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andraaste · 3 years

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I am not your enemy - Lance fanfiction part 16

The Chapter is finally out my Guardians 🐉

Chapter 16 : In the deepest memories of the last of the dragons

My hands would follow their path taken for several minutes, forming various abstract forms of their weak caresses. Many chills arose from time to time with my fingers when I explored new areas but no protest was ever heard, which prompted me to venture out again and again, savoring this almost suspended moment in time.

Blinking hard with white lids in the dim daylight streaming through the curtains, my gaze fell for a moment on the long locks that partially obscured Lance's sleeping face. With his head resting on my bare chest, he didn't seem to want to wake up from his deep sleep, an arm slung over my request now firmly pressed against him.

I directed my caresses a little higher until I reached a scaly area on his shoulder. Fascinated, I drew each outline as if to come to memorize them, surprised to feel them vibrate with each passage of my fingers.

It had been some time since I realized one thing. One thing who, each time he let me see it, filled my heart a little more with new feelings.

More and more often in my presence, Lance seemed to forget his barriers. So sometimes the young man let an infinite number of improbably colored scales run over his skin while, at other times, his ice ran through my body without any logic, drawing complex and involuntary shapes. I’m always surprised at the sweetness of these manifestations, yet they are born of a raw, primitive nature. Because despite his human appearance, Lance was nonetheless a dragon whose instincts he had and, beyond the brutality that accompanied some, I loved to see him let go. I had the impression that in those rare moments when the barrier between his two forms was weakening, he could finally relax, really be himself.

But to share with him this moment of physical intimacy In purely instinctive outbursts, he loved to mark me with his presence, ranging from his powers to his scent and at times, to his claws. Lance had been unintentionally brutal at times, but was it strange if I admitted that I absolutely loved every moment ?

The dragon pulled me out of my reveries, stirring lightly. Lifting his face with still sleeping features, he arched an eyebrow as he analyzed the situation, his gaze drifting over our still naked bodies. My breath quickened as one of his hands lingered on the slope of my hip as his eyes were already dark with desire. Without warning, he tightened his embrace and rocked over me. His long hair tickled my face as he leaned down to explore every inch of my neck, making me moan in spite of myself with languor.

- Hello, my angel, he said in a hoarse voice against my skin.

I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders as a weary smile stretched my lips.

- Hello, my great dragon.

Lance laughed in the crook of my collarbone as he let his icy hands rest on my thighs, causing goose bumps to grow in the grooves of his palms. His lips entered the slope of my jaw, and when they finally met mine, it was with some authority that he lifted my legs on either side of his narrow hips.

We kissed for a long time, our tongues meeting without delay to deepen our embrace. Between my legs, I felt him pulsing more and more vigorously, increasing with maddening speed the desire that had not left me.

- You do well not to forget in whose arms you find, he amused himself in a voice with a much deeper sound than usual.

I dug my nails vigorously into his muscular back as his hips pushed against my lower abdomen.

- How could I, exactly ? I questioned him with difficulty, so much the least of his gestures obsessed me. You don't really help me forget it...

- It's true that I can't keep my human form completely, with you.

- I don't mind, you know, I said with a laugh.

A gentle smile lit up his face, which features often so harsh. In a light mood, the dragon lifted my chin with his fingers to orient my face in his direction. I plunged without hesitation into his eyes which had occupied all my thoughts for several weeks.

Becoming serious again, we didn’t say the least for several long seconds, we observe with a heavy look of meaning.

- Andraste...

I knew what was going on in his head.

We.

Our relationship, our past, our present... To be in each other's arms was absurd, totally unconventional and we were both deeply aware of it. What would become of each other once we got out of this room ?

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing we could become for each other. And we knew it.

Deciding to stop our respective paths of thought, I crossed the short distance between us, feverishly pressing my lips against his. I kissed him with anger, despair, envy. I placed my fears in those powerful hands that encircled my hips, those greedy lips that devoured mine as if to come and seek some breath. I needed to feel him losing control, needed to drown in his eyes that screamed at me that they loved me.

Or at least, during these short, resolutely forbidden moments.

- Please, don't say anything, I said between two kisses, starting to move my pelvis against his. We'll have plenty of time to worry about this later.

Seeming to consider my words at first, Lance suddenly planted one of his hands on my hip as I shifted more and more vigorously under his weight that crushed me. Not giving me time to think, he shamelessly slipped two fingers inside me without ever taking my eyes off suddenly feverish. Reaching my guard, he stirred slowly but confidently, torturing me with his thumb a little higher. My God, I had never wanted someone so much, I was sure.

Each of his movements made a myriad of sensations explode in the pit of my stomach, making me turn my head with his precise gestures. My pelvis quickly accompanies his fingers, guiding them silently while each of my moans is found drawn to his lips. When a multitude of stars erupted in my field of vision, I firmly grabbed his throat as he led me over the edge of the precipice without warning.

As I lost ground, I noticed with a blank eye that my light was diffused into him. Starting from the base of his neck just under my palm, it illuminated him tanned skin with its bright, warm colors. In this story, it wasn't Lance who lost control the most.

I think it was me.

Not that I ever really had control over my powers, that would have been lying. But I no longer control anything. My emotions, my fears, my desires; I was constantly jostled, tossed about between everything.

When the dragon in turn realized that I was marking him without permission with my light, he groaned in satisfaction before promptly removing his fingers from my privacy. I didn't have time to figure out what was happening to me as I already found myself astride him, Lance having grabbed me to reverse our places, his hands feverishly running my back as his tongue attacked my chest. Tilting my head back, I let his hungry mouth move up to my ear, biting my skin with his suddenly sharper teeth until it slightly marked me.

With one hand, I pushed him away in order to come and press his back authoritatively against the mattress. His gaze darkens again as I lean over him, starting a slow descent from his abdomen. Another gasp escaped him as my palm met his erection, slowly working its way up from the base to the end, never taking my eyes away from his. Lance slid his fingers in an inordinately gentle gesture through my hair to achieve my face, making it easier for me. His hands began to shake slightly when I finally took him in my mouth, unable to fully accommodate him as long as he was imposing.

His breathing quickened as I started my task, fascinated to be able to discover him in my turn as he had done that night with my body. Very soon, I heard him utter several quiet moans which excited me to the highest point before he hastily tugged at my hair to make me lift my head. Bluntly, he pulled me up to him while vigorously grabbing my lips, framing my face with his large hands.

- I think I want you too much, my angel.

The water hit my head heresy, hitting my long hair hard against my shoulders. How long have I been wandering here ? My eyes narrowed at the force of the rain that fell on me, I moved forward as in a kind of constant blur.

My gaze was followed by a small shadow which is quickly in front of me. Running under the downpours, she didn't seem to feel them, moving freely in the surrounding darkness. I put a feverish hand in front of my face to try to make out something around, having lost the figure between the trees. Sailing blind, a childish laugh catches my attention as I push two branches in my path. Deciding to follow the sound of that unfamiliar voice, I sank deeper into what looked like a real maze.

The closer I got to the shadow, the more it seemed to take shape before my eyes. Very soon, I could make out rainbow-colored hair that blended into pale skin, accompanied by two small horns. The young girl was running innocently, as light as the air despite the brutality of the force of nature that fell on me. My heart skipped a beat when I thought I was losing sight of her again, which prompted me to pick up my pace even more. I stumbled many times, sliding across the muddy ground, hitting oversized roots. The thundering sound of the rain covered the sound of my frantic breath, my hair clinging to my face, entering my mouth, sticking to my eyelashes. My sight was diminishing, darkness absorbed me with its cold arms.

I didn't know what to do anymore, I was lost.

But suddenly the little girl's big silent eyes appeared in front of me. An arm outstretched in my direction, she invited me to join, as bright as the sun. When my fingers made contact with her skin, the scenery changed completely, making my head spin at breakneck speed.

The movements finally calmed down. I immediately recognized the Crystal Room, but it wasn’t the one I knew now.

Several people with unfamiliar faces stood in front of me. With serious faces, they were discussing without seeming to notice my presence.

- He will be the one we send there.

- A Guard Chief, when the situation is totally out of control there ?!

- He's far too young !

- Bring him in, cut in the man who seemed to be the decision-maker here.

A shiver ran through my back as the door opened wide, letting slow, sure footsteps echo through the room. When the young man in question passes close to me, brushing my right arm in the process, a sharp sensation marked my skin under my sleeve. He seemed to feel it too, for the expression on his face changed for a brief moment, almost flustered. His gaze caressed mine without actually seeing me.

- Lance, we were expecting you.

Continuing on his way, a confident smile widened the full lips of the dragon with such youthful features.

- Please excuse me for being late, Master Kaze.

Completely caught up with what was happening in front of my eyes, I was surprised to find the young girl's little fingers wrapped around my forearm. When I turned my head in her direction, the world shifted once again.

A companion collapsed at my feet, spurting blood against my legs. A violent gag took hold of me when its organs fell from the gaping wound that sawed through its stomach. Horrified, I backed up several meters when my attention was signaled by a huge dragon crashing into the rocks not far from me, all with a thudding noise. In a last rattle that comes back to my stomach, the creature collapses to the ground before taking on a semi-human form. Tears flooded my cheeks as I rushed over to him.

- LANCE !

My voice creaked, broke in my throat. I could only see the red puddle that gradually spread around his neck like a macabre web when my vision changed once again.

I was sitting on a bed in a windowless room. Beside me, a small gas light glowing faintly in the dark. Looking down, I noticed I was perfectly dry. No more blood stained my clothes.

- So if I understood correctly, you want to help me break this damn Crystal ?

A harsh laugh shook the broad shoulders of the young man as his interlocutor didn’t move a millimeter, perfectly stoic.

- You understood me very well, Ashkore. Do you want to make this deal, yes or no ?

Lance's gaze shone with a gleam that made my blood run cold. A carnivorous smile crossed his crazy-looking face.

- Very well, my dear deamon. But don't think you'll get me right.

The light suddenly went out, revealing once again the bluish color of the great Crystal.

Serenity reigned in the room. This time, no sound comes to disturb the religious calm of this atmosphere. A movement at the back of the room made me turn around anyway, revealing Lance once again.

Alone, casually assisting on the floor, his gaze didn’t seem to want to leave the luminescent jewel.

His eyes had never been so dark.

- That was the last time he was here, until you woke up.

I jumped at the sound of the small voice behind my back. The young girl stands there, motionless. I hesitated for a moment.

- Ophelia... where are we ? I questioned weakly, having her decide to disappear again.

Her expressionless gaze was lost for a moment in the void behind me. I thought she wouldn't answer me.

- In the deepest memories of the last of the dragons.

- But why ? What are we doing here ?

Walling herself in silence, she walked straight ahead until she crossed my body and passed to the other side.

- You have to find the answer for yourself, Andraste.

The recommended image to blur around me. No, not now, I had to catch up with her !

- Ophelia !

Abruptly opening my eyes, I woke up sweating in my bed, breathing heavily from my parted lips.

I was dumbfounded when I realized that tiny ice crystals were forming under my astonished gaze.

Damn, what happened to me ?

(Chapter 17)

#eldarya #i am not your enemy #eldarya new era #eldarya lance #lance #lance eldarya #eldarya the origins #ashkore #beemoov #eldarya a new era #eldarya fanfiction #eldarya fanfic #eldarya lance fanfiction

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sariasprincy-writes · 5 years

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How Trust is Won

If there was ever a night when Sakura had thought that shit had utterly hit the fan, it was this night.

In a clearing somewhere between Fire and Mist country, Sakura was knee-deep in mud and up to her elbows in blood. The rain poured heavily down upon her. It made her hair stick to the sides of her face and the back of her neck. Droplets of water dripped off the tip of her nose and clung to her eyelashes, but she didn’t dare wipe them away. Not when Genma’s life hung by a thread beneath her fingertips.

Around her, the clash of battle raged on. Steel-on-steel echoed through the clearing, ricocheting of the trees and fading up into the night sky high above. Nearby, Itachi and Shisui held off their attackers. The ones that had managed to set such a carefully crafted trap that Genma had no choice but to sacrifice himself to keep the rest of them safe. What Sakura wouldn’t give to wrap her fingers around their throats.

She didn’t know how long she worked. All she knew was that her other teammates were still fighting tooth and nail. There had been eight when the battle began. How many there were now, she didn’t know.

Out of the corner of her eyes, a quick streak of light seized Sakura’s gaze, a strip of moonlight peeking out between the clouds caught the edge of a blade. She looked up just in time to jerk her head to the side where a kunai had been on path for her eye. It grazed her cheek, but her hands nor her chakra waivered from her fallen comrade. Not even as the enemy nin who had thrown the deadly weapon advanced on her.

He made it as close as two yards away before Itachi flickered between them, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, his katana raised for battle. Under the brief light of the full moon, the blade gleamed red.

Sakura spared them no more notice. It took all her concentration to close the large gash in Genma’s side before she began the tedious task of sealing blood vessels closed and repairing organs. His muscles would need to be stitched back together as well, but that would be last after she stemming his internal bleeding and got his blood pressure back to safe levels.

Time passed without meaning until the sounds of battle grew fainter before cutting off abruptly with a wet, gurgled cry. Sakura glanced up sharply, ensuring it wasn’t one of her own teammates. When she found both Itachi and Shisui still standing some years away, exhausted and bloodied, but otherwise unharmed, her gaze dropped back to the task at hand.

“How is he?” Shisui asked, joining her soon after.

“Holding on for now,” she told him. “If he survives this, he has a long recovery ahead.”

Over the sound of the rain, Sakura barely heard Itachi’s footfalls through the muddy ground as he joined them. “Can he be moved?”

Normally her answer was ‘no’, but they were in the middle of unincorporated country, which left them open for another attack. Not to mention, the night was growing later and the rain didn’t seem in any hurry to lighten up soon. In fact, it seemed like there was a chance it would worsen.

“Yes, but not far,” was her answer as she finally let her chakra flicker out.

Without hesitation, Shisui bent down and picked their fallen comrade from the soggy, forest floor. Shisui had lost his ANBU mask at some point during the battle, revealing his mud and blood-stained face. His Sharingan was still active and spinning slowly as he scanned their surroundings as if expecting another impending attack.

Itachi removed his own mask and clipped it to his hip as his deadly eyes did the same. “There’s a border town less than ten miles from here. We will make for that.”

With that decided, the shinobi disappeared into the trees without another word, leaving only corpses in the muddy earth behind.

Twenty minutes later, they reached the small town. In the shadowed alley between an inn and a dark clothing store, Shisui and Sakura stood with Genma propped between them while Itachi went in alone to secure a room.

A crow summoned them not long after and after pinpointing Itachi’s intentionally leaked chakra, Shisui flickered all three of them into a room near the end of the small inn. Inside, there were two, queen-sized beds, but that was all Sakura took in before they were moving. Itachi helped Shisui lower Genma down onto the one closer to the center of the room. Away from any threats that may come through the window.

As they situated their unconscious teammate, Sakura shrugged off her pack and dug for her supplies. In her storage scroll, she withdrew an IV drip with antibiotics and blood, and made quick work of hooking Genma up to both before she returned to her work with chakra.

Sakura had no sense of time. She worked well into the night. Until Genma’s pressure stabilized and her chakra finally flickered out of life from her hands. On the bed beside him, she sat back of her heels, her eyes roving over the needle in his arm up to the bag hanging from the bedframe. Double and triple checking that there were no kinks. The lights from the bedside lamps cast just enough light for her to see.

It was the sound of rustling from the next bed over that finally pulled Sakura’s gaze away. Itachi was still awake and to her surprise, sitting on the edge of the bed watching with a piercing stare as if he had been there the entire time. The only reason she knew he hadn’t was because he was no longer covered in blood and dirt.

His armor was gone, piled in the corner along with his pack and katana. He had changed into a black shirt and a pair of standard shinobi pants. Something he could quickly slip his armor over if they needed to make a quick escape. His hair was slightly damp too, but not from the rain. Rather a shower. The place she suspected Shisui had disappeared to if the faint rush of water was anything to go by.

“He’s out of danger for now,” Sakura said. She murmured the words in the quiet of the room, but even then her voice sounded rough. Her throat was dry with dehydration from expending so much chakra over the course of the night.

With only a whisper of fabric, Itachi stood from the bed. He crossed the room to his pack and returned a moment later with a canteen. He pressed the palm of his hand between her shoulder blades to help support her as she tipped it back to drink. Only once she’d had her fill did she pass the container back to him with a fleeting smile of thanks.

“I want to keep an eye on him over the course of the night,” Sakura continued, her words still murmured but her voice not quite as hoarse. “Make sure there’s no changes for the worse.”

Itachi nodded. “Shisui and I will take turns. You need to rest.”

“We all need to rest,” she countered softly.

She grimaced slightly as she untucked her legs from under her, her muscles stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. When she glanced back up at Itachi, she found him frowning.

“What?” she asked.

He didn’t immediately reply but she watched with interest as he sorted through the pile of medical supplies she had dumped on the bed until he found a piece of gauze. Her brow arched with curiosity before she hissed faintly as he pressed the bandage to her cheek. With everything else going on, she had forgotten about the injury there.

“I can heal that,” Sakura said, raising her hand.

Itachi shook his head once. “Do it in the morning. You are exhausted.”

She opened her mouth, only to close it as her hand fell. Those words had never been truer. She wondered if given enough time, if she could fall asleep right there, sitting up.

Her eyes fluttered closed as Itachi used his canteen to wet the gauze before he gripped her chin with one hand and wiped the blood and grime away from her skin with the other. She had the faint thought to ask him why he was doing it, but in her current state of exhaustion, she just couldn’t find the energy to form the words.

“I’m sorry,” Itachi said after some minutes.

Brows furrowing, Sakura forced her eyes open. Her confusion only grew when she noticed the small frown pulling on the corners of his mouth.

“I should have gotten to you sooner,” he explained quietly. “You trusted me to have your back and I failed you.”

An odd expression passed her face. “You didn’t fail me, Itachi. I had no doubt that you would be there. You’re my teammate and my captain. I trust you. With everything.”

There was a soft smile on her face as she finished. Still, he searched her expression a moment longer before the stiffness to his shoulders finally eased. Silence fell between them again as Itachi resumed dapping at her face, even quieter than before as the sound of the shower suddenly cut off.

There was a strong sense of familiarity between them, one Sakura couldn’t remember having before. She had been on Itachi’s team for near that of a year, yet he had never been this open with her. As if tonight he had finally accepted her in ways she had yet to fully understand. Onto some deeper level. One that went as far as his relationship with Shisui and Genma.

That thought made her relax fully into his touch as he cleaned her face until he was nearly entirely keeping her head up as the weight of what they had just gone through weighed down on her. Only the shallow breaths from Genma and the faint shuffling of clothes on the other side of the door from Shisui to fill the quiet.

When the door to the bathroom finally opened, Sakura was blinking sleep from her eyes. She peered blearily at Shisui as he walked out and eyed their injured teammate.

“Is he stable?” he asked.

Sakura opened her mouth, but before she could reply, Itachi nudged her knee. She glanced back at him as he nodded towards the now-open bathroom. “Go shower and then rest. You have earned it.”

“Yes, captain,” she said with a small, teasing smile.

She saw the corner of his mouth twitch before she gave one final, lingering look at Genma and finally pushed herself up. Her knees felt a little weak and she ached in placed she couldn’t remember aching before, but the thought of a warm shower and then a big bed kept her moving. It wouldn’t be nearly as comfortable as her mattress back home, but as long as it didn’t have bugs and didn’t smell, she wouldn’t complain.

Using what little chakra she had left, Sakura disobeyed Itachi’s order and healed the cut on her cheek before she scrubbed her face and the rest of her body clean. She stood under the warm spray of the shower until she was nearly asleep on her feet. From her pack, she pulled out a shirt and a pair of shorts similar to Itachi’s in case they needed to make a quick getaway before she brushed her teeth. She could always run a brush through her hair in the morning.

Shisui was already asleep when she entered the room, but Itachi was seated in a chair against the wall at the foot of Genma’s bed with a book in hand. She dropped her bag next to Shisui’s at the foot of their own bed before she made another check on Genma. Still stable.

“I will wake you if anything changes,” Itachi murmured.

She flashed him a faint, grateful smile before she slipped under the sheets beside Shisui. He was on his side, his back to her as he faced the window. His breathing was light, his shinobi instincts keeping him from falling into too deep of a sleep.

With Shisui at her front and Itachi behind her, she had never felt safer and she drifted off quickly, knowing that if anything were to happen, her boys would have her back. That she had absolute trust in.

end

#itasaku #if you squint #this started one way and ended another #nighttime drabbles #anbu au #anbu!itachi #anbu!sakura #shisui #genma #im sorry genma!#I just wanted to write a rain-drenched blood-soaked sakura being a badass

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ofwrittenlegacy · 5 years

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hi hi babe can I please get #94: “I had a bad dream again.” with Peter having a really bad nightmare because im a predictable bitch and I love you/your writing so much??

hi my love!!! Absolutely you can! Thank you so much! I’m pretty new to writing Marvel but I am ready to write millions of Irondad fics. I hope you enjoy! xx.

You can read it here on AO3!

Death was staring him in the face.

Peter was trapped, frozen. He was in a yellow tinted enclosure, incarcerated and chained. And Death was seducing him. He took many forms. Thanos, Vulture, the silly gunman from last Thursday. His hands were surprisingly warm as he touched Peter’s neck. Warm like the singular tear Peter felt drip on his forehead as he turned to dust in his mentor’s arms.

“You really shouldn’t trust a soul in this game,” Death said, smiling. “Not when everyone has something to gain or lose.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter begged himself to wake up. This wasn’t real. He could make it stop. He screamed. Peter screamed himself hoarse. Until his throat was raw. No one answered.

Death wrapped a hand around his throat. “It’s time for you to answer for your sins, Peter Parker.”

_____

Peter woke up fighting. He swung but his hands didn’t connect with anything. Instead, he found himself being pinned down. He couldn’t breathe. The room was still and quiet but Peter felt a hurricane of emotions whirling within him. In his muddy, half asleep brain, Peter could make out the faint glowing blue light above his head but panic was beginning to settle into his bones.

It starts out as thin as cellophane, something he could tear away with his fingers but in the next moment it’s a deluge of ice water drenching every limb, creeping higher until it enters his mouth and nose. That's when the attack becomes absolute, shutting his body down like Death had pressed his biological reset button.

He hadn’t realized he was crying until the weight pinning him down lifted.

“Whoa, Pete, hey, breathe! It’s just me. I-It’s Tony. Fuck, uh, FRI, I need lights at 50%.” Slowly the lights came up and Peter realized the faint blue light he was staring at was coming from Tony’s chest. It was comforting. Peter focused on the light and drug in a deep breath. He had to keep breathing. He forced his chest to expand, gasping greedily for breath.

“Hi, yeah, there we go buddy. Good job. Keep breathing for me, Underoos.” Peter blinked, sending the hot tears down his cheeks. He could see Tony lowering himself to his knees by his side. A callous thumb brushed across his cheek, chasing away the tear. Peter leaned into the touch. "It's over now. I'm here."

“Hey kiddo,” Tony whispered as if he were afraid he’d scare Peter. His attempts were futile but Peter was grateful nonetheless. At least he could breathe again but unshed tears clung to his eyelashes. “What’s going on?”

Peter pushed himself up on an elbow. He was in his bedroom in the tower. Tony was wearing sweats and no shirt. He was sleeping, a rare occasion, and Peter felt a pang of guilt.

“I had a bad dream again.” He replied lamely. Now that he uttered it out loud, he felt stupid for the theatrics. It was nearing sunrise and Tony was cooing to him all because the Soul Stone left him with some unpleasant memories. How was he going to be a superhero if he couldn’t handle flirting with Death?

Tony breathed out a laugh. “Yeah, I saw. Seemed pretty rough. Want to talk about it?”

Peter kicked off the covers and sat up. His chest hurt and his hands were shaking. God, he hated waking up so violently. It was a wonder Tony was able to keep him pinned down with his super strength whilst managing to dodge the punches Peter was throwing. Tony was a miracle worker.

“Not really,” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. Now that he had come to, he felt his face heat with embarrassment. He was almost 17 and here he was, sitting with Tony Stark, who had watched him blubber like a baby and now his mentor was going to play Dr. Phil. He just wished it would all stop.

“Well, at least it was just a nightmare. It’s over now.” Tony grunted and he clambered to his feet and sat next to Peter on the bed.

“Riddle me this.” Peter focused on Tony. In the faint light, Tony’s hazel eyes twinkled. He had been through twice as much and yet here he was. A few grey hairs but he was here. He was whole. He was okay. Would Peter ever be okay? “How can I call it a nightmare if it doesn’t end when I’m awake?”

That seemed to floor Tony. They were both familiar with the concept. Peter couldn’t breathe when his class started talking about cosmology or astronomy. Tony had nearly collapsed the first time he heard Another One Bites the Dust. The end of the world had nearly came. It wasn’t a nightmare anymore. That was a bullshit nickname fed to children when they thought the boogie man was going to chew off their toes. This was a day terror. Something that terrorized each person’s every living moment. The fear that something greater than Thanos would come. And this time, they wouldn’t win.

Peter stared up at Tony, hoping he had the secret answer to cure him but Tony stared back with the same haunted gaze. Everything flipped through his mind like a photo album he wanted to burn.

“That’s the price, buddy.” Tony said softly. Distantly. “Sometimes you sacrifice your own sanity for the well being of others. But you keep fighting. You always keep fighting.” Tony said. With great power comes great responsibility. Peter cast his gaze to the floor but Tony caught his chin, searching his face. He cupped his cheek. “I’m here for you. When you’re ready to talk. I’ll always be here for you.”

Deadly and sweet. Tony was two souls fused together. He was everything Peter needed and more than anything he deserved. Peter launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around Tony’s neck. Tony laughed and snaked his arms around Peter’s lower back. He could feel Tony shudder with contained laughter when Peter pressed his face to his neck.

“I love you, Mr. Stark.”

Peter was halfway sure he could hear Tony’s chest still in his chest. He knew Tony wasn’t accustomed to affection. Howard had never been one for the warm fuzzy feelings, according to records. So he was doubly surprised when he felt Tony press a cold kiss to his forehead.

“I...yeah. I, uh, love you too, Peter.”

Peter visibly relaxed, tension bleeding out of him like a marionette with its strings cut.

“You look awfully tired for a web slinger. How about we try the sleep thing again?” Tony tried to sound casual but his voice sounded tight with emotion.

“Will you stay?” Peter asked. Innocence laced the question to heavily, it seemed to startle Tony into remembering he was just a child. Just a child.

Tony easily pushed Peter to the other side of the bed, and then slid beneath the covers. “Absolutely.”

Once he settled, Peter wasted no time crawling over and wriggling his way under his arm and resting his head a little to the right of his arc reactor. The faint blue glow was comforting. A constant. As long as it kept pulsing, he’d be okay.

“FRI, lights off.” Tony said softly, holding Peter close. Darkness cast shadows over the room. “You good kid?”

“Yeah.” Peter yawned. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Consider this a rare delicacy. Not many people can say they’ve shared a bed with The Tony Stark.”

“Only two-thirds of the entire population. Super rare.” Peter began smiling when his head vibrated with Tony’s thundering laughter.

“See, I know you’ll be just fine, Pete.” The arm tightened around Peter and he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he would be just fine.

Tiredness swallowed him whole. His chestnut lashes fluttered and oblivion engulfed him. Sleep painted him, and then Tony, coloring them and dragging them under; as though the intensity of his exhaustion had created a perfect canvas for them.

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libraryscarf · 5 years

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happy (really late oh jesus oh god) birthday to @eerna i would move mountains and conquer nations for you but for now i’m settling for smashing through writer’s block like the kool-aid man to provide some NOT ANGSTY YATORI INSPIRED BY THIS FUCKING G I F T

petrichor ( ao3 / ff.net )

(n.) a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.

“Oh, no.”

Hiyori stopped in her tracks, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The clouds were still little more than a morose shadow in the distance, but they were rushing fast toward her, and her walk home wasn’t exactly short.

Several minutes later, the sky was gray and spitting rain as Hiyori jogged miserably down the street. The wind was picking up too, raking cold fingers through her hair and whipping it into her eyes. She pulled her scarf up snugly over her ears and chin and soldiered forward, leaning into the gale. She took a small amount of comfort in the knowledge that even if she had remembered her umbrella, by now it would certainly be inside-out.

With the scarf covering her ears, Hiyori didn’t hear the wet slap of approaching footsteps until something grabbed her elbow. She shouted, the sound muffled within the scarf, and spun on a heel to face her attacker.

“Whoa! It’s me!”

Yato let go of her at once, nimbly avoiding the uppercut aimed straight at his chin. He took a step back, both hands raised innocently. One of them was holding an umbrella.

Hiyori slowly lowered her fists, heart pounding in her throat.

“I almost punched you!” She glared at him over her scarf, struggling to suppress a wave of guilty annoyance.

Yato grinned crookedly.

“No, you didn’t.”

Hiyori bit the inside of her lip, holding his gaze. Yato’s grin melted, and he cleared his throat.

“Kofuku mentioned rain, and then I remembered you had to walk home, so I…”

He gestured vaguely at the umbrella. The rain was still falling in sheets, but he had made no move to open it.

Hiyori’s lips twitched, and she almost laughed aloud—because of course Yato had followed her with an umbrella without even thinking to use it himself.

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled.

Yato stared at her, looking a bit lost.

“Yeah,” he said, quietly. The umbrella stayed in his hand, unopened.

Then his eyes flicked to her feet and widened.

“Oh,” he said. “You dropped something.”

: : :

Yato worked on propping her empty, snoring body up against the driest wall they could find. Hiyori paced nervously, her tail lashing like an offended housecat.

“Why now?” she groaned to herself.

As Yato finished resting her body against the wall, he folded her hands gently in her lap. She looked more like a collectible doll than an empty human shell.

Hiyori—justifiably preoccupied with the nastiness of having dropped her body into quite a lot of dirty rainwater—did not notice the way Yato arranged her limbs: reverently, like a collector handling a priceless artifact. She didn’t see when he smoothed the wet hair from her forehead, his fingers sweeping the quiet curve of her brow.

She didn’t see his face, or any of the things that passed across it: the adoration, or the yearning, or the sorrow.

“I really don’t mind carrying you back to Kofuku’s place,” he said.

Hiyori paused in her pacing, her cord still switching back and forth nervously.

“No,” she said, rubbing her temples. “No, it’s fine. I just need a minute to…to relax, and wake up again.”

Yato straightened, fruitlessly brushing his muddy knees. He shook the water off the umbrella and popped it open.

“It was me, wasn’t it?” he asked.

Hiyori froze. Her heart leapt between her teeth.

“What?”

Yato moved closer to her, only near enough to hold the open umbrella over her. His eyes drifted away from hers, landing somewhere past her left shoulder. His hair was plastered down against his face, and drops of rain clung to his long lashes. Hiyori was seized with a wild, horrifying urge to giggle as she thought half the girls at school would commit unspeakable crimes for those eyelashes.

“I sneaked up on you,” he explained, oblivious to her staring. “And the surprise made you drop out of your body. I’m sorry.”

Hiyori smelled the electricity of the storm. She sensed the raw, mighty weight of it bearing down on her.

“It’s fine!” she said quickly. “It was probably just a coincidence.”

It wasn’t.

“I don’t mind!”

She did.

“You can go back, if you want to.”

Hiyori swallowed. Her tongue felt hot and sticky.

“Thank you for the umbrella, Yato. I’m sure I’ll be back in my body in no time.”

Please, don’t. Don’t go.

Yato looked at her, then at the umbrella, which he was still holding. Hiyori told herself to take it from him, but her arms stayed firmly locked at her sides.

“I don’t feel great about leaving you like…this,” he said, nodding at the limp body propped against the wall. Hiyori winced as a strand of saliva dribbled from the corner of her sleeping mouth. He made a fair point.

But Yato did not know that she would much rather be stranded here alone—guarding her fragile body with her still more fragile soul—than drop her guard with him so near, and so ignorant of her feelings. It was even worse than she had anticipated to be around him like this: especially outside her body, stripped bare of the denials and distractions that shielded her from the truth.

Now, Yato was too close, and Hiyori’s soul alone could not lie well enough to protect her.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, misreading the panic in her face.

Did she?

Hiyori’s lips trembled. She heard Tenjin’s measured voice: small, but insistent at the back of her mind.

Yes. Send him away. Distance yourself. It will only get more difficult from here, so pull yourself out of the riptide, Hiyori. Remember how human you are, and how much you can hurt him.

Above all, remember that you will die. Remember that he will not.

Yato saw her hesitation, and something behind his eyes went flat.

“I’ll go back,” he said, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Will you let me know when you get home?”

He reached for her hand to give her the umbrella, and Hiyori at last shook off her stupor. Yato yelped as she slapped his hand away. He shot her a hurt look.

“Ow!? Hiyori! Why did you…?”

The words in his throat dried up. Hiyori’s eyes were bright and feverish, the color in her cheeks high.

“Don’t go,” she said, her voice much lower than either of them expected.

Yato’s eyes widened as she took a step toward him. He felt her warmth, the thrumming restlessness of her unfettered soul, and he could not move.

“Don’t go,” she repeated, louder.

Yato licked his lips, which were suddenly very dry, and for a split second Hiyori’s eyes flickered to his mouth. Blood was roaring in his ears.

“Okay.”

For a moment, the air around Hiyori seemed to ripple with intention. And then she was in his arms, kissing him, her lips eager and inexpert and so, so soft. The umbrella hit the ground with a soft clatter, and rolled away into the street.

Yato cradled her face in his hands, his fingers burning where they touched her skin. He tasted rainwater on her mouth, and warm salt. He pulled back, barely enough to put space between their lips.

“Hiyori?” he breathed.

She clung to his shoulders, and with a tiny sob closed the gap to kiss him again. She was crying, although she couldn’t quite understand why, much less stop. She was overfull with…something. Surprise, certainly, at herself for kissing him. Or frustration, because her heart was beating itself to death, and and because every second aged her, and because it had taken her so long—so long—to do this, and now she had to kiss him hard enough to make up for all that lost time.

But it was also possible that she cried simply because Yato was so good, and so gentle, even though he held her very tight. Almost to the point of discomfort, though she wished it were tighter still.

The soft whine that broke from Yato’s throat when she pulled away echoed through her like a gunshot. His eyes stayed shut, those impossible lashes resting against his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His eyes slowly fluttered open, pupils blown wide, surrounded by a thin, icy ring of blue. Hiyori saw her own face mirrored perfectly in them.

“Why?” he asked.

“I—”

Hiyori stopped herself, blinking. Was she sorry about kissing him?

No.

“I…don’t know,” she admitted, giggling.

“Then don’t apologize,” Yato said.

And then he laughed, and kissed her again. She was still crying, but it was impossible to tell the tears from the rain. And in a few minutes, the storm would break.

#scarfwrites #yatori fanfiction #yatori #noragami fanfiction #noragami #not to be disgusting but jo is perfect and inspirational and the only thing stronger than writer's block is the joy/wonder/astonishment i #feel at getting to be??? friends with her??? h? ok #anyway. this. have this #i strapped myself into my desk and slammed my heart into my keyboard at 600 miles an hour

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stereksecretsanta · 5 years

Text

Merry Christmas, @aqua-ref!

Read on AO3

******

Give Me To A Ramblin' Fae

In the middle of winter, when the moon is heavy in the sky, dripping with milky light and offering, whole and raw, its' power, the Hale Pack gathers around the Nemeton, they dance and they sing, and they shift into their animal skeins to frolic, to chase each other with yipping howls and laughing barks.

Derek has Laura's throat held gently between his maw, and she whines at him to let go, but rumbles approvingly, because he doesn't often win these games of theirs; it is not a matter of low power, more of the target he chooses. The Alpha's heir will, after all, be more difficult to beat than the others. She nips at his ear playfully, urges him along, and they weave through the barren, wind-beaten trees, their paws soaked with snow-melt, muddying the crunchy ivory-fluff that chills the ground beneath them.

There's an undulating, calling, rejoicing howl from their mother that has them leaving a chestnut hare to its' frightened peace in order to return to her, to the Pack.

Through the branches, they can see the sky, all adorned in twilight, hosting, now, a parade of riders, their pandemonium an awe and a terror. Spectral beings ride black mares and stallions, ominous dogs of bared teeth and frothing spit and hideously haunting eyes are careening, entwining and twisting around toned legs and pristine hooves as the steeds gallop forward, heedless. Blackbucks and stags dash, their riders luminescent smoke and vicious intent. Creatures with starlight-encrusted, stained-glass wings, and horns which they blow to hail their passing, fly gracefully around the nocturnal horde, singing or shrieking, cavorting and cackling.

It's a dreadful, terrific sight, that streaks through the night sky, and when the Pack's howl breaks out, full-force, hopeful and evocative, every wolf lifting their song to the ghastly, ghostly peoples as they pass, some of those dragonfly, stardust folk descend, screaming and giggling, a gaggle of raucous temerity, as they gather the wolves in their airborne festivities, and launch them toward the procession.

The whimsical, urgent needs, and maddening power that surround The Hunt quickly seeps into the Pack, makes them drunk and giddy, all of them running with ancient spirits, wildlings, Fair Folk of every type.

Derek's lungs are stung by the rush, his blood electric with the adrenaline when an ephemeral, fey, svelte-lithe boy with bull's horns, skin like cream sprinkled with cinnamon, and mosaic wings that inspire the feeling of fertile soil and fields of growing, healthy, rain-soaked things, comes to him. His oak-silk curls are plaited with holly and mint, a leather-bound necklace hangs heavy around his long, dainty, breakable neck, a crescent moon-charm at the hollow of his throat, surrounded by crystal orbs and autumn leaf-charms, brass acorns and pine-cones, he wears nothing else, unashamed in his nudity.

"Hello," the boy says, bright and sweet, his voice like the delicate silk-dew mist of a cumulus cloud, and Derek feels himself tilt closer without even meaning to. "You're gorgeous. I wonder what you look like in your human form? Honestly, I wonder what everyone here looks like in their human forms. We all have one, you know?"

Honestly, no, he didn't, he was kind of caught up in the romanticism of it all.

All scents are clouded by the musk of wild, old magick, stained by an odd, dense-soil ecstasy, and a part of him, vivid and, for one, fanatic moment, overwhelming, wants to eviscerate the aroma The Wild Hunt carries, if only so he can learn what this boy might smell like.

"Everyone who sees us thinks we're malevolent or scary, but, honestly, dude, we're just escorting the spirits Grandmother Death didn't have the time or patience to get to to their respective homes. We've all still got day jobs—I mean, you have a day job, pretty wolfling that you are, don't you?"

Numbly, helplessly, and a little more sober, now, Derek nods.

The boy grins at him, crooked and terribly endearing, fire-light eyes sparkling in the dim, mist-fog, shadowed light.

"See?" He says, gesturing, "Even Odin's got one, Odin, the God of knowledge, inspiration, creative and intellectual pursuits, the dead, fucking road rage—that guy, the head honcho, the one at the head of this whole operation. Like, in this economy, where barely anyone has the Sight anymore, and the number of people left who believe are too few and far between, what else are we supposed to do? It's not like causing havoc and stealing things is going to garner us any good-will, man, so here we are, doing the good work, and then tomorrow we'll go home and agonize over our bills just like everybody else." The faerie heaves a sigh, before blinking and seeming to realize himself, his cheeks burn a vivid, enchanting crimson when a harassing, incredulous, exasperated wail sounds from above.

"Oops," he breathes, a nervous giggle edging in, "I am so not supposed to do that, and I've just been rambling at you, and—" the wail comes again, more pressing this time. The boy groans, eyelashes fluttering down in mortification. "Sorry, I'll see you later, maybe?" Fragile, paper-thin wings flutter, and bone-nimble fingers tangle in the fur at Derek's flank to help the faerie wade close enough to press a candied, chaste kiss to his wolven cheek.

He says, "I'm Stiles, by the way," and grins like he isn't aware of how dangerously beautiful that expression is, before he zooms away in a sweeping, upward glide.

Derek gets a small glimpse of another fae, donned in a flowing, powder-blue toga-dress, with moth-like wings and magma curls flowing down to her waist, admonishing Stiles exhaustively, before their speed, much more than the wolves and the steeds and the dogs, has them blurring out of sight, catching up to a cluster of swarming fae up ahead, too far to spy on any longer.

Derek tries to get his thundering heart to calm and wonders why he ever thought love at first sight was a superstitious, optimistic myth, if not an outright lie.

Days later, after all the Dead have been put to their proper rest, a few offerings of milk and cookies meant for 'Santa' were traded for faerie favors, and quite a few more rogue, feral creatures were stolen and re-sewn into ravens or crows or hunting dogs, of the ilk to sleep the whole year away, and only wake when The Wild Hunt, again, takes place—Stiles is trying, valiantly, to focus.

His mind keeps tracing back to eyes like stars winking to tenacious life, to obsidian fur and sinewy muscle, a warbling wolf-song that lilted like a lullaby, all hymn-hope, resounding howl, to the way sharp, ink-fluffy ears kept flickering to him, listening and curious and three shades shy of entranced. He doesn't know why he's so caught up on it, this is the sixth year he's been old enough to participate in The Hunt, and they have wolves with them every time, thousands of Packs from all of the world join them, so why was he so attracted, distracted, by this one?

What was so special about him?

Other than the, you know, sand-escaping-his-fingers, barely tangible, general everything.

Stiles sighs despondently, and Lydia, who's probably been talking about Important College Things, hits him upside the head promptly.

"A—ow!" Stiles rubs the back of his head, glaring balefully at her. Her hand retreats to flick her hair over her shoulder in one fluid, deflecting motion, as if to dissuade anyone who might've noticed her uncouth action from registering it as more than a figment of their imagination, nothing to see here, folks!

He loves her, he does, but some days he wants to strangle her.

Just a little.

"You were sighing again," she points out, lashes grazing her cheeks as she looks down at her book, flips the page flippantly, like studies on how mathematical algorithms affect neurology bore her. "It's starting to get annoying, Stiles."

"Shut up. It's not like I can even do anything about it," he laments, complaining even though he knows it'll only be a study in disappointment and masochism, at this point. "Who is he? where does he live? work? For all I know, I'm infatuated with some Turkish Lord who I won't even have the slightest chance of seeing again until next year."

Lydia snaps her book shut with a sound that manages to be both refined and abrupt enough to startle. "What on earth were you doing galavanting with the lower-tiers, anyway? We aren't supposed to talk to them, Stiles—"

"But, he was—"

"If he had been a ghost instead of a solid, you could've been lost to the spirit-tide, and you know The Hunt doesn't discern when it comes to a close—you could be on the other side of the Veil by now, instead of sitting here, fawning!"

She's heaving by the end of her rant, cheeks flushed, sea-glass eyes glittering angrily, and Stiles knows her fury is borne from worry, from a very real fear. He remembers his mother, how she was all love and sweet-tempered fire, how she gave coins to the more corporeal spirits, gleefully hugged and spun yarns and danced with all the riders, always careful of the spirit-tide, of getting caught in its' undertow, until she got sick, and couldn't remember to be.

Neither Stiles nor Lydia had been old enough to go, yet, and Stiles' dad was human. Lydia's grandmother, they think, tried to stop her, to save her, but ended up just as lost and mourned as she.

He feels guilt curdle in his chest and exhales heavily. "I'm sorry, Lyds, I am. I don't know why I did that, I'll—next year, I'll stay in the upper-tiers, like I'm supposed to," he inclines his head solemnly, reaches across the library table to hold both her hands in his, "I promise."

She squeezes his fingers, sniffs, her voice evaporated misty at the edges, "You damn well better, you idiot."

He offers her a sincere, sorrow-tinged smile, and tries to put the entire thing out of his mind.

It's New Year's Eve, and Stiles is exhausted, between studies and random research stints and trying to keep the Kelpies three doors down from killing and/or getting killed by the vampires that live in the apartment downstairs, he thinks he has every right to be. Still, though, Lydia put at least a quarter of her heart and soul into organizing this party, and if he hadn't come, he's sure she would've had him flayed.

So, here he is, sleep-deprived, delirious, eying the bar and wondering if getting drunk when all he's been living off of for the past three days is coffee, is at all a good idea. It isn't, it really fucking isn't, but...

But he's got nothing else to do, and tomorrow it'll be a new year, right? Might as well live a little.

Derek smiles briskly at the lady with a bird's nest of raven-black hair as he hands her her drink, and purposefully ignores the blonde at the end of the bar who's been whistling and snapping at him imperiously for the past fifteen minutes.

He's half tempted to text Cora and ask her what the hell she was thinking, pulling him behind the counter to fill in for her so she could go after the strawberry-blonde party hostess with a number and a cheap pickup line caught in her too-sharp teeth, because, yeah, he's got enough experience not to flounder (he'd found himself hiding from the rain in a drag bar while he was still in high school, and they let him hang out despite his age because he was a good enough cook that as long as he didn't touch the alcohol, they didn't care, and when you're in that sort of close-knit, street-smart gritty, overprotective Pack-like environment, it's impossible not to learn the tricks of the trade), but his customer service has always been shit.

With someone like Peter as an Uncle, he's capable of plastering on a smile and flirting a pretty lie with the best of them, he just doesn't fucking liketo. In fact, it's something he actively avoids unless lives are in danger.

Then a voice, one he remembers, all whispered silk-cotton dream-thread collecting raindrops in its' seams, starts murmuring a sugary melody in his periphery, and his eyes snap to its' source with a breathless, near frantic urgency.

And there he is.

Like Fate.

Like a fucking miracle.

He looks different, horns and wings gone, still with the wind-swept, earthy curls, though their holly-mint braids are nowhere to be found; dressed in a long-sleeved, charcoal gray shirt that cling to his lithe, agile-built muscles, an unzipped crimson hoodie layered over it, skin-tight jeans and ridiculous, neon-orange vans, but there's that leather-bound charm necklace, heavy around the length of his pretty throat, with a crescent-moon hanging just at the hollow, and it's him.

The rambling faerie he met on The Wild Hunt, absently humming a tune as he messes with his phone, patiently waiting for a bartender to notice him, at a college party on New Year's Eve.

The surreality of this is... not lost on him.

"Hello," Derek greets, sliding into the boy's- Stiles', if he remembers right- space.

"Oh, uh," he looks up from, and pockets, his phone, a little bashful, "I always thought you had to make eye contact to get, like, served, or whatever, but, um, hi?"

Derek tries to bite back a smile.

Fails.

"Hi," he repeats, and the boy blinks at him dumbly for a solid five seconds before just breathing:

"Wow. You're gorgeous."

And Derek can't help it, he barks out a laugh. "You said that last time."

"I did? Wait, I did? When?! I've met you?" he sounds outraged, on his own behalf, scandalized, even. "No," he denies, "no way, I would've remembered meeting someone like you and then doing something as stupid as calling you gorgeous to your face without any sort of filter—and, wow, smooth sailing, me. I am so sorry about that, by the way, color me extremely embarrassed, but. Yeah, no. No way in hell I've committed the same social faux-pas twice with the same person, I refuse to believe it."

Derek smirks, even as something warm and giddy and compelled sets up camp in his heart, with a kind of tenacity that says it'll be staying a long while.

"Well, I wasn't exactly a person at the time," he points out, "but I appreciated the compliment both times, Stiles, so you... really shouldn't worry about it."

"I—you—" Stiles sputters, freezes, mouth agape and molten-caramel doe-eyes very, very wide, before he seems to reboot. "You are kidding me," he says, feelingly, before pitching forward over the counter to grab Derek's face with his hands, searching his eyes intently.

Derek tries to be anything other than amused and endeared.

Fails, again.

"Wolfling," Stiles accuses, awed. "I didn't think I was ever going to see you again."

"Rambling fae," Derek muses, hushed, leaning further into Stiles' space even as he pushes the boy down into a bar-stool, because while he might not take offense, the other on-duty bartender, or, even, the party hostess, might. "Neither did I."

Stiles sucks in a very deep breath, and then spills out any number of tangential, spiraling questions, what's your name? Where do you live? Are you a bartender? can I have your number? I'd really like your number. Are you—

Derek crushes the rest in a kiss that tastes like sunlight and cherry-tart and ozone, Stiles melts into it with a helpless, keening whine, his spine curving up, shoulders opening, head tilting, whole body blooming like a flower, begging to be plucked, held, kept, known.

He answers what his fleeting thoughts will let him, mutters the words into Stiles' warm, slick-wet, receptive mouth, his name, that his Pack lives in town, that he isn't, but his sister is, and he's covering for her. With a drawn-out sigh, he does force himself to pull away, eventually.

Probably not soon enough, honestly.

"Take me out," Stiles says immediately, dazed, lips kiss-bruised enchanting, and then flushes that same, deep, candied, lascivious red as before. "Or. I mean. I want to date you. Can we go on a date? Not right now, obviously, but—"

"Yes," Derek grins, overwhelmed, blood champagne-effervescent, "yeah, I'd really like that."

Stiles exhales heavily, laughs, a little incredulously, shakes his head at himself, and then smiles, soft and marshmallow-fluffy up at him, "Awesome."

Derek begins to think that, maybe, he needs to give Cora a fruit-basket. Or, possibly, Odin, and that's... well.

That may well be the cherry on top of an incredibly strange, unusual, wonderful meeting.

#aqua-ref #stereksanta18 #*fic18 #*gifts18

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tiergan-vashir · 6 years

Text

Also Known As: “Why Blending Modes Are Fucking Awesome” and “Daily Doodle - 2/1/2018”

What You Will Need:

Art Program that has Blending Modes and Layers

A super basic, fundamental understanding of what Blending Modes are (or at least how to set one on your layers.)

A grayscale painting you already made.

This is going to be a very, very, VERY long and rambly tutorial, so buckle up and hit that Read More link. (Or “Read More Now” if you’re an x-kit user like me.)

To start with, you are going to need a grayscale painting you’ve already made. I happen to have this portrait of Lurial I created a while back for a daily doodle that I’ve always wanted to add color to. The biggest benefit of doing this grayscale-first-adds-color-later technique is to separate the hard work of establishing your values from sorting out your colors.

Your grayscale painting does not have to be super polished or finished. The primary thing your grayscale painting should achieve before you move on to adding color is that it is doing a lot of the hard work and heavy lifting in terms of values and shadow placement.

Now that I’ve picked out my grayscale painting, I’ll use blending modes to lay down the base colors I’d like to start with. I do this by creating a new layer directly on top of my grayscale painting and set it either to Multiply (the one I use most often) or Linear Burn (only started playing with recently!).

Multiply and Linear Burn work in similar, but slightly different ways. They both ‘tint’ and darken your grayscale painting beneath with the blend color on your brush. So for example, if you painted with WHITE on a Multiply or Linear Burn layer, it would leave your grayscale painting looking unchanged.

Because the color you choose will darken your grayscale image, you’ll want to pick a color slightly lighter than you normally would pick for a ‘midtone’ and then start painting on your blending mode layer.

Multiply will often lead to a softer, subtler more desaturated ‘base’. The biggest drawback is that it can be a bit ‘muddier’, but it can make for a really nice start if you want to build up more contrast and saturation later with the Overlay blending mode, (which I’ll be talking about later.)

If I were to turn my Multiply Layer into a Normal Layer, it would look something like this:

Linear Burn will lead to a sharper, crisper, more saturated ‘base’. The biggest drawback is that it can sometimes get too dark too fast, going towards black much faster than Multiply, but it’s a great option if you feel like you’re struggling to get Multiply to do it’s magic for you and you want a more sharp, contrasty look.

Here’s how the Linear Burn Layer would look if I set it to Normal.

You’ll notice in both the Multiply and Linear Burn layers, I didn’t simply choose one color for all of the skin or one color for all of the hair. I introduced slight variations in color while also using brighter colors here and there to carefully push and build up the lighting I was going for. It’s subtle, but this is part of the magic of blending modes. You can introduce all sorts of color shifts and gradients without fucking up all the values from your base grayscale too horribly.

Now that we’ve got our ‘base’ Multiply or Linear Burn layer in place - things are probably looking a little too dark or muddy.

Let’s add a second layer on top of our Multiply or Linear Burn layer and set this one to the blending mode Overlay. We’ll be using the Overlay blending mode to add back in more brightness, contrast, and introduce even more color into our image.

If you have not used Overlay before - at 50% Grey, Overlay will do absolutely nothing to the layer beneath it. However, with any color LIGHTER or DARKER than 50% grey, Overlay will brighten or darken the layer beneath it while also adding in the color you selected. This can be used for color correction, lighting adjustments, or really rad lighting effects.

With my Grayscale + Multiply Layer version of Lurial - the primary issue is that it’s looking a big dark and muddy. WIth Overlay, I built up light, contrast, and brightness using some very light greys to brighten back up the image and used a darker grey to push the contrast in areas like the darkness of the eyelashes. I also selected a purple-blue tint for the shadow areas (like around her throat) to push warm lights and cool shadows. A bright pink was used on the highlight of her lips to push that lip highlight even further.

It’s looking way less muddy and dark now than it did with just the Multiply layer alone.

If you’re having trouble wrapping your head around all of this, here is how my Overlay Layer would look if it were set to Normal mode:

The Greyscale + Linear Burn version of Lurial doesn’t have the muddiness problem that the Multiply version did, but it is pretty dark. Using our Overlay layer, I brightened things up.using a light grey for lights and some dark purples for shadows just like before, but this time I was a little more heavy handed with pushing light so I could capture the right skintone I wanted for Lurial.

Here is how my Overlay layer would look if it were set to Normal:

Remember that you don’t have to use just one of each blending mode layer. You can stack on a second Overlay Layer if you want to either add more color or lighting corrections without messing up what you have currently OR to introduce some rad and sophisticated lighting effects.

For example, with a second Overlay layer, I can add this Dramatic Beam of Light™ cutting across Lurial’s eyes.

In the first instance, I used a very light blue (which could perhaps be Moonlight). I also used a dark blue-grey color above and below the strip of light to push the contrast further and really bring out that beam of light cutting across her face.

In the second instance, I swapped out the pale blue for a pale orange (which could perhaps be the setting sun!). Below is how both Overlay Layers look like if I set them to ‘Normal”. Notice how much extra saturation was added to the image in the second instance with the light orange even though even though the light orange I used is very pale and doesn’t have too much intensity!

This is how you can add some saturation and punch to an image that is otherwise a little too desaturated, but try not to get too carried away or your characters could wind up with orange skin. (which is a mistake I’ve made in the past. <_<;)

With this painting, I hit a conundrum where I realised that the Multiply version felt too ‘soft and muddled’ to me while the Linear Burn version felt too harsh with shadows that got dark too quickly. So I decided to flatten the Linear Burn version of the painting down to one layer, put it on top of the ‘Multiply’ Version of the painting, and then lower that layer’s opacity down to 40%.

Now I had the best of both worlds! At this point, I flatten everything down to one layer (minus the background) and continue painting in full color. This is my usual approach - once I feel like I’m happy with the general feel of the colors, I flatten and paint in color like normal. Below is where I stopped for the night, but I plan on continuing by detailing out the hair, figuring out clothing, and maybe working up even more highlights on her skin. Very, very often, I will throw on another Overlay layer or Multiply layer to tweak and adjust lighting or colors some more.

Sometimes I will even use one last Overlay layer as a last step before finishing an image to add in last minute highlight details or to harmonize my colors or lighting better.

Another really useful blending mode you can use for color correction or just to control your colors better is called the ‘Color’ Blending Mode. It takes whatever color you have set on your brush at the moment and attempts to apply that color across the various shades beneath it while fully respecting the grey levels (light/shadow values) of the image

So if I were struck by the sudden desire to transform Lurial into her Bizaaro World counterpart where she has green eyes, pink hair, and purple lips, I could do so in a snap just by adding a ‘Color’ blending mode on top and plopping in some green for her eyes, pink for her hair, and purple for her lips. Easy peasy!

Many artists will skip over using Multiply or Linear Burn all together and just use Color instead. The most important thing with the Color Blending Mode is to use a variety of colors. I could have easily used only pink for the hair or only a single purple for her shirt, but by using a mix, I made the colors feel more dynamic and real instead of boring and flat.

Below is what my ‘Color’ Blending mode looks like when I set it to ‘Normal’. You’ll notice the color I used for the hair is actually pretty dark. This is because like I mentioned before, the ‘Color’ Blending mode will tightly respect the grey/light/shadow values of the image it’s being applied to. Lurial’s hair was very pale, so no matter how dark the purples and blues I used were, it kept the color of her hair equally light in tone.

The very last Blending Mode I want to talk about is Linear Dodge (Add) - BUT that’s for another tutorial I will probably do on ‘Rim Lights and How To Add Them. (Also How to Make RAD LIGHT SABERS’ since Linear Dodge(Add) is super useful for that)’

I hope this giant ramble was somewhat enlightening or at least gave you something to toy around with the next time you paint! If it was helpful to you at all, please consider giving the ko-fi link on my blog a poke so I can fuel myself with most glorious caffeinated beverages.

Thanks for reading!

#daily doodle #painting tutorial #blending modes #tierganvashirart #tutorial

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unfolded73 · 7 years

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This Graceful Path (8/19)

Summary: Emma has just moved in with Mary Margaret and started working as a deputy in the Storybrooke sheriff’s department when she meets Killian Jones, the town’s introverted harbormaster. When a prominent Storybrooke resident is found murdered, Emma tries to juggle solving the case with new friendships, parenthood, and romance. A Season 1 Cursed!Killian AU.

Rating: Explicit per CSBB guidelines (violence, sex); more of an M on unfolded73’s scale. The sex, when we get there, is not extremely graphic in nature. Same with the violence.

Content Warning: This fic contains two major character deaths, one canon and one not. (You’re already past them.)

Total word count: ~ 75,000

Acknowledgements: Thank you to @j-philly-b for betaing this monstrosity. Thank you to @caprelloidea for all of the read-throughs and cheerleading; not sure I could have written it without your excitement early on. Thank you to @teruel-a-witch for the original prompt on tumblr which sparked this fic. Thank you to @pompeiiablaze for the wonderful art which accompanies Chapter 3 and also will accompany later chapters. Thanks to the CSBB mods (@sambethe in particular, who had to look at my check-ins) for your support and for enduring my neuroses.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 – AO3 Link

Chapter 8

The sound of softly beeping machines reached Emma’s ears as she walked into Killian’s hospital room. He wore a light blue hospital gown and was tucked in securely under a plain white blanket. His eyes were closed, his long eyelashes casting shadows across his cheeks, but as soon as she neared the bedside he opened his eyes and smiled.

“What’s the news, Swan?”

“Doctor Whale tells me other than the cracked ribs and a few bruises, you’re in decent shape for a man who was hit by a car.” She pulled a chair over and sat down at his side.

“I’m a survivor. Nothing can keep me down for long.” He tried to wink at her.

“Seriously, Killian, I can’t thank you enough for what you did back there. If you hadn’t pushed Henry out of the way—”

“Anyone would have done the same, had they been close enough. I was just in the right place at the right time.” He pulled his arms out from under the covers and tried to lever himself into more of a sitting position, wincing in pain as he did so.

“Ugh, Killian, stop.” Emma picked up the bed controller and pushed the button to elevate the head of the bed. “I don’t think anyone would have done the same.”

“Well,” he said, flashing her a wicked smile and bringing his finger to his lower lip. “Perhaps gratitude is in order now.”

Emma laughed. “How about when you’re feeling better, I take you out for coffee?”

His face fell a little bit. “I’m only joking, Swan; you don’t owe me anything, and I certainly wouldn’t want you to go out with me out of a sense of obligation.”

“I’m not. I just….want to. Is that okay?”

“As soon as I’m mobile again, yes. But allow me to plan the date.”

“I know how to plan a date!” she protested, frowning.

“You know how to chase bad guys. I know how to plan an evening out.”

“Okay whatever, Casanova.” She pointed to his forearm. “What’s the tattoo?” He’d briefly turned his arm and she’d caught sight of a heart with a dagger through it, along with a name.

He hid his arm under the blanket self-consciously, not letting her get a better look. “Just a memorial to an old love, darling. Nothing more.” He shifted in the bed, wincing in pain again. “Bloody hell, that hurts.”

Standing up, Emma awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. “You think you’re in pain; I have to go back to the sheriff’s station now and write up an accident report for all of this. Did they say when they’re releasing you?”

“Tomorrow, most likely.”

“That’s good news.” She hesitated before leaving him. “Feel better, Killian.”

He raised his prosthetic hand. “See you later, Swan.”

She let the door swing shut behind her, standing there in the hospital hallway and trying not to think too hard about the fact that she’d arranged to go on a date with Killian Jones. She had absolutely sworn to herself that she had no interest in him romantically (yeah right, Emma), had sworn that getting involved with him was a terrible idea. It was. It was a terrible idea. So why was she biting her lip to suppress the smile that was threatening to burst out over her face?

“Sheriff Swan, how are you?”

Blinking, she looked up and saw Archie, Henry’s therapist.

“Hey, Archie.”

“You here because of Mr. Jones?” he asked, indicating the door.

“Yeah, he pushed Henry out of the way of a car this afternoon, and… wait, are you here for Killian?”

“I was called in for a psych consult. The emergency room doctors reported he exhibited a high level of anxiety when they brought him in. Said some things that concerned them.”

Emma frowned. “What kind of things?”

“I’m afraid I can’t go into any detail,” Archie said, and it occurred to her that he’d probably said way more than he should have anyway.

“Well, he got hit by a car, wouldn’t that make anybody anxious?” Emma said, feeling defensive on Killian’s behalf.

“I’m sure it won’t do him any harm for me to at least talk to him,” Archie said.

“Yeah. Actually, now that you mention it, he has mentioned insomnia and nightmares to me.” Perhaps seeing a psychologist wasn’t the worst idea, she thought. Maybe Killian could even get a handle on his drinking if he got into therapy.

“Just now?” Archie asked.

“No, another time.” She shrugged. “A few days ago.”

“Thank you for the insight, Emma. I truly appreciate it.” Emma stepped out of the way, and Archie pushed his way through the door into Killian’s room.

~*~

“This is a waste of time. It’s been two months since the murder.” Emma kicked at the dead leaves on the ground. “I’ve combed over this part of the forest so often at this point, I’ve got it memorized. If there were any more clues, I’d have found them before now.” They’d been going over the scene of the crime for almost half an hour. Her nose and ears were numb with the cold, and it was making her grouchy.

David was crouched down where Emma had indicated the body had once lain, scrutinizing the forest floor. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He gave her a half-smile. “You just looked like you needed to get out of the office.”

She sighed. “Maybe. Not that it helps me with my latest Regina problem.”

“Regina problem?” He dug around under the leafy ground cover, his gloved hand getting muddy in the process. The ground was damp with recently melted snow.

“As soon as she heard that Henry had been with me when he almost got hit by a car, she demanded that I never see him again.”

“Hasn’t she said stuff like that before?” David asked. Off of her raised eyebrow, he admitted, “Mary Margaret may have mentioned it.”

“I’m not sure you guys are making the best use of your stolen moments together, talking about me and my problems. And yeah she has, but this time she really means it. She’s picking him up directly from school every day, so I can’t meet him at Granny’s for an afternoon snack anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Emma. Not getting to spend time with your child �� I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

Emma jammed her hands in her pockets, prodded a tree root with her foot and shrugged. “I gave him up, David, and she’s legally his mother. I don’t know what I can do.” She watched as the toe of her boot sank into the rich soil.

He stood up. “I should probably give Killian a call, see if he wants me to pick him up something to eat.”

Whirling on him, Emma’s eyes widened. “How’s, um… how’s he doing? He came home from the hospital yesterday, right?”

David nodded. “He’s in a fair amount of pain, but otherwise I think he’s okay.”

“Will you tell him I was thinking about him?” she said, then blushed and shook her head. “No, don’t say that. Don’t tell him anything. Forget I said that.”

He smirked. “Do you want me to pass him a note in fourth period?”

“Shut up.” She kicked the tree root again more forcefully, or she tried to, but she missed and her toe collided with the tree trunk itself.

“Ow, fuck,” she said, hopping a little on her good foot.

David walked over and patted the tree gently. “She didn’t mean it, tree. She’s just cranky.” Then something appeared to catch his eye in the leaves piled on the ground, and he bent over. “What the hell?”

Emma limped over and looked at what David had picked up: a silver ring on a broken chain. “I wonder where that came from?”

He shrugged. “I happened to see a glimpse of it, buried in the leaves.”

Taking the chain from him, she examined the broken ends, the way the tiny links had been ripped apart. “You don’t think this could have come from our murderer? Ripped off in a struggle with Gold?”

“Could be. I don’t know if there’s any way to tell.”

Emma pocketed it. “Maybe I can find a way to use it, if I can ever get an actual suspect. Let’s head back to the station.”

They started to make their way to Gold’s cabin where the cruiser was parked. Emma winced at the sharp pain in her toe, trying not to limp so that David would notice.

“Don’t think I don’t notice you limping,” he said.

Shit. “I’m fine.”

He ignored that, putting an arm around her and steering her over to a fallen log. “Sit down and let me take a look.”

“No, David, let’s get back to the car. We’re almost there.”

He met her gaze, calm and impassive and brooking no argument. “Sit down, and let me take a look.”

Emma huffed. “Fine.” She gingerly settled herself on the log and stuck her booted foot out for him. He knelt down, easing the boot off and murmuring an apology when she hissed in pain.

“Wiggle your toes for me,” he said. Emma did as he asked. “How badly does that hurt?”

“Not too bad,” she said, her eyes gazing off into the forest. She could see the edge of the clearing where Gold’s cabin was, and beyond it— “What the hell is that?”

“Do you feel a scraping inside your toe?” David said, his face etched with worry. “Because that—”

“No, not my toe. That.” She pointed. From her vantage point, she could see a part of the dirt track that led between the main road and Gold’s cabin, and in the midst of a cluster of shrubbery, she could make out what looked like part of a car bumper.

“Is that a car?” David asked.

“Put my boot back on and let’s check it out.”

“I’m not done—”

“My toe is fine; I’ve had a broken toe before and this one isn’t. Put my boot back on,” Emma said.

Once David had done as she instructed, they made their way toward the car; carefully in case anyone was around. But it very quickly became clear that the car had been there for a long time. “This is Tom Clark’s car,” Emma said as she pushed the low branches aside to reveal more of the hidden vehicle.

“What?”

“Mr. Clark reported his car stolen the day after Graham died. It hasn’t exactly been my top priority, to be honest, but it was another open case. And now here it is, hidden near Gold’s cabin.”

David made a face. “You don’t think… Tom murdered Gold?”

Emma couldn’t help it; she burst into giggles. “I mean, I’m not ruling it out, but…” She opened the driver’s door and knelt down, holding up the wires that had been ripped out from underneath the dash and were hanging down. “No, someone hotwired this car, probably to follow Gold out here, and then abandoned it.” She stood up and brushed off her jeans.

“We’re getting closer, Emma. I know you’ve had your doubts, but I really believe you’re going to solve this thing.”

Emma grinned, the pain in her toe barely noticeable now. “Me too.”

~*~

Juggling a large pizza box and a six-pack of beer, Emma knocked on the door, then immediately felt guilty and opened the door a crack. “I can let myself in, you don’t have to get up!” she called out.

Killian came shuffling into view, dressed in a thin long-sleeved t-shirt and track pants, his feet bare. “It’s fine, Swan, it’s better if I move around a little bit.” He took the beer from her and motioned for her to come into the apartment. “As I said on the phone, you really didn’t have to bring me food.”

She set the pizza down on his small kitchen table. “I know I didn’t have to, but David mentioned he was bringing you something to eat yesterday and I thought…” She shrugged. “Shit, you probably can’t drink with the painkillers you’re taking, can you?”

He moved gingerly to the refrigerator, setting the beer inside and then pulling two bottles out. “I’ve stopped taking them, so the beer is fine.” He handed her one of the bottles, then popped the cap off of his with an old-fashioned bottle opener that was mounted on the wall. The cap dropped into a little bucket below with Coca-Cola inscribed on it in flowing and familiar cursive.

“You’ve stopped taking them? Isn’t it too soon to stop taking them?” Emma popped the top off her own bottle, stepping close to Killian to do so. She could feel the heat from his body as she brought the bottle to her lips. Fuck, she thought, she’d been in his presence a grand total of one minute and her body was already humming like a live wire.

Killian shrugged. “They were making my nightmares worse.” He took a drink, the muscles of his neck moving as he swallowed. It was infuriatingly distracting, and Emma took a step backward, out of his personal space. “It’s hardly the worst pain I’ve experienced,” he said, lifting his prosthetic hand.

“No, I guess not,” Emma said, trying not to imagine what losing a hand would feel like. “Probably not as bad as childbirth either.”

With a chuckle, Killian turned to the cabinet and got down plates. “I very much doubt it.” She could see his teeth clench in pain as he moved.

“Let me get that,” Emma said, reaching to take the plates, her fingers brushing against his as she did so. “Should we take the pizza to the sofa? Where would you be most comfortable?”

Killian visibly relaxed a little. “Yeah, the sofa would be good.”

Emma put a couple of slices on each plate and followed him into his living room. There was a collection of water glasses and mugs of half-finished tea on his coffee table, along with a haphazard stack of books, and Emma resolved to help him clean up before she left.

Killian sat down with an audible groan. “Bugger.”

She handed him his pizza, sitting as far away from him as the sofa allowed. “I wish I could do something to make you feel better,” and then immediately blushed as a dirty grin unfurled on his face. “How about we forget I said that.”

“Your company is a balm to my wounds, love. No additional favors are required.”

The sincerity on his face filled her chest with a bloom of warmth, and Emma felt herself smiling. She took a bite of her pizza. “So how long will it be before your ribs are healed?”

“Four to six weeks is what the doctor told me. In the meantime, I’m supposed to stay active but not lift anything heavy. And I’m supposed to breathe as deeply as I can, even though it hurts like the dickens to do so.”

Emma frowned in confusion. “Why do you have to breathe deeply?”

“It prevents lung infection, apparently.”

“Oh.” She sipped her beer. “Listen, Henry feels terrible about what happened. So do I. If I hadn’t upset him, then he wouldn’t—”

“Children make mistakes, Swan. I assure you, I hold no ill will against either of you. I’m just glad I was there.” He took a bite of his slice and smiled. “But I won’t say no to free food,” he mumbled.

They ate in silence for a while, Emma realizing that it was probably a good thing he wasn’t healthy enough for sex (hearing that last part in a pharmaceutical commercial announcer voice), because otherwise she’d be tempted to jump him right here on his sofa.

“Can I get you more pizza?” she asked when his plate was empty.

“No, I’m fine, love.” He set the plate on his overflowing coffee table and reclined back, still nursing his beer. “So tell me a story, Emma Swan.”

She laughed. “A story? Like ‘Once upon a time…’”

“No, something about yourself.” He pointed to the side of his chest. “Tell me about your most dramatic injury.”

“Well, I don’t have anything to rival getting hit by a car, and I still have all my limbs, so…”

“Come on, Swan,” he whined. “I’m in pain; entertain me.”

She sighed. “Okay. When I was eight, I broke my arm.”

“How did you do that?”

“I was on the swings on the school playground, swinging by myself. Pumping my legs to go higher and higher. And when I got as high as I thought I could possibly go, right as I got to the top of the… you know—” She mimed the path of a swing with her hand.

“The arc?”

“Yeah. Right at the top, I jumped.”

Killian’s eyes widened. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“I don’t know, I think I thought I would—”

“Fly?” he asked with a smirk.

“No, not fly, but I thought I would… I don’t know, follow this graceful path to the ground.” She laughed. “It wasn’t graceful. I landed on my arm and heard this snapping sound. I’ll never forget that sound.” She shuddered. “So I got a cast which no one signed, and my foster family was pissed at me for getting hurt because it cost them money.”

Killian’s expression turned sad. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to unearth a unhappy memory.”

Emma waved off his concern. “It’s no big deal. Most of my childhood memories are sad, to be honest.” She searched for something to lighten the mood and came up empty. “So, what do they do with broken ribs? Do you have, like, a brace on or something?”

Shaking his head, Killian lifted his shirt. Her eyes were greeted with a Rorschach test of bruising on the side of his chest, but it was easy to look beyond that to see the nice shape of his muscles and the line of hair down his abdomen. “Apparently they don’t do that anymore,” he said, and then committed the crime of dropping his shirt back down into place. Emma swallowed on a suddenly dry throat and gulped down the rest of her beer.

“Can I get you another one?” Killian asked.

“No,” she jumped up. “I should probably get going and let you rest.” Gesturing toward the kitchen, she added, “I’ll wrap up the rest of the pizza for you and put it away.”

Killian followed her to the kitchen, getting a roll of foil out and handing it to her. “If you haven’t thought better of going on a date with me, I should be mended enough the weekend after this coming to make a go of it, if you want.” His attempt at nonchalance was poor, and Emma smiled, her back turned as she wrapped up the pizza slices.

“I haven’t thought better of it. Are you sure that’s not too soon for your ribs, though?”

“As long as I don’t have to pick you up and carry you somewhere, Swan, I should be able to manage.”

She stuck the pizza in the fridge and then went out to the living room to gather up all the dirty dishes from his coffee table. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, a pained expression on his face.

Emma rolled her eyes. “It’s a small thing. Just shut up and let me help you.”

“Yes, your highness.”

~*~

“I didn’t even know Storybrooke had a restaurant this nice,” Emma said as they followed the host to their table. In truth, it wasn’t anything that special: checkered table clothes and ordinary pasta dishes with cheap bottles of Chianti, or so it appeared; it certainly didn’t compare to the upscale places she’d seen in Boston. But it was a huge improvement over Granny’s, and right now that was really all she cared about.

“I told you I know how to plan a date,” Killian said, his hand resting lightly on her back as she was ushered to her seat. She watched as he removed his leather jacket and slung it over the back of his chair before sitting down gingerly, a little twinge of pain flashing across his face the only evidence of his injury. He’d assured her that while his ribs were still healing, he was certainly capable of sitting in a chair and eating a meal with her.

Killian’s usual long-sleeved black t-shirt and blue jeans had been replaced with a nice button-down shirt and a vest, and he wore new-looking black jeans instead of the usual faded denim. Also, he smelled good, and Emma caught herself staring as he sat down, the sudden image of burying her nose in the crook of his neck making her shift in her seat.

Mary Margaret had been entirely too excited about Emma’s date, offering her a pale pink dress to borrow which Emma had stuck her tongue out in distaste at. She’d opted for her usual jeans and boots, but topped it with a slightly more feminine sweater than she usually wore, although its scooped neckline was making her a bit uncomfortable now, her hand drifting to her own neck to fidget with the charm on her necklace as she studied the menu and tried to think of something to say.

“I don’t really do this,” she said.

“Order food in restaurants?”

“Date.”

“Present evidence to the contrary.” He slid down in his seat, elbow on the table and his face propped against one finger. “You mentioned that to me before, that you don’t date. Why is that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s seemed… pointless most of the time, I guess.”

“Have you ever been in love?” he asked.

“Wow, extremely personal questions right off the bat, then,” Emma muttered. The waiter approached them. “Can I get an old fashioned, please?” Killian also ordered a drink, and the waiter nodded and left them alone once again.

“Well?” he asked.

Emma huffed. “Why don’t you tell me if you’ve ever been in love?”

“Yes, I have,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

“With the woman whose name is on your arm? Your tattoo?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Milah.” He took a sip of water. “She died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

He gave her a tight smile. “It was a long time ago.”

“What happened?”

“An accident.”

“The same accident where you lost your hand?” she blurted out, then grimaced. “Sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay, Swan. Yes, it was the same accident.”

The waiter arrived with their drinks, and they placed their orders. Silence settled.

“So, okay. Yes, maybe I’ve been in love.” She took a sip of her drink. “Once.”

“Henry’s father?” Killian asked. She narrowed her eyes, looking for a hint of judgment: there was always judgment when people discussed her teenage pregnancy. She saw none.

“Yeah. His name was Neal.” She couldn’t believe she was telling this story before the entrees even arrived. “We met when I tried to steal his car with him sleeping inside it.”

Killian laughed. “I thought there might be a little bit of pirate in you, Swan.”

“Also it was a car he’d stolen, so it was a match made in hell or something. We ran around together for a while, stealing to get by, and I think I was in love.”

Killian rolled a measure of rum around in his mouth before swallowing it. “I take it things didn’t end well.”

She considered lying to him, but it felt good to unburden herself for some reason. “He’d stolen some watches, and I agreed to pick them up for him, and I got caught. Ended up in prison for almost a year. That’s where I was when I found out I was pregnant.”

Killian’s eyes were wide. “Surely if he had taken responsibility for the watches, you would have gone free.”

She chuckled darkly. “He set me up to take the fall. I never saw him again.”

“My God, Swan.”

“Yeah, and that’s just one of the shitty stories of my shitty life.” She raised her glass in a mock toast. “He doesn’t know Henry even exists, which is a small relief.”

“Does Henry know?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “I mean, he knows I was in jail when he was born, thanks to the newspaper. But no, he doesn’t know that his father was a deadbeat who left me literally holding the bag.” She grimaced. “I told him his dad was a firefighter and a hero.”

Killian reached across the table and put his hand over hers. “Sometimes lying is the kindest thing you can do.”

Emma looked into his too-blue eyes, felt herself drowning a little bit in them. “Yeah, I guess.”

The conversation turned lighter after that, as the alcohol and the sharing of secrets relaxed them. The dinner seemed to pass in a flash, and Emma would have been hard-pressed to remember what she ate. Everything was him and his smile and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The way he drummed his fingers on the table and the little thatch of chest hair she could see above his unbuttoned shirt collar.

He walked her home; the slow, meandering walk of people who didn’t particularly want to get where they were going. She walked on his left side, and when he stuck his elbow out in a ridiculously chivalrous gesture, she linked her arm with his. The chill of the evening gave her an excuse to press herself against his warm, solid presence.

“Well, not bad,” she said as they climbed the stairs to her apartment. “You actually managed to make me forget that there’s a murderer on the loose.” Emma turned to face Killian at the door.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he said, smiling shyly at her.

“I’d invite you in for coffee, but Mary Margaret is home, so…” She was somehow simultaneously disappointed and relieved by that fact. It was probably for the best, taking any temptation to invite him into her apartment off the table. The way she was feeling tonight, there was no telling what she would do.

“That’s quite all right. I suppose we’ll have to wait until next time.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Next time? I don’t remember asking,” she said, aware of how rapidly her heart was beating.

Killian stepped closer, close enough that she could almost feel his breath on her face. “That’s because it’s my turn. Will you go out with me again?”

A part of her wanted to say no, because Emma Swan didn’t date, and Emma Swan definitely didn’t date seductive, mysterious guys who drank too much and slept too little. A part of her wanted to say yes, because he was charming and funny and very possibly the sexiest man that she’d ever stood this close to. All of her wanted to kiss him. So that’s what she did.

Her mouth gravitated toward his, pulled in before she had consciously made the decision to kiss him. She felt his head tilt, felt the brush of his nose against the apple of her cheek, and then his lips were on hers, slow and gentle. She opened her mouth enough to pull at his bottom lip, and felt a rush of heat as he responded, as his fingers carefully touched the back of her neck and his other arm wrapped around her to pull her closer.

Emma had always liked kissing, liked the feeling of another pair of soft lips against her own, liked the wetness of it and infinite variations of the way it could go, with tongues and lips and teeth. Liked the way it could take a tiny ember of desire and fan it into a roaring fire. But as Killian’s tongue worked against hers, as she felt her face flush and her knees weaken under this onslaught of sensation, she started to wonder if she’d ever been kissed quite like this before. His back was firm under her hands, and the way he kissed made her wonder if he’d be as good at other things he could do with his mouth as he was at kissing. She started to keenly regret that Mary Margaret was on the other side of her apartment door.

The kiss gradually slowed, and Emma was embarrassed at how breathless she was, although it seemed he was the same, the way he panted against her mouth as they stood there, not quite ready to get out of each other’s personal space. Reluctantly, she finally pulled away, taking in the bloom of color high on Killian’s cheeks.

“That was…”

Emma couldn’t help but grin. “Yeah.” She reached for the doorknob. “Goodnight, Killian.”

“Goodnight.”

Chapter 9

#csbb #cs ff #captain swan ff #this graceful path fic #my fic

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shadowdianne · 7 years

Text

SwanQueen Week 9 Day 3

Grandmothers

A03

Day 3

This is set in an alternative idea that Storybrooke is still there and they aren’t cursed with another amnesia curse which is what appears is going to be the drive of the upcoming season…

The car’s wheels screeched against the black road as bushes and trees were left behind. The dwindling pools of light coming from the car’s headlights danced on the town’s sign and Emma let out a sigh as she passed it; the smell of muddy leaves and just the barest one of salty water reaching her nostrils thanks to the half-opened windows. It was a familiar scent even if it had been years since she last smelt it and for a second everything seemed to move in slow motion as the first row of houses appeared in front of her.

“You need to meet Lucy.” Regina had said over the phone, her voice low and deep in the same way Emma’s memory had been so good on memorize. Emma hadn’t really bothered on asking the other woman how she knew what was her new phone number. When she had left they both had known that Regina would contact her if that was necessary.

“Who?”

She could hear Regina’s half-sigh, one that was probably being followed by a hand running over dark tresses, red lips pursing before parting again. Emma had closed her eyes at the image, trying her best to force herself on focusing on the smell of coffee that filled the small bar in where she was. It hadn’t worked, the rest of the words had deprived her of that.

“Your granddaughter.”

She would lie if she said that she hadn’t been surprised. When the stupor passed, however, it was replaced by confusion, anger even as she asked for the check with a move of her hand.

“My… what?”

“Who would have thought, right Miss Swan?”

The words held an old bite, one Emma flinched for but that lacked the general heat that once upon a time they had have. Pinching the bridge of her nose the blonde woman eyed her reflection on her cooling mug; older, she realized. She suddenly felt older.

“Don’t call me…”

“Emma” Regina’s voice had transformed again, warmer now, sweet, syrupy almost. “Please, come back.”

“I…”

“Please.”

Emma blinked as the car stopped in front of a mansion she still could remember its layout perfectly, the rest of the memory fading in black at the back of her mind. She, obviously, had picked up her new bug -the old one had bitten the dust some seven years ago- and with no little fear she had started the long way back to Maine. It hadn’t been easy, to go back to a place in where she at the end had felt as trapped as a bird without wings.

Biting her lower lip, the blonde let her hand hover the door’s handle. The mansion was lighted from inside and warm golden light bathed the front door of it in a similar fashion it had one did the very first time Emma had stopped in front of it. Now, however, everything was different, even if the same nerves ate her insides as she looked at the nearest window in where the shadow of a figure could be seen, looking straightly at Emma as if she had sensed she was doubting herself.

The blonde smiled despite her nerves; Regina had always known her far too well and even if she couldn’t see who was the silhouette from where she was the posture was unmistakable.

She wondered, as she finally circled the handle with her fingers, how would be to see the brunette again. How would be… everything.

She hadn’t forgotten the conversation the two of them had had the night after her decision of finally leaving behind Storybrooke, the savior’s title far too tight around her neck, around everything she had thought she would be able to feign she was but, ultimately, wasn’t.

Regina had looked beautiful that night, dressed in red and with too deep, understanding eyes that had listened to every slurred word Emma had said, drink after drink while toying with a ring that hadn’t hold its meaning for too long.

“If I wanted to be selfish.” The former queen had whispered after Emma had finished, her voice hoarse as she drank from her own drink, one she had barely touched during the whole night, “I would ask you to stay.”

Emma had licked a droplet from her lips, her numb fingers gipping the empty shot glass. The heat of Aesop’s pub pooled on the back of her neck and around the hollow of her throat; she could feel on the way her hair seemed to stick around her neck, the uncomfortable tickling getting on her nerves. She had felt brave enough to ask something that, otherwise, wouldn’t have and as she had rose her gaze to look at Regina’s she had felt another droplet of sweat curling around her earlobe.

“Because of Henry?”

Regina had smiled sadly at the question, drinking again before playing with the stem of the glass, her fingers drawing lines of light on the refraction that could be seen on the pub’s counter. It was a tricky question, Emma knew that, knew how much she was going to hurt Henry, how loud Regina would probably scream at her once they were outside Aesop but, in that moment, nothing of that really mattered. Just the question and its answer, one that arrived with enough force to make her tremble, suddenly not as steady as before.

“No.”

The door of the mansion opened, waking Emma up from her memories. Blinking dazedly, she moved in autopilot as she, herself, exited the car as a young man, one that looked almost like Neal could have looked, stared at her, silent, far too silent as she approached him.

He was just as handsome as the several pictures she had been able to look at after she had disappeared had told her he would and for a moment she stood there, only seeing the man and hating herself for losing the prior years. Ultimately, however, Henry seemed to swallow the same lump Emma now felt on her throat and hugged her, tightly. Gone were the years in where he was a kiddo, Emma briefly thought and she let a few tears run freely before she hugged him back.

“Hello, mom.” She heard being whispered just before Henry took a step backwards.

“Hello.” She replied, smiling sadly at him. “I’m…”

“We will have time for that conversation.” He interrupted her and she, dumbfounded, could only nod. “Want to enter?”

Emma glanced at the window where the silhouette had been minutes before. No one was there.

“She wants to see you as well.”

The whispered words elicited a small sigh from Emma, one she didn’t know she had holding but she forced herself to smile as she looked at Henry almost daringly.

“I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t want to enter, right? Let’s go.”

Henry turned without words towards the main door, the warmth of the light inside quickly covering Emma as she trespassed the threshold. The place, she denoted, was almost the same as it had once was; more pictures were framed on the main hall and the wooden door felt not as new as it had been but everything was still were it had been. With the difference of a young girl, not older than ten, that was looking at her through long eyelashes as she stood next to a suddenly much more nervous Henry.

“Mo… Emma, this is Lucy.”

She, Emma thought while taking a small step towards the girl, not really sure what to do with her hands, was gorgeous and as she told her so she felt a different gaze on her, one she would recognize anywhere.

Regina was just like she remembered her; perhaps with a few more wrinkles around her eyes, perhaps with shorter hair, but she still looked at her with deep, dark eyes that made Emma’s mouth turn into a desert as she looked at her, freezed.

“Hi.” She whispered as Regina approached the three of them, her black dress catching the light as she did so.

“Lucy.” The brunette spoke in soft tones, turning to look at Lucy. “Are you hungry? Dinner is already done. Henry, can you accompany her?”

Henry opened his mouth to protest but Lucy nodded gingerly and left the hall, casting one last glance to Emma who stood motionless as she stared at the former queen, unable to do or say anything as Henry sighed and shot a quick look at the two of them before following the steps of his daughter.

Daughter… the word felt hot on Emma’s mind, almost like an open wound. The pain, however, left her mind the moment she realized she was alone with the brunette. Brunette who despite everything was eyeing her with the same mixture of hurt and worry Henry had had on his eyes minutes before.

And Emma knew that nothing was as easy as it was being now, that she still would need to have a talk, the one she hadn’t been able to had all those years ago. That, however, didn’t stop her when she took a gulp of breath and closed the distance between her and Regina, her arms encircling the brunette’s, pulling her close in a hug that left the vague imprint of the other woman’s lips on her right cheek.

Nothing was like it had been, she realized as she noticed the shuddering breath of the brunette against her skin, on the lack of a ring on her own hand, on the spark -dulled due to time but still strong- of magic she felt. But it still felt familiar enough.

“I…”

She didn’t finish the sentence, not that she even knew what she was going to say; Regina’s lips silenced her as quickly as she had tried to speak. Warm, soft, they made the spark of magic grow as it navigated from her mouth to the tips of her fingers, from her eyes to her heart, warming and making the electricity crackle as she got lost on the kiss, on Regina’s hands running through her hair. On the way the brunette’s body molded against her after so many years of wishing, dreaming, of something like this between unspoken words and unbottled secrets.

“I’m furious with you.” Regina whispered just as they separated.

“I know.”

“Henry too.”

“I know.”

“I missed you.”

“I… I did too.”

“And you’re an idiot.”

Emma laughed wetly at that as she finally looked at Regina, on the way the red lipstick was now slightly smudged. She was gorgeous, just like her memories and for a second she kicked herself and her lack of strength, the one that driven her away.

“I am.”

They separated, they had something else to take care after all.

Their granddaughter.

#swan queen #swanqueenweek #Swan Queen Week #sqw 9 #SwanQueen Week

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