#i carry 5k wood in my pockets at all times

[babymorte]

i may or may not have made the biggest offer mistake of my life

[rosanna-writer]

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (20/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~5k

ch. 1 - 10 | ch. 11 - she underestimated just who she was stealing from | ch. 12 - no amount of freedom gets you clean | ch. 13 - stay stay stay | ch. 14 - call it what you want to | ch. 15 - even when you're sleeping, keep your eyes open | ch. 16 - you drew stars around my scars | ch. 17 - do you remember all the city lights on the water? | ch. 18 - and it smells like me | ch. 19 - your mom's ring in your pocket | ch. 20 - she is here to destroy you

Content warning for canon-typical violence and animal death. Some text in this chapter is taken directly from A Court of Mist and Fury.

Read on AO3 or you can find the twentieth chapter below the readmore.

Mud didn't seep through Illyrian leathers. A small mercy, perhaps, but after sitting in it for a few hours, the cold was infinitely more tolerable when I stayed dry. I couldn't move, not without scaring away the ducks that were finally beginning to forget that I was sitting on the edge of the pond.

And I'd been dispatched to find dinner.

We'd fanned out to cover more ground—someone in Windhaven must have tipped the rogue war-bands off, and they'd retreated deeper into the forest. Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel took turns flying circles overhead, looking for signs of movement.

We'd likely be out here several days, too long to carry enough food to last the whole time. Though I knew it was to put some distance between me and an initial confrontation with hotheaded warriors with a hatred for humans, I didn't mind. The work needed to get done anyway.

I still hated hunting, but being out in the woods alone cleared my head. There was a quiet and stillness that was impossible to find in a city, even one as lovely as Velaris. I let my mind wander, and I considered how to best capture the dappled sunlight on the water if I ever painted this view. Filling a full canvas still felt like a long way off, but…perhaps a landscape would be the way to ease back into it. Maybe I'd paint a mountain before I tackled everything that had happened under one.

But I could only think of painting for so long, and the ducks were still flitting about too nervously for my liking. I sat a bit longer, and my mind drifted to other things.

Rhys never told me if he was proposing or not. I hadn't asked again. In truth, I had no idea what I was supposed to do after recovering the ring—return it to him? I couldn't wear it openly, at least not without inviting questions we weren't ready to answer. But I hadn't seen a faerie wear a wedding band or use a surname or even known someone else with a mate.

And if faerie funerals were so different from mortal ones, then I supposed weddings would be, too. Especially when a High Lord was involved. Gods, the only person I'd talked to about the difference between marriage and mating had been Tamlin—there was no reason to believe anything he'd told me was accurate.

I was out of my depth. But the ducks had finally settled, so I did the one thing I was good for and let an arrow fly. It speared a bird through the neck, killing it instantly.

The rest of the flock alighted—I had to move quickly. Half on instinct, I aimed, accounting for their speed and direction as I shot down three more, one right after the other. Every arrow found its mark, and the unlucky ducks dropped to the ground as the rest soared away.

My hips and knees barked in protest as I stood; crouching in the mud for so long had left me stiff. At least nothing had gone numb this time.

I felt better, though, even with the tedious task of retrieving, cleaning, and cooking the game ahead of me. In the Spring Court, I'd gotten comfortable and let my guard down far too easily. I'd never felt safer or more taken care of in my life than I had in these last two weeks with Rhys in Velaris, but…I'd worried, on some level, that I'd gotten soft or lost my skills because of it. Bagging those ducks proved I hadn't.

Being loved didn't make me any less a wolf.

I gathered the birds and made my way to the place we'd agreed to meet up at sunset. Without wax or even a large pot of water, I'd either have to breast them out—which would waste some of the meat—or pluck the feathers one by one to roast them whole. And we needed to get a fire started.

I was still plucking the first bird when Azriel arrived. There was a smear of blood on his leathers, and that told me enough—whatever had happened resulted in no survivors. Wordlessly, he grabbed a carcass, sat down next to me, and began ripping the feathers off, too.

No one had ever done that for me. Not my sisters or my father, not even when I'd asked for help.

Cassian landed not long after that, grim-faced and slightly bloodied. He nodded a greeting, then crouched and began coaxing a fire to life. "We're lucky to have a professional around," he said, indicating the carcasses with a jerk of his head.

"Did I catch enough?" I said.

"More than enough to ensure we don't have to listen to Cassian's stomach growl all night," Azriel said.

Knowing that none of us would go hungry set me at ease. The duck in my hand felt like even more of a tangible contribution, proof that it hadn't been a mistake to bring me to Illyria. I smiled to myself and kept ripping out feathers.

I hadn't heard him winnow in, but I felt the familiar darkness of Rhys's power reaching for me again. I turned to see him walking towards us through the trees. As he got closer, my eyes drifted to a scratch on his cheek. Then all my attention locked onto it.

Hardly a scrape—whoever had done it hadn't even broken the skin, and his magic was already halfway done healing it. My blood boiled anyway. Someone had gotten close enough to get a talon or a weapon on him.

"Who," I said, though the word was more growl than speech.

"They're dead," Rhys said.

I was on my feet without even realizing it, closing the distance between us in long strides. "Good. Did you—"

"Yes. All by my hand."

The scratch had faded completely, but I reached for the place it had been. Rhys caught my wrist and tugged me to him. The momentum made my greeting more collision than kiss. I nearly knocked us both over, but Rhys was solid and steady as his other arm twined around my waist to crush me against him.

We'd only been apart a few hours, but someone had almost drawn blood from my mate; an utterly irrational wave of guilt that I hadn't been there to stop it and relief that he was fine had swept away my good sense. I was already pawing at him with my free hand.

The pointed clearing of a throat cut through the mating-bond-induced madness. Without looking up from the bird he was still plucking, Azriel said, "I'd like to remind everyone that we agreed no sharing bedrolls on this mission."

I didn't have it in me to feel embarrassed. Perhaps I couldn't feel ashamed of anything when Rhys had an arm around me. I interlaced our fingers and pulled him back towards the fire.

We sat down, and Cassian dug a rag out of his pack and tossed it in our direction. I reached up to catch it, but it snagged on one of Rhys's talons.

Cassian grinned. "That's for Feyre. I can tell she's dying to clean you off."

Rhys narrowed his eyes, flicking a finger towards the rag, and it dissolved into mist. "I'm not an invalid," he grumbled. On my other side, Azriel chuckled.

Cassian took over the rest of the cooking after that, and one knowing look we shared across the fire was enough to tell me he'd made do with unseasoned game and campfires plenty of times before. Roasted whole, the duck wasn't half-bad.

Before long, night fell, and we were divvying up shifts to keep watch. I took the first, then had no trouble falling asleep—not in the open air, underneath the stars. The next day was more of the same as we tracked the rogue war-bands deeper into the forest.

On the third day of hunting, I was crouched up a tree when a glint of something bright green tore my attention away from the forest floor. I'd assumed the shape circling above had been a bird, perhaps a hawk or a vulture, and hadn't thought much about it.

But birds didn't sparkle. That was an emerald-colored siphon.

The path the Illyrian was taking brought him closer, but I didn't think he'd spotted me. I froze. He flew closer, almost in range of my bow.

I didn't dare even breathe too loudly. Keen faerie senses were difficult to hide from, and even if I stayed hidden, his looping flight pattern would send him back in the opposite direction and I'd miss an opportunity.

He came closer. And closer. There was no time to run.

I grabbed an ash arrow and took the shot.

The arrow ripped a hole in one of his wings, and the Illyrian plummeted to the ground like a stone in water. I scrambled down from my perch and barreled through the trees. As I ran, I pulled another ash arrow from my quiver—a fall from that height could have been deadly, but if not, an injured Illyrian warrior could still find a way to bury a dagger in my belly.

I heard him moaning in pain before I stepped into the clearing where he'd fallen. He'd landed on his back, torso twisted and his legs bent at unnatural angles. A shattered pelvis at the least, maybe even a snapped spine. Healing magic was the only thing keeping him alive. The siphon on his chest flickered weakly, like a heart struggling to beat.

At the sound of my footsteps, his head turned. His eyes burned with hate as he reached for a knife strapped to his belt. I nocked the ash arrow, aiming directly for his face as I took a step closer. His hand stilled.

"Tell me where the others are hiding," I said. "Don't bother lying. The High Lord is on his way."

"I won't take orders from Rhysand's human whore," he spat.

"The best outcome you can hope for is a mercy kill before he arrives. Give up their locations, and I'll consider it."

For a long moment, he said nothing. My arm began to ache from keeping the bowstring pulled back, and I prayed my fingers wouldn't start shaking. I said nothing either, just tried to emulate Azriel's deadly, stone-faced resolve.

The Illyrian's hand twitched, but his fingers never closed around the hilt of the knife. Instead, through clenched teeth, he recited the litany of names and locations I was after. I believed him—I doubted he was in a state to lie convincingly.

As I listened, I gave one insistent tug on the bond and dropped my shields so Rhys could hear it all, too. The beast that had once rested in my mind became a furious thing growling and snapping its jaws.

The clearing plunged into darkness. I couldn't see where Rhys was, but I felt his power sliding along my skin all the same.

"Is that all?" I said, my voice so cold I hardly recognized it as my own.

The Illyrian whimpered something that might have been "yes." I loosed the arrow; even under the cover of Rhys's darkness, my aim stayed true. The point landed in the Illyrian's eye, buried deep enough in his skull to render him still and silent forever.

Just like Andras.

Even with the threat gone, the darkness didn't clear. I glanced up, and my vision had adjusted enough to make out Rhys's silhouette, his wings flared and hands shaking.

"You should have called me the moment you spotted him," Rhys said, voice ragged.

"I handled it," I said simply.

Rhys growled. At me. And the fact that I was too human to properly bare my teeth and return the favor—rage bubbled under my skin. If he'd been closer, I would have shoved him.

"Then why bring me here?" I hissed. "Just to humor me?"

I felt like such a fool for not having realized it sooner. Killing a few ducks was hardly a real contribution—they might as well have patted me on the head and told the High Lord's little human mate she'd done such a good job. Shame made my cheeks go hot.

"Don't be stupid, Feyre," Rhys snapped.

The darkness rippled and churned around us, like a storm at sea. The tendrils seemed to lap at me, pressing close then retreating, even as they skittered down my spine. Magic thrummed in the air.

I crossed my arms. "I'm not."

"You could have gotten yourself killed. Even Cassian won't run into a fight without backup if it's available. There were three of us who could have gone with you, but for reasons I can't even begin to fathom, you waited until the very last second."

I'd never seen Rhys this…undone. Not even when I'd first gone Under the Mountain. His breathing was ragged, and there was a note of panic in his voice I'd never heard before.

"I…I didn't think to ask. At least not at first. I called for you as soon as I remembered." As ridiculous as it sounded when I said it aloud, it was true. But the habit of doing everything on my own was a difficult one to break.

Rhys sighed, his shoulders slumping as the fight went out of him. The darkness seemed to lift, but before I could be sure, he'd winnowed closer and pulled me against his chest. I couldn't see much other than his wings cocooning me.

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "I love your fearlessness just as much as every other part of you, but please remember that you're not alone anymore. I can't lose you, Feyre."

"I love you too," I said, voice thick. I set my bow down and hugged him back.

Both ends of the bond seemed to settle as we held each other. I savored it—the heat of him against me, the sun shining through his wings, the soft scrape of the scales of his leathers against my cheek.

"You are your own person, and I will not dictate your choices. Ever." Rhys picked a twig out of my hair; it must have gotten lodged in my braid when I'd climbed down from the tree. "If you'd told me what you were doing, I would only have asked you to allow me to come with for my own peace of mind."

I'd never asked why he'd gone alone to that cursed party fifty years ago. Maybe he'd insisted on it; maybe he'd also forgotten to ask for backup, then paid a terrible price. It seemed better not to bring it up.

"You aren't alone either," was all I said.

There was a pulse of something down the bond that I couldn't quite identify, then he stepped back, tucking his wings in tight. His expression was unreadable—a wall had gone back up.

"I've passed all the information on to Azriel, and his shadows are scouting out the locations we were given. Will you be able to keep going? It's alright if you're rattled—you did just kill someone."

There was nothing but a howling void where my guilt should have been. Perhaps I'd lost that piece of myself when I'd killed Andras. If anything, I just felt…numb. "He deserved it."

"I don't disagree."

Rhys let me into his mind as he conferred with the others. I relaxed when Azriel's shadows confirmed that the information I'd gathered was correct—at the very least, I'd saved us time trekking through the woods. I wasn't useless, hadn't been brought here for nothing after all.

Once the first war-band had been hauled back to Windhaven, Rhys wanted me to stay there. I didn't mind. Another set of eyes and ears on the camp was prudent, and I was still technically his emissary.

It was barely even noon when we returned. On Rhys's orders, Devlon's men had set up a line of wooden poles at the center of the camp, the area used for public gatherings. A small crowd had already begun to form. Among them, I spotted Devlon and the warriors who'd been flanking him earlier.

Cassian had wanted those poles burned. And after this, they would be. For the last fifty years, females had been tied to them when their wings had been clipped. The sight of them alone turned my stomach.

Rhys loosened his grip on his power, and from my place next to him, I could feel the magic radiating off him like heat. A gust of night-kissed wind had every member of the rebel war-band silent and tied to the posts.

"There is no tolerance for treason in the Night Court," Rhys said. His voice cut like a knife through the murmuring of the crowd. Pure command—the voice of the High Lord of the Night Court. "And to bow before an invading general who would butcher and enslave humans is particularly heinous. It spits on the graves of the soldiers who died for the mortals' freedom during the War. I'll leave your fate up to the human in our midst, Feyre Cursebreaker."

Every single set of eyes slid to me. The attention had my heart hammering in my chest, but I forced myself to mimic the small, cold smile I'd seen on Amren's face from time to time. When I'd yanked the ash arrow out of the dead warrior's eye, I hadn't bothered to clean it off, just returned it to my quiver.

The gore peeking over my shoulder was message enough.

"I'll make a final decision when the rest are captured. Flaying their skin from their bones seems merciful, but perhaps there's some creature in the Middle that might enjoy hunting them for sport," I said, making myself sound bored and aloof.

The spark of Rhys's approval down the bond bolstered my confidence for what I'd planned to do next. I stepped closer to one of the bound Illyrians and circled my hand around the thin, delicate bone at the edge of his wing, then snapped it in two.

I'd know that cracking sound anywhere. The air reeked of Wyrm shit again, mud clung to my skin, and the slithering behind me was getting closer and closer.

I was running, and—

It's over, Feyre. We got out.

Rhys's voice in my head jolted me out of the memory. I gripped one of his talons and pulled myself back to the present.

I'd survived. And no matter how much of a monster it made me, I'd ensure that no one, not even the most powerful faerie, would hurt me or anyone I loved. Not again.

Before Rhys could fuss, I was breaking the bones in the next Illyrian's wings. I gritted my teeth and ignored their cries of pain until I'd rendered every single one of them incapable of flight.

We locked eyes when it was done, but Rhys's beautiful face was an impenetrable mask I still hadn't learned to see past. "I'll be waiting here for you to bring me the rest," I said. No title or honorific—I'd let them all wonder why he hadn't misted me for speaking to him like that.

Rhys nodded once. He said nothing, but there was a question in the hesitant brush against my shields.

I'm fine. Really. Just bring me the rest so we can finish this quickly.

For a moment, the bond thrummed with wicked delight. Try not to burn down Windhaven while I'm gone.

He took to the sky. Without carrying a passenger, the movement was all perfect, lethal grace, and sometimes I wondered how I could possibly forget that Rhys was anything but an absurdly beautiful predator. I watched until he was out of sight, marveling that he was mine.

The crowd dispersed, and for a moment, I just stood there, unsure what to do with myself. Perhaps I'd spend the rest of the day being ignored by Illyrians. I wouldn't blame them for that—as faeries went about their business, I caught a few wary glances in my direction.

But I supposed I should probably clean off the bloodied arrows in my quiver. And my hands were badly in need of washing.

I made my way to the water pump at the center of the camp. An Illyrian female—around my age, if I had to guess, though it was impossible to be sure with immortals—had just started using using it. Large, brutal scars ran down both of her wings.

"I'll be a while. You can go first," she said, sliding her empty bucket out of the way with her foot. Now that I was closer, I spotted a bruise darkening her cheek, too.

"There's no need. I wouldn't want to waste your time if there are chores to be done," I said.

"You'd be doing me a favor—I'll take any excuse to be out of the house for a little while longer."

I understood—there had been countless days I'd dragged my feet because I hadn't wanted to face Nesta's barbed insults, my father's sad eyes, or Elain's clueless whining. And none of them had even raised a hand to me.

I gave the female a nod, pulled the bloody arrow from my quiver, and rinsed it off under the stream. Silence fell. The female said nothing else, and perhaps it would have been best to let the quiet stay unbroken. The chances were high a trip to gather water was a rare respite for her.

But I could feel her assessing gaze, and I struggled not to squirm under it. "Illyria is very beautiful," I blurted out awkwardly.

"It's a shithole."

"My shithole across the Wall didn't have mountains. It's prettier here, at least," I shook the excess water off the newly-clean arrow and slid it back into the quiver.

She snorted, lips tugging upward at the corners. "I'm Emerie."

"Feyre."

"I know. You're the Cursebreaker." Not awed, just matter-of-fact, which was a bit of a relief.

I scrubbed away the last of the dirt, dried off as best I could, then offered a hand to shake. Emerie took it, and I wasn't surprised that her grip was like iron, not with that straight-backed posture and sharp stare of hers.

I stayed while Emerie filled up her bucket, just talking a bit about Windhaven. She didn't offer up much about herself, and I didn't pry. But by the time she returned home, I'd learned what spices were in the Illyrian dish Cassian had brought to the townhouse the day I'd first trained with Rhys. Emerie had barked a laugh when I told her not to bother with advice on preparing it because I was an utterly hopeless cook.

Maybe I'd made a friend. But I'd also thought Lucien was a friend and he'd turned out to be assisting my kidnapper—I wasn't sure I trusted my judgement on that front anymore.

By the end of the day, Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel, had rounded up the rest of the rogue war-bands, and I'd broken the wings of the survivors. And as much as I wanted to go straight to the Weaver's cottage, I knew it was foolish to go so close to dark. Cassian planned to stay in Illyria, and Devlon was loyal enough not to release the prisoners under his nose in the dead of night or allow anyone else to manage it.

Rhys and I returned to the townhouse in need of a bath, so we took one together. We were both utterly exhausted—his eyes roved over me as I shucked off my leathers, but for once, he was silent.

I'd still snatched the long-handled sponge out of his hands and washed his wings for him. Even drained of energy, I wasn't about to forgo an opportunity to get my hands all over them. I took my time, appreciating the way the powerful muscles in his back rippled with every brush of my fingertips.

And once we were clean, he laid me out on his bed and licked until he'd wrung so much pleasure from me that I drifted into an easy sleep in his arms.

It had been exactly what we both needed. I could guess how he was feeling about a trip to Illyria with still-healing wings, and my mind was unable to keep replaying the sound of bones cracking when Rhys's tongue was sliding inside me.

My dreams were still horrifying—a bone-spear lancing through Rhys's eye, my hands covered in his blood—but I slept through the night and kept my dinner down. I woke alone in Rhys's bed that morning, which meant he'd probably slipped out once I'd drifted off. I suspected he'd had nightmares of his own, too.

I was pulling the belt of knives from my dresser when he winnowed behind me. "Allow me," he purred, right into my ear.

"I can do it myself," I said. After I'd mentioned chucking that knife at Tamlin, Azriel had showed me how to strap it on as part of my training to go Under the Mountain.

"I'm aware. That doesn't mean you have to."

He had a point, so I let him take it from me. I turned, and for a moment, we were chest-to-chest. He inhaled, drinking in my scent, and I lifted a hand to touch him.

But he dropped to his knees before I could. Flashing me a roguish grin, he spread open the web of leather and steel. My toes curled in my boots.

"Remind me of what you've been briefed on," he said as I stepped through the loops.

I did my best to ignore the steady brush of his hands as he set about adjusting and buckling and tightening things. "Knives only—no sword or bow or arrows. Don't touch anything that doesn't belong to me. Take my time to think about loopholes before agreeing on a bargain. Call for help if I need it. And stay alive before everything else," I recited.

"Precisely." He braced those strong, capable hands on my thighs and looked up at me. "You are more valuable than any treasure the Weaver could ever posses. If you need to leave the ring behind to come home to me, then that's what you do."

"I won't let it come to that."

Rhys got to his feet and kissed my cheek. "I believe you."

He winnowed us into a wood that was older, more aware, than any place I’d been.

The gnarled beech trees were tightly woven together, splattered and draped so thoroughly with moss and lichen that it was nearly impossible to see the bark beneath. The trees groaned—though there was no breeze to shift them. No, the air here was tight and stale.

So this was the Middle.

I followed Rhys through the trees, and the only sound was our footsteps. No birdsong or the snapping of twigs, nothing I was used to hearing in a forest. Just unnatural, ancient stillness.

We stopped before a clearing. A small, whitewashed cottage with a thatched roof and half-crumbling chimney sat in the center. Ordinary—almost mortal. There was even a well, its bucket perched on the stone lip, and a wood pile beneath one of the round windows of the cottage. No sound or light within—not even smoke puffed from the chimney.

I could hear faint, pretty humming coming from the cottage. Soothing, almost mesmerizing—it would have set me at ease if I didn't already know it was coming from the monster within. The sort of thing that might lure quarry into a snare.

But I was not prey. No—I was a huntress. A wolf. It took much more than that to fool me.

I started down the mossy earth path that paved the way to the door and didn't look back once. When I reached the threshold, I could hear her voice through the door. The Weaver's voice was sweet, clear, and beautiful.

“There were two sisters, they went playing, To see their father’s ships come sailing… And when they came unto the sea-brim The elder did push the younger in.”

I'd heard the song before, from humans. It was a favorite of the traveling musicians who sometimes passed through our village. And perhaps…she knew that, and the familiarity was intended to lull me, too.

I stayed perfectly still on the threshold for a long moment, the same freeze-watch-listen pattern I fell into as I hunted in the woods. Along with her voice, I could only hear the clatter of some device. So she was alone, then.

“Sometimes she sank, and sometimes she swam, Til her corpse came to the miller’s dam.”

I raised a hand to knock, but the door swung open on silent hinges, as if she'd rolled out a welcome mat just for me. I didn't move, just peered inside. My chest went tight, and I forced myself to keep my breathing even.

A large main room, with a small, shut door in the back. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, crammed with bric-a-brac: books, shells, dolls, herbs, pottery, shoes, crystals, more books, jewels…From the ceiling and wood rafters hung all manner of chains, dead birds, dresses, ribbons, gnarled bits of wood, strands of pearls…

A junk shop—of some immortal hoarder.

I waited to feel power calling out to me, but…nothing happened. Perhaps, as part of the bargain, I'd need to ask her to hand the ring to me directly. If she even remembered where it was.

The Weaver of the Wood herself sat with her back to me. In the gloom of the cottage, I could just make out the ancient, cracked spinning wheel I'd heard along with her singing. In the cottage, it was far too dim to make out the thin white thread she was spinning. Was she blind, like the Wyrm….or could she see in the dark?

My eyes drifted to the soft fiber she was feeding into the wheel. It looked like wool, but some deep-seated instinct in the back of my brain told me it was not. The question wasn't what she was spinning, but who.

The shelf above her head was filled with cones upon cones of thread, and large bolts of woven fabric filled up the space next to her. Mother above, she must have made it from entire cities, whole armies or even nations. A handful of rebel Illyrians suddenly seemed like a pitiful offering.

But I still, I had to try. And if there really were some power for me to detect, perhaps I needed to be a bit closer. Out here, nothing was pulling me towards one object in particular.

As silently as I could, I took a step into the cottage. I froze, waited, breathed. Nothing. I took another, and then the door slammed shut.

The Weaver turned her face toward me.

Above her young, supple body, beneath her black, beautiful hair, her skin was gray—wrinkled and sagging and dry. And where eyes should have gleamed instead lay rotting black pits. Her lips had withered to nothing but deep, dark lines around a hole full of jagged stumps of teeth—like she had gnawed on too many bones.

Her nose���perhaps once pert and pretty, now half-caved in—flared as she sniffed in my direction. "Well met, High Lady."

[alleyskywalker]

Meme

Tagged by @selkiewife - thank you so much, it’s so sweet of you to tag me!!

Rules: It’s time to love yourself. Choose your 5 favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world. Tag as many writers/artists/etc. you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

For Whatever It's Worth (Theon/Robb, 5k)  

After receiving news of his father's execution, Robb is a mess. Theon does his best to comfort him.

Prelude  (Theon/Robb; 450)

Robb is anxious before battle. Theon is adjusting to the recent changes in Robb. (Was supposed be set the night before the Whispering Wood but then I screwed up the timeline lol. But honestly, this is probably the fic this year that does the best with my “artsy” style.)

Carry Me Home  (Theon-centric, Theon&Robb gen, 13.5k)

Theon has been plotting and daydreaming about his escape from Winterfell and return home for nearly a year. But when he finally gets the perfect opportunity to make a run for it, a chance meeting in the wolfswood, and his developing affection for Robb, complicate matters and threaten to upend all his careful plans.

When You Know (You Love Him)  (Benvolio/Mercutio/Romeo; 12.5k)

Or how three become one, in snapshots. (Based on the Toho production of the Romeo et Juliette musical. Not an instinctive fave like the above three fics, but I do like how the worldbuilding came out and I was def trying something new here wrt the setting.)

Going to also promote this angsty Throbb gifset. Which no one reblogged, understandably since the text is in Russian. So.....I’m gonna translate here :D

Overlays: Angel eyes / but a fist in your pocket / a [crash] warning sign at your back / tears / into letters / and letters into poppies*

Caption: And there’s just no way / everything was wrong with us / even though I loved you, fool / but the battle is over - here’s my white flag

*for some perspective/context, the poppy has a symbolic relation to sleep and death in Slavic mythology

Tagging: @team-mom-wannabe @mildredmost @seeker-in-the-shade @vera-dauriac or anyone else who wants to!

[sabraeal]

All That Remains, Chapter 7: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 4]

[Read on AO3]

Written in honor of @claudeng80​′s birthday! I’m only a week and change late this time, but everyone knows what they’re getting into when they request this fic for gifts-- aka, me dithering for weeks on if a chapter needs to be cut and where it inevitably needs to happen. But here is an almost 5K labor of love...and a little bit of hope... :3c

It would easy to speak of good and evil, would it not? To condemn a sorceress for her conjuring, to pity a girl and her deception. That is the way such tales are crafted: for simplicity, moral lines drawn in the sand.

But life does not fit so easily into the pages made to contain it. A line of prose may distill it to its essence, but a word spoken, an act done by a living creature-- these contain multitudes.

“Well.” Lady Mihoko fixes a shrewd glance over the rim of her teacup, pinning Shirayuki to her chair. Bombazine may creak with her every breath, but when Mihoko sets her demitasse upon its saucer, it is silent. “You are much improved.

The words alone would make a compliment, but with the way her ladyship threads them through her teeth, it is an accusation. Her eyes narrow even now, a proctor determined to catch her pupil filching answers from across the aisle.

Still, it’s the kindest words Mihoko has ever managed to spare, and Shirayuki seizes them with both hands. “Thank you, Lady Mihoko.”

All her ladyship’s fine graces do not restrain her from a humorless grunt. “Do not think it so fine a feat. You could hardly have gotten much worse.” With another contemplative sip, she adds, “But your progress is at least...heartening. You might not be entirely hopeless.”

Polite, tea-appropriate smile firmly in place, Shirayuki casts her eyes down at her plate. How fortunate she is to be able to experience such a fine example of being damned by faint praise.

He mouth does not twitch; by now, she knows better than to allow any of her facial muscles free reign in the presence of the lady-- but it does waver. It was not her own voice lilting those words.

A toe nudges her ankle; the consort’s countenance is carefully composed of bland inquiry across from her.

“You are too kind,” Shirayuki manages, smile polished back to its original brilliance.

“I am.” She settles back in her chair, spine straight as a rod, conveying that her enjoyment of the meal now resides firmly in the past. “You are lucky indeed that Her Majesty deigned to take a girl like you under her wing. How fitting it is that my best student is responsible for righting my worst.”

“It is only because I had such a good tutor that I could even attempt to teach.” The consort sets her own cup onto its saucer, mouth rounded in a pleasant curve. Shirayuki’s never mastered the art of it, to smile to brightly with so little teeth or crinkling around the eyes, but on Haki the effect seems natural, right. “But I must say that Lady Shirayuki is a pleasure as a student. A quick mind and a dedicated learner.”

“What she lack in aptitude she certainly makes up with vigor,” Mihoko allows grudgingly. “In my day, that would not be near enough to make a lady.”

It would be easy to condemn the sorceress, would it not? To raise the roses from their bed and cast the bright light of truth upon them, to drag her into the village square and expose her as a deceiver, a most vile villainess to lead this stray girl astray. We would stretch our hands through the pages if we could but shake our girl awake, if we could put our hands around the throat of the conjuress and see she never bent another illusion--

But that would miss the point entirely. You were told, so long ago now, that life does not fit into the narrow confines fiction demands. Surely you have not forgot?

There is a reason for every action. Unfortunately.

“That is true enough.”

The consort speaks in honeyed tones, mouth composed in a thoughtful pout. But that, Shirayuki knows, is merely an inoffensive mask she wears, one that may be discarded at a moment’s notice. It is always her eyes betray her, burning with an intelligence she can never fully quench.

“But was that not also the era of the former Viscount Yuris? Or the Counts of Sui and Lido?” It should be an accusation, a condemnation, but from the consort’s mouth, it is little more than a polite conversation, small talk between two peers. “So many traitors in so few years.”

Shirayuki may have gained some dominion over her face, but not near enough to keep from glancing at Lady Mihoko.

“That is the nature of the peerage,” her ladyship says after a long moment, mouth pursed in a moue of discomfort. “There are always some that choose to overreach their bounds. It is up to every lord to manage his lands in his own way. Though I know Your Majesties have...newer ideas about such things.”

“Better ideas,” the consort reminds her, both silk and steel entwined. “Under the late king, the court grew indolent, as did the crown. If he had not passed when he did, Clarines might have become another Tanbarun.”

Shirayuki’s teeth grit down, stemming the tide of protest that crashes against  them. She had fled her home with little pride or trust in its royals, and it’s not as if she cares for the institution, but-- Raj was no longer the embarrassment he’d once been. It’d be a long time before he’d earn as lofty a reputation as Izana or Zen, but, well, he was trying. And as long as his father remained on the throne, that was enough.

She doubts either of them would appreciate the opinion. It’s not as if any of this is about Tanbarun after all.

Mihoko clucks her tongue. “I would not venture to say we had fallen so far as that.”

“No,” Haki agrees, so pleasant. “But I would.”

A silver spoon clatters to a dish, Mihoko’s aged fingers trembling above it. “That would be your prerogative, Your Majesty.”

“It is my prerogative to see to the quality of my husband’s court, my lady. While once this may have referred to the breeding of its members, I believe we have come beyond that. After all, Lord Zakura was hardly born with silver in hand, or Lord Sui, or Countess Yuris.” The consort hums, delicately setting aside her demitasse. “There would be worse things than to see one of the finest minds of our time raised to a position which suited it.”

Her ladyship does not smile-- a terrible business, nowadays, she would cluck, spoon chiming against the rim of her cup, men should know that every smile returns tenfold in ten years’ time-- but there is a softening in her face. Not of agreement, but allowance.

“We shall see,” she sniffs, waving away another tray of sandwiches. “In time. But none of that removes what a wonders you have wrought with this one, and in less than a month’s time.”

Haki dips her head, the barest bow. “Imagine what a lifetime might bring.”

“Yes.” Mihoko narrows her eyes above the rim of her cup. “Quite unforeseeable.”

What does it mean to conjure, to summon something from nothingness, to breathe life where there once was none? It is no mere illusion; not smoke and mirrors and lies shined until gleaming. Not just a lady’s magic, no substance nor thought, made of wishes and air alone.

No, it is creation; the act of sinking one’s hands into clay and forming something utterly unlike its origin, to take one’s will and give it form. It is any surprise that it is the provenance of women?

But that is the thing, is it not? For every creation, there must be a will, must be a spark. For man to be made flesh, there must first be clay. For illusion to be made real, there first must be a wish.

“One, two-- a sprightly pace if it pleases you, my lady! Lift your feet--”

Sweat spirals down her spine, but Shirayuki picks her heels up of the floor, her sashay the barest whisper of slipper sliding across wood. Far from the ethereal wood nymphs cavorting across the palace’s walls, but it carries her across the floor with far more grace than she’s ever managed before. Like flying, provided it was a hen across the chicken yard.

Shirayuki careens more than glides to the next sequence-- the turn, three, four, return, one, two-- and her heart lodges firmly in the vicinity of her throat. She’s never managed this one before, not without stomping on Arundo’s toes or gravity ruthlessly asserting it dominion over her, dragging her to the earth where she belonged, but--

Haki’s hand squeezes tight around hers before lightening into a lift, pulling right over her head. She curls under it, up-up-down, before swinging back, far less measured, but a thousand times more triumphant.

So many of these story children start with nothing-- unloved and unmissed, abandoned by their parents, scorned by those meant to replace them. But this girl--

This girl was loved. She did not have the mother and father that so many other had, one taken by fate and the other duty; but her grandparents tended her in their place. While other little girls were scrubbing floors, or chopping wood, or being chased into the forest with only the bread in their pockets, she was adored; a treasure on her home’s hearth.

And then, in a breath, it was gone. No time for tears, for contemplation. No time for grief.

She does what all bold little girls do: she moves forward, she adapts. All those fears and grief she locks away; a little drawer inside her mind that only opens in the dead of night, when sleep won’t come to her. How worn those memories are by now, frayed about the edges, folded and thin from neglect.

Strange how it is always children who bear the heaviest burdens. Stranger still that they can grow to used to them, that they can bear them even unto adulthood and hardly realizing they are carrying them at all.

That is, of course, until they are lifted.

“You did it!” Haki catches her arms, stopping Shirayuki’s body from crashing into hers, a smile stretched wide across her face. “With not a step missed.”

“I did,” she bursts breathlessly, nearly sagging in relief. “I did!”

A clap cracks in the cavernous room, but it is only Arundo, his own mouth parted in delight. “Brava, my lady! I am most impressed.”

“As well you should be!” The consort steps back, letting her stand on her own two feet. “There are plenty young ladies I have seen on a dance floor that have not done half so well as Lady Shirayuki.”

Even flushed with victory, Shirayuki knows that for an exaggeration; a thick bit of flattery to bolster her confidence. But it hardly matters, not when she traveled the whole floor without a single misstep.

“I truly despaired of ever teaching Lady Shirayuki much more than swaying in place.” Arundo glances at her partner shyly, color high in his cheeks. “I see it merely took a deft lead.”

“Ah, Master Arundo, it takes a woman to understand how difficult a lady’s part may be.” Haki huffs out a laugh that is far less dainty than one she uses in front of courtiers, sweeping long strands of gold from the frame of her face. “If I knew which place to help, it is only because I remember where I most needed it. As my dancing instructor used to say, we all start at the same place.”

���Still,” Arundo insists, “for you to be able to dance the man and the woman’s part-- a most impressive feat!”

“Not at all!” Haki loops the last of her wisps around her ears, and just like that, the consort’s smiling mask slips into place. “This is but a simple waltz. You yourself must know a hundred or more, and dance both parts with skill besides.”

The dance master waggles a finger at her, playful. “Ah, but in the realm of grace and elegance, Your Majesty has far outstripped my paltry skill.”

With the high drama for which the Viandese were known, Arundo swept into a deep bow, bending near in half. Over his back, Haki glanced at her wide-eyed, mouth twitching, though any proof of it was gone before he rose.

“Please, Master Arundo, I am merely well-practiced.” The consort’s mouth tilts, a wry smile playing at her lips. “Izana and I often switch when we...”

Haki’s eyes pulse wide, her cheeks blossoming with a delicate pink. “In any case, I would not have done so well had Lady Shirayuki not already been through the best instruction.”

You see, Miss? Obi’s laugh is bright in her ears, as if he were only right beside her. Anyone can do it. And if you stumble, only stand on my feet and I’ll guide us both through it--

An arm slips through hers, the consort leaning close. “Won’t my brother be surprised to see such progress?”

Shirayuki cannot fathom why Makiri might care about her dancing. He’s seen it before, both of them often pressed into the same endless dinner parties at Lilias, the sort that always seemed to turn into dancing and awkward moonlight professions. He’d been light on his feet when any of the girls dared to approach, not a born dancer like Haki, but a competent one; when she’d clomped past him, dragged by regretful partners, he’d only raised an eyebrow-- an improvement upon the usual sneers she garnered from fellow revelers. He’d never been forced onto her dance card, but still--

Haki slips her a wink, and oh, it’s not her brother she means, but Zen.

You’re supposed to be learning to dance with him, after all. Even in memory, Obi’s smile cuts like a knife’s edge. No wife dances with any man besides her husband.

Shirayuki’s palms sting where her nails cut crescent into them. This room, it’s-- it’s far, far too small. Too tight. So confining, little more than a cage--

“Shall we break for a moment?” Arundo’s jovial lilt crashes through her thoughts like a bird to a window. “And then we shall start the next!”

“A perfect idea, Master Arundo.” Haki smiles down at her, so bright that the shadows of her thoughts burn away. “I dare say my sister has earned a break.”

It was always just enough for this little girl: a grandfather, a grandmother, a loving home and hearth. There had been no dreams of another there, not even when she lost them, not even when she pruned her roses and found another set of hands to take hers. Not even when those hands became a home in themselves.

But with a single word, uttered so casually, a drawer springs open.

Sister. The word echoes through Shirayuki’s head as they walk. There’s an itch of irritation beneath her skin, a pebble in her metaphorical shoe, but still--

Sister. She’s damp, not gently dewed like Haki, so drenched in sweat that her dress clings to her. Fatigued too, every muscle aching, including a few that hadn’t been in her textbooks. She has every reason to want to bury herself in her covers, to try to find the reason her skin feels too tight.

But that’s not what her attention’s caught on, not in the slightest.

“I’m not your sister,” she says, wishing she hadn’t at all. It would be so easy for it to be taken away, for that soft glow in her chest to be snuffed out.

“No,” Haki agrees, looping her arm through hers as if it belongs there, as if she belongs. “But you will be.”

In the morning the girl rose, the cottage empty save for the scent of honeysuckle and forsythia. Her small feet padded across the floor, right to the window latched tight against the night. She pushed up to tip-toe, fingers flicking against metal, and--

And her first sight was a garden, piled high with blooms; a paradise that belonged on a canvas in oils, not at her fingertips.

Do you see? the sorceress asks, rising from where she tends her beds. I awake to this glory every morning. You could as well, if you wanted.

I can’t, the girl says, certain.

The sorceress blinks. And why not?

I... The girl stares out over all this beauty, its scent surrounding her. I do not remember.

Ah, well then. The sorceress smiles, the way she always thought her mother would, had she known her. Then stay a while, and perhaps we will help you remember together.

“May I...” Shirayuki hesitates, biting her lip as they take another winding curve through the halls. The longer she stays within the palace, the more she’s certain: she could live a lifetime here and never knows all the twists and turns it takes. “My I ask you a question?”

The consort peers down at her, both eyebrows lifted in gentle question. “You may.”

“How do you do this all day?” Shirayuki restrains herself from sagging in her stays, whalebone the spine that keeps her upright. “It’s hardly evening and if I hold my shoulder back a moment longer, I think I’ll...”

Collapse, she means to say, but it lingers at the tip of her tongue, too sweet, too untrue. Scream is close, rend this dress to pieces closer still, but closest--

Her mind snaps tight around the thought, a steel trap with a wolf’s paw between its teeth. From the murmurings she’s heard since she first came to Clarines, Wistal has seen enough madness for a lifetime.

“Ah, you see, the secret is--” Haki leans in, looping her arm through hers-- “I don’t.”

Shirayuki blinks.

“You are still learning,” the consort continues, setting herself upright, setting their arms into the proper form ladies strolling. “And thus, you must memorize protocol every day, eat your meals under supervision, and practice the mazurka. I, however, have mastered all this, and thus, I cannot remember the last time I waltzed outside a ball.”

“But the etiquette--” the poise, the presence, the elocution-- “surely..?”

“Well, of course.” She shrugs, jostling their elbows. “But those lessons were a part of my childhood, much like how you probably learned to cook and clean and pick herbs instead of poison. It all becomes second nature to you, in time.”

Shirayuki doesn’t have the heart to tell her how easy it was to mistake mushrooms, but her point-- well, it’s a good one. “I’m not sure that will ever happen for me.”

“Perhaps not,” the consort allows mildly. “Certainly they will never seem as natural to you as they might to a lady born to manors and castles. And had you continued to try to learn manners from a book, than you would have had no hope at all. But--” Haki pulls her closer to her side, mouth curled with satisfaction-- “you are not alone, you have me.”

Her cheeks flush with heat; the very same as the flame that warms her chest. “Do I?”

“You do.” The consort nods, the sort that says she expects her will to be followed to the letter. “I have always wanted to share these things with someone. Alas, I was given but a single brother, and he my elder. But now I have you.”

What was it we said? A human heart has four chambers, beating in concert. A complex thing, a puzzle box of wants and desires, one buried beneath the other, a dangerous tower of longing crushed inside a container too small to hold it. And all of us live our lives never knowing its depths, not until a drawer springs open, and oh--

Oh how easy it is for our longing to sneak up on us, all unknowing. How easy it is to be blinded by it.

When the consort smiles-- really, truly smiles-- it’s too bright, like looking into the sun, and Shirayuki has to duck her head or be blinded. She’s light-headed from only a moment of basking in its radiance; she can’t imagine what might happen if she dared to look more.

“Besides,” Haki continues blithely, skirts brushing their slippers as they walk. “You could drop an entire tureen on my brother and I think he would adore you just the same. Maybe even more, if you dropped it on the right person.”

A laugh bubbles up from her, and oh, oh, it has been far too long-- it leaves her, a cage thing finally freed from its chains, and rampages through the hall.

Haki stares down at her, pale eyes wide and almost wary. For a moment her mouth works, rounding as if she might say, a lady laughs like a bell, not a gong, just like Mihoko--

And then she joins in, just as wild.

But how can she forget about her precious boy, you might ask? How can she forget about her home?

The answer is easy enough: one must only provide a new one. Oh, how easily a heart may be fooled when the illusion is so pleasant, when it is so wanted. Men on the verge of death imagine entire cities in the desert, oases just over the horizon, luring them yet another step to their doom. When there is no relief, no hope, when only doubts encompass us--

That is when we are most in need of fiction. Of an escape, of respite. How simple it can be to close ones eyes to harsh reality when it is paradise that lays before them.

But take heart-- such things never last. They cannot. It is folly to suggest there is no life without suffering-- an excuse to give breath to all kinds of evil-- but for plenty to have meaning, there must be a lack. To know joy there must be sadness, to know wisdom there must be ignorance, and when all one’s days are filled with a mindless, monotonous bliss--

Well, there is no paradise from which man does not escape, and no garden that will keep a little girl from what she seeks.

“Ah!” Haki’s jolts ahead, a filly at the end of her lead. Shirayuki nearly is dragged with her, her feet stumbling over the hem of her gown, but the consort extricates herself just in time, setting her to rights.

“Just-- just wait here a moment, if you would,” the consort tells her, fingers wound tight over the rounds of her shoulders. “It seems as though there is, ah, someone waiting for me at the door. I’ll only be-- a moment.”

Shirayuki blinks as the consort scurries away, skirts sweeping against the carpet in a rhythm and pace too hurried for Clarines’ stately queen. “But, your room is...”

Around the corner, she almost says, a better shorthand for not yet visible, which is what she means. Both points are moot; the consort springs away long before she can speak, the only part of her that remains the lagging lace of her train. And then even that is gone, all disappeared down the hall.

Perhaps it is the angle, Shirayuki allows. With her on the inside of the turn and the consort on the outside...?

Well, it hardly matters. She huffs out a breath, straightening her shoulders, and comes to stand in the intersection. This is a safe enough place to wait; the consort’s chambers are the first door on this hall, and--

And there is someone waiting. Or was, since all she catches of them the flash of a white coat.

The girl knows every inch of this garden in time, every undying bloom. For that is what they must be, at least for them to be so many, for so long. There are daffodils and daisies, dahlias and tulips, marigolds and gardenias, lilacs and lilies of the valley. A hundred flowers and more, too many to ever name crawling up lattice and sprawling over the bounds of their beds.

And yet, there is something missing. It sits at the tip of her tongue, begging to be said, but she cannot find the word, no matter how long she thinks on it. The only thing that comes to her is the memory of loam, and the warmth of hands brushing hers.

Don’t ever leave me, the sorceress would say, a smile on her lips, fingers tangled in her hair.

How could I, the girl would laugh, an inexplicable knot of dread tightening in her belly, when everything is so beautiful here?

“Shirayuki!”

Haki approaches her, smile wide and warm but also-- strain lingers at the corners. Maybe even displeasure. “I thought you were going to wait.”

“I was,” she says, wide-eyed. “I mean, I am. Who was...”

“No one.” The consort waves her off. “Just a delivery. A tisane. For my migraines. I ran out just the other day.”

“Oh.” Her mouth works, grasping for the words that had come so easily no so long ago, but now were like grinding glass. “From the pharm--?”

“Come!” Haki sweeps her arm up into her own, pulling her firmly against her side. “It’s time for dinner, isn’t it? We must see that you’re ready.”

It ends like this: she finds a petal.

It is no crimson red, no passionate pink, but instead a simple and clean white, not so unlike the gardenia. But it is too small for such a flower, too rounded, too plush. She presses it between her fingers and it is familiar as her own skin, as the scent of vanilla on the air, and yet she cannot find the name, nor envision the bloom from whence it fell. Surely it is nothing in this garden.

What it that you have? the sorceress asks, her voice suddenly sharp, like a blade placed between skin and bloated tick. Give it here.

The little girl has not reason not to. It must have blown in from elsewhere.

The sorceress takes it in her hand, slender fingers curling into a fist around it. When they unfurl it is gone, merely dust in the wind.

We need none of that world here, the sorceress says, kinder but firm. You will never leave me, after all.

Of course, the girl says, turning to her with a wide smile. The sorceress has a new hat on, black and covered in flowers, even finer than the ones she’s worn before. Why would I, when--?

Her teeth snap down, words stuck between them. It’s the only way to be safe, the only way to stop herself from saying now what she knows she cannot. Right there, painted on the cloth, next to a blood red dahlia--

--There is a rose. The sorceress’s hat has roses, and this garden does not.

Of course, she says again, stilted. This is where I belong.

Shirayuki stands frozen in the hall, mind churning like a mill’s wheel in the storm of her thoughts. The summer months mean whites and creams and ivories are in season, a playful palette that the consort’s court adorns with floral embroidery. But she did not see a floating train of silk, or the fluttering layers of linen, but instead--

A white coat. A brown paper package done up with twine and ink scrawled illegibly on the outside, passed so quickly from one hand to the next. The scent of herbs is fresh on the air, valerian among them.

She misses it. Almost as much as she misses...

“Shirayuki?” The consort tugs at her, a question writ across her brow. “Is something wrong?”

“Haki...” Her hands clench at her side. “Has there been any news of Obi?”

That is the thing about magic: it is easy to weave wishes into illusion, but to maintain it-- a different matter entirely. A woman may send all her roses underground, never to be seen again, but to remember to remove them from every vase, from the back of a brush, from a hat--

Impossible.

“Obi?” The consort’s grip tightens, even as her smile spread wide. “No, none at all.”

[wistfulcynic]

Rainbound

I have three major WIPs on the go at the moment and they all require a lot of concentration, research, and brainpower, and sometimes I need to take a break from that. Recently these breaks have tended to take the form of tropey trope-fests of trope-ness, otherwise known, in this case at least, as “OTP stranded together due to bad weather and forced to share a bed.” 

For @thisonesatellite who always encourages me (even my worst instincts which now that I think about it is maybe not such a good thing but I love her anyway 💕💕) 

5k words

Rating: M

On AO3

@kmomof4 @darkcolinodonorgasm @thejollyroger-writer @stahlop @mariakov81 @teamhook -- just tagging off the top of my head some people I think might enjoy this. 

Rainbound: 

Rain ran in rivulets down Emma’s face, soaking her clear to her skin as she climbed the three steps onto the cabin’s wide porch. It was a small cabin and a simple one, not at all what she would have expected for a man with the cocky swagger of Killian Jones. It was incongruous, and she disliked it as she disliked all things that didn’t fit a pattern.

Frowning, she knocked on the door. It swung open to reveal the man himself, the charming twinkle in his bright blue eyes dying instantly when he saw her.

Killian slouched against the doorjamb and smirked. “Emma Swan,” he drawled. “Well, well. To what do I owe this dubious honour?”

She stiffened, hating having to ask him for this, for anything. “My car broke down,” she said grudgingly. “On the main road just past where you turn to go to the harbour. I remembered you lived around here and I thought I’d come and…” she sighed. “And see if you could help.”

He looked past her to the rain that was pounding down in torrents, turning his dirt drive to mud and the potholes into puddles, deceptively deep. He sighed himself. “You’d better come in, then,” he said, just as grudgingly as she. “There’s no point going out in this weather, best to wait until the rain lets up.”

“What about my car?”

“Are you afraid someone will steal it?” The frank disbelief in his voice rankled her, but she couldn’t refute his point.

“No.”

“Well then. It’ll be fine on the side of the road for a few hours. No one’s going to be out in this mess. Come in, Swan.” He stepped back and opened the door wider.

Emma took three steps into the cabin and stopped dead in astonishment, eyes wide and mouth agape. The interior was as simple as the exterior, a single room panelled in wood with a small kitchen along one wall and a narrow bed pushed up against another. A worn sofa and a battered sea chest sat in its centre. But what drew Emma’s attention, what astounded her, were the books. Shelves and shelves of them lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with volumes of every size and colour, hardbacks and paperbacks and even some bound in faded leather.

She turned to look at Killian, who was watching her warily.

“Are all these yours?”

“I’m not in the habit of keeping books that don’t belong to me,” he said irritably.

“And have— have you read them all?”

“Aye.”

“All of them?”

“Every last one, and I don’t appreciate your tone,” he snapped.

“Sorry!” Emma held up her hands. “Sorry. I just— I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Oh? And just what were you expecting, love?”

She shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t know, like— like a bachelor pad or something. Someplace swish where you can bring your women.”

“I never bring women here,” said Killian shortly. Emma could only gape in response, and he ran a hand through his hair then shoved it deep into the pocket of his jeans. “You’re dripping all over my floor,” he mumbled. “Let me get you a towel and a change of clothes.”

“It’s really not—”

“Yes, it is necessary,” he retorted, anticipating her protest. “I won’t have you getting pneumonia or some such. Not on my watch.” It was a weak attempt at humour, but she forced a smile.  

He opened a door just to the far side of the kitchen area and Emma could see a small bathroom with a shower and toilet. Killian pulled a clean towel from a shelf and handed it to her then went to the sea chest and removed a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. He handed the clothing to her as well, and indicated the bathroom. “You can get changed in there,” he said. “Just hang your wet clothes on the shower rail. I don’t have a dryer.” He looked at her defiantly but she said nothing, merely took the clothes from him and headed to the bathroom.

He might not have a dryer but his clothes were clean and soft and she sighed as she slipped them on over her still-damp skin. She squeezed the water from her hair and wrung out her clothes as best she could before hanging them in his shower and returning to the kitchen, feeling oddly shy. It was a peculiar sort of vulnerability, wearing his clothes. Emma deeply disliked being vulnerable to Killian Jones.

His lips curled up when he saw her, his eyes softening in a way that made her want to squirm. “Those look far better on you than on me,” he said. Emma doubted that, but she managed to bite back the words. He didn’t need to know how attracted she was to him. How attracted she had always been. “I made tea,” he continued, handing her a steaming cup.

She sniffed it dubiously. “Tea?”

“Aye. Don’t look like that, Swan, just give it a try.”

“Don’t you have any coffee? Or better, hot chocolate?”

“No,” he said shortly. “It’s tea or nothing.”

Tentatively she sipped. It was strong and sweet, bitter in a different way than coffee but not unpleasant. She took a deeper drink. “I guess it’s all right,” she said.

His smirk told her he saw what she was doing but he merely sipped his own tea and moved to the sofa. He sat down and crossed one leg over the other, resting his mug on his knee as he took up a book lying facedown over the armrest. “You’re welcome to join me, love,” he said. “My library is at your disposal.”

Emma wasn’t much of a reader but she found herself intensely curious about what Killian had read, this man she only knew as her brother’s friend’s friend, the shameless flirt who had tried to sleep with her the first night they’d met then treated her with amused disdain ever since.

She sipped her tea as she wandered around the room perusing his bookshelves. He had an amazing variety of books, from histories to science fiction novels, heavy volumes of philosophy and slim ones of poetry.

Killian Jones reading poetry, she marvelled. Who could have imagined that?

“See anything you like, Swan?” asked Killian. She turned to see him watching her, a soft smile on his face. Without looking she snatched up a book and sat on the small sofa as far from him as she could manage, ignoring the fluttery feeling that rose in her chest from even that much proximity. From the corner of her eye she could see he was smirking at her again, with that glint in his eye that she hated, the one that said he understood her. Firmly, she ignored him, opened the book and began to read.

An hour later her teacup was forgotten on a corner of the sea chest, her legs curled beneath her as she devoured the words on the page. She failed to notice Killian get up and collect her teacup along with his own, carrying them to the kitchen.

“Care for some dinner, Swan?” he called.

Emma jumped, startled. “What?”

“I asked if you wanted some dinner. It’s still raining, and I’m hungry.”

Emma’s stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. She flushed bright pink and Killian laughed. His laugh made him look younger, carefree, his eyes twinkling brightly. He was unfairly gorgeous, thought Emma, not for the first time, though for the first time she wasn’t mad about it. He was being nice for once, the least she could do was reciprocate.

“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”

“It’s chicken marsala, if that’s okay.”

“Um, I don’t really know what that is, but I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she replied, and he smirked again.

“Not a terribly adventurous eater, are you love?”

She tried not to bristle defensively. “I just know what I like.”

“But if you never try anything new, how do you know you won’t like that too?”

Emma had the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t just talking about dinner. She shrugged. “I’ll try this chicken whatever and let you know.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” he muttered.

Emma tried to return to her book, but she found she could no longer focus. Setting it down on the sea chest she approached the kitchen cautiously. “Um,” she began, twisting her fingers nervously when he looked at her. “Is there— can I help?”

Surprise flared in his eyes and they softened with an expression that made her heart thud painfully. Then he blinked, and the smirk was back. “Think you can manage to slice some mushrooms?”

“Without chopping my fingers off, you mean,” she snarked.

“Aye, preferably. I don’t find blood to be a very tasty seasoning.”

She snorted and he grinned, and handed her a knife. She took it and moved to the chopping board, frowning as she concentrated on slicing the mushrooms evenly and not on the disconcerting man standing so close to her in the tiny kitchen.

“So how did you learn to cook?” she heard herself ask.

Killian gave her a sideways glance, surprised again, but he answered politely. “I spent ten years in the Royal Navy, and travelled a lot. Whenever I had leave I would go exploring and try to learn something new. In Italy, through an odd series of events I ended up on a farm in the hills above Rimini and was taught pasta making there by a beautiful Italian woman called Marcella.”

She snorted again. “Of course you were.”

“She wouldn’t approve of me using her recipe for chicken marsala, I imagine, but I think they go well.”

“And what else did you and this Marcella do?”

“Very little, I’m afraid, Swan. She was eighty, and had arthritis in her hips.”

“Oh.” Emma focused on the mushrooms again, feeling ridiculous.

“Now her granddaughter Emilia, on the other hand, we did quite a few things together.”

His smile was teasing when she turned to huff at him, and she couldn’t help laughing. “I don’t know how much of this to believe,” she said.

“Every word, Swan. Everything I say is one hundred percent solid gold.”

“Solid fool’s gold, maybe.”

He laughed at that, deep and rich and filling her with a tingly warmth. “Ah, Emma Swan, you are a challenge,” he chuckled.

Emma’s laughter died at those words. A challenge. Wasn’t that just a nicer way of saying difficult? Too much trouble? Not worth it?

All words she’d heard before.

Killian’s fingers brushed hers as he reached for the chopping board. “I love a challenge,” he said, his voice low and rough and too near her ear, his breath ruffling the fine hairs at her temple. She held her own breath to keep from gasping, and when she risked a look at him the soft expression was back in his eyes. Soft and understanding.

How did he always understand her?

Her heart was pounding again, thudding so loudly she feared he’d hear it.

He took the board and tipped the mushrooms into a pan where they immediately began to sizzle. He stirred them, not looking at her, and when he spoke again his voice was normal. “Grab that bottle just to your left, would you love, and pour half a cup of it into this,” he said, laying a glass measuring cup where the chopping board had been.

Emma’s hand trembled slightly as she picked up the bottle, but she managed to measure out a half cup without mishap, and held it up when she was finished.

“Now what?”

“Pour that in here,” he instructed, indicating the pan with the mushrooms, now a pale brown.

She did so, jumping when the liquid hissed in the heat of the pan. Killian chuckled, continuing to stir. “Burns off the alcohol,” he said.

“What’s the point of that?” she attempted to joke.

His smile took on a razor edge. “If you’d like me to get you drunk, Swan, all you have to do is ask.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Your loss, darling.” Killian poured some chicken stock and cream into the pan along with what looked like mustard and spices she didn’t recognise. He gave it a final stir then covered the pan and lowered the heat and lifted a towel off of several small nests of uncooked pasta. Emma peered at them, fascinated.

“You really made this?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“And… you’re sure there’s enough for me?”

“I always make two servings. It’s hard to cook for just one person, and I have the leftovers for lunch the next day.”

“So what will you do for lunch tomorrow?”

He shot her another smirk, but a soft one this time. An I-appreciate-your-concern-but-it’s-all-under-control smirk that she recognised from her own arsenal of expressions. “I’ll think of something, Swan. Don’t worry about it.”

He lifted the lid off a pot bubbling on the back of the stove and tipped in some salt, followed by the pasta. He stirred it with a fork and replaced the lid, leaving a gap for the steam to escape. Opening a cabinet, he withdrew a colander and placed it in the sink.

“Plates and glasses are up there,” he said, indicating a cabinet next to the refrigerator. “If you could grab two of each. Wine glass for me but you’re welcome to have water, or I’ve got some iced tea.”

Emma hesitated. She’d always been so careful not to drink too much around him, afraid of what loosened inhibitions might lead her to say, or do. But surely one glass of wine wouldn’t hurt? She took down two plates and two wine glasses, then looked around for where to put them.

“I eat on the sofa,” said Killian quietly.

“Okay.” Emma kept her face neutral. He was clearly sensitive about the way he lived. She supposed he was worried she’d judge him for it.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

She set the plates and glasses on the sea chest then returned for silverware just as Killian was pouring the pasta into the colander. He removed the chicken from the sauce and replaced it with the drained pasta, tossing it along with a splash of the water it was cooked in. Emma watched, impressed by the ease and confidence of his movements. He’d definitely done this before.

That Marcella must have been some teacher.

“The wine’s in the fridge,” he called to her, “If you wouldn’t mind opening it.”

His fridge was ridiculously clean —Emma wondered vaguely why this surprised her, given the rest of his place— and she found the wine lying on its side on the top shelf. She took it out and twisted off the cap then brought it over to the sea chest, where Killian had just placed a serving bowl full of pasta and neatly sliced chicken. He sat down and using two large forks scooped some onto both of their plates while Emma poured the wine. She sat next to him, and awkward silence fell.

Emma had the wild thought that all they needed were some candles and maybe a few actual chairs and this would be a very romantic date indeed. She stuffed a huge bite of pasta into her mouth to cover her embarrassment.

And nearly groaned in delight.

It was delicious, creamy and rich with a slight sweet tang. Her eyes fell closed as she chewed slowly, wanting to savour it, and when she opened them again she found Killian watching her with an unreadable expression.

“What’s the verdict, then, love?” he asked.

“It’s wonderful.” Emma couldn’t even snark. She sipped her wine and was delighted again as its flavours perfectly complemented the ones the chicken had left in her mouth. “Do you eat like this every night?”

“Pretty much, aye. Food and books are my only indulgences.”

“And women.” The words were out before she could stop them, and Emma winced as his expression shuttered.

“Aye,” he agreed tightly. “And women.”

“Well this is amazing,” she said effusively, “One of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”

“Better than Granny’s grilled cheese?” he teased, with a tentative smile.

“Well, let’s not get carried away.”

He chuckled, breaking the heavy tension between them. Emma sighed lightly in relief, and they both began to eat.

“You were reading quite intently earlier,” Killian remarked after a short silence. “What book did you pick?”

“Oh,” she said, surprised by the question. “I just grabbed it at random, but it’s so good. It’s, um—” she picked up the book and flipped it over to look at the cover. “Northern Lights.”

He nodded. “One of my favourites. That copy I actually brought from England when I moved here. In the US it’s called The Golden Compass.”

“Oh yeah! That was a movie wasn’t it?”

“Aye, an abomination of one, best forgotten.”

She rolled her eyes. “Book people always say that.”

“‘Book people,’” scoffed Killian.

“Yeah, book people. You know, the people who no matter what the movie or miniseries or whatever tries to do are always like ‘Oh but the book was so much better,’ like that’s special knowledge that only they have, or something.”

“Fair point,” he conceded, “Some adaptations of books have been very well done, but in this case we ‘book people’ are completely correct to say the movie is utter crap.”

“Well, when I’m done reading it I’m gonna watch the movie and judge for myself.”

“That’s the wisest strategy for most things, I find,” he replied, and again she had the uncomfortable sense that he was talking about more than the subject at hand.

“You said books were your indulgence,” she blurted, surprising herself with the question. “What did you mean?”

He gave her a searching look before replying, and when he did his voice held a quiet sincerity she’d never heard in it before.

“I’ve always loved reading,” he said. “My mum was a librarian, and when I was a child I wanted to be one too. But you need a degree for that and by the time I was eighteen my mum was dead and my father had drunk away all the money she’d saved for my education. So I went into the navy instead.” He sipped his wine. “I intended it just to be for a few years until I’d saved some money myself but I ended up liking the lifestyle and I figured what was university really but a lot of reading, which I could do on my own for free.”

Everything he said was true, but Emma could it wasn’t the whole story. Their understanding cut both ways.

“You regret that now, don’t you?” she asked, though it wasn’t really a question.  

He looked wry. “Aye, I do. It’s hard to get any decent job without a degree, so now I work at the docks until I’ve saved enough to buy my own boat.”

“What kind of boat?”

“A sailboat,” he replied. “For me, mostly, but I figure I could make a decent living chartering it for tourists.”

She nodded. He probably could.

“So that’s why you live so simply. To save for your boat.”

“Aye.”

It was such an unexpected twist on the character of this man she’d thought she had the measure of that Emma could barely get her head around it. She was beginning to think she’d badly misjudged him.

And that terrified her.

She asked him to tell her about the boat he wanted and they made surprisingly easy conversation until the food was eaten and the wine drunk. Emma insisted on carrying the plates and glasses back to the kitchen where Killian insisted on washing them immediately. “No dishwasher,” he said, and there was a lightness to the admission that had been lacking in earlier ones of a similar nature. Like he knew Emma would understand now why he chose to forgo expensive household appliances.

She did. And she insisted on drying.

When the kitchen was spotless she hung up the dishtowel and felt awkward again. It was late and she had already stayed far longer than she’d planned, but the noise of the storm outside was if anything even louder than before.

“It’s still coming down in buckets,” said Killian, looking out the window into the dark night. “The roads are likely flooded. I fear you might be stranded here, Swan.”

She tried to answer but her words were swallowed up by a yawn that nearly cracked her jaw. He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take the sofa,” he said.  

Emma regarded the furniture in question. “It’s not very comfortable”.

“I’ll manage.”

“Killian, no,” she protested. “I feel bad enough showing up unannounced and eating your food, I’m not going to steal your bed too. I’ll take the sofa.”

“Absolutely not, you said yourself it’s uncomfortable.”

“I don’t mind—”

“No. And that’s final.”

She threw up her arms in exasperation. “Well, I guess we’ll have to share the bed, then.”

The moment the words left her lips she regretted them. She froze, barely breathing, unable to look away as she waited for his reply. He had also gone completely still, staring at her with hooded eyes. “All right,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Emma sucked air into her lungs. “All right,” she echoed.

The tension was back now, thicker than before but no longer awkward. Nervous. Anticipating. Eager. He produced a spare toothbrush from the bathroom cabinet and she brushed her teeth and splashed water on her hot face. When she finished in the bathroom Killian went in and Emma approached the bed with butterflies dancing in her belly. It seemed to grow narrower the closer she came and she wondered how they would manage. If they tried to keep too far apart they risked falling out. But if they got too close...

She imagined Killian pressed up against her back, his arm around her waist, his warm breath teasing her hair as it had in the kitchen. The butterflies in her belly began to do rhythmic gymnastics, and her heart beat so fast she felt faint.

I should have let him take the sofa.  

She climbed into the bed, scooting as close as she could get to the wall. That way he wouldn’t have to climb over her to get in, she thought. Yeah. That sounded plausible.

Killian emerged from the bathroom wearing another sweats-and-t-shirt combo, and a carefully blank expression. He climbed in next to her, careful not to let their bodies touch. “There’s a switch right by your head,” he said. “To turn out the light.”

“Okay.” Emma flipped it and the room plunged into darkness. She rolled onto her side, her back to him, and tried to ignore the sound of his breathing and the heat radiating from his body, tried to ignore her blood pounding through her veins and the way she absolutely longed to know what it would feel like to have his arms around her. To kiss him. To—

“No!” she whispered, too loudly, and felt the bed shift as Killian turned.

“Are you all right, love?” he asked, his voice low and soft, like he cared. “Are you sure this is okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s fine.”

She could feel his eyes on her, could sense him willing her to turn around and face this, this pull of attraction between them, always difficult to resist and nearly overwhelming now that she actually liked him.

“Swan,” she heard him whisper.

It had been there from the beginning, that attraction, fierce and terrifying and like nothing she’d ever felt before, which of course was why she had been so eager to write him off as another asshole only interested in fucking her. In retrospect, viewed through fairer eyes, he had probably just wanted to get to know her a bit, maybe ask her out. She had shot him down, epically, and Killian, she could see now, had taken refuge behind snark and disdain to protect himself, exactly as she would have done in his shoes.

She’d been an idiot, and a jerk, and she wished like hell she could do it all over again. But it was too late.

She forced herself to relax, to close her eyes and breathe deeply and evenly. Killian sighed and the bed shifted again, and after several interminable minutes his breathing evened out as well and she sensed he was asleep.

It was a long time before she followed.

—

Emma awoke when the sunlight shining through the window threatened to blind her. Grumbling incoherently, she buried her face in her pillow.

Or would have, had her face been on a pillow.

Instead it was pressed against Killian’s chest, his t-shirt soft under her cheek and the spicy, musky scent of his skin filling her nose with every breath. She inhaled deeply and rubbed her cheek against him and his arms tightened around her.

His arms were around her. So that’s what that felt like.

She felt warm and protected. Content. Loved.

No! Emma jerked back, digging the heel of her hand against his ribs, and he jolted awake.

“What the devil— oh!” His eyes widened as he took in their position, his arms still around her and their legs entwined, their faces inches apart. “Bloody hell!” He scrambled out of the bed, stumbling backwards and almost falling on his ass as he did. “I’m sorry, Swan, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.” Emma willed her stupid heart to stop beating so fast, to stop being hurt by his reaction.

“It’s not, I—”

“I said it’s fine, Killian!” she snapped, and he closed his mouth, running both hands through his hair then clenching them into fists at his side, unsure of where to put them.

“Looks like the rain’s stopped,” he said. “We can go get your car now. Do you, um, would you like breakfast first? Tea?”

“No. Thank you.” She wanted to get the hell away from him, before she did something stupid.

He nodded. “Aye. Well, get dressed then and we’ll be off.”

He moved towards the kitchen just as Emma rolled from the bed and they collided awkwardly. His hands came to her hips to steady her while hers landed on his chest and she could feel his heart pounding beneath her fingertips. He caught an unsteady breath and when she dared to look up she saw his eyes were wide and full of the same longing that ached within her.

“Emma,” he whispered.

The sound of her name on his lips, in his voice, when he’d only ever called her Swan or love, was more than she could take. Her hands on his chest clenched into tight fists, gripping his t-shirt and pulling his mouth to hers, into a kiss that blazed instantly into barely-leashed passion, all open mouths and clinging lips and his tongue stroking hers in a way that set her on fire. One hand tangled in her hair as the other slid down to cup her ass, pulling her hips into his so she could feel the press of his erection against her belly. She moaned and ground against him, as close as she could get, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted his skin on hers, his mouth all over her, wanted to hear him moan her name into her flesh.

She pushed him away, ignoring the flash of fear in his eyes, and pulled his shirt off her body. His eyes instantly latched onto her bare breasts, hunger chasing away the fear, and she smirked. “Now yours,” she rasped.

He nearly tore the shirt in his haste and Emma gave herself a second to admire his lean form liberally covered in dark hair before launching herself at him, toppling them both onto the bed. His mouth was on hers again, kissing her deeply as his hand cupped her breast, teasing her nipple with his thumb as her own hand slid beneath his sweats and closed around his cock.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he spluttered, grabbing her wrist almost painfully and pulling her hand away. “Don’t do that again if you want this to last.”

“But—”

“Emma, please. I have wanted you for so bloody long I could be finished in minutes, but I would very much prefer to take my time.”

The way he purred the words made her tingle, the look in his eyes made her melt. “Take your time how?” she gasped.

“Well I’ll start by kissing you.”

“You’ve already—”

“Everywhere.” His hand slid between her legs, fingers slipping through her slick flesh, gliding across her clit with the lightest touch. “There are some parts of you I just want to lick.”

“Oh, god.”

“Indeed.”

“And then what?”

“After I’ve tasted every inch of you and made you come at least twice with my mouth and my fingers—”

“Cocky,” she gasped as his fingers slipped inside her, one first and then another, stroking her walls as his thumb caressed her clit.  

“Confident, darling,” he corrected. “As I was saying after I’ve made you scream my name—”

“Oho, screaming your name now—”

“—then I will run as fast as I can to the sea chest because that’s where the condoms are.”

She laughed, her face pressed to his shoulder, gripping his shoulders as his fingers worked inside her, proving his confidence was not misplaced.

“And then,” he said, leaning down to breathe the words in her ear. “Then I will fuck you, hard and deep and thoroughly, as I have wanted to since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“I knew it,” she gasped. “I knew you just wanted to fuck me.”

“Not ‘just’, Emma,” he said, pulling back to look at her, so she could see the truth in his eyes. “I want everything with you.”

She waited for the fear to come, and the overwhelming urge to flee. Waited, but it never came.

Instead, she did, as Killian’s thumb pressed hard on her clit and her orgasm ripped through her, taking her by surprise.

“Fuck, Killian!” she screamed.

“Later, darling,” he murmured, fingers still inside her as he eased her down from her high. “That’s only one.”

She opened her eyes to find him watching her with eyes softer than she’d ever seen, warm and full of promises she knew he’d keep.

She smiled. “Maybe I’ll stay for breakfast after all,” she said.

[wonkookiemon]

Trap House ( Yoongi x Reader)

◄Masterlist:

◄Most Rated Works:    Be a Good Girl     †     BTS DADDY REACTION

◄Member(s): Yoongi ft. (J-hope, Jimin, Taehyung)

◄Word Count: 5k

◄Warnings: Drug use/abuse( if you squint), sex under the influence, a few supernatural beings, dirty talk, oral giving,  asphyxiation, mentions/talk of blood, marking, dominating tendencies, alcohol use, brief mentions of death.

◄ Please read the warnings before you read thank you. This one shot will be in both points of view.

To live means to exist. To exist you must live. A motto Yoongi has been trying to accomplish throughout his long-term existence. 86 years ago, his heart stopped beating and he’s made a pact with himself that he wouldn't hold back on life for as longs as he dead.

Yoongi kept his senses on high alert as he walked down the dark alley way of 54 and Park. This alley was filled with freaks, murders and home to the hopeless and homeless earning its name “No Man’s Zone”. The alley way was a scape goat for may unwanted supernatural beings and worthless humans. Both species managed to find a mutual ground when it comes to attacking the travelers who dare to walk through. Quite frankly Yoongi is brave as fuck, and immortal so it was almost like a walk in the park.

“Hey, you got some change boy?”

Yoongi looked up from his feet and side eyed the bearded man. His eyes squinted in curiosity. “John?” Yoongi breathed out with a half smirk.

“Damn, boy I barely recognized you in this alley. You fucking crazy?” John licked is cracked lips letting out a raspy chuckle.

“Just testing the limits of immortality” Yoongi smiled. Digging through his pocket he found a scrunched up $50 bill and handed it to John.

“You know I’ve been trying to get off these streets bu-”

“I’ll see you around John” Yoongi nodded his head before walking off. It was almost the same story each time he saw him. He just hoped that one day the money he gave John will help him get out of this place.

Almost reaching his destination Yoongi’s phone began to ring. Already having an idea of who it was Yoongi hit the call button and waited for Jay to talk.

“Look man, I’ve hit a bit of a snag” He rasped.

“And what might that be? Cus, I’m almost at the house” Yoongi gritted out in annoyance.

“My Mom wants my step sister to get out of the house, and I kid you not this girl has no fucking friends and y’no how I've been telling my mom I've been hanging at with you all at the Jerry’s club-”

“well yeah-”

“She begged me to bring her with me, and threatened me saying I would have had to stay home and like, hang out with her, but getting faded seemed to be the better option so-”

“Fucking spit it out Jay”

“I brought her with me”

“So now you gotta fucking babysit-Does she fucking know what you are Jay or did you not go over that with her. She will legit be dead by dawn if you just let her walk through-DID YOU THINK THIS THROUGH?” It’s safe to say Yoongi was pissed as fuck.

“Bro, she’s really chill and she’s won’t say anything”

“Does she know what you are”

“I told her before we left the house”

“You’re dumb as fuck” Yoongi dead panned.

“She told me she already knew” Jay chuckled.

“Smart Girl”

“So, we’re like Five minutes out-Wait I think I hear you, just be cool man, don’t freak her out or anything”

“I can already hear your loud ass from across the alley”

“Piss off” Jay hung up the phone and looked down to see you scrolling through your Instagram feed.

“Just stay by my side okay, Yoongi said he’s cool with you-y’no coming and everything”

“You know you honestly could have just lied and let me stay at some old diner”

“Hell no-” Jay scoffed. “Look, There’s Yoongi”

You raised your head and saw his Yoongi’s frame walking towards you and it was quite creepy, but you still wanted to keep an open mind. You didn’t understand how Jay could see though all of the fog and darkness of the alley, which leads you to question-

“He the one that turned you?” You looked up at Jay who had a frown on his face from your question.

“Don't ask stupid questions (y/n)-yah, you’re not ready for the answers just yet.”

“I already know what you are so its more of a statement” You said boldly.

“Hush, we’re going inside now” Jay stopped at two huge black doors and turned over his shoulder to look at you once more.

“Yoongi hurry the fuck up” Jay murmured.

“Like he can hear that shit” You rolled your eyes. Which was your mistake, Yoongi was by your side in the blink of an eye causing you to screech, as you looked up at him.

Both men chuckled and continued as if it was nothing. Though Yoongi seemed harmless there was this look in his black eyes that made your skin crawl. Instead of dwelling on his unsettling presence you thought it was best to keep your distance from him for the rest of the night, if it was possible. Knowing your luck, you knew you were bound to being alone with him at some point.

“Eyyyyyyyyyyyyy” loud voices shouted, along with the loud music surrounding the house as you walked through the doors of the “house”. Smoke immediately hit your face mixed with the smell of booze and other shit which you knew nothing of.

“(Y/n), pay attention” Jay tugged your arm bringing you out of your haze.

“Uh, ya-You forgot to mention that the house we were going to is a fucking crack house”

“I thought you said she was cool” Yoongi’s deep voiced startled you from behind.

“She is, bro chill” Jay narrowed his eyes at his friend.

“I just didn’t know where we were going okay” You tried to defend yourself, but you ended up looking more stupid under Yoongi’s dark gaze.

“You got a fucking problem?” You asked glaring at Yoongi.

“Bold as fuck” Yoongi shook his head and continued to walk through the house.

“Jimin said he and big head are upstairs doing pre-game”

“Pre-game?” you said aloud to yourself.

“Yeah, pre-game” Yoongi smirked coyly.

“Ignore is ass” Jay wrapped his arms around your and led you up the stairs.

“What even is this place” You marveled at the high ceilings, and the marble stairs seemed made of glass, the railing was covered in fine mahogany wood gliding smoothly across your hands as you walked up the stairs.

Reaching the top of the steps your eyes trailed over the open half lit room and met with two other men sitting on couch not so far away from the steps. Both men seemed to have the attention of the girl that sat in the center of them. Her body slightly limp and her head tilted back. Both men unfazed by your presence seemed to be looking at you with confused yet cooled expressions.

“You guys done?” Jay asked with a nervous laugh.

“Who’s your friend” The long blond haired man said biting his lower lip.

“(Y/N), meet bonehead” Jay pointed to the blond who graced his features with a charming smile that reached his sky-blue eyes.

“bonehead meet my younger sister (y’n)”

“Is she even alive” You asked randomly yet no one seemed to want to answer your question.

“Okay first of all, my name is Taehyung, and secondly I’m not quite catching the resemblance.” He scratched the back of his head still looking slightly confused about your presence.

“That’s his step sister, he literally talked about her last week, remember? -said he couldn't bare the sce-”

“That's Jimin” Jay shouted, shutting him up

“You could have at least saved us some” Yoongi said with mock hurt.

Still standing in the center your walked forward a bit to examine the poor girls’ body, only to see puncture marks on her wrist and neck. “Okay that's enough staring” Jay gestured for you to move out the way. You moved back and watch as Jay rounded the coffee table and picked up the girl from the couch and carry her down the low-lit hallway of the house.

Once Jay returned he looked over at Yoongi who rolled his eyes before brushing passed you to join the two men on the couch. There you could see his face fully under the low light as he laid back eyes closed, leaving his pale neck exposed. You could even see the tattoos peeking from his chest the way his dark button up hung low on his chest. His porcelain skin looked ethereal and gave his pouty mouth and almond eyes an innocent look that put you off him for a second till he opened his eyes and looked at you as you gawked at his hot body.

“You want to have a seat?” Jimin interrupted your intense stare off.

“Uh-yeah sure” you smiled nervously looking at Jay to see if it was okay. He nodded, so you proceeded to the couch and sat in between Yoongi and Jimin while Jay took a seat next to Taehyung. Taehyung reached for of the small chest in the center of the coffee table and brought it closer to him. Opening it at a cooled pace Taehyung began taking out all of the contents that were in the chest. Your eyes widened in realization as you saw him place a small plastic bag filled to the brim with weed, it must have been 3 grams at least. Then he took out a small black container and a needle, after that he placed the lighter and a spoon on the table.

“So, fellas which one shall we do first hmm?” Taehyung looked up from the items with a boyish grin.

“I defiantly want to smoke first, what about you (y/n)” Jay asked, curiosity littered his gaze. He wanted to know if bringing you here was a mistake.

“I won’t do any needles, but I’ll have a smoke” You nodded shocking the both of you.

“atta girl” Jimin patted your shoulder playfully.

“Yoongi, what's your poison” Taehyung asked already getting to work on the first blunt of the night.

“I’ll take some of the pearl.” Yoongi nodded. Taehyung passed the black container along with a card to you. Turning towards Yoongi you reached out to hand it to him only to get lost in his dark gaze again. Shit.

“Thanks” Yoongi husked out. the tips of his fingers grazed yours sending electricity thought your veins. Yoongi’s eyes widened a bit in surprise at the act but said nothing of it as he relaxed back in his position.  Yoongi opened the container and poured some of the contents on the table.

“oh, that pearl”

“Yeah, smart one” Yoongi deadpanned.

“I didn’t fuckin know I was going to a crack house” You grumbled and watched as Yoongi lined up the cocaine.

“Your little sister has a mouth” Jimin grinned looking at Jay.

“So, I’ve herd” Jay rolled his eyes and grabbed a freshly rolled blunt from Taehyungs’ inked hands.

Your curious gaze drifted back to Yoongi who was now kneeling towards the coffee table ready to inhale. You had to admit the fine line of cocaine lined up on the coffee table next to Yoongi’s hypnotic gaze, added to the tension that flowed between the both of you. His lips formed a smirk before he placed his nose above the cocaine and in one swift movement he breathed in tilting his head back.

You watched his neck as he breathed allowing the drug to flow through his system. Coming back to earth he slowly brought his face to view. A sick smile graced his soft features as he tucked his lower lip into his mouth.

“fuck” he chuckled wiping his nose.

"hits good aint it?” Jimin nodded while taking a hit on the coffee table for himself.

"want a hit” Jay asked snapping you out of haze.

“sure”

A few hours in your eyes became heavy and your body over heating at the intoxication. Halfway through your smoke session Jimin thought it would be a good idea to take a couple shots.

“You vampires sure know how to party” You grinned making the boys look at each other pointedly. Having enough of the sticky feeling of your hoodie pressing against your overheated skin, you gripped the edge of your hoodie and lifted the fabric over your head. Unaware of the gazes all around you continued to peel the fabric off your body.

Incapable of keeping his gaze off you Yoongi watched as your shirt ridded up giving him a glimpse of the creamy texture of your skin. That was when the scent reached his nose. The sweet scent of your blood pumping through your drugged-up blood stream. Yoongi’s throat tightened out of thirst and his mouth began to salivate. The thirst for your blood overwhelming him, it was a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time, and If Yoongi was feeling this way he could only imagine what his friends felt. Looking over at Jay he seemed to be nonchalant to her toxic scent that filled the room while Jimin fought to keep his fangs from making an unwanted appearance.

“Jay why don’t you guys get some fresh air?” Jay could tell by Yoongi’s voice that it wasn't a suggestion but a command. Knowing the slight danger his sister was in he nodded in submission and glanced over at the two.

“C’mon, you” Jay got up with a half-smile. Reluctant Jimin reached over and grabbed Taehyungs hand and the three of them left down the steps.

Yoongi’s phone pinged shortly after he herd the front door close.

Jay: don’t kill her

Yoongi: I won’t do anything she doesn't want.

Yoongi chuckled at his text before sending it and giving his late-night snack his full attention.

“Geez, where did everyone go?” you looked around to no longer see your brother and his friends, all except Yoongi of course.

“You reek” Yoongi shrugged.

“Are you serious” You said smelling your armpit and feeling overwhelmingly insecure.

“I was talking about your blood”

“I don-”

“Long story short everyone in the room wanted to rip out your jugular”

“Do you want to rip out my jugular?” you asked with wide eyes.

“More than anything my sweet” Yoongi’s voice dropped an octave as his hands traced across your neck. He felt your pulse quicken at the touch of his fingertips.

“What's stopping you” At this point the questions coming out from your mouth were unfiltered and with the drugs and alcohol in your system you couldn't care less.

“86 years of self-control” Yoongi shrugged making you laugh.

He couldn't seem to look away as he watched you laugh at his dry sense of humor. Cliché to say not a lot of humans captured his attention but every so often there was one. Human excitement becomes dull after a while and the thrill of the kill becomes more part of his extinct. Even if that part of him wasn't fully subsided as he sat next to you. It was lessoned due to the pure interest he had to want to figure you out in a sense. You really did come out of nowhere and he suddenly wanted to fuck and then kill you.

“Is that why they left” You asked scooting closer to Yoongi.

“Yeah, they are a bit new at this immortality thing.”

“Did my brother want this?” A sad look crossed your features making him uncomfortable.

“Please don’t cry” Yoongi retreated his fingers from your neck.

“I’m not going to cry, I’m just asking you asshole” you rolled your eyes.

“That's a question you should be asking him sweetheart”

“Why did you do it?”

“The questions never fucking end” Yoongi sat back into the couch annoyed. By trying to control his hunger he was beginning to get agitated and he more agitated he got the more violent his thoughts were.

“I’m a curious person, who was dragged to a crack house by her vampire brother to meet his two other vampire friends and the man he’s sired to. Hell, yeah imma ask questions bitch, the fuck you think this is?”

“Watch your tone little one” Yoongi gritted out through his teeth. He was losing control and the urge to feed was itching through his veins. His poor gums were aching to release his fangs into your warm neck. He could see the battle in your features by the way you tried to refrain from saying anything else with your lip tucked between your teeth painfully. Yoongi’s breathe hitched as he saw the blood rush to your bottom lip.

The fear and uncertainty that every little breathe you took around him at this moment could be your last. You didn’t necessarily know why you wanted him in this sick and twisted way but what do you have to lose in the movement.

“What are you going to do if I don’t” you finally spoke up.

“What you’re doing right now, is not fucking smart. Provoking me will only make me want to kill you more and I think your brother wants you alive, dont you?”

“You wouldn't hurt me” you squinted your eyes as if to challenge his authority.

“You think I won’t?” Yoongi smiled sinisterly.

“I thought you said you have more self-control than the others.”

“I do” he said almost as if it was a question. His body already starting to give into the monster her really was.

“I’m not as innocent as you think I am. I can handle it”

“Who said you were innocent”

“I thought you-”

“Every time you breathe you risk being killed. So, I want you to choose your next words wisely because I dont know how much more of this I can take” he gritted out. Yoongi hunched over his breath shallow and irregular-He was trying to calm himself down. He looked up at you with a murderous gaze, all traces of his humanity gone and what remained was the monster sitting before you. Traces of his venomous skin littered in the veins that appeared under his black eyes, yet you felt no fear. For a split moment in time the world stopped, and you knew it could have just been the drugs or alcohol in your system, but you wanted this. You wanted him, however he wanted to have you. Looking deep into his dark gaze, you slowly made your way to his hunched form and with the confidence running through your veins your pushed his shoulder back wanting him to make room for you on his lap. Swinging your legs on either side of his body you sunk down into his lap straddling his waist. Still keeping eye contact you tilted your neck to the side to the side giving him a clear view of your warm neck.

“Come have a taste”

Yoongi looked at you, half lidded gaze and allowed his fangs to pierce through his aching gums. Fuck it felt good to relive the nagging pain he felt in his mouth. He licked his dry lips before looking at you in the eyes one last time to see any trace of doubt. There wasn’t even a single trace of fear in your eyes which disappointed him. He wanted your fear. He wanted you to fear him, it was always easier for him that way.

Without say another word Yoongi used his left arm to grab your neck as he inched forward till his fangs grazed the skin above your carotid artery. Giving in Yoongi punctured his teeth into the vein. In an instant your blood filled his tongue he all he felt was euphoria. Your blood was so thick, and he couldn't help the strangled moan that slipped though as he drained the blood from your body. He could feel the alcohol in your bloodstream slowly fog his senses. He was drunk at the taste of you.

In one swift movement Yoongi dethatched himself from your neck and turned you over pushing you into the couch face down ass up, letting his body press into your back so you could feel his hard arousal thrust against your ass. He groaned as he let his hands trail from the dip in your back to your neck. Brushing your hair aside to his right hand he gripped your hair roughly pulling you up causing a gasp to leave your mouth at the pain of him lifting you up by your hair. Your ass was now fully planted on his lap and your back pressed against his chest.

“There is no one here that will hear you scream” Yoongi whispered, you turned your head to the side and saw his lips and chin stained with your blood, you should be scared. He was going to kill you.

Yoongi saw the slight fear in your eyes and proceeded to carry out his desires. Taking his unoccupied hand, he began to work at your jeans, unzipping your pants and shoving his hand down to cup your heated core.

“Mhmmmm fuck” you moaned at the contact.

“I bet you taste just as good as you smell” Yoongi rasped circling his thumb in figure eights around your throbbing clit.

“Shit Yoongi” you moaned dropping you head in the dip of his neck.

“Look at your all fucked out, your desperate little bitch you want me to fuck you so bad huh?”

“Please Yoo-” screaming in pleasure as Yoongi shoved two fingers knuckle deep into your pussy.

You tried moving away in fear of making a mess all over yourself, but Yoongi wasn’t having any of it. Releasing your hair, he wrapped his hand around your throat and fingered you harder. Your body squirmed in pleasure and pain. You could barely breathe at the weight of his strong hand cutting off your air ways.

“Fucking cum” Yoongi growled into your ear setting of your first orgasm, your vision became blurry as you felt him let go of your neck. The rush of air you sucked in as your body shook at the power of your orgasm was something you’ve never felt before. Coming down from your high you realized that you needed more.

Taking advantage of your fucked-out state Yoongi dove back into your neck needing more of your blood now that it pumped viciously though your veins. He drank you greedily till he felt your heartrate begin to slowdown. Wanting this to last he broke off from your neck and let your body fall forward on the couch.

“I’m not done with you yet.

Yoongi left your limp body on the couch in search for room where he could finish you off.

Your body felt weak and fragile as you laid on the couch, you could barely breathe properly as you laid there. Your eyes began to feel heavy as darkness engulfed you.

Once Yoongi found a room he made his way back and saw your passed-out frame barely breathing as you laid still. A sick smirk rose on his face, “Breathe for as long ass you can y/n” Yoongi then picked you up and walked to the empty room placing your weak body on the bed.

֍moments passed֍

Slowly gaining consciousness you still felt your fucked-out body ache and your head spin as you opened up or eyes to see the ceiling in the dimly lit room. Realizing where you were at you shot up from the bed and looked around to catch Yoongi staring right back at you in a chair across from the bed you were in.

“Good, you’re awake” Yoongi got up from the chair to stand near the edge of the bed.

“Uh- yeah did I”

“Pass out?”

“So much for your self-control”

“I nearly killed you” Yoongi stated.

“how am I-”

“-still alive, honestly I wanted to have a little more fun with you before I killed you”

“Oh” you responded rendered speechless by his blunt reply.

Yoongi ran a frustrated hair through his hair and began to pace the room, mumbling to himself like he couldn’t hold a grasp on reality. Finally, he stopped pacing and looked at your weak form bon the bed.

“This is your last chance, run I’ll even give you a head start before I come after you”

“I dont want to run”

Yoongi couldn’t grasp the reasoning behind your fascination. He never understood the human fascination humans had with his kind.

“You should be afraid of me” Yoongi approached y/n wanting to see the fear that was always in the eyes of the people he killed. Finding no trace of fear, he roughly grabbed your chin and sunk low into the bed with his legs trapping your weak frame.

“Once I’ve started I can’t stop. Your brother asked me not to kill you and I don’t even think I can honor that” Yoongi tilted his head examining you as your heart began to race. Your pulse quickened when his hands trailed against your sore throat.

“You should fear me” Yoongi said in a hushed tone. His body was now starting to breakdown, he could no longer hold himself back from the urges of his arousal and hunger for you.

“I told you- “Breaking from Yoongi’s grasp you reached up and tugged his head down till there was no more space between the two of you. With his lips inches from yours you spoke, “I’m not afraid”

“Run now, and I will spare your life. Stay and I will grant you a blissful death” Yoongi said against your lips.

Without another word you crashed your lips against his. Neither of you moved till Yoongi broke away from the kiss letting his breath linger against yours. You then opened your eyes and hoped he saw the need for him. You needed him to understand how badly you wanted this.

“Shit” Yoongi moaned before sealing your lips together in heated passion. This time he didn’t hold back, he gave into his desire and allowed his lips to caress your own. Taking your plump bottom lip into his he sucked it softly till he felt his fangs nip the soft flesh earning a weak gasp.

“Yoongi” you moaned arching your body into his.

“Shh” he hushed.

Yoongi then pulled away and ripped his button up disregarding the buttons that flew from the thin fabric of the shirt.  “Strip” He commanded lowly, not needing to be told twice you took off the tank top quickly and unbuttoned your jeans to take them off just as swiftly. Once you were both bare all that remained on your body was your bra underwear and for him he had his tight briefs on. You licked your lips as you stared at the outline of his thick cock just wanting to burst through from the confines of his tight briefs.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get my cock soon enough” Yoongi smirked proudly. “Lay back”

With impatient anticipation you followed orders and laid back down on the bed.  With only the ceiling in view you waited for the next move. No one could have prepared you for the sensation of Yoongi’s lips on your hot body as he made a trail from the dip of your belly button to the valleys of your breast. He gazed at you hungrily through hooded eyes before he continued the trail at the base of your neck. The more he kissed your neck the more skin he sucked into his mouth from your neck.

“You taste so fucking sweet” Yoongi groaned into your neck before letting his teeth sink in to your neck. The sharp pain of the intrusion caused your body to flinch away, but you were quickly trapped by Yoongi grabbing the back of your neck applying pressure to keep you from moving away.

With his free hand he snaked his hand down and slipped it through your soaked underwear and slipped his fingers through your slick folds. Your breath hitched as pleasure erupted throughout your whole body at the attention he gave your swollen clit. Breaking free from your neck Yoongi gripped your hair roughly pulling your face forward to meet his hungry eyes. You couldn’t help but watch as your blood escaped from his red lips and down his chin to free fall to his pale neck. The sick and twisted way he smirked as he leaned down and captured your lips with the lingering blood still on his plump lips.

“You like this don’t you y/n” Yoongi whispered on your lips, his hands still massaging your clit with a little more force than before.

“Fucking say it” Yoongi growled slipping his hand from your hair onto your throat.

“More, please Yoongi” You gasped lifting your hips to meet the caresses of his hands.

“Tell me what you want y/n, say it” Yoongi furrowed his brows in concentration.

“I want your mouth, and your fingers-And your cock” You chocked out trying to hold off the orgasm you felt creeping though.

“Look at you, so beautiful like this-You can’t even stop your needy pussy from coming all over my hands, can you?” Yoongi chucked darkly.

“Please let me cum Yoongi, I don’t think I can hold off” You managed to say before your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he slipped two thick digits into your greedy pussy. Your jaw went slack as you felt your orgasm approach, but it was ripped from your grasp when Yoongi pulled his fingers from your soaking core.

You whined at the loss of his fingers and begged him with your eyes to continue. “get up, I want to taste you” Yoongi ripped your underwear off your body and patted the inside of your thigh signaling you to get up. You watched him as he laid down on the bed near the headboard and waited.

“Have a seat” Yoongi rasped out.

Knowing what he wanted you made your way to his face and swung your left leg over the right side of his face. Griping the headboard Yoongi wrapped his arms over your thighs and lowered your pussy to his face. You both groaned at the contact as Yoongi laid his tongue flat against your pussy and licked a strip leading to your throbbing clit. From there he wrapped his wet lips around your clit and sucked roughly making you scream in pleasure.

Your body spasmed at the overload of pleasure you were feeling as he continued to eat you out lie a starved man. Your hips started to move involuntarily, as you started to grind against his tongue. Yoongi gripped your hips tighter when he let his tongue slip though your wet pussy. He groaned in pleasure at the taste as he let the wet muscle massage your inner walls. Feeding off the moans and screams of pleasure, Yoongi could tell you were about the come by the way your walls pulsated around his tongue the deeper his tongue went.

“I’m coming” you whimpered as the wave of pleasure hit you as your hips ground into Yoongi’s wet mouth.

Once you came down from your high you pushed you up, “Fuck you taste amazing y/n” Yoongi’s jaw clenched in frustration as he looked at his neglected cock.

“I can finish you off” You said getting on your knees in front of him.

“Mhmm, no time. I need you now” Yoongi shook his head. Hooking his hands behind your back Yoongi Unhooked your bra and let your breast heavy down. Licking his lips Yoongi latched his lips around your beaded nipple swirling his tongue sensually and letting the nipple go with a pop. He did the same to the other and made a trail of kisses that reached your trembling thighs before he punctured his teeth into your thigh sucking as much of your blood as he could till he went to your other thigh and did the same till he watched your body still. Quickly getting up Yoongi rushed and checked your pulse. Once he still herd and felt your heartbeat, “I’m okay Yoongi” you reassured him before you grasped his hard cock through his brief making him hiss.

You then hooked your fingers through the band of his briefs and slowly watched as you slid his brief down the angry head of his cock appeared making your mouth water at the sight. Fuck he was thick. Yoongi watched as you pulled the rest of his briefs down. You unconsciously licked your lips at the sight of him drove him crazy doing works for his ego. Finishing the job Yoongi slipped the fabric from his legs and repositioned himself between your thighs. Looking up at you He waited till you nodded your head allowing him to proceed.

At this rate you could feel your heartrate slowing down at the loss of blood from your system. All thoughts of the risk that you were taking left your mind when Yoongi thrusted into you without warning, filling you up tightly. Yoongi sunk without warning letting his head lay at the crook of your neck.

“You soo fucking tight” Yoongi breathed out painfully.

“Move” you said grabbing onto his hair roughly.

Yoongi lifted his body to let it hover over yours. All the while he kept eye contact with your fucked-out gaze as he pulled out and them slammed back into your pussy with a force that shook the hinges of the bed. Creating this steady rhythm of pulling out the way he did, pressed him closer and closer to your g-spot till you screamed when he began to hit it repeatedly without mercy. Yoongi gripped your waist tightly as he rammed into your pussy soaking in the way your tight pussy squeezed around him tightly.

He basked in the pleasure he gave you when he felt you pussy latched on to his cock giving you your third orgasm of the night.  Your screams of pleasure for him to keep going drove him to his, and he couldn’t help himself as he latched his fangs deep into your neck drinking your sweet blood once more as he rode off his orgasm. He could feel every inch of your pussy being coated by the thick ribbons of his release and lavished at the felling of your pussy bursting around him.

Not having enough of you Yoongi kept drinking from your neck still buried deep into your pussy till you began to whimper in protest, you grabbed his shoulder weakly trying to push him off till you stopped fighting. You stared at the dimly lit ceiling as you drew out one last breathe.

Yoongi then detached himself from your neck to stare at the mess he made. He held your limp body in his arms as he watched you exhale.

By then you felt nothing.

[artistic-writer]

CS AU : The Perfect Proposal

Once Upon a Festive Giving Exchange 2017

Title: The Perfect Proposal [full res fanart] Summary: Killian Jones has an image of the perfect proposal in his head, the one way he will surely win over the woman he wants to give his heart to for the rest of his life.  But will taking Emma on a five day break to the romantic, Austrian mountains help him find the courage and perfection he so desires? Rating: T Word count: 5089 - AO3 Author/Recipient: @artistic-writer for @pearlmackie AN: Written for @pearlmackie for this years Once Upon a Festive Giving Exchange 2017 - I hope i nailed all of the things you love about CS!  This has been written for a while now, and i made the fanart first, but thought you would like two gifts, so wrote a little ficlet too!  I know, I know, 5k isn’t exactly little but it is for me lol  Have a glorious Christmas my lovely! <3  With special thanks to my lovely beta for this project, @winterbaby89 <3 <3

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Killian was ready.  He had been ready for months, simply waiting for the right time. He had been carrying the tiny, velveteen box around with him, petrified that Emma would somehow discover it if he had left it at home.  It was easy to hide really, Maine was one of those states that often lends itself to needing a coat of some kind, which means plenty of pockets and plenty of hiding places.

Only now, as he stands on top of one of the whitest snowy peaks he had ever seen, Killian was suddenly not ready.  

This holiday had been a planned getaway after they had both decided they needed to unwind, and to just celebrate them.  They had decided they needed some alone time, time to get away from everything, but as they had previously found out, it was rather difficult to ‘escape’ family.  In the gentlest way he knew how, Killian had suggested to Emma that they leave America and holiday somewhere further away.  Somewhere in Europe.

As it was Christmas, they had gone somewhere with snow.  Following a quick internet search they had decided on a small, alpine retreat where they could indulge their fondness for skiing, in Austria. They chose a huge log cabin with an open plan living space and jaw dropping panoramic views of the white capped mountains around them from the floor to ceiling glass windows and a sun soaked balcony.  Killian had never been to Austria before and the subtly placed cabin wasn’t even a distraction from the Dachstein Mountains around them.

The day they had arrived, they were both too exhausted to do anything but stoke a log fire, warm some cocoa on the stove and enjoy each other, wrapped up in a huge real fur blanket.  The cabin owners had left them a short list of instructions on how to work everything, but they figured it could wait until they were warm and toasty.  When they retired for the night, having lost the natural light of day early in the evening, Killian checked on the tiny black box he had smuggled across the ocean with a smile.

Their second day, Emma had wanted to explore the wooded area near by.  So they had piled on clothes over their thermal base layers, and fumbled with the zips on their snow gear.  The crackling fire was the only sound as Killian watched Emma pull a grey, woolen bobble hat down over her ears.

“What?” She smirked, catching him watching her.

Killian stepped towards her, closing the gap between them and pulling her into his arms.  “Just admiring the view,” he smiled down at her, pressing his hand into the small of her back.

Emma rolled her eyes and relaxed into his embrace, swaying in his arms.  “The windows are behind you,” she purred.

“I know,” Killian grinned boyishly, holding her eye contact.  Emma’s eyes were the most dazzling shade of green with tiny flecks of amber littering the inner hues and if Killian didn’t know better, he would say the sparkle behind them was only for him.

“You old romantic,” Emma arched into him, flattening her palms over his chest with a smile that melts his heart.  All of the self doubt he had previously experienced faded away the second Emma smiled up at him.

Once again, he was ready.  

Only, things didn’t go exactly as he had hoped once they were actually outside.  Emma had slipped, losing her footing on some ice and tumbled down a snow covered slope where she landed flat on her behind.  It had kind of ruined the mood, so between laughing and scooping her up into his arms to carry her back to the cabin, Killian had decided that there would be more opportunities to tell the woman he loved how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

On the third day, Killian arranged for them to try their hand at mushing.  They were both dog people, turning to blubbering messes at the sight of a puppy, so he figured that Emma would love the feel of being in control of a whole team.  It was something he had also wanted to try, and after a few quick tutorials from the musher, they had decided to take it in turns to steer.

The sled was rickety, despite being made of some very strong yet lightweight wood, but it glided over the snow like it was a feather.  The dogs pulled at their harnesses so hard that whilst she was sitting in the basket, Emma felt the front lift up, and briefly lost sight of the dogs.  Snow churned up from their paws splattered over her face but she didn't mind, too lost in the exhilaration to care.

When it was time to switch positions once more, Killian halted the dogs at the end of a designated trail.  They all stopped on his command, each dog’s tongue lolling to the side as they panted and sucked in the cold air between yelps of detest.  Killian dropped the anchor, stamping on the two pronged metal spike until it was buried under the snow, then made his way from the back of the sled.

The snow came up to back of Killian’s knees, cooling his lower limbs instantly and he sucked in a deep breath with the shock.  When he reached the side of the sled he offered an outstretched hand to Emma and pulled her to her feet.

“That was amazing,” Emma breathed, stepping over the edge of the sled and gasping at the sudden cold enveloping her feet.  Even through her boots her feet felt the chill of the snow compacting around them.

Killian brushed some speckles of unmelted snow from her face with his mitten covered hand and when he knew she was steady on her feet, rubbed his hands up and down her arms to try and put some warmth back into her.  He had noticed Emma’s chin begin to quiver as her teeth chattered together, so he pulled her tight against his chest.

“I knew you would like this,” Killian told her softly, squeezing her tightly and pressing his lips to the tip of her nose.

“OH!” Emma squeaked, pulling back.  “Your lips are cold!”  She laughed.

Killian raised an eyebrow.  “Well, I have been on the receiving end of the wind for twenty minutes,” he laughed with her.

“And now you get to warm up in the basket on the ride back,” Emma beamed, hooking her arms back under his and pulling him back to her.  Killian tucked her under his chin, the stubble on his jaw catching in the wool of her hat.

“I’m alright,” Killian told her as he watched the moon join the low sun in the sky behind her.  “It’s getting late.  If you want to ride on the sled on the way back, I don’t mind.”

“Oh no,” Emma pushed him back and shook her head.  “Stop.”

“What?” Killian chuckled, stepping after her as she walked backwards.

Emma halted him with her own mitten covered hand and narrowed her eyes.  “The ch...chivalry,” she shivered.  

“Chivalry?” Killian asked innocently.  

Emma waved her arm around, ignoring the pain in her muscles from the dropping temperature.  “You think you can just charm your way into having another turn as musher,” Emma smirked and stepped back again.

Killian mirrored her smirk.  “Seems you have caught me, love,” he said softly.

Emma smiled just before she fell backwards, having tripped on an unseen root beneath the snow.  Killian was unable to grab her in time and Emma landed in the deepest pile of snow he had ever seen with a muffled oomph.  He couldn’t help but laugh at the sounds she made as she struggled to free herself from the packed snow.

“Killian!” Emma squealed at him as he laughed, clutching his middle from the spasming pain radiating out from his diaphragm.  “Killian Jones, help me!”  She groaned in frustration, grabbing his hand tightly.

“Alright, alright,” he clutched her hand, before stepping backwards pulling her free of the snow cavern, brushing a dusting of it from her as she stood in front of him.  “Are you okay, love?”

“I’m fine,” Emma huffed.

“Are you sure?” Killian dipped his head so that he could catch her gaze, brushing hair from her forehead and pulling her hat back down over her ears when her body betrayed her words and began trembling with shivers once more. Emma looked up into his eyes, the twinkle in them outshining any star in the sky.  He loved her more than he could say; unconditionally, with honesty, and absolute certainty that she loved him back just as much.

“I’m fine,” Emma repeated, narrowing her eyes.  “And I’ll be just fine mushing these dogs back to town,” she glared at him, unable to contain her twitch of a smile.

“Oh,” Killian smiled when she had worked out his plan, well, part of it.  Killian had wanted to tuck her back into the sled basket and begin their journey back to the cabin, stopping half way as the moon rose in the sky to replace the sun.  It was then that he planned to drop to one knee, show her the ring he had been hoarding for so long, and ask her to marry him.  But if she figured he just wanted a second turn, he would let her think that to keep his secret.

“You forget, Jones, I know you better than anyone else,” Emma chided, stomping back to the waiting sled.  The dogs sensed the return of their musher, jumping at the end of their ropes, barking and squeaking at each other in anticipation.

Killian watched her with a swell of love in his heart, even if she had thwarted his plans to propose once more.  It wasn’t Emma’s fault, and she wasn’t even aware of what he was doing, but with the holiday already half way done, he was running out of time.

“Aye, love,” Killian smirked, smacking his hands together and rubbing them together furiously.  “You do.”

The fourth day had been one they decided to spend in the cabin.  After all, what good was a holiday if there was no resting involved?  Killian woke before Emma, as usual, padding barefoot to the kitchen to brew some coffee.  He knew Emma well enough to know that she wouldn’t even get out of bed without the aroma of roasted coffee filling her nostrils.

Once the kettle was filled and set atop the gas fuelled hob, the blue flame licking at the underside of the cast iron pot, Killian moved to the lounge.  He knelt down in front of the open fireplace and used one of the nearby tools to poke around at the ash that had been left from the night before.  Killian scooped it carefully into the provided ash bucket before restocking the cavity with dried logs.  Killian tutted to himself.  There were only two logs left which meant he would have to go outside and chop more, as per the owner’s instructions.

With a grunt he pushed himself to his feet, heading back to the bedroom to grab some clothes.  Peeking around the doorframe, Killian noticed Emma was still asleep, so he made sure not to make a sound as he got dressed.  The kettle began to whistle from the kitchen and with wide eyes, he almost ran from the bedroom to stop the shrill sound before it woke Emma.  Killian wrenched the knob that turned the gas off and the kettle stopped its whistle, the sound dying off and just silent steam pouring from the spout.

Shooting a glance over his shoulder, Killian froze, waiting for any indication that Emma was awake.  When he was met with silence, he moved to the couch and fell into the seat, leaning forward to pull his heavy snow boots from under the coffee table where they had been drying by the fire from the day before.  Killian pulled them on one at a time, rising to his feet and heading for the door.

Emma was pulled from the pleasantness of slumber by a dull, rhythmic thumping.  It echoed in her head, in sync with the heartbeat in her ears, and she focused on the thumping, to drown out the sound of silence.  Was she still dreaming?  Was there a woodpecker tapping on the inside of her brain?  With a foggy haze clouding her cognitive ability, Emma could only groan as she rolled over to find Killian’s side the of the bed cold and empty.

Emma peeled an eye open, pressing her face into the cool edge of the pillow with a frown.  The noise continued, and as she rubbed at her eyes, it grew louder.  The silence outside was broken by a thud and a splitting noise time and time again, and finally, Emma could take no more.  She simply had to find out what was going on and where the noise was coming from.  

Throwing back the huge, thick comforter, Emma was instantly hit with the chill of the room.  The room was cold, the usually comfortable warmth in the air missing and as soon as her feet touched the floor, Ema shivered.  Why was it so cold?  Where was Killian?  Meanwhile, the thumping continued, so Emma pushed herself to her feet and followed the sound, grabbing her jacket and throwing her arms into the sleeves along the way.

“Killian?” She called, peering around the wall that lead to the kitchen area.  He wasn’t there, but the noise was louder.  Emma noticed Killian’s snow boots were missing and that the fire was out.  That would explain why it was so cold in the cabin, and with a smirk, Emma realised what the repetitive thudding actually was and immediately headed towards the back door.

Emma wrapped her arms around herself, the jacket she was wearing rustling.  She was still in her pajamas bottoms so her jacket looked oversized, but it was keeping her warm as she approached the balcony.  What she saw warmed her instantly, setting the love in her heart afire and making her lips twitch sideways into a smile.

Killian was chopping wood, repeatedly lifting half logs onto an old tree stump and swinging a razor sharp axe until the logs split in two.  He was sweating, tiny beads littering his brow that glistened in the morning sunlight.  Tiny wisps of evaporating hotness wafted up from his hair and neck, his coat long since discarded under the heat of his exertions.  He took a breather, straightening up with a wince and exhaling a long, visible breath.

“Can’t you chop that wood faster?” Emma teased, leaning her elbows on the snow covered railing.  “It’s freezing in here.”

Killian whipped his head toward her voice, a smile erupting on his face.  He let the axe slip between his fingers until the head hit the ground beside his boot and leaned against it with a cocky grin.  “Aye? I hadn’t noticed,” Killian winked, kicking a tuft of snow in front of his foot.

Emma raised an eyebrow and felt a shiver run up her spine.  “It’s cold out here too,” she said softly, her teeth chattering.  “Come back inside.”

Killian lifted the axe again, swinging it hard until the head hit the tree stump.  He quickly gathered some of his split logs, bundling them into his arms and heading back towards the cabin.  Emma smirked as he approached, leaning over the handrail a little more with a pout, eagerly awaiting his lips on hers.

Killian walked right up to the balcony, pressed his lips to Emma’s and hummed contently against her lips.  Emma’s hands were cold on his cheeks and he gasped when she slid her chilled fingertips to the back of his hot neck, relishing the way she giggled when he made a very unmanly yelp.  “You only want my body warmth, love,” Killian smirked, his eyebrow jumping up on his face.

“Oh, you got me,” Emma rolled her eyes.

“Come on sweet,” Killian nudged his head sideways and reluctantly pulled his head from her grasp.  “Let’s get you warm.”

Once Killian had successfully stoked the fire with Emma sitting on the nearby couch in her pajamas, he pushed himself to his feet and turned to face her.  He offered her a warming smile and moved to join her, his heavy woollen socks moving silently across the floor.  Killian dropped into the seat next to her and when he lifted his arm, Emma instinctively pressed herself to him.  Killian rubbed a hand up and down her arm, pulling her tighter to him and turning his head to kiss to top of her head.

“There, that’s better,” he mumbled into her hair, inhaling her sweet scent.

“Mmmm,” Emma hummed contently, clutching harder at Killian’s sweater.

“Miss me, love?” He smiled down at her.

“Always,” Emma whispered into the fabric of his sweater.

The tightness in Killian’s chest became more apparent and he felt the prickle of nervous heat flush over his body.  He stared into the fire, watching the flames flicker and the wood pop and char.  Emma’s one word admission was like a trigger, setting Killian’s heart fluttering in his chest and suddenly reminding him that he had a very important question to ask.

“Are you okay?” Emma asked, shaking him from his daydream when she got no response.

“Aye, love,” Killian said nervously, pulling himself from her grasp.  “I’ll be right back.  I just need to use the little boy’s room,” he smiled at her, pressing his lips to her cheek for a quick kiss.  Emma looked confused for a second, but Killian assured her he would be right back, and that it was simply the cold weather bringing on the call of nature.

As soon as Killian was in the bedroom, he scrambled around in the top drawer of the bureau where he had left the ring box, grabbed it and rushed into the en suite bathroom.  Was he having a panic attack?  His breath caught in his throat and Killian clutched at his chest, flattening his palm over his heart that was thundering in his ribcage.  He gripped at the edge of the sink, his hands shaking as he stared at the box in front of him.  Taunting him.

Why was this so hard?  Killian had been in possession of the ring for so many months he was almost annoyed with himself for buying it in the first place.  Emma was not a material person.  She wouldn’t care if he had a ring or not, and all he cared about was that she was happy.  Was she happy?  Emma seemed happy, so would giving her a ring change anything?  

Killian lifted his head and stared at the reflection facing him.  “Come on, Jones,” he growled at himself.  “You can do this.  She will say yes.  Stop being such a bloody coward.”  He took a deep breath, nodding to his reflection and swiped the ring box off of the vanity.

The only sound Killian heard when he re-entered the room was the crackling of the fire.  He was gripped with fear when he couldn’t see Emma anywhere. He rushed to the couch and felt relief wash over him when he saw her blonde locks poking out from underneath the blanket that covered her.  Killian relaxed instantly, moving around to the front of the couch and kneeling down in front of Emma’s sleeping form.

She had fallen asleep, maybe from delayed jet lag, but considering they only had a few days left of their holiday, Killian decided to let her sleep.  Tomorrow they would go skiing, and when they were back at the cabin once more, Killian was sure he would find his opportunity to propose.  The perfect moment would arise, he was sure of it, but for now he would let Emma sleep.  Emma whimpered in her sleep, before sighing deeply.  The blanket had slipped from her shoulders and a few wayward strands of her hair fell over her face.

“Maybe next time,” Killian whispered so softly his voice was barely audible as he pushed Emma’s hair from her face.  He reached out and tucked the blanket back under her chin, running the back of his knuckles over the apple of her cheek and mirroring her smile when Emma’s lips twitched.

The fifth and final day of their holiday was filled with skiing, and lots of it.  Killian had never been so exhausted in all of his life, never realising how much of a tremendous effort it actually took to stay upright on skis.  They had attended a short instruction seminar earlier, but then they were free to roam the slopes as much as they liked.  And Emma liked.  A lot.

“Are you not tired, love?” Killian huffed, digging his ski poles into the snow on either side of his bright red skis.

“No!” Emma squeaked excitedly, pushing off the the snow in front of him and heading back up the incline of the hill.  “This is so much fun!”

They had found a quiet, out of the way slope and were enjoying having it all to themselves.  Emma, the more confident skier, effortlessly sailing down the white covering time and time again whilst Killian, the more cautious, took his time walking sideways and checking the density of the snow underfoot.  Emma had laughed at him, throwing her head back and giving him the open mouth smile that caused familiar palpitations in his chest.

There was something about Emma Swan that made Killian Jones want to hold onto her forever.  He was sure it was more than love, even greater than true love, but as he had never felt it before, he was both amazed and petrified by how she could make him feel.  There were so many little things that culminated into one giant burning ball of endearment that was sometimes so overwhelming, Killian simply froze.  Like now, as Emma glided over the alpine snow towards him, skidding to a stop in slow motion right before him, the sun radiating around her form like an Angel sent to guide him.

Killian was so lost in his awe of Emma that he almost missed the polarized flash of another skier as he came hurtling down the slope towards them.  The other skier was clearly inexperienced, losing his footing and almost tripping over his own skis.  He called out, digging his ski poles into the snow behind him but it was to no avail.

“Emma, watch out!” Killian screamed, pushing Emma aside and taking the full impact of the wayward skier.  The man, clad in an all white tracksuit which was ridiculous for skiing, tumbled into Killian with such a force that both men were sent hurtling further down the slope and into a safety barrier at the bottom of the hill.

“Killian!” Emma cried, sliding after them in a slow side to side descent.  Her heart pounded in her chest and the chill in the cheeks prickling with heat and panic.

Killian was in a heap, knocked out completely by the impact.  Before Emma had even got to his side, resort paramedics were by his side, taking off his one remaining ski and assessing him for injuries.  Miraculously he was mostly unhurt, the soft snow having absorbed most of the impact from the collision, but they would take him to the nearest hospital anyway.

“He is not sedated but we gave him something strong for the pain…”

“He has a lot of bruising…”

“He is a lucky man…”

The voices in Killian’s head were, as it turned out, not fake as he had first suspected.  He was just coming around from the accident, and the pounding in his temple was proof of that.  The glow of light from the room cast a dull red over the inside of his eyelids and he could feel warm fingertips on the side of his face, easing the tension in his muscles.

“Swan?” He croaked, not opening his eyes but moving his eyeballs around under his eyelids frantically.

“I’m right here,” Emma soothed and Killian felt her clutch at his hand.

“Are you alright?” He rasped, coughing a little and wincing from the pain that shot through his chest.  He finally peeled an eye open and saw Emma sitting beside his bed.  He didn’t know how he had arrived in said bed, or this room, but he recognised it unmistakably as a hospital.

Emma let out a small relieved laugh, expelling all of the pent up emotions she had been fighting to hold back.  She surged forward, planting her lips on his so hard he thought she might knock his teeth out.  Killian fought the scorching pain in his muscles as lifted his own arm, cupping Emma’s cheek and smoothing his thumb over the swell of her cheek.  Emma’s lips trembled against his, as her hot, fat tears soaked both of them.

“Are you alright?” Killian repeated when Emma finally pulled her lips from his and rested her forehead on his.

“Killian…” she sobbed.  Chastising him with one single word, his name, that told him so much all at once.  Emma rolled her forehead against his, letting the panic she had been feeling escape in the form of more tears.

“I’m alright,” Killian smiled weakly, brushing her tears away with the back of his knuckles.

“They said you could have been seriously hurt,” Emma choked out between sobs.

“But I was not,” Killian told her softly.

“Even the thought of losing you made me feel so cold and empty,” Emma continued, her sobs catching in her throat.

Killian cupped her face in both of his hands until she was forced to look him in the eyes.  The bright green hue of Emma’s eyes was watered down with the salt of her tears, dulled by her shock and fear.  It had never been like Emma to open up so freely, even in the face of losing somebody that she loved, and Killian loved her even more for it.

“I’m not going anywhere, love,” He smiled at her with a raised eyebrow.  “Do you really think you can get rid of me that easily?”

Emma laughed at his teasing, pulling from his grasp to grab a tissue from the table beside the bed.  As she did, she spotted Killian’s belonging that had been placed inside a clear, plastic ziplock bag when they had removed most of his clothing.  Emma spied a small, square box and stopped breathing.

“Yes,” She breathed quickly, looking back to Killian with wide eyes and a tear stained face.  

“Oh, well, in that case…” Killian frowned.

“No, Killian,” Emma shook her head and grabbed the bag.  She set it down on the bed and when Killian realised what she was looking at, and what “yes” meant, he paled.  Emma fished in the bag and pulled out the box, holding it between them with a gasp.  “I mean, Yes,” Emma nodded.

“Oh,” He breathed, the word nothing more than a sound on his breath.  “About that…”  Killian rubbed the back of his neck nervously, letting his finger linger behind his earlobe.

“This is what I think it is, right?” Emma gulped, lifting her gaze briefly before opening the box and looking down at the ring inside.  Killian had decided on a plain white gold band with a white diamond set on top, and when Emma saw it she snapped the box closed nervously.

“Well, yes,” Killian admitted.  “But I have been trying for months to find the right time to… you know, ask you properly.”

Emma watched Killian fidget like a scolded child that had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been.  “Months?” Emma sounded hurt.

Killian watched the spark fade from Emma’s eyes once more and he swallowed the dry lump in his throat.  “I just wanted it to be perfect,” he sighed, looking down at his lap as his top teeth  fiddled nervously with a patch of beard hair below his bottom lip.  When he looked back up to Emma, he was surprised to see she had dropped to the floor and pulled the box open once more, only now it was facing him and the glow in her emerald eyes was back.  “Emma, what are you…”

“Killian Jones, will you marry me?”

The slacked jawed expression he gave her seemed to only spur her on to continue.

“Killian Jones, you are many things.  I have never met such a handsome, talented, caring individual in all my life.  Everybody loves you.  Everyone thinks we are one of those couples that can never remember their anniversary because they simply feel like they have been together forever, so a little date is irrelevant…”

“It’s September 19th…” Killian smirked.

“Shut up,” Emma glared, trying to hide her grin.  “The truth is, we, well some of us, are just not bogged down with the unimportant things in our lives.  What is important is having somebody in your corner, someone to help you find your way…”

Killian reached out and clutched Emma’s hand when her tears began to flow once more.  Emma quickly turned her head and wiped the tears on her shoulder, the tiny box shaking when her hands began quivering.  “You are my person, Killian.  There is no right time for something like this, you just have to know when the universe is perfectly aligned for two stars to collide forever.  You are the light in my darkness, the… the…” Emma faltered.

“The peas to your carrots, love,” Killian smiled and Emma laughed.

“Stop ruining my proposal with your Britishness,” she feigned annoyance until he apologised with a bow of his head.  “What I am trying to say…”

“Yes,” Killian interrupted her quickly, squeezing her hand.  “Emma Swan, I will bloody well marry you.”

Emma launched herself into Killian’s arms, mindful of his bruises as she peppered kisses all over his face.  Killian took the box from her hand and pulled the ring free from its foam security, aligning the white gold circle with Emma’s finger and slipping it on.  When it fit, mostly intuition on his part, Killian had never felt more connected with anyone in his entire life.

“This was not how I had this planned,” he told her softly, pressing his lips to hers once more.  

“You can’t plan for perfection,” Emma beamed, stroking her fingers through his scruff.

“Aye, love,” Killian agreed, pulling her into his arms.  “That you cannot.”

[kevinmoyer]

Intimate Daytime Wedding in New York City :: Christine & David

Whenever a couple chooses to marry in a way that is exactly right for them, it shows in the pictures. Christine & David look so giddy in just about every shot! I really love that they chose a wedding that would have been considered the norm in the ’50s – midweek, ten guests, and an intimate luncheon with champagne toasts. (And PS: any bride who orders a cheeseburger for her wedding meal has a very special place in my heart!)

Christine decided to get ready with her bridesmaid, and not to see David before the wedding. She told us “I know we didn’t have a super traditional wedding, but I still felt strongly about spending the night before the wedding apart and not seeing each other until I ‘walked down the aisle’ — or in our case, stepped into the law library.”

What inspired you when you were planning your wedding? To be honest, I was mostly inspired by the simple post-World War II wedding of my grandparents. They had a very fuss-free ceremony and weren’t worried about any of the so-called requirements of weddings in 2017: nothing needed to be Pinterest-worthy! I just wanted to have a wedding that celebrated us and didn’t unnecessarily stress me out. And since it was a semi-elopement in New York City, I also wanted things to be city chic  – I wanted a short dress with pockets, shoes that I could walk in, and the backdrop of Manhattan.

The Ceremony

Why did you choose this location for your ceremony? Although we originally planned on a City Hall elopement, a family friend who is a federal judge offered to married us in the law library at the United States Court of International Trade. It’s located right across the street from City Hall, so in a way we had the simple, straightforward, non-religious ceremony we wanted — but with the added benefit of a slightly more personal ceremony and a scheduled time. And as a bibliophile, I was thrilled to get married in a library!

Your ceremony in three words. Simple, semi-elopement, city chic.

Who officiated your ceremony? How did you choose him/her? A family friend who was a federal judge officiated our ceremony. When David’s dad mentioned to him that we were getting married at City Hall, he kindly offered to marry us instead. He was great about keeping City Hall elements that we wanted, but also infused the ceremony with more of our personal history.

How did you go about planning your ceremony? We had an initial meeting with the judge where we talked about our relationship and what was important to us in a ceremony. Although we wanted to keep things simple and we weren’t interested in writing our own vows (“if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!” was my general attitude), we did have a couple of readings we wanted included. The judge sent us two the transcripts of two ceremonies he had officiated before, and we mixed and matched until we got something that felt right to us. Having a template or a past example to refer to was very helpful!

You can see Christine & David’s full ceremony script right here!

What were your ceremony readings? I’m not an overly sentimental or romantic person, so I didn’t want anything too sappy! One was i carry your heart, a lovely poem by e.e. cummings., and another was Union, a reading that I found ages ago and summed up what I thought a wedding should be: less about the wedding day, and more about the foundation of the relationship and the marriage ahead.

What were your vows like? Our vows were straightforward and non-religious. Neither of us had any interest in writing our own vows: as a writer, I felt like it would be too much pressure and add a lot of stress leading up to the day. David felt like he would get too overwhelmed with emotion if he had to read anything more personal. And if it ain’t broke, why fix it! Although I’ve heard wonderful personal vows at my friends’ weddings, I’m really glad we stuck to the script.

What was your favorite thing about your wedding ceremony? It was very intimate: just us, our parents, David’s sister and her now-husband, my best friend and David’s best friend. I didn’t feel any pressure to make it Pinterest-worthy or an “event”, which freed me to just enjoy the moment and the day. One funny memory is that Chris, David’s best friend and one of our witnesses, actually dropped the rings during the ceremony: it made everyone laugh and brought a bit of levity to the day! David says that he’s grateful for it because he was on the brink of (happy) tears, and this lightened things up and helped keep his emotions in check.

Is there anything else that you’d like to share about your wedding ceremony? It felt really joyful! We were both really happy to be there, and I think it showed.

Did you include any traditions in your ceremony? We had a “City Hall” wedding, so we didn’t have many traditions from bigger weddings. We did have my stepdad walk me into the room and give me away, which was something important to my parents. And we had a champagne toast in the judge’s chambers immediately following the ceremony as we signed all of the official paperwork!

What was the best advice you received as a bride? I’m very grateful that none of our family pressured us to have a wedding different than the one we wanted. We had so many older friends and family who applauded our decision to have a smaller wedding, and in doing so save more money for a down payment (or a honeymoon!) My best advice would be to do what feels right for you, not because that’s what a blog or Pinterest or a well-meaning aunt says a wedding must be.

What advice do you have for other couples in the midst of planning a wedding? Don’t be afraid to do something small! Semi-eloping can be a fantastic way to keep the focus on the two of you and eliminate a lot of the stress and cost of wedding planning.

Please tell us about any other special details or moments from your day. We took portraits on the streets of New York City on our way from the ceremony to the reception. Our pug puppy named Gertrude joined us, which was my favorite part of the day! The best part about a New York City ceremony: the energy of the city is just incredible, and the hospitality of strangers really pours out for newlyweds!

If you had it to do over again, is there anything you would do differently? We only told our immediate family and witnesses that we were getting married, so it was a surprise elopement to the rest of our family and friends! We had a few friends over to our hotel suite later that evening to celebrate with drinks, but I would have loved to have been able to include more of our close city friends. It’s tough to balance the surprise element of an elopement with not wanting to offend good friends!

Christine told us “we did portraits in a few locations near City Hall between our ceremony and our luncheon, and I especially love the candid outtakes as our little crew made our way around the city.”

The Reception

How would you describe your reception? After our ceremony, we had a lovely and intimate lunch at Tiny’s and the Bar Upstairs in Tribeca. We only had ten guests (plus our wedding photographer, Mat Rick, who is a close friend of ours!) for a long lunch with plenty of champagne toasts.

Why did you choose this location for your reception? We wanted something close to the courthouse that would be easily for our families to walk to. I love the cocktails at Tiny’s, and it’s such a cute little pink façade in the middle of all the gray skyscrapers in the city. When I found out they had a private upstairs room, I knew it would be perfect for our group!

Did you have a signature cocktail? We served champagne, Old Fashioneds and West 12ths (a refreshing mix of vodka, mint and lemon).

What was your favorite moment or part of the reception? It’s hard to pick a favorite moment – it was just so wonderful to be with our most important people in the same room. My husband’s parents, his sister, and both of our witnesses all made such moving toasts, the champagne was flowing, the food was delicious, and we were married!

What was your wedding menu? Tiny’s and the Bar Upstairs features family-style starters, and then everyone was able to choose their own main. Without a doubt, I think everyone loved the burrata the most! I had a cheeseburger, which felt surprisingly decadent and like a really fun wedding day choice.

Is there anything else that helps tell the story of your wedding? We opted to semi-elope on our fourth anniversary, even though it fell on a Wednesday in March! I always had dreams of eloping, but we did want our parents and best friends present. This was a nice compromise, and I love that we will always have the one anniversary.

What type of cake or dessert did you serve? We had a carrot cake! It’s David’s favorite type of cake, and we had it simply done with all-white icing. It was delicious and easy – his sister and her husband pick it up from the bakery on the way from the ceremony to the luncheon – and it only cost $45.

Do you have any budget tips for other brides? We ended up spending about $5K on the day. The main things we spent on: our attire, the photographer and the luncheon. Even without buying much that was specifically ‘bridal’, we still spent a decent amount on what we wore. David invested in a custom-fitted suit (that he’s since worn several times) and I bought a new dress, a pair of nude heels and veil for the occasion (which altogether cost less than $1000). One of our good friends photographed our proposal (as a complete surprise!), and we were thrilled to hire him to photograph our wedding day. Even though he offered us a generous friends and family discount, it was still a major portion of our budget but definitely money well-spent. He did a wonderful job of capturing candid moments and plenty of portraits of us, along with our friends and family. Lunch at Tiny’s & the Bar Upstairs was in a warm and cozy wood-paneled private room. Although they don’t charge any venue fees, there is a $1000 minimum spend, and the set menu was $40 per person (not including drinks).

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