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insert-witty-user-name-here · 1 month ago

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WIP Wednesday

Hello, it’s me- the angst fairy- back again with something needlessly angsty. I was reminded recently about a scene I’d deleted from an old fic of mine. No regrets about deleting, it was the right decision, but I was sad to cut it. B-15 deserves more character analysis. So sharing it now.

Tagging just a few folks who I don’t think will mind the angst but anyone else who sees this and wants to participate in sharing their art or writing- please do! 💚 (And please tag me in your posts so I don’t miss it) @loki-is-my-kink-awakening @lgwilt @dewdropreader

Deleted scene from a fic where Mobius is trying to ignore his trauma but the memories of those he’s pruned keep on coming. B-15 helps him through it. (I noticed on B-15’s Funko Pop that she tracked her kills on her helmet and decided, as I do, there’s an angsty story there.)

Verity stopped and opened a small door to their left, pulling Mobius inside an empty room.

“I thought you said we were running late to another meeting?”

“There’s no meeting,” she said. “Just looked like you needed a break from the briefing. Take a minute.”

Mobius nodded and let his head fall against the door behind him, relishing the feeling of cool metal against his skin. It was quiet. There were no glaring lights, no beeping machines, no questions he didn’t know the answer to. Mobius took a few steady breaths until the headache pounding in his head subsided. He opened his eyes to find Verity watching him closely.

“Thanks,” Mobius said, pushing himself from the door and straightening his tie. “I feel better. Don’t tell Loki he was right. He warned me that a meeting on numerical code methodology for new timelines would put me to sleep.”

He turned to share a laugh with Verity but her face didn’t show any amusement. Instead, she looked concerned.

“I don’t think this was as simple as you falling asleep in a meeting,” she said carefully.

Mobius stilled. He had hoped his episodes weren’t noticeable but he should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep them from Verity. She was smart. It’s why he named her Deputy Director.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked after a few moments of silence.

Flashes of a park on a sunny day, a couple laughing, a timestick in his hand, a scream of terror, and a case file— variants eliminated— sped through Mobius’ mind before they were gone.

“No… I don’t remember what I was thinking about,” Mobius answered honestly. It was probably for the best he didn’t remember.

Verity frowned. “You shouldn’t repress your memories.”

Mobius slumped back against the door with a groan. She was right. While they still didn’t quite understand what the TVA had done to them, they were beginning to understand how they could heal their broken minds. Mobius knew the steps a TVA worker should take when they felt their memories resurface —he’d help write the protocol— but it was time consuming. For an organization that existed outside time, Mobius sure felt they were constantly running out of it. He didn’t have time to practice the techniques he’d taught others.

“There are too many cases that need my attention right now,” Mobius said.

“You need to offload some of those. I keep telling you-”

“I know, I know. I will. I just need to get through this Mandarin case first.”

“And then?” Verity pressed.

“And then I’ll take a few days off and sort through some of this… stuff.

Verity gave a disbelieving huff.

“I will.”

A heavy silence fell between the two agents and Mobius looked at the room around them. They were in one of the storage rooms that used to hold confiscated variants’ possessions. Without the stolen artifacts filling the shelves, the room seemed hollow. Purposeless. Mobius didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it in the reallocation.

“You’re not the only one who’s struggling,” Verity whispered. Her voice was soft, so soft that even in the silence of the abandoned room Mobius hardly heard her. At first, he wasn’t sure she intended to speak the words out loud.

“That’s how I knew you were having an episode,” she continued, twiddling with the cufflinks on her new suit in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. “I get these… headaches sometimes. Everything blurs together and I can’t remember where or when I am. It’s like I’m lost in my memories or, no, it’s like I’m trapped… trapped by him again… like we never escaped.”

Verity clenched her eyes shut with a sharp inhale of breath as if she were trapped inside a memory right now and Mobius reached out, taking her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. He knew how terrifying it was to be stuck in your memories, to feel like you were back under his control. They may have defeated He Who Remains but he was still here. He always would be. There was no amount of running they could do to escape him entirely. It made Mobius feel weak. He hated thinking Verity felt the same.

“Did you know I used to track kills on my helmet?” Verity asked.

Mobius nodded. He remembered. His memories might be splintered but he remembered enough. He remembered what they were a part of.

“I hated that thing,” she scowled. “I hated that number printed on the side. The paint was fresh when I started but sometimes I swore I could see the etchings of another number. The number of whoever I replaced when they were deemed ineffective. I wondered how long it would be before they replaced me.

“I thought if I marked my helmet as my own, if I made it look different, I would feel better. They wouldn’t paint over it so easy. I thought if I pruned more than anyone else, I could prove to the Timekeepers that I was better than everyone else in my unit. That I would feel useful, good, like what I was doing mattered but-” Verity’s voice cracked and Mobius squeezed her hand tighter. “I only ever felt more angry. So, I pruned more hoping that feeling would go away. It never did. It just kept getting worse and worse and worse until…” Verity trailed off.

“Until Sylvie,” Mobius finished.

“Until Sylvie,” Verity agreed, wiping her eyes and pulling back with a soft smile on her face. “Sylvie showed me everything I lost and suddenly it all made sense. I knew why I hated that number. I knew why I woke up furious at the world, looking to punish anyone who got in my way. It’s because that number wasn’t my name. Who they made me wasn’t me.

“They took everything from us and while we can’t travel back in time and change what was done, we can change our future. We have the opportunity to fight for something we believe in now. Sylvie and Loki gave us that.”

Warmth spread through Mobius as the mention of Loki’s name. He looked down at the ring on his left hand and smiled, running his finger along the band again. He would never understand how he’d gotten so lucky; he would do everything in his power to be the man Loki believed him to be.

“You gave us this opportunity too,” Verity added. “When we burnt down our old TVA, you built a new one and you didn’t dictate a new purpose but rather showed us what a new purpose could be. We chose to follow you. We choose this life. And…” Mobius felt Verity give his hands a gentle squeeze. “You don’t need to carry it alone. We want to help you.”

Mobius carefully untangled his hands from Verity’s and took a step backwards. “I know.”

“Good,” Verity nodded with an air of finality. “At least let Loki help you. I don’t know what’s going on between you two but he’s started helping me with my cases.”

Mobius snorted. He could only imagine how that was going.

“It’s not funny, Mobius. He’s driving me nuts. You need to let him return to smothering you otherwise I might just send him to the Void without his TemPad.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Mobius chuckled at Verity’s hollow threat. “I’ll talk to him. Now, come on. I think we both deserve a little treat after all this. Let’s see what Processing confiscated today.”

Verity hesitated. “Mobius, I don’t care how many different variations you force me to try, I’m not going to like any timeline’s Josta.”

“What?? After all that talk about hope and change. One day I am going to find you a Josta you like. But no, I actually wasn’t talking about Josta this time. I heard Processing just got back with a case full of strawberry margarita mix. If that interests you.”

Verity’s face lit up in a brilliant smile. “Now, you’re speaking my language. Lead the way, Director. Josta aside, I’ll follow you anywhere.”

I’ll follow you anywhere.

Mobius’ steps faltered as he swallowed over the lump of fear in his throat at the words. Verity and the entire TVA would follow him. They were depending on him to show them the way, to fix things and Mobius couldn’t let them down. He wouldn’t.

Okay, I’ll write something fluffy and cute for next time. I promise I do know how to write sweet things 😅

#wip wednesday #mobius m mobius #Loki series #hunter b 15 #Sylvie x b15 if you squint #background Lokius #I promise I’ll write something sweet next time #just been thinking about B-15 of late

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violetstormms · 1 year ago

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FNAF Sun and Moon x yn Fic List Update 2

This is update 2 for my FNAF Sun and Moon x yn fic list. www.tumblr.com/violetstormms/710457016218435584/sunmoon-fnaf-fanfic-recommendation-list?

As always look at the tags and read at your own discretion as while I will try not to include explicit material in this list, the stories can contain other mature content. If you want to see future updates to this list feel free to follow the “Violetstormm fic list updates” tag

*Ghost in the Machine by Qwille

archiveofourown.org/works/49134853/chapters/123968842

You are not strong in the Sight. To you, the supernatural has become the background noise of a mundane and lonely life. You have no interest in becoming involved with ghosts.

But they have every interest in you.

When your eccentric great uncle offers you a job fixing the ‘jewel’ of his collection—the original Fazco Daycare Attendant—you expect a challenge, sure. This was undoubtedly going to be the biggest project of your life. You expect pain, mistakes, and late nights aplenty, and you expect an excruciating learning curve.

You do not expect the other Daycare Attendants.

How can you know what to live for when the world you were built for is gone?

~Apex Polarity by NaffEclipse

archiveofourown.org/works/50448256/chapters/127466095

In the Arctic, all is beautiful and cold and lethal. You tread over ice and underneath, a dark, powerful siren stalks you. Though you try to resist, you succumb to the lure of the mer and his decision to have you.

How do you survive an apex predator?

+He's a Little Confused but he's got the Spirit by Twi75

archiveofourown.org/works/48846175/chapters/123221785

All you wanted was to wake up, go to work, pay your bills, and sleep. Look's like someone is just a bit greedy now aren't they? Not to worry though, your friends at Fazbear Entertainment are more than happy to put you in your place with their state-of-the-art AI. Specifically the AI that's running the Daycare Attendant. Yeah, that one.

_____

This is my first fic on the website, I am both ashamed and filled with pride. Going to try for weekly updates but absolutely no promises. Comments and critique are always welcome

*Celestial Tinkerer by justfangirlstuffs

archiveofourown.org/works/49890448/chapters/125950240

You are just a humble tinkerer of animatronics trying to make their way in a city that doesn't care if you live or die. However, two infamous mob bosses have taken a rather keen interest in your skills, making your life a little more complicated than you'd like. Sun and Moon are determined to have you under their rule, but you won't bow so easily.

*The Crimson Horror by Rainbow_Blahaj

archiveofourown.org/works/50154937/chapters/126663922

After dropping out of college and moving back to the countryside village you grew up in where no one seems to remember you. You struggle to make ends meet and end up having nowhere else to turn to for employment but the local Mortuary. Which was run by two oddly endearing Animatronics, one sporting a sunny theme while the other sported that of the night. Foolishly unaware of what was to come you took the grave digger position thinking nothing of it, just finally happy you could afford grains of rice again. Ignoring the obvious red flags as more and more bodies start showing up in the morgue and news headlines talk about a potential serial killer or vampires on the loose you shrug it off. After all what were the chances all of these things were related, there's no way that was possible, right?

Unbeknownst to you that if you weren’t careful in the coming months, you too could end up 6 feet like all the other victims of the crimson horror (roll credits).

+(In Their) Astral Orbit by Rinzydings

archiveofourown.org/works/46904530/chapters/118150936

The dreaded fire has come and burned the Pizzaplex to the ground. Waking up in a panic, Lyell races to the scene and braves the destruction in order to find the DCA. Recovering the weakened animatronic, they take the Daycare Attendant home and do everything they can to clean and get them repaired. The bond between human and robot deepens, and Lyell briefly questions where to possibly go from here.

But before we get to that, let's take a trip down memory lane and see how on earth it all came to this.

+I Think I Smell A Rat by Eyndr

archiveofourown.org/works/45725968/chapters/115070719

Being a robotic repair rat who lives in the walls of the pizza-plex is a pretty great gig, all things considered! You fix the wires instead of chew them, and you get into tight spaces those silly humans can't reach and fix things up behind the scenes. You do your little tasks diligently, and all is well. That is, until one night when you realize all of your other repair rat friends have gone missing, and almost all of those animatronics outside the walls are acting strange... You aren't sure what it is that needs fixing, but by golly you'll fix it! You just might need a little help along the way...

*Bethroned by Strawbubbysugar

archiveofourown.org/works/49899715/chapters/125973496

The Human Kingdom of Porphyal has long been at war with The Kingdom of Atomata, a strange land filled with sentient automatons. The cause for the start of the bloodshed has been lost to time, but it will soon be drawing to a close with the arranged marriage of the Heir of Porphyal and the Heir of Atomata, set to be wed when they reach of age, uniting the Kingdoms in peace at last.

Though it is uncertain if the temporary truce will last long enough to see this come to pass.

-Cold Front by Stormimur

archiveofourown.org/works/43212384/chapters/108609540

Everything is fine. Nothing is wrong. How could you want something more than this? The Superstar Daycare has everything an animatronic could ever want! Sun and Moon are fine, perfectly fine even! Everything is a-okay!

Until it wasn't.

In the wake of the biggest loss comprehensible to them, Sun and Moon must learn to navigate the world around them. And you? You're the poor, unfortunate victim who took on a job seven years ago.

#Violetstormm fic list updates #daycare attendant fnaf #fnaf moon #fnaf moondrop #fnaf sun #fnaf sun and moon #daycare attendant x reader #fnaf moonrise #fnaf sundrop #fnaf daycare attendant #moon x reader #dca x reader #sun x reader #eclipse x reader #sundrop x reader #Violetstormm's fic list #security breach au

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misshoneyimhome · 1 year ago

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Push the button | Frederik Andersen

Tags: gentleman!Freddie; Frederik AndersenxReader; Warnings: Pure lustful behaviour;

A/N: I miss my husband; in "celebration" og Freddie's happy relationship ❤️ may your life be filled with love & joy (or I will hunt her down);

I'm busy throwing hints that he keeps missing Don't have to think about it, I wanna kiss and Everything around it, but he's too distant I wanna feel his body, I can't resist it

Frederik Andersen always had a talent for getting lost in his work. When he was deep into his tasks, whether it was training rigorously or gearing up for a match, he had this tendency to shut out the world around him.

There wasn't much room for other thoughts in his head.

Yet, strangely enough, he managed to occupy a prominent space in your thoughts.

Freddie was, in your eyes, almost like a god. His fiery ginger hair and rugged scruff gave him an extremely attractive, almost otherworldly appeal. His very tall, muscular, Adonis-like physique only added to his charisma. Yet, beneath that striking exterior, there was a calm and mysterious demeanour that drew you in.

Every time you found yourself in Freddie's presence, whether it was after a game or at a team gathering, you made a conscious effort to drop hints, hoping he'd finally take notice. You dropped hints of all kinds, hoping that one of them would catch his attention. Yet, it always seemed as if he remained oblivious to your subtle signals.

Your deepest desire was simple yet profound: to feel his lips against yours.

You yearned to share those subtle butterfly kisses along the curve of his neck, or to tenderly kiss away any bruises he might have acquired during a fierce game. And you couldn't help but fantasise about trailing kisses down his chiselled, toned abs, savouring every moment of intimacy that you could only dream of.

The irresistible urge to have his body pressed against yours was a constant struggle. Yet, Freddie always appeared so distant, as if he existed in a different league altogether. It was as though the gap between your desires and reality was an insurmountable chasm, leaving you hungering for something that felt just out of reach.

Freddie remained oblivious, and in all fairness, your hints weren't exactly straightforward either. You mastered the art of keeping a controlled expression on your face whenever you were near him. You dressed impeccably and aimed to appear effortlessly casual, even though you knew you'd put in a lot of effort into your looks whenever you anticipated his presence. Striking that balance between catching his eye without appearing too obvious or desperate became a delicate dance you were determined to perfect.

Freddie's unwavering politeness and his deep respect for women and their boundaries only made him more irresistible. He was the epitome of a true gentleman, never pushing limits or crossing lines that could be deemed too risky. As you engaged in conversations with him, whether brief or extended, you patiently waited for that magical moment when he might finally see you in a different light, when he might realise the depth of your desires that had you going wild inside.

So, you made a firm decision: you wanted to have him.

You wanted him to catch on, to see the desire burning within you, and you were determined that one day, you'd find a way to have your intimate moments with him, to turn those fantasies into reality.

An opportunity presented itself one fateful night when the team gathered at a dimly lit bar before the season was about to begin. The lads were comfortably ensconced in the dark booth, and you, along with a few other girls, decided to make your way to the dance floor.

You were on a mission, no doubt; to show him what he's been missing out.

You strutted your sexy ass, flaunting intention; hoping to draw him into your new dimension.

Your allure, it had him in apprehension - Ready to take action, and end the tension.

Your moves on the dance floor didn't escape Freddie's notice. His gaze was drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

The snug little dress you wore accentuated your every curve, intensifying the glamour of your figure. Those vibrant red heels added an extra layer of captivation as you gracefully swayed your hips, exuding confidence, and sheer enjoyment with that pretty face of yours.

After a couple of songs, you decided to take a break and made your way to the bar. And Freddie wasted no time in leaving his seat to follow you. Seizing the chance for a private moment, he positioned himself next to you at the bar, and the two of you exchanged glances and subtle smiles before he finally broke the silence.

"Having a good time?" he inquired, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

You nodded, your heart racing at his nearness. "Absolutely," you replied. "And you?"

Freddie mirrored your nod. "Yeah, it's nice to let loose and have some fun during the off-season."

His smile had you utterly captivated, and a wave of desire surged through you. Yet, you managed to keep your cool, sharing a light laugh with him, all the while craving for something more.

As Freddie stood there beside you at the bar, his presence was intoxicating, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nervousness. You sipped your drink, trying to maintain your casual composure, but the chemistry between you two was undeniable.

You leaned in slightly, your voice low and sultry, "Freddie, I've always admired your dedication on and off the ice. It's pretty inspiring."

His eyes met yours, and a hint of surprise flickered in his gaze. "Thanks," he responded, genuine appreciation in his voice. "I guess it's just something I've always loved."

Encouraged by his response, you continued, "You know, dedication can be quite attractive. It's one of the many things that make you so intriguing."

Freddie's lips curled into a more pronounced smile, and he took a step closer. "Is that so?" he asked, his tone dropping slightly, hinting at a growing connection.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "Absolutely. But there's more to me than meets the eye, too."

As the night wore on, the conversation flowed effortlessly. You shared stories, laughed, and exchanged glances that spoke volumes. It was as if the tension that had once separated your desires from reality was slowly dissolving.

The atmosphere in the dimly lit bar seemed to intensify with each passing moment. You couldn't ignore the magnetic pull between you and Freddie, the undeniable chemistry that had simmered beneath the surface for so long.

But Freddie, ever the gentleman, maintained his composure, offering a polite smile while keeping a respectful distance.

Shortly after, Sebastian interrupted, informing that everyone was about to leave.

And once outside on the street, you made another attempt to drop hints by positioning yourself close to Freddie.

In his signature gentlemanly style, Freddie extended an offer, "Would you like me to walk you home?" You responded with a sweet smile, nodding in agreement.

The stroll through the late summer night was pleasant. You both enjoyed the warm air, with the streetlights casting a soft glow on the streets of Raleigh as you engaged in an engrossing conversation.

When you reached the steps by the front door of your apartment building, you summoned the courage to invite him in.

To your delight, he accepted your invitation.

As you entered the lift together, the anticipation was unmistakable. You stood side by side, almost touching, as you pressed the button for the 10th floor.

Soft music played in the background, setting the mood, and Freddie's restraint finally gave way.

"Fuck it," he murmured, unable to contain himself any longer. He pulled you close, pinning you against the lift wall in a passionate, long-awaited kiss.

#frederik andersen #freddie andersen #freddie andersen imagine #carolina hurricanes #carolina hurricanes imagine #nhl hockey imagine #nhl hockey fic

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silversdragonemporium · 1 year ago

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Last year, the exchange went very well. I signed up and I’m looking forward to what this year has to offer!

I made a Reddit post explaining a bit more about the mechanics of the exchange, mostly because I had never done an AO3 gift exchange before (until last year) and I was a little intimidated to ask questions. But now that this isn’t my first rodeo (and with some help from the mods fact-checking me and giving me additional context and materials) I made a little guide to help things seem a little less inscrutable!

(This is crossposted from Reddit because I know that site can make it hard for those without accounts to access the content)

So, you want to join the Dimileth Winter Exchange?

With the latest announcement of the Dimileth Fever account,it's official: signups for the 2023 Dimileth Winter Exchange are now open!

This gift exchange event is the second round of the Dimileth Winter Exchange hosted by the mods of Dimileth Fever, who are in charge of other events such as "Dimileth Trick or Treat" or "Dimileth Hot Flash".

Now, you're probably raring to join in, but the entire system of AO3 gift exchanges might seem a little daunting to the uninitiated. I've made this little guide because last year I struggled to understand what was going on and I was too afraid to ask despite the clear directions on the gift exchange website.This post is kind of an excuse to let people ask questions about details without feeling bad about it.

What is AO3?

Archive of Our Own (or AO3), is a nonprofit website that was created for the hosting and preservation of fannish content on the internet. Usually, people post their fan fiction here, though some artists have chosen to crosspost their art in the archive.

One of AO3's most important features are its comprehensive metadata filters. These are ratings, warnings, categories, fandom, characters, relationship, and additional tags. All of this metadata is supplied by the uploader as a courtesy to potential readers. Think of metadata as the "keywords" that you'd put into a search engine to find the exact kind of fic you'd want.

What is a "collection" in AO3?

In AO3, "collections" are a bit like boxes where stories are put together under a theme or event in common. For example, all "Dimileth Trick or Treat" stories are all under the same collection.

Collections can be "revealed" (they are open and available for reading) or "unrevealed" (you can't read/see the story). Collections can also "anonymous" or "not anonymous".

Dimileth Fever events are usually "revealed" and "not anonymous" collections. However, the gift exchange is at first an "unrevealed" and "anonymous" collection that then gets revealed and de-anoned in phases.

How do AO3 gift exchange partners get chosen?

AO3 gift exchanges basically see what you "offer" and what you "request" and match you with compatible requests automatically. This first phase is handled by AO3 itself, and then the mods check each match to make sure they're all compatible.

So, how does AO3 "know" what you request and what you offer to make matchup decisions?

Metadata!

When you sign up, you can write up to 3 requests and up to 3 offers. When making these requests/offers, you are asked to fill in:

Fandom

Relationships

Additional tags

Ratings

For example, if in your "Relationships" section you only chose "male Byleth Dimileth", then AO3 will know to NOT match you up with someone that only offered "female Byleth Dimileth". But, it could match you up with someone that offered both "male Byleth Dimileth" and "female Byleth Dimileth".

This is why, you have to be clear about what you do want to get/gift using the metadata that is available for you on the signup. Also, you are encouraged to make use of the open field to elaborate! Just remember, you might be matched with either an artist or a writer. So please, make sure to keep your request open to interpretation for either kind of gift.

Here is a visual representation of how the matching system works.

Using this image as an example, let's focus on "Request 3". It is asking for:

A gift that ONLY has male Byleth Dimileth

A gift that is either rated T or E

A gift that has a "Ghost Sex" scenario, an "overstimulation" scenario or a "touch-starved" scenario (and who knows? If the gifter is generous, maybe all of the above combined somehow)

Offer A won't match, because the offered relationship (nonbinary Byleth Dimileth) is incompatible, even if the rating and additional tags sections match.

Offers B and C can match because both offer the requested relationship (male Byleth Dimileth), they match with ratings (T or E from Offer B, E from Offer C) and they match with the additional tags ("Touch-starved" from both offers).

What's this about "nominating tags"?

AO3 normally has additional tags that get "wrangled" by volunteers when they refer to the same concept. So for instance, if you search by the "no beta we die like men" tag, you will see fics that don't have that exact same tag, but bear similar tags such as "not beta read" or "no beta we die like (insert character of choice)". This is because humans have done this grouping and sorting of tags.

However, because the AO3 exchange system works with metadata to match people together, it needs to limit the "additional tags" section into a pool of potential tags that people will all choose from.

This is where tag nominations come from. You can, anonymously, request the exchange mods to add "tags" to the request/offer pool that you can then use to make your requests/offers and let the system help you sort you out.

Before nominating tags, though, make sure to check the list of current tags! What you're thinking about might already have an existing tag in the exchange.

How do I see where my assignment is?

Once assignments have been given out, you can see it underneath the "Assignments" section in your AO3 profile page. To fulfill your assignments, just hit that "fulfill" button you see there and you'll be taken to the "new work" page to upload your gift!

HELP! WHERE IS MY WORK? I DON'T SEE IT IN MY PROFILE!

It's okay, the gift exchange collection is at first an "unrevealed and anonymous" collection, so you will not see your work on your profile. It didn't just vanish, though.

Go to the "Assignments" section in your AO3 profile page. Your assignment should be there.

After author reveals, you should be able to find the story in your profile, as usual.

What's this about "updating" the date of the story on reveal day?

When you first fulfilled the assignment, the date of the work is the day you uploaded your assignment. However, because it was in an "unrevealed" collection, it didn't appear on the Dimileth tag on that day.

People tend to browse the Dimileth AO3 tag by "date updated". Your assignment, when revealed, will be visible when sorting this way, but it will be several pages back because its date is the same one as the one when you uploaded it. By updating your assignment's date, it will appear on the first couple of pages when sorting by "date updated". You don't have to update the date... but it's highly recommended!

I have another question that isn't covered here!

Most of the questions you have are probably already answered in the gift exchange website! I recommend taking a look and seeing if you can find the answer there. If it's not there/you still don't understand, please feel free to ask below!

Don't forget! If you want to officially join the exchange, you need to sign up before the deadline on November 11th! Treating people without signing up doesn't have a deadline and is always cool and nice but you won't be able to request anything so yeah.

Do you like Dimileth? Want to make a gift for somebody and get one in return? Signups for Dimileth Winter Gift Exchange are open until Nov 11 2023, 11:59 PM CST!

This is an AO3 fanworks exchange for the ship Dimitri/Byleth from Fire Emblem Three Houses and Fire Emblem Three Hopes. All versions of Dimileth are welcome - when signing up, you can specify what version(s) of Byleths you'd like to create and receive, as well as what ratings and tropes/genres you're interested in.

Assignments will go out by Nov 16 2023, and works will be due Jan 7, 2024. Everyone who turns in a gift gets a gift, guaranteed. Info: https://dimilethwintergiftexchange.carrd.co/# Sign up here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DimilethWinterGiftExchange23/signups/new

#silvercoldbrew #dimileth #mdimileth #fdimileth #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #byleth eisner

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stephspurs · 3 years ago

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A Family Affair | Euro 2020 Football Fanfiction

Hi besties - here is part 6! We are officially halfway through this fic! Part 6 sees friendships blossom, situationships struggle, and cheeky intercontinental facetime chats! I hope you all are enjoying it as much as i am! I love hearing from you after you've read it! Love always, Steph xx

Part 6 | parte sesta

warnings; a couple of tugs on the heartstrings (in both the best and worst ways)

word count; 2301

writing tools; third person until dashed line, first person thereafter.

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Amelia had been back in Turin for a week or so, settling back into her city apartment had been more difficult than she anticipated as she was now alone for the first time in more than 2.5 months. It wasn’t very often, but sometimes she did miss the companionship of having a boyfriend. She missed someone to have breakfast with, to watch movies under the covers, to bring to official events. She still did all of these things, with a date, that was a friend, that sometimes maybe crept beyond the friendship zone and into the we shouldn’t be doing this but it feels so good zone.

Fede was someone that hung around Amelia like a fly to sugar. She enjoyed the attention most of the time. She appreciated his friendship, wisdom, talent and intellect. He could hold a conversation, talk to her about the arts, sell her the dream. She even didn’t mind it when they did cross that line a few times. Long afternoons and even longer nights spent wrapped up together in his bed sheets, her bathtub, his kitchen, her lounge room...you get the point. It was almost as though the two were in a committed relationship - committed being the operable word.

Fede wanted Amelia all to himself, and she was just that - available to him and for him whenever he wished, which was often. That’s what confused Amelia most, he didn’t want to label their situationship. He was happy to be ‘friends’ outside the four walls of their respective homes, but lovers when the curtains were drawn. She would maybe understand if he was elusive, always going out and on his phone but he wasn’t. He spent all of his time with her, there wouldn't have been enough hours left in the day if he separated those he spent with her from those he spent alone.

The Juventus players noticed this behaviour early on, seeing a noticeable difference in the way their number 33 paid attention to their tactical sessions. How he was turning up to the training centre early, with an extra piccolo for the english member of their coaching staff. Federico claimed he was helping Amelia brush up on her Italian, but having an Italian-born mother who insisted on sharing her culture with her kids, meant she was pretty much fluent in the language before arriving in Turin. His teammates weren’t stupid and neither was she.

This was the one area of her life where Amelia felt comfortable to go with the flow, she didn’t need to prepare or overthink anything to do with the charming Italian boy from Firenze. She let him take it at his own pace, she was in no need to rush. She let him take her home to meet his Nonna, she spent quality alone time with his dogs when he’s running late from training, and that’s a rare occasion being that it’s normally her there after him and he hangs back to drive them both home.

Everything was progressing at his pace, and the moment Amelia just asks for some clarification on the situation, he would get visibly stressed. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. And for a long time he could, he had Amelia's attention and affection at Juve, he even had it during their european campaign. At the end of the tournament, when they all broke up for their summer breaks, Fede conveniently waited until their final round in the shower, if you know what i mean, before pulling her into bed and having a heart to heart with her.

Amelia thought that she was finally getting the clarification that she was after, which in a way she did. Fede spoke whimsical words about how she makes him feel wanted and understood, and in turn he told her about the affects he knew he had on her. It was a conversation that would turn Shakespeare to a pile of rose petals. In the end, he told her that he wanted to continue what they had just how they had been doing it. And so, that's exactly how they left it. No labels. Friends outside of the four walls of their apartments. That was all Amelia needed to be able to enjoy her family holiday in Mykonos, guilt free, not missing the man that became the equivalent of her shadow.

The constant company she had in Mykonos compared to what she was experiencing in Turin made her more eager to return to work than she had previously. Of course, there are group chats and facetimes and phone calls throughout the days that kept her occupied, but she was missing the boys and her brother. Her friendship with Kyle was back to its old ways, memes being shared across the european continent, long phone calls to talk about their problems. Kyle knew all about the Fede x Amelia situation, Amelia having given him the sparknotes version over a wine filled zoom session one evening that same week. Their pre-seasons hadn’t gone back yet so they were able to indulge in a bit of vino, guilt free.

She was surprised about the constant contact, or lack thereof, that some of the boys had maintained with her. Ben Chilwell hadn’t once messaged or instagrammed the girl, despite being active in their group chats and liking her holiday pictures on instagram. He even made the rookie error of liking a picture so far down on her instagram, there was no way to explain his need for being there. She messaged him a couple times, assuming he just got busy with whatever he was doing, but there was radio silence on the other end.

A friendship she was surprised had blossomed so well, considering their flirtatious start to life, was with that of Jack Grealish and Tyrone Mings. There had been more facetimes than she could count between herself and the two villa boys. Whether it was Tyrone telling her about a book he had finished that he thought she would enjoy, or Jack asking her how to cook dinner, maybe even them both cooking dinner together - of course she had to have a later dinner to be able to do so, with the time difference and all...and there was no way Jack was going to be having dinner an hour early “athlete’s schedule an all tha ya’know” he would smirk down the camera, brummie accent on full display.

She met Tyrone through Jack, he facetimed the girl for outfit advice one night before going out with the tall defender and the pair hit it off. Both giving Jack the fashion advice he needed but didn’t want to hear (a Gucci two piece tracksuit set is never the answer). Tyrone immediately noticed a certain attention to detail being applied by his fellow number 10, to the tactics that were being put forward by the girl that was far too good at her job. His training was improving, his set pieces having a certain amount of flare. There was also a lack of attention being paid from Jack to other girls. Instead, much preferring to spend the evening at home watching the same netflix series as Amelia so that he could discuss it with her the next day, or better yet, at the same time.

As pre-season had commenced, Amelia had been applying the same tactics that she developed (and that obviously worked) throughout the European campaign to her Juventus club level. Having faith in the four men that were with her and the Azzurri to ensure that their other teammates were completing them accurately. It appears that her skill was widely recognised, having a few missed calls and voice messages left from English telephone numbers that she was yet to listen to. In all seriousness, she was nervous to listen to them. Worried that they would make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. A wise person once told her that you shouldn’t make any decisions whilst you're at the top of your happy, or the bottom of your sad. You should make important decisions when your life is at its constant. It's very easy to accept things that you wouldn’t normally when you're at the peak of your mood, just as easy as it is to forget the bigger picture when you're down. Who knew Kyle Walker was so wise.

“So, i’ve got a bit of a dilemma” She spoke down to her facetime camera one evening in early August.

“Hit me with it darlin’” Jack spoke back to her, getting his dinner utensils out so that they could cook together again. He didn’t like not being prepared for her tutorial, he got stressed if she added pepper and his pepper was still in his pantry. Each afternoon, when it was agreed upon what they would be cooking together that evening, she sent him a list of what he would need out on his bench to complete the meal.

“I’ve missed a few calls from English teleco numbers this last week or so”

“Ok? Do you think they’re scams? You’re beautiful Amelia but I don't think it's actually an Egyptian prince on the other end that wants to offer you 250k in exchange for your paypal info…”

“Ha ha very funny - that was one time ok and he wasn’t a Prince, he was claiming to be an investment banker and wanted to help me start up my portfolio-ANYWAY JACK I WAS 16! God just forget I even told you that story” Amelia barked down facetime, now pausing what she was doing to point at the British boy with her wooden spoon, the same way her mother would to her when she was being cheeky. All she was met with was boisterous laughter.

“Nah i’m only joking, continue with your story.”

“I began to listen to the start of one and it was a talent acquisition manager for one of the premier league clubs, offering me a job” Amelia said as she continued to stir her pasta. Tonight they were making penne arrabiata. She received no reply from the boy. Looking down to her camera to check the call was still active, she saw him looking at the camera with a serious expression.

“Are you going to tell me what the problem is before I start to get excited that you’re going to be living within driving distance from me? Oh god i’ve just realised - was it from Villa? You could be even closer than I imagined” Jack started to ramble, getting over excited with the prospect of being so close to the girl that he could physically hang out with her, instead of virtually.

“Jack calm down, I didn't listen long enough to find out what club he was from. I have 5 more just like it waiting in my inbox.”

“What's the problem then Mils?” Jack could see the girl had apprehension written all over her face.

“I’m just nervous that they're going to tell me everything I've always wanted to hear. That they’re going to make me an offer I can't refuse and I have to leave my life here.” Their pasta was ready to be dished up now, so the girl poured herself a glass of red wine and got herself comfy on her couch.

“Come on, play the messages and i’ll listen to them with you, be your voice of reason,” Jack offered the girl.

“I should probably call Tyrone, you’re just going to reject every club that isn’t Villa.” she laughed before switching facetime to her laptop, moving to the floor of her lounge room and resting her elbows on her coffee table. With the phone near the screen of her mac, she began to play the messages.

_____________________________________________________________

“Hi Amelia, Shaun here from Newcastle United-” “As if you’d waste your talents at Newcastle”

“Jack! That's horrible! At least i know i already look good in the black and white striped kit”

“No, not happening. Next”

“Amelia, Hope you don’t mind but I got your number off of one of my players who knows you. Long story short, we have a position here are Arsenal” “Bloody Bukayo, needs to keep his silky mitts off ya”

“Jack, give it a rest or i’m calling Tyrone”

“Amelia White, Greg here from Aston Villa Football Club” “Get in Greggles!! That's it, stop listening, you’re taking this one”

“I need to listen to them all Jack”

“So, you’ll consider Villa?”

“I’ll consider all of them”

“You’d really go to Arsenal? Aren’t you a Spurs supporter? Shocking stuff”

“Ok maybe not all of them”

“Ciao Amelia, Mario here from Chelsea Football Club - I’ve heard nothing but good things about you. We could really use you here at Chelsea next season. Give me a call when you get a spare moment to discuss the opportunity”

“What? Nothing to say to this one, Jack?”

“Nah, sounds ok. You deserve to showcase your skills at a big club like Chelsea. And besides, you’ll have Jorginho there to look after you. Come on, next one”

“It’s the last one actually”

“Amelia, we’ve got a fantastic opportunity here at Manchester City for someone with your skill set. It would be a massive advantage to have your tactical insight to the game coupled alongside the fantastic leadership we’ve already got at the club”. “Holy shit, Pep called you himself? Kyle Walker really knows how to pull strings when he wants something”

“I am overwhelmed”

“Hey, you don’t need to make any decisions right now. Sleep on it, talk it over with your family. Speak to Jorgi, I know you’re close with him. And just let me know when you decide to pick Villa so i can start house huntin’ for ya”

“Night Jack, speak soon”

“Sleep tight darlin’, speak to ya tomorrow”

Part 7. | settima parte

74 notes · View notes

cozycryptidcorner · 4 years ago

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Abel the Asrai, Chapter 2 (lemon)

Tags: pegging, masturbation, dom reader/sub fae

Faebruary prompt:

To be honest, you were expecting to spend your first day on land inside a sex shop, after all, you had promised to help Abel find something he could use to find some relief. You did not, however, expect to be the expert consultant in the matter.

The little boutique is tucked away in the recesses of this island's designated red district, curious bystanders and sexually frustrated crewmen alike flocking to witness its various wares. The windows are high and open, letting a steady stream of sunlight filter through the hundreds of different phallic-shaped sculptures lining the shelves. It's the largest and most dependable store in your experience, and you plan on doing your own shopping once Abel is distracted. Or when you gather enough courage to do it in front of him.

He seems positively fascinated with all the different options, face turning a strange shade of teal as one of the clerks lets him hold the so-called Destroyer of Bussy, the damn thing as long as his forearm and as thick as a mast rope. It makes his long fingers look nothing more than a child's, swallowing up his fist and palm. You put an end to that debacle, knowing full well he needs to start out small and go up from there.

As you drag Abel away from the dragon-sized dildos, he seems to quickly forget about them in lieu of the far more decorative selections. Some of the more expensive examples are secured behind display glass, locks magicked against thieves. Cock rings embedded with pearls, handcuffs made from gold, the kind of objects that can't be used for much more than a show of opulence are snuggled in red velvet for the sake of being ogled at.

"What about this?" He asks, pointing to a maroon, glass blown object, one that's curled with bumps protruding on one side, suspiciously akin to a tentacle.

"That's a little too advanced for inexperienced hands," you suggest, "let's try to stick with a basic shape for now."

"And your hands are not advanced?" Abel asks, arching his eyebrows.

You try to brush him off, your own face heating up with embarrassment, "my hands are plenty advanced, but you can't tack this one to the wall to pleasure yourself with."

"And that's what I'll be doing?" He dares to ask. "I thought you were supposed to help me with my little problem."

"I'm helping you right now," you say, reaching over his shoulder and pulling down a rubber dildo. It's not the same size as the positively enormous Orc Cock Delight (trademark pending), far from it, but given Abel's slim frame and inexperience, it would be a decent start. "Here, this one's probably best."

As though inspecting its shape and sculpture like an art authenticator, he takes it from your fingers and holds it in his palm. Then, to check for its plasticity, he flicks his wrist, watching it wiggle with the movement, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. "Well," he remarks at last, "I trust your judgement on the matter."

"We can get the tentacle one too, if you like," you offer, "these are your wages you're spending."

Abel has also only recently been made aware of how money actually works when you're not some pampered prince living up in a tower. After some… hazing, you think, from the rest of the crew about some misconceptions of how one can't just go to the bank and withdraw a large deposit, he's a lot more thoughtful about what he says. And definitely more frugal, too.

You see his lips purse with frustration as he has to mentally tally what he has versus what he wants to spend, but you see a breakthrough moment where he relents. "Alright," he says almost sullenly, cradling his dildo like it's an infant, "this one will do for now."

"Good," you say, glancing over the selection of glass sculptures yourself to see if anything catches your eye, but you're mostly happy with what you already have. "Now we need to get you some lube."

"What for?" He asks, following close behind as you slowly make your way to the other side of the store.

"Trust me, you can't just shove something up a hole without a bit of lubricant. Ever had carpet burn before?"

By the way his face twitches, the answer's yes.

"Same concept, but inside your body." Glass vials decorate the shelves, some small, some large, each advertising a different benefit for its use. There are various massage oils, lube, and other select liquids that claim to aid with libido and arousal… Mouth pursed, you run your fingers over the labels, trying to decide which one you'd like to use on yourself as well. "This one says it's coconut and rum flavored."

"Why is it flavored?" Abel is also looking over the bottles, brow furrowed in thought.

"Sometimes your mouth goes where the lube is, and tasting honey lemon is more palatable to some." How does one get the taste of champagne in lube, you wonder, trying to figure out if you even need something infused with flavoring.

As though reading your mind, Abel asks, "which one would you prefer?"

Oh, fuck him, he knows exactly what he's doing.

"Why?" You ask, testily. "Do you think I'm going to be licking it off your poor little cock?"

Abel sucks his breath in, but you see that the barb did none of the damage you wanted it to. Instead, he seems…. Excited? Aroused? "Only if you want to."

Everything inside of you ignites, but you tamper it down. Sucking your breath in to ground yourself, you gesture vaguely in his crotch direction, "wouldn't be that great for you if you can't even cum from it."

"The long row of chastity belts seem to disagree." He points to the shop's opposite side, furthest from the windows, multiple mannequins showing off the various different styles available for purchase. "Might as well see what the appeal is since I'm stuck with one."

You don't want to admit he's making sense here… but he is. Wordlessly, maintaining eye contact, you aim your finger, watching him grasp the bottle without being told twice.

"You know," you say, walking leisurely over to the apparel section of the shop, "there's a lot of flack that comes from being the captain's special whore."

"Is that what your crew thinks of me?" He asks, running his fingers over a leather whip.

"You're not particularly subtle about it."

"Only because you weren't paying attention to my advances."

"Only because I didn't want you to think I only brought you aboard for the pleasure of wrecking your virgin ass."

He snickers but doesn't say anything in response, now looking over the different options to hook his dildo onto. Though, since it's really your decision, you begin poking around the mannequins yourself. Even though you wouldn't necessarily want something with all the bells and whistles, maybe one that's colored to set off your eyes? Some of the leather ones have been stained with various hues and tones.

"I just want you to know that I do already have a strap," you say, picking a new one out, "it's just not on my ship."

"So you're telling me," Abel says, almost completely serious save for that slight twitch on his mouth, "that you don't fuck every single damsel in distress you come across?"

You sigh loudly, heading towards the front of the store to purchase your tiny collection of pleasure toys. "Not all of them, just the ones that ask me so nicely."

Abel hums, and you sense a trace of jealousy aimed towards your previous bedmates, but he doesn't say anything more. Once the both of you complete your purchases, hiding them in your respective satchels, you hop down the steps out of the shop. It's just the afternoon, with plenty of time left in the day, but you know that Abel is quite literally aching to try out his new toys, so you let him drag you back to the docks.

"Where are we going?" He asks in protest as you take him down to the lower decks instead of your private room.

"Do you have any idea how many people probably ran their hands over that thing before we bought it?" You're relieved to see that no one's occupying the kitchen, especially since the cook isn't a fan of people using the giant kettles to do what you're about to.

There's a barrel of water already sitting to the side, mostly for washing dishes and scrubbing the floor. You find a clean pot and fill it halfway full of the seawater, setting it on the still lit wood stove to boil. With little ceremony, you rummage through his satchel, pulling out the dildo, and plop it into the water to boil.

In the meantime, Abel seems to struggle over what he should be doing with his hands. Nervously, he folds and unfolds his fingers, weaving them together and pulling them apart, only occasionally looking you in the eye.

"Are you okay?" You ask, and he jumps.

"Y-es," he mumbles, "just excited."

"We don't have to do this today if you're-"

"I am literally begging you," he interrupts, face blushing, "to help me now. Please."

Steam begins to curl up from the pot. You nod, poking at the rubber cock with a stick, as though that will somehow speed the process. "Just a few more moments, Abel."

Once the thing is done sanitizing, and in the safety of your cabin, the door firmly locked, you can hear his breath quickening as you pull out the different objects to start experimenting with. Slowly, you pull at the front of your leather fest, loosening the laces until it's wide enough to pull off. Your nipples rise, not from cold, but from arousal, hard at the promise of shoving that false cock up his ass.

"Abel," you direct, calmly, "you need to take off your clothes."

He obeys without question, pulling his shirt up over his head and throwing it on your chair. His body has filled out slightly with muscle, no longer a wiry frame of skin and bones, but he's still not nearly as stocky as you or the rest of your crew. Anyone on this ship could lift him over their head and toss him across the deck like he weighs nothing.

Already, he's so excited that he's erect, though the head of his cock is swollen with unspelt arousal and pleasure.

"Did you ever touch yourself after the spell?" You ask, coming up close, resting your hands on his bare hips.

"Yes," he whispers, eyes almost ashamed.

"It's alright," you rub your thumbs in soothing circles right over the bump of his bone, "I'm just wondering how this works." Pause, let him think. "Did you ever um… leak precum at all?"

He blinks. "I don't understand."

You try to rephrase the question. "When you touch yourself, sometimes before you finish, a clear liquid will come out. Did that ever happen, or no?"

"No, nothing comes out." His voice is slightly raspy, you aren't sure if it's from embarrassment. "I've always had to use lotion or oils, and it would feel good for a little while. Then it would just hurt."

"And you would have to wait until it went away," you nod, as though this isn't the first time you've dealt with such a stupid, controlling and abusive curse. "But the wording is going to be our friend, here, and many males cum when being penetrated without the use of hands."

"Thank you." There's an awful lot of hope in his eyes, so you bite your lip and pray to whatever god that might hear for your success.

"Help me out of my clothes." You gloss over his adoration, feeling a tightness in your stomach.

He gets on his knees, watching you for any twitch of approval you might give, and begins to unclasp the straps on your boots—one by one. When you step out of them, you don't even have to tell him where to go next, because he's lifting your shirt up and kissing your stomach as he works your belt. Carefully, he undoes the buckle, sliding it out and opening up your waistline.

Down go your pants, then undergarments, and you take the initiative to remove your shirt yourself. Now you're also naked, standing before Abel, just two bodies open for mutual exploration. His breath quivers as you reach up and brush some hair away from his face, dragging your fingers down to cup the side of his face. Slowly, as though you both have all the time in your little shared infinity, you press your lips up against his.

This isn't the first time you've kissed. The first time was after a particularly brutal sword fight that you had managed to win with only a few scratches, Abel practically jumped on you once you had kicked your opponent overboard. That one was quick, numb with relief and over faster than it started. Now there's time, locked away from the prying eyes of your crew.

Abel has kissed before, that you can tell by the way his lips move and adjust to where you lead them. You wonder if he had done it in some hidden nook somewhere in the palace he grew up in, under cover of darkness, all hormones and drive without the promise of relief. The practice has paid off, you decide, leading him back to your bed, gently setting him down, legs spread.

"Alright," you breathe, "show me where you touch yourself."

His face is dark and blue, mouth half-open, his tongue swiping over his lips. You get the bottle of lube out, pouring some onto the palm of your hand as he slowly begins to trace the outline of his cock. Propping one of your knees up on the bed, with an arm wrapped around his shoulder, you begin to mimic his movement, rubbing the lube up the shaft and over the head. Abel winces and whimpers at how cool it is.

For encouragement, you press your mouth onto his neck, gently nipping at the skin. "You're doing so good right now, baby, it's okay."

Slowly, you cover the entirety of his cock in the lube, pumping your wrist and watching it throb and pulse between your fingers. Abel was right, nothing seems to bead out from the slit at the top, his stones even quicker to puff up and become swollen. As he arches his back, leaning towards the mattress, his hips quake and shake, but where you might expect a ribbon of white to burst out of the head, nothing happens.

You suck in your breath sympathetically rubbing the tip with your thumb to see if you can't tease anything out, but whatever cursed him is concrete and binding. When you retract your hand, he almost whines, face bright with blood, tears threatening his eyes, lower lip swollen from his teeth biting down. At this point, you think, impotence would have been the kinder option because the brief sensation of pleasure would quickly be overruled by the misery of being unable to actually spill.

"Good boy," you whisper as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, "that must have hurt, but you're so strong for me."

He lets out a little whimper, one you swallow away with a kiss. Slowly, he lays back against your blankets, letting you straddle his waist as you nip his lips far gentler than you usually would.

"There are two ways I can take you," you say, your tits pressed up against his chest, "like this, with your legs spread out, or from behind, while you're on your hands and knees. Since this is your first time, you may pick."

He squirms beneath you, his cock painfully hard and delightfully present against your stomach. As you drum your fingers right by his ears, you can see the gears running circles in his head, carefully weighing the pros and cons of each position while so aroused his entire pelvis must feel like it's being crushed.

"Whatever you don't choose, we can do next time," you offer, hoping that might motivate him to choose a bit better.

"I-" his face becomes more flushed than it already is, "I just want to look in your eyes."

Oh, he’s sweet, the little fucker. If he keeps this kind of syrupy attitude, you might just end up falling in love.

You slide back off the bed, planting yourself firmly between his legs. "Like this?"

"Yes… please." He adds the last bit like an afterthought, but he's learning at least.

"Good boy," you purr, gently rubbing his thigh. "I'll put on the strap."

He watches you like you're a prized prostitute putting on a strip show for the ages, irises locked on your hands as you begin to pull at the various buckles and buttons. Carefully, you loop his choice dildo through the metallic ring centered right in front of your pelvis, tightening the straps to secure it in place. Once you're satisfied it won't fly off once you start thrusting, you grab the bottle of lube and bring it over to where Abel lies.

Pouring some out into your hand, you warn, "this is going to feel a bit strange at first. Since you're not used to it, I will move slowly, but you need to tell me if it hurts."

He nods sharply, his breath quickening as you start massaging his ass with the lube. You're careful here, wondering if it might be easier on him if his legs were restrained, one hand firmly on a thigh while the other experimentally prods at his hole.

"You're doing so well," you tell him, pushing your thumb up into his asshole while he whimpers. "You're going to take this cock so good, Abel, it's going to slide right in."

After adding a touch more of lube, you push your index and middle finger in together, making a gradual scissoring motion to stretch him out further. His breath quickens, his hands clawing at your blankets, but he doesn't say anything beyond a soft, wordless moan. Satisfied with how his body seems to be adapting to the intrusion, you add a third finger, and begin to pump in and out in a sort of thrusting motion.

"How does that feel?" You ask, watching the way his cock twitches and shudders.

"Good," he manages to choke, his eyes begging you for more.

"I think you're ready," you nod, taking the bottle of lube from the bed and tantalizingly rubbing it onto your fake cock. "Are you? Do you want me to start thrusting into you, baby?"

"Yes, please," his breathing accelerates, his face wild and pained.

You stretch his ass out, careful with the head of the dildo as you slowly push it in. Just to make it easier on him, you pull his knees up, spreading his legs out further and holding them steady while he quivers. Then, inch by inch, you keep moving forward until you've buried it to the hilt, your hips brushing up against his innermost thigh. You stay like that for a moment, allowing him to get used to the object's size and intrusion, petting his thighs right where your hands rest to offer some comfort.

"Does it hurt much?" You ask soothingly.

"Just a bit," he murmurs, wiggling a little as though trying to get comfortable, "not as much as I thought it might."

"Good," you bump your hips a bit, just so he knows what you're about to do. Still moving without a bit of urgency, you move back, pushing your hips away, watching his face as the pain transitions away into pleasure. Then, repeating the previous movement, you thrust forward, a bit quicker this time.

"Fuck," he curses, "that feels… that feels nice."

At that behest, you pick up the pace slightly, still going significantly slower than usual, but still maintaining a structured speed. "You like it, baby?"

"Yes," he breathes, "I like it."

"Good," you keep going, watching his body struggle to stay still as you begin to up the speed of your thrusts.

He raises his hands to his mouth, biting down, so he doesn't cry out. You feel his thighs spasm and shake beneath your fingers, his body rolling up against yours as though silently begging for more. His eyes are shut tight, brow furrowed, a strange expression twitching at his face like he's experiencing a sensation that he doesn't know is positive or negative.

"I think," he gasps, his hips thrusting in their own accord, "I- It's-"

A thick, white spray of liquid shoots out of his cock, flying high and landing on his stomach. It doesn't stop there, though, seemingly a lifetime's worth of unspelt cum trying to escape while it can, a thick, hot layer erupting out and dripping down on his waist in tandem to your thrusts. You don't stop, either, especially not when he cries out, holding his legs firmly in place as he squirms and sobs with pleasure. Only once his cock falls limp do you stop, pulling the dildo out, and a river of lube drips down his ass.

He's shaking, as though experiencing some kind of awakening. As he props himself up on his elbows, he looks down, noticing the ribbons of cum that have accumulated on his chest and pelvis, then at you. After he sees some on his hand, he licks it, not to be coy, not to be sexy, but with the general curiosity of someone who has never tasted cum in his life.

"It's salty," he says, blankly, voice void of either dashed or met expectations. Like he legitimately has no idea what he's supposed to think.

And then he begins to cry.

You're so shocked by the action that you just stand there, dildo still in hand, as tears fall out of his eyes and dribble down his cheeks. Then you snap into action, wiping your sticky fingers on an available towel before threading them through his hair, pulling him close in an embrace, ignoring the cum that's now on your skin. His face is wet against your chest, his arms wrapping around your torso in a tightening hug, chest shuddering.

"You did so well," you say soothingly, petting his hair as he tries to get himself under control, "I'm so proud of you, Abel, you really did so wonderfully for your first time. You can cry if you need to, I know this was probably very difficult."

Before you know it, you're laying down with him, his body pressed up against every single curve and crevice of yours. His face is up against your chest, arms around your waist, and you hold his head in the crook of your elbow. While his chest shudders and shakes, you whisper and murmur a myriad of encouragement and praise, but you think that's only adding fuel to his emotional fire.

So you let him process his state of mind, remaining present throughout so he has someone to lean on. After a while, he quiets down, but he makes no motion to either sit up or start round two. To be entirely honest, both of you are probably done for the day, especially with how he's handling it, but you can't walk around with stale cum on your body. Once his breathing evens out, you untangle your limbs from him, waking him up from a shivering nap.

"Hey," you say softly, poking at him, "we need to clean off."

"R-right," he sniffs, rubbing his eyes, "I-I'm sorry, that was-"

"Don't apologize," you say, almost sharply, "that must have felt very intense, and you have a right to express your emotions."

He kisses you, slowly, lazily, and you cradle his face in your hands.

"We only need to wipe off a portion of this gunk," you say, unbuckling the strap from your waist, "I think that tonight we can spend some extra money and time in a bathhouse."

"What do you mean?" He asks, glancing down at the mess he spilt on his skin.

"There's this absolutely incredible bathhouse up the mountain, right where a hot spring is. The water is supposed to be three times as effective for cleaning and rejuvenating your skin or whatever, I think you deserve a little extra pampering tonight."

"Really?" He looks like he's about to cry again.

"Come on," you pull him up until he's sitting, "let's first get marginally cleaner, so it doesn't look like we've participated in a street-side orgy."

As he pours a bit of powdery soap in your tub of scrubbing water, you begin to unbraid his hair, brush in hand, running your fingers through his green tangles to smooth out the evidence of sex. He sponges his chest and torso clean, using smelling oils to hide the scent of cum as you begin to twist and knot his hair again.

"You handled this size very well for the most part," you say, using a pick to sharply part a section of his hair away, "I think that you might be ready to upgrade in a few months, we could get that little glass one that you wanted so bad."

"I would like that," he rasps, face just as flushed as when you bottomed out inside him.

Once you clean yourself off, you dress and leave, Abel in tow. The bathhouse is a large building, overtaking a fair amount of the presumably dead volcano that overlooks the bay. You've been there before, most of your crew has, but it's the sort of place that's so far from the docks that it's a hassle to get to. By the time you're up the cliffs, Abel is panting like he's never walked this far before.

You pay the teller, not bothering to make Abel take care of his own entrance fee. A wave of wet, sticky heat hits your face when you walk into the large marble atrium, the steam from the hot springs thick in the enclosed area. There's a convenient marble map on the wall, the building's outline labeled with thick letters.

"Where do you want to go first?" You ask, mentally wondering how they make the currents for the so-called wonderous whirlpool.

He points to one of the private pools, the side of his mouth twitching up.

"Those costs-"

"I can pay," he says, patting his satchel.

Okay, he wants to play games, you can get on that level. So you shrug, and follow him down the hallway, down the stairs to the long row of private rooms. After paying the attendant down there, you pick out a random section and close the wooden door behind you for some much-needed privacy.

Abel is already stripping bare, throwing himself in the water once naked. A window lets a small amount of light through its wooden blinds, only bright enough to see his outline. Once you're also undressed, you slip into the water, sighing with relief at both the heat and the scent of the oils. You settle on a curved section, probably explicitly built for laying on, and slowly begin to scrub at your skin with a bar of pumice you brought.

Oh, and Abel seems to be enjoying himself a lot, floating on his back, face staring up at the ceiling. He looks like he's in a faraway place, mouth in a soft, genuinely content smile. You let him be in his own little world for as long as he needs to be, satisfied with cleaning the last remaining hints of sex off your body while waiting for him to come back to you.

"You know," he says finally, rising out from the water and coming close, "despite everything else, I was very spoiled as a prince."

"No," you deadpan, "really?"

"Yeah- wait," he sniffs out your sarcasm much better now, "I mean, yes, it's probably undeniably obvious."

"Supremely so," you say, remembering how another captain asked you if you were holding Abel hostage because he was too goddamn refined compared to the rest of your crew.

"I was always told that I wasn't in a place to complain," he angles your body so he can play with your hair, "and I suppose in some aspects, that was true, but now I know that everything that happened beneath that roof, golden gilded or no, was… not healthy."

"No, Abel, I can't say that it was anything remotely so." Every time you hear about some aspect of his childhood, you're filled to the brim with murderous rage on his behalf.

"But at least now I can say that after living in the quote real world, I most definitely prefer this to that." You feel his fingers twist your hair into braids. "For example, your crew doesn't follow your commands because they're afraid of what will happen if they don't, they follow your commands because you've proven to them that you're a trustworthy and capable leader."

You open your mouth, but he interrupts you.

"Luck has nothing to do with it, either. I saw you dive after a freed slave in open water because she couldn't swim. That's not luck, that's courage, and those are the kinds of actions that your people take to heart."

"I guess," you don't like accepting heartfelt compliments, especially when you think you don't deserve them.

"Which is why," he finishes, pulling you closer, "I trusted you enough to ask you for help."

"And are you satisfied with the help I provided?" You ask, remembering how much cum he had spilt from that one single session.

"Oh, yes," he purrs, seemingly completely recovered from his near mental breakdown. "I'd give you a five-star review, but I don't think I like to share."

"Really? I garner that well of a reputation?" You ask, watching his hand slide between your legs.

"I want to thank you," he says, mouth on your ear, "but I need you to show me how. Teach me where to touch you?"

You suck in a lungful of steam, watching his long, elegant fingers slowly draw little circles on your thighs. "You're going to be walking all the way back with an erection."

"But you would like that," he accuses, entirely correct, "watching me walk back while so fucking hard I may start crying."

You believe you will, realizing that the idea of him trying to keep his fucking shit together while out in public does has some kind of appeal. So you remove yourself from his lap, hauling your body up onto the cool marble floor. Trying to seem enticing, you spread your legs for him, bringing your fingers down to offer up a clearer view of your entrance and clit. Breathing harder, you say, "Remember when we kissed?"

He nods solemnly.

"Similar concept, but here. Use your tongue and mouth."

With reverence, he places a hand on both your thighs, sinking down to his knees. Of all the things you've noticed about him, one of his better qualities is how he's such a fast learner. He kisses your lips as instructed, eyes flickering up to make sure you approve of his actions. When you nod encouragingly, he continues, opening his mouth to start licking at your pussy.

You lean back, pushing your weight onto your hands, lifting up a leg and placing it on his shoulder. "That's good Abel, just like that."

He presses his face further into your slick skin, kissing and sucking on the dark puckered flesh. While his tongue is only slightly rougher than you would have expected, it's not… painfully so, no, it's more like an added texture you didn't know would feel good. Up and down, he licks, capturing a bit of your opening between his teeth and gently pulling, if only to see your reaction.

To help him a little more, you push two of your fingers between your legs, finding your clit. "Here, Abel, lick me here, baby."

The obedient little thing, he does, finding it with ease now that you've directed him. He kisses it with reference, like it's a thing to be worshipped, taking your clit between his lips and sucking. When you hiss with pleasure, his eyes turn elated, like the two of you just shared an intimate secret, and he does it again.

"Fuck, Abel," you gasp, trying to find words of encouragement, "you lick my pussy so good, baby, it's like you were made for me."

"Does that make me your little whore?" He asks, voice thick with arousal.

"That makes you my special little whore," you correct, tucking a flyaway hair behind his ear.

He smiles lazily, pressing his mouth back between your legs, returning to work with more enthusiasm than before, flicking his tongue against your clit. Then, as though mimicking how you had opened him up earlier, he slowly presses a thumb through your slit, rubbing your inner, slick ridges. Fuck, he's a clever little bastard, and by the way you buck in his mouth, he's going to know it, too.

The pressure in your stomach grows, a wave of warm arousal dripping out of your core. Abel licks it all up like a seasoned prostitute, pulling you closer to the edge so gravity shifts your body down. He presses up, mouth and nose grinding up against your clit, now, adding far more pressure than before. You swallow thickly, trying to find the words to praise him, but thoughts start escaping your mind, replaced by pleasure.

"Good," you manage to croak out, "that feels good."

You can feel the smugness emanating off of him from making you speechless, his boldness only growing as you further spiral. As your hips start jerking, your thighs shaking, he continues to eat your pussy like he's a starving animal, the sounds from his open-mouthed sucking driving you positively mad.

It doesn't hit you all at once; instead, your orgasm comes in waves, each more volatile and pleasurable than the last. Abel must have sensed its arrival, locking his arms around your hips to hold you in place as you buck into his mouth. Nor does he deem you worthy of mercy, either, showing you every amount of vigor and determination you offered him barely hours before.

When you've ground it out, only plagued by a few aftershocks, he pulls away, a long trail of saliva and cum connecting his mouth to your core. And he smiles, he smiles, heaving for breath, lips flushed and swollen.

Slowly, you slide back into the water, legs weak and still shaking, right onto his lap. True to your prediction, he's hard, cock upright in the water, but he doesn't seem too bothered as you straddle his waist. You kiss him, taking things nice and slow, tasting the scented oils and sulfuric water along with your pleasure on his tongue.

"Did I do good?" He asks, digging for more praise.

But you give it to him, he deserves it after this kind of day. "Yes, Abel, you ate my pussy like a fucking slut."

His breathing quickens in excitement.

"I don't think the whores down in the red district could eat me out like that, and you did it on your first try." You pet the side of his face, running your fingertips over his pointed ears. "My clever, sweet little prince."

He nuzzles his face between your breast as you play with one of his braids.

"I think I'm going to keep you," you muse aloud, "would you like that? Would you like to be my bedmate from now on?"

His throat bobs as he swallows thickly. "Yes."

"Good," you whisper, tracing the path of his spine, "I think I can buy you that glass dildo, after all."

#fae/reader #asrai/reader #exophilia #monster boyfriend #water fae

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whatifxwereyou · 3 years ago

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Firestorm Part 2: Determination

Fandom: Mortal Kombat 2021 Liu Kang x Reader

A/N: That plot getting real again tho. It's funny to me how different the plots for both sides have become just from one little decision. Thank you guys for the support.

If you would like to be tagged for Firestorm when I post, let me know. I'll start a tag list.

The Oncoming Storm Part 1 Part 3 Chapter Index

“What else can you remember?” Feng tapped his fingers against the charcoal. He’d done several sketches of the demon-looking creature that you’d seen in your visions but none of them had come out quite right. It was like the image that had once been clear had become jumbled up when you tried to describe it. It was deeply upsetting honestly. To think that someone’s power over you could be so strong that they could literally twist images in your brain. You felt betrayed by your brain.

Feng had the patience of a saint for dealing with your confusion. You were no artist either, so describing the creature had been exceptionally difficult. You had five portraits to work from and each of them was startlingly different. You hoped that at least one of them was accurate enough for Raiden to recognize.

“The horns were different.” You struggled to remember and rotated your pained shoulder. It had been heavier that day for whatever reason.

“Are you okay, Y/N? Do we need to stop for today?” Feng set the sketchpad down in his lap with concerned eyes.

“What?” You hadn’t realized that you’d been cradling your arm to your chest. Oops. You let it go but it ached in objection. “No, I’m fine. We can keep going.”

“Okay…” He drifted off nervously and began to alter the horns on the sketch. Then he stopped again with a heavy sigh. “Maybe you should go get that looked at,” he whispered as though others could overhear even though you were very much alone. You stole a glance at the mark that spread from your shoulder to your chest. It was red, enflamed, and swollen.

“It’s probably just all this rain.”

“I’d feel more comfortable if you got it looked at.” Feng bowed his head politely. You sighed heavily again. He was worried about you, yes, but you knew your limits. You were tired of being treated like you didn’t, but you also understood his concern. It wasn’t just that he was worried about you, either. The latest ‘tea’ was that you were dangerous and unpredictable. “You seem distracted. We can pick it back up after you’re less pained.”

“If that’s what would make you comfortable, then fine.” You wouldn’t argue with him anymore. It wasn’t worth it. Feng went about gathering his art supplies and you focused on your shoulder. The crack ached deeply, like someone had run a hot knife through it while you’d been sleeping. “Thank you for the help, Feng.” You yelled after him when he practically ran from the room.

People had taken to treating you like a ticking timebomb. You’d played into it a few times because it had been ridiculous. You tried not to let it bother you but on and off it had. Your shoulder was bad today so maybe Feng was right. You should stop by the infirmary. Plus, you hadn’t seen Chen yet today and it would be nice to chat with someone who wasn’t afraid of you. As much as you wanted to sit around and enjoy the storm, when left alone with your thoughts, you couldn’t stop thinking about your conversation with Liu Kang from the night before.

The infirmary it was.

“Oh, good!” Chen stomped angrily toward you as you approached the infirmary. You looked behind you to make sure that there wasn’t someone there that deserved this much of Chen’s wrath. You’d never seen Chen that aggressive before. In fact, you had been certain that nothing bothered Chen enough to make you stomp around. Oh, how wrong you were. “I need to talk to you about those boys.”

“Could you be any louder about it?” You didn’t turn red this time. You’d grown tougher skin since the last time Chen had teased you. “And can you look at my shoulder first? Or during? I don’t care when as long as you look at it.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Uh… it’s swollen and it hurts.” You couldn’t believe Chen’s attitude. Chen grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the infirmary. With a twist of your wrist, you were forced to sit down. You held your hand then protectively away from Chen who wasn’t being at all gentle. “If you aren’t going to be nice to me then I will ask one of the other monks to help.” Your shoulder was now throbbing after Chen’s pulling. Your stomach churned like you’d eaten something bad.

Chen seemed to consider then and then sighed. “You are kind of gray, I suppose. What did you do to upset it? Did you overwork it like I told you not to?”

“Why do you assume that I did something wrong?”

“You have a track record, Y/N.”

“I think it’s the weather. Feng practically fled from me because of it.” You held your arm protectively against your chest as Chen reached for it. “Are you going to be nice? It hurts. I don’t need you tugging on it unnecessarily.”

“Yes, I promise. I’m sorry.” Chen took a breath and finally smiled. “After we took a look, we are discussing those boys though.”

“Quieter, please.”

“Oh hush, Y/N, everyone here knows what’s going on and I have a lot to say. I can’t be blamed for my tone right now.” Chen tugged your arm free, and you yelped and saw stars. You fanned your face with your other hand when it became way too hot very suddenly. Your lips were tingling.

“Chen, you’ve got to…”

“I overheard those two sneaks talking and…”

“Chen?” You scooted to the edge of the bench and spoke with urgency. Your head was spinning. You might vomit. Oh no. It was too hot in there. Had it been that hot in there when you’d arrived? Were you just now noticing?

“Don’t avoid the topic, Y/N.”

“Chen, I think she’s being serious.” One of the other monks came over to you and clasped Chen’s shoulder. Your ears were ringing. You saw the two of them arguing. The monk was pointing at you while he argued with Chen. Then you fell forward, and everything went black before you hit the floor.

***

Stone was hot beneath your body. Burning. You sat up, rubbing the sore spot on your head from hitting the ground but every movement was like you were stuck in molasses. The wind was whipping at you, and your hair flew wildly around you. The air was red hot and instead of rain fell embers.

You were atop a mountain. How had you gotten outside? Lightning struck all around you and the stone beneath you began to crumble. You could see it falling on top of the buildings below. People were screaming. A thousand voices overlapped, crying in pain, and calling for help. You managed to crawl to the edge of the crumbling mountain but was thrown back as lightning struck too close to you. Flames raged from below.

The temple was on fire. You tried to make your way over the edge, but your shoulder felt as though hooks had been driven into it, hooks that were attached to weights.

The storm! You realized, deafened by the roar of fire and the grumble of thunder what this was.

It was going to damage the temple.

People were going to die.

You had to do something, but the weight was too much. It dragged you down. You could barely move. People were screaming over the thunder, over the fire. You could smell burnt flesh. There was no escape from it, and you sat in agony, helpless amongst the fire and the death.

***

You sat up with a start and a gasp. The infirmary spun. You were on the floor and spotted Chen about ten times as the world spun. You were coated in a thin sheen of sweat and your body was trembling.

“Oh, oh no… no lay down, Y/N. Lay down.” Chen carefully urged you to lay back, but you fought her. Then you stopped and gulped, feeling the burning of nausea in the back of your throat. “Please! Lay down, Y/N.” The other monks were gathered nearby but had left a wide berth around you just in case. There was no ink that you could see, so there was that.

“I need to talk to Raiden, it’s urgent.” You muttered, pushing Chen’s hand away from you. Chen grasped your pained shoulder and you hissed in objection. “Chen!”

“You had a fit, Y/N. You need to lay down. Take it easy. Did you have a vision? There wasn’t any ink, you just collapsed and smacked your head on the floor.” Chen was checking your pupils and you were trying very much to escape the death grip Chen had on your shoulder.

“I had a vision, I need to…”

“Lord Raiden?” One of the monks spoke in surprise. Then they were all bowing as the god entered the room. Chen relaxed her grip on your shoulder in surprise and then stepped back and bowed low to the floor. Raiden had known that you needed to speak with him.

“What is it, Y/N?” He crouched low by your side. His presence was more imposing than ever, but you felt so afraid by what you’d seen that you weren’t intimidated.

“I saw something. There’s going to be… an accident.” You held your head in frustration as you struggled with words. There was a knot right on the side of your head above your ear from where you’d fallen. Why couldn’t you just say it? There was going to be a collapse! A fire! Lightning would strike the mountain and there would be devastation. The words were there but by the time they reached your mouth they were gone. You couldn’t seem to translate the images into words, and you had never been more frustrated. “Ugh.” You held your head in your hands and grasped your hair in annoyance. “It’s important but I… I can’t…”

“Can you show me?”

“I…” You hesitated. The infirmary was filled with people, and you were terrified of putting them in danger. Nothing good had ever happened while you were sharing visions with Raiden. What if they got hurt? It was one thing to hurt Liu Kang, a trained warrior who had put himself in harm’s way. This was another thing entirely. You suddenly realized just how dangerous you truly were.

“I will take you somewhere isolated.” Raiden seemed to read your mind. Either that or your expression had said is quite plainly. Before you could add that it was urgent, Raiden grasped your arm. Lightning crackled and you had returned to the chamber you’d referred to mentally as his. Raiden helped you get to your feet and then urged you to take a seat on a bench near the wall. “You’re pale.”

“I don’t… that’s not important. What I saw, Raiden. It’s urgent.” You didn’t care that you were sick or dizzy or pale. Whatever. If what you saw was going to happen during the storm, then it would be happening soon. You needed Raiden to see what you saw and interpret it for you. It occurred to you that not all visions would be accurate. Some of them could have been that creature screwing with you, taunting you.

“Yes, of course.” Raiden looked hesitant though you couldn’t say why. This was urgent.

“Please.”

Raiden placed his hand atop your head. Then with a crushing pressure you were gone. Like a light had been turned off inside of you. There was nothing. No pain. No struggling. No visions.

Just darkness.

Then you woke up.

The room that spun around you was one you didn’t recognize. Location didn’t matter anymore. At least you were awake. Your heart was racing like it was going to take flight, as though you had spent hours running beyond exhaustion. You sat up with a grunt but then Chen was pushing you to lay back down again.

Ugh.

“Relax, Y/N. You’re safe.” Chen reassured you but her expression betrayed her. She looked exhausted and worried. She was stuck on Y/N-duty again. Poor Chen. You bet that she regretted getting close to you now with all the extra work she had to do. “Please listen to me for once. I need you to lay and relax. You have a fever but you’re okay.”

“My heart.” You patted your chest nervously to mimic the beating of your heart.

“It’s stress but you’re okay. It’ll calm down.” Chen assured you but picked up your wrist and took your pulse anyway.

“What happened? Is everything okay? Did…” You drifted off as you forced yourself up on your elbows. Your whole left side was tingling and numb. Chen frowned at you disapprovingly.

“Raiden saw. It’s okay, Y/N. Lightning struck the mountain on the other side of the ravine but…” Chen then held her finger up to silence you so she could count. You held your breath, hoping that Chen would tell you more. Then Chen swatted you for holding your breath and you pouted.

Raiden’s presence made you both turn your heads toward the doorway. “Leave us.” He ordered in a stern tone but then bowed his head as if realizing he’d spoken too harshly. Chen sighed, frustrated, and then gently squeezed your hand.

“I’ll find you later.”

“Thank you, Chen.” You carefully pushed yourself so that you were sitting upright. Your shoulder throbbed and your left arm felt numb and useless. You cradled it to your body with your other hand. Raiden sat down on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees.

“You saved a great many people today.”

“I didn’t do anything, I don’t…”

“You did.” Raiden looked to you from the corner of his eye. “I was able to see your vision and minimize the damage. Lives were saved.” He then bowed his head. “The devastation you foresaw was tremendous. Because you were able to communicate your vision to me, we caught it before it happened.”

“I didn’t do anything. I don’t- I don’t want that credit.” You frowned. You really hadn’t done anything worthy of praise.

“You saw.” Raiden’s expression was serious. You felt again like a little girl who had disobeyed her father, so you didn’t object. “That creature told you that you would not see, and you saw anyway. You were meant to see, Y/N.”

You hadn’t thought of it that way.

You hadn’t thought about the fact that you were terrible at this was because of that creature. He stifled your ability to see. Duh. But you’d seen anyway. Raiden had said it with such pride that you felt a little proud. Even though seeing had kicked your ass, it had been worth it.

“We will find a way to separate you from this curse. You will see clearly. You will see and you will fight.”

You teared up.

You stuttered, wanting to thank him for his help, for his belief in you but no words came out. You wiped your eyes. Much to your surprise, Raiden hugged you. It was a fatherly hug, something that you hadn’t felt in so long that you weren’t sure how to emotionally respond to it. You had never been close with your father. In fact, he’d frightened you. He’d never hurt you but he’d been imposing.

“I’m sorry that I hurt you.” He let you go and you pulled back, adjusting to sit against the wall behind you. You were exhausted but at least the feeling was returning to your arm.

“Oh no, no Raiden. I’m not. You had to. I was… out of control.” You hadn’t blamed him. You had hurt Liu and the ink had been filling the room. You’d needed to be stopped and he’d done what he thought was right.

“I hurt you more than I intended. I’m still sorry.”

“It’s okay. I have more than forgiven you.”

“I’ve moved the artifacts somewhere safe. I’m hoping that the distance will offer you some relief.” Raiden got up and was back to his usual composed and intimidating self. You tried not to smile. It had been exceedingly kind of him to reassure you. Sweet, even. “If we can get control of your visions and your arcana so that they are at least less destructive then it is a step in the right direction. I want you to work on that when you’re feeling a little better. You must survive long enough to discover who has done this and why. Why you? What motives could they have other than to stifle your visions? And why is it that you have these visions? They are unrelated to your arcana.”

“I’ve thought about that more than you know. I’ll do my best to get some control over it. I’m going to fight, Lord Raiden.” His belief in you had given you strength. You’d been teetering on having faith in yourself for so long that it was nice to feel determined. You had needed that push. Even though you felt like absolute garbage after having your vision and sharing it with Raiden only moments after, you still felt better than you’d felt in a long time.

“Good.” He turned to face you again. “Thank you, Y/N. You saved many lives today and I am grateful. Get some rest.” He bowed to you and then left the room. Chen returned through the same doorway only seconds later in a huff. She seemed overwhelmed and you couldn’t blame her.

“What did he say to you? I tried to listen in but I think he knew I was listening. I couldn’t hear a single word!” She pouted in frustration, as if she had failed at being a gossip.

“Good. It wasn’t your business, Chen.” You teased but then rested your head on Chen’s shoulder with a sigh. Chen slipped her arm around you in a hug.

“You doing okay, sweet pea?”

“I don’t like that.” You laughed, sitting upright, and holding your sore shoulder. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“When you stop collapsing all over the temple then I’ll stop worrying.” Chen scolded. “I can’t keep reassuring you when you keep doing things to worry me.”

“I know, I really do. I’m working on it. I’m sorry to have worried you.”

“Don’t be sorry. I just want you to be okay.” Chen furrowed her brow. You felt lucky to have her. “Why don’t I help you back to your room so that you can get some rest?”

“That’s probably for the best.” You tried to roll your shoulder but your body wasn’t having it. “Wait, you were up in arms about something earlier. Weren’t you? Or was I imagining you being mean to me?”

“For another day, Y/N. Right now I want you to rest.”

“Are you worried about stressing me out because of the heart thing?”

“I absolutely am.” Chen giggled and then helped you to your feet. Your legs were wobbly but once you were on them, you were fine. Chen insisted upon helping you back to your room regardless. You didn’t want to sit and listen to the storm for the rest of the afternoon. Earlier you would have been happy to but after talking to Raiden, you were motivated.

For the first time in your life your visions had been more than a burden that deteriorated your health and made people call you names. You’d seen the potential destruction of parts of the temple and it had saved lives. Raiden had been the one to save those lives but without you he never would have known it was coming.

You didn’t want credit for it but it did feel good to have done something other than destroy and maim.

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imaginedhaven · 4 years ago

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Reluctantly Rooming: Part Fourteen

Link to Masterpost

Good things are coming! I hope you enjoy this. I’m hoping to get the next part out on Monday, before we all hide away from the internet with ACOSF and don’t come back until we’re all done reading.

Today’s prompts:

Person A walking in on Person B changing

and

Rowan walking in on Aelin doing her nails and talking to Lysandra

~*~*~

Aelin called Lysandra and set her phone to speaker mode as she carefully painted her nails in a shade of dark red. “Come on, pick up,” she muttered as the phone rang.

Finally, her friend picked up. “Don’t you have someone cuter than me to bother?”

Aelin laughed despite herself. “There’s no one cuter than you, except maybe for me.”

“I’m flattered. Isn’t this the big day? What are you doing talking to me when you’ve got a smoking hot roommate to not-date?”

It was. In about eight hours, she would be heading to some hotel’s ballroom on Rowan’s arm and staying near him to make sure his ex, Remelle, got the hint and stopped bothering him. Every time she dwelled on it for too long, she felt a fluttering sensation in her chest, and so she was trying to distract herself as much as possible.

Now, though, she needed the help of her closest friend. “It is, and I’m calling you for advice.”

“Surely you’ve done all of this before. Drinks, dancing, maybe coming back and waking up in your date’s bed…”

“Lys!” she shouted, scandalized, before dropping her voice. “He’s here. What if he hears you?”

“Then you can thank me for getting you laid despite your best efforts. Now, what do you need my help for?”

Aelin sighed and glanced at the pile of clothing currently scattered over her bed. “I can’t figure out what I’m supposed to wear to this thing. I think I’ve gone through my whole closet twice.”

The sound of her friend’s laughter rang through the room. “Did he not tell you what kind of party this is? Or are you trying to decide because you want to look good for him?”

“Lysandra, you can’t just say things like that!” Aelin hissed, fearing her cheeks were turning as red as the polish on her nails. “I have you on speaker while I’m letting my nails dry.”

“You almost never bother with your nails. This must be really important.”

It was, though Aelin was certainly not going to admit it. “Are you going to help or not?”

“Of course I’ll help. I just can’t believe you think you seriously need my help to look good for a guy.”

“It’s not even that,” she protested. “This is a big deal, okay, these are his coworkers and even though this isn’t real whatever impression I make will impact him going forward at work.”

“Okay, yeah, I see your point. So you want to look like you’re a reasonably well put-together adult, but you also want to look hot.”

“I love that you know me well enough by now to know that that part isn’t a question.” Aelin smiled at her reflection in the mirror, only to jump out of her seat as her door opened without warning.

“Hey, I wanted to make sure you…” Rowan’s voice trailed off, and she blushed as she recalled that she’d stripped down to a bra and panties as she raided her closet.

“Hey, wait, what’s going on?” Lysandra’s voice sounded confused, even through the tinniness of the speaker.

Aelin did her best not to actually look at Rowan, but she couldn’t help chancing a quick glance at his face. He was looking back at her as well, confusion clear in pine-green eyes, and she bit her lip before picking up the phone again. “Yeah, Lys, I’m gonna have to call you back, okay?” She hung up without waiting for an answer and then reached for the robe she’d thrown over her bed.

Rowan spoke again as she tied the robe around her waist. “I just wanted to see if you needed anything from me before we have to get ready.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Rowan’s eyes left her, finally seeing the utter wreck her bedroom had become. “What happened in here?”

“Picking an outfit happened here. I want to make sure I don’t embarrass you, is all.”

He nodded, glancing over the options she had cast aside on her bed before stepping into her closet. “Are you just looking for general advice, or do you actually want help?”

“You know what? Sure. I can’t promise I’ll pick it, but show me what you think would be best.” If nothing else, she’d get an idea of the formality of the event from him doing so.

He hummed an acknowledgment, and the sound of rustling fabric filled the air. Finally, he stepped back into her room with a hanger in his hand. “I like this one.”

She looked it over and slowly smiled. She’d forgotten about this option entirely. “I bought it years ago on a whim, but it was too old for me at the time. Maybe it’ll look better now.”

She already knew it would, and she couldn’t deny the small thrill she felt at the idea of wearing a dress that Rowan had specifically mentioned he liked. She wouldn’t say as much to him, but she knew her decision was made.

~*~*~

Several hours later, Aelin grinned at her reflection as she admired the dress Rowan had selected. It was black velvet, the neckline embroidered in gold and skimming her collarbones before flowing into long sleeves. What was more interesting, though, was the back.

It was cut almost dangerously low, low enough that she would be going without a bra for the evening, and the embroidery continued, forming the shape of a dragon along the edge of the fabric. From there, the fabric hugged her waist and hips before flaring out into a skirt that ended just above her knees.

As she had hoped, she had matured enough that she filled it out nicely now despite the richness of the fabric and the embroidery. She had paired it with a simple pair of black heels and no further accessories, allowing the dress to speak for itself, and she had simply pulled her hair into a half-up, half-down style with loose curls.

She was as ready as she could be, dressed to do battle with whoever dared question her presence at Rowan’s side. She just had to make sure he was ready as well.

She knocked once on his door before pushing it open, only to freeze in the entryway to his room.

Rowan was standing by his own closet, black dress pants open and slung low on his hips as he looked through a drawer and pulled out an undershirt. He tried to turn to her as he put it on, only to somehow get stuck in the fabric with a growl.

Aelin laughed, crossing the room before gently tugging the shirt over his head and smoothing his platinum locks with her fingers. “If I’d known dressing was going to be such a struggle for you, I’d have come by sooner,” she teased.

He scowled at her, but didn’t disagree as he turned to grab a dress shirt. “How long have you been waiting?”

“I haven’t been. I just finished getting ready myself.” Telling herself it was only because to save time, she deftly buttoned his shirt, stopping herself from reaching for his pants and hoping she wasn’t blushing as she stepped back.

If she was, he didn’t notice. “Good. That looks nice, by the way.”

“You’re not even looking.” It was true; he was leaning back into the closet, pulling out a tie and his jacket.

“I saw you when you walked in.” As always, his voice was matter-of-fact to the extent that she found it impossible to figure out if he meant anything by it. That was truly the most maddening part of having him for a roommate.

Aelin coaxed a smile onto her face regardless. “I see. You need anything else?”

“I need you to make sure you’ll be warm enough. We’ll take my car to get there, but it’ll still be a cold walk to the lobby.”

“I asked if you needed anything,” she laughed. “Not for you to fuss at me.”

He shook his head, green eyes bright with amusement. “I’m almost ready. If you head on down, I’ll be right behind you.”

Aelin nodded and left before she embarrassed herself any further, slipping down the stairs as quietly as her heels would allow.

Gods, what was she thinking? This was a terrible idea. He was a successful professional, and she was playing at being an adult and pretending she deserved to be seen with him. She would just go up the stairs and tell him she couldn’t do it after all. Maybe if she was lucky she would actually twist her ankle on the way up, and they would both have an excuse to skip the party.

Before she could move, though, she heard footsteps on the stairs and soon he was joining her in the living room. As he moved, she couldn’t help but stare; his dark suit fit snugly against his trim torso, highlighting his muscled shoulders. She was used to seeing Rowan wear a shirt and tie, but seeing him in a suit was something else altogether.

Gods, she really wasn’t going to make it through the evening at all.

“Are you ready?” he asked, and from his expression she had to wonder if he could read her nerves. He stepped closer, and she bit her lip and nodded mutely.

He smiled. “Good. Let’s go.”

He grabbed their coats, handing hers over to her before slipping on his own. Soon they were out the door, and despite having grown up in Terrasen Aelin couldn’t quite hold back the gasp at the sudden cold of stepping outside. He glanced at her as if to say I told you so before quietly opening the passenger door of his car for her.

She took a deep breath. Once she got into his car, there was no going back and she would have to see this night through to whatever end. Her nerves threatened to overtake her, but before she could back out a sudden calm settled over her and a single thought entered her mind.

I am Aelin Galathynius, and I will not be afraid.

Aelin slid into the car and closed the door, and soon they were on their way.

~*~*~

Tagging:

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @queen-of-glass @fangirlprincess09 @sassys-world @morganofthewildfire @superspiritfestival @perseusannabeth @sis-it-dont-add-up @jlinez @julemmaes @emilyoftheshadows @thegoddessofyou @mymultiversee @swankii-art-teacher @rowansfirebringer @livsdriverslicense @courtofjurdan @danibutterr @woollycat22 @rowaelinismyotp @sleeping-and-books @acciowests @stardelia @anidealiveson @autophobiaxx @rainbowcheetah512 @camilamartinezdunne

#rowaelin #haven writes #reluctantly rooming

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haloud · 4 years ago

Text

things we could burn in one go (eminence) -- chapter 5

Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes, Forrest Long/Alex Manes Additional Tags: post-s2, Canon Compliant, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, starts forlex ends malex, other characters may appear - Freeform, tags subject to update

Chapter Summary: With Max’s condition deteriorating and Alex struggling under the weight of his worries about his family and Project Shepherd, Michael goes to drastic lengths to get strong enough to protect them.

Excerpt:

All the soft spots they’d ever shown each other, all the ways they knew to dig in and hurt, and new pain was still a revelation, Michael discovered as Alex set his jaw and bared this truth: he didn’t believe in Michael, didn’t trust him as an ally, saw him as a liability before he was absolutely anything else. A burden.

“I never asked you to protect me,” he said.

Alex’s face twisted. Michael wanted to take the words back, but he didn’t know which ones. Maybe all of them.

He replied, “You never had to.” Then he stood. “I should get going. Thanks for the beer.”

And he got in his car and was gone.

Michael sat for a while. It was late afternoon, and it was hot, but Michael stared into old ashy iron like he was watching a bonfire. Storm clouds built up all billowy on the horizon. Static built up inside Michael’s head.

But it wasn’t Max’s kind of static, kinetic static, moveable, actionable, dangerous. Just a lowkey anxious buzz, formless and useless, a passenger in his skull alongside thoughts he couldn’t parse, like Michael himself.

His whole life he’d been a passenger. On a ship, in the system, in his own life, in the lives of others.

Maybe it was time to change that.

---

The bags under Max’s eyes grew heavier and darker, but he carried on like Isobel and Michael weren’t supposed to notice or care. Surprisingly, he hadn’t put up a fight when Isobel finally put her foot down and decreed he was staying with her until they figured out what was going on, but, more than likely, he was just too tired to fight her on it.

He was, of course, already awake when Michael let himself in and fired up the stove to make breakfast; Michael glanced over his shoulder at the sound of a door opening, and Max didn’t acknowledge him as he settled himself on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, his journal propped on his knees.

“What’s up?” Michael called over to him as he mixed the pancake batter.

“Same shit, different day,” Max replied.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Michael shrugged and let it go. If Max preferred to write about it, that was his prerogative.

“You working today?”

“Nope. You?”

“Not unless Sanders calls me in.”

Michael spoke without putting too much thought into it, but he ducked his head in embarrassment when Max smiled at him. Max’s open happiness whenever Michael let slip his own growing acceptance of the connections in his life was something Michael didn’t quite know what to do with—but he wasn’t going to snap at Max over it, especially when Max was struggling already.

“Chocolate chips or blueberries?” he changed the subject.

“Chocolate,” Max replied.

“Coming right up.”

He finished up the batter and poured the first three pancakes onto the heated skillet. As it sizzled, Michael’s mind wandered. When would Isobel get up? She was usually too nosy to let Michael and Max carry on for long without her, but maybe that was changing, or maybe Max’s state was driving it home for all of them the value of good sleep. Should they talk to Maria about giving Max more time off? No, she had a business to run, and she had eyes, she’d make an executive decision if Max became a liability, and he was capable of advocating for himself…

What was Maria up to? Maybe Michael should invite everyone around for breakfast instead of Thursday nights drinking; but then again, he enjoyed hosting Thursdays too much to draw attention to himself with a suggestion for a change of plans, in case everyone noticed and popped the soap bubble. He was pitiful enough already; any shift at all would be perilously close to begging.

Michael flipped the pancakes over and pictured doing the same to his stupid maudlin thoughts, getting out of his head and focusing instead on the patterns on the pancakes. One had a line going down the middle that almost resembled one of the sides of the alien symbol. That’d be something easy enough to make if he wanted to try his hand at something as frivolous as pancake art, but then, was he bold enough to go out of his way to create something they barely understood like that?

Jones would probably know the meaning of the symbol. He spent seventy years trapped behind it.

Nope. Michael’s ears prickled and he almost turned around to glance Max’s way; he had to force his head to stay still. No thoughts of Jones right now. Fuck that guy.

He slid the pancakes from the griddle to a waiting plate and poured three more. His phone buzzed in his back pocket, so he fished it out and thumbed it open. He had a text from Isobel, but nothing from Liz, still. And nothing from Alex, either, even though…whatever, it was fine, he’d probably fallen right asleep after a six-hour round trip to the airport last night. Michael would try calling him again later. Maybe. Or maybe he’d overstepped in asking him to check in. Alex didn’t owe him anything, he had a boyfriend, he was fine. Maybe Michael should just leave him alone.

The text from Isobel read: How are things going out there.

He texted back: Fine. Making breakfast.

It smells good. How’s Max?

Michael chanced a look over his shoulder; Max had his head down, focused on his journal, so Michael couldn’t see his face.

Tired.

From further in the house, Isobel’s door opened and shut, and Michael shoved his phone back in his pocket and flipped the pancakes, which had gotten a little over-experienced on one side.

“Morning,” Max said in a hoarse voice.

“Morning.”

Isobel dropped down onto the couch, almost landing on Max’s feet, which he yanked out of the way.

“How was your night?” she asked softly.

“Iz…”

“Max.”

“You know how it was.”

“Please, just talk to me.”

They were quiet for a bit, with only the sizzle of the pancakes filling the silence as Michael flipped them, until he couldn’t stand it anymore and turned around again.

Max and Isobel were staring at each other; Michael didn’t think Isobel was in his mind, more that they were just doing the freaky twin thing. Either way, it wasn’t going well, if the tense and drawn looks on both their faces were anything to go by.

“One of you want to help me out in here?” He interrupted them bluntly, handing Max the out as Isobel shot him an unhappy look.

Sure enough, Max took him up on it, swinging his legs around and standing up, going to put his journal in his room (away from Isobel’s prying eyes) before coming back to the kitchen and fetching silverware, plates, and syrup. He spread them out on the kitchen table—Isobel hadn’t gone full breakfast nook, much to her mother’s dismay—and took a seat, Isobel ambling over, while Michael slid the last pancakes onto the plate and brought them over to serve.

“Thanks, Michael,” Max said, taking his first.

“No problem.”

Isobel took her own, too, but she didn’t even pick up her fork and knife, folding her arms on the table and staring at Max with a line between her eyes.

“Please talk to us. Or, if it’s hard to put into words, let me look inside your head. Maybe I can make sense of what you’re seeing in dreams��memories—whatever they are.”

“There’s nothing to make sense of,” Max snapped. “Nothing I haven’t told you before. It’s the same nightmare from years ago, being chained to the floor.” His voice faded, and he said much quieter, “It’s the dread that keeps me awake. But I can’t tell if it’s dread for what will happen to me…or what I’ll do to someone else. I don’t know if I’m afraid of Jones, Louise, or myself.”

“Jones, of course.” Isobel’s eyes flashed, and she folded her arms. “When do we run errands for him again? I’d like to have a chat.”

“Please don’t make things worse,” Max said wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

He really did look exhausted. Haggard and gray in a way Michael hadn’t seen since the days after they brought him back to life. How long could he keep going like this?

“Have you talked to Kyle?” he asked.

“Yeah. But what is he supposed to do? I can’t go in for a sleep study or anything, sleeping pills don’t work, we don’t have a lot of options.”

“The fact that you think confronting him might make things worse just proves that he’s doing something to you!” Isobel burst out.

“How could he be doing something to me from underground, twenty-five miles away? What is he doing, breaking into your house, past the security Alex installed specifically for you, and disappearing into the night after just…giving me a bad dream?”

“We don’t know everything he can do with his powers, no matter how much work I’m putting in. Maybe he is!”

Michael watched back and forth as they argued, Isobel’s anger and worry, Max withdrawing deeper into himself. Breakfast was forgotten, unsurprisingly, Michael’s attempt at caring for his siblings insufficient for the situation they were in.

“Whatever!” Isobel said, pushing herself back from the table. “You’re not him, Max. I don’t care how many times I have to tell you before it sinks in. You’re not him, he can’t be trusted, and I’m not going to let you put yourself in danger because you’re too trusting.”

She stormed off before Max could respond, slamming her bedroom door in an echo of every fight the two of them had ever had, going back decades into childhood.

“And what about you?” Max asked Michael, his arms folded, body slumped in his chair. “You’ve usually got an opinion on my life.”

Michael snorted and didn’t take the bait, not caring if Max sensed his newfound restraint was born of pity. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think having an evil clone sucks. Better you than me.”

The words rang false. Michael would take every nightmare and sleepless night if he could. But hopefully Max was too tired to drag that out of hiding.

“Having an evil clone does suck.”

“Cheers.”

Michael clinked his glass of OJ against Max’s and downed it.

“Everything I thought I knew—everything I thought I was—it was all just a lie,” Max said, staring at the table. “Who am I supposed to ask, if not him? Maybe a new lie would be better than having nothing. Lies Jones tells…I don’t have any way of disproving. It would be something. Fucking anything. Isobel doesn’t understand.”

“Maybe she doesn’t understand your perspective,” Michael allowed. “But what she understands better than either of us is how mind control works. Buddying up with Jones is literally playing with fire, considering one of the four things we know for sure about him is that his first act on Earth was burning Hector Valenti alive for shits and giggles.”

Max raked his hand through his hair. “If it means I can get some fucking sleep? I might be willing to roll those dice.”

Michael’s eyes fell away from the exhaustion on his brother’s face. What was there to say to that? The only protection he could offer would be pollen to hopefully keep Jones from fucking with him, but with Liz still ignoring him, he wasn’t confident that the weakening effect of the pollen wouldn’t have a worse effect on Max’s already compromised health. Maybe he should get Valenti’s advice, but what would he even have to say? They had no way to test something like this.

So Michael was useless. What else was new.

“Isobel’s just scared of you getting hurt, man. Nothing’s changed for her; you’re not any less her person than you were six months ago.”

“Yeah, I know,” Max said with a sigh. “I just want to talk to him. Want to make him talk. I’ve thought about using L—about using some serum to get answers, withholding the antidote until…”

He trailed off, and lifted his eyes, and Michael looked at him, and he looked back, and tears welled up in Max’s heavy eyes.

“Max,” Michael said.

“I know,” he choked.

Last time they had a conversation like this, their roles were reversed, and Max had a gun. But they had nothing, now, the only thing between them the table laden with the breakfast Michael cooked, sun streaming pleasantly through Isobel’s gauzy curtains. Michael stood—Max flinched at the scrape of chair legs across the floor—and he rounded the table, fisted his hand in Max’s t-shirt, and hauled him in, hugging him tightly to his chest.

Michael left Isobel’s place an hour later, after he and Max had separated without saying a word and cleaned up the kitchen, saving the pancakes for later, also in silence. Isobel stayed in her room, so Michael resolved to call her later as Max convinced him to leave, that things would be fine.

But just because Michael capitulated and left eventually didn’t mean he felt any lighter as he rattled down the road home, his phone bouncing along on the seat beside him. He’d never been so attached to the damn thing, but with everything going on with Max, with Jones walking around, with Project Shepherd rearing its head, quiet moments were indistinguishable from the teeth of a trap just visible around him. So the phone went where he did for the foreseeable. If someone called, if someone needed him, he’d be there.

He pulled into the junkyard and sat up stiff when he saw a familiar black SUV waiting for him. The day was warm and bright, no weather for a fire, but Alex was there at the fire pit, hands folded between his knees, eyes fixed on some point in space. He glanced up and waved, one corner of his mouth picking up in a distracted-looking smile as Michael pulled closer and parked.

“Hey,” he called, clearing the ground between them in a few long strides.

“Hey,” Alex responded.

“What’s up? You’re super early—Thursday’s still a few days away.”

“It doesn’t have to be a Thursday for me to want to see you,” Alex said, and, heart fluttering, Michael swept his hat off his head just for something to do with his hands.

“You, uh, you didn’t text me last night. Or this morning,” Michael blurted.

“I know. I’m sorry. When I got in last night, I—didn’t want to wake you up, and this morning…it was kind of a rough night. It slipped my mind.”

“Don’t gotta apologize. I was just worried, is all.”

“Then I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“I just said you don’t have to apologize.”

Michael sat himself down in the chair beside Alex and squeezed his knee to reassure him; his eyes fell to Michael’s hand, so he pulled it away self-consciously, stomach twisting when, a few seconds later, Alex rubbed his own hand over the spot Michael touched.

Fingers tapping nervously, he settled his hands on his own knees in a mirror of Alex’s position and said, “So what brings you out here? What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I just,” Alex pre-empted his next words with a shrug. “Wanted to say hi.”

“Oh.”

Michael didn’t quite know what to do with that, how to exist without a looming crisis, no matter how many Thursdays’ worth of practice he got. Most of those were about triaging some kind of bullshit in someone’s life anyway.

Casting round for a conversation topic, he said, “You look tired.”

As if commenting on his appearance was so neutral and inoffensive. Way to go, Guerin.

Before Alex had to try and come up with a response to a comment that inane, Michael added, “Of course, you were up all last night. Stupid question.”

Alex laughed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah, but it’s true I’ve had a lot on my mind lately anyway.”

Michael itched to reach out again. First Max, now Alex, and there was nothing he could do for either of them.

“If you need, Isobel can make Fields leave town,” he said. “I know it’s not exactly above board, but I want her gone as much as anyone, so…”

“No,” Alex shot down. “We don’t know what kind of defenses a Project Shepherd operator might have, and I won’t put a target on Isobel. It’s not just Fields, either, it’s personal stuff, too. Life’s not exactly stress-free.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

They fell quiet, but at least Alex settled back in his chair, relaxing from his tightly coiled posture enough that Michael forced his own shoulders to drop too.

“So how’re things going with Forrest?” he asked.

“Oh, uh, fine. Landed safely in DC. I need to text him back, actually.”

The question had been more about the general state of the relationship than Forrest’s physical wellbeing or whereabouts, but Michael wasn’t going to push past Alex’s discomfort or misunderstanding. No matter how far they progressed in their friendship, they might never get to the “dishing their romantic joys and woes” stage, not with their history. That was okay.

Alex made no move to take his phone out and send that text. Something else was clearly still weighing on him, so Michael resolved to quiet his own self until Alex was able to speak.

“I thought I saw my brother. At the airport,” he said eventually, folding his arms across his chest.

Michael sat up straight. “What? Which one?” By the tone in his voice, it clearly wasn’t Greg.

“Clay. If it was Flint, how bad I freaked out might at least make a little more sense,” Alex said with a snort and a shake of his head.

“What…what happened?”

“Nothing drastic. I chased some guy into the bathroom ready to confront him, but then it wasn’t Clay and I managed to play it off. Probably freaked Forrest out with the way I was acting.”

A pang went through Michael’s chest at the thought of Alex, alone and three hours away with only Forrest, who knew nothing of the truth about Alex’s family and the conflict between them, for backup. If it had been Clay—if he’d gotten the best of Alex in that shitty airport bathroom like Jesse did in the junkyard—

Michael rubbed his chest over his painfully racing heart.

Alex continued, “I can’t be sure. If he was tailing me specifically or if he suspected I noticed him—I only checked one set of stalls; I was too conscious of how I was acting.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “But I’m probably just seeing things, and it was just a similar-looking guy in a crowd, and I seriously need to figure my shit out.”

“Well, join the club,” Michael said. “It’s alright, man. It’s not like you worried over nothing; your family don’t know when to quit.”

“Forrest thinks working with Project Shepherd might help. He thinks it could help me understand my father more, and therefore move on,” Alex said with a humorless smile, a flat-soda expression, blankness where it shouldn’t be.

“He what?”

“Ugh, no, that’s not fair.” Alex ran his hands over his face again. The front of his hair stuck up from how many times he’d mussed it. “He doesn’t know. Anything except that my father and brothers are bastards—minus Greg. He didn’t mean anything by it—I shouldn’t be so fixated on it. I didn’t even realize I was until it just…came out.”

Michael couldn’t reach out and touch him to give him comfort; that wasn’t allowed. But he could go grab him a beer, so he did, and let him compose himself without Michael hovering. When they both had drinks and he was settled back in his chair, Michael took in Alex’s appearance again, the wrinkled collar of his black canvas jacket, the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness of his hands clasped between his knees. So much tension he could do nothing to soothe. He worried the inside of his lip between his teeth until he tasted nails.

“Have you heard from Greg lately? Maybe he would know if Clay was really in the area,” he said.

Alex shook his head. “No. With Fields and Project Shepherd hanging around, I don’t want him involved.”

And that, Michael couldn’t take it anymore.

“Just let Isobel take care of—”

“I said no, Michael!” Alex snapped, head jerking up, his eyes black and glittering and finally meeting Michael’s, and now it was Michael’s turn to want to look away, but he couldn’t. “Getting any of the three of you involved, it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

“I’m already involved if you’re involved,” Michael protested, gesturing wildly. “I’m not letting you face this bullshit by yourself!”

Alex’s nostrils flared. “I can take care of myself.”

“Duh. But you don’t always have to. I’m going to have your back.”

“Not if you get bagged and pumped full of anti-alien drugs, you won’t. I’m not letting my father’s legacy hurt you again, no matter what you say.”

Helplessness rose in Michael’s lungs like water, like flood and fury. His fingers flexed around his beer bottle, and he dropped it into the chair’s flimsy cupholder before he threw it away.

“I never asked you to protect me,” he said.

Alex’s face twisted. Michael wanted to take the words back, but he didn’t know which ones. Maybe all of them.

He replied, “You never had to.” Then he stood. “I should get going. Thanks for the beer.”

And he got in his car and was gone.

His whole life he’d been a passenger. On a ship, in the system, in his own life, in the lives of others.

Maybe it was time to change that.

There was only one road connecting Sanders’s to the main drag, so Michael’s tires hit the same ruts as Alex’s, at least for a little while. Then he was in town, then he hit the desert, and he was alone, at least for a little while. He rolled the window down to catch the breeze and squinted into the horizon.

Isobel was gonna fuckin’ kill him.

By the time he pulled up to the caves, the sun was hitting the stormclouds over town just right, burning them up against the broader lavender sky. He popped the glove compartment and grabbed the second pollen bracelet he’d made for Maria and slid it onto his wrist, pulling his sleeve down to cover it. He’d get it to her after this.

Climbing out of his truck, Michael stood and watched the sky for the while, the smudge of falling rain as the distant lights came on, and he smelled the storm, and the wind of it tugged his hair in a hundred different directions.

He headed inside as the first few raindrops reached him.

The tunnel wound long and dark into the earth, and Michael took it slow, hands in his pockets. Would Jones sense him coming, or would the bracelet protect him from even that? Isobel couldn’t sense Maria when she had the necklace on, but things were more uncertain with Jones. Even Michael, hollow-headed and senseless to so much of the psychic feedback Max and Isobel claimed they were capable of, couldn’t help but know when one of them was approaching. So, as advanced as Jones was, who knew what he would be able to sense.

He followed the ragged old footpath to the end of it, one hand trailing on the rough wall, trying to picture how it happened that Jones was marched down here and sealed away. And despite everything else he felt, he felt a twinge of pity—maybe they should let Jones choose a new place to hide out, somewhere away from his seven-decade prison.

The ground beneath his feet was worn by his mother’s feet, among so many ancient others, but walking it brought him no closer to understanding her, understanding anything. His mind reached out and came up empty for answers, again, and again, and again, and he understood, why the DeLuca women made the choices they did, what made the future and the past and the road between them worth any other sacrifice.

He came to the end of the path, where there was no door to knock on.

“Michael! What a pleasant surprise.”

Despite his words, Jones was the picture of serenity, clothes clean and pin-straight as always, hair and beard well-groomed, his cave home as neat and tidy as possible. He wasn’t nearly perturbed enough to actually be shocked by the visit.

“Cut the crap, you knew I was coming,” Michael said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t worthy of a welcome,” Jones replied. “Come in, have a seat, and tell me what brings you here.”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

Jones held up his hands, an edge of mockery to the motion, and he crossed the cave to his hot plate, where he had a pot of tea brewing.

“I suppose I shouldn’t bother offering you any?” He asked as he poured himself a mug.

Michael ignored that statement of the obvious and said, “Are you fucking with Max’s head?”

Adding sugar and stirring his tea and setting himself down on his one chair, Jones took his sweet time before he answered.

“Now, Michael.”

He sounded almost disappointed, like a school principal. It put Michael’s back up; he worked his jaw back and forth, unable to stay still, but maintaining every muscle of his body to keep from looking as much like a surly, misbehaved child.

Jones continued, “I couldn’t begin to tell you what’s going on in Max’s head, as much as I’d love to be of assistance. But then, if you were serious about getting him some help, you would have brought him along with you, now wouldn’t you? How about you tell me what this is really about.”

“Like I’m stupid?” Michael scoffed. “Giving you access to Max is the last thing we’re going to do. All I need to know is how desperate you are to get in good with him to know that.”

“And how would Max feel if he knew that you thought so little of him that you think him not capable of making his own decisions? I bet he doesn’t even know you’re here right now. Would he thank you for what you’re doing right now, Michael?”

Shut the fuck up. Michael didn’t bark it out loud; he held his tongue in the face of the glint in Jones’s eye. He was being toyed with, as ever. The beads of the bracelet were cool and smooth against his skin, and he couldn’t do anything but hope they were working as he resisted the urge to fiddle with them and draw attention to his attempt at self-defense.

“I don’t get thanked for a lot of shit,” Michael said flippantly, stepping further into the cave. “But it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

Jones just gave him a beatific smile at that, taking a deep swig of his tea.

“Well, I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing, but without Max here for me to examine, there’s really nothing I can tell you. Perhaps we’ll all sit down together the next time you three come through with supplies.”

Fists clenching in his pockets, Michael scrambled for a way to speak up that wouldn’t put him on his back foot, wouldn’t give Jones all the advantage; at least, no more than he already had, now that Michael had come to him. But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—be dismissed. Not if he wanted to be strong enough to support Max, strong enough to stand beside Isobel.

Strong enough to protect Alex. To never be a burden on him again. A pillar of strength, never a weak spot. He had to be better, more, than he was. Jones was an imperfect key, but the shackles around him were too heavy, too tight to stand any longer, so without any other way to free himself, he groped in the dark for anything that fit the hole.

Fuck it. Silence wasn’t making his position any stronger.

“What if I told you let’s play ball?” he demanded.

“What do you mean?” Jones asked mildly.

“You’re always going on about all the things you could do for us if we gave you a chance. Well—I’m here. Asking. I want to be stronger, so. Teach me.”

Jones leapt to his feet, sloshing tea over his pants and hastily putting the mug to the side as he spread his arms wide.

“Michael, that’s wonderful! I’m so glad you’re finally ready to take the next step.”

“It’s not wonderful, it’s not anything,” Michael snapped back. “I just want you to teach me what you know about using our powers so I can get something other than the telekinesis going. Don’t get excited.”

“Of course! Of course.” Jones summoned a towel from the box he used as a bedside table and dabbed at the tea stains on his clothes. Then he paused, giving Michael a wry look. “If I’m teaching you, you can’t spend the whole time standing in the doorway. Take a seat on the bed so we can talk.”

What served as his bed was the mattress from Isobel’s old guest room, and Michael sat on it cross-legged, folding his arms and leaning back against the cave wall.

“Now, tell me. When did you first develop your ability to move things at will?”

“Uh. I dunno, I was a kid, we don’t know our exact ages. But I was probably around eleven, it wasn’t long after I came back to Roswell. Some…stuff was going on in my life, I was mad all the time, and one day when I got really pissed, it just happened.”

Jones was nodding as Michael spoke, and he poured a second mug of tea, stirred some sugar into it, and handed it to Michael, who still wasn’t drinking a damn thing this guy gave him, so he set it aside. As he prepared the tea, his chair moved across the ground to sit across from Michael and he sat himself down in it.

“That’s common in all children,” Jones said.

He radiated an aura of calm that had Michael’s skin crawling, blunt nails digging into his knees. But even as his senses paced, waiting for the trap to slam shut, he had to force himself not to reach for these scraps of affirmation—the slightest confirmation that he wasn’t the freak he’d grown up feeling he was—like some new and fragile green thing toward the sun.

Jones continued, “Emotional outbursts, that is. Early adolescence is a little old to come into your activation, but not abnormal, and considering the environment you were raised in…” His voice dripped disapproval, to the point Michael opened his mouth, furiously set to defend his own orphaning, but Jones didn’t leave room for interruption. “Well. Frankly I’m shocked yourself and Isobel developed anything at all. We never could have tested the capacity for offspring to activate in the complete absence of communal psychic feedback…or even the capacity to survive and mature. And Isobel, at the very least, had Max. You…you were completely alone, weren’t you? To do that to a child, in our society, would have been, forgive the expression, inhumane,” Jones smiled, as if he’d told a joke. “But, here you are, despite such awful neglect. It’s wonderful.”

Uncomfortable, Michael flexed his left hand and flattened both palms over his knees, dragging them slow and hard against the rough texture of denim. “It’s not like I did anything special. Just survived like any other kid.”

“Well, pardon me, but you survived like any human child. And you are quite a bit more than that.”

There was a time Michael might have agreed with him, angry and hurting and needy to be anything that wasn’t garbage someone left by the side of the road. Litter, lower than garbage that someone cared enough to put in its proper place. But now, praise like that—if it could be called praise—just put him more on edge.

“Can we get on with it?” he asked. “I don’t actually have all day. I don’t have a set schedule with Sanders, so regular lessons might be hard to make, but I can work something out with him…”

“Oh, never fear,” Jones replied. “The first step is the hardest. If you had had a responsible parent, this knowledge would have been introduced slowly, but as it is…”

“Hey!”

“As it is, your mother’s gone, so it falls to me. Isobel will come around too, in time. It’s good for the both of you that I’ve always considered myself a teacher before anything else.”

Jones got to his feet.

What the fuck was Michael thinking? He rose along with him, but Jones had the advantage, and he seized Michael by the temples before he could get to his full height.

“All the things you haven’t seen, haven’t felt or learned—” Jones enthused, “You, your sister, your brother, all your raw potential…I’m so glad you’re finally ready to take the first step toward seeing it realized.”

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

One hand wrenched tighter in Michael’s hair as the other snatched his wrist. He shook it in front of Michael’s eyes, face serious, voice booming.

“This? Is sacrilege.”

His nail scraped the thin skin of Michael’s wrist as he shoved a finger between the cord and him and yanked, then tossed the broken trinket away.

“Now, don’t struggle. This may hurt a little, but pain, I’ve found, is a powerful teacher.”

His hands began to glow, searing into Michael’s skin, so bright his eyes streamed, and he gasped for air in the heat and the pain, writhing in Jones’s grip, thrashing, but Jones gripped him tight and poured light into him.

It went on for seconds, an eternity, seven decades of lonely torture, then the light died, and Jones took his hands away, and Michael fell.

Every cell burned, an ant crawling, biting beneath his skin, in triple vision he stared at his shaking hands expecting to see his veins lit from inside, imprinted on his visual receptors shifting gold and pink and violet, scrawled with shimmering symbols, words he could read, words that had meaning that capsized under the next wave, he couldn’t grab hold of it, not for pain and not for wisdom, there was no order, sign and signifier, his mind was a symphony in a single note, cacophonous, fundamental, elemental, atomic disorder of minutes compressed to an instant.

He was screaming. He heard screaming. The sky was red and he held himself, screaming. The sky was blue, and he remembered screaming.

“M-M-M-i-i-i-c-c-c-h-h-h-a-a-a-e-e-e-l-l-l—"

Three voices spoke to him—he heard them three times. There had to be three, and there were, bending over him, hurting hands outstretched.

Get away! he cried, but it left his mouth as a wordless howl, and he flung out a hand, sending Jones flying away from him, slamming against the far wall of the cave.

While he was stunned, Michael scrambled to his feet—got himself moving, somehow, trapped in the chaos and agony he had no sense left of his own body, but he propelled it down the tunnel, stumbling and catching himself and where his hand hit the wall he left behind a handprint of pearlescent glass. He let out a moan of confusion and dread but couldn’t do anything but carry on, toward the sky.

The storm was loud enough to drown out whispers, cold enough to sting and soothe his skin, and he threw his head back to drown in the relief, rain in his eyes, in his ears and nose and mouth as he panted to the sky.

His vision still wove triple, in and out, but—had to get away—he staggered toward his truck anyway, but he lifted his foot, put it down, again, third time, then he was blinking, collapsing, clutching a slat of wood—park bench—center of town, how did he—he stepped again, and—gone.

When he landed he fell to his hands and knees, scraped them, parking lot, stared at his blood on the outside, until more blood joined the grit on the heels of his palms, and the agony, in three waves, poured out his mouth, out his nose, out his eyes, and there was only one thing he could do.

He screamed for his brother, for the healer, for Max.

He forced himself upright and—had to trust—where to put his feet—he sent himself to safety, to shelter, home.

#my fic #malex fic #roswell new mexico #alex manes #michael guerin #malex #things we could burn in one go (eminence)

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thewrittingworldofeva · 4 years ago

Text

"God or Gods, does it matter?" PART.9

MASTERLIST

Base of the story:

“York is envied by the vikings and during the battle Ivar sees a Saxon girl fight with one of his warriors. The protagonist has a brother with the same disease as Ivar.”

N/A: Well, I have nothing to say... I am still surprise that I finish the part nine that fast, so I am happy ! ☺️ Hope you enjoy it ! 💕

The night as come, Ligeia did make everything possible to be as far as possible from Ivar or even King Harald. She doesn't trust him, and it seems that Ivar either doesn’t trust the King. The moon high in the sky, glowing on them, Ligeia carefully walks to the prison where Bishop Heahmund is detained, without being seen. There are no guards. Probably they were at the feast. The key was hanging on a hook next to the door, she took it and quietly entered the cell.

“Lord, deliver me in thy righteousness, and cause me to escape.” He kneeled, making his chains clanging. “Incline thine ear unto me and save me. Deliver me, O Lord, out of the hands of the wicked, out of the hands of the unrighteous and cruel man.” He joins his hands together in a prayer position. “For thou art... For thou art... For thou art my hope, O Lord.” He traces his face with his indexes, and lets them rest on his thighs.

Silence fills the room. Ligeia, who was hiding in the dark, stepped out in the light and clapped her hands. Heahmund raised his head, without showing his surprise to see her, alone.

“Well, well… You are pretty convincing, I almost felt pity for you. I was that close...” she says showing a little space between her thumb and her index. “...That close! To believe you!” exaggerate Ligeia. “What are you doing here?” He simply questioned. “I needed to know something.” she said leaning against the wall. “And what do you want to know?” he added. “I want to know what decision you are going to take.” she acknowledged. “Ivar the boneless and you, are difficult to…” she hesitates to what word she is going to use. “Read.”

“Why do you want to know the decision I will take ?” She looks away, playing with her hands. “If you choose to fight for him, you will be untouchable. Which, means that I can't take revenge on my family.”

For the second time the silence takes place. They just scan each other, trying to find their deepest and darkest secret. But the only thing that Heahmund it’s the crack sadness. She looks strong but she is broken inside. He broke her. Seeing the sadness taking his eyes, Ligeia ends the eye contact, breathes sharply and proceeds to leave the place furious. Furious against her, that she let him see her weakness.

When she arrived at the doors of the Great Hall, she took a deep breath, realizing that she was holding it all her way up here. She puts her hands on her face, breathing slowly, trying to calm her heartbeat. Her siblings don't need to know that she is struggling with the presence of the Bishop. They don’t know what happened that night, and who did it and why. And she thinks this is better that they don’t know the full story.

Ligeia pushes the door and enters the room crowded with people eating, drinking, laughing, and dancing. After just putting a foot in the room, Hvitserk stands up quite a bit drunk. “To the overthrow of the witch, Lagertha, and to the liberation of Kattegat!” All are cheering his words. “Skol!”

Astrid smiles immediately when she sees Ligeia and signs her to come next to her. When she sits down, the Queen serves her a drink. Rosalia instantly climbs on her laps. Ligeia kisses her on her rosy cheek and passes an arm around Apollo and also gives him a kiss. Holding them in her arms, she smiles looking at them. When they are all together she feels whole. Ivar looked at her speaking with Astrid over his glass of ale.

Her smile captivated him. She never smiles like this, since when they kidnapped them. A real true smile, that makes your eyes closed, raises your cheekbone and shows your teeth. He looked away and talked to Harald.

“So, when do we attack?” announced Ivar. “I will summon my jarls. And my ships still need to be repaired and made ready, as do yours. But when all this is done, we should have a fleet of at least ships.” wisely advised Harald. “There's a full moon tonight. Let us say that we will attack in two moons' time.” proposed Ivar. “I agree.” accept the King. “Skol.” cheers Ivar bringing his glass close to Harald’s. “Skol.”

Ivar, Harald and Astrid toast to this and take a sip. Harald leans closer to his wife, smiling. “It will be strange for you to return to Kattegat as a queen. Skol.” Ivar looked at the royal couple, the same as Ligeia, waiting for her reaction. She doesn’t answer, she just gives him a small smile and makes their cups clinking. “And here's to our sacred agreement.” he continued standing up getting everyone's attention. “Which if any man breaks, he will deserve to die. Skol!” Harald looks straight to Ivar pronouncing the sacred agreement. Ligeia looked at Ivar who didn't show anything, just looking back at the King. “Skol!” cheered the whole crowd. Harald starts singing and everyone knowing the lyrics follows. “♪ My mother told me ♪ ♪ Someday I would buy ♪ ♪ Galley with good oars sail to distant shores ♪”

Ligeia can feel tension between the King and Ivar, they seem to have been betrayed or betrayed. Which is not good at all. Ligeia sighs and decides that tonight she is enjoying herself and the moment with her siblings. Cheeks turning red because of alcohol. Alone, she is watching her brother talking with a young lady and at the same time she is keeping an eye on Rosalia who was dancing and giggling with Hvitserk. She looked at him and beamed proudly, seeing he isn’t aware of his charms.

Someone takes place next to her, but she doesn't care about keeping her eyes on Apollo and Rosalia. “If it’s to know if I participate in your war, the answer is still the same.” began Ligeia, sipping her cup. “Why not?” droned Ivar, tired of hearing her say the same thing. “First off, it is not my business. Secondly, I only fight for my family. And lastly, how am I supposed to protect my family on the battlefield, miles away from them?” spoke the Golden eyes lady finally looking at him. Ivar seems to be at a loss of word.

Ligeia brings back her attention to Apollo. The ginger head girl, lean closer to him and whisper something in his ear, making him blush lightly. She cracked a smile, the vision, lowering her head. Ivar, not having let go of his gaze, didn’t miss her smile. “It seems you know the Bishop?” he threw, waiting for her reaction behind his cup. “I wish I didn’t him…” she whispered more to herself. “How did you know him?” He interrogates her.

“He killed our parents.” She confesses without thinking twice. The viking wasn’t expecting this news. He was just sitting here, looking at her, not knowing what her next move will be. She stands up facing him. “Don’t worry, if he accepts your offer, nothing will happen to him.” she concludes before down in one of her drinks, sets down the cup on the table and leaves him alone.

tags : @youbloodymadgenius @al-lwiisa @funmadnessandbadassvikings @akaward-potato @otakufrenchfries @hugopowell @heavenly1927

#ivar #ivar the boneless #vikings #fanfiction

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thespianbooks · 4 years ago

Text

A Court of Nightmares and Starlight //Chapter 8//

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 2) (Chapter 3) (Chapter 4) (Chapter 5) (Chapter 6) (Chapter 7) (Chapter 8) (Chapter 9) (Chapter 10)

(tags: @thron3ofbooks, @df3ndyr, @courtofjurdan, @art-e-mis, @herondamnn, @the-third-me, @im-still-trying-here, @emikadreams, @paytin77, @mis-lil-red, @sleeping-and-books, @lucieisabooknerd)

“From what my spies have gathered, he’s been holding secret meetings with the other camp-lords and generals for years; persuading them to rally against your rule and Cassian's command. Kallon has been using the number of losses, and other injuries their warriors obtained from the war along with the grief from the widows, as evidence that we are seeking vengeance for how we were treated as children, that we pose a threat and will only continue to destroy their race and culture. What’s worse is he’s gathered together those who resent us and see us as no more than bastards, further helping his cause,” Azriel explained to Rhys and I as we joined his and Cassian’s side at the desk, pouring over the reports the shadowsinger gathered from his network of spies. “He’s managed to convince them that as a high-born lord from a strong lineage of Illyrian warriors who have commanded the Ironcrest camp for centuries, he has the better claim to command their armies.”

Cassian scoffed as he scanned a report, “The prick has only been camp-lord of Ironcrest for a few years and has the balls to think he knows how to command the entire Illyrian army.”

“He’s as much a brute as his father was,” Azriel muttered with disdain.

“And just as stupid,” Rhys retorted, glaring at another document as he read through it.

I frowned and set down the report I was reading, crossing my arms. “How many?” I asked quietly, turning my attention to Azriel.

He knew what I was asking, and the shadowsinger didn’t break my gaze as he answered, “He’s allied himself with half of the lords and their war-camps.”

We all stared at him; dumbfounded, confused, enraged.

“Half of the Illyrians are backing the rebellion Kallon has started?” I asked before the others had a chance to.

Azriel nodded grimly and Cassian swore, his siphons flickering as he tried to contain his rage and ran his hands through his silk-black hair. Dark shadows swam at Rhysand’s back, wings flaring as he strode over to the wall containing the map of the Illyrian territory. He studied it closely as Azriel continued, “He means to incite a civil war with those who remain opposed, if they don’t side with him sooner rather than later, he will gather what forces he has to overrun their camps.”

“Then the stupid bastard will try to turn those forces on us,” Cassian began.

“And once we’re overthrown, he will try to separate from the Night Court altogether,” Rhys growled, fists clenching as he continued to study the map before him.

“How do you know that?” I asked with a dull shock.

“There’s only one reason why a male like that would want to take control of the entire Illyrian force. He wants the territory for himself,” Rhys explained, voice dripping with disdain.

My heart tightened for my mate as darkness continued to swirl around him, the shadows darkening the room—wings now tucked in tight at his sides. I realized those shadows were mournful, rather than from cold fury. These were his mother’s people; he grew up in their camps, trained and fought alongside them, bled with them and for them from the time he was a child. Despite their resentment of his high fae blood, their dense views and resistance to change, he respected them—the culture, because they were his people too. I glanced over at Cassian, his face unreadable as he let the weight of Rhys’s words settle in him. Azriel was the only one who remained, unsurprisingly, unfazed. I supposed with his own animosity towards his people, he saw something like this coming long ago—though I could tell deep down he secretly hoped it wouldn’t.

I walked slowly towards Rhys and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, stepping into his line of view to force our eyes to meet. “That won’t happen,” I said decisively. “We won’t allow it, and we won’t stand for it.”

Cassian finally broke his silence, “How did the whelp manage to keep this a secret for ten years? We’ve barely let him out of our sight, and we’ve more than covered our bases during our monthly visits at Ironcrest.”

“He’s had help,” Azriel replied.

“But how?” Cassian insisted, “I haven’t kept my eyes off the bastard since he made it through the Blood Rite, and neither have you and your spies. How did this escape our attention?”

Rhys squeezed the hand on his shoulder, turning back to his brothers. “Winter Solstice,” he started, “It’s the one time of year all the camps gather, and while we’re here celebrating, our spies are reduced because of the holiday. Giving them the perfect opportunity to meet without the added worry of our eyes on them.”

“So they gather and plot on Solstice,” Cassian growled, “And probably during the period of the Blood Rite when we aren’t normally around, and neither are Az’s spies. Until this year.”

I frowned. This year, after Azriel’s intel picked up on Kallon’s suspicious activities resurfacing, they stayed the entire week for the duration of the Blood Rites ceremonies and traditions; with the intention of gathering more information. They turned up empty at the time—save for the little details they already knew of.

“They’ve let information slip since then,” Rhys said, and it was true.

“They’ve gotten cocky,” Cassian scoffed. “They’ve plotted and gathered their forces for ten years; somehow now they’ve gotten arrogant enough to speak more freely of their plans in the camps.”

“That’s not all,” Azriel added, “based on the reports, some of the talk also revolves around an outside ally working with Kallon.”

“Who the fuck would help that bastard?!” Cassian barked, wings broadening slightly.

Rhys’s own wings widened a bit in an effort to shield me, but he cleared his throat and tucked them back in, giving Cass a hard look instead. The commander looked at me in apology, but I shook my head in dismissal. He was angry, all of us were. I slowly made my way over to the trio of ceiling high windows in Rhys’s study as I contemplated how Kallon had help keeping their meetings a secret during Solstice. What outside force would aid and abet him to the point where he believed they could successfully carry out a revolution? The Illyrian brothers began debating the same possibility as I stared out at the gardens the windows faced, seeing Elain and Mor sitting together by the fountain and chattering happily—the soft-spoken seer and the dreamer born into a court of nightmares.

Suddenly, realization struck and I gasped, turning to face them. Rhys instantly returned to my side; Cassian and Azriel stepped closer to me, equally alarmed, but before any of them could speak I blurted, “It’s Keir.”

I continued quickly, “Who else would benefit from us being removed from power? Who else would want nothing more than to take over as ruler of the Hewn City, and install himself as High Lord should we be deposed?” Rhys’s eyes widened, cold rage filling the room as Cassian and Azriel realized the truth in my words.

“He’s probably promised Kallon his army of Darkbringers, who also suffered a great loss after the war, who have the same motives and could sympathize with the Illyrians to a point. Keir’s most likely convinced Kallon that once they’ve overthrown us, he’ll allow the Illyrians to separate and form their own nation. Meanwhile he’ll take over Hewn City, and take over the rest of the Night Court, including,” I gulped, “Velaris.”

Cassian and Azriel both swore as Rhys growled, “With Keir’s backing, Kallon has the incentive to move forward with his plans for a civil war. Once the opposing Illyrians are taken care of, his and Keir’s forces combined can turn against us.”

Nausea roiled in my gut as the full burden of this understanding washed over us, of what this meant. Rhys slipped a protective arm around my waist, no doubt feeling my distress through the bond, “We have to move before they do. Azriel, you’ll go ahead of us to Hewn City. Question whoever you have to and get information without raising Keir’s suspicion. I want to know Keir’s exact role in this and every single step in their plans,” he commanded his shadowsinger.

Azriel nodded and in a split second he disappeared into the shadows, Truth-Teller gleaming in his hands before he was gone. Rhys turned to Cassian next, “You’ll come with Mor and I to the Court of Nightmares after Az’s gathered the information we need. I want our presence to send a message to the bastard.”

I blinked in surprise, and turned to face him, “You mean ‘Feyre, Mor, and I,’ right?” I asked.

His expression was hard as our eyes met, and I stared at him incredulously—daring him to keep me excluded. “Feyre, this is dangerous. If Keir finds out you’re pregnant he’ll-” he began, but I cut him off with a huff of disbelief.

“You mean when Keir finds out I’m pregnant,” I challenged. Cassian took a careful step back, allowing us to have this conversation without leaving the room. Keeping a watchful eye on us, Rhys especially.

“I cannot put you and our child at risk, Feyre. If he’s really working with Kallon, it's not just us in danger, it's our unborn child too,” He continued calmly, but I could see he was struggling with his overprotective intuition.

I wasn’t going to have any of it, “You don’t think I know that? Our whole family is at risk, and I’m not going to sit idly by like some poor damsel in distress!”

“I’m not asking you to do that. I’m asking you to stay here, where it's safe, where I’ll know you and our child are safe!” Rhys tried to reason, holding my arms carefully in his hands—the unadulterated panic gathering in those violet eyes once again..

I frowned at him, an old and familiar sense of panic beginning to bubble in my chest, but I fought it down. “Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I’m an invalid. We go to the Court of Nightmares together, and we use the news of my pregnancy to reinforce our rule. That will send him a message,” I explained.

Rhys shook his head, gripping my arms lightly, desperate. “The minute he finds out you’re pregnant is the minute he and Kallon decide to move up their plans, giving them an advantage. We need to gather our own reinforcements before they have that chance.”

“You’re a mated male Rhys, Keir will know Feyre’s pregnant regardless. He’ll smell it on you,” Cassian interjected on my behalf.

I turned to look at him and Rhys let out a feral snarl, violet eyes darkening as he turned on his brother. “Stay out of this, Cassian,” Rhys warned, his entire demeanor shifting as his preternatural instincts ordered him to protect his pregnant mate.

“Not a chance Rhysie. It’s about time you ease up on that mating bond, and if I have to be the one to do it again then I will,” Cassian replied coolly as he ran his hands through his hair, tying it back with a worn leather strap.

I realized what Cassian was doing. Our mating bond was sensitive now that I was pregnant, Rhys’s primal urges compelling him to protect his mate while in such a delicate condition. This new threat was igniting those vigilant impulses, and while he previously did his best to reign in some of that hostility, it would ease up considerably if he released some of that aggression on Cassian—just as he had all those years ago. Now, thanks to the prospect of a war breaking out in our own court, Rhys was consumed to the point of trying to shield me away completely. Cassian wouldn’t let that happen, he wouldn’t stand aside and watch me be sidelined; so he would take some of that edge off, but I couldn’t let that happen, not like this.

“Cassian, it’s alright-” I began but he quickly interjected.

“It’s not alright. You are my High Lady too, and you have every right to attend that meeting at the Hewn City, pregnant or not.” He insisted, turning to look at Rhys as he said it.

Darkness continued to swirl around Rhys’s shoulders, “Of course she has a right to attend the meeting,” he snapped.

“Then let her come with us, you bastard.”

“It’s not safe.” Rhys snarled, baring his teeth.

“You sure about that? She’d have me, and Azriel, protecting her. Two more males than just you-” Cassian baited, taking a step closer in my direction but Rhys immediately stepped in front of me and landed a blow to his face, sending Cassian stumbling back.

Cassian wiped the blood from the side of his mouth with a wicked grin. “That’s right, you bastard, take it out on me—not her,” he said as he straightened.

Just as Rhys was about to advance on him again, I grabbed his shoulder and cried out, “No! Not here,” I glared at Cassian, “Not now. I can handle this Cassian, just go.”

“Feyre, let me-” he started but I hardened my stare. I didn’t like to pull rank, but I needed to work this out with Rhys myself.

Cassian glanced at Rhys again, who calmed considerably the minute I touched him and was staring at my stomach with a pained expression, and reluctantly left the room. The second he was gone, I turned to face Rhys with a frown. His eyes met mine, those violet star-flecked eyes now pleading as he stepped closer to me and placed a hand on my stomach.

“I can’t lose you, Feyre,” he began softly, “It would be better if you stayed behind this time with your sisters and Amren. If Keir sees how vulnerable your condition is-”

“I am not vulnerable!” I snapped, taking a step back from him, that panic beginning to rise once again—this time mounting before I could get a hold on it.

“You are susceptible to more danger,” he amended. “He’ll see it as a weakness, our weakness, and he’ll use that to push whatever plans he and Kallon have.”

My chest tightened and my eyes burned, waiting for the inevitable order he would give to force me to stay behind—to lock me up. He promised to never do it, swore he wouldn’t command such a thing. He wasn’t that kind of male I reminded myself. He wasn’t Tamlin.

He wasn’t. He wasn’t. He wasn’t.

Please don’t lock me up.

Rhys’s eyes widened, “W-What..?”

I realized I sent that plea down the bond as the tears in my eyes began to fall and I sobbed, “Please don’t lock me up,” I begged.

“Please Rhys, dont…” I sobbed again and Rhys gathered me in his arms instantly as my knees crumpled, my breaths coming in gasps as I cried.

“Feyre, no. Gods, I would never,” he swore as he lowered us to our knees, holding me against him, burying his face in my hair as he consoled me. “I would never do that to you.”

“You’re doing it now,” I whimpered as I looked at him. “You made a vow to me, making me your equal, and now…” I sniffed as I tried to control my tears, but the fear—the tightness in my chest was overwhelming.

Rhys’s eyes widened in horror as he realized his actions and he looked down in disgrace, squeezing his eyes shut for a minute before leaning in to press his brow against mine. His hands cupped my face gently as he smoothed the tears away and our eyes met, his lined with silver as he began taking deep cleansing breaths—encouraging me to breathe with him. I did, struggling at first to follow the pattern of his breaths until the tightness in my chest finally eased and breathing became effortless. I slipped my eyes shut as I finally calmed and relaxed against him, the tears stopping.

After a minute of holding me there, our brows touching and our breaths in sync, Rhys admitted quietly, “I wasn’t going to force you to stay behind.”

I opened my eyes and met with the gut-shattering guilt on his face, but before I could say anything he pressed a kiss to my temple.

“I was never going to lock you in our estate Feyre. I would never, never, put up wards around our walls and keep you inside. For a moment I made you feel that way and I’m,” his throat bobbed for a second. “I’m so sorry.”

The things I love have a tendency to be taken from me.

The raw confession he made to me during our time Under the Mountain echoed through my mind as the image of that dark, fallen prince now sat before me. His family had been in peril before, thanks to a friendship with another court. That friendship, that trust, cost him his parents and younger sister. His mother and sister were innocent, just as our child was now, and I couldn’t fathom the fear that rose in him now that we knew of the hazard in our own court—among our people. In my own alarm I compared his protective instincts, the ones created by our bond that enforced his desire to safeguard me and his child, to Tamlin’s actions. I compared him to the male that was responsible for the loss of his family. The loss he still blamed himself for. My gut wrenched with my own guilt, and I gently cupped his face in my hands; lifting the head he dropped in shame.

“Your need to protect me, to protect our son, is justified Rhys, but we can’t live in fear. I panicked,” I said softly.

“You had every right to panic, Feyre. I shouldn’t have tried to convince you to stay behind. For a moment I just-” he paused and I nodded my understanding.

“You panicked too,” I said softly. “Not just because of your male-bonded instincts.”

I took his hand and placed it on the tiny swell of my stomach and he caressed it gently, “You’ve lost so much, Rhys. I understand that, but I want you to understand that it won’t happen again. You won’t lose us.” I squeezed his hand encouragingly.

His eyes met mine, “You’re safe,” he said. “You both are.”

“We’ll face this threat together, just as we have before.” I said, wrapping my arms around his shoulders loosely.

He slipped one arm around my waist and the other under my legs as he stood, lifting me off the ground and carrying me over to the lounge by his desk. He sat me on it and knelt before me, holding my hands in his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I forgive you,” I said, leaning forward to kiss him. “Promise me you’ll release some of that pent up aggression. It will help.”

His thumbs caressed the top of my hands, and he nodded in agreement. “Cassian will be more than happy to oblige,” he said with a wry smirk.

“Anything for his High Lord,” I mused.

“Anything for his High Lady,” he corrected.

He brought my hands up to his lips, turning my palms upward and kissed the twin mountains tattooed in each. When he lifted his gaze back to me, his thumbs caressed my palms lightly.

“Cauldron save you. Mother hold you. I, High Lord of the Night Court, will serve and protect you, Feyre Archeron.” Rhys began, reciting the same vows he made to me on our wedding night.

The night we married in secret before the confrontation at Hybern. My eyes burned as he squeezed my hands before he continued, “I hereby swear you as High Lady of the Night Court, not consort, and not just my wife,”

One of his hands reached up to wipe away a stray tear after he finished, and he kept his hand on my cheek. “You are my equal Feyre, and I say these vows again as a promise that this will never happen again. I will never make you feel cast aside again, or our son. You are my High Lady, the mother of my child, and the most resilient female I have ever met. We’ll go to the Court of Nightmares together, and remind them all of that.”

I smiled, placing a hand over his before I noticed the whorls of ink on his left forearm begin to shift. We both watched as the patterns swirled at the base of his wrist, forming a band with a crescent moon at its center. The blue-black ink matching perfectly with the rest of his tattoo—the mirror of mine, the one created out of our promise to move onto the next life together.

I ran my thumb across the new tattoo as my smile widened. “Anything for his High Lady,” I said and Rhys returned my grin with his.

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mypersonmyg · 4 years ago

Note

Reader keeping secrets from ________ Reader leading a double life a an underground artist and ________ has no idea but is a fan? Sorry that’s all I can come up with on short notice lol Hope you have fun writing whatever you work on! 😀

Pairing: Taehyung x tagger!reader

WC: 1.7k

Genre: artist au

Rating: pg

Warnings: None.

A/N: I may do a part 2 if you want. Idk, I’m just tired.

“Did you see?” You glance up from your laptop as Taehyung walks through the front door, eyes glued to his phone. When you don’t respond he looks up expectantly and you shrug your shoulders with a tilt of the head. “Purple Panda tagged last night and it’s all over my feed.”

“Oh, cool.” You glance back down at your laptop, never interested in having lengthy conversations with your boyfriend about his favorite local artist and their hidden identity. “I’m kinda feeling pizza tonight, are you in?”

“Did you hear what I said?” He takes a seat on the arm of the couch and presses a kiss against the crown of your head. You hum continuing to type against your keyboard without pretense.

“Yeah, artist, tag, social feed. I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with this person,” You lower your screen and angle yourself toward him. “Sure they’re amazing at what they do, but what they do is also pretty illegal.”

Taehyung pulls his lip into a contemplative pout, his hands coming to massage your shoulders, the feeling relieving the tension that had taken over your muscles. The two of you sit in comfortable silence, the sound of Yeontan’s feet patter occasionally across the floor.

“Why don’t you like them?” You’re caught off guard by the sudden question, never having said anything about your personal feelings.

“What do you mean? I never said that.”

“True, but you’re always telling me that I shouldn’t invest so much time in this and you can’t help but to constantly point out the lack of legality in their work.” You huff, pushing yourself from the confines of the couch cushions and onto your feet. Taehyung is hot on your trail as you head to the kitchen, grabbing your keys from the counter.

“I don’t hate them, I just don’t think you should invest so much time in trying to discover a person who doesn’t want to be discovered. They have a pseudonym for a reason and that reason is not for you to try to expose their true identity.” It had become a sort of hobby for Taehyung to try and crack the code of Purple Panda. He enjoyed their art so much that he figured finding them would be next best to actually creating the pieces himself.

He followed every lead that filled his social feeds and he even roped Namjoon and Jimin into the whole ordeal. You on the other hand were content with knowing nothing of this person aside from what they paint on buildings. You’ve tried and failed to get Taehyung to let go of this idea that he could find the elusive artist, but he just poked fun at you for being jealous or asked questions like this one.

“I’m going to go and grab us some pizza, why don’t you watch a movie or something, hmm?” You pat Taehyung’s arm and peck his cheek, your purse being thrown over one shoulder.

“Yeah, sure.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and watches you walk out of the house, the door clicking shut behind you. He walks to the front, pacing back and forth near the window to allow himself to watch you pull out of the drive. When he’s sure that you won’t be pulling back in he makes a beeline to the hall closet, Yeontan hot on his trail. “I think I know why she hates Purple Panda so much, Tannie.”

The dog yaps, jumping around Taehyung as he bends to the ground pulling at a box that’s stuffed deep in the junk filled closet. Yeontan nips at his pant legs, like he’s trying to stop Taehyung from completing his task, but Taehyung simply scoops the dog up and cuddles him to his chest. He manages to wrestle the box out with his one free hand and he places Yeontan back into the hall where the dog trots away indignantly.

Taehyung had grown increasingly suspicious of your behavior in the past few weeks and had taken to keeping a close eye on you. His first avenue was to assume the worst, the odd hours in which you’d claim to have errands or plans with friends not making the choice difficult. It was Namjoon’s comforting voice of reason that had talked him down from that ledge and since then he’s been grasping at anything to connect your behavior.

The latest in his growing suspicions is the way in which you disregard his excitement for his most recent favorite artist. Purple Panda is a tagger, an expert in Taehyung’s opinion, and has been running throughout the city making their mark for the better part of a year now. The first time he’d come to you with full cheeks and his phone resting in his palm you’d been just as excited as him. The new artist becoming a popular topic of discussion between the two of you.

That had all changed after the first month, when Taehyung had decided that he wanted to meet this infamous tagger no matter what it took. It was a usual night, the two of you cuddled up in bed when he’d shared his plans with you. The way you had stiffened beneath him should’ve been his first clue that something was wrong, but he’d thought nothing of it, the chill that often filled the room a logical enough explanation.

Now, he had taken notice of your hasty subject changes and how you avoided fully answering any questions he had pertaining to the Purple Panda. In fact, it seemed that the more he dug in the more annoyed you got with him. You weren’t snapping, but there was definitely a slight edge to your voice when you would issue him a response.

Taehyung had again expressed his beliefs with Namjoon who told him that the best way to find out the truth would be for him to confront you directly. That was when Jimin had opted to butt into the conversation and tell Taehyung that was the worst idea.

“She’s not just gonna come and tell you flat out. You have to be smarter than her, do a little sleuthing and wait until you have proof.” This idea sounded much more appealing to Taehyung, perhaps because it allowed him to put his detective skills to the test though he would never admit the underlying excitement. So he’d taken to paying extra close attention to you when you left and when you came home. The way you reacted to different questions and conversations.

When he’d spoken to you today he noted a twitch in your nose, a tell-tale sign that you were keeping something from him. Over the past weeks he had picked up on your routine. You would come into the house and sometimes immediately open the closet door before coming to greet him and oftentimes open it again before you left. One of these times he stepped into the closet and looked for any sign that you’d disrupted one of the multitudes of storage boxes piled into the tiny space.

He’d spotted a box slightly protruding from the back and pulled it out immediately to find that there was nothing inside save for an old dirty rag. He figured that whatever you were taking whenever you left the house must be kept in that box. If he was as good a detective as he liked to believe he guessed that the box would be filled with spray paint. He intended to sneak out of bed tonight to see if his assumptions were true, but your sudden decision to leave the house gave him a window of opportunity. So here he sits, the box before him, filled with what he hopes is the answer to his mystery. The box is much heavier than the first time he’d come across it which he found a good sign.

“Here goes,” He says to no one in particular, his hand coming to lift the cardboard flap that hid the contents from view. His eyes had involuntarily, his nerves getting the best of him. If what he finds isn’t what he’s expecting he isn’t sure what it could be or how he’ll react.

He takes a deep breath and peers into the box.

“Gotcha,” He smiles from ear to ear, half used spray paint cans stuffed into a worn duffle greeting him. He lifts one of the cans, a purple one adorning the name of your chosen pseudonym and he smiles at his excellent deductive reasoning.

When the shock and triumph wears off he begins to wonder why you would hide something from him. But more importantly how you got into tagging in the first place. You’d told him plenty of times that there were many dangers that came from this form of expression and he can’t imagine a reason why you would put yourself in danger of getting caught.

He slumps against the wall, tossing a can back and forth between his hands while he thinks. His head snaps toward the front door when he hears you struggling on the other side, the ruffling of your purse and the mumbled obscenities almost bringing a smile to his face. He glances between the door and the paint, contemplating his next move.

Confront or let it go?

He wants nothing more than to confront you, make you tell him why you’d kept it a secret from him, but he’s also certain that there had to be a logical reason and he doesn’t want to pressure you. Just as you’re sliding your key into the door he makes the decision to stuff the paint back into the box and the box back into the closet.

“Hey, the line was so short today. Lucky us!” You hold the pizza you’d purchased out and he takes the box with a smile. “What have you been up to?”

“Nothing, just trying to find out more about Purple Panda.” He watches you visibly flinch, covering it with a smile as you lead him to the kitchen. “I was kind of thinking you’re right though.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“If they want to be discovered then they’ll do it in their own time.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” You send him a smile and slide the pizza onto the table. Taehyung slides into his chair and grabs your hand placing a gentle kiss against your knuckles.

“And I will wait forever if that’s what it takes.”

#bangtanhq #bangtanidx #ficswithluv #mikrogalaxynet #bangtanarmynet #taehyung x reader #bts drabble #blue1928

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sorenmarie87 · 5 years ago

Text

Goodbye, sweetheart

Summary: Art was never John’s thing.

Pairing(s)/Character(s): (Past) John x F!Reader

Square Filled: Free Space

Word Count: 1,086

Warning(s): Angst. Memory Loss. Hunting Accidents.

A/N: So a while back @fictionalabyss made me an aesthetic, gave me a vague prompt (John Winchester, museum setting, and dealing with memory loss) and told me to write it. This is also written for @spngenrebingo

Beta’d by @littlehotmess26 / @iflostreturntosteverogers

I don’t own the photos used in this aesthetic.

He was there as a favor.

The kind of favor where you screwed up and someone has to save your ass. The only problem with this whole thing - she had no idea who he was anymore. They were as close as two strangers could be, a one night stand gone wrong if you will. They were in the same line of work at the time and worked on that case together. Only he came out unscathed. John drove her to the hospital and decided it was for the best to never see her again.

He was going to honor that agreement. He was until years later when he received a phone call from a mutual friend who told him there was something he needed to see. John packed his bag, got into his pick up, and drove. He had no idea what to expect. It had nothing to do with his boys or the yellow-eyed demon, so what was so damn special here?

Another phone call told him to clean up before going anywhere. So he took a shower, shaved and put on the nicest set of clothes that he owned before heading towards the museum. There were posters everywhere about a new exhibit coming soon, and that people wouldn’t want to miss it. John scrubbed at his face and followed the string of people in front of him. What was he going to do if this thing was by invitation only? He had some money from hustling pool the other night, but he was trying his hardest to make it stretch.

“Name, please?”

“John Winchester?” It was kind of funny that he gave his name as a question, instead of stating it like a fact. Whatever it got her to chuckle as she told him to go on in.

He still had no idea why he was here. Art was never his thing, hell it wasn’t really Mary’s either. He took the glass of champagne that was offered to him but he didn’t really drink any of it.

“Why am I here, Phil?” He muttered to himself as he moved to another display.

His question was answered as soon as he turned the corner and saw her talking to a small crowd of people. She was alive and well. John always wondered what happened to her after that night and had to admit, she was practically glowing as she talked. She was still gorgeous after all this time. He froze when she turned around and started walking over to where he was standing.

“I hate to bother you but do I know you from somewhere?” Her voice was just as soft as he remembered.

“Must be my face. You’d be surprised how often I get that.” The two of them shared a laugh as he ran a hand through his hair. “This is one fine exhibit you’ve put together.”

“Oh, thank you.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her face but made no attempt to walk away. “I can’t take all the credit though. My cousin is responsible for most of this.”

“Surely there’s something here that you’ve created…”

“The painting in front of you is the only one that I’ve decided to publicly show.” John stared in awe at the familiar sight. There were two grayish figures on the canvas that were surrounded by a soft yellow halo, the background a deep black.

“It’s beautiful, and I imagine it took quite some time to finish.” He offered her his arm and smiled at her blushing cheeks.

“I don’t actually remember finishing it if I’m being completely honest.” The two of them walked arm in arm around the exhibit and they stopped in front of a statue that was made out of some form of metal. John couldn’t really tell what it was supposed to be. “See a couple years back, I was in a really bad accident that made me lose the use of my right arm and leg for quite some time. I couldn’t do anything on my own. My cousin took me in after the accident, and he was there for everything…”

“It must’ve been a struggle.”

“Oh, it was probably one of the toughest things that I’ve ever been through. I wanted to give up so many times but my cousin wouldn’t let me.”

“It’s easier to get through something like that when you have the support of someone.”

“It might be easier, but I fought like hell with him on some major decisions.” She laughed quietly as John drained his glass and handed it off to a waiter that was nearby. "He told me that I needed to get my head out of my ass and that if I wanted to get over this hurdle, I would have to fight them like I had been fighting him."

John checked his watch, and as much as it killed him, he knew that he needed to leave. "Are you happy with the life you have now?" It was a weird question to ask but he had to be sure before he left.

“That’s such an odd question.”

“Are you though?”

“I have my ups and downs, but for the most part, I’d say yes.” “I hate to leave so soon, but I’ve got to be going, sweetheart.” He tucked a piece of loose hair behind her ear and smiled. “I’m glad you’re happy and doing well.”

“Are you sure I don’t know you? I feel like I do,” she furrowed her brow, trying hard to remember.

“I’m only a stranger, doll.” He started to turn and leave but she stopped him.

“Please, wait here for a moment,” she said and walked back towards her painting, removing it from its perch. Before he could protest, she told him, “I don’t know why, but I feel like you’re meant to have it.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Goodbye, sweetheart.”

“Goodbye.”

———

To kill the silence, John had the television on and it was playing an older movie but he was miles away.

You always wanted to get out of the game, sweetheart and you did.

He took a swig of whiskey and rubbed at his eyes. John made a promise to himself once Mary passed away that he would never love another like he loved her. He took another long swig as he looked at the painting propped up by one of the motel chairs. She might not know who he was anymore but John would always remember her. He’d always love her.

Forever Tags - @lovetusk @coffee-obsessed-writer @justballoonfishthings @littlehotmess26 @galaxy-and-star-collector @flamencodiva@mirajanefairytailmage @kazosa @wings-of-a-raven @docharleythegeekqueen @clockworkmorningglory @lefthologramdeer @ellen-reincarnated1967 @holyfuckloueh @buckyscrystalqueen @ilovetaquitosmmmm @n3rdybird @super-fan-of-all-things @disneymarina @sandlee44 @babykalika2001

#spngenrebingo #John Winchester x Reader #John Winchester x F!Reader #John x Reader #John x F!Reader #SPN Angst #John Winchester Angst

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thejollyroger-writer · 5 years ago

Text

Love After Death: The Afterlife Hotel

a/n: it’s HEEEEEERE, my first piece for this year’s CSSNS! I’m so excited to share all three stories I have for you all this year -- it’s just the beginning! Extra special thanks to @captainsjedi for her lovely, perfect art that conveys a sense of spookiness that I didn’t even know I was going for, and to @let-it-raines @shireness-says and @kmomof4 for being my eternal cheerleaders -- plus all the ladies in the Discord chat! And, of course, @cssns

Tagging those who showed interest when I posted a snippet in March, or who asked me to -- thank you all for your readership! @winterbaby89 @teamhook @ultraluckycatnd @profdanglaisstuff @jwolf18791 @killianjones4ever82 @superadam54 @kingofmyheart14 @aprilqueen84 @capswantrue @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @gingerchangeling @welllpthisishappening

SUMMARY: Emma Swan has spent sixty years in the afterlife believing she was never going to meet her real soulmate, after believing in the wrong name tattooed on her wrist. But when she keeps seeing the same new blue-eyed guest of the Afterlife Hotel around, might she be able to learn how to love again?

Also on AO3!

--/--/--/--/--

Emma Swan stands at her desk, staring down at the calendar that she’s not sure why they even bother to have in the first place. Time is meaningless here. Sure, the "sun" rises and sets on opposite sides of the building on a 24 hour cycle, but time doesn't actually pass anymore.

Except… if there wasn’t a desk calendar, if she was only going by the date in the corner of her monitor screen (though also unnecessary), she probably never would have realized that it was once again the third day of July in the real world. She almost definitely would have allowed the day to pass by uneventfully, would have completely forgotten the same way she wishes she would have forgotten every other year.

Sixty years. It’s been sixty years to the day since the first time she entered this very hotel. No family, even when she was alive. Abandoned as a child, never finding a family of her own beyond the sole person she believed was her family, the one that she believed was her soulmate — but, in the end, he was her demise, the name she should have avoided instead of married.

She had a fifty-fifty chance, like everyone else in the world. It was a stupid concept, she always thought it was: her soulmate’s name on one wrist, and the name of her enemy, very likely the name of the person that would cause her death, on the other, just like everyone else in the world. But she learned the hard way that she made the wrong choice, and by putting her trust in the name on her right wrist and not her left, she suffered more than just heartbreak. By trusting Neal instead of running away the moment he introduced himself — perhaps even before that, now that she's had time to look back over the time they spent together — she was killed.

She remembers the moment her names appeared as if it wasn't almost seventy years before. That's the funny thing about being dead, she guesses (if there was anything funny about it) because the sixty years she's been dead have felt like nothing compared to the nine years between the time her names appeared on her twenty-first birthday and the moment Neal smiled above her as he slid his dagger into her heart. His handwriting on her right wrist, the curling letters of his signature, seemed much more attractive than the scribbles that she stopped trying to decipher before she turned 22. By then, she had already met Neal Cassidy, had already convinced herself that she loved him beyond the presence of his name on her wrist, and he had conned her into believing he loved her, too, up until that very last moment.

Sixty years. Sixty years since her death. But it was dying that led her to find something really worth living for, even if she never got the chance to meet her real soulmate. And it was still just the "beginning."

Emma still remembers that first day, greeted by a smiling Mary Margaret Nolan. Smiling, as if there was something to be happy about. Emma knew that she had died, was very aware of it, given Neal left her to die a very slow and painful death — but the last thing she expected after the “bright white light” was an elevator ride down to the lobby of a hotel, especially one with a smiling brunette behind its counter.

“Hello!” Her voice was chipper, almost fake, but her smile most certainly was not. “Welcome to the Afterlife Hotel!”

“Really?” Emma remembers quipping immediately, not even trying to hide the look of disgust on her face. She was already trying to do too many things to control what was showing on her face. “You couldn’t even come up with a better name?”

But Mary Margaret was resilient, moving on without so much as acknowledging Emma’s comment, and when she asked Emma what she wanted to do — if she had any family she wanted to wait for, anywhere in particular she wanted to be — all Emma felt was empty. Sure, the emptiness tried to veil itself with snide remarks and humor, as it always had, but none of it got any further than her own mind.

“No.” Her voice was soft. “No, I — I have no one.”

It was Mary Margaret’s job to lead her through the afterlife, to help her decide where she will spend the rest of eternity. But, instead of a decision, Mary Margaret helped her find a “family” for the first time in her life (well, uh, death), people that actually cared for her. Mary Margaret and David Nolan, the first parental figures Emma has ever had, and all she had to do was die to find them.

Thinking back on this memory, she smiles down at her desk, unconsciously drawing a light circle around the “3” with her pencil.

And that’s why she doesn’t immediately notice when the doors to the elevator right in front of her open, revealing perhaps the most awestruck man to have come through those doors that Emma had ever seen.

“Bloody hell!” he yells, literally falling out of the elevator and onto the floor, simultaneously pulling Emma back to reality.

Well, that’s certainly interesting, Emma thinks, her eyebrows flying quickly up her forehead as she watches him, dumbstruck, as he struggles to get up off the floor. In all the years she’s spent here, she’s only ever seen people walk through the elevator doors, usually slowly and questioning everything around them just as she did sixty years ago (to the day).

But she’s never seen anyone fall out of it. They’ve always been on their feet after the long, slow ride down, able to pull themselves together a bit until the doors finally open and they find themselves in the lobby.

“Pardon me, lass, where — what the hell happened to me?” His deeply-accented question pulls her out of her stupor, and she blinks a few times before completely returning to reality — and when she does, she almost finds herself in a daze again as she takes him in. He’s tall, muscular, but lean, his grey jeans tight against his legs and low on his hips with a plain white t-shirt under a black leather jacket, the v of the neck falling low enough to show what Emma assumes is just the beginning of a sea of black hair covering his chest, matching the shade that covers his head and the stubble on his cheeks.

“You’re—” she starts, but looking down at the desk, she remembers where she is, what her job is, and pulls her best customer service smile to her face. “Welcome to the Afterlife Hotel!” she says, her voice much cheerier than she intended it to be, though she blames it on the confusion quickly filling the air of the lobby.

Slowly, he takes a few steps towards her as he swivels his head from one side to the other, taking in the sights of the lobby around him: the grey stone floors, the deep red walls and high white ceilings, the crisp white and grey furniture and abstract paintings on the walls. Then he stops just a few steps away from the desk, and when he turns his eyes to her, the air in her lungs suddenly gets very heavy — because in them, she finds the brightest blue she has seen, definitely since the first time she walked across this same lobby, but she believes probably since the day she was born.

“Come again?” he asks, one dark eyebrow raised high on his broad forehead, almost lost under the strands of dark hair that fall close to his eyes.

“You’ve found yourself in the afterlife,” she replies, dialing down the chipperness of her voice, but not losing it entirely. “This is the Afterlife Hotel, for lost souls and those waiting for others to join them.”

“The Afterlife Hotel,” he repeats, the same skepticism in his voice that she remembers from her own that very first day, though she manages to keep the smile off her face that she feels trying to start. But when he adds, “You really couldn’t come up with a better name?”, she is useless against it anymore, and the smile comes paired with a small laugh.

“What’s so funny about that?” he asks, moving to fill the rest of the space between himself and the desk.

She begins to shake it off, ready to tell him that it was nothing, but something in his bright blue eyes makes her snap her mouth shut and reexamine this choice. She doesn’t realize that she has remained silent until his eyebrows slowly move up his forehead once more, wordlessly coaxing her to say anything.

So she does.

“It’s just… moments before you came through the elevator, I was thinking about the first day I ended up here, and I — when I heard the woman behind the counter tell me where I was, I asked her the very same thing.”

“Is that so?” he asks, the beginnings of a smile forming on his face, and it is, without a doubt, one of the most brilliant smiles she has ever seen, even half-formed. “So, what do I do here, love? Tell me more about this hotel of yours,” he says, the smile staying as he leans forward onto the counter, resting on his elbows. She realizes that one of his hands is a prosthetic, but a very technologically-advanced, real-looking one.

“Well,” she says, playing along and leaning towards him, as well — though she will absolutely refuse to admit how much she enjoys it. “This is the first stop of the afterlife. From here, you can choose to move on to the place of your choice, depending on what you believed during your life, you can wait here for your loved ones to arrive — of course, if you have loved ones waiting already, I can find them for you — or you can just… stay here.” When he says nothing, she feels the need to fill the silence that settles between them. “Do you…” she starts, but when his eyes flash up to meet hers, her breath gets caught in her throat for a moment and she needs to start over. “Is there anyone for you to wait for?” She doesn’t mean for it to, but her voice is barely a whisper, again thinking of her first day here and the fact that she had no one, either. Is that what she recognizes in this man’s eyes: loneliness? Sadness?

He shakes his head, failing to hide the way his thumb presses into his left wrist for a moment, and when his tongue flicks out of his mouth to wet his bottom lip, she finds herself oddly distracted by the movement, unable to tear her eyes away, especially when a shadow of a smile appears on those very same lips. “Afraid I only have one, and that asshole had the audacity to continue to live his life when I was taken prematurely.” Emma just nods, not entirely sure how to respond to that, though when he opens his mouth to speak again, all worries about that have faded away. “So, I can just… stay here, until my brother gets here?”

At this, Emma smiles, leaning against the counter once more. “Well, yeah. That’s the main purpose of this establishment, and if you give me your name, I can direct you to your room.”

“Of course, lass. Killian Jones, at your service,” he says, holding his hand out between them, but when she takes it, instead of shaking it, he lifts it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the edge of her knuckles.

She stills for a moment when he releases her hand before turning her attention back towards the computer as she tries her hardest to not let her response to his actions show on her face. “Emma Swan,” she breathes, typing his name into the system. Looking away from him, she misses the way his eyes widen at her revelation, his eyes falling to his still-covered right wrist resting on the counter, though he pulls himself together quickly enough to wipe the look from his face before she turns back to him.

When she sees what the screen is telling her, she is useless against the smile that spreads across her face. “Well, Mr. Jones, room 715 has been all set up for you, and you can get there with the elevator behind the desk.”

He smiles at her and moves to leave, but before he does, his eyebrows knit together, and Emma can sense a question on the tip of his tongue.

“Can I ask you something, love?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Does every person that dies come through here? Because, forgive my bluntness, love, but isn’t that a hell of a lot of people?”

She smiles at this, too, remembering that it took her close to two months in this very hotel before she even thought of the same question. But here, this gorgeous, handsome man — Killian, she reminds herself, realizing that it somehow fits him perfectly, if names can do that to people — has thought if it within his first few minutes. “You’re right,” she says, directing her smile towards him. “If everyone came through here, that would be a hell of a lot of people. But we don’t get everyone. If people have a chosen afterlife, no one to wait for, or if the person they are waiting for has already moved to a specific afterlife, they don’t come through here. Here, we only get the lost souls.”

“Well, darling,” he says, his voice just above a whisper, leaning across the counter until she can feel his warm breath on her cheek. “I’m glad being a lost soul has led me to you.”

When he winks, by far the most straightforward flirting that Emma has ever experienced, she feels her breath leave her lungs, her heart beating heavily in her chest — and then it is gone, the man backed away from the counter, the sparkle that she noticed in his eye disappeared.

“I’ll be getting to my room, then,” he says, taking another step away from the desk. “I hope to see you around, Miss Swan.” He flashes her a momentary smile before passing the desk, and she ignores her desire to turn towards him as he walks away from her, even as the bell for the elevator dings on its arrival.

“I sure hope so,” she whispers finally, only allowing herself to turn in the direction he walked in when she hears the elevator doors closing.

--/--/--

She does see him around, somehow more than she sees all the other guests at the hotel. She sees him two more times that same day, both on her lunch break and when she eats dinner with the family she has found here. Of all the places available to eat, he chooses the same one as her, not just once, but twice in one day.

As she sits between Mary Margaret and Ruby at the table, trying not to stare across the room where he is sitting against the wall, a book perched on the table under his prosthetic hand which his other holds a mug, Emma tries to ignore the mathematical improbability of the two of them being in the same place twice in one day, in an area as large as not just the Hotel, but the whole area around it.

She tries to ignore it again the next day as he’s sitting in the corner of her regular coffee shop, sitting in the same position as the night before when she shows up to get her morning coffee.

And when he is sitting on a bench in the park when she chooses to go there instead of to lunch.

(And then that same night in her dreams, but that’s not something she wants to admit to anyone, even herself.)

Three nights later, sitting at their favorite bar, Emma can’t stop her eyes from wandering to where he is sitting in the corner, his attention still on the book sitting in front of him.

“Emma, come on,” Ruby says, nudging her shoulder with her own, and Emma turns her eyes back towards her friend. “What’s gotten into you? Every time I’ve seen you this week, you’ve been distracted.”

She just shrugs, taking a sip of her beer. What would she even tell Ruby? That ever since this man fell through the elevator doors, she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him — not to mention the handful of times she has seen him since he showed up? That she has never felt as connected to anyone as she feels connected to this man, who she hasn’t even had the nerve to talk to since she first saw him? She stopped believing long ago that she would ever be able to find the same happiness that she thought she found during her life with Neal — but how would she ever admit to anyone, even her closest friend, that just being in the same room as him has been making her hopeful again?

This, of course, is when she realizes her eyes have turned towards him again, and when Ruby swivels her chair around completely to follow her gaze, the man in question raises his eyes from the book held in front of him and finds Emma’s embarrassed gaze, the corner of his lips turning up in a smile.

When Ruby turns back towards Emma, she is smiling, as well, though hers is much more malicious than Killian’s.

“Oh, he’s a hottie!” she says, perhaps a little too loudly, and it does nothing to help the blush that has already started rising up her cheeks. “Do you know who he is?”

Her eyes flit back towards the bar, her index finger slowly running around the rim of her glass. She knows she is useless against Ruby’s ability to find information, to pull her darkest secrets out with just a question and a flick of her eyebrow, so she does not even try to hide the answer to this one, though even this does not stop the sigh that escapes her lips.

“His name is Killian. He just — he just got here a few days ago.”

“Yeah, of course,” Ruby says, swiveling in her seat once more, not even trying to hide the obviousness of what she is doing. “I’ve seen him around a few times.”

“I’ve been…” she starts, then drops her eyes down to the bar, pursing her lips.

When she stays silent for a moment too long for Ruby’s liking, she begins to beat on Emma’s shoulder with her hand. “Come on, Emma, spill!”

“I’ve seen him far too much for it to be a coincidence,” she says finally, the words practically spilling from her lips, though when she does say it, it’s as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders, from letting out what she has been keeping in for the past few days.

Ruby’s eyes go wide, a smile spreading across her face. “What do you think it means, Em?”

She leans closer to her friend, allowing her eyes to flit up to Killian for a moment, relieved to see that his attention is back on his book. “At first I thought he was following me,” she admits, releasing her glass to hold her head in her hands. “But then he started already being in places I spontaneously decided to go, and I knew — it definitely wasn’t that anymore.”

Ruby’s eyes are wide when Emma finally turns towards her. “So you just keep running into this incredibly beautiful man and doing nothing about it?”

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Christ, Emma, have you even tried talking to him?”

“Well, no, but — how — “ she sputters, and Ruby reaches between them to cover Emma’s hand with her own.

“Oh, honey,” she whispers, smiling at her friend. “How long has it been since you flirted with a man?”

She presses her lips in a tight line as she tries not to think about the answer to this question. Sure, there have been a few flirtatious moments since she got to the Afterlife Hotel, but the last person she really flirted with was Neal, the man she fell in love with during her life — the man that killed her.

And what is even the point of flirting in the afterlife, when she’s already missed her chance to meet her soulmate?

In place of responding, she just shakes her head.

Ruby smiles, a soft, gentle thing, as Emma finishes her beer, Ruby flagging down the bartender for another. "I promise you, Em, it really isn't that difficult."

"No offense, Rubes, but that doesn't really make me feel any better, coming from you."

"I mean, I could always go over and flirt with him myself just to show you how it's done, if that would make you—"

Emma stops her before she can say anything else. "No, that's... that’s not necessary."

Ruby turns around once more, her eyes flitting to the handsome man in the corner. "Are you sure? Because it’s certainly a sacrifice I would be willing to make for my best friend."

"I'm definitely okay."

Ruby's shoulders visibly sag. "What a shame." When Emma has no response to this, Ruby turns back to her, taking a moment to look at her friend's face, though her attention is still on the man in the corner. A beat later, Ruby says, "You know what that means, though, right?"

When Emma finally pulls her eyes back to Ruby, the first thing she sees is the grin spreading across her face. "What?"

Ruby leans over and gently bumps her shoulder. "This means you need to go talk to him yourself."

Emma feels her cheeks redden upon understanding this. "You're sure there's no way for me to get out of this?" she asks, a shy smile forming on her face in hopes her best friend will let up.

"No chance. Either you go talk to that gorgeous specimen of a man, or I'll do it myself."

Emma takes a deep breath, then a quick gulp of her beer, before pushing herself off the stool and, beer in hand, walking across the room.

With his attention still between the covers of the book sitting in front of him on the table, he does not notice her moving towards him until she slides into the booth across from him, the cheap pleather groaning beneath her movement.

“Are you following me?” she asks, and for a moment he thinks she’s serious, until his eyes move from the pages in front of him to her smiling green eyes.

“If I remember correctly, love, I was already enjoying a nice quiet night in this pub with my rum and my book when you and your friend showed up here.”

“It’s not just here, though,” she says, not even meaning to lean towards him with her forearms on the table, but she doesn’t stop herself when she realizes this is what she does. “Have you noticed that?”

“Aye,” he says, the corner of his lips ticking up in a momentary smile. “I have noticed that you and I always seem to be in the same place at the same time.”

“And you haven’t even said anything,” she jokes, pressing her fingertips to her heart in mock indignation.

Here, he leans forward, as well, the tips of his fingers brushing against her knuckles. “Either have you,” he whispers, pausing for just a moment before he leans back against the booth behind him, which groans under the shifting weight. “What finally got you to build up the nerve?”

Emma tries her best to smile at him, but she feels the edges of her cheeks heat up as she realizes she is about to tell him the truth. “Well, my friend Ruby over there —” when she points, they both turn their attention towards her only to find that she is watching them intently from the bar. But, because she is never ashamed or embarrassed, she just smiles at them, waving her fingers in their direction as Emma continues. “—threatened to come over here and talk to you herself if I didn’t do it, and she… Well, she’s much more straightforward than I could ever be.”

“And what? You were afraid that I would be unable to combat her charms?”

“Ruby and I have been friends here for almost fifty years, and I have yet to see a man who is able to combat her charms.”

“Fifty years,” he says under his breath, then snaps his eyes up to meet hers as if he didn’t really mean to say it out loud. “Emma, if you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been down here?”

Pressing her lips together, she takes a quick sip of her beer, avoiding his eyes. “Sixty years, almost exactly,” she says softly, and she fears that he did not even hear her — until his hand covers hers on the table, a movement which causes her to raise her eyes to meet his gaze. “The day you came here was sixty years to the day,” she continues, her thumb moving gently over Killian’s hand as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

(Because, she refuses to admit, it just might be. Because, she refuses to admit, sitting here with him, the soft feel of his fingers against hers, feels like all the pieces of her world slowly moving into place — which has to be, of course, an exaggeration.)

“Sixty years is a long time.”

“See, that’s the funny thing,” she admits, trying to avoid the fact that she is about to discuss her life with a man she’s had exactly one conversation with before, a conversation that she had to have with him as part of her job. “Because I was alive on earth for half of that, and the time I spent here feels like moments compared to everything I went through when I was alive. At least here, I found myself a family, which is more than I could ever say for the time I spent there.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, though neither of them feel awkward through it. Instead, Emma feels comforted by the warmth of Killian’s skin against hers, by the soft smile that he sends in her direction the few times her eyes dare to meet his.

“Will you dance with me, Emma?” Killian asks after the moments tick into minutes. Everything in her screams to say no — to stay in her own little secluded corner instead of becoming the object of people’s attention. But still, through all the alarms blaring in her mind, none of that stops her from nodding her head to him, smiling softly as he leads them out of their booth and over to the dancefloor.

When he welcomes her into his arms, it’s almost as if the stress from her day — from the past sixty years’ worth of days — melts off of her. With the weight of his prosthetic on her back, his fingers curled gently around her own over his heart, she is able to focus on nothing but the warmth of his skin under her fingers — a feeling that she can swear is the single thing that was missing from her life.

Silence fills the space between them, Emma’s eyes somehow never leaving his even though she can swear that she’s never been more embarrassed in her life, but she can tell his face is full of questions. She has never been more sure in her life that she has wanted to kiss someone, and something in his eyes makes her believe the same is true for him.

She watches as his eyes flit down to her lips, as his tongue slowly moves along his bottom lip, but the moment he begins to lean further into her space, he stops himself and backs away instead.

“Tell me something about yourself, Swan.”

“You sure know how to change the mood,” she jokes with a smile, turning her gaze up to meet his, but when she sees the darkness that has overtaken his eyes, the deep shade of midnight blue they have become, she thinks she understands.

“Either we need to talk about something, or the occupants of this bar are going to get a show that they were not expecting when they showed up.” His words come out low, growled through clenched teeth as his hand on her back pulls her lips closer to his.

“I’m sure no one would complain about the show, nothing exciting happens around here, anyway.”

“The issue with that plan is that I was raised to be far too much of a gentleman to simply give in to desires such as these with a woman I am as interested in as you before properly courting you.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, the smirk still covering her face. “A gentleman, eh?”

“I can assure you, Swan,” he says with a smirk of his own, then leans forward so his lips are practically brushing the shell of her ear. “I am always a gentleman.” When he leans back, though, the smirk on his face has disappeared, as has the glint she swore she saw in his piercing blue eyes just moments before. “Now, tell me something about yourself that you would tell a man interested in courting you.”

“Can I ask you a question then?”

“Fact first, then you can ask whatever you want.”

“What if I want you to ask me a question instead of just spewing facts for you?”

“Is that your question?”

She hits him gently on the shoulder with the hand placed there. “Of course not.”

“If that’s the game you would like to play, then we can do it that way.”

“Ask away, then.”

“Where and when were you born?”

She feels her heart squeeze in her chest. It’s an innocent enough question, of course, and there is no way for him to know just how much it hurts her to think of that time. Of any time. “Some time around the end of October, 1929.” She swallows, taking a small breath. “And I don’t know exactly where or when I was born. I was raised in an orphanage in Boston, Massachusetts, dropped off just a few days old.”

She flicks her eyes up to his, which is a mistake, because she does not need her gaze to linger there long to notice the sadness that has flooded his eyes. “I’m sorry, that must have been terrible.”

The few times she has needed to speak of her childhood, she has shrugged it off, offered some sort of snarky comment about how it wasn’t great or could have been better, but when she goes to do the same to Killian, the words simply don’t come.

So she shrugs. A beat passes between them, and all she can do to fill the silence is ask her own question.

“What happened to your hand?”

He does not say anything at first, does not do anything — even his movements cease, stilling them for a few moments before he finally starts speaking.

“My brother and I were in the Navy. Or, well, I suppose he still is.” When she looks up at him, his eyes are set on the ceiling above them, his tongue quickly darting out of his mouth to wet his lips before he continues. “A few years ago, I was involved with an accident that happened on the base I was working on, when one of the engines malfunctioned. And, as an engineer, I was put in charge of the team that was to bring the ship to dock and fix the malfunction, but the issue wasn’t in the engine, but in one of the pieces that connect the engine to the propellers. But, as I was working with removing the propeller, the problem decided to not be a problem anymore, and the engine came back to life before I could remove my hand from where I was trying to fix it.”

He pauses, taking a deep, slow breath that he releases quickly before finally turning his gaze back to hers, though she has been watching his face the whole time. “Thankfully the Navy paid for all of it, for the replacement and the physical therapy and everything, so the technology of it is actually phenomenal, though that doesn’t make me miss the one I lost any less.”

“Of course,” she whispers, and the corner of his lips ticks up in the beginnings of a smile. A moment of silence passes between them before Emma decides to change the subject: “Your turn.”

With his dark eyebrows set low on his forehead, she can tell that he is working to think of another question. “What made you stay here for sixty years?”

“Fear,” she says quickly, then shakes her head. “At first. I never really had a family in Boston, never had anyone that would have been worth waiting for, but I was afraid of what I would find if I did decide to move on. And then Mary Margaret, the woman that was working at the desk when I got here, and her husband David, became my adopted parents, of sorts. The first family I ever had. And since I found them here, I realized that maybe this was exactly where I was supposed to be.”

This answer is much happier than the last, shown both by the smile that now covers Killian’s face, and the one she finds growing across her own.

“It might sound a little stupid, of course, but —”

“I don’t think it sounds stupid at all, Emma,” he says, his voice soft. “I think it makes perfect sense.”

There is something else there, something in his eyes that goes far beyond the words he just said, and though Emma sees it, recognizes it, she chooses to ignore it. They’re in no hurry, they have all the time in the world, she realizes, laughing as she asks him why he always brings a book with him, and the tips of his ears turn red with embarrassment when he tells her that he always wished he had more time to read, and when he got here and realized that time is all he has now, he knew that was going to be how he passed the hours. They pass a few more questions back and forth, sometimes letting minutes of silence pass between them before one of them takes their turn. Before too long, most of the bar has left them behind, and with a few stragglers spread across the long marble bar, they are some of the last patrons for the night.

“Can I ask you about him?” he asks finally, his voice soft, almost as if he was afraid to ruin the feel of the room around them. When she turns his attention up to him, hoping to search his face to make sure he is asking what she thinks he is, his eyes are turned down to the floor between them.

“He wasn’t…” she starts, laughing to herself for a moment before she continues. “There’s not much to say. He wasn’t who he said he was, and he wasn’t… he wasn’t the right one, alright?”

“You fell for the wrong one,” he says, and it’s not a question. When he finally raises his eyes to meet hers, she pushes down the idea that the blue of them is somehow filled with understanding.

“Yeah,” she breathes.

“Me too.”

She doesn’t expect it, was not going to ask about his soulmate, and she has no idea how to respond.

“She lied to me about so many things, didn’t tell me that she was already married, and then she — Christ, she… she shot me. She killed me. Everything went dark for just a second, and then I was — I was in the lobby here, with an absolutely perfect angel standing in front of me.”

“Oh, come on,” she jokes, hitting his shoulder lightly before leading her hand back to meet his. But instead of taking her hand again, he lets go of her to reach down and pull the sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow.

All of the air in the room leaves, including what was in her lungs. It’s the last thing she expected to see, had never even heard of soulmates who met each other in the afterlife, something she had led herself to believe was impossible. But there, right before her, is all the evidence she needs to know that not all hope had been lost for her yet. Right there, tattooed on the wrist Killian still has, is her name, her “Swan.”

“How long have you known?” she asks, but because she still has not regained the ability to breathe, she finds herself reaching to splay her hands against his chest, stopping herself from collapsing. It’s been years since she last swam, but she vaguely remembers the feeling of drowning, of water filling up her mouth, her throat. If she’s remembering it correctly, that is exactly what she feels right now.

“I had an idea when you first introduced yourself to me, but when I kept seeing you around, I was really hoping that it would be you.” Everything drops out from around her. She's not drowning anymore. She's floating, only anchored to the ground by the warmth of his hard chest under her hands.

"Why haven't you said something? Why did you even allow me to go through this whole night just talking to you?"

He sighs, an embarrassed smile growing across his face. "I needed to know. I needed to be sure that you were interested in me beyond my name on your wrist, because that's how Mi — that was all she cared about." His words are careful, proof that he has been thinking about this, worrying about this — but it is the sincerity awash in his pale blue eyes that really gets to her. "I needed you to like me for me, needed you to like Killian Jones before you knew that maybe I was the one with your name on my wrist, the one who went through my entire life on Earth wondering who 'Swan' was, wondering when I would find her. The one I thought about when I realized what I had with Milah was fake."

"Killian," she breathes, not even meaning to sway closer into his space, but she does anyway — until she realizes something “That means…” she trails off, pulling the sleeve of her own sweater up to reveal the scribbles that she stopped really caring about when she was 22, that she wondered why the world was cruel enough to give her without ever giving her the chance to care about them, up until those very last minutes. “That means these scribbles are yours.”

“Aye,” he whispers, leaning forward to press his forehead against hers, his arms wrapping around her waist. “Those are, in fact, my scribbles,” he jokes, smiling at her.

And then the feel of his arms around her is nothing compared to the perfect feel of their lips meeting, to the comfort that she finds when he slides his tongue against hers.

Nothing compared to the warmth of his body against hers when the elevator finally deposits them outside their neighboring doors and he pulls her inside his and pushes her against the door, as he presses soft kisses along as much of her skin as he can reach, his lips following his hands as he starts to memorize every inch of her. Nothing compared to the way he worships her body and soul together the way that only a true soulmate can before she collapses beside him and curls up under the covers of his bed.

However, when she wakes beside him the next morning, and for every subsequent morning after that, his hand heavy on her hip and his breath hot on her back, she can swear that she has never felt more complete in her life — or her death — then she does here, spending the rest of eternity beside her soulmate.

#cssns #cssns 2019 #captain swan #cs fics #my writing #cs ff #the afterlife hotel #love after death #soulmates au #afterlife au

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