summary: Red Charming brothel AU. keep blending my heart into deeper shapes.
notes: THIS IS WAR. Ali, I'm throwing down the gauntlet. Your move.
thanks ofc to CHI QUEEN OF BEAN
also on ao3 | ff.net
It's been a long time since that farm in Iowa and his mother's brow creased with worry as she insisted that he marry into the Grainger family and sacrifice himself to save their farm.
It's been a long time since he extolled that "As poor as we are, love is one thing I can afford."
Or rather, what many others could afford.
It isn't jaded cynicism that makes him chuckle at that thought. It's the feeling of Ruby's heart beating soft thump, thump, thumps beneath his hand and the knowledge within her careful smile and her hand, resting so close to his thigh that it's almost touching - enough to make the almost miniscule distance feel like miles of hot, tight air trapping the two of them in an inescapable embrace. The knowledge, as he curves his hand up to cup her cheek, brushes his thumb to her chin and pushes away two bright red strands of hair, that love is not something to be bought or sold, it is not something to be afforded.
But love - the soft parting of Ruby's ruby red lips and the green of her eyes, like fairy lights and forest canopies in the full moon's glow - love cannot be bartered because love is meant to be shared in the touch of his nose to her cheek, Ruby's whisper of his name, and her fingers finally on his thigh, warm and sure.
Familiar heat coils low in his belly and he kisses her chin, her cheek, her nose until her hand is no longer resting, but gripping his thigh. He mouths at her ear and enjoys the press of her face into his palm.
His whisper comes like ritual, like the rites of Aphrodite and Eros and the celebration of love in its purest form, with none of the posturing and formalities, just the giving of himself for her, to her.
"Tell me, Ruby. Tell me what you want. Very specifically. Leave nothing out."
She pulls his hand from her face and it's whiplash, not the sharp way she draws his head back, hand fisted in his hair, but the way her smile cracks her face, green eyes alight with speckles of gold. Whiplash, the way she licks her bottom lip like she's tasting the blood of a fresh kill and not just lipstick. Whiplash, the flash of teeth, and her words, "I want you, David."
Her hand tightens in his hair. "Very specifically, I want you on your knees, your face between my legs and your mouth where it belongs."
David laughs, and when she releases him, he follows to a tee.
Well, almost. He kisses her mouth first, lets his lips linger on hers so that when he finally pulls away, he can't be certain whether her lips are red with lipstick or red with the same heat itching beneath his skin.
He kneels.
She spreads her legs, but it's his hands that pull her to the edge of the bed and his hands - brushing the inner curves of her thighs, dampened with heat and sweat and - that push up her skirt and reveal the lacy black thong underneath.
A match to the bra that peeks out of her half unbuttoned shirt when he looks up to catch her gaze. Her fingers don't still in their slow move downwards, but she graces him with a smile of acknowledgement. A smile that is at once the soft, carefulness of their shared love, and the demanding need of it.
He is acutely aware of her gaze on his throat and the pulsing of his blood there and lower when he ducks his head and licks at the wet scrap of fabric. He tastes Ruby there, so strong that it is overpowering love, love, lust -
The groan that escapes him when he tugs her thong aside with his teeth is matched by the growl she lets loose.
David's tongue is on her before her hands are on him. He smears wetness, spit and her release, all over her hot clit. Sucking the throbbing bundle in his mouth, he forgoes breathing in favour of her drinking her down, the sweet juices and the burn of his oxygen deprived lungs like drinking ambrosia straight from the fountains of Mount Olympus.
He pulls back for two heavy gasps of air. David knows he's flying too close to the sun, chasing heights he was never meant to reach, but the lure of Aphrodite - the taste of Ruby, the feeling of her knees squeezing his shoulders, her hands clawing at his neck, gripping his hair, and the litany of growls , only broken by gasps of his name and cries of more
- David is still just a Shepherd on that farm in Iowa, swearing an oath to love.
Though, now he gives that oath with the press of his tongue between Ruby's wet folds and not naive words.
Her orgasm leaves them both shaking. He breathes into her soaked skin, his heart beating in time with the aftershocks still pulsing through her. Ruby's hands are still on him, but it's not about control now - her fingers smooth over the abraded skin of his neck, her fingers carding through his sweat damp hair.
When she pulls him up, it's less of a demand than it is a request, the very same he asked of her only minutes - minutes? hours? days? months? - before.
She presses him between her spread thighs, so that he's perched over her on the bed, his hands gripping the cool sheets on either side of her. Ruby cups his face and her eyes are fixed on his, more gold than green, but like forests touched by Autumn and the eyes of wolves, gazing lovingly at the full face of the moon.
"Tell me what you want, David."
He doesn't have to think. That's what he always got wrong in the past when he thought of love. That selling it, he'd have to think, weigh the chasms of his heart and give it a price worth the depths of his feelings - enough grain to last the winter, food to fill both his mother and him for the next couple of years, the electric wiring and the plumbing and gas for the oven. So much thought for something that couldn't possibly be studied and catalogued or priced.
But love is meant to be shared, and sharing has always come as easy to David as his reply, "I have all that I could ever want, right here, right now, with you," and the pressing of his still Ruby-wet lips to hers, like an oath sworn in blood and sweat and the soft thump, thump, thumping of her heart.
I knew who I was this morning, but I've changed a few times since then
pairing: Scott/Kira
When Kira follows a white rabbit named Greenburg, she accidentally falls into Wonderland. Armed only with her sword, Kira has to face the weird and outlandish terrain and characters of Wonderland, while trying to find a way back home. Lucky for her, she just happens to bump into the Knight of Hearts, one of the few helpful people in the whole place, and he just happens to be a little cute.
summary: They're in New York just to pick up her and Henry's stuff, and maybe eat some pizza and Asian fusion takeout, but Emma's getting paid partially for her last job in the scumbag's concert tickets, she's not in the mood to argue, and what the heck, might as well go.
Days later, when asked, she'll say it was a "good concert," and leave it at that.
notes: did I write canon compliant cs drunk & high concert smut. yes, yes, i did
this could not have been written without Ali, Sandy, and Daphne...so blame them
also on ao3 | ff.net
Emma is pretty sure she's going to have a bruise shaped like Killian's forearm on her stomach. She's covered in sweat - most of it not her own - and water and god knows what else (beer by the smell of it, but one can never be sure).
The music sounds all around them. Emma can feel the drums beat, beat, beating in her stomach, as heavy as the thrum of blood surging through her veins. The guitars meet and sizzle through the air, electric heat that makes her cling even tighter to Killian as they slip and stumble across the tiled floor. Her back hits the door of the stall hard -
her head swims;
she lets out a rush of breath;
he swallows it in a kiss.
"Idiot," she laughs into his mouth. His answering chuckle reverberates across her skin when he kisses down her jaw, hard enough that she ends up choking on a curse.
She grabs his lower back, sinks her fingers into the already rising fabric, and lifts so that she can slip them underneath. His skin is as sweat-slick as hers and just as hot as she feels all over. Even out of the swallow of the crowd, she burns all over.
It's why she dragged him through the drunken, sweaty mass of people. Why the moment they were free, she twisted into him, dragged his hand to her ass and left a sloppy kiss on his lips.
Finesse is out of the question.
What she wants right now, with his groan barely audible over the music, still so loud even in this out of the way bathroom, is not finesse. She wants his fingers exactly where they are, knuckle rubbing hard swipes against her clit through the denim of her jeans. She wants him half holding her up while his mouth tears at the buttons of her sheer top in a desperate attempt to get at her skin.
Desperate, that's how she feels.
Desperate, and incredibly drunk.
The music swells just as her legs start to wobble beneath her and her hands finally push beneath the band of his jeans. The drum silences - just for a moment - and then the clash echoes right through her, echoed in her sharp cry. Freed of her shirt by Killian's eager mouth, her thin lace bra does nothing to dampen the wet heat of his mouth on her breast. He licks and teases at her nipple through the barely-there scrap of fabric - bites down and licks at the peaked flesh until she scrapes his skin with her nails fumbling to get at the belt of his jeans.
Emma isn't sure whether it's the expensive beers or weed or music making her dizzy, or whether it's just the way Killian licks at the valley of her breasts, up to the hollow of her throat and teases her skin with his teeth. He alternates between soft bites that make her body tingle, her eyes shut, and rough ones that make her eyes fly open and the blood rush, make her more aware than she has any right to be of the cool metal of his belt buckle underneath her shaking fingers and the coolness of his prosthetic palm splayed against her lower back.
Somehow the belt opens in her hands, but she has the thought - her eyes open and staring at the red walls of the stall - to push away from him.
"Emma," he says, all protest. Her mind and body echo the sentiment.
Her eyes meet his as he starts to push up from the wall he stumbled into. Her head swims again, she gets lost for a second in the hunger of his look. She blinks, breathes, and then pushes him aside to shut the stall door. She fumbles with the lock, laughs when it takes her only a second -
"Still got it!"
"Point, Swan. Captain Morgan, 0," Killian says. She jumps at the sound. His voice is loud in her ear, almost shouting because he's draped himself over her like a particularly handsy coat. She giggles because he's maybe drunker than she is - most definitely higher, he took about 3 or 4 more hits than she did - though his control is just as steady. The fingers of his good hand manage to undo the rest of her buttons shirt without tearing them. The part of her still thinking of more than just having him inside her is thankful for that.
"And Captain Hook?" she says suddenly. The way Killian tenses - maybe she's louder than she should be too.
The music has lulled for the moment. If she focuses, she can hear the band shouting to the crowd - but that focus is lost and drawn back to Killian when his hand slides up her stomach and pushes her bra to her shoulders so he can cup her breast and squeeze the sensitive mound roughly.
"The Great Captain Hook," he corrects.
He laughs gruffly and Emma laughs too -
"Ah!"
- his thumb and forefinger tug at her nipple, she grinds her ass against the hardness of his erection, and the desperation is back just as the next song starts, fast and loud,
loud,
loud.
Emma can't hear what he says because she pulls her fingers away from where they were still holding the stall latch like a lifeline. She isn't sure how she manages to push away from Killian when the roughness of his touch on her nipple feels so damn good, but the moment she is facing him, she unhooks her bra and then dives for the zip of his jeans.
Drunk and stoned, he still gets the picture and while she tugs, he pushes until his cock bobs free of the confines of the jeans.
"Pirates going commando," she says - half a thought that makes her laugh while he proves the pirate in a string of very creative curses because she has already grasped his hard length in her damp palm. He jerks in her grip. She sighs and strokes slowly, her mind and vision split between the sweat dripping down his throat through the dark-haired planes of his scarred chest, and the way her clit throbs from the lack of attention; those few, hurried strokes were not enough, but if she squeezes her thighs just right - well, there is no relief, but the movement feels almost good.
Almost.
The touch of his hand to her bare shoulder is dizzying. Her bra hangs at her elbows now, and her shirt is a lost cause, bunched around her waist and wrists in a tangled mess that would make her lazy handjob difficult if he wasn't pulling her closer.
And that creates a new difficulty, with her hand now trapped between them, Killian's head dipped into her shoulder and him mouthing her skin along to the music - impossible, considering this trip to New York had been impromptu, the concert even more so, and Emma has yet to introduce him to the likes of "post-hardcore."
Her thumb slips along the head of his cock. She twists her wrist only slightly in what would've been another stroke, but the thought is abandoned because he bucks his hips forward to grind into hers. She drops her hand to his ass, needing purchase to search out the friction she so desperately craves. With her other hand that he trapped against his stomach when he pulled her to him, she pauses from the mindless running of her fingers through the patch of hair growing from his navel, and pushes his head up from her throat.
The sound of the music keeps fading in and out of her consciousness but when he hooks her with another needy, devouring look, this time she can just hear the keyboard and the singer screaming into the mic. Killian grinds into her in rhythmic motions, almost to the beat of the song. Emma, knowing it better, keeps pace with the tapping of her fingers on his bearded jaw. They sway together, his knees almost bent into the seat of the closed toilet.
"You have an ear for music," Emma says.
He doesn't say anything. Maybe he didn't hear her. Maybe he's too drunk to read her lips. Maybe she's too drunk to say anything clear.
The light is pulsing in greens and reds and blues around her - maybe she's just really high.
"I'm a pirate," he says, finally.
Maybe not that high.
"That's not an explanation," she starts to say, was going to say, but all that comes out is muffled noises; she tastes his tongue, and the alcohol and smoke of his breath emptied into her in a kiss that makes her ache return tenfold.
She doesn't think.
In seconds, Killian is seated, and Emma's in his lap, both hands now clinging to the hard muscle of his shoulders so she can take exactly what she needs, kiss away her thoughts in the corner of his mouth, feel the music in the slick thrumming of his tongue along hers.
She rolls her hips, rides him as best she can at the moment with her damn tight jeans still on and her shirt and bra still knotted around her arms.
Killian bites her lip. It stings, her eyes widen, and Killian doesn't let up, shoving his hand down the front of her jeans and sinking lower and lower...
Maybe the next cry is the sound of the crowd screaming, or maybe it's just her.
Gasping out for air, her forehead pressed to Killian's as his fingers shove between the wet lips of her pussy, she tries to help, but ends up half-laughing, half-cursing at the ridiculousness of her position.
Twisting and riding the thick knuckle now fucking her with such enthusiasm, Emma crows in success when she finally holds her bra and shirt crumpled in her fists. Killian's prosthetic hand slips up her bare back. Without the shirt pulled taut around her lower back, the sweat makes it harder for him to hold her now.
Doesn't matter. Emma can hold herself.
Sort of.
Her top joins Killian's on the floor, though she's careful to drop hers on his. She might be fucking in a bathroom -
"a-h ah,"
(her breath hiccups from the next push of his finger, deep enough that his ring drags roughly against her too-sensitive clit)
"damn it, Hook,"
- but she doesn't want to end up smelling like one. It's an important distinction.
As important as getting out of these jeans is. She lifts up, Killian's hand slips out of her, and without any protest (really who would protest this) she pushes her jeans and thong down to her knees.
The position is only slightly not awkward, but Emma's an improviser. She spreads her legs as far as she can and pushes forward until her ankles rest against either side of him and his cock is pressed right where he needs to be.
The lights are back on the walls again. Purple and yellow - Emma doesn't know when it changed, when the others left and this one came, but she knows one thing as she holds Killian's shoulder with one hand and uses the other to push his cock into her:
they're not alone.
Not that she cares. Much. She's been caught in worse positions than this; she knows, however, that she does not want this getting out at all. Sheriff Emma Swan does not do things like this. The Savior does not do things like this.
What Emma Swan gets up to in a concert bathroom stall with a hook-handed pirate with a penchant for making her breath catch anyway he can - a loving word and a hand held in hers, or a forceful thrust of his hips to the rhythm of a We Came as Romans song...
What goes on in New York, stays in New York.
"I know this song," Killian says suddenly.
"Oh - really?"
She perks her ears again, a hard task when she is bouncing in his lap, barely managing to hang on to his shoulder and still rub her clit just the right way to build the pleasure without her losing her mind just yet.
She strains, listens,
- keyboard intro, light vocals, and then the bass hits and the guitars enter -
and Emma giggles.
"Everyone knows this song," Emma says, loudly.
Someone slams the stall door a few feet down and says not quite quietly, "Fake scene kids only know this song."
Emma and Killian erupt into body shaking laughter. Her, because she's not a kid, not even close, and when the hell did fucking in the bathroom become a YouTube comment section? Him, because "Wasn't asking for your opinion, mate," and he punctuates each word with a roll of his hips that drag her downhill in an overwhelming landslide.
She forgets the speaker. Forgets the band earnestly screaming out a pop hit in the background. Forgets that she's trying to keep this from ending too quickly because pleasure is bursting across her vision in sparkling colours, and that could be another glow bracelet, but she chases that feeling anyway. Emma finds it easy to just close her eyes and focus only on the heady drag of his beard when he searches out her lips and the heavy pounding of his cock, so deep it almost hurts, so good that she almost wants it to if only to curb the intensity of the desire choking her ability to even think.
Half thoughts flutter through her mind that he's actually keeping perfect time with the song, and even his and her grunts and moans sound melodic with the rock backup.
Another door slam. The crowd's singing so clear now: can you spend a little time, time is slipping away...
Emma bows her back. She's riding Killian now, hands on his shoulder and waist, nails hollowing crescents in his skin because there's no maneuverability with her jeans at her knees, so she's steering him.
And damn this pirate because she may be at the helm, but Killian is the Captain, and he grabs control all the same, driving the fingers of the hand she freed against her clit to the same goddamn beat of this song.
The ending of the song seems to last forever, a lifetime of moments where all she knows is the sweet intoxication of his mouth on hers and the rough drag of his cock and his fingers.
But then forever ends, and she's hurtling over the edge, the build up so intense that her orgasm momentarily blinds her - "Fuck," she grits out.
Killian's strokes lose their rhythmic quality but Emma doesn't care. The aftershocks are almost as overwhelming as the orgasm. When he comes moments later, it is only then that she realizes her orgasm didn't blind her.
Some asshole turned the light off.
Luckily, before they have to figure out getting out of this position in the dark without hurting themselves, someone else turns on the light.
Emma scrambles off of him, stretches out her tight muscles, and cleans up as much as she can before pulling her clothes back on. Killian moves past her and does the same. After only a moment of trying, she gives up on the torn buttons of her shirt, ties it into a semi-decent crop top and then turns to face Killian.
"Hey, Emma," he says, leaning up against the door - and he looks positively fucked worse than when his past self announced his ship the "Rolly Joger" as he carried on to it. His hair is at wild ends, his mouth is kiss reddened, and her finger marks trail from his neck down under the collar of his t-shirt. His eyelids are heavy with alcohol, weed, and the satisfaction of good sex. He curls his lips in a smirk and licks the torn skin of his top lip.
He looks fucked, and utterly fuckable.
"I'm glad you came."
She bursts out laughing because Disney's Captain Hook may have had a perm and an awful moustache, but at least he wasn't a complete and utter idiot.
---
(she totally doesn't hum the song on repeat the whole train ride back to their hotel.
but if she does, then it's with Killian's fingers tapping the rhythm into her skin as she half-dozes with her head on his chest.)
Okay, so divinethedivine said I gave her Sleeping Warrior feels and wanted fic, and I ended up going back through my SW tag and finding this conversation with singallyouwant and, well...
Set in an AU where Phillip was never brought back, but Mulan and Aurora continue to travel together.
.
Mulan is most beautiful when she wields a sword.
She is beautiful always; it is strange to think Aurora could ever have mistaken her for a man. Mulan is unmistakably a woman, a beautiful woman. Her beauty suits her personality: strong, uncompromising, firmly there. It is not the kind of beauty that needs dresses or silk for emphasis; nothing is delicate about her. Perhaps that is one of the reasons she wears her helmet: men always think a beautiful woman is weak, and Mulan has no patience for such foolishness. Mulan is a warrior, stronger than anyone else Aurora has known. She makes her own destiny.
And she is most beautiful with a sword in her hand.
“You’re beautiful.” The words slip out her lips almost before Aurora is finished thinking them.
Mulan is too disciplined to jump; instead, she stills completely. It only lasts a moment, and her outstretched sword remains steady before she sheathes it in one smooth motion… but her cheeks pink, and her eyes dart to meet Aurora’s before looking away.
It is just past dawn. Mulan rises early every day to prepare breakfast and practice her swordsmanship. Aurora rarely sleeps through sunrise herself, still tormented nightly by trips to the burning dreamworld. She’ll wake with a panicked gasp and sit up, eyes searching for her companion. The sight of Mulan always makes her shoulders relax, her breath come easier. She makes Aurora feel safe, even against the threat of dreams.
And yet she seems surprised to hear herself called beautiful.
“Your sword,” Aurora says, feeling a need to explain, feeling unexpectedly angry at the sight of Mulan’s flushed cheeks and shy eyes. “It looks… right in your hands. You look strong, and – brave, and capable. It’s beautiful.”
Mulan doesn’t speak for a long time; she rounds the campfire and sits on the log next to Aurora, looking down at her hands in her lap. Finally, she looks up, and smiles, and Aurora holds her breath.
“Thank you,” Mulan says.
Aurora smiles. “You make me wish I could use a sword.”
“I can teach you.”
Aurora is not sure which of them the offer surprises more. She blinks, and Mulan blinks, and after a moment Aurora has to laugh because they’re both just sitting and blinking at each other, and it’s ridiculous. It is.
Mulan doesn’t seem to think so. “It wasn't a joke,” she says. “I will teach you.”
She’s determined now, gaze steely enough to make Aurora’s spine straighten, and there is nothing to do but agree.
.
Aurora is miserable with a sword.
She tries, she does, she tries her hardest for days. But Mulan’s mighty sword is too heavy for her to even hold properly for very long, not that she can hold it correctly in the first place. Every time she picks it up she tries to remember Mulan’s instructions, the careful way she wrapped Aurora’s fingers around the hilt and smiled and said, “Like this.”
And every time, somehow Aurora still gets it wrong. Mulan will watch silently as she tries to adjust her grip, and Aurora will become impatient, fumbling all the more. When she finally gets it right, flushing with shame already, then they practice stance and swing, and inevitably Aurora will be wrong, will drop the sword, will trip over her skirts, will just not get it until finally the lesson ends.
It’s frustrating. It’s exhausting. It’s humiliating, when Mulan gives her a long stick to hold instead of the sword, when that still makes no difference, when nothing ever makes any difference. Aurora tries even harder, grips her stick tighter, swings it faster, grits her teeth and tries again and again and again until her hands blister and Mulan forces her to stop.
She sits on a log by the fire while Mulan kneels in front of her, cleaning the scrapes on her hands and bandaging them carefully, and Aurora can feel tears welling up in her eyes.
It’s stupid to get this worked up and she knows it, but she can’t help it, she can’t stop the tears from slipping down her cheeks.
“There, that should-” Mulan looks up and lets out a little gasp of concern. “Aurora, are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Aurora says, and tries to smile, shaking her head. Mulan’s worry isn’t helping; it just makes her feel stupider, but at the same time she doesn’t want it to stop. “No, I’m sorry, I’m fine. It’s silly.”
Mulan hesitates, and then says, “If something is bothering you, you can tell me.”
Aurora shakes her head, a refusal on her lips, but –
“Please.”
Mulan’s gaze is steady and strong and most of all kind, but uncertain still. There’s vulnerability in her eyes, and Aurora knows suddenly that if she refuses to talk, if she pushes Mulan away now, her protector will hurt. She won’t say a word but she might not ever do this again either, kneel before Aurora with her hands in hers and say please.
Once again, Aurora speaks almost before thinking: “I just realized I’ll never be a warrior, like you or Phillip. That’s all.”
Her voice wavers on Phillip’s name, but no more. Aurora smiles down at Mulan, and hearing the words aloud helps a little. She never truly expected to be able to match Mulan or Phillip. In Aurora’s opinion few warriors could ever have matched Phillip, and she’s never met a person who could win against Mulan in a fair fight. And Aurora – she is the kind of woman who wears silk, delicate and in need of saving. She’s never even held anything bigger than a dagger before these lessons began. She’s a fool to cry about this, and she wouldn’t blame Mulan for laughing at her outright.
But Mulan’s not laughing. She’s not even smiling. “No,” she agrees seriously, “you will never be a warrior like me.”
Aurora flinches despite herself, and looks down at her hands. She can’t hear it that bluntly, not yet.
“You don’t need to be like me,” Mulan says, and her hands squeeze a little tighter around Aurora’s. She took off her gloves to apply the bandages, and her fingers are warm, and Aurora wants to tangle them in her fingers. “You have your own strengths, no less great.”
Aurora looks up in surprise. Mulan is smiling now, such a gentle smile that Aurora can feel her breath catch behind her teeth.
“Your heart is strong,” Mulan says, and her voice is so sure, her eyes so sincere, she looks truly in awe. Aurora feels shivery and warm at once, can’t look away. “I have never seen one braver.”
Aurora opens her mouth slowly, but she can’t think of anything to say. There is nothing she could say to this. Nothing anyone could say.
Instead of speaking, she leans forward and slowly presses a kiss to Mulan’s lips.
.
They’ve touched before: a helping hand up, a shake on the shoulder to wake up, a pass of food across the campfire. They’ve slept side by side on occasion, scant inches between them. Ever since their sword lessons have begun, there has been much more touching: gloved fingers arranging Aurora’s grip, again and again; a nudge to correct her stance; arms around hers and warmth against her back as Mulan guides her through the proper way to swing her sword; brushing her off after she’s fallen down once again – and now, warm bare fingers against her own, gently cleaning her hands, wrapping them in soft bandages.
And now, warm lips against her own, still at first but Aurora kisses them, and kisses them again (softly, softly), and the third time they kiss back, hesitantly. Eyes closed, Aurora smiles and keeps kissing, kissing the strongest warrior she’s ever known, a woman so kind and brave and true, kissing Mulan.
They’ve touched before, and Aurora has kissed before, and none of this feels quite new. It feels familiar, and it’s only when warm fingers squeeze tighter around hers that Aurora understands why – of course, this is not the first time Mulan has held her heart in her hands.
They pull back at the same time; Mulan’s smiling, blushing so bright Aurora has to laugh, because she can feel the heat on her own cheeks too. Mulan laughs a little too, and her smile is so strong, so bravely happy that Aurora thinks Mulan isn’t most beautiful with a sword in her hand after all.
