#And now that i know how it ends enjoying the slow burn between Roland and Lacklon is just too good

[icharchivist]

"man the wisdom spirit really does look like Solas both in appearance and behavior that's so hot" to "MAN the transformation into a Pride demon is SO HOT" pipeline

started rewatching Absolution and god i forgot just how pretty the show was.

and now while knowing the twists and turns and caring about the characters i'm just so happy to rewatch it

tho... Fairbanks.............. sweetie.................. run.

[ravenvsfox]

Get Lost and Andreil 🌝🌝🌝

I hope it’s okay, but I put these two prompts together, and I took the whole lines, so this is:

let’s get lost and let the good times roll + the dark caress of someone else, I guess any thrill will do

There’s a line up when they pull up to Eden’s Twilight, the 1 am crowd dispersing into the midnight one like someone refreshing the bathwater, all that new heat and fragrance.

Andrew’s already struggling to keeps tabs on his family. 

Aaron’s wasted, humming to himself, picking overly carefully over the cracks in the pavement. Nicky’s only barely less drunk, and he’s all dressed up in anticipation of pride, glitter in his stubble and streaked from his cheekbones up to his hairline.

“I’m going to go find Neil,” Andrew tells them. Nicky slops both arms around Aaron’s neck so they crisscross, like a wishy-washy headlock. Aaron ducks and tries to fight him off.

“Danke,” Nicky singsongs, laughing and tussling with his cousin.

Andrew crosses his arms tight against the cold, and follows the winding line all the way to the front. There’s a clump of people clogging the door, a couple of them shouting, trying to get around the ID scanner, maybe. 

Neil’s at the centre, holding one guy back firmly by the chest, and trying flatly to negotiate between two other kids who are clearly underage. He’s not tall, but he holds them at bay almost too easily, as incongruous and lightweight as a cork plugging a leak.

Their eyes meet through the commotion. 

Andrew tilts his head in the direction of the bar, then back at Nicky and Aaron. Be right there, Neil mouths. Andrew shrugs. 

He looks back at his family again, mixed in with the rest of the crowd. Their affection is a complicated two-step; they cringe and grin in turns, and the liquor wriggles past their distrust and turns them candid.

He watches them so he won’t linger on the way Neil’s posture changed when he spotted him, like he was straightening up for inspection.

When Andrew first met him at the club door, he’d seen only Neil’s ducked head, the way it made him look even smaller. He’d assumed that he could overpower him, easily, or that Neil would simply dissolve into his hoodie, and Andrew would forget about him.

He was always particular about the staff at Eden’s Twilight. They knew him, and he knew exactly which ones would watch the door for him, keep Aaron upright, and text him when Nicky started to think that a brawl was his business.

But then Neil had been so quick in a fight, and he’d had this--torpedo for a mouth. He’d memorized which twin was which after meeting them once, for a moment, in the dark. 

He threw a punch for Nicky after he’d known them for a month. 

Six months, and he did things like run out on his shift to buy Andrew’s favourite cigarettes, and let Nicky smack blue lipstick kisses on his cheek.

Andrew keeps skimming the trust off the top of him. He licks the comfort of his backup off his fingers like foam, and he never drinks deeper than that, never gets to the cool, crisp interest underneath.

He swallows cracker dust instead, pulls Roland into the back room and thinks of Neil outside the bar, guarding the door. Between the sugar and the drugs and Roland’s cherry-red mouth, the sweetness could kill him.

“Andrew,” Neil calls. “You guys are good.” He tosses him three wristbands, and Andrew snatches them out of the air. He waves Nicky and Aaron forward, and tries to thread the tricky needle of their uncoordinated bodies, the tight crowd, and Neil, still looking at him. 

“Every time you let them in like this, you get closer to being fired.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “I’m not worried.”

Andrew pushes Aaron and Nicky by the shoulders, trying to force them inside, out of this moment. He feels like he’s stuffing a suitcase that’s already full. Or like he’s trying to stuff a suitcase into another suitcase.

“Drew,” Neil says quietly. Andrew looks back at him and finds his expression soft and conflicted. “Find me before you go?”

Andrew wets his lips, quick. “We’ll see.”

They detach, with a little dying flicker and spark, a power surge and then nothing.

Andrew follows his family inside, bogged down in the motion of his own legs working on the stairs, the buzz from the alcohol wearing off, but a new one burning his fingertips, the dangerous feeling that he might like to be touched.

_____

He gets drunker, warmer, faster, puts everything in his head in a blender so it’s easier to swallow. He circles back to Roland too many times, leaning over the bar to put in new drink orders, enjoying the way that he shivers if Andrew puts his hand next to his on the bar.

His brother is fixed on a high stool at a corner table, and Nicky is dancing with two people at once, a couple maybe. 

He watches all this, and he also watches the front door opening and closing, cold air coming in, the flash of dark red hair caught in the wind.

“I know what you’re doing,” Roland says. He looks at him sideways. “You’re pretending I’m Neil,” he says conspiratorially.

Andrew takes a sip of his drink. “I would have to be drunker than this, to mistake you for him.”

“Fuck off. You know what I’m talking about. It’s stupid how long ago you two should have happened.”

“It’s not going to happen. He ‘doesn’t swing’, remember?”

“I don’t think you should put too much stock in what people say when Nicky’s hitting on them.”

“Some people listen, when they’re told what someone’s preferences are,” he says meaningfully, nodding at Roland’s hands.

“The touching thing again?” he asks, exasperated. “I’ve apologized a hundred times. I didn’t know it was going to be so hard to remember where I could put my hands when you were squirming around on top of--”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Andrew warns.

Roland puts his hands up, chastened. “I just wish you weren’t so afraid of enjoying yourself,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Oh?” Roland says. A strange look comes over his face. “Oh. You’re afraid of enjoying him.” Andrew looks up at him, and Roland grins. “You really like him.”

“Stop talking.”

“Can’t,” he laughs. “I’m having a breakthrough.”

Andrew pushes off the bar at that, and Roland calls half-heartedly after him, still laughing. It’s harder than he thought, to put space between himself and the edges of the room, to try and keep his gate steady without anything to hold onto. 

He heads for the back door, jabbing the push-bar and kicking an empty bottle into the gap so it doesn’t lock behind him. 

He sits down hard on the cement steps, and when he looks up, Neil is across from him in the alleyway, slung casually up against the wall, trying not to smile. 

He has a cigarette between his fingers, but he’s not smoking it. “You had enough?”

“For now,” Andrew says. 

Neil nods. 

“You wanted me to find you,” Andrew reminds him.

“Right,” he says hastily. “I uh--wanted to give you this.” He digs in his pocket and comes up with a shiny little silver key. He crosses the alley to give it to him. When he leans in, the smoke from his cigarette leaks out over Andrew’s face.

“What does it open?”

“The back room,” Neil says, shrugging. “I know Roland takes you there, sometimes, when it gets to be too much in the club. You should be able to come and go.”

Unfortunately, Andrew can’t stop his face from heating up. He slides the key into his back pocket and looks away. “You really are going to get fired for shit like this.”

Neil shrugs one shoulder. “Fine. I’d rather do what I want to do, while I’m here. I don’t like following rules that don’t make sense.”

“While you’re here?” Andrew repeats.

Neil’s eyes flicker between his, caught. “I never end up staying anywhere for long,” he admits. “Do you?”

“We’re regulars here,” Andrew reminds him.

“I assumed that was because you wanted to see me so badly,” he jokes. 

Andrew wants to disagree, but he can’t get his mouth around the lie. Since Neil gave him the key a minute ago, he’s stayed close, standing level with Andrew on the top stair. There’s wind, somewhere, but it can’t seem to fight its way between them.

When they met, Andrew assumed he could overpower Neil, but he’d had it backwards.

His cigarette drops to the ground. “Andrew,” he says quietly.

Andrew pulls himself up on the railing, and Neil steadies him by the shoulders.

“Careful,” he says.

“Too late,” Andrew says, and then he kisses the vulnerable shape of Neil’s mouth. 

He slides his fingers up into that ruffled red hair, and pulls him where he wants him. Neil gives him this slow, head to waist caress, such a light touch that Andrew just shivers and shivers through it.

“Hands on the railing,” he instructs him, because he can’t stand it. His mouth moves over Neil’s as he speaks. Neil wraps his hands around the bar between them without asking any questions. His eyes are slitted open, so close that Andrew can see the seam of his contact lenses in the dark.

He kisses the wet corner of his mouth, and drags their lips together until they’re aligned again. He thrills at the brush of Neil’s knuckles, when he leans close enough to trap his hands between their chests.

He pulls on the drawstrings of Neil’s black security hoodie, twining his fingers in them. The hood constricts around his neck, and Andrew watches it close with interest. He swipes his tongue over Neil’s bruised bottom lip.

“Isn’t your family waiting for you?” Neil asks.

Andrew swallows, thumbs tucked up into the soft, buzzed hair behind Neil’s ears. He realizes that they’re moving together like they have been for months, rocking in the same direction, nodding at the same time, only now they’re much, much closer.

“I’ve been waiting for longer.”

[kitesupportgroup]

Be More Chill OBCR 💛💊

So the bmc obcr has been out for a bit now, (and I love it so very much) so I decided to write down all of my favourite things it- if not for other bmc fans but for myself. Enjoy reading through everything I love!!!

****This is not finished, but I ran over the character limit so I’ll be constantly updating this on reblogs! Look out for the most recent ones!!!****

(Btw It’s not all new additions to the album but just everything)

Jeremy’s Theme:

I mean. I love the be more chill band so much.

With the universal Be More Chill sound?

How could I not love this!!!!

And the amazing theremin?

(That’s what that instrument is called)

(I looked up ‘electric stick instrument’ to figure out what it was)

It’s just terrific

100000000/10

More Than Survive:

Will Roland’s voice (and Will Roland in general)

How unenthusiastic ‘good morning, time to start the day’ is

The addition of the parts part between Jeremy and mr. heere on the recording

‘Dude!’ (Weight the options)

‘Oh god!’

Will Roland’s voice (and Will Roland in general)

When the whole cast comes in on the third ‘c-c-c-come on!’

The new hallway lines (I’ve literally never noticed him before)

The dramatic music when Rich writes on Jeremy’s backpack

‘Oh! It’s a sign up for the after school play!’ *pause* ‘It’s a sign up sheet for getting called gay’

‘End scene’

‘Christiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine’ (new harmonies+notes ahhhhh!!!!!!)

‘No need to wallow, no’

Will Roland’s voice (and Will Roland in general)

MICHAEL!!!!

Just George Salazar

Just Michael Mell

‘You look like ass, what’s wrong?’

‘My mothers would be thrilled!’

‘That’s... good?’

[I was gonna say] ‘Getting atoned in my basement’

THE CHRISTINE HARMONIES YALL HAVE MY HEART

The band is so incredible I can’t

The ooooooooooooooo harmonies when Jeremy is signing up for the play

‘Gayyyyyy!’

‘I like gay people’

THE WHOLE LEAD UP TO MORE THAN SURVIVE ITS SO SOFT AND GENUINE WILL YOU WONDERFUL HUMAN

‘Whyyyy’

‘And teach me how to thrive’

THE INSTRUMENTS COMING IN AT THAT PART THEN THE NANANANANA’S

I LITERALLY LOVE THIS SO MUCH THIS PART GIVES ME CHILLS

Will’s bits AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

‘SUR VIIIIIIIIII-IIIIIIIIIII-IIIIIIIIII-IIIIIIIIII VEEE!’

‘GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GOOOOO GO!’

I Love Play Rehearsal

Stephanie Hsu. Just. She’s a queen. No- a goddess

The way she says ‘because it is fun.’

And the pause between ‘because it is fun’ and ‘...I love play rehearsal’

‘not depressed as in like’ bit

MAD GIGANTIC FEELINGS

‘I also have a touch of ADD

where was I?

Oh, right!’

‘The way it works out in the Pla-aa-y’

‘Centre of attention’

‘That was, really one of my best roles’ THAT VOICE💛

‘Do you find that? *pause that Jeremy clearly cant respond in time* Cause I totally find that!’

‘Why-y-y-y-y’

‘I *punch* LOVE *punch* PLAY REHEARSAL!’

‘Hives’

‘Why’m’

‘There’s also a part of me that wants to do this *adorable weird noises* yasss’

‘So I did it *giggles*’

‘My brain is like bzzz, my heart is like wow’

‘And it’s starrrrrting,

starrrrrting

it’s starrrrrrting,

sooooooooooooooon’

More Than Survive (Reprise)

I’m sorry. A NEW SONG?!

I LOVE IT AND THE TONE AND TUNE AND BAND AND WILL

the fact that ‘at least I didn’t have a breakdown, and have to go to the nurse’ suggest that this has happened to Jeremy before I NEED TO PROTECT HIM

Just the whole set up- it’s what touching my hand aimed to do but shorter and wonderful

The Squip Song:

I realise I’ve added this to everything but Gerard Canonico and his voice I love him

The start instrumental

The way he sings ‘girlfriend’ (idk why i just love)

‘Gross’

‘Futile quest’

‘I would trip!’

‘Then then, Then then, Then then, Then then, Then then, Then then, I got a SQUIP!’

‘You got quick?!!’ Jeremy is so excited aw

‘Not quick. SQUIP’

That entire conversation

Just the entire: It's from Japan

It's a gray, oblong pill

Quantum nano-technology CPU

The quantum computer in the pill will travel through your blood until

It implants in your brain and it tells you what to do’ part

And of course ‘so... it’s like drugs?’

*deep breath*

‘IT’S FROM JAPAAAAAAAAAAN!’

The techno ness on Rich’s voice

The band

THE HARMONIES

‘Almost hopeless’

‘Yeah, your whole life will flip’

‘Squi-I-I-p’

ALL OF THE SQUIIIIIP BITS WOAH rich GO OFF

Two-Player Game:

Can I just say- one of the cutest songs ever

The part where the intro is all slow after Jeremy and Michael are yelling so excitedly I laugh at it every time

The whole intro sequence basically

The band is amazing

Will and George’s voice’s sound so good together 💛

Michael YOU ARE SO DAMN CUTE

‘pac-man tattoo!’

‘Guys like us!’

‘Listen, bro’

Zombie! Watch out! Ah! Aoh! Awww’

Will’s voice ahhhhHH

‘Dude, I know, I get it!’

‘But we’re not in college’

‘All the same’

‘Ahh! Ohh... ZOMBIE! BLOOD! CLAWS! Pause’

YOU KNOW THAT YOU ARE NY FAVOURITE PERSON IS SO CUTE

‘I’m your favworite pwerson’

JEREMY’S CUTE LIL ‘yes! *giggle*’

‘Conquer it!’

‘Two... PLAYER GAME!!!’

THE BAND IS SO AMAZING

‘Two player gammmmmme!’

THE LAST FEW HARMONIES I LOVE

The Squip Enters:

Woah it’s so short but I have so much to say

STARTING OFF BY JUST SAYING HOW GREAT THE BAND AND SOUND DESIGN FOR THIS IS I MEAN WOW

Jason Tam’s Squip voice 💛

‘What the hell?!’

Will’s screaming and yelling and noises I love

Christine is so concerned!!!!!!!

‘Mild?!?!’

Jake. That’s all. 💛

‘Oh- wait. I’m fine. I jus-‘

‘Discomfort level may increase’ *yelling intensifies*

‘Welcome to your Super Quantum Unit Intel Processer. Your SQUIP.’

Jeremy is so awestruck and cute

‘You look like Keanu Reeves!’

‘But I can see you may prefer to take instructions from Batman, Beyoncé, a sexy anime cat girl with a tail’ ‘KEANU’S FINE’

‘Can everyone see you?’ ‘I exist only in your mind. All they see is you having an animated conversation with yourself- so don’t do that.’

‘Like in X-Men?’ ‘I can see this is going to be difficult’ OH BURN OH DAMN I LOVE IT WOAHH (really tho this makes me laugh so much every time)

‘You want to be more chill?’

‘Oh, you mean cool!’

‘I do not’

Be More Chill, Pt. 1:

Okay but the Squip enters moves so smoothly into be more chill pt.1 woah

NEW INTRODUCTION ITS AMAZING

The ‘c-c-c-Come on’

THE ENTIRE KEY THAT THE BEW INTRO IS IN THO

THE WAY JASON SINGS ‘outdated’ assffhfkglsherb

‘I’ve arrived now, this is not a drill’

‘Be. More. Chill’

‘wow’ (Jeremy you’re so cute)

‘Oh but I am a masturbator’ ‘we’ll fix that’

‘I thought I was more of a... geek?’

‘Wha- stammer? N- I I I. I don’t stamme-‘

‘Non existent’

‘Buh’ ‘Uh-’ ‘Buh?’ ‘Uh!-‘ ‘No.’ ‘UH!’ ‘Stop.’ ‘DOGH!’

‘Everything about you is so terrible’ ‘Terrible?’ ‘Teribble’ ‘oh’

Jeremy sounds so dejected and sad on that ‘oh’ I need to protect him

‘....makes me wanna die’ *hyperventilating*

‘So DONT freak out’

‘It says Eminem’

‘If you’re so astute, what’d’ya need me for?’

‘I envision a future in which you wear a Eminem shirt and things turn out well’ *foreshadowing*

When the whole cast starts singing ‘everything about you sucks’ you can hear individual voices in it and at one point I swear you can hear George doing some weird voice and I love it

‘Now you try picking a shirt’ ‘That’s a girls shirt’

‘Jerry?’

‘Jerry-me’ or ‘Jerry-my’ (I always think of Jeremy being shocked about Chloe talking to him so he’s just like ‘Jerry? Me!’

‘Oh- Hi, Brooke’

‘You look sexy.’ ‘I cant say that to a hot girl- AOWWW’

‘LOOKING-PRETTY-SEXY-BROOKAHH’

‘No! Yess (????!)’

The entire round part I LOVE IT

‘Just like this HAHA’ SO ADORABLE

‘So who was this mystery girl?’

‘Oh you’ve probably never heard of (SQUIP HELP ME OUT HERE)’

‘Madeline’

‘What.’

‘She’s Fre-e-e-e-e-ench!’

‘She is not French! She just pretends to be for attention’ *radiating disdain*

Brooke is SO CUTE

‘Yeah- I mean- (????!!!!!)’

‘Because she was cheating on me-E-eeee-E-eeee-Eeeeeeh’ (YES I LOVE)

‘Hey. Hamlet. Be. More. Chill’

Leading into do you wanna ride!!!!

Do You Wanna Ride?

Okay but Lauren Marcus is literally amazing

And Brooke is amazing

The way the Squip and Jeremy day ‘Yes!’ At the sane time

‘Mich-ael’

Brooke is trying so hard to be seductive and it’s so damn cute

‘Do you wanna get inside my mothers car?’

‘Ah, hah’

‘We gotta stop for frozen yogurt first!’

When the incredible Katlyn Carson comes in GO CHLOE

Harmonies 💛💛

The band 💛💛

And, of course:

‘PII-IIINNNIN-IN-IN-IN-INK berrrrryyyyy

*giggles* ‘Au revoir’

SHE’S BEING FRENCH TO IMPRESS JEREMY

SHE’S SO CUTE

Be More Chill, Pt. 2

‘Repeat after me’

‘Everything about me is just... terrible’

‘Good.’

THE SQUIP IS SO MANIPULATIVE

‘Everything about you makes me wanna die’

‘Everything about me makes me... wanna die?’

‘Now you’ve got it.’

THE WAY THE BAND COMES IN

‘ABout you’

THE CAST

JASON TAM

‘Cool’ ‘Cool!’ ‘And powerful’ ‘wow!’ ‘And popular’ ‘*giggles* ‘incredible’ ‘woah!’

The accordion thing in the aforementioned section? Amazing

‘You wi-i-i-i-i-i-ill’

‘Be More Chilll! *giggles*’ JEREMY YOU ARE SUCH A PRECIOUS BEAN

*squip, probably face-palming* ‘be more chill’

THE CAST

Sync Up

*ahem* SCREAMING

THIS NEW SONG

IS AMAZING

I

LITERALLY

CANNOT

I have so much to say

Let’s go

First of all, the original more than survive reprise starts us off. I love it

‘C-c-c-Cmon, c-c-c-cmon go g-AHHH!’

‘I’m inside your brain’

I can’t write all of the lyrics as highlights but just know that all of the lyrics are highlights

‘Let’s sync up!’

‘Those facts are not mutually exclusive’

I LOVE HOW THIS SONG SHOWS EVERYONES FLAWS AND FEARS

‘I’m shook, I’m blah, I’m just-’ ‘there-there’ ‘Brooke!’ ‘I’m sorry’ ‘it’s not fair’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘I know’ ‘oh we so sync up’

That entire bit I just

‘But as soon as she shares it, they ignore her’ ‘that’s sad. What should I do?’ *pause* ‘you should ignore her*

‘Up-Up-Down-Down-Left-Right-A’

‘The only controller you need is your mind!’

‘Looks like Jeremy’s killin’’

The electronic ‘lets sync up’ bits

THE BAND IS SO AMAZING THE ELECTRONIC COMPONENTS AND THE EVERYTHING

[shireness-says]

Playing the Part ch. 8: Before the Parade Passes By

Summary:  As a stage manager who’s clawed her way up from bottom, Emma Swan can handle just about anything thrown her way. But does that include handsome lead actor Killian Jones? A CS Broadway AU.  Rated T. Also on AO3.  Prologue  Ch. 1  Ch. 2  Ch. 3Ch. 4  Ch. 5  Ch. 6  Ch. 7

A/N: Thanksgiving has come early! For the readers, at least. I definitely don’t know anything about parade set-up, so take this with many grains of salt, please.

Chapter title taken from “Hello, Dolly!”

Just to reiterate, this is a Slow Burn. I know we’re all anxious for Emma and Killian to get together, but Emma’s still hesitant since they work together - and especially since she holds a position of some power over him. Plus, her ex keeps reminding her how men are dicks. Hang in there, guys - there is a plan, and the plan is for 20 chapters (unless I accidentally add more again) with a happy ending. We will get there.

Special thanks to @snidgetsafan, always the best beta ever, as well as to @distant-rose for telling me all about New York bowling alleys so I could add in a tiny reference. You guys are my favorites, don’t tell anyone.

Tags: @kmomof4, @winterbaby89, @thejollyroger-writer, @mythologicalmango, @onceuponaprincessworld, @idristardis, @teamhook, @courtorderedcake, @aerica13, @revanmeetra87, @snowbellewells, @searchingwardrobes. If you want to be tagged going forward (or taken off this list - I won’t be insulted!), shoot me a message, and I’ll make it happen.

Enjoy! Let me know what you think. :)

Henry’s birthday this year falls conveniently three days before Thanksgiving, on a dark Monday when there’s no show to pull Emma away from her kid. Well, that’s not strictly true; she has to go in for a few hours so everyone can rehearse their parade performance, but that should start after he goes to school and wrap up before he gets out. It’s not like they’re doing new choreography or anything, just making sure everything is as polished as possible. Regardless, work won’t be keeping her from her kid on his birthday, and she’s grateful for that.

Henry’s birthday party was yesterday, Sunday - 6 boys and 2 girls at the Lucky Strike for bowling, a perennial hit - but Granny’s hosting a family birthday dinner at the diner with Ruby, Mary Margaret and Elsa. It’s a long-standing tradition, and every year Granny makes all of Henry’s favorite foods and a big, gooey chocolate cake as everyone showers the birthday boy with more love than he can handle. Honestly, Neal can stick his bullshit about “real family dinners” up his ass - Henry’s got the best aunts imaginable and Granny’s been there since he was born. If you ask Emma, that’s all the family the two of them need.

It’s so hard to believe that it’s been eleven years since Henry was born. She still remembers his tiny, wrinkly red face like it was yesterday - this little, precious baby, the first thing that was truly hers. Now he’s half grown, his own person, smart as hell and sweet to boot. He’s growing so fast, she can’t help but think as she watches him practically inhale a stack of chocolate chip pancakes, his requested birthday breakfast, and talking a mile a minute in a recap of his party yesterday. Where has the time gone?

Emma remains in an introspective mood much of the day, thinking back on when her little boy was younger. God, he was so cute - not that he isn’t now, but there’s something about that gap-toothed look that was especially endearing. It keeps her distracted at work, but thankfully, there’s not much that requires her undivided attention. Her cast is just running their choreography for Thursday - the opening number, “In Want of a Wife”, should be a hit, Emma thinks - so she takes the opportunity to re-pencil some of the cues in her script that have gotten smudged over weeks of opening and closing the pages. If she has trouble focusing on that, it’s not such a big deal.

The hours fly by, much to Emma’s surprise, and before she knows it, they’re packing up to leave. Emma just needs to send out a detailed itinerary for Thursday, probably print out a stack for good measure, but then she’s free for the rest of the day and can actually pick her kid up from school for once. That’ll be a nice change of pace. Just as she’s making the final edits to her email, she’s startled by Killian’s sudden appearance.

“Fuck, you scared me,” she mutters, eliciting an embarrassed chuckle from Killian to match his suddenly pink-tinged cheeks and the signature scratching behind his ear.

“My apologies, love,” he smiles. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just hoping you might give this to Henry,” he explains further, thrusting a carefully gift-wrapped package in Emma’s direction.

Emma raises an eyebrow in question. It’s sweet of him, and certainly generous, but also a little weird that one of her coworkers is sending gifts home for her kid - even if he and said kid are, admittedly, friends-ish. “Should I be concerned about this?”

“Oh no! I don’t think so, at least. It’s just a notebook. For him to write in? I’ve heard so much about how he likes writing and wants to be a playwright, I just thought this would be a nice place to write all those thoughts down,” he babbles. Emma thinks she can detect a thread of nerves in his voice. “Of course, if you think I’m overstepping, that’s completely fine, it was just an idea, the lad had mentioned that it was his birthday and I just thought — ”

“No, that’s fine,” Emma replies, suddenly resolute despite her earlier confusion. Killian means well, and honestly, that is kind of the perfect gift for Henry. “I’m sure he’ll love it. Thanks.”

“Ah, well, it wasn’t a bother in the least,” he deflects, the pink cheeks making a reappearance in a sudden attack of bashfulness.

“Killian. You got a gift for my son. Let me say thank you. Now, what do you say when someone thanks you?”

“You’re welcome,” he parrots back.

“Well done.” While her words could have been taken in a patronizing manner, Jones still grins at her, seemingly pleased with their banter (despite the fact that it isn’t the first time they’ve had this kind of back and forth - or at least Emma doesn’t think so). “Ok, well, I’ve got to meet the birthday boy at school,” she concludes, jerking a thumb towards the general not-here, “but I’ll make sure he gets your gift and knows it’s from you.”

“Thank you, Swan. And a happy birthday to Henry!”

———

Henry loves the notebook, of course, telling Emma all about all the stories he intends to write in it. She suspects that Killian will receive the same treatment the next time Henry sees him as well.

The days between Monday and Thursday pass faster than Emma ever thought possible, so fast she wonders in passing whether they ever happened at all - though if her notepads are any indication, they certainly did. Thanksgiving dawns bright and clear but cold, pulling Emma out of her bed earlier than she wants. That’s fine, though; she didn’t really sleep much the night before, too busy running through lists in her head of everything that could go right and especially everything that could go wrong. It doesn’t help that she’d had a late night before she climbed into bed either, having trekked from the theater to Macy’s with the stuff they’ll need for the parade. There’s just a chair and a couple of hedges - not to mention the racks of costumes and boxes of wigs carefully supervised by the costume department - but this gives her a chance as well to check out the space set aside for the cast to get ready. Not to mention, Emma would much rather deal with transport the night before than fighting through the madness Thanksgiving morning. It’s going to be enough of a pain getting to Macy’s this morning with all the crowds milling about; there’s no way in hell she would willingly add bulky equipment to that mix.

The good news is that Henry’s so excited about the whole affair that he all but flies out of bed without needing to be nagged like she’d have to on a regular school day. It’s probably a mistake to give him a pack of pop-tarts for breakfast - lord knows he doesn’t need the extra sugar rush on top of his already excessive energy level. But they’re in a rush today, and she doesn’t have time for much else, not even a bowl of cereal. Robin doesn’t have to work today - performing outdoors for tv crews doesn’t leave much need for a lighting technician and designer - but he’s there with Roland anyways in the section set aside for production members if they want it, and he agreed previously to keep an eye on Henry while Emma works. Hopefully he doesn’t come to regret that.

Emma figures she’ll get to Macy’s before anyone else, but Belle’s already inside, practically vibrating with nervous excitement, and Emma spots Ruby helping a few of the chorus members with their wigs. Though Belle’s still in her street clothes, her hair and makeup are already done, leaving Emma to wonder exactly how long the brunette has been here.

“You alright?” she asks, more in amusement than genuine concern. Belle’s a trooper; Emma has full confidence that whatever nerves are playing through Belle’s head right now, she’ll power through like the pro she is. Still, it feels like the thing to ask when you find a key player in your production bouncing on the balls of her feet like an Easter rabbit who showed up for the wrong holiday.

Belle whips around, eyes blown wide with surprise at Emma’s little interruption. Too late, Emma realizes that their Elizabeth must have been lost in her own little world, and was likely given quite a shock. As Emma pulls a contrite face, Belle’s own visage softens into a slightly embarrassed smile.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” Belle assures. “This is mostly excitement, I promise.”

Emma throws her hands up in the universal sign for backing off. “I can understand that. Just wanted to make sure. Walking in you looked at little…”

“On edge?” Belle offers. “There’s a hint of that as well.”

Emma laughs. “Well that’s fine too.”

“It really struck me last night what an institution this is,” Belle elaborates, hastily adding “And I’m thrilled to be a part of it! But it was a little… daunting, remembering that legacy. And we’re going to be part of that, after today,” she concludes, voice echoing with traces of awe.

“Oh, don’t I know it,” Emma replies, before making an attempt to lighten the conversation. “You should see Henry outside, he’s ecstatic. It’s been helping my nerves a bit, honestly,” she admits, “seeing how excited he is, his conviction that we’re going to be the stars of the whole thing.”

“He’s a good kid,” Belle smiles back. “You’ve raised him well.”

Even if it’s true, even if it fills her with a glowing pride that’s reserved especially for Henry, Emma never knows how to respond to such a compliment, so she deflects. “Yeah, well, he’s right outside with Robin and Roland and a disgusting amount of bagels if you want to borrow him. Steal a little bit of that confidence for yourself, if you need it.”

Belle laughs, seemingly accepting the words as they were intended - an emotional de-escalator. “I just might have to. At the very least, I should go say hi. Right outside, you said?”

“Yep, to the left near the heaters. He’ll be the one talking a million miles a minute.”

“Should be easy enough to find,” Belle twinkles back, offering a final wave as she heads to presumedly find her coat before setting foot beyond the doors.

From there, it’s a blur of preparations and quieting mini-crises that turn out not to be the end of the world. Honestly, her file box is filled with so many random odds and ends at this point, but it’s days like today, where everyone’s common sense and operational memory is clouded by nerves, that those things pay off. Even if it’s her first time at the parade, this isn’t her first rodeo; she’s learned a few things over the years, and how to prepare for so-called disasters is one of them.

Truthfully, she had expected to be talking Jones down from another breakdown the whole while, but he’s surprisingly cool as a cucumber, acting like none of it affects him in the least. Someone ought to be, at least, because Emma is internally freaking out a little bit - not over the actual mechanics of the performance, but over the knowledge of what a cultural institution they’re about to be a part of. It adds a certain amount of pressure, and even if Emma is confident that they can shoulder it with ease, she still feels the weight on all their shoulders.

Miraculously, the performance actually goes well. In fact, if Emma were to borrow a few of Killian’s fancy words, she might say that they pulled it off with aplomb. “In Want of a Wife” isn’t Emma’s favorite number - she prefers the ballroom scenes with their intricate whirling that shows off the costuming so well - but it’s a great introductory bit, and gives a great peek of the characters the audience will come to love, hate, and everything in between. The cast is in particularly fine form this morning; Emma can see Killian shift into Darcy’s uptight persona the moment the makeshift stage is in sight, and Belle exudes the perfect believable combination of curiosity and exasperation at the scheming of Mrs. Bennet and the Meryton neighborhood as a whole. Yes, there’s a few pitch issues - nothing major or particularly egregious, just the normal effects you’d find in temperatures barely above freezing - but overall, she’s quite pleased with their efforts.

Without cues to call or crew members to direct, Emma’s left without much to do during the performance itself. She’s already seen the show countless times, and will likely do so countless times more, so she instead takes the opportunity to find Henry in the crowd to watch his reactions to the action in front of him. In short, Henry looks enthralled, pointing out things to Roland as the four-year-old bounces with an energy only preschoolers can maintain. Emma longingly thinks in passing that she’d love to hear what Henry is saying, but reassures herself with the knowledge that she’ll likely get the full replay when she meets up with him afterwards.

In the meantime, she’ll turn her mind to the work still to come.

———

Well done, little brother! his phone reads when Killian retrieves his street clothes, accompanied by an array of celebratory emojis. Killian’s heart swells with pride at his brother's words, even if he does slightly regret introducing the old man to emojis. Lord knows he’ll never get a plain normal text message again.

There had been a general awareness, in the middle of the singing and choreography and concentrating on being as impressive as possible while also frowning ferociously, of the spectacle of the whole thing. Killian had been aware that the roaring sound was the crowd, not just the blood rushing through his ears, though he hadn’t focused on it at the time, too concerned with hitting his marks to allow himself to process much else.

Now though, as he goes to exit the department store and is faced with the full force of the crowd, it’s astounding. It seems the citizens of New York - and likely half the country to boot - have turned out in force, forming a mass of people exuding an almost palpable energy of excitement. It stops him in his tracks for a moment, right outside the revolving door with little awareness of the chill biting his ears.

He’s no idea how long he stands there, really, before he’s suddenly startled out of his shocked trance by a shockingly close voice, jaw snapping shut with a clack.

“Hey, Earth to Killian,” Emma grins. “Did you get lost in there?”

“Aye, maybe a little,” Killian admits with a chuckle. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

“Sorry if I scared you, I’ve been doing that today without meaning it.”

“It’s fine, Swan,” he waves her off. “Did you need something?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” she says, shaking her head in a hasty denial. “You just looked stuck there. Stuck and struck, if you want to play with words.”

“Oh, I think we both know how I feel about playing with words,” he winks.

Emma rolls her eyes, but also bumps into his side companionably, so the expression is rather negated. “Anyway,” she continues pointedly, “I thought I’d come see if you wanted to come watch the rest of the parade with me and Henry. I’m sure he’s got plenty of commentary about the performance.” The last bit is hastily added, as if in justification, but Killian doesn’t need any further convincing.

“I’d love to,” he smiles, attempting to muster every ounce of sincerity he possesses. “Lead on, Swan.”

As promised, Henry is ready with a full recap, stretching longer than the actual performance lasted. Killian catches Robin’s eye over Henry’s wild gesticulating, the lighting designer clearly struggling to hold back laughter as his shoulders shake with the effort.

“If you couldn’t tell, Henry very much enjoyed your performance,” Robin relates in as serious a tone as he can muster, causing Killian to suppress his own snort.

“We’ve got the best spot, you’re going to love it,” Henry assures, completely ignoring Robin’s comment as he grabs Killian’s hand to forcibly force him into a seat. “Have you seen the parade before? I mean, probably not in person - even Mom and I have only done it once when I was, like, five or six, and we missed half of it because we couldn’t get close enough. But we watch it on TV every year! Do you?”

It’s a lot to keep up with, but Killian does his best. “I’ve only seen a little, so this will be like my first time watching it. They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in England, so Liam and I usually just enjoy the day off and don’t do much.” Honestly, he thinks Liam might sleep through the parade most years, but Henry doesn’t need to know that. Such blatant lack of festivity might break the lad’s heart, he suspects, if the current level of enthusiasm is anything to go on.

“We’ll just have to show you then,” Henry replies decisively, nodding to seal his declaration.

Indeed.

Henry proves to be quite the narrator, providing commentary on seemingly every float or balloon that passes by. Killian is particularly impressed by the balloons, floating far above the street in an almost otherworldly spectacle.

“Spiderman’s my favorite,” Henry offers, “but Mom likes Snoopy best.”

Killian turns just in time to see the woman in question shrug. “What can I say, I like the classics,” she explains. “Except the pilgrims. Those inflated heads are friggin’ creepy, and always look like they’re about to tip over.”

(She’s got a point.)

In the meantime, Henry’s mind finally catches up with some of Killian’s earlier words. “Wait,” he says, “you and your brother don’t celebrate Thanksgiving?”

“No?”

“So you’re not having a Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Not everyone does, Henry,” Emma reminds her son.

“Yeah, but he’s alone on Thanksgiving. That just seems wrong.”

“I don’t know, lad, I wouldn’t call this big crowd alone,” Killian reasons.

“Yeah, but what are you doing after this?”

The lad’s got him there. “Ah… well, I was planning on going home and heating up a bit to eat. Maybe order some Chinese takeout, if I can find a place that’s open.”

Henry stares at him at those words, wearing an expression Killian can only describe as being one of pure horror. “You can’t!”

“I’ll see if I have the makings for a deli turkey sandwich, if that makes you feel any better,” Killian offers to a stunned silence.

“Or you could just come to dinner with us,” Emma offers.

Killian’s head snaps around to meet her eyes. “Oh no, Swan, I couldn’t possibly intrude,” he protests, but Emma’s already waving off his attempts.

“Really, it wouldn’t be a hassle. Granny usually makes enough to feed 20,” she explains. “I mean, let me give her a call to make sure, but I don’t think she’d have a problem with it. If you want to come, that is, I don’t want to pressure you into anything,” she hastens to add, but there’s no need for that.

“I’d be honored,” he smiles.

———

God, what was she thinking, inviting Killian to Thanksgiving dinner?

Well, she knows what she was thinking, totally focused on making her kid happy and wiping that horrified look off his face. Plus, you know, it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship, inviting Jones to dinner. He’s pleasant company, and chatty enough to fit in with all the rest of the maniacs crammed into Granny’s. Plus, he’d already know everyone, Ruby and Mary Margaret from the show and Granny from Emma’s birthday party. It certainly wouldn’t be the fiasco she’s currently inflating it into.

Granny had been more than agreeable to Killian joining them. “Of course he can come,” she said. “He’s a sweet boy. Hell, invite some of the other Thanksgiving orphans in the show if you want, Lord knows we’ve got enough to feed them all. As long as they bring booze to share.”

With Granny’s blessing, Belle had graciously accepted the extended invitation along with Killian, and Emma suspects that if Scarlet ever checks his phone and sees that his little crush is coming, he’ll join in too. Robin already has plans, taking Roland to Thanksgiving with his maternal family - “It’s the least I can do, now that his mother’s gone” - but there’s tentative plans to swing by later for pie, if timing permits.

The plan is to serve the meal at three, so all attending have been sternly instructed by the lady of the kitchen to arrive between two and two-thirty, drinks in hand. Of course, all attending just means their unexpected guests - Ruby and Emma are both expected earlier to help with the meal as needed, though in Emma’s case that mostly means putting stuff other people made into the oven and setting the table. When Granny runs out of things for Emma to stir - seriously, even Henry is trusted to do more in the kitchen - she’s banished to the dining room to act as a welcome committee for whenever their guests arrive.

Honestly, it’s a little too much time spent with her own thoughts. Emma invited Killian for the same reason she invited everyone else - she didn’t want him to have to be alone on for the holiday. That’s it. She doesn’t need to be worried for this, like it’s some date; it’s just a bunch of friends having dinner together. As friends.

That doesn’t keep her heart from jumping into her throat for a moment when Killian shows up at precisely 2:04 in the afternoon with a full bottle of red wine under one arm and an already opened bottle of rum under the other.

“I hope that’s alright,” he says. “The wine was a gift, so I’m not sure how good it is, but the rum is my own so I knew that would be palatable.”

“Yeah, that’s great. We can put those behind the counter if you want. Or back in the fridge, though I don’t really think either needs it, but hey, what do I know? Though they’re probably pretty cold already from the trip here — ”

“I promise, the counter is fine, Swan,” Killian laughs. As he moves to leave them on the laminate top, he leans in to whisper in her ear. “Relax, love. Don’t overthink it.”

“Easy for you to say,” Emma mutters, but Killian doesn’t hear her, already moving to greet Granny where she’s poked her head out of the kitchen.

“Thank you for permitting me to join your undoubtedly spectacular Thanksgiving feast, Mrs. Lucas,” he says with seemingly every ounce of formality he possesses. It’s funny to watch, Emma has to admit, especially knowing Granny and Ruby will disabuse him of that notion shortly.

“Enough of that,” she tells him briskly. “Now set down those bottles and come help, we need an extra set of hands.”

Emma can breathe easier with Killian in the kitchen as she turns back to setting the table. It doesn’t hurt, either, that the rest of the afternoon’s guests start trickling in not long after. Belle manages to arrive not ten minutes after Killian, cheeks pink from the chill, and Scarlet shortly after 2:30 with a case of cheap beer in hand.

Shockingly, it’s Mary Margaret who leaves them waiting the longest, everything but the bird itself already having been set on the table before she finally shows up. Her delay is easily excused, though, as she arrives hand-in-hand with David Nolan and red, chapped lips.

“I knew it!” Ruby crows from the table before smacking Henry in the arm. “Pay up.”

“Are you teaching my kid to bet, Ruby?” Emma calls, trying to infuse her voice with disappointed incredulity.

“Please, it’s five bucks,” she dismisses. “And it was his idea, for the record.”

“Hey Mom, do you have five bucks?” Henry grins across the table, causing a loud guffaw from Scarlet and what Emma thinks was a muffled snort from Killian. Figures.

“Hey, you got yourself into this mess, kid, you can get yourself out of it. This is what you get for betting that Co-Captains Obvious weren’t dating.”

“Oh, I still thought they were dating,” Henry clarifies. “I just thought that they’d hide it until New Year’s.”

That gets the whole table laughing, even Emma, as Mary Margaret tries to sit down with as much dignity as she can muster and a barely suppressed smile on her face. “If you all are quite done,” she says primly, “then yes, David and I have been seeing each other for the last couple of weeks. And I’m very happy about it.” She takes the moment to smile at her paramour, the picture of lovesick serenity. “And he is too. Now, can we start dinner before everything gets cold?”

“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy, girlie,” Granny warns, the affection clear in her voice. “But we’ll put it aside for the moment. Serve yourself, everyone, I’m the cook not the waiter.”

As the room dissolves into laughter and conversation, everyone attempting to grab for their favorites, Emma leans over to whisper in Mary Margaret’s ear. “I am happy for you, you know, all bets aside.”

“Thanks, Emma,” the pixie-haired brunette beams back. “I’m happy too.”

Emma probably shouldn’t be surprised, but despite all the last minute additions, it still feels like a proper family dinner, not the hodge-podge of people it technically is. Of course, Killian is right in the middle of it all, trading innuendos with Ruby, patiently listening to Henry tell about seemingly every past Thanksgiving he’s ever celebrated, and gently ribbing David and Mary Margaret - but mostly David - about their budding relationship. Honestly, she could picture another holiday spent in his company, would welcome it in fact.

(With everyone else too, of course. Purely as friends. Because when you stumble across a good thing, why mess with it?)

———

Killian misses Liam’s first call that night, too busy trying to wrestle the mountain of Thanksgiving leftovers Granny sent him home with into the fridge, and almost misses the second, the device buzzing precariously close to the edge before he executes an impressive dive to snatch the phone off the counter in time.

“Hello?” he manages to gasp out, slightly out of breath from his dramatic grab.

“Am I interrupting something?” Liam asks, amusement coloring his voice. “I just wanted to call and congratulate you on the parade again, but do I need to call back later? Or tomorrow perhaps?”

“No, no, not really. It’s fine. What’s up?”

“‘Not really’? Not to pry, but I thought you were set up for a quiet day in after the parade. Did you have plans I didn’t know about?”

“Not that you knew about, no,” Killian hedges, “but I ended up having a late lunch with some people from the show.”

“Oh? Anyone I know?” Liam asks, a little too genuinely. The bastard probably already knows exactly what happened without even being told. Some days, Killian wonders if there’s some kind of psychic power associated with being a big brother.

“Oh, you know. Belle. David and Mary Margaret - they’re dating now, as it turns out. No one is particularly shocked. Will Scarlet put in an appearance - he’s the one who’s got his sights set on Belle. A few others. Anyhow, did you have an eventful day?” Killian attempts to breeze right over the fact that he spent his holiday with Emma’s family, essentially, but doubts it was very effective an effort.

“Oh no no no, little brother,” Liam redirects, laughing right over Killian’s muttered protest of younger, Liam, younger. “I see what you’re doing. A few others? One of those ‘few others’ wouldn’t happen to be your lady and her boy, would they?”

“Still not my lady,” Killian reminds Liam. Honestly, it’s getting a little old - especially since Liam was one of the voices telling him that maybe it wouldn’t be such a brilliant idea to ask Emma out in the first place. “But yes, they might have been there.”

“Might have been?”

“Ok, they were there. In fact, Emma was the one that invited me. They always spend Thanksgiving, and most holidays I think, with one of the costume assistants and her grandmother. Happy?”

“Quite.” It’s impossible to miss the smug note in Liam’s voice. “So, tell me,” he continues, “how was Thanksgiving dinner?” It’s so easy in Killian’s mind’s eye to picture Liam leaning forward with his chin propped in his hands, the universal sign for sarcastic attention. Wanker.

“No. I’m not telling you if you’re going to be a horse’s arse about it.”

“Oh c’mon, Killy,” Liam wheedles, but Killian’s having none of it.

“No, I’m serious. I appreciate your advice when I need it, but not when I have to deal with your relentless teasing the rest of the time! It makes me not want to tell you things, honestly.”

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry,” Liam concedes. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m sorry, younger brother,” he emphasizes, as if to underline just how genuine he’s being. “Would you like to talk about your day - or at least the dinner part of it? I’m a willing ear if you want it. Otherwise, I’d love to hear about the parade.”

Killian considers telling Liam no, flat-out, but the truth is he kind of does want to rehash the day, share his excitement and enthusiasm over his first real Thanksgiving (not the vaguely British facsimile he and his brother half-assed, to borrow a phrase, their first few years on this side of the pond). That doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy on his brother; no, after the teasing he’s been subjected to, he deserves a little taunting of his own - at least by way of leaving Liam in suspense for a while.

“The parade was amazing, Liam, every minute of it. Watching it on TV doesn’t give you any idea of the sheer spectacle of it all,” Killian says, gushing a little bit despite any intentions he might have had about acting like an adult on the phone. It’s far too late for that; the grin stretching his face at the mere memory of the day’s festivities is proof positive of that. “I must have looked like a fool in the crowd afterwards, just grinning like a madman, but Gods, Liam, I’ve never seen anything like it. Even for New York standards, the crowds were huge, and everyone was just buzzing with excitement. I swear, I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

“Well you were amazing, Killian,” Liam replies warmly. “I’m so proud of you. I’m tempted to go find a YouTube video of the performance and email it to everyone I know, like some kind of obnoxious parent.”

“Well, that seems a bit excessive,” he comments dryly, “but I take your point. It really felt like we were one organism today, you know? All moving as once to execute the best performance we could.”

“Trust me, Killian, it showed. I’ll be shocked if that appearance doesn’t exponentially increase the buzz around the show.”

Killian could drag this out, describe each balloon in detail, exactly where and how they prepared inside of Macy’s, precisely how cold it was to the tenth of a degree with excruciating attention to which specific fingers and toes felt the chill, but he takes pity on Liam instead. He’s behaved, even though Killian knows he’s dying to hear about dinner. “Somehow, the Swans found out that I was planning to go back and microwave a meal in my apartment - Henry insisted we watch the parade together - so they invited me along to their own plans. Which kind of spiraled out into inviting several of the other Brits without plans. It was truly lovely, Liam,” he exudes, really getting into the recounting. “I swear, Mrs. Lucas cooked enough food to feed half of Manhattan. Henry swears she does this every year, and likely didn’t even have to cook any extra when Swan called about extra seats at the table. Though I doubt that last part.”

“Sounds like a regular feast,” Liam comments, chuckling.

“Oh, you have no idea. I missed your first call, and nearly the second, because I was trying to stack all the tupperware I was sent home with into the fridge. What do they call it? Fridge tetris?”

Liam barks out a laugh at that. “Aye, I think that’s the technical term. That much food?”

“That much. And Mrs. Lucas was sending it home with everyone, I wasn’t a special charity case. The whole affair was so lovely, really, I’ve never seen — ” Killian stops abruptly. “No teasing, you promise? Even if you think me some kind of ridiculous lovestruck fool?”

“No teasing,” Liam swears. “Even if you’re carrying on like a lovestruck fool. I’ll sit here and listen attentively and supportively, I promise.”

If they were having this conversation in person, Killian would toss his brother a skeptical look, but since that’s not an option, he plows on ahead. “I really understood the whole thing first-hand for the first time, you know? I mean, you can hear about how this is a holiday for families as much as you want, or see it on television or in the movies, but it doesn’t really sink in until you’re sitting in the middle of it. There was so much sheer affection at that table, Liam. And I’ve never seen Emma so at ease.” He pauses for breath, taking the opportunity to collect his thoughts. “I’m aware that that doesn’t really mean much, considering our relatively short acquaintance, but still. She was comfortable, in a casual way I haven’t previously associated with her. Like that was her place, in some kind of deep and emotional and cliche way. Does that make sense?”

“She looked at home,” Liam supplies, putting the words right in Killian’s mouth.

“Yes! Exactly. I know I must sound silly - this is where the lovestruck fool bit comes in, so please, contain yourself - but it’s nice, being able to discover these new sides to Swan that I don’t see every day. Charming. Wonderful. Some other word more expressive than nice.” Killian stops himself before he gets too far. “I’m babbling.”

“A little bit.”

“Kind of you to downplay it.”

“Anytime.”

They both laugh at that. Technically, the comments break Liam’s vow not to tease him, but their spirit certainly doesn’t, so Killian lets it pass.

“So you had a great day?” Liam asks.

“The best. Enough about me, though, what about you, how was your Thanksgiving? Sorry I didn’t call earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it, brother. My day was much more low-key than yours. Dropped by to have a few beers with a couple other ex-pats from the film, but that’s about it. Honestly, watching you in the parade was the highlight.”

Killian blushes at the words. “You don’t have to say that,” he mumbles, but Liam can probably hear the smile in his voice anyway.

“I only say it because it’s true,” his elder brother promises.

“Thanks, Liam.”

Conversation turns towards more general topics eventually, not that Killian minds. He loves these calls with his brother, even if he was a bit late to this particular one.

“Christ, it must be getting late for you,” Liam finally says. He’s not wrong - they’ve been on the phone for almost an hour, and in that time it’s gotten quite dark outside. “I’ll let you go - I’ll have to be up early tomorrow anyways.” It’s a half-assed excuse and they both know it, especially since Killian is pretty sure he’s the only one who has to work tomorrow.

“Are you sure?” he asks, even though he’s sure of the answer. Big Brother Liam, still trying to make sure little Killy goes to bed on time and brushes his teeth.

“Go on. We’ll talk later,” Liam replies, absolutely certain. Who is Killian to argue with that?

“Alright, well, Happy Thanksgiving, Liam.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, little - younger brother.”

[magic-and-moonlit-wings]

Hold Me Tight

(When I was writing ‘Acing It’, I decided not to bother deciding which one was ace. My original plan was to write two versions, identical except for identifying which partner was asexual and which one had a sex drive during the last scene. Then I decided that would probably run afoul of the ‘no duplicate stories’ rule on fanfiction.net, which is where I post all my work initially despite the site’s many problems, because it’s the site I started out on; and then I decided that identifying which partner was sexual and which one wasn’t ran counter to the story’s point about it being no one else’s business, so it actually served the narrative better to keep it ambiguous. 

That said, I wanted to write a story for each version where the sexual partner finds out they’re in love with an asexual and the two of them have to work out what that means for their relationship. ‘Acing It’ can be read as a sequel to either of these stories. 

Fair warning: this story may feel less asexual-positive in tone than ‘Acing It’ was, since although Bog accepts that Marianne is ace, there is an adjustment period during which he is not initially happy to learn that their relationship will never involve sex.) 

It was not uncommon for a sparring match between Bog and Marianne to lead to kissing. 

In this particular instance, Marianne had knocked Bog’s staff cleanly out of his hand, but tangled her sword in its decorative headpiece and disarmed herself in the process. Rather than lunging for his weapon, Bog stepped into Marianne’s path when she leapt to retrieve her sword. 

The momentum spun them around and they overbalanced, falling to the floor opposite the staff and sword. Bog landed hard on his back and Marianne landed hard on him. Luckily he’d flared his wings and shot out his arms when he fell, and curled his head so it didn’t smack the floor of his rebuilt throne room. Although it hurt quite a lot, he wasn’t actually injured. 

Marianne laughed breathlessly. “Are you okay?” 

“I think I’ll live.” 

“I’ve got you pinned, oh mighty Bog King.” She kissed him. 

“I’ve got you right where I want you,” Bog growled back. He wrapped his arms around her. “You’ll never escape me now.” 

“Then it would seem we’re at an impasse.” 

They kissed again. Bog licked Marianne’s lips. She grinned and teased his tongue with her teeth. Bog sucked her lower lip into his mouth and nibbled it, gently enough not to break her delicate skin. She was straddling him, and her hands were between his shoulder spurs and his neck. 

Her thumb brushed over his throat. Bog growled again. He splayed one hand out on her back, covering the roots of her wings, and tangled his other hand in her hair. She made the most delicious noise when he pressed his palm into her spine and rubbed a slow circle. 

“I love you,” he whispered fervently between kisses. 

“I love you too,” she whispered back. “Love you so much.” 

Bog enjoyed the feel of Marianne’s slight weight on him, her delicate fingers and blunt claws teasing the seams of his scales, her hot breath on his skin. Every touch fanned the flames of his ardor. He wanted to peel back the petals she wrapped her body in and feel her bare flesh pressed to his. He wanted to hear what other beautiful sounds she would make, to learn if she would moan or scream or gasp when he gave her an orgasm. 

By everything holy and unholy, Bog wanted to have sex. 

They were alone right now. Marianne might not want to have sex right in the middle of the throne room, but – but maybe she would. Bog could hint at what he wanted, and see how she reacted. 

One of Bog’s hands was still caught in Marianne’s hair. With the other, he stroked down her back and over the curve of her buttocks. He slid his hand between her parted thighs and rubbed the edge of his fingers into her crotch. 

Marianne’s entire body tensed above him, and she made a sharp noise Bog had never heard before, indicating either pleasure or distress. Playing it safe, he stroked up her back again. When he scratched his nails lightly just below her wings, she moaned her oh yes that feels so nice please do that again moan. 

The rest of the evening was a blur of delight. They didn’t end up having sex, but after she had gone home and he had gone to bed, Bog’s imagination wove together several fantasies where Marianne urged him, ‘touch me there again.’ 

Several days later, at her castle this time, the Bog King entered Crown Princess Marianne’s study and shut the door behind him. 

“Marianne? I was … hoping we could talk about something?” 

“Sure, Bog.” She set aside her paperwork, laced her fingers, and stretched her arms out in front of her. “What’s up?” 

“Do you remember how, last time we were – kissing – I, ah, touched between your legs?” Bog’s cheeks and ears burned, but he would get through this conversation. Communication was important. 

“Oh.” Marianne looked down at her desk. “That.” 

“Was that … okay, or not okay?” 

There was a tense silence. Bog was ready to acknowledge that to mean it wasn’t okay and to apologize, but his stupid tongue seemed stuck and his stupid mouth wouldn’t open … 

“I don’t like sex,” Marianne blurted. She clapped her hands over her mouth, wide-eyed. 

“Oh.” What else could he say? He felt vaguely guilty now for attempting foreplay with her, and in the back of his mind the remnants of his self-loathing started whispering that it was because of him, because he was too ugly and evil to be desirable. 

“I’ve never … I’ve never felt the way books describe when they talk about the characters wanting each other, and I figured that was just because books exaggerate things, but I’ve overheard other people or even talked with other women about it, and they – and I’ve tried masturbating a few times,” (Bog immediately pictured this and suppressed the image in the same moment,) “trying to see what all the fuss was about, but I never liked it. It didn’t hurt or anything, it just didn’t feel good.” 

Marianne hunched up at her desk. Bog put his hand on her shoulder. 

“I had sex with Roland a couple of times,” she continued. “Nothing that could get me pregnant, but … I mean, I was in love, we were engaged, and I wondered if maybe it would be different with somebody than on my own? And I knew we’d need to have sex after the wedding, since we’d need an heir, even if there’d be hell to pay if I conceived before the wedding, so – and, again, it wasn’t – he never hurt me, doing that, but I didn’t like it.” 

Bog carefully bit back the urge to say that maybe she’d like sex with him better than she had with her ex, but he still thought it loudly. 

“I love you.” Marianne covered his hand, still on her shoulder, with both of hers. “I love spending time with you, and talking with you, and sparring with you, and kissing you, and the way you hold me, and the way you look at me, and,” she took a deep breath, “and I don’t think I’d mind having sex with you. Like I said, I’ve always sort of known I’d have to do it someday, so the kingdom would have an heir, and I’m … I’ve made my peace with that. And if sex is … an important part of having a relationship, for you, then I’m willing to do it. I just don’t … actively want to have sex. With anyone. Ever.” 

“… I think I need some time to absorb all of that.” 

“Oh. Of course.” She let go of his hand and he let go of her shoulder. 

Bog didn’t know where to go for true privacy in the Fairy Kingdom, and so headed vaguely in the direction of the Royal Library, trusting his still-fearsome reputation to keep anyone except perhaps Dawn from approaching him. He didn’t want to go back to the Forest yet. 

I’m willing to have sex with you for the sake of our relationship and because my kingdom’s royalty follows a bloodline, but I don’t actually find you sexy. 

Of course she didn’t have to have sex with him if she didn’t want to, that was the most basic rule of sex! 

But that didn’t mean rejection didn’t hurt. 

With the way they flirted with each other, he’d assumed Marianne was attracted to him in all the same ways he was attracted to her. He had thought sex was not just a possibility, but an eventuality, something their relationship was working towards. 

Blasted non-verbal miscommunications … 

She had told him, the night they met, that she didn’t think he was hideous. She had called him handsome since then, regularly. Striking, regal, gorgeous … 

Just not ‘sexy’. 

Okay. Bog was a mature adult. He could articulate his feelings, at least when he didn’t have to say them out loud. 

He was disappointed that Marianne didn’t want to have sex with him, and was feeling hurt and rejected because he had assumed she would want to have sex with him. Bog had developed that assumption based on his desires and expectations of how relationships worked, not anything Marianne had directly said or done. 

(Well, some of the ways she touched him were sexually charged, but that could be a species difference.) 

So what had actually happened earlier was that they had resolved a miscommunication, which was good, and now Bog needed to process the emotional fallout of the truth not being what he’d hoped to hear. 

Marianne didn’t want to lose Bog over this. If he came back and told her that they would have to end their relationship if she wouldn’t have sex with him – 

Okay, if he phrased it like that she’d probably dump him on the spot, and then possibly cause a diplomatic incident driving him out of her kingdom at sword-point. 

But if sex was an important aspect of romantic relationships for Bog, if he couldn’t feel satisfied in a nonsexual relationship, then … 

Marianne was actually even less comfortable with sex than she’d implied. 

As the Crown Princess and therefore Future Mother Of The Next Royal Heir, she’d always known, once she knew what sex was, that she’d have to have it at some point. As she’d told Bog, she had accepted the idea. But her limited experiences with it had made her skin crawl and her guts writhe even before her love for Roland had inverted into hatred. 

The idea of Bog touching her like that made her recoil. She loved his touch. She didn’t want their affectionate moments to be ruined by the memory of his hands in other places. She didn’t want kissing him to lose its appeal by linking it to foreplay. 

But the idea of losing him entirely was even more repugnant. 

Maybe they could work out some kind of ‘sex signal’, so Marianne could relax the rest of the time. 

Bog didn’t want to lose Marianne over this. Yes, he wanted to have sex with her, but that wasn’t what made him fall in love with her. He’d been aroused by other people before without his heart ever entering the equation. 

He loved Marianne so much. He loved her ferocity; her laughter; the way they could relate to each other about the pressures of royal responsibility and feeling like outsiders among their own people; how fascinated and excited she was to explore new places; how they could bounce ideas back and forth for hours and always came up with something better than either could have thought of alone … 

But what if knowing that Bog desired her sexually made Marianne uncomfortable? What if she didn’t want to touch him at all anymore? He could stand not having sex with her, he was pretty sure, but he was even more certain he could not stand losing her affection. 

If she didn’t want to kiss, or hug, or hold hands, or spar anymore, Bog would be miserable. 

He had inflicted enough misery on himself already. 

He would rather continue a sexless romance with Marianne than throw away their love on the off-chance he would find someone else to love who would be interested in having sex with him. 

He also really should come up with a better way to phrase that, so it didn’t sound like he was planning to break up with Marianne for a ‘better option’ if one was presented. 

“I love you. Our relationship is very important to me.” Bog scratched the back of his neck. “What I’m trying to say is, I love you more than the idea of having sex with you.” 

“So, you aren’t worried you’ll end up feeling …” Marianne made a vague gesture, “unsatisfied?” 

“I don’t think so? I – I want to try. By which I mean, not try. I mean – I want to stay together, and I think keeping our relationship how it already is, physically, can work.” 

“And if it doesn’t … I guess we’ll just talk about it again, then, and, decide, then.”

“Right.” 

“Right.” 

Marianne kissed Bog. They both worried it might be awkward now, but it felt as right as ever.

[magpiewritingthing]

grab a new lifeline / 1

Chapter: 1; they do not shred him

Series: traditionalist wesen, remixed

Overall Summary: Now that Rolan’'s got one foot in the proverbial door, he’s on the slow(, slow, realllly slow) path to forging a friendship -- or at least an acquaintenceship -- with Monroe The Blutbad. Wesen dynamics will be changing, baby!

Not that the Bauerschwein’s ever taken other factors into consideration, ever. Such as: traditional Wesen; his own housemates being their unpredictable selves; a Grimm, who is also a cop; a serial killer; Monroe’s other friends, both present and past.

Oh, and his Purely Hypothetical Crush blowing up into something a little too real. Life’s a shin-kicker like that.

Chapter Summary: Roland comes home from his walk in the woods, and comes to a revelation about his brief (and awkward) encounter with a Blutbad. His housemates are less than impressed. And a body is found.

Warnings: mention of domestic violence and child abuse (in the past) in the latter half of this chapter; mention of murder

Other notes: i am... winging this; also, i also took liberties with the multiple variation of Taureus-Armenta and my latin is like practically nonexistant but lmao :’); also-also, mild innuendo and sex jokes

The breath is still rattling out of him when he gets home, stumbling up the front porch with now-wobbly legs. Angel, while sitting in such a way on the porch rocker that’ll likely give his back grief later, gives him a funny look. Probably because Roland can't keep the goofy-ass smile off his face for a more than three seconds.

“What’s got ya?” Angel asks before Roland has a chance to escape inside and hide in his bedroom.

“Nothin’,” he mumbles at the door, out of reflex. No reason for it, other than the creeping sensation that he should be embarrassed. Because the whole thing’s ridiculous, he knows, but— “No it’s just—” He stumbles, licking his lips and huffing: getting his thoughts clear. “I… met someone.” He jerks his head in the general direction of where they'd met. “In the woods.”

Which he probably shouldn’t’ve said because now Angel’s got that look on his face. “Ohhhhh?” he drawls, left forefinger tucked into the junction between finger and thumb, right forefinger poised. “You mean like—” Right pointer, meet left vacuum; please get to know each other intimately. “‘Cooling off’ with the luckiest—”

Angel doesn’t get much further than that before Roland thumps his shoulder, and even though he laughs, it hurts like Hell because Roland for sure has razors in his knuckles and the hammering force of… mmm, yeah, a hammer. “No, not like that, you asshole!” Roland isn’t laughing, but he is grinning, cheeks and ears pinker at the suggestion. “You’re fuckin’ nasty, A.”

“Virgin.”

“Pervert.”

Angel tuts, wagging his finger in Roland’s face. “Touché, mon frère; you got me there.” They both laugh at that, too: their own little rhyming joke. And, at least in Roland’s eyes, it’s an affirmation of affection, even when they get in each other’s faces. He’s come to cherish it, quietly, and all the other small phrases and actions, because Angel is hardly ever… honest with himself, never full-on affectionate or willing to settle down for a heart-to-heart when things flare up. Like an argument over what would be the best way to approach an interview or questionnaire or no you should totally go for this vs. no i can’t—

“Earth to Roly-Poly!”

“Yeah.” He slaps his friend’s arm out of his face. “Fuck off, man.”

“You fuck off; I’m chillin’.” Then, contrary, “Who’d you meet out there if you weren’t getting’ it oooon?” Complete with awful, cheesy hip movements. Why’re they friends again?

Now Roland is self-conscious. Again. Because what if Angel freaks out over a Blutbad, even if he doesn't know where they live? “It— uh… Blutbad.”

When his friend’s eyebrows drop into a concerned frown (he doesn't ever do outright fear, too wrapped up in preserving his self-image), so does Roland’s stomach. “I mean I’m alive, so it’s not bad—”

“How.” Rising out of the rocker, he looms over Roland by a full head. Grasping the sides of Roland's face, he asks, “How’re you alive, man?” And although this concern is touching (to the point of being embarrassing because jeez, it’s like he’s never been hugged as a child), he can only blurt out, dumbly, “Wieder.”

“… Ah.” The relief settles over Angel’s face, relaxing it into the usual smile (or near enough, the momentary concern still lingering), dimples deepening. He lets go of Roland’s face. “Veggie-friendly wolfman.”

“Yeah. Rabbit-friendly, too. Cutesy sorta…” He shrugs, eyes to the side because Monroe flashes in his head again: Monroe holding the rabbit; Monroe in woge; Monroe in a more comfortable stance; Monroe walking towards him; Monroe walking away. “… thing.”

The smile turns into a cheeky grin, as though knowing. “Is he?”

“Awhh, dude, no—”

“Have you got like, a thing for dudes who can kill you? Is that your thing?”

“Fuckin’… maybe!”

“Awh, baby virgin has a death-wish crush on a veggie wolfman!”

“I do not!”

Before they can argue any more – Roland’s face growing pinker by the second and Angel’s grin growing wide enough to encompass his face – Winona’s car pulls up. It’s just after half-past seven, and only now are Kenna and Winona coming home. One would think a teacher and administrative assistant would be home sooner than that. “You’re late for dinner!” Angel calls, nudging past Roland to go inside.

“Incredible,” Kenna mutters, “the house hasn’t burned down.”

“It’s probably microwave meals, let’s be honest,” Roland joins in.

“Fuck y’all,” is the welcoming indignant noise to all three as the file in the front door and towards the kitchen/dining room.

“Fuck me running a marathon, I’m starving,” Winona says, immediately swinging open the pantry door and squinting at tins upon tins of beans, corn, baby carrots, baby potatoes, and garden peas. “We got anything else?”

“Pizza,” Angel says as he cranks the oven on.

“Fuck’s sake—”

“Couldn’t be assed buying anything else today so we’re gobbling on shit. Again.”

Further half-hearted squabbling over food washes over Roland as he begs silently for Angel not to bring up the topic of Monroe up anytime soon. Or at all. Neither prayer seems at all likely – having lived a year and six months with the other man, Roland knows what to expect by now – but it never harms to at least try. Kenna, for her part, is quiet. Tired from another day of kids and keeping them engaged, he supposes. He’s not asked yet, and can't find a way that doesn't come off as right-out odd, but he hopes the kids like her as much as she enjoys teaching them.

“So, anyway,” Angel starts, and yes Roland knew it was inevitable but he’s rolling his eyes anyway, praying that Angel is only leading into this with that teasing vibe only to swerve onto something completely different— but he doesn’t. Natch. “Didja hear about Roly’s iddy-diddy crush?”

Winona leans back, mock-gasping, “No!” while Kenna leans forward, elbows on the table, asking, “Really? Aww.”

“Yep – on a Blutbad.”

The girls choke; Winona bangs the table and shakes her head while Kenna splutters, “what! what! are you shitting me! what!” At least it’s perked her up a bit; makes her look lively and less likely to fall face-first and full-asleep into her food.

Then Angel has the gall to be placating, and Roland can only muster up so much energy to glare at him. Panache: Angel’s got it in spades. “Now, now, ladies, it’s A-OK – the dude’s Wieder. Veggie reform.”

Both women scoff; Winona slaps the table again, and Kenna mutters, “Fucking Hell, but a Blutbad? Roly, honey… really?” Her eyebrows scrunch together in her confusion, and she only turns her head when Winona excuses herself from the table. “’m tired, g’night, y’all, Blutbad-fuckers and none alike.” A garbled chorus blesses her winddown-to-actual-bedtime way (“G’night babe.” “I'm not even—” “Nighty-night, lamb.”), and she waves as she trudges upstairs to her and Kenna's bedroom, either to read or translate a book.

Dishes are cleaned and dried and put away, and the remaining three perform their own winddown rituals: Kenna scampers up to one half of the attic, having claimed the eastern half of it as her “study” room (the other half belongs to Leopoldo); Roland drags out his sketchbook from his bedside drawer, along with pencils and pens, and sets to doodling on the fold-out couch he’s got squashed in one corner of his boxy bedroom; Angel watches a How It's Made episode, and he almost considers calling the others down, because they all share a casual interest in this sort of thing, but as it is, he's settled down and far too comfy to move.

Angel considers ignoring the knocking at the door, too, even when they call out that it’s the police, and it is rather urgent. Now, not that his friends have much of a clue, but the memory of a blue boy’s (or blue girl’s) knock is ingrained into his memory – father and mother being the reason that they came in the first place, upsetting and scaring the neighbours (and him) with all sorts of noises. It doesn’t bother him at present, not just because he’s done nothing wrong (might’ve… broke a girl’s heart, once or twice or thrice, but he’s always smoothed it out before) (and not recently, anyway), but because he has nothing to fear. He could probably charm the pants off any person if he were actually human, he’s sure.

Still, there’s no need to irritate, so with great reluctance he heaves himself up off the sofa (that’ll probably end up in the basement in five years’ time), and heads towards the door, noting Roland’s hesitant presence at the top of the stairs before he hides behind the wall again. Nothing to think of, as Roland likes being ‘sneaky’ and an eavesdropper, so when Angel opens the door, he’s not expecting much of anything. Probably the only thing that's ‘urgent’ is that there’s been another string of robberies.

“Evenin’, y’all. What can I do you for?” Off the bat, it sounds ridiculous to hear from his own mouth, but he liked the idea of it rolling off of his tongue so easily. Just some chipper dude enjoying the last dregs of the evening before tuckering off to bed to fetch his sleep before the long work day ahead of him.

At least, as chipper as he can be considering the cop in front of him is a Grimm.

Cold blue, then cold darkness, infinite, stretching long like visible neurons and only his face, his real face is staring back and it is like that old Nietzsche saying, isn’t it?

The cop barely reacts, his face only steeling with realisation. Angel’s only vaguely aware of Roland trotting down the stairs (thumpthump, thumpthump, thumpthump) when the cop – Detective Burkhardt – tells him there’s been a suspicious death in the woods. His partner, Detective Griffin, stands a few feet behind him.

“Oh,” is Angel’s empty reply as he slides in to fill the frame of the front door, trying to block Roland from seeing the Grimm at their door, and keep the Grimm from knowing that there’s more than one Wesen living in the house. They’re all of the harmless variety anyway, so even if he weren't a cop, he’d have no business messing with them. Yet the panic doesn’t leave, only intensifying with the gasp and strangled, “Oh, shit.” At least Roland’s trying to keep his shit under wraps, even if he is now visible and motionlessly panicking under the Grimm’s eye.

Burkhardt, for his part, is acting professionally while the two of them freak out. “Have either of you heard or seen anything?” They both answer in the negative. When Griffin asks how long they’ve been home (suspect list suspect list suspect list), Angel says that he was home since four in the afternoon after finishing up some handywork in the inner city. Roland struggles to remember when he came home.

“I think it was a bit before Kenna and Winni, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Angel agrees, “you came back from…” He spares Burkhardt a glance, “From the woods after your walk.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Roland bites his lip, and adds, mouth running a thousand miles a minute, “I took a walk earlier after we’d gone over some job applications.”

“We?” Burkhardt repeats. Behind him, Griffin shifts his stance, glancing at his partner; the tone was perhaps too sharp for just a simple door-to-door inquiry.

Roland squeezes into the frame, gesturing helplessly at his friend. “He helped me because I get stressed out when going through paperwork.”

Both Wesen are now sure they’ve fallen into the trap of over-explaining themselves: methinks the suspect doth protest too much. In any case, Burkhardt isn’t giving anything away.

“Alright, so what time did you leave, Mr…?”

“Uh, Hoffmann.” Pause, glance at Angel. “Roland.” Clears his throat. “Uh, I think it was… was it around four?”

“No, that’s when I came back, dot-on. You and me went over that paperwork and questionnaire stuff and you went and cleared your head about… five? Ish?”

Another quick look at the Grimm; not a thing from him.

“So yeah, and you came back about seven thirty – wow, you were gone long.”

This time, a trickle of interest on both of the detectives’ faces, and Roland panics.

“I was just walking, man,” he protests, shuffling a quarter-inch further into the house, “I didn’t do anything.”

“Was there anyone else you bumped into who looked suspicious?” Griffin asks, his tone more casual than his partner’s.

“No—” Roland shrugs and frowns. “No-one I thought was suspicious.” A sort-of lie: Monroe The Blutbad sticks out, but… he let the rabbit go. He let the frigging rabbit go, and for fuck’s sake the dude’s Wieder. “I just met one guy in the woods.” He tries for joviality: “I think he’s more the rabbit person than a killer, though.” Of course, it falls flat.

Griffin nods slowly, as if deciding that it’s time to call it a night before Burkhardt can ask any more questions, which is just as well because if he asks anything about their other housemates, there’d be chaos: Winona would break down blubbering under the scrutiny of a police officer even when innocent, and Kenna would stonewall them at every turn; Leo and Elham might be more cooperative, wary as they might be (being no better than the girls, really); Charalampos and Sophia would… well, they might be better with the police, but only if it weren’t posed as some sort of challenge, because they were must stubborn (natch, as Taureus-Armentum).

“Alright, if there’s anything else,” Griffin reaches forward with a number on plain card, “call us.”

“Will do,” is Roland's automatic answer.

Once the two detectives leave, the door is locked and the ground floor is double-checked to make sure the windows and back door are also closed and locked; their other friends have their own keys, so they’ll be able to get in without struggle. The looming promise – “There’ll be someone to come and take your statements tomorrow morning.” – leaves a bad taste in Roland’s mouth.

“Who died?”

Kenna hangs back on the stairs, Winona staying on the landing; it’s likely that she barricaded the bedroom if she ever looked out of the window and saw the cop car, or even so much as heard the word police when they first knocked.

“Dunno,” Angel says, and he instantly sounds more like his usual self – less strung-out, more so-laid-back-he's-horizontal. “We didn't ask, and they just said it was a suspicious death.”

“One of ‘em was a Grimm,” Roland blurts out, and Kenna swears while Winona moans lowly and sags against the wall.

“Oh fuck me fucking sideways, then.”

“Babe,” Winona whines, half-hiccuping, half trying to laugh.

“TMI, hon,” Angel says. Again, lightheartedness falls flat, and dies.

The panicked buzz over the ‘suspicious death’ and the new knowledge of a Grimm blankets them as they retire to bed. The promise of someone on the police force coming over tomorrow to take their statements feels more like a threat, something to trip them up and wrangle a confession out of them.

But it’s not the police, or the death of a person yet unknown, that take precedence in Roland's mind once he’s pulled the covers over his body. It’s the woged face of Monroe The Blutbad, and a rabbit in his hands. More than the panicked dread over the next morning that’s threatening to drag his body into a sleepless, restless night, his head is light with stupid, optimistic hope.

Wieder Wieder Wieder Wieder Wieder--

He dreams of teeth. They do not shred him.

[newssplashy]

Entertainment: Muguruza and Halep will meet in french open semifinals

PARIS — Garbiñe Muguruza’s career has flickered at times, but it is again burning bright at the French Open.

The third-seeded Muguruza reached the semifinals at Roland Garros with a 6-2, 6-1 victory over 28th-seeded Maria Sharapova on Wednesday afternoon, needing only 1 hour 10 minutes.

The quarterfinal win over Sharapova was Muguruza’s third straight-sets victory over a Grand Slam champion in this tournament. She defeated Svetlana Kuznetsova in the first round and Samantha Stosur in the third round.

In Thursday’s semifinals, Muguruza will play top-ranked Simona Halep, who is still seeking her first major title. The No. 1 ranking will be up for grabs in their match. The other semifinal will feature a pair of Americans, No. 13 seed Madison Keys and 10th-seeded Sloane Stephens.

Halep booked her spot in the semifinal with a 6-7 (2), 6-3, 6-2 win over Angelique Kerber. It was a rematch of Halep’s three-set win over Kerber in the Australian Open semifinals in January, one of the best matches of the year.

In Paris, Halep used her greater comfort on the slow clay courts to her advantage, prevailing in most of the longest rallies.

“It’s tough against her, but it’s even nicer and better after I win a match against her,” Halep said of Kerber. “Shows me that I have enough patience, I have enough power inside to stay calm and just to play what I have to play against her.”

Halep has achieved the top spot in the rankings through consistency. She has won only one title in the past 12 months, at a small tournament in Shenzhen, China, but she has reached the quarterfinals or better 14 times.

Muguruza’s bid for the top spot is built on bursts of big-stage brilliance.

Since the beginning of the 2016 French Open, where she earned her first major title, Muguruza has a 32-6 record in Grand Slam singles matches. That includes a run to the 2017 Wimbledon championship. At regular tour events in that time, she has won only 61.1 percent of her matches, a 55-35 record.

Encouraged by her Australian coach Darren Cahill, Halep has been worked on remaining positive and optimistic, no matter the circumstances of a match. She pledged to “keep smiling” no matter the result of their semifinal.

“I have also no expectations, no pressure,” said Halep, who lost in the finals of last year’s French Open and this year’s Australian Open. “I just want to play as I did today, and as I did every day. If I do that, I will be OK after the match, no matter the result.”

Muguruza’s moods are more turbulent, but her coach, Sam Sumyk, said he knows how to read them.

“I kind of know, when I see her face in the morning, which Garbiñe to expect,” he said.

While Halep is focused on enjoying her tennis, Sumyk looks for the opposite in his player.

“When she’s suffering inside, I know it’s good,” he said of Muguruza. “I know it sounds weird, but yeah — suffering is not a negative thing. I know when she’s very demanding with herself and it’s never good enough, then it’s good.”

The dynamic between Sumyk and Muguruza appears more abrasive than most player-coach relationships on tour. His on-court coaching visits, which are allowed at WTA Tour events but not at Grand Slams tournaments, often grow tense.

“It’s a very anxious daily job,” Sumyk said. “It’s in front of everybody’s eyes. You’re judged constantly.”

Sumyk said he does not try to ease that nervous energy, which he believes “comes with the job.”

“I don’t try to make her more relaxed,” he said. “I try to make her understand what anxiety is, where it comes from, how to channel it. That’s what I try to do.”

Muguruza’s emotions took center stage at Roland Garros last year after she lost a fourth-round match to Kristina Mladenovic of France in front of a raucous, partisan crowd. At her post-match news conference, Muguruza broke down in tears and left the room for several minutes to regain her composure.

The moment, which the tournament included in a highlight reel used at this year’s draw ceremony, surprised Muguruza.

“I was surprised the next day when I saw a few headlines saying ‘Breakdown,’ ‘Tears,'” she said at a round-table interview last August. “I’m like, it’s not a breakdown! I’m just sad that I lost a hard match, and had a lot of emotion in that match.

“I wanted to show that I’m human. I’m not a robot. It’s true, because I feel like sometimes players are like ice, and I’m not ice. It doesn’t show that I’m weaker because I showed my feelings.”

Sumyk said they tried to learn how to better manage the emotional toll.

“We tried to analyze all these emotions at the end, once she was out of the tournament,” Sumyk said. “Where that comes from, why all of the sudden you kind of let it out — and actually, why she didn’t do it earlier. Because that could have actually helped her, to let go a little bit of some of that nerves. But she’d hold it, hold it, hold it, and then it happens after a defeat.”

Muguruza’s resilience manifested quickly; she won Wimbledon a month later. At that tournament, she was coached by Conchita Martinez, the 1994 Wimbledon champion, while Sumyk stayed at home for the birth of a child. Muguruza seemed to be more tranquil under Martinez’s guidance.

“I feel Conchita might be a little bit more easygoing,” Muguruza said Wednesday. “She understands sometimes more the player view. I think Sam is more strict, and a lot of energy out there.”

Martinez worked with Muguruza at a handful of other tournaments but she ended her partnership in April, leaving Sumyk again as Muguruza’s lone coach.

Sumyk admitted that the intensity he stokes could cause Muguruza to flame out at some point, though he believes it would be well in the future.

“Maybe in 10 years, if she keeps going like this, maybe she will feel burnt out,” he said. “But for now, she’s fine.”

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

BEN ROTHENBERG © 2018 The New York Times

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