#i used to have a crush on them (one that read CS also) but now we're just really good friends

[elytrafemme]

okay i actually have an insane amount of work to get done but to lovepost about my college best friend RQ bc since coming to college and realizing that i actually escaped the borderline unlivable conditions of my high school life i realized i'm actually really talkative (crazy that you talk a lot when people listen LMFAO) and my poor friend has had to hear like SO much shit about dan and phil. and with the other folks i talk about them to they already know who dan and phil are but my best friend never got into them and he knows the Era but it was never up his alley and yet he's been. so patient to me as i like ramble to him about the Dan is leaving me video for the thirtieth time... sometimes there is joy in being annoying Sometimes there is joy in knowing your friends don't care about WHAT youre saying but just care that you're saying it. idk i love him

[flamedraco]

c!Wilbur Redesign

This is my compromise to the current situation regarding Shubble and the speculation surrounding Wilbur. This is coming from a fanfiction writer who has always, and always will, see the CCs as nothing more than voice actors for their characters. Buckle in, this is going to be a long one. But please read all the way through. If you don't know, recently Shubble came forward with a video about how she was in an abusive relationship. And she dropped some hints because she wants people to speculate about who it is. Wants to make sure that a person with bad intentions can't get away with more bad things. A lot of people are speculating that, due to said hints and previously established crush that he had on her, Wilbur is the person who abused her. Now personally? I do not believe this. It's hard for me to believe that Wilbur would do something like that. I don't like the idea of hopping on the hate train or immediately jumping to cancel someone. So I will be waiting for real facts and confirmation before saying anything regarding the CC. A lot of the speculation doesn't make sense to me logically and I also never got the chance to see the video before it was deleted. This is not me calling Shubble a liar. I 100% believe her and my heart goes out to her completely. She doesn't deserve being treated horribly, nobody does. The situation I'm hearing she went through is a wretched thing and I will not TOLERATE people insulting her or saying that she should just say who it was. That shit is not okay and never will be okay. HOWEVER! I will NOT stop writing Wilbur's character. A little fact about me is that when I came into this fandom, it wasn't because I watched the CCs. It wasn't because I was interested in MCYT. The reason I came here was because a very close friend of mine asked me to cowrite a fic with them. At the time the only fandom we really shared even vaguely was DSMP. I knew very little about it but I knew some things. I let my friend choose the ship. They chose TNT Duo. And it's thanks to that friend that I wrote Arsonist's Waltz. That I started to adore Quackbur and wrote my most well known fic, You Were Never Meant to be a Hero. And thanks to YWNMTBAH I made so many cherished friends. It's all because of these two little characters that still have me in a chokehold even though I've been writing them for quite some time now. And that's why I can't simply let go of Wilbur's character. But regardless of my ability to separate the Cs from the CCs, for some people that distinction is harder. The CCs to me are just glorified voice actors. For other people it's harder. They can separate the characters from the content creators just fine, but this situation hits them close to home. And it hurts. So, this is my proposed solution, brought to my attention by a friend who was heavily affected by this situation, but loved the work she was doing and didn't want to have to let it go. C!Wilbur doesn't have an actual canon design. When you think about it, the only thing we have to go off of is his Minecraft skin. Something that, when you think about it, doesn't tell us much about the character at all. There is no canon design because most of what we see as "canon" is based on the CC, not the character himself. When you look at c!Wilbur, the skin, does he have an eye color? Do we know his height? What about his hair length? His build? What do we actually know about this character outside of the clothing on his back and the personality his actor gave him? And when you make an AU everything changes. From now on? My c!Wilbur design that I'll use as a baseline for most of my fics is a 6ft man with heterochromia. One eye blue, the other teal. He's going to have brown curly hair that dips just below his shoulders and a light scar over one of his eyes. Sometimes he'll have freckles because what the fuck can we tell from a Minecraft skin anyways? He wears black nail polish because why not? Slay.

I already treated him and c!Quackity like glorified OCs already. Why not further OC the glorified OCs? So what if they aren't a faithful adaptation? How can anyone say what is and isn't "faithful" when we're talking about BLOCK MEN. Make them eldritch. Make them supernatural. Make them whatever kind of hybrid you want them to be! I'll die on my Magpie!Wilbur and Shrike!Quackity hill! Give them different eye colors and let them dye their hair sometimes, I'm going to make the white streak PINK because TWINS DUO and CHERRY BLOSSOM TRIPLETS! Give your Phantom!Wilburs green eyes and glowing blood! Give your Shapeshifter!Wilburs more hair and eye colors! Do what you want because the character has no actual canon design. Go wild with your AUs and remember that you're doing this for fun. For your enjoyment. Don't conform to what someone else wants from you just because your adaption, your interpretation, "isn't the real Wilbur". The characters are what we make them. Because the reality of the situation? They are literally just blocks in a cube game. There is no canon design. Don't let the actions of some asshole ruin what you love.

[lucky-clover-gazette]

prince's gambit highlights & annotations

chapter 10

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

‘It’s an independent governance. Which is absurd. On a map, it’s a speck. But I am Prince of Acquitart, as well as Prince of Vere, and the laws of Acquitart don’t require me to be twenty one to inherit. It’s mine. There’s nothing my uncle can do to take it,’ said Laurent. And then he said, ‘I suppose he could invade.’ And then: ‘His men could wrestle Arnoul in the stairwell.’

he’s talking to damen like a friend it’s so CUTE

And kissed him, a long, slow kiss with his hand cupping Aimeric’s head. Aimeric went attractively pliant, giving himself to the kiss, his arms winding around Jord’s neck; his antagonistic nature was apparently not one he exercised between the sheets. Jord, it seemed, brought out the best in him. They were occupied, like the servants, like the soldiers in the barracks. Everyone in Acquitart was occupied. Damen slipped past, and made his way to the stables.

everyone is getting laid but damen >:( anyway time to go hang out with laurent for another secret mission

Laurent had walked a few steps from the archway, crushing flowers underfoot. Now he leaned his back against one of the broken-down stones.

LAURENT LEAN #10 YAYYYY

‘I used to come here when I was younger,’ Laurent said, ‘with my brother.’ Damen went still, turning cold, but in the next moment the sound of hoofbeats had him turning, his sword singing from its sheath.

oh this is great from both perspectives.

damen pov- laurent: i used to come here with my brother damen, mentally: oh fuck i killed your brother and you don’t know and now you’re sharing this intimate detail with me and WAIT STAND BACK I’LL PROTECT YOU eventhoughikilledyourbrotherwhoyouloved

laurent pov- laurent: i used to come here with my brother laurent, mentally: this’ll make damianos uncomfortable. but also it feels kinda nice to share with damen. dude what the fuck am i even doing.

It was women.

HOORAY WOMEN

A few men, too.

:/

Damen’s sword was taken from him, and the knife at his belt was taken too. He didn’t like it. At all.

damen ptsd hypervigilance moment (although it’s a very reasonable reaction regardless. i think the real ptsd thing here is the fact that damen doesn’t trust laurent to keep them both safe in this situation, which like, given his experiences, makes sense)

Blindfold. He barely had time to absorb the idea before Laurent acquiesced to the nearest woman.

do you think laurent is comfortable with this because he hasn’t been abused by women, and because the vaskian women don’t seem to view him as a sexual object? it’s just interesting, how every time laurent is around women he seems to noticeably relax (except vannes, although that was in the environment of the court). i can’t imagine laurent allowing this treatment from men.

Damen was a little stunned by the image. The blindfold covered Laurent’s eyes and emphasised his other features, the clean line of his jaw, the fall of his pale hair. It was impossible not to look at his mouth.

damen i don’t think this is a universal impossibility i think you just have a kink

The blindfold felt more like a requirement of submission than a precaution, because it seemed very possible to trace their steps, both for a man like himself with soldier training, and probably also for Laurent’s mathematical mind.

“there is no honor in submission” theme, but this isn’t exactly submission. they agreed to it (or laurent did for them both) knowing that it’s a demonstration of trust, rather than any kind of forced powerlessness

He thought they had shown enough trust by coming here alone, under blindfold, without weapons.

craft note (kinda): i think a lot of this situation is being used to put damen in the position akielion slaves might find themselves in. the muddy nature of submission and pacts of helplessness, being forced to lower oneself and follow commands, being used as a sexual object in a dehumanizing but not necessarily unpleasant way. there is some part of damen that takes issue—he can tell he’s being dishonored and he doesn’t like it. this is, literally, dishonorable submission. so if damen applies that new sense of empathy and understanding to akielion slaves later on... we start to see how he reaches the conclusions he does.

Halvik sat on it, watching their approach with black eyes that reminded Damen of Arnoul.

so was arnoul the child of a vaskian warrior? i guess it would make sense right? just curious why this detail was included

Laurent calmly ascended the dais and arranged himself in a languid half-sprawl beside Halvik.

laurent lean #11! love the image of this badass warrior woman sitting with like. boss ass bitch business posture. and next to her we have laurent reclining coquettishly with an invisible non-alcoholic mimosa

The liquid was milky white and harsh with the rasp of alcohol; one shallow sip, and he felt hot fire run down his throat into his veins.

me when my dad told me to try rumchata mixed with fireball christmas 2019

On the dais, he saw Laurent wave away a similar cup when it was offered to him, despite the advice he had just given Damen.

me when i tried one sip of rumchata mixed with fireball christmas 2019

Of course. Of course Laurent wasn’t drinking. Laurent surrounded himself with the opulent excesses of a courtesan, and lived in them like an ascetic. It was beyond Damen why anyone thought they were fucking. No one who knew Laurent would ever think that. Damen drained the cup.

girl what does this even MEAN. it’s so abruptly petty. i’ll take it line by line i guess??

“of course. of course laurent wasn’t drinking.” = repetition implies damen is annoyed and exasperated by laurent’s hypocrisy and immunity to social customs

“laurent surrounded himself with the opulent excesses of a courtesan [prostitute], and lived in them like an ascetic [chaste religious person].” = a previous observation damen has made. laurent can be as sexy and raunchy as he wants, but he’s also untouchable and he knows it. this probably bothers damen, whether he wants to admit it or not, because he wants laurent soooo bad.

“it was beyond Damen why anyone thought they were fucking. no one who knew Laurent would ever think that.” = “he would never want a barbarian like me. he would never want anyone at all. it’s all just an act.” (also, damen confidently asserting that he knows laurent is cute)

“damen drained the cup.” = “well if i can’t fuck him and i can’t participate in diplomacy i might as well get wasted about it”

He decided, after the third cup, that he liked the drink. It was strong and rousing, and he found himself with a new appreciation of Kashel, who was refilling his cup. She was of a similar age to Laurent, and she was attractive, her body ripened and adult.

i love how damen rarely describes someone as attractive without mentioning laurent. it’s not “she was an appropriate age for damen to court” or “she was youthful but mature in a way damen found attractive,” it’s “she’s similar in age to laurent,” which is just shorthand for “damen finds her hot” because anyone who has anything in common with laurent is therefore attractive to damen in that way. the fact that damen was doing this shit even in book 1 when laurent was actively torturing him is insane. king.

Laurent and Halvik were engaged in talk. Their back-and-forth had the rhythm of a bargain being hammered out. Halvik’s flinty stare was returned by Laurent’s impassive blue gaze. It was like watching one stone negotiate with another. He turned his attention away from the dais, and let himself enjoy, instead, the open exchange with Kashel, which was achieved without language, in a series of long, lingering looks. When she took the cup from his hands, their fingers slid together.

craft: love the juxtaposition of the two paragraphs here. two very different kinds of negotiation going on

It was Halvik who answered, in thickly accented Veretian, ‘He is smaller, and has the tongue of a cocotte. His seed will not breed strong women.’

so i googled “cocotte” and yes it’s a word for prostitute, but also for a cast-iron cooking pot. cast-iron. lmao

Laurent looked entirely undisturbed by her description. ‘In fact, my bloodline does not throw girls at all.’

laurent transcends sex for procreation to me. if he’s fucking at all, he’s doing it for the bit, for trauma recovery, or because damen did something absurdly attractive and it got him feeling amorous. it doesn’t even occur to me that this man could be involved in the process of creating a human child.

‘Is this—are you ordering me to do this?’ ‘Do you need orders?’ said Laurent. ‘I can direct you, if you lack proficiency.’

i like how he never explicitly orders it, because he doesn't have to. laurent is both doing a nice thing for damen (getting him laid) and sweetening the deal with the vaskians

also yeah laurent definitely has a thing for being instructive and condescending to damen specifically. he’s made a "i can tell you what to do" comment one too many times and now it’s sounding a little too opportunistic to be completely aloof

‘Kiss her,’ said Laurent.

freak

He didn’t need to be told what to do or how to do it by Laurent, and he proved that with a long, deliberate kiss.

so what you’re saying is that the garden scene would have been a lot more fun for damen if he was the one giving head and showing off his skills for laurent

‘You can tell Halvik that it would be my honour to lie with one of her girls,’ said Damen when he drew back, his voice low with pleasure.

HOORAY CONSENT

She was a fine, well-made young woman, and she matched him with an intensity that grew out of her laughter as she pulled at his clothes; it had been a long time since he had enjoyed a free, uninhibited exchange of pleasure.

it’s interesting to note the difference in the way damen describes this encounter to ones with laurent. he’s having fun, but he isn’t really Affected. it’s like sports. i think he has felt genuinely attached to sexual partners before, like jokaste, but this isn’t that. and the way he remarks that he hasn’t felt simple pleasure in a long time speaks to his complicated and deep feelings about his relationship with laurent.

... he roused her to the point that she became hotly, dazedly abandoned to him, which, above all things, he liked.

craft note: foreshadowing ;)

Clothes were difficult. Laces eluded him. He decided, after a few attempts, that he did not require his shirt. It was taking all his attention to hold his pants up. Laurent was asleep when Damen found his way to the correct tent, but he stirred in the furs when the tent flap opened, his golden lashes fluttering, then lifting. When he saw Damen, he pushed himself up on one arm and gave a single wide-eyed blink. Then, soundlessly, behind the press of a hand, he started helplessly laughing. Damen said, ‘Stop. If I laugh, I’ll fall over.’ Damen squinted at a separate fur pile near Laurent’s, then made his best attempt: he wove, reached and then collapsed down onto it. This seemed the pinnacle of accomplishment. He rolled over on his back. He was smiling. ‘Halvik had a lot of girls,’ he said.

craft note: i love how his drunkenness is written into his narration. the short sentences, hyperbolic "pinnacle of accomplishment" comedy. it’s great.

also, i think “laurent blinked” might be a way of pacat saying that he’s, like, recalibrating himself. it's happened a few times now. it’s adorable

When he turned his head to look, Laurent was lying on his side, head propped on one hand, gazing at him, eyes bright. ‘This is instructive. I’ve seen you put half a dozen men in the dirt without breaking a sweat.’ ‘Not right now, I couldn’t.’ ‘I can see that. You’re relieved of your regular duties in the morning.’ ‘That’s nice of you. I can’t get up. I’ll just lie here. Or did you need something?’ ‘Oh, how did you know?’ said Laurent. ‘Take me to bed.’ Damen groaned and found himself laughing after all, in the moment before he pulled the furs over his head. He heard a final sound of amusement from Laurent, and that was all he heard before sleep reached up and claimed him.

so this must have driven readers of the original livejournal serial insane. you get a chapter where damen fucks several people who aren’t laurent, and then you get this. i can still feel aftershocks from the discourse and fan response

‘Your negotiations went well?’ ‘We certainly left in possession of a great deal of new goodwill.’ ‘You should do business with the Vaskians more often.’

pffft “get me laid more often please”

Eventually, and with an odd hesitancy, Laurent asked, ‘Is it different than with a man?’

ahhh this line. i’m sensing insecurity, trauma, heterophobia, and jealousy. and he actually let himself say it out loud!

It was different with everyone. He didn’t say this aloud; it was self-evident.

i mean. maybe not to laurent

For a moment he thought Laurent was on the verge of asking him something more, but Laurent just kept looking at him, a long, unselfconsciously studying look, and said nothing at all. Damen said, ‘Are you curious about it? Isn’t it supposed to be taboo?’ ‘It is taboo,’ said Laurent. There was another pause. ‘Bastards curse the line, and sour the milk, ruin the crops, and drag the sun out of the sky. But they don’t bother me. I pick all my fights with true-born men. You should probably bathe,’ said Laurent, ‘when we return.’

actual heterophobia. i love how pacat either 1) had to ask herself what reasons a culture could have for making straightness taboo, and came up with anti-bastardry or 2) knew she wanted veretians to have the anti-bastard bias, and realized that meant they were heterophobic. it’s funny either way

Aimeric stopped short and stared at Damen. Then he looked at Laurent’s door. Then back at Damen. Damen realised he was still radiating his good mood, and probably looked as if he had fucked all night and then crawled through a passage. He had. ‘We knocked and there was no answer,’ said Aimeric. ‘Jord sent men to find you.’ ‘Is there some delay?’ said Laurent, appearing in the doorway. Laurent was coolly immaculate from top to toe; unlike Damen, he looked fresh and well rested, with not a hair out of place. Aimeric was staring again. Then, gathering his attention back together, Aimeric said, ‘The news came an hour ago. There’s been an attack on the border.’

and you know they’d do the same exact thing, and appear the same exact way, if they were actually fucking.

also!! lamen hr complaint #3, from aimeric! they were busy fucking* while the border was attacked. also, damen displayed unprofessionalism in his appearance and conduct.

*to aimeric’s understanding

[amourjins]

MOVING ON...

UNTIL! Another friend's birthday (picnic party) I got on the bus and on my way to the meet up spot (I saw some of the gang on the bus and she was on it as well) and she tells the person who was next to her to sit elsewhere so I can go to his place (you guys don't get it) Then she greeted me with such a beautiful and bright smile (≧▽≦) And then arriving at meet up spot she brought a chair for me and then she took one for her and sat next to me, and then she asked me and served me water (I can't-) Then after we went to the beach for the picnic and set up the towels, she again tells whoever was sitting mext to her to make more space so I could sit nearby◝(⁰▿⁰)◜Then I saw some seagulls and I wanted to catch one who asked if anyone wanted to come with me (She wanted!) After going in the sand and then climbed on some rocks, my friend came with us and we all sat on the sand (and they started flirting again -_-) After that we went back to the rest of the group (I was kinda pisssed about the flirting) so I sat on my own on a corner... But then she came next to me and wanted to talk with me (she said about anything as long as we would have a convo) Alright so fast forward end of the party i was happy with the interactions so I posted on my notes glue song (which was aimed at her... AND SHE LIKED THE NOTE I KNOW I'M GOING INSANE BUT LISTEN) A couple of days later she posted a story (god she was beautiful) WITH A BEEBADOOBEE SONG. Also on the same day she posted about liking someone that she can't even tell her friends (another friend from the group who know about my crush for her tried to get info but failed) Anyway I posted another note with a song and she replied to it and we started talking to the point I asked her to go out with me... She cancelled BUT I recently on insta posted some clownfish i found (i love fish) and she asked me where this was and that we should go together (just us.) If you're wondering we did go to that place on Friday, she posted about it and another friend of mine (which was like a spy) asked her if we went out on a date???? And she didn't say no????? But anyway it was really fun since after that we went to a playground and made fun of 5 year olds (sorry I had to add this detail) By the end of the "date", I was getting on the bus when she came to hug me?!?!?!? (Like pls hug me more often ma'am) And I was smiling like an idiot on the way back home... That's it for now folks (I'll keep you updated)

-🪐

STOPPP OKG ALL OF YOUR GUYS’ INTERACTIONS??? girl kiss her! (slash jay) BUT LIKE HELLOOOOOOO… shes so sweet i think i get why you fell for her tee bee eych! we love acts of service heh am i right [smirkifg tiiktok emoji] I LOVE BEABADOOBEE… no cause its a sign! the story with beabadoobee… IM AFRAID SHE WANTS U (slash jay dont listen to me) omg i may have read “clownfish” as “catfish” 😭 I GASPED BUT THEN I REREAD IT!

STOP WAIT WHAT she didnt say no??? omg.. wait bc whatt! THE 5 YEAR OLDS STOP.. me n her (‘her’ is always my crush btw) would probably do that too but then she’d tell me to stop cs she loves kids n is great with them,, frowny face emoji

OH YURP THE HUG 🙏🙏🙏 im actually rooting for u two

[snowbellewells]

Self Promo Sunday: "I Put A Spell On You (Because You're Mine)"

This mini-MC really belongs more with the October/spooky postings probably, but I wanted to get it in before I started with my November and Thanksgiving re-runs. I've always been pleased with how this late season 4 canon divergent fic turned out, and I'm trying to gain it a little more love and a few more eyes to see it. It was written right after the 4b episode "Sympathy for the DeVil" (so 4x17? 4x18?) and picks up pretty much where that episode left off. My idea for how the Darkness would lure Emma, and even how it would manifest, was way different than the way the show took it, so this is now definitely canon divergent from that point. If you read this again, or if you're seeing it for the first time, I hope you'll enjoy!

Summary: He's been watching the changes for weeks now, worrying about her well-being and the demons she's fighting... When it all goes crazy, will he be able to help her step back from the brink? (A 4B chaptered story, taking off somewhere near 4x18, and carrying on from there. CS, obviously and all the way)

***Also available from the beginning on AO3 or ff.net, if either of those are your preference...***

by: @snowbellewells

i. darkness creeps in

The deepening purplish circles under her eyes have been growing ever more pronounced, worrying him for weeks now. She is both anxious and jittery, yet bone-weary and weighed down by the cares upon her shoulders. Emma Swan surely thinks that she has hidden her stress and fatigue well, but to one who knows her (and he does know her – as well as she will allow anyone to) the strain is beginning to show.

When they part ways at night now, she tilts her face up to his, grinning a warm, secretive smile and awaiting his gentle kiss, and he tucks her hair behind her ear, cradles her cheek in his hand, profoundly happy to steal a few moments alone with her. Yet, he also finds himself near to biting a hole in his tongue to keep back his words of caution for her, his fear that she is pushing herself too hard, too far, too soon. He cannot risk driving a wedge between them or making her run – not now. She is already keeping her distance from her parents, no longer staying with them in the loft. He has gone back to his ship since the Jolly’s return to him, and so has offered her the use of his room at Granny’s – paid for the month in doubloons that the old woman bit to check for authenticity, then grinned conspiratorially, accepted, and ferretted away in some hidden pocket of her skirts. However, he wonders if Emma paces the floor all night, or haunts the library seeking answers with an equally sleepless Belle, or simply drives aimlessly for hours; whatever it is she does, he can plainly see that she is not resting.

Killian Jones is not a man afraid of much on this wide earth’s surface, but Emma turning her back on him now and walking away is a haunting phantasm that never truly leaves his mind. And it is no longer simply the pain he knows he will feel, but the fact that she needs his support more than ever. He is more afraid for her safety and her sanity than he has ever been, and he does not know what method to try.

Those worries and fears all come to a head as he skids to the edge of the cliff face, behind a stunned, crushed-looking Mary Margaret and David, where he can clearly see Emma and Henry clinging tightly to one another frantically; panting, near tears, and much too close to the drop-off, but at first glance seeming whole and unharmed. He does not know where the rotten banshee who tried taking Henry has gotten to, has missed the entire showdown due to what he knows must have been Gold’s trickery and machination with the shell and Henry’s voice. He wanted to be there and have his Swan’s back, but he feels intense relief to see that she seems to have done just fine on her own.

A rush of air brushes along his skin as Regina charges up behind him, nearly bowling them all over as she calls out her son’s name in a voice harsh with desperation, clearly having been slowed by a similar deception to the one which fooled him. Killian merely steps back so that she can see her boy has been saved and reach him.

It is only as Regina falls to her knees on Henry’s other side, pulls him into her arms, and Emma shifts back slightly, that he is hit by a jolt of fear upon getting a good first look at her face. The reddened irritation beneath her lovely eyes has taken on an even more pronounced hue, making her look angry and more than a bit unhinged. He takes a weak step forward, wishing to soothe, to comfort…but then she leans to peer over the edge. Killian realizes in a flash that Cruella must have gone off the precipice, that the villainess is truly finished, no longer a threat. However, he is frozen in place, a chill of foreboding running down his spine, when Emma turns in his direction once more.

Her gaze is unfocused, not resting on any of them, but turned inward as if contemplating what she thinks of Cruella’s demise. Killian’s heart does not truly splinter until he sees a small, ill-suited little grin of satisfaction sneak over Emma’s lips…almost as if she is pleased with what she has done.

And he knows. Knows with the sinking certainty of one who has crawled back out of the pit and still clearly remembers the darkness’ pull, that something inside of his beautiful Emma has turned. A bit of his Savior’s shining, bright light has gone out.

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @jrob64 @apiratewhopines @hollyethecurious @artistic-writer @winterbaby89 @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @resident-of-storybrooke @scientificapricot @tomeandflickcorner @ohmakemeahercules @stahlop @anmylica @justanother-unluckysoul @sotangledupinit @booksteaandtoomuchtv @xsajx @lfh1226-linda @jonesfandomfanatic @motherkatereloyshipper @eastwesthomeisbest @xarandomdreamx @kazoosandfannypacks @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @elizabeethan @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @drowned-dreamer @goforlaunchcee @shireness-says @ineffablecolors

[kazoosandfannypacks]

"Road Less Traveled" by kazoosandfannypacks

Chapter 9/12: Something New Pairing: Beauty and the Puppet (Belle/August) [with hints of CaptainSwan] Rating: General Word Count: (649/8K) Summary: [Mid Season 4 Canon Divergence.] After becoming a man again to help the heroes track down the author, August stops by the library- only to realize he now has a crush on the librarian, who's working through some complicated feelings of her own. Chapter Summary: While on their date, August and Belle talk about literature. Tags: season 4, canon divergent, fluff, beauty and the puppet, captain swan, anti-rumbelle, Author's notes: The problem with writing characters smarter than you is that sometimes you have to do research before you can write a conversation between them. The highlight of writing smart characters though is you can infodump vicariously through them. Taglist: @zahara  @kmomof4  @jonesfandomfanatic  @booksteaandtoomuchtv  @jrob64  @tiganasummertree  @anmylica  @teamhook  @undercaffinatednightmare  @gingerchangeling  @lonelyspectator  @caught-in-the-filter  @ultraluckycatnd  @cs-rylie @silver-the-phoenix @kanerallels @accidental-spice @poptart-cat-78 @kingofbr00klyn [if you’d like to be added to or removed from this list, hmu in my dms or askbox!] Also on AO3!

 "I haven't had such a good time in a while." Belle thought, August holding both of her hands as they talked about favorite authors and stories. They'd gotten started talking about literature about halfway through dinner, and the conversation was still going strong an hour and a half after they'd finished.

 "Favorite American short story?" Belle asked.

 "Ooh." August smiled. "Unsettling or parabolic?"

 "Both, if you can."

 August looked up at the ceiling for a moment, as if thinking very hard, then smiled as he came up with a response. "'Dr. Heidegger's Experiment' by…"

 "Nathaniel Hawthorne." They both said in unison.

 "You're familiar with Hawthorne's works?" August asked.

 "Quite." Belle said. "My favorite American short story is 'The Birth-Mark.'"

 "The earliest example of a modern mad scientist story." August nodded with approval. "What are your thoughts on it?"

 "A striking reminder," Belle said, "a man who strives to achieve perfection, to have it all- and in the process, he loses the thing he holds most dear, the love of his life, all because he's so intent on bottling perfection."

 "He's so intent on achieving perfection that he ignores the fact that he's got the closest thing to it." August said.

 "Exactly." Belle shook her head. "I always felt bad for Georgiana- she was everything she could possibly be and more- and she still wasn't enough for him."

 Belle didn't just know that story- she'd lived it with Rumple.

 "I always felt she deserved better." August squeezed one of her hands, apparently having noticed Belle's unease and attempting to comfort her.

 "Me too." Not willing to cast a pall on the conversation, she changed the subject. "What were your thoughts on 'Dr. Heidegger's Experiment?'"

 "People with a checkered past drink from the fountain of youth, hoping to undo their mistakes, then go back to their former adulthood at the end." August shook his head. "Hits a lot closer to home than it used to, given recent events."

 "I can imagine." Belle agreed.

 "The characters in that story thought that, by becoming young again, they could be someone new, someone less flawed- but it didn't change who they were inside. They hoped an external transformation could make them better people- when, in reality, it's an inward change that makes your transformation evident. The easy street doesn't lead to the person you want to become."

 "Interesting." Belle knew all about that too, knowing that Rumples had clearly had the opposite philosophy. "And yet it seems easy street is the road most traveled."

 "Ah," August smiled. "I take it you've read some of Frost's works as well."

 "'And that has made all the difference.'"

 August laughed at her literary reference, and she laughed as well, just because his laugh felt so welcoming.

 "Nobody else in here would've gotten that reference." Belle thought. "They all probably think we're crazy." But she glanced around and quickly realized there was no one else in the room to think they're crazy- except for Ashley, who was wiping down a nearby table, the diner was empty.

 "What time do they close here?" Belle asked August. He glanced down at his wrist, which did not have a watch on it.

 "Ten minutes ago." Ashley interjected.

 "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry." Belle said. She quickly let go of August's hands and they both began hurriedly stacking their dishes together. "We'll be on our way out."

 "No need to rush." Ashley smiled. "Just make sure you're out in the next couple hours, or my ride home's gonna turn into a pumpkin."

 Belle laughed a little as she got up and grabbed her purse, and August slid a few dollars under the stack of plates before standing up as well.

 "Don't worry, we'll get out of your hair." August told Ashley, then held his hand out to Belle.

 Belle took his hand and smiled, and they walked out of Granny's together.

[cssns]

Get to Know Me 2022!

Today we have @romanceapologist​ ! Welcome to the event, darling! 

How long have you been in the CS/OUAT fandom?

Since last year around April (my favourite author is a major Hooker, so, after seeing about 10 gifs, I found myself watching the show and subsequently entering the fandom) 

When did you start shipping Captain Swan?

Before even watching the show, honestly. I saw the wedding episode when it aired and, thought, hey, they're cute. I also thought the show must be very weird since everyone was singing, but, as soon as I watched the show and saw their first meeting, I was hooked. Pun totally intended. I also love enemies-to-lovers, so, yup, Captain Swan quickly became something I just adored. 

What drew you to this event?

The stories and art from previous years seemed amazing and I thought it would be fun - I also had a story idea on the back-burner so that helped. 

What inspired your topic?

A dream, to be honest. I frequently have weird dreams and this one was about a pirate ship and the ghost of a sea captain who lived on board, so, as soon as I woke up, one thing led to another and I was 200 words in. 

If you would like to share a snippet/sneak peek/summary of your fic or artwork, please use the space below.

"There was something about the storms that washed over Storybrooke’s shores that made Emma keenly aware the ship that sat on the harbors edge. Although not normally a superstitious person, Emma swore that, with every wave, every sudden gust of wind, every cold touch of a raindrop on her skin, that the ship was watching her. Them. The entire little town that was Storybrooke. It was as though it was cursing them, waiting for something to happen, a danger that forever lay in wait for Emma knew not what."

For our artists: What kind of art do you like to do? Picsets, painting, digital, etc? Feel free to give as much info as you like.

Mostly just moodboards. I just love sticking a few pics together to represent the story that I either read/am planning to write. It just helps me to internalise what I'm writing/reading. 

For our betas: Who/what have you beta'd before, or is this your first time? Feel free to give as much info as you like.

I actually did beta before, but only for people in my previous fandoms. One was my writing buddy as I call her (we're pen pals now), my brother who's foray into fanfiction was short lived and my fandom crush at the time who wrote some amazing stories about my previous OTP. I can't even remember their pennames, if I'm being honest, because it was about 5 to 8 years back that any of them last wrote anything. 

What are you looking forward to most about participating in this event?

Honestly just seeing what the rest of the fandom's releases are. I'm beyond excited, actually, just to see what everyone's contributions are going to be.

Welcome, @romanceapologist​ -- we are so glad to have you! :)

[rintarous]

fuckboy!suna

[ masterlist ]

kageyama | osamu | kita | tendou

my baby ++ my mind kinda loopy after reading killing stalking lmfao help me

suna the fuckboy

has a nice ring to it ngl

since he’s practically besties with the miya twins, you know this fool is gonna be accustomed to their antics

since him and the twins are like a package deal, they do shit together

even if it pains him, he’ll do it cs bro code and theyre just tight like that

at first he’s like “no wtf??” when he was first told abt the idea

but atsumu managed to convince him by saying “live a little you boring ass bitch”

and my dude LOVED it

he loved the attention

#attentionwhore

i picture him as this rich and lowkey bratty boy

so what he wants, what he gets

if he wants this specific person, he will get that person

no matter what it takes

probably already thought of 28931892 ways to get their attention

like kita, he has this appeal when he’s s i l e n t

cs he’s observing your daily actions

just like how a predator stalks its prey

how ironic it is that he looks like a fox lol

he also gets pretty bored easily

so if you’re a fling, you only last for like 2-3 business days with him then you’re out of the picture

it just works like that

if his flings decide to say the i love you word,,

he’s DEADASS just going to say “yikes”

just like the pic above ^^^

suna flings™: heart: crushed

suna: heart: breaker

its not his fault his flings fall for him hard

and i dont blame them

like he got looks, money, timid personality, etc

dream boy tbh

and then just like that, hes bored of u and now he’s onto another person

its a cycle

rinse, wash, repeat

also if you were a suna fling™ best believe you’re gonna get a few trinkets here and there

almost like a consolation gift from him that you caught his attention

LMFAOOOAOASFJSAKSAD

but if he really liked your company, he’s going to give his favorite food which is jelly fruit sticks or ice pops LMAFSKLDJAKLDJ

suna is just a big babie

but with,,,, an impressive appeal ASKJHASJD

the reason why he’s acting like this cs his great great love broke his heart

(atsumu only gave him a push to like finally let go or sumn but at least now we know this bitch has commitment issues)

to be fair, it was his fault to begin with but he never thought the day would come that you would leave him

he still remembers the day so vividly when you called him to meet up with you at the school gates

only to tell him that you were done with the relationship then u’re crying and shit and suna realized that he’s been neglecting you all this time

yeah that shit hurted huh

but what hurt you even more was the fact that after you broke up with him, he suddenly got this fuckboy reputation in school

anyway

time to time you and suna make eye contact in the hallways

as he is STILL your classmate

and you’d just roll your eyes then walk away leaving him all sad and shit

suna frowns seeing you breathing and shit without him and his mood worsens when his little suna fangirls are crowding him

bonus: atsumu: suna suna, tearing up: y/n used to call me that osamu: that’s because that’s your fucking name

a big chunk of him still wants you back

like who wouldn’t 

so maybe it was time to cut this fuckboy façade he had going on and try to reel you back in

he knows it wont be easy

HE DID NEGLECT YOU AS HE WAS GETTING BORED (of the relationship, never of u) 

not that he’d admit that or whatever haahah gotta keep that big boy pride

so one random ass day, he approaches you

“hey y/n”

“what do you want suna?” you say coldly

ouchies its been a long ass time since u called him suna

u used to call him rinrin or rin or taro or ro or babe

“aha nothing just checking up on u!!” he blurts out before he bolts out of the classroom leaving you like ????

“he’s probably already bored of his fuckboy act, tsk typical of him” you tsked, rolling your eyes as you pack shit into your bag as you move on to the next classroom 

since that interaction suna has been in a slump

where he doesnt want to do shit at all

like he just blankly stares down at all the people following, gawking over him

barely practices only unless kita forces him to

“i wonder what’s wrong with suna” osamu murmurs to atsumu as they sat down on the bleachers drinking water

“i heard he talked to y/n for the first time since their break up” atsumu replies

“he still wants her back huh” osamu comes to a conclusion 

“probably i mean, have you seen y/n? i’m surprised suna was able to sweep her away” atsumu smiles to himself, “if i were suna, i’d never let her go like fuck” 

too bad for the twins suna was listening the entire damn time

now he made it his mission to get you back

that and to get atsumu’s dirty hands off of you if he ever does get the chance to do so

suna starts small with his little plan to get you back 

like leaving anonymous letters at your locker

leaving you snacks and shit on your table when you weren’t looking

not very fuckboy of him but what else is he gonna do ???? he cant just walk up to you and call it a day 

he thinks he’s being secretive but you know your man

you caught on lmfao 

his handwriting was a dead giveaway and the fact he gives you jelly related snacks oh lord

not wanting to hurt his feelings, you just kept them for his sake

so gradually this went on for like several days

and now you get shit in your locker

homeboi still knows your password duh and u never changed it lol

you opened your locker and found a daisy sitting on top of your bento box 

tbh you were kinda touched that he still remembers the little things you like despite its been months since your break up

you felt someone staring at you and lo and behold as you turned around it was suna peeking from the corner of the hallway

(it was hard not to notice this dude is like 6′1 ft. tall) 

you caught his eye and you miraculously smiled at him

for what?? the first time in months?????

cue suna’s stomach exploding with fireworks

suna blushes and backs up from the corridor and rushes to his lunch table in peace

“ey someone’s happy” osamu comments as suna finally sits down with them

“its nothing, got a good grade at literature that’s all” suna quietly shares, still thinking about how beautiful your smile was

“pfft right.. like you’d look like you’re on cloud nine with a good grade” atsumu snickers, “who’s the lucky lady?” he wiggles his eyebrows

osamu gives him a look to which of course atsumu ignores

right off the bat you walked in the cafeteria with all your glory, with the daisy he gave you tucked in the front pocket of your blazer

suna’s eyes follows your figure as you sat beside your friends

atsumu starts whistling lowly, “dang y/l/n still looks beautiful as ever” he gives suna the side eye

and instantly suna’s mood took a 18- turn and now the dude was scowling

“i should ask her out” atsumu smirks, lowkey enjoying suna getting worked up

suna rolls his eyes and stands up and walks over to your table

“now look what you’ve done!” osamu scolds his brother

atsumu swats him away, “i did him a big ass favor” 

as you were chatting away with your friends, your friends suddenly stop talking and stared at something behind your back

“what?” you asked, turning around to see no one other than suna rintarou 

“he-”

and this mf kissed you 

IN FRONT OF EVERYONE iN THE CAFETERIA

“didn’t they break up?”

“doesnt suna have a new girlfriend right now or what?” 

hushed whispers from the inarizaki students when they basically witnessed the kiss

but you and suna didn’t care

what shocked suna is how you kissed him back

“if you wanted me back so bad then use your words, rin” you chuckled, pulling his necktie so he can sit next to you

“i’m sorry..” he squeaked, finding your hand under the table, “all i want is you and no one else” he murmurs, shying away from you

“i knew you couldn’t last being a fuckboy” you laughed, squeezing his hand. “tell atsumu his ass is done for” you rolled your eyes playfully but on the inside you were already thinking of ways to get back at atsumu

[fa-by]

Hi, Faby I'm finally free of homework. I loved your theory on all these years. I laughed at the memes. many CS say we have a version of Camila with all these years, but we don't have a similar version of Lauren but at the time that Camila and Lauren weren't together (after Camila left the group) Lauren kept thinking about Camila because she kept writing songs based on her relationship with Camila like all night. Can you make a song analysis of all night?

Hello to you, dear @camilalauren0327 👋🏼😄 I'm glad you're free from your homework 💪🏼 I'm also glad that you loved my interpretation and that you laughed at the GIFs.

So. About All Night, I can tell you it's track n° 11 of Steve Aoki's Neon Future IIIalbum. Both Laur and Steve loved the time spent together in the studio, and Steve totally loved working with her: “She’s got so many ideas and the problem is, they’re all good. She’s very meticulous. The attention to detail Lauren has is something I don’t find in many people. She’s very attentive to the detail. She’s got those ears, she’s got the sensibility and the vision, and I’m just totally inspired to be in the studio with her”.

As for the lyrics, were already there, but Laur rewrote them and wrote the bridge from scratch. Vocally speaking, she did all the backgrounds and vocally self-produced. So the vocal production? It's hers. It was her. Yeah. She's thattalented, and people still sleep on her. But anyway. Let's move on to my interpretation now, shall we?

Verse 1:

“My heart beats a little faster

When our eyes meet, in the middle of a crowded room”

Typical reaction of when we meet someone we like. You know? Heart beating fast as Laur says, along with butterflies in the stomach, cheeks blushing, palms sweating, adrenaline, dry mouth, palpitations, hot flashes, etc., etc.

“In knee deep, testing waters”

What does ‘in knee deep’ make us understand? That it wasn't an ordinary person that she just liked, but that it was a person that she really liked very much. *cough Mila*

“I've got a feeling, and I don't know what to do”

Why? Because she knew it was different and contrary to the past, she didn't know how to act.

Chorus:

“You got me paralyzed, and I think I like it”

As I think you know, ‘paralyzed’ in this case is intended as being blocked by a strong emotion (such as amazement). Mila got her paralyzed. Their situation and feelings were so strong, so deep/in knee-deep, that Laur was petrified by it. But despite this, as I said before, this was different. Unlike anything she'd ever felt before. And she liked it.

“Caught me by surprise, I'm not usually like this, no”

It caught her by surprise because she didn't expect it. And we know why she wasn't usually like that. Because she'd been in denial all her life. Because she'd always fought against these feelings.

“Got me paralyzed, don't think I can help it”

She couldn't. Even if she tried, she couldn't. She couldn't help herself.

“Why's it feel so right?”

Why did what she was taught to be wrong made her feel so good/right? Because it was. It was in general, but it was even more so with her. With Mila.

Post-Chorus:

“Let's keep this going all night

Going all night

Going all night

Going all night”

Freedom. Without thinking of tomorrow. Tomorrow's tomorrow.

Verse 2:

“The crowd fades, tunnel vision

In a daze, and the only thing I feel is you”

Because she was the only important thing. The only thing that mattered. All the rest? They were just surroundings.

“In perfect, syncopation”

Syncopation can be a rhythm, a passage, or a dance step. Syncopation in music occurs when a rhythm is unexpected and is played off-beat. It's like, an oscillation in a soft and not stiff way. It's an imbalance and prolongation of a note in the middle that creates an effect of, precisely, oscillation. Flamenco is the simplest first example that comes to mind for both musical rhythm and danced rhythm, but syncopation is used in many music styles. From the classical music of Mozart and Beethoven, to the ragtime ancestor of jazz, jazz itself, rock, metal, reggae, hip-hop, pop, house, salsa, etc.

To give you a practical example to help you understand better, count 5, 6, 7, 8 out loud three times in a row. From the fourth time, keep counting out loud and, at the same time, use the palm of your hand or the clenched fist on a surface to hear the rhythm yourself and understand how stable it is. Do this three times or even more until it’s natural for you to keep up the pace without having to keep counting 5, 6, 7, 8 out loud. Once you've done that, keep counting mentally and hit/tap 5 a little bit harder with a little pause, and then just 7, 8. It would be like: 5, no hit/tap, 7, 8.

FIIIVE, seven, eight - FIIIVE, seven, eight - FIIIVE, seven, eight.

You can slow down or speed up as you like, and this, dear @camilalauren0327 and babies, is an example of syncopation. If you guys want, to listen and understand better, I also found this for you: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-H6oXpF-tw.

But anyway. What's my point? Why explain all this to you? Because for many composers and producers, syncopation is a vital element because it helps them tie the rhythm and the melody of a song together. The use of syncopation in music in general, but more precisely in a song, makes the track different and even unique at times.

And now that you know this, Lauren did or didn't use a beautiful metaphor with a simple one-word to describe her and Mila? *she was so phenomenal and romantic 😍*

“Face to face, tell me do you feel it too?”

Sounds weird that Laur was wondering, right? Well, it actually isn't because this song is about the moment in the timeline they were in the Like Friends Dosituation. Laur was still in denial and therefore they didn't speak. She didn't know if Mila still wanted her or not, and most likely, it was just before Mila started her relationship with the mystery girl because it coincides with Lauren finally accepting herself and her feelings for her.

Chorus:

“You got me paralyzed, and I think I like it

Caught me by surprise, I'm not usually like this, no

Got me paralyzed, don't think I can fight this

Why's it feel so right?”

The difference between the first chorus and this, is the ‘don't think I can fight this’ here. As I said before and as we know, Laur had been in denial all her life and she’d always fought against these feelings, but this time it was different. Thiswas different because Camila was different. Hell, Lauren herself was different. The environment she was in was different. Different especially from home and from what she was used to there. Her feelings were different. More powerful. Nothing like the crushes she'd had on other girls in the past, and she knew, because she knew, that she was going to lose this fight. Here, or rather at the time at that moment, she was simply admitting it to herself.

Bridge:

“But maybe I should wait

Let it fall into place

'Cause I keep going over

The things that could come from me feeling this way (Way)”

She was having second thoughts here. Her fear took over. Fear is the most powerful tool in the world. It makes you do unimaginable things and it makes you not do what you really want.

“And I don't wanna play (I don't wanna play)

This emotional game (This emotional game)

But when you pull me closer

I cannot deny that I want you to stay”

BUT, she finally gave in. She overcame her fear by finally admitting to herself that she wanted her, and not just physically. The ‘stay’ is tricky because if it's read just like that, it only means a physical action, but for Camren? It means so much more. An example that comes to mind now is the ‘It's almost 2AM and I can't ask you to stay’ that we find in Feel It Twice. For them, the ‘stay’ is not just a physical action. It's deeper. It means staying with each other. It means staying/being together.

After the bridge, we have the post-bridge and then the chorus again (in which that raspy, mature high-note occurs on the “I cannot deny this love”, which honestly leaves me dead every time) which I've already explained, so that's it, dear @camilalauren0327. All Night is a song about Laur's acceptance of her feelings for Mila.

I hope you liked it, and, I don't know where you live, but I hope you're having a wonderful summer or a beginning of winter. Sending you a hug 🤗

For you guys, on the other hand, I hope you too are having a wonderful summer or a beginning of winter wherever you live 😊 I'll try to keep answering your asks whenever possible until I get home in September (damn places with no connection and only one wi-fi).

Always remember to be kind, to others and to yourselves. Be a good example. Be patient. Be safe and take care of yourselves. Don't let our ship sink. Keep shipping them, but please respectfully 🙏🏼 Sending you virtual love and hugs 🤗🤗🤗 I love you, babies. Always with love, F ❤️

[justforbooks]

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did.  But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the  answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her  right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have  you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

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Coming Soon!

Elisa’s dream was to follow in her mother’s footsteps and take the stage as a prima ballerina. And she accomplished exactly that. But when life throws her one too many setbacks, she flees back to her hometown in Waterville, Massachusetts in search of an alternative plan. And maybe a distraction. 

Which might be why she's leaping at the opportunity to run into her childhood crush by taking a Zumba class at Brooks Brothers Gym. She's been in love with her best friend’s cousin since she was ten, but fears he’ll only ever see her as that quiet, awkward teenager she used to be. She’s hoping to change that, though. Until the gym owner, Derrick Brooks, waltzes into her life and has her spinning in circles. 

Derrick is persistent and arrogant, which Elisa finds annoying, but he challenges her in ways she doesn’t expect. Despite the growing attraction they feel for each other, she keeps him at arm's length and focuses on other things, like making her childhood crush jealous. What better way to accomplish that than pretending to date Derrick? All she has to do is put on a good show. She’s performed on stage many times as a ballerina, so this should be a piece of cake, right?

What Elisa doesn’t realize, though, is that while their relationship is fake, her feelings for Derrick are real. But if her past has taught her anything, it’s that not everything is as it seems. Sometimes, what we think we want is only an illusion, leading us astray. For Elisa Roberts, she just has to see past the illusions in her path to finally see what’s in front of her.

I know I've been MIA lately. And I know I haven't updated my many MCs either, but as some of you already know, I've been working on finishing my novel I started writing two years ago. Some of you are even probably sick of me talking about it, but honestly, telling people about it and getting the word out has helped me push forward. Plus, the only way for people to know is to spread the word. So here I am spreading the word and self promoting my novel. It's finally written, and I’ll be published soon on Amazon! There will be a paperback and an ebook version. But first, I'll need your help. 

Okay, so I don't like asking for money. I've had a job since I was eleven or twelve because I hated asking my parents for money and I knew they did not have much as it was. But if life has taught me anything, it's to never be too proud or afraid to ask for help. Lord knows asking for help has saved my life. Literally. I would not be alive today if I did not ask for help when I needed it the most. 

Anyway, my husband suggested I set up a GoFundMe account for my book, and I know I can try to pay for everything myself to self publish this book, but I do not want to go broke in the process, so I went and set up an account. I'm not asking for much, my overall goal is a thousand dollars, but I don't necessarily expect to get that much. Every little bit counts. 

Even if you don't wish to donate and would rather just buy the book when it comes out, that's just as awesome! And if you can't donate or buy the book or don't want to, I will still love and appreciate you! I am already so grateful for all of you who have read my fics, commented on them, those of you who support me, encourage me, beta read for me, I am so grateful and it's because of ALL OF YOU that I had the courage to write my novel in the first place. And I'm literally crying right now so I will end this by saying thank you and by leaving you with links to my GofundMe page and my website. And if you want to, you can subscribe to my page and get updates on future books if this whole publishing thing works out. I have a second planned, which I originally wrote for captain swan as A Help Hand, and three of the characters (Harper, Audrey and Bryce) from that book have cameos in Follow My Lead.

I am tagging everyone I can think of and I will also tag people when I announce the release of the book, so if anyone wants to be tagged or untagged, please let me know. This is just a list of everyone I could think of who has either read my cs fics or showed interest in my book.

Thank you all again ♥️♥️♥️

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[peachyteabuck]

study buddy, part v

series summary: after crushing on you since freshman orientation, Natasha finally gets the guts to ask you help you pass her postmodern lit midterm, to which you agree.

chapter summary: one restaurant date, two confessions, and three grades that will make or break natasha’s degree

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader

words: 4,881

trigger warnings: overstimulation, use of a safe word, teeth rotting fluff, strap on sex, ball gags, explicit conversations about whorephobia, orgasm control, angst if you squint

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

part one, part two, part three, part four

The warmth of the sun filtered through blinds is what woke you, wrapped tight in Natasha’s arms. The sex-stained blankets were as messy as can be, some of them hugged your intertwined bodies like a tightly wrapped burrito while others were nearly falling off the bed.

It was messy, beautifully and wonderfully so. If you felt the need to move (which, of course you didn’t because who in their right mind would try to disentangle themselves from such a lovely human person) you doubt you could’ve; Natasha held you with arms too strong and heart beat too soft. You wouldn’t dare disturb her if the house was on fire; then again, if the world was burning down around you – you’d rather die in her arms than reach for uncertain safety. It’s there that you fell back into sleep, tucked under her chin and running your fingers through her hair.

Eventually the growling of your stomachs woke the both of you up, each respective organ desperate for nourishment – and the two hard-boiled eggs, sour gummy worms, gluten-free bread, and half a container of mustard wasn’t gonna cut it. The waning sun was an ominous sign of how long you’d truly gone without food, and you soon didn’t feel all that bad about poking your poor g-

Poking poor Natasha awake.

You didn’t feel all that bad poking Natasha awake as your insides beg for sustenance and your head feels light and holy shit, if you didn’t eat right then you were going to start taking bites out of her – and, for the first time, not in a fun and/or sexy way.

“Hey,” you pressed your forefinger to her nose. “Nat.” You poked the end of each eyebrow, then at various locations of her forehead. “Natasha!” Still, she remained asleep, and buried herself further into the blankets as some unconscious act of survival. “Nat.” You poked her right cheek. “Naat.” You poked her left cheek. “Naaat.” You poked each cheek with each hand at its softest part, pushing until you felt her teeth.  “Nat wake uuup.”

She just grunted and pushed you away before she nuzzled back into the covers. “Go away. I want to die here. Let me become a body without organs.”

She paused.

“Or is it organs without bodies?”

You sighed but make no move to displace her. “One, Natasha, we have the midterm coming out soon. If you do not know the original work done by two far left authors from the sarcastic critique by another far left author, I’m breaking up with you. Two, that’s not what that means and you making a vague reference to some postmodern concept does not mean I am going to stop being annoying. Three, would you like to come get dinner with me?”

Natasha shot up, flame-red hair messy and shirt disheveled – it made her look like the top of of a thicket of trees during a forest fire. Along the side of her face, you could see indentations from where her skin was pressed to the pillowcase. “Food?”

You nodded, pushing the strands from her eyes. “Yes, darling, food.”

She wiped at her face and pushed the covers from her legs, eyes half-closed. “Food.”

You picked some of the crust from the corner of her eyes. She blinked indignantly at you but made no move to stop you. “Do you care where we go?”

Natasha shook her head left-to-right silently, then moved to wipe her face once more.

“Okay. There is a very good Chinese place that I want to show you. Is that okay with you?”

Natasha nodded and made a mmhmm noise.

“Cool.”

You kissed the tip of her nose before you got up and scrounged together a passable outfit that would cover the bruises that still littered your body and shield you from the cold. After a few moments, Natasha opened her eyes wide enough to see a few feet in front of her and did the same.

There was s a wonderful silence that filled the air, the comfortable kind. Like the day of that quiz, it’s a wonderful kind of cozy – soothing and sweet.

You could get used to this…

It was a short walk to the restaurant, one you were all-too familiar with due to your many, many nights there. It was the first place you ate at on campus (that wasn’t one of the mind-numbingly mediocre cafeterias) the day you moved in and it had become some pseudo-home, the place always warm and waitstaff always nice (and always willing to let you eat as much as you pay for and abuse their free WiFi).

The menu hadn’t changed much (by “much,” you mean they’ve fixed two of the five typos) since you first started going there, so you should have already known what you want. Still, you opened the folded, laminated paper and read each item with genuine interest, just as Natasha did.

You looked up at her once and awhile just to see her again. Every time you tried to keep her out of your line or sight for more than a few seconds you’d almost burst at the seams, like a sunburst than could only be quelled by looking at her.

“What year are you?” Natasha asked, which broke your unbelievably tender train of thought.

Your brain, which was still very fried, did not compute. “What?”

She reached over to point to the Chinese zodiac calendar on your menu with one of many of her fingers that was inside you last night. “What year are you?”

You mumbled something and shrugged, fake-intense-reading as your neurons attempted to rebuild your capacity for speech. Luckily, Natasha seemed determined to continue the conversation.

“I’m the year of the dog,” she said, nonchalant, as if you were not losing your goddamn mind on the other side of the table. Your brain was fried, your mouth was gaping like a fish out of water, and were your hands shaking? What the fuck were you supposed to say? How should you respond?

Think, you fool! Think!

“There’s a feminist critical theorist who fucks her dog,” you blurted.

Natasha just smiled – god her smile was so big and wide and beautiful - and laughed. “Part of me thinks you’re lying, but part of me worries you’re telling the truth.”

You laughed then, too, smiling big as she did. It set the tone for the rest of the night, mood light and happy as the tired, probably-high waitress took your order and then brought you the food a suspiciously-short amount of time later. It was good, very good.

“And my mom turns to me and she goes,” you wrinkled your noise in an effort to properly invoke your mother’s nasally tone. “This family does not get Fs or Ds or Cs. You better fix this or else.”

Natasha almost choked on her soft drink at your impression. “You were supposed to make an omelet for a foods and nutrition class, what did she want you to do!?”

You took another bite of orange chicken before you rolled your eyes and shrugged. “I have no idea what that woman wants from me now, let alone when I was fuckin’ fourteen.”

You were both laughing as you took food from each other’s plates and swapped small stories. Natasha told you about her own coding mishaps (apparently it was easy to hack into news websites and create fake stories involving certain celebrities and a certain large bird and many, if not too many, phallic objects), you told her about the time you stress-cried in the bathroom so much the janitor kept tissues in a secret compartment for you.

One hand from each of you remained occupied as you held hands on the side of the table farthest from the prying eyes of fellow college students (as if any of them were sober enough to notice, though. Along with being great to you, the restaurant’s very greasy menu meant it was a good spot to quench munchies or quell the pain of an especially bad hangover).

A phone – your phone, you realized – vibrated obnoxiously on the other side of the table. Previously forgotten, you broke from the moment to reengage with the (seemingly) hundreds of people who were attempting reach you via text. At first you thought it’s an email from a client – but then you realized it was a text from a classmate. Specifically, the girl who sat front and center in the lecture hall you and Natasha shared.

“Who’s that?” Natasha asked.

You furrowed your brows as you texted, swallowing the last bit of food. “Oh, Lindsay from our class. She wants to know what I got on the quiz.”

Natasha then realized she never bothered to figure out her grade, and it brought all her anxiety about graduating on time and also making sure you’d never leave her and oh my god what if she failed this fucking quiz?

A few moments of soul-crushing silence passed before you put your phone back down. Natasha watched you like a cat stalking a fake mouse on a string, or a drunk mom at a Christmas party eyeing a dessert table; the drive was genuine, but the goal? Ridiculous. Absolutely, totally ridiculous.

You didn’t press her like she expected, though, didn’t even stare at her with that evil eye Natasha’s sure you got from your mother on more than one occasion. You just went back to eating your food, and put your phone back out of reach.

You noticed her staring at you when you went to borrow (steal) another piece of food from her plate.

“What?”

Natasha furrowed her brow. “Don’t you…Don’t you want to know what I got on the quiz?”

You shook your head as you stole another few bites worth of food. “Not unless you want to tell me.” You shrugged as you swallowed. “I’m not gonna, like, push you if you don’t want to tell me. I’m not my mother.”

Natasha smiled at that and left the conversation there. She was unnaturally quiet for the new few minutes as she listened intently while you told more stories and commented on the food and thought out loud about school and the rest of your life and should you go shopping soon?

Throughout all of it, Natasha remained incommunicative – to the point you started to worry.

“Are you okay?” you asked and reached across the table to put your hand over hers. She smiled, softly, before she replied.

“I really care about you, you know,” she said, low and almost inaudible. You said nothing in return. “And I’m very bad at this. I’m so bad at this. I spent a lot of my childhood in rooms with therapists who said less than I did. I’m not good at,” she waved her hands as she tried to find the right words. “I’m not great at emotions. And expressing them and telling people about them and all that shit. Okay?”

You swallowed the last tastes of duck sauce that coated your back teeth. Despite the sweet substance being a liquid, it felt like a waterfall of boulders cascading inside your throat. “Nat, I-“

“This isn’t me saying I love you, but I want…” Natasha was on the verge of crying, just as you were. She averted your gaze as she continues, staring at the booth cushion directly behind you. “I want to commit to you in some way. I like you, I like the person I am when I’m around you. And I don’t want to lose you because I was too much of a pussy to make a move.”

You said nothing, did nothing. Despite her not looking at you, you stared at her very serious facial expression and watched every muscle twitch for some signs of lying. You saw none.

“I…,” Natasha met your eyes as you spoke. Your mouth was so dry you nearly coughed – but the idea of making any sound terrified you. “I…I need some air.”

You didn’t wait for a reply as you pushed yourself out of the booth and ran out the front entrance.

Natasha didn’t wait for the door to close behind you before she chased after you. She left both of your phones and wallet at the booth, not wanting you to get out of eyeshot but also terrified of the waitstaff thinking the both of you were dine-and-dashers (and terrible ones, at that).

She followed you outside, ache in her heart an excellent distraction from the nighttime chill that dug tiny knives into her pale skin. Still, as her breath was visible in a faint fog in front her, no pain was as unimaginable as the one as losing you.

“Babe, plea-“  began, voice small and nonthreatening as possible.

You interrupted her and avoided looking into her eyes and picked at a loose thread in the sweater you were wearing – Natasha’s sweater you were wearing.

You worried it was the last time you’d ever see her again, and yet you refused to look at her. You refuse dto look at her large eyes and the bags under them, at her nimble hands – thin and agile from years of typing; at her plush lips or beautiful hair or-

Wasn’t that the cruelest irony of all? Of the cognitive dissonant fear of missing something while desperately avoiding looking at it. Still, you chose to jump off the proverbial cliff with your eyes clenched shut and nails digging into the pads of your soft palms and blood rushing in your ears louder than anything you’d ever heard in your life.

“I’m a sex worker.”

Natasha’s eyebrows furrowed and she breathed heavily, like when your mom got mad at you for bringing home that C your freshman year. “There’s-“

“I’m a sex worker. I make my own porn. I sell my nudes. It’s my main,” you sighed. “It’s my only source of income. It’s how I make money. It is how I will continue to make money. It’s how I stay mostly-independent from my very judgmental mother. It’s how I plan on staying mostly-independent from my very judgmental mother and my very judgmental family and the very judgmental world. And if you think that’s morally wrong of whatever, or that I’m some sort of sub-human, or that I’m evil, or that I should stop…”

For the first time that night, you looked her straight in the eyes. No smiling, no laughing, no wishing to see her beautiful face. Power. Authority. Truth. You tried to channel the red you saw on all those feminist theory books you’d had to read for the class that brought you and Natasha together.

“If you don’t believe in the validity of my labor I cannot and will not date you,” you were snarling as you stomped toward her until your toes nearly touched. “I’m not going to let someone who can’t love what I do love me.”

As you stood there, teeth bared and hands balled into fists, stories of rage flashed like lightning in your brain. Narratives of horror from your media studies class, of actresses whose only chance to scream was in front of a camera. If you had sharper nails, sharper teeth, glowing eyes that would be some award-winning monologue where people clap and call it “mind-blowing” and give it “five out of five stars.” You’d be a prime example of how satisfying rage can be as a subversive practice.

But no. You were no antihero(ine), no supernatural being caught on tape. You were not on the silver screen, you were not being streamed on some overpriced platform, you were not the subject of dissertations on media studies or really good articles on feminism or whatever else academics were doing with their time in tenure. You had filed-down nails and wide eyes and soft skin and an uneasy stomach and shaking hands and breath that faintly showed in the air when you exhaled. You had tears that threatened to fall. You had fear.

Natasha’s eyes flitted nervously, her lip between her teeth. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Natasha was the one to speak first. Her voice sounded as terrified as you felt – with words that were spat through a set jaw and teeth bared.

“Who hurt you?”

You took a half-step back, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What? Natasha, what the fuck are y-“

“Who hurt you?” she whispered, words like knives and eyes just as dangerous. You stepped back, almost scared of her and what she could do to you.

You were pressed against the side of the building then – you could feel the brick and mortar itching at the skin of your back through your top. “Natasha what the hell are you talking about? I don’t kn-“

“Yes,” she stepped back, but grasped at your left hand as she did so. She was a ship tethering to a dock, floating out on the water but always willing to come back to port. “Yes, you do. You know exactly who, what, I’m talking about. What they did. Just tell me who they are, and I’ll ruin their lives.”

You looked for the joke, the punchline. You looked for a glint in her eye that said she was fucking with you and was waiting for you to laugh it off. When you were in seventh grade you got asked out as a joke and the football player made the exact same facial expression you now hunt for.

But you found nothing, no teasing or set up in a larger scheme to mock you. She was serious as you’d ever seen anyone be. “What in the fuck-“

“Tell me who they are. Tell me the name of every person who ever made you feel like shit and I’ll ruin their lives. I’ll steal their identity. I’ll make it so they can never get a job, or a car, or a house again. I’ll do it in a heartbeat,” Natasha let go of your hand and held your face in her food-warm palms. “I will destroy the very existence of every person who ever made you feel like this, because you deserve someone who will protect you from all that bullshit. And I want to be that person.”

The silence was painful, almost. But also comforting. Still, you broke it so speak. “Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Natasha smiled, and pecked your lips. “Good. Now come finish my food with me, it’s getting cold and our waitress is definitely judging us.”

You broke into a fit of laughter, nearly wheezing as she guided you back inside. The food was good, even though it had cooled considerably while you were both outside – greasy and thick with flavor and hot in your mouth along with your soul and Natasha held your hand on the table and fed you with her fork and you stole bits of her food while she was distracted. At one point, Lizzo played on the restaurant soundtrack and Natasha sung low with you, and you ordered more food to take home and it was hot, too hot in your hands as you carried the large brown paper bag soaked with grease to her apartment. Maybe you were going eat the food in the morning, maybe you were going eat it later tonight. It, truly, did not really matter.

There wasn’t much time between when you put the leftovers in the fridge and when Natasha pushed you onto your knees in her (and your) (it was now shared) bedroom. There also wasn’t much time between when your knees hit the ground and when Natasha grabbed the ball gag from its place in her toy drawer.

“I’m so happy you’re mine,” Natasha cooed as she adjusted the matte black straps. She kissed at your temples when it was secured, murmuring sweet words into the top of your hairline. If there was anyone else watching you, if there were some voyeur witnessing this profession of ownership, you doubt they could hear her. The entire world could be gazing at the two of you under a microscope and they would know nothing. Wasn’t it something wonderful, to share such, dare you say it, love that cannot, will not be observed by a single being outside your pairing? “Such a pretty little thing, a beautiful little toy for me.”

You didn’t dare move, worried even a flinch would disappoint her. Even as spit began to fall down your chin and between your breasts, as it pools in the gap between your legs, you successfully resist the urge to wipe it away. Natasha walks to the end of the bed, perching herself on the covers. The silence isn’t thick or uncomfortable, rather something closer to electric, something you can feel on the insides of your nose as you sniffled.  

Slowly, she raised her right hand and crooked her first finger. You understood immediately and you got on your hands and knees to crawl across the room to her. When you reached the end of the bed you waited, obediently, for her.

Like at the restaurant – you were nearly bursting out of your skin with excitement as you awaited instruction.  

“You’re so pretty, baby,” she cooed. “Now come up on the bed and let me wreck that pussy.”

You do as you’re told without hesitation, scrambling to get on the bed and onto your back. Natasha grabbed a bottle of lube out of seemingly nowhere and poured it over the same strap from the first time she fucked you.

You moaned deeply and reached for something, anything; you whined high in your throat as she pounded into you, the bed smacking against the stained wall with each thrust.

“You’re too pretty for your own good, you know,” her voice was breathless as she spoke. “Normally I would try to keep my toys intact, try to keep them in good condition, but I just can’t seem to help myself around you.”

With each word your back arched farther, your fingers tightened around the sheets.

“F-fuck,” you moaned around the thick plastic sphere in your mouth as you tried to push your back closer to Natasha’s chest.

She grabbed your hair and bit at the curve of your ear before she spoke in a low voice that sent another wave a slick down your inner thighs. “What do you belong to?” she hisses. “Who does this pussy,” she slapped your cunt and you cried out at the stinging pain. “belong to?”

You didn’t hesitate. “You Mommy, I belong to you!”

In that moment, you wondered whether Natasha’s neighbors could hear your screams. But in the one right after, you realized you really, truly, di not give a single flying fuck what they could hear.

“Fuck yes, you’re mine,” she growled as she pressed your face into the sheets, as she loomed over you like a god would punish some human exercising an unholy level of hubris. “Don’t you fucking forget it.”

You couldn’t speak because of the ball gag – didn’t even try to – yet Natasha seemed to know exactly what you wanted to say.

“You wanna cum, love?” she cooed, still fucking into you. “You wanna cum over Mommy’s cock?”

You nodded, the whines high in your throat resembed something close to a please yes please Mommy please I wanna cum I wanna cum I wanna cum.

Just like the lube, Natasha grabbed the hitachi out of thin air before she turned it on low and pressed it to your neglected clit. It was something, it was enough, but only just so. Your muscle tensed and you wailed out as you bucked your hips, as you tried to fuck yourself harder onto the toy. Natasha notices and slows her thrusts, laughing as you become more and more desperate.

“You’re so pathetic,” she hissed. “Such a pathetic little toy. You’ll do anything to cum, won’t you?”

You nodded; words garbled.

Natasha laughed again. “Of course you would, slut. You’d do anything for me, right? You’d do anything I told you to? You’re just a mindless little toy for me, just a dumb little thing with no thoughts besides how you can please me…”

You were drooling around your gag so much it covered your cheeks and pooled on each side.

You’re blissed out, eyes glazed over and body wonderfully lax. Natasha’s isn’t done with you yet, though, because of course she isn’t. You’re now officially her girlfriend, officially hers, and maybe it’s that satisfaction or excitement or whatever in her blood but it it’s letting her stop, not now, not when you look so ethereal with a halo of sweaty hair and the sheets looking like wings and your skin practically glowing.

Not just any angel, her angel – her perfect little blessed creature, sanctified even as she degrades you in such a sacrilegious way.

“I want you to cum when I count to ten,” Natasha murmured as she pushed the sweaty hairs that had escaped their confines from your eyes. “Alright, baby?”

You nodded and tried to chase the fleeting feeling of her fingers as they dusted over your feverish skin.

She turned the Hitachi up a setting, smiling as it met your clit and you cried out.

“One,” she mumbled, rubbing the head against you in small circles. It was something, but certainly not enough.

“Two.”

Natasha knew this. She knew you didn’t orgasm all that easily.

“Three.”

Regardless, she agonizingly slowly turned the toy up a setting. Just as you feared, it remained insufficient.

“Four.”

God, nearly halfway there and you were terrified what would happen if you couldn’t cum. Part of it was exhilarating, but part of it gnawed a small hole in your stomach that left you…empty, somehow.

“Five.”

She ticked it up one, two more settings. You sighed in relief and moved your hips with what little mobility she’d allowed you.

“Six.”

She increased the vibrations again and reveled in your squeals.

“Seven.”

You cried out and wanted to beg for mercy.

“Eight.”

You didn’t.

“Nine.”

You felt like you’d forgotten how to breathe, lungs shriveled up into nothingness. It was as if you could feel each of your cells as they begged for oxygen, as your blood desperately tried to each your heart and brain.

“Ten.”

You came with a deafening scream, your whole body shaking for what feels like forever.

When you came down, your girlfriend was next to the bed, holding what you could only is another section of rope. What she planned to do with it, you had zero idea.

“How ya doin’, baby?” She asks. Natasha could sense something was off, but worried about misreading the signs.

It’s obvious she was not incorrect, though, when you tapped at your thigh three times.

Immediately, Natasha drops the toys in her hands and rushes over – untying the gag and freeing your limbs.

“What’s wrong, baby?” She scanned your body – terrified of finding blood or something worse. “What do you need?”

You swallowed what little spit you could find, your voice hoarse as you spoke. “Red,” a pause as you attempted to swallow once more. “Water.”

It was  all Natasha needed before she was rushing off to the fridge to grab a chilled bottle of the stuff and one of those reusable straws she stole from your apartment.

When she returned to the room she pulled you into her lap, keeping you upright as she leaned against the wall.

Natasha watched every muscle, every twitch as you drank from the straw. Your body seemed unwilling to move itself, relying on Natasha to hold you upright enough so that you didn’t choke. The room was silent except for the sound of your noisy swallowing (and, soon, the slurping of last droplets of water). You were about to ask for more, but Natasha found an unopened plastic water bottle within reach and held that for you, too. It reminded you of the first time the two of you fucked, and suddenly the world didn’t feel so cold anymore.

“I’m done, Mommy,” you told her when half the water was gone. “I’m good.”

“You sure, babygirl?” her voice laced with deep, genuine concern. Her eyes reflected the same emotion.

You nodded, leaning into her and rubbing your knuckles where they laid against her thigh. “I’m sure, Mommy. Thank you.”

Natasha closed the bottle and tossed it into the half-open bedside table drawer before she wrapped you in her arms. “Of course, honeybee. I’m proud of you for using your safe word, thank you for trusting me.”

You mmmed and laid there for a moment, your breathing in rhythm with Natasha. You two sat there, comfortable in the silence. If there was anything else to say, you’d say it – but for the while you enjoyed the wordless space you and her existed in.

It took a long while, after your heart had slowed and your breathing had evened out, but you eventually fell asleep in Natasha’s arms. It was peaceful, deep – somehow impossibly more satisfying than any of the other times you’d fallen asleep, even the times you’d fallen asleep with her. There, secured from harm in her arms and wrapped in blankets, you felt secure. It was indescribable, it was wonderful, it was safe. And to you, in that moment, it was heaven.

[victorie552onepiecespeedrun]

Reading One Piece pt 225: Go Go Power Rangers

Chapter 472

Thoughts:

- That would be the chapter where Straw Hats take Oars down, right

- Yup, the chapter title is “Down” cause Oars is going Down

- Fpos/cs: “The city on the moon is also named Birka. Lacking natural resources, they flew to the Blue Planet.” So that would be “Skypiea people came to Eart from the moon” theory, I think, at least according to this translation?

Does that mean Skypieans are aliens? Do you think they look like people but are totally different inside? That could be. When Oda will finally finish One Piece, he’ll probably get into the next big project and name it “One Piece: In Space!” :D. If that happen, I totally called it

- Zoro: ‘sees the most giant zombie ever’ “How about we sent it flying?” Zoro, never change

- Actually, I wonder. If they threw him high enough AND managed to drop him on the head… he would get killed by not only Ground but also His Own Mass, right? Is that how physics work? I just know the smaller the bug is, the higher it can get dropped from with no harm. Should work the other way, right?

Too bad it’s impractical. It would be great.

…Oh dear, I’m thinking like Zoro now

- “I’m super scared” we know, Usopp. You’re also super brave so whatever

- “Butt Stomp” nice attack, he just sits on them, lol

- “Tactics Fifteen!” They have tactics planned!? That’s great! Show us what you got there!

- …

- …

- I loved Power Rangers as a kid but this will not work here. I am sorry Straw Hats, I wish it did

- “The left arm isn’t docked yet! Nico Robin, what are you doing? Dock with the left arm! Hurry!” That “hurry” got me :D

- I… love this? So much :D  

- They are CRUSHED lol

- …also is Oars? He probably loves Power Rangers too

- Now Zoro is embarrassed :D he didn’t know the plan, he went with that on autopilot :D Mentally, I’m rolling on the floor laughing :D (no, I will not use that acronym, I feel too cool for it today)

- Yeah, that kind of Dumb Idea could came only from Franky/Usopp/Chopper combo :D Too bad Luffy isn’t there to participate

- Does… Zoro have a plan now? I won’t believe in anything serious right now

- Well, everyone is going with that, so let’s see

- It’s doing SOMETHING

- Oars is falling! There we go!

- “Improvised Midair Stair Building” real talk, he can’t hold onto money but beside that, Franky is peak Husband Material, right? He could fix EVERYTHING in the house! And he has such Dad vibes. He should be married to someone. Not to me, he’s too loud (also, I was never into self- insert) but to SOMEONE (Iceburg or Robin most probably I guess, I don’t know his shipping charts), he’s a Husband by his lonesome, It’s like Mandalorian without a kid, it’s just wrong

- But in all honesty, what are they doing

- Punch him! Yeah!

- They’re trying to get him concussion?

- And Sanji for finish!

- YOOOOOO They did get him to hit ground with his head!

- Is Oars down?

- Zombies watch from afar and are scared

- …He can talk, he’s not out

- Nami Is Coming!

- Lola/Laura caught her up on situation :)

- Perona is busy running away

- “I was only with Moria for fun!” …ok

- Wait, does she want to run on Thousand Sunny? That’s illegal, madam

- OH FUCK

Don’t scare me like that…! …Kuma!

rOP 224  rOP 226

[jaehyun-eclipsed]

Before I Met You | Twenty

Next Update: ~December 29, 2020

Pairing: NCT (Jaehyun, Lucas, Mark, Jaemin, Johnny) X Reader/OC

Genre: Romance, Angst, Coming of Age

Summary: Four. There were four people before I fell in love with you… Here are their stories.

Author’s Note: Hello! Sorry I’m a few days late -- was doing some finishing touches. Also, instead of having a regular update schedule, I think I’ll be sticking with letting you know when you can expect the next update!

Before I Met You Masterlist

Prev | Next

“Where are you going?” Jia asks as soon as she sees me putting on my boots.

I glance up at her as I zip up my right boot. “Grocery store.”

“Oh… by yourself?”

I’m not sure why Jia suddenly decided to ask today who I’m going to the grocery store with. Perhaps because I went last Saturday morning, never go in consecutive weeks, and certainly never go at two o’clock in the afternoon. Or she senses that I’m sneaking around her and avoiding questions like I was with Jaemin.

“No, Johnny asked me to go with him.”

“Johnny?!” she exclaims. “Why does Johnny want to go to the grocery store with you?! He seems to want to hang out with you a lot, huh?”

“I don’t know. I mean, we just played card games and talked yesterday.”

Jia’s eyes widen. “What if he likes you?!”

I shrug.

That is a good question though. What if he does like me? Then what am I supposed to do? I would go out with him, but—

“Doesn’t he have a girlfriend?” she asks. “I saw a girl here like a month ago with him. I didn’t recognize her.”

“I don’t know. He’s never mentioned any—

Shit. No. That’s what Jaemin did. Please do not let this be a repeat of Jaemin. I don’t have time for that kind of shit again.

Jia quirks her eyebrow, wondering why I suddenly stopped midsentence. “Any… what? What are you thinking?”

“Uh, he’s never mentioned anything about it. Have you ever seen her around here after that?”

“No, I don’t think so…”

I press my lips together. “Maybe they broke up.”

“What if he does like you?!” she asks excitedly. “Would you go out with him?” I blink a few times and shrug. “I guess so.”

“So you’re from Medford? That’s cool. My family drove through there once on our way to Portland. It’s nice.”

“Yeah, I like it there. You grew up in San Jose, right?”

Johnny and I walk up the hill towards a local grocery store a few blocks north from where we live. My face feels cold from the end of fall chill, but I feel strangely happy. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that I sort of have a crush on Johnny because I think he’s cute and we’re hanging out.

I’ve been asking him questions. Trying to figure out what he’s like. Trying to figure out whether he has a girlfriend... I know I could just be direct about it and ask, but it seems kind of random to suddenly say, “So, do you have a girlfriend?” when I barely know him.

We obviously know that we can’t just default to, “Oh, if he has a girlfriend, he wouldn’t be trying to hit on someone else” and immediately assume he has morals because apparently that’s not always true.

But aside from that issue, Johnny is nice and in the “getting to know you” stage, he’s decently interesting.

“Yeah. My parents and my sister moved to California a few months after I was born. So I lived with my grandparents in Korea until my parents came back to pick me up after settling down to bring me here,” he says.  

“Do you speak Korean?”

“Yeah, but it’s not very good. I can get around though.”

“I’ve been trying to learn Korean,” I say. “I can read the alphabet and say a few phrases!”

“Oh really? I could help you out sometime.”

Johnny is a year younger than me and he has a sister that’s a year older than me that goes to school in San Francisco. His dad is often traveling for work, so Johnny doesn’t see him as often when he goes home to visit his mom every few weeks. Since she’s home by herself often, she spends a lot of her time volunteering at her church, though sometimes she’ll buy a plane ticket and meet Johnny’s dad wherever he traveled for work.

It seems… lonely.

We arrive at the grocery store and I follow him around, watching him pick out his groceries and making casual small talk about our classes, our interests, and what food to buy.

I can’t help but feel flirtatious. And that’s a weird feeling to me because I never feel flirtatious. Friendly and shy, sure. But flirtatious has only ever really occurred once and I’ll never forget that feeling. I clearly like Johnny, but I’m not trying to give it away. But he asked me to go grocery shopping so that has to count for something.

“Do you want some tea?” Johnny asks, pointing to a colorful display of canned teas.

I blink several times. “Uh, sure? I can Venmo you.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” he says. “Which one do you want?”

I spot my favorite flavor near the top and without saying a word, walk over to the display and get on my tippy toes in an attempt to reach the peach tea. My fingers are just a few inches shy of reaching it. Johnny chuckles and I keep my back to him to hide my frown. He walks up behind me and easily reaches over my hand to grab the can and place it in his cart.

“You could’ve just told me which one you wanted. That’s the benefit of being short with tall friends,” he teases.

“Hey! I’m not short!”

“You’re shorter than me.”

“Everyone is shorter than you!” I retort.

He chuckles again. “Yeah, that’s true. Is there anything you need? I’m done.”

I shake my head and turn to head towards the checkout line. An Oreo display case catches my eye and my expression morphs into one of disgust.

“Cherry cola Oreos?” I say in disbelief. “That sounds gross.”

“Hey, they’re probably good,” he responds, pulling out his phone.

I shrug. “I guess they had to pass the taste test before production.”

He doesn’t respond, engrossed in whatever is on his phone. My curiosity gets to the best of me and I begin peering over. He’s looking at an ad for Muji and in the top left corner are the Facebook chat bubbles. Mine is the only one on the screen and he doesn’t appear to have any other notifications. I don’t know what this would tell me. I figure if he had a girlfriend, she would message him while he was on his excursion. Actually, wouldn’t he ask her to accompany him? Unless…?

“Hey,” I greet, placing a glass of water and a plate of sliced fruit on the table. “How’s the studying going?”

Jaehyun lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s all right. A lot of terms to remember. Strategic risk, credit risk, call-options, price insurance… hard to keep them straight sometimes.”

“Do you have any flash cards? I can help test you if you want.”

He shakes his head. “That’s okay. Maybe a little later. I’m doing some practice questions now.” He looks at the plate, grabs an apple slice, and takes a bite. “Thanks.”

“You’ve taken and passed a couple exams already. I know you’ll do great on this one,” I say, taking a seat in the chair across from him.  

“Yeah, but I had to take one of those exams multiple times.”

“So? You still passed. That’s all that matters. And now you’re on your way to becoming a certified financial planner! You’re doing great!”

Jaehyun smiles a bit. “I’d really like to pass this one the first time…”

“I’m sure with all the studying you’re doing, you’ll be fine. You still have a few weeks to get it down.”

“Yeah, but I have to work too…”

I chuckle lightly. “I don’t know how you do it. But you amaze me every day. Work, study, and pass these exams.”

“Honestly, I don’t really know either.” Jaehyun leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “We should take a vacation after this.”  

I clap my hands together. “Let’s go somewhere warm after I finish finals! Last vacation during law school because next semester it’s finals and then the bar exam.” I press my lips together and frown. “Tests. Always another test!”

“Are you coming in here to study?”

“Hm? Oh, I need to make a call to Siwon first. Why? Do you need something?”

Jaehyun smiles and shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh, okay,” I say as I get up from my seat. “Then I’ll—

“I just like it when you’re with me.”

I started spending more time downstairs with Chaeyoung and Shotaro. We’d sit in a comfortable silence to study and then chat over dinner. Occasionally Johnny would come down to join us. Though recently, he had been cooped up in his room trying to finish the last CS projects of the semester with Hendery. So we didn’t see each other as much, but he did message me frequently to see how I was doing and ate dinner downstairs with the rest of us.

Within a matter of weeks, classes ended and dead week was upon us. Now it was a week of intense cramming and poor diet followed by finals and then a few weeks to relax before doing it all over again. It’s like a hamster wheel… constantly running, only to find out you receive a piece of paper for your endeavors.

After finishing lunch in the dining room, I pack up my laptop and notebooks to set out for a psych review session and a few hours of library study for genetics. Johnny walks in and sits down at the neighboring table, thoughtfully watching me as I place my belongings into my bag.

“Where you going?” he finally asks.

“I have a review session for my psych class at two and then I’m going to study in the library until five or so.”

“Oh, where is it?

“In the life sciences building.”

“Oh.” He shifts around in his chair a bit and begins biting the inside of his lip. “Are you staying in the life science building after that?”

“Yeah, that’s the library I like.”

“Oh, okay. Maybe I should check it out.”

“It’s nice. It’s smaller and they usually have space.”

I glance at him, expecting him to ask to join me in the library, but when he doesn’t, I mentally shrug and throw my backpack over my shoulder.

“See you later,” I say, heading towards the door.

“Bye.”

At the review session, I scan the room and sit down next to an old dorm floormate. She doesn’t notice when I sit down, furiously texting someone with a furrowed brow.

“Ugh!” she groans.

“Everything okay?” I ask out of obligation.

“My boyfriend is being stupid.” She puts her phone back in her pocket. “I kinda think he’s cheating on me.”  

I bite my lip and nod in acknowledgement. “Boys suck.”

“Tell me about it.”

I pull out my own phone to avoid any further divulgence and see a message notification.

Johnny: you said youre gonna study at the library after your review session right?

Heh. It sounds like someone’s too afraid to ask in person.

Me: Yeah

J: when does it end? can I join you? I wanna go study at the library but I don’t wanna get lost lol

My forehead creases in confusion upon reading Johnny’s reasoning. Get lost? How would you get lost?

Me: It’s over at 3 and yeah

Me: Just meet me in front of the library at 3

I’m holding back a smile. I wanted to go to the library with Johnny, but I also didn’t want to be the one to ask. To some extent, this was a test for him. To test his attraction? I like being chased just as much as the next person and if the opportunity presents itself to spend time with Johnny, then all the better.

J: ok! See u then! 

An hour later, I exit the lecture hall and start walking to the other side of the building towards the library. Johnny’s tall figure is leaning against the railing in front of the entrance. He’s wearing a gray baseball cap and holding a textbook against his left thigh while using his other hand to scroll through something on his phone. I walk up to him and looks up from his phone.

“Hey!” he greets. “How was the review session?”

I shrug. “It was all right.” I gesture my head towards the library. “Ready to go in?”

He nods and I start walking into the library with him following slightly behind.

“Whoa,” he whispers, lightly grabbing onto the dangling strap of my backpack. “I’d definitely get lost in here. Make sure I don’t get lost.”

I turn my head slightly to look at him over my shoulder. Gawking at him, he smiles widely back at me. I blink at him a few times and turn back around, continuing on towards the tables in the back and pretending like I’m not leading a child with one of those backpack leashes.

Okay… maybe he’s just really, really weird.

God, this looks so stupid.

I stop in front of an empty table with two high chairs. Johnny lets go of the strap when he sees me move to take off my backpack and then follows suit. I place my belongings on the table and immediately immerse myself in reviewing for my genetics exam. I occasionally take glances over at Johnny who is diligently reading the textbook he was holding and taking notes. Normally, I’d pay a little more attention, but that’s not really my priority right now. However, I won’t deny that there’s this annoying voice in my head that’s asking, “What in the world is Johnny doing? He must like you, right? But what if he has a girlfriend that you don’t know about? Those pictures of him with that girl are still on his Instagram page, but some people leave all of those photos up even after they break up. I don’t have a gauge on what he’s like and whether he’d do that.”

Later that evening, while trying to finish a bioethics paper in bed, I receive a message from Johnny.

J: what are you doing?

Me: I’m trying to write this damn paper and it’s pissing me off

J: you want some cookies?

J: maybe it’ll help you write your paper

Me: Mm okay. I’ll be downstairs in a few

“Are you going downstairs?” Jia asks as I begin shuffling around and grabbing my backpack and a small blanket.

“Yeah.”

“Did you go to the library with Johnny earlier?”

I freeze in place and slowly turn around. How did she know about that?

“I saw you guys walking back together when I was coming back from my review session,” she continues, answering my question without her knowledge. 

“Oh, yeah. He asked to meet me there.”

“Oooh!” She cracks into a wide, shit-eating grin. “He likes you! Are you meeting him downstairs too?!”

“Yeah, he said he had cookies. I want some.”

“Oh my gosh… do you like him?!”

I feel the heat rise up into my cheeks. “I mean, I think he’s cute and he’s fun to hang around with, but I don’t think I like him like that.”

“Oh yeah… if he has a girlfriend, you probably shouldn’t.” She ponders for a few seconds and her eyes shoot open. “Do you think his girlfriend knows he’s hanging out with you?!”

I mentally scoff. If Johnny is actually interested in me like that, I bet he’s conveniently left it out of any conversations with his girlfriend that he’s hanging around another girl and grabbing onto her backpack strap so that he doesn’t get “lost” in the library.

“My guess is probably not.”

I quickly leave and consider the conversation I had had with my dad earlier. I called to tell him about Johnny asking to meet at the library, grabbing onto my backpack, his various offers of cookies and what not. Basically, dad thinks that Johnny probably likes me. His opinion on the girlfriend thing? He’s not sure since we don’t know whether or not Johnny actually has one. It’s strange that she showed up once and then never again and that he’s never mentioned her. This is starting to sound eerily familiar. It’s a problem for later. I need to focus on finals for now.

There is one thing that I hadn’t realized until now though.

Jaemin hasn’t come to mind as frequently.

Perhaps I was finally getting over him.

“What’s the paper for?” Johnny asks as I set my things down at the table on his left.

“It’s for some bioethics class. I’m doing research on pesticides and lymphoma. Not exactly a happy topic.”

He pushes the cookies over to me, gesturing with his left hand for me to take some. My brow raises in curiosity when a piece of jewelry on his wrist catches my eye. It’s a thin, black band with a circular charm hanging off it. It looks like there’s something engraved on it, but I can’t tell because the backside is facing up.

“What’s the bracelet for?”

“Hm?” Johnny raises his left arm and runs his hand through his hair. “Which one?”

I raise my brow at him. “The only black one around your wrist…”

“Oh.” He lowers his hand and looks at his wrist. “Um, it’s a bracelet from my girlfriend.”

I deadpan for a few seconds before quickly remarking, “Oh. Nice!” and following with forced smile.

I turn back to my laptop, trying to pretend to read through my essay. Though, if my facial expression clearly conveys annoyance, I wouldn’t be surprised.

See! This is exactly what I meant about not being able to assume anyone has morals. Interested in Johnny, Y/N? Not anymore. Never mind.

Oh well. It’s not like I got that far with this anyway.

There’s a quick motion coming from my right and suddenly the room becomes dimmer as a baseball cap is placed on my head. I slowly turn to look at Johnny, still slightly miffed at the revelation from seconds earlier. He smiles warmly at me.

“Do you want to go to the library tomorrow?” he asks.

“Why did you do that?” I ask without answering his question.

“What?” He shrugs. “So do you want to go? We should wake up really early in the morning to go so that we can get a head start on studying!”

I nod my head. “Okay.”

What are you doing? There should be some blaring siren going off in your head, but there isn’t. Oh, that’s right. It’s because you’re still attracted to him.

I grab the hat on my head and place it back on his.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s too big for me.”

“It’s a thinking cap. It’ll help you with your essay.”

“If only it were that easy.”

Johnny chuckles and then opens Facebook on his laptop. He has two messages: one from Hendery and another from someone with the nickname “Boo boo.” It’s times like these where I’m glad I have good control over my facial expressions and can easily type out an essay while reading over someone’s shoulder.

Boo boo’s profile picture is clearly of a girl and when Johnny opens her chat box, I see that boo boo sent a bunch of heart stickers. He follows by responding with a few hearts and a “hiii boo boo!! i love youuuuuu soooo much!!!” It goes back and forth like that a few more times.

I have to try not to gag. Is this what people are like with their boyfriends and girlfriends? Am I going to be like that? Oh gross.

Maybe I just don’t understand what love is. Who am I to question their love? However, if Johnny is “soooo in looooove” with his girlfriend, why is he acting like this with me?

If this is a repeat of Jaemin, I’m walking right into a trap. 

The rest of dead week played out the same way. Wake up in the morning, go to the library with Johnny, watch Johnny send “I looovvee youuu” messages to boo boo, study in the evening with Johnny, grab a study snack with Johnny, spend time with Chaeyoung and Hendery while with Johnny.

My whole study life started revolving around Johnny. And really, it was simply having someone to spend time with. Johnny and I could sit in a comfortable silence and study for our own classes, occasionally taking breaks to eat or show each other videos. It was a good arrangement and I liked my new friend.

But the sad truth was, I liked my new friend a little too much and I had a feeling that nothing good was going to come of it.

Johnny had a girlfriend and he knew that I knew he had a girlfriend. I’ve never been interested in home wrecking and I certainly wasn’t saying anything or doing anything other than spending time with him, to indicate that I had a crush on him. But here we are a year later with the same problem: is it morally wrong for me to be spending time with this guy when I have a crush on him while fairly certain that his behavior was indicative that he liked me? Isn’t he technically emotionally cheating on his girlfriend?

I think the way I tried to justify this was by telling myself that I wasn’t the one initiating the hang outs or study sessions. Johnny would ask and I had the option of agreeing or declining. And sincerely, since I was just trying to study, I didn’t see anything wrong with it.

On the last day of finals, I joined Johnny, Chaeyoung, Jia, Shotaro, Hendery, Sungchan, and a few others in the dining room, celebrating over a box of donuts and cups of hot chocolate. We were exchanging social media accounts to keep up with each other over the break.

“Hey,” Johnny greets as he grabs the empty seat next to me. “Are you going home tomorrow?”

I shake my head. “No, the day after.”

“Do you wanna grab lunch together tomorrow? Hendery is leaving and I’m also not leaving until Sunday.”

“Oh, sure! That would be fun!”

“Cool!”

He throws his baseball cap on top of my head and suddenly the room is quiet. I can tell that everyone is looking at me. I keep my gaze down on the table and take a few seconds to respond with a laugh.

“I don’t want your hat!” I exclaim playfully, pulling it off and trying to put it back on him.

He lightly shoves my arm away. “It looks better on you.”

I ignore him and put the hat down on the table and move to grab another donut from the box, silently praying everyone will stop watching and pretend like nothing happened.

Prev | Next

Before I Met You Masterlist Masterlist

[artistic-writer]

King of My Heart :: CS :: Rated E

Title: King of my Heart by @artistic-writer​  Fanart by @artistic-writer​ Rating: E Summary: Emma Swan is the biggest star in the entire world, a world-class singer with a voice that had made sure she was seated at the very top.  She is the Queen of music that speaks to so many, but there is one thing in her life she is missing, and with whole albums dedicated to him, will Killian Jones finally hear her words and take up the throne beside her as the King of her heart?

Read on AO3 A/N: So, most of you will know that one of the biggest loves of my life after my husband is Taylor Swift.  Ask @shardminds​ about my incoherent babbling and fangirling when i discovered that the Reputation Tour was on Netflix. THEN ask her about this song and how I was reduced to a dribbling mess when the drummers were shirtless. You can work out the rest.  Thanks to her and @hollyethecurious​ who were willing to look it over and thanks to @csconcertseries​ for giving me the opportunity to create this little one shot <3

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Emma Swan hadn’t always been this famous, but she had dreamed of being on the big stage for as long as she could remember. There had been a time when she was a nobody, just some pretty blonde girl who happened to be good at dancing and had been so good, in fact, that she had gone to dance school. Because that is a thing. Never in a million years would she have realised that she would be standing where she was right now, with the people she was with, her life taken by a whirlwind force that had yet to spit her out of the other side.

The lights were blinding, the last show in her mega sell out stadium tour that had seen her travel all over the world, playing sell out shows to massive crowds all the way. It still baffled her sometimes, why she was so popular. All she did was sing about her life, about the ups and downs she experienced, but it seemed that her life coincided with so many others around the globe, that she had rocketed to super stardom overnight. She was more than the voice of Emma Swan; she was the voice of everyone.

Of course, without the hundreds and thousands of people who could make her life possible, she would be a nobody. She needed every single one of them. The road crew, the stage builders, the guys and girls who tuned all of her instruments, the security, the dancers, and of course, the fans. She might still be that struggling dancer, scrambling for the chance to stand behind someone has big as she was now, if it were not for that one moment that she still thinks about every second of every day.

If it were not for him.

There was a guy, of course. A guy who she had taken the time to get to know, another dancer reaching for the stars, who had become more than just competition. When he danced he was flawless, fluid and emotive, a better dancer than she could ever have been, but it had taken her a while to realise his true potential, and by the time she had, it was too late. Another dancer had taken his heart, another of their classmates who bore a striking resemblance to herself, and that was when she picked up her pen and her reason for being where she was right now was created.

Emma had always thought that albums were more than just words on a page. She never wrote a song that she didn’t mean or identify with on a personal level. How was she expected to sell albums with lies? So many other artists did that already, singing about what they thought people wanted to feel instead of what they had experienced themselves, and that’s what set Emma apart. She was raw and real and she had but one man to thank for that.

Killian Jones was single again now, she’d heard that much through the gossip and chattering of her crew. It had ignited the spark in her heart, relit the flame of longing that she feared had been extinguished so long ago. She felt like she was singing her lyrics with a renewed vigour, a new purpose for the glitz and glamour of her shows. She had written these songs about him, but now, when she sang them, barely audible over the sound of the crowd going wild, all she wanted was for him to hear her. To know.

She had tried to tell him once, twice, oh so many times, but for a professional singer, she couldn’t form a sentence for shit. He did that to her. The man who had heard her sing, told her how beautiful her voice was and had encouraged her to pursue singing rather than dancing, rendered her absolutely speechless. She could sing to him all day long, but unless he heard her, really heard her, they were just words, and Emma longed for so much more.

The final song of her show was a big one, not just because it would be the final time she sang on stage with this particular group of people and danced this particular choreographed set of moves with them, but because it would be the last time she could try and make him see. This was the song, the one that she had penned with such enthusiastic yearning, the one that, despite most of this album being about him, she really wanted him to hear her when she sang it. It helped that towards the end she had insisted on showcasing his talent as not only a dancer but also as a drummer.

Nothing got her quite so hot as the way Killian Jones simultaneously danced and played the huge drum he had pushed onto stage half way through the song. There were eight in total, but she had made sure that his was closest to her. She wanted to feel every beat vibrate right through her as he pounded the massive drum skin. The five minute outro to the song - his song - was nothing short of spectacular, the energy the sound exuded as it echoed around the acoustically perfect stadium something that left her so aroused, she was suddenly heady on adrenaline and the sound of the drums that echoed in time with her heart.

It didn’t help that, for reasons, she had decided that at this particular point in the show, the drummers would be barely clothed from the waist up, shirtless except for thin scraps of cloth that were tied around their wrists and matched the tassels on the muted sticks used to beat the drum surface. It was part of the flair, and for a second Emma was thankful she didn’t have any more words to sing because, between twirls and struts, she was too busy watching a bead of sweat run down through Killian’s chest hair to remember any.

The sound of the crowd became nothing but a high pitched buzz, like the sound you hear when silence overtakes you, her eyes fixated on him as he danced. Muscles bulged and flexed, sweat flicking from the ends of his pitch black hair as he swung his head from side to side, as lost in the rhythm of drumming as she often was in his eyes. His ocean blues that so often swept her out to her death and so crept up in all of her songs. It was a wonder he hadn’t realised that her career had been based on her admiration for him, the man who had seen so much potential in her in the first place.

He was as lost as she was, flawlessly playing his part, as the king and keeper of her heart. Whether he knew it or not, Killian Jones would always hold her heart right next to his, so close that she could swear that she could see two heartbeats thumping right under the skin of his chest when he spun around, twirled his sticks through the air, effortlessly catching them and raising them above his head to a crowd who went wild at the display. The song ended then, a single, reverberating drum beat accompanying silence, after which the crowd went wild.

Emma watched in the darkness, the tantalizing sheen of sweat over his body glinting off of phone flashes as the stadium lit up. She was panting hard, the whole set twice as long as any other in the show, and her skin prickled with heat from exertion and want. And then she felt arms wrap around her, another of the dancers, and then one of her backing vocalists, celebratory embraces that were welcomed by not what she wanted. Not from who she wanted.

It wasn’t until it was all said and done, and the cast had filtered from the stage and lights, that she saw him, just as perfect off stage as he was on. Her world turned to slow motion, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed some refreshing ice cold water hypnotic, her eyes drawn to a droplet that spilled from his mouth as he struggled for breath between each gulp. Then he turned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked right at her, the blue of his eyes that she so often waxed about almost gone behind his blown pupils, dilated and so erotically dark as they bore into her.

“You were bloody brilliant, love!” He yelled, the sound from the crowd still so overpowering, even in the wings. “Brilliant as always!”

In three bare footed steps he was on her, hoisting her into his arms and wrapping her up against his bare chest with a crushing grip that she didn’t mind at all. He spun them around and Emma wasn’t sure she wanted him to ever stop, the flashing of strobe lights behind her closed eyelids adding to the euphoria of his scent as she nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck and inhaled him. Again, he had rendered her speechless, and Emma couldn’t do anything but hold on, her fingers twisted in the soaking wet hair at the base of his skull as he whirled her around a few more times before setting her back down onto her high-heeled feet.

They were the same height like this, him barefoot and her with black leather boots laced up to her knees, and where she expected him to take a step back and create the distance between them that had created a rift before, he didn’t, standing fast and resting his hands on her hips. She gulped when his fingertips teased the edge of the leotard she was wearing, her heaving breasts drawing his eye when she gasped and some of the red sequins rustled against each other and the sound of the crowd disappeared around them.

They hadn’t been like this, this close and drowned in tension, since she had become world famous. There had been no time for them and she regretted it every day. He was more than her friend, he was the man she dreamed about, the man who had seen potential where she only saw words on a page of a dog-eared notepad that accompanied her guitar when she was feeling down. Killian Jones was the man she wanted to share it all with, the man she would come home to after months overseas, the man who would miss her like she missed him when they were apart.

Her hand was on his chest before she had time to stop it, stroking through the silky hairs there that were still damp from his routine, right above his heart that still beat in time with the drums that has since stopped. His hand found her face in response, his knuckles brushing over her cheek, hand shaking a little and making her mouth go dry. They had danced like this before, on stage but never in private, and a sudden warmth overtook her as Killian let his fingertip drag down the side of her neck, keeping eye contact the whole time, as if to torture her more when he skimmed over the swell of a breast.

“Stop.” The word left her mouth before she could stop it, the pounding of blood in her temples berating her as her blood screamed out for him. For a second he looked hurt, swallowing hard and taking a step back so that there was a palpable space between their bodies that left hers cold and alone, something she never thought she would feel around him. “Not here,” Emma whispered assuringly, her ruby coated lips ticking up into a sly sideways smile that had him arching a brow at her.

Killian stepped forward again, pressing his body into hers and making sure she could feel his erection through the thin, silky trousers of his outfit. Emma flushed hot and her brain short circuited, eyes blurring and caught between wondering how they would escape the stage and if they would get caught if they didn’t. He was too much, hands acting innocent as they stroked over the curve of her shoulder, friendly and casual to observers, but a painfully restrained attempt to touch her anywhere he could.

“Where?” He almost begged, his voice laced with darkness and sexual intent that had her biting her bottom lip in response, something that caused him to paradoxically whimper uncontrollably. “Gods, I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

Once again, he had rendered her speechless, taking the words from the back of her throat like he always had with his barely there touches and thick, British accent that somehow had grown impossibly sexier with his arousal. Emma’s resolve snapped, hair prickling on the back of her neck with anticipation as she grabbed his hand in hers and tugged, hard, pulling him along the back of the stage and behind a huge piece of equipment that she neither noticed or cared to know about at that exact second. All that mattered was that it was tall enough to hide them, the space between it at the wall making sure that they were pressed together as close as can be for when, finally, his lips were on hers and every single lyric she had ever sung about him raced through her mind.

Killian wasted no time, knowing that what they would have would probably be brief, pinning her against the wall in the darkness and rolling his hips into hers, making her feel all of him, gobbling up her moans with his ardent and impassioned kisses. He trapped her in his grasp with his weight, and Emma needed to feel more, her hands caressing the expanse of his naked back, her nails raking over the skin there in an attempt to draw out more of his hunger, her efforts more than rewarded when he growled low in his throat and slipped a hand between her thighs.

“That last song is about you,” Emma breathed.

“I know,” Killian growled in between harsh, heartfelt kisses, smirking as he trailed them along her jawline.

“Fuck, half of my songs are about you,” Emma whispered with laboured breath, Killian’s kisses now assaulting her neck through his growing smile.

“I know,” he said arrogantly, one hand bunching the thickness of her hip whilst the other explored the apex of her thighs, searching for a way into more than just her heart. “I’ve always known.”

Emma’s hands are on his face and dragging his lips back to hers in a heartbeat, the echo of the rhythm of the drum solo pounding in her ears again, charging a new tension between them, something more sexual than ever before. There had always been a space between them, a professional barrier that neither would cross. Emma had poured her heart out in words whilst Killian had worked through his frustrations through dance, but right now, in this moment, there were no such walls to stop them from scaling the other.

Killian’s tongue skimmed over the seam of her lips, gently begging for a deeper entry as his fingers hooked into the gusset of her blood red sequined leotard and pulled the fabric aside. He frowned, met with another barrier as his fingers prodded and teased her entrance through a thin layer of sheer, diamond studded, sparkly stockings, and Emma couldn’t help herself when she bit down on his bottom lip this time, making him rut against her thigh to relieve some of the pressure building in his cock.

“These are…” Killian’s words trailed off as another irritated growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her lips as she sucked on the bite mark left by her own frustrations.

“One of a kind, hand studded to my exact measure-,” Emma began incoherently, her world spinning behind her eyes, her breathless babbling cut short by the sound of tearing fabric that she hoped no one heard.

“Such a fucking shame,” Killian lied darkly and repositioned his hand so that he could finally slip a finger into her, the extent of his pent up tensions leaving him on a satisfied sigh he breathed against the swell of her breasts as he scrapped his teeth over the flesh there and she let him, holding his face to her bosom and clawing the back of his head with her long, blood red fake nails.

After all the times she had dreamed of moments like this, hoping that one day they would become reality, there wasn’t enough of him inside of her and she whined against the shell of his pointed ear. Killian knew her too well already and paired another finger with the first, pushing them both into the wet heat between her legs in time with the pounding the blood in his ears. He curled them each time, pushing deeper on each thrust that rips into the material of her tights some more, right up until his palm was pressed against her clit and Emma was subconsciously chasing her high as she fucked his fingers.

The line was gone, so fucking gone, and the leg he’s slowly grinding his erection against became hotter than the rest of her, burning up from the way his dry humping became slightly damper thanks to the appearance of pre come seeping through the black silk fabric of his trousers. Emma knew his body was lithe, trained to bend this way and that due to his profession, but if she had any idea just how talented Killian Jones was, she would have signed him to her tours from the start. She’d always wanted to, but the line had always been too wide of a chasm to cross, except now he was finger fucking her with a slight aggression that turned her on beyond anything she thought she could ever know, and suddenly a bridge had appeared and Killian beckoned her to the other side with skillful strokes and the whimpering of a man possessed.

Sweat beaded her brow and he smirked against her cheek, lips parted as he breathed against her mouth, unable to kiss her for fear of losing sight of her. He wanted to watch her come undone as she climaxed and coated his hand with even more of herself. He wanted to imagine her body under his, to imprint the way she looked as she came on his mind, lipstick smeared by indulgent kisses and brow furrowed in pleasurable pain, whilst stretching up on his tiptoes to dry fuck her thigh. He doesn’t have to wait long before Emma is inexplicably pushing against his shoulders as she comes, hard, going rigid and overstimulation setting in, her mind fighting between the urge to push him away and the need for him to never stop reaching the best parts of her.

“Fuck,” he ground out, only just stopping himself from coming at the sight of her. He rolled his forehead against hers but was reluctant to pull his hand out of her warmth, swallowing the deepness of his voice thickly as he settled his feet back on the ground and her core muscles pulled at his fingers in detest when he withdrew them.

“Poetic,” Emma teases, brushing her thumb over the corner of his mouth.

“I’m no writer, love,” Killian admitted with another kiss, this time to the tip of her nose. “Not like you.”

“What do you mean?” Emma beams and he gave her a quizzical look. He loved the way her nose scrunches when she is being playfully naive.

“And all at once, you are the one I’ve been waiting for,” Killian muttered softly, eloquently, as if he is reciting more than just her lyrics.

“King of my heart,” Emma finished with a smile that would just not fade.

“If you’ll have me,” Killian said hopefully.

“Body and soul,” Emma whispered, the words only just leaving her lips before his were pressed to hers in final and definite acceptance of their future.

[lovemesomesurveys]

If you were a witch, which animal would be your familiar? I don’t what a familiar is or anything about witchcraft.

If there's a design on your shirt, what is it? I literally just described it in the previous survey I did, but it has Ralphie from A Christmas Story on it with a bar of soap in his mouth and says, “Oh, fudge”, which is a quote from the movie.

If it was possible to colonize any planet and you were the leader, which planet would you choose? I really wouldn’t want to be the leader of anything. I’m not fit for that.

Is there a piece of technology that you just can't live without? I mean, I’m pretty attached to my laptop and phone, but of course if for some reason I couldn’t have them I would survive, but it’d be really quite boring. I don’t have much to do.

Would you ever visit a ghost town? That would be interesting.

What's the last thing you ordered from the last fast food place you went to? Loaded potato wedges and 3 egg rolls from Jack in the Box.

Which natural disaster scares you the most? They all sound terrifying. I’ve never experienced one. What're your religious beliefs and why do you follow them? I’m a Christian. I believe in God and that Jesus died for our sins and is our Savior.

What do you think happens after you die? I believe in heaven and hell.

What would you do if you found out your life was only a simulation controlled by someone else? That’s scary. I’ve had thoughts like that, though. Like a Truman Show scenario or that one day I’ll wake up and find out my whole life has been a dream.

What's the scariest thing you've accidentally found on the internet? Ugh, I HATED when jump scare things would go around. Like, people would disguise as a link for something else and then you click it and it’s some ugly, creepy looking girl screaming really loud. OH, and there was that one with the car that was driving down some winding road and you’re watching and waiting to see what the video is about and then bam! something pops up on the scream and scares you. Ughhh. Not cool. I’m such a jumpy person as it is already.

Is there anything bothering you right now? The usual stuff as always.

Thinking of every Halloween costume you've had, which one was the most creative? I never had a really creative one. They were pretty simple.

What song are you currently listening to and what song was the last you listened to? I’m not listening to music.

What's the picture on your calendar for this month? I don’t have a calendar for this year at the moment.

If you were a mythical creature, which would you be? A fairy.

If you were an animal, which would you be? A dog.

Were you ever bullied when you were younger and how did you handle it? I wasn’t, fortunately. It was something my parents worried about when I was in elementary school because I’m in a wheelchair, but honestly I never had any issues with anyone. The only bullying I receive is from myself on a regular basis. 

What do you remember most from being five years old? I have some vague, bits and pieces of memories from kindergarten. 

What do you remember most from being ten years old? I have some memories from 4th grade. My favorite teacher ever was my 4th grade teacher (who later ended up teaching 8th grade and I had him again) and I remember funny stuff he did and like how he read out loud to us books such as Matilda and he would the voices and made it fun for us. He also used to sing, and I remember one time he led all of us in a rendition of “I Want It That Way” by The Backstreet Boys lol. He was so cool. Oh, and he was known for doing “the robot” dance and miming. 

What do you remember most from being fifteen years old? Stuff from high school.

What does the last person you found attractive look like? Alexander Skarsgard is 6′4, has blonde hair, blue eyes, is very fit and in shape, and Swedish. He’s absolutely gorgeous.

Have you ever thrown something away and then wanted it back? Yes. I hold onto a lot of stuff that will sit in a box somewhere forever, but then if I get rid of something I’ll suddenly wish I still had it or have a need for it again.

What's one random city you want to visit? Seattle.

If you owned a store, what would you most likely sell? Books. It would have a cafe, too.

If you had a garden, what sort of plants would you grow? I don’t know, man. I have zero interest in gardening.

What's your favorite phase of the moon? I don’t have one.

What're your plans for today? I’ll attend my church’s livestream and then do the normal things I do everyday. 

What's the song for your life right now? I don’t know.

Do you believe that when you die, you get to see all your loved ones again? Yes.

Who would you be the most excited to see? My grandparents. 

Have you lost or almost lost someone close to you to death this year? Not so far...  I don’t want to think about that.

Did you lose any of your friends this year and if so, how? I don’t have any friends to lose. 

Have you experienced anything new this year and if so, what? Not so far, but we’re only in January. 

Do you enjoy reading National Geographic magazines? I’ve only read a few. 

Would you rather read the book or watch the movie? I love to read and I’m down to check out the movie.

Do you know anyone who's serving in the military right now? No.

Does or did either of your parents serve in the military? Nope.

Has anything in your house ever caught on fire? No.

Have you ever hugged a stranger you thought was someone else? No. Omg, that would be super embarrassing. I’ve waved to someone I thought was someone else, but never went so far as to hug someone I thought was someone else.  As a small child, did you ever feel as if you were different or weird? No, not really.

If you could instantly know any language in the world, what would it be? I’d like to be fluent in Spanish.

This year, how many times have you been to the doctor? So far just once. I go once a month and we’re only in January. 

Do you have a library card and if so, do you use it often? Nope. I haven’t had a library card since I was in high school.

Do you like romcoms and if you do, which one is your favorite? Yeah, I’m a sucker for the romcoms. I have several favorites.

Thinking of your ex and the person you love, are they similar in any way at all? I don’t have a significant other or someone I’m interested in at the moment.

Is there something you currently want and/or need that you can’t have? Yes.

Thinking back to six weeks ago, were you happier then or are you happier now and why? Neither then or now. 

Who's the first male you can think of whose name begins with "T" and what can you tell me about him? Thomas, my maternal grandpa. He sadly passed away 10 years ago. Both of my maternal grandparents passed away. I was very close with both of them and losing them was very hard for me. I miss them both every single day. My grandpa was an amazing man. He was the best husband, father, and grandpa. He was hardworking. He provided well for his family. He was loving. He was so funny. He told the best stories. He was known for being a talker haha, he could go on and on for hours, but everyone always wanted to hear what he had to say. And sometimes he’d go off on tangents, but the stories always came for circle. He was just an incredible man, well loved and missed by many.

Can you say "happy birthday" in another language? Yeah, “Feliz cumpleaños.” 

What subjects do you or did you get the worst grades in? Math was always my worst subject, I barely scraped by with Cs.

Should you be concentrating on something else instead of this survey? Nah. This is my nighttime routine.

Have you ever told someone that you loved them and they rejected you? I didn’t tell them I loved them, but I expressed my feelings for them and was rejected. Twice.

Do you know anyone else that's happened to? Yeah.

Is there anything you want to say to someone, but you can’t or won’t? Not at this time. What're your reasons for not saying it? --

Who's someone in the music industry you think is overrated? Taylor Swift. Don’t for me, Swifties. 

Who's the eleventh contact in your phone and when did you last see or speak to that person? I’m not checking. 

What’s your mother’s middle name? I’m not sharing that.

When was the last time you ate cake and what type of cake was it? I had some red velvet cake a few days ago.

Have you ever been told you were too good or not good enough for someone you loved? I had friends who said I was too good for Joseph. I wasn’t good enough, though.

Why do you think someone would say that to you? They didn’t like how he treated me and thought he was too immature.

If the last person you kissed said you were the only one they wanted, would you believe them? That was 8 years ago, I don’t see him ever saying that now...

Who was your first crush, how do you feel about that person now and do you still talk to them? My first crush was this kid Philip when I was in 3rd grade lol it was just some little crush, I was 9. He didn’t even know me.

Who was the last person that apologized to you and what was it for? I don’t recall.

So how're things going with the person you love? There’s no such person.

Are you "in love" with the last person you kissed? No. I moved on years ago.

Do you have photos to go with all of the contacts in your phone? I haven’t added a photo for any of my contacts.

Who was the last person to comment on one of your photos on Facebook and how did you meet that person? I think it was my Nana. 

How many of your friends are sexually active?

To finish, is there anything you would like to say to someone? Sigh.

Do you think surveys are annoying? They can be sometimes, but I really do enjoy doing them. Clearly.

What career paths are you considering? I don’t know. :/

Do you watch music videos? I haven’t in a long time.

Have you ever clicked on those banner ads that promise a prize for clicking? No. I definitely don’t miss popup ads. 

What kind of computer are you using? Macbook Air.

What kind of computer do you wish you were using? I’m happy with this one.

Have you ever had a weight change so drastic you went to the doctor? I didn’t see a doctor for it specifically, but yeah it was concerning. It’s still a problem I’m struggling with. 

How cold does it have to be before you put on a sweater? In the 60s F, I’d say. 

Do you eat things off the floor? Never.

Who do people say you look like? My mom.

Do you usually get your homework done on time? I’m done with school, but yeah I always got my homework done on time. I may have been a major procrastinator, but my work always got done.

Have you ever framed your old movie ticket stubs? Not framed, but kept.

Do you have a digital camera? Nope.

Have you ever stuck something inappropriate in an electrical outlet? No. I’m afraid to plug in things that meant to go in there as it is.

What do you have anything scheduled for the 16th of this or next month? We’re past the 16th now, but no I didn’t have anything going on that day and I don’t have anything planned for that day next month either.

Can you sleep without any pillows? No. I can’t sleep flat, I have to be propped up.

Is there a color you refuse to wear? I don’t like to wear white.

Has anyone ever pulled a gun on you? No, but I am a victim of random gun violence. 

Are there any chairs in your bedroom? My chair. There’s an ottoman that could also be a chair as well.

How many pairs of shoes do you have? Like 6 or 7.

How much was the last item of clothing you bought? My total was $40 for 2 shirts, but I ordered online so there’s additional fees. 

Where's your father right now? He’s in his room asleep.

Do you skip breakfast often? Yeah.

How many days has it been since your last birthday? My birthday was 6 months ago.

Do you want any more siblings than you have now? Nah, at 31 years old I can’t imagine having another sibling. 

Would you make a good president or prime minister? Nope. I have no desire to be one.

Are you going out of the country soon and if so, where to? No. I don’t have any travel plans and who knows when I will at this point. :(

Do you ever feel like you want to get away from everything? Yeppp.

Do you need a haircut? I could use a trim.

When was the last time you went on a trampoline? Never.

Were you alone today? I’m alone right now in my room cause everyone else is asleep, but they’re here in the house. My dad is off today and will be home all day. My mom and brother have work, but they’ll be home at some point.

Who was the last person you saw today? The day isn’t over yet, it’s only 4:51AM, but I’m willing to bet my brother will be the last person I see cause he and I stay up late.