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countessrivers · 4 years

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What-ifs/Alternate Timelines for Jim Gordon - maybe the raised-by-Falcones version?

- It could probably still have started with a car accident, only this time with Mama Gordon in the car too. Jim I would say was still there, just in the back seat, and having to watch both parents die would probably leave him even more vulnerable.

- Carmine doesn’t initially intend to adopt Jim. Frank takes off immediately, consumed with guilt, and Jim has no one else, so Carmine steps in, because he owes Jim, he owes Peter. He did what the Court wanted, but he cared for Peter, Gotham is worse off without him, and now Peter’s nine year old son is all alone, because of him. It starts off with Carmine just paying for Jim’s hospital stay, for his physio, but then he starts just coming around, checking in on Jim, visiting, and Jim who maybe vaguely knows who Falcone is (would sometimes eavesdrop from the top of the stairs when Falcone was over, speaking with his parents) latches on. Jim is lost and traumatised and alone and he latches onto the first person who shows him any attention. And that then forms the basis of their relationship.

- Carmine has himself made Jim’s guardian. It’s only supposed to be temporary, but the longer Jim is around, the less inclined Carmine is to let him go, because he looks at Jim and he sees a bit of Peter. He also sees stubbornness, and potential, and most importantly, something that can be moulded. It doesn’t take long for Carmine to give Jim his name.

- I don’t know how old anyone’s supposed to be. In the show, according to my attempts at maths, Jim is 34-ish in season 4. Ben was obviously older, but Crystal Reed was around that age too, so Sofia could be about the same age as Jim, or at most a few years younger. Mario is older than Sofia, but the actor is about the same age as Ben, so Mario is likely at least a bit older than Jim, particularly as Mario and Sofia seemingly have different mothers. For this lets just go with Mario is a good few years older than Jim, who is in turn maybe two years older than Sofia.

- Sofia latches onto Jim immediately. She’s used to sharing her father’s affection/time, so Jim being in the picture makes little difference to her in that regard. But to her, he’s new and interesting and he’ll follow her around. He’s not too old like Mario now is. He can be hers. Mario, meanwhile, is jealous from the get go, hating the way his father cares for this orphan nobody, hating how much attention Sofia pays him, and that just festers into something obsessive as they get older.

- And it doesn’t start off intentional (because she’s like 7), but Jim and Sofia get hella unhealthily co-dependent very quickly, and as they do get older, Sofia encourages that, desperate for the love and devotion and validation she isn’t getting from the rest of her family. And Jim provides. He latches onto Sofia right back, from the start craving comfort and companionship and family. They first sleep together as teenagers, and keep on doing so until Carmine catches them. which is why he sends Sofia away. Deep down Jim and Sofia both resent him for that, for separating them, even though Sofia still has Mario, and that festers too.

- Carmine, in answer to his promise to Mario’s mum, sends Mario down south too, which leaves him with only Jim. But that’s almost better in a way. He has made no promises to protect Jim, to keep him clean, and he can see already that Jim has the potential to succeed him. He feels (almost) no guilt in moulding him, in teaching him everything, in turning Jim first into a weapon, and then his heir. And he’s careful. He of course has genuine affection for Jim, maybe even loves him more than his own children, but he’s not one to take chances, to leave his back unguarded, so he makes Jim loyal. Reminds him again and again that it’s by his mercy and compassion that Jim has a home, a family. Tells Jim that he loves him, and that Jim must show his love by being loyal, always. By obeying. Tying the concept of love to loyalty and obedience, and punishing Jim both physically and emotionally when he fails.

- Jim vomits the first time he kills someone. He’s hurt people before, has seen plenty of people die as he stood at his father’s shoulder, but it’s different when the gun’s in his hand. When he’s the one pulling the trigger. He waits until they get home though. Barely feels the gun being taken back, or the heavy hand on his shoulder. Only vaguely hears Carmine commend him on a job well done. Just nods, and follows, and once he’s in his room, dashes to the ensuite to vomit up the contents of his stomach. It gets easier after that, but Jim never learns to enjoy it. He never takes the joy, the pleasure he sees other take in killing. At most there may be some satisfaction, some relief, but he never starts to like it. Killing becomes a necessity, something to keep the balance, to ensure business keeps running, but never anything more than that. Carmine suspects as much, but it doesn’t bother him. As long as Jim does the job, is willing to do the job. It’s not like he takes any real pleasure from killing either.

- It’s not until he becomes Fish’s umbrella boy that Oswald first sees Jim. He’s been working his way up through the lowest levels of the organisation, and had yet to properly lay eyes on the Don or his son. It’s only when they both pay a visit to the club one day, and Oswald happens to be there. He knew of Jim, but he hadn’t ever seen him in person. Fish waves him off while she and Carmine talk shop, and Oswald kind of just hovers, watching Jim as he speaks with Butch, but trying not to make it obvious that he’s staring. Jim’s not staring back, but he notices Oswald too. Jim notices everything, but he finds himself lingering, though he can’t say why, hyper aware of the eyes on him, even as Butch goes on about things Jim really should be paying closer attention to.

- After that, after seeing Jim in person, Oswald can’t let go. Ambition has had him collection info and dirt on all the key players already, but he wants to know more about Jim. About who he is, where he came from, what he might do, and how Oswald might use him. He digs, and eventually finds out how the Gordons really died. He doesn’t get quite as far as the Court, but he uncovers enough to implicate Carmine. He holds onto the information, knowing its value, and waits for the opportune moment (he’ll tell Jim later, use it to try and sway Jim to his side, to convince him to turn on his father and help take him out).

- Oswald learns other things about Jim too. Probably picks up on the rumours about him and Sofia, and the relationship that has continued on and off over the years under their father’s nose, but other things as well. Like his open soft spot for kids, orphans particularly, and the embargo he puts on his men over involving or harming kids in anyway (think Red Hood, “no dealing to kids” and a dufflebag full of heads). In general, the way Jim leaves families and civilians alone - he’ll “question”, he’ll execute a traitor, a thief, a snitch, but he won’t touch their families. The way he reacts to Carmine, this mix of fear and anger and loyalty and love and resentment. The way he inspires loyalty from both his people and the city, in a way that is wholly different to how his father does it (softer, in a sense. Less through fear, more through obligation, through helping and building and taking care of problems. Engendering good will, and making sure that in times of trouble, they look to him first. A different idea of family, for all that Carmine still has him tangled up by almost a lifetime of grooming and manipulation). Oswald learns about Jim’s likes, his dislikes, his fears, his wants, his raging daddy issues. Watches how Jim navigates the power struggles between the other underbosses. He watches and follows and learns everything he can about Jim.

- Which is why he’s fairly confident when he asks Carmine to have Jim do the deed when he’s caught snitching to the MCU. It’s a risk - Jim is still loyal to his father, still shares the general disdain of snitches and traitors felt by most in their line of work - but Oswald tries, figures he knows enough about who Jim is to convince him to spare his life. So he begs, warns Jim of the war he can see is coming, of the blood and all the senseless death that will come with it. Gets a little pathetic with his pleading, a smidge of fear admittedly rising as Jim keeps on walking him towards the water, offering anything, offering himself, and he might have gone further had he not be interrupted by Jim turning him around. And there had been a moment, staring out over the icy river, where he thought he was done, that he’s miscalculated, overplayed his hand, but the moment of shock quickly gave way to vindication as Jim hissed at him to never come back to Gotham. Because he’d been right, because he’d managed to make Jim disobey. Because Oswald was alive and Jim was going to help him change Gotham, change everything (whether he wanted to or not).

#and let's leave it at that for now #gotham #jim gordon #marcceh

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catleha · 5 years

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POST - SHB TEXTS; 1 / ?? (minor) canon divergence.

While I like to stick to canon as close as possible in regard to Y’shtola’s arc there are several petite changes I would like to make on this blog. Especially post - Rak’tika, I will go mainly hc- based / canon-divergent to a certain degree. Needless to say, it was very disappointing to see Y’shtola’s entire involvement being narrowed down to a few one-liners & occasional quest giving.

The list below contains some changes to Y’shtola’s arc before & after leaving the Greatwood to join the Warrior of Light in their endeavors. -- more will probably follow in the future once I re-watched the entire msq.

1. Her relationship to Runar & the rest of the Night’s Blessed is strictly platonic / a motherly kind of love; up until her involvement with the Warrior of Light, Y’shtola spent her time (around one and a half year) in the company of the Night’s Blessed. She learned their customs, their rituals & adapted their lifestyle to eventually become their sage. -- she serves as a bearer wisdom & as their leader whenever one is required. Other than that she dedicated most of her time to a) the defense of Slitherbough / the forest, b) her studies & c) meditation.

In regards to her status as sage / “mother”: Y’shtola is the hero of the Great Fire, their savior, their caretaker, their guiding light. Nothing, I repeat, nothing hints at a romantic relationship to any of the Night’s Blessed what so ever. -- on the contrary, Y’shtola’s final scene (in which she reveals her true name to Runar & the rest) reminds one on a mother gathering her children; period.

2. Urianger helps her back on her feet post - lifestream retrieval; the Runar hug thing does never happen. The Warrior of Light stops Runar from rushing towards Y’shtola, while Urianger helps her back on her feet / serves as a prop (I cannot believe that @scionsect & I fixed this terrible scene). Her connection to Urianger is furthermore significantly stronger than SE dared to show. I will elude on that in a detailed character relationship post in the future. DISCLAIMER: not only was Runar’s approach cringy & simply inconsiderate of Y’shtola’s status as a blind person (never touch blind people without their permission it’s simply disrespectful) , their “romance” was also terribly developed. -- I have nothing against Runar as a character; I simply refuse to support shoehorned romantic sub-plots / the “strong dude, weak damsel” trope.

3. The second “Flow” cast messed up Y’shtola’s aether; while the consequences of the second “flow” cast are by no means as severe as the first one, they still had an effect on her soul / being in general. Ever since the loss of her eyesight, Y’shtola has been constantly connected to the lifestream in order to both, see & access deeper layers of magic & understanding of the planet. -- over time, Y’shtola also became more sensible to change in the planet / aether itself, resulting in her being able to comprehend / see into the past in a pretty peculiar manner (read: whenever she dwells in a city or place that holds the lingering aether of a passed away soul, she is able to access said souls’s memories / history via meditation or focus).

Ever since arriving on the First, said “memories” have long become more tangible, common &, to a certain degree, overwhelming due to the shard’s aether supersaturation. While living in Rak’tika, she is able to access the swamp akin to Toph Beifong in LoK; she is connected to the Greatwood’s very Fauna & feels every twitch / every pulse of the beings living within. -- the second flow cast messed with an already sensible balance between her own entity / soul & the aether around her. She can no longer 100% distinguish between the memories of others & her own, leading to periods of oversensitiveness & fatigue that leave her vulnerable. In moments like these she seeks utter solitude, trying her utmost to calm herself -- Y’shtola’s identity is becoming more & more vapid.

4. Her conflict with Thancred has actual gravitas; Thancred & her argue whilst both stay in the Greatwood, causing Y’shtola to confess her resentment towards the other & a refusal to talk to him until he has sorted his “issues” out (shoutout to @hisburden). Their conflict worsens upon the arrival of “Ryne” due to Thancred’s depression & agony which the finite death of Minfilia prompted. They have their final discussion post their fight against the third lightwarden in the well, ending with Y’shtola & Thancred agreeing on a truce. -- their relationship is no longer as “cordial" as it has been before.

5. Urianger’s betrayal causes a rift between them; whilst Urianger becomes her most trusted & dearest friend upon arriving in the First, his betrayal in lieu of the Crystal Exarch’s true purpose leaves a deep mark. Upon returning to the Crystarium, she confronts Urianger in her grief & anger. Unlike her conflict with Thancred however, this argument leads to tears & a temporary reconciliation; mainly due to both being emotionally & mentally exhausted / fearing for the WOL’s very life. -- Y’shtola still retreats to spend time in solitude not approaching Urianger or anyone else until they leave to confront Emet-Selch. After the defeat of Hades, she approaches Urianger to further solve their conflict (tag along for pain featuring your local goth cat & @scionsect).

6. The “Hydaelyn is a primal” twist leaves a deep mark; she openly searches Emet-Selch out several times during her stay in the Crystarium. She is conflicted & stands between “two chairs” -- albeit being a true believer of Hydaelyn’s ways she cannot deny that doubt has festered & sprawled where once was fierce dedication.

7. She has issues with immediately accepting “Ryne”; similar to Alisaie, Y’shtola struggles to fully embrace what Minifilia has become. Despite a positive attitude, she still has her doubts & indulges in slight mistrust. This strains their relationship until Y’shtola decides to aid her in her power struggles. -- in lieu of the event of Amh Araeng, Y'shtola willingly distances herself from the group due to feeling misplaced & quite frankly, lost.

8. Y’shtola teaches “Ryne” / Minifilia to use her powers; instead of being written off as insignificant (as further above stated above), Y’shtola plays a huge part in helping a struggling Minfilia how to harness her aetherical powers & abilities by teaching her how to use them properly (shoutout to @hyethla for not only being my exclusive Minfilia but also the inspiration for their beautiful but tragic dynamic). Similar to Thancred, she first struggled to accept her presence but made her peace by confessing her guilt during and earlier visit in Ill Mheg (hence why she gives Thancred a lot of ‘shit’ later). Even later upon chasing down the last remaining lightwardens, she plays a pivotal role in saving the Warrior of Light alongside “Ryne”. -- she also taught her how to read, write & comprehend the workings of the lifestream before the arrival of the WOL. Their relationship is, in fact (at least until “Ryne” surfaces) a close one.

9. Alisaie, Alphinaud & Yshtola’s Amh Araeng arc will be discussed in detail; needless to say, I will write a long post about their endeavors & relationship development in Amh Araeng in the future. -- not only did they fight the Eulmorian army, but also discussed the future of the scions, the WOL, Minifilia, etc.

10. Y’shtola suffers greatly under mental strain of both, her powers & the second flow cast; instead of brushing literally everything we learned about her struggles aside like SHB & SB kinda did, I will dedicate a lot of time & attention to her mental & physical struggles (growing “blinder”, losing herself, burning her body’s life energy, etc) & explain what role her job change plays in this very regard. -- an example for her struggles is Y’shtola’s wanning lifeforce. She burns herself up to both, see & further access necessary powers. Doing so for three years resulted in the waning of her aether powers to a certain degree & a rapid, mental aging through burning her energy. I will elude on this in the future -- while physically young, Y’shtola has the soul of an almost 50 year old woman.

#[[ a long overdue post #I certain forgot sth but #well. This is the general framework on which I will base my hcs on. Most of this prob isn't even that divergent & more of an indepth #explanation of certain stuff that SE did not care to further develop #BUT WELL. It was about time I posted this ]]#✦ › 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄. :: psa.

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sarcasticdebate · 5 years

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after all we’ve endured

Relationship: Emori/John Murphy

Rating: E (... its makeup sex)

Summary: Emori has quickly learned that survival and life on Sanctum are very different than they had been on Earth. It’s good to return to something familiar. Even after so much time.

[Post 6.03]

“Been a long time since we shared a bed.”

[AO3]

Night on Sanctum isn’t like night on Earth. The sky never quite fades to black like it’s supposed to. Instead it lingers in a deep shade of violet from the effects of two suns. Stars still break through the sky but they’re different from the ones Emori has known all her life. She knows it’s because they are hundreds of thousands of miles from the planet she was born on, but the unfamiliar lights overhead still leave Emori in a state of frightened awe. There’s no north star here, and the possibility of getting lost sits heavy on her mind.

Some things aren’t so different though, apparently the days are only twenty seven minutes longer than on Earth, and Sanctum’s people have similar nightly routines. By anyone’s standards it’s well past the time to be in bed at this late hour.

“Hey,” Emori says, shifting her gaze back to John after taking her fill of the view from the open window. “We should go to bed.”

John’s spent most of the day brooding and Emori can’t blame him, he’d been dead for a couple of minutes this morning. The red in his eyes and the sudden gauntness of his face make it impossible to deny.

“I’m not tired,” John replies and Emori has to refrain from rolling her eyes. He said that all the time on the Ring, during weeks filled with pacing in anxious circles in the dead of night followed by long days where he would do nothing but lie in bed. Emori has to remind herself that this is different. He’d been dead this morning.

“I was unconscious most of the day, you’ll remember.” He reminds her too, as if she could forget. She can still feel the claminess of his skin under her palm, feels her heart spike with guilt every time her eyes catch on the bandage across his arm. She reaches out to touch his hand, to confirm he’s warm now. Maybe she’s the one who needs sleep more.

“Well there’s no point in sitting here in the dark,” she tries. Everyone else has cleared out to the rooms upstairs, and he stopped drinking an hour ago, too lazy to pour for himself.

John lets his gaze rest on their held hands for a long moment before his eyes rise to meet hers and he offers a tight-lipped smile and stunted nod.

He grunts as he stands, like someone twice his actual age, and slings his arm heavily over her shoulders as they make their way towards the stairs.

“Are you still drunk?”

“I’m not drunk, ‘Mori” John says, lying either to himself or her. Then straightening a bit when he realizes he gave himself away with the use of the nickname. “Maybe a little,” he admits, “I just don’t wanna dream.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” She offers for the second time that day. Curiosity and worry have been burning inside since he woke up but she won’t push him.

“Not yet,” he says, an improvement from the previous horrified ‘no’ of the afternoon. They make it up the stairs without any stumbles and trudge to the end of the hallway, all the other rooms already claimed.

Under normal circumstances Emori would scout out the room given to them by these strangers, but it’s small, with a narrow bed as the only notable furnishing, and she’s just exhausted enough not to care.

John flops onto the bed in a way that’s unsuitable for someone claiming not to be tired, but Emori knows him better than himself sometimes so she’s not surprised. He kicks off his boots carelessly.

“Are you gonna stay here tonigh’?” The tiredness is creeping into his voice now. Emori shrugs off her jacket, lets it hang on the doorknob and sets her boots next to John’s.

“Of course I am. Scooch over.”

The bed is still narrow as she lies on it, but Emori thinks it is a poor attempt form Sanctum to get them to spend their nights apart. She molds her body to curl next to John’s and they fit.

“Didn’t know if you would,” John admits to the ceiling, both of his arms still too injured to hold his weight on one side. Confusion rises above Emori’s exhaustion.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

John’s eyes fall closed but Emori doesn’t want to escape from this conversation, from whatever’s eating at him, she knows it will only cause problems. She tugs on his sleeve and his eyes open and turn to look at her. Bloodshot still, but softer too.

“Been a long time since we shared a bed.”

It has been. Six months of clenching her blanket tight to herself to make up for the loss of familiar body heat as she tried to sleep, then a mess of circumstance and feelings that led to their bodies close but nowhere near touching as they shared a cave with a mass murderer. One hundred and twenty five years have passed since then and Emori would love to make a joke about the century they slept through, but it’s impossible to do so without thinking of Harper and Monty and things not to be joked about.

“Yeah,” Emori agrees, something tight festering in her chest. It’s been even longer since she held him like this in their bed and he doesn’t smell like she remembers. It makes her sad.

She tilts her head up to look at him and sees so many different layers of pain pile on his face, like snow collecting on a drift that won’t ever melt. He’s drunk and lost and Emori feels the same as how she had too many times in space, totally unknowing what to do.

But John still has ways of surprising her.

“You know I’m sorry for pushing you away. For making you feel…” He drifts off, and maybe that had been part of the problem, of him not knowing what she was feeling, and her not telling him. But he meets her eyes for the first time since they’d lied down and true regret lingers in his irises. “I never, never wanted that ‘Mori.”

Her first instinct is to say, ‘I know,’ but that’s not true. She hadn’t known.

“I didn’t want it either,” she says instead, the truth, despite the words standing opposite to both their broken hearts. But Emori knows how to fix them. “I forgive you. I already have.” She doesn’t think about if it’s too easily done, if it’s just because the Earth blew up or because he died this morning. It’s what she feels, and she won’t deny it.

He hugs her closer, rests his forehead against the curve of her skull. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

His breathing evens into a familiar tempo and she relaxes into his body, into the soft bed. But John’s not quite asleep yet.

“You’re hair smells nice.”

She laughs lightly, her hand coming to rest on top of his.

She imagines the buzzing of a swarm in her ears before she falls asleep.

Emori wakes slowly, in opposition to her normal habit. She hasn’t a notion of what time it is. Dawn on Sanctum is brighter than on Earth, more akin to midday.

If she dreamed during the night she remembers nothing, but there’s a warmth in her stomach rising through her chest and settling her mind. Probably from the place John’s palm rests.

“You awake?” John asks, turning his head so his voice drips against the shell of her ear. She hums in response.

“You hungover?”

“Nah,” he says, shifts a little to hug her closer, his fingertips playing with the hem of her t-shirt. “My mouth’s a little fuzzy, though.”

“I can get you some water?”

“No,” he says, like a child might, except there’s a thick edge to the syllable that tightens in her belly the same way the palm of his hand does to keep her close.

Her eyes close again but she’s very awake now, she settles back fully into the bed and her stillness lets her feel her heartbeat in her chest and throat. John’s fingers are beneath her shirt now, on that soft, sometimes ticklish part of her belly. It feels so nice, and she finally no longer feels clouded and confused with emotion.

It makes it easy to turn over and kiss him. Not soft and lingering like she maybe should have made it, but making him gasp, pressing and seeking with her tongue.

And it's not that she missed him really. He was always there, just around the corner, hiding under the parts of him she resented, or mirrored in the eyes of the others when the seat next to hers was empty at dinner. She had missed this though. His hands and lips on her neck and chest. Had dreamed about it a few times and woken up frustrated and angry with herself.

And it hadn't even been about the sex really, but the intimacy. Something that had ended months before they broke up. She craves it now, though. Their bodies being so close a knife couldn't slip between them. Having confidence he loves her without condition.

She knows that their thinking is still aligned because in that moment he tugs her over his closer by her waist, fingers rucking her shirt up highso that their chests run along each other as they breathe. She threads her fingers around the back of his neck to angle his head as they share kisses, sometimes pressing them into his jaw or beneath his ear, but always returning to his mouth and the low grateful hum that passes from his lips. It might almost be called leisurely if it weren't for his hands at her lower back, keeping her steady so that their hips could stay locked together.

He’s hard already, not surprising considering the rush of his breath, how she can feel his heartbeat through his skin. Through his clothes even. She throbs, in that place where he isn’t, like her body might be able to latch onto the emptiness.

His hands are warmer than she remembers them being. She sighs into his mouth, the sound more desperate than she knew a sigh could be.

“You want this?” John asks, his voice the way it used to get when he was in awe of her. Under the waistband of her pants his fingertips caress her skin.

“Yes,” she says, his shirt mangled in her grip. She thinks about what being back down on Earth had done to her. Thinks about standing next to him and seeing the confident tilt of his mouth and calculating gleam in his eye. How the want had needled in her brain and pounded in her ribcage and clenched between her thighs. And now how it pales in comparison. “I want you,” she says into the corner of his mouth.

He says her name, the word spilling off his tongue like some secret admission and she kisses him, tongue tracing his bottom lip so she might be able to catch the feeling falling from his lips.

His hands trace further up her back and she sits ups, rocking her hips against him before peeling her shirt and sports bra off, feeling that old presence of comfort and pride as his eyes trace over her appreciatively.

It stands in contrast to the way her own hands hesitate at his waist. She’s never been afraid of his scars before; had liked them even, the reminder of his ability to endure. But she’s never been the cause of any of them before.

“Hey,” he says, rests his palms over her knuckles, “Doesn’t even hurt anymore.” That can’t be quite true because they’re both careful not to stretch his arms too high as his shirt if pulled off. But he smiles when her hands find balance on his shoulders, his own spanning high on her waist and tracing the undersides of her breasts. And he’s still smiling when she leans down to kiss him and she knows he doesn’t resent her.

Not like he could when she starts rocking against him, shifting a bit until she finds the right drag against his cock. Insistence grows fast in her as she grinds down and her lips trace down his neck to the sharp point of his collarbones.

John rubs the sensitive place on the very lowest part of her back and then whimpers when her knees tighten on either side of his waist. His hands become frisky, tugging at her belt loops

She’s wet. She’s so wet and he’s barely touched her. She’s aching, a wound that’s healed can still hurt. Her eyelids are trembling in an effort to stay open as his hands skim over her thighs, but she manages to keep watch him touch her until he leans over and breathes hot over that one place on her jugular that makes her shiver.

His other hand works beneath her, pressing between her shoulder blades and making her arch up to meet his mouth as he sucks a mark onto her collarbone.

Her hands begin to slide up from his hips as he moves lower. Her touch lingers where new scar tissue mars his shoulder. She traces the two circles with her thumb, will do it with her mouth later, his body is so familiar, but the bullet wounds remind her that they’re both different now, both new people.

His thumbs on her hip bones don’t feel different, though. And neither does his breath on her inner thigh.

The anticipation mounts in her chest and between her legs, because she knows what he's going to do next. Because she wants it. That variance of pressure on her clit before he slicks a finger inside her has her legs trembling before he even starts.

“John.” She says his name, a half moan, a reaffirmation of where they are, who they are.

A sound, from deep in his gut passes his lips to imprint on her skin. His breath is more hurried than she would expect, making her shiver as it ghosts across her.

He kisses the v of her legs, soft, fleeting, as he urges her legs further apart, and she gasps despite the briefness. She thought she was too wet for slow and gentle, too wired for his touch after a century and six months to be coaxed into anything languid, but John seems to insist on it, his mouth hot and exploratory against her folds reminding her of those days in space when he’d do this for hours. She whimpers. There’s no hesitance after that, just his tongue pressed against her entrance and flicking once before licking up her center. Then he laps at her clit, light, like she knew he would.

“Yes,” she says, unable to stop her hips from circling against his mouth. His hand finds her hip to keep her steady, and then drags down the outside of her thigh, not venturing between them like she thought. He reaches for her hand instead, interlocks their fingers even if they don’t fit in any traditional way. She holds on tight to him.

He places a kiss where her nerves are singing and she feels the burst of pleasure it creates squirming up her spine. A choked sound falls from her lips and her eyes open halfway to see him perched between her legs, and of course he’s looking up at her. But he’s not looking at her with that focus or determination she found so attractive. Instead it’s a caring most people don’t know he has. He just loves her.

Her eyes squeeze shut as her jaw works uselessly, her precipe suddenly so much closer. He doesn’t go any faster, just presses a little harder, tongue lapping at her clit, circling her hip bone with her thumb, and then she’s there. She cries out, her skin abuzz with pleasure and her entire body feeling both heavy and light as she clenches around nothing, muscles in her thighs tightening as they seek to press together and open wider all at once.

Words rise and die in her throat as her legs shake before a comfort begins to grow next to her heart. John’s hand is still in hers. His thumb stroking over her knuckles is what recenters her.

“I love you,” she says between pants, because she doesn’t think he’ll say it first, and she wants to hear it. “I love you.”

He steals her breath with another kiss, words mumbled against her lips, but the shape of them familiar. “I love you,” he says with his hungry mouth, arms snaked around her back.

She clings to him for a moment, still feeling dazed and a little lovesick. It’s a good position to run her hands through his hair the way he likes, and an even better one to wrangle him onto his back in before pressing kisses to the side of his neck.

“Emori. Emori, can we…”

“Yeah, yeah,” she breathes into his skin, reaching down to find him still hard against the slide of her palm.

Her lips press a sort-of kiss against his forehead as she shifts up, bracing herself more firmly on her knees before sinking onto him a soft keen torn from her throat with the motion. John’s thumb strokes her cheek, his mouth open and breath hot against her chin as she starts to move against him like a wave, steady and rolling, hard and crashing at the end. The length of him in her comforts her in a way she hadn’t anticipated, enticing the burn in her belly and in her heart both.

“Fuck, Emori, I-” John groans, his hands skittering from her waist to her ass to her thighs, nails scratching lightly, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. It makes her shudder, clench around him. “God, I’m not gonna last long. Fuck.”

His eyes close the next time she rolls her hips down, as if to prove her point. Emori moves a bit faster, tries to match the rhythm of his uneven thrusts, caught in her desire to study the vulnerability he displays right before he comes. It makes her feel warm all over, his trust, his love. She traces his jaw with her big hand, and the muscles in his throat twitch before he groans and breaks, his arms wrapping her in an embrace as she feels him warm and slick deep inside her.

She rocks shallowly against him twice more before slipping off his lap and tucking herself into his open arms.

“You’re amazing, really,” John says into her hair with his little satisfied smirk. The praise sparks hot in her chest as she presses closer to his heat.

There is little innocence and not a small amount of hunger in the way his hands continue to pass over her body, and Emori is more than considering responding to the touches but she wants to linger for a moment. One where she doesn’t have to think about anything other than the way John is looking at her and the peculiarity of mornings on this moon.

#memori #john murphy #emori #memori fic #the 100 #a writing tag

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lotornomiko · 6 years

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The Dark Flavor Of Addiction Chapter Five

3B cannon divergence with a heavy focus on a secret sexual relationship between Hook and Belle. Both devoted and swearing to love others, Hook and Belle both can't deny the irresistible passion and attraction they have for one another, leading to repeated secret trysts, hurt feelings, and a whole lot of jealousy. But what happens when feelings unravel completely,& secrets come out?

Captain Beauty Endgame...so not safe for work....

Broken by it, by her, the feelings that I have had, that I have harbored for Emma, twist. Until little is left but ugly resentments, and the regret that even now I can't tell her no. Maybe I'll never be able to. Maybe I'll find myself forever in Emma's thrall. Always helpless to resist, always on the outskirts of his shadow, watching and waiting for the love that I will never have.

It and love's promise of happiness never seem farther from me than it does now, the chance of it dangling just out of my reach. I can grab for it all I want, can and have made a fool of myself trying, but in the end it amounts to nothing, my hand alone not enough. I am not enough, some fault from within leaving me unworthy. Of it and of her, some stone carved rule setting out my path. Villains don't get happy endings, and I'm as rotten as they come. Have been that way for a long, long time, and all the wishing in the world won't change it, my past misdeeds or me.

Knowing what I am, even accepting it, doesn't lessen the blow. There's an anger simmering inside me, a darkness boiling over in direct response to the hurts that have been dealt me. I resent her, and I resent him, and it's all I can stand to do as Emma asks of me. Favors both voiced and not, the staying with him, and the standing aside. Both deal in equal measures of pain, the hurt that I am feeling and my resentments increasing. I don't want to be anywhere near them, don't want to see, to witness the love that they have expressed.

To that end, I excuse myself from the room. It's no easier to breathe out in the hall, the dark press of emotion crushing me in it's grip. But at least I can't see them, can't watch the way they hold hands, or witness every second that she continues to linger by his side. I can't escape my disappointments however, or the anger inside of me. At her, at them, but also at myself. For all of it, for her, for the disappointments I had set myself up for, and for the fact I had known from the start that this is how it would all end.

There's a part of me that has never lost sight that we weren't really meant to be, that has always been aware of the fact that there had always been some sort of obstacle between us. Her love for Neal, the kind of man that I myself am, even whole realms between us, a part of me had still foolishly tried. And just as I had tried, I had set myself up to fail, a part of me divided, my interests split between the two. Emma AND Belle, and neither one of them were what I had originally set out to make them be.

A part of the equation long before my interest in Emma became romantic, Belle's been a part of my life for years. She's been the means to my revenge, she's been my pleasure made real, and most of all, Belle has been there as comfort, seeing me through both the good times and the bad. She's been there for the highs and the lows, has even saved my life. She's as close to a friend as I can call, and she doesn't remember even half of what she's done for me.

An indispensable, invaluable facet of my life, it's no wonder that I haven't been able to cut her free. My secret addiction, the sweet drug I've grown dependant on, I've gone from using her for revenge, to actually needing her. Especially now, the bad habit established, the hurt that Emma has dealt me, leaving my emotions raw and reeling. Sparking need within me, my desires and instincts mingling, the response that I've conditioned inside me seeking an end to the pain in the only way that I now know how. That brand of comfort that Belle is so good at, my pain pushed aside, forgotten in the moments that I am buried inside her.

In those moments, no one else seems to matter. Not Emma, not Neal, not anyone else in this God forsaken town. The problems that seem to plague Storybrooke, the things that even I should be concerned with, turn inconsequential, and I'm back to being that greedy, selfish pirate. Existing only for my wants and needs. It's not just about coming, not just about comfort. There's a burning need there, a passion that's well met, Belle just as addicted, yearning for me, WANTING me in a way that Emma has never.

It's that wanting that tips it all over, that sexual longing we both feel for one another that has kept me coming back. It's been a sizzling awareness from the start, an undeniable chemistry that neither one of us has tried very hard to fight. We're a well matched pair, Belle and I, right down to our complete disregard of the consequences our actions may ultimately have. On each other, and on others, this reckless, lustful need stopping just short of complete self destruction.

A volatile thing, a need this powerful won't just end because Belle demands it to. There's a reason it's called addiction, why you can't just quit cold turkey. Belle is naive if she thinks otherwise, and I'll be there to catch her when she finally falls. And if she needs a little push in the process, I'll do THAT too. Because I've already decided, and I don't care if my actions will be dragging us both down. Belle doesn't get to decide when and how this ends. Any more than I do. It's not smart and it's not sane, this addiction such that it may get one or both of us killed. It'll be one hell of a ride in the process, and perhaps that thrill will be worth the trouble that follows.

There's only the slightest thread of worry within me, the slightest sliver of concern. Some damnable soft emotion, a feeling born of noble intentions. I'm not anywhere strong enough to heed it, that same voice from before doing the faintest of whispers. I realize it's not just the strength that I lack, but the desire, and I'm so tired of trying to do right. In trying to become good enough for Emma, I've lost sight of myself, and I can't be that selfless any more.

I feel a weight lift up off me, all attempts at playing the hero gone. There's a weary acceptance in me, but also a sense of right. We all have roles to play, and mine fits me like a familiar glove. I slide into it without looking back, don't pause to say so much as a goodbye. The man that I could have been, that love that I had been striving for, nothing but distant and bitter memories better left forgotten.

It's the cold eyes of Captain Hook that meet Emma's, and the woman's so addled with her love and concern for another that she doesn't even notice the change. Maybe none of them do. Maybe they've never seen me as anything but a pirate, never believing in the chance that I could be better. The man that I had once tried to be would have flinched, hurt by that realization, by the mere idea that they had doubted in his ability to change. The man that I am now simply doesn't care, untouched by their opinions, by their complete disregard of who I had tried to become.

That wanna be hero makes my lips curl. He's weak and pathetic, and an existence who has brought me nothing but pain. I certainly won't miss him, not the pain, not the heart break, not the numerous hurts that Emma herself has helped to inflict. That man who I had tried to be, hadn't known any better, too caught up in the pursuit, trying his best to become worthy. He---I had never stood a chance of that, or of her, and all the wishing in the world won't change that.

The raw realization is one I have known for just short of forever, and it's one I have been fighting, blindly protesting and outright denying. I have just hurt myself more for all those attempts at denial, Emma's every action sharpening the dagger I have willing thrust inside me. I've bled for her, and I've bled all over Belle, every time Emma so much as thought of Neal sending me running to the brown haired beauty.

Emma's done a lot more than just worry, the love expressed today open and honest. There's no room for doubts, no room for ME, Emma just as in love with Neal as he is with her. The wounds that I've helped Emma make, lay open, and it is anger and resentments that fester inside them. Blame bubbles in my heart, the twisted dark emotions ugly with what they make me feel, what they make me think.

It's with dark sullen eyes that I watch the two say their goodbyes. It's sickening the way she lingers at his side, the way she acts as though this parting is going to be longer than a handful of hours. Most rage inducing of all, is the one trust she gives me, Emma expecting me to stay, to watch over and protect the man that she loves. That I do must mean some flicker of the hero must still remain inside me, that or some self loathing need to inflict as much pain on myself as possible.

There's a million tortures to be found in this room even after Emma has left it. The scent of her perfume lingers,and it's strongest by the bed. By HIM, Neal sitting there, smiling, as love addled as Emma. Not even the danger that he's in, can make him focus on anything else for long, Neal aware of his victory, and just how lucky a man he now is.

I turn away from him, turn away from that love addled smile. Turn away from the soft warmth in his eyes, and go to stare out a window. There's people out on the hospital's lawns, but they barely hold my attention. Especially when he finally speaks, Neal's voice soft, wistful.

"Hard to believe that a whole year has gone by."

I glance sideways at him, but don't turn from the window. "What's it like to lose a year of your life?"

Neal shrugs. ""I'd say strange, but...that doesn't begin to cover it. It feels like just yesterday that I watched Emma and my son go driving over the town line..." He's a blur of restless movements, rubbing a hand over his face, shifting his legs on the bed. "Are you really sure it's been a whole year?"

"I'm sure." I don't bother to tell him I counted out every day since I had been torn from Emma's side by Pan's curse. "And if you don't trust my way of counting, then there's the fact that Snow White is due to give birth just about any day now."

"Makes me wonder what else we missed out on, what else we all got up to during this past year." I feel his curious gaze settle on me. "I understand you weren't cursed."

"No." A curt answer is all I give him. I'm not willing to go into the details, not willing to share with him the sacrifices I had made. Both to avoid the dark curse, and to play hero to a woman who doesn't want me.

"Don't you find that at all strange?" He asks me. "Why you out of all the people in this town?"

"Just lucky I guess."

"No one is that lucky by chance!" Neal retorts. "Something or someone had to warn you. I want to know who."

"Too bad for you but we don't always get what we want."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Neal frowns at me.

"Nothing." I lie. "Instead of focusing on what you can't remember, you should focus on what you do have. Emma and your son...."

"He doesn't remember me." Neal whispers. "Henry doesn't remember a damn thing about me. No, it's worse than that. He thinks I'm a loser. He thinks I abandoned him and his mother..."

"Didn't you?" I asked, and turn a curious gaze on him. "It's my understanding you left her to rot in a jail for your crimes."

"It wasn't like that!" Neal protested. "I was...I didn't, that is..I thought I was doing what was best for her."

"For her, or for you?" I demand. He frowns in response. "We both know you didn't want to go back to your father. We both know you were ready to do just about anything to avoid him. I bet when you found out she was the savior you couldn't run far enough fast enough...."

His face turns an angry shade of red, and his hands are clenching into fists. Neal shakes his head again, and then abruptly tears out the iv line and it's needle from his arm. "This is stupid." He announces, and goes to stand and gather his things. I am half hearted as I move to block the door, not really wanting to stop him, not really caring to try.

"Get out of my way Hook."

"Emma asked me to stay here with you." I point out, my gaze just as hard as his.

"And we both know you do whatever she asks, right?" He demands, and my jaw clenches in reply. "Look, it doesn't matter. I don't have time for your games. I need to be out there, with Emma, trying to find my father and whoever is responsible for the curse that was cast. We need to work together to stop her...."

"In your condition you'll just get in Emma's way."

"I'll be fine." He insists, and then pushes past me. "The sooner we find this witch, the sooner we can all go back to our normal lives...or whatever passes for normal in this town."

"Yeah, good luck with that." I mutter insincerely. But I let him go. I've little real interest in stopping him, and if Neal's that energetic, than he deserves whatever he gets. And I'm through caring about what happens to him, or about what Emma's reaction will be. To him, to me, to all of it. I'm through with their problems, and with the problems plaguing this town. From now on I'm out for myself, and myself alone, taking what I want when I want it, and there's not a damn thing anyone can do to stop me.

#once upon a time #fanfic #captainbeauty #Belle #Killian Jones #ouat #thedarkflavorofaddiction #Notsafeforwork #captain beauty #captain hook #captain book #killian x belle

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