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jamiemackenziefraser · 3 years

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All That Was Fair

Chapter 12: Billows and Breeze

Summary: Burning questions pave the way for a few much-needed answers.

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A/n: I’m back, thanks so much for your patience! As usual, this chapter picks up directly where the last left off, so it might be good to glance at the previous chapter if you want a refresher.

Chapter 12: Billows and Breeze

***

After the unfortunate incident with the knife, Claire had been reluctant to leave his side, still buzzing with worry over him. She’d gotten herself well and truly worked up, and Jamie thought that they needed to do something lighthearted and low-stakes. The day so far had been so charged with tense energy that Jamie thought perhaps being outside in the familiarity and tranquility of nature would do her some good.

“Do ye fancy a hike?” he asked Claire, who was sitting curled up on the couch. Immediately remembering that “hike” was likely not a word in her vocabulary, he amended, “a wee walk about outside?”

Claire’s face brightened instantly and she perked up. “Oh can we? I feel so stuffed up!”

Jamie was proud of himself for once again correctly guessing what would be good for her. Perhaps he had her figured out now…

Thus the preparations began. It was an unseasonably warm day for autumn in Scotland, so Jamie was comfortable with Claire wearing one of the armload of dresses provided she also wore his jacket. Most of them still lay on the chair where he’d deposited them the night before. He grabbed one out for Claire, handed it to her, and then she disappeared off to change. When all of the rest of the dresses had been draped over his arm to bring upstairs, he noticed the book laying on the chair. The Woman of Balnain.

Alarm bells went off in his head, and his curiosity peaked, but he didn’t have any time to spare to look into the book. It’d have to wait. As he tossed the clothes upstairs in the guest bedroom, he took a stop by his office to place the book on his desk. Soon.

For his own preparations, he suited up in his well-loved hiking boots, packed a backpack of water and snacks, and considered their destination. Claire likely wasn’t interested in a car journey (she’d had enough excitement for one day), so perhaps just a walk about his property and a stroll to the neighboring monro. It truly was beautiful: the heather was in full bloom this time of year, turning the hills into sweeping seas of purple. Claire would love it.

So, they escaped out the back door and set out side-by-side along his property. They weren’t touching, just amicably basking in each other’s nearness. About two steps in, Jamie realized he needed to slow his pace. His long legs and inexhaustible hiker’s energy would far outpace his wee faerie.

“I never thought tae ask…” Jamie began as they walked along, Claire’s face upturned toward the sunlight peeking through the clouds, “how old are ye?”

“Oh…” she looked down shyly and then glanced back up at him from under her lashes, “I'm quite young really, I’m only 9 and 30.”

Jamie’s mouth fell open. He was incredibly taken aback by this, having pegged her to be about his age if not younger, but quickly decided he could take it in stride.

“‘Quite young?’” he chuckled, “ye’re practically a granny compared tae me, lass. I’m 29.”

“29!” she exclaimed, as if she had just told her that he was the bloody queen rather than a decade younger than her, “but you’re so… why don’t you live with your parents?”

Jamie nearly tripped over a stone in his path but managed to right himself before toppling over. Claire had stopped walking the moment “29” had left his mouth, and she was staring at him with a concerned gaze that uncomfortably reminded Jamie of how an adult might look at a lost child.

But the pieces were beginning to fall into place in his brain, and he wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs as he gathered his thoughts. With a glance at Claire and then a tilt of his head, they resumed walking.

“I sense that maybe there’s a wee difference between lifespans of humans and the fair folk…” he began uncertainly, “Humans only stay wi’ their parents until they are 18 or so. Besides, I lost my mam when I was young, and my da a few years back.”

He wasn’t sure exactly what possessed him to share that last intimate detail with her, superfluous to the point as it was. He hardly ever talked about his parents’ deaths to people, and it disconcerted him a bit how easily it came tumbling from him now. Apparently a deep part of him wanted to share everything with her.

“Ye said ye’re quite young…” he continued, and a horrifying thought suddenly struck him, “you didna still live wi’ yer parents before ye came through the stones, did ye?”

Oh Christ what if she was only a child by fae terms! She looked his age but…

His head began to spin, but she thankfully answered before he could work himself up any further.

“No. I suppose things are a little different for the fair folk. We are taken care of by our parents until around 30 years of age or so. But I’ve been on my own for far longer than that. I… I lost my parents as well. When I was very young. I can hardly remember them really…”

She gave a little tilt of the head, trying to keep the mention of tragedy casual, but he could see the pain in her eyes that wouldn’t meet his.

Jamie’s heart ached for her, tinged with the familiar longing for his own parents. It seemed they really were kindred spirits— him and Claire— two lost souls who’d somehow come to find each other.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said huskily, “so that’s what ye meant when ye’d said ye’d been takin’ care of yerself yer whole life? Did ye no’ have other family?”

Claire shrugged her shoulders a little, as if her clothes were too tight, and shook her head, her curls billowing in the gentle breeze to hide half of her face. He knew she wasn’t hiding from him intentionally, but it still made his heart clench to see her discomfort.

“Not really. But the fair folk are rather communal. We are often near each other, even if we don’t live as a family unit per say. Others made sure I was well, and I had friends and other fae around, but mostly I’ve been—”

She left the word “alone” unspoken, but the meaning was clear. The undeclared word seemed to linger in the air between them, weighty and heart-wrenching.

At this new declaration, Jamie couldn’t help but reach out and take her hand. She wasn’t alone anymore after all. Maybe she felt that way, but Jamie would be damned if it were true. He wouldn’t leave her. Her wee hand slipped easily into his, and he allowed his thumb to drift over the peaks and valleys of her knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. What else could he say in the midst of such loss?

“What about you?” she asked, her natural radiance suddenly coming through in her smile, dissipating the heavy topic’s dark cloud, “will you tell me more about your sister?”

Jamie couldn’t help a sheepish smile. “Aye, Janet is her real name. After we lost our mam when I was around 8 or so, Jenny became sort of a mother tae me. She was always there when I needed her, and— weel…” he let out a bit of a laugh, thinking about the earlier blow up with Jenny, “she’s always there now, sometimes too much when she’s sticking her neb intae my business… but I’m glad she’s there. I love her verra much.”

Claire gave him a sweet nod and squeezed his hand. “I can tell she’s important to you.”

Apologies rose in Jamie’s throat along with the resurfaced guilt from earlier. He had told the one person who mattered most to him that Claire meant nothing, and both of them were aware of it. But as much as he was bursting to lay himself at her feet and explain his mistake all over again, he’d already been forgiven, so it was time for him to move past it.

His thoughts were interrupted by Claire letting out an exclamation. They had just rounded the edge of the monro, revealing the expanse of rolling heather— its purple waves spread into a picturesque canvas across the landscape.

“Bonny, is it no’?” he asked, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.

“It’s beautiful,” she uttered in wonderment.

Feeling like a protagonist in a romance novel, he held tightly to her hand and led her through the field. Her skirt billowed in the breeze behind her, and her face was lit up with a serene joy. Riotous curls swept all around her head, and Jamie was enthralled. He found himself walking almost completely backward so he could watch her face as she took in the beautiful sights.

He could admit to himself that it was cheesy, but to him, Claire would always be the most beautiful view.

If only he could tell her that… To bring them to a halt, gather her into his arms, and kiss her until she was breathless…

He had to squeeze his eyes shut before the longing took him over. The words he always repeated to himself came to the forefront of his mind.

You can be her friend, her anchor, but nothing more. She’s lost everything, ye canna take advantage of her. Pull yerself together.

And so he did. He wiped all thoughts of kissing her from the slate of his mind— imaging a whiteboard of the errant imaginings being erased— and grounded himself in the moment.

“Have ye ever seen a place like this?” he asked.

She shook her head, still smiling in delight. “We don’t usually wander out as far as the moors. Well, some do. Some have experienced a great deal. But I hadn’t ever left my forest before now.”

He nodded, going silent as his imagination overwhelmed him with images of him taking Claire to the beaches of Greece. Her joy as she took in the crystal blue waters, her dropping to her knees to grab handfuls of sand, her body clad only in a bikini as she jumped into the waves...

A question suddenly struck him and pulled him rudely from his fantasy.

“Do the fair folk read?”

She looked at him, uncertain. “Read?”

He thought back to their adventure at the bookstore. She hadn’t actually asked him about the books, but she hadn’t made any indication she knew what they were either. It had been an overwhelming day; he couldn’t blame her for not asking about every single thing when it was all unfamiliar.

“Do you have language in a written form? With symbols?” he expanded.

She gave a little shake of her head and looked curiously at him. “We communicate verbally, like we’re doing now. What is reading?”

And thus, Jamie set into the best explanation he could manage. About communication, learning, writings surviving the years to give insights into ancient ways, the power of stories in human culture.

“We tell many stories,” Claire told him during a break in his explanation, “all passed down from one generation to the next. Like I said at the gardens, language is everything to us.”

He nodded thoughtfully. Jamie’s curiosity about the fair folk was well and truly peaked, and as they walked along, enjoying the serenity of the warm day and the feeling of earth under their feet, he launched into more questions.

“This may be a difficult question tae answer, but… how are ye alive if ye dinna eat? I mean… humans get energy from things we eat, where do you get yers?”

“Well… I suppose a simple way to explain it is we get energy from everything around us.” She made a wide, encompassing gesture to their surroundings.

“Like from the sun? Like plants do?” Jamie’s brain was running away with thoughts of Claire going through the process of photosynthesis.

“No, it’s… it’s hard to explain. It’s more like… I just tap into the energy of the earth. I don’t really know how else to say it.” Claire gave him a bit of a helpless smile, and Jamie returned one in dismissal of the topic. It didn’t matter to him so much how exactly it worked so long as it did.

“Okay, one more question,” he asked, hoping he hadn’t already pushed her too far with his curiosity.

But his fears were assuaged when she answered indulgently, “you can ask me as many as you want, Jamie.”

That got his head spinning. What he really wanted to know was about relationships between the fae. Did they have marriage? He longed to ask her (and maybe get down on one knee depending on the answer), but he bit his tongue. It wouldn’t do to be scaring the lass with a daft question when he couldn’t even keep his feelings in check. No, he’d save that one for another day.

“I appreciate it, lass, but jes’ one more for now. From the stories I’ve heard from my mam… and that many people believe in Scotland, ye’re supposed to leave offerings of milk and sweets— food— for the fair folk tae eat. But ye dinna eat, so…”

Claire let out a laugh then. Not one of mocking or disdain, but pure enjoyment. And it lit up Jamie’s soul to hear even though he had no idea why it was she was laughing.

“You humans think you have us all figured out. That one, my lad, is one you all made up completely on your own. I’m sure half of the things you believe are mere superstition,” she answered with an entertained gleam in her eye.

Jamie could have talked to her for hours, deciphering which of the scottish legends were true or man-made, unraveling the secrets that made up his mysterious faerie, but he noticed she was starting to droop a bit. Her pace had slowed, and despite the wide smile still gracing her face, Jamie thought it was time to turn around.

“Come now, lass, let’s go home.”

She gave a grateful nod, and with that, they turned back. On the way home, Jamie began to explain all about his job. About the publishing company— his whole livelihood based on stories. Claire seemed to lighten at that, and Jamie started to mentally catalogue which books he’d have to read to her first, imagining her delight as she was introduced to all different kinds of worlds and knowledge.

The sun was just beginning to go down as the cottage came in sight. The clouds were lit in a warm golden light, and specks of it sparkled in Claire’s hair. Rather like the color of the aura around her— he thought. He looked at her then, really looked, and saw the soft shimmering cloud, barely visible in the golden sunlight. They were no longer holding hands, but he thought if he took just one step closer, he could feel the warmth of it. Indulging himself, he did, and found it to be just like it always was. A sense of well-being, of serenity, of Claire.

“Would ye like another shower, a nighean?” he asked as they stepped inside the house and he took the jacket from her.

She looked quite excited by this idea. “Oh yes, please.”

He inflated with the pride of pleasing her and had to hide his smile as he hung their jackets on the hook.

“Well alright then. But only if I can take one after ye, I must smell worse than the underside of a stag.”

Much to his surprise (and perhaps even horror), Claire suddenly was on top of him, her face pressing against his shoulder and hands casually rested on his sides, holding him still. There was the sound of a deep inhale, and then she withdrew her face with a smile.

“I think you smell wonderful,” she said sweetly, without a hint of sarcasm in her tone or guileless eyes.

Jamie laughed out loud, his chest heaving with the force of it. Claire laughed along with him, although he wasn’t entirely sure what she was laughing about.

Overcome by his giddiness (the lass had just smelled his oxter and liked it for Christ’s sake!), he leaned in and caught her around the waist. Holding her body against him, he lowered his head and took a whiff of her neck. His nose brushed the skin there, and she began to squirm against him, the softness of her clouding his mind.

“Ye smell like…”

His words cut off as she struggled playfully, making him laugh. The squirming only egged him on, and he easily held her incapacitated as he sniffed again, this time on the other side of her neck. She pushed half-heartedly at his chest, but at the same time, she seemed to be leaning closer to his touch.

He had been planning to tease her, to finish his sentence by listing whatever horrible smell he could think of and demanding she shower immediately, but he found that when he really thought about it, she smelled fresh as a summer rose. Like the heather of the fields and crispness of the breeze.

Of course she did, the lass didna drink, she likely didna sweat either.

Just another enchanting thing about her— she would always smell intoxicating.

“Actually ye smell good,” he finished lamely.

His hands fell from her waist, releasing her, and she pushed away from him while continuing to laugh.

“Well I’d like that shower either way,” she teased.

As he headed toward the bathroom to turn it on for her, he began to berate himself over their little display. His eyes squeezed shut with the force of his embarrassment.

That was something a couple would do. Not friends. He’d been overcome by flirting in the moment, the nearness of her that seemed to make him lose his heid. He’d stepped over a line.

The feeling of her squirming in his arms, of holding her body against him, lingered in his mind long after he’d left Claire to her shower. He sat down at the kitchen table and buried his head in his hands.

He had to get himself together.

While Claire showered, Jamie needed to take care of real life. Food was first-and-foremost, and then he had to set about the task of taking more time off work. There was no way he could leave her. That was the same thing he’d told himself the last few days, and Jamie briefly wondered if he ever would be able to. It certainly wasn’t getting any easier.

As he pulled out his phone to shoot Ian a clipped and matter-of-fact text about yet another absence, Adso gave him a green stare of disapproval from his perch on the coffee table.

“What are ye judgin’ me for?” he asked the cat indignantly.

Adso simply gazed at him some more, even and unwavering in his haughty objection.

Jamie sighed heavily, “I guess ye’re right,” he told the cat, “I’ll call him. Now stop eyin’ me like that.”

Whipping out his phone, he reluctantly initiated the call.

“Hi, Jamie,” Ian answered, seeming rather muted compared to his usual exuberant greetings.

“Hello, a charaid,” Jamie said, and then there was a long silence. Guilt was seeping into his brain at the thought of possibility driving his family away. The cat really had convicted him…

“Listen, I am—” “Jamie, I wanted tae—” they both started at the same time.

“I’ll go,” Ian volunteered, “I wanted tae tell ye that I’m sorry we ambushed ye this mornin’. Ye’re right. Ye’ve worked hard wi’ out a single day off in years, ye deserve a vacation if that’s what ye’re needin’.”

“Thank you, Ian. I’m sorry, too. I shouldna have blown up at ye and ignored yer calls. I’ve jes’ been… sortin’ through some things.”

“I understand that,” Ian chuckled.

“Listen, were ye serious? About me takin’ as many days as I need?”

“Of course.”

“Then ye willna bite my heid off when I ask ye for the rest of the week?”

“Ye’re a canny one makin’ me say it before ye drop that bomb on me… Of course, Jamie. Take the time ye need. Ye’d tell me if anythin’s wrong, wouldn’t ye? Ye ken ye can talk tae me about anythin’?”

Jamie’s heart clenched. “Of course, Ian. Thank you. Listen, I hafta go, but I’ll see ye soon, aye?”

“Aye. And Jamie… maybe gi’ yer sister a call? I ken she wants tae apologize.”

“Alright, Ian,” he answered rather noncommittally, still stinging from their fight, “Bye, a charaid.”

With Ian’s quick goodbye, Jamie hung up and sat back heavily in his chair, sighing at Adso— who was looking smugly satisfied over making Jamie do the right thing. There was barely a moment of silence between them before he thought about the fact that Claire had been in the shower an awfully long time.

“Wee besom’ll use up all my hot water,” he grumbled at Adso on his way toward the bathroom to check on her.

Not that he really minded in the slightest. Claire could use up all the hot water and leave him taking cold showers for the rest of his days and he would just thank God that it meant she was with him.

***

#all that was fair #update #claire x jamie #outlander fanfiction #fae claire #outlander fanfic

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yukidragon · 3 years

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Our Life Snippit - Charity Begins at Home

It is time for another Our Life: Beginnings & Always novelization snippet. This time it’s Step 3, so spoiler warning for anyone who hasn’t gotten that far in the game yet, but why haven’t you? The game is great, free, and if you’re looking for fandom content, why not finish the official stuff first before reading my first draft? Oh well, I won’t tell you how to live your life.

Anyway, enjoy this little slice of sweet and spicy vanilla make outs between Cove and Jamie in Charity. Be aware, this particular scene can get pretty steamy in the game, and I took great pleasure in cranking up the heat. Don’t worry though, I cut it off before parts that skirt dangerously close to NSFW. (Those will have to wait for the actual chapter when I eventually start posting this story on AO3.)

Thanks, as always, for @gb-patch for the inspiration and the treasure that is this game and Cove Holden.

...

Cove tenderly stroked Jamie’s cheeks, which grew warmer under his caress. Her skin was so soft, tempting him to touch her more. The smile on her face invited him to continue, to let the heat between them grow with desire. He couldn’t help but shyly clear his throat, unable to bring himself to outright state how much he wanted to touch her.

Jamie leaned into Cove’s hands as he delicately traced her face. The feeling was deliciously warm. When his thumb brushed across her lips, a thrill ran through her, and she made sure to place a kiss on him there. He sucked in a breath at the action, and her smile grew. She took his hand in both of hers so that she could trace his thumb with her lips, marking a trail of kisses to his palm before paying attention to each of his fingers in turn in the same way.

Cove watched Jamie in adoration. Each kiss she gave him sent little shivers all the way down his arm. Such loving attention made him feel truly cherished.

“Cove…,” Jamie whispered against his skin. She looked up into his widening eyes and spoke a little louder, her voice still hushed but intentionally laced with her longing and desire. “Cove.” She drew closer to whisper directly into his ear, her lips barely brushing against him there as she spoke. “Cove.”

A delicious shiver ran through Cove, making him weak in the knees. He had to readjust his hold to Jamie’s shoulders to get a more solid grip and remain upright. He kneaded her shoulders a little in encouragement and gasped when she placed a proper kiss on his ear.

Jamie leaned back a bit as she threaded her fingers through his hair, reveling in the feel of those soft seafoam green strands. His hair felt even softer than usual, and she smiled at the reminder of how much extra care Cove took to look nice for this special night. She was limited only by the ponytail holding up a good portion of his hair as she alternated between savoring the softness of his hair and gently massaging his scalp.

Cove leaned into her touch, tilting his head closer to hers. Their lips met, the touch feather light and too brief to be a true kiss, but enough to send sparks flying between them. The reason for its brevity was because he was mumbling something, too soft for Jamie to hear, but she supposed he wasn’t sure what he was saying right now either. He was lost in the moment, reveling in her touch, and she was only too happy to continue making him feel so good for a while longer.

Another almost kiss followed, then a third, and by the fourth Jamie couldn’t hold herself back any longer. She let her hand rest at the back of his head and guided him to her to kiss him properly. Cove welcomed the kiss eagerly, his hands coming to rest at the back of her head again to cradle her gently.

The kiss started off soft, but quickly grew hot and wet. It was delicious, full of sweetness that they offered freely only to each other. It was all too easy for the two of them to lose themselves as they drank deeply of that sweetness, never quite getting enough of it. They only separated when the desire for that sweetness lost out to the need for air.

Jamie panted hotly, gulping down oxygen as she looked at Cove through heavy lidded eyes. The kiss left her dazed in the best of ways, and she grinned at her boyfriend once she recovered her senses a bit.

Once Cove caught his breath, he beamed at Jamie and kissed her again in a brief but solid stamp of his affection.

The almost childish giddiness on Cove’s face made Jamie giggle softly. Playfully, she returned the gesture, giving his lips a quick kiss. Before it could lead to another or grow into something deeper, she moved on to kiss each of his flushed cheeks. A giggle escaped him as well when she moved on to plant a kiss on the tip of his nose.

As Jamie brushed back his bangs with one hand to give her room to draw a line of kisses across his forehead, she felt Cove slide his arms around her lower back, pressing their bodies closer. The small pleased noises he made with each kiss she peppered all over his face were so precious and encouraged her to kiss him even more. Next, she moved on to take advantage of his closed eyelids and brushed her lips across them delicately. After another pass over his cheeks, she finished off her exploration by kissing each corner of his mouth before properly pressing their lips together once more.

Cove was only too eager to show Jamie his appreciation for the tender attention she lavished upon him by deepening the kiss. She made a small moan into his mouth in appreciation and eagerly responded in kind.

When Jamie felt his fingers trace along her spine, she arched up into Cove instinctively and let out a gasp that abruptly ended the kiss. For a moment she had to catch her breath as she focused on how close they were now, keenly aware of how hot and firm his body was through the thin material of her pajamas and the way his hands blazed a trail of fire along her skin.

More. She wanted more.

Jamie placed her hands against her boyfriend’s shoulders, gripping him solidly there as she gently pushed him back. Cove barely had a moment to wonder if it was a signal they were stopping already when he realized she was advancing on him with purpose while simultaneously urging him backwards. His eyes widened as he saw the way her dark blue eyes gazed deeply into him, shining with such desire that he couldn’t help but feel it deep in his core. It left him helpless to do anything but follow her lead.

When Cove felt his back make contact with the wall, a squeak escaped him as he realized exactly what Jamie had in mind.

For a moment the pair stood there, staring into each other’s eyes. Jamie kept her attention focused up on his flushed face as she waited for the shock to melt away. As badly as she wanted Cove, she refused to let that make her careless with him and his limits. Her grip on him was deliberately light, easy enough for him to push her back if he wanted to.

He didn’t.

Although his body was tense in this position, it was far from a bad sort of tension, and Cove had no intention of discouraging Jamie from continuing whatever she had planned next. Instead, he took advantage of the new position, bracing himself against the wall so that he could lift one of his legs. Slowly, he rubbed his knee against the inside of her leg as he tried to offer his girlfriend an encouraging smile, though his mouth wobbled a little from bashfulness that he couldn’t quite shake despite his bold action.

It was an unexpected move, one that left Jamie shivering deliciously as she took a moment just to focus on the feeling of his knee caressing her inner thigh. Cove skirted so close to where she burned hottest, so much closer than he had ever dared before. It sent a thrill through her to her core and left her aching for more.

Jamie leaned in closer to Cove, nuzzling into his neck. She smiled against his skin as she heard his breathing quicken. She kissed him there, eliciting a quick gasp from her boyfriend that turned into a long sigh. The sounds enticed her into placing more kisses all along his throat, lingering longer on the spots that made his breathing hitch and turn a little ragged.

The attention was wonderful, but not so distracting that Cove was content to remain idle. His hands wandered lower, skirting close to dangerous territory. He couldn’t bring himself to trace his girlfriend’s spine to the end, but he could shift the path his hands took to more familiar territory. Jamie made a pleased noise against his skin that turned into a moan when he began to stroke her thighs slowly.

Jamie brought her legs together on instinct, wrapping them around her boyfriend’s thigh. His leg was still moving despite the confinement, and so were his hands. It felt good, so good, but also maddeningly enticing. Cove was stoking the fire in her until she feared like she might melt from the heat, yet she ached for more.

Jamie barely resisted the urge to grind against Cove directly as he skirted so daringly close to where she ached for his touch most, arching into him. However, she couldn’t fight the lusty moan that escaped her, shaped around his name. “Cove…”

Oh. Oh. That sound was new.

Cove loved to hear Jamie say his name, but the way she did that time was different. It left his knees weak, and he was grateful for the wall’s support to brace him, as he wasn’t sure he could remain standing without it. It also made his already too confining dress pants feel almost unbearably tight.

Cove very much wanted to hear Jamie moan his name like that again.

#Our Life Beginnings & Always #Our Life #ourlifeba #Cove Holden #Jamie Last #Jamie Leimomi #My Writing

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angrylizardjacket · 3 years

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dirtbags // 1: Charlotte

Summary: Motley Crue High School AU with The Pack (Lola, Charlotte, Peach, & Eileen); Winter, 1984. Charlotte’s halfway through her Junior year of High School when Lola arrives in town, and becomes a part of Charlotte’s life almost by accident.

Tommy seems to fall for any girl he hasn’t grown up with, Nikki and Charlotte are in agreement that their friendship becoming public knowledge would be social suicide for them both, Vince is a tool, and Eileen is still mad at him for what happened over Summer.

A/N: 8829 words. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO @misscharlottelee this has literally been in the works for what’s felt like a year, but i decided that i can’t keep putting it off forever, so here. part 1. i think im going to try and put these out weekly?? maybe sooner?? but i adore you and i of course absolutely adore @josaphinebaker so i’m glad to finally let you all enjoy the long-awaited, multi-part HS AU (me, not posting writing for months: AND WHAT’S THIS? THE HS AU WITH A STEEL CHAIR --) ft. a softer world quotes

who said life can’t be an adventure? because whoever said that is probably the villain.

There’s a place for everything, and everything has it’s place. That’s they way the world works, at least, that’s the motto the rest of the cheerleading team seems to adhere to almost religiously. Charlotte, who’s been on the team for almost a full year and a half, since the start of her Sophmore year, can’t see the world so black and white. It’s not that she signed up to be a Cheerleader to fulfil some bitchy, blonde stereotype, it’s more that she had free time to fill and thought it would be fun. It took her a few months to find her footing once she’d been offered a place on the team, and was quickly thrust into her school’s the social spotlight, but she managed in the end, and had been managing ever since, mostly.

“Charlie, you’re so lucky,” Tommy, her cousin, lamented to her, driving her home after cheer practice, and marching band, had finished for the day. He was still in his uniform, as was Charlotte, and she gave him a sidelong glance, picking at the nail polish on her thumb. She doesn’t even give him an answer; ever since she’d joined the team, he had felt the need to wax poetic about the other cheerleaders and their uniforms. It’s so familiar that she doesn’t even need to prompt him into mooning over seeing Pamela in the cafeteria that day.

“She’s never going to date you if you don’t talk to her,” Charlotte’s smile is sly as her gaze slides back to the road, and the sun drifting towards the horizon.

“If Pam ever found out I’d looked at her, she’d probably just spit on me, call me pathetic or some shit,” Tommy’s eyeroll is implied by the flatness of his tone, but Charlotte can’t help but laugh.

“Oh Tommy, everyone looks at Pam,” she reminds him, and Tommy lets out an annoyed whine.

“I know,” he groans, clearly not cheered by that fact, feeling ever the more hopeless, and they fall into silence. Charlotte reaches down beside her seat and lifts a lever, pushing the seat back so she could comfortably rest her feet on his dashboard.

“Did you hear someone finally bought the MacCready burger joint? Dad was talking about it yesterday,” Tommy says mildly, making a left-hand turn onto their street. Charlotte raises her eyebrows, intrigued, but doesn’t speak. Tommy knows her well enough to take her silence as an invitation to go on, “Mrs Mac is going into hospice care and apparently some guy bought it and moved into town.”

“Oh shit, poor Mrs Mac,” Charlotte muses, and crosses her ankles on the dash, “hopefully their food is edible now.”

“Their burgers were great!” Tommy protested loudly.

“Their burgers were trash, Tommy! You’re just a rat -!”

“I’m not a rat!” He argues back, pulling into the gas station around the corner from their house. Tommy pulls up beside one of the pumps, and Charlotte gets out to browse the various snacks on offer inside the service station.

“Afternoon, Mick,” Charlotte calls out to the gas station attendant, the guy who’s been working here since he was fourteen, who’s currently got an electrical apprenticeship every other day. Charlotte realizes she might know too much about him considering he barely communicates in grunts most of the time. It’s not that he can’t speak, it’s just that he has a well documented dislike of her over exuberant cousin.

As expected, Mick doesn’t look up from his copy of Rolling Stone behind the counter, but makes a noise of acknowledgement.

Before Tommy has finished filling the tank, an unfamiliar figure enters the gas station, breezing past Charlotte and snatching up a packet of pork rinds, moving to the drinks fridge and taking a can of lemonade. The person is a young woman, though Charlotte doesn’t get a good look at her face; she’s got silky, black hair down to the small of her back, beneath a backwards baseball cap, and she’s the most notable of her clothes are her scuffed, black boots, and her oversized, black denim jacket littered with patches and pins.

When she puts her items on the counter in front of Mick, she pauses, frowning at the display, and Tommy enters the shop with an oblivious smile, asking if Charlotte had decided on anything.

“Can I help you?” Mick asks flatly, and the girl holds up a single finger, the universal signal for wait, and Mick huffs, but remains quiet. The girl adds a packet of gum to her haul, and leans her elbows on the counter.

“And a pack of Marlboros.”

Mick scowls.

“How old are you?”

“Are you being paid enough to care?” She responds, voice a low, challenging alto, and after a moment of deliberation, Mick actually shrugs, and turns to the cigarette display, picking out a pack for her as she pulled a few bills from her back pocket. After everything’s paid for, and the various food and drink had been stashed in the numerous pockets of her jacket, the girl is quick to open the cigarettes.

“They’re for my dad,” she explains, taking one out and putting it between her lips, grinning, “mostly.”

She passes a bewildered Tommy and Charlotte on the way out, giving them a flat look over, eyebrow raising minutely at the sight of Charlotte’s cheerleading uniform, but she’s quickly out the door. Tommy, flabbergasted at her display of confidence, marches straight up to counter and leans on it like he’d seen the woman do.

“A pack of -”

“Fuck off,” Mick tells him, before Tommy even finishes his sentence. Charlotte snorts a laugh, approaching the counter with a bottle of diet coke.

“Fifteen bucks on pump three,” Tommy sighs, pulling out his wallet, “and Charlie’s drink.”

“Do you know her, Mick?” Charlotte asks, still smiling, mind playing over the interaction.

“Do I look like I know her?” Mick grumbles, counting the handful of quarters Tommy had passed him with a ten dollar bill. Tommy, however, has never in his life taken Mick’s constant foul mood to heart, even when he probably should.

“He loves me, secretly, I know he does,” Tommy grinned when they were back in the car, heading to Charlotte’s house to drop her off, “we’ve known each other for five years, we’ll be friends any day now.”

“Tommy, he’s three days away from just decking you when you go to pay.”

“Which is a step up from when you said he’d throw me in front of traffic,” Tommy, ever the optimistic dumbass, chooses to look on the bright side. Tommy wears his affection on his sleeve, and seems to find himself trying to befriend anyone who would sooner fight him, if his hero-worship of local punk Nikki Sixx is anything to go by. It’s with a painful clarity that Charlotte realizes if he ever meets the girl from the gas station, he’s going to fall in love with her almost immediately.

Which makes Charlotte’s accidental and secret friendship with Nikki Sixx awkward.

“Oh Miss Lee,” Nikki whistles at her the following morning, wearing a grin that’s all teeth, “you know just what a guy likes to see on a Thursday morning.” He’s leering at her, leaning on the mesh of the fence, fingers hooked into the metal as he presses himself against it, his gaze trained on the pleat of her cheer uniform split upon her thigh over her tights.

“Every time you speak, I consider vehicular homicide,” Charlotte tells him with a sigh, straightening out her skirt, already resigned to the fact the rest of her free period was about to be co-opted.

“Then I’m glad you can’t drive,” Nikki’s still grinning, throwing his bag over the fence, into the garden Charlotte had thought was peaceful enough to study in.

“It’s the only thing keeping you alive,” she says, plastering a fake, sweet smile on her face, closing her biology textbook as Nikki vaults the fence a few feet away from her. She pulls her jacket a little tighter around herself, in an attempt to ward off the slight chill of the end of semester air.

Never in Charlotte’s life would she have intentionally tried to befriend Nikki Sixx. How was she supposed to know that two of her free periods coincided with when he liked to show up to school? And that the secluded garden area out behind the library where she liked to study in said free periods was the easiest place to sneak in?

She’s threatened to turn him in more times than he can remember, and he spits back that she should just find a new place to study, but she keeps showing up, and she never turns him in, and by now most of Nikki’s flirting is harmless.

They were both very much of the opinion that having a public friendship would be bad for the both of them; Nikki’s got more than a reputation of his own, both because his name technically isn’t Nikki, but he fights anyone who calls him Frank, and because he’s kind of a slut. Also there’s still an unconfirmed rumour about him being expelled from his first high school back in Seattle, since he’d joined their school a semester in Freshman year. Everyone’s too afraid to ask. Charlotte knows the cheerleaders aren’t above making hell for one of their own if they were caught fraternizing with someone like him.

That being said, Nikki had made it very clear that he’d rather saw off his arm than admit that they were even acquaintances, scoffing about how he’d lose any and all street cred he’d ever had if his friends found out he was hanging around Miss Everyone’s Best Friend Charlotte Lee. At the time, she’d taken offence to his tone, but she quickly came to learn that that’s just how Nikki is sometimes.

He offers her a cigarette from the pack in his pocket like he always does, sitting opposite her on the picnic bench instead of going to class, his bag still on the grass where he’d thrown it. Like always, Charlotte turns it down, but it does remind her-

“Saw a girl yesterday at Mick’s gas station that reminded me of you,” Charlotte flips to the back page of her notebook, which was already littered with little drawings, and starts scribbling idly.

“She hot?”

“I guess?” Charlotte says after a moment of consideration, “didn’t get to see her long enough to really be able to tell.” Nikki hums thoughtfully, and Charlotte, without looking up, “she asked Mick for cigarettes and he was like ‘how old are you?’ and she was like ‘are you being paid enough to care?’“

Nikki takes a long draft from his own cigarette, and kindly turns to the side to blow smoke into the wind, instead of directly into Charlotte’s face, as he used to do, or like he does when he’s annoyed.

“Mick would have mad respect for a move like that,” Nikki snorts, and when Charlotte looks up from her notebook, she sees him looking off into the distance, giving a genuine smile at the mental image. Maybe this is why she puts up with him, these rare genuine moments. He raises the cigarette to his lips again, and looks back at her, eyebrows raised, as if prompting her to go on. Charlotte looks back at her notebook.

“It inspired Tommy to try and buy smokes too, but Mick shut him down fast; I swear, if we show up when he’s clocking off, he’s going to K.O Tommy the first chance he gets.”

“Which is a step up from when you said he’d throw him in front of traffic,” Nikki notes, and Charlotte pauses, frowning. She hadn’t realised her hyperbolic threats on Mick’s behalf were a standard unit of measurement for how much he did or didn’t like her cousin. They were bullshit! Why did anyone take them seriously? Charlotte’s often astounded at her own credibility, and how much people tend to take her at her word without question.

“What’s she look like?” Nikki asks, flicking his ash into the grass, bringing Charlotte out of her thoughts.

“Who?”

“The girl from the gas station.”

“Oh,” Charlotte pauses, thinking, finally settling on, “she was wearing heaps of dark shit, had black hair, maybe that’s why I thought of you. I don’t know who she is though, didn’t recognize her from anywhere.” She adds, and Nikki hums thoughtfully, nodding. With his free hand, he snatches her pen out of her grip, despite her yelp of protest, and begins doodling pentagrams on the back cover of her notebook.

“You free tomorrow night?”

“I’d rather die than date you.”

“Charlie, you’re not my type -”

“Nikki, your type is tits and a heartbeat.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d fuck you, but I’d rather be castrated than date you,” Nikki responds flatly, and Charlotte quickly shuts up, scowling, “but my band has a gig at a place that doesn’t card, so if you and that overgrown Labrador you call a cousin can sneak away from mommy and daddy for the night, you’re more than welcome to come party with the big kids.” He smirked, flicking Charlotte’s pen back at her. Charlotte’s annoyance has simmered down at his offer, considering his words.

“Nikki Sixx inviting me to see his band,” she mused, sly smile curling at the corners of her lips, mischief glinting in her eyes, “you like me, don’t you? You like Miss Everyone’s Best Friend. Soon I’m going to be your best friend too!” At least she was self aware enough about her people-pleasing tendencies to poke fun at his scorn.

“I like that you’re cousin’s obsessed with me, so bring him too,” Nikki’s quick to correct, but his heart’s not fully in it, if the smile he’s failing to repress is anything to go by, “I’m just in it for the ego trip, sweetheart.”

Charlotte gags at the pet name; the bell rings.

“She smells like an ash tray,” is the first thing Charlotte hears when she sits herself with the rest of the cheer squad at lunch, and she’s terrified for a moment that Heather, the Vice Captain of the squad, is talking about her. Discretely, Charlotte sniffs at her hair, worried that the perfume she’d spritzed to hide any of Nikki’s lingering smoke had worn off quickly. Heather’s not even looking at her, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially to the other gathered girls.

“Heather, half the people at this school smell like smoke,” Eileen cuts in as the voice of reason, taking a dainty bite of her food to punctuate her point. Heather’s expression sours.

“Yeah, but she’s pretty, why would she smoke?”

“Heather, you smoke,” Eileen rolls her eyes, and Heather sits back, crossing her arms, long, dainty fingers resting on her perfectly tanned and toned biceps.

“Yeah, but at least I have the decency not to smell like the bottom of an ashtray,” Heather raises an eyebrow, as if offering some form of challenge, and Charlotte watches Eileen bite back on a scathing retort, simply offering a withering smile, and continuing on with her lunch, “anyway,” Heather rolls her eyes, and starts up a new conversation with the girls on her other side, who were hanging onto her every word like it was gospel.

It’s quite possible that the tensions between Heather and Eileen may never actually die down, Charlotte considers, fiddling with the plastic-wrapped straw of her juice box. The thing is that Heather had only scored the position of Vice Captain of the cheerleading squad after Eileen, practically a shoe-in after two years on the squad and a pretty impressive acrobatic repertoire, publicly turned down the offer, quit, and joined the swim team the very next day, refusing to give a reason for any of her actions. A vicious joke circled the school about Heather being sloppy seconds, and despite Eileen never actually contributing to the joke in any way, or even acknowledging it, part of Heather still obviously resented her. The fact that Eileen still chose to sit with the cheerleaders despite not being one anymore, might also play into that, like she’s rubbing it in Heather’s face, even though she never would intend to do that.

Charlotte’s known Eileen for what feels like forever, since Summer camp in Grade School, living close enough to maintain a friendship, but not close enough that they were in the same district for Grade or Middle School. Both academically and socially minded young women, they’d found themselves in a number of clubs in those years that brought them face to face at meet or competitions, and thankfully, their local high school drew from a wider range of districts, finally bringing them together as allies, rather than competitors.

“Who were they talking about?” Charlotte asks quietly, stabbing her straw into her juice box, trying to keep their conversation discrete.

“A girl transferred into our grade -”

“On a Thursday?” Charlotte scoffs a little, “with three weeks left to go before Winter break?” And Eileen makes a noise in the back of her throat, an I know, it’s weird, right? Without saying any actual words.

“Something Fields; we just had French with her,” Eileen nods to where Heather’s now happily chattering with the other cheerleaders, earlier disagreement seemingly forgotten.

“Something?” Charlotte asked wryly, and Eileen gave her an amused look.

“Madame Laurent’s accent would butcher the name Sally, I’m surprised I managed to understand Fields,” and okay, she has a point, Madame Laurent’s French accent was half the reason any of the students studied the language, if only to understand her, because her English, while technically good, was sometimes incomprehensible.

“The girl didn’t correct her?”

“Nah, just kept quiet, embarrassed, I think,” Eileen mused, and Charlotte hummed thoughtfully, “though she did sit herself right next to Heather; bold move, I’ll applaud her for that.”

“Bet Heather didn’t like that,” Charlotte snickered quietly, and Eileen’s smile stretched into a full grin.

“She straight up moved the moment the girl put her bag down.”

“The poor girl,” Charlotte shook her head with a sigh, before clarifying, “not Heather, obviously.” Eileen snorted a laugh.

“What’s the new girl like?” Charlotte finds herself asking, intrigued.

“Quiet,” is Eileen’s immediate answer, “couldn’t get a good read on her, but she knows a decent amount of French.” But she deliberates for a moment, “looks kind of mean.” And for the barest moment, Charlotte frowns, mind flashing to the girl she’d seen at the gas station yesterday... it couldn’t be.

“Black hair?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“I saw a girl at the gas station yesterday, black hair, kind of mean looking, Mick didn’t know her,” that was the big tip; Mick seemed to know all the gas station regulars, so she must be new. Eileen catalogued this information in her mind, but had no comment on it beyond a shrug, before reminding Charlotte that they had debate after school, and asking if Tommy would be sticking around to give her a lift home.

“He will be, he’s got practice until four too,” Charlotte said with a half smile, “and yes, he can give you a lift home too... Will Peach be needing one too?” She asked, referring to Eileen’s younger sister, but Eileen shook her head.

“She’s staying back until five every day this week to finish her science fair project, mom’s happy to pick her up - something about magnets this year - but I don’t want to wait around.”

“Wait, how long until the science fair?” Last year, Eileen, Charlotte, Tommy, and Vince Neil, who they’d still considered something of a friend at the time, had all come to support Peach in both her first year of high school, and her first science fair. Peach had come third, with a rather impressive display about which various household liquids killed plants fastest, and all three had cheered when she’d been given her ribbon, and Tommy and Vince spent the entire ride in the back of Peach and Eileen’s mom’s station wagon ranting about how she should have won, and scheming about how to best put a dead houseplant in their science teacher’s bed, like some low budget, home depot Scarface. Tommy may have become their friends via his place as a constant fixture in Charlotte’s life, and Vince simply because he had grown up as something of her neighbour and Tommy’s close friend, but their loyalty was absolute. Well, almost absolute. Vince was noticeably absent from their current roster of friends however, the then-four of them how vowed to make it a habit, and they could all tell Peach had been touched by the gesture, and Eileen, Charlotte, and Tommy were, at the very least, going to uphold that promise. A small smile plays on Eileen’s face.

“Next Tuesday, she’s so excited.”

if you put your mind to it, you can do anything. but you won’t.

So according to Eileen, Vince Neil is throwing a party on Saturday, and seeing as Charlotte’s parents still think the world of Vince after he’d been so kind of her after everything happened with her ex at the start of the year, she’s allowed to go. They went to middle school together, though he was always a year younger than her, in Tommy’s grade, and their parents were passive-aggressive PTA friends for a few years there, and, as mentioned before, he’d been genuinely sweet when she was at her lowest. Her parents don’t know that a week and a half into Summer break, right after he’d taken her to prom and promised to key her ex’s car if she asked, he started surfing, starting hanging out at the beach with the rest of the pretty, mean jocks spending their Summer in the sun, and had turned into a vain asshole. Or, well, more of a vain asshole than he already was.

Vince’s family was well off, and his parties were legendary, which is what made her parents agreeing to let her go so strange.

What they didn’t, and would never agree to, was letting her go to Nikki’s gig, so she didn’t even bother to ask. Instead, she asked to spend the weekend with Tommy and Athena. Her mother calls to confirm that that would be okay, Charlotte packs a duffle bag with outfits for the weekend, and her mother reminds her to take care of herself at the party the following night, kissing her on both cheeks when Tommy turns up in his beat up Vista Cruiser.

“Why are you hanging out with us tonight?” Tommy asks, frowning, still in the clothes he’d worn to school. Charlotte’s grip tightens on her duffle bag.

“Because we’re going out tonight.”

Immediately, Tommy’s posture straightens, and his expression lights up; he was delightfully easy to excite. Suddenly he was brimming with questions as he drove, fighting to keep his eyes on the road, and Charlotte let herself relax a little, glad to see he was onboard.

“Nikki Sixx’s band -”

“- is playing tonight!” Tommy finishes her sentence, his voice breaking on the last word out of excitement, though Charlotte kindly doesn’t comment, and it doesn’t stop Tommy’s eyes from sparkling, “he wrote it in sharpie in pretty much every bathroom in the school; you want to go?” Yeah, that sounds about par for the course for Nikki Sixx’s brand of advertising.

“You’re half in love with the guy,” Charlotte ignored Tommy’s spluttered protests, “so I wanna see what the hype is about,” she lied easily. She wasn’t a fan of lying to Tommy, he deserved better than that, but he also might crash if he knows that Nikki had personally invited them.

Tommy begs his mom to let them go, promising to be safe and be back by midnight, and the moment Charlotte vouches for him, his mother’s concern melts into agreement, and Athena complains that she’s never allowed to go anywhere. Tommy sticks his tongue out at her, and she kicks him in the shins, scowling, until Charlotte asks her to help her get ready, and Athena brightens considerably.

“Charlie you look like a badass!” Tommy delights when he steps out of the bathroom, hair all teased up, eyeliner expertly applied his waterline, wearing an outrageous outfit. He was going to fit in easily.

“Holy shit, dude, so do you -”

“Tommy! That’s my shirt!” Athena accused, storming over to him, trying to pull the tight, black tank top with the hot pink diamante lightning bolt off of him, despite his jacket over it, while he tried to slap her away.

“It looks better on me!” Tommy snapped, escaping her grasp and trying to hide in the bathroom.

“Dude, she’s thirteen, give her the shirt back, you can borrow one of mine,” Charlotte sighed, standing back from it all.

“Never!”

His mother called out if everything’s okay, and while Athena yelled that Tommy was stealing from her, Charlotte called back that she’d take care of it.

“Charlie, please,” Athena sulked, leaning against the closed bathroom door, while Tommy told his sister to piss off. Charlotte sighed, before giving the young girl an evaluative look.

“Would you let him wear it for five bucks?”

Athena squinted at her, seriously considering the offer; if Tommy had made it, there would be no way she would have accepted, but she knew Charlotte was good for it.

“Fine, but if he stretches it, I’m telling mom about his stash of Playboys,” she threatened, to which both Tommy and Charlotte made noises of surprise, Charlotte because she hadn’t known about that, and Tommy because he clearly didn’t think Athena knew about it either.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Tommy hisses, wrenching the door open. Athena turns arms crossed, smile smug, and gives him her best try me look. Tommy wrinkles his nose, but stalks into his room, grabbing a five ones from his wallet and giving them to Athena, who Charlotte had never seen so pleased before.

“I hate her,” Tommy seethed, and Charlotte petted his shoulder in solidarity.

“I know,” and then, “aren’t you going to be cold?”

“I’ve got another jacket.”

The pub, Kings’ Hotel, sits on the border between suburbia and the CBD, and Charlotte’s been past it a million times, has spent a considerable amount of time idly staring out the window of MacCready’s Diner across the road, but never actually been inside. Speaking of MacCready’s, there’s a ton of scaffolding around it that Charlotte definitely doesn’t remember, and the sign’s been taken down, so it appears Tommy’s gossip about it being under new management was true.

There’s no bouncer, but high schoolers and music were already spilling from the building by the time Charlotte and Tommy showed up. The music is decent, if a little heavy, but Charlotte knows she could definitely get into it if she wanted to. When she approaches the building, she notices a gaggle of vaguely recognizable people all in a cluster, huddle together while they smoked to keep warm in the cold night air.

“Hi Heather,” Tommy calls out to one, putting on his most winning smile, and when Charlotte gets a proper look, yeah she can see Heather with her hair sprayed up and lipstick shiny, give her cousin a sceptical look. She does, however, notice Charlotte, and her expression shifts to something faux sweet and coy, a show of being amicable to someone obviously associated with a fellow cheerleader, and she gives them both a wave.

“I thought you had a thing for Pam,” Charlotte asks quietly as they push their way into the pub.

“Charlie, I’m into any and every cheerleader I’m not related to, why should I deprive any of the other lovely young ladies by only focusing on one girl?”

“Gross,” was Charlotte’s only comment. Tommy ignored her.

It was kind of overwhelming at first, between the loud music, the crush of people she half-knew, the fact that the bartender didn’t even blink when Tommy ordered a beer, or the fact that Nikki Sixx was on stage in skin tight leather pants, playing bass like it was his God given mission in life.

Her ex and his best friend had also been kind of obsessed with Nikki and his band, and she was coming to understand the hype. Between the swirling lights, the people on the dancefloor, and the heat of the crowd, it was almost hypnotizing to be a part of.

“You should get a drink,” Tommy urges, and Charlotte hesitates. She’s had spiked punch before, half a glass of wine at a family get together when her mom had been tipsy and feeling indulgent, and a couple of sips of beer that her ex had offered her when they’d gone to parties together, but she’d never really...

“I don’t know what to order,” she admits, hesitant, but still raising her voice over the music. Tommy offers her his beer to taste, but Charlotte was already well aware of the fact that beer tasted like piss, and she turns him down. She tries to think back to what people order in TV shows and movies, and tentatively approaches the bar.

“Could I get a jack and coke?” She asks, just thankful that her voice doesn’t shake. The bartender looks her up and down, checking her out without a hint of subtlety, and Charlotte fights the urge to pull her jacket tighter around herself.

“Of course, honey, that’ll be five-fifty,” the bartender smirks, and Charlotte gives an uncertain smile back, thanking him and passing over a ten dollar note. He gives her a five change, along with her drink and a wink. Gross.

“What’d you get?” Tommy asks, when she finds him again, standing against the opposite wall, already halfway through his drink. Charlotte’s holding hers in her fingertips, nervous, taking a sip and scrunching up her whole face at the taste.

“Jack and coke,” she hisses as the alcohol burns. Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up at her bold choice, and asks if he can try it. She offers it easily, and he too makes a face as he drinks, but pretends like it’s great.

They see more people they recognize, people confused but glad to see them out. They’re almost immediately accosted by Keanu, yet another face Charlotte hadn’t been expecting to see, and he wraps them both up in a hug; he’s all dark hair and wide, easy smiles, somehow everyone’s friend in a way that’s so different from how Charlotte seems to be everybody’s friend, but he and Tommy get on like a house on fire. There’s a resilience they both seem to have, and a shared enthusiasm, despite the fact that Keanu was a Senior, a year above Charlotte, and a full two above Tommy, but his good nature seemed to override these boundaries; the moment Tommy mentions he’d been thinking of heading to the dancefloor, Keanu’s more than happy to join him.

Immediately Tommy gulps down the last mouthful and beer and the pair of boys see fit to start cutting shapes on the dance floor with wild abandon, and so Charlotte finds herself at a table at the back of the room with Heather, a few other cheerleaders and their boyfriends, and surprisingly, Vince. He’s in white leather pants, and they look cool as hell, but also it’s Vince, and Charlotte’s fighting back the urge to laugh.

“Charlotte Lee, you’re looking fine tonight,” Vince slide into the space beside her, and Charlotte doesn’t roll her eyes, or make a comment about how he looks like a greasy snowman, no matter how much she wants to.

“Surprised to see you here, Vince, where’s all your popular little surfer pals?” She asks sweetly, and Vince raises his eyebrows at her, a retort on the tip of his tongue.

“I forgot you two knew each other,” Heather says, and she pauses, clearly deliberating, something dangerous in her eyes, “didn’t you used to date?”

“No,” Charlotte blurts quickly, though Vince is just as quick to deny it, “we’re friends- we were friends; not anymore. We went to prom together, yes, but we never dated.” She clarifies quickly, body language all tight and uncomfortable, which manages to go all the way over Vince’s head, and his hand comes to rest on his heart, expression reading betrayal.

“How long have been known each other, Charlie, for you to say we’re not even friends -”

And maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the alcohol, but Charlotte snapped.

“We were friends for years, Vinny, then six months ago you decided to spend all your time with a bunch of tools and bragged about taking me to prom because I was a cheerleader, and also - oh yeah, remember this? - made one of your best friends cry,” Charlotte hissed venomously, shoulders still tense, fingers gripping the edge of the table. Vince scowled.

“Peach wasn’t-” the words spill from him automatically, but there’s a flicker of something that may just be shame in his eyes, so he drops his gaze and starts again; “my friends are not tools -”

“The Vince who was my friend wouldn’t skip school three days a week to get high and fuck on the beach!”

“It sounds like you two have a lot to work out...” Heather seems genuinely surprised, and while she’d been fishing for gossip, this was too much, and she graciously backed out of the conversation, pulling one of her friends over to the bar. Charlotte was suddenly aware of how hot it was in the bar, how sweaty and oppressive it all felt.

“People can fucking change, Charlotte,” Vince scowled.

“You didn’t change for the better, Vince, whatever the opposite of character growth is, it’s what happened to you.” Charlotte spat, and turned on her heel before he can respond. She didn’t want to stand on the side side of the road out the front, so she heads for the door labelled Beer Garden, and steps into the cool night air.

Once outside, she realises how quiet it is, and when she sees Nikki Sixx at one of the tables with a blonde girl giggling in his lap, she comes to the conclusion that the band must be on break. The Beer Garden is mostly populated by smokers, the people around Nikki being the cool, intimidating, stoner punk rockers that she’d figured would be here, but that she can’t bring herself to approach. It’s nice to take a moment to be alone, she finds, breathing in the crisp night air, head feeling clearer for it, looking up at the stars glittering overhead.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Vince is a fucking tool. He’d made Peach cry the week they got back to school, and Charlotte had vowed to never forgive him for it.

After a few minutes, Charlotte takes the time to really look at the people milling around, wondering if she actually recognised anyone. Much to her surprise, in the back corner of the courtyard area, she did.

Side by side, Mick from the gas station, and the mysterious girl who’d bought cigarettes from him, sitting on the edge of a planter full of dead shrubs, both smoking, neither speaking, reading one magazine between the two of them.

Charlotte’s not quite sure who’s more likely to stab her, between Mick and the girl, and Nikki’s band of misfits, but she hedges her bets and heads to the pair at the back.

“Having a good night, Mick?” Charlotte asks tentatively, before giving pause. They’re reading a ratty old copy of Hustler. Mick looks up, and lets go of his side of the magazine, letting the girl take it, to keep flipping idly through.

“The band’s okay,” Mick muses, and seems to realise that his cigarette has gone out when he tries to take a drag on it, and he pulls out a lighter and relights it, “how’s your night been?”

“It’s been alright, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Charlotte gives an awkward laugh, looking to the magazine, which Mick seems to either have forgotten about, or not realise that he’s reading porn in public, but finally the girl looks up.

“Someone cut out all the tits,” she’s got an accent Charlotte hadn’t noticed back at the gas station, and still can’t quite place, but that’s not the part she focuses on.

“What?”

The girl flips the magazine around to show a Farrah Fawcett look-alike posing suggestively, with her entire torso cut from the magazine, just leaving a hole where the cologne ad on the next page can be seen.

“Found it on the side of the road on the way here,” Mick says, like it suffices for an entire explanation. Instead of elaborating, he offers Charlotte a cigarette.

“No thanks, I don’t smoke,” an awkward silence follows, Charlotte with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, while the girl close the magazine with a resounding slap and threw it over her shoulder into the dead shrubs, “I’m Charlotte.” Charlotte offers her hand. The girl looks at it, then to Charlotte’s face.

“From the gas station, the cheerleader” she says, tone unreadable, giving Charlotte a scrutinizing look, like she’s waiting for the blonde to shirk under it’s intensity. Charlotte doesn’t back down, and the girl finally gives her a firm handshake, “Lola.”

Silence followers, chatter filters over from the various other groups, Nikki’s laugh, loud and clear, above the rest. Neither Mick nor Lola makes room for Charlotte, so she sways idly from side to side, people watching the rest of the courtyard.

“Didn’t pick you for this type of scene,” Mick muses finally, crossing his ankles and fixing Charlotte with a strangely neutral expression, cigarette almost burned down to the butt where it’s poised between his lips, “that over-eager cousin of yours, sure, but this doesn’t seem like it’s your style.”

“Oh, Tommy is here,” Charlotte’s quick to clarify, looking around as if he were about to jump out of the bushes and irritate the rarely amicable Mick, “but, I don’t know,” she shrugged like coming out tonight wasn’t her idea, “I’m more than happy to give anything a go at least once; people at my school are kind of weirdly obsessed with the bass player, so I guess I wanted to see what the hype was about.”

Mick finished his cigarette as he considered her words, giving a pensive look to the bass player himself, still surrounded by a gaggle of fans, and eventually stubbed the last of the ash out against the edge of the planter he was sitting on, letting the butt fall, crumpled, to the ground.

“He’s the only one with any ounce of talent,” voice gruff, Mick’s approval comes as a surprise to both Charlotte, who’s eyes go wide at the statement, and Lola, who barks an unexpected laugh, that ends with her choking on the smoke in her lungs. Mick thumps her on the back, and she roughly when her breathing clears, tears watering in her eyes.

“Whoever writes their songs is half decent,” Lola points out, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, after which she dropped her own mostly burnt-out cigarette, crushing it under the heel of her boot. Yes, she has a point, but Charlotte’s curiosity gets the better of her.

“Can I ask...?” At her tentative tone, Lola immediately tenses, growing defensive, “are you Lola Fields?”

“Why?” Lola immediately snaps, and Charlotte raises her hands in surrender. Mick’s arms are crossed, looking with interest between the two girls.

“I think you go to my school,” Charlotte quickly clarifies, but Lola’s scowl deepens, as if wondering how she knew that, “do you take AP French with a tall, ginger girl?”

“I don’t really know who else is in the class,” Lola slowly tells her, but it’s not a no, which is all that matters. Charlotte nods, but doesn’t press the subject, “it’s weird that you know that much about me.” Lola adds.

“It’s barely anything,” Charlotte points out, baffled at the sudden defensiveness.

“You know my last name and that I do AP French,” Lola says, and her gaze shifts from Charlotte to the gaggle of fans surrounding Nikki, as they all started to head inside.

“Well,” Charlotte doesn’t let her resolve falter, smiling, “my name’s Charlotte Lee, and --”

“Oi, Cheerleader, you coming inside? We’ve got another set to go!” Nikki Sixx’s voice rings out through the courtyard area, and Charlotte visibly cringes at the sound of it, turning slowly on her heel, still wincing when she faces him.

And yes, he was talking to her, his hands are still cupped around his mouth like a megaphone, a tunnel showing off his smug and toothy grin. She hadn’t realised he’d even noticed her, but he had, and he needed her to know he had.

“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” she calls back, irritated. Nikki lowers his hands, and even from this distance she can see him raising his eyebrows.

“But you’re here, aren’t you?” He leaves the because I invited to you as an implication only she would hear, knowing she would hear it nonetheless. Charlotte sighs deeply, shoulders sagging with resignation, and Nikki, feeling as though he’d won, turns sharply on his heel and marches inside.

“I hate him,” Charlotte groaned.

“You know him?” Mick seems rather surprised, enough that the emotion could be heard in his voice. Charlotte turns back, not quite sure what to expect when she faced them. Mick is watching Charlotte with actual interest. Lola was watching the spot where Nikki had been, expression carefully blank.

“He’s a pain,” Charlotte says, defeated, and Lola’s gaze flicks to her, expression turning amused, but before she can get a word in -

“There you are!” The door to the now mostly-empty beer garden bursts open, and Tommy makes himself known. He’s left Keanu somewhere inside, apparently, now that he was on the hunt for his cousin. Mick sighs so heavily that it’s all he can do to lean back into the planter, arms crossed over his chest like a vampire, as if the very sight of the kid exhausts him. From this position, the packet of cigarettes in his pocket is exposed, and Lola steals one.

“I’ll owe you,” is all she says, as Tommy approaches, in less of a beeline, and more of an unsteady wave, more than a little tipsy. Christ, his mom is gonna kill them both.

“I was looking everywhere for you,” his wide eyes betrayed his concern, despite his current state, but his concern turns to joy, upon seeing her company, “hi, Mick!” Mick does not answer, laying with his eyes closed, in the shrubs.

“He’s dead,” Lola supplies without missing a beat, pulling out her lighter and lighting the stolen cigarette, and Tommy’s expression falls.

“We should help him -”

“I can help him, don’t worry,” Lola assures, with faux seriousness, before her tone shifts to something light, easily distracting the tipsy boy, “you were in the gas station the other day with this one, weren’t you?” She gestures with her lighter towards Charlotte; Tommy looks to his cousin before looking to Lola.

“I- yeah, oh, shit, you’re- hi,” suddenly flustered as he finally remembered where he knew her from, he offers his hand, “Tommy.”

“Lola,” there’s a new edge to her smile, sparkling in her eyes as she taking in Tommy and his whole look, which has something strangely protective flare up in Charlotte’s chest. But then Lola catches the slight frown on Charlotte’s face, and it’s like she knows exactly what she’s thinking, because she lets go of Tommy’s hand and her expression betrays on the faintest hint of amusement.

“Lola,” Tommy nods very seriously, as if committing the name to his memory in his current state was quite the task, but he persisted nonetheless. After a moment, however, he seemed to remember his original mission, “Vince thought you’d headed home -”

“Fuck Vince,” Charlotte spits automatically, venomously, a knee-jerk response, and Tommy’s stunned into silence.

“Do you want to go home?” Tommy’s far too earnest and concerned for his current state, and Charlotte feels momentarily guilty for her outburst, hanging her head and letting herself breathe for a moment.

“No, the music’s good, we just got into a fight -”

“You guys used to actually be good friends,” Tommy hesitates, confused, and Charlotte gives him a rueful smile when she looks back at him.

“Then he decided that being nice to the people who have been friends with him for years was lame.”

“He’s nice to me,” Tommy says, sounding a little put out, and Charlotte shrugged, crossing her arms.

“And he’s still nice to me, doesn’t mean he’s not a tool; I’m a cheerleader, and you’re a guy, of course he’s still going to be nice to us.”

Tommy still doesn’t get it, but Charlotte decides to head back into the pub with him, throwing over her shoulder that it was nice to meet Lola. She could almost swear she heard a muttered ‘fuckin’ teenagers’ from Mick, all of nineteen years old himself, which just has Charlotte rolling her eyes. Mick taps Lola’s arm when Charlotte glances over her shoulder, while the rest of him still lays flat in the dirt, and Lola passes him the cigarette obligingly, crossing one leg over the other and smirking at him.

it doesn’t matter if the glass is half full or half empty. i am gonna drink it through this crazy straw!

“Vince is on the warpath,” Eileen’s always been able to remain composed while unreasonably drunk better than any person Charlotte’s ever known, and the following night, while Vince’s house party rages around them in the living room of his house, is no exception. She won’t say how many vodka sodas she’s had, or who supplied her with the vodka, but the way she was unable to suppress the amused twist of her lips was a dead giveaway that she was a little more than tipsy.

“Oh?” Charlotte’s eyes were roaming from face to face at the party, never sticking to just one, hands clutching a red solo cup full of cheap wine.

“Someone told him the person who keyed his car was here,” Eileen’s close to laughter, and Charlotte’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Does he -”

“No,” Eileen shakes her head, taking another delicate sip of her own drink, “he thinks it’s one of Duff’s friends.” She says, before her eyes going wide, and she slaps her free hand over her mouth - “sorry.” Charlotte, who’s too tipsy to care about the mention of her ex, is more confused than anything else.

“Because of me?” She actually snorts, skeptical, “as if Duff or any of his friends cared about who took me to prom after everything happened, enough to key Vince’s car.” It’s been long enough now that she can laugh at it, and the warped logic of it all, knowing full well that the girl sitting beside her was the real vandal of Vince’s shiny, red car.

“Can you believe Vince asked me to invite Peach? After all that shit he pulled on her after Summer? I almost clocked him in the middle of the carpark!” Eileen’s movements were relaxed and uncomplicated, so unlike her usual demeanour, so easy-going, so honest, sometimes drunk-Eileen’s openness caught Charlotte by surprise, “told him to invite her himself if he wanted her there so bad.”

“I’m in awe of your restraint,” Charlotte mused, leaning into Eileen, letting her eyes fall closed in an attempt to keep the room from spinning in her vision, “he’s such an ass; I’m surprised you’re even here.”

“The nerve on him, acting like he’s too good to be seen with her because he’s got new friends,” Eileen shook her head, wrapping her free arm around Charlotte’s shoulders, securing her, still people watching, “I should have keyed him,” for a moment, she hiccups, and when Charlotte cracks her eye open for a moment to guage her friend’s current state, she sees Eileen glaring into her mostly-empty cup.

“I’m still deciding if I should pee on something he cares about,” Eileen says, tone so serious that Charlotte can’t help but dissolve into giggles.

“What?”

“‘s why I’m here,” Eileen was so earnest in her declaration that Charlotte was a little nervous, if only because drunk-Eileen would absolutely do something as undignified as pee on something of Vince’s in an act of revenge.

“Would you key Duff’s car for me?” Charlotte asked to change the topic, all soft and teasing, and she can hear rare, unrestrained the smile in Eileen’s voice when she assured Charlotte she would in a heartbeat, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

Despite it still being early in the night, Charlotte knew that if she seemed drunk when she got back to Tommy’s house, her Aunt would tell her mom, and that’s the exact opposite of what she needs. Tommy can get legless if he wants, he only has to face the wrath of his weirdly supportive parents; if Charlotte comes home obviously drunk, she won’t be allowed out of the house until college. So she decides to get water.

There’s bodies everywhere, and Charlotte’s struggling to move through them, even with Eileen guiding her to the kitchen.

Charlotte’s been in and around this house so many times, it should be second nature to her; she and Tommy had spent what felt like half their childhoods in this house, within it’s pristine, white walls, and expensive, leather furniture, playing pretend trying to imagine what their future would turn out to be. None of them would have pictured this, of Charlotte, of Charlotte hating Vince and still stumbling, drunk through his house, nor had they seen Vince, playing pretend with popularity, tossing them all aside for a set of conceited fair-weather friends. Tommy’s never been able to predict his own future, too willing to go with the flow to be too certain of anything.

Away from the living room, and the record player, the music is muffled, and the chatter is quieter, as people are here for drinks, or snacks, while most were choosing to dance in the crush in the living room, or making regrettable, teenage decision upstairs.

Eileen tops up her drink with obviously spiked punch. Half vodka and soda, half spiked fruit punch. Gross. Charlotte looks on in disgust as she sips water, and Eileen acts like there’s no difference between taste, but she interrupts her own performance of stoicism when her eyes widen.

“Fields.”

“What?” Charlotte asks, confused as all hell, following Eileen’s gaze to where the kitchen opens up onto the patio, only to see Lola, in a full face of makeup, hair sprayed to high heavens, wearing all sorts of black, ripped, mesh and denim layers, looking like an intimidating cross between glam rock and crust punk. She was straddling someone’s lap, looking at them intently, what looked to be a black, eyeliner pencil in her hand.

“That’s the girl from my French class,” Eileen sounds a little surprised to see her, and Charlotte smiles a little.

“Her name’s Lola -” but her mouth drops open when Lola, in the dim light spilling from the kitchen, leans in and kisses whoever she’s sitting on. After a beat, both Charlotte and Eileen burst in fits of unsubtle laughter, not having anticipated this turn of events. They’re holding each other for support in their drunken amusement, laughing like this is somehow the funniest thing they’ve ever encountered, thankfully aware enough to set aside their cups.

“I- we’re intruding right? This is- we should leave-” they’re not even the only ones in the kitchen when Charlotte says this, gasping for breaths between her laughs, but they seem to be the only ones who have noticed what’s happening, or at least the only ones who halfway care.

Until there comes a shout of ‘yeah, get some, Tommy!’ from the bonfire about thirty yards from the patio, and Charlotte very clearly and distinctly thinks ‘oh no’.

Vince is silhouetted by the fire, bleach blonde hair catching the light, but Charlotte can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Shut up, Vince!” Lola’s partner, who is now unmistakably Tommy, calls back, flustered, as Lola hides her grin against his shoulder. Vince and his cronies, none of whom Charlotte knows by name, jeer in response. Then Lola’s leaning back and saying something that Charlotte doesn’t catch, but suddenly Tommy looks inside, his expression turning from flustered and pleased to horrified as his gaze locks with Charlotte’s and they both know that she knows.

Eileen is wheezing with laughter beside her.

Charlotte sees Tommy’s now lipstick-stained mouth mutter ‘shit’. Lola follows his gaze, and waves awkwardly at Charlotte. Charlotte also mutters ‘shit’.

Charlotte tips out her water and gets herself another cup of wine from the back of Vince’s refrigerator. A lot has happened in thirty seconds, she thinks she deserves one more drink for the night.

#mick mars #tommy lee #vince neil #nikki sixx #motley crue #the pack #charlotte & lola #lola&charlotte #the angry lizard writes

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amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines · 3 years

Text

Luke//the very first moment i beheld you, my heart was irrevocably gone

Request: Can you do a Luke Hemmings x female reader one-shot? The reader is a British actress and was cast as Elizabeth Bennett in the movie Prejudice and Zombies instead of Lily James (I have nothing against her, it’s just that she needs to be removed from the one-shot in order for it to work) and her boyfriend Luke’s there when she and Sam Riley film Elizabeth and Darcy’s fight scene and they go out for lunch with Sam and his wife afterwards? The scene’s from the video on the YouTube channel Movieclips

hey! so i know that this scene wouldn’t have been filmed all in one shot, but i just thought it would be better if i wrote it like i did. i also know they probably didn’t do their own stunts (lie, lily james can do absolutely anything and everything) but well, i made it so you do! anyway. how’s everyone’s day? i hope they’re well! and i hope future me’s day is going well too! i also hope future you is good too!

Your whole life you’d been dreaming of this. Everything you’ve ever done has been leading up to this moment. Your first feature film, before this you’d had small roles in a few cable shows and side characters in a couple of films, as well as playing the main character in some indie film a friend was doing, but this was your big break.

The director and casting agents saw something in you, sent you the script and asked you to send them a tape. You’d done it at 10am, and found out you got the job at 2, so they were clearly very impressed.

And when you told Luke he was even more impressed. You’d never seen him smile so wide and the two of you jumped up and down in excitement before you phoned all your friends and family.

Two weeks later you were on a place back to England with Luke in tow so you could find a small flat to rent for the months you’d be rehearsing and filming. You were of course happy to be home, your house with Luke may be lovely and LA’s weather may be a lot better than Britains but it doesn’t stop the home sickness. However that’s what you were worried about with Luke, he hadn’t been in London for this long since he lived here with the band, so you were worried he’d end up bored and lonely.

But to your surprise he was loving it. He was glad to be back and with you being away filming for most of the day it gave him the chance to do some song writing and to catch up with other hobbies he may have neglected since the success of the band.

Today however, Luke had asked if he could tag along with you. He wanted to see you at work and watch you do what you loved. He said it was only fair because you’d been to all of his shows you could possibly go to, and for a while you were even on tour with him. So now it was his turn to return to the favour.

Plus, he said he needed to see you in action in order to hype you up to everyone he spoke to.

“Okay!” The director calls and the room goes silent.

You make eye contact with Luke and send him a thumbs up which makes him chuckle and shake his head.

“Everyone ready? Good. And action.”

“I’ve come to feel for you a most ardent admiration and regard, which has overcome my better judgement.” Sam starts, his head moves as if he’s trying to find the right words and you stare at him in, your lips pulled into a straight line and your eyebrows furrowed at his sudden declaration.

Even when the camera’s not on you you need to act, it helps keep you in character, helps keep you in the moment, and most importantly it helps whoever you're acting alongside. If they see your reactions to the words they are saying, they can use that to better their own performance and that gives everyone the most authentic scenes possible.

“So.” He takes a deep breath and gets down on one knee. You take a step back, a small gasp leaving your lips as you stare down at him. “Now I ask you most fervently to end my turmoil and consent to be my wife.” He asks and there’s a few seconds of silence while you look between him and the floor.

“If I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you...” You start, your voice quiet. Hurt flashes through your eyes as you take a deep breath and say your next line.

You have to admit, the way Sam is staring up at you, it does kind of feel like you’re turning down an actual marriage proposal, and if this is what it feels like when you’re just pretending, you hope you never have to do it in real life.

“But I cannot.” You sigh, nodding your head just to get your point across. “I never desired your good opinion and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly.”

Sam blinks and looks at the floor, not really sure what to say next. He stands, confusion thinly veiling the disappointment that’s written all over his face and you shift awkwardly. The fabric of your dress crinkling is the only thing that can be heard in the room as you smooth the skirt out, waiting for Sam to say his line.

“Might I be informed why?” He huffs. “With so little, endeavour at civility, I have been rejected?”

“You intentionally ruined the happiness of my my most beloved sister.” You reply, and tilt your head up to try and regain some sort of authority. “Do you deny it?” You ask and he lets out a short breath.

“I have no wish to deny it.” He replies, bitterness lacing his tone and you raise an eyebrow at him. “I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister.”

Your jaw tightens and you look him up and down, both of you have a silent conversation, just to make sure the other one’s ready, and then you kick him. He throws himself backwards, landing on the desk with a loud crash, a fake vase breaks under the weight and you shout. “How could you?”

“Because I perceived his attachment to her to be far deeper that to hers to him.” He replies, narrowly avoiding the books you’re throwing at him. Of course you’re told to try and miss him on purpose, but it still is really fun to be able to throw things at someone and get paid for it. “I believed her to be indifferent.”

“Indifferent?!” You gasp incredulity. “She’s shy!” You seethe and finish throwing the books. One of the smashes a window and Sam looks behind him concerned before looking back at you.

You walk around the room, deep in thought and Sam watches you as you grab a fire poker from the fireplace.

When rehearsing this part, you seemed to have a problem with waving it around too much.

You think you get a bit too into it and each time you swung it around you always seemed to break something, so you’re hoping and praying that this time you won’t cause any property damage.

The props department has already had to replace three vases and a clock because of you, so let’s hope you don’t break anything or anyone else.

Sam gulps as you slowly make your way towards him and he takes a few steps backwards, looking incredibly nervous as his gaze moves from you and the stick.

“Did you suggest to Mr Bingley that his fortune had some bearing on the matter?” You ask and he backs up towards the glass. Nothing you’re saying is threatening, but the way you’re brandishing your new weapon, you do look like you’re going to stab him.

Luke watches on amazed, he’s never seen you like this before. This is you in your element, doing what you love to do and transporting yourself and the people around you back to a time where people wore corsets and zombies ran around.

Luke knows people that when they step in front of a camera or onto a stage, they are just totally themselves. Whatever they’re doing, whether it’s singing, acting or dancing, it’s like a second nature to them. They know what they need to do, when they need to do and they don’t even have to think about it.

But he’s never seen anything like this before. A part of him wonders if it’s just because he loves you, but then he realizes that everyone else watching you and Sam work together are also totally floored by how brilliantly the scene its going. How the two of you work together, the small glances and little touches, every little thing you do just adds to the scene and he’s never been prouder.

“I wouldn’t do your sister the dishonour...though it was suggested.” He adds and you swing the poker over your head. He ducks, missing each attempted hit and you fall onto the table. He takes the opportunity to jump over it and when you turn around to try and regain your balance, he grabs your wrists and pins you to the table.

“By Miss Bingley.” You ask furiously and his grip tightens.

“By your mother, at the ball.” He replies and you shut up. He glances down and you stare at him annoyed, pushing him off you and swinging your weapon around. He misses each hit, just like you’ve practiced and you can’t wait to watch it back.

“Your character was revealed to me many months ago by Wickham.” You say after each missed hit, and he wrestles you to the floor, making you drop your weapon. “As I heard of his scandalous misfortunes at your hand.” You spit and wrap your ankles around his neck, squeezing just a tiny bit.

“Oh, yeah. Mr Wickham’s misfortunes have been very great indeed.” He struggles to speak and grabs on your legs, his hands shake so it looks like he’s struggling and when he’s finished you pull him forward just a little and pretend to punch him in the face, making him stumble backwards again.

A chair smashes when he lands on it and you quickly stand up, grabbing the letter opener as you do. He rolls over and stands and the two of you stare at each other before you move forward. He blocks each attempt at a hit and the two of you move backwards and forwards.

Fight scenes remind you of well rehearsed dance numbers. You move one way, they move the other. Each hit has to be choreographed to make it look real but remain safe and both of you have to know exactly what you’re doing otherwise it can end in disaster.

“You withhold the advantages that you know were designed for him.” You slice the letter opener down his shirt, popping the buttons and he stares down at it, watching the small pieces fall to the ground. He looks back at you, letting down his guard and you swing your arms up to hit him in the face. He grabs them and pushes you into the door.

“This is your opinion of me?” He asks, grabbing the poker of the floor and swinging it around a few times. “Then I thank you for explaining it so fully.” He slowly edges towards you and you do the same, giving each other untrustworthy looks.

You lunge towards him, raising the blade and he narrowly avoids it, using one hand to grab yours while the other slices the top of your dress. The buttons pop and a part of it comes down, exposing the top of the corset below.

You both look down before you slowly raise your head to glare at him. He looks at you afterwards, and he glances at you, raising his eyebrow before you take a deep breath and spin kick him.

He falls to the floor and you raise the blade above your head, an annoyed groan escapes your lips as you run towards him. He grabs your arms spinning the two of you around and you back hits the floor with a loud thud.

You feel the air being knocked out of you for a split second Sam looks worried that he’s hurt you, but you send him and look and he seems to get the message. Get the job done and then ask if you’re alright.

His hands pin your arms to the hard floor and he rests between your legs, the two of you panting and hot while staring at each other.

“You could not have made the offer of your hand, in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.” You say through gritted teeth. “I had not known you a month, before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.” You finish and he lets go.

You sit up, pointing the blade at his chest and he stares down at you, hurt flashing through his eyes. However the facade quickly comes back and he pulls his gaze away from you, his expression hardens as he stares straight ahead.

“You’ve said quite enough, madam.” He forces himself to look at you. “I fully comprehend your feelings and now have only to be ashamed of what my own have been.” He stands and quickly walks away from you.

He turns back around to watch you stand, his hands resting on his hips as he figures out the best way to end this.

“Please forgive me and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.” He bows and quickly leaves the room.

You pull yourself up onto the chair, waiting for the sound of the door closing as your cue to start crying. The camera slowly zooms in on you, tears run down your cheeks and you let out a shaky breath.

“Cut!” The director calls and you look at him.

“Did we get it?” You ask and Sam pokes his head back through the door, glancing between you and the crew.

“Yeah, we got it. Good job guys!” He replies and everyone cheers.

“You were brilliant!” You grin at Sam.

“You did pretty well too.” He jogs over to you, his boots squeaking as he runs and you let out a small giggle. He reaches his hand out to you, helping you stand and leading you off set and towards Luke and Alexandra.

“You’re such a gentleman.” You tease. “You’re very lucky Alex.” You smile and she laughs, rolling her eyes at her husband.

“Yeah. Sure I am.” She replies and the three of you laugh, while Sam just glares at you. You pull a face at him and he huffs loudly at you.

“Take lunch guys. Everyone needs to back by 2.” A producer tells you and you let out a pained breath.

“Oh shit. Are you okay. You hit that floor pretty hard.” Sam asks and Luke’s eyes widen in concern. He’s stood in front of you instantly, gripping your arms and he looks you over.

“Babe, are you okay?” He asks and you smile at his concern.

“I’m fine. It wasn’t so bad, I think it’s just the corset making it feel worse. I’ll be fine when I take it off.” You reassure them and Sam nods slowly, not quite believing you.

“Come on. I’ll take you back to your trailer.” Luke says and looks around to try and figure out where he’s supposed to be going.

“You go out of the door, walk all the way down the corridor, take a left and then a right and then another right. Go through them doors and her trailer is the first one you’ll see.” Sam explains and Luke’s blinks at him.

“I’m fine.” You laugh. “Come on. I can get there on my own. I’ve cracked a rib not my brain.”

“You’ve crac-”

“Joking.” You place a hand on his arm and he lets out a nervous breath.

“Not funny.” He pouts and you pull the same expression.

“Aww.” You pinch your cheek. “Come on.” You grab his hand and start pulling him away. “Oh, do you guys want to head out for lunch together?” You call over your shoulder. Sam and Alexandra look at each other before nodding, an eager smile twitching at their lips.

“Yeah. Sounds great.” Sam replies.

“Great. Swing by my trailer in like twenty minutes and we can get going.”

“Okay!” He replies and you wave one last time before disappearing through the door.

“So, what did you think?” You look up at Luke and he gives you a toothy grin.

“That was amazing!” He exclaims. “You were so fucking good. How are you so badass. How did I get the most talented, pretty, smart and badass girlfriend in the world. You like destroyed him and you still gorgeous while doing it. How? I jump around on stage for a bit and by the time I get off I look like a sweaty giant. But you. You literally fake fight people and act and cry all in a massive dress and you still look like...like that.” He motions wildly and you look at the floor, heat creeping up your neck and spreading across your cheeks.

“Did you really like it?” You ask one more time.

“Yes!” He laughs. “If I wasn’t a singer, I definitely would be an actor.”

“You could be both. Harry Styles acts.” You reply, pushing through yet another door. He stops in the doorway, and hums as he thinks about what you’ve just said.

“Yeah.” He nods. “That’s very true. Hey!” He smiles brightly. “You never know. One day we could be in a movie together!”

---

“Have I ever told you that you look really hot wielding a weapon.” Luke asks as he watches you shuffle out of the bathroom. Your dress is bunched around your waist while you slowly try and pry yourself out of the fabric.

Luke stands behind you, undoing the buttons at the bottom of it and after he’s done the last one it falls to the ground. You stand in a corset and stockings, with your hair up in curls and look over your shoulder at him.

“No, you haven’t.” You blush. “But you can tell me if you want.” You wink and his own cheeks heat up once he realizes he’s been caught staring.

“Well, you look very hot when wielding a weapon.”

“Thank you.” You smile and step out of your dress. “Can you pick that up and just hang it on that please?” You point towards the hanger on the chair. He nods and you watch him carefully pick your dress up.

“It’s not going to break you know.” You tease as you undo the top of your corset.

“With my luck it will.” He mutters and you snort a laugh.

“True.” You agree.

“Would you like some help?” He asks after watching you struggle for a while.

“Please.” You slump as best you can and a pout takes over your appearance.

“I hope when I ask you to marry me you don’t have the same reaction.” He mumbles while fiddling the strings and buttons.

“It depends how you ask me, and how much you’ve annoyed me that day.” You shrug and he pauses to give you a disapproving look. “Joking.”

“Not funny.”

“You always say that.” You frown. “But I think I’m hilarious.”

“Yeah. You think you’re great.” He grumbles and pulls on a bit of fabric. “And done!” He cheers and let’s go. You turn around and look at him surprised.

“How did you do that so quickly?”

“I’m just that good.” He winks and you roll your eyes.

“Sure you are.” You walk towards the bathroom and pat his shoulder. “Give me five minutes to get changed and then we can get lunch.”

“Take all the time you want.” He replies. “I’m going to snoop while you’re gone.”

“If you find my secret phone and pictures of my other boyfriend can you just put them back where you found them?” You tease and he looks at you amused.

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” You grin and push the door closed.

---

“So how are you finding London?” Sam asks after swallowing the last of his lunch.

“I love being back home!” You grin. “I’ve missed England’s shit weather so much. There’s nothing like a miserable day to really cheer you up.”

“Are they pulling that corset a little too tight?” Alexandra teases making you giggle while sipping your water.

“I think it’s just an English thing.” Luke replies, shaking his head playfully while staring at you.

“I think it’s just a Y/n thing.” Sam replies and you send him a glare.

“Hey, LA weather isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The rain can be good you know.” You argue.

“Sure it can be.” He replies. “What about you Luke?”

“It’s great! This is the longest I’ve stayed here in years and I love it. I’ve been seeing friends I have’t spoken to in years.” He talks enthusiastically and you watch him fondly as he waves his arms around. Sam and Alex share a look before looking back at him.

“You guys are made for each other.” Alexandra smiles. “How did you two meet?”

“Oh.” You giggle, a little embarrassed as you think of the story.

“Ooo, you’re embarrassed. Tell us.” Sam prods your arm and you swat him away.

“Fine.” You huff. “I was a fan of his music, so I sent him a DM and asked if he liked a certain show that I was in. He er, he told me he did and I told him I was in it, so he asked who I played. I told him and we just kind of started talking from there.”

“Awww.” Alexandra gushes and you rolls your eyes. “And how is it dating an actor?” She asks Luke. “For me it’s a nightmare.” She looks at Sam and he stares at her offended.

“What did I do?”

“The black eye.” She raises and eyebrow and he shuts up.

“The black eye?” You ask.

“He came home with a black eye a while ago. I thought he’s been beaten up or robbed or something. It didn’t help that he limped through the front door, there was blood on his lip and everything. He wouldn’t tell me what happened and then after a few minutes of me panicking, he told me it was just make up from a film he was doing.” She explains and your jaw drops.

“Sam!” You gasp.

“I thought it would be funny!” He defends.

“How is that funny?!” You and Alex say at the same time.

“That is pretty funny.” Luke laughs and the three of you look at him.

“Thank you!”

“Fine. I’ll do that and then we’ll see how you like it.” You reply and he shrugs.

“Well, you’ve told me you’re going to do it now so I’ll know what you’re doing.”

“And what if I have actually been mugged? Are you going to take that chance?” You raise an eyebrow.

“She’s got you there.” Sam says. “And I wouldn’t argue with her, she’s got a hell of a kick when she wants to.”

“I didn’t even touch you.” You roll your eyes.

“That’s not the point.” He argues.

“I can actually kick you next time if you want?”

“No thanks.” He shakes his head quickly. Him and Alexandra start their own conversation about what to have for dinner and so you turn your body to face Luke. He’s already staring at you when you look at him and you feel yourself become breathless.

“What?” You wonder.

“Nothing. I’m just proud of you.” He shrugs. “So when you win your first of many oscars, will I be the first person you thank?”

“Hmmm.” You pretend to think for a while. “As long as I’m first on your grammy speech?”

“Deal.”

#luke hemmings #luke hemmings imagine #luke hemmings x reader #luke hemmings x you #luke hemmings x y/n #5sos #5sos imagine #pride and predjudice and zombies

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thewhumperinwhite · 3 years

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ATTD: A Magician, Not a Healer (2)

ATTD Masterlist

If and when this actually becomes A Novel, I’m intentionally not gonna write anything from Will’s perspective from the time he introduces himself until [redacted], because he Does Not Want Anyone In His Head Right Now, and also its hard to write him Thinking w/o Telling Secrets.

But this is for whump so lets get right in that horrible little head of his :)

TW for: implied/reference child abuse; referenced minor whump; dissociation; mild/brief PTSD flashback; referenced stabbing; infected wounds; dizziness/fainting; some well-intentioned emotional manipulation.

@whumpitywhumpwhump @favwhumpstuff

----

By this time the boy called Will knew the sensation of healing magic very well, and he had never liked it, never. He had spent too many years of his childhood hunched on the Healer’s bench in his father’s House, trying not to meet the Healer’s eyes, while the Healer laid cold hands on his blacked eyes and cracked ribs and split-open lips. The Healer at the House was already an old man when the boy was a child, and just as eager to avoid eye contact as the boy had been. The old man had never asked questions (or needed to ask) and the boy had felt… the way he felt about so many members of his father’s House. Gratitude and resentment and sorrow, all in equal measure.

The wound in his stomach now, where the knife went in, was among the worst he had yet received. It hurt, certainly, and itched under the bandages in a sick, distracting way.

It was hard to think of the wound without remembering the moment he received it, and the moments that followed. Without thinking of hot blood rushing over his hand. Without thinking of—

He was seated in the front room of a Healer’s Salon in Limani, Galdrea. He was many miles from his father’s House. The wound was a week old now. And he was not alone, and might in fact be required to speak at any moment. He dug his nails into the palms of both hands, hard, to force himself to stay in the room, instead of slipping backwards, through the week past and back into hell.

Jasper the Magician nudged the boy gently with his shoulder, and the boy was only halfway back into his body, and startled too obviously at the light touch. He had done that many times, now, and soon the Magician was going to begin asking him questions he had not yet thought of answers to.

“You alright over there?” the Magician asked, and the boy nodded eagerly, relieved. He did know the answer to that one.

“Yes,” he said, “I am alright.” He tried on a smile; just a small one, so as not to overcorrect. It was a delicate needle to thread. He need not pretend to be cheerful—the Magician knew he was wounded, and ill—only calm. Sane. Normal, ideally.

The Magician frowned slightly, perhaps not totally convinced.

The Magician—Jasper—had been very kind. Much more kind than the boy would have preferred, actually. He also seemed quite clever, however, and that was—inconvenient.

He was also very large. Taller than the boy’s father, and broad about the shoulders, with large hands and a large, low voice. The boy was trying not to hold this against him.

He was really trying very hard.

The door at the back of the room opened, and the Healer’s assistant poked her head through it. She was young, and pretty, which was a relief. The boy knew how to talk to pretty girls. It was easy to be what they expected. Generally.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back. He’d had enough practice that he didn’t even really have to try.

“The Healer is ready to see who’s next,” she said, in Galdrean. Obviously in Galdrean. He was in Galdrea. He was in Galdrea, and his father’s House was far away, and he had been (no one) a farmer’s son for a whole week now.

The boy stood up too fast and the room went entirely black.

----

Jasper had to leap to his feet to keep Will from collapsing full-length onto the floor. The Healer’s pretty assistant gasped and hovered, a hand over her mouth.

“How terrible!” she said, eyeing the boy—who was trying to get his feet under him again, while Jasper supported his entire weight without much effort—with evident interest. “Have you been accosted by thieves? There are many in the city unfriendly to travelers. I am very sorry to see it.”

Jasper saw no reason to contradict her; he himself was much to white to be anything but a “traveler” here, to say nothing of Will, who looked about as Crythian as it was possible to look. “Aye,” he said, helping the boy forward when the assistant stood aside to let them in.

It was a small shop, with a small waiting room—empty when they entered, which was why Jasper had chosen it—and a smaller room behind for the Healer to do their work. There was no Healer present yet—an unmarked door at the back of the room presumably led to a private sitting room, and perhaps living quarters as well. This was the edge of the port city’s magic district, and there were a dozen bigger and better-appointed Healing Salons within an easy walk, which was the whole idea. This Healer was likely to be perfectly competent, and also eager enough for clients not to ask too many questions.

“Did they steal very much from you?” the assistant asked, while Jasper steered Will to the large plain bench in the center of the room. She directed that question to Jasper, since Will was still blinking very hard and likely couldn’t see, but as soon as the boy’s eyes cleared she batted her big eyes at him with a look of—compassionate over-interest. “Are you hurt terribly?” she asked Will, rather eagerly.

Will blinked at her, and then he gave her the same smile he had given Lia, in the Sheep’s Eye, before everything had gone sideways: soft and open and very deliberately charming. The Healer’s assistant almost visibly melted.

“It’s not so bad as all that,” the boy said, and the—practiced warmth, precise tenderness, of his voice was almost enough to cover the rasp of his fever-dried throat.

“It is, actually,” Jasper said drily, and the assistant looked up at him with surprise, as though she’d forgotten he was there. “He’s been stabbed. It’s an old wound—a few days, at least—and I’m reasonably certain its gone septic.”

“Oh dear,” the assistant said, and she sounded distinctly less dreamy now, which was a bit of a relief. “I’ll tell Healer Charon right away.”

She scurried from the room in a flurry of skirts. Jasper took one of the seats by the door, shaking his head in mild amusement.

“Apparently you can charm ladies even when you’re drooling blood all over them,” he said, and laughed when Will immediately reached up to wipe his mouth. “Not literally, boy. I only mean, you must be unstoppable when you’re at your fighting weight.”

Will blinked at him, frowning slightly. “…thank you?” he said after a minute.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” Jasper said, with absolute conviction, but before he could ask the obvious followup—Why?—the door opened and an old woman in a Healer’s black cap and wimple swept through, not pausing to exchange pleasantries before she pulled up a low stool beside the bench.

She flapped a wrinkled brown hand at Will. “Lay back, then, boy. I’ve to see what I’m looking at before I can scrape out whatever poison’s seeped into your blood.”

Will moved to follow her order, slightly stiff with either reluctance or pain, and while he was in the process of stretching unhappily out across the bench—it was built to accommodate much larger men, and he looked even more skeletally thin on the bench than off—the Healer glanced at his face for apparently the first time, and did a slight double-take.

“You speak the language?” she asked with obvious doubt. She had been speaking very fast from the beginning, and made no effort to slow, now. “I’ve none of the Wolfkiller’s tongue at all. I’d as soon avoid pointing and grunting unless you make it necessary.”

It wasn’t a delicate way of asking. Jasper hadn’t known many Crythians—and those few generally not under the best of circumstances—but had a vague idea that they were proud of their language, and (at least by stereotype) not overly inclined toward learning others.

The boy ducked his head respectfully before he rested it back on the bench, and said, “I speak enough Galdrean to get by, ma’am, and not to make your work a struggle, I hope.”

He said this very politely, in just a slightly different voice than he had used on her assistant—a few degrees of warmth traded for careful respect. He was also, as far as Jasper could tell, entirely fluent.

The Healer’s wrinkled mouth turned up a little at the corners. So apparently Will had calculated his tone well enough.

Jasper watched all this with interest. And maybe just a hint of suspicion.

Then the Healer said, “Wait, boy. Take that thing off, I’ll not have it in my way. You want this wound looked at or no?”

Will, laid out on the bench, stiffened. His hands came up to rest on his sword belt, obviously reluctant.

Jasper had not seen him without it since that first morning, when he awoke in Jasper’s tent and asked for it so desperately. Apparently he slept in the belt, though how he managed to sleep with three-plus feet of metal tangling around his legs was beyond Jasper.

Will looked at the Healer, and his hands tightened on the belt, and it was obvious he was going to refuse, which seemed like a very good way to be turned out and continue having a badly infected gut-wound.

“Relax, boy,” Jasper said. “I’ll take it.”

Will looked at Jasper for a second with almost total distrust. Then he nodded stiffly, and sat back up, with obvious difficulty, and slipped the belt off.

“Be—careful,” he said, meeting Jasper’s eyes with slightly desperate sincerity.

The Healer watched Will hand the—ridiculous, useless-looking—sword over with obvious confusion.

“…very valuable?” she asked Jasper, doubtfully.

“Not worth much at all,” Will answered her, delicately. “Sentimental value, only.”

The blade grew slightly hot in Jasper’s hand at this dismissal of its worth—just enough that he could feel it through the leather sheath.

Jasper was very careful not to touch the handle.

#whump #original whump #all those that dance #fantasy whump #on the run #trauma response #wound care #infected wounds #implied parental abuse #whumpee pov #caretaker pov

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uniarycode · 4 years

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Takari Week, Day 2 - Teasing

In which Takeru and Hikari talk quite a bit, and don’t say much of anything. Teenage Takari, done as part of @takariweek and apparently the only one who picked teasing over first kiss

“That skirt looks good on you.”

The girl stopped, a dear in the headlights, clearly not expecting the compliment, or it’s source. “Thanks, I, uh, have to wear it. It’s part of the uniform.”

“I suppose so.” Takeru answered. “But I think it suit you.”

A pink tint began to permeate the girl’s cheeks. “Thanks, I like your, uh shoes.”

She must have, she hadn’t looked anywhere else since the blond first complimented her.

“They’re my best pair.” Takeru lied, “I wear them whenever I carry girls off into the sunset.”

Hikari slapped her hand against her forehead. This was getting painful to watch, she needed to step in. “Takeru, I sure hope you aren’t talking about kidnapping another poor defenceless girl.” Hikari said in a deadpan. “The last thing this school needs is more bad press.”

“What?” the girl asked. Looking up in shock.

“Hikari I’m hurt. You know I’d never do anything without permission.” Takeru whined.

“I don’t know I have a few memories of waking up beside you, with no idea how I got there.” Technically true, although she was referring to innocent matters. Collapsing in sickness in Mungendramon’s city, or in stress when her brother went missing.

“That was, I didn’t-” A sidelong glance informed the pair that the girl had taken advantage of the situation to escape. “You’re mean Hikari.”

“I’m not the one preying on underclassmen, building up their hopes only to reject them when they finally get the courage to ask me out.” She said playfully.

“You’re reading into it to much, she looked good in that skirt, it would be a crime to keep that from her. I was doing my civic duty.”

“Civic duty, eh?” She replied in a low voice, “And the line about the shoes? That you used them while carrying innocent maidens into the sunset?”

Takeru leaned in close. “I never said anything about them being ‘innocent’, Hikari. Maybe I prefer bad girls?” She felt her cheeks heat up from the combination of his proximity and as her mind filled the mental gaps. “And I wasn’t lying. Every woman I’ve carried into the sunset; I’ve done it wearing these shoes.”

“And is that number more than zero?”

“Such matters are confidential. A gentleman never kisses and tells.” Takeru insisted.

“We weren’t talking about kisses.” She shot back. “And I think your new ‘friend’ there might have a different idea of your sunset prowess. Do you even know her name?”

“I would, if someone hadn’t rudely interrupted.”

“Then hopefully she doesn’t get too attached. I swear Takeru, one of these days it’s going to catch up with you.”

“What, being nice?” Takeru looked back at her, the same gentle smile painted on his face. “Besides, you reject even more suitors than I do.”

“Not on purpose.” She denied instantly. “I mean, I do reject them, but I’m not leading them on or anything.”

“I don’t know Hikari, you must be doing something to attract them all. I don’t think this could be coincidental.”

“What are you saying?” she asked a slight amount of fire in her voice, “That I’m inviting these boys? That I enjoy watching them chase me?”

“Mine is not to reason why.” Takeru said “I just call them as a I see them.”

“Sure.” She too a breath, calming down a bit. “Sometimes I wonder why myself, if I’m doing something to make them think I like them.”

Takeru hummed in response. “Let’s see, you are kind, and make people feel like they are accepted no matter what. You have this air of wonder about you, that makes people want to defend and protect you. But also a sense of mystery, being one of the chosen and all. And most importantly, you’re cute.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d seen Takeru call someone cute. It wasn’t even the first time she’d heard him call her cute, but there seemed to be an extra weight to the word this time.

“Hey Hikari, I think I just realized something.” Takeru said, leaning in until their faces were inches apart.

Her heartbeat sped up, was he going to, right now? She knew he liked her, at least she was pretty sure, but scars from the divorce still marked his heart, she would not dare move first.

“It must be dark magic.” He pointed a finger at her. “You’re a witch aren’t you.”

“Wha?” She cried out, stumbling backward, laughter following soon after. “Takeru my crest is Light.”

“So is your name.” he returned “Pretty suspicious if you ask me. Like you’re pretending to be innocent.”

“I didn’t pick my name, Mom did.” She said between gasps.

“She must be a witch too, it would make sense, she doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, mind explaining that?”

Hikari’s laughter stopped. “Underclassmen are one thing, but you did not just hit on my mom.”

“What are you going to do about it? Cast a spell on me?”

“So what if I am?” She raised her fingers wiggling them at him aggressively. “What are you going to do about it?” she echoed.

“I knew it! This explains everything!” he raised a fist in front of his chest empatically.

“Everything?” She shot back.

He nodded sagely. “You’ve been intentionally drawing those boys in, haven’t you, using their broken hearts as part of a ritual to enslave them into being your unwitting servants.”

“You aren’t making any sense.” She laughed again.

“Well no more! You may think I’m just another boy armed with nothing more than my favourite pair of shoes -”

“You don’t even like them that much.” She cut in, but he continued unshaken.

“Unbeknownst to you I’ve been in contact with the students that are immune to you -”

“You mean the girls?”

“- and we’ve made intimate connections-”

“You mean you hit on them.”

“- and together, these ordinary students, and me with my shoes, are going to free this school, no this world from your insidious light-based dark magic.”

Hikari couldn’t help herself, she doubled-over with laughter. “You really need to improve your plot lines” she said between fits, “That sounds like something out of a perverted game.”

“Wow Hikari, I didn’t expect you to be into that kind of stuff.”

This time she did not rise to the bait. “I can acknowledge their existence without being a perv. You know Miyako is my best friend.”

“I thought I was your best friend.”

“Did you?”

He placed one hand over his heart in mock pain “You wound me.”

“That just proves what a witch I am.”

“Clearly you will be my greatest foe yet.”

She rolled her eyes. “So, if this was one of your stories, how would it end?”

“You can’t just skip to the end of the story, Hikari, that’s a deadly sin.”

“What’s the point of being a witch if you can’t sin a little here and there?”

“Even to a witch, there are some lines you don’t cross.” He raised a hand to his mouth thoughtfully. “It would depend on the type of story. If you were writing for kids then the witch would need to be defeated, cast out, and probably die in some way where you don’t actually mention death.”

“So you were going to kill me?” she asked.

“No just banish you to the second dimension. If, on the other hand, you were writing for certain games, the type enjoyed by a particular brunette under the cover of darkness when she thinks no one is watching-”

“oh-god”

“-the hero and the witch would come to understand each other. The hero would teach the witch the meaning of life, friendship, and love. He would teach her how to use her powers for good.”

“Using dark magic for good?”

“Light-based dark magic.” Takeru insisted. “And then they would work together to defeat one last threat, like maybe the witch’s teacher, before living happily ever after.”

“Stroll off into the sunset?” Hikari asked.

“Nah, not romantic enough.” Takeru said. He moved in a flash, one arm going under her knees, another behind her back as he scooped her up. “He’d need to carry her, to show how much he wants to support and protect her.”

“Takeru,” she said softly, unsure what else to say, until it hit her.

“At least you’re wearing the right shoes.”

#takari #takari week #takeru takaishi #hikari yagami #really nothing happens #digimon

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bittervitter · 4 years

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ang0mang0′s “copycat” claims

I didn’t want to have to make another post about this, but since people on sonicfan799 / thatAnge / @ang0mang0′s Tumblr profile are getting riled up about this ridiculous drama that should have died ages ago, I figured I’d defend myself. Some people who are trying to support me have been saying incorrect things too, so I also wanted to clear that up. This crap has been going on for months, everyone is sick of it by now. Instead of being brief like I did for other social medias, I’ll be as detailed as possible this time.

[1] “she’s copying/imitating/heavily referencing from my art style!!!”

Like people have said a million times, no I’m not. And nor is anyone else. Just because someone draws the Sonic characters in a similar style to you does not automatically mean they took, copied or “stole” those ideas from you. You don’t own the concept of buff, fluffy bodies or chubby muzzles. COINCIDENCE, as much as you hopelessly deny it, is very much a possible thing- even in crazy situations such as this. There are several other artists who have similar art styles by mere coincidence. IT IS NOT IMPOSSIBLE. As examples, these Instagram artists have similar styles: @ azulytoons and @ indigonite0 / @ magenta_mel and @ zer0finix / @ himemikal and @ natirix. NONE of these artists are “stealing” or referencing from each other- they just have similar art styles, and that is perfectly okay! They draw completely different things with completely different mindsets. The world does not revolve around you, ang0. Not everyone knows who you are, so some people who use the same traits that we do don’t even know we exist.

Also, to anyone unaware, an art STYLE is not merely how one chooses to portray a character. An art STYLE is also what brushes you use, how you sketch, how you line, how you colour, how you shade, how you choose to portray certain objects or ideas- basically your entire fucking understanding of how something’s supposed to look and how you LIKE it to look. It’s not just “chubby faces, poofy curly hair, buff bodies”. It’s everything in a piece AND that.

[2] “she’s tracing my art/ redrawing my ideas!”

Literally no. People have constantly asked you to provide evidence and you refused to. All you did was scream “but it’s so obvious, just look at it!” or “are you dumb? use your eyes!” and several other insults. If you want to prove a point or make someone see something, GIVE. EVIDENCE. The only person who actually provided “proof” was pin_kpeach, your ever so loyal whiteknight, but her “proof” only backfired and proved that the both of you are extremely delusional. In the drawings of ours that she layered over each other, next to NONE of the lines lined up. It looked like a clustered mess of scrap, and the reason for that is because IT WASN’T TRACED. In the one or two drawings where ONE. SINGLE. PIECE. actually lined up was entirely zoomed in to make it seem as though the whole thing was traced. No, honey, that’s not how you provide proof. That’s how you pull a muscle by reaching so desperately to lie about me. The rest of the drawings in those pictures didn’t line up at all, and one- or I believe both- needed to be titled to line them up in the first place. You could say that some people trace things and resize or rotate them, but if I were as dumb as you persist to say, then I wouldn’t have done something like that. Either way, one aspect of a drawing lining up is a common thing for people who have similar styles because- well, I just said it. THEY HAVE SIMILAR STYLES. If they draw something the same way, well fucking duh, it’ll match someone else’s drawing almost exactly sometimes.

[3] “she’s too petty and too much of a liar to credit me! saying the art isn’t hers will hurt her oversized ego!”

Ahaha no. The only one here with an inflated ego is you, ang0. You call me the egotistical one yet you act as though your life is falling apart just because someone else draws like you on the internet. Stop acting like a special snowflake, you are not the only one on this planet with an art style of that nature. I don’t credit you because crediting you makes no damn sense. Why should I credit someone who’s had absolutely no impact on my work whatsoever? What in the hell did you do for my drawings that makes you deserve so much credit? Did you sketch it? No. Did you line it? Nope. Did you colour or shade it? Not a chance. Just because I came up with a design for the characters that happens to look like yours does not mean I owe you jack shit. You cannot. own. a style. Get over it.

[4] “she worsened my depression and is the reason I can’t draw anymore! I have no motivation when there’s some idiot copycat stealing all my art!”

I don’t want to sound like that kind of person, but you worsened your own depression. You painted this false picture in your head and continue to hang onto that belief like your life depends on it. I haven’t done ANYthing to you. You came to ME with these stupid claims back when my art looked LESS like yours, before I even knew who you were. You’re making yourself feel horrible because you, for some paranormal reason, refuse to believe that you’re not the only one with that kind of style. This is why people call you childish, you’re like a whiny baby that can’t accept another child having a toy similar to yours. I can’t even decide whether I should say “grow up” because you’re older than me- not to mention you’re an ADULT.

[5]”she constantly sends her whiteknights to attack me, harass me and send me threatening messages!”

I’ve said several times to my followers NOT to harass you or your followers or anyone against me in this mess at all. I do not send anyone after you. People say things to you out of their own free will and with their own words. I can’t magically know when this happens, why they decide to and I especially can’t control anyone. I’m sorry that my friend Koro sent you all those DMs and horrible messages wishing a lot of very bad things onto you and your family- I asked her several times before and after not to do that, but I didn’t have a clue she did it until after the fact. Either way, don’t go around assuming that I put people up to this or I intentionally ask people to do these things to you. Why in the hell would I do that? What good does that do? All I wanted to do was talk things out but at this point, you don’t even take me seriously, so I can’t even try anymore. The few times we did talk you refuse to see my point of view and just see me as a liar. What the hell am I supposed to do then?

[6]”all vio does is lie, she’s so fake all the time, lying for her petty ego”

I’m not even sure how to respond to this but I thought I might as well bring it up. No matter what I do or say, ang0 sees me as nothing but some retarded liar that can’t help but lie their way around everything, even though I’ve been nothing but genuine all this time. It’s why I can’t even communicate with her anymore, because “shut up, stop lying you copycat” is all I get in response basically.

[7] her insane hypocrisy

Ange and pin_kpeach have said numerous times that I’m rude or insult her, and there have been times where I’ve been mean out of anger, but I know for a fact I apologized for it in DMs. Ange apologized too. I don’t remember ever insulting her after that, but ang0 doesn’t ever stop ridiculing and insulting me with almost every comment she makes on the drama. If she really was sorry, she wouldn’t have done it again, but I guess she said “fuck it” and just continued anyway. Pin_kpeach likes to say I’M the hypocrite for saying Ange is harassing me yet being rude to her a couple times, yet they do they exact same thing, but even worse?? I try my best to be as civil as possible, but ang0 and pink don’t waste a second calling me and my supporters all sorts of colourful names just because they don’t agree with her claims. In fact, here’s a list of every single thing ang0’s ever called me:

retarded, retard, stupid, idiot, dumb, low IQ, mentally ill, crazy, talentless, skill-less, copycat, art thief, (dumb) cow, fuckhole, asshole, bitch, wanna-be artist, unreasonable, clown, fake, liar, hypocrite, delusional, dick, stalker, bittershitter, dumbass, immature

There’s probably more than that, but that’s as much as I can remember. Not hard to forget when she repeats them almost all the time.

[8] gatekeeping ideas

Ange and pink act as if two people drawing a character in the same outfit automatically equals “du bist kopying mein style!!”. I can’t even begin to imagine the mental gymnastics you need to do in order to believe a thought process like that is logical. She thinks that anyone who draws Amy in a dress with a white under-skirt or white ruffles underneath is nothing but a copied idea from her. She thinks that me drawing Amy in a green tank top, blue backwards cap and blue sports shorts is copying her drawing of Amy in a green unidentifiable top (you could only see her back, she didn’t seem to have straps) and blue sports shorts with a slightly different design is automatically copied from her. The poses, shading, angle and idea behind the drawing were COMPLETELY different- but nonono, “this is stolen because the outfit is the same!” They also use the excuse of the whole chubby faces, curly hair, blah blah blah- see point [1] as to why that’s BS.

[9] her perception of my followers/supporters

Aside from Koro, I don’t know if anyone has seriously threatened or harassed her. Her followers comment on my posts, my followers only comment when she brings up the drama or whines about it. She insults my supporters when they don’t agree with her and act like they’re a bunch of immature brats who are wrong while she’s the high and mighty mature one seeing through non-existent lies. I’m used to her making fun of me, but I’m sick and tired of her insulting people who have nothing to do with the drama just because they don’t agree with her. Like, seriously? You call everyone immature and stupid yet you’re the one insulting people non-stop just because they realize how ridiculous and childish you’re acting. That’s why “childish” has become a popular adjective for you, ang0. BECAUSE YOU’RE BEING CHILDISH. CONSTANTLY. You get pissy, insult others and put people down but whine and cry the next minute because you constantly like to play the victim. Speaking of which...

[10] the victim card

I have absolutely no idea what ang0 goes through in real life, but there is no excuse for how she’s behaved during this drama AT ALL. Ange constantly defames her own artwork, calling it shit, calling it every bad name in the book, but doesn’t hesitate for a minute to gatekeep her style as if it was the best thing in the world. She says it’s because she “worked her ass off” and doesn’t want people just stealing her hard work. Okay, but you do realize that other people put just as much work into their own art, no matter if it looks like yours or not, right? She demands that people change their style to stop looking like hers, acting as if that can be done in a matter of minutes, because people having similar styles makes her uncomfortable. Well, surprise motherfucker- welcome to the internet. No one is original and everyone is original at the same time. People are bound to come up with similar ideas and you’re just going to have to deal with it. But despite the similarities, people are still original in their own right. If you believe that people can change a style so easily, why not just change your OWN style? Because you worked your ass off? Well, THEY WORKED THEIR ASS OFF TOO. So don’t act like you’re the only one who’s put effort into their craft. Art is hard, and that applies to EVERYONE- even professionals.

You blame me and other “copycats” for all your problems, blaming us for worsening your depression, ruining your passion for art- when you’re the only one who does this to yourself. Yes, there have been genuine art thieves in your life, and people who have stolen your art- but what I’m talking about are the people like me who DON’T steal your art or are merely inspired by you. People who say “you should be happy they’re inspired!” aren’t saying “you should be happy they’re copying!”. They’re saying that you should be glad that your work is so inspiring that people create their own unique ideas based off your own. Inspiration doesn’t require credit unless they’re purposefully taking a massive part of the original. But being inspired by a hair style or even a pose isn’t stealing. It’s inspiration, that’s it. I’m not inspired by you at all, but I can at least appreciate your art- even if you think I’m just being fake.

[11] ang0mang0′s history and why this shit doesn’t even make sense

Ange has said publicly and to me in detail about how she’s been accused of the same “art style theft” in the past. From what I’ve gathered or heard, people used to accuse her of copying a popular artist called myly14 who’s Sonic art is pretty much everywhere. Whether it be in edits, MVs or whatever else. Looking at her old art when she went under the name sonicfan799, her art does look similar to myly’s, but ang0 insisted that she didn’t copy myly and didn’t even know who she was. She legit said “it’s not my fault my art looks like someone else’s”, so basically- it was coincidence. She said she changed her art style because she “isn’t an asshole and didn’t want to make the other artist uncomfortable”, even though art style theft isn’t a thing and no one needs to be forced out of a style just because someone else already draws that way. I have no idea what myly’s stance on that situation was, but the fact that it happened just proves how stupid her current claims are.

Ange says that her style is “too complex” to be coincidentally similar to someone else’s, even though the fact that it’s happened 30 times (according to her) just proves that no, ang0, no it fucking isn’t. Your style isn’t complicated at all. Detailed sure, but no style is too complicated to be similar to another’s. Being complex doesn’t make something any less likely to be identical to another complex style.If you didn’t copy myly14 in the past, what right do you have to accuse me of the same damn thing? If I really am copying you, then you have to admit to copying myly, because you can’t just lie about your past and then shit on me for doing the same thing. So it’s either you stop this nonsense or you drag this drama down with you to your grave and admit you copied myly14.

Another thing, myly14 didn’t even have a “simple” style. The fact that her art was almost instantly recognizable and popular meant that she had a signature style that stood out. Yes, she used a lot of the original Sonic style’s anatomy, but her stylization of said anatomy, her shading and the way she composed her pieces gave her a signature style. The most stylized thing I could see was how she drew muzzles, and guess who drew muzzles in a similar way as well? You did. People saw how your way of drawing faces and some parts of the body and thought it looked liked myly’s. The similarities in your anatomy, and not your shading or colouring, was what made people think you copied her. That exact same thing is happening between me and you. My shading, colouring and composition is entirely different from yours, but some parts of the anatomy are similar.

If you really didn’t copy myly14, you have absolutely no. fucking. excuse. to accuse me of the EXACT. SAME. SHIT. that happened to you.

You never needed or deserved to be pressured out of your old style just because people thought it looked similar to someone else’s, and that’s why I refuse to change my style now. Because it isn’t. fucking. fair. To ANYONE.

[12] how I feel (this is copied over from my DeviantART)

At this point I've grown used to what she has to say, but it still hurts. She thinks that I'm some kind of cartoon villain maniacally laughing behind a computer screen every time I post something because she's so deep into her belief that I really copy everything she draws and that nothing I've never posted has any true effort put into it. She genuinely believes she owns all my art and that I devote my entire gallery into recreating her image or some crazy shit like that. It sounds really dumb, but from what I've read from her poorly constructed comments and rants, that's basically what she believes.

She thinks I don't care at all about how all this affects her or anyone at all, but I do. It doesn't just hurt me in the sense that she makes me feel awful with all her insults, but I just feel so bad for her. I feel guilty in the sense that I couldn't do anything at all to help her, not that "shes prolly feeling guilty and made that april fools joke to let out some guilt!!". (If you don’t know, on April Fools Day, I changed my Instagram bio to say “clown” and call myself “the ultimate copycat” as a joke.) That was a really stupid reaction from her by the way... who the hell comes up with that? Now that she's going away for a month, I feel even worse because all I wanted to do was try to make her come to her senses and end this mess. I thought I could talk some sense into her- that didn't work. Her delusions are so strong, she's like a brick wall. I thought I could ignore the drama- that didn't work. She "clowns" and talks about it so annoyingly often. Not to mention people do things on their own to stir shit up. I thought I could support her regardless and maybe try making her feel better about her art- that didn't work. She thinks I'm fake and that everything I say is a lie. Because of me, she probably doesn't believe other people too- and that makes me feel even more terrible.

No matter what I do, I'm automatically the villain and she's the tortured, helpless artist that everyone is against because "everyone is dumb, supporting a copycat" and she's just "used to it, because she's dealt with so much shit already!". It's so ridiculous. If she would just try to actually better herself or the situation, she wouldn't feel so horrible all the time. Like... for god's sake, she relied on a video game to make her happy- that's not healthy, and just like I suspected, it didn't fucking work.

more of how I feel

Because of ang0, I just feel like garbage. My self esteem and confidence in my art was already low. Thanks to her, I don’t feel original (or as original) anymore- and I’m afraid to show many of my new or old ideas because she or her whiteknight pin_kpeach may spring out and say “copycat! stolen! you’re not original!” and a plethora of other insults. I can barely sketch or draw Sonic content without panicking and feeling worthless because all I have is her words and her opinions stuck in my head. She blames me for her demotivation and shit like that when she’s done the same thing to me. She thinks I don’t care about her or her art, when I do, but when I say that, she calls me fake. In reality, ang0 couldn’t give a damn about me and I’m pretty sure she’d be happy if I were dead. She has said before that she doesn’t care if I killed myself soo... there’s that. Anyway lemme not drag my feelings out too long, I just thought I’d say it to anyone willing to listen since her immediate response would’ve been “fake, liar” etc, etc. I really don’t want anyone to feel bad for me or anything like that, I just want people to listen and understand. That’s all.

a final note

I’m really thankful- like, REALLY thankful- for everyone who’s been on my side throughout this. I don’t like picking sides, and I’d hate to make people do so, but there doesn’t seem to be any in between to this at all. It’s either you believe I’m copying her or you don’t. Most people don’t- thank goodness for that- but some do. And there’s nothing I can do about it. At this point, whatever man.

Please please PLEASE do not harass ang0. Don’t threaten her, don’t insult her, don’t do anything rash or fucking illegal. It’s all fair game if you want to POLITELY SPEAK to her, or try to start a discussion, but please don’t do anything stupid. And especially don’t do things in my name. If you want to debate with me or her, do research first- don’t just jump to conclusions or make assumptions.If you want nothing to do with this drama, then simply don’t say anything- just be aware of what’s going on, that’s all I ask. So nobody gets the wrong idea on either side.

Sorry for this being so long, I think I’m done for now.

Thank you if you read the whole thing.

[9.4.2020]

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rachelbethhines · 4 years

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Tangled Salt Marathon - One Angry Princess

There’s two halves to this episode. The first is a well constructed, if over simple, mystery for the kiddos to solve. The other is a failed attempt at being ‘deep’ and ‘mature’.

Summary: Attila is finally opening up his own bakery, but people generally don't want to stop by because of his scary helmet. The next day, Monty's Sweet Shoppe is destroyed, and Attila is arrested. He is about to be banished from the kingdom, but Rapunzel makes an appeal to investigate the matter further.

The Episode is Meant to be a Homage to 12 Angry Men, but Misses the Point of the Original Film

So for those who haven’t seen the movie, (though really you should) 12 Angry Men is about a jury trying to decide if an accused person is guilty of a violent crime. At first the evidence seems clear, but one lone juror refuses to vote guilty until the evidence has been gone over again. One by one he convinces the other men to vote not guilty as they each have to face they’re own personal biases.

Sound familiar?

In the show Rapunzel is the sole believer in Attila’s innocence despite evidence to the contrary. She insists on investigating herself while challenging everyone else’s personal biases.

The difference?

12 Angry Men is a hard hitting look at how privilege, prejudice, and cognitive bias can interfere with the American judicial system. None of the jurors are named, but they are all middle class, presumably Christian, white guys. And that is the point. They are all different from the accused; a young, poor, arguably non-white teen (the play is intentionally vague about the kid’s race so that you can slot any minority in there) who has a history of getting into trouble. If you were to change the ethnicity, race, gender, class, or age of any of the 12 characters then you would suddenly have a very different story. It’s their backgrounds and pre-formed opinions that inform their decisions. Even the main protagonist is not exempt from re-examining his own personal biases.

Meanwhile the writers of Tangled: the Series are too busy showing off how clever Rapunzel is to actually deal with the themes of injustice and bigotry that they added in themselves in the first place.

Rapunzel Knowing Attila Before Hand Weakens the Message

In 12 Angry Men none of the jurors know the accuse. In fact, they can’t know him. It’s against the law. In order to have an impartial jury, no one can have any ties to either the defendant or the prosecution, and they must not have knowledge of the case or have had specific experiences that might cause them to be biased or unfair.

Rapunzel being Attila’s friend means that she already has her own bias and an invested interest in making sure Attila goes free. She’s not acting out of the simple goodness of her heart here. She’s doing something that directly benefits herself.

I don’t expect a children’s fantasy show to recreate the US judicial system with all of the complexities there in, but I do expect it to uphold it’s heroine as the selfless person it claims her to be. Yet the show constantly undermines this supposed character trait by only having her help the people she befriends, and only if that help doesn’t require anything emotionally challenging or mentally taxing from her.

How much more powerful would this episode be if Rapunzel was defending a stranger or someone she actively disliked? Imagine if it was Monty who was being accuse and Raps had to swallow her pride in order to do what is right. But that would require the show having Rapunzel actually learn something instead of placing her on a pedestal. It would also mean giving Monty a reason to exist rather than keeping him around to be a convenient red herring.

Rapunzel Shouldn’t Have to Prove Attila’s Innocence

Rather than have a courtroom drama the show opts to have a ‘whodunit’ story instead. This unfortunately gives the implication that Corona’s judicial system runs on a ‘guilty until proven innocent’ mantra, which is backwards to any humane legal system. ‘Innocent until proven guilty’, ‘reasonable doubt’, ‘due process’, are the cornerstones of our modern social ethics.

In 12 Angry Men, we never find out if the accused actually committed the crime or not. That is because his actual innocence isn’t the point of the story. It’s about whether or not the system is working like it should or if it’s being compromised by human error.

Once again, I don’t expect a recreation of the US judicial system, but if you’re writing a story for a modern audience then you need to reinforce modern morals. Simply crouching Corona’s legal system as ‘of the times’ or ‘fantasy’ while ignoring why we no longer have such systems in place reduces the story to puerile fare.

It also means that show’s writers didn’t put enough thought into their world building.

No One Calls Out the Obviously Corrupt System

The show has interwoven throughout its ongoing narrative themes of classism, injustice, abuse, and authoritarianism, but then fails to follow through on those themes by not having any of the protagonists actually examine any of these issues. They just sit there in the background, even as the show tries it darndest to present Rapunzel as an arbiter of reform. However a person can’t bring about change if they can’t even admit that there is a problem to begin with.

In this episode alone we have

Banishment is considered a reasonable punishment for an act of vandalism. A crime that is usually considered only a misdemeanor unless the damage goes over a certain amount. Keep in mind that not even most felonies would be given such a punishment in the real world

Introduces the prison barge that regularly carries away convicts. In the past ‘undesirables’ would be shipped off to prison colonies as a form of persecution. Attila and every other person we see subjected to Corona’s legal system are of a lower class.

Many prejudge Attila based off his appearance, lower class, and past upbringing. However, it is either Attila who is expected to change or Rapunzel who is expected to win people over. At no point is anyone told that they shouldn’t be prejudiced to begin with.

There is no judge, jury, or lawyers. The king alone decides the fate of criminals, the Captain is expected to be the both the prosecutor and the ‘executioner’, which is a conflict of interest, and the defendant has no one to represent them unless they so happen to know a kind statesperson. Meaning you have to be either rich or well connected in order to even have a chance to defend yourself.

Oh and there’s this...

Uh, yeah you do. You’re the flipping king. You make the law. You’re the one to bring charges against Attila, and nearly every other criminal in the show, in the first place.

The show constantly wants us to view Frederic as simply an everyman who is only doing his job, but he’s not. He’s a ruler and as such he has powers and responsibilities that no one else has or ever will have. The series gives both him and Rapunzel all of the privileges of being in charge without holding them to account for the consequences of their actions.

By not pointing out how wrong these actions are, the show winds up avocating them instead. When I call Tangled the Series authoritarian, this is why. Because authority is never questioned even when clearly wrong and nepotism is presented as the solution to conflicts as oppose to being the problem itself.

The Show Introduces Complex Issues but Then Oversimplifies the Conflicts Surrounding Those Issues

The creators of the show have constantly declared that the series is ‘not for kids’. That they were shooting for an older audience than the pre-school time slot they were given. Now ignoring the fact that Tangled was always going to have a built in audince of pre-teen girls and ignoring that children’s media can be mature, TTS lacks the nuance needed to viewed as anything other than a pantomime.

As stated before, this episode alone ignores the very real issues interlaced within the conflict in order to give us an overly simple mystery that anyone over the age of five could figure out.

It’s frustrating to watch the show constantly skirt towards the edge of complexity only to see it chicken out and go for the low hanging fruit instead. As a consequence the series winds up being for no one. Too shallow for adults and older teens, but too confused in its morals to be shown to small children and younger adolescents.

I wouldn’t recommend this show to a parent, not without encouraging them to view the series either before or alongside their child in order to counteract it’s ‘lessons’ and I know parents within the fandom itself who’ve stopped showing newer episodes to their kids; stating that they want their child to be old enough to point out the harmful messages to before doing so.

Once Again No One Learns Anything

Rapunzel doesn’t learn that the system is flawed. Attila doesn’t learn to open up to people. Nobody learns to treat people with respect and to not judge others based on appearances alone.

The whole point of the episode is to just show off how much ‘better’ Rapunzel is than everyone else. The show constantly feels the need to tear down other characters in an effort to make its favs look good as opposed to just letting the mains grow as people.

Conclusion

Tangled the tv series is no 12 Angry Men. It’s no Steven Universe/Gravity Falls/Avatar:TLA/She-Ra/Gargoyles/Batman:TAS either. It barely reaches the same level as the likes of DnD, Sonic SATAM, or Voltron. Interesting ideas but poor pacing, build up, and lack of follow through, with some naff decisions thrown into the mix bring things down in quality. And unlike the Dungeons and Dragons cartoon from the early 80s, TTS lacks the benefit of being a pioneer in the field of animation, where such flaws are more forgivable.

#tangled #anti-tangled #Rapunzel #rapunzel's tangled adventure #king frederic #critique #salt

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feistypaants-archived · 4 years

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Between The Pipes [Chapter 26]

Rating: M Words: 2613 Pairing: Kristanna Summary: When a new owner takes over the Arendelle Ice Breakers, Kristoff isn’t sure about his future with the team. That is, until a PR nightmare throws the newest member of the media team, who also just so happens to be the daughter of the new owner, right into his arms. Kristoff and Anna can’t even stand the interviews they have to do together… how on earth are they going to fix this mess? Hockey!AU.

[Chapter Index]

Where To Read: [AO3]

Notes: smut. just... smutty smutty smut. with a little feeling at the end and a little humor at the beginning.

Enjoy!

“All right big boy, we just have to - yep, one foot…” Kristoff laughed as Sven slurred drunken nonsense into his ear, something about reindeer and facing a winter storm… “Yeah, you would be a good reindeer, buddy.” Taking one glance behind him to make sure Jelissa and Anna were fine - they were making their way up the stairs slowly but surely - he reached down to dig through Sven’s pocket and find his house keys.

“I love you s’much, have I toldja that?” Sven reached up to pat at his cheek as he fumbled with the lock, and Kristoff nodded against his hand.

“Yep, buddy, you have. Every day you tell me.”

“Is it enough?” He gasped then, pulling Kristoff’s head to face him. “Is it too much? Omigod you hate it dontchu, you hate me.”

He heard Anna snort behind him and rolled his eyes. “No, Sven, I don’t hate you. I…” Sighing and resigning himself to the teasing he was sure he would get when they were alone, Kristoff didn’t bother lowering his voice. “I love you very much.” He was grateful when the damn door finally swung open.

Sven then threw his arms around Kristoff, practically sobbing into his shoulder. “Oh thank god.”

Leading him into the house and immediately into the bedroom in the back, Kristoff may or may not have intentionally dropped his friend into the king sized bed. He rubbed at the back of his neck as Jelissa and Anna followed him in, Jelissa immediately kicking her high heels into the corner. “You can handle it from here?”

He moved to gesture to Sven, and found him already sound asleep. “Or, you know, he’ll just sleep like that.”

“Yeah,” Jelissa sighed, flopping facedown onto the comforter beside him. “We’ll probably just sleep like this.”

“Well then I guess my work here is done.”

Kristoff nodded, a smirk on his lips as Jelissa raised up a dismissive hand before turning to face the doorway. Anna was still there, abnormally quiet as she observed the room before her. He could almost see the gears turning in her head, as if she was still trying to piece together the whole Sven-has-a-fiancée thing.

“Hey,” he hummed, smiling a little wider as she jumped slightly. “Ready to go home?” Feeling a small flush rise to his cheeks as she nodded and stuck out a hand, begging him to grab it with just a pulse of her fingers, Kristoff stepped closer to her, lacing her fingers with his. Her warmth spread through his veins as they made their way back down to the waiting limousine.

There was no more pretending, no more denial. There was nothing fake left about it. He hadn’t planned for this - for her - but her patience and understanding was more than he deserved and only served to convince him further that she was everything he wanted and needed.

He locked the door behind them and took the key, certain that there were at least six more keys floating around Sven’s home, before they headed back down to the parked car before apologizing about the wait. He waved them off with a sly smile before closing the door behind them. After a moment of shuffling, the driver dropped down the partition and Kristoff could hear mischief in his voice. “So sorry, Mr. Bjorgman… I believe there is some construction blocking the normal route to Miss Arne’s home… so I will be taking a slightly longer route.”

“That’s…” He glanced over to Anna, a pink tinge on her cheeks. “That’s fine, thank you.”

Then the car started moving and the sound-proof partition was back up and Anna was grinning at him from across the way. “So,” she hummed, shimmying her jacket down her shoulders. “What do you wanna do?”

It only took about forty-five seconds for her to wind up in his lap, straddling him with her knees resting on either side of his hips - and, if he was being totally honest, most of that time had been spent rearranging her skirts around them. The slit in her dress was exposing all of her soft, creamy skin, and Kristoff could practically feel his mouth going dry at her lack of stockings. There was no barrier for him to fight with as he scratched blunt nails up from her knee to the apex of her hip and thigh, and he let out an audible groan as she shifted against him.

“Do you like this dress?” Her mouth was barely an inch away from his as she mumbled, her breath ghosting over his lips. “I thought maybe the slit was too much…” His fingers involuntarily squeezed tighter at her thigh. “But maybe not.”

“Definitely not,” he practically growled as his free hand rose to the back of her head, bringing her lips crashing onto his. He was grateful for her quick response as she nipped at his bottom lip before sliding her tongue against his mouth, begging for entrance. She was fiery tonight as her fingers tangled into his hair and forced him to lean further back for her.

He knew they wouldn’t get exactly where they were desperate to be in the back of this limo, but he would do everything in his power to make sure she was ready and willing. Fingers stretched to pull at the soft swell of her behind, and he felt her let out a quiet moan against him.

Lips were moving slowly and deeply, as if they were both waiting rather impatiently to move forward.

“Kris,” she breathed, biting gently at him again. “I…”

“What, baby?” Kristoff lowered himself to lock onto her throat, leaving a trail of wet kisses against her skin. “Tell me what you want.”

She ground herself down against him and Kristoff could feel his cock growing impossibly harder as her hot center slid over him. He bit at the delicate skin of her throat in response, grinning as she whimpered above him. “What do you want?”

”Wanna be home,” she whined as he kissed down between her breasts. “Want you.”

“Soon, baby.”

He brought his mouth back up to hers, sighing contentedly as she licked into his mouth and continued the dry rocking of her hips against his. He needed to be inside her, was desperate for it… but even if he knew this driver and appreciated how discreet he had always been for Sven, Kristoff didn’t want tonight to be fast and dirty. He wanted the chance to take his time and worship her and make her feel as beautiful as he thought she was.

The car was rolling to a stop, and Kristoff breathed a sigh of relief. “I think —“ She kept kissing him between his words. “We’re here —“

Anna practically leapt off of his lap when there were two sharp knocks against the door. He couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up from his throat at the sight of her, flushed from her forehead to her fingertips, chest heaving as she tried her best to compose herself before they slid out the door. She coughed once - twice - before reaching for her coat and slipping it back over her arms. “Sh-shall we?”

Kristoff moved to leave first, grateful that their driver had enough tact to not just swing the door open, and stepped out into the cool December air, biting his tongue when he realized just how steamed up the windows had become. He helped Anna out of the backseat, closed the door behind her, and slipped their driver a fat tip before following her up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

He barely gave her time to close the door before he was on her again, his hands sliding up the whole of her back as he pushed her coat off of her arms again and scratched against her smooth skin. “Now,” he grumbled, leading her with his body to her tiny bedroom. Before he realized what was happening, she was falling backwards onto the bed, her hands tangled in his suit jacket as she brought him with her. Kristoff braced for impact, but absolutely relished the way her body fit against his as she cupped her hands over his cheeks.

They weren’t strangers to half-dressed desperate fucking, but Kristoff wanted her bare, wanted to be able to touch every part of her tonight. Things were changing, and he was prepared to change with them.

A groan of loss was quickly replaced by a soft mewl as he kissed his way down her chest and stomach before he knelt on the ground and swung one of her legs up. Kissed trailed down the pale skin of her thigh, her shin, until he settled on her ankle, kissing the inside before unbuckling her strappy heels. He repeated the actions in reverse on her other leg - shoe off, ankle kiss, and a trail of more all the way up to her mouth again. “Want to get out of that dress?” He sighed against her, smiling when she nodded feverishly, and helped her stand up off of the bed.

It was an easy enough dress for her to slide out of, and before he was even free of his vest she was naked, flushed and beautiful, waiting patiently for him to meet her. “Jesus,” he sighed, stepping forward to reach out for her, only to be deterred as she giggled and stopped his hands from coming any closer.

“Hurry up. While I’ll wait... I’ll just…” She sat back on the bed, trailing her own fingers deliciously down from her lips to rest between her thighs. “... Get started.”

“Fuck.”

Kristoff thought it was possible that he set a record with how quickly he stripped off his own layers, and soon enough he was in the bed again with her, skin on skin as their thighs tangled together in a desperate grind. She was slick and dripping against his toned muscles and he couldn’t wait a minute longer.

“Please,” he begged, not even minding how whiny he sounded. “I need you.” He wrapped arms around her waist and twisted them so she was laying on top of him. “Like this. Please.”

Anna got the hint and he had never been more grateful as she maneuvered on top of him, propping herself up on his chest as she positioned her wet center over his aching cock. A slow stroke of her hand up his length almost pissed him off until he felt the tip of him teasing at her before she slowly lowered herself onto him.

She felt so good and it took everything in him not to give in to the urge just to fuck into her with reckless abandon.

“Move.”

It wasn’t a request.

She did, slowly at first, little rolls of her hips against him as she took a few moments to readjust to him, but they quickly devolved into more erratic bouncing that echoed the delicious sound of skin on skin through the room. He lifted one hand to her breasts, playing with one pebbled nipple as he admired the motion of the other, moving in time with her thrusts. The other couldn’t decide where it needed to be, moving rapidly from squeezing the soft flesh of her ass to caressing her cheek to tangling in her hair before she irritatedly grabbed his wrist and shoved it between her thighs.

“Touch me,” she begged, her fingers pressing his against her as she encouraged the movement.

He would do whatever she asked of him.

But he needed her closer.

Abandoning the focus on her breasts, Kristoff pressed his fingernails into her hair, urging her to meet him in the middle before pressing hot, open mouthed kisses against her lips. He wanted to tell her everything he was feeling - wanted to make sure she knew how beautiful and amazing she was, and could only hope that his ministrations would convince her of everything he knew.

Soon enough he could feel her clenching, piercing her nails into his chest as her kisses grew sloppier, and he knew she was teetering at the edge.

He wanted to see her come undone.

“Baby.”

She moaned at the name.

“I wanna see you…”

She nodded, but he wanted to see her.

“Look at me.”

Kristoff could see the tremendous effort she put forth to open her eyes, blown out and hazy, before locking them onto his. She was so good, so beautiful, so giving.

“Atta girl.”

She came then, her brows furrowing with the exertion of keeping her eyes locked onto his as he took charge and thrusted into her, fucking her through her climax before he followed suit, burying himself deeper inside as he was drained for all he was worth.

Heavy breaths, a gentle touch of her forehead against his, and a tender kiss eased them out of their passion - but there was an unspoken agreement of refusal to separate as he tucked her under his chin, cuddling closer while he waited for her soft snores to come.

—

The next time he opened his eyes, they had shifted. His cock had slipped out of her, and Anna had her nose pressed against his jaw with her arm wrapped tightly around his neck.

Fuck.

He fell asleep.

On the rare occasions that she fell asleep right after, he would give her a kiss and hope she didn’t wake up, get dressed and then leave. Because there was a line he wasn’t sure if they should cross - and that line was sleeping over. It punched him in the gut every time he left her, but he couldn’t admit that, so he continued just… leaving afterwards.

But he fell asleep and now it was three in the morning and she looked so comfortable… but…

“Hey,” he whispered, pressing a kiss against her wrist. “Anna.”

She mumbled something against his skin but stayed mostly out. “Anna.” More force this time. “I gotta go…”

“No…” Her voice was muffled against him but there was no mistaking it.

“It’s late.”

She moved against him, freeing him from her vice grip around his neck, and shifted back enough to press her face into the pillow instead of his jaw. Kristoff let out a sigh, half relieved and half regretful, before he moved to sit up in the bed.

“You know…” her voice was quiet, barely a whisper in the dark. “You can stay.” As if she maybe wasn’t sure she wanted him to hear.

“Anna…”

Her shoulders shrugged just a little against the blankets. “You don’t have to be anywhere… and it’s already late.” She kept her nose buried in the fluffy pillow. “Just once won’t hurt.”

He reached down to push some hair off her face, cringing slightly at the feel of dried hairspray. “If I stay once I’m going to keep staying.”

Turning her head to look up at him, he could see a sadness in her eyes. “Then keep staying.”

Kristoff’s heart leapt into his throat when he smiled and nodded, giving up on the protest easily before he threw the covers back over his shoulders and pulled her closer. “Okay.” And then, to break the slight tension, “but at my place next time. Your bed is tiny.”

And, as she cuddled into his embrace, “you’re just a giant.”

“Okay,” he laughed, closing his eyes as she pressed one kiss against his collarbone.

“Glad we agree.”

“Of course,” he sighed softly against her as he settled in for the night. “Whatever you say.”

“That’s right.”

With a chuckle, he pressed one more kiss against her hair before he felt a new kind of deep sleep creeping in at the edge of his vision.

#btpfic #feistypantswrites

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adolanables · 4 years

Text

Flame - Part 7

Masterlist

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Grayson huffed, running his hands over his chest that was clad in one of Ethan’s tight, white t-shirts.

“Yes, I am.” Ethan nodded at his younger brother who had finally taken his glasses off. “You have to experience at least one frat party in college dude.”

“Fine, okay.” Grayson gulped, staring down at the tight black jeans he had on - he felt so unlike himself. He knew people made fun of the way he dressed, but he didn’t really care as long as he was comfortable.

“Relax - you can have a few drinks, loosen up and you’ll have fun.” Ethan assured him, grabbing his keys and phone before heading out of the dorm.

Ethan would be lying if he said he hadn’t prayed that Logan would end up at a different fraternity tonight - or maybe none at all. It was the Saturday before school started back up and Kyle and Bridget weren’t coming back until late Sunday. Maybe Logan would stay back knowing she wouldn’t have her sidekick to tag along with her.

“I don’t wanna black out, E.” Grayson mumbled as he took another sip of hooch, the three shots he had taken earlier already hitting him pretty hard.

Ethan smirked at his brother and patted him on the back, “Just drink that cup and wait another hour before having another.” He explained. It didn’t seem like Grayson was paying that much attention as a slew of girls in tight skirts piled into the house. “See? I told you this was a good idea.”

“Good idea.” Grayson gulped, his eyes widening at the amount of beautiful girls that were around him. Even though he was looking them up and down, all he was doing in his head was comparing them to you.

Honestly, you almost hadn’t gone to the party. You knew Ethan would be there and Bridget wasn’t around to go with you, but after nearly a week of seclusion, you had no choice. Being extroverted meant you felt like your battery was constantly running low when you were alone. With that being said, there was just no way you were going to go into this frat house where an angry Ethan would surely be waiting for you without having a few drinks. Before you even left the dorm, you had taken five shots - your buzz coursing through your veins nicely.

The moment you set foot in the house, you felt eyes on you. It didn’t take you long to glance around the room and find Grayson staring at you - his back pressed into the corner of the room. For a second you wanted to stare through him as though you didn’t see him, continue on through the party and not think about the Dolan twins for the rest of the night. Of course, the wide smile that popped up on Grayson’s face when you locked eyes told you that just wasn’t an option.

“Long time no see.” Grayson grinned as he finally made his way over to you.

“Back at ya.” You grinned up at him, glancing over him quickly. “New clothes?” You raised an eyebrow - he looked really good. He had to spend time in the gym with how well the t-shirt stuck to his biceps. He had even taken his glasses off, revealing his handsome face.

“Ethan’s.” He shrugged, taking another sip from the red solo cup he was holding. “He convinced me to come out.”

“He must have been pretty convincing.” The smirk on your lips made Grayson’s heart nearly beat out of his chest. He’d only been drunk one time before - with you. Bright red cheeks were the only sign you needed to confirm that Grayson was having a hard time forming sentences. “Come on, I need a drink.”

Feeling your fingers interlace with him almost made him drop his cup right out of his hand, but you tugged him quickly through crowds of people back to the kitchen. It didn’t take you long to find Ethan’s stash considering he had shown you his secret hiding spot the last time you were here. The bottle of whiskey was half empty, but there was a messy E scribbled on the label telling you it was okay to drink. Grayson’s hand was still in yours, clammy and warm, but it felt nice and you weren’t planning on dropping it anytime soon.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop drinking?” Grayson slurred, his vision of you spinning a little bit as he tried to stare at you. He had drank another glass of hooch and taken a pull of whiskey you’d given him.

“Don’t be a party pooper.” You giggled, taking another swig of the dark liquor that was nearly gone by now. The two of you had snuck out to the back porch, the cool October night not having any effect on the warm blood rushing through your bodies. Grayson’s head was resting by your knee, his body sprawled out on the cold concrete next to you as you sat cross-legged.

Grayson glanced up at you, his face still red but you were sure it was from the alcohol at this point. His hair was disheveled, one of his hands rested up above his head, gently placed on your knee. “I think you’re the party pooper.” He giggled, letting out a hiccup. “You brought me out here, all secluded.”

“Oh, you wanna go back in?” The amusement in your voice evident as you tapped his nose playfully.

“No -no.” He shook his head, shutting his eyes for a moment before pushing himself up to sit next to you. His shoulder was pressed up tightly against yours, his right knee knocking into your left. “It’s better out here.” A soft sigh left his mouth as he stared at the side of your face.

“Like what you see, Dolan?” You grinned, turning your head to glance at him. Instead of turning red and shying away he simply nodded, leaning closer to you. Before he could say anything, you were dropping the glass bottle onto the concrete and gripping the sides of his face with both of your hands. You took a moment to look over his face, his eyes were shut, mouth just slightly parted - so handsome. The only thought racing through your head as you quickly pressed your lips against his. Soft, plump, warm - a slight tint of alcohol left as you kissed him again.

When you pulled away, it took Grayson a few seconds to peel open his eyes - scared he was going to wake up from a dream. Seeing your face mere inches from his confirmed that he was in fact awake. “Wow.” He breathed, blinking a few times as his eyes raked over your face - probably just as red as his was, hair still somehow falling perfectly down in waves around your face.

“What’s going on?” Ethan’s voice interrupted the staring contest, neither of you had heard a door open, so the broken silence made the two of you shriek. By the look on Ethan’s face, you could tell he was also pretty hammered - he was stumbling and barely able to form a sentence. “Did you just kiss her?” He gawked, pointing his finger at his younger brother who looked like he had seen a ghost.

“I kissed him.” You spoke up, standing up and pulling Grayson up along with you. “Go back inside, Ethan.”

“Why would you kiss him?” Ethan whined, stumbling backwards into the patio door before hurriedly opening it and rushing through.

Grayson glanced around for a second, gathering his thoughts before he turned to you. “Was he…. Jealous?”

“Seemed like it.” You shrugged drunkenly, knowing exactly why Ethan was jealous, but not really understanding him. For all you knew, he and Crystal were a few more late nights away from dating.

Grayson let out a frustrated sigh before heading towards the door, you let out a small scoff as he walked away from you. “Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry - I just - I have to go make sure Ethan’s alright.” He winced, gripping the door handle tightly as he walked back inside - leaving you in the cold alone.

For a second, you considered following him - maybe causing a scene to get the attention back, but you knew better. Sure, you weren’t the best girl on the planet, but you weren’t intentionally trying to get in between the brothers. Deciding it was probably best for you to either go home or wait here until you could catch a ride, you sat your ass back down on the concrete and finished off the bottle of whiskey.

“E! Ethan!” Grayson’s voice echoed down the hallway as Ethan tried to get away from his younger brother. Ethan’s attempts to get into a bedroom were futile as all of the doors seemed to be locked. “Ethan, talk to me!”

“No, bro!” Ethan groaned, slamming his fists into the drywall angrily. “Please just leave me alone!”

“No!” Grayson shouted back, drawing the attention of his older brother finally. The pair didn’t outwardly fight that often, there was always a silent agreement between the two of them that they would always be okay - no matter what. “I would never have kissed Logan if I knew you liked her too.”

“It’s not that.” Ethan groaned. “Well, kind of.” He sighed, cursing himself for drinking so much as he couldn’t properly think through the millions of thoughts. “She’s just… really hot, okay? I know I can’t have her, because you want her.”

“I don’t want you to hate me, E…” Grayson argued, his hands on his hips. “If Logan is going to come between us, she won’t be in the picture anymore.”

“No, no.” Ethan shook his head, holding his hands up to calm Grayson down. “I just got jealous for a second, okay? I have Crystal, I just had an angry horny thought.”

“Promise, bro?” Grayson held out his hand to his brother, waiting for him to do their handshake they’d had for over ten years. Ethan nodded, dapping his brother up before moving past him to head out - he needed to bury himself in Crystal.

Grayson watched as Ethan sauntered out of the house, probably heading off to find Crystal somewhere. He really didn’t understand why Ethan had gotten so upset that you’d kissed him, but his explanation seemed solid enough. You were hot and it wasn’t far fetched for a drunk guy to just get irrationally angry that they weren’t getting in your pants.

It had been about twenty minutes since Grayson had left you alone on the back porch. In that time, you had finished your alcohol and managed to count what seemed to be every star in the sky twice. Being drunk, alone, and bored was a bad combination so you decided you at least had to try to go back inside. Maybe the twins had left together and you were going to be in the clear.

Your theory was quickly disproven as you walked back into the door that led straight into the dining room. Grayson was leaned up against the wall, another cup in his hand and a blonde girl clinging to his arm, laughing hysterically every time he opened his mouth. It felt like fire had just directly entered your veins, your whole body burned and you wanted to rip the cheap extensions right out of her head. No boy had ever made you feel like this - ever. Usually, you would have just moved on for the night to a different guy, but this was Grayson. He could barely even speak to you because you had tits and here he was completely fine chatting up some other bitch.

He didn’t even notice when you walked up to him, your hand on your hip as the blonde girl shot you a dirty look. She tugged on his shirt, trying to pull him away from you, but as soon as his eyes met yours he was pulling away from her and stepping towards you. She huffed and stomped away, her face red at the embarrassment.

“L-Logan!” He spoke loudly, nearly a scream - he and Ethan both didn’t realize how ear-piercingly loud they were. “I thought you had gone home!” The drink sloshing around in his hand told you he was just as drunk as you were after drinking half a bottle of whiskey.

“No, you dickhead.” You rolled your eyes, punching his chest and giggling softly as he feigned pain. “I was just sitting outside… is everything okay?”

“Yeah - yeah.” He nodded, taking another sip of his drink. “He just overreacted, he’s good.” His thumb shot up to let you know everything was a-okay.

The two of you stood in the corner for a little while longer, sharing his cup of hooch, but the party started getting uncomfortably packed and it was nearing 1 AM. This wasn’t late for you, but you could tell Grayson was getting pretty tired by the way his body lazily leaned into yours.

“Gray, wanna go home?” The mere mention of leaving made his eyes widen and he nodded at you quickly, his fingers finding yours on his own as you both stumbled out of the frat house and into an Uber.

“Gray, stop -” You giggled as the nerdy boy next to you wrapped his arms around your waist in the back seat of the Toyota Camry. He was placing sloppy kisses on your neck, not really sure what he was doing, but the blood rushing to his dick told him to keep going. “Not here, shh.” You assured him as he pulled away with a pout, both of you were so drunk, so the look you gave each other could’ve been due to that. Either way, it felt like that boy just looked right through your soul.

“Bridget’s gone right?” He breathed as you stumbled into the dorm lobby, hand in hand. With a quick nod of your head he was pulling you towards your room, his feet moving so fast you could barely see them. His hands rested on your hips as you fumbled with your keys, barely opening the door before he was lifting you into his arms and tackling you onto the bed.

“Where is Grayson Dolan and what have you done with him?” You gasped as he continued his assault of kisses down your neck, his arms still wrapped tightly around your waist. “Fu-uck” You moaned as he bit down roughly, a low grumble leaving his chest at your words.

“I’m right here.” He shrugged, nipping at your ear lobe before reaching around to grip the back of your head in his hand. “And I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.” He smiled softly between kissing your face and neck pausing before he reached your lips. “But I watch a lot of porn.”

A loud cackle erupted from your chest as you threw your head back in pure amusement. Grayson let a smirk play on his lips as you laughed hysterically. “Oh my god.” You breathed, calming yourself down. “Okay, okay.” You bucked your hips up into his and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling his lips to yours for another soft kiss before you spoke again. “Pull up a video.”

“What?” He gasped, his eyes widening, blood rushing to his penis as his heart beat rapidly.

“Pull up a video.” You shrugged, wiggling out from under him to grab your phone and shove it at him. “I wanna know what you like, Gray.”

“I’m fucking hallucinating…” He muttered as he hesitantly took your phone and began searching through videos, his hands shaking slight as your demand had made him sober up slightly.

“No you aren’t.” You soothed him, rubbing his forearm softly. “If you don’t want to do this just sa-”

“I want to do this, holy fuck I want to do this.” He chuckled, shoving the video in your face and quickly pulling the white t-shirt over his head. “Please let me do this, holy shit.”

“Calm down.” You giggled, glancing up at his beautiful bare chest as you scrolled through the video for a few seconds to get a feel of what he was into. It was pretty vanilla, with some serious ass play, but there was no way you were about to do that right now. “Get naked.”

“Y-Yes.” He choked out, his hands fumbling as he barely managed to get his pants off without falling over. In the meantime, you had fully undressed yourself as well, his eyes were surely going to fall out of his head with how wide they had gone. “Logan…”

“Yes?” You questioned, scooting to the edge of your bed to hold out a hand to him. He gladly took it, a soft whimper leaving his mouth as you pulled his bare chest to yours. The breath he was holding blew out of his nose harshly, your stiff nipples pressing into his chest.

“I feel like I’m about to cum right now.” He buried his face in your neck, painfully embarrassed, but the feeling of your bare inner thigh on his fully exposed dick was enough to make him shoot all over you without even being touched. He was holding back massively.

“Shh…” You soothed him, your hands coming up to wrap around his upper back, softly scratching across his shoulder blades. “Kiss me, Grayson.”

It didn’t take him long to gain some confidence as he pulled away from you, his lips quickly finding yours and pushing you backwards onto the mattress as he climbed on top of you. The way his lips worked with yours told you he had at least had some practice with kissing - he was pretty good at it. His erect penis was pressing right into your stomach, precum leaking onto your lower abdomen.

“Can I put it in?” He breathed, lifting himself up onto his elbows for a second to look into your eyes desperately.

“Yes, baby.” You nodded, rubbing his upper arms softly as he gripped himself.

“Wait - condom?” He questioned, looking up at you for confirmation.

“Only if you want, I’m on the pill.” You explained, your free hand tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “You wanna feel all of me?”

“Shit, yes - fuck.” He moaned, nodding frantically before rubbing his tip up against your folds again. “Tell me if I’m doing something wrong.” His voice was strained as he finally pushed himself into you, a loud groan leaving his mouth as he fully sheathed himself inside of you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He repeated, over and over as he collapsed on top of you, his face burying into your neck. “You feel so good, holy shit.” The soft kisses he was pressing into the side of your face were such a contrast to his brother - who would probably hate to know his dick was smaller than Grayson’s. “Are you okay?” He whispered, a bit concerned at your silence.

“Perfect.” You gasped, wrapping your hands around his head. “Fuck me, please, move.”

Grayson simply nodded, bucking his hips up into you haphazardly, his face turning red as he felt himself about to cum. It hadn’t even been two minutes, but the look of pure bliss on your face as he sat up to kiss you sent him over the edge. A strained moan leaving his mouth as he spilled spurt after spurt of warm cum into your pussy.

“Yes, baby.” You encouraged him, rubbing the back of his adoringly as he tried to catch his breath on top of you. Who knew taking someone’s virginity could be so fucking hot. “You did so good.”

Grayson finally caught his breath and pulled himself out of you, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. “That was so fucking short and you didn’t even cum.”

“It’s not like you can go an hour your first time.” You teased him, quickly sitting up to go clean yourself off. “I almost came just from watching you cum, Dolan.”

The way your ass jiggled as you skipped to the bathroom made his heart skip - he couldn’t believe he had just lost his virginity to the hottest girl on campus. As you crawled back into bed with him and turned the lights off, his bare body wrapping around yours to fall asleep for the night, you were mentally kicking yourself for ever even thinking Ethan was the better twin.

Taglist:// @dolan-bliss @graysavant @justordinaryjen @rainethan

#grayson dolan #ethan dolan #the dolan twins #grayson dolan smut #ethan dolan smut #the dolan twin smut #the dolan twin fanfic #grayson dolan fluff #adolanables #nerd!grayson

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antialiasis · 5 years

Text

Hadestown

Whooops I have a new musical obsession, help.

I was actually mostly drawn to this one musically. I heard a cover of “Why We Build the Wall”, found the musical soundtrack on Spotify and listened to the whole thing out of curiosity, and was like “Hey, this is bangin’, I want to listen to this again.”

Hadestown, as a narrative, isn’t really particularly me. It’s a love story (or, more accurately, two love stories of sorts). As you will know if you’ve read any of my blog, I’m not much of a romantic when it comes to fiction, and the love ballad(s) are pretty consistently my least favorite songs in basically every musical; this is no exception.

But there’s something that appeals to me in Hadestown anyway. It’s a very liberal modernized-but-also-not semi-metaphorical reinterpretation of the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice (that’s the one with the guy who wants to bring back his dead girlfriend from the underworld, and Hades lets her go with him so long as he doesn’t turn back to look at her on the way; spoilers, he does look back, and she ends up back in the underworld forever). It’s actually doing a vaguely similar kind of thing as Jesus Christ Superstar, which may be part of why I dig it: taking well-known mythology, developing the figures in it as characters and exploring their motivations, existing in and embracing this in-between space where it’s simultaneously about these ancient mythological figures and extravagantly modernized reinterpretations of them, intentionally skirting the line and never quite committing to exactly to what extent it’s literal or metaphorical or something in between.

Here, it’s Greek myth in something vaguely like the Great Depression. Orpheus, a poor musician (who in the lyrics is said to play the lyre, even though on stage he’s clearly playing the guitar), falls in love with a practical, down-to-earth girl named Eurydice. Times are hard and they are poor, and Eurydice is most concerned with food and shelter and basic needs, while Orpheus is devoted only to his art; in “Wedding Song”, she asks where they’re going to get wedding rings or a wedding bed and Orpheus insists that when he finishes the song he’s working on, the rivers and trees and birds will provide what they need. As Eurydice tries to prepare for the winter and storms and further hardship, while Orpheus just sits there working on his song, Eurydice is approached by Hades, a rich industrialist who rules the underworld, Hadestown, where no one goes hungry. He seduces her, or persuades her, or kills her - again, this musical exists in the space between the literal and metaphorical - and she comes with him to Hadestown, where Hades has the inhabitants, or the spirits of the dead, slaving away working to build a wall to keep out the poverty and misery of not having a wall to work on, and Orpheus journeys to get her back with directions from our narrator Hermes.

Intertwined with that story is the story of Hades and Persephone, who were in love a long time ago, but are now bitter and estranged from one another - Persephone (as in the myths) spends the summer months of the year happy above ground, but in the fall Hades comes for her and takes her down to Hadestown, where he’s obsessively building walls and machines and furnaces and electric grids that he wants to impress her but do just the opposite as she despises the heat and the light and the noise: It ain’t right and it ain’t natural. In Hadestown, Persephone runs a speakeasy of sorts, where she sells the miserable inhabitants the sky and moon and stars, or quite possibly they’re all just a metaphor for a lot of liquor and drugs (the word moonshine, of course, sees some use).

I find myself drawn to the story of the latter two here, somewhat predictably, because they are a couple of very fucked-up people in a very fucked-up relationship. Hades is absolutely the villain here, and a pretty chilling one at that: “Why We Build the Wall” is the backwards, rousing anthem of a sort of cult leader enslaving a population of people and persuading them that the wall they’re building will keep them free, and holy god damn can he make his voice terrifying. But there’s this sense of desperation to him as well. One of my favorite songs by now is “Chant II”, where Hades threatens Orpheus with death or imprisonment or some other sinister fate, and rants, practically frothing at the mouth, about women, and how they’re so seasonal (har har), they’ll come and they’ll leave, and you just have to keep them with you by chaining them and weighing them down with riches, and then:

Now I sing a different song One I can depend upon The simple tune, the steady beat The music of machinery Do you hear that heavy metal sound? The symphony of Hadestown And in this symphony of mine Of power chords and power lines Young man, you can strum your lyre, I have strung the world in wire Young man, you can sing your ditty I CONDUCT THE ELECTRIC CITY!

And you realize Hades has basically built this entire industrial city because machines are dependable and reliable and he can control them and they won’t leave him every six months. You can sort of see it laid out how once upon a time Hades and Persephone were happy, but as the cracks in their relationship developed, he channeled his fear of losing her into the most toxic possible path, and that’s what’s made him this possessive tyrant obsessed with industrialization and control, effectively just as trapped in this cage of his own making as his citizens. He’s terrible, but you get how he got there, in his awful fucked-up way, and that’s always a thing that I’m into.

In the end, Orpheus and Persephone melt him a little and grant him a bit of self-awareness, and as Orpheus gets his chance to try to save Eurydice, Hades and Persephone also decide to try again - which I hope also involves, y’know, freeing the slaves/souls/literal-metaphor-mixture-something, or at least no longer forcing them to imprison themselves behind a pointless wall, and Hades all in all redeeming himself and becoming a better, more compassionate person again, but given that, I’m actually rooting for them, which is impressive after the literally nearly everything that goes on between them. Persephone wants to try again and she deserves happiness, okay.

Orpheus and Eurydice have a healthier relationship (I mean, Hades and Persephone would be very hard to top), but it’s still fraught with Orpheus’ neglect of their basic needs, and eventually his giving in to his own inner demons as he finds himself unable to trust and believe that she’s truly behind him despite the promises that they made (and to be fair, Eurydice did go and get herself Hadestowned last time he left her alone). “Doubt Comes In” is another one of my belated favorite songs on the soundtrack; it gives such a good musical sense of that creeping dread as his confidence falters and he loses his nerve.

All in all, I just like listening to this soundtrack a lot and I mayyyy be feeling an uncontrollable urge to organize another trip to New York so I can slip in and see this performed help

#hadestown #character analysis #ramble #review #halp #why is it always musicals

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ladyramora · 6 years

Text

Teddy bear

Another request from @mistresstuki who wanted something with Raubahn and Nuala. Also starring Ramora, Alphinaud, Pipin, Foulques, and some F’lhaminn.

Hope you like it!

- - -

"Wait, wait! One more time? Slowly, please?" Ramora watches Nuala's hands, trying her best not to feel like an idiot as the pretty duskwight slows her hand motions considerably to cater to Ramora's learning capabilities.

Ramora copies her, very badly she must admit, as Nuala's lips curve up in good-natured grin. Silent giggles spilling from the warrior monk's grinning lips as she shakes her head and corrects the placement of Ramora's hands.

Ramora smiles at her own failure. "How do you put up with me, dear Nuala? I am not a quick study in any sense!"

Nuala pats her hands, smiling ever so sweetly. She motions to Ramora, hands moving ever so slowly.

Ramora tilts her head, brows furrowing as she tries to interpret the slow signing of Nuala's hands. "I...? Will - ...get it - eventually?"

Ramora sighs, shaking her head. "You are too kind, my friend. You know Alphi teases me mercilessly about it?"

Again Nuala laughs, seeming surprised.

Ramora nods. "Yes! You don't believe me? Alphi may be sweet to you, but he is merciless when it comes to me! A sharp tongue to go with that smug, pretty mouth!"

Nuala grins, signing slow again.

Ramora squints, struggling to understand. Nuala has to repeat her signs several times over. "Takes one.. to... know one?" Ramora gives a theatrical offended gasp. "Nuala! I'm surprised at you!"

Nuala grins at her mischievously.

Ramora looks up at there is movement behind the other duskwight woman, a smile curving her painted lips as she instantly recognizes the addition to their group of companions.

"Hohh? Look who it is, Nuala! General Raubahn has come to pay us a visit."

Ramora makes eye contact with him, pointing to herself and then Nuala. Me or Nuala? Raubahn smiles warmly, but motions to Nuala.

Ramora nods, looking to Nuala with a teasing grin. "Oh, sweet Nuala. It must be so hard to be in such high demand. General Raubahn is asking for you. Will you not go greet him?"

Nuala perks up at that, signing rapidly to Ramora and then turning away to meet Raubahn

Ramora gives a strained smile to Nuala's retreating back. "Yes, I'll pretend I understood all of that. I'll just practice then, shall I?"

"She said she would talk to you later, you big tease. Keep practicing, you'll get it soon enough, end quote." Alphinaud says to her as he walks to stand by her side, the both of them watching as Nuala rushed forward to greet Raubahn.

"I, a tease? Don't be salty with me, Alphi. I'll just have to kiss you till you're sweet again!" Ramora says, reaching out to curl the stubborn hair sticking up from Alphinaud's hair around her finger.

Alphinaud swats her hand, rolling his eyes. "You kiss me anyway, no matter how," Alphinaud squints, curling his lip, "...salty, I am. Which, thank you, by the way. Your impossible lipstick marks are always a delight to explain."

Ramora grins at him. "You're welcome. Shall I give you one now?"

Alphinaud clears his throat and points in the direction of their companions, swiftly changing the subject, "Look, there. General Aldynn is worse off than you. He hasn't the faintest idea what Nuala is signing at him!"

Ramora blinks, well aware of a divert in topic, but allows him to escape. For now.

Alphinaud laughs lightly. "Pipin seems hesitant to tell him, as well."

Alphinaud sounds amused, but Ramora has no idea what that sign means either. She copies it, crossing her wrists just over her chest and curling her fingers.

Alphinaud closes his eyes. "Stop that. It just looks lewd when you do it."

Ramora grins. And does it again, this time intentionally trying for lewd.

Alphinaud groans. "Why are you like this?"

- - -

Raubahn blinks, smiling warmly as Nuala signs at him rapidly. "Slow down, Nuala!" He says, laughing in amusement. "I do not think Pipin can keep up to translate for me!"

Indeed Pipin is struggling, staring up at Nuala's rapidly moving hands, finding difficulty with his lalafellin stature forcing him to crane his neck backwards. " 'Tis all right, Father. I think I've the gist of it. Nuala is.. very pleased to see you?"

At Nuala's nod, Pipin smiles and continues, "She has not seen you for many moons, and though she missed you, would like to know if aught is amiss?"

Rauhbahn smiles. "Nay, Nuala. We have only come to sort out some small matters. There is naught to worry yourself over."

Nuala beams, stepping close to Raubahn and holding her arms out. Raubahn laughs, scooping the warrior monk up into his arms and twirling her about in his embrace.

Pipin sighs, watching them with a smile.

When Nuala is sufficiently dizzy, Raubahn will set her down again. Nuala stumbles, grinning so hard that she looks drunk. She turns to Pipin, gesturing to Raubahn and making a certain sign that Pipin struggles to remember.

Raubahn is looking at her with a confused furrow to his brow though his smile remained. "What is she saying, Pipin?"

Ah! Now Pipin remembered! Teddy bear!

Wait. "Teddy bear?" Pipin mutters to himself. Too low for anyone but those with enhanced hearing to hear. Nuala beams. Grabbing onto her upper arms with curved hands. A hug! Doubling the movement and gesturing to Raubahn. Then repeating the earlier gesture after two others before it.

Pipin smiles. "Ah. I see. Nuala says... Your hugs are..." Raubahn looks at him and Pipin clears his throat. "Er, very... nice? Warm?"

Warm like a teddy bear.

How to tell him what she actually meant...

Nuala blinks at Pipin, but still smiles at Raubahn as he gives a gentle laugh.

Raubahn smiles, rubbing at his neck. "Thank you, Nuala. Your hugs are most pleasant as well." Raubahn tilts his head, copying Nuala's earlier sign. "What does this mean? Strength? Warmth?"

Nuala looks to Pipin, raising her eyebrows and signing teddy bear again. Pipin scratches his cheek, avoiding her stare even as he begins to feel a nervous sweat. "Err, something like that?" Should he tell him? Would his father be offended? Perhaps he should lie.

"It is... not a sign I am overly familiar with?" Forgive me, Father, thinks Pipin as soon as the lie slips from his tongue. Nuala knows. She knows. Her pretty tea green eyes narrow at him, and Pipin feels sweat bead on his forehead as he puffs his cheeks out and avoids her stare with averted eyes.

He looks to the sky instead. "Oh! Look at the time, Father! We mustn't be late! I'll just go on ahead, shall I?" Pipin can feel Nuala's disapproval, her eyes staring lasers into his back as he retreats like a lying coward.

Raubahn frowns. "That was rather abrupt for Pipin. Forgive his rudeness, will you, Nuala?"

Nuala sighs through her nose, nodding her head. She couldn't very well continue on trying to sign to Raubahn with no translator.

She opens her arms again, expression hopeful.

Raubahn laughs. "Another? I am not leaving just yet. Ah, but it has been some time since we last met. Come here," Raubahn opens his arms and Nuala steps into them, inwardly squealing in delight as Raubahn hugs her tight and twirls her around again.

- - -

"What does this mean?" Nuala looks up from her book, tilting her head as Ramora signs at her.

Nuala grins, searching for a pen and paper to jot down her answer.

Ramora takes the slip of paper, dark eyebrows arching up with her amused smile. "Teddy bear?" She chuckles. "Would I be wrong in my assumption that this is your preferred sign for Raubahn?"

Nuala beams, nodding her head.

Ramora covers her mouth. "How cute. Does he know that?"

Nuala sighs, shaking her head.

Ramora's mismatched eyes positively sparkle at that nugget of knowledge.

"He doesn't?"

Nuala stares at her. Perhaps she should not tell Ramora such things given her mischievous nature. Too late now.

She signs slowly, expression as stern as possible.

Ramora tilts her head. "Don't.. cause... trouble..?" Ramora smiles. "I would never!"

Nuala looks at her.

Ramora sighs, raising her hands up in surrender. "I won't cause trouble in *your* life, Nuala. You have my word."

Ramora pouts, grasping Nuala's shoulders. "Do you think so little of me?"

Nuala snorts.

Ramora gasps. "You've been spending too much time with Foulques and Alphi, both!"

- - -

The first time someone calls him "The Bear", Raubahn is confused, but corrects them. He is the Bull of Ala Mihgo. Not Bear.

The second time is a coincidence, surely? A mildly annoying coincidence.

But the third time? That. That is a pattern.

It is one of Nuala's... friends? Suitors? A duskwight elezen. What was his name again? It feels rude to ask now after talking to him for so long. Plus, Raubahn thinks - eyeing the sort of grumpy neutral expression on the man's face - he seems the type to take offense.

"Why do you call me that?" Raubahn asks him. Skirting around the issue of not remembering his name and attacking the main puzzle head on.

The duskwight eyes him, setting his drink aside. "Because of this," He says, and proceeds to make the same signing motion that Nuala had. Wrists crossed in front of his chest and spread fingers curling inward.

"Warmth?" Raubahn guesses.

The duskwight - who Raubahn will later learn is named Foulques - laughs at him. "Not familiar with sign language, are you?"

Raubahn frowns. He knows several different ways to kill a man, but this was not one of his talents. "Nay. I do not. Will you tell me what it means?"

The roomful of chattering Scions has grown oddly silent, but Raubahn ignores it.

Foulques shrugs, sipping his ale. "It means teddy bear."

Raubahn slams his hands down on the table, scattering the pieces of their strategy game and surprising Foulques enough to choke on his ale. The room is hush with suspense. Was General Aldynn about to attack Foulques?

"Finally!" Raubahn exclaims with a thankful grin. "I know now what it means!"

That cheeky Nuala, branding him with such a cutesy nickname!

Raubahn gives a boisterous laugh, sending his chair scraping backward as he stands, crossing the table to slap a friendly hand on Foulques's shoulder, jostling the smaller man with heavy handed pats. "Thank you, my friend!"

Foulques stares at him, wide eyed and intimated. His almost death flashing before his eyes. "Y-... You're welcome?" He stammers. Gods, the man was huge!

He now understood Ramora’s playful comments.

“Ohh? Strategy games with Raubahn?” Ramora had laughed, referencing the sign that Nuala used for him as she said, with a grin, ”How fun. Just don’t poke the bear!”

- - -

"Nuala!"

Nuala looks up from her practice of her more difficult kicks and jumps, wiping sweat from her brow. Raubahn had come to greet her, looking ten kinds of pleased.

He signs at her, smiling wide and with good humor. "Teddy bear!"

Nuala grins at him, signing rapidly.

Raubahn laughs, stepping close to grasp her hands between his own much larger ones. "Forgive me, Nuala, but," Raubahn chuckles. "I am not that advanced yet."

Nuala beams, shrugging her shoulders. Raubahn smiles at her, releasing her hands so she can gesture. "Tell me, why teddy bear?"

Nuala stands on tiptoe to cup his face, smiling extra big. She strokes under his eyes, then pulling back to make a gesture Raubahn understands. Hug.

Raubahn smiles. "My face, my eyes? The hugs I give you?"

Nuala nods, twisting in place almost bashfully.

Raubahn chuckles. "I see."

He opens his arms and Nuala perks up, stepping close for Raubahn to scoop her up and twirl her about.

Nuala is smiling when he puts her down, stumbling dizzily for a moment before she finds her feet. 'How?' She signs at him, and Raubahn tilts his head.

"How did I learn of it? Oh, it was one of your companions. The duskwight? Forgive me, I do not recall his name..."

Foulques? How did he...

Nuala squints in suspicion.

- - -

Ramora sets down her third finished cup, grinning to herself.

"Should you not slow down?" Alphinaud sighs.

"Nope!" Ramora says, popping the 'p' for extra umph. She signals for another glass.

Alphinaud leans against the bar, looking at the side of her face as she drinks. "What did you say to Foulques earlier?"

Ramora tips back her fourth glass, giving a satisfied hum. "Just a little bit of gossip, you know me!"

Alphinaud crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes at the vagueness of that answer. He did know Ramora. Far too well. "And why are we drinking now?"

Ramora hums, stacking her cups. "Because Nuala is going to want to wrestle with me later, and I find it more fun when I'm a little drunk!"

Alphinaud eyes the glasses stacked on the table, always amazed at her capacity for drink. A little, she says. Alphinaud covers the fifth glass before Ramora can raise it to drink."No more for her," He says to F'lhaminn, who only smiles and tips her head to him.

"Oi," Ramora complains, but allows him to take the glass from her.

Alphinaud hands it off to one of their Doman friends, saying with a smile, "Would you send this over to Foulques? I think he could use it."

Ramora is frowning at him. "Less is better, Ramora," Alphinaud says, being a snarky, bossy little shite. "Or do you want to lose to Nuala so easily?"

Ramora sticks her tongue out at him.

The doors bang open behind them them, and they both turn to see Nuala striding towards them.

"Nuala!" Ramora greets brightly. "We were just talking about you!"

Nuala huffs at her, signing rapidly.

Ramora looks to Alphinaud for help, far from being able to understand as Nuala was not slowing down for her this time.

Alphinaud tilts his head. "Nuala says, and I quote, 'I said don't cause trouble! Raubahn scared Foulques half to death!' end quote."

“Ohh, so Foulques can’t keep a secret,” Ramora mutters. “Good to know.”

Nuala gives her a look, arching her eyebrows.

Ramora shuffles behind Alphinaud for cover, clawed gloves pricking at his blue overcoat, grinning sheepishly. "But nothing bad happened. right? Foulques was the one who told him! And we even sent Foulques a drink!"

Alphinaud coughs.

"Alphinaud sent Foulques a drink!" My drink, Ramora doesn't say.

Nuala sighs, shaking her head and then gesturing between them, making a familiar sign that Ramora actually knew without struggle.

Ramora shakes Alphinaud with her eagerness. "Wrestle? You still want to wrestle? Yesss!”

Nuala squints at her, looking to Alphinaud and then signing rapidly.

Alphinaud smiles, shaking his head. "Yes, I do not know why she did not just say so, either. She just loves the drama of it all, I suppose.”

Ramora looks between them. "Are you talking about me while I'm standing right here?"

Ramora blinks as Nuala steps up to her, making a sound of complaint as the fair haired duskwight pulls her into a headlock and musses her hair.

"Oi, not the hair! Let me take my gloves off first! Oi, Nuala! Nuuaalaa!"

Alphinaud smiles, watching them go. “What was that saying? You mess with the bull, you get the horns?”

F’lhaminn smiles at him. “Your usual, Master Alphinaud?”

Alpinaud nods. “Please.”

#ffxiv #request #Nuala #raubahn aldynn #Ramora D'aubigne #Alphinaud #pipin tarupin #foulques of the mist #f'lhammin #ladyramora writes #I hope my attempt to explain signs comes off well enough #I did some googling lol #hopefully everyone seems IC #I always worry about that

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myfearless-love · 6 years

Text

A Trip to Your Heart

Summary: Emma Swan is forging a devious plan to save the sanity of her best friend, Mary Margaret, or at least to stop her form quoting those stupid swashbuckling pirate tales. The core of her plan is to hunt down and neutralize the internet famous writer, dashingpiratecaptain aka Killian Jones. But soon her ideas go down the drain, because she certainly hasn’t counted on developing feelings for the man whose entire writing career she is about to destroy.

Rating: M

Word count: ~8.2k

Also on: FF.net and AO3

A/N: I’m so excited to finally share this little story with all of you!! It’s my first time participating in something like this so I’m hoping you’ll like the fic I created for this wonderful event. A huge thanks to @captainswanbigbang for organizing all of this and bringing us fans all together!

A big ass thanks to my my beta @1handedpiratewithadrinkingprob for helping me throughout creating this story and making sure that what I wrote is actually making sense and is presentable for all of you to read!

And an enormous thanks to @katie-dub who created ths kick-ass and beautiful art for my fic! Check out her art HERE And if you’re there, check out her other works because she’s super talented!

A Trip to Your Heart

Why is it that people always want the things they don't actually need?

This is the million dollar question Emma is pondering on as she sits down on one of the beach chairs with a rum-based cocktail in hand, christened as Salty Dog for some reason. She feasts her eyes on the open water and endless white sand as the wind is playing with the ends of her hair and the salt water is gently spraying her face – it's something she's absolutely not used to in the crowded and hectic city of New York.

She's aware that people must be giving her strange looks as they pass by her and she can hardly blame them. Her attire practically screams she's not really dressed for the beach: the frame of her big, red sunglasses almost cut a hole through her straw hat, her upper body is wrapped in a thin yellow blouse (its shade is so vivid that Emma is sure the material would glow in the dark) and her long legs are covered with a long, black summer skirt. The largest surface on her skin that remains uncovered are her feet, and not intentionally. She fell asleep on the ferry here, and in her hurry to get off the vessel she forgot to put her sandals back on.

Walking all the way here on the hot pavement and sand was quite a pain in the ass but what could she have done? She wanted her drink more.

Despite her looks, her brain is functioning quite well, but as it happens, she needs to make a certain someone believe otherwise. This person is called dashingpiratecaptain and she's been working on hunting him down for over a year now.

She's incredibly annoyed it took her this long to finally find him, considering she does this for a living on a daily basis.

The first time dashingpiratecaptain, or in short, KJ (as he usually signs his thank you comments) appeared on her radar was last June. He is considered a veteran writer in the world of online writing and his stories are a favorite of her best friend. Such original works emerged from his keyboard like The Crimson Flag, Isle of the Black Sand, Give No Quarter. If the titles and his username didn't make it clear, he specializes in pirate stories spiced with black humor.

Like really bloody pirate stories.

Mary Margaret is completely hooked on them. After a while, she just started vomiting quotes from his works, even during breakfast, which very nearly made Emma climb the walls of their shared apartment in annoyance and exasperation.

(She really can't wait for her brother to finally pop the question and have the flat all to herself).

Now imagine a twenty-something woman with a pixie haircut as she jabs her fork into her scrambled eggs and shouts "Avast ye, landlubbers! 'Tis cackle fruit is for me liking!"

Of course, Emma's first thought was to find a shrink as soon as possible (and the second to look up what the hell Mary Margaret said).

Her acquaintance, Archie Hopper, who is actually a therapist, said that there's nothing wrong with the brunette – her fanaticism, while a little intense, is still normal. Emma would beg to differ though, and she doesn't really want to imagine then what counts as 'not-normal' in Hopper's dictionary.

So the whole parade with the stupid pirate stories and references just went on. Just before the end of summer and the start of their last year in college, Emma's least favorite writer published his newest creation named 'Honor Among Thieves' which is about a brunette bandit woman who tries to seek passage on a pirate ship to escape being hanged by the authorities.

Let's just say that Mary Margaret felt a strong connection with this character pretty quickly. By November, almost her entire wardrobe was replaced with white (it's the character's favorite color apparently) and medieval looking clothes, and she all but stopped hanging out with others (except with her boyfriend and Emma obviously).

Nice words, threatening, stealing her laptop – none of that worked.

Emma felt like her friend was slowly withdrawing from reality, the only thing she wanted to talk about were these stupid swashbuckling tales.

So Emma decided she needed to single-handedly remove the source of the problem – alias dashingpiratecaptain.

But how?

First, know your enemy. The most effective way of getting close to a writer, she suspected, is through his works. So she read. A lot.

KJ got one or two brownie points from her – she found his jokes original, the mood of the stories were enjoyably twisted, the ratings were fairly correct.

In truth, there was not much she could hold against him except what he did to her best friend. But that alone demanded retribution.

In the next step, she started adding comments to a few of his chapters, then after a bunch of praise, she decided it was time to bring in the big guns and composed a fan letter to him.

But soon their exchanging of emails turned into a regular thing. In the end, she found herself quite frequently enjoying their correspondence.

And what had she found out?

The following things in a nutshell:

He graduated in Natural Resource Recreation and Tourism (she didn't even know they teach these kinds of things).

He was born in a small town in England and moved to the States a few years ago (he didn't specify the reason).

He wanted to take tourists on his ship and sail the high seas but an accident (again, he didn't specify) had thrown a wrench in his plans.

He has an older brother.

He's the proud owner of three dogs - adopted from three different places (how admirable).

Besides writing, he likes hiking and playing his guitar.

The question then arises; what did he manage to learn about her in turn?

Well, only the fact that she is completely nuts.

In the midst of midterms and getting her degree in Criminal Justice, she didn't have the energy to keep up with all of her lies. So, she fed him a different tale each time. Eventually, she got tired of it and went absolutely bananas.

She thinks he enjoyed it.

Because why else would he continue to reply to her emails and agree to meet with her?

That is why she's spending her downtime under the burning sun and among an endless number of squealing children running free whilst trying to enjoy her alcoholic beverage. Apparently, KJ (or one of his relatives) owns a vacation home near this beach and he's currently spending the last days of July here with his brother and sister-in-law.

And so on impulse, Emma thought she could visit him. Because crazy people are supposed to be spontaneous, aren't they?

Her phone shows ten o'clock - exactly when their little 'date' is supposed to happen. For guidance, she described her huge sunglasses and glow-in-the-dark blouse. He said he would wear his favorite leather jacket - probably no one would be stupid enough to run around the beach in that kind of clothing except him.

She peeps around.

She has the image of the leather jacket in her mind down to its every thread, but the rest is shrouded in mystery. She hasn't the faintest idea of how he looks. Usually, she pictures him somewhere between Calico Jack and Jack Sparrow, with tanned skin and scars, maybe even with a parrot on his shoulder.

As she continues to wait for her target, she wills the last remaining ice cube from the bottom of her glass and pops it in her mouth.

"Warriorprincess?" a deep voice echoes behind her suddenly.

She throws her head back on the chair, and the straw hat she's been wearing flops down to the sand. A pair of insanely gorgeous blue eyes are blinking down at her, and she has to do a double take. She's so stunned that it takes her half a minute to realize that this freakishly good-looking man just called her by her own username.

Warriorprincess.

It sounded quite catchy when she first thought of it.

She leans her head back a little more to take a better look at the notorious dashingpiratecaptain, but the movement causes the ice cube in her mouth to slide backward on her tongue. She quickly turns on her side, gasping and choking, trying to overcome her shortness of breath. After she succeeds, she pushes herself up and accepts his hand when he gives it to her to help her stand up from the beach chair.

And that's when she realizes his other hand, covered in something that looks a lot like a black glove. Which is odd, because his right hand is bare, except a ring on his thumb.

Then she remembers something he wrote in one of his letters - a sailing accident.

Oh.

So, that must be a prosthesis.

"You okay, lass?"

She nods, embarrassed, both at almost choking on a stupid ice cube and because she was practically ogling his fake hand.

If he noticed, he doesn't comment.

"Killian Jones," he introduces himself instead.

She can barely force back the groan that is threatening to escape her mouth. It's not enough that he's freaking handsome with his perfectly disheveled midnight hair and dark scruff along his sharp jawline, he, of course, has to have an accent like that.

And she didn't even mention the glorious chest hair peeking out of his half unbuttoned shirt.

She forces a crazy smile onto her face. "Anna Clarke," Her favorite but unfortunately very much deceased tutor in the foster home probably doesn't mind if she borrows her name for a few hours. Taking on the personality of the woman who she always thought was dancing on the verge of craziness but was the friendliest and gentlest human being she met in her life was probably what Emma needs right now to pull off this entire scheme.

He removes his sweaty hand from hers. "I'll soon perish in this jacket…" he explains, adorably scratching a spot behind his ear and gracefully shrugs the leather off.

For a brief moment, she thinks he's going to get rid of his dark blue shirt too, mentally preparing for that eyegasm she's just sure she will be getting - but he only pops two more buttons.

He snatches her stuff from the sand and nods toward the buffets and other booths along the beach. "Shall we go?"

Although she doesn't have any clue where he's taking her, she follows as quickly as possible. She thinks she can actually hear her feet sizzling atop the hot sand and pavement as they reach the stores and stands selling souvenirs and other useless things.

Killian comes to a halt beside her. "Where are your shoes?"

"I have none. I'm experimenting with the hippie lifestyle."

"And how's that working out for you so far?"

"Pretty great."

He watches her with amusement in his eyes as she shifts from one foot to the other. Eventually, the heat gets unbearable and she's forced to flee into the coolness of a nearby store.

Killian marches after her and targets the sandal collection in the middle of the place.

"I'm good without shoes," she insists, pulling him back by the elbow before he can pick up a footwear.

She's about to sabotage his online writing career, she doesn't need the additional guilt in the mix.

"Then what will it be? Should I carry you on my back?" he gives her a once-over and in a low and teasing tone he adds: "Though, a herniotomy might be a tad more expensive than a new pair of sandals."

She huffs and snatches off her sunglasses, giving him her best fake death-glare. "Hah, I'll have you know I'm as light as a feather."

She's really tempted to call his bluff though, she would really like to test out his back muscles.

God, it has been far too long since she got laid. It makes her mind quite one-sided and distracts her from her main task and the reason she's actually here.

"The cheapest, then?" he bargains, pointing at a green one with an ugly ribbon on top. It's really repulsive and not at all her style, but his intense blue gaze and the fact that she very much prefers to have skin on the bottom of her feet decides for her.

She fishes out her wallet and completes her purchase so quick that even The Flash would get jealous, just so it wouldn't even cross Killian's mind to buy it for her.

Somehow she knows he would.

He only shakes his head and smiles as she slips her now empty purse back to its previous place. Her life, consisting of constantly running away and living on the streets had taught her to be thrifty, which means, beyond her travel cost she gave herself a $10 limit.

Looks like now she has to reach that five o'clock train, or else she can walk all the way back to her apartment.

She walks silently beside him and notices a deep frown across his forehead as he probably broods over something. They're strolling through the walkway alongside the beach. On their left, a multitude of vacation homes and a huge forest stretches out. The air is mixed with the scent of pine and the ocean and Emma inhales, closing her eyes in the process.

Only to open them when her stomach decides to play the sound of a dying whale. She feels her face heat up.

"Are you hungry?" Killian asks, a child-like enthusiasm hiding in his voice.

"You could say that." Clearly, that one grilled cheese she had in the morning wasn't enough to get her through the day.

"My sister-in-law likes to play Martha Stewart and usually makes enough food to feed an entire army, even if it's just the three of us now," he informs her, rambling. "They already know about you, so ah, they insisted I invite you… if you want that is." He finds that same spot behind his ear and Emma thinks it's a sure sign of his nervousness.

But his invitation kind of leaves her like a living statue, probably looking very much like the figure from the painting called The Scream. He watches her reaction and lets out a hearty laugh.

She doesn't join him in his fun.

Horror is taking residence on her face. Emma only prepared to spend a few hours with him alone - emphasis on alone. During that time she would somehow get her hands on his phone, delete all of his stories in secret, and change his password for good measure. She already knew he was kind of a lazy shit when it comes to his phone, always using the "remember me" function - and besides, it's his fetish to answer every critic as soon as humanly possible, so he checks each story on his phone twice a day.

Her plan would've been perfect. But she didn't count in the brother and in-law. How the hell is she supposed to screw over a great guy while his family is around?

He puts a tentative but encouraging hand on her shoulder. "Relax, love, they won't eat you alive."

Mary Margaret - she reminds herself. Her best friend's common sense and social life are on the table.

She will deal with her conscience later.

To keep her gloomy thoughts at bay, she inquires about the menu.

"Tomato soup, the good old Spaghetti Carbonara and ice cream for desserts," her stomach gives an appreciative gurgle at that line-up. "I wasn't sure about that particular type of pasta though because up until last month you were vegetarian," he considers. Fortunately for Emma, her sunglasses and hat are able to somewhat cover her grimace. Where the hell did these brilliant ideas of hers come from? "But last week you shared your experience about a new diner and their heavenly Buffalo wings, so…"

She flashes him a cryptic and maniacal smile. She thinks he's satisfied with her answer.

They come to a halt before a lovely, two-story house. On the other side of the fence, there are three dogs, currently playing the "who can bark louder" game. The smallest is a Bichon Bolognese, its fur all white like the snow, the middle - quite the chubby thing - is a light brown terrier of some sort (or so Emma guesses, not that she knows much about dogs, though, but one of her foster families had a similar looking one). And the last one - the biggest - is a three-legged mixed breed with beautiful dark fur. Killian mentioned that this one is the closest to his heart and now she can see why.

While Killian slips through the entrance to try and tame the wild beasts, Emma attempts to match the names with the dogs from his emails. She remembers rolling her eyes when she got to know what they are called - he clearly loves Peter Pan too.

She crouches down and the pudgy one tries to reach her with its tongue through the bars, wagging its tail in the process. "Jolly?" she guesses.

Its mate, the one that looks like a living cotton candy, goes absolutely ballistic by her presence, pacing anxiously up and down in front of her. "Smee?" At that. the dog stops and leaps, bouncing off the fence as it prevents the wild thing from attacking her.

"Smee!" Killian scolds, and the dog cowers at his commanding tone. Emma can actually imagine him as the persona he so likes to write about in his stories, the dashing pirate captain standing on the deck of his ship in all black ordering his crew around.

She shakes her head. Now is not the time for fantasies.

The other two mutts seem friendly enough - Roger, the black one, even glares at her with loving doe eyes. Emma decides to venture inside, and to her relief, none of them bite into her ankles.

"You were right. They didn't eat me alive," she nods.

"Yet. The worst is yet to come, love."

He lays his hand on the small of her back lightly as he guides her further on to the house. She can see a nicely set table on the veranda peeking through the many plants and flowers decorating the front of the house.

It looks quite cozy.

She takes a deep breath and starts taking off her accessories.

As she reaches up to remove her hat, her one size too small blouse rides up slightly at the movement, exposing a sliver of skin by her hip bones. Killian's attention is immediately drawn to the bared area.

"Stairs," she warns him.

But it's too late.

He trips, and in order to not land face first on the ground, he somehow leaps to the table and grabs onto it, pushing it away a good half meters in the process.

Emma looks up and there's a man, probably in his late thirties, standing in the doorway, shaking his head. From his expression, Emma assumes he's been standing there since the beginning of Killian's little stunt. "Now, now, little brother. I don't remember asking you to redecorate. That table was exactly in the right place."

Emma can see as two red spots appear on Killian's cheeks as he finds that spot behind his ear with his finger. "I'm going to help Elsa…" he grumbles and stumbles into the house.

Emma and the man shares an amused and conspiratorial glance. He puts down a bowl full of soup next to the vase on the table and shakes hands with her. "Liam Jones."

"Anna Clarke," she continues to promote her dead tutor's name further with her ever-growing shame. Lying to only Killian didn't seem like such a serious crime, but doing it to his family is another thing. "Thank you for the invitation and sorry for barging in on your vacation."

"Nonsense!" his blue eyes, a deeper shade than Killian's, are glowing with warmth and a smile stretches onto his face, peppered with light brown scruff. "My git of a brother was practically counting down the days and it's always good to see a fresh face around the house," The words leave his mouth like a jingling serenity, accent very much the same as his brother's, and she immediately feels welcome.

It certainly is a first.

From inside, light rock music starts to filter through. Liam whirls around just as Killian appears by the doorstep again and waves a black phone in front of his face. "Your mate, Robin, was calling you."

And suddenly like thunderbolt, the sight of the dark device reminds her of the reason for her visit: to remove all of KJ's writing from the cyberspace and change his password.

The thought sends a wave of nausea through her. She doesn't even realize as Liam's wife approaches her. "Are you alright?"

"Of course!" she almost yells, forcing a huge smile onto her face. She quickly thrusts out her hand. "I'm Anna Clarke."

"Elsa Arendelle-Jones," she gives Emma a smile and suddenly Elsa has her in a firm and friendly hug. Emma is so stunned that at first, she doesn't know what to do, but then her arms tentatively snake around the woman's shoulder. The gentle squeeze ended with the other woman's thorough examination of Emma's attire. "I like your style."

Emma feels a strong need of correcting her – not hers, it's Anna Clarke's, her evil and crazy side.

"My dearest sister-in-law," Killian growls beside them, though there's no heat behind his words. "Can you do me a favor and stop harassing our guest?"

Elsa elbows him in the ribs gently and Killian lets out a laugh. She really likes his deep melodic laugh, Emma decides, while the two continues to bicker like little siblings.

"Now," Liam claps his hands together. "Let's eat," he practically shoves her towards his brother and he graciously pulls out the chair for her next to him. "Eat as much as you like," he urges. "Don't be shy!"

Liam only seems satisfied when her plate is full to the brim with all kinds of food (Elsa really overdid herself). He's such a mother hen, Emma thinks. And also, the fact that she hasn't had a good home cooked meal since she could remember is probably written all over her face.

When the dessert is served, she draws whipped cream circles vigorously on her plate until the strawberry ice cream is completely lost under the white colored foam. Killian is quietly chuckling next to her and when his knee accidentally bumps with hers under the table, her hand jolts at the sudden body contact and a small amount of whipped cream lands on his face.

"Oops," she puts her hand theatrically to her mouth. Killian blinks at her in surprise and his family lets out a laugh simultaneously.

After his face is clean again and declares that he intends to get even with her, the topic of their conversation drifts to everyday life, especially where it concerns her. She would even enjoy the special attention if she wasn't burdened with forging lies upon lies. They are half-lies, in fact. She's really attending a university in New York, but instead of dorms, she's renting a decent apartment with her best friend. And although she did want to study law and become a lawyer, her scholarship was only enough to go through with criminal justice instead.

Emma is more and more certain that she must be one of the best at being undercover, if her current situation is any indication.

Or not.

By the time they are finished with the whole three-course meal and Killian showed her around the house, she is all fidgety – all the lies she created has piled up inside her and every time she recalls them, guilt cuts through her like a sharp blade.

She starts chanting her best friend's name in her head, willing her determination to find its way back to her.

It doesn't work, goddamnit.

Her stomach shrinks with fear – her resolve is nowhere to be found.

What the freaking hell is she doing here?

She's jolted out of her thoughts by a light touch on her forearm. A soft smile is dancing at the corner of Killian's lips as he looks at her and all she wants to do is fling herself into his arms and confess her sins.

"Did you bring swimming suit?" he inquires and she nods. "Then let's go back to the beach!"

After she stutters her gratitude for the invitation to his brother and sister-in-law, Killian links their arms and drags her out of the house.

All the way to the seashore she's studying her blood red toenails as Killian walks beside her silently, his hand occasionally brushing hers in the process.

She doesn't mind the close proximity.

She's gradually becoming very aware of how much she's grown to like him, way before they met a few hours ago; and in parallel, a recognition takes root in her – she's in a hopeless situation. Her brilliant 'Operation: Save Mary Margaret's sanity' project is officially doomed as well as any kind of fantasy about Killian.

In the end, the only one she double-crossed is herself.

Congratulation, Emma, you did it!

She's hoping she can blame all of this on the nuisances and headaches that her graduation had caused her. Until then, if Emma can't get out of this game victoriously, Anna Clarke can still have some fun, right?

Killian turns his impossibly blue gaze on her, and when he notices her grin, he breathes out in relief. "I was beginning to be afraid my family has upset you with something."

"Of course not," she protests. "But if you don't mind I'm gonna go and change." With a graceful movement, she seizes her bag from his hold (he had insisted on carrying it for her, and while she typically wouldn't like this, she couldn't resist his intense gaze and the I'm a gentleman, love dripping from his lips) and slips in the nearest dressing room.

After a while, Killian emerges from the men's room and fuck, she's absolutely certain that happy trail goes beyond his waistline. They're trying to disguise their mutual ogling by doing mundane tasks in the process; Killian by neatly folding his clothes and Emma by searching for something in her bag. With a raised eyebrow, she removes a sponge ball from under her water bottle and holds it up to him.

His eyes brighten and the sight knocks the wind out of her lungs. Again. The contrast of his blue eyes and the darkness of his hair are in perfect harmony.

As she takes all of him in, she realizes he removed his prosthetic hand and even with the scars and angry marks at the end of his wrist he's still a freaking walking-talking genetic wonder. He glances back at her sheepishly when he notices where her gaze has wandered to, but when he doesn't find disdain or revolt or whatever he's assuming on her expression, he visibly relaxes and takes off towards the water faster than superhuman Usain Bolt. He dives into the sea when he's at knee depth, and laughing at his antics, Emma drops her bag into the sand and joins him. The salty water hits her heated skin and she doesn't even care that she forgot to apply sunscreen. It wouldn't be the first time she has to deal with a little sunburn.

"Baywatching to the deep water?" he offers and she approves his suggestion.

The scene, where she gallops forward in slow motion fits perfectly into her 'nutty as fruitcake' profile. They glance at each other occasionally and mouth silent and overly articulated words to each other. The people in their area are trying to avoid them and all the splashing water they're leaving in their wake - except the children. Emma reads something like this from their expressions: So we'll behave exactly like we do now when we're adults, only dumber and no one will scold us for it? Yay!

The deep water, in this case, reaches a little above Killian's navel and for Emma, the surface grazes her breasts. They're backing away from each other unhurriedly and she holds the ball in her hand ready to throw. Killian estimates the distance between and takes a couple more steps backward. He clearly thinks he can outwit her with a few more added feet.

"Let it fly, love!"

She swings her arm and the ball lands with a splash directly in front of him. He stares at her skeptically as if sensing some trickery in the air. "You've been working on this all summer, haven't you?" It's his turn to toss the ball, but he somehow miscalculates the gap between them and his fling turns out too short.

"And you clearly haven't been working out all summer, have you?" she taunts.

He purses his lips into a thin line; his man pride demands retribution. The next throw isn't directed at her, but rather at another freaking continent. She snorts resignedly because really, she can barely see that damn ball now it flew so far away. "Are you serious?"

"You were doubting my competence."

"What competence?"

"You seriously wound me, love," he feigns offense. She waves in a sign of surrender and dives in the water.

The last time she pulled off such a distance in freestyle swimming was probably in grade school, so it's not really a surprise when her urge to brag is overcome by weariness as she reaches her target.

But she decides, no matter how stupid it would seem, that she will inch back on her feet. She lowers her legs and sinks immediately. She thrashes until she's below surface again and attempts to scramble forward. Then a horrible thought flashes through her mind - what if one of her limbs starts cramping?

She only had to wish it.

Her calf twitches with a dull ache as if this is the first time it's used after months. Her brain is suddenly clouded by sheer panic.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. - she repeats to herself over and over again. The land doesn't seem to be getting any closer, her toes are groping for the ground in vain. It's like the sea is tugging her inwards, right into its belly. She can already envision with vivid clarity the news article about her death: Deceased young woman was masquerading as somebody else; her friends are standing astonished by her double life.

She's flailing without any consideration or co-ordination - her only goal is to somehow remain above surface and get air into her lungs.

"Anna, it's alright!" Killian's voice is coming from afar, even though she senses he's somewhere close to her. She continues to thrash uncontrollably.

"Clarke!" he shouts. She doesn't fully realize what is happening; she's busy fighting for survival. She clings desperately to the first solid thing her hands can reach. And at some point, freaking finally, her feet burrow into sand again. Her traitor of a calf starting to regain consciousness again.

"Bloody hell," he puffs out. She's still clinging to his neck like her life depends on it, and fuck, it was. His wet raven black hair is bundled with her blonde curls, creating an exquisite contrast. She untangles herself from his body, quite reluctantly, she might add.

He turns his gaze at her and their eyes lock. After a few silent moments of staring at the other, they both let out a laugh at the situation and can't seem to stop for several moments. When their amusement subsides, they straighten and look into each other's eyes. She swallows at the intensity of his gaze, but is unable to glance away. She holds her breath as his hand reaches under her wet hair below her ear, his thumb caresses lightly on her cheek.

His eyes search hers, silently asking for permission and she should pull away and run back to the beach and then to New York, but because she's a weak idiot, she stays. He leans into her, his lips drawing near and hers open in anticipation. He stops inches away, his blue eyes drift down to her mouth as though he's savoring the moment. Her heart beats faster than ever when he finally presses his lips to hers in a long kiss. It's gentle and slow first, she feels her hands begin to slide up his naked chest and encircle around his neck as the kiss begins to grow heavy. She exhales through her nose when his hand slips off her cheek and tightens around her waist. She doesn't want this moment to end. Her entire body has been taken over by the overwhelming feeling of relief (because she finally got a taste of those luscious lips), combined with a good deal of panic (because she likes him and she should be deleting his stories and getting the hell out of dodge) and lust (for obvious reasons).

But soon her tense nerves begin to relax and her troubling thoughts are melting away, their surroundings disappear, leaving only her and Killian.

This feels true. And good. And right.

She draws her tongue over his teeth and swallows his groan of pleasure as they slid closer to each other, no visible gap between them. She's about to get completely lost in him when a bunch of shrieking kids run by them, spattering their bodies with a great amount of salty water, breaking their moment.

(Stupid summer camps).

As they part, she sees his eyes sparkle and lips curve up into a gleeful smile and she can't help but smile back. As her heart calms down and starts beating at a normal speed again, she contemplates him. His hair is a complete mop of mess atop his head, locks of hair clinging to his forehead and his cheeks are slightly red from joy and the hot summer weather. All of this and the last couple of minutes don't even remotely fit into the notion she formed about him based on his writings. He looks so young and innocent.

She voices her thoughts to him too.

"Writing helps to let off some steam," he explains. "Otherwise I wouldn't be such a gentleman," he winks and she doesn't argue. She couldn't really find a fault in his manners since they met.

At the same time, an incredible idea strikes her - if they find him an alternative solution for managing stress and tension, then maybe… "Have you ever thought about athletics? Maybe running?"

"It wouldn't work," he dashes her hopes. "It would only tire me in the long run, thus making me more tense. Who the bloody hell loves being sweaty all the time and waking up the next day with muscle strains?" She couldn't agree more, if she's being completely honest. Besides running after jerks who skip their bail, she's lazing on her couch with a bag of chips all day, watching Jeopardy and screaming at her TV.

Forget it. She sighs to herself. A day late and a dollar short. Water under the bridge. She's full of idioms now for her stupid situation because she screwed up. It's time to face the music.

"I saw a park nearby. Let's walk there," she suggests after they make their way back to the beach.

Killian pulls on his shirt and Emma does the same with her flashy yellow blouse. He watches her with worried eyes, one eyebrow high on his forehead. "Are you sure? It sounds quite dangerous. You could trip on a pebble, or catch some disease from the birds there. You could bump your knee against a bench," he lists. "Based on previous events, I say you would do better in a meadow with nothing but a water bottle."

She presents him her best poker face. "I could get an allergic attack from the flowers," she argues. "Or choke on the water, as you saw earlier."

He looked on with no change of expression. "Aye, you are right. There's danger lurking out there at every corner."

"It's hanging over me," she agrees. "But lucky for me, you're here to get my back," she inches closer to him. She laces their fingers together and he gives her a brilliant smile.

On their way, they're discussing which one of them has the most embarrassing and downright weird stories under their belts. In Killian's anecdote, he, his brother and Elsa went to a restaurant one evening to celebrate the couple's engagement. A bearded, slightly chubby old man ate his dinner at the neighboring table and was peeping at them every now and then. Elsa and his brother paid no mind to him, only Killian noticed it; the man made his flesh crawl with his creepy glances. But after paying the bill, he left and Killian thanked his lucky stars.

"Half an hour later we, too, finished our meals. We were walking down the streets peacefully and when we turned at the corner he was there. The guy was just standing there, one of his hands fumbling for something in his pocket," he goes silent, intentionally increasing the tension, like the great storyteller he is.

"Gun? Knife?" she urges.

"Oh, no. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter," her face turns into a disappointed grimace. "When we got closer he smirked and spoke up for the first time. I'd wished he would have shot me instead."

"What did he say?"

Killian temporarily holds off the storytelling when they get to the cocktail bar because the girl behind the counter is shouting at them loudly. "Wait!" she yells. "You left this here!"

When they pass the stand, he continues his tale. "He said: Killian Jones! How you've grown!" he glances at her with a gloomy look.

In the background, the cocktail Girl is yelling out a name. "Emma! Emma Swan!"

Emma glances back over her shoulder, the bartender is waving a black card holder at her.

Killian reaches the end of his story. "He was my P.E. teacher in grade school. Every year he tried to fail me."

Emma freezes, her eyes are on the cocktail girl's hand, more precisely on her papers she is holding. I.D., Social Security card, etc. The girl can't really bring it to Emma, at least five customers are waiting in line to get a drink, one of them drumming his fingers on the counter impatiently.

"Anna?" Killian asks, puzzled.

"Emma!" the girl yells again, now happy that Emma finally noticed her.

Emma swallows hard and trudges towards the beach bar, only mumbling "My papers," at Killian's still confused expression.

She walks back to him with bowed head and a racing heart, the plastic card holder almost breaks in her vice-like grip.

Killian asks the dreaded question. "What the bloody hell was that?"

My march to eternal humiliation, my journey through shattered plans, Anna Clarke's last mission - she would have answered, but no sound comes out of her mouth. She needs to make a grandiose gesture. Something honest. She awkwardly extends her arm, like she's introducing herself for the first time.

She watches her slightly shaking fingers, the seconds tick by slowly, her embarrassment growing like weed. Then her gaze falls to his long fingers as they encircle her hand. She snaps her head up in disbelief. An army of emotions are battling on his handsome face: forgiveness sits at the corners of his lips, puzzlement rests on his forehead and hurt is swimming in his eyes.

Since her vocal cords decided to not work, he is forced to take the first step. "Killian Jones, still."

"Emma Swan, now."

The ceremony is extremely awkward. Killian runs his hand through his half wet hair and slumps on the edge of the bench nearest to them. Emma sits down on the other end.

"I was aware that you lied about plenty of things in your emails," he watches the sea with slumped shoulders. "Not that it bothered me that much. It wasn't your lies that I loved, but the way you presented them. After a while I just sensed when you were being truthful," he pauses. Shrieking children and chatting parents sound in the background. The gleeful noises are driving her crazy. "Or at least I thought I sensed it," his voice goes at least an octave deeper and he turns to her with a scowl on his face. "Why did you do this?"

She confesses to him the real reasons. It can't really make her seem worse in his eyes than it already is. "My best friend went completely nuts, because of your stories. I thought if they were gone, everything will be alright with her again."

He gives her a condescending glance. "Have you never thought about talking with her and trying to understanding her?"

Oh yeah, it did occur to her. Unfortunately for her, a few weeks too late. But it wasn't Killian that made her realize this. By the time they met she was already aware where she took the wrong turn.

This whole thing wasn't in the interest of Mary Margaret for a while now. She was led by her curiosity and adventurousness. She orchestrated a play for herself and without his knowledge, Emma forced Killian to play a role in it.

Why? Because she liked the character that she created: the heroic best friend, the witty pen pal, the dorky Anna Clarke.

But really, why is it that people always want the things they don't actually need?

She's mulling over this question yet again while fiddling with the hem of her ridiculous yellow blouse, the salty summer breeze hitting her face lightly.

Killian asked for some time, said he needed to sort his head out. He promised he would be back in an hour and they agreed to meet at their original meeting point. Her phone shows that she's quite ahead of time. She places her ugly sandals on the beach chair she occupied just a few hours ago and attaches a piece of paper between its straps with her goodbye scribbled on it: Thank you for everything. And I'm sorry. For everything. - Emma

That is the extent of her lyrical talent.

She's reflecting on the day's events for two hours as she waits for her ferry, and as the vessel arrives to take her back to the mainland, she realizes there's nothing to think over.

She screwed up.

End of story.

She was so caught up in her mission to fix her best friend that she didn't realize there's nothing to fix. Emma saw an opportunity in her best friend's obsession; an opportunity to break free of her monotonous life and be someone else. Someone who is spontaneous and trusting, who is the complete opposite of her. She wanted an adventure and now she got it: she was so far gone in her play that she hurt two people in the process without even realizing it: Mary Margaret, who did nothing wrong but love a few pirate stories, and Killian, who only wrote said pirate stories.

Emma made herself the villain in this tale.

She's learned from her mistake (or at least she hopes so) and as soon as she gets home she's going to squeeze the life out of Mary Margaret - metaphorically, of course, because she'll give her best friend the biggest of hugs. They will have a girls night and talk about what is really going on in her head. It will be great.

But there's hardly anything she can do to make it up to Killian. She owes him another apology in case her note doesn't get to him, but her options end here. She's not even sure if he will even open her emails, let alone answer them.

The farther she gets from the beach, the gloomier her mood becomes; a feeling of sad resignation takes over her. She pulls her legs up on the seat and flips through her card folder in boredom. Stupid papers; they were all against her today.

And at the top of everything, a damned mosquito is about to have a feast on her elbow. She strikes down hard and her green folder flies away, sliding on the dirty floor until the black hole underneath a seat swallows it up. She squats down to try and fish it out, but her fingers touch something completely different: the straps of a faux leather sandal.

She lets out a laugh and ceremoniously buckles her previously lost shoes back on her feet. She regards them as a sign from above. As if it was life's way to say that "She's wrong, the fates are on her side".

She grabs her notebook and a pen from her bag and writes her very first (and probably last) short novel about how much of a moron she has been. She finishes just as she arrives back home, the two-hour train ride goes by in a blur.

She types it into her laptop as soon as she arrives at her apartment, publishes it under the name 'Warriorprincess' and waits for the miracle.

After only a week, she gets it.

"Emma!" Mary Margaret bursts into her room, balancing her laptop in one hand. "You wrote this, didn't you?" she shows her the "masterpiece" of Warriorprincess.

"Yes," Emma admits.

"I can't believe it!" she jumps up and down like a kid on a sugar high, her voice several octaves higher than normal. "You're highlighted! You're among the recommended writers! Just under KJ's story! Oh my God!" she places her laptop down on her nightstand and starts pacing in front of the bed in pure ecstasy. "Do you know how much I love you?"

"What?" she's taken aback.

"My friends will die of envy if I tell them what a crazy genius my best friend and future sister-in-law is. You're even friends with KJ!"

Emma buries the urge to correct her on that, instead, she focuses on the first part of her sentence. "Your friends?" she repeats.

"From the site."

Since her little adventure, she's been fighting to restore their friendship to the way it was before Killian's stories, and now Warriorprincess had reached that breakthrough.

She steps closer to Mary Margaret. "Will you tell me about them?"

And words are flowing out of the brunette's mouth, because Emma is finally there to listen to them without judging her favorite stories and claiming her best friend went insane. Mary Margaret doesn't have any mental diseases, she proves to be a thousand times healthier than Emma and furthermore, she doesn't lack in friends or rationality. The only thing she's short of is the tolerance for boring people and, sadly, her colleagues at the preschool are included in this category.

Emma's best friend inhabits the large group of misunderstood artists and dreamers. Case closed.

"I'm happy we could talk this through," Emma grins at her when Mary Margaret is out of breath from talking for thirty minutes straight.

"Me too," she smiles at Emma. "So the next time KJ posts a story, you won't call our provider and have them shut off the internet, will you?"

"Don't worry. I'd probably break my own arms first before I would do that."

Mary Margaret appreciated her lame joke, she's still swimming in the waves of hyperactivity. She hugs Emma and grabs her laptop from the nightstand, clicking and typing in it a few times.

"Kj didn't write a comment on your story," she reports. "But someone else did," she turns the device toward Emma so she can look at the screen. She starts reading the review and when she gets to the middle she snatches the laptop from Mary Margaret's possession.

Dear Warriorprincess,

Stylistically, there is still room for improvement, and I advise you read the story over again; you left a few typos in it.

Moving to the content of the story: the heroine's motivations are absurd, as well as her actions. The storyline, partly as a result of this, is messy. Also, I could not take delight in the emotional background you have outlined. If your main character is inspired by a real human, I suggest she visit a specialist.

You did not let the male character's story to properly unfold, although I saw a great amount of potential in him. And huge competence. In addition, I missed the further demonstration of the characters' external features. Why did you not mention the heroine's big, aquamarine eyes and her shapely legs?

The ending is simply terrible.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed it. Congratulations on being highlighted!

P.S.: Would you be interested in exchanging some letters, which could help me fill your head with nonsense and turn your head? Then we could perhaps meet in person. I would introduce myself under a fake name, bewitch you even more, get caught red handed and vanish into thin air – of course, I would leave a dramatic goodbye note behind. So what do you say, love? I can tell you from experience, it works quite well.

Above her shoulder, Mary Margaret is trying to make out the name of the user. "Warriorcaptain...Do you know each other?"

"Not enough. But we can remedy that right away," Emma grins and clicks on the sign in button.

fin.

#cslb #captain swan little bang #cs ff #cs fic #captain swan #one shot #cs oneshot #ouat #ouat ff #ouat fic #once upon a time #Emma x Killian #emma swan #killian jones #captain hook

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