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differentkettleoffishalltogether · 3 years

Text

A Lick of Paint

Summary: Spencer has no idea his best friend is harboring a secret talent

A/N: This was is one-shot request from a little while ago! I hope you guys enjoy it

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Artist!Reader)

Category: Fluff & Smut

Warnings/Includes: smut, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, riding, paint is involved (but it doesn’t go anywhere it shouldn’t), please let me know if there’s anything I’ve missed!

Word count: 3.6k

Request: “Would u do one where it’s a fem!reader x spencer (smut or fluff what ever feels right) where they’re best friends and the reader is very private and one day spencer comes over to her apartment and sees that she’s a really talented painter/drawer/artist ? Thank u!!”

Masterlist

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He didn’t have a crush on her. No way. She was just his best friend, nothing more. Just his best friend who he thought about all the time, his best friend who he knew everything about, who he couldn't wait until tomorrow to see.

They got in from their latest case at half past midnight, he was a night owl, and he knew she was too, so why would she mind him showing up uninvited? He hadn’t seen her in 15 days and he probably could wait one more, but he really didn't want to.

Showing up at her door after 1am with a bottle of wine and some snacks he took a minute to run his fingers through his hair and straighten out his shirt before he knocked on the door. He could hear a rustling from the other side, and he could see the light shifting about beneath the door frame. So she was home, and she was awake, and he was trying to suppress his eager little smile.

“You can’t keep calling over this late Mrs. Warner! I don’t have any of your mail—Spencer!” she says it in a little yelp as she pulls the door completely open. And she's standing in front of him in nothing but an oversized button up shirt, her hair’s all messy around her head and there’s a little pencil tucked behind her ear.

He’s not really sure what’s going on but he’s sure that he likes it.

“Just me” he pulls his lips into a small smile and gives a tiny little wave with his free hand, shaking the bottle of wine in his other. “I hope I’m not intruding, we just got in earlier than I thought we would and I figured you’d still be up”

As he’s explaining she’s shutting the door slightly again, hiding her body behind it just a little. And even if he wasn’t a profiler he’d know she was uncomfortable, so he starts to shake his head.

“You know what, don’t worry about it! I can come back another time— or I can— I can give you some space if you need it? This was a stupid idea anyway, I should go— I’m gonna go!” he knows he sounds stupid, he’s a rambling mess but before he can properly retreat she’s swinging the door open fully again, reaching out for him and just grabbing him by the strap of his satchel.

“No Spencer wait! I’m happy to see you, I really am” she pulls him to the doorway, letting him step inside. “It’s just— messy? And you haven’t seen my apartment like this before” she’s rushing it out once he gets inside, placing her hands on his shoulders to try and spin him around before he can catch a glimpse of the state of her living room.

“Just gimme a second to tidy—”

“Do you— are you an artist?” he’s not even listening to her anymore, he’s completely fixed on the pages and sketchbooks all scattered around her living room. The sofa is pulled back to create space for the huge canvas that’s spread out all over the floor. Paints and brushes all lined up next to it.

“No!” she shakes her head, “Well not really, I just, I draw sometimes, and paint I guess? But it’s just for me” she’s still got her hands on his shoulders, trying to turn him around in spite of the fact that he’s already seen everything she was trying to hide. Or had managed to keep hidden until now.

“You never told me?” he just looks confused now more than anything, but his eyes are still blown wide as he starts to walk towards the area of the room covered in her materials.

“It’s really nothing Spencer, I didn’t want to tell you, because then you’d want to see, and then I wouldn’t want to show you, or I would show you, and then you’d hate it, and you’d just tell me you liked it to be nice, and I can tell when you’re lying Spencer, and I couldn’t handle that. So yeah, I didn’t tell you. But I haven't told anyone.” she’s not looking at him when she speaks anymore, her hands are just wrapped tight around her body protectively. This felt like she was so entirely exposed.

She had only kept two secrets from him all these years. Her art. And her unending infatuation for him. How could she not let him in when he showed up at her front door so excited, and looking so cute in his little sweater with his messy curls.

“Hey” he reaches out, placing a gentle hand on her forearm, coaxing her to unwrap them. So they fall to her sides and she feels even more exposed now. “If you want me to go, I’ll go. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay. If you want me to stand out in the hall while you hide all of this stuff, and then we pretend none of this happened, I’ll get comfy out there right now. But I just need you to know that I love you very much, and I’d support anything you ever choose to do. And I know what I want shouldn't factor in, but for what it’s worth, I would like to see some of your work— It doesn't have to be now! But just, if you ever wanted to show me anything, I’d love to see it.”

She can feel how earnest the words are, and she knew he loved her, but it was always so nice to hear it out loud, coming from those gorgeous pink lips. She wants to speak but the words feel like they’re almost caught in her throat when she looks up at him, she has to force them out.

“I’ll show you” she breathes, “I want to show you”

His eyebrows shoot up as she speaks, “I didn't mean— you don’t have to!” he rushes out as she goes to fetch one of her sketchbooks from the ground, handing it to him.

“I want to, honestly. If someones going to see this stuff, I want it to be you” once the sketchbook’s in his grip and out of her hands completely she walks away from him, going to sit on the ground next to the canvas. Right where she’d been sitting when he knocked on the door earlier.

Neither of them say a word while he goes through it page by page. It doesn't occur to her that she’s not sure which one she handed him until she can hear footsteps approaching her from behind.

When he sits down beside her he’s got the sketchbook open to a double spread and she recognizes it instantly.

“Are these drawings of me?” he asks, and it’s almost a whisper, like he doesn’t want to scare her. But she nods.

“Um, yeah. There’s actually a bunch of you in these sketchbooks. Your bone structure is just— I don't know— it’s nice to look at” his lips curve up in a small smile at that.

“You think I’m nice to look at?” he teases and she rolls her eyes,

“From an artistic perspective, you're interesting” she tries to walk it back.

“So now I’m just interesting?” he asks, a little smug now that he can tell she’s nervous.

“That’s not what I said!” he starts to chuckle then, closing the notebook and placing it down on the ground behind him.

“Relax, I’m messing with you, and for what it’s worth I think you’re nice to look at too. From any perspective” those few words make her forget where she is completely, they make her feel an entirely different kind of worry than the one she’d been experiencing earlier.

“And I love your work. You said you could tell when I was lying, am I lying?” he’s looking straight into her eyes as he speaks, and she can feel the way her heart is palpitating.

“No, you’re, uh, you're telling the truth” she shakes her head, but his eyes stay focused on her.

“What’s going on this canvas then?” he asks with a smile, and she breaks the eye contact so she can grab another one of her notebooks to show him some of the thumbnails she’d drawn for it.

“This is the idea, I think I need to practice it on something smaller though, just to get a feel for it” she explains as she points to the different shapes on the page, but then Spencer gets an idea.

“Use me” he says, and she just looks at him perplexed, “You said I was interesting, use me as your canvas?” he pulls off his cardigan as he speaks, rolling up his shirt sleeves to expose his bare arms.

“Spencer, I meant like, a smaller sheet or something, not your arm!” she’s laughing it off, mostly because being in close contact like that with him would probably break her.

“Well use my back then” he says it like it’s obvious, taking off his tie, then unbuttoning his shirt from the top, getting to the third button before she reaches out to stop him.

“You don’t have to do that” she says it with a laugh, like her heart’s not beating out of her chest from the little glimpse of bare skin she can see through the open part of his shirt.

He looks straight into her eyes as he speaks, “I want to.” the words settle in the air between them and they come to a silent agreement. Her hands falling from his so that he can undo the rest of his buttons, shrugging out of his shirt so that she can see his bare torso.

He sits like that for a second, awaiting instructions.

“Um, you should lie down on your front” she says, gesturing to the canvas laid out on the ground, “Wait!” she calls out as he moves to lie down, “You should probably take off your trousers? I don’t wanna get paint on them or anything”

It’s the truth really, but it still feels silly to say out loud. Luckily he just laughs a little and takes them off, but the little clinking sound his belt makes does something to her breathing.

By the time he’s laying face down on the canvas, his head resting on his folded arms, she’s got her materials all lined up next to her. She kneels down beside him, but as she's about to start it occurs to her that this is the complete wrong angle to start the piece. And she knows where she needs to sit, but she’s got no idea how to ask.

“Spencer— I can’t really— this angle is a bit, um…” she stutters

“Maybe you should sit on me?” he asks, uncharacteristically calm, maybe it was the way her voice kept going up an octave, or how fast her heart had been beating almost this entire time, but something made him realize that he wasn’t the nervous one here for maybe the first time since he’d known her.

“You would— You don't mind?” she asks before even moving, and he smiles to himself.

“How could I?”

With that she climbs in top of him, resting a leg either side of his hips. She’s painfully aware that the only thing separating them now is the thin layer of each of their underwear. But she pushes the thought aside as she gets to work.

Spencer’s quiet and well behaved for most of it, only remarking every now and again when the paint was cold against his skin, or when he had to move just a little. All in all she’s finished within an hour.

“Are you finished?” he asks, his eyes closed, relaxing beneath her as she worked. There was something almost therapeutic about the feeling of the brushstrokes against his skin. But he hadn’t felt one for 3 whole minutes now.

“Yeah, sorry, I was just admiring it” she says, “I’ll take a picture for you” she reaches for her phone, snapping a quick photo. Then she sits up off of him and he misses the weight of her on top of him instantly.

When he sits up she sits down opposite him, handing over the phone so that he can take a look at the painting that adorned his back. He almost couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. The delicate lines, the striking colors, the perfect hands that had painted it.

“This is— I don’t even have the words” he says it in a hushed whisper, “I love it so much” she knows he’s telling the truth again, his eyes don't even look up from the screen to see her reaction, they’re still completely transfixed on the photo. When he does look up he’s smiling.

“Am I telling the truth?” he asks and she nods, but something about her nervous little expression, coupled with her sky-rocketing heart rate gives him the confidence he’s needed for years.

“What if I told that I’ve liked you for a very long time? Would I be telling the truth about that?” his smile is gone, instead it’s replaced with half-lidded eyes and softly parted lips.

For a second she’s not even sure if this is really happening, her eyes trail along his bare torso, taking in the tiny bits of paint that made it down his sides. When her eyes come back up to look in his own, still trained on her she can’t even speak, instead she’s lunging at him, pulling him in by the back of the neck and crashing their lips together.

She parts hers after a moment, allowing Spencer to slip his tongue inside, tangling with her own as his hands fly out to grab her by the waist, pulling her into his lap. When they break apart their chests are heaving, breathing ragged, staring straight into each others eyes.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long” he gasps before his lips are on hers again, hungry and eager.

Her hands start to roam all over his body, soothing over the planes of his skin, digging her fingernails in every now and again, forcing a little moan out of Spencer each time. When he finally grows too impatient his fingers start to work open the buttons on her oversized shirt.

After a minute he’s managed to get them all open and he can pull the shirt apart. As it slouches off of her shoulders he can see her underwear, it’s mismatched and there’s something endearing about it. The fact that neither of them anticipated this. But that was probably for the best, if he knew this is what he was going to do tonight his nerves would’ve gotten the better of him.

His hands are on her immediately, grabbing her breasts over the light cotton fabric, squeezing them gently as he presses his mouth against her neck, planting soft kisses all along it. She takes the time to shrug out of the shirt completely, and his hands snake behind her to unhook her bra and pull it off. Exposing her breasts completely for just a second before his mouth is on them. Cupping one in each hand and placing rough, sloppy kisses all over the soft skin as she moans above him.

“Spencer” she says it with a little gasp as his lips wrap around one of her nipples, just the sound of his name tumbling from her lips was enough to make him hard.

“I need you” she whimpers, and he's gone, bringing one of his hands down between her legs, ghosting over the crotch of her panties to feel the damp patch that had formed there.

“You’re so wet for me” he breathes against her ear, pushing one of his fingers harshly against the fabric, right against her clit, forcing another moan from deep in her chest.

“Fuck, I’ve been wet since I climbed on top of you” she moans, “I was worried you were gonna be able to feel it” she says with a breathy laugh.

“If I’d have been able to feel this,” he says, rubbing small circles over her panties, “then you wouldn’t have gotten to finish that painting”

Once he takes his fingers away she pushes him down by his shoulders, finally straddling the other side of his hips like she’d been thinking about doing for the past hour, or past several years. But he lets out a small yelp of protest.

“The painting!” he says as his back collides with the canvas but she chuckles.

“Fuck the painting” she leans in planting feverish kisses all along the expanse of his neck, sucking and biting in spots so that they’d hopefully leave little bruises later on.

From there they both give up on trying to preserve any of the art on Spencer’s back. Within a matter of minutes it was smeared all along the canvas beneath them. Along with some of the paint one, or both of them, had managed to knock over.

He’s not sure exactly how it happened but at one point he grips her waist and leaves a blue hand print along her skin from the paint he’d managed to put his palm in. When she catches sight of it she just lets out a small laugh.

“I don’t care” she says, when he’s looking up at her with just the smallest hint of worry, “As long as it doesn't get inside me we’re alright”

Before they get too messy she sits up off of him for a minute, taking off her panties and using them to wipe off the little bit of paint that had somehow ended up next to Spencer’s bottom lip. He lets out a small gasp as she traces the fabric along his skin and mutters a tiny, “Good as new” in her sultry sweet voice.

And then her lips are on his again as one of her hands snakes down in-between them to pull at the waistband of his boxers, she gets them down far enough to pull his cock out so that it was right in front of her. He was already achingly hard but something about the size of if in her nimble fingers made him twitch in her grip, leaking from the head with the anticipation.

“God, the things I want to do to you” she gasps as she pumps him up and down in long last strokes, squeezing every now and again as he squirmed underneath her, “But right now I need you inside me Spencer”

With that she rises up on her knees, hovering over him and lining his cock up right between her legs. She takes a second to tease him, running the head through her folds, so that he could feel and hear just how wet she was for him. Once he looks like he can’t take even one more second of the teasing she lowers her hips slowly, sinking down onto his length bit by bit. Right until her hips were flush with his own and he was buried completely inside of her.

They both had to take a minute to savor the feeling. The way she was so wet and warm around him, so tight that he could feel the way she clenched around him.

The way he stretched her out so perfectly, filling her up in a way that made her think they might actually be made for each other.

And then she starts to move, pumping her hips up and down, leaning forward slightly so that she can rest her hands on his flushed chest for support. She starts off slow, almost at a teasing pace, taking him in as deep as she could each time.

“You feel even better than I imagined” he mutters, his hands coming up to grab her hips, leaving another set of handprints in their wake. “So perfect”

She leans down a little further so that she can place a small kiss on his lips.

“God, you do to! Didn’t know it could feel this good” she moans without really thinking about it, and then she realizes it’s the truth. Something about the anticipation made all of this feel so much better than it ever had with anyone else.

With his hands guiding her now, gripping her harshly, she starts to move faster. Working up and down with more force, both of them panting and moaning desperately as they grew closer and closer.

He’d dreamt about it, imagined it, thought about it, more times than he’d care to admit. But seeing her now, on top of him with her lips softly parted, little whines falling out of her as she hit her climax, he realized his mind could never do this justice.

“Fuck! Ah— Spencer, I’m gonna—” her hips slow to almost a stop, working up and down still but with staggered movements as she rides out her high. Thankfully Spencer’s only a second behind her and she can feel the way he's spilling inside of her, filling her up completely. Then she collapses flat onto his chest, both of them are covered in a sheen of sweat that almost makes their bare skin stick together.

“You’re covered in paint you know” is the first thing Spencer says, his fingers tracing along her back.

“You’re one to talk” she jokes, dragging her finger through the streak of red paint that had gotten on his neck somehow.

Then he finally turns his head, looking at the spilled and smeared paint that lay around them on the once bare canvas.

“I thought you needed this canvas for that painting?” he asks, but she just looks up at him with a smile.

“I think this turned out better”

– –

Comments, reblogs, and tags are always appreciated, I love you all x

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ncssian · 3 years

Text

A Favor: Part Fourteen

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: my quickest AND longest update to date?? who am i??

merry christmas for real this time. thank you sm for reading i never voice my appreciation for yall but it’s there i swear

tw: abuse mention

***

Cassian’s plan to grab his stuff and get the hell back home is intercepted by Feyre, who pulls him aside and proceeds to spill everything about her fight with Nesta to him.

His heart hurts for Feyre—he of all people knows what it’s like to feel unwanted by your biological family. But what did she really think would happen? Their entire friend group is about placing chosen bonds over blood bonds. Feyre can’t be that offended if Nesta prefers the company of her friends over her little sisters. And trying to talk to Nesta about her therapy? Jesus.

But Cassian has a feeling it’ll take both Feyre and Elain a long spelling out of things before they can begin to understand Nesta the way he does, and he doesn’t have time for that right now. He’s too distracted to even provide the comfort Feyre came to him for.

Somehow, he makes up an excuse and detaches himself from the conversation, leaving to find his coat and keys. Azriel spies him on the way to the door and gives him a look.

“Not a fucking word,” Cassian growls as he passes. Everyone else is engrossed in a game of poker and getting progressively more drunk. Feyre now sits on Rhys’s lap, once again content. Azriel only smirks but shakes his head, letting Cassian slip out of the penthouse unnoticed.

He takes the long way home, needing the night air and flashing headlights to clear his head. Once he gets off the freeway leading to town, though, he picks up his phone and calls Nesta.

She doesn’t pick up.

On the fourth call that goes unanswered, Cassian gives up. Fine. She doesn’t want to talk to him tonight. But still he finds himself driving past her neighborhood, once, twice, as if he’s listless without being able to talk to her. He has too many feelings he needs to get off his chest, and she’s the first person he always goes to for those things.

Try to consider her feelings.

It’s that thought that forces him to turn around and drive back to the cabin. They’ll both feel better in the morning, anyway. He can find her and talk as soon as the day starts.

It’s past midnight when he finally pulls up to the driveway, and still he’s disappointed to not see Nesta’s car there. Still he’s disappointed to enter an empty cabin.

The Christmas tree they decorated together sits unlit in the corner of the living room, their presents untouched under the fir leaves. Without turning the lights on, Cassian trudges upstairs and heads straight to bed.

Any sleep he finds is short and restless. His eyes shut sometime around three in the morning, and when they next open, early dawn light is streaming in through the windows. Snow flurries gently against the glass.

Giving up on the prospect of genuine rest, Cassian accepts that he’ll have to seek out Nesta with dark circles and a half-functioning brain today.

He already has a list in his mind as he heads downstairs: get coffee and breakfast for Nesta, get dressed, be at her door by the time she wakes at nine.

Then he reaches the foot of the stairs, and realizes none of that is necessary.

Straight out of his dreams, Nesta is sitting cross-legged on the ground before the coffee table, inspecting a puzzle piece in the cutest sweater he’s ever seen.

Cassian freezes with his hand on the banister, wondering if he’s still asleep. He watches her bite her lip intently, trying to fit the puzzle piece into a corner of the puzzle. It doesn’t fit.

“Fuck,” she swears softly, tossing the piece aside. Cassian clears his throat.

Nesta’s head shoots up, her focus broken. “You’re awake.”

“You’re in my house,” he says dumbly.

“That’s what the key you gave me is for, isn’t it?”

Hesitantly, like he’s approaching a wounded bear, Cassian walks farther into the living room. “Are you—I mean, are we…?”

“Use your words, baby.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. She doesn’t seem upset. There’s so much he wants to ask her: did she sleep well? Where did she get her Christmas sweater from, and does it mean she’s secretly been a fan of Christmas all along? Does she want hot chocolate or coffee with her breakfast?

“How was your night?” he settles on. He moves to sit across from her at the coffee table.

“Find where this goes,” Nesta demands, handing him a new puzzle piece and pointing to their nearly finished puzzle.

Cassian obeys, and Nesta talks while he works. “I was pretty pissed when I got home last night,” she says. “I wanted to tell you all about this stupid fight I had with my boyfriend, and how I knew he was right but I was still furious at him, until I remembered that you were my boyfriend, and I didn’t want to see you.”

Cassian pretends to focus on the puzzle, letting Nesta get her words out.

“So Gwyn called to say thank you for her present—you were right, by the way, she loves it—and then we ended up talking the whole night, and I told her everything about my sisters and,” she waves a hand, “the other shit.

“And at one point I realized that I was telling her the stuff I needed to be telling you. So I came here as soon as I hung up with Gwyn.”

Cassian looks up. “When was that?”

Nesta shrugs. “Five in the morning?”

“Nesta,” he scolds. “You’ll fuck up your sleep cycle.”

“Will you let me get to my point, damn it?”

Cassian shuts up and sits back.

Nesta is staring down at the puzzle, fiddling with her fingernails. Carefully selecting her next words like an attorney would. “I wanted to apologize for—the things I said last night. I was projecting my insecurities onto you, and I’m sure you already know it, but that doesn’t make it okay.” She looks up, face serious. “My sisters and I bring out the worst in each other. We always have. But I let that affect how I treated you when you had nothing to do with it.”

“But you were right.” Cassian can’t stay quiet anymore. “I mean, a lot of what you said was wrong, but at the heart of your point you were right.” It took Cassian all night to sift through what Nesta had said, to separate the truth from the meaningless words of hurt. He finally sees it now.

“I should have watched out for you last night, even if I couldn’t claim you as my girlfriend. I know how you are in new environments with new people and I left you to the wolves.” The wolves are his most trusted friends, sure, but they aren’t Nesta’s. And he was an idiot to forget it.

Nesta fixes another puzzle piece into place, and for the first time this morning, true regret passes over her face. “I didn’t enjoy hurting you. I hated every second of it while I was doing it. So as long as you know I didn’t mean any of it, I’ll be fine.”

We were good distractions for each other in your lonely little cabin, but deep down you know we wouldn’t last a day in the real world.

You were sad and desperate for acknowledgement when we first met, and you’re the same way now.

Cassian nods once. “I know,” he says softly. “You could never lie to me.” Even if some of her words had struck a little truer than they should have. Cassian realizes bitterly it’s because her insecurities are the same as his.

“So are you going to tell me about what the real problem was yesterday?” He dares to broach the elephant in the room.

Nesta stiffens, refocusing on the puzzle to avoid his gaze. “I already told you,” she says. “My sisters and I bring out the worst in each other.”

“There’s more to it than that, though.” When Nesta doesn’t respond, he adds, “Feyre told me her side of the story. It probably wasn’t all of it, but if it makes you feel better, I agreed with you.”

Nesta snorts derisively. “She was being unreasonable, but I made it worse. You know that, don’t you?” She raises a brow. “You know how I am.”

Cassian remembers their screaming match from the time he tried to get her a doctor’s appointment, and oddly enough, smiles. “I know you hate it,” he says, “and I know it’s frustrating as hell, but people stop taking your arguments seriously when you start flinging insults. It probably isn’t fair, but you’ve been in a courtroom. You know how it works.”

Nesta grimaces. “Believe me, the future lawyer in me is not proud of how I held up in last night’s fight.”

“Right there.” Cassian slides a section of green pieces over to himself and fits them into place, completing the rolling hills of the landscape scene. There’s only a handful of pieces left, all in the sky area. He waits for Nesta to be ready to speak.

After several moments of working in silence, she says, “My sisters have never really accepted me the way I am. I used to think Elain did back when we were kids, but then I stopped prioritizing her and she stopped understanding.”

Cassian knows Elain is pissed that her once-closest sister no longer cares to talk to her. But what he wants to know is why Nesta stopped answering her calls. Why she pulled away and went into isolation, and wouldn’t come out for anyone until a few short months ago.

Nesta clears her throat. “I was not a well-adjusted kid. I’m not a well-adjusted adult, either, but—I was even worse in my youth. I had a deadbeat dad, who I hated while my sisters adored him. I hated the life we had to live because of him, and I let that hate seep everywhere. Into everything and everyone else.” She blows out a breath and shakes her head. “There was no place closer to hell than that fucking one-bedroom apartment. I hated the person I was in that place—like I had no control over my emotions, my tantrums, my entire self. I was stuck in this childlike state of rage and I couldn’t move on, couldn’t grow up.

“No one could figure out what was wrong with me, so I had to take care of my issues myself. I read more books, I went out more often, I always had headphones in—I learned how to escape. I learned how to limit the destruction. Once I did that, I could care for Elain more openly. I could have civil conversations with Feyre, too. That’s where we went wrong, I think. I gave Feyre hope that I could be a better person, and once she latched onto it, she refused to let go.” Nesta picks at the sleeves of her knit sweater. “She never understood that I was cold and removed just because I was. She always had this belief that deep down, I secretly had a heart of gold and a shit ton of love to give. I never bothered telling her she was wrong, so her expectations of me grew. And so did Elain’s. And then I graduated high school.” She shrugs.

Cassian frowns. “That’s when you left your family and moved here?”

She nods. “The distance helped. For a short time, I thought I was free. No responsibilities or people to answer to. But then I met Tomas—my ex—and Feyre and Elain followed me to Colorado not long after my dad died. And even then I stayed optimistic, because most people would be lucky to have their sisters and boyfriend all in the same place. I thought I could finally have all the relationships a normal person my age was supposed to have if I just put in the effort.” She meets Cassian’s eyes. “I never told you much about Tomas, did I?”

His stomach sinks, but he shakes his head.

“It was not a fun first love. But the only reason I didn’t tell you about it earlier was because I didn’t know how to describe it myself.” She rubs her palms down her thighs, but it isn’t enough to hide their tremble.

“I know what to call it now,” Nesta says. “It was abusive.”

Cassian says nothing. He can’t. But his hands curl into hard fists under the coffee table.

“Lana made me work up to using that word.” She rolls her eyes, like the whole thing annoys and embarrasses her. “He was abusive: physically, verbally, emotionally. I’m not going to go into the details or anything, but it’s what was happening to me during those college years that my sisters needed me to be there for them.”

Cassian would never in a thousand years ask Nesta for information she isn’t ready to give, but in that moment he’s overwhelmed with the need to know everything—every little thing that’s ever been done to her, so he can draw up a list and exact calculated revenge for all of it. His voice is rough against the lump in his throat, out of fury or despair he doesn’t know. “Nesta…”

“I promise I’m almost done.” She holds up a hand.

Take your time. Tell me everything.

“This isn’t about him,” Nesta says. “This is about my sisters. Because even if I hadn’t been stupid enough to let that man waste almost four years of my life, I would have ended up in the same place with Feyre and Elain. They’d still be disappointed when they realized I couldn’t be what they wanted me to be.” She wraps her arms around herself in a hug, and Cassian wishes he’d sat beside her so those could be his arms.

She shakes her head. “I did my best so I wouldn’t be cooped up with them, wouldn’t be lashing out at them… and it still wasn’t enough. They wanted me to be nice, friendly, talkative. So I tried doing that too, even though I hated it. But around the same time things with Tomas started to get unbearable, Feyre found Rhysand and you guys. So now I had to hang out with my sister while she had a group of strangers constantly surrounding her, and go back home to a man who hated me at the end of the day.” She looks up at Cassian then, and her blue-gray gaze hits him with the force of a truck. “As soon as Feyre moved away to Velaris, I saw my way out. I finally broke up with Tomas. I gave up on all my relationships and I let go, and I don’t care if you or anyone else thinks it’s pathetic, or the bare minimum. It’s all I had to give.”

Cassian swallows roughly, unable to find his words. “It’s not pathetic, Nesta,” he finally says. “There’s nothing pathetic about doing what doesn’t come easily to you.”

There’s a million other things he needs to say to her, to make sure that she knows she isn’t stupid, or embarrassing, or not enough. But it all floats right out of his head when she heaves a big, dramatic sigh, as if a great weight has been lifted off her chest. As if Cassian’s measly words were all she needed to hear to feel alright.

She snatches up the final remaining puzzle piece and clicks it into place. “And we’re done,” she declares.

Cassian looks down at the table between them, which is now fully lit by the beaming morning sun outside. His eyes land on an empty space near the corner of the landscape, and his face falls. “There’s a piece missing,” he says.

“No way, where?” Nesta leans closer.

Cassian is already on his hands and knees, checking under and around the table for the missing piece.

“This is all your fault,” Nesta is saying above him. “You bumped into the table that time we were making out and all those pieces went flying.”

“Well, how fucking far could it have gone? Help me find it.” He’s serious now, searching the floor with intent. They can’t leave the puzzle unfinished. It was the only thing he could find in his garage all those months ago that could distract Nesta from anticipating her MRI results. And after the diagnosis, it had been a way to lift her mood, to give the two of them an excuse to spend every evening together—

“Sweetheart, it’s just a puzzle.”

Cassian sits up straight at that. “Just a puzzle?” He narrows his eyes at her.

“Well, it’s either that or an overextended metaphor for our relationship—are you crying?”

“No.” He blinks quickly. If there’s wetness there, he doesn’t know how Nesta glimpsed it.

He’s had a hard twelve hours. Nesta even more so. “I just feel really bad, about last night and everything else.” Because even if she acts like what she just spilled to him isn’t a big deal, he’ll never forget it.

He looks up to find Nesta laughing. Hand-over-her-mouth cackling. Before he can ask what’s wrong with her, she’s climbing up onto the coffee table, breaking up the puzzle and sending pieces scattering as she crawls across it. “Nesta—” he starts to protest.

She drops into his lap, winding her arms and legs around his powerful body. And she leans in and kisses him, long and deep and sweet. His hands settle into the curve of her hips, where they’ve always fit perfectly.

She breaks the kiss to fit her palm to his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she says. She never says that. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.” Her lips quirk up teasingly, but real guilt from the night before lingers in her eyes. Cassian realizes in that moment that Nesta could never hurt anybody more than she hurts herself.

“Don’t waste your apologies on me.” He nudges her nose with his. “Save them for people who’ll actually need to hear them.”

A real smile starts to bloom on her face. “I’ll try.”

Pride and love take his breath away, but he manages to say, “Thank you. For sharing so much of yourself with me.”

She makes an embarrassed noise and waves him off, but emotion shines in her eyes. Just to spare her, Cassian changes the subject. “Now what in the world are you wearing?”

She glances down at herself, frowning. “You don’t like it?”

“I love it.” The sweater looks hand knit, bright red with a green Christmas tree in the center. Balls of colorful fuzz decorate the tree as ornaments. “I want you to wear it every day,” he says.

“Over my dead body. I’d rather you help me take it off.”

Nesta’s hips feel especially snug against his as heat rushes to his crotch. She smirks like she caught him on a hook and leans in to whisper, “You look tired. Did you stay up thinking about my dress last night?”

Cassian swallows roughly. It might have crossed his mind a few times—not just the dress, but the fact that she had picked it out for him. He didn’t know that Nesta cared about things like that.

She rubs a thumb under his weary and reddened eyes. “After your anger faded, did you think about all the make-up sex we were going to have? Because I did.”

“Nesta,” he groans, dropping his head to rest against her chest. Either she plays him too well or he’s too easy to play, because Cassian is half a second away from damning everything to hell and dragging her to the living room carpet.

Until Nesta’s stomach growls loudly.

That’s when he remembers: it’s Christmas morning, he’s with the love of his life, and they’re both starving and sleep-deprived.

He looks up to find her eyes screwed shut in frustration. Before she can protest, he warns, “Don’t even think about it.” He pats her thighs. “Let’s get some food in you.”

***

Cassian makes them chocolate chip pancakes, and Nesta, feeling clingier than usual today, hangs piggyback off his body the entire time he cooks. She hasn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours, yet she feels like she was born anew this morning.

In the middle of breakfast, Cassian’s phone vibrates. He hardly even glances at it before turning it over.

“Who was it?” Nesta asks through a mouthful of pancakes. She hasn’t asked him about how his own night went, but she expects that his friends will want to call and talk to him at some point today.

“Feyre,” he says without looking at her. “She asked where I went last night.”

“Why’re you ignoring her?” She raises a brow.

Cassian looks a little surprised. “I thought we were mad at her.”

“No.” Nesta sets her fork down. “I’m mad at her. What’s your excuse?”

He shrugs. “Solidarity. I’m mad that you had your Christmas Eve ruined. I know what it took you just to show up there.”

“You’re the only one that knows.” Nesta supposes that not everything has been cleared up with Cassian after all. “Listen,” she tries to soften her blunt tone. “Whatever is between me and my sisters… you don’t need to concern yourself with it. You’ll never have to choose sides between us.”

He watches her closely, carefully. “Even if I want to defend my girlfriend?”

Her stomach flutters at that inconsequential word, but she doesn’t show it. “Even then. Feyre looks at you like an older brother. I’m sure Elain does too, a little bit. Don’t let me get in the way of that.” He probably feels guilty every time he texts Feyre, the loyal bastard.

Cassian looks at his plate, then nods resolutely. “I can do that.” He adds a moment later, “For what it’s worth, I do get where the girls are coming from. Even if they had a shit way of going about it.” His eyes darken as he remembers.

Nesta doesn’t know what he was told about the fight, but she chuckles at his moody face anyway. “I expected you to. You’ve always loved spending time with your family, and you’ve never known anything different. But the reality is this: the closeness you have between you and your brothers isn’t something that can be forced onto every group of siblings. And the more Feyre and Elain try to force it, the more I push against it.”

“It sounds stifling.” His face is open, understanding. “To feel like you’re always too much but never enough.”

Nesta pauses, stunned. Cassian is almost too empathetic sometimes, like he carries a thousand past lives within him. Maybe he spent his time learning Nesta by heart in those lives.

Or maybe she’s getting too damn sentimental. She chokes out a dismissive laugh, going back to her pancakes. “Just text Feyre back. Then we can have the rest of the day to ourselves.”

***

Late morning brings heavy snowfall and a chill that infiltrates the walls of the cabin. The Christmas tree in the living room is lit—something Cassian didn’t notice earlier when he came downstairs to find Nesta in his house. Realizing that she’s the one who lit it up first thing in the morning does something to his chest, but he pushes the feeling down where it can’t scare Nesta away.

The weight of the past day must finally catch up to her, though, because by the time Cassian finishes lighting the fireplace, she’s knocked out asleep on the couch.

“No makeup sex then, Nes?” he says softly. Getting up from the hearth, he goes to pull the fur couch throw over her body. Cassian settles at the end of the couch near her feet, taking care so she doesn’t wake, and picks up his laptop from the coffee table. He’s been slacking with his work ever since he got with Nesta, and he might as well catch up on it now before Rhysand takes notice.

The first email that pops up in his inbox is a corporate reminder about the annual New Year’s Eve fundraiser gala, hosted in some high-class hotel in Denver this year. Cassian reads the email once, twice, three times before reaching for his phone.

Rhys answers on the first ring. “Oh, so you don’t hate us,” he drawls.

“What?” Cassian is confused.

“Because with the way you’ve been acting at family events lately, one would have reason to think you don’t want to be around your family much.”

“Oh—no, this isn’t about that.” Cassian refuses to let Rhys linger on this topic. “I called about the New Year’s party.”

“What about it?” he says. “Other than that tacky hotel.”

Cassian decides to spit it out. “I’m not coming.”

Rhys is stunned silent over the line for a moment. “What do you mean, you’re not coming?” Cassian never misses company events, no matter how much he hates dressing up and driving out to the city to schmooze with donors.

But too many of his holidays have gone to Rhys instead of Nesta this year, and he finds himself unwilling to give more.

“I’ve been stressed as hell lately,” he lies, trying to stay quiet for Nesta. “I’m always the one driving hours to see everyone else, and I can’t go all the way out to Denver for another party. I’m sorry.”

“Bullshit,” Rhys responds. “You have nothing going on at work and nothing going on outside of it. What could you be stressed about?”

Cassian makes a mental note to find a hobby that doesn’t include his brothers, if only so he can use it as an excuse to spend time with his secret girlfriend in the future. For now, he has to settle with the truth. “I can’t tell you.”

It’s a petty card to play, but it’s a valid one. No matter how nosy his family might be, they know how to back off when a line is drawn, no explanation required.

Rhys’s voice softens. “Is it serious? Is it a health issue?”

Cassian nearly laughs, even though he feels bad for making Rhys worry. “No, nothing like that. But I still can’t come.”

“What can I do to make it easier for you?” Rhys tries again. “New Year’s isn’t the same without all of my family in one place.”

Cassian snorts. “Come over to my place then.” He says it half-jokingly, but then Rhys doesn’t answer, as if he’s thinking.

“The gala guest list is too big to fit in the cabin…” he ponders. “But I guess I could have it narrowed down at the last minute. The Mayfairs certainly won’t be happy about it, though.”

Cassian’s eyes widen, and he looks over at Nesta’s sleeping form. “Uh…” He scrambles for something to get him out of this.

“New Year’s at a luxury cabin, all of us reuniting at your home for the first time in months? I love it,” Rhys declares. “Better than fucking Denver, that’s for sure.”

Cassian coughs, then covers it up with a forced chuckle. “I’ll have the place ready by next week.”

The call is over before he knows it, and all he can do is stare at the phone in his hand wondering what the hell just happened.

You didn’t entirely lose, he thinks to himself. You’re spending New Year’s with Nesta.

Yeah—New Year’s with Nesta and his entire family. He drops his head back against the couch and groans quietly.

***

Nesta wakes up late in the afternoon to Cassian presenting her with a mug of eggnog and bad news about New Year’s Eve.

The idea of another party, especially one with her sisters present, so soon after the last one makes Nesta’s very bones ache. But she supposes she’ll just have to take the next week to recover and prepare, because she isn’t missing out on a holiday with Cassian for anything.

The way she’s started romanticizing simple things like the new year should probably alarm her, but it doesn’t.

They sit down to open presents with the TV playing lowly in the background. It’s nothing serious, and Nesta isn’t expecting to get anything much until she unwraps her present.

It’s a vinyl record packaged in an elaborate sleeve with the words Nesta’s Mix etched across it. She slowly pulls the record out of the sleeve, staring at it. “What’s this?”

“It’s called a vinyl.”

She spears him with a look. “I got that. What’s on it?”

Cassian turns sheepish, sprawled out across from her on the carpet. “I stalked your Spotify to figure out what you listen to. Then I made a playlist based off what I thought you’d like and got it turned into vinyl. It’s all new music…” He trails off at the look on her face. “But if you hate it, the B-side has your favorite songs on there. You can listen to it either way.”

“I don’t hate it.” Nesta blinks her burning eyes rapidly, staring down at the gift in her hands. She’s not used to receiving thoughtful gifts—or pricey ones. “Thank you,” she says plainly, trying to let her feelings speak for themselves in those two words. “I love it.” She knows she should be saying more, damn it, but what can she say?

Cassian reaches out to put a hand on her knee, his thumb stroking circles across her leg. She looks up at him and realizes she doesn’t need words. Leaning forward, she lands a kiss on his cheek and can only hope that it’s sufficient. “Where am I going to play it?” she asks.

“I was close to getting you a record player when I remembered I already have one. I’ve never used it in my life.” He looks at her more gently now. “So it’s basically yours.”

Nesta’s chest tightens painfully. Not because he’s giving the record player to her, but because he’s suggesting they own it together.

“My present is going to look so stupid next to yours,” she says quietly.

Cassian grins. “Now I really need to see it.”

Nesta buries her head in her hands in humiliation while he tears open the wrapping paper of his gift, and only looks up when she hears him laugh aloud.

He’s holding a copy of one of Nesta’s favorite romances, and the first of many of her books that he’s ever stolen from her and read. He turns the vintage paperback around in his hands. “I remember this one. I totally had a sex dream about it.” He gazes in reminiscence at the busty blonde on the cover.

Nesta snorts, but scoots closer to him eagerly. “Look inside.”

He flips it open to find dark scribbles along the margins, in every single margin.

“I annotated it,” Nesta says hesitantly. “With my thoughts and analysis on each scene. It’s probably dumb to critically analyze a ninetie’s erotica novel, but I thought you’d find it funny.”

Cassian is flipping through the pages more slowly now, taking his time to read each one. “I don’t think it’s funny,” he says after a moment, his eyes still on the book. “I think it’s more than anything I could have asked for.”

“Well, that’s a bit dramatic for a romance book—”

“Not the book.” He looks up at her with something in his eyes. “It’s all your thoughts.” He looks back at the book in wonder. “Written out for me in detail to keep.”

He starts to smirk, searching for a specific page. “I already know how you feel about the boat scene, but now I need to read about it.”

Nesta makes a noise of protest, grabbing for the book. “Don’t spoil the good parts yet.” She can hardly believe it. He finds her joke present good. “You always spoil the good parts first and get sad about it later.”

He makes a face. “True.” He lowers the book, growing serious. “Nesta.” He clears his throat, and her heart starts pounding. She can hear the words before he says them—

“You’re a really good gift giver.”

Nesta’s breath shudders out of her, in relief or disappointment she doesn’t know. Cassian is still staring at her in amazement, and she can only respond by throwing herself at him, her arms holding him tight.

He doesn’t falter under her weight, but pulls her closer. “Thank you,” he says into her ear.

She pulls back far enough to see him. His beautiful face is outlined with too many emotions for her to read, yet somehow she knows exactly what he’s feeling.

Overwhelmed, she leans in to place a soft kiss above his upper lip, then on his mouth. “Merry Christmas,” she whispers against his lips.

“Merry Christmas, Nesta.”

***

please tell me if you wanna be removed from the taglist so i can make space for other readers!

taglist: @hellasblessed @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens

#ncssianwrites #nesta archeron #nessian #cassian #a favor #nessian fic

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bellakitse · 3 years

Text

Batting Cages, Tacos and Midnight fun

“Alright,” Carlos says as he comes back with a smile. “You’re good to go, just step in and press the button on the wall when you’re ready for the balls to start flying.”

“I’ll be honest, not the type of balls I thought would be flying tonight,” he murmurs, smirking at Carlos as he stares at him.

When TK can’t sleep, he calls his friend-maybe boyfriend for some midnight fun. He’s surprised at what Carlos has planned for them.

Written for Day Two of Tarlos Corazonados Weekend- Late Night Hangouts @tarlos-valentine

Rated M* sexual content

TK Strand has always had a hard time getting proper sleep. He usually knocks out after a long and grueling shift, but if he’s had an easy day, the chances are once it’s time for bed, he’ll be wide awake staring at the ceiling like he is now.

He stays like that for a moment longer before letting out an aggravated sigh, reaching for his phone. He makes a note of the time. It’s after midnight, and he really shouldn’t be pulling up his contacts searching for a certain Austin Police Officer. Yet, despite knowing it might muddle their tentative friendship, he finds himself calling Carlos anyway.

“What are you doing?” he questions when Carlos picks up, giving him a groggy hello. He smiles, a little embarrassed at the knowing chuckle Carlos lets out.

“So we do this now?” he asks, and TK can hear the smirk in his voice.

It makes TK blush but also causes his stomach to clench in anticipation. He and Carlos have been in this weird limbo where he doesn’t know what to call them since their date playing darts. They’re friends, that much TK knows. He finds himself confiding in Carlos more and more these days. The cop has a way of breaking past his defenses until he’s revealing the not so pretty parts that make him whole.

But there is also the other side of their relationship, the one where TK can’t keep his hands to himself, wanting to touch and taste every inch of Carlos any chance he gets. He wants to keep him even without knowing what they are yet.

“I can’t sleep,” he tells him honestly, hoping it’s enough of an answer about what he wants even if he isn’t entirely sure what that is himself.

“I’ll pick you up in 20,” Carlos answers easily, and TK can hear the rustling of his sheets over the phone as he gets up from his bed. “I’ll see you in a few, okay?”

TK nods even though Carlos can’t see before answering in the affirmative. He feels both excited and thankful that Carlos is willing to accommodate him at the drop of a hat. He tries not to give it much thought to what it means.

He dresses in a pair of black joggers and a zip-up hoodie, not bothering with anything underneath; it’s not like he’s going to be dressed for long anyway. He quietly walks out of the house as not to wake up his dad and waits on his front steps for the familiar blue Camaro to arrive.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Carlos arrives before the time he promised, and TK jumps to his feet, quickly making his way to the car before it fully comes to a stop. “Hi,” he breathes as he closes the door behind him, reaching for the seat belt.

Carlos answers by running a hand through his hair, tugging him forward. TK goes smoothly, leaning his upper body over the console, moaning softly as Carlos gives him a thorough kiss. It makes TK dizzy in a way that only Carlos’ kisses can.

“Hi,” he whispers back, smiling against his lips before he pulls TK’s bottom lip into his mouth, giving it a suck that leaves TK gasping when he finally pulls away. The smug smile on Carlos’ face makes TK roll his eyes.

“I was going to apologize for waking you up, but,” he trails off, poking a finger into the corner of Carlos’ smile, causing Carlos to let out a chuckle, knowing where his comment is going.

“I don’t mind,” Carlos says casually as he takes his hand from his face and holds it on his thigh. “You can call me whenever you want.”

TK swallows, not knowing how to answer Carlos’ easy affection and sincerity. Luckily he doesn’t have to. Carlos seems to be satisfied with holding his hand while he drives, as TK responds by running his thumb over his knuckles. He gets lost in its motion and doesn’t notice right away they aren’t headed back to Carlos’ apartment. Instead, they pull up at a closed establishment named ‘Rocco’s batting cages.’

“Umm?” he turns to Carlos, questioning when he parks and turns off the car.

“You said you couldn’t sleep,” Carlos answers. “I figured we should work off that excess energy of yours.”

“That’s what your bed is for,” TK shoots back even as he follows Carlos out of the car, shrugging at the raised eyebrow Carlos gives him. They know each other well enough at this point to not be shy about wanting each other.

Carlos shakes his head in amusement as he pops the hood of his car, pulling out a bag with a familiar logo of the food truck TK knows he loves.

“When did you even have time to get that?” he questions bewildered, following Carlos toward the obviously closed door of the property.

“I called in an order after I hung up with you and picked it up before getting to your place,” Carlos answers as he pulls out a set of keys. “They like me, so they were quick.”

“And this place?” TK questions waving towards it when Carlos slides in the key.

“My buddy owns it,” Carlos says with a shrug. “I have a spare key. I texted him I would be using the place tonight; he’s pretty used to it. When work has me stressed out, I like to come and swing the bat around.”

He lets TK go through the door first, turning the lights as he steps in and closing the door behind them. He guides them through the place with the practiced ease of someone familiar with the layout. He leads him to the back, where they step back outside to a gated area.

“Stay right here, I’m going to turn on the rest of the lights,” Carlos tells him, leaving him alone with the food.

It takes a few minutes, but soon overhead lights turn on, illuminating five separate batting cages evenly spaced. Carlos comes back with a pair of bats and a helmet, extending them to TK.

“Here you go,” he says to him, waiting for TK to take the equipment, walking into the batting cage in front of them while TK starts to get ready. He puts on the helmet and practices a few swings while Carlos sets up the pitching machine.

“Alright,” Carlos says as he comes back with a smile. “You’re good to go, just step in and press the button on the wall when you’re ready for the balls to start flying.”

“I’ll be honest, not the type of balls I thought would be flying tonight,” he murmurs, smirking at Carlos as he stares at him.

“You’re shameless,” Carlos finally says with a resigned laugh, affection coloring his voice. He steps up close to him, tipping his chin up to kiss him. “This will help,” he says against his mouth. “Trust me, and afterwards, we can deal with other balls,” he finishes with a soft blush on his face that makes TK snicker.

“I haven’t swung a bat since middle school,” he warns as he steps into the cage, closing the gate behind him. “I might suck at this.”

“I believe in you,” Carlos answers from the bench he’s sat on, pulling out a taco and jarrito drink. He flashes TK a grin before biting into his food. “Hit three, and you get a taco.”

TK rolls his eyes at the offer before pressing the start button, quickly stepping up to the plate. He manages to get a piece of the first and second throw but misses the next three. Every time he misses, he sneaks a look at Carlos, scowling at the smirk he finds on his handsome face.

“I told you I would suck,” he calls out, swinging yet again, making a face when his bat doesn’t connect.

“You’re just a little rusty,” Carlos answers cheerfully.

TK chuckles despite himself at the positive attitude. He steps off the base to pause the pitcher machine and turns towards Carlos with a raised brow. “Why don’t you come in here and teach me how it’s done,” he challenges, letting out a grin when Carlos takes him up on it and stands.

He keeps smiling as Carlos steps into the cage, half a taco in hand. TK opens his mouth, his eyes twinkling with amusement as Carlos scoffs.

“You still didn’t earn your dinner,” he says even as he hands him the half a taco.

TK shrugs, paying him no mind as he bites into the food, humming in approval as the barbacoa flavor hits his taste buds.

“Okay, so your problem seems to be the swing of your hips,” Carlos explains, moving his to demonstrate.

TK bites his lip to keep from saying what he wants to say, though when he looks up at Carlos’ face, he finds that he didn’t need to. The pointed look he gives him tells TK he heard his silent innuendo loud and clear.

“Come on! You can’t talk about hip motions and move yours like that and not have me think about the other times I’ve proven just how well mine move,” TK protests as Carlos continues to look at him unimpressed. He grins at the eye roll Carlos gives him before he swings, connecting his bat to the ball dead center sending it flying.

“Damn,” TK says, impressed. “Okay, if you’re going to play like that, sure, show me your hip motions.”

Carlos huffs quietly, smiling as he shakes his head. He swings the bat three more times, hitting the ball each and every time.

“Okay, okay, stop showing me up,” TK complains as he pushes the button to stop the machine once more.

Carlos laughs as he steps off the plate, coming towards him. TK holds out his hand to take the bat back, but at the last moment, Carlos drops the bat on the ground, along with his helmet. He puts a hand to TK’s chest, pushing him firmly into the wall behind him, keeping him there by the press of his body against his.

“Are we finally going to get to the hip motions I excel at?” he questions, already rubbing himself against Carlos as he presses his hard thigh between his legs.

Carlos shakes with silent laughter, his brown eyes shining with delight. “What am I going to do with you?” he murmurs as he takes hold of TK’s face, tilting it upward to give him a feather-light kiss. The words are spoken with such affection that TK has to bite his tongue to keep from blurting out ‘Love me.’

Carlos seems to hear him anyway as he deepens their kiss. It grows hot and hazy, desperate as TK moans into it, biting on Carlos’ bottom lip, getting a low needy groan in return for his efforts.

His hands are on TK, lighting fires over his clothes everywhere he touches before he’s pulling on the zipper to his hoodie. He lets out a gasp as the cold air hits his skin, and Carlos pulls back to stare at his naked chest, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I thought we were going to your place,” TK explains, feeling himself blush. “I didn’t bother with underclothes.

Carlos stares at him for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing before the hand he has on his chest slides down TK’s stomach, slipping inside his joggers.

“Fuck,” Carlos curses as he wraps his hand around TK’s hard and dripping cock.

TK tries to speak but can’t seem to form any words as Carlos starts to touch him in practiced strokes. He lets out a mewling whine when Carlos runs his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the liquid gathered around.

“Fuck,” Carlos whispers again, staring into TK’s wide-blown eyes. He leans in, giving him a hard, bruising kiss. TK tries to return it, but it’s over before he can. He tries to put enough brain cells together to complain, but he blinks once, and in the next second, Carlos is gone from sight, going to his knees in front of TK.

“Oh,” he breathes, nodding fast when Carlos taps at the waist of his sweats and looks up at him in question. “Please.”

Carlos gives him a grin before he starts to roll down TK’s pants. The cold air of the night makes him shiver, but that’s nothing to the full-body shudder he lets out when wet heat encircles him as Carlos takes him into his mouth to his base.

“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims, banging his head back as Carlos doesn’t waste a second and goes to work. He sucks at TK with a single-mindedness that leaves him breathless and his head spinning. It takes almost no time at all before TK is at a razor’s edge. He’s been wanting this all night, and it’s Carlos.

Carlos, who makes him feel safe enough to share everything ugly he has inside him. Carlos, who leaves his bed in the middle of the night to come to TK’s aid just because he can’t sleep. Carlos, who distracts him with batting cages and food just to lighten his mood. Carlos, who goes to his knees and worships TK like he’s actually something worthy.

He signals for him to pull back as his orgasm builds, but Carlos just sucks him in deeper, making his intention clear.

TK lets out another helpless moan as he spills into Carlos’ mouth, shaking as he sucks and licks him through it, swallowing everything TK has to give. TK’s last thought before he goes completely mindless is ‘can I keep you?’

He is all but useless as Carlos takes his mouth off him, and gently pulls up his sweats before he stands with a proud smile on his face as TK looks at him through dazed eyes.

“Think you can sleep now?” he asks smugly, and TK feels more enamored by the second.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Carlos’ expression is bright at his answer. He touches the tip of his nose to TK’s as he lays his forehead against his. “Good,” he tells him with a sweet smile. “Should I take you home?”

TK bites his lip, hesitating for a second before he speaks. “Or we could go back to your place?” he asks shyly. “I think I would sleep better there.”

Carlos softens; his eyes are gentle and kind as he looks at him. “Even better,” he tells him. “That way, with you in my arms, I’ll sleep well too.”

#911 lone star #tarlos #911 lone star fic #tarlos fic #tarlosvalentine21 #tk x carlos #my writing

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aitarose · 3 years

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SEVEN AM (T. OIKAWA) ⤷ pairing: oikawa tooru x fem!reader

synopsis: between wrinkled bedsheets and lost undergarments, the evening of your dreams is one of a living nightmare—you, alone in a simple bed without its king.

word count: 1.2k

genre: fuck boi!tooru, best friend!reader, one night stand, one-sided pining, angsty angst

warnings: extremely suggestive content, swearing, slight obsession, brief mentions of intercourse :( but not fully descriptive bc i’m a minor haha ok

24 hours collab masterpost

notes: for bby ly’s (@kyotarou) collab that i already forgot the name of oopsie brb OK it’s called the 24 hours collab aha aha there we go. also half of this takes place at like midnight umm chile anyways

It’d been a spur-of-the-moment decision, something that you’d relived over and over again within the constructs of your own mind—but never believed would actually come true. It was the very thing that you’d wished for most in all of your months by his side, never realizing that it was right within your grasp.

The dream being just beneath your skin, hands laced together through gentle movements and breathless moans, all occurring in one single night of ecstasy.

A night that had been, of course, proceeded by your typical evening of celebration. The excited haze of energy that followed a perfect win on the court—victory for Club Athletico San Juan, which was led by none other than their esteemed setter—your best friend, Oikawa Tooru.

You’d walked out of the bar together after eleven PM, hand-in-hand, him swinging your palms back and forth whilst you strolled down the spaced pavements—avoiding crazed traffic and wandering strangers—heading towards your quaint apartment which sat peacefully atop the local cafe.

One after the other, the two of you stepped inside—locking the door behind you as you dropped your abandoned shoes on the mat, having taken them off hours earlier in the midst of dancing. His hand had never left the small of your back, guiding your steps towards the cozy kitchen with a dream-like cloud floating through the air.

You’d offered him a mug of decaffeinated coffee, turning on the machine with the muscle memory of countless similar nights, not noticing the hardness of his gaze. There had been a glint in his eyes—an expression you’d never quite seen before displayed on his features as you turned to face him, the only sound being the soft grinds of the water heater.

There wasn’t any verbal discussion, no command that had signaled him to rush over and take your jaw between his calloused fingers. Only a split second of eye contact, both of you having the same wish in that moment—to finally know the feeling of your lips on his in an ever-seizing kiss.

And it really had been everything you’d dreamed of. Soft and passionate, perfection in terms of intimacy—a seemingly life-changing kiss between you and your best friend. The very person you’d been falling for for years on years now. The man that you imagined yourself meeting at the end of a rose covered aisle in beautiful designer attire.

The path from the kitchen to your bedroom hadn’t taken long to conquer, strewn clothing across the floor, like scattered treats in the woods on the way to the witches hut. A desirable sight, but also one that would inevitably lead to pain and heartbreak—and unfortunately for you, those outcomes had never crossed your mind, not even once.

But now, as you lay awake—facing the bedroom wall in an attempt to ignore the rising sunlight—there was a physical pain in your chest. The bonds of your being snapping into two as you heard him roll out of bed, groaning at the bright rays whilst his regretful actions cycled through his mind.

“Shit.” You heard him mumble as you turned slightly to see him run a hand through his disheveled locks. He was biting his lip, tapping his foot against the hard wood floor with his eyes on the window, staring out into the incoming horizon with reddened irises. “Shit.”

Oikawa stood, abandoning the bodily indent in the comforter and scrambling to find his clothing. It seemed as if he were more focused on the location of his belt than the status of your relationship—all the more confirming that you were nothing but another one of his flings. Another one of his famous one night stands.

“Tooru?” You called out, sitting up with your elbows as support, a fully serious gaze falling upon his eyes of fear as his attention snapped around. “Tooru, where are you going? Do you have an early practice?”

There was a part of you that wanted to believe that he did have an excuse for trying to leave you. That there was a valid reason as to why he hadn’t held you through the morning haze, why he hadn’t pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head in an attempt to wake you softly—why he hadn’t confessed any true feelings for you in the night turned dawn?

But all of your worries were confirmed at his reaction. His usually charming cheeks were replaced with ones devoid of commitment or love, his stance being awkward and weary rather than comfortable and content in your presence. He was practically a different person.

You didn’t know this Oikawa Tooru, you hadn’t ever known the man before you now—but all the women at the bar, the fans in the stands, girls at the beach who’d whistle in his way and send him flirty glances had always been familiar with this feeling of longing.

It was the tone of rejection and regrets, stolen kisses that had been thrown into the bin—taken away to the sea and lost in the landfill of broken hearts and mixed emotions. He didn’t need to come up with a response to your wonders, knowing that you were smarter than his empty promises and lies. All that was needed was a pained shake of the head and the stale wake of his absence.

Tears rained down your make-up smudged skin at the sound of the front door closing, the realization of reality setting in—the reality that he would likely never take a walk with you on your path of life again. Your streets were at one for what you wanted to be forever—but forever doesn’t always last, does it?

No, because if it did you wouldn’t be driving down the boulevard of broken dreams with an open hand—an open hand that was, for some reason, still waiting for him to come back. Still hoping with every part of your soul that he would come rushing into your arms and fall back into a peaceful slumber.

Perhaps you could find that slumber yourself, snuggled in the cold cotton sheets of your king sized bed—which was ironically missing its king of the court.

If there was any chance that you could find rest, lucid dream the reality that you oh-so-wished you were currently living, you’d take that opportunity. After all, what is life without the one you love? What is life if not missed connections and broken signals? What is the point of trying so hard, only to be beat down after finally getting what you wanted?

Maybe you just weren’t meant for the type of mind-blowing love you saw in the movies or on television. The lifestyle of happiness just wasn’t in your book—the dream of dancing through a fairytale was a phony pretense, as you weren’t the princess in the story, but rather the abandoned love interest instead.

Turning the next page wouldn’t be easy for you, it would take all the mental strength in your bones—but at the sight of the parting clouds and shining sun, you knew you’d be okay. The next chapter of your story would be a good one, you were going to make sure of it—with or without him.

dedicated to my silly little beautiful baka @gellysticks. you’re such a silly goose you silly little goose you

aitarose do not copy, claim, or mimic my writing, works, themes, copy and paste my words, or headers and tags as your own. do not use my blog as a template for your own, or base your theme on mine.

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unjourjeseraideretourpresdetoi · 3 years

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9/10 Chapter 1 - Malt

I started writing a bit of a Harry/Kim fanfic??? Because why the hell not. Anyway, here’s the first part of it. I’m kind of just making it up as I go with a few specific ideas scattered in my head. Spoilers for various plot points. Here’s a sample before the cut. Feel free to send any suggestions or critique, since it’s been ages since I have done much writing. Still working on getting a feel for Harry’s skill voices.

YOU — After a little while, your voice finally returns. “Why are you so nice to me?” KIM KITSURAGI — He takes a long pause and leans back in his chair. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just stubborn too.” PERCEPTION — You turn to look at him as you finally untangle yourself from your chrysalis of arms, and he looks different somehow. You don’t know if it’s your eyes being sore as hell, or the dull ambiance of the hazy bar lights. Somehow, he looks so light. His bomber jacket is slightly pulled up by his folded arms behind his head, seeming to break the bulky illusion it usually projects over his slim torso. Like suddenly seeing a gap in a suit of armor. SUGGESTION — You should tickle him. ESPRIT DE CORPS — He will kill you in mere seconds if you do that.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — Hello again, Harry boy. The midnight train to Fuck-All-Borough is boarding once again, and you’ve pre-paid your seat. YOU — Okay. ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — Yes, that’s right. Let’s drive right into the sweet, succulent sopor of oblivion. Let no feelings come to pass, no sensations, just the pure bliss of the radiating void. YOU — But aren’t you here? ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — That’s just it, Harry. I’m nothing. I am the pale of the mind, I am the deafening silence, I am the black canvas that stretches taut when you close your eyes. I am the swaddle that cradles the mind and the ocean you will drown in. I am born of you and someday, you will die in me. LIMBIC SYSTEM — But not yet—something still stirs in this weighted sack. Something heavy, and sore, and full of noise that steadily rises into a crescendo.

PERCEPTION — And then you open your eyes. And it fucking hurts. PAIN THRESHOLD — Dear god, it’s like a jackhammer on a pogo stick on another jackhammer. PERCEPTION — You realize there’s a smell you haven’t smelled in a few weeks now that’s uncomfortably emanating from your form. Al Gul. COMPOSURE — Oh. You finally did it again. You fucked up.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — So we got a little smashed. Who cares. You know what’s a great way to stop feeling sorry about it? Getting smashed again. AUTHORITY — No. YOU — Why am I always fucking things up? HALF LIGHT — Because life is terrifying. LOGIC — He’s right about that one.

YOU — What was I doing last night? ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Like I said, getting smashed. CONCEPTUALIZATION — Painting the world with a palette of sugary booze and sad, old rock and roll for sad, old rockstars.

YOU — Who did I hurt this time? DRAMA — Mostly, just yourself. VOLITION — A small miracle, if so. You’re used to self-immolation. YOU — But why? Why now? We were doing better. ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Speak for yourself. LOGIC — You do know that you can’t just ride out two decades of practiced chemical drowning on a workhorse of piety and guilt, right?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — This ceaseless dependency on cocktails of narcotics and spirits has weakened you shamefully. PERCEPTION — You look around your dimly lit bedroom, eyes half-closed anyway to quiet the searing pain in your cerebral cortex, slowly putting the pieces back together as the rest of your body wakes up.

YOU — I was having a shitty day. I was stuck on a case and my mind just kept drifting into half-remembered past mistakes. After work, I decided to do it. I called her again, like an idiot. I thought to myself, I can do this, I can let her go, and I’ll tell her I’m finally over it (almost). INLAND EMPIRE — But that is not how it went. She had prepared for the next time you would call. The last time was terrifying enough, torn awake at 3 in the morning, listening to your desperate lies, digging through past trauma.

YOU — “Hey, uh, Dora. It’s Harry. I’m sorry—“ PERCEPTION — A sharp sigh breaks your concentration. DORA — “Let me stop you there, Harry. Because I’m tired of this. You’ve been doing this six years now but it feels at least twice as long. So since you can’t put an end to it, I am. Don’t call again. You won’t be reaching me at this number anymore.” PERCEPTION — Before you can react, there’s silence. And a dial tone. YOU — Fuck. Fuck shit fuck.

COMPOSURE — You stumble through dialing the number again, fingers slipping the first time from nerves and connecting the second, with no answer. You try again. And again. And then you stop trying. It takes everything in you not to smash the phone where it sits. PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — You need to smash something. If we can’t smash the phone, we HAVE to smash something. REACTION SPEED — Your feet are already taking you away from the pay phone, one thought ahead of the rest of you. You barely round the corner into the alley before you plant your fist full force into the nearest brick wall. PAIN THRESHOLD — Your hand spirals into a fractal of pain, blood dripping down your busted knuckles, slowly running down the dirtied wall. You can feel the cracking of your knuckles, like a brittle lacework of glass strapped down only by the leather of your worn-out hands. HALF-LIGHT — Get out of here. ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Now that you’re done smashing your fist, it’s time to get the rest of you smashed. YOU — “Fuck it. I’m getting a drink.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION — From there, it was a blaze of sweet, hot fire down your throat and back up again, run ragged from shitty karaoke and mild alcohol poisoning. But the film reel is running thin, and you’re struggling to get anything else from your memory bank.

YOU — How did I get back? I don’t remember walking home. ESPRIT DE CORPS — You asked for help.

HAND-EYE COORDINATION — You pat at your pockets, searching for the right one, not quite remembering what you’re doing but knowing the answer you thought of for a fraction of a second is somewhere in there. After a moment, you find it, carefully tucked away but nevertheless damp with sweat from your slacks.

“If you need to talk— 005-93-88-651 Lt. Kitsuragi”

INTERFACING — Your hands are a bit shaky, but you dial out the number on the slip of paper in your hands. PERCEPTION — It rings once. Twice. A third time. And then you hear the receiver click. KIM KITSURAGI — “Hello?”

SHIVERS — In a small apartment in Central Jamrock, not too far from Precinct 41, and not too far from the Jamrock Public Library, Lieutenant Kitsuragi sits on his bed, some light reading in hand, winding down for the night. His new apartment is still filled with cardboard boxes here and there, in no particular hurry to be unpacked. The lights of the city pierce through like little pinpricks in the glare of his bedside window, still insistent on their presence even in the quiet of a cool spring night.

YOU — “Hi, Kim, I uh…” Your voice shakes and you lose your words for a moment, because some part of you really didn’t expect him to pick up. KIM KITSURAGI — “Detective? It’s after midnight.” DRAMA — It’s already that late? You must’ve woken him up. A bad start. YOU — “Uhh… sorry, I uh. Wasn’t looking at the clock. We can just talk tomorrow—“ KIM KITSURAGI — “You’re drunk.” COMPOSURE — Fuck. There’s nothing coming out of your mouth anymore. Another bad phone call. It takes everything in you not to cry. You do anyway.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Where are you?” YOU — You manage to croak out enough to say “Sunshine’s Hideaway. Bar on 12th street.” KIM KITSURAGI — He pauses a moment, thinking. “...I’ll be there in a few minutes.” ESPRIT DE CORPS — He’s thinking about the best route there. LOGIC — He doesn’t have his motor carriage right now. He’s going to have to walk it, and it’s cold out. YOU — “I… you don’t have to do that, I’ll just—“ KIM KITSURAGI — “Harrier, just shut up and park your ass somewhere warm until I get there.” AUTHORITY — He’s doing it! He’s doing the eyebrow thing but on the phone! I didn’t know he could do that! YOU — “Yessir.”

It probably takes about 15 minutes for him to arrive, though each minute feels like five. You feel like a child waiting for their parents to come pick them up at school. You’re pretty sure everyone is staring at you. You can’t really see through the blurry bokeh of your stupid tears. But you can just barely make out the door of the bar opening, followed by a silhouette marked by orange slipping through. Lieutenant Kitsuragi spots you after a moment, and you quickly try to wipe your eyes like you haven’t just been crying the whole time as he approaches. KIM KITSURAGI — You can hear him pull at the chair next to yours, calmly settling into place. “Hello, detective.”

YOU — You try to pull up some words, but you just find yourself nodding appreciatively as you try not to grimace. COMPOSURE — Somehow, the moment his eyes fall on you, you feel like someone just ripped the rug right out from under your feet. You slide down on your elbows, face pressing down onto the table in humiliation, locking your hands together on the back of your neck, like you’re trying to hide in a little tomb of your own arms.

KIM KITSURAGI — You hear the lieutenant take a deep breath and sigh. He unzips his jacket, stifling him in the warm interior of the bar. “That rough, huh?”

YOU — You don’t want to say anything, but your mouth opens before you can stop it. “I’m such an asshole, Kim. I keep fucking everything up, over and over, no matter how hard I try. I just. Keep falling back into my bullshit.” Your voice shakes as you get the words out. “Is this just as good as it’s gonna get at this point? Have I fucked up entirely too much, entirely too long, am I just… this constant trainwreck now and forever? How much of myself have I wasted away into nothing, doing this shit? Acting like a child. Acting like an animal. It feels sometimes like all I have is more downturns. More hurting people. More hurting myself. And I’m so, so fucking tired… and I don’t wanna do this anymore. If this is how it is, I don’t want to… be.” Your voice stops making any noise by the time you reach the end of that.

HALF-LIGHT — And then there’s silence. You know this silence. It’s the sound of someone deciding they’re sick of your shit. This is the moment he realizes he really, truly does not know you and you don’t know him. And he knows he has to get out of here, before you take him down with you, like you’ve done to so many others. EMPATHY — But then there’s a hard pat on your back. Thumping against a hollow drum, ringing through your electrified lungs. KIM KITSURAGI — “It’s okay, detective.” PERCEPTION — His voice is soft and careful.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Honestly, it’s astonishing you’ve held out this long. It’s barely been two months since Martinaise. Since the Whirling. Throughout my time in the RCM, I have seen many good officers break over less. I didn’t know you before March. I don’t really know what kind of officer you might’ve been before that. But who I am familiar with is the Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Harrier Du Bois, the officer I met two months ago, who is probably the strangest man I’ve ever met, but he is also the most relentless, the most stubborn, the most annoying, and honestly, the most sincere man I’ve ever known to grace the RCM. He is a man who cares enough to find the time in his busy workload to help people he just met, whose troubles he sniffs out like a bloodhound, offering them the help that no one else would. No matter how trivial, or how complicated. I don’t know if this selflessness is something you picked up because you don’t know how to help yourself, but I do know there’s a real effort in there. There’s a real, true love for the people of Revachol. And I know how much this job takes out of people. You can’t turn every mistake around in just a few months. Probably not even a few years. But I think what matters is that you are trying, and I can see how much it hurts you to feel like you’ve failed in that. Please don’t think that tonight is a sign that you can’t do better. Tonight is a dam breaking in the expectations you’ve built up for yourself after staring down your own potential.”

PERCEPTION — Are you laughing? Or is that crying? INLAND EMPIRE — It feels like there are ghosts escaping your every breath. Like parts of you are desperately rushing to the surface, tearing through flesh and bone, clawing at a chance for freedom. The lieutenant’s arm still rests heavily on your back, the only anchor your spirit has left as it dissipates into vapor and rushes through the night.

VOLITION — You cry until there’s nothing left in you anymore.

KIM KITSURAGI — After a moment, he realizes you’re staring at him, then adjusts in his seat, leaning forward and settling his arms in front of him. “How are you feeling? Do you think you can walk?” YOU — “I uhh... probably. My leg doesn’t hurt as much right now.” KIM KITSURAGI — “Mm.” He mutters, getting up from his seat. “At least there is that small grace. How far is your place?” PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — You’re pretty sure he’s offering to walk you back. You’re not a child, you can get home perfectly fine on your own, thank you. YOU — “Ten blocks.” COMPOSURE — You quickly try to rise to your feet, but it becomes immediately apparent that the floor has been replaced with a rickety old carousel, and you promptly lose your footing. REACTION SPEED — Before you can even attempt to figure out what is happening, you realize that Lieutenant Kitsuragi has wrapped one of his arms around your back. PERCEPTION — His grip is tight and you can feel the muscles tensing in his forearm against your back. Once again, its presence stabilizes you, a beacon for your twisting senses to converge upon. It takes a few moments for everything to slot back into the correct place. KIM KITSURAGI — “Are you sure you’re alright, detective?” DRAMA — His concern is quite sincere. YOU — “I just gotta sleep this off.” You say as you steady yourself back upright.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Let’s get going, then.” He nods to you as he zips up his jacket again, then stretches his right arm out behind your back. PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — No, dude, fuck that shit, you’re sick of people propping you up because of your stupid leg, we can do this shit on our own! YOU — “Thanks.” You steady yourself against his arm and extend your left against his back as well. PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Hey, what! DRAMA — By now, the lieutenant knows when you’re just trying to bullshit and act like a tough guy. It’s time to drop the act, for now. He knows you need the help. You wouldn’t have called him if you didn’t.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — That’s all I got. The rest is just black. YOU — Ugghhhhhh damn it. Like Kim hasn’t seen enough of me making an ass of myself by now. EMPATHY — On the bright side, his mental image of you can probably only improve. Hopefully. Maybe. YOU — Whatever. What time is it? PERCEPTION — You look around for your alarm clock, and find it knocked onto the floor beside your bed. It says 9:53. YOU — Shit. Did I have work today? ESPRIT DE CORPS — No. Your hours have been temporarily reduced during your recovery period. YOU — Right. Okay. I should probably get up and do something about this headache.

You throw the blanket off of your body and gradually roll yourself out of bed, bones creaking with aches and pains, limping across the room and dodging various discarded clothes and shoes that litter the floor. You twist the doorknob and open your bedroom door, making your way across the living room, towards the bathroom.

REACTION SPEED — Wait! There’s someone… on the couch? PERCEPTION — A figure of a man lies on the couch, covered with an ugly patchwork blanket, still sleeping. Next to the couch, an orange bomber jacket rests. Wait… is that Kim? HALF-LIGHT — OH MY GOD, you’re half-naked, GET BACK IN YOUR ROOM AND PUT YOUR PANTS ON BEFORE YOU HUMILIATE YOURSELF. SAVOIR FAIRE — You quickly backpedal, trying not to make any noise, and press your door shut firmly, hoping that you weren’t noticed. YOU — Why is he here??? I thought he just walked me home? HALF-LIGHT — Stop thinking and get your damn armor on! VOLITION — Armor? We didn’t find any armor pants in Martinaise. DRAMA — He’s being metaphorical. You hurriedly stuff your legs into the closest pair of semi-clean trousers before peeking out the door again.

PERCEPTION — The lieutenant is still asleep on the couch. SAVOIR FAIRE — Alright, go time. You sneak through the living room and into the bathroom, carefully trying not to creak the medicine cabinet as you get yourself some painkillers. ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Down the whole bottle! Party time! VOLITION — No. We are not doing that.

After taking the recommended dose of painkillers, you peek out into the living room again. PERCEPTION — Lieutenant Kitsuragi is still resting quietly on your couch, lying on his back, tightly wrapped in the ugly spare blanket from your linen closet. You suddenly realize there’s something different about the living room… such as, there’s less garbage everywhere. EMPATHY — Did he clean the room up for you? Or maybe for himself?

You exit the bathroom and slowly cross the living room, stopping halfway through, looking at the lieutenant again. PERCEPTION — He looks peaceful, and his face relaxed and still. With his glasses off, you notice more of the shape of his brow and his tired eyes. His breathing is slow and measured, with quiet sighs. One of his arms dangles out from under the blanket, his hand just barely off the floor. His fingers are thin, bony, weathered from work, with little scars and blemishes that have mostly faded away.

SUGGESTION — Hold it.

YOU — What?

No one replies. You stare for a moment, feeling a tension in your chest. Curiosity snakes through your skin. You step closer towards the couch, then slowly crouch down, meeting the lieutenant’s eye level.

SUGGESTION — Hold it. Please.

You reach forward, and the lieutenant suddenly stirs.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Mmnh…” His eyes flutter open. “Oh, good morning detective.” YOU — “Uh, yeah. Good morning.” You casually withdraw your hand and rest it on your leg. “Why are you here…?” KIM KITSURAGI — “You don’t remember?” He asks with a hint of concern. YOU — “Well, mostly. I remember you helped me walk home, but after that, it’s fuzzy.” KIM KITSURAGI — “Ah, so just the normal amount of alcohol-induced forgetfulness.” The lieutenant nods at you, then sits up on the couch. He reaches for his glasses on the side table, then folds them open. “I decided to stay here on the couch, just in case...” He trails off. EMPATHY — To keep an eye on you. In case you started doing worse.

YOU — “...Thanks. I’m sorry for interrupting your night.” KIM KITSURAGI — “No need to apologize,” he says with a slight smile. “Honesty, I’m… glad you asked for help instead of isolating yourself. That would have been…” He pauses, looking for the correct words. “Not ideal. What time is it, anyway?” YOU — “Bit after 10.” KIM KITSURAGI — “Already that late? Good thing I’m not working today.”

YOU — “Sorry to make you clean up after me.” You say, glancing across the room. KIM KITSURAGI — “Well, no, it’s not your fault or anything. You didn’t expect company.” He seems a bit self-conscious suddenly, looking away. “I suppose it’s more like I don’t know how to leave a mess alone.” SUGGESTION — You’re not sure which mess he means—the apartment, or you. EMPATHY — It’s both. You feel a slight embarrassment tingling across the surface of your skin and decide to change the topic.

YOU — “You said you have the day off?” KIM KITSURAGI — “Yes, I have a few errands to run, part of some loose ends to clean up for my transfer to 41. But I can get those done any time during the day.” SUGGESTION — You should— YOU — “Do you wanna go get breakfast? I know a good place down the street.” You say it before you can even finish thinking. KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant sits quietly for a moment, adjusting his glasses. “Hmmm… sure, why the hell not. I’ve got some time to spare.” SUGGESTION — Jackpot! YOU — “I’m gonna go get dressed, you’re welcome to the bathroom if you need it.” KIM KITSURAGI — “Sounds good.”

You walk into your bedroom and shut the door behind you.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — Time to get stylish! LOGIC — Not that stylish, it’s just breakfast. Don’t make it weird. INLAND EMPIRE — Hey, weird is our thing! YOU — I think I’m just gonna wear whatever’s clean and doesn’t smell repulsive. CONCEPTUALIZATION — Oh, sorry, didn’t know we were Boring Cop today.

After taking a quick glance at what’s available, you decide to just go with a simple, pastel gingham button-up and a fresh pair of jeans. Glancing at your coats, you grab a blue blazer with a checkered lining.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Oh my god you look like a nerd. RHETORIC — No, he looks smart. Ready to have a battle of the wits. PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Yeah, like I said, A NERD!

You quietly ignore the high school bullying going on inside your head as you exit the room. Lieutenant Kitsuragi glances at you from next to the couch, in the middle of putting on his jacket.

KIM KITSURAGI — “No disco today?” He says with a slight smile. YOU — “All my disco’s due for the wash.” KIM KITSURAGI — He tugs at his collar and settles his jacket into place. “It’s almost odd to see you in something so… tame.” YOU — “I mean, I still got the jackets from Fuck the World and Piss F****t if you change your mind.” KIM KITSURAGI — “Somehow I doubt the waitstaff would be understanding of the artist’s statements at breakfast.” He lets out a small chuckle. EMPATHY — There’s a surprising softness in his response. KIM KITSURAGI — “I’m all set to go if you are.”

The two of you head out of your apartment and set out down the road, your destination just two blocks away. The streets of Jamrock are already lively with pedestrians and motor carriages milling about. Before long, you arrive at a staircase with a weathered, striped canopy hanging above, quietly announcing its presence with simple text saying “The Lazy Daisy”. You and the lieutenant head down the stairs and enter the little eatery, pushing past the door and being met with the sweet and salty smells of this morning’s meals. You wave to the waitress and take a seat at a little table in the corner.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant takes his seat across from you, his eyes studying the surroundings. “You know, I never noticed this place before.” YOU — “Yeah, it’s easy to miss amongst all the other businesses on this road.” KIM KITSURAGI — “But you remembered it?” YOU — “I think my feet did.”

WAITRESS — A cheerful, pudgy woman in her forties wearing a striped apron walks over to the table, little menu books in hand. “Good morning officers! Thanks for stopping by the Lazy Daisy today. Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?”

YOU — “You wanna get a pot of coffee, Kim?” KIM KITSURAGI — “Sure, that sounds fine.” WAITRESS — “Alright, I’ll give you a moment to look over the menu!”

You already know what you’re going to order: skillet hash with a side of toast. You watch the lieutenant look the menu over and find yourself wondering what he’ll order. YOU — “You seem like an Eggs Benedict kind of guy to me.” KIM KITSURAGI — “I was thinking about trying this malted waffle actually. It’s been a while since I had a good waffle.” He replies, not looking up from the menu. “But you are correct, I do enjoy a good Eggs Benedict.”

YOU — “Can’t go wrong with either one.” WAITRESS — The waitress returns, a full pot of coffee in one hand and two mugs in the other. She gently places the pot of coffee at the center of the little table and places the mugs down on either side. “Alright, so what can I get for you boys?” YOU — “I’ll go for the skillet hash with a side of dry toast. And the lieutenant here…” KIM KITSURAGI — “I’ll take a malted waffle with a side of bacon.” WAITRESS — “Sounds great! I’ll bring it out when it’s ready.”

You turn your attention to the coffee and partially fill both of the mugs, absent-mindedly adding a sugar cube and a little cup of half-and-half to yours and stirring, watching the color spread and blend. You look up and notice the lieutenant surveying the restaurant again.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Hmmm… yes, this place certainly seems your style.” YOU — “What, sad and old?” KIM KITSURAGI — He smiles slightly, but his brow betrays his discomfort. “No, I was thinking more along the lines of… eclectic, stubborn, lively.” He glances at the walls covered in various posters, art, and rock and roll memorabilia. YOU — “Disco.” KIM KITSURAGI — “Disco.” He nods affirmatively.

You absently stir your coffee and lift it to your mouth to take a sip, mulling over topics of conversation. RHETORIC — Go for a standard sort of icebreaker, what’s the latest with him, that sort of thing. ESPRIT DE CORPS — Let’s talk work. Trade some gritty case stories with him! INTERFACING — Maybe you could talk torque dork to torque dork? EMPATHY — Neither of you have motor carriages right now. That would just be a bummer. INLAND EMPIRE — Ask him to tell you a secret! AUTHORITY — That one never works.

YOU — “You just moved into your new place, right Kim? How is it?” KIM KITSURAGI — “Hmm, it’s not bad. I had to make a few concessions but… there’s a bit more floor space than my last place. I finally have a good space for a proper desk.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Now the only trouble is getting a desk up three flights of stairs.”

YOU — “I can lend you a hand with that if you want. I have reason to suspect I may be a former gym teacher.” PERCEPTION — You can’t really hear it, but judging by the steam rolling away from the mug at his lips, you can tell the lieutenant let a light chuckle out through his nose before taking another sip of coffee.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Maybe I’ll take you up on that when I find something suitable.” RHETORIC — Great job! Look at you! You’re so good at talking like a normal person!

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant casually withdraws his notebook from his jacket and starts perusing it while he slowly sips his coffee. YOU — “Hey, no working until we’ve had breakfast.” KIM KITSURAGI — He barely moves, glancing upwards at you and cocking an eyebrow. AUTHORITY — It’s fine, that brow is only operating at about 25% capacity. You got this. YOU — “Take a break, lieutenant.” You place your hand on top of his, gently encouraging him to lower the notebook onto the table. He nonchalantly relents, quickly withdrawing his hand and tucking it under his other arm, which rests casually on the table. His glance wanders away from you and out towards the windows. EMPATHY — It’s hard to tell if he’s annoyed or just playing up indifference. Perhaps you shouldn’t have grabbed his hand like that.

You take a moment to look around the restaurant, passively taking in the surroundings that feel intensely familiar to your instincts, but strangely recent to the rest of you. It’s a weird feeling, one you’ve been experiencing just about everywhere you go in Jamrock. Places that you know but have never seen. Drifting shadows of the person you once were, and still are, half-buried in a haze. Your head fluctuates in the pressure, a mix of pristine images just out of reach and faint illusions gripped tightly in your palm.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant’s low voice suddenly pulls you back to reality. “Everything alright, detective?” INLAND EMPIRE — There is a hole in my brain. YOU — “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about the usual.” You pause, contemplating your next words. “Grinding the bourgeoisie into sausage for the proletariat and whatnot,” you lie. KIM KITSURAGI — “Ah, so nice of you to join us, Comrade Mazov.” YOU — You quickly bust out your trusty finger guns and fire off two shots, clicking your tongue as you snap your fingers. KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant is unphased by your reckless discharge of live rounds that undoubtedly rain chaos upon the once peaceful restaurant. DRAMA — C’mon, he probably thinks it’s at least a little cool. EMPATHY — It’s not, man.

RHETORIC — Let’s get back to the list. What else can we talk about? YOU — “Tell me a secret about yourself.” KIM KITSURAGI — He sighs. “This again?” YOU — “You know it.” KIM KITSURAGI — He pauses for a moment. “No.” YOU — “Aww, come on.” KIM KITSURAGI — He raises one eyebrow. AUTHORITY — Oh god, we have full capacity brow-raising. I repeat, full capacity!

KIM KITSURAGI — His brow lowers slightly, offering a challenge. “You’re terrible at keeping secrets. Maybe if you can think of a single piece of personal trivia you haven’t already divulged entirely unprompted to any random passerby, we can come back to this topic.” ESPRIT DE CORPS — He does not believe that his terms can be met. He is secure in that. SUGGESTION — Challenge accepted! YOU — “Deal.” DRAMA — You’re gonna need to work on this for like, at least 8 hours probably. Maybe more like 20.

WAITRESS — The same woman reappears with a tray in hand, radiating the unmistakable smell of hot, fresh breakfast. “Here you are, sirs!” She gently slides the plates in front of each of you. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need! Enjoy your food!” PERCEPTION — You notice the name on her apron: Denice. YOU — “Thanks, Denice.” WAITRESS — She offers a polite smile before leaving.

You immediately start digging in, shoveling the mixed bits of potato, egg, bacon, and cheese into your mouth, savoring the salt and fat of a hearty breakfast. It’s your favorite meal, but you don’t always have the time or energy to get anything decent most mornings.

SUGGESTION — Hey, I just had a great idea! Offer Kim some of this shit. YOU — You finish the bite you have in your mouth quickly. “Hey, Kim, you wanna try some of mine?” KIM KITSURAGI — He blinks. “No, thank you. I’ve got plenty here.” He looks down at the colossal waffle on his plate, barely dented. YOU — “Yeah but this is like, stupid good. I’ll even let you have some egg yolk.” KIM KITSURAGI — “Very generous of you.” He smirks, then studies your plate for a moment. “Hm… sure, why not.”

You slide your plate a bit closer to him. He holds his fork up, surveying for the ideal sample size. Then, he strikes, claiming an entire egg for himself.

YOU — “Woooow.” You feign offence. KIM KITSURAGI — “Sorry, detective. I’ll need to confiscate this. I believe it may be connected to a case I’m working on.” He tries to keep a straight face but the corner of his mouth is slightly turned upwards. In seconds, he files the evidence into his mouth and promptly destroys it.

YOU — “Can’t believe the corruption I am witnessing here.” In a counter-attack, you jab your fork into one of the untouched corners of the lieutenant’s waffle. KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant stabs his knife down across from your fork, as if ready to engage in combat. He stares you down, brows furrowed with the illusion of authority. “Detective, I would tread carefully if I were you. You have entered enemy territory, and I have the high ground.”

PERCEPTION — You can feel your face turning red in the heat of the incredibly stupid breakfast battle you have entered. AUTHORITY — Do it! Let loose the dogs of war! Get that fucking waffle! KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant narrows his eyes at you, his concentration unwavering. The authority levels are building in his brow. They are charged to 50% capacity. DRAMA — I have an idea, sire.

YOU — You relax back in your seat, looking behind Kim. “Oh, hey Captain Pryce, here to enjoy the best breakfast in Central Jamrock?” KIM KITSURAGI — He quickly turns his head to look behind him. SAVOIR FAIRE — In an instant, you slice a corner of the waffle free from Kim’s plate, casually sliding it onto yours. KIM KITSURAGI — Realizing the feint, he snaps his attention back to you, glaring.

YOU — You pull your plate back, then pick up your mug, gesturing towards the lieutenant with a slight smirk. “Truce?” KIM KITSURAGI — Studying you for a moment, he reluctantly picks up his mug and clinks it against yours. “For now.”

#disco elysium #de spoilers #disco elysium spoilers #fanfic #koko fic #de fanfic

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bbyboibinnie · 3 years

Text

two of us

synopsis: love is hard to come by, especially when the boy you’ve been pining over is already taken. pairing: reader x jisung genre: fluff, angst, romance, college au warning: explicit language/cursing wc: 2.8k

one

It was halfway through your senior year in high school when you two had met. This was unexpected to say the least because it was the last semester of your last year; you had no intentions of making any new friends, considering you already had a handful of people you were close with and stuck by for the last three years. It was Chan that introduced you to him. You had known Chan for awhile–he was your lab partner for two consecutive years now–and although you considered him as a friend, you had never actually hung out outside of school before, unless it was for a group project of course. However, one day he had invited you to his birthday celebration and that was the day when you met his other friends, one of them being Jisung.

“Woah, slow down there.” His word caught you by surprise as you were stuffing cupcakes in your mouth. You didn’t really know any of Chan’s friends at the time and socializing with new people didn’t exactly come by easily for you, so you had opted to linger around the snack table instead.

Hastily dusting the crumbs off your face, you introduced yourself, “Oh, hey. My name is y/n.”

“I’m Jisung. I think we have calculus together right?” You looked at him closely; with black hair, deep brown eyes, and round cheeks you couldn’t lie–he was pretty cute, but you shook your head in response as you didn’t recognize him.

“Ya, Jisung! Come help me set up the cake!” Another one of the boys had called out, cutting your conversation with him short.

“Keep an eye out for me in calc.” He said as he was dragged away into the kitchen.

two

Sure enough, he was in the same math class as you. Honestly, besides your best friend in that period, you really didn’t pay attention to the other people. After all, the class was impacted and half of them were underclassmen so why bother remembering all the names and faces?

It was the day after the party and you looked around at everyone in the class; it only took you a moment before you spotted him in a seat two rows over. The lecture hadn’t started yet so he was talking to his friends. You didn’t feel the need to get up to go over and spark a conversation or anything, but when you two made eye contact, you gave him a quick smile before turning back to face the front board.

For a while, you two would occasionally spare glances at each other and wave or smile if you locked eyes, but there was nothing more. It wasn’t until after the latest exam when he approached you again.

“Hey, how’d you think you did?” He asked, waiting as you finished packing up your belongings.

“Could’ve done better. What about you?” You made your way to the door and he followed suit.

“Just hoping for that passing grade. Anyway, Chan and I were going to meet up to grab food after class today, wanna come?” You debated going with them for a second but ended up agreeing anyways.

You didn’t know what to make of Jisung at first, considering you had only exchanged a few words, but after hanging with him, even if it was just for a few hours, you found him to be quite likable.

From then on, he stuck around and you didn’t mind, in fact, perhaps you enjoyed his presence a lot more than you were willing to admit.

three

High school came and went but you were ready to face the new challenges and opportunities that college presented. Most of your other friends had been accepted to places further away, but you had settled for community for the time being. For the most part, you were an independent person; therefore, you tried to not be clingy when your friends left to reach their own goals–you’d see them soon enough again–but you had been worried about starting this whole new chapter of your life alone, luckily for you, someone by the name of Han Jisung had enrolled right alongside you.

As days went by, you two were seen together more and more. Of course he met new people, and so did you, but it was always nice to have someone familiar to go back to and for you, that familiar face was Jisung, and for him, that person was you.

Your majors were completely different and so were your classes, but you still spent time with him studying, ranting about professors, and passing out in each other’s rooms after staying up to finish assignments.

“Hey, Jisung,” you whispered, trying to not startle him awake, “it’s almost midnight. You should probably head back to your place before it gets too late.” He was slumped over your desk, fingers lifelessly placed atop the keyboard of his laptop, already drifting into a deeper state of sleep. “Jisung.” You tried again, only to have him groan in response. Shaking your head, you draped a throw blanket over his figure before returning to your workload.

It had gone on like this for weeks, months, nearly a year. One night he’d sleep over at your place and the next you’d be at his. Both of you had been accustomed to this routine now and you thought nothing of it, however, the more time you spent with him, the more you found things to like about him, and that’s what you were afraid of in the beginning–falling for him.

four

You were never the type to fall head over heels for anyone, all throughout elementary, middle, and high school, you only had occasional crushes but nothing significant. Yet,

there was something about him that you couldn’t shake off. Maybe it was the way he always made stupid jokes that you couldn’t help but laugh at, or perhaps it was the way he played his guitar and share the new songs he wrote with you first before anyone else got to hear them. It was the smile that reached his eyes and the way he knew you so well, like the back of his hand. It was everything.

You didn’t expect anything more out of the platonic relationship, but you couldn’t just get rid of the feelings on demand, so you had to let them settle and hope that they’d go away eventually, of course that didn’t work.

five

Just because you saw Jisung differently, didn’t mean he would have the same outlook on you.

“What do you think would make a good first date?” Jisung had asked casually over the counter. You were currently on shift at the local boba shop and Jisung often tagged along; typically he just sat there and did his homework as he waited, but on days where store traffic was low, he would ease your boredom by talking aimlessly. This particular caught you off guard though.

“Um, I’m not sure. Why do you ask?” You said, trying to sound casual, while restocking the ingredients.

“Well, I finally managed to receive a ‘yes’ after I asked someone out earlier today.” He said, smiling to himself in satisfaction. You were shocked, but at the same time, not at all. During the twelve months or so that you’ve known him, relationships weren’t a common topic of discussion. Yes, it did come up a few times but college and just life in general was already too time consuming so you didn’t bother with relationships, and neither did he.

“Wow, I’m impressed Jisung. I didn’t think anyone would fall for a clown like you.” You teased him, hoping your disappointment wasn’t showing. You knew that it was a platonic relationship and had set no expectations, yet you still felt a wave of sadness wash over.

“Oh, haha. Seriously though, I only prepared on how to ask them out, but I didn’t think past that because I wasn’t sure I’d even make it this far.”

“In that case, why don’t you consider what the person likes and try to set up something that you both would enjoy? Personally, I don’t think you could go wrong with arcade, pizza, and boba though. I could even hook you up with a discount on the boba.” You said jokingly in an attempt to lift your mood up.

“What would I do without you? You better keep your word about that discount though. Oh shit, I gotta head back and finish my essay, see ya y/n. Also, text me when you get back to your place!” He shouted the last part as he was in the midst of exiting and the door jingled as it shut behind him.

six

So his date had gone well and now his status went from ‘single’ to ‘taken’ while you were still struggling to manage your unrequited feelings. You had accepted the situation for what it was but that didn’t make it any easier.

Naturally as he began to split his time between his new relationship and you, the time you spent with him dwindled down. Weekly study sessions became bi-weekly, which turned into monthly events. You didn’t hold this against him though, you were glad he found someone to connect with.

“Hey, sorry I’m late… again.” Jisung said sheepishly as he entered your room, with a backpack slung over his shoulders, messy hair, and pink marks peeking out from under his t-shirt. You were flustered at the sight, knowing that he had just come back from being with his significant other, doing who knows what.

“Uh, it’s okay. Just–let’s just get to studying.” You preoccupied yourself with your various notes and textbooks and tried you best not to be distracted. Suddenly, somewhere along the line, tension began to build. Maybe you were just imagining it but something had shifted between you and Jisung these days, and it gave you a sense of hopelessness because there was nothing you could do about it.

seven

More time had passed and your friendship was still afloat, but it definitely wasn’t the same as before. It seems like everything has its peak and you two have surpassed that; what goes up must come down, so it was all downhill from there.

As his relationship became more unstable and doubts, he slowly began to make his way back to you. You should’ve been happy, even elated at this fact, but you weren’t.

“I don’t know what happened. One minute we were fine and the next we were arguing. It’s like I am dating a different person now.” He expressed to you, once again at the boba shop you were still working at. It had actually been awhile since he came.

“Mmhhm.” You nodded wordlessly as you continued to spray down the tables with disinfectants.

“The argument was so petty, I should’ve known better than to engage in it.” The rant continued on and on and you had mindlessly agreed with everything he said, until he noticed you weren’t even paying attention.

“Y/n, are you even listening to me?”

“Yup.”

“Okay, then will you give me your entire life savings?”

“Yes.”

“Y/n!” He shouted, getting up from his seat to stand directly in front of you on the other side of the counter. His loud voice startled you and you looked up, only to face a boy who was seething in anger. “Why are you blatantly ignoring me? I’m trying to rant to you and you’re not even helping.”

That was the last straw.

“Listen, don’t come in here asking me to be your guidance counselor after cancelling our plans on dozens of occasions. Also, how could you really expect me to give you my time when you can’t even spare me a minute on any other day. You’ve been a real jerk lately and you haven’t even noticed it! I can’t believe I ever liked someone like you!” The indirect confession left your mouth before you could stop yourself, and he stood there absolutely dumbfounded.

eight

That night, you immediately wanted to hide in the back of the store and hope whatever happened never happened, but you were tired of miscommunication.

“You like me?” Between the two of you, he was the one who had the courage to break the silence.

“Liked. I liked you. Past tense.”

“Do you still like me? Present tense.”

“No, I don’t–or maybe. I don’t know right now.” You had mentally convinced yourself that you were over him, but trying to admit it out loud proved otherwise.

“Y/n, I–” He started but you cut him off before he could finish.

“Maybe you should just go home now. I need some time to think.” He had hesitated for a moment, but eventually, he respected your wishes.

nine

It had been over a week, nearing two weeks, since you’ve talked to him. You already had so much on your plate with finals coming around and constantly having to work, so this was not something you wanted to deal with now, or ever actually. But closure was necessary, for you and for him, so you decided that once finals were over, you’d set things straight.

Grabbing the phone off your nightstand, scrolled through your contacts to find his name.

(11:57 PM )

[ you ] hey, we should talk after finals r over

You sent the text, hoping he’d want closure as well, but minutes passed there was no response. Just when you were about to sleep, your phone vibrated.

(12:05 AM)

[ jisung ] okay, see u after finals then. gn

ten

You had just gotten out of your last class of the day when he came into view. Frankly, you hadn’t expected to meet up with him until later on in the day, but that was your own mistake for not specifying when or where to meet in the text. Although this had slightly caught you off guard, you couldn’t put this off forever so you made your way towards him.

It was a relatively cold day; he stood there bundled up in his hoodie and a beanie atop which tamed his hair from the strong winds.

“Hey.” You said as you stood face to face with him.

“Hey, it’s been awhile.” He responded, eyes softening when he saw you.

* * *

Together, you ended up walking back to his place to talk. Nothing much was said during the trip back, besides the occasional polite small talk like “how have you been?” and “how were finals?”

When he opened his door, you entered wearily; although you had visited his place numerous times in the past, the last time you actually came by was months ago so it felt odd to be back to place so familiar, yet foreign again.

You were grateful for the fact that it was so warm in his apartment because the weather outside had left your body feeling numb.

“Here, I know you get cold easily.” Jisung handed you an extra sweater he pulled from his closet and you thanked him before sliding it over your shoulders.

The both of you just stood in his living room, no one knew what to say or how to start the conversation, but you were here now so it was time to say everything you’ve felt. With a deep breath, you began.

“I thought I could let go of my feelings for you, but I couldn’t.” You said, focusing on the floor as you couldn’t look him in the eyes. “And I’m sorry if this makes you feel uncomfortable or jeopardizes whatever is left of our friendship, but I can’t keep lying to myself anymore. If you don’t like me, then I’ll have to accept it and move on but I just had to let you kn-”

Your spiel came to an abrupt stop when he drew you into his arms. Not knowing how to react, you were frozen from confusion and shock.

“Y/n, do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you?” He held you at arms length and gently titled your chin up so you could meet his gaze. “If I had known you liked me, I would’ve never looked at anyone else.”

His words were forming incoherent sentences in your head. Was this his confession? Did he feel the same way?

He must’ve sensed your puzzlement because he smiled at you and said, “Yes dummy, I like you too.”

Your immediate response was to smile, but then something dawned on you.

“What about your current relationship?”

“I’m no longer in a relationship. We have been broken up for nearly a month now.”

“So what does that mean for us?” You say, almost too optimistically. And his response was to pull you in close, so close to the point where you could feel his breath fanning across your cheeks and your noses were barely touching, before closing the gap between your lips and his.

a/n: honestly, this piece is kind of all over the place since it’s my first one but hopefully more practice will make my writing better! also, this is not proofread so my apologies for any grammatical/punctuation errors.

also here it my masterlist in case you want to read my other works!

#skz au #stray kids au #stray kids masterlist #skz masterlist #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids oneshot #jisung x reader #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #han x reader #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #skz angst #stray kids angst #stray kids fluff #skz fluff

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ilovemesomekillianjones · 3 years

Text

In the Still of the Night

Here is my contribution for the Captain Swan Neverland New Year event! You guys, I am so excited to be writing again!!!! Thank you @xhookswenchx for beta reading this baby for me. Kudos to the mods of @neverlandnewyear for thinking up and putting together this treasure that is Captain Swan in Neverland. Tag list at the end, please let me know if you ever want to be removed or added.

Summary: Set after Henry is safe (no Pan switch) but before the gang is able to leave Neverland. When Emma is woken in the still of the night, from dreams of a devilishly handsome pirate captain, she decides she needs a midnight swim to cool off. In which Hook and a daringly open Emma have a meeting of the mind, body, and soul.

Rated M 8K ao3 ffnet Story under the cut, promise

It was the middle of the night when Emma woke, a sweltering, sweaty mess. “Why is this island so fucking hot,” she muttered into the darkness. Having a lascivious dream about Hook had absolutely naught to do with her elevated temperature, it was undoubtedly this goddamn jungle. Now that Pan had been conquered, and Henry was safe, Emma found she was having an increasingly difficult time keeping the smoldering, blue-eyed pirate off of her mind. She needed to get back to Storybrooke, back to some semblance of normalcy... or whatever. She silently cursed Gold for not having found a way to get her father home safely yet.

Ripping the covers from her body, she got up from her bunk below Henry’s and checked on him. Seeing that he was sound asleep, she headed topside. The deck of the Jolly Roger was blessedly deserted. Emma leaned against the railing, looking toward the vast jungle that was Neverland and she shuddered despite the hot, humid air that surrounded her. The shudder wasn’t due to the jungle itself. Since they’d defeated Pan, Hook had shown the group many of the island’s hidden beauties. He had stories for every spot he showed them, some hilarious, some melancholy, some quite ordinary, and others downright terrifying. There were quaint trails, refreshing springs and ponds, fascinating wildlife and vibrant plant life. It was actually quite a dream destination when a maniacal man-boy wasn’t playing psycho.

No, it wasn’t the jungle causing that shudder. She couldn’t get that goddamn kiss off her mind. Emma bit her lip as she reminisced about the way his lips had caressed hers, the way his tongue had slipped into her mouth hungrily but also tenderly. A one-time thing, she’d told Hook. Now if she could just maintain that lie, because that’s what it had been. She really needed Gold to find a way to magic David’s health back so they could get off this god forsaken island already.

She decided that the time for sleep was past, she was wide awake now, with thoughts of that damn pirate. A midnight dip would be ideal, especially while everyone was asleep. Emma left the Jolly Roger and headed toward the secluded pond that Hook had shown them. Once they’d no longer had to worry about being attacked, they’d created a regular schedule for bathing, so everyone had their own time. Luckily, no one’s time was right now.

Traversing quietly through the jungle, Emma admired the beauty around her. The greenery was lush, the effulgent dew made it seem more alive than any plants she’d ever been around. The blossoms surrounding the path were some of the largest she’d ever seen - they were dazzling pinks and oranges. She wondered if she had missed all this in her haste, fatigue, and desperation while finding Henry, or if the jungle had only come to life since the man-child was no more.

She followed the trail Hook had shown them, until she came upon the pond that was shrouded below an overhang at the base of what Hook had referred to as Dead Man’s Peak. The name hadn’t initially inspired comfort in the group, but when David explained to them that the water at the top of the peak was what had cured him, their perspectives changed. Emma swore there must be some restorative properties here at the base because she always felt rejuvenated when emerging from the water.

Stripping as soon as she broke the tree line, she discarded her clothes beneath a tree along the sandy shoreline. Her flesh pebbled as it met the open air, and she felt a freeness as she walked to the water’s edge. She dipped her toes in tentatively, knowing the water would be agreeable as always. Emma was immersed thigh deep before diving down below the surface and swimming toward the middle.

The water sluiced around her body soothingly while she held her breath as long as she could, before breaking the surface. Emma pushed her hair back then ran her hands over her face before opening her eyes. She enjoyed this spot, a sandbar of sorts, deep enough to cover her body, shallow enough that she could still reach, and far enough from all surrounding shore should anyone happen upon her.

The silence that enveloped her was serene and she looked up at the star filled sky. A shooting star floated across the heavens, but just as Emma was about to make a wish, the water beside her opened up as something emerged. The scream that started to bubble up from deep within her, as a hundred thoughts filled her mind on what unimaginable Never-beast this could be, was cut off by a voice she was not expecting to hear.

“Evening Swan!”

“Jesus Christ, Hook!” Emma gasped. Thank god she was in shoulder deep water. “Wait, did you… were you watching when I… you know,” she asked while motioning toward her body.

“Did I what?” Hook asked, genuine confusion furrowing his brow.

“Did you see me undressing?”

“You wound me, Swan… I would never!”

“Oh, tonight you’re the gentleman?”

“I told you, I am always a gentleman,” he claimed in a rich tone as he took a step closer to her. “Spying on a lady as she undresses would be unthinkably bad form.”

“Then where the hell were you?”

“I was underwater.”

“For the whole time?” she asked disbelievingly.

“Aye. I’m a pirate, love, when you live a life on the water, it’s best you be able to hold your breath for longer than the average landlubber. Never know when you might find yourself keelhauled.”

“Landlubber,” Emma scoffed, “I can hold my breath just fine.”

“I’ve no doubt you can, just not as long as meself,” he smirked.

Emma narrowed her eyes at the challenge in his tone. What was it about this man that had her wanting to comply with his every whim? She’d held her breath for as long as she could when she dove into the water, if he’d been under from the time she’d stripped until he popped up to interrupt her wish, that had to be like two full minutes? No way, she thought, he must have come up for air while she was under.

“Bet I can,” she challenged back.

“Is that so?” Hook asked, crowding her a little more, eyebrow cocked in interest. “And just what are the terms of this bet?”

If ever asked under oath, Emma would swear his eyebrows spoke a language all their own. “If I win, I get the Captain’s quarters,” Emma replied, crossing her arms over her chest smugly - as if she’d already won.

“I told you before, Swan, you and the lad should have my quarters.”

“I don’t want it given to me, I want to take it from you.”

“Fine,” he sighed, “such a stubborn lass. And if I win?”

“You tell me,” Emma said with a shrug of her shoulders.

“Hmmmm,” he hummed, as the tip of his tongue swept along his bottom lip. “How about…” he continued, tapping his pointer finger to his lips.

Emma leaned toward him with anticipation as he pondered the terms to set.

“I get to ask you any question I want.”

“Seriously?” Emma sputtered, head tilting to the side, it was rhetorical at best, not an actual question. “You’re taking this gentleman schtick a little over the top. I thought you’d want me to flash my tits or another kiss?”

“I told you, love, I am always a gentleman, and as such, I would never want to take a kiss from you in victory, I want it given to me, willingly. I want you to want it as much as I do.”

Emma blushed as he spoke, damn him for being a chivalrous pirate. “Whatever,” Emma muttered, “I’m winning this bet anyway.”

“So, we have an accord?” he questioned, holding out his hand for her to shake.

“Deal,” Emma said, shaking his hand. “How will we know no one cheated?”

“I do have a code, Swan,” Hook scoffed, “pillaging and plundering, yes; swashbuckling, yes; swindling beautiful maidens, never.” He held his hand over his heart as if he were making a pledge.

Emma smiled at the actual drama queen standing before her, laughing lightly, it felt good. “Okay, so how are we doing this thing?” Hook held up his hand like he was about to take an actual oath, and Emma was half inclined to high-five him, though she was sure that was not his intent.

“Take my hand then,” he prompted, nodding his head toward his hand. Once her fingers were laced with his, he explained that he would count to three and they’d both submerge to the bottom, first one up was the loser, and the winner would know, because the loser would release the winner’s hand to reach the surface for air.

On three they submerged, and Emma could not see a thing. Hook was inches from her, and the only indication was his hand in hers. Feeling the comfort of his grasp in the eerily dark abyss, she pondered over the fact that she’d interlocked their fingers, instead of just holding hands palm in palm. She really needed off this island, she couldn’t be falling for him. Life was too hard for a relationship. Or was it really too hard, the rarely heard from, softer side of Emma Swan’s mind butted in. It could be so easy, this voice told her.

When Hook had told her that he would win her heart without any trickery, Emma’s heart had beat a little stronger just for him, she’d wanted to pull him into her arms to make out right there. Alas, there had still been the issue of her beloved child to save.

Would it really be so bad to let Hook try to win her heart though? He truly was a gentleman, a pirate scoundrel sometimes too, but it was part of his charm. Plus, her lie detector said that everything he’d told her regarding how he felt about her, about what the kiss exposed, it was all true.

Emma’s mind wandered back to Storybrooke, to what it might be like to have someone who understood her, someone who was like her, to spend time with. The squeeze he gave her hand at that moment had her picturing what it might be like to walk through town with him, hand in hand. Was that even something she could still do, be that vulnerable, for the world to see her care for a man? She’d been on her own for so long, independent; free from any man who could hold her heart with the possibility of crushing it.

Suddenly she felt dizzy, head spinning and heart pounding loudly in her ears. Had she held her breath too long, or were her outlandish imaginings too much for her stoic heart? Releasing Hook’s hand, Emma rose to the surface and gulped in the air. Pushing water and hair from her face, she panted deeply. She wondered how long they’d been down there already as Hook continued his underwater mission. Leave it to him to not only win, but really show her up.

A full minute later, Emma began to worry. Unless she’d been down there an inordinately short amount of time, he’d been under for at least two and a half minutes. Was that even possible? Had he passed out in his endeavor to “best her”? She started to actually worry for his health when another thirty seconds passed.

“Goddammit Hook, where are you?” she muttered.

“Miss me, love?”

“Oh, goddammit!” she yelled as she flailed so hard, she was pretty sure she’d just flashed her breasts unwittingly. The bastard wasn’t even out of breath when he popped up right in front of her. “Stop doing that,” she laughed as she pushed his chest. “Why’d you stay down so long, you big showoff?”

“On the contrary, I could feel you thinking down there, the amount of body language just in your hand told me you were contemplating some things. I merely wished to give you enough time to escape, should this game have become too much for you.”

“Escape?” she scoffed.

“Now, now, Swan - we both know of your affinity to run,” he said lightly, no accusations or contempt in his voice.

“Says the pirate who sailed away when asked to be a part of something,” Emma retorted.

“I came back, didn’t I?” he questioned with a raised eyebrow. “You, on the other hand, left me to be eaten by a giant atop that beanstalk.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she laughed. “I made a deal with Anton to release you after ten hours, I just needed a head start, in case you…” Emma’s voice lowered to a whisper, not wanting to voice her early assumptions about his motives and intentions.

“In case I betrayed you,” Hook finished.

“Sorry,” she whispered, looking straight into his eyes, imploring him to believe the sincerity of her words. Although she’d had her reasons at the time, it didn’t make her feel less terrible now.

“Long forgiven, milady,” he whispered in turn. Then, in the next breath, he was back to the cocky pirate she knew. “Now, I do believe I won, and per our accord, you owe me the fee of one truth.”

“Congratulations,” Emma offered, extending her hand to shake, “you won, fair and square.” No trickery, she thought. Then she crossed her arms over her chest, which was still underwater, so it didn’t make her look menacing at all as she jutted out her chin and raised both eyebrows in a silent challenge to do his worst.

“Why thank you, Swan. Hmmm, what shall I ask you?” he spoke, as if pondering his many choices. “There are truly so many things I wish to learn about you, I want to know everything, really.”

Emma’s eyebrows lowered as a shy smile crept over her face. It was stupid, she knew, but having this man before her, admit that he wants to know everything about her made her feel… cherished, adored, wanted. It was a foreign feeling after so many years of being alone. “Well, you only get one free question,” she said, trying to deflect the saccharine sweet feelings he was stirring within her.

"Pity, that, but I do remember the terms of our agreement. I do have one question picked out that I simply must know the answer to, before I endeavor to learn more. Fair warning, I may not have an Emma Swan internal lie detector,” he said as he leaned in closer to her, “but as I told you before, you are a bit of an open book, so I’ll know if you’re twisting the truth.”

“I would never,” Emma objected dramatically, holding a hand over her heart as he had so often done when feigning injury to his pride.

“Good,” he replied, taking a step even closer. “Then tell me, love, when you said our kiss was a one time thing, did you mean it? And if you did mean it when you said it, do you feel the same now?”

His close proximity was making her feel a little less confident than the facade she was putting on, but Emma didn’t break the heady eye contact he’d made, a beautiful shade of blue, looking into her, reading her. And how was the kohl that rimmed his eyes unaffected by the water? She might have to pillage some of that from him, it put her realm’s cosmetics to shame. God he was gorgeous as the moonlight shined down on them, she’d never noticed the hint of red to the scruff along his sharp jawline. “That’s two questions,” she murmured breathily as she thought of nibbling along that jawline.

“Shall I rephrase?”

“Oh, the hell with it, I never meant it,” she confessed as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her bare chest against his and kissing him soundly.

As their lips collided hungrily, over and over, Emma was pretty sure she heard Hook mumbling thanks to the gods. She felt a little of that same relief, as she finally admitted that denying herself this thing that she wanted was ridiculous now that everyone was safe. Running her fingers through his thick hair, she gave it a little tug, angling his head so she could deepen the kiss. The groan he elicited was sinful and it kind of made Emma want to rub herself all over him.

Instead she ran her other hand over his chest, deciding to take her time, she’d wanted to feel that chest hair since the first time she’d seen it proudly on display. It wasn’t quite what she expected since they were both wet and it was matted to his chest. She smirked when he jumped, his hand tightening involuntarily in her hair as she ran a thumb over his nipple.

“A little sensitive, Captain?” she teased, looking up at him through her long lashes.

“Aye,” Hook chuckled, “‘s been awhile.”

It’d been a long dry spell for her as well. And it’d been even longer since feeling any true emotion when with a man. It had merely been scratching an itch for so long that she was a little scared what this all meant. The tingling, unadulterated want she felt in every nerve of her body far outweighed the fear though. “Touch me,” she whispered as she wrapped both arms around his waist.

“Bloody Hell, you’ll be the death of me, woman,” he muttered as he kissed her once more. He wrapped his good arm around her and pulled her in close. Trailing a path from her mouth to her ear, he bit gently on her lobe, and it was his turn to smirk as a shiver ran through Emma’s entire body. “Would you be opposed to taking this back on land?”

“We just got clean, I don’t want sand in every crack and crevice,” she giggled while wrinkling her nose.

“Aye, that would be less than optimal,” Hook agreed, “though the place I have in mind won’t get your nether regions sandy.”

“What’s wrong with right here, right now?” Emma challenged. She was pulled up short when Hook’s cheeks went pink and he scratched behind his ear as he did so often when he was feeling slightly unsure of himself. Truth be told, Emma found it cute, although she’d never tell him that, she doubted the fearsome pirate captain wanted cute to be correlated to his reputation.

“It’s just, I’d rather…”

Brushing the hair from his forehead, Emma smoothed her thumb over the worry line that creased his brow. “What’s wrong?” she asked. When he made no attempt to answer, Emma decided to employ his own tactics against him. “Try something new, Hook. It’s called trust.”

Emma internally cheered as one of Hook’s mega watt smiles overtook his face. The smile that showed those adorable (another word she was sure he would not want associated with him) dimples, and crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Touché lass,” he conceded, “I’d rather be able to have use of all my appendages.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, gazing very obviously in the direction of his most manly appendage. “Ummm, it felt like it was working just fine to me.”

“Christ, Swan,” he chuckled, “I assure you, everything is ready, willing, and able in that department. I’d like my hook.”

Emma’s jaw dropped and her eyes widened as she thought, not for the first time, about what that hook would feel like against her heated skin.

“It’s okay, love, if it repulses you, I can just wear the brace without the hook.”

Emma shook her head, a frown downturning her brows and her lips, “Stop-”

“But I assure you,” Hook continued without letting Emma speak, “if the hook repulses you, the wound will surely-”

Emma’s hand over his mouth was more effective in shutting him up. “Stop it,” she demanded, “right now.”

Hook was a little taken aback by being commanded by the fiery version of Emma, he’d seen her fiery side before, and he liked it, he liked every part of her. He wasn’t taken aback by her fire, rather he wasn’t used to being bossed around. He was the boss. But as he stood there, with her hand over his mouth, he realized he’d follow her orders any day.

“Do you think I’m unaware that you don’t have a left hand?”

Hook shook his head in the negative, since her hand was still covering his mouth.

“Do you think I’m so shallow as to be repulsed by your hook or your brace or your wound?”

Hook took longer to answer this time, contemplating what he’d said and what she was asking. He supposed his words may have left room for misinterpretation. Slowly shaking his head no again, Emma removed her hand from his mouth.

“Good,” she stated simply, reaching for his left wrist before he even realized she'd made a move.

His head spun when he felt Emma’s touch upon his scarred flesh and his knee-jerk reaction was to pull away from her grasp. He struggled to find the words through the haze. “It was not my intent to imply you are shallow, Emma. It is my own reticence.”

“Trust me,” she whispered as she took his left wrist again. Wrapping both of her hands around his forearm and blunt wrist. Emma repeated the words comfortingly as she placed the arm he was so ashamed of between her breasts and held it there, where he could feel her heart beating.

“Your hook, your brace, or just this,” she squeezed his wrist, “has no bearing on how I feel about you. I care about you, Hook.” Her voice sounded shaky, even in her own ears. “You came back for me, you helped save my son, you make me feel wanted, you make me feel good about being me.” Removing one hand from his damaged skin, Emma wrapped it around the back of his neck and pulled his forehead to hers before closing her eyes and continuing. “I’m not ready for this part, and I apologize, because that is my hang up.”

“Hang up?” he questions.

“A simpleton’s way of saying reticence,” she answers with a small smile before continuing. “I hate words, they make things real, and messy, and although I mean everything I’m saying, that’s all I can handle right now. Please just…” she inhaled sharply as she tried to articulate her plea to let this be enough.

“I understand,” he whispered, voice just as shaky as Emma’s. He placed his hand on her cheek, lovingly caressing the softness of her lower lip. “And I do trust you, love.” He pecked her lips once before continuing. “I know you don’t like words, that much was clear from the start,” he said with a knowing smile and another peck to her lips, “but I’d like to respond, if you’re amenable?”

Emma nodded her head, eyes still closed, still reeling from her own confessions.

Hook kissed her gently again before prodding her to open her eyes. “I want you to see the truth of my words.”

Emma inhaled deeply, then opened her eyes to look at him. She bit her lip, a nervous habit from her teen years, as she waited for his words.

“I want to be the one to bite this lip,” Hook growled, as he used his thumb to massage her lip from her teeth.

“Truth,” Emma giggled despite herself, nodding to let him know her lie detector was working.

Hook waggled his eyebrows and smirked at her, before resuming his more resolute demeanor. “I have never felt more naturally drawn to a woman than I do with you. Your fire and passion brought my dormant heart back to life, and for the first time in decades upon decades, I want to be a better version of myself, a version that has been long forgotten, the old Killian Jones who was an honorable man, with good intentions, and hope in his heart, not revenge.”

“You may have lost your way for a time, but you’re still an honorable man, Killian.”

“Gods above,” Hook murmured as he wrapped both arms around Emma and pulled her into nothing more than a loving embrace. He was in love with her, but now was not the time. Emma would undoubtedly run if any grand declarations were made. He hadn’t felt this vulnerable maybe ever and he longed to hear her call him by his given name again.

“Emma? Hook?! What the hell?”

Emma froze in Hook’s embrace as the familiar, and annoying, and currently very judgmental voice sounded from the shore.

“Bollocks,” Hook cursed. “How shall we handle this, darling?”

“Can we just pretend he’s not there,” she deadpanned, face still buried in her neck, trying to keep reality at bay.

“Somehow I doubt that will work, but you are The Savior, you could give it a go.”

Emma sighed deeply before turning around in Hook’s arms, her back to his chest, so she could face their interloper. She placed her hands over his hand and wrist where they were wrapped around her waist. It was still dark as she faced Neal, so hopefully he wouldn’t see the eyeroll she’d just given him when she saw this silhouette of his hands on his hips like some outraged father.

“Good morning, Neal,” she called to the shore cheerfully. “I must have lost track of time, I didn’t realize it was already your shift for bathing.”

“It’s not,” he muttered, “it’s still the middle- not the fucking point,” he interrupted himself. “It’s not your shift either, what the hell are you doing out here?”

As much as Emma wanted to tell Neal that she and Hook were doing exactly what he assumed they were doing, she abstained. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” she snapped.

“It is my business,” he snarled back, “we’re supposed to be here for Henry.”

“Don’t you dare!” Emma started, voice rising with rightfully earned indignation. “We came here to save Henry who is now safe and sound aboard the Jolly, but the reason we are here is because your deranged fiancée dragged him through a portal to sacrifice him to a madman.”

“So you’re just going to throw away any chance of rekindling what we had, of being a family with Henry; so you can get laid by a dirty pirate.”

Emma pulled Hook’s arms around her tighter, keeping him anchored to her when she felt him start to pull away. She didn’t need these two getting into it again.

“Oi! I bathe quite frequently, mate,” Hook quipped. “I was doing so when Swan and I happened upon each other.”

“Shut up, Hook,” Neal retorted.

“The one good thing that came from us, was Henry, but our relationship is long over. There is nothing to rekindle,” Emma sighed. She didn’t want to be mean, but she needed Neal to understand that she wanted nothing to do with him romantically. And she was not going to be lectured by the man who’d already blown up her life once. “Maybe one day, you and I can be friends for Henry’s sake, but that is the most we will ever be.”

“Ems, you don’t mean that. You’re under his thrall, it’s not real.”

Emma completely ignored the bait, choosing instead to stop this exchange in its tracks. “Hook and I are kind of busy,” she said with a lighthearted tone, while turning back around to face Hook. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she called over her shoulder, ”If there’s nothing else, we’ll see you later.”

“You mark my words Emma, when he abandons you after taking what he wants, you’re going to look back and regret this moment.”

“He’s stuck around through more shit than you ever did,” she called back, looking straight into Hook’s eyes.

Properly dismissed, Neal stormed off, muttering curses the whole way.

Emma dropped her head to Hook’s chest, exhaling with relief. “That felt good,” she said.

“Well done, lass, though I’ve yet to see you fail, so I am not surprised Baelfire is no match for you. But perhaps we should make our way back as well,” Hook suggested. “I do believe he will be stirring the pot, come morning. You may want to be there to head off the storm.”

“I don’t care if he goes back to tell everyone, it’s not like it’s a lie, and at least this way, they will know we’re safe, and not missing. With any luck, we’ll be left alone for a bit,” she purred.

“Are you sure your parents will approve of you spending time with a dirty, one-handed pirate with a drinking problem?”

Emma’s head jerked up and she eyed him scrutinously. “First, you need to get Pan and Neal out of your head. Second, the only person who gets to decide who I spend my time with, or how I spend it, is me. And third, how do you know I don’t want you to be dirty,” she teased as she took command of his mouth with her own.

Not giving him a chance to think further, Emma quickly kissed him again. She slid her tongue past his lips, rolling it against Hook’s, who was quick to reciprocate. She wrapped her lips around his tongue and sucked on it, eliciting one of the sexiest noises she’d ever heard. It was half growling and half begging for more. The buoyancy helped him to easily lift her and she instinctively surrounded his body with her legs.

Hook broke the kiss, in favor of exploration. His hot mouth trailed down Emma’s neck, licking here and nibbling there, never too rough, he didn’t wish to mark her, at least not where it would be visible. He palmed one of her breasts with his hand while running his thumb over her already pebbled peak. “Gods you are perfect,” he murmured before taking her other breast in his mouth and alternating between gently suckling and the graze of his teeth.

Emma moaned softly in pleasure and torment as Hook worked her up, her clit throbbed and she longed to feel his hand or his mouth between her legs. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she pulled his head back and gazed into his eyes, want and desire evident in her pupils which were blown wide and the way her tongue licked salaciously over her bottom lip before she bit down on it.

She unwrapped her legs from around Hook’s torso, in favor of standing again. Sliding her hands down his back, she squeezed his ass cheeks before pressing her body against his. “I want you,” she whispered when she felt his hardness against her stomach. Emma reached between them to wrap her hand around his thick length.

“Swan,” Hook choked out, pulling her hand gently away from his overly eager cock. “I really don’t want this to be over before it starts.”

Emma smiled knowingly, the very thought of making him come early amping up her need. “Okay, you lead,” she agreed.

“Come with me.” Hook led her toward the far end of the pond, which was actually far larger than she’d realized. They rounded a large looming rock which cloaked the entrance to a small cave by the shore.

“You just know all the secret spots, don’t you?”

“I discovered many hiding spots over the years I spent on this cursed island,” Hook acknowledged. “I usually walk to this side of the water’s edge to deposit all my belongings before bathing. One can never be too safe with the keeping of his hook.” Extending his hand to Emma, he led her out of the water and into the shelter.

They entered far enough to have a little privacy, but not so far as to be pitched in blackness. Hook pulled her over to a natural, rock-formed shelf. “Do you want a towel, milady? Perhaps my shirt?”

“I want you,” Emma growled, yanking on his hand and pulling him flush against her body and attacking his mouth again.

“Mmmm, as you wish,” he uttered between ardent kisses.

Emma whined when he broke away from her again, “Hook!”

“Patience, darling,” he teased. Then he quickly grabbed his jacket and his towel, laying first the jacket down on the cave floor, followed by the towel. “So you don’t get sand in every crack and crevice,” he advised with a mock bow.

Emma laughed at his naked bow before tackling him to the makeshift bed and straddling his hips. She wove the fingers of her left hand with his right, and wrapped her other hand around his wrist before pinning them above his head.

She didn’t miss the way he jumped when she embraced his wrist, a fleeting look of helplessness crossing over his face. She kissed him softly, tenderly, wanting to calm his nerves about his perceived flaw. When she felt his body relax against hers, she started to trail kisses across the line of his jaw before veering back up to his ear. “Has anyone ever told you, you are beyond gorgeous?” she whispered before sucking his earlobe into her mouth.

“I tell myself this all the time, but it does sound much lovelier on your luscious lips.”

“These lips?” Emma asked, sitting up just slightly and running her tongue along her bottom lip.

“Aye, the very ones,” Hook struggled to get out of her hold, as he tried leaning up to taste her lips.

Emma kept a firm hold on him though, enjoying this little bit of control. She could feel his cock against her ass, hard for her, twitching each time she nibbled and sucked at his skin. She continued to trail kisses downward, along his neck, across his pecs. His hips thrusted upwards when she bit down on his nipple and flicked her tongue over the sensitive flesh. “Patience,” she mimicked his earlier command.

Hook’s melodramatic exhale made her giggle as she scooted further down his body, gently rubbing her wet core along his cock. “Bloody hell!” Hook cursed while deftly flipping them over.

“Don’t you want to see what else these luscious lips can do?” she asked with a wicked grin.

“Gods above, I do. But I swear you will unman me the moment you wrap your lips around me.”

Emma smirked at him, eyes alight with lust.

“You little minx, you like that idea don’t you?”

“Maybe,” she admitted, a confession really, despite the ambiguity of the answer. She’d already resumed stroking him.

“Fuck,” Hook hissed at her touch. He was torn between his ego needing to pleasure her first and his baser instincts demanding he let her do her worst.

Emma watched Hook, saw him struggle with the decision, his eyes squeezing shut when she ran her thumb over his tip. Without waiting for his answer, Emma rolled them back over and licked from his base to his tip before sucking the head of his cock into her mouth while continuing to pump him.

Her clit ached as she reveled in the wrecked expression on his face, Hook was watching her every move, lip pinned between his teeth as he struggled to hold out. She knew he was close when his hand balled into a white knuckled fist on his stomach and she gently cupped his balls to massage them. The sound that left his mouth was positively feral as he came hard, warm and wet in her mouth.

She savored the moment, he hadn’t lasted long, and she’d been the one to do that to him. But that was all she had, a fleeting moment before she was being rolled to her back.

Hook held her in his blunted arm and dove in for a kiss, not caring at all that his taste was still on her tongue. He smiled against her lips when he felt her spreading her legs beneath him. “Eager, are we?” he asked between kisses.

“Don’t tease,” she panted into his mouth.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Hook slowly caressed his hand down her neck, stopping to play with her breasts for just a moment before continuing down to where he knew she was desperate to be touched. He parted her lips with two fingers and slid his middle finger into the warm wetness waiting for him. “Gods, Swan, you’re soaked.” His cock was already coming back to life as he thought about sliding into her wet heat.

Emma’s eyes rolled shut as Hook massaged her clit with her slippery wetness and any response she could’ve made was forgotten. Her mouth parted with an involuntary whimper when he switched it up, suddenly, but oh so easily slipping two fingers deep inside her. She contracted around his fingers, then pushed down, welcoming the penetration.

Hook fucked her with his fingers, circling his thumb over her clit, while watching her cheeks flush pink and her breasts bounce as she rode his hand. Longing to taste her, he repositioned himself between her legs, chuckling at her whine of protest when he had to stop for a moment.

“Oh fuck,” she panted when he resumed loving her clit, this time with his tongue. He alternated between licks and flicks and sucking. Emma’s head spun dizzily, she’d experienced oral sex, but apparently she had never experienced mind blowing oral sex. She threaded both hands into his hair and tried desperately not to be too rough. “Oh my god, I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”

Hook chose that moment to thrust his fingers back inside her and Emma was gone, she came harder than she ever had, warm and tingly and wet as Hook continued to thrust his fingers into her and suck on her clit. She saw stars or dots or something behind her eyelids and there was a rush of waves nearby, or maybe that was just the adrenaline coursing in her ears. The little aftershocks pulsing and throbbing in her clit were heavenly and oh my god, that was fucking amazing, she thought.

“Get up here,” she purred, pulling on his hair.

“It seems someone was just as primed as I was,” Hook smirked as he slid back up the length of her body.

Emma silenced his smugness by wrapping her legs around waist and flipping him to his back. The rush of air that left Hook’s chest made her chuckle as she placed her hands on his cheeks and whispered to him between kisses. “Well, you’re very, very skilled,” she praised.

“You set the bar very high, love.”

Emma beamed at his compliment, her cheeks warming. She wasn’t sure what it was about this man that made her feel unlike she’d ever felt with another man. Like she was special and desired, it made her feel sexually free in a way she never had. Sitting astride Hook’s solid body, she caressed her hands along his chest, exploring his now dry chest hair, it was just as thick and glorious as she’d imagined.

Emma could see the scars littering his flesh and she’d felt more when they’d been in the water and her hands had explored the expanse of his back. She wondered how rough his life had been to have this many physical scars. Her heart constricted a bit at that thought, especially already knowing he had just as many emotional scars as she did. She was both taken aback and a little frightened when she realized she wanted to know so much more about Hook. Maybe it was time to stop running from good things, Emma thought, her mind once again weighing the pros and cons of a relationship. Her train of thought was lewdly interrupted by a thrust of Hook’s hips, his hardness tapping at her back.

“Ready so soon, pirate,” she said in a husky tone while rising up on her knees and guiding him to her core. She ran the tip of his cock through her wet folds, both of them moaning with unadulterated lust.

“Fuck yes,” he growled, thrusting his hips upward again.

Emma cried out as his tip slipped inside her, a wave of arousal pooling and her belly tightening with want. She slid down his generous length, slowly savoring the drag against her slippery walls. She planted both hands on his chest and stilled her movements when he was fully seated, adjusting to his size.

“You alright, love?” Hook asked, squeezing her hip gently while he circled his thumb over her hip bone.

She nodded her head and opened her eyes, which she didn’t realize she’d shut, to gaze down at the gorgeous man below her. “You feel good,” she praised, lifting her hips and sinking back down on to him. Emma set a languid pace, delighting in the sensation of fucking, the drag along her walls, angling herself so he hit that spot.

“That’s it, lass, take what you want,” Hook encouraged as Emma rode him; slowly at first, then building in pace as her cheeks flushed and a light sheen of sweat broke out across her forehead. He wished, not for the first time tonight, to be able to touch her with two hands. He encouraged her to touch her breasts as he changed course to play with her clit.

Emma’s thighs began to burn as she worked to bring them both to that sweet edge of release, and the delicious friction between them built higher and higher. She palmed her breasts, tweaking her nipples and watched as Hook thumbed her clit in time with her thrusts. His hooded eyes roamed her body, and he bit down on his lip as he watched his cock disappear inside her heat over and over. She liked watching him watch her and the small grunts he gave each time she impaled herself and ground against him were hot. Emma found herself at the edge of bliss again and she whimpered as Hook began thrusting up into her.

Hook was having a hard time controlling his ardor, he wanted to flip them and plunge deeply into her. She was a vision, flushed pink, sweaty, breasts bouncing as she rode him to the edge. And then he heard her...

“Come with me, Killian,” she panted.

...and he was undone. The plea in her tone as she said his name and the massage of her walls against his cock as she began to come, ended him. He came hard and hot with a cry of her name, filling her with his seed until it began to spill as she continued to ride him through both of their releases.

As euphoria traveled throughout her body, Emma slumped into Hook’s body. She’d never felt so gratified as her entire being thrummed with bliss. Hook turned them to their sides and kissed her fervently. Wrapping both her arms around him, Emma gave as good as she got, their tongues and lips engaging lovingly. She lost track of all time as they lay together, parting only when they needed breath. “That was-”

Hook covered her mouth much as she had covered his earlier. “Don’t,” he whispered with a pleading look in his eyes.

Emma wrapped her fingers around his palm and removed his hand, giggling quietly. “I didn’t mean it the first time, and I damn sure wouldn’t mean it this time,” she assured him, noting how his shoulders sagged in relief. “I was going to say that was amazing… brilliant,” she murmured into his ear.

Hook chuckled, remembering the time he’d said those words to her. “Aye, Swan, we still make quite the team.”

Emma could only smile at the seamless harmony that flowed between them. And she kissed him once more before snuggling into him.

As a sated exhaustion made itself known in her body, Emma rejoiced that it was still dark outside of the cave. A vigorous yawn and stretch wracked her body, and Killian chuckled lightly again.

“Did I wear you out?”

Emma laughed as the same yawn tore through Hook, no sooner had he spoken his teasing words. “I think we wore each other out,” she snickered.

“Aye lass, I believe you’re right. How about we get washed up and head back to the Jolly? I’ll give you the captain’s quarters, even though you lost.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Brag much?”

“What is the fun in winning a wager if I cannot gloat?”

“Such a pirate,” she muttered before rolling him to his back again. “How about we share the captain’s quarters?”

“Deal,” Hook accepted without hesitation.

A half hour later, they were standing in the cave, bathed, and mostly dressed, Hook had gone to get Emma’s clothes for her from the opposite shoreline.

“Shall we?” Hook asked, offering Emma his hand. He frowned when she made no attempt to move.

“I’d rather…” she started, a blush coloring her cheeks.

“Ah, I understand,” Hook said, quickly understanding. “Shall we head back in separate directions? Or perhaps, I’ll just stay here for a bit and come back later in the morning.”

Emma rolled her eyes again, this time with a bit of frustration, as she placed her hands on her hips. “That is not what I was going to say.”

Hook raised an eyebrow in question, waiting for her to explain.

“Has nothing I’ve said tonight gotten through to you? Or did that mind blowing sex make you forget?” She took his heavier than expected leather duster from where he had it draped over his arm and turned around to lay it out on the cave floor.

Turning to face Hook again, she cupped his face in both hands. “Let’s recap, I like how you make me feel, I’m not worried about everyone finding out, best oral ever, sensational sex, no running away. I fancy you, Killian.” Emma finished her statement with a gentle kiss.

The gobsmacked look on Hook’s face made her laugh out loud. “I was going to say I’d rather spend the rest of the night here with you. We already know everyone else will know we’re safe. Even if Neal doesn’t outright blab; if Mary Margaret and David start to worry, he won’t hesitate to spill what he knows.”

“You fancy me, love?”

Despite heavily stroking his ego by admitting he was the best she’d ever been with, it figured the part he’d pick up on was the closest she’d get to any kind of outright confession of feelings. Emma smacked her hand to her forehead. “Yes, Killian, I fancy you. Don’t get all cocky about it.”

“On my honor, I’ll not get cocky,” he promised before leaning in to kiss her, “as I quite fancy you as well. But you already know that.”

Laying down on his jacket, the two snuggled together, Emma in panties and Hook’s shirt and Hook in his birthday suit.

“You needed to get naked again to go to sleep?” Emma asked with a little sarcasm in her tone.

“I’ll have you know that style and comfort do not go hand in hand, Swan. Those leathers, though appealing to the eye, do not make for great sleep clothes. Besides, all pirate’s know the only way to sleep when there’s a lovely lass in his bed, is in the nude. You know… easy access.”

“Why am I not surprised by that, Killian?”

“I’ll never tire of hearing you call me that,” he answered.

“Killian,” she whispered.

“Aye, love?”

“Nothing, I just wanted you to hear me say it again.”

A boyish smile broke out over Killian’s face as he pulled her in tighter to his side. “Good night, Swan.”

“Goodnight, Killian.”

The End

Tagging some lovely shipmates - please let me know if you don’t want to be tagged - or if you’re reading and want me to tag you.

@laschatzi @qualitycoffeethings @hookedonapirate @wordsmith-storyweaver @kmomof4 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @wyntereyez @hooklineandswan @teamhook @let-it-raines @whimsicallyenchantedrose @spartanguard @tiganasummertree@apromisednightcap @xemmaloveskillianx @elizabeethan @cocohook38 @optomisticgirl @darkcolinodonorgasm @jennjenn615 @timeless-love-story @girl-in-a-tiny-box @thesschesthair @galadriel26 @ultraluckycatnd @lifeinahole27 @therooksshiningknight @kday426 @djlbg @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @lfh1226-linda @delightfully-difficult-pirate @thejollyswan @csalltheway @xarandomdreamx @vvbooklady1256 @withheartfulloflove @resident-of-storybrooke @mcakers @gingerchangeling @searchingwardrobes

#csnlny #cs fan fic #cs ff #captain swan #cs is my otp forever

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vidalinav · 3 years

Text

All My Girls Like to Fight

Inspired by the song “All my girls like to fight” by Hope Tala

Summary: Devlon trains Nesta. Devlon’s POV

Disclaimer: I personally am on the fence about Nesta training because she’s more magically powerful (probably) than anyone else. However, I will not lie and say it does not intrigue me, because I tend to like anything involving Nesta Archeron. And, I think it would be cool to have her fight (and inevitable) and the sexual tension with Cassian would be through the roof if they ever trained together, which is just chef’s kiss* I just don’t like that Nesta learning to fight feels like she’s giving up more of her values, which doesn’t sit well with me, since she’s had to change so much already and not by choice. But the thought of Devlon being the one to train her satisfied all of the check boxes in my head because I could then work out subtly his own views about female’s fighting. That was very interesting and the fic practically wrote itself.

Anyways.... here it is!

General Masterlist, AO3, Fanfic

Devlon awoke to the sound of cutting air. It whirred and disappeared. Whooshed and was no more. He clamped his pillow to his ears, half-awake and in the middle of dreaming—some nonsensical dream that he knew he would not remember in the morning.

But the sound erupted again, this time a heavy clash, and his eyes burst open once more stinging.

He was going to murder the person who was at the training quarters this hour—never mind that it was his fault he lived so near. Every warrior, novice or no, knew that hours were reserved for early mornings until the sun completely set. Most males would be at home or a tavern somewhere. Those unlucky enough to be on watch, would be roaming above the forests scouting all that scuttled in the darkness.

But no one should be in the training fields.

Devlon slipped on his boots, not bothering to change, as he ripped the door open and met the ink and wind. He didn’t bother grabbing a weapon, sure as daylight that he’d scare the living wits out of the Illyrian with his presence alone. Probably a new trainee. Young, not knowing the rules. He was going to learn the rules today and he was going to learn them well…

But he did not find a young male, a boy. Not a trainee or a full-blown warrior.

On the dirt, where the mud still lingered from yesterday’s rain, was a girl…. A female. Her brassy hair shining in moonlight. Devlon stepped away at the sight of her.

This… female.

This witch.

Only a true witch could conjure that bright of a moon or so Devlon thought as she held up the steel. It was much too big for her, probably too heavy by the way her arms shook lifting the sword. But she swung at the leather target in front of her, wobbling on her feet.

The witch barely made a dent in the arm, and as she swung again, Devlon had to clamp his mouth shut from yelling that she was holding the sword wrong in her palms. If she kept that up, she’d surely break her wrist, if not multiple body parts from where it would either slip from her grasps and land on her toes, or from where it would fly from her hands and hit someone else.

He was the only other being on this training field, so Devlon took several steps back.

The mistake he noticed was something he didn’t bother correcting the few girls he’d trained that morning. Their first lesson in swords and shields. And, if he did not do it then, Devlon would not deign to do so now.

That girl was the problem of the general. Though, Devlon wanted to scoff at the audacity of the commander criticizing his training of the females, when his own could not hold a sword.

In fact, Devlon wanted to go get the commander himself, present her before him as another way he was inadequate—stick it to him and that high lord of theirs. This is who you entrust to win wars.

Instead, Devlon watched as she tried again, switching the blade to her other hand and waving her wrist as if it ached. He swallowed his tongue.

Oh no, he would not get involved in high court affairs.

The vexatious female had not stopped her pestering sword fight until early morning, and Devlon had punished the trainees for it. By the time the day had ended, the males were grumbling, wound tight and weary, and he could have sworn a few boys had thrown up behind the saunas.

Devlon had enjoyed their displeasure for he too was displeased. Annoyed. Irritated. Ready to pummel the commander in his next fight for bringing that blasted female to his camp.

Long past the evening was over, he was ready to forget it all, to sleep in his warm hut of a house, simple in its function. Ready for the night to overtake him and for the headache he’d had all day to stop pounding in his skull.

Devlon closed his eyes willing sleep to take him…

The sound of clashing metal started again.

His body moved without a second thought.

He stormed out of his house, his eyes adjusting to the array of purples and blues alight from trembling stars. Devlon could see her head peak out from the ring, where the practice dummies had been scattered in each corner. Like the night before, he wanted to yell, scream, rage, drag her back to that commander who thought too much of himself.

But like the night before, the image of her, her vile grandeur, made his temper cease.

As he neared, Devlon noted that she wasn’t even on the mats at all. She was sitting on the ground, tapping the sword against a rock. Clack, Clack, Clack. Over and over. Screeching metal that had him gritting his teeth.

Her legs were spread wide in what he thought was far from ladylike, her white nightgown peeking through the fur.

What odd training leathers she had.

He watched as the young witch tipped her head back, her nose held high but not in that pompous way he’d seen before. Devlon followed her gaze all the way to the stars. The midnight beast blinking back its thousand eyes.

There was a story in a Illyria about the night. When he was younger he was half-afraid it would swallow him whole. All of his friends, his family, tumbling to the back of its throat. It was the only thing he’d ever truly been afraid of. Not the wars, the creatures of the forest, the cruelty of the fae, but of this inconsequential thing that stared down as if it were waiting for them. Waiting for them both here in these training fields.

Devlon shook away the ominous thought, turning back to the female who sighed audibly. She hiked up her skirt as she kicked up her boots, and he shifted his head quickly, shying away from the indecent exposure.

She picked up her sword, swinging it round and round, turning to one of the practice dummies. It was large and heavy, three times her size, with various pegs sticking out its trunk. She merely gave it a glare and hiked up the weapon.

What the witch did not know was that it was designed to move. If it was hit, one the arms would swing forward. Hit again, and another on the opposite side would move. It was to teach one to defend rather than to swing blindly.

Swing blindly, she did.

Her wrist was still angled at odd ends, but she managed to cut the leather on the figure’s side. Not a killing blow but perhaps enough to wound an enemy if they had not already maimed her from her lack of skill.

Except the sword got lodged in the wood at the same time one of the pegs moved towards her. The little witch couldn’t maintain her footing, and so the peg smacked her side.

She yelped and Devlon clasped his hand to his nose, shaking his head. Thinking of all the ways, she would hurt herself tonight.

He’d never get sleep...

So, Devlon cut his losses and went back to his hut, willing himself to forget all he’d seen.

There were bags under her eyes. The heavy grey, dark and shadowed. It reminded him that she was still just a human girl underneath it all. Devlon half-wondered what she might have been doing if she’d not been thrown into this strange new world where war was what they ate, what they breathed, what they awoke at dawn to pursue.

It was true that he liked to call the witch spoiled behind the commander’s back—in his head; when he grumbled under his breath. That spoiled princess kept in the general’s cabin, unseen, unheard of, but trapezing through the camp as if she belonged here—as if she was one of them. That beautiful, solemn witch who lived in the woods, who ate the dreams of the elders and the smiles of the young.

But she was not a witch. Not Illyrian, certainly. Perhaps, not fae. No longer human. Could not be called lesser fae though, because there was nothing lesser about the female who had ripped Hybern’s head from his body.

She did not show the same strength she had in those few days of the war. Devlon had seen her walking with those buckets and bandages, watching his comrades fall one by one as if she commanded their deaths, plucked their souls from their bodies. How terrifying it must have been for her? This young girl, who had not lived even half of their youngest citizen.

He trained warriors for a near millennium who came back with lost limbs, lost friends, lost sanities, but what did she lose? What did she even have to lose? This little witch who had experienced nothing.

“Your wrist—” He spoke at last, his words rough to his own ears. She stared up at him, eyes widening then down at the sword in her hand. “You’ll break it if you keep bending it like that.”

He watched as she stubbornly gripped the handle tighter, turning her back to him and swinging at the practice dummy again. It swung from the momentum and the girl—female—witch—stepped back unable to keep her footing.

Dead, he thought. If she were in a battle she’d be dead.

“And your stance needs work,” He added sardonically. She huffed in reply. But Devlon was not finished. She had kept him up with her pestering noise for six days. He was tired.

“Why do you want to train?” he demanded because he truly needed to know. Why the late nights and the early mornings? Why punch when she didn’t know how? Why use a sword she could barely hold upright? He was tired of not knowing why she walked through the training fields as if it were a war zone and she was wading through the bodies.

Why fight at all?

She could be sheltered, taken care of, happily ensconced in an estate somewhere, with the general himself even if that last day in the war was any indication.

But the witch did not answer his question. Instead, she adjusted her grip, widening her stance, and holding the sword as if she was holding some sporting bat he’d seen the children play with.

“Incorrect,” he voiced allowed, circling her form.

She huffed but moved her left foot forward and her right slightly back, though he gave her no directions to do so.

“Incorrect!”

“Then why don’t you tell me what is correct?” She answered, harshly.

“Why don’t you ask?” He provoked.

But she lunged at him with the sword.

He quickly stepped out of her way and gave her a look, “Too easy.”

She tried again, and he stepped to the side. She hit the rope and it cut in half.

“You are not doing anything but tiring yourself.”

“Shut up!” She yelled, fury spitting out of her words.

Fine.

He remained silent as she ambled towards him, huffing along the way. Devlon crossed his arms, raising a brow and when she swung again, he grabbed the sword from her hands.

It was easy… because she was holding it wrong.

Devlon waited. The little witch glared, raising her head to meet him in the eyes.

Her face was red. Her hair, wild. Her eyes, gleaming. And, for a moment she reminded him of the night sky. The imminent danger of someone inconsequential…

Devlon held out the sword to her, the handle ready for her palm. She glanced at it, then back at him.

The female pursed her lips, looking as though she did not want to accept his gift, but Nesta grabbed the weapon firmly.

Why do you want to fight? He’d asked her.

“No one else can fight for me.”

~ “Join the ranks tomorrow,” Devlon commanded, crossing his arms, “At a decent hour, this time.”

“You can’t be serious,” Nesta exclaimed, dropping the sword on the ground. Devlon sniffed at that. That would be their next lesson it seemed, how to treat weapons with the respect they were due.

For now, he settled on tapping a foot. His patience dimming with the lack of sleep. A headache was already beginning to form as the little witch crossed her arms, lifting her shoulders in a way that had him thinking she must have had wings in another lifetime—in another form.

In any case, she could not be more irritated than him and Devlon rose to the challenge, “In a real battle, you will not be fighting training dummies.”

Nesta scoffed, her eyes widening as she began to make big, dramatic gestures with her hands, “They’ve trained all their lives. They’ll pummel me.”

“Perhaps, but that is the risk you take in any fight,” He breathed; the words coated in sincerity. “The males won’t take it easy on you, surely. Might even try harder to win. After all, no one wants to be beaten by a mere wisp of a female, but no enemy in war will spare you or wait for you to be ready. Either they best you and you end up with a few bruises or you learn to hit first.”

She took a deep breath, her nostril flaring in that way he knew meant she wanted to yell and so Devlon went on.

“You have kept me up for three weeks. I have taught you basic forms, stances, how to punch, how to kick, how to use your body against someone larger. I cannot teach you anymore. You must fight.”

“Is that all it takes? A few punches and a kick and someone’s ready to rage war.”

“No,” He called, scenting the fear. “But if you don’t fight, you don’t learn. There are some things only experience can teach you.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Devlon raised a hand.

“I won’t force you to go.” She clamped her mouth shut, her shoulders relaxing. “But know that if you don’t go, I’m not training you any longer. Our lessons stop here.”

Devlon watched as she gulped down her arguments, the silence tangible in the height of the witching hour.

Nesta looked past him, up to the stars.

If she saw her answers hidden in the cosmos, he wanted her to say it aloud, get this night over with and settled. But she closed her eyes, clenching her fists.

When she opened them again, he saw the grey flash in the darkness.

A newborn star, he thought.

Bright and burning.

“Fine,” She huffed, picking up the sword.

When Nesta walked into the training quarters the morning after next, Devlon was almost surprised.

This time instead of nightgowns and fur coats or sweats she’d hastily thrown on, she wore training leathers. But even if she walked with arrogance of a queen, he could still see the apprehension in her gait. Perhaps, it had something to do with the commander and the shadowsinger who looked on, eyebrows crinkling.

He supposed he picked a wrong day for her to join legion training, because well… both of them were here. Usually, Devlon had advanced warning of these visits but it seemed that the commander hadn’t bothered telling him that the shadowsinger would be making his rounds, spying on their progress.

At their gazes, at all of their gazes including the males who started to whisper under their breaths, the witch lifted her chin. Tall and impressively indifferent.

Learn to examine them, he’d told her. The foot they favor. The side they use the most. The weapons they’re most skilled at. That is what you learn by being in the ring, by facing them head on.

Learn to use what you know—what you are.

Nesta had no problem at finding weaknesses, he found, as she surveyed them all, but they had no problem leering, sneering, and jeering at her. The males closest to the general began to step aside, and the ones far enough away moved closer to see his reaction.

But Nesta didn’t bother looking at Cassian, instead she stepped towards him. Her arms crossing in that petulant way of hers.

“I’m here,” She huffed.

“I can see that,” he said, giving her a dry look.

His lack of directions seemed to annoy her, because she looked away, not succeeding to hide the roll of her eyes. Devlon could feel the headache already forming.

“We’ll start with drills,” He began, “Laps around the field, running through stances, and then hand-to-hand combat.”

The witch nodded her head, moving to join the males who straightened as she walked towards them.

She looked… small in comparison.

But small in the way that he imagined a venomous snake hid on the forest floor or a bushel of nightshade might disguise itself in grand bouquets. She was dangerous, he knew. They all knew, though they didn’t know exactly what chaos hid beneath her skin or how it might destroy them all had she been displeased with them.

The general sidled up to him, the shadowsinger ever close and present, and Devlon inwardly sighed. Both of them watching Nesta begin to run laps.

“When did she start this?” He asked, his tone outrageous and cynical.

“I don’t know what else to tell you, besides the fact that she lives in your house. If you don’t know when she started this, I’ll have to point out your lack of perception.”

“When did she start this?” The commander snarled. Devlon did not care for the tone.

“You. Tell. Me.” He offered slowly, tilting his head, waiting for the male to answer. “If you don’t know where she’s been, then how would I know? She was left to you wasn’t she?”

“Nesta can go wherever wants.”

“Then it seems we’re at a standstill, because you allowed her to roam freely but apparently were not clever enough to spy. Or is that why the shadowsinger is here?”

The hotheaded commander sneered as Azriel, the surprising voice of reason, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Just ask her, Cass?”

Cassian shrugged him off. “Why is she here, then?”

He thought that was obvious. “Because she made the choice to train.”

“She doesn’t know how to fight.”

Devlon grinned.

“Then maybe you should have trained her.”

The general’s face turned a special shade of red as his wings spread wide, but Devlon merely turned away. Watching as the little witch ran circles around the ring.

“I have to fight him?” She asked, pointing her index lightly to the male who grunted as he lifted a set of heavy weights.

“You don’t have to fight him,” Cassian interjected. “There’s no logical reason for this.”

Devlon tapped his foot. Even the shadowsinger looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else. “Experience is the best teacher.”

Nesta made a face, unconvinced.

“It will teach you your weaknesses.”

Her voice rose incredulously. “What weaknesses?” She asked.

Devlon raised a hand to his nose, the endless questions wearing down his patience. But he began with the truth anyways. “You favor your right side, but you’re left-handed, so you get off balance easily. You get tired too fast and end up winded before you hit anything vital. You clearly favor a sword, but all of the ones we have are too heavy for you to lift…”

The witch crossed her arms, a frown appearing on her face.

“But those things can be trained out of you… What cannot is the way you think too much before you swing. You second guess yourself before you punch. You’re too trapped in that head of yours and either you understand that you have to hit, or you understand that someone will beat you before you get the chance because you’re too busy thinking about the success of each outcome.”

Devlon watched as Nesta straightened her stance.

“I cannot teach you how to fight for yourself.”

He looked her dead in the eyes, knew and understood what she’d said that day, knew she remembered by the clench of her jaw. But, Nesta lifted a casual shoulder, noting Cassian and Azriel who watched the discourse with rapt attention.

“You’ve been watching me.”

“We should all know our enemies.” He pointed to the male, Aedon, a novice set to complete the Rite this year, who was used to being bullheaded and arrogant. “That male, right now, is your enemy.”

The little witch nodded in concession, and the commander scoffed, looking all too defeated for someone who’d barely argued for his cause. Perhaps, he knew he didn’t have one or at least one that Nesta would listen to.

She sidled up to the platform as the male, noticing her stare made his way. A swaggering prick who Devlon knew wanted to intimidate her. They would all do that at one point or another, he warranted, he grasped as the rest of the males seemed to forget they were supposed to be training themselves. They crowded around the mats; the boundaries separated by ropes.

Cassian and Azriel too, made their way to watch the fight unfold.

It seemed that many of the trainees were making bets, though they hushed quietly as he neared.

Nesta ignored the rest, only looking to the male who wrapped his hands in white gauze.

“You’re a small thing,” he noted, unhelpfully.

The little witch lifted a brow. “I’d say you’re a large thing, but I think it’s only your head.”

Aedon huffed a laugh, and though his eyes lit up with amusement, something else settled in. Something darker and foreboding.

It was a look Devlon had seen before. A look he’d seen on many of his warriors.

“I’ll make sure not to hit your face,” the male mocked.

Nesta looked at him confused, but Aedon took that as an opportunity to lung, kicking his foot out until Nesta was lying on the ground. He heard the crack as her shoulders slammed into the platform and he hoped, in some deep part of him, past the part that said he didn’t care at all, that it was the wood that splintered and not her spine.

She gasped loudly as she placed a hand on her chest, but no one came to help her move. It would’ve been shameful to do so. This female who wanted to fight with the warriors.

She did this to herself he imagined them thinking. Because it was that thought that immediately entered his mind. She chose this.

Get up, Devlon wanted to shout. Get. Up!

The shadowsinger held the commander back, though what he could have done Devlon didn’t know. Pummel the male who hit her when she willingly entered the match?

After learning everything he knew about this witch, he doubted she’d appreciate the gesture.

“You want to play with the big boys?” Aedon spit, “You get hit.”

He tutted lowly. “Do you need a minute, princess, or are you used to being on your back?”

Devlon didn’t dare show his own rage, but he grasped the rope, his fists clenching around the thick string until he felt he might rip it off himself. The feeling surprised even him.

But Nesta twisted herself upright, turning to the male with bright, furious eyes.

Nesta lunged and when he punched, she ducked, grabbing his arm. She used her weight until he was sprawled on the floor, but he reached out to grab her leg and she fell to her knees. She tried to kick him off, but he was larger, heavier, and it didn’t take much to pull her backwards until she was on the floor with him on top of her. He punched once, his fists landing on her cheekbone.

Aedon walked off, grabbing a towel he’d hung on the rope. Nesta cradled her cheek, kissing the mat with her body. While he waited, Aedon began tapping his foot. Tap. Tap. Tap. Over and over until Devlon, himself, could hear the noise ringing in his ears.

Nesta turned to face him and no one else.

She sauntered up to him slowly, serpentine and vile. Her eyes getting darker, her mouth set in a thin line. And Aedon laughed. Lowly at first, but the sound began to rise in pitch until it sounded maniacal and deranged.

This time, Aedon sprung forward, but Nesta was quick on her feet, and she moved just enough to grab his arm and twist it behind him. In this position, the male bowed before them and Nesta kicked out her foot.

He fell to the ground, twisting quickly to face her, but Nesta didn’t let him move. She ambled on top of him, her legs on either side of his torso and she hit. And hit. And hit. Until his face was bleeding, and her fists were drenched in the male’s blood.

Still she hit and the awaiting Illyrians did nothing but watch the young warrior play with the big boys.

Cassian shrugged off the shadowsinger, bending through the ropes around the ring. Devlon watched as he hoisted Nesta off the male by the waist. Her face was red and ferocious, and she began to fight the commander as well. But he didn’t let her go. Not until she had stopped fighting, stopped kicking, stopped punching, and she took deep, gasping breaths.

She stared at the male on the ground, wiping her forehead with her arm, the blood smearing on her face like war paint and she must have finally noticed all of the males looking at her. Some in doubt of what they just witnessed, others in outrage that she had the guts. Devlon didn’t know what his expression looked like, though he tried to school it into plain indifference.

The little warrior looked to the commander once more, who braced himself, his wings expanding wide. Ready to take her punches or fly her off, Devlon wasn’t sure, but he wanted to see. A mere curiosity at what the general would do.

But Nesta slipped past him, past them all with her shoulders pushed back and her head raised high. She looked to him then, her gaze harsh.

“Are we done?”

Devlon turned his gaze back to the warrior who’d bragged about his skill and was defeated so easily. “For now.”

She left without a second glance and Devlon could only nod to the male dripping blood on his mats, “wipe your face.”

Devlon found the young female in the infirmary. A tent the size of a small room that many warriors chose not to even step in, in fear that they would look weak to their comrades. The general and the shadowsinger were already there.

Azriel turned to the corner, blending with the shadows as Devlon so often noticed. Distantly, he could see him crushing some herbs, though the action did not make him look inconspicuous. Rather, it seemed he was trying to give the other two privacy at the same time he was eavesdropping. Cassian ran amuck, grabbing bandages and band aids and tea, though Nesta looked perfectly fine to him, besides a wound on her face.

Devlon wanted to sigh at the two of them. Pups still, even if they were over five hundred and had ended more lives than the years they’d lived.

Cassian laid an icepack under Nesta’s eye, where her cheek was red and blistering. She’d have a bruise in the morning probably...

Even some wounds couldn’t heal fast enough for the fae.

But, Nesta angled away from him as she hissed, grabbing the pack from his hands. The commander frowned but let her take control, though he remained hunched, his wings drooping to the floor.

His gaze laid solely on hers and Devlon felt... uncomfortable—conscious that the moment was between the two of them and perhaps not for two Illyrian busybodies who’d stumbled on this place for the same reason. To see exactly what would befall the two when disaster seemed to always follow.

“I wanted to teach you how to fight,” He admitted, unsure of his words.

Nesta didn’t bother looking at him.

“It wasn’t your decision.”

“And Devlon is...”

“He’s an asshole,” she said. Devlon gave her a bland look, though she made no move to take notice of him standing in the middle of the tent like an outright buffoon. “But he’s honest... and he doesn’t treat me any different from anyone else.”

Cassian shook his head, his expression pained. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that you couldn’t... tell me that you were...wanted to train. I--” His eyebrows cinched in that way Devlon remembered he’d do when he was young. All too afraid of being exactly what they called him.

“It wasn’t about you,” the little warrior answered harshly. The commander straightened at her stare, poignant but not malicious.

Honest.

Brutally so.

And perhaps that was what the general needed to hear, after all. What they all needed to hear for they all knew what the little witch meant. That the ability to choose was perhaps more powerful than the opportunity itself. That she had chosen, invariably, to wander in the middle of the night, to pick up a sword, to keep swinging and hitting and punching, to fight whether she knew how or not.

Nesta had chosen this. No one else could have convinced her.

Nesta turned to him then and lifted the icepack from her cheek.

“He said he wouldn’t hit my face,” She grumbled.

Devlon blinked, surprised at her words. “Did that appease you somehow?”

The female angled her head, thinking it over.

“No...” She declared somberly, “Bruises that you can’t see are still bruises.”

At the tone, Devlon began to shuffle uncomfortably once more, though he stayed as the witch grimaced. Cassian moved to switch her icepack to one wrapped in cloth, the liquid dripping on to the leather.

But Devlon couldn’t help stepping forward. Didn’t know why he did.

“You fought like an Illyrian today.”

Cassian and Azriel raised their heads. Devlon tried not to care too much, though he wanted to yell at them to run more drills as if they were still in his warband five hundred years before, fresh and almost too squeaky clean.

“Like a male,” he continued.

Nesta made a disgruntled face, displeased with his choice of words. “You just haven’t seen enough females fight.”

Devlon shrugged a shoulder. “I haven’t seen enough females want to fight. You are a rare exception.”

She lifted a brow and then grimaced at the gesture. She’d done that twice already, as if she kept forgetting that she was in pain. Devlon smiled in spite of himself.

But she pursed her lips anyway, looking to the tent that surrounded them, the purple fabric mimicking purple skies. He wondered if she could see straight through, feel the weight of the atmosphere like a bandage on a wound. Like that icepack on her face.

“Your world is too small if you believe that,” She spoke.

Devlon opened his mouth to refute, but Nesta held up her hand, silencing his argument.

“Are we training tomorrow?” She asked, though she must have known the answer.

“At the crack of dawn.”

Nesta began gesturing dramatically.

“That’s so early,” She whined. Devlon scoffed in outrage.

But at the look, Nesta merely smiled. Small and perhaps just a tilt of her lips, but unafraid. A wild look in her eyes as if she enjoyed the teasing... the prospect of training... of being someone they didn’t expect.

Inconsequential to the naïve. Imminently powerful to the rest.

Perhaps this time, Devlon wouldn’t mind training the girls... Might even look forward to it.

Tags: @ekaterinakostrova, @soitsgorgeous, @duskandstarlight, @pizzaneverdisappoints, @imwritingthesewords, @arin1030, @adelainejdevyn, @thebluemartini, @nahthanks, @laylaameer01

I wanted Nesta to make the choice to fight, and I definitely didn’t want it to be a decision on behalf of anyone else, because Nesta has had enough people take away her autonomy. But I also wanted the choice to fight to directly relate to her making a choice to fight for herself. And so at the end there, she may not be as skilled as everyone else realistically, she may not even know what fighting will cost her, but she’s angry and she’s tired and she’s going to fight and she’s going to fight to win.

Also, Devlon is a really cool character to me, but in this fic I wanted to make his lack of allowing women to fight be more complicated than just traditional sexism. So, I thought to make half of his treatment towards women because of his traditionalistic views that haven’t been challenged, and the other half, the contention, be because of having been told by Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian that he must train the females and the females must train or else. Rhys and Azriel and Cassian chose to do the blood right, these girls are being told they have to learn to fight. So I thought, here lies the great hypocrisy of being like we need to make this camp more equal, but the way we’re going to do that is by taking another decision away from the women. I just thought maybe Devlon would willingly help Nesta because she made the choice to want to train—might even admire and respect that about her and in turn this would be the spark to change. Nesta indirectly influencing the others.

One day I will stop writing essay length analyses of my own writing lol but today is not the day. I’m going to work on my Eris fic now and get that posted soon!

Comment, Reblog, Like or all three if you liked and want to see more fics posted! If you don’t like... don’t tell me lol

But also, Happy Reading and almost release day!!! It’s getting closer at least. Keep holding out! I know we’re all going a bit stir crazy...

#nessian #nesta archeron #devlon #cassian #acosf #nessian fanfiction #acotar #vidalinav #nesta x cassian #cassian x nesta #acowar #acomaf #acofas #acomaf fanfiction #feyre archeron #fanfiction #nesta #my writing

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whitherliliesbloom · 3 years

Text

sweetened tea and midnight ink

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #8 - adroit ]

[ alphinaud/wol ] ★ [ 1,022 words ] ★ [ post-canon ]

adroit- clever or skilful

there’s an art to deflection, one alphinaud thought it has fully mastered. unfortunately, his wife is even better at seeing through lies.

When the door to his office breaks the long, cold silence in the air with it’s soft creak, the man had been so lost in his focus that he’d failed to hear it - or the feather light footsteps that crossed the room towards the desk for that matter.

It isn’t until he smells the sweet floral scent of chrysanthemum tea wafting into his nostrils that he lifts his feathered quill from his parchment and looks up, lips curling into a gentle smile as he looked at the oddly blurred array of snow white, blossom pinks and rich lavender purple. Had he truly been squinting so hard that his eyes couldn’t even focus on the love of his life now?

“Dearest.”

He greets, and he resists the urge to rub his eyes or blink frantically to hide the tiredness of his eyes... but knowing who he was speaking to, that perhaps was a futile endeavor.

“Darling.” with a gentle nod she greets back softly, stepping up onto the lalafellin stool at the side of the desk to place the tea cup and saucer delicately onto the cluttered desk, parchment, tomes and documents scattered out so disorderly that the words upon that were turning into a blur.

Alphinaud can already tell by the way Illya lingers by his side, leaning over and pressing her hands against the table that she’s paid him a visit during his hours of work for more reasons than to refill his tea... and he can make an educated guess, based on the choice of tea leaf.

“Chrysanthemum?” he asks, as if to confirm his suspicions while he sets his quill down to hook his index finger around the handle, lifting the cup up to his parched lips. The knowing smile that graces her face is all the answer he needs.

“Ju Hua, yes.” her second language rolls off her tongue naturally, sweetly - sweeter than the tea he took a sip of. “I know it’s not your favorite...but...”

The young man cannot help the chuckle that leaves his lips, or the heavy exhale from his nose as he sets the tea back down onto the saucer.

“Now I wonder why you would choose that, then?”

Sarcasm laced tone evident, he knows that she knows that it’s a rhetorical question. The pair of them are several years past the point of trivial misunderstandings. The shimmer in her eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight is a dead giveaway as to the exasperation she feels towards his answer - or lack thereof.

“Why indeed.”

Even though he knows better than to think he’d be able to get away with it - Alphinaud attempts to hide his fatigue by straightening himself up against the backrest of his chair, adjusting the frames of his reading glasses to rest higher upon the bridge of his nose.

He moves to reach for his quill, only for him to catch the pout upon his wife’s face.

“You must be tired, sweet pea.” Her voice is equal parts chiding as she is concerned, and it shakes his already unsteady heart up more than it rightfully should.

“I’m alright, dearest. I still have plenty of energy to spare.” It’s a blatant lie through his teeth, one that he wouldn’t dare hope that Illya would believe... but perhaps she would trust him enough to know his own limits and leave him to his devices regardless.

“It’s 2 in the morning, Alphy.” He recognizes the slight dip in pitch in her voice, and he averts his gaze from hers to look down at his half-written report. “You’ve been working on this for over 7 hours... You need to rest. The report will be fine unattended until morning.”

“And it won’t write itself, love. I’ll be okay.”

His insistence is met with even more resistance, and he feels the gentle cradle of her hand against his own.

He knows full well her tactics, and refuses to look into her eyes even as he is forced to turn his head up. If lying won’t convince her then perhaps deflection will.

“Anyways, are you not awake too? I’m sure after a whole day of putting up with E’lija and Sigfred’s bickering, running errands around Revenant’s Toll and taking an emergency commission from Redolent Rose, you must be more exhausted than I am.”

Alphinaud would like to think he’s gotten better at the art of deflection - at least better than he’d been back during the long passed years of the since ended Dragonsong war. Krile would most undoubtedly begin teasing him for it, but it’s an art he’s mastered well enough to navigate his way through talks and debates with experienced political figures, nation leaders and bullheaded adventurers - some of whom decades older than himself.

But with the gift of self-awareness and a now humbled outlook upon himself, came the added guilt of deceiving people that he cared for.

He was an exceptional, charismatic speaker and diplomat... Which made Illya’s own extraordinary intuition and ability to understand the hearts and intentions of others keenly a perfect compliment and foil both for him.

And even if she wasn’t- she was the woman he’s swore to spend the rest of eternity with... and it was she, above others who would come to understand and pick him back up onto his feet when it felt like the world had crashed down around him. Illya knows him inside out - better than he even knows himself, sometimes.

“Alphy.” She calls him and pauses, forcing him to finally look up and meet the glowing ardent violet of her eyes. “Please? If you won’t sleep then... at least rest for a while.”

His shoulders drop, utterly defeated and he finally lets out a sigh and a nod, curling his fingers around her own.

“If that would please you.”

“It would. Now come on, let’s go to the guest bedroom. Ours is too far.”

Rising from the desk, Alphinaud allows the lalafellin woman to pull him along by the hand, her footsteps quick and eager as they leave the office and the half-drunk cup of sweetened tea and inkwell behind.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #kiwisffxivwrite2021 #alphinaud leveilleur #alphinaud #illya skawi #fanfic #mine #we've come so far

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accioxreparo · 4 years

Text

day three: pumpkin & cinnamon | r.w.

synopsis: You can’t sleep. Neither can Ron. What better solution than cookies and hot chocolate?

pairing: Ron Weasley x reader

warnings: none

a/n: Wow I called myself out with this one, it was 2 am while I was working on it cause I have exactly zero self control

It was late. You knew it was. There was absolutely zero reason for you to be awake. But you were. And to top it off you were in the middle of making your third batch of cookies. That’s just what happened when you couldn’t bring yourself to drift off to bed.

The window was open, cool late night autumn breeze helping to keep the temperature in your house down. You’d always preferred the cold and now that the temperature had begun dropping you were in your element. Maybe it was also for a different reason though.

Then like clockwork, that reason came. A quiet pop sounded on the other side of the window and moments later your back door was being unlocked. You tried to look casual, pretending you didn’t even notice him walking into the kitchen as you focused on the pot in front of you.

Ron looked you up and down for a few moments, the smallest smirk flashing across his lips. You were wearing one of his shirts. A flannel one that hung loosely off your shoulders paired with nothing but a pair of thick fuzzy socks.

“You’ve been busy.”

“Oh this?” You tried your hardest to keep a straight face as you met his eyes. Sunken in, bloodshot, and laden with exhaustion. Just like yours. “This is nothing. I’m at my most productive after midnight you know.”

He only hummed and moved to lean against the kitchen island. The room was silent as he watched you pour thick brown liquid into two mismatched, oversized mugs. In just a few minutes you had decorated one of them to perfection with a stick of cinnamon and some nutmeg sprinkled over the layer of whipped cream.

“You should be asleep.” You finally said, pushing the cup in Ron’s direction and setting a plate of cookies in between the two of you.

“You’re one to talk,” He reached for one of your hands, stopping you before you could start moving around the kitchen again so you’d look at him. And for a second the silence returned.

It was comfortable and as you stared into his eyes you could feel the tension between you quickly growing just as it had every night for the past several months. It was only recently that you’d given in to that tension.

“Is,” Despite the fact that he had seen you in the most intimate of ways plenty of times already he still found himself getting nervous when you looked up at him like that. Wide eyed, curious, and with complete adoration. Like he was your entire world. Something he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually admitted to him a few times now. He dropped your hand quickly and reached for one of the cookies you’d made. “Are these pumpkin?”

You cleared your throat as you took a step back, eyeing the plate of cookies with slight disdain for having ruined your moment. “Yeah. Pumpkin cookies and cinnamon hot chocolate. Had to celebrate the season changing somehow.”

“They’re good,” Ron said through a mouthful of cookies. Now that you were distracted with the other cup of hot chocolate he let his gaze lock onto you again. That was when he noticed the slow blinking of your eyes. “Seriously, you should sleep.”

“But I can’t,” You didn’t even think about your words as you were saying them. “Not when you’re not with me.”

That comment caught him by surprise. “What?”

“I can’t sleep when you’re not here,” Suddenly it was like you had no filter. “When you’re here with me I feel better, like even breathing is easier. With you I have absolutely nothing to worry about. I can let go of everything completely.”

You weren’t looking at Ron and he knew why. He knew you and knew that it was probably hitting you too late what exactly it was that you’d just told him. How much you really needed him. And it made you feel vulnerable. So instead he let you focus on your own cup of hot chocolate and moved over to you. His arms snaked around your waist tightly from behind and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, placing a soft kiss on your cheek.

“Well I’m here now,” His voice was barely above a whisper and the sound of it in your ear had you relaxing farther into him. “For what it’s worth that’s why I always come over here too. It’s just easy with you, you know?”

“I know.”

The two of you stayed just like that for a while. Holding each other, reveling in the comfort you were able to bring to one another. Every now and then you fed him one of your cookies and he only let you go when the timer for the last batch rang.

“I have kind of a crazy idea,” You said as you started moving the cookies over to a drying rack.

The feel of you against him was addicting so Ron didn’t hesitate to pull you into his arms again. It made your movements a little awkward but you didn’t seem to mind much. He pressed gentle kisses to the skin of your neck and chuckled a little when you shivered at the feeling. “Tell me.”

“Move in with me.”

And there was the shock again, albeit a pleasant one. He stopped his movements and spun you around in his arms, holding you gently between him and the counter. His hands moved to your waist and gripped onto you, as if trying to make sure you were really there and asking him what he thought you were.

It sounded amazing. You were amazing. “Yeah?”

“Well of course. You’re here every night anyway and I’m pretty sure I have half your shirts sitting in my closet.” You nodded then and beamed when he pulled you in for a hug, strong arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders.

“You’re bloody perfect, you know.”

“I know,” You laughed when you caught Ron rolling his eyes at your statement, a grin still on his face. Without a second thought you reached up and kissed him for real for the first time that night. “So are you.”

#this is so soft I-#ron weasley x reader #harry potter fanfiction #ron weasley #ron weasley imagine #ron weasley x y/n #ron weasley x you #harry potter one shot #harry potter imagine #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fic #hp fanfic #hp fic #hp imagine #hp series #my fics #tag tbd but for now #31 days of autumn fics

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quazartranslates · 3 years

Text

Welcome to the Nightmare Game - CH119

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

-----

Chapter 119: The Dream of the Holy Nun (IX)

After seeing the Lord, the four people stayed in the Lord’s castle, waiting for the night of the new moon to come.

From the Lord's mouth, they learned some information about the new moon: from a certain year, every night of the new moon, the residents in the Holy City had to fall asleep before midnight, whether they fell asleep naturally or relied on sleeping draughts. If someone didn't fall asleep before the clock struck zero, or woke up before dawn, the person would disappear, vanishing forever.

The residents in the Holy City called it "the disaster of the new moon".

The cause of the disaster of the new moon was still unclear. Many people had explored this strange monthly phenomenon with curiosity. Some even deliberately stayed awake after midnight, and then left some creepy notes…

In the castle’s library, according to the requirements given by Qi Leren and others, the attendants collected the data about the night of the new moon together, and the group sat at the table to peruse the data separately. Even Ning Zhou’s big black bird stopped to comb its feathers honestly without making any noise.

Su He looked through a note and said, "This diary is interesting. You can have a look."

Qi Leren took the notebook handed by Su He. Fortunately, the lingua franca of the Nightmare World was Chinese (although he didn't know whether this came from automatic translation by the system), so he could read the Nightmare World’s words. For some time now, he had become accustomed to the NPCs who looked like Westerners speaking Chinese skillfully.

"...I have prepared everything I need, such as paper, pen, oil lamp, stick, and cloak, and told my parents that I have drunk my sleeping draught and can sleep through the night. It's twenty-three o'clock in the evening, with one hour left before midnight. I am very excited and uneasy because I don't know what I will see in an hour. If everything is normal after midnight, I will put on my cloak and go out for a night tour. If something is wrong... I have locked the doors and windows anyway, and there will be no danger."

After reading this, Qi Leren had already seen the unfortunate ending.

Dr. Lu also leaned over and said, "He’s dead."

Qi Leren turned the notebook to the next page, and the handwriting on parchment became hastily messy:

"The zero hour is here! God, I actually stayed up after zero on the night of the new moon. Now I'm a little nervous. But everything around me is normal. Just now, I stood by the window and looked down. The Holy City is dark, and even the kerosene street lamps on the main road have gone out. This is normal. After all, no one needs street lamps on this night. It's so quiet, there's no sound around, only the rustle of the quill pen writing on paper, and I can already hear my heart beat faster and faster. Is this the disaster of the new moon? It’s not the same as I imagined.

"I seem to hear footsteps outside… An illusion? (A splotch of ink) Just now I walked softly to the door and listened carefully. There were really footsteps!!! There’s something on the stairs?! There was the sound of the floorboard creaking, a strange loud noise which must have been made by stepping on the loose board on the stairs! Oh, my God. Did something sneak into my house?! Mom and Dad are asleep in the master bedroom. They can't hear me. God, what should I do? What to do!! Will it come in? God, what should I do? What should I do?"

The owner of the notebook had been completely panicked, and he was becoming more and more untidy and messy.

"Will it see the light of my room through the door? I'd better blow out the oil lamp, yes, blow it out, and then drink the sleeping draught. I must sleep."

The image of a terrified young man appeared in Qi Leren's mind. He imagined how he was horrified to notice the strange footsteps of an unknown monster wandering outside the door. He had lost his innocent curiosity to fear, but fear itself did not let him go.

Qi Leren turned the page. A line of words full of fear and despair occupied most of parchment, and the last half word was even written outside the lines. It was untidy, distorted and collapsed, and the fear of the unknown completely defeated the young man who wrote the last sentence in the dark.

"It’s knocking at the door."

This notebook was only a few hundred words, but it was unnerving. From curiosity to panic to despair, he was like a frightened bird in the dark, and the sudden knock on the door had completely defeated him…

Su He waited patiently for them to finish reading this note, and then said: "From the content of the text, there will be some incredible changes after midnight on the night of the new moon."

Qi Leren closed the notebook and returned it to Su He: "Maybe it’s a demon?"

He knew more than them, because he had experienced the night of the new moon in the Nightmare Game. In the game, he got the task inexplicably and walked into the Holy City. However, the NPCs didn't show curiosity towards him and he wasn't taken to see the Lord. Instead, he spent the night in a pub in the Holy City and learned the story of the disaster of the new moon through the guests in the pub. Naturally, he chose to stay up late when the night the new moon arrived, and walked into the streets of the Holy City after the zero hour.

And then he died in an ordinary way to a demon’s attack.

"It’s most likely demons. Maybe the demons appear on the night of the new moon, and then attack any humans who haven't fallen asleep. But why does this happen only on the new moon? Where do these demons usually lurk? Why attack people who have not fallen asleep?" Su He raised several questions in one breath.

Qi Leren was speechless to these questions and peeked at Ning Zhou, who was reading the documents: "This question is handed over to the professional exorcist of the Holy See to answer."

Ning Zhou raised his head to Su He’s slightly smiling eyes, the two people looked at each other for three seconds, and then their eyes turned away.

"Wait until the night of the moon," Ning Zhou said and continued to read the stack of data.

Su He smiled silently and said faintly, "All right."

That's it? Don't you want to continue analyzing it? Qi Leren looked at their busy Ning Zhou and Su He blankly, and was suddenly pulled aside by Dr. Lu. Qi Leren thought that he’d found some clues. Instead, Dr. Lu just dragged him to the corner and asked mysteriously: "Do you think that Su He and your good-friend-who-lives-with-you-but-still-has-a-purely-platonic-relationship-with-you are a little angry?"

Wasn’t this too long of a descriptor? Qi Leren suddenly felt the malice from his friend: "It's okay. Ning Zhou just doesn't like to talk very much. He doesn't talk to you much either."

Dr. Lu said definitively: "No, this is totally different, the aura, there is a subtle aura between them."

"What aura?" Qi Leren was not ashamed to ask.

Dr. Lu said seriously: "Asura’s field*."

*{E/N: A situation of dispute between a present and past lover}

"What?" Qi Leren remembered that this seemed to mean describing a tragic battlefield, but it was obviously not appropriate to use it here.

"Forget it, I'm going to the bathroom." Dr. Lu gave him a supercilious look as he walked out of the library with his hands in his pockets.

Qi Leren, who didn't get an answer, was still thinking about what "Asura’s field" meant. He suddenly heard Ning Zhou and Su He call his name at the same time: "Leren, look at this." "Qi Leren, here."

The two men, each occupying one side of the table, looked at each other then both looked at the Qi Leren by the door.

In a moment’s lightning strike, Qi Leren learned something without need for a teacher.

Was this what Asura’s field meant? When two good friends put forward the same request at the same time and it wasn’t clear which side should be prioritized; this subtle, strange, and even slightly embarrassing atmosphere. This is what it meant.

It was really confusing, but he didn't know what he was panicking about.

"I... I need to go to the bathroom, you can exchange what you’ve found with each other first." At the same time, Qi Leren learned a little skill of how to deal with this scene without need for a teacher, and pretended to walk out of the library calmly.

Anyway, go to the bathroom first.

-----

Editor’s Notes: EDITED: Thank you to the anonymous person who explained the Asura’s field line!

-----

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

#Welcome to the Nightmare Game #欢迎来到噩梦游戏 #danmei

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tangledinmdzs · 3 years

Text

say what you mean - junior quartet hcs

juniors reacting to you drunkenly telling them you love them, a tasteful reaction

*:..｡o○　 Lan Sizhui　○o｡..:*

you hiccup, lying on the table as Sizhui stares at you

your head is on your arm, fingers dipping in and out of your almost empty shot cup

he definitely didn’t expect you to be as knocked out as you were

“y/n’s been lying on the table and refusing to get up,” one of your friends informs Sizhui when he arrives and he just sighs

you’d never been like this

it’s so unlike you

“i’ll get her home, don’t worry” Sizhui reassures before the friend leaves and he’s left alone with you again

you’re still idly sticking your finger in and around the rim of your shot glass

Sizhui sighs, grabs the small shot and down it himself

he’s probably gonna need more than one drink to get the strength to deal with you tonight

“hey that was mine!” you whine, angrily, only for that to diminish when your hazy eyes lock on who it is

“oh, it’s you!” you comment smiling in a wired, dizzying way

you lean into him and Sizhui immediately holds on to you, careful of your wooziness

“how many shots have you had?”

“don’t know! didn’t pay the bill! shots on the house tonight!” you say happily, and hiccup as Sizhui maneuvers you to sit straight in his arms

“we’re going home”

“no! everything’s on the house” you yell at Sizhui, sitting heavily into the booth even as Sizhui pulls at your arm to get up

and Sizhui is tired

so he is mildly surprised

because you pull him back down into you, with surprising strength for a drunk person

he catches himself with a hand on the large booth behind you

but he is leaning just a breath away from your face

your eyes are on each other

and even though the lights are dimmed

and the music is blaring

he doesn’t think he’d mistaken what he heard

“when are you going to love me?” you ask, solemn tone taken from the frustrated yelling that you had just thrown at him earlier

Sizhui heard

he just doesn’t want to believe that he’d heard right.

*:..｡o○　Lan Jingyi　○o｡..:*

“how much do you love me?”

you huff a warm breath against the shell of Jingyi’s ear as he hitches you up higher on his back

“i love you lots lots lots lots lots” you repeat, your voice high and shrill from the wonders of alcohol

Jingyi just laughs at you, feet steady as he walks on the pathway back to your apartment

it’s a short walk luckily, and the night is warm

“you know, why i love you lots lots lots lots lots,”

“why hm?” Jingyi humors you, because he’s definitely going to make fun of you in the morning

“because, you’re the only person that makes my heart,” at this you pause, your small hand dropping from it’s hold around his shoulder to press right on top of his chest

“makes my heart beat super fast, like when you took me to go on a rollercoaster for the first time, like that, super fast,” you blab

Jingyi’s steps slows, reminiscing that day early in high school, when you had all gone to Great Adventure Land and you had nearly puked on yourself from the first rollercoaster ride

it’s been a few years, but he still feels guilty about peer pressuring you to doing that

“but i like it when my heart beats that fast, because it’s you,” you tell him, able to sense the slightest changes of his emotions (his self deprivation) even in your drunken state

Jingyi holds your leg tightly as you lie a warm tired forehead against the back his neck

“i like you so much that i love you now,” you admit, losing the breathy shrillness of intense dopamine

Jingyi ignores you, the air quiet without a response

and you’re already drifting off to dreamland

to notice the quickening beats of his heart under your hand anyway

*:..｡o○　Jin Ling　○o｡..:*

“i love you thissssssssssss much” you exaggerate, putting your arms out super wide as you walk in front of him

Jin Ling sighs at you, keeping a normal pace

you’re skipping and swaying in front of him on his way to his parked car

and he isn’t close, but he also isn’t far just within arm-length from your unnaturally energetic self

you skip and skip, spinning here and there with a lot more balance than you naturally have

you’re actually really clumsy sober

but suddenly you’re a dancer when you’re drunker

but Jin Ling sees that he’s spoken too soon

when you stumble he’s already got a grip on your arm, wrapping around you in a half dip that he wasn’t expecting to make with you

in the position you both hold, your hair flows out of your face, exposing the high red blush of your face

your eyes are sparkling, from the streetlights or the situation you’re both in, Jin Ling won’t know

but then he watches, almost in a trance at the cute way you tilt your head and look at him, smiling

“this is why i love you, you’re always catching me” you admit and Jin Ling nearly drops you at the words that you tell him

but he just huffs quietly at you settling you onto your feet again

before you run off and trip over your own feet again, Jin Ling wraps an arm around your waist, letting you cling on to him

he tells himself it’s because you both are a few paces to the car and he doesn’t need you skipping into his car

or at least, that’s what he reminds himself

*:..｡o○　Ouyang Zizhen　○o｡..:*

Zizhen is quiet as he carries you into your room

your coat and bag are discarded somewhere in your apartment

it’s already nearing 2 AM, long past midnight

he’s probably going to do his due diligence as your best friend and stay the night

because he knows you’ve always gotten the worse hangovers

Zizhen sighs internally at the prospects of the morning

when your head lulls softly on his shoulder, he’s brought back to focus on the now

Zizhen lays you down on your bed gently, beginning to take off your shoes and socks

you whine a bit here and there as he begins removing the earrings that you had decided to wear for tonight and the sweater over your dress

judging from the fabric, it looks soft enough to sleep in, so Zizhen doesn’t change you

lastly, he just grabs the makeup remover and begins to work on your face

you blink awake after sometime, still woozy with the alcohol in your system

you make pucker faces and fish faces and a plethora of other facial expressions to make his life difficult as he cleans your face

Zizhen just sighs at you, but manages a tired laugh at your last puckering lips

at his smile, you smile too

sleepily you bring a gentle hand to your washed lips and send a flying kiss to him

you know Zizhen is the best person in the world when he humors you, grabbing the kiss in the air shot to him

you giggle softly tired eyes following him as he gets up and puts all the stuff he had used to clean your face away

when he comes back to tuck you under the sheets, you can barely keep your eyes open

but you manage to say one thing

“i love you,”

being best friends as long as you have been, you’ve always said those words to one another

but tonight, in the soft after glow of caring for you

there’s a softness tinted at the edge of the words that’s different from all the years you both have been just friends

Zizhen looks at your face

and even though you’ve fallen asleep

“i love you more,”

he says it back anyways

68 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 years

Text

Eccentricity [Chapter 14: Love Keeps The Monsters From Our Door] [Series Finale]

A/N: Thank you for your encouragement, enthusiasm, laughter, rants, screeches of anguish, and unapologetic thirsting for “sexy undead Italian man” Joseph Francis Mazzello. I hope you love this conclusion more than Baby Swan loves pineapple pizza. 💜

Series Summary: Potentially a better love story than Twilight?

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Til I Die” by Parsonsfield. (The #1 song I associate with this fic!)

Chapter Warnings: Language.

Word Count: 7.7k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @maggieroseevans @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs

Mercy

We have to stay in the Vladivostok palace until her transformation is complete, and I hate it.

The floors are cold and sterile and every clang of noise ricochets off them like a bullet. The earth outside is stripped bare and hibernal. There is no green to interrupt the bleakness of the sky, the cruel absence of color: no spruces or hemlocks or bigleaf maples, no evergreen forests, no verdant fields, only a grey that bleeds from the sky in sheets of hail and driving rain. This land is a stranger. So many of the faces, too, are strangers, although they try. Honora sits with me—her large dark eyes, like mirrors of mine, polished and wet with aching pity—and braids my hair. Morana invites me to bake homemade bread with her. Austin tries to make me smile. Cato visits me as much as he can, because he feels responsible; or maybe he would do it anyway, maybe lessening suffering is as instinctual to him as bloodshed is to so many of our kind. And when Cato is with me, I do feel a little better, like my story might belong to somebody else, like it’s a name I can’t quite remember, like it’s a transitory moment of déjà vu I can catch glimpses of but never touch. And yet, still, I send him away.

I don’t want to be with Cato. It’s painful for him to be around me, I can see that. It’s painful for Rami, and for Ben, and for Joe, and for Lucy and Scarlett. It’s even painful for the Irish Wolfhounds that Cato found locked up for safekeeping in Larkin’s study; they skulk around the palace vigilantly but leave great swaths of uninterrupted space around me like open water. So I conjure up a mask of brave, hopeful acceptance and wear it everywhere I go.

Joe says very little, never leaves the girl he calls Baby Swan’s side, dabs her scorching skin with washcloths soaked in ice water and murmurs in sympathy when she screams through the unconsciousness, from beneath the ocean of fire we all know so well. He nods off sometimes, snatching minutes of sleep like fireflies in a jar, before jolting awake to make sure her heart is still beating. When Ben isn’t checking on them, he’s with Cato, helping to draw up plans for the future, reminiscing about the past with slick eyes and clinking midnight glasses of whiskey. Scarlett sprawls across the desk in what was once Larkin’s study and spends hours on the phone with Archer as she gazes up at the ceiling, telling him how to care for the farm animals and the garden, reassuring him that we’ll be home soon, whispering things to him that I try not to hear; and I know she wouldn’t want me to anyway. Lucy weeps delicate, ceaseless tears as she perches on the staircase landing and Rami entombs her in his arms, never having to ask what she needs from him. And I wander meaninglessly through the echoing, unfamiliar hallways like a moon without a planet.

I know what they all think about me, perhaps even Rami, for I keep it buried as deep as all skeletons should be: that I’m irrevocably kind, effortlessly forgiving. That I’m as incapable of bitterness as I am of aging. But they’re wrong. It’s a choice, and it always has been, ever since a late-November dusk in 1864 when madness eclipsed mercy. Every day I choose whether to surrender to the beckoning, malignant hatred that lurks in the back of my bedroom closet, in the dusty and ill-lit loft of the barn roped with cobwebs, in the twilight tree line of the western hemlocks crawling with shadows that whisper through fanged teeth. Every day I decide whether to become a monster. And it has never been harder to remember why I don’t.

My future is unimaginable. The nights are endless. I feel black, razored seeds of what I am horrified must be bitterness burrowing beneath my skin and taking root there. I am consumed by infected, fruitless questions that I can’t silence: Why Gwilym? Why Arthur? Why Eliza and Charlotte? Why is it always fire?

The first words that Gwilym ever spoke to me, as I unraveled from unconsciousness under a grove of sycamore trees with smoke still clinging to my unscarred skin, rattle around in my skull like windchimes beneath thunderous skies. His voice was colored with an accent I couldn’t place, and yet it sounded like home: You’re in a dark place right now. But you don’t have to stay there.

That might have been true once. That might have been true in the ruinous autumn of 1864. But now I can’t find my way out.

Seventy-three hours after our arrival in this barren corner of the world, Charlie Swan’s daughter wakes up as a vampire. Her heart is perfectly still, her skin faultless, her senses sharp, her mind as impenetrable as ever; at least, that’s what Lucy says when she finds me. And Lucy tugs at my hand, wearing her first smile in days, insisting that I have to come meet the newest member of our coven, to welcome her. I don’t know how to tell Lucy that I’m afraid I don’t have it in me to love this girl, that I don’t have it in me to love anyone but ghosts. And yet—compliantly, yieldingly, expecting nothing but disappointment in the monster I have become—I follow her.

The door is already open to the Swan girl’s room; chattering, beaming vampires flood in and out like the tides. I step inside. And I see the way that Joe looks at her, the way that Ben does; and all those seeds that I had feared might be bitterness blossom into nothing but open air.

It’s Not A Fucking Wedding (A.K.A. 13.5 Months Later)

The ocean is a universe. Its arms are not ever-expanding, spiraling galaxies of suns and planets and nebulae and black holes, this is true; its belly is not a vacuum of inhospitable oblivion, its bones are not invisible strings of gravity, its language is not a silence older than starlight, older than eternity. But the ocean is a universe nonetheless, its borders tucked neatly around the seven continents, slumbering there until the next hurricane or tsunami or ice age comes conquering; and inevitably equilibrium is restored—like defibrillator paddles to a heart, like naloxone to an addict’s blood—and our two worlds can coexist side by side once again.

The ocean’s arms are sighing waves, bubbling and brisk, grasping and retreating in the same breath. Its belly is swollen with life from immense blue whales down to swarming clouds of single-celled, sun-hungry phytoplankton. Its language is ancient whispers; not parched and blistering and brittle sounds like the desert’s but cool, serene, supple, engulfing. And I can hear them all, if I listen closely enough. I can hear the sentient whistling of orcas, the breaking of waves against rocks, the scrabbling of sand crabs beneath the earth, the gruff distant barks of sea lions, the rustling of evergreen pine needles in the breeze. And I understand now why it was always so easy for vampires to be introspective, to lapse into thoughtful, unhurried silences. I could imagine spending decades just sitting here with my knees tucked to my chest and my hair whipping in the brackish wind, watching the seasons roll by like a wheel.

Joe was coming back from the gravel parking lot. I turned to watch him: red U Chicago hoodie, messy dark auburn-ish hair, a pizza box clasped in his hands. The GrubHub delivery driver was returning to his car with the toothiest of grins.

“Buon appetito!” Joe announced, dramatically presenting me with the pizza box. It had become our post-finals tradition each semester: pizza at La Push beach, half-pepperoni, half-pineapple.

“Grazie, sexy undead Italian man. Your accent is getting so good!”

“I know, right?! I’m on a twelve-day Duolingo streak. I can’t let that little green owl dude down.”

“I’m impressed, I’ll admit it. I gotta brush up on my Welsh. Why’s the GrubHub driver so cheery?”

“I tipped him $500.”

I smiled, opening the box and lifting out a semi-warm slice of pineapple pizza. Elastic strands of mozzarella cheese stretched like rubber bands until they snapped. “Aww, really?”

Joe plopped down onto the cool, damp sand beside me. “No. I lied. We’re actually having a torrid love affair.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “How could you possibly have time for all that?” Between school, business ventures, family activities, and me, Joe was very rarely unoccupied. And he preferred it that way.

“I’m so glad you asked. I’m very speedy, if you recall. And that’s just one of the exclusive services I offer. I am a man of many talents. I make people’s wildest dreams come true. Who am I to deny the GrubHub delivery man the wonderland that is my spindly, annoying body?”

“You are the fastest,” I said, winking.

“Oh shut up! I mean, uh, uhhh, silenzio!” He pointed his slice of pepperoni pizza at me reproachfully. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not the fastest at everything.”

“Whatever you say, mob guy.”

He lunged for me, pinned me down in the crumbling sand, both of us laughing wildly as the crusts of our pizza slices bounded off and were snatched up by diving, screeching seagulls. He growled with mock savagery, braced his hips against mine, kissed his way from the corner of my jaw to my lips. That oh-so-familiar commanding, craving ache for him came roaring to the surface; and now there was no bittersweet edge to it, no inescapable backdrop of lambent numbers ticking down from five or ten or fifteen years to zero. Now there was only the calm, unurgent promise of forever.

“Joe—!”

“You have besmirched my honor, Baby Swan. I am left with no recourse but to refresh your clearly flawed memory and prove you wrong.”

“Public indecency? That’s illegal, sir.”

“Okay, you gotta stop stealing my catchphrases. It’s extremely difficult for me to come up with new ones. I’m almost a hundred years old, you know.”

“Alright, I guess you’re not bad in bed for a basically-centenarian.”

He smiled down at me, his dark eyes alight, the wind tearing through his hair, one palm resting on my forehead, uncharacteristically quiet.

“What?” I asked, worried.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just really glad we’re a thing.”

“You better be. You’re kind of stuck with me now. You’ve stolen my virtue, you’ve made me fall in love with your entire demented family, you’ve forced your torturous immortality upon me. I’m not going anywhere. Unless you ever stop funding my pineapple pizza addiction, of course.”

Joe chuckled as he climbed off me and took my hand in his, pulling me upright. “It’s absolutely ridiculous, by the way. Your insistence on being a sort-of vegetarian. It’s embarrassing. You’re the wimpiest vampire ever. You’re a disgrace to the coven.”

“I eat animals!” I objected.

“Yeah, when you have to.” And Joe was right: I steered clear of flesh outside of the two or three times a week when I hunted. For environmental sustainability reasons, I mostly consumed deer or rabbits; although the very occasional shark was my guilty pleasure. Joe gnawed on his second slice of pizza and peered out into the overcast, dusky horizon, wiping crumbs from his stubbled chin with the back of his hand. “We only have one more of these left,” he said at last, a little sadly. “One more finals season at Calawah University. One more celebratory dinner at La Push.”

“We’ll just have to get used to a new view. Pizza by the Chicago River, maybe.”

Joe looked over at me, thoughtful again, smiling. He had received his acceptance letter to the University of Chicago three weeks ago. I got mine eight days later. “It won’t be hard for you to leave Forks?”

“It will be. Once upon a time I didn’t think that was possible, but I will miss Forks. And not just because of Charlie and Archer and Jessica and Angela and all the Lees. But it was hard to leave Phoenix, and I’m sure one day it will be hard to leave Chicago. Just because change is hard doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do.”

Joe nodded introspectively. “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

“Don’t quote classic rock songs at me, mixtapes boy.”

“You love my mixtapes,” he teased, circling his left arm around my waist, pulling me in closer, touching his lips to my forehead. Mint and pine and starlight sank into my lungs like an anchor through the surf. “And that saying actually goes all the way back to Seneca, my dear.”

“Don’t tell me he’s still philosophizing in some cloudy corner of the world somewhere.”

“Not to my knowledge. Although that’s an intriguing thought. We need more famous vampires. Caligula would have made for very interesting conversation. Lincoln, Napoleon, Cleopatra, Shakespeare, Dante...I guess it’s possible that anyone is still around. Maybe we should turn Meat Loaf. You know, for the good of posterity.”

“Is it not enough that they’re already cursed with student debt and global warming?”

Joe cackled, took my face in his palms, kissed each of my cheeks one after the other, then nudged my nose with his. “You ready to go, Baby Swan? I suspect we’re expected to participate in some holiday festivities tonight.”

“I’m ready,” I agreed. We threw our leftover pizza to the seagulls, disposed of the grease-spotted cardboard box, and walked back to my 1999 Honda Accord with our pulseless hands intertwined.

The evergreen trees along Routh 110 fled by beneath a sky freckling with stars. Sharp winter air poured in through the open windows. And I could feel that it was cold, in the same way that I could feel the warmth on Forks’ rare sweltering days; but there was no discomfort that accompanied that knowledge. Pain only came when the sky was unincumbered by thick clouds churning in off the Pacific, and then it felt something like staring into the sun had as a human. Sunglasses helped, but the surest remedy was avoidance, was surrender. And what an inconsequential price to pay for forever.

“Wait,” I said, spying the mailbox that marked the start of the Lees’ driveway. “They still deliver mail on Christmas Eve, right?”

“Uh, I think so, why...?” And then he remembered. “Oh, yeah, let’s check!”

I pulled up beside the mailbox and Joe leaned out, returning to his seat with a mountain of Christmas cards and business correspondence and advertisements from Costco and Sephora. He sifted through them until he found a single white envelope from the University of Chicago Pritzker School of Medicine. It was addressed to a Mr. Benjamin August Hardy. Joe held it up to show me as we drove down the driveway, the Lee house coming into view and ornamented with a frankly excessive amount of multicolored string lights and inflatable reindeer.

“Oh my god!” I squealed, drumming the steering wheel.

“You want to be the one to give it to him?”

“Are you serious?! Yeah, can I?”

Joe passed the envelope to me as I parked my geriatric Honda, which Archer had pledged to keep alive as long as physically possible. In return, Ben let him and Scarlett borrow the Aston Martin Vantage no less than once a week. I dashed out of the car, up the steps of the front porch, and into the house that bubbled over with the sounds of metallic kitchen clashes and frenetic voices and Wham!’s Last Christmas.

“Ben?!” I shouted.

“Hi, honey!” Mercy called from the living room, where she and Lucy were putting the final touches on Scarlett’s gown. Scarlett was playing the part of semi-willing victim, wearing gold heels and an impatient smirk and her hair out of the way in a milkmaid braid; her train of vivid red lace billowed across the hardwood floor. From the couch, Archer and Rami were playing Mario Kart on the big-screen tv and nibbling their way through a tray of homemade gingerbread cookies.

“Oh wow,” I said, clutching the envelope to my chest, mesmerized. I kept waiting for Scarlett to start looking like a normal person to me, and it never happened. Tonight, in the glow of the flameless candles and kaleidoscopic Christmas lights and draped in lace the color of pomegranate seeds, she was Persephone: a goddess of resurrection, a face that death himself could not pass by unscathed. “You’ve outdone yourself, Lucy. Seriously.”

“One day I’m going to get you out of those thrift shop sweaters,” Lucy threatened me, placing a pin in the fabric at Scarlett’s waist.

“Yeah, okay. Let me know when that shows up in one of your visions.”

“Bitch,” Lucy flung back, snickering, knowing how improbable that was. I still appeared in her visions extremely infrequently, and then only when I happened to be standing next to whoever the premonition was actually about.

“Language, dear,” Mercy tutted, inspecting the hem of Scarlett’s gown.

Joe arrived beside me, his arms still full of mail. “ScarJo, I almost didn’t recognize you! Why do you have, like, no cleavage or fishnets or thigh slits?”

“Why do you have like no eyelashes?” Scarlett replied. “See, I can ask unnecessary and invasive questions too.”

Joe frowned, wounded. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“Lucy, darling, I think it’s just a tad uneven on this side,” Mercy said, showing her. “Maybe by half an inch...?”

“No, seriously, what’s wrong with my eyelashes?!”

Mercy replied distractedly: “Nothing, honey, you’re perfect just the way you are.”

“Mom!” Joe groaned.

“It really is gorgeous,” Mercy marveled as Lucy flitted around her to investigate the hem situation. “And so Christmasy. So perfect for the season. Scarlett, dear, you were right after all, and I’m so sorry for doubting you. I’d just never heard of a red wedding dress before.”

“Mom, it’s not a fucking wedding!” Scarlett exclaimed, for probably the thirtieth time since Thanksgiving. “It’s a nonbinding, informal celebration of an egalitarian romantic partnership. Will somebody please inform this woman that it’s not a wedding?!”

“Yes, yes, of course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” Mercy conceded dreamily.

Joe pointed to Archer. “Isn’t he supposed to not see the dress until the day of or something?”

“What a great question!” Archer replied, still deeply invested in Mario Kart. “You see, that would be the case if this was a wedding. However, I’ve been informed in no uncertain terms that it is most definitely not.”

Scarlett grinned triumphantly at Joe. “There you have it.”

She might snap petulantly, and she might complain, but Scarlett wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t want to; we were all intimately familiar with the futility of trying to force Scarlett into anything. The not-wedding, as improbable as it seemed, had been her idea from the start. And she wasn’t doing it for herself. She wasn’t even doing it for Archer. Scarlett was doing it for her mother.

The first six months had been hell for Mercy. She didn’t resent me, as I had feared she might; Mercy made that clear, and Rami confirmed it. But she was gutted. She wouldn’t speak of Gwil, wouldn’t listen to us talk about him, locked every photograph of him away in dark drawers, wandered around with a remote, uncanny, unseeing smile until she walked straight into walls; and then she would blink inanely up at them, as if they had dropped out of the sky rather than been built by her own hands. She baked hundreds of cakes and almost never slept. She told us she was fine every time we asked, which was more or less constantly. But on the very rare occasions when she was left alone, Mercy would unfailingly end up in the field behind the Lee house, gazing out into the forest of western hemlock trees with tears snaking silently down her cheeks, the muted light of the cloud-covered setting sun flickering red and furious on her face like wildfire.

And then one afternoon, a package had arrived from Arviat, Canada, where Cato and the rest of the surviving Draghi had relocated shortly after the rebellion at Vladivostok. It was five feet tall and another three wide, and what we found after carefully peeling away all those layers of foam padding and packing tape was a portrait of Gwilym so skillfully painted that it could have been mistaken for a photograph. Mercy had stared at it for a long time—ignoring Lucy’s attempts to guide her away, deaf to any of our concerns—until she at last picked up the portrait herself and said, quite evenly: “I think we should hang it in the living room, don’t you?”

Things had been better since then—very, very gradually, and yet unmistakably—and Gwil’s portrait remained mounted above the living room couch like a watchman, his eyes sparkling and blue, his faint smile stoic and fond and omniscient. But even in the wake of Mercy’s continued improvement, none of us kids were about to risk another agonizingly despondent Christmas. So the solution was obvious. We would keep Mercy preoccupied with what thrilled her more than absolutely anything else: the pseudo-weddings of her children. Rami and Lucy had already secretly volunteered to go next year...and after that, who knew? And there was one other thing that was making Mercy’s burden a little lighter these days.

Charlie sauntered into the living room, wearing an apron covered in cartwheeling Santas and wiping white dust like snow—powdered sugar? flour? baking soda?—from his ungainly hands. He was palpably proud. “The sugar cookies are officially in the oven. And I managed to fit them all on one baking sheet, isn’t that great?! Cuts down on dishes!”

“Why, yes, I suppose it does!” Mercy said, alarm dawning in her eyes. Had my beloved father placed the globs of dough too close together? Would we end up with one hideous, giant monster-cookie? Only time would tell. Providentially, Archer and Joe could be counted on to eat just about anything.

Joe sniffed the air, his forehead crinkling. “What’s burning?”

“Nothing should be burning,” Mercy replied, almost defensive, forever protective of Charlie and all of his profound, incurably human imperfections. Sometimes I thought that she preferred him that way, that he was a link to a simpler world in the same way I had once been, that he was a puddle of memory she could drop into, that maybe he wasn’t so unlike her first husband Arthur. “Not yet, anyway. The cookies need at least ten to twelve minutes at 350.”

“Wait, 350?!” Charlie exclaimed, horrorstruck. “I thought you said 450!”

“Oh, this is tragic,” Scarlett said.

“I can fix it!” Mercy trilled buoyantly, breezing off to the kitchen as Charlie followed after her with a fountain of apologies. She shushed them away affectionately, patting his chest with her soft plump hands, chuckling about how luckily they had fire extinguishers stowed away in almost every closet just in case. And there were other reasons for that besides Charlie’s perilous baking attempts, but he didn’t know them. Now the record player was belting out Queen’s Thank God It’s Christmas.

Archer lost another round in Mario Kart and exhaled a great, mournful sigh. “Hey, Baby Swanpire, can you do something about this guy?” He nodded to Rami. “This is criminal. It’s nowhere near a fair fight. He knows every freaking time I’m about to toss a banana peel.”

Rami smirked guiltily up at me from the couch, not bothering to deny it.

“Do you mind?” I asked him.

“Not at all,” Rami replied. “I want to show this loser I can beat him even without the benefit of mega-cool extrasensory superpowers.”

“Rude!” Archer cried.

“So rude,” Scarlett agreed, smiling.

“Okay, here we go.” I sat down beside Rami, still holding Ben’s envelope in my right hand, and laid my left against Rami’s cheek. And I felt a fistful of numbness—like instant peace, like milk-white Novocain—pass from my skin into his, rolling into his skull, deadening whatever telepathic livewires had been ignited there in the August of 1916. The effect would last anywhere from thirty minutes to a few hours; and it worked on every vampire I’d met so far.

“Whoa, trippy,” Rami murmured. “It’s still weird, every single time.” He peered drowsily around the room. “It’s...so...quiet?! You guys really live like this? No one is constantly bombarding you with sexual fantasies or romantic pining or depressive inner monologues? How do you function?! Now I’m alone with my own thoughts, that’s actually worse!”

“Hurry up and beat him while he’s all freaked out and vulnerable,” Scarlett told Archer.

Archer laughed, picking up his Nintendo 64 controller, radiant with the promise of vengeance. “Yes ma’am.”

“Any good mail?” Lucy asked Joe.

“Yeah. Coupons and a ton of Christmas cards from random people. The vet sent us one with alpacas on it, so that’s cute. Oh, and here’s one from our favorite Canadians.”

Joe held up the card so we could all see. The picture on the front showed Cato and Honora sitting on a large velvet, forest green couch with a hulking Christmas tree illuminated in the background. The others were arranged around them: Austin, Max, Ksenia, Charity, Araminta, Akari, Morana, Phelan, Aruna, Adair, Zora, Sahel, and a few new faces I couldn’t name yet. They were all wearing matching turtleneck sweaters. And every single one of them was smiling.

Joe cleared his throat theatrically and read the text on the inside of the card:

“Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

(Oh, and Scarlett, congratulations on your not-marriage.)

- Cato Douglass Freeman”

“That bastard,” Scarlett muttered.

Rami offered me his controller. He had just slipped on a banana peel and rocketed off a cliff. “You want a turn?”

“No, thanks though. I have to talk to Ben. Is he around?”

Rami shrugged ruefully. “I would help, but my brain is temporarily broken.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes, taking a gingerbread cookie from the tray and biting into it as Lucy batted crumbs from the red lace dress, exasperated. “I think he’s out in the hot tub.”

“Cool. I shall return.”

Joe took my spot on the couch as I departed, shoveling cookies into his mouth, seizing Rami’s controller and kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

I opened the door to the back porch, and frigid December air rushed in like an uninvited guest. The field was coated with a thin layer of snow, the animals safe and warm in the barn, the garden slumbering. And in the spring and summer, when blossoms of a dozen different varieties came open beneath the drizzling grey skies, Mercy’s calla lilies didn’t bother my allergies at all. Nothing did anymore. Ben was indeed in the hot tub, puffing on his vape pen, wearing only a beanie hat and swim trunks.

“What flavor is that cartridge?” I asked as I approached. “Gummy bear?”

“Close. Strawberry doughnut.”

“Ohhhh, yum!” Ben passed me the vape pen, and I took a drag as I kicked off my boots and sat near him on the rim of the hot tub, slipping my bare feet beneath the steaming, roiling water. Then I handed his vape pen back. “So. Guess what I have for you.”

“Uh.” He glanced at the envelope. “Jury duty.”

“Better.”

“Someone I hate has jury duty.”

I flipped the envelope around so he could see the University of Chicago logo on the front.

“Oh god,” Ben moaned.

“Don’t you want to see what it says?”

“Not really,” he admitted, grimacing.

“Come on, Ben. Open it.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?!”

Ben sighed. “Look, if I open it and it’s bad news, it’s gonna make Christmas weird. Rami will know. They’ll all know. They’ll all feel bad for me and it’ll be pathetic and depressing and awkward. You can look if you want to, just don’t tell anyone else yet.”

“It’s not going to be bad news,” I said, tugging at the floppy top of his beanie hat. He swatted my hand away, but he was smiling grudgingly.

“You have positively no way of knowing that. Unless Lucy’s had a vision I’m unaware of.”

“She hasn’t. You know she never sees anything important.”

“She saw you coming,” Ben countered.

“She saw human-me and Joe in love and gobbling down pretzels at a Cubs game. So I’d say there were at least a few minor details missing.”

“There’s no way I got in,” Ben said, his green eyes slick and fearful and now fixed on the envelope. “We can’t all be geniuses like you.”

“That’s an unfair accusation. I’m far from genius. I’m just obsessed with the ocean.” I’d written my senior thesis on the feeding habits of Pacific angelsharks, and my advisor was still trying to figure out how I, an amateur scuba diver at best, had managed to get so many quality photographs with my underwater camera. The secret, of course, was superhuman agility and not needing to breathe.

“I fucking hate calculus. The MCAT wrecked me. I got a 517.”

“And their median score is a 519, so I’d say you still have a fighting chance. Plus you have like eight million volunteer hours.” Ben had spent the vast majority of the past year either in class or at the hospital. The psychiatrist-in-chief, Dr. Siegel, had been more than happy to take one of Gwil’s foster children under her wing. Every human in Forks except Archer believed that Dr. Gwilym Lee had drowned in a tragic boating accident while he and Mercy were on vacation in Southern California, and that his body had never been recovered. The town had held a wonderful remembrance ceremony and dedicated a free clinic at the hospital in his honor. “Now open it.”

“You do it,” Ben relented finally. “My hands are wet. Go ahead, open it up and tell me what it says. And then kindly euthanize me to end my immortal shame.”

“That wouldn’t work,” I pointed out, tearing open the envelope. I pulled out the tri-folded piece of paper inside, flattened it against my thighs, and read the typed black text.

“...Well?” Ben pressed, vaping frantically.

I looked up and smiled at him.

“No way,” he whispered.

“I hope you like pretzels and bear-themed baseball teams, grandpa.”

And for a second, I thought he might bolt up out of the hot tub, hooting victoriously, splashing water all over the back porch as he danced around bellowing that he’d gotten into one of the best medical schools in the world, that he would be following me and Joe to Chicago. But that wasn’t Ben. Instead, a slow smile rippled across his face: it was small, but perfectly genuine. Pure, even.

“Goddamn,” he said, watching me. Venom doesn’t just resurrect or ruin; it forms a bond that is simultaneously intangible and yet immense. It’s an evolutionary adaptation, a way to facilitate stability and the building of covens in an often violent and ruleless world. And now that he had turned me, Ben had family here in Forks in more ways than one.

“Gwil would be so proud of you, Ben.”

“I hope so. I really do.”

The back door of the house opened, and Joe stepped outside. He studied Ben for a moment, and that was all it took for him to know. “Benny!” he shouted, elated.

“I know, I know. Fortunately, I look amazing in red. Thanks, supermodel genes.”

“This is going to be so fun!” Joe said, sprinting over to wrap Ben—who was characteristically lukewarm on this whole physical displays of affection business—in a hug from just outside the hot tub. “We’re going to go furniture shopping, and eat deep-dish pizza, and find apartments right next to each other, and mail home Chicago-themed care packages, and get you hooked up with some gorgeous Italian woman...or whatever you like, I guess I shouldn’t assume. Women. Men. Gang members. Marine mammals. Jessicas. Whatever. There are options.”

Ben laughed as he playfully shoved Joe away. “Sounds like a plan, pagliaccio.”

“Oh my god, stop learning Italian without me! You realize you have to tell Mom now.”

“I will,” Ben agreed, with some trepidation. “I’ll wait until after Christmas.”

“It’ll be hard for her,” I said. “But she knows it’s what you want. She knows it’s what’s best for you. So she’ll get through it. I think it would be worse for her if you didn’t get in, if she had to see you unhappy.”

Ben nodded, exhaling strawberry-doughnut-flavored vapor, gazing up at the stars, Orion and Auriga and Lynx and Perseus reflected in his thoughtful jade eyes. “She’ll still have Rami and Lucy and Scarlett here with her. And Archer. And Charlie.”

“Especially Charlie,” Joe said, grinning.

Mercy would have to leave Forks eventually, of course. The Lees had already been here for nearly four years; they could stay another ten, perhaps fifteen at the absolute maximum. And there had been a time when ten or fifteen years seemed like quite a while to me, but now it felt like I could doze off one afternoon and wake up on the other side of it, like swimming a lap in the sun-drenched public pool back in Phoenix. We would find a new home somewhere after Joe and I finished our PhDs, after Ben finished medical school, maybe Vancouver or Buffalo or Amsterdam or Edinburgh or Dublin or Reykjavik. Wherever we went, I hoped it wouldn’t be far from the sea. But Mercy couldn’t bear to leave Forks yet. It was the last home she had shared with Gwil, the last house they would ever build together, and leaving it would make his loss all the more irrevocable. She would be ready to leave someday, but not today.

In the meantime, there would still be visits for breaks and holidays. Scarlett and Archer had the shop to keep them busy, a brand new eight-car garage that held a virtual monopoly on both the Forks and Quileute communities. Lucy had opened a bohemian-style clothing boutique downtown, which confounded most of the locals but attracted more adventurous customers from as far away as Seattle. Rami was interning for a local immigration lawyer and entertaining the possibility of applying to U Chicago’s law school in another few years. And Mercy had the farm; and she had Charlie. He had asked her for cooking lessons to try to help rouse her a few months after Gwil’s death, and it had grown from there. If it wasn’t romantic just yet, I believed it would be soon. And there were moments when I thought my father might have figured something out, when his eyes narrowed and lingered on me just a little too long, when his brow knitted into suspicious, searching lines, when the hairs rose on the back of his neck and some innate insight whispered that we weren’t like him and never could be again. But then he would chuckle, shake his head, and say: “You’ve gotten weird, my gorgeous, brilliant progeny. But Forks looks pretty good on you.”

“Can I talk to you upstairs?” Joe asked me suddenly; and did I see restless nerves flicker in his dark eyes? I thought I did.

“Sure,” I replied, climbing down from the hot tub. “Ben, are you coming inside? My dad is trying to bake Christmas cookies and failing miserably. It’s pretty hilarious. Not that you should be the one to critique other people’s kitchen-related accidents.”

“I do enjoy your company a lot more now that I don’t want to murder you and slurp you down like a Chick-fil-A milkshake,” Ben said. “Yeah, give me a few minutes and I’ll be there.” And as Joe and I headed into the house, I saw Ben pick up the acceptance letter that I’d left on the rim of the hot tub and read it for himself with incredulous eyes, grappling with the irrefutable fact that it was his name on the opening line, that he had somewhere along the way become the sort of man who dedicated his immortality to saving lives rather than ending them.

In the living room, Scarlett was back in her yoga pants and absolutely brutalizing Archer in Mario Kart. Rami and Lucy were entwined together on the loveseat, murmuring, giggling, feeding each other pieces of gingerbread cookies. In the kitchen, Charlie was leading Mercy in a clumsy waltz to Meat Loaf’s I’d Do Anything For Love, and each time he fumbled his steps or mortifyingly trod on her feet she would cry out in a peal of laughter brighter than the sun she had learned to live without. Joe spirited me up the staircase, into his bedroom—which, honestly, was more like our bedroom now, in the same way that my room in Charlie’s house had become Joe’s as well—and closed the door.

“You’re in luck,” he said. “Your dad totally ruined our song. Now I can’t hear it without thinking about some moustached guy in plaid trying to seduce my mom.”

“It’s the best Christmas gift I could ever ask for. Meat Loaf is vanquished. Oh, just so you’re aware, Renee and Paul are getting an Airbnb and coming up for New Years.”

“Cool. Do they still think I have a super embarrassing sunlight allergy and will break into hives and asphyxiate and that’s why we can’t visit them in Florida?”

“Yup.”

“Spectacular. Also, can you please tell me what’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“They’re just a little sparse, amore. But I still like you.”

“Well, I am only moderately attractive, you know.” Then Joe steeled himself, taking a deep breath. Uh oh. He was definitely nervous. I still couldn’t believe I had the power to make him that way, but here we were. “So I get that we’re doing presents with the whole family tomorrow morning, and you do have some under the tree, so don’t worry about that. But there’s one I wanted to give to you alone. You know. With just us. Without an audience. Or whatever.”

“...Okay...?” A secret gift? A naughty gift? “I hope it’s a new vibrator.”

“Shut up,” Joe begged, laughing. “Here.” He reached into the drawer of his nightstand—our nightstand—and produced a small blue box topped with a turquoise bow. It wasn’t a ring, I was sure of that; I didn’t feel especially attached to the idea of marriage, and neither did Joe to my knowledge. How could rings or papers seal commitment when you already had eternity? I was right: the mysterious present was not a ring. When I removed the lid and emptied the box into my palm, what appeared there was a small plastic airplane.

“What is this?” I asked, amused but puzzled.

“Are you not college educated? It’s a plane.”

“Well, yeah, I can see that. But it’s also like two inches long.” I scrutinized the plane. “Are you magically transforming me into a tiny, tiny, little plastic person? Is that my gift? Because I actually got you something good.” And I really did: there was a collection of vintage Chicago Cubs photographs from the 1910s and 20s downstairs under the Christmas tree, packaged in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer wrapping paper.

“We’re going on a trip,” Joe said, grinning. “The day after Christmas. It’s just a short trip, nothing huge, don’t get too excited, we’re not going to Mt. Everest or Antarctica or anything. I think you’ll still like it. But I don’t want you to know where we’re going until we’re there.”

“How will that work? Considering the tickets and signage and pilot announcements and obnoxiously noisy other passengers and all.”

“ScarJo’s going to fly us.”

“Really?!” We were taking the jet. We almost never used the jet. “What’s in it for Scarlett?”

“She found out that Archer’s never had In-N-Out Burger before and is very much looking forward to initiating him into the cult of deliciousness.”

“Oh nice. I could go for a vanilla milkshake myself, now that Ben mentioned them.”

“Obviously I’m gonna buy you all the milkshakes and animal-style fries you want. Bankrupt me, bitch. But we have to get one other thing taken care of first.”

“So it’s somewhere they have In-N-Out Burger...” I pondered aloud. California? Texas? Las Vegas? I felt a brief but unambiguous pang of homesickness for Phoenix. But there was nothing there for me anymore.

“Stop,” Joe pleaded. “I’m sorry. I’ve already said too much. Please forget that. Get a traumatic brain injury or oxygen deprivation or something.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m rather indestructible at the moment.”

He smiled wistfully. “I wouldn’t want you to be any other way.”

There was laughter downstairs in the living room. I could detect the aroma of a fresh batch of sugar cookies baking in the kitchen, mingling with the cold night air and pine trees and peppermint candy canes. I loved Christmas. The entire world smelled like Joe. The U Chicago décor, classic rock posters, and Italian flag were now interspersed with National Geographic pages and photos of the two of us together. The Official Whatever You Want Pass hung in a small, square picture frame on the wall above Joe’s bed. Our bed.

“How real is it, Joe?” I asked quietly. I climbed onto my tiptoes, linking my hands around the back of his neck with the tiny plane still tucked between my fingers. “Seriously. The wishes thing.”

“The world may never know. Akari never met me as a human, so she wouldn’t be able to say. But if I had to place a bet...” He shrugged, grinning craftily. “Kinda real. Kinda not real. Just like vampires, I guess.”

“I am alarmingly glad that you’re real, mob guy,” I said, abruptly somber. “I never thought I’d meet someone who saw me as remarkable, who could make me see myself that way. And it’s miraculous. And it’s terrifying too, honestly. Being a thing with you. Falling for someone you could have for centuries and lose in a second.”

“It’s the scariest thing there is,” Joe concurred, taking my hand to lead me back downstairs.

Joseph

Scarlett looks like a goddess, and she knows it. But she’s not one of those magnanimous, fragile, harp-plucking, pastel-colored goddesses. She’s ferocity and wildness and crimson like blood, and that’s exactly why Archer loves her. And as they stand in front of the Christmas tree with their hands clasped together—ivory on bronze, snow on sun—with matching sprigs of holly in Scarlett’s hair and pinned to the jacket of Archer’s suit, reciting truths but no promises, I can’t help but watch the other faces in the room: Rami, Lucy, Ben, Charlie, Mom with her beaming smile and shining eyes, the woman I met sixteen months ago and now can’t fathom life without. And it occurs to me for the first time that love, in its cleanest form, isn’t something that changes people as much as it allows them to become who they truly are.

On the evening of December 26th, as soon as the sun dips beneath the western horizon, we board the jet in the Forks Airport hangar. It’s much easier for Scarlett to fly at night; otherwise she has to wear two or three pairs of sunglasses on top of each other, and even then it’s still painful, it still feels like blinding needles burrowing into the jelly of her retinas. That’s not a wrench in my plans or anything. It needs to be night where we’re going, too.

Vampire hyper-acuity notwithstanding, FAA regulations require Scarlett to have a copilot, so Archer joins her in the flight deck with his newly-minted license and spends most of the journey flipping through the latest issue of Motor Trend. As we begin our descent, he peeks back at us and teases: “It’ll be your turn eventually, guys. Scarlett and I did our time. Rami and Lucy can go next year. And after that...unless Ben happens to find someone worthy of a not-wedding...” He wiggles his black eyebrows.

“Bring it on,” I reply casually. “Fake wedding are my jam. It’ll be ocean themed. Or Roaring ‘20s themed. And we’ll all do the Cha-Cha Slide in the living room and shame Ben as a bonding activity.”

“Mercy can set up a mashed potatoes bar,” Baby Swan adds.

“Yeah. With pineapple.”

“No. Not on potatoes.”

“Yes on potatoes.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Too late,” I tell her, touching my lips to the knuckles of her cool, steady hand.

We touch down at a small noncommercial airport just outside the city, and Scarlett and Archer stay back to secure the plane as Baby Swan follows me outside. And she realizes where we are as soon as the wind hits her, as soon as her eyes soak up the sand and cacti and cloudless night sky like rain swallowed up by parched earth.

“Phoenix,” she whispers, smiling like a child.

“But wait, there’s more!” I announce in my best Billy Mays voice. I take the little glass bottle from my pocket, walk across the runway to the naked desert, crouch down when I find a suitable spot, and fill the bottle with dry, sandy earth that crumbles in my palms. Then I seal the bottle with a tiny cork and bring it back to give it to her.

“I know what it’s like to have to leave home,” I say. “You’ve had to say goodbye to Phoenix, and soon you’ll have to say goodbye to Forks, and next will be Chicago, on and on forever. You’ll always be leaving the places you learn to call home. Every five or ten or fifteen years, we start over again. Like a snake shedding its skin, like a hermit crab swapping shells. Like the water that travels from rain to seawater to mist and then back again. But now you can always have a little piece of home with you, and maybe that will make it easier.”

She takes the glass bottle and shakes her head in disbelief, in wonder. Because this is exactly what she wanted, what she needed, even if she didn’t know it yet. “Joe...how did you...?”

“What’d I tell ya? I’m a talented guy. Now you have to dance with me.”

She laughs. “Oh no. Hard pass. I don’t dance.”

“When we’re alone in my bedroom you do. So just pretend we’re alone now. In, like, a really really spacious, sandy bedroom. With probably some lizards.”

“Fine. But only because I’m willing to degrade myself for milkshakes.”

She slides the glass bottle of Arizona earth into her pocket and takes my hands. She’s still a pretty terrible dancer, honestly. She hasn’t lost that. And I love that about her. I love damn near everything about her. And it took me a long time to figure out what exactly her subtle yet peerless cocktail of fragrance is, because it wasn’t somewhere I’d ever been. The scent that drifts from her pores—the scent that now lives in my bedsheets like a shadow or a ghost—is sunlight and heat and clarity and resilience and wisdom older than the pyramids. Her scent is the desert.

Now she’s mischievous, her eyes gleaming with the reflections of the Milky Way and the full moon and the stars that are dead and yet eternal, just like us. “So what, you think you’re Vampire Boyfriend Of The Year material now or what? Some dirt and In-N-Out Burger? That’s the height of your game? Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my perpetual existence? I totally should have pursued that polyamorous triad with Scarlett and Archer when I had the chance—”

“Yeah,” I say, very softly, smiling, tilting up her chin to kiss her beneath the universe and all its eccentricities. “I love you too.”

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