#Niron is so cute

[desperate-entwives]

old times’ sake

memori engagement week day one: con/something old There are shapes below them, shadows shifting in a makeshift bed. The only thing cutting into the absolute darkness is the door’s lock which pulses slowly, green and green and green again. Next to her, a lanky body shifts, scraping a heel against the metal vent where they’re waiting. “Shh,” Emori hisses. “It’s quiet here.” “You were just complaining about the noise, like, an hour ago.” “I wasn’t complaining. I was noticing.” And anyway, it’s a different kind of noise, and doesn’t he realize that? The machine hum on the ring isn’t organic, has to be worked against in a way the rustle of trees and leaves hadn’t. 

She bites back a grin, a corner of John’s face evident in the blinking light. A bemused slide of smile, like he’s looking at something lovely and just a bit ridiculous. “What?” She breathes the word, caught in a delicate moment. Their fingers touch, just a little.  “Nothing. You’re cute when you’re scheming.”  “Am I,” she says, inching closer to him in the already-narrow passageway. He laughs a little and noses her neck, not really a kiss, just a strange bit of intimacy. Her heart thrums at the dark exhalation of breath to shoulder.   “I think they’re asleep,” he says finally. “Thank god we didn’t have to watch them getting it on.”  It is Harper and Monty in the bed below them; Raven and Echo are too quick, Bellamy too likely to strike out if woken up. They’re easy targets, more likely to laugh than hit.  Emori listens. Their breathing is even, Monty’s face half-hidden by a blanket and Harper’s corn-yellow hair caught in her mouth. “Let’s go,” she says, the words barely audible, and she lowers herself slowly from the ceiling vent, placing her feet on a dresser and climbing down. Then she lifts a chair and, sure not to scrape it, puts it beneath the vent for John.  “I could have done that dresser thing, too,” he complains.  “Shh.”  They open the dresser, which creaks a little, but the two sleeping bodies don’t stir. Even a year after settling in their temporary home, the seven of them haven’t accumulated all that much in the way of personal possessions. Harper has some books, Monty has his research and his moonshine. How he makes it with only algae, John has very vocally expressed that he doesn’t want to know, but there is a bottle of it there all the same. Emori slips it into her pocket, and John grabs two books. As they step back, Emori notices a couple pieces of jewelry on the table next to Harper. A small ring made of metal. A bracelet of cloth.  She has learned in her year with other members of skaikru that rings are important between nirons, so she just grabs the bracelet.   “Wonder how long it’ll take,” he says once they’re back in the vent, chair shifted back to its original resting place.  “Half a day for Monty,” she hazards, voice still a scratchy whisper. “Three hours for Harper, if she doesn’t check her jewelry. Maybe she’ll tell him, maybe not.”  They crawl until they reach their own room, which hadn’t been their room until the past month. They’d realized their first quarters on the ring were removed from an easily accessed person-sized entrance to the ceiling vent system, so they’d connived a way to a different quarters, claiming they wanted to be closer to the others.  And maybe it was half-true, at least for Emori. Even Echo is starting to make sense to her, to soften and become something almost vulnerable. Emori is finding she can talk to people who aren’t John or Raven, finding that she even enjoys what they have to say. But they’ve both been restless. “A little chaos among friends never hurt anyone,” John had said when she initially suggested running a con for old times’ sake. Con. That’s what she still calls it in her mind, even though they aren’t tricking anyone, or anyway, not tricking them too badly. They’re just stealing. And if there are a few sips missing from Monty’s bottle when he gets it back, it’s possible that no one will be the wiser.  When they make it back to their quarters, John untenses like a spring. The sneaking around is good for him; the tight spaces less so. She’d tried suggesting another way, but he wanted to try it. “And there are worse people to be stuck in a metal box with,” he’d added, which had made her grin and kiss him, which was likely the intent behind the words.  Now they settle into their own bed, clothes still on. They pass the bottle back and forth, just a little, and John cracks open one of the books he’d taken from Harper.  “It’s a book of myths,” he says, and laughs. “Here I thought Bellamy was the only sucker for this crap.”  Emori squints at a picture of a stern man on a throne. Almost like a Heda, but those didn’t exist back before the first praimfaya.  “Why is he so angry?” she asks, settling into his arm, the moonshine asking her to be loose-limbed, warm. He adjusts so that his arm is around her, hand tracing unconscious patterns onto her waist.  “Er,” he says, eyes working rapidly, “it looks like he was eaten by his… father? And then rescued by his brother. And now he doesn’t even get to live with the other gods.”  John has complained about how unrealistic stories and myths are, in spite (or maybe because) of Bellamy’s obsession with them. They never struck Emori as unrealistic, though. Heightened, perhaps, but utterly real for all of that.  “Read it to me,” she suggests, and as he does, voice lilting in that wry way of his, she closes her eyes and allows the stories to dictate things in her dreams, things new and old alike.

#memoriweek 2019 #memori #john murphy #emori #memoriweek #the 100 #don't try to make sense of any of the exposition in this ok #my fic #some memori writing

[possibilistfanfiction]

where the days have no numbers (to slow among roses, or stay behind)

[yall were rly cute abt the fic where lexa needs to retire & they have hale so here’s a little continuation for u. lexa’s hip gets better n they go on VACAY! ao3.]

//

where the days have no numbers (to slow among roses, or stay behind)

.

if it’s harmed, it’s harmed me, it’ll harm, i let it in —bon iver, ‘00000 million’

//

lexa looks out of place, and uncomfortably so, in a hospital gown and the beds that on many warriors look tiny. but you’re struck again—as you are sometimes, when things are calm and the world smells like flowers, and lexa’s hair is loose from its braids and you are sure she has never loved anyone as much as she loves you—you are struck that your wife is small, and slight, and delicate. 

she is, also, incredibly stubborn and sort of ridiculous, which right now is helping the pang in your chest lessen, just a little bit. 

‘stop trying to take those off,’ you tell her, and try to be gentle about it, because you know she’s mostly just scared and not trying to be consistently obstinate. 

lexa lies back against the pillows, looking impossibly younger in the soft gown, without any armor or warpaint. she huffs. ‘this procedure is for my hip, clarke. i do not see the use for all of these.’

she looks toward the oximeter on her finger with absolute disdain, and you can’t help but laugh.

she glares.

‘they’re just so we can make sure that you’re healthy the whole time.’

‘i am healthy,’ she says, and without swords and daggers her annoyance looks a little like a pout. 

‘you are,’ you say, grant her that at least, kiss her cheek gently when she petulantly turns away. you smile against her skin, though, and you feel her resolve start to waver. ‘you’re very healthy, and once your hip is healed, i have all sorts of plans to increase your flexibility.’

she turns toward you. ‘yes?’

‘mhm, commander,’ you tell her, and her pupils grow in size immediately. you want to laugh because you have been having sex with her for almost fifteen years and still this never fails. ‘lots of range of motion exercises.’

it takes her a moment to laugh, but then she does, softly and with resignation. ‘i look forward to that, clarke of the sky people.’

you smile fully then, and tug her in for a kiss. her IV line gets caught in your hair and you have to carefully untangle yourselves, but she doesn’t seem nearly as frustrated as before. 

the hospital in polis is coming along—she’d given you and raven free reign, essentially, to build an equipped hospital in polis, to work with the healers to blend both your practices of medicine. raven had been able to salvage some ark tech, and replicate it as well, and so now you have x-ray machines in polis, and three surgical theaters that are almost up to your mother’s exacting standards. you’ve spent your years setting up clinics in most clans, educating their healers, traveling with—and without—lexa to the far reaches of all of the land you could’ve never dreamed of. you’ve delivered babies, and treated head wounds, and tried to chart every poison and antidote the grounders seemingly have an endless supply of; you have given yourself to leadership and education and healing.

your mother had grumbled when you’d insisted she travel to polis to do lexa’s surgery here, but when you’d pointed out that there was no good way to transport your wife after her surgery back to your home, you had seen your mother consider having to have a sore, stir-crazy commander in her pristine arkadia hospital, and she had agreed. 

you’re waiting for her to be ready, now, with lexa in this small sterile room that she hates, hooked up to all sorts of machines that she hates, and you can understand: she has been hurt before, but never electively. you think this sort of decision goes against her very nature: to give in to the way of grace, to let something heal her when the earth cannot.

but she loves you, more than you ever could’ve known, so she’s here, quiet and stubborn and grumpy, in this hospital bed. she’s nervous, fidgeting and stoic, and you adore everything about her.

you’re about to tell her this, or try to, when your mother walks in, brusque and professional, in her surgical scrubs. 

‘ready?’ she asks.

‘yes,’ lexa says, very seriously, and you squeeze her hand with a little smile when she looks to you.

‘she’s good to go,’ you tell your mom, and her eyes are soft and understanding when she sees the two of you. it had been difficult at first, because of the mountain, but your mother had grown to love lexa, because they both want to give you the world.

lexa swallows and turns to you, kisses you gently, chastely. your wife—the most powerful person in the world who comes with cities that have fallen under her hand, an army that looks at her like a god—is scared, and you kiss her forehead. ‘you’re going to be just fine.’

love is not weakness, you have learned, and she is the strongest thing you have ever known.

your mom smiles gently as you back up and she steps up next to the bed, explains the surgery quickly once more, as per procedure that she insists on sticking to, which is comforting in its own way. and then she puts her hand gently on the side of lexa’s face, cups her cheek, in the same way she’s done for you, in a gesture of incredible comfort, and fondness, and tenderness, your whole life, in the same way she does for hale, now.

‘you’re going to fall asleep, and you won’t feel anything, and the next thing you know, clarke will be right here again when you wake up. it’ll be just like a blink.’

lexa nods. ‘thank you, abby,’ she says, and then turns toward you.

‘see you soon, niron,’ you say, and she kisses your knuckles.

‘ai hod yu in,’ she tells you, and this surgery is, in the long run, not dangerous at all—not compared to every battle you have ever seen her off to fight, every tense meeting among generals in the tower, even. 

but still, you feel it, feel her and your life together, the very center of all you are.

‘i love you too.’

she smiles and your mom nods at you seriously and wheels her away.

you stay staring for a while at your hands, where hers had been.

//

she is just as obstinate when she’s out of surgery as before, trying to take the oxygen cannula out of her nose, generally just being a pain in the ass to the post-op staff as they usher you in the room with a sigh of relief.

‘my love,’ she breathes out when she sees you, stops her struggle against a lead stuck to her chest.

‘hi,’ you say, trying not to laugh, and sit down next to her bed, take her hands in yours—out of comfort but also stillness. ‘how are you feeling?’

she shrugs unevenly, a gesture so young and unlike her you wish you had one of raven’s cameras with you.

‘are you in any pain?’

‘pain is just,’ she says, then leans back her against her pillows like the words have taken a lot out of her. ‘pain is merely a state of mind, clarke.’

‘well, you just got a bunch of new nerves and twenty-one stitches after my mom reconstructed your bones, so—’

‘shhhhh,’ she tells you, and closes her eyes. ‘brevity.’

you laugh and kiss the top of her hand, which makes her smile lopsidedly. ‘get some sleep.’

‘i’m not tired,’ she insists, still with her eyes shut.

you can’t help but smile, because your mom told you with utmost confidence that everything went better than expected, and that your wife is, indeed, very healthy.

‘get some sleep, lexa.’

she’s still for a few moments before she nods minutely and then whispers, ‘stay?’ a little roughly.

you feel eighteen again, in love and blown away and aching. but now it’s easy— you have built a word full of peace together: ‘always.’

//

lexa is tired, you can tell, but the good kind of spent because you had hiked to the tidepools together, and she had told hale stories after stories about all of the small creatures you can find there. your daughter had been delighted, and you need to thank raven again for the camera she had managed to salvage, because now you have a picture of your wife holding your daughter while they peer in wonder at phosphorescent starfish, their hair wild in the wind, their eyes bright.

lexa had carried hale all the way back on her shoulders, telling you both about the different kinds of birds, and trees, and generally finding what you can tell is an immense amount of joy in sharing the ground with you.

it’s been months, and she’s regained almost full mobility, only feeling pain when it had gotten especially cold, and then it was mostly just stiffness. 

when she had been well enough to quietly pitch the idea of a vacation to you—six whole days with no duties to anyone—you had cried, because you still owe your lives to your people, and you always will, but there is a sort of breath now, the same sort of healing that came to her bones.

she had brought you to this grand, single story house on the beach, one that apparently she had been having built for three years now, before hale was even born, hoping for this day. it’s the most spectacular gesture: the big windows looking out over the ocean; the aisle in front of them; the big bed with soft, warm linens and a driftwood headboard—all of it for you; all of it for your love.

tonight lexa grills fish she caught this morning, somehow managed to have something called a lemon to squeeze over them, and herbs she apparently planted herself, over a year ago, in a small garden on the side of the house. 

so much of her love is unspoken, and tender, and grander than you know how to give sometimes. but you tuck hale in together and you take a blanket and some wine out to the beach with her hand tucked in yours, the air salt and warm, the waves of her hair loose and long—and you try.

this is your private beach, and you take your clothes off together and touch each other, like have for fifteen years, like you do with more care and attention every day.

she traces a tiny scar under your eye and you pay careful attention to the one down her hip, but then you don’t think about harm so much anymore. you touch her and she arches into you, and she kisses you—down your skin and into your core—and you look up to see the stars; you close your eyes and see them all the same.

afterward you laugh into her neck about the sand somehow stuck to the side of her face, and she wraps her strong arms around you and spells out words on your skin that you can’t follow.

you lie like that for minutes together, listening to the sea and looking at her under the moonlight, washed out and stunning; you are incredibly in love.

‘what are you thinking about?’ you ask her, after a while.

she hums. ‘your medical procedures are so odd.’

your lips quirk up.

‘i had to choose to let your mother harm me so that i could heal, in the long term.’

the way she says it, full of softness, makes you remember her all those years ago, when you’d first met, the way she wanted more than just survival, her trust in you, the way she knelt before you in reverence.

‘i am going to grow old with you, clarke of the sky people,’ she says, with the same conviction she does when she gives speeches as the savior of her people.

you kiss her, deeply, and when it grows too heavy you tickle her side and she laughs with a yelp into your mouth, kisses you softly afterward.

you say, ‘i don’t plan on anything else.’

// 

hale wakes you both up in the morning, crawling over lexa with an oomph to plant herself in the middle of the bed. lexa groans and rolls over, throwing an arm over both of you.

‘rest, strikon,’ she says, her morning voice rough and only one eye peeking open. you kiss hale’s forehead with a little laugh when she huffs but snuggles up against your chest and sighs into it.

she’s quiet for a few minutes but then wrinkles her nose and sits up, her little fist held high.

‘why is there san, mama?’

‘sand,’ you say, and you can feel yourself blushing, even though lexa glares at you both and hale has no idea what’s going on. ‘and, um, we were playing in it last night before bed.’

lexa snorts from below her pillow and that’s all it takes for hale to squeal in delight and pile on top of her, mixed english and trigedesleng about playing in the sand almost in full sentences, and lexa laughs and turns over and hugs hale to her chest, blowing a raspberry against her cheek. 

your heart is full, and whole, and hale reaches for you and pulls you toward both of them, into a clumsy embrace where you knock limbs and feel the summer sweat already beginning. your chest aches, and the air is warm; you are at peace and your wife is looking at you like you are the first person any sort of gods ever found holy: you are so far from harm.

#possibilist #possibilistfanfiction #no plot 2.0 but its CUTE! #moms! vacation! #clexa fanfiction #clexa week 2018

[angelaiswriting]

Little Changes | Roan x pregnant!Reader

✎ Requested by Anonymous: “Hello there, do you think you could write a Roan x Reader, where Roan knows her and her body perfectly that when she gets pregnant, he notices before she even does please ? That’d be so cute !”

✎ A/N: I’m so sorry it took me so long to write your request: I kept coming to it and trying to write it, but it seemed like I could never come up with something good. I really hope you like this (and that you see it, since it’s been a while since you requested). Also, many thanks to @selldraug for the title!

✎ Fandom: The 1OO. Pairing: Roan x Reader

✎ Warnings: pregnant reader. Maybe fluff?

Word-count: 1258

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Roan had started to notice little things in Y/N’s body, little changes that kept making him think. There was this one thought that kept bugging him: was she pregnant?

Caressing her hair away from her face, he sat behind her in the woods, one arm hugging her shaking body while she threw up. He didn’t show it, but it worried him to no end seeing her in this state. Because… what if she wasn’t pregnant? What if it was something else, something worse?

“I’m fine, Roan, don’t worry,” she told him, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt. “I’m sure it’s just the food. The deer we ate yesterday wasn’t that good after all.”

“Or maybe it’s because you’ve never eaten deer, ‘cause the one we ate yesterday was to die for, niron*,” he pointed out, helping her to her feet.

And then, he couldn’t even hug her, or have some good sex against the wall. Y/N kept whining about her boobs, and how they hurt anytime he touched them. Which was a torture for him, not touching them, since he had always been fond of them. They weren’t his favorite part of her body - he was sure he was developing a kink for her hands, so small and soft - but fondling them was something he adored.

“Fuck, Roan,” she moaned and arched her back when he went down to kiss them, her walls stretching around his throbbing erection, almost pushing him beyond the edge. And even though she had always moaned that ‘fuck, Roan’ whenever he played with her turgid nipples, he somehow knew it wasn’t because she was enjoying it.

“I can’t even touch you,” he groaned in her ear, supporting himself on his arms while he kept thrusting hard and fast into her. “What else do you want me to do?”

If there was something Roan loved doing with Y/N, it was hunting in the woods, just the two of them. He loved it because it usually led to sex on the ground and sex in the river or the lake, and if Y/N didn’t always stop him he would even find the way to take her on his horse.

But that day they kept stopping every other minute and Roan was growing impatient.

“At this rate we won’t kill anything, Y/N!” he snorted while she peed yet again behind a tree.

“What can I do if I keep peeing? It’s not my fault!” she complained, coming out of the bushes and stopping in front of him.

“First your boobs and now this,” and he moved a hand up and down in the air, pointing at her body. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Heck, I’m fine!” she exclaimed, rage burning bright in her eyes. “Why do you always have to be a fucking nomajoka*?”

“Well, excuse me if I worry for you, hainofi*,” he bit back. “Next time I’ll just leave you out here while I go on with my plan.”

Roan had never massaged anyone - first, because he was a damn prince and he should be the one receiving a massage; second, because he just didn’t know how to do them. But now he always found himself in the evening, sitting behind Y/N because her shoulders and back hurt just too much. And usually one thing leads to another and starting from her back he often found himself massaging her legs and feet too.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, leaving a kiss on her ankle.

She nodded, her eyes closed and her back leaning against the many pillows of their bed. “I’m just tired. It’s been an exhausting day and that damn horse didn’t feel like cooperating a little. I told you I didn’t want a new horse, but do you ever listen to me?” she sighed, but didn’t wait for him to answer. “Of course not, you never do! If you think something is good for you, then it means that it must be good for me too even when it’s actually not like that!”

“Why do you keep having these fucking mood swings with me, Y/N?” he groaned, his thumbs going hard on the sole of her left foot. “I’m doing anything you want, literally anything. What I’m asking is for you to go to a healer and get checked. I’m tired of seeing you like this and not knowing what to do to make you feel better!”

He had woken up early that day: Y/N had been moving around in bed all night since she couldn’t find a good position to sleep in.

When his eyes opened, the sun had just risen and its rays were seeping in the light curtains, slightly lightening up the room enough for him to see his surroundings in the half-light.

Y/N was laying on her back, one arm covering her eyes and the other under the pillow. She was snoring softly and the nightgown she was wearing had got up during the night and was now barely covering her thighs.

Roan smiled: he loved watching her sleep and he loved it even more when her clothes didn’t cover much skin.

His fingers trailed up her right thigh, as light as the touch of a butterfly, and sneaked under her nightgown, pushing it up, following the movement of his fingers. He absent-mindedly caressed her belly for a few minutes, careful not to wake her up, before his brain started to fully work again and he noticed a little bump in her tummy. It was as though she had eaten too much the day before, which she actually hadn’t, since she had complained throughout the whole dinner since she didn’t want to eat fish. “It stinks like shit,” she had said and Roan hadn’t been able to make her eat much more.

He pulled her body closer to his, his mind going blank for a few seconds. But then that very thought he had a few weeks before came back and he started to freak out. He even had to wake her up, challenging her mood swings, because he kept thinking and his anxiety kept getting bigger and stronger.

“Y/N?” he whispered, his arms still around her.

“What the heck do you want?” she moaned, nuzzling her face in the crook of his neck. “I was finally sleeping.”

“Are you pregnant?” he asked straight away, shaking her form a little to catch her attention.

She lifted her head a little to watch him in the eye before resting it again on his chest. “What has got into you?”

“We’ve been having sex non-stop for almost two months and a half, and you’ve never bled. And your belly is bigger.”

“Are you saying I’m fat? With all the training I do?” She was pissed now. Great, he thought, good damn job.

“No, I’m just asking you if you’re pregnant. When was the last time you bled?”

He now had her full attention and when the realization hit her hard, she jolted up in a sitting position. “Oh, gods,” she whispered. “I had almost forgotten about the bleeding! I was so glad I wasn’t in pain that…” She turned to look at him. “What if I’m pregnant?”

Roan shrugged, still laying down, his left hand going up and down her back. “I don’t know, I guess we’ll just have a kid.”

Niron: love

Nomajoka: motherfucker

Hainofi: princess

TAGS (if you’d like to be added or removed, just let me know): @selldraug @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @jaib2-blog

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