fic: but I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more (epilogue)

[luninosity]

And with this, we're done. Emma's epilogue, and plans in process.

Thank you, everyone, for reading and encouraging and commenting! I am rather in awe of all the love for this--and I love you all for it. *hugs everyone*

Title: But I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles, And I Would Walk Five Hundred More (Epilogue: Emma Gets The Last Word)
Rating: NC-17

Comments

[euruaina]

God, I finally got all caught up and finished reading this - and what a conclusion it was!

*fans self from all the lovely and exquisite porn, then proceeds to make squishy happy faces at their fluff*

This was just such an absolutely perfect gem of deliciously kinky porn and disgustingly sweet love story. I had a moment with some of your phrasing a couple of chapters back where I just couldn't. Like, it was so perfectly descriptive, and all I could think was HOW DOES SHE COME UP WITH THIS GAAAA.(It was this bit, if you were wondering "...there’s a sparkle of conspiratorial mischief in the oceans, buried treasure-gleams under outgoing tides..")

Okay, so slightly embarrassing confession time. You know how when you've got this sort of massive crush on someone that is primarily based on how fucking amazing they are at what they do, and they are constantly surprising you with new talents, and making you fall in love with them all over again over the way they say something or show you a glimpse of how their mind works, or you find out they have yet another amazing talent and you feel this completely irrational moment of rage because they are just so ridiculously unfairly perfect? I had that fangirl rage moment at you over that stupid line. I mean, buried treasure-gleams under outgoing tides? Really? I fucking love it, but HOW.

Normally these moments of HOW DO YOU EVEN are reserved for the likes of Tom Hiddleston. My most recent embarrassment was when I found out that, in addition to all of the amazing acting, his fucking face, the completely unfair way he wears a suit, his absolutely genuine polite charm and attention, his ridiculous pranks and sense of humor, his being a total dork, and general adorableness and hotness, he also can apparently play guitar. I ended up boneless and halfway out of the spiny chair facing away from my computer making inarticulate noises of NOT FAIR and HOW DO YOU EVEN.

In your case I had to reread that sentence a few time to just process, then took a few moments to just hold my head up with both elbows braced on the desk making these helpless sounds of frustration because of the perfect phrasing, and how do you even come up with that astonishingly beautiful imagery?

tl;dr - I fucking love you. I plead 3am as my excuse the inane ramblyness of this comment.

[luninosity]

Aww, too kind... *blushes*

This one really was, like, my porn muse and hurt/comfort muse went on a date, and then started a relationship, and then had a fic...but people seem to like it! It certainly surprised me, a few times. Oh, boys. <3

Oh, that line! I do like that line. *happy faces* I like that whole moment, actually: the way that they're in-role but totally equals, complete confidence and trust and love on both sides. Healing in so many ways, from where they were after Shaw, from where they were at the beginning. And so of course there's long-buried treasure, uncovered now, a private cove just for the two of them, full of sun and sand and sapphire joy.

I've never been compared to a Hiddleston before! That is MARVELOUS and now I shall smile all day. (Also, he IS wonderful. Him reciting Shakespeare...*fans self* Hello, erudition kink.) Also have a splendid mental picture of you cooing at your computer. This is an excellent and flattering result. :D :D

I like your 3am comments! They make me feel like I've done something right!

Hmm, here, as a thank-you, have a preview of the next thing, which is the next of the 'compromise' series...

##
He pushes open the door. His metal purrs back at him, complacent; Charles is genuinely asleep, and doesn’t react. Fingerprint bruises wink up from one visible hipbone, half-obscured by a drift of sheet. And Erik stands there in the doorway, simply looking, while his heart aches strangely behind its cage of bone.

He’s never had much patience for anything simple and clean and nice, for anything less than strong. For anyone refusing to embrace their full potential. For any person foolish enough to hope that the world isn’t broken, that humanity isn’t flawed. To believe otherwise is naïve and dangerous; people are useful when they have uses, and some men need to die, and trust is a luxury belonging to those who’ve never been wounded.

But Charles has been wounded. And Charles trusts him, even in the face of all of Erik’s anger and power and pain.

And the world’s more complicated than he wants to believe, as Charles would no doubt remind him. Sebastian Shaw is a mutant. One of them. And Erik’s own parents hadn’t been.

Charles’s family hadn’t been mutants either. Erik would hesitate, except in the strictest sense, to call them human.

Charles stirs, waking, or near to, layers of beautiful complications like multifaceted iron roses; no, he thinks, changing the comparison. Like roses, yes, but living ones, wrapped around an iron trellis, vibrant and vital and blooming and green. To mistake vitality for weakness, however, would be an error. Those vines are coiled and powerful and thorned with old pain and raw telepathic strength.

He’s fortunate, he thinks very quietly, that they’ve become entwined with him. With his heart.

And he’s willing to be Charles’s latticework forever. Charles is, after all, holding him too.

Lovely, Charles says, yawning. Erik. You’re beautiful. And so’re your metaphors.

Erik, uncomfortable with this, announces, “I’ve brought you an omelette.”

Charles blinks, not physically. Thank you.