#and frankly? if I’m up for it? might fold some laundry

[the-bluestreak-cat]

I just sent six emails I’ve had on lock for the last week. Exhausted, deserving of a Little Treat

[eyesofshinigami]

Alley Oop

Rating: G

CW: None

Tags: Established relationship, supportive Wayne, sports talk, Eddie loves Steve

Prompt: For @sparklyslug "Love is secretly studying up on the nerd shit he's into" (I took it in a slightly different direction, but it was fun!)

WC: 709

Written for @steddielovemonth Day 11

Eddie thought he would get away with it. That no one would know. It could just be his little secret and then he could pull it out and impress Steve and show him that he does listen when he talks.

“What are you doing, boy?” 

Eddie nearly pops out of his skin, throwing the magazine over his shoulder and nearly braining Wayne with it. “What?! Nothing! I’m doing nothing!” he cries out, turning around and trying to act casual.

Wayne raises an eyebrow. “Then why are you acting like I just caught you with your hand in the cookie jar?” He folds his arms and pins Eddie with a look. “You know, I already told you I’m okay with you and Steve and what you get up to, as long as you-”

“Oh my god, no, Wayne. It’s nothing like that,” Eddie groans, letting his head thunk against the table. His uncle thinking he was looking at porn in the middle of their kitchen is almost worse than what he was looking at. “I’mreadingaboutsports,” he grits out quickly.

“What was that now?”

Eddie sighs. “I said… I’m reading about sports. Picked up some magazines from Melvald’s.”

Wayne looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “I don’t think I’m following, son.” 

“I’m trying to learn more about sports. You know. For Steve.” Eddie talked a lot of shit about sports in high school, knows deep down it’s not really his thing, but he can’t deny how much he loves how Steve gets when he gets to share his passion for them. For all that Steve talks about how dumb he is, the guy has a brain like a steel trap when it comes to statistics, plays, maneuvers, and players. He can recall how his favorite sports team fared ten years ago, he can calculate a batting average off the top of his head, and he can predict a play that a coach is going to call before the coach does. It’s frankly pretty impressive. How could Eddie not want to indulge that? “He’s been playing in my new campaign and having a lot of fun, so… I thought I would do the same for him?”

Wayne’s lips quirk up in a smile. “You asking me or telling me?” Eddie lets out a noise like a deflating balloon, which makes Wayne laugh. “I’m only picking at ya, boy. But I think that’s sweet. And I know he’ll appreciate it. You ought to see the way that he looks at ya when we’re all watching the game together.” 

That makes Eddie feel a little gooey inside. It makes him happy to know that other people see how happy they make each other. “Yeah. I want to like… understand what he’s talking about. It’s a lot more complicated than getting a ball in a laundry basket.” He chuckles, remembering the rant he sent Steve on when he said that. He’d been teasing, but when he thought back, he might have felt the same if Steve made a comment like that about one of his monsters or a plot he’d come up with. 

See? He’s growing as a person!

“Even if you don’t like it, it’ll mean something to him that you’re trying.” Wayne reaches out and ruffles Eddie’s hair, the same way he’s done since Eddie was a kid. “Y’all are good for each other. I was skeptical about that boy when you first brought him ‘round, but I see it now. You keep taking care of each other like this and it’ll work out just fine.” Wayne bends down and picks up the magazine from the floor and hands it back to Eddie. “Better get to studying. The Pacers game is next weekend and I bet Steve would appreciate a trip down to Indianapolis…”

With a wink, Wayne leaves him be. 

The wheels in Eddie’s head are already turning, thinking about how he can rope Robin into helping him get tickets. Maybe they can make a weekend of it, rent a hotel room and go out to dinner and just be with each other for a while.

Yeah, that sounds excellent. Eddie will get right on that, right after he learns the difference between a bank shot and a free throw.

[barzzal]

Okay but the fanfic trope where the couple is like “I could totally go without sex longer than you could” and then they’re so miserable until they finally cave?? Mat is so competitive and stubborn he’d absolutely take that challenge

warnings: pg (18+), fluff, sexual and suggestive themes, slightest hint of pining i guess you might miss it, (a/n: i lowkey want this for myself ngl thank u nonnie)

Seven days. That’s how long Mat has been keeping himself from touching you - and frankly, himself too.

It was stupid and foolish just like the time he’s agreed to do the ‘No Nut’ with Beau last November. Clearly, he just can’t think straight when his winning is at stake. 

If you had only asked him, the entire week was torture. Mind-numbing torture. Not to mention how the two of you are just casually throwing your subtle moves onto each other hoping the other would finally cave and just give in. 

But Mat has had to break the habit of underestimating you. Let alone letting you partake in a challenge that he knows you’re eventually gonna win. Hell, you’ve punished him enough just by how you’re constantly hinting on how much you needed him. He knows well enough that you’re just playing with him but Mat, as bad as he wants to win every fight, is beginning to lose his sanity. 

You, on the other hand, weren’t doing as good as Mathew thinks either. You know you’d be able to make him cave just by perking your ass and pressing it against his groin when cuddling, but boy, that man is all about winning more than he’s all about that ass. 

His teasing doesn’t help either. Not that he was the best at it but you’re just so unbelievably attracted to the man that he can literally lift and play with a metal spoon and that would drive you crazy all throughout the day. In deed, torture is an understatement when you’re up against the face of the New York Islanders. 

“I don’t really see the point why we’re even doing this.” you sigh, taking a spoonful of cookie dough ice cream into your mouth in the most unlady-like fashion. 

Mat rolls his eyes and scoffs, “I’m doing this to escape two weeks of laundry and doing the dishes. I have a lot at stake.” he lies, averting his gaze away from how you’re licking off your spoon like a neanderthal. Mat swears that you can be the nastiest person in the room and he would still have his neck broken by you just because he can’t stop looking. 

“I’m just saying,” you stop to swallow, “I’m never gonna admit that I’m a bad driver. That alone is a lot at stake for me as well and I’m not about letting you win either.” 

“But…” Mat looks at you with an arched brow. 

“How’d you even know there’s gonna be a ‘but’?” you question.

“I just know, baby.” he winks and chuckles. “Go on.”

“But- just so you know, should you let me win, tapping anytime of the week will be back on the table.” you tell him innocently as you dig into the cold treat yet again. 

Mathew takes a while to answer but resorts to shaking his head shamelessly, “Hah. Hell no. You’re not getting me that way.” he refuses.

You shrug, so sure of yourself. “Wanna bet?” 

𖥸 

That night, sleep eludes Mathew as he waits for you to turn in for bed. You had to answer an important business call and you have been stuck in front of your computer for the last two hours.

Mat gets up and leaves the bedroom only to find you with your blazer and glasses on, too occupied to even notice him walk into the living room. 

He carefully treads his way to you so as to let his presence be known. You give him a quick glance and decide to turn off your camera and microphone for a while, “I’m so sorry I didn’t think this would take hours.” 

Mat says nothing other than smile and lean towards you to plant a small kiss on top of your head.

He lovingly rubs your back and says, “Go, do your thing, babe.” 

You give him a smile and mouth him a ‘thank you’ when he returns to place a hot cup of coffee on the table. He sits on the armchair in the living room so as to keep distance from you for he didn’t want to become a distraction. He watches you talk in your work language whilst he sips on his decaf. It’ll be a while before you finish up that he might as well wait and go to bed at the same time as you will. 

It was almost two in the morning by the time you’ve finally wrapped up the meeting. Your boss was stuck in Asia so you had to do some adjustments - most of it tailored to her time. You love your job so you didn’t feel the need to complain. On the more important note, however, was the man you love sleeping in your living room. 

You sigh and run your fingers through his hair softly, not wanting to wake him up. 

But of course, being that he’s a light sleeper, you end up doing the opposite.

Mat shifts to see you clearly, fighting himself from closing his eyes due to fatigue, causing your hand to fall and take rest caressing his warm cheek.

“Why didn’t you sleep in the bedroom?” you quietly ask.

“I was waiting for you.” he smiles weakly, admittedly enjoying how your voice sounded in his ears. “Are you finished?” he asks, voice a bit raspy. 

You only nod, leaning to kiss the tip of his nose, but Mat is fast regardless of his groggy state and catches you with his lips instead. 

The kiss is slow and tender. One that’s meant to catch you off guard before you eventually sink into it. 

By the time the two of you break away, your hand was already wrapped around his jaw and a part of his neck, whilst he held you by your waist as you sat on his lap with his other hand already caressing your thigh. 

“I miss you.” he confesses, his voice nearly coming off as a growl. 

“What about the bet?” you ask him, almost whispering. “I know you hate losing.”

He kisses you yet again, the sound waking you even more than the amount of caffeine coursing through your veins ever did. “I fold,” he declares. “you win.”

Your kisses begin to grow deeper once you answer Mat’s invitation. Your legs, just like the other times, miraculously find its way to dangle itself around Mathew. His hands mirrored your body language as it wrapped fittingly around your waist. Neither of you dared to break the kiss even when Mat pulled you closer to enclose himself in between your legs. He stands, a hand in support of your back, the other weaving through your hair as he carefully maneuvered around the coffee table towards your bedroom door. 

When the night’s over, you wake up to his empty side of the bed, only to see him in the kitchen at 7 in the morning — putting away the dishes you left in the dishwasher the night you finally gotten laid after a good seven-day dry streak.

it’s wet weekends!

[petri808]

B2+Nalu stealing clothes @heres-a-cookie request HS-modern setting AU/Alpha/Omega AU fluff

“Mo—m! Have you seen my dragon shirt?” Natsu Dragneel yelled from his bedroom, searching his closet to no avail. The Alpha teen was frustrated that he couldn’t find one of his favorite t-shirts. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen it for over a week.

“No,” the reply came from somewhere in the house. “Maybe it’s still in the laundry room waiting to be washed.”

“Ugh!” Natsu groaned and grabbed an alternative. The high school senior had wasted too much time searching and needed to get to school before he was late again. This was the second t-shirt to go missing this month!

He plops onto his first period seat just as the school bell rang, an annoyed look on the teachers face greeting him. But Natsu merely shrugged at the man with a wide brimmed smile. What was Mr. Gildarts gonna do? He’d made it on time and he was a star pupil. The lesson droned on. Then second period, and third period passed by with nothing out of the ordinary.

As a popular Alpha, Natsu fielded a lot of attention, especially from the Omegas, but he never let it get in the way of his education. He’d learned to ignore the wanton scents left behind by irresponsible Omegas. Everyone was supposed to wear suppression patches in public, but the rule was rarely enforced unless there was a problem and that mostly happened if they weren’t suppressing a heat spell or rut.

Thankfully it was time for lunch, and since he’d missed breakfast, Natsu was starving! The cafeteria was filled with students by the time he’d arrived, but as his eyes searched, it keyed in on their usual spot. His friends were mostly sitting with their trays in conversation, so Natsu quickly grabbed his food and joined them, taking a seat next to his best friend, and fellow Alpha Gray Fullbuster. It was typical high school banter, projects coming up, some gossip like so-and-so just started courting, blah, blah, blah. Natsu didn’t really pay much attention to such things. Not that he didn’t like a certain blonde Omega, but they’re still young, and frankly he wasn’t interested in following traditional rules at the moment.

Okay, that was a bit of a lie. While he may be an Alpha, that didn’t mean he wasn’t socially awkward when it came to the idea of dating. Alphas are expected to take the dominant position, make the moves, so-to-speak, and he was afraid to. There is supposed to be a proper way to court the person you like, giving proper gifts, etc and Natsu was too nervous to even walk into those stores to buy anything. Plus, he didn’t know if the Omegan felt the same, and the last thing he wanted be was rejected.

“You okay, dude?” Gray nudged Natsu’s side. “You’re like, distracted today.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I was just trying to think where I might have left one of my shirts. I couldn’t find it this morning.”

“Am I rubbing off on you? Picked up my stripping habit?”

“Pfft! No! I’m sure I’ll find it.”

But he doesn’t. Natsu searched his locker at school, all over his house, and never found it. Two weeks later another piece of clothing disappeared, then a month later another. The tally was up to three t-shirts, a pair of socks, a hoodie, and now his favorite scarf. Okay, the other items he could deal with, but the scarf held a lot of meaning for him because his father gave it to him for his 10th birthday.

Natsu vented about the missing scarf at school the next day to his friends. How it was really strange that stuff was going missing from his room. Everyone tried to give suggestions, maybe he’d simply misplaced them or stress from school was affecting his memory. One person even commented that ruts were affecting his brain. Pfft, no they weren’t! He was very careful to control and suppress his rut times to avoid its affect on the unmated.

Then something new occurred in the clothing shenanigans. A couple of days later, he found his scarf back in his room, neatly folded, but hidden in his closet. Had he simply missed it? No, he was pretty certain he’d checked well and the scarf had not been in his closet. The only person who’d been in his room that week aside from himself was his mother and Lucy Heartfilia.

“Could it have been Lucy?” Natsu wondered aloud, while wrapping the scarf around his neck. They’d known each other since primary school and the blonde never struck him as a thief. There must be a logical explanation. “I’ll just drop by and ask her,” since he needed to give her his notes for a class anyways.

It took him only a few minutes to arrive at Lucy’s home a couple of blocks over. Natsu knocked and was greeted by Virgo, the family maid who welcomed him in.

“Miss Lucy is in her room,” the woman gestured towards the stairs with a gleam in her eyes. “Go right on up.”

“Are you sure it’s okay if I go up there?”

“Oh, yes! I’m sure she’d be happy to see you. Just knock upon entering.”

“Thank you, Virgo,” he smiled and walked to the stairs.

Natsu knew where Lucy’s room was, but it had been a couple of years since he’d gone inside it. When they studied, she always went to his house, or they’d study in her living room. He assumed it was because they were older now, and it wasn’t as proper for a male to go into a girls room. Which was fine with him. He didn’t want to see anything inappropriate by accident that could trigger his instincts.

He knocked as he opened the door. “Hey Lucy, you in—” A shriek rang out as he stepped inside and was confronted by a sight he wasn’t expecting. Nothing R rated! But... “I-Is that?”

“Omg what are you doing here?!” The blonde screamed as she scrambled, failing to hide things.

“I have the notes for the test... Lucy, is that my shirt?” Natsu spied the familiar dragon logo he’d been searching for in over a month.

All the blood runs out of Lucy’s face at being caught. “Um, I-I... I can explain.”

Just as expected, Natsu’s Alpha instincts kicked in the moment he sensed the distress blooming in the Omegas scent. Lucy wasn’t wearing a suppression patch since she was at home, so he could smell her feelings immediately. And what he was seeing was clearly a nest based on what they’d learned in health class. It all made sense now. “I’m not angry,” his face softened, almost chuckling. Frankly, she was adorably embarrassed and he couldn’t help the preening sense of pride growing in his chest. “You took my stuff to add to your nest?”

The blonde averted her eyes. “Yes. Your scent is comforting during my h-heat cycles,” her voice petered out at the last part. “I didn’t think you liked me in this way, so I took them when I was at your house.”

It shouldn’t surprise him that she felt this way about him. One of the reasons they’d grown close over the years was because their scents were comforting to each other’s. Natsu closed the gap between them, taking her hands gently into his. “Lucy look at me,” he coaxed her brown eyes up. “I’d be honored to court you properly, if you’ll let me.” He then removed the scarf from his neck and wound it around hers, “consider this a promise gift.”

“Is this for real?” The words wisp out from Lucy’s lips as if unbelieving what the Alpha was saying.

He chuckled and swept in to place a soft kiss on her lips. “It’s as real as you’d like it to be.”

[catsafarithewriter]

“Listen, I didn’t do anything this time, I was just there when things started to fall apart.” with Muta, if you'd please, that just screams him haha. i love your writing!

A/N: The idea for this prompt was inspired by this post. It’s just a bit of fun, with harmless Muta and Haru hijinks and extreme prejudice against polka-dots :) Enjoy!

(No real bowties were harmed in the making of this ficlet) 

x

Haru didn’t even mean to lose the first bowtie. 

Even if it was fugly. 

(“What,” she had demanded upon walking into the Bureau, “is that?”)

(”It’s a bowtie,” Baron had answered, as if he wasn’t wearing a blue polka-dotted monstrosity around his neck. He had righted it with some pride above the yellow  waistcoat it empirically did not match. “It’s one of my old suits; I’ve decided to take it out for a spin. What do you think?”)

(And he had looked so proud of himself that Haru hadn’t had the heart to reply honestly, which had mostly comprised of the genuine question of whether Baron was colour-blind.)

And so Baron, fugly bowtie and all, had accompanied them on the case, and only Baron had returned. 

Purely accidentally, naturally. 

And it honestly had been. There had been a costume change (Baron’s decision, obviously) and then a hurried exit (as usual) and by the time they had all escaped with only a minor dent to their dignity, Haru realised she had forgotten to grab Baron’s bowtie when she had swept everything else up. 

The second bowtie’s loss, however, might have been slightly intentional.

It had been a week after the previous case, and all thoughts of polka dots and fashion monstrosities had been replaced with things like groceries and laundry and trying not to get eaten by ogres. Regular things. 

And then it reappeared. 

Haru swung into the Bureau, already tying her hair back and securing her back over one shoulder when she stopped dead. 

“I came as fast as I got your message - we really need to find a better communication system than Toto dropping envelopes from above - just about anyone could pick it up, and it’s hardly subtle, but then again I guess those kinds of dramatics are right up your -- oh my god, it’s back.”

Baron turned to her, straightening out the tie beneath his collar. “What was that, Miss Haru?”

“The polka dots,” Haru said. “They’re back.”

“Ah yes, Well, as they say, you can’t keep good fashion down.”

“However much they may try,” Haru muttered. Then, “And the waistcoat, I see, is back in full force.”

“I believe yellow is my colour.”

Haru raised an eyebrow, but declined to comment. 

So when they needed something to tie the door-handles together to hinder their pursuers while they made a run for it with the giant’s golden goose, Haru suggested the bowtie with only the barest smidgen of guilt. It was either that or her belt, and she liked that belt. It had flowers decorated on it. 

And so fugly bowtie number two kicked the bucket when the door was kicked in. 

x

The third bowtie was when Haru began to get suspicious. 

After all, she could have believed that the first time, he’d somehow retrieved it without mentioning it to Haru, but there was no way that was the same tie. She’d seen it tear in half beyond repair, get trampled on, and possibly get eaten by one of the giant’s goats, for goodness sake. 

“Eh, maybe it’s a backup, Chicky,” Muta suggested when Haru brought it up mid-case. “Or maybe he grabbed it before it got damaged. You gotta admit, we weren’t exactly taking inventory while we were running for our lives last time.”

“We’ll see about that.”

So, to Haru’s shame - but not enough to reconsider her actions - she may have stolen the horrifying bowtie when (once again) they donned on disguises, and fed it to one of the pond koi. 

A week later, it reappeared. 

x

“It’s a conspiracy, I’m telling you,” Haru hissed to Muta at the Crossroads. She passed across a tuna sandwich to him. “Every time I think it’s been irreparably lost or damaged, there it is! One back-up tie I can believe - but two?”

“Maybe it’s a Creation thing,” Muta suggested around a mouthful of fish. “Like he can summon it back to him cause it’s something that was made alongside him.”

“Summon it?” Haru echoed. “Like in Harry Potter?” She had the fleeting, but no less amusing, image of bowties flying through the air like silken bats. She grinned, and then refocused on the mystery at hand. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this.”

Muta yawn. “Have ya tried asking him?”

“Where’s the fun in that? Come on, this is a mystery, Muta.”

“You’ve already asked him, haven’t you?” he translated.

Haru deflated. “Yeah. He said that a gentleman never reveals his secrets.”

“Typical Baron.”

“Yeah.”

“So what do you need from me?”

Haru grinned. “We need to see how many lives that tie has.”  

x

It was frankly, Haru considered, quite amazing how many different ways one could destroy a bowtie if one got inventive enough. And, given the variety of worlds they visited, they had plenty chance to get creative. 

Bowtie number six bit the dust when it found its way - somehow - into the belly of an active volcano. 

Bowtie number nine got eaten by a plant.

Bowtie thirteen grew wings and flapped off into the sunset after a wayward wizard’s spell went rogue. 

And yet they kept reappearing. 

x

“Do you think he knows?”

Muta looked up from the newspaper he was flicking through. “Who knows what?”

“Baron,” Haru said. “About the bowties?”

Muta considered this, then folded down his paper to fix Haru with a solid stare. “Do I think,” he asked, “that Baron knows we’re systematically destroying his terrible polka dot tie after the kraken incident?”

Haru winced. “Good point.” 

“I mean, I ain’t gonna tell you how to scheme, but maybe tackling Baron in the middle of a sea monster attack and trying to fend it off with a tie.”

Haru nodded, lips pursed as she came to the inevitable conclusion. “So he’s toying with us.”

“Yep.”

 She continued to nod. “That explains why he looks so smug whenever he reappears with it.”

“Oh. So you finally noticed.”

“Well we can be sure it’s not accio-ing its way back to him,” Haru said. “After all, it’d be incinerated after the chimera incident. He has to have multiple bowties.”

“Maybe he’s ordering them in,” Muta offered. 

“Maybe, but...” Haru frowned. “That implies he has a tailor.”

“We’d have heard about that.”

“Yeah.” She considered. “He’d have strong-armed his tailor into making him a cape or cloak by now. Maybe he orders them wholesale from an online company.”

Muta snorted. “With his technology prowess?”

“...True.”

There was a long pause. 

“Of course,” Muta said slowly, “there’s always the possibility that he has a whole wardrobe of them. Like you see in the movies. Just hundreds of polka-dot monstrosities carefully folded in a drawer.”

Haru and Muta exchanged glances. 

“We really shouldn’t nosy...” Haru said, but without conviction.

“We shouldn’t...”

“But we’re gonna to, aren’t we?”

Muta grinned. “I knew there was a reason I got on with you, Chicky.”

x

Haru looked around the Bureau’s interior in despair, and then to Muta for help. “You know, I never thought about this, but there aren’t any wardrobes in here.”

“Where did he get the bowtie from in the first place?”

“He... You know, I don’t have the foggiest? He was already wearing it when I first saw it.”

“Eh.”

“Yeah, I know. Helpful.” Haru ran her hands through her hair. “I’ll look through the desk drawers, you check the books for... I don’t know, a hidden door or something.”

“Really?”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

“What about up there?” And Muta pointed to a series of boxes carefully stacked on the top of the bookshelves.

Haru looked up. And then up. And then some. “Pass me the ladder.”

“Are ya sure--”

“We’re getting to the bottom of this, Muta!”

He shrugged and collected up the ladder leaning against the corner, pulling it open and holding it in place. “Up yer go.”

“You know, this is all very weird,” Haru said as she scaled the steps. She glanced down at Muta. Or over at him, since the few steps granted her on eye-level with him. “I mean, there really aren’t any wardrobes in here, and Baron...”

“Face it, Chicky; how often have you seen him switch up his clothes?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No, I mean... no, he must change sometime...”

“Creations are weird, kid. You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t want to get used to it. I want answers. I want -- I want...” She stuttered as she tried to pull the boxes loose, but they jammed. She tugged at them, and the shelf wobbled. “Come -- on -- out-- you -- stupid -- box --got it!” She gave a cry of triumph as she heaved one box away. “Hah! Oh.”

“What’s in the box?”

“Hm, well it’s not bowties.” 

There was a creak, and before Muta could ask anything more, the bookshelf began to lean precariously away from the wall. Haru squeaked, Muta yowled, and both dropped everything to grab the shelves before gravity could take over. 

The creaking stopped. 

Haru exhaled. “Well, that was a close call--”

The next bookshelf over toppled forward.

And then the one on the other side went. 

When the dust finally cleared, there was an audible sigh from both. 

“Okay, so that was--”

“Not another word to tempt fate, Chicky.” 

“I was only going to say--”

“No.”

“But--”

“Nada.” 

 Haru pouted. “You say that like you’ve never made a mess in your life.” 

“What in the world is going on here?”

Haru and Muta both spun on their heels to see Baron standing in the doorway, and as their grip slipped, the middle bookcase finally gave way. Haru squealed and leapt out of the way before she could be squashed beneath it.

Muta raised his paws defensively. “Listen, I didn’t do anything this time, I was just there when things started to fall apart.” 

“Baron. Baron, Baron, Baron.” Haru skidded over the chaos, stumbling against the desk that had narrowly avoided becoming a casualty, and reached Baron. “How do your bowties keep reappearing? I need to know!”

Baron gently set his top hat to one side, returning to old habits to deal with the fact that the Bureau had looked better when a tornado spirit had invaded the building. “That is what this is all about?”

“...Well, when you put it like that, it sounds so silly...”

“Just tell them, Baron,” Toto called from the internal balcony. He had arrived when Baron had, and the smile on his beak implied he had known the mystery that had plagued Muta and Haru and had taken great joy in watching the drama unfold. “Before they decide to blow up my column looking for your secret bowtie stash.”

Baron nodded. “Very well. Please watch.” He reclaimed his hat and carefully exhaled, sparks of magic flowing up and over him as he reverted to his inanimate form. 

“Is this his way of running from the answer?” Muta stage-whispered.

“Keep watching, pudding-brain.”

Sparks flew up again as Baron returned to his flesh and blood form, but as he did so, subtle changes took place. The classy red waistcoat shifted colour, like someone dragging a swatch through a colour wheel until it rested on yellow, and the royal-blue bowtie became blotchy, making way for white polka dots that had drawn Haru’s attention so strongly in the first place. 

By the time Baron was blinking the gemstone glaze from his eyes, Haru’s jaw had dropped. 

“You can shapeshift?”

“Not exactly.” Baron righted his tie, as if it hadn’t been perfectly straight before. “All Creations have a default appearance that we can subtly alter as our personalities and style shift. I can not grow wings or a second tail, but I can nudge the set pattern of my waistcoat or - in this case - bowtie to fit my liking.”

Toto cackled. “You should have seen his experimental stage. He had grey fur for a decade before he went back to ginger.”

“Yes, thank you, Toto,” Baron said curtly. “We all go through phases.”

 “Louise laughed until she cried,” Toto informed them. “She said that they looked like they were cosplaying as yin and yang if they stood together.”

“Thank you, Toto.”

“Please tell me there are photos somewhere,” Haru begged.

“There are,” Baron said. “In there.” And he pointed to the pile of books smothered beneath the toppled shelves. He raised an eyebrow at Muta and Haru. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, kinda forgot about that...”

Muta trundled over to the mess, but Haru lingered a moment longer with Baron. She leant in. “Just for the record, I think you look great, regardless of your fashion sense.”

He grinned knowingly. “Even with the polka dots?”

She kissed his cheek. “Don’t push your luck.”

[razorblade180]

Sunshower 11

xxxx(sequence break) ****(lewd break)

It was morning. After a long party filled night of dancing and tension, it was morning; early morning at that. The sunlight made its way through the trees and pierced into Ilia's house. Slowly warming up the place and stirring the young woman awake. Her eyes calmy opened and she rose up a bit out of it with a heavy yawn followed by stretching her arms.

‘Damn, that felt nice. Haven’t slept like that in awhile.’ She thought happily. Good sleep had a way of lifting her spirits. Her mind hadn’t caught up with last night's events yet though. That was, until she noticed all of her pillows seem to have been placed around her in a circle. One of them was a bit lumpy. Most likely she had been holding onto that one. Something felt off though.

’Weird, I don’t place my pillows like this. Oh, maybe it was Sun who-’ Instantly her face turned red as she remembered. ‘Sun is here!’ Ilia grabbed a shirt, suppressing the fact she was completely exposed last night, and hopped out of bed; putting on underwear as she left her room.

“Sun?” Ilia said, loud enough for him to hear it anywhere in her home, but there was no answer. ‘Did he leave? I made it an option for him.’ She plonked around her laundry area and the living room; no close of his to be found. The blanket was also folded on the couch. “Guess he did leave.

Ilia stood in the living room quietly for a moment to take in all the information. It was kinda funny, her chest, it felt a little heavy. She also noticed her freckles turn a little blue while the sound of silence filled the house. ‘Weird, I gave him the option and yet…. I sorta wish that he st-’

A click from the front door snapped Ilia out of thoughts and made her eyes go wide. It opened with a certain monkey faunus right behind it; holding a brown bag and wearing his usual outfit. Sun wasn’t expecting to encounter Ilia so suddenly and was surprised to find himself locking eyes with her before blushing. Turning his head away quick.

Ilia:H-Hey….

Sun:Hey….

Ilia:You’re back, surprisingly.

Sun:Yeah I needed clothes and got hungry but didn’t want to raid your fridge so...we have breakfast burritos now.

Ilia:We?

Sun:That’s what I said. But uh… can you do me a favor first by putting on some pants please?

Her skin went totally pink as she looked down and realized she was still only in a shirt and purple panties. She would’ve thought after last night this was no big deal but right now she was feeling her face get hotter by the second.

Ilia: I’LL BE RIGHT BACK! *runs off*

xxxx

Sun:Well someone is definitely hungry.

Ilia was on her third burrito. The two hadn’t done much talking because of it. If he had a big ego, he’d think last night made her hungry. But he’s seen this before at the diner; he’s done this maneuver himself before.

Sun:This whole thing is very nerve racking to you, isn’t it?

Ilia:*sips drink* Maybe a little? I’m a bit surprised that I’m not changing colors right now.

Sun:Well I can’t blame you. Still it’s something we might as well talk about now; I want to anyways.

Ilia:So assertive. Is this what post virgin Sun Wukong looks like?

Sun:*red* That has nothing to do with it! I just thought I’d follow your advice on not sacrificing my feelings for others. “Get greedy” right?

Ilia:I...did say that didn’t I? Hehe.,,

Sun:Yellow?

Ilia:Huh?

Sun:Your freckles, I’ve never seen them turn yellow until now.

Ilia looks down at her arm to find that she was indeed yellow. She almost let out a slightly annoyed groan. Keeping neutral expressions has always been a bit challenging but this was getting ridiculous!

Sun:Is something wrong?

Ilia:No, not really. I just can’t believe I’ve been changing so many different colors lately. I’m typically really good at keeping my actual color.

Sun:You really are like a living mood ring huh? That’s pretty cool. Mind telling me what yellow was.

Ilia:I was…flattered, happy that you took my advice. Look, can we get back to the topic at hand? (Why the hell am I so anxious about all of this? We’re just talking.)

Sun:Alrighty then. I uh, hmm… not sure exactly where to start honestly.

Ilia:You are the one who brought this up!

Sun:Listen, I’ve been thinking of a ton of things since I got up. Keeping them in order hasn’t exactly been easy. I almost fell leaving this place.

Ilia:Forgot that you were in a tree?

Sun:Maybe.*rubs head* Anyways last night, it… it was really-

Ilia:Good.

Sun’s eyes widened and stopped fidgeting with his hair. He looked right at Ilia who gave him a quick glance before looking out the window while taking another sip of orange juice through a straw. Even though she was trying to avoid eye contact, Ilia could see the smile the monkey faunus was making from the corner of her eye. Not out of arrogance either. He seemed… relieved. Yeah, that was the word.

‘He must’ve been thinking of every terrible answer since he got up.’ Ilia thought, a bit cheeky from the idea. ‘Was my opinion really that important to him?’ The entire mood felt different. As if the air was easier to breathe. Ilia looked back at him and took a moment to collect her thoughts.

Ilia:Last night felt good. Strange and more than a little frightening, but good. Annoyingly so if I’m being honest.

Sun:Annoying?

Ilia:I can’t describe to you how embarrassing it was for me. I’ve been around a bit and have had my fair share of being passive or aggressive in bed. I also like to think I know what I’m doing. Then here you are, tripping me up and making me freeze while you take the reins! On your first real time too! So unfair.

Sun:That’s what has you annoyed, I did well!? Don’t scare me like that!

Ilia:Nobody should expect the results we got last night. It makes this entire thing a bit more overwhelming frankly.

Sun:I don’t know what to tell you. I was fumbling around and going by ear. Especially the end. Things were pretty tense between us all day yesterday. Also you don’t really have experience with a guy right? Maybe all that combined is why it all felt the way it did.

Ilia:That has to be it, yeah.

Sun:Is being torn up about good sex a normal thing or an Ilia thing?

Ilia:Okay smartass, you haven’t really told me your thoughts yet.

Sun:I didn’t think I really had to. You were an amazing first time experience!

Ilia:C...can you be a little less enthusiastic please?

Sun:What? It’s true. *red* I was mesmerized by you…

Ilia:....*face palms*

Sun:!!? Sorry, is that weird to say?

Ilia:No, just a lot to process. You weren’t kidding about sharing your feelings.

Sun:My bad hehe, I can ease up a-

Ilia:No! I mean...no, this is pretty refreshing. Not having to read in between any lines, it kinda feels like that night on the roof; or at the pier.

Sun:We’re clearing the air.

Ilia:Exactly, I like it. So then, anything else you want to bring up specially?

Sun:Good question. Well...I suppose the only other thing that really confuses me is what exactly does this mean going forward for us?

“Us” Something about that word made Ilia faintly gasp; almost as if she had been startled. The word made her chest feel a little funny. As if her heart tried to skip a beat. “Us” was flattering, but also dreadfully terrifying. What did it even mean? Ilia knew she was in no state to really find an answer.

Ilia:Let’s...keep this between us. Just like before. Not to be rude or ashamed but this whole thing is just really….

Sun:I get it. I’m pretty much on the same page. No point in letting the world know since we ourselves don’t really know how to explain it all. This must be extra weird for you considering, you know.

Ilia:Yeah, it is. I never really thought I’d end up in this kind of situation where everything felt completely unknown.

Sun:So you have never been with a man? You knew your preference that early on?

Ilia:I wouldn’t say it was early and I had dated two separate guys and knew immediately that it just did not feel right. I wasn’t interested or felt connected at all. It was like complete static if that makes any sense. But when it comes to girls I always feel like everything clicks. Connections, interests, happiness; I feel like the world makes sense. It’s vivid and colorful like…

Sun:*smirks* A rainbow?

It was impossible for the girl not to playfully roll her eyes and give a small chuckle at the completely ridiculous question.

Ilia:Yes Sun, a rainbow. A double rainbow in fact.

Sun:Ha! How appropriate. I guess I fall somewhere in between that analogy. I’m honestly a little embarrassed.

Ilia:Well, I don’t know if that is even the case. You’re just...I don’t know. That’s what confuses me so much! I don’t know anything.

She lied. Ilia knew at least it wasn’t bad. Not only that, but it felt warm. He felt warm. Her face got a little flushed thinking about it. Why did this feel differently? More importantly, why was it something she wanted to explore for a tiny bit longer? No way she could tell him that though; way too embarrassing.

Sun:So we’re not mad and we’re aren’t telling anyone about this. Are we ever going to talk about this again; in private obviously?

Ilia:I think we kinda have to. We don’t really have anybody else.

Neptune obviously was going to hear all of this from both people separately without the other knowing. Ilia also couldn’t shake the feeling Judy was gonna pick up on this without a doubt. That was a conversation Ilia wasn’t looking forward to. Right now all she really wanted was…

Ilia:So, when we walk out that door, business as usual?

Sun:Um yeah, I guess we can call it that.

Ilia:Cool. Thanks for the food; think I’ll go hit the showers. Feel free to leave whenever you like.

Sun:Ilia...? (Is she…)

He watched her walk away into the bathroom. For some reason it made him very anxious.

Ilia closed the door and immediately leaned against the sink; her mind slightly frazzled and her fingers running through her hair. ‘I wonder if I made that obvious enough?’ Her face began to sour. ‘Or was it too obvious? Geez I probably looked like an idiot. All that talk about clearing the air and then I do this vague crap.’

She went to reach for the door. ‘Maybe I should-’ The knob twisted before she could get a hand on it. The door opened slightly at first before actually swinging upon to reveal Sun; he didn’t leave yet.

Both stared at each other, not quite sure what to say.

“I...haven’t walked out the door yet so, so business as usual hasn’t started yet.” Sun said, calmy. His voice was swimming in a confidence he didn’t have last night. Ilia barely gave a nod before she felt his hands wrap around her hips and lift her with ease. Ilia couldn’t help but yelp as she was put on the sink counter.

‘Right! I forgot he can lift me like a paperweight. I’m so used to dealing with people like Judy that are more my strength. Weird change of pace but not bad. I bet a girl like Yang could-” Ilia’s mood quickly became a bit bitter at the thought of Yang touching Blake.

“Uh, did I do something wrong Ilia? That look you’re giving me is very…” his voice trailed off.

“Huh? Oh! Sorry, I was just thinking about something a little irritating.”

Sun studied her face. “Blake and Yang?” He guessed randomly. Ilia didn’t say anything but the gray spots showing on her said enough. “Why don’t…” his tail ran up Ilia’s leg; giving her goosebumps. “We get a little greedy and own this moment okay?” A smile shined brightly on Sun.

Each spot on Ilia went right back normal. Soon she began to smile as well. “Dummy.” Ilia raised both arms and Sun wasted no time in removing her shirt. Her arms came down on his shoulders then pulled Sun closer in; their chest barely touching. “I’ll show you what it means to be greedy, banana breath.”

xxxx

Sun and Ilia’s morning was rather productive; more so than a certain officer’s.

Judy walked along the main streets periodically looking at her watch that would eventually give their permission to leave the shift. Morning never felt so long. They stopped patrolling for a brief moment then let out a big yawn that rivaled a lion’s roar before slumping over. Judy would’ve loved to make the street into a bed right now but the smell of fresh hazel coffee snapped them awake. Judy turned around to Ilia in her regular clothes but her hair was down. More importantly holding two coffees.

Judy:Please tell me I get one.

Ilia:No, you get both.

Judy:That’s even better!!!

Judy wasted no time grabbing both and taking a sip from each. Ilia looked at the fox happily, tail wag back and then continued walking.

Ilia:Why so sleepy? Actually, don’t tell me. I don’t need to know anything about Neptune’s skills in bed.

Judy:I wouldn’t be able to tell you anyways. We didn’t sleep together.

Ilia:Excuse me? What?

Judy:Some idiots got into a fight and caused property damage. I ended up being the one on the scene. All me and sweet little goggles did was chat about ourselves and watched some tv.

Ilia:I know you must be livid. All that work you put in, wasted.

Judy:Not really. I talked to him because I think he’s neat. Poor boy was nervous about everything he did around me. I think getting into his pants might’ve killed him. He knows how to talk tough but it’s clear to see that’s all he’s done. I knew that immediately.

Ilia:...Don’t hurt him.

Judy:Hmm?

Ilia:He’s a nice guy, and things like sex is already scary enough. So don’t make things more difficult than they already are for him- what are you looking at?

Judy was staring at Ilia with wonder and pride; almost like a teacher or something.

Ilia:You care about people. A human at that.

Ilia:*red* Shut up. That’s not surprising at all.

Judy:It is when you act like you have no friends. What’s changed your tune today? You seem a tad calmer. As if a little stress was relieved?

Ilia:.....

Judy:Not speaking now huh? FYI, you smell like him a little. From top to bottom. He must’ve been really close to you for that to happen.

Despite her efforts, Ilia’s mind replayed today’s events. Close, was an understatement. Close, did not do what they did justice. Red blush threatened to take over her face. “We uhhh...we…”

****

“Ah...ah..S-Sun…” That’s all Ilia could get out with what little breath she had in the literal steaming room. Her head was dizzy, every inch of her body was covered in sweat that was constantly washed away by the running water spray that came from the shower head. None of that mattered though. Right now, she just wanted to keep clinging onto him.

Her left foot barely grazed the bottom of the tub while her right leg had hooked around Sun’s lower back. His arms wrapping around Ilia’s small frame were all it took to lift the girl up and press her back against the wet shower wall; his hips rhythmically thrusting into her with as much control as he can muster.

The boy assaulted her neck with bites in order to the edge of the feeling of her walls coiling around his length with a vice grip. Despite the hot water, Sun can easily tell the difference between it and Ilia’s own dripping essence. The feeling spurring him on to make her body drown in crippling pleasure.

“Gods you’re so tight!” Sun groaned as his thrusts got a bit rougher; vaguely remembering not to go too deep. No matter how bad he wants to.

Ilia’s nails dug into Sun’s back and slowly dragged them down as he found a new, more sensitive spot to hit. “FUCK!” Her body felt like fire, it quivered while her eyes closed. “Just like that!” Each thrust after stole a moan from her lips. It was embarrassing as much as it was pleasurable. ‘It feels a little different from before. He’s not as gentle but…’

Sun’s arms dipped lower and his hands grabbed her rear for more support.

‘This feels even better!” A pressure built up inside her like a running hose with a thumb over it. She wasn’t going to last much longer, and the twitching she felt inside of her told her that Sun wasn’t far off either.

“Ilia! I’m…”

“A little longer!” Her voice giving out from exhaustion. “Just a little….a little...” Suddenly, everything went white.

“AAAAHHH!”

xxxx

Ilia:We cleared a bit of the air is all.

Judy:That face doesn’t inspire confidence. Oh well. I guess you don’t have to tell me about whatever mind blowing sex you might’ve had. Buuuut I will still congratulate you on it!

Ilia:How do people deal with you?

Judy:Because I’m awesome! So are you. It’s been awhile, actually… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you loosen up at all. Guess monkey boy has a way of lifting away that doom and gloom.

Ilia:I’m not gloomy!

Judy:Sweetie...gloom is middle name. Kinda weird considering what your last name is. Anyways, keep enjoying the festival! Let’s kick it up a notch tonight!

Ilia:Can I stay home for once? Partying every night is tiring. Not to mention not my style.

Judy:Hmmm.

Ilia:What?

Judy:....

Ilia:What!? You’re freaking me out with that look.

Judy:I think...you are right.

Ilia:Huh?

Judy:You’re right! Take a night to yourself; unwind. Do you and go to bed early.

Ilia:...What are you up to?

Judy wagged her tail and smiled before walking off with a pep in their step.

Ilia:Judy!

Judy:Goodbye Ilia!!!🎶

Singing was never a good sign. People sing when things are going their way. In Judy’s case, that could be anything. Ilia bit her lip. ‘What is going through that head. Trouble no doubt, damnit.’ Ilia had enough on her mind already. She wanted to talk to Neptune but Sun said he was going to meet up with him so that was a bust. Judy was simply too much to deal with for this kind of talk. Ilia needed someone who liked her but was mature. Kinda like-

“Good morning Ilia!” A familiar voice called out as a hand touched the girl’s shoulder. The sudden sensation made Ilia jump a little then turn around.

Kali:Woah, sorry about that. Are you okay; you’re just standing in the middle of the path.

Ilia:Kali… *smiles* Perfect!

Kali:Uhh yes?

xxxx

Neptune:So you went from one accidental one night stand, to intentionally having sex with her twice?

Sun:More or less….

….

Neptune:You suck.

Sun:What!?

Neptune:You heard me. Stressing out about dream scenarios. I’m joking by the way so don’t start panicking on me.

Sun:Is this really the time for jokes?

Neptune:Absolutely! Gotta kill the nerves.

The two sat on Neptune’s balcony and stared out at the ocean. Sun watched the waves to distract his mind while Neptune swayed in the hammock; the sun tanning him as he bathed in the light.

Sun:So-

Neptune:You’ll be alright.

Sun:Hmm?

Neptune:You’re smart, Ilia’s smart, and no doubt both of you are still hurting in some way so emotions are flying everywhere.

Sun:No kidding…

Neptune:Both of you don’t plan on hurting each other though; I’m sure of that. So let time work a little magic and see what changes. Not like we’re going anywhere soon. I let Sun and Sage know we have to be here longer than expected. Grimm in the water and stuff.

Sun:... You really are cool, you know that?

Neptune:I try.

Sun:Hehe, you’ve successfully.

That put a smile on Neptune’s face for sure. Compliments from his best friend were always a little different. Better somehow; all the admiration he had for him was probably why. The two of them continued to enjoy the restful moment, and listen to the sound of another good day.

Part 10 (1)

Part 10 (2)

[omg-just-peachy]

Hehe for the otp prompts - #4?

Of course! ❤️💖

4. Knowing each other’s clothes/ shoe size.

Some domestic fluff for you, inspired by @nasafic who makes Steve doing laundry sound like sweetest and softest thing to happen.

Typically, Steve wouldn’t even attempt shopping for Tony. His taste is so… him. Expensive and chic without being over the top, every piece carefully selected. It’s become such an enviable look, in fact, that several lifestyle blogs were now doing weekly roundups of Tony’s outfits, and entire Instagram accounts had popped up dedicated to his aesthetic. This delighted Tony to no end, though frankly, Steve found the whole thing a little overwhelming, most of the time.

But.

Photographers and fans and bloggers don’t get to see the fashion choices of Tony Stark in repose. They haven’t seen Tony in the oversized sweatshirts he swipes from Steve every chance he gets, or the soft, well-loved pairs of joggers that have been washed one time too many, so much so that they’re constantly at risk of unraveling into nothing but a tangle of thread every time Steve finds them in the laundry basket. Steve also knows that there’s nothing Tony enjoys more than shedding that layer of style as soon as he gets home at the end of the day, discarding cufflinks and silk shirts for fuzzy socks, soft worn t-shirts, and cardigans misshapen with wear.

Steve loves this side of Tony, this soft, messy side, often complete with rumpled hair from spending too long draped across Steve’s chest on the couch, or a late night followed by hours of sleep, leaving him bleary-eyed, pillow creases streaking across his cheek. Sometimes the best part of Steve’s day was kissing them away.

Last night, though, as Steve placed a faded sweater down beside the beloved pair of joggers, he decided it might be nice to surprise Tony with something new. Something he hadn’t worn over and over again for the better part of a decade. Something that he could tuck himself into at the end of a long day, and know it’d been carefully chosen, picked out by Steve, who knew what he liked, and how often he would wear it.

He smiled, thinking of his plan in the middle of their laundry room.

Which is how Steve ends up in the middle of the men’s section at Macy’s, the only place he could think to go that’s both familiar and somewhat on par with Tony’s level of taste. He’s almost nervous at first, drifting through the displays; there are so many choices. Even now, years after arriving in this century, it manages to overwhelm him sometimes. Eventually though, he gets his bearings, and with the help of the wonderfully patient woman on the sales floor, he starts to put together a pile of things for Tony that he feels good about.

“He likes things...soft,” Steve explained when the woman, Marcy, asked what Steve was looking for. “And things that’ll last? Like pajamas but also not pajamas. Things to wear around the house.”

Marcy had smiled at him then, and led him through the store, pointing out t-shirts people came back for time and again, joggers her boyfriend adores, and sweaters so soft to the touch, Steve wanted to fall asleep in a pile of them. He grabbed three, black, gray, and navy for Tony, then added a fourth, in a dark green for himself, to the pile, pleased.

“I’m impressed,” Marcy says when they finish their tour of the store. “Most guys come in looking for things and have no idea what size their partner is.”

Steve feels warmth rise in his cheeks, thinking of the time he’s spent, folding their clothes, never tiring of seeing their things mixed together like that. Thinks of how Tony would wander in and “help,” which usually meant wrapping his arms around Steve as he folded, distracting him, or perching on top of the washer to chat. Other times, they’d stand side by side, matching up socks together. It felt silly, sometimes, but the whole thing made Steve feel closer to Tony, somehow.

“I, uh, do the laundry, so I guess I picked it up over time,” he shrugs like it’s nothing, because it’s not something he can put into words for himself, let alone a stranger.

“That’s really nice, I can tell how much you care about him… the way your face lights up when you mention him.” Steve definitely blushes then, bright pink and splotchy, and thanks her about a dozen times on his way out the door.

*

Steve watches Tony’s face later that night, as he pulls things from the bag and holds them up, carefully explaining his choices, and beams when Tony lights up, running his fingers over the material.

“Steve,” Tony says, and it’s just clothes, nothing much in the grand scheme of things, Tony buys Steve clothes all the time, after all, but there’s emotion in his voice that Steve can’t miss. “Thank you, I love it. I love you,” he adds, then turns and buries his face into Steve’s shoulder, mumbling something incomprehensible.

“Come up for air, sweetheart,” Steve smiles.

Tony lifts his head and blows out a breath. “Nothing, just… no one’s ever done something like this for me, that’s all. You knew just what to get, even the sizes, everything. Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I got,” he says, like he’s confessing something.

Steve presses a kiss to Tony’s flushed face, more smiling into him than anything. “I know you,” he says simply. “But I’d say we both lucked out.”

[disasterghaster-moved]

JUNE 20th - 2013

[ PART 1 ] [ PART 2 ]

I always had a nocturnal sleep pattern. Sun goes down, I’m up. Sun comes up? I rather be dead in a deep dark hole with a brick in my mouth--like a proper vampire, you know?

The army loved me for night shifts. My work liked me for the same reason. It’s hard to have alert people on the graveyard shifts. Most people need five Red Bulls and a shot in the ass. I felt the same way when the sun was up. Even in school before I enlisted.

But the rest of the world didn’t run on moonlight. So I found myself glaring out of my windshield at the front doors of the local supermarket. Squinting against the harsh, fresh, morning sunlight. Like I might strangle it with my bare hands.

Instead, I killed the engine of my pickup and closed my eyes. Taking a deep breath and pulling the visor down to shade my eyelids. Take a minor break and muster up some energy. There wasn’t a hurry, I only wanted to get this done before I went home for the two days I had off.

I jolted a bit when I heard an ambulance siren race past the main road next to the parking lot. Grumbling as I shoved myself more upright in my seat. Peering at the time on a phone I pulled half out of the chest pocket of my coat. I lost fifteen minutes. I felt more awake, though.

So I pulled my work cap off and tossed it to the seat beside me. Adding my utility belt, work key ring, and shuffled off uniform shirt after that. Looked into the visor mirror and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. Giving my reflection a half offended stare. Cobalt on brown didn’t make the raccoon rings any less poppin’. I’d have to get to sleep at a half decent hour. And take some vitamin D.

Bumped the visor back up with a brief ‘aaa’ screech that rasped my throat and made me cough as I got out of the car. Patting pockets for my wallet and folded up paper list before I locked said vehicle up.

Inside time. Time for the inside.

Brad was right about the TP and things. Some necessities were scarce. Not apocalypse short, but stock wasn’t...a lot when I swung by those aisles. I made do with more expensive substitutes where I could. I hoped this didn’t continue or it was going to be a big ouch on my income in the future.

On my way to roll my cart to the soup shelves, there was an older woman pushing what had to be close to a full pallet of water bottles. Speaking in a loud, hard to ignore whisper, to her phone.

“I don’t think you get it, Hank. They’ve already stopped flights from Mexico. Whatever it is that they’re hiding in the hospitals? It’s big. We need to stock up. So give me your pin--” On she went. Walking briskly out of my earshot.

I sighed and tossed some, frankly, classy cans of tomato soup into my cart and kept rolling.

“So did China.” I mumbled under my breath. About that recent H1N1 scare. Suddenly I was glad I didn’t have a lot to buy. Most of my diet came out of the freezer of a can. Or out of the meat department.

When I got there, I realized I would have to make some stew. Most of the ground beef and chicken had vanished. Fine. A detour into vegetables and herbs it was.

I took everything up to the checkout line and groaned in my throat when I saw the line. I settled into one and put my head down on my forearms as I’d crossed them on the cart push bar.

Couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here.

Especially when the loud whisper lady pulled into line behind me. My only grace, or further torment, that she had moved onto arguing with her husband about laundry and the failing grades of their son.

[allie1804-fan]

Please Assist Me

So this is a new fic. I’ve not fully worked out where it’s taking me so watch this space. I’ve written quite a bit so let’s see how anyone likes the first little bit!

Chapter 1

He said

She was the third person we’d seen that morning. Cheryl was with me. I knew I could rely on her instincts to sniff out anyone the agency had sent who was likely to spell trouble. Of course, the agency promised to screen people so you didn’t get a nutter or an under-cover journo applying but Cheryl didn’t have total faith in their skills.

The first two had basically proved her right, being far more interested in looking round my house, asking who I might have visiting or unsubtly trying to see what freebies there might be than in finding out what the job really entailed. I was about to embark on my second directing project and I had an acting part too, so knew I was going to be all in as usual. That dedication to work would mean taking care of daily life would fall by the wayside.  I’d need someone to take care of travel arrangements if I was needed out of town, there would be some bills to pay, grocery shopping and all the other day to day crap like being around for deliveries or letting a plumber in or making sure birthday cards were sent. I didn’t say so but basically I was after an old style wife but without the relationship! I also needed to keep a certain amount of control, a small chink of ‘real’ if you will. So, if it was my sister’s birthday, I’d choose the gift and write the card but maybe I could use some help finding options to choose from given how busy I would be on set.

Sophia was the first of the interviewees who seemed to grasp the importance of this aspect to me and she asked good questions about the practicalities of me being involved where necessary. She was also the only one who seemed like she knew her way around a kitchen and one of my needs was going to be a little food preparation every now and again especially as I needed to watch my diet to keep in shape for the demands of the role.

After 2 more, frankly useless candidates were seen and ruled out, we both agreed that Sophia was the one. She wouldn’t be able to travel with me on shoots or promotional tours as she had 2 small children, but my main needs were going to be at home for the foreseeable future and things like buying a gift or a card for someone could be managed at a distance with modern technology and planning. A week after the interview, Sophia came over again for an induction session.

It took me a moment to invite her in – I was kind of stunned as I looked at her – I don’t think I’d really taken in how attractive she was at the interview,  being focussed on the interviewing task and making sure I was asking each interviewee exactly the same questions in order to be fair. That morning she was like a sunflower, clad in a bright yellow, sleeveless sundress. Her long brown hair was up in a practical ponytail and the dress contrasted beautifully with her tanned arms and legs, highlighting her Latin American heritage.

She followed me down the hallway to the kitchen, clutching a notebook which she’d brought to make notes on the tasks. By the end of our session, I felt in safe hands and she left with everything she needed to be my personal assistant starting with a one month trial period.

She said

My first real life encounter with Keanu was when I had an interview for the role of personal assistant. I hadn’t ever done a role like this having only recently signed on with a job agency after my divorce from Javier. Before that I had been a housewife and mum to our 2 kids Eva, who is 7 and Miguel who is 5.  Back before the kids were born, I had done a little modelling and in between jobs had done some “runner” jobs working on sets with A list actors. That experience, and my general organisational skills and domestic experience had identified me as someone suited to this role.

Of course, I’d seen Keanu on the silver screen like anybody else in all those big roles which made it all the more surreal to be heading up into the Birds streets for the interview with him and his PR lady Cheryl at his house no less.

Cheryl was charming but also quite formidable, giving me the impression that she’d kick the ass of anyone who messed with her client! Keanu himself was all charm but kind of shy and bumbling as he tried to explain the slightly unusual mix of mundane and personal tasks he was going to want help with.

The mundane were things like making sure his Koi carp were fed, that the pool guy, cleaner and gardener were  let in on the right days, getting his dry cleaning and some grocery shopping done. The personal was basically, as I saw it, the things a wife or partner would help a man like him do If he had one  - he wanted to make sure birthday cards and gifts were bought for his close friends and family but he would play a role in choosing them. He just needed someone to narrow down the options, make the actual purchase and wrap the gift. If he could, he’d deliver it in person but if he couldn’t do that, at the very least he’d write out a personal message himself.  

There would be some advanced planning to make sure all that happened on time as he’d soon be on set for long days on his next project. I suggested that I’d need to come over on a Saturday sometimes to  make sure he could add those personal touches.  

The job was basically perfect for me as I would be able to get everything done while the kids were in school and kindergarten. He didn’t expect me to travel when he did  - he could use hotel services when away and declared himself not so pampered or busy that he couldn’t organise some basic stuff for himself while he was away. He also had a place in New York so, if he had to go there , he had a home base. His main concern was that his LA home kept running well and I could handle all of that.

I was thrilled when I got the call that the job was mine and it was with excitement that I made my way back to his home a week later to get a more detailed briefing and start my month’s probation.  

I stood on the doorstep for what felt like a long minute after he opened the door. I had a moment of fear that he’s somehow changed his mind or forgotten our appointment but he eventually shook his head like he was jolting himself out of a day dream and invited me in.

“sorry, sorry, what am I like leaving you standing there! Come, come in!”

I followed him into the house and we headed down the long corridor and into the bright kitchen where we sat at the island and he took me through his diary and my tasks for the month. He gave me an iPad to use with an e mail already set up as KCR_assistant@outlook.com and a credit card I could use for the purchases he needed me to make on his behalf.

He was  starting on set the following week and his sister Kim’s birthday was a couple of weeks away. Since she lived in Italy this would be one of the more challenging gifts to organise. He shared a little about her and took me to his office to proudly show me her picture which was on a wall filled with family portraits.

“This is a test right?” I remember asking.

“nah, nah don’t see it like that ….” He stuttered

“But it’s really important to you right?”  I countered and he nodded, smiling slightly

“yeah, yeah Kim, she ……… she’s very  important to me”

“As she should be” I said. “I promise to get you some great ideas along the lines you want in a day or two so you can pick and we can get it to her on time.”

“Thanks”

I hoped I’d do Kim justice – I really needed to keep this job.

On my first day, I headed up to Keanu’s house after dropping the kids at school and shopping for groceries that had been on the list Keanu had e mailed the night before.

Laundry wasn’t in my remit, but I spotted as I went in through the garage that there was a load in the tumble dryer due to finish soon. Keanu must have forgotten it. I made a note to pop back and fetch it after I’d done some other jobs.

In the kitchen, I put away the supplies and got on with making the elements of a Caesar salad with chicken that Keanu could quickly throw together after work.

Then it was time to start gift hunting for Kim. Keanu was interested in getting her a vintage Italian coffee set and we’d agreed it made sense to source it from Italy. Being a native Spanish speaker, I could muddle my way through Italian websites and I narrowed the choices down to 3 which I            e-mailed to him as well as dropping him a text in case he didn’t check his e mails. He’d said he would have some down time during the day but he wouldn’t be expecting me to share ideas for a day or two.

By then it was 2pm and I needed to head off soon to fetch the kids. I grabbed the laundry and left a pile of t shirts (all Arch branded) and boxers neatly folded on his bed. I hoped he’d appreciate that I’d not left them to grow damp again in the dryer and that he wouldn’t feel weird that I’d touched his undies! If I’m honest it did feel a bit surreal to me to be in his home, dropping him e mails and texts, doing his shopping and folding his undies but I reminded myself that he was just a guy and, really, so far he’d been pretty down to earth in my dealings with him – well apart from the $1000 budget I had for Kim’s gift that is!

 @fortheloveoffanfic @kindainlovewithkeanu @omg-imagine @iworshipkeanureeves @fics-not-tragedies @ficsnroses @keanureevesisbae @penwieldingdreamer @witty-wallflower @paperplanesandwallflowers @bitchyslut99 @ladyreapermc @toomanystoriessolittletime @fanficsrusz @keanuficfiles

[veky1993]

Don’t know about you, but I’ve missed these two lately.

So having all this free time on my hands atm, I decided to do something about it, and wrote a silly, little story called Dog Day Afternoon. Just our favorite couple suffering a long, hot day in LA. 

You can find it on ffnet, AO3 or even here.

Enjoy!  😊

DOG DAY AFTERNOON

Cranky was a word Andy could easily apply to a lot of people in his life. Provenza most notably, Rusty probably, his ex-wife most definitely. But Sharon? No, cranky was not a word he would ever use to describe her. Or perhaps dare. 

Apprehensive maybe? Yes. Nervous? Sure. Restless? Definitely. But cranky? Hell no. 

Only… And he winced at the mere thought...

She was cranky.

And he couldn’t really blame her.

It was hot as hell. Just glance-at-the-sun-and-melt-on-the-spot kind of hot. Even in the shade, the air was scorching, suffocating. It stood still, without even the faintest breeze to offer relief. In an above average hot week, today the heat index had reached its peak.

It was just so damn hot, and he was cranky, too, because his day was not going well.

As luck would have it, on the hottest day in the city in the last 30 years, their AC gave out. Any other day, it would be no biggie. He’d get someone to fix it and voila, problem solved. But do it today, and the earliest someone could come to fix it would be next week. Not in a couple of hours, not tomorrow, not even the day after tomorrow, but in seven goddamn days!

He might have yelled at Sharon when he told her, not that it was her fault, she just happened to be a convenient target for his annoyance.

The glare he was subsequently rewarded with burned almost as much as the LA sun.

So now he was sitting in the living room, their window drapes enveloping the room in semi-darkness, in front of the TV, miserable, sweaty, bored, alone and… irritated.

Because frankly, she’d been snippy with him all day, and did he glare her to death? Did he retreat to their bedroom, hiding and fuming?

He sighed and flopped his head on the backrest of the couch. Even mad at her, he still couldn’t really blame her for any of it.

All kinds of warnings about going out and about in this scorching weather had been issued, and being in the ‘at high risk’ part of the population due to their various heart issues, they had been pretty much cooped up in the house for days now. Evenings offered the slightest of relief, but then the ground itself seemed to radiate heat, and that was nearly as bad as the sun.

Today, Sharon seemed to be faring worse than most days. She had done laundry, and when he offered to help, she initially agreed, but when all of a sudden she found his folding technique lacking, she had unceremoniously kicked him off the task. 

“If you can’t do it properly,” she had said, taking a T-Shirt out of his ‘done’ pile and refolding it the way she preferred, which, in his humble opinion, was precisely the same way he did, “how about you don’t do it at all?”

When they decided to make lunch together, and he accidentally dropped and shattered a plate, she had let out such a long, exasperated sigh, that he had fled the kitchen before she could even think to kick him out herself. After lunch then, he didn’t even bother offering to clear the table, but smartly got out of her way, lest he did something else to set her off.

Still, he understood. At some point your day just sucks, nothing can please you, no matter what you do, and it was a wonder really that it had taken her this long to reach that point.

So, in an attempt to snap her out of that funk a little, he had optimistically suggested they go out, somewhere indoors with air conditioning. Simply to get out of the house. Restaurant, shopping mall, museum. Anything. Sharon had refused it all. Not even gently, with her usual gratitude at his sweet thought, but brutally, flat out, she had said, “No.”

At that point, he had given up, hoping the next day would be better, because surely this one couldn't get any worse. But when half an hour later, he then heard a desperate, "Oh, no, no, no," from her while he was coming back from the bathroom, and found her furiously tapping and shaking the AC remote, he was proven terribly wrong.

Five disappointing phone calls later, Sharon had wordlessly stalked off to their bedroom, barricading the door, and he hadn't seen nor heard from her since. The soft thud with which she closed the door made him decide that cranky wasn’t a word he would use to describe her after all.

Whatever she was, it was much much worse than merely cranky. Although maybe that was his own crankiness talking.

With the back of his hand he wiped off the sweat on his brow, and groaned. If only they’d gotten that house with the pool. They could have used this heat to their heart's content and nothing else would have mattered.

“Goddammit!” he muttered under his breath. Looking around the room, he stood, a decision reached, and made his way through the house to the garage. 

There he located his tool box, and as he carried it back into the house whipped his phone out to google, ‘fixes for central air conditioning.’

For a good half hour he then sat at the kitchen table, reading through tips, even quickly going over some instructional videos, before he finally got up again to give some of those suggestions a go.

He almost changed his mind when he got out to locate the central unit. He thought it was even hotter than an hour ago. Nonetheless, he braced himself, and courageously got to work.

“Ouch!” he yelped some time later, sucking in his thumb between his lips, glaring at the machine he had disassembled. “Go to hell, you damn piece of junk!” he added, smacking the thing with his open palm, and in turn sending another jolt of pain through the limb. “Ah, for fu-”

“Andy?”

He whirled around so fast he could hear several loud pops coming from his spine in the process.

“What are you doing?”

He just stared at her for a moment. Cranky or not, she was going to give him hell for this, he was sure of it. Didn’t matter if she had a good reason to, or not.

Trying to compose himself in light of the outburst she just witnessed, he awkwardly rubbed the back of his head, accidentally hitting himself with the butt of the screwdriver he was holding. As the pain registered, his suppressed ire quickly resurfaced, and he cursed loudly, either at himself, the screwdriver, or perhaps even at Sharon, he couldn’t tell, nor did he really care in the moment. “I figured,” he finally started, his voice strained and rough as he struggled not to start yelling again, “if the thing’s busted already, what’s the worst that can happen if I try to fix it myself?” 

Sharon just looked at him, her face inscrutable, and he suddenly found himself holding his breath. If she was angry with him before, he thought, looking around at the mess he had managed to make of their backyard, she might just file for divorce after this stunt. 

Then to his absolute horror, she burst out laughing. Not just simple laughter either, but snort filled, almost hiccuping laughter. 

Recovering, he got on board with what he decided was a good, if insulting reaction. “Now, wait a minute,” he waved his hands at her and managed to get her attention even though he could tell she was on the verge of laughing again, “I just gotta tighten this,” he turned around and tightened a screw, “pop this back into place,” he pushed at what resembled a tiny radiator with small pipes sticking out of it, “and it should start up again.” He took a brush that was next to his knee, worked it over the piece one more time, then reached for the cable and plugged the machine in with a fairly confident look on his face.

When absolutely nothing happened, Sharon promptly dissolved into snort infested laughter.

He didn’t find it amusing himself though. In a couple of jerked movements he got up to his feet, profusely ignoring the protests of his old bones, and glared at her, his temper flaring within an instant. “You know what? Laugh it up all you want, sweetheart!” He threw the screwdriver into his toolbox, not even registering it bouncing out of it and clattering down to the ground as he refocused on Sharon. “But I’m miserable in this goddamn heat, too, and I’m at least trying to do something about it instead of making you feel like shit! And you know what else? I’ve been sweating my ass off here for no other reason than to try to cheer your cranky ass up by fixing this piece of crap, while you brooded in the bedroom. And what do you do? You laugh at me. Well, ain’t that just great. Thank you so much. I feel so appreciated.” With that last sarcastic remark, he walked past her, only barely keeping himself in check enough to not intentionally bump his shoulder into her.

Before he was out of her reach though, her hand caught the bottom of his shirt, and she almost panicky said, “Andy, wait!”

“What?” he whirled around on her, a thunderous expression on his face.

She waited a moment, the way she always did when he got worked up like this, and when he saw the rather dumbstruck, and what was more a rather guilty expression on her face, he found himself taking a deep breath then slumping his shoulders as he exhaled.

Noting the change in him, she reached for his hand, and ran her finger over his thumb. It wasn’t until she worriedly said, “You’re bleeding,” that he noticed he had not just pinched, but cut the digit.

Still too worked up, despite his earlier efforts, he jerked his hand free of hers, and growled, “Who cares?”

“I do,” she said, with more than a little force in the words. Then she grabbed his hand, this time not allowing him to pull it back, and led him back into the house until they reached the kitchen.

Brooding in silence, he just let her run his hand under the tap water and as she dug through a drawer to find a bandaid, she finally spoke again. “It wasn’t my intention to laugh at you.” He looked at her with dubious eyes, but she ignored him. “In fact, I came out to apologize.”

Surprised, his eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” she mumbled, running her thumbs over his now bandaged one, then releasing his hand. “I’ve taken my sour mood out on you all day, and for that I’m sorry.”

“Sharon-”

“But,” she cut him off, giving him one of those ‘don’t interrupt me looks’ over the top of her glasses, “so have you, and I don’t mean just now.”

He deflated completely now, and sighed. “I know, I’m sorry. I was an ass.” He looked around, the guilt for his earlier outburst swelling up in him, and added, “I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did,” she interrupted, this time gently, reaching for his hand again. “But you’re forgiven.” After a pause, she added, “Unless there’s more you need to get out of your system?”

He chuckled self deprecatingly, then raised his free hand in surrender. “No, no, I’m good.”

She chuckled, too, then leaned over to give him a quick kiss. “How about we clean up this mess of yours then?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No, I just had to clean the evaporator, maybe I missed a-” He abruptly shut up when he caught the skeptical look she was giving him. “Or,” he gave up, “maybe I really don’t have a clue what I was doing.”

“Maybe,” she repeated, and when he caught the shadow of amusement on her face, he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Can we just forget about this,” he stood, “clean it up and go die of this heatstroke in peace?”

She laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”

When they were done, his tools put away, and the air conditioning unit reassembled into its seemingly undefective state, Sharon made them some iced drinks and led them to the living room.

She took a spot on the couch, but instead of joining her, Andy pulled at his shirt, ungluing it from his sweaty skin and said, “I should probably take a shower first.”

“Or you could just take it off?” she offered, looking at him, amused.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Or you could join me for that shower?”

“And break a hip?” she countered, hiding a grin behind her glass.

“And have the time of your life,” he corrected smugly.

She burst out laughing.

He clutched at his chest. “You wound me.”

Even as she chuckled, she reached for his hand, and pulled him to her. “Oh, would you just get over here?”

For the briefest of moments, he considered taking that shower first, because with her track record today, he was really in no mood for another scolding, this time over sweat stains on her precious couch. She seemed to be more relaxed though, and humor was definitely a good sign, too, so he finally did take a seat next to her, and decided to give voice to his musings. “You’re in a better mood, I see.”

She leaned a shoulder into the couch, facing him. “I took some time to cool off.” 

He chuckled. “You sure about that?” he asked, running a finger across her damp forehead and pointing it out to her.

She laughed, then added as an afterthought, “No pun intended.”

He grinned.

“I really am sorry for today. Everything,” she waved a hand through the air, “just kept on piling on all day long, and then that stupid AC and-”

“I know,” he caught her fidgeting hand, prompting her to scoot closer to him, “bad day.”

“Something like that,” she agreed.

“Good you have a punching bag like me,” he suddenly said, grinning again.

She eyed him suspiciously. “One that likes to punch back,” she pointed out.

He didn’t even bother with another apology. It wasn’t the first time they’d taken their foul moods out on each other, and with any luck it won’t be their last. Instead, he said, "You forget how big of an ass I can be when I set my mind to it."

She laughed, not disagreeing. “Aren’t we a pair, huh?”

“The best,” he decided, stealing a quick kiss from her.

Still smiling, she leaned her head against his shoulder, and changed the topic, her tone conversational. “So how exactly did you picture this ‘dying of a heat stroke’ plan?”

“About that,” he started, waiting until she looked up at him, and when she did, he leaned down and kissed her. When he had her sufficiently breathless, he asked, just as conversationally, “How about a change of plans?”

“Depends on the plan,” she replied, distracted with plans of her own as she inched closer to kiss him again.

Avoiding her lips, Andy grinned. “It’s a compromise really.” 

The look she shot him told him she was quite unimpressed by this game he was playing, but she played along anyway, her final response leaving her lips in a carefully measured, yet intrigued tone. “Really?” 

He continued grinning, then wagged his eyebrows at her. “A cool bath.”

She didn’t need to be asked twice. Even as she said, “Oh, I like that,” she was on her feet, pulling him up to his, to lead the way.

Once in their bathroom, undressing each other became an entirely too hot affair; slow, deliberate and interrupted by scorching kisses, so when they finally entered the bathtub, it wasn’t just the LA heat they slowly cooled down from. With a content sigh, Sharon relaxed against Andy’s chest, and he chuckled as he peppered her shoulder with kisses. Rightfully so, he sounded rather pleased with himself, when he asked, “Enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely,” she agreed, but in a playful attempt to curb his smug attitude, she pinched an arm he had wrapped around her.

He merely laughed though, even pulled her more snugly against him, before leaning fully back, nestling them both safely against the bathtub.

He closed his eyes for a moment, soaking up the relief from the heat provided by the water, and simply basked in the feel of the woman in his arms. The goosebumps that erupted all over his skin had little to do with the cooling water, but rather everything with the way she started running her fingers up and down his forearms. He relaxed even more, and smiled to himself when in a similar response, she shivered, as he grazed a thumb across the side of her breast. 

Inviting himself to more, he placed one sensuous kiss to the back of her neck, then another off to the side, then one more to her shoulder. When he drew a quiet moan out of her, he continued showering her skin with kisses, but just as he was about to give his hands free roam of the rest of her body, too, she suddenly stiffened and stilled his hands, causing him to pause. 

Sitting up, he rested his chin against her shoulder and inclined his head gently to look at her. Surprised, but not entirely too worried when he saw the amusement in her eyes, he asked, “What?” 

“Did you really call my ass cranky?”

For a moment his heart dropped and he worried that he had ruined her improved mood. There was an ominous ring to the question, indicating that he had better come up with a very good answer if he wished to stay in this bathtub with her, but then he realized she was fighting a smile, clearly teasing him. Not one to pass up an opportunity to make up for his little slip though, he put on his most disarming smile in return, dropped an open palm to the object of her question, and quickly apologized.

Profusely.

[namjoonchronicles]

scissors | jk

↳ pairing jungkook, you

↳ genre drama, fluff

↳ words 1.2k

↳ warnings long-hair enthusiast, hair-pulling, implied smut but not really there-there, sub!jungkook dom!reader, some bickering i’m just really upset 

It was the dead silence after the reveal that is killing him. All this while, he thought the hardest part was to get them cut, but no, he was wrong. Painfully wrong.

You dropped your precious pen and purse, standing frozen by the laundry room door when you see his broad shoulder, folding clothes on the dryer and putting them into the basket. You had been busy on your phone and looking on the floor the whole time you entered your home that you never realised that Jungkook had his hair cut back to usual length. His long healthy black lock that passes just his jawline is no longer there, and you're screaming inwardly.

Never have you ever stopped in the middle of the sentence like that. Suddenly everything didn't seem important enough to talk about, because there was a bigger issue at hand. It seems like Jungkook noticed the cold air that's shifted. He was peering through his lashes, barely turning to show his side cheek. And when he does it, he doesn't do it comfortably. Like he know what's coming.

"What happened to your hair?"

Your voice was airy, quizzically asking an obvious matter. It was a sudden move and it didn't reciprocate with the Jungkook you know and loved. You were taking time to taking it all in and Jungkook won't blame you.

Now he's tailing behind you like a lost puppy, talking in whines and sighs. First you took the basket full of clean clothes he had carefully folded, then you took matter into your own hands to arranging the clothes into the wardrobes, taking over his chores. And he knows it's not something to be proud of. You only do this when you're angry at him.

"It was getting too long, and it's difficult for me to see..." "That's what hair-ties are for, but of course everything I say doesn't matter to you, so why are we even together," you shoved his tees into one of the drawers, then your bras next to a line of his boxers. "I keep losing hair ties, you know that..." "I have a box of it. I happen to love your long hair, they were gorgeous. And you look so pretty, and when I tug on it, you make a certain noise that makes me go..." you clicked your tongue, shake your head in disappointment and rolled your eyes, "Whatever."

You are sitting on the floor, next to the opened drawer and Jungkook takes out a pastel pink lace lingerie he doesn't remember you have. He tilts his head at the finding and you snatch them out of his hand almost immediately.

"I've never seen this on you," the horror in his voice. Because if he hasn't seen them, someone else might. "Gimme that, yes you did," you shot and tuck them deep inside the drawers. "Uhh, no? Because if I did, I would definitely remember," Jungkook's jaw hung open while you ignore him entirely. Swinging your head to face him with a menacing smile, "You're absolutely right, just as you decide to cut your hair without my permission, I am allowed to not wear certain lingeries that you want to see me in. Win-win."

He gets on all four and trace his nose along the back of your shoulder and jawline, pressing butterfly kisses, murmuring sorries with the sincerity of a horny young men in front of a toy he wanted.

"I promise I'll make the same sounds as I did when my hair is longer, you won't notice a thing," he smiled against your cheek and tracing his tongue along the shell of your ear and biting your earlobe. You threw an acid glance at him and he sits quietly on his bottom, hugging his knees.

You're really unfazed. You must be really upset.

"Give me time to get use to this.I don't like things being done behind my back and that's honestly why I am so angry. You don't even give me one last time to appreciate them. I think my emotions are valid," you gave him your back and continue putting the folded clothes into the drawer, one by one.

"I just wanted to feel like I'm in charge for once in my life," Jungkook muttered under his breath.

At this, your hands hesitated from fetching another pair of trousers in the basket. You took offense in his words instantly, arguing in your mind about the accusations when you finally feel that there was some truth in his words. Jungkook had always been lenient. He had always been going with the flow, from the days you became lovers, to the weddings and to the times that you lived together--Jungkook was, dare you say, obedient. You thought he was just agreeing to things. Never have you ever thought that you were invasive, and frankly, you thought he was okay with things being decided for him. Because he always seem indecisive.

That's not the case now, is it?

"I'm sorry that you feel that I'm controlling. I'm sorry that you think that things have to go my way for it to be okay. I genuinely apologize that you feel ostracized in this relationship which makes you feel like your opinion isn't valued," you are still giving him your back. It wasn't a good posture, because it feels one-sided but it's easier for you to clarify your thoughts when you don't see the person you have offended. Being honest to your emotions had always been a struggle and of all the people out there, Jungkook should have understood this.

"You're making a massive deal out of a haircut," he squeezes his toe between two fingers, pouring his energy into the pointless squish instead of the weight of the conversation you're trying to have.

"I apologise," you turned around slowly and saw him picking his toenails.

"It's okay, I just wanted you to see that I'm a big boy. I'm starting to catch a hint that you love my hair more than you love the real me, so I cut that off to see if you love me still. You still love me right?"

You begin with a deep inhale and a sharp sigh, dropping your shoulders.

"It's just hair..." you admitted, "I was being dramatic again."

Jungkook moves towards you with his legs spread wide, so you are inside the circle his limbs made. Being larger than you, he collects your waist in one swift move and closes the distance between you both with a liplock. Without breaking the kiss, you straddle him while he moans against your lips. You feel his hands floating around the curve of your bum and as you sat comfortably on his hip, his fingers dip underneath the fabric of your blouse, drawing meaningless circles on your skin. When you parted, he shudders helplessly while your nails rake the back of his scalp. Lips drying from the rush of adrenaline, coursing through his veins. With a swipe of the tongue, he relinquishes a third of the thirst, swirling from within.

"I bet I can make you scream a lot harder even with this short locks..." you took a fistful of his hair and yanked it back so his neck is on full display for you to feast on. He lays flat on the floor, watching you undress with his big doe eyes, your blouse flung on his face, chest heaving up and down, he pants hard, and next, the bra comes off--he bit his lower lip, already murmuring prayers of mercy because he knows you're not going easy on him after that stunt he pulled.

"You know where else you can do the scissoring motion?"

Shutting his eyes, sitting up shirtless in bed, wildly spent, Jungkook smiled in bliss.

Notes: but he is a big ass boi. and he can do that. wow i really do love this kid huh.

[shewhowillnotbenamed1]

Atrium

@mistkissedmoon​ - Sorry for the delay, this got away from me and there is a name and a part two :)

———————

A single naked bulb outlined a dark-haired silhouette. The fighter struggled to catch his breath as the heavy bag behind him swung like a pendulum on its axis. Jason reached behind him and grabbed a water bottle, taking a huge swig. The water streamed down his cheeks to mingle with the saltwater drenched down his body.

That two hours had been intense.

He had gone much harder than he had intended to today. It couldn’t be attributed entirely to recklessness or a lack of regard for his well-being. Jason Todd could feel something resting just under the surface of his skin struggling to get out. He needed to best it. To beat it back down. The feelings of inadequacy. That he was less than. That he still somehow… didn’t belong. It was only when he was alone with himself, the bag, and his emotions, would he ever allow those feelings to break free.

He was still raw - emotions and body alike - as he grabbed a cotton towel, and slid it roughly over his face. He felt his hyperactive heart rate recede, as he ran it through his damp hair, neck, and back. Allowing it to absorb the sweat, along with everything this workout had dredged up. Jason felt his cracked calm return, and his lingering doubts retreat back into the recesses of his mind. He turned his focus on the day ahead. There was regularity in routine, after all. And he did recall a large cup of coffee with a side of continental breakfast awaited him. His bare feet carried him up the stairs. Jason began retracting his scapula repeatedly. Stretching out his arms. Up and back. He was already anticipating two days of soreness settling into his muscles. As he approached the Entrance Hall, he could hear muffled voices start up. The click of high heels on marble. It was still early, so if it wasn’t the maids, it was probably another one of Bruce's overnight dates.

That man was on an indefinite break from Selina, and he was dealing with it in the only way he knew how. By enjoying half of the women who graced society pages in the Gotham Chronicle.

Or was it the Gotham Gazette?

Jason shook his head.

Whatever, it was getting old. And frankly, so was Bruce.

At this point, he pondered whether there was much point in a sarcastic greeting. He was running low on material, and it wasn’t like he would ever see these women again.

And yet…

Maybe, just one more. For a nice even total.

He abandoned the water bottle and towel on the nearest end table. Lazy gait. Loose hips. Looser sweatpants. Jason went. As he approached, he noticed something odd. Not only was there no shrill voice yelling for the maids, there wasn’t that strong, overt perfume scent in the air. The kind that… lingered. When he thought about it, their perfume was only thing about the socialites that had managed to stick around here.

Ah… And there she was. But it was odd. Relaxed posture… Waiting calmly. Now he truly wondered. Had the old man’s taste in rebound women changed overnight? And for the better?

An even closer inspection, told him that this woman, didn’t look to be on brand - at all.

Instead, Jason was face-to-face with a very stunning woman in a striped button down and tight navy blue skirt. As she glanced back at him, he noticed that her eyes were the deepest and darkest shade of blue he had ever seen. The woman gave his bare, dripping chest an unceremonious once-over. Clearly, she was trying to seem unaffected, but he knew better. He could tell. He could see her own chest started heaving at the sight of him.

This morning was turning out to be far more interesting than he had anticipated.

His mouth quirked up with a hint of a smile. “Good morning.” Jason started. She parted her lips and lowered lids as she traced the marble floor. Trying so obviously not to stare at his face or half-naked body. Well, that wouldn’t do. He moved closer and tilted his head down to her level, so she had to look at him. “And you are?”

“Looking for Mr. Pennyworth.” She replied and turned away, holding her purse to her chest. Almost like a shield.

“That’s an odd name. It’s rather rude not to greet someone when you’re a guest in their home…” He murmured. She didn’t answer, but her grip tightened on her purse. “Unless… you were planning on sneaking out after you received your fresh laundry.” He spoke to her profile, arms behind his back. “The panties - and last night’s dress.” Her pale skin broke out in a shocked flush. She whipped around and opened her mouth, but quickly closed it, when she saw the butler approach.

“Ah, Master Jason,” Alfred cut in. After appearing from seemingly nowhere. “Very good. I see you’ve met Ms. Roth.” He was oblivious to the tension in the room. That or he had the common sense not to notice.

“Actually, I was just introducing myself to our lovely visitor,” he replied, extending a hand. “Jason Todd.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, as she shook his hand firmly. He could detect a hint of annoyance in a tone. She had quashed most of it for Alfred’s benefit. “I’m Rachel Roth.”

Alfred explained her presence in his clipped British accent. “Ms. Roth is here to work on the library restoration project for Wayne manor.”

“I see, Ms. Roth…” Jason noted. “That’s wonderful news. That old library is certainly… overdue for an update.”

He smirked when he saw her roll her eyes. “Very good, Master Jason.” Alfred said simply, albeit sarcastically.

Well. That was a pleasant surprise. It looked like she would coming back after all. He could feel the familiar thrill of a good chase coming on. It would certainly be much easier now that he knew she wasn’t having late rendezvouses with his father - not that he would have cared.

When he saw something he wanted, he went after it.

Universe be damned.

The dark-haired man ran a hand down the center of his damp abdomen as he spoke. “Well, Ms. Roth, I would be pleased to personally volunteer my services…” Jason let it float in the air for a few deliciously uncomfortable moments, before he added, “To the cause.”

Alfred gave him a disdainful glance.

Worth it.

“Thank you, Mr. Todd.” Rachel responded curtly. She nodded at Alfred. “But, we’re covered. I believe we have all the volunteers we need.”

Alfred’s nose was in the air as he led her away, with an arm behind his back. “Right this way, Ms. Roth.”

Jason appraised every inch of her pale legs, even moving behind her as she went. And knowing full well she had seen him doing so, by the way she ran her hand through her darkly colored hair, pursed her lips, and haughtily marched ahead.

Jason was going to get her to take him up on that - one way or another.

That was certain.

———————

Rachel walked towards the library through the Grand Foyer with another box. This one larger and more cumbersome than the last. It was almost as heavy as it was unwieldy. That said, she was very glad she chose to wear flats today. This project was turning out to be much more manual labor than she had anticipated. Rachel was supposed to have help, but they had all but abandoned her.

Some volunteers they had turned out to be.

Before she could blink, strong arms slipped around behind her and lifted the cardboard box overhead. Relieving her of its weight. By the sharp clove and pine scent, along with the strong notes of smugness in the air, she already knew who was responsible.

This man had been playing games since her arrival at the manor that day.

Watching her. Goading her. Flirting with her. And even having the gall to ask her if he could steal a few minutes of her day. Part of her wondered what it would be like to say yes just once. But…

Mr. Wayne had been more than generous with everything. How she decided to organize the project, as well as how she decided to allocate her time. And also: labor, resources, budget. She somehow didn’t think his generosity extended to allocating an hour or two for her to fraternize with his son.

“Jason.” She wiped her sweaty hands on her trousers quickly, as she followed behind him. “I thought that the library was… that way…” She tore her eyes away from his form, in the clingy dark t-shirt, to realize that they had arrived at the East Wing of the library in half the time it usually took her.

Interesting.

It seemed that he had taken advantage of an unknown shortcut to get to the library. At least, one that had been unknown to her.

With no effort, he dropped the box next to the others. “Thank you. But as I said many times before, I have all the help I need.” Raven signaled for him to leave by gesturing to the open archway from which they had entered.

Jason stood his ground.

Figuratively.

What he actually did was slide into one of the very handsome dark leather wing chairs, that had been neatly arranged in a circular shape. “Really? I somehow don’t believe that.” Rachel’s arms folded under her chest. “If that were the case, then why are you carrying these all by yourself?”

Funny.

The way he asked this, it was as if he already knew.

“Everyone else is still at lunch.” Rachel explained. “Again.” She muttered tersely.

“Lunch?” Jason asked, as if hard of hearing. “Huh.” She observed him through slits.

“Yes, lunch. Pad thai…or something.” A navy blue feminine loafer tapped the box with its pointed toe.

“Pad thai? Ah, yes… I might have heard something about that.” He gave her a brief smile that didn’t meet the devious dark blue. “Alfred was rather aghast that they decided to eat out. He makes a decent pad thai himself.”

“Though not decent enough to make them stay,” she noted. Punctuating her bad luck by sharply sucking in air through her teeth.

Jason shrugged. Tracing the arm of the leather and peering over at her through his distractingly dark eyelashes. “I came to check up on you when I heard; I was concerned.”

“You were concerned, about me?” Right. He was so full of it. As if he didn’t know exactly what happened. “Is that right, Todd?”

“That’s right… I know you turned me down before, but I just thought you might change your mind.” He stretched his legs. “Or at least consider it.”

Raven was more than suspicious of his motivations. And the fact that her help had managed to disappear. But regardless of his manner of delivery, he had a point.

She needed help. She needed…him.

Raven turned. “Look, I’m a little behind, and obviously you know the manor…” The pale girl gathered her darkly colored locks behind her left ear as she took a couple of small steps towards him.

“I noticed…” Jason closed his eyes and leaned back. “And yes, I do.”

“So, what I mean is…” She began. And then, stopped. Rachel rose a brow at him. “You are loving this, aren’t you?”

“No, not at all.” Now, he placed a hand on his cheek. In a show of that self-serving concern of his. “But please, continue telling me that you need me, Rachel.”

She sighed and eyed him sulkily. “Yes. I would like your help.”

“Good start.” He stood and closed the distance between them with a few long-legged strides. “Though I’m happy to let you use me, what will I get in terms of compensation for this?” His twitching fingers were dangerously close to her hips.

“Just - grab a box.” She said through gritted teeth. “Don’t make me regret it.” She tried not to notice the heat of his chest just brushing her own.

Jason’s fingertips flicked hers, dark blue silently assuring her. And then, he disappeared through the archway. For a moment she wasn’t sure what she had just done.

Or what he might do.

Much her to her pleasure, (which naturally, she downplayed), he returned. And he came back with four boxes. With Jason helping her, she might be able to quadruple her efforts.

As she had surmised from the other day, when she received one shirtless and very sweaty surprise, Jason Todd was very well-endowed. And from today she could tell, he knew how to use his body well. He grinned at her stupor and reached over with a finger to gently bring up her chin. Sealing her parted lips, as her mouth, unbeknownst to her, had been agape. And off he went, for more boxes. Rachel felt her warmed face where he had touched her, watching him saunter on ahead. It seemed, he wasn’t just talk.

He wanted to be her personal assistant on this project.

And who knew? Rachel might even let him. After all, Jason Todd was capable.

More than capable.

[scabopolis]

emma x killian au: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic

Holy moly! This (really needs to be edited one more time, but we’ll save that for AO3, shall we?) monstrosity is my gift to @hollyethecurious​ for the @cssecretsanta2k19​ (thank you for your tireless work on this!), and is my first attempt at Emma x Killian fic (eek!). 

Hollye, what a joy to chat with you over the past month. I present to you a wordy as all getout friends to lovers fic that takes place over six holidays (five holidays with a bit of disaster, and one with a bit of magic), a soupçon of Captain Cobra, and brief appearances by older brother Liam, as well as (one hopes!) romance and a whole host of other good things. Hope it brings some joy to your season. And I’m thrilled to be able to start following you on Tumblr now and send messages without fear!

And I swear -- post-road trip, a more edited version will also appear on AO3. Happy holidays!

---------- title: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic fandom: once upon a time pairing: emma x killian word count: 12,400 | AO3 link: here ----------

summary: When Killian and Emma first meet on Thanksgiving she has some rather unsavory words for him. But then they somehow manage to navigate a series of holiday disasters together. In so doing they also stumble upon a bit of holiday magic.

Thanksgiving Or, the holiday where Emma calls Killian a pervert

As far as holidays go, Killian finds this Thanksgiving to be relatively textbook. Liam and Kate both made far too much food, took utter delight in teasing him for his lack of love life, and then he went home laden with abundant leftovers. 

Only for things to rapidly become significantly less than textbook. It all started when he poured himself a glass of wine at home. 

Home: the place wherein he poured himself the aforementioned glass of wine as he began to wind down for the evening, and then somehow proceeded to spill all but a single gulp on his bedding.  Bedding: the freshly laundered, high thread-count duvet and sheets, put on the bed this morning, now soaked with Malbec. 

With one set of sheets in the hamper and the second set wine soaked, Killian tossed back the remaining gulp of wine and resigned himself to an evening of doing laundry. On Thanksgiving. 

In retrospect, Killian knows he should have just taken his brother and sister-in-law up on their kind offer to stay the night, but he’d found himself emotionally overwhelmed by the end of the night. Over dessert and coffee Liam and Kate informed him they were likely going to start trying for their first kiddo in the new year. And as excited as Killian is at the prospect of having a little nephew or niece to dote on next Christmas, it also served as a reminder of how close he’d gotten to having it all once. And how it doesn’t seem at all likely he’ll ever get that close again.

These kinds of maudlin thoughts are exactly why Killian poured himself that glass of wine. Wine that, as Killian holds the clean sheets up to the light in the laundry room, quite remarkably seems to have not stained. He does the complicated hand twisting and folding technique his mum once showed him and sets aside the fitted sheet, reaching for the flat sheet. 

Killian hears the door to the shared laundry room open behind him as one of his neighbors enters. He slides his stacks of laundry together to make room on the folding table and is about to greet whoever walked in, commiserate over their fate of doing laundry on a —

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving, you sick pervert?”

Okay. Maybe not. 

He turns around slowly to meet the steely gaze of one of his neighbors whom he’s seen from time to time in the mail room and hallways (and once in a rather lurid dream he still feels guilty about). “Do I normally do laundry on Thanksgiving? I wouldn’t consider it a tradition as such, but —”

“No. I mean steal women’s underwear.”

“Pardon?” 

She steps closer only to swipe a pair of his briefs off the table. The pair of underwear is, admittedly, a little absurd, but nothing quite warranting such a vitriolic reaction. They’re the rare white elephant gift he actually opted to keep. Aside from being the most comfortable pair he owns, he quite enjoys the whimsical print of yetis sledding and decorating Christmas trees. He takes a step towards her and she backs up.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks.

“I’m not certain what is happening here.” 

“What’s happening is, you’re a sick fuck.” 

He frowns. That seems, to put it mildly, uncalled for. “Okay, hold on now —” he takes another step towards her

“You stay there,” she demands, pointing a finger at him.

He holds his hands up in a placating gesture. He has so lost the thread of this conversation. And he really should have just stayed at Liam’s house for the night. “I won’t come near you, lass, but if you could return my trunks I would —”

The indignation on her face makes her appear incandescent. “Yours?!”

“Yes, mine.” 

His neighbor starts sputtering and then she goes silent, her jaw clenching in a way that is, if he were to be honest, rather intimidating. Still, Killian does (for some unknown reason that would likely require a good amount of therapy), what he so often finds himself doing whenever he meets his match: he smiles.

His smile only makes the frown lines on her face deepen. 

“Look,” he says, in his most sensible tone of voice. “Do you really believe I would be daft enough to steal your undergarments and then remain in the laundry folding them knowing any moment you might return?” 

It’s only for a split second, but her features relax as she considers his words. Then she full on glares at him, clutching the briefs in her fist. But then her eyes dart to one of the dryers on the wall. 

“Have a look,” he says, gesturing with his head to the dryer.  

“Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

“I would despair if you did.”

She remains true to her word, keeping one eye on him as she opens the dryer and roots around inside. He knows she’s found what she’s looking for when he hears her groan. “Fuck me,” she mutters to herself, and then pulls out a pair of briefs identical to his own. 

She groans again. “This isn’t possible.”

“Yet here we are.” 

She shuffles over and hands him back his briefs. Killian has to actively work to keep in his laugh as he watches her remove her clothing from the dryer and start another load. From the way the pink in her cheeks burns brighter, she’s aware of his gaze.

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving?” he asks. And there’s that rather becoming jaw clench of hers. “Accuse men of stealing your underwear, I mean?” 

She remains silent and Killian decides to show mercy, finishing up his folding and stacking the clothes in his basket. His neighbor gives him a wide berth as she carries her laundry basket on her hip and leaves - no, flees - the room. But not before she mutters an apology. “Sorry if I, uh, said — you know?” 

“Now, what could you have possibly said?” he asks, all faux innocence.

If possible, her blush gets even brighter. “Happy Thanksgiving.” 

Once back in his flat he texts Liam the whole story. As he putters around, remaking his bed and pouring himself another glass of wine, he bursts out into little chuckles of laughter replaying the scenario. Laughter which Liam echoes in emoji form once he responds. Frankly, this woman is Killian’s hero (Liam's too, as he offered to buy her a gift basket for helping keep Killian's ego in check). Maybe he’ll see her in the mail room and can assure her of her place of honor in Jones family lore. 

He’s settling into the couch with a book when there’s a knock. Killian frowns, his eyes darting to his wall clock. It’s somehow only half-eight, but he isn’t expecting anyone. He looks out his peephole and smiles at the sight of one his young neighbors holding a platter of baked goods. They’ve only chatted in the elevator and occasionally in the halls but Henry is a warm and charming young man, and Killian always looks forward to their interactions. Which doesn’t explain why he —

“Mom, get your butt over here.” 

“You knocked, he didn’t answer. He’s probably asleep.” And then the woman from the laundry room comes into view and it all makes a little more sense.

“When you mess up, you apologize. Those are the rules.” 

“The rules for what?” she asks.

“For life.” 

“Who taught you these rules?”

“You did.” 

She huffs out an exasperated laugh, but wraps an arm around Henry’s shoulder and pulls him close. “God, why couldn’t I suck more as a parent?”

Killian decides to put her out of her misery and answer the door. Young Henry looks delighted at his appearance, and his mom appears miserable. Like she wants nothing more than to sprint in the other direction. 

“Mr. Jones! Happy Thanksgiving! This is my mom, Emma.” 

“Sir Henry, Happy Thanksgiving to you.” He looks to Henry’s mom. “And to your lovely mum.”

Henry shoves the platter of treats at him and Killian bobbles it before holding it steady. “These are for you!” Henry needlessly explains. It’s a platter teeming with pumpkin pie, cookies, and some sort of toffee almond concoction that looks delightful. “My Aunt Mary-Margaret is the world’s best cook,” Henry says. 

“Well, thank you, Henry. And please give my thanks to your aunt.”

“I will. Now my mom has something she wants to say to you.” Emma looks ready to protest but then Henry smiles up at her, his grin wide and toothy and she shakes her head, affection for her son apparent. “Goodnight, Mr. Jones.” 

Emma watches as Henry walks down to the end of the hallway, unlocks the door, gives his mom a thumbs up, and walks inside. Once inside, Emma turns to him and mumbles something barely audible. 

“I’m sorry. What was that, love?” 

She huffs out a breath, fluttering a strand of her hair in the process. “I said, I’m sorry for calling you a pervert.” 

“And?”

“And for trying to steal your underwear?” 

“What about for calling me a sick fuck?” 

“I did not!” she protests, but at his look her brow furrows in concentration. “Oh my god. I did, didn’t I?” She shifts her weight from side to side and he’s pretty certain he hears her mutter another curse word under her breath. She looks up and locks eyes with him. For a moment all he can think is wow, green, but she starts talking again. “Look, Henry and I had a really great day at my sister’s house but then I got this message from my ex, Henry’s dad, and to be honest it sent me into a bit of a tailspin. So then I go grab my laundry and there you are with a very peculiar pair of underwear and all I could think was ‘not today, asshole’ and then — well, you were there. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re forgiven, Emma.” Then it’s his turn to frown, gesturing towards the direction Henry walked as he leans against his doorway. “How did you know who I am?” 

“Oh, I mentioned what happened to Henry and he asked me to describe the neighbor.” 

“Smart kid.” 

“Yeah.” She fidgets again, kind of shaking the tension out of her hands as she rocks back on her heels. “Well, I…that’s all, I wanted to say, so…”

“Nice to meet you, Emma. And Happy Thanksgiving.” She backs away from the door giving him a perfunctory little wave. For some reason, after he closes and locks the door, he finds himself looking through the peephole to watch Emma’s retreat. She lingers outside the door for a second before smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand and then does an entirely unbecoming and yet endearing full body shake and flail, tossing her head back and groaning. She appears to catch herself, and Killian watches as she looks to his door. Her eyes close in resignation. “You saw that didn’t you?” 

“Every single second.” 

“Happy Thanksgiving, Killian.”

Christmas Eve Or, the holiday where Killian almost freezes

It’s a working theory of hers, but Emma is willing to argue with anyone who cares that Christmas Eve is far superior to Christmas. The whole day is filled with baking, and listening to Christmas music, and lighting every baked good themed candle she owns. Plus! she doesn’t have to wake up to an overeager eight year old shaking her at dawn. It’s wonderful. 

As she stores the vacuum in the hall closet (one last round of pre-festivity cleaning), her phone vibrates. She pulls it out of her pocket, smiling when she sees it’s a text from Killian.

Texts from Killian: another thing that is wonderful these days, if not unexpected. 

11:12 AM - Killian to Emma My oven is on the fritz. Can I use yours for a bit? 

11:13 AM - Emma to Killian Define ‘a bit’…

11:14 AM - Killian to Emma Ok. Less ‘a bit’ and more ‘a while.’

11:15 AM - Killian to Emma And by 'a while' I mean the rest of the day.

Emma snorts at that one.

11:17 AM - Emma to Killian It’s all yours. Though, I thought your fruit cake would be in door stop mode by now?

11:19 AM - Killian to Emma For the last time, woman, it’s not a bloody fruit cake.

When Killian proudly told her and Henry over Saturday morning pancakes he was preparing a classic Christmas cake for their Christmas Eve celebration, and then proceeded to explain the weeks long process behind making the cake, Henry frowned. “I think that’s a fruit cake.” 

Which was the first, but certainly not the last time, Killian insisted: “It certainly is not!” And then Killian proceeded to explain, again, what a Christmas cake was. 

From Killian’s explanation of how to prepare it, though, there shouldn’t be any baking required today. Which begs the question as to exactly what Killian is doing. As the host of the event, Emma is only responsible for appetizers (thank you Trader Joe’s), and booze with the rest of the guests bringing the meal.

A meal which apparently includes a British man she met a month ago, bringing a fruit cake to the Christmas Eve celebration with her family and closest friends. What is her life?

Dare she say it, life is pretty great these days. And Killian is definitely part of why that is.

After their ignominious beginning, she and Killian found themselves bumping into one another constantly. If they didn’t cross paths in the mail room, hallway, or elevator, it was Henry - her kid who would find a way to make friends with a paper bag if given the opportunity -  who started inviting Killian to join them everywhere. While on their way to the movies it was a “hey, Killian, wanna come?” More than a few times Henry went to check the mail as Emma cooked dinner and when he returned Killian was with him. “I told him all about your chicken and dumplings, mom!” 

Somehow Killian joining them for chicken and dumplings turned into the two of them texting throughout the day — Killian in between clients at the physical therapy clinic, and Emma whenever she needed a break from real estate contracts — and then a second glass of wine once Henry went to bed. Apparently, unbeknownst to Emma, this was all leading to Killian celebrating Christmas Eve with her family and friends. Oh, and coming over the next day for Christmas morning pancakes. 

Despite what her sister and brother-in-law would like people to believe, Killian is only spending the holidays with them because his brother left for his in-laws earlier in the week and Henry didn’t want him to spend the holiday alone. That’s it! If it was more than that, would she be okay with Killian coming over while she was in her cleaning clothes? Obviously not. So, suck it universe. 

Killian shows up ten minutes later looking fine and not at all biteable in a truly horrendous Christmas sweater that no one has a right to look as…completely adequate…in as he does. His arms are laden with grocery bags. 

“All this for a fruitcake?”

“Christmas cake. And no. That has been done for some time, as you well know. I told Mary-Margaret I’d make Yorkshire puddings to go with the prime rib. And Liam would disown me if I didn’t make mince pies.” 

“How British of you.” 

“Well, I am British.” 

“You know what I mean.” Emma grabs him an apron so he doesn’t mess up his Christmas sweater and as he makes himself at home, she buzzes around getting the apartment ready - pulling the folding chairs and table out of the closet, making sure Henry has enough clean clothes to wear for dinner, etc. Henry spends the day floating in and out of the kitchen to bug Killian. He plays his video games for a little bit and then is back to the kitchen and gets annoyed because there’s not enough room for him to make a sandwich. He is only appeased when Killian reveals he brought over leftover Chinese. 

“Why did you bring so much extra food?” she asks, ignoring Killian’s disapproving stare as she bites into a cold eggroll. She’s pretty sure he also brought over a gallon of milk and what looks like leftover roasted vegetables. Weird. 

“Do you know what the two of you are like when you’re not fed?” Killian shudders in horror, and Emma smacks him in the back of the head. She also pinches mince pie filling to be a brat.

When she comes out in her loungewear, after having showered, there is the most wonderful smell of cinnamon in the air. Before she even asks Killian hands her a mug of mulled wine. How did she even get this and what does she have to do to keep it forever? Emma freezes at the thought. By this she means his friendship. Obviously.

Once Mary-Margaret and David, then Ruby and Mulan arrive, the evening, dare she even thinks it, is borderline perfect. Continuing the British Christmas theme, Killian brought Christmas crackers from World Market. Henry got so excited at the hat and little joke in his that he hug bombed Killian and the poor man spilled his hot chocolate down the front of his sweater. Henry apologizes profusely, but Killian assures him it’s okay, losing the sweater for just a black tee underneath. Which, again, is fine and makes Killian look fine and Emma really needs the commentary in her head to quiet down. 

“Hate to see a Christmas casualty,” David muses as Killian tosses the sweater aside. 

“True, but good things tend to happen to me when I do laundry on a holiday,” he replies. 

And Mary-Margaret gets this wide knowing grin, which Emma does not care for at all, but her heart is currently beating fast enough that she lets it pass. 

The high-point of the night might be when Mary-Margaret serves slices of Killian’s Christmas cake alongside her caramel apple pie. Ruby holds up her plate, sniffs Killian’s cake, and with a perfectly cocked eyebrow simply asks “Fruit cake?” Henry almost falls out of his chair laughing. 

Mulan and Ruby are the first to leave, needing to get to Granny’s where they’re staying the night. Killian offers to stay and help clean up but Emma refuses. The man spent all day cooking in her kitchen – she’s not going to make him clean, too. But when Henry hugs him goodnight and tells him they’ll see him for pancakes, Emma has to admit she’s a little sad to see him shuffle down the hallway back to his own apartment.

Henry proceeds to line up his mom, his aunt, and his uncle, debating as to who deserves to read to him that night. David wins the privilege outright when, upon Henry asking each of them to share their Percy Jackson voice, he actually recites from memory an excerpt from the book Henry is currently reading. Fucking show-off. 

Mary-Margaret doesn’t even wait for them to leave the kitchen before she looks at Emma like she must say something or she’ll burst. As Emma is want to do, she ignores it. No wonder David lobbied so hard to get the bedtime story invitation. The two were in cahoots. As they do dishes, Mary-Margaret keeps dropping conversational breadcrumbs =, waiting for Emma to take one up. Which Emma steadfastly fails to do. So Mary-Margaret stops being subtle.  

“So, Killian was here all day, huh?” 

“Yes.” 

“Huh,” Mary-Margaret says, drying a wine glass and setting it aside. “Interesting.” 

“Stop.” 

“Stop what?” 

“You know what you’re doing.” 

“Do I?” 

“God, you’re annoying,” Emma says, smacking her shoulder with the back of her hand. 

Mary-Maragret frowns and does it right back. “I like Killian.”

“He’ll be thrilled to hear it.” 

“And I think you like Killian, too.”

Emma glares at her. “Well, he’s my friend.”

“Who you very much would like to be a naked friend.”

“Mary-Margaret!”

“What?” 

She steals the towel away from Mary-Margaret and snaps her with it. “Can we be done with this conversation?”

“No. Because I have something important to say to you.” Emma groans and Mary-Margaret takes a step forward, placing a hand on either side of Emma’s face. “I know you think you’ve got this bruised and battered heart. But that’s not true, Emma. You have the most open heart of anyone I’ve ever known. And I don’t know how you do it, but as someone you let see that big beautiful heart, I just need you to know how lucky I am to have you in my life. Anyone would be so lucky to have you. So be brave.” 

Emma feels her eyes go glassy and seriously! Mary-Margaret has been in her life for more than twenty-years. How does she always do this to her? She reaches forward and hugs Mary-Margaret tight, blinking the tears back.

“I love you,” Mary-Margaret says. 

“Shut up.” Emma holds her even tighter. “I love you, too.”

After Mary-Margaret and David leave she gives Henry a final tuck into bed then takes a moment to look around the apartment. The space feels emptier than when the day started. It must be the come down from an almost perfect night. Right? Not like she’s feeling morose because there’s a person down the hall who she very much wishes was still currently in her apartment. Someone to perhaps share leftover pie and a glass of wine with. That would be absurd. It’s just that the whole night felt a little magic, and now it’s over.

Emma blows out the living room candles and that’s when she sees it — Killian’s ugly Christmas sweater draped over the back of the couch. Which Emma immediately decides she should return to Killian. It’s urgent. That sweater could mean a lot to him. Or, something. 

She locks up the apartment door and heads to Killian’s. Knocking on the door triggers a feeling of panic and she’s tempted to drop the sweater and run. But then he opens the door and his already bright eyes somehow get brighter. This was the right decision. 

“Emma! What are you —” 

“You forgot your sweater.” 

“Thanks, love.” 

She immediately notices that his apartment is very dark. Was he already getting ready for bed? This early? She stands up on her tiptoes to peek, and his smile falls. Killian wedges himself into the doorframe, closing the door behind him and obstructing her view. Emma narrows her eyes. 

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing.” 

“Do you have someone over?” 

“No. I’m just —”

“Why are all your lights off?” 

“Being energy efficient. Climate change.” 

“Really?”

“Yup.” 

“Huh. Fine, then. You should probably stain treat this,” she says, and hands him the sweater. 

“Thank you.” He reaches for it and the moment he does Emma pushes him aside to crash into his apartment. All the lights are off. He's lit a few candles, and oh fuck. Does he have someone over?

“Killian, your lights are off.”

“What do you call those?” he asks, pointing to the three-wick sugar cookie candle Mary-Margaret got him.

“Killian.” It’s a tone that usually convinces Henry he in fact does need to wear socks with his shoes but simply causes Killian to smirk at her. 

“Maybe I want to romance myself, Swan.” 

“Gross. All your lights are off," she repeats. "Even the light on your microwave.”

He looks like he wants to protest but must sense she is in a particularly stubborn mood because he stops himself. If she weren’t trying to get him to fess up Emma would take a moment to gloat that the look always works. 

“I was working on a project this afternoon and think I crossed some wires,” he says, running a hand through his hair in, she presumes, some mild embarrassment. 

“More than your oven is on the fritz," she realizes, making sense of why there is currently milk in her fridge. "Isn’t it?” 

“Seems that way.”

“Well did you —?”

“Aye, I tried, but it didn’t work, and with the holiday the electrician isn’t able to come until Thursday..” 

“Well, why not call —?”

“How do you think Leroy is going to feel about me doing an undisclosed wiring project and killing the —?”

“—yeah, I get it. Look, I need to get back to Henry, but pack a bag and I’ll see you soon.” 

“Do what now?” 

“It’s going to be 12 degrees tonight, Killian. You are not staying in this apartment without power.” 

Emma watches as he mulls over her words, considering whether or not he should abide by them. “I could sleep on your couch and then away to my flat in the morning.” 

She shrugs. “Or, you could pack a bag.” A little voice inside her head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Mary-Margaret is cheering her on. Telling her to press a little more. That it’s worth it. “Come on, Killian. You can’t freeze to death on Christmas Eve. Imagine how that would play on the evening news.” 

He laughs, shaking his head in that way he does. If she isn’t mistaken, it's tinged with a little more affectionate every time. “Depressingly, I imagine.” He breaks eye contact long enough to look down at his slippered feet. For all the times he’s made her blush in their month of friendship, it is ridiculously rewarding to see the tinge of red on his cheeks as he looks up at her. “I’d love to join you and Henry for Christmas.” 

Emma dashes home and checks on Henry. He is, predictably, still fast asleep in that way he most frequently is — legs akimbo and sticking out of the blankets like he’s preparing to start running the moment he wakes up. 

As she waits for Killian she changes into her pajamas and makes two hot chocolates, adding an extra large dollop of leftover whipped cream to the top pf each. 

Killian’s knock is borderline inaudible and it makes her smile, how she knows he’s being careful for Henry’s sake. She takes his bag and invites him to get comfortable on the couch — “it will soon be your bed, after all” — and, as has become the habit, they face each other as they sit there. There’s a lot she loves about their friendship, but high on the list is the way their conversations always start in the middle rather than at the start. She loathes small talk. 

“Your family and friends are lovely, Swan.” 

“Eh,” she says, scrunching her nose in consideration, “they’re alright.”

“You and your sister appear rather close in age.” 

She nods. “We’re only a year and a half apart.” Killian smiles, like he is happy to accept that as a complete answer if she so chooses. And maybe it’s that she’s listening to her sister, or maybe it’s Christmas, or maybe it’s that Killian faintly smells of his sugar cookie candle, but she takes a deep breath and sets her mug on the coffee table. “I’m adopted, actually.”

He hesitates, uncertain. “Emma, I didn’t mean to —” She doesn't want him to be uncertain. 

“I was with a family for three years and they couldn’t keep me. I was so young that my social worker really didn’t want to put me in a group home, so they opted for short-term care while they searched for a permanent solution. But at the end of the two weeks, when they got ready to move me to a new home, Mary-Margaret had an utter fit. Refused to let anyone near me when she found out they wanted to take me away. And then she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into her room, barricaded the door, and we hid under her bed. She was five.” 

“You remember all that?”

“I remember her grabbing my hand and us hiding. Mary-Margaret remembers some and my parents filled in the rest.”

“So after that?”

“They decided to adopt me.” 

“That’s quite the story.” Killian gently places his mug beside hers and he inches closer. His hand hovers over hers for only a moment before he settles, giving her fingers a little squeeze. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“Please don’t let this go to your head,” she says, and rotates her palm to squeeze his hand right back, “but you’re really easy to talk to.” 

“Well, don’t let this go to your head, but I can see why Mary-Margaret did what she did.” 

There’s a teeny part of her that doesn’t want to inquire further, but she blames her damn sister and her damn hope speeches for asking, “And why is that?” 

“Because I think you’re the type of person it would be impossible to say goodbye to.” 

Emma doesn’t know about that — a whole host of boyfriends might say otherwise — but she believes he believes it. Sitting across from him on the couch, his lack of electricity, and the two of them in their pajamas, Emma feels almost a glimmer of magic come back into the room. 

Christmas Or, the holiday where Emma almost accidentally murders Killian

Killian wakes up to the sound of giggling and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The gas fireplace is already switched on, as are the Christmas lights, and he’ll have to ask Emma later how she managed to prevent Henry from crashing into the tree in his excitement to get at his presents.

“I’m going to set the table, so go ahead and gently wake Killian —” And that should prepare him, but he doesn’t hear the rest of Emma’s prompt as a hurling mass of eight year old runs into the living room and jumps on top of him. “Oof,” Killian groans. “Merry Christmas, Sir Henry.”

Henry leans his face down and grins. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

“Henry, I said gentle!”

“Yeah, but you kinda winked when you said it.” 

Killian manages to sit up just enough to watch Emma try and deny that she did in fact encourage the barbarism of her child. He raises an eyebrow in question and she responds in the first true “harumph” he’s ever heard in real life. 

“Breakfast is ready,” she says. 

Killian sits at the table and apparently the Swans take their Christmas breakfast seriously. Fresh fruit, and coffee and — shit, he forgot to mention something, didn't he? he thought she knew?— breakfast burritos smothered in avocado and tomatillo salsa. 

“So, what’s the plan for the day” Killian asks, and then takes a sip of his coffee. Emma passes him the bowl of fruit, and — of fucking course — there’s bananas in it. He pours a little on his plate and hopes he can get away with just coffee for breakfast.  

Henry explains that they always eat breakfast first because his mom thinks delayed gratification is good for him — “I stand by that,” Emma says — and then he and his mom exchange presents, and then they play boardgames, and then have Christmas Eve lunch leftovers, and then they go to a movie and have popcorn and milk duds for dinner.

“Milk duds play what part in delayed gratification?” Killian asks, pushing his plate, he hopes discretely, aside.

“I’m not a monster,” she says.

“Why aren’t you eating your burrito? Aren’t you hungry?” Henry asks.

“I’m not a big breakfast person.” At that precise moment, Killian’s stomach growls louder than it’s every growled before. Liar, it seems to proclaim. He sighs. “I’m actually allergic.” 

“You are?” Emma asks. If her wide eyes are anything to go by, she is horrified.

“To burritos? That sucks,” Henry says. 

“No, not to burritos, but the avocado on top.”

“No you’re not.”

He laughs, because of course Emma would argue with him about his food allergies. “I assure you I am.”

“But when we got lunch last week, you ordered that sandwich with avocado on it.” 

He doesn’t think he should be as flattered as he is that Emma remembers that. “I took that one to go. For Liam.” 

“But…but…” and then she drops her fork to her plate and covers her mouth with her palm. “Oh my god I could have killed you!”

“Emma…” 

“I almost murdered you on Christmas.”

“I can assure you…” 

“That I almost murdered you? Because, yeah, figured that one out.”

“It’s not nice to murder people, mom,” Henry helpfully comments then reaches for Killian’s plate. “Can I have this?”

“It’s all yours.”

“What else are you allergic to?” Emma asks.

“Nothing.” She doesn’t seem to believe him as she sits with her arms across her chest, challenging him. “Seriously. Just the avocados.” And then quietly adds, “And kiwis and bananas.”

“So the fruit is also poison,” she says. “Anything else?” 

“Latex.” The instant he says the word he regrets it. It’s true, completely, but with the way Emma is looking at him it feels a little…inappropriate to say.

“Latex,” she repeats. She doesn’t break eye contact as she takes a sip of coffee and sets her mug aside. “Interesting.” 

“Why is that interesting?” Henry asks. 

Emma maintains eye contact, but her cheeks go a little rosy. "Well, um, see the thing is…" she trails off. 

Killian cuts in. “Because when I go to the doctor, sometimes the doctor or nurses wear gloves with latex in them.” 

“That’s not interesting,” Henry says.

Emma makes him an omelette and then proceeds to apologize all morning. After they open presents (Killian will remember the look of delight on Henry’s face for all his days), she also makes a quick batch of chocolate chip muffins and insists he eat several. The rest of the day unfolds just how Henry said it would. Except Henry didn’t mention he’d only make it two-thirds of the way through the movie before falling asleep on his mom’s shoulder, curled up in the seat. As he snoozes he kicks his feet out into Killian’s lap and Emma rolls her eyes and helps herself to the rest of Henry’s popcorn. 

“No personal space boundaries,” she whispers.

When they make it back to Emma’s, Henry wakes up just enough to shuffle to his room. And much like the night before, they find themselves on Emma’s couch talking over the day when she reveals she has a present for him. 

“We said we weren’t buying presents, Emma.” He completely bought her a present but was planning to bend the rules by giving it to her on New Year’s Day. Surely New Year's Day presents are a thing somewhere. Right?

“It’s just a little something,” she says. 

As Killian opens the gift he registers the novelty print first, and he is almost certain he knows what she got him. It’s three pairs of underwear in rather absurd prints and patterns. The same exact brand and style she tried to steal from him on Thanksgiving. 

She grins as he laughs tossing the paper aside. “Did you know you can get them personalized?” 

“Excuse me?” he asks.

She takes one of the pairs out of his hands and shows him the inner waistband. There it declares in embroidered thread "Property of Killian Jones."

“Just in case someone else tries to steal your underwear.” 

“Nonsense, Swan. That’s our thing.” 

The silence stretches between them as Emma rests her head on the back of the couch, her face turned towards him. Over the course of the night they’ve moved close enough to one another that their knees are touching. How did that happen? 

“Killian, I want to tell you something.” 

He swallows. “You can tell me anything you want, Emma.” 

“I —” she begins, and then cuts herself off. “I —” she begins again before stopping, letting out a frustrated groan. She offers him a tentative smile. “I want to thank you for doing everything you did for us today. It meant a lot to Henry.” She pauses, and it looks like she's going to say more, but she simply adds, “And to me.” 

“Of course, love.”

“And I’m sorry for almost killing you.” 

“I fully intend to use your guilt to my advantage in our relationship for years to come.” 

She smiles. “The electrician is coming tomorrow?”

“He said he’d arrive somewhere between 7am and 3pm.”

“Nice he could narrow it down for you.” She looks away and fiddles with the hem of her sweatshirt. “Do you want to stay here again tonight?” 

“Aye,” he says. “If you'll have me.”

"I'll have you," she whispers, her lips tinged with a smile.

And he knows he shouldn’t be disappointed. Staying the night on her couch is wonderful and generous and it means another day of getting to wake up with the Swans. But there was a little part of him that thought she was going to say — he’s not entirely sure what. Strangely enough it’s the feeling of disappointment that confirms for him a long held suspicion of his. That with Emma the more she gives him, the more he wants. Every smile she gives makes him want 1,000 more. Every story she shares makes him want to share 1,000 of his own. He’d do anything for her to know he understands her. And he’d never intentionally hurt her. And that this Christmas was one of the best of his life, and is there any way she’d be willing to give him her New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day, and perhaps Flag Day, too? 

Boxing Day Or, the holiday where Emma breaks herself

For as relatively calm and almost perfect as Christmas was, the day after is completely different. 

Henry comes running into Emma's room at 8:00 AM insisting they don’t have enough batteries. When she calmly reminds him about the extra supply in the hall closet, he runs off without a thank you. A little later she’s pouring herself coffee and Henry runs into the kitchen, grabs the poptart package out of her hand and runs out again. “I’m putting together my legos!” he shouts. 

“We are leaving in one hour, Henry.” Silence answers her from his bedroom. “That means shoes, scarf, coat and gloves.” More silence. “Henry!”

“Got it mom! One hour!” Door slam. 

She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Killian barely stifles a laugh as he watches the sequence of events from the coach. 

“How much for you to take him off my hands for the next two to three years?” she asks, trying to ignore how cute he looks waking up in her apartment, sleep rumpled with hair sticking up every which way. 

“You want me to bring him back as a pre-teen?” 

“Good point. What about one of those boarding schools in Switzerland rich step-mothers always want to send their kids to? You know those ones in movies with the Olsen twins?”

“You’re truly trying to cast yourself as the stepmother in this situation?” 

“Shut up and come get your coffee.” 

She can see why Killian and Henry get along so well. Much like her son, Killian can’t simply stand up and walk into the kitchen. No. He bounds off the couch — she has no doubt he was tempted to hurdle it simply to prove he could — and then swaggers towards her. Does he always lead with his pelvis? God, why is she thinking about his pelvis? Once he’s in front of her, his mess of hair appears even more riotous and her fingers actually twitch with the urge to smooth it down. Instead she hands him a cup of coffee and picks hers up again. If her hands are busy maybe she’ll keep them to herself. And why did she think having him sleepover again was a good idea? What was she thinking? 

Well, to be honest, she knew what she was thinking originally. But then late last night he shared why it is that Christmas is usually a hard season for him — a reminder of losing his mom as a child and his fiancé just two years ago — and all she could think about was how lucky she was to have walked into their laundry room that night. 

Killian is a big one for eye contact — she knew that the day they met in the laundry room and it’s been confirmed a million times since — and it has a very squirm inducing impact on her insides. His heavy lidded eyes make everything twist up, and flutter, and race in a way that is almost painful. But like a good kind of painful. 

“What’s your plan for today?” she asks. 

He shrugs. “Betray your kindness for a bit longer and wait for the electrician to arrive. Yours?” 

“Henry is going ice skating with a few of his friends. I’m going to go for a run after I walk him to Avery’s, but no plans after that.” She clears her throat as her pesky thoughts urge her to ask him to spend the day together. Naked, a part of her brain unhelpfully suggests. 

“You’re going to walk in this weather? And then run in this weather?” 

“I snagged a parking spot right in front and Avery’s family only lives a few blocks away. There is no way I am sacrificing my parking spot.” She turns away from Killian to top up her coffee. “And running is good for me. Helps me make sense of my thoughts when they’re all muddled.” 

“What is making your thoughts muddled?” he asks.

She freezes for a second, the question taking her by surprise, and then turns around slowly. And holy fuck why do his eyes have to be so focused on her and so damn blue?! It’s oppressive, his eye color. “I didn’t say —”

“You kind of implied.” 

“I did not.”

“You did.” 

She bites her lip to stifle a laugh, shaking her head. “You know it’s moments like these that remind me you’re the baby brother.” 

He laughs, nodding his head in concession. “True. But in this case my persistence is motivated by my own selfish curiosity."

“What makes you curious?”

“I’m curious about all sorts of things. But I have to admit that my thoughts have also been rather muddled these days.” ” He taps his lips, thinking, and that is not fair. “For instance, I’m curious about what you wanted to say to me last night. Before you stopped yourself from continuing.”

How did he —? 

“I’m curious about why you’re taking such shallow breaths right now,” he continues, sidling closer to her. 

“They’re not —”

“But really, Emma, I find myself wondering if you would be interested in knowing what has my thoughts muddled these days?” He moves even closer as he reaches behind her to set his mug on the counter-top.

She takes a shaky breath. “I might be.” 

“Then ask me.” 

Okay. So, last night she chickened out. Sitting on the couch with Killian — the fire going, and Henry asleep, and Killian sharing his life with her — Emma had every intention of doing herself, and Mary-Margaret, and every human being who finds men attractive proud by telling Killian that she thinks about kissing him. Thinks about it a lot. So, she's smart enough to see this moment for what it is: a second chance. Another opportunity to get it right. Because Killian wouldn’t be leading her like this simply to reveal his thoughts were muddled with — fuck, she doesn’t know — whether or not he should finally bump Russian Doll to the top of his Netflix queue. 

(He should, by the way, but that isn’t the point. The point is, he’s trying to lead her somewhere and she has to decide if she’s going to follow.) 

She sets her mug down and takes a deep breath. “Tell me?” She doesn't mean for it to come out like a question. 

“Emma,” he says, leaning in and resting a hand on her hip. “It’s you.” 

Now, here’s the thing. Nothing in Emma’s life has ever resembled the plot of a romantic comedy. Every time she let herself think — secretly and only in her head and only like three times — “maybe this is my big romance!” it crashes and burns and turns out the guy only looked at her with stars in his eyes because she kinda reminded him of his ex. Until she met Killian. Because no sooner does he whisper the words “it’s you” — and holy shit that is some Mr. Darcy level stuff — her son comes crashing into the room, dressed for ice skating and holding his jacket. Then he’s tugging on Killian’s sleeve and telling him he has to play Smash Brothers with him because he’s been practicing and he’s finally going to beat him but he’s only got fifteen minutes left to prove it.

Killian looks at her, a little helplessly as Henry drags him away. She smiles to reassure him it’s okay. They’ll get to talk soon. Right? At least that’s what she keeps telling herself as she gets into her running clothes and laces her sneakers. 

“Henry,” she says, walking out of her room. “Time to go kiddo. I told Avery’s mom we’d be there in 10 minutes.” Henry must be losing to Killian. It’s the only explanation for why he so readily sets the controller aside.

“See ya later, Killian,” he says, and tackle side hugs Killian before sprinting for the door. 

Emma grabs him by the hood of his jacket and pulls him back before he can bolt for the door. “Henry. Gloves.” She gestures to the coffee table where they’re waiting for him.  

“Oh, right.” 

As they walk out of the building, Emma is trying so hard to listen to Henry’s enthusiastic play by play of the game he just played with Killian but all she can think of is the fact that Killian is in her apartment. Waiting there for the electrician (and her?). Sitting there on her couch. Unless the electrician arrives while she’s on her run he’ll be there when she returns. What is she going to say? How do they even pickup that conversation? 

It’s this state of distraction that she blames for missing the patch of ice on the sidewalk outside their apartment. She slips and lands hard not even certain of what happened.

“Mom!” Henry shouts, immediately at her side.

“I’m okay, sweetie,” she grits out, trying to catch her breath. “I just slipped.” Except for when Henry tries to help her up her knee buckles and pain shoots up her leg. Shit. She sits on the sidewalk and takes a deep breath, not wanting to scare Henry. 

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Can you do me a favor, bud?” She pulls out her phone, scrolling through the contacts. “Talk to Killian and ask him to come down, okay?” Maybe she should be the one to call but she kind of feels like crying and needs a second to gather herself. To focus on not bursting into tears from shock and pain. 

After Henry hangs up — “Killian come quick! Mom fell!” — Emma steels herself and calls Avery’s mom to explains what happened. Thankfully she tells Emma they’ll just swing by and pick Henry up, no problem. 

Killian comes running outside, not even wearing a jacket the idiot, as she hangs up with Avery’s mom. Emma has to stop him from picking her up and bringing her inside immediately.

Her whole body shivers; the sidewalk absolutely icy and freezing. “We need to wait with Henry,” she tells him. 

Once Henry leaves, Emma reassuring everyone she’ll be just fine, Killian helps her up. He wraps her arm around his shoulder and she leans into him as he takes her weight and walks her inside. It’s amazing how being in pain can zap all sexual tension from an encounter because Emma isn’t thinking about Killian with his hand on her hip in the kitchen. Not at all. All she's thinking about is how nice he is, and how thankful she was that he was there to help and, okay, fine, maybe being in pain can only zap 80% of the sexual tension. Still. That’s a lot less sexual tension. 

Once back in her apartment Killian settles her in the armchair and props her leg up on the ottoman. He buzzes around, bringing her water and ibuprofen, and then asks to see her ankle. She supposes this is kind of his area, so she nods and does her best to hold in a wince as he removes her shoe and sock. He moves her ankle gently from side to side and she braces herself for the pain but it actually isn’t that bad. Until he presses on a spot at the top of her foot and —

“Holy shit that hurts!,” she exclaims.

“Good news is it’s not broken.”

“Feels broken to me.” 

“Probably just a really bad sprain but I can take you to get an x-ray if you want.” 

“Or?”

“Or I collect some supplies from my apartment and I’ll wrap it myself.”

“That option is free?” she asks. Killian nods. “I choose that.” 

“Keep this elevated.” Before he leaves for his apartment, he notices her struggle to get her other shoe off. He sighs affectionately, unlacing her shoe and setting it aside. Without asking he reaches for a blanket on the sofa, one he used the night before, and lays it over her lap. “Back in five minutes.”

The moment the door closes behind Killian tears spring to the corner of her eyes. Yes, Emma’s in pain, the ibuprofen not quite kicking in yet as she feels her ankle throb. And, yes, her butt is a little cold, but that doesn’t really explain why she starts to cry. These past couple of days have just been a lot. In a really great way, but it’s still a lot. 

The tears must be something Killian notices when he gets back because in a flash he crouches in front of her, resting a hand on her uninjured ankle. “Hey now, what’s this?”

She shakes her head, not really sure how to explain. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” 

His raised eyebrow and tightly drawn mouth indicate he doesn’t believe her, but as she dabs her eyes with her sleeve, he takes to unpacking the supplies he brought over. The truth is that it’s not nothing; more like it's everything. It’s that his apartment is down the hall and when she demanded he come stay with her and Henry he could have refused, or used his spare key to stay at his brother’s, but he didn’t. And that while she has yet to hear an explanation concerning his “it’s you” statement, she has a feeling it’s something good. It’s everything to her — the ways both big and small he chooses her and Henry. And it’s only been five-weeks but she wants more. She want more weeks. 

He wraps her ankle up then fits her to the pair of crutches he brought over. As he helps her stand, she stumbles and accidentally puts pressure on her ankle. She hisses at the sudden pain, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Careful, Emma,” he says, running a hand up and down her back in comfort. She looks up at him; his eyes are all soft and concerned. “You okay?” 

It’s you, too, she wants to say. I don’t know how or why, or even what it means, but it’s you. She nods. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

New Year’s Eve Or, the holiday where Killian meets the ex

“So tell me about this party, Sir Henry.”

Killian’s noticed that when Henry has a lot to say, he has a habit of taking a deep breath and then clenching his fists at his side. It's like Henry’s little body is bracing itself for an onslaught of enthusiasm. “Well,” Henry says, fists clenched, “Aunt Mary-Margaret and Uncle David have this big farmhouse that is so cool and my friend Roland and his dad, and my other friend Violet and her dad, and my other friend Gideon and his mom, are all coming over too and we’re having a big party. And then after we eat so much food, we’re going to play sardines inside with all the lights off, and then after that we’re having a campfire out back, and then after that…” 

Killian does his best to listen — really, he does — Henry’s enthusiasm is genuinely delightful so it isn’t hard to be interested. Usually. It’s just that as Henry is talking Emma walks out of her room dressed for the evening in a tight black dress and he kind of loses his head a bit. Actually finds himself staring at her, which he only realizes when she catches his gaze and smiles. 

“Breathe, kid,” she says, breaking their stare. “Your aunt texted and said they’ll be here in five minutes. Got all your stuff?”

“Yup!”

“Go get your shoes on, then.” Henry runs off and Killian watches as Emma inspects Henry’s pile of belongings, confirming to her own satisfaction that Henry won’t be without a change of clothes or toothbrush. 

“This party sounds fun, Swan. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend time with your friends and boy there?” 

“Nope. We’re going to Ruby and Mulan’s, and we’re dancing until at least 1:00 AM because that’s when they bring out the dancing snacks.”

“Dancing snacks?”

“Donuts and coffee for the drive home. It’s the best.” He’s about to point out that there exists these wonderful things called donut shops that allows one to purchase a donut and coffee at a time that is not 1:00 AM, but her phone rings.

Emma halts her process of shutting off lights in the kitchen to answer. 

“Hey Rubes.” As Ruby talks, Emma refreshes her lipstick in the hallway mirror. She pauses the action, groaning in aggravation at something Ruby says. “Seriously?! Can’t you be total dicks and tell them to leave? Since when? Fine! Be good people! Yeah, we’ll be there in about thirty.” 

Emma hangs up and Killian tries not to laugh at Emma’s quietly muttered, “Well, shit.” She told him a few weeks ago her resolve to never swear in front of Henry gets a little weaker with each passing year. 

“What was that, love?” 

“Apparently the sister of one of Ruby’s co-workers invited herself to the party — much to everyone’s annoyance because Zelena is apparently awful — and then proceeded to be even more awful by bringing along her new boyfriend who, pause for dramatic effect, happens to be my ex.” 

“No.” 

“Yes,” she says, finishing her lipstick and dropping the tube into her purse. “And Walsh being Walsh, he’s too much of a —” Emma trails off, her eyes darting down the hallway to see if Henry is coming — “fucking narcissistic dickhole to leave once he realized whose house he was at. I know he’s only staying to drink booze and leer at me when I show up alone. Sure, he’s the one who got drunk one night and cheated on me, but I’m the one who is going to have to deal with him.” 

“But you’re not showing up alone.” 

“Yeah, but you’re my friend date. Not my date date.”

Killian’s heart clenches a little at that entirely accurate explanation. 

Hard to believe it was only five days prior that he and Emma were seemingly on the emotional precipice of — well, something. He’s not entirely sure what, because first Henry interrupted their conversation, then Emma sprained her ankle, and then, as he was in the midst of applying his physical therapy degree in perhaps the most important context of his entire life, the electrician called to say he arrived. The man spent several hours trying to undo what Killian did, and then Emma called and asked him to pick up Thai takeout for a late lunch, and before he knew it, Henry was back from ice skating, and Emma was asleep on the couch with a bowl of Phad Thai balanced on her chest.

So, her assessment is correct. Right now they are friends and this is not a date date. Though he wishes it was, and he is certain all it would take is an uninterrupted moment for him and Emma to find that bit of magic again. He’s also convinced that Emma in her dress — black, and short, and lacy, with long sleeves and a neckline that is both wonderful and tempting — is a bit of magic in and of itself. 

David texts Emma that they’ve arrived, and Emma and Henry both get bundled up to meet them outside. Killian grabs Henry’s piles of belongings and they’re out the door. 

Emma has this whole theory that with surge pricing likely in effect all night, it would be wildly irresponsible to take an Uber to and from Ruby and Mulan’s house. Killian vetoes her theory with his medical opinion that as her PT, it would be wildly irresponsible to allow someone who sprained their ankle a week ago to walk a mile in high heeled boots. She scowls but he requests the Uber anyway. Fuck, he must be far gone because even her scowl is starting to feel like a kind of magic.

As the night goes on, Killian discovers that the problem isn’t if he should confess his feelings but rather what feeling he should confess to first. He watches Emma run in and hug Ruby and Mulan and thinks “I should confess how her smile makes everything better.” When he discovers one of his co-workers is also at the party, apparently a regular at the diner Ruby owns, Emma is kind, and warm, and eager to get to know the man, and Killian thinks “I should confess that my days don’t quite feel real until I am able to talk them over with her.” And then there’s the confession he’s been concealing for well over a month: that he wants to kiss Emma, and he wants to kiss her a lot.

Turns out Emma has a confession of her own to make. Well, not so much a confession as a bald-faced lie. 

Killian and Emma are in the middle of a rather heated debate with a couple they’ve just met about the best claymation Christmas movie when a supercilious voice interrupts their conversation, seemingly not caring about a lack of courtesy. 

“Isn’t this a festive coincidence? Us being at the same party?” Emma clenches her jaw at the voice and plasters on the brightest smile he thinks he’s ever seen. It screams false, false, false. She turns around to greet the man. 

“Walsh,” she says, and then extends her hand to the woman who must be Zelana. “I’m Emma.” 

“Oh, I’m aware,” she responds, ignoring the hand. Zelena looks at Walsh, the two of them laughing at some shared joke. 

“Seriously, Ems, what are the odds?” he asks. 

“Well, seeing as Ruby and Mulan are my friends, the chances of me being here were pretty high. I don’t even know how to calculate the odds of you showing up. Nor do I really care to,” she shrugs.  

Killian chuckles at that, bumping Emma with his hip in what he hopes is a dual gesture of both affection and camaraderie. I’m here for you, he wants the gesture to mean. It also has the effect of catching the attention of both Walsh and Zelena. 

“Emma,” Walsh says condescendingly. “You didn’t introduce us to your friend.” The emphasis on the word friend is mocking. Like, “look at me with my girlfriend, and here you are with just your regular old friend.” Killian hates this guy. 

But, because he likes to think himself a gentleman, he extends a hand in greeting. “Killian Jones,” he says. “Emma’s —” 

“Fiancé,” she cuts in almost immediately. Emma wraps her hands around his arm, snuggling into his side. “This is my fiancé.” 

“Oh,” says Walsh, glaring. Killian doubts he’s jealous as much as he’s mad Emma’s potentially happy.

“But where is your riiiing?” Zelena simpers. Killian didn’t know the word ‘ring’ had quite that many syllables. “Could you not afford one?” He's decided he hates her, too.

“Oh,” Emma says, voice quiet. “Well —” 

Fine. If they’re going to do this… “It’s at the jewelers. Being resized. It was my mum’s ring, and a little large for Emma I’m afraid.” 

“Right,” Walsh frowns. “How did the two of you meet?” 

“Neighbors,” Emma practically shouts. “We are neighbors. And that’s how we met.” 

“Rather ordinary,” Zelena says, sounding bored.

“Well, the sex is great, so…” Emma trails off and Killian almost chokes. Her expression makes him want to laugh — she apparently took herself by surprise with that one. It’s like she can hear herself saying the words and would like to be able to stop saying them, but can’t. 

He would never want Emma to think she caused him any distress. They’ll surely talk about the whole fiancé thing, but he’s been hoping all night for a magic opportunity to appear and maybe, he thinks, it’s time to make some magic of his own. 

“Truth is,” he says, “I knew Emma was the one for me months before we actually met.” He looks down at her. “I know you’re sick of this story, love, but mind if I tell it once more?” She shakes her head, eyes wide and questioning, and he turns back to Zelena and Walsh. Walsh, who it must be said, looks like he’s sucked on something sour. Killian wasn't sure he'd ever confess this to Emma, but here they are. 

“My first glimpse of Emma was in our apartment lobby. Henry must have been at a sleepover of some sort, because Emma was coming home at the early hours of the morning with her sister and friend, stumbling into the lobby clearly drunk and laughing. Then Emma shouted 'we should race!' and someone else said the loser had to make breakfast and no sooner did the words ‘ready’ come out of her sister’s mouth, than Emma took off her shoes and sprinted for the stairs.” He looks down at Emma and notices a rather stunned expression on her face. He hopes it's a good kind of stunned. Might as well keep going. “I think someone called her a cheater and Emma called them sore losers and she was up the staircase, and certainly to her apartment before the two of them even managed to stumble to the elevator. And I remember thinking to myself ‘this woman is amazing.’ We met officially in the laundry room a couple months later and she’s confirmed that thought every day hence.” 

He feels that sizzle in the air, of hope and possibility and one of Emma’s hands leaves his arm to slide around his back, squeezing his waist gently. She turns into him further, away from Walsh and Zelena. When he looks down, she leans up and kisses him, soft and delicate on the corner of his mouth. 

Walsh coughs, and Zelena says something he immediately opts to ignore. Magic. 

“Killian,” she whispers. 

“Yeah?” 

“Emma, you have to come take shots with us!” And man, Killian likes Ruby a lot but her timing is on par with Henry’s. Ruby is wearing heels that must be at least four inches high and as she approaches their little circle, wedging herself in close to Walsh, she stumbles. It feels like it starts to happen in slow motion but then all of sudden it's over: the bright red cocktail in Ruby's hand sloshes over the edge of the glass and douses Walsh in what Killian hopes is something both sticky and impossible to get out. 

“Fuck,” he shouts, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. “This is Tom Ford.”

Ruby holds her hands up and shrugs. “Oops.” She crouches down to be at eye level with the stain. “Sorry, Mr. Ford,” she says, slurring the words. 

Walsh storms off and Zelena follows. They furiously grab their coats from the hook and leave, silencing the crowd with their ire. As soon as the door slams the strained silence in the room breaks, and Ruby turns to him and Emma with a big smile. “Happy New Year, guys!” Miraculously sober once more. 

“Ruby,” Emma scolds, not sounding the least bit upset. “You are ridiculous!” 

“Excuse you, I tripped.” 

“Why didn't you 'trip' two hours ago when Walsh first showed up?” 

“I could have,” Ruby says, "but it was so satisfying to watch it happen, wasn’t it?” 

Emma looks like she wants to maintain her indignation, but then Killian bursts into laughter, and Ruby grins with unfiltered pride at her accomplishment. 

Just as Killian is plotting as to how he and Emma can escape next — (she only kissed him about two minutes ago but it feels like it’s been a lifetime; why is it the second he manages to make a little magic the universe appears dead set upon stealing the moment from him and Emma?) — Ruby tells them “Ems, I wasn’t joking about shots. I need you.” 

She looks over to Killian, her brow furrowed. “Actually, Ruby, I need to —” 

“Go on, Swan,” he reassures, “I’ll be here.” 

Ruby pulls Emma away, no further conversation, Mulan whooping loudly as they get closer. Was that a mistake? Or should he have followed them? What is he even doing? He has no strategy when it comes to Emma. He has no plan; only an intended end goal. Which is her in his life for as long as possible. Ideally with more kissing. Why has he been wasting all this time? He should have asked her out the second she and Henry brought him toffee almond bark. 

He pours himself a glass of whiskey from the liquor cart in the living room and then escapes to the back porch, sipping on the drink, cheersing the smokers out there as they all make small talk. Ruby slides the door open a few minutes later. “Come inside future emphysemiacs of the world, the countdown is starting in one minute.” 

At Ruby’s commanding tone, everyone tamps out their cigarettes or ceases vaping and moves inside. But Killian stays where he is. He’s too much of a romantic for a New Year’s Eve countdown. The strike of midnight without a kiss from Emma just might break his heart.  

The door to the patio opens again, noise swelling as he hears a few people start the countdown with a loud “60! 59! 58!” 

“Ruby, I’ll be right in.” 

The door closes. “Not Ruby.”

At the sound of Emma’s voice, every nerve ending in his body starts firing. Heart beating wildly. Palms sweating. And he’s either halfway to being in love with this woman or he’s about to throw up. 

He looks at her, and her smile is open and warm. He can’t help but smile back. “Emma.”

“Some party, huh?” she asks, standing beside him, forearms resting on the banister. Neither one of them are wearing jackets, and her sleeves might be long but they’re all lace. There’s no way they’ll last out here long. 

“Yeah.” 

She looks at him. “I feel like I should apologize for the whole fiancé thing. But —” she trails off. 

“But?” he asks. 

“I’m actually a little more interested in that story you told Walsh.”

His heart isn’t possibly beating loud enough for her to hear. Right? That noise is all in his head?

“What about it?”

“Was it true?” 

Somewhere distantly he hears the group inside continue their countdown, now hitting “34! 33! 32!” and getting louder with each number.

“Yeah. The first time I saw you was in the lobby of the building.” 

She immediately shakes her head, appearing almost angry at him. “No. Not that part. I remember that night with Mary-Margaret and Elsa. The other part. The part about me. About knowing —” A shiver runs through her. He can see the goosebumps on her skin, and yet she persists. “About me, and knowing that —” 

“Of course it’s true, Emma. I wouldn’t make that up.” 

Then Emma does the last thing he expects and punches him in the shoulder. Not hard enough to injure him but it’s surprising enough that it hurts. “Ouch!” he says, rubbing the spot she hit. “What was that?” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Are you saying I should have?” 

“Well, obviously.” She clenches her fists, and huffs out an aggravated breath. “I don’t make eyes, Killian. Okay?” She doesn’t punch him, but she does sort of push his shoulder. “I am not a make eyes person.” And she pushes him again. “Got it?”

“God, woman, would you stop shoving me?” 

“No, because you are an idiot.” 

“Are you drunk?”

“No. And are you listening to me? I DON’T MAKE EYES.”

“Okay, fine!” They’re almost shouting now, but he can still make out the “10! 9! 8!” from inside the apartment. “You don’t make eyes! I read you!” 

“I don’t make eyes,” she says, for the fourth time, a little quieter but no less emphatic. “Except I do make eyes at you. Pretty much from the first moment I met you.” 

What? Her words take a moment to register, and then all he manages to say is, “Oh.” 

Emma is having a harder time keeping in her shivers now. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest and there’s something about seeing that which springs him into action. He steps closer and runs his hands over her arms, hoping to bring some warmth to her skin. 

The group inside bursts into a jubilant shout of “Happy New Year!” and he has apparently been making eyes at him. This whole time. 

“Oh,” he says again.

“Yeah.”  

New Year’s Day Or, the holiday where Emma and Killian make magic

Emma is tempted to go inside for two reasons: one, to get out of the cold because sheesh, and two to text Mary-Margaret to inform her “I did the brave thing and all he did was say ‘oh.’ Twice!” 

But something about the way Killian said ‘oh’ the second time and the way he looks at her now has her rooted in place. He’s running his hands up and down her arms to help warm her up. It feels better than anything has the right to. 

“Happy new year, Emma,” he says. She hears the slight shake in his voice. Is he nervous, too? She kind of hopes so.

“Killian,” she says, and takes a small step closer. And, shit, she really hopes she’s not misreading his signals here. “Kiss me.” 

For a fraction of a second Killian’s hands still entirely and then his brain seems to take over. One hand snakes around to her waist and he grabs her, bringing their bodies flush, and the other goes up to the nape of her neck. Killian’s thumb and forefinger are doing this massage thing which is utterly divine, and — Oh, she thinks, we’re kissing now. 

It isn’t something she’s actively thought about — the logistics of kissing Killian — but that seems to be okay because her body is charged and humming in a way she’s never experienced before. She is suddenly struck by the sensation that she does not have enough hands. She tangles a hand in his hair, grabbing a fistful and earning her a grunt from Killian, which makes her want to do it again. But if her hand is in his hair then she can’t run it up and down the planes of his back and that’s a shame. So, she does that. But, she finds, if both hands are feeling the corded muscles of his back, then she can’t feel the firmness of his arms, which is a crime against the world. And if she’s gripping his biceps, then she can’t get a handful of what she has always suspected, and has now been able to confirm, is a phenomenal ass. It’s a problem scientists should dedicate the rest of their lifetimes to solving —  too much Killian and not enough hands. 

Killian runs his tongue along the seam of her lips and the sensation is so overwhelming she has to take a second, pulling away with a gasp. Only now they're too far away from on another so she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead to his. She keeps her eyes closed, wanting to savor the everything of the moment for another second. 

“Emma,” he says. 

She smiles, and opens her eyes only long enough to kiss him again, sweetly on the lips before nuzzling into his the space between his neck and shoulder. Either she's aggravated her ankle or something about Killian is affecting her because she's having trouble standing.

He laughs, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her once more, and yes! This is significantly warmer than the rubbing of arms things. They should have been doing this the whole time. The kissing is so much warmer. 

“Emma,” he repeats. 

“Hmm?” she doesn’t feel like she can actually say full words. Maybe it’s the not saying of full words that’s allowing her to feel this warm (also, made her something called a snowball shot and it was minty and wonderful and that might also be contributing to the warm feeling). 

“How committed are you to this hanging around for donuts and coffee thing?” 

“Why? You have a better offer?” 

“I could make you hot chocolate,” he says. 

“And?” 

“That’s not enough?” 

She smiles, opens her eyes and shakes her head at him. “Coffee and donuts. That is a beverage and a snack. You offered only a beverage.” 

“Counteroffer: I steal a box of donuts from Ruby and Mulan’s kitchen and we bring them back to your place.” 

“Now you’re talking.” Their plan is to get bundled up in their outerwear, say their goodbyes and then grab the donuts, but it all goes to hell when Ruby asks Emma why she’s being weird and in response she shouts “I kissed Killian and I’m stealing your donuts!” She grabs a box and runs. As they try to make their getaway Ruby’s shouts at them from the front door. “I’m sending you a request on Venmo! Donuts are for non-horny guests who stay for dancing!” 

Safely tucked into their Uber (she asked about the true horror of surge pricing and Killian refused to answer), Emma finds herself fixated on the red glint of Killian’s stubble under the passing glow of streetlights. He swallows a few times as she runs her finger along the line of his jaw. 

“Killian? Has your heater been working okay?” 

He nods. “Right as rain.” 

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “Well, if it ever stopped working, you could stay at my place again.” 

The corners of his mouth twitch as he holds in a smile, and she really wants to bite his neck but she also doesn’t want to negatively impact Killian’s Uber rating. “Is that so?” 

“Just being neighborly.” 

“Obviously.” 

The rest of the ride to their apartment complex is wonderful, with the touching, and the smiling, and the knowing that she has a box of contraband donuts, but she wants more. 

As soon as they get out of the car, Killian takes Emma’s hand but she stays where she is and pulls him back to her. 

“I changed my mind,” she says. He looks uncertain, and she rushes to explain. “You should stay at my apartment even if your heat is working.” 

“Well that sounds grand,” Killian says, his voice low. 

“Well good,” she says, and that’s when inspiration strikes. Once in the lobby, she unzips her ankle boots and holds them out for Killian to take. “Trade you boots for donuts?”

“Deal,” he says. 

“So.”

“So.” 

“Who would have thought, huh?” 

“What?” he asks. 

“I mean, who would have though that me calling you a sick fuck on Thanksgiving would lead to us fucking on New Year’s Day? Crazy, right?” She asks the rather audacious question in as casual a tone as possible. Killian looks a little dazed and Emma leans up to kiss him again, smiling as their lips meet. 

“I —” he sputters. 

“Killian?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Loser makes breakfast in the morning,” she says, and then she’s running through the lobby, clutching the donuts to her chest.

Killian’s laughter chasing her up the stairs is magic. 

[dvp95]

good for you, good for you

pairing: dan howell/phil lester rating: explicit tags: pwp, smut, d/s, praise kink, power dynamics, blowjobs, established relationship word count: 4.2k summary: It starts like that: Dan's buzzing anxieties and Phil's sincere words helping to keep him grounded. Barely even a relinquishing of any power at all, really.

you can all blame @intoapuddle​ for this one!

read on ao3 or here!

Dan is a bit of a control freak. He's particular about the way he likes things to be and he's not above manipulating a situation to go his way. Letting other people do work for him, work that represents him, is nearly impossible. He has to have his hands in everything to do with his career, no matter how small a detail may seem.

There had been a part of Dan, years ago, that had thought Phil might be put off by the way he'd ask for advice and then ignore it to do things the way he wanted to anyway, but he never needed to worry: Phil is more than a bit of a control freak, and he's fucking stubborn to boot. If anyone on this planet is going to understand Dan's need to puppeteer his own life, it's going to be the man who puts a mask in place to simply head down to the shops. Creative differences and personal differences can either get settled with a debate that lasts for hours or a game of rock/paper/scissors. There is no in-between for them, no easy compromise.

Giving up control doesn't come easily to either of them in any facet of their lives, but that doesn't mean it isn't a fun game sometimes.

Like when Dan will tell Phil to get off his ass and kiss him and Phil will lean back and smirk like Dan is so adorable for even trying before he'll say, "Make me."

Or when Phil will tell Dan to pick up the pace, over and over, and Dan will slow his hips to a roll and yawn like his own body isn't on fire with all the nerve endings that spark from being inside his boyfriend until Phil relents, body slumping forward to the mattress in a defeat of sorts.

It's always a challenge for one of them to gain the upper hand, whether they're fooling around or not, and normally Dan likes it that way.

Today, though. Today, Dan has been staring at his white ceiling for far too long, waiting for the motivation to get out of bed and start the day. He can hear Phil singing in the shower and feels a pull to join him, but it isn't strong enough to break through the haze. It's not the usual fog, the kind that puts Dan under for a few days and makes him come out the other side of it gasping and aching - it's something newer, that low thrum of anxiety that makes his brain keep catching on every What If that passes idly through it.

The shower stops, the singing turning to a soft hum that makes Dan feel some peacefulness even with his loud, loud brain. Phil's lips drop to Dan's forehead, his short hair still dripping a little bit, and Dan manages a smile.

"You getting up, baby?" Phil asks, and Dan appreciates that he doesn't sound worried, not yet. It took a long time for Phil to stop hovering every single time that Dan stared blankly at the ceiling like this. He's glad for it because, frankly, sometimes Dan is just lazy.

Not today. Today, Dan's brain is running circles around itself and twisting things up and making it feel like a Herculean task to stand, so.

"Dunno. Do you want me to?"

There's a beat of quiet. Dan blinks up at the ceiling, chasing the spots out of his vision. He's not sure why he asked, but he feels like, maybe, he could get out of bed if Phil needed him to.

"I want you to," Phil says, slow, like he's waiting for the punchline.

That tiny little push, just knowing that he could be making Phil happier if he faced the day, is all it takes for Dan to sit up and stretch his arms out. His brain doesn't settle down, not really, but he's able to blink back some of the hazy listlessness that comes whenever he's got too many things to think about and focus on doing what Phil wants him to do.

It starts like that: Dan's buzzing anxieties and Phil's sincere words helping to keep him grounded. Barely even a relinquishing of any power at all, really.

Dan is sitting on the downstairs sofa, worrying about his future like he always seems to be these days. He's watching Phil, who is actually hard at work, headphones on and mouth moving silently along to things Dan can't hear. He's got his own deadlines, his own projects, overworking himself to make his visions a reality, and Dan has started to feel like dead weight.

This break is starting to feel less and less like a chance to catch his breath. Dan has things he's doing, sure, but nothing's got the type of looming deadline that he's always relied on to keep him on track. It's way too easy to just send off two emails and then play Skyrim for the rest of the day.

Phil always seems to know what he wants and how to get there efficiently, cutting out the months of turmoil that Dan gets anytime he needs to make a big decision about his life, and that's as alien to Dan as it is fascinating. Maybe they're both control freaks, but Phil is, at least, capable of making both big and small decisions without freaking out.

Before he has to sit in this feeling any longer, Dan reaches out to prod Phil's thigh with his toes.

"Yeah?" Phil hums, tugging at his headphones so he can hear Dan but not looking away from the screen. Dan pokes at him again and again until Phil rolls his eyes and gives Dan his full attention. "Oi, what?"

"What should I be doing right now?" Dan asks.

"I don't think you're forgetting to do anything," says Phil. He shrugs. "As far as I know, anyway."

"No, that's not it," says Dan. He worries at the jagged edge of his thumbnail, wondering how he's supposed to explain something he doesn't understand himself. "I don't think I need to be doing something specific, I just… need to do something. I don't want to sit around today."

Phil nods. His fingers twitch on his keyboard like he's anxious to get back to work. "Okay, then don't."

"But what should I be doing instead?" Dan asks. He pauses, then fixes the phrasing to what he's actually asking. "What do you want me to be doing?"

Phil's lips quirk up and he jostles Dan's ankle playfully. "Laundry needs done, y'know," he says. It's a joke, really, but Dan is surprised by how willing he actually is to do the chore - if it'll make Phil happy.

"You want me to do laundry?" Dan checks.

He's already standing. Phil is looking up at him quizzically, head tilted, still smiling a bit, and then he shakes his head.

"Sure, hon, I want you to do laundry," Phil laughs.

It's not for another few hours that Phil comes to find him, seemingly done work for the day, and he stops in their doorway with an expression of unfiltered surprise.

"What?" Dan asks, pausing in the process of folding a pair of Phil's jeans. He's sat cross-legged in the middle of their bed, a couple loads' worth of clean clothes surrounding him, and it hits him that Phil probably thought he fucked off for a nap or something.

"You did the laundry," Phil says, bewildered enough for Dan to be a little offended.

"Yeah," says Dan. "You said you wanted me to."

"Since when does that make a difference?"

Dan shrugs and looks back down at his hands. He folds more precisely than Phil has in his entire life, moving on to a faded t-shirt.

"Dunno," he says, because it's more or less true. Phil makes a skeptical sort of noise. "Okay, fine, like. Today, I guess. I just kind of… wanted someone else to make my decisions for me." That's not quite right either. "Wanted you to make my decisions for me."

"Why?" Phil asks, all curiosity and no judgement. The bed dips where his weight settles onto it, and he's close enough that Dan could easily lean into him.

Dan wants to say that he doesn't know again, but he thinks that Phil might pinch him if he does.

"You've got anxiety," Dan says. Phil huffs a laugh against his shoulder.

"Er, yeah," says Phil. "And?"

"Don't you ever just… I don't know, like, get overwhelmed by everything and want someone else to take care of it for you?"

"Yeah," Phil agrees so easily that something inside Dan clicks into place, makes him feel less like his brain is broken. Phil presses a light kiss to the back of Dan's neck, and Dan can feel the curve of his smile when Dan shivers in response to it.

"That's how I'm feeling today," Dan sighs, leaning back into Phil's body warmth. "Just, like, not up for making any kind of decision, big or small, y'know? Easier to just do what you want me to."

A hum against Dan's skin, and then Phil's mouth is moving towards the side of Dan's neck, inching to his more sensitive spots. Dan tilts his head to the side automatically, his fingers pausing where they lay on another shirt.

"You know what I want you to do right now?" Phil asks, almost conversational.

"No," Dan says, even though he's got some idea from the way Phil grazes his teeth over Dan's pulse point. "Tell me."

Phil is quiet for long enough that Dan frowns and glances over his shoulder. He meets Phil's eyes, and Phil gives him a sheepish little grin. "Sorry," he murmurs. "There's always so much I want to do to you. I'm weighing my options over here."

"Don't weigh for too long, bub. I'll fuck off and make you fold the rest of this."

It's an empty threat for several reasons, not least of which is Phil's inability to fold things nicely, but it makes Phil laugh and press closer to Dan and that's really the whole point.

"Alright, alright." Phil nips at Dan's shoulder, right where the wide neck of his jumper starts to show off bare skin. He rubs little circles into Dan's upper thigh, and Dan can almost feel the warmth of his fingers through the soft jogger material. "First of all, I want your clothes off. Wanna look at you."

Dan huffs a laugh and uncrosses his legs to stretch them out, knowing full well that Phil is watching the movement. "Should I be getting myself naked, then, or did you want to do the honours?"

"I want you to stand up and strip for me," Phil hums. "Can you do that for me, baby?"

"Fuck yeah."

Neither of them are very graceful people, so there's a bit of laughter and a misplaced elbow or two as Dan crawls out of his fort of clothes to stand at the side of their bed. He's grinning and so is Phil, that giddy anticipation never quite fading in the decade since they started doing this.

Dan doesn't make a show of it the way he used to, when he was younger and less sure of himself. It's nice to have Phil's eyes on him, but what comes next is even nicer, so Dan doesn't bother being sexy about tugging his jumper and sweats off. Phil is still smiling, softer now, as he swings his legs out of bed and gets comfortably sat on the side of it.

"Of course you're not wearing pants," Phil says, fond. "You're so lazy."

"Maybe I'm just a slut," Dan argues pointlessly.

"You're obviously both," says Phil. His eyes are twinkling and intent behind his glasses as he looks Dan over, appreciative. Dan strikes a silly pose and Phil giggles, holding out his hands. "C'mere, now."

Normally, the direct order would make Dan dig his heels in and arch a brow, waiting for Phil to either ask nicely or pull him closer with his own impatient grip. Dan still doesn't know why, exactly, but he doesn't need to know right now - he can overanalyze it later, when he isn't swaying into the space between Phil's spread legs and smiling down at him, waiting for Phil to tell him what to do next instead.

If Phil notices the difference, he doesn't draw attention to it. He runs his palms over the curves of Dan's hips and leans forward to press his smile to Dan's soft tummy. "Pretty," he comments, idly enough that Dan wouldn't be able to argue the fact even if he wanted to.

"Mm," Dan says, noncommittal. The suddenness of Phil's teeth on his stomach makes him jump a little bit. "Fucking ow."

"As if that hurt," says Phil. He's dismissive about it, but he kisses the spot like he's making it better all the same. "I gave you a compliment, you rat, you should say thank you."

Another joke. Dan could roll his eyes and clamber into Phil's lap and end this whole thing right here, but he doesn't want to. Instead he takes a slow breath, playing with the ends of Phil's hair to try and calm some of the nervous, excited fluttering in his chest.

"Thank you," Dan murmurs, "for calling me pretty."

Phil pulls back a bit and looks up at Dan, his smile faltering and his eyes searching. Dan wonders what he sees - this isn't exactly the most flattering angle to look at Dan from, but Phil has seen all his angles at this point - but whatever it is, it has Phil nosing down Dan's soft happy trail after a moment.

"You're very welcome," says Phil, his breath ghosting over Dan's half-hard cock and making it twitch. "What do you want me to do?"

The question feels like a trap, somehow. Dan furrows his brow, tries to figure it out for a moment before giving up. "Whatever you want," he says honestly.

Phil hums. "Good boy."

Dan doesn't expect the zing of arousal that sparks through him at the simple praise, but he's certainly not complaining about it. That's what he's doing here, isn't it? He's trying to be good for Phil.

"Thank you," Dan says after a beat. That's how Phil wants him to respond to a compliment, so - at least for today, for this - that's what he's going to do.

"You like that," says Phil. He takes Dan's cock in hand and lets it harden further against his cheek as he nuzzles at it. Dan pulls off Phil's glasses for both of their sakes and sets them on one of the folded piles nearest them.

Phil blinks a couple of times, adjusting to the difference in his vision, and then he smiles at Dan and runs his fingers lightly over the side of Dan's sensitive dick.

God, Phil is barely even touching him and he's not even a little naked yet, but Dan still gets hard for him as easily as he did ten years ago.

"Do you like being good for me?" Phil asks, shifting so the words ghost over Dan's cock and briefly making him forget the question. Dan doesn't respond, but Phil doesn't let that deter him. "You're already being so good, baby, never seen you so patient."

Dan opens his mouth to say thank you again, but all that comes out is a strangled sort of noise when Phil presses an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of his cock, licking slowly up it without breaking eye contact.

"Fuck," Dan breathes, running his fingers through Phil's hair with a bit more purpose. "That's really good. You wanna blow me, babe?"

"Yeah," Phil says easily. He leans into Dan's touch. "That okay with you?"

"Obviously that's okay with me." Dan rolls his eyes. Underneath all the shaky fluttering that comes with trying new things is a deep-seated affection and desire for the man in front of him, and Dan is so overwhelmed for a moment by the warring feelings inside him that he has to cover it with a joke before Phil notices. "Can't believe you can tell me to do whatever you want right now and you just want a dick in your mouth."

"Your dick," Phil corrects him, like it really matters. Like there was any doubt left in Dan's mind.

"Whatever. Still stupid of you."

Phil huffs, more amused than annoyed, and pulls back to squint up at Dan. "You're not allowed to make fun of me if you put me in charge," he says, grinning.

Is that what Dan's done? Put Phil 'in charge'? Handed over control without so much as a cursory protest? He supposes that's exactly what they're doing. Dan is more okay with that than he would have expected to be.

"Still," Dan starts, and Phil pinches the bit of chub at his hip.

"Shut up," Phil says, mild, still smiling. "I'm going to suck you off, because that's what I want to do right now, and you're going to keep your pretty mouth shut."

His tone is light enough that Dan could still take it as a joke or a challenge if he really wanted to.

He doesn't want to. He wants to be good, today.

Dan bites his lip and nods, shifting his weight to stand more comfortably since he's not going to be moving for a while.

"That's so good," Phil tells him, taking Dan's cock properly in his soft hand. He takes it in his mouth for a few seconds, just long enough to press the head of it against the inside of his cheek and blink up at Dan with his lips obscenely stretched. Dan swallows a curse and Phil pulls off him with a grin. "Yeah, you got it. Such a good boy."

This time, Dan expects the rush of heat at the words. It makes him want to squirm away from the feeling, but he knows that these things are always better if he lets them play out.

He's spent so long denying himself things he wants, things that feel good, and he's not about to start that nonsense again now.

Keeping quiet is difficult for him but not impossible. It's not the first time he's done it and it certainly won't be the last, it's just usually because of a dare or a challenge and not because Phil has simply told him to. Dan digs his teeth into his chapped lower lip and keeps a hand settled in Phil's hair. He's not pushing or pulling, not today, he just wants to hold onto Phil to stay grounded.

Phil is good at this. Phil has always been good at this, and he's fucking smug about it as well. Dan has to focus on physical sensations, like how soft Phil's hair is between his fingers, how the breath in his own chest keeps catching, how incredible Phil's tongue feels under the head of his cock, or he's going to start rambling nonsense as per usual.

There are a lot of times that Phil sucks him off to get him hard or just to endlessly tease, but this is goal-oriented. Phil's mouth is hot and tight and he's coordinated with his hands in a way that he never is outside of sex. He's rolling the weight of Dan's balls in one palm and using the other to jerk Dan off with tight, quick strokes, and Dan doesn't stand a fucking chance.

Soft noises keep escaping from Dan's lips, but Phil doesn't seem to mind. Maybe he just doesn't want Dan to use words, or maybe he's already forgotten the directive altogether, but either way the sounds make Phil groan around Dan's cock and close his eyes, losing himself in it.

"Close," is the only word Dan allows, because he's getting there fast and he wants to know that it's okay, that he's still doing good, that Phil wants him to come. He wants permission.

Phil pulls off him to breathe and to look up, smirking a bit at whatever he sees on Dan's face. He flattens his tongue under the head of Dan's cock and shivers when it visibly twitches. "Yeah," he breathes all over Dan's sensitive dick, speeding up his hand. "So good for me, want you to come in my mouth, baby."

His mouth is sliding back onto Dan as soon as he finishes the sentence, barely giving Dan a chance to process the order before he's following it, cupping the back of Phil's head and coming down his throat with a loud groan. How many times he’s gotten off with Phil doesn’t seem to matter in the slightest - it still hits him so hard, every single time, makes him feel hazy and sated in the way a solo orgasm rarely manages to. It’s the same this time, except for the key difference: it wasn’t up to him, and that’s really, really hot.

They both have to catch their breath once Dan is over that crest and onto nap mode, but Phil looks so unbelievably smug and fond and Dan could wait, sure, but he doesn't want to.

Dan sinks to his knees between Phil's spread legs and tugs impatiently at the ties of his sweats. Phil laughs and gets with the program, raising his hips enough that Dan can pull them and his pants off, pressing dozens of open-mouthed kisses to Phil's pale legs as he does.

"That's right," Phil says, pleased with himself and low with arousal. Dan whines a bit and noses at Phil's inner thigh before attaching his mouth to it and sucking hard enough to make Phil curse. "Shit, yeah, alright, fucking - come here."

Phil's fingers curl in Dan's hair, but they don't just idly pet him - he tugs, hard enough to dislodge Dan from his thigh. He pauses for a moment, giving Dan time to object if he wants to, but Dan only widens his eyes and lets his mouth fall open, tongue lolling. It's always a rush to see Phil's smug aura drop and turn to something needy and primal and beautiful.

With a soft groan, Phil uses the grip of both his hands in Dan's hair to pull him as far onto his cock as he'll smoothly go. He holds Dan down until his eyes start to water and then he tugs Dan back off to let him breathe. They don't always do it this way, but Dan has to admit that today it's making him feel the weirdest sense of contentment to be used like this - to be useful to Phil.

"So fucking pretty," Phil is murmuring, and Dan’s eyes close as he lets the squirmy feeling the praise gives him make a home in his fluttering stomach. "So good, baby, mouth made for my cock."

At some point, Dan's eyes close and Phil keeps rattling off nonsense about how pretty and good and lovely he is, all of which just makes that content feeling sink deep into Dan's bones. He hums his appreciation, mouth full of Phil's cock, and Phil swears loudly.

"Fuck, I'm," he says, and then he pulls Dan off him so suddenly that Dan's head spins.

Dan blinks his watery eyes open and watches Phil bring himself off, teeth digging into his lip and a hand holding Dan in place by his hair. It's such a hot image that it takes all of Dan's self control to close his eyes so he doesn't get jizz in them - again - and tilt his face for Phil. It doesn't take long for Phil's own orgasm to hit with a grunt that Dan has become all too familiar with over the years. It sucks not to watch it happen, but… this is good, too.

After a few moments, where the room is quiet but for the sound of Phil's heavy breathing, Dan feels soft fabric press against his cheek. He makes a pleased sort of noise and leans into the touch as Phil cleans him off. Once he's sure he can safely open his eyes, Dan grins up at Phil and shakes his head.

"Oi," he says, a little scratchy from the rough treatment. "I just washed that shirt."

Phil shrugs and tosses the t-shirt to the floor to join the small pile. "So you'll wash it again."

"Fuck you."

There's quiet again, for a minute. Dan's mind isn't racing from thought to thought, flitting between ideas too fast to land, and it's kind of nice to just be on his knees in front of Phil and bask in the afterglow.

"That was so good." Phil tugs lightly at the curls wound in his fingers. Dan hums an agreement, resting his forehead on Phil's thigh and waiting for - something. He doesn't know what he's waiting for until he gets it. "You're so good, Dan," Phil says, and the contentment that Dan feels from the words now makes his whole body buzz.

"Thanks, babe," says Dan, pressing a wet kiss to the skin under his mouth and laughing when Phil's thigh muscles twitch. "I needed that."

"Seems like more fun than the usual method of ignoring your stress 'til you snap," Phil teases. "Maybe I should try it."

"Totally." Dan yawns and blinks his eyes open. "There's all these clothes to put away, y'know."

Phil laughs, loud and uninhibited and lovely, and Dan feels a smile curve his own lips without permission. "I think the fuck not," says Phil. "You finish what you started, you actual goblin."

"Eh, worth a shot." Dan leans up to press their smiles together, marvelling at the peace and quiet in his own mind.

[keelywolfe]

SOS Drabbles: Part 2

Note: Three more short drabbles for our boys! Our funny, sweet, spicy boys who are so much in love. I hope y’all enjoy them!

Part of the ‘By Any Other Name’ series

Read the first three here

~~*~~

For Part 2:

Starting here on AO3

or

Read them here!

~~*~~

Chapter 4: Science!

Ebay could be an incredible thing when it worked as it should.

Edge didn’t generally have much difficulty in dealing with it. After all, he’d spend the first part of his life learning how to handle cheapskates and swindlers, and that was only dealing with his brother. Underfell was a fine teacher in the art of brutal negotiation, a skill Edge brought with him to the Embassy and put to good use.

Today, however, Ebay brought him something on the more relaxing end of the spectrum. A package filled with old, broken action figures, ready to be cleaned up and repaired, returned to their former glory. A different kind of puzzle to be solved and he was sincerely looking forward to it.

Not even the fact that he needed to set up on the coffee table dampened his mood, although he did need to take an extra moment to find a way to situate his injured leg comfortably. Some judicious use of pillows solved that, along with one under him to cushion his coccyx from the hard floor, ah, he truly was getting soft. Once he was able spend hours sitting on the hard ground, even sleeping on it when necessary. It seemed those days were past and Red might have a few venom-laced words about it, but frankly, that wasn’t a skill Edge was interest in cultivating any longer.

There was room in life for being prepared for any eventuality and for keeping from having a sore ass.

The coffee table wasn’t quite a large enough space and Edge was forced to spread his tools next to him on the floor. He laid out a lint-free cloth across the coffee table and carefully set the action figure he was working on upon it, readying it for plastic surgery.

Heh. He’d need to remember that one for Stretch.

The arrangement worked, though it would have been easier if his tools were on the table. One of these days, he needed to set up a workbench, perhaps in the basement alongside Stretch’s laboratory tables, that was where he was right now and—

As if summoned by his thoughts, the basement door suddenly burst open and through it came Stretch along with an alarmingly acrid smell. He was wearing a pair of oversize goggles, a protective apron, and a pair of heavy-duty rubber gloves that went all the way up to his elbows, giving him the appearance of a deranged mortician or perhaps Doctor Frankenstein in his post ‘building a creature’ phase.

“absolutely nothing to worry about, no problems here, i’ve got it all under control!” Stretch said brightly, even as he heaved the fire extinguisher out of the closet, trundling back to the basement door with it. “it’s just a precaution, no need to panic! the overheads got it all, vents at a hundred percent, babe, promise!”

He disappeared back through the door and into the faint wisp of smoke that was starting to gather at the top step, before Edge could even say that worry and panic were both looking like very viable options and under control not nearly as much. The door slammed behind Stretch and left Edge sitting alone.

The entire exchange took perhaps thirty seconds.

Edge stared at the closed door. He looked back down at the much-abused action figure spread out on the towel, awaiting his care, his much safer form of mad science that only required a few small screwdrivers and a paintbrush.

Then he sighed and struggled to his feet, limping to the kitchen to fetch a fire extinguisher of his own.

As Stretch often said, science waited for no one. In Edge’s experience, neither did flames, but the coffee table would.

And when he did end up getting his own workbench, smart money was on keeping it upstairs.

-finis

Chapter 5: Ridiculous

It was ridiculous for Edge to be restless whenever Stretch went into Ebott these days and he knew it. Absolutely ridiculous. His husband went into town often, several times a week in fact, and had for years now.

To the Beanery to spend some time with two of his favorite kind of companions, disgustingly sugary coffee and friendly baristas. To the bookstore, where Jeff no longer worked but Thomas still did, and the old Human still had Edge’s email address from the first time Edge contacted him as a representative of the Embassy to verify his business was Monster-friendly and to inquire if he would be willing to display an official logo stating it as such. That was before he and Stretch were involved; Edge learned some time later that Stretch frequented the place and if he called for a more extensive background check after he did, not a single member of the Security team question him about it, although his brother did radiated a sort of smug approval that Edge refused to acknowledge. Thomas still emailed him occasionally, mostly around holidays with gift suggestions and once with information about a former employee of his that showed worrying tendencies towards prejudice against Monsters. He was an ally of the kind Edge preferred, friendly and useful.

Stretch also went to thrift stores in search of revolting finds to sneak into their home and to the small store by the University that sold laboratory supplies, ventured everywhere, anywhere, by way of the bus route, and aside from one attack incident, Stretch always returned home to him.

Absolutely ridiculous to be fretting about him now simply because Edge was at home rather than at work, with nothing to think about except that his husband was out there in the world where unfriendly Humans existed and Edge wouldn’t even be able to go to him if Stretch needed help, nevermind that he could call an entire Security team to him if necessary or that fact that most Humans were not only friendly but often fond of Stretch and easy laughter, along with his social media accounts. The lingering ache in Edge's leg was a reminder than most was not all and every week he was sent accounting of any incidents within the city involving Monsters. He knew all too well what could happen and the what if's and could be's were buzzing around his skull like angry bees.

Edge was reading a page in his book for perhaps the third time without the faintest idea what it said when the front door opened and Stretch walked in. All six feet plus of him, wearing one of the sweatshirts Edge gave him for Gyftmas last year, the one with an orange body and black arms, discreetly chosen to be slightly more fitted than he normally wore. There were two large cups from the Beanery in his hands, one half drunk, and a collection of bags hanging from his arm.

He managed to drop the bags in a messy pile by the front door without spilling either, toeing off his shoes and making a beeline to Edge to offer him the filled cup. Edge took it wordlessly, the cold sides damp with condensation and the ice dwindled from the long bus ride.

“hey, babe,” Stretch leaned down to give him a light kiss. “miss me?”

Then he let out a startled squeak as Edge pulled him down into his lap. A small wave of iced coffee splashed over his fingers as Stretch struggled not to spill it, dripping down on Edge’s trousers and he didn’t care, didn’t care that his husband was sitting on the book he’d been reading, crinkling the pages, didn’t care about anything but pulling his love closer to take a better kiss. When he finally drew away, Stretch looked dazedly pleased if a little confused.

“Yes,” Edge admitted quietly. “I did.”

That confusion softened, a smile lighting his pretty face and Stretch snuggled in closer, both their coffee cups carelessly set on the side table as Edge chose holding his husband close over the temptation of caffeine for the moment.

Perhaps it was Stretch’s understanding of physics coupled with his ability to teleport that made it easier for him to fold his tall, slender form so comfortably into Edge’s lap. He sighed contentedly and squirmed briefly, somehow finding a way to get even closer. “don’t need to miss me anymore, baby, i’m right here.”

“You are,” Edge murmured. Right here, safe in his arms, and those lingering, ridiculous worries evaporated under the warmth of his husband’s embrace.

They could stay like this, he thought, for a little while yet.

-fin

Chapter 6: Chores

Note: This one gets a little spicy, but nothing too adult!

Stretch generally kept up with most of the daily chores over the course of the week when Edge was at work. Not that Edge ever specifically asked for Stretch to do so; his assumption when he first asked Stretch to move in with him was honestly that it would be similar circumstances as living with his brother, taking on extra laundry and various trash removal. Even then he’d loved Stretch enough to willingly take on that burden and it was with no little shame that Edge learned very quickly that his assumptions were not only wrong but completely the opposite.

There was no question that Stretch’s housework wasn’t up to Edge’s exacting standards, but then, few would be. That he did it at all was welcome and humbling as he made the bed each morning, washing the breakfast dishes by hand, even taking care of what laundry he could, leaving aside anything that needed dry cleaning.

Once, Stretch admitted sheepishly that he’d learned very quickly to check labels when he accidentally put one of Blue’s wool sweaters in the dryer.

“should’ve kept it,” Stretch had said philosophically. “by the time i took it out, it would have fit one of the chickens.”

On Saturdays, Edge still did his own cleaning, following a mental list of things that needed done. for his own peace of mind. Part of him always wanted to apologize, to explain that it wasn’t that he didn’t think Stretch did a good job, but the one time he’d tried, Stretch only kissed him quiet.

“babe, you don’t need to explain,” Stretch told him, gently. “i get it. do what you need to do, okay?”

There were times that the word love was inadequate to describe his feelings for Stretch.

Like today. Edge finished scrubbing the shower stall and was heading back downstairs when he heard Stretch moving around in the bedroom. He looked in, absently thinking of asking what he was thinking about for dinner but he was barely inside the door when he froze.

What Stretch was doing was folding towels, but it wasn’t the chore that had Edge’s attention.

Stretch was wearing a set of oversized headphones and Edge distantly made a mental note to double check that he was not wearing that particular set on the bus, because the noise dampening effect seemed entirely too effective. That thought couldn’t hold his attention for long, not when his eye lights were firmly resting on Stretch’s hips.

For someone who had a unique ability to trip over his feet at any given time, Stretch could certainly dance when he wanted to. Edge leaned against the doorjamb, watching the sway of his husband’s pelvis with hooded sockets as Stretch gyrated to whatever song he was listening to, towels folded along with the beat.

He was humming along almost absently, Stretch had a lovely singing voice, but that didn’t catch Edge’s interest, not with the glimpses of pale, smooth bone winking out from beneath the hem of his sweatshirt every time he moved. That was, until Edge heard the lyrics.

“…sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me…” All sung throatily in Stretch’s deep, smoky voice and the sudden surge of heat that quickly gathered at Edge’s pelvis might have embarrassed him if Stretch hadn’t turned at just that moment and caught sight of him, startling so badly the towels in his hands were flung into the air, falling to the floor in drifts of terrycloth.

“holy shit!” Stretch blurted out, slumping back to sit on the bed. He yanked off the headset and tossed it on the nightstand, wheezing, “you scared the blue fuck out of me!”

“Did I?” Edge asked silkily. He stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. “Well, we can’t have that.”

There was only time for Stretch’s sockets to widen before Edge caught hold of his soul with a gentle grip of blue magic, pushing him backwards and mussing the rest of the towels. Stretch didn’t seem to care about the loss of the fruits of his labors, wriggling around in the nest of cotton until he was comfortable.

Edge prowled over to stand over him, drinking in the sight. Halfway on the bed, his long legs braced against the floor with his bare toes already digging into the carpet. His sweatshirt was riding up, revealing tantalizing glimpses of the upper crests of his pelvis and the beginning of the line of his spine. Whatever greedy expression was surely on his face, Stretch only smirked, wriggling again and that sinuous movement was a temptation all its own. His voice was a low, husky purr as he asked, “and what do you think you’re doing?”

A demonstration seemed to be in order and Edge settled between Stretch’s spread legs, catching most of his weight on his elbows as he nestled their pelvises together. “You said I scared the fuck out of you. It’s only fair that I put it back where it belongs.”

Stretch’s laughter caught on a curse as Edge deliberately rolled their hips together, that low swearing breaking into a gasp as his hands scrabbled against the sheets.

A clean house was well and good, but as Edge leaned in to take his husband’s mouth in an eager kiss, his last coherent thought was that chores could wait.

-fin

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Word Twisters || Morgan & Rebecca

Shelves upon shelves upon shelves of books and not one of them has the right answer. guess they'll have to talk :/

Contains: brief mentions of abuse

@exorciseyourspirit

Morgan felt guilty meeting Rebecca at Riio’s special scribe hideaway without him, but it had been a communal space before, and it could be so now, if she was going to help Rebecca find a way to get Mike under control before he came back and ruined everyone’s life again. She’d brought her folding grocery cart with her so they wouldn’t be limited by what  they could fit in their arms, but the strange rustle of the wheels on the old floors was uncanny, like one of those dreams where you turn a corner and find yourself in a different memory, as a different person. Everything felt like an odd mish-mash and Morgan felt herself floating through her existence more than usual. Perhaps it was seeing Rebecca again, hitting the books again, almost like nothing happened. Shopping for solutions. She scanned the pines more longer than usual, wondering if there was a book on shocking some feeling back into a zombie body. What’s the fix for not being able to feel or process magic? Morgan looked sidelong at Rebecca, uncertain how to act after how angry she’d been in most of their conversations online. “So,” she said, “I guess even asking ‘how’s it going’ is a loaded question, huh?”

The hallways stretched out before Rebecca and for a moment, she felt trapped. In that weird, this place is too large and too secluded way. It felt like she was back in that hollow place, where everything was the same yet different. Where the kitchen clocked beeped and only Theo’s voice could reach her. She’d been able to astral project before, and had done it a few times, but never subconsciously. And that place...it was different. As if the world constructed there was pulled straight from her mind and placed into the plane. Morgan’s voice broke through her thoughts and echoed in a way that reminded Rebecca that this place was solid, and that this place was real. She put out a hand to the shelf, letting the wood ground her. “It is,” she said back after a moment, taking down another book, “but you can still ask it.” Held out the book for Morgan’s cart. She understood the wariness she held-- they’d argued angrily online and never truly coalesced their feelings about that before moving on. “Only if I get to ask it back, though. With none of those niceties as an answer.”

“R-right, sure,” Morgan said, giving the most casual shrug she could summon. She took Rebecca’s book and added it to the pile, followed her for a few more paces in the strange quiet between them. “That’s fair. I uh...I’m still dead. Still having to count putting on clean clothes and keeping up with laundry and showering as a win.” She flopped her arms at her side. Whatever was between them, however it shook out, Morgan felt at ease enough to wear her new usual of dark sweats and sweater, hair half scrunchied back to hide how fluffy it wasn’t. “Still kind of maybe fighting with my best friend, but they turned me, you know, to ‘save me,’ so. And I’ve got my girlfriend, still, somehow. I’m...adjusting. I’m getting out of bed. I’m trying to be a good...whatever.” Some of the words turned sour as she spoke them. She had been doing okay, sometimes better than, but every night was another fight not to backslide, every dead moment a silent plea to take a minute. Fall a little. And Morgan, despite her alleged stamina, felt tired with the whole thing sometimes. Today, for some reason, especially. She met eyes with Rebecca briefly, unsure how much she still understood, how she might feel, or judge her. “So…” she said quietly. “How’s it going with you?”

Rebecca quieted as she listened to Morgan. None of it was truly good news, but she supposed she should’ve expected an answer like that. She didn’t have much to say about it, either. She wished she did, but all her words were just words. They would provide no comfort. “Trying is all you can do right now,” she said finally, “and that’s good enough.” She paused another moment before turning down another aisle and picking through the books there. “Well,” she sighed, “I found out that my dead wife is a ghost, and she’s been living with Blanche. And she’s mad at me for like the millionth time since I found out, because I’m not good enough at asking for help and don’t want to put the only other exorcist in town aside from the grumpy old groundskeeper in danger of dying.” She tossed a book lamely into the cart. “I think I’ve been subconsciously astral projecting into a different plane while the Dybbuk is in control and I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. And I’m too afraid to try and perform an exorcism again because I’m pretty sure he can tap into my power.” She turned, then, to face Morgan. “So...you know.”

“I ate a person’s brain,” Morgan burst out. She hadn’t expected Rebecca to lay that many cards out on the table so frankly, she suddenly felt guilty for holding back. “He was already dead. And I kind of liked it, and kind of didn’t but not because eating-humans-bad. Also, I’m...maybe coming out of a really, really danger-bad low. But, um, with that all out there--” She reached for the first book that had something useful sounding in the title (Secondary Theory of Astral Universe Epistemology) “Your dead wife is here? The love of your life dead wife? And you’re fighting? Or you and Blanche are fighting? Are--” You okay? They were kneejerk response words, what every helpless person said. And it wasn’t even what they meant. They wanted to know how bad the damage was. What was the proximity between where they were, ‘okay,’ and ‘natural disaster.’ “How are you even dealing with all that. Are you...is she different? Are you different? With everything that’s happened to you?”

“Did it taste good?” was the first thing Rebecca asked. She understood how zombies operated, just as she did vampires, although zombies had a much more sustainable way of life, if lived cautiously. Theodora was mostly a vampire hunter, though zombies caused quite a ruckus as well. “As long as you didn’t kill the person for the brain, I don’t quite see the harm. Did you assume part of the person’s personality? I heard that’s a thing that may happen.” She shuffled aimlessly for a moment, before deciding she’d need to sit for the rest of this conversation, and circled back towards the table. “She’s a ghost. So I can’t even see her. Sometimes I still think I’m just making it up, but then she messaged me on a fucking computer and I can’t help but remember she’s here. I’m not fighting with Blanche, no.” She sank into a chair and fetched a book. “I’m not dealing well, if that’s what you’re asking. Of course we’re different-- she died and I was alone and possessed for two years. She notices that I can’t call her lover anymore and it hurts, but also knowing that I’m going to have to lose her all over again hurts me. I never know what to say to her. I can’t give her reassurances like I used to, tell her it’s all going to be alright, if we just believe. Because it’s not, and it won’t be.” Sighing, she opened the book. “But it’s not a contest, Morgan. And I’m sorry you’re still suffering.”

“Wow. That’s...weirdly chill of you. You’re like the third person to normalize this for me. I thought you’d think it was a bigger deal. And I did, become a little like him, that’s the only part I didn’t like, but we don’t have to...go there, if you, well...” Had more than enough to worry about already. But rather than wrestle with that confusion, Morgan pulled up a chair and sat near Rebecca, gripping the edge of her seat for lack of a better idea. “Look, with the not being able to talk like you used to, sometimes it’s just like that when you’re adjusting to being something else. I know you’re still technically you, but knowing Mike’s around probably makes everything feel different. And your wife, she’s a ghost. I can’t even imagine how much worse that would be than being a zombie. These are things that words don’t reach, and there’s words you can’t get to, even though they might be true. Sometimes it takes a lot of time, more than a few weeks. I couldn’t tell Deirdre I loved her for a while, after I came back. And what we’re going through is so different, we were only apart for a little while. But being honest helps. Even if it hurts.” She sat back, holding herself as she settled in. “Yeah, sure,” she muttered. “Me too.” She wanted to help Rebecca, she wanted to be here, but something about Rebecca’s apologies still stung her bitterly.

“You’re a zombie now, Morgan,” Rebecca answered smoothly, a bit of her weariness in her voice. Perhaps years ago she would’ve been appalled, but the years had worn her down, and her losses had jaded her. “It’s just what you do. My spirituality doesn’t cling to the body, it savors the soul. As long as you’re not killing people for their brains, then I see no harm in it.” She tried her best to focus on the book, but the conversation had a hand up on her attention, so she simply closed it and looked across the table at Morgan. She was stiff and avoiding Rebecca’s gaze and her apology. Rebecca sighed. “Death is death. The hardest part is not being able to see her, I suppose. It feels wholly unfair that she can see me and know me, but I don’t get that in return. In all honesty, I wish she weren’t here, and she knows that, but it doesn’t help,” she muttered, quiet suddenly, as her heart grew heavy, “nothing helps.” An admittedly low point for her, caving in front of someone. The only person she’d ever truly been vulnerable with had been Theo, and her heart ached to be that way with her again.

“She doesn’t have a body, Rebecca, she doesn’t get to know you like she wants to,” Morgan sighed. “I’ve wound up on the floor over not being able to recognize or feel a touch. Not feeling anything at all is...I don’t even want to think about it. And looking at you while you can’t see her, probably also not fun.Not that it isn’t terrible for you, I mean--one half of you being screwed is bad, but you’re both hurting. You’re both in the pit.” She looked over at Rebecca, struck by just how tired, how done she looked. It was all too painfully familiar and she hated it. Why should she help in the first place? Why should she bother? Rebecca had bailed, and it was supposed to be okay because she cared. Not enough to help her, not enough to keep her alive, but sure, she cared. But stars, Rebecca’s hurt was so awful to see. Morgan’s insides twisted bitterly, but she didn’t think she could make it worse on purpose. “Sometimes things are just awful,” she said quietly. “And you have to keep pushing until you get used to the weight. And maybe pushing doesn’t look like much to other people, or it means Theo doesn’t get what she wants sometimes. If she loves you, it won’t really matter in the end. You grab onto whatever reason you can, however small or stupid, and you just...you go, even when you’re tired. And I know, Becca,” her voice turned soft and heavy. “I know how tired you must be. It’s the most exhausting thing there is.”

Morgan was right and Rebecca resented that a little bit. She was supposed to be the one giving sagely advice on how to deal with whatever life threw at you, but at some point, she supposed, everyone grew tired. She’d been strong for so long, the burden of that weight was heavier now than ever before. It had always been easier to carry with Theo next to her, but now, it almost felt worse. How easy would life be if she could just let go. But she’d promised he would not win, and she’d promised she’d live to fifty, and she promised she’d fight. And so, Morgan was right. “When’d you get so wise?” she said after a moment, sitting up a little straighter, a little less weary. “But I suppose you’re right. The only thing to do is just...keep moving forward, isn’t it? Because we can’t take the other option,” she said simply, as if it were a fact. She was well aware that they’d probably both thought of it, but would never admit it, even if the sentence itself was an admission. Her eyes, cool and blue, met Morgan’s. “I am sorry, you know,” she muttered quietly, as if the softness of her voice could finally make Morgan believe her. “For everything.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t take a beat now and then. Or that you’re not allowed to say it hurts. You’re always allowed to say it hurts,” Morgan said, digging her fists into her skirt, trying to reign herself in. She felt like she was opening a raw nerve. Even the silence, even the confidence of Rebecca picking herself back up again made it snap with pain. “The undead don’t sleep. Gives you a lot of time to think. Or go off the deep end.” She stiffened, shrinking in her seat as Rebecca leveled that soft look at compassion at her. That look that she had believed in, that had turned out to be not as true as she’d wanted. She pursed her lips thin in a vain effort to keep them from trembling. “Don’t,” she said. “You’re not, not really, so--what’s the point? Constance killed me while I was getting ice cream. Maybe it gave her enough of a good time that she crossed over happy. You don’t have to worry about me anymore,” she shrugged, stiff and looked away as her thin reserve began to cave.

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I’m sorry that you died?” she said, suddenly a chill in her voice. “You think I don’t blame myself, even a little? Even if I think he’s lying about what he did or didn’t do?” she leaned back in her chair, folded her arms over her chest. “I know we don’t truly know each other that well, but what ridiculous stories have you made up in your unsleeping nights to convince yourself that someone would want this for you, Morgan?” she snapped. She was tired, so tired, of all of this. “I am not the thing inside of me. I would have done whatever I could to have helped you. To have tried to save you. My fault was in thinking I could do that without help of my own, I know that now. That’s what I’m sorry for. And I’m sorry for your death. I grew up around death, I steeped myself in it when I left home. Do you think I don’t mourn every soul I pass on? Every spirit I see? Every life ended short, every undead, every grave? What do you think being connected to souls means, exactly, Morgan? Please, tell me, I’d love to hear your thoughts.”

“I didn’t say you were him!” Morgan snapped, suddenly too upset to mind she was crying. “But you--I asked you, I told you what it would take and I asked you, and, wouldn't you know, it was too much. Again! It always turned out to be the one thing no one wanted to do, no matter what stupid idea I was trying. Everyone feels bad and wants to help, until I actually need something. And then you disappeared, so I guess that was the story of my whole life! What else was I supposed to think? The last thing you said to me was no! Maybe you’re sad for me like you are for everyone else, just one more sad person, but I don’t want that, I don’t need that! I wanted you to try and help me anyway!” The way the words hurt on the way out, Morgan knew they were true. She scrubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. She was past saving face but she couldn’t help but try. “I wanted you to try something, anything, even if it was hard! It’s not like I wasn’t aware that everything about me gets hard if you stick around long enough. I knew. Curse and all. It always got too hard, and too much, no matter who I asked. It was too much for me too, but I didn’t have a choice to bail or not! I just wanted it to be different this time.” She took a gasping breath, struggling to clear the sobs in her throat without letting them out, her voice cording tight as she whispered “How am I supposed to know you would’ve done any different? It’s over; what am I supposed to learn from that?”

Rebecca listened. And waited. She understood, somewhere, why Morgan would feel the way she did. Perhaps the way she’d grown up, always looking over her shoulder, losing friend after friend, town after town, person after person. Perhaps it had been something drilled into her by a mother trying to protect her only to be the true cause of her pain. Or perhaps it was simply her subconscious, trying to save her from another painful realization. Whatever it was, Rebecca simply listened as Morgan belted it out. It was the least she could do. When she was done, Rebecca sat forward, hands neatly crossed in her lap, and said, “Are you quite finished?” in that tone Theodora often used for her during her rants. It always seemed to work. She waited a moment longer, her eyes never leaving Morgan’s face. “I am sorry,” she said evenly, “but I will not compromise my morals for you, Morgan. This is how I feel and what I would have told you even without this thing inside of me, tearing my soul apart slowly.” She drew in a breath, still in that chilling way mother’s sat when you came home past curfew. “I did not say no because it was hard, or because you were too much. And I didn’t even say no to you. I said no to an idea. You are a grown woman, Morgan, and whatever misgivings your past has left you with, it’s up to you to parse out what people say and what people mean. If you truly thought that I did not want to help you, you would not be here now. I would not be here now. You’re not supposed to know, you’re supposed to ask. And you’re supposed to believe.” She stood up, then, and made her way around the table, slowly, watching Morgan struggle with her sobs. She stood next to her, crouched down, looked her square in the eyes. “I would have given my life if it meant helping you, Morgan, but I will not give my soul and I will not give my morals. They are the only things I have left. Surely you can understand that much.”

Morgan deflated, chastised into a fit of choked hiccups as she struggled, hand clamped over her mouth, for composure. She scrunched up in her seat like a guilty child, eyes screwed shut until she heard Rebecca come closer. It was awful, and unfair--so unfair that her hopes should have rested on someone who had lost so much too, who couldn’t afford to give up the last thing she had left in the world. What kind of fucked up universe pitted them against each other like that? What bullshit balance put Mike inside Rebecca’s body, just to topple everything over for Morgan, for both of them. She nodded, leaning into Rebecca until her head came to rest on her shoulder. “It’s not fair,” she sniffled, shoulders shaking as she spoke. “I hate this, I hate how it’s all so unfair.” Sniffled again. “That sounds stupid, I know it does,” she tried to breathe through the knot in her chest, and sobbed anyway, laughing at the absurdity of a zombie trying to solve anything by breathing. “And I don’t mean you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I needed you, and you had your evil ghost, and everything was so awful and fucked...it’s just been hard. It’s not your fault I couldn’t catch a fucking break from my stupid curse and the stupid universe shakes out like this for me.” She pulled away, wiping her face again. “I’m sorry. That you hurt like I do, or anything close. That’s why I came. Just so you know.”

Rebecca let out a long breath when Morgan laid her head on her shoulder, wrapping an arm around her, patting her back gently. “I know,” was all she said. Because for all the words she was always able to find, there were no words in any language, that could make what was happening to either of them fair or okay. “I wouldn’t say stupid, no,” she mumbled, laying her head on top of Morgan’s as she searched the shelves, wondering if they could tell her how to undo the unfairness of the universe. ���But it only wins if we back down in the face of it, this unfairness. Which is unfair in itself, but, I suppose...that’s just the lot we were dealt,” she went on, looking back down at the table when the books provided no answers. “Misery loves company after all, doesn’t it?” She sighed again. “Perhaps it’s just nice to know we’re not alone.”

Morgan shifted closer to Rebecca as she brought her head to rest on hers. “It’s still the fucking worst,” she mumbled. “I mean, I was cursed, but what did you ever do? What did any of us do, you know?” She let go of her arms and leaned in, muttering, “You can tell me if I’m too cold,” as she scanned the shelves around them. So many words, so much work, and not a single page that could crack why they had to suffer this way. With her curse gone, she was supposed to have an easier time, but even this new body, this new life scraped and stitched together ramshackle style from the bones of the old one felt just as hard. Different kind of hard, but still. When the quiet had stretched out long enough not to hurt anymore she said, “You’re not. Alone, I mean. I get it, how you can’t stop even when you sort of want to. How even having something you want can still hurt. And I’ll help make sure you’re okay. If there’s a way for that to happen. I seriously don’t recommend the zombie escape hatch. It’s not much of a party. So...whatever I’m still good for, let me know. I’ll do it.”

“When I was younger, I thought I might be cursed,” Rebecca said softly, giving a sigh. “I didn’t even know magic existed, but what kind of a world would leave a child with grandparents who hated her? Who put locks on doors and bars on the windows. But I figured out, pretty quickly, that it’s not the universe that curses us,” she adjusted slightly, sighing, “it’s people. And places. And those things? Those things we can beat. Eventually. No matter how unfair.” At least, she hoped. As she cast another glance at the shelves, she decided in that moment that they had to be true. Otherwise, what was there left to believe in? “I know, Morgan,” she responded quietly, “I know I’m not. And neither are you. And, you know, we’ll make it through. Somehow. But we will.” She looked at the stack of books on the table, and although they were nothing compared to the shelves around them, they still somehow felt insurmountable. Rebecca let out a long breath. “We’ll be okay.”