks. Twice. They’re dressed.

And his sword hangs from his hip.

“You alright?” he rasps, which seems like more cheating and entirely unfair and Emma nods too.

“Let’s fix this.”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #but once a year #festive fic a thon 2k20 #things are happening!#they are decidedly emotional!

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slytherinbarnes · 4 years ago

Text

Sub Rosa [42]

xiii. join or die

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x reader

Word Count: 3.0k

Warnings: a lil angst, a lil drugging for safe passage.

Summary: the search for Luna begins, and you and Bellamy share a moment.

a/n: HELLO FRIENDS I AM ALIVE AND I AM BACK! WHICH MEANS SUB ROSA IS BACK TOO! so sorry I missed wednesday’s upload, but ya girl had no power or internet or 4g so there was literally nothing I could do. please read and enjoy number 42! we are nearing the end of s3, can you believe it?! anyways, I love u all you lil moons, and I hope you’re well! the taglist for this series is open! I hope you enjoy, please let me know what you think!!!

previous chapter // season masterlist // series masterlist

Bellamy maneuvers the rover through the woods as fast he dares, adjusting course every now and then according to the map in Octavia’s hands.

This ride is one of the quiet ones, everyone tense with the idea that you might fail to find Luna, and fail to save your people. You turn and glance back at Clarke, who is sitting behind Bellamy, next to Jasper, turning the Flame over and over between her fingers. You can't tell what she’s thinking, but you’re sure it’s about Lexa, her expression sad and worried.

Octavia spends much of the ride looking out of the small window on the back door, making sure Bellamy is following her directions. Bellamy sits wrapped up in quiet intensity, eyes locked only on the road around you. Jasper keeps checking the map and worrying over the distance, a fact that he reminds you of now. “It's been an hour since we passed the airplane wreckage. Seeing as we're using a map without any distances, it could be days before we reach the village.”

Bellamy’s gaze never leaves the road as he offers, “At least we know we're going in the right direction.”

“We're running out of daylight. We should stop in the sun and recharge the battery.”

You glance out the window at the rain that has been falling since the funeral last night, the clouds blocking any light from the sun. You mutter, “What sun?”

Clarke backs you up. “We keep going until it dies.”

Octavia turns away from the back, glancing at Clarke and correcting her. “We keep going until we get to Luna.”

Jasper gazes down at the map again, before looking over at Octavia. “What do you think she's gonna say when we show up asking to put an AI in her head?”

“Lincoln said she helps those that are in trouble. She'll help us too.”

Bellamy abruptly slams on the breaks, trying to avoid a fallen tree in your path, and the rover slides along the wet ground for a second before lurching to a stop. The move jostles all of you inside, and you brace yourself against the door the best you can, trying to prevent your head from slamming into the dashboard of the vehicle.

You all gaze out the windshield at the tree, and Jasper mumbles, “You think she can help us find a better map?”

“We'll backtrack. Find somewhere where the trees aren't so-”

Bellamy is cut off by the sound of the back door opening, and you all turn just in time to see Octavia jump from the back, grabbing her pack and heading into the trees. You glance over at him and sigh, “Guess we're going on foot.”

You all bail out after her, grabbing your things, the rain chilling you to the bone as soon as you step out into it. Octavia takes off running and Clarke takes off behind her, the rest of you struggling to catch up until they abruptly stop and Octavia yells, “You hear that?”

You all freeze in place, listening hard over the sound of the rain, and as soon as you hear it, Clarke turns back to meet your gaze. You both answer, “Water.”

Octavia takes off again with Clarke right behind her, and their excitement reaches you, pushing you into movement. You follow behind them, ignoring Bellamy’s cry at your retreating figures, “Eyes sharp, they could be hostile.”

Octavia reaches the top of the hill, and turns to offer you and Clarke a hand as she yells back to her brother, “They're not hostile. Put the guns down!”

You all follow her as she leads you to a rushing river, the water churning harshly within it. She runs alongside the river, until it takes you to the edge of the forest, the woods opening up on a small shoreline and a large body of water. Octavia stops at the edge of the woods, eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of the village. “Where's the village?”

But there’s nothing there, other than a small circle of stacked rocks, and water that stretches far beyond what your eyes can see. Octavia pulls out Lincoln’s notebook, checking the map, and you all crowd around her to see. She lifts her fingers to a drawing near the lower right hand corner of the notebook, the sketch matching the stacked rocks nearby on the shore. She whispers, “No, it can't be.”

She runs over to the rocks, following the line of the shore, and you all follow, stopping when you reach the center of the circle.

“It isn't a village. It's just a bunch of rocks.”

Clarke whispers, “She's gone.”

Jasper looks between you, confused. “What do we do now?”

None of you say anything, just as unsure as the person next to you. Your eyes fall on Bellamy, but his gaze is locked on something behind you. You turn and look, seeing that Octavia has now wandered to the edge of the shore. She drops to her knees, looks up at the sky, and lets out a long, drawn out cry of frustration. You all watch her, feeling the same way.

Octavia returns back to the group shortly, giving out instructions on what you need for a fire. She sends you and Bellamy out for firewood, which Clarke stacks, and her and Jasper work on starting the actual fire. As you and Bellamy return with two armfuls of wood and set them down beside Clarke, you watch Octavia get a spark on her kindling. She carefully transfers it over to Clarke’s wood pile, and blows on the sparks until they grow into a flame. You look down at her, impressed, and Clarke nods in satisfaction. “Good. Okay, it'll be dark soon. We need to talk about what we're gonna do.”

Octavia is the first to answer. “We wait until first light, then we split up and search the shore in both directions.”

“I agree. Lincoln wouldn't have put this spot on the map unless it was important.” Bellamy reaches down to grab Lincoln’s notebook to look over the map, but as his fingers close around it, Octavia knocks it out of his hand and snaps, “Don't touch that!”

You and Bellamy exchange a look before he kneels beside Octavia, whispering, “Come on, O. How long?”

“I don't know, I can't even look at you. Because every time I do, I see Pike putting that gun to Lincoln's head. I hear the gunshot. I see him fall.”

You feel the heavy weight of grief as the memory flashes through your head, but you quickly shake it away as Bellamy counters, “I didn't kill Lincoln.”

“No, but he is dead because of you!”

Bellamy stands, and you can tell he’s upset, his body immediately tense. You all look away from the feuding siblings, trying to pretend you can't hear every word they’re exchanging. “I came to you, but you didn't take my help. If you had just trusted me I'd-”

Bellamy cuts himself off when Octavia breaks a stick and turns away from him, letting him know that she’s no longer interested in the conversation. He turns and walks off sadly, and you stand to follow him, but you pause in your tracks when the fire flashes green. You turn to look at it, Octavia and Clarke doing the same, before you all turn to look at Jasper. “What did you just do?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs, then lifts a small branch. “I just threw these in the fire.”

You see a look of recognition pass over Octavia’s face before she frantically grabs the notebook, and you ask, “What is it?”

She pulls the notebook open to the map, and pulls out a small plant pressed between the pages. She looks at it for a second, before tossing it into the fire, making it glow green again. You all exchange an excited look and laugh, mostly in shock, as Octavia mutters, “Signal fire. He was trying to tell us that this is how we contact Luna.”

Jasper stands from his spot, “I'll get more.”

You glance over at Bellamy, who is now further down the shoreline, looking out at the water, before looking back to your twin. You nod his way and she nods in return, before jogging off behind Jasper, “I’ll help!”

You trudge along the shoreline towards your boyfriend, your boots sinking into the wet sand slightly, making you stumble at times. He doesn’t look up as you approach, just looks out at the water and the darkening sky above it.

You come to a stop beside him, following his gaze to the rapidly setting sun, aided by the cover of the rain clouds. You stand in silence for a long while, until he whispers, “I've lost her.”

If you there were any more space between you, you wouldn't have heard the words. You turn towards him, already shaking your head. “Give her time, Bellamy. There may be blood on your hands, but it's not Lincoln's.”

He turns to look at you now, and you can see tears glinting in his eyes. “Some of it is.”

“You didn't want that to happen, and you tried to stop it.” You glance back at the fire, seeking out Octavia, who is still throwing branches into the fire, before turning back to him. “Octavia will forgive you eventually. The question is, will you forgive yourself?”

“Forgiveness is hard for us.”

You reach out for him, remembering the night that Dax tried to kill him. “If you need forgiveness to forgive yourself, I’ll give that to you. You’re forgiven, Bellamy, for everything. And if I have to tell you this everyday until you forgive yourself and stop feeling guilty, then I will. Because you’ve made mistakes, but that’s not who you are. We’ve all done terrible things for the people that we love, but those things don't define us.”

He nods, and the tears finally spill over and fall down his cheeks. He surprises you by pulling you into a hug, one of the first instances of affection he's allowed himself since you found him chained up in the cave. As his face is buried into the crook of your neck, he whispers, “Tell me about the stars.”

The request sends a rush of emotion running through you, the words unsaid in the last few weeks, despite the chaos that has been warring in Bellamy’s mind. As you pull away to tell him, you sense movement to your left, in the water, and you turn to glance that way. Bellamy does the same, and both of you share a look of alarm at the sight of people coming out of the water, weapons trained on you. Bellamy reaches for his gun and you reach for your knife, but neither of your hands make it to your weapons because you are both pulled to the ground by unseen forces behind you.

They bind and gag you both, before pulling you to your feet and leading you over to the others. A small group runs ahead into the clearing, lifting their weapons towards Octavia, Clarke, and Jasper, and they all scramble to their feet as Octavia lifts her hands in surrender and yells, “No, no, it's okay.”

You and Bellamy are pushed into the clearing and knocked down to your knees, and Clarke looks over at you in panic. You nod your head, letting her know you're okay, just as one of the Grounders steps closer to Octavia. “Chon yu bilaik? Hakom yu don flag raun?”

Who are you? You’re able to translate his first question, but not his second. Luckily, Octavia’s answer gives you a good idea of what he was asking. “Ai laik Okteivia kom Skaikru en ai gaf gouthru klir.”

I am Octavia of the Sky People, and I seek safe passage. That’s when you realize, he must be asking why you signaled. As soon as the Grounder realizes you’re Skaikru, he switches to English. “Skaikru, bringers of death. Why should we give you safe passage?”

“Lincoln. He sent us.”

Even in death, his name holds power, because the man freezes in place before turning to the two Grounders behind you and Bellamy. “Ban emo gaga we, en lus ‘mo meika au.”

You don’t need to translate the words, because they immediately free your hands and pull you both to your feet. You both pull your gags from your mouths, and Bellamy turns to Octavia, quickly whispering, “What's going on?”

“I don't know.”

The man reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small pouch full of vials. He passes one to each of you, the cloudy yellow liquid swirling within the bottle as Clarke asks, “What is that?”

“Safe passage.”

Jasper gives the man an inquisitive look. “What does it do?”

He says nothing, just passes the bottle to Jasper, who takes it. Octavia uncaps the bottle and immediately pours it down her throat as Bellamy protests, “Octavia, wait!”

“I trust Lincoln.”

The Grounder looks at the rest of you. “If only she drinks, only she goes.”

Jasper glances over at the rest of you. “See you on the other side.”

And then he swallows the contents of his bottle. Clarke comes to stand at your side, all of you looking between each other when Ocatvia suddenly drops to the ground, out cold. Jasper mutters, “Oh crap.” And then he is the next to fall.

You, Bellamy, and Clarke all look between each other and your two fallen friends as the Grounder watches you. “Last chance.”

The warning is enough to put you in gear, and you look between your lover and your twin. “Together?”

You uncap your bottle and they follow suit, both whispering, “Together.”

You all swallow the liquid, and you wince slightly as the bitter liquid washes over your tongue and down your throat. You lower yourself to the ground, tugging the other two down with you, all of you staring at each other, waiting to slip under. Clarke is the first to fall back, her eyelids fluttering before she hits the ground. You turn and look at Bellamy, your vision closing in around you, watching as his eyelids flutter too. You both fall back at the same time, reaching out for each other as the world grows black.

You wake up feeling warm.

Your eyelids feel heavy as you pry them open, and you realize the warmth is from being pressed between Clarke and Bellamy’s sleeping bodies. They wake up at the same time, and you can hear Jasper and Octavia stirring nearby.

Your head feels heavy as you look around, trying to gather your bearings, unable to tell anything other than the fact you’re in some sort of rusty metal box, and sunlight is streaming in through various holes around you. You pull yourself to a sitting position, watching as the others do the same, and Bellamy rasps, “Where the hell are we?”

Octavia reaches back, looking for her weapon. “My sword's gone.”

Your eyes fall on the empty holster on your thigh, and you mutter, “My knife is too.”

Clarke digs in her jacket, pulling out the box for the Flame, sliding the lid back to ensure that it’s still there. You see her sag with relief, so you know it’s still in place, and she tucks it back inside her jacket. Octavia starts to pound on the walls, panicking, and a second later, a door at the end of the box swings open, letting in a flood of bright sunlight.

You all have to lift your hands to shield your eyes, watching as a backlit figure walks inside the space, towards you. As she gets closer and you can get a good look at her, her curly hair and smooth skin, fabric billowing around her from the soft breeze that accompanies her, Octavia simply states, “Luna.”

Luna looks between all of you, before her eyes stop on Octavia. “Where’s Lincoln?”

“Lincoln’s dead.”

Clarke adds, “Lincoln said that you would help us.”

Her head cocks to the side. “Did he?”

“Luna, you're the last of your kind. The last nightblood.”

A faraway look passes over her face. “So Lexa is dead as well.”

“Her spirit has chosen you to become the next Commander. Titus entrusted me with the Flame to give to you.”

Luna answers Clarke slowly, as if she’s speaking to a child. “Then he should have told you that I left my conclave, swearing to never kill again.”

“You don't have to kill. To lead is your birthright, how you lead is your choice.”

She reaches into her jacket, pulling out the container for the Flame. She slides the lid back, revealing it to Luna. “I recognize the sacred symbol, but what is that?”

Clarke pulls the Flame out of its container, holding it in her hand, trying to pass it to Luna. “This is the Flame. It holds the spirits of the Commanders. Of Lexa. Will you take it and become the next Commander?”

“No.” She closes Clarke’s fingers over the Flame, before turning and leaving the box, walking out into the bright sunshine.

You all exchange a worried look before running after her, yelling, “Wait!”

As you step out into the sun, you have to blink against it a few times, allowing your eyes to adjust. When they do, you finally see why the sun is so bright. Because it is reflected off the water around you, the ocean, stretching out on all sides of you. You spin in place, looking out at the horizon, searching for land, but finding nothing other than bright blue waves.

You see the others at your side, doing the same, all of you in awe of your surroundings. You glance back at the box that was holding you prisoner, recognizing it as a symbol from the past: a shipping container. Upon further inspection of the structure all around you, you realize where you are. You turn to the others, voice full of awe, as you tell them, “It’s an oil rig. Luna’s clan lives on an oil rig.”

next chapter

#the 100 #the 100 rewrite #the 100 fanfiction #bellamy blake #bellamy blake x reader

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tcstu · 4 years ago

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April’s Honorable Mentions

This was definitely a hard month to judge. Each of the entries below took a totally different perspective and it is very difficult to hold them to any kind of comparison. I hope you will take the time to read each of these stories and make sure to let the writers know if you liked one. I’m sure they would love to hear from you!

As a reminder, the piece for this month’s contest is an untitled work created by @beewithagun. If you like this picture as much as I do, make sure to check out Beewithagun’s page to see more original artwork!

(The Honorable Mentions below are listed in the order they were received and do not reflect a system of ranking.)

Title: The Fay

Written by: @daalseth

Deep in the forest lived a fay. Older than time, but as young as spring she had known every tree since it was a seed. She was the soul of the forest. When she was sad, the forest mourned, when she was happy the forest was bright, and when she was angry, well you didn’t want to be in the forest when the fay was angry.

The fay came across a fallen tree. It was lying on the ground, but it hadn’t blown down. It was cut off square at the base. Then she saw another. There was a clearing, a whole section of her forest that was dead and many of the fallen were missing. As the fay passed over she was horrified. What could have caused this?

Soon she came upon the camp of men where they were feeding the dying trees into grinders. The fay could hear the trees, still alive scream as they were shredded into wood chips. The fay’s horror grew deeper and she went to the men to plead for them to stop. Beg them to not kill the trees, her brothers and sisters. But as soon as she appeared the men grew angry at her interference. They yelled at her, threw things at her, they even tried to shoot at her.

The fay fled into the depths of the forest. She was heartbroken and began to cry. When she cried the rain began to fall. So deep was her sorrow that the rain came down in torrents and began to flood the blasted land. The fay went back to the camp. She saw that the men had stopped shredding trees. Now they were battling the waters. They had used machines to push earth up to block the water. The fay noticed that some metal barrels had been broken by the machine and were spilling their poison into the water. The water flowed across the clearing into the forest. Wherever the poison flowed, everything died. Fish, mouse, moss, and tree all died in agony.

The fay grew angry. The men could see fire in her eyes, and sparks illuminated her hair. The rain turned to thunder and bolts of lightning rained down upon the camp. They struck the shredder, and the building, and the piles of shredded trees, and the lightning struck the men, it ESPECIALLY struck the men. Electric hands reached into even the deepest hiding place to grab the terrified men.

Soon it was done. The fay came out and passed among the charred remains. She smiled a grim smile. The rain stopped and the sun came out. She was pleased. Though the fay mourned her lost friends, she knew the forest would heal with time.

At last she came to one man still alive. With his last breath he pleaded for help. She looked at him with cold eyes and turned away.

She was the fay of the forest and men were not her concern.

Title: “About Danny’s First Time”

Written by: @evanthenerd83

It was wonderful.

It was also kinda, sorta, a little gross.

There were a few glaring issues. Primarily the question of how Danny would get into the appropriate position, and how she would get into hers.

The swamp wasn’t all that big. It wasn’t even a swamp. The girl sat in a rather small pool.

Said pool was, of course, filled with water. And said water contained muck, yuck, and other things generally considered unpleasantly… sticky. Twigs and fallen leaves floated along the surface—

No. Not floated, exactly. They were stuck on the surface, a skin not unlike jellied jam.

Which meant the girl could only sit on her knees, or lay on her stomach with her head propped up in her arms.

Danny particularly liked that position. Her skin was green, lighter splotches running down her neck and her arms and her spine. Her hair spilled over bare shoulders.

And it also made certain things much more… pronounced. Danny felt his blood rushing down.

The girl tried to explain why she couldn’t leave the pool. Something about an ancient curse and her mother. A woman who, as she so elegantly put it, hated her guts.

“All of my sisters are much more, you know. Beautiful. Human… er? More human? Humanoid?”

Danny didn’t care if her sisters were literal goddesses. They’d never compare to her. He pulled off his shirt, then threw it over his shoulder. The skull-and-crossbones printed on the front disappeared.

The girl blushed. An even darker shade of green filled her cheeks.

“Anyway, you’d be better off going to them. I don’t have, like, much experience with… you know… uh… physical stuff.”

Danny plunged into the pool. The water wasn’t cold. It wasn’t warm, either. It was nothingness.

The girl shifted in place, while Danny took her hand. It was only slightly warmer than the water, which surprised him.

He kissed it. “Neither do I.”

The girl stared, eyes wide. Then, she glanced down, at his bare chest. Then, up to his face. Then, down to his chest, again, and then—

“Oh, what the hell?”

Soggy lips met lips.

She laid back.

He leaned forward.

Calm hands clasped behind his neck.

Awkward hands panicked.

He grabbed the straps of her swamp-weed dress, the not-actually-fabric tearing apart, as easily as paper. Certain things were suddenly freed.

“Oh. Crap. Sorry—”

“Don’t be.”

Legs thin as twigs wrapped around his waist.

She undid the zipper to his jeans, yanking them down, discarding his underwear at the exact same time. Something else was suddenly freed.

“Now, let’s just… a little to the—”

“L-like that?”

“Oh! U-uh. Y-yeah.”

What happened next was kinda, sorta, a little gross.

But also… wonderful.

Title: “Sing Me Out a Storm”

Written by: @winterrose42

She couldn’t remember the last time it had rained this much.

Though she could only imagine the chaos that must be raging above the pond underwater it was as calm and serene as it had ever been. Idly, she swung her feet through the loose sand and reeds, blurring her vision with the silt she kicked up. That was just fine with her, there had never been much to see in her small abode to begin with. Sand and rocks worn smooth and sparkly lined to bottom, with the sides sloping up gently until they met the shore. She could swim from one end to another in about three minutes if she went slowly, and it was just deep enough that casual swimmers wandering in wouldn’t see her unless they knew to look. It was perfect.

Closing her eyes she sighed contently and stood her ears up just a little bit more to catch more of the soft pattering of rain that was still filling up her home at a slow and steady rate. The frogs had long stopped their evening croaking and she knew the few fish that lived here wouldn’t have a care that it was storming above their home. The pond hardly ever changed and when it did it simply meant there was a meal to be had, which was always fine with her.

Perking up she strained her ears as something new invaded her serenity. A low, mournful note drifted down to her slowly, draping itself around her shoulders and weighing them down with the burden it carried. Tears pricked her eyes as she pushed off from where she’d been sitting, intent on seeing what could make such heart jerking noises. Their voice picked up again, another long, drawn out note that was almost more moan than song. Curious and slightly concerned she drifted closer to the hunched figure. The song wrapped around her so slowly she hardly noticed it, pulling her along as gently as a suggestion with little intention beyond calling for aid. Closer and closer she came, reeds fanning out with her hair as she kept as low as she could with her eyes still above water, squinting through the storm to see clearer.

Quickly, so quickly even her natural instincts were too slow, the comforting net turned to one full of malice, her limbs cinched so close she could hardly breathe as she finally caught sight of the face of her entrancement. Cold eyes devoid of the emotion their owner had been singing peered at her viciously from under soaked bangs. The notes heightened in pitch, rocking up to a scream as her own voice stuck fast in her throat. Deep in her bones she knew a siren was not meant to be trapped this way; enchanting one wasn’t something she had ever heard of, but feeling the last tendrils of the song fade away into a cold nothing she knew it didn’t matter.

She couldn’t remember the last time it had rained this much.

Untitled

Written by: Felix @that-dumb-space-kid

We’d been traveling for little over two days when we found her. Cass had insisted on taking breaks over our journey, and, with some persistence, I was able to convince Sage to go along with her idea. The lake she’d found was far enough from the path that no one would notice us but close enough that we wouldn’t get lost. Those were Sage’s requirements, our quest would remain as secret as possible. They said word would travel fast about three teenagers going off to battle an evil force. Of course, they were probably right. It was raining when we finally reached the lake. Sage set about surveying the area, making sure nobody was around, and Cass began digging through a basket for some food, leaving me with nothing to do. I decided to go down to the lake to get some water. I couldn’t hear quite right over the rain, but I could’ve sworn I heard crying as I walked up to the water.

When I reached the shore, I was certain I that’s what I was hearing. I looked out over the lake, and that’s when I saw her. She didn’t look like the monsters Sage warned us about, but she didn’t look human either. I was so entranced by who she was or what she could be that I didn’t hear Cass and Sage approach me. Cass opened her mouth to speak, when the creature in the lake snapped her head to us.

“Who are you?” She sounded almost human. If I hadn’t been looking at her, I would have assumed she was. Sage and Cass immediately started arguing over whether or not we could trust her. Not that that was surprising. They argued over everything. The creature and I held eye contact, unnoticed by the others. Eventually I spoke, silencing my friends’ argument. “I’m Oliver. Who are you?”

“Nimue.” For a second her tears stopped, and it seemed as though a venom overtook her. “They destroyed my village.” The moment passed and she was crying again.

“Who?” Sage glared at Cass as she asked.

“I don’t know. Darkness started pouring down into the water, and I heard voices and then nothing. When I woke up, I was the only survivor.”

“Sound exactly like what we’re after,” Sage muttered. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”

Cass slapped them. “No, it’s not.”

I stepped into the lake and offered my hand to Nimue. “If I’m right, we’re already looking for the thing that destroyed your village. How would you like to join us in stopping it?”

Before Sage could yell at me, Nimue nodded and grabbed my hand. She climbed out of the water and became the fourth member of our quest.

#writing contest #writeblr #writing community #honorable mentions #april contest #april writing contest #ekphrastic fiction contest #ekphrastic fiction

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valiantly-onward · 4 years ago

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The Serpentine War Ch. 5

Chapter 5: Fire And Water

Ray drew a hand across the back of his scruff. He needed a shave, badly. He used to shave every other day. But used to was so long ago. Ray hadn’t realized how many months had flown by until Maya mentioned something about his improvement since the New Year.

“What?” he said, parrying her strike.

Maya lowered her katana. “Your form. It actually looks like a form now.”

In Maya-speak, that meant brilliant, so Ray took it.

Maya frowned in concentration. She was about his age, seventeen or eighteen, and wore a simple red outfit that made Ray feel self-conscious about his own ripped jacket. Black hair hung lightly over her shoulders. She had a proud face - high cheekbones and dark, pretty eyes.

She raised the blade again. “I’ll defend this time.”

So she did. Back and forth they went, so painfully slow that Ray wanted to burst. But it was working - last week, they’d reviewed the moves at full speed and Ray kept up.

They worked themselves to a sweat until the monastery door slid open. They stopped to face Wu as he stepped down into the courtyard.

“Good morning, Master Wu.” Maya bowed.

Ray tried not to wrinkle his nose. Maya always called the guy Master but the word felt alien on Ray’s tongue, especially applied to a man who looked barely older than Ray himself (though Ray suspected he wasn’t). And Wu didn’t seem to mind, title or no.

Nevertheless, Ray nodded his head respectfully. Steam wafted from the teacup in Wu’s hand. In his other hand was the ever-present Nin-Jo, the bamboo weapon that Maya favored. Ray had laughed the first time he saw her training with it. Three seconds later, when the butt of the staff swung against his gut, he promised himself he’d never laugh again.

Wu sipped his tea. “Good morning. Today, we shall train powers.”

A frown flitted across Ray’s face, which Wu ignored. Ray thought of all those months ago, and the promise the Master made.

I am a ninja, Wu had said. But I will not teach you to be a ninja. I will teach you what you need to know to face the Serpentine. You will learn your powers. You will learn strength. More will follow in time.

But Ray had not faced the Serpentine. He had not learned his powers either. They refused to emerge. A dark thought lingered in Ray’s mind. Was it possible for Elemental powers to skip two generations?

Ray’s only consolation was that Maya was struggling too, and she’d been at this much longer than he had. At least she could move water. Fire would not listen to Ray.

Wu left his cup on the patio for a moment and stepped toward them. He set a water bucket down right before Maya - where had that come from? - and said, “Maya, remember what we’ve talked about. Flow. Move with the water, like the water.”

Maya nodded and faced Ray with an unreadable expression. From what Ray could gather, Maya was a private person, which meant that was about as much as Ray could gather. What little else he knew? A) she was pretty, b) she was smart, c) her presence at the monastery was about getting out from under her parents’ thumbs, and d) the two of them were alike like that. But unlike him, she’d been training with Wu for years.

“Ray,” Wu said, and Ray tried not to treat it like a rude interruption of his thoughts. “Your powers are being stubborn. But fire is not stubborn. It leaps out, eager to consume all it touches. Harness that feeling.”

“Let’s just do it.” Ray closed his eyes as he’d watched Maya do.

He tried. For many long moments, he tried. The mountain wind mussed his hair. He could hear the water in Maya’s bucket swishing. The good thing about Maya, he had to admit, was that she never rubbed anything in his face. Not even this.

No. Don’t think about the water. Just fire. Fire.

For a moment, Ray thought he’d found it. It was there, a word on the tip of his tongue, Serpentine sand slipping through fingers. Just - a moment - longer -

Ray growled with frustration and forced his eyes open. Maya was scowling at her bucket. The swishing was just the wind playing with it.

Ray kicked over the bucket.

“Hey!” Maya’s gaze shot up. Water spilled over the stones, darkening them.

“This is taking too much time!” Ray protested. He turned toward Wu for a moment, who looked concerned. “The Serpentine are out there and we’re here - doing this!”

When Wu said nothing, Ray fisted his hand and strode toward the monastery doors. “I’m just no good at this. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Ray,” Maya called.

Ray did not reply.

“Ray!” Maya bellowed.

Ray spun around, meaning to bellow back, but he pulled up short. Just between him and Maya, a small ribbon of red light flickered in the air. No, not light. Flame, disembodied from either candle or torch.

Ray stepped forward, circling the hovering flame but not touching it. “How -”

“You weren’t trying so hard,” Maya said. “Maybe that has something to do with it.”

He fumed. “So don’t try. How am I supposed to focus by not focusing?”

Then Wu stepped forward from his long silence on the patio. His expression hadn’t changed, still drawn and serious, but it seemed lighter somehow. He stopped between them, just shy of the fire.

“I believe we need to switch teachings,” he said finally. “Maya.” He tapped her shoulder with his staff. “You must be fierce. After all, a tsunami is the fiercest force in all nature. Ray.” Wu let his fingers curl around the floating flame. “You must flow. Let go. Fire can flow, and even become something beautiful.”

He gathered the spark above his palm and tossed it like he was tossing a ball. Ray caught it by reflex. It twirled over his fingers once before vanishing.

Ray opened his mouth to ask a question, but suddenly Wu stiffened, like he’d been struck. His gaze fixed on something over Ray’s head. Ray turned, squinting into the cloudy sky. Then he saw it. Up high, something was darkening a piece of the sun.

“Is that -” Maya started.

But Wu was already moving toward the red monastery doors. Ray exchanged a look with Maya, and rushed after him.

The dragon landed in the rocks outside the walls. Ray could tell immediately it was an Elemental dragon akin to the golden one Wu could create. Smoke rolled off its dark wings. It was grey, with cracks like white lava splitting its scales. Green frills sprouted around its neck.

As soon as the rider slipped to the ground, the dragon vanished in a whirl of grey smoke. The woman scrambled over the rocks, urgency in every movement.

“Wu,” the woman said when she reached the stairs. “They’ve done it. They’ve broken the line along the Sea of Sand.”

Wu took her arm as she nearly slipped on the stone stairs. “Their movements?”

“North. No Anacondrai yet, but they will soon follow.”

“They will try to break through the Echo Canyons. If we could hold them there…” Wu trailed off as he noticed Ray and Maya standing in the great doorway. The woman noticed them too. She wore purple robes, all cheekbones and dark hair. She pressed her pink lips together as she considered them alongside Wu. Ray was surprised that she looked about his age. But seeing as twenty-something Wu was actually a hundred years old or older, Ray didn’t trust his eyes much.

“Lei,” Wu said. “These are the young Masters of Water and Fire. Ray, Maya, this is Lei, the Master of Shadow.”

“That’s not an element,” Ray said.

Lei sniffed. “Don’t get haughty because yours is an Element of creation, Master of Fire. Wu, we need to move.”

Ray’s heart began racing. For these many months, Wu had apprised them of the situation. Small battles raged across the Sea of Sand. The Elemental Masters had erected a defensive line from Primeval’s Eye to the southern tip of the Echo Canyons. But there was only so much nine Elemental Masters could do against the armies of the Serpentine. That they had held out this long was incredible. But if the line was broken…

He realized Wu was frowning at him. Ray got the feeling that the guy knew exactly what was going through Ray’s head and he didn’t like it.

“You’re not ready, Ray,” Wu said.

“All due respect, Wu,” Lei interjected. “But it doesn’t matter if they’re ready or not. We need everyone.”

All was silent for a moment. Wu tapped his foot angrily.

“Tell the Elemental Masters to fall back to the Echo Canyons,” he said finally. “I will send these two with you to guard Jamanakai Village. Can your dragon carry them?”

Lei’s face seemed to fall a little but she nodded.

“Good.” Wu surveyed the three of them. “Come. Let’s get our friend some food, and then we’ll talk.”

~~~

The good thing about having nothing was that there was very little to pack. Ray stuffed a sleeping roll in his bag, along with an extra pair of underclothes and robes. The robes were the red ones Wu had given him upon arrival, the robes of a Master of Fire. Using the monastery forge, Ray had crafted an armored chest plate and pauldrons to go with them. But after he’d finished, staring at the dragon head engraved in metal and the red robes laid across his bed, Ray couldn’t bring himself to put them on. He didn’t feel worthy of them, not yet.

Maybe, at Jamanakai, he would.

Ray stepped out of his room. Maya was moving about in her quarters, just down the hall. For the first time, the door was thrown wide open. Ray slipped his bag over his shoulder and strode to the open doorway. Leaning against the frame, he watched Maya sit on her floor, her legs folded beneath her as she closed her bag.

Her room was cleaner than his, even though she had collected more things from her years at the monastery. A few seashells and stones sat neatly on a bedside shelf. Her screen window was open to the red-leafed trees that clung to the mountainside.

“He’s right,” Maya said, without looking up. “We’re not ready.”

“You’re telling me.” Ray knocked his head against the frame and let his eyes wander to the window. He started to say something but nothing came out.

Maya climbed to her feet. “You’re a good warrior, Ray. You’ve learned a lot in such limited time. Even without your powers, you’ll be okay.”

This was the most that Maya had ever said to him in one setting, and the nicest thing he’d heard come out of her mouth. Ray stared at her. “But my powers.”

“There’s something called true potential.” Maya hugged her bag. “Master Wu told me about it. When you reach your true potential, its supposed to help you unlock the full extent of your powers.”

True potential. “When?”

Maya shrugged. “If I knew, I’d tell you. I haven’t found mine yet. That’s why I can’t control water like I should.” She paused, hesitating. “I...procrastinated training all these years. Focused on weapons. Wu let me, but I don’t think he will any longer.”

Ray’s heart fell. If in years of training Maya hadn’t found her true potential, what hope did Ray have? “So I might never reach it.”

“I didn’t say that,” Maya replied.

“Didn’t you?”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Ray’s heart thumped unexpectedly, even as his frustration cooled. They always seemed so ready to argue - or rather, he did, but he wasn’t sure how to stop himself.

Maya looked away, taking her bag by the straps. “See you out there.”

She shoved past him into the hallway. Ray remained for a moment. He released a sound of frustration before pushing himself off the doorframe.

He paused as he passed the forge on the way back out. It was cold most days. Unless you counted Ray, it had been a long time since the monastery had a proper blacksmith. But it was in the forge that Ray felt the most like the proclaimed Master of Fire - surrounded by flames he could manipulate, by heat he was able to withstand when no one else could.

Ray stared at the hearth for a moment. Then he continued on to the courtyard, and Lei, and the war.

@greenygreenland

#ninjago #ninjago fic #serpentine war #ninjago ray #ninjago maya #wu ninjago

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legolaslovely · 5 years ago

Text

Dream of You

A/N: Have some dirrrrrty Kili! But also little fluffy baby Kili because that’s that’s absolutely what he is from the core. Hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Kili x Reader

Word Count: 1,854

Warnings: smutttttt, mutual masturbation, fingering, handjob, the whole shebang but also fluff

Summary: Kili goes to check on his stressed friend and finds her pleasuring herself to the thought of him.

Night had finally fallen and (Y/N) found herself alone for the first time in weeks. The silence was welcomed. For the past month, her duties had been pulling her every which way, stealing her attentions from even her own thoughts. She began before dawn and ended long after the sun set, barely strong enough to fall into her own bed for a few precious hours of sleep before she’d have to rise and begin again.

But not tonight. This night was all hers. She needed this. To unwind, to relax, to release.

She lit the tall candle on the table beside her bed and didn’t bother to close the curtains on the window as she took her time dragging at the laces on the back of her dress. The moon had risen high in the sky, the ever growing crescent sending cool, blue light into her chambers and guiding her way as she undressed. She knew the whole mountain would be asleep by this hour, but she wasn’t afraid of the night.

She closed her eyes and let her knowing feet take her across the room to her bed. With every step, her gentle fingers explored her own cool skin, kneading at her breasts, tickling her sides, and landing on her hip bones before sliding around to her bottom. A sigh blew past her lips as she crawled on her bed, wiggling a little before settling down, lying flat on her back and letting her fingers explore farther.

It didn’t take long for her dream to overcome her, the face she so often saw in her intimate moments clouding her mind and smiling at her behind her eyelids. Soon, her hands became his, the furs under her back morphed into a strong, hairy chest, and her moans were echoed by a low, growling voice. Ecstasy was near.

Though she felt as if the room around her disappeared as she chased her release, her chambers were indeed still in the mountain. And though she thought everyone was long asleep, there was one walking through the corridors that were silent except for her breathless voice.

“Kili.”

He heard her calling him. He knew it was long past the proper hours for a visit, but he needed to check on her. His close friend had been pushed to her limits recently, and he knew she’d been dismissed from her duties for the night. Surely she’d still be awake.

“Kili.”

Did she know he was here? He stood outside her door, listening to see if she’d call him once more or if the empty halls and extinguished torches were playing tricks on his ears. He heard a breathless moan from her that sent his stomach flipping and a sharp heat to his neck. Then again, she said his name.

He didn’t knock. He probably should have. He probably should have left her to her activities and met her the next morning. But he was drawn to her, curious to see what she was doing, wondering why she was saying his name if she was truly… He opened the door.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her heels dug into the bed, sliding down, unable to hold firm in the sinking sands of the furs on the mattress. The wood above her head whined as she tightened her grip around one of the pillars of the large headboard. Her back arched and she whimpered and he knew he should turn around, close the door and leave, dispelling all thoughts and memories of this event.

But what an event this was. She was more stunning than he could have imagined, and Mahal, had he imagined exactly this many times.

“K-Ki, oh.”

That was it. That was all it took for him to shed his layers until he was left in nothing but his trousers and float to the foot of her bed. She was open before him, writhing and shaking, simply unable to reach that perfect spot inside her. So he replaced her fingers with his.

Her eyes flew open wide and she shrunk from him, shame and fear etching lines into her pretty features. “Kili, I- I didn’t-”

He put a knee on the bed and hovered over her, crooking his fingers just right. He hushed her, dragging his lips over her ear. “I know you’re close. Let me help you, hm?” His fingers retreated and sunk back in with little resistance and she let her head fall back on the bed and nodded. “You want me to help?” he asked, waiting for permission before he did anything more.

“Yes, p-please. Please.” She rolled her hips into his still hand and felt his teeth flash in a smirk against her skin. Then, finally, he moved. But his ministrations were teasing. Never hitting the right spot, never moving fast enough. But, oh, it felt marvelous. One of her hands found his steady arm next to her head and she gripped the bulging muscle as her other hand flew to his hair, tangling her fingers in it. He chuckled.

“Better than the bedpost? You like holding onto me instead?” Before she could answer, a twist of his wrist sent her muscles squeezing around his fingers. She gasped and bit her lip hard. “Right there?”

“Y-yes.” She flung a leg over his hips, simultaneously opening herself wider to him and bringing him closer. He growled in her ear and lifted from her neck to watch her face contort in pleasure. A low moan left her when he crooked his fingers again. It went straight to his trousers. “Don’t stop,” she said.

He obeyed, sending an experimental circle of the thumb around her clit. It was rewarded with a moan of his name. “Mahal,” he himself groaned. “Say my name again.”

This time it came as a whisper, a prayer. She barely finished the word before his lips were crashing onto hers, his tongue easily taking charge of the passionate kiss. “You think of me, hm? When you’re finding your pleasure, do you dream it’s me giving it to you?”

She nodded.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Yes. Yes, I think of you, only you.”

He kissed her again, feeling her walls strangle his fingers. His own arousal was throbbing, begging for some sort of friction, just a second of release. He ground his erection on her hip and pounded his fingers into her heat to the knuckles. “Let go for me, (Y/N). Let go.”

She instantly obeyed. Her head slammed against the bed, her fingers flexed against his skin and her leg wrapped tightly around him pulled him ever closer, brought the heat of his arousal closer to her core. He kissed her cheek as she floated back down to him. He held her as she trembled, whispering and telling her how good she was for him, how perfect she felt, how beautiful she looked.

He moved to her side, but continued to hover over her, grinning at her sated smile and brushing her hair from her forehead with his fingertips. “Did you mean it?” he asked her. “Because I dream of you. Every moment of every day, I do. Of being with you, caring for you… loving you.”

His confidence was gone. In its place was the respectful, kind, shy Kili she knew. Her fingers traced the short beard along his jaw. “I meant every word.”

He kissed her, rolling onto her slightly. She enjoyed the weight of him on her body again, especially the weight of his arousal on her thigh. She reached down and cupped him, proud of the noise it brought her from Kili’s throat. He drew away from her, shaking his head.

“No, you don’t have to- I didn’t come in here for that. This was about you.”

“Now, it’s about you too,” she said, unlacing his trousers. Before she pulled down the flap, she looked at him, watching his eyes darken and bore into hers. “Let me help you now?”

“Yes.”

She propped herself up on her elbow and began to move down his body, but he grabbed her, pulling her back to him. “No, I want-I want you next to me. Just use-yes, just your hand, j-just like that.” His forehead glued to hers. He moaned her name as her thumb ran over his slit, spreading the precome down his length with a flick of her wrist.

“Tell me what you think of, Kili,” she said.

She felt his brows glue together. His mind was hazy, he wasn’t understanding. “What?” he asked, thrusting into her hand as her touch became feather light.

“Tell me what you think of when you’re alone. What do you dream of me doing for you?”

He groaned at her words and grew ever harder in her hand. “This. Of you wrapped around me and-and kissing me.”

She did so, sucking on his neck. She wanted to make his dreams a reality as he’d done to hers. “What else?” she asked, her scalding breath fanning over his skin.

He exhaled sharply and a little noise escaped. “I-I dream of you underneath me. Wrapping your sh-shaking legs around me and screaming my name. Like you just did.” His little quip earned him another slide of her thumb over his soft head. “Ah, Mahal, your-your hands, they, Mahal…”

“Feel good?” She asked.

He nodded with a bit lip, sending his hair cascading over his forehead. His hips rolled into her hand and she felt his chest tightened under her fingertips. “Close?”

“Yes.”

“Look at me.”

It took a moment but he forced himself to open his eyes. He nosed against her cheek and then settled again, forehead to forehead. She was a blur before his eyes, but they were open.

“Let go for me, Kili. I want you to,” she said.

Her grip squeezed him perfectly, and he did just that. Her gaze flashed downwards to watch him and it made him grunt and bury his face in her hair. She soothed him through the aftershocks, hands running over his chest, sides and back. Her hand finally disappeared from his sensitive flesh and he looked up just in time to see her lick the last of his come off her fingers. His lips attacked her in retaliation.

Exhausted, his head fell into the pillow next to hers. Her intense expression made him falter and fidget. “I should go-”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, scooting closer and laying her head over his shoulder.

He smiled at that, running his fingers through her hair and pulling her ever closer. “I know I shouldn’t have,” he said, “But I’m glad I came in here tonight.”

She chuckled and kissed his chest. “I am too. What had you out so late in the first place?”

He wriggled. “I was coming to check on you. I know you’ve had a long few weeks, so I-”

Those were the last words that left him before she silenced him with the fondest kiss she could give. And there wasn’t much talking for the rest of the night that they spent tangled up together.

Taglist: @emrfangirl @misslongcep @raindancer2004 @ladybugg1235 @xxbyimm @burningcoffeetimetravel @fizzyxcustard @fire-flv @nerdbirdsworld @dashesofink @teagarages @zulfiya-the-warrior-princess @princessofthefandomrealm

#kili #kili x reader #kili smut #kili fluff #the hobbit #the hobbit fandom #the hobbit fic #the hobbit fanfic #the hobbit fanfiction #lotr #lotr fandom #lotr fanfic #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction

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