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shattersstar · 1 year

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bound

pairing: vampire x reader

summary: He supposed this was his true home, not the house he had kept himself locked in, but the wooden box with your picture in it. Dutifully kept under his pillow, bringing you to the land of dreams with him—if he could dream. It was a bitter punishment for the life he lived, the transgression—sin—he supposed would be held against the two of you. For how he wanted you more than anything, how he would tear whole cities to shreds at your behest and let the hunters who lurked in your town meet his fangs if you so desired. It was gluttony, to take eternal life and still want more.

warning: horror-ish elements, blood mention., religious undertones (aka general vampire themes/concepts)

a/n: i have so much to say about this lil piece of writing omg okay, i wrote this back in May i believe around the time i was reading we have always lived in the castle and it Shows. its lowkey fantasy which is not like anything i write but the horror-ish vibes r pretty consistent with my original stuff. it is heavily inspired by a lot of the vampire media ive consumed too though even if its not based on one particular character. i have been thinking about it since i wrote it and while im a bit ehhh about posting something original i quite literally have nothing else to share and as i said before y’all keeping i’d still eat the fruit in my notifs is so :)))) so this is a thank you to y’all and a Step back into writing for me hopefully. ramble aside enjoy ! feedback and comments r always appreciated

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It had rained, no—poured, stormed, hailed, cried, screamed. It had swept in during the day, white noise to him as he slept, while it greeted you during breakfast. The clouds wept over the lands in what felt like divine punishment. It was as if nature or something higher than that was against him, accosting or trying to stop him. As he stood at the edge of the great forest, rain pelting the top of his head he assumed there was nothing greater than nature. Not even him. There was nothing higher nor more humbling. God could spite someone, but nature enacted it. It flooded your sleepy town and even sleepier forest and he was on the other side. Confined to his home until the storm cleared and the sun rose.

He would not be graced with your presence yet again and he tried to ignore the call to change you, to have his fangs pierce your skin and his blood run across your tongue. He gritted his teeth, reminding himself of the hurt it brought and he would never cause that for his love. His dearest who lived on the other side of the forest he was unable to cross. His icy glare moved along the border, not even noticing the rain drenching his billowing black cloak anymore. Somewhere in the forest a branch snapped and animals chattered.

He would live for eternity, he could wait for you. It was his resolution before heading back to his home in the woods and trying not to be angry, to let fury run through his long dead veins and restart his stilled heart. If anything—anyone—could, he knew it was you.

He followed the path compacted over the years of those travelling to stare at his home, humans daring each other to go near it, but never following through when the windows shuddered and a figure moved past one of them like a ghost. Times had changed, but people were as superstitious as ever. They saw his decayed and rotted home and prescribed evil to it. It was overrun with vines, leaves would not grow on them. Even in spring. They stayed black, and gnarled, tightening their hold in his house each season. Thorns protruding from some of the thicker vines, protecting him it seemed. You had noted that, staring at his wondrous home with bright eyes.

It was in a clearing in the forest, grey stone withered away and swallowed by nature. It still stood strong, the outside a grotesque picture that did not reflect the inside. Oil lamps and lighting fixtures alike lit the space from the inside out. It warmed the walls, revealing the deep brown wood panelling that made up the older parts of the house. The stairs were still the original wood, a grand staircase that greeted no one, but him and you these days.

Many of the rooms upstairs had been closed off, sheets gently placed over the old furniture and doors closed forever. He had no need for such space, other vampires stopped visiting when hunters started lingering in your town. You had told him of your many encounters, most were smart enough to stay out the forest, but they still killed many of his kind. Finding them in their carriages amongst the cars rolling down the freshly paved roads. Horses killed along with whoever dwelled inside. They saw themselves as vigilantes, but you had told him most of your town considered them a nuisance. Urban men thinking they can save the more rural lands that bordered their great cities. Cities that forgot the magic that once thrived in places like the forest.

“Their thinking of building a highway through it, connecting us to other towns or one of the bigger cities.” You had explained one day, sitting in his lap and letting him hold you. He hummed, long fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. You placed your warm hand over his and leaned further into his chest. He asked you to let him hold you and you had obliged like always.

He kept those memories in mind, the soft questions he would extend your way and how you listened so dutifully. May I hold you? Will you lay with me? Come walk through the cellar? Can I drink your—

His fist slammed against his dinning room table, nearly snapping it in two as a crack ran jagged through the centre of the chestnut coloured wood. His fangs were out, nails morphed into claws dug into his skin and blood dripped into the crack. He stared at it, muscles in his face twitching as he waited for it to end. Waited for the creature in him to return to laying dormant and his own clear, sound mind to return. Though he supposed it was never very clear or sound anymore, not when you had burrowed inside of him and promised to never leave. And as if his thoughts beckoned you themselves, the old telephone in his study rang. It’s shrill scream echoed through the quiet house, though the ring was discordant, snapping in two halfway through its loop and screeching a pitch higher. The noise made his pointed ears twitch and with a swoop of his cloak he was in his study. He answered it on the normal ring, cutting it off right before it went off tone.

He held the phone to his ear, but waited to speak. “Hello?” You asked, your voice soft and worried. You’d never called him before—truthfully he had no idea this phone even worked.

“Hello my love.” He returned, and you breathed out a happy sigh.

“Oh my god, hi! I found this number in some old directory—phone book thing,” You explained with an airy giddiness that he wished to share, “I wasn’t sure if it was going to work, but…” You trailed off and he was smiling fondly into the receiver.

“I have missed you.”

“I miss you too, I hate this weather I can never get through the forest when its so rainy.”

“I know.”

“Maybe they should build a highway through it, I could hitchhike my way to see you.” You laughed, but he turned somber. Industrialization finally touching the sacred land of the forest didn’t sit right within him. It may be the great divider that kept him away from you, but it was his home. A highway felt like you were asking to be swept away, to a new town or bigger city that he could not adventure too. He could ask you to stay—he knew you’d oblige—but it was not his place to keep you here. “Is your phone one of those spin, dial ones?” You asked suddenly, breaking through the tension he hadn’t meant to create.

“A rotary phone?” He corrected with a ghost of a grin, “Yes it is.”

“I want to see it when I come over again.”

“And so you will.” It was quiet again and he hadn’t noticed the tears running down his face. He didn’t know he was able to cry anymore.

“I love you.” You whispered, holding your cellphone close, likely curled up in bed and staring out your window at the rain and the forest beyond it.

“I love you dearest.” His voice did not betray the sadness building in him. “Sleep beloved, I will see you soon.”

“Yes, I’m gonna come see you and your rotary phone.” You laughed, forced and watery.

“Soon.”

“Soon.” You repeated, and hung up. He kept the black phone, laced with intricate gold details, to his ear for a moment longer. He had heard your voice at least and could sleep. He moved through his home, snuffing out candles and flicking off switches before finding the one room without windows. A coffin laid on the floor, dark brown and glistening with the finish that had been applied centuries ago.

He supposed this was his true home, not the house he had kept himself locked in, but the wooden box with your picture in it. Dutifully kept under his pillow, bringing you to the land of dreams with him—if he could dream. It was a bitter punishment for the life he lived, the transgression—sin—he supposed would be held against the two of you. For how he wanted you more than anything, how he would tear whole cities to shreds at your behest and let the hunters who lurked in your town meet his fangs if you so desired.

It was gluttony, to take eternal life and still want more.

Though it was hard to think of such evil things when looking at your face, he had taken the photo while you were on the roof. Wind had wiped your clothes into a frenzy and you laughed as the night sky twinkled behind you. He had taken it and was surprised when you’d given it to him only a few days later. He had kept up with modern technology as well as he could, but there was always something so magical about photographs to him. He collected hundreds over his life time, faces he knew and others he didn’t. Organized neatly into a collection of books, which he’d let you look through on occasion. He showed you photos from the many lives he’s lived, something about them bringing warmth rushing to your face.

He was always so devastatingly beautiful, regal and hypnotic across all eras. Yet, he couldn’t focus on the kind words that bubbled from your lips as the rushing of the blood under your skin nearly shattered something inside of him. His fangs threatened to meet your skin, but with calculated focus he reigned in his hunger. It was hard at first—you were the only human he had been around in decades—but he did it for love.

Everything he did was for love, it was his reason for existence it seemed. You had other reasons for your claim to life, but to him? You were all he had, the only reason to not let the sun engulf him or let a hunter kill him. He could not break your heart until you broke his. He let that thought dwell in his mind as sleep overtook him just as the sun rose and the rain ended. Its incessant pitter patter had ceased and he somehow dreamt of you standing golden in the forest and beckoning him closer.

He woke up to your face—maybe it wasn’t a dream—as you crouched next to his coffin. Maybe he had finally died and you were welcoming him to where God decided to send him. If you were there it couldn’t be hell. Could it be?

“My love—“ Your hand pressed to his chest, keeping him still. “It’s still daytime, sleep okay?” You whispered, hand moving to his jaw and cradling his face in your palm for a moment. “I’ll be back in a sec okay, I just need to change.” He nodded against you, kissing your hand before you let him reside in darkness. He had caught a glimpse of your pants caked in mud and could smell the blood from your skinned palms. Despite the slick terrain it seemed you ventured through the forest to see him. It made his chest shudder and for a moment he thought you had actually restarted his heart.

It was only a few minutes later when you were carefully opening his coffin again, now dawning a loose fitting silk shirt that made his red eyes alight with something wild. You had cleaned your scrapes and mud off your skin, smelling faintly of rain water and the lavender soap you gifted him. You stepped over him, nestling against his side and letting him enclose the two of you. One of his arms wrapped around your shoulders as your head rested on his chest, knuckles grazing over your hair while you stretched an arm across his torso. Your legs intertwined with his long ones and you let out a breathy sigh.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, and while you likely couldn’t see as thing, he could see you perfectly. You shook your head no against his chest, yawning into the fabric of his shirt.

“I just wanted to see you.” You murmured, chin resting in his chest as you made hit best attempt at eye contact in the blackness. “I saw the dining room table, are you okay?” You asked, somehow staring through him in the darkness. He offered his hand instead of finding the words in his throat, slowly unravelling his fist to reveal a mark free palm. He wasn’t sure you understand what he meant or if your eyes adjusted enough yet, until you carefully closed it once again, kissing his knuckles and placed your hand over his. You both were silent for a moment, until you looked up at him again and breathed, “You’re all I want.”

“And you’re all I have.” He held you closer, watching a grin pull at the corner of your lips. He was sure it was that devotion, obsession even, with you that would bring about his downfall. Centuries old and all powerful, but reduced to nothing without you. His strength and knowledge meant nothing if he didn’t have you to share it with.

And you could not stand your stagnant life in a town full of people who wished his kind dead. You chose a trek through the forest during the twilight hours of the morning to see him, bringing him soft kisses and silk under his hands as you let your mouth meet his. You kissed him with all the exhaustion and lethargy wrapped up in the two of you, molasses slow kisses that were just as sweet. It was how you fell asleep, lips to his neck and head tucked under his chin before your warm breathed puffed across his pale skin. He fell asleep not long after, engulfing you in his embrace, his cloak draping over your frame as he decided home was where you asked him to be.

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retrievablememories · 4 years

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no manners | lucas

title: no manners pairing: lucas x black!reader genre: angst, implied smut request: “Aww thanks✨😊 Hope it’s not too much(I have a wild/creative imagination😌) Could you write a fic where Lucas is married to an African American who lives in America while he’s in China with WayV. One night after a call where Lucas suggests she go out with friends because she’s too lonely, she drinks too much and ends up going home with a stranger. When she wakes up she finds out what she did and a few days later she finds out she’s pregnant 💁🏿‍♀️that being said ain’t do it if it’s weird” word count: 5k warnings: workplace sexism/harassment, infidelity, alcohol use, mentions of intoxicated sex, mentions of pregnancy, emetophobia warning, mentions of blood, medical setting, angst!! just sad shit man a/n: hard to think of a good title, idk. the song’s about a sad relationship so close enough? ion fuck with drake anymore but passionfruit was the soundtrack for this one lol

You wake up in the middle of the night again—you’ve been doing it a lot lately. Your head aches a bit and your throat feels dry. You reach for the bottle of water on your nightstand and drink from it, though it doesn’t make you feel any better.

Pulling the covers back over yourself, you turn towards the empty side of the bed and feel that familiar pain settle in your body again. There are painkillers for physical discomforts, but what do you do for this kind of ache that comes from deep within the heart? You sigh and simply close your eyes, trying to block out the feeling.

It’s been over 3 months since you’ve seen Lucas in person, which might as well be the equivalent of several lifetimes for you. You knew this was going to be inevitable once you got married, and even while you were still in the dating stage you experienced it. But you’re not sure if you could’ve accounted for just how intense it would feel now. It’s different now. You’ve made a home together—are going to have a family someday—and yet you barely get to spend any time together.

Burrowing deeper under the covers, you curl yourself up as small as possible, as if you can squeeze out the pain by leaving no more room for it.

Even work is bland now. You work at a firm for a fairly popular magazine in your city, and although your duties keep you busy most days, even those things are starting to lose their appeal. Your peers certainly don’t help.

“You look like you’ve been going through it,” Your coworker Daniel says over lunch. Your other coworker, Patrice, elbows them in the side for his indiscretion.

Your jaw clenches. You have to make an effort to relax your body and gather your thoughts before responding. The last thing you need right now is to lose your job, although you already know Lucas could support the both of you if necessary. “I’m fine. Just a little sleep deficit, but I’ll live.”

“Don’t mind him,” Sharia says, rolling her eyes. “We all get a little worn out sometimes. I hope things get better for you soon.”

“I’m just pointing out the obvious,” Daniel interjects, holding his hands up in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Sharia’s right, though; we all know how you’re feeling.” No, you don’t, you think, resisting the desire to scoff in his face. “Work’s been pretty hectic the past few weeks.”

“Yep, real busy,” you say curtly, not wanting to draw this conversation out further. It’s clear that he thinks he’s making some kind of connection with you, despite him knowing jackshit about anything that’s going on in your life. His presumptuousness has always rubbed you wrong.

“Absolutely. Hopefully the big boss will ease up on us soon here.” You think Daniel is done, but then he speaks again, and Patrice puts her head in her hands. “Anyway, how’s everyone’s home life faring from all this? You and the husband doing all alright?” You know that last statement is specifically for you, and it makes you even more weary.

Sharia shifts uncomfortably as if she can feel the tension you’re experiencing. She’s the only one on your job who knows who you’re married to, as you didn’t want to let your other nosy colleagues in on your life. She’s the only one you can trust to keep your business on your front porch where it belongs.

“We’re doing fine,” you say, keeping your voice light. “How are you and your girlfriend?”

“Actually—are you sure you and dear husband aren’t having any problems? You know...of the bedroom variety? Maybe that’s part of why you’ve been so stressed lately.”

“Jesus, Daniel!” Patrice exclaims in disbelief.

“You’re way out of line.” Sharia gives Daniel a warning look. “We’re at work, this isn’t gossip hour. I don’t think you need another HR report under your belt.”

You continue to sit with your hands clasped together, digging your nails into the back of your hand and watching the wall clock count down the minutes until the lunch break ends. Still 10 minutes left. If this were any other setting, any other person, you would’ve cursed Daniel out and likely given him a good backhanding, but he knows you can’t do anything here. And that’s precisely why he does it.

“What goes on in our lives is none of your business,” you say slowly, trying to keep your voice even. “I don’t know where you pull this crap from. You should listen to Sharia.”

“I hope that’s not a threat, because we all know the boss doesn’t care,” Daniel scoffs. “I’m not going anywhere, so you girls might as well get used to it.” Thankfully, he decides to take his leave at this point, collecting the rest of his lunch and stalking back to his office.

Patrice and Sharia exchange looks, and you merely sit and continue staring at the clock, watching the hands count to the next hour. It’s all you can do.

You’re relieved when you step through the front door of your house that night. Or maybe relief isn’t the word for it—but there is definitely a sort of deflation that happens once you pass through the threshold. You feel sapped and tired, and you can only think of scraping together whatever leftovers you can find because you’re too tired to cook a new meal.

As you walk into the bedroom, you remember that you and Lucas are supposed to video chat tonight, and that makes you feel a little better, but not as good as it could. You glance at the empty side of the bed and sigh heavily.

The rest of the evening passes by simultaneously too slow and too fast. It’s almost like the weight of your depression is dragging down the rest of the world and making time flow in a strange, nonsensical fashion. You eat your leftovers, watch bad reality TV, and even try to check a few work emails before your mind drifts off again. You keep replaying the events at lunch and getting upset again, though you don’t want to.

By the time the hour for your video call comes along, you’re curled up on the bed holding your phone tightly, waiting for it to ring and your husband’s name to flash across the screen. You answer almost instantly when it finally does.

“Yukhei,” you breathe out once his face appears on screen. The sight of him is enough to make your eyes sting immediately, and your throat is choked off with tears.

“Y/N!” Even through the phone speakers, his voice is loud enough to fill your room, and your sudden laughter at his excitement is enough to make the tears building in your eyes finally fall down. Lucas leans closer to the screen, his features drawing into a concerned expression. “Oh, shit—Y/N, what’s wrong?!”

You’ve stopped laughing now but the tears keep flowing, and you wipe your eyes futilely. For a while, all you can do is shake your head and keep crying as Lucas coos to you on the other end of the phone, growing increasingly concerned about your emotional state.

You put the phone down to wipe your face, and only then are you able to calm down enough to speak. “I just hate everything.”

Lucas frowns. “What do you hate, baby?”

“This fucking job, I hate Daniel, I hate being talked to like I’m an idiot, I hate…I hate you not being here.” You pick up the phone again. Your head hurts from crying, and you put your forehead in your hand as you look at Lucas on the other line.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I wish I could be there with you. You know I’d kick his ass for you...and anyone else who makes my baby cry.” He sighs and chuckles, though there’s no real humor to it. “Maybe I should kick my own ass too, then. I’m always away from you, and I know that doesn’t help. There are moments everyday when I wish I was there beside you, but…”

“It’s not like you can help it,” you say, and you feel powerless to do anything about it. “You shouldn’t...feel bad about it.” If only you could take your own advice.

“It’s impossible not to.” Lucas’s fingers drift to his wedding ring, twisting it around his finger like he does whenever he’s distressed. It’s become a subconscious thing for him at this point, but you always notice, and it comforts you to know your relationship can be a solace for him. “I have the other guys here, and it helps, but...who do you talk to when you’re feeling alone, besides me?”

“Ugh…” You lean back against the headboard. “No one, really...I don’t want to bother Sharia with my issues. Or my other friends. I feel like everyone already has their own stuff to deal with…”

Lucas leans forward again, as if he’s talking to you face-to-face. “My dear wife, I won’t pretend to be your therapist, but I think I have a prescription for you.”

You laugh and shake your head. “And what would that be?”

“You should go out. Take a few days off from work, leave the house, do whatever. But I really think you need to be around other people.”

“Go out?”

“Yes, with your friends! You’re cool with some people from work—Sharia, at least. Or your college friends, if not your coworkers. Anyone. I don’t want you to be spending all your time alone.” A melancholy note enters his voice. “And since I can’t be with you now, I want you to at least get out without me.”

“I don’t know...”

“What’s wrong?”

“The problem is that I miss you. Going someplace where you aren’t isn’t gonna help.”

“You’re so stubborn,” Lucas says, but his voice is warm with affection. “Just do it for me, please? You don’t think it hurts me to see my lovely wife so upset? I only want you to be happy.”

Your heart warms at that, and you look up at the ceiling, not wanting to start another wave of tears. “Well, okay...you’re right. I’ll try it this weekend. But I’m still gonna be thinking of you the whole time.”

Lucas smiles. He brings his ring finger close to the camera and kisses the band of metal. “For life, right?”

You mirror his actions. “Always.”

The next day, you catch up with Sharia at the copy machine.

“Hey girl, how are you doing?” she asks, feeding more paper into the machine. “Not too bad after what that fool said yesterday, I hope.”

The mention of that leaves a bad taste in your mouth, but you shake your head and pretend to brush it off. “I’m fine, no one’s thinking about that sleaze. I was wondering if you were up for hanging out this Friday? It’s kinda short notice, but me and some friends are planning to go to a club…”

Her eyes light up at that. “Oh? Which club are y’all going to?”

“The one on the same street as that new five-star restaurant that just opened up. Apparently it’s a bit exclusive, but one of my friends claims to have direct connections, so we’re gonna try it out.”

“Oh, to be rich and glamorous.” Sharia laughs. “Sure, I’ll go. I’m always up for some fun. Anything that’s not this damn job.”

“Great! You know where I live, just swing by around 8?”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Sharia looks like she wants to say something else, but Daniel strolls into the room and she rolls her eyes, quickly turning back to the copy machine.

“Hey ladies, what’s going on?” Daniel leans against the wall as if he plans to pull a long conversation out of you, but you shake your head and walk out.

“Bye, Daniel.”

Sharia follows suit, grabbing her documents out of the machine and not even checking if they’re correct before following you out. “Yeah, not gonna happen.”

The Friday night that you head to the club is unexpectedly hot. It rained hard earlier that day and the air is still thick with humidity, which makes you grateful you’re gonna be spending most of your time indoors. Your friend’s connections come in to save the day, just as she promised, and your group of five is soon standing in the club without having to wait in a hot line all night.

Your friend leads everyone over to the VIP section and you all sit down, marveling at the club’s sleek interior. Everything is all glitter and glass and steel, giving the building an almost futuristic look.

“We need some drinks, there’s no way I’m spending all night in a club like this sober,” one of the girls suggests. The others agree and spend a few minutes playfully arguing over which drinks would be best to get before standing up.

Your friend notices you’re still sitting down. “Are you two coming with, or do you want us to order for you?”

“Just order something for me, doesn’t matter what it is,” you say, waving your hand. Sharia agrees. She waits until the others leave, then turns to you with a serious look.

“You should quit.” You stare at her, wondering if maybe you’ve misheard over the loud music.

“Quit? My job? Do you hate having me around that much?” you joke, though you feel confused and a little hurt.

“Now you know—what I’m saying is, we both know who your man is. I think you would be fine if you just quit and started looking for another job or even stopped working for a while. There’s no reason why you should have to stay there and keep putting up with Daniel’s shit.”

You don’t hate the idea. It’s one you’ve thought of numerous times before, but you’re not confident about taking the first step towards it. “I don’t think it’s that simple...having a job keeps me busy. I’d probably die of boredom if I didn’t have work. And anyway, I’m not really ready to be a housewife...especially considering that my husband isn’t even there half the time.” Your mood drops a little when you think of this. Sharia notices and tries to pull you back before you lose steam before the night even starts.

“Hey hey, it’s just a suggestion! You don’t have to do anything except whichever choice will be easiest for you. I’m just trying to look out for you girl, God knows no one wants to be harassed on the job everyday.”

“I hear you. But I don’t want to think about this anymore,” you groan.

When the other girls come back, you take your drink and immediately down half of it in one go. You need something to distract you from the bad mood attempting to creep up on you.

“Well damn, okay! Someone’s eager!” you friend shouts, and everyone else laughs.

The rest of the night goes similarly, quickly spiraling out of your hands before you can really realize it. The alcohol makes you unable to think about any one thing for too long, which is what you want—maybe even need. You lose track of how many drinks you have and how many songs you dance to. All you can feel is the burning in your throat and the blissful emptiness of not having to think, worry, or stress. For once.

At some point, someone’s hands are on your body and you think maybe it’s one of your friends, but none of them would touch you like this—or kiss you like this. It’s not Lucas either, it can’t be because he’s still in China isn’t he? but you want it to be Lucas, it should be Lucas, so you return the kiss anyway, and there’s more touching and feeling—

until you end up in someone’s car, a taxi maybe, it’s not the car you came in but that doesn’t matter either, just the hands and the sensation of it all, of being touched by a person other than yourself when you haven’t felt it in a long time—

and maybe if you close your eyes for long enough it will be him.

The first thing you notice is the splitting sensation in your head. You don’t remember how you got into your bed or how much you had last night, but you haven’t experienced a hangover like this since your college years, so it must’ve been a lot. You groan and bring your hands to your head, also noticing that your bonnet is nowhere to be found. You must’ve been really wasted last night.

You reach for the water on your nightstand, but it’s not there. In fact, nothing’s there. Your hand meets air, and you suddenly feel slightly alarmed—where’s your nightstand? You finally crack one eye open only to see a room entirely different from the one in your home.

You jolt up, which only makes your head throb harder, but you can’t be bothered with that right now when you’re in a strange place. Pure panic explodes in your chest as you look to the side and see a strange man sleeping next to you in bed—his bed. You can only see his top half, but you can assume he’s naked underneath, as you are equally nude.

“Fuck, no,” you blurt out. You throw the covers back and move as fast as you can to collect your strewn clothes, not really caring if you wake the man up at this point. You just know you’ve got to get the hell out.

You pull your clothes on and dial for an Uber on your phone, sprinting out of the bedroom just as the man starts rustling in the bedsheets. You realize his place is some sort of luxury apartment, which means he’s probably one of the many famous or semi-famous men who frequents that club. That idea makes you panic more as you unlock the door and run out of it; you don’t have the patience to wait on the elevator, so you take the stairs two at a time.

You’re full-on shaking by the time you get to the bottom and end up outside on the sidewalk. Some people passing by give you sideways glances at your presumed Walk of Shame, with you still wearing your club outfit, but there’s no room to think about their judgment. You’re too busy being eaten alive by your conscience.

The ride home is mostly silent. Your driver tries to strike up a conversation at first, but they realize you’re in no state to talk and leave you to your thoughts. With your hangover, the sun’s brightness feels like nails stabbing into your skull, but the pain gripping your heart still manages to be worse.

Your wedding ring feels especially heavy on your finger, like solid lead weighing you down. You badly want to take it off, but you also don’t want to remove one of the few things tying you to Lucas right now. The conflict tears you apart. You almost feel like your ring has become a sentient thing, burning your skin and pinching your finger with the threat of cutting it clean off.

You scrub yourself for what seems like an hour after you get home. When you finally get out of the shower, you end up in the armchair in your room, sitting in your towel and simply staring at the bed. Lucas’s side of the bed. The side of the bed where a picture of you two sits framed on the nightstand, one you took on the day of your wedding shoot. It seems to mock you now, saying, Look at what a good thing you had. Look at what you’ve destroyed.

The ring burns again.

Monday feels surreal in a sickly way.

You don’t call or text anyone over the weekend—not even your friends who are worried and demanding answers for what happened at the club. You feel like maybe you shouldn’t be, but you’re angry at their demands; why didn’t anyone stop you if they were so concerned? Weren’t they all there, too? Either way, it’s too late to think about “what ifs.” What’s done is done. You don’t want to talk or think about it anymore. But that’s impossible.

Stepping into work doesn’t feel real. No one knows anything except Sharia. All your colleagues still greet you like you’re the same person, the same hardworking employee and loving wife they all know. It’s better that they don’t know, but in some irrational way, this also makes you angry. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t treat me like I’m the same person. My life is ruined; nothing can ever be the same.

Nevertheless, you interact with them all like it’s any other Monday and play along with their tired banter even when you want to scream to the world that none of this matters. You do a decent job of avoiding Sharia during the first half of the day, occupying your time with assignments and then creating busywork when you finish those.

Until lunch. Then there’s nowhere left to run.

You go to your car with the excuse of picking up your food today—even though you don’t intend to do anything but sit in the parking lot—and no one questions it but her. She follows you outside. You don’t even have the energy to tell her no. You’re at least glad that she doesn’t speak until both of you are safely in the car and away from other ears.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know if that matters,” you say blankly.

“Well, it does. You might have made a terrible mistake, but you’re still human.”

“There’s no way to be okay after this. Sharia, what the fuck am I gonna tell him?”

“There’s nothing you can tell him but the truth. He deserves to know that much, at least.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Y/N, it’s better to get this over with sooner than later. It’s only going to hurt worse if you wait. What would you do anyway, just ignore his calls?”

You grip the steering wheel. “...Maybe. If I have to. I don’t know.”

Sharia sighs. “I can’t tell you what to do with your life. But he will need to know at some point.”

“He’ll hate me,” you blurt out, a tear already rolling down your cheek. You try to stop them from coming, but this is the first time you’ve allowed yourself to cry since it happened. You’ve surprised even yourself with how long you avoided this part. The dam has no choice but to break, sending you into a cascade of tears as you rest your head on the steering wheel.

Sharia’s arms are warm around you, but her embrace does nothing to make you feel better. You feel as if you don’t deserve this kind of reprieve from her. And certainly not from Lucas.

A couple weeks later, you sit in your OBGYN’s waiting room, your body stiff with fear and anxiety.

You haven’t talked to Lucas in the entire time since you went to the club that Friday night. You know there is no way he’d go that long without talking to you, though—which is why you blocked him on every avenue you could think of. To be safe, you also blocked all of this group members, making sure there would be no way for him to get into contact with you.

You feel like you’ve lost your mind with the lengths you’ve gone to—what if he thinks you’re kidnapped or dead?—but you’re more afraid of facing him. The thought of looking in his eyes while your transgression swims in the back of your mind makes your stomach pitch to the floor.

And you would like to think that’s the only thing making you sick these days. But you can’t ignore the odd pains and nausea and sudden spotting even if you wanted to. It’s what has landed you in this doctor’s office today, with your hands tucked between your knees and your head spinning as you try to ignore the bitter taste of bile rising in your throat.

Eventually, you can no longer push it back, and you go to the bathroom to empty your stomach—even though there’s not much there to begin with.

When you leave the restroom, a nurse is standing outside in the lobby, her expectant eyes landing on you.

“Mrs. Wong?”

“That’s me,” you say weakly.

“Hi! Come on back so we can get your vitals. I hope you’re doing okay today…” You follow her into the back rooms to get poked and prodded, your blood pressure and temperature taken and your height and weight jotted down on a chart. You don’t pay much attention to what she’s saying. Every word sounds like it’s being filtered through a foggy telephone.

You return to reality when she hands you the transparent cup and the pregnancy test to take, and things become even more painfully clear when another nurse comes in to take your blood. You know the blood test results will take longer to come back, but you requested it anyway. You have to be sure.

Despite the nurses’ cheerful demeanor, you feel cold and isolated when you use the test in the small restroom. The feeling only worsens when the doctor confirms the reading and happily shakes your hand, unaware of or unwilling to acknowledge your dread.

It’s positive.

That weekend, you finally unblock Lucas. Your mind is in a tangle while you do it, but you can’t avoid him any longer.

You don’t know if he’ll even answer your call. You wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. Maybe he’s busy with practice or even asleep. But what makes you feel worse is that you know he’d never ignore you if he wasn’t otherwise occupied.

His name only stays on your phone for a few seconds before he’s immediately picking up the video call, his face suddenly appearing in full color before you. He seems panicked, almost dropping the phone in his haste to answer it. When he rights the screen again and sets it on a steady surface, his expression is difficult to decipher. Then it turns into pure discontent.

“Do you have an explanation for this?” You’ve never seen Lucas this irritated before, and it makes you tremble. It can only get worse from here. “I called and texted and nothing got through. I look on your social media and I’m blocked on every platform. What is this, Y/N?”

You can only shake your head. The words are stuck in your throat. You chew the inside of your cheek, unsure how to respond.

“This isn’t a joke, Y/N. What’s going on?”

Your grip on the phone tightens as your stomach ties itself into a knot. You feel sick again, but you can’t throw up now. “Yukhei, I went t-to the doctor, I-I’m pregnant.”

Lucas pauses, and various emotions flit across his face in the span of a few seconds. His eyebrows draw together in something akin to confusion and hurt. “You’re...pregnant? Why the hell did you need to block me for that? Please don’t tell me this about my career again. Baby, listen to me—”

“Yukhei, I’m only 4 weeks.”

Lucas’s words drop off completely. His body stills, and for a moment you wonder if the video has paused. Your palms sweat and your skin prickles. He sits back in his chair and looks off to the side as if he’s trying to gather words. Finally, he says,

“What are you telling me? Because this isn’t what I’m hearing, is it? This is some kind of prank, right?” His voice gets louder and more frantic towards the end, though he struggles to keep from outright yelling at you. “If you want to play games, this isn’t funny.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can say—there’s no excuse for it, but I was drunk, I-I was lonely, I just don’t know—” You form a fist with your left hand, digging your nails into your palm, and the warm metal of your ring against your skin threatens to burn you again.

Lucas lowers his head and pushes his hands through his hair. He keeps his head down like this for a while as you stumble and try to explain yourself, your words devolving into barely decipherable sobs.

“Shut up. Just shut up!” His words are muffled from him covering his face. He’s never talked to you like that before, which makes you want to cry more, but you don’t say another word. “I just don’t want to hear it. I’ve sat here everyday and thought of you, counting down days until I could come back to the U.S. to see you, and this is what you give me.”

You merely sit and listen with your heart trying to burst in your chest. His words feel like knives being thrown at you; the pain is practically physical.

When he finally takes his hands away from his face and looks up, his eyes are wet and red with tears. “This is impossible. I need time to think about this.”

“I-impossible? Wait, Yukhei—”

He hangs up the call before you can finish speaking, though you aren’t sure what more you could’ve said to him anyway.

With nothing but your screen staring back at you, a sense of unease seeps into your body and makes your limbs stiff. You want to reach out for him, want to make him see that you never intended to hurt him this way. You don’t want to lose everything you’ve built this soon. And yet, you can already see it all slipping through your hands.

You are more alone than ever.

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disasterhumans · 5 years

Note

sketchy mage: use your friends to your own advantage. i am alive because people died for me. get your own goal through others. Me, squinting: don't enable calebs former habits

Okay, okay, okay, so that entire exchange was super fascinating, and I knew pretty much immediately that it was going to be a thing I wanted to write about. But, while Yusa’s comments certainly reflected some of what we know Caleb’s perspective on interpersonal relationships to be, I actually don’t think the conversation poses any real risk toward enabling said behavior. In fact, I think it had close to the opposite effect. I went ahead and transcribed the entire exchange, including Caleb’s silences and physical responses, which communicated just as much as his words in this scene.

Yusa: [after Caleb’s memorized the runes]. A quick learner. Good to know. Where did you train?Caleb: Mostly on my own, to be honest. For years.Yusa: Impressive. You have a talented eye for picking up arcanic sigils and glyphsCaleb: It was not my intention to bother you here. My friends are very curious.Yusa: That they are.Caleb: It was fairly obvious to me that this building…was real estate owned by someone of great skill Yusa: It is designed to keep people like you out. But sometimes tenacity makes for interesting breakfast conversationCaleb: Hm. I actually thought it was a very bad idea to come here.Yusa: It was–but you came anyway, and look where you areCaleb: I sometimes follow my friends places I shouldn’t.Yusa: That may one day get you killed. Or–it may one day get you what you seek.Caleb: [takes a deep breath and looks askance] Well, uh…my apologies for my group’s presumptuousness. Ehm, I hope that we have not made a grave error here today. And if we haven’t [beat] I hope to earn that trust, as you say. Yusa: [narrows his eyes–as in discernment–and leans closer] I’ve lived a long while [long pause] and the only reason I’ve lived this long, is I have made allies. I followed them into sometimes “stupid,” unnecessary circumstances.Caleb: [works jaw/grinds teeth]Yusa: Many of them died helping me. Many of them I outlived. But I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t believe in the power of others.Caleb: [leans back and blinks slowly, breaking the eye contact he’d been holding, and seeming reluctant to re-establish it][swallows thickly and whispers] That’s good advice.Yusa: Use who you need to. But know, everyone can be useful, if you can mete out their skills.Caleb: [takes in a deep, full bodied breath; frowns and tilts head in acknowledgment] I’m sure you have much to do today.Yusa: I’m sure you do as well.

A few general observations: 1) the entire time Caleb has spent in or around the tower he has been visibly wary and distrusting, a demeanor which only seems to increase over the course of this conversation 2) throughout it, Caleb is clearly trying to end the conversation, which 3) he attempts in a deferential manner, and by reiterating his comprehension of the power differential between Yusa and the party (and by entirely glossing over Yusa’s praise of him); 4) Yusa seems to catch on very quickly that he’s touched upon a nerve with Caleb. I’m not sure whether or not Yusa was trying to keep Caleb on the back foot, or if he was genuinely offering up what he thought was helpful advice, but it was pretty clear that he was deliberately ignoring Caleb’s attempts to draw the conversation to a close.

It’s well established at this point that Caleb frames and understands his relationships as being transactional. But it sometimes remains under-appreciated how much it’s a defense mechanism far more than how Caleb truly feels about his friends. (Early on maybe it was just that practical. I think practicality flew out the window somewhere around episode 18, and was long gone by episodes 26/7.) Caleb hasn’t dropped any of his goals, but at this point I think he understands—even if he has a difficult time admitting it to himself, let alone others—that he cares about his friends. I think that fact terrifies him equally as much as the thought of actually using/manipulating friends does. (Remember, Caleb was filled with immediate revulsion over his manipulation of Fjord in episode 44.)

In the end, I think this exchange probably had a few contradictory effects. Caleb is already prepared to take everything Yusa says with a healthy chunk of salt—he clearly sees a number of similarities between Yusa and Trent. So, “use your allies,” (because Yusa said nothing about friends) is not an effective argument to use with Caleb in this circumstance. He looked visibly upset and uncomfortable with nearly everything Yusa said during that exchange.Caleb heard “actively disregard the well-being of others to serve your own ends,” not “mask your real feelings behind thinly veiled excuses.” I really don’t think this conversation made it any more likely that Caleb is going to fall back into actively manipulative behavior—especially because I think he’s still beating himself up over what he did to Fjord (even if he’s also grateful for that favor). On the other hand, I think the conversation did make Caleb think about how much he genuinely cares for his friends. And I think it heavily influenced the way the conversation between Caleb and Beau played out later in the episode.

During the conversation/argument Caleb has with Beau, the thing Beau seemed to hear throughout it was Caleb’s fear. Fear of being discovered, fear of being harmed—and I think she also heard a fear of being alone and unprotected. All of that may have been present, but what he was trying to say was, “I am scared to lose you,” and “I am scared I’ll get you killed.” When Caleb says, “if I care for any of you, [and Trent] knows where any one of you are, he knows he can get to me,” he’s not just expressing a fear that Trent will find him and the group. He’s scared that Trent will hurt his friends not just to find Caleb, but because hurting them will also hurt Caleb. I think Yusa’s utilitarian explanation of allies made it all the clearer to Caleb that that’s not what he wants. He doesn’t want any of the party to “be killed helping [him].” He’s upset with Beau during their conversation because while he’s trying to beg her to keep them all (including herself) safe, she’s offering to throw herself into the fire for him. He’s upset because, “the problem with friends is that you have to care about them,” and sometimes they don’t make it easy.

I think the real danger that the conversations with Yusa, and then Beau—and then everything in Felderwin poses, is not Caleb regressing in how he treats the others, but that together they offered up another reason he might want to leave. Instead of/in addition to wanting to leave because the group is a “distraction,” or because of their (hypothetical) objection to his past, Caleb may now feel compelled to leave in order to protect them. And in that regard, he really wasn’t listening to what Beau was saying either, because what Beau was saying, ultimately, was “we’re stronger together.”

#critical role #c2e48 #caleb widogast #beauregard #cr meta #team human #anonymous #asks

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years

Text

I had a very stressful and obnoxious week last week and asked for prompts and @distant-rose sent me this Tweet in a message that just said PROMPT and I did...absolutely nothing with it. UNTIL TODAY! There are words here. Of the exceptionally fluffy variety. Rip Van Winkle is inexplicably referenced! It’s actually under 5,000 words! Anyway, I don’t write enough Captain Book, so that’s also here.

These words also exist on Ao3 because I have no self control and started a new thing for all my Tumblr prompts.

“Are you kidding me?”

Emma can barely contain her groan when she sees the flashing lights, the car on the side of the road stopped at angle that makes it all too obvious it had no intention of stopping there. She huffs out an exhale, all frustration and another snow storm because it may be March, but it’s also Maine and, apparently, the world just likes messing with her at this point.

She clicks her teeth, doing her best to avoid chomping her tongue in half and that’s the last thing she needs. Well, no, the last thing she needs is this car on the side of the road and Leroy is going to kill her when she says she needs another tow and—

“Anna,” Emma says, reaching forward to grab the walkie talkie sitting on the passenger side of her car. No response. She refuses to be held accountable for the plethora of noises, and curses, that fall out of her mouth at that, skidding slightly as soon as her foot ghosts over the brake. “Oh my God, Anna! Anna, I know you’re there, there is literally nowhere else for you to go!”

There’s some fumbling on the other end of the line, a bit of very loud static and Emma makes a mental note to tell David they should really invest in new walkie talkies. Maybe they can ask Regina. Once they tell her that they need to completely rebudget the public works budget.

For more salt.

And like…dirt to throw at the road or whatever.

Emma should learn more about public works. Her car barely stops when she puts it in park.

“Anna! You have to press the button before you talk!”

“I know how to do it,” Anna mutters, but Emma’s not entirely sure of that and she can’t see if there’s a person in the car with the flashing lights. “Are you on your way back?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

“Someone was stupid weren’t they? You can’t yell at—what’s Leroy’s brother’s name again?”

“Dopey.”

“Emma, that is not his name.”

She mutters a few more pointed words under her breath, but Anna’s got a point and it’s just been the worst winter. Snow and ice and more snow on top of the ice that makes the ice impossible to see when people refuse to stay in their houses. Emma has called for more tows in the last two months than she knew was even possible.

“It’s not even him anyway,” Emma continues, tugging her hat further down her ears with one hand. “It’s—I’ve never seen this car in town before. I think it’s just some random guy.”

“Random guy? Em, are you trying to tell me that you know every car in Storybrooke?”

“No.”

“No?” Anna echoes, the hint of laughter in her voice and Emma knows that’s reasonable. It’s everything else that is the exact opposite of that. She’s going to use some very choice words with the random guy and his car that is clearly not designed to handle any sort of snowfall. “Because that’s certainly what it seems like. Also, did this person not see our very funny tweet? People shouldn’t be out in a storm like this.”

Emma throws her whole head back when she makes whatever noise she makes. It hurts her throat. “Anna, are you sending absurd tweets out again because you’re trying to go viral?”

Silence.

Deafening silence.

Until it’s not. Because the random guy is tapping on her window.

Emma’s hand flies to her chest, eyes bugging and curses falling out of her like particularly heavy snowflakes. “Jesus, fu—“ she starts, trying to catch her breath. He smiles.

Smirks, really. That is...ridiculous.

She waves her hand so he’ll back up, swinging open the door and glaring at him with as much malice as she can muster. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she snaps. “You know you’re not supposed to get out of your car in a situation like this?”

His eyebrows jump. While still smirking. She needs a better word than ridiculous.

“Yeah, I realize that, but, uh…I was just wondering what exactly your plan was and I figured you were actually here to help, so—“

“—Obviously I’m here to help.”

“Right, right, right, so, the lurking in your cruiser was just…part of the plan?”

Emma briefly considers throwing a snowball at him. It’s appealing, honestly. “I’m supposed to be heading back into the station. I saw your car. And your flashing lights. I had to call it in. That’s how it works.”

“Am I under arrest for being outside, officer?”

Her jaw drops – it’s kind of disappointing, all things considered, but he says it with such…snark and something that might be confidence and a hint of…she’s got no idea. Something not quite like either of those things, a little cautious and a little worried and his eyes keep flickering back to his car.

“You got something in there?” Emma asks, instincts kicking in and Storybrooke isn’t really the kind of place where danger lurks or anything, but it is the kind of place where she knows nearly every car and she’s never seen this man before in her life.

He blinks.

“Mr…” she prompts, waving her hands like that will inspire and immediate answer.

“Jones. Killian Jones.”

“Right, Mr. Jones, is there something in particular in your car that you’re very worried about?”

He blinks. Again. And the realization seems to wash over him quickly, lips parting, which means Emma might be staring at his lips just a bit. She’s freezing cold.

She hopes it never snows again.

“That’s awfully presumptuous, don’t you think, Officer…” He leans forward slightly, eyes flitting across the front of her jacket like she wears her badge there or something and—

“Swan,” Emma grows. “My name is Sheriff Swan, actually, so—“

“—My apologies, Sheriff, I didn’t realize that I was in the presence of such authority.”

“Seriously, do you want to get arrested?”

“For what?” Killian asks. “I don’t think venturing into this tundra is an actual crime.”

“Reckless endangerment.”

He shakes his head, a click of his tongue that makes Emma’s blood boil. It does nothing to warm her up. Because the metaphor sucks. “I don’t think that falls under the particular umbrella, unfortunately. Idiotic, yes, but certainly not a crime.”

“Who is law enforcement in this situation?”

“I defer to your law enforcement, Swan—“

“—Sheriff,” she sneers, and he flashes her a grin that almost reaches his eyes. Emma tilts her head. She’s always been very good at this, picking out lies and falsehoods and it’s served her well in her career, but, again, Storybrooke is well…Storybrooke and it doesn’t seem necessary all that often.

Until right now.

With Killian Jones.

And his car with flashing lights and lack of snow tires.

“Why were you out in this storm, Mr. Jones?” Emma asks, doing her best to keep her voice even. “Did you not see our tweet?”

It takes him a moment for him to react to that, which is fair because Emma’s not even sure how to react and she’s the one who said it. She hopes Anna never finds out. She’ll never hear the end of it. “I’m sorry,” Killian laughs, and Emma only realizes he’s not wearing a hat when he runs his hand through his hair. “Did you just ask me about a social media promotion? For what…your sheriff station?”

“No, obviously not!”

“Then…”

“Anna thinks she’s funny and, well, I’m fairly positive she’s got some bet with Ruby about getting the tweets on daytime TV or something and, you know what, here.”

Emma tugs her phone out of her back pocket, scrolling down her Twitter feed quickly and all but shoving the stupid thing in Killian’s face. His laugh sounds a little more genuine that time.

And his fingers aren’t freezing cold when they brush over hers.

“Storybrooke Police,” he reads. “It’s snowing again. We say roads are getting slick, tell you to stay home, most of you do, some of you can’t, some of you like to slide around to pick up Cheetos at the gas station. It is what it is.” Killian hands her back her phone, tugging his lips back behind his teeth to conceal his smile. It doesn’t work. In spectacular fashion. It’s going to take forever to dig his car out of this ditch. “They’re not Cheetos,” he says, and in the grand scheme of snark-filled, possibly flirtatious and wholly irresponsible conversation, that is the last thing Emma expects to hear.

“Wait, what?”

“Not Cheetos. Cool Ranch Doritos.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Killian shakes his head solemnly, turning on his heels to yank open the back door of his car. Emma counts three bags before he makes a vaguely triumphant noise, dangling a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in the air. “You’d never believe what I had to do to keep ensure the grocery store stayed open.”

“Because people aren’t supposed to be out in this,” Emma points out.

“Yes, so your social media just informed me. Unfortunately, I don’t have Twitter—“

“—You don’t have Twitter?”

“We’re still in the process of setting up our internet and—“

“—Who uses Twitter on an actual computer?”

Killian scowls at the interruption, but Emma is getting more confused and cold by the second and she can’t believe Leroy isn’t already there. Yelling at her. As if the snow is her fault. “Would you like the actual explanation, Swan or you would you like to keep trashing me in your head?”

She gasps. It’s embarrassing.

“I’m not doing that,” Emma sputters, but Killian’s already humming in a very specific and placating way and the snowball thing is looking more and more appealing. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“You’ve got a very expressive face.”

“Wow, that’s kind of a dick move.”

“I didn’t say it was a particularly bad face.”

“Jeez, tell your story!”

He salutes. Ridiculous. Ridiculous. Ridiculous. And not. “As you may have gleaned by my mention of a lack of internet, I am new to your charming, if not in need of a new public works department, town. Recently moved from somewhere that understands what salted roads are and—“

“—It’s snowed a lot this winter, ok?”

“Swan, if you keep interrupting, you’re never going to get to the heroic part of this story.”

“Oh, it’s a hero story, huh?”

Killian nods. She can dimly hear the tow truck working down the road. “My friend and I moved here. It’s a very involved, slightly tragic, not mine to tell story, but suffice it to say that, nearly as soon as it started snowing, said friend requested Cool Ranch Doritos, cucumbers and fluffernutter.”

“I don’t think they sell fluff in the grocery store on Main Street.”

“They do not, in fact.”

Emma is having a difficult time processing this. “Ok, ok, so let me get this straight. You went out to get your friend food. Who you live with. And he, she…”

“She.”

Huh. That’s almost disappointing. “She,” Emma repeats. “Couldn’t have done this herself? Or before the storm hit?”

“No.”

That’s it. That’s all she gets. She widens her eyes, waiting for more or another round of almost pleasurable banter, but there’s nothing, just a slightly stiff upper lip and Killian staring straight at her like any of this is normal. “Why?” Emma asks, certain she’s overstepped even before the question leaves her mouth.

“It wasn’t an option.”

“Right. Ok, and you were going back and—“

“—Hit some ice. I’m seriously considering writing a very strongly worded letter to your department of public works.”

“Are you secretly an ancient person in disguise? Is this some kind of Rip Van Winkle situation?”

The laugh he lets out gets rid of any tension she may have caused and Emma finds herself smiling on instinct. Until she hears Leroy yelling. Loudly.

“You got another one Sheriff?”

Emma nods, not puling her eyes away from Killian when he offers her a smile that’s less smirk and more genuine. He’s still holding Cool Ranch Doritos. “Yeah,” she calls. “You may have to get him out of the snowbank, but uh—do you think you need a mechanic or just tow it back to your house?”

“The apartment is fine,” Killian says. “I should, um…I’m assuming they don’t have cabs here, right?”

It’s Emma’s turn to laugh that time, but there’s a distinct lack of malice in the sound. She shakes her head. “I can give you a ride. Then Leroy can just follow us?”

“Are you sure?”

“To serve and protect, right?”

“Something like that.” His tongue darts between his lips and Emma’s starting to worry about the state of his ears. He can’t possibly be warm. “Let me get the rest of the bags out of there and then we can go. If that works?”

Emma hums, and there’s snow starting to seep into her right boot. She hopes that’s not a sign. “Let me tell Anna know what we’re doing so she doesn’t—“

“—Tweet out your disappearance.”

“For someone who claims not to follow social media, you certainly know the terminology.”

“That’s because I’m not actually Rip Van Winkle.”

Emma laughs. She’s fairly certain Leroy growls. And the whole thing is…normal. Killian sits in the passenger side like it’s a thing, giving her an address that’s close to the docks and she didn’t even know there was an available apartment down there.

Her car doesn’t skid when she stops that time.

Maybe that’s a sign.

“Thank you for the help, Swan,” he says, as soon as she puts the car in park. “I uh—well, I can guarantee that it won’t happen again.”

“That’s alright. It’s kind of in the job description. And, you know, almost spring. So.”

“Right.”

There’s a lull – a distinct lack of conversation that might be the most awkward thing that’s happened to her in, at least, seventy-six years and she’s twenty-nine years old. She clicks her teeth, jaw aching slightly and it takes Emma approximately four seconds to decide on her next few words. “You want some help carrying your stuff up?”

Killian’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Your stuff. I mean…it kind of looks like you’ve got enough food for a small army and I—

“—Yeah, ok,” he finishes, far to quick to be anything except enthusiastic. Emma’s stomach flips.

She follows him up the stairs, careful not to trip on the sludge clinging to her boots. The apartment itself isn’t that big, but there’s a window that looks out on the ocean and the smell of something that might be hot chocolate lingering in the air and—a very solid, clearly pregnant body flinging itself at Killian as soon as he closes the threshold.

Emma’s jaw is never going to recover.

“I have come up with sixteen different and increasingly violent ways you had died while you were out there,” the woman yells, using both hands to swat at any bit of Killian she can reach. He does not look surprised. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

He eyes her meaningfully, reaching down to pull one of her hands away. “I didn’t have service on Main Street. And then then it was—it was a whole thing, but the car is fine—“

“—Why wouldn’t the car be fine?!”

“We’re very close to running out of road salt,” Emma answers, not sure if she should actually interject herself in the conversation, but she’s holding a bag of what appears to just be frozen pizzas and her heart feels like it’s shrinking. So, like, whatever. “And, uh…well, Mr. Jones’ car went off the road.”

The woman swats at his chest again.

“I am fine, love,” Killian says, and, yeah, definitely disappointing. “So is the car. And the Sheriff was kind enough to call a tow truck that may arrive in the next millennium and—“ He twists backwards, grabbing the much-travelled Cool Ranch Doritos out of the bag. The woman’s face lights up. “A very noble quest has come to an end.”

Emma’s going to go fling herself in a snow bank.

It will be better than this.

She can hear the woman thanking Killian, hugging him tightly and the whole thing is very nice. Or it would be if her mind weren’t her mind and she weren’t certain her right foot was frostbitten from whatever had seeped through her boot.

She really thought friend wasn’t a lie.

“Well, I’m uh…” Emma starts lamely, dropping the bags at her feet. “I’m going go. Try to stay off the roads for at least the next twenty-four hours. Everything should be cleaned up by then.”

“Oh, don’t you want to stay for a second?” the woman asks, and she sounds genuine. “I’ve got hot chocolate and I’m sure you’ve got to be freezing after saving Killian.”

Emma shakes her head. “No, no, it’s fine. I’ve, uh…got patrols and stuff. Paperwork to fill out.”

It’s the worst lie in the history of humans telling one another lies. The words shake their way out of her and land at her feet next to the frozen pizzas and the weight of her collective disappointment. Her smile makes the muscles in her face ache.

“I’m sure I’ll see you two in town soon,” Emma continues. “It was, um…it was nice to meet you, Mr. Jones—“

“—Killian.”

“Mr. Jones. If Leroy doesn’t show within the next forty-five minutes, just call the station and Anna will write a scathing tweet to embarrass him.”

He chuckles, fingers finding the back of his hair. “Thank you, Swan.”

She doesn’t run out of the apartment – can’t because of the goddamn snow – but it’s awfully close and Anna asks what’s wrong, boss no less than forty-two times in the next three hours. And Emma gives the same answer. Nothing. Nothing is wrong. Because nothing can be wrong. And she almost believes it by the time she gets home.

Idiot.

She throws away her socks.

And she resolutely refuses to think about for the next two days – far too busy with meetings and expense forms and the pipe in Granny’s basement burst, leading her to inspect that like she was some kind of authority. It’s the first chance she’s had to be in the diner since the storm, Ruby handing her a to-go cup as soon as she gets of the basement.

“Here," Emma says, struggling to grab the few bills she knows are crammed in her back pocket. Ruby is already shaking her head. “What?”

“Paid for. For, like…probably the next two months, honestly.”

“What?”

“Pick another word, Em.”

“Who would do that?”

“Anna claims he’s random guy, but he introduced himself as Killian to me and, this verbatim by the way, asked ‘If the sheriff comes in here regularly?’”

“And you were very quick to answer him?” Emma asks, not sure why her voice has that edge to it, but her stomach is doing that thing again and she’s already been an idiot once.

Ruby grins. “Naturally. He was very interested, Em. Also he’s stupid good looking and he wants to buy your coffee for—“

“—The next two months.”

“At least.”

Emma huffs, not sure if this is nice or placating or just a very over-the-top apology. She wants the coffee anyway. “The next time you see him, you can give him his money back.” Ruby’s shoulders sag. “I’ll see you later, ok? Tell Mary Margaret I’m bringing the food for the night.”

“Popcorn is not a food, Em.”

“It’s got melted malt balls in it, totally counts.”

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

“You need to stop hitting on guys on my behalf.”

“Trust me, it was not that hard.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but she can still make out Ruby’s knowing smile and Anna is giggling when she walks into the station. “What’s your deal?” Emma asks, but all she gets is a louder laugh and a slight head nod and there’s a shadow standing in front of her desk she hadn’t noticed before.

She doesn’t ask anymore questions. She doesn’t have to.

“Damn,” Emma mutters, and it’s a mistake because it clearly gets Killian’s attention. He spins on the spot, all wide eyes and cautious optimism and his gaze flickers to the cup of coffee in her hand.

“I hope you didn’t pay for that.”

“That was unnecessary. And wasteful.”

“I don’t see it that way at all.” He takes a step towards her, less optimistic than just plan and obvious hope and Emma has to take a deep breath. It doesn’t really do much. “It’s uh…well, I’ve been informed that you may have gotten the wrong impression about me.”

Emma scrunches her nose. And twists her lips. She’s very tired of being confused. “I don’t think that’s possible. We talked for like…two seconds.”

“That’s true, but you did carry in all those pizzas and I didn’t really explain what was going on with Belle.”

“Your pregnant girlfriend? I don’t think there was much to explain.”

Killian grimaces, hissing in a breath of air and squeezing one eye shut. “Yeah, she said that’s what you thought. God, she’s going to be insufferable about this.”

“Speak English!”

“Belle is not my girlfriend,” Killian says, all determined honesty and a sharpness to his gaze that makes whatever breath Emma just took even more useless. “She’s…well, I wasn’t lying, Swan. She’s my best friend and I didn’t—it’s a very long and involved, slightly depressing story that more or less amounts to a dick of an ex-husband, an opportunity for me here at your hopefully soon to open harbor and—“

“—A very noble quest,” Emma whispers. She’s not confused anymore. She hopes.

Killian nods. “He was a dick. Is, still, presently. And she’s getting the divorce, but he kept making all these claims and trying to break his restraining order and—“

“—What?”

“Honestly, a dick. There’s…no, that’s the best word for it. So, when I got this job, I told her to come with me. Some kind of fresh start for both of us. We’ve only been here a couple days and then it was snowing and she just..the Doritos weren’t for me.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that, honestly.”

“Smart.”

Emma hums, not sure when she took a step forward but her toes are very close to Killian’s. “And it is a kind of heroic story.”

He beams. It would probably reflect very well off the snow still piled up outside.

“I’m fairly certain you’re the hero of the story at this point, love,” Killian says, and she’s not sure if he realizes the change in endearment. She does. So does her stomach. “Anyway, uh…Belle mentioned that it might be a good idea to say something to you when I’ve spent the last few days talking about you and—“

“—You’re talking about me?”

Surprise is a good look on him. So is confusion. And everything. But, whatever.

He licks his lips. “Yeah. Incessantly, if you ask Belle.”

“I might.”

“She’d like that. She was disappointed she couldn’t give you something for helping. And then told me, in no uncertain terms, that if I didn’t come over her and ask you out she was going to throw my belongings in the ocean.”

“Wow, that’s harsh.”

“Yes, it is.”

“So are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Asking me out?”

The smile, somehow, gets wider. It’s incredible. And ridiculous. And nice. And Emma doesn’t really think before she moves, just presses up on her toes and catches his lips with his because she’d been thinking about him too and—

The specifics do no matter. Not when he does that thing with his tongue.

They rock against each other for a moment, an arm finding its way around Emma’s middle while her fingers card through the hair at the nape of Killian’s neck. It’s an easy rhythm, and there’s probably a joke to me made about driving in perfect weather, but Emma’s having a difficult time thinking of anything except nipping on his lip. So. She does.

He makes the most delightful noise.

“You’re not making this very easy, love.”

She laughs, giggles, God, Anna is going to be so annoying about that, another quick kiss and swipe of tongue and they get distracted for a few more moments. “What did you have in mind?”

“What are your thoughts on a variety of other Dorito flavors?”

“How many do you think there are?”

“I’ve got no idea, but I’m very interested to find out.”

She smiles, easy and wanting and the hand that lingers on the small of her back is surprisingly comforting. “Yeah, me too.”

They don’t leave his apartment the next time it snows, curled, instead on the corner of the couch with every bag of Frito-Lay products they could find and the world’s most adorable baby making noise through every single movie they watch.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #cs fic #remember that time i was going to write less fic #ha #funny joke

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elliemarchetti · 5 years

Text

A Rebel’s Song

It has been a very long time since I wrote something and honestly I don't even know if it's nice or interesting, I just know that I like the idea of exploring the beginnings of the Scarlet Guard, or at least trying, and the relationship between Willis and Clara and where the Colonel is still not a colonel but only a boy or a little more and Farley looks more like her mother than her father.

Other, super old, Red Queen works

A Wonderful Mistake (part 1) (part 2)

A Red Lover (part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8)

What If (part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

Winter Olympics AU (week 1) (week 2) (week 3)

Words: 1024

Control was the only thing that really mattered. From a young age she had learned that by planning, calculating and observing a lot of problems could be avoided: unnecessary risks, disappointments but above all, suffering. Planning everything to avoid problems, however, was not always easy, something that she realized that evening among the dim lights of the Cutter's Club, a provincial tavern frequented mainly by Reds who had shady deals, businesses that could’ve cost them a hand or an eye and sometimes even life, if they had been discovered by the Silvers officers. But just like her, everyone in there knew how to go unnoticed, how being nothing but shadows in the eyes of the young king's haughty assassins: the numerous neon signs hung on the walls were mostly extinguished and the weak track-mounted spotlights on the ceiling illuminated more the cheap liquor bottles behind the counter than the patrons, who knew which tables were dedicated to the wayfarers who didn’t know they were in the den of one of the most dangerous secret associations in the Lakelands and which were dedicated to business. Clara, of course, was there on business: she had learned to hate the smell of alcohol since she was a child and she didn't liked having to sway unwanted avanches from every wasted farmer who hated their wife and hoped to do unspeakable things with girls way younger than them, sometimes even their daughters’ age, for a few pennies. But her superior said recruitment, and since she wanted to become sergeant before she turned twenty, she followed the orders, whether she liked it or not. In the beginning, if only for a moment, she had thought of refusing. After all it was a task that could have been entrusted to someone else, for example that plump woman she continued to meet at the market in the village and she was certain was part of the Scarlet Guard, someone who wasn’t mentally and physically trained like her, someone who in a few years would’ve been nothing more than a burden, good only for sending telegrams and studying new codes for messages, but in the end she had refrained from expressing her own perplexity: perhaps her superior wanted to test her, perhaps, allowing her to decide whether or not to grant someone access, was granting her a great privilege. As they used to repeat, a single mistake like putting one's trust innocently in someone who could betray her, was enough to blow up everything. It wasn’t entirely true, but it served to induce the kind of pressure and responsibility that brought her subordinates to work better and Clara didn’t mind as it made everything more elitist and automatically skimmed the number of incompetents who could enter their ranks. Sometimes, when she found herself making thoughts of that sort, she wondered if she had begun to think like them, like the Silvers, but were in moments like that, where she sat on the same stool for two hours, forced to drink a clear liquid that burned her throat and tasted like crap, paying them moreover with her own money, so as not to be noticed, that she realized that hers were not bad thoughts but only practical ones.

"This is the last you will have, darling." the bartender said, filling her glass full of halos for the third time. For an instant she was almost tempted to stop him, to tell him that she wouldn’t drink another glass of that rubbish and that she wouldn’t wait anymore for some stupid little boy to come to a meeting which he was obviously too afraid to go, but she was blocked by the door thrown open, letting in a gust of the icy February wind, from a boy her age, perhaps a little older, who sat on the stool next to hers. He was wearing an army uniform, one of those fairly clean, which meant he hadn’t been assigned to the trenches but was at least in the rear. He gave her a quick glance, and it took his green eyes a little less than half a second to grasp what he needed to know about her.

"You really are very young to find yourself in such a place." he commented, and although Clara was struggling to understand his tone of voice, which anyone would have called flat, by the angle of his lips she somehow would’ve called him amused.

“I’m not that young.” she replied vaguely, hoping in some way to frighten him a little, though she thought it difficult. Those who came from the army, deserters or spies that they were, had been in direct contact with the Silvers, just like her, and they certainly didn't let themselves be intimidated by tough-looking girls and a rank stolen from the army itself.

"What are you drinking?" he asked, and Clara just couldn't understand why he was so uninterested in talking about business. Did he want to be discarded? Was someone obligating him? Yet he certainly didn't seem easy to force to do something against his will.

"What I paid for" she replied, angrily, trying not to be fooled by his presumptuous beauty, because it was obvious that that boy, whatever his name was, knew he was attractive, despite his short hair after the service and the lips dried by the cold and probably also by a perennial state of dehydration.

"Did I piss you off?" he asked, after a long moment of silence fell between them.

"Are you trying to do it?" she replied.

"Maybe, or maybe I'm just trying to take you home."

She almost let out an exclamation of joy. Finally that ordeal was over, the boy had pronounced the fateful coded sentence and they would’ve left to talk about serious things, allowing her, if everything had gone the right way, to be back for the curfew or a little later, anyway nothing that would have really got her into trouble.

"But first, I want to know your name."

"Caporal Major Willis Farley, at your service." he replied with a sly smile. "But you can just call me Willis."

#clara farley #willis farley #clara x willis #because why not #red queen series #fanfiction #what more can i say? i said i wanted to write it and i'm writing it #back at my bullshit again folk #bear with me

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