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sinswithpleasure · 3 years

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The Playgirl (ft. LOONA's Yves) [Part 1] [Female Reader]

---------------

This was supposed to be a lengthy oneshot, but I wanna have it out as I write, so... here's Part 1! Just so you know, it's futa!Yves, but I won't really mention it until at least Part 3.

Also, this is entirely female reader!

Can be found on AFF and AO3!

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Everyone knows of Ha Sooyoung.

Most know her by her preferred name Yves, but it is the same either way—the people still have her deeply imprinted in the recesses of their minds. After all, who doesn't know of the campus fuckgirl that only goes for girls?

You are no exception to having knowledge of Sooyoung. After all, she is your seatmate for every class you had, and while she is regularly absent, she is a regular hindrance when present. During lectures, she likes to fling paper balls at unsuspecting classmates, flirt with any female classmate or TA, or play games on her mobile phone loudly. The fact that she is your seatmate only makes it worse, considering she has her feet on the table most of the time.

Now you have to tutor her. The bane of your existence. Ha Sooyoung. Yves. Tutor. Tutor her.

Your look of disbelief meeting your professor's determined gaze melts into a sigh of resignation. You know that no amount of whining or pouting would result in a win for you—Yves had the poorest performance, barely scraping through any of her tests, whereas you aced every test given during your course of study. It would only be natural for you to be tutoring her.

Yves flashes a smirk and wink from the front row of the lecture theatre, giving you a two-fingered salute as the professor leaves.

"Hey, babygirl. Guess you're my new tutor."

"Hi." You cannot help but let bitterness seep into your tone, but you bite down on the bullets you wish to fire.

"You don't seem that happy."

"No, but it's fine. Let's get down to business."

"Uh-uh, not today. I've got a party to get to. How about this, give me your phone."

You hesitantly pass her your phone, and she enters her number in.

"Call me." She flashes another smirk and a wink, pushing her hair back. The phone in your hand displays 'yves 💘'.

-----

When you call Yves, you hear more of the chatter in the background than her voice. However, she is still audible, and that is all you need.

"Hello?"

"Sooyoung. I'll tutor you beginning tomorrow."

"Oh, it's you, babygirl. Sure, see you after class?"

Huh. That was easy.

"Good, please bring along the Calculus textbook—"

Indistinct chatter rings across the line, and you vaguely hear the crowd chanting "Drink! Drink! Drink!" before Yves's voice cuts through the line again.

"Sorry, babygirl, I've got to jet. I ain't gonna win this game of beer pong talkin' to you. See you tomorrow."

Before you can even say anything, the call is cut. You take a deep breath, deciding to let it go. Maybe this would be the only time. After all, innocent until proven guilty, right?

With a long exhale, you throw yourself back into whatever work you were doing.

---------------

When Yves appears after class, she staggers into the classroom, clutching her head.

"Fuck, I shouldn't have drank that much last night."

She crashes on the chair next to you, immediately folding her arms on the table, resting her head on it. Her eyes open blearily when you request for her to take her Calculus textbook out.

"I didn't bring it."

You halt, frustration beginning to build.

"I thought I told you to bring it."

"Well, babygirl, I forgot. Looks like we can't do this today then." Yves rises, staggering towards the door. Repeated calls of her name fall on her deaf ears as she rounds the corner and disappears.

You take a deep breath. Tomorrow.

-----

[You sent a message:]

Yves

Tomorrow, after class.

[yves💘 sent a message:]

Hey babygirl

I've got a party tomorrow.

[You sent a message:]

You're ditching your grades for a party?

A party in the afternoon?

[yves💘 sent a message:]

Come on, live a little, it's fun to cut loose!

Yeah, I need to go set it up.

Wanna come?

[You sent a message:]

I'd rather spend my time productively, thank you. I expect to see you after class. The same place.

-----

Yves is absent again from class. Naturally, she is absent from the tutoring session. Every call you make to her goes unanswered throughout the afternoon.

You hate this. It wasn't as if tutoring her was a choice you made—the professor shunted the task to you, even after all your protests and reasoning for why you shouldn't take the job. The impression that she gives off already isn't anything good, and the fact that she actively is wasting your time only pisses you off even more.

The fact that Yves is your seatmate only adds to the frustration. Her shoes are all up in your face, the sounds of her games in your ears, her paper balls all over your table. Everything she did just pissed you off.

When you reach home, you immediately drop a call to Yves. Three rings of the phone is all it takes before she picks up the phone.

"Hey babygirl."

"Don't babygirl me. Where were you this afternoon?"

"I told you, I had a party."

"So you choose to waste my time?"

"Sorry, babe." The lack of sincerity is evident in her voice. "This is clearly more fun."

"You prioritize fun over your grades? Are you trying to fail?"

"Yo, yo, chill, chill! Cut me some slack! Take it easy. I've got time!"

"The final exams are less than half a year away."

"Precisely." Yves's smirk can be heard through the phone. "I have time."

"I don't. Stop wasting my time. Come tomorrow."

"Oh, fiery. Just my type." Yves chuckles, before she pisses you off even further. "I'll see you, just not tomorrow."

"Why not?"

"I'll be busy nursing my hangover. Ciao." The call is cut.

You growl in frustration, squeezing the pen in your hand tightly. How easily she dismisses you only serves to fuel your anger. How could someone give no shits about their future?

Yves was basically the opposite of what you stood for. To you, school was an obligation—something necessary in order to move forward and succeed. This meant that people had to possess the responsibility to keep to this commitment so they could succeed in life. The future is uncertain, so you should make every effort to ensure that you can forge a path that is as certain as it can be.

Yves, however, treated school like a waste of time. To be out having fun mattered more—life and the future is uncertain, so if she could afford the time to live in the moment, then she would take the time to. Why pressure oneself to engineer perfection when imperfection is how the world runs?

This was a constant argument between the both of you when Yves was present in school. On the days she came, you had to fight to pay attention to your professor since the both of you would argue. You hated having to defend your point of view against her, since she was deeply set in her contrasting view. You hate how carefree she is. How is it that someone can live without worrying that much?

When you let your vision focus, you take a deep breath and go back to your work.

---------------

You are ten minutes early for class. Chatter fills the classroom as per usual. When you reach your seat, your ears perk up at a familiar name.

"... you hear Yves took her home last night?"

"... sex … fucked her the whole night … best time of her life …"

You scowl. Even when she wasn't present, you had to hear about her, and even worse, her womanizing and hedonistic lifestyle. Who cares about her?

"Good morning, babygirl."

The bane of your existence appears before your very eyes, leaning over your desk with her signature smirk. You give her a glare, but not before you fail to resist checking her out.

Yes, she is admittedly hot. But insufferable. But hot. Facts are facts.

Her hair slicked back, check. Leather jacket, check. Fishnets and crop top fitting her… appealing chest, check. Tight pants that fit her figure, check. Fuck, she looks so good.

"My eyes are up here." Yves pushes your head up to meet her gaze with a finger. The smug smirk on her face makes you want to slap it off her. "If you want me, all you have to do is ask."

"Why're you here?"

"Someone who places such importance in school doesn't want her seatmate present? I'm hurt, babe."

"Fuck off. Don't touch me." You shift away from her touch, and Yves grins.

"I came to see you, my favourite tutor. You're interesting."

"Put that interest in your studies."

"No, I don't think I will, not when you're this pretty."

You try to fight the blush that appears on your face, but it seems that you fail—Yves's cocky grin only gets bigger when she reclines in her chair, resting her feet on the table.

This is your second year with Yves as a seatmate. The girl next to you somehow managed to scrape past first year, and now here she is, staring at you with an amused smirk, annoying you just as she had since Day 1.

"Y'know, I mean it when I say you're pretty."

"Thank you." You grit your teeth, though how red your face remains betrays your hidden feelings. After all, girls don't really compliment you that often, let alone a hot one like Yves is.

"Mm, you're welcome." Yves smiles, resting her head on her chair. "I'll depend on your tutoring, babygirl. Goodnight."

"You're going to sleep?"

"Yep. I'll just listen attentively to you later, cutie."

"I would prefer it if you paid attention now."

"What, and stare at the prof's ugly mug? Why would I do that when I can take the time to stare at your beautiful face instead?"

"Fuck off."

"Ooh, you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Yves's grin shows how little offense she takes at your rebuttal. "I like you, baby."

You decide to ignore Yves. Ignore how she easily infuriates you. Ignore how hot she is. Ignore the compliments that make heat rise from your cheeks and neck.

Insufferable.

-----

Yves takes a long time to rise from her slumber. You try to shake her, but Yves remains steadfastly asleep on her chair.

"Yves. Wake up."

"Mmnnngggh."

"Wake up, wake up."

"Five more minutes."

"No." You heave a sigh. "Wake. Up."

"Fine, fine, babygirl. You're such a killjoy."

"Do not 'babygirl' me. Let's start."

You pull out your Calculus textbook. Yves halfheartedly pulls hers out as well, and you flip both books to a summary exercise.

"Do these. I need to know your current ability."

"Only because you're pretty, babygirl." Yves picks up her pen, beginning to work on the questions.

-----

"How are you getting all these wrong?"

Your tutee shrugs, leaning back on her chair. "Who cares?"

"I do! You're going to fail."

"Aw babygirl, you do care about me."

"Shut the fuck up. There's so much work I need to do with you."

"Meh, whatever." Yves stretches in her chair, leaning back to close her eyes. "Do your magic, tutor. Teach me."

"Fine. Let's begin."

-----

Both you and Yves part ways at the gate of the campus. After a tense session involving multiple arguments when Yves used more of her phone than to attempt learning anything you were teaching, or when she started to look up girls on Tinder, you gave up and halted the session.

"See you soon, babygirl."

"Fuck you."

"Anytime, babe. You just have to ask."

"Fuck off."

"Calm down. It's not like we don't have time."

"We don't."

"Not with that attitude."

"Fuck your attitude."

Yves only grins when she hears your reply.

---------------

Another tutoring session, another Yves absence. This time, when you call her, you're met with the obscene sounds of Yves engaging in sexual intercourse.

"Hey babygirl."

"Yves. Where are—huh?"

Wet smacks echo loudly through the speaker on your phone. Someone moans on the other side. Regular thumps ring through your speakers.

"I'm a little busy now, baby."

"Wha—what the fuck?"

"As you can hear, I'm busy fucking someone. Bye."

The dial tone that enters your ears almost makes you smash your phone on the table to pieces. You instead settle on smashing your fist against the table instead.

This is the last straw.

-----

The next time you see Yves, you pin her against the wall. Taken by surprise, Yves finds herself in a position she usually puts others into. Smirking, she relents.

"Didn't take you to be so forward."

"This is the last fucking time I'm taking your shit. I've had it with your constant excuses about parties, or whatever. Now, you choose to go fuck some bitch even when you know you have stuff to do. I'm fucking done. I quit."

"Come on, don't be like that, baby." Yves's cocky grin widens. "Maybe I need some more motivation."

"If having your life planned out isn't motivating enough, nothing will work."

"Oh, but I had this wonderful idea…"

You resist taking the bait, but having Yves pinned against the wall fucks with your judgement.

"What?"

Today, Yves is clad in all black leather. Whatever she's wearing doesn't catch your eye—the fact that your face is so close to Yves's flusters you. The same slicked back hair, scarlet lipstick across her kissable lips, a cocky glint in her eye, catching your gaze before traveling down to your lips, then below…

"I've seen the way you look at me, babygirl. You say you hate me, but all I see in your eyes is lust right now. You want me so bad, don't you?"

"Sh-shut the fuck up." You curse at the slight stutter.

"So how about this? I'll be the best student you'll ever have, and if I ace the exams at the end of the year… hmm."

Yves lets her voice trail off, knowing she has your full attention.

"What the fuck do you want?'

"If I ace the exams, I get to fuck you."

You cannot believe your ears.

"What?"

"I said what I said. I'll be the best student you'll have. I'll ace the exams. And when I do, you'll sleep with me."

"Why the fuck would I say yes to that?"

In an instant, Yves flips you around. Your back is now against the wall, your arms held against your will, held down by Yves's grip. Yves leans in.

"Because you think I'm hot."

You subconsciously lean in when you feel her hot breath on your lips, and Yves leans in as well. Something soft presses against your lips. Instantly, she is off you, smirking.

"See you around babygirl. Don't think about me too much."

So you agree.

#kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #loona yves #ha sooyoung #loona fanfiction

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algumaideia · 3 years

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Rereading the deal and R/hys abuse.

Since chapter 54 is completely tied to what R/hys did to F/eyre UTM I decided to reread it. The highlights:

“What would Tamlin say,” he murmured, “if he knew his beloved was rotting away down here, burning up with fever? Not that he can even come here, not when his every move is watched.”

What an interisting thing R/hys said.

“So, it’s really a question of how much you’re willing to trust Lucien—and how much you’re willing to risk for it"

I really dislike this because it makes it seems like it is Lucien fault that he cannot heal F/eyre whenever she got hurt and not that he is being tortured...

"Swift as lightning, he lashed out, grabbing the shard of bone in my arm and twisting. A scream shattered out of me, ravaging my aching throat. The world flashed black and white and red. I thrashed and writhed, but he kept his grip, twisting the bone a final time before releasing my arm"

What a better way to help someone that is with broken arms than to twist this person arms?? Helping certainly was R/hys final goal.

"Just two weeks,” he purred, and knelt before me. “Two teensy, tiny weeks with me every month is all I ask.”

Cof cof gaslighting cof cof. It is not like a month has four weeks, therefore two weeks is half a month...

"How am I to blame?” He walked to the door but lingered, even as pure night wafted off his shoulders. “Unless this lack of gratitude and appreciation is because you fear a certain High Lord’s reaction.” Tamlin. I could already see his face going pale, his lips becoming thin as the claws came out. I could almost hear the growl he’d emit when he asked me what I had been thinking.

Pff it is not like she just said she would be the slave of a High Lord known for being cruel and torturing people for fun that just twisted her broken arm. Yeah, it is definetly Tamlin's jealousy that F/eyre is worrying right now...

and their shadowy grips were firm when I wriggled. Things only worsened when they painted more intimate parts of me... The two High Fae ignored my demands to be clothed in something else, their impossibly shadowed faces veiled from me, but held my arms firm when I tried to rip the shift off.

This is F/eyre talking about those two shadow girls. I am just putting it here because then F/eyre feels guilty for not knowing their names. This was really weird, because F/eyre acted like you know they were someone that helped her UTM (cof cof Lucien's mom cof cof) and not people who bathed, painted and dressed her up against her will.

I should have known it was his doing, should have known from the matching designs all over my body. “Our bargain hasn’t started yet,”

Humm interisting.

“Of course,” he said coolly. “How else would I know if anyone touches you?” He approached, and I braced myself as he ran a finger along my shoulder, smearing the paint. As soon as his finger left my skin, the paint fixed itself, returning the design to its original form. “The dress itself won’t mar it, and neither will your movements,” he said, his face close to mine. His teeth were far too near to my throat. “And I’ll remember precisely where my hands have been. But if anyone else touches you—let’s say a certain High Lord who enjoys springtime—I’ll know.” He flicked my nose. “And, Feyre,” he added, his voice a caressing murmur, “I don’t like my belongings tampered with.”

Now I can see how this helped her UTM.

“Wine?” he said, offering me a goblet. Alis’s first rule. I shook my head. He smiled, and extended the goblet again. “Drink. You’ll need it.” Drink, my mind echoed, and my fingers stirred, moving toward the goblet. No. No, Alis said not to drink the wine here—wine that was different from that joyous, freeing solstice wine. “No,” I said, and some faeries who were watching us from a safe distance chuckled. “Drink,” he said, and my traitorous fingers latched onto the goblet.

Yep, this is definetely going to help her.

I awoke in my cell, still clad in that handkerchief he called a dress. Everything was spinning so badly that I barely made it to the corner before I vomited. Again. And again. When I’d emptied my stomach, I crawled to the opposite corner of the cell and collapsed. Sleep came fitfully as the world continued to twirl violently around me. I was tied to a spinning wheel, going around and around and around— Needless to say, I was sick a fair amount that day. I’d just finished picking at the hot dinner that had appeared moments before when the door creaked and a golden fox-face appeared—along with a narrowed metal eye. “Shit,” said Lucien. “It’s freezing in here.” It was, but I was too nauseated to notice. Keeping my head up was an effort, let alone keeping the food down...

This is the proof R/hys helped her UTM.

Night after night, I was dressed in the same way and made to accompany Rhysand to the throne room. Thus I became Rhysand’s plaything, the harlot of Amarantha’s whore. I woke with vague shards of memories—of dancing between Rhysand’s legs as he sat in a chair and laughed; of his hands, stained blue from the places they touched on my waist, my arms, but somehow, never more than that. He had me dance until I was sick, and once I was done retching, told me to begin dancing again. I awoke ill and exhausted each morning, and though Rhysand’s order to the guards had indeed held, the nightly activities left me thoroughly drained. I spent my days sleeping off the faerie wine, dozing to escape the humiliation I endured. When I could, I contemplated Amarantha’s riddle, turning over every word—to no avail.

So helpful.

I got tired of reading it, so the last quote is where I stopped. Maybe I'm gonna do a part 2 and maybe I'm also gonna comment on thsi quotes but they basically just confirm everything I and other antis already said??? So, it just feels reduntant.

Best regards,

Me.

Ps. I really don't get how any of what R/hys did reagarding the parties helped F/eyre in the slightest

#anti sjm #sjm critical #anti acotar #anti rhysand #anti rhystrash #anti feysand #sarcasm

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avaritia-apotheosis · 3 years

Text

Phantom Children Ch. 8

What's this? An update! Massive thanks to my betas for helping me get through this chapter <3

In Which: A few answers are given to the family and Danny is rudely awoken

[Side note: If you wanna know the general ages of the batfam, its listed in the AO3 version. I also talk about katanas in the end notes ^-^]

AO3 | Prologue | 7 | [ 8 ] | 9 DAMIAN INFORMED TODD—and Drake when he arrived on his bike sometime later on—that the boy whose face is plastered across the monitor was neither a picture of himself nor of Father.

Drake took one glance at the monitor and sighed, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Just when I thought this day was getting better.”

“What, did that café on 5th finally let customers supersize their drink?”

“God that would be the dream, wouldn’t it?” Drake sighed wistfully. “Nah, but I did get a lead on where some of that stolen Cadmus tech might’ve ended up. I was gonna spend the night following up on it, but I guess we have to deal with,” he gestured to the monitor, “whatever this is.”

Todd leaned against the edge of the computer, arms crossed over the red bat insignia on his chest. “What are we dealing with this time, brat? A clone? An alternate universe counterpart? Magic shenanigans?”

Maybe. Perhaps. All of those were perfectly valid conclusions for the enigma that was Daniel James Fenton. (Why Fenton and not al Ghul? Or even Wayne?)

Damian, too, was a genetic experiment; a ‘test tube baby’ as Drake put it at times. Damian was born for greatness, created to be perfect. The perfect soldier. The perfect assassin. The perfect heir. Was this boy—Daniel—like him as well?

A failed one, then. Perhaps the precursor to Damian’s own existence. But that would not explain why the boy was allowed to exist for so long. His grandfather demanded perfection, especially from those of his own blood. If the boy was a failure, he would have been eliminated immediately, not sent to live with some eccentric scientists in the Midwest.

Damian was not naïve enough to think that his mother and grandfather did not keep secrets from him. On the contrary, he expected it. The League of Shadows dealt in secrets as often as it did in death. Certain information was worth its weight in gold, whether it was given or buried away.

But he could not help the sharp pang in his chest. A lightning strike, quick and electrifying at the notion that they kept secrets about their family from him.

His father’s face flashed in his mind. The shock turned into a slow, dawning horror. That flicker of light, of recognition, as he scrutinized the contents of the flash drive and cross-referenced it with a public database.

And grief.

Damian recognized the grief.

Alfred, too, nearly dropped his tray of fresh-baked cookies when he stepped in front of the monitor. His usual unflappable demeanor was momentarily broken at his father’s whispered “Sixteen years. Alfred— he’s sixteen years old.”

His father knew of the boy. He was allowed to know of Daniel when he was not allowed to know about Damian.

------

Grayson returned to the cave with a distinct lack of energy in his step. His mask dangled off the tips of his fingers, chin angled downwards and covered largely by his hand. For a split second, their eyes met. Grayson shifted his gaze away, scratching the back of his neck. Father told him, then. Damian wondered how much Father revealed to his favorite son.

Damian clucked his tongue and buried himself deeper into the chair, arms crossed and pointedly looking away. If it was not for his accursed ankle, he’d have headed out to the training ring to take his frustrations out on the dummies.

“Oh, thank god you’re here, Dickface. Damian’s completely out of it.”

Damian shot him a look. “Shut up, Todd.”

“Leave him alone, Jay. Is Tim back yet?”

Drake emerged from the changing room in a dark green shirt, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. He took one long sip before exhaling. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“O-kay…” He pressed his hands together, mouth thinned into a grim line. “Uh, hey Tim, glad to see you back safe. Bruce is coming down soon to explain some things.” He let out a deep sigh, carding a hand through his hair. “This kind of thing would probably be better with the girls around, but I—god, I don’t know.”

Todd raised an eyebrow. “Don’t know whether to call Steph and Cass in Hong Kong, or don’t know what’s going on?”

“Yes.”

------

When Father arrived, Pennyworth following dutifully behind him, it was with an aching slowness in his gait. His steps measured and precise, preternaturally quiet as he made his way to stand by Damian’s chair. Damian sat up straighter, shoulders squared and back an inch away from the backrest. The rest, even Todd, stood at attention; an ingrained habit among Robins and an amusing instinct even among the senior heroes of the Justice League when it came to facing the Batman.

His father kept a steady hand on Damian’s shoulder, and Damian, shamefully, leaned into the touch; his head inclined towards his father’s hand so much so that he could feel the ends of his hair being pushed up slightly as he brushed against his father’s forearm.

He spoke with his usual monotone, as if he was heading a Justice League meeting as opposed to unveiling the secrets surrounding that boy. He brought forward the few photos they obtained from the flash drive. “A few weeks ago, we were alerted of suspicious movement from the League of Shadows in Amity Park, Illinois. Their objectives are, as of now, unclear, though it appears to be tied to the death of Amity Park resident, Daniel Fenton.”

One photo was a standard ID picture people get for their driver’s license, the lighting deliberately horrible so that any attempt to look decent would always end in failure. Another photo was a little better; a candid scene of him chatting with two others his age, a Caucasian girl in gothic-style clothes and an African-American holding a sleek, but still very outdated PDA. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, hand reaching up to his face to stifle a laugh. There were other photos like this, some candid, others posed. At the forefront of each, a boy that looked too much like his father, too much like Damian.

His father glanced at the photos. He shut his eyes and when he opened them again, he fixed them on some distant stalactite in the Cave. “Around six months ago, Daniel was pronounced dead in a vehicular accident. A body was present, but according to police reports, he was identified via his driver’s license as opposed to any kind of DNA profiling.” He leaned over Damian’s chair to pull up a profile of Masters. “Our source—Vladimir Masters, mayor of Amity and a friend of the Fenton family—indicated his belief that Daniel is actually alive. I am inclined to agree.”

“He’s your son, isn’t he,” Drake said, more of a statement than a question.

Father gave a curt nod. “I cannot say for certain until I can perform a DNA test, but I highly suspect that to be the case.”

“First the demon spawn, now this. Great.” Todd made a hand motion towards the screen. “You know, Bruce, not knowing you have a kid once might be a coincidence, but twice? How do you do that?”

“As of three hours ago, I was still under the impression that my son never made it to term.”

“What?”

“Over sixteen years ago I was involved in a mission that put Ra’s and I on the same side. During that time, Talia and I entered a relationship that resulted in a pregnancy. Though initially ecstatic, she eventually led me to believe she miscarried the child and pushed me away. For what ends, I do not know, but trust me Jason, if I knew—” He paused, the hand that was not on Damian’s shoulder curled into a tight fist.

Father pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why she hid it from me then doesn’t matter. Why Talia wants him back now is important. Judging from Daniel’s records, he was adopted into the Fenton family as an infant and has since lived a seemingly normal life as a civilian. His adoptive parents, Jack and Maddie Fenton, are brilliant scientists and engineers focused on the field of paranormal studies. Eccentricities aside, they have zero connections to the League of Assassins or any other concerning parties.”

“So why now?” Dick asked, shifting his concerned gaze from Bruce to the static picture of Danny’s tired smile. “Why, after all this time, decide that now would be the best time to recover him?”

------

Danny’s experienced plenty of rude awakenings before, but waking up at the ass-crack of dawn to avoid his kidnapper-slash-assassin-slash-biological-mom launching a surprise attack takes the fucking cake. He can’t believe he’s saying this, but thank god for all those late night ghost attacks that conditioned him to be a light sleeper. And, of course, the League’s insistence that everyone be in optimal condition regardless of how little sleep you actually got.

Danny kicked Talia off of him, ripping his blanket away before scrambling to his feet. Seriously, if the universe decided to spontaneously give him powers again, he’d really like an upgrade to his ghost senses, please and thank you. Something that works on humans and not just ghosts. Like spidey-senses. He’d really, really like some spidey-senses.

“Your reaction times have improved considerably,” Talia said.

He eyed the katana sheathed beside his bedroll. “Thanks. Who could have guessed that constantly challenging someone to a spar in the unholy hours of morning would make them paranoid to sleep too much? Really, how am I supposed to grow taller at this rate? ” If he could just get it--

She smiled, taking a step forward. “Prepare yourself.”

“Heh.” Danny stepped further away from Talia, keeping his back to the mouth of the cave. One hand stretched in front of him and the other, coated in a green light, was kept hidden behind his back. “Am I actually gonna get some answers today?”

“Let us make it interesting. Last 10 minutes against me and I shall tell you more about your brother.” Talia twirled her blade. “If you happen to draw blood, you may ask any one thing of me.”

“Anything?”

“Within reason.”

His face caught between a grimace and a smile. He’d rather be sleeping right now, but if he had to be awake, then he’d better make the most of it. “Deal.”

Talia’s smile dropped. She veered her body to the right, barely dodging the streak of bright green that whizzed from behind her. The ectoplasmic energy that surrounded the katana bled away as the handle connected with Danny’s outstretched hand.

She quickly glanced back at Danny’s bedding. Beside it lay an empty sheath. “You have telekinesis?”

He shrugged. “It comes and goes.” Yeah, no way was Danny gonna admit that seven-out-of-ten-times he forgot that he had telekinesis. Besides, that shit was hard to do when he wasn’t Phantom.

“A surprise attack from behind is a sound strategy, Daniel. Though it’ll take a lot more than that to harm me.”

Danny pointed to the side of his cheek. “Are you sure about that?”

Talia frowned. She reached up to her face. Her fingers brushed against her cheek and came away with a thin streak of blood.

Danny grinned, pointing his blade at his opponent. “First blood goes to me.”

------

Fact: most fights don’t last long. An average street fight could last anywhere between 25 to 40 seconds, and sword fights rarely last over a minute. Like Talia said, the goal of a fight was to end it with as few injuries to oneself as possible. Humans, even the most skilled ones, can rarely last long in a fight. Prolonged combat is suicide; it makes you tired, makes your muscles heavy. It’s nothing like what Hollywood would have you believe.

Even with Danny’s own enhanced stamina and Talia holding back, he couldn’t last a full ten-minute spar. If Talia didn’t finish him within twenty-five seconds, then he’d fall by his own human limitations.

But the goal wasn’t to spar continuously for ten minutes.

He only had to last that long.

Danny sprinted out of the cave. The sun barely peeked out of the horizon, a thin line of deep orange breaking apart the wide expanse of blue-black sky above. He couldn’t see shit; great news since that meant there’s a good chance Talia couldn’t either, but that doesn’t fix the fact that he can’t see.

Nearly stumbling on the ice, Danny veered to the left. The edges of the lake stopped at towering rocks twice Danny’s height, leaving little room for cover. Though if he remembered correctly, there should be a few crevices here and there to hide in.

“You’ll have to be faster than that, Daniel.”

Shit—

Danny stopped. He brought his sword up to parry Talia’s strike and twisted away, putting distance between them.

Well, so much for just avoiding her for 10 minutes.

He adjusted his grip, keeping his sword steady and eyes trained on Talia as they circled each other. Danny lunged with an overhead strike. Talia used one hand to block the downswing by gripping his wrists. She thrust her sword forward, the tip harshly poking Danny’s abdomen.

“Less than three minutes.” Talia let his wrist go, Danny’s arms slumping to his sides.

He sighed as he sheathed his sword. “Damn, I thought I’d last longer than that.”

“You made a good effort,” Talia assured him. “Putting as much distance between us at the beginning was a good strategy. You recognized the win conditions immediately and attempted a battle of attrition.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I am very proud of you habibi, especially as you managed to draw first blood.”

A warmth grew in Danny’s stomach at the words, heating his cheeks. Sheepishly, he scratched the back of his head. “I wasn’t entirely sure that would work, honestly.”

“It was clever; half a second later and you might have even killed me. You are an al Ghul through and through” She brushed his hair out of his face. “What would you like as your prize, then?”

Danny’s heart clenched. He frowned, dropping his arm to his side. If I was such an al Ghul, then why didn’t you keep me? The question lodged itself in his throat, stifling his thoughts. It was something he’d been wondering for a while, actually, in the moments of solitude he had at the compound. Talia, during their training, would always remark at his potential. How talented he was, how adaptable he was, how much greater he would have been if he had been trained at a younger age.

Well then, why wasn’t he? Why did she give him up?

But each time he tried to ask, his tongue would turn to lead and the moment would pass, the question still left unsaid and simmering at the back of his mind. A Pandora’s Box that held none of the world’s evil but all of Danny’s possible shortcomings.

He could ask the question now.

He could.

He didn’t.

“Why did you take me?”

Talia tilted her head. “It is because you’re my son.”

“No. Not that. It has to be something more than that. You had sixteen years to come back for me—or, hell, you could have just never left me.” His breath hitched, fingers mussing his hair and hiding his eyes. “Why else did you take me?”

“It is true that there was more than one reason why we decided to retrieve you from Amity Park. One of which is because you are my son and an heir of the Demon’s Head.” Talia stilled. The dark skies of dawn made it impossible for him to read her. “The second reason was to protect you.”

“You kidnapped me…to protect me?”

“Knowledge of the ghosts of Amity have spread through the more insidious parts of the world. There are many out there who would pay exorbitant fees to study one of you or to use you.”

Use him? What did she mean by—

Oh.

Ghosts—Amity Park’s brand of ghosts—were a new element that the world had to contend with. Amity Park might have a crime rate of zero but that wasn’t the case everywhere else. Theft, assault, murder; the world was rampant with crimes and criminals clawing their way to the very top. Having ghosts, even ones with the most basic powerset, would be a huge advantage.

“There’s no way that would work,” Danny insisted. “Most ghosts just want to be left alone, and the ones that want to wreak havoc would never work with humans. The only reason they even work with halfas like me at times is because they still consider us as ghosts.”

“If my sources are to be believed, ghosts might not even get a choice.”

Danny’s blood curdled in his veins.

No.

Someone’s found a way to control ghosts.

#danny phantom #batman #danny phantom x batman crossover #dp fic #phantom children.txt

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makoodlesarchive · 4 years

Text

when i was young i fell into a river

pairing: kirishima x reader

word count: 5k

warnings: none, really! a bit of angst, a bit of fluff i guess?

notes: hello, it's me, back again with some writing! it's been a long time and i'm very sorry about that, but i've finally gotten around to writing and posting my spirited away au! i'm v stressed with college so this turned out more vent-y than i had originally intended, but hopefully it's enjoyable anyway! thank you all for being so patient with me, i am endlessly grateful for you

The dream is the same as always, comforting in its familiarity.

A salt-scented breeze cools your sweat-soaked brow as you pause behind one of the sliding screen doors, the rice paper windows doing nothing to block out the chatter of the other workers. The bubbling noise of the bathhouse is constant, and the quiet little moments you steal away for yourself in the middle of the working day is the only solitude you’ve gotten since you came here. The work is physically back-breaking, but you know that you’re working towards a goal. It’s just a shame that you can’t remember exactly what that goal is.

One of the other girls calls your name, and you sigh as your unofficial break comes to an end. You slip back into the room, ignoring the way the frog spirits snicker and hold their noses as you pass. They like to complain a lot about your human stench, but it doesn’t stop them from threatening to eat you every time you make a mistake. Fear, you’ve found, is an uncomfortably successful motivator.

The days bleed into one another, full of scrubbing dark wooden floors and the rich earthy scents of the herbal mixes they use in the baths. The spirits that frequent the bathhouse, that once inspired so much awe and fear in your heart, become so commonplace that you hardly spare them a glance anymore. From the cackling masked spirits that always travel in threes to the grinning cat spirits to the sombre, unspeaking river spirits, you only go as far as to offer them a polite bow before scurrying out of their way. They never spare you any attention, anyway -- most of the time, the spirits’ eyes seem to look right through you.

All but one, that is.

He looks to be a boy around your age, but appearances can be deceiving around here. His red eyes are often dull and blank, but even so they have a certain ageless quality about them that no human twelve-year-old could ever possess. His scarlet hair sticks up in gravity-defying spikes, and his skin is as smooth and clear as running water. His face is often stuck in a carefully cultivated blank expression; the only thing about him that doesn’t seem intimidatingly otherworldly are the deep purple shadows under his eyes.

He helped you once, when you first came here. The rare act of kindness had stuck in your head, made even more remarkable in the face of the following weeks and months of harsh work and cruel co-workers. You wonder if he remembers; he doesn’t often look at you, but sometimes when he does you swear you can see a flicker of something in his eyes.

Two of the girls start yelling at each other, arguing heatedly over the way the work is being divided. A foreman appears to break up the fight, but then they both start shouting at him instead. You take the moment of distraction to relax, wincing at the pull of your tired muscles in the back of your neck. All the other girls working at the bath house are older and bigger than you, which means you need to work twice as hard to keep up with them and prove that you’re worth keeping around.

In the brief moment of rest, your eyes are drawn slowly to the corridor, where guests and workers alike bustle past as they travel to the treatment rooms and bathtubs deeper into the bathhouse. As if you’ve conjured him just by thinking about him, the boy stands in the doorway.

You straighten up on instinct, suddenly self-conscious of your sweat-soaked body and dishevelled uniform. He’s not even looking your way, preoccupied with the two girls who are still yelling at the frog foreman. Slowly though, his eyes began to travel the room, and you take a deep breath and hold it as his dull ruby gaze lands on you like a physical weight. You crack a nervous smile, feeling the muscles in your cheeks that have gone unused for weeks ache at the strain, and raise a hand to give him a tiny wave.

For just a moment, that blankness in his face seems to quiver and fall away. He smiles back.

You jolt awake, breathing heavily and coated in a light sheen of sweat. You’ve had the same dream, or some variation of it, regularly ever since you were twelve years old and while it’s become familiar to you, you still find yourself feeling vaguely panicked when you wake up after it, as though you’ve forgotten something very important.

Once your heartbeat has calmed down a little, you pull yourself out of bed and trudge into the kitchen to make yourself some tea. The weak, milky light of dawn filters in through the windows, lighting your apartment up just enough so that you don’t have to turn on a light to make your way around. You take your tea out to the balcony and sit, gazing out at the purplish early morning sky.

Most of the time when you wake up from those dreams you feel blessedly lucky to be living alone with no one to question or bother you, but sometimes you can’t help but be overcome by overwhelming loneliness. The dreams are silly and most of the time they don’t even make any sense, but in the aftermath of them you’re always left with a vague sense of unfulfillment, though you can’t put your finger exactly on what it is you’re missing. You always end up exactly like this; sitting outside on your balcony in the early morning light, drinking tea alone and desperately wishing for something more.

You sigh, and go back inside.

The dream is the same, but different.

The garden is in full bloom, greenery overlaid with bursts of beautiful bright colours. Camellias, rhododendrons, and oleanders wave and shiver gently in the warm breeze, and apple blossoms hang heavily from a nearby tree. The flowering garden is enormous and maze-like, and you have yet to see it in any state other than fully flourishing.

It’s a beautiful place, especially after the hot, cramped working quarters of the bathhouse. You inhale the sweetly fragranced air and feel the knot of tension in your spine unfurl; it feels like the first time that you’ve been able to breathe all week, but that’s not the only reason that you’ve found yourself outside.

At the bottom of the garden, the grass drops off into a sheer drop. The cliff face overlooks a seemingly endless ocean, and you perch a safe distance from the drop before leaning back in the grass. The sky is an almost surreally deep blue and you watch as enormous fluffy clouds float by, looking as though they’ve been painted on a jewel-blue canvas.

It’s not the first time you’ve had this dream, and you know what you’ll see if you keep patiently watching.

It doesn’t take long — it never does. You time your lunch breaks precisely, all so you get to see this sight.

The clear blue sky makes it so much easier to spot the shiny white scales, flashing jewel-bright in the sunlight. The dragon writhes in the sky, streaking through the air like a great serpent caught in the wind. Even from this distance, you can see the knife-like teeth, the great sharp claws that gleam like pyrite, and the twisting horns that erupt from his head like daggers made from calcified bone. He looks deadly, a living weapon that swims through the air like a salmon in open water, but the sight of him makes something settle in your stomach.

You wonder what it would feel like to fall through the air with nothing but the wind to break your fall. You imagine it must feel like freedom.

The dragon flutters through the air, buoyed by the gentle sea breeze. If you didn’t know better, you might almost think that he was showing off — his movements are hypnotic, dreamlike, more like a dance than anything. His scales glow pearlescent in the midday sun, otherworldly and earthly all at once.

You could happily stay and watch him skim through the sky forever, but already the bell is being rung to call all workers back into the bathhouse. You heave a sigh so deep it feels as though your chest is about to crack with the force of it, before hauling yourself to your feet.

Your break is over, and now it’s back to work.

Sometimes you find it difficult to tell when you’re dreaming and when you’re awake. It feels as though everything is always happening all at once, in the present tense, forever. You don’t get to rest when you close your eyes and drift off to sleep, because the dreams just keep coming and coming. Sometimes you don’t feel like your life is real when you’re awake.

Riding on the train has always been therapeutic, especially at this time of the early morning. The sun rising lazily over the horizon sends milky threads of purple and pink across the cloudy sky, and you cradle your chin in your hand as you gaze out across the moving landscape. You love these little trips, feeling more at home in the creaky, overfull train carriage than you do in your own bedroom sometimes, though you can’t quite work out where that particular feeling comes from.

You know sometimes that stories end with “And then I woke up — it was only a dream”, but in your experience the story simply doesn’t end. You cannot fully wake up without the tail-ends of your dreams clinging to you for the rest of the day, and you never fully sleep. You just dream, dream, dream.

Sighing, you lean your head back against the seat that you’re slumped in. The train carriage is too full, and you were lucky to get a seat in the first place — from your vantage point, you watch as people sway in tandem with the motion of the train. It’s almost hypnotic, how they undulate back and forth with every turn, brushing against each other only to be pulled apart again by the lurching train.

Through the sea of bodies, you catch a man’s eye. It breaks the monotony of the morning commute and your own spiralling thoughts, and your spine straightens unconsciously. He quirks an eyebrow briefly, slightly, in such a way that no one would be able to safely accuse him of having done it.

You look away, startled for no good reason. Do you know him? He feels familiar in a way that you can’t quite put your finger on. The train rattles on, and it takes several long minutes before you work up the nerve to glance the man’s way again. He’s still watching you, but you’re ready for it this time. His attention isn’t such a shock, and you allow your eyes to wander over his face properly.

You must know him, you think. Your eyes track over his features as though they’re winding over a well-worn path, admiring the curve of his nose and the fullness of his lips and the arch of his eyebrows over his intense, watchful eyes.

He smiles at you, and it feels as though you’re sharing a secret from across the crowded train carriage. You smile back — it’s just a small tug of the corners of your mouth, but it’s the most you’ve smiled in months. Longer, maybe.

In the middle of the carriage a woman laughs at something her friend has said and sways backward, blocking your view of the stranger. It feels like a loss.

The train trundles onwards, and the carriage gradually empties out. You watch people step off the train with friends, with their heads ducked low, lost in thought, arguing over the phone, distracted with their book bags. By the time it comes to your stop, the man is gone.

You try not to feel disappointed as you step off the train — it’s silly, after all. You don’t know the man, and whatever you thought you felt as you looked at each other was surely all in your own head. Your head has been awfully full, recently.

As you step off the train you grapple with your bag, side-stepping a businessman who is busy shouting down the phone at some unfortunate coworker. You’re distracted, which is the only reasonable explanation for how long it takes you to realise that the man from the train is standing in front of you.

“Oh.” You blurt, startled. You had already begun to resign yourself to never seeing him again, so you can’t help but feel distinctly caught off guard at the sight of him standing before you. “Hi.”

“Hello.” The man says. He’s looking at you expectantly, but you have no idea what he’s waiting for — as it is, you get completely distracted by his eyes. You hadn’t noticed on the train, but now that he’s up close you see that they’re a truly unusual deep burgundy. He tilts his head when you remain silent, and bites his lip. Now that you’re really looking, you notice how sharp his teeth are. “You’ve barely changed at all.”

You blink at him. “Er…” You trail off nervously. You don’t recognise him, but you feel like you know him. Clearly, he thinks that he knows you.

“It’s fitting, isn’t it? Meeting again on a train?” He smiles, and it’s an impossibly knowing expression. You don’t think you’ve ever been on the receiving end of a look that intimate in your life, though you have no idea what he’s talking about.

Someone collides hard with your shoulder and you stagger for balance. You only look away from the man for a mere second, but it’s enough; when you look again, he’s gone.

You take to walking. There’s a wooded area behind the town, and you enjoy traipsing idly through the trees. Ancient roots erupt out of the dirt and fan over the ground like hairs, and the moss that covers the trunks of the trees is such a deep green that it almost seems like paint pigment. It’s soothing, being surrounded by nature like this. It reminds you of childhood — the simplicity of being able to jump over tree roots under a canopy of pale green leaves, of being able to leave all your thoughts and stress at the boundary of the forest.

It’s where you come after waking sweat-soaked and disoriented from a dream that clings to you like a burr, where you walk among the ferns and the needle-leaved weeds until you manage to shake the last vestiges of memory from your mind. You need it, especially in the mornings where you wake up with the acrid scent of herbal cleanser stinging in your nose or the bite of hard calluses on your palms from non-existent rough cloths. On mornings like that, you walk and walk until you no longer feel as though you’re more alive in your dreams than you are in reality.

Deep in the forest is a great red facade, painted a flaking, faded red. You wander by it frequently, admiring the overgrown greenery that crawls up the walls like reaching fingers, the mossy stone guardian that stands sentinel amongst the cracked flagstones that lead into the tunnelled entrance. You’ve asked around in the town, curious about what exactly this building was for, but most of the locals either don’t know what building you’re talking about or admit that they’re not sure. One man told you that the facade was built for a theme park in the 90s that had ended up going bust in the recession, and that the building only looked old.

You remain unconvinced on that front. The building has the kind of presence that only very old things have; it feels like it’s watching you.

For the most part, your walks in the forest are peaceful. Recently though, you’ve found yourself plagued by an insistent, irritating sense of deja vu. You don’t know where it’s coming from, and it hits you at the strangest of times — when you’re making tea, or in the bath, or cleaning your apartment, or on the train, or admiring the sky on a cloudless day.

The man from the train is the boy in your dreams. It takes you weeks to come to that realisation. You just wake up in the middle of the night on a random Tuesday, with wide eyes and clammy skin and his name slipping from the forefront of your mind.

It shouldn’t be possible, but once it dawns on you, you’re certain of it.

Even stranger is that once you realise it, it feels as though you see him everywhere. You see flashes of red hair when you’re walking down the street, when you’re grocery shopping, when you’re walking home late at night. It’s only ever the barest glance out of the corner of your eye, just overt enough for you to know it’s him, but subtle enough for you to question yourself immediately after.

One night, you travel to a local city to meet some old school friends. At night, the city seems to pulse. The music from seedy clubs spills out into the neon-lit streets, muffled shouted arguments echoes from alleyways and apartments alike, and the streets are peppered with people either scurrying or stumbling home, with very little variation. Though the perpetually overcast sky hides any trace of the moon or stars, the streetlamps reflect in the ever-present stagnant puddles littering the street, lighting them up in varying shades of sickly yellow.

At night, the city seems alive. Chronically ill and struggling to breathe, maybe, but clinging to life all the same.

The way the neon lights flicker in the gloomy darkness, just barely illuminating the shadows of people hurrying through the streets to get in out of the rain, reminds you of something you can’t quite remember. It sits in the back of your mind like a sour taste, but no matter how much you reach for the memory it remains just out of reach.

You spend most of the night staring out of the steamed up window of the pub, entranced by the sight of the night streets and frustrated by the memories that seem to dangle just out of reach. You know that it doesn’t make for good company, and you feel guilty for that. Your friends don’t seem overly surprised at your detachment. You’ve been drifting away for years, and though tonight was supposed to be all about reconnecting it seems clear that it’s not going to work.

When you eventually stand up to leave, with forced smiles and awkward goodbyes, you can’t help but feel melancholy settle over you like a second skin. As you slip out of the pub and onto the dark streets, the thought crosses your mind that you’re not used to being alone like this. It’s a silly thought, really; you’ve been alone for years. But sometimes, in those liminal moments between waking and sleeping, you swear you can hear the gentle drowsy breaths of dozens of people sleeping all around you, as though you’re surrounded on all sides. On those nights you wake up hot and claustrophobic and uncomfortable, but never feeling lonely.

It is probably your own fault, you reflect as you drift down the sidewalk like a ghost. It’s difficult to make an effort to know people when you feel as though you don’t know yourself. You don’t know how to bridge the distance between yourself and other people. You think sometimes that you’re missing chunks of yourself.

You pass an open shopfront that’s serving street food, and glance briefly in at the kitchen. The cook is illuminated only dimly in the smoky room, standing out as a shadow figure more than anything, and for a split second you could swear that he has six arms. You look away quickly and carry on walking — you don’t want to look again only to be proven wrong. You want to preserve that little second of magic strangeness for as long as you can.

The puddles on the street seem like they’re glowing with the light reflected from the neon streetlamps, and you weave your way carefully around them to avoid getting your feet wet. The night has a strange quality about it, almost as though it’s holding its breath.

Considering the combination of your pensive mood and the expectant air of the evening, you don’t feel surprised at all when you look up from the wet cobblestones to find the man standing only a few feet ahead of you.

He smiles like he’s nervous, his gaze tracking carefully over your face. In his hands, he’s holding flowers. Camellias, you think. It’s the first time since you first saw him on the train that hasn’t been a fleeting glance out of the corner of your eye— he’s here in front of you and he’s real and solid and sturdy. He seems more substantial than the streets around you, than your friends back at the pub had been.

“Do you remember me?” He asks, voice soft as though he’s afraid of the answer.

“Remember you?” You croak. It feels as though the words are catching inside your throat. “No. But I’ve seen you every night in my dreams for years.”

If that’s the answer he’s expecting, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps looking at you, your face, your body. You wonder exactly it is that he’s seeing. “These are for you.” He says eventually, holding out the flowers. “I didn’t- I wanted to bring you something, when I saw you again. And I know that you always liked the garden.”

He’s talking as if the places that you’ve dreamed about are real. It doesn’t come as the earth-shattering surprise you might have expected — rather, it feels like a key turning in an old lock. A click, and then a sense of yes, that’s right.

You take the flowers, and clutch them to your chest. They’re a fleshy pink, with a vibrant yellow centre. The petals are as soft as velvet. Holding them feels like holding a safety blanket. “Thank you.” It’s the only thing that you can manage to say right now. Your thoughts are too full, and nothing else makes it out of your mouth.

It’s rather startling, the feelings that bubble up in your chest. It feels like something has just been unlocked, as though you had stored away all this emotion somewhere deep in your ribcage and then forgotten about it only for it to resurface at this precise moment, for this precise person.

“Eijirou.” You croak. “Kirishima Eijirou.”

His whole face brightens, and his eyes sparkle. “Yes. That’s me. You do remember!”

They’re not quite memories, you don’t think. They come in dreamlike flashes — the garden, an ocean, train tracks, the feral snarling of a dragon with sharp teeth, hard work and hot food, friends.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Kirishima is saying, his face open and earnest. “But I told you that I’d come and find you again, remember?”

You do remember, sort of. A flash of a warm hand holding yours, pushing you forward over a boundary between one world and another, and a goodbye whispered behind you that sounds like a promise.

“You saved me.”

Kirishima laughs, though his eyes look a little shiny. “It was the other way around, actually. I would have stayed trapped in that bathhouse forever, if it weren’t for you.”

“The bathhouse.” You murmur, wide-eyed. It was real, real, real.

“Things are different now.” He edges closer to you. He’s large and imposing and taller than you, but he’s hunched slightly in an attempt to make himself unthreatening. “That’s why it took so long for me to come for you. Things were changing. Me and Katsuki run the bathhouse now.”

Katsuki. In your mind's eye you see a boy with wild blond hair and a dangerous look in his eyes, a boy who gives you extra rice when he can manage and takes over parts of your chores when you get so tired that you’re fit to pass out.

“I didn’t mean to make you wait.” He says quietly, and the tide of emotion that you had just barely been holding at bay comes crashing over you. Before the first tear has welled over the edge of your eyelids, Kirishima has stepped forward and wrapped you in his arms. The flowers are crushed between your chests as you cry.

“I didn’t even know what I was waiting for.” You cry into his silk suikan.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers into your hair. “I’m here now. I’m not going to leave again.”

You don’t release your grip on him. You’re not willing to take the chance.

After a moment, Kirishima speaks again. “Are you ready to go?”

“Go?” You echo, finally pulling away. “Go where?”

“Home.” He says, and he means the bathhouse. He means the spirit world.

“You want me to work for you?”

“I want you to help us run it.” He corrects. The distinction is important for both of you — though the memories are distant, you both know what it feels like to have your names and voices erased so cleanly that it makes you wonder if you ever existed fully at all.

“I don’t know anything about running a bathhouse. Especially not one for spirits.” You say, but Kirishima just laughs.

“You were always a hard worker. You’ll learn as you go. That’s what we’ve all been doing.”

You want to say yes. The word beats in your head like a drum, and you can’t think of a good reason to say no. The bathhouse. Home. The chance to feel real and awake at the same time.

“Okay.” You say on a breath, staring at him with wide eyes. “Stay with me, this time.”

When Kirishima’s face lights up in a smile, it’s the first time that you think you can accurately describe someone as incandescently happy. “Good luck getting rid of me again.”

You laugh, feeling nearly delirious with relief and joy. It’s real. He’s real. He’s come back for you, and now you’re going back with him. You think you should probably feel nervous or hesitant, but this brief encounter has felt more solid and right than the rest of the night spent with distant school-friends made uncomfortable by your silences.

“So, how do we get there?” You ask, but Kirishima just grins at you like you should already know the answer.

The train station is tucked away down an alley just off a busy main shopping district.

“It’s easy to miss if you don’t know exactly where you're going.” Kirishima tells you with a sharp smile, and it’s easy to believe. The red brick building that housed the train station is unmarked, and the trains couldn’t be seen from the main street. The alley itself is home to many curious sights -- paper lanterns bob overhead (though they don’t seem to be suspended by anything in particular), a yellowed flyer from the 1950s advertising Marlboro cigarettes drifts along on what seems to be a breeze despite the noticeable lack of wind, and three magpies sit on a wall wearing little golden timepieces on chains around their necks and caw in time with the ticking.

“Ready to go home?” Kirishima asks quietly. In his hand, two train tickets flutter in a non-existent breeze.

A family of mice scamper past your feet, pulling a miniature suitcase between them. A tall, thin woman wearing a blank white mask assists them onto the train.

You laugh at the whimsy of it all — it feels as though you’ve stepped into a fairytale, into a dream, into your childhood. “Yes,” You grin, “I’m ready.”

Kirishima beams back at you, and holds out a hand to help you onto the train. Finding a seat was easy — despite all the passengers you had seen boarding, the carriage was oddly empty. As soon as you’re seated, you sigh. It feels as though you’re sinking into an old overstuffed armchair, comfortable and familiar. When the whistle blows and the train starts moving, you turn eagerly to watch as the train begins to pick up speed. Within moments, you find that you can barely recognise the landscape blurring past the window — It seems that you’re zooming passed a beautiful sea-view, despite the fact that the city the train station was located in was conspicuously land-locked. You sigh happily and lean against your seat.

You still don’t remember everything about your experience in the spirit world all those years ago, but you think you remember hearing someone telling you “Once you meet someone you never really forget them. It just takes a while for your memories to return."

You make eye contact with Eijirou, who smiles back at you so fondly that it nearly hurts to look at. He’s changed so much from the boy in your dreams, in your memories. His eyes are no longer glassy and distant — now they’re shiny and expressive and so bright. His hair is longer too; still spiked and wild, but longer and curling softly over the curve of his neck and shoulders. He’s the boy your remember from all those years ago, but he’s also a man now. Grown, like you have, but smiling at you gently just like you’re ten years old again.

Through the window behind his head, the sunrise begins to bathe the water in delicate pinks and yellows. You’ll wait for as long as you need to for the memories to return, but even if they don’t that’s alright. You can just make new ones.

#this is so cheesy lol but whatever i've been staring at this doc for too long and i want it out of my sight #kirishima x reader #bnha x reader #kirishima eijirou #ghibli au #kirishima eijiro fluff #kirishima x y/n #mha x reader

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sabraeal · 3 years

Text

The Most Perverse Creature in the World, Chapter 11

[Read on AO3]

You had been concerned this evening-- no, that was too mild a description to contain how you waited outside the castle gate, alone and shrouded beneath the anonymity of your black lacquer. It had been anxiety that plagued you, every inch of skin alive and shivering with your nerves. You trusted Obi implicitly-- he had given you no reason to not these past weeks. Despite the reputation that recommended him for this business--whatever it was-- his behavior at the bawd house reminded you less of an unrepentant rake and more of a small boy made to sit and do sums in the summer.

But even so, your ladies had placed their trust in you. They had little choice; a woman of ill repute would be laughed out of the council, branded a greedy whore, but you--

Well, you were a widow above reproach. A countess in your own right, no matter what scandal brought you the title. Where their words would sink like oil in water, yours would rise as air, right into the upper echelons of the court, perhaps even into the king’s ears themselves. That didn’t mean that they’d listen to them, but yours at least had opportunity, whereas theirs--

Theirs would be laughed at, ridiculed for daring to speak above their station. You held their hopes in your hands, and to ask them to trust a new man, sight unseen, vetted only by the prince’s messenger felt like a favor too far.

It was good then, that as large as this Sir Lowen might be, he had all the gentleness of a princess from the pages of a storybook; the sort that might see animals eating out of his cupped palms, should he offer them. The instant he squeezed into your carriage, an apologetic dark shadow, your fears had eased, steady with the knowledge that the girls would be like kittens in his hands.

Your instincts were correct; hardly a breath has passed since he entered the boudoir, and already your ladies are eating out of them. Or perhaps, more accurately, trying to entice him to eat out of theirs.

Tsubaki may have spoken first, but it’s Himawari who stands closest. She uses every inch of leverage it gives her as she saunters closer, raking Sir Lowen with a speculative gaze that leaves no doubt as to what she’s measuring.

“Sorry, petal,” Himawari purrs, placing a finger right on his sternum. “But I’ll be handling this one.”

“That’s not fair,” Tsubaki whines. “Kikyo, tell her that’s not fair.”

“I...” Kikyo’s mouth works, and she tears her gaze off the prince’s aide with a flush. “I don’t think milady brought him here for any of that business.”

“Aw, come on now.” Himawari’s wide mouth breaks out into a wider smile, the sort canaries might see before they flew to the great coop in the sky. “It’d be a pity to waste milady’s coin.”

If skin could burn then Sir Lowen would be a bonfire. “P-please, ladies, I’m not here for anything like that!”

“I changed my mind.” Himawari turns a hard, thoughtful look on him. “I’d let this one handle me.”

“Well,” Obi drawls, having entirely too much fun, “now there’s some high praise.”

Sir Lowen shoots him a dubious glare. “Is it?”

“Well, none of them have ever offered to handle me on milady’s dime,” Obi informs him, mouth twitching at the corner. “You must have a certain...I don’t know what.”

“A third leg?” Tsubaki offers, quickly shushed by Kikyo.

“Please,” Himawari snorts. “Milady couldn’t pay me enough to put up with you.”

Obi presses a hand to his chest, scandalized. “I’ll have you know I’m a very generous--”

“You’re a pain in the ass,” she informs him. “You say you want to be handled, but there’s not a pair here you’d trust to do it. You couldn’t take a direction if it was dipped in gold and had your name carved in it.”

At once, the shy maiden melts away from Sir Lowen, replaced with a grin so satisfied and familiar you wonder which face it came from first-- Obi, or this man.

“Why, Obi,” he says, deceptively friendly. “I didn’t know you were taking me to a palm reader.”

Obi huffs, chin tilting up and arms folding tight across his chest. “I don’t think she’s interested in your palms, mister.”

Himawari’s brow tics, speculative. “Depends on where he plans on putting them.”

“I wasn’t--” Sir Lowen’s high ground turns to quicksand beneath his feet-- “I only meant--”

“If you are all quite finished bothering Sir Lowen,” you inform them, ignoring Himawari’s gleeful ‘hardly’-- “we have very little time left if we do not wish to squander the opportunity his name has afforded us.”

Kikyo bounces to her feet, leaving an empty space on the bed. “Ah, right. Sir Lowen, if you wouldn’t mind...”

He coughs, the red on his skin appearing uniquely painful. “I couldn’t...not...ah...”

“Oh!” Her fingers flicker in the air, all nerves. “Ah, then, perhaps this chair? If that would suit?”

“It would,” he allows graciously, the tension in his shoulders finally deflating. “I’ll just...stay here for the evening. I guess.”

“Don’t feel like you have to, sir,” Tsubaki purrs, rolling onto her back. “There’s plenty of room here on the bed.”

“There certainly will be, when I kick you off of it,” Himawari replied, leaping over to tweak the girl’s cheek. “No room for little girls while the adults are, hmm, talking.”

“The chair is fine!” he yelps, availing himself of it pointedly. “There! Hardly...hardly any different than a night in the palace!”

Obi’s lips give a dangerous twitch. “Well, I’m sure these ladies could change that if you only--”

“Obi.” You may not have had any child of your body, but you have raised a boy just the same; you know the precise octave in which one may raise their voice and insinuate trouble. He jolts at the sound of it, eyes rounding to innocence. “If you would...”

“Ah, right.” His shoulders hunch as he slinks toward you, a cat scolded but entirely unrepentant. “Well, mister, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Sir Lowen’s head snaps up, eyes wide and white as he catches the open door. “Obi! You can’t--”

A large hand presses to your spine, scurrying you through it. Obi leans back, head poking through the gap. “Enjoy yourselves, ladies.”

“Obi--!” The door snicks shut behind him.

You frown, glancing at the door behind him. “Are you sure you two are friends?”

“The most bosom companions.” His teeth flash white in the hall’s dim. “Now let’s go see to your entertainment for the evening, my lady.”

You have never had reason to stray long in the brothel’s halls; Obi usually sees to it that your trip involves only the briefest stint through the back stairs, quickly and quietly depositing you in a room within moments of your arrival. So as your eyes adjust to the bare light, you cannot help but stare.

“Stripes?” Your fingers rise to trace the paper. It’s hard to make out their color in the dim, but you squint anyway, shuffling close enough for your slippers to brush the wainscoting. “Green stripes?”

“Well, not everything can be hand-painted cocks and balls.”

You nearly laugh, only tamping down when you see how his eyes have bulged, how stiffly he’s standing before you. Obi hadn’t meant to let that gem slip from his lips.

“Of course not,” you say, deceptively mild. Behind your veil, Obi can’t see your lips twitch. “I’d expect there to be quite a few cunts as well.”

You may restrain your laugh, but Obi doesn’t, a wheeze bursting from his lips. “My lady...”

It’s not until his shoulders ease, body hanging with its usual boneless grace, that you realize how tense he’s been. After that little scene in Tsubaki’s chamber, you half expected him to be prancing through the halls, giddy as a schoolboy he hung yet another of his bosom companions out to twist in the wind. But instead he’s...nervous.

“Obi.” His name hoists itself through the air with the heft of a feather, but he flinches nonetheless. “Is something wrong?”

His mouth opens, but closes just as quick, mouth curving in a rueful grin. “I wonder...”

You nearly call out to him again, his name right at the edge of your lips, but Obi’s voice startles you instead. “Come on, my lady, it’s this way.”

The door he stops at must be the one-- who else would have delicate violets painted in clusters along the jamb?-- and he hesitates once more, hand poised just above the knotless wood.

Gold eyes cast you one last long look, but you cannot read the message in it. There is too much regret, too much pity, too much of everything, and you would ask, you would take your gloved hand and hold him back, but--

You’re too late. His knuckles fall, a sharp rap, and suddenly he’s the Obi you expected to see once more, grin spread too wide on his angular face, the shadows clinging to him as if he might disappear if you took your eyes from him.

“Custom’s here,” he calls out gruffly, the perfect imitation of one of the brothel’s bouncers. Quieter, he turns to you, door creaking open as he says, “Good luck, my lady.”

You shore yourself up, becoming the implacable widow behind a facade of bombazine. “Let’s hope I don’t need it.”

This is not what you expect from a prostitute’s boudoir.

Gauzy rose curtains flutter between whitewashed posts, stirred by the door’s closing. They match the ones over the windows, a massive bank of glass settled over a seat meant to sit two, buried in pink striped cushions. The knobs on the vanity gleam golden, matching the subtly shimmering vines on the wallpaper, interrupted only by sprays of violets and roses.

It’s a child’s room; the very same you might see for a beloved daughter among your set. Save for the flowers, it could quite practically have been your own before you left it for your marriage bed.

Your hands clench where they hang knitted before you. Perhaps that is...part of the fantasy. Just as Himawari’s room is done in dark woods and deep hues to match the tastes of her clients, this might be much the same. A girl who catered to the illicitness of making love in a lover’s childhood room-- or, you cannot help but think, one that might be bound to do a man’s bidding, like a child might.

“Oh sir.” A pale shadow moves behind the curtain, as delicate as the voice that slips through the gauze. It’s a soft one, high-pitched and sweet, a part played to the hilt. “I’ve been so excited to meet you.”

You startle, heels bumping back into the door. You’d braced for confrontation, not seduction; even if this Sumire has never once seen a glimpse of Sir Lowen, there is no conceivable way that she could mistake a window in her weeds as the prince’s foremost aide. But thin as these curtains are, she can see just as much of you as you can see her-- nothing above a vague impression of color and shape.

It is not to last. Slender fingers slide through the seams, pushing the cloth aside. “I do hope you’ll take care of--”

A sweet face peers out between the curtains, chestnut hair pinned back and curled just like a little girl’s-- because that’s what she is. By her size, her proportions-- if she’s had her courses, she can count them but months, not years. Fourteen, at the most. At the least--

Your mind refuses to speculate. How can it, when all that fills it is an angry buzz, as harsh as the cicadas in summer. You had thought Tsubaki young, but this, this...

Her full mouth crumples into a child’s pout. “You aren’t Sir Lowen at all.”

And a good thing, too. Gentle as that man may be, you doubt he would take this with any sort of subtlety. “No. You may call me Countess Bederin.”

Those large eyes go wide, rounding until you can see white around the iris. “B-bederin?”

Your mouth curls. “I see my reputation precedes me. I suspect the girls have spoken about me.”

The girl-- Sumire, the madam’s favorite flower, sniffs, her coltish limbs folding over her. “They don’t need to tell me anything. I know all about you.”

It has been years since you’ve had a child in your home, but you recognize the prideful hook of that mouth. Less they don’t need to tell me anything, then, and more they wouldn’t tell me anything, even if I asked.

She settles back on her heels, eyeing you askance. “You’re the widow that comes around here to talk about, ah...?”

“Taxes, mostly,” you admit. “Working conditions as well. May I have a seat?”

With all the primness and pretension of a lord’s daughter, Sumire draws her spine straight, seating herself at the edge of the bed with ankles crossed. She would look every inch a girl born to it if it weren’t for her sullen pout-- or her negligee, one strap slowly slipping down her shoulder. “If you must.”

“I don’t,” you assure her. You’re not so old that standing for the duration of this conversation would harm you. “I would prefer to be invited, rather than impose.”

Her eyes widen before she drops them down, giving a begrudging nod. “Fine then. Over there. But you should know I don’t have any complaints.”

Her hand juts out; you follow its line to an overstuffed chair tucked in a corner. It’s pink as well, though not striped, its velvet worn bald in places. Your nurse had a similar one-- no, you had a similar one in your old room, a big wing-backed monument you’d climbed as a small thing, right into her lap until you got too big for it, then up the back itself. That is, until you’d fallen from the top and knocked the wind clean out of your chest. You’d taken your stories from the floor, after that, leaning your head against her knee as her finger stroked through your hair.

Your jaw sets as you sink into its cushioned depths. This furniture might share a shape, but you doubt Sumire has experienced the same sweet memories.

“Of course,” you manage through your teeth, “but that is valuable information as well. I am looking for as complete a picture as I can create when I make my recommendation to His Majesty.”

It’s an overstatement of your power to be sure-- the only time His Majesty would hear your opinions would be shortly before they were torn to shreds by the teeth of the council-- but it has the desired effect. Sumire’s small chest puffs, chin tilting up, eyes sparkling. You’ve made her important. No, you’ve made her words important.

“I should tell the madam you’re here,” she says, words crisp, threat idle. “So she can throw you right out for...for...ah...sedition.”

That would require the brothel to be a country and the madam its head of state-- a metaphor that might work if it did not require you to also live within it as well. Still, it was a poor point to quibble with a child, not when a girl like her could never afford to spurn a lady who has a king’s ear. At least, not when she could dream of putting herself in his bed. This was all a bit of theater, a way for her to cast the illusion of an equal field.

It is ground you can afford to cede. “You might. Or you might allow me to have your ear first, before you decide. The choice is yours.”

Sumire’s small feet still against the footboard, her body stiff and still with a hungry kind of wariness. You doubt she has ever been given such a choice before, paltry as it is.

“Very well.” Her voice takes on the clipped cadence of the upper crust; an affectation to your ear, but a good one. She’s been trained, at least, the streets scrubbed clean from her vowels. “Though there’s not a thing you could offer me that the madam won’t give if I ask.”

Besides a childhood, you don’t say.

“I’m not here to make any offer,” you tell her, as gentle as you are able. “Only to be a listening ear.”

Her head cocks, a sparrow offered seeds from a strange hand. “What do you mean?”

You stifle a smile; even if she cannot see it through the veil, she’ll hear it in your voice. Still-- she’s taken the bait, even if she hasn’t hopped up into your fingers. “My purpose is not to propose, but to listen. There is a proposal among the lords that would require all those engaging in acts considered...superfluous to the point of procreation for money to pay a certain extra consideration to the crown.”

Sumire blinks. “What’s that all mean?”

“They want to tax you for every act of sexual congress that does not involve, ah--” you flounder for the words; she may be a professional, but she is also a child, and oh, Obi might have teased you for asking, but he’d certainly have ideas-- “the insertion of a man’s member into your, hm...”

Secret garden, your nurse would have said, but that seems too pale, too flowery--

“Cunt?” she offers, so innocent, as if there were no other word.

“Yes.” Were the madam to stand before you now, you could choke the very life from her and feel no guilt. “Quite.”

Her small face rumples, wrinkled up in thought. “So if I let a john take me on hands and knees, would that cost extra too? Or only if he’s got his cock outside my--”

“Ah!” It had been too much to hear this from Tsubaki’s mouth, but an actual child’s is far, far worse. “Yes. I am afraid that anything that is not with a man top and a woman beneath--”

“But I am--”

“-- And, ah, facing him,” you add, hurriedly. “Any of it would be considered a...lewd act, subject to the tax.”

Sumire doesn’t speak, not at first; instead she merely sits with the knowledge, shadows rolling across her face in intervals.

“Well,” she decides, finally. “The madam handles all that for me. So I need not worry about any of this business.”

Frustration could grind your teeth to stubs, but you take in a breath, let it out. She would hardly be the first woman to place her trust in fiscal matters where it did not belong. Too many of your own acquaintance would say the same of their accounts; what use was it to balance books or be money-minded when their fathers, their brothers, their husbands all took care of such things. As long as there was enough credit to draw at the modiste, a woman needed no notion of how it came to be.

That had not been the education your father gave you-- you and your brothers alike learned to keep ledgers. It had been your cramped hand that wrote in Bederin’s, yours that tallied columns that no longer came to sums you could account for.

You cannot blame a woman for wanting to keep herself innocent of the things men might do, when they only amounted to numbers in the end.

“May I ask,” you begin, sliding your pencil from its place in your notebook’s binding. “What is the percentage the madam takes from your earnings?”

Sumire stares. “What do you mean?”

“The madam takes a cut of your earnings, does she not?” Your fingers tighten painfully around your pencil; it takes effort to ease it. “Part of your keep. For room and board and her private business. Do you know how much it is?”

She was always a child, but suddenly Sumire seems quite small indeed. “No, the madam...handles all my money.”

The lead pauses on your page. “Do you see any of it?”

“I...” Her brow furrows, doubt seeping into the shadows of her face. “She gives me pocket money. From my accounts. She says she puts it all away for me until I’m older.”

You have known plenty of young ladies with the same story. Your father had been of the old school where a woman took care of a manor’s accounts while its lord saw to its improvement-- but that philosophy was unpopular among men of the court. A good, obedient wife never handled any of their allowance; they merely took what their lord husband gave them for pin-money and never questioned its amount. That is, of course, until their creditors came. Even a title could only protect so far.

“Do you know the amount she takes from the other girls?” you ask, knowing full well the answer. “Perhaps we can extrapolate from there. Make an estimate,” you clarify, seeing confusion cloud her face.

“No,” she sniffs. “They don’t tell me anything. They’re jealous.”

There is some truth to that perhaps; Tsubaki certainly acts as though they are rivals for a mother’s love even if she hates the parent in question, and Himawari has made no secret that she doesn’t appreciate the pomp and circumstance around the search for Sumire’s custom. But still, it’s not the whole of it, though to say so would certainly fall upon deaf ears.

“You know,” you hum, setting your pencil back in its binding. “We want to have a larger meeting. One where the girls voice all their ideas. Where we can begin to see what needs should be met, should I bring a counter proposal before the council.”

Her mouth curves into a frown. “The madam won’t like that. She won’t let you do it.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, an anxious tattoo that rattles in your ears as you say, “That’s why we don’t plan to tell her.”

Sumire’s face takes on a petulant cast. “What if I did? Then you all couldn’t. Madam would like that.”

“You could,” you admit. “But if you came to it, perhaps you might know better what the madam keeps for you.”

From you, you mean, but you doubt she’s ready for that conversation. Not right now, when the idea of betrayal is so new.

The temptation is clear on her face, but curiosity shutters tight behind pride. “No one would want me there. They don’t like me.”

“I would want you there.” You set aside your notebook, letting nothing come between you but your veil. “I think you have important things to contribute.”

Her eyes widen, but only for a moment. The next she shakes her head, tossing her curls proudly. “I could still tell the madam, even if I go.”

“I trust you.” You want to at least, but she’s so young, and the madam is her world. Her protector and abuser both.

“The others won’t.”

“That may be,” you agree, “but it only takes one to convince others. I’ll be the first.”

Sumire eyes you warily, both dubious and hopeful, and you wish there was some way you could prove it, some way you could give her the assurance every child deserves. You drop your eyes to your lap, veil pooling on your hands--

And you do. Your fingers trace the lace edge, and it’s with an exaggerated motion that you lift it, the breeze from the widow caressing your bare cheeks.

Sumire’s jaw falls slack. “Why...” It closes as she leans closer, surprise etched in every plane of her face. “You aren’t ugly at all, miss.”

That’s not quite the reaction you expected. “Ah...thank you. I suppose.”

She hesitates, then gives you a quick, pained nod. “I’ll come. But I don’t promise I’ll keep quiet after.”

“I could expect no less,” you murmur, veiling your smile once more. “We all have to do what’s best, don’t we?”

You leave the room more troubled than you entered, but lighter somehow still.

“Did what needs doing?” Obi asks, levering himself out of the shadows.

“Not yet.” Your mouth stretches into a determined line. “But I’ll see it’s done.”

#haruka x reader #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #AT LAST I AM THROUGH THIS PORTION #next chapter should actually see the return of Haruka #and BELLIGERENT FLIRTING #ball is in your court now joanna >:3c

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mystic-kitten-writer · 4 years

Note

Headcanon: uhm how the gaang treats yue or how they see yue shshhs

OKAY, so I decided to focus on the girls first because I went off (but are we really surprised? This is me we’re talking about).

I focused on how they met Yue, what made them click, and how they treat/view. Consider this headcanon for Limerence as it is developing, not as an end-all-be-all.

If you want one of the boys (Aang, Sokka, Zuko) let me know cause I’ll post it ASAP rather than dwindling around~

Katara

“Yue?” Katara would perk, before smiling, “She’s more than just a friend; she’s family, a sister.”

Katara, Aang and Sokka are the first ones to met Yue after she saves Aang. Immediate reaction - grateful.

Secondary reaction - worry. Katara’s blue eyes settled over Yue, and saw how frail she looked. Her clothes dirty and torn, hair a birds nest; she was skin and bones. Katara’s ‘must-take-care’ instincts blaring.

The same day they met, they bonded;

Yue was sitting in the river under the starry night as Katara helped wash her hair. She couldn’t help but notice the tiny scratches and bruises that littered Yue’s skin, superficial. But she could imagine how they stung.

“Why don’t you heal yourself, Yue? You’re a Waterbender.” Katara asked with her brows pinched, confused to see all of Yue’s injuries. But Yue let out an awkward giggle, shyly sinking further into the water, “I-I’m a terrible healer.”

“I can teach you if you want.” Katara perked, happy to show off her skills to teach another.

But she quickly noted Yue’s expression in the reflection of the water. Her eyes heavy, lip trembling. It was an expression filled with deep pain and sadness, and without another word, Katara found herself embracing Yue from behind.

From that point on, Katara took on the big sister role despite being the younger one by a few months.

Katara sometimes stares at Yue and has to smile, happy to be by her side and watch Yue grow. She wasn’t the girl crying in the river anymore; she was the impending Queen of a Nation.

She always stands up for Yue and encourages her to put her foot down whenever someone disrespects her. Even Katara’s frustrated at how nice Yue is.

Very protective, and will lowkey judge the people Yue is around. She knows Yue is a bit naive and doesn’t want someone to take advantage #SorrynotsorryZuko.

A bit disappointed that Yue never Waterbended with her, despite asking her multiple times to train. She finally found another Waterbender, someone who was by her side full-time, and it proved fruitless.

The one time they did battle, Katara was about to go easy. She quickly realized never to doubt Yue’s fighting skills…but her healing could use some work.

Guilty for thinking Yue was a Firebender at first.

Was lowkey jealous at Yue’s and Aang’s relationship and how quickly they hit it off before realizing it is just Yue’s personality

Often bond in the hot springs with a nice face and hair mask, fantasizing about their future and wedding plans.

Katara’s go-to person to vent and shop with.

Will cook meals for Yue because Yue cannot cook to survive. Katara’s still baffled at how Yue managed to burn boiling water. Like seriously, how?

Often heals Yue’s bruises and scratches because she’s way too clumsy. Also stopped asking questions as to how she even gets hurt. A papercut from a teddy bear?

“Yue’s biggest strength is also her weakness, her heart.” Katara would softly speak, twirling her braid in her hands, “But that’s why we’re here. To make sure she’s okay and that she doesn’t live off sweets because that girl has a sugar addiction.”

Toph

“She’s alright, I guess… kinda whiny, always needing attention, we call her Princess for a reason- but…” Toph would start before stepping forward. She would cross her arms before whispering, “She’s an amazing baker and gives the best hugs. BUT YOU DIDN’T HEAR THAT FROM ME.”

Toph and Suki met Yue a few days after the others, and the first thing she noticed was how damn light Yue was on her feet, another Airbender?

Yue was quick to greet Toph, voice chirpy and filled with life, and for a moment, Toph thought Yue was going to be an absolute chatterbox. Talking her ears off until they bled. Imagine her surprise how quiet Yue got after their greeting, standing off to the side as the others spoke.

Toph would study her movements, how she twirled her fingers, pulse racing…

Their moment of connection would come days after, Toph feeling the ground underneath her vibrate, just a touch. It was enough to wake her up from her slumber, feet embedded on the ground and searching for those light footsteps. Toph would begrudgingly follow, thinking it was Aang taking a late-night stroll before they suddenly stopped.

“The stars… they’re beautiful tonight. Want to experience them with me?” Yue would hum, taking Toph off guard.

“I’m blind-”

“You of all people should know there is more than one way to experience the world.”

Toph would snort, kicking the dirt under her feet, “Oh yeah? Explain colour to me.”

Toph could feel Yue walked towards her, bending over, a distinct pulling sound-making light, before standing upright. Yue’s hands gently reached for Toph’s, letting something dewy in nature fall into her palms.

“Green… it’s the grass and leaves, soft and tickles your toes. Filled with life. It’s not my favourite colour; I enjoy red much more. Red is the colour of the blaring sun against your skin. Like a festering burn, pulsing with strong vibrations.”

Yue’s wasn’t that bad after all.

Abnormally tolerate to Yue’s need for physical affection. Timed ‘hugs’ are a norm (don’t want to let Yue know how much Toph loves them, or else she’ll never hear the end of it).

Careful about her tone with Yue. Rarely raising it like how she would with Sokka or Katara because Toph could feel how Yue’s heart would race.

One of the few people Toph would willingly let touch her feet and pamper.

Toph listens to Yue’s rants about fashion or makeup because there was something about hearing her heart skip - she dares say it, it was cute.

Toph went from feeling indifferent to Yue to finding an odd sense of comfort in her presence. An Aang 2.0, but a lot more sensitive and a way better baker.

Views Yue as a best friend and typically calls her Princess because she is one.

Taught her that being feminine in nature doesn’t equal weak. You can be fabulous and kick ass.

Will unconsciously take a big sniff around Yue. She smells good, like baked goods.

“She may be a crybaby…but she has a good heart.”

Suki

“She’s too cute!” Suki would laugh, smiling fondly at all the memories that seemingly flashed through her mind. “Yue is like a kitten. She’s cute and shy, but she has that curious spirit inside. A mischievousness that you’ll never expect to see.”

Suki met Yue at the same time as Toph, but because Sokka introduced Yue to her with much glee, Suki immediately opened up.

Funny enough, unlike the rest who shared a bonding moment via a direct personal experience, Suki realized she loved Yue when seeing how she spent time with Sokka.

Suki was lounging on the sandy beaches in the Earth Nation, enjoying the sun kissing her skin with the waves crashing in the distance. Sokka proclaimed that he was a sandcastle master, and Suki watched with lowered sunglasses how Sokka and Yue spent precisely two hours building a monstrously of a sandcastle.

Seeing Yue and Sokka bickering and having fun like siblings struck a chord with Suki. She was going to love anyone who can make her boyfriend that happy.

Suki dusted herself off from the sand, coming behind Yue and placing her hands on her shoulders, “Want to come shopping tomorrow with me downtown?”

“Me?” Yue would gasp, her eyes wide.

Suki would smile, eagerly shaking her head, and she saw that happiness spread over Yue’s face, “I would love to!”

Girls night is a tradition between them, getting tipsy- drunk on wine and spoiling Yue with dresses.

Guilty of being the ‘devil on her shoulder.’ Suki can’t help it; she loves Yue’s eagerness to try new things and learn, but her shyness always got the better of her, and that’s where Suki comes in.

Half of their conversations go from sweet to sexual in under ten seconds.

Besides Aang and Sokka, Suki’s the closest to Yue, they’re practically sisters.

Like Katara loves hyping Yue and encouraging her to stand up for herself and seek happiness. Suki knows Yue always puts herself second; that’s why she pampers Yue whenever she can.

Love teasing Yue with Toph. It’s just too easy.

“She’s a girl’s best friend, the best shoulder to cry on, and the easiest to tease.”

#atla #katara #suki #toph #asks #ask me anything #anon answered #headcanon #zuko #ying yue jiang #zuko x oc #limerence #masterlist #request #requests #my OC

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nat-roman0ff · 4 years

Text

let them eat cake

chris evans x female reader word count: 2,617 warnings: fluff, stickiness, and some friskiness (smut, oral f receiving) - summary: “what do you want for dinner?” and other questions my fiancé would still ask even if i was bleeding and on fire. a/n: this has no plot, but enjoy!

You and Chris glare at each other from across the kitchen island. He impatiently taps his fingers against the granite countertop while you chew the inside of your cheek raw. The tension is palpable when Chris lets out a heavy sigh and begins scrolling through his phone. You do the same, hoping this sudden layer of heaviness in the room dissipates soon.

Minutes pass and Chris drops his phone and purses his lips, looking back to you, he groans and lowers his head to the countertop, looking back up at you with sad and tired eyes. You hate doing this to each other, this constant back and forth, the questioning, the insecurities, the uncertainties.

It was always the same question, night after night;

What do you want for dinner?

“This is stupid, let’s just order something!” Chris finally says, throwing his hands in the air.

“Fine,” you agree, “what do you want?”

“I don’t know -”

“Oh my God,” you cut off, covering your face with your hands, “just decide. Pizza, sushi, Chinese, Indian, something!”

“I want cake,” he pips.

You groan loudly, “you can’t eat cake for dinner, Chris.”

He stands with his hands on his hips, “and why not?”

“Because!” You scoff, “because...it’s just not dinner! It’s cake! We’re adults.”

“Well I want cake,” he starts, turning to the cupboards behind him and begins to pull out various items, “and if you don’t want any that’s fine. But I will be having cake for dinner and that’s my final answer.”

You roll your eyes and can’t help but smile at Chris’ absolute siliness. You watch as he scours the cabinets and lines up each ingredient meticulously on the countertop. He crosses the kitchen to the wine rack and picks out a bottle of your favorite, a dry rosé. You’re amazed at his absolute grace when he balances the two crystal glasses, a corkscrew, and the bottle of wine and brings them towards you. He fills each glass precisely and slides yours closer.

“To...something,” he starts, holding his wine class up to meet with yours.

“To us, and promo season being over, and finally being able to be in the same goddamn timezone,” you finish for him.

Chris grins widely, “to my dog, my own bed and shower, Dunkin Donuts and Lisa’s Sunday lasagnas.”

“Anything else?” You ask.

He searches for a moment, pursing his lips and squinting his eyes, “no, can’t think of anything.”

“You suck,” you sneer before taking a large sip of wine.

He flashes that smile and walks around the island towards you, pressing up behind you and wrapping an arm around your middle, “and a toast to my new fiancėe,” he brushes the hair off your shoulder to kiss your neck, “and all the bomb sex we’re gonna have on our honeymoon.”

You roll your eyes and bite back a smirk, “are you fifteen? Can’t you be civil just once?”

Chris nips at your neck, “nah.”

He lets go of you and returns to preparing the cake batter, tediously measuring everything out before checking the recipe thrice over to make sure he got the right amount.

“Do we own a mixer?” He asks.

“Yes,” you respond, taking a sip of your wine, “it’s in the cabinet above the stove.”

He (even at his height) stands on his tiptoes to reach the cabinet to pull out the hand mixer. You watch him fumble with it until he seems satisfied.

“Are you gonna sit there and gawk at me or are you going to help me?” Chris asks.

You scoff, “I do not gawk, sir.”

Chris raises an eyebrow, “definitely gawking. I think I even saw a little blush in there.”

You roll your eyes finish the rest of your wine and place the glass back down before sliding off the barstool, “what do you need help with Chef Evans?”

“Dunno, you’re just cute to look at. You do crack eggs better than I do, though”

Your eyes roll again and pour yourself another glass of wine.

“Why don’t you pick out some music we can dance to?” He asks.

You nod and head into the living room. There’s a low warm glow that floods the room. The seasons are changing from a bone chilling winter to a lush spring. The buds on the trees are starting to form and the Earth smells fresh again with the small breaths of air that trickle in from the cracked living room windows. You’re thankful for living in the middle of nowhere Massachusetts and being closer to nature now than you were in your city days. It brings you both a sense of peace in your mads worlds.

It’s definitely a vinyl kind of night, so you fire up the record player and begin to paw through yours and Chris' ever increasing collection. It was a fairly new hobby you had gotten ( or as he said, bullied) Chris into. There are certain songs that are just made to be played on a record player.

“Put the new one on!” He yells from the kitchen.

The room envelops in an even warmer atmosphere when the music starts. A gentle guitar strum starts and the melody of Such Great Heights by Iron & Wine starts playing. Chris was a classic kind of guy when it came to music, and you pride yourself on expanding his palate a touch.

You slowly start to twirl around the room, glass of wine in hand, to the song. The living room glows in a low yellow that bounces off the stark white of the walls and cozy farmhouse furniture and mutes them a bit. There’s a faint scent of the fruit from your wine in the air and you shut your eyes and let the music guide you.

Chris can’t help but stare, and you’re a sight. So carefree and utterly in your own world. Twisting and twirling around the living room in nothing but one of his tee shirts and a pair of pajama shorts.It terrifies him that you can exist with just yourself and still be whole, it’s something he’s still working on in your relationship; to understand that other people don’t complete other people.

He decides he can’t take anymore of it and leaves his cake batter to come and dance with you. You don’t even realize he’s left the kitchen until he plucks the glass from your hand and wraps you up in his strong arms, pressing his body close to yours.

“I’m so happy to be home,” he says, voice muffled in your neck, “I missed you so much this go around. More than ever.”

You both agreed distance never made the heart grow fonder. Just sadder.

Chris lifts his head and you kiss him softly, “I missed you too, baby,” you reply.

Your head rests against his chest as the two of you sway to the music that fills the room. Chris' hand slides up underneath the back of your shirt. You shiver slightly at the contact but welcome it wholeheartedly. It feels so good to have him back home.

He kisses you, hard. There’s a strange ferocity to it that doesn’t pair with the mellow haze of the room. His hands are everywhere beneath the fabric of your shirt and in your hair and by the time he’s pulled away you’re both gasping for breath.

“Slow down, Tiger,” you breathe, “we’ve got more than enough time to make up for all of that. And if I remember correctly,” you kiss the tip of his nose, “you have a cake to finish.”

Chris shakes his head, “no, I don’t have a cake to finish -”

He picks you up, swinging you over his shoulder in one swoop, “we have a cake to finish”

With a smack of your ass he takes off into the kitchen, placing you carefully on the counter beside the cake batter. It’s half blended, with chunks of flour and sugar still floating amongst the other ingredients.

“Your cake looks like shit,” you pip.

Chris wields the hand mixer in one hand and places his hand on your bare thigh. He turns the mixer on, and his lack of securing the bowl causes the contents of the mixing bowl to begin splattering out...all over you.

“Chris!” You squeal, feeling the wet, sticky batter against your skin.

Chris laughs and lowers his head to lick off the splatter that had landed on your inner thigh. The feeling of his tongue against your skin sends shivers up your spine.

“Have fun getting salmonella,” you say, hopping off the counter, but not without stripping your shirt off just before turning down the hallway to your shared bedroom.

Chris almost knocks over the bowl trying to get a look.

You return with a clean shirt and hair up, ready to crack down on Chris' dinner cake.

“So what kind of frosting are we making?” You ask, taking over mixing duties while Chris finishes cleaning up the counter from his splatter nightmare.

He shrugs, “a basic one?”

You scoff, “one cannot simply have a basic frosting, Chris. It’s like the most important part of the cake!”

“I thought the cake was the most important part of the cake?” He asks with a furrowed brow.

“God, I can’t believe I agreed to marry you,” you mutter under your breath.

You feel Chris all around you, his front pressed into your back, arms on either side of your body, gripping the counter, leaving you caged under him.

“What’s that?” He purrs, his breath hot behind your ear.

His close presence knocks the breath from you, and what little air remains gets caught in your throat when his hand trails up your side and under your fresh shirt, stopping at your rib cage when he realizes you’ve gone braless.

Chris chuckles darkly, pressing his face into your neck, “good girl,” he says, giving your skin a light nip.

“Figured you’d like that,” you say, pressing your backside into his half hard cock.

You put your finger in the bowl of batter and scoop up a glob of the sticky mess. Still caged, you turn in his arms to face him and stick a finger in his mouth to lick clean, releasing it with a pop, “we’ve got a cake to finish.”

A sly smirk creeps up Chris' mouth while his hands move to your hips, “fuck the cake, get on the counter.”

Before you can answer he’s lifted you onto the cold countertop, you squeak in protest

You always commended his ability to go from total dork to total dom in a second flat. It was a part of what made your sex life together so great. You thread your fingers through the tuft of hair at the back of his neck, feeling the tickle of his beard as he nips at your jawline and kisses down the side of your neck. His hands give your thighs a squeeze and you lull your head backwards, allowing him more access to skin.

“Need to scoot back a bit, babe. Decided what I want for dinner.”

You snort at his words and your skin immediately misses the feeling of his lips on you as he nudges you back across the kitchen island. It’s wide enough for your entire upper half to lay across, your hair just spilling over the edge of the other side. You look up through hooded eyes as Chris looks down at you, your tee shirt pulled just below your breasts.

He licks his lips once, taking in the sight of you, before dropping down to his knees. Never once does he break eye contact with you, and you can feel the heat starting to rise in your chest. Your breath hitches when his lips make contact with your skin again, kissing the inside of your thigh. Skin prickling at the roughness of his beard against the soft flesh. He moves slowly up your leg, kissing your mound through the cotton of your tiny sleep shorts before working his way back down the other side.

Your hands reach desperately for something to hang onto, but your nails just claw at the granite countertop as Chris continues his slow torturous routine. He gets off on watching you squirm, breathing in the scent of your building lust, counting the seconds it takes for your cheeks to turn that perfect shade of pre-orgasm pink he loves so much.

“Just fucking get on with it, tease,” you breathe, gasping for air as you speak.

The air from Chris’ breathy laugh fans the sweet, soft skin of your inner thighs, “lift,” he orders.

You lift your lower half into the air just high enough for him to peel your shorts and underwear off in one go. The cool air and the cold countertop make you gasp as Chris gently lowers you back down. He pecks the bone at each ankle before gently placing each leg over his shoulders.

He starts without another second wasted, completely ready to devour you. His tongue works slowly against your clit, tracing patterns until you start seeing stars. The record has stopped playing at this point, and it’s just the static of the turntable and your breathless moans that fill the evening air.

Desperate hands scratch at the countertop as Chris quickens his pace. He adds a finger, sliding in and out of your slickness, his middle and index fingers curled into a come hither position. His expert fingers stretch your walls in all the right ways, mixed with the way his tongue flicks and sucks on your clit is almost too much to handle. He uses his free arm to strong hold you down onto the countertop in an attempt to slow your squirming. The pressure his large palm puts on your lower stomach somehow only adds to the pleasure as his fingers quicken.

You can feel the beard burn starting, and it’s the most delicious mixture of pleasure and pain. A knot starts forming in your lower belly, like a surging tide desperate for release.

“I’m s-so close baby,” you moan.

This only eggs Chris on more, his fingers moving at an excruciating pace, and his mouth lapping up every sweet ounce of you. Your moans only become louder as his fingers reach the spot they’ve been searching for, your body jerking when his fingertips touch that spot of spongy skin.

“Fuck, right there!” You gasp, hands gripping the edge of the countertop behind you.

The rough pads of Chris’ fingertips hit the spot over and over again, pushing you closer to your edge. It almost becomes too much as your body begins to shake as your orgasm builds stronger and stronger in your belly.

You scream his name when you come. He doesn’t stop, milking you through your orgasm, your body shaking with pleasure and sensitivity. When he finally does pull away, his lips and beard are shiny with your juices, and he wears one of his cockiest smiles.

“Think you can stand? We both need a shower after that,” he says, kissing the tops of your thighs.

He searches the kitchen floor for your discarded underwear and gently pulls them back onto you. It takes a second for your vision to unblur as you sit up, the blood rushing too quickly to your head.

Chris chuckles at your wooziness, “you alright, Tiger?”

You nod and pat his shoulder, “excellent work, one of your best performances, truly.”

“Come on,” he laughs, swooping you up into his arms, “let’s take a shower and maybe finish making that cake.”

“Nah,” you kiss his neck as he walks the two of you to the master bedroom, “your baking sucks.”

#chris evans #chris evans smut #chris evans fic #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fluff

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unicyclehippo · 5 years

Note

Do you accept beau/bright queen prompts? Otherwise for the number thing #3 “It’s three in the morning.” :)

ooh i haven’t done consecuted au in ages! fair warning, i don’t have a concept in mind to fulfill this prompt so imma just,, write & hope that it comes to me

They bring Beau back to the Xhorhaus and care for her as best they can, a restoration when they think it might help but mostly salted stew and a cold cloth draped over her neck. They replace it when it quickly becomes drenched in the sweat that pours off her and Beau is left feeling half-melted, like a wax statue, as the sweat and water droplets sit in a tepid film over her entire body. She feels herself sloughing away piece by piece in small and then larger sections; it’s not real—Beau is as hale and whole as ever—but there is something working at her mind that regects who she is, burns and melts away at this form with her weak eyes that cannot catch the moons light, the long arms and unfamiliar hands. The multitudes of selves within Beau clamour to claim sections of her, of themselves in her form, and at one point, when Beau looks down at her hands and finds she does not know them, she moves to the stairs that glide up to the second floor and she lays on the cool grey stone.

The ceiling of the entrance—hall? not quite—of their gifted house is high here. It rises to the second floor along with the staircase and above the doorway is a large circular window of fogged glass that fills most of that space. Beau stares up at it and shivers with fever and clench-jawed dismay; nothing that is happening to her feels good or normal or makes any kind of sense.

She remembers a party. Here in this room. This house they’ve had all of a month. This house that stands barren and watched, with her and her empire compatriots. This house that has never seen a guest while they have been in it—she remembers it filled with people and the chime of laughter and quiet conversation. Beau doesn’t remember herself, but she remembers this.

A party, back when the threat of war did not loom overhead. There were many of those times but the memories seem to be less immediate than those of Beau’s many deaths—a knife, plunged into—

She snaps her eyes back to the window.

Circular fogged glass.

‘Do you think it’s supposed to look like the moon?’ Lee asks her. She looks bored; she always looks bored at events like this.

Surathai flicks her eyes to the window. ‘Hmm.’

Lee scowls. Drinks deeply of the goblet in her hand.

‘Have I offended?’ Surathai asks, tone smooth and empty of apology or any of her own upset. And she is upset. Why? The thought shakes through her like the ringing of a bell and Surathai shivers with it. For a moment, she could swear that sweat dripped in a column down her neck, her spine. But the night is cool and she had not been permitted to wear her armour; her fine long tunic is untouched by sweat.

‘Have I offended,’ Lee repeats, the tone mocking.

Surathai arches a brow. It will make Lee furious. Why? That whisper comes again, and not far behind, like heavy blunt fingers poking and prodding, Who is she? What is this party?

Surathai glances about the space. She misses the way Lee scowls toward her as she scans the space: the Den umavi are clustered together like gossiping hens deeper into the house, their consorts either at their shoulders or, if they’re particularly lax, a step back from that most holy of spaces.

Lee tries shift deeper into the house without her, flanking through the east wing, a spacious library that corners onto the small dining hall.

Surathai wasn’t reborn yesterday. She follows easily. Each time Lee tries to ditch her, Surathai adjusts.

‘The more I must pay attention to you,’ she says, stepping into the space by Lee’s shoulder after the young woman had managed to put an entire door between them, ‘the less attention I have for would-be assassins.’

Lee scoffs.

‘Leylas,’

‘Shouldn’t you be calling me Your Majesty,’ Lee cuts her off, and the words sound bitter as she spits them toward her. ‘If you’re so intent on playing as my guard dog, at least do it properly.’

Surathai blinks. ‘Is that why you’re upset?’

Lee looks up from the spread—delicious, fresh, a real effort from the new Den—and for the first time this evening her lips soften from the flat obsidian slash they have been.

‘It’s a party, Sura. You’re my betrothed. You’re supposed to be on my arm, not at my shoulder.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh,’ Lee repeats, but this time her mocking is far more gentle. Teasing, really. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘Was I supposed to?’

‘You’re not exactly dressed to fight assassins,’

‘I would make do.’

‘It’s a very expensive fabric.’

Surathai plucks at her tunic with a slow of mild distaste. ‘You do not need to buy me expensive items. Especially not clothing.’

‘I’m the Queen, nothing is expensive for me,’ Lee says with a wave of her hand. She laughs then, not quietly, and waves her hand far more imperiously when varied heads turn to look at the Queen and her Consort half-hidden in the next room. Lee waits until everyone averts their eyes. Then, ‘I’m joking, Sura. Don’t look so foul with me.’

‘Our people have need of that coin,’

‘I know, my love.’ The endearment slips out, the way so many secrets and memories do between them.

They’ve said those words many lifetimes over; they still bring a bruising flush to Surathai’s cheeks.

‘Hmph,’ she says.

Lee ducks her head.

No longer upset, Lee loses the sharp bearing with which she had cut through this party so easily before. She is caught in many a discussion with many a boring individual and as the night wears on, so too does the party on Lee’s patience.

Surathai steps in before Lee’s new tongue can get her in trouble with an old friend. She wraps her fingers around Lee’s wrist and pretends to not be surprised when Lee rests a good portion of her weight comfortably into her.

‘It’s a party tonight, Taskhand,’ Surathai chides. She is allowed to chide. Her only concern is the Queen and does not have to pretend otherwise, unlike her betrothed. ‘Forgive us but we haven’t had an opportunity to dance...’

‘Of course.’ The Taskhand bows, excuses himself.

Lee shifts, sets her chin on Surathai’s shoulder. ‘Bodyguard or betrothed, whichever, don’t let anyone talk to me for—the rest of the night.’ A great yawn cracks her jaw.

‘Shall I glare at them?’ Surathai asks, voice soft, cajoling.

‘Oh yes. You glare so nicely.’

‘Mm. I do try.’

Lee chuckles. Shifts closer still, winding her arms around Surathai’s middle in a loose hug. Sura returns the gesture slowly and begins to sway to the gentle music that drifts through all of this house.

‘What time is it?’

‘Late. Early, really.’ Sura glances to one of her disguised guards, flashes a question. When they respond, she tells Lee, ‘Three in the morning.’

Lee groans. ‘My feet are killing me.’

Surathai hums. Is doubly relieved that she had passed over the death trap shoes that had been delivered with the outfit. Her own boots could carry her halfway to Asarius Settlement before she started to blister.

‘Shall I carry you home?’

Lee’s arms cinch tighter. She turns, nose brushing against the sensation skin of Surathai’s neck. ‘Would you?’ she asks. Breathes. The question tickles against her skin on that quiet exhale; Surathai shivers.

‘Of course.’

‘Because I am your Queen?’ Lee asks. She tucks her face more fully into Surathai’s neck so that her expression cannot be seen no matter how Sura tries; her tone is entirely empty save for the note of the question.

Sura hesitates. She isn’t sure precisely what Lee wants from her; her fallback then, the oath she had sworn two-fold upon her sword, and the promise of her rebirth itself. Dedication to her Queen, and all else that follows—honesty, forthrightness, protection. Love had not entered that vow on any iteration; that was sworn later, that third oath, upon her knees once more.

‘Because you are my queen, and my wife-to-be, and my wife-who-was, and the woman I choose life after life.’ Lee hums. Surathai frowns. Had that not been the right answer? She searches her mind for what is missing and can think only that she would like for Lee to laugh. ‘I like carrying you,’ she blurts, feeling abruptly and stingingly her young age at the clumsy words.

She gets her wish though. Lee laughs suddenly, pulls back—not out of her hold, but enough that she can see Sura’s face.

‘Is that so?’

‘Well—I’m—‘

‘Strong.’ Lee drags a nail down one of Sura’s arms, over the dip and trip of her muscles. ‘I‘ve noticed.’

‘I wasn’t. Last time.’

‘Hmm.’

‘You like?’ Sura asks, clumsy pre-century flirting clogging her thoughts and tongue. She flexes. She hopes this isn’t the life Leylas decides actually this version of my wife is far too awkward.

Beau comes awake at the sensation of a cold hand on her head. Blinks up into blue.

‘Jes?’

Her friend smiles, relief clear across her face. ‘Beau! You’re awake! Oh my gosh, Beau, I’ve been so worried, you were on the stairs and you were, like, just staring at the roof and Fjord said maybe you had been paralysed or, or, your mind was gone because you couldn’t hear us and that wasn’t a fun time at all but then you started talking and Caleb said it was Undercommon?’ Jester says all in a rush.

Beau hears most of it. She understands most of what she hears.

‘It’s getting worse, Beau,’ Jester tells her.

‘I know.’

‘I think it’s time.’

‘I dont—I don’t want—‘

‘I know,’ she agrees, and winds cold fingers into Beau’s.

The shock of it is nice, like cold water on a hot day. Refreshing. Beau clutches at Jester’s hand, tries not to feel like the other girl has seen too much of her, seen her sick and shivering and way too fucking weak, tries not to feel like so much grime at the bottom of the bucket.

‘I know it’s scary, Beau, and you probably don’t want people in your mind,’

Beau agrees with a grunt.

‘But we don’t know how to help you and—‘ Jester catches her bottom lip between sharp teeth, worries at it. Her brows push together and up, the picture of concern. ‘You’re in pain, Beau. We don’t want—I don’t want you in pain anymore. It’s awful, it’s just awful.’

She blinks up at her best friend. ‘Feels—like my head is all - crammed full.’

‘Memories?’

‘Mm. Yeah.’

‘Does it hurt?’

The heat begins to ebb and fade, lulling her and sapping with it her energy. Beau feels heavy, her tongue dry and thick in her mouth. ‘Only when I die,’ she says unthinkingly.

Jester gasps. Squeezes her hands tighter. ‘Beau...’

‘Ask ‘em if it’ll help? I wanna—finish this. Stupid. To put it off. Stupid.’

‘No, no.’ Jester brushes her fingers over Beau’s clammy forehead. ‘Not stupid. You’re just—stubborn.’

Through her slow-blinking eyes, Beau sees Jester smile and it’s one of the loveliest things she’s seen in all her lives. She thinks she says as much. Maybe she doesn’t. She sleeps.

#tagging my stories #prompt fill #cr tag #consecuted au #losely

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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 years

Text

Day 6: Dragged Away

(continuing my @whumptober2019 stories - our first look at Nathan Vandrum from his own POV rather than Danny’s memories. Abraham Drenner’s prior pet/whumpee and Daniel Michaelson’s hero… eventually.)

He takes the stand, and Nate doesn’t stammer even once.

“Can you tell us your name, for the record?”

“Nathaniel John Vandrum.”

“Date of birth?”

“October 19th, 1982.”

They go through the opening questions easily enough. His answers are rote, prepared, delivered in a flat voice. Nate is wearing a suit for the first time in seven years, and he shifts uncomfortably against the rougher fabric, unfamiliar by now. He used to wear them all the time, back before, before Bram and Ashley found him, before it all went to hell, before he was fixed.

He swallows, hard, against the memory of Ashley’s eyes, staring up at him in mute betrayal after he left her dead in the kitchen. That was a long time ago, he tells himself, and this trial isn’t about Ashley - it’s about putting Bram so deep in prison he can never, ever find his way back out.

He’ll never fix anyone else, ever again. He’ll never keep another pet.

And he can never, ever hurt Danny.

That’s all that matters.

The jury doesn’t like him - he can tell immediately. They don’t like the way he seems cold, the empty look on his face, how his voice doesn’t have any feeling in it. After Daniel’s emotional video testimony (and fuck if he hadn’t watched Abraham Denner nearly salivate over the times that Danny broke down in tears), Nathan seems like a mannequin compared to a real living boy.

He gets it, and he doesn’t know how to explain to them that he isn’t empty, he isn’t cold, he used to be funny and charming and warm. That’s all still in there somewhere, he’s sure of it, it’s just so hard to access because it wasn’t allowed.

They don’t understand that the emptiness is a mask, and it’s keeping him together in court when he can see - he can see - Bram watching him. They’d made eye contact, early on, and Nate was trying hard not to look at him again.

He couldn’t stand the love that shone out of Bram’s eyes, still there even after what he’d done to free himself - to free Daniel - once and for all.

“Can you explain how you came to know Abraham Denner?” The lawyer is asking, and Nate tries to focus on the words. They went over this, and he folds his hands precisely in his lap the way the lawyer suggested, doesn’t compulsively drink from the water glass even though he badly wants to.

No, Nate holds it together, and he hopes the jury will look past his deep, slightly hostile voice and the way he can’t seem to hold an feeling on his face any longer and listen to his words, listen to what happened to him, listen to the hell he lived every day for nearly seven years.

Six years, eleven months, nineteen days, to be exact, before he set that fucking cabin on fire and rescued Danny all by himself.

… except for those few months he was gone, found an apartment and started over, the time he had spent sort of seeing, sort of just hanging out with Daniel Michaelson.

He should have known better. He should have known Bram would find him, track him down, and decide that two pets were better than one. He should have known, and it was his fault, what had happened to Danny, so it was his job to set it right.

Danny was back at Ryan’s house, hiding, hiding after four years trapped with him and Bram. Too frightened to testify in person, too terrified that if he had to look and see Bram’s face, see his odd predator’s smile, flashing white teeth that sometimes seemed as sharp as a shark’s, that he would simply lose the willingness to ever even try.

Nate could do this, if it was for Danny.

He didn’t love Bram any longer. He had finally learned how to take off the things Bram had done to make him feel love, to want him, to need him with a desperate, horrible, terrified desire. He had managed, finally, once and for all, to shake off being a pet.

In the end, he had learned to love Danny more.

“Mr. Vandrum?”

Nate blinks, startled out of his reverie, and for a second he lets himself glance over at Bram, to see him watching him with total focus from his chair next to his lawyer.

Bram meets his eyes, ice-chip blue against the mossy, vibrant green, and mouths the words I’m so proud of you, baby.

Nate swallows hard against the residual sense of being pleased that Bram is proud, that he’s doing good for him. He wants to be good for Bram. He wants to be good. He has to shake it off before he can start talking again.

“My, um. My old roommate, Ross Pell, and I used to go to this bar all the time. Just to destress, talk about whatever, at the end of the week. One Friday-”

“Do you remember the exact date, Mr. Vandrum?”

Sure he does. He stared at the wall calendar in his room for three hours while Ashley and Bram argued over whether or not to kill him, feeling the duct tape over his mouth slowly loosening with his terrified cold sweat.

“September 27th, 2012. We were at the bar until, I don’t know… midnight, twelve-thirty maybe. We walked home.”

“Did you have any sense that you were being followed?”

“No. None.” His voice is calm, and Nate doesn’t look at Bram again.

But God, he wants to.

He wants to see that pride again so badly his fingers itch with it, with the need to know that Bram is proud of him, that he’s done well. He wants to see Bram smile.

But he’s better than that now.

Danny needs him to be better than that.

“What happened after you made it home?” The questions are gentle, not leading, and Nate answers each and every one the exact way they practiced.

He and Ross walked home from the bar, still talking the whole way. No, he wasn’t aware of anyone following him. Yes, they made it back to the apartment perfectly fine. No, he didn’t remember leaving his key in the lock. No, he doesn’t know how long it was after they got home before the door opened again.

Yes, he remembers what they looked like the first time he saw them; pale-skinned, with white-blonde hair in identical waves to their shoulders, identical faces with a kind of unearthly beauty, identical blue eyes.

Yes, he remembers them killing Ross, the way he looked bleeding slowly out onto the kitchen floor. Yes, he let them tie his hands behind his back. Yes, he let them put duct tape over his mouth.

Yes, he remembers when they started to cut him, too.

Yes, he remembers when they cut his clothes off. Yes he remembers that Bram licked the blade with his blood on it, whispered to him about how he tasted, told him he’d taste better later, once he had more adrenaline.

Yes, he remembers when Ashley told him he would be dead by morning.

Yes yes yes yes yes he remembers it all.

He remembers what it felt like as they dragged him by the ankles into his bedroom ‘to get a little more comfortable, you’re going to be here a while’. He remembers it all, and he recounts all of his worst nightmares in a low, flat voice that he knows the jury doesn’t like but he cannot stop himself.

The whole time, he feels Bram’s eyes right on his, and knows that Bram is listening not with the horror or disinterest or disgust of everyone else in this room.

Bram is listening to the beginning of a story about his relationship with Nate, and the one time, the one time he glances over at him, he sees that Bram has a dreamy, soft smile on his face. Like a girl thinking about her crush.

His stomach lurches, and somewhere deep down inside the pet whispers, he still loves you, Nate, you could still be good for him.

But no.

Danny needs him more.

Danny wants him more.

Danny loves him more, or will, one day, maybe.

Danny is curled up at his little brother’s house, waiting for Nate and Ryan to come back home to him, probably drinking himself sick or hiding under blankets or cleaning, endlessly, always cleaning. He’s waiting, and he needs Nate to be strong for him now.

So Nate squares his shoulders, looks the lawyer in the eyes, and says:

“Yes. I remember. Ashley took one ankle and Bram - Abraham, I’m sorry - took the other, and they dragged me into my bedroom. The light was off, I remember they paused to turn it on. Bram looked at me, and looked at Ashley, and I remember he said, ‘I want to keep this one’.”

I want to keep this one.

Seven years ago.

Nate’s palms are sweaty, and he twists his fingers into the fabric of his pants, licking his lips nervously. He can still hear Abraham’s voice, the dread and relief mixed as he’d realized he wasn’t going to die that night, but he wasn’t getting away from them alive, either.

I miss you, you son of a bitch, and I’m going to make sure I miss you for the rest of my life while you rot in prison.

Then I’m going home to Danny.

#whumptober2019 #no. 6 #prompt: dragged away #whump #defiant whumpee #recovering whumpee #recovery #trauma recovery #tw: implied violence #daniel michaelson's story #Nathan vandrum takes the stand #a different perspective on nate #whumper #intimate whumper

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elmidol · 4 years

Text

Stripped Once More

Three Blind Tooke Part Two Precarious Harmony

Read on AO3

Warnings: slight death wish, memories of sexual assault

Three Blind Tooke

Part Two: Precarious Harmony

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Stripped Once More

They were such haunting words, those three syllables that replayed themselves in your mind over the duration of the night cycle. The one who had said them easily fell into a peaceful sleep, and you found yourself watching him. The games of make-believe that he played—that you played right along with him—threatened to wear at the walls you had managed to put up. The same walls that had been in a constant state of repair since the creature you had once hunted had opted to save you from the fire. You could not remember exactly when you had last thought of that fateful day, that precise moment, and felt a sense of absolute longing for the flames that would have devoured you. Dying is so easy, you recalled your father telling you. Hot shame rushed through your body, constricting your chest and strangling your next breath to where it wracked your frame when at last it found release.

You missed the monster that had lifted you out from underneath the bodies of your fallen comrades, lamented over his evolution into this man beside you. This, above all else, terrified you.

Your fingers danced along the scars on your body, meanwhile your eyes traced the ones that were on his body. The darkness disallowed the opportunity to fully see those healed and healing injuries. Light was unnecessary for you, however. You had his body memorized as assuredly as he had committed even the most minor of imperfections your flesh sported to his mind. This familiarity was intimate as well. It drove deeper the three words he had said to you. Why you had pressed for him to say them, you could not fully say. A part of you had wondered if he was even capable of uttering that phrase without perverting it with falsehood.

He did not love you in the way he would allow himself to when he had overthrown the Supreme Leader. In the present, Kylo Ren continued to hold you at arm’s length, not allowing himself to fully commit to the tumultuous feelings that stirred within him for you. Those sentiments that had prompted him to purchase the tooke hairclip, the book he had later torn into pieces. You ran your thumbs along the undersides of your ring fingers. The tattoos were not quite as dark as they had once been, although this hardly surprised you. The hands were used too often for the ink to remain as much as it would on other limbs and extremities.

The fantasies you had humored in regards to Ben Solo were now tainted with the knowledge that Kylo Ren and Ben Solo truly were the same person; it was nothing more than a name. You had called him Ben, and he had not magically transformed into the son of General Organa who had been with the Light. You had called him Kylo Ren, and he responded the same. Supreme Leader—you shuddered.

I love you.

You twisted around, your back to the slumbering man as you slid your foot out from underneath the blankets. You dangled it, all the while thinking of the creature from the tales of your childhood, the one that lived underneath the bed. You could feel the breath of the fictitious monster tickling your toes.

When you awoke—maker knew how long it had been before you had at last lost consciousness and slept—the bed no longer held the body of Kylo Ren. You had no desire to remain on the piece of furniture either, not with the memories of the previous night that it was threatening to replay over and over. You spent a good ten minutes sitting on the floor of the shower after you had washed your body and hair then shaved. You had your knees drawn towards your chest, your arms wrapped around them and head bowed enough so that the spray of water hit the top of your head rather than your face. The drain gurgled on occasion.

General Hux, too, would want to eventually kill Supreme Leader Snoke. You passively wondered how and when he hoped this would occur. The man was an excellent strategist, a skilled tactician.

The Resistance was not yet defeated. Perhaps that was what the redhead was waiting for. Or there was also the chance that the creature that served as Kylo Ren’s master was more powerful than you could imagine. He would not be so easily defeated. Should General Hux learn at all of Kylo Ren’s plans to lure Rey, you doubted that Hux would stand in his way. He likely viewed Rey as a pawn as well, someone who could rid him of Snoke and Ren alike. You pitied the woman you had never met, how so many viewed her as nothing more than a tool. Then flinched when realizing that you, too, were doing so. You were allowing it to happen.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered in unison with the drain releasing another gurgle.

You pushed yourself up off the floor, shut off the water, and stepped out of the refresher with a towel wrapped around your body. Some of the droplets that clung to your body fell to the ground with each step you took. You grabbed an outfit that had been provided to you from the wardrobe. It consisted of predominately black material, the minute amount of red reminding you of the Resistance. You traced two fingers along the seams near the red. It brought to mind the flash of red you had seen when Kylo Ren’s lightsaber had pierced you. That was the first thing he had sought to violate your body with. The first time he had taken away your willpower, the ability to think and act for yourself.

It was not difficult for you to picture this faceless young woman, Rey, by the man’s side as his comrade. Both wielding red plasma blades while wearing black. She the new Master of the Knights of Ren. He the new Supreme Leader.

You recoiled from your own thoughts, shaking your head to rid yourself of those mental images while you dried off your body with the towel then pulled on the clothes.

Killing General Hux at this point in time would be of no benefit to you. As many Resistance members as he had killed—and as much as you loathed him for being the one to order the firing of Starkiller, the one who had caused your mother’s death—you needed him. That fact stung just as harshly as the truth behind Kylo Ren’s utterance that he loved you.

When you crossed paths with the red-haired man in one of the hallways, you did not fail to notice the cut on his lip nor the way his hair was not quite as smooth as it usually was. General Hux narrowed his eyes upon noticing you, upon seeing the way you were assessing his appearance. This did not feel, to you, to be of Kylo Ren’s doing. You sincerely doubted many would be so bold as to attack the First Order General—the man’s subordinates would not be so foolish or suicidal. Which left Supreme Leader Snoke as the culprit. You felt bile rising in your throat at the thought of how much power the man wielded.

“Tooka,” the man said softly by way of greeting. His tone was less stern than you had believed it would be. There were some in the Resistance who were reckless when it came to amassing casualties. The ends justified the means. You wanted to believe, even still, that none would ever be as cold as General Armitage Hux.

There is no Resistance.

It was Ren’s voice that was in your head again. His whispers, the ghost sensation of his hands upon you, his breath by your ear.

That voice was drowned out by the sounds of General Hux once more speaking to you. “I don’t recall ever finding you to be so…distracted.” The hint of wonder in his voice caused you to take a single step back in retreat. Those cold, blue eyes swept along your body. “If you are in pain… Your mind can be sharpened when your body cannot.”

He had ulterior motives for encouraging you. Not only to find a means of destroying Kylo Ren; he did want to destroy Snoke. There was hatred in his gaze, cruel and unyielding; a remnant of what he had felt when interacting with another. Humility. The light flush that stained his cheeks suddenly became noticeable for you. This man had killed your mother, and so you felt no pity for him. That did not mean you wanted him broken, not like this. You reined in your anger and hurt, swallowing both those two things and your pride before allowing yourself to speak.

“I’ve been trying to study Sith lore.”

“Ren is not a Sith,” the man drawled, his eyebrows drawing towards one another. “Though he may entertain some ideology derived from the Sith, he also dabbles in the arts of the Jedi. I’ve had to listen to both him and Snoke discuss such things… We can use one another, tooka.”

Whatever blow Snoke had dealt to the man’s pride, it was enough to have him drop some of the contempt he held for you on the basis that you were Resistance. He was treating you similarly to how things had been prior to your will being stripped away while you were taken to meet with your mother. Those times in the redhead’s quarters, playing chess, petting Millicent. That had been before you had learned of your father’s death, of your mother’s. Before you had died—blissful death, with you standing beside your father. You wanted, more than anything, to believe that that moment with him had been real. No matter how painful it had been, that he had released your hand in order for you to return to life.

“I’m becoming a monster,” you said breathlessly before you could stop yourself. In front of you, General Hux allowed his eyelids to slowly, briefly descend. Him blinking at you was what drove in the nail that you had admitted to your fears in front of your enemy.

“The most terrifying monsters,” your father had once told you, “are those who do not realize they are monsters.”

You blindly grasped at anything that resembled hope. This girl from Jakku, Rey. Rather than hold tightly onto the hope she represented, you had instead agreed to work with Kylo Ren to use her as a tool. She should not be pulled away from Luke Skywalker, you told yourself. No… She should learn from him. To be drawn here to Kylo Ren would be her downfall if you helped the man who had claimed to love you. Aside from killing Snoke, how did your actions benefit the Resistance, the galaxy? If she helped to slay the current Supreme Leader only to join Kylo Ren, at that point the war would be lost. The First Order—Kylo Ren—would win.

The gravity of your monstrous deeds hit you. You fell to your knees and squeezed your eyes closed whilst swearing. Not only was Kylo Ren properly manipulating Rey and bending her to his will, he was doing the same to you. Convincing you to work with him, no doubt crowing in victory when you missed how he was corrupting you, dragging you away from the morals that had been instilled in you by your parents and the Resistance alike.

It ran through your mind, how Kylo had mentioned Rey's weaknesses. He had been in her head just as he had been in yours. Ben Solo. Compassion. Anything else that would break Rey's spirit and lure her into joining Kylo Ren—and thus, also, the First Order—the Force user knew these things. It was identical to the fact that he knew your weakness. Your desire to one day be loved when all those dear to you had already perished. You, whose future was fractured, had been played... Worse still, that Kylo Ren did love you on some level. That he could relate to Rey on another. The genuineness mingled with the manipulation. Maker, it ached more than death itself had. General Hux, who also had his own plans for you, squatted long enough to seize your upper arm and pull you back onto your feet. You swayed in place, bumping against his body. You felt unlovable, and in some respects you wished you were. Few things registered in your head as you were led away. You did nothing to slow Hux's progress. The one thing that managed to stick was that you knew you were being taken to the man's quarters. The change in scenery was a welcome one. Where Ren's quarters were sparsely decorated and furnished, General Hux had a few military awards and Millicent's items. The ginger tabby cat rolled onto her back while stretching forth a single paw in greeting. You were discarded into a chair, upon which you curled up. Your fingers stretched then curled in alteration as you tried to will something into existence that you could hold onto. Something that was beyond Kylo Ren. The tooke hairclip and electronic toy had been from him, and so you shuddered at the thought of touching them. "The Resistance is a mere speck that will soon join the New Republic as nothing more than a sad, small part of history." He enunciated his words carefully as he normally did. The man did enjoy listening to himself speak. You peeked up from your lap and stared at him through the wetness that had gathered in your eyes. General Hux was already returning your gaze. He lowered a hand to stroke the top of Millicent's head. "Your mission had always been to destroy Ren, isn't that correct?" Though you nodded in response, you felt a wave of uncertainty bubbling forth. "What do you plan to do when the Resistance is no more? You will seek to end his life—but what then?" It was a question you had asked yourself from time to time, albeit in your head the Resistance had been victorious rather than the First Order. As much as you despises considering this outcome, you knew now that it would be foolish not to given how things were running their course. You had told yourself so often that it was your duty to slay monsters. There would always be monsters. Whether the Resistance won, whether the First Order slaughtered the remainder of your allies, they would exist. You could not kill them all. You had failed to kill the one who now claimed to love you. You wished he did not love you, because you could then convince yourself, if he corrupted Rey, that he was no human at all. That he had worn his flesh as a guise to beguile you. "I...have nowhere to go," you admitted. You were the guest of Kylo Ren. You were the prisoner of the First Order. Upon Ren's death, there was only the latter. In the case of his survival, you would eternally be the former. You were not stupid enough to think for a moment that Kylo Ren would allow you to leave him. His was a selfish love.

Rather than clinging onto the hope that Rey represented, you had allowed Kylo Ren to convince you to corrupt it. This hit you as hard as it had the first time the realization had dawned.

“You won't win,” you said defiantly, as much for yourself as for the man to whom the words were directed. General Hux barked out a laugh at your response. “The Resistance will never die!”

“That may be, tooka; however, it will also never win.” You snarled in disgust at his words, a reply ready on your lips. You were not give the chance to say anything more. “Your father trained you to survive in the New Republic. He thought to prepare you for the possibility of war. Mine? Tooka, my father made my life a war. I have fought since the day I was born, and I will not allow some silly little girl to delude herself into believing her views are superior. Neither of us is an idiot. Snoke will be dealt with first—second, if you include the Resistance. Then Ren. Either you or I will be the one to defeat him if it comes down to it. Once Skywalker and the girl are dead. At that point: What. Will. You. Do? What then?”

You shook your head. “I…don’t know.”

“You are the best type of tool, tooka, because you are willing to die. I’m going to use you. When you’ve outlived your worth, you will die along with the rest of your kin.” Here he took a single step towards you. “Unless you remain useful to me.”

Your stomach churned at his words. His proposal was quite similar to that of Kylo Ren’s with the exception that this man had no love for you. He would indulge himself with your body again if given the chance; as he had said, you were no idiot. You would always be an expendable tool for him. General Hux simply wished for you to be an expendable tool that was on his side. You would never betray the Resistance in that manner, you told yourself. You would not join the First Order.

It was laughable for you to think such things when just the night before you had referred to Kylo Ren by the title Supreme Leader. You had imagined yourself by his side.

Again did your eyes roam along his split lip. His words repeated themselves; you imagined Brendol Hux beating his son, breaking him repeatedly while your father had sought to build you up. Both Armitage Hux and Kylo Ren had experiences that made them drastically different than you. And the girl, Rey, as well. From what little Ren had shared with you, you understood. If General Hux was willing to take you for an ally, he would not be opposed to accepting Rey as well.

You twisted your body, leaning against the back of the chair while allowing yourself to look at the semi-familiar surroundings. He had brought you here to calm you, to speak with you. The manipulative and controlling nature of his words nudged at your conscious. Your gaze darted to him. General Hux had not looked away from you.

“Snoke wishes to see you,” the redhead said, as though at last ready to reveal things. Such as why he had been in the hallway. You felt the muscles in your legs tense; he had been on his way to grab you. The warnings from the past made themselves known; General Hux knew that Snoke would attempt to dissuade his apprentice from having feelings for you. Not to kill you, or at least not yet. The act of patricide had left a scar on Kylo Ren. If the Supreme Leader of the First Order successfully broke you, or else convinced Kylo Ren to kill you, you would no longer be any use to the redhead whose quarters you were in. It was for selfish reasons that he had brought you here to recover from your emotional outburst. “It will be in person this time, tooka.”

There was a semblance of pity in his expression, and you accepted that it was out of commiseration. He was no stranger to Snoke’s cruelty. You gulped down what saliva had gathered in your mouth then gave a nod of acceptance. Having fully recovered at last, you rose onto shaky feet. General Hux took the lead, and you were only two steps behind him. Exiting his quarters, you found yourself wishing you had thought to pet Millicent. A silly thought, a useless gesture… Not useless, you told yourself. It was a gesture of hope.

You had endured while in the care of General Hux and Kylo Ren alike. You refused to allow Snoke to break you.

Officers and stormtroopers alike stepped out of the way when their paths crossed with yours. There was a small transport shuttle prepared that would take you from the Finalizer to the Supremacy. Your heart lurched into your chest as you beheld the larger ship. You had seen it through the viewports. Now that you were arriving at it, however, you were in awe of its size.

There were more personnel aboard, all of which glanced your way with a high level of contempt. You would have preferred the expressions to remain as such rather than turn into cruel smirks of delight the deeper into the Supremacy that you were taken. They knew you had been summoned by Snoke. No doubt they hoped to hear of your suffering. You, a Resistance member—former or present, it did not matter. You were their enemy and your pain brought them delight. That you wore no bindings did not make them nervous. You were trailing behind General Hux. There were blasters on every person, blasters that would be trained on you if you moved out of line.

The first thing you noticed when you entered the throne room was the color red. This you had constantly attempted to associate with the Resistance even after you had seen the lightsaber on the battlefield. The guards in the room also wore red, their armor similar yet with differences from one another. Your pace slowed. General Hux, in contrast, did not slow in the least. His arms were crossed behind his back, right wrist cupped in his left hand. The being upon the throne wore gold. His laughter was colder than anything you had heard in the past.

You stumbled in your next step, which caused the laughter to increase. “You’re as stubborn as I remember,” Supreme Leader Snoke said with a chuckle. You frowned at his words, clenching your teeth at the memory of when you had spoken to the enlarged hologram. That was when he had offered you the chance to willingly work with him. To shame your mother. You had refused. Now you could see him in a shade other than blue. His pale flesh. Those teeth that were bared in his grin. Your entire existence amused him.

Snoke rose from the throne, and General Hux immediately stopped walking, his frame growing rigid.

You found that you could not bring yourself to walk either when Snoke took a step in your direction. The red-armored guards altered their stance. You could see their weapons in your peripheral, yet you could not tear your gaze away from the Supreme Leader of the First Order. This was who had trained Kylo Ren. This was the one you hoped Kylo and Rey could kill together.

“It is disappointing that you have no capabilities with the Force,” Snoke said. He angled his body, one shoulder dropping as he tilted his head and stared down at you. “So stubborn. And your training—even that did not allow the others to survive my apprentice’s blade.” As he spoke, he was chuckling. The amusement had died away. The words were genuine; had you possessed Force sensitivity, you would have been even more at this man’s mercy. “As it is, you have proven useful…until he wandered to you rather than remaining here.”

You knew what he was speaking of. The moment Kylo Ren had felt the connection with Rey, he had gone to you. Did this mean that Snoke was aware of the connection? You refused to mention it on the off chance that he was not. Regardless, you doubted that General Hux was privy to this information.

Snoke turned, walking—pacing, you noted when he took another step. He gestured carelessly in the air with his hand. “He returned.” Another chuckle. “You need not look around for him, he isn’t here.” You barely caught the twitch of his finger before you were yanked forward. You landed on your hands in knees in front of him. You stared at the ground with wide eyes, your heart racing in your chest. “You, however, will be kept here. Take her to his quarters.”

You should have known better than to expect Snoke to reveal his full intentions to you. Two of the guards marched your way. Another flick of a finger from the Supreme Leader, and you were on your feet, your upper arms seized by those who would escort you. They shoved at you, turning you. One of the red-armored individuals stepped in front of you while the other remained behind. You did not protest them leading you. General Hux met your eyes; he had predicted this, which is one reason he was not displeased. He wanted you on the Supremacy while he remained on the Finalizer. He wanted you to be his eyes here.

Ren’s quarters aboard the Supremacy were larger. Only a little less bleak; black and white with hints of red. The table that was across from the bed was something two people could sit at. The guards did not remain with you. The moment you entered, they closed the door. You could hear a code being input on the other side. You were once more a prisoner of the First Order—of Snoke, specifically.

This was felt deeply, for as you looked around the empty room, you realized that you had left the tooke hairclip and digital pet aboard the Finalizer. You once more had nothing. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you stood in the center of Ren’s quarters while being hit with the knowledge that you did not have any of your clothes either. Snoke had effectively stripped away some of the foundations that had been the relationship between you and Kylo. The solitude. The small gifts and gestures. The familiarity of the Finalizer.

You could not even grab onto the helmet of Darth Vader for something to hold. In here, there was nothing.

And you could practically feel Snoke watching you. Whether it was through the Force, even if it was nothing more than your paranoid mind, you felt a violation similar to when Kylo Ren had torn through your memories.

There were no ashes in this room either. What a terrible thing to miss, you thought. It had never dawned on you how much comfort you had been given by the remnants of your comrades. A reminder that they were real—had been real, that what you were fighting for, you hadn’t been fighting alone. You felt far more shattered by Snoke’s act of having you trapped here than by the idea that Kylo Ren loved you despite all that had occurred.

I can be a monster, you thought, cupping the back of your neck with both of your hands. I will help Ren bring Rey here. I will… I will make sure Snoke dies. At what cost? But… But, if I do nothing…

Your yearning for death, for the end of this pain and the reunion with your parents, made itself known like a punch to your gut. You lowered yourself onto the floor, sitting there. It was not death, you noted. It was not that that you wanted. It was your father. You wanted him to help you, to tell you how to make it through all of this. Your father had taught you many things, but most importantly he had taught you to never give up. He had informed you of the ugliness in the world so that you would not become jaded when you encountered it.

You were surrounded by monsters that wanted you to join them. General Hux. Kylo Ren. Snoke. How many others? It doesn’t matter.

If Kylo Ren was not a Sith, you doubted that Snoke was considered to be one. He was strong in the Force, this was true. As for what he was, you did not know. And a large part of you did not care.

Any person, really, was a monster in the eyes of someone else. Admitting that to yourself hurt, while at the same time you felt a sense of relief. Peace. Had you not already told Kylo Ren that you had known you were something of a monster? You fought them. At the time of your death, you would—I love you. You flinched, pushing your palms flat against the floor so that you slid backwards. Your back hit the bedframe.

You forced yourself to remember once more how Kylo Ren had taken away your willpower. You called to mind the physical and emotional aches that had resulted from you being compelled to, as he had put it, desecrate yourself on his weapon. You touched your lower belly, your hand threatening to shift lower. You had scarred there, too. The injuries had not required stitches, no. But you had torn; your body had not been prepared for the intrusion. Had your mind not been influenced by his will, you believed that you would have torn worse. You would have been struggling.

This was the past he wanted you to let die.

Strangely…cruelly… Snoke had murdered a part of that past. No tooke hairclip, the one thing that had been yours. A small token. The first indication that you had meant anything to Ren. He thought of you even when away. Was he thinking of you now? You hated it, that your mind was on him. Not only because of the training you had received in the Resistance. This was something more…sentimental.

When the door to Kylo Ren’s quarters opened, you expected to see the man himself, if not a droid. You thus scrambled backwards and up onto your feet when the Supreme Leader entered. Behind him were two of the red guards. No, you noted; four. The set that entered behind him, and a pair who remained on the other side when the door slid closed. Whatever he planned to do, it was not something he wished General Hux to see—or hear.

“I knew that you would bring him further into the Dark. Passion has that effect.” His grin was as cruel as it had been in the throne room. You found yourself frozen in place by the Force. It terrified you that Snoke did not need to use any gestures. This spoke volumes about his power. The tall man stepped ever closer to you until he was able to touch the side of your face. You would have been trembling in fear if not for being force to remain still. “The jealousy he felt in regards to how your…father…treated you. What he had never had.

“And the conflict within him, that he wanted to take from you—a compulsion he had never felt before. The need to have power over you, to make you his. I knew you would try to kill him. Whether you fought against him or gave into him, you led my apprentice further into the Darkness, away from the idea that rejoining the flawed ideology of his parents would be anything but the fool’s errand that it is.

“You impressed me—attracting the general’s attention. I hardly had to put in more work to drive the wedge between them further. How well you’ve worked out for me.”

He had come here to gloat. He had come here…and instilled a sense of disgust over everything you had done with Ren. Not the moments wherein the two of you had acted as enemies. Snoke’s words were sullying the more tender interactions, the glimpses into Ren’s humanity.

“Ben Solo…and you…and, in time, the girl… All handed to me by the Resistance. Light is needed to build the tools that best thrive in the Dark.” Snoke pulled his hand away from you. “Skywalker will fall. The general has your Resistance on a thread. I look forward to seeing Kylo Ren fall further into the Dark… I am curious if you will at last break—be it death, or realizing that the order I will bring has always been the better choice.”

#kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren smut #three blind tooke #kylo ren imagine #elmidolfanfic #precarious harmony

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writingsofmyimagination · 5 years

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Instinct |4|

An unwelcome blast from the Captain’s trainee days comes back to the Scouting Regiment and old habits die hard

Levi x Reader

Warnings:SMUT (fingering, penetration, BDSM, Dom Levi), swearing.

Instinct: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |

Words:3379

Want to be tagged? let me know.

Not 100% happy with this chapter but I’ve been staring at it for long enough now.

Happy Reading :)

You’d be lying to yourself if you denied the small smirk etching onto your face as you dressed and felt the pangs of soreness from last night. You ventured down passed the full food hall buzzing with noise; it was easy to forget there was nearly a whole regiment here and not just the Special Op’s Squad and the newbies. There was a slight breeze in the air which toyed joyously with your hair, the new recruits should be joining you in a few minutes. You took a moment to look up at the sky high enough to ignore the walls, it was a false comfort but in the current situation it was as good as it could be.

“Ah, Corporal Y/N glad I caught you” you turned and waited a few moments for Erwin to join you.

“Are you off somewhere exciting Commander?”

“I have a meeting with Commander Pixis, I’m just about to head off. I heard about your altercation yesterday and just wanted to check in” He waited and looked at you expectantly.

“Oh, I’m sorry Commander, it won’t happen again. We’ve spoken and sorted things out”

“Well I’m glad to hear it, I would be lying if I said I didn’t expect any minor bumps with you two. But I cannot the stress the importance of us all being united at such a crucial time”

“I understand that Sir” You expected him to carry on and prepared to be scolded but it never came.

“Besides, I dare say your actions will cement your authority and strength among the regiment” a slight smile crept onto his face.

“What do you mean?”

“Well taking Levi out like that” he chuckled lightly before continuing “I guarantee no one else here or ever will have the courage or even dare to raise a hand to him, I’m sure your actions will be remembered” Before responding you had to have a light chuckle to yourself

“To be honest Commander I think I’m the only one he’ll ever let get away with such things” you stated.

“What tortures are you exposing them too today?” Erwin enquired strategically changing the topic of conversation.

“Fitness, I don’t want them to use the ODM gear as a crutch as many in the Garrison tend to do.”

“Ah, very good. Hope all goes well, I will see you later Corporal” Relieved Erwin approved of your methods you saluted him as he took his leave.

“Morning Cadets, hope you rested and ate well” You scanned all the faces trying to get a sense of their moods today.

“Ready as ever” Eren blurted out enthusiasm high. You repressed a smile as you glimpsed all the others rolling their eyes. Levi finally made it over to you still putting his jacket on.

“So today you will be doing fitness circuits so you can leave your ODM gear here” the unanimous groan indicating you’d considerably deflated their moods was heavy in the air.

“I know, I know, no one likes fitness but you must learn that while ODM gear is great you must also have good physical fitness. If you look just beside the trees” you gave them all a few seconds to follow your gaze. “That’s the start point, every 200m there will be alternating coloured markers. Red markers you will sprint at 70%, orange 50%, yellow 20% and at green you can walk”

“For how long do you expect us to do that for” Mikasa asked bluntly.

“10 laps”

“What but the laps are huge” the young Connie Springer whined.

“Look you can have me set the fitness out or Levi who’d you rather?” The recruits stripped off their gear and made their way to the start marker.

“Using me as a threat now?” Levi looking ahead at the course you’d set.

“Well it worked didn’t it, whether out of fear or respect I’m not sure but it works” you chuckled.

“I don’t care as long as the brats do what’s asked of them” Levi folded his arms maintaining his strong stance.

“Can’t argue with that logic, you do command well, they all listen to you” His eyebrow raised slightly as he gave you a sideways glance

“Ugh, I’d much rather you go back to attacking my face” he never could take compliments.

“You’d enjoy that too much, just take a compliment for Christ’s sake”

You both observed the suffering recruits in silence and for once you felt like you needed to get some things off your chest that had been clawing at you ever since you arrived.

“You know I never blamed you for what happened right? It was my choice to ignore orders and save you” His head dropped, a reluctant sigh left his lips. He contemplated for a moment and your stomach turned to knots waiting for a response.

“The worst thing was that you thought my life was more valuable than mine” The response kneed you in the stomach, you’d never expect him to reply so solemnly and with such sadness in his tone. You forgot how equally Levi valued all life and how deeply he hated innocent, fruitless deaths.

“Well considering how you turned out to be ‘Humanity’s Strongest’ I don’t see it as a bad choice” you neglected your feelings and responded more light heartedly than you wanted to. He knew you well enough to know your defence mechanisms. You watched as the frown grew deep on his forehead

“Enough of that bullshit!” he growled “I’d happily fuck that attitude right out of you”

Your lips twitched upwards at his words.

“Not a bad idea Captain” his expression rushed to mirror yours

“Is the old cabin area still there?” you inquired

“Not been touched for years” Levi responded with a hint of excitement he couldn’t contain.

“Well I guess you’ll be keeping me awake tonight then”

The day dragged, each minute longer than the last. You waited constantly for the sun to go down, you were agitated and everyone around you knew it. The lethal looks you shot to Levi at the dinner table as his hands kept wandering up your thigh never reaching where you needed them. You made little conversation, all your energies focused on not smacking him in the jaw and trying to maintain some control over your aching core. The HQ once again sipped into stillness, you avoided the creaky floorboards with expert precision. Your hands suppressing any movement of your ODM gear, Levi was waiting for you outside holding a torch and the reigns of his horse in the other. You didn’t speak as you collected your horse from the stable. The mouth of the forest was dead in front of you when you finally broke the silence.

“Race ya” you exclaimed, kicking in your stirrups and racing ahead through the trees. The heavy snorts of Levi’s stallion approaching on your left shoulder spurred you on further. The air rushing passed your ears in cold whooshes. You reached a small clearing amongst the trees and yanked at the reigns halting your horse with a loud neigh.

“Still a better rider than you Captain” you bragged, dismounting from your steed and Levi from his.

“I know you secretly hate losing” you spoke in his ear pushing him up against a tree, he tangled his hand in your hair and tugged.

“Get into that watchtower”

You separated from him and released your gear and flew up in to the tower. The wooden planks had grown dark and patchy with moss, as Levi joined you with the torch the misuse of the watchtower was even more apparent. You unhooked your gear and it clattered to the floor. You took the bag Levi had brought up and pulled out the thick blanket and flung it over the floor.

His fingers hooked through your belt loops and pulled you crashing into him, your heavy breathing seemed amplified from the silence around you as your lips battled and danced on his. He pushed you back

“Now, you will do as I say no exceptions, understand?” you responded biting your lip arched in a devilish grin.

“Turn around and take off your shirt” he ordered, that tone wreaked havoc in between your legs. You complied teasing the buttons one by one, Levi gently swept your shirt from your shoulders and it dropped to the floor. Although it wasn’t particularly cold your nipples were stood to fierce attention. You looked down to your left shoulder and followed his fingers ghosting along your shoulder delicately before crossing over to your stomach, his other hand was clamped at the back of your neck

“Don’t you move your hands” he warned, his hand sinking below your waistband. You gasped, rolled your head into his chest obediently keeping your hands at your sides.

“Good girl, now lose the rest” His hand leaving your core throbbing and untied his cravat. You stripped down to just your briefs, you felt your own eyes flash as he took off his clothes. He paused for a moment absorbing the view until the bubbling desire within him spilled over and he pounced on you. One hand firmly gripped at the sides of your throat, the other digging into your hip. The intensity of the kiss funnelled so much heat through your system your lungs could not capacitate the air you needed.

“On the floor princess!” he scowled. Levi fished out two lengths of rope from the bag.

“Hands to ankles! I know how much it frustrated you when you couldn’t have your hands on me” You wriggled subtly as he pulled of your underwear before tying your left wrist to you left ankle and the same with your right wrist, there was a small amount of length he’d given you to move but not much.

“I can’t believe I get to do this to you again” He climbed on top of you pressing his knee against you

“Levi” you breathed

“Oh you need to be louder than that brat!” his words rolled of your neck. You almost squealed as he thrust two fingers inside you. You pulled at the rope, the roughness already making work of grating on your skin.

“That’s better” he praised “You always feels so good for me”. His palm pressed onto your clit, his fingers angled up in a come hither motion but tortuously slow.

“Faster, please” you begged through your heavy breathing.

“You’re not in a position to make demands princess” He pushed in even harder dragging your back off the floor into an arch as your muscles tightened.

“Tell me how good it feels” he fished. You smiled up at his stern face, his hair had fallen across the front of his face.

“Feels like you’re out of practice” you lied, pushing into him.

“Is that so? Well I’ll guess I just have to keep you on edge a bit longer then so I can practice some more” Regret swamped you instantly, his fingers sped up inside you, consistently stroking your sweet spot, his mouth clamped onto your neck; his teeth biting at your skin. Your wrists were sore, you twisted what rope you could in your hand to bring some relief to your sore skin. His fingers left you, teetering dangerously on the edge. His tongue wrapped around your clit and you pleasantly suffered with each lick and circle, he slowed his pace. An exasperated sigh left you, you felt his mouth twist into a smile.

Bastard

He removed all contact, gripped your arm tightly and pushed you onto your side.

“You ready for me beautiful?”

The slight undertone of his affection sent you back reimagining the rare moments when you were training and he’d look at you with a certain fondness or he’d tuck your hair behind your ear with delicate fingers slyly in hallways.

“Fuck, yes!” He untied the ropes and allowed you to get comfortable, you completely ignored the ache in you limbs. He swept you hair away from your back and kissed you with soft lips. You twisted to see him lay down behind you, he swept your hair over the front of your shoulder and kissed the back of your neck before re-tying your hands behind your back. Fingertips danced eloquently down your outline ghosting over your sex before he pushed you more onto your chest and spread your spread legs just enough for him to run his cock through your arousal before slowly pushing into you.

“Fuck!” you exclaimed under your breath.

“I’ve missed hearing you say that” You was way too absorbed in how he felt to respond, his thrusts were slow and back to being torturous. He remembered your body, how your body writhed against his, how your leg muscles started to twitch as the coils wound tighter and tighter, how you clenched around him when he yanked your hair back.

He halted all movements earning nothing but protested whines and whimpers from your lips. The cool air around you didn’t affect you anymore, your own rising body heat keeping you insulated.

“You’re going to ride me until you cum, I want to see your face, I want to see you come undone and lose yourself on me” Levi was never one for much detailed pillow talk but when it happened it certainly did things.

“You must be feeling generous” you teased with a slight tinge of suspicion climbing onto his waist; a perfect willing partner, he normally played with you until the point of tears.

“I’m not as selfish as I was” he offered as an underhanded apology. Your wrists were red raw and burning you didn’t even dare try and soothe them, holding his hands you lowered yourself onto him and savoured the sensation before your hips started rocking. Levi hummed a moan, both of your movements fell into perfect sync, the sound of your moans escalating amplified by the silence flooding the area; neither of you had the capacity to care at this point. You could feel his thighs begin to tense spurring your hips into a faster rhythm racing him to the edge. His eyes were determined, focused on you despite the pleasure trying to drag them closed and roll them back

His body began quivering shortly followed by a deep groan as his cock twitched inside you. The small contractions were enough to send you tumbling of the edge into your own powerful climax.

You both redressed in silence with the occasional smirk at each other, you couldn’t deny sneaking around heated the situation.

Arriving back at the base the flicker of candles illuminating the large meeting hall was the only light remaining, you stole a glance at one another

Okay lets be quiet you thought

“I don’t think so” boomed Erwin’s deep voice as you both tried to play stealth past the meeting room door.

“Oh shit!” Levi exclaimed, rolling his eyes.

You quickly scurried into a chair opposite where Levi had flung himself with Erwin stone faced at the head of the table.

“Get the lecture over with Commander” Levi requested

“As you wish Captain” Your eyes burnt shame through the table, not once could you look up.

“This explains a lot” he stated “Why you were at each other throats so much and also why you clicked so well in the field. Also why you both nearly got each other killed, not to mention contributing to the breakdown and deaths of that expedition” Your mood sky dived further heavy with shame, Levi casually leant back in his chair and his casualness grated on your quickly souring mood.

“Convince me to allow something that has already proved fatal” he asked not really expecting an answer. The bright glow of the candles now seemed dimmer around, darkness closing around suffocating the atmosphere.

“With all due respect Commander It’s not any of your business” Levi stated. Even Erwin couldn’t suppress his eyes widening at the response.

“That was the past and we both have to live with those consequences every god damn day, we’re adults now and so what if we like to fuck to find some solace in this shit storm of a world then so be it”

Blood rushed to your cheeks at Levi’s bluntness, you could be pretty blunt but when it came to your superiors you was a model subordinate.

“Well Levi” Erwin cleared his throat “That wasn’t a response I was expecting” He looked uncomfortable and coughed and readjusted himself in his chair.

“This is the reason I requested not to go on the mission Sir” You affirmed finally speaking up even though you’d rather be crawling under a rock or throwing a punch at Levi.

Levi’s knitted brows and glare now refocused onto you

“What? You’re not coming? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, those kids …” His tone had faded dark and hearing it spoken to you released the gates holding back the guilt you’d tried so hard to suppress. Guilt, anger and embarrassment was not a healthy concoction.

“Enough!” Erwin boomed immediately silencing the room. “Right, there’s a bigger picture at hand here, if we can lure another titan shifter to capture it will be an invaluable victory to humanity. Only Levi’s squad will be in the main firing line with Eren as bait. Y/N the others are all going to have trust in the survey corps and wait, they will be blind to the plan and well those kids will need a authority to figure to keep them from questioning too much and someone to help increase their survival chances dramatically and that needs to be you” Erwin visibly released a lot of tension as he exhaled and gathered some more thoughts and stood.

“No more is to be spoken of this, if you two can remain professional and private then I can see no problem. Y/N I appreciate your reasons for not wanting to be present on this mission, our past haunts us all from time to time but we have to overcome our fears otherwise we will remain behind the walls of our mind. Think about it” With a salute he left, leaving a silent screaming silence.

“What were you thinking being so blunt with him like that, do you have any idea how embarrassing that was for me” You threw your chair back as you stood.

He replied with a forced chuckle and his gaze did not move from the floor. “I need some bloody tea” his lack of reply heated the already boiling anger, you glared at him with nothing but lava as he poured himself a cup of tea from the small desk pushed against the wall.

“For fucks sake Levi at least once acknowledge I have emotions we’re not all gifted with the emotional range of a teaspoon like you! And just maybe, just maybe consider that at times I need more from you than just a fuck”

He still said nothing,

Bastard

As soon as his lips touched the rim of his cup to take a sip you were done. You left him refusing to let him see your eyes flood themselves, every move you made was heavier. You made no attempt to sneak back to your room, your clothes were rushed off, your equipment was launched on the floor; you even ignited your lamp still with a frown across your face.

You slowly allowed the silence to consume you and steadily began slipping into a more peaceful state. A light knock at your door followed by a small creaking caused your eyes roll as you purposely rolled over facing away from him.

“Seriously Levi I’m in no mood” you warned

“Don’t be such a brat, move over!” he demanded, you responded with an exaggerated sigh but obeyed begrudgingly. Levi slipped under the duvet and pushed himself flush against you wrapping his top arm over you and resting it in between your chest. He even kissed the back of your neck triggering a single tear to fall and soak into the pillow beneath you.

“I’m sorry” he whispered.

“Sorry I didn’t quite catch that?” He gently kneed you, you felt his lips curve up against your skin.

“I seriously think you need to come on this mission, those kids will need you”

“I know” you breathed.

#attack on titan #Captain Levi #levi x reader #levi ackerman #attack on titan smut #attack on titan fanfiction #instinct #shingeki no kyojin

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smuttymess · 4 years

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bts astro soulmate reading | for binta

sign: aries sun | capricorn moon | taurus rising

lover: park jimin | soulmate: kim seokjin

This reading is for Binta, a Minimoni double bias with a terrible case of Jungkook fever which she’ll likely never recover from. I really hope to be able to meet you post-COVID/general world mayhem. Please enjoy <3

Intelligent, strong-willed, perceptive - is there anything you can’t do when you put your mind to it, dear Aries? You are a force to be reckoned with, and there is no doubt that you make an impact in all areas of your life from work, friendships, and romance. It is this fire that draws people to you, and it is pretty common to find you in the center of attention in your social world, attracting friends and lovers alike. With your rising in Taurus, you are known to be practical, valuing a slow and steady approach to life that others see and appreciate. This level-headedness when paired with your ambition, means that you are trustworthy and able to see things through to completion. Valuing constancy in your life, you are able to achieve a nice balance given your ability to stick to your guns in all matters and rarely get distracted with frivolity. While you have your insecurities like anyone else, you are able to push these aside and focus on what is in front of you, which is the entire world at your feet. Your signature Aries assertiveness and Taurus practicality are nicely complimented by your Capricorn moon, which hides a softer, more sensual side which you know how to use wisely. It is not that you are disingenuous, but rather your gentler demeanor is somewhat of an persona that you can - and do - use to your advantage. Your most powerful self exists as a strong flame simmering beneath a calm, kind exterior that is both magnetic and enigmatic to those in your orbit.

You, miss, are an opportunist. Not that this is a bad thing - its just that you know exactly what steps to take to get what you want. When you hear from a friend that Park Jimin will be in your city play at a secret show, you know at once that he is what you want. After all, you’ve been keeping tabs on him on social media and so why not shoot your shot? After all, despite your occasional self-doubt, you have an extremely high success rate. Equally alluring but seemingly aloof, it is not surprising when Jimin locks eyes with you from the stage during a particularly sexy section of the show. As with every time he is on stage, Jimin is is full Libra seduction mode, his fingers gently gripping the mic stand while fully immersed in the song. Occasionally lifting his eyes above the mic to stare at you before flashing a sly smile, you are fully aware that he is toying with you. Will you play?

In the game of flirtation, you are notoriously hard-to-get and he enjoys the chase. It is not until almost an hour after he converses with the numbers of fans that he saunters over to you, immediately disarming you with his signature irresistible charm. Your outer self wants to take things slowly, but your inner world wants to fuck him right then and there as he undresses you with his eyes. In talking to him, however, you sense an emotional depth to him that is hidden under the sultry stage persona - he is sweet, and even a little shy when met with your powerful gaze. It is this sweetness that you explore together in the hours, and eventually months, that follow this initial meeting.

Jimin, the unattainable Libra celebrity that can have literally anyone he wants, is essentially putty in your hands as you start hooking up. His ability to lean back and happily let you take the ropes further enhancing the spectrum of your Aries confidence, allowing you to really shine. You two are polar opposite signs, with you drawn to his expressive, romantic and optimistic approach to life (thanks to Jupiter in Sagittarius) and he to your passionate, determined and fiery nature. While anyone could stimulate him physically, you turn him on with mental challenges and intellect. He is mystified by you and wants to do nothing more than please you. Sex with Jimin is light, energetic, fun - a lovely escape from the intensity of your daily life. There is no such thing as a quickie with him, as he wants to enjoy every moment with you, drawing out every bit of your orgasm before licking it all up. Jimin’s teasing nature does not end on stage, and it is unlikely you will ever meet someone else more skilled with foreplay than him. His goal is to make you shed your walls and make you entirely his, if only for the moment, before engulfing you in his arms and holding you close.

Ultimately, Jimin’s popularity and flirtatious tendencies along with your equally chaotic schedules prove to be too much for your romantic relationship to withstand as you are both prone to extreme jealousy. He adores you when he is with you, but cannot give you the full commitment that your sensitive heart desires (though you may never admit it.) You find that your small arguments turn to larger ones more regularly, leaving you both unsettled and uncertain - with his Gemini moon much more sensitive to moods and irritability. When he is away, you find you spend more time worrying about his faithfulness than other areas of life, which you cannot afford to do when there is so much you want to explore and accomplish. However painful, it becomes necessary for you two to part ways - though not before fucking several more times.

It is likely that after the end of this unexpected relationship with Jimin that you seek solace in work projects, throwing yourself fully into your career. You enjoy environments where there are clear paths to growth, and the workplace is one space in which you truly excel, with an ability to work hard, accomplish tasks, and foster beneficial relationships along the way. This innate combination of intelligence and perceptiveness is what makes you one of the most successful signs of the zodiac.

This natural charisma is exactly what draws Kim Seokjin to you when you are both attending a company fundraising event at which he is a keynote speaker. Immediately upon laying eyes on him, you are drawn to his energy and charm (his Mercury in Scorpio in the spotlight.) The man knows how to work a room, in a genuine, strategic and precise manner that deeply appeals to your driven, passionate nature. Also, yes, he’s fucking gorgeous and you can’t help but imagine how he would look between your thighs. In that moment, you decide you must meet him and - in true Aries form - place yourself perfectly in his direct line of vision, effectively making sure he has no choice but to see you as he finishes shaking hands with benefactors and all the important executives. You can feel your hear race as his eyes move steadily from your eyes down the curves highlighted by your chosen dress for the evening.

Aries and Sagittarius are notoriously known for being fickle in terms of your relationships as you can quickly become bored, despite your deep desire for commitment. Soon into the dating process you realize your fiery signs may have found their match - keeping each other toes with your ability to juggle and hop between your vast interests and knowledge of everything from philosophy to travel to food, which you enjoy to the fullest. You appreciate his strength, confidence and his insatiable lust for life, which allows this less inhibited and spontaneous side of you to flourish as well, despite your initial stubbornness in wanting to follow the standard rules of dating and adhere to your rational "good girl” persona that you’ve built up over the years.

Jin takes your whole slow-and-steady, protocol-oriented mask and wholeheartedly rejects it, promptly throwing you into a whirlwind romance. Jin’s ethos is that life is meant to be experienced, savored and devoured - and he does that quite well. You’re pleasantly surprised to find yourself, on the third date, sky high in the passenger seat of a helicopter with Jin’s lips on your neck and fingers against your clit. Jin’s uninhibited spontaneity naturally extends into your sex life, which is intense, dynamic and fiery (of course). You two have no shortage of joint business events, on the way home from which you tear each others clothes off in a frenzy while he plants kisses all over your body. There is nothing that he enjoys more than hearing you moan his name into his ear, and no he does not care if it is in the back of his valet or against the floor-to-ceiling windows of whatever hotel he’s booked for the two of you that night. Jin’s range is extensive, moving from dominating and in control in the literal driver’s seat to completely submissive to your touch as your lips wrap around his cock while on your knees in front of the fireplace. While not for public eyes whatsoever, he believes sex, like everything else, is meant to be enjoyed in all ways, in all forms, and all places, and he makes you feel secure in exploring this life accordingly with him by your side - or behind, or on top.

Ultimately, as a couple, you are able to achieve great things while as co-pilots. You are a great match matched in that both of you need to be moving at all times, either towards adventure or a new goal, and require independence on a deeper, more profound level than any other sign combo in the zodiac. You approach each others’ chaotic schedules with complete understanding, knowing that soon enough you’ll be met with a black car ready to take you to the jet to meet him at whatever location he has (spontaneously!) chosen on the map and for a proper reunion. Your Taurus rising can make you prone to stubbornness, preferring to stick to your guns over taking too much risk, and Jin is able to get your out of your own way and remind you of how amazing you are - even when you are feeling less than perfect. While he can be overly blunt and brash in his approach to communication, with patience you are able to access his more romantic, serious, passionate nature of his Venus in Capricorn which gives your emotional Capricorn the tenderness and care that it craves. You see through each others’ confident exteriors into your more sensitive sides, which you are able to reveal only to those you really trust. It is important for you to live authentically and without restriction, and in each other you find someone that is equally imperfect but also constantly strives for excellence in their everyday lives. Together, you build a harmonious life with equal parts adventure, friendship, spontaneity, comfort, and unbreakable trust.

#bts #bts astrology #astrology #horoscope #horoscope reading #bts fic #fiction #park jimin #kim seokjin

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juleswolverton-hyde · 5 years

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Word by Word | 02

Genre: Fluff, Romance, University/College AU

Pairing: Graphic design student!Bangchan x Literature student!/Irish!Reader

Warnings: Swearing (but what can you honestly expect when dealing with an Irish person?)

Summary: An ancient saying dictates that polar opposites attract, which is proven once again once an introverted whiskey-loving aspiring author meets a fairly extroverted boy initially proposing to survive the loneliness brought about by academic administration together.

But soon the meaning of ‘together’ expands as personal creative worlds are explored and understanding stirs up hidden emotions.

Masterlist

Previous part / Next Part

In life, nothing goes according to plan for Fate is cruel and God is dead. There is no other explanation for the amalgamation of desperately ironical chaos which follows in the wake of the checked-in transport card going to the steady place by the window all the way in the back of the bus while blasting music. To be more precise, it comes in the form of bleached locks also lost in songs, cruel enough due to the circumstances to unapologetically settle down on the empty seat that cannot be occupied fast enough by throwing the habitual laptop bag onto it.

Oh, for feck’s sake. Alright, lass, just keep calm and read yer book. Just don’t look and... fuck, he’s looking. Calm down and fake ignorance!

Out of the corner of the eyes, a glint is beheld of jasper eyes staring interestedly at the cover of the current read, clearly trying to make out the title partially obscured by cramped with timid fingers while every thought is overrun by the scent of the widespread ocean lapping at the shore mixed with a light hint of coconut. However, impossible as it might seem, a steady yet vague focus is kept on the letters shaping the memoir of a bookseller and good faith is put in the general universally acknowledged fact that earbuds in is equal to the meaning of “leave me alone”.

Though some, like the fairly unwelcome stranger, never grasp this simple meaning.

‘Good book?’ AirPods are taken out in favour of understanding while patiently awaiting a response, continuing to gaze at a rapidly becoming distracted soul heavily debating whether or not to reply.

‘Sorry, what?’ Despite still sounding annoyed, the level of irritation is considerably lower than when speaking to another person asking the same thing and that is quite a curious occurrence for strangers are kept at bay at all costs and by any necessary means such as music.

Songs which are weirdly put to rest without hesitation.

At seeing uncomprehending brows knit together, fortunately failing to see a part of the confusion is also turned inward at a fluttering heart and discombobulated thoughts, platinum strands elaborate on the initial inquiry. A long finger rises and points at the cover of the novel in a manner that should not be deemed as cute yet is. ‘The book. Is it any good?’

Neither should speech come as difficult as it does, stuttering normally entirely out of the question as well as the want to expand on the curt reply. ‘Uhm, y- yeah. It is.’

The response evokes a bubbly giggle which miraculously turns up the temperature in the vehicle on its way to the university, surely painting cheeks with a roseate flush. Judging by the mesmerized sparkling irises staring back in unwavering contact, they do. ‘That’s not a whole lot to go on. What’s it about?’

How can I act like this? Get yersel’ together, Y/N, and act as you would during an event. Be a cold professional.

A splendid plan that is always immediately resorted to in similar situations because it offers a sufficient amount of social protection. Moreover, it nullifies any further advances pursuing the conversation as it employs the harshest coldness of politeness.

That is the case under normal circumstances.

But not now.

Now there is nothing but an oddly enchanted girl stammering while explaining the premise and cause of the diary written by a Scottish bookseller, gradually becoming more and more flustered with every word that flows from lips eager to engage. In the meanwhile, focus is kept steadily on the friendly handsome face intently listening with genuine interest, clearly doing so in delight.

‘So, uhm, tha- that’s the p- pre- premise.’

‘Huh, sounds interesting. Maybe I should read it.’

‘You should!’ The suggestion ignited a giddiness preserved for private moments with Grandfather, particularly on whiskey nights when books are the sole other companions in whose company to rejoice. ‘I- I mean, if y- ye want to. You ob- obvi- obviously don’t have to.’

‘I mean it, I’ll check it out. Wait, I haven’t even properly introduced myself. Hi, I’m Chris. Or Chan or Bangchan. Whatever you prefer.’ The last bit is added shyly, a careful smile ghosting over pale pink lips while a trustworthy veined hand reaches out.

And is taken for a strong handshake that clearly surprises the lad. ‘Y/N.’

‘That’s a firm hand.’ Both barely suppressing a gasp for different reasons, gripping digits swiftly unravel. Personally, it is because of a sense of being attacked on a womanly front while never having been bothered by it, only endeavouring to act entirely ladylike on important occasions. Until someone cannot shut their gob properly. In case of the lad smelling like a beach day, a grimace as if mourning the loss of contact flashes over the composed expression trying to look merely surprised yet fails in doing so. ‘Which is good, because it signifies a strong character.’

Distant remorse laces the elaboration on the original response, jasper eyes averting from a panicked face to the novel put down. Picking up on this, bookish fingertips rapidly retracted to a denim lap graced with the sarcastic memoir creep ever so slightly towards the edge of thighs to feel the warmth of ones still formed as if they were enveloping those that ran away.

But stop and flee once more.

Falsely calm.

Acting.

Though they are not doing so in the desire to get to know the boy showing sincere interest in a cold professionally introverted and, above all, unlovable girl.

‘Whe- Where are y- ye from?’ To keep the exchange going, a natural question follows from what has been quietly observed from speech.

‘Hm?’ Eyes wide, the brooding grim mood fades from chiselled features and morphs into curiosity due to incomprehension with a tilted head.

‘Yer ac- accent. You’re not from a- around here.’

‘No, I’m from Australia. I moved here recently to study.’ A playful grin promises that the same observation pertaining to the manner of speaking has been made as well, counterattacking the question by means of a proposing comment. ‘But you have an accent as well.’

‘I’m actually from around here, but thanks to Charles I got the good ol’ Irish accent.’ Composure has been regained entirely, mostly thanks to the fact the matter comes up frequently whenever accompanying Charlie to foreign publishing events where everyone always seems surprised to hear from the north.

‘Charles?’

‘My grandfather. He’s the one who raised me.’ Nothing is said about the family name out of a conscious disdain to be associated with a great author instead of being seen as an original person and novice writer. Although, mayhaps it is more of an unconscious endeavour since the thought of even mentioning a surname does not comes up.

‘What about your parents?’

‘I’d rather not talk about them, Chris.’ A brief look out the window shows the long line of variously branded cars in front of a steady red light letting solely up to three pass before halting the ever-growing queue, every driver showing impatience in a fashion as diverse as the range of names on the trunks. Next to the bus is a jet black Volkswagen Polo, a father driving while the mother and lone daughter are chattering away.

That could’ve been me. If only life had been different. If only I wasn’t a bastard.

‘Sorry, I didn’t know it’s a sensitive topic.’ The remorse is more prominent in display than awareness thinks to let filter through to the world, curly platinum strands leaning in apologetically despite not being at fault when reverting attention to Chan.

‘You couldn’t have known, so it’s fine.’ Regardless of sounding as if nothing is wrong, the deeply-rooted pain of being raised in a good yet different life with a father figure rather than an actual parent nevertheless colours the used tone.

Withal, and fortunately fluidly, the subject changes to something casual creating a grander sense of comfort. ‘You said you came here to study?’

To forget what could have been.

Lips part as if to protest but change their mind at the last second, going with the flow and thusly leaving the previous topic behind. ‘Yeah, I did. I’m studying graphic design, but added a literary course to my curriculum this last part of the semester. Unfortunately, all my friends have either chosen a different course or are doing a whole other study.’

‘Then you and I are on the same boat.’ Unintentionally, there is a question of teaming up through the absence of familiar faces placed in other workgroups if present at all. And it is weird it is there at all since loneliness is nothing new and actually bearable, though a little bit more when being in the company of a nice character.

‘Wanna stick together and try to survive?’

Had another person been asked this, no doubt the chance to have a familiar face for support would be taken advantage of. However, it is not so in the case of a bastard who is apparently in the way. Easy to discard, as has been made evidently clear by the monsters that should have raised her instead of the other glorious bastard under a swearing whiskey roof shared with two cats from Inferno.

Trustworthy in action, honest in words, true in sincerity of company.

Just like the aura of the newly met fellow student looking like a puppy anticipating a consenting reply, excitedly wagging an imaginary tail but trying to suppress any signs of enthusiasm under a veil of patience. Still, the gloss over cheerful eyes and pursed lips indicate hoping for the best, despairing when being denied. Henceforth, while the persuasion of attitude comes second in the factors of changing minds, the proposal is accepted gladly with the brightest contained smile that has been given to someone in a long period of time, honest in meaning. ‘I’d like that.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Despite agreeing to the plan, understanding disappointment rings in the taken on tone of speech, Bangchan pulling away barely noticeably yet introducing a familiar abyss that makes the heart sink to the deepest depth it knows.

‘What makes you say that?’ Maintaining the facade of ignorance to hide the unintentional sensitive pain, the face of a summer beach day is carefully analyzed in the hopes of finding an explanation for what has been done wrong.

Why the truth cannot be seen when it has risen from beneath the rose.

‘You seem reluctant.’ The fingers held earlier in a friendly handshake dig their nails in the fabric of the seats to hide the sadness thanks to suspected denial.

But, just this once, there is a wholehearted agreement.

An exception.

For him.

Notwithstanding, the mirage of happiness fades after being built so carefully, flowing down the melancholic stream of the consciousness forever stuck in its grasp with a lowering voice and averted focus. ‘It... it’s a bad habit. A likely wrong thinking pattern.’

‘I don’t understand. What are you thinking?’ Brows knit as the Australian boy stares on in wonder, in need of an explanation to lift the mystery of the cryptic response. In fact, the weird urgency in the inquiry hints towards honestly pondering what makes a mere stranger sympathize with Atlas.

A train of thought which is disregarded by a self-mocking comment of no importance, somberly mumbled with a shake of the head. ‘Nothing. You’ll think me a drama queen.’

Because everyone who knows the truth has judged its teller as such.

An attention seeker.

But why then is she alone?

Dismissed?

But not by Chris, in whose nice to listen to voice has slipped in strong determination underlined with personally deemed misplaced worry. However, perhaps if it is truly so, it would not be evident in the overall distressed attitude sitting on the next seat. ‘No, Y/N, I won’t. I want to know and we’ve still got a ways to go before we’re at the university anyway. Please, tell me about what’s weighing you down.’

We.

Us.

Two.

Of us.

A pleasant notice that is nullified by the knowledge of the inevitable walking away because this lie has been heard one too many times by the grandsons and sons of famed writers who are in contact with Charlie. ‘You’ll discover soon enough, Chan.’

A moment of silence passes, gazes averted and one steadily kept on the memoir of a bookseller with the need to escape and wander alone again. Dwell in familiar solitude and curl up inside it.

Running away is always easier with music. Henceforth, digits already reach towards Airpods and phone.

But are halted by slender fingers wrapping around the forearm, asking for attention with a light squeeze followed by a soft-spoken call. ‘Y/N?’ Kind happiness timidly filters through in the visage of the chatty lad when looking up again, cheerfulness forming a proposal. ‘Shall we first get some coffee after we arrive and walk to the classroom together?’

Curiously, the emphasis on the concept of together remains, thus also continuing to stress the overall paradoxical importance of the word which only enhances the wonder about why contact would want to be had at all.

Why me? Why “us”? Why “we”?

As if reading the train of thought, Chan voices the answer to the unspoken rampant inquiries. ‘Because everyone deserves to have at least someone for support.’ Teeth bite down on the lower lip, the corners of the mouth wanting to curl up but hesitating to do so. ‘And... I want to see you smile again.’

‘My smile’s fecking horrible.’

Don’t go effing and blinding. So much for that.

They shape themselves into a warm smile regardless, an adoring sentiment that filters through into sincere speech. ‘No, it’s not. Happiness looks good on you.’

The heart flutters at hearing the warmth and unknowing how to deal with the show of affection towards a mere stranger, the book which had been put to rest for a wee bit is picked up again to hide the likely very carmine flush dusting over heated cheeks. Adorable laughter sounds from behind the safe protective walls of pages, the sound enhancing the furious blush following what was surely wrongly heard but which was interpreted as a muttered under the breath “cute”. However, eyes do not shift to check the truth, having no courage to face Bangchan while being an uncharacteristic emotional mess.

The bus starts moving.

And so do we.

In music and literature.

Word by word.

#Stray Kids #SKZ #Stray Kids fanfiction #Bangchan #Chan #Bang Chan #Chris Bang

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lifeinahole27 · 5 years

Text

CS ff: “Love So Sweetly” (Part 1 of 2) (au)

Summary: If you ask either of them, they’ll both claim it isn’t their fault. It starts with feuding musicians, a pair of handcuffs, and the evolution a relationship can go through over the course of 24 hours.

Rating: E

Warnings: handcuffs?

A/N: Hello, friends. Can we talk about how fucking difficult it is to figure out the logistics of how two people would move while handcuffed together, and then to put those movements into words that other people will understand? Pain in the ass, but I hope y’all enjoy this. This was started almost three years ago for AU Week 2016, and I posted a snippet, and then never got back to it. Thanks to @xemmaloveskillianx for making @csmarchmadness so I could get back on this and finish it up. Except, of course, for the cosmic joke that is my life... It’s not finished yet. This is part 1 of 2. I will get Part 2 done as soon as I possibly can, because the end is so near I can taste it!!

And again, thanks to the whole CS March Madness Discord for being so damn lovely. I was so lucky to have you all cheering me on and entertaining me, caring when I needed that little bit of extra care (and advice), and just being all around excellent people. And a hearty thank you to my beta, @captainstudmuffin, for finding all the shit I overlooked a thousand times.

Find it on Ao3 or FFN!

-x-

The Storybrooke Music Festival has been a staple of Almost-Middle-of-Nowhere, Maine for longer than most people that attend it can remember. The tradition of the gathering, in some cases, has been passed down from generation to generation, where the kids of the rockers and attendees are now the ones rocking and attending, and this year is no different from any other.

From all around the country, bands have flocked after being invited to play – some are bigger names, some smaller, some lost in the between. Some are one-hit-wonders and others have topped the pop charts for months at a time. The thing they all have in common: they’ve gathered here because their fans nominated them and the committee voted to invite them.

Over the span of a few acres, there’s a main stage and two smaller ones, with a sprawling campground surrounding the whole thing. And then there’s the vendors and merch stands, the specialty shops that have paid to set up. During the few days that the festival takes place, it’s anybody’s guess who will be there, where the weather will fall, and what will happen.

It’s early summer, but in their particular location, that still means a pop up storm or two. The days are warm, but without the drought of mid-summer, the paths that are marked for walking are quickly turning runny with mud, which normally would be fine. Normally.

“Well, princess maybe if you didn’t want a little mud on the tires, so to speak, you should’ve avoided the music festival ring! If the lowlands here are so offensive to you, perhaps you should get back to your pampered mansion back up on the hill.” Ignore the fact that he can also access the VIP tents as a musician, but it’s the principle of the matter…

None of the parties involved remember how this all started, besides the fact that Killian Jones, one half of the small-time Hook & Crook, fell in front of the golf cart that Emma Swan and Ruby Lucas, two thirds of The Ugly Ducklings, were riding in while one of the web media teams interviewed them. To be more precise, he fell on the hood of the golf cart, after he slipped in a slick spot of mud. The hit to the hood did something, however, and now the two woman are standing outside the cart as the media team struggles to get it working again, while Emma and Killian snipe back and forth at each other.

“It’s not the mud I’m mad about. I would happily get the hell away from you if you hadn’t stalled out our damn ride, though. Why weren’t you paying attention? You could’ve gotten seriously injured, you know.” Her finger is jabbing into his chest, belying the message she was spouting off.

“Careful love, you might make a man think you cared with such impassioned speeches,” Killian tells her, toe to toe, boot to boot, in front of the stalled out cart in question. That his are knock off from a secondhand store and hers are knee high genuine leather matters little to either of them, now. He sways into her space in a tantalizing way, his arrogance getting the better of him in this situation.

In retaliation, Emma straightens to her full height. Despite being shorter than him by almost half a foot, Killian swallows. It’s not her star power. He knows damn well who Emma Swan is. He won’t admit to the tracks he listens to in his downtime, with Emma’s voice conducting his mood like a bloody maestro without even trying.

No, Emma is a powerhouse without having to stand behind her fame.

Keeping up the façade of cocksure, he knows that whatever her next move is will be the finishing blow. She opens her mouth to tear into him, but a high-pitched honking causes them to snap out of it. He actually releases the tiniest of relieved breaths after the interruption, after Emma jolts away from him, thankful that she didn’t have a chance to use that legendary sharp tongue on him. He thinks himself a proud man, but he’s not sure even he could take getting verbally filleted by one of his celebrity crushes.

“What seems to be the problem here?” The woman is one Killian has seen around the festival since the gates opened the day before. She’s older, gray hair loosely pinned in a bun and glasses hanging around her neck from a beaded chain.

“Granny!” Ruby rushes at the older woman with a bright smile. “I was wondering where you were hiding.”

“Goodness, child, there’s been no hiding involved. I’ve just been keeping feuding rock stars in line. Speaking of, this looks like some trouble.”

“It’s nothing, Ms. Lucas,” Emma says, her whole demeanor softening to the obviously familiar newcomer.

“You know to call me Granny, dear! And this doesn’t look like nothing,” she says, motioning between Emma and Killian. “This is a festival to bring all kinds of musicians together. Emma, you know that better than most since this was your first break, right?” Granny takes one of Emma’s hands in her own, smiling fondly at the blonde.

She turns to Killian next, looking him up and down once and giving him an appreciative grin.

“You look like a tall glass of trouble. You boys harassing my girls?”

“Not at all, ma’am. Just a mild stumble that began a misunderstanding,” Killian says, laying the charm thick by grabbing her free hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Mhmm, well, mild misunderstandings are solved easily enough,” she says. “I have just the thing.”

“Granny?”

There’s something in the tone of Ruby’s voice that catches his attention, and he turns to see the slightly horrified look on her face. With speed he would’ve never credited the older woman to possess, he certainly doesn’t have time to stop her before he feels the cool metal snap around his left wrist. He looks down in confusion at the chain, following the line of it to where it’s connected to the other cuff, which is now locked in place around Emma’s right wrist. When Granny managed to pass his hand over to Emma’s instead of her own is beyond him, but the older woman is moving swiftly away from them, a grin on her face.

“What – “

“Granny, you can’t!”

“Let’s see how that works for you two! Now get along and maybe I’ll take them off!”

Faster than anyone can react, Granny is back on the cart that brought her to them and she’s speeding away. Ruby runs after her, followed by Robin, who’ve both figured out that their bandmates have just been handcuffed together.

Killian and Emma, however, are still rooted in place, disbelief painted on both their faces. They make eye contact, the reality of their predicament slamming into them at the same time before they look at their rapidly disappearing freedom.

“Wait!” they call out at the same time, taking off sprinting as a unit.

How Granny manages to disappear into the crowd so quickly is beyond all of them. Of course, she does have the advantage of being on wheels where the rest of them are all on foot. It feels like they’ve been running and searching for miles, all while the crowd ebbs and flows around them.

The only thing they can really do is head back to the VIP tents with a quick flash of their badges. There’s beer waiting from them, handed over from multiple angles, and Emma and Killian both take one in their free hands and greedily gulp from the clear plastic.

“Any luck contacting Granny?” Emma asks when she’s halfway through the beer. She looks down at her boots and sniffs once in annoyance. They’re not covered, by any means, but he’s guessing she had no intentions of getting them dirty at all. His have about the same amount on them, but he’s eternally grateful that he didn’t fall in front of the cart, because he cannot imagine trying to clean up while Emma is with him. Or change, for that matter.

“None. She must not have her phone on and none of the techs will let me contact her on the walkie.”

“I’m going to kill her. You know that, right?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that,” Ruby mutters, sipping from her cup.

As they all settle in, assessing what to do next, Killian sits back and observes the people around him. The other women, he knows, are Mary Margaret and Ruby, and there’s another one off to the side on her cellphone, the stern set of her face speaking of management.

“Regina,” Emma says, catching where his line of sight is trained. “She’s our manager. She’s trying to track down bolt cutters or something. Ruby texted her on our way back up here.”

“Ah, well. Hopefully she’ll succeed. I cannot imagine having to be stuck this way for much longer.”

“You and me both, pal.”

“Killian,” he says, holding out his right hand. “Killian Jones.”

She stares at his outstretched hand for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face, before she finally relaxes and lifts her right hand as much as she can, given their situation. “Emma Swan.”

“I’m sorry for the spat earlier,” he tells her, honesty at the forefront. He genuinely can’t remember who started hurling insults first but it was bad form, all around.

Emma fidgets a little, her eyes looking anywhere but at him. “Same. It’s uh, been a long day already and the weather isn’t helping.” He knows that all too well. The temperamental showers passing through have been hell since he and Robin left New York.

Whatever Killian goes to say next is cut off when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He releases her hand to dig it out and opens the message from their friend-but-also-manager, David, who they may or may not have forgotten about in the interim.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Killian says, scrambling to chug the rest of his beer and motion to Robin. “We play in half an hour. We’ve got to get over to our stage. Now.” He’s not sure how he let the time slip away from him so fast; he’s been looking forward to nothing but this set for ages.

“What? Hey, you’re attached to someone, you know. Go easy on the tugging.”

He looks down at where he’s clearly moved without thought again, noticing at the same time that there are dual red marks on their wrists from where the metal has dug into their skin. “Please, Swan, don’t make me beg. We barely lucked into this slot, and if we don’t play then we won’t get invited back.”

Emma stares at him for the length of ten heartbeats, and then she sighs. “Fine. Let’s get going. This should be interesting.”

The trek from the musicians’ tent to the stage where Hook & Crook are supposed to play is not an easy one. For both being musically inclined, and thus, coordinated enough to play instruments, they’re both incredibly clumsy when attached to another person. The number of times they yank each other in separate directions is somewhere in the twenties by the time they reach their destination (and right on time, thankfully). Killian is convinced that they will kill each other if the cuffs aren’t removed in a timely fashion.

To say the crowd is a bit surprised at the appearance of one Emma Swan on stage is a bit of an understatement, as they first gasp in surprise, then cheer wildly when she raises her right hand (along with his left) in greeting to wave at them all.

“We seem to be the victims of a cruel and unusual social experiment,” Killian tells the audience when they get settled. His voice booms out among the audience thanks to the amplifiers, even if they aren’t as big as the ones Emma will be plugged into tomorrow on the main stage. He’s damn proud of their attendance, so now it’s important to make the performance match.

It takes Killian all of two seconds to realize the biggest oversight yet, just as soon as he goes to pick up his guitar. He realizes it’s a problem, of course, because Emma’s hand goes with his.

“Shit,” she whispers, at the same time much less pleasant words are coming from his mouth.

“What do we do?” Try as he might, there’s panic licking up his spine and bloody hell would it be so much easier if he played the keyboard or something.

“I have an idea,” she tells him, picking his darling guitar up by the neck and turning to face him for a minute. After making sure the shoulder strap is in place and his hands are where they’re supposed to be, Emma supports her hand on his forearm and otherwise turns so she’s partially behind him. It’s awkward, feeling someone standing close, and her hand will no doubt get tired, but holding it the way she is means he still has complete freedom to move his hand to play. He strums a few chords just to make sure it’ll work and gives her a look and a thumbs up.

He does his best to forget about the woman literally attached to him, which is a little hard at first. But then the music kind of takes over, as it always has with him, and he’s lost in the set list he and Robin have played for years; this is what he works for year round – this opportunity to play for this crowd, some of whom have followed their little duo for years.

To his surprise, Emma doesn’t get tired of where her hand rests, even tapping along to the beat with her thumb. After three songs, she presses her back against his and starts swaying back and forth behind him, compelling him to move as well. It becomes difficult to remain solely focused on the song he’s playing when he can feel her shimmying against him.

“It seems as though our unexpected guest likes my music,” Killian says into the microphone, turning his head just enough to smile at her as she looks over his shoulder. The crowd cheers again, and they launch into their next song, one the audience clearly knows well enough that he feels pride welling in his chest when they sing along. He knows their time is running out, but he lets the buzz of performing wash over him, enjoying the way Emma is still moving to the beat at his back.

Their last song is a crowd favorite, so while he gives the audience a moment to sing the lyrics back to him – the ones he spent hours getting just right – he takes the time to appreciate just where he is, almost forgetting about the handcuff on his wrist, and the argument from earlier. With the final notes, the crowd starts cheering and whistling, and he smiles as he leans towards the mic to thank them again for their time.

The coordinator to the side of the stage waves to get his attention, and Killian glances over expecting to see the gesture for wrapping up. Instead, he grins wide when he sees the girl asking him to stretch their set by just one more song. They’re out of songs that are ready for performance, so he’ll have to think up something quick.

“We have time for one more song, and I think we should let this one choose the tune,” Killian says, using the chain that connects them to pull Emma back around to stand next to him. She groans and rolls her eyes, but glances back at Robin. With a thumbs-up from him, she looks to Killian and raises her eyebrows.

There’s a heavy pause, one in which she’s clearly thinking of the right song that they’ll both know.

“Hold your hand up,” Emma tells him, and without further preamble, she stomps her foot twice on the stage, followed by a high five for the clap that should follow. She repeats the motion a couple times to the audience, getting them to join in with a little help from Robin, before she reaches for the mic. She keeps up the double foot stomps but lets the crowd do the claps.

He idolizes Freddie Mercury, and appreciates the way Adam Lambert sings the lyrics of the famous Queen song, but he finds he’s instantly attracted to the way Emma’s voice sounds singing the opening lines of “We Will Rock You.”

Without discussing it beforehand, they perfectly switch off between stanzas, singing the chorus together. Killian is no Brian May, but he manages a guitar solo that makes the crowd go wild as Emma stamps her foot through the end of it. The applause is a level of deafening that Killian has never heard before, having drawn even more of a crowd than they normally would’ve with those passing by who heard the song. And while they take their bows at the end and exit the stage, he knows it won’t be soon that his adrenaline wears down.

Just as they’re giving a final wave, he spots Granny on the outskirts, looking something like proud. Instead of pulling away and letting the chain drag Emma along, he grabs her hand, yelling out to Robin that he’ll meet him later if this works, and they take off running. At the stage entrance, he holds still long enough for David to unstrap his guitar. He gives one quick “Thanks, mate!” before they’re off again, running and hoping.

By the time they reach where the older woman just was, the spot is vacated, and the audience is trying to clamor around them for autographs and pictures.

“Which way did she go?” Emma’s yelling to be heard over everyone else, both of them on their tiptoes to try to see if they can spot her.

“I couldn’t tell,” Killian says, his defeated tone obvious as he turns back to her. “Should we?” The circle around them is closing fast, and they either need to break out while they still can or resign themselves to signing and smiling for a bit while the stage changes set ups.

As if noticing the people around them for the first time, Emma’s face goes from fallen to smiling. She looks at him, shrugging a little and reaching for the nearest autograph book and pen that someone’s holding out. His hand jerks along with hers, and they look at each other and sigh.

The rain that falls just a few minutes later is a blessing, because they can finally slip away as everyone else scatters at the same time. With no sense of direction, they start running, and Killian is thankful for the open yurt he sees just ahead, especially when thunder rumbles ominously much closer than he expected. He pulls Emma in just as the rainfall turns to a total deluge, and lightning flashes brightly.

By now, they’re likely postponing shows and getting festival goers to safety, so there’s no chance they’ll be moving before the storm passes, and no chance they’ll find Granny in the meantime. Other than to check the weather outside, the occupants of the yurt barely pay attention to them as newcomers. There are blankets covering the whole floor, in a circle around a young woman with an acoustic guitar, and as someone stands to close the doors on the weather outside, Killian leads Emma further in along the curved wall. They find an empty spot to settle down, both shivering from the moisture that’s soaked through their clothes.

A young woman with a mane of fiery red hair hands Killian a blanket. Her eyebrows go up and she stifles laughter when she sees the handcuffs. He’s not one to blush, and yet he feels his cheeks heating in response to whatever this woman is imagining. He opens his mouth to explain, to defend his honor, whatever – but the quiet applause for the woman playing in the center of the room cuts him off, and the woman with the blankets wanders away.

Emma smiles at him gratefully as he hands her one end of the soft fleece. Working together, they manage to get it around their shoulders, huddling close to get the most out of the material.

In between songs, he finds time to ask. “How are you holding up, Swan?”

“I’ve been better, Jones. I’ve been better. Hey um, thanks for including me in your set. That was a lot of fun.”

“Aye. I’d wager the crowd loved it just as much,” he notes. He wants to say more, to tell her how much he’s enjoyed this little adventure they’re on together. He wants to tell her how much he loves her music, and that he’s been a fan for ages. That he never meant to let their meeting escalate the way it did. She’s looking at him, her eyes darting between his, as if she’s reading his mind and can hear the words he can’t seem to speak. The set in the yurt continues, so he resigns himself to a tight-lipped smile and a nod, which she accepts with a small bob of her head. He unconsciously presses a little closer to her, not realizing how she returns the movement.

It’s several songs later that they notice the sounds from outside the yurt have quieted down, and they fold the blanket and leave it where they were sitting. Emma makes sure to snag one of the cards and demo discs that are sitting out on a small table near the entrance, something Killian failed to notice on his way in. Then again, he was mostly concerned with finding dry and safe and warm at that moment.

The long trek back to the musicians’ tent is spent in amiable silence. Neither are thirsting for conversation, but it’s not the same hostile silence they had at the beginning of this day. Someone slams into Killian, though, and the quick jolt to their wrists is enough for Killian to grab her hand again, leading her over to a merch stand somewhere halfway between where they were and where they’re going. He chooses two wrist bands at random, handing over the money and turning back to Emma before she can even question what he’s doing.

“Here, should make things a little better.” He holds one out for Emma, waiting until she’s wiggled hers on with a relieved hum before he does the same. The cold metal is no longer digging into his skin, which is the most important factor. “Shall we?”

They weave their way back to the musicians’ tent, stepping as carefully as they can through the mud that’s starting to form faster with the sudden rainfall. He’s used to festivals being a little rougher than indoor shows, so he does his best to keep his eyes on the ground and guide them through the worst of it.

When they get back to their destination, Ruby is engaged in conversation with another woman, and Killian immediately notices a disturbing pattern of managers looking very smitten with band members, or vice versa. Robin might have actual hearts in his eyes as he listens to something Regina is saying. Meanwhile, David and Mary Margaret look like they’re about five minutes from planning their wedding.

Killian looks at Emma, who looks back at him with a similar expression. She shakes her head, working her way over to where they’re all sitting and throwing her hands up in victory as their friends all turn and cheer for them.

“Where the bloody hell have you been, mate?” Robin claps him on the shoulder, and Killian would buy his concern if it weren’t for the fact that he’s sure Robin forgot he existed for a bit, there.

“We tried to track down Granny,” Emma explains. “But we were too late. Then got mobbed by fans. Then got stuck in a storm. Then ended up in a tent listening to an acoustic show.”

“Sounds like you two have had quite the adventure,” Ruby comments, her grin directed at Emma and looking something along the lines of predatory, if he had to put a name to it.

Emma hums in response, eyes narrowing as she looks at her friend. Whatever conversation they have between themselves during that moment, it’s something Killian isn’t meant to understand. Instead, he focuses on checking his social media accounts with the phone that David has returned over to him. He’d plum forgotten that he’d given it to Dave before they started their set.

He’s surprised when the biggest trending picture from the festival is one from Ruby’s account. There he is on stage, glancing over his shoulder at Emma behind him, she who has her eyes closed and is clearly mid-dance move against his back. It’s taken from the backstage area, and he didn’t even realize Ruby bothered to follow them, but he’s going to have to thank her for it later, and get the original sent his way so he can frame it and hang it up. It’s not every day you get to play a show handcuffed to someone you view as an idol. But there was the living proof of that.

“I can’t just sit here,” Ruby announces not more than ten seconds after his thoughts. “Let’s go explore!”

-x-

As far as ideas go, Ruby could have better ones sometimes. For one, she could be tracking down her heinous grandmother (who she would never claim is actually heinous in any other circumstance – the woman practically helped raise her, after all) to get a certain key to a certain set of handcuffs. She could be walking back to Storybrooke’s town limits to find her own spare key, for all Emma cares. But no, instead, her friend and bandmate is talking about how she’s apparently bored.

“Uh, Red? I’m kind of… stuck to someone.”

“So what? We bring him along. And any of the others that want to join?” She looks around at their strange group as she says it.

“Wait, wait. That’s it? You don’t have any other back up plans? A hairpin? A lock pick set? A good set of bolt cutters?” The whole group turns to look at Emma’s outburst, but no one says a word.

“I mean, you can try. But I swear those things are made of magic. They’re the only pair I was never able to bust out of without the key.”

The fact that Ruby’s been stuck in these cuffs, or that she’d been stuck in other pairs of cuffs, is no surprise to her, but it doesn’t facilitate a reaction with anyone in the circle either. Where did she find these people?

“So, we going?”

Mary Margaret visibly brightens as Ruby draws attention to her plan. “You’ll come, too?” she asks David. Ugh, even Mary Margaret has forsaken her. She knows David by reputation only; she’s met him a couple times and even likes him, but she knows that as soon as the manager turns a hopeful look towards Killian, they’re all apparently going gallivanting around the music festival.

“I guess that can be arranged. Now that Hook & Crook are done for the day, there’s really not much else for me to do,” David finally says after a wordless conversation with Killian.

“I’ll sit this one out,” Regina says, clearly taking on the air of Important Manager of an Important Musical Act.

“Count me out,” Robin says following her declaration. “I’ve had quite enough excitement for a bit.”

“Suit yourself,” Ruby says, clearly dismissing him and turning back to the rest of the crew. “Come on. There’s a Ferris wheel with my name on it.” Without further prompting, she grabs Emma’s hand and starts dragging her away. Killian isn’t quick enough to move, so his shoulder gets jolted again before Emma grabs his hand and pulls him along. She makes sure to murmur an apology to him as they exit the tent, and his quiet reply starts her heart beating like it was when they were on stage together.

That’s quite enough of those emotions, though. She’s been back and forth on the emotional spectrum since this morning, and really, some cliché pitter patter of her heart is just one step too far. So she had fun with him performing. So he’s easy on the eyes. So what? So are plenty of other men, and she’s certainly not about to one-night-stand a guy she’s literally stuck to. That just feels like asking for the key to be lost or the handcuffs to be rotted shut and then they’re just living out their days: the losers who got stuck handcuffed together and had sex once. Nope. No thanks.

Okay, so that’s a little hyperbolic, even for her. But she’s noticing that she’s getting used to the feeling of his hand in hers, and the sound of his voice as he quietly asks about the newest joiner of their group.

At the head of the pack, Ruby walks side by side with Mulan, who Emma points out to Killian as Ruby’s girlfriend. She does casual security for them as they walk through festivals such as this, so it’s Mulan who clears the path for them to walk through, herding them easily enough through the crowds and making sure they have enough space at all times. It’s clear Killian is out of his comfort zone – while he seemed to have a great amount of his own followers at their show and afterwards, and even as they sift through the crowd, he doesn’t look like he’s used to this large mass of people clambering to get selfies or autographs. Mostly, he just keeps hold of her hand and does his best to keep up.

That’s not to say they don’t stop for some of the fans. There are quite a few times where the three women just can’t ignore the people around them, and Mulan sighs in mock frustration (a smile on her face the whole time) as they linger with fans for a couple minutes at a time, trying to cover as many people as possible. They have a reputation (Emma especially) for trying to get to everyone, and so Mulan is hard on her to move along after an allotted amount of time.

What does come as a surprise is the amount of people who ask for pictures of Emma and Killian together, their handcuffed wrists held up like some kind of publicity stunt or punishment depending on what people ask. He tries to keep up with it all, and Emma gives him a quick smile before they keep moving again towards Ruby’s ride of choice.

“How’re you holding up?” she asks as they get escorted to the front of the line. There are some tiny perks to their ‘fame’ if she says so herself.

“Better than expected. That is, it’s not every day you wind up handcuffed to some beautiful celebrity and find out how the other half lives.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes as the carriage comes to a stop in front of where they’re standing. All six of them load in, and Emma tries to keep her wayward emotions in check as she ends up pressed tight against Killian’s side.

The whole grounds of the festival stretch before them, with the stages visible out one side and what feels like miles of camp grounds all around them. There are other rides, ones she doesn’t think they’ll be able to handle with two people trapped together, but she smiles as she watches them cycle through, the thrilled screams of passengers filtering all the way up to them at the top.

As the wind whips around them, Emma glances at her companions in turn. Understandably, Ruby and Mulan are huddled together, with Ruby’s arm wrapped around Mulan’s shoulders and their cheeks pressed together as they look out at their surroundings. David and Mary Margaret are holding hands, a new development judging by the nervous smiles on their faces, and they’re glancing between each other and the view. Killian, however, is looking at her. As soon as she looks back at him, he darts his eyes to the side to look out at the landscape, but there’s a hint of smile on his lips while his hair dances in the breeze. She is very aware of how tightly she’s gripping his hand, unnecessary while they’re not in motion but habit now, nonetheless.

When the ride is over, they slowly disembark to a bunch of fans waiting. The crowds at the festival aren’t quite mob mentality, so it’s something they can handle and enjoy – these small groups that just want a small introduction and a moment to say their thanks. While she may have a few more fans trying to capture her attention, Killian still has a few things to sign and fans to greet while Emma is preoccupied with her own. She smiles when she catches sight of him talking with a smitten teenage girl, enjoying the way he’s so genuine with the people around them.

To be honest, after hearing him play, she wants to look him up online, find his albums, find out who he is without… you know… talking to him. Because that’s how she is. If she asks him questions, she’ll have to answer some of the ones he has for her, and that’s not how she does things. What’s weirder is that this whole scenario should be in the realm of “SOS immediately” in trying to get him unstuck from her, but Emma can’t help but slowly adjust to it all. Is this an ideal way to meet a man? Hell no. Is she going to make the most of it? It certainly seems that way.

As Mulan starts to move them along the path again, Emma’s stomach makes a loud growl, and it’s the first time she realizes how hungry she is. “Where the hell can we find some food?” she wonders, grabbing Killian’s hand and pulling him away from the departing fans. “You okay?”

She’s very aware, all of a sudden, that they are alone again somehow. He hasn’t said anything for a minute or two and the silence is suddenly unusual coming from him. But then he shakes his head and smiles at her, blaming his momentary lapse on his own lack of food.

“Pretty sure there’s loads of places we can find something to eat, love. Let’s sail away,” he responds, swinging their hands as they go along.

There was something there she just missed, and she can feel it. There’s something he’s not saying, a lie by some kind of omission, covered up by hunger, but when her stomach rumbles away again, she forces down that part of her that can sniff out a lie like a drug-seeking dog and focuses instead on food options.

They wander from stand to stand, weighing their options and discussing pros and cons of the various food choices. As they go along, she relaxes again and finds that she’s enjoying herself way too much. It’s not often that Emma finds herself calm in the company of a relative stranger. No – usually, when it’s outside of her fans, her skin crawls at the very prospect of spending any time with someone she doesn’t know.

Add in the fact that she is handcuffed (she feels as if she cannot emphasize this enough) to said stranger… well, let’s just say that Killian Jones is lucky there wasn’t anything pointy or stabby in near reach when Granny first locked the cuffs around their wrists.

Every moment since then has been a learning experience. It took more self-control than she thought it would to be teeth-grittingly polite after their initial predicament became clear to them. But man, as soon as that bravado, tough guy act faded away, Killian has been nothing but sweet and accommodating.

“Swan, onion rings,” he says, suddenly dispelling her thoughts again as he says the most magical words someone could ever say to her. “And frozen hot chocolates.”

“I don’t know about the frozen thing. I’m already starting to get chilly again,” she says. And it’s true. She’d left her jacket in the VIP tent when they went out for their interview, but the day had been sunny and glorious to start out. Now, with the sun setting and another round of clouds moving in, she shivers. It turns out leggings and a fitted t-shirt don’t do much, especially after a good soaking from the earlier rain.

Killian halts her progress towards the food stand for a quick detour to a small merch tent nearby. The young man running it looks like he has about a thousand safety pins attached to his outfit, and a surly look on his face. But when Killian waves a twenty, the kid’s whole demeanor changes. “This for the largest size of the goth Tinkerbell jumpers, and another if you give me all the extra safety pins you can find, along with a pair of scissors.”

Emma raises an eyebrow at his request, but Felix, as he introduces himself, grabs the items Killian has requested in record time and piled them on the sticker-covered table in front of the stand. When Killian goes to cut the side of the hoodie, Emma’s stomach reminds her that she’s starving and she throws in her own money. “I’ll give you an extra twenty if you cut that and wait for us to get back.”

Suddenly, Felix goes bashful. “I’ll do it for free if you sign an autograph for my cousin. She’s the model for the logo there, and she’s one of your biggest fans.”

“Deal. Just let me grab my food and we’ll be right back,” Emma says, smiling in victory as she pulls Killian over to the food stand he’d already spotted. They come back to Felix’s tent after Emma is already halfway through her onion rings, with a grilled cheese and two waters in the bag Killian is holding. After Emma holds up her end of the bargain, making sure to also promise a selfie with the cousin in question if she’s around the following day, Felix even helps them with the makeshift outerwear, diligently pinning the top seam he cut after realizing it would be easier for her to step into it instead of pull it over.

Encased in the soft, fleecy material, and having been fed, Emma is far more comfortable than she has been since she woke up this morning. Of course, that brings a whole new predicament. How the hell are they going to sleep? Because surely, they’ll have to do that at some point. She planned on sleeping on the tour bus which is fine in a pinch, but it’s a tight fit for her. How will Killian fit in there, too, unless he’s on top of her?

Suddenly, her mouth is dry at the thought, but she’s saved from her earlier thoughts of attraction by Killian’s gasp.

“Is that Granny up there?” All she can do is keep up as he moves them in a direction, and Emma realizes as she hears a loud chiming in the distance that it’s after midnight already. A whole day gone, but was it ever truly wasted connected to Killian Jones?

-x-

See you soon for Part 2!

#cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan ff #sarah writes ff #cs march madness

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