[Magi] untitled drabble
Series: Magi. OC.
Word Count: 763.
Characters/Pairings: Judal/OC.
Notes: dont look at me
Summary: you are a mountain in the body of a willow tree, and he could burn you down if he wanted.
You love Judal even when he draws blood. You love him when he sulks over not getting enough attention and when he clings to you and whines, and when he pushes you down and looks right into you-you love him, you love him more than you want to admit, and much more than is okay. You want it to be okay. He pulls your head back by your black hair, exposes your neck, and plants a kiss in the hollow of your throat, the dip in your collarbone, and he's gentle but you're very much aware of your own vulnerability. You dig your nails into his sides, grit your teeth, and he smiles at you. You want this to be okay. You remember the small boy you met in the snow, years and years ago, who used to cry when he was lonely but pretended that he never was. You remember the way he looked at you, silent and calculating, when you told him you were leaving the Kou Empire. You remember his hands, the first time he undressed you, and how he kissed you so hard your lips were bruised and almost split; how he clung to you and marked you and said your name, Sapphira, said you were his, his, his.
And you think of the way you love him, deep and fierce and hot in your chest, knowing you've never minded the bruises or the sharp words or how he throws his fits. But you still-his aftermath, the things he destroys, the chaos he revels in, you clean up his messes and deal with the damage, and it never gets easier. You try to leave him behind and he comes to see you, furious and coiled and-
"If you leave me, I'll kill someone." He's standing two feet in front of you, his body ready to rush forward and grab you or throw you, and you cross your arms.
"You already do that." He grins, all teeth and no humour and you sigh, but you know what he means. Of course you do. He looks at you, death and blood and ice, and you feel your bones are made of stone. He never sees how much it affects you, you think, but this is the side of him you've always hated.
You're tired. You're so tired, and you love him, more than you've loved anything, and he's broken and wrong and you want him to be okay. You want to be okay. He's molten lava and ash and glaciers, frostbite and first degree burns, and you are the mountain that weathers the beating. He looks through you and in you and he's so gentle even when he burns you up and freezes over. You've never been able to understand why he handles you like you'll break.
(What he doesn't say is that it hurts. It hurts when you say you wish he was different and hurts when you say you wish you had fallen in love with someone else. You make him warm and solid but he doesn't understand why and it makes him-mad. You pull him down and bring him home and speak to him like anyone else and it hurts when you look at him like you're tired because he knows. He knows-no one else in the world would be able to love him like you do, as much as you do, in the way that you do, and it makes him angry. It makes him angry because he's scared.
He likes your hair, fine and straight, and he likes your hipbones, sharp and delicate, but he never says how he thinks of you when you're not there and that he knows you put vegetables in the meals you make for him.
He never says he loves you because he looks in your indigo eyes and realizes, frustrated and on the verge of a tantrum, that he can't see what you're thinking but you seem to understand him all too well. You're fragile and human and slender, a mountain in the body of a willow tree, and he knows how easily he could kill someone like you from experience. It's that experience that keeps reminding him that you must secretly resent him. You have to. Even if you say you love him, it's not possible, so-
But maybe. Maybe. He looks at your back, the hair tucked behind your ear as you read over a letter from Sabira. You make him want to try and be okay, but he doesn't know where to begin.)
Word Count: 763.
Characters/Pairings: Judal/OC.
Notes: dont look at me
Summary: you are a mountain in the body of a willow tree, and he could burn you down if he wanted.
You love Judal even when he draws blood. You love him when he sulks over not getting enough attention and when he clings to you and whines, and when he pushes you down and looks right into you-you love him, you love him more than you want to admit, and much more than is okay. You want it to be okay. He pulls your head back by your black hair, exposes your neck, and plants a kiss in the hollow of your throat, the dip in your collarbone, and he's gentle but you're very much aware of your own vulnerability. You dig your nails into his sides, grit your teeth, and he smiles at you. You want this to be okay. You remember the small boy you met in the snow, years and years ago, who used to cry when he was lonely but pretended that he never was. You remember the way he looked at you, silent and calculating, when you told him you were leaving the Kou Empire. You remember his hands, the first time he undressed you, and how he kissed you so hard your lips were bruised and almost split; how he clung to you and marked you and said your name, Sapphira, said you were his, his, his.
And you think of the way you love him, deep and fierce and hot in your chest, knowing you've never minded the bruises or the sharp words or how he throws his fits. But you still-his aftermath, the things he destroys, the chaos he revels in, you clean up his messes and deal with the damage, and it never gets easier. You try to leave him behind and he comes to see you, furious and coiled and-
"If you leave me, I'll kill someone." He's standing two feet in front of you, his body ready to rush forward and grab you or throw you, and you cross your arms.
"You already do that." He grins, all teeth and no humour and you sigh, but you know what he means. Of course you do. He looks at you, death and blood and ice, and you feel your bones are made of stone. He never sees how much it affects you, you think, but this is the side of him you've always hated.
You're tired. You're so tired, and you love him, more than you've loved anything, and he's broken and wrong and you want him to be okay. You want to be okay. He's molten lava and ash and glaciers, frostbite and first degree burns, and you are the mountain that weathers the beating. He looks through you and in you and he's so gentle even when he burns you up and freezes over. You've never been able to understand why he handles you like you'll break.
(What he doesn't say is that it hurts. It hurts when you say you wish he was different and hurts when you say you wish you had fallen in love with someone else. You make him warm and solid but he doesn't understand why and it makes him-mad. You pull him down and bring him home and speak to him like anyone else and it hurts when you look at him like you're tired because he knows. He knows-no one else in the world would be able to love him like you do, as much as you do, in the way that you do, and it makes him angry. It makes him angry because he's scared.
He likes your hair, fine and straight, and he likes your hipbones, sharp and delicate, but he never says how he thinks of you when you're not there and that he knows you put vegetables in the meals you make for him.
He never says he loves you because he looks in your indigo eyes and realizes, frustrated and on the verge of a tantrum, that he can't see what you're thinking but you seem to understand him all too well. You're fragile and human and slender, a mountain in the body of a willow tree, and he knows how easily he could kill someone like you from experience. It's that experience that keeps reminding him that you must secretly resent him. You have to. Even if you say you love him, it's not possible, so-
But maybe. Maybe. He looks at your back, the hair tucked behind your ear as you read over a letter from Sabira. You make him want to try and be okay, but he doesn't know where to begin.)