#was watching the will wood farewell stream last night and him going 'hey stop that. that's weird' was nice to hear

[ragsy]

My infinite respect to creators and personalities on the internet who set clear boundaries between them and their audience, both in a "there's an obvious power dynamic at play here" way and in a "that's a human person, please don't be weird at them just because you like their stuff" way

[whirlybirdwhat]

Hey whirly Today i woke up and had a horrible thought that made me sad. So now i'm sharing. Marco is Moby Dick's Doctor right? And Thatch was attacked on the Moby Dick and died? Depending on how heartbreaking things can be, Thatch died under Marco's hands. (Do you hear that? It was my heart shattering)

okay so i started this awhile ago abut this writers block hit BUT WE ARE HERE NOW AND IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT! BUT HERE YOU GO!!!

eight bells ringing 

read on ao3!!

warnings: canonical character death

Marco is woken to bells ringing loud and relentless throughout the night. It is not the usual bell for time keeping, soft and melodious and as constant as the sea. No.

This one is violent.

An alarm.

Fuck – it’s the alarm bell.

In an instant, Marco is out of his hammock, blue-gold fire streaming after him as he erupts out of the cabin.

What could be happening? There’s no enemy pinging in his senses, no ships nearby or unfamiliar person on the ship. What could have –

Pops.

Pops.

He couldn’t have died, right?

The phoenix burns at his skin and he shifts, blurring into flame and fury as he soars down the hall in smaller, faster form. He has to get too Pops, he has too,  he –

The crowd isn’t by Pops room. The yelling isn’t coming from there. The tears aren’t coming from there.

No – it’s – No-

Its Thatch.

Marco changes direction, wings scorching lines into the Moby Dick’s Adam wood, and races back down the hallway.

Thatch – what could have happened?

In seconds, minutes, moments, all time flashes by the same when he’s made of burning flame – he’s by Thatch’s room and breaking through the crowd.

His first thought is there’s blood.

So, so much blood, red and viscous and splattering along the floors. Marco is used to seeing blood.

Just not in his home.

His second thought, as he follows the blood upwards, is that he knows the body which is coming from.

Thatch is always so careful not to get blood on his white chef’s outfit. Its his mark in battle – red everywhere but the white. Marco had always teased him for it.

Now… Now its covered in red. There is no white in sight.

Only Thatch’s chest, barely moving, up, down, up, down, dark and red.

But he’s breathing.

“Thatch!” Marco cries, and he’s on his knees by Thatch, whoever it was with him in the first place moving aside.

(Ace.

It was Ace.

And Ace was crying.)

Marco is a doctor – the ship’s doctor, the one in charge of Whitebeard, the one who disappeared for a year and came back with the knowledge to keep his beloved family alive – and this is his job.

To save his family.

To save Thatch.

But as he moves aside the bunched shirt to get a look at the stab wound, he knows it’s far too late.

(Its not a term any pirate should ever think. But now, Marco isn’t a pirate. He’s a brother.

And fate holds to much pressure on his shoulders for him to think otherwise.)

“Thatch –“ Ace’s voice is breaking beside them, his arms reaching down and hovering uselessly around Thatch’s body as Marco works to do something, anything to help Thatch last a little long, so too late becomes not late enough. Ace’s arms are covered in blood, Marco belatedly notes. He must have been the first to find Thatch dyi- bleeding. Hurt.

(Maybe, if Marco keeps denying it, the truth will change.)

“Thatch-“ Ace tries again, and it hurts, it really does. “Thatch who did this to you?” The anger in Ace’s voice hurts even more.

Thatch turns his head, only a little bit, glassy eyes flickering to all their siblings past them. “Teach.” He says, blood flicking out of his mouth as he does so. “Bastard. Wanted the fruit.” He coughs then, but his eyes don’t stop watching all of them, drinking his family in one last time.

(Marco knows Whitebeard won’t get here in time to say farewell to his beloved son.)

Ace’s eyes cloud with anger, but a bloody hand slaps at him, grabbing his attention. “A…Ace.” Thatch says, and Marco watches, and wonders which word will be Thatch’s last. “Don’t.”

He doesn’t say what Ace shouldn’t do. His breath is becoming rapid, stuttering, faltering. There are tears in Marco’s eyes.

“I’m… happy…” Thatch stutters out, thoughts of traitors in their family not mattering to him. He’s happy.

Marco isn’t. He isn’t.

Damnit.  

“Love… you… all.” Thatch says, and he smiles, with blood coating each tooth. His hair is a mess. Marco should tease him. He should.

But there’s blood between his fingers as blue flames burst forth, trying to heal, heal, heal, but phoenix fire doesn’t burn family and it doesn’t cauterize – and Marco needs to awaken this right now, like he hasn’t cared before but –

Thatch breathes in, breathes out, and doesn’t breath again.

There’s a smile on his face as his skin grows cold.

And Marco has never heard something more terrible than the screams that come from his own mouth.

(That night, Marco stands watch as eight bells ring throughout the night. Eight bells for the end. Eight bells for a sailor gone home.

Eight bells ringing out, as Thatch drops to the sea in a cannon laden hammock, a brother lost forever.

Marco hates the sound of bells, and hates his hands that cannot save anything but a few mere moments to say goodbye.)

-

There are no bells at Marineford. No, those come after.

Now, there is blood and the sound of canon fire. Now, there is death of a thousand beloved brothers that Marco can’t save with healing hands, and now, there is fire and light clashing in the sky.

Now, Marco watches seastone be slapped upon his wrists, and his brother take a fist through the chest right in front of him.

After Thatch, Marco worked again, worked to learn, to heal.

The phoenix means life. Rebirth.

Healing.

And Marco can do that now – he is the awakened phoenix. He can heal so much more than himself, than what he could with a mere doctor’s hands.

But he can’t do that with this sea-stone –

Another brother he couldn’t save. Another brother who died smiling. Another brother who said I love you, and I was happy, as he died because of wound to the back by a traitor to everything the world held dear.

Marco rings the eight bells twice after Marineford, once his father and once brother, and knows they mean an era ended, not an era began.

A farewell, to his family.

Marco hates bells.

(But then Monkey D. Luffy rings in a new era, and maybe he doesn’t hate the ringing so much anymore. Not when it means a new era in the hands of a king.)

-

eight bells: a naval euphemism for finished, often used at sea burials. It is symbolic of the end of the watch, midnight, and the end of the year.

[chaoticevilbean]

Lord of the Rings Rewrite

Based off the movies, extended edition, and Pippin has magic

Merry hits me through the tent, and I quickly duck under the material.

"Quickly!" Merry boosts me into the cart and I quickly sort through the fireworks. I hold up a medium green rocket, but Merry quickly shuts the idea down.

"No, no! The big one, big one!" he exclaims, looking this way, and that so we won't get caught. My head aches slightly as I hold up a big red rocket, shaped like a dragon's head. I'm about to put it down, when I see Merry's face. He wants this one, so I push aside the ache and jump out of the cart and into the tent. Merry and I set the rocket up, but I'm distracted as my ache returns at double the pain. I try to ignore it and light the fuse.

"Done," I say, pushing the rocket up. It falls onto Merry's chest.

"You're supposed to stick it in the ground!" Merry tells me, panicking as he pushes it back towards me.

"It is in the ground!" I respond, his panic infecting me. My head hurts worse, and I try to figure out the problem. I push it back.

"Outside!" Merry practically yells, pushing it back once again. The pain dulls. Oh. That was the problem. This is bad.

"It was your idea," I remind him. He does all the thinking for me.

Suddenly the firework goes off, pushing us away and blackening our faces. It takes some of the tent with it as it flies high above the party, forming a great big dragon of sparks. Everyone looks on in awe, but my head is telling me there's something wrong. I understand as the dragon turns back towards everyone, flies low to the ground and almost hits everyone before flying off once again and bursting into beautiful fireworks.

"That was good," Merry tells me. I agree, but I wanna say that we should leave now.

"Let's get another one," my voice says without my consent. I internally groan at my automatic idiocracy. I turn to run off, knowing that Merry will listen to my stupidity, when someone grabs my ear. I hear Merry exclaim as well, so at least we were both caught.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck," a familiar voice says, "and Peregrin Took. I might have known." Me and Merry look to see Gandalf. Fear threatens to choke me, but I try to hide it. Hopefully they'll pass it off for the punishment that's sure to come.

The punishment does come, in the form of washing all the dishes from the party. Which, considering the entire Shire came, is a lot of plates and silverware and cups and bowls.

Late into the night, the crowd begins to call out for Bilbo to give a speech. He complies, standing on a barrel to be seen by all.

"My dear Bagginses and Boffins," the mentioned cheer loudly, "Tooks and Brandybucks," Merry and I join in with our families, "Grubbs, Tubbs, Hornblowers," cheers from each as they're mentioned, "Bulgers, Bracegirdles, and Proudfoots." I hear someone call out "PROUDFEET!" followed by laughing from those around him.

"Today is my One Hundred and Eleventh birthday!"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" choruses the crowd. Bilbo continues.

"Alas, eleventy-one years is far too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable hobbits. (cheers?) I don't know half of you half as well as I should like and I like less than half of you, half as well as you deserve." I think about this. So he doesn't know half of us as much as he'd like, and he likes less than half of us, and only half as much as we deserve. I see Gandalf smirk, and find a small mimicry move its way up my face. But I stop when I realize that no other Hobbits besides me understood. I'm supposed to be an idiot, so I adopt the same confused look as Merry.

"I, er, I have things to do." As the old Hobbit speaks, he reaches into one of his pockets. I notice a faint feeling of darkness as he takes something out of his pocket and holds it behind his back. The object glints the moment before it's hidden. "I've put this off for far too long. I regret to announce this is the End. I'm going now. I bid you all a very fond farewell. Goodbye." Bilbo smiles fondly at Frodo, while everyone looks curiously on. Then, quite suddenly, every Hobbit gasps. Every Hobbit but me. Bilbo seems awfully pleased with something he did and hops off the barrel and heads past everything towards his house. I see Gandalf take his pipe out of his mouth and scowl. I look at Merry, but he's just as stunned as all the others.

"What happened, Merry?" I ask. My friend looks at me, eyes wide.

"I don't know, Pippin. I don't know," he mutters. I furrow my brow as I try to think of what happened. Obviously, I was the only one not affected, and judging by what was going on, no one saw Bilbo head home. I watch the chaos and notice Gandalf heading after Bilbo, walking briskly, but somehow as unnoticed as the Hobbit himself.

"Come on!" Merry calls, and I turn to find him running off.

"Wait up," I call back, rushing after my friend.

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

We found ourselves in the Green Dragon not that many days after Bilbo left. Apparently, he headed to live with the Elves. After many mugs of ale, Merry and I found ourselves on a table, singing and dancing away.

"Hey ho, to the bottle I go!

To heal my heart and drown my woe.

Rain may fall and wind may blow,

But there still be

many miles to go!

Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain,

and the stream that falls from hill to plain.

Better than rain or rippling brook-"

"Is a mug of beer inside this Took!"

I take over on the last line of the song, raising my half-pint in salute before taking a drink. Everyone around me cheers. It feels good to know that people think I'm good at something, even if it's not that great of a talent.

We walk out later that night, saying goodbye to Rosie on the way. We chuckle at the thought of what Sam would look like if he saw that. She's no more than a friend to us, but Sam's got the biggest fancy for her than anyone else I've seen.

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

I can hear singing, like something from another world. I turn and see wood elves passing by. Some are riding on the finest steeds I've ever seen, while most walk, carrying lanterns and wearing pure, glowing robes. I hear talking amidst the singing, and look in the direction it comes from. Just as I see two small forms gazing at the procession, I fall into darkness.

"Smoke rises from the Mountain of Doom. The hour grows late and Gandalf the Grey rides to Isengard seeking my Council. For that is why you have come, is it not? My old friend." A wizard with long grey-white hair and beard and an all-white robe walks down the steps of a huge black tower. Gandalf walks over as he speaks and bows.

"Saruman," Gandalf says. So that is the wizard's name, though what a name it is. I feel the fear within me tremble. Unlike with Gandalf, this fear is real, instinctual, not from years of experience but from something primal, something dark.

I feel a shift, and then Saruman and Gandalf are walking near the tower.

"So the Ring of Power has been found," Saruman states. I shiver at the feeling that comes when he says this. But then I think. Ring of Power? I've heard stories, but nothing concrete.

"All these long years it was in The Shire under my very nose," Gandalf tells his fellow. I want to scream at Gandalf to not tell him, that this wizard is nothing good, but I know that it will be no use.

"And yet you did not have the wits to see it. Your love of the Halflings leaf has clearly slowed your mind." I frown. Many of my best ideas come from Old Toby.

"But we still have time. Time enough to counter Sauron if we act quickly," Gandalf hurriedly says. Sauron. The name sends more shivers down my spine.

"Time! What time do you think we have?" Saruman exclaims, a hint of anger in his voice. Another shift comes, and suddenly I'm inside the tower. I can feel the evil in it, thrumming, but not like the feeling in your chest when you hum. The sound of a war drum, or the noise right before some big monster roars and devours you whole.

"Sauron has regained much of his former strength." I turn and see Saruman and Gandalf still speaking.

"He cannot yet take physical form but his spirit has lost none of its potency. Concealed within his fortress, the Lord of Mordor sees all. His gaze pierces cloud, shadow, earth and flesh. You know of what I speak Gandalf. A great eye, lidless, wreathed in flame." My head begins to ache. The evil in here is so powerful, and the words, and Saruman, and the very tower echo with darkness.

"The Eye of Sauron." Gandalf seems to not feel the darkness surrounding him. Could he be a part of it? NO! I can feel his energy, bright and filled with goodness. I move closer until I'm standing right beside him, using his light as an anchor in this pitch black place. My fear becomes my safety.

"He is gathering all evil to him. Very soon he will have summoned an army great enough to launch an assault upon Middle Earth," Saruman continues, not sounding concerned about the Dark Lord of Mordor trying to kill everything in Middle Earth.

"You know this? How?" Gandalf questions.

"I have seen it," the dark wizard dressed in white answers. The two walk into a different room and I follow. A pedestal stands in the middle of the room, a black cloth covering what sits upon it. I feel pulled towards it, but my will to stay near Gandalf is greater.

"A palantir is a dangerous tool, Saruman."

"Why? Why should we fear to use it?" Saruman pulls the cloth off, revealing a globe, a sphere of black, cloudy glass.

"They are not all accounted for. The lost seeing stones. We do not know who else may be watching." Gandalf moves forward, covering the palantir back up. As he does, I sense a darkness flash through the stone. He must feel it as well, for the Grey Wizard pauses, his face one of realization.

"The hour is later than you think. Sauron's forces are already moving. The Nine have left Minas Morgul." Saruman sits back on his throne.

"The Nine!"

"They crossed the River Isen on Midsummer's Eve disguised as riders in black."

"They've reached The Shire?" The Shire? My head pounds now. I know, I know! That's home! That's where Merry, and Frodo, and Rosie, and Sam, and Mother and Father, and my sisters, and everyone!

"They will find the Ring and kill the one who carries it."

"Frodo." FRODO‽ SERIOUSLY, GANDALF‽ Of all the Hobbits in Hobbiton, it had to be one of my best friends! And then Gandalf the... the Fool goes and says his name! Every thought rushes in one way and out another as I stare between Gandalf and his traitorous kin.

"You did not seriously think that a hobbit could contend with the will of Sauron? There are none who can. Against the power of Mordor there can be no victory. We must join with him Gandalf. We must join with Sauron. It would be wise my friend." I make a slight grunt at the friend part. You'd have to be a fool or evil to be friends with someone this dark. And Gandalf isn't evil.

"Tell me. Friend... When did Saruman the Wise abandon reason for madness?" I internally cheer at the insult, but all possible celebration is wiped from me as Saruman throws the firework-making wizard across the room. As the two begin to fight, throwing each other everywhere, my vision fades.

"GANDALF!" I shout as it all goes black.

[ourfairytale]

cheated // g.d smut

Requested-Hey boo! Could you maybe write something where you get cheated on and end up hooking up with Grayson? I loved the one you wrote called “quickie”! ♡

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: smutttttttt, language, cheating

Requests are open :)

masterlist

***

"Gray, I'm not going out to the club tonight," you laughed, pressing your phone in between your ear and shoulder, you hands on the steering wheel as you maneuvered through traffic. "Plus, tonight is the night I'm doing the surprise dinner with Matt," you commented looking over at the basket perched on your passenger seat. You heard him scoff on the other side, and you could practically see him roll his eyes.

"Oh, right . . . Matt," He spoke through what you suspected to be gritted teeth. You sighed, shaking your head. This wasn't anything new, Grayson always had this reaction when you mentioned your boyfriend. Grayson was constantly telling you that he was a "fuckboy" and he always felt as if he was a bit "suspicious". You would always shrug him off, knowing he had no room to talk, considering he was a bachelor himself. Besides, Matt wasn't like that anymore. He changed, for you.

"Stop it, Gray. Go have fun without me! Drag your brother out with you and maybe meet a cute stranger, like you always do," You said the last part under your breath as you pulled into the parking spot at Matt's apartment complex.

Since you could remember, Grayson would invite you out to the club or out for a night of fun and somehow always end up with a stray blonde glued to his lips. After seeing your best friend, (who you had feelings for), hook up with drop-dead gorgeous Instagram models every weekend, you realized that you probably wouldn't be getting out of the friend zone and decided to let loose yourself. That's when the roles were reversed and you were the one getting lucky on a Friday night. Turns out, you and that handsome stranger had a lot in common and now he was your boyfriend.

Ever since that night with Matt, something in Grayson had changed. The once sweet and charming boy was now a bit harsh and aggressive, especially towards Matt. His weekend sexcapades turned into almost nightly ones since you were no longer coming over to binge watch tv shows or movies with him. In the beginning, you thought that maybe he was acting out due to jealousy, but you quickly ignored that suspicion and just labeled his actions as hormonal.

"Eh, we'll see. I'll probably just get a late workout in and watch a movie on the projector. Good luck with Matt the rat," He commented, using the nickname he had given your boyfriend after meeting him the first time. You chuckled, turning off your car and bidding him a farewell.

You shoved the picnic basket in the backseat, mentally preparing yourself for how you were going to finesse the surprise. Of course, he didn't know you got off early from work to celebrate his birthday. He had thought you would be working super late and wouldn't be able to celebrate until breakfast tomorrow morning. You also knew he had the day off today and should be home either playing video games or doing his online college classes.

You climbed up the stairs to the second story, heartbeat quickening as you unlocked the door to Matt's apartment. The lights in the living room and kitchen were both off and both rooms completely abandoned. You tiptoed through the hallway to his room, wanting to catch him off guard. You put your ear up to his door, to hear muffled voices and hums. You figured he was just watching a movie and pushed open on the bedroom door, only to be welcomed with a revolting sight.

Matt was on his back, naked body sprawled on the mattress, head back against his pillows, his hands gripping the waist of another woman as she bounced up and down on his body.

"What the actual fuck," You let the words slip from your mouth as you looked at the both of them in disgust. They both turned their heads towards the bedroom door, the female quick to jump off and cover her chest with her hands. Matt scrambled to his knees, grabbing a pillow to cover up his lover half.

"Fuck, (Y/N), I - I," Stutters tumbled from his lips as he tried to get off the mattress and onto his feet.

"Fucking save it," You turned on your heel, heat rising from your chest and to your cheeks. You slammed his bedroom door behind you as well as the main door to his apartment, sprinting down the stairs. You tried to get to your car before the tears could fall, not wanting the boy running after you to see your weakness.

When you got to your car, you grabbed the picnic basket in the backseat and turned towards Matt, who chased after you in his boxers.

"I-I thought you were working late tonight . . ." He stammered as he slowed down as he reached you.

"Does it fucking matter? Happy fucking birthday, you asshole," You threw the picnic basket at him, hard. He stumbled backward, attempting to catch it but it collided with his chest only for the contents to spill onto the pavement.

Without another word, you got into your car and sped off, not daring to look into your rearview mirror and finally letting yourself cry.

***

Your knuckles grazed the wood, finally knocking after standing in front of their front door for a good 10 minutes. You didn't know where else to go and you were hoping Grayson didn't end up going out tonight. You didn't want to go back to your apartment, afraid that you would spend the whole night crying and feeling sorry for yourself.

You heard some yelling being exchanged inside, probably the boys fighting over who should get the door. You held your breath when the porch light was turned on and you heard footsteps padding over to where you were. The door opened and there he stood; shirtless with his hair flopped over, Adidas joggers hanging low on his hips.

"What, did The Rat not put out?" He stopped himself from laughing afterward when he saw your eyes; all puffy and red. "(Y/N) . . . what happe-" He was cut off when you stepped into his chest, your hands wrapped around his torso, letting the warmth of his skin calm you. He didn't hesitate in engulfing you in his arms, standing in the doorway for a few moments before he brought you inside and to his room.

You were sitting on his bed, fiddling with the hem of your dress, mentally cursing at yourself for getting all dolled up in a cute sun-dress for the prick. Grayson had thrown on a hoodie and sat next to you, hand rubbing small circles on your lower back. He knew that you would tell him what was wrong in your own time and knew that if he pressed any further, you would shut down and not talk at all. So he did his best to comfort you, bringing you tea, tissues, some comfy clothes to change into, anything you needed.

"He was with someone else," You choked out, not tearing your eyes from the carpet on his floor. Grayson's movements slowed slightly, you could tell he wasn't completely understanding.

"So he was busy, darling. You can do the picnic tomorrow," He coaxed you, voice low and barely above a whisper.

"No, Gray . . . I walked in on him. Fucking another woman," You broke up the sentence, looking at him in eyes at the last part. It took him a split second to register what you had said, and when he did, his hand left you back and he stood up abruptly.

"I'm going to fucking kill him," He seethed, making his way to his closed bedroom door, fists at his side. You rushed after him, placing yourself in between him and the exit, gripping hard onto the material of his hoodie, burying your head into his chest again.

"No! No, please . . . don't leave me," Your request came out muffled and you could feel his heartbeat, hard and fast against your cheek. It began to slow when he looked down at your frame. His breathing was fast and you knew he was contemplating moving you aside and going after him or staying and comforting you. It took you looking up at him, tears trailing slowly down your cheeks for him to decide that he wasn't going anywhere. He nodded his head slightly, clenching his jaw out of self-control.

"(Y/N), I don't even know what to say, all that I know is that he's a fucking dick and you don't deserve that piece of shit," He reached up to move strands of hair away from your face, tucking them behind your ear.

"I just . . . I was finally in a relationship and thought I was happy, but after everything that's happened, it feels like I was just using Matt as a distraction," You commented, dipping your head back into the warmth of his pecs. You made sure to breathe in his scent, wishing you had access to this type of comfort all the time.  

Grayson's eyebrows furrowed, finger bringing your chin up so he could meet your eyes. "Distraction?" He questioned, head cocking slightly to the side.

"Yeah, a distraction from not being enough for you and your need to have sex with any blonde girl on legs," You spoke out of irritation. You were irritated that after three years, he never picked up on the signs and irritated at the fact that it seemed like the universe just wanted to see you broken and unhappy.

His lips parted and he took a sharp intake of breath, his finger falling from your chin. He stepped back, almost cautiously, shaking his head.

"No, don't give me that bullshit, (Y/N). Don't make me the bad guy and project the shit Matt did, onto me," He continued his track backward until the backs of his knees hit his mattress, taking a seat.

"I'm not projecting! I'm just stating the obvious. My life sucks! I'm not even fucking upset about Matt. I'm upset that I let myself catch feelings for yet another guy who doesn't want anything to do with me! Even more upset that the feelings I was trying so hard to get rid of, are still fucking there!" You paced his room, hands flying to your face to wipe the tears that were now streaming to the bottom of your chin.

"Feelings you were trying to get rid of? The feelings you had for Matt?" Grayson asked, trying to make sense of your outburst, elbows resting on his thighs as he watched you like a hawk.

"No, for you! You asshole," You stopped in your tracks when he stood up abruptly. He advanced on you, eyes burning through your own as you tried to back up, his door stopping you from doing so.

"(Y/N), if this is some kind of joke, it's not funny," His voice was a low growl, his steps toward you were slow. You gulped, looking up at him through wet eyelashes, terrified that you had just ruined your friendship with him. "Cause if this is a joke, what I'm about to do will wreck everything," he warned; his body now in front of you. His chest touched yours, one hand on the door beside you, the other sneaking its way to the side of your face, thumb wiping the tear stains on your cheeks.

"Because if this isn't a joke, and you really have feelings for me, I'm about to show you what I've wanted to do to you since day fucking one," His lips were dangerously close to yours, his head dipping to be at your height. You didn't say anything, hands at your sides, trying to grip onto the door for support. Your eyes analyzed his, wondering if this was really about to happen. The silence was deafening, the only noise coming from your heartbeats synchronizing and deep breaths. "Tell me to stop," He whispered, his lips barely ghosting over yours.

"Never," You said right before licking your lips, accidentally grazing his bottom lip as you did so. He took that as his opportunity, connecting his lips with yours, his hand bringing your face closer to his. You sighed into him, feeling your stomach do a flip. It was soft at first, wanting to savor each other. His lips encircled yours, carefully molding himself to you as if not to hurt you. It was then that your hands reached up to the front of his hoodie, wanting more pressure. The hand he had on the door moved to snake around your waist, pulling you flush against his body.

His tongue traced your bottom lip and you let yours dance with his. He tasted . . . sweet. You wanted nothing more than to taste him every day. You hummed into the kiss, lightly taking his bottom lip between your teeth. His hand left your face, slightly bending down and gripping the backs of your legs and hiking you up so your legs wrapped around his torso. He pressed you against the door, hands traveling up your thighs and pushing your dress up for more access to your skin. Your hands found their way into his soft brown locks, tugging lightly on the back as his lips began to make a dangerous trail along your jaw and neck.

He sucked perilously on your skin, rolling it between his teeth before blowing on the slight mark. You pulled on his hair, bringing his plump lips back to yours, desperately wanting to taste him again. His tongue did wonders in your mouth, fingertips digging into your thighs.

"Gray . . . do something," You tightened your legs around his torso, grinding your core against the band of his joggers, yearning for some friction. He smirked against your lips, carrying you over to his bed, delicately laying you down. He looked down at your squirming figure, reaching over his head as he yanked off his hoodie. He then placed his left forearm beside your head to hold himself up and his other hand traveled slowly on the skin of your thigh. He crept up the inside of your leg, barely brushing over your clothed core. He groaned, feeling the wetness through the thin lace fabric.

"So wet for me, baby," He hummed against the shell of your ear, the huskiness of his voice causing you to grind your hips up to feel his palm against you. He chuckled softly, removing his hands from your center to play with the waistband of your thong. It took everything in him to not rip them off of your body, but he knew with your current state, that what you needed right now was comfort and passion. He would have time to fuck you, later.

You tucked your lip between your teeth, glancing down and watching him as his lips assaulted your inner thighs, gently licking his way to where you needed him most. He peered up at you through hooded eyes, as if asking for your permission. You simply whined and he took this as your acceptance and he peeled the clothing off of you, tossing it to the side. He grabbed your right leg, hooking it over his shoulder, your heel coming in contact with his back.

He bunched up your dress at your hips before dipping his head down, flattening out his tongue as he licked a painfully slow stripe along your folds.

"Oh, fuck," You breathed, not knowing you had been holding your breath the whole time. He savored your taste for a moment before diving right back in. His tongue lapped you up, not afraid to explore all of you. It was when your breath began to hitch and your back began to arch that he began sucking harshly on your nub, using one of his fingers to push inside of you.

"Mmm, Grayson," You moaned softly, hands traveling to his hair, pulling his face closer to your core, wanting him to not move so painstakingly slow. He hummed at the sound of his name falling from your lips, vibrating your heat, causing even more pleasure. He loved how responsive you were. He inserted another finger.

He delicately pumped his digits in and out, tongue dancing in figure eights around your clit as well as sucking. Your hips tried to move so you could grind against his lips but his hands held you down in place. Your moans and pants egged him on, wanting to look up at you and watch you unravel beneath him for forever. The tightness in his joggers was becoming quite uncomfortable and he found himself grinding on the bed to relieve some pressure.

"Fuck, right there, oh my god," Your clit was being rolled in between his lips, pulling away with a popping sound, and his fingers curled up inside you. "Mm, Gray, I'm gonna -" You tried to finish your sentence but you were interrupted by your own moans.

"Cum for me baby, come on, ride it out on my face," He mumbled before licking over your heat again, releasing the grip he had on your hips. With this new range of motion, you bucked up at a frivolous pace, the assault on both your entrance and clit driving you wild. It wasn't long before the knot in your stomach was released and you came with a string of profanities and Grayson's name echoing throughout his room

He let you ride out your high on his lips, making sure he savored every last drop. And he would've stayed down there all night if it weren't for your hands bringing his face up to yours. You tasted yourself as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, kissing you with much haste.

He rolled the material of your dress in between the fingers of his right hand as you tugged on the waistband of his joggers. Your legs locked themselves around his hips, pulling his groin upon yours and he groaned at the friction. He ground his bulge against your bare core and he could swear he could feel your wetness through his constricting clothes. He clenched his jaw, allowing his head to fall onto your shoulder. This was taking a lot of self-control and you could tell he was holding back.

"Gray?" You hummed against his neck after peppering wet hot kisses on his skin. He keened in response, his hips still slowly grinding into yours and you noted how he fisted at the sheets beside your head. "What's wrong?" You breathed heavily, meeting his hips with your own.

"It's just . . . I want to show you the passion that you deserve, just give me a minute, I gotta cool down," You could tell he was talking through gritted teeth and you felt him bite down on your shoulder. You untied his joggers, beginning to push them down his hips, resulting in him picking up his head to look at you.

"Grayson, I'm down for the slow passionate stuff, but right now I just want you to have your way with me . . . please," You begged, hand dipping beneath the waistband to feel the warmth of his shaft against your palm. He cocked his eyebrow at your pleads, not needing any more assurance. He pulled up on your dress, exposing your full nude body and began to suck and bite at your nipples as you continued to palm and jerk at his erection.

Next to come off was the rest of his clothing and he was back to crawling up your body, licking, biting and marking every square inch that he could.

He hummed against your lips as he lined himself up at your entrance, feeling how wet you were once again. You shaped your chest into his, wanting to feel his warmth and you hiked your legs up onto his hips, waiting for him to proceed.

Without warning, he was slipping inside and he could immediately feel slight restraint due to how tight you were and you winced, thankful that he took it slow so you could adjust.

"So fucking tight," He grabbed the back of your knee, pulling it up higher for deeper access. You breathed heavily, nails digging into his shoulder blades.

He bottomed out on the first thrust, waiting a while before he should move again. "God, I'm going to fuck you so good," He spoke into your neck and you squirmed underneath his weight, wanting so despairingly for him to continue his movements.

"Then do it," You challenged, and he was hesitant to pull out heavily and slam back into you in response. You cried out, feeling him hit your g-spot on the second stroke. It wasn't long before he had found a good pace, one of his hands traveling down your thigh and to your hip, lips parted as he panted in your ear.

Your legs hugged his body tight, nails raking down his back and his hips jarred with yours, the slight stubble on his pelvic area grinding down onto your clit.

"Mmm, (Y/N)," He moaned out when one of your hands reached up to tug on strands of his hair. His movements were becoming erratic, the feeling of his balls slapping against your ass and his fingers tracing figures onto your clit was making you see stars.

"Gray, right there," You pressed into him, breath shaky as you felt the familiar sensation of your climax building up. He didn't let up, his hips meeting yours in a perfect rhythm. "Harder," You cried out, clinging onto his back as you felt his muscles twitch as he pumped in and out of you. His hand reached up to grab his headboard for leverage, attacking you from a different angle.

"Fuck, baby, you're so hot," He watched you as your eyes screwed shut and your lips formed an 'o', small whimpers escaping your mouth. "Your pussy looks so good taking my dick," He bit down on his lip, continuing to bring you to your high with his fingers.

"Oh Gray, I'm so close," You locked your legs around his lower back, using your arms to bring him back down to feel his chest against yours, wanting to hear his whimpers in your ear as you came.

"Come for me, princess," He bucked into you, teeth dragging against your earlobe. And you came for the second time that night, knowing for sure that Ethan could probably hear you. Grayson wasn't far behind you, pulling out quickly to release onto your abdomen. He was quick to lap it up on his finger and insert it into your mouth, letting you lick him clean.

If he could have a favorite sight, it would be tied with your lips around his cum soaked finger, or your back arching off the mattress with his head in between your thighs.

He collapsed next to you, his breathing heavy, as well as yours.

"Fuck," You both said at the same time. Realization began to settle in and you turned to look at him, the state of bliss written all over his face.

"Listen, Grayson . . . if this was just a pity fuck, that's fine, I think I can take it. But please, just tell me now so I don't have to get my hopes up again," You grabbed at his duvet, pulling it over your nude body, now feeling self-aware. He opened his eyes, turning to you with furrowed eyebrows. He pulled you to him hastily, his hand behind your neck, capturing your lips in a soft kiss.

"(Y/N), this wasn't a 'pity fuck'. It was a moment I've been dreaming for as long as I can remember. Hell, you're what I've been dreaming for," He looked at you in the eyes, making sure you were comprehending everything he was saying. "You can't get rid of me that easily, princess. I'm all in," He whispered the last part against your lips, wanting to be molded to you for as long as possible.

[advernia]

fic: a beginner’s guide to waltz

— is it really just a simple art of stepping forward and moving backwards? - the mad hatter & alice the second.

1) stand facing your partner, shoulder distance away from them

 This, apparently, has become some sort of routine; heavens above bless his soul:

once or twice a week Alice the Second would visit the White Rabbit’s home (his home too, as he’d like them to recall), and she is welcomed warmly despite his constant refusal and attempts to let her in past the doorway,

the two morons end up sipping their tea while talking over incredibly mundane things that only serve to make his eyes roll, and his carrot-munching-idiot-of-a-housemate expects him to contribute and participate,

for some reason he and the little girl end up playing tour guide and tourist, adamantly unwilling and awfully inquisitive respectively: they walk around and about the Central Quarter only to stop when the sky has stripped itself of its blues and dressed itself in oranges and reds, and before she heads back to Black Army territory she never fails to;

say her thanks and bid him farewell in the form of the press of her lips - the pressure light and kind - on his forehead.

                        In hindsight the last one is absolutely unnecessary and incredibly inappropriate for they are man and woman and simply just acquaintances, but he can’t exactly fault her for still thinking that he’s just a child because that’s what he physically looks like in her eyes (some ill-tempered young boy who's actually sweet enough to accompany her on walks around town), and in the end -

- it’s not that horrible of a sensation, really.

                                         2) leads, always take a step forward, guiding your partner 

 There are many possible reasons as to why one would hold another’s hand, such as:

a social interaction or event requires it, such as when greeting another or when dancing,

a show of agreement, friendship, or affection (because actions certainly speak louder than words and what else spoke possibly louder than physical contact), or;

person in question has no notion or respect for the concept of personal space and propriety, or even worse, has no common sense and just decides that ‘hey, I wanna hold that person’s hand!’

None of the above really apply to their situation or to them both for that matter, unless one would count their walks to be a form of social interaction: he spits out once that touring her around Cradle is a waste of time considering that she’s been whining every single day about wanting to go home, to the London where she belongs; but she’s as stubborn as a mule could ever be and rather offended that he thinks that she’s been whining every single day when it’s quite the contrary.

The argument goes nowhere but it still ends up with them wandering about Cradle on occasion, so all’s well that ends well - for her, at least. He’s still kind enough to remind her that her days are numbered and while she claims that she hasn’t forgotten, the sparkle of curiosity that dances in her eyes whenever she sees something that strikes her fancy doesn’t get past him.

And when she does find something fascinating, she pulls him along for the ride, quite literally and figuratively so - with their hands linked together and bubbling enthusiasm as her strength, he’s dragged along to follow her footsteps; to be swept into her pace with little room for escape.

People wag their tongues as they frequent the streets of the Central Quarter and some of them boldly ask sometimes whether they’re siblings. The mere thought of that concept is enough to make him contort his face into expressions unimaginable but she’s all smiles and white teeth as she laughs; hand and fingers lacing themselves a little more securely in his, eating what little space that was modestly left in between their palms.

                        And he wonders for the umpteenth time, if those people actually take time to realize that after asking the question they want answered -

- her laughter doesn't follow with a validating response.

                                         3) perform to a 3-count tempo

The day she’s exposed and informed of his curse is the day that she rues all those kisses that she had planted on his forehead - she buries her face into her hands and deeply onto the wood of the White Rabbit’s dining table, but her ears that poke out from the heavy mass that was her hair spoke volumes of her embarrassment.

Victory always felt so exhilarating, especially after when one has been played around with like a fool - or rather, like a child.

Their relationship shifts shortly after that, for she has gradually come to terms that he truly is not just some kid - he is an adult in his own right, albeit stuck in an unfortunate predicament - her words towards him become more straightforward and less cherry-picked (for she believed that there were things that children shouldn’t hear), gone is the ‘little’ she adds before his name and so is her doubt for his actual ability as an inventor.  

Their walks still continue, and while she insists on holding hands with the reason 'to ensure that they don’t get separated by a possible madding crowd in the market', she manages to stop herself from kneeling down and pressing her lips on his forehead by the day's end.

                        Still, it doesn’t stop him from mercilessly teasing her about it -

- and her face would bloom brightly with a striking red, always, without fail.

                                         4) move in a circle with your partner

They end up having dinner together once, and it leaves the White Rabbit and the Black Army figuring out the so-called intriguing mystery of who asked who first, then it escalated to the question of who does the asking the most of the time when their dinner engagements increase in frequency.

Seven dinners later, both parties still draw blanks.

Perhaps to repay her henpecking kindness whenever they go about their walks (surprise, they nearly did get separated from each other once if not for her vice grip on his hand) and for the baked goods she would offer to him as snacks when he would dive into long periods of work, he escorts her well throughout the night like any proper gentleman would - albeit the fact that she could be so positively air-headed and inelegant in demeanor, she was still first and foremost a lady and her dressing up like one for their appointments only serves to remind him further of that: lengthy honey blonde hair styled neatly into modest up-dos, light touches of rouge and powder meant to accentuate natural facial features and not flaunt them, smart-looking blouses paired with graceful skirts, dresses with manageable layers and tasteful designs to boot, simple shoes that would always end up complementing the sole piece of jewelry she wore for the night; either a pair of earrings or a modest necklace.

He had to hand it to her, she knew how to dress the part of the ideal London woman: a minimal, practical look; meant to turn heads through its unassuming elegance. 

                        He's never said so straight to her face without a single trace of sarcasm or scorn, but if she would insist or ask -

- he certainly had no qualms in calling her beautiful.

                                         5) do an underarm turn

 You're going back.

Are you asking me if I am, or are you ordering me to?

Their hands are linked together, elbows held up to her shoulder height - she squeezes his lightly, fingers lacing themselves even further into his; and he squeezes back, as light as he could muster.

It was a statement. You're old enough to make your own choices, and I'm not interested in asking you about a decision you've made since you arrived here.

... Fair point.

Her heels click on the cobblestones as she takes a step back, his boots thump softly as he takes a step forward. The humble space in between their bodies remain, unassuming and undisturbed. 

... Will everything turn out alright?

... How should I know?

The hand she had set gently on his right shoulder developed a trembling weight - with a quiet sigh, the hand that he had set on her shoulder blade now slid down to her waist.

Silence begins to creep in, a skittery wind doing small pirouettes by the movements of their languid feet. The night says nothing either, with its darkness blanketing the skies and dotting it with twinkling stars - it just watches wordlessly from above, streaming down faint brilliance that gingerly illuminates the path they stood upon.

A minute later and without warning, she rests her lowered head on him; her forehead meeting his shoulder. Seconds later and without warning, his arm now wraps itself around her waist and pulls her closer to him, his chin resting itself kindly on top of her head.

                        Their hands are still linked together so they continue to sway along to the wind, like the leaves of the trees that surround them: wordlessly going back and forth, back and forth -

- and when the clock strikes midnight, there they continue to be.

                                        1: this was a nearly finished draft last month with a formatting i liked + a plot nonexistent but eyyy fe3h arrived and my soul is consumed by fe hell... again... i knew i should've finished this before the game's release date (٭°̧̧̧ω°̧̧̧٭) 2: i’m neutral with oliver, but i totally can’t deny that his colorful verbal abuse is a big mood. plus, that one scene in fenrir’s ‘say i do’ route always comes to mind - i found him to be rly sweet, wiping away mc’s tears. 3: step 5 went along the lines of 'this could be romantic if only he/she wanted it to be', thus the word turn... plus, this is me implying that for this fic's purposes, mc returning to london means never going back to cradle at all. honestly speaking, the drama factor of 'different worlds' became pretty minor to me once i learned that mc can just... go back pretty easily... what a shame, methinks (๑•̆૩•̆) 4: i do hope his route gives a rly interesting explanation about his curse + origin... i mean, its hinted that he used to be from london himself, so i'd like to know what makes his circumstances different from the alices. i could play the jap ver itself or just look up spoilers... but... (*´σー｀)

[initiala]

Happy Valentine’s Day @fairytalesandtimetravel!!! I had so much fun talking to you this month, though I apologize for how infrequent it got as the school year decided to slam everything down on me. Now this is a bit more St. Patrick’s Day than Valentine’s, but I loved your prompt and pulled in some of my own experiences as well ;)

“Doesn’t this country know it’s summer?” Emma grumbled as she pulled her beanie more snugly around her ears.

Her new beanie, made with genuine Irish wool (dyed green, since Mary Margaret said it matched Emma’s eyes), because it was the end of June and Emma had foolishly believed that she could wear summer clothes on this trip around the British Isles.

But apparently Ireland hadn’t received the message that the summer solstice had passed two days before; the rolling green hills were capped with low-hanging gray clouds, blocking any sunshine from warming the air. Everyone had bought out the gift shop’s supply of wool sweaters and scarves the night before, after the news report that the next few days were sure to be more of the same. As she dubiously eyed the path up to the castle, Emma had yet to decide if there was a constant drizzle or if it was just that foggy, but either way the weather was chilly and damp.

And the most infuriating thing of all? The island still managed to be one of the most beautiful places she’d ever been to.

She followed David and Mary Margaret up to Blarney Castle, their last touristy stop of the day before heading back into Cork. The streams around the castle grounds flowed noisily along, the water swollen up and over the banks. Full and green trees hung low, heavy with wet, their leaves trailing in water and giving Emma plenty of exercise as she ducked under branches and away from Mary Margaret’s ever-snapping camera. “Newsflash, cameras do not steal your soul,” Mary Margaret commented as Emma slipped away yet again from another photo.

“Thanks for the update, still not gonna risk it,” Emma replied.

“It’s like you don’t want people to know you’re on vacation with us,” David said, holding a branch up for Mary Margaret to walk under.

Emma didn’t reply; in truth, it felt a little awkward to be the third wheel, especially knowing that David was about four seconds from throwing his carefully-made plans out the window and proposing to Mary Margaret on the first windswept, sheep-speckled hillside he could find (of which there were many). Not wanting to sound like a sad sack or leave an open invitation for Mary Margaret’s matchmaking to make an appearance, it was just easier to stay silent.

There were relatively few people when they entered the run-down castle, which turned out to be a blessing: the damp made the stone stairs fairly treacherous. Emma made her way through the crumbling castle, pausing here and there to read the signs about how the inside had originally been laid out. She heard Mary Margaret’s camera going a million miles a minute somewhere behind her and resisted the urge to flip the camera off: she’d just get guilted half to death and Emma knew Mary Margaret only meant well.

Oh hell, she felt guilty just thinking about it.

Emma knew she was in pretty good shape, but the castle stairs were steep and she was a little winded as they came up to the top. On a clear day, the view would be spectacular; she leaned out of a crenel and watched the clouds scuttle low in the sky, the misty air obscuring most of the land past a half mile away or so. “Please don’t tumble out of a castle tower, I really don’t want to explain that to your boss,” David said, gripping the back of her leather jacket for good measure.

“You’re my boss, David.”

“Okay, the insurance company then.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Children,” Mary Margaret said, snapping a picture of the two of them with a mischievous smile on her face. “Let’s go kiss the Blarney Stone so this nice young man can go home out of the wet. And so we can get some of the stew that one pub was advertising.”

Emma looked over to where Mary Margaret’s ‘nice young man’ stood. In reality, he looked to be about their age, possibly a few years older; she couldn’t tell what color his eyes were from here but he watched them with interest. The wind-tousled hair and the smirk on his face didn’t match her description either -- oh no, nice was absolutely not the word Emma would use to describe this guy. “Have you even looked at him?” she hissed.

Mary Margaret looked properly appalled, smacking her on the arm discretely. “Emma!”

���He looks neither nice nor young!”

“He looks like he’s David’s age and, well, okay, he looks a bit… impish, but I call you nice even when you’re being all… you,” Mary Margaret hissed back.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it’s supposed to mean, Miss Prickly Pear! You know what I think?” Mary Margaret asked as they let David lead the way. “I think you definitely looked at him and that’s why you’re being this way.”

“What way?” Emma hissed, but Mary Margaret didn’t respond as the man began talking.

Okay, maybe she knew what way. Up close, the guy was hot. He had a musical kind of lilt to his voice as he talked about the legends behind the Blarney Stone, weaving in little jokes as he went, and Emma caught him looking at her appreciatively more than once. “Now, it’s a bit of a drop to get to it,” he was saying, “but I promise I haven’t lost anyone yet.”

Emma’s gaze snapped to where David was about to lay on a mat on the stone walkway. “Wait, what?”

“Aye,” the guide said, setting up the souvenir camera. “Stone’s down there, love, built into the battlements. What’s the fun without a bit of danger?”

David grinned at her as Emma watched, transfixed and feeling slightly green around the gills; the guide had him lay on his back, grip some metal poles bolted into the stone walls, and bend himself halfway down the wall as the guide held David’s waist. A photo was snapped, and then David was getting back up, looking a bit red from all the blood rushing to his head but still grinning. “I am not doing that,” Emma stated flatly.

“Says the woman leaning out of the tower earlier?” David asked.

“I was barely poking my head over the side!”

“Oh, come on Emma,” Mary Margaret said, slipping her own beanie off her head and shoving it in her pocket. She too managed the feat and got a photo to prove it.

But Emma dug her heels in, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly as the guide waited her out. “It’s alright, lass.”

“It’s slippery.”

“I’ll hold on to you.”

“Then we’ll both fall to our deaths.”

“Someone’s been listening to too many Holmes dramas,” the guide said with a small sigh. He waved her over, holding out his hand. “Come here, Emma, it’s perfectly safe.”

She started to ask how he knew her name, but remembered Mary Margaret’s goading. Feeling churlish, she went to kneel next to him. He stuck out his hand and she took it, cautiously. “Name’s Killian,” he said, grinning at her. “There, now we know each other. Better to fall to your death with a friend than a stranger, aye?”

“You really need to work on your bedside manner.”

Killian laughed, then canted his head down to where the stone lay embedded in the wall. “It’s that one there, right at the end. And see past that? There’s a safety catch. So no deaths today, not on my watch. Just a quick dip, then you’re back on your feet. I’ll hold on the whole time.”

Emma glanced down at the stone and then back up at Killian. There must have been something in her eyes because he gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Try something new, darling. It’s called trust.”

She wasn’t one to trust people easily. And even with the safety bars below, this still felt like something unnecessarily risky -- like cliff-diving in the Philippines or some other dangerous touristy thing. But she found herself nodding and laying back. Killian’s hands held her hips firmly and he gave her another smile, and she had a bizarre, fleeting thought about what this might feel like in an entirely different situation: one with less cold, wet stone under her back. “Down you get, love,” Killian said. “And no pretending either, don’t be afraid to really get into it.”

Emma scoffed, then pulled herself down and back. She saw a fleeting glimpse of that beautiful countryside before she firmly shut her eyes and pressed her lips to the cold, wet Blarney Stone.

As Killian helped her back up -- her actual back was protesting the exercise -- Mary Margaret and David were applauding her, and Emma was pretty sure it was only a little bit sarcastic. Killian helped her to her feet as well, clapping her on the shoulder with yet another grin. “Good show. Now, if you want your photos, those will be down at the booth as you’re leaving the grounds. It looks like we’re going to get more rain in a bit, so I suggest you three hustle if you’re going to escape most of the wet.”

David and Mary Margaret nodded and started back down the castle. Emma started to go after them, then glanced over her shoulder. “Hey, Killian?” He looked up, with an oddly hopeful look on his face. She smiled a bit, then lifted her hand in farewell. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, love. Have a good day.”

Emma bought her souvenir photo.

After they got back to the hostel and all traded turns in the shower, Emma couldn’t decide if she wanted to lay down on her bed and never get back up, or if she should feed her rumbling stomach. Her legs hurt from all the climbing that day, but she knew she’d only be grouchy and get a headache if she didn’t eat. So she popped a few Tylenol and followed her friends down the street to the pub they’d discussed earlier.

It was warm and cozy inside, dim lighting and old, dark wood breathing a sense of history into the place. The stew was excellent, as were the beers -- though Emma still had some trouble adjusting to this warm beer thing -- and they decided to stay and listen for a while as a local band was getting ready to play their set.

Emma was absorbed in going over tomorrow’s plans with David when she heard a familiar voice over the microphone announce the band and then count off to the first song. She looked up and realized with a shock that it was Killian on the guitar and singing. A man with curly hair was on the fiddle, and there was another man and a woman -- one on a hand-drum and the other with a pipe; there were a few other instruments at their feet and occasionally they’d swap out. Apparently they were regulars, because as the evening wore on folks started to call out favorite requests and Killian would banter with them, to much laughter.

She was up at the bar getting refills when Killian announced a short break. She felt someone come up to the bar next to her and heard Killian say, “Couple of waters, cheers lad.”

Emma totally wanted to blame the alcohol for what happened next, but she knew deep down that she’d somehow hoped she could see him again. Or maybe the Blarney Stone magic was starting to work. “Hey,” she said, turning to look at him. “You guys aren’t half bad.”

The look on his face was priceless, shock and a bit of awe as well. “Emma.”

Her smile faltered a bit, worried that this would be a bad thing. After all, he wasn’t being paid to calm down the crazy girl at the top of a castle here, he was performing. And it had only been for a few minutes earlier that day, it wasn’t like they’d shared this magical moment and birds would start singing anytime they were near -- oh, God, she was spending too much time with Mary Margaret on this trip. “Yeah,” she said, as the bartender came up with her tray of drinks and a few glasses of water for Killian. “Sorry, I just thought -- your band’s good. We’ve been enjoying it. I’ll, uh, let you get back to your break--”

“No, love.” Killian’s hand shot out and stopped her from moving. “Apologies, I was just stunned to see you here. You must have been tucked away in some corner, I would have noticed otherwise.”

Emma was grateful for the dark, it hid her rising blush. “Oh. Well, yeah, we have a table near the back.”

“I see. And I’m keeping you from your friends now.”

She shook her head at the sad sound of his voice. “No, I was just getting refills. I needed to get up and move anyway, David’s a planner and Mary Margaret has all the Lonely Planets out and it’s starting to get on my nerves a bit.”

“Like a bit of spontaneity, do you?” Killian asked.

The glint in his eye made her warmer. “Kinda,” Emma admitted. “Sometimes you just need to fall off the beaten track for a while, you know? Stuff happens and that’s where the story comes from.”

“A life of adventure.”

She nodded. Killian glanced back at the platform where his band mates were, then back to her. “Listen, I need to get these over to the lads and I’m sure your friends would appreciate their drinks. But pop back up here in a mo’?”

Emma considered him, then decided to take her own advice. Fall off the beaten track for a bit. “Okay.”

She dropped off David and Mary Margaret’s drinks with a hurried explanation, then brought her pint back up to the front of the pub, where Killian waited for her. He gave her a grin that promised mischief, then plucked her glass from her hand. “Do you know how to jig, love?”

Emma looked at him as if he’d grown another head. “Do I know how to what?”

The man with the curly hair and the fiddle stepped up to the mic. “Lads, I’ve had a request -- seems my little brother doesn’t get enough exercise climbing up and down the hills all day and wants to show off for this lovely lass.” Emma’s face was definitely, noticeably red this time, glaring at this guy who claimed to be Killian’s older brother. “So dust off your dancing shoes and get ready to burn off Mrs. O’Malley’s stew.”

“I have no idea what to do!” Emma hissed as Killian took her hands and the band started up a jaunty tune.

“Then it’s a good thing you’ve picked a partner who knows what he’s doing,” Killian told her with a wink. “Follow my lead.”

There was a lot of bouncing involved, but as Killian whirled her around the pub floor with the other people dancing -- David and Mary Margaret included, after the first song -- Emma would later swear she’d never had so much fun or laughed so hard in her life. He took her through four songs before Liam -- his older brother -- and the rest of the pub teased him back into finishing the night’s set.

Emma caught her breath at their table in the back, watching Killian play as she nursed her drink. He caught her eye a few time as he sang, winking once, and when they finished their set for the night he gave her a subtle look to follow him.

As planned out as the trip had been -- chilly weather and new wool sweaters aside -- Emma was pretty sure that no one, least of all her, would have planned on her making out with an Irish pub musician behind the very pub he’d been playing at.

And really, that’s kind of how she preferred it.

[friendlywriterboynamedniko]

Persona: Psycho Prologue Part 1

Fandom: Persona

Words: 1706

Note- Okay so I wrote this a while ago...while drunk...

The main character are all original they’re names are:

-Manaka Yasumi

-Shintaro Uechi

-Kage

-Tsubaki Tsuburai

-Eji Hirano

-Akemi Ono

-Rushi Aki

-Monaca

-Azuza

Might continue not sure tho.

”ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?” He yelled, she ignored the man and continued to take another swig from her bottle. Fuck him. ”BITCH!” He threw his bottle at her, the bottle went past her shoulder, shattering on the wall behind her, it cut her shoulder, she didn't care. It doesn't hurt, she's too numb to feel it. The alcohol has already traveled too far through her bloodstream, blood gushes from her shoulder. She didn't care. ”DAMMIT MANAKA YOU NEVER LISTEN!” He yells louder. She ignores him. He growls, then runs down the hall .... Finally he’s gone. The thought is short lived because soon he's back, with a backpack in his hand. He tosses the bag, it hits her in the stomach knocking her breath out, the bottle in her hand falls, splattering glass and green liquid on the floor. ”GET OUT!” He yells… fuck him. She pats her pockets on her jeans… keys… name badge… wallet… phone. She swings the backpack over her shoulder, she ignores the man's screaming as she walks to the door. Despite being numb, she feels tears streaming down her face.

As she slams the apartment door she releases a sob. She loved him. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him. She banged her fist against the railing of the stairs as she repeated the words in her head. She throws her car door open, her limbs feel heavy as she clambers in. She slams the car door. She releases more sobs, more tears, more tears, and more tears. She lays her head on the steering wheel. More tears. More tears. More tears. More tears. More tears.

She looks up from the wheel, she stares at her reflection… She's so pathetic. She leans her head back, the warmness surrounds her as her eyes, that are heavy with tears close.

———

Cold metal was pressed against her face, surprisingly she didn't have a brain splitting headache. Her head raised… ? She was sitting on a stool… Not her car seat. She was sitting at a metal table, a bottle of beer sitting by where her face was just laying. Is she at Okami’s? Her surroundings were familiar, just dyed in blue. She remembered spending days in this place...but why was everything blue? Did Zen redecorate? More importantly, who brought her here? She raised her head more to look at her surroundings, there was a blue and white dartboard to her left, more tables to her right, her eyes finally settled in front of her.

In the center of her view was the usual bar and bar stools, except dyed in blue. An old man leaned over the bar…he had a...long nose, and big bulging eyes, he wasn't looking at her instead staring down at the bar. On a barstool in front of the man, sat a young woman in blue clothes, she was faced away from the Manaka.

Manaka didn't know why but her body dragged her out of her seat and onto the dark wood floor. The floor creaked as she slowly crossed the room, it was as if her feet moved without her telling them to. She stops in front of the bar, before plopping down on a stool next to the woman and in front of the old man. The man didn't look familiar, is he a new bartender? 

Right, when she sat on the stool around to face the bar, the man’s eyes snap up to look at her, the woman next to her turns to look at her. 

”Ah, looks like we have a new guest, ” The old man suddenly spoke, Manaka snapped her attention back to the old man. A wide smile stretches across his face, ”Welcome to the Velvet room. This is a place that exists between dream and reality, mind and matter, ” his hand gestured to the rest of the room.

Manaka shifts on her seat a bit before releasing a ”Huh?”

”Right now you are fast asleep in the real world, so consider this place simply as a dream, ” The man said, Manaka just stared at him. So this is just a dream then? But this felt way too real to be a dream.

”Isn’t this…” Okami’s? She look around at the dyed blue bar.

”Oh are you curious about the state of this room?” the man asked, Manaka nodded. ”This room manifests differently depending on the state of the guest’s heart and mind, ” Hmm, ”It might manifest into a place that's close to your heart, or of how you feel in your mind, or even a room that hints at your upcoming destiny.” Manaka listens but can't help to think the man’s words were weird. ”It looks like it manifested into a place close to your heart, hmmm, how interesting.”

The man tapped his long fingers against the bar, ”Oh, how rude of me, I forgot to introduce myself,” the man says, ”I am Igor, I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” He then gestured to the woman sitting next to Manaka, “This Margaret, a resident of this room like myself.”

The woman turned her stool a bit towards Manaka, she held a big blue book in her arms. “Hello.”

“Well then, why don’t you go ahead and introduce yourself?” He asked Manaka.

Manaka looked around awkwardly, “Uh, um, I’m Manaka,” is all she said.

“Hm, well anyway, I summoned you here to say in the next coming days you’ll enter a contract,” he continued, “That day you’ll be summoned here again, but until then, farewell.”

————————

She woke up startled to her phone going off, she hit her head on horn causing a honk to go through the crowded dorm parking lot. She sighed and picked up her phone, surprised to see it wasn’t her alarm, but her classmate Shintarō. She quickly pressed answer, “Hello?” She spoke in a tired voice.

“Hey, where are you?” He immediately asked.

“Huh?” 

“You’re late.”

Manaka tiredly looked over at the clock on her dash, 9:30, but it’s Sunday, she didn’t have school today. What was she late for? “For what?” She asked

“Our assig- wait are you hungover?” He questioned. Manaka sighed, cursing under her breath. “Manaka I thought you were serious about this!”

Manaka gritted her teeth, “I’m sorry, I just had a bad day.”

Shintarō sighed, “It’s fine...I guess.” She could hear the boy take a drag of his cigarette. He breathed out and coughed out a bit before saying, “You wanna talk about it?”

She leaned back in her seat, sighing, “Yeah, that would be nice.”

She heard a stomp on the other line before Shintarō spoke again, “Well we’ll talk later, right now you need to get your ass over here.”

“Wait, you still haven’t told me what for?”

“Did you really forget?” He sighed, “We are meeting that Tsuburai girl for our assignment today, remember?”

Manaka’s eyes got, oh shit, she totally forgot that was today. “Oh, shit, sorry I’ll be there soon.”

“You have 30 minutes, you better hustle.”

She quickly hung up and started to at least make herself look decent. She smoothed down her hair with a hot water bottle that had been sitting in her car for God knows how long, she threw off her black sleeveless hoodie in favor of a more professional looking brown jacket. She stared at the gash on a shoulder for a second before shaking her head and slipped the jacket on. Finally, she splashed more of a random water bottle’s contents on her face before starting her car.

————

Manaka sighed and pulled her key out of the ignition. She unbuckled her seat belt, then unzipped her bag, grabbing out a thick folder, a pen, and a notebook. Her car door made a loud creak as she opened it.

Shintarō was standing at the entrance of the apartment building, phone in hand, messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

She walked slowly up to the boy, ”Hey, Shin.”

He looked up from his phone, then slipped it into his pocket. “There you are, took ya long enough,” he then proceeded to look her up and down, “Jeez, you look like hell.”

Manaka rolled her eyes, ”Thanks.”

The boy gave a smile, and leaned against the building, ”Anyways, you got the file?”

Manaka nodded but then sighed, “Yeah, but I didn’t get to study it last night,” Shin rolled his eyes, “Can you give a brief?”

Shin sighed, “Jeez how would you pass this class without me?” He stood straight up, “18-year-old female, grew up with a physically and verbally abusive mother, father was absent for most of her life, family members have reported that she may have Anorexia and she has also displayed sociopathic tendencies.” Manaka’s mind worked hard to process the bulk of information. ”What a hard assignment to push on two sophomores.”

Manaka nods, ”Agreed.”

”Now come on we’re already 10 minutes late, ” Shin added, as they both made their way to the entrance.

—————

Shin rapped on the door, they both heard multiple stomps before the door slowly opened. The door opened to a girl who was probably a couple of years younger then Shin and Manaka. She was a tiny girl, a tiny tiny girl, she was extremely short and extremely thin. “If you're the people from the church-“ the girl began in a slow monotone voice. 

Shin quickly waved his arms, “No, no, we’re the psych students from Teiki.”

The girl opened the door a bit more, before checking the watch wrapped around her boney wrist. “You’re 10 minutes late,” She said plainly.

Shin became to explain “Oh sorry we got-“

“I don’t care, come in,” she walked back into her apartment. 

Shin sighs and turns to Manaka, giving her a look before walking into the apartment. She assumed that look Shin gave her meant he was thinking the same thing: this’ll be a long day.

————

“Um, is there anywhere we can sit?” Shin asked, sounding awkward.

The girl nodded and gestured to the other kitchen chairs, “You can’t tell by looking?”

Shin nodded a muttered “Ah, sorry.” Him and Manaka sat across the table from the girl. Shin pulled his phone out, Manaka watched as he switched to an audio recording app, he pressed start.