#just. the tenderness between them on the stairs in that one scene

[werewolfsmile]

Just watched The Librarians S2E8 And the Point of Salvation and...

I loved it, for the most part. Cleverly written and a fantastic Ezekiel-centric episode! He had beautiful moments with each of the others and learnt so much from them. He had substantial character growth and was given the space to bear the weight of serious circumstances and respond appropriately. This episode had the potential to be incredibly pivotal for Ezekiel's character!

And yet....

That ending. What the hell?? What do you mean his memory is lost and he forgets all of those poignant moments???? All those conversations, all that learning to rely on others - are freaking serious??

I'm never a fan of time loop episodes, but I thought they were handling this one pretty well. Right up until they erased all of Ezekiel's character growth at the drop of a hat. This was literally the equivalent of "and then she woke up" being used in a novel. It's weak and strips all purpose of what the characters have just been through.

Ugh! Tell me I'm not the only one. How dare they give me such a good episode of growth and discovering potential for Ezekiel Jones, then take it all back with a just kidding!

#the librarians #and the point of salvation #ezekiel jones #john harlan kim #im so mad about this #legit ruined the episode #so many moments that were more important for ezekiel to remember than for the others to remember about him #learning to listen to jake and cassandra and value their knowledge and experience and what they bring to the team #but most of all eve #the way she stops him every time just to ask “how many times” #the way she sees straight to the heart of the matter. to the effect no the DAMAGE this is having on him #and she offers compassion and care and support #she tells him how brave he is. she honours him like she would honour another soldier. and that MEANS SO MUCH to him!! #just. the tenderness between them on the stairs in that one scene #his honesty when he says he likes the way she looks at him when she tells it #because she's acknowledging his bravery and sacrifice #and ezekiel has never really felt like a hero before. but it's comforting to be recognised now. recognised and honoured #ugh just #this episode could have been so much better had they never stolen his memories

[godsfavdarling]

How could you?

my masterlist, part 2

pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader (established relationship)

words: 2,3k

summary: You go to Spencer's apartment, only to witness a shocking betrayal that shatters your world.

warnings: angst, hurt, spoilers for season 15!

a/n: this was one of the ideas for the later chapters of my full story 'Keep Holding On' (completed and available here), but there wasn't really a place for it. so, I decided to just make it into a one-shot with a gender-neutral reader!

You and Spencer have been together for a few years now, your relationship a patchwork of late-night conversations, lazy weekends spent on a couch with books, and long nights in each other's arms.

Although his job isn't easy and you don't get him to yourself as much as you'd like to, you wouldn't change a thing. He and the love you share mean everything to you.

In the quiet moments when you're alone, you find yourself marveling at how unexpected and yet perfectly fitting your love story is. You never thought this could happen to you. 

You never let yourself believe that there would be a man like Spencer loving you and accepting every fiber of your being.

Spencer's presence in your life is like a gentle breeze on a hot summer's day, soothing and comforting. His unwavering support and understanding make even the toughest days bearable. And when he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, you feel a sense of belonging that you've never known before.

You cherish the simple moments shared over cups of coffee in the morning or stolen kisses in the middle of the day. In Spencer's eyes, you see a reflection of your own hopes and dreams, and in his laughter, you find the melody of your heart's desires.

As you drift off to sleep each night, nestled in Spencer's embrace, you offer a silent prayer of gratitude for the love that fills your days and the warmth that fills your heart. 

In him, you've found not just a partner, but a kindred spirit, a soulmate who completes you in ways you never knew were possible. And for that, you will always be thankful.

There's an unspoken language that exists only between you and Spencer. It's a language of love, trust, and understanding that transcends words.

You marvel at how effortlessly Spencer seems to know what you need, even before you do. His intuition is uncanny, his gestures of affection tender and sincere. 

Whether it's a simple touch on the small of your back as he passes by or a reassuring squeeze of your hand when you're feeling uncertain, Spencer has an innate ability to make everything feel right.

You trust him with your deepest fears, your wildest dreams, and every fragile piece of your heart.

In his arms, you find sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world, a safe harbor where you can be your truest self without fear of judgment or rejection.

And as you navigate the challenges of life together, you're constantly reminded of just how perfect Spencer is in your eyes. His kindness knows no bounds, his patience infinite. 

But it's not just his virtues that make him perfect; it's the way he loves you, wholly and unconditionally. In Spencer, you've found a partner who sees you for who you truly are, flaws and all, and loves you all the more fiercely because of them.

Now as you climb the stairs to Spencer's apartment, your heart flutters. Spencer has just started his 30 days of obligatory sabbatical, and you're looking forward to spending more time together now that his only obligation is his teaching job. You've picked up takeout on the way, eager to share a quiet evening together.

But as you open the door, your excitement turns to shock and disbelief.

There, before you, is Spencer, locked in a passionate embrace with JJ. Her hands are cupping his cheeks, their lips pressed together in a kiss that sends a jolt of pain through your chest.

Time seems to stand still as the bags of food slip from your fingers, crashing to the floor with a dull thud. You can't tear your eyes away from the scene before you, the weight of betrayal crushing down on you like a ton of bricks.

A thousand thoughts race through your mind, each one more painful than the last.

How could Spencer do this to you? How long has this been going on? And most importantly, how could you have been so blind to the truth?

Your heart feels like it's been ripped from your chest, shattered into a million pieces by the revelation before you. The love and trust you once shared with Spencer now lay in ruins at your feet, leaving you feeling empty and alone in a world that suddenly seems cold and indifferent.

As Spencer and JJ finally break apart, their eyes widening in shock at your sudden appearance, you feel a surge of anger rising within you. But beneath the anger lies a deep well of hurt and sadness, a pain that cuts to the very core of your being.

Without a word, you turn on your heel and flee from the apartment, tears streaming down your cheeks as you struggle to make sense of the betrayal that has shattered your world.

Everything spins around you in a blur of tears and confusion, you turn and run down the stairs, desperate to escape the pain and betrayal that threaten to consume you.

Each step feels like a marathon, your legs heavy with the weight of sorrow and disbelief.

But just as you reach the bottom of the stairs, your vision swimming with tears, you stumble, your foot catching on the edge of a step. You plummet forward, the ground rushing up to meet you with terrifying speed.

In that split second before impact, a pair of strong arms wraps around you, pulling you back from the brink of disaster. You gasp in shock and relief as Spencer catches you, his grip firm and steady.

For a moment, you cling to him like a lifeline, your body trembling with the force of your emotions.

You can't breathe, can't think, can't comprehend the enormity of what has just happened.

As you collapse onto the stairs, your sobs echoing in the empty stairwell, Spencer kneels beside you, his expression a mixture of concern and frustration.

He reaches out to touch you, but you flinch away, unable to bear the thought of his hands on your skin.

"Please," he pleads, his voice cracking with emotion. "Let me explain. It wasn't what you think. I didn't...I didn't do anything."

But his words fall on deaf ears as you struggle to make sense of the chaos swirling inside your head.

How could Spencer betray you like this? How could he let someone else touch him in that way?

As the truth begins to dawn on you, a wave of anger washes over you, hot and relentless. You push yourself away from Spencer, your chest heaving with the effort to draw breath.

"Don't," you choke out, your voice barely a whisper. "Don't touch me."

But Spencer refuses to give up, his eyes burning with determination as he reaches for you once more. "Please," he begs, his voice raw with emotion. "Let me explain. It wasn't me. It was her."

You place a trembling hand on your chest, trying to steady your racing heart as you struggle to catch your breath.

"How could you?" you utter, your voice barely above a whisper, the words heavy with accusation and pain.

Spencer's eyes are full of anguish as tears well up in his eyes. He reaches out to you, his hand hovering in the air between you, a silent plea for forgiveness that you're not sure you're ready to grant.

But before you can respond, JJ appears at the top of the stairs, her mouth open as if she's about to say something. But then, with a quick shake of her head, she closes her mouth and walks past the two of you without a word.

You stare after her in disbelief, your mind reeling with confusion and hurt.

You struggle to make sense of the situation. You knew of the hostage situation with JJ and how she had professed her love for Spencer. But you also remember how Spencer immediately came to you, confessing everything and reassuring you of his love for you.

He spent the whole night telling you every detail of what happened, assuring you that his heart belonged to you and you alone. He made it clear that you were the one he loved, not JJ.

So what happened? How could he be kissing her now, after everything he said and everything you've been through together?

With a shaky breath, you push yourself up from the stairs, your muscles tense with the effort to contain the storm raging within you. You want to flee, to distance yourself from him and the shattered remnants of your trust.

But before you can take a single step, Spencer's voice cuts through the tumultuous haze of your thoughts, pleading with you to stay. His words are a desperate plea for understanding, for a chance to explain the inexplicable.

"Please," he implores, his voice cracking with emotion. "Don't leave. I need to explain. I swear, it wasn't what it looked like. You have to believe me."

You hesitate, torn between the desire to escape and the need for answers. Despite the overwhelming pain coursing through your veins, there's a part of you that still craves the truth, no matter how agonizing it may be.

You groan loudly, the weight of the situation bearing down on you like a leaden blanket. Your mind races with a million questions, each one more painful than the last.

But for now, you're too overwhelmed to process anything.

With another loud groan, you turn and begin to make your way back upstairs, your steps heavy with exhaustion and despair.

You can feel Spencer's eyes boring into your back, his silent plea for you to stay echoing in the empty stairwell.

As you reach the top of the stairs, you don't look back, you enter the apartment and your only thought is to find a moment of solace in the solitude of the bathroom.

With trembling hands, you shut the door behind you, the click of the lock a final barrier between you and the chaos that threatens to consume you.

And as you sit there, trembling and broken, you realize that there's something about Spencer, something in the depths of his eyes that compelled you to stay, to hear him out.

It's a trust that runs deeper than words.

As you emerge from the bathroom after a few minutes, the weight of the silence between you and Spencer hangs heavy in the air.

You find him on the couch, his leg shaking uncontrollably, his fingers fidgeting nervously. His face is etched with worry and pain, mirroring the tumult of emotions raging inside you both.

He gave you space, just as he always did. It's one of the things you've always admired about him, his ability to recognize when you needed time to process and heal.

But now, as you sit in the armchair nearby, staring at him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, you can't help but feel the need for answers, for some semblance of understanding in the chaos that surrounds you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Spencer speaks. His voice is hoarse with emotion, the words tumbling out in a rush as if he's been holding them back for far too long.

"She just showed up," he begins, his voice barely above a whisper. "Out of nowhere, she started talking about how she loves me and how she was stupid for ignoring it for so long. She said she couldn't pretend anymore..."

You listen in stunned silence, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. So it wasn't Spencer who initiated the kiss, it was JJ.

But why?

As Spencer continues to speak, his words are a desperate attempt to make sense of the madness that has engulfed your lives, you find yourself drawn to him, to the vulnerability etched into every line of his face.

Despite the pain and betrayal that still lingers between you, there's a part of you that can't help but empathize with his plight.

As Spencer falls silent, his eyes searching yours for some sign of forgiveness or understanding, you find yourself grappling with a whirlwind of emotions.

Hurt, betrayal, and confusion war with a lingering sense of empathy and love for the man sitting before you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart and collect your thoughts. "Spencer," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, "I... I don't know what to say."

His eyes widen in anticipation, his expression a mixture of hope and fear. "I understand," he murmurs, his voice laced with regret. "I know I've hurt you, and I'm so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen."

"I need time," you finally say, your voice trembling with emotion. "I need time to process everything, to figure out where we go from here."

Spencer nods solemnly, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I understand," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "Take all the time you need. I'll be here, waiting for you."

With a heavy sigh, you push yourself up from the armchair, your limbs feeling like lead. "I'm going to go," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "I just... I need some space."

Spencer nods, his gaze following you as you make your way to the door. "I'll be here," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. "I love you."

You pause in the doorway, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you. "I love you too," you murmur, your voice choked with emotion.

And with that, you step out into the cool night air, the weight of the world heavy on your shoulders.

As you make your way home, you can't help but wonder will it ever be the same between the two of you?

#dr spencer reid #spencer reid fandom #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #mgg #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #matthew gray gubler #criminal minds fanfics #criminal minds fanfic #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid angst #gn reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x gn reader #criminal minds oneshot #spencer reid one shot #criminal minds season 15 #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fanfiction #angst

[dovedewdrop]

Scratch My Back

Masterlist

Joel Miller x reader

word count: 889

Summary: The tide is pulling you under, just like it has plenty of times before. Your husband helps you communicate.

A/N: I’ve been struggling with my mental health & looking after myself for a long, long time and I was getting myself all psyched up to get a shower but I didn’t end up getting in and decided to write this lil thing that I’ve been thinking about for a while! I hope you enjoy it and if anyone out there is reading this and is struggling too, just know that you are not alone and that if Joel Miller were real, he would scratch your back❤️

Also thank you so much for 100 followers🥹🫶🏻 really brightened up my spirits a lil bit💓

Warnings: No Outbreak. Depiction of poor mental health. Sadness. One big loving man (it’s Joel Miller) (Not a warning but I didn’t want it to seem all doom and gloom😅) No use of Y/N.

To Joel, it was just a Wednesday, your day off. To you, the ceiling was caving in. Before he left for work you were sound asleep, your thoughts at bay, laying still against the sand, he placed a gentle kiss to your temple before rolling out of bed. Now that you were awake your thoughts were thrashing against the cliffs, the mental whiplash you were facing ultimately draining your body of all its energy.

You watch the clock on the bedside table blink from one minute to the next. You thought about all if the things you should probably be doing; showering, tidying the house, preparing that home cooked meal you’d been promising your husband for over a week but all you could do was slip in and out of sleep, that was the safe option, the one that would keep you somewhat sane until he returned. You didn’t want to bother him, didn’t want to text him those three words because you knew he would stop everything for you, everything would be put on hold so that he could soothe you and you didn’t want to add that onto the ever-growing list of things to feel bad about. So you waited.

“Honey?” His voice reverberated off the walls, the sound of his gentle tone floated up the stairs. You didn’t have the energy to shout back, the sound of his boots hitting the wooden steps told you that it wouldn’t be long until he was by your side anyway. He took in the sight of the drawn curtains, the sight of you facing them, still in your t-shirt and underwear and you felt the bed dip behind you, the warmth of his body encompassing yours, his scent filling your scenes. 

“Something happen?” A gentle kiss placed to your shoulder blade, the feeling of his lungs emptying and filling behind your back soothing you. You shook your head, allowing a silence to draw over you both as Joel’s arms wrapped around your waist, tugging you further back into the curve of his body. He was always so patient with you, so tender.

“Scratch my back.”

Scratch my back, a cry for help. A promise made between two lovers. A rule established when you’d first started dating. Joel knew that you struggled with your mental health, you’d opened up to some extent, brushing him off with a ‘I’m having a tough day but I’ll be ok x’ text in the beginning, even then he gave you your space. 

One week in spring however, everything was not okay. He hadn’t heard from you in four days, no text and definitely no phone calls. At first he thought that this was your way of letting him know you were no longer interested and selfishly, he couldn’t let it end that way. So after days of mulling it over and chewing his bottom lip raw, he drove over to your apartment and that’s where he found you, dark circles engulfing your eyes, threatening to swallowing them whole, hair unwashed, apartment flooded in gloom.

He took a bath with you, washed your hair as best he could. The spring air still had a slight chill to it so he’d made sure your new set of pyjamas were on the radiator ready for bed and he laid with you in silence until you turned into his chest and he felt the wet of your tears seep into the fabric of his shirt. 

“You don’t have to talk to me.” He pressed a kiss into your hairline. “I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to talk to me, I mean obviously you can, when you feel comfortable and ready to but there is something I want you to do for me baby,” another soft kiss. Your eyes travelled up his face to finally look him in his eyes, those soft brown eyes that made you fall in love with him in the first place. All you could do was give a small nod, you would do anything he asked. “I want you to come up with a word or a phrase,” he continued, “so that when things get bad and you don’t feel like you can talk about it…” he trailed off, his hands drawing shapes up and down the length of your spine.

“Like a safe word?” He let out a huff of air at that, a small smile adorning his face.

“Yeah, kinda like a safe word, so I know that you’re safe,” his palm came to rest on your cheek, thumb cupping your jaw, “up here,” and his fingers tapped gently on the side of your temple.

“Scratch my back,” It was soft, the way it came out, tears threatening to spill over, “because if you promise to scratch mine, i’ll always scratch yours.” You couldn’t stop the tears from falling then, the last thing you wanted was for Joel to see you like this and to become his burden, but the way he’d shown you such care and compassion made your head feel a little less foggy, you wanted to promise that you could do that in return, that it wouldn’t just be him constantly looking after you.

“Oh sweet angel.” Both of his hands were cupping your cheeks now, pressing a light kiss to your nose and then your lips.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller drabble #joel miller fluff #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller fic #the last of us #tlou #dovedewdrop writes

[beybaldes]

it’s the last thing you wanted (it’s the first thing I do)

summer sleepover masterlist

roy kent x gn!reader

summary : “we don’t have to talk, if you don’t want to. we can just sit here together until you feel up to anything else.” requested by anon.

an : I was waiting for a prompt tied to the locker room scene thank you anon 🙏🏼🙏🏼 I don’t copy the scene and just swap keeley for reader but it’s the same idea as that scene!!

it’s rotten work, not to me, you arse, not if it’s you

Roy goes down and doesn’t get back up, and you’re pretty sure it’s the scariest moment of your entire life. One of Keeley’s hands is death gripping your and Higgins is scarily still on the other side of you. No one knows what to say to you, and no one stops you as you stand from your seat in time with Roy, who finally stands on the pitch.

“I’ll be right back.”

It doesn’t need to be said that you probably won’t make it back to your seat, or that you’re 1000% going down to the changing rooms to find Roy, but Higgins and Keeley share a knowing look anyway when they let you leave.

The stairs throughout Nelson road have never felt so long and you’re sure this is the quickest you’ve ever gone down them. When you finally do make it to the backrooms of the dog track, all the corridors blur together and you feel like you’re here for the first time again. It feels like years before you reach the doors to the changing rooms and then time stands completely still; the walls stop moving, your hands stop shaking, and you can finally breathe again. Fuck, if you’re this bad, you wonder how Roy’s feeling on the other side of the door.

“Leave me alone.” Roy growled as you pushed open the door to the changing room. He’d pulled his jersey off and stuffed in the base of his locker. You wondered how much longer he’d have his name branded on the door, and unfortunately, you don’t think it’ll be very long at all. However, you can guarantee you’ll be wearing his name proudly across your back for the rest of your life. “Im serious, fuck off.” Roy’s lips tremble as you create less and less space between the two of you, his hands gripping the bench so tight that his knuckles were turning white. “Seriously, get the fuck away from me.”

Roy’s more bark then bite and you know that better then anyone. That’s why you know it’s okay for you to sit next to high, thigh pressed against Roy’s thigh, hand snaking up across his back, your fingers threading into his hair. He lets you guide his head to rest against your shoulder and he lets himself turn his head so his nose is pressed against your collar bone and now nothing else matters but you. For the first time since he hit the wet ground of the pitch, Roy feels like he can finally breathe.

“We don’t have to talk, if you don’t want to.” You whispered into Roy’s curls, keeping the soft and tender moment in the world you’d created by pulling Roy into your hold. “We can just sit here together until you feel up to anything else, yeah?”

For a long while, Roy doesn’t say anything, he just sits in your arms and takes deep breaths. Surely, the match is coming to a end when he finally does speak up, and even then it’s barely a whisper, something hidden amongst the muddy boots and unwashed training shirts. “You… I don’t expect you to stay with me after this.” The words have you frozen, your fingers stop scratching against Roy’s scalp and he pulls his head from your neck. “I know the other lads are… fitter, stronger, got careers ahead of them… all I’ve got is this stupid fucking knee, and all I’m saying is, I get if this means you don’t want me - don’t want to be with me - anymore.

“Roy.” You cooed, tears brimming your eyes as you gently grabbed his face between your hands, turning him to look at you. Roy could feel tears threatening to come to his own eyes when he saw the tears in yours, hurt and upset for him, but he swallowed them down, instead leaning into your touch and pressing a kiss against the inside of your wrist. “This doesn’t change anything for me. I love you for you, you fucking grump. Bad knee and all. You do know that right?” At Roy’s silence, you asked again. “Right?”

“Yeah, of course, it’s just…” Roy looks like even he doesn’t know how to phrase it, how to explain how he’d feeling in so few words that it’s digestible and doesn’t make you sad. You wish, especially in moments like this, he wouldn’t concern himself with everyone else’s feelings, just his own. “What if it’s hard? It’s no secret I’m getting older, but, what if I… what if I get cold? Cruel? All because I’m a sad sack of shit now that I can’t be ‘Roy Kent’ anymore.”

You thumb runs over the apple of Roy’s cheek and he preens into your touch like a cat to the sun. “It won’t be hard for me, not when it’s you, Roy. Never when it comes to you.” Roy meets your gaze and holds it, though only for a second as his eyes are quick to flicker down to your lips and notice how close you really have been to him this whole time. “I love you, even if it’s hard, and even if you’re not ‘Roy Kent’ anymore.”

Roy’s face scrunches in disproval at the teasing way you say his name, like it’s fake and some kind of joke that he’s not ‘Roy Kent’ anymore. Though he really feels that way, like a part of him has been robbed from him, you know he’s always going to be Roy fucking Kent, even if that doesn’t include anything football related.

The hands that have been holding Roy’s face, pull it closer to yours and allow you to connect your lips to his, something slow and soft and tender in a way unusual to what kissing Roy was most often like. He pulls away all to quickly for your liking, but the boys come bounding through the door a second later and you’re a little thankful he did. As Ted begins his post match speech, you stay curled into each-other, enjoying the closeness when it was clear you both needed it.

No one asked Roy about his knee, knowing that right now was way too soon, but if they had, he wouldn’t have minded. At least, not with you by his side to make it all better.

#beybaldes summer sleepover !! #ted lasso x reader #roy kent one shot #roy kent imagine #roy kent x reader

[lulublack90]

Prompt 27 - Scene

@jegulus-microfic January 27 Word count 991

Previous part First part

“Oh,” James said again, still slightly shocked by Regulus’s announcement. 

“Are you going to take it?” Sirius asked ignoring James. Regulus’s eyes flicked between them, unable to settle on either. They rested on James a second longer than they had been. So many emotions flickered across his face that James struggled to pick one out.

“Yes.” He said simply. James ran his fingers roughly through his hair. They’d barely had time to figure out if they were going anywhere, and now Regulus was leaving for three whole years. James felt something breaking inside him. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew he needed to be anywhere but here. So he walked out into the garden. 

He kept walking until he couldn’t see the back door anymore. 

He stopped at the base of the tree that held his childhood treehouse. After a moment’s pause, he climbed the weathered ladder into the branches, hoping it would hold his adult weight. 

It was dirty up there. Leaves coated the floor, blown in through the open door. He used his feet to carefully push the leaves out of the treehouse, praying that nothing was currently living in them. 

Once he had a space large enough to sit in he plonked himself down and sulked. 

The treehouse itself was just a shed that his dad had somehow built around the tree. It was smaller than he remembered.

It didn’t take long for Sirius to find him. He called up telling James he was taking Regulus back to Grimmauld and he’d call him later before he left. 

Once it got too cold, James decided he’d moped long enough. He began descending the ladder. He got halfway down before one of the rungs splintered in half. He fell with a wumph, landing squarely on his rump. He groaned into the night air. How had this day turned out so shit?

He needed a shower after his time in the treehouse. He spent a long time in there. Letting the hot water work out the knots in his body. His rear end was tender. It was definitely going to bruise. 

Sighing deeply, he left the warmth of the shower, towelling his hair roughly and putting on his pyjamas before collapsing onto his bed. There was a note on Regulus’s pillow. He snatched it up and read the words written in Regulus’s elegant script. 

I’m Sorry 

That was all it said. James threw it across the room with a flick of his wrist. He closed his eyes and forced himself to fall asleep. 

James woke feeling guilty. Regulus had received this amazing news, and he’d acted like a brat. He had to make it up to Regulus, he couldn’t leave it like that. 

He went in search of his phone and a cup of coffee.

He found his phone where he’d left it last night, on the counter after the timer had gone off. The battery was dead, so he made his coffee and took it into the living room. 

He had to wait a few minutes before his phone would be turned on. 

Immediately, it started buzzing and didn’t stop as countless messages began to come through. Every single one of them was from Sirius, apart from one reminding him he was due an eye test. There was nothing from Regulus. 

He sipped his coffee as he went through his messages. They started off as apologies for abandoning him but turned into urgent words, Sirius needing James to reply. 

James quickly typed back, ‘I’m OK.’  

When noon came around, and he still hadn’t heard from Regulus, he put on his shoes, got in his minivan and drove to Grimmauld Place. 

Remus answered the door and let him in. 

“He’s in his room,” Remus told him before he could even ask. He climbed the stairs two at a time and went straight to Regulus’s room. He knocked before he entered and found him curled up in bed. 

“Hey,” He said, “I wanted to apologise for how I acted yesterday.” Regulus looked up at him, considering for a moment before he spoke. 

“You made quite a scene.” He said huffily. James nodded, no use denying it. 

“Have you accepted the offer then?” He winced as he said it. Regulus’s eyes narrowed. 

“Yes, I leave Friday.” He spoke in a very controlled way, revealing nothing. 

When did you apply for it?” James asked. He needed to know it wasn’t since they’d been together. 

“Why does it matter, James? It’s my dream job. You should be overjoyed for me. I’ve been working my whole life for this opportunity.” Regulus was getting irritated. His hands balled into fists as he spoke. 

“I don’t want you to go,” James pleaded. He could feel the back of his eyes prickling.   

“You can’t ask that of me!” Regulus's voice had raised, not quite a shout, but getting close. 

“Why not? I love you!” He blurted out. It was true, but way, way, way too soon to say. Regulus didn’t seem phased by it.

“Yeah, and I’ve loved you since I was eleven. It still doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to America in less than a week!” Regulus shouted now. He ran his hand over his face, sighing in frustration. “Look, we can either spend the next few days together enjoying being with each other and see if we can make this work long distance, or we call it quits now and have a clean break.” James saw red. 

“What’s the point of spending time together when you're leaving anyway? Might as well get it over with now.” He crossed his arms and scowled. Regulus’s jaw quivered. The hurt on his face was clear. Then, as if a mask had been placed over his features, it went blank. His eyes were empty of emotion. 

“So be it,” He said flatly. James turned on his heel, slamming the doors as he left Grimmauld Place behind.

Next part

#January 27 #jegulus #jegulus microfic #james potter #regulus black #james fleamont potter #regulus arcturus black #sirius black #remus lupin #james x regulus #regulus x james #regulus and james #Scene

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - "Nodology", Part 1

It's best to read this story after first reading "No More Scars", since this is a sequel. While it's not necessary to do so, it helps paint a picture of Jon and Sansa's current relationship, and there are some references to scenes from that fic that might be lost on new readers. "No More Scars" was about the organic progression of Jon and Sansa's relationship on the road to Riverrun after he rescues her from King's Landing, and this is the story of that singularly-focused narrative now entering into the larger world of family and politics and societal expectations. Long story short, shit gonna get messy from here on in, folks.

Like in "No More Scars", there's been some speeding up/condensing of the timeline, and aging up of all characters. For those that are new, Jon died up at the Wall and then went South to rescue Sansa. Expect lots of creative license being taken, lol.

Nodology

Chapter One: There's a Poem in there Somewhere

"The knot fastens ever tighter." - Jon and Sansa. After rescuing her from King's Landing and bringing her to Riverrun, the two try to navigate a love they never intended to start, especially with so many watching eyes.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1

* * *

All things come to an end, Sansa realizes.

This is what she thinks when she makes her way through the gates of her mother's family home.

(This must be how it ends – their journey.)

It's not home, but it's as near to it as Sansa expects to be for a long while. Riverrun's gates open before them, and Sansa sees her family, standing at the bottom of the stairs leading into the main hall at the end of the courtyard. The breath stalls in her chest. She's hardly aware of the halt her horse makes when she settles before them, Jon leading the horse on foot, keeping the proper decorum between them. And she's hardly aware of the offer of his hand for her to hold onto when she dismounts, rather than the familiar way his palms used to fit around her waist to help her down. They left intimacy back on the hill, after all. And part of Sansa's heart hurts for it, but in this moment, she hasn't a mind for it.

"Oh, Sansa," her mother cries, and then she is folded into her arms.

Everything comes undone in Sansa's chest. Her breath rakes from her, her eyes wetting instantly, and when she reaches trembling hands up to the back of her mother's dress, she fears she may crumble against her form.

"My dear Sansa," Catelyn cries into her hair, a hand stroking the back of her head, the other wrapped tight around her shoulders.

The sob catches in Sansa's throat. "Mother," she croaks out, voice breaking. And then the tears truly do come.

They hold each other there in the open courtyard. Robb watches them with a trembling lip, his throat flexing. He opens his mouth, perhaps to say her name, to say something, but nothing comes. He clamps it shut, the quiver in his chin barely discernible, his eyes never leaving her form.

And then there is Jon, still holding the reins of the horse she'd rode in on. Still watching, always, from a distance. She meets his eyes over her mother's shoulder.

He offers her a tender smile, just the slightest quirk of his lip, his own eyes wetting at the sight of their reunion.

She mouths a silent 'thank you' to him, her tears hot along her lids, and then she buries her face in her mother's shoulder.

Her knees buckle, but Catelyn holds her.

She is home, home, home.

(Because home is not a place.)

Sansa doesn't bother to smother her cries this time.

* * *

Catelyn frets over her the first several hours, and dinner that night is awkward for her at the beginning, the anxiety still bundled in her chest, the fear still wound tight throughout her gut.

The last time she sat at a dinner table, Cersei sat across from her, wine goblet in hand, sneer in place.

Her appetite is slow in returning.

Catelyn brushes a stand of hair behind her daughter's ear with affection. Sansa smiles tenderly at her, seated beside her, before refocusing on her plate.

Jon sits across from her. Ghost lies at her feet beneath the table.

More than her appetite may be slow to return. But he is here.

And she is safe.

And there is time in the world for everything else.

* * *

Jon had expected to be the one to break the terrible news of Arya no longer being in King's Landing, but before he can, Catelyn is already assuring Sansa of their search for Arya, her hands cupping her cheeks, her eyes fervent on hers.

"She's been seen in the Riverlands, and I've sent trusted people in search of her. Your uncle is helping," she says with a nod to her brother Edmure.

Tears bead in Sansa's eyes.

The air tangles in Jon's lungs – equal mix dread and relief.

She's been spotted, at least. She's alive, at least. But beyond that...

He meets Sansa's eyes across the room and finds the same tangle of emotion reflected in her gaze.

In this world, and in this war, they have no guarantee of anything, after all.

* * *

There's a knock on her chamber door. She calls for the visitor to enter and stops her perusal of the many dresses her mother has laid across her bed for her.

Robb enters, eyes meeting hers briefly before glancing to the floor, and he closes the door behind him. He meets her gaze again in silence.

Sansa stills in her surprise, before her manners return to her. She curtsies. "Your Grace."

"Sansa, please – " he starts, hand out-reaching, before stopping. He clears his throat. "You can forget the formalities," he tells her, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Sansa watches him quietly, aching to reach for him, to bury her face in his chest and cry in his arms and call him 'brother' once more, but she's unsure whether he wants that as well. Whether she is still 'sister' to him.

"You've returned to us. Safe and sound," he says in relief.

The anger flares hot and unbidden within her. She purses her lips, turning back to her bed. "Yes, though your definition of 'sound' is questionable at best," she snaps.

He steps toward her. "Sansa..."

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. This is her king, as well as her brother. She turns back to him. "I'm sorry. That was... unworthy of me."

He hesitates a moment, and then he reaches for her, wraps his arms around her frame, sighs into her hair. "You've no idea how worried I was."

"No, I've no idea," she breathes quietly into his shoulder, stiffening in his embrace.

Robb doesn't seem to notice. He pulls back from their hug, his hands resting along her arms. "I want you to meet my new wife. You'll get on well, I just know it."

Sansa heaves an exhausted sigh. "Of course."

Robb peers at her. "Are you tired? You must be tired. Of course, you're tired. I should let you rest." His hands fall from her shoulders. He moves to turn, and then stops, glancing back at her. He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. "I'm glad you're back, Sansa. Truly."

Maybe he means it. Maybe he means all of it.

But Sansa cannot think of that right now. She only nods silently, offering a perfunctory smile. "So am I," she says placatingly.

Robb smiles at her, before leaving her chambers.

She drops down to sit along the edge of the bed, her eyes glancing over the dresses laid out across her furs.

It rises in her – sudden and poisonous.

She grabs a dress, slings it across the room with a shriek.

Sansa stands staring at the offending garment, her chest heaving with her ire, and then she grabs for another, throwing it just the same. Another. And another. Her shouts of rage crumble into grievous cries, her arms finally giving out as she stumbles back along the bed, sliding down the side of it to drop to the stone below. She buries her face in her hands, her breaths coming quick, her eyes stinging with unshed tears, her frustration panted into her palms.

She pulls her knees up to her chest.

She is home, home, home.

(And it shouldn't feel like this.)

* * *

Jon finds her in the stables, brushing out the mane of her horse. He glances around the stalls, making certain of their seclusion, before he steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her stomach and pulling back against his chest.

Sansa startles in his embrace, before she realizes it's him, the brush in her hand still held mid-air, her other going to Jon's own hand around her waist. "Jon," she whispers with caution, glancing around the corner for any witnesses to his sudden affection.

But Jon only sighs into her hair, clutching her more firmly. He buries his nose along her shoulder. "Just give me a minute."

Sansa worries her lip, stiffening in his hold, even as his warmth floods her. "Jon, we have to be careful," she hisses, eyes still flicking around the corner of the stall.

"Just a minute, please, Sansa," he rumbles into her neck, his eyes fluttering closed at her scent, her nearness, the steady weight of her braced to his chest.

The ardency of his request seems to move her, and her shoulders lose their tension, her own sigh stealing past her lips as she leans back against him, quietly surrendering.

He's back there, suddenly, back to being on the run like they were only weeks ago, when there was nothing but her and him and a horse and a road. Nothing to stop him holding her like this, and no one to interrupt. Nothing to risk, and no shame to be found.

He breathes her in, his fingers clutching at her, and it's too short – this time that he can hold her. It's too short and too fleeting and too edged with danger.

(He knew this going into it. He knew this when she reached for his hand atop the hill and told him: "This isn't as far as we go." But knowing doesn't make it any easier.

He knew he was still her brother.

He knew this was still wrong.

But knowing and wanting have never gone hand in hand for him.)

He takes a last lingering inhale at her neck, his nose still pressed to her hair, his hands slipping from her waist reluctantly, before he moves to turn her gently in his hold, facing her.

She looks up at him with a tenderness that rakes through his chest.

He closes his eyes and sighs heavily when she braces a hand to his cheek, her thumb brushing over his coarse beard.

"What is it?" she asks him softly, peering up at him when he settles his hands on her hips.

"I just miss you," he manages, his eyes fluttering open to rove across her face.

She smiles up at him, before leaning forward to plant a kiss along his cheek. "And I miss you. Always. Even when you're right across the table from me."

Jon sighs out his aggravation, his thumbs brushing unconscious circles over her hips. "I feel like we haven't spoken in days."

Sansa looks down, her hands going to brace along his arms. "We haven't, really," she says forlornly.

He doesn't let her linger long on it though, directing her to the bench across the horse's stall. They settle next to each other, their hands held between them. "How have you been?" he asks her.

She gives a slight shake of her head. "I'm worried for mother. There's been no further news of Arya."

Jon grunts his acknowledgement, his eyes drifting down to their joined hands, his thumb gliding over her knuckles in comfort. "There will be. I promise."

She smiles up at him. "When you say it, I believe you."

"Good."

She squeezes his hands. "I'm surprised you didn't offer to join Uncle Edmure's men in their search for her."

He considers it a moment, his eyes still following the trail of his thumb over the back of her hand. "I thought about it," he says softly.

She cocks her head at him. "But...?"

He looks up at her then. "But Robb is planning his next attack soon and I need to be with him."

She frowns at his words. "Will you be leaving then?"

At her slight pout, the hint of a smile tugs at his lips, and he reaches up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her jaw. "Not immediately."

"I don't want you to go," she says firmly, leaning toward him with a plea in her eyes.

Jon sighs at the urgency in her words, the smile slipping from his face. "Sansa, I have to."

"No, you don't. Robb has enough of the Northern lords behind him. You don't have to risk yourself as well."

"And you're okay with letting our brother go to war without me? Without his family?"

Sansa's mouth thins into a tight line, her throat flexing imperceptibly. Her eyes flick away from his, focusing on the tie of his tunic instead. "No," she croaks out, finally.

But Jon knows where the hesitation comes from.

"Did Robb send you?"

The years apart have made them different people. But he still remembers how Sansa used to hang off Robb's arm at feasts, and how eagerly she played her harp for him, and how she dragged him into her games of pretend when they were children. He remembers her proud smile when Robb first donned the cloak she'd sewn for him, and the way she refused to cry in his presence, and the intensity with which she held him as they said their goodbyes outside the gates of Winterfell, before her ill-fated trip to King's Landing.

Robb was Sansa's favorite brother. Always had been.

And maybe that fact never really hurt before because he'd been his as well, and maybe it doesn't really hurt now because being Sansa's favorite brother isn't even what he wants – now, when what he wants is so decidedly far from brotherly, it isn't even in the same vicinity.

And still:

"Did Robb send you?"

Maybe it hurts now because they've both since learned the answer, even when neither will say it.

"Of course, I want him safe," she says, her voice quaking, her eyes still fixed to his chest. She sighs, her shoulders slumping with it, her gaze falling to her lap. "But I can't lose you both. I wouldn't make it, Jon, not after... not after everything."

Jon releases her hands to cup her face, the gentle brush of his thumb arcing over her cheek. "Hey, look at me."

She does, and the trust he finds in her gaze nearly rends him clean in two.

"Sansa, we have a chance, don't you see? With the Riverlands and the Vale lending their support, and Theon off securing the Greyjoys' alliance – we can end this war."

Sansa's brows dip in concern. "But when Robb married Jeyne..."

Jon shakes his head, a rough sound brewing in his throat. "I know. I know the Freys aren't happy, but we're still in talks. And nothing's been decided. And with Robb as our king, I know – I know we can finally – " He stops, the words clogging up his throat as he takes in her face. "The North can be free. You can be free. And I promise – I promise you, Sansa – neither Robb or I will ever let you be captive again, do you understand me?"

Sansa reaches up to hold his wrists, pressing her cheek into the palm of his calloused hand.

He just wants her to believe him.

Because he means it. He means it more than anything in this world.

Sansa is free when the North is free. And for that...

For that, he would give anything.

"Tell me you believe me," he begs of her, his face inching closer to hers.

The slight sheen of tears blankets her eyes as she blinks up at him. But she nods mutely, and it is answer enough.

He presses forward and kisses her. Just the once. Swift and sure and promising.

She sucks a shallow breath between her lips, her forehead bracing to his when he pulls back. Her hands never unlink from around his wrists.

Sansa is free when the North is free.

(And he needs no further reason to fight.)

* * *

"That's all I know," Sansa says, glancing down at the map of King's Landing Robb has spread out over the table.

Jon watches the tick in Robb's jaw at her words, his hands braced along the edge of the table, eyes fixed to the map. "Sansa," he sighs, "There must be something you missed. Something that can help us. You know how important this is."

Catelyn, Brynden, Edmure and even Robb's wife Jeyne Westerling stand around the table with them, all eyes keened to the layout of King's Landing spread before them, a stilted silence pervading the room. Outside the chamber, Robb's advisors and the other lords of the North wait patiently to convene the war council.

Sansa crosses her arms defensively at Robb's words, her eyes flashing to him. "Of course, I know how important this is. I'm not a simpleton. But I can't tell you what I don't know! It's not like I was privy to the Lannisters' council meetings," she huffs.

Robb looks up at her with frustration, before he pushes from his lean over the table, a hand wiped over his mouth. "Think, Sansa. Even the smallest detail may help us. Something they may have let slip."

Sansa narrows her eyes at him. "I'm sorry, was I meant to be spying between the bouts of terror and abuse? Apologies, Your Grace, but I never received that missive," she bites out.

Robb sucks a sharp breath between his teeth, his mouth opening on a scathing retort.

Catelyn's hand goes to his arm, stilling him.

The room feels stiff in the aftermath, Edmure and the Blackfish both shifting their weight from one leg to another, watching the scene before them carefully. Jeyne folds her hands in front of her, eyes falling to the floor when she pulls her lip between her teeth.

Sansa doesn't lower her gaze from her brother's.

Jon watches the exchange anxiously, his hands held tight behind his back.

Finally, Sansa tears her gaze away, hot tears pricking her eyes, her fingers tightening over her arms.

"I'm sorry for your suffering, Sansa, believe me, but this is about more than that," Robb begins, voice rough. "This is about Northern independence, and I can't afford to delay that to cushion your hurt. I need information. I need details. And I need you to give them to me."

Sansa's fingers flex over her arms, her eyes still fixed to the table, still brimming with tears. "I know that," she gets out on a croak.

And oh, what it must take from her, to be scolded like this before her family, and to keep her graces, even still.

Jon grips one hand beneath the other at his back, the muscles in his arms bunching.

Everyone stays silent before the King in the North, gauging his ire.

"But that's all I know," Sansa sighs out, her frustration nearly strangling the words in her throat. She blinks back the tears, the remembrance.

Jon can practically feel the thrum of Catelyn's anxiety beside him.

Robb sighs again, a heat behind the exhale. "You were Tyrion's wife, for Seven's sake. You mean to tell me he let nothing slip? No indication of their force's strength, their next move, any weakness of the Keep, nothing?" he bites out.

A growl brews quietly in Jon's chest at the words, at Tyion's mention, at Robb's forcefulness. His knuckles go white beneath his grip.

Sansa glowers at Robb. "He wasn't one for pillow talk," she clips out, the flush of anger coloring her throat.

Jon sees the hurt behind her eyes clearly.

"Robb," Catelyn whispers at his side, an ache lining her voice.

But Robb ignores it, his gaze narrowing on Sansa. "You were a Lannister bride," he hisses, almost accusatory. "You must know more."

"I know who I am," Sansa croaks out, blinking back the tears, her lip trembling, the words too close to apologetic for Jon's liking.

Too head-bowed for a daughter of the North.

(Too yielding for Sansa.)

Jon bares his teeth, the breath raking from him. His eyes are only for Sansa when he tells her, surely, and with everything of himself, "You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

His deep voice heralds a stilted silence in the room, all eyes turning to him upon their utterance. He's painstakingly aware of Catelyn's steady gaze beside him.

Sansa blinks up at him, her mouth parting.

They stare at each other in the quiet of the room.

He wants to go to her then, wants to wrap her in his arms and bury her in his embrace, wants to press her cheek to his chest and breathe against her hair, wants to hold her to his bones, until she knows, indisputably, and without doubt – that she is the blood of Winterfell. That she is the North.

Sansa Stark.

Not Sansa Lannister. Not Sansa the traitor's daughter. Or Sansa the captive.

But Sansa Stark.

Sansa Stark.

This is who she is, who she will always be.

And no one, not even her brother king, can take that from her.

(This is who she is, and who he loves.)

"You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell," he says again, no less certain, no less adamant than the first time.

Robb sighs heavily at the end of the table, his fists bracing to the edge of the wood, his gaze drawn down to the map before them. The fight leaves him slowly, replaced by a weariness that slumps his shoulders in its wake.

Catelyn's hand rises to his shoulder, a measure of comfort in the heated quiet of the room, and Jon is grateful for the release of her intense gaze upon him.

Robb waves his mother's council off, a hand going to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Leave me," he says on a tired exhale, an unspoken surrender to the words.

The group shuffles out wordlessly, Catelyn's hand slipping from her son's shoulder reluctantly.

Jon looks at Sansa one last time before they exit the room.

She meets his gaze almost instantly,

The axis of his body tilts toward hers, the gravity of her almost overwhelming him.

(To hold her to his bones and tell her – )

She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell.

And he is in love with her.

* * *

"I can't seem to... talk to her anymore," Robb tells him, stilling in his wiping of his blade.

Jon glances at his brother beside him, as they sit along one of the benches in the training yard. He raises a brow his way. "Who?" he asks, sliding the whetstone along his own blade, but even in his feigned ignorance, the answer is blaringly apparent.

Robb returns the oiled cloth in his hand to his sword, face screwing up in concentration. "Sansa," he tells him.

Jon grunts his acknowledgement, eyeing Robb beside him. "What do you mean?" he asks carefully, the words tight in his throat.

"You were a Lannister bride."

Jon's grip over Longclaw tightens, his nostrils flaring at the memory.

Robb huffs his frustration, stilling his motions again. "She's different, somehow. She's not the Sansa I used to know."

Jon scoffs. "Aye. Being held captive for years tends to do that to a person."

Robb straightens as he looks at Jon. "You're not blaming me, are you?"

Jon considers his words, his hand stilling the swiping motion over his sword. He sighs out heavily. "It's not about blame."

Robb stays silent, his mouth a tight line. "You think I should have made the trade for Jaime Lannister."

Jon straightens as well, setting his blade aside. "Is this really the conversation you want to have right now?"

"Yes."

Jon frowns. "No, you don't."

Robb turns frustrated. "Just because you're my brother doesn't mean you can speak to your king this way," he says brusquely.

Jon swallows back the instant bile. His mouth thins into a tight line. "See? This is exactly why we can't have this kind of conversation." He stands, moving to replace his whetstone along the rack, sheathing Longclaw.

Robb tosses the oiled cloth in his hand down to the bench as he stands as well, his sword still in his other hand. He grabs for Jon's shoulder and pulls him back. "And why is that?"

"Because you don't want honesty," Jon snaps.

Robb stills at the heat in the words, his hand falling from Jon's shoulder.

Jon sighs, wiping a hand over his mouth. "You just want to be reassured." And maybe he gets that.

The realization softens something in Jon. The heat drains from his gaze, his shoulders slumping with it as he watches Robb.

His brother doesn't answer, his eyes drifting down, his face solemn and hurt.

Jon grabs for his shoulders, catching his gaze once more. "Look, Robb, I can't tell you what the right choice is, or what it would have been. I can't tell you what you should have done. And I can't tell you that I would have done differently in your place."

It's not a truth he likes to admit, not after seeing that pale white scar at the nape of Sansa's neck, not after the stories she's told him from across their shared campfires, not after watching her tremble through nightmares and only stilling when his arms were around her.

But it's a truth, nonetheless.

Jon sighs. "I can't tell you whether you made the wrong decision or not. I can only tell you that Sansa hurt for it. She hurt dearly for it. And you're either okay with that or you're not. That's all I've got."

"Are you okay with it?"

The question surprises him, and he draws his hands back from his shoulders in silence. Jon clears his throat, shoulders pulling back. "What do you mean?"

"Are you okay with my decision? With how it's hurt her?" There's an ache behind the words, but also a need.

But Jon cannot fill that need. He knows that now. Knows that clearer than anything.

He grinds his jaw, thinks of that white scar along her back, thinks of the tears he's wiped from her cheeks, thinks of all the times she asked about their brother while they trekked through the wilderness on their way to Riverrun.

"Did Robb send you?"

And how that question has haunted them, ever since its first utterance.

How he hates that he had to be the one to kill that hope in her, how Robb is the one who made him do it.

"Jon?"

Jon clenches his jaw, the words settling along his tongue. "No, I'm not okay with it. I'm not okay with anything that hurts Sansa."

Robb blinks at him, his shoulders slumping.

Jon has to turn away, before he says any more. Before he reveals all his gruesome little insides. "Apologies, Your Grace, but I don't think I can be of any help to you for this one." He turns to leave, his hand settling along the hilt of Longclaw at his hip, a measure of reassurance, steadiness. He looks back at his brother. "Talk to her, Robb," he says softly.

Because he knows she wants that, too. Even if they should hurt for it.

They promised each other, after all.

They promised no more scars.

He only hopes that Robb isn't one already.

* * *

"Your ankle seems to be better," Catelyn muses, dragging the brush down the length of her daughter's hair.

Sansa glances up and catches her mother's gaze through the mirror, offering a smile with her answer. "Yes, much."

"You twisted it in the storm, you said?"

Sansa nods, her mouth pursing with the memory.

(Her and Jon's drenched forms, the refuge of a cave, Ghost's warmth at her back, and Jon – )

Sansa swallows tightly, her gaze falling to the vanity in front of her.

Catelyn continues her gentle brushing, a thoughtful look on her face as she takes in Sansa's curtain of hair.

Sansa doesn't expand any further on the experience, though her hands bunch together in her lap.

"And Jon was wounded when you were fleeing the Lannisters' men, is that right?"

Sansa looks at her mother through the mirror once more, a question furrowing her brow. "Yes," she says cautiously, unsure of where her mother intends to take the conversation.

"And you tended his wound?"

"Of course," she says easily.

Catelyn is silent for many moments, though she never stills her movements. And then she clears her throat softly. "So, he disrobed before you," she clips out.

Sansa stiffens in her seat, her mind reaching back to the cave, to the bare expanse of his chest pressed to hers, and his arms around her naked form, and the weight of his breath in her neck, and the kiss they'd shared the following morning, the way he'd yielded to her, opened to her breathlessly, and how good he tasted – how she'd wanted nothing more than to taste him further in that moment.

Sansa blinks back the memory, attempting a nonchalant shrug and a reassuring smile, trying to catch her mother's eyes in the mirror once more. "I've seen all my brothers shirtless in the yard before, Mother. It's no matter." She hopes she sounds more convincing than she feels.

Catelyn sets the brush aside and takes Sansa's hair in both hands, her elegant fingers threading through the strands, parting them in familiar ways. She purses her lips, eyes still fixed to her daughter's hair. "You were each younger then, and never alone. Now, it is..." She frowns minutely, turning one strand over another in her hands. "It isn't proper."

Sansa barely manages to smother the huff of frustration that tries to escape her. "What was I supposed to do? Leave him wounded?" The idea is painful, and impossible.

After seeing his scar-riddled chest –

She can't ever imagine leaving him wounded again.

Catelyn sighs, her hands stilling their ministrations. She meets Sansa's gaze through the mirror, her features softening somewhat. "No," she tells her, though it seems to take great effort from her. "No, you did the right thing."

Sansa waits for more, but her mother doesn't continue.

Catelyn keeps her gaze a moment longer, and then she turns back to her work, silently braiding Sansa's hair, any further thoughts on their recent intimacy held behind the cage of her teeth.

Something in Sansa thrums at the uncertainty of her mother's silence, at the unspoken wariness of their sudden closeness. "I'm safe with Jon," she says without preamble, the words coming up of their own accord.

Catelyn doesn't react. She simply continues her braiding.

Sansa's brow furrows in determination, her shoulders setting straighter. "If you believe anything, believe that," she says imploringly, proud of the way her voice doesn't shake with the words.

Catelyn's fingers graze her cheek as she pulls the strands from her face, her eyes never meeting hers through the mirror. "I will try," she tells her.

But while the words should stir hopefulness within her, Sansa finds there is only a fluttering in her gut, a coil of unease that lingers long into the night, many hours after her mother has left her.

* * *

She's on her way back from the sept one morning when he grabs her arm and tugs her into a shadowed alcove, smothering her surprised yelp with his calloused palm over her mouth. She blinks wide eyes up at Jon, catches his wide grin in the shadows, and the relief that floods her has her sagging against the wall behind her. When he releases her mouth, his name comes out in a scolding, a swap to his shoulder for good measure.

He laughs good-naturedly, and Sansa opens her mouth for a scathing retort about his frightening her this early in the morning but then his hands are slipping under her jaw and tilting her face up to his and then his mouth is opening over hers – long and languid and slow.

Sansa can only sigh into it, eyes fluttering shut.

Jon tilts his head, slanting his mouth over hers in a wet, almost filthy kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth easily. A quiet moan escapes her at the sensation and a rumble answers in his chest, his breaths coming harder as he presses into her, bracing her back against the stone with his hips pinned to hers. She grips at his shoulders, fingers curling in his tunic, her back arching against him, as she sucks on his tongue, her own kiss growing hungry and heated.

He keeps his hands on her face, his grip tightening over her jaw at her eagerness, as though he aches to release his hold of her, to instead slide his hands down the length of her body, his thumbs just barely grazing the sides of her breasts, gliding over her ribs, along her waist, anchoring at her hips, the small of her back, dangerously low as they grip her to him, pressing them intimately together.

The thought is maddening to her, especially when he keeps his hands so frustratingly secure along her face, even as he kisses her wildly.

She thinks of her morning prayers in the sept, and her cheeks grow pinker (if that were even possible in this moment) at the sudden realization that perhaps she should have also asked for forgiveness, because a surge of boldness courses through her right then and she reaches for his hands, drags them down to her collar, just above the tops of her breasts in her open-necked gown, her chest heaving against him as she continues kissing him.

He groans along her tongue, gripping at her shoulders to steady himself, still ever so honorable, his thumbs unconsciously stretching down to brush along the bare skin of her modest cleavage, and he pulls back suddenly, panting, his mouth hovering over hers, his breath warm as it fans her swollen lips.

She's delirious at the sudden loss of him.

"Sansa..." he gets out roughly, voice laden with desire.

She pushes forward to meet his mouth again, and he sighs as he opens to her, meeting her eager tongue with his own, his weight sagging against her in his surrender. He presses her full against the wall now as his hands slide down her sides before wrapping round her back, dragging her hips into his with a low growl vibrating over her tongue in his mouth.

She startles at the press of hardness into her thigh, suddenly highly aware of his desire, even as her own flutters in her gut, spitting like hot coals.

Jon seems to notice, dragging his wet mouth from her own swollen one reluctantly, his chest heaving against hers, his moan painting her lips for half a breath before he drops his head into her shoulder, hugging her tightly against him.

She tries to take example from his self-control, but it's just so hard with him pressed so deliciously against her, with his hot breath in the crook of her neck, and his hands gripping the back of her dress, one bunched fist scandalously low, his arms trembling with his waning willpower.

She mewls at his ear, the soft, embarrassing whine of his name escaping her lips, and she links her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his throat. "Don't stop," she croons into his skin.

He chuckles at her shoulder, his arms tensing a moment, and then relaxing, unwinding from her to brace his palms along the wall behind her instead. Still, he keeps his weight pressed against hers, keeps their bodies a single, melded line. "I must," he gets out raggedly, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. "Or I truly won't stop."

She thrills at the possibility, not fully understanding where that may lead but knowing that she wants it. She wants him.

Desperately and daily – she wants him.

Like a fever beneath her skin.

She wets her lips, eyes peering up into his when she whispers against his mouth, "Then don't."

Jon closes his eyes on a weighted sigh, grinding his jaw in some semblance of control. When he opens his eyes once more, he chuckles at her unchanged expression – earnest and hopeful. He plants a quick kiss along her nose. "Sansa, this is hardly the time or place for us to... explore."

She scrunches her nose in indignation, her arms loosening around his neck. "Well, you started it."

He actually barks a laugh at that, and Sansa beams at the sight of it.

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes roving her face with a grin. "Aye, and you intend to finish it, is that it?"

She peers at him, her smile turning mischievous as she twines her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, her back arching subtly. "Precisely," she answers tartly.

Jon's eyes flick to her mouth, his smile slipping as his hand drifts from her hair back to her jaw, his thumb edging along her bottom lip.

Sansa stills at the motion, her mouth parting slightly at the tender yet heated touch.

Jon watches as he brushes his thumb slowly across her mouth, still pink and ripe and swollen from his kisses. He licks his lips unconsciously. "Careful, girl," he breathes out.

Sansa takes the warning for what it is, her own breath coming heavy in her chest again. She swallows thickly, cocking her head to look at him.

His eyes flick up to meet hers at the motion.

"But it... it feels good," she says cautiously, her nails curling along the back of his neck. "Doesn't it feel good for you?" she gets out on a hoarse whisper.

"It feels more than good," Jon says thickly, clearing his throat as he drops his hand from her mouth, leaning back from her for the first time since their mouths met. He still keeps one hand braced to the wall behind her. "And therein lies the danger."

"I'm safe with you, though," she says instinctually. She doesn't even need to think the words. They're simply there. They simply are.

As plain a truth as she's ever known.

Jon laughs softly at her assertion. "You humble me, Sansa. Truth be told, my control is slipping day by day."

She sucks a short breath between her teeth, silently exhilarated at the admission.

His expression softens as he watches her. "I missed you," he says quietly.

Her heart clenches at the words.

He shakes his head, sighing with it. "I always miss you," he admits, leaning close to press his forehead to hers.

"And I, you," she answers, her hands slipping from his neck to slide down to his chest, bracing there. "I want to see you every day," she says without inhibition, the brightness of the emotion bringing a smile back to her face. She turns her head slightly to press a fervent kiss to his cheek.

He chuckles at her unhindered earnestness. "You mean you didn't tire of me all those long weeks on the road?"

"I could never tire of you, Jon," she says sweetly, the truth of it slipping easily from her. She leans back to look at him. "In fact, it's quite the opposite actually. I find myself needier and needier for you as the days go by. Especially when I'm without you."

Jon quiets at her words, his gaze falling to her mouth again. He stares at her lips for a long moment, a slow, steadying breath easing out of his chest as he works his jaw, an ardent look crossing his features. "I should go," he says finally, voice rough when it leaves him. He clears his throat, glancing back up to meet her eyes. "Before I do something I shouldn't." He leans away to glance back out the empty corridor. "And before your mother starts to worry at your absence," he adds on.

Sansa pats his chest affectionately, grabbing his attention once more. "Will you meet me in the gardens this afternoon? I've something to give you."

Jon answers with a brilliant smile. "Alright, then." He leans in and plants a brief, sweet kiss along her lips. He pulls away from her reluctantly, his hand reaching for hers in farewell as he moves into the hall.

Their fingers thread together, before slipping apart, their yearning already building back up in the space between them.

Sansa watches him go, fingers pressed to her lips, heart full.

* * *

She presses the kerchief into his hands, and he stares down at it, at the elegantly stitched white wolf decorating the edge of the material. He blinks dumbly at the gift in his hands.

Sansa beams at him, her hands clasped gracefully before her. "A lord should always carry a favor from his lady, should he not?" she says brightly.

Jon looks up at her, the words stalling in his throat.

Her lashes flutter as pink tinges her cheeks. "I am your lady, am I not?" she asks hesitantly.

Jon releases a short chuckle at her question, before glancing around the secluded corner of the gardens where they stand, and then snaking a hand behind her neck and pulling her toward him, meeting her mouth with his in a fervent kiss, a sigh breaking from him when her hands slide up his chest to anchor at his shoulders. They smile against each other's mouths when they break the kiss.

He pulls from her, his fingers flexing in her hair, his breath fanning her lips. "I can only endeavor to be a worthy lord, my lady."

She presses her nose to his cheek, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Just tell me I'm yours," she sighs impatiently.

Jon chuckles again, a hand going to the back of her head, his other anchored at the small of her back, her favor bunched in his fist. He pulls back just enough to catch her eyes again. "Sansa – "

But she kisses him then, cuts off his words. Her mouth is insistent on his. She pulls back, breathless, her eyes shifting between his. "Tell me, please," she whispers in the space between their lips.

There's something needful to the words, to the way she presses into his chest, the way her fingers dig along his shoulders.

His gaze darkens on hers, his sigh painting her lips. He curls his fingers into the soft silk of her favor, his fist pressing low on her back. "You are," he tells her, voice dragging from his chest. His gaze drops to her mouth, his tongue wetting his lips. "You are mine," he gets out roughly, angling his mouth to press over hers.

Her hands glide along his shoulders to the back of his neck, nails sinking into his hair as she smiles against his lips. "As you are mine," she breathes with certainty, just before he takes her mouth with his.

The kiss is sweet and decadent and indulgent, their mouths moving against each other's slowly, deliberately, tasting each other without demand. His hand tangles in her hair, holding her to him, his tongue swiping into her mouth with a low groan as he presses into her.

Her back hits the bowled edge of the fountain behind her, and her steps stumble, but he's got her securely in his hold, his mouth breaking from hers at the slight jostle. He meets her eyes, and they stare at each other with mischievous grins, the panted heat of their breaths mingling in the air between them. And then he dips his head to her throat, his nose brushing the edge of her jaw, his lips planting a soft, reverent kiss along her skin.

Sansa sighs prettily at his ministrations, her nails catching along the nape of his neck.

The feel of her is nearly dizzying.

"Sansa!" someone calls upon entering the gardens.

Jon tears himself away from her instantly, attempting to steady his pants, a hand smoothing through his hair, his chest heaving at the sudden retreat.

"Sansa!" the voice calls again, getting closer.

Sansa licks her lips, coming back to herself, her trembling hands smoothing over her skirts as she rights herself beside the fountain.

Jon is a respectful distance away from her when he turns to their intruder, a brow raising upon seeing Edmure Tully's entrance into their corner of the gardens.

The Lord of the Riverlands makes his way to Sansa without a look at Jon, his hands grabbing hers. "Oh, Sansa," he sighs out brokenly.

Sansa blinks at him, her breath stalled in her throat. "What is it, Uncle?"

Edmure glances at Jon finally, only briefly, before meeting his niece's gaze once more. "It's your brothers, Bran and Rickon. At Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy, he – he..." Edmure turns almost green at the words, a grimace passing over his features.

Jon stills at Edmure's distress, his body settling into a single, taut focus.

Edmure swallows thickly, his hands tightening over Sansa's. His face hardens, his shoulders going stiff. "You need to go to your mother," he says simply, the words low and full of warning.

Sansa stares at her uncle, a line of concern creasing her brow. She looks to Jon, her mouth tipping open.

But he has no answers for her.

"Go to your mother," Edmure says again, more sure this time, a darkness crossing over his gaze, as he tugs her along after him.

Jon watches her go, his own feet rooted to the ground.

Something sinks deep in his gut – like a stone he will never be able to dig out again.

* * *

Her mother is inconsolable. Her grief is a wailing thing at night, and a quiet haunt by daylight. Sansa watches her from across the breakfast table the following day, watches the way she drags her fork disinterestedly around her plate. Robb reaches for their mother's hand, squeezing it gently.

"You must eat, Mother," he says softly.

Catelyn looks up at him a moment, and then pats his hand atop hers. "I think I'd like to rest," she says hollowly before rising from the table.

Sansa barely manages to choke back her own sob as she watches her mother leave the room. She turns to look at Robb, but his hand is over his face, a heavy sigh leaving him. Edmure and the Blackfish are equally quiet, exchanging worried glances with each other. And then she looks at Jon.

He's already watching her, but he turns his gaze away swiftly when she meets his eyes. He rubs a hand over his mouth, exhaling roughly as he drops his fork atop his plate and leans back in his chair.

None of them look at each other.

Bran and Rickon are there in the room with them, their names hanging unsaid in the stilted air, their deaths stinging like smoke in the eyes.

Their memories raw like a blister.

Sansa closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath. The tears are instant.

Robb glances to her at the first sob that hits air.

She presses a hand to her mouth, eyes flickering open to stare at the half-eaten food on her plate. She doesn't quite manage to smother it. "I'm sorry," she croaks out before it overtakes her, and she pushes her seat back, running for the door, the tears nearly blinding her.

She doesn't look back. She simply runs.

She runs and runs and runs. Through the corridors and past the courtyard, out the gates and across the bridge. Along the riverbank, she runs. She runs and runs and runs, crying all the while, until her legs finally give out and she stumbles to her knees, her hands going out to catch herself, palms squishing in mud, and her mother will scold her for ruining her dress, she knows, but then – but then she's laughing at the thought. A delirious, ragged laugh that breaks on a hiccup, her sob catching along its end, and she inhales sharply, holds it tight to her chest, gasps and shakes and laughs once more, and then – and then she's crying again. Crying so hard it makes her head spin.

Her fingers dig into the mud, her knees aching from when she'd fallen. And she is terribly and uncontrollably – anguished.

Anguished beyond words.

(Her little brothers).

Sansa wails, a hand going to grip at her chest, her heart rending beneath.

(Her little brothers.)

She cries until she can't anymore, until the exhaustion overtakes her.

She sleeps for hours by the riverbank, until she blearily recognizes Robb's arms scooping her up and carrying her back into the keep. She keeps her head pressed to his shoulder.

He never minds the mud.

* * *

Sansa spends the following days with her mother – making sure she eats and bathes and makes the appearances that she needs to. Catelyn humors her attentions without any fuss, something that only makes Sansa more worried for her. But Catelyn doesn't miss any meetings of the lords, doesn't disregard her position on Robb's council, and her detached, cold objectivity on current matters is somehow both admirable and terrifying to Sansa.

Is this what she herself has to look forward to? As a lord or king's wife?

Button up your grief, keep a tight lip, only cry your piece when you've made sure that chamber door is shut.

Sansa wonders if it's ever really worth it in the end.

She hasn't seen Jon in days, and it makes her gut curl in anxiety. Of course, she's seen him, but at a glance, only. Across the breakfast table and three seats down at the meetings of the lords and passing him as he trains in the yard, her arm linked with her mother's.

But she hasn't seen him. Hasn't touched his face or felt his kiss or even traded words past a cursory greeting. She's nearly nauseous at the loss of him.

It's how she finds herself before his chambers one night, when all propriety would have her in bed already, but instead, she tries the latch to his door and breathes a sigh of relief when it opens easily. She closes it behind her quickly, the lock clicking into place.

Jon glances up from his bed where he sits with his arms resting over his knees. "Sansa," he hisses, glancing at the closed door behind her and then back to her. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know," she says, "I know but I – I can't just..." The words seem to die along her tongue. She doesn't really know what she came here to say.

(Except maybe that she's sorry. Sorry that he's lost his brothers, too, and couldn't even be there to help them. Because he was too busy helping her.)

Jon works his jaw silently, staring at her, his eyes already wet.

(They all cry their piece when that chamber door is shut, she realizes.)

"Jon," she says softly, moving from the door.

He rises from his seat, wiping a hand over his eyes, clearing his throat. "You should go," he says, voice rough. He takes her gently by the arm.

"No," she counters, planting her feet.

Jon looks at her, his hand still wrapped around her forearm. He sighs, eyes drifting down. "Please, Sansa, I don't want you to get into trouble."

"Is that why you want me gone?"

He doesn't answer her.

She swallows thickly, cupping her hands around his cheeks to lift his face to hers. "Or is it because you blame me?"

He rears back at her words, brows furrowing sharply down. "What?"

She licks her lips, the words catching along her throat, but she pushes them to air, her voice cracking beneath the weight of them. "Are you mad at me because I kept you from them? Because rescuing me meant you couldn't be there for them?"

Jon releases her arm, his mouth dipping open. "Sansa, no, that's not – I've never – " He stops, clears his throat, notices the tears starting to form along her eyes. He sighs heavily, the grief shaking from him, like snow coming off the boughs, and then he's wrapping his arms around her, dragging her into his embrace, pressed to his chest. He winds a hand into her hair and presses his mouth to her ear. "Oh, Sansa, no, no, I've never thought that."

"Are you sure?" she chokes out, grasping at him, desperate, the sorrow clogging up her throat. "Because I have," she admits, closing her eyes on a sob.

Jon presses a kiss to her temple, his hand bracing along the nape of her neck, his other wrapped around her back. "Gods, no, Sansa, it isn't your fault." He presses another kiss at her ear, along her cheek, at the corner of her mouth, pulling from her just enough to meet her gaze, his hands going to brush the hair from her face, his palms cradling her cheeks as he makes her meet his eyes. "Sansa, this isn't your fault."

She exhales raggedly, her hands bunching in the material of his tunic. "But I'm here and they're not. They're not, Jon, they're – they're dead, oh gods, they're dead, Jon. Bran and Rickon. They're – they're gone, and I'm never going to hear their laughs again or – or brush their hair or clean their cheeks or – gods, or hold them, Jon. I'm never going to hold them again and it should have been me! It should have been me you left. You shouldn't have come for me, Jon, you should have saved them! And then everything would be okay. And mother would be okay. And Robb would be okay. And everything would be fine if you'd just never come at all, if you'd just left me, Jon, if you'd just – "

She doesn't get to finish, because then his mouth is on hers, and it isn't like any kiss he's ever given her before. This kiss is punishing. It's forceful and blunt, all teeth and snarl, his hand grabbing her chin almost painfully, keeping her mouth pressed to his, pushing her back, and she hits the door with a thud, a surprised grunt leaving her. He presses his whole weight against her, trapping her there against the door as he kisses her, slants his mouth over hers and takes and takes and takes, his other hand moving from her face to her hip, dragging her up against him, and he's never been this forward with her before, never been this passionate and she finds herself nearly paralyzed in his hold, her mind jarring into stillness, her hands fisting along his sleeves, her heart thudding painfully in her chest and she's full of it, full of him, and this, and everything, and – and –

He breaks from her, panting, his hand still firmly holding her chin, keeping her gaze fixed to his when her eyes flutter open, her breath raking from her in shallow gasps.

She's never seen him look so angry, his eyes dark and unblinking on hers. It makes her whimper quietly in his hold, squirming beneath him.

"Jon," she pants out breathlessly.

"I need you to understand something," he tells her, hot breath fanning her lips.

Her wide eyes flick between his, her chest heaving against him.

His fingers flex over her chin as he tilts his head to look at her, his gaze roving her face. He swallows tightly, wetting his lips. "If I had the chance, I'd do it again."

Sansa blinks at him, mouth tipping open. "What...?"

He meets her eyes once more, steady and dark and sure. "Even knowing what we know, if I had the chance to do it over again, I'd still come for you."

Her chest tightens inexplicably, her eyes watering without her bidding. "Jon," she moans out, voice threatening to break with her tears.

He surges forward and kisses her again, just as forcefully, just as possessively. He releases her slowly, his mouth still hovering over hers, his breath still painting her lips. "Every time – a thousand times – I would come for you. Do you understand?"

She nods mutely, because he has silenced any words she could speak, anyway. She's overcome, suddenly, so she wraps her arms around him and meets his mouth with hers once more, pulling him back against her, and he follows easily, pressing her into the door behind her, his hands roving her form greedily.

It's a desperate, needful grasping for each other – full of loneliness and guilt. But also full of longing, acceptance.

His hands meet the soft flesh of her body for the first time, braced against her trembling stomach when they dip beneath the hem of her night shirt, and the touch burns beyond anything she's ever felt before.

His hands meet her, and she burns.

She thinks there's a poem in there somewhere, or a song maybe, a tale like the ones she used to love.

But right now, in this moment, it's only Jon.

It's only Jon, and it's only her, and it's only them.

It's the way he kisses her like he'll never get the chance again.

It's the way he cradles her face in his hands – like she is something precious and worthy and needed.

It's the way she knows, without doubt, and without regret:

Every time – a thousand times – she'd wait for him.

#jonsa #jonsa fic #nodology #jon snow #sansa stark #got fanfic #my writing

[jrob64]

Long Overdue Conversations - Part 4 (Emma & Killian) A OUAT missing scene

Here is another conversation I feel should have taken place in Once Upon a Time. This one occurs immediately after the 'You traded your ship for me' scene at the end of season 3.

THIS PART IS RATED M!

Previous installments can be found on Tumblr: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

All parts can also be found on Ao3 & FFN

Special thanks to @hookedmom who always makes my stories better with her beta skills and suggestions for making this scene better (and hotter!)

*********

“You traded your ship for me?” Emma asked, amazement evident in her voice.

Killian gave a slight nod. “Aye.”

Then she was kissing him. Not a bruising and frantic kiss like the one in Neverland, but a tender, passionate one that took his breath away all the same. At one point, he had to draw back to look at her, just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. When she smiled at him and rested her forehead against his, he caressed her cheek, running her silky hair through his fingers, before capturing her willing lips once again.

Their moment was interrupted when Leroy and one of his brothers came bursting through the door of Granny’s, drunkenly singing. It was all Killian could do to keep himself from throttling the dwarfs, but Emma simply squeezed his hand and gave him a soft smile.

“If you don’t have your ship anymore, where are you staying?” she asked.

“The widow Lucas granted me a room at her bed and breakfast.”

“Hmm…” Emma hummed in thought.

Killian tilted his head, waiting for her to continue. After a moment of silence, he asked, “What’s on your mind, Swan?”

Leaning in, she brushed her lips across his cheek. “Give me a minute to say goodbye to my family. I’ll be right back.”

He watched her rise from her seat and ascend the steps into the diner. Before disappearing inside, she turned and smiled at him reassuringly.

While he waited, he touched his fingers to his lips, just as he had after their first kiss. He loved the feeling of Emma Swan’s lips on his and wanted it to linger. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to wait nearly as long to feel them again.

Sooner than he expected, Emma was back out the door. When she reached him, she took him by the hand, encouraging him to get to his feet. “Come on, pirate.”

“Where are we going, Love?”

She gave him a secretive smile. “To your room.”

In a near state of shock, he followed behind her as she led the way, still gripping his hand tightly. When they entered the lobby, Emma asked, “What’s your room number?”

“Um…four,” he stammered.

“Seriously? That’s the room I had when I first came to town.”

“Aye, the widow Lucas did mention that fact when she gave me the key.”

He trailed closely behind her up the stairs, his hand on the small of her back. He was hesitant to break physical contact with her, for fear she would suddenly disappear. It was Storybrooke, after all.

When they reached his door, he fumbled for the key. Finally withdrawing it from the inside pocket of his leather duster, it slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor.

Emma bent down and picked it up, smirking as she held it between her fingers. “Nervous, Captain?” she asked, before inserting it into the lock and turning it. The door swung open and they quickly crossed the threshold.

“I’m still trying to determine if this is indeed real, or simply my imagination,” he said. He closed the door and leaned back against it, gripping his belt buckle as he looked up at her through his dark lashes.

“Have you imagined this?” she asked, batting her own lashes at him.

He poked his tongue into his cheek, then ran it over his bottom teeth before answering. “Perhaps.”

Stepping closer, she leaned up to whisper in his ear. “Move away from the door.”

Quirking a curious brow at her, he did as instructed. She held her hands up with her palms flat and facing the door. Closing her eyes, she concentrated until a soft glow emanated from them. Then she moved them slowly to trace around the entire frame of the door.

When she finished, she dropped her hands and turned to face him. Seeing the slight confusion on his face, she explained, “Silencing spell. Granny has supernatural hearing, remember?”

“You’re bloody brilliant, Swan.” He closed the distance between them, reaching up to sift her blonde locks through his fingers, his deep blue eyes boring into hers. “Now that we’re alone…”

Emma shrugged out of her leather jacket and let it drop to the floor, then ran her hands up the front of his vest and under the shoulders of his heavy, leather coat. Understanding her intention, he pulled his arms free when she pushed it off of him.

“Just how much does that thing weigh?” she asked. “And how the hell do you wear it around all the time?”

He grinned at her. “Is that really what you want to think about right now, Love?”

“You have a point. Besides,” she said mischievously, “I’m sure you’ve carried rum barrels heavier than that, right?”

His brows furrowed. “Come again?”

“Just something your former self said when he was carrying me onto his…your…ship.”

“Bloody wanker,” he grumbled. “I should have hit him harder.”

She began undoing the fasteners on his vest. “Is that really what you want to think about right now?” she asked, echoing his words.

“Too right, Love.”

Once the vest joined his coat on the floor, he removed his hook and placed it on the dresser. Then Emma slid his suspenders off his shoulders and started working on the tiny buttons of his billowy, black shirt. “How do you manage these things with one hand? I can’t unbutton them with two.”

“I don’t mess with the buttons. I simply slide it on over my head.”

“That explains why it’s always open practically to your waist.”

“You’ve noticed that, have you?” he asked with a knowing smirk.

“Kinda hard to miss it, with your whole chest on display.” Lifting her eyes to meet his, she abandoned the buttons and slowly ran her fingers through the hair on his chest that had been teasing her ever since she met him in the Enchanted Forest. Hearing him gasp at the contact, she added, “I’ve been wanting to do this for a very long time.”

As her fingertips continued to explore, he dipped his head to capture her lips, his own calloused fingers finding their way under the hem of her turtleneck. He caressed the soft skin he found there, and she moaned into the kiss, “Killian…”

The breathy sound of his name from her sweet lips had him growing hard in an instant. “Swan,” he mumbled, “are you…are you quite sure about this, Love?”

She pulled back to look at him, her pupils dilated with desire. “I told my parents I wouldn’t be home tonight, brought you up to your room, and used magic to make sure no one would hear us. Does that sound like someone who isn’t sure?”

“You told your parents you were going to be with me tonight?”

“Yes. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about them anymore.”

“Agreed,” he chuckled. “Where were we?”

“Right about here,” she said, crossing her arms to grab the bottom of her sweater, then pulling it over her head.

Killian could feel his heartbeat increase as his eyes roamed over her newly bared skin. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t longed for this scenario, but never could he have imagined the absolute perfection of Emma Swan.

“Your turn,” she said, grasping the hem of his shirt to tug it over his head. He tried to stand still as her hands explored the expanse of his chest, moved over his shoulders and down his arms.

He was so busy enjoying her touch and taking in her beautiful form, he had forgotten about his battered, leather brace. When her fingers found it, he involuntarily took a step backwards, pulling his arm away from her.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she said soothingly. “It doesn’t bother me.”

His hand rubbed absentmindedly over the brace. “It…it’s ugly, Swan. It’s been a very long time since I’ve allowed anyone to see it.”

“You don’t have to hide it from me, Killian. It’s part of you and I…well, nothing about you could make me…care for you any less.”

Slowly, he stepped back into her space, his eyes never leaving hers. With practiced fingers, he deftly undid the buckles. After hesitating a few moments, he grasped the brace and twisted it off of his arm. Emma took it from him and laid it on the dresser beside his hook, as he removed the protective cloth covering his stump.

She locked eyes with him again, before dropping her gaze to his arm. Placing one hand under his elbow, she lifted it up while the fingers of her other hand gently traced the raised, jagged scars. “It must have been so painful,” she said quietly.

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching at the memory. “I…I don’t remember feeling pain when he…when he cut it off. I’d just witnessed him murder Milah and that pain overshadowed everything else. It wasn’t until later, when a crew member cauterized it, that I finally realized how much it hurt. By that time, my grief and anger had taken over and all I wanted to focus on was plotting my revenge.”

Emma bent to press a kiss to the end of his wrist. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Killian.”

“It’s long in the past, Love. I would much rather look toward the future.” Using his finger to lift her chin, he gave her a smile. Then he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. “A future that includes you, I hope.”

In answer, she fused her lips to his, her hands beginning to roam freely over his body. When she slid her hands down inside the back of his trousers and squeezed his ass, he sucked in a ragged breath. “Bloody hell, Swan,” he growled.

“What’s the matter, Captain? Can’t you handle it?”

Before she could utter another word, he skillfully flicked open the button on her jeans and unzipped them. “Let’s see who can’t handle it, shall we?” Then his hand was inside her panties, cupping her mound.

  Her surprised gasp turned to a moan of pleasure as his long fingers slid through her slick folds. “I’ve barely touched you and you’re already this wet?” he asked, his voice low and husky in her ear.

“I…I’ve wanted this ever since…” She stopped talking and bit her lip.

“Since when, Swan?” he queried.

“Since…Neverland,” she admitted.

Hearing her finally confess her feelings made his own surge through him in a hot rush. He withdrew his hand and lifted her off the floor. Carrying her across the room, he deposited her on the bed. “Take off your boots,” he commanded, beginning to toe off his own.

She happily complied, then began pushing her jeans down her legs. When they reached her knees, she looked up and felt like all of the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

Killian was standing in front of her, arms crossed over his chest, dressed in nothing but his leather pants. They were straining against the huge bulge that was right at her eye level. Without conscious thought, her hands reached for him, rubbing his rigid member through the leather.

He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, exhaling the words, “I’ve wanted this for a very long time, too, Emma.”

“Then let’s not wait any longer.”

Her fingers set to work unfastening his pants to free his cock, which she promptly began to stroke. At the same time, he reached behind her and worked at the hooks of her bra. When they were undone, his hand and wrist tugged on the straps and her hands left his shaft long enough to wiggle out of it.

While she resumed her exploration of his sizable cock, he fondled her breasts - squeezing, pinching, rubbing and caressing them, murmuring words of praise for their perfection.

Killian suddenly realized how quickly they were working each other up, and put his hand over Emma’s to stop her stroking. “Can we…can we slow down just a bit, Love? I don’t want this to be over too soon.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said breathlessly. “Why don’t we finish getting undressed?”

“Aye,” he agreed.

Both of them removed their remaining clothes and as Emma laid down in the middle of the bed, she pulled Killian down beside her. He pushed himself up to lean on his left elbow, his fingers dancing along the skin of her belly. “Gods, Love. I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman than you. You’re absolutely stunning.”

Her hand moved up his forearm and bicep, tracing the hard muscles. “So are you, Killian.”

They explored each other’s body with their hands and mouths, whispered words spoken against skin, between kisses, licks and nips. When Killian’s fingers found their way once again to Emma’s most intimate place, she bucked into his hand, clearly craving more.

He nudged her legs further apart with his knee, then slowly slid one finger into her warm, wet channel. “Tell me how that feels, Love,” he implored.

“Feels…amazing,” she complied, her eyes closing of their own accord and her breath coming out in short gasps.

After gliding in and out of her a few times, he pulled his eyes away from the sight to look up at her. “Are you ready for more?”

She nodded her head, biting her lip in anticipation.

On the next pass, he added a second digit. “So bloody perfect, taking me like that, Swan.”

“Killian, I’m going to…you’re going to make me…” she muttered, trying to speak a coherent sentence.

“Don’t hold back. Just let it happen and enjoy it, Love.”

She took his advice and soon she was clenching tightly around his fingers, the evidence of her orgasm further slickening his fingers. As she throbbed around them, he sought friction by rubbing his hard erection against her thigh, then sucked one of her nipples into his mouth.

“Killiannn…” she moaned throatily.

He withdrew his fingers and chuckled lowly against her breast over her huff of annoyance. “Patience, Love. I have something much more…fulfilling…for that greedy quim.”

Instantly, she shifted onto her side and reached down to grasp his cock. “I’m ready when you are,” she breathed hotly into his ear.

With a growl, he flipped her onto her back, causing her to let out a little yelp of surprise. Then he swung himself over her body, hovering over her. Nuzzling into her neck, he murmured, “I don’t know if you noticed, but I was quite taken with that dress we pilfered during our adventure.”

“You mean the one…that made me look like…a bar wench?” she gasped, enjoying what his mouth was doing to her collarbone.

“Mmm, aye,” he hummed. “It certainly made you quite…distracting. And very enticing. I wanted to bury my face right here.” He licked up between her breasts, chuckling again when she uttered a curse.

Emma’s hands slid between them and wrapped around his girth. Widening her legs, she dragged the tip through her soaked folds. At his groan, she whispered, “You did promise to fulfill me, so fill me, Captain.”

He lifted his head to look into her face, giving her a grin. “As you wish.”

Her hand guided him to where she was aching for him and he slowly pushed into her, inch by glorious inch. Her legs wrapped around his hips, hands moving to scratch along his back, which added to the pleasure he was already experiencing from being buried inside the woman for whom he’d been yearning for months. He dropped his head to her chest, giving her a moment to adjust to him, while getting himself under control so he wouldn’t be on the verge too soon.

When he finally began to move, it was at a slow, steady pace. Experimenting with different angles, he took note of what brought the most response from her.

After several blissful minutes, she murmured, “Killian…”

“Yes, Love?”

“Make me see stars,” she requested breathlessly, reaching behind him to squeeze his buttocks almost painfully.

He kissed her and grinned slyly, determined to meet her challenge. Dropping to his elbows on either side of her, he began thrusting faster and deeper, until he was plunging into her with abandon, eliciting a loud exclamation from her each time he filled her.

He was getting close to his peak, but didn’t want to reach it before she did, so he caught her nipple in his mouth again, alternating flicking it with his tongue and sucking hard. His actions had the desired effect and soon she was screaming through her release, her head thrashing on the pillow, while her throbbing cunt rippled along his engorged cock.

“Bloody…fucking…hell,” he grunted, thrusting eratically, until he exploded, filling her with streams of his hot release. Not wanting to crush her, he rolled them over, sprawling her sweat-slicked body over his own.

Neither knew how long they laid there, trying to get their breathing and heart rates under control. He heard her mumble something into his chest, but couldn’t make out the words. Raising his leaden arm, he brushed her hair away from her face. “What did you say, Love?”

She lifted her face to peer into his. “You did it.”

“Did what?” he asked, thoroughly puzzled.

  “Made me see stars…and several planets.”

He laughed, then pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “I’m glad to hear it, because you definitely did the same for me.”

“Good thing I soundproofed the room, huh?”

“Aye, Love. I don’t think I would be able to meet Granny’s eyes tomorrow morning if you hadn’t.”

It was her turn to laugh. As they lay in silence, she skimmed her fingers through the hair on his chest, enjoying the sighs of pleasure from him.

After several peaceful minutes, Emma said, “Killian?”

“Hmm?”

“I would have chosen you.”

He opened his eyes to see her looking at him earnestly. “Chosen me for what?”

“Remember back in Neverland when you told me I would have to choose between you and Neal?”

“Aye.”

“Even if Neal hadn’t…died, I still would have chosen you.”

He lifted his head from the pillow to peer at her more closely. “Truly?”

“Yeah. Well, to be honest, it wasn’t ever a contest between the two of you.” She watched him studying her closely, before adding, “Is that difficult for you to believe?”

“I saw how much his death impacted you and thought perhaps, given the chance, the two of you might have rekindled your relationship.”

“We actually had a really nice conversation just before I realized he was sharing a body with his father, and I felt like we were in a good place with each other at the end. Neal will always be my first love and Henry’s father, so he has a special spot in my heart; but…after what he did to me, I would have never been able to completely trust him. You, on the other hand, have never given me any reason not to trust you. You’ve proven time and time again that you’re in my corner, that you believe in me…”

“Of course I do, Emma. You’re the most determined and assiduous woman I’ve ever met. I trust you with my life…and my heart.”

She tilted her head and smiled softly. “I trust you with mine, too. I think you know me well enough to know I didn’t come to that decision lightly.”

He reached up to twist a lock of her hair around his finger. “Aye, that I do. I feel incredibly honored to hold your trust, Love, especially when not so very long ago, you chained me at the top of a beanstalk because you didn’t trust me.”

“That’s not why I chained you there.”

“No?” he questioned.

She shook her head. “If you recall, I told you I couldn’t take the chance of being wrong about you. Even then, I sensed I could trust you, and that scared the shit out of me.”

“That’s because you thought I was nothing but a pirate, as did the rest of your family. Your father used those exact words in Neverland.”

“Yeah, well, you proved us all wrong.” She cupped his face in the palm of her hand. “You’re a good man, Killian Jones.”

He smiled. “During our adventure back in the Enchanted Forest, when Dave didn’t know who I was, he told me your parents would be crazy not to approve of me as your suitor. I told him I hoped he would remember that.”

“He’s coming around. Give him time and you’ll probably end up being his best friend.”

He wrapped his arms around her more tightly, taking advantage of having her naked form pressed against him. She laid her head on his chest, humming happily.

Later, when they were cleaned up and she was asleep in his arms, wearing nothing but one of his thin black shirts, their conversation ran through his mind again. When Neal died, he saw how grief-stricken Emma was, and assumed she would have chosen the other man, had he lived. He was Henry’s father, after all, and Killian thought that connection between Emma and Neal would be enough for her to try to make their relationship work.

Hearing her say she would have chosen Killian made him happier than he had been for centuries. He fell asleep with his nose buried in her hair and a smile on his face. Tomorrow, they would probably face some sort of crisis, but tonight, Emma Swan was his and hopefully would remain his for the long haul.

*********

I hope you agree that this is a scene we all needed!

TAG LIST:

@qualitycoffeethings @grimmswan @cs-rylie @wyntereyez @kmomof4 @hookedmom @ultraluckycatnd @paradiselady19 @xarandomdreamx @motherkatereloyshipper @lfh1226-linda @pawshapedheart @vampcoffeegyrl23 @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic @eleveneitherway @elfiola @kday426 @julieenchanted-swans @gingerchangeling @andiirivera @djlbg @jonesfandomfanatic @snowbellewells @anmylica @booksteaandtoomuchtv @cocohook38 @ilovemesomekillianjones @zaharadessert @lyssapup27 @undercaffinatednightmare @winterbaby89 @jennjenn615 @xsajx @jackieorioncat @teamhook @soniccat @jarienn972 @softkilly @kymbersmith-90 @apiratewhopines

#long overdue conversations #part 4 #emma & killian #jrob64 #art by jrob 64 #cs missing scene #captain swan fanfic #cs smut #set at the end of season 3

[cu1tsmark]

"Renewed Promise"

In the bustling hallways of their new high school, Y/n found herself drawn into a chaotic scene. A crowd had formed around Haechan, who was wearing his favourite black leather jacket that he always had with him when his dad gave it to him when he was just a kid, the notorious bad boy of the school, as he was in the middle of bullying another student. Y/n's heart raced, and her instincts took over. She couldn't stand by and watch this happen.

With determination in her eyes, Y/n pushed through the crowd until she was face to face with Haechan. The whole school fell silent, shocked that someone would dare to confront him. Haechan himself looked surprised for a moment before his expression hardened.

"What do you think you're doing?" He spat at Y/n, his piercing gaze locking onto her.

"I won't let you hurt him," Y/n replied firmly, her voice unwavering.

Haechan paused, his cold demeanor thawing slightly. Then, he abruptly turned away and began walking towards the stairs leading to the rooftop of the school. Y/n followed him, feeling a mixture of determination and curiosity.

As they stood on the rooftop, Y/n finally spoke up. "Why did you do that back there? Why do you act this way?"

Haechan glanced at her, his usual scowl replaced with a hint of vulnerability. "Where have you been all these years, Y/n? Why did you leave without a word?"

Y/n felt a pang of guilt as she realized how much her sudden departure had affected him. "I'm sorry, Haechan. I had to move away with my family. I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye, but it happened so suddenly."

Haechan let out a sigh. "You don't understand, Y/n. After you left, I was angry at everyone and everything, including my parents. I blamed myself for not being there to stop you from leaving. I turned into this person I didn't want to be."

Y/n's eyes softened. "I had no idea it affected you so much."

Haechan turned towards her, his hand tightening on her shoulder. As he stared at her eyes, "Was it obvious?"

Y/n was taken aback by his question. "What do you mean?"

Haechan leaned in, his lips dangerously close to hers. "Was it that obvious that I wanted to make you mine?"

Before Y/n could react, Haechan closed the distance between them and kissed her passionately, a yearning for her that had built up over the years. Their kiss was filled with longing and unspoken emotions, a connection that had been severed but was now rekindled.

As they pulled away, Y/n looked into Haechan's eyes, her heart pounding. "I never stopped caring about you, Haechan."

Haechan's icy exterior had melted away, revealing the boy she had once known. "Then promise me you won't leave again."

Y/n nodded, a smile tugging at her lips. "I promise."

And in that moment, amidst the chaos of their high school, Haechan and Y/n's reunion marked the beginning of a new chapter in their lives, one filled with love, understanding, and a promise to stand by each other's side, no matter what.

Months passed since Haechan and Y/n's reunion on the rooftop of their high school. Their connection grew stronger each day, and Haechan's bad-boy persona began to soften. While he still had a reputation to uphold, he couldn't help but let his guard down when he was with Y/n.

One sunny afternoon, Y/n found herself sitting in the school courtyard, reading a book. Haechan approached with his signature smirk on his face. "You know, you've turned my life upside down, Y/n."

Y/n chuckled, looking up from her book. "Is that a bad thing?"

Haechan shook his head, sitting down beside her. "No, it's not. It's just... I never expected to fall for my childhood friend again, especially after all the mess I've created."

Y/n placed a hand on his arm, reassuringly. "People change, Haechan. And it's clear that you've changed for the better."

He leaned closer to her, his voice low. "It's all because of you, Y/n."

Their tender moment was interrupted by a group of Haechan's friends approaching. They looked at him in disbelief. "Haechan, are you seriously sitting here all lovey-dovey with Y/n?"

Haechan shot them a glare but didn't pull away from Y/n's side. "What's it to you guys? Can't a guy spend time with his girlfriend?"

Y/n's eyes widened at his words, and she blushed. They hadn't officially discussed their relationship status, but it seemed like Haechan was ready to make it known.

His friends exchanged surprised glances but eventually shrugged. "Alright, man, do your thing. Just don't forget who you are."

Haechan smirked and turned his attention back to Y/n. "I won't, as long as I have you by my side."

Their budding romance faced its fair share of challenges, especially given Haechan's reputation and possessive nature. However, Y/n's unwavering support and love helped him overcome his past and strive to be a better person.

One day, as they strolled through the school garden hand in hand, Haechan paused and looked into Y/n's eyes. "You know, I've been thinking about something."

Y/n raised an eyebrow, curious. "What is it?"

Haechan took a deep breath. "How about we go visit our old childhood neighborhood? It's been a while since I've seen our old house."

Y/n smiled, touched by the idea. "I'd love that, Haechan."

Their journey back to their childhood neighbourhood marked yet another step in their relationship, a step towards reconciling with their past and building a future together. With Y/n by his side, Haechan had found his way back to the person he used to be, and together, they faced whatever challenges came their way, their love only growing stronger with each passing day.

#donghyuck x reader #haechan #haechan fic #haechan lee #haechan x reader #haechan x you #lee donghyuck #nct 127 #nct donghyuck #nct x yn #nct x y/n #nct x you #nct x reader #nct imagines #nct dream #nct imagine #nct scenarios #nct scenario #nct u #nct dream drabbles #nct dream imagines #nct dream scenarios #nct dream x you #nct

[prismaticpichu]

Cloud tells his mom about Sephiroth locking himself in the basement and he hasn't eaten in days. She figures that is just NOT GOOD and makes him a home cooked meal and a jug of lemonade and determinedly goes to the mansion to deliver it...

Heck yeah! Them maternal instincts kicking IN! ❤️

Claudia is not at all unnerved by the ambience of the manor. Not in the slightest. She has the rawest of Nibelheim hearts, desensitized to anything and everything the town has to throw at her. Cobwebs? Nah. Creaky stairs? Please! She’s wrapped her delivery in layers upon layers of tinfoil so a speck of dust can’t so much as LOOK in the direction of her food. It was for the sad, confused military man!

Sephiroth is as oblivious as ever as she reaches the room, his nose buried in a book and about half of the library’s arsenal scattered around him.

“Excuse me… Sir?”

Sephiroth stiffens, and his world blips. It isn’t that fuzzy shape’s voice that he heard just then, pleading for him to come back, pleading for the 100th time. It’s… different. Completely different. Satiny, almost. Velvety.

Loving,

Is this—

Sephiroth’s voice leaves him in a crack. “…Mother?”

Claudia, standing by the door, is very confused. But it’s an amused confusion that flashes across her face.

“You can say that, dear. I’m Cloud’s mother. He came here with you on the mission.” She smiles. “He’s told me a lot about you.”

Sephiroth turns around then. The names don’t click in his mind, almost ricocheting. The only thing that truly sticks—that matters—is the fact that she is NOT his mother. She is no one then. Irrelevant.

“Get out,” Sephiroth snarls, that previous awe draining from his eyes. “Now.”

Claudia, though, is not deterred. Not in the slightest. She sees his eyes, and sees the ink splotched all around them. Clear as daylight, dark as bruises. Dark as the ones her poor Cloud used to come home with. These books—they are bullies. That’s what they are. They are hurting him. He needs to get out of here.

And by Gaia, he is so thin. So pale. He needs to eat!

Sephiroth takes a step back as Claudia steps forward, the unearthly shape of his eyes quivering. But them maternal instincts are already activated. She carefully unwraps the big, delicious grilled Chocobo and hands it out to him, her voice soft and gentle, channeling all the nights and tears and solaces ribboned between the very essence of her motherly soul.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Maybe it’s the way she said it. Maybe it was the way she looked while saying it. Maybe it was how good the Chocobo smelled in that dusty library. Something in Sephiroth splinters then—a toxic, steely fortress mortared with instinct and vulnerability cracking from her presence. And a fortress can’t stand with one crack; so it crumbles entirely.

They sit together on the floor, and Sephiroth tells her everything. He breaks into a sob, telling of his friends, how he can’t let go of their betrayal, how it still stings. He tells her of the revelations in the Reactor, of what flowed through his veins and the lies he was built around.

And Claudia listens. She listens, and she tells him that it’s okay. Over and over and over. That it’s not his fault. That nothing is. That he’s…

“Dear…” Claudia takes her plate back, only shiny white bones remaining. “You are not a monster.”

There’s something about the way she says it—the kindness in her voice, the tenderness in her eyes, the warmth of her aura… Sephiroth brushes his hair aside, sniveling.

He thinks he believes her.

They leave the manor that very night, Claudia’s love squeezing through his plated shoulder as they return to the surface of the town. Zack pulls Sephiroth into a hug and thanks Claudia profusely for bringing him back, and as Sephiroth hugs him back, as he starts to cry, Cloud watches the scene unfold with a whole spectrum damn full of questions. He goes to stand beside his mother.

“Wow, Ma. What did you do to get the general back?”

Claudia only smiles. “Just what every mother knows best.”

And all of a sudden there’s a giant silver-haired man guy thing towering over Cloud in the family photo. Yippie-do!

#ffvii #crisis core #sephiroth #claudia strife #I think that’s her name lol I actually didn’t check xD #asks #ty!!! #nibelheim #good vibes only! #weenie hut jrs #cloud strife #sephiroth and a healthy mother figure

[crossover-enthusiast]

Putting this one in a separate post bc I want to (warning for mildly realistic but still cartoony spiders)

Anyways! @prof-ramses posited a v interesting theory that the giant spider isn't going to be an antagonist per-say, but rather its babies

And that got me thinking, and realizing, that there are a lot of spiders in Lila's house, from the very beginning

There are two little ones in the first ep, one in the stairwell and one in the mousehole next to the stairs, in addition to the large one we've grown accustomed to

(^ brightened for visibility)

Pelo even points out the stairwell spider in his (free to view) Patreon posts on the first episode, while simultaneously completely ignoring the giant spider

And then in Unwanted Guest there's a surprisingly large spider skittering between the floorboards in the pan up to the attic

Along with a smaller but still decently big spider chilling in the attic itself

And a tiny spider got itself stuck on Dexter's mouse trap

Also semi-related there's this big thing wrapped up in one of the webs. I have no idea what it is

Moloch says he was forced to eat rats and spiders while trapped in the attic -- interestingly, we haven't seen any rats in Lila's house, at least as far as I'm aware. Maybe the spiders take care of them as well?

There aren't any new spiders in Deadly Smiles to my knowledge, just a new shot of the big one

There are no spiders at all in The Stars or Tender Treats, presumably because of the short attic time in both (the giant spider was drawn in the TT attic scene, but the camera doesn't pan far enough to show it)

Spiders even briefly appear in the Tender Treats ARG! There are three decently-sized ones next to the family photo

I had to circle them because they're REALLY well hidden, even after brightening the image

Yeah, there are... a LOT more spiders crawling around this house than I was aware of, likely even more since Moloch is no longer there to do pest control

#Spooky Month #Moloch #Lila #Skid #Pump #Theory #? #I guess #Analysis #Would be more correct I think

[warpedlegacywrites]

Hi Duchess!! Some Fluffuary fluff for Theresa/Cullen this eve: how about "Borrowing clothes"?

Thanks for this @dadrunkwriting prompt! I adored writing this scene for them:

When Cullen wakes in the middle of the night to an empty bed and silence, he isn’t worried. Rising with a low grunt from the usual aches and pains, he pads across the cool marble floor and down the hall, finding his trousers on the way, but not bothering with a shirt. Moonlight stretches silver shadows across the hall, sliding over his pale skin as he makes his way to the second floor.  He finds Theresa in the library, pacing the length of the room. Their infant daughter is cradled in her arm, one chubby cheek nestled against her shoulder, Theresa’s palm flat across her back, patting it lightly.  “Is that my shirt?” Cullen asks once he knows Theresa’s sense his presence – he doesn’t want to risk startling her while she’s holding the baby.  “I ran out of my own,” she answers wryly. “Ones that weren’t stained with some bodily fluid or other, at least.”  “So you’re now adding my clothes to the stained pile?” Cullen wouldn’t mind, normally – in fact, he quite likes the sight of her in one of his shirts and nothing else. But the fact that she’s currently using it as a burping blanket as well as covering is a little annoying, on principle. “Why don’t you use a towel like I do?”  “Because I never remember to grab one ahead of time when I’m feeding her. And it’s too hard to stand and walk with her in my arm when she’s feeding.”  Cullen gives an understanding hum. With only one hand to maneuver with, getting Ellie into the right angle for nursing is a feat unto itself. Usually, Tess has to use a soft surface to lean on as leverage.  “Here,” he offers, holding out his own hands. “I’ll take her.”  “I’m perfectly capable of burping my own child, Cullen,” she snaps.  A beat passes. Then two.  “I’m sorry,” she says on the third. With a weary sigh, she turns and allows Cullen to take Ellie into his arms, and rubs at her eye furiously. “I’m just so tired…”  “I know,” he hushes her, bouncing with Ellie propped at his bare shoulder. “It’s alright. You can go back to bed. I’ve got her.”  But she doesn’t leave right away. Instead, she leans against him, resting her head on the opposite shoulder, swaying with him as her hair tickles his skin and Ellie coos and burbles between them.  “It’s ironic,” she says as a pensive hum. “It used to be our overwrought work ethic keeping us awake at all hours of the night.”  “And the nightmares,” Cullen adds blithely.  “And now, when there’s nothing more I’d like than to lie down and sleep for a week solid…” Theresa’s hand comes up to cradle their daughter’s head as she looks down on her in quiet wonder. “...this little one refuses to let me.”  Ellie lets out a proud burp, quite impressive for one so small. Mercifully, nothing comes up with it, and Tess chuckles.  “Of course, she stains all my clothes, but leaves your naked skin completely clean.” She lays a kiss upon her tender brow, and whispers fondly, “Ungrateful child.”  Finally, she agrees to go to bed. Cullen watches her go, admiring the sight of her wearing his shirt. It’s so large on her it nearly reaches her knees, and her bare legs peek out from underneath as she makes her way up the stairs. Retreating back into the library, he holds little Ellie aloft and smiles up at her tiny face. Just like her mother, in miniature.  “That’s my girl,” he whispers.

#my writing #dadwc prompts #fluff #cullen x theresa #cullen rutherford #theresa trevelyan #cullen x trevelyan #papa cullen #mama trevelyan #domestic fluff #parental fluff #burping infant #nighttime feedings #fluffuary prompts

[brattytoddler]

little!reader getting scared of the dark and clinging onto eddie’s leg :( awe

it starts off with the group watching a horror movie downstairs after eddie had already tucked you into bed.

however, the group knows how much you hate bedtime (seriously, who even invented that?!) and often will try anything to even just stay up for 5 minutes longer.

but, you have some tricks that work; one of them is waiting until the group gets comfortable during the movie, sneaking out of bed and sitting on the stairs at just the perfect angle to watch along to whatever low quality comedy they’ve decided on. you haven’t been caught yet, either! so, what would be any different about tonight? 

as you tip-toed down the creaky wooden floorboards to the long, dark staircase, you could hear the group laughing and cracking open soda, excellent.

it was always easier to sneak down the old stairs when the television was loud, so you toddled to the 6th step, smiling as you perched against the railing and tilted your head to see what was on for tonight, until-

your mouth fell open slightly in shock as scenes of gore were flashing up on the television, bottom lip instantly quivering as you watched in terror, frozen in anxiousness. suddenly, it was too dark and too scary and everything was just too much. the group usually never watch horror movies (it’s rare due to steve, shockingly. eddie constantly reminds him he’s a “pussy” too). needless to say, you were frustrated because this was supposed to be your super secret plan and now it’s ruined. your body trembles as you sniffle, eyes glossed over in fear.

eddie turned his head almost immediately after the first string of sniffling, noticing you sitting on the steps with a tear-stained face. the others looked over to where eddie rushed, also getting up to crowd around you.

“hey- hey, baby- baby, what’s wrong?” eddie cooed, watching the way you reached forward to hook yourself around his leg. you clutched his jeans tightly, sobbing into his pant leg. steve and nancy went to work at rubbing your back and kissing your temple, whispering gentle “sh, sh, sh”s and “it’s okay, baby”s into your ear as robin had already went to the kitchen to make you a bottle. jonathan stood awkwardly to observe the others and you, a frown on his face. he hated when you were upset and he couldn’t fix it like “the big brother he is”. it honestly crushes him but he knows sometimes you just need to cry.

“eddie, carry her to the couch, she’s so little,” nancy cooed, smiling sweetly at your teary eyes that eventually looked up at her. she tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and pressed a tender kiss to your cheek as steve lifted you up over onto eddie’s shoulder, who took you to the couch and positioned you to lay in his lap with your head resting against the arm of the couch.

you were still crying, but it definitely reduced once the group were surrounding you, bottle now in eddie’s hand as he waited for you to stop crying fully.

“you’re okay, sweetheart,” eddie cooed, sliding a hand under your oversized t-shirt and rubbing your stomach in soothing circles. “daddy’s got you, it’s okay, darling.”

needless to say, once you drank your bottle and got lots of kisses, eddie sat you up and traced gentle shapes on your back. “baby, did you see the movie we were watching? did it scare you?”

you bit your bottom lip nervously, looking at how everyone was staring at you to answer, to which you covered your face and whined. the group collectively chuckled, amused by your embarrassment as eddie spoke up.

“darling, that’s why you have to stay in bed,” eddie spoke. “because sometimes, we like to watch adult movies. and those aren’t for little-“ he pokes at your sides in between words, causing you to giggle. “babies, now are they?”

you shake your head, face red. you knew what you did was technically wrong, but it seemed like that didn’t matter now. the group knew you learned your lesson by just watching the film, so the rest of the night was spent curled up against everyone while watching cartoons (and you might have convinced jonathan to sneakily open you a soda).

(maybe two sodas).

#steve harrington agere #stranger things age regression #stranger things agere #robin buckley agere #jonathan byers agere #nancy wheeler agere #eddie munson agere

[soft--dragon]

Something I want but will probably never get is a scene in The Bad Batch of Crosshair and Omega having a tender/soft moment together. None of the other boys are around, it's just the grouchy older brother and sunshine little sister being able to hang out together and nothing goes wrong.

Small drabble idea below :)

The scene I've envisioned is Crosshair fresh outta the Empire and back with his brothers, but he doesn't feel like he belongs there, or that he hasn't earnt a place back with them after what he chose. He's sitting on the stairs of the Havoc Marauder in the evening, toothpick in his fingers and listening to a song on the radio beside him. Omega finds him like that, alone, so horribly cut off from the warmth inside the ship and away from his batch mates.

She takes a seat next to him and he tries not to flinch at her sudden presence, but it's obvious he's still quite high strung after his experience with the empire. She gently coaxes him into conversation, ranging from topics that could be his favourite colour or the best shot he's ever had with his rifle. Slowly but surely, he starts to unravel and open himself a bit more to her, letting the child goad him into some playful banter

The evening goes along, the light from the Havoc Marauder casting the pair in a warm glow. Omega, having run out of questions, lets the silence settle comfortably between them, the radio being the only noise besides the gentle murmurs of the other Batchers talking inside the ship.

A soft song comes on the radio and Omega recognizes it, it was one of Echo's favourites to sing when he thought no one else could hear him. She slowly turns it up and stands from her spot to offer her hand to her big brother, a silent request to dance. Crosshair lifts a brow skeptically but after a moment of internal debate and an unwavering staring contest, he lets her pull him up and onto the grass at the base of the stairs. She treats him like glass as she gently places her hand on his side and holds his hand carefully in hers, smiling up at Crosshair when he rests his free hand on her shoulder. Slowly, they start to move in a circle, not much coordination or plan in their steps, but staying within the rhythm of the music nonetheless.

The longer they dance together, Crosshair's tense posture unwinds further, and he slumps a bit, letting out a slow breath. It's the first time his brow has lost its furrow since he got back, and Omega is relieved to see his face without the tension. Feeling brave, she risks saying something that might make Crosshair clam up. "I'm glad you're here," she whispers, earnest and trusting. "It's nice."

Crosshair doesn't respond for a while, absorbing the quiet admittance in his own time. After a minute, he hums lowly, his eyes on the skyline to avoid meeting Omega's concerned, innocent eyes. He hesitates then mutters, "It isn't the worst, I suppose."

Omega's eyes light up, a beaming smile on her face. Crosshair gets no warning. She lets go of his hand and side to embrace his middle, hugging him tightly and still swaying on the spot to the music. Crosshair stares down at her for a long while, then scoffs and rests his arms over her shoulders.

"Womp rat," he grumbles, pretending there isn't a fond slant to his eyes and a small quirk of his lips.

"Grouch," Omega says back softly, affection evident in her tone.

They slowly spin in circles to the song, Omega hugging her big brother to reassure herself that he's really here, and Crosshair keeps his eyes on the sky so he doesn't have to deal with the swelling emotion building inside of him.

For the first time in what felt like years, he feels safe.

Will something like this ever happen? Highly unlikely, I know Mr Dave Filoni and I know he's more likely to stomp on our hearts and throw salt in the wound. I truly hope Crosshair gets something akin to this though, god knows he needs it. The trope of characters slow dancing together and being vulnerable holds a very special place in my heart, and I low-key want Crosshair to have a moment like that

Also, the song I was listening to while envisioning this was 'Apocalypse' by Cigarettes After Sex, it's really a beautiful song, and it makes me emotional every time I hear it :)

Also, feel like I should add that despite some of the lyrics in the song, this idea is all entirely platonic and shouldn't be taken romantically please and thank you <3

#dragon speaks #the bad batch #the bad batch rambles #drabble #i have got so many ideas #dave. i am respectfully asking you to let me write the fluff scenes of tbb #/j #the bad batch writing #crosshair #omega

[napneeders]

horny edizzy t4t ballet au (E, ~700 words)

aka i picked a random square off my @izzyhandsbingo card for inspiration and got sports au. which I thought would be the least inspiring square because I'm not into sports, but then I figured maybe ballet counts and blacked out for 45 minutes. this also (or at least) ticks off the trans box. I should post my card probably.

disclaimer I don't know shit about the ballet world. I did do ballet for ten years but I've forgotten most of both the technique and the terminology.

***

the line of dancers moves in diagonal, balanced perfectly on Izzy's axis as he twirls them and lifts them across the centre, one by one. where skin is just skin, other bodies just white-lycra bundles of muscle, passing through his body like lightning bolts hungry for the black mat under his feet. his heart is beating, alive and grounded, but a charge is building, a climax not written into the choreography but ringing alarm bells in his every fibre. girl by girl it approaches, until his hands close on Ed's waist and ribcage, join their flesh into one thrumming movement, a soaring where he, too, leaves the ground. the glow of Ed's brilliant, focused smile lingers, and Izzy finishes the scene in a daze, comfortable enough after weeks of habituation. he only stumbles when he reaches the stairs backstage.

he watches Ed's final solo from the wings, a water bottle by his elbow. Ed flies through the stage en pointe, graceful and effortless, transformed, so that Izzy almost forgets it's Ed at all, that he's himself at all. he returns to the stage to bow beside her, transferring the beginning of the movement from her hand to the hand of the girl on his left, a staggered swing of arms sweeping them into a bow to the left, centre, right.

"you're tempting fate," he says leaning by the stage door in tights and a fleece. it's a crisp, clear night, raising two sharp points under Ed's threadbare black sweater, too thin for October. which she was probably counting on.

"life is for living," Ed shrugs and blows stark cigarette smoke in his direction. she's never as beautiful as half an hour after a show, in sweatpants and full makeup, pearls glittering in her long fake lashes, still bouncing a little from the adrenaline. she slithers closer with purpose, rests her cigarette-holding hand on Izzy's shoulder. he imagines leaning into it. he has already fallen open by the time Ed bends down to kiss him.

in her dressing room, she presses Izzy into the door, tears off his fleece and t-shirt, arches her back when his hands find her tender budding breasts under the ratty sweater. he's overwhelmed by her smell, sweat and hairspray and smoke. overwhelmed by permission to grab her and hold her and seek her, suck a bruise into her chest, low enough that the leotard will cover.

he staggers when she prances backwards, stripping off her shirt. she leans into the dressing table like a suggestion, and like something more fragile. Izzy swallows, follows, like a lamb who for the wolf will even play the wolf. he's hungry enough; mouth on her nipple and hand charting the long hard line of her cock he's enough. he pulls down her pants, pushes her back onto the narrow ledge of table, and she spreads her thighs, leaning against the mirror. he sits down on the makeup stool, sinks it low with a hissing pull of the lever.

Ed flutters under his tongue, grasps his head close like she's convulsing, flexing him like another muscle. he laves and sucks and licks into her, one hand massaging the head of her cock, until she's trembling and keening.

"Izzy," she moans, and it's always a shock. he rushes back into his body, hot and pulsing between his legs, breath stuttering in gulps, too much. he pants against her taint, leans his forehead on her thigh.

"Izzy –" she whimpers and he knows. his body knows before him, maybe. he pulls her to the lopsided armchair, curses when he realises he's still trapped in his tights and briefs, fumbles them off to fall into her lap, and she's at his opening and she's at – and she's in him – the perfect fit, so smooth, so full, he's almost – they're moving but it feels like being still, wrapped up in each other, skin much more than skin and muscle much more than muscle.

"I'm –" Ed pants and "can I –", as if it's up to Izzy to grant or deny her anything, but he whispers a thready "yes" into her hair, "please, Ed, please." she shoots inside him and he squeezes, grinds his cock into her pelvis, and he's so close he could cry, shoves a hand between them, and whites out on his own fingers.

she twitches when her cock slips out, but doesn't let Izzy go. their flesh is flesh again, damp and heavy and heaving. he lets himself shudder just a little.

#my writing #ofmd fanfiction #blackhands #izzyhandsbingo #au #in my head Oluwande is a stage manager rolling his eyes as he walks by the door #they're not as quiet as they think they are #in which we're quite sappy but not without a ship-typical hint of unease #and overwrite some dysphoria-inducing ballet experiences lmao

[theladyofbloodshed]

hi darling, just wanted to ask what your opinion on cassian in acosf is. if you've already said/wrote about this could you link it! i personally, prefer neris but you made me like cassian again with your fic lol. i loved your fics and i just wanted to connect with you. have a wonderful day my love.

I alternate between fanon Cassian and Eris (with a bit of Lucien thrown in and maybe a sprinkling of Azriel). I'm glad you liked the fics! I will be writing more Neris soon.

I think I have ranted about that book several times but here are a few Cassian centric complaints:

Prioritising Mor over Nesta We've seen time and time again that Cassian puts Mor's feelings ahead of Nesta's despite saying she's like a sister and there's no feelings between them. I'm still not over him dropping her hand the moment Mor came into view after she'd bandaged his wrist. She goes to Illyria and essentially gives Nesta a telling off for not training (as though she has any authority over Nesta) and Cassian stays quiet.

Prioritising everyone over Nesta Cassian cannot even hear a bad word said about Rhys because the blinkers are well and truly on. He is aggressive towards Nesta when she says something bad about him. The NC is not a dictatorship and Nesta should be allowed to voice her opinions without Cassian at her throat. There were no mating instincts at all. When Rhys threatens her life, Cassian doesn't show the same ferocity to protect her. In a previous book, when Azriel argues with Feyre, Rhys shoots him down and is immediately backing Feyre up. We got none of that with Cassian; Nesta was always in the wrong.

Nesta became his sex doll They locked her up due to her reliance on casual sex... so Cassian then fills that void and has casual sex with her. I might have not minded it so much if there was at least after care or some genuine tender moments, but it never happened. I think in one scene, Cassian pulls out the second he's finished and leaves her on the bed. It's terrible decision making on Cassian's part and a power imbalance. Further, when she has been attacked by the kelpie, he acknowledges that she looks awful following the attack, but instead of rejecting her advances (her using sex to cope with trauma) he proceeds to have rough sex with her. It's vile.

Delighting in her pain Nesta falls down the stairs trying to leave and Cassian mocks her for it. She is in pain and he laughs. Knows that she's starving herself but withholds sugar when she actually wants to eat. He forces her on the hike where she carried the heaviest bag and pushes her until she collapses rather than noticing she's struggling. When Feyre says Rhys is delighted to hear Cassian is keeping her on the hike for a few more days, Cassian admits he is also delighted. It is so, so disgusting.

Their whole relationship It's based upon sex and grinding Nesta down until she's the woman that slots in nicely to the IC. There weren't really any cute scenes of them being a couple or learning to be friends. They only dance together when Cassian orders Eris to move and Nesta feels guilty that Eris insults him. Nesta is so often used by the IC to further their plans, and Cassian rarely speaks up against it. He throws a temper tantrum in ACOFAS when she doesn't want his gift. Throws another in public when she freaks out about being his mate. They're not friends at all. They have so little in common. SJM could have had Cassian learning about what Nesta liked e.g. reading her smutty books or making a friendship bracelet together or visiting one of her taverns just to listen to the music. Instead, Nesta had to change herself to suit him and lose her powers because of Rhys' mistake. She never had to atone for anything and now she's trapped in this Stepford Wives life!!!!

#anon asks

[swamp-spirit]

Disability Serving Non-Disability Stories

I was replying to a post about what mobility device narrative things make us happiest, and it got me thinking about what I like in rep in general, and I was thinking my absolute favorite thing is disability serving the story. My least favorite feeling is that the narrative has screeched to a halt to Do A Representation, and most of the scenes that have really made me feel seen did so because they were damn good writing that was specific and tender and raw.

This isn’t the Right Way to Do Disability, and I think writing good character and story beats using disability involves doing a lot of research first, but here’s some ways authors can use disability to serve a different narrative.

Setting Up the Chess Board

One of the tricks of running a tabletop game is giving the players choices, but making sure those choices always go somewhere interesting. Rather than having the informant at the tavern and the players missing out because they went to the park, you can have the informant appear in the place where the players do. You reshape the world to fit what your players establish. This can also work when writing alone. If one of your characters can’t get up stairs and you want them in the scene... you can simply choose not to add stairs. However, if you want to get them alone... whoops, there’s the stairs. Or maybe they have to go the long way to the elevator and get stuck alone with their romantic interest. Maybe they decide to kill some time checking out a room everyone walked past on their way to the second floor and find the second clue or break the elevator on purpose for an excuse to meet their informant. Having a disability in a society that doesn’t support you can be hard and inconvenient, so show that! Have the girl in a wheelchair have to take the accessible entrance through the crowded kitchen or have to skip the historical tour, but instead of making it a tragedy of disability, use it. You’re a writer and this is your world, so use the barriers to steer us directly into the most exciting version of the story.

Painting Relationships Between People

There are some people who notice when I’m getting tired before I do and encourage me to sit down. There are some people who love me very much, but don’t notice when I’m getting tired until I collapse. There are some people who assume I’m faking collapsing for attention. There are some people who just don’t care. There are people who will walk away when I get a concussion and people who won’t leave me alone when I tell them I’m fine and would like privacy. All of these paint an aspect of our relationships. There is intimacy and romance in knowing how to care for somebody, in knowing the little tells that they’re in pain, of offering to do the tasks that will help them most. There can also be overbearing suffocation, not allowing somebody independence. There can be both in the same relationship. Putting a prosthetic leg in a sex scene can be a great moment to show how these characters communicate around taboo subjects, to show whether they’re awkward or relaxed, considerate or callous, if they’re the type to crack jokes about it, and whether those jokes are welcome. When the cashier looks past the person in the wheelchair to their partner, does their partner redirect their attention? Ignore it and complete the transaction? Push their partner aside? Make the situation awkward to make a point? Blow up at the cashier? If they blow up, is the person in the wheelchair flattered or pissed to have somebody lose their temper on their behalf? It’s not about showing a good or bad partner. What’s overbearing to one person might be sweet to another. What’s hilarious to one person might be callous to another. It’s just a great chance to show how people interact, how they handle intimacy and vulnerability and power.

Painting Relationships with Ourselves 

I’ve always thought people are most interesting when you push them to extremes, and disability can fucking push. It can drive you into debt. It can make you wake up in pain every day. It can force you to accept more help than you can offer. It can take your plans or your self image and dash it across the rocks. You can lose friends and lovers and hobbies and feel like the world doesn’t have a place for people like you. I’m of the opinion that stories about the really gutting parts of this are best left to disabled authors. Going from abled to disabled, it’s easy to feel trapped and helpless, but most disabled people still lead joyful, meaningful lives. Damn fiction can make you feel otherwise. It can make you feel like becoming disabled means your life is now a tragedy, that the worst of the grief and anger will define every aspect of your life forever. I think really digging into that pain is best done by people with real experience, not lurid imagination. That said, those pushes are a great time to explore a character. Disability can steal the core of your identity, and, besides the grief, there’s a question. Who am I if I’m not that? Instead of just showing a loss, you can let your characters find answers. You can explore how a character reacts to vulnerability, in expressing pain and needing help.You can show how they respond to not having the skills society values. Do they internalize it? Fight back? Ignore it, confident in their own passions and value? Do they see the problem as with themselves or with a society that fails to accomadate them?

Disability as Worldbuilding

One of the most moving things to me is a report of ancient burial sites, lovingly made, for people who would have needed care to survive. How a society cares for those that cannot ‘contribute‘, or supports those with less common needs, in my opinion, shows the core of a society’s heart. To be clear this one can get gross fast and make disabled people tragedy props or feel good examples. The core of this is it coming from the view of characters, letting it be a background part of their lives. Even in the real world, you can use it to show parts of a country’s structure most readers might now know (either because they live somewhere/when else, or because they don’t know about disability rights), but it can also paint a community, how an individual town cares for it’s members, and whether it does it with genuine care, exhausted martyrdom, or condescending self-righteousness. And don’t just think of things in terms of support, think of what disability means. People are uncomfortable around visible disability, and they’re even more uncomfortable because everyone is only one accident or diagnosis away from being disabled too. A lot of religions and cultures have created narratives to alleviate this pain. Disability happens to bad people via god’s judgement. All disability is a result of a badly lived life, or the mother’s badly lived life, or the previous incarnation. Or maybe a test that can be passed or failed! The treatment of disability often reflects cultural anxieties and narratives, especially when we talk about how class and gender effect disability. What disabilities are considered ‘worse‘, or even what’s considered a disability at all, changes based on the society. I personally consider, for example, many characters who are unable to use magic or sci-fi tech as ‘disabled‘ rather than just metaphorically disabled. But this also gets into issues of what a society values and scorns. A highly militarized society will have a very different view of a man with a slight limp than a society who sees scholarship as the height of male achievement. The treatment of disabilities reflects societies priorities and who those priorities apply to.

Like many other aspect’s of a person’s life, disability is something that exists in interaction with the world around it. The best moments, in my opinion, come from writers who has sat with that and figured out exactly what that means for their character, as a person in the world, and has done the research to really understand what rings true.

#disability #writing