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ererokii · 3 years ago

Text

— broken strings and beautiful melodies

diluc r. x f!reader

Word Count: 9.6k Warnings: major character death, mentions of violence, mentions of blood, gore, this does not follow the og plot and lore/ some spoilers for “We Will be Reunited” Archon Quest Note: this is for Attack On Academia’s Mythology Summer Collab! Please be sure to check out the masterlist for everyone else’s works. They all worked super hard and it turned out amazing! And big thanks to @reddriot and @axther for betaing <3

Synopsis: A simple love story between the Pyro Archon, and a mortal.

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Another four days pass and it’s finally Friday. Fridays at Angel’s Share were no different from the ones prior. Exhausted adventurers and townspeople venture inside the tavern to drink their woes away, to forget, or to have a great time. It was annoying, to say the least—hearing the laughter and cheers bouncing off the walls.

However, Diluc had to say nothing was worse than a certain pigtail braided bard strutting in with his lyre. The redhead had no choice but to serve the bard his choice of drinks after figuring out his true identity (although he still makes him pay the whole total—even if the singer can’t find a way to pay).

Like before, the bartender lifts his head up, crimson eyes boring into the crowd gathering beside the bard at the nearby table.

The bard’s soft voice matches with the melody of his lyre, fingers pulling and gracefully sliding past the strings. His eyes closed, telling a story to the nearby peers and the quiet man standing behind the counter. A tale Diluc heard once, yet it weighed on him all the same.

“The story of this archon is no better than the rest, yet, the most tragic comes from the debris of war. The god of War was like no other. Loads of strength, yet grief and sorrows weigh him down like an anchor in the vast ocean. Love is a mere factor, yet love is one of the many things the god brought ruin to.”

With heavy footsteps, a red-haired male walks along the dirt path in no shoes, wearing the silkiest of robes one could ever obtain. He hums to himself, brushing a loose strand of hair away from his face, letting out a huff of annoyance when it falls right back into the same position as before.

He breathes in the crisp air of the summer night, relishing the winds that brush across his skin. Summers in Natlan were one of a kind. While it was scorching in the morning, when the night came around, all was calm. The harsh rays turned into blissful winds that cleansed the land of heat.

During the other seasons, it was never too cold, nor was it ever too hot. The temperature was just right for all men, women and children.

Located in the southwestern region of Teyvat, Natlan was home to the Pyro Archon, known as The God of War. The god, Murata, is unlike any other god. Ruthless and fierce, he does not handle any threat lightly. Anything thrown his way, he does not hesitate. With kindness and love, Murata will no doubt protect his nation.

His statues are scattered across the land. Standing with his formal rags and cloak that shields his face, Murata holds his claymore in his right hand, the tip pointing down to symbolize his foes beneath him as he celebrates in victory.

In the night sky, his statues act like lights to guide those on safe journeys home or to neighboring nations. Along with being guides, the structures are used for a place of reverence. Often many would journey far and wide to pay thanks for everything he has done.

In the center lies the biggest of them all, flowers and candles are set up around it for ceremonial purposes. Every night new plants were replaced for the days to come. Like the other Archons, Murata was grateful for his people. When roaming the land, he spots commoners on their knees by the base of the statue during the late of night or the crack of dawn. Not wanting to disturb, the archon watches from afar.

Today is different. Murata continues to walk along the path, listening to the noises coming from the forest animals and the creeks as the waters begin to rush at this hour of the night. He can’t help but let out the faintest of hums at the sounds of nature.

He reaches for the side of his face, tucking a red strand behind his ear. Often the god will put his hair up into a low or high ponytail, but for outings in the cool atmosphere, he prefers to wear it down. His powers were compared to his hair many times. When describing his appearance, he listens to the children exaggerate saying his hair is literal flames that he can produce from the palm of his hands. Of course, this is nowhere near true, but a child’s imagination is quite amusing.

In the distance, his crimson hues bore straight ahead at the small flickering light.

“Someone must be up now,” he whispers to himself, debating on leaving them alone but instead, chooses to go up ahead and observe from a closer proximity. Muratans knew what their god looked like. He comes out during the day to pay visits but never for long periods of time.

As quick as they see him, it's as quick as they’ll see him leave. No one can ever hold his attention for too long.

The sound of strings being played can be heard from his spot-- and he halts. A lyre, one of his favorite pastimes and favorite instruments.

Over the hill is a figure sitting beside the statue, back turned to him but he can see the movement of their arm. Curious, Murata continues to stalk forward quietly, not wanting to disturb the worshipper.

The melody played is show-stopping in his eyes. He wonders if Celestia had sent down someone he was unaware of to play this just for him, and only him. If anything, he could settle on the grass and listen to them play for ages on end, wearying his immortal days out. Music was the only thing that could settle him, but not forever.

Now, he's a mere few steps away from the cloaked figure. His face is lit up by the candles by his feet. His tongue peeks out of his lips as an unknown feeling bursts through his body. His palms felt sweaty and his heart rate increased.

He winces when the wrong note is played, gritting his teeth together. The redhead doesn’t think much until a force pushes him backward.

“W-Why are you standing there watching me?! Don’t you know this place is meant for us to come together, not to be creepy like you just were right now?!”

“W-What?” he whispers in surprise, bringing a hand to cover his nose that suddenly feels wet. He pulls away, noticing the red drops on his skin. Blood.

“Don’t question me that way! You know exactly what you were doing… A pig is what you are. Oh, just you wait until Murata finds out about this.”

“Murata huh?” he questions, wiping his hand on the grass, watching the blood dissolve into nothing-- the red trails of blood trickling down his nose come to an unsuspecting halt.

He clears his throat and comes to stand, staring down at the figure behind him. With the candlelight, a glimpse of crimson eyes and matching hair can be seen. In a matter of seconds, it's silent. Until there is a subtle gasp.

It amuses the Archon greatly to see a change in behavior and the fear present in the civilian's eyes. He wouldn’t dare try anything to her, but maybe it would lighten the mood if he did.

With desperate breaths of air, you reach forward and grab ahold of the man's hands, squeezing as hard as you could. “M-My Lord, I deeply apologize for my behavior! Please forgive me! I was foolish!”

“No need to be formal all of a sudden…mistakes are made and all can be forgiven. I must say, you are quite gifted with that instrument in your hand.”

Your face heats up, suddenly finding the ground much more interesting than him as you gaze down. Your god had just complimented you and yet here you are losing the composure you had seconds ago.

“Thank you,” you whisper, hand clutching the lyre close to your chest. “It’s an honor to hear such wonderful words, especially coming from you.”

Murata stares down, an unexplainable look upon his face. Then, he smiles.

“Your name?”

“Pardon?”

“What is your name? As someone as gifted as you, I think you deserve to have your name remembered.”

“My name is Y/N. For some reason, your kind words seem to boost my confidence. I normally don’t play in front of people, I’m too shy and afraid of their judgement. I only like to play in front of the statue… or in this case, you.”

“How about you play for me again?”

The angelic sounds of your lyre had been played more often since you’ve met the god. The night was when you shined, when no one was around to listen or stare at you. The dark sky made you feel alone, yet you were at peace. You found pleasure in playing for the Pyro Archon statue, yet having him sitting beside you and listening made your heart beat just a bit more than before.

During the day, you find yourself sitting under the big oak trees, the sunlight peeking through the leaves and shining upon you two. Murata lays close to you, eyes shut and lashes resting against his upper cheeks as the song lulls him to a quick nap or a state of serenity.

He’ll comment on a subtle note, saying how he loves the pitch, or give recommendations. Many times Murata has taken your instrument and played a tune or two for you. He says every gentleman should at least know how to serenade a lady.

As a child, your family spoke highly of him. They even used him as a threat against you when you’ve done something wrong. Now that you look back, it was a mere hoax and it possibly scarred you just a bit. When you first told Murata this, he stared with his lower lip quivering before his shoulders started to shake and then, he let out a laugh.

“Surely you didn’t believe that, right?”

“I did! I was a child, what else was I supposed to do?! I nearly wet my sheets when my mother told me that you would come and scare me!”

“Well come on now, are you still scared?”

He enjoys seeing you worked up—then again, he loves seeing you play the lyre. He stays quiet and watches your fingers move as if they had a mind of their own. You move with grace, without hesitation. There is no wrong note, no wrong string when you play. Sometimes being here with you in this moment made him feel like he was mortal. Like he was able to live freely.

Being bound to divinity in Celestia, Murata had wandered Teyvat for ages, alone. Each person he had gotten close to, he had to watch them disappear from this world in the shadows. At some point, he even had to pretend to be lost so others could forget about him. If they forgot about Murata, would the load be easier on the Pyro Archon’s shoulder?

But now, you’re aware of his status and who he truly is. If you were to stay by his side, would he be the last thing you see before you pass into the next life? He’s not sure, but he’s hoping that won’t be true. He couldn’t bear with the guilt that will get him worked once more at the thought of another mortal dying in front of his eyes.

“Murata?” you ask one afternoon, sitting by the same statue you met him for the first time. “What’s it like?”

He steers his gaze away from the clouds and onto you, an eyebrow raised in question. “What is what like?”

“You know—” you start, messing with the material of your dress, head lowered. “Being a god?”

And then he freezes. Out of all the questions you could have possibly asked, this one had to be the most unexpected.

“Why do you wish to know something like that?”

“I want to know what it’s like. Immortality and eternal beauty sound pretty amazing, doesn’t it?”

“No,” he immediately states, sitting upright. His body looks tense, posture perfect and hands in his lap. However, you notice the small twitch in his fingers, as if he’s thinking. You can hear the heaviness in his breathing—lips parted as the air slips in and out of his mouth.

How can living on this earth for years on end, watching people die in front of you like they are meaningless, be perfect? Is that what people thought about immortality? The faces of past friends from ages ago are nothing but a blob of color in his mind. He can’t remember their faces, nor their voices—only the memories they have shared, and even that is starting to fade away.

Murata cleared his throat, eyes fluttering shut. His chest heaved up slowly, before falling at the same rate. Soon, he opens his eyes and faces you. He reaches up and tightens his high ponytail, running his fingers through the red tresses. “The life of an immortal is not...ideal.”

“There comes a time where living forever is not as good as it seems. A human like yourself might think differently since there is an end to everyone’s journey. Death is inevitable for a human, and almost all are afraid of the end itself. Even… I am afraid there will be a time I will be cursed with that end. But for now, that’s something that rarely crosses my mind..”

And he continues. Murata proceeds to tell you about the drawbacks of being a God. When he speaks, you can see pain flash across his eyes as he recalls a memory of a loving friend who passed before him. He tells you there’s no avoiding this never ending nightmare. If there was a way he could overcome this spell of immortality, he would choose mortal life in an instant.

He believes nothing good comes with this. In his eyes, everything gets destroyed by his hands. If he hadn’t created this nation, he wouldn’t be here with you, nor would he have people at his feet who love and worship him for everything—for giving them a home. He would be a traveler with no home, or loved ones.

The Archon doesn’t realize how much of his thoughts he spilled until he feels the warmth of another—your hand resting upon his cheek. This alerts him as he jolts, eyes wide as he stares at you. You wear a small smile, head cocked to the side. Your thumb moves on its own, wiping the tear away that dribbles down the swell of his face.

His body relaxes, shoulders slouching as he relishes your touch, not having been caressed by another, let alone a human. If he’s being honest, it's been at least a century since he has gotten close to another mortal. It’s a foreign feeling, but he loves it nonetheless.

Your soft spoken words are enough for him to be at ease.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to continue through the suffering.”

In a vulnerable state, the tears continue to flow down his face, arms slithering around your body as he pulls you in close. At first the motion shocks you, but soon you return the action, hand resting on the small of his back and by his head, stroking the soft locks. You can hear the faint sobs that escape his lips and it’s strange. From stories, they state Murata was fierce, barely any emotion in him.

But he looks nothing more than a broken man in need of comfort.

You press your lips against his head, humming softly to him. His arms tighten around you, a shaky breath slipping past. As much as Murata hates this feeling, but after being alone for as long as Teyvat had been founded, he thinks he deserves to be this close to someone again.

After moments of silence, the god is positioned beside you, hand resting on your thigh and head on your shoulder. His eyes feel heavy, the area feeling irritated and scratchy from his crying. As much as the thoughts still swirl in his head, they seem to be drowned out by the melody you play for him.

He lazily draws organic shapes with the pad of his finger on your skin, eyes beginning to close.

Your lyre is one of the few beautiful things he has come across in his lifetime. You currently hold the number one spot for the most beauty he has seen but when you sit with your instrument, he swears he can see the wings of an angel behind you.

He steers his gaze from the lyre to your face, eyes taking in the small details of your visage. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he notices the slip of your tongue peek from your lips, eyebrows creasing in concentration. Along with the melodies, he listens to your small hums as you play a song just for him-- one of worship and love.

His hand runs up your arm, halting your movements at once. Eyes opening, you stare forward for a second before looking down upon him. He recognises your confusion and lets out a laugh, hand trailing up before his thumb rests on your chin, making you keep your gaze on him.

Your face heats up at this interaction, mouth parted. Your breathing becomes uneven when you notice the close proximity. Your stomach flutters, the back of your throat suddenly going dry—no words able to slip through. His chest rises and falls just as quick as your own.

His tongue peeks through, licking his lower lip. His crimson hues stare at your lips before averting his gaze to your eyes. As much as it’s tempting, now is not the right time.

“Beautiful,” he whispers quietly, for your ears only. “So beautiful… like an angel sent down from the divine...”

- The lyre, made of nature’s resources and carved into the most adoring shapes—the ends curving in different directions and a piece of excess wood piercing straight through the middle with a pointed tip and a rounded end. Made for the best, the lyre contains seven strings that seem to glow throughout the day and the night.

In the middle, an emerald gem shines embedded on the wood, reflecting the rays of the sun, sparkling for all to see. Around lies the detail of the sun, the soft yellows encircling it. And just beneath that is gold details that resemble the wings of those who are free. Two flowers that are foreign to the land of Natlan are delicately engraved—their colors showing pure innocence.

The Cecilia flowers stay in bloom, never once dying out. Nor has any other grown in their place.

A perfect instrument, one of elegance and purity. Perfect for you.

The origins of said lyre are unknown, yet when it was given to you as a young child, you didn’t dare question it. Instead, you took it with the biggest grin and thanked your father as many times as you could. You were intelligent and extremely talented. At first, your mother was skeptical of such an object being in the possession of an nine year old, but your father assured it was in safe hands.

Since then, it’s been by your side to this day. It’s never been out of your grasp and you only let certain trusted people play it. For some reason, seeing others hold the instrument made you feel weird.

Playing your gift made you feel like you were above the world, like you could ascend to Celestia and play for the gods. It felt as if some sort of divine power surged through your veins and riled you up. And now at the ripe age of 24, having the Pyro Archon by your side as you play for him daily, it feels as if your purpose of living has been complete.

Seeing his soft smile and slight nods he gives when he's impressed (which is all the time) or when he places his hand on yours to play along with you. Having him close to you makes you feel warm, excited and giddy; almost like a young girl in love.

Which... You won’t lie to yourself about that.

There have been times during the day where you catch yourself thinking about the red head. Thoughts of him swirl your head as you drift off to sleep and he’s the first thing you think about in the morning. Sometimes you notice that you make motions in the air, like you are stroking something, when in reality, you wish to have his head in your lap again as you play with the loose ends of red tresses.

The god was just so breathtaking. Staring into his eyes was mesmerizing. The color of flames held in his eyes drew you in so far, it felt as if you were walking through a pit of flames. Yet, these flames never extinguished or brought harm to you.

“You’re lost in thought again,” Murata comments, poking your shoulder with his pointer finger. “You alright there? I don’t need you tripping over a rock or something.”

“Huh?” you ask, glancing over at him. “O-Oh it was nothing. I’m okay.” You offer a not so convincing smile, scratching the nape of your neck in embarrassment. Knowing you for a while, the god offers a nod and looks forward, his hands behind his back, steps in sync with yours.

You let your hand drop, clearing your throat as you hum, filling the silence with some noise. Your eyes wander around the area before gazing up at the tall man beside you. You take notice how the ends of his ponytail sway side to side with every step he takes.

The apple of your cheeks heat up when you can see his back muscles flex as he straightens his posture. The shirt he wore let your imagination run wild; there was no doubt that Murta was built.

“It’s quite rude to stare,” Murata says out of nowhere, barely glancing over at you. “If you want, I can just stand in front of you so you can actually look at me face to face.”

“Oh be quiet,” you mutter, stepping forward and grabbing hold of his hand—his much larger, covering yours entirely. Upon contact, his fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing softly.

“You know I love messing with you,” he hums, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, which you respond back to him with a quiet “I know.”

The rest of the walk is filled with comfortable silence. It’s a bit chilly in the land of Natlan. One of the many summer days that turn out to be filled with crisp air and cloudy skies. Storytellers always said if it were cloudy during the season of summer, karma and misfortune was on the way—yet no one believed such lies like that.

His hand is so warm, you think, glancing down at your conjoined hands. Ever since that day by the giant stone statue of the god where you almost kissed him, his behavior towards you changed drastically. He’s been a bit more touchy (not that it bothered you; in fact, you loved it), holding your hand and somewhat more affectionate. At the end of your day when you would say goodbye, he would pull you close and plant a gentle kiss to your cheek or sometimes even close to your lips.

Just thinking about those actions makes you flustered, looking away from him and out to the open.

“What do you think it means to be in love?”

Hearing those words from the man beside you causes you to choke on your saliva, hitting your chest to calm your ongoing coughs. When you’re finally composed, you gasp for air and stare at him in shock. “W-What do I think about that?”

“Mhm.” He nods, inhaling deeply, his other hand reaching up into the air as if he was stretching before lowering it. “What do you think it means to be in love? I’m curious as to what you humans think it might be.”

“I-” You gulp, eyes semi wide as you try to wrack your brain for anything. That was not a question you were expecting, especially right now. “W-Why do you want to know? Isn’t love, love?”

“Well, aren't there different ones? Can’t people be in love with parts of someone? Lets say, only being in love with someone for their status in the nation. Or just their looks but not for them.

“Well… I think being in love with someone means you don’t care about their status or who they look or who they are.”

“Even if they’re a god?”

“Even if they’re a god.” you say confidently, before realizing what he said. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Even if they’re a god,” he repeats, stopping in his tracks as he turns to face you. His cheeks are painted with soft pink, red eyes averting from you.

Murata’s heart is racing, far faster than it ever has in his life. HIs lips are dry, his mouth is parched. His shoulders heave with every deep breath he takes. Does the sweat of his hands bother you? God, he feels like a young boy about to confess his love to a girl he’s been pining over—although he's not completely wrong.

“Murata, what’s wrong?” you ask quietly, tilting yourself a bit to look up into his eyes as his head is lowered. “Are you okay?”

“Why are you so intoxicating?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Y-You’re all I can think of,” he stutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t get you out of my mind, even though I shouldn’t get close to those I love and care for. In the end, I’ll be here and be forced to live with this overweighting guilt that rests upon my shoulders as time continues to flow knowing that you’ll be dead.”

A hiccup gets caught in the back of his throat, his thoughts becoming foggy all of a sudden. “I don’t like this feeling. I absolutely despise it. Many times after we hung out, I thought about disappearing again like I have before I got too close to anyone again. But I can’t let you go, nor will these memories ever go away.”

“Don’t you understand?” he whispers, hand shaking as his grip becomes tighter. “I can’t lose you… you’re too special to me already. I know there will be a day where we part ways forever but I want to be a part of your journey until then.”

His confession throws you for a loop. His words continue playing over and over in your head like a song you learned the night prior. You have this unexplainable feeling in your chest, yet it warms up as the seconds pass. Your whole body feels tingly, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes.

Your quietness is too much for him to handle right now—a bit silly if you were to ask the Archon himself. “Say something,” he mutters, shaking your hand lightly. The redhead can already feel the rejection pooling in the depths of his stomach, eating away at him.

“You... Do you love me?” you whisper, looking up at him with doe like eyes. Murata can’t seem to answer for himself, one hand cupping your cheek. He moves closer, his breath fanning your face. The flames in his eyes gaze into yours, losing himself in the color before he averts down to your lips. A quiet way of asking for consent.

You lean forward, lips barely brushing against his. It’s shy between the two of you. After having such strong feelings for each other, neither of you know how to proceed. No one moves, it feels time has stopped.

You feel him pull away slightly before going back in, his lips fully pressed against yours. His other hand drops yours, instead wrapping his arm around your lower back. Your chest pressed up against his, your finger runs up his side, to the top of his shoulder and around, cradling the back of his neck.

His finger tightens around the material of your coat you wore for the day, using it as leverage to keep you standing. His kisses are soft yet fierce. The softness of his lips and his scent up close are enough to drive you insane, enough to make your knees buckle and make you want more. You want more of him, Murata.

A small grunts leaves his mouth when you tug on his hair. In return, he nibbles on your lower lip, chuckling at the small noise you produce from his motion. It’s becoming harder to breathe as you stay in this position with him. If air wasn’t a necessity, you wouldn’t go for it.

You pull away from him, panting softly as you gaze up into his eyes. His eyes hold nothing but love and adoration as he peers down at you. The corners of his lips curve upward as he leans in, barely presses against yours again before pulling away. He sneaks in a few quick pecks, listening to your quiet laughter.

“Of course I love you.” He makes you look up at him, your face cradled in his hands as if he was holding something delicate, something that could be wrecked and destroyed any second. “That’s why I asked you what you thought about it.”

“And I love you too,” you reply softly. “I thought.. After everything you wouldn’t want to have feelings like this, let alone a human.”

“Sometimes boundaries are meant to be broken if it means true happiness.”

“Tensions have arisen in the land of Natlan. Nearby gods have caused quite the stir, causing Murata to put it to a halt at once. Upon ascending to his seat in Celestia, there have been prophecies saying a great misfortune is underway and can arrive in an instant. Since then, he’s been worked up. He cares much about his nation and will let no harm come its way.”

The bard strums the string before growing silent, letting his head hang forward, his pigtails falling in his face. “It’s a true shame that such a horrid thing came to be… If only he was strong enough as he said he was.”

Murmurs arise from the drunken peers, hiccups joining the air as they beg him to continue the song. Even if some wouldn’t remember this night in the morning, this was still enough entertainment.

“W-What happened next, bard?! Finish it!” an adventurer gasps, holding his cup of alcohol close to his chest, his cheeks heated and a light pink.

“You wish to know?” the bard asks, peeking through his lashes, his two toned eyes staring into the soul of the bartender. “Why of course!” he laughs cheerfully then clears his throat, batting his eyelashes as he brings his hand to his chest.

“Although, I’m quite parched and would love to have another cup of Dandelion Wine! What do you say, Master Diluc?”

“My answer is no. Do not ask me for something when you will not pay in the end.”

“Agh what a shame,” the bard sighs, letting his head hang back but never breaking eye contact with the redhead. “Don’t you wish to know about the ending?”

“I could care less.” Diluc speaks through gritted teeth, arms crossed over his chest, the infamous pose he does every hour of the day. “I just want you out of here.”

“I’ll pay for him!” one of the nearby men yell, fumbling with his wallet to grab the gold circles of currency to give to the bartender—and all the bard can do is smile cheekily, opening his hand.

“Well, looks like the drink is paid for. Can I have it now, Master Diluc?”

The red head, already annoyed with the behavior of the young man in front of him, reluctantly takes the coins from the drunk. Without speaking, he serves the singer his desired drink, noticing the small smirk he wears. “Why are you smiling at me like that?” he asks, eyeing him up and down.

“Because I’m getting to my favorite part.” He takes a sip of his drink and places the cup back down. After a pleasant sigh is heard from him as he takes hold on his lyre, stroking the white petals of the Cecilia flowers. “And you’re gonna love it.”

- Melodies of the lyre were played even during the darkest of times. The soft notes were enough to make anyone who felt down happy again, or at least content, even yourself. The colors of the strings being played was enough to put you at ease. Sometimes when you’re out in the town, many children would ask you to play their favorite song or at least a simplified version if you weren’t familiar with it.

But as of now, all of Teyvat was in ruin. Murata had told you the truth; he hated keeping you in the dark when you deserved to know. As much as he disliked saying this, your life indeed was on the line, more than his. In fact, the whole nation was at risk, along with the other six neighboring ones.

From other Archons, Murata heard that a water monster, Osial, had arisen and was ready to ruin and kill innocents for the sake of a seat in Celestia. Morax, who was the overseer of Liyue at the time, was trying his best to seal the beast with his spears.

In this case, Murata hopes a threat like this doesn't happen to Natlan. Especially when he’s not there to protect his people, to protect you.

Murata hears a gush of wind from behind him and the earth beneath him starts shaking. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, small puffs of air slipping out of his mouth. He reaches above and tugs on the black hood of his cape.

His archon outfit consists of silk white pants and black sleeveless shirt that resembled a vest with a slit down the middle of his torso. And to top it, a black cape flows behind, the hood covering his face from all to see. In his right hand, his fingers curl around the handle of his claymore.

A heavy burden rests upon his shoulders as he stares forward, seeing the world erupt into flames and utmost chaos. In the distance, he can hear the screams and cries of the families asking for mercy. He wonders what you would think about him if you were to see him right now.

“Murata,” you whine, trailing the last syllable of his name as his lips peck against the bare skin of your shoulder. “Come on, you know that tickles.”

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll continue to do it,” he muses, nipping at your skin before blowing warm air onto your neck which causes you to squirm from him, pressing your hands against his chest. He listens to your soft laughs, loving the way your body moves under his touch. Your arms wrap around his neck, hugging him close as you hum, inhaling the scent you’ve grown to love.

“Mmm… I love you.”

“And I love you too,” Murata whispers to no one, blinking rapidly when he realizes he was lost in thought and was not in fact with you, but only remembering a moment from a few days ago. In reality, here he stands in the middle of a deserted land that must be destroyed. Blood is on his hands, splattered on his face.

“I didn’t even want to do this,” he mutters, grinding his teeth together as he proceeds to walk forward, watching red explosions burst from the ground, red blocks protruding from either ends of the nation. In the sky, the color purple takes over as lightning strikes down from the heavens and is brought forth onto the land.

From his position, the ground had been cracked and was on the edge of being split apart if another Archon had used their powers against the nation.

He lifts his claymore in the air, staring up at the red sky with anguish. His lips part as he whispers something to himself, reassuring that what he is about to do is alright and isn’t his fault. A sudden strike of his weapon pierces the land, flames bursting into the air and cracking the earth.

Murata breathes heavily, leaning on the rounded edge of his weapon. Sweat trickles down his face, the hood falling off of his head. Two strands of hair fall forward, framing his face, the rest of it tied back into a low ponytail.

The flames continue to run down the cracks which branch to smaller ones that cause the piece of rock beneath the surface to crumble and fall, leaving the terrain to become uneven.

“Wow! Even from afar I can spot you,” a semi high pitched says from behind him. The Pyro Archon stiffens, internally groaning as he stares over his shoulder, meeting two green eyes. “Someone doesn’t look happy as he used to be.”

“Barbatos,” Murata grumbles, looking forward as he straightens his posture. With one hand, he picks his hood over his head once more and the other pulls his claymore from the ground, resting it on his shoulder. “What do you want from me now?”

“Just letting you know Morax has finished in the south region of Khaenri'ah,” Barabtos states, a frown growing on his lips as he looks away, the tips of his toes barely touching the ground as his wings keep him afloat. “You're not the only one who didn’t want this. We had no choice.”

“No choice huh…” He trails off, his claymore suddenly evaporating into thin air and gold dust left in its wake. “How are we loving, protecting gods if we just obliterated this nation with no god? What does that make us? We’re no better than those who do us wrong against our own homeland. We’re just like Decarabian. Nothing but tyrants.”

“Don’t bring up that name again.”

“Why? Because deep down you know it's true.”

“Because that was his own choice to keep us entrapped. We had no choice but to bring ruin. They felt-” Barbatos hesitates, licking his lower lip before continuing, “-they felt threatened. A nation with no god is a false one to Celestia. Everything must be in order. Khaenri’ah was not the case. We had to, or we’re next. The divine is not ready for a land with no god.”

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“Murata. If you hadn’t, who knows what would have happened to Natlan.” A deeper voice from behind him is heard, the sound of footsteps becoming louder before they stop beside him. “You and your people would have been in grave danger.”

“Unlike you, I don’t need to keep making contracts.”

Morax chuckles lightly, shaking his head, his ponytail swaying with the movement. “And how does that look on you, God of War?”

Murata shakes his head, refusing to look at the Anemo Archon and the Geo Archon. “War or not, this is not just. The victors burn bright and the losers turn to ash. This-” he motions to the now deserted land of dust and blood. The sky is a deep red, the sun or moon nowhere to be seen. The earth is uneven, mountains caving into the ground as streaks of dark colors emit from the ground.

The spot the three archons stand upon is nothing but cracked ground, an empty space separating them and the rest of the debris.

“This is not war.”

Even when he’s not in his right mind, the only thing that can put him to ease comes up, suddenly soothing his woes away. He closes his eyes, envisioning he’s somewhere else

“You’re so pretty,” you whisper in the god’s ear, twirling a strand of hair around your finger with a smile. “No wonder you’re a god. How could they not take you?”

“Please. You flatter me too much.” He grabs hold of your wrist, bringing it to his face, planting a kiss to it. “On the contrary, it should be you in my position. No, an angel is what you are.”

“An angel? Please, enlighten me.”

Murata shifts on his side to stare down at you, brushing the baby hairs from your face. A blanket covers your bodies from your previous intimate sessions, yet he remembers every curve, every flaw that’s perfection to his mind. “I mean, look at you. You’re too beautiful for this world.”

“Am I now?”

He nods, dipping his head slightly. The tip of his nose brushing against yours. “You are. You’re amazing. You’re everything in this world. You’re desirable but most importantly... you’re divine.”

“Wow, now I’m flattered.”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes creasing as he presses his lips against yours in a soft kiss. It lasts for a few seconds but it feels as if it goes on for years. When he pulls away, you cup his cheek. “And you are ethereal.”

The god shakes his head lightly with a sigh, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. You’re all he can think about. Even when he is busy taking away innocent lives and watching them get turned into monsters, the sweet image of your face continues to pop into his mind. You’re the light in the dark.

He hates the feeling of being away from you, especially when he’s on close watch from Celestia. There’s something unsettling in the pit of his stomach that he can't quite put his finger on it. Murata watches Morax and Barbatos exchange a few words before he gasps, lifting his head up fast. “Natlan. It’s in danger.”

- The nation of Natlan, located in the southwestern region of Teyvat and home to the Pyro Archon, was under attack. There was no point in trying to save them, they were already too far gone. No god in sight yet the trails of monsters were left behind. Did the Archon truly love them like they said he did? Or was it all a lie to get people’s love?

The once beautiful land is ruined—looking like the one he destroyed not long ago. His statues that aided his people on their journeys far and wide were now broken and cracked. Chunks of stone litter the ground and crush nearby civilians. Whoever was standing beside those statues had been brought down along with them, no way to return.

The god feels weak in the knees as he staggers over the dirt path that has noticeable traces of dried blood. No doubt from his people. Where are the bodies? He has no clue.

Houses have been torn apart, the roofs blown off and thrown into the field of flowers on the other side. He feels torn at heart. He wants to give up walking, already knowing the outcome but refuses to stop. He hopes that a few people, even just twenty people, can still be alive and he can move them somewhere else.

The night is cold and fresh as it was years ago. Only this time, the sounds of the animals in the creek aren’t heard and the wildlife is quiet. He looks towards the forest, hoping a deer or a boar will rush through the trees. But his hopes die when he notices that's not happening, and the habitat is burnt to ashes.

“Somebody,” he croaks out, averting his eyes upward and freezes. Up ahead, in the center lies the biggest statue of them all, where flowers and candles are set up around it for ceremonial purposes. Every night new plants were replaced for the days to come.

The most beautiful statue in all of Natlan has been crushed. The head of the statue is gone from the area (he can only assume it had been tossed across the nation or into the river). The candles are no longer intact, the pieces scattered and buried into the burnt grass.

“No,” he whispers lowly before crying out, running towards it. His heart races as he steps closer and closer. All his worries and fears; he doesn’t want them to be real. He doesn’t want any of this to be real. He wants to be at home.

You.

Where are you?

He gasps for air and drops to his knees. Red eyes frantically search along the stone pieces. He plants his hands on the ground and hisses upon contact, retracting back. A rock share pierced his skin. Murata bites his lower lip as he shakes his hand, watching the piece fly off before he can continue looking.

Are you safe at home? You were, right? Surely you wouldn't come out when everything is being attacked, right? Yeah, that’s it. You’re safe at home waiting for him to return. Waiting for him to be in your arms so you can cry about your fears of losing your life and him.

And by the end he’ll calm you down, say soothing words into your ear as he holds you close, saying he’ll never leave like that again and stay with you forever. God or not, immortal or not, he plans to stay by your side.

And then your lyre will be played for you and only you. He knows your favorite melodies. Oh so beautiful, he loves hearing you play them but this time, he’ll play for you until the end of time.

Your lyre-

He freezes.

His hand hits something underneath the stone. Something smooth like wood and the prick of an object with a pointed tip—an all too familiar feeling.

With a grunt, he grabs ahold and heaves back, pulling it out from under the rubble. A surge of fear flows through his veins when he falls back, holding an object in his hands.

It’s a cracked lyre, with pieces broken off where an emerald stone originally would have laid. The gold trinkets are ripped right off, the empty space now feeling dull. He notices the seven strings have now turned to three and aren’t holding their original color that glows.

The only thing that’s untouched, however, are the Cecilia flowers. Not a hint of blood stains the white petals.

His eyes grow wide when he gazes somewhere else, spotting a hand peeking out from the same spot he pulled the lyre from. A choked cry gets stuck in the back of his throat when it all clicks together.

You weren’t home like he thought you would have been. You weren’t waiting for him to return from his wages of war, to be in his arms. Instead, you did what you always did.

Worshipped Murata, under the ceremonial statue.

The one that caused your death.

Tears well up in his eyes as he hugs the lyre close to his chest, mouth parting as a sob slips out. He rocks himself back and forth, shaking his head at this false reality but he knows this is all real.

Murata babbles to himself, muttering things underneath his breath as he hyperventilates. He can’t catch his breath. His throat is closing in on him, the air too thick to even breathe right now.

The tears blur his vision. He can’t see nor think straight anymore. The god of War was unable to save his people from the hardships of an incoming war. What kind of god was he? Was he even one? Or was he now a false one?

What seems to be years later, though it only is an hour or so, Murata finds himself standing on the edge of a cliff, dried up tears evident on his face. The whites of his eyes are red, the tip of his nose matching the same color.

He sniffles, nose stuffed from the moments earlier. His breathing hasn’t changed a bit. His shoulders still shake with every inhale. The atmosphere around him is tense, maybe even too quiet for his liking.

Behind him, he refuses to look back on the destruction he let happen. Even from a far enough distance, he can still clearly hear the crackling of fire and the sounds of a nation dying.

He lowers his hand from his chest, spreading his fingers open. In a matter of seconds, the handle of his weapon appears slowly, the rest of the claymore following suit in gold dust.

He peers down slightly, watching the red and black glow before dimming out. The slant from the edge of the weapon, one he has used to kill off his enemies without a thought. In the current state, he can see the traces of blood left behind.

In his other hand is the damaged lyre. His fingers keep it close to his chest, his heart. One of the last things he had of you. The tip of his pointer fingers strums a string and he winces from the uneasy sound it produces. This instrument no longer plays the melodies he adored, and worse yet, the person he adores can no longer hear it.

Murata was the Pyro Archon. Amongst the other gods, he was ruthless yet kind and merciful. When a threat was sent his way, he did not hesitate to take care of it. He took care of Natlan.

Or, that’s what should have happened.

He closes his eyes, goosebumps forming on his arms from the gust of wind that breezes by him, knocking his hood off. His hair that was let down swayed in the breeze, the loose ends flowing behind him. His bangs move slightly and then stop, falling in their original place.

The rest of his cape follows in the wind, the ends flowing behind him like the draft was made just for him right now.

“I let you down,” he says, clearing his throat. He stares at the colors of oranges, pinks and blues, meshed together to create the sunrise that he grew to love but now, he suddenly resents it.

A single tear cascades down his face and lands on his bare chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. A rare whimper slips past his lips. With a shake of his head, Murata brings the lyre to his face, pressing his lips against the cracked wood.

A goodbye kiss should always be special, shouldn’t it?

He pulls away, stroking the place where the gem would have been at. “I’m so sorry my love.” He averts his gaze and lowers himself, dropping the lyre on the ground underneath his feet.

“Even I could not save you from the end of your journey. And as your god, I failed to protect you.”

When he stands up straight, his fingers tighten around his claymore. He stares down at the instrument, longing for time to change and to go back. To go back to how things were before.

He can still hear the sound of your life and your smile popping into his mind. At the thought, his lips curl upward faintly in a small smile.

Oh how he misses you already. He still remembers when he first saw you on that day under the statue as you played for him. You were aggressive, that was for sure. No doubt about it when you swung at him with your lyre and accused him of being a disgusting pig.

He can only blame himself. Deep down, he knew a day like this would come, but he didn’t think it would happen so soon.

But maybe now, as he called you his angel or an angel of Celestia, you can now ascend to where you truly belong.

This isn’t goodbye, but a farewell, he thinks, clearing his throat as he gets closer to the edge. He peers downward at the ground miles beneath him.

As he failed here, he still has a job to do, no matter what.

So then he jumps. He brings his claymore around and over his shoulder and swings it down. Flames engulf him in whole on his way down until he hits the ground with a thud, his weapon taking up all the impact.

“And thus, the Pyro Archon aided in other nations against the treacherous demons that corrupted their land. After such heroic deeds, he was never to be seen. Many questioned: where did the god of War go? Who will remain victorious?”

“Many say he disappeared to join his love in the next life. Others say he stepped down as god to live amongst the mortals as he always wanted.” The bard hums and lays his lyre across his lap.

“It’s a shame really, how beauty can go to waste.” His fingers run over an emerald gem that lies in the middle of the wood. His lyre was beautiful.

The edges curved in different directions with a piece of wood piercing the top with a rounded end and pointed tip. Seven strings glowed recently as he placed the object to rest.

“But it’s not as if it was her fault.” His slender fingers run over the white petals with a faux sigh of despair. “She would have been popular amongst the folks here, if she was immortal, of course. If only he kept his word to her saying he would protect her no matter what.”

The bartender drowns out the rest of Venti’s words, his eyes trained on the wood beneath his feet.

Diluc Ragnvindr, owner of the Dawn Winery and Angel’s Share. Information is at his fingertips wherever he goes. In Mondstadt, he is a nobleman of high status. Everyone knows about him.

His crimson eyes hold tears as he lets out a shaky breath, bringing a gloved hand to wipe away at the water that threatens to spill.

He tries to keep his mind off of it but he can’t suppress it.

In front of him was Lord Barbatos himself—one he knew too well from millennia ago. Having fought with him in the Archon War, and the Destruction of Khaenri’ah, Diluc knew there was no way to get rid of him.

It shocked him the most that the bard even remembers the story from back then. Even if other storytellers told this tale, Venti was the one that pierced his heart the most.

“Master Diluc!” At the sound of his name, the red head hesitantly lifts up his head. Venti’s annoying smile greets him, pressing his finger against his cheek in a thinking motion.

“Did you like it? I hope you did! I try to incorporate any stories of the divine. It seems that today was a hit. Don’t you think so?”

“Why are you bringing it up?” he whispers, not caring that tears trail down his face. “Why do you need to remind me of my failure?”

The other peers don’t seem to notice the usual calm and collective man in tears. They’re all too far gone in the hole of alcohol.

Venti’s eyebrows crease, cocking his head to the side. “Failures? What do you mean? I’m just doing my job and singing like I always do. You’re doing great things in the Wine Industry. What failure could you possibly mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean!” Diluc snaps, slamming his hands on the counter in front of him, causing the bard to jump in his seat. “You know exactly what you’re doing!”

“Oh dear oh dear,” Venti sighs, shaking his head. He picks up his lyre, placing his lips against the wood.

“So pretty huh?” he asks once he pulls away, a small smirk on his lips as he shows Diluc. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if you got to play this?”

The strings continue to shine, dimming and going bright again. An instrument perfect for anyone and in this case, for Barbatos.

It pains Diluc to see him with your lyre. As much as you told him you despised other people holding it, he feels much more stronger about it. He wants nothing more than to snatch it from Venti’s hands and tell him to get out.

“Others say that he wanders in the world right about now. No one knows what he looks like though. It’s a shame if anyone were to find him and blame him.”

Venti’s fingers run over the strings. A melody is heard in the air, louder than any of the drunk men in the room.

Diluc feels a sob beginning to form in the back of his throat. He wants nothing of this. He wants to truly go back home to Natlan with you. He could have made you a god and you could have been here with him today.

As much as Diluc wants to look away, he’s mesmerized by the way the singer’s fingers move gracefully against the strings. For a split second, he could have swore he saw you sitting in his place, singing softly for his ears only.

Like the angel you were.

“But it seems that the god is afraid of confrontation. And yet, he seems to be mourning over his lover even after her death. If anyone were to be at fault, it would be his—”

Venti stops, peering up at Diluc through his lashes. A sinister look was evident in his eyes. He paused for dramatic effect, a smirk growing on his lips. He hums and strums the last note.

“Isn’t that right, Murata?” Venti muses, asking a question in the form of a song. But in reality, he aimed it towards the redhead god standing in front of him.

Diluc stares dumbfounded, mouth parted and eyes red from his silent crying. His hands are balled beside him. The peers cheer for the bard and offer drinks to compensate for his amazing singing—to which he laughs it off but takes the offers regardless.

And all Murata can do is live with his own guilt, for the rest of his immortal life. Forever.

taglist: @reddriot @thicmitten @katsuhera @novvabeam @patt-writes-stuff @axther @tspice283 @bonitoge @mysticalchocolate @yanfeisrose @mowestruc @tokyosrevenge @jaegerverse @hu-tao-main @midnightangelfox (add yourself to the taglist up above!)

#diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #diluc #diluc ragnvindr #genshin diluc x reader #genshin diluc #genshin diluc ragnvindr #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact imagines #diluc imagines #diluc ragnvindr imagines #attack on academia #attack on academia server collab

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medicaldoctordana · 3 years ago

Text

As a special treat, here’s a sneak peek of my halloween fic:

Takes place before FTF and after TFWID, with mentions form Detour and Darkness Falls. More to come! tagging @today-in-fic

Current Rating: R for violent themes and language.

Cautiously, he grabs the outstretched legal pad she was decorating moments before. The scrawl in front of him is legible and despite her insistence that she’s a medical doctor, it’s perfectly clear that she has superior skills when it comes to penmanship. “I can’t read this,” he says anyway. He’d give up his whole quest just to listen to her describe the details of a wacky theory better suited to his own volition.

She rolls her eyes, knowing he’s full of shit, and yanks back the pad. “A Washington State Park Ranger sent me an email about an unknown creature terrorizing campers in the Olympic National Forest. There have yet to be any sightings of said creature, but there’s whispers among the locals concerning the town’s lore.” She crosses an arm across her ivory blouse to scratch at her left shoulder. She’s rarely the one to present cases, usually leaving the projector slide shows to Mulder. She never liked public speaking, dreading that the nuns dare call on her to read aloud the passages in Confraternity of Christian Doctrine. However, Scully was all too eager to talk about this case in particular. It gave her chills and shook her with the force of 300,00 thousand years of mystery and folklore. She wanted to share this with him, to see him revel in the thrill of discovery if only so that she can revel in the feeling too.

“Most recently, an entire camping party was found mutilated with no trace of who, or what did this to them.” The printed photos from her desk are face down as she pushes them toward his outstretched arm. “The Park Ranger and Sheriff requested our assistance on this case due to the inexplicable spread of the bodies and lack of physical evidence.” She crosses one leg over the other and taps her heel against the concrete floor. In the closed off basement, the sound resonates and bounces off the walls. They both prefer it down here, never having been the type to be around other people.

“Why’d the Sheriff reach out to you, and not me?” He asks her as he studies the images with the same intensity as she held when writing. He felt washed anew with curiosity of the scenes before him. Jealous at the novelty of her find, he tenses a bit and defensively speaks, “I don’t want to pull rank here, but I’m the lead agent for our department. If the case isn’t sent down from Skinner, these cases are usually directed to my inbox. Has Skinner already approved this?” Really, he’s just trying to get her riled up. He loves to tease her and it tends to spark up their chemistry. They’re still playing the “will they-won’t they” game, where neither risks making a move, not wanting to fray the strings of their lives that are delicately weaved together. It is exhausting and riveting and so much and yet not enough. Distractions help tame their fire, not letting it spread outside the bounds of safety.

#my writing #the x files #x files fanfic #the x files fanfic #TXF #but the fall one is very self insert-y fanfic style #todayinfic

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recurring-polynya · 3 years ago

Note

For the Renji birthday prompt: A fic where Renji discovers that he can't go tits out anymore now that he's married (maybe with some jealous Rukia thrown in perhaps)?

I maintain that the new tits-in regime is self-imposed; I present to you my thesis. (I did not attempt to take on The Vest; I assume it came later, and I eagerly await more Vest Lore from Kubo himself)

Warning that I sincerely hope deters absolutely no one: This fic is about boobs. It contains many, many synonyms for boobs. Some of them are rude.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

---

“I’m telling you, you’re jumping to conclusions. Sometimes he puts them away when he fights. He told me this.”

“I haven’t seen them in weeks.”

“It’s been winter.”

“That has never stopped him before. And it’s April now. Open season. And yet…?”

“I think we should just ask him.”

“You can’t just ask a guy, ‘hey, where did your tits go?’”

“I could, but I refuse. Abarai’s aesthetic is his own business.”

“Since when?”

“Okay, he’s here, someone’s gotta do it.”

“Not it!”

“Also not it!”

“Matsumoto, you have to do it. You’re the one who talked him into letting them hang out in the first place.”

“I agree with Yumichika. Renji knows what he’s doing, and if he has decided that the puppies are off-limits, that’s on him.”

“Hey, guys!” Abarai Renji’s cheerful voice rang out over the din of the bar. “Sorry I’m late!”

“Just means you have to catch up quick!” Rangiku declared, pouring him some sake.

“No missus tonight?” Shuuhei asked.

Renji’s entire face went pink and he got the same moony look in his eyes he always got whenever someone mentioned his wife or his marital state generally. “She sends her regards and says I’m supposed to drink extra for her. She goes over to the Manor on Wednesday evenings now to hang out with her brother.”

“Have you actually managed to call him by his given name yet?” Iba asked. “Now that you’re related?”

“His given name is ‘Captain’ and I call him that all the time,” Renji replied snottily.

“So. Renji,” Izuru said, leaning forward on his elbow. “Are you doing something different? With your look? I feel like there’s something different about you.”

Renji’s face lit up. “You noticed!” He swung his head around, his long braid swinging over his shoulder. “I’ve started braiding it!”

“Oh, no, it’s permanent?” Yumichika moaned.

“That’s not new,” Iba scoffed. “You slept with it like that the whole time we were roommates. I just figured that you didn’t have time to fix your hair in the morning anymore because you were too busy taking care--oof!”

“It looks very nice, Renji!” Momo said sweetly, extracting her elbow from Iba’s rib cage.

“It’s different,” Renji glowered at Iba. “I braid it loosely at night to prevent breakage and lock in moisture. This is an action braid.” He wheeled on Yumichika. “And I’m only French braiding it for now, because it’s shorter in front than in the back, you know, because of the accident. Once I’ve grown it out to all one length again, I’ll just do a regular braid.”

“You could just cut it to the length of the shortest part and go back to the pineapple hair,” Ikkaku suggested. “I always liked the pineapple hair.”

Renji turned pink again. “Ah, well. Rukia likes it long.”

“Yeah, I don’t think the braid is… what I was thinking of,” Izuru soldiered on.

Renji sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “I got a new tattoo? A pair, actually.”

“Oh! Did you?”

“On your chest?” Shuuhei asked hopefully. A healing tattoo would be a good excuse to cover up.

“Nah, on my thighs.”

Izuru sighed. “Since when do I look at your thighs, Abarai?”

“I have good thighs, Izuru.”

“He probably just looks different because he’s so happy now,” Rangiku suggested. “By which I mean getting your back blown out every night.”

“That could be it!” Renji agreed cheerfully. “Oh, I was wearing a scarf for a while there, when we had that cold snap! Is it the scarf? Or maybe the lack of scarf? It’s a nice scarf, Captain gave it to me for a wedding present. He says a man of quality should own a scarf.”

“I give up,” Izuru sighed.

“Hey, jocks, what’s going on?” a new voice interrupted.

“Akon!” half the table chorused and Renji scooted over so Akon could slide in next to him.

“Glad you could make it!”

“Yeah, sorry, I had an experiment I wanted to get finished up.”

“We were just talking about how there’s something different about Renji,” Shuuhei pressed.

Akon surveyed Renji for a moment. “Well, he’s got his tits tucked in for once. Aren’t you hot? You told me once you did that for ventilation.”

“That was very much a lie,” Renji clarified. “And I’m a married man now, my cans are closed for business. Speaking of which, Rangiku, fill ‘er up again, please, I’ve gotta keep up my wife’s reputation.”

---

Momo couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Out of their entire friend group, she was pretty sure she was the least interested in Renji’s… bosoms. There was a time… long, long ago when she had thought he was pretty hot stuff. She still counted him among her closest friends and favorite people, but had long ago come to the conclusion that big and beefy just wasn’t her type.

“Why, Lieutenant Hinamori! What brings you to my office?” Acting Captain Kuchiki Rukia leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. She must have been practicing, because the last time Momo had seen her do that, she had nearly fallen backwards out of the chair.

Momo sighed. “I have to tell you, this isn’t business.” Not exactly. It sort of was, in the sense that Shuuhei and Matsumoto (who apparently did care very much about Renji’s chest situation, so long as she wasn’t the one who had to confront him about it) had come over and dramatically draped themselves all over the Squad 5 couch and complained about the dreary state of affairs to Captain Hirako until he ordered Momo to go do some investigating.

“Good, because I have been filling out Nanao’s new skills-inventory-for-seated-officer forms all morning and I’m about to lose it,” Rukia said with an overly cheerful grin.

“We could go out to the yard and fight?” Momo offered hopefully. Maybe she could tell Captain Hirako that she got distracted and forgot to ask about Renji.

Rukia’s face fell a little. “Er, I’d love to, but I really shouldn’t today. Sentarou just made me this pot of tea, though. Do you want some? It’s lemon ginger, it’s really good.”

“Sure,” Momo agreed.

“So what’s up?” Rukia asked again, once Momo was perched in the guest chair, a fragrant cup of tea cradled in her hands.

Well, might as well just rip the bandage off. “I need you to know that I was put up to this by… you know. The idiots. The cowards we go drinking with.”

“Understood,” Rukia agreed.

“There is… some concern… about your husband.”

Rukia’s eyebrows shot up. “My sweet pumpkin pants?”

“I’m leaving,” Momo announced.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Rukia waved her hands, laughing. “I’ll be serious. What has that lunkhead done now?”

“This is so dumb,” Momo muttered. She cleared her throat. “He’s stopped going around with his bazongas hanging out all the time, and everyone’s losing their minds over it.”

Rukia stared at her. “Excuse me, his what?”

Momo made a vague gesture at her own chest. “You know. His… boobies.”

“That’s what I thought you meant,” Rukia nodded, her brow creased in thought. “Bazongas. I like that.”

“Not that I care!” Momo excused. “I mean, I agree, he should be allowed to dress how he likes, but you two seem to have a very equitable relationship and I said that I was sure he wasn’t doing anything that he hadn’t agreed to--”

“Hold on,” Rukia interrupted. “You think I had something to do with this?”

“You didn’t?” Momo asked. “He said he was keeping them tucked in because he was married now. We assumed it was at your request.”

“I didn’t even know!” Rukia replied. “I mean, I came home yesterday, and he was just--” she made a hand gesture like she was pulling her kosode open, “--completely out--”

“I don’t need to hear this,” Momo begged.

“Well, I tell you I had nothing to do with it,” Rukia assured her. “No one is more supportive of Renji acting slutty in public than me. Everyone knows I have that locked down, and honestly, it just makes me seem more powerful.”

Momo squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m going to punch Shuuhei so hard.”

Rukia rubbed her index finger over her chin. “It’s possible this came down from Brother…”

Momo whimpered, although, honestly, having a conversation with the other Captain Kuchiki about Abarai’s pectorals couldn’t possibly be more awkward than this.

“...or it might be… something else.” Rukia frowned. “I’ll talk to him, okay?”

“You will?” Momo asked hopefully.

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it. I can’t promise to bring the jugs back, but I’ll make sure it’s just Renji being a doofus and not Renji hiding his anxieties under aesthetic choices or Renji being oppressed by his brother-in-law.”

“Thank you, Rukia,” Momo said. Rukia could be bossy at times, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “Sometimes, Renji has to be bullied into taking care of himself.”

“You’re telling me!” Rukia exclaimed. “Thank you for caring about him,” she added warmly.

“For the record, I care about him,” Momo replied. “Everyone else just misses the view.”

“Noted,” Rukia replied.

---

Renji had his nose stuffed in his cookbook, which lately, wasn’t a good sign. Renji only owned one cookbook, an encyclopedic tome that he only cracked open when he was trying something new or otherwise wasn’t sure what he was doing.

“I hope you aren’t making that kale curry again,” Rukia noted dryly.

Renji jumped three feet in the air. “Aaah, shoot! Rukia! I didn’t hear you come in! I’m so sorry!”

Rukia hopped up on her kitchen stool and leaned across the counter to give him a kiss. “We’ve been married for four months now. You don’t have to greet me at the door every single day, you know.”

“Sixteen weeks, three days,” Renji replied. “And I can still be sorry about it.”

“Just tell me we’re having something normal for dinner, and I’ll forgive you,” Rukia replied.

Renji jerked a thumb toward the stove behind him. “I made oden,” he explained. “It’s simmering, probably’ll be another ten minutes.”

“Ohhhhhh, I love your oden!” Rukia stretched her arms across the counter and did grabby hands at his hands until he laced his fingers through hers. “Did you make enough for me to take some for lunch tomorrow?”

“Depends on how much you eat tonight,” he replied. “Your appetite’s been really hit or miss lately.”

“Yeah, well...” Rukia agreed. “So what’s with the cookbook, then?”

“Oh,” Renji said vaguely. “I’m thinking about learning to bake cookies?”

“I’m in favor of that,” Rukia agreed, although her mind immediately went back to the conversation she’d had with Momo that afternoon.

“I’m not sure this book is helping,” Renji admitted. “If I was any good at baking, it would be one thing, but it’s too different. I’ve always been better at learning stuff from other people. Do you think it would be weird if I asked Iba’s mom to teach me? She used to make these little sesame biscuits for Iba. I would always steal them from him. They were so good and he didn’t properly appreciate them anyway.”

“It would absolutely be weird, and I think you should do it anyway,” Rukia proclaimed. She paused. “But maybe you could wait a few more weeks until we tell everyone we’re pregnant so all your friends will stop asking me what’s wrong with you.”

Renji’s eyes widened. “Did your brother say something last night? Because he told me he liked the braid!”

Rukia snorted. “No. He’s worse than you are anyway, he’s been reading books. Please make him stop, if you can. Actually, I’ve been getting complaints about,” she circled a finger in the vicinity of Renji’s chest.

Renji glanced down, and realized that his kosode was still neatly folded up to his collarbone. “Oops, sorry! I told you I didn’t hear you come home.” He immediately began untucking it.

Rukia leaned her chin on her palm, watching his progress. “I realize that making emotionally constipated people face their feelings is usually your department, but it seems you’ve got something heavy rattling around in there. Wanna talk about it?”

Renji’s eyes slid to one side. “Talk about what?”

Rukia cocked an eyebrow and waited.

Renji heaved a sigh. “Do you remember that time, back in Inuzuri, the first time I used my reiatsu in public? When I blocked a lead pipe with my arm?”

Rukia almost choked. “What do you mean, do I remember it? Of course I remember it.”

“Well, not so much that, but do you remember afterward, when you said I was too big and mean to be a sneakthief anymore? That it was better to confront the world and show it what we were made of?”

“I do remember that. I did not call you mean.”

“You probably didn’t. It’s probably just something I thought about myself.” He looked pensive for a moment. “In any case, it was something I really took to heart, especially after we split up. At first, I just wanted to make myself as big and loud and scary as possible. I liked the way people shied away from me. Later on, after I started hanging out with Yumichika, I realized that walking around sexy could be intimidating in a different sort of way, and I liked that, too.”

Rukia had a comment for that, but she decided to just listen, instead.

Renji smoothed the page of his book with his fingers. “I don’t want to look scary anymore.”

“You don’t look scary,” Rukia reassured him. “You haven’t looked scary in a long time.”

“I want to do better than that, though,” Renji frowned. “Has your brother ever talked to you about his dad?”

Rukia blinked, surprised, mostly that Byakuya had talked about Soujun with Renji. “A few times.”

“I, uh, asked him what his dad was like. Since I never had one myself. I expected him to either blow me off or start bellyaching, like he does about his granddad, but he didn’t. He said his pop was very gentle and kind. He said he was a good dad.”

“Byakuya loved his father a lot.”

“Yeah, that was pretty clear.”

“I hope he finished by saying what a good father you will make, but it’s my brother, so I’m sure he didn’t.”

“He said something about how he was sure I would proceed in my own way.”

Rukia sighed again. “Renji, you’ll be a great dad. It’s super obvious. I’ve only told half a dozen people that I’m pregnant and all of them who aren’t Byakuya have immediately reacted with ‘Renji is going to be such a good dad.’ You don’t need to change anything about yourself.”

Renji sucked his teeth for a moment. “Well, all my good dad instincts are telling me our kid is gonna wanna fight the world bad enough as it is, that the last thing they need is a dad who wants to fight the world, too. I’ve fought the world long enough. I’m probably never gonna be gentle, but I can try my best to be kind, and I can dress like a normal person in public for a change and… maybe I can make a cookie? It’s worth a try, I think.”

Rukia flashed him a sad, but fond smile. “You’re such a dork. A sweet, thoughtful dork, though, and I will support your experiment, even though you know I love your bazongas more than anyone.”

“‘Bazongas’? Oh no, did those assholes make Momo come and talk to you?”

Rukia shrugged and tried to look innocent.

“Anyway, you’re my wife, I will take them out for you whenever you want.”

“Yay!”

Renji furrowed his brow into its “determined” configuration. “Do not get me wrong. I am actually upping my chest day routine. I am going to keep them immaculate, and when my shirt gets ripped off in a fight, people are going to lose their minds over how lush my boys are.”

“I love you so much,” Rukia replied.

#renji's birthday 2k21 #my writing #this was a lot of fun i got to use all my favorite horrible synonyms for da tiddies #ok maybe not allll my faves

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the-silentium · 4 years ago

Text

Siren Song

Masterlist - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Fors is an Original planet. I do not give permission to people to use it for their own fics, the planet, the animals, the Nightmares, the lore or anything related to Fors. Thank you.

Pairing: Bad Batch x Reader

Words: 3025 words

Warnings: Blood, monsters, ANGST.

A/N: Thanks to @shadow-hyder who helped choose who got hurt in this chap ~

Taglist: @haloangel391 / @lightning-wolffe / @cherrydemon5 / @and-claudia / @clone-rambles / @mandaloriandin

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"Wrecker. I knew you'd come to help me." 99 whispered through his comm.

Wrecker couldn't contain his excitement at his ori'vod calling out to him. He was alright, on this planet, away from the long-necks and their experiments, away from the dirty looks and degrading whispers, away from all the forced maintenance. He left the rainy planet like he always dreamt he would.

For so long Wrecker ached for the reunion with his brother. He had so much to say to him, from his biggest explosion to date to his best prank on the regs with Crosshair and he couldn't forget to relate how he fought a giant snake that could have easily swallowed him whole in a single bite!

He could already see 99 listening intently to each of his words, nodding and smiling as he would move his hands around to illustrate his words, because words weren't powerful enough to convey the power of the moment.

Clone force 99 would be complete with its fifth member on board. All they needed to do was get him out of there with the rest of them.

"That's not him! Guys!"

For a split second, Wrecker had forgotten their newest teammate. Their cabur'ika. He was so wrapped up in helping his vod that he forgot everything else and let his body take control. His body knew what to do, fighting was in his blood.

A new spark burned to life in his chest at the prospect of presenting you to his very wise sibling, maybe he could help you with your insecurities like he helped them all with theirs.

"I know his voice Y/N! That's him!" He pushed forward, his team right behind him.

You'd see soon, it was worth it. 99 was worth it.

"Stay under the trees!"

He would have laughed at your words if he hadn't caught a glimpse of a man standing near a river. Trees were everywhere on this planet, you didn't have to worry. Instead, he forced his legs to move faster.

A huff resonated through the comm just as 99 called again, the newfound fear in his voice made Wrecker's blood boil in worry and anger.

He was almost there. He'd help. He'd save him.

A nagging feeling plagued the back of his mind. It was just like when he forgot to close the light of the fresher one night and caused the ship to be inoperable for a couple of days or when he forgot Crosshair in a secluded village while on a supply run. He couldn't tell what was wrong, all he knew was that something wasn't as it was supposed to be.

Wrecker got to the edge of the river, 99 just on the other side of the large angry stream. The ravine they had followed for a while was visible from his spot on the bank. It seemed they had moved a klick away from it and deeper into the jungle. The tall wall of rock and mud abruptly stopped and disappeared under a tumultuous waterfall that would be breathtaking in broad daylight.

He doesn't see them, but Wrecker heard the soft steps of his brothers joining his sides. He didn't acknowledge their presence in the slightest, his eyes being glued to his elder kneeling on the ground clutching his chest, the grunts of pain leaving his mouth were too clear over the roaring water separating them.

Without thinking he took a step forward, carefully setting foot in the deep river to reach the other side without getting carried away by the rapids.

“Wrecker, what are you doing?” Hunter put a hand on his pauldron to keep him from going further into the water.

“He’s hurt!”

Without wasting a second, Wrecker harshly shrugged Hunter's hand away to venture into the raging water, fighting for his balance against the strong current pushing against his abdomen threatening to take him further through the jungle. Wrecker winced as static took over his comm, drowning the words of his team behind him.

99's voice overflowed the nagging sound to encourage him forward, inciting him to grab the outstretched hand as soon as he was within reach.

"Stay back." Wrecker ignored the help, he didn't want to pull his older brother into the river where he'd have no chance to survive.

The ignored hand gripped his armpit in a useless effort to assist him, water dripped down his soaked blacks and armor, nurturing the grass below.

"Are you okay 99?" Without wasting a second, Wrecker turned to his brother, already reaching for his frail shoulder.

The sight squeezed his heart in nostalgia. There he stood, smiling just like the last time the Batcher saw him when they departed for their mission on Devaron. He even opened his arms like he always did whenever they’d all return from their assignments. This was him.

An urge to jump into the long-awaited embrace propelled his body forward to carefully wrap his strong arms around the fragile form of 99. Relief flooded his brain as soon as he felt arms wrapping around his own waist, numbing his senses to concentrate solely on this moment.

"Thank you for making all the way to me." He heard his voice in his comm, as clear as day, the background white noise abruptly muted as Wrecker's eyes widened in understanding.

He managed to pull away slightly before the sight in front of him paralyzed his muscles. By fear, surprise or sadness, he couldn't decide which one had more control over his body.

“Thank you for saving me Wrecker.” 99's lips stayed glued together despite the words echoing through the soldier's head. The once calming smile had lost all its warmth only to be replaced with a way more sinister grin.

Half of 99- no, half of the monster disappeared under a layer of darkness slowly bleeding from its eyes, nose and mouth, the black goo covering its right side morphed into parts of someone else. Brown hair, a youthful smile, a broad muscular arm, they all appeared for a moment before the goo engulfed them again and changed over and over again, never truly setting on anything in particular.

The shiver running up his spine brought the man to his senses long enough for his brain to order his body to move away from the threat. His chest separated from the smaller one as his feet stumbled backward. Unfortunately, his left hand didn't have such luxury. The liquid tightened around his fingers, crept over his palm to reach his forearm and slide under the sleeve of his blacks.

He pulled and pulled again without any success. He was trapped.

"So long…"

It was cold as death, enough to chill the giant to the bone. Bile raised in his throat as the sticky feeling crept up his skin. He tugged as hard as he could, but inches by inches the wicked sludge reached his elbow, gaining complete control over his arm.

"It has been so long…"

For some reason the tank of a man has never felt as small as in this instant, heterochromatic eyes staring up at him right in the eyes like his opaque visor wasn't even there.

"We're so hungry."

Before he could register the meaning behind his words, Wrecker went flying backward a few meters away from his initial standing spot, a heavyweight on his chest pinning him to the ground.

Everything was happening too fast. Wrecker had some difficulties keeping up. That is until the unprotected skin of the underside of his upper arms burned worse than a blaster wound, his brain instantly knew what happened.

With a yelp followed by a powerful kick, the clone tried to once again to dislodge the opponent clinging to him. His movements didn't send the gigantic thing rolling like he hoped, instead it merely shrieked in his face and flapped its cracked white wings to fly away, claws still locked around his arms.

Fortunately for once, the beast doesn't get off the ground. Unfortunately, it meant that some parts of its prey had to go.

Massive maws closed around his helmet, offering an absolutely atrocious view of the beast's mouth and throat. Wrecker would never admit it, but the sudden fear forced his eyes closed for a split second, protecting his fragile orbs by doing so. Shards of his visor exploded under the assault of some particularly sharp teeth, scratching the sensitive skin around his eyes.

This high level of panic was completely new for him and he didn't like it one bit. A nice adrenalin rush was one thing. This was far from the enjoyable spectrum. He wanted to yell for help, but who would hear his call? He was alone.

The pressure around his head was increasing fast. Saliva covered his helmet, leaving Wrecker to blindly touch around his head for the maws, fingers slipping between the sparse teeth to force them open. The grip around his upper arms tightened, shooting a new wave of searing pain through his body as the claws dug deeper into his flesh.

Ignoring his agonizing arms, he put more strength behind his movement and had the toothy vice open in a second. A well-placed kick on the bird sternum sent it flying backward, liberating his lacerated skin in the process.

Hands cleaned his visor in a haste but stopped as soon as his fingertips started to tingle. The soft feeling soon morphed into full-on burning, prompting the soldier to wipe his hands onto the grass at his sides.

Holes adorned the once intact tactical gloves, showing the damaged skin that it was supposed to protect.

Before he could question the condition of his hands, a screech pulled him back to reality.

The milky bird was big, easily four times his size with weird legs and two pairs of arms. The long white beak was pretty sharp with nasty teeth occasionally poking out, its maws opening frantically on a high pitch screech, its old-paper like wings flapping in anger at its side.

Following the blue trail of bolts hitting the creature, the calls of his brother resonated through the comm without any interference as soon as his eyes landed on their offensive positions.

His brothers. He remembered them now. He wasn't alone. They were here.

"-ot responding." Tech

"Wrecker! Come back here!" Wrecker winced at the very loud order coming from his sergeant. Apparently, it wasn't the first time he barked his instructions.

"I'll get h-" Static filled his ears once again as 99 appeared at his side, hands wrapped around his pauldron.

"Don't leave me. Please Wrecker, help me.."

"I'll hel-" His words were cut off by a sudden pull from behind, quickly followed by water engulfing his armor.

Gasping, Wrecker tried to keep his head above water by instinct but failed miserably. The strong current left him totally helpless, the force of the water digging into his injuries to make him totally unable to move them around to get to the surface. Where was the surface? He turned on himself so much that nothing made sense anymore.

A pull on his back stopped his body from turning in all directions, halting his quick descent down the river. Multiple hands pulled him out of the stream and wasted no time to pull him upright.

"Wrecker can you hear me?" Hunter shook his shoulder forcefully.

Too soon Wrecker tried to lift himself up using his arms to reassure his brother. All he managed to do was to almost faceplant into the wet dirt beneath his torso.

"99." Was all he could say. He still felt a pull towards the other bank where he knew his oldest brother was still waiting for him.

"There's nothing there. It's not real." Hands lifted him by the armpits to take him back under the cover of the trees. "It was a trick."

"No he's right there!" The clone was getting frustrated as everyone ignored his hand pointing behind them focussing instead on keeping him upright.

A shriek pierced the night followed by a sudden splash of water, causing the three soldiers to jump simultaneously. Wrecker turned just in time to see the bird emerging from the river and fly away with something bright in its mouth.

Once the beast disappeared over the horizon, every memory repressed by the weird fog obscuring his brain came back to the front of his mind. Tears ran down his cheeks as he remembered that 99 died in a Seppie attack on Kamino, that he wasn't there to help.

He had to bite his bottom lip to keep his whimpers from escaping, the pain of losing his brother a second time was way worse than it originally felt. Whatever it was back there felt so real, so warm, it told him exactly what he needed to hear and acted like the one and only 99. Deep down maybe he knew already but allowed himself to be blinded by hope.

And hope crushed his heart in the more twisted way possible.

Crosshair was the first to let go of his brother when they got deep enough into the line of trees, moving his attention to the grapple fixed under his rifle to put it away. So that's what pulled him into the river.

"Are you okay Wrecker?" Hunter's worry pulled at his already suffering heart.

"I am." He weakly mumbled, quieting down the hisses of pain menacing to erupt from his throat.

"We don't have much time." Hunter carefully lowered himself to set his brother at the foot of a large tree. "We have to patch you up and search for Y/N before anything that might 've heard the noises comes this way."

Wrecker perked up at the mention of your disappearance, his eyes roamed the surroundings to get a glimpse of your shirt painted in blood and guts that always gave him a tiny heart attack every time he looked at it. He never thought not seeing that shirt would fill him with dread.

"What happened?" He asked just as Tech removed his helmet to toss it at Crosshair for examination.

The jungle looked way more terrifying without the night vision helping his sight. Without it, every shadow looked like an Algax silently staring with its inexistent orbs.

"We don't know. We were too…" Tech trailed off, quickly assessing the wounds on his arms. "focussed to notice anything."

Wrecker winced at the same time Crosshair did, although for a totally different reason. Tech stopped poking at the edges of the wounds to stuff some gauze pads on the bleeding lacerations before wrapping them with a sterile wrap.

"Cross?" He asked his brother that stopped analyzing the helmet to lose himself in his thoughts, eyes fixed on one of the holes in the visor.

He seemed taken aback for a moment but quickly recovered, rolling the customized helmet in his hands.

"Night vision stopped working on one of the lenses. Too damaged. The front is melted at some places," He turned the helmet over to trace a long crack at the back of the head. "and it may not resist a hit to the right place."

The frustration in his tone wasn't lost on anyone. Clearly, the helmet wasn't the subject of his irritation and no one had to ask for the truth. They were all prey of the same guilt.

"I'm sorry. She told us not to follow voices." Wrecker averted his eyes, not able to look at his fuming brother anymore. Whatever happened to you was his fault. If only he hadn't followed the voices, you wouldn't be missing.

Bile raised in his throat as his mind wandered on the dreaded questions. What happened? Were you in danger? Or hurt? Or dead?

From his experience on this planet, Wrecker knew it was safe to assume that you crossed paths with a monster of the night. This was a certainty. All there was to speculate on was your wellbeing.

"Her tracker is still working, we'll find her." Tech applied a small bacta patch that he pulled out of his belt onto the palm of Wrecker's hand, the latter hissing in pain.

"You're lucky the water washed off any remaining chemical that burned your skin or else we'd see some bones if the state of your helmet is anything to go by." He admired the edges of the burns that weren't covered by the patch. "I'll wrap your fingers together to keep them from moving on each other so refrain from closing your hand. You'll only damage it more."

"But I won't be able to shoot!" He frowned, teeth clashing together as Tech put some gauze between his fingers and wrapped the bandages tightly together.

"Blasters don't work anyway." Hunter grumbled as he turned back to them, letting go of the hair at the back of his neck to face his team.

"But light does." The engineer got on his feet to help Wrecker, offering his forearm to pull him up.

"Light?"

"I threw an emergency light stick at it."

"How did you know it would chase it?" Wrecker pulled on his helmet that Crosshair held out to him.

Having only one night vision lens would make it difficult for him to continue, hopefully, it wouldn't slow him down too much or cause him to miss some monster out there. He couldn't be more of a burden than he already was at the moment.

"I didn't. It was merely a theory." He typed away at his vambrace, missing Wrecker's bewildered expression. "And I was only partially correct. They indeed are reactive to light, but they do not fear it as I initially thought. Turns out that light enrages them. It gave up on you in order to eat the stick." He explained in his signature matter of fact tone.

Before anyone could add to the previous conclusion, Tech continued.

"I got her position. She's close” The corners of Wrecker’s lips lifted slightly. They could track you, everything would be fine from here. You weren’t lost. “and unmoving." The whispered last words rang loud and clear in all the clones' ears.

Wrecker's breath wasn't the only one to abruptly stop.

#bad batch x reader #wrecker x reader #tech x reader #crosshair x reader #hunter x reader #sergeant hunter #clone force 99 #star wars #clone wars #Reader is gooooneeee #what the hell happened?#the answer...in the next chap

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opalmaplehibiscus · 4 years ago

Text

Lion and Emerald

**Hello Anon! (>w<)/ Writing in Leona’s perspective was fun especially knowing Leona’s personality lol. I really do you hope you enjoy this HC and again, thank you for your kind messages <3

HC of Leona Proposing to Reader w/ Bit’s of Leona’s Past Lore

• It really wasn’t supposed to happen. Honestly. Truly

• The day he would mull over how to propose to you was something Leona didn’t even dream about

• No one would’ve ever believed that he would fall in love. Even the man himself

• He was the loathed, second prince – who would want to marry him? Cherish him? Love him?

• Yet here he is, after 10 years, being your boyfriend

• To him, it still felt surreal that he’s receiving love, care, attention. And the fact he reciprocates it back? What the hell has he become?

• Sometimes he thinks it was a mistake to fall in love you

• He’s afraid that he’ll cause you pain, that he’ll accidentally hurt you because of his outburst like he once did to Ruggie

• After all, to him, you’re still an herbivore – small, fragile, cute, precious

• One hit and you’ll break. Even if you were strong to take on everyone who OBed back then, you’re still magicless. He couldn’t help but be amazed you’re still in one piece to this day, as he remembers all those crazy times

• Maybe that was why he thought him and you, being together, would last forever. For eternity

• Yes, he was badgered a sh** ton before to marry you by Ruggie and Vil every year . Heck, Vil literally sent him 10 1-hour voicemails on how he was being a useless beast last week while Ruggie came over and begged him to marry you. Rook, we don’t talk about ever. He refuses to think about that hunter who not-so-helpfully backed Vil’s threats with secretly taken photos and photoshop

• Leona( gets a package): What the crap is th- WHAT THE LEGIT CRAP

Rook: Monsieur Roi de Lion! Did you like your collage gift of you and your lover?

Leona: WHERE THE F*** DID YOU COME FROM?! AND WHERE DID YOU GET THESE PHOTOS?!

• Listen! To be fair, de didn’t want to go through the torture of getting everyone’s approval again. It literally took him 2 years to get Diasomnia and the first-year squad to let him date you. 2. YEARS.

• He still doesn’t want Malleus and Jack to be his mothers-in-law. To hell with that really

• Leona finally curves though when he hears that Cheka was going to go to NRC next year

• When Leona first heard about it, it takes him a while to actually realize that Cheka wasn’t the same annoying furball he took care of

• The Cheka as of right now is wiser, charismatic, and powerful. By the time he comes home for vacation? Leona knew that Cheka would be strong enough to give a run for his own money

• It makes Leona realize how much time had actually passed. And how the time with you won’t last forever

• He suddenly feels fear as he thinks about it more. The fact that he might lose you for all sorts of reasons starts making him sweat as dread fills him as he imagines every single scenario that could happen

• For once, he’ll admit. He’s scared. He’s scared that he won’t be with you. He won’t be by your side not getting the hugs that tells him it’s okay, the kisses the seals that promises you won’t let him go, the love he never once received and finally did

• It leads to him telling Ruggie that he’s planning to propose to you very soon

• And really? The fact Ruggie did a spit take on it when he said that made Leona want to chuck his cup at the hyena’s head

• When Ruggie stutters, slowly realizing what was going to happen, Leona decides to be nice and spray water with magic at his face. Not throw the cup. Just water….that was inside the cup

• Planning took over a month because Leona wanted to get it right

• He goes over the details over and over leading him to get stressed, frustrated, and a bit worn down

• The plan had to be fool-proof and perfect. It had to work so that there’s no way you could say no. Not even the tiniest loop hole

• He even swallowed his own damn pride to get his brother to help him with this. I mean, since his brother did it before with his own wife, he would know what to do, right?

• Farena: Propose? Oh, lololol~ I just asked her after going on a date with her. Legit went “I love you, please marry me” out of nowhere with a fast-food ring. Of course, I bought and gave her a proper one but still

Leona: You useless piece of s---

• Things gets worse though. On the day he planned to propose to you, you suddenly tell him that the two of you are invited for an NRC reunion with the rest of the group

• My gosh. He’s about to propose to you and you tell him this? Really? Seriously, he can’t take it anymore---

• One thing leads to the next and he’s arguing with you. From talking about reunion to insulting each other to who ate the last piece of steak from last night were the things both of you yell about until Leona has enough and decides to walk out the door to cool his head

• He loves you. He really does. But seriously, can you have any worse timing? Do you realize how many physical, mental, and emotional obstacles he had to pass to propose to you?

• A week later, the two of you arrive to NRC. The feeling of nervousness hits Leona like a tidal wave as he uses the excuse of last weeks argument to explain his “bad mood”

• For once, he’s thankful you didn’t realize his ears twitching or the odd way he waves his tail

• Acting like himself, the minute he enters the courtyard with you and sees everyone, he goes “Alright, I’m out of here”

• He knows you were going to yell at him for it so he adds how he’ll be napping in the Botanical Garden for “nostalgia”

• As he lies in the garden, memories of how you two begin flashes in his head

• A grin forms on his lips as he remembers how you two first met here in the Botanical Garden and then his confession which stemmed from the Fairy Gala held in here

• He wouldn’t even disagree if someone told him his first and only love stemmed from his napping place

• Soon enough he hears you walking through the garden, trying your best to hide the sounds of your steps

• He waits for you to come closer to where he was lying down until finally, when you were in reach, he uses his tail to drag you down as a surprise

• He wraps his arms around you as he lets his tail let go of your waist, tucking your head under his chin as he nuzzles your hair

• When you start smacking his chest, telling him to let you go, he chuckles. He thinks how you haven’t changed a bit in terms of adorableness

• Finally, he loosens his grip on you, letting you turn your face towards him with a glare (well to him it’s more like a pout)

• He doesn’t answer you when you ask what’s gotten into him lately, getting lost in his thoughts and nervousness

• He could feel you resign and sigh before going back to hugging him, while nuzzling your face into his chest

• Gently he moves a hand towards your face, stroking his thumb on your cheek before lifting your face up again

• He leans his head towards you, pulling you into a deep kiss

• At first you yelp in surprise and struggle against him, trying to tell him this was a public area and people might catch them. But as he presses harder and deeper, you stop and start accepting it

• He doesn’t let go until he realizes you needed to breathe. The way your eyes were glazed and your cheeks apple red made him want you more

• Finally, he gently moves you off him and gets up into sitting position. His heart races as he takes a glance and sees how you were looking at him curiously

• Sighing, he scratches the back of his head. He knows that it was now or never

• Leona looks at you with eyes suddenly glowing from passion

• He gets on one knee and holds both your hand in his. After all, seeing how you were standing up, it made it look like you were about to run away because of how he was looking at you. And like hell he’s about to let you go

• He confesses how he originally never thought he would fall in love, especially with a weak herbivore like yourself . But as time went on, your justice, your passion, and your person as a whole made him love you

• Leona talks about how recently he started getting scared that he would lose you and how he was thinking of ways to tie you to him so he could continue standing by your side for eternity

• As he says all of this, his eyes are filled with love, adoration, gentleness yet fear for rejection. His eyes weren’t his predatorily fire green but passionate emerald, for once filled with light

• Slowly, he uses one hand to keep a hold of your two hands while using the now freed one to grab the ring box in his back pocket

• Leona opens it and presents it to you, saying “I love you to the point that I want you to be mine forever herbivore”

• Seeing tears roll down your cheeks as you nod, he smiles as he gets up kisses you again

• During the kiss he slides the ring onto your finger and then wrap his arms around your waist, enjoying your warmth

• When the two of you separate, he tears up a bit when he hears you tell him you love him and dives for another

• Or tries to at least if it weren’t for the sound of Ace and Sebek screaming “No” while Ruggie and Vil yells “Finally”

• He glares at them and asks how long was everyone here for as every single person starts to emerge from their hiding place

• It takes 5 hours to calm him down when Malleus shows himself and flatly says he won’t approve even if Leona were to ask him for approval

#twst #twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar #leona x reader #hc #headcanon #theory

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astringofmadhousefloozies · 4 years ago

Text

Ghost Wedding: The Remix

So, uh, here’s the first actual fanfic I’ve written, and the first full length piece I’ve written in literal years. I wrote it for my own amusement, after weeks of eating up various bits of TWST lore and scenes and going “But, how would the whole Ghost marriage story have gone with a Yuu who was more like me a goth bisexual disaster?

What follows is a series of vignnetes, starring a Yuu who’s the only girl in NRC, with deeply questionable taste, told in the second person. Please let me know if you enjoyed it, I crave positive feedback and like when other people enjoy the things I like.

Contend warnings for blood, body horror, emeto, coarse language and pretentious word choices.

You've been here a while. En-Arr-See wasn't precisely a safe place, what with your dorm being a condemned hellpit of tetanus and black mold, and powerful magicians having mutagenic psychotic breaks only curable by kicking their ass so hard it flies out their mouth. But certainly, it wasn't boring, and you'd made friends. You had your scrappy ginger Ace in the hole; your serious mamas-boy Deuce; your funny little not-a-cat Grim. Hell, you even have your Horned Boy, he of the poison-coloured eyes that never seem to leave your face when you talk about fun things like books and music and the moral imperative of dissolving the monarchy. And, you were on speaking terms with a good chunk of others. So, when your favourite little robot came up to Crowley, yelling something about ghosts kidnapping his brother, you took his hand and said, "Ortho, show me what's going on." After all, you won't let anything happen to Idia. You have plans for him yet.

~*~*~*~

Some beauties might launch a thousand ships, and in your (objectively correct) opinion, while Idia's beauty wouldn't lead to a ten year siege of Troy, he'd certainly convince everyone attending Whitby Goth Weekend to haul off into the sea with a beat of his lashes. The first time you'd seen him, you'd simply stared in slack-jawed awe. He was luminescent; even leaving behind the fiery hair that flashed and swelled behind him, his eyes were a bright clear amber, and his skin translucent, with his own blue veins serving as the detailing in the marble. Add in the deeply circled eyes and the bluish discolouration of the lips, and the figure he presented was arresting, astounding, more beautiful and unreal than anything you'd conjured up after staying up all night reading ghost stories. "Magnificent," you'd said to yourself, and if your friends gave you a strange look, well, fuck 'em. They have no sense of beauty or taste.

Unfortunately, the intensity of your gaze proved too much for him, and he'd fled. You'd had no time to pursue the object of your infatuation either, class would soon begin, and Grim was yelling. Later, then. There's all the time in the world to ask after the fine young man with the lamplight eyes.

~*~*~*~ "Oh no," you said when Ortho showed you the video. "She's really hot."

Grim gawked and Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you take from this?"

"You're the one with an all-boys school. What's a girl like me to do when a pretty girl pops up?"

"She's a ghost, Yuu."

"That's the best part."

"My brother-"

"I'll help you, dear." You set a hand on Ortho's shoulder. "He must be so frightened, right? I'll do what you need."

Before anyone could say anything else, a racket started up outside, and things got a little busy.

~*~*~*~ "Do you mind if I sit?"

Idia looked up at you. starting at the intrusion. His face was awash in blue from the conjured screens around him, his lips gone black. "...Why?"

"Tables are full. I'd rather not eat standing." He didn't explicitly say no, so you settled across the table, a few chairs down. He made a fascinating tableau as you picked at your lunch, flicking through and typing at the screen. Lines of code, schematics for all sorts of tech, occasional comics all flit across the pane of light in a million shades of blue. Until...

"Could you pretend I'm a bug?"

You squinted. "What." What the actual hell did he mean by that.

"Pretend I'm not here. I'm beneath notice."

You stop for a moment and smile, faint enough that he can't see the devil in it. "You want me to treat you like an insect."

"Yes." Hard to see in the light, there was a small twitch by his temple, a barely perceptible shake in his long fingered hands.

"Alright." With that, you slide down the table to directly across from him, settle you chin in your hands, and stare at him unblinkingly.

"?!?!?" The squawk he made was undignified and deeply, deeply endearing. "What are you doing?"

"You asked me to treat you like an insect." You smile at him, full of mischief and good cheer. "So I'm looking at you very closely. I'm taking in every sweet action, and delighting that the day has conspired to put something so wonderful in front of me."

Oh, who would have thought that this blue boy could turn so pink! As he pulled his hood up, you chuckle and move back to your tray. "I'll let you be," you say, and did indeed, for the amount of time it took him to close up shop and flee back to the depths of Ignihyde. When you waved at him as he went by, he nearly tripped in his haste.

~*~*~*~ "Stop laughing."

The boys did not listen.

"May others show you the kindness you've shown Idia if you're in a bind."

"You're just mad because she's gonna kill your-"

"Grim? Shut the fuck up. Now; who's helping."

After a chorus of 'no's, you drag your fingers through your hair. "I hate all of you so fucking much right now... Ortho, your ideas?"

Ortho's idea was deeply enticing but Crowley would not have the school leveled, and thankfully, the two of them threatened and guilted the others into helping. You'd have to say thank you later, but god, then Crowley might think you actually liked him instead of just finding him funny, and who needed that in their life?

"Alright, so... A plan?"

~*~*~*~ As badly as he might've liked to have escaped, there was only one empty seat in the class, and it was by him. So, Idia threw his hood up, along with his headphones, and started blatantly ignoring you.

"Idia." Silence.

"Idia." A faint grunt and he turned away from you.

"Shroud," you intoned in the most sepulchral tone you could, setting you hand in his field of vision. He whipped his head at you, the fire in his eyes nothing compared to the changing colours on his head.

"WHAT."

You raise your hands in supplication, trying to still your racing heart. "I'm sorry dude. I wanted to ask where you got your screens?"

"My screens?" His eyes flicked back to his schoolwork, hovering in the air. "I made them myself."

Your face lit up in awe. "That's amazing dude, holy shit. How'd you do that? It's a damn miracle."

"Ah... well..." Two sides warred within him - pride that someone recognized his tech genius, and his deep seated anxiety that anyone trying to be nice was just fucking with him. Fortunately for both of you, pride won out. "It's certainly something complicated for a magicless normie like you to understand." He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Do you really want to hear?"

You fixed him with a level look. "Never call me that again. Now, start like I'm five and go from there."

He stared back at you, and you stared right back. "Indulge me, Idia."

He gave you a smile full of sharp, crooked teeth, and while you tried to still the palpitations the sight of them gave you, he started with very basic theory, and went from there.

~*~*~*~ "You are not going to seduce the ghost bride, Yuu."

"Why the hell not?"

"You're a girl?"

"You're kinda plain."

"You're fat."

"She's probably straight?"

You point in turn at Leona, Azul, Vil, and Kalim. "So?, no I'm plenty hot actually, get fucked, and... Okay, That is a good point. But Kal, you have no idea how many straight girls I've managed to kiss."

"I think you'd die, Shrimpie," Floyd said as he flopped heavily over your shoulders, giggling as you attempted to untangle yourself. "And you're short."

"Yeah, but you have no idea how hot I am when I'm actually try- Shut up, Vil - Like, I clean up so good you guys. I even made a suit a couple weeks ago -"

"That's convenient? Weirdly so?"

"I found suiting that wasn't moth eaten and decided to have fun, at least-" You finally escape from the noodly arms of Leech the Wild One. "Let me suit up and show you? I can be so sexy, you guys. Come on."

In answer to the confused silence, you took your keys out of your pocket and chucked them at Deuce's confused face. "Adeuce! Grim! It's on the vanity in my room!"

"But ghosts?"

"Say you're clearing out things so that we won't bother... No, actually just go the balcony way."

"You can't unlock the balcony from the outside without a lockpick, it only locks from the inside."

A moment of silence. "Lilia, what the fuck?"

He shrugged. "I moved everything two inches to the left once to see if you noticed."

"I wasn't imagining things?!?"

This'll take a moment to sort out, and the clock is ticking...

~*~*~*~ You truly liked the woods! Green and quiet. Full of things that crawled and scurried, little friends that squeaked and croaked and hissed. The occasional precious treasure of a small bone or edible mushroom. So, you were quite surprised when you found Idia, miserable, crouched beside a fallen log.

"... Skipping gym?" Going by the uniform, the most likely answer. "Or did you finally realize that outside doesn't always bite?"

He scowled at you, and you stifled a giggle when you realized that yes, he was actually covered in bug bites. "They should replace this with a mall."

"You hate malls. Too many people." You reached out a hand, and pulled him to his feet. Idly, you wondered if he'd let you try and fit your hands around his waist, but thought better of asking.

"Game stores are alright. No one bothers you in one, or in arcades. And." He stopped, as he brushed the dirt from his legs, before continuing in a mumble you only got the gist of.

"Me and Ortho will be your big, scary guard dogs?"

"... Who'll notice me with both of you?"

"Everyone." Because he's the most beautiful person in the room, and they'd be mad not to look. "Because you show up so rarely. It makes it all the more noticeable when you are out, so everyone pays attention." You held out a hand. "I'll take you out the back way so you don't get in trouble."

No dice. He held his hands in close. "I'll just follow."

"Alright. Why'd you go out this far in the woods with no map, anyways?"

"There's no cell service..."

"Clearly, we need to turn your blood into a wi-fi signal, instead of liquid sugar."

He huffed, but he did follow you, and was actually approaching a good mood once you escorted him through the Ramshackle gates.

~*~*~*~ "Hey, what did I miss?" It took entirely too long to get a single lock of hair to to a perfect insouciant flip over your forehead, even with the eternally stylish Sam's help.

"She's slapped everyone who went to propose, and when she does you're paralyzed for 500 years."

"Christ," You say as you adjust a pin on your lapel. "We have to get Idia back, he'll get what? A week before he gets the hand."

"She's so fussy!" yelled Grim. "You have to sing and have a dog and she hates poison flowers."

"Clearly, she has no taste." Honestly,you thought her taste was just fine, what with thinking Idia was the finest of the bunch. He was very princely, if your tastes ran to exquisite corpses with the personality of a neurotic goblin. "Who wouldn't want poison blossoms?" Tie? No tie? Tie? No tie? No tie. And unbutton. Leona wishes he had this chest.

"We know she has no taste because she chose Idia."

You chose to ignore that, and clapped. "Okay, Round Two!"

~*~*~*~ The truest tragedy of this school was that it was all boys. Not that boys were bad by any means, you certainly enjoyed them, but... girls. Tall girls! Short girls! Busty girls! Petite girls! Butch girls! Femme girls! Fat girls! Girls!

So many kinds of girls, and you, in all of your plump and handsome glory, were the only girl in an entire high school. Welcome to hell.

You accepted no gifts that came unvetted. You had friends ward the everloving bajeezus out of your dorm room. Grim was more than happy to test your food and drink for tampering, but it was exhausting. You at least knew that any food you ate at the Mostro Lounge was clear, but that was only because everyone was too damn scared of the eternally hovering Floyd to try anything while there.

So, you eat a lot of vending machine snacks.

You've been standing there for fifteen minutes, trying to figure out the best combo with your limited funds, when someone coughed behind you.

"??? Oh, hey Idia." You stepped aside while he shuffled up to the glass and peered in. "Anything to recommend? I got this." You waved your bill in the air.

He only looked at you a moment before looking back at the machine. "That won't get you much."

"Ah, don't I know it. But it's all I got."

He still wasn't looking directly at you, but a smile started to creep across his face. "Get your bag."

"Wha-" He was already tapping out a beat with the keypad, blue sparks flying from his fingertips, the machine starting to groan and shiver. With a final note, the snack machine gave a final heaving shudder - and every single snack fell to the bottom of the machine.

He was so proud as he smiled at you, reaching down and pulling a single bag of gummies from the spilled mess. "You first."

And, as you stuffed your schoolbag and pockets full of thieved goods, praising his genius, his cleverness, his skills, he just glowed.

~*~*~*~ "I guess you were ahead of the game, Yuu. She hates that no one's dressed up properly. And..."

"And? You raised an eyebrow at Ace.

"You do look stylish. But you need backup."

"Of course. You'll all rescue people while I distract her!”

"But what if she slaps you?"

"You'll step in if that happens. But we have to dress you all up."

"Did you makes spares?"

"No." Tragic, everyone would look so cute in summerweight green wool. "Let's ask Sam, he's got everything."

~*~*~*~ "Okay, Ortho, you see?" You held his back to your chest, and raised your hand in front of his face, palm away from him. As you wiggled your fingers, you could see movement on the back of your hand. "Those are tendons. Those, and the muscles, are what move the bones, make your hands move. If you put your fingers here," you say as you place his fingertips over the moving lines, "you should be able to feel it."

"I do! They go up and down. What's the popping?"

"That's my faulty joints, we'll cover those another day. Now," you flipped your hand over, and moved his fingers to your wrist. "You feel that?"

"That is your pulse! It's not as string as it should be."

"I'm not always in the best of health. So, Ortho. My hand moves by muscles and tendons when I think of it. My blood moves through my body, one beat at a time, and you can feel it. Right?"

"Right."

"You," you say, as you take Ortho's other hand. "Your hand moves by motors and servos, when you think about it. Electricity and magic moves through your body, in beats so fast we can't perceive it, and it's as measurable as my pulse."

"... Because I am a robot."

"Because you are a bit different. But we're both alive, we're both real, just in different ways." You turn to look at Ortho directly, and he looks back at you with yellow eyes that are actual, real lamps. "Don't let anyone ever say you're not real, or alive, or good enough, just because you're different."

And though you can't see it, you can feel Idia smiling from the corner of his room.

~*~*~*~ Alright. No more time for memories, only the here and now. You've got a heart full of love, a pocket full of ring, and a head full of stupid. You're as prepared as anyone else who went in. Start on your left foot, and...

"Hello? Excuse me?" You make a cursory knock at the doorframe before stepping in. "I heard there was a wedding."

The bride - Eliza - whirled on you, and stopped. She was even more of a vision in person, airy translucence and fine, sweet features currently arranged in confusion. "Ah- Yes! I'm getting married to my darling Prince Idia! Right away, so-"

Not if I have my way about it, you thought to yourself as you arranged yourself in a perfect bow, one hand behind your back. You pretended not to notice Idia trussed up with rope, but you filed the sight away for later. "How wonderful. I wish you only happiness. But it must wait."

Before she could get her hand ready, you straightened and fixed her with your best smile. "My dearest princess, I cannot let this happen until I dance with the most beautiful person in this room. It would be improper to do so with a newlywed, and I cannot know peace until I dance. Would you be so kind, my fair princess?"

She was still baffled. "Aren't you a girl?"

You keyed up the brightness. "I am, and I dance very well. Would you indulge me, my dear?"

You could see her considering it. "You... are rather princely. Can you lead?"

"Of course. May I?" Again with the bow, and to your delight, she returned with a flawless curtsy. Hand in hand, you began.

~*~*~*~ It was delightful, to dance with this silly ghost girl. Everywhere your bodies touched, from her hand in yours to what would have been a fine chest, but was instead a clean and elegant ribcage festooned with pearls, heat seeped away and left only a chill as cold as clay. Her footwork was flawless, considering she no longer had feet, and she was so easy to chat with. She asked you about your dog (none currently, but you'd love to have one, and there was Grim in the meantime), your singing, (little voice to speak of, but that was what vocal coaches were for), and why you wanted to dance with her (because when would the chance ever come again? Unless fairest Eliza considered her for forever and a day.)

"But what of dear Idia?" She'd almost looked towards where Idia no longer was, having been unknotted long ago, but you drew her back in before she could notice the chaos around her.

" 'Dear Idia', though as beautiful as the moon in the sky, has cold feet, my love. He's afraid of dying. But I? I'd cherish you for all of eternity." You leaned in closer. "I am not afraid of dying, beloved. To journey with you through realms beyond mortal reach. I can think of nothing more exciting than to cross the barrier to the other side, hand in hand with you. In the words of a fine sir from my home, 'to die by your side/the pleasure, the privilege is mine'. Please, please consider me, please..."

Here's how it should have gone: She said yes, and you put the ring on her finger, and all was well. But you'd awakened such a sweet hunger in her, she could not wait for propriety. Instead, she grasped your face and kissed you with the passion of five hundred years search, found.

~*~*~*~ It was so pleasant at first, that you couldn't help but return it. When had anyone ever kissed you with such passion? But quickly, the chill began to overtake you. It could have been bearable, but after that was pain. You started to shake, uncontrollably, as every nerve in your body was scraped away with a rusty blade, and as you weakly tried to push away, as blood began to flow from your eyes, your mouth, every pore and orifice, she still would not let go. All you could think was it hurts it hurts it hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts and, as you slipped to a grey place beyond where pain could touch you, you barely noticed the cacophony around you, or something hurtling towards the two of you from the corner of your eye.

Something blue.

~*~*~*~ When you finally woke up, through a drugged and painful haze, you couldn't tell where you were. When you jolted up, the pain of it sending you into a nauseated fit of blood-flecked coughing, a familiar yelp sounded, and you turned to see Idia, little the worse for wear.

"You're up, uh..." He fumbled something onto the table, behind his back. "I."

You just looked. At him, at the surroundings. A hospital bed, with gifts and flowers (most filched from the wedding venue, but someone had stuck Jade's poison blossom into a vase and set it in the far corner). Idia was the only one present, seeing as it was the middle of the night.

"Ortho's getting things you might need. I... I hate hospital scenes..."

"Hurt's over.” You tried to settle yourself more comfortably, failing miserably. “Here comes the comfort." You reached out a hand, as he looked anywhere in the room but you.

"Idia." Silence.

"Idia." More silence.

"Shroud." He hesitantly placed his hand in yours, tinting pink as you pulled the sleeve up. The sight of it made you gasp. His fine wrist, so small even you could put your fingers around it, was mottled with deep bruising, blacks and purples set so deep into the skin that there was crusted blood on the surface, despite being unbroken. It was so, deeply, incredibly...

Beautiful. It was all you could do, not to press your lips to his wrist and taste his pulse as it flitted under his skin. To clean the blood away with your own tongue and cover the marks that your hungry ghost princess had made with your own teeth. Not hers. Yours.

Really, no wonder you'd been so enchanted with Eliza. You're cut of the same cloth.

"It must hurt."

He jerked his hand away, making you both wince. "What the hell is wrong with you? They only reason you're not dead is everyone pouring so much healing magic into you that it exhausted almost everyone. I." You could see flickers and flashes of orange sparking along the full length of his hair. "I'm not worth dying for. Why?"

What do you tell him? That it was the right thing to do? That you wanted to prove that you could woo a pretty girl? That you didn't want him dead? That you were a possessive bitch that couldn't stand the idea of someone else having him, even if unwilling on his part? All were true, but what do you say?

It proved a moot point, as when you opened your mouth to say something, anything, something shifted within you, and the only thing Idia received was a gout of blood square in his face.

~*~*~*~ After you'd slept, you reached for your phone in the thin morning light. Your friends where texting well wishes and condolences, and explanations of what happened after you went down (It seemed Idia had tackled Eliza clean off of you, and after some chaos she ran off with her retainer, rending this entire day moot). Even more interestingly, you found a text from an unknown number:

- I'm still mad at you.

You huffed to yourself, and after a bit of thought, start to text back.

- Dude I'm so sorry about the uh. blood puke. - I'll pay for cleaning - Also you know, you could have just asked for my number a long time ago? - Like a normal person? - Who doesn't break into phones to steal said numbers while I was unconscious next to you, what the fuck dude - That's not what this is about though. - You've got every right to be mad - That whole day was traumatizing, and you didn't deserve any of it - I'd rather sort this out in person but if text is easier for you right now we can do that - One last thing though

You stopped, and thought Do I actually do this? and went what the hell.

- I still need that dance I went in to get from you

#twisted wonderland #twst fic #twisted wonderland fanfiction #ghost wedding #my writing

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scabopolis · 5 years ago

Text

emma x killian au: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic

Holy moly! This (really needs to be edited one more time, but we’ll save that for AO3, shall we?) monstrosity is my gift to @hollyethecurious for the @cssecretsanta2k19 (thank you for your tireless work on this!), and is my first attempt at Emma x Killian fic (eek!).

Hollye, what a joy to chat with you over the past month. I present to you a wordy as all getout friends to lovers fic that takes place over six holidays (five holidays with a bit of disaster, and one with a bit of magic), a soupçon of Captain Cobra, and brief appearances by older brother Liam, as well as (one hopes!) romance and a whole host of other good things. Hope it brings some joy to your season. And I’m thrilled to be able to start following you on Tumblr now and send messages without fear!

And I swear -- post-road trip, a more edited version will also appear on AO3. Happy holidays!

---------- title: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic fandom: once upon a time pairing: emma x killian word count: 12,400 | AO3 link: here ----------

summary: When Killian and Emma first meet on Thanksgiving she has some rather unsavory words for him. But then they somehow manage to navigate a series of holiday disasters together. In so doing they also stumble upon a bit of holiday magic.

Thanksgiving Or, the holiday where Emma calls Killian a pervert

As far as holidays go, Killian finds this Thanksgiving to be relatively textbook. Liam and Kate both made far too much food, took utter delight in teasing him for his lack of love life, and then he went home laden with abundant leftovers.

Only for things to rapidly become significantly less than textbook. It all started when he poured himself a glass of wine at home.

Home: the place wherein he poured himself the aforementioned glass of wine as he began to wind down for the evening, and then somehow proceeded to spill all but a single gulp on his bedding. Bedding: the freshly laundered, high thread-count duvet and sheets, put on the bed this morning, now soaked with Malbec.

With one set of sheets in the hamper and the second set wine soaked, Killian tossed back the remaining gulp of wine and resigned himself to an evening of doing laundry. On Thanksgiving.

In retrospect, Killian knows he should have just taken his brother and sister-in-law up on their kind offer to stay the night, but he’d found himself emotionally overwhelmed by the end of the night. Over dessert and coffee Liam and Kate informed him they were likely going to start trying for their first kiddo in the new year. And as excited as Killian is at the prospect of having a little nephew or niece to dote on next Christmas, it also served as a reminder of how close he’d gotten to having it all once. And how it doesn’t seem at all likely he’ll ever get that close again.

These kinds of maudlin thoughts are exactly why Killian poured himself that glass of wine. Wine that, as Killian holds the clean sheets up to the light in the laundry room, quite remarkably seems to have not stained. He does the complicated hand twisting and folding technique his mum once showed him and sets aside the fitted sheet, reaching for the flat sheet.

Killian hears the door to the shared laundry room open behind him as one of his neighbors enters. He slides his stacks of laundry together to make room on the folding table and is about to greet whoever walked in, commiserate over their fate of doing laundry on a —

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving, you sick pervert?”

Okay. Maybe not.

He turns around slowly to meet the steely gaze of one of his neighbors whom he’s seen from time to time in the mail room and hallways (and once in a rather lurid dream he still feels guilty about). “Do I normally do laundry on Thanksgiving? I wouldn’t consider it a tradition as such, but —”

“No. I mean steal women’s underwear.”

“Pardon?”

She steps closer only to swipe a pair of his briefs off the table. The pair of underwear is, admittedly, a little absurd, but nothing quite warranting such a vitriolic reaction. They��re the rare white elephant gift he actually opted to keep. Aside from being the most comfortable pair he owns, he quite enjoys the whimsical print of yetis sledding and decorating Christmas trees. He takes a step towards her and she backs up.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks.

“I’m not certain what is happening here.”

“What’s happening is, you’re a sick fuck.”

He frowns. That seems, to put it mildly, uncalled for. “Okay, hold on now —” he takes another step towards her

“You stay there,” she demands, pointing a finger at him.

He holds his hands up in a placating gesture. He has so lost the thread of this conversation. And he really should have just stayed at Liam’s house for the night. “I won’t come near you, lass, but if you could return my trunks I would —”

The indignation on her face makes her appear incandescent. “Yours?!”

“Yes, mine.”

His neighbor starts sputtering and then she goes silent, her jaw clenching in a way that is, if he were to be honest, rather intimidating. Still, Killian does (for some unknown reason that would likely require a good amount of therapy), what he so often finds himself doing whenever he meets his match: he smiles.

His smile only makes the frown lines on her face deepen.

“Look,” he says, in his most sensible tone of voice. “Do you really believe I would be daft enough to steal your undergarments and then remain in the laundry folding them knowing any moment you might return?”

It’s only for a split second, but her features relax as she considers his words. Then she full on glares at him, clutching the briefs in her fist. But then her eyes dart to one of the dryers on the wall.

“Have a look,” he says, gesturing with his head to the dryer.

“Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

“I would despair if you did.”

She remains true to her word, keeping one eye on him as she opens the dryer and roots around inside. He knows she’s found what she’s looking for when he hears her groan. “Fuck me,” she mutters to herself, and then pulls out a pair of briefs identical to his own.

She groans again. “This isn’t possible.”

“Yet here we are.”

She shuffles over and hands him back his briefs. Killian has to actively work to keep in his laugh as he watches her remove her clothing from the dryer and start another load. From the way the pink in her cheeks burns brighter, she’s aware of his gaze.

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving?” he asks. And there’s that rather becoming jaw clench of hers. “Accuse men of stealing your underwear, I mean?”

She remains silent and Killian decides to show mercy, finishing up his folding and stacking the clothes in his basket. His neighbor gives him a wide berth as she carries her laundry basket on her hip and leaves - no, flees - the room. But not before she mutters an apology. “Sorry if I, uh, said — you know?”

“Now, what could you have possibly said?” he asks, all faux innocence.

If possible, her blush gets even brighter. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Once back in his flat he texts Liam the whole story. As he putters around, remaking his bed and pouring himself another glass of wine, he bursts out into little chuckles of laughter replaying the scenario. Laughter which Liam echoes in emoji form once he responds. Frankly, this woman is Killian’s hero (Liam's too, as he offered to buy her a gift basket for helping keep Killian's ego in check). Maybe he’ll see her in the mail room and can assure her of her place of honor in Jones family lore.

He’s settling into the couch with a book when there’s a knock. Killian frowns, his eyes darting to his wall clock. It’s somehow only half-eight, but he isn’t expecting anyone. He looks out his peephole and smiles at the sight of one his young neighbors holding a platter of baked goods. They’ve only chatted in the elevator and occasionally in the halls but Henry is a warm and charming young man, and Killian always looks forward to their interactions. Which doesn’t explain why he —

“Mom, get your butt over here.”

“You knocked, he didn’t answer. He’s probably asleep.” And then the woman from the laundry room comes into view and it all makes a little more sense.

“When you mess up, you apologize. Those are the rules.”

“The rules for what?” she asks.

“For life.”

“Who taught you these rules?”

“You did.”

She huffs out an exasperated laugh, but wraps an arm around Henry’s shoulder and pulls him close. “God, why couldn’t I suck more as a parent?”

Killian decides to put her out of her misery and answer the door. Young Henry looks delighted at his appearance, and his mom appears miserable. Like she wants nothing more than to sprint in the other direction.

“Mr. Jones! Happy Thanksgiving! This is my mom, Emma.”

“Sir Henry, Happy Thanksgiving to you.” He looks to Henry’s mom. “And to your lovely mum.”

Henry shoves the platter of treats at him and Killian bobbles it before holding it steady. “These are for you!” Henry needlessly explains. It’s a platter teeming with pumpkin pie, cookies, and some sort of toffee almond concoction that looks delightful. “My Aunt Mary-Margaret is the world’s best cook,” Henry says.

“Well, thank you, Henry. And please give my thanks to your aunt.”

“I will. Now my mom has something she wants to say to you.” Emma looks ready to protest but then Henry smiles up at her, his grin wide and toothy and she shakes her head, affection for her son apparent. “Goodnight, Mr. Jones.”

Emma watches as Henry walks down to the end of the hallway, unlocks the door, gives his mom a thumbs up, and walks inside. Once inside, Emma turns to him and mumbles something barely audible.

“I’m sorry. What was that, love?”

She huffs out a breath, fluttering a strand of her hair in the process. “I said, I’m sorry for calling you a pervert.”

“And?”

“And for trying to steal your underwear?”

“What about for calling me a sick fuck?”

“I did not!” she protests, but at his look her brow furrows in concentration. “Oh my god. I did, didn’t I?” She shifts her weight from side to side and he’s pretty certain he hears her mutter another curse word under her breath. She looks up and locks eyes with him. For a moment all he can think is wow, green, but she starts talking again. “Look, Henry and I had a really great day at my sister’s house but then I got this message from my ex, Henry’s dad, and to be honest it sent me into a bit of a tailspin. So then I go grab my laundry and there you are with a very peculiar pair of underwear and all I could think was ‘not today, asshole’ and then — well, you were there. I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven, Emma.” Then it’s his turn to frown, gesturing towards the direction Henry walked as he leans against his doorway. “How did you know who I am?”

“Oh, I mentioned what happened to Henry and he asked me to describe the neighbor.”

“Smart kid.”

“Yeah.” She fidgets again, kind of shaking the tension out of her hands as she rocks back on her heels. “Well, I…that’s all, I wanted to say, so…”

“Nice to meet you, Emma. And Happy Thanksgiving.” She backs away from the door giving him a perfunctory little wave. For some reason, after he closes and locks the door, he finds himself looking through the peephole to watch Emma’s retreat. She lingers outside the door for a second before smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand and then does an entirely unbecoming and yet endearing full body shake and flail, tossing her head back and groaning. She appears to catch herself, and Killian watches as she looks to his door. Her eyes close in resignation. “You saw that didn’t you?”

“Every single second.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Killian.”

Christmas Eve Or, the holiday where Killian almost freezes

It’s a working theory of hers, but Emma is willing to argue with anyone who cares that Christmas Eve is far superior to Christmas. The whole day is filled with baking, and listening to Christmas music, and lighting every baked good themed candle she owns. Plus! she doesn’t have to wake up to an overeager eight year old shaking her at dawn. It’s wonderful.

As she stores the vacuum in the hall closet (one last round of pre-festivity cleaning), her phone vibrates. She pulls it out of her pocket, smiling when she sees it’s a text from Killian.

Texts from Killian: another thing that is wonderful these days, if not unexpected.

11:12 AM - Killian to Emma My oven is on the fritz. Can I use yours for a bit?

11:13 AM - Emma to Killian Define ‘a bit’…

11:14 AM - Killian to Emma Ok. Less ‘a bit’ and more ‘a while.’

11:15 AM - Killian to Emma And by 'a while' I mean the rest of the day.

Emma snorts at that one.

11:17 AM - Emma to Killian It’s all yours. Though, I thought your fruit cake would be in door stop mode by now?

11:19 AM - Killian to Emma For the last time, woman, it’s not a bloody fruit cake.

When Killian proudly told her and Henry over Saturday morning pancakes he was preparing a classic Christmas cake for their Christmas Eve celebration, and then proceeded to explain the weeks long process behind making the cake, Henry frowned. “I think that’s a fruit cake.”

Which was the first, but certainly not the last time, Killian insisted: “It certainly is not!” And then Killian proceeded to explain, again, what a Christmas cake was.

From Killian’s explanation of how to prepare it, though, there shouldn’t be any baking required today. Which begs the question as to exactly what Killian is doing. As the host of the event, Emma is only responsible for appetizers (thank you Trader Joe’s), and booze with the rest of the guests bringing the meal.

A meal which apparently includes a British man she met a month ago, bringing a fruit cake to the Christmas Eve celebration with her family and closest friends. What is her life?

Dare she say it, life is pretty great these days. And Killian is definitely part of why that is.

After their ignominious beginning, she and Killian found themselves bumping into one another constantly. If they didn’t cross paths in the mail room, hallway, or elevator, it was Henry - her kid who would find a way to make friends with a paper bag if given the opportunity - who started inviting Killian to join them everywhere. While on their way to the movies it was a “hey, Killian, wanna come?” More than a few times Henry went to check the mail as Emma cooked dinner and when he returned Killian was with him. “I told him all about your chicken and dumplings, mom!”

Somehow Killian joining them for chicken and dumplings turned into the two of them texting throughout the day — Killian in between clients at the physical therapy clinic, and Emma whenever she needed a break from real estate contracts — and then a second glass of wine once Henry went to bed. Apparently, unbeknownst to Emma, this was all leading to Killian celebrating Christmas Eve with her family and friends. Oh, and coming over the next day for Christmas morning pancakes.

Despite what her sister and brother-in-law would like people to believe, Killian is only spending the holidays with them because his brother left for his in-laws earlier in the week and Henry didn’t want him to spend the holiday alone. That’s it! If it was more than that, would she be okay with Killian coming over while she was in her cleaning clothes? Obviously not. So, suck it universe.

Killian shows up ten minutes later looking fine and not at all biteable in a truly horrendous Christmas sweater that no one has a right to look as…completely adequate…in as he does. His arms are laden with grocery bags.

“All this for a fruitcake?”

“Christmas cake. And no. That has been done for some time, as you well know. I told Mary-Margaret I’d make Yorkshire puddings to go with the prime rib. And Liam would disown me if I didn’t make mince pies.”

“How British of you.”

“Well, I am British.”

“You know what I mean.” Emma grabs him an apron so he doesn’t mess up his Christmas sweater and as he makes himself at home, she buzzes around getting the apartment ready - pulling the folding chairs and table out of the closet, making sure Henry has enough clean clothes to wear for dinner, etc. Henry spends the day floating in and out of the kitchen to bug Killian. He plays his video games for a little bit and then is back to the kitchen and gets annoyed because there’s not enough room for him to make a sandwich. He is only appeased when Killian reveals he brought over leftover Chinese.

“Why did you bring so much extra food?” she asks, ignoring Killian’s disapproving stare as she bites into a cold eggroll. She’s pretty sure he also brought over a gallon of milk and what looks like leftover roasted vegetables. Weird.

“Do you know what the two of you are like when you’re not fed?” Killian shudders in horror, and Emma smacks him in the back of the head. She also pinches mince pie filling to be a brat.

When she comes out in her loungewear, after having showered, there is the most wonderful smell of cinnamon in the air. Before she even asks Killian hands her a mug of mulled wine. How did she even get this and what does she have to do to keep it forever? Emma freezes at the thought. By this she means his friendship. Obviously.

Once Mary-Margaret and David, then Ruby and Mulan arrive, the evening, dare she even thinks it, is borderline perfect. Continuing the British Christmas theme, Killian brought Christmas crackers from World Market. Henry got so excited at the hat and little joke in his that he hug bombed Killian and the poor man spilled his hot chocolate down the front of his sweater. Henry apologizes profusely, but Killian assures him it’s okay, losing the sweater for just a black tee underneath. Which, again, is fine and makes Killian look fine and Emma really needs the commentary in her head to quiet down.

“Hate to see a Christmas casualty,” David muses as Killian tosses the sweater aside.

“True, but good things tend to happen to me when I do laundry on a holiday,” he replies.

And Mary-Margaret gets this wide knowing grin, which Emma does not care for at all, but her heart is currently beating fast enough that she lets it pass.

The high-point of the night might be when Mary-Margaret serves slices of Killian’s Christmas cake alongside her caramel apple pie. Ruby holds up her plate, sniffs Killian’s cake, and with a perfectly cocked eyebrow simply asks “Fruit cake?” Henry almost falls out of his chair laughing.

Mulan and Ruby are the first to leave, needing to get to Granny’s where they’re staying the night. Killian offers to stay and help clean up but Emma refuses. The man spent all day cooking in her kitchen – she’s not going to make him clean, too. But when Henry hugs him goodnight and tells him they’ll see him for pancakes, Emma has to admit she’s a little sad to see him shuffle down the hallway back to his own apartment.

Henry proceeds to line up his mom, his aunt, and his uncle, debating as to who deserves to read to him that night. David wins the privilege outright when, upon Henry asking each of them to share their Percy Jackson voice, he actually recites from memory an excerpt from the book Henry is currently reading. Fucking show-off.

Mary-Margaret doesn’t even wait for them to leave the kitchen before she looks at Emma like she must say something or she’ll burst. As Emma is want to do, she ignores it. No wonder David lobbied so hard to get the bedtime story invitation. The two were in cahoots. As they do dishes, Mary-Margaret keeps dropping conversational breadcrumbs =, waiting for Emma to take one up. Which Emma steadfastly fails to do. So Mary-Margaret stops being subtle.

“So, Killian was here all day, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” Mary-Margaret says, drying a wine glass and setting it aside. “Interesting.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“Do I?”

“God, you’re annoying,” Emma says, smacking her shoulder with the back of her hand.

Mary-Maragret frowns and does it right back. “I like Killian.”

“He’ll be thrilled to hear it.”

“And I think you like Killian, too.”

Emma glares at her. “Well, he’s my friend.”

“Who you very much would like to be a naked friend.”

“Mary-Margaret!”

“What?”

She steals the towel away from Mary-Margaret and snaps her with it. “Can we be done with this conversation?”

“No. Because I have something important to say to you.” Emma groans and Mary-Margaret takes a step forward, placing a hand on either side of Emma’s face. “I know you think you’ve got this bruised and battered heart. But that’s not true, Emma. You have the most open heart of anyone I’ve ever known. And I don’t know how you do it, but as someone you let see that big beautiful heart, I just need you to know how lucky I am to have you in my life. Anyone would be so lucky to have you. So be brave.”

Emma feels her eyes go glassy and seriously! Mary-Margaret has been in her life for more than twenty-years. How does she always do this to her? She reaches forward and hugs Mary-Margaret tight, blinking the tears back.

“I love you,” Mary-Margaret says.

“Shut up.” Emma holds her even tighter. “I love you, too.”

After Mary-Margaret and David leave she gives Henry a final tuck into bed then takes a moment to look around the apartment. The space feels emptier than when the day started. It must be the come down from an almost perfect night. Right? Not like she’s feeling morose because there’s a person down the hall who she very much wishes was still currently in her apartment. Someone to perhaps share leftover pie and a glass of wine with. That would be absurd. It’s just that the whole night felt a little magic, and now it’s over.

Emma blows out the living room candles and that’s when she sees it — Killian’s ugly Christmas sweater draped over the back of the couch. Which Emma immediately decides she should return to Killian. It’s urgent. That sweater could mean a lot to him. Or, something.

She locks up the apartment door and heads to Killian’s. Knocking on the door triggers a feeling of panic and she’s tempted to drop the sweater and run. But then he opens the door and his already bright eyes somehow get brighter. This was the right decision.

“Emma! What are you —”

“You forgot your sweater.”

“Thanks, love.”

She immediately notices that his apartment is very dark. Was he already getting ready for bed? This early? She stands up on her tiptoes to peek, and his smile falls. Killian wedges himself into the doorframe, closing the door behind him and obstructing her view. Emma narrows her eyes.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Do you have someone over?”

“No. I’m just —”

“Why are all your lights off?”

“Being energy efficient. Climate change.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Huh. Fine, then. You should probably stain treat this,” she says, and hands him the sweater.

“Thank you.” He reaches for it and the moment he does Emma pushes him aside to crash into his apartment. All the lights are off. He's lit a few candles, and oh fuck. Does he have someone over?

“Killian, your lights are off.”

“What do you call those?” he asks, pointing to the three-wick sugar cookie candle Mary-Margaret got him.

“Killian.” It’s a tone that usually convinces Henry he in fact does need to wear socks with his shoes but simply causes Killian to smirk at her.

“Maybe I want to romance myself, Swan.”

“Gross. All your lights are off," she repeats. "Even the light on your microwave.”

He looks like he wants to protest but must sense she is in a particularly stubborn mood because he stops himself. If she weren’t trying to get him to fess up Emma would take a moment to gloat that the look always works.

“I was working on a project this afternoon and think I crossed some wires,” he says, running a hand through his hair in, she presumes, some mild embarrassment.

“More than your oven is on the fritz," she realizes, making sense of why there is currently milk in her fridge. "Isn’t it?”

“Seems that way.”

“Well did you —?”

“Aye, I tried, but it didn’t work, and with the holiday the electrician isn’t able to come until Thursday..”

“Well, why not call —?”

“How do you think Leroy is going to feel about me doing an undisclosed wiring project and killing the —?”

“—yeah, I get it. Look, I need to get back to Henry, but pack a bag and I’ll see you soon.”

“Do what now?”

“It’s going to be 12 degrees tonight, Killian. You are not staying in this apartment without power.”

Emma watches as he mulls over her words, considering whether or not he should abide by them. “I could sleep on your couch and then away to my flat in the morning.”

She shrugs. “Or, you could pack a bag.” A little voice inside her head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Mary-Margaret is cheering her on. Telling her to press a little more. That it’s worth it. “Come on, Killian. You can’t freeze to death on Christmas Eve. Imagine how that would play on the evening news.”

He laughs, shaking his head in that way he does. If she isn’t mistaken, it's tinged with a little more affectionate every time. “Depressingly, I imagine.” He breaks eye contact long enough to look down at his slippered feet. For all the times he’s made her blush in their month of friendship, it is ridiculously rewarding to see the tinge of red on his cheeks as he looks up at her. “I’d love to join you and Henry for Christmas.”

Emma dashes home and checks on Henry. He is, predictably, still fast asleep in that way he most frequently is — legs akimbo and sticking out of the blankets like he’s preparing to start running the moment he wakes up.

As she waits for Killian she changes into her pajamas and makes two hot chocolates, adding an extra large dollop of leftover whipped cream to the top pf each.

Killian’s knock is borderline inaudible and it makes her smile, how she knows he’s being careful for Henry’s sake. She takes his bag and invites him to get comfortable on the couch — “it will soon be your bed, after all” — and, as has become the habit, they face each other as they sit there. There’s a lot she loves about their friendship, but high on the list is the way their conversations always start in the middle rather than at the start. She loathes small talk.

“Your family and friends are lovely, Swan.”

“Eh,” she says, scrunching her nose in consideration, “they’re alright.”

“You and your sister appear rather close in age.”

She nods. “We’re only a year and a half apart.” Killian smiles, like he is happy to accept that as a complete answer if she so chooses. And maybe it’s that she’s listening to her sister, or maybe it’s Christmas, or maybe it’s that Killian faintly smells of his sugar cookie candle, but she takes a deep breath and sets her mug on the coffee table. “I’m adopted, actually.”

He hesitates, uncertain. “Emma, I didn’t mean to —” She doesn't want him to be uncertain.

“I was with a family for three years and they couldn’t keep me. I was so young that my social worker really didn’t want to put me in a group home, so they opted for short-term care while they searched for a permanent solution. But at the end of the two weeks, when they got ready to move me to a new home, Mary-Margaret had an utter fit. Refused to let anyone near me when she found out they wanted to take me away. And then she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into her room, barricaded the door, and we hid under her bed. She was five.”

“You remember all that?”

“I remember her grabbing my hand and us hiding. Mary-Margaret remembers some and my parents filled in the rest.”

“So after that?”

“They decided to adopt me.”

“That’s quite the story.” Killian gently places his mug beside hers and he inches closer. His hand hovers over hers for only a moment before he settles, giving her fingers a little squeeze. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“Please don’t let this go to your head,” she says, and rotates her palm to squeeze his hand right back, “but you’re really easy to talk to.”

“Well, don’t let this go to your head, but I can see why Mary-Margaret did what she did.”

There’s a teeny part of her that doesn’t want to inquire further, but she blames her damn sister and her damn hope speeches for asking, “And why is that?”

“Because I think you’re the type of person it would be impossible to say goodbye to.”

Emma doesn’t know about that — a whole host of boyfriends might say otherwise — but she believes he believes it. Sitting across from him on the couch, his lack of electricity, and the two of them in their pajamas, Emma feels almost a glimmer of magic come back into the room.

Christmas Or, the holiday where Emma almost accidentally murders Killian

Killian wakes up to the sound of giggling and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The gas fireplace is already switched on, as are the Christmas lights, and he’ll have to ask Emma later how she managed to prevent Henry from crashing into the tree in his excitement to get at his presents.

“I’m going to set the table, so go ahead and gently wake Killian —” And that should prepare him, but he doesn’t hear the rest of Emma’s prompt as a hurling mass of eight year old runs into the living room and jumps on top of him. “Oof,” Killian groans. “Merry Christmas, Sir Henry.”

Henry leans his face down and grins. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

“Henry, I said gentle!”

“Yeah, but you kinda winked when you said it.”

Killian manages to sit up just enough to watch Emma try and deny that she did in fact encourage the barbarism of her child. He raises an eyebrow in question and she responds in the first true “harumph” he’s ever heard in real life.

“Breakfast is ready,” she says.

Killian sits at the table and apparently the Swans take their Christmas breakfast seriously. Fresh fruit, and coffee and — shit, he forgot to mention something, didn't he? he thought she knew?— breakfast burritos smothered in avocado and tomatillo salsa.

“So, what’s the plan for the day” Killian asks, and then takes a sip of his coffee. Emma passes him the bowl of fruit, and — of fucking course — there’s bananas in it. He pours a little on his plate and hopes he can get away with just coffee for breakfast.

Henry explains that they always eat breakfast first because his mom thinks delayed gratification is good for him — “I stand by that,” Emma says — and then he and his mom exchange presents, and then they play boardgames, and then have Christmas Eve lunch leftovers, and then they go to a movie and have popcorn and milk duds for dinner.

“Milk duds play what part in delayed gratification?” Killian asks, pushing his plate, he hopes discretely, aside.

“I’m not a monster,” she says.

“Why aren’t you eating your burrito? Aren’t you hungry?” Henry asks.

“I’m not a big breakfast person.” At that precise moment, Killian’s stomach growls louder than it’s every growled before. Liar, it seems to proclaim. He sighs. “I’m actually allergic.”

“You are?” Emma asks. If her wide eyes are anything to go by, she is horrified.

“To burritos? That sucks,” Henry says.

“No, not to burritos, but the avocado on top.”

“No you’re not.”

He laughs, because of course Emma would argue with him about his food allergies. “I assure you I am.”

“But when we got lunch last week, you ordered that sandwich with avocado on it.”

He doesn’t think he should be as flattered as he is that Emma remembers that. “I took that one to go. For Liam.”

“But…but…” and then she drops her fork to her plate and covers her mouth with her palm. “Oh my god I could have killed you!”

“Emma…”

“I almost murdered you on Christmas.”

“I can assure you…”

“That I almost murdered you? Because, yeah, figured that one out.”

“It’s not nice to murder people, mom,” Henry helpfully comments then reaches for Killian’s plate. “Can I have this?”

“It’s all yours.”

“What else are you allergic to?” Emma asks.

“Nothing.” She doesn’t seem to believe him as she sits with her arms across her chest, challenging him. “Seriously. Just the avocados.” And then quietly adds, “And kiwis and bananas.”

“So the fruit is also poison,” she says. “Anything else?”

“Latex.” The instant he says the word he regrets it. It’s true, completely, but with the way Emma is looking at him it feels a little…inappropriate to say.

“Latex,” she repeats. She doesn’t break eye contact as she takes a sip of coffee and sets her mug aside. “Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?” Henry asks.

Emma maintains eye contact, but her cheeks go a little rosy. "Well, um, see the thing is…" she trails off.

Killian cuts in. “Because when I go to the doctor, sometimes the doctor or nurses wear gloves with latex in them.”

“That’s not interesting,” Henry says.

Emma makes him an omelette and then proceeds to apologize all morning. After they open presents (Killian will remember the look of delight on Henry’s face for all his days), she also makes a quick batch of chocolate chip muffins and insists he eat several. The rest of the day unfolds just how Henry said it would. Except Henry didn’t mention he’d only make it two-thirds of the way through the movie before falling asleep on his mom’s shoulder, curled up in the seat. As he snoozes he kicks his feet out into Killian’s lap and Emma rolls her eyes and helps herself to the rest of Henry’s popcorn.

“No personal space boundaries,” she whispers.

When they make it back to Emma’s, Henry wakes up just enough to shuffle to his room. And much like the night before, they find themselves on Emma’s couch talking over the day when she reveals she has a present for him.

“We said we weren’t buying presents, Emma.” He completely bought her a present but was planning to bend the rules by giving it to her on New Year’s Day. Surely New Year's Day presents are a thing somewhere. Right?

“It’s just a little something,” she says.

As Killian opens the gift he registers the novelty print first, and he is almost certain he knows what she got him. It’s three pairs of underwear in rather absurd prints and patterns. The same exact brand and style she tried to steal from him on Thanksgiving.

She grins as he laughs tossing the paper aside. “Did you know you can get them personalized?”

“Excuse me?” he asks.

She takes one of the pairs out of his hands and shows him the inner waistband. There it declares in embroidered thread "Property of Killian Jones."

“Just in case someone else tries to steal your underwear.”

“Nonsense, Swan. That’s our thing.”

The silence stretches between them as Emma rests her head on the back of the couch, her face turned towards him. Over the course of the night they’ve moved close enough to one another that their knees are touching. How did that happen?

“Killian, I want to tell you something.”

He swallows. “You can tell me anything you want, Emma.”

“I —” she begins, and then cuts herself off. “I —” she begins again before stopping, letting out a frustrated groan. She offers him a tentative smile. “I want to thank you for doing everything you did for us today. It meant a lot to Henry.” She pauses, and it looks like she's going to say more, but she simply adds, “And to me.”

“Of course, love.”

“And I’m sorry for almost killing you.”

“I fully intend to use your guilt to my advantage in our relationship for years to come.”

She smiles. “The electrician is coming tomorrow?”

“He said he’d arrive somewhere between 7am and 3pm.”

“Nice he could narrow it down for you.” She looks away and fiddles with the hem of her sweatshirt. “Do you want to stay here again tonight?”

“Aye,” he says. “If you'll have me.”

"I'll have you," she whispers, her lips tinged with a smile.

And he knows he shouldn’t be disappointed. Staying the night on her couch is wonderful and generous and it means another day of getting to wake up with the Swans. But there was a little part of him that thought she was going to say — he’s not entirely sure what. Strangely enough it’s the feeling of disappointment that confirms for him a long held suspicion of his. That with Emma the more she gives him, the more he wants. Every smile she gives makes him want 1,000 more. Every story she shares makes him want to share 1,000 of his own. He’d do anything for her to know he understands her. And he’d never intentionally hurt her. And that this Christmas was one of the best of his life, and is there any way she’d be willing to give him her New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day, and perhaps Flag Day, too?

Boxing Day Or, the holiday where Emma breaks herself

For as relatively calm and almost perfect as Christmas was, the day after is completely different.

Henry comes running into Emma's room at 8:00 AM insisting they don’t have enough batteries. When she calmly reminds him about the extra supply in the hall closet, he runs off without a thank you. A little later she’s pouring herself coffee and Henry runs into the kitchen, grabs the poptart package out of her hand and runs out again. “I’m putting together my legos!” he shouts.

“We are leaving in one hour, Henry.” Silence answers her from his bedroom. “That means shoes, scarf, coat and gloves.” More silence. “Henry!”

“Got it mom! One hour!” Door slam.

She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Killian barely stifles a laugh as he watches the sequence of events from the coach.

“How much for you to take him off my hands for the next two to three years?” she asks, trying to ignore how cute he looks waking up in her apartment, sleep rumpled with hair sticking up every which way.

“You want me to bring him back as a pre-teen?”

“Good point. What about one of those boarding schools in Switzerland rich step-mothers always want to send their kids to? You know those ones in movies with the Olsen twins?”

“You’re truly trying to cast yourself as the stepmother in this situation?”

“Shut up and come get your coffee.”

She can see why Killian and Henry get along so well. Much like her son, Killian can’t simply stand up and walk into the kitchen. No. He bounds off the couch �� she has no doubt he was tempted to hurdle it simply to prove he could — and then swaggers towards her. Does he always lead with his pelvis? God, why is she thinking about his pelvis? Once he’s in front of her, his mess of hair appears even more riotous and her fingers actually twitch with the urge to smooth it down. Instead she hands him a cup of coffee and picks hers up again. If her hands are busy maybe she’ll keep them to herself. And why did she think having him sleepover again was a good idea? What was she thinking?

Well, to be honest, she knew what she was thinking originally. But then late last night he shared why it is that Christmas is usually a hard season for him — a reminder of losing his mom as a child and his fiancé just two years ago — and all she could think about was how lucky she was to have walked into their laundry room that night.

Killian is a big one for eye contact — she knew that the day they met in the laundry room and it’s been confirmed a million times since — and it has a very squirm inducing impact on her insides. His heavy lidded eyes make everything twist up, and flutter, and race in a way that is almost painful. But like a good kind of painful.

“What’s your plan for today?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Betray your kindness for a bit longer and wait for the electrician to arrive. Yours?”

“Henry is going ice skating with a few of his friends. I’m going to go for a run after I walk him to Avery’s, but no plans after that.” She clears her throat as her pesky thoughts urge her to ask him to spend the day together. Naked, a part of her brain unhelpfully suggests.

“You’re going to walk in this weather? And then run in this weather?”

“I snagged a parking spot right in front and Avery’s family only lives a few blocks away. There is no way I am sacrificing my parking spot.” She turns away from Killian to top up her coffee. “And running is good for me. Helps me make sense of my thoughts when they’re all muddled.”

“What is making your thoughts muddled?” he asks.

She freezes for a second, the question taking her by surprise, and then turns around slowly. And holy fuck why do his eyes have to be so focused on her and so damn blue?! It’s oppressive, his eye color. “I didn’t say —”

“You kind of implied.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

She bites her lip to stifle a laugh, shaking her head. “You know it’s moments like these that remind me you’re the baby brother.”

He laughs, nodding his head in concession. “True. But in this case my persistence is motivated by my own selfish curiosity."

“What makes you curious?”

“I’m curious about all sorts of things. But I have to admit that my thoughts have also been rather muddled these days.” ” He taps his lips, thinking, and that is not fair. “For instance, I’m curious about what you wanted to say to me last night. Before you stopped yourself from continuing.”

How did he —?

“I’m curious about why you’re taking such shallow breaths right now,” he continues, sidling closer to her.

“They’re not —”

“But really, Emma, I find myself wondering if you would be interested in knowing what has my thoughts muddled these days?” He moves even closer as he reaches behind her to set his mug on the counter-top.

She takes a shaky breath. “I might be.”

“Then ask me.”

Okay. So, last night she chickened out. Sitting on the couch with Killian — the fire going, and Henry asleep, and Killian sharing his life with her — Emma had every intention of doing herself, and Mary-Margaret, and every human being who finds men attractive proud by telling Killian that she thinks about kissing him. Thinks about it a lot. So, she's smart enough to see this moment for what it is: a second chance. Another opportunity to get it right. Because Killian wouldn’t be leading her like this simply to reveal his thoughts were muddled with — fuck, she doesn’t know — whether or not he should finally bump Russian Doll to the top of his Netflix queue.

(He should, by the way, but that isn’t the point. The point is, he’s trying to lead her somewhere and she has to decide if she’s going to follow.)

She sets her mug down and takes a deep breath. “Tell me?” She doesn't mean for it to come out like a question.

“Emma,” he says, leaning in and resting a hand on her hip. “It’s you.”

Now, here’s the thing. Nothing in Emma’s life has ever resembled the plot of a romantic comedy. Every time she let herself think — secretly and only in her head and only like three times — “maybe this is my big romance!” it crashes and burns and turns out the guy only looked at her with stars in his eyes because she kinda reminded him of his ex. Until she met Killian. Because no sooner does he whisper the words “it’s you” — and holy shit that is some Mr. Darcy level stuff — her son comes crashing into the room, dressed for ice skating and holding his jacket. Then he’s tugging on Killian’s sleeve and telling him he has to play Smash Brothers with him because he’s been practicing and he’s finally going to beat him but he’s only got fifteen minutes left to prove it.

Killian looks at her, a little helplessly as Henry drags him away. She smiles to reassure him it’s okay. They’ll get to talk soon. Right? At least that’s what she keeps telling herself as she gets into her running clothes and laces her sneakers.

“Henry,” she says, walking out of her room. “Time to go kiddo. I told Avery’s mom we’d be there in 10 minutes.” Henry must be losing to Killian. It’s the only explanation for why he so readily sets the controller aside.

“See ya later, Killian,” he says, and tackle side hugs Killian before sprinting for the door.

Emma grabs him by the hood of his jacket and pulls him back before he can bolt for the door. “Henry. Gloves.” She gestures to the coffee table where they’re waiting for him.

“Oh, right.”

As they walk out of the building, Emma is trying so hard to listen to Henry’s enthusiastic play by play of the game he just played with Killian but all she can think of is the fact that Killian is in her apartment. Waiting there for the electrician (and her?). Sitting there on her couch. Unless the electrician arrives while she’s on her run he’ll be there when she returns. What is she going to say? How do they even pickup that conversation?

It’s this state of distraction that she blames for missing the patch of ice on the sidewalk outside their apartment. She slips and lands hard not even certain of what happened.

“Mom!” Henry shouts, immediately at her side.

“I’m okay, sweetie,” she grits out, trying to catch her breath. “I just slipped.” Except for when Henry tries to help her up her knee buckles and pain shoots up her leg. Shit. She sits on the sidewalk and takes a deep breath, not wanting to scare Henry.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Can you do me a favor, bud?” She pulls out her phone, scrolling through the contacts. “Talk to Killian and ask him to come down, okay?” Maybe she should be the one to call but she kind of feels like crying and needs a second to gather herself. To focus on not bursting into tears from shock and pain.

After Henry hangs up — “Killian come quick! Mom fell!” — Emma steels herself and calls Avery’s mom to explains what happened. Thankfully she tells Emma they’ll just swing by and pick Henry up, no problem.

Killian comes running outside, not even wearing a jacket the idiot, as she hangs up with Avery’s mom. Emma has to stop him from picking her up and bringing her inside immediately.

Her whole body shivers; the sidewalk absolutely icy and freezing. “We need to wait with Henry,” she tells him.

Once Henry leaves, Emma reassuring everyone she’ll be just fine, Killian helps her up. He wraps her arm around his shoulder and she leans into him as he takes her weight and walks her inside. It’s amazing how being in pain can zap all sexual tension from an encounter because Emma isn’t thinking about Killian with his hand on her hip in the kitchen. Not at all. All she's thinking about is how nice he is, and how thankful she was that he was there to help and, okay, fine, maybe being in pain can only zap 80% of the sexual tension. Still. That’s a lot less sexual tension.

Once back in her apartment Killian settles her in the armchair and props her leg up on the ottoman. He buzzes around, bringing her water and ibuprofen, and then asks to see her ankle. She supposes this is kind of his area, so she nods and does her best to hold in a wince as he removes her shoe and sock. He moves her ankle gently from side to side and she braces herself for the pain but it actually isn’t that bad. Until he presses on a spot at the top of her foot and —

“Holy shit that hurts!,” she exclaims.

“Good news is it’s not broken.”

“Feels broken to me.”

“Probably just a really bad sprain but I can take you to get an x-ray if you want.”

“Or?”

“Or I collect some supplies from my apartment and I’ll wrap it myself.”

“That option is free?” she asks. Killian nods. “I choose that.”

“Keep this elevated.” Before he leaves for his apartment, he notices her struggle to get her other shoe off. He sighs affectionately, unlacing her shoe and setting it aside. Without asking he reaches for a blanket on the sofa, one he used the night before, and lays it over her lap. “Back in five minutes.”

The moment the door closes behind Killian tears spring to the corner of her eyes. Yes, Emma’s in pain, the ibuprofen not quite kicking in yet as she feels her ankle throb. And, yes, her butt is a little cold, but that doesn’t really explain why she starts to cry. These past couple of days have just been a lot. In a really great way, but it’s still a lot.

The tears must be something Killian notices when he gets back because in a flash he crouches in front of her, resting a hand on her uninjured ankle. “Hey now, what’s this?”

She shakes her head, not really sure how to explain. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

His raised eyebrow and tightly drawn mouth indicate he doesn’t believe her, but as she dabs her eyes with her sleeve, he takes to unpacking the supplies he brought over. The truth is that it’s not nothing; more like it's everything. It’s that his apartment is down the hall and when she demanded he come stay with her and Henry he could have refused, or used his spare key to stay at his brother’s, but he didn’t. And that while she has yet to hear an explanation concerning his “it’s you” statement, she has a feeling it’s something good. It’s everything to her — the ways both big and small he chooses her and Henry. And it’s only been five-weeks but she wants more. She want more weeks.

He wraps her ankle up then fits her to the pair of crutches he brought over. As he helps her stand, she stumbles and accidentally puts pressure on her ankle. She hisses at the sudden pain, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Careful, Emma,” he says, running a hand up and down her back in comfort. She looks up at him; his eyes are all soft and concerned. “You okay?”

It’s you, too, she wants to say. I don’t know how or why, or even what it means, but it’s you. She nods. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

New Year’s Eve Or, the holiday where Killian meets the ex

“So tell me about this party, Sir Henry.”

Killian’s noticed that when Henry has a lot to say, he has a habit of taking a deep breath and then clenching his fists at his side. It's like Henry’s little body is bracing itself for an onslaught of enthusiasm. “Well,” Henry says, fists clenched, “Aunt Mary-Margaret and Uncle David have this big farmhouse that is so cool and my friend Roland and his dad, and my other friend Violet and her dad, and my other friend Gideon and his mom, are all coming over too and we’re having a big party. And then after we eat so much food, we’re going to play sardines inside with all the lights off, and then after that we’re having a campfire out back, and then after that…”

Killian does his best to listen — really, he does — Henry’s enthusiasm is genuinely delightful so it isn’t hard to be interested. Usually. It’s just that as Henry is talking Emma walks out of her room dressed for the evening in a tight black dress and he kind of loses his head a bit. Actually finds himself staring at her, which he only realizes when she catches his gaze and smiles.

“Breathe, kid,” she says, breaking their stare. “Your aunt texted and said they’ll be here in five minutes. Got all your stuff?”

“Yup!”

“Go get your shoes on, then.” Henry runs off and Killian watches as Emma inspects Henry’s pile of belongings, confirming to her own satisfaction that Henry won’t be without a change of clothes or toothbrush.

“This party sounds fun, Swan. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend time with your friends and boy there?”

“Nope. We’re going to Ruby and Mulan’s, and we’re dancing until at least 1:00 AM because that’s when they bring out the dancing snacks.”

“Dancing snacks?”

“Donuts and coffee for the drive home. It’s the best.” He’s about to point out that there exists these wonderful things called donut shops that allows one to purchase a donut and coffee at a time that is not 1:00 AM, but her phone rings.

Emma halts her process of shutting off lights in the kitchen to answer.

“Hey Rubes.” As Ruby talks, Emma refreshes her lipstick in the hallway mirror. She pauses the action, groaning in aggravation at something Ruby says. “Seriously?! Can’t you be total dicks and tell them to leave? Since when? Fine! Be good people! Yeah, we’ll be there in about thirty.”

Emma hangs up and Killian tries not to laugh at Emma’s quietly muttered, “Well, shit.” She told him a few weeks ago her resolve to never swear in front of Henry gets a little weaker with each passing year.

“What was that, love?”

“Apparently the sister of one of Ruby’s co-workers invited herself to the party — much to everyone’s annoyance because Zelena is apparently awful — and then proceeded to be even more awful by bringing along her new boyfriend who, pause for dramatic effect, happens to be my ex.”

“No.”

“Yes,” she says, finishing her lipstick and dropping the tube into her purse. “And Walsh being Walsh, he’s too much of a —” Emma trails off, her eyes darting down the hallway to see if Henry is coming — “fucking narcissistic dickhole to leave once he realized whose house he was at. I know he’s only staying to drink booze and leer at me when I show up alone. Sure, he’s the one who got drunk one night and cheated on me, but I’m the one who is going to have to deal with him.”

“But you’re not showing up alone.”

“Yeah, but you’re my friend date. Not my date date.”

Killian’s heart clenches a little at that entirely accurate explanation.

Hard to believe it was only five days prior that he and Emma were seemingly on the emotional precipice of — well, something. He’s not entirely sure what, because first Henry interrupted their conversation, then Emma sprained her ankle, and then, as he was in the midst of applying his physical therapy degree in perhaps the most important context of his entire life, the electrician called to say he arrived. The man spent several hours trying to undo what Killian did, and then Emma called and asked him to pick up Thai takeout for a late lunch, and before he knew it, Henry was back from ice skating, and Emma was asleep on the couch with a bowl of Phad Thai balanced on her chest.

So, her assessment is correct. Right now they are friends and this is not a date date. Though he wishes it was, and he is certain all it would take is an uninterrupted moment for him and Emma to find that bit of magic again. He’s also convinced that Emma in her dress — black, and short, and lacy, with long sleeves and a neckline that is both wonderful and tempting — is a bit of magic in and of itself.

David texts Emma that they’ve arrived, and Emma and Henry both get bundled up to meet them outside. Killian grabs Henry’s piles of belongings and they’re out the door.

Emma has this whole theory that with surge pricing likely in effect all night, it would be wildly irresponsible to take an Uber to and from Ruby and Mulan’s house. Killian vetoes her theory with his medical opinion that as her PT, it would be wildly irresponsible to allow someone who sprained their ankle a week ago to walk a mile in high heeled boots. She scowls but he requests the Uber anyway. Fuck, he must be far gone because even her scowl is starting to feel like a kind of magic.

As the night goes on, Killian discovers that the problem isn’t if he should confess his feelings but rather what feeling he should confess to first. He watches Emma run in and hug Ruby and Mulan and thinks “I should confess how her smile makes everything better.” When he discovers one of his co-workers is also at the party, apparently a regular at the diner Ruby owns, Emma is kind, and warm, and eager to get to know the man, and Killian thinks “I should confess that my days don’t quite feel real until I am able to talk them over with her.” And then there’s the confession he’s been concealing for well over a month: that he wants to kiss Emma, and he wants to kiss her a lot.

Turns out Emma has a confession of her own to make. Well, not so much a confession as a bald-faced lie.

Killian and Emma are in the middle of a rather heated debate with a couple they’ve just met about the best claymation Christmas movie when a supercilious voice interrupts their conversation, seemingly not caring about a lack of courtesy.

“Isn’t this a festive coincidence? Us being at the same party?” Emma clenches her jaw at the voice and plasters on the brightest smile he thinks he’s ever seen. It screams false, false, false. She turns around to greet the man.

“Walsh,” she says, and then extends her hand to the woman who must be Zelana. “I’m Emma.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” she responds, ignoring the hand. Zelena looks at Walsh, the two of them laughing at some shared joke.

“Seriously, Ems, what are the odds?” he asks.

“Well, seeing as Ruby and Mulan are my friends, the chances of me being here were pretty high. I don’t even know how to calculate the odds of you showing up. Nor do I really care to,” she shrugs.

Killian chuckles at that, bumping Emma with his hip in what he hopes is a dual gesture of both affection and camaraderie. I’m here for you, he wants the gesture to mean. It also has the effect of catching the attention of both Walsh and Zelena.

“Emma,” Walsh says condescendingly. “You didn’t introduce us to your friend.” The emphasis on the word friend is mocking. Like, “look at me with my girlfriend, and here you are with just your regular old friend.” Killian hates this guy.

But, because he likes to think himself a gentleman, he extends a hand in greeting. “Killian Jones,” he says. “Emma’s —”

“Fiancé,” she cuts in almost immediately. Emma wraps her hands around his arm, snuggling into his side. “This is my fiancé.”

“Oh,” says Walsh, glaring. Killian doubts he’s jealous as much as he’s mad Emma’s potentially happy.

“But where is your riiiing?” Zelena simpers. Killian didn’t know the word ‘ring’ had quite that many syllables. “Could you not afford one?” He's decided he hates her, too.

“Oh,” Emma says, voice quiet. “Well —”

Fine. If they’re going to do this… “It’s at the jewelers. Being resized. It was my mum’s ring, and a little large for Emma I’m afraid.”

“Right,” Walsh frowns. “How did the two of you meet?”

“Neighbors,” Emma practically shouts. “We are neighbors. And that’s how we met.”

“Rather ordinary,” Zelena says, sounding bored.

“Well, the sex is great, so…” Emma trails off and Killian almost chokes. Her expression makes him want to laugh — she apparently took herself by surprise with that one. It’s like she can hear herself saying the words and would like to be able to stop saying them, but can’t.

He would never want Emma to think she caused him any distress. They’ll surely talk about the whole fiancé thing, but he’s been hoping all night for a magic opportunity to appear and maybe, he thinks, it’s time to make some magic of his own.

“Truth is,” he says, “I knew Emma was the one for me months before we actually met.” He looks down at her. “I know you’re sick of this story, love, but mind if I tell it once more?” She shakes her head, eyes wide and questioning, and he turns back to Zelena and Walsh. Walsh, who it must be said, looks like he’s sucked on something sour. Killian wasn't sure he'd ever confess this to Emma, but here they are.

“My first glimpse of Emma was in our apartment lobby. Henry must have been at a sleepover of some sort, because Emma was coming home at the early hours of the morning with her sister and friend, stumbling into the lobby clearly drunk and laughing. Then Emma shouted 'we should race!' and someone else said the loser had to make breakfast and no sooner did the words ‘ready’ come out of her sister’s mouth, than Emma took off her shoes and sprinted for the stairs.” He looks down at Emma and notices a rather stunned expression on her face. He hopes it's a good kind of stunned. Might as well keep going. “I think someone called her a cheater and Emma called them sore losers and she was up the staircase, and certainly to her apartment before the two of them even managed to stumble to the elevator. And I remember thinking to myself ‘this woman is amazing.’ We met officially in the laundry room a couple months later and she’s confirmed that thought every day hence.”

He feels that sizzle in the air, of hope and possibility and one of Emma’s hands leaves his arm to slide around his back, squeezing his waist gently. She turns into him further, away from Walsh and Zelena. When he looks down, she leans up and kisses him, soft and delicate on the corner of his mouth.

Walsh coughs, and Zelena says something he immediately opts to ignore. Magic.

“Killian,” she whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Emma, you have to come take shots with us!” And man, Killian likes Ruby a lot but her timing is on par with Henry’s. Ruby is wearing heels that must be at least four inches high and as she approaches their little circle, wedging herself in close to Walsh, she stumbles. It feels like it starts to happen in slow motion but then all of sudden it's over: the bright red cocktail in Ruby's hand sloshes over the edge of the glass and douses Walsh in what Killian hopes is something both sticky and impossible to get out.

“Fuck,” he shouts, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. “This is Tom Ford.”

Ruby holds her hands up and shrugs. “Oops.” She crouches down to be at eye level with the stain. “Sorry, Mr. Ford,” she says, slurring the words.

Walsh storms off and Zelena follows. They furiously grab their coats from the hook and leave, silencing the crowd with their ire. As soon as the door slams the strained silence in the room breaks, and Ruby turns to him and Emma with a big smile. “Happy New Year, guys!” Miraculously sober once more.

“Ruby,” Emma scolds, not sounding the least bit upset. “You are ridiculous!”

“Excuse you, I tripped.”

“Why didn't you 'trip' two hours ago when Walsh first showed up?”

“I could have,” Ruby says, "but it was so satisfying to watch it happen, wasn’t it?”

Emma looks like she wants to maintain her indignation, but then Killian bursts into laughter, and Ruby grins with unfiltered pride at her accomplishment.

Just as Killian is plotting as to how he and Emma can escape next — (she only kissed him about two minutes ago but it feels like it’s been a lifetime; why is it the second he manages to make a little magic the universe appears dead set upon stealing the moment from him and Emma?) — Ruby tells them “Ems, I wasn’t joking about shots. I need you.”

She looks over to Killian, her brow furrowed. “Actually, Ruby, I need to —”

“Go on, Swan,” he reassures, “I’ll be here.”

Ruby pulls Emma away, no further conversation, Mulan whooping loudly as they get closer. Was that a mistake? Or should he have followed them? What is he even doing? He has no strategy when it comes to Emma. He has no plan; only an intended end goal. Which is her in his life for as long as possible. Ideally with more kissing. Why has he been wasting all this time? He should have asked her out the second she and Henry brought him toffee almond bark.

He pours himself a glass of whiskey from the liquor cart in the living room and then escapes to the back porch, sipping on the drink, cheersing the smokers out there as they all make small talk. Ruby slides the door open a few minutes later. “Come inside future emphysemiacs of the world, the countdown is starting in one minute.”

At Ruby’s commanding tone, everyone tamps out their cigarettes or ceases vaping and moves inside. But Killian stays where he is. He’s too much of a romantic for a New Year’s Eve countdown. The strike of midnight without a kiss from Emma just might break his heart.

The door to the patio opens again, noise swelling as he hears a few people start the countdown with a loud “60! 59! 58!”

“Ruby, I’ll be right in.”

The door closes. “Not Ruby.”

At the sound of Emma’s voice, every nerve ending in his body starts firing. Heart beating wildly. Palms sweating. And he’s either halfway to being in love with this woman or he’s about to throw up.

He looks at her, and her smile is open and warm. He can’t help but smile back. “Emma.”

“Some party, huh?” she asks, standing beside him, forearms resting on the banister. Neither one of them are wearing jackets, and her sleeves might be long but they’re all lace. There’s no way they’ll last out here long.

“Yeah.”

She looks at him. “I feel like I should apologize for the whole fiancé thing. But —” she trails off.

“But?” he asks.

“I’m actually a little more interested in that story you told Walsh.”

His heart isn’t possibly beating loud enough for her to hear. Right? That noise is all in his head?

“What about it?”

“Was it true?”

Somewhere distantly he hears the group inside continue their countdown, now hitting “34! 33! 32!” and getting louder with each number.

“Yeah. The first time I saw you was in the lobby of the building.”

She immediately shakes her head, appearing almost angry at him. “No. Not that part. I remember that night with Mary-Margaret and Elsa. The other part. The part about me. About knowing —” A shiver runs through her. He can see the goosebumps on her skin, and yet she persists. “About me, and knowing that —”

“Of course it’s true, Emma. I wouldn’t make that up.”

Then Emma does the last thing he expects and punches him in the shoulder. Not hard enough to injure him but it’s surprising enough that it hurts. “Ouch!” he says, rubbing the spot she hit. “What was that?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Are you saying I should have?”

“Well, obviously.” She clenches her fists, and huffs out an aggravated breath. “I don’t make eyes, Killian. Okay?” She doesn’t punch him, but she does sort of push his shoulder. “I am not a make eyes person.” And she pushes him again. “Got it?”

“God, woman, would you stop shoving me?”

“No, because you are an idiot.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. And are you listening to me? I DON’T MAKE EYES.”

“Okay, fine!” They’re almost shouting now, but he can still make out the “10! 9! 8!” from inside the apartment. “You don’t make eyes! I read you!”

“I don’t make eyes,” she says, for the fourth time, a little quieter but no less emphatic. “Except I do make eyes at you. Pretty much from the first moment I met you.”

What? Her words take a moment to register, and then all he manages to say is, “Oh.”

Emma is having a harder time keeping in her shivers now. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest and there’s something about seeing that which springs him into action. He steps closer and runs his hands over her arms, hoping to bring some warmth to her skin.

The group inside bursts into a jubilant shout of “Happy New Year!” and he has apparently been making eyes at him. This whole time.

“Oh,” he says again.

“Yeah.”

New Year’s Day Or, the holiday where Emma and Killian make magic

Emma is tempted to go inside for two reasons: one, to get out of the cold because sheesh, and two to text Mary-Margaret to inform her “I did the brave thing and all he did was say ‘oh.’ Twice!”

But something about the way Killian said ‘oh’ the second time and the way he looks at her now has her rooted in place. He’s running his hands up and down her arms to help warm her up. It feels better than anything has the right to.

“Happy new year, Emma,” he says. She hears the slight shake in his voice. Is he nervous, too? She kind of hopes so.

“Killian,” she says, and takes a small step closer. And, shit, she really hopes she’s not misreading his signals here. “Kiss me.”

For a fraction of a second Killian’s hands still entirely and then his brain seems to take over. One hand snakes around to her waist and he grabs her, bringing their bodies flush, and the other goes up to the nape of her neck. Killian’s thumb and forefinger are doing this massage thing which is utterly divine, and — Oh, she thinks, we’re kissing now.

It isn’t something she’s actively thought about — the logistics of kissing Killian — but that seems to be okay because her body is charged and humming in a way she’s never experienced before. She is suddenly struck by the sensation that she does not have enough hands. She tangles a hand in his hair, grabbing a fistful and earning her a grunt from Killian, which makes her want to do it again. But if her hand is in his hair then she can’t run it up and down the planes of his back and that’s a shame. So, she does that. But, she finds, if both hands are feeling the corded muscles of his back, then she can’t feel the firmness of his arms, which is a crime against the world. And if she’s gripping his biceps, then she can’t get a handful of what she has always suspected, and has now been able to confirm, is a phenomenal ass. It’s a problem scientists should dedicate the rest of their lifetimes to solving — too much Killian and not enough hands.

Killian runs his tongue along the seam of her lips and the sensation is so overwhelming she has to take a second, pulling away with a gasp. Only now they're too far away from on another so she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead to his. She keeps her eyes closed, wanting to savor the everything of the moment for another second.

“Emma,” he says.

She smiles, and opens her eyes only long enough to kiss him again, sweetly on the lips before nuzzling into his the space between his neck and shoulder. Either she's aggravated her ankle or something about Killian is affecting her because she's having trouble standing.

He laughs, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her once more, and yes! This is significantly warmer than the rubbing of arms things. They should have been doing this the whole time. The kissing is so much warmer.

“Emma,” he repeats.

“Hmm?” she doesn’t feel like she can actually say full words. Maybe it’s the not saying of full words that’s allowing her to feel this warm (also, made her something called a snowball shot and it was minty and wonderful and that might also be contributing to the warm feeling).

“How committed are you to this hanging around for donuts and coffee thing?”

“Why? You have a better offer?”

“I could make you hot chocolate,” he says.

“And?”

“That’s not enough?”

She smiles, opens her eyes and shakes her head at him. “Coffee and donuts. That is a beverage and a snack. You offered only a beverage.”

“Counteroffer: I steal a box of donuts from Ruby and Mulan’s kitchen and we bring them back to your place.”

“Now you’re talking.” Their plan is to get bundled up in their outerwear, say their goodbyes and then grab the donuts, but it all goes to hell when Ruby asks Emma why she’s being weird and in response she shouts “I kissed Killian and I’m stealing your donuts!” She grabs a box and runs. As they try to make their getaway Ruby’s shouts at them from the front door. “I’m sending you a request on Venmo! Donuts are for non-horny guests who stay for dancing!”

Safely tucked into their Uber (she asked about the true horror of surge pricing and Killian refused to answer), Emma finds herself fixated on the red glint of Killian’s stubble under the passing glow of streetlights. He swallows a few times as she runs her finger along the line of his jaw.

“Killian? Has your heater been working okay?”

He nods. “Right as rain.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “Well, if it ever stopped working, you could stay at my place again.”

The corners of his mouth twitch as he holds in a smile, and she really wants to bite his neck but she also doesn’t want to negatively impact Killian’s Uber rating. “Is that so?”

“Just being neighborly.”

“Obviously.”

The rest of the ride to their apartment complex is wonderful, with the touching, and the smiling, and the knowing that she has a box of contraband donuts, but she wants more.

As soon as they get out of the car, Killian takes Emma’s hand but she stays where she is and pulls him back to her.

“I changed my mind,” she says. He looks uncertain, and she rushes to explain. “You should stay at my apartment even if your heat is working.”

“Well that sounds grand,” Killian says, his voice low.

“Well good,” she says, and that’s when inspiration strikes. Once in the lobby, she unzips her ankle boots and holds them out for Killian to take. “Trade you boots for donuts?”

“Deal,” he says.

“So.”

“Who would have thought, huh?”

“What?” he asks.

“I mean, who would have though that me calling you a sick fuck on Thanksgiving would lead to us fucking on New Year’s Day? Crazy, right?” She asks the rather audacious question in as casual a tone as possible. Killian looks a little dazed and Emma leans up to kiss him again, smiling as their lips meet.

“I —” he sputters.

“Killian?”

“Yeah?”

“Loser makes breakfast in the morning,” she says, and then she’s running through the lobby, clutching the donuts to her chest.

Killian’s laughter chasing her up the stairs is magic.

#cssecretsanta2k19 #captain swan #cs fanfic #captain swan ff #emma x killian #p: emma x killian #c: emma swan #c: killian jones #hollyethecurious #never stories

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medusaden · 4 years ago

Text

New Blood

My entry for @gossamerlions lore contest for Elu! This is actually my first piece of lore I’ve EVER written, so I hope you like it! I’m not the best writer haha

it is also very late where i am so im sorry if it sucks lol

I’m gonna cut it off here, cause it’s slightly long

NEW BLOOD

The introduction of new lionesses and cubs was a common practice in the pride of Anthemusa. The empress of the land, Aura, was known to have a soft spot in her heart for lions seeking a place to call home, others to call family. It was expected she would, as she was once a wanderer in a gang of thieves and assassins before breaking away and never turning back. The Frostbitten Empress had very little cold in her heart, despite her appearance. It was why she had taken a quiet interest in the golden envoy of Amaranth’s pride and his daughter’s proposal of staying at the Frostbitten Empress’s pride. In return, Aura’s pride and Aura herself were to teach her their ways. The way they hunt, the way they heal, the way they fight. Everything.

Elu was to become an apprentice of sorts. Aura had never had a child worthy of the crown, she just settled for adopting a mutated cub to replace her. The whole situation confused and excited her, an opportunity for an ally, adviser and an equal was too good to pass up. So Aura had accepted Elu’s proposal at the Conclave of Capri, a meeting where surrounding rulers and their subjects had a monthly conference.

The young Elu was arriving later in the day, to be properly initiated into the pride. Her pride members were spending the day free from hunting and patrol duties to clean and prepare for her arrival. Nothing seemed amiss, and Aura had claimed lions into her pride before so it wasn’t something out of the blue. But this, this felt different somehow. Special.

• • • • •

Sitting on a throne of frozen stone, the empress cast her eyes around the cave at the greatest treasure she never had to steal. Her pride, all of them looking up at their ruler with admiration and affection in their eyes. Only for her would they bow. Only for her would they fight. Only for her would they kill.

Gathered in the cavernous space, her gaze settled on the golden lioness in the middle of the room. Elu. Beautiful, fair one. Her eyes were the color of the setting sun outside but Aura caught the gleam in them. The spark of intelligence, the insatiable hunger for knowledge. It was a younger, more adventurous self she saw reflected in that stare. Nostalgia gripped her heart for her younger years, and she was pulled back to the present.

“It is with a warm welcome I introduce you all to Elu, daughter of Amaranth and Doba, who will be acting as emissary for their pride. Take her into our pride as you took me. With open paws and hearts.”

A small indignant squawk echoed through the room. “And you, Pip. How could we ever forget you?” Aura said humorously at the little nightingale perched on the shoulder of Elu. Elu and the crowd chuckled, Pip standing proud with her feathers puffed out.

The empress continued, “Tonight, we feast in celebration of the new blood arriving. Into the dawn we will sing and dance to commemorate the beginnings of a bright and powerful alliance!” The crowd cheered in response, so loud it felt like it could bring the stalactites down. Excitement buzzed through the lions, many of the cubs and adolescents dancing and playing already.

The golden lioness in front of her stood confidently, muscles rippling with contained power. “It is an honor to be a part of the Anthemusa pride, Your Majesty. I thank you from the bottom of mine and Pip’s hearts. We will serve you for as long as fate allows it.”

With grace and elegance, Aura sauntered down the cold steps and approached the young envoy. Their gazes matched, and the feeling that passed between them was akin to a lock sliding into place. A thread being pulled. Fates entwining. The empress leaned down and whispered into Elu’s ear, “It is my pleasure, emissary. Meet me at noon tomorrow for your first lesson.” Flicking her tail affectionately at Elu’s ears, she walked into the crowd. She could feel Elu’s maroon gaze follow her. The feeling didn’t fade until Aura receded into the darkness of her private quarters.

• • • • •

The lions of Anthemusa finally settled into their dens at dawn, most drunk on marula fruits or just giddy on joy. But with the rising sun, two lions were still awake and tense with excitement from the happy night and the anticipation of the coming day. An empress and an envoy, a lioness who was twin to the moon and another who radiated the sun. They were two sides of the same coin. Both thinking of the other, wondering at the familiarity felt for one another. Like they had met before, but perhaps in a past life. Slumber dragged them both into a content blackness, falling asleep to the image of the opposite face.

#lioden #ld #medusas lore #ld lore #lioblr

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targaryen-stronghold · 5 years ago

Note

Dany burning kings landing made no sense. I mean why? What was the point?

There was no point other than to vilify Dany and justify her killing in the next episode and the xenophobic behavior she encountered in the North.

1. Daenerys and “burning cities”

Dany is a Targaryen and she has dragons. Dragons were the Targaryens weapons for centuries, for obvious reasons and fire has always been their method of execution (symbolized in their house motto “fire and blood”). While the Starks used their greatsword Ice to execute traitors, the Targaryens used their dragons or fire. Therefore, Dany doesn’t need to know how to wield a sword when she has her dragons. However, she always used them to help the oppressed and destroy oppression. Like her haters like to bring up, she has indeed threaten her enemies with her dragons because duh, but several other characters have also threatened others and that doesn’t mean anything. But context is important: how and why she threatens to burn cities?

In Season 2, Dany arrives at Qarth. She and her people are exhausted from the Red Waste and she needs to enter the city in order for them to survive. Jorah even tells her the gates of Qarth are known as “garden of bones” because of the skeletons of people whose entering was denied. However, she’s met with suspicion and distrust and the Thirteen don’t want to let her in. When courtesy fails, Dany threatens to burn their city to the ground when her dragons are grown. This sounds more like despair than an actual threat because Dany knows neither she nor her dragons will survive if the Thirteen don’t grant them shelter. How could she burn their city to the ground if she and her dragons are dead? This threat also grants her the compliment: “you are a true Targaryen”.

Later on, during Season 5, Dany is chatting with Hizdahr zo Loraq and says one day Meereen will return to the dirt and at her command if needed be. However, this happens during the reopen of the fighting pits of Meereen. Dany is against it but eventually agrees because it’s tradition and important to her people. But she’s visibly uncomfortable during the fights and doesn’t recognize it as “greatness”. Hizdahr then says: that is a vital part of the great city of Meereen, which existed long before you or I, and will remain standing long after we’ve returned to the dirt. Dany is saying she doesn’t care about tradition, it’s the people she cares about. She’s also measuring Hizdahr’s loyalty in this scene. The real identity behind the Sons of the Harpy is still unknown at this point (Varys only unravels it’s funded by the former slave masters of the cities Dany freed later on). For all Dany knows, Hizdahr is still a suspect.

In Season 6, after returning from her venture with the Dothraki, Dany threatens to burn down Yunkai, Astapor and Volantis. Her city is under siege and attack. Her people (the people she freed) are in danger. She lashes out to protect them because she doesn’t want those she freed to slide back into chains and that’s what the former slave masters want. Also the Sons of the Harpy have been terrorizing the people of Meereen for some time now so of course Dany wants to put an end to it. She doesn’t go through with it, of course.

In short: every time Dany threatened to burn down a city (up until Season 8) she had a reason to do it and that reason was always to protect her people. It’s also unclear if she actually meant what she was saying because she never used her dragons for oppression or against innocents. She even lock them up when Drogon killed a child. Dany also made sure to always pay a respectful amount to shepherds whenever Drogon ate their sheep.

Shut up, Cat. You don’t want the audience to think you’re mad, do you?

2. The people of King’s Landing as victims

The “The Bells” was the first time ever in the series the people of King’s Landing were victimized by the plot. I’m not excusing the killing: I’m saying that up until S8 every time the narrative focused on them was to vilify them or to make them look fickle. Let’s see:

In Season 1, they cheered for Ned Starks’s execution, demanding for his head because he’s a traitor. The audience knows Ned was right in supporting Stannis Baratheon because he was Robert’s true heir, since Cersei’s children were Jaime’s bastards;

In Season 2, they mob against Joffrey Baratheon and Cersei Lannister (although one could agree they were justified because these characters are presented as villainous) but they tried to rape Sansa Stark (who’s a prisoner and also a victim of Joffrey and Cersei);

From Seasons 3 - 6, they cheer for Margaery Tyrell (she goes to the orphanages of the capital and funds several charity works so this is understandable) and Joffrey (when in previous season they were spitting on him) – this shows the audience how changeable they are

In Season 4, Tyrion Lannister talks about the wickedness and ungratefulness of the people of King’s Landing during his trial and regrets saving them;

In Season 5, they cheer for Cersei’s walk of shame and the narrative presents Cersei as a victim of their humiliation;

In Season 7, they cheer for Ellaria and Tyene Sand, and Yara Greyjoy’s capture and imprisonment and hail Queen Cersei and Euron (two characters who are presented as villainous by the narrative)

Euron and Jaime Lannister bring the inconsistency of the people of King’s Landing during their little chat in the very same episode: Jaime remarks the same mob was spitting on his sister not long ago and yet they are now cheering for her and Euron;

And then, out of the blue, we have this narrative in Season 8: mentally instable and villainous Daenerys Targaryen burns down the capital, murdering thousands of innocent citizens

This doesn’t work and doesn’t make any sense. You can’t spend SEVEN whole seasons solidifying the people of King’s Landing as wicked, inconsistent and ignorant and then victimized them in ONE episode because it suits the plot. This episode had one of the lowest rankings ever in the series and it’s not just because Dany’s character was butchered. The narrative itself doesn’t add up with what was previously established.

3. Dany burning down King’s Landing

There was no reason whatsoever for Dany to burn down King’s Landing and kill thousands of innocent civilians. It doesn’t make sense from a military perspective and it’s illogical concerning her character. As said, every time she threatened to burn cities in past seasons she did it because she wanted to protect her people: either by wanting them to survive or to protect them from going back into slavery. Burning down King’s Landing is the complete opposite of her beliefs, and it does not fit her character or her motivations from previous seasons.

In Season 7 she specifically said she wanted to fly her dragons to the Red Keep and the Red Keep alone. She never said a word about laying waste to the entire city and there is no foreshadowing for her doing it, no matter how many nonsensical metas haters pull out of their sleeves, out of context gifs or D&D trying to justify their stupid writting options for her character.

But Season 8 was a bunch of nonsense and her character was entirely reconnected to serve this new “mad queen” plot: all her motivations suddently changed alongside with her character’s traits. Apparently protecting the people is no longer her first priority, she didn’t travel to Winterfell to protect the North but because she’s in love with Jon and the circus goes on until the bitter end.

Is this the same girl who spent years gaining the trust and love of the people of Essos!?

The purpose of this scene was to show Dany choosing fear as her method to rule over the people of Westeros and how Jon is more loved than she is. But this is such bollocks. Dany has only been to the Reach and the North, and outside the North no one knows or cares about Jon so this dialogue makes no sense. Actually, I doubt the people of the Reach fear Dany that much since she killed the Lannister soldiers who murdered countless innocents (including children) in Highgarden and terrorized farmers into giving up their crops. The majority of the people of Westeros don’t even know Dany or her motivations. The Riverlands despise both the Lannisters and the Starks because of the War of the Five Kings, and there are many Targaryen loyalists left. However, all of this was swept under the rug in the series. Dany knows she needs to earn the trust, love and respect of the people of Westeros because she has done the same in Essos, and that doesn’t happen overnight. Instead we got this. And yes, it’s stupid.

Conclusion

Dany burned down King’s Landing for three reasons:

Because D&D want to force the “mad queen” narrative down the audience throats: Dany is mentally instable, her father’s daughter, evil, a tyrant, even without any build-up;

For Jon to look heroic while killing her and have some ManPainTM afterwards;

For the Starks to be right in their xenophobic behavior because they are the heroes: “they are not xenophobes because she’s evil.”

That’s it, anon. That’s why she burned down King’s Landing in Season 8.

But does anyone take seriously a bunch of writers who kinda forgot the ringing of bells in GOT/ASOIAF lore does not mean a city is surrendering?

This scene is from Season 2, for fuck’s sake.

#daenerys targaryen #anti game of thrones season 8 #anti got season 8 #pro daenerys #pro dany #ask

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scribeofmorpheus · 5 years ago

Text

Mark of the Wolf Part 13

Catch Up Here!

Pairing: Derek Hale x Reader (Lastname: Markolf)

Words: 3k

Warnings: Exposition dump!

A/N: This chapter and I are frenemies. On the one hand, I love delving into lore, on the other... I don’t like info dumbing, but... Yeah. Also, I didn’t get a chance to work on some things that I had originally intended but the good news is that the action picks up in chapter 14! I haven’t proofread so bear with me.

Leave a like or reblog if you enjoyed this chapter! It helps ☺

"Vampires?" Peter huffed with a humorous chortle in his throat.

Maggie pinched the bridge of her nose, annoyed that he had interrupted her mid-sentence, "Not in the conventional Vlad the Impaler sense… but yes, for lack of a better term, 'vampire' is as accurate an explanation as I can give."

Theo chuckled under his breath, his body shaking with amusement, "Vampires. Now I've heard it all."

"Almost everyone in this room is a werewolf and you're a chimera, but for some reason believing in a well-established mythological creature just as popular as the werewolf is where you draw the line?" Stiles gawked at both Peter and Theo.

"I'll believe it when I see it," Peter folded his arms.

"Perhaps if you'd let Maggie finish what she was telling us, we'd have an easier time swallowing this 'vampires exist' pill," Stiles posited with some annoyance in his voice.

"Thank you, Stiles," Maggie said gratefully before continuing: "Okay so from what I've gathered, we know that these hunters never appear in daylight and that any effort to kill them hasn’t been successful as far as we know. And according to Derek, when you two were in the dream state, they mentioned something called the Mother Tree and one of them had a tattoo of a five-fold-knot. We also know they are warded off by burning sage."

"Oh, I get where you're going with this," Jonah plopped down onto several cushions and crossed his legs. "Sage is their garlic… right?"

"What?" Esme frowned, lost in translation.

"Because vampires can't stand garlic. So if these hunters are some type of vampires, then sage is their garlic," Jonah said excitedly. "Oh, oh, oh, does that mean that we have to whittle stakes to kill them?"

“They do suck people’s essences out of their body, don’t forget that,” Peter added dryly.

Jonah’s eyes went large and his jaw dropped, “Woah! Maybe they are vampires.”

"That's all well and good, Speedy, but that's not what I was getting at," Maggie patted his back appreciatively. "I was going to say that the Mother Tree is probably a very old Nematon and sage is an ancient ingredient used by druids for centuries, usually to cleanse negative energy and such. Naturally, this led Deaton and I to the legend of the liaths. And they in turn led us to--"

"Now I’m confused," Derek jumped in. "What's a liath?"

Maggie pursed her lips as she thought of the simplest way to explain it to them.

It was Deaton who chimed in this time, "The same way druid emissaries are a force for good and darachs are a force of evil, liaths are those caught in between. They don't really serve any one side."

Esme pulled out a scroll from a stack of papers shoved in the bookcase after Maggie whispered something in her ear. Once it was unrolled, a large portrait of several faces stared back at you from the crumbling paper. You gasped when you saw what looked to be a perfect illustration of Alyster and Astrid and that kitsune -Kaze- from before.

“Are these the guys who attacked you in the church in Mexico?” Maggie’s dark nails scrapped over the paper slightly and the noise made a few of the werewolves in the room cringe.

"That's impossible," Peter chocked on his words as he took a closer step to see the scroll better. "They look exactly as they did in your memories..."

"They haven't aged a day," Liam said in amazement.

"I thought so," Maggie popped her knuckles, bangles sliding down her arm nosily, "That is one of the few remaining iterations of an ancient order known as the Venatores -which Stiles told me you had already figured out thanks to Lydia’s translations. Over the years they’ve been called different names: Order of Osiris, Order of Sagittarius, The Solstice Hunters… it goes on and on. They've been around for thousands of years."

"Why?" you finally spoke, but your voice was shakier than you would have liked. "What do they want?"

Derek's eyes fell on you when he heard the subtle quake in your words, he instinctively took a step closer to you but then stopped himself from moving any closer. That awkward tension was still strong between you two. You dreaded the fact that you'd have to talk about the kiss... eventually.

Markus rubbed your arms to comfort you, it helped but not by much.

Maggie opened her mouth to answer you but couldn't pull through. Having sensed Maggie's distress from trying to answer your question, Esme laced her fingers with hers in a silent act of assurance.

"What is it?" you asked frantically, eyes searching the pile of notes and sketches and open books for any clues. Markus held you fast so you didn't shake like a leaf in front of everyone.

Theo exhaled loudly, his fingers scratching at his eyebrow, "Isn't it obvious. They want what they've always wanted. You. Dead. The real question is why?" He turned his attention back to Maggie, ignoring your distraught expression.

A hush fell over the room and you could see Markus's eyes squint in Theo's direction when you turned to jelly in his arms from dread.

"He's not wrong," Peter mumbled and Derek jabbed his side with his elbow forcing a cough out of Peter’s mouth.

You took in a deep breath and sat down on a chair, head in your hands as you blinked back the image of Alex lying dead on the ground and Scott and Derek being cornered by the hunters. Your life was turning out to be one great big nightmare, and right now you were beginning to resent the fact you hadn't gone with Alyster. With that thought, a tingle returned to your lips and you were reminded of the kiss. It brought with it a bitter-sweetness that kept you grounded while your thoughts bounced all over the place. You felt like you were going insane.

As though to shift the focus and clear the stale air, Deaton pushed a large, musty-smelling book towards the group and flipped it 180 degrees. His finger tapped on an illustration of an intricate compass that looked to be hundreds of years old. "Is this the device that the man -Alyster- had around his neck?"

You studied the detailed drawing and then nodded weakly, "Yeah, that's it. What is it?"

"It's called the Oculus. It grants the wearer an ability to wield the Wadjet, it is more popularly known as the--"

"Eye of Horus," Markus interjected, brows knit in thought. A few people shot him surprised looks and he just shrugged them off with a nonchalant: "I have a masters in history."

"That's right," Deaton affirmed. "Horus is associated with protection from evil spirits and he is usually depicted as a falcon, hence the reason why this Alyster's eyes change when he activates the Oculus."

"So now we're fighting ancient Egyptians? I--" Liam plopped down next to Jonah and just stared blankly at the floor. "Can someone just run us by the SparkNotes version or...?"

Esme laughed and sat atop the table with one leg dangling over the air, "You gotta brush up on your storytelling skills, hon." she smiled at the very exhausted Maggie.

Deaton cleared his throat before throwing his hypothesis out for everyone to ponder, “I think this amulet gives him the ability to track and locate the Order’s targets. I also think it’s used as an anchor to a much more powerful source of magic.”

Maggie jumped in on Deaton’s bandwagon and started breaking down what everyone knew, "Okay, so from what Stiles found out, we know that these hunters have some sacred mission linked to all their killing. We now also know they're older than dirt so… that's a plus because there’ll be a trail left behind somewhere. What we didn't know before was, just as Theo put it, why they do what they do. Until now."

Maggie placed a book identical to the one Stiles had been trying to translate in the bunker days prior, “According to this text, the Order was established by a group of druids, liaths and darachs alike. A few hundred years ago a plague nearly wiped out all shapeshifters on earth -that's why our numbers are so low despite how long we've been around. Those that were immune stopped presenting the ability to shift. Those who contracted the plague were killed by the Order. It was called the First Coming of the End of Days. The sacred duty of the Order -or Venatores- was to try and prevent a second coming. The druids on this council feared that the plague would one day return, and so they created these hunters using the sacred power stored inside the oldest focal point of concentrated magic in their village. A Nematon. And since Nematon’s have a tendency to influence the formation of telluric currents, we believe that’s where the Oculus comes into play. We think after they absorb someone’s essence, the Oculus channels that energy into the earth and sends it somewhere else using telluric currents.”

Peter ran a hand through his face, his jaw muscles tensing, "Oh for the love of- So far, all you've told us is that these hunters are very old, very unkillable and very specific in choosing their victims. None of that helps us in any way. I want to know how to kill them, and if we can't, I'd like the quickest route to the airport please." He flashed a forced smile and everyone collectively sighed.

"Scott, how do you feel about all this, you've been quiet during this whole thing," Derek ignored Peter's outburst and placed his focus on Scott, who looked to be in his own little world.

Scott stretched and turned his head up to regard everyone's inquisitive gazes, "Honestly, my whole life has been one impossible thing succeeding another and another… So what if they're vampires or if they're supposedly the first warning sign of the end of days. A few days ago, Monroe was our biggest worry, now she's dead and her numbers are cut in half. That's one crisis averted. Things have a way of balancing themselves out. We just have to maintain cool heads until they do."

Stiles paced about the room before clapping his hands together at the prospect of a new idea dawning over him, “Uh, hey, Maggie, you got a map that displays telluric currents?”

Maggie moved about the room in a hurry, but it was Markus that came to the rescue, “Here,” he handed Stiles a map he had grabbed from a trunk. “Telluric currents were a passion project of mine. I’m a bit of a nerd for this stuff.”

Stiles slapped Markus’s large arms in thanks and winced before flicking his hand at the wrist several times, “Ow, what do they feed you?”

“Kibble,” Markus joked dryly. “Why the map?”

“I’m thinking if we spot any major changes between the data on this map and a more recent one, we can determine whether this Oculus theory is accurate and maybe plot out where the fluctuations lead to,” Stiles fumbled with the map until he gave up and handed it to Scott who unfolded it with ease.

"That just might work…” Markus looked over your shoulder, his attentions shifted onto the piece of paper in front of you. “What are you drawing?"

You furrowed your brows, confused by his question and then looked down to where his eyes were focused. On the page were several pened drawings of a bow and shank of a key without a bit. To your surprise, you had been scribbling the symbol from the car ride over and over.

"I… I didn't know I was doing it," you sat up from the chair and dropped the pen like it had burned you.

"I know this symbol. Professor Tennyson ran a class on semiotics. That's the Ankh. The Egyptian symbol of life," Markus finished the symbol by drawing a line that intersected between the bow and shank of the key.

"Okay, but that doesn't explain why I'm drawing random symbols without thinking it..." you looked to everyone in the room and saw Stiles raise his hand. ”Stiles?"

"Ah, yeah, so I was possessed once by an evil kitsune's spirit and that would sometimes cause me to do things I didn't remember doing," he shoved both his hands in his pockets and started rocking on the balls of his feet, lips pressed tightly together when he noticed Jonah's jaw practically fall to the ground.

Everyone in the room took a tentative step back or inched away from you. You rolled your eyes at their behaviour.

"I'm not possessed. I think I'd know if I was possessed," you bit back.

"I'm pretty sure that's not how that works," Liam chimed in, his words muffled by his curled hand placed on his chin and lips.

"Maybe its residual magic from when Alyster was inside your head," Esme said casually as she took a bite of an apple.

"Alyster was in your head?" Markus repeated in shock. "How? When? How? And why didn't you say anything?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was under the impression that everyone heard my conversation with Esme and Maggie a few nights ago," you glared at Derek. "Seeing as how I live in a house full of werewolves with supernatural hearing."

Peter coughed again, but this time it was to hide his grin and laughter. Derek opened his mouth to say something but Deaton's busy hands rustling through papers and books garnered everyone's attentions away from the two of you.

"What are ya thinking?" Maggie asked him.

"I think Esme is right, and I think there's a pattern we aren't seeing," he answered.

"What pattern?" Scott moved closer to the table.

"Semiotics," Deaton smiled when he pulled up an encyclopaedia. "First, Alyster mentioned a Mother Tree. Then we find out that the hunters are the closest thing to immortal as we can get and now Y/N is unknowingly sketching the Ankh of all thing. Do you see it yet?”

“These are all three very different things,” Liam nodded.

“N-no… They are all linked by one semiotic message. Life,” Deaton said, his finger pointing into the air stiffly like he was giving a powerpoint presentation. “Every spell draws power from somewhere. All magic is just an exchange of energy.”

“So what if they’re killing people for fuel?” Derek posited, stepping closer to you and the table.

“Why don’t we just ask one of them?” Theo’s bored tone swept through the room.

Stiles squinted at him, “What? Just stroll up to them and ask one of them to come over for tea and crumpets?” he retorted sarcastically.

“No, I mean like set a trap, kidnap them and then try different methods of murder until one of them sticks,” he stated morbidly.

Jonah swallowed loudly and hid half his face behind a pillow, “That sounds mean.”

“It doesn’t count if they’re immortal,” Theo smirked.

Esme lobbed her apple at his face, some of its fleshy interior broke off and showered around Theo’s feet in juicy sprays. He wiped the residual bits off with his jackets sleeve and a sour face.

“Don’t fill his head with such things. You aren’t helping. Out!” Esme pointed to the door and Theo lifted his hands defensively as he strode out confidently.

“Can I leave too, or are we only handing out hall passes if we say insensitive things?” Peter pointed to Theo’s retreating form. “Because, let me tell you, I have so man—“

Esme lobbed another apple but Peter’s quick reflexes caught in just before it touched his nose. He crushed the apple in his hands and made quite the show of it, “I take it that was a no?”

“Stop being an ass, Peter. Otherwise, the next thing someone throws at you will be a stake,” Derek spoke over his shoulder without looking up from the map Stiles had laid down.

“A stake…” Peter glanced at Jonah and then back up at Derek’s back. “The kid was onto something!”

“W- Who me?” Jonah bounced on the couch, happy to be included in the discourse. “About what? Vampire stakes?”

Peter rose a brow and said, “Yes.”

No one moved an inch, the only sound in the room was the passing of wind and Stiles flipping map pages like he was ripping rice paper apart.

“Think about it,” Peter wiped his hands on Scott’s shirt and Scott simply sighed. “Maybe 'vampire' isn’t the most far off explanation after all. I mean… what if we need a very specific weapon to kill these hunters? Maggie said that they were created using magic from a Nematon. And Deaton thinks the Oculus is used to traverse through telluric currents -Hell, I bet that’s how they travel so quickly too!- Maybe we need a piece of the thing that made them, to kill them!”

Esme worked her back muscles before begrudgingly siding with Peter, “I hate to say this, but maybe the ass is right.”

“Well that’s just rude,” Peter complained. “But at least you can see the obvious genius in my explanation. And look at that, I didn’t even take a whole morning to explain things to everyone.”

Markus rubbed his eyebrows, “So we find this tree and…”

“I found it! I found the spot where the telluric lines converge!” Stiles cheered by himself, fist-pumping in the air. Jonah joined along too figuring it was the more appropriate thing to do in this situation. Then Stiles’s face fell and he swore under his breath as he looked over the map on his phone and the one of the table.

Derek sighed, his teeth clenching in disappointment, “It’s in Sweden.”

The room collectively groaned.

“Well we can scratch that off the list because there’s no way we’d be able to go all the way to Sweden and back before the hunters murder everyone,” Peter sat on the windowsill looking defeated. “Come to think of it, why haven’t they found us yet? It’s been days. Last time it took them mere hours to find us after we’d crossed the border into Mexico.”

Maggie was chewing a biscuit and had to dry swallow most of it to answer him, “We’ve been taking turns burning sage pales around the property's border. I’m surprised you haven’t smelt it.”

“I just thought that was the usual smell around here,” Peter mumbled snidely.

“Actually, I don’t think we have to go very far to get what we need,” Deaton stated. “Most Nematon’s come from the same root. In theory, all we have to do is head back to Beacon Hills to get what we need.”

“Then I guess we’re going back to Beacon Hills,” You stood from the chair, spine groaning from being stretched too suddenly. “If you want to test out your stake theory, you’re going to need bait.”

“It’ll be dangerous,” Derek protested in a dark voice.

“Then you’ll just have to protect me. Like you promised,” you spoke with confidence.

“Shotgun!” Peter said loudly with a mischievous wink sent Derek’s way.

It didn’t take long for a plan to be formed. Soon after everyone was familiar with their roles, they all broke off to start packing up.

You had started packing up some of the clothes you’d found in your old drawers. You didn’t know why you were doing this but it seemed to help, it kept your mind busy. Markus, Esme and Maggie had argued for you to stay home and let everyone else handle everything, but in the end, they were left with no option but to concede. Even though it was dangerous, you were right, the plan wouldn’t work if you stayed behind.

Maggie gave you a pendant with a hollow locket filled with sage essential oils so you could stay shielded from the Order during your drive back. There was a spot on your chest that always got a little oily if the necklace stayed still for too long. You made a habit of wringing the charm along the silver chain in between still moments.

There was a rap at your door and you started from your thoughts, “Come in.”

It was Derek.

“Got a minute?” he asked from behind the ajar door.

“All I’ve got are minutes.”

He hummed before walking in and closing the door behind him, affording himself some privacy, “I wanted to talk to you about--“

“The kiss,” you said simply.

“Yeah, listen, it was a spur of the moment thing. It was a heated argument and you were so stubborn that I felt like I couldn’t get a word in,” Derek tried to explain while his hands fidgeted.

“Right. It was the only thing you could think to do.”

“Yes!” His eyes lit up.

“Like in the dreamscape…”

“Yes!” then his eyes grew serious and his cheeks went hot. “Wait, that’s not what I was getting at…”

You laughed, stuffing more clothes into your bag, though at this point the only thing left were baby booties and torn towels, “Relax Derek. I’m not going to eat you. As long as you don't make things awkward, I won't make things awkward.” You joked.

He held you steady and stared you dead in the centre of your eyes, you shivered again, your lips going numb as they remembered what it felt like to have Derek's lips over them.

“Look, I came here to tell you… It was a mistake, for me to have kissed you… in that way. I promise I won’t do it again,” he released his grip from your arms and you felt an odd sense of disappointment at having heard those words.

Derek pulled the door handle and before he stepped out of your room, he whispered, “Not until you ask me to.”

Your knees caved in and you crashed onto your bed. You didn’t know what to say or think or feel. You were left feeling dazed again. It was turning into a force of habit now. But behind your fear and uncertainty, behind your broken heart that still mourned Alex, you felt a glimmer of warmth spread through you. It felt like molten sunshine. Bright and happy.

As the sensation spread, you fought the sudden urge to smile in spite of all the devastation you had faced –and were about to face.

Next Chapter>>

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#derek hale #teen wolf imagine #derek hale x reader #derek hale imagine #teen wolf #derek x you #derek x reader #E- Waste Drive in the background of the gif kills me #ehhh... I promise the next chapter is better

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