killian jones + that awkwardly cute hand thing
Few people have held a dagger to my throat and lived to tell the tale.
*Quite a few people have held a dagger to my throat and lived to tell the tale.
OMG!!! I just noticed how it looks like he is starting to pull away and how she pulls his hook back toward her!!!
this is giving me a lot of feelings.
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Drabble responses as I attempt to get back in my writing groove.
She stares at the door for a long time, waits until the clock hits 11:47 exactly for the telltale creak of the too-old floorboards, his heavy and measured steps echoing just outside in the hall. She watches as his shadowed feet appear beneath her door, his body hesitating, the buzz that pulls him to her and her to him practically a physical thing between them, stretching out hazy and thick and taut.
(It gets tighter each day – regardless of his cold stares or tense shoulders – her heart squeezing painfully each and every step he takes away from her.)
He lingers there, in front of her door, and her fingers twitch with the urge to open it – let him know that she knows he does this every night. She can hear the dull thud of his forehead falling against the wood, the scrape of his hook as his arm presses against the barrier between them. But instead she sits on the edge of her bed as her heart beats out a manic rhythm against her rib cage, the glass of whiskey burning a hole through her as she pulls at it with measured sips. 11:49 and he moves on, the creak of the stairs signaling his retreat as he finds his way into the diner – using his hook to fiddle with the lock until the old door swings open and he can raid the pie supply.
(Her footsteps are infinitely quieter and he has a horrible weakness for apple pie – his low moan as his forks slides between his lips downright sinful in the dark quiet of the abandoned diner.)
One night it changes, the door to his room swinging open with such force that it slams against the wall with a loud bang. She puts her glass of whiskey to the side on top of her book and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, eyes darting to the clock and registering the light glow that tells her it’s only 10:48. His footsteps are anxious outside of her door and this time she gives into the pull, her hands clammy as she opens the door.
He is disheveled, fingers anchored in his hair, and when his wild eyes land on her he heaves out a desperate sounding breath mixed with a low whimper that settles in her stomach and makes her sick. He takes a half-step forward and seems to remember himself, the brief flash of agony on his face enough to steal her breath and curl her hands into fists at her side.
“Are you alright?”
He gnaws on his lip and forces a shaky grin, already retreating back to his room. His eyes dart anywhere but to her and the thing that pulls them together begins to fray at the middle – too tight, far too tight.
“Aye, just a dream.” And then he is gone, the sailboat (Granny’s does not lack in irony, that is for sure) swinging innocuously on his door.
(She blinks back tears when he shows up again at 11:47, his ragged breath falling through the door, the scrape of his hook noticeably absent. He stays until midnight this time, and she makes sure to make extra noise as she gets ready for bed – a whispered come back to me with every clumsy movement.)
Primeval || Connor Temple
➥ Some Nights
Some nights I stay up, cashing in my bad luck. Some nights I call it a draw. Some nights I wish that my lips could build a castle, some nights I wish they’d just fall off. But I still wake up, I still see your ghost, oh lord, I’m still not sure what I stand for.
What do I stand for?
What do I stand for?
Most nights, I don’t know…anymore…