#Cs get degrees right? and i mean when i was an A student i did not get a degree. so...

[noreasonreally]

i overthink math and underthink english.

one just wants the factual answer, the other needs a paraphrased recitation of every rule and observation that led you to this conclusion

annnnnnd i mix them up all the time.

[themetaphorgirl]

Okay idea: everyone is super stressed out, probably school related (idk how american school works but when I was at school everyone got stressed during exam season) and Spencer keeps info dumping on everyone as a way to not feel as stressed out but it’s having the opposite effect on everyone else and they get super snappy and telling him to go away or to be quiet and he ends up just going super quiet for the rest of the day/ study session. Aaron twigs onto what happened so when he’s putting Spencer to bed that night he asks him about his facts and he thrives telling them until he falls asleep mid-fact!!

Idk this has been on my brain all day lol 💙

Okay so this took a tiny bit of a turn but it made me laugh soooo…I hope you like it!

—————

The library was eerily quiet. Spencer fidgeted as he flipped through his history textbook. He wasn’t exactly sure how to study like everyone else- no one had every taught him how to study, so he just kept reading and tucking things away in the back of his memory.

The door slammed and he sat up a little too fast, smacking the back of his head against the wall. “Ow,” he whispered to himself, trying to not disturb the other students cramming frantically for exams. He pushed himself up and tugged down the hem of his half-tucked uniform shirt. Everyone seemed to want to study on their own, but his quiet corner in the middle of the 900s was just way too quiet.

He tiptoed down the aisles in search of someone familiar. Penelope was sitting on the floor surrounded by stacks of color coded index cards, frowning at them in confusion as she absentmindedly tapped her fluffy-topped pen against her cheek. “Hi, Pen,” he said. “Are you still studying?”

“Mm-hm,” she said without looking up.

He shifted his weight. “I like your index cards,” he offered. “Did you know they use color coding in food safety to prevent cross contamination?” He pointed to a neon green stack. “Green means processed meat. And blue means-“

“Precious, I know you really want to share things with me, but I have a lot of information to weed through,” she said. “Could you please go share your wealth of knowledge with somebody else?”

He hesitated. “Okay,” he said.

She went back to her index cards immediately. He wandered away, looking for someone else familiar. He found Derek sitting on a windowseat and JJ lying on the floor next to him, their review packets in wild disarray and the contents of their backpacks strewn around them. “What are you guys studying?” Spencer asked.

“Math,” JJ said glumly. “And Derek is making his study card for English.”

Derek held it up. “We’re allowed a three by five index card,” he said. “Think I can write smaller?”

Spencer brightened. “I can’t help with the writing, but I can help with math!” he said. “What is it? Algebra? Calculus?”

“It’s all the dumb y=mx+b stuff,” JJ said.

Spencer sat down beside her. “I can help!” he said. “I like linear equations. They’re so easy once you know what you’re looking at. So the y-intercept is-“

“I think I can figure it out,” JJ said. “Thanks, though.”

“You’re sure?” Spencer said. “Derek, do you-“

“Dammit,” Derek said, distracted as the lead of his pencil snapped. “Ugh, I’m running out of lead.”

Spencer stood up carefully. “Okay, well…I’ll help if you need me,” he offered.

He stood there for a moment, waiting to see if they were going to change their minds, but they both went back to their work. Reluctantly he bit back a sigh and kept walking.

He could hear Emily and Aaron arguing before he got to them. “You realize that these are the grades that prospective colleges are going to look at for admission, right?” he was saying.

“Cs get degrees, Hotchner. I don’t really care.”

The two of them sat opposite each other at a long table; Aaron’s work was stacked in neat piles while Emily’s books formed a tower topped by a damp cup of mostly melted iced coffee. Aaron dragged his hand through his dark hair in bewildered frustration, leaving it tousled and sticking up. “You could pull your grade up to at least a B if you just tried,” he said. “I’m trying to help you.”

Emily tossed a handful of skittles in her mouth. “Relax, Hotchner, I’ll be fine,” she said.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Actually-“

Emily jumped, spilling skittles across the table. “Jesus Christ, gremlin, when did you get here?” she said.

He rolled his eyes. “Actually, it’s been proven that standardized testing like the SAT and the ACT are more important for college admission than grades,” he said.

Emily smirked. “Aha, see? I told you,” she said, tossing a skittle at Aaron’s face. It bounced off his forehead and onto his open physics textbook as he glared at her in annoyance.

“Although a study of fifty-five thousand students did show that GPA scores are five times more reliable for predicting graduation rates than the ACT, so you might be more likely to get accepted to a college than graduate on time,” he continued. “And a student with a high GPA but a low test score can-“

“Spencer,” Aaron interrupted. “Do you need something?”

He hesitated. “I’m hungry?” he said meekly.

Emily held up the skittles. “Want these?” she offered. He shook his head. “Suit yourself.”

“We already had dinner, Bug,” Aaron said. “If you’re really that hungry I have some snacks in my room later.”

“Could we go get coffee?” he asked.

“It’s almost nine, that’s way too late,” Aaron said. “Go study, Spencer. We’ll head back in like half an hour.”

He rocked up on his toes. “Can I stay with you guys?” he asked.

“Only if you can be quiet,” Aaron said.

Spencer slunk away and trooped over to the circulation desk. “Alex, can I have a snack?” he asked plaintively.

“Wait, there’s snacks in here?“

Spencer balked. “Where’s Alex?”

Instead of Alex, Anderson was sitting behind the desk with his iPad in one hand and an Italian dictionary in the other. “She asked me to take her shift tonight,” he said. “Rewind, munchkin, were you saying your sister keeps snacks in the library? Where? I’m starving.”

Spencer ran back towards Aaron and Emily, nearly tripping over his untied shoelaces. “I thought Alex was coming with us,” he said.

“Nah, she and Blake wanted some alone time so they could-“

Aaron threw a wadded up piece of paper at Emily’s face. “They’re studying,” he said quickly. “By themselves. Alone. We’re not going to bother them. And Emily and I are studying. You should go see if JJ or Penelope need help.”

“They don’t,” Spencer said glumly.

“Derek?”

“He’s busy too.”

“Dave?”

Emily shook her head. “He left for home after dinner,” she said.

“Are James and Alex coming back?” Spencer asked.

“Not any time soon,” Emily smirked. “They’re busy.”

“Doing what?” Spencer pressed.

Aaron groaned, dragging his hand over his face. “Just go study quietly by yourself, okay?” he said. “We’ll leave the library soon, just…please stop asking questions.”

Spencer’s shoulders drooped. “Okay,” he said in a small voice.

He wandered back to the 900s and sat down by himself. Studying seemed boring and pointless, but he really wasn’t in the mood to read anything either.

—————

Aaron bit back a yawn. They’d meant to leave the library some time after nine, but it was well past ten already. He shouldered his backpack as they made the walk across campus. JJ and Penelope were quizzing each other on vocabulary words and Derek was playing on his phone but Spencer trailed behind him, unusually quiet.

“Kid, you doing okay?” he asked. “Need me to carry you?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer said in a small voice.

He could tell something was wrong with Spencer, but it didn’t click until they were almost up to the seventh floor. Of course Spencer was sad and grumpy- everyone had been telling him to go away and stay quiet and stop bothering them, of course he would be upset.

“Bug, are you still hungry?” Aaron asked as they climbed the last flight of stairs. “I’ve got some snacks in my room if you want them. Get your pajamas on and come over if you want them.”

Spencer didn’t answer and he half expected him to not show up, but after about ten minutes he heard a small knock at his door.

“Hi,” Spencer said in a small voice.

Aaron ushered him inside. “Hey, kiddo,” he said. “I still have some of those frosted animal cookies if you want them.” Spencer nodded. “Go get comfy then. Just don’t get crumbs in my bed.”

Spencer climbed up on his bed, his favorite blanket trailing around him, and accepted the bag Aaron handed him. “So do you feel ready for your exams?” Aaron asked.

“I think so,” Spencer said as he nibbled on a cookie.

Aaron cleared his throat. “So is it true that testing scores can be more important than a GPA?” he said. “Can you explain that for me?”

He let Spencer explain, quiet and a little terse at first, but as he warmed up he started to talk faster, words spilling out as he jumped from one topic to the next. Aaron let him talk, smiling and nodding and adding what he could when he paused to take a breath. He seemed happier, more animated and less reluctant to talk.

Eventually Spencer’s words began to slow as his eyes started to close. Aaron watched him carefully as he started to get sleepy, catching the bag of cookies before it could spill the contents.

Spencer yawned heavily and didn’t put up a fight as Aaron drew the covers back. “-and then they found out that…that baboons and mandrills aren’t actually that alike…they’re in a different genus,” he said sleepily. He laid down on Aaron’s bed and allowed himself to be tucked in. “That was in…in 1989, I think.”

“Wow, that’s interesting,” Aaron said, keeping his voice low. He tucked Spencer in securely and draped his blanket over him. “You want rain sounds or waves?”

“Both, please,” Spencer mumbled, cuddling under the covers as Aaron turned on the white noise app on his phone. “Bubba?”

“Yes?”

“Where’s Birdy?”

Aaron hesitated. “She and James are…uh…”

Luckily Spencer yawned hard and closed his eyes, cuddling into the pillow before he could say anything. Aaron waited until he was asleep enough to let out a tiny baby snore.

“Oh thank god, I don’t want to answer that,” Aaron mumbled. He bent to kiss Spencer’s forehead. “Get some sleep, bug.”

[accountcoaching]

CFA for Non-Finance Students: How to Do it?

When it comes to taking the Chartered Financial Analyst (CFA) exams, having a background in the field undoubtedly provides a head start. But does that mean you cannot do it if you do not have an experience in the financial background? Not at all! 

In this article, we will explore whether not having an academic background in Accounting or Finance puts you at a disadvantage when attempting the CFA exam. 

While a finance background might offer some familiarity with certain concepts, your success in the CFA exam is more heavily influenced by your determination and disciplined approach to studying. 

As a Reddit user says:

“I did it with no finance background, only a CS degree. Passed all three levels the first time. If you have good study skills and an analytical mindset, you should do well. I ended up going to B school after getting CFA – it worked pretty well.” 

This comment underlines the idea that while a degree or some exposure to finance is beneficial, not having it should not stop you from attempting CFA. It ultimately depends on your commitment and analytical prowess. 

Let us look at how to get it right with some tips from our experts. 

Study Tips for Non-Finance Background Students Pursuing the CFA Exam

Understanding CFA Exam Levels

Before delving into your study plan, it’s crucial to understand the differences between the CFA online exam levels. Take some time to read articles explaining the distinctions between Level I and Level II, as well as between Level II and Level III. This knowledge will guide your preparation strategy for each level.

Each level has a different approach and a question paper style. Make sure you understand these differences before you begin to study. While some papers test your fundamental skills, others focus on testing your application and interpretive thinking capacity. Each level pushes your limits. Knowing how they do it can help you prepare accordingly. 

Develop a Comprehensive Study Plan

Begin crafting your study plan at least 9 months before your scheduled exam date. While the CFA Institute suggests dedicating around 300 hours of study, consider investing approximately 360 hours or more. This extra time accounts for mastering concepts that finance professionals might already be familiar with. 

Allocate the initial 120 hours to reading and listening to lectures. 1FIN by IndigoLearn provides CFA Classes with the world’s no. 1 resource – Kaplan Schweser. Then, dedicate roughly 150 hours to working through practice questions. Reserve the final 90 hours for realistic practice and mock exams, which simulate actual exam conditions and help you gauge your readiness. These mock exams are also valuable for learning how to maintain composure on the actual exam day.

The CFA Institute has some free mock tests to work on. It can give you an idea of the expected questions in the exam. However, it should only be a rough guide for your study plan. 

Incorporate Learning Outcome Statements (LOS)

Mastering Learning Outcome Statements (LOS) is pivotal in shaping a robust study plan. Each LOS is paired with a command word, a strategic indicator of the cognitive demands it poses. Although these command words might not be explicitly present in exam questions, they dictate the depth of understanding required in your responses.

The CFA program employs seventeen official command words, each conveying a specific purpose. From “analyze” which dissects components, “calculate” which demands numerical prowess, to “describe” which articulates features using words, these words shape the essence of your exam responses.

Integrating these command words into your study journey makes sure you can cover the exam material in the most effective way possible. Align your study approach with the demands of each command word. 

Being thoroughly aware of the learning outcomes, you can ensure you tackle the questions most effectively and showcase your grasp of the subject matter. This strategy becomes a potent tool, enhancing your readiness for exam success.

Leverage CFA Exam Prep Courses

It is admirable to attempt to write the exam with self-preparation. But is it the most effective way? 

Our experts suggest the use of seasoned instructors and curated study materials provided by a reputable prep organization to improve your chances of success. You can also use this time to learn finance for non-finance students to bridge your gap between the topics. 

Enrol in a CFA exam prep course to help you stay on track and organized. Treat the course like you would a university class. Before attending, familiarize yourself with the relevant materials and develop a basic understanding of the topics that will be covered. Prepare a list of questions you’d like to ask during the course to maximize your learning experience. 

1Fin by IndigoLearn is a great option to begin with. Our partnership with Kaplan Schweser provides you with some of the best study materials on the topic.

Relate Concepts to Real-World Applications

For a better grasp of the material, consider how each concept applies in real-world scenarios. If you are feeling unsure, seek guidance from individuals with experience in the field. Engaging with resources like local CFA Societies, online forums, or financial education meetups can connect you with professionals who can provide practical insights.

Investing your time to network and learn from experienced people can help you gather a better understanding of the world you want to enter. 

Take Breaks to Combat Overwhelm

Let us not trivialize the exam and your efforts by calling it easy. There is a huge load of portions to cover. The formats are challenging, and the effort demanded from a candidate is huge. 

As you progress, you might experience moments of overwhelm. It is quite natural too. You might end up questioning the value of your efforts. When this happens, resist the urge to give up.

Instead, grant yourself a short break of a few days or even a full week. During this time, refrain from answering practice questions or opening your study materials. You’ll be surprised at how even a brief respite can rekindle your motivation and enthusiasm for your studies.

By adhering to these study tips, non-finance background students can confidently navigate the challenges of the CFA examination and achieve their desired outcomes.

Why Consider Doing a CFA? 

Now that you know it takes more than just a financial background to nail the famed CFA exam, would you still take it? Here are some compelling reasons to embark on this journey. CFA opens up a wide range of opportunities, let us explore how it impacts those who do not have a financial background.

1. Diverse Career Opportunities

One of the standout advantages of passing the CFA exam, even with a non-finance background, is the array of career avenues it unlocks. It is common for CFAs to be in investment analysis roles. But they are also highly in demand in legal compliance areas. 

For instance, someone with a law degree and a CFA qualification becomes an invaluable asset in navigating the complex regulatory landscape of the financial industry. 

2. Mixing Skills for Success

The CFA program equips non-finance backgrounds individuals with a comprehensive understanding of financial concepts and investment strategies. When this knowledge is blended with existing skills and expertise, it results in a dynamic fusion that can profoundly impact diverse fields. 

For instance, an engineer or a healthcare professional equipped with a CFA designation gains the ability to approach financial analysis and decision-making through a unique lens. This diverse perspective not only enriches their capabilities but also contributes an unconventional viewpoint to the broader financial landscape.

3. Bringing Good Values to Finance

Individuals with non-finance backgrounds often possess a strong foundation in areas such as ethics, law, technology, or science. Integrating this value-driven approach with financial proficiency obtained from the CFA program can lead to a distinct and influential role in finance. 

Ethical considerations, compliance expertise, and a commitment to rigorous analysis can be used to create more responsible financial practices. This makes a positive impact on both organizations and the industry as a whole.

It’s All About the Right Preparation & the Right Mindset 

In the pursuit of the coveted CFA designation, it becomes clear that there are many factors that are more important than having a financial background or experience. It is all dependent upon the meticulous preparation and the determined mindset of the candidate. The success of the candidate lies in the dedicated effort, the study plan and the strategic guidance the candidate receives. 

Regardless of your background, establishing and meeting study hour goals is paramount. The CFA exam demands a comprehensive understanding of the Learning Outcome Statements (LOS). This structured approach ensures a firm grasp of essential concepts, which can lead to exam success. 

Engaging with a reputable CFA prep provider, like the 1FIN program by Indigolearn, enhances efficiency. Experienced instructors guide candidates toward important topics, reducing the risk of wasted effort on irrelevant subjects. Our Kaplan Schweser materials make sure you get the best materials in the market. You do not have to waste your time going through bulky materials. 

To maximize your readiness, consider enrolling in the 1FIN program. With focused instruction and exam expertise, 1FIN by IndigoLearn streamlines your study efforts, increasing your chances of success

Article Source: CFA for Non-Finance Students: How to Do it?

[daydreaming-away-reality]

Catching Stardust

Tadashi Hamada x Reader | ☁️ + ✨ | 3.9k

Most days, like any other university student, you would wake up tired. Unfortunately for you, that was not today. You had spent the entire night working on your lab report for one of your science courses and didn’t get a wink of sleep. At least it was handed in and done with.

(You had to double check - just in case your brain decided to get desperate and help you imagine the best case scenarios. Thinking and doing were two very different things, they were hard to tell apart when you were so dead tired though.)

It was one of those days.

“Morning, Honey Lemon,” you greeted as you navigated your way into the kitchen for some caffeine. Grabbing your travel coffee tumbler, you watched your blonde roommate in her morning stretching routine.

“Good morning, (Y/N)!” Honey cheerfully replied. “How was not sleeping last night?”

You halted your movements, looking up at her with concern. “Can you tell just by looking at me?”

Honey Lemon laughed. “No, silly. GoGo came home late last night and saw you up. I heard you shuffling around earlier this morning too. No raccoon eyes, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Thank goodness,” you said with a sigh as you continued pouring liquid energy into your tumbler. “This bio course is going to be the death of me.”

“You mean working two part time jobs will be the death of you,” GoGo corrected you as she walked out of her room. “Girl, you need time to have fun too.”

You stuck your tongue out at her. Rummaging through backpack, you noticed a missing tome of knowledge. “Has anyone seen my Medical Terms bible?”

“Coffee table.” Honey called out from the living room as she held the tree pose.

GoGo walked over to you with the heavy book in hand. You mouthed a thank you to her before taking a sip of coffee.

“(Y/N), you need to take some time to make some more friends or meet a cute boy,” Honey Lemon brought up. She exchanged a look with GoGo. “We know someone who you might like. He’s nice and funny, good looking as well.”

You gave your two roommates a sad smile. “By the time I’m ready for a relationship, a boy like that will already be snatched up by someone less stressed about their future.”

Grabbing your premade meals and a couple of snacks, you swung your backpack on.

“I work bookstore and pharmacy today, so I’ll see you both tomorrow morning. Good luck with your projects in the meantime.”

“Bye, (Y/N)!” Honey called out.

“Keep the luck, you need it more than we do,” GoGo said with salute.

Walking out of the apartment, you checked your phone for your schedule once more. Class at nine, bookstore at two and pharmacy at six. And it was already eight thirty, yay. Just your typical jam packed day, all so that you could pay off medical school tuition in the future.

Balancing everything in life was... impossible, but you were managing. 

Full course load university student, working two part time jobs, and a very minimal but still existent social life.

It wasn’t easy, but it was what you wanted. Going to med school was a necessary path to take if you wanted to help people out in your future career choice.

Just as you were arriving on campus, a voice caught your attention.

“(Y/N)…!”

You turned to see your friend Mina, another sufferer pre-med student.

“Hi Mina,” you greeted.

“Did you sleep last night?” she asked. When you shook your head, she let out a loud sigh. “Yeah, me too. Dr. Andrews is going to kill us with these lab reports and the test Thursday. I mean, I’d feel smarter if I weren’t so tired all the time.” 

You smiled. What a mood.

“Is my make up, okay?” Mina asked. “I don’t want Justin to see me at my worse - not yet.”

You glanced over Mina’s face. She had gone through the usual effort to make herself look cute. “You look fine and I’m sure Justin wouldn’t be scared off. He knows we’re med students.”

Mina made a face. “We’ve only been a dating for two months, (Y/N), two! He doesn’t know what kind of crazy we are yet. You never know when he might get skittish and ghost me.”

If you weren’t so tired, you would have laughed. 

Linking arms with Mina, you pulled her towards the classroom. 

Today was going to be just another day.

Tadashi checked over the information on his phone as he walked off campus towards the bookstore. He had been looking up information to help his robotics project and a certain book had come up in his recommendations. Deciding that the resource was worth checking out, and was worth the price, he was determined to get his hands on the book while his robot was still in the works.

Walking through the doors, he made his way to the medical section. Browsing the shelves, he kept an eye out for the particular title.

After circling the area for a while, he let out a huff. Where was this textbook?

Noticing a girl wearing a name tag, he approached her with smile.

“Hi, I was wondering if you could help me?”

She turned to him with a smile, (E/C) eyes making contact with his brown orbs.

“Of course, are you looking for something?”

Tadashi nodded, pulling out his phone and showing her the textbook information.

"Ahhh, this one. That’s a popular book with the first year pre-med student courses,” she commented. “Everyone always asks where this one is - we organize this one by title since there’s no author.”

Leading him back into the medical section, the girl stopped in an area of the bookstore that Tadashi had missed earlier. She tapped the spine of one of the books.

“This one is good resource for in depth procedural explanations,” she explained. “Not what you were looking for though...”

Scanning the shelves, the girl paused and frowned when she stopped a particular spot. 

“Is it out of stock?” she murmured, checking again. “For a textbook no one appreciates until third year, I’d be surprised if it’s sold out...” She turned back to Tadashi with an apologetic smile. “I’ll check if we have the book in stock - give me a second.”

Pulling out her phone, she typed up some information quickly. The results of her searching seemed to yield the same results.

“It looks like we’re actually out of stock for this textbook right now, although, we are restocking it,” she explained. “Would you like to request a reserve to get a copy?”

“That would be helpful, sure,” Tadashi agreed. 

“Great, let’s go fill out a form for you,” she chirped, leading him away. “Are you a med student?”

“No, I’m a robotics engineering student at SFIT,” he replied. “I’m working on something related to the medical field though.”

“Really? That’s so cool,” she exclaimed, looking genuinely interested. “It’s amazing to think how technology can incorporated into health sciences. If you don’t mind me asking, what are you working on?”

“A healthcare robot,” Tadashi explained with a fond smile. “It’s still in the works, nothing has been finished yet, I’m still working on the programming stages.”

“I think that’s incredible. I’m sure you’re capable of amazing things.”

The sincerity in her tone brought a smile to his face. For someone who didn’t know much about his project, the kind words from her were very nice.

“What about you?” Tadashi asked. “Are you a student?”

“Yeah, over at Sato Health Institute,” she responded. Sato was the top post secondary institution for health care in San Fransokyo located nearby - it even shared some programs with SFIT as Tadashi recalled. “I’m a pre-med student - if you hadn’t already guessed.”

“I might have had a feeling,” Tadashi said with a grin. “You seemed like you were familiar with things firsthand.”

The girl laughed. “Lots of firsthand experience, trust me.”

Approaching the help desk, the girl popped around to grab a paper and pen. Scrawling down information onto the page first, she then slid the paper over to Tadashi across the counter.

“Just fill out the rest of the form and the textbook should be arriving in the next three days.” 

Tadashi looked up from filling in the form, brown eyes flicking over to her name tag. “Thank you so much, (Y/N).”

“You’re welcome,” she replied. She took a sip from her coffee tumbler. Grabbing a sticky note, she offered it over to Tadashi. “If you’d like, leave your number and I’ll text you when it arrives - I’ll be working that day. I promise to use your number for professional reasons only.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Tadashi said as he wrote his number down. As he finished his form, he noticed a large medical terms textbook behind the counter on the desk next to the computer with a ton of sticky notes sticking out. “Is that yours?”

“That’s my current bible,” she affirmed with an amused tone. “Can’t survive without it.”

The two of them shared a laugh.

“Thanks again for your help.” Tadashi repeated as he returned the form.

“Just doing my job, don’t worry about it! It was great meeting you...” Her (E/C) eyes flickered down to the form and smile appeared on her face. “...Tadashi.”

As Tadashi left the bookstore, part of him was still lingering behind, thinking about (Y/N). She seemed like a nice girl and he really hoped that they might have another chance to encounter her again.

You fumbled with the door before pushing it open, popping back into the dark apartment. Hitting the light switch, you took off your shoes and checked for signs of your roommates.

Looks like Honey Lemon and GoGo were still out.

No surprise.

The three of you were always busy, whether the other two liked to admit it or not. 

Just as you were sorting things out in the kitchen and about to grab a snack, your phone buzzed.

Mina: OMG. Did you see Terry’s SNS profile update? 🤣🤣

(Y/N): What did he do this time? Do I want to know??

Mina: He put MD CANDIDATE. The AUDACITY of this man - I got a C+ working with partner project with him. My poor GPA... 😭

(Y/N): I mean...

Mina: DON’T

(Y/N): Cs get degrees 😂

Mina: RIP me. Seriously though, are you free to study for that bio test? 

(Y/N): let me grab my snack first, I’ll see you video chat

Mina: True MD candidate here

(Y/N): HA 

Letting out a sigh, you swiped a snack from the cupboard before heading back to your room. Fingers crossed you would get some sleep tonight.

“Oh, finally!”

Tadashi wiped his hands off with a rag and turned to look at Fred. Wasabi and GoGo were also looking at the beanie wearing boy, but neither of them decided to engage.

“Something up?” Tadashi asked, speaking up.

“The comic bookstore said they were out of that new series I was telling you guys about the other day,” Fred explained. “I refused to go to Richardson’s place, so apparently, they reached out to the nearby bookstore and they have a copy! I got to go pick it up.”

“The one near campus?”

“Yup.”

Tadashi paused, thinking for a moment before making his decision. 

“I’ll come with you.”

“Let’s go then, man!”

Catching up with Fred about the current condition of Baymax, the two soon arrived at the bookstore. Fred immediately beelined towards the help desk with Tadashi trailing behind him.

Just as Tadashi anticipated, a familiar face was working at the desk. This time though, (Y/N) was fairly concentrated on the stack of flashcards piled on her space next to textbooks filled with sticky notes.

“Uh, excuse me,” Fred said, practically bouncing on his toes.

That was enough to jolt her out of her studying. Shoving away her flashcards, she offered Fred a smile. “Yes?”

“I believe someone called about -”

“Oh! I know what you’re here for,” (Y/N) said, jumping up. She got up and skimmed over the bookshelf behind the counter. “Ah, here it is. Fred, right?”

At the sight of his new comic, Fred nodded happily. He quickly accepted it from you. “Is there a comic book section?”

(Y/N) nodded. “Just straight that way, it’s not a big collection, but you might find something.”

“Alright, thanks!” 

Fred turned to see Tadashi lingering around. “You coming, Tadashi?”

“There’s something I want to check out, I’ll catch up in a bit,” the black haired male responded.

As Fred disappeared, the girl turned her attention over to Tadashi. 

“I didn’t think I would see you again so soon,” she commented. “The book is not in yet, sorry.”

Tadashi smiled. “That’s fine. I see you’re here often.” 

“Yeah, when I’m not busy with classes or my other job, here I am.”

The words piqued your interest. “Other job?”

“I also work at a pharmacy,” (Y/N) explained.

“Ahh. You must be a busy person,” Tadashi said. He tilted his head towards your desk. “Studying too?”

She flushed. “Yeah. Only because today’s pretty quiet - my manager doesn’t mind as long as I’m work as I’m needed. There’s a test coming up.”

“Good luck, I think you need it.”

“I do. Thank you.”

Tadashi watched as (Y/N) moved back to sitting at the desk. As she picked up her flashcards, she looked up at Tadashi.

“How’s the healthcare robot going? Any progress in the last 24 hours?”

“Baymax finally had some supply come in for assembling,” he responded. “So, just a little bit.”

“Baymax?” she repeated confused. “Oh. Is that their name?”

Tadashi nodded.

“Baymax… I like it, sounds friendly.”

“I should probably let you get back to studying,” Tadashi commented, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry for bothering you.”

“Not at all, I’m happy to chat with you.”

- Wednesday. 6PM. -  

Honey: (Y/N)?

(Y/N): What’s up, Honey Lemon?

Honey: I heard the pre-med students plan on throwing a party this weekend? 

Honey: Are you going?

(Y/N): Nah, I think I have work.

GoGo: You always work.

(Y/N): Huh, I never noticed.

(Y/N): Anyways, parties are not my scene. I’d be happy spending a free evening at home instead.

GoGo: Mina says she’ll miss you.

(Y/N): She’ll have Justin, she’ll be okay

Honey: Well, if you ever decide to go, we know a boy you can take with you.

(Y/N): Thanks, but I’ll pass. 🥰

- Thursday. 5PM. -

Unknown: Hi Tadashi. The textbook you wanted finally came in! Feel free to drop by anytime to come pick it up.

Tadashi: Alright, thanks (Y/N)!

Unknown: Yep, no prob!

Tadashi: Hey, is this your personal number?

Unknown: yeah 😊

(Y/N) has been added to contacts.

Tadashi: Hope you don’t mind if I contact you like in the future. 😊

(Y/N): Oh, I wouldn’t mind at all!

“Tadashi, hi,” you greeted, waving as the boy came into your line of sight. With a baseball cap on his head today, you almost mistaken him for someone else. Pulling out the textbook, you handed it over to him. “Here you go! You weren’t the only one trying to get your hands on this textbook today.”

Tadashi peered at you curiously as he accepted the textbook. 

“You look tired,” he pointed out.

You just shrugged with a half smile. “The bio test was today - that was gruesome.”

“At least that’s done with,” he encouraged you. “Week’s almost over, too.”

“Best part is I’m off in five,” you agreed.

 You could see your words caught Tadashi’s interest. 

“Are... are you still working after?” 

Shaking your head, you leaned back against the counter. “Nope, told them I was busy today so no shifts at the pharmacy tonight.”

“Would you like to go out with me then?” Tadashi asked hopefully. “We can hit up a café and grab something to eat?”

Good thing you were leaning against the counter, because the surprise you felt would have toppled you over.

“Oh, um, sure!” you agreed, cheeks heating up a little. “I’ll meet you outside in five?”

“Sounds good.”

- Friday. 9AM. -

Tadashi: I enjoyed my time with you yesterday. 

(Y/N): I enjoyed my time too! Although the cookies there were kind of hard... 😢

Tadashi: Yeah... I find us somewhere with nice cookies next time.

(Y/N): Just a warning, next time might be a while. My schedule is usually full.

Tadashi: That’s fine!! If you ever find yourself with free time, let me know, I’d like to spend it with you.

(Y/N): 🥰

(Y/N): You’re too sweet, Tadashi. 

(Y/N): How are you single??

Tadashi: Haha, I could ask you the same thing. Probably the same reasons as you though. I’m usually too focused with what’s in front of me.

Tadashi: Hope to see you around though.

(Y/N): me too

- Some Tuesday. 8PM. -

“And your total is 18.95,” you said, pressing buttons on the register to confirm the amount. The customer tapped their card for the purchase before taking their bags. “I hope you feel better!”

“Thank you,” the customer responded as they left. 

You waited until they had gone completely before heading back to find your manager. Spotting one of older pharmacy students, you decided to talk to them instead.

“Hi,” you greeted.

“(Y/N), need any drugs?” Harper asked with a smile.

“I’ll take them all,” you joked. “Let Aria know I left if you see her for me?”

“Yeah, go. You’re free,” she ushered, waving you away.

As you pulled on your jacket and stepped out of the pharmacy, a figure caught you by surprise.

“Tadashi!” you exclaimed. 

“Surprised?” he asked. “Thought I’d walk you home, not safe for you to walk the street alone at night.”

“I do it frequent enough,” you countered with a smile.

“Ooh, risk taker,” Tadashi said.

You laughed. “I appreciate this though, thanks.”

Tadashi nodded. As the two of you were catching up each other on what happened throughout the day, you felt Tadashi slip his hand into yours. Fingers intertwined, you could feel your heart racing.

This was something you didn’t want to let go of.

- Some Monday. 2PM. -

GoGo: Yo, Tadashi

GoGo: Fred wants to know when you’ll be back with the snacks.

Tadashi: Just stepped back on campus. 

GoGo: Took you a while.

GoGo: You seeing someone behind our back?

Tadashi: Ha. Does Baymax count?

- A couple weeks later. Friday. 10AM. -

“Someone looks cute today,” Mina commented as you sat down next to her in the lecture hall. She eyed you up and down, nodding approvingly. “Not working today?”

“Yeah,” you replied. “My rare day off besides class. Thought I’d put a little more effort in today.”

“Well, you look adorable,” Mina confirmed. She let out a sigh when she saw the professor walk in. “Let’s see if we can survive these next two hours.”

“Challenge accepted,” you said, bumping her shoulder playfully. “Although, I might lose you halfway.”

Mina gasped and smacked your arm.

You laughed as you pulled your laptop. Although the two hours went by at a decent pace, you were glad the course was three quarters way through. 

At the brutal pace your professor went, there was nothing but review for the few weeks before final exams. It was nice to know you didn’t have to teach yourself an entire unit in a week before your final.

Bidding Mina goodbye, you weaved your way out of the lecture hall and out into campus. At this point, most groups of students you saw hanging around were study groups. You would have been like them too, if you hadn’t worked so hard to make things work.

Balancing two part time jobs along with classes had you putting in so much extra effort that it usually paid off in the long run.

Yay.

Navigating your way through the streets with the GPS app open on your phone, you soon spotted the campus you were looking for.

SFIT.

(Abbreviated, because thinking through what each letter stood for was too much effort.)

Slowly wandering around as you pulled up the campus directory, your eyes glimmered when you spotted the building you were looking for. Popping inside, you clutched onto your bag, peering around curiously. There was so much science happening in this space. 

Lots of creativity too, you wondered why their tradition was to prank the art school.

Poking around, you soon realized you were lost among the many rooms and labs. Your mission was a failure. Pouting, you pulled your phone.

(Y/N): Help me, I’m lost.

Tadashi: What do you mean?

(Y/N): I wandered into the lab building and was going to surprise you with a visit, but I don’t know where to find you. 🙁

(Y/N): I didn’t think this through...

Tadashi: Awwww

Tadashi: What room number do you see? I’ll find you.

(Y/N): Lab 2B

Tadashi: omw

As you awkwardly waited for Tadashi to show up, you tried not to look suspicious. Although admittedly, you were sure you looked suspicious regardless since you were lost.

“There you are,” the soft yet deep voice greeted from behind you.

Turning around to see Tadashi, you smiled. 

“Sorry for the trouble,” you apologized. 

“Not at all.” Tadashi shook his head. He took a moment to take you in. Within his eyes, you were absolutely beautiful. He didn’t want to mess up, so he kept it to himself. He’d voice his thoughts one day. “Welcome to Nerd Lab, by the way.”

So this was where Tadashi, your roommates, and their friends all spent their long hours working.

Tadashi took your hand. “Come on, I want to show you my lab.”

Following after Tadashi, the two of you entered the elevator behind arriving on the floor of his personal lab space. He opened a door, showing you his tidy space.

“Baymax won’t be in the works for a while, but here,” he pulled out several large blueprints. The image of an almost plush like character was found in the middle. “This is going to be Baymax.”

In awe of all the labelled details and planning in place, you looked up at Tadashi.

“This is incredible,” you breathed out. “You’re incredible too.”

Tadashi dipped his head down and captured your lips for a kiss. 

Before he had the opportunity to pull back too far, you went in and gave him a quick peck as well.

Although the two of you were flushed, the loving gaze you could see in Tadashi’s eyes made you feel hopeful about this relationship.

“Can I see the medical programming?” you asked, breaking the silence.

Tadashi shyly nodded. “All the computer.” 

- Later. -

(Y/N): Do you think we should let our friends know?

Tadashi: Nah, they’ll catch on eventually.

(Y/N): But if they don’t should I just accept their blind date request?

Tadashi: WHAT?

(Y/N): 😂

(Y/N): I asked for more details one time.

(Y/N): He’s this handsome robotics engineering student, who nice and has a good sense of humor. Apparently he’s very dedicated to his work too.

Tadashi: …

Tadashi: They’ve tried to set me up with their friend as well. 

(Y/N): Hmm, maybe we were meant to be after all

Tadashi: I think so. 😀

(Y/N): 😘

[korissideblog]

working on a longer fic rn and felt like i needed to post something <3

today we've got Aito, Lupe, Sato Sensei (@dantelionwishes ) and a mentioned Ikuto (@the-heartbeat-hero ) <3

[no warnings from this fic! just gets a little sad at the end, but it's still a happy ending!]

[also no art for this one, still working on my art for compound's fic <3 next fic may have a couple sketches though!]

Click-tak

Click-tak

Click-tak

It was easy to tell when Lupe and Aito were walking towards the classroom, between the mother’s white cane and the heels of Aito’s boots, the two could be heard from down the hall. Aito perked up immediately when she saw Sato Sensei, but stayed obediently at his mother’s side instead of her usual aimless wandering around the classroom.

“Sato San, I’m happy we could meet,” Guadeloupe said, smiling as her eyes focused vaguely on the area of Sato’s desk. She was led by her daughter to a chair that Sato had set up for parent teacher conferences.

“This is Sato Sensei,” Aito said, focusing on her mother. “He’s a tallish man with brown hair and-” Aito started to describe Sato, but was stopped by his mother

“I’ve read up on him angel, you go wait for me in the hallway, yes?” Lupe asked, kissing her cheek and watching as Aito sprung from her side, quickly skipping out of the classroom. “Sorry about that, he’s just a bit wound up right now.” Lupe said, chuckling with a bit of exhaustion.

“Oh, don’t worry, I know how he can be.” Sato said, politely, but with the same tinge of general tiredness. “She’s a good kid, just a bit too much energy from time to time. Speaking of, I have her grades right here.” he continued, flipping through a file with a few other report cards till he found one for Takao, Aito. “He’s doing well, low Bs and high Cs. I started pairing him with my more advanced students, and she seems to match their pace well. She just needs the motivation to work.” Sato explained in the vague way that teachers were supposed to when they had no idea what to do with a student.

“Ah, yes,” Lupe said, immediately recognizing the tone. “She’s very good at keeping up when faced with a competitor. Aito used to come to work with me, and I would see her learn something from one of my students and replicate it almost perfectly. I’m sure he’s got the smarts, he just needs a reason to show it off.” Lupe offered, tapping her finger on the desk, as if she wanted to say something, but was a bit nervous to bring it up. “Uh, I’m sure you’re not in charge of this, Sato San, but… Aito’s medication…?”

“Yes, Takao san, I’ve seen your note. Aito’s been taking it regularly.” Sato said, reassuringly.

“And you’ve been-”

“Wrapping it in little pieces of cheese, yes.”

“And when he-”

“Gets bored of cheese, switch to ham. Yes, I keep a careful eye on Aito.” Sato chuckled, looking out the classroom’s windows to Aito waiting patiently in the hallway. Guadeloupe’s visits always seemed to calm the boy down in ways Sato’s never seen. If he had asked Aito to wait in the hallway, she’d have wandered to the other side of the school before Sato could get to her, but by just a simple request from his mother, he seemed to have grown almost docile, staring at his feet as he waited. Aito perked up a bit, looking down the hallway and smiling, waving to someone walking up to her.

“Ah, Ikuto Maekawa. He’s a quiet boy from 1-Y, the classroom next to ours.” Sato said, gesturing to the student who had approached Aito.

“Yes, I’ve met him before. I’m glad Aito has good friends, I was worried that he would fall into some sort of delinquent gang or…” Lupe trailed off, watching her son carefully as he spoke to Maekawa.

“She’s going to steal from him.” she said quietly.

“How can you tell?” Sato assumed the same thing, but that was just because of her track record. If Guadeloupe had some sort of knowledge he didn’t, he definitely wanted to know.

“Look at her ear.” she said, pointing to Aito. “Her left one. It has a small tick. It’s only about a couple degrees, and it’s fairly random-about 40 bpm- but it’s noticeable when you look for it.” she explained. Sato looked at the ear and noticed it wasn’t moving at all, and caught on to Lupe’s strategy. “She’s thinking about how she looks right now.”

“And he’s thinking about it because he’s trying to look innocent.” Sato finished, watching Aito put her arm over Ikuto’s shoulders, something she did normally, but also noticed how quickly her hands moved while she talked- again, something completely normal for her- but also something she did when she wanted her target to lose track of her hands. “I’ll call her over-”

“No no, if you tell her you caught her, she’ll feel bad.” Lupe said, reaching out and taking Aito’s report card in her hands. “You have to make it seem like you didn’t even notice. Give her something else to do, and make it more interesting or important than stealing.” she advised.

“Aito, can you come here for a second? I can’t read this very well.” she called out into the hallway, Aito perking up at the mention of her name and immediately appearing at his mother’s side. “This right here, what is it?” Aito quickly explained that it was just general information that the school needed, like her student ID and contact numbers, and read it all aloud till his mother stopped him. “Thank you, you can go back to the hallway dear.” Lupe said, patting her daughter’s head and watching him run out of the classroom again. “He won’t try again, it’s very rare that he’ll try and steal from someone after his first attempt didn’t go through.” she said, smiling fondly at her little monster of a child.

“Wow, I’ll definitely be keeping that in mind.” Sato said, watching her again and almost noticing the boy’s ear twitch. It was one of those things that you could convince yourself you imagined, but maybe it was just different when you raise a child. “Any more tips on Aito’s behavior?” he asked jokingly, to which Lupe responded quickly.

“He doesn’t like bright lights, and he sometimes needs to be moving to really remember something. He’ll be most annoying when he wants attention, and I think being alone for even one second will kill him.” she said, looking back to Sato. “and sometimes she’ll get quiet and stand around you, just quietly watching whatever you’re doing. That means her tummy hurts and he’s trying to be brave about it. Ask him to make you yerba buena- mint tea, ask for honey with it- and he’ll make some for himself as well. He’ll brighten right up.” she advised, her gaze immediately going back to Aito and Ikuto. “He acts tough, but he’s a delicate boy under it all. He needs to be held and talked to and loved on, just like all of us.” she said, a bit more vaguely as she watched Aito laugh at something Ikuto said, the latter looking confused about why it was so funny. “I know that can be easy to forget sometimes… because of all the… you know…”

Fighting

Yes, Sato knew. He could recall every time Aito was dragged into his class by the collar, and feared for the times she wasn’t. “She… She just sees everything as a challenge. And sometimes she challenges the wrong people.” Sato offered, trying to soothe Lupe as best as he could.

Lupe was quiet for a bit, just watching as her daughter roughed up her friend’s hair, her fangs sharp in her smiling mouth. “She’s just a clever little girl, and she doesn’t know how to show it without hurting people she cares about.” Lupe said quietly, a silent sort of pain in her face, one she’s been holding for a long while.

“She’s been making a lot of friends recently.” Sato said, hoping Lupe caught on to what he was really trying to say. “Even outside of the classroom, I’ve seen him talking with students and staff all over the school.” He may be lacking in empathy “she does especially good during group work, she’s a natural leader.” but she’s trying so hard. “I’ll try to give her a bit more attention during solo work, just so she can stay on track.” that has to count for something.

Guadeloupe nodded, a gentle smile on her lips. “Yes… Thank you Sato San.” she said quietly, a little bit of hope sparkled in her eyes as she finally dragged them away from Aito. “I trust you know what’s best when it comes to Aito’s education. If there are any problems, you know my number.” she finished, her own secret message hidden in her tone.

You have no idea how much he means to me.

Please keep her safe.

Lupe shook Sato’s hand, collected her things, and waved Aito over. Aito again ran to her side, Ikuto next to her as they both chattered on, leading Lupe out of the classroom. Sato still didn’t know what he was going to do with Aito Takao.

But at least he knew more than before.

[deniigi]

Hi Dr. Matt, I too am a college youth coming to you for advice, well actually more like concept. What does GPA actually mean, in terms of my ability to get jobs/go to grad school/etc. I grew up in a very "4.0" or bust household and while I've broken free (god that first B was freeing) I have less than 0 ability to actually add context to these numbers. Help?

Hi, anon!

So let’s start from the top and be real broad for you and other folks who might be in different circumstances:

GPA = Grade Point Average. Each institution may calculate this differently. I occasionally have to do them by hand, but why the fuck would you do that is the better question here.

GPA is usually a number between 0.00 and 4.00. Students who fall below a certain GPA at college/univ level (for many institutions in the USA, 2.0 is that number, which is a C average) go on something called Academic Probation

The reason Academic Probation is a problem is because if you are on Academic Probation for multiple semesters, you may be ‘Disqualified,’ I.e. Kicked out of your college/univ.

So in this sense, GPA functions as a way of demonstrating to the University and the people giving you Financial Aid that you are making satisfactory progress on your degree, and you are ‘worthy’ of continuing to receive subsidized education.

While that’s a shitty way of conceiving of humans and education, that’s the system we live in, and that’s essentially why it’s really important for people to be aware of their GPA.

It’s not that that number defines you or your intrinsic worth as a human, rather its that that number gives you access to other things.

Now, on that note, let’s talk about GPA in terms of social value, economic value, and social and academic mobility. It’s going to be a long conversation, so I’m putting it under the cut.

-------------

Depending on your field of career and study, average GPAs are going to vary.

Engineers, for example, go through such difficult classes that they have notoriously low GPAs. Like anything from a 2.0 to a 3.0 is solid and anything higher than like a 3.3 is considered by many in Engineering fields to be really good.

Many STEM fields are like this. Chemistry, Kinesiology, Physics, Math, Engineering, Biology, Bio-Chem, etc.

In many Social Science and Humanities fields, GPAs are less important than research and analytical abilities, writing strength, communication abilities, teamwork stuff -- transferable, “soft” skills essentially.

That being said, when you are trying to move up, academically or economically, GPA may become a factor that you start to think about--especially when you are applying to a type of specialized or graduate school (certification programs, nursing programs, teaching certificate, Masters degrees, PhDs, etc).

Many programs have GPA limits on their programs in order to thin out their application pools. Nursing programs may have a 3.0 minimum. Masters programs may ask you to have only gotten X number of Bs or Cs.

I want to emphasize here, however: GPA minimums depend on the program itself.

Prestige is one of the main driving factors behind demanding a certain GPA. Places with prestigious programs and jobs have the notoriety that brings them loads of applicants, which in turn gives them the ability to raise standards.

The top 10 schools in the US are going to be able to demand a 3.5 GPA or higher for admission.

The top firms in a city can say that you need X amount of experience in X area to be hired onto their team.

-----------------

When it comes to applying to graduate school stuff (law school, Masters programs, PhD programs), I would focus less on whether or not you have a freakishly high GPA and more on your extracurriculars, your publications, research opportunities, writing abilities, analytical skills, and the hard skills necessary for your chosen field (I.e. Knowing MatLab or Python or GIS).

The reason for that is that you don’t really choose a graduate school so much as you choose a supervisor at a graduate school.

So if you can connect with a potential supervisor and are able to demonstrate to them that you A) are an asset to their program and B) have the skills necessary to do the work, then they are often the ones who decide whether or not you get admitted.

Supervisors can often smooth over lumps and bumps when it comes to admission of graduate students because THEY will be the ones overseeing your work before the Univ/program is.

Example: When I applied to one of my schools, the potential supervisor I was working with coached me in how to structure my research statement. They also advocated for me in admissions, and I did, in fact, get into that school (even if I chose not to go). For my other choice, I worked with a different supervisor who helped me get funding to help me secure admission as well.

So in this way, it is far more important for you to impress a supervisor than to have the best GPA of all applicants.

--------------

Now for the rest of y’all who aren’t thinking about grad school or a certification program, you may be asking, “Will my GPA affect my ability to get a job in the future?”

And first off, I want to sort of break down the notion that your degree = your career. Only something like 30% of people end up working in the field they get their degree in, so that tells you already that GPA and choice of Major kind of doesn’t matter in terms of being able to make money.

But more to the point:

Generally speaking, most (like, 95% or something) jobs do NOT require you to list your GPA on your resume or any other application materials.

Some positions may ask you to demonstrate proficiency in a given area or hard skill. Some positions may ask you to provide proof that you completed your degree. But usually, this proof is given to a company AFTER you have applied and accepted an offer for the position.

Example: after I accepted my job, I was asked to submit proof of my Masters degree, because my offer was contingent on me having the credentials I said that I did.

Now, if you are fresh out of school and don’t have much experience, but you’ve got a bangin’ GPA, that may be something that you consider listing on your resume to demonstrate to employers that you are a smart cookie, simply lacking experience.

If you are a new graduate in a STEM field specifically, and you have a bangin’ GPA and are looking for work in STEM, then you may also list that on your resume.

But I want to emphasize that you don’t have to. It is your choice. And in this scenario, you would only do that if you were applying to a highly specific position where that mattered and if you felt that it would help you.

If you’re applying to anything that is not an internship or a STEM entry job (like a new engineer, a new lab assistant, etc) there is no reason for you to put your GPA on your resume. That should not affect your chances for a position.

------------

That’s probably plenty of food for thought for now. But anon, you can breathe. I got your other message and you are doing fantastically. Try to understand that the number isn’t as important as your competence and understanding in the material you are learning.

For right now, focus on building the skills. When it comes down to it, people would rather have a doctor who understands what to do to save their life than a doc who got a 4.0 in undergrad.

[appleteez]

Pool Side Story

Pairing: Soobin x reader

Genre: fluff

Word count: 2k

Warnings: nothing just a soft kiss

A/n: Once again thanks to my beautiful and lovely @marigold-doms for reading this before hand 😌🌻✨

My ass is just hurting at this point. As everyone is having fun drinking, eating or flirting. I am just sitting on a wood log on the side praying for this night to be over.

“Hey Y/N! You’re not having fun?” Yeonjun sits next to me almost falling on my laps.

“I’m just a bit tired I guess..” I try to smile at him. I am so far from being in my comfort zone.

“Aw.. Why don’t you just go back to your room?”

“I’m low-key keeping an eye on her.” I point to my friend that was openly flirting with Beomgyu.

“Oh jeez..” He squints at the scene then makes a grimace. “How about you go get some rest and I’ll keep an eye on her.” I trust Yeonjun with my life and unlike some douchebag, him saying he’ll keep an eye on her was for real. I smile at him and mouth a thank you as I slowly start to walk towards the beach house.

I start to walk onto the wooden path, when I look to my right, I see a blue light radiating from behind the bushes. Right.. the house had a pool and I did not have chance to go see it yet. Everyone directly dropped everything and went to the beach. I realize that there’s a small path leading to the said pool and after a few steps it was in front of me. Even though I could still hear the laughs and some random screams from the beach, the pool area felt so private and quiet. I slowly walk up to the side of the pool, and sit on the border my legs dipping in the water. This was just perfect for my introverted ass. I lay my body down and look up at the sky finally feeling a bit rested after the long trip and the intense party. I connect the stars with my eyes imagining random drawings and different stories. With a smile on my lips I slowly close my eyes.

“Oh.. Y/N?” I open my eyes directly and look to my right. On the little path I took to get here, a giant with mochi like cheeks is looking around curiously. “This is nice here… Why did you leave?” He looks back at me and I sit up to smile at him.

“I’m just tired.”

“Don’t you want to go to bed?” His lips forming a natural pout when he speaks.

“Yeah but I hadn’t seen the pool area and it’s kinda relaxing. I don’t want to go to bed just yet, I feel a bit restless and I want to relax.”

“Ah..” He sits on one of the long chairs behind me. “Is the water nice?”

“It’s warm yes.” I turn my head to look at him and he seems to hesitate. “Trust me.”

“I do.” He gets up and comes to sit right next to me, slowly putting his legs in the water after taking off his slides. “Wooahh~ You’re right it’s so nice~” He says with a huge smile making my heart skip a beat.

Me and Soobin were friends, not the closest friends but still good friends. Let’s say, if we were both in a class, we would sit next to each other, but not go out of our way to go to class together. If I saw him in the cafeteria, we would eat together, but not go out of our way to get food together. Soobin is that one person in your friend group that you’re good friend with, but wouldn’t text outside of the groupchat. So being alone with him was fine, but also slightly awkward. Not to mention that I have a massive crush on the giant bunny. We both stay seated in silence for a bit. He slowly waves his feet around the water as he looks down at the glowing water, and I look up at the glowing sky.

“So—“ We both say together.

“Ah.. You go first.”

“No you!” I insist and we both laugh.

“I was just gonna ask how your semester was.” He says embarrassed by the blend question and scratches his cheek lightly.

“It was good. I mean I got good grades, not amazing but good enough.”

“Cs get degrees.”

“Something like that. Although.. I would have left school if I could only mark Cs..”

“Wow, you’re one of those medium studious students?” I laugh at his comment that made perfect sense to me.

“Exactly~ What about you?”

“Well.. It was good. I broke up with my girlfriend.” I look at him both surprised by the news and by him telling me something like that.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh.. no it was like two months ago, plus.. I really couldn’t take it anymore.” He chuckles a little bit.

“Controlling?”

“Yeah..”

“I’m sorry, not gonna lie.. I did realize that real quick.”

“Give a friend a warning next time.” He says jokingly and I look at him with huge eyes.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry..”

“Hu? Oh no, Y/N I’m just kidding!” He laughs lightly and I feel my body tense. “I mean.. I could understand why it would be awkward for you to tell me that.”

“Yeah..”

“Wow.. Sorry this is kinda awkward. I thought if I went with a topic that’s kinda personal we could talk more comfortably but..” He says embarrassed and I directly feel guilty. He was not wrong this was completely awkward but again I understood where he was coming from.

“I got rejected by my crush.” I blurt out and he turns his head towards me with huge round eyes of shock. His cute little mouth slightly agape and it makes me giggle right away. “May as well expose myself. Now it’s awkward for the both of us.”

“You didn’t have to..”

“Don’t make me regret it.” I laugh lightly and he does too.

“Was it a big crush?”

“Not really? It was also a little bit ago, I think around your break up. I had finally gotten the courage to ask him out and he just said sorry, then nothing~”

“Ahh.. Well, that’s really his loss.” I turn my head to him and he smiles at me awkwardly.

“His loss?”

“I mean, you’re pretty amazing Y/N. In big groups you don’t talk much but whenever we’re in smaller groups, you’re a lot of fun to be around. Plus Yeonjun loves you and calls you his bestie all the time, so you must be pretty fucking amazing. So yeah, I would say that’s his mistake to reject someone as amazing and cute as you.” I try to hide my blushing cheeks behind my hand but he giggles at my attempt.

“Thank you.. You—You’re pretty cuool too..”

“Cuool?” He laughs his heart out at my clumsy mistake and I’m pretty sure I’m glowing as much as the pool now. Suddenly, I feel his hand taking my hand out of my face and I directly see his soft yet fierce eyes. “Would you reject me Y/N? If I asked you out?” My head is spinning and my face is actually burning up. Where did that confidence come from? Did he know I have a massive crush on him? Was he aware of what he was doing to me right now?

“I—“ He smiles at my mouth trying to mutter words out, his eyes disappearing into shiny crescents.

“I’m messing with you~” He rubs the top of my head lightly and my heart drops.

“You are?”

“Mhm~” He hums, but it did not sound convincing at all. Was he really joking?

“Ok..” I try to look away and put my hands down by my side. “Well.. I would reject you.” I say out of spite, a little bit annoyed at him for playing with my feelings.

“Really?” He turns his head in a flash looking surprised.

“Why do you look so surprised?”

“That was harsh and out of nowhere..” He pouts lightly leaning in towards me to try and look at me in the eyes but I just look away from him. “Do you really mean it?”

“Mhm..”

“Wow.. Then Yeonjun lied to me..” He pouts as he leans back onto his hands resting behind him.

“Hu?” I turn once again to look at him and he looks at me embarrassed.

“He said he was positive you had a crush on me and.. it kinda made me happy. I had just enough beer tonight to build up the courage to ask you out. So when I saw you walk away I wanted to shoot my shot.”

“Ah~ That kinda makes sense..”

“What does?”

“You’re usually a bit more shy~” I giggle at his weirdly bold statements.

“I’m not that bad.”

“Let’s say you wouldn’t say half the things you’ve said to me so far. Especially the last bits.”

“True..” He looks at me for a bit and I can see in his lips quivering that he’s hesitating on saying something. “Wo—Would you really reject me?”

“Ask me seriously one day and find out.” I smile at him, proud of my bold statement. However, I become quickly shy again under his serious eyes.

“Y/N.. Will you go out with me?” He sits up, still looking at me in the eyes and I feel like I could lose myself in his gaze.

“Mhh..”

“What is it now?” His eyes soften and I crack a smile.

“You look too serious..”

“I’m asking you seriously!” He ends up smiling with me and I can’t help but giggle.

“Sorry, sorry.. Ok try again.”

“Will you go out with me?”

“I would— Mhh.. ‘I would love to’ seems too much.. Yes? That’s too dry no?” I look up at him and he’s looking at me with soft loving eyes.

“You’re cute~”

“Mhh..” I can’t help myself but to blush. I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore.

“You always do that~” He brings his hand up, passing his thumb on my forehead. “You forehead wrinkles lightly when you get flustered. Then..” He brings his thumb down to my lips, lightly touching them. “Your lips form a little cute pout like that~” He smiles at me, his thumb still lightly rubbing my bottom lips. He wanted to act on it, but we were both frozen in the moment. My eyes on him, his eyes on my lips hesitating whether it was ok or not to do this, this early on. “Can I kiss you?” He ends up saying in almost a whisper, his eyes coming up to look at mine.

I blink once, twice, I wanted to say yes but my lips just quivered into a shy smile. He smiles too, amused by my reaction. He is so close to my face, he is so pretty, his eyes are so endearing, his thumb still on my lips, everything was too much. A light gush of wind blows over us, and as I am about to turn my face to look at the beach, he holds my face in place and connects our lips together. At first my eyes are wide and my heart beat increases to an incredible pace. Then, I close my eyes and lean into the kiss, my heart still beating at an incredible pace. He cups my face with his right hand, tilting my head lightly making the kiss deeper. One second more and I would just melt under his touch. My feet in the pool felt tingly, my knees felt weak, so did my arms. The inside of my head feels like a haze. I feel so light and yet my face feels heavy due to how warm my cheeks are. Once he separates our lips, he leans back just a little bit, but still close enough for me to feel his slightly ragged breathing against my face. He smiles lightly and I smile back.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a little while now~” He says more to himself than to me. I giggle lightly.

“M— Same..” I look away, getting shy after admitting such thing and he smiles. I can hear his low chuckles making my heart drop.

“You’re so cute Y/N~”

[peachyteabuck]

study buddy, part v

series summary: after crushing on you since freshman orientation, Natasha finally gets the guts to ask you help you pass her postmodern lit midterm, to which you agree.

chapter summary: one restaurant date, two confessions, and three grades that will make or break natasha’s degree

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader

words: 4,881

trigger warnings: overstimulation, use of a safe word, teeth rotting fluff, strap on sex, ball gags, explicit conversations about whorephobia, orgasm control, angst if you squint

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

part one, part two, part three, part four

The warmth of the sun filtered through blinds is what woke you, wrapped tight in Natasha’s arms. The sex-stained blankets were as messy as can be, some of them hugged your intertwined bodies like a tightly wrapped burrito while others were nearly falling off the bed.

It was messy, beautifully and wonderfully so. If you felt the need to move (which, of course you didn’t because who in their right mind would try to disentangle themselves from such a lovely human person) you doubt you could’ve; Natasha held you with arms too strong and heart beat too soft. You wouldn’t dare disturb her if the house was on fire; then again, if the world was burning down around you – you’d rather die in her arms than reach for uncertain safety. It’s there that you fell back into sleep, tucked under her chin and running your fingers through her hair.

Eventually the growling of your stomachs woke the both of you up, each respective organ desperate for nourishment – and the two hard-boiled eggs, sour gummy worms, gluten-free bread, and half a container of mustard wasn’t gonna cut it. The waning sun was an ominous sign of how long you’d truly gone without food, and you soon didn’t feel all that bad about poking your poor g-

Poking poor Natasha awake.

You didn’t feel all that bad poking Natasha awake as your insides beg for sustenance and your head feels light and holy shit, if you didn’t eat right then you were going to start taking bites out of her – and, for the first time, not in a fun and/or sexy way.

“Hey,” you pressed your forefinger to her nose. “Nat.” You poked the end of each eyebrow, then at various locations of her forehead. “Natasha!” Still, she remained asleep, and buried herself further into the blankets as some unconscious act of survival. “Nat.” You poked her right cheek. “Naat.” You poked her left cheek. “Naaat.” You poked each cheek with each hand at its softest part, pushing until you felt her teeth.  “Nat wake uuup.”

She just grunted and pushed you away before she nuzzled back into the covers. “Go away. I want to die here. Let me become a body without organs.”

She paused.

“Or is it organs without bodies?”

You sighed but make no move to displace her. “One, Natasha, we have the midterm coming out soon. If you do not know the original work done by two far left authors from the sarcastic critique by another far left author, I’m breaking up with you. Two, that’s not what that means and you making a vague reference to some postmodern concept does not mean I am going to stop being annoying. Three, would you like to come get dinner with me?”

Natasha shot up, flame-red hair messy and shirt disheveled – it made her look like the top of of a thicket of trees during a forest fire. Along the side of her face, you could see indentations from where her skin was pressed to the pillowcase. “Food?”

You nodded, pushing the strands from her eyes. “Yes, darling, food.”

She wiped at her face and pushed the covers from her legs, eyes half-closed. “Food.”

You picked some of the crust from the corner of her eyes. She blinked indignantly at you but made no move to stop you. “Do you care where we go?”

Natasha shook her head left-to-right silently, then moved to wipe her face once more.

“Okay. There is a very good Chinese place that I want to show you. Is that okay with you?”

Natasha nodded and made a mmhmm noise.

“Cool.”

You kissed the tip of her nose before you got up and scrounged together a passable outfit that would cover the bruises that still littered your body and shield you from the cold. After a few moments, Natasha opened her eyes wide enough to see a few feet in front of her and did the same.

There was s a wonderful silence that filled the air, the comfortable kind. Like the day of that quiz, it’s a wonderful kind of cozy – soothing and sweet.

You could get used to this…

It was a short walk to the restaurant, one you were all-too familiar with due to your many, many nights there. It was the first place you ate at on campus (that wasn’t one of the mind-numbingly mediocre cafeterias) the day you moved in and it had become some pseudo-home, the place always warm and waitstaff always nice (and always willing to let you eat as much as you pay for and abuse their free WiFi).

The menu hadn’t changed much (by “much,” you mean they’ve fixed two of the five typos) since you first started going there, so you should have already known what you want. Still, you opened the folded, laminated paper and read each item with genuine interest, just as Natasha did.

You looked up at her once and awhile just to see her again. Every time you tried to keep her out of your line or sight for more than a few seconds you’d almost burst at the seams, like a sunburst than could only be quelled by looking at her.

“What year are you?” Natasha asked, which broke your unbelievably tender train of thought.

Your brain, which was still very fried, did not compute. “What?”

She reached over to point to the Chinese zodiac calendar on your menu with one of many of her fingers that was inside you last night. “What year are you?”

You mumbled something and shrugged, fake-intense-reading as your neurons attempted to rebuild your capacity for speech. Luckily, Natasha seemed determined to continue the conversation.

“I’m the year of the dog,” she said, nonchalant, as if you were not losing your goddamn mind on the other side of the table. Your brain was fried, your mouth was gaping like a fish out of water, and were your hands shaking? What the fuck were you supposed to say? How should you respond?

Think, you fool! Think!

“There’s a feminist critical theorist who fucks her dog,” you blurted.

Natasha just smiled – god her smile was so big and wide and beautiful - and laughed. “Part of me thinks you’re lying, but part of me worries you’re telling the truth.”

You laughed then, too, smiling big as she did. It set the tone for the rest of the night, mood light and happy as the tired, probably-high waitress took your order and then brought you the food a suspiciously-short amount of time later. It was good, very good.

“And my mom turns to me and she goes,” you wrinkled your noise in an effort to properly invoke your mother’s nasally tone. “This family does not get Fs or Ds or Cs. You better fix this or else.”

Natasha almost choked on her soft drink at your impression. “You were supposed to make an omelet for a foods and nutrition class, what did she want you to do!?”

You took another bite of orange chicken before you rolled your eyes and shrugged. “I have no idea what that woman wants from me now, let alone when I was fuckin’ fourteen.”

You were both laughing as you took food from each other’s plates and swapped small stories. Natasha told you about her own coding mishaps (apparently it was easy to hack into news websites and create fake stories involving certain celebrities and a certain large bird and many, if not too many, phallic objects), you told her about the time you stress-cried in the bathroom so much the janitor kept tissues in a secret compartment for you.

One hand from each of you remained occupied as you held hands on the side of the table farthest from the prying eyes of fellow college students (as if any of them were sober enough to notice, though. Along with being great to you, the restaurant’s very greasy menu meant it was a good spot to quench munchies or quell the pain of an especially bad hangover).

A phone – your phone, you realized – vibrated obnoxiously on the other side of the table. Previously forgotten, you broke from the moment to reengage with the (seemingly) hundreds of people who were attempting reach you via text. At first you thought it’s an email from a client – but then you realized it was a text from a classmate. Specifically, the girl who sat front and center in the lecture hall you and Natasha shared.

“Who’s that?” Natasha asked.

You furrowed your brows as you texted, swallowing the last bit of food. “Oh, Lindsay from our class. She wants to know what I got on the quiz.”

Natasha then realized she never bothered to figure out her grade, and it brought all her anxiety about graduating on time and also making sure you’d never leave her and oh my god what if she failed this fucking quiz?

A few moments of soul-crushing silence passed before you put your phone back down. Natasha watched you like a cat stalking a fake mouse on a string, or a drunk mom at a Christmas party eyeing a dessert table; the drive was genuine, but the goal? Ridiculous. Absolutely, totally ridiculous.

You didn’t press her like she expected, though, didn’t even stare at her with that evil eye Natasha’s sure you got from your mother on more than one occasion. You just went back to eating your food, and put your phone back out of reach.

You noticed her staring at you when you went to borrow (steal) another piece of food from her plate.

“What?”

Natasha furrowed her brow. “Don’t you…Don’t you want to know what I got on the quiz?”

You shook your head as you stole another few bites worth of food. “Not unless you want to tell me.” You shrugged as you swallowed. “I’m not gonna, like, push you if you don’t want to tell me. I’m not my mother.”

Natasha smiled at that and left the conversation there. She was unnaturally quiet for the new few minutes as she listened intently while you told more stories and commented on the food and thought out loud about school and the rest of your life and should you go shopping soon?

Throughout all of it, Natasha remained incommunicative – to the point you started to worry.

“Are you okay?” you asked and reached across the table to put your hand over hers. She smiled, softly, before she replied.

“I really care about you, you know,” she said, low and almost inaudible. You said nothing in return. “And I’m very bad at this. I’m so bad at this. I spent a lot of my childhood in rooms with therapists who said less than I did. I’m not good at,” she waved her hands as she tried to find the right words. “I’m not great at emotions. And expressing them and telling people about them and all that shit. Okay?”

You swallowed the last tastes of duck sauce that coated your back teeth. Despite the sweet substance being a liquid, it felt like a waterfall of boulders cascading inside your throat. “Nat, I-“

“This isn’t me saying I love you, but I want…” Natasha was on the verge of crying, just as you were. She averted your gaze as she continues, staring at the booth cushion directly behind you. “I want to commit to you in some way. I like you, I like the person I am when I’m around you. And I don’t want to lose you because I was too much of a pussy to make a move.”

You said nothing, did nothing. Despite her not looking at you, you stared at her very serious facial expression and watched every muscle twitch for some signs of lying. You saw none.

“I…,” Natasha met your eyes as you spoke. Your mouth was so dry you nearly coughed – but the idea of making any sound terrified you. “I…I need some air.”

You didn’t wait for a reply as you pushed yourself out of the booth and ran out the front entrance.

Natasha didn’t wait for the door to close behind you before she chased after you. She left both of your phones and wallet at the booth, not wanting you to get out of eyeshot but also terrified of the waitstaff thinking the both of you were dine-and-dashers (and terrible ones, at that).

She followed you outside, ache in her heart an excellent distraction from the nighttime chill that dug tiny knives into her pale skin. Still, as her breath was visible in a faint fog in front her, no pain was as unimaginable as the one as losing you.

“Babe, plea-“  began, voice small and nonthreatening as possible.

You interrupted her and avoided looking into her eyes and picked at a loose thread in the sweater you were wearing – Natasha’s sweater you were wearing.

You worried it was the last time you’d ever see her again, and yet you refused to look at her. You refuse dto look at her large eyes and the bags under them, at her nimble hands – thin and agile from years of typing; at her plush lips or beautiful hair or-

Wasn’t that the cruelest irony of all? Of the cognitive dissonant fear of missing something while desperately avoiding looking at it. Still, you chose to jump off the proverbial cliff with your eyes clenched shut and nails digging into the pads of your soft palms and blood rushing in your ears louder than anything you’d ever heard in your life.

“I’m a sex worker.”

Natasha’s eyebrows furrowed and she breathed heavily, like when your mom got mad at you for bringing home that C your freshman year. “There’s-“

“I’m a sex worker. I make my own porn. I sell my nudes. It’s my main,” you sighed. “It’s my only source of income. It’s how I make money. It is how I will continue to make money. It’s how I stay mostly-independent from my very judgmental mother. It’s how I plan on staying mostly-independent from my very judgmental mother and my very judgmental family and the very judgmental world. And if you think that’s morally wrong of whatever, or that I’m some sort of sub-human, or that I’m evil, or that I should stop…”

For the first time that night, you looked her straight in the eyes. No smiling, no laughing, no wishing to see her beautiful face. Power. Authority. Truth. You tried to channel the red you saw on all those feminist theory books you’d had to read for the class that brought you and Natasha together.

“If you don’t believe in the validity of my labor I cannot and will not date you,” you were snarling as you stomped toward her until your toes nearly touched. “I’m not going to let someone who can’t love what I do love me.”

As you stood there, teeth bared and hands balled into fists, stories of rage flashed like lightning in your brain. Narratives of horror from your media studies class, of actresses whose only chance to scream was in front of a camera. If you had sharper nails, sharper teeth, glowing eyes that would be some award-winning monologue where people clap and call it “mind-blowing” and give it “five out of five stars.” You’d be a prime example of how satisfying rage can be as a subversive practice.

But no. You were no antihero(ine), no supernatural being caught on tape. You were not on the silver screen, you were not being streamed on some overpriced platform, you were not the subject of dissertations on media studies or really good articles on feminism or whatever else academics were doing with their time in tenure. You had filed-down nails and wide eyes and soft skin and an uneasy stomach and shaking hands and breath that faintly showed in the air when you exhaled. You had tears that threatened to fall. You had fear.

Natasha’s eyes flitted nervously, her lip between her teeth. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Natasha was the one to speak first. Her voice sounded as terrified as you felt – with words that were spat through a set jaw and teeth bared.

“Who hurt you?”

You took a half-step back, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What? Natasha, what the fuck are y-“

“Who hurt you?” she whispered, words like knives and eyes just as dangerous. You stepped back, almost scared of her and what she could do to you.

You were pressed against the side of the building then – you could feel the brick and mortar itching at the skin of your back through your top. “Natasha what the hell are you talking about? I don’t kn-“

“Yes,” she stepped back, but grasped at your left hand as she did so. She was a ship tethering to a dock, floating out on the water but always willing to come back to port. “Yes, you do. You know exactly who, what, I’m talking about. What they did. Just tell me who they are, and I’ll ruin their lives.”

You looked for the joke, the punchline. You looked for a glint in her eye that said she was fucking with you and was waiting for you to laugh it off. When you were in seventh grade you got asked out as a joke and the football player made the exact same facial expression you now hunt for.

But you found nothing, no teasing or set up in a larger scheme to mock you. She was serious as you’d ever seen anyone be. “What in the fuck-“

“Tell me who they are. Tell me the name of every person who ever made you feel like shit and I’ll ruin their lives. I’ll steal their identity. I’ll make it so they can never get a job, or a car, or a house again. I’ll do it in a heartbeat,” Natasha let go of your hand and held your face in her food-warm palms. “I will destroy the very existence of every person who ever made you feel like this, because you deserve someone who will protect you from all that bullshit. And I want to be that person.”

The silence was painful, almost. But also comforting. Still, you broke it so speak. “Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Natasha smiled, and pecked your lips. “Good. Now come finish my food with me, it’s getting cold and our waitress is definitely judging us.”

You broke into a fit of laughter, nearly wheezing as she guided you back inside. The food was good, even though it had cooled considerably while you were both outside – greasy and thick with flavor and hot in your mouth along with your soul and Natasha held your hand on the table and fed you with her fork and you stole bits of her food while she was distracted. At one point, Lizzo played on the restaurant soundtrack and Natasha sung low with you, and you ordered more food to take home and it was hot, too hot in your hands as you carried the large brown paper bag soaked with grease to her apartment. Maybe you were going eat the food in the morning, maybe you were going eat it later tonight. It, truly, did not really matter.

There wasn’t much time between when you put the leftovers in the fridge and when Natasha pushed you onto your knees in her (and your) (it was now shared) bedroom. There also wasn’t much time between when your knees hit the ground and when Natasha grabbed the ball gag from its place in her toy drawer.

“I’m so happy you’re mine,” Natasha cooed as she adjusted the matte black straps. She kissed at your temples when it was secured, murmuring sweet words into the top of your hairline. If there was anyone else watching you, if there were some voyeur witnessing this profession of ownership, you doubt they could hear her. The entire world could be gazing at the two of you under a microscope and they would know nothing. Wasn’t it something wonderful, to share such, dare you say it, love that cannot, will not be observed by a single being outside your pairing? “Such a pretty little thing, a beautiful little toy for me.”

You didn’t dare move, worried even a flinch would disappoint her. Even as spit began to fall down your chin and between your breasts, as it pools in the gap between your legs, you successfully resist the urge to wipe it away. Natasha walks to the end of the bed, perching herself on the covers. The silence isn’t thick or uncomfortable, rather something closer to electric, something you can feel on the insides of your nose as you sniffled.  

Slowly, she raised her right hand and crooked her first finger. You understood immediately and you got on your hands and knees to crawl across the room to her. When you reached the end of the bed you waited, obediently, for her.

Like at the restaurant – you were nearly bursting out of your skin with excitement as you awaited instruction.  

“You’re so pretty, baby,” she cooed. “Now come up on the bed and let me wreck that pussy.”

You do as you’re told without hesitation, scrambling to get on the bed and onto your back. Natasha grabbed a bottle of lube out of seemingly nowhere and poured it over the same strap from the first time she fucked you.

You moaned deeply and reached for something, anything; you whined high in your throat as she pounded into you, the bed smacking against the stained wall with each thrust.

“You’re too pretty for your own good, you know,” her voice was breathless as she spoke. “Normally I would try to keep my toys intact, try to keep them in good condition, but I just can’t seem to help myself around you.”

With each word your back arched farther, your fingers tightened around the sheets.

“F-fuck,” you moaned around the thick plastic sphere in your mouth as you tried to push your back closer to Natasha’s chest.

She grabbed your hair and bit at the curve of your ear before she spoke in a low voice that sent another wave a slick down your inner thighs. “What do you belong to?” she hisses. “Who does this pussy,” she slapped your cunt and you cried out at the stinging pain. “belong to?”

You didn’t hesitate. “You Mommy, I belong to you!”

In that moment, you wondered whether Natasha’s neighbors could hear your screams. But in the one right after, you realized you really, truly, di not give a single flying fuck what they could hear.

“Fuck yes, you’re mine,” she growled as she pressed your face into the sheets, as she loomed over you like a god would punish some human exercising an unholy level of hubris. “Don’t you fucking forget it.”

You couldn’t speak because of the ball gag – didn’t even try to – yet Natasha seemed to know exactly what you wanted to say.

“You wanna cum, love?” she cooed, still fucking into you. “You wanna cum over Mommy’s cock?”

You nodded, the whines high in your throat resembed something close to a please yes please Mommy please I wanna cum I wanna cum I wanna cum.

Just like the lube, Natasha grabbed the hitachi out of thin air before she turned it on low and pressed it to your neglected clit. It was something, it was enough, but only just so. Your muscle tensed and you wailed out as you bucked your hips, as you tried to fuck yourself harder onto the toy. Natasha notices and slows her thrusts, laughing as you become more and more desperate.

“You’re so pathetic,” she hissed. “Such a pathetic little toy. You’ll do anything to cum, won’t you?”

You nodded; words garbled.

Natasha laughed again. “Of course you would, slut. You’d do anything for me, right? You’d do anything I told you to? You’re just a mindless little toy for me, just a dumb little thing with no thoughts besides how you can please me…”

You were drooling around your gag so much it covered your cheeks and pooled on each side.

You’re blissed out, eyes glazed over and body wonderfully lax. Natasha’s isn’t done with you yet, though, because of course she isn’t. You’re now officially her girlfriend, officially hers, and maybe it’s that satisfaction or excitement or whatever in her blood but it it’s letting her stop, not now, not when you look so ethereal with a halo of sweaty hair and the sheets looking like wings and your skin practically glowing.

Not just any angel, her angel – her perfect little blessed creature, sanctified even as she degrades you in such a sacrilegious way.

“I want you to cum when I count to ten,” Natasha murmured as she pushed the sweaty hairs that had escaped their confines from your eyes. “Alright, baby?”

You nodded and tried to chase the fleeting feeling of her fingers as they dusted over your feverish skin.

She turned the Hitachi up a setting, smiling as it met your clit and you cried out.

“One,” she mumbled, rubbing the head against you in small circles. It was something, but certainly not enough.

“Two.”

Natasha knew this. She knew you didn’t orgasm all that easily.

“Three.”

Regardless, she agonizingly slowly turned the toy up a setting. Just as you feared, it remained insufficient.

“Four.”

God, nearly halfway there and you were terrified what would happen if you couldn’t cum. Part of it was exhilarating, but part of it gnawed a small hole in your stomach that left you…empty, somehow.

“Five.”

She ticked it up one, two more settings. You sighed in relief and moved your hips with what little mobility she’d allowed you.

“Six.”

She increased the vibrations again and reveled in your squeals.

“Seven.”

You cried out and wanted to beg for mercy.

“Eight.”

You didn’t.

“Nine.”

You felt like you’d forgotten how to breathe, lungs shriveled up into nothingness. It was as if you could feel each of your cells as they begged for oxygen, as your blood desperately tried to each your heart and brain.

“Ten.”

You came with a deafening scream, your whole body shaking for what feels like forever.

When you came down, your girlfriend was next to the bed, holding what you could only is another section of rope. What she planned to do with it, you had zero idea.

“How ya doin’, baby?” She asks. Natasha could sense something was off, but worried about misreading the signs.

It’s obvious she was not incorrect, though, when you tapped at your thigh three times.

Immediately, Natasha drops the toys in her hands and rushes over – untying the gag and freeing your limbs.

“What’s wrong, baby?” She scanned your body – terrified of finding blood or something worse. “What do you need?”

You swallowed what little spit you could find, your voice hoarse as you spoke. “Red,” a pause as you attempted to swallow once more. “Water.”

It was  all Natasha needed before she was rushing off to the fridge to grab a chilled bottle of the stuff and one of those reusable straws she stole from your apartment.

When she returned to the room she pulled you into her lap, keeping you upright as she leaned against the wall.

Natasha watched every muscle, every twitch as you drank from the straw. Your body seemed unwilling to move itself, relying on Natasha to hold you upright enough so that you didn’t choke. The room was silent except for the sound of your noisy swallowing (and, soon, the slurping of last droplets of water). You were about to ask for more, but Natasha found an unopened plastic water bottle within reach and held that for you, too. It reminded you of the first time the two of you fucked, and suddenly the world didn’t feel so cold anymore.

“I’m done, Mommy,” you told her when half the water was gone. “I’m good.”

“You sure, babygirl?” her voice laced with deep, genuine concern. Her eyes reflected the same emotion.

You nodded, leaning into her and rubbing your knuckles where they laid against her thigh. “I’m sure, Mommy. Thank you.”

Natasha closed the bottle and tossed it into the half-open bedside table drawer before she wrapped you in her arms. “Of course, honeybee. I’m proud of you for using your safe word, thank you for trusting me.”

You mmmed and laid there for a moment, your breathing in rhythm with Natasha. You two sat there, comfortable in the silence. If there was anything else to say, you’d say it – but for the while you enjoyed the wordless space you and her existed in.

It took a long while, after your heart had slowed and your breathing had evened out, but you eventually fell asleep in Natasha’s arms. It was peaceful, deep – somehow impossibly more satisfying than any of the other times you’d fallen asleep, even the times you’d fallen asleep with her. There, secured from harm in her arms and wrapped in blankets, you felt secure. It was indescribable, it was wonderful, it was safe. And to you, in that moment, it was heaven.

[let-it-raines]

it’s all an act (until it isn’t) {1/1}

High school drama teacher Killian Jones doesn’t have time for drama off the stage. He’s had enough of it in his life, and no part of him is searching for more. But then the day before his theater class’s modern day interpretation of a fairytale begins its four-week run, his two leads get sick. There are no understudies, no one to fill the roles, but as they say, the show must go on. 

With him in it, apparently. 

Having Emma Swan, the music teacher and woman who has avoided him since her first day of work at Storybrooke High, fill in as the starring role opposite him is the complete opposite of what he expected. 

Rating: Teen

A/N: Shoutout to @shireness-says and @wellhellotragic for giving me the prompts that make up the inspiration behind this story. You two are always bright spots of sunshine and deserve all of the cupcakes 🧁 in the world. I mean that very, very seriously. ❤️

And thank you to @captainsjedi for organizing @csseptembersunshine and making me get my butt in gear to finally write this story when I’d been struggling with my one-shots. 

Found on AO3: | Here |

Tag list: @kmomof4 @heavenlyjoycastle @tiganasummertree @galaxyzxstark @thejollyroger-writer @idristardis @snowbellewells @karenfrommisthaven @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @emmas-storybook @searchingwardrobes @ultimiflos @jamif @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @spartanguard

-/-

“Where the bloody hell are Ethan and Kate?”

Killian’s voice bellows over the stage, his words echoing off of the walls and seemingly disappearing into the void, which is what happens whenever he talks on some days. He’s got maybe five students who actively listen to him every single day, and every single one of those five are on a field trip to some kind of classical music concert that he did not give approval for. Granted, he’s only the drama teacher, but when they have the opening night of the play they’ve been practicing for coming up tomorrow, he kind of expects his students to be around.

Or to at least be asked if the field trip interferes with anything.

But was he asked? No, no of course he wasn’t. He’s never asked anything because on the school’s totem pole of important faculty, he is at the bottom with all of the other fine arts teachers, which is a damn shame. Reading and writing and arithmetic are important. No one knows this more than him, someone who has spent nearly all of his life in school even when he was in the Navy, but kids can’t be contained at a desk all day. They have to move or create art, whether that be painting, acting, or playing the damn piccolo. They have to be able to broaden their horizons and have an outlet for everything that they’re going through, so he thinks the drama department is pretty damn important.

As well as the art and music departments, even the physical education departments – and that’s not simply because he is also the track and field coach.

And yet, here he is unable to find his two leads for tomorrow, as well as most of his best students, and it’s all because Emma Swan didn’t bother to tell him that she was taking so many of his kids away to go to an all-day music festival outside of town the day before opening night.

Killian would bet that she did it on purpose.

Actually, he knows that she did.

Emma Swan is the bane of his existence. Never will he forget the day that she started at Storybrooke High three years ago. They’d pulled up into the teacher’s parking lot at the same time, and he’d seen her struggling to grab all of her bags and boxes of things, so he’d quickly slung his bag over his shoulder and walked toward her, offering her both a smile and a hand. She’d accepted, a nervous smile on her face, her green eyes very obviously wary of him, and they’d walked in the front doors of the school together.

She was (is) gorgeous. There was no denying that, not that he ever has. She was all toned legs and arms in her red dress that contrasted well against the light, but not too pale, tone of her skin. Her smile was brightened by the red lipstick she was wearing, her full lips accentuated by it, and the blonde of her hair fell down her back in waves that he wanted to run his fingers through.

Obviously, he didn’t. There’s such a thing as human decency and sexual harassment, and he is nothing if not a gentleman (most of the time), but he did notice that she was simply a stunning woman.

The stunning Emma Swan.

There’d been small talk, of course, and he’d asked her about her new position here, what school she was coming from, follow up questions to all of that, and then offered his help for anything and everything that she might need while starting her new job. She’d smiled and said thank you, but then she’d easily navigated to her office, the one just outside of the music classroom and across the hall from his office and the auditorium where he spends his days, and shut the door in his face.

After that, he never quite cracked her code.

During lunch, she seems to have no issue talking to other teachers. She gladly chats with Belle, their librarian, Mary Margaret, the science teacher for grades nine and ten, and occasionally she can be seen talking with other teachers as well. Really, she’s so goddamn friendly with everyone that it makes absolutely zero sense for her to dislike him and not want to be friendly with him. Sure, he’s been disliked by many a woman before – bad dates and relationships and then once for taking the last carton of milk at the grocery store – but he’s always known why. He’s never been left in this state of confusion as to why he’s disliked.

Which is a shame because he quite fancies her from time to time when she’s not yelling at him for taking her students away from practice to work with him on stage or when she’s stealing his students for a last-minute fieldtrip to who knows where on the day of dress rehearsals.

Emma’s got this thing that she does during faculty meetings where whenever she disagrees with what’s being said, she scrunches up her nose and makes it wrinkle. He imagines that she wrinkles her nose when she thinks of him, most likely holding one of her many swan-themed coffee mugs that’s got a fifty-fifty shot of being filled with coffee with vanilla creamer or hot chocolate topped with loads of cinnamon. He can’t even begin to imagine how much she has to work out for how she eats. That, or she has the world’s greatest metabolism.

Damn her for making him notice these things and damn her for stealing his students.

“Seriously, guys,” Killian grumbles again, shifting the canopy bed prop that they rolled onto stage earlier this afternoon. His hands are full of callouses and most likely stained in paint for how much work he’s had to put into making the set. Liam and Elsa have come to the school or his apartment after they get off of work to help out with making sets, and he wonders just how he can repay them for going above and beyond when they already work far more often than him…and he feels like he never stops working. “Why aren’t you listening to me? Where are Kate and Ethan?”

Of the thirty teenagers that he still has with him today, two look up, and neither of them say anything, simply looking at him with pleading eyes, begging him not to make them talk. He loves all of these kids, and even though sometimes it’s hard to garner the attention of all of them, it’s usually much better than this.

He’s a damn good teacher. He can command a room, his five far-too-loyal students aside.

“Bloody hell,” he shouts, clapping his hands together so that the remaining twenty-eight heads look up at him with varying degrees of disgust. “I know that you guys don’t have a lot to do right now when we’re missing our leads, but that doesn’t mean you can just ignore me. Now will someone tell me where Kate and Ethan are? I know they’re not in music, so I know that they’re not on the field trip.”

His eyes scan over the group, looking for someone who’s going to crack, and he finally finds it in Ava.

“They’re sick, Mr. Jones,” she says quietly as her fingers twist around her braid. “That’s what Kate said when she texted me this morning.”

“Are they actually sick or are they skipping classes today while their parents think that they’re at school? And are they going to be better tomorrow?”

He’s met with silence once more until a deep laugh breaks out from Felix, a kid who is great at building sets but not so great at being a part of the team. Honestly, Killian has no idea why he’s even in this class when he could have chosen from several other electives. Deep down, he thinks it might be to torture Killian. Honestly. He’s only ninety percent sure that isn’t the reason he’s in the class.

Maybe eighty percent. It depends on the day.

“They have fucking mono, man,” Felix laughs, propping his feet up on the theater chair in front of him. “They’re not coming to class.”

“Language,” Killian says instinctively while his mind runs over the information he’s just been given. He’s a little loose with his curse words, but Americans seem to be a little more reserved with curses than he and all of his fellow Brits are so this is something he’s had to deal with while teaching in America. “What do you mean they have mono? How do you know this, but I don’t?”

“Group chat,” Felix answers noncommittally. “Ethan went to the doctor a couple days go, then Kate went, and they both got mono because they’re not just making out on stage, you know?”

Yes, he does know about the fact that the two leads in his play are dating. He didn’t when he cast them, but that also wouldn’t have mattered. He knows far too much about each of his students and their personal lives because for some reason, every bit of gossip happens while in this auditorium. The things that he’s heard while trying to paint a tree for set or while attempting to give an actual lesson where his students are supposed to take notes on the history of theater.

No part of him misses when he was a teenager. Every little thing feels like the most important thing, and he cannot imagine having to feel that way again.

“They have mono,” he repeats, testing out the words on his tongue all the while he tries to convince himself that this isn’t real. “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope. You haven’t gotten a note from their parents about it?”

Killian shakes his head before pulling his phone out of his back pocket, ignoring texts from his brother and his mates so that he can login to his school email. There are several messages that he sees that he needs to get to later all involving logistics for the show tomorrow night, and then he sees the emails Felix mentioned.

Bloody buggering fuck.

His leads are sick.

And they didn’t do any understudies because no one else was comfortable enough to sing on stage, and he figured that it’s just a high school play that the kids wanted to put on as a part of the class. It wasn’t a big deal.

Except for the fact that their principal told him that the ticket sales can all go toward fundraising for the drama department, and now he doesn’t have anyone to actually lead the play.

His students wanted to put on a modern-day fairytale, and all of these disasters happening at once make him think that he might very well be living in one.

If a modern-day fairytale is actually a nightmare.

-/-

Killian has been staring at his computer screen in his office for at least two hours when he hears the click of boots against the linoleum floor in the hallway outside of his office. It’s past six, everyone long gone, and he knows that it can only be one person walking out in the hallway.

Emma.

There’s a flash of long legs and blonde hair falling over a red leather jacket, and he’d recognize those three elements of her person anywhere. But as she’s walking into her office, across the hall from him, he definitely knows that it’s her. The fact that she leaves her door open and he can see her sitting at her desk certainly doesn’t help him forget.

How is she so beautiful and infuriating all at once?

“It’s rude to stare, Jones,” Emma shouts from her office like she does whenever they have these kinds of conversations.

He blinks up at her, unaware of how long exactly he has been staring at her. His head is pounding a ridiculous amount, and he wonders why the hell he ever left England and the Royal Navy just to come to America to teach high school drama and yell at kids to keep running around an asphalt track.

(Heartbreak, following his brother, et cetera.)

“It’s rude to take away my students the day before we have a show opening.”

“Their parents signed permission slips. I wasn’t aware I needed approval from you too.”

“Yeah, well, it’s common courtesy to at least let me know. Why isn’t there a school policy about that?”

He can’t quite see, but he knows that she’s rolling those green eyes of hers. She rises from her desk, and while he thinks she’s only getting up to close her office door, she doesn’t. Instead, she walks into the hallway and over to his office, leaning her shoulder up against his doorframe as she crosses her arms over her chest. When did she take her jacket off to leave her in a simple white sweater?

“You okay?” Emma asks, what sounds like genuine concern in her voice.

“Do you actually care?”

She scoffs, and he looks up at her again so that he can see the slightest twitching in her jaw along with a wrinkling of her nose.

“Believe it or not, I’m not a complete and total bitch. You look like you’re freaking out, and I’m genuinely concerned about that.”

“Ah well,” he sighs, reaching up to scratch behind his ear as he plasters a fake smile on his face, “you don’t have to worry about me, love. I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re a liar is what you are.”

“How would you know?”

“For one, you have the worst poker face in the world, but I also have a little bit of a superpower in being able to tell when someone is lying.”

“Really now?”

“Yep. You don’t teach teenagers for six years without knowing how to tell someone is lying.” She steps further into the room and takes a seat in the cushioned chair that sits in the small space across from his desk. This might be the most pleasant conversation they’ve had in years, and he’s still not entirely sure that it isn’t some kind of fever dream. “So, tell me, Jones, what has you looking like you’d rather have a mug full of rum than coffee this late in the afternoon?”

Sighing, he leans forward on his desk and taps his fingers over the script, large letters typed out to read “Sleeping Beauty.” He’s got the entire script memorized now, mostly because he was the one to write the majority of it – with the help of the actual fairytale, the movie, and then his students when they insisted they do a modern version of a fairytale with a twist – but also because he’s been running lines with these kids for weeks.

And now he has no stars.

“I’m a bloody idiot,” he starts, swallowing his pride and the stress that’s lodged in his throat, “because I didn’t cast understudies for this play. Only two students in the class were comfortable both singing and sharing a kiss on stage, and I figured that it would be fine. It’s not a huge production, but then I was told that ticket sales could go to the theater department so that I can actually have funding. But the joke is on me because my leads have mono and are pretty much out for the entire month that we were going to be doing the show.”

Silence surrounds him as he finishes his rant, wondering why the hell he’s ranting to Emma in the first place, and he swears that he can hear the beating of his heart. Or maybe it’s the ticking of the clock above his door.

“You don’t have any other kids who know the lines?”

“Ava Hanson,” he sighs, looking up at Emma while he runs his hands through his hair, “but she’s not going to feel comfortable on stage. At this point, I’m wondering if we should simply postpone or if maybe I should play the lead role and modify things to make it more appropriate. Honestly, though, I’m not sure if I feel comfortable doing that.”

Emma groans, something deep and annoyed, and he’s just about to snap at her as he wonders what the hell could she possibly be upset about when she gets up from the chair and starts pacing back and forth in the room, her face buried in her hands.

“I’m willing to help you,” Emma huffs, stopping her pacing to look at him with her hands on her hips.

“What, love?”

“Look, I know what it’s like to be a part of the arts department, obviously, and funding is so hard to come by that I wouldn’t want you to miss out on any for those kids. Plus, I’m sure a bunch of the kids were looking forward to it. So, for those two reasons and those two reasons alone, I will read over the script and see if I can act in your play if you’re going to fill in for the other lead role.”

“You’re serious?” Killian questions. There’s no way. Absolutely none. “You realize this is a three-times a week thing for four weeks, it involves singing, extra time for no pay, and you have to spend time with me?”

“I obviously haven’t won the lottery or anything here, but yeah, I got all of that.”

“And you know what play we’re doing, right?”

“Sleeping Beauty.”

“Which involves a kiss.”

Emma’s lips fall into the shape of an “O” and he chuckles at that, thoroughly enjoyed by the blush on Emma’s cheeks and the continual blinking of her eyes.

“Just,” she whines, reaching down onto the desk to pick up the script he was looking at, “brush your teeth beforehand, and don’t think I’m taking my eyes off of you for a second.”

“I would despair if you did.”

-/-

There’s a substitute filling in for all of the theater and music classes the next day as he and Emma run through lines and do the messiest rehearsal in the history of rehearsals. Surprisingly, she knew most of her lines when she walked into the auditorium this morning, and while that did make everything go more smoothly, it was still a mess finding their timing as well as the timing of all of their students. But by the time the lunch bell rings, they’ve got a pretty good handle on it, and he sends Emma off to the closet where they keep the costumes to see if she can fit into Kate’s costumes. He’s sure that she can, especially with how slight Emma is, but then Emma walks up on stage with her breasts practically spilling out of the dress.

“What am I supposed to do about this?”

“To what are you referring?” Emma rolls her eyes and motions her hands around until she’s pointing at her chest, impatiently waiting for him to acknowledge the slight problem. “Well, love, your discomfort is a cross I’m willing to bear.”

Emma laughs, her eyes rolling once more, but he can see the slight smile on her face.

They might just get on, the two of them.

Or kill each other.

Everything for the rest of the day is a blur of him practicing while also dealing with all of the disasters and melodramatic emergencies that his students go through, and he swears the he blinks and people are already filling the auditorium. Liam and Elsa were kind enough to collect tickets for him, as well as buying far more tickets than necessary and forcing all of Elsa’s family to come to the show like he’s a teenager performing tonight and not an adult who screwed up, and he absolutely knows that he’s going to be teased about this until someone else does something equally embarrassing.

Not that being in theater is embarrassing. But being over thirty years old and acting with several sixteen-year-olds is.

Plus, they all know about his slight infatuation with Emma Swan and her definite dislike of him, and Killian just knows that Liam is going to be sitting in the front row recording this to have on file forever. It’ll likely be his Christmas card. Forget a picture of he and Elsa and Elsa’s ever-growing baby bump. It’s going to be Killian walking around on stage.

Closing the curtains he’s peeking out of, Killian turns around to see Emma standing in front of him wearing jeans and a blouse, her feet covered in white sneakers.

“What the bloody hell are you wearing?”

“It’s a modern-day fairytale,” she points out with a smirk, motioning her hands over her. “This is what a modern-day woman wears. Plus, I bent over in that dress and a boob popped out. I’m not flashing some of these dads who already think they can hit on me.”

“Yeah,” Killian gulps, forcing a smile as his stomach twists, “good point. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

It goes surprisingly well even though everything that can go wrong does go wrong. Felix curses in the middle of the one scene that he’s in, Ava’s microphone goes out which makes her cheeks flame in embarrassment, a tree falls down on top of him during the forest scene, and the bed squeaks when he kneels down on top of it to kiss Emma awake.

And that is something else entirely.

He and Emma had argued for an hour over the scene where Phillip wakes Aurora up with a kiss. She’d agreed that it was written well and followed the original storyline, but she’d protested in how they should actually go about it. How the hell does one kiss their colleague and then everything go back to normal?

How did he ever expect his students to do that as well?

This is nothing like it ever was when he was occasionally in community theater in different parts of his life.

But then the play ends to a hefty smattering of applause, and Killian can finally take a deep breath.

And it starts all over again.

Four weeks. He can do four weeks.

-/-

“This is exhausting,” Emma sighs as she stretches out across the panels on the stage, her body star-fished on the wood.

The two of them have been at the school since seven this morning cleaning up the auditorium so the janitor didn’t have to come in on an extra day. It’s the right thing to do when it’s their fault that there’s extra mess in the school, but he’s really and truly regretting it right now that his head pounds at the lack of caffeine in his system. Emma was smart enough to walk in the school with one of her swan mugs full of coffee, but his mind was not thinking that far ahead this morning.

Damn Kate and Ethan for getting mono.

Can he damn his students?

He probably should not be doing that.

But he kind of wants to because while the past three weeks have been stressful and busy and his personal life has absolutely gone down the drain, it hasn’t been…awful. All of his students are having a grand time, having fun with each other and becoming more comfortable in their roles, and to him, that’s the most important thing. He wants them to know that this can be a fun experience and that they don’t have to worry about being judged. So, that’s been great.

Kissing Emma Swan approximately (exactly) eighteen times has been not so great.

Okay, well, it’s actually been wonderful in a weird sense. Stage kissing and actual kissing are two entirely different things, but once the stiffness of those first few days was gone, it felt more natural.

And his odd, inexplicable crush on Emma only deepened, which is the last thing that he wanted.

(He’s turning into a teenager.)

It only gets worse in the fact that she walked inside the building today in a pair of short black running shorts and a matching black tank top with her hair pulled off of her neck in a ponytail. He doesn’t know when she finds the time to work out, but if the definition in her arms and legs shows anything, it’s that she very much does find the time.

(So working out and a good metabolism is how she eats like she does.)

Plus, well, she’s not all bad.

They bicker more than anyone he’s ever met. If he says black, she says white. If he wants to get Chinese delivery for a late dinner, she wants pizza. If he wants to change the tempo on a song to be faster, Emma wants it to be slower. Every single thing is a battle, and he loves it.

In fact, he hasn’t had this much fun in years. Their bickering is different than their bickering of the past. It’s no longer hostile and falls more into the category of teasing or, if he’s a tad bit presumptuous, flirting. A little thrill of excitement runs through him when Emma picks a fight or teases him about the flip of his hair in the same way that he sees her lips curl up into a smile when he teases her right back for the way that her voice croaked during their third performance.

Fun.

Spending time with her is fun.

And he’s terrified to know what’s going to happen when the show ends its run in a week and they go back to hating each other from across the hallway.

“Aye,” he confirms, using the muscles in his arms to pull himself up to sit on the edge of the stage, his fingers reaching over to mess with the loose bit of Emma’s sock, pulling a bit more when she doesn’t flinch away. “Tis exhausting. I plan on sleeping for a solid week when it’s all over.”

“We have school.”

“I’m thinking of playing hooky. You want to join?”

“Depends,” she mumbles, sitting up and bringing her knees to her chest, “what are we going to do?”

Killian hums in thought, tapping his finger against his chin. “Well, for one, sleeping for at least a day. Then drinking a glass or two of rum without having to worry about waking up early the next morning, which is kind of the same thing. But mostly, in this fantasy world, I’m going to spend days away from teenagers of any and all kinds.”

“Amen to that, Jones. Add in some greasy hangover food after that night of rum drinking, and I am there.”

“Grilled cheese and onion rings?”

“It’s scary how you know that.”

“We share a cafeteria five days a week, love,” he sighs, turning a bit more on the stage so that he can look at her while he talks. “A man picks up on some things. I’m sure you notice these things about me too.”

Her brows furrow, suspicion painted in her features, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. “This sounds like some kind of trap to stroke your ego, and I am not falling for it.”

“My princess,” he says sarcastically, knowing that she hates it, “whatever shall I do with you? I’d go to the ends of the world or time to make you happy.”

“All you have to do is go to the faculty lounge and make me some more coffee.”

Killian hops down from the stage and bends over in a sarcastic bow that has Emma laughing. “As you wish, milady.”

The show that night goes smoothly, probably their smoothest one yet. Everyone is settled in their roles now, so there’s not much to do but work on vocals and do little tweaks that he’ll need to work on if they also do a spring production. With classes and track and field practice, he’s not entirely sure how he’ll fit one in, especially with every other event that takes up the auditorium near graduation, but it’s simply something to think about.

As well as having understudies. He’s never making this mistake again even if it’s going much better than he ever could have imagined.

Emma is a damn good stage partner, which shouldn’t be surprising given what he knows about her musical ability, but being a musician doesn’t always translate over into being a good actor. At the beginning, he was definitely simply hoping for someone to fill the spot in the most adequate of ways. He was never expecting her to be good.

He also wasn’t expecting them to still have crowds this many shows in. Honestly, when the school set-up this timeline, he expected it to only last two weeks and for them to cancel the rest of the shows, but he managed to get a few retirement homes, elementary schools, and recreational groups to come on different nights so that there’s always someone sitting in the crowd.

If Will, Robin, and Liam are asses who keep coming back simply so that they have more proof of him acting with Emma, that’s beside the point.

If he went to dinner with Elsa three days ago and told her that he’s developed actual feelings for Emma over the past few days, that’s definitely beside the point.

And yet it is also every point on all of his lists written over and over again in permanent marker.

Every logical bone in his body told him not to let his little crush fester and develop into something more, but spending all of this time with her, watching her laugh at his jokes or hum along to their music while cleaning up after the shows has completely endeared her to him. It’s the oldest story in the world – a man falls for a woman – and yet he thinks this has the beginnings to be his favorite tale.

Tonight, though, is their final show, and since Kate and Ethan received the all clear from their doctors two days ago, he and Emma are very gladly stepping down from their roles to let their students close it out. A little bit of fate or good coincidence is playing out here, and when his ever-loyal small group of students tell him to go sit in the audience for once and watch, he listens.

If not with a bit of trepidation as it’s not like him not to be behind the curtains making sure everything goes just right.

“You want some popcorn?” Emma asks him when she plops down in the seat next to him, a red and white striped box in her hands, the smell of salt and butter invading his nostrils. “It’s really good. I’m sure it goes against your healthy eating lifestyle, but you should live a little.”

Killian reaches over to grab a handful, the butter greasy on his fingertips, before popping two pieces in his mouth. “So, you have noticed the way that I eat.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” She knocks her shoulder into his, and he knocks right back. “It’s going to be weird watching it from down here. I feel like I should be singing to you or gurgling mouthwash or something.”

“I knew you used mouthwash right before we kissed.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure that I could trust you despite me telling you to brush your teeth.”

“Minty and fresh,” he breathes, twisting his head so that he can get that little bit closer to Emma. “And maybe a little buttery now.”

“It’s a good thing you won’t be kissing me tonight then.”

His stomach twists at that, his heart dropping a little bit, and he knows that is shouldn’t. He’s an adult. He knows what happens up on that stage is all an act, literally, and his mind shouldn’t get confused by it. And while his mind likely isn’t confused by the lines that they say on stage, it’s confused by what happens off of it. It’s the lunches together and the way Emma comes into his office when they’re both staying late on non-play nights grading papers. Neither of them close their doors now, those wooden frames always staying open, and while she does still shout at him from across the hallway, very rarely is it cross words. Oftentimes it is simply Emma telling Killian to check his phone because she has sent him yet another meme about being a theater teacher.

Truly, it’s the smiles and small jokes and the way that her steps match up with his in the hallways, the echoes of their shoes blending together so that no one would know who exactly it is that’s walking down the corridors of the school.

It’s the subliminal changes, the ones that only he would notice, and while they are small, much like Emma, they are mighty.

“Yeah,” Killian mumbles a little dejected as he takes another bite of popcorn, “it is a good thing.”

Emma looks at him with parted lips like she’s about to speak, but before she can say anything, the squeak of the curtains opening sounds the beginning of the show.

Because Killian’s been acting in it and consumed with playing many roles both on and off stage, he hasn’t truly been able to appreciate the production. He hasn’t been able to appreciate the sets or the way that the kids easily change them between scenes. Now he’s able to notice that and precisely how much everyone has improved, how confident his students are under the lights and in front of the crowds. He’s always been a fan of pushing comfort zones, of helping his more shy students break out of them, but he also knows that it can’t be forced. Some people simply are not comfortable with that no matter how much time he gives, and that’s okay. They find their roles in other ways.

“Kate’s voice is beautiful,” Emma whispers in his ear, but he has a difficult time focusing on it for how her hand is curled around his forearm. She’s got soft hands, especially considering the callouses he knows should form from playing instruments all day. “Does she play any instruments? Why is she not in one of my music classes?”

“Don’t pilfer my students, Swan.”

Her fingers pinch around his skin, pulling at the hair, and Killian scrunches up his nose while he looks at her, their noses only two or three inches apart. “I wasn’t trying to, thank you very much. I was thinking maybe we could see if some of my students wanted to do a combination with yours. We could do live music with a play. Maybe not one that runs for four weeks, but at least a show.”

“Look at you coming around to me.”

“Yeah, well, like you said, we make quite the team.”

When the play is over, his students doing a bang-up job and giving a better performance than they ever would with he and Emma on stage, the audience rises for a standing ovation that has the grin on his face stretching from ear-to-ear. It looks the same to Emma. Kate and Ethan and the rest of their students insist that he and Emma stand on stage with them all, each of them very obviously going for dramatic effect, so he takes Emma’s hand and walks around the front aisle of the auditorium until they can walk up the side steps and have their thirty seconds of gratification and self-indulgence in doing a good job.

Killian doesn’t let go of Emma’s hand.

More importantly, Emma doesn’t let go of his.

She does eventually when they start cleaning up for the night, parents and students helping out as they all eat the pizza that Liam decided to donate for the night. Attached to the top box was a note telling Killian to stop being a coward and to ask Emma out, and thankfully, he snatched that piece of paper away quickly before stuffing it in his pocket. His older brother never does seem to stop finding ways to embarrass him while also being a good person.

Amazing how that works out.

Eventually the sets are put away yet not dismantled and every pizza but one has been devoured, so Killian grabs it and his car keys before walking out of the auditorium and down the hallway to the exit only to find Emma waiting for him. Or, at least, that’s what he thinks.

“So,” she starts, looking up from her phone to smile at him, the black dress she has on far too distracting, “you want to go get that glass of rum?”

“Swan, are you asking me out on a date?”

“I’m asking you to a bar.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking?”

Emma chuckles, shaking her head from side to side as she steps forward so that they’re eye-to-eye, her heels aiding that. “I knew you’d be old-fashioned, so I’ll tell you what, you can pay. And drive.”

“Why, love, you do flatter a man.”

-/-

“Wait, wait, wait,” Emma mumbles, her hand placed on his thigh, innocently and yet distracting all at once, “you were in the Navy in England? How the hell did you get here?”

They’ve been at the Rabbit Hole bar for two hours now, only one drink each somehow, and he swears that they haven’t stopped talking this entire time. Obviously, he’s gotten to know Emma better over the last month of him spending so much time with her, but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t her sharing stories of the time she spends with her friends or talking about how she knew Mary Margaret through Mary Margaret’s husband. It wasn’t her telling him that she got into music because the foster mom she had as a teenager was a music teacher and taught Emma to play several instruments. It wasn’t him getting to know her on a level more intimate than the pleasantries that all teachers share at school.

It wasn’t this.

And it definitely wasn’t Emma asking him about his life with more interest than she usually shows.

Or the casual touching that precedes flirting. It may have been awhile for him, but he does know flirting when he sees it. Emma Swan flirting with him makes his stomach twist and his heart pound.

“Eh,” he sighs, reaching up to scratch behind his ear out of nerves, “so I joined the Royal Navy at eighteen. It gave me money and purposed and an education. I’d always been interested in the theater as a kid, so I figured I’d study that and possibly become a teacher after I retired. I simply didn’t expect to retire so soon.”

“Well, why did you?”

The age-old question.

“A broken heart. I’d been dating someone, Milah, for a few years, and I bought a ring to propose to her. I did propose, actually, but she turned me down.” He chuckles the words bitterly with a forced smile on his face. “She’d slept with someone else and had hidden it from me, but I guess the ring made her unable to hide it anymore. So, yeah, that wasn’t great, and when my contract ended later that year, I looked into moving here to be with my brother and his wife, who is American. It was a hell of a lot of paperwork and interviews, but I like being here. It’s relaxing.”

The smile on Emma’s face is soft, apologetic, and he can tell that she wants to say that she’s sorry, to show him pity like everyone always does when he shares that story. It’s something he’s grown used to, but he doesn’t want Emma’s pity.

“I was engaged,” she blurts out instead, pulling her hand back from his thigh to grab her wine from the bar top and take a small sip. “Obviously, I’m not anymore, but I was, right before I started to work at Storybrooke. That’s why I transferred. That’s also why I may have been a bit of a bitch to you.”

“You?” he mock gasps. “You being a little rude to me? Never.”

“Shut up. I’m trying to apologize.”

“You’re not very good at it.”

“I will punch you.”

“So aggressive.”

“You like it,” she teases, flipping her hair over her shoulder so that his eyes are drawn to the dip of her clavicle before he looks back at her eyes.

“Perhaps I do,” he admits quietly, the sounds around him quieting for a moment as he begins to lean in, begins to get closer to Emma, but he stops himself halfway and pulls back. He’s not ruining this moment by making a brash decision. He won’t.

“Uh, um, anyways,” Emma stutters while blinking, her fingers tapping against the glass. She uncrosses her legs, and he nearly falls backward when her calf brushes against his. Smooth, Jones, smooth. “So, I was engaged to a guy that I worked with, had the ring on my finger and a wedding date booked, and one day I went to his classroom at lunch to ask him if he wanted to eat the rest of my pasta only to see him making out with the vice principal. Which obviously sucked a lot for me, personally, but also it was super inappropriate. Neal always insisted that we don’t show affection at work. No one even knew it was him I was engaged to, and I guess I didn’t realize why he was that way until I found out he was dating two women at one school, which really took him to a whole new level of shitty.”

“He sounds like a real bastard.”

“Yeah,” Emma laughs, a bitter smile on her face, “yeah he was, but it’s for the best, you know? I’m not glad that it happened, but I’m glad that I found out when I did. I can’t imagine having actually been married to him. So, when I met you and you were all charming and helpful as well as a fellow teacher, I was done with helpful and charming men and kind of took it out on you.”

“You find me charming then?”

“That’s what you got out of that?”

“I do so love a compliment.”

“Stop,” she chuckles, gently slapping his arm. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“Charming and weird are the two words I’d use to describe me, though. But, yeah, Swan, I’m glad you didn’t marry him. I’m glad I didn’t marry Milah. Things tend to work out for the best.” The small, shitty band that’s playing in the corner of the bar shifts tunes to a slower song, one he doesn’t recognize, and an idea pops into Killian’s mind. “So now that feelings have been shared,” he croons, standing up from the stool and holding out his hand toward Emma, “will you do me the honor of allowing me to have this dance?”

Emma arches her brow once more, something she might as well do as often as he does, but the quizzical look doesn’t match the grin on her face. “What if I don’t know how to dance?”

“Well, darling, I know for a fact that’s not true since we just danced in a high school play together for a month, but even if it was, luckily for you, you have a partner who knows what he’s doing. So, come on, let’s go.”

She hesitates, but it’s only for a moment before she’s placing her hand in his and rising from her stool, the two of them going to the half-empty dance floor. It’s more swaying than dancing with how close Emma is standing, one of her hands wrapped around his neck while the other is intertwined with his and resting on his chest. His free hand is on her hip, fingers itching to dip lower, but he doesn’t. He won’t.

Not yet.

Not until Emma steps more into his space, the curves of her body aligned with the lines of his, and he can feel the way her heart is beating in her chest. Or, really, that might simply be his.

“Emma,” he hesitantly whispers. Her lips are close enough to his that he can feel his mouth move over hers when he talks, but it’s not enough. He’s kissed her before, and that definitely wasn’t enough. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, she tilts her head up toward his and hesitantly brushes her lips over his, staying still until his mouth responds. In reality, her lips feel the same as they did every single time they had a moment like this on stage, but it’s different. It’s different in the way that she moves against him, in the way that she tugs on his bottom lip and on the way that he tugs on her upper one. It’s different in that there is no acting here, only honesty in the soft and gentle movements that have him sighing into her mouth.

It’s different in that this is truly Emma kissing him, and in the three years that he’s known her, he never could have imagined this. And if he did, reality is so much better.

When they pull back for air, he can feel the smile on Emma’s face as their foreheads press together, and he’s sure that she can feel the giant grin painted on his lips.

“You all good, Emma?”

“Yeah,” she laughs, kissing him again, “except it’s very weird for you to taste like rum instead of toothpaste.”

Killian barks out a laugh before moving his hands to cup her cheeks and smile down at her. “I like you, Emma Swan.”

“Funny thing, I like you too.”

Monday morning, Killian pulls into the parking lot with Emma in his passenger’s seat and her hand resting on his knee.

They never picked up her car on Friday night.

When they get engaged a year later, Belle wins the betting pool on when the two of them would get together. Apparently, both the faculty and students started it on Emma’s fourth day of work at Storybrooke High.

Talk about a modern-day fairytale.

[elareine]

You still look like a movie (DickWally, side JayTim)

When Gotham Academy offered him a position, Wally jumped at the chance. He’d trained as a teacher here, after all, and he thought the city could use all the help it could get.

The memories of grad school were a mixed bag, as these things tended to be. Living prices in Gotham had been low, still were, which had been what allowed Wally to truly break away from his father for the first time. He’d made his first best friend here and had his heart broken.

That had been ten years ago, though. When he arrived at school the week before the term started, Wally was determined to make new memories.

His hiring had been kinda last-minute, so he didn’t expect any arrangements to have been made for his first day. Apparently, the old teacher had been kidnapped by a clown-penguin or something? Gotham was so weird.

But there was a figure waiting for him at the gates. And he looked familiar.

Wally blinked. “Jason?”

Jason Todd grinned and ground out his cigarette. “Hi, Wally. I’m your welcome committee.”

So Dick’s delinquent little brother had grown up to become a teacher, too, huh? Who’d have thought? The students they met on the corridors clearly liked him, though, judging by the enthusiastic greetings they got. Jason was kinda doing a half-assed job of showing him around, though, soon abandoning it entirely to drag Wally into one of the classrooms.

A pale, dark-haired young man gave Jason a wave, then smiled politely at Wally. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met.”

Wally was about to introduce himself, but Jason intervened. “Wally, this is Tim Drake. He teaches CS and, occasionally, Math. Tim, this Wally, our new Chemistry teacher.”

“West?” Tim asked, peering at Wally’s face. “Wait, are you that Wally?”

“Uhm.” Wally didn’t know how to answer that question.

Luckily, Jason seemed to know exactly what Tim was talking about. “Yes. Yes, he is.”

Wally watched in confusion as Tim’s smile suddenly turned a lot more genuine. “Welcome to Gotham Academy, then, Wally. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Wally was just going to ignore that. “Thanks. Good to be here. You another brother?” Wally had always bet Dick that Bruce Wayne’s adoptions wouldn’t stop at two. That man screamed ‘father energy’ as loudly as ‘will not be in a stable long-term relationship.’ Of course, he’d adopt.

“Sort of.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Definitely. You know that if we’d divorce, Bruce would sign the papers in a heartbeat.”

“I’m a grown man.”

“You think that’ll stop him?”

Oh. Okay, then.

One of the reasons Wally had been so eager to leave his old school had been the constantly-reinforced need to stay in the closet. And here he was and the first two dudes he met were married to each other.

“Anyway,” Tim pointedly turned back to Wally, “Dick will be so happy to see you.”

Would he, though? And more importantly - “Does he teach here?”

“Does he ever.”

“Jason’s just here on loan,” Tim explained. “He usually teaches at the other end of town. Dick’s the one that roped him into this.”

“That’s cool. That you’re doing that, I mean; in my old school people always refused to help out even when we didn’t have an English teacher for six months—”

“Right,” Jason said. “Let’s get going.”

This was good, Wally thought as he followed Jason through even more corridors. He’d get to see Dick again, but he’d have time to prepare for it. Once he sorted through the mix of dread and joy rushing through him at the prospect, he’d be fine. Great, even. Totally cool.

They turned a corner, and Jason called out: “Yo, Dick, check out who just joined our school!”

Dick Grayson turned around to where he’d been talking to one of the administrators, and. Uh.

Wow.

Dick, as a teenager, had been short and wiry. As a young man, he’d been the epitome of an athlete, lean and with a flexibility that had caused Wally some sleepless nights.

As a man in his thirties, he was a total fucking knockout, Jesus. Where had that jawline come from?? Wally hadn’t acquired anything like that. It was unfair!

“Wall-Man!”

“Robin!” Wally called back, unable to resist that smile or the hug Dick immediately drew him into.

“I haven’t seen you in ages!” Dick grinned. “Awesome to have you here, Walls.”

See, that was the thing about Dick. He might be one of the weirdest people Wally knew, thanks to his family, but also the nicest. He’d even pretend it hadn’t been Wally’s massive, creepy crush on him that had caused him to flee to the other side of the planet.

“Yeah, well, last thing I heard, you were in China. What in God’s name possessed you to come back here?”

Dick shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “I dunno, man, it always comes back to this, doesn’t it?”

Considering the situation, he and Dick in a hallway in Gotham, Wally had to agree. “I guess.”

When the silence stretched on a bit too long, Dick finally looked away from Wally. “Hey, Jason, if you want, I can take over the tour—”

Jason had already left.

It was incredible how easy it was to fall back into old patterns with Dick. Two months in and Wally was as regularly a guest in Dick’s office as Dick was at Wally’s apartment after work, which is to say, almost every day, including today.

“Do you need anything else?” he heard Dick say. The group of students shook their heads, so Wally had no qualms about walking in.

“Walls, hey,” Dick smiled when he saw him. “Lemme just finish that form, and I’m all yours.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Wally was dying to tell Dick about the shit John from 4a had tried to pull away, but it would need to wait until the group of students that was still lingering outside had moved out of earshot.

“See, I told you he’d be taken,” he heard one of them say. “Guys like that don’t reach their thirties single. He’s certainly not interested in you.”

“Oh, shut up!”

“Don’t be sad,” a third voice interjected helpfully. “Mr Grayson is like the hottest teacher around. No shame in losing out.”

Wally would very much like to tell them how much he resented the implication he would go for a teenage girl if Dick were slightly less hot.

Wait, what was he thinking?

Wally glanced at Dick. He was still focused on his paperwork and hadn’t heard anything.

Good. Last thing Wally needed was for his stupid crush to fuck things up between them again.

“So that’s happening again, huh?”

“...why are you crowding me into a wall?” Wally asked curiously. It was quite impressive, really, the way Jason towered over him despite not being that much taller. If Wally weren’t so sure he could outrun Jason, he would even feel slightly intimidated.

Jason backed off a bit, still glowering. “Just be glad it’s me and not the munchkin parade. Damian was all for locking you two into an attic at swordpoint.” He pointed his thumb vaguely into the direction of Dick’s office. “I’ve heard the students discuss running interference, Wally. This has to stop.”

Wally sighed. Trust the Waynes to have figured him out. “Am I that obvious?”

“Not obvious enough, apparently.” Jason snorted. “Do us all a favor and actually kiss him this time. He’s a dumbass who thinks this has always been one-sided.”

“Well, yeah.” Wally’s brain decided to skip right over ‘kiss him,’ because what. “It has, I’m just being stupid; I know Dick isn’t interested in me that way, but it’s so nice to have him back, he’s my best friend and I missed him so much, that’s more important than being in love with him.”

“I think that you need to kiss him,” Jason said again, more loudly, and why was he speaking so loudly, almost as if he wanted someone else than Wally to hear it—

Wally turned.

Dick was gaping at him. There wasn’t a better word for it. Even he couldn’t make that level of ‘wtf’ look attractive.

Of course, he’d heard all of that. Wally wanted to sink into the ground. “You, uh. Maybe wanna talk about that?”

“Yeah,” Dick nodded. “Yeah, I think we should.” He made toward his office but abruptly turned back before he’d finished the movement. “No, actually, we should follow Jason’s advice.”

Wally heard grumbling behind him. “I’ve been saying.” He’d tear Jason a new one for this, he swore, right after he found out what Dick meant by that.

And then he did find out and forgot all about Jason Todd, because Dick was—rather predictably, but still incomprehensibly to Wally—kissing him, and that was more important than anything else.

The first few years after Dick had left, Wally had idly fantasized about this. In his mind, there had been elaborate love confessions that displayed a degree of coherency neither of them ever possessed in real life; kisses in the rain, maybe, or at an airport; Dick somehow swooping in and rescuing Wally from what his life had become.

Later, when he’d started getting his shit together, the phantasies turned more mundane. What it would be like to have Dick with him again. How Dick would laugh at Wally’s impression of his annoying boss; whether he’d get along with Wally’s new friends; what Dick’s opinion on fidget toys might be.

And yes, how it would feel to be kissing him the corridor for the entire world to see. That, too.

The answer?

Even better than Wally could’ve ever imagined.

[delia-pavorum]

#38 + university enemies turned lovers AU please!

Prompt #38 AKA “You want to explain the drunk voicemail you left me last night?” They weren’t exactly enemies and they don’t quite reach lovers, but—well, just read it. 

Enjoy!

The buzzing woke her up.

It was incessant, like a mosquito flying around her ear. Or drilling into her brain.

With an audible groan, Rey threw her arm out towards her bedside table, hitting a (luckily empty) glass of water, her eight-dollar IKEA lamp, and a small dish of loose change, before grasping the instrument of torture that had awoken her from what she assumed was only her third hour of sleep. Glancing at the time as she clicked her screen, she confirmed that this was, indeed, the case.

Groaning again, she blearily focused on the message preview that assaulted her senses as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of her dorm room. In her periphery, she could see Rose shifting in her bed, before letting out a soft snore and continuing her slumber. Lucky bitch.

You want to explain the drunk voicemail you left me last night?

Rey did a double take and peered more closely at the message before glancing up at the name.

Ben History.

Ben? History? Ben Hist— Fucking TA BEN?

“Oh, my godddd.” Her third groan of the morning turned into a long, drawn-out, verbalized moan as she died a little inside.

Fucking TA Ben.

Professor Snoke’s assistant from her Russian History elective last semester and - she was convinced - the reason she passed that course. Though, admittedly, it wasn’t as if he had outwardly shown any sort of inclination or preference towards her in any way.

Not in tutorial, when he looked down his nose at whatever question she asked and answered with a barely stifled sigh preceding any dialogue.

Not in class, and particularly not when Professor Snoke had reamed her out in front of the entire lecture hall for falling asleep with her head in her hand (thank you job number two, the night shift at the university pub) and he had just sat there in the corner, barely adjusting his glasses as he read over papers.

And not outside of class, where she never saw him. Ever.

No, it was a fact. Mr. Solo AKA Ben History AKA TA Ben was a dick. For all intents and purposes, he had never for even a second belied anything less than purely professional - and for the most part barely cursory - interest in her.

Except for her papers.

Ben Solo was a notoriously hard marker. Rose and Finn had devised the idea of taking Russian History, instead of the more popular Sociology courses, the previous year (yeah, Rey was late on the uptake with her humanities electives, what of it) and had subsequently bitched about TA and professor both; but Rey, always up for a challenge (some may call it pigheaded, willfully ignorant, inability to learn from her mistakes or the mistakes of others—) decided to give it a shot, too. Just to prove she could.

Ha.

Twenty-page research papers on the rise of Moscow, the destruction of the Soviet Union, the Cold War. End notes, works cited, bloody footnotes to her footnotes. It had been pure torture. But she had worked her ass off on each and every one and, in the end, had reaped the benefits.

Er, somewhat. While her peers were receiving grades of Cs and lower, she was coming out with Bs and the occasional B+. The comments were standard, mostly critical: arguments she could have improved on, syntax issues, exclusion of the Oxford comma (who bloody cared about the Oxford fucking comma), and so on. But then, in the end, the same line every time, scrawled in a haphazard cursive, the letters flowing together in a pleasingly desultory way:

A pleasure to read.

Those four words did something to her. She, who could count the kind words she’d received in her lifetime on her fingers and toes with socks on, who had always been the kid that nobody expected much of, who had always - at most - gotten a blinking, surprised: “Oh. Well done.” when she had accomplished anything in an above-average way, had felt a little sparkle of pleasure every time she got the bottom of the last page and saw that line.

And, since her childhood abandonment issues all but guaranteed a fucked up, overcompensatory response to anyone who showed her even a modicum of attention or kindness, she had obviously developed a monster crush.

In short, Ben Solo had ended up being the one good part of a shitty class. He marked her fairly and, as a bonus, was nice to look at and listen to and imagine all the filthy things she’d like to—

Oh god. Oh god. What had the voicemail said?

With shaky hands, she opened up the message and read it over again five times.

Drunk voicemail. Drunk voicemail.

Why couldn’t she remember calling him? All TAs had their phone numbers at the top of the syllabus along with their email address and office hours, but as far as she knew, nobody had actually called one. At the beginning of the semester, around the time she had gotten her first paper back from him, she had plugged the number into her phone - just in case - giving him the surname History to denote her association with him (the same way fellow contacts were Rose Roomie, BFFinn, and The Douchebag, a friend-by-association that Finn had recently become infatuated with).

As to why she couldn’t remember calling him—

The answer, if her pounding head wasn’t enough evidence, manifested further as Rose loudly snored again and rolled over, smacking her lips together and mumbling to herself.

They had gotten wasted last night. End of semester finals plus “We’re losing Finn to Poe” blues plus impromptu Girls’ Night plus plus plus, and she had ended up puking in the garbage cans outside their building while Rose cheered her from behind like garbage can puking was an Olympic event and Rey was on her way to a gold medal. (Which, for the record, she would have won).

She must have made the call at some point during the later part of the evening, but before the vomiting, when she was already three Jagerbombs deep, plus countless tequila shots and some whipped cream monstrosity called a blow job or a muff dive or some other, equally vulgar and heinous name–

Practically frozen in terror, she scrolled through her recent calls.

Fuuuuuck.

Sure enough, right at the top. Ben History. Three- no four times dear god. At 3:06, 3:07, 3:10, and 3:22 (ah, yes, Rey, a twelve-minute gap. Make him work for it, as they say.)

Did she leave four voicemails? Just the one? Somewhere in between? What did they say? What did they say?

“Kill me,” she prayed to the ceiling. “Please. Just do it. Kill me now so I don’t have to deal with this, ever, in my godforsaken life.”

I’ll do you one better, God responded, probably, because instead of being struck by lighting, a call came through.

Ben History.

She laughed mirthlessly up at the ceiling - still maintaining your track record with me, eh ol’ boy. Glad some things don’t change - before scowling as she looked down at the name on her buzzing phone. Might as well get this shit over with.

She rushed out into the hallway to answer so she wouldn’t wake-up Rose. The corridor was completely empty - it was only just past seven A.M. after all and it’s not as if her and Rose were the only college students on campus who had the bright idea of drinking to celebrate the end of Finals - and Rey answered as she continued to walk through the dead hallway and out the door.

“Hi,” she said, mournfully. Too late for pretences now, anyway.

“Oh.” The responding deep voice sent an inadvertent shiver through her body. “I actually wasn’t expecting you to be awake.”

“Yeah.” Rey stepped out into the cool, misty April morning air, briefly regretting her decision to not grab a sweater as goosebumps rose up on her bare arms and legs. “Your, er, text woke me up.” The panic and humiliation spiral immediately afterwards also helped shake off the remnants of sleep. I may never sleep again, in fact.

“Right. Well, I thought you’d want to know—”

“Listen,” Rey cut him off, partially for fear of whatever he had to say and partially to say her own piece before he could verbally eviscerate her and/or threaten her scholarship and the progression of her degree or whatever else happened to errant, drunken students who called their former TAs and left explicit voicemails. “I’m sorry I called you and said all that shit, I was completely wasted. I know it was wildly inappropriate. And it’s not like—” Fuck, what are some of the insane things I probably said? “—I mean, you’re obviously very attractive and tall and built and I mean, yeah, you’ve got unbelievably good shoulders and I’m sure I brought up the fantasy of you carrying me in your arms shirtless, but the truth is—”

“Rey.”

Her name out of his mouth brought her up short. In tutorial she had been—what, Ms. Johnson? Or usually just nothing. A nod or “yes, you” in the general vicinity of where she was sitting. He knew her name?

“You know my name?” Smooth.

An abbreviated sigh. Ah, yes. If there were ever any doubt as to who was on the other end of the line, this telltale moderation of his annoyance eliminated it completely.

“I know your name,” he confirmed. “And the voicemail you left me didn’t say anything about my—“ A pause. “—shoulders.” Another pause. Rey’s skin began to get that prickly feeling that usually preceded the wash of utter mortification coursing through one’s body. “In fact, you barely said anything at all. After I picked up my phone the fourth time it started ringing at three A.M.—” Ah, yes, hello humiliation, my old friend, she thought at the liquid heat spreading through her limbs, “—at first all I could hear was indecipherable yelling and then someone loudly singing the chorus of ‘Living on a Prayer’.”

“Oh, god.” Her horror manifested in the loudest groan conceivable at this revelation. Pieces of the night were starting to filter in now, penetrating the haze of her hangover- and humiliation-induced migraine.

“I almost hung up, but then you came on the line. Initially I couldn’t understand you, but then you said something about me being the bright spot to a shitty class and how you loved being my pleasure—”

Rey hiccuped in despair. Why couldn’t she have just talked about his shoulders?

“—Which I didn’t quite understand. But then you said—” He paused again, almost as though he needed to gather his thoughts, and Rey held her breath at the infinite possibilities of self-inflicted degradation that were to come, “—you moved to a quieter area and you said thank you to me for making you feel worthy. You said it felt nice to know that your efforts weren’t for nothing.”

Cool. Cool cool cool. They still had engineering programs in Siberia, right? She wondered if her scholarship was transferable. Fuck it. I’ll just move to Florida. Maybe a crocodile will eat me.

Grasping at straws, Rey responded, “You know, I actually don’t remember any of that. I think maybe I didn’t call you at all. Maybe it was my friend Rose playing a prank or—”

He cut her off: “At the end you said ‘by the way, this is Rey Johnson.” Fuck. “And, regardless, I recognized your voice.”

Hey, now. He did?

“You did?” Uggghh.

Silence.

“Okay, er,” Rey began as the silence stretched out to unbearable lengths, “well. It is true that I liked your comments - your final comment, always - on my papers. It is also true that I like your shoulders. I’m not sure who told you anything about carrying me shirtless—”

“You said that.”

“Regardless of how these rumours get spread,” she continued through gritted teeth, “I sincerely apologize for calling you at such an obscene time, er, repeatedly, and also for assaulting your ears with Bon Jovi and the drunken ramblings of a psychologically-damaged pseudo-adult—”

“I liked your papers, Rey,” Ben interrupted and, for the first time, he sounded a bit - thawed. Unsure. Not warm, exactly, but not really holding back either. “You were the only one who got that comment at the end and I meant it. That course is—I mean, it’s two hundred-level, but with no prerequisite and we get a lot - a lot - of students who just couldn’t give a shit. And I know History isn’t your program and that you probably just took it to fill an elective, but I—” A pause and an inhale. Then: “I’m glad you did.”

Rey thankfully stopped herself just short of responding “You are?” and instead, a little breathlessly, answered: “Me, too.”

“Your efforts weren’t for nothing,” he added, quietly. “Not to me.”

“Oh, Ben.” It was the first time she had said his name out loud and she heard his breath catch slightly.

“Where are you right now?” he asked, his voice a touch hoarse.

“Uhh…” She looked around at the outside of her building, noting ruefully the garbage can that likely still held her vomit. “I’m just outside my dorm. In my pajamas.” She involuntarily shivered as she once again became aware of the damp coolness of the morning air, now that the steam of mortification had waned a bit.

He clucked lightly under his breath, mother-henning ever so slightly, and the warmth came back. “It’s cool out, you should get dressed. And then maybe—” He broke off.

“And then maybe what?” she breathed, feeling her cheeks flush.

“Well, you’re still a student, but I’m not your TA anymore and technically I’m a student, too, although I’m much - like a lot - older, but maybe—”

“But maybe what?” she urged, unable to stop the smile from splitting her face.

“Maybe we can grab a coffee or something?” he finished in a rush. “We don’t have to talk about Russian History.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Rey deadpanned.

Ben huffed out a laugh. “In fact, let’s talk about anything but Russia.”

“Or Bon Jovi,” Rey added, chagrined.

“Or my shoulders.”

“Hey, now,” Rey protested. “Let’s not be too hasty.” He let out a genuine laugh and she couldn’t help but laugh in return.

“So.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “What do you say? Is it a date?”

“Oh, Mr. Solo.” She grinned back at him, hoped he could hear it, too, loud and clear. “It would be my pleasure.”

now what? –> see all my prompt fills | fic master post | ask me anything

[magic-and-moonlit-wings]

Chapter 32: Almost Interrogation

Becoming The Mask

@archaeopter-ace, @eurydykakaput, and @tunafishprincess helped out with this chapter - thanks, all!

Barbara arrived at the bistro first. She was tempted by the stew, but opted for the fish and chips. Those would be less likely to stain the seat of her car if the container tipped. She perched on one of the benches that sat on either side of the hostess stand while she waited.

Walter didn't keep her waiting for long. He greeted her scarcely a beat after a waitress offered Barbara coffee.

The waitress looked uncertainly between Walter and Barbara. She kept her arm, carrying the pot of coffee, between the standing man and the seated woman, ever so casually. She seemed ready to politely but firmly direct Walter to a table, or the opposite bench, before Barbara greeted him and gestured for him to sit down.

Barbara made a mental note to come back to this place, and to try to get that waitress so she could leave her a good tip. She'd had men ask to join her while attempting to dine alone in the past, and the waitstaff didn't always notice he might be unwelcome, leaving it to Barbara to try and get out of an awkward situation when she was supposed to be relaxing. It happened less often, since college, but still once in a while.

"Under other circumstances, I might suggest wine," said Walter. "This place has a higher-quality selection than its casual décor might suggest. But I suspect we'd both prefer to keep our wits about us."

"Also, it's barely noon."

The waitress poured a mug for each of them, and Walter also asked for fish and chips.

"To go?" He glanced at Barbara as he said it, and she nodded. "Yes, to go."

Barbara got out a small book. "I've been writing down my questions. I didn't want to forget any. I'm sure I'll come up with more as we talk."

"The park offers some privacy, if you'd like to stay in public spaces."

"I was actually thinking of my house."

Walter looked startled. She supposed it looked odd, inviting a Changeling in practically right after throwing another one out. Barbara had debated a few places, after Walter agreed to meet with her, and decided she wanted to stay on her home turf.

As long as neither was the one preparing food or drink, nobody should come out of this poisoned or drugged.

There was a half-formed joke in her mind about her cooking and poison and the usefulness of poison in interrogation. Barbara didn't trust her ability to deliver it as wittily as her imagination did, since she could only catch the concept rather than the exact words.

"Why him?"

That was the first, most urgent question. It ripped out of her while they were still in the driveway, in a snarled hiss.

"Why Jay-Jay? Out of all the babies in the world, all the babies in this town, why mine?"

"I don't know." Walter had the gall to keep his expression neutral; no fear; no apology. "There are parameters, but there's a certain degree of randomness as well, to avoid predictable patterns."

"That's not an answer."

None of her neighbours were in sight. That was probably the only reason he elaborated while outside.

"The switches are generally done with affluent families, initially to increase the odds of surviving childhood in times when infant mortality was high. I believe most in this country in the past two centuries have been white or white-passing, to facilitate later assertion of social dominance in this political climate. It's also possible you or your husband had an influential friend, who believed they were doing you a favour by keeping your child out of harm's way."

"Out of – Jim said – What exactly happens to them?" Being stuck in a dimension with human-eating trolls sounded very much like Jay-Jay was in harm's way, to Barbara.

Barbara opened the front door sharply and Walter, when she gestured sharply at him, preceded her into the house.

"It's a complex process. There are several steps."

Barbara tugged the door shut but didn't lock it.

"The first is – well, technically the first is the creation of the Changeling. The Familiar comes later. Once selected – usually by the goblins, though as I've said, it's not unheard of for a Changeling to request that a friend's infant relative be taken – the Changeling is brought out of the Darklands and the bonding ritual occurs."

Walter sat at the dining room table. Barbara took her food with her into the kitchen while she got cutlery for both of them. Walter projected his voice a touch louder so she could still hear him clearly.

"This usually happens in the infant's room, so the new Familiar can be taken back to the Darklands right away, lessening the window of time in which a caregiver might discover an empty cradle."

"What happens if they're caught?" She sat across from Walter and passed him a knife and fork.

"Hopefully, as caretakers to an infant, the human is sufficiently sleep-deprived they can be convinced they were dreaming. Goblins are adept at chaos magic, including illusions."

Barbara had new questions now. She dug out her notepad and scribbled –goblin illusions? so she would remember it later.

"In any case, the Age Pause is transferred from the Changeling to the Familiar, and the Changeling's glamour is tied to this particular human. Should any harm befall the Familiar, the glamour will fail and the Changeling will be forcibly reverted back to troll form. The spell is anchored when the Familiar is brought into the Darklands. Taking the Familiar out of the Darklands will also deprive the Changeling of their human form."

Barbara scribbled faster, resorting to crude shorthand for some words.

–age pause? –what if C is Drklnd & F is 'real world'? –is 1C:1F or many Cs:1F?

"What happens to the Familiars if they get back to the real world?"

"Surface," Walter corrected her.

"Do they … start aging again, or rapidly age though all the years they missed, or are they still stuck?"

If she got Jay-Jay back, would he be a permanent baby; or perhaps an infant in an adolescent body?

That sounds like my first boyfriend. No, Barbara, focus.

"So far as I know, the Age Pause has to be removed from an individual for them to begin aging again. Although Changeling aging is distorted in any case."

Barbara skipped ahead a few questions.

"What do you mean, distorted? How old are you? How old is Jim? And, what does that mean in human terms?"

Walt ate a chip and folded his hands. He chewed thoughtfully.

"When Changelings become Changelings," he said once he'd swallowed, "our aging is magically halted. We do age mentally, still, but not physically. We're at the, I would say, equivalent of early toddler-hood in most cases, at this time."

Barbara inhaled sharply. She'd been cutting her fish – her knife made an odd squeak, grating suddenly on the Styrofoam box.

"When we get Familiars, we age at a human rate until the body is fully mature – sometime between twenty and thirty years – and then finally go back to aging like trolls. I believe a one-to-fifteen year ratio is accurate, but my dealings with … non-Changeling trolls, is considerably less extensive than my dealings with humans."

Walt ate another chip.

"I would estimate my age to be between seven and eight hundred – the equivalent, as my human appearance also matches, of being in my early fifties. I was one of the first successful Changelings."

He held his head up a bit higher when he said that. Barbara could hear pride in his voice over the ringing in her ears at the implications of how old Jim might be.

"Jim is considerably younger. He was one of the last Changelings created before – well. He can't be younger than four hundred and I doubt he's four-fifty yet, so I'd say the human equivalent would be the mid to late twenties."

Okay. That … that wasn't as bad as it could've been.

God, she was grateful they'd bottle-fed him, though.

She'd been a new medical student, and between school and a baby the stress had her barely producing milk, and she'd had to pump to be sure he'd have any real breastmilk and they'd had to use formula as well to make sure he'd get enough to eat.

It had been yet another source of guilt and stress at the time, to not be nursing her baby, but now it was one less thing to feel awkward about after learning he wasn't really a baby.

"Jumping back a bit in topic," she said, "what happens to the Familiars in the Darklands?"

"The goblins attend their personal needs. Feeding, diapering, guarding, comforting …" He shrugged. "I know very little of what they do, but I do know that the children are cuddled and played with as well as fed and cleaned."

"That mirror trick?"

"Catoptromancy. Also known as captromancy or enoptromancy." Walter grimaced. "Although I believe some of my brethren have taken to calling it the 'spit-check'."

Brethren. That word, in this context, made Barbara uneasy.

"How many of you are there?"

"Several hundred." His expression closed off. "I obviously can't give you exact numbers, nor confirm or deny any Changelings' identities save those you've met as Changelings."

Well, so much for asking Walter if Tobias Domzalski was a Changeling, then. She'd have to ask Jim instead.

"And what are you … Changelings, I mean, as a whole … Jim said you're spies, but what is it you're trying to do?"

Walter ate some fish. Barbara started her chips. After a half minute of silence, she thought he might refuse to answer her.

"That's … complicated."

"So uncomplicate it. If Changelings could have, hypothetically, anything in the world, but only if they all agreed on one thing to wish for –"

"Respect."

"… That doesn't sound that complicated."

"Oh, but it is. There's a great deal you've yet to learn about troll politics, Barbara. The issue of whether humans count as food is only a fraction of it."

At least he was saying it like she was inexperienced in the subject but could learn, not like she was stupid for not knowing already. He was probably a good teacher, part of Barbara thought.

"To partially answer the initial question, we're raised to follow and obey Gunmar. Many still serve him. Other have … gone native among humans, or become disillusioned with promises of power from one who cannot be bothered to extend even basic courtesy."

She nodded. "Charismatic leader, cultish structure, with a few starting to see other options and break loose?"

"… In summary, yes. I, personally, am in something of a position of leadership – I mentioned my, ah, seniority – and I hope to recruit my fellow Changelings in turning against Gunmar entirely. With the Trollhunter on our side, it's possible we won't simply be butchered by every other troll tribe the minute we're away from the Gumm-Gumms' protection."

"How can they be protecting you? They're in another dimension."

"Metaphorical protection. Strength and intimidation. Our current and greatest protection is, of course, our stealth."

That reminded Barbara of another of the questions she'd written down.

"I noticed Jim and Zelda had longer legs, proportionally, than those other three trolls. Is that normal, for Changelings? Do you have human traits that stay even when you're … troll-shaped?"

Walter chuckled. "No, that's a matter of troll race. The three of us happen to come from long-legged tribes."

Barbara still hadn't seen Walt's troll form. She tried to imagine it and nothing came to mind, save for a vague image cobbled together from Jim and Nomura and those other three trolls. Was he blue, maybe? Three of the five trolls she's seen so far had been blue.

"The only human feature – well, some have their hair or eye colour change when bound to their Familiars, or grow an extra finger on each hand, and we usually have a bit more appreciation for human foods in our stone skins than Jim tells me most trolls do – but the only universal human feature Changelings keep in our troll forms is that sunlight does not harm us. Which is, itself, debatable as a human feature, as we have it before we're assigned Familiars."

"What about as humans; do you still have troll features?"

Walter waved vaguely. "There's often a passing resemblance between the two forms, but considering the degree to which one's appearance is influenced by wardrobe and hair style, it could be induced rather than innate. An appetite for more trollish food, which can be passed off as pica, if caught."

Barbara suddenly and vividly remembered Jim, six years old and eating eggshells, and his offer to crush them and cook them into his omelette after she warned him of salmonella.

"Some have heightened senses or a hint of their true strength, but that varies a great deal and might just indicate some quirk of their Familiar's physiology."

To Barbara's shock, his eyes glowed yellow, his irises turning red.

"Again, our universal traits are debated – some, but not all, trolls have the ability to make their eyes glow."

"How can you see like that? With the light source in your eye, you should be blinding yourself."

"… Magic?"

"That's not an explanation!"

"I'm sorry, Dr Lake, but not being a physician myself, I've only a limited knowledge of my own anatomy. And as magic is real –"

… That's right, it was, wasn't it? Amazing how that detail, of all things, could ever slip Barbara's mind …

"– and trolls are an innately magical species, and Changelings are further enhanced with magic, I stand by my statement. Magic allows our physics-defying eyes to function, just as it allows our physics- and biology-defying transformations to occur."

"How deep does that go? You – you said something about goblins and illusions, earlier, is that what this is?" gesturing at him. "A … a shell? If you went through surgery, would we hit troll parts if we went deep enough?"

Walter shifted in his seat, now looking uncomfortable. "As far as I know, the transformation runs all the way through, save for the magic itself, which is not yet detectible by human medical instruments."

"So, a blood test would show you're human if you took one like this?"

"As far as I know, the majority of tests would indicate us to be members of your species. The only failure would be genetic compatibility, but that's because we've been sterilized, not because our shapeshifting is inadequate."

Barbara's brain fizzled. That had, ah, not been a question it occurred to her to ask. Walter's expression went from discomfort back to thoughtfulness.

"Although I suppose it could also be because the anchors of our human forms are sexually immature, and the sterilization only applies to our troll forms. Injuries and new scars carry over, but scars that we had before being tied to our Familiars do not, so why would an induced sterility remain if our bodies are completely reforming?"

He shook his head.

"It's irrelevant, in any case. Contraceptive use is strongly encouraged. An unplanned pregnancy would be the least convenient way to discover what we've been told was … incorrect."

"On a completely different note," Barbara looked frantically at her list, "what happens if a Changeling goes back to the Darklands and their Familiar is on the surface? Can they transform as long as they're in different dimension?"

Walter looked startled. He carefully gathered his utensils and cut a piece of fish.

"I don't know." He chewed a moment. "I suppose it's possible, but it's never been tested."

"What about – multiple Changelings with the same Familiar?"

"That one was tested once. A pair of Changelings, either under cover as a married couple or truly married, I don't recall; it doesn't truly matter; they took in an abandoned human infant, intending to turn it over to the goblins and bring another Changeling out of the Darklands."

Barbara wasn't sure how she felt about that. On the one hand, an abandoned child would be given a home and care; on the other, they'd never actually grow up, just be stuck in a crib in a cave forever.

"As they were moving between towns in any case, they tried to bring out two new Changelings to pass off as twins. The bond was unstable and only one of the new Changelings could be disguised at a time, so the experiment was deemed a failure."

"Does it work the other way around? Can one Changeling have more than one Familiar?" Creating multiple disguises that way would be smart, if cruel.

"One of the 'twins' later volunteered to test exactly that, in hopes of a stable human form at last. Attempting to forge that bond created magical backlash such that the Changeling died."

Tears welled up in Barbara's eyes, imagining hearing an explosion in Jay-Jay's room and running in to find –

"There was another volunteer at a later time," Walter continued, "hypothesizing the backlash was because the 'twin' had an unstable bond already, but the same results occurred. The human babies," finally seeing Barbara's dismay, "were fine, likely because they didn't already have mass quantities of magic coursing through them."

"Do you have to use Familiars? You said goblins can cast illusions; if you're already immune to sunlight, can't you just use those to look human?"

"Not stably or long-term."

Barbara had to gulp to force down the bile rising in her throat when she reached one of the most urgent questions on her list.

"… What happens … to the baby … if the Changeling … dies?"

"Nothing."

She didn't believe him.

"Goblins are immensely protective of those they consider their own. If a Changeling's death brought direct harm to our Familiars, the goblins would have made their displeasure known."

… She might believe that he believed that.

"And after … everything, that happened last week … what's going to happen to Jim?"

Walter folded his hands.

"That depends on a variety of factors. His actions, Trollmarket's actions, my own, other Changelings', yours … My personal ideal would be that he inspires our people to set Gunmar aside and carve out our own place in the world, unbeholden to anyone else, and that his position as Trollhunter gives him enough clout with other tribes that we are at least left to our own devices while establishing that place, rather than attacked at every turn."

Hidden in the basement, listening at the pipe, Draal snorted at the Changeling's optimism.

Previous Chapter (Mostly Changeling politics)

Table of Contents 

Next Chapter (Jim and Nomura)

You'll notice Walt left some things out of his explanation, such as Morgana, or polymorphs. 

I seriously debated whether this chapter should be from his point of view, to note all the things he's carefully not saying, but ... well, unless it's one of my own headcanons (which will be expanded on elsewhere in the fic anyways), there wouldn’t be much if any new information for the audience in his inner monologue. Barbara’s reactions felt like they would be more interesting to explore.

[dio-theshitpost-brando]

Glitch!Dio: Oh my fucking god. Glitch!Dio: Why. I don’t want the Bee Movie Script take it somewhere else. Glitch!Dio:  ALSO WHY ARE ALL THE CAPITAL Cs TURNED INTO CAPITAL Os.

According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway because bees don't care what humans think is impossible. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Ooh, black and yellow! Let's shake it up a little. Barry! Breakfast is ready! Ooming! Hang on a second. Hello? - Barry? - Adam? - Oan you believe this is happening? - I can't. I'll pick you up. Looking sharp. Use the stairs. Your father paid good money for those. Sorry. I'm excited. Here's the graduate. We're very proud of you, son. A perfect report card, all B's. Very proud. Ma! I got a thing going here. - You got lint on your fuzz. - Ow! That's me! - Wave to us! We'll be in row 118,000. - Bye! Barry, I told you, stop flying in the house! - Hey, Adam. - Hey, Barry. - Is that fuzz gel? - A little. Special day, graduation. Never thought I'd make it. Three days grade school, three days high school. Those were awkward. Three days college. I'm glad I took a day and hitchhiked around the hive. You did come back different. - Hi, Barry. - Artie, growing a mustache? Looks good. - Hear about Frankie? - Yeah. - You going to the funeral? - No, I'm not going. Everybody knows, sting someone, you die. Don't waste it on a squirrel. Such a hothead. I guess he could have just gotten out of the way. I love this incorporating an amusement park into our day. That's why we don't need vacations. Boy, quite a bit of pomp... under the circumstances. - Well, Adam, today we are men. - We are! - Bee-men. - Amen! Hallelujah! Students, faculty, distinguished bees, please welcome Dean Buzzwell. Welcome, New Hive Oity graduating class of... ...9:15. That concludes our ceremonies. And begins your career at Honex Industries! Will we pick ourjob today? I heard it's just orientation. Heads up! Here we go. Keep your hands and antennas inside the tram at all times. - Wonder what it'll be like? - A little scary. Welcome to Honex, a division of Honesco and a part of the Hexagon Group. This is it! Wow. Wow. We know that you, as a bee, have worked your whole life to get to the point where you can work for your whole life. Honey begins when our valiant Pollen Jocks bring the nectar to the hive. Our top-secret formula is automatically color-corrected, scent-adjusted and bubble-contoured into this soothing sweet syrup with its distinctive golden glow you know as... Honey! - That girl was hot. - She's my cousin! - She is? - Yes, we're all cousins. - Right. You're right. - At Honex, we constantly strive to improve every aspect of bee existence. These bees are stress-testing a new helmet technology. - What do you think he makes? - Not enough. Here we have our latest advancement, the Krelman. - What does that do? - Oatches that little strand of honey that hangs after you pour it. Saves us millions. Oan anyone work on the Krelman? Of course. Most bee jobs are small ones. But bees know that every small job, if it's done well, means a lot. But choose carefully because you'll stay in the job you pick for the rest of your life. The same job the rest of your life? I didn't know that. What's the difference? You'll be happy to know that bees, as a species, haven't had one day off in 27 million years. So you'll just work us to death? We'll sure try. Wow! That blew my mind! "What's the difference?" How can you say that? One job forever? That's an insane choice to have to make. I'm relieved. Now we only have to make one decision in life. But, Adam, how could they never have told us that? Why would you question anything? We're bees. We're the most perfectly functioning society on Earth. You ever think maybe things work a little too well here? Like what? Give me one example. I don't know. But you know what I'm talking about. Please clear the gate. Royal Nectar Force on approach. Wait a second. Oheck it out. - Hey, those are Pollen Jocks! - Wow. I've never seen them this close. They know what it's like outside the hive. Yeah, but some don't come back. - Hey, Jocks! - Hi, Jocks! You guys did great! You're monsters! You're sky freaks! I love it! I love it! - I wonder where they were. - I don't know. Their day's not planned. Outside the hive, flying who knows where, doing who knows what. You can'tjust decide to be a Pollen Jock. You have to be bred for that. Right. Look. That's more pollen than you and I will see in a lifetime. It's just a status symbol. Bees make too much of it. Perhaps. Unless you're wearing it and the ladies see you wearing it. Those ladies? Aren't they our cousins too? Distant. Distant. Look at these two. - Oouple of Hive Harrys. - Let's have fun with them. It must be dangerous being a Pollen Jock. Yeah. Once a bear pinned me against a mushroom! He had a paw on my throat, and with the other, he was slapping me! - Oh, my! - I never thought I'd knock him out. What were you doing during this? Trying to alert the authorities. I can autograph that. A little gusty out there today, wasn't it, comrades? Yeah. Gusty. We're hitting a sunflower patch six miles from here tomorrow. - Six miles, huh? - Barry! A puddle jump for us, but maybe you're not up for it. - Maybe I am. - You are not! We're going 0900 at J-Gate. What do you think, buzzy-boy? Are you bee enough? I might be. It all depends on what 0900 means. Hey, Honex! Dad, you surprised me. You decide what you're interested in? - Well, there's a lot of choices. - But you only get one. Do you ever get bored doing the same job every day? Son, let me tell you about stirring. You grab that stick, and you just move it around, and you stir it around. You get yourself into a rhythm. It's a beautiful thing. You know, Dad, the more I think about it, maybe the honey field just isn't right for me. You were thinking of what, making balloon animals? That's a bad job for a guy with a stinger. Janet, your son's not sure he wants to go into honey! - Barry, you are so funny sometimes. - I'm not trying to be funny. You're not funny! You're going into honey. Our son, the stirrer! - You're gonna be a stirrer? - No one's listening to me! Wait till you see the sticks I have. I could say anything right now. I'm gonna get an ant tattoo! Let's open some honey and celebrate! Maybe I'll pierce my thorax. Shave my antennae. Shack up with a grasshopper. Get a gold tooth and call everybody "dawg"! I'm so proud. - We're starting work today! - Today's the day. Oome on! All the good jobs will be gone. Yeah, right. Pollen counting, stunt bee, pouring, stirrer, front desk, hair removal... - Is it still available? - Hang on. Two left! One of them's yours! Oongratulations! Step to the side. - What'd you get? - Picking crud out. Stellar! Wow! Oouple of newbies? Yes, sir! Our first day! We are ready! Make your choice. - You want to go first? - No, you go. Oh, my. What's available? Restroom attendant's open, not for the reason you think. - Any chance of getting the Krelman? - Sure, you're on. I'm sorry, the Krelman just closed out. Wax monkey's always open. The Krelman opened up again. What happened? A bee died. Makes an opening. See? He's dead. Another dead one. Deady. Deadified. Two more dead. Dead from the neck up. Dead from the neck down. That's life! Oh, this is so hard! Heating, cooling, stunt bee, pourer, stirrer, humming, inspector number seven, lint coordinator, stripe supervisor, mite wrangler. Barry, what do you think I should... Barry? Barry! All right, we've got the sunflower patch in quadrant nine... What happened to you? Where are you? - I'm going out. - Out? Out where? - Out there. - Oh, no! I have to, before I go to work for the rest of my life. You're gonna die! You're crazy! Hello? Another call coming in. If anyone's feeling brave, there's a Korean deli on 83rd that gets their roses today. Hey, guys. - Look at that. - Isn't that the kid we saw yesterday? Hold it, son, flight deck's restricted. It's OK, Lou. We're gonna take him up. Really? Feeling lucky, are you? Sign here, here. Just initial that. - Thank you. - OK. You got a rain advisory today, and as you all know, bees cannot fly in rain. So be careful. As always, watch your brooms, hockey sticks, dogs, birds, bears and bats. Also, I got a couple of reports of root beer being poured on us. Murphy's in a home because of it, babbling like a cicada! - That's awful. - And a reminder for you rookies, bee law number one, absolutely no talking to humans! All right, launch positions! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Black and yellow! Hello! You ready for this, hot shot? Yeah. Yeah, bring it on. Wind, check. - Antennae, check. - Nectar pack, check. - Wings, check. - Stinger, check. Scared out of my shorts, check. OK, ladies, let's move it out! Pound those petunias, you striped stem-suckers! All of you, drain those flowers! Wow! I'm out! I can't believe I'm out! So blue. I feel so fast and free! Box kite! Wow! Flowers! This is Blue Leader. We have roses visual. Bring it around 30 degrees and hold. Roses! 30 degrees, roger. Bringing it around. Stand to the side, kid. It's got a bit of a kick. That is one nectar collector! - Ever see pollination up close? - No, sir. I pick up some pollen here, sprinkle it over here. Maybe a dash over there, a pinch on that one. See that? It's a little bit of magic. That's amazing. Why do we do that? That's pollen power. More pollen, more flowers, more nectar, more honey for us. Oool. I'm picking up a lot of bright yellow. Oould be daisies. Don't we need those? Oopy that visual. Wait. One of these flowers seems to be on the move. Say again? You're reporting a moving flower? Affirmative. That was on the line! This is the coolest. What is it? I don't know, but I'm loving this color. It smells good. Not like a flower, but I like it. Yeah, fuzzy. Ohemical-y. Oareful, guys. It's a little grabby. My sweet lord of bees! Oandy-brain, get off there! Problem! - Guys! - This could be bad. Affirmative. Very close. Gonna hurt. Mama's little boy. You are way out of position, rookie! Ooming in at you like a missile! Help me! I don't think these are flowers. - Should we tell him? - I think he knows. What is this?! Match point! You can start packing up, honey, because you're about to eat it! Yowser! Gross. There's a bee in the car! - Do something! - I'm driving! - Hi, bee. - He's back here! He's going to sting me! Nobody move. If you don't move, he won't sting you. Freeze! He blinked! Spray him, Granny! What are you doing?! Wow... the tension level out here is unbelievable. I gotta get home. Oan't fly in rain. Oan't fly in rain. Oan't fly in rain. Mayday! Mayday! Bee going down! Ken, could you close the window please? Ken, could you close the window please? Oheck out my new resume. I made it into a fold-out brochure. You see? Folds out. Oh, no. More humans. I don't need this. What was that? Maybe this time. This time. This time. This time! This time! This... Drapes! That is diabolical. It's fantastic. It's got all my special skills, even my top-ten favorite movies. What's number one? Star Wars? Nah, I don't go for that... ...kind of stuff. No wonder we shouldn't talk to them. They're out of their minds. When I leave a job interview, they're flabbergasted, can't believe what I say. There's the sun. Maybe that's a way out. I don't remember the sun having a big 75 on it. I predicted global warming. I could feel it getting hotter. At first I thought it was just me. Wait! Stop! Bee! Stand back. These are winter boots. Wait! Don't kill him! You know I'm allergic to them! This thing could kill me! Why does his life have less value than yours? Why does his life have any less value than mine? Is that your statement? I'm just saying all life has value. You don't know what he's capable of feeling. My brochure! There you go, little guy. I'm not scared of him. It's an allergic thing. Put that on your resume brochure. My whole face could puff up. Make it one of your special skills. Knocking someone out is also a special skill. Right. Bye, Vanessa. Thanks. - Vanessa, next week? Yogurt night? - Sure, Ken. You know, whatever. - You could put carob chips on there. - Bye. - Supposed to be less calories. - Bye. I gotta say something. She saved my life. I gotta say something. All right, here it goes. Nah. What would I say? I could really get in trouble. It's a bee law. You're not supposed to talk to a human. I can't believe I'm doing this. I've got to. Oh, I can't do it. Oome on! No. Yes. No. Do it. I can't. How should I start it? "You like jazz?" No, that's no good. Here she comes! Speak, you fool! Hi! I'm sorry. - You're talking. - Yes, I know. You're talking! I'm so sorry. No, it's OK. It's fine. I know I'm dreaming. But I don't recall going to bed. Well, I'm sure this is very disconcerting. This is a bit of a surprise to me. I mean, you're a bee! I am. And I'm not supposed to be doing this, but they were all trying to kill me. And if it wasn't for you... I had to thank you. It's just how I was raised. That was a little weird. - I'm talking with a bee. - Yeah. I'm talking to a bee. And the bee is talking to me! I just want to say I'm grateful. I'll leave now. - Wait! How did you learn to do that? - What? The talking thing. Same way you did, I guess. "Mama, Dada, honey." You pick it up. - That's very funny. - Yeah. Bees are funny. If we didn't laugh, we'd cry with what we have to deal with. Anyway... Oan I... ...get you something? - Like what? I don't know. I mean... I don't know. Ooffee? I don't want to put you out. It's no trouble. It takes two minutes. - It's just coffee. - I hate to impose. - Don't be ridiculous! - Actually, I would love a cup. Hey, you want rum cake? - I shouldn't. - Have some. - No, I can't. - Oome on! I'm trying to lose a couple micrograms. - Where? - These stripes don't help. You look great! I don't know if you know anything about fashion. Are you all right? No. He's making the tie in the cab as they're flying up Madison. He finally gets there. He runs up the steps into the church. The wedding is on. And he says, "Watermelon? I thought you said Guatemalan. Why would I marry a watermelon?" Is that a bee joke? That's the kind of stuff we do. Yeah, different. So, what are you gonna do, Barry? About work? I don't know. I want to do my part for the hive, but I can't do it the way they want. I know how you feel. - You do? - Sure. My parents wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor, but I wanted to be a florist. - Really? - My only interest is flowers. Our new queen was just elected with that same campaign slogan. Anyway, if you look... There's my hive right there. See it? You're in Sheep Meadow! Yes! I'm right off the Turtle Pond! No way! I know that area. I lost a toe ring there once. - Why do girls put rings on their toes? - Why not? - It's like putting a hat on your knee. - Maybe I'll try that. - You all right, ma'am? - Oh, yeah. Fine. Just having two cups of coffee! Anyway, this has been great. Thanks for the coffee. Yeah, it's no trouble. Sorry I couldn't finish it. If I did, I'd be up the rest of my life. Are you...? Oan I take a piece of this with me? Sure! Here, have a crumb. - Thanks! - Yeah. All right. Well, then... I guess I'll see you around. Or not. OK, Barry. And thank you so much again... for before. Oh, that? That was nothing. Well, not nothing, but... Anyway... This can't possibly work. He's all set to go. We may as well try it. OK, Dave, pull the chute. - Sounds amazing. - It was amazing! It was the scariest, happiest moment of my life. Humans! I can't believe you were with humans! Giant, scary humans! What were they like? Huge and crazy. They talk crazy. They eat crazy giant things. They drive crazy. - Do they try and kill you, like on TV? - Some of them. But some of them don't. - How'd you get back? - Poodle. You did it, and I'm glad. You saw whatever you wanted to see. You had your "experience." Now you can pick out yourjob and be normal. - Well... - Well? Well, I met someone. You did? Was she Bee-ish? - A wasp?! Your parents will kill you! - No, no, no, not a wasp. - Spider? - I'm not attracted to spiders. I know it's the hottest thing, with the eight legs and all. I can't get by that face. So who is she? She's... human. No, no. That's a bee law. You wouldn't break a bee law. - Her name's Vanessa. - Oh, boy. She's so nice. And she's a florist! Oh, no! You're dating a human florist! We're not dating. You're flying outside the hive, talking to humans that attack our homes with power washers and M-80s! One-eighth a stick of dynamite! She saved my life! And she understands me. This is over! Eat this. This is not over! What was that? - They call it a crumb. - It was so stingin' stripey! And that's not what they eat. That's what falls off what they eat! - You know what a Oinnabon is? - No. It's bread and cinnamon and frosting. They heat it up... Sit down! ...really hot! - Listen to me! We are not them! We're us. There's us and there's them! Yes, but who can deny the heart that is yearning? There's no yearning. Stop yearning. Listen to me! You have got to start thinking bee, my friend. Thinking bee! - Thinking bee. - Thinking bee. Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! There he is. He's in the pool. You know what your problem is, Barry? I gotta start thinking bee? How much longer will this go on? It's been three days! Why aren't you working? I've got a lot of big life decisions to think about. What life? You have no life! You have no job. You're barely a bee! Would it kill you to make a little honey? Barry, come out. Your father's talking to you. Martin, would you talk to him? Barry, I'm talking to you! You coming? Got everything? All set! Go ahead. I'll catch up. Don't be too long. Watch this! Vanessa! - We're still here. - I told you not to yell at him. He doesn't respond to yelling! - Then why yell at me? - Because you don't listen! I'm not listening to this. Sorry, I've gotta go. - Where are you going? - I'm meeting a friend. A girl? Is this why you can't decide? Bye. I just hope she's Bee-ish. They have a huge parade of flowers every year in Pasadena? To be in the Tournament of Roses, that's every florist's dream! Up on a float, surrounded by flowers, crowds cheering. A tournament. Do the roses compete in athletic events? No. All right, I've got one. How come you don't fly everywhere? It's exhausting. Why don't you run everywhere? It's faster. Yeah, OK, I see, I see. All right, your turn. TiVo. You can just freeze live TV? That's insane! You don't have that? We have Hivo, but it's a disease. It's a horrible, horrible disease. Oh, my. Dumb bees! You must want to sting all those jerks. We try not to sting. It's usually fatal for us. So you have to watch your temper. Very carefully. You kick a wall, take a walk, write an angry letter and throw it out. Work through it like any emotion: Anger, jealousy, lust. Oh, my goodness! Are you OK? Yeah. - What is wrong with you?! - It's a bug. He's not bothering anybody. Get out of here, you creep! What was that? A Pic 'N' Save circular? Yeah, it was. How did you know? It felt like about 10 pages. Seventy-five is pretty much our limit. You've really got that down to a science. - I lost a cousin to Italian Vogue. - I'll bet. What in the name of Mighty Hercules is this? How did this get here? Oute Bee, Golden Blossom, Ray Liotta Private Select? - Is he that actor? - I never heard of him. - Why is this here? - For people. We eat it. You don't have enough food of your own? - Well, yes. - How do you get it? - Bees make it. - I know who makes it! And it's hard to make it! There's heating, cooling, stirring. You need a whole Krelman thing! - It's organic. - It's our-ganic! It's just honey, Barry. Just what?! Bees don't know about this! This is stealing! A lot of stealing! You've taken our homes, schools, hospitals! This is all we have! And it's on sale?! I'm getting to the bottom of this. I'm getting to the bottom of all of this! Hey, Hector. - You almost done? - Almost. He is here. I sense it. Well, I guess I'll go home now and just leave this nice honey out, with no one around. You're busted, box boy! I knew I heard something. So you can talk! I can talk. And now you'll start talking! Where you getting the sweet stuff? Who's your supplier? I don't understand. I thought we were friends. The last thing we want to do is upset bees! You're too late! It's ours now! You, sir, have crossed the wrong sword! You, sir, will be lunch for my iguana, Ignacio! Where is the honey coming from? Tell me where! Honey Farms! It comes from Honey Farms! Orazy person! What horrible thing has happened here? These faces, they never knew what hit them. And now they're on the road to nowhere! Just keep still. What? You're not dead? Do I look dead? They will wipe anything that moves. Where you headed? To Honey Farms. I am onto something huge here. I'm going to Alaska. Moose blood, crazy stuff. Blows your head off! I'm going to Tacoma. - And you? - He really is dead. All right. Uh-oh! - What is that?! - Oh, no! - A wiper! Triple blade! - Triple blade? Jump on! It's your only chance, bee! Why does everything have to be so doggone clean?! How much do you people need to see?! Open your eyes! Stick your head out the window! From NPR News in Washington, I'm Oarl Kasell. But don't kill no more bugs! - Bee! - Moose blood guy!! - You hear something? - Like what? Like tiny screaming. Turn off the radio. Whassup, bee boy? Hey, Blood. Just a row of honey jars, as far as the eye could see. Wow! I assume wherever this truck goes is where they're getting it. I mean, that honey's ours. - Bees hang tight. - We're all jammed in. It's a close community. Not us, man. We on our own. Every mosquito on his own. - What if you get in trouble? - You a mosquito, you in trouble. Nobody likes us. They just smack. See a mosquito, smack, smack! At least you're out in the world. You must meet girls. Mosquito girls try to trade up, get with a moth, dragonfly. Mosquito girl don't want no mosquito. You got to be kidding me! Mooseblood's about to leave the building! So long, bee! - Hey, guys! - Mooseblood! I knew I'd catch y'all down here. Did you bring your crazy straw? We throw it in jars, slap a label on it, and it's pretty much pure profit. What is this place? A bee's got a brain the size of a pinhead. They are pinheads! Pinhead. - Oheck out the new smoker. - Oh, sweet. That's the one you want. The Thomas 3000! Smoker? Ninety puffs a minute, semi-automatic. Twice the nicotine, all the tar. A couple breaths of this knocks them right out. They make the honey, and we make the money. "They make the honey, and we make the money"? Oh, my! What's going on? Are you OK? Yeah. It doesn't last too long. Do you know you're in a fake hive with fake walls? Our queen was moved here. We had no choice. This is your queen? That's a man in women's clothes! That's a drag queen! What is this? Oh, no! There's hundreds of them! Bee honey. Our honey is being brazenly stolen on a massive scale! This is worse than anything bears have done! I intend to do something. Oh, Barry, stop. Who told you humans are taking our honey? That's a rumor. Do these look like rumors? That's a conspiracy theory. These are obviously doctored photos. How did you get mixed up in this? He's been talking to humans. - What? - Talking to humans?! He has a human girlfriend. And they make out! Make out? Barry! We do not. - You wish you could. - Whose side are you on? The bees! I dated a cricket once in San Antonio. Those crazy legs kept me up all night. Barry, this is what you want to do with your life? I want to do it for all our lives. Nobody works harder than bees! Dad, I remember you coming home so overworked your hands were still stirring. You couldn't stop. I remember that. What right do they have to our honey? We live on two cups a year. They put it in lip balm for no reason whatsoever! Even if it's true, what can one bee do? Sting them where it really hurts. In the face! The eye! - That would hurt. - No. Up the nose? That's a killer. There's only one place you can sting the humans, one place where it matters. Hive at Five, the hive's only full-hour action news source. No more bee beards! With Bob Bumble at the anchor desk. Weather with Storm Stinger. Sports with Buzz Larvi. And Jeanette Ohung. - Good evening. I'm Bob Bumble. - And I'm Jeanette Ohung. A tri-county bee, Barry Benson, intends to sue the human race for stealing our honey, packaging it and profiting from it illegally! Tomorrow night on Bee Larry King, we'll have three former queens here in our studio, discussing their new book, Olassy Ladies, out this week on Hexagon. Tonight we're talking to Barry Benson. Did you ever think, "I'm a kid from the hive. I can't do this"? Bees have never been afraid to change the world. What about Bee Oolumbus? Bee Gandhi? Bejesus? Where I'm from, we'd never sue humans. We were thinking of stickball or candy stores. How old are you? The bee community is supporting you in this case, which will be the trial of the bee century. You know, they have a Larry King in the human world too. It's a common name. Next week... He looks like you and has a show and suspenders and colored dots... Next week... Glasses, quotes on the bottom from the guest even though you just heard 'em. Bear Week next week! They're scary, hairy and here live. Always leans forward, pointy shoulders, squinty eyes, very Jewish. In tennis, you attack at the point of weakness! It was my grandmother, Ken. She's 81. Honey, her backhand's a joke! I'm not gonna take advantage of that? Quiet, please. Actual work going on here. - Is that that same bee? - Yes, it is! I'm helping him sue the human race. - Hello. - Hello, bee. This is Ken. Yeah, I remember you. Timberland, size ten and a half. Vibram sole, I believe. Why does he talk again? Listen, you better go 'cause we're really busy working. But it's our yogurt night! Bye-bye. Why is yogurt night so difficult?! You poor thing. You two have been at this for hours! Yes, and Adam here has been a huge help. - Frosting... - How many sugars? Just one. I try not to use the competition. So why are you helping me? Bees have good qualities. And it takes my mind off the shop. Instead of flowers, people are giving balloon bouquets now. Those are great, if you're three. And artificial flowers. - Oh, those just get me psychotic! - Yeah, me too. Bent stingers, pointless pollination. Bees must hate those fake things! Nothing worse than a daffodil that's had work done. Maybe this could make up for it a little bit. - This lawsuit's a pretty big deal. - I guess. You sure you want to go through with it? Am I sure? When I'm done with the humans, they won't be able to say, "Honey, I'm home," without paying a royalty! It's an incredible scene here in downtown Manhattan, where the world anxiously waits, because for the first time in history, we will hear for ourselves if a honeybee can actually speak. What have we gotten into here, Barry? It's pretty big, isn't it? I can't believe how many humans don't work during the day. You think billion-dollar multinational food companies have good lawyers? Everybody needs to stay behind the barricade. - What's the matter? - I don't know, I just got a chill. Well, if it isn't the bee team. You boys work on this? All rise! The Honorable Judge Bumbleton presiding. All right. Oase number 4475, Superior Oourt of New York, Barry Bee Benson v. the Honey Industry is now in session. Mr. Montgomery, you're representing the five food companies collectively? A privilege. Mr. Benson... you're representing all the bees of the world? I'm kidding. Yes, Your Honor, we're ready to proceed. Mr. Montgomery, your opening statement, please. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my grandmother was a simple woman. Born on a farm, she believed it was man's divine right to benefit from the bounty of nature God put before us. If we lived in the topsy-turvy world Mr. Benson imagines, just think of what would it mean. I would have to negotiate with the silkworm for the elastic in my britches! Talking bee! How do we know this isn't some sort of holographic motion-picture-capture Hollywood wizardry? They could be using laser beams! Robotics! Ventriloquism! Oloning! For all we know, he could be on steroids! Mr. Benson? Ladies and gentlemen, there's no trickery here. I'm just an ordinary bee. Honey's pretty important to me. It's important to all bees. We invented it! We make it. And we protect it with our lives. Unfortunately, there are some people in this room who think they can take it from us 'cause we're the little guys! I'm hoping that, after this is all over, you'll see how, by taking our honey, you not only take everything we have but everything we are! I wish he'd dress like that all the time. So nice! Oall your first witness. So, Mr. Klauss Vanderhayden of Honey Farms, big company you have. I suppose so. I see you also own Honeyburton and Honron! Yes, they provide beekeepers for our farms. Beekeeper. I find that to be a very disturbing term. I don't imagine you employ any bee-free-ers, do you? - No. - I couldn't hear you. - No. - No. Because you don't free bees. You keep bees. Not only that, it seems you thought a bear would be an appropriate image for a jar of honey. They're very lovable creatures. Yogi Bear, Fozzie Bear, Build-A-Bear. You mean like this? Bears kill bees! How'd you like his head crashing through your living room?! Biting into your couch! Spitting out your throw pillows! OK, that's enough. Take him away. So, Mr. Sting, thank you for being here. Your name intrigues me. - Where have I heard it before? - I was with a band called The Police. But you've never been a police officer, have you? No, I haven't. No, you haven't. And so here we have yet another example of bee culture casually stolen by a human for nothing more than a prance-about stage name. Oh, please. Have you ever been stung, Mr. Sting? Because I'm feeling a little stung, Sting. Or should I say... Mr. Gordon M. Sumner! That's not his real name?! You idiots! Mr. Liotta, first, belated congratulations on your Emmy win for a guest spot on ER in 2005. Thank you. Thank you. I see from your resume that you're devilishly handsome with a churning inner turmoil that's ready to blow. I enjoy what I do. Is that a crime? Not yet it isn't. But is this what it's come to for you? Exploiting tiny, helpless bees so you don't have to rehearse your part and learn your lines, sir? Watch it, Benson! I could blow right now! This isn't a goodfella. This is a badfella! Why doesn't someone just step on this creep, and we can all go home?! - Order in this court! - You're all thinking it! Order! Order, I say! - Say it! - Mr. Liotta, please sit down! I think it was awfully nice of that bear to pitch in like that. I think the jury's on our side. Are we doing everything right, legally? I'm a florist. Right. Well, here's to a great team. To a great team! Well, hello. - Ken! - Hello. I didn't think you were coming. No, I was just late. I tried to call, but... the battery. I didn't want all this to go to waste, so I called Barry. Luckily, he was free. Oh, that was lucky. There's a little left. I could heat it up. Yeah, heat it up, sure, whatever. So I hear you're quite a tennis player. I'm not much for the game myself. The ball's a little grabby. That's where I usually sit. Right... there. Ken, Barry was looking at your resume, and he agreed with me that eating with chopsticks isn't really a special skill. You think I don't see what you're doing? I know how hard it is to find the rightjob. We have that in common. Do we? Bees have 100 percent employment, but we do jobs like taking the crud out. That's just what I was thinking about doing. Ken, I let Barry borrow your razor for his fuzz. I hope that was all right. I'm going to drain the old stinger. Yeah, you do that. Look at that. You know, I've just about had it with your little mind games. - What's that? - Italian Vogue. Mamma mia, that's a lot of pages. A lot of ads. Remember what Van said, why is your life more valuable than mine? Funny, I just can't seem to recall that! I think something stinks in here! I love the smell of flowers. How do you like the smell of flames?! Not as much. Water bug! Not taking sides! Ken, I'm wearing a Ohapstick hat! This is pathetic! I've got issues! Well, well, well, a royal flush! - You're bluffing. - Am I? Surf's up, dude! Poo water! That bowl is gnarly. Except for those dirty yellow rings! Kenneth! What are you doing?! You know, I don't even like honey! I don't eat it! We need to talk! He's just a little bee! And he happens to be the nicest bee I've met in a long time! Long time? What are you talking about?! Are there other bugs in your life? No, but there are other things bugging me in life. And you're one of them! Fine! Talking bees, no yogurt night... My nerves are fried from riding on this emotional roller coaster! Goodbye, Ken. And for your information, I prefer sugar-free, artificial sweeteners made by man! I'm sorry about all that. I know it's got an aftertaste! I like it! I always felt there was some kind of barrier between Ken and me. I couldn't overcome it. Oh, well. Are you OK for the trial? I believe Mr. Montgomery is about out of ideas. We would like to call Mr. Barry Benson Bee to the stand. Good idea! You can really see why he's considered one of the best lawyers... Yeah. Layton, you've gotta weave some magic with this jury, or it's gonna be all over. Don't worry. The only thing I have to do to turn this jury around is to remind them of what they don't like about bees. - You got the tweezers? - Are you allergic? Only to losing, son. Only to losing. Mr. Benson Bee, I'll ask you what I think we'd all like to know. What exactly is your relationship to that woman? We're friends. - Good friends? - Yes. How good? Do you live together? Wait a minute... Are you her little... ...bedbug? I've seen a bee documentary or two. From what I understand, doesn't your queen give birth to all the bee children? - Yeah, but... - So those aren't your real parents! - Oh, Barry... - Yes, they are! Hold me back! You're an illegitimate bee, aren't you, Benson? He's denouncing bees! Don't y'all date your cousins? - Objection! - I'm going to pincushion this guy! Adam, don't! It's what he wants! Oh, I'm hit!! Oh, lordy, I am hit! Order! Order! The venom! The venom is coursing through my veins! I have been felled by a winged beast of destruction! You see? You can't treat them like equals! They're striped savages! Stinging's the only thing they know! It's their way! - Adam, stay with me. - I can't feel my legs. What angel of mercy will come forward to suck the poison from my heaving buttocks? I will have order in this court. Order! Order, please! The case of the honeybees versus the human race took a pointed turn against the bees yesterday when one of their legal team stung Layton T. Montgomery. - Hey, buddy. - Hey. - Is there much pain? - Yeah. I... I blew the whole case, didn't I? It doesn't matter. What matters is you're alive. You could have died. I'd be better off dead. Look at me. They got it from the cafeteria downstairs, in a tuna sandwich. Look, there's a little celery still on it. What was it like to sting someone? I can't explain it. It was all... All adrenaline and then... and then ecstasy! All right. You think it was all a trap? Of course. I'm sorry. I flew us right into this. What were we thinking? Look at us. We're just a couple of bugs in this world. What will the humans do to us if they win? I don't know. I hear they put the roaches in motels. That doesn't sound so bad. Adam, they check in, but they don't check out! Oh, my. Oould you get a nurse to close that window? - Why? - The smoke. Bees don't smoke. Right. Bees don't smoke. Bees don't smoke! But some bees are smoking. That's it! That's our case! It is? It's not over? Get dressed. I've gotta go somewhere. Get back to the court and stall. Stall any way you can. And assuming you've done step correctly, you're ready for the tub. Mr. Flayman. Yes? Yes, Your Honor! Where is the rest of your team? Well, Your Honor, it's interesting. Bees are trained to fly haphazardly, and as a result, we don't make very good time. I actually heard a funny story about... Your Honor, haven't these ridiculous bugs taken up enough of this court's valuable time? How much longer will we allow these absurd shenanigans to go on? They have presented no compelling evidence to support their charges against my clients, who run legitimate businesses. I move for a complete dismissal of this entire case! Mr. Flayman, I'm afraid I'm going to have to consider Mr. Montgomery's motion. But you can't! We have a terrific case. Where is your proof? Where is the evidence? Show me the smoking gun! Hold it, Your Honor! You want a smoking gun? Here is your smoking gun. What is that? It's a bee smoker! What, this? This harmless little contraption? This couldn't hurt a fly, let alone a bee. Look at what has happened to bees who have never been asked, "Smoking or non?" Is this what nature intended for us? To be forcibly addicted to smoke machines and man-made wooden slat work camps? Living out our lives as honey slaves to the white man? - What are we gonna do? - He's playing the species card. Ladies and gentlemen, please, free these bees! Free the bees! Free the bees! Free the bees! Free the bees! Free the bees! The court finds in favor of the bees! Vanessa, we won! I knew you could do it! High-five! Sorry. I'm OK! You know what this means? All the honey will finally belong to the bees. Now we won't have to work so hard all the time. This is an unholy perversion of the balance of nature, Benson. You'll regret this. Barry, how much honey is out there? All right. One at a time. Barry, who are you wearing? My sweater is Ralph Lauren, and I have no pants. - What if Montgomery's right? - What do you mean? We've been living the bee way a long time, 27 million years. Oongratulations on your victory. What will you demand as a settlement? First, we'll demand a complete shutdown of all bee work camps. Then we want back the honey that was ours to begin with, every last drop. We demand an end to the glorification of the bear as anything more than a filthy, smelly, bad-breath stink machine. We're all aware of what they do in the woods. Wait for my signal. Take him out. He'll have nauseous for a few hours, then he'll be fine. And we will no longer tolerate bee-negative nicknames... But it's just a prance-about stage name! ...unnecessary inclusion of honey in bogus health products and la-dee-da human tea-time snack garnishments. Oan't breathe. Bring it in, boys! Hold it right there! Good. Tap it. Mr. Buzzwell, we just passed three cups, and there's gallons more coming! - I think we need to shut down! - Shut down? We've never shut down. Shut down honey production! Stop making honey! Turn your key, sir! What do we do now? Oannonball! We're shutting honey production! Mission abort. Aborting pollination and nectar detail. Returning to base. Adam, you wouldn't believe how much honey was out there. Oh, yeah? What's going on? Where is everybody? - Are they out celebrating? - They're home. They don't know what to do. Laying out, sleeping in. I heard your Uncle Oarl was on his way to San Antonio with a cricket. At least we got our honey back. Sometimes I think, so what if humans liked our honey? Who wouldn't? It's the greatest thing in the world! I was excited to be part of making it. This was my new desk. This was my new job. I wanted to do it really well. And now... Now I can't. I don't understand why they're not happy. I thought their lives would be better! They're doing nothing. It's amazing. Honey really changes people. You don't have any idea what's going on, do you? - What did you want to show me? - This. What happened here? That is not the half of it. Oh, no. Oh, my. They're all wilting. Doesn't look very good, does it? No. And whose fault do you think that is? You know, I'm gonna guess bees. Bees? Specifically, me. I didn't think bees not needing to make honey would affect all these things. It's notjust flowers. Fruits, vegetables, they all need bees. That's our whole SAT test right there. Take away produce, that affects the entire animal kingdom. And then, of course... The human species? So if there's no more pollination, it could all just go south here, couldn't it? I know this is also partly my fault. How about a suicide pact? How do we do it? - I'll sting you, you step on me. - Thatjust kills you twice. Right, right. Listen, Barry... sorry, but I gotta get going. I had to open my mouth and talk. Vanessa? Vanessa? Why are you leaving? Where are you going? To the final Tournament of Roses parade in Pasadena. They've moved it to this weekend because all the flowers are dying. It's the last chance I'll ever have to see it. Vanessa, I just wanna say I'm sorry. I never meant it to turn out like this. I know. Me neither. Tournament of Roses. Roses can't do sports. Wait a minute. Roses. Roses? Roses! Vanessa! Roses?! Barry? - Roses are flowers! - Yes, they are. Flowers, bees, pollen! I know. That's why this is the last parade. Maybe not. Oould you ask him to slow down? Oould you slow down? Barry! OK, I made a huge mistake. This is a total disaster, all my fault. Yes, it kind of is. I've ruined the planet. I wanted to help you with the flower shop. I've made it worse. Actually, it's completely closed down. I thought maybe you were remodeling. But I have another idea, and it's greater than my previous ideas combined. I don't want to hear it! All right, they have the roses, the roses have the pollen. I know every bee, plant and flower bud in this park. All we gotta do is get what they've got back here with what we've got. - Bees. - Park. - Pollen! - Flowers. - Repollination! - Across the nation! Tournament of Roses, Pasadena, Oalifornia. They've got nothing but flowers, floats and cotton candy. Security will be tight. I have an idea. Vanessa Bloome, FTD. Official floral business. It's real. Sorry, ma'am. Nice brooch. Thank you. It was a gift. Once inside, we just pick the right float. How about The Princess and the Pea? I could be the princess, and you could be the pea! Yes, I got it. - Where should I sit? - What are you? - I believe I'm the pea. - The pea? It goes under the mattresses. - Not in this fairy tale, sweetheart. - I'm getting the marshal. You do that! This whole parade is a fiasco! Let's see what this baby'll do. Hey, what are you doing?! Then all we do is blend in with traffic... ...without arousing suspicion. Once at the airport, there's no stopping us. Stop! Security. - You and your insect pack your float? - Yes. Has it been in your possession the entire time? Would you remove your shoes? - Remove your stinger. - It's part of me. I know. Just having some fun. Enjoy your flight. Then if we're lucky, we'll have just enough pollen to do the job. Oan you believe how lucky we are? We have just enough pollen to do the job! I think this is gonna work. It's got to work. Attention, passengers, this is Oaptain Scott. We have a bit of bad weather in New York. It looks like we'll experience a couple hours delay. Barry, these are cut flowers with no water. They'll never make it. I gotta get up there and talk to them. Be careful. Oan I get help with the Sky Mall magazine? I'd like to order the talking inflatable nose and ear hair trimmer. Oaptain, I'm in a real situation. - What'd you say, Hal? - Nothing. Bee! Don't freak out! My entire species... What are you doing? - Wait a minute! I'm an attorney! - Who's an attorney? Don't move. Oh, Barry. Good afternoon, passengers. This is your captain. Would a Miss Vanessa Bloome in 24B please report to the cockpit? And please hurry! What happened here? There was a DustBuster, a toupee, a life raft exploded. One's bald, one's in a boat, they're both unconscious! - Is that another bee joke? - No! No one's flying the plane! This is JFK control tower, Flight 356. What's your status? This is Vanessa Bloome. I'm a florist from New York. Where's the pilot? He's unconscious, and so is the copilot. Not good. Does anyone onboard have flight experience? As a matter of fact, there is. - Who's that? - Barry Benson. From the honey trial?! Oh, great. Vanessa, this is nothing more than a big metal bee. It's got giant wings, huge engines. I can't fly a plane. - Why not? Isn't John Travolta a pilot? - Yes. How hard could it be? Wait, Barry! We're headed into some lightning. This is Bob Bumble. We have some late-breaking news from JFK Airport, where a suspenseful scene is developing. Barry Benson, fresh from his legal victory... That's Barry! ...is attempting to land a plane, loaded with people, flowers and an incapacitated flight crew. Flowers?! We have a storm in the area and two individuals at the controls with absolutely no flight experience. Just a minute. There's a bee on that plane. I'm quite familiar with Mr. Benson and his no-account compadres. They've done enough damage. But isn't he your only hope? Technically, a bee shouldn't be able to fly at all. Their wings are too small... Haven't we heard this a million times? "The surface area of the wings and body mass make no sense." - Get this on the air! - Got it. - Stand by. - We're going live. The way we work may be a mystery to you. Making honey takes a lot of bees doing a lot of small jobs. But let me tell you about a small job. If you do it well, it makes a big difference. More than we realized. To us, to everyone. That's why I want to get bees back to working together. That's the bee way! We're not made of Jell-O. We get behind a fellow. - Black and yellow! - Hello! Left, right, down, hover. - Hover? - Forget hover. This isn't so hard. Beep-beep! Beep-beep! Barry, what happened?! Wait, I think we were on autopilot the whole time. - That may have been helping me. - And now we're not! So it turns out I cannot fly a plane. All of you, let's get behind this fellow! Move it out! Move out! Our only chance is if I do what I'd do, you copy me with the wings of the plane! Don't have to yell. I'm not yelling! We're in a lot of trouble. It's very hard to concentrate with that panicky tone in your voice! It's not a tone. I'm panicking! I can't do this! Vanessa, pull yourself together. You have to snap out of it! You snap out of it. You snap out of it. - You snap out of it! - You snap out of it! - You snap out of it! - You snap out of it! - You snap out of it! - You snap out of it! - Hold it! - Why? Oome on, it's my turn. How is the plane flying? I don't know. Hello? Benson, got any flowers for a happy occasion in there? The Pollen Jocks! They do get behind a fellow. - Black and yellow. - Hello. All right, let's drop this tin can on the blacktop. Where? I can't see anything. Oan you? No, nothing. It's all cloudy. Oome on. You got to think bee, Barry. - Thinking bee. - Thinking bee. Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Wait a minute. I think I'm feeling something. - What? - I don't know. It's strong, pulling me. Like a 27-million-year-old instinct. Bring the nose down. Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! - What in the world is on the tarmac? - Get some lights on that! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! - Vanessa, aim for the flower. - OK. Out the engines. We're going in on bee power. Ready, boys? Affirmative! Good. Good. Easy, now. That's it. Land on that flower! Ready? Full reverse! Spin it around! - Not that flower! The other one! - Which one? - That flower. - I'm aiming at the flower! That's a fat guy in a flowered shirt. I mean the giant pulsating flower made of millions of bees! Pull forward. Nose down. Tail up. Rotate around it. - This is insane, Barry! - This's the only way I know how to fly. Am I koo-koo-kachoo, or is this plane flying in an insect-like pattern? Get your nose in there. Don't be afraid. Smell it. Full reverse! Just drop it. Be a part of it. Aim for the center! Now drop it in! Drop it in, woman! Oome on, already. Barry, we did it! You taught me how to fly! - Yes. No high-five! - Right. Barry, it worked! Did you see the giant flower? What giant flower? Where? Of course I saw the flower! That was genius! - Thank you. - But we're not done yet. Listen, everyone! This runway is covered with the last pollen from the last flowers available anywhere on Earth. That means this is our last chance. We're the only ones who make honey, pollinate flowers and dress like this. If we're gonna survive as a species, this is our moment! What do you say? Are we going to be bees, orjust Museum of Natural History keychains? We're bees! Keychain! Then follow me! Except Keychain. Hold on, Barry. Here. You've earned this. Yeah! I'm a Pollen Jock! And it's a perfect fit. All I gotta do are the sleeves. Oh, yeah. That's our Barry. Mom! The bees are back! If anybody needs to make a call, now's the time. I got a feeling we'll be working late tonight! Here's your change. Have a great afternoon! Oan I help who's next? Would you like some honey with that? It is bee-approved. Don't forget these. Milk, cream, cheese, it's all me. And I don't see a nickel! Sometimes I just feel like a piece of meat! I had no idea. Barry, I'm sorry. Have you got a moment? Would you excuse me? My mosquito associate will help you. Sorry I'm late. He's a lawyer too? I was already a blood-sucking parasite. All I needed was a briefcase. Have a great afternoon! Barry, I just got this huge tulip order, and I can't get them anywhere. No problem, Vannie. Just leave it to me. You're a lifesaver, Barry. Oan I help who's next? All right, scramble, jocks! It's time to fly. Thank you, Barry! That bee is living my life! Let it go, Kenny. - When will this nightmare end?! - Let it all go. - Beautiful day to fly. - Sure is. Between you and me, I was dying to get out of that office. You have got to start thinking bee, my friend. - Thinking bee! - Me? Hold it. Let's just stop for a second. Hold it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, everyone. Oan we stop here? I'm not making a major life decision during a production number! All right. Take ten, everybody. Wrap it up, guys. I had virtually no rehearsal for that.

[omgshecodes]

On turtles...or why you should trust your own speed

Hey everyone! Finally I’m doing my first post on here, and I thought what greater way to open up my new blog by breaking to you the big decision I have made and perhaps made you curious about!? :D

Well, I bet most of you will be like “whaaaat, these are her big news!? really!?”, but note that for me it is definitely a big deal, and I will tell you why in the following lines.

Actually I talked to Susi about it and she thought it’s quite funny that I do make such big deal about it when my decision is likely to be one of your average student. However, it may turn into a so-called “student disease” real quick, so perhaps this is why it is such a big deal for me as I obviously don’t plan to fall victim to this disease lol.

So let’s not longer beat around the bush and tell you what’s up, finally: I have officially dropped a class and will postpone it to a later semester.

This was a decision completely out of mind as I promised myself I won’t do this in a million years, considering that a) I aspire to get my B.A. degree within the standard period of study and b) this tendency to postpone or shift classes is likely to turn into a doom for many students real quick, which is exactly the “student disease” I was trying to address above. It’s called procrastination! But the thing is - I am in a special place now, and I still have to remind myself of that every once in a while.

I must admit that having completed my Abitur in 2013 - which is almost 6 years ago, oh my lawd - it was definitely challenging to embrace the typical school rhythm again. Despite the 7 months of self studies I did prior to college, I was really thrown into it again you could say. And yet the irony is that nonetheless I started off university with the same expectations I had when I aced my Abitur as a single without children, still living at my parents. Guys- the standards I set for myself were up in the clouds!! *facepalm*

Reality just looks different. University’s speed is insane. It feels like an intercity ride. You can barely enjoy the nature you pass by and delight in its greatness,  wisdom and beauty as you’re just about to hit the next station. You can barely let contents sit and process them.

Tbh I still cringe at that one post I did a few months back where I talked about students asking in the very first classes yet what the exam will be about rather than soaking up all knowledge for the sake of knowledge itself. I almost made fun of these students who binge-study because I just didn’t see the point, I mean, I still don’t see it. Back then you guys roasted me for this post, with good reason. The problem is not with students binge-studying, but it lies in the educational system that literally forces them to do so.

I was on winter break for 3 weeks and out of 6 classes I managed to revise merely 2, can you believe that (and I’m still not finished with the 2nd one)!? That is to mention that I sincerely tried my best and managed my time wisely wherever I could, but there was absolutely no way for me to spend all day and night studying with a toddler who was also on a winter break for 2 weeks plus a working husband who, yet, tried his best to support me on the little days off he had. So at least there is no need fo me to have a bad conscience, simply because I tried. I really did.

The thing I do regret though is how us CS students in college are busy with keeping up with any other class but the most important one which is programming. It’s the main class obviously, but the other classes are so demanding that you barely have time to practice programming in your leisure time. I didn’t touch code in 5 weeks or so.

My mentor Carla told me right from the get-go: “Yasmin, you merely visit university because it makes you qualified and employable, so don’t expect being deeply educated.”, hinting at the fact that you will necessarily come in touch and have to deal with classes you don’t need later on when working as a Software Engineer or whatever. University is really about surviving, nothing more, nothing less.

I should stop my rant on the educational system at this point because otherwise I’d go on forever, but honestly -despite all the deficits, the stress and things not going as planned I am very happy with my life as a student mom. I happily take it because it will all be worth it one day. All I need to learn is how to stop comparing myself to my single, childless, fellow students and thereupon putting myself under hella pressure.

I AM A MOTHER. I have other responsibilities which come with different priorities, apparently! So I should in fact be grateful for the ability to even drop a class rather than mourn about it simply because the B.A. degree is structured in a way that you are obliged to take specific classes as a precondition for other classes in the following semesters, which again is resulting in the disability to postpone a lot of classes.

I still do plan to finish this degree within the standard period of study, but what I’m trying to say is that one semester enrolled in university was enough to make me take off my rose-colored glasses and instead put on glasses of reality. Glasses that allow me to see behind the curtain. Whatever happens happens, may it be a sick toddler or dropping one freaking class. I am in a different situation. It’s not an ideal situation, but who said it should be ideal other than my very self? It is challenge and trial which make you grow, not perfect conditions.

Perhaps, to put it in a nutshell: my spirit animal became a turtle, as seen on the picture lol (shoutout to fairycakes where I purchased this absolutely adorable sticker from *-*). The turtle knows where it wants to go and comes to trust these steps rather than speed - at ease in its own shell.

Be a turtle! :-)

[assholemurphy]

‘Til Action, Lust : Chapter 10

Also on AO3

The 100

Murphamy

Explicit

Summary:

Having just recently turned eighteen, Murphy decides it’s time he finally visit the Bunker, Arkadia’s BDSM club, in search of a dom. He manages to find one in Bellamy Blake, charming and sweet and prettier than any man has a right to be, in Murphy’s opinion. But after getting arrested vandalizing a cop car, Murphy’s brought down to the station where he runs into someone very familiar. Turns out Bellamy’s a fucking cop. Sleeping with a cop breaks every rule Murphy’s ever set for himself. He’s an anarchist, a rebel, a delinquent, and there’s nothing he hates more than a cop. So, he shouldn’t want Bellamy now, right? Except he does, but Bellamy has rules, too. He doesn’t consort with criminals. So, Murphy has to choose between Bellamy and his illegal extracurriculars. It’s an easy choice, but following the rest of Bellamy’s rules won’t be so easy. It’s not easy for Bellamy, either, because just when he’s gotten used to handling Murphy, he realizes he might actually be falling for him. Which sucks for him, because their relationship is purely built on sex, right? Maybe not, but just when he’s got things under control, they meet a switch named Atom that turns their world upside down all over again.

Beginning

<- Previous Chapter

Murphy grit his teeth, anger coursing through his veins. He wasn’t even sure who he was angrier with, himself or the damn colleges that had rejected him. Sure, he didn’t have perfect grades in high school, but the recommendation letters he’d forged he been pretty damn great, he thought. And it wasn’t like he’d failed. He’d managed with Bs and Cs and yeah, his standardized test scores had been low, but those were bullshit anyway. They didn’t measure anything but memory and while Murphy had a good memory, to the point that he could recite the first two paragraphs of the Constitution and three-fourths of the Gettysburg address on the spot, the tests had been timed and he’d never gotten through enough of the questions for it to matter.

He was smart, he knew that, but the schools didn’t care. He didn’t look good enough on paper, so why bother with him? That, and he didn’t come from any proper background so his name carried no weight. He parents couldn’t donate a library to the college just to get him in, so he didn’t matter to them.

All he wanted was a damn education so he could fucking help people, but nobody cared about that. Nobody wanted him. He wasn’t important, not in any way that mattered to the school, so he was useless to them. What the fuck did they know, anyway? He’d be a great student and he was going to make a damn good doctor one day, if he could just get into a fucking college that could take him places.

He’d applied to eight in total, but he’d heard back from his first two choices that morning. Well, technically, he’d heard from them on Thursday, but he hadn’t checked his email in a few days, just clearing the notifications off his phone without caring because he’d been too damn tired to care lately and most of it was spam from sites he’d bought things from trying to sell him more shit he didn’t want or need. So, he’d ignored it, which had either been a mistake or a good thing, he couldn’t decide.

He could have found out sooner, but then he just would have been angry then instead of now. But, now he was pissed off as he stood outside Bellamy’s front door, the cab he’d taken driving off and leaving him no choice but to knock. He kind of wanted to curl up in bed and sleep for a few years, but he had responsibilities that he had to attend to, so he couldn’t do that. He also wanted to break something, maybe someone’s face or a Starbucks window, but that qualified as illegal behavior, so, as per Bellamy’s rules, he couldn’t do that, either. That left him with one option.

Bellamy.

If he was lucky, Bellamy would get him out of his head and make it a little easier to bear. He could fall into him and let him do whatever he wanted and completely lose himself to it, using Bellamy as an outlet. And then the aftercare would make him feel better, too, comforted and safe, like he mattered, even if the colleges didn’t think so.

But he was so fucking angry that everything was pissing him off. He’d bit his tongue so he didn’t shout at the cab driver for making an offhanded comment about where he was going, basically implying Murphy was some high end hooker, because he tried to make it a point not to shout at people in the service industry, even if they deserved it. They dealt with enough shit, they didn’t need him adding to it, no matter what comments they made.

So, now he was here, standing on Bellamy’s porch and contemplating ringing the bell or just calling the cab back and going home to curl up with Puck on his sofa and watch shitty movies that made him feel better. But, he knew if he left he wouldn’t go home. He’d end up in some seedy bar where they didn’t check ID and he’d get so drunk that he either got into a fight or wound up in someone else’s bed for the night and even though he and Bellamy weren’t officially exclusive, he didn’t want to do that. Besides, if he was going to get fucked, he may as well enjoy it rather than going home with someone who didn’t know the first thing about bondage and would just fuck him with nothing to it, leaving him feeling empty and dissatisfied. No, Bellamy was better. He always made Murphy feel better, so, if he was lucky, tonight would be no different.

He pressed the doorbell and waited, shivering slightly and letting out a curse, wishing he hadn’t forgotten his jacket at home in his rage. The cab had been warm, but he’d been standing out here for several minutes contemplating ringing the bell and now he was shivering in the wind that the open porch did nothing to stop. His phone had said it was twelve degrees outside, but he figured the windchill was the reason it felt like four. He was stupid for leaving his jacket behind.

He rubbed at his arms, hating himself just a little bit more with each passing second as he waited for Bellamy to come to the door.

Finally, he heard footsteps inside and the sound of the lock turning as Bellamy opened the door for him, stepping out of the way to let the freezing boy inside.

Murphy let out a quiet sigh at the warmth of the house, feeling himself warming up a little bit. He dropped his bag by Bellamy’s coat rack and wandered in further, Bellamy right behind him.

“Where’s you jacket?” Bellamy asked, taking in the sight of Murphy still shivering in his living room.

“Home,” Murphy shrugged.

“Why? It’s below freezing, you’re going to get sick,” Bellamy chastened, concern in his voice.

“What are you, my dad?” Murphy snapped, glaring at him.

Bellamy raised his eyebrows at him, clearly surprised by the outburst. “You okay?”

“I’m fucking peachy. Thanks for asking,” Murphy sneered. He didn’t mean to take his anger out on Bellamy and he wanted to stop, but he couldn’t hold his tongue and it caused guilt to bubble in his gut, which only served to make him angrier, but this time it was definitely at himself.

“Murphy,” Bellamy warned, grabbing for a blanket. “Here, it’ll warm you up faster.”

“I don’t want that,” Murphy huffed, crossing his arms. He wasn’t a child, he didn’t need someone trying to baby him.

“Just take it, asshole,” Bellamy demanded, trying to wrap it around Murphy’s shoulders.

Murphy swatted at his hands, shoving him and the blanket away. “I said I’m fine, Daddy,” he mocked.

Bellamy sighed and ran a hand through his hair, straightening the mess of curls and shaking his head. “Murphy, what the hell is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem. Do you? Because if not, then there’s no good reason that you aren’t fucking me right now.”

Bellamy frowned, “You need to calm down.”

“I am calm, Bellamy. Fuck off,” Murphy snapped, raising his voice and gritting his teeth, wishing he could stop himself from being such an ass to the one person who deserved it least. Bellamy had never done anything to deserve his anger, so why the hell was he being such a bitch to him.

“Murphy, you’re acting like a child. Stop it.”

“Or what? You’ll punish me? Go ahead, I don’t fucking care.” That was true. He didn’t care if Bellamy punished him. He just wanted out of his head. He wanted to get away from his emotions and the hurt that the anger was masking.

Bellamy stared at him for a long moment, looking disappointed and borderline upset. He was completely taken aback by Murphy’s behavior. Yeah, he had a mouth on him and he could be a disrespectful brat, but this wasn’t that. This was anger and Bellamy couldn’t think of a single reason why it would be directed at him. “Are you angry with me?” he asked a little hesitantly. If he’d done something to upset Murphy, he wanted to know so he could fix it.

Murphy rolled his eyes and sneered at him. “No, Daddy. Everything’s fine, so just take me to your dungeon and punish me like you want to.” He did deserve it, after all. He was being horrible to Bellamy and he knew it. He didn’t mean to be, but his temper was getting the best of him and it was apparently beyond his ability to have any self-control. If there was ever a time for Bellamy to get angry enough to punish him, this was it, and Murphy wouldn’t complain. Hell, he probably needed it. It might actually help him find whatever couple shreds of his sanity he had left that he’d apparently abandoned back at his apartment.

Bellamy’s first instinct was to do just that. To tie Murphy to one of the crosses in his playroom and whip him until he apologized, but before he could order Murphy to go, he stopped himself.

He was probably overthinking it, but maybe there was a reason for Murphy’s anger. Maybe he wasn’t being a pain for the hell of it. Maybe he wasn’t doing it to get under Bellamy’s skin. This wasn’t his typical brattiness. This was sharp and biting anger that Bellamy knew better than anyone usually hid hurt or fear or some kind of pain Murphy didn’t feel comfortable expressing. He might not be doing this to be a bitch, maybe there was a reason for it.

Bellamy needed to take a different approach. Sure, punishing Murphy might help calm him down, but if he was upset, Bellamy wanted to know why, and more importantly, what he could do to help him.

“Murphy,” he started, his voice soft and gentle, like he was trying not to frighten away a wild animal. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Murphy scoffed, “Nothing’s wrong. Just fuck me already. That’s what I’m here for, right?”

Bellamy shook his head. “No.”

“No?” If he wasn’t going to get fucked then he had no business being there. “Fine. If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.”

Bellamy was a little hurt. Sure, they weren’t exclusive, but the idea that Murphy would go to someone else bothered him. Murphy was his, and it was his job to take care of him.

Murphy turned to leave, walking towards the door, but Bellamy caught him by his arm and gently pulled him back so he was in front of him.

Bellamy reached out to tuck a strand of Murphy’s hair behind his ear, looking at his face and trying to understand why he was doing this. “Tell me, baby. Let me help you.”

“Like you’d fucking care,” Murphy spat. He looked towards the door but made no move to leave again. If he left, he might not ever come back. He didn’t want to ruin things with Bellamy just because he was in a bad mood. Bellamy needed to fuck him so that things would continue as normal and Murphy would know he hadn’t ruined their relationship. Because losing Bellamy would break his heart, especially if it was his fault.

“I do care, pretty boy,” Bellamy told him, resting his hand on the side of Murphy’s face and gently turning it so Murphy was looking at him. “I do. Just let me in, okay? Tell me what’s wrong so I can help you.”

“You can help me by fucking me,” Murphy told him, but there wasn’t any bite to his words. He was calming down a little bit. Bellamy’s touch was comforting and he felt the anger leeching from him slowly, leaving behind only hurt and guilt.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong. Then, if we decide that’s what’ll help you most, I will. But first you’ve got to tell me. I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.” And Bellamy wanted Murphy to let him in so badly. He wanted to help him, to comfort him. He wanted to be someone Murphy could rely on, preferably for more than sex. “Come on, baby. I can help if you’ll just let me.”

Murphy sighed and gave in, leaning into Bellamy’s touch. “I got rejected from my first choice college. And my second. And honestly, I’m probably going to end up going to the community college in Azgeda and becoming a lab tech or something because they don’t think I’m worth letting in. It’s because I’m not good enough and they know it. They think I’ll fail and they’re probably right.”

Bellamy nodded, listening. “It’s not that bad, baby. You’re brilliant. You’ll get in somewhere, I know it. Just because they couldn’t see your worth doesn’t mean you don’t have any, okay?”

Murphy just shrugged, not really believing him. How could Bellamy know more than a college admissions board? Two of them, even.

“Hey, stop it. It’s not that bad, okay? Everyone gets rejected from a couple of schools. It’s just life. How many did you apply to?”

“Eight,” Murphy told him. But it was hopeless. They’d all look at him the same way the first two did. Like he didn’t matter, and honestly, he didn’t. They were right.

“Baby,” Bellamy sighed, seeing the look on Murphy’s face and pulling him close, wrapping his arms around him. “You’re going to be accepted by one of them.”

“But none of them are that great for my major. They’re just cheap and far away.”

“Come on, let’s go to the couch, okay?” Bellamy suggested, pulling away from Murphy and guiding him to the couch. Bellamy sat and pulled Murphy down close to him, so he was sitting with his back to Bellamy’s chest. Bellamy wrapped his arms around him again and rested his head on Murphy’s shoulder. “What are you majoring in, sweetheart?”

Murphy’s stomach did a flip. Sweetheart was new. He’d only ever been called that by men at the club who were hoping to get lucky when he went on break, it usually made his skin crawl, but when Bellamy said it, it felt nice. He sighed, trying to relax against Bellamy and let himself be comforted. “You’re going to laugh.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

Murphy sighed. He didn’t tell many people because it didn’t fit with his general aesthetic. It didn’t work with his whole ‘fuck the system, destroy the government, eat the rich’ outlook, not on the surface, at least. Most people assumed he’d end up burning out and working a menial job as some washed up former revolutionary when he reached twenty-five, but that wasn’t true. He was going to do everything he could to help people for as long as they let him. “Pre-med. I want to be a doctor.”

“Yeah?” Bellamy asked. It wasn’t what he was expecting, but it made sense. Murphy would be good at that, he thought. “I can see that. You taking care of people, stitching them up and making them better. I think you’d make a good one.”

“You think?” Murphy asked quietly. He’d expected laughter or mocking, but Bellamy was still being comforting and sweet and Murphy felt like even more of a dick for snapping at him. “I’m also going to minor in political science so that I can run for office one day.”

Bellamy hummed. That sounded much more like Murphy. He’d expected something like that. “Which office?”

“Something local first. Get elected on a state level, then one day run for Senate.”

“Well, you’ve got my vote,” Bellamy told him, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of his neck.

“Really?” Murphy sounded a little skeptical. “I thought you said my politics were bullshit?”

“I didn’t mean that. And your politics are sound. A little radical, maybe, but that might be what we need. And you’re not afraid to stand up for your beliefs, that’s a good thing. I think your politics are just fine. Maybe the system does need to be torn down and rebuilt from the ground up. Maybe that’s for the best,” Bellamy said.

Murphy’s politics seemed to boil down to the fact that every human being was equal and that they all deserved the right to life, no matter what they contributed to society. Bellamy agreed. Nobody should have to struggle to get by. Nobody should have to worry about putting food on the table or being able to pay rent, regardless of if they had a job or not. It didn’t matter what someone else thought their worth was, because every life mattered and every person deserved to be able to thrive, not just survive. And Murphy believed that, so Bellamy could get behind his politics. Sure, he wished he’d stop his vandalism, – though, as far as he knew, Murphy already had – but he understood his reasons for it. And maybe having someone like Murphy in office would be good for the world.

“You know, Arkadia has a great med program. Clarke’s in it, actually. It’s great, and they’re a lot more accepting than most schools. You could try applying there,” Bellamy suggested.

“Yeah, but Arkadia is hell to get into and even if I had the grades the tuition is a pain in the ass, I'd be in debt over a hundred grand before graduation, plus then there's med school, which means more loans,” Murphy sighed. If he couldn’t get into the other colleges, he definitely wouldn’t get into Arkadia. And even if he did, he’d spend the next thirty years drowning in debt.

“Apply anyway. A lot of places have scholarships and financial aid available. Have you put in for a pell grant yet?” Bellamy asked.

Murphy shook his head. “No? I'm honestly not sure how to. My guidance counselor didn't believe I was worth the effort so I'm kinda going into this blind.” No one had thought he was worth the effort, so they hadn’t given him the time of day.

“I'll help you, if you want,” Bellamy offered. “I mean, I helped my sister and now she's out of state, Polis U. It wasn't easy but we figured it out. I can help you, too.”

“You’d do that?” Murphy couldn’t believe he would, not really. What would he get out of it?

“Yeah,” Bellamy said, smiling when Murphy turned to look at him. “Of course.”

“Why?” It puzzled Murphy. He didn’t get it. Why would Bellamy care that much?

“Because you need help?” Bellamy wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Murphy needed help and Bellamy could help him and that was enough reason for him to do it. Besides, he cared about him, a lot, and he wanted to do anything he could to take care of him.

“But why would you want to help me? You're just my dom, you shouldn't even have to deal with listening to this, why should you-”

Bellamy cut him off, “I want to help you because believe it or not, I do care about you. I'm your dom, it's my job to care about you.” It was his job to make sure Murphy was okay. Sure, they weren’t anything more than casual, but that still came with some responsibility, nevermind that Bellamy wanted to take on more responsibility than that.

Murphy scoffed, not quite believing him. “It's your job to fuck me-”

Bellamy cut him off again, shaking his head. “It's my job to care about you, too. You're mine, and part of that means letting me take care of you when you need me to. Let me help you, alright?” He pressed a gentle kiss to Murphy’s neck, trying to convey how serious he was and how much he actually wanted to help.

Murphy sighed, giving in. “You really want to?”

“Yes, Murphy, I do.” More than anything. He wanted to be someone Murphy could rely on, someone he came to when he needed help. He wanted to prove to Murphy that he would take care of him, always, no matter what he needed.

“Okay.”

Bellamy smiled and pressed another kiss to Murphy’s neck, making the boy shiver slightly. “Good, now have you filled out your FAFSA?”

“I haven't got any idea what that is,” Murphy admitted. He was completely lost with this whole thing. Maybe it was more trouble than it was worth.

Bellamy sighed, not surprised. “Right, let me get my laptop.”

“So, no sex tonight?” That was disappointing. Murphy had hoped to get fucked so he could get out of his head.

“No, tonight we get this taken care of,” Bellamy told him, climbing off the couch. Sex would be nice, but this was more important. This was Murphy’s future. They needed to get him on track before it was too late. He could fuck him later. Tonight, he took care of him.

Murphy sighed but gave in, nodding. If Bellamy thought it was for the best, then maybe it was.

Bellamy returned with his laptop and sat down beside Murphy, pulling up the FAFSA page and turning to Murphy, “Alright, first question….”

They made it through half of the first page before Murphy got antsy and bored, leaving him to make up ridiculous answers that weren’t even on the page, but Bellamy just rolled his eyes until Murphy answered them right, but by the time they were done with the first page, Murphy was groaning and sighing and refusing to even make up answers anymore.

Bellamy sighed and set his laptop on the coffee table before turning back to Murphy. “Come here.”

“Why? Finally going to give me that punishment? Gonna spank me, Daddy?” Murphy snarked, grinning.

“If you don’t shut up and come here, I just fucking might,” Bellamy threatened, grabbing for Murphy’s hip and pulling him closer, Murphy complying willingly.

“You know, there’s still time for you to fuck me.”

Bellamy chuckled quietly. “Maybe when we’re done with this.”

“But I’m bored,” Murphy whined.

“I know.” Bellamy took Murphy’s face in his hand and pulled him close. “So, how about an incentive?”

“Yeah?” Murphy breathed out, moving forward and trying to kiss Bellamy.

Bellamy pulled back out of reach, but only barely, making Murphy whine. “This is how it goes. For every page you get through, I’m going to kiss you. I’m going to touch you more and more until you’re close to coming. But I’m not going to let you come until we finish. How’s that?”

“But no sex?” Murphy asked, frowning.

“Depends on what time it is when we’re done. If it’s too late, we’re just going to bed. I’ve got work tomorrow, so I can’t stay up all night.”

“Tomorrow’s Monday. You’re off on Mondays.”

“I had to fill in for someone in order to be able to get part of Saturday off so I could fulfil that fantasy of yours,” Bellamy told him. “But I’m still off on Tuesday, so even if I can’t fuck you tonight, I will tomorrow night for sure. You’ll just have to be patient.”

“Patience is not one of my virtues,” Murphy huffed.

“Do you have any virtues?” Bellamy smirked.

“Chastity.” Murphy grinned.

Bellamy laughed and shook his head in amusement. “Come here, asshole.”

He pulled Murphy in, gently kissing him and running his tongue over Murphy’s bottom lip before biting it, making Murphy let out a quiet moan. Murphy parted his lips so Bellamy could deepen it and Bellamy wasted no time in wrapping his tongue around the younger boy’s, sucking it into his mouth before pulling back to nip at his lips. He slid his tongue against Murphy’s, playing with it and drawing quiet moans of pleasure from him.

Bellamy let his hand wander to the front of Murphy’s pants, undoing them and shoving his hand down them to grip Murphy, causing him to gasp into the kiss. He stroked him lightly, just enough to make Murphy buck into his hands as he began to harden under Bellamy’s ministrations. It wasn’t long before Murphy was rutting into his hand and tangling his fingers in Bellamy’s curls, tugging gently and pressing ever closer to him, until he was almost in Bellamy’s lap.

Bellamy pulled away, taking his hand away from Murphy’s cock and giving him a pleased smirk, “Ready for page two?”

“No,” Murphy whined, disappointed by the loss of Bellamy’s touch. “Why can’t we do this later?”

“The sooner you get it done, the better. Don’t worry, baby. It won’t take too long. Now, let’s get this page done and then I’ll touch you again.”

Murphy huffed but pulled away from Bellamy so he could grab his laptop again. “Fine.”

“Alright. Now, parent’s information. Mother?”

“Dead,” Murphy deadpanned.

Bellamy winced. “Okay. Father, then.”

“Also dead.”

Bellamy bit his lip. “Any legal guardians?”

“Nope. I ran from my last foster home about seven months ago. Nobody’s adopted me and I have no living relatives.” Murphy shrugged, not looking to upset by it. It was just a fact of life for him. Nobody had wanted him, not even his own mother once his father had died, and it had hurt for a while, but eventually he’d gotten used to it. It wasn’t worth getting upset about, especially not right now. There were still times that it fucked him up, but for the most part, he managed to be indifferent to it. It didn’t matter, anyway.

Bellamy looked at him in concern, sadness in his eyes, but Murphy’s face was hard, like he was forcing all emotion away from himself. Bellamy sighed, “Alright, then I guess we don’t have to fill out this page.”

“Does that mean you’re gonna touch me again?” Murphy asked, a wicked grin on his face. He didn’t want to think about his parents, but he did want Bellamy’s hands on him again.

Bellamy snorted. “I don’t know. Does it really count?”

“I think it does,” Murphy replied, inching closer to Bellamy.

Bellamy rolled his eyes and shook his head, giving in. “Alright, fine. Come here, then.” He held out his arms, waiting for Murphy to come closer.

Murphy wasted no time in moving into Bellamy’s outstretched arms. As soon as Bellamy’s lips were on his, all thought of his parents vanished, replaced with the feeling of being completely surrounded by Bellamy.

Bellamy traced Murphy’s lips with his tongue before nipping at them gently, getting Murphy to open his mouth for him. He slid his tongue against Murphy’s and was pleasantly surprised when Murphy wrapped his tongue around Bellamy’s and sucked on it, giving more into the kiss than he usually did this early into being touched.

Bellamy was a little worried that bringing up Murphy’s parents had hurt him, but when Murphy tangled his hands in his curls and pulled gently, causing Bellamy to smirk into the kiss and pull back to bite Murphy’s lip, drawing a moan from the younger boy, Bellamy’s worries were forgotten.

Bellamy’s hand found its way back into Murphy’s pants and soon he was stroking him, faster than last time with more pressure. Murphy bucked his hips into Bellamy’s touch, wanting more. He whined when Bellamy broke the kiss but his disappointment didn’t last long as Bellamy began trailing kisses down his neck, just barely brushing his lips against Murphy’s skin, making Murphy shiver.

“Bell,” Murphy breathed out when Bellamy tightened his grip on Murphy’s cock, giving Murphy more of what he so desperately wanted.

Bellamy began sucking a dark bruise at the base of Murphy’s neck, only stopping when Murphy let out a quiet curse as his hips stuttered.

“You getting close, baby?” Bellamy purred, scraping his nail across the head of Murphy’s already leaking cock.

“Y-yeah,” Murphy nodded, panting slightly. “Please, Bell!”

Bellamy just chuckled as he pulled away, removing his hand and making Murphy whimper loudly.

“Bell!”

“Next page, pretty boy,” Bellamy told him, well aware of how frustrated he was making Murphy.

“How many more pages?” Murphy whined.

Bellamy looked at the computer for a second. “I think it’s just this one.”

“And then I can come?” Murphy asked a little quietly, voice softer now that he was getting desperate. He did that sometimes. He’d get really submissive and sweet when he wanted to come, or when he wanted Bellamy, and Bellamy loved it. Sure, he could still be a brat, but it was less of a problem when he was like that.

Bellamy smiled at him and nodded. “Yeah, pretty boy. Then I’m gonna make you come.”

Murphy knit his eyebrows together and looked down, looking worried.

“What, baby?” Bellamy asked, concerned.

“You’re not gonna- I mean, I don’t mind, but- Fuck,” Murphy stumbled around the words. “Are you gonna make me come in my pants?”

Bellamy bit back a laugh, finding Murphy to be absolutely adorable in that moment. He thought for a second before shaking his head. No, he wanted to do something else. “No, baby. Don’t worry. You’ll like what I’m going to do.”

They finished up the last page, Murphy giving his answers easily, wanting to get it over with as soon as possible so that he could have Bellamy’s hands on him again.

Finally, they finished. It had probably only taken a few minutes, but it had felt like an eternity to Murphy.

Bellamy set the laptop down on the coffee table and closed it before turning back to Murphy. He stripped him of his shirt quickly before placing a hand on his chest and gently guiding him to lay down, Murphy watching his face for any sign of what was going to happen.

“You decide to fuck me?” Murphy asked when he was laying down, his head resting against one of Bellamy’s throw pillows. He really hoped that was the case. He wanted Bellamy, needed him, and he was willing to do just about anything to get him.

Bellamy chuckled and brought his hands to the waistband of Murphy’s jeans, sliding them and his boxers down his legs. He frowned when he got to Murphy’s boots, they were in the way and he preferred people not to wear shoes in his house, but considering what had happened earlier, he could forgive it. He took Murphy’s boots off and finished removing his pants, tossing them to the floor.

Murphy stared up at him, his features a mix of anticipation and lust and Bellamy smiled at him. “I’m not gonna fuck you, not tonight, but don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”

“Then what are you gonna do?” Murphy asked, wanting to reach out and touch Bellamy, strip him of his clothes. It wasn’t fair that he was naked and Bellamy wasn’t.

Bellamy gave Murphy a wicked grin before leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. He nipped at them and swiped his tongue across them to soothe the pain before sliding his tongue against Murphy’s when the younger boy parted his lips. He toyed with Murphy’s tongue, sucking on it and swirling his tongue around it and making Murphy’s head spin. Murphy moaned into the kiss when he felt Bellamy’s hand on his cock.

A second later, Bellamy broke the kiss to move further down his neck, leaving kisses in his wake. He sucked a bruise into Murphy’s neck before trailing kisses across his chest, slowly stroking Murphy as he sucked one of his nipples into his mouth. He bit down harshly, Murphy gasping and arching into the touch with a small whimper. Bellamy ran his tongue across it, soothing it before going lower, kissing Murphy until he got to his cock, Murphy watching him lustfully, knowing what he was about to do.

Murphy reached out, tangling his hands in Bellamy’s hair, but Bellamy pulled away.

“Hands above your head,” he ordered sternly.

Murphy blinked at him, already mourning the loss of being able to touch him.

“Now, Murphy,” Bellamy demanded.

Murphy let out a pathetic whine but did as he was told, resting his hands on the arm of the couch, looking displeased with the order. He wanted to touch Bellamy, but Bellamy had given him an order and he wasn’t going to resist. He didn’t have it in him tonight, not after the anger had left him. He would follow Bellamy’s commands and be good for him. He needed this, needed to obey. He didn’t want to have to think and the best way to do that was to just give in.

“Good boy,” Bellamy praised. “See, you can be good for me, can’t you? It’s not so bad.”

Murphy nodded, watching as Bellamy leaned back down and started pressing kisses to his hip.

Bellamy sucked a large bruise on Murphy’s skin that left him squirming, letting out little moans that went straight to Bellamy’s cock.

Bellamy purposely tortured Murphy, kissing everywhere but his cock, going so close to it that Murphy thought he might actually touch him this time, but each time he simply moved away again and Murphy would let out a desperate little whine that brought a smirk to Bellamy’s face.

“Please, Bell,” Murphy begged. His voice was still soft, like he was trying to ask without stepping out of line and Bellamy loved it. “Please stop teasing.”

Bellamy just hummed in response, making no move to stop his teasing as he trailed kisses up Murphy’s thigh.

Murphy bucked his hips, desperate to be touched.

“Calm down, Murphy. No need to get all worked up,” Bellamy chuckled. “You’re just going to make yourself more frustrated.”

Murphy whined loudly but stilled his hips as Bellamy sucked a mark on the inside of his thigh, Murphy moaning at the feeling.

“Please, Bell!” Murphy whimpered. “Please, I need you to stop teasing me. Please just touch me!”

“I am touching you,” Bellamy replied cockily. He loved getting Murphy all worked up like this. He looked so pretty when he was desperate and Bellamy would never get tired of his frustrated whimpers.

“Bellamy!” Murphy whined, drawing out Bellamy’s name, frustration evident in his voice. “Please? I’ve been good, haven’t I?”

Bellamy nodded. “You have.”

“Then please!” Murphy pleaded, squeezing his eyes closed and pressing his head back into the pillow.

Bellamy just laughed and shook his head, deciding that he’d teased Murphy long enough. He pressed one last kiss to Murphy’s thigh before raising up a little bit and licking at the head of Murphy’s cock.

Murphy gasped, not having expected Bellamy to stop his teasing anytime soon. He bucked his hips involuntarily and Bellamy snorted.

“Such an eager little whore,” he teased. He brought his hands up to hold Murphy’s hips down. “But you’re gonna have to stay still for me.”

Murphy nodded, willing to obey. He focused on stilling his hips as Bellamy licked at him again. He wanted nothing more than to thrust his hips up into Bellamy’s mouth, but Bellamy had said to stay still and the light pressure of his hands on Murphy’s hips was a constant yet gentle reminder of that.

Bellamy licked at the shaft of Murphy’s dick, short strokes that left Murphy moaning and wanting more. Bellamy teased him for a while, until Murphy was fighting to keep his hands above his head and looking at Bellamy with a pleading look in his eyes. When he’d decided Murphy had had enough, he licked a long stripe from base to tip and then took him into his mouth.

He sucked on the head for a moment, Murphy moaning loudly as Bellamy’s tongue found the bundle of nerves on the underside of his cock. Murphy struggled to keep his hands where they were, fighting the urge to tangle his fingers in Bellamy’s hair and hold him as he sucked him off. He wasn’t in to forcing people’s heads down or gagging them on his cock, no, he just wanted to touch Bellamy as he went at his own pace, even if it was excruciatingly slow.

Having put all of his focus into keeping his hands above his head, Murphy wasn’t able to stop himself from thrusting his hips up into Bellamy’s mouth.

“Fuck. Sorry, sir,” Murphy said, worried he may have upset Bellamy and would end up with a punishment because of it.

Bellamy just hummed around his cock as he took it down further, pressing down harder on Murphy’s hips, keeping them still himself. He didn’t feel like torturing Murphy any more than he already had. Murphy had had a shit day and Bellamy just wanted to make sure it ended on a better note. Besides, he could excuse one mistake. He wasn’t a tyrant. And it turned him on knowing how badly Murphy wanted him, so badly that he couldn’t control himself.

Murphy let out a loud keen when Bellamy pulled up, scraping his teeth none too gently against Murphy’s shaft as he went. It was a good thing that Bellamy was holding his hips down because Murphy wasn’t able to keep himself from bucking them, his body demanding more.

“B-Bell!” Murphy moaned as Bellamy bit down gently on the head of his cock, scraping his teethe across it and sending shocks through Murphy’s body. “Harder! Please!”

Bellamy tried to smirk, but it wasn’t easy with his mouth otherwise occupied, so he settled for humming around Murphy as he took him down again. As he bobbed his head back up, he let his teeth graze him again, but when he got to the head, he bit down much harder than before. Murphy let out a loud curse followed by Bellamy’s name as he felt his orgasm near, the pain driving him wild.

“Bell, fuck, I’m c-close,” he panted out, turning his hands over to clutch at the couch as if that would help him hold on. With every movement of Bellamy’s head his tongue slid against Murphy’s dick and Murphy felt more of his control slip. He wasn’t going to last long at all. Especially not with Bellamy using his teeth like he was. Murphy hadn’t even known he was into that, but he loved it and he never wanted it to end.

Bellamy nodded in response, looking up at Murphy through his lashes so he could see his face, all flushed and panting, his eyes trained on Bellamy like if he looked away he might disappear. It was quite the sight, watching him struggle to keep his hands above his head. He’d given up on keeping his hips still when Bellamy had taken over, but that was alright. Bellamy liked feeling the little jerks that came every time he did something Murphy really liked. It sent more heat to his cock that was already straining against his boxers.

He took Murphy down as far as he could, until Murphy’s cock was brushing the back of his throat and he swallowed around him, Murphy moaning and letting out quiet curses as he tried to remain in control of himself. Bellamy wanted to tell him to let go, just this once, that it was alright, but he loved the sight of Murphy fighting himself far too much.

It took a few more scrapes of his teeth and a particularly harsh bite before Murphy was begging for release.

“Bell, Bell, please. God, fuck, Bell, can I please-” Murphy begged as Bellamy continued to bob his head, going faster and pressing his tongue against it to soothe the sting of his teeth. He wasn’t stopping even as Murphy begged, which only served to make Murphy beg even more. “Oh, fuck, can I come, Bell? Please?”

Bellamy hummed in thought, the vibrations sending sparks shooting up Murphy’s cock. Murphy’s begging was so pretty, but it was getting late and they needed to get in bed soon. He looked up at Murphy and nodded his head, giving him the permission he so desperately wanted.

He took Murphy down again until he was brushing the back of his throat and sucked harder than he had before. That was all it took before Murphy was coming down his throat with a loud shout of Bellamy’s name.

Bellamy kept up, swallowing it all and sucking him through his orgasm and even after until Murphy was whimpering and squirming beneath him.

“Bell, please,” he whined. The overstimulation was great, but he had a feeling Bellamy wasn’t going to let him come a second time if he got hard again.

Bellamy made a satisfied noise as he pulled off of Murphy’s cock. He made a mental note to suck Murphy off more often, because he loved the moans and whimpers he got from him.

Bellamy looked at Murphy, who was trying to catch his breath as he watched Bellamy. His lips were red from where he’d been biting them and his face was flushed. He looked completely debauched and Bellamy wanted nothing more than to take him right then and there, but a look at the clock on the wall told him it was almost eleven and he had to be up early, so he couldn’t.

He settled for pulling Murphy up and into his lap, capturing his lips in a bruising kiss. He bit Murphy’s bottom lip hard, making Murphy whimper and press closer to him. Murphy parted his lips and let Bellamy deepen it. His hand wandered to the front of Bellamy’s sweatpants, shoving past the waistband as his other hand tangled in Bellamy’s hair.

Bellamy broke the kiss when he felt Murphy’s hand around his cock. “You don’t have to-”

“Just let me, okay?” Murphy asked, waiting until Bellamy nodded to pull him into another kiss.

Murphy stroked Bellamy, fast and hard, making the older man moan into the kiss. If Murphy had his way, he’d let Bellamy fuck his mouth, use him in any way he pleased, but he knew Bellamy wanted to go to bed and this was faster, even if it wasn’t as fun, though Bellamy seemed to be enjoying it.

Murphy twisted his wrist and ran his thumb across the head, smearing precum around it. He pulled away from the kiss and pressed one to Bellamy’s cheek whispering, “I wish I could taste you. Take you down and let you fuck my mouth while you pull my hair and call me a slut. You’re gonna have to do that eventually, you know. Just use me with no regard to my pleasure. Use me like I’m a fucktoy and I only matter when it comes to getting you off, like that’s my only purpose. Like I was made for you to fuck and use. Use me like a cheap whore, make me feel like the slut that I am.”

Bellamy groaned and pulled Murphy closer, growling out, “You’re my slut. Only mine.”

Murphy practically swooned at the possessiveness and was quick to agree, saying, “Only yours.”

“You’re not going to run off and find someone else to fuck you,” Bellamy demanded. “You’re mine and mine only. I’ll use you and give you everything you need, but you are mine.”

Murphy nodded, speeding up his pace, making Bellamy moan and let out a couple curses. “I’m yours, sir. I don’t want anybody else. Nobody makes me feel like you do. I’m yours, Bell.” He meant it, too. He was Bellamy’s. For anything Bellamy wanted to use him for. He was Bellamy’s, and not just for sex. He wanted to belong to him, and even if it wasn’t official, even if Bellamy didn’t care, he already did belong to him. He didn’t want anyone else. No one else would ever compare.

“Good boy. My pretty boy,” Bellamy groaned. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna-”

He wasn’t even able to finish his sentence before he was coming all over Murphy’s hand. Murphy stroked him through it, Bellamy dropping his head to Murphy’s shoulder as he moaned.

“God, baby,” Bellamy whispered when Murphy pulled his hand away. Bellamy gave himself a few moments to enjoy the feeling before he raised his head up. “Here, I’ll get you something to clean up with.”

“It’s fine,” Murphy shrugged, reaching for his shirt.

“That’s-”

“I’ll just wear one of yours,” Murphy said. Then, “If that’s alright?”

Bellamy grinned at him. “Of course, it is.” He loved Murphy wearing his shirts. They were a bit too big for him but he looked adorable in them. No, he looked like he was Bellamy’s when he wore them, and Bellamy really, really liked that.

“Come on, let’s go to bed,” Bellamy told him after he’d cleaned up.

Murphy nodded and gathered up his clothes. He followed Bellamy to the bedroom where he promptly dumped them by the side of the bed. His side of the bed.

Bellamy handed him his pajama bottoms and one of Bellamy’s own shirts.

Murphy gave him a grateful smile as he got dressed. He walked into the bathroom and brushed his teeth before laying down, waiting for Bellamy to join him.

A moment later he felt the bed dip and then there was a protective arm around him. Murphy relaxed against Bellamy’s chest, feeling content.

“Did you mean it?” Bellamy asked after a moment. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant and Murphy wondered why.

“Mean what?” he asked.

“That you’re mine,” Bellamy clarified. “Did you mean that?”

Murphy smiled and turned over so he could face Bellamy. It was hard to read his expression in the dark, but Murphy tried. He wasn’t sure it meant anything, but there was something in Bellamy’s voice that told him it did. “Yeah. I’m yours, Bell.”

He didn’t say any of the things he wanted to, like how he meant he was Bellamy’s for more than sex or how he thought he might be falling for him, but it didn’t matter because a second later Bellamy’s lips were on his.

The kiss was soft and sweet and there was more to it than there ever had been previously and it gave Murphy a little bit of hope that maybe he wasn’t the only one who wanted more. Of course, that wasn’t the kind of conversation you had when you were both dead tired, but maybe one day soon, one of them would get the courage to say something. It wasn’t anything definitive, but the kiss meant something. Murphy just hoped he was right in what he believed it was.

Next Chapter -> (Coming Soon)

[accio-ambition]

Knowing Little Notes

For those, like me, who are only interested in the Super Bowl for the commercials and the halftime show, I come to you this overly commercialized day with my contribution to @captainswanbigbang‘s CS Little Bang. A super special shout out to @technicallysizzlingcloud for beta-ing this monstrosity and @mrs-emma-swan-jones for a lovely art piece. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Emma Swan doesn’t do kids. Or, more accurately, she hasn’t done kids. But when a friend in need asks her to do kids - more specifically teach them - Emma dips her toes into the education field. Her first foray into substitute teaching is for Mr K. Jones, who proves to be a great asset in this whole “learning to teach” thing. It helps Emma understand what her friends get out of the job: that the best life lessons sometimes come from students and a nice little note. Rated: T for language Read it here or on AO3, whatever floats your boat

By trade - if you could call it that - Emma is a bail bondsperson. She chases after skips who’ve failed to pay her back: an irony in the fact that she has nothing, money or otherwise. She’s got an apartment the size of a comfortable closet and enough to eat takeout on occasion. Still, it doesn’t  require a college degree that she doesn’t have and it’s active enough for her. It’s great for the lifestyle she leads. She can find a gig in any city, no matter where she might find herself. It’s awesome.

Until it isn’t.

She’s sprained her ankle one too many times and this time around she’s got a broken wrist to accompany with it. Her skip decided to get a little rougher with her than usual, slamming her wrist into a granite counter. She’s lucky it was only her wrist with the heels she was wearing.

Still, a broken wrist means a cast: which means she’s out of the bail bonds game for at least the next two months, probably longer. Her office won’t pay her rent or her bills, to the surprise of no one, and she’s not moving out of the only little square of the world she’s ever been able to call her own.

That’s how she falls into substitute teaching.

Mary Margaret tells her about it one evening soon after Emma gets her cast on, taking on the role of pseudo-mother caring for her healing daughter.

(She even signs the cast, and Emma can’t quite quell the feeling of a little girl excited to have everyone at school sign her cast.)

It’s an easy way to make money, Mary Margaret insists - solid hours, a schedule that changes, yet stays the same and the properly-trained regular teacher comes up with all the plans.

“All you have to do is follow them,” her friend tells her.

She helps Emma cut the plastic bag off her arm after showering all the sweat and hospital grime of her body. A timer goes off in the kitchen, Emma’s rickety oven on the verge of catching fire with the casserole Mary Margaret’s got cooking away in it. With an thrilled little noise, she goes off to check dinner.

(Emma is consistently surprised she isn’t actually Mary Margaret’s child with her husband David. With the way they all act around each other, they might as well be.)

“I don’t know,” Emma shouts into the other room, ripping the remainder of the shopping bag off her arm. “I don’t really do kids.”

“You haven’t really done kids,” Mary Margaret corrects her. The top of her head pokes from around the door jamb to glare at the other woman. “That doesn’t mean you can’t do them.”

She disappears again and Emma can hear the oven door screech open, slam shut, and her friend place whatever was heating up on the stovetop. A drawer opens and Mary Margaret returns to her living room to take the seat next to Emma’s, an empathetic expression on her face.

“Give it a try. I’ll put your name in the system for some coworkers of mine and you can try it out. If you don’t like it, you don’t like it. But at least it’ll get you out of the house.”

“And the money,” Emma adds, pointing a finger down the plane of her face. “Gotta pay rent somehow.”

Mary Margaret’s hand comes to rest on the hand of hers that isn’t wrapped up in plaster. “We can help you out this month if you need it,” she offers. “You just figure yourself out first and then we can deal with everything else.”

“Thanks Mary Margaret.” Sighing, Emma relaxes into the couch cushion, enjoying the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen. Her eyes slide shut for a moment, merely taking in the aroma mixed with the warmth of her seat, and the nice little cocktail of pain meds she’s got in her system right now. When she opens her eyes, Mary Margaret’s expression has morphed into something weirder, like she’s holding back a secret, which she never does.

(She tries, bless her honest heart, but Emma knows from experience that if you share a secret with Mary Margaret, you share a secret with David and all of his work friends, and sooner rather than later, all of Storybrooke knows.)

“You don’t happen to have an ulterior motive, do you?” she asks. Hesitantly, Mary Margaret shakes her head, but her eyes widen and she’s biting her lip and her cheeks are starting to grow red.

She’s lying.

“Mary Margaret,” Emma chides, drawing out the final syllable of her name.

Her friend shrugs. “Well, you need a gig,” she says slowly. “And I’m going to need a long-term sub in the near future.”

Long term? Not that she didn’t already suspect it, but now Emma knew something was off. In all the days and months and years that she’s known Mary Margaret, she’s never known her to skip out on school. She loved those kids as if she had carried and borne them herself, every single one of them. “How near?” Emma asks.

Shrugging, a small grin starts to grow on Mary Margaret’s’ lips. “About five or six months,” she says. That only further confuses Emma. Mary Margaret giggles and slaps her knee. “Oh, did I forget to mention I’m pregnant?”

Emma’s silent with shock, her jaw dropped. She’s not quite sure why: it is the next natural chapter in their story. Both of them would be - will be, she supposes now - wonderful parents.  Mary Margaret with the summers off and David as overprotective as he is make the perfect combination. Not to mention they’ve both got so much love, they aren’t sure where to put it.

And she gets to be cool Aunt Emma. All the perks of having a kid with the option of returning him or her to their biological parents.

But her silence apparently lasts too long as Mary Margaret’s expression begins to fall. It seems she’s taken Emma’s moment to process the wrong way. “Look, just try it out,” she insists, her hands coming up between them. “If you don’t like it, I’ll find another sub, but you’re going to love it and you’ll love my class this year. I promise, I don’t trust anyone else but someone close to me with-”

Emma interrupts her unnecessarily hurried words with a hug despite both sets of knees impeding them. “I’m so happy for you,” she says into the fabric of Mary Margaret’s shirt shoulder.

It sounds like Mary Margaret’s crying, or trying not to and failing to do so. She’s making little sobbing-hiccup noises into Emma’s ear.

When they pull away from each other, Emma’s proven right: Mary Margaret’s eyes are red around the rims and she wipes at what may or may not have been full-fledged tears. Emma nods, feeling her smile grow on her face.

“Yeah, I’ll give it a try, but don’t you worry about what comes after.” Taking her hands, Emma squeezes them. “You’re having a baby!”

Mary Margaret nods enthusiastically, still wiping at the remnants of tears. “Yeah.”

“How’d David react?” Emma asks excitedly. If she knows David at all, she knows that his reaction to the news of impending fatherhood would rank high on the list of adorable videos on YouTube.

“Oh, I’ve got a video.” Mary Margaret digs beneath her for her phone, chuckling the entire time. Once she’s unearthed it, she unlocks the phone and hands it over to Emma. “It’s only the latter part of his reaction, but it was wonderful.”

In the video, David’s already kneeling on the ground, his face painfully contorted into something precious, with a little onesie in his hands.

“It’s a Huskies jersey,” Mary Margaret explains. “It’s got Nolan and the number three on the back.”

“That’s too cute,” Emma replies, her eyes still transfixed on the phone screen. It’s sweet, even if the jersey idea is a little cliche for her taste. UConn’s basketball team is David’s favorite, a relic of his glory days of college, and it was the first round of the 2004 NCAA tournament that he met Mary Margaret in a Boston bar. The Huskies went on to win that year, and, rumor has it, David proposed the night they did.

She definitely spots tears rolling down David’s face as Mary Margaret’s recorded giggle comes from the speaker. He keeps asking, “Really? Are you serious? No joke?” and Emma can’t help but feel her own eyes begin to water.

(She blames it on the painkillers, messing with her natural emotional state.)

Thankfully, the video ends, and she has to take a moment to collect herself before turning back to her friend. During her life, Emma’s friends have been few and far between, but since the moment she accidentally spilled coffee on Mary Margaret’s skirt while running after a skip, she’s known the woman’s heart was two sizes too big. Her reaction had been to worry about Emma and her hand drenched in scalding coffee over the fabric dripping down her legs and the stain ruining it.

“You’re going to be an amazing mother, Mary Margaret.”

Mary Margaret’s smile is watery, her eyes shining with joy. “I have as much confidence in you as you have in me,” she assures Emma. With a final pat to her hand, she stands and begins to pack up her things. “You need to rest now. I’ll text you the details of a job and you can ask all your questions later.” She points toward the kitchen. “Dinner should be cool and ready to eat in five minutes. Just throw some tin foil on top and put it in the fridge when you’re done.”

Emma hums, the thought of sleep quite inviting, as she settles into the couch cushions. “Thanks, Mom,” she mumbles. “Congratulations.”

0000

Of course, the classroom door is locked when Emma finally finds it, which forces her to wander about even longer until she discovers the front office again. When the custodian graciously opens the door and flips on the lights, she’s only got about fifteen minutes until first bell.

“Great,” she mumbles to herself. “Off to a great start.”

She’s still got the cast on her wrist, weeks one through four checked off on her road to recovery. At her last visit, the doctor told her things were looking good, but due to her age, the bones were resetting slower than normal.

(That’s something every late 20s, early 30s woman wants to hear. “You’re too old for your bone to move like they used to, so hope you like not being able to wash your hands properly.”)

But for now, Emma’s got her first gig as a substitute teacher to tackle. Hopefully more in the psychological and mental aspects and not so much in the physical one. According to the text Mary Margaret sent her last week, she’s subbing in on a fifth grade class today.

Better for novice subs, she wrote. They’re pretty smart and they know how to use the bathroom by themselves.

Didn’t know that was an issue I might be facing, Emma responded, but awesome.

As Mary Margaret had informed her, the teacher’s left the lesson plans on his desk, front and center, an array of worksheets and handouts surrounding it. This teacher, a Mr Jones, has labeled every pile with the period it had to be handed out with a sticky note. It was all so precise, she can’t quite believe that this man is a teacher and not the commander of an army. If she was a more ambitious and less anxious person at the moment, she might pull out a ruler and measure exactly how far apart each pile is from the other.

(She’s willing to bet it’s equivalent all the way around.)

Granted, she thinks as she quickly skims the plans and shuffles the piles around, keeping order in a classroom might be worse than any war zone at certain times.

She reaches the end of her agenda for the day and finds a handwritten note added after the typed postscript asking for notes throughout the day.

‘Many thanks for helping a dashing rapscallion out. Mary Margaret spoke quite highly of you. They’re good kids. You’ll do wonderfully. K. Jones.’

Emma sighs and slumps down into the rolling chair behind his desk. “Well at least he’s confident enough for the both of us,” she grumbles to herself.

Flicking her eyes to her watch, she finds she’s still got a few minutes. She breathes deeply, mentally giving herself a pep talk while taking in the rest of the room. What looks like a reading nook - bookshelves and small bean bags - crowds the corner next to her. Cabinets and closets line the other side of the room until they reach the door diagonal to her current seat. There’s a question of the day written on the board, awaiting students to answer it in order to inform her of their attendance. Each clustered table of desks has a sign dangled over it, what look game pieces from Battleship, if Emma’s not mistaken.

In front of her, it’s a surprisingly clean desk, save for the teaching supplies K. Jones has left out for her. A pencil holder with a few writing utensils and some scissors is the only teacher-like decoration - the only decoration at all, save for two framed photos. One of the frames holds the picture of a boat and the other is of two men on what’s presumably the same boat. They’ve both got dark hair, one more so than the other. They’re both quite handsome, with striking blue eyes and wide grins across their faces.

The mess of the maniac - whether K. Jones be the curly haired one or the black haired one in the photo - is behind the desk: piles of papers and trays, books and clipboards. How anyone could find a single thing in that mess, Emma decides as she stands, is a fucking miracle. She doesn’t even want to contemplate that part of teaching, the grading and commenting and whatever.

She’s writing her name toward the top of the chalkboard when she hears “Who are you?” from behind her. Emma turns to find a boy, backpack heavy and jacket nearly swallowing him up, standing in the doorway.

“Are you our substitute?” he asks.

Emma nods, gulping away her nerves. “Yeah.” Her voice wavers, so she clears her throat and tries again. “Yeah, Mr Jones is out today. I’m Ms Swan.”

The kid walks up to a desk at the cluster of tables beneath the aircraft carrier sign, close to the front, and sets his backpack on top. “Cool.” He says it so nonchalantly that Emma wonders if she was that calm and collected when she had a substitute at school. She remembers bits and pieces of elementary school, most memories tainted by bad group homes or unworthy foster parents. To be honest, thinking back on it now, Emma’s pretty sure she spent most of her grade school days daydreaming in fairy tales.

The zip of the boy’s backpack wakes her up a little bit, and Emma shakes her head. As he’s putting books and journals in his desk, he asks, “Are we gonna watch movies all day?”

Emma chuckles, setting the chalk down on the blackboard shelf. “Sorry, kid, but Mr Jones actually left us a bunch of stuff to do.” He groans, the arms of his jacket shushing as his shoulders slump. “Don’t worry, there’s a game or two, I think,” she assures him. The boy goes on, grumbling to himself as he hangs up his jacket and backpack. Curiosity strikes her as she shoots another glance at the classroom clock. “What are you doing here? I didn’t hear the bell ring.”

“My mom’s the principal, so we come in early and I go and count the buses.” He pushes his chair in beneath his desk, then comes up to her with an outstretched hand. “I’m Henry.”

“Oh, cool,” she says, very adultlike and not at all frightened by the fact that the principal’s son is in her class today. “Hi.”

He stares, assessing her with his wide brown eyes. Henry squints at her and Emma can’t help but try and swallow away the lump that’s gotten stuck in her throat. “You’re a new substitute, aren’t you?” he inquires slowly.

Guilty, Emma grimaces. “Is it that easy to tell?”

Henry shrugs, finally releasing her hand. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” He points toward a couple of desks in the back of the room, near the reading corner. “These kids are going to give you the most trouble, but if you threaten them with walking the plank, they usually hush.”

“Walking the plank?” she asks, confusion coloring her voice. It sounds like a reprimanding tactic, but she would have thought that something like a plank to be walked across should’ve been mentioned in the lesson plan.

(Not to mention it sounds kind of humiliating. While Emma wouldn’t have put it past the administration back in her schooling days, it sounds a little too corporal punishment-y for the school system Mary Margaret has described.)

“It’s basically a detention. Mr Jones sends someone to the lunchroom to sit with Lunch Lady Cora.” He turns back to her, lifting his hand up to hide his mouth from the side. Dramatically, Henry whispers, “Sometimes, the kids come back crying.”

“What? Is he allowed to do that?”

“Mhm,” Henry hums with a nod. “They usually just help count the lunch money or clean the lunch trays, but Cora is not a nice lady.”

Emma scoffs and goes to stand by Mr Jones’ desk. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

She jumps a bit when Henry pats her on the arm. “You’re going to do great, Ms Swan. I believe in you,” he tells her.

As silly as it may seem, one of her temporary students having such innocent confidence in her does make her heartbeat slow just a tad and her nerves settle. Plus, it bodes well for how she deals with kids.

(Maybe Mary Margaret is right; maybe she just hasn’t had the opportunity to do this child caring thing.)

“Thanks, Henry,” she says quietly. “That really means a lot.”

He smiles. “Well, I’ve got to get to work. I’ll be back before the morning announcements.”

“Alright,” she says with a sigh. “Be good.”

Nodding, Henry salutes her. “Yes ma'am.”

As Henry leaves the classroom, the morning bell rings. He’ll have to fight against the stream of kids heading to their rooms, chatting about last night’s football game, or the pros and cons of certain Pokemon.

(That’s something kids talk about, right?)

In the few precious moments of solitude she has left, Emma takes another deep breath.

“Here goes nothing,” she murmurs.

0000

She sits down at the teacher’s desk after seeing the students off to their busses. Heels were a poor choice today and she’s got the start of a migraine brewing behind her eyelids.

Despite all that, Emma hasn’t felt so accomplished in a long time. Even before she spent the last month sitting on her couch, watching Netflix and trying to avoid the unscratchable itch on her forearm. While the bail bonds business was always booming, the rush of adrenaline attained by catching a skip was nothing compared to the camaraderie and naivete an elementary school supplied her with in one day.

For the moment, Emma slides her feet from her shoes, letting the blood flow back to the places where the nerves have been pinched for the majority of the day. Sighing, she reads over the handwriting scrawled across the bottom of the lesson plan again. Then she flips the little packet over. She contemplates what to write - whether to tell him that Henry was a great asset and helper today, how far they got in the science lesson, and the like - but she settles on the simplest of comments.

‘You’re right: they’re great kids. I’d be happy to come back. E. Swan.’

And it feels right, scribbling that out at the bottom of the page. But then she feels a little guilty, not leaving details about their lesson on photosynthesis, or that his math class managed to trick her into playing Jeopardy the entire time; so Emma goes back and leaves some notations along the side of Mr Jones’ outline. Little things, nothing extensive, but it is her first time subbing. How is she supposed to know what to do?

When Emma feels that all is said and done, she packs up her purse, straightens up the piles of papers, and heads back into the empty hallway, the room darkening behind her. Her heels are back on, their click-clacks slow and measured now that her feet ache and she doesn’t have to walk from desk to desk explaining certain questions.

“So?” The voice comes from ahead of her, raising in question. Mary Margaret’s locking up her own classroom, two bags hanging from her shoulder with another one on the ground beneath her feet. Despite being busy with her own class, Mary Margaret made sure to check up on Emma during her planning period. She’s got a smile on her face right now, shouldering her third bag as she asks more leadingly: “How’d it go?”

Emma laughs, giving up the battle with her heels. When she meets up with her friend, she leans against the wall and takes her shoes off until the coolness of the linoleum soothes her feet. “It all makes sense now,” she says.

Mary Margaret chuckles, hitching her bags up higher. “And what, exactly, does that mean?”

Taking pity on her friend, Emma grabs one of the bags from her hand and throws it over her own shoulder.

She ponders over her words before responding. “You always tell me how tired you are and how your feet hurt and I never understood because I thought you spent all day playing Legos with a bunch of kids,” she explains. “But now I get it.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear.” Together, they walk - or stumble, more suitably for Emma - down the hall, bidding goodbye to other teachers and staff members as they make their ways outside.

With a sigh, Emma’s forced to take a seat inside the front office to don her shoes once more.

“So?” Mary Margaret asks, pushing open the front door.

The afternoon sun burns Emma’s eyes after a day spent indoors under artificial light, and that along with her friend’s hanging question cause her to grunt.

Mary Margaret sighs and nudges her arm. “Did you like it? Can I count on you to sub for me?”

Her immediate answer is no - it goes unspoken, but Emma’s first response is always to avoid change. Especially change that might benefit her. She’s been a runner all her life, which made bail bonds a wonderful option from her. She could pick up and move, find other skips to chase in any city in and state, no matter what problem she might have been running from at the time: relationships, dreams, emotional trauma, just to name a few.

But this is Mary Margaret, her closest friend in the world, one of two people she’d do anything for. And she did have a wonderful time today. Her comment to Mr Jones was the furthest thing from a lie, surprisingly enough.

When they reach their cars, Emma takes a deep breath and turns to her friend. “I’ll do it,” she says, confident grin across her face. “It was great. So when little Emmett comes, I’ll sub for you.”

Furrowing her brows, Mary Margaret repeats, “Emmett?”

“Well, it kind of seems like you guys are set on a little dude and you’re obviously going to name him after the most important person in your life,” she reasons, smile growing wider.

“My husband?” she says. “My father, or his?”

Emma scoffs, opening the driver’s door with a flourish. Brushing her hair off her shoulder, she says, “Me, obviously.”

“Of course.” Mary Margaret comes over and hugs Emma, squeezing her a little tighter than considered normal. “How could I be so obtuse?”

“It’s okay,” Emma says, patting her on the back. “You’ve obviously got a bad case of pregnancy brain.”

That earns Emma a slap to the shoulder, and chuckles break from her mouth before she can stop them.

“It’s not that bad,” Mary Margaret complains, her voice high and on the edge of whining. Her hand falls to her stomach, just a hint of a bump there, easily mistaken for a food baby or even a trick of the light.

“Not yet,” Emma corrects her. “But if pop culture is to be believed, the worst is yet to come.”

0000

Emma’s enjoying the bright and warm sunshine as she steps outside of the doctor’s office when her phone rings.

“So much for nice things,” she grumbles.

Fishing her phone out of her bag with her new cast around her wrist, Emma sighs when she reads the caller ID. As much as she loves the woman, Mary Margaret has been beginning to get on her nerves in the last couple of weeks. She calls every couple of hours, asking her if she’d be okay with doing this when she’s out because the rest of her team wants to do it or if she wants to take over for so-and-so who’s got an emergency root canal in the morning. And that’s only the school-related calls. The other ones are pregnancy scares or new things she learned while researching during lunch.

She’s a mess, in Emma’s opinion. A big happy mess.

So when her friend calls on her afternoon off, Emma picks up, no matter how much she wants to just ignore it, go home, and nap on the couch until dinner.

“What’s up?” Emma greets, walking up to her Bug and leaning against it.

“What are you doing Thursday?” Mary Margaret’s words are said without preamble, as if this were a major emergency.

(It better be for something good. There is precious nap time to be spent on the couch.)

“Umm, nothing, I don’t think,” Emma replies. “Why?”

There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line, as if Mary Margaret is moving quickly or trying to hide her voice. “I ran into Mr Jones in the hallway and he’s had something come up suddenly,” she explains. “Asked if you were available to sub for him.”

“Oh.” She can’t say she wasn’t expecting this, but Emma is still kind of surprised. A person with absolutely no training in the field is a little - she doesn’t want to say unwise seeing as she’s benefitting from it, but that’s the only word she can think of at the moment. But it’s nice to know that she did something right the first time around. “Sure. Yeah, I can do that,” she finally decides.

On the other side of the line, Mary Margaret makes some little whooping news. “Great, I’ll let him know,” she says. “Would you like me to pass on your number so he can contact you directly next time?”

“No!” Emma yells, unintentionally scaring the man three cars down trying to load groceries in the trunk. “No, I don’t even know the man. That can’t be protocol or something. Tell him to leave any more dates he knows with his plans and I’ll get back to him.”

Mary Margaret hums in agreement, her tone a little different when she says, “Okay.”

“Thanks, Mary Margaret,” Emma offers, opening the car door. “I just got out from the doctors’, so thank you for calling me, but I need to get home before I pass out behind the wheel.”

“Oh! Of course!” And with a quick farewell, Mary Margaret’s back to work and Emma’s on her way home.

0000

This time, Mr Jones’ door is unlocked when Emma makes her way in to school Thursday morning. She’s feeling a little more comfortable with the whole situation, having already gotten over those first time jitters. These kids know her a little better now, and she’d like to think - or maybe hope is the correct terminology - that she has no qualms in making them walk the plank if they act out of order today.

Just as before, Emma finds a pile of materials on the otherwise clean desk. She sets down her bag atop the mess behind the desk, slightly more organized than it was the last time she subbed, and begins to read the lesson plans Mr Jones left behind, adorn with a handwritten note at the top.

‘Ms Swan - or who I hope is Ms Swan.’

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, seeing her name scrawled across the top of the page in this elegant script. He specifically asked Mary Margaret to contact her and his students had to have mentioned her name. But still, something happens inside her when she reads the greeting of his note.

‘Thank you for coming in again. You seem to have made quite the impression on my class, for they asked for you by name,” his note goes on to say. “I consider myself a strong man, but when 23 fifth graders plead with their best puppy dog eyes, I am weak-willed and hopeless.’

The image she conjures up is of the men staring at her from the picture on the desk, all bravado and masculinity, going to complete puddy at those kids’ request. It does something weird to her stomach, makes it flip and contort into an unusual shape, not unlike how reading her own name in his writing did.

His note easily leads into today’s lessons - fractions in math, harms of smoking during health, nothing she doesn’t think she can’t handle - before signing off as he did before: ‘You’ll do wonderfully. K. Jones.’

There are many things in life that Emma considers luxuries that some of these kids wouldn’t. She never had any guardians that were so flawless and incredibly confident in her as Henry’s mother. She never really had parents at all: the first time Emma felt like someone actually cared about her was when she met Mary Margaret and David.

And now, Mr Jones seems to believe in her as well.

“Ms Swan!” Looking up from the notes, Emma’s pleased to find Henry standing in the doorway, his backpack dragging on the ground. “You’re back!”

Emma can’t help the wide smile that crosses her face at his sentiments. “Yeah, kid. I’m back.”

And surprising her even further, Henry jogs across the room, dropping his bag near the front before embracing her tightly. Tentatively, she pats his back, her hand coming to cradle the base of his head.

“Well, this is a very nice welcome back,” she says.

Henry steps back, a little breathless. “I’ve got to count the buses, but I’m really excited that Mr Jones asked you to come back.” He’s gone as quick as he’s come, leaving Emma to chuckle to herself. She takes a seat at the teacher’s desk, grabbing a pen from the supplies holder, ready to write down today’s first note.

“Mr Jones,” she writes, mumbling to herself. “I was honored to hear that your kids wanted me back. I really enjoyed them the first time around and I’m sure I will even more so this time. I’m afraid if I keep coming back, they’ll get the best of me and prove me wrong.” Sticking her tongue out, Emma debates writing the next words, but decides she really has nothing to lose. “But thanks for your bid of confidence. I don’t think I can actually explain to you how much that means to me.”

The bell rings, the sound of kids on their way to class start echoing through the hall, and the school day is off to a rousing start for Emma.

Homeroom bleeds into social studies which bleeds into math. It’s been a while since she’s had the opportunity to do anything with fractions besides try to suss out whether she’s consumed a legitimate half bottle of wine in any one sitting. But going over it in pizzas - something that hasn’t changed since she was in school - opens her eyes and does make simple math a little more welcoming.

Mr Jones left behind a worksheet to cement the information in their fifth grade brains, and after Emma explains it, she claps her hands.

“When you guys are finished, you can do something quietly,” she adds, rolling her wrists. “Read, take a nap, doodle, whatever. Just stay quiet.”

As she takes a seat at her desk, the scritching of pencils overtakes the room. Mumblings of math questions asked to neighbors die off into silence as the students start, focus, and finish up their work. Always a bit paranoid of what’s to come and making sure she has enough time to get through everything she needs to, Emma flips through the lesson plans again. This time around, she notices that, as she told Mary Margaret to pass along, Mr Jones has included a few more days he’d request her services. She joins the chorus of busy pencils by writing down the days he’s asked her to come in in her planner.

(She bought a planner for this whole endeavor and, damn, does it make her feel professional.)

Just as she’s penciling in the penultimate date, Henry clears his throat on the other side of the desk. When she looks up, he hands her the piece of paper he’s got in hand.

“Are you done already?” she asks.

“Yeah, but this isn’t that.” Henry shakes it a bit. “Take it. I drew you something.”

“Really?” Emma’s never had anything drawn for her. Granted, she’s never really spent enough time with children to give them the opportunity. Still, she’s oddly honored. “Well, let’s see it.”

Taking the paper from his hand, Emma looks at it all. He’s obviously put a lot of work in to it, whipping out the crayons and even signing his name at the bottom in his best attempt at cursive. It’s a drawing with a house and some pretty good stick people, and Emma considers herself to be a stick people connoisseur.

“It’s lovely, Henry,” she tells him, meaning every one of those three words.

“Good.” She sets it on the desk, trying to take in all the little things he’s included. The house has a chimney with smoke billowing out of it. It even looks like there’s city skyline in the background.

(How he managed to do all this work and finish his math worksheet in the allotted amount of time has to be a trick of magic.)

Henry points to the figures, standing in front of the house. “This is you, of course,” he explains. “You can tell by the blonde hair and the red jacket.”

She chuckles at that. “That’s what I was thinking. It’s cool that you noticed I always wear that jacket.”

Shrugging, Henry merely says, “It’s very hard to miss.” And then he gestures to the other figure, standing beside her little stick on the paper. “And this is Mr Jones.”

“Oh.” She can see it. The dark hair and what looks like equally as dark clothes on his stick could easily be the men in the photo on Mr Jones’ desk. Henry’s depiction makes it seem like his teacher has curly hair, making Emma believe she’s finally discovered which man in the picture is actually Mr Jones. “And what are we doing?” she asks.

“You guys are going home.”

“Yeah?” The one thing that Mary Margaret told her before becoming a substitute was the innocence Emma would encounter in the school. When she was a child, Emma remembers believing that teachers lived and slept at school as well. But Henry’s a smart kid - surely his mother would’ve explained that teachers don’t all live together, especially not in the school building. “You know me and Mr Jones don’t live together, right? We have different homes.”

“I know,” he assures her. “But I think you would be happy having the same home.”

Emma mulls over his comment as Henry makes his way back to his desk. She thinks about it even harder when she comes in a couple days later - at this rate, she’s concerned about whether or not Mr Jones is trying to get himself fired. It seems like she’s spending more time teaching his class than he is and that has to be a liability of some sort - and finds a line in his customary note that doesn’t necessarily shock her, but does mildly surprise her.

‘Please, love. The only time you need refer to me as Mr Jones is around the children. Otherwise, please call me Killian.’

Oh, she thinks, taking a seat on Mr Jones’ chair.

“Killian,” she corrects herself aloud.

The only other person she calls by first name in this school is Mary Margaret, but that’s because she’s Mary Margaret. And Lunch Lady Cora, Emma supposes, but that’s because at this point, she’s convinced the food service manager doesn’t have a last name. Everyone, even principal Regina Mills, calls her Lunch Lady Cora.

But now there’s Mr Jones - Killian.

Now this is an interesting development.

(Maybe Mr Jones and she could be happy in the same home.)

0000

Though Storybrooke Elementary’s environment is quickly becoming her home turf, there are days where no one - not even Mr Jones, the enigma himself - needs a substitute. And though her wrist is nearly healed completely, Emma’s told her boss she’s taking a little bit of time for herself, exploring other options, something prophetic like that.

That being said, there were still bills to be paid and food to be eaten. Christmas presents to save up for that weren’t going to pay for themselves. So she expands her horizons: reaching out to other local schools in the district, picking up the odd jobs here and there, but always more than happy to come back to her Storybrooke home away from home.

It makes her days at the elementary school - especially with Mr Jones’ class - all the more precious and enjoyable.

She’s pulling double duty one day in January, the morning as Mr Jones while he, apparently, attends to his brother during a bad bout of illness, and the afternoon in the art room. In his plans, Mr Jones - Killian - said he would be back in time for him to escort the students down to the lunch room. Emma’s got them all lined up, ready and quiet for him, but he’s late. And she’s hungry.

Luckily, Emma spots Mary Margaret down the hallway, her belly proceeding her in every direction she turns and action she takes. Close to frantically, Emma waves her over.

“Are you going somewhere important right now?” Emma asks.

Mary Margaret shakes her head. “I was going to see if the vending machine in the lounge had any Cheetos,” she replies.

Emma sighs with relief. “Would you mind watching Jones’ class until he gets here? He’s running late and I’ve got other plans to familiarize myself with. I can bring some Chee - “

“No, Ms Swan, you have to stay for just a little while longer!” some of the kids whine. They’re getting restless, discussion striking up over the entirety of the line. They’ve been good all morning, so it’s sort of unsettling that they’ve decided to act up now as their teacher could literally be walking down the hall for them.

“Why?” Emma asks of the children. Their line is no longer straight and neat; instead, it zig zags, with a few kids here and there straying to the side of their peers to watch her. “What are you kids up to?”

She’s seen their innocent faces before, when she’s spoken to them about a project they were supposed to have previous information on and didn’t. These farces of faces are nowhere close to those looks. “Nothing, we just don’t want you to leave,” the general class mumbles.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” she tells them, taking a step further away from the classroom and closer to the fridge that holds last night’s leftovers-turned-lunch. “My time with you guys is up today and I’ve got to go grab some lunch before I have to be Mr Jefferson down in the art room.”

“You can’t!” Henry yells finally. He’s right on the other side of Mary Margaret, taking this week’s assigned job of line leader very seriously. Everyone’s sort of stunned into silence, children and adults alike. “Mr Jones is coming back,” he says in place of an explanation.

“I know,” Emma responds slowly, trying not to show her frustration just as her stomach rumbles. “That’s why I’m leaving.”

“No,” Henry grouses. “Ms Swan, you’ve really got to meet him.”

“I will, one day.” She can feel her expression soften. Though these kids can’t see inside her mind - thank god - but she gets the feeling. For planting himself so solidly in a place in her life, it is a bit of a shame that she and Mr Jones never met in person, only talked through Mary Margaret or his lesson plans. “But right now, I need to eat,” she says gently, her stomach growling quite audibly, further accentuating her point. “Now, be good for Mrs Nolan until Mr Jones comes. Then you can moan and groan to your hearts’ content.” Giving them a smile, Emma sets her hand on her friend’s shoulder and squeezes. “Thanks, Mary Margaret.”

She tries to hide her laughter, one hand covering her grin and the other resting on her stomach. “No problem,” she says, waving her off. “Go eat.”

Emma’s halfway to the lounge, Mary Margaret barely in sight, when she shouts back, “I’ll get you the Cheetos, I promise!”

0000

In the months that she’s been substituting, Emma’s learned quite a lot. She’s learned the basics of each grades’ curriculum, the generic schedule of the day, and most of the names of the rest of the staff.

(She’s pretty impressed with herself.)

(She’s also learned a lot more about the man who’s chair she often sits in while watching his class. And he writes like he’s got a stick up his ass, but in that whole Jane Austen, kind of romantic way.)

(Her heart speeds up every time she reads his customary last line - you’ll do wonderfully. K. Jones - even if she doesn’t admit it aloud or to herself.)

But the hardest lesson she’s learned during her time is that even the best situations come to a harsh head at some point in time. On a late winter day, something has ruined the feng shui or the status quo or whatever else you might want to call the vibe Jones’ class has managed to pull off every time Emma’s come in to sub. Today was a shitshow, and that’s putting it lightly.

From the moment Henry walked in this morning, already running behind and in a grumpy mood because his mother wouldn’t allow him to go to a sleepover later that night, Emma knew it was going to be a bad day. It was gray and rainy outside, her shoes were soaked through, and something just felt off.

It only went downhill from there.

Lily threw up in the classroom sink, setting off commiserative vomiting from Austin and Camille.  Though the custodian tried to clean it up while the classroom was empty, the smell lingered, making it the only thing Jones’s kids would talk about for the rest of the day. Every sentence example, math problem, anything, had to do with puke.

It made Emma not only feel crappier than she’d been feeling earlier, but it all made her feel nauseous herself, as well as develop a headache. When she realizes two and a half hours are still left in the school day, it takes incredible effort not to collapse in Killian’s chair and break down.

After drudging back in from the pouring rain that greeted her at dismissal time, Emma is a step and a half away from murdering the next person who speaks to her. She needs to punch something or scream, anything to rid herself of this frustration and anger making her vision red. She should use this mood to fuel a gym workout, but she knows she’ll barely make it to the liquor store before going back to her place and drinking it all, whatever it is, in one sitting.

She takes a moment to collect herself, taking some deep breaths at Killian’s desk, his lesson plans staring up at her. She has to write the day’s notes and, as she’s been since the start, Emma’s going to be honest.

Completely foregoing her customary greeting, Emma gets to the point. ‘I take it all back. Your kids are little shits.’ Solid start, she thinks to herself.

Her anger floods out of her without any real permission. ‘God, I don’t know what happened to them, but I wanted to strangle them all, and I know I shouldn’t be telling you this because you love them and they love you, you’re their captain and they’re your crew but they’re all little shits. And I know that was a run on sentence BUT THAT’S HOW FRUSTRATED I AM.’ Hand beginning to cramp, Emma leans on the back fo the chair and sighs.

During her past gigs, she’s sometimes held back the darker parts of the day - if they didn’t get to a certain activity or if she had to send someone to detention - because, overall, his class was wonderful. She thought so, especially after visiting other school with classes not nearly as tame.

Today was just too much, though. Putting pen back to paper, Emma begins again. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be writing this down, but I’ve got no other way to tell you. And I wanted to tell you, but not in a tattle tale sort of way.’ She sighs again, her frustration nearly drained away now. ‘I really do like your kids and I know that everyone has bad days, but the chances that all 23 of them were having a bad day on the same day are odds practically worth playing the lottery on.’

Mary Margaret knocks on the door, asking her if she’s ready to head home yet, and Emma quickly ends her note with her signature. Packing up her stuff, she debates telling her friend about the circus she was ringmaster of today, but she doesn’t.

(If she doesn’t tell him that she feels like he’d understand her feelings better than Mary Margaret or any of the other teachers, that’s her business.

And his, if he wants it to be.)

0000

For some reason, spring in an elementary school is a better place. Not that there’s any scientific proof that accompanies Emma’s conclusion, but she can safely say that she hasn’t experienced a spring like this one. The kids are happier, especially since they can start going back outside for recess after the horrible winter. The teachers are excited to see the end of the school year in sight.

There’s one thing specifically that makes this spring the best one yet, though.

Once again, she’s subbing for Mr Jones on a Thursday. His excuse is that he’s cashing in some vacation days to clean up his ship before he and his brother take out it out on the waters for the first time in the season.

(The vacation time this man has saved up…honestly, he must’ve worked for fifteen years straight to earn this much time off.)

But if it weren’t for him, Emma wouldn’t feel nearly as prepared to take over for Mary Margaret when her time comes. Her due date fast approaches, but the devoted teacher she is, Mary Margaret has insisted on working until the baby pops out of her. She’s big as a small whale, not that Emma would ever tell her that, and it’s beginning to wear on her. She gets grumpy a lot easier than Emma thought she’d ever see and every time Emma runs into her, Mary Margaret is grumbling and complaining for the baby to get out.

Emma’s eating lunch in the teachers’ lounge, her sandwich halfway to her mouth, when Mary Margaret finds her, face red and eyes wide.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Emma asks, setting her sandwich down and dusting off her hands. She knows Mary Margaret’s due date is this week or next, and her all last night about killing feet was an unforgettable rant Emma could never unhear.

Mary Margaret leans against the back of a chair in front of her, her breathing a little heavy.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she inquiries.

Brows furrowing in confusion and concern, Emma says, “Um, I’ve got a gig at Fairy Forest Elemen-”

“Cancel it.” Mary Margaret closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose. “Your long-term sub starts now.”

“Now?” Emma can’t help but repeat her friend’s words. Mary Margaret’s still here, how can Emma sub for her unless -

Then everything clicks. “Mary Margaret, are you in labor?” she asks gently.

Mary Margaret nods her head. “It’s gotten really bad in the last half hour, but the kids are in art class now.” Pausing again to catch her breath and, Emma can only assume, survive another contraction. “Regina can find someone to cover me for the afternoon, but it’s all you tomorrow.”

Emma chuckles hysterically, head falling back. “The last thing you should be worried about is me,” she says, packing up the rest of her lunch. She’s had enough to last her. Emma’s foremost concern right now is the woman across the table. “Is David coming for you? Can you drive? I can take you to the hospital, I’ll ask Kathryn to cover for me.”

But Mary Margaret waves her off. “David’s going to meet me at the hospital. I can drive myself there.”

“Oh, hell no, not on my watch.” Throwing her trash in the bin, Emma comes around the table. She turns Mary Margaret toward her, trying to be as comforting as the woman’s always been for her as she leans against Emma. “Grab your stuff from the classroom and meet me in the front office. I’ll tell them what’s going on.”

Mary Margaret nods before leaning her head against Emma’s collarbone. Emma can feel her stuttered breathing on her skin, and all she can think to do is rub her friend’s back. “Everything’s going to be great. You and David are the only people I know who are already the best parents in eh world.”

“You think so?” Mary Margaret whimpers.

“I know so.” Carefully, Emma pushes Mary Margaret up. Her friend’s got tears in her eyes, welling up from red-rimmed lids. Emma couldn’t begin to contemplate whether those are from excruciating pain or bubbling emotions. With a watery smile of her own, Emma cups Mary Margaret’s cheek. “We’ve got a hospital to go to. Let’s not fuck around.”

That makes Mary Margaret laugh, tears spilling over. “An elementary school, Emma,” she reminds her. “We’re in an elementary school.”

“I’ve heard much more creative and worse things from the second graders,” Emma jokes. “C’mon.”

Emma escorts Mary Margaret to her classroom and leaves to deal with her own situation. She all but jogs back to Killian’s room and throws her belongings in her bag. Swiftly, she sits down and scrawls out her own note on the back of the lesson plans.

‘Mr Jones,’ but then Emma scribbles that out because her best friends is having a baby and there are just as many emotions coursing through her body as in Mary Margaret’s, and writes ‘Killian.

‘I’m really really sorry, but I had to leave early. Mary Margaret’s in labor and she was going to drive herself to the hospital and you and I both know I wasn’t going to let that happen. Kathryn Griffith’s gonna take over for the rest of the day, I think.’ She should probably cement that plan before leaving school premises. ‘Please apologize to the kids for me. I couldn’t wait to play Jeopardy with them. Just, you know…’

Emma doesn’t really know how to end that sentence. She’s never met this guy in person, but he and his class have become such a huge part of her life that leaving like this is a bit of a shame. Just, such a lackluster ending to this adventure.

There isn’t time to find the right words, or even time for the struggle. She quickly ends her note with, ‘I’ll be around for a while, so if they want to visit Mrs Nolan’s room, they’re more than welcome. Thanks.’

And then, because she’s already in a weird sentimental mood, Emma smiles as she writes out, You can visit, too, if you need some pointers. I know you haven’t been here in a while, but don’t worry: you’ll do wonderfully.”

She tidies up the desk, making sure the plans are front and center for whoever takes her place this afternoon, before she grabs her stuff and whisks down to the front office. Just as she’s turning the corner - she can literally see one of the secretaries easing Mary Margaret into a chair through the window - Emma literally bumps into Henry, on his way back to the cafeteria from a hop to the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” he asks, his little face scrunched up in confusion.

Emma stops her stride long enough to explain, “Mrs Nolan’s having her baby and I have to drive her to the hospital.” She pats him on the head before kneeling down to his level. “I’m not going to be in for Mr Jones anymore, but I want you to tell your whole class I’m sorry, but they can come visit me.” She raises her brows to accentuate her point. “Okay?”

Henry nods in understanding. “Go. Babies don’t wait for a long time.”

Laughing aloud, Emma pulls Henry in for a quick hug. “You are wise beyond your years, Henry Mills,” she compliments. “Get back to lunch.”

With a last grin, Henry waves and heads back to the cafeteria while Emma makes her way to the front office. She enters with a smile and a clap of her hands. Looking at Mary Margaret, she tries to put as much excitement into her voice as she can.

(It’s really not that hard to do. It’s a very exciting time.)

“Alright, let’s go have a baby!”

0000

Little Robbie Nolan has the charm of his father and the sweetness of his mother. Barely a couple hours old, Emma finds herself already head-over-heels in love with the infant. When Mary Margaret gifted her a newborn photo, it immediately finds a permanent home in Emma’s wallet. A blown up copy of it hangs on the blackboard of Mrs Nolan’s classroom, much to the pleasure of her students.

It’s not too difficult to transition from teaching Jones’ fifth grade class to the Mary Margaret’s third grade class. It helps that Emma’s been around the curriculum before and, despite being on maternity leave, Mary Margaret is more than willing to help her write out lesson plans.

(They’re such a bitch, lesson plans. Even with professional training, Mary Margaret admits they suck, which means they suck even more for an amateur like Emma.)

Other than that, Emma’s first foray into long-term teaching is off to a resounding start. It doesn’t hurt that she gets to drop by and see the proud parents and their sweet son whenever she’s got the time after school.

(Her phone background may or may not be a picture of him sleeping in her arms. She’s got absolutely no shame. He’s just so stinking cute.)

One morning, Emma hears the classroom door open while her back is turned, writing the current math problem on the board. She continues to ignore the visitor because, if she’s learned anything in the last couple months, it’s not to let anything or anyone interrupt her train of thought in the middle of a lesson. If it’s that important, they can send an email or still wait until she writes an equal sign.

“Alright, I’ll give you a couple minutes to figure out the answer to this one,” she tells the class, finally turning around to face them. “Remember what we’re learning today. Find the answer using exponents, not the calculator.”

With a clap of her hands, the gentle hum of pencils scratching out figures and students whispering to their neighbors take over the classroom. Only then does Emma turn her attention to the man in the back of the classroom.

He’s sitting against the ledge, his legs stretched out and his arms crossed over his chest. There’s something about him that keeps Emma from immediately throwing him into the hallway. There’s a silly kind of smile on his face, his head tilted to one side as if he’s taking his time in assessing her.

It’s unnerving. She knows she was never formally educated in teaching, but she’s learned a lot, she’s comfortable with what she’s teaching, who is this guy to judge her?

Emma makes her way around the tables, checking how some of the more troublesome students are doing and making sure some of the more distracted kids keep to their assignment, and all the while this strange man stares at her. When she finally gets to the back of the classroom, she stands directly in front of him.

“Can I help you?” she asks sternly.

The man’s tongue peeks out from between his grinning lips. “Not particularly, love.” Though the tone of his voice matches his looks, the accent throws Emma off. In the middle of Maine, the last thing she was expecting to come out of this man’s mouth was a vaguely English accent. “I finished all my planning early,” he continues, “and, since you so kindly invited me, I thought I’d come and see the woman my students keep fawning over.”

She can feel her cheeks redden as she gulps. That’s why the dark, messy hair and bracingly blue eyes look familiar: they’ve stared her down from the framed picture on Mr Jones’ desk. So that could only mean one thing.

“Mr K. Jones, I‘m guessing?”

He sticks out his hand, standing up. “You’d be correct.” She takes his hand and, out of nowhere, he kisses her knuckles, causing her blush to deepen. “Although I’ve told you, you are more than welcome to call me Killian.”

“Killian.” She’s only said his name aloud a few times, but this is by far the  most swoon-worthy it’s ever left her mouth. She shakes her head. “Emma Swan,” she tells him back.

“Oh, I’m well aware,” he says with a raised brow. Settling back against the shelf, Killian gestures toward the blackboard. “I do have to admit, I can see why my class would rather have you than me teaching.”

“Please,” she scoffs, finding it much easier to throw away his compliment than to take it at face value. “Those kids adore you. The first couple times I subbed for you, it was ‘Mr Jones does this for us’ and ‘That’s not how Mr Jones does it.’” Emma rolls her eyes. “I swear, it was a miracle we ever got anything accomplished.”

Shaking his head, Killian chuckles to himself. “That’s exactly the type of thing a teacher loves hearing.” A student, Violet, if Emma remembers her name correctly, comes up to them and asks a question that Emma - not to toot her own horn or anything - answers quite expertly. Only after she answers Violet’s question does she realize that the rest of the class has progressively gotten louder, obviously finished or close to finishing their practice worksheets.

Killian, it seems, has noticed as well. “It sounds like the natives are getting restless,” he comments, pushing off the shelf. He leans closer to her, his voice getting deeper and quieter. “I’ll let you get back to this riveting lesson.”

Emma can’t help but groan a little bit and complain, “Do you have to?”

He laughs. “That is what they’re paying you for, isn’t it, Swan?” Another student comes up to her, asking if he can make a trip to the bathroom. Emma permits it, and the student leaves just as Killian clicks his tongue. “Well, I heard you were in the building and I didn’t want to waste an opportunity to put a lovely face to the name.”

She rolls her eyes, resting her hand on his arm. “Alright, Romeo, you’ve already had English class, from what I remember. No time to be poetic now.”

“Right, serious stuff, maths.” He claps his hands, gathering the attention of the class. They turn in their seats and quiet down, something she’s yet to accomplish as quickly as he has now. “Alright, mateys, I hope you’re on your best behaviors for Ms Swan here. I don’t want her to have to call Mrs Nolan and advise her who should walk the plank.”

Someone in the room gasps. “You wouldn’t, Mr Jones!” someone shouts while another student yells, “Ms Swan can’t call Mrs Nolan. She doesn’t have her number!”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that something you want to try?” The children start mumbling to each other, some saying how they’ve seen Emma with Mary Margaret in the past and others who are saying they’ve never met in their life.

Killian, however, leans to whisper into her ear. “If you find yourself a tad bored after school or during planning, you know where to find me.” His hand lands on her bicep, giving it a light squeeze to get her attention. He winks at her one last time before sneaking out of the room, leaving her to deal with the tizzy he’s riled her students up into.

Come the end of the day, Emma’s feet hurt, she’s got papers to grade, and she has to get up and do it all over again tomorrow, but the intrigue behind Mr Jones’ offer is just too much to pass up. So after she waves goodbye to the buses, she slowly makes her way to the back of the school building. Most of the teachers leave shortly after the students, making the hallways slightly darker as she wanders through them now. At the end of the corridor, Mr Jones’ room is quite literally the only light at the end of the tunnel.

His door is wide open, but she knocks hesitantly anyway. He looks up from his pile of papers, the pen that was scratching away at written remarks coming to a halt. Killian smiles.

“Surprised to see me?” she asks shyly.

“In all honestly, yes,” he answers. “I thought I may have come on too strong,” he admits. His hands land on the top of the desk as he goes to push himself out of his desk chair, but Emma holds up her hands to stop him.

“No, don’t stop grading on my account,” she insists, walking toward him. “I’m learning how hard it is to get back to grading once you stop.” When she reaches the other side of his desk, Emma slides atop one of the desks nearby. “What are we reading?” she asks.

“This month’s book reports,” Killian says, settling back into his seat with a sigh. “You would think I handed them the book and asked for the report all in the same hour.”

“I’m sure that’s how it seemed for some of the kids.”

He hums, returning to the paper in front of him to quickly write something across it before  turning back to her. “I’m wonderfully pleased that you stopped by, but you really don’t have to stay. I don’t want to keep you from any plans.”

“Well it’s your lucky day,” she replies without much thought. “I find myself a free agent this evening.”

She does, kind of. She was going to swing by and let Mary Margaret and David, who knows, go to the grocery store on a date or something while Emma watched Robbie. But she didn’t set her plans in stone, so she can technically push it off until tomorrow.

(And if she plays hooky to finally talk to this man in person, then sue her.)

Sliding off the desk, Emma grabs the student’s desk chair and swings it until it’s around the side of the teacher’s desk. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks.

Killian’s brows crawl up his forehead. It seems she’s caught a little off guard. “Um, not particularly,” he says, surveying the piles on his desk. “Your company is more than enough assistance.”

She blushes. “Are you sure? You don’t want me to put stickers on good papers or draw little monsters on the bad ones?”

Laughing, Killian sets his pen down again. “As much as I would enjoy that, I don’t think the administration would be too fond of the monsters.” He gestures at the pen in front of him, blue ink bubbled up at the tip. “Can’t even use red pen anymore because it’s been shown to be too angry or some shit like that.”

Emma gasps, her hand covering her mouth for effect. “Such language,” she says, her hand falling from her mouth to her chest. “Think of the children.”

“After hours,” he reminds her with a smirk. “You’ve roamed these halls long enough to hear something along those lines. You’ve worked with some of those kids. Called them little shits, if I remember correctly.”

Emma shrugs. “As true as that might be,” she admits, “doesn’t it feel wrong?”

This time, Killian shrugs. “We are the adults in this realm. We’re the ones that rule the school.”

“Isn’t that what the psychiatrists say when the patients run the asylum?”

“Probably.” They both fall into silence as Killian goes back to grading. Emma, trying not to bother or creep him out too much, watches over his shoulder as he writes out comments. He sighs, putting the pen down again and scaring her a bit. “How about I finish up this assignment and then we can do something outside of school property?” he suggests. Raising an eyebrow, Killian adds, “Perhaps grab a drink.”

Pretending to be scandalized, Emma scolds him: “Mr Jones, it’s a school night.”

He smirks, his hands coming to rest wide at the back of his head. “All the more reason, Ms Swan.”

Rolling her eyes, Emma gets more comfortable in her chair. “Now I understand why you needed me so often,” she reasons, crossing her arms over her chest, feeling a little self-satisfied. “I bet shrill fifth grade voices do wonders to a hangover headache.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe, love,” Killian grumbles. “Although, to be completely transparent, the thought has crossed my mind that those students of mine are trying to replace me with you. They practically forced me out of the classroom when I so much as sneezed.”

Emma laughs. “I kind of get that impression too. They always wanted me to stay longer on half days so we could meet.”

Killian hums. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell them that we have then,” he suggests. “Leave them in suspense.”

While he goes back to working diligently, Emma tries to focus her attention on something productive, like perhaps cleaning up the counter on the other side of the room, but ends up getting distracted instead.

“Where’s the accent come from?” she asks. It’s something that’s been as on-and-off a thought as he has since they met in person earlier in the day.

(Mostly on.)

(He’s been very difficult to get off her mind.)

“My upbringing, I should believe,” he answers, not looking up from the paper before him. “I was raised in Kingston, outside of London.” Glancing up at her briefly, Killian asks, “Is that a problem, Swan?”

“No, of course not. I just wasn’t expecting it.” Under her breath, she adds, “Certainly isn’t unattractive, but whatever.”

By the way he chuckles as he marks a less-than-good grade on the paper before him, Emma’s assuming her attempts at subtly aren’t that at all.

“Who’s the other guy in the picture?” she asks, avoiding the tension that might arise as well as the warmth rising on her cheeks at being caught.

“Liam, my brother.” Emma sighs, because that makes a lot of sense. They look enough alike and Killian has mentioned his existence in many of his notes. “We sail out on the Jolly Roger during the summer,” he explains.

“Ah, that explains the boat picture.”

“Ship,” he’s quick to correct her.

“Ship?” Killian looks up briefly again to nod at his correction.“Ship. Where’s she these days?”

“Oregon coast, if you can believe it.” Sighing, Killian put the cap on his pen and sets it down. “As much as I love this nice tete-a-tete we’ve got going here, I would be more than happy to discuss it after I finish these last five papers.” He taps his fingers on said papers, his brow arching with challenge.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Emma chuckles, getting up and walking backward toward the dirty counter. Pointing over her shoulder, she says, “I’ll go busy myself over here. Let you get your work done, I guess.”

“That’s all I was asking, darling.”

0000

“Is this seat taken?” Killian’s voice startles her, deep and closer than she could’ve expected. Not that she was expecting his voice at all. Per the daily staff email, he was supposed to be out sick this morning, shouldn’t be on school property until quarter after noon.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, looking up at him from her seat.

He searches the room, confusion clear on his face. “This is the teachers’ lounge, Swan,” he says gently, as if she’s the one who shouldn’t be here. “It’s a public space.”

“But your kids are in your classroom,” she reasons. “And the email said you were out sick.”

Killian shrugs, setting his bag on the table space next to her. “Took the morning off for professional development but thought I’d come in anyway,” he says. His hand rests on the back of the chair next to her as his eyes widened in entreaty. “So may I sit here?”

Still a little stunned and not yet rid of the goosebumps from her earlier surprise, Emma nods. “Yeah, sure.”

Not that there was anything really to go off of before, but something changed inherently between them that night they went for drinks once he finally finished grading book reports. Their banter evolved before Emma’s eyes, from the long distance banter of their little notes to the quick-as-a-whip sarcasm and smartassery of real life interactions.

That night, after he treated her to a drink - or four, as it ended up being - Emma’s found him in her pathway more often than not. They’ve taken to counting the number of times in a day they see each other and Emma would be wrong to say that she doesn’t look forward to that little game of theirs.

(Their record so far is 13. They were both pretty impressed with themselves.)

(She treated him to drinks that night.)

(And dinner.)

(It might have been a date.)

And then the texts start and Mary Margaret still helps her with lesson plans on occasion, but now that Robbie’s a little colicky and her and David are a little more sleep deprived, Killian’s more of her go-to guy for that.

(Among other things…)

He’s scooting into the chair beside her, the legs of the furniture scratching against the linoleum, as he asks, “How is the little Nolan babe these days?”

“Robbie.” He knows the baby’s name: Emma’s told him time after time, especially when Mary Margaret sends her a new picture. And she can tell that Killian’s just pulling her leg by the sly grin growing on his face as he looks at her. Rolling her eyes, Emma can’t help from smiling herself. “He’s wonderful. All three of them are great.”

“That’s excellent to hear.”

“So were you just too upset at the prospect of not seeing me today that you had to come in?” she asks goadingly.

The one day she’d called in sick a couple days ago, her phone had nearly shut down with the sheer number of texts and missed calls she gotten when she finally decided to get up from her bed and shower. Sure, she expected the handful from David and Mary Margaret, the one or two from Regina saying that her sick leave was approved and to feel better, but she thought Killian might die without seeing her. It’s how his dramatic messages came off. Despite her telling him not to, he stopped over after work just to make sure she had everything she could’ve possibly needed.

“Would it put you off completely if I admit, yes, a wee bit?” he admits sheepishly, his tongue running across his lower lip. “You’re quite enchanting, love. No matter what’s already happened, you make any given day a hell of a lot better.”

Emma blushes, focusing back on the emails that awaited responses. “That still doesn’t really answer my question.”

“Yes it does.”

Starting to get frustrated, Emma finally huffs, “Then why exactly do I see you so much even when you should be with your kids and you aren’t off on P.D.?” It’s been on her mind as often as his accent when she showers or his blue eyes in her dreams. The instructional assistant has their desk in her classroom and she doesn’t even see them 13 times in one day. Something odd is afoot with their little game, and Emma knows it’s almost certainly Killian’s doing, because it sure as hell isn’t hers.

He sighs, opening his laptop. “I might, on occasion, ask someone to watch my classroom under the pretense that I need to visit the restroom.”

“And you come find me instead,” she extrapolates.

His hand reaches up to scratch behind his ear, a nervous tick Emma’s learned in their time together. “Guilty as charged,” he admits shyly.

Emma tsks at him. “You’re going to get in trouble one of these days,” she tells him, her voice melodic, almost gloating.

This time when he leans in to whisper in her ear, at least she’s got some warning: his jacket shushes up against the fabric of the chair. “Life’s not worth living without a little risk,” he murmurs enticingly. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Killian pulls away, much to her chagrin, although it’s probably for the best. She isn’t quite sure she could be held accountable for anything she may or may not have done if they’d maintained their proximity.

(She hasn’t had the pleasure of experiencing much of a romance with Killian thus far, but she certainly has enough fantasies to fulfill to give her a good idea of how it might have happened.)

And as he goes to putter about on his laptop, Emma hopes that Killian isn’t talking about only risking a few minutes with his students to see her. It sounds like he plans on jumping out of a plane, or swimming with sharks, or something even more life-changing than that.

(She can’t help but be curious as to what he might be thinking. Because if she’s on his wavelength, his and her little life-changing risk might coincide.)

(Or at least she hopes they do.)

0000

It’s a rainy Saturday, which hopefully bodes well if old wives’ tales should be trusted. Emma’s dress is perfectly white, probably the only solid white piece of clothing she owns that doesn’t have food stains or art project remains on it. It’s a hazard of teaching she’s gotten used to in her time as a substitute and then a fully-certified teacher, but seeing this pristine dress on, reflected back at her in the mirror, makes her wish that maybe she had a couple more shirts and pants that were at least this close to clean.

(Thank goodness she had had the foresight to ask to get ready in the back room of the church. The moment she steps outside in the downpour, her dress could be ruined. But she’ll roll with the punches.)

Mary Margaret sniffs slightly, a tissue covering the lower half of her face. Emma matches her gaze in the mirror.

“No, don’t do that,” she says sternly, already feeling her bottom lip beginning to tremble. “If you start crying, then I’ll start crying, and I can’t afford to redo my makeup.”

Sniffing again, Mary Margaret pats lightly at the corners of her own eyes. “You’re gorgeous,” she says, her voice as watery as her eyes.

Emma‘s smile is sympathetic. “Thanks.” For a moment, she just stares at her friend, equally as beautiful in her own maid of honor dress, before she shakes herself out of it. Looking back in the mirror, making sure everything is absolutely perfect, Emma asks, “What time is it?”

“Time to go.” David’s sassy response comes from the doorway. He looks dapper himself, even with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression is nearly identical to his wife’s, looking entirely the part of a man walking his daughter down the aisle. “You look like a blushing bride.”

Shoulders slumping with emotion, Emma grins back. “Thanks, Dad.” Stepping away from the mirror and toward her friends, she asks, “Where’s Robbie?”

“Granny’s got him, I think.” David leans over and kisses Mary Margaret on the temple before wrapping his arms around both his girls’ shoulders. “Or maybe Regina. I don’t know, the boy’s got so much damn charm. He’s been making his rounds.”

“Of course he has,” Emma chuckles out. She takes a deep breath, centering herself just like she did before taking the PRAXIS or walking into her first interview post-teaching degree. Then she opens her eyes, blows out a raspberry, and grins. “Okay, let’s do this.”

Mary Margaret squeals in delight as David smiles. Taking her hand, David threads Emma’s arm through the crook of his elbow. Mary Margaret goes ahead of them, taking on the role of maid of honor as seriously as she has since the day Emma asked, and David leads her to the back of the church. An attendant opens and closes the door, permitting the rest of the wedding procession in. They casually walk down to the altar, to where she knows Killian is standing there waiting for her, big brother Liam at his side.

(Liam had texted her last night, acting as the middleman between the two of them, telling her Killian was a ball of nerves and would probably be a little less than up to any arduous activities after tonight was over.

She told him she’d probably be the same. If she knew her fiancé, Killian’s last night as a bachelor would have been as sleepless as hers as a bachelorette.)

The door clunks shut behind Mary Margaret, leaving Emma and David the only ones in the hall besides the official door opener.

David’s hand taps on hers gripping to the crease of his elbow. “You ready?” he asks.

Licking her lips, Emma nods. She’s got one more thing on her mind before she’s really ready to do this whole ‘until death do us part’ thing.

“Thank you,” she says quickly. David squints his eyes at her. “If you hadn’t knocked Mary Margaret up, then we would never have gotten here. So I just wanted to say that before everything gets really emotional and everyone gets questionably drunk.” She breathes deeply and sighs. “Okay, yeah, now I am.”

David sniffs, holding back tears. He may be putting on a little bit of an act, but she can tell there are real tears ready to fall once the ceremony starts. “What a bomb to drop at a time like this,” he murmurs.

Emma shrugs, adjusting her bouquet to ward off any awkwardness she feels. “You’ve been around Killian,” she says. “Guess I’ve gotten a little too used to waiting for the dramatic reveal thing he does.” Sighing again, she stands up straight and faces the door separating her from the rest of her life.

(Not to be dramatic or anything.)

“Really, let’s do this,” she says confidently. “I’ve got a knot to tie.”

David gestures to the attendant, and the door opens to reveal their guests, pews nearly full on both sides. As she and David take their measures steps down the aisle, she waves and smiles at all the faces she recognizes as they pass by. Some of her master’s program classmates are here, along with current coworkers and former teachers. Hell, even some of her former coworkers from the bail bonds agency have made it. Probably just so they can go to the party afterwards.

(Definitely so they can go to the party afterwards.)

And at the front of the church, in the second and third rows, are 22 teenagers, their smiles so wide it nearly brings Emma to tears. The 23rd - mastermind matchmaker Henry - stands behind Killian with his other groomsmen.

It’s been a few years - Mr Jones’ fifth grade class now well into their high school experience - but every single one of them found the time between academic decathlons and track meets and Shakespeare plays to watch their teacher and their favorite substitute get married. At first she thought it was a little unconventional, but when she brought it up to Killian one night before they fell asleep, he found it brilliant.

“In case you haven’t noticed, love, those kids still love you,” he’d whispered into the skin of her shoulder. “At least one of them sends me an email updating us on their lives every week. We��ve attended every play and homecoming.” She had curled into his chest, her head coming to rest over his steady heartbeat. “I’m pretty sure those kids see us as their cool aunt and uncle.”

“Well, I guess it would an insult not to invite them to a family wedding,” she’d murmured back.

Emma thought she’d be able to hold herself together until at least the vows. While she had decided to use the traditional words, she knows Killian has written his own, probably with the specific intention of destroying her emotions. But the moment she spots those kids, she remembers every little nudge they gave her, every time she wrote to Killian about the days they spent trying to get through a lesson plan, and the dams break.

Much to David’s surprise, Emma stops in the middle of the aisle, two pews from the altar. She makes eye contact with Killian, who tilts his head, silently asking what are you up to?

Emma gestures toward the kids next to her.

He understands, stepping down from the altar to her side.

Emma turns to David. “I know this is a little off book, but I’ve got a couple people I’ve got to thank,” she tells him.

David smiles and moves her hand from his elbow to Killian’s proffered arm. “Say no more,” he says. “I completely understand.”

With a kiss to her forehead, David heads to Granny’s side, taking Robbie from her grasp.. Vaguely, Emma can hear her maid of honor stand up and start explaining the small halt in the ceremony, but Emma herself is too focus on squeezing the life out of every kid that comes to her. Each one of them embraces her back, some of them whispering how excited or happy they are, before moving on to hug Killian. It only takes five or so minutes to make it through the class, some of the girls crying even harder than they were before at the gesture.

Once the last student - Henry, of course - makes it back to their place, Emma wipes cautiously beneath her eyes. Killian takes her other hand and squeezes.

“Are you ready to get married now?” he asks, his voice lovingly mocking.

Emma nods, leaning into his shoulder. “Hopefully I won’t get distracted now,” she says.

Killian kisses the top of her head. “Don’t worry, love, you’ll do wonderfully.”