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roanniom · 3 years

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✨Finally Friday✨ for your prompt submission, I would like to please throw this out for your consideration- dominant Flip with a praise kink and a breeding kink. All your writing is so good! 😘

Hello sweet anon, I’m happy to write that for you <3 (Sorry it took so gosh darn long lol)

Impatience

Word Count: 2718

Warnings: NSFW, masturbation (F), PIV sex, slight edging, praise kink, light breeding kink

Note: While I mainly write fem readers, I do try my best to make all descriptions of reader to be inclusive, not specifying hair type, body size, or skin color. I would like to note that in a few moments at the beginning of this piece we are sort of in Flip’s perspective and parts of reader are referred to as “little.” This is not to be indicative of reader’s size, it simply a reflection of the fact that Flip is a literal fridge. That is all.

When Flip gets home, all he wants to do is shrug out of his jacket, pour himself a stiff drink, light a fresh cigarette and relax. It’s been a long day and an even longer night. Maybe you’re still up. Maybe you’ve kept a plate warming in the oven for him. Better yet, maybe you’ll suck him off after he finishes his drink and his cigarette and his hypothetically warmed food. Flip steps onto his front porch while rolling his shoulders, feeling the tension stored in his aching muscles from a shift filled with bullshit and limp-dicked incompetents.

Yes. A blow job before bed would do the trick, he thinks as he unlocks the front door. Instead of his usual silent entrance, the kind he uses when he doesn’t wish to disturb your potential sleeping state, he closes the door loudly. Selfishly hoping you’ll be conscious by the time he enters the bedroom, if you weren’t already.

After shrugging out of his jacket, as planned, he trudges down the hallway, considering his options for if he finds your sweet, sleeping form tucked in, undisturbed beneath the sheets. Just as he’s imagining how cute you look with your little hands tucked beneath your cheek on the pillow when you sleep, however, he hears a sound issuing from the slightly ajar bedroom door.

It’s you.

Moaning.

Peering through the sliver in the door, Flip takes in the most breathtaking sight he’s ever seen. There you are, kneeling on your knees on the bed. One hand is dipping into your panties, panties so thin and wet that he can see the outline of your hand as it stretches the fabric. As your finger rubs at your core, your little wrist jerking with the effort. His eyes drag up from your actions between your legs to find that your upper body is curved forward as you gaze down at something lying on the bed in front of you. With the hand not down your panties you are squeezing and kneading your breast, rolling the hardened nipple back and forth.

“Oh god. Oh Flip,” you mutter to yourself, still gazing down at whatever was on the bed before you.

Flip thinks this is the hottest thing he has ever seen in his life.

Until he sees what you do next.

You must plunge your fingers deep into your core in the next minute because suddenly you’re grinding your little pussy down onto your hand, seeking more friction with a tiny, pathetic whine in your throat. And then you lean forward over the thing on the bed so that you’re on your hands and knees – well, one hand props you up. The other keeps working inside your panties.

Your hips undulate, ass in the air, as you continue to pleasure yourself, your breath escaping in light pants that make his cock feel like it can almost burst from the jeans that confine it. And while it might be the best show a person could ever hope to witness, Flip pushes open the door then. He never was one for spectating.

“What are you doing there, sugar?”

You don’t react suddenly. Instead, you look up slowly, staying in your position curled around the hand you’ve been using to pleasure yourself. You’re disheveled and he can see every emotion fill your eyes. Shock, panic, embarrassment, shame. All rolled up undeniably in the arousal that he has interrupted. You freeze in place looking up at him.

“I-I uh…Flip I didn’t know you’d…”

Flip tsk’s a few times.

“No need to stop on my account.” he drawls, moving forward as you sit up straighter, fisting your now unoccupied hands in the sheets and pulling them up around you sheepishly. Flip sits down on the edge of the bed and reaches to finger the hem of the sheet where it covers your breasts. “Were you keeping the bed nice and warm for me, baby girl?”

Before you can respond, Flip pulls his leg up onto the bed and feels something crinkle under his knee on the mattress. He fishes through the sheets only to pluck out two polaroid pictures, now slightly dented.

His eyes narrow as he takes in the scene depicted on darkened film. Pictures of you on your hands and knees, same as he’d found you just now, only the view is from up and behind you, showing a large cock in the middle of the action of pounding you open. Flip’s cock. Flip sucks air in through his teeth.

“I was wondering where the rest of these pictures had gone from that weekend,” he chuckles and your belly, already warm with self-stoked arousal, surges with heat yet again. Your embarrassment at being caught begins to fade and you toy with the fabric of the sheets coyly.

“If you didn’t have to work all these late nights maybe I would have let you keep them.”

Flip reaches over to trace your smile, a twin one on his own lips.

“Do you really look at these when you touch yourself, baby girl?”

You bite your lip and nod in response, pulling your arm out from under the sheet to tug one of the polaroids out of his hand.

“You see this one?” You tap on the picture. “Your cock is beautiful here.”

“Beautiful, huh?” Flip adjusts his position on the mattress, spreading his legs to make room for the growth occurring between them.

“Yeah, when I look at this picture I can practically feel your perfect, fat cock splitting me open.”

Within a second the polaroids are on the floor, discarded so Flip can push you down onto the bed as he settles between your inviting legs.

“I like the way you talk about my cock.” Flip’s voice is gruff and his eyes are dark with lust, but you see a smile ghost his lips.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Flip begins sucking on the tender flesh of your throat, pulling it into his mouth and nibbling just enough to mark you up the way he knows you pretend not to love. You make use of his distraction by popping the button on his jeans and pulling the zipper down, working swiftly to get your hands on the cock in question. When your fingers wrap around his girth Flip shudders into your touch, hips bucking involuntarily.

“This cock is what I dream about.”

You can practically feel Flip puffing out his chest with a possessive sort of pride. He allows you to shuck off his jeans while he tosses his flannel and undershirt indiscriminately into a darkened corner of the room. Leaning down he nibbles on your earlobe, swiping a tongue across the shell of your ear to make you shiver.

“Tell me about these dreams, baby girl.” Flip’s voice is husky and low as it reverberates through your naked bodies. You press up against his chest, signaling for him to flip over. He obliges, tucking and rolling with you squeezed tightly to his chest so that you now straddle him and look down at him, beautiful with his wavy dark hair splayed on the pillow.

“In my dreams you’re always hard,” you say as your hand wraps around his length. “Always ready to fuck me.”

“And what about you, sugar?” Flip slides his hand over your lower stomach and down to the cleft between your legs. “Is this pussy always wet for me?”

“Always.” You undulate your hips to punctuate your point, spreading your slick on the thick cock that stands at attention right before your entrance. Your hands splay against the hard planes of his abdomen as you watch his cock twitch against you.

“I think I like these dreams.” Flip moves to line himself up, but you grab his hands and push his arms back, leaning down to meet his lips as you pin his wrists down to the mattress above his head.

“Ah ah ah,” you breathe the words into his mouth on an exhale, hips grinding down and around to encase his cock in the velvet wet of your lower lips without allowing him full entrance. “Wanna make you feel good, detective.”

“You’re already making me feel good.” Flip’s voice is strained. Impatient to be inside you. You kiss your way back down his throat, his chest, his abdomen and watch the muscles go taught beneath his skin as your hips roll unhurriedly. You wrap both hands back around his cock this time and slowly move up and down.

“You work so hard, Flip.” On the word hard, you suddenly tug harder and Flip bucks up from under you. He’s grinning now, knowing where you’re going with this. When you slide your body down, nails raking up and down his legs, his cock knows what you’re doing, too.

He’d already been hard when he’d walked through the front door, picturing your swollen lips wrapped around his shaft. He’d already been hard when he’d found you pleasuring yourself to an image of him fucking you. But now, as your tongue traces the circumference of his flushed head, darting to the center to lap up his pre cum like some little sex kitten, Flip can’t take much more.

Feeling his hands shoot down and fist in your hair, you smile up at him over his bobbing length. Very much the cat that got the cream – an outcome you’re planning on ensuring.

“I’ve been waiting for this all day, handsome.”

“Well based on what I saw when I walked in, my sugar got a little impatient,” Flip counters with a dark chuckle.

You frown dramatically before dragging the tip of your tongue from root to tip using on the lightest pressure you can manage. Flip’s smile drops from his face in favor of a clenched jaw and a strained expression.

Your thumb and index finger circle around the base of his cock (as much as they can) to administer light, pulsing squeezes while you pepper equally light, open mouth kisses to his tip. The large hand in your hair attempts to push you down onto him gently but you tilt your neck to avoid his prompting, dipping down to settle your teasing attentions to the side of his shaft.

Fisted uselessly in the sheets beside you, Flip’s free hand catches your attention out of the corner of your eye and you reach out with your own free hand to interlace your fingers. Your tongue traces every vein on the flushed appendage, dips around every curve. Until his hands are squeezing your hand and your hair so tight and his legs shake around you.

When you lean back, your smile is smug.

“Who’s impatient?” you ask with all the innocence in the world in your tone, but nothing but sin in your eyes.

Before you can bask in his reaction, you’re being flipped over and yanked up the bed. Flip lifts you up onto your knees and makes you brace your hands against the headboard, all before unceremoniously plunging his cock into you in a single thrust.

“Oh my god, Flip oww. You’re – fuck! You’re too big…” You mean to complain that he is too big to just split you open without prepping you, but the force of his thrusts knocks the wind and the words out of your mouth.

“Oh really? I thought you liked my big dick,” Flip growls in your ear. He’s curled down over your body, his sweat slicked chest pressing to your back as he snaps his hips over and over and over.

“I do, I – I do.” You manage to hiccup.

“Wasn’t that what you were saying? You like my big, fat cock?”

“I love your cock!” you cry out as both a correction and a declaration. Flip’s lips connect with the back of your neck and your back arches deeper, allowing him to drive deeper into you in turn.

“Yeah, you love my cock.” Flip’s voice is husky and even deeper than usual in your ear and you moan in response. “And it loves you.” Flip adjusts his hold on you, tightening his grip on your hips so he can pull you back into him with every thrust.

“I wish I could see you,” you whine. You’re not really annoyed, more teasing him for the way he’s commandeered your lovemaking. You hear him rustle through the sheets for something before he tosses something lightly which lands on the pillow beneath you.

“Here you go.” Flip’s voice is filled with amusement. Opening your eyes you look down and let out a breathless laugh when you see the polaroid from earlier. As you gaze down at the picture of Flip’s cock splitting you open, the real deal goes on right behind you, shoving you forward and making you screw your eyes shut in restless pleasure again.

The orgasm you’d been so close to having when Flip walked in all of a sudden seems to have returned rapidly, simmering right on the threshold. When you slide your hand down to rub your clit, however, you pass over your lower stomach and moan louder than you had previously.

“Mmm, is that good, baby? Hmm? Right there, sugar?” Flip asks. Instead of responding verbally you peel one of his hands from your hip and place it on your lower stomach. When he feels it – feels his cock as it presses into your belly from below, pounding so deep that you’re more filled with him than he’d imagined – he thinks he’s going to cum right then and there.

Flip’s hips stutter for just a moment before they resume their motions with intensified speed.

“Holy shit, sugar.” Flip almost laughs incredulously. “You’re taking me so well.”

“I want it.”

“You want my cock? I’m giving it to you, baby,” Flip coos, almost comforting you as you seem to fall apart beneath him.

“No. Your cum.”

“Does my baby want me to cum? Want me to feel good, is that it?” Flip’s hand finishes the migration that yours never did, fingers finally reaching your clit and rubbing deep circles into the swollen bud.

“Yes…but no.” You sound desperate now, the added pressure at your clit bringing tears to your eyes. “I want you to fill me with your cum.”

The sound that issues from Flip then is nothing short of a growl.

“Oh I’ll fill you with my cum alright, baby.” The force of his snapping hips causes your arms to give out, no longer able to hold onto the headboard. Your cheek presses into the sticky film of the polaroid picture as you writhe beneath Flip. “I’ll fill you up so much that your stomach will be swollen with much more than my cock.”

The combination of Flips words, his thumb on your clit, his cock pounding into your aching cunt – all of it works together to throw you over the edge into a blaze of ecstasy that lights you on fire from your crown right to the tips of your fingers and toes. Your muscles quake as Flip gives his last thrust before painting your walls with hot cum that seeps out between your legs.

You don’t remember Flip pulling out of you. Neither do you remember him turning you over or him tucking you up under his arm. The next thing you do remember is him peeling the polaroid picture off your warm cheek and holding it out for you to see, laughter rumbling in his chest beneath you.

“It’s ruined!” You exclaim with displeasure, reaching out for the now bruised photo, touching a finger to the discolored splotch in the middle of the image.

“Nah, it’s just another excuse to break out the camera and fuck you silly by the fire.” Flip’s hand lazily caresses the back of your arm, eyes closed and already close to falling into a deep, sated sleep. The giggle that issues unbidden from your lips gets him to pop one eye open in amusement over the foreign sound.

“Maybe you already have fucked me silly,” you concede. Flip tucks you tighter against him and shakes his head.

“I think I can fuck you sillier, don’t you worry about that.” You nestle into his warm body as he sighs a deep, pleased sigh before adding, “Just don’t think I’ve forgotten you still owe me a real fucking blow job.”

~*~

Tagging some lovely people (please let me know if you’d like to be tagged or untagged in future work!): @mariesackler @direnightshade @safarigirlsp @sacklerscumrag @paper-in-ashes-fanfiction @historyandfandoms50 @clydesfavoritegirl @wayward-rose @hopeamarsu @thegreenmatt @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @finn-ray-nal-beads @fizzywoohoo @maybe-your-left @aliveandlonely @han-not-solo @morby @emeraldsiren20 @maryforyou @aloneandsleepless @jynzandtonic

#anon #request #flip zimmerman x reader #flip zimmerman x you #flip zimmerman/reader #flip zimmerman/you #flip zimmerman smut #flip zimmerman fanfiction #flip zimmerman fan fiction #smut #writing #roanniom #tw: breeding kink #cw: breeding kink

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englass · 2 years

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If you have the time and don't mind me asking what was Jacob's bonding moment with lily?

I never mind you asking anon 😊

Funnily enough I do have half (quarter?) of the scene written down in a draft, but I never got around to finishing it 😩 I’ll do it eventually (hopefully), but until then I’m more than happy to share the run down/summarised version!

The bonding moment in question is Lily having a nightmare. She’s always been prone to them, but hasn’t had one in months. Until now that is. The stress of all that’s going on recently is naturally getting to her so she ends up experiencing one, regaining consciousness enough to dash from her room (which is looking far too much like the cramped confines of her dreamscape) and tucks herself away downstairs. She ends up staying there for a while, struggling between telling what is real and what is her nightmare overlapping into reality, before Jacob finds her after having his own restless night.

Admittedly he’s kinda tempted to leave her. He doesn’t know why she’s up so late/early, but really it’s not his responsibility to know. It’s Joseph’s. He almost goes and gets him, but then he remembers how uncomfortable the girl’s been around his brother after their chat by the lake (yes, this is a sequel) so decided against it. And realising how shaken up she seems the longer he looks at her he realises that he can’t leave her like that. Especially since she’s reminding him so much of a young Joseph…

So to cut an already long story short, he gently starts talking to her to ease her out of whatever scene is holding her captive, takes her outside for some fresh air, disappears to grab and then wrap her up in a blanket, and then sits next to her as the sun eventually starts to creep over the horizon. They quietly chat a little bit while sitting outside, bonding over the fact they both have trouble sleeping, Lily revealing how much she misses her dad and letting slip a little bit of information about him that makes Jacob raise an eyebrow in curious suspicion.

He does end up comforting her when she starts crying and he kinda comes to the fresh realisation of – shit, she really is just a fucking kid… I mean, he already knows that and doesn’t approve of what Joseph’s done for that reason, but he’s been keeping his distance so now that he’s actually talking and interacting with her it’s really hit him that this pup is in fact a puppy. She shouldn’t be here, not in their fucked up family. She deserves better than this. The shit that happens in this compound and that he and his brothers talk about is not stuff a kid should hear or be around. But, sadly, there never was any other option for her. So, with her fast asleep and tucked into his side, feeling sorry for her he decides that while he’s around he’s gonna try and make this whole fucked up situation a little more bearable for her. It’s the least he can do, after doing nothing.

#man feels bad for her #and i don’t blame him #but hey!#at least she’s got someone that’ll act semi normal around her #my beefy mountain man #jacob seed #fc5 oc #fc5 #far cry 5 #my writing #asks #anon #anonymous

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jetaime-jespere · 3 years

Text

Prompt #74/188

#74: Well. Yell, scream, say something, anything / #188: Say it.

Rated M.

Atlantic City is a calamitous disaster. At least that’s how it starts.

Not because of their case - of course it’s awful, as most of them are. There’s nothing not awful about a duo of killers targeting vacationers during the height of the summer tourist season. Everyone is on edge, it’s hot and cramped, and there isn’t much time before they’ll almost certainly find two more dead bodies in the early morning hours outside one of the many casinos dotting the shoreline. But they’re used to that; it’s practically their daily vernacular at this point, a bit of normalcy in the current chaos between them. The case is the least of Aaron’s concerns, or Emily’s for that matter.

It’s everything but the case this time.

Things go downhill before they even cross the New Jersey state lane. A last minute hydraulic fuel leak on the jet renders air travel a non option. Instead, they get stuck in the same SUV with Reid for company in the backseat for the four hour drive. Aaron almost feels sorry for him, but he’s completely oblivious to the brewing storm inside the confines of the car for the entire first leg of the trip. Reid chatters endlessly, yet neither of them seem to hear a word he’s saying. By the time they hit the Atlantic City Expressway, Emily is all but ready to leap out the window. Hardly any words are exchanged between the two of them at all; they aren’t needed. It’s in her body language and his reticence, the firm clench of his hand on the steering wheel and her weary head resting on a fist, angled as far away from him as possible.

“This is a mess,” Aaron mutters with more than an hour left to go, and he isn’t talking about the thickening traffic. He’s talking about them, and the ending to what never really had as much as a beginning in the first place.

Things spun out of control towards the end. There was a breakup, if it could be considered as much. What they had was never labeled or defined, it just was. It was built on a mistake, nurtured through secrecy and quiet whispers in the dark. It then spiraled into something else entirely, creating an impasse between them during the day that bled into endless nights spent wrapped around one another in beds across the country for almost four full months.

“We can’t do this,” Emily finally said in a darkened hotel room in Seattle exactly 12 days prior to this one. He’d been expecting it, recognized the signs of her pulling away a little more with every kiss he left on her smooth skin, every shudder of her body beneath his and every breathy pant in his ear. There’s nothing tangible left of them, just broken fragments and heavy silence, and every reason why they shouldn’t have ever started this in the first place plays out right before their eyes. “There’s only one way for this to end, you know.”

There was nothing he could say to talk her out of it as she threw the covers aside, reaching for her clothes on the floor. Aaron offered an “I’m sorry” for good measure yet it didn’t feel like enough, probably because it wasn’t at all. But it’s over, she reminded him as she closed the door firmly, without looking back.

Or so they think.

A mishap at the hotel in Atlantic City leaves the team two rooms short, meaning the team will have to double up for the next few days. JJ is seven months pregnant, which automatically gives her the comfort of her own space, and it goes without saying Dave will get his own too. Reid shuffles his feet and makes eye contact with Morgan, looking slightly relieved when he nods in agreement. That leaves Aaron to concede and Emily to shrug her shoulders indifferently, even if her face is anything but that. The caretaker of the slightly run down hotel only slightly leers in Emily’s direction as he passes over the two room keys, and Aaron can’t help but step between her and the counter and swipe them both out of the man’s hand with a curt “thanks.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Emily says low enough for only Aaron to hear, snatching the key out of his hand and taking off in the direction of their room. “It’s just a damn key.”

“Did you see the way he stared at you?” Aaron questions with a hint of impatience in his tone as he goes to follow her, but she’s not listening.

“202 is the other way, you know.” The man chuckles with a jab of his finger, as if he’s seen this exact scenario play out many times before - two people disappearing behind a closed door, a disaster waiting to happen. “You two have yourselves a nice stay.” He doesn’t seem to care that just a few moments ago, Aaron’s FBI badge was in his face. He looks almost amused, which only adds to the visible tension between them both.

With an exasperated sigh, Emily turns on her heel and spins in the opposite direction toward their room. “I can’t believe this,” she mutters, staring at the tiny gold numbers on every door until she finds the one they need. Aaron doesn’t miss the way she squares her shoulders, the quick intake of breath as she twists the key in the knob.

The door squeaks on its hinges when she pushes it open; the room smells slightly of mold, but even that isn’t the worst part. The proverbial icing on the cake is when she stops dead in her tracks with him right behind her, shoulders sagging in defeat.

Fuck.

There’s only one bed. It sits in the middle of the damn room, practically mocking them both. Aaron doesn’t miss the subtle glance Emily throws in his direction, searching for his reaction just as he is studying hers. “I’ll take the couch,” he says immediately, keeping his face neutral, setting his bag down on the rickety piece of furniture that has clearly seen better days. “You can take the bed.”

“That hardly qualifies as a couch,” Emily tells him sharply. “That’s a chair, Aaron.”

She’s right, he thinks in annoyance. It wouldn’t even fit half of him, and staring at it makes his back hurt in anticipation. But sleeping next to her for however many nights they’re here isn’t exactly an option, either. “I don’t want to make you -”

“Let’s just agree,” Emily says through firmly clenched teeth, making it a done deal. “To be adults about this. We can share a room for a few days without it being an issue. That includes the bed.”

…

They should have known better, but it’s too late for that.

As expected, the rest of the day is exhausting. It only ends because of the promise to look at things with fresh eyes in the morning at the urging of the equally weary Atlantic City police. By the time they make it back to the shabby room, they’re both tired, hot, and cranky, hardly uttering a word after bidding goodnight to everyone else.

“You shower first,” Aaron says as he holds the door open for her, giving her enough space to pass him. “I have to check in on Jack.” He knows her routine once they get back from a case - a shower is always a necessity, and in the better days, they’d always taken turns on first dibs. Or just showered together, which was always his preference.

If she thanks him he doesn’t hear it, and the bathroom door closes behind her, the lock added for good measure. But twenty minutes later - how long does she need in there - he has to avert his eyes when Emily steps out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, the scent of shampoo lingering in her wake. She’s wrapped in one of the hotel issued towels, which is a generous description for the scrap of fabric that barely covers her, awkwardly crossing the room to dig through her suitcase.

Look away, Aaron wills himself, struggling to get comfortable on the tiny couch. It’s a lost cause, and will undoubtedly be a very long night.

There’s a mishap with the towel, a soft curse under her breath as she scrambles before it hits the floor, and an inopportune moment when their eyes meet, succumbing to what they silently agreed would never happen again. It’s how Emily finds herself pinned under his weight, her back pressed against the mattress as Aaron lowers to his knees and dips his head between her legs. Any protest that falls from her lips is short lived, her hands in his hair, her legs curling over his shoulders as he slowly begins to take her apart. Emily arches into him, unable to stifle the moans that are now a constant stream of affirmation, and Aaron doesn’t bother with reminding her the walls are thin. He doesn’t care, and something tells him in the moment he coaxes her climax out of her, neither does she.

“I missed you,” he says when he slides into her to completion a few moments later, giving her a moment to adjust to him before starting to move. He kisses the space between her breasts and Emily all but ignores him, pushing him over onto his back to straddle his hips with a smirk.

The pace she sets is quick, the rhythm fast and rough, and it’s over almost embarrassingly fast. He’s gotten her down against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her as she whimpers into his mouth. Her body is shaking in the aftermath as he thrusts hard once more, holding her against him. For a few quiet moments, the only sound is that of their breathing, a heaviness falling over them both at the realization of what’s just happened. And yet, she stays on his chest, her limbs not quite ready to work, in the comfort of his embrace for a few moments longer.

Afterward, Emily puts as much space as she can between them, which isn’t much given the size of the bed. “If this was your way of not sleeping on the couch,” she says sleepily, her voice muffled by the pillow, “I guess you won.”

...

The next morning, as the sun rises over the shore, Aaron finds her on the balcony, wearing nothing but his undershirt that was abandoned on the floor, the sound of the ocean in the distance. He mumbles something about getting coffee, the first thing that comes to his mind. He knows she (and he) could use some, judging by the minimal amount of sleep they got. Emily doesn’t say a word, just pushes him against the sliding door and drops to her knees. His head falls back against the glass, his hand tightening in her hair as she brings him into her mouth, letting him hit the back of her throat. In between his eyes closing, his hips stuttering against her face, Aaron watches the brilliant mix of orange, yellow, and red fade into daylight, and wonders just how things got to be such a fucking mess in the first place.

They’re two for zero now, and as the day dawns hot and there’s another set of bodies found, it’s abundantly clear no one is leaving Atlantic City anytime soon. And much later that night, they hardly make it to that damn bed before the score becomes three.

…

Aaron wakes up a few hours later from a restless, uncomfortable sleep. The room is stuffy, the pillow underneath his head is flat, the hum of the air conditioner a constant nag even if it does little to cool the room down. Before he opens his eyes, he knows she’s gone. The space beside him is cold - Emily is nowhere to be found, and there’s thunder rumbling ominously in the distance. He dresses in the dark, grabbing his keys, doesn’t bother with an umbrella, and makes the short trek to the boardwalk.

It’s where he would go, and it’s where he finds her, sitting on a bench, her arms folded across her chest, long legs crossed at the knees. She’s ripping at her fingernails, a sure sign something is wrong, and wearing a blank expression that doesn’t change when she slowly turns her head to see him coming right towards her. “I had a feeling you would find me.”

Aaron shrugs, but doesn’t miss the way she flinches when he sits beside her. “Not many places to look. It’s 1 AM, you know.”

She sniffs with disinterest, continuing to pick at her fingernails.“Why do we keep screwing up?” Emily says after a long pause, and what he sees is like a swift kick to the chest. She looks disappointed with herself, disgusted even. All because of him. “Why can’t I just … quit you?”

“Why do you keep coming back?” He challenges her right back. “If all you’re going to do is walk away again?”

Emily turns her head to stare at him with widened eyes. “We both know the answer to that, Aaron. We both know this was never going to work.”

“No, you decided that. All on your own.” He remembers the night in Seattle as if it were yesterday - the night she left. The sting of her words is still fresh in his mind. “But maybe you’ve already compartmentalized it,” he adds with a bite in his voice that wasn’t there before.

Emily recoils at his words, recrossing her arms over her chest. She rises to her feet, pacing around the bench. “What do you want from me, Aaron? What were you expecting when we drunkenly decided to sleep together once? It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“You. I want you. And not just this fuck then forget bullshit,” he says over the growing wind and thunder, the skies threatening to open. In the distance, the ocean churns, the tides crashing against the shore as his anger builds. “I want to be with you,” Aaron adds with a waver in his voice. “Regardless of how this started.”

Emily blinks with confusion and bites her lip, as if holding back tears. She shivers, rubbing her arms, her lip starting to tremble. They can’t. Her silence is an answer in and of itself, one he refused to accept.

“Well?” He demands, the anger rising in his voice, and Emily curses his resolve.

“Well what?”

“Well. Yell, scream, say something, anything,” he snaps, searching her face for a sign of anything besides the emptiness painted across her features. “Don’t just say nothing.”

But Emily indeed says nothing, just regards him with wide, darkened eyes that tell him what he needs to know. In the dark, with only the lights of the boardwalk to cast eerie shadows on her face, she looks almost ethereal, a haunting comparison to the fear he sees. That’s what it is, he thinks. Fear. Fear of what could be, fear of what might never be.

“Say it,” he pleads. “Please, Emily.” The rain starts to fall, coming down relentlessly and soaking them both to the skin almost instantly. “

“Aaron,” she whispers, barely audible over the thunder and now the rain. “It would never work.” She holds up her hands in defeat. “We can’t.”

“What are you so afraid of?” He grabs her by the shoulders, just tightly enough that she can’t duck out of his grasp. Emily squirms uncomfortably but he holds her fast, unwilling to let her go, for if he does, she may never come back. “Why are you so damn afraid of this actually working? Do you have any damn faith?”

She opens her mouth but snaps it shut, her chin trembling with effort. He expects her to slap him, to jerk away and disappear into the night. He’s waiting for her to leave like she did three weeks ago. But she doesn’t. What she does instead surprises the hell out of him. Emily kisses him, slanting her mouth against his in the pouring rain, pressing her rain-soaked body right into his. It takes a full ten seconds before he kisses her back.

It’s a compromise, an agreement to not make a decision one way or the other, at least for the time being. Even so, Aaron envelopes her in his arms, a hand cupped around the back of her head and the other anchored across her shoulders. He kisses her back with an urgency he can only attribute to the fact that he’s in love with her, something he’s known for way too long.

He doesn’t have to tell her that, because somewhere amongst all the doubt, she already knows.

An hour later, after a hot shower (taken together) the score becomes four. And a few hours after that, as the sun rises yet again, nearly blinding them in a cramped Atlantic City hotel room, Emily tentatively agrees to try.

It’s good enough for him.

#hotchniss #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #aaron x emily #prompts #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #hotchniss fanfiction #this made me miss Atlantic City a little bit #I had fun with this one #even if it took awhile to materialize #feral247365

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halfway-happyyy · 4 years

Text

The Autumn Cottage

Happy Saturday friends! Autumn has arrived in full force where I live and I couldn’t be happier about it. To celebrate, I have written a sappy, smutty piece inspired by the current weather and this ask that I received: Can u give us a oneshot about a snuggle fuck w alex in a cozy cottage in the fall?

One of the greater joys in her life had to have been waking up to autumn's fickle fingers trying to desperately to reach her from the comfort of her woolen blanket. She watched, sleepy and bleary-eyed as leaves in shades of crimson and burnt umber drifted past her window in no particular direction. Her fingers roamed over the left side of the bed in search of him. Alexander's silhouette was barely visible through the indigo morning light, though she could make out the prominent line of his nose, and the slight curve of his bottom lip. Unmistakable in the minimal glow of dawn was the familiar glitter in his eyes, the glint that said so much about him and then nothing at all in equal measure.

“Good morning.” She whispered, and even that felt like too mighty of a disturbance in the stillness of their bedroom in the cottage. Though if he minded, he never let it show.

“Good morning yourself, kid.”

She reached the tip of a finger towards him wordlessly and brushed a feather-light touch down the bridge of his nose. Moving lower, she outlined his lips and grinned into the air before her as she felt him smile against her touch. She moved around his face with care, tried to memorize each delicate crease and wrinkle in her wake, tried to commit to memory the aspects that he resented about himself, even if she loved them beyond measure.

“Beautiful,” Alexander murmured as he brought the back her wrist to his lips, kissing the soft flesh there passionately. He brushed the pad of a calloused thumb over the rounded curve of her warmed cheek. “Like watching a flower bloom right before my very eyes.” They stayed like that for longer than either of them cared to admit; she could count on one hand in the past year that she had spent a weekend with him like this- alone and entirely undisturbed from anything and everything. He had broached the subject of a rented cottage in passing one morning a few weeks ago. It was one of those mornings where something had gone awry at every turn, and everything had been a blur. He had been late for something important, that much she could remember. He had rushed around the kitchen in a fury, muted Swedish curse words coloured every second sentence. He was out of breath when he reached the front door, weighed down by his leather laptop bag, but before he left, he turned to her and smiled. “Let’s get away together, kid.” She had taken it with a grain of salt until he returned home that evening, tired from a rather long shooting schedule, but in a fantastic mood all the same. “I mean it. It’s about to be a beautiful autumn. Let’s get away, just the two of us.”

“Shall I make you a coffee, or are we just going to lay in bed and stare at each other all day?” She offered him a cheeky smile and an exaggerated eye-wiggle which he simply laughed at.

“I have half a mind to choose the latter option, but I really do need some caffeine this morning.”

She nodded finitely and leaned in for a kiss, the innate push and pull of it caused a fire to ignite deep within her for him. She could easily spend the rest of her life doing this very thing; loving him fiercely and being loved back just as hard in return. “Alright,” She gasped as she pulled away from the allure of his hot, wet mouth. “Meet me in the kitchen.” She rose from the bed silently and padded over to her suitcase that was propped up on a wicker chair in the corner of the room. She noticed Alexander’s cream Sherpa sweater hanging over the arm of it and she ran a fingertip over the unbelievably soft material.

Alexander must have been watching her because when he spoke, his voice still gravelly from recent sleep, he startled her. “I’d be happy if you wore that, today.”

“You would?” She had been eyeing it ever since he’d brought it home from a shoot a month ago. She longed to wrap it around her frame, the sheer feeling of it luxe and utterly comforting on her bare skin. Especially as the months would inevitably grow colder.

“Watching you wear my clothing does something for me, kid. I love seeing how happy it makes you.”

With a small smile, she lifted the sweater over her head and let it fall into place on her body, the hem of it falling just above her knee. She pulled her hair from the confines of it and let it fall in waves down her back. “How do I look?” She asked.

“Beautiful,” Alexander murmured.

Satisfied with his answer, she made her way down the hardwood-floored hallway to the kitchen. She had thought at first that the silence of the cottage would be too loud; that city life had turned her into a creature who thought she craved noise on a near-constant level. But to her pleasant surprise, it had taken less than twenty-four hours to grow accustomed to it, and she knew now that she would miss it dearly when it was their time to go home. Eliciting a yawn, she stood on tiptoes and tried to remember which cupboard Alexander had hidden the coffee beans. Without warning, a large hand reached up above her head with ease and produced the bag for her with a sly smile. “I’d have found them eventually…” She muttered.

“Oh, I have no doubt of that. But- would you have been able to reach them?”

She shook her head and let out a small laugh. “Cheeky, vertically-adept bastard.”

They made their coffee together in silence. It had been one of the many things that drew him to her in the beginning. Where conversation seemed forced with every prospective partner and lover in the past- everything flowed the way it was supposed to with Alexander. There had never been a need to fill the quiet with empty words and small talk. It was a wonderful change of pace. “You hungry yet, kid?”

She remembered the basket of farm-fresh eggs in the fridge, thought of the loaf of homemade bread next to the coffee machine and her mouth watered tantalizingly. “I could definitely eat.” She watched him move around the kitchen with ease; watched the way his worn sweatpants hung low from the edges of his hips. She watched the way his muscles flexed in the light pouring in through the stained-glass window above the sink. She had always been struck silly by the beauty that this man possessed; but the notion that his soul bested his looks would never cease to leave her in utter awe. “What have you got on the go today?” She asked, a fork full of fluffy scrambled eggs rested in her hand.

Alexander passed a napkin over his lips, swallowed the bite of food in his mouth and shrugged. “Thought I might chop some wood for a fire tonight.”

She could hardly contemplate it now; the thought of watching her man hulk through multiple logs of wood caused her to physically clench her thighs together. “You plan on doing that soon?”

“After breakfast.” He confirmed.

True to his word, after the last dish had been washed and dried and properly put away, he stalked over to the coat hook in the front foyer and threw a sweater over his naked chest. Turning to her, he eyed her up and down and cocked his head to the side; a small smirk pulled at the edges of his lips. “Care to keep me company?”

Reaching for a blanket and the book that she had started yesterday morning, she nodded her head. “Lead the way.”

It was warmer outside than she had originally anticipated, though the autumn wind had picked up a little more voraciously, and she marveled at the falling leaves the same way she had earlier that morning. The sky above her was cloudless and a bright azure blue and she found herself thanking a higher being for the blessings in which she had been given. Opening the book to the page she had last left off on, the sound of an axe ripping through the middle of a log rang out through the clearing and she knew then that she would not be getting any further reading done this morning. Instead, she watched in awe as Alexander lifted the axe high above his head and brought it down with a force she had rarely seen before, the log splitting into two pieces and falling away from the stump. It was poetry in motion, really. Alexander’s hair was the longest she had ever seen it; the sandy blonde tresses were grown out and regularly fell over his eyes but she reveled in it. Of the many years that they had known each other, he had always kept a mostly clean-shaven face but quarantine, and the filming of a particularly brutal Viking revenge drama had rendered him more manlier and distinguished than she had ever thought possible. “You are fulfilling lumberjack fantasies for me that I never knew I had!” She called out to him.

Alexander tossed his head back, a hearty laughter bubbled up from the back of his throat and exited his mouth like music from a box. “You can lie to me, but you can’t lie to yourself, kid. I see the way you look at me when I put on my old and holey plaid jacket.” He took a break from chopping wood to wipe the sweat from his brow. “To add to this- you also purchased me a very expensive axe a few years ago for my birthday.”

“Guilty,” She muttered under her breath.

“But rest assured I am elated that this-” He gestured to himself. “Does it for you.”

The morning continued on in much the same fashion until maybe an hour or two later when Alexander joined her from her perch on the wrap-around porch. Falling into a bench opposite her, he took a few moments to try and regain his breath again. Beads of sweat gathered at the base of his forehead and his broad chest heaved under the weight of recent physical duress. They each viewed each other with a hunger usually only attained after seeing one another for the first time in months. “Come here.” He ordered, softly. She rose from her spot without hesitation and sauntered over to where he sat. He pat the front of his thigh twice, a silent instruction for her to have a seat. She straddled his lap with ease and wrapped her arms around his neck; the heady scent of his perspiration and body wash made her lightheaded with want. It took every ounce of self-control not to grind shamelessly down on his steadily growing erection. As he held her tightly to him, his warm, broad hands rubbed reassuring circles into her back. She shivered into the touch as Alexander kissed his way up the side of her neck, his mouth leaving trails of fire in its wake. “You cold, kid?”

“No.”

He kissed his way up the base of her throat, past the jutting outline of her jaw, and finally to her lips. His mouth still tasted faintly of the maple syrup he had poured over his pancakes hours earlier and the urge to devour everything he had to give her was overwhelming. “You like me like this, don’t you?” He smirked. “All sweaty and dirty from working hard and chopping wood for us?”

“Yes.” Her eyes slid shut and her head fell back as he continued kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin at the base of her throat. All the while his hands roamed greedily over her sweater-clad body, squeezing, and rubbing as they traversed.

“You want me to take you right here, baby girl?” His voice grew gravelly again, though it had nothing to do with sleep this time. “I don’t even have to touch you to know that you’re already soaked for me.” The wind had picked up again and had begun to blow her hair around her face, the cool breeze a welcome reprieve to her heated body. Alexander was fully erect now, his hard cock throbbed tantalizingly at her thigh. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and lifted the hem of the sweater to reveal her panties, and the wet patch that had grown steadily in the crotch of them. Alexander reached for her and slid two fingers past the flimsy material to her soaking folds. Immediately she leaned towards him to tuck her face into the crook of his neck, but he stopped her with a soft click of his tongue. “I want to see your face when you come for me, baby.” He brought a free hand up to caress her cheek, and as he held her, he brushed a thumb over her bottom lip. She parted for him without thought and began to suckle softly at it as his other hand started to delve deeper inside of her. He had perfected a rhythm with her now; one that no matter how many times he had pleasured her, would always be the fastest way to get her unravelling for him.

“More,” She gasped when two fingers just wasn’t enough anymore. Alexander nodded wordlessly, his gaze searching her own. He added a third finger inside of her, the stretch of it almost too much to bear.

“So fucking wet for me, baby.” He groaned, as he began to pump harder into her. He could feel her clench around him, could feel the soft, wet button of pleasure at the tips of his fingers. She sucked harder at his thumb the closer she neared to her orgasm. “You’re going to come for me soon, I can tell…” He murmured as she started to ride his fingers. “And don’t you dare be quiet about it.” He warned.

These words had helped to spur the wave of pleasure building in her belly and she arched her back against his fingers, her nails digging miniscule crescent shapes into the soft skin of his shoulder blades. “Fucking hell, Alex…”

He nodded up at her. “You look so fucking beautiful like this, my queen. That’s a good girl. Come for me,” He then angled his fingers in such a way that he had her screaming his name into the wind before them, her voice raw with unbridled pleasure. She continued to ride his fingers until she came down from her high, dropping her head to rest in the warm comfort of his neck. She couldn’t be sure how long she had taken solace there, but he eventually patted her bottom. “You came so good for me.” He pressed warm, wet kisses against her temple.

Taking his chin firmly in her grasp, she gazed at him. Unending vast oceans of blue peered back at her and took her breath away. “It’s your turn.” She crashed her lips against his again, the need to have him inside of her entirely all-consuming. He lifted her up in one fell swoop, standing tall from the bench as she wrapped her legs around his waist to keep from falling. He carried her into the warmth of the cottage, stumbling down the length of the hallway to their bedroom where he laid her as gently as he could manage, on the bed. He made impressively quick time of ridding himself of his clothing, and as he stood before her, naked and unbearably erect, she realized that she genuinely loved the man before her. It had occurred to her before that she felt this way, but she could honestly say that no matter what they would go through together, no matter the pain he would put her through in future, she loved him deeper than she had ever loved anyone before. “Come here,” She insisted.

Alexander crawled up the length of the bed, holding her head in his hands as he did so. He entered her all-consuming heat with a loud groan, the feeling of him stretching her to maximum fullness was incomparable to any pleasure she had experienced before. Having him inside of her was a comfort that she never knew she needed until it had happened. As he moved inside of her, his head dropped to her shoulder where he scattered dozens of open-mouthed kisses to the skin there. She held him tightly to her as he bucked his hips against her, his cock managing to hit all of the essential nerves each time he bottomed out. He was muttering nonsensical things now, random pieces of Swedish and English found her ears and she smiled into their embrace. She clenched around him after every other thrust, and soon his movements had grown sloppy. “Fuck,” He growled as her fingernails raked through the soft, firm skin of his broad back.

“You feel so fucking good, Alex.” She gasped against his bearded cheek.

He cried out as his hips stilled against her own and she could feel the familiar throb of his cock as he spilled everything he had to give, inside of her. He allowed himself a few more powerless thrusts, and another low whimper before he pulled out of her completely. She found his sudden absence almost painful. They remained like that for an unknowable amount of time, each just trying to catch the breath that they had lost a while ago. Eventually Alexander turned on his side to view her, bringing the back of her hand to his lips and kissing it gently. “I love you, kid.”

A crimson leaf lay next to his head on the down pillow, and she smiled softly to herself. “I love you too, Alex.”

#alexander skarsgard #alexander skarsgard x reader #alexander skarsgard imagine #alexander skarsgard oneshot #smut #writing #drabble

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anarchy-and-piglins · 3 years

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Summary: Technoblade spends some time in Pandora’s Box. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

(Read on AO3)

He skimmed his hand along the obsidian, the surface smooth beneath his touch. Some parts of it were seemingly warmer than others, but Technoblade didn't know if that was because of the lava running somewhere deep within the walls or just his tired mind playing tricks on him. He tapped the volcanic glass once, an action that fills the cell with a light ringing sound. But the layers ran too deep for Techno to tell where hollowness hides beneath.

Which was a shame, because knowing the structure's weaknesses would already go a long way in him figuring out his escape plan.

With no tools and the mining fatigue weighing heavy on his bones, getting through obsidian might be a fool's errand. But it was a better way to spent his time than waiting for a rescue party that would most likely never come. Or better yet, stay put and sit pretty like Dream seemed to want him to.

Technoblade couldn't see any other reason for him still being here.

The sky tore open, lightning forming a spiderweb of fractures evaporating as quickly as they had taken shape. Rain beat down on them relentlessly and made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them. Another crack – a flash of blinding light – and it carried the glint of a sword at Phil's throat, the steady hand of Dream holding onto the base of Phil's neck and keeping him in place.

Technoblade stilled in an instant.

The thunder rumbled ominously as Dream's impassive mask grinned ever wider.

The trade-off had gone quick and easy, an unspoken agreement that Techno would sign again in a heartbeat. He nodded curtly at Dream, who pressed the blade firmer against skin to make his point. Techno dropped his own weapon, holding up his arms to show goodwill. Phil's eyes widened as he realized what was happening, helpless to stop it.

"Wait-" But Dream curled his fingers tighter around Phil's neck, the sword inches away from slicing a jugular and Techno shook his head, internally begging for the other man to stay quiet.

He didn't know if he could do this if Phil asked him not to with that pained look in his eyes.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed since he was locked in Pandora's box, but Techno had a rough estimation. Sam brought him food and by counting the minutes between deliveries he had narrowed it down to two meals a day. Almost twenty meals had come and gone since his arrival.

During this time Dream had not come to see him once, was the thing.

It made a tight coil of worry pull in Techno's gut. One he stubbornly pushed down and shoved into a corner of his mind where he put all emotions he deemed worthy to be re-examined at a more opportune time, preferably over a cup of tea and some of Phil's freshly baked bread. There were only so many reasons he could think of for Dream to wait this long to state his demands – because that's what they had to be. Demands. Dream didn't do anything in half measures, always had some ace up his sleeve or a grand scheme to connect by pulling little threads of manipulation.

Dream had to gain something from putting him in prison.

Techno sat down on the small bunk that served as the room's only furniture, both bed and table in its function. The thin blanket that hardly did anything for him was balled up and shoved to the side. He started running down the list out loud so Chat could follow along. For all their strange tricks that eluded him, they still couldn't read his thoughts. Thankfully.

"Reason one: Dream thinks leaving me in here long enough will make it easier for him to get what he wants from me later."

Psychological warfare was the oldest trick in the book, but no method quite as effective as solitary confinement to break a person. Or, well, that would be the case for most others. Between the voices and a natural tendency towards extreme introversion Technoblade probably was the worst target for this approach. If the accommodations weren't so shit, he might have even enjoyed his stay.

Dream would most likely know this. Cross it off the list.

"Reason two: he needs to keep me secured for a future ploy."

A possibility, but the uncertainty tugged at Technoblade all the same. If Dream was planning to use him as a bargaining chip – or worse, a flunkey – down the line, then Techno would have had the honor of his presence by now, even if only for Dream to gloat. That man was utterly lost in his own superiority complex on the best of days, there was no chance he would pass on an opportunity to rub Techno's face in his future plans. Leave him stewing in misery with knowledge of what was to come.

A moment's hesitation, but he crossed it off the list.

"Reason three: he's forgotten I'm in here."

His joke made Chat agitated and he winced at the stab of a headache that brought forth as their yelling got louder, more jumbled. "Yeah, that would be pretty cringe of him," he agreed with their repeated outcries.

"Well, that only leaves the last option I can consider..." He trailed off, staring at the slightly shimmering surface of the obsidian. Techno could see his own reflection in the translucent facets. The crown on his head stood out starkly in the cell's dim light.

In chess, the best plays were always those that went for the strongest pieces first. It might be tempting to take a rook or two to start with, but you can't feel safe until that queen is removed from the board. Then it breaks open for you to do whatever you want with, essentially.

"He's leaving me here to rot."

Phil had stared at him, the shadows cutting across his expression. Techno couldn't look him in the face, keeping his focus on Dream instead. Not breaking eye contact even as his hands were tied behind his back. The useless gesture was only meant to humiliate him, Dream knew he wouldn't budge an inch with Phil's last life still in danger.

They had marched him straight to the prison, not taking any risks and all the while Technoblade had already been glancing around, committing any important leverages to memory. With every security measure they passed, his heart sank deeper in his chest.

Forty meals had come and gone.

Technoblade was chipping away at the wall, not for any real reason except it kept him busy. He wasn't stupid enough to believe it would actually amount to anything. Not when the walls were made of obsidian, not when the mining fatigue strained his movements and made his muscles contract under the pressure of forcing them into cooperation. There was less strength to his punches, flexing his fingers against invisible weights suspended from them by strings.

And even if he managed by some miracle to mine away a block, Sam would know and come replace it instantly.

"Chat," he addressed the voices. "You're familiar with the story of Sisyphus, right?" A mess of responses, mostly the repeating of their favorite letter which Techno chose to take as agreement. "Yeah, sure, I've read it to you before."

His claws broke through another inch of the solid stone. Obsidian wasn't a mineral, the composition wasn't right for it. But it splintered in brittle ways and cut open Techno's palm, making the blood run slick through his fingers. Chat went into a frenzy.

"This is what he must have felt like with his boulder," Techno concluded.

They stripped him of his tools, his weapons, his communicator. Technoblade was vaguely grateful they let him keep his clothes at least, though he suspected it was merely because Sam hadn't been prepared for the prison to already be put to use.

The creeper-hybrid looked at him in vague apprehension and Techno shrugged back.

Placing him in the highest security cell could have been a compliment if Techno didn't think it to be completely overkill and awfully dramatic on Dream's part. The rows of doors they passed on the way to the bowels of the box were concerning, enough to contain at least half the residents of the server.

Dream had officially lost his marbles.

High security turned out to be a euphemism for 'violation of human rights'. The cell was barely three by three blocks, with nothing but the bed tucked against one wall and a heavy-set door that didn't even have a handle on the inside. At floor height, there was a thin slot just wide enough for the occasional bowl of stew or a baked potato to slide through. The warden didn't have to interact with his prisoners.

"Cozy," Techno remarked dully before the door was shut behind him. It hadn't been opened since.

He had lost count, but he had to be nearing his eightieth meal now.

More and more often Technoblade found himself slumbering through the opening of the latch, only to wake up to a stale steak that had been left on his floor hours ago. It wasn't real sleep, merely a state of exhaustion both mental and physical that left him wandering the borders of consciousness, drifting somewhere between awareness and disconnect. Which he knew was probably not the best sign.

The lack of physical activity was wearing his muscles down, making even the simple act of pacing circles in the room send aches through his legs. For the first time in longer than he cared to recall Techno returned to the exercise routine they had done every morning in the Antarctic Empire – or at least the parts of it he could match in the limited space of his cell. It wasn't enough though and he felt himself grow weaker every day. There was no sunlight, no fresh air, and the food left something to be desired.

His mind too wandered more and more, having trouble staying on task. The voices gradually grew more agitated, bored by the same scenery each day, the lack of excitement. A permanent headache had taken residence and didn't show any sign of intending to leave soon, making its presence known through a constant throbbing and the occasional stab of pain when he thought too hard. Closing his eyes, Technoblade started to count out loud. Give them and himself something to concentrate on. Chat came apart into a tangle of numbers, noises, buzzing. He winced.

"Okay, new plan, new plan-" He curled up on the bunk, drawing his knees up to his chest. The blanket was on the floor. "Story time, what would you like to hear?"

More chaos, but one answer stood out among the others. Its irony was not lost on Techno.

"Thus, the first mortal woman was born and she descended down to earth." He hushed them and was grateful when chat fell away into quieter murmurs. "Her name was Pandora."

The door opened.

The sound made Technoblade flinch, the creak feeling so horribly foreign in the stillness of his cell that he had come to know like the back of his hand. He stared and didn't know what to think when he saw Phil outlined in the opening.

"Wha-"

His friend was at his side in seconds, one hand holding his wrist and it was nearly painful. An absence of touch suddenly set ablaze. Techno did his best not to shy away from the contact.

"We need to get out of here," Phil said urgently, eyes wide and panicked and the words died on Techno's tongue. "There isn't much time."

Techno could only nod, throat raw and hurting as Phil pulled him to his feet. He nearly fell over.

The hallways seemed different, longer and winding in strange angles. Door upon door upon door and Phil didn't say anything, just tugged Techno along. His head was filled with cotton. Why wasn't there any lava? Where was the redstone?

When they came outside, the sun was blinding him.

"Wait, Phil." Techno stopped moving, dug his heels into the ground and Phil stopped too. He turned around, skin pale and expression worried and it killed him. It killed Techno. "What's happening?"

"I came for you," Phil answered simply. "Of course I did, mate."

Techno felt like he was breaking.

He woke up in his cell.

"At the bottom of the box, only Hope remained there in an unbreakable home."

Technoblade missed his home.

He missed his farm and his pets and the feeling of the breeze running through his hair. He missed the winding of the river across the land, small sounds of trickling and running along the shallows with Wilbur and Tommy in tow. He missed Phil putting logs of wood in the fireplace.

He was tired.

The voices wouldn't stop screaming. Pressing his hands into his closed eyes, relieved when the pressure took some of the edge off, Technoblade grunted. "What has you guys excited now, hm?"

He didn't really care. The room was small and endless and he couldn't breathe within these walls, couldn't think. He just wanted them to shut up so he could go to sleep again.

But Chat didn't mind his protests, a litany of noise and somewhere in there, Technoblade could have sworn he heard Phil's name. He blinked back into awareness, struggling to get his stagnant mind into motion again. Too exhausted to move.

The door opened.

Technoblade couldn't even bear to tear his eyes away from the ceiling.

Somebody shook his shoulder and said his name and it hurt, it all hurt too much to be real. When warm arms wrapped around his body Techno wanted to sob but couldn't do that either.

"Hey, hey-" Phil was brushing his tangled hair from his face, fingers skirting along Techno's cheeks. He leaned into that touch subconsciously, needing it like a lifeline. There was time to be self-conscious about such vulnerability later. "It's okay, I'm here."

The noise that wanted to come out of him was a low whine, but Techno cleared his throat instead. "Took you long enough."

Phil let out a short laugh, not quite sincere yet but still music to his ears. "Yeah, you can complain about it to me later, once we get home."

Home?

Techno nodded, the minimal motion already enough to make him dizzy. But that didn't matter with Phil steadying him, holding onto him, helping him.

Coming back for him.

"Please," he said. "Home would be great."

#Technoblade #Philza #dream smp #mcyt #shara writes #this was for a request on my AO3 collection #but I like it too much not to post

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bangtanloverboys · 4 years

Text

cock blocked // pjm

summary - after being away from his boyfriend for so long, but jimin just can’t seem to catch a break

pairing - boyfriend!jimin x male!reader

genre - humor, smut; idol au, established relationship au

word count - 2.8k

warning - bottom!jimin, top!reader, switch!jimin, switch!reader, ass groping, making out, hand job, unintentional edging, jimin gets blue balled hard, wet dreams, grinding, thigh riding, jimin gets very very angry when horny

author’s note - normally i don’t do requests but this was too funny to pass up. also i want it to be known that being a bottom doesn’t equal being a submissive. bottom/top/vers dynamics literally just means who gets penetrated (Source 1 & Source 2 ) so i wrote jimin to be more of a switchy bottom to add more humor to it. i hope you don’t mind i did that and i hope you enjoy!

Jimin was pacing the floor of the dorms, impatiently waiting for you, his boyfriend, to arrive. It was the first time in about three weeks that he’s been able to see you and to say he missed you a lot was an understatement. Sure you two called and texted all day everyday, but he was getting needy. To a point where phone sex and sexting no longer felt satisfying, so learning that the other members were out for dinner, leaving him and you in the dorms by yourselves made the reunion that much sweeter.

Soon as he heard the knock on the front door, Jimin might’ve jumped a foot in the air. He quickly scrambled to the door, swinging it open and pulled you in. Door closed, Jimin pulled you into a needy kiss mainly consisting of tongue and teeth. While Jimin’s hands were knotted in your hair, he felt your hands slide down his sides to his ass where you gave him a quick squeeze.

“Someone’s needy,” you chuckled against his lips.

“Fucking shut up and kiss me, you dick. I missed you.” He pulled you close again. The feeling of your lips on his had Jimin shivering. He felt you slowly prod your tongue into his mouth, sighing he opened his mouth and let you in. With another quick squeeze to his ass, he whined into your mouth.

“Jump,” you groaned, wanting to move this to the bedroom.

Without question, he followed your instruction and wrapped his legs around your waist. With your hands supporting him from around his ass, and Jimin’s arms securely snaked around your neck, you made your way towards his bedroom.

Once in the room, you lowered him onto the bed, your mouth not leaving his for one second. He could feel you grow harder and he ground up against you. He loved knowing he had such an effect on you, reveling on the fact he could get you so worked up in a matter of minutes.

Pulling away from his mouth, you started pressing kisses and nips down his neck. “Please. . . please let me fuck you. . .”

This got Jimin smirking. “Yes, god yes.” He groaned, started fiddling with his belt and you pulled up to start taking off your shirt-

“We’re home!”

Both of your freeze, eyes snapping towards each other. They were back already?!?!

“Jimin? You here?” Namjoon called out from the living room.

“Yeah, give me a minute!” He shouted back, trying his best to hold back a groan. He looked back at you, seeing you trying your best to hold back your laughter. “This isn’t funny!”

“No. . . it is. . .” You laughed airily as you slowly started combing your hair back to fix your appearance. “Come on, baby. Straighten yourself up.” You slapped his thigh as you moved away from over Jimin.

Sighing, he sat up and started adjusting himself. Despite cleaning up his hair, there were still fresh hickies scattered along his neck and his dick was unfortunately still hard as a rock. “God this isn’t gonna go away anytime soon. . .” He huffed as he tugged off his T-shirt and pulled on a large oversized hoodie that thankfully hid his boner.

He looked to you where your hand was in your pants, trying your best to readjust your hard on to hide it from view. Jimin tossed you a flannel and told you to tie it around your waist, the sleeves hiding the bulge effectively.

With both of you straightened up, you left the room and made your way to the living room where the rest of the guys were surprised to see you. It didn’t take long for Taehyung to connect the dots and start laughing.

“What? What’s so funny, Tae?” Hoseok asked the younger.

“You seriously don’t notice? Look at them, we cock blocked them!” Soon enough everyone but you two were laughing their asses off.

“Ha ha, very funny.” Jimin sneered, although his embarrassment was clear with his red ears. “Anyways, what are you guys doing home so early? I thought you were going out to eat?” Jimin asked once the laughter died down.

“I mean, we did. But we started getting followed so we decided to get take out and come home.” Jungkook huffed as he held up the take out bags in his arms. “Sorry Y/N, didn’t know you’d be here or else we would’ve got you something.”

“That’s alright, Jungkookie! I already had something to eat before I came over.” You waved him off.

The eight of you started settling down in the living room. Jimin sitting down next to you, where you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Just deal with them for a few hours, we can continue later tonight.” You whispered into his ear, to which had him nibbling on his lip in anticipation.

As the guys ate, Jimin grew restless as your hands never left him. Drawing circles on his back, squeezing his upper thigh, and pressing more and more kisses to his cheeks. He could feel his bulge harden as the dinner continued, he shifted in his seat, trying to ease the ache between his legs.

You on the other hand were reveling in teasing Jimin, loving how he was reacting to your touch. Seeing your boyfriend get flustered underneath your touch gave you a high like no other. After the past few weeks of him relentlessly teasing you, now it was your turn to slowly torture him. You watch as you wound up your boyfriend more and more until he stood up, interrupting the conversation that was currently happening.

“We’re going to go to bed now.” Jimin announced then he turned to you, grabbed your hand and started leading you towards his bedroom to the sounds of his bandmates calling after you about not being too loud.

Door closed, Jimin pushed you onto his bed and crawled on top of you. “Fucking hell, why did you have to tease me like that?” He groaned as he pressed kisses all over your neck and slowly started pulling up your shirt, kissing down your chest. You sighed as he got lower and lower, starting to undo your belt.

“Because you’re cute when your frustrated.” You chuckled and you brushed the hair from his face. To which he just rolled his eyes and muttered something about you being mean. Jimin got your belt undone but before he could even unbutton and remove your pants, the door busted open.

Quickly both you and Jimin sat straight up but before you could even see who opened the door, you heard a scream and footsteps running away back towards the living room where you could hear all the guys start laughing. You start joining them in their laughter, finding it hilarious at how they’re now intentionally cock blocking you two. Jimin is pissed and you just don’t find it in you to be mad because it’s too damn funny.

Fuming, Jimin stormed out to the other guys where they were all laughing and Jungkook was hiding suspiciously behind Namjoon. “Really?” His voice slightly breaking as he shouted.

“Oh sorry Jiminie! But we-we couldn’t resist!” Seokjin said, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Well, you’ve had your fun so drop it!” Fuming, Jimin stopped back over to his room where you were still laughing at his all. “Please stop laughing, it’s not funny~” He whined as he fell on the bed next to you.

“Sorry, but again, it is kinda funny.” You said, pressing a kiss to the back of his head. “Why don’t we just watch some Netflix before bed.”

“But I’m hard and I want you to fuck me,” he pouted. He rolled over a bit to be closer to you, to which you just wrapped an arm around him and pulled him closer to you. “Can we just go to your place? I don’t know if I can take it anymore~”

“Sorry baby, but my roommate claimed the apartment for them and their girlfriend for the night.” Your roommate was very much a ‘no roommate over when partners are over’ kind of person, so you were stuck here for the night either way. “Now come on, grab your laptop and help me pick a movie.”

Once the two of you settled on an option, about 30 minutes in, he heard the guys slowly start walking down the hallway towards their respective rooms. Hoseok opened the door to the room, he gave a quick tight lipped smile. He stripped himself of his clothes and just climbed right into his bed. Jimin just snickered at his actions and continued watching the movie, turning down the volume a bit to let the elder get some sleep.

However you seemed to have other plans because as soon as Hoseok started letting out quiet snores, your hand started to get closer and closer to Jimin’s bulge. To which his eyes were about to pop out of his skull. “Hoseok-hyung is right there-”

You silence him easily by pressing your lips to his. “Then you should be quiet.” You whispered against his mouth before kissing him once again.

The kiss was lazy and sloppy, but Jimin was reveling in it. He loved the feeling of your lips against his, welcoming his tongue into your mouth to gently suck on it. It was when you finally started palming him when he broke away from the kiss in a whine.

“Shhh,” you slipped your hand beneath the waistband of his pants. “Quiet baby.” You squeezed the base of his cock, causing your boyfriend to roll his head back. You pull your hand out from his pants; to which he was about to protest but when meeting your eyes and seeing you lick the palm of your hand and stick it back into his pants, all while keeping eye contact with him, he let out a moan. You smirked as you moved your hand up and down his length. While it was difficult to stroke him within the confines of the cloth, but from the look on Jimin’s face he didn’t seem to mind. The next time your hand went to his tip, you stayed there for a bit. Pressing your thumb over the leaking slit, eliciting more whines to fall from Jimin’s lips.

“Please. . .let me cum please. . .” He mewled, so desperate to orgasm he started to buck into your hand. As you quickly give his erection another squeeze, you start peppering kisses to the side of his throat, leaving a few hickies in your wake. When you move back up to his mouth, he readily opens his mouth for your tongue to explore.

The west noises of the kiss and the feeling of his cock in your hands after too fucking long had his head spinning. He wasn’t sure if he was going to last much longer and by the look on your face; you knew that too, so you picked up the pace. It all felt too good, Jimin’s back started to arch off the bed. He was going to-

“Can you please not do this while I’m in the room.” Hoseok’s voice grumbled from the other side of the room.

Almost immediately you pull your hand from Jimin’s pants and his oncoming orgasm fades away. He was going to kill him. “You couldn’t have stayed asleep for another 5 minutes?” He groaned, covering his face.

“Sorry Hobi.” You let out a nervous chuckle. “Thought you were asleep.”

“Oh I was, but Jimin’s ‘nnghh fuck mee’ noises woke me up.” The elder made his voice high and squeaky to imitate him as he tossed back around in his bed. All of the heat rushed to Jimin’s face with embarrassment as you chuckled at Hoseok’s poor imitation, he threw a pillow at him. “Ow! That’s exactly what you sound like!”

Pouting, he just turned into your chest as if to hide from Hoseok. “I’m sorry baby,” you pressed a kiss to his forehead. You closed the laptop and placed it on the ground then snuggled close to your boyfriend. “Get some sleep now.”

To say Jimin didn’t get much sleep is an understatement. He barely slept at all. With you next to him, all of his thoughts were you and of you and since he was blue balled: there were no clean thoughts in his mind. He kept tossing and turning until you sleepily wrapped pulled him into your chest, keeping him still for the rest of the night to lie there and think. Think about all the dirty things you could do to him and all the dirty things he could do to you.

At some point in the night he drifted off, finally managing to catch some sleep. But there was not much difference than his tireless thoughts as his dreams were plagued of you teasing him relentlessly. Tying his hands up so he couldn’t touch you, barely allowing him to even rut against you while you were on top of him. Refusing to let him have any sort of satisfaction.

“Baby,” your voice vibrated against him.

He groaned as he continued to rub himself against you in the dream. “Let me cum please. . . ‘ve been. . .so good,” his voice slurred.

“You can cum if you wake up,” you chuckled as Jimin felt hair get brushed out of his face. Slowly but surely, the veil between dreamland and reality lifted and Jimin realized what was going on. He was grinding against you as he slept, he looked to your face and your pupils were completely blown out.

For a split second Jimin panicked, whipping his head to look back at Hoseok’s now empty bed.

“He left a few minutes ago to join the others for breakfast,” you explained. “So we have time.” You lower your head to capture your boyfriend’s lips in another kiss, this time a bit softer. Jimin sighed into the kiss, his hands making purchase in your hair. “Come on baby, you deserve to cum. You’ve been tortured enough.” You slot your thigh between his legs, giving him explicit permission to use you to get off.

With that he let himself go, grinding his morning wood into your thigh as you flexed it. “God- fuck-” Jimin stuttered out, the friction felt way too good and after being wound up again and again and again with no real release he was about ready to burst after barely a minute in.

You watched as the dancer moved his hips as he got off on you. You bit and nibbled on Jimin’s neck and collarbones, to which he whimpered and moaned from. “God, the sounds you make drive me. . .insane. . .” you sighed.

“I’m- fuck- I’m close.”

“Yeah? You're so needy that you’re gonna cum after a few minutes?” You smirked at him as he nodded his head furiously.

“Yes- yes, I-”

“Breakfast is read- OH FUCK!” Namjoon swung the door open and quickly covered his eyes. The mere intrusion had Jimin jumping off of you and once again, he was left with a terrible case of blue balls. And he was pissed about it.

“I’ve fucking HAD IT!” Jimin screeched and the leader quickly ran down the hall back towards the kitchen as if that would help to escape his wrath.

“Jimin-” You reached out to your boyfriend, but he ignored you and stormed after Namjoon. Not wanting the entire band to get murdered, you swiftly followed after them, ready to grab and hold him back at any time.

“Out.” Jimin said as soon as he went in the kitchen, where surprisingly all the members were up and about.

“Good morning to you too.” Yoongi said as he took a sip of his coffee.

“All of you, get out. Right now.” He said, walking over to the stove where Seokjin was making breakfast and turned it off.

“Hey-”

“I’ve had it up to here with all of you, get out!” His hands raised high in the air. “Go to one of your apartments, I don’t care but stay out of the fucking dorms!”

“Jimin, take a deep breath-” You started, trying to calm your raging boyfriend.

“No, Y/N, it’s okay.” Taehyung said, holding out both his hands in defense. “We’ll leave.”

“What?!” Jungkook looked at him and he was promptly flicked on the side of the head. “Ow! Fine. .”

They were going to go to their room to grab a change of clothes at lease before heading to the car, but Jimin wasn’t letting them. “Out now! Go! Go! Go!” He shoved at Yoongi as he was trailing behind the other guys as they made their way to the front door.

“Please don’t fuck so hard you break something.” Seokjin practically begged as he was shoved out the door.

“No promises, good bye!” And he slammed the door and locked it. He then turned to you and you froze on the spot, “Now you.” Jimin has never acted in such a way before so this was a new experience for the both of you. “I hope you realize that you’re not leaving here until you’ve fucked me on every. Single. Surface.” He punctuated each word with a step closer to you until you were chest to chest.

“Yes, sir.”

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skvaderarts · 3 years

Text

Hiraeth Chapter 64: Restful

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Sixty-Four: Restful

Note: We’re on the cusp of taking the fight to Belial. There is literally just one thing they have to do first...

(-~-)

In the dim but all-encompassing light of the torches that lined each of the wall's pillars, the guardian in the Dark Slayer stood, observing the pedestal before them. The recess in the middle was a perfect fit for the blade's holder, a metal stand that stood just above it with two clasps that were purposely designed to house the instrument. He was not entirely sure how this device had been constructed, but it was admittedly fascinating.

But not quite as fascinating as the reaction of the building continued to have to them, the strange sensation of nostalgia that had hit him like a freight truck still lingering in the air. He understood its purpose now. This was a ward of sorts, an ambient effect left behind by his father that was meant to drive away any who would do harm to the temple or what it housed. It instilled dread in those that did not belong here. It was a genius little bit of magic, something that his father had been quite good at if he remembered correctly. Even when he was not here, his work remained, and the legacy of the effort he had put into containing the evil around him was a testament to that. It was enough to make him reflect on his own life choices and feel... Discomfort. He could not undo what he had done, but this was surely a moment that he would look back on.

"So If I'm understanding you correctly the temple is reacting this way because… The blade was removed from the pillar, and it's doing this to ward off any demons that may take the opportunity to enter the premises?" The oldest son of the Dark Knight Sparda was not exactly confused so much as he was simply trying to confirm that he understood her explanation as to what was going on here. He was not familiar with the work that had gone into creating this building, and he had to admit that the technology that had built it was very advanced for the time that it had been created in. Would restoring the blade to its pedestal actually shut down the reaction, or was that just wishful thinking?

Lucia looked up from her place in front of the pedestal, her lovely eyes shimmering in the flames' reflection. She understood why he had asked that. This entire complex in of itself was probably slightly different than what he was used to. How interesting considering that he was the son of one of the people who was responsible for the purpose of the structure in the first place. It seemed that neither of the twins had been given the chance to learn about this during their youth. Pitty.

"You are correct. It seems that this will continue to grow in intensity until the blade is restored to its weight for resting place." She extended the blade to him, receiving a slightly raised eyebrow and a clearly questioning glance from him as she did so. He failed to see how this involved him directly. "If you'd like, you can place the blade in the receptacle. Then we may see for ourselves firsthand what will happen as a result."

Admittedly willing to go along with her request due to curiosity on his own part, he stepped forward and did just that, slotting the blade into its reciprocal and watching as the pedestal slowly opened and lowered it down into its cavity. For a few moments the only sound in the room was that of their own breathing and the stone sliding against itself, welcoming the blade back into the safe confines of its rightful resting place. An ingenious piece of engineering, one that would be more than sufficient to keep the blade safe. If the room appeared empty to the casual passer-by, then they would have no need to examine the pillar to see that it housed the blade in the first place. People tended to just keep going when they didn't see what they were looking for.

"We should return. I believe we've been gone just long enough for something to have potentially happened during our absence." He stepped back and out of the path of the pillar, ready to draw his blade if he needed to. He didn't so much have the feeling that something had gone wrong as he did that he simply needed to return. Something was amiss, but not in a manner that he could identify as dangerous. At least, not this far away from home. He wondered for a moment if distance was actually a factor in regards to this specific inborn gift.

Lucia gave him a slightly humored look. "I get the impression you don't have a lot of faith in your family's ability to stay out of trouble." She barely contained the smirk and small bit of laughter that ventured across her face. Admittedly, that's probably both of them at this point. He was right, they should head back. "But I agree. I'm ready when you are."

Nodding in agreement, Vergil unsheathed his blade and crisscrossed it through the air, opening a portal before them. It was best that they leave from their current location and save a bit of time and walking. She stepped forward with him and through the gate, her feet leaving the familiar stone floors of the temple, and landing on the wheel manicured pavement outside of V's home. The heat from the room they had been in was juxtaposed to the cool night air, a welcome respite. The flames had been quite hot.

Fresh air was something that he would take over the stale air of a stone temple any day, and despite it being something that he had had to readjust to after returning from the underworld, it was now something that he could say that he enjoyed with genuine truth. The air in the underworld was full of sulfur and ash, and it wore on the lungs of any who lingered in its general vicinity for long periods of time who were not born biologically accustomed to it. It was not something he could say he missed. And that was to say nothing of the smell of it.

"Do you ever get... I can't remember the name for it... Jet lag? From doing that, I mean."

He hadn't noticed until then that he'd been drifting off for a moment, his mind elsewhere. He didn't sense V's presents within the walls of the building, and as such, he didn't know where he was. He'd been there when he left. What had become of him during the time since? What would he do now that he knew he was not here? Should he go look for him? He didn't sense that he was in danger, but the fact that he was not within the safe confines of his home eluded to that.

"It… is just something that you become accustomed to after a while…" He drifted off, his attention elsewhere. They had not been gone for very long, and yet, when they had returned, things seemed to have changed quite drastically. Why did that always seem to happen?

Lucia looked at the house and then back at him after a moment, seemingly noticing the same thing that he had. She wasn't sure what to suggest they do, however, so she continued to consider their options for a moment before speaking, attempting to dig up a few that she hadn't actually registered before.

"They aren't here… "

He nodded. "No, I can't say that they… " He stopped. Not even a moment after he'd spoken, he could sense that that was no longer the case. His eyes drifted slowly towards the end of the block, and much to his surprise they came upon something he wasn't expecting to see. Both Nero and V rounded the corner a moment later, seemingly headed back to the house. He couldn't tell what it was, but he could instantly sense that something was different than it had been when he left. Perhaps it was just the air around them, but there was a certain difference that he couldn't pinpoint. The only thing he could say was that it wasn't negative this time. He couldn't say why, but of that he was sure. It was probably the only thing he was sure of at the moment. The rest was just pure conjecture and speculation.

Upon approaching the building and noticing that their father had returned, both of the youngest descendants of the Dark Knight Sparda stop dead when they're tracks, a look of total surprise on their faces. For a moment they both genuinely looked as though they had been caught sneaking out by their parents as teenagers before remembering the fact that that wasn't the case and approaching their father. At least this time they weren't being attacked by a demon with a scythe in the middle of the woods.

"Dad? Oh crap, V told me that you had just left a couple of hours ago. Everything good?" Nero said casually as they approached, holding the now closed umbrella that his sibling had brought along with him. He hadn't recalled him having a red umbrella, so he was going to assume that it wasn't originally his and that it probably belonged to Sirrus, but considering the fact that the young adjudicator was on bed rest right now and that V had his cane to deal with, he was happy to take it off his hands.

"Father… " V was genuinely too tired and emotionally exhausted at the moment to even begin to try and figure out how to talk to his father. In all honesty, he probably should have waited until morning to return. But as soon as their conversation ended, he felt an unmistakable desire to just be within the walls of his own home again and to crawl into his bed and rest. It had been a long day, and he had the feeling that tomorrow would be, too.

It was agreed upon that as soon as Sirrus showed signs of awakening that he would be alerted, and then he would return. But for now, he needed to rest, and the safest place for him to be besides the Ludwig estate was his own home. And despite the fact that he felt guilty for leaving even for a short while, he recognized the need to do so. He'd even left a note in case he didn't make it back in time. He just hoped that his friend would understand and be willing to hear him out, and knowing what he did about him, he was willing to bet that he would.

Realizing that they were more than likely just returning from somewhere, Vergil stepped back out of the way in order to give his sons the room they needed to properly pass him. He wasn't sure what had happened while he was gone, but he would wait until they were inside the house. And he was relatively sure that if he actually needed to know, they would just tell him.

From what he understood, his children hadn't really made it a habit of actively lying to him. No, that wasn't something that they really had in them. Especially not Nero. He was more likely to tell you exactly what he was thinking whether you liked it or not than he was to sugarcoat literally anything. And V? While he was unlikely to say everything that was on his mind, he was likely to make his point known, especially if he had a stance on the matter at hand. It was good to see that in their own way the absolute bullheaded refusal to budge on most things ran in their family, at least with the exception of his oldest child. He had it in him when it came down to it, but he wasn't entirely unwilling to back down, either. It just depended on the circumstance. The ability to compromise was one of his best traits, actually. No, what he had in spades was an absolute refusal to give up, and they were going to need that now more than anything.

As soon as they unlocked and opened the door, they headed inside, more than willing to return to the warm confines of the building. It was like being swaddled by a warm blanket or basking in the comforting heat of a candle. More than anything right now, the young summoner just wanted to reside within the walls of his home and think quietly. He'd come to his declaration, but now he needed to understand the best way to act upon that virtue.

Moments later they were joined by Lucia and Vergil. The Dark Slayer locked the door behind them before joining Lucia as she shedded anything that she didn't feel like carrying around the house and left it near the door. They weren't going to need their weapons for the foreseeable future. It was late. The only thing they really needed was to go to sleep. Dante would be returning sometime tomorrow as soon as his venture was complete, and then they would act.

Well, as soon as they knew what they needed to do and where they needed to do it. It wasn't quite as simple as just walking through to the underworld like he had previously. While that was possible, they needed a plan. The entirety of Belial's domain was inhospitable, so they needed to know what they were up against and how to best combat it before they ventured into it. Nothing good would come from going in blind. He'd learned that at least two separate times in recent memory of his own accord.

Upon entering the living room, Vergil couldn't help but notice the amicable silence between his two sons. Hero was making himself comfortable on one of the couches, and V had curled up on the chaise lounge next to the fireplace, seemingly slightly dozing off into something resembling sleep. It seemed that he was at that interesting stage where he couldn't quite make himself go up to bed, but was clearly tired enough to sleep. Always a dilemma, that one.

But that wasn't what stood out to him. What he couldn't help but notice was the fact that something subtle had changed in both of them, and that something was different in both cases. He couldn't say that it was in their eyes or their demeanor, but it was just something he knew, even if he didn't understand it.

What on Earth had happened while he was gone for the last few hours? And for that matter, what was Nero even doing back on the mainland? Weren't the fairies closed by now? It was barely dawn. He would have had to fly or otherwise make a drastic choice to return to the mainland. He'd like to know the story behind that, but he was fully willing to assume that it was too late at night to get an agreeable answer from them. Still, perhaps it was worth attempting…

"Am I correct to assume that the time since I have left has been eventful? It must have been to see you both returning so late at night." He looked around the room thoughtfully as he approached, taking in the quiet atmosphere. He imagined that if the rest of their house guests had been up, that they'd be down here drinking tea. But that being said, something had just occurred to him. Something was wrong here. "And for that matter, I believe we're missing someone. Is there a story there?"

"Correct on both accounts, father. I suspect It will be a short while before we are graced with Sirrus's presents again." V said with a slur that was entirely born of his need to sleep, the special way that he dragged his words only occurring during such a state. It was a tick unique to sleeplessness. "We encountered our uninvited guest from the train station again, and it ended in what I can only imagine was quite the fight. I had been thrown from the roof by that point, so I can't give you any details, but I was told that I would be informed if anything changed in his condition. He heals quickly. I'm hopeful that he shall awaken again soon."

Vergil's entire brain threatened to run out of his ear. V had been thrown from a roof? Did that mean that the young adjudicator was in a coma, or that he was just injured? And how did this situation involve Nero? It seemed that there was a lot more going on than he knew about, and he was willing to take a hint from his oldest son's demeanor and wait for morning to receive more details. Perhaps it was best that he only had to explain this once when Dante was present. He could tell that something about the situation weighed on him. It was just something in his demeanor that screamed it to him. Perhaps it was just too familiar to him on some sort of deep-seated personal level that he didn't want to confront…

"Dante is going to return in a few hours. You can elaborate then. But for now…" He watched his Lucia politely waved at them before hitting up the stairs, both of his sons returning the favor. There didn't need to be any discourse between them. They just all seem to understand that they were tired and needed to rest. "I will occupy one of the spare rooms. Until then." He nodded quietly and then turned away, both Nero and V sort of looking surprised by his actions, but pleasantly surprised all the same.

"... Good night, father." V wasn't sure what led to him speaking those words out loud, but he had truly met them, even if he was half asleep. It seemed that he dropped his inhibitions when he was tired. At the end of the day, he actually did care about Vergil, even if he wasn’t always very good at expressing it or understanding the particular reasons that he couldn’t help but do so. He had long suspected that he would never be able to forgive his father for what he had done, but when it came down to it, he couldn’t summon the energy to be angry at him even if he wanted to.

Nero nodded, waving as Virgil appeared over his shoulder at the both of them. As soon as their father was out of earshot, he turned back to his older sibling, noticing that he was starting to curl up under the blanket that he kept on the couch. It seemed that Kyrie's gift had proved to had proven to be practical as well as sentimental.

"V you gotta get a TV or something so that we can watch movies together or whatever. I think all of us like to read, but nowhere near as much as you do." Nero left himself softly, rolling up under his coat on the couch. V had come quite a way since their conversation an hour or so ago, but he could tell that they were still some remnants of the same guilt that he felt at the house. That made sense. No one completely immediately shook off everything that was bothering them, but they both needed to sleep at some point tonight, and they were running out of time. He couldn't just go to sleep and no that he might need him, but maybe if he could just make him laugh first… "Hell, maybe I can get Nico to fix an old one. I bet Morrison knows a person that's got one they're trying to get rid of. He can find anything. Or we could "borrow" Dante's jukebox."

V smirked to himself. "I am open to that possibility. I hadn't honestly considered it before now." For a moment as he attempted to fight the urge to sleep just yet. The call of the void was just too enticing. How in the world had he forgotten to get an actual form of entertainment? It seemed that his love for poetry was all-consuming. "Joy and woe are woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine runs a joy with silken twine."

Nero stretched his arms over his head and yawned, flopping over awkwardly onto the couch. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes playfully and laughed to himself slightly as he looked over at his older brother and registered his quote. Even at the cusp of sleep, V was unable to forget William Blake’s works. Now that was commitment. "Good, because I'm bored to tears, and I need a nap. And you need a new hobby."

(-~-)

Sorry if there are any major mistakes. I think I was a little sleepy when I edited this lol! I’ve been really enjoying these wholesome moments. I need them for what’s about to happen. See you in the comments and on Friday! I believe it’s finally time!

#Hiraeth #V #Vitale #Nero #Vergil #Lucia #My Post Devil May Cry 5 AU #My Post Devil May Cry 5 AU OC's #My Post Devil May Cry V AU Fanfiction #My Post Devil May Cry 5 OC #DMC #DMCV #DMC5 #Devil May Cry #Fic #Devil May Cry 5 #Devil May Cry V #Post Devil May Cry 5 FanFiction #DMC AU

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tsvestidiabolus · 3 years

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It’s that time again, fellas. A new chapter of memento vitae, my Yamato/Robin multichap fic is out!

summary: Robin joins the Beast Pirates. This wasn't by choice. AU, Yamato/Robin endgame.

if you would like to read it on tumblr, the whole chapter is under the cut! Please considering reblogging and supporting my Romato agenda.

At one point Robin would have given up everything to be out in the ocean, and now all she wanted to do was to return home. Of course, this was no longer an option, so the only alternative she could consider was to drown herself, and that didn’t sound pleasant either. In the end she was forced to live, and that was the greatest punishment the world could give her.

Having travelled almost four weeks with King - a name she couldn’t tell if he deserved or not - Robin was beginning to grow bored with each passing day. Not that she particularly minded that, for it was a far better alternative to whatever King had in store for her. But still, the anticipation was almost killing her, and the jeers and sneers from his crew didn’t help. It was like they knew that something was to happen to her, and the fact that she didn’t know frustrated her to no end.

Sometimes, on rare occasions, King would visit her. He would never speak a word, merely stare, and she would never speak a word, looking straight back at him. She didn’t know what he was thinking or doing in those little stare-contests of theirs. She wondered if he thought of a hundred ways to kill her, as she did him. Whatever the case may be, she was winning. Two wins to her, one win to King. Spending hours and sometimes days awake did wonders to help for her to stop blinking.

Most humiliating was when, during the times where she was allowed to eat, the pirates would taunt her. It always came down to them either placing the plate of food just out of reach, or not bothering to unlock her arms from her cuffs. They could easily have done so; the cuffs were clamped tightly around her ankles too, but apparently it was more enjoyable for them to watch her struggle to eat with just her mouth, like a dog. The pirates had laughed and mocked her, throwing as many obscene words her way as possible. Robin ignored them, for the most part. She’d rather live in humiliation than die for their satisfaction.

Still, that didn’t mean she could forget any of their faces.

Robin spent her time counting her teeth, when she wasn’t trying to catch a glimpse of outside her cell. Not that the view really told her much about where she was, but the smell of sea salt and fresh air was certainly more favourable than the stench of burning leather that lingered in her cell after King’s visits. If she were adept at navigation, she could probably tell where she was from smell alone. She wasn’t, though, and being able to tell where you were from scent alone seemed like a pretty useless ability outside of mere curiosity.

On what could have been the eve of the fourth week, Robin was greeted by King once more. Though, this time he seemed impatient. Irritated. The flame on the back of his neck was crackling violently, to the point where Robin was afraid it might set the room on fire. It didn’t, though. Unfortunately.

“Change of plans,” he said. “We’re taking a detour.”

Robin looked up to him, knitting her brows together. “A detour from where?” she asked. Just as a casual reminder that he still hadn’t told her where they were going.

King ignored the question, of course. “You will be removed from this confinement shortly. I thought you’d be happy about that.”

“Ecstatic.”

“Don’t talk back to me,” King snapped.

The inferno flared up for a moment before dying down to a gentle blaze. She found her eyes drawn to it once more, taking in the wintry wrath of a man who lived by fire. This was not someone to trifle with - she couldn’t take the same chances with him as she could with the other, hot-headed pirates. He would not kill her, but a sense of dread followed him, like the calm before a disaster. Robin told herself she wasn’t scared of pain anymore. Robin was a very good liar.

She swallowed. Perhaps it was best to do as he said for now.

“I trust you know what will happen if you try to escape,” King continued. “We may need you alive, but that doesn’t mean we need all of you.”

His gaze travelled over to her wrists hanging loosely above her head with an almost ravenous stare. Suddenly Robin felt the need to hide her arms from him. The implication didn’t sit very well with her, and her arms were her most useful asset besides her mind. To take them away would be to take away her very will to fight. But she couldn’t hide them, as they lay bare for King to see, and she had the chilling sensation that he was slicing them up in his mind.

Although much of his face was hidden behind that abhorrent leather mask, Robin had the feeling he was smiling at that moment with what could only be called sadism.

“I trust I have your full cooperation?” King asked - the first question he had ever uttered in the four weeks.

What choice did she even have?

“Yes,” she answered, head hung low.

“Good.” King left the prison, letting her linger in the stench of ash and burnt leather.

It took less than a day for Robin to find out what exactly King meant by a ‘detour’. Detours, as it turned out, meant battle. She was taken, still cuffed in seastone, to a room far below the deck, only able to catch a glimpse of the sun and a faint outline of an island they were approaching. The pirate escorting her said something about how she should be grateful they were offering her so much protection. Robin imagined shoving her fist down his throat.

The pirate shoved her roughly into the new prison - not so much a cell as before, but actual sleeping quarters now. A single king bed laid in the corner of the room, the walls covered in ornaments and spoils of war. The walls were painted black half-hazardly - but on closer inspection, they were not painted, they were burned. She was in the berth of the ship, and whoever this room belonged to - she had a pretty good idea - was someone of importance here.

Just as the pirate began to say, “Now listen here,” the whole room - no, the ship itself - rocked, and the two were thrown against a wall violently.

Cursing profanities, the pirate was the first to recover, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s started already?”

“What’s started?” Robin asked from the floor, unable to stand up. “What’s going on?”

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” The pirate stomped his foot with every word. His skin was pale, and his eyes were wide, and sweat dripped down the back of his neck. For someone who was reacting like a petulant child, he was keeping his balance quiet well despite the tremors and shaking the ship was experiencing. Unlike Robin, who was already weakened by the seastone cuffs.

The pirate locked the door, her only exit out of the room, and shoved the keys in his pocket. Robin briefly wondered if the keys to her cuffs were in the ring - a thought that was swiftly replaced by a blinding white pain. Her head was turned to the side, and she tasted iron in her mouth.

“Don’t you even think about it,” the pirate snarled from above her. He patted his pocket. If he didn’t look so frightened by whatever was outside, Robin would be intimidated. “We’re just making sure you’re not seen by anyone.”

Robin struggled to sit up, leaning against the wall. The pirate seemed to enjoy watching her suffer and humiliated, the one thing giving him satisfaction during this clearly troubling time. Finally, she could sit up somewhat properly, her hands tied behind her back and blood dripping from her nose - broken.

She glared up at him.

“Whatever’s outside is enough to warrant King moving me from my prison,” she said. “If it’s a Marine or Government ship - which I doubt, as King knew beforehand that I would have to be moved, and the only way I can see them being an issue is if they caught you by surprise - then I wouldn’t have to be worried, and you wouldn’t have to be worried. If it were an enemy pirate ship, the only reason you would be scared this much is if they were considerably more dangerous than you are -”

“SHUT UP!”

“- so I can only assume it’s a pirate ship out there, and, if they know who I am, then they must know of my abilities,” she continued. “The reason I’m here is because you can’t risk losing me.”

From the moment the pirate’s hand twitched and she felt the impact against her temple, she knew she was right. Such a visceral reaction wouldn’t have happened otherwise.

Feeling a sort of satisfaction along with the throbbing pain in her head, Robin’s eyes travelled from the pirate to the door. The trembling and rumbling continued, along with screams, yells, gunshots and cannonfire. It was pure and utter chaos outside, that much she could tell. But still, if there was the slightest chance she could be removed from King’s prison, and run away freely…

“HELP!” Robin howled. “PLEASE, ANYONE!”

Her voice hurt from not being used, but that didn’t stop her from screaming her lungs out. A little humiliating, true, but anything, anything was better than staying with these pirates for any longer.

The pirate swore and lunged forward - Robin ducked underneath his reach. He banged his head against the wall, groaning in pain while Robin lifted herself, struggling heavily, to her feet. Without another word, she ran for the door and slammed against it with her shoulder.

“I’M IN HERE!”

The door didn’t budge. In fact, she barely made a dent on it. What was worse, the pirate was now recovered and glowering at her. With a raging cry, he ran forward again like a bull, and tackled her to the ground.

Snap.

Robin did not make a sound, but the Beast did. A small gasp escaped his lips and he jumped back off her, the weight gone from her arm. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt though. Internally she screamed, oh how she screamed, but externally she merely tried to get up onto her feet once more, determined to throw her body against the door again.

The pirate snatched her arm before she could begin running again. She winced at the sudden pain jolting up her body, grinding her teeth to stop herself from screaming.

“King’s gonna fucking kill me,” the pirate groaned as he pulled her back from the door. “We’re not supposed to hurt you -”

Robin bit him.

He kicked her shins.

It was a mutual relationship they had.

She didn’t know how long they scuffled for, her only weapon being her teeth while he retaliated and made her bruise in return. All the while the ship trembled and rocked dangerously, causing the pair of them to stumble and fall every-so-often. Their fight was only halted when the door suddenly slammed open - not opened by unlocking it, but by sheer force.

The relief on Robin’s face was bright, and her smile lit up for the first time in months. This was it, her saviour had come. She could finally rest easy and escape this place.

“ZEHAHAHA!”

For some reason, the laugh sent chills down her spine, and she didn’t know why. In her vision stood a hulking mass of a man, the stench of alcohol and smoke and blood wafting from his direction. She would have gagged, had she not been so desperate to leave at that moment. The new pirate grinned down at her with hunger, half of his teeth missing. Robin looked up to him with pleading eyes.

“Didn’t know King was into that!” the stranger said, amusement clear in his voice. Whipping out a pistol in his hand, he shot the Beast dead and leaned towards her, leering. “Little girls ain’t my thing, but who am I to judge him?”

His grubby hands grasped her throat, lifting her up off the ground. She choked and struggled against his hold to no avail - he was simply too strong for her, especially in her weakened state.

“Now, now, why do ya look so familiar?” He tilted his head, bringing Robin closer to him. The pong of his breath was overwhelming now. It took all of her energy not to throw up. “Ah! I know!”

He leered at her, and Robin felt her heart sink.

“Nice ta finally meetcha, Devil’s Child! ZEHAHAHA!”

---

Marco prided himself on being one of Pop’s commanders. It was the greatest honour one could have onboard the Moby Dick - no, in the seas. Not only was he trusted enough to be a commander in one of the Emperor’s ships, but he was deemed important enough by the Government to have almost a billion berries on his head. He was flattered, honestly. But in his mind, he - and everyone else onboard the Moby Dick - were priceless.

Unfortunately, it was not the Government who were so desperately fighting for their lives against him in that moment, nor were it the Marines. No, it was a rival pirate crew. How incredibly dull. At least, that was Marco’s first reaction.

Then he spied the flag that the enemy ship sailed, and heard Whitebeard’s distinct “GURARARA!” from behind him, and excitement ran up his blood like a shot of electricity.

Kaido’s crew.

Marco grinned from ear to ear, his brows narrowed down to a look of pure hunger for battle. He squatted on the railing of the Moby Dick, blue flaming wings flickering behind him. The rest of the crew readied themselves, armed with whatever weapons or powers they could use. And Whitebeard sat proudly behind them all, grasping Murakumogiri in his hand. They were all ready for a challenge.

More importantly, they were ready for revenge. They’d heard what happened to Oden, and while they weren’t willing to attack Wano in the case that one of their own would be hurt or worse, Kaido was not enough of a fool to declare war on Whitebeard for attacking one of his ships in neutral territory.

“You’d better have some grog on you, brats!” Pops declared. “My kids are hungry!”

The Whitebeard Pirates cheered and cried out a war cry.

On the other ship, there was silence. Not a single word uttered, despite them seeing a crowd of Beast Pirates on the deck. Then, Marco felt a thumping in his chest, a vibration in his very bones. A distant BOOM, BOOM, BOOM that reverberated throughout the ocean, but not a sound that was cannonfire - no, this was… bizarre. This was something that he couldn’t explain. This was…

Funk.

The rhythm pounded against their skin, making even the ocean ripple and waves crash against both their ships. An island nearby was hearing the full burst of funk, seagulls soaring from the tops of trees with a unified screech - a sound that could not be heard over the blaring music. Marco did not feel scared, certainly, but there was an air of confusion around the Whitebeard Pirates. He glanced back to look at Pops. Whitebeard looked unimpressed.

Shrugging, Marco turned his attention back to the Beasts’ ship. This certainly wasn’t Kaido onboard, by any means - he wouldn’t be so theatrical. So vain. Whoever was onboard the ship, whichever poor soul had encountered an Emperor, was relishing in this moment.

The enemy ship rocked from side to side, not enough to tip the whole thing over, but enough to cause the pirates to almost lose their balance. Marco stood up from his perch. He was curious about what sort of pirate was making such a noise.

“I’ve got a plague, and that plague is funkin’!”

Some of the Beasts dispersed, creating a path along the deck.

“It excites me to my core, I’mma chunking!”

Finally, the pirate came into view - a man Marco had never seen before. He was a massive, round-figured man, one that danced to the beat of the music. His body jiggled with every move he made in an almost hypnotizing fashion, the blond braid at the back of his head bouncing up and down. He entered the scene with flair, with vanity, and with so much theatricality that Marco thought he was overcompensating for something.

“LET ME HEAR YOU SAY IT! ONE, TWO…!”

Not a word was spoken amongst the Beasts, nor the Whitebeard Pirates. Marco could practically sense Pops growing impatient with every second that passed. It seemed he wasn’t the only impatient one.

The round man whipped his whole body around to face his crew and roared, “YOU USELESS MAGGOTS! CAN’T YOU GET THIS SIMPLE SHIT RIGHT?”, before throwing a nearby barrel at them. Most of the crew ran away before it could hit them, save for a large boy with pigtails, who felt the full force of the impact. The poor boy was holding a transponder snail in his hand, and didn’t see it coming.

Marco just decided that he didn’t like this man very much.

Evidently, Whitebeard didn’t either. The old man slammed his naginata down, shockwaves reverberating around them as he unleashed his haki. “Who the hell are you, brat?” He didn’t have to raise his voice to a shout to be heard over the thumping music.

The said music stopped, and the round man turned to stare at Whitebeard. A moment of silence passed between the two ships.

“HOLY SHIT? WHITEBEARD?” the man screeched, his jaw dropping. He began to sweat bullets. “YOU DIDN’T SAY HE WAS HERE!”

One of the Beasts said something incoherent in the man’s ear. That seemed to calm him down somewhat, as he turned back to the Whitebeard Pirates.

“UNFORTUNATELY FOR YOU, I DON’T HAVE ANY GROG ON ME!” he declared. “BUT I GOT SOMETHING THAT’LL SEND CHILLS UP YOUR SPINE! LISTEN UP, I’M QUEEN! AND I GOT SOMETHING THAT’LL BLOW YOUR MIND!”

He raised his arm and lowered it quickly. Then, everything happened at once. All the cannons on their ship exploded with a BOOM, the cannonfire approaching their ship at a rapid pace. Marco and the others were able to knock most of the balls into the ocean, but some hit the Moby Dick - barely scratching it, of course. But it seemed that didn’t help the Whitebeard Pirates at all.

After a moment passed, smoke began erupting from the balls. Purple smoke.

Marco swore. Poison gas.

He screamed at as many as he could to cover their mouths and to get inside - he would be alright, with his powers, but what about the rest of them? Jumping up from the railing, he covered the old man and his brothers in his flames in an effort to protect them from the gas.

In a manner of moments, the worst of the fog lifted, but by then it was too late. Half the crew was choking and writhing around the floor. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The Beasts had, in that time, sailed to them, and grappled at the Moby Dick with their own galleon. Pirates were climbing up ropes, weapons in hands, and prepared to battle.

The fight had begun.

#one piece #nico robin #one piece fanfiction #yamato #op fanfiction #romato #;; my fics #memento vitae

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cap-winter-barnes · 4 years

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It’ll All Be Okay - Dean Winchester x Reader

Request: Dean x Y/N have been dating for a few months, they love each other. Y/N is younger than him and feels insecure about it. One day they are in a cafeteria and the waitress flirts with Dean, Y/N feels bad and goes out to wait for them in the car. Dean asks what that was and they fight, in the end he apologises and says that he loves her and shows that she doesn’t need to feel insecure because the only woman he needs is her.

A/N: Thank you @fofisstilinski for requesting this one. I’m sorry that it’s taken so long to get it finished. I hope you like it.

Warnings: none, other than a bit of angst

The diner in which you sit is beyond its time. Old, faded wallpaper covers one wall, peeling around the edges. Framed photographs hang on the same wall, displaying the changes of this small quaint town. Music from the fifties is playing on a jukebox in the far corner, the scratching of the needle cutting through the soft jazz intermittently. The booths are dated and the leather worn, red material frayed and torn in parts. Across the back length of the diner, is a counter lined with tall, uncomfortable, metal stools. All stools are occupied by patrons with coffee or pancakes, some ready newspapers, others with their eyes glued to their phone. If only they knew what was happening to their small, quiet town.

Under your feet, the linoleum seems to stick to your shoes, making you grimace in disgust. Your heels click across the floor as you make your way to the Winchester brothers who occupy a booth next to the window. Dean’s face breaks into a smile as you approach, Sam turning his head in your direction at his brothers reaction.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Sam slides across the bench, making room for your next to him. “How’d it go?” Pulling your skirt down as you sit, you try and distract yourself from the horrible feeling of the faux leather on the back of your knees. You shrug off your jacket, placing it next to you.

“Well, it looks like you were right. We’re dealing with a rugaru, boys.” Dean takes your hand from across the tabletop, running his thumb across your knuckles. “Nasty one too.” A smug grin settles onto Dean’s face. “What?” Your tone holds a hint of seriousness as you question his expression.

“Nothing.” The smirk sits proud on his face as he looks you in the eye. With your heel, you deliver a gentle kick to his shin. “Fine.” He chuckles before saying, “I’m proud of you. Okay?”

There’s a slight blush blooming in his cheeks, Sam in your peripheral has a teasing smile on his face, surprised by his brother’s words, the same as you. Usually he isn’t so soft in public. Your cheeks burn under his gaze. “I mean it, sweetheart.”

A soft smile begins to morph onto your face, an urge to say three words you have been wanting to say to him for a long time. But you can’t, not now. Instead, a thank you will do. The phrase is on the tip of your tongue when you are interrupted.

“Hiya, folks. What can I get ya?” Dean’s hand leaves yours, the little moment of bliss, gone. You give a polite half-hearted smile to the waitress, but as you look up at her, that politeness leaves you. Her eyes are directed towards Deans, whose face is buried into the menu, analysing it thoroughly, making sure he doesn’t miss the best dish. Discreetly, you glance between the two of them, the longer you do so, the worse you feel. You suddenly feel cold, wishing you had kept your jacket on. Sam shifts uncomfortably beside you, clearly his throat before reading off his order, the waitress looking towards him, a bored expression on her face. As soon as Sam’s order has been taken, she turns her attention straight back to Dean, who has now placed the menu down, giving the waitress a charismatic smirk. “What’ll be handsome?” Your appetite now gone, you place your hands on your lap, picking at loose skin around your thumbnail.

“Cheeseburger with a side of fries, and a large shake.” He gives her a tight lipped smile as he taps the menu against the tabletop.

“That all?” Nodding his head, Dean looks across the table to you, where you sit with a vacant expression on your face, the colour in your cheeks fading.

“Y/N, what are you having?”

A shake of your head, has the waitress turning on her heels rudely, strutting back into the kitchen behind the counter.

There is an awkward silence between the three of you now. Dean has a frown settled on his face, brows coming together as he stares at you. He knows how much you love to eat greasy diner food, and since you didn’t place an order, something is clearly wrong.

You can see it in his eyes, that he is trying to think over every possible option as to why you are upset. Just as he is about to address the matter, the waitress returns. However, this time, the top buttons on her blouse have been undone, revealing a considerate amount of cleavage.

Your nausea returns in full force, and you cannot endure this any longer. Without a word, you grab your jacket and vacate the booth. Heels clacking against the floor, you quickly push through the door into the parking lot.

Inhaling as much fresh air as you can, you make your way over to Baby. Angrily opening the passenger door, you climb inside, your jacket discarded on the backseat without a care. Tears are now streaming down your face, mascara running along with it. You can’t stop the heaving sobs leaving your body, the urge to vomit fleetingly rises within you, but vanishes when the driver’s side door opens.

Wiping away at your tears, you watch as Dean takes a seat, slamming his door closed behind him.

“What the hell happened back there?” The way in which he turns to face you, has the worst scenario playing in your head. This is it. He’s going to leave you, he’ll leave you here to find your own way. Just like everyone else.

The scoff that escapes your mouth is unexpected and Dean looks shocked. That expression that settles on his face only opens the dams.

“That goddamn waitress, Dean. She was flirting with you for goodness sake.” The saltiness of your tears on your lips only fuels the hurt and the anger raging inside of you. “She was flirting with you and I was sat right there. Right in front of you.” Dean closes his eyes, realisation kicking in. “Why is it you can’t hold my hand in public? Am I that much of an embarrassment that you don’t want people to know we’re together?”

“Sweet-“

“Don’t. Don’t try and make up excuses Dean. I’ve heard enough of them in my lifetime, trust me.” Your uncontrollably start sobbing again, unable to take in one steady breath. It only makes it worse when Dean wraps his arms around you, the best he can in the confines of the impala.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. Alright? I’m sorry.” Dean’s voice is laced with regret and sadness. “You’re the only one, the only woman, that will ever be enough for me. Not her. Not anyone else. You.” He kisses the top of your head softly, as he tries to stop his own tears from falling. “I love you. And whenever we go out, if you wanna hold my hand, do it. I won’t pull away, that’s a promise.”

And somehow you knew, that everything was going to be okay.

#dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean imagine #supernatural imagine #requests are open #dean winchester

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calumrose · 4 years

Text

Trigger [Police/Gang!AU] Chapter 1 || C.H

A//N: I’m in two minds about holding back posting parts because I’m actually in the middle of working on chapter 9 currently, so I’m debating on waiting until I maybe get feedback to see if this is going anywhere, but at the same time I want to get it out as soon as I can so I can be satisfied that I’ve published a whole piece of work by me.

Chapters are going to get a little bit chunky so I hope that’s okay, I got carried away at certain points as you’ll find out as time goes on.

Hope you guys enjoy this even just a little bit.

Love you all!

btw: we meet Calum in this part so... we getting somewhere now.

Word Count: 8.1k

Summary: Eloise Gray and Calum Hood, not two people you would ever think to put together. What started as a ploy for power turned into a romance, resulting in the realisation that loving your enemy may not be such a bad thing after all.

Previous Chapters: Prologue

The loud screech of a horn invaded Eloise’s apartment, the barbaric noise ripping her from her peaceful slumber. It was her own fault for sleeping with the window open, every noise travelling into her bedroom from the streets. Her hand reached for her duvet, groaning softly as she hauled it up towards her head, wrapping herself in its warmth as she hid herself from the empty apartment that she called home.

Today of all days she had prayed for a lie in, for those few extra hours of bliss before she would have to get up and face the world. She didn’t sleep for long anyway but even just an hour or two extra would have been a treat for her, especially today. It would have been the best birthday gift anyone could have given her.

She released a single arm from the warmth of her duvet, grasping her mobile phone from her bedside table, removing the charging cable before tossing it to the floor and turning over so she faced the door of her bedroom. She unlocked her phone, being greeted with a few notifications from varied apps and a few text messages. Eloise couldn’t help but smile fondly at the happy birthday text from Scott, noting that it had been sent just moments after midnight. Obviously, he had to be the first one. She responded a quick ‘thank you’ text before opening her varied social media accounts, scrolling through the fake ‘happy birthday’ posts from people she no longer spoke to. She had contemplated deleting some of these apps but argued against it, guiltily enjoying watching drama unfold online in the comfort of her own home.

The sound of the phone ringing was too loud for Eloise first thing in the morning, sighing as she witnessed the name flash across the screen as his picture lit up with his big cheesy smile she hated to admit made her have one of the same emotion.

“What do you wan- “

“Happy birthday to my best friend! Oh, happy birthday to the one and only, Eloise Gray!” A loud voice sang through the phone, “Oh, she is twenty-one years old and is no longer underage today!”

“Are you done?” She laughed through the line.

“Not quite,” He clarified, clearing his throat before continuing with his made-up birthday song, “Miss Eloise Gray is an adult, she is legal! She can become black out with the best of them! She doesn’t need a fake ID anymore! She is fully legal to party!”

He dragged out that final note, his voice fading out to the sound of a scratched record, erupting a laugh from Eloise. He was always so over the top when it came to her birthday. No one could blame him. He always wanted to make it a day for her to cherish, a day full of fun memories that she could recall and laugh at. He put everything into making sure she had a fun birthday, throwing her a party every year with their friends, strictly confining the invitation list to those outside of the gang to allow Eloise to have a night off, a night where it was just her, Scott, and a bunch of their normal friends.

“Now I’m done,” He cleared his throat with a cough, the sound of his boots beneath him signalling that he was walking somewhere.

“Thank you,” She smiled helplessly, unable to get rid of the appreciative tone in her voice, “It’s a new one to add to the collection of birthday songs.”

“The best yet.”

“That’s debatable, Scott.”

She giggled at his fake offended gasp, smiling as she sat up in her bed, her back against the headboard as she listened into the background of his call. “Where are you? It sounds busy.” She stuck her leg out of the confinements of her duvet, feeling the cold fresh New York air constrict around her warm skin.

“On my way to get you,” He replied casually, “It’s your birthday, El, we have to celebrate like never before. And by that, I mean we need to go all out and have a full-blown party,”

“Isn’t that what we do every year?” She countered.

“Well, yes, but this time it’s going to be even better, you wanna know why?” He teased.

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway,” She smirked, hearing his frustrated groan through the line before hearing a creak of a door that echoed on the other end the phone.

“Can’t you just play along for once in your miserable life?” He sighed loudly, the sound of his feet being heard through the line getting louder, it sounded like he was walking up some stairs, the footsteps echoing as if he was in a stairwell.

“No because that’s no fun for me,” She laughed lightly, “But anyway, enlighten me on how this year is gonna be better?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re twenty-one, we can go out into bars and clubs now without having to worry if you’re gonna get caught out with a fake ID,” He spoke with an obvious tone, speaking to Eloise as if she was stupid, “Which means we need to go out tonight and make sure that we remember absolutely nothing by tomorrow morning, so all that we can remember is what we can piece together by the numerous photographs and embarrassing videos that we will use to torment each other for the foreseeable future.”

“Are you still mad about that video of you dancing to Beyoncé that went slightly viral?” Eloise queried with a knowing tone, unable to stop the smirk spreading across her face at the memory of her birthday two years ago.

They had thrown a house party for her birthday, their friends all piling into her apartment as they spent hours together drinking, singing karaoke, and playing a hopeless amount of drunk board and card games. It was definitely a highlight of her birthday, one that she didn’t ever forget; mainly resulting in many embarrassing videos that never failed to make them smile over the years.

“Only slightly,” He said, a door slamming behind his words as he continued to move.

“You really need to get over that, it was two years ago, and it was funny,” Eloise couldn’t hold back her laugh, “You should lighten up, Scott.”

“And you should get dressed.”

Eloise looked up at the sudden voice that spoke both through her phone but also from the body that stood in her bedroom. She hadn’t even heard her door open and close when Scott entered, finding him stood in front of her as he held the phone by his ear still. Eloise lowered the phone, hanging up the call as she kept her eyes focused on the blonde boy who stood present, “What on earth are you doing here? What happened to ringing a doorbell or even better: telling me that you’re outside?”

“Eh that’s no fun,” He shrugged, smirking as he wandered over to Eloise’s wardrobe before opening it and searching through her clothes, “Also, a quick heads up that you need to look good tonight. By ‘good’ I mean the kind where even I would look at you and go ‘holy shit I want to take her home with me’.”

“You mean you don’t think that anyway?” She teased, winking at his tall stature as he glanced over his shoulder to where she sat on her bed.

“Dear god no,” He scrunched up his face, “I can’t think of anything worse; it would be like having sex with my sister.”

Eloise couldn’t hold back the snort that left her at his remark. He wasn’t wrong. The relationship the two of them shared was very much one of a brother/sister rather than friends. They hid nothing from one another and loved each other as if they really were siblings. He was the big brother that Eloise never had.

“What would you class as ‘good’ then?” She asked, rolling her eyes as she lifted herself out of her bed, moving across the room so she was stood behind him as he searched her wardrobe.

“Wasn’t my explanation before a perfect representation of what it means?” He asked, his eyes focusing on hauling different fabrics out of the cupboard.

“Not really.” She said straight, hearing him let out a short sigh as he continued his search. “Are you seriously going through my clothes right now to pick out an outfit for me?” She rolled her eyes as she witnessed the expression on his face, the corners of her lips turned up ever so slightly at the determination in his eyes.

He didn’t say anything else in the moment as he removed a number of tops from her wardrobe and placed them down on her bed. He returned to the wardrobe to do the same with bottoms and shoes. He would have chosen her underwear as well, but he assumed that was probably going too far.

Eloise confirmed, that was definitely going too far.

“These are your options,” He said, pointing at the variety of clothes spread against her bed, “I’ve expertly sifted through your clothes and pulled out these items that will work with each other regardless of your combination which will make you look gorgeous tonight,” He smiled at her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as he pulled her into a side hug, “Like I said, tonight we are going all out and you are going to have the time of your life, even if it kills me. You are going to look stunning when you walk into the bar and you will have every single man in said bar desperate to dance with you, I promise.”

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or concerned at the amount of effort that you’re putting into this.” She spoke wearily.

“Can you just shut up and appreciate that I’m trying to do something nice for you?” He exaggerated his sigh and glared down at her, his arm lightly squeezing her as he pressed a loving kiss to the top of her head, “You deserve it for once, El, to just enjoy your night as you and not have to worry about anything else.”

“Is it hurting you to be this nice to me?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Very.” He nodded, trying to hold a serious expression.

Eloise couldn’t hold back her laugh as she turned to fully envelope Scott in a hug, wrapping her arms around him as she smiled. As much as he joked with her about how it killed him to be nice to her, she knew that it was all he ever was towards her. He was the best.

“Now can you hurry up and pick an outfit, I’m hungry,” He grumbled, releasing her, and gently pushing her towards her bed so she could piece together an outfit for her to wear tonight.

She stopped in her tracks halfway between Scott and her bed, turning in place to face him yet again, “Wait, why am I picking so early anyway?” She turned back to him, “If we’re going out tonight, I shouldn’t need to worry about what I’m wearing until later. Also, Scott, it’s not even 10am, why are we planning this now? Why not this afternoon?”

“Because you and I both have a free day, so I’m taking advantage,” He sighed as if it was obvious, “If we do this now, then we’ve got more time for our annual birthday breakfast as well as a few extra surprises I have in store for you.” He noted the small smile that spread along Eloise’s face, unable to hold back his own at the knowledge that it was genuine.

He lived for seeing his best friend smile, knowing she never had much to smile about. It warmed him to know he could do this for her on her birthday of all days.

*****

Eloise’s head slammed against the table in embarrassment as numerous employees of the café walked out from the staff door at the far side of the pastel coloured dining room, an eruption of voices singing happy birthday as they carried over a stack on pancakes to her table and set them down in front of her. Her eyes glared at Scott as he laughed, joining in with the song as he watched Eloise’s cheeks light up a bright shade of pink.

“I am going to kill you.” She grumbled over the voices that sang to her, her eyes unable to find a focal point as she felt the stares and smiles of strangers on her back who watched as the festivity continued around her.

After what felt like forever, the elderly employee wished Eloise happy birthday with a genuine smile spread across her face as she and the other employees disbursed and went back to work. The strangers around them also went back to their own food, socialising with those who sat opposite them in their booths. Eloise could slowly feel the eyes that were previously on her begin to dissipate, the burning sensation that rose on the back of her neck simmering down gently.

“You are so lucky that I have pancakes in front of me,” She warned, “If it were anything else, I swear I would throw it across the table at you.”

“’Thank you, Scott, that was so lovely and thoughtful of you’,” He mimicked her in a high pitched voice, “Oh no worries, El, just trying to do my part to make sure your birthday is a memorable one.”

She couldn’t help the goofy smile that graced her face as she looked at him. He was really trying to make this a day to remember. She appreciated the thought - although not the embarrassment - but the kindness behind the gesture that took place was one that made her smile with genuine thanks.

“You’re such an idiot,” She laughed as she cut into her food, shaking her head, “You would kill me if I did this for your birthday.”

“Exactly, which is why I can do it for you,” He shrugged, “But also the fact that I like my birthday is the reason why I would kill you for pulling a stunt like this, you on the other hand, despise the day so I pull out as many stops as I like to make it a day you can enjoy. And it looks like I am succeeding yet again for another year.”

It was sickening how lovely and thoughtful Scott could be when he tried. It was a polar opposite side to him compared to when he was tied up in the gang. The same could be said for Eloise, both of them acting almost completely different when in that situation.

The mood of breakfast subtly shifted while they ate; the change being noticed by Scott rather quickly as he watched while Eloise picked at her food. “What’s on your mind?” He asked, lifting a piece of toast to his mouth as he took a bite.

“It’s nothing,” She shook her head, smiling up at him, “Just thinking about how I’m going to finish these pancakes.”

“And what else?” He raised an eyebrow, watching as her breath hitched in her throat ever so slightly.

Usually when something bugged her and she brushed him off, he let it slide. He wouldn’t pester her, knowing that if it got bad then she would usually talk to him. But he knew she was vulnerable especially right now, her birthdays typically rolling with the same routine where she had a low moment or two before they were replaced with fun and adrenaline later on in the night.

“Honestly, it’s nothing.”

“El, please- “

“I said it was nothing so drop it!” She warned, glaring at him from across the table. She sighed deeply as she dropped her fork and placed her head in her hands, knowing she was just letting things get on top of her as she usually did on this day each year. She knew she would move past it and be fine in a few hours, but she couldn’t help but dwell on the maybes that circled her mind.

“You know you can always vis- “

“I’m not doing that,” She shook her head, not even looking at Scott as she cut him off, “There’s no way in hell I’m going there, especially today.”

“As much as it hurts, you’re going to have to do it one day,” Scott sighed as he leaned back in his chair, “Whether you want to or not, El, because you need to.”

“Go to hell.” She muttered, pushing her plate away from her, her stomach suddenly becoming sick at the thought of the pancakes that sat in front of her.

“Unfortunately for you I don’t think they’re quite ready for me yet,” Scott joked, “Maybe tomorrow if you’re lucky.”

He could sense the roll of her eyes from beneath her hands, a soft sigh building in his chest as he watched his best friend dwell on the memories that followed her with every step that she took in life. He did ask himself if one day she would get the closure she didn’t know she needed, if one day she would find the happiness she craved; not the happiness that she felt when she was having a good time with friends but instead a happiness where she could wake up in the morning and look at her life and love every moment she breathed. He wanted that for her more than most.

*****

She couldn’t stop staring at the clothes that were laid out for her on the bed, her eyes scanning over the different materials as she pieced them together in her mind. Was she crazy for being so bold? Well, most people wouldn’t call her outfit of choice for the nigh bold but for Eloise, this was definitely a step out of her comfort zone.

“You better be getting ready!” A voice called through the closed door of her room.

“Yeah.” She responded, fake conviction in her tone as she kept her eyes plastered on the mesh long-sleeved top that was staring back at her, as if playing an intimidation game.

Maybe she would feel better if she just got dressed, yeah maybe that would fix her nerves. Nerves? Is that what they were? She never feared a night out before so why was tonight any different?

Her fingers trailed over the blue denim skirt on her bed, sighing as she remembered the day that she had bought it. Well, the day it had been bought for her. She couldn’t fight the underlying twitch in her heart as she remembered the woman who bought her this skirt, remembering her almost as well as her own mother. Scott’s parents always looked out for her, and always bought her nice things for her birthday every year when she stayed with them, celebrating the day with great joy and treasuring the sentimental value that they carried with all celebrations. The denim skirt was the last thing Scott’s mother had bought for her before she left, it being found in a thrift store on one of her monthly escapades, seeing it and instantly thinking of Eloise. It was simple yet intricate, much the opposite of the girl who wore it.

Eloise, get over yourself and just get dressed for crying out loud! She scolded herself as she sighed, rubbing her face with her hands before she began to get dressed, silently trying to convince herself that she would feel better in a few hours.

Scott had pieced together their entire night, the birthday celebrations estimating to last until the early hours of the next morning as per usual on their nights out. Eloise couldn’t deny she was just a little bit excited about tonight, the buzz gently floating around in her stomach at the thought of spending time with her friends, allowing herself to feel like a normal girl living in the Big Apple.

She couldn’t stop her eyes from drifting to herself in the mirror as she stood in her bedroom, the minimal décor suddenly making her feel as if she was out of place, as if to feel unwelcome as the colours of her outfit contrasted against the neutral theme of her room. Her eyes followed the outline of her outfit, biting the inside of her cheek as she looked at where the skirt ended midthigh, the waistline of the denim material blending into the black mesh top she wore where her offending dark green lace bralette could be seen through the thin material.

Her choice of outfit was bold tonight when it came to her usual taste in clothes. She knew teasing comments would be made tonight by her friends, awaiting the joking remarks they would make in response to her somewhat bold choices. She would blame Scott for the decision, like she always did.

The sound of her bedroom door opening tore her eyes from the mirror, meeting her tall friend as he stood in the doorway and watched as the dark-haired beauty in front of him nit-picked at herself.

“Not too shabby,” He smirked, admiring his best friend as she stood in front of him, “Is that some colour I see?”

“Shut up,” She rolled her eyes, moving to walk past him and nudging past his shoulder as she walked out into her hallway, making her way into the kitchen to pour herself a drink. He always made her feel good, made her feel confident, and she appreciated it when she didn’t have the energy to do it herself. She didn’t usually doubt how she looked, it typically being one of the last things on her mind as she travelled around in her staple black jeans, white t-shirt, and rugged leather jacket with her classic combat boots. “Drink?” She called out to Scott.

She reached onto the kitchen island, grasping hold of the first bottle neck that caught her attention, her eyes scanned the label. Yeah, that would do. She poured some of the copper liquid into one of the plastic cups she kept stored for nights like these, reaching over and grabbing the nearest soda she could find, pouring it into the cup, and creating the alcoholic concoction that she prayed would give her the buzz she so desperately desired. She then followed the same recipe for the mixture as she poured it into another cup and handed it to Scott, placing it in his hands before knocking her cup against his in a ‘cheers’ notion, lifting the cup to her lips as she took a large gulp of the bitter drink.

She scrunched her face up at the sharp taste, shaking her head once as if to adjust to the aftershock and slight burn that settled in the back of her throat.

“Are you not going to let me do a birthday toast to kick your birthday off in style?” Scott asked, his eyes furrowed slightly as he watched Eloise take another drink.

“Considering how bad your rendition of happy birthday was this morning,” She smirked, “I think I’ll pass. I would prefer if we focused on getting as tipsy as possible before the others arrive so we can head out and paint the town.”

“For once in your life, you’ve actually had a good idea.”

“Dickhead.” She mumbled under her breath, clinking her plastic cup with Scott’s as they continued to drink, preparing for the night ahead.

*****

Her body vibrated with the beat of the music as it erupted throughout Moxi’s. She could barely hear herself think as she moved to the music with her friends, unable to stop the smile that spread across her face, her cheeks aching pleasantly at the people around her.

Unable to fight the buzz that took over her mind and body as she moved around the floor, grasping the hand of her friend, Paige, as she helplessly – and terribly – danced around the glowing floor. Eloise had lost count of how long she had been dancing more, never mind how long she had been at the club for. She witnessed the bodies around her, depicting each one as her friends as they surrounded her, each one in their own world as they danced around, smiles across their faces while they lived in the moment.

It was times like this she lived for, the moments where she was surrounded by the people who she loved more than life itself.

“Have you noticed that guy at the bar?” The voice she deciphered belonging to her friend, Mia, spoke loudly to her. Eloise’s eyes drifted over to the bar to her right, the neon lights along the top of the bar and scattered along the back wall in different phrases and patterns catching her attention initially before she admired the crowd that spread along that side of the club. Her eyes searched as people were dispersed along the bar, many of them shouting out with a glimmer of hope to catch the attention of one of the few bar staff that were littered along the bar before they stopped on him. Eloise let her eyes settle on him for a moment, feeling Mia’s body stood beside her but the heat that radiated from the excited brunette beside her was the last thing on her mind. “He’s been watching you since you got up to dance.”

“Has he?” Eloise felt her lips turn up at the thought of being watched by an attractive stranger, “What if he was just- “

“El, he was staring at you. By staring, I mean the ‘I want to take her home and fuck her senseless’ kind of stare,” She blurted, “In the least creepy way possible if you can even do that.”

Eloise just let a simple hum slip pass her lips as her eyes met the stranger’s, unable to decipher much about him due to the distance between them, but the one thing she could work out was that he was hot.

The heat of a hand on her wrist tore her eyes from the stranger at the bar, the brown of her irises turning around to be met with the olive green ones of Roman, another one of her friends who had come out to celebrate her birthday. She couldn’t help the smile that stayed on her face as he dragged her further into the dance floor, bodies surrounding them as they danced. Although her smile never faltered, Eloise couldn’t help but feel the small seed of disappointment that settled in her stomach due to her short lived, silent interaction with the handsome stranger.

“Where’s Scott?” She leaned into Roman’s ear to talk, realising that she hadn’t seen the blond for a while, the music around them seeming to increase in volume the further into the dance floor they travelled.

“Last I saw him, he was kissing some girl outside the bathroom,” He responded loudly as he held one of Eloise’s hands, spinning her in place.

“That’s my Scotty!” She erupted into laughter, clapping her hands briefly together before they were grabbed again by the summer-eyed boy in front of her as the dance moves got more exaggerated and more chaotic.

Eloise knew she was going to be in pain by the morning, her feet already slightly burning at the heels she had been forced to wear out tonight by Paige but especially because the movements her body was eliciting were not ones her body was made for. God, she was going to regret this, but in the best way possible.

The night continued on as the music did, shifting from numerous electronica tracks to the few well-known classics that caused the club to erupt into cheers as people sang along drunkenly to the words that they swore they knew. Eloise couldn’t deny that her mind wandered on more than one occasion throughout the night, the handsome stranger filling her drunk brain as she sat at a table with her group of friends.

The smile on her face was a drunk one, but one of fun. She was having a blast, something that she always knew she had when the celebrations got truly under way every year. Scott had outdone himself yet again in making this a birthday she enjoyed. Her mind was distracted from the puzzles and memories that usually haunted her, instead filling it with a fairy-like haze as the alcohol settled in her system, her body radiating a gentle heat as she sat surrounded by the people who mattered. Even if one of them was an estranged young lady with bleached red hair.

“So, Scotty, who’s your friend?” Jackson smirked, head nodding towards the red head who made herself present on their friend’s lap. It couldn’t be faulted that she was pretty but definitely too drunk to know who’s lap she was perched on.

“This is Lydia,” Scott spoke, his voice deep as his eyes scanned down her body before slowly meeting her eyes once again, a filthy smirk creasing his lips as his eyes practically undressed her in the public building.

“Pig.” Eloise coughed, keeping her voice quiet as she teasingly smirked at her friend across the table.

What happened to tonight being the night where Eloise would find someone to take home? But as per usual, Scott beat her to it.

Or did he?

“Move.” She muttered suddenly, her knee nudging Jackson’s jean covered leg as she tried to make her way out of the booth, her hand shoving his shoulder to hurry him along.

“How charming,” He rolled his eyes, “What happened to saying please?”

“Just move. I gotta pee.” She groaned, shoving him a bit harder this time.

Small outbursts of chuckles and smiles were exchanged around the table as Eloise made her way out of the booth, gathering her balance as she walked through the club, her eyes finding the toilet door just to the right at the far side of the bar. Her heeled feet carried her steadily through the crowds, walking along the makeshift path made by the gap between the people stood along the bar and those on the higher tables above the dance floor.

Eloise couldn’t stop herself as she allowed her eyes to travel subtly along the bar, keeping an eye out for a certain individual, wondering if he was still around for her to catch a knowing glance. Realisation struck her as she reached the bathroom door, her mind stopping the disappointment in its tracks before it had the chance to settle. She didn’t need to feel that right now. So what? A handsome stranger caught her attention then vanished? It wouldn’t be the first time.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror when she exited the stall, noting the way her hair fell down her shoulders, the way her pupils were enlarged slightly due to the buzz of the alcohol she had consumed throughout the night, the way her makeup was slightly smudged due to the sweaty atmosphere of the bar. She didn’t care enough to fix it, in a way admiring how it still looked presentable. Although she wasn’t sure if that was genuine or if her vision was just playing tricks on her.

Eloise couldn’t help but smile as the thin arms of Paige appeared around her torso as she was squeezed into an awkward hug from behind. “How’re you doing?” Paige smiled, her bleached blonde hair curling perfectly around her thin face.

“Why does everyone ask me that?” Eloise sighed, the smile disappearing as she looked at the reflections of the mirror. Paige noted the way Eloise’s body tensed, her shoulders squaring and her breath catching as she met her chocolate eyes in the mirror, her arms remaining comfortably around her friend as she rested her cheek against Eloise’s back.

“Because we know that you’re hiding something,” She spoke quietly, “El, we know things are bad, but you’ve got us, you need to talk to us about stuff.”

“I’d prefer not to,” She spat, “No offence but you guys don’t know anything so stop pestering and just let me enjoy my night.”

“And how do you expect to do that when you can’t get out of your own head?”

“You’ll see.” She told her, standing up straight before looking towards the door of the bathroom.

She was going to find that stranger and show her friends exactly how she wasn’t in her own head. She was going to make tonight her night.

Paige slowly released Eloise from her grip, turning the girl in her arms and looking into her oak-coloured eyes, smiling sweetly at her before she nodded towards the door, “Let’s make this a night to remember then,” She cared for Eloise as much as they all did, she saw her as a little sister like they all did; each of them feeling this urge to protect her and look out for her even though they knew she was more than capable of doing it on her own. They just couldn’t fight their primal urges.

Eloise’s feet could barely keep up as Paige dragged her back out into the loud atmosphere, the lights flashing around her as she led her back out onto the dance floor, her hands linking with the blonde’s as they began to dance; hips swinging and heels clicking as they moved to the beat of the music. The upbeat thumping of the current electronic track began to fade out, the smooth scratch of a familiar track beginning to take its place as it blasted throughout the club speakers. Laughter was held back by Eloise at her friend’s ecstatic expression, eyes the size of her head, her hands gripping those of the tall brunette as she pulled her further into the middle of the dance floor, her hips turning sultrier by the second as her movements slowed down to match the beat of the music.

To hell with it, Eloise thought. She grinned widely as she joined in, her hips matching Paige’s rhythm as she stood opposite her, both of them fully losing themselves in the song that surrounded them, their eyes focused on each other when they weren’t closed as they embraced the alcoholic buzz. She couldn’t deny that she enjoyed the feeling of multiple pairs of eyes on her. She could feel them burning through the fabric of her thin top as well as her skirt as the fabric rode up ever so slightly on her thighs.

Her lips parted slightly as she softly sang the words along with the music, swaying her hips to the rhythm. They were soon joined by Roman who found them on the dance floor, his hands finding Paige’s waist as he swayed with her from behind.

Eloise couldn’t deny the subtle feeling of dread when Roman showed up, enjoying it before when it was just her and Paige dancing. When he came into the picture, it just felt as if she was a third wheel to their relationship, a spare part in the project. She didn’t want to feel as though she was perceived as selfish for feeling that way, but she couldn’t help it.

“I’m gonna go and get another drink,” She called to Paige, brushing her hand with her own before slipping away from the crowd and heading over to the bar. Her aching feet carried her through the club, each heavy bassline of the song playing rattled through the place which Eloise felt with every step she took. Maybe another drink would help, she thought.

She found a perfectly timed space at the bar, slotting herself between the underage drinker to her left and the toy-boy to her right as she leaned against the bar, looking out to see where the nearest member of staff was stood along the bar. Her blunt nails tapped rapidly against the skin of her cheek while her head in her hand, her eyes absently reading the neon signs that were scattered around as she waited to give her request. This was the one downside about separating from your group on a night out; having to actually go and wait at the bar to order your own drink. Typically, their group would order in bulks so one person would buy for everyone to save multiple trips every time that someone wanted a drink.

Before she knew it, a bright yet tired smile greeted her from behind the bar, a young man with shaggy auburn hair stood at the till and asked her for her order. It took a moment to register that it was her chance, her throat catching for a second before clearing and allowing her to speak.

“Just a vodka and lemonade please.” She smiled sweetly, trying to somehow ease the tension in her ankles from her heels and she shifted her weight between both feet.

“Single or double?” He asked, pressing a couple of buttons on the black machine before his eyes met her own once again, “Or is that a stupid question?”

“Surprise me.” She winked, letting out a small laugh as she reached into her bag and pulled out her card.

Thankfully, the barman didn’t long to make her concoction, allowing her to get back to her friends as soon as possible, being reunited with the familiar faces she was spending the night with. She made her back to the booth where her friends sat, perching herself on the edge of one of the seats as she sipped her sweet drink. She caught the end of a conversation – more like an argument – between Jackson and Mia, the situation seeming to be get heated between them as Mia looked to be close to tears.

“What the fuck is going here?” Eloise cried out, spotting her friend with glassy eyes leaning forward as she pointed an accusing finger towards the broad man sat on the opposite side of the booth. Her eyes shot between the two young adults, confusion clouding her brain as she tried to figure out what happened, the drunk state she was currently in not helping the situation much.

She made a silent note of Scott’s absence, already knowing that Paige and Roman were dancing, her eyes glancing around for the blond friend who she knew would be with the red head she met previously. No sign of them… Great.

She tried to concentrate as her two friends continued to argue over the table of the booth, hopeless slurs being thrown at each other as they yelled. Eloise really didn’t understand what was going on, nor did she care in all honesty, but she still had to be the good friend who would break up the argument and restore peace to the friendship. She really didn’t want to have to share a taxi back with them if they were still arguing.

“How did this even start?” She groaned, throwing her head back dramatically as she rolled her eyes, looking back up at her friends before she waited for the rushed explanations to begin. As much as she loved Mia dearly, she knew she was one for starting arguments when she drunk, it was what she was known for. There wasn’t a night that involved alcohol where there wasn’t a fight that had to be defused due to her.

Long story short, Jackson made a comment about a girl’s dress and Mia took it upon herself to assume he was being rude, and accusing said girl of having ill intentions of her night out. Which, of course, is ridiculous and Mia would have known had she not been numerous double mixers into her night.

Eloise couldn’t hold back her frustrated sigh as she glared at Mia who could barely sit up right in the booth. She needed to be taken home. For a gang banger who put up with a more brutal situations in her daily life, it was a drunken friend that drove her to her limit. “Take her home, Jack,” She sighed, keeping her eyes firmly planted on the brunette who swayed in place, “She’s had too much to drink and the last thing we need is her being kicked out of here alone.”

Eloise assisted her friends in her own drunken state, the alcohol leaving her with a gentle buzz as she sipped her drinks throughout the night, lifting Mia up from her seat and helping her walk towards the door of the club, patting Jackson’s shoulder as he led their friend outside and into a taxi.

Two down, three to go…

She took a deep breath as she made her way back over to her table, silently begging that nobody had claimed it as their own while she walked her friends out, hoping that even in a drunk state, people would see jackets and bags and realise that people were sitting there. Who was she kidding, that never happened. Which is why she wasn’t surprised when she found someone sitting at her table when she returned, her heels clicking against the floor as she made her way over, ready to make the intruder aware that the table was already taken.

Well, she was about to until he looked up, his face causing her breath to hitch in her throat. She felt her mouth suddenly dry up as her eyes froze on his calm expression as he looked at up her, sensing her presence without her speaking a word. She couldn’t ignore the beauty that his face held, the tanned skin that she could make out beneath the flashing lights of the club, the deep dark eyes that met her own as they stayed in silence.

It was him. The handsome stranger.

“You’ve got some moves by the way,” His voice spoke out, his eyes remaining connected with hers, his tongue running along the inside of his bottom lip. He noted her shallow breath that she attempted to take without being noticed, unable to hide the shaking in her throat as she exhaled. “Something that I’m sure gets a lot of attention.”

“Your point is?” She spoke up, her voice surprisingly strong although her breathing was not.

She couldn’t help the lump that formed in her throat when she saw his smile, a teasing strip show was less erotic than that goddamn smile. She felt the effects of that charming smile knock her for six.

“Just saying there must a lucky guy who gets to see that later in all its glory,” He smirked, his posture straightening as he reached for her glass of vodka lemonade, lifting it to his lips and taking a small sip.

Eloise could only dream of being that glass in that moment. What was happening to her? What happened to the tough exterior she usually put on; the one that typically made boys fall at her knees? This time she was the one who was crumbling at the feet of a man she didn’t even know.

“And what if there isn’t?” She straightened her back, attempting to regain her confidence, erasing the previous rush of butterflies as she resumed back to her placid stance, allowing for her feet to carry her the rest of the way to the table, comfortably leaning against the edge as she stood just metres away from the man who easily claimed her attention. Who would have thought a stranger would have so much control in such little time?

Eloise was sure it happened all of the time, unable to deny how handsome he was, how pretty he was. He must have had numerous women falling at his feet for a chance with him, and Eloise was no different than the rest of them. But she didn’t want him to know that.

“Then that would be shame,” He teased, moving along the booth so he sat right at the edge, his eyes never breaking contact with hers, “A true utter shame.”

She noted how his voice slowed down, his annunciation of each word made clear through his mixed accent. It sounded American but there was a twang in there, she couldn’t pinpoint from where exactly. “And why is it such a shame? It’s not as if it affects you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, doll,” He stood to his feet, the muscles beneath his leather jacket bulging as he leaned an arm against the table and turned to face her, “It wouldn’t be very gentlemen like of me to allow a young lady like yourself to travel home alone in your state.”

She couldn’t help the smirk itching her face, rethinking the amount of drinks she had consumed over the course of the night, the buzz still filling her with a warmth as her brain gently felt like a slow-motion volleyball being tossed back and forth inside her head. She had to admit to herself that for such a gorgeous man he had poor game. Although she couldn’t deny the nickname elicited an excitement inside her she didn’t know existed, causing something inside of her desperate to hear it once more. With the distance between them closed further, she noticed his beauty only grew as did his height. He was more beautiful than she already thought, or maybe it was just the alcohol taking over again. She noticed how plump and soft his lips looked, how his cheeks were full and supple, while his eyes were dark like hers but seemed to hold a vortex beneath them; a vortex which she wanted to explore.

“I think I’ll manage just fine on my own,” She leaned against the table, her hand resting on her hip as she admired his sculpted face.

“Doll,” He spoke, his voice merely above a whisper yet she could hear it perfectly clear, “Why can’t you just take a hint that I’m interested? And I can tell that you are too.”

“I think you’re overestimating your game,” She teased, although the effect the name had on her wasn’t hidden, “You’re pretty but your game is shit.”

“Oh, but I can assure you, my mouth can do more than just talk a shit game,” He licked the corner of his bottom lip, the edge of his tongue poking out as he watched her eyes flicker.

She hated that she was so turned on by the sound of that. Eloise could always fake emotions pretty well but in this situation, the attempt at hiding how she felt was futile. God, what was she doing? Was she actually considering disappearing with this man and getting up to goodness knows what? Yes, she was.

Before Eloise could begin to comprehend what was happening, she was in the back of a cab, her lips attached to his as his large hands roamed along her thighs, hips, and torso as she straddled him. The apology for the taxi driver being the last thing on her mind, her subconscious aware that they were probably used to these sights in the unsociable hours after a Saturday night.

She couldn’t help but make a mental note of how soft his lips were against her own, how large his hands were as they slid down her body and cupped her behind, the grip against her skin through her denim skirt sent heat to multiple areas of her body, his touch erupting a fire within her.

She panted for breath as he detached his lips from hers, his plump ones creating a path as they trailed along her jaw and down her neck, his teeth coming into the mix as he gently nipped at her soft skin, working his way to leave a mark; a brand that marked her as his for the short amount of time that they would spend together.

“I didn’t…” She panted; her voice weak as her eyes closed at the sensation his mouth evoked within her. She tilted her head to the right, allowing him greater access to paint her skin with various shades of blue and purple as her hands found his hair, “I didn’t even catch your name.”

She felt the vibration of his hum travel through her, the noise was deep yet symphonic much like the tone of his voice as he spoke, “The name’s Calum, sweetheart, but you can call me whatever you want.”

His voice sounded exasperated, as if it was lost and he was searching for the air to breath, his lips reattaching to her neck as they travelled back up her body, reattaching with her own pink ones as he placed a long, sucking kiss to them that he never wanted to end. “And what should I call you?”

“Eloise,” She whispered, her lips lightly brushing his as she spoke, her voice so quiet it could barely be heard, “But you can call me El.”

And by god he did. Repeatedly.

---

Tag List: @steviemae

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laschatzi · 4 years

Text

Since We’ve No Place To Go

(A CSSS 2K19 gift for @the-captains-ayebrows)

Merry Christmas again, my dear Hollie, it was a pleasure talking to you over the last few weeks! Thank you so much for your patience, and I really hope it was worth the wait, and thank you to @cssecretsanta2k19 for organizing this fabulous event! Oh, and I better not forget to thank @nowforruin for helping me kick this off in the beginning. Here are ~14,4k words of my variation of the snowed in trope (rated G):

(also on ff.net and ao3)

After a car accident in the middle of nowhere of rural Maine (where she really shouldn’t have ended up two days before Christmas), Emma Swan almost freezes to death, but is rescued by a three-legged dog named Smee and his grumpy master Killian Jones who can’t seem to get rid of her soon enough to have his self-chosen hermitage back. Alas, the weather outside is frightful, and the fire is so delightful...

“Emma, come on, there's no need for being dramatic.”

His condescending tone sets her off even more than anything else that has happened over the past two days – dealing with his snot-nosed parents, the stiff atmosphere in their pristine house, or finding out that he cheated on her with his secretary, cliché alert.

Furiously, Emma Swan slams the hood of her old yellow bug shut, thanking the fates that she had to stay back for work one day longer than Walsh while he already drove home to his rich mommy and daddy. That way, she has her own means of transportation now, even if it might not be too comfortable in the unforgiving Maine winter.

He has the audacity to try and grab her arm when she climbs into the driver's seat. “Emma, don't be ridic–”

“Fuck. Off.” she hisses and wriggles her arm free from his grip, and he knows better than to insist any further as she closes the door forcefully and starts the engine.

“You're gonna freeze to death out there!” he calls after her, and she thrusts her right fist in the air to give him the middle finger salute as she drives off.

She grasps the wheel so hard her knuckles turn white. Really, she should have followed her guts in the first place and refused to accompany him to his parents' home over the holidays; deep down, she knew already two months ago that thins thing wasn't ging to work out in the long run. But Walsh insisted, poked, and cajoled her into it... and also, as he remarked so insensitively, “You've nowhere else to go for the holidays.” Where was the lie?

Truth is, she doesn't have a place to go, or people to go to, for all that matters. But truth is also, being alone in her ugly little flat in Boston beats being in that snakepit of arrogant pricks any time, so that's exactly where she's heading, no matter how long it takes, how many toes she'll lose to frostbite, and how many gallons of caffeine she'll have to consume.

It was in the middle of twilight time when she left Portland, and now she's been driving through the dark for hours, a darkness eerily illuminated by the heavy snow that seems to be everywhere. Maybe at nine she stops for a fill of gas and shortly contemplates to ask the attendant to point her to a motel for the night, but then decides against it. She still feels fresh and full of adrenaline and wants to drive on through the night, wants to put as many miles as possible between her and what she left behind – another shitty relationship she never should have allowed to come that far, another illusion of a perfect life she would never have. But seriously, fuck this shit. Nobody needs that.

She throws a merely fleeting glance at the only partly green sign indicating that she is leaving Storyb– whatever the rest of the little town's name reads is covered in snow. The flurry is getting thicker and thicker, and seriously, fuck winter in Maine. For a moment she considers turning around and driving back to Storyb–, but the snow is heavy, and she can't really see the confines of the not-too large road, and she really doesn't want to risk slipping off the road and ending up with her car stuck in the roadside ditch.

Damn, she should have flown to Portland, but money was a bit tight after having to replace the washing machine, and she sure as hell wasn't going to allow her boyfriend to buy her a ticket. Ex-boyfriend. She huffs, asking herself whatever she saw in him, and she can't even remember. Great, another ruined Christmas in her long history of not-so-great Christmases... well, for someone who spent her childhood and half of her teenage years in the forster system, and the other half of her teenage years on the streets, it's really not a surprise that this doesn't even qualify as her worst Christmas ever. The thought makes her laugh almost hysterically, and for a second she's distracted. A shadow suddenly pops up on the road in front of the hood of her car, and she jerks the wheel violently to the right. The moment she feels the wheel thrum in her hands, she knows she's fucked, and one second later she loses control over the car.

For the blink of an eye she's afraid the car is going to overturn, but luckily, at least that doesn't happen; much to her luck, it doesn't end up in the roadside ditch either, and after a loud clonk! the car comes to a halt in a weird angle at the very edge of the road. The engine dies a quiet death.

“Fuck!” she gasps and lets out her breath in a long huff as everything else goes silent.

“Okay,” she whispers to herself, to reassure herself. Calmly, very carefully, she closes her fingers around the key, presses her left foot down on the clutch pedal and shifts into the first gear, her right foot on the brake, and slowly turns the key. The engine sputters a bit, then it starts. Thank God. Gently, she lets go of the brake and steps on the gas pedal, easing off the clutch. A shiver seems to run through the car, but otherwise, it doesn't move. More gas, until the engine starts to protest loudly... and it still doesn't move.

“Shit,” Emma presses through clenched teeth and steps down harder, but that's a mistake. The old car makes a rattling sound, and the engine dies. “Shit, shit, shit.” She turns the key again, trying to will the engine to start, but it's useless.

She hits the wheel with her fist and a filthy curse and snatches her phone from the passenger seat. But the display shows no signal. Seriously, fuck rural Maine. Fuck everything. With a groan, she leans her forehead against the wheel and tries to come up with a solution that does not involve her leaving her car, wearing just an – at least padded – leather jacket and thin, albeit knee-high, leather boots over her jeans and sweater. But there is no other solution – she can't stay here in the car without engine in the middle of the night and wait for who knows how many hours until someone drives by; for all she knows, it's perfectly possible that won't happen for days. She has to leave the car and try to find help – her best shot walking back in the direction of Storyb–, whatever the fucking name is, and maybe she'll pass by a farmhouse or something like that earlier and doesn't have to go all the way back.

Every fiber of her being, every instinct protests against leaving the relative safety and warmth of the car – but she knows staying inside is not an option, as that warmth is already fading with the engine shut off, she can already feel it. With a deep sigh, she grabs her beanie, gloves, and scarf from the passenger seat and bundles up as good as she can, shoves her useless phone in the backpocket of her jeans, and opens the door to climb out of the car.

The cold is not as bad as she expected, it doesn't feel biting, it's more... soft, for the lack of a better word. And the snow doesn't blow in her face, it falls calmly – but steadily – and covers everything, seems to muffle even the sound of her own breathing. Then she starts walking. It seems surprisingly easy, and she gains ground faster than she thought. At least something.

Five minutes later, she can barely feel her feet anymore, and the snowflakes melting on her face do leave a bit of a sting. A slight worry starts to creep up in Emma's mind, but then she sees something from the corner of her eyes, maybe a few hundred yards away... lights. There must be a house, and she knows it might be risky to bang at unknown people's doors in the middle of the night, but she also knows that she's never going to make it back to Storyb– by foot in this weather, so she definitely has to try her luck with these potential axe murderers. She pulls out her phone and uses the flashlight to look for a path leading towards the lights, but she doesn't really see anything; if there is a path or driveway, it's all covered and hidden underneath the snow. She's going to have to make her way cutting across country.

With a deep breath, she hunches her shoulders to brace herself a little more against the cold, and turns to the left, making her way towards the lights. Her third step goes right into the void of a small pit hidden underneath the snow. She gasps in shock and waves her arms around as she stumbles, a sharp pain shooting through her left ankle, and for a moment it looks like she can manage to steady herself... but her numb feet are too clumsy; then she's falling, a dull thud echoes through her head, and everything fades to black.

***

“Bloody hell, Smee, you scurvy beast, come here!”

A distant yelp is the only answer, and he groans in frustration.

“Should've let you rot in that trap,” he growls and trudges through the snow in the direction of the sound. Whatever might that bloody useless dog be up to now? He was supposed to just do his deed before retiring for the night, but the moment he let him out, the stubborn animal darted away in the direction of the road, as fast as the snow and his three-legged clumsiness would allow. Except for a dull reflection of the moonlight on the snow it's pitch dark, and Killian Jones switches his flashlight on and calls again for his dog.

After a few yards he quickens his step – as much as it's possible with all the snow – because an uneasy feeling is prickling at the nape of his neck. As stubborn as his dog is, tonight he seems particularly insistent on not following his master's voice, and that's not typical.

“Smee? Where are you, m'boy?” The annoyance in his tone is replaced by concern.

The dog replies with another howl, more urgent this time. He doesn't sound like he's in pain, but he very obviously wants his master to hurry. Something must be wrong. Killian has almost reached the edge of the road now, and there's still no sign of the dog, but he can see the animal's weirdly shaped track in the snow. Three steps later, it becomes clear why Smee has been hidden from his sight: the dog is crouching in the snow-filled roadside ditch beside an almost completely snow-covered heap that must be the remnants of some big dead animal.

“What did you find? Smee, what's that?”

The dog whimpers and nudges his plump muzzle against the heap, brushing the snow away. What looks like the blood of a fresh roadkill at first, on second look turns out to be red leather, and after narrowing his eyes to see better in the blazing light cone, Killian realizes that he's looking at the body of an unconscious woman lying in the ditch, almost completely covered by snow.

“Oh, bloody buggering hell!”

He jumps into the ditch and drops to his knees beside the motionless figure. Smee jumps to his three feet and wags his tail, firmly whimpering. A quick scan tells Killian that the woman is breathing, and there's no blood or any injury to be seen save for a bruise on her forehead. But her lips have a faint blueish tint, and when he pulls off his glove and touches her cheek, her skin is ice cold; who knows how long she's been lying here already – long enough to be covered with a soft, deadly sheet of snow.

Killian doesn't waste any time pondering over what happened to her or how she ended up here, his priority is to get her out of the unforgiving cold. He takes his flashlight between his teeth, pulls on his glove again and pulls the unconscious woman into a sitting position. Smee jumps out of the ditch and barks encouragingly.

“Aye, good boy, Smee, good boy. Oh, fuck.”

He's lean, but strong enough, yet lifting an unconscious body from the floor and rise to one's feet and climb out of a ditch is no easy task, even for someone who's used to hard physical work. But eventually, he manages, and once he's secured the body over his shoulder, groaning under the weight, he walks across the snowy meadow towards the lone farmhouse, with his dog hopping excitedly around him.

Finally inside the house, he crosses the large living room with the mighty fireplace in the middle and the large bed in one corner. He lets the body glide from his shoulder and deposits her on the bed in a sitting position, pulling down the zipper of her red leather jacket that's almost frozen stiff and ridiculously inadequate for winter. He makes equally quick work of her soaked boots and socks, scarf, beanie and gloves, before he lets her drop on her back and drops to his knees to examine her feet. The skin is pale and ice cold, but it doesn't look like there's frostbite yet. He also checks her hands, ears and the tip of her nose, and when he doesn't find any signs of frostbite there either, he starts to quickly remove her damp clothes, places her in the middle of the bed and heaps every available blanket on her body. Then he puts on a kettle with water and quickly gets rid of his own boots and jacket.

When the water is ready, he fills all of his three hot water bottles and places them under the blankets against her feet, on her thighs and her stomach, folding her hands above it.

Smee whimpers and makes a move to jump on the bed, apparently feeling responsible for his find, but Killian calls him out in a sharp voice.

“Hey! Nice try.” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue at the dog's disappointed yelp. “You know bloody well the bed's off limits.” He scratches behind the flappy dog ears. “Come on, let's heat up some soup. Come on.” He slaps on his thigh, and the dog follows with one last reproachful whimper. “Stop complaining, you've already caused enough trouble.”

Passing by the fireplace, he puts on an extra log, making the flames blaze, and hangs her wet clothes on a leather chair near the fire. He throws one last glance over his shoulder before heading for the kitchen. Aye, trouble. He can already feel it in his bones.

“Bloody hell,” he huffs.

In the kitchen, he sets a pot on the stove and takes a container with the remnants of the chicken broth he made the day before, as if he knew it would come in handy. Smee is watching him intently as Killian grumpily stirs the yellowish liquid.

“Just what I needed,” he murmurs. There's just one thing Killian Jones hates more than an interruption of his quiet routine: surprises. Like the one currently huddled in his bed under all of his blankets.

The dog tilts his head in an almost apologetic gesture. Just like his master, Smee has a habit of attracting trouble and misfortune like a magnet, which is of course what brought them together in the first place.

Killian Jones had been living in the old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere for a few years, content with the fact that he saw people only about twice a month, when he drove into the next town to buy the supplies he needed and to deliver his wooden work pieces. Nobody asked him questions, nobody knew or cared about his backstory, and he liked it like that. The one exception was his only friend David Nolan, the veterinarian, for whom he'd once made a sycamore medicine cabinet. He and his wife Mary Margaret were his only social contacts, and once they'd given up trying to lure him further out of his self-chosen shell, they shared a tentative friendship.

One day, when he roamed the woods around his farmhouse to find the perfect tree branch for a coat rack, he stumbled over the miserable figure of a shaggy dog, more dead than alive and even to weak to whimper, its left hind leg stuck in a leghold trap. Even if it seemed useless, he struggled to free the poor dying creature from the vicious device which earned him a feeble tail wag – and rusty iron claws plunging into the flesh of his left palm, crushing the metacarpal bones.

Surprisingly enough, when he arrived in town, the dog was still breathing, and he left him in Dave's capable hands. In the hospital, his own wounds were tended to, but the rusty iron and the bacteria of the dog's rotting flesh had already done their infective work, and even though the doctors did their best, they couldn't save his hand. So he became a one-handed carpenter. Why not. It fit with the bloody luck he'd had so far in his life.

Ten days later, when he left the hospital, he passed by the vet's office to see if the stray dog had made it. The shaggy animal had to be one tough bastard, however, because not only was he alive, he literally jumped to his feet – his three feet – when he saw him and wagged his tail tentatively, as if he recognized the human who saved his life.

“Nobody looking for him?” Killian asked, and David Nolan shook his head.

“No dog tag either, even if he must have belonged to someone once.” He showed him a dirty red leather collar with faded black letters inside that looked like written with a sharpie, forming the word Smee.

“I'll take him,” Killian said curtly.

David frowned. “Do you really think that's a good idea?”

“What happened, wasn't his fault.” He held up his stump that was still bandaged. “If we don't match, I don't know who does,” he replied dryly and motioned to the dog's rear with the mutilated left leg. “Besides,” he went on, “who's gonna want him?”

David looked from the dog to his friend. “How are you holding up?”

Killian shrugged. “I've been much worse.”

David knew it was a lie, but he kept his mouth shut when he saw how Killian looked at the dog.

“Smee, eh?” The dog wagged his tail again, more fervently this time. Killian slapped his thigh in a beckoning gesture. “Come on, let's go home.”

When he drove off in his old jeep, Mary Margaret Nolan joined her husband at the window and sighed compassionately.

“Do you really think that's a good idea?” she asked.

David nodded thoughtfully. “I think it's a very good idea.”

That was three years ago, and from that very day, Smee never left Killian's side, obviously determined to repay the favor with undying loyalty and fierce affection. Nobody ever came looking for him, and nobody ever found out where he'd come from. Perhaps, David Nolan thought sometimes, he was just meant to be at the right place at the right time.

With infallible instinct, he found every injured animal in the range of a few miles, and dragged them home. Tonight, it seems, his instinct struck again.

When the soup is ready, Killian turns the stove low and returns to the living room to look after Smee's newest find. Much to his relief, the figure of the woman is stirring under the heap of blankets, and when he takes a closer look at her, he sees the color of her face has changed; the worrisome paleness of her cheeks has turned into a more healthier tone, and her blueish lips are rosier now.

He sighs and fetches a few clothes for her to put on when she wakes up, which will undoubtedly happen soon. Oh, the fun. He sighs again.

***

Slowly, very slowly Emma drifts back into a sort of semi-onsciousness, and the first thing she notices is a tickling pain in her feet... but that's gotta be a good thing, because the last thing she remembers is the thump on her head, and that she couldn't feel her feet anymore. But now she can feel them, even if they're hurting and stinging, and also her hands, and she can even ball them into fists, and she's engulfed by warmth and softness and a soothing, pleasant smell. It gives her the urge to bury herself deeper into the nest she's in and just go back to sleep.

But her instinct scrapes at her consciousness, demanding of her to wake up and check out her surroundings and situation. She stirs and struggles to open her eyes, and it's surprisingly difficult. The blood is rushing in her ears, and then she clearly hears a voice through the haze swirling around her. The voice is low and accented and somehow fits well with the warm and cozy feeling.

“Lass? Are you awake?”

But it's a stranger's voice, a man's no less, and she has no idea what's happening to her. Her survival instinct kicks in, and with great willpower and effort she opens her eyes, blinking rapidly to clear her sight. She notices that she's inside a room and that she's lying on her back stuffed under what seems a lot of blankets that seemed cozy just a moment ago, but now seem to suffocate and threaten her. She struggles to sit up, and there's the voice again.

“Whoa, careful,” he warns, “you got a bruise on your head.”

That would explain the dull throb and maybe she dizziness, and she struggles even more. She has to see the owner of this voice and somehow make sure she isn't in danger. She notices with dread that underneath the indefinite number of blankets she's wearing only her underwear. A hint of panic brushes over her spine, and she's careful to hold the blankets in place around her body as she finally manages to sit up and fix her eyes on the man standing only a few feet away from the bed she's been placed in.

He's wearing normal clothes, she notices. A plaid shirt over a grey henley, well-worn jeans. Dark hair, a little too long, a tuft of it falling over his forehead. It almost touches his thick eyebrows that are currently raised above very blue eyes scrutinizing her closely. A slight stubble is peppering his jaw and cheeks, shimmering reddish in the dim light of the room. He doesn't look dangerous, and absurdly enough, her instincts tell her that he isn't, but she could be terribly wrong, and she's alone with him, in a bed, stripped down to her freaking underwear.

“What happened?” she demands to know. “Where am I? Who the fuck are you?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I have no bloody idea of what happened, lass. Smee found you in the roadside ditch, passed out and already half covered in snow, and insisted we take you in.”

“Smee?” she echoes and looks around suspiciously, a fresh hint of panic making her toes curl. “Is there someone else?”

“Smee's a dog,” the stranger replies calmly, patiently. “You're at my house, thirty miles outside Storybrooke, Maine, and my name is Killian Jones. I'm living alone.” He tilts his head in what appears to be slight mockery. ”Anything else I can be of service with?”

“Did you take off my clothes?” she snaps.

“Of course I did, they were bloody frozen,” he explains pointedly, a slight annoyance creeping into his voice now. “Did you miss the part where I said you were half covered in snow?” He nods his head sharply in her direction and adds, “You were bloody frozen.”

Emma huffs. “Oh, right, and to warm me up you had to put me in your bed, with–”

He holds up a hand. “Listen, darling,” he cuts her off, clearly angry now, “this is no bloody Hallmark movie. I put you in my bed, the one close to the fireplace, with three hot water bottles to warm you up as fast as possible, because hypothermia is fucking dangerous!” He motions his hand vaguely to the side. “I hung up your damn clothes at the firesite, and they're still damp, if you don't believe me.” A quick look confirms that her jeans, shirt, and jacket are indeed draped over the armrests and back of a huge leather chair standing close to a cozily burning fire in an open firesite. “But let me tell you,” he continues, “you're pretty rude for someone whose life I just saved.” He gives an annoyed flick of his wrist in her direction. “What were you even doing out there, in these clothes no less?”

She's momentarily disarmed by his little tirade, and she knows she should probably apologize, but her head is still dizzy, and she blinks rapidly to clear her mind and tries to recall what happened that made her end up in the roadside ditch where her life-saver apparently found her.

“My car... must have driven over a small rock or something,” she murmurs and touches the bruise on her forehead absentmindedly, flinching a little. “I think I had a flat tire.”

His eyebrows rise high. “So you decided walking was a good idea?”

“Better than waiting in an old car to be frozen to death!” she replies defiantly.

He tilts his head. “You do have a point.”

She draws a deep breath. “Do you have a phone?” she asks firmly.

He nods his head once, slowly, but Emma has a feeling that it's not a good sign. “Yes.” For a moment, she's relieved until he adds, “But the landline's dead. Happens when the snowing gets heavy.” He gestures in the direction of the firesite where there's a table with an old-fashioned looking phone and suggests pointedly, “Check for yourself if you don't believe me.”

Her instinct tells her he's not lying; and so far, her instinct has never failed her. She ignores his remark and raises her chin. “Mobile?”

“I have one, but it's never charged.” He tilts his head again. “No connection here.”

She lets her shoulders sag. “And what now?”

“I'm afraid you're not going anywhere tonight, lass,” he says and raises a hand in defense. “Believe me, I don't like this one tad better than you, but for tonight you'll have to stay here. Tomorrow we'll look for your car.”

She groans in frustration, feeling pretty deflated now. “Do you... do you maybe have something for me to put on?” she asks reluctantly, and he just motions wordlessly to the foot of the bed. Neatly folded, she finds what looks like a flannel shirt, faded grey sweat pants, and red socks with a christmas-y pattern. When she looks up agin, she sees he's retreating from the bed.

“I'm going to fix something to eat while you put that on.” He gestures across the room. “Bathroom's down the hall, fresh towels are in the closet.”

Emma combs her hair behind her ears with both hands and notices that they tremble a little when the shock of what happened settles in and she realizes that this grumpy stranger and his dog most probably saved her life. She shivers, and not from the temperature. Before she can say something, all she sees of him is a glimpse of his back as he closes the door to what's most probably the kitchen behind him, giving her the privacy to get dressed.

Reluctantly, because the bed is warm and cozy and smells good (and where did that thought even come from?), she folds back the blankets and puts the hot water bottles aside that were placed on her nearly strategically. She slips into the clothes provided for her and carefully gets up on her feet; like she expected, her legs are slightly wobbly. After a few tentative first steps, she shuffles through the large quaint room on socked feet, almost magnetically drawn to the cackling fire. When she brushes her fingertips over her jeans that are draped over the backrest of the huge leather chair, she can feel the dampness and shivers again. She would be frozen to death by now, two days before Christmas. Not that anybody would care or miss her, mind you.

After using the bathroom and splashing cool water into her face, the dizziness in her head seems to have lightened a bit. In the bathroom mirror, she examines her face and finds the bruise on her forehead is not as bad as she feared, which allows her to believe she probably doesn't have a concussion. Fuck, she was really lucky.

When she opens the bathroom door, immediately the smell of chicken soup fills her nostrils, and suddenly she becomes aware of the roaring hunger in her stomach. The large wooden table near the fireplace is set with soup bowls, glasses, and a large, steaming pot. The door to the kitchen opens, and her savior appears with a bottle of water. A plump dog of middle size comes over to her, moving in a weird, clumsy way, and it takes Emma a few seconds to realize it's because he has only three legs: the left hind leg is missing. The dog bumps her leg eagerly with his shoulder and wags his tail.

“Smee, easy!” his master calls sternly and puts the bottle on the table, but Emma waves him off.

“No, it's okay.” She hunkers down and scratches him behind his flappy ears, obviously to the dog's delight. “Thank you, thank you so much!” she tells him in her talking-to-a-good-boy voice, and he wags his tail so hard that his whole rear end shakes. She pats his thighs and looks at his missing leg. “What happened to you, Smee?” she asks. “Did you have an accident?”

“Aye, with a leghold trap,” his owner – Jones? – replies, and Emma is shocked.

“With a what? That's fucked up!”

“Must have been some old relic from twenty years ago.” His remarkable jawline tightens. “Was half dead when I found him.”

Smee seems to notice they're talking about him, because he looks to and fro between them eagerly. Emma pats him again and shakes her head with disgust. “Terrible. You could have been hurt as well!”

“Well, about that...” He tilts his head and lifts his left hand – except, she realizes with dismay, there's no hand where his forearm ends; his wrist – or what must be left of it – is hidden under a soft cover made of cotton or some similar fabric. His grim expression looks almost challenging, as if he expects her to react repulsed. As if that's a reaction he's used to, and that thought makes her unexpectedly sad.

“Oh fuck, that sucks,” she blurts out.

He's startled. “What, losing a hand?”

“Doing something good and being screwed over.”

“Well.” He shrugs and scrutinizes her for a moment, a curious look in his eyes now, and scratches behind his ear in what seems to be a nervous gesture.

Emma turns her attention to the friendly dog again and palpates a little along his spine and hips. “He could use a little massage,” she says, “his muscles are a little tense.”

He huffs. “What are you, a vet?”

She raises her chin. “Actually, yes.” She is, even if she hasn't felt like a true veterinarian in some time, as she's been tending mostly to rich brats' handbag dogs in the posh Boston veterinary practice she's working.

“Oh.” He runs his hand through his hair and says a little stiffly, “My apologies. Don't worry, though. I'll have you know Smee's special needs are regularly taken care of.”

“I'm sure they are.”

He motions to the table in an inviting gesture. “Come on, the soup will warm you up from inside.”

She sits down gratefully, and he fills her bowl with soup, pushing it towards her and sits down opposite her. Smee finds his place under the table between their feet.

“Thank you...?” she says and raises her eyebrows in question, having forgotten the name he told her.

“Killian,” he helps out, “Killian Jones.”

“Thank you, Killian. I'm Emma, Emma Swan.” He just nods to that, and she adds, “And I'm sorry for my reaction. It was just a shock to wake up to...” She lets her voice trail off, not really knowing what to say, and makes an all-encompassing move.

“You were right to be wary,” he replies to her surprise. “For all you know, I could be an axe murderer.”

She huffs a little laugh. “You know, I guess I'm just not used to people... being nice.”

He tilts his head. “That's because they're not.”

“Well, you are nice,” she remarks.

“Oh no,” he contradicts dryly, “I'm not nice.” There's not much humor in his voice, and the self-deprecation she senses touches a string inside her, urging her to convince her grumpy savior that he is, indeed, a good person for what he did.

“Come on! You saved my life?”

He waves her off. “That's not being nice. That's... basic humanity.”

Emma shrugs and picks up her spoon; she has enough of burden to carry on her own, she can't cast away everyone's shadows. “If you say so...”

Quickly, he changes the subject. “What were you even doing in this neck of the woods?” he asks, “you're not from here, right?”

“I came from Portland,” she explains vaguely and dives into her chicken soup. “I was on my way back to Boston.”

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “You're from Boston and don't know how to dress appropriately for this weather?”

“I'm not from Boston, I just live there at the moment,” she points out in a defensive tone, “and I–I left Portland in a hurry.”

He tilts his head. “And ended up in this godforsaken nowhere.” Emma snorts, and he frowns. “What?”

“You realize you're talking about your home?” she deadpans.

He looks intently into his soup bowl. “This is not my home. I just live here,” he replies, and Emma is startled that he chose almost the exact same words as she did. “It's as good a place as any, and I've nowhere else to go,” he adds.

She feels like punched in the gut by those words, because that – I have nowhere else to go – has been her own rough-and-ready replacement for a home during her whole life, and to hear the exact same from this total stranger under these absurd circumstances just makes it feel so weirdly... predestined that he was the one to save her life.

Emma stares at him, but if he feels something similar, he doesn't show it. After a few moments, he looks up at her blankly and then motions to her soup bowl. “Anything wrong with that?”

She swallows and shakes her head. “No, it's very good. Thanks.” Then she lowers her head and eats her soup without another word, and it starts to warm her up inside more than she'd ever have expected.

Killian watches her while she's meticulously emptying her bowl, that stranger the snow storm literally swept in front of his feet. When he looked up and found her eyes resting on him after him saying he'd nowhere else to go, he recognized an odd sort of understanding in her features, like she knew exactly what he was talking about. Now, she seems to avoid looking at him, and honestly, he's grateful for that.

It's absurd that he feels that sort of instant connection to that complete stranger, and it's not useful at all, because they will go separate ways again tomorrow anyway. Plus, so far it's never done any good for people if he had any connection to them; all of those who he was really close with, are dead: his mother, his brother, his first love. That's also why he keeps David Nolan and Mary Margaret always at arm's length, even though he considers them friends – he seems just no good to be with, and he knows he's really not worth the trouble. No, it's convenient that the stranger he rescued – Emma Swan, he recalls – seems to be similarly closed off and doesn't push any further.

Briefly, he shakes his head to clear the cobwebs from his mind and then finishes his soup quickly – he isn't hungry anyway – before he gets up to clear the table when Emma's bowl is empty, too. She looks at him questioningly.

“It's late,” he says and heads for the kitchen balancing the two empty bowls atop the pot, and she gets to her feet as well.

“Of course,” she replies. “Can I help? Where can I–”

“I suggest you go back to bed,” he interrupts and motions his head over his shoulder, “I'll sleep on the couch. For one night it'll do.”

“But I can take the couch!” she protests. “I wouldn't want to–”

“It's fine,” he cuts her off curtly and turns towards the kitchen again, “you need the extra warmth.”

When he has deposited the dishes and comes back to the living room, she's standing in front of the fireplace, and the light makes her face look like it's glowing. Smee is standing close to her, his tail slightly wagging. Killian frowns without noticing. With his sweatpants, worn plaid shirt, and the Christmas socks Mary Margaret knitted for him last winter, she looks incredibly cozy – and like she belongs exactly there, next to his dog, in front of his fireplace, and the thought startles and annoys him. He clears his throat, and she whirls around.

“I don't think you had a concussion,” he says, “but the bruise might still give you a bit of a headache. I have aspirin in the bathroom cupboard, if you need it.”

“Okay.” She nods. “Thank you again.”

He waves her off. “Try to get some sleep, you'll want to be well-rested tomorrow. You've still got a long way to go to Boston.”

She frowns. “Boston?” Then she huffs and takes a step towards the bed, the dog trotting after her. “Oh yeah, right. Okay. Then... good night, I guess.”

“Good night.” He clicks his tongue at the dog. “Smee, you know the rules. Not on the bed,” he warns.

His eyes follow her as she shuffles over to his bed and crawls under the covers again, and he quickly looks away when, again, the inexplicable feelings creeps up on him that she belongs exactly there, because why the bloody hell would he think that?

Suddenly it seems like he isn't in control of his feelings, of the situation anymore, and if Killian Jones hates something fervently, then it's the feeling of being under external control. It's ridiculous, of course – just a fleeting hint of connection, attraction maybe, and it will be gone tomorrow. She will be gone tomorrow, not more than a faint memory of blonde locks, green eyes, and a soft voice.

Abruptly, he turns around and heads for the bathroom to brush his teeth and get into his sleeping clothes. He has a feeling that his sleep will be a little troubled tonight, and he's right.

When Emma wakes up the next morning, her host is already dressed, and the smell of coffee wafts through the entire room. She sits up and notices that he's nowhere to be seen, but she can hear him rummage about in the kitchen, obviously preparing breakfast.

Absurdly enough, she's had a deeper and more relaxing sleep than in a long time, which probably explains her odd reluctance to leave the bed; the feeling is disturbing.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she murmurs to herself and swings her legs out of bed. Passing by the leather chair, she picks up her clothes that are dry by now and heads for the bathroom to get dressed. When she returns to the living room, the breakfast table's set with coffee, bread, butter, honey, and scrambled eggs with bacon. Her stomach reacts with a loud growl.

“Good morning,” Killian greets her, “Slept well?”

She nods with a tentative smile. “Yes, thank you.”

“I hope Smee didn't bother you?”

“Not at all.”

“Fine. Then,” – he motions invitingly to the table, and she notices that he's wearing a prosthesis in the place of his missing hand – “you should get some breakfast into you before going on the road again.”

She doesn't understand the absurd hint of disappointment she's feeling at the thought of continuing her trip to Boston and never seeing Killian Jones and his dog again. When she steals a glance at him now, in broad daylight, she realizes that he's actually really handsome, in a very down-to-earth way, and she wonders how his smile would look.

What's wrong with you, she calls herself to order, who cares how his smile looks, for fuck's sake. Eat your eggs, and then you're out of here.

Killian, too, doesn't seem very eager to extend her stay longer than necessary. The breakfast is a short, silent thing, and when they're done, they get dressed, and she bundles up as much as she can, before they finally head out.

This time, they're not going across the uneven meadow, they use the driveway from the farmhouse to the road. It's stopped snowing, but the snow is quite high – much to Smee's obvious delight.

“Bloody hell, this doesn't look good,” he murmurs when they reach the road. “So, in which direction is your car?”

“That way. I was heading back to the town when I saw the lights from your house.”

“It's thirty miles to Storybrooke!”

Emma rolls her eyes. “As I said, it was my best shot. Freezing to death in a car didn't seem appealing either.”

He nods somewhat grumpily. “Alright, point taken.”

They turn in the direction Emma has pointed, and the farther they walk, the darker Killian's mood seems to get, and he keeps murmuring and huffing and grumbling to himself. When they reach Emma's car after maybe seven minutes of walking, she's shocked to see that it's well-covered in snow; a lot of snow.

“Bloody buggering hell,” Killian blurts out, “I knew it!”

“You knew what?”

“This!” He gestures angrily towards the little, half-buried car, and then towards the road. “Even if we could get it fixed – and to do that we'd have to practically shovel it free – there's no way you could drive on that road.”

“But it's stopped snowing, won't the snow plow truck pass soon?”

He snorts. “This is not a highway. It might take days before it's cleared.”

Emma closes her eyes. Fuck rural Maine indeed. Then the meaning of his words seeps in. Before she can say anything, his angry voice cuts through the white silence.

“Grab your stuff already!” He gestures vaguely around. “I'm not going to get frostbite here.”

“My... stuff?” she echoes.

“Your clothes,” he replies impatiently. “I do have enough sweatpants and shirts to clothe you, but you might want a change of underwear during the next few days, until the bloody road is cleared.”

“Do you mean–”

“I mean,” he interrupts pointedly, “you're going to have to stay at my house for the next days. Unless of course,” he sways his arm out in the direction of where the town is, “you want to try your luck again and hike to Storybrooke.” He tilts his head in a sarcastic shrug. “At least it's not dark, you could even get there alive.”

“Very funny,” she shoots back and opens the trunk of her bug with some effort and snatches her duffel bag.

“That is all?” he asks doubtfully.

“Yes, that's all,” Emma replies, anger bubbling up in her about his constant rudeness. Okay, to drive through heavy snow in an old Volkswagen bug without winter tires might not be a really smart idea, but she barely had any choice, and the weather wasn't her fault. “I don't need much stuff. Or do I strike you as the princessly type?”

Wordlessly, he turns around and proceeds to trudge back to the farmhouse, with Smee delightedly hopping through the deep snow on his three sturdy legs, and Emma following as fast as she can, trying to process what's going on – and what to feel about it. So, apparently she's stranded here for the next few days, in the middle of this snowy nowhere, with a gruff, handsome stranger she's instantly felt an odd connection to. Well, it's not like she has anything better to do or anywhere else to go – or anyone.

When they get back to the house again and are inside, Killian tries the phone right away, but apparently, the landline is still dead.

“Bloody hell,” he curses under his breath and then turns to her. “No connection. Looks like you're stuck here.” He scratches behind his ear. “I do have a pickup, but you've seen the road.”

“I'm sorry I'm ruining your Christmas,” Emma says tentatively, but she can't shake off the feeling that he wasn't in a very festive mood anyway even before she showed up.

“Christmas?” He frowns and shakes his head once. “I don't care about Christmas.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” she murmurs. Meanwhile, she hasn't failed to notice that not only there is no tree in his living room or anywhere visible, there is no other piece of decoration either, no holly, no candy cane, no nothing. Emma herself isn't very much of a Christmas person either, but even she puts up the occasional candle or holly.

At first it seems like he wants to say something, but then he turns around and heads for the door again. “I'm going to work.”

“Work? Where?”

“In my workshop in the barn. I'm a carpenter.” He tilts his head. “And before you ask, yes, that's possible with one hand. It takes a bit of creativity, but it's possible.”

“I wasn't going to ask,” Emma replies indignantly.

He leaves the house without any further word.

She spends the day wandering around the house, resting in the afternoon, and reading in front of the fireplace, after she found a shelf full of books in one corner of the huge living room. She also checks the phone from time to time, but never gets a signal. Killian comes back only around noon for a small lunch of bread and cheese and waves her off when she asks if she can do anything around the house or prepare something for dinner (honestly, she's relieved when he tells her that he has already a stew in the fridge ready to be heated, because cooking isn't one of her prominent skills). He disappears after a rather short break, and it's almost like he's avoiding her presence. Not that she can blame him – she's basically an intruder into his routine, and even if he apparently doesn't do Christmas, she's still a stranger in his house and in his life. Absurdly enough, she can't help but feel a bit disappointed that he doesn't ask her if she wants to take a look at his workshop; she hoped to find out a little more about the man who saved her life, but apparently he's even more of a recluse than she is.

When the sunlight outside is fading, he comes back again and heads right to the bathroom for a shower, not before making sure she's okay though, with no headache, dizziness, or further signs of a concussion, and with no signs of a cold either.

“Landline still dead?” he asks when he puts the pot with the stew on the table; she has set it this time with plates and glasses, spoons and bread.

“Yeah, I've tried a few times.”

“Hmm... someone's going to be worried about you.”

She huffs. “No one, trust me.”

He throws her a sideways glance, but doesn't reply to that, and she decides to try her luck and simply asks, “You're not from here, right?”

Killian shakes his head. “No, I was born in England.” He pauses, but she's looking at him expectantly, and so he goes on, “My mother died when I was very young, fourteen, and my father already wasn't in the picture anymore.” Briefly, a sadness flickers over his face, like a long-healed wound that still throbs from time to time. She studies his expression intently as he continues. “I had an older brother, Liam. He was already of age, and luckily, the authorities let me stay with him. He trained as a carpenter and worked very hard to build his own business, and then I trained with him. One day, he had a fatal accident with the disk saw.” Emma's eyes widen, but she stays quiet. “He died. I sold everything and left the country. I just couldn't...” He falls silent, and a muscle in his jaw ticks.

She nods. “It didn't feel like home anymore.”

He gives her an odd glance. Even though he doesn't reply, she knows instinctively she's right, and it startles her once more how connected she feels to him.

“I came here for a fresh start,” he continues his tale, “settled down in Portland, met a woman. She was married to a rich and powerful man. We were planning to run away together, but she never showed up.”

“She changed her mind?” Emma asks sympathetically, but he shakes his head.

“She was hit by a car,” he tells her, and she gasps. “On Christmas Eve,” he adds soberly.

“Fuck.”

“Aye.” He tilts his head and drops his spoon into his empty plate with a dissonant clang. “You'll understand why I'm not overly fond of Christmas.”

She tries to process everything he just told her, the tragic summary of his life in five sentences, and she understands what's behind his pain – it's not only about the losses he experienced, but that he blames them on himself. She knows he does, even if he hasn't explicitly said so. Just as she, as a child, knew it had to be her fault, every time a foster family sent her away again. Just as she, a teenager in a juvenile detention home, knew it was her fault what happened to her child.

“Yes, of course,” she says hastily, “I'm sorry I–”

“It's not your fault,” he cuts her off and pushes back his chair.

She understands the clear signal that the conversation is over, and she doesn't blame him for not wanting to elaborate any further on his misery... and yet, she feels a strange longing, something she hasn't felt in a long time. The longing for a person to share one's burden with, a person who won't judge you, because they'll understand. She feels that longing, because she has caught a glimpse of that person in Killian Jones. But it's obvious that he's not up for that.

She helps him clear the table, and then asks if he has a spare room for her to sleep in, so that he can sleep in his own bed again, but he shakes his head.

“It's not worth the trouble of preparing it and heating it up properly for another day or two,” he tells her, “and I don't mind the couch. Unless, of course, you mind.”

“No, no,” she replies quickly, “I don't.”

“Fine.” He nods. “Then, you'll excuse me for not keeping you company, but I have some paperwork to do. Comes with the business.”

“Of course. I won't disturb you.”

He spends the evening at the huge wooden table, buried in papers and sipping his tea, not saying another word to her, and Emma settles on the couch with a book and Smee at her side, but she can't really concentrate on what she's reading and keeps glancing over at him. The tuft of his too-long hair falls over his forehead again, hiding his eyes from her view, and the glow of the fire makes auburn highlights dance in it. For the life of her Emma doesn't understand why she feels the strong pull to go over to him and comb her fingers through it. It's absurd. She doesn't know this man. Except, she has the feeling that she does.

He really doesn't know why he blurted out his whole miserable backstory to this blonde intruder into his boring, conveniently numbing routine. Killian Jones normally doesn't share personal things from his past if he doesn't have to – not even David Nolan knows every detail about his personal history, and he's probably the person who knows him best. Then why did he feel the push to open up to his involuntary guest? Apparently, the instant connection he felt towards her isn't as fleeting as he thought, that feeling of mutual understanding – as if she knows exactly who he is, and he knows who she is – it's still there. Which is odd, since he doesn't really know much about her save snippets here and there – that she doesn't really have a place she calls home at the moment, that she's a veterinarian, and that she apparently is a loner. Very much like him. He doesn't understand it, and it makes him uneasy. It reminds him of the long forgotten desire to have someone who he could be himself with. Except, it's useless because this woman is someone who will disappear from his life as suddenly as she's stumbled into it.

He buries his nose in his paperwork, but it's a useless endeavor tonight. He feels her presence almost physically, the occasional looks she gives him when she looks up from her book, and they make him nervous. They make him question his self-chosen aloneness in an uncomfortable way he's not ready to deal with.

After two hours, he gives up and closes his books, shoves his papers aside and finishes the last of his now cold tea. As if on cue, she clears the couch for him and moves over to the bed, telling him quietly good-night to which he responds with a hesitant murmur.

Again, it's a night of restless sleep interrupted by periods of lying awake and listening to the even breathing coming from his own bed – and trying to ignore the dreadful feeling that soon enough this somehow soothing sound will be gone again, replaced by the silence he's been used to for years and which suddenly seems so little appealing now. So, he really hopes that soon enough is close, so he won't have a chance to get too used to the feeling of not being alone – and enjoying it. And being crushed when it inevitably ends.

The next morning, Emma is woken up early again by the smell of coffee and bacon – contrary to her, her reluctant host seems to be an early riser. See, we've got really not much in common, she tells herself as she shuffles into the bathroom.

When she comes back fifteen minutes later, Killian is just putting the plates with the scrambled eggs and the bacon on the table and nods a curt good morning.

“Landline's still dead,” he informs her grumpily, and Emma wants to slap her forehead that she hasn't even thought of checking that first thing when she got up.

“Oh,” she replies, not knowing what else to say.

“Well, I suppose we'll survive another bit.”

For a while, they eat in silence, then she asks, “Can I do something more today? Do you have anything special planned for dinner?”

He raises an eyebrow. “There's some leftover stew from yesterday?”

Right. He doesn't care about Christmas, so no special dinner plans for Christmas Eve. If she's honest with herself, she's the same. Her Christmases usually consist of Chinese takeout or frozen pizza, bad mood, and Die Hard. She just thought that this year, maybe, could be a little different for both of them, given the weird circumstances they have been thrown into. Something like making the best of an unexpected situation, maybe making it even better than it normally would have been. But apparently, he isn't interested in anything like that, so she's going to roll with that.

“Sure,” she replies hastily, “that's fine. I just thought... nevermind. I just wanted to do something to make up for...” she motions vaguely around, an all-encompassing move mainly apologizing for her presence, “messing up your life.”

“I told you already, it's fine.” He gets up from the table. “If I could leave the dishes for you? I have some work to finish that's due soon.” He gestures towards the door.

“Yeah, of course. Go to your work, I've got this.” She pushes back her chair. “Anything to get ready for lunch?”

“Just some bread and cheese.”

He fills a thermosflask with the rest of his breakfast tea and pulls on a heavy sweater before he calls out for Smee, but the dog just woofs and flops down in front of the fire. Killian huffs and leaves the house for his carpentry.

The day goes by just like the one before, Emma watches the fire and puts on more logs when it grows smaller, and checks the phone from time to time. What irritates her is the odd relief she feels every time it becomes clear that the landline is not working yet, because why even?? She should be looking forward to finally getting away from here. But she pushes these thoughts aside. For noon, she sets the table with bread and cheese and makes some fresh tea. The sight of the ready table seems to make Killian even more grumpy, though, and she's gettong more and more annoyed by his monosyllabic behavior. Really, what's wrong with this man? He keeps telling her that he doesn't care about Christmas and that she's not really disturbing him, yet he acts like she's the most inconvenient nuisance ever, even though she's trying her best to make things pleasant for him. How she ever could think there was a connection between them, is beyond her. He's nothing but a misanthropic hermit who probably already regrets saving her life. Ass.

When Killian comes back for lunch and finds everything ready, even the tea made just how he likes it and the bread freshly toasted, he's almost offended. And it gets worse: when he comes back in the evening, the table is set for dinner, she even found a nice tablecloth and a candle somewhere, and the stew is already heating up on the oven. He doesn't need – and doesn't want – these frills. He can take care of himself, has done so for all of his life and will have to do so again once she'll be gone, and he has no interest in being cared for now. Has no interest in getting used to the uncomfortably pleasant feeling of someone... just being there when he comes home.

Even Smee is obviously falling for that feeling, refusing today to go to the barn with him, as he does every day. The stupid dog preferred the company of their guest. Well, he's going to be disappointed soon enough. It's a cruel jest of fate showing them how things could be if he weren't such a... failure of a human being. Especially at this time of the year when the memory of his last great failure comes back hitting him with all might.

It's been eight years now since that fatal accident that took Milah from him – eight years in which the pain of losing her has dulled and faded, but the feeling of guilt, of being nothing but a failure, has remained.

The dinner is spent in an almost oppressive silence, and he ignores – to the point of being rude – Emma's attempts to start a conversation. At some point, she presses her lips together and pushes away her plate, wordlessly getting up from her chair and starting to clear the table. He lets her do it without helping this time, and when the table is cleared completely, he gets up and fetches his bottle of rum and a glass from the cupboard beside the table.

By the time she has finished rummaging and clattering in the kitchen, he's already on his third rum, staring with contempt at the thin black leather glove covering his prosthesis. Another proof of him being a royal failure. She leaves the kitchen, and he hopes that she'll retire to the couch with a book again, like the day before, and leave him be, but of course he has no such luck.

“You think you're the only one who has lost something?” she snarls, and when he looks up at her wearily, he's surprised about her aggressive stance – feet firmly planted on the floor, hands at her hips, and chin raised as she motions her head to his prosthesis.

His eyes follow her movement to his fake hand. “Oh, the hand is only the last thing in a long, boring row,” he tells her. He's in no mood for defending himself for feeling like horseshit, he's entitled to wallow in a litle self-pity, isn't he? “After my mother, my brother, and the woman I loved,” he adds and asks provokingly, “What have you lost?”

She shrugs. “Everything,” is her simple answer. “My parents, when I was a few hours old and they dumped me on the stairs of a hospital. Three failed adoptions.” That gets her his full and prompt attention. “My first boyfriend at seventeen, when he betrayed me,” she goes on, “and I went to jail for a deed he'd done.” He clenches his jaw unconsciously, a wave of anger at the cowardly son of a bitch washing over him that ruined a young girl's life that already had been getting the short end of the straw since she'd been born. No wonder she has no one in her life who cares for her – probably she's used to not letting anyone come closer, and why would she? Everyone has fucked her over so far. But her tale isn't over. “In jail I found out I was pregnant,” she continues, and a cold hand grips his heart, “Lost the baby, too.” She shrugs and adds soberly, “Was probably better for the both of us.”

He studies her face in shock during the following pause, and he sees the faint pain that's still there... looking very similar to what he feels when he thinks of Milah. Because of course she'd blame herself for losing the baby. He wants to say something, anything, to assure her that no, it isn't her fault, but the right words won't come to him.

“Whenever I have something, a job, friends, a scrap of happiness, I lose it.” She huffs. “I don't even know why I'm telling you all of this, I haven't spoken to anyone about all this crap.”

Killian gets up wordlessly, turns to the cupboard and fetches a tumbler, then he pours a respectable amount of liquor into the glass and puts it on the table, motioning for her to sit.

She sits.

“I haven't told anyone the story of my miserable past either,” he says, “but you.” He tilts his head. “And Smee. But I highly doubt he counts.” The dog, still relaxing in front of the fire, wags his tail when he hears his name.

Emma huffs again, a little laugh this time. “You're better than me. I don't even have a pet to open up to.”

For a moment, their eyes lock, and he feels their connection stronger than ever, then he swallows and raises his glass. “To sharing shitty backstories.”

She clinks her glass to his. “To failures.”

“You're not a failure,” he contradicts, “You've just been screwed over by life. None of it was your fault.”

She takes a sip of her drink and coughs a bit. “Maybe not,” she finally replies, “but I haven't done anything to improve.”

“Horseshit,” he growls. “You have made something of yourself, you've built a life.”

She snorts. “I have no roots and no place where I belong.”

“But that can change.”

Her eyes fix on him with a disturbing intensity. “How?”

He tilts his head, avoiding her gaze. “You can belong anywhere, you just have to decide you want to.”

"You're the one to talk,” she replies pointedly, “hiding out here from the world, behind your fake hand and your anger!”

Killian is taken aback at her words, because... he isn't hiding, is he? He's doing the world a favor by keeping it at arm's length. “The world doesn't like me.”

Emma shakes her head. “No, it's you,” she tells him and points her index finger at him. “You don't like the world, and you don't like yourself.”

He looks at her with wide eyes, frozen, at an actual loss for words. “There's really not much to like,” he finally says after a long pause and is shocked to see her smile, and understanding sadness hidden somewhere between the laugh lines around her eyes.

“Why are you so stubborn?” she asks softly.

***

Emma wakes up with the strange feeling of her neck being a little stiff, but the rest of her feeling extremely cozy and at home. She stirs and realizes that she's not in the bed she slept in for the last two nights, and she blinks her eyes open with some effort.

She's looking directly at the fireplace which means she's on the leather couch, and when she turns her head to the right she sees she's snuggled up to Killian Jones's side, her head on his chest, and his arm around her. His head has sunk on the backrest, and he's still asleep. A blanket is draped over her and across his lap.

There's a moment of panic as she tries to recall what happened that brought them here, and she thinks it must have happened some time between her tale of how she went on shoplifting sprees with Neal, her first boyfriend, before he let her go to jail for him, and his tale of how his brother Liam was distracted for a second by telling him to be more careful with the wood plane, and thus ended up hurting himself so badly in the disk saw that he bled to death. They moved from the dining table to the leather couch, leaving the rum behind, and Killian put another log on the fire to banish the cold and dark with warmth and light.

They talked and listened, carefully approaching each other, exploring limits, lowering defenses, and examining scars. Emma isn't sure how it happened or what it was that made them open up to each other, and she doesn't remember when they cuddled so close together that she ended up falling asleep in Killian's arm, but she does know she feels more free and safe and lighter than she has in years. Like she has shared a burden that's been weighing her down, and now it feels only half as heavy.

She manoeuvers herself in a sitting position so that she can have a better look at Killian's handsome sleeping features, for once relaxed, but her movement wakes him from his sleep and he's apparently startled by the position they're in, but can't move away any farther, being already in the corner of the couch.

She smiles. “Hi.”

“Good morning,” he replies in an almost questioning voice and looks nervously at his arm, the left one with the prosthesis attached to it, that's still resting on her back. “I... I apologize if I...” He falls silent, not really knowing what to say, and she shakes her head.

“I'm glad we talked,” she says firmly. “I feel so... relieved.”

He shifts himself into a more upright position and lifts his hand very carefully, tentatively, as if she might shy away from it; she doesn't. “So do I,” he admits in a rough voice and smooths a strand of hair from her face.

Emma studies his features, his look so serious and sober, but also full of warmth and questions and hope, and she throws all caution to the wind and moves closer to him, approaching his face with hers, and he mirrors her gesture. After one last glance at his slightly parted lips she closes her eyes.

A shrill ring, deafeningly cutting into their fragile, tender silence, makes them jump apart.

For a second, they look at each other and around the room, confused and shocked, and then a shadow falls over Killian's face as the telephone rings again.

“The landline,” he says and jumps up from the couch, making Emma feel almost physically hurt at the loss of contact, the loss of warmth.

“Hello,” he answers the phone in a voice bare of any emotion, not showing disappointment, annoyance, or any feeling at all. “Oh, Dave. No, I'm fine, thank you for checking. Yeah, I've noticed. Really? That's a relief. Thank you. Okay, in a few days. Goodbye.”

He hangs up and looks at her with the same empty expression she just heard in his voice. “That was a friend from Storybrooke. The snow plow truck just left town and is clearing the road outside right now. I suggest,” he picks up the phone again, “I call the Storybrooke garage and tell them to send out their towing vehicle as soon as the road is passable again. They should be here in two hours at the latest.”

Emma feels like punched in the guts. Numbly, she rises from the couch.

“Sure,” she replies tonelessly.

The next hour passes by in a haze. Emma hears him on the phone, obviously talking to a mechanic, explaining the situation and telling the man to knock at the door once he's got the vehicle, so he can pick up her, too. She busies herself getting dressed and packing up her stuff while Killian fixes them breakfast. Smee is alternating between following her and Killian, whining reproachfully.

It takes barely ninety minutes until there's a heavy knock at the door.

Killian opens, and she's already prepared, dressed in her boots and red leather jacket, like when he found her, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. He looks at her as the mechanic is waiting outside, and she draws a deep breath and steps nearer.

She's searching his gaze, waiting for him to say something, anything. He averts his eyes and reaches into the pocket of his jeans, then he hands her something on his open palm.

She looks at him questioningly, and he tilts his head in a barely perceptible, encouraging nod. She reaches for the thing in his hand, an object about the size and form of a kiwi fruit, and when her fingertips brush his palm, sparks shoot right up to her elbow. It's cool and smooth, made of wood, and she recognizes the features of a slightly stumpy, three-legged dog.

“Smee?” she whispers, tears stinging in the corners of her eyes. “Did you... did you make it for me?”

He swallows, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. “I thought you'd like to have a souvenir of your savior.”

The man waiting outside clears his throat. “Ma'am?”

Emma huffs a laugh. “Thank you. For everything.” Then she raises on her tiptoes and leans a little forward to brush a kiss on Killian's scruffy cheek, his stubble prickling her lips. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

Then she leaves the house and walks away. When she turns around to look back, she finds the door already closed, and all she can think is that she never even got to see his smile.

“Oh, shut up, Smee,” Killian growls as the dog whines and scratches at the door. “This is what was going to happen, all the time. This is how it's supposed to be. It's better this way.”

The dog whines again, and Killian scoffs at him, turning away from the door and proceeding to make all signs of the presence of another person disappear. He clears the breakfast table and folds the blanket they've slept under, involuntarily recalling how it felt to wake up with her in his arms, snuggled against his side, her head resting on his chest. The intimacy of sharing a blanket, the warmth their bodies created, and most of all the emotional intimacy of sharing their pain and anger, both having lots of it locked away in them.

It felt... right. Like how it was supposed to be.

The looks they shared, open and raw and understanding, knowing. Longing. The tender touch of his fingertips on the silky strand of her hair, even though his skin is roughened from working with wood everyday, he could feel the smoothness through and through, like a promise. The almost shy expression in her captivating green eyes, turning to something vulnerable and courageous when she swayed closer, her lips full and soft and waiting for his.

And yet, it was not supposed to be. She had her life and her job in Boston, even if she didn't feel at home there. She was going to leave anyway.

He's glad it happened today, before they kissed and he could fall even more for her – because aye, he realizes now, absurd as it sounds, that's exactly what has happened in these mere two days and three nights spent in her company, as much as he's tried to avoid it. It's true: he started to fall for Emma Swan, to fall in love with her. So it's good that she left now, before he was in way too deep, so deep that losing her again could devastate him. Like ripping off a band aid.

An hour later, the bloody phone rings again, and he contemplates for a moment not answering; he's really not in the mood for people, and the only people who really matter (and care about him) know he's alive and well. But then he thinks it could always be David again, and he doesn't want to snub the only friend he has, so he picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Killian? It's Emma.”

That hits him unexpectedly, and for a moment his tongue is tied, and her voice reaches him again through the landline. “Killian?”

He clears his throat. “I'm here.”

“Ah. Okay. I... I just wanted to let you know that I've arrived in Storybrooke. Turns out my spare tire is damaged, so a new tire has to be ordered.” She pauses for a moment, before she goes on, “Looks like I'll be around for another few days. I'm staying at the bed and breakfast here.”

“Granny's,” he says automatically, trying to process her words.

“Yes,” she replies. “I thought you... we...” She starts to stumble over her own words, and he closes her eyes. Don't say it, he thinks, just don't. “I tought if you came to town the next few days, we could have dinner together or something. I... I'd like to thank you properly for, you know, saving my life.”

“I... well, that's not...” He licks his lips and starts again. “You know, that's really not necessary.”

“I know, but...” He hears her draw a deep breath, and it sounds shaky. “Anyway, if you come to town, just drop me a call, okay?”

“If I come to town, I will, Swan,” he replies reluctanty, fully well knowing he's going to avoid Storybrooke for at least ten more days.

***

The next four weeks come and go in a haze, and it's surprisingly easy to fall back into his old, boring routine. He crafts his works, he drives to town to sell them, he buys his groceries and other supplies he needs, and he retires to his hermitage.

Then, in the first week of February the time has come for Smee to get his annual shots, so he takes him to his friend's office. Just when he's about to enter the house where David Nolan sees his patients downstairs and lives upstairs with his wife Mary Margaret, the door is opened and David almost bumps into him on his way out, obviously in a hurry.

“Killian! Good to see you again!” he exclaims, then frowns. “Something wrong with Smee?”

“No, he's fine, he just needs his shots.” The dog confirms his good health with a friendly woof.

“Ah, damn, I'm heading out to an emergency,” David says, gesturing to his pick up parked in front of the house, not after giving his favorite patient a hearty pat.

“Oh...” Killian scratches behind his ear. “Okay, no problem, I'll come back tomorrow, and–”

“No, no,” David cuts him off and gestures towards the house as he's opening the driver's door and throws his veterinary kit inside, “just go inside, he'll be taken care of.” He starts the engine and calls out of the window, “Wait for me, we'll have a beer later!”

Killian is startled as he watches hin friend speed off, but then he shrugs and enters the house as David has told him. The waiting room is empty, and he calls tentatively, “Hello?”

“Come in!” comes the answer from a bright, female voice, and the voice hits him like lightning, right in the guts and in the heart, and Smee's ears perk up and he lets out an excited bark.

Then the door to the treatment room is opened, and they find themselves face to face with the person Killian has never expected to see again. She's wearing white scrubs, a messy ponytail, and she's never looked more beautiful.

“Swan?” he gasps. Her eyes widen in only mild surprise, and she smiles, and it's his downfall. “How... I mean, why... are you here?”

Smee doesn't care about these vain details, he's all over her in the blink of an eye, and she crouches down so he doesn't have to jump up on her on his one hind leg, and greets him properly. Then she rises to her full height again.

She shrugs, a girlish gesture that makes her look incredibly young. “David had a job to offer, and I needed a change of scenery.”

“Oh.”

A change of scenery? What does that mean? It sounds like a fleeting thing. He doesn't know what to say.

Emma licks her lips and draws a deep breath. “Killian... I–I was waiting for you, to show up for that thank you dinner.” She fixes her eyes on him. “Why did you never call?”

“Oh, well, you know...” He runs his hand through his hair and averts his eyes, shame filling him at the sound of hurt in her voice. “I thought you would be leaving soon anyway, and I didn't want to... I was afraid I...” he shakes his head helplessly and looks at her again, hoping she understands from his eyes what his words cannot express. And she does.

“I'm here now,” she says simply, her gaze holding his, and nods in affirmation.

“What about your life in Boston?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I never really liked what I had there,” she tries to explain. “But I like it here. I might even grow some roots.”

“Here, in the middle of nowhere?” he scoffs.

She tilts her head to the side, an almost playful gesture. “You know, someone told me, I can do that anywhere I want to. And,” she points her index finger at him, “that someone also told me, here's as good a place as any, and...” She shrugs again. “I've nowhere else to go.”

He just looks at her like an idiot and nods, really and completely at a loss for words now, even more like an idiot. He's grasping for words in his mind, or even a coherent thought would be nice, but he can't find either, not before he's managed to wrap his mind around the meaning of what she just told him.

So, like an idiot, he gestures towards the dog. “Smee needs his shots.”

Emma buries her hands in the pockets of her scrubs. “Then let's get it over with.”

Between them, no more words are spoken, Emma gets to business with the dog, Smee taking his shots stoically as always, because what are a few pricks when you've had your leg bitten off by rusty iron jaws, right?

When she's done, she gives the dog a few treats and looks at Killian again, somehow expectantly, and he knows, he just knows it's his turn now to say something useful.

He clears his throat. “Then I suppose I... see you around?”

She nods with a smile, but she can't fool him – he notices the slight disappointment in her voice, and he hates himself for it. “Sure,” she replies lightly.

Emma's hands are buried in the pockets of her scrubs again as she watches Killian from the window driving away in his pickup. She supposes he just needs a bit more time to really understand what she told him, that she's not planning to leave again so soon. But anyway, even if he doesn't realize it anytime soon – as crazy as it sounds, she can already feel the first roots sprout into the ground.

It did seem like fate had its hands in it: the delivery of her new tire being delayed for days and days, her stumbling over the friendliest woman she ever met while buying some hygiene products, that woman turning out to be the wife of the local veterinarian who told her her husband was suffocating with work but couldn't find anyone wanting to help him out.

And then, completely out of the blue, Walsh showing up one day, wanting to make amends and becoming nasty when she just shook her head.

“You're ridiculous, Emma,” he spat. “What do you want here, in the middle of nowhere? Your best shot is with me. You don't belong here, you don't belong with anyone.”

“I like it here,” she just replied calmly and rose to her full height, because he really wasn't worth the adrenaline. “And to be honest, anywhere is better than with you.” And she turned around and let him stand there, at the curb where he belonged.

She knew eventually she'd run into Killian, and she was nervous about it, asking herself if the time in between might have made him close off again. To be honest, even now, after meeting him, she isn't sure.

Two days later, to her surprise, he's standing in the waiting room again.

“Killian! Is something wrong with Smee?” she asks, eyes scanning the dog, but he seems to be his normal, carefree self, greeting her with a bump of his wet nose and appropriate tail wagging. “Did he react badly to his shots?”

Killian frowns. “What? Oh.” He shakes his head. “No, no. Smee is fine.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Then what... what can I do for you?”

He draws a deep breath and scratches behind his ear before he looks her directly in the eyes, determination in his gaze. “I'm here to... to ask you out,” he finally says in a rough voice. “To dinner or something.”

Time seems to be frozen for a moment as she lets the meaning of his words sink in. Then she exhales carefully. “Shouldn't I be the one taking you out?” she asks and shrugs, trying to play it light. “I mean, I still owe you that thank you dinner, remember?”

But he shakes his head, not accepting the easy way out. Apparently, he needs to get something off his chest. “You don't owe me anything,” he contradicts. “I owe you an apology. For being rude and.. and...” His voice trails off as he's searching for the right word.

“Afraid?” she offers.

He draws deep breath and tilts his head in a fatalistic nod. “Aye,” he admits. “You know, someone... fate, the gods...” he hesitates and then raises his hand to brush a strand of hair from her face that somehow escaped her ponytail, and the tender gesture makes her heart swell. “Someone sent me the best Christmas gift one could ever stumble across in a snowy roadside ditch,” he says softly, “and I was just too much of a coward to accept it.”

She huffs a little laugh and revels in the warmth spreading all through her veins. “And now?”

He tilts his head again. “If you can decide to grow roots, I can bloody well decide to stop being angry.”

Emma smiles and takes a step nearer, standing only a hand's breadth away from him now, and she can see the fine skin around his eyes crinkle. And she thinks, yep, that's a smile. Finally. Without further hesitation, because why the fuck, she raises on her tiptoes, and the moment she leans in she feels Killian's hand at the back of her neck, pulling her to him the last bit. She closes her eyes when she finally feels his lips on hers and sighs into the kiss. He wraps his other arm around her waist and molds her into him, deepening the kiss, and it's everything she's imagined since they were interrupted on Christmas morning – everything and more. When they reluctantly separate again because they both need some air, they lean their foreheads together, both smiling with sparkling eyes, and she thinks she'll probably never get enough of his smile.

“I like it when you're not angry,” she breathes.

“You know, if you want it, you have it,” he replies in a low voice, a little cryptically.

“I have what?” she asks and licks her lips.

“A place to go.”

#cssecretsanta2k19 #cs ff #csss #cs #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #my ff #since we've no place to go #the-captains-ayebrows

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