#I feel unqualified (? for the lack of a better word

[indiangp]

i keep thinking about how much i have to grow in these upcoming months because I have to prepare for my boards starting next month and then college entrance tests. And that got me thinking that me being a motogp fan on here is so weird there's like 10 people on here who blog regularly and all of them are adults in college or have work I'm unemployed and still in my last year of highschool 💀

[astrodice]

PAC: you and your imposter syndrome

this reading can tell you about your imposter syndrome and why you're not an imposter

🗣️ take what resonates and leave what doesn't. excuse my grammar/spelling mistakes if there's any.

Pile 1

Your imposter syndrome comes from fear of losing, fear of being not good enough. You might overwork yourself to the point of exhaustion. It's like you're always preparing for worse.

It seems like recently there was a situation where you've planned something ahead, actually put your hopes high for the first time but something went wrong/got cancelled. For some of you it was a rushed decision that you regret now. Basically, something went not according to your plan and that really made you feel more like imposter.

You're not an imposter because no matter the circumstances you always act wisely, you're an excellent communicator. You need to remind yourself that a few mistakes don't make you less of an intelligent person.

key words: exhaustion, fatigue, obstacles, delays, lack of growth, impulsiveness

Pile 2

Your imposter syndrome comes from focusing on negative past experiences. There is an extreme amount of mental angst. I see that there was a connection with someone that have ended on bad terms, or there was someone who made you feel inadequate.

Right now you have an opportunity to move on, to start something new but your past haunts you, causes you anxiety and make you feel unsure about you choices.

You're not an imposter because you're enough. People might judge you, misunderstand you but it doesn't make you inadequate. You bring something new, unique and that makes you stand out of the crowd.

I see luck coming your way after you done healing yourself. Soon you will feel more relaxed, calm and secure.

key words: failure, regret, fear, anxiety, empath, intuitive, endings, depression, healing, independence, success

Pile 3

For this pile I'm seeing a very specific scenario, so it might not resonate with many people here.

Recently some you were promoted, got a raise or become like a team leader. Which made you feel like you need to meet some sort of standard, that is required for your position. You also might feel like there's a pressure from you team members, like you have to do you work perfectly, so other people won't judge you or think of you as an unqualified worker. To sum up, there's a feeling that you don't deserve what you have.

You're not an imposter because you're very disciplined, reliable and practical. You're perfect for your job and your team is very lucky to have you. If you're facing conflict within your team, you have to step up and set rules/methodologies that can help your team work better.

key words: collaboration, authority, mentor, new position/project, public reward, success, burden, partnership

[bumblingbabooshka]

I hate when Chakotay is watered down to be Janeway's yes man because their disagreements are actually very interesting. [A lot of rambling analysis of this debate in particular below]

Chakotay in Parallax is very interesting in that he has to navigate a lot of different dynamics. Balance a lot of plates while being watched keenly by everyone around him. Immediately preceding this scene we see him ask B'Elanna for her opinion on the bridge - both as a chance to show her knowledge in his bid to make her chief engineer (because she wouldn't get a chance to otherwise as Janeway has clearly indicated that at this point she views B'Elanna as a troublemaker who won't be considered for the position) and because he just thinks she's a better engineer than Carey and wants the best possible chance of them succeeding. Janeway sees this as unacceptable. Carey is the chief engineer and so he should be called and Chakotay NOT asking for his opinion is an insult to Carey, Janeway, and might make the crew doubt Chakotay (and by extension the Maquis') loyalty to the Starfleet crew.

At this point it seems that to Janeway integration ["They're not your people"] means the path of least resistance, specifically tailored towards the Starfleet crew. She wants Chakotay by her side to keep the Maquis crew calm but also seems unwilling to consider them for important positions aboard the ship. Though she says that the Maquis are not Chakotay's people, not his crew, she certainly doesn't seem to consider them hers [Compare this to later instances where she stresses 'our' crew, here she simply says they aren't Chakotay's: Whose crew are they? Are they crew at all?]. This less leaves the impression of "We need to be a cohesive team" and more "You're not in charge here." She essentially accuses Chakotay of playing favorites. In her mind Chakotay's actions are not conducive to integrating the crews which would (again, in her mind) mean the Maquis being docile and accepting, obedient and content - not making trouble for the Starfleet crew. Chakotay counters Janeway's accusation with one of his own: That he IS trying to integrate them into the crew but her not allowing the Maquis any opportunity to prove themselves or succeed, not showing any trust in any of them (except, implicitly at this point, him) is making things difficult. At this point the Maquis crew are ready to mutiny on his word at any time. He knows this for a fact. Aside from that looming threat (the threat being that tensions are high and if nothing changes and they remain high there might be a mutiny even without his word) - Chakotay knows these people and trusts them. Though Starfleet and Janeway think of the Maquis as a violent bunch of criminal terrorists, Chakotay and a good number of the Maquis joined because they believed in the cause they were fighting for. These are people Chakotay knows WILL fight fiercely for what they believe in and conversely, AGAINST what they perceive as injustice. Even if they're not in the majority - they're used to picking fights which seem impossible to win. At this point Janeway admits that she ISN'T making it easy for Chakotay to integrate the Maquis - specifically talking about practical concerns; how she doesn't feel she can let Maquis crew have roles of importance on the ship because they lack the ability to hold them. "They don't have the discipline, they don't have the training," - asserting that they just aren't prepared for any such roles and it doesn't have to do with them being Maquis specifically. Ostensibly, she's treating them as she might treat anyone unqualified for the job.

Chakotay maintains that some of them, like B'Elanna, have the ability to be trained - challenging her point by saying that IF they're trained there's no reason for any Maquis member NOT to be given a more prominent role on the ship. He isn't suggesting they just unqualified people important jobs. If the problem is that they aren't trained, let's train them. These people have the ability to succeed if you give them the tools they need and a fair chance, he insists. Janeway then switches gears and her argument becomes not "The Maquis are untrained so they can't be given those jobs" but "The Maquis crew are unworthy of those jobs when compared to Starfleet personnel" saying that it'll cause insult and upset among the Starfleet crew if any member of the Maquis were to be promoted above them. Again, her idea of integration is based more on Maquis subservience to the Starfleet crew than it is the two crews working together. (Not that I believe she looks at it that way, it's just where her 'path of least resistance' leads) - though she accuses Chakotay of being too focused on "his" crew, she is admitting here that she believes her real crew are the Starfleet officers aboard, not the Maquis. She also admits here that the system she wishes to maintain (and is asking Chakotay to enforce) is one where there will ostensibly never be any chance of a Maquis crew member being promoted because no Maquis crew member will ever be more qualified, more worthy, than a member of Starfleet. We can see how it'd be difficult for Chakotay to convince his crew to remain calm under these circumstances. There's also Tuvok's behavior toward him at the beginning of the episode where the Vulcan nearly goes over Chakotay's head and when he doesn't do so (as Chakotay reminds him that HE'S the superior officer, the First Officer in fact,) Tuvok acts as if him backing down (partially) and conceding (partially) to Chakotay's authority is a favor to Chakotay.

Tuvok in this conversation is downright insubordinate to Chakotay. Despite Chakotay being the first officer, he doesn't take what he says seriously, argues that his own opinion on what should be done should be followed rather than Chakotay's, lectures the first officer about his conduct, and then almost seems to threaten him with a report. In Starfleet's rigidly hierarchical rules, acting like this to a superior officer (ESPECIALLY the first officer) wouldn't be tolerated and Tuvok knows this perfectly well. He isn't a rebellious character and clearly in other episodes adheres to these Starfleet hierarchies and codes of conduct very strictly. He values them highly. But Chakotay, a Maquis, shouldn't be First Officer. Why should he be given respect for a title he didn't earn? [Affirming Janeway's argument about how Starfleet officers won't be eager to follow a Maquis senior officer] Even though Chakotay tells Tuvok off for it ["I don't have to explain myself to you"] he doesn't threaten to put Tuvok on report or explicitly mention his insubordination. It's unclear if this is Chakotay's personality or if he just doesn't feel he CAN do that. Tuvok is one of the three most senior officers aboard and very close to Janeway. Chakotay has to think of the optics of any situation at all times - we see seconds after this conversation that rumors have already started swirling around B'Elanna being relegated to quarters that've fanned the flames of mutiny. Though we know Tuvok has personal reasons for behaving the way he does toward Chakotay (which he later admits), I really don't think it'd be out of the ordinary for this to be how most Starfleet personnel would treat the Maquis if they weren't outright hostile: Like they're only pretend crewmen. To a lesser extent we even see this with Janeway: In the following staff meeting, she clearly doesn't consider B'Elanna a viable option when Chakotay brings her up and almost ignores the suggestion entirely.

It also, again, leaves Chakotay in an impossible position. If he doesn't protect and fight for the Maquis crew, they won't ever be considered a true part of the crew and dissatisfaction will likely spread among them. Dissatisfaction which the Starfleet crew will then use to further label the Maquis as insubordinate, uncontrollable, unfit. Not to mention that if he doesn't advocate for them, he might lose their trust. However, if he DOES try to help the Maquis crew advance the Starfleet crew will view this as 'favoritism' and will further distrust him, won't respect the people he puts forth as worthy. Janeway seems to be intent on not advocating for any of the Maquis crew and also seems unwilling to ask that the Starfleet crew grant leniency. She implies that the Maquis crew need to learn to get in line and keep quiet and it seems almost like [we must remember the optics] she has Chakotay as the only Maquis in a position of power to facilitate that. Chakotay recognizes and pushes against that, saying that he won't just be her token Maquis - there only so she can point to him and say "See? We don't discriminate against the Maquis here." effectively a tool used to shut down any arguments of unfair treatment and a tool to quell the Maquis if any talk of mutiny DOES arise. In this model, Janeway can just tell Chakotay to calm them down and they'll listen because they trust him. She also doesn't have to really listen to anything he says: A token First Officer has no authority; his words don't hold weight. [Chakotay isn't Maquis anymore, they aren't his crew anymore - ok. What is he then? What are they? Nothing, without respect.] This plan seems untenable, as much as Janeway frames it as sensible: "I can't make it easy, Commander. Surely you can understand that," and alternatives as impossible "How am I supposed to ask them to accept a Maquis as their superior officer just because circumstances have forced us together?" - in the long run, how would this be sustainable? In any power structure, you cannot expect a group of people you're unwilling to grant trust or agency to obediently follow you forever. This proposed form of 'integration' in which the Maquis are kept on the bottom rung and told intermittently to stay there quietly by the only one of them granted permission to stand at the top would never be sustainable - especially with a group like the Maquis who again, were founded on the belief that its members should fight against inequity and are already on the verge of mutiny.

I specifically find the statement "How am I supposed to ask them to accept a Maquis as their superior officer just because circumstances have forced us together?" to be interesting because personally I'd say that being forced together for the rest of almost everyone's natural life is a pretty good reason to ask people to adapt and Janeway does understand this but only applies it to the Maquis - the Maquis are the ones who have to adapt, not Starfleet. The only thing the Starfleet crew have to do is tolerate their presence on board.

At this point Janeway again claims that if Chakotay can show her a 'qualified' Maquis candidate she'll consider them. I believe this is true but we already know that Janeway's standards for qualification will likely not fit the vast majority of the Maquis and Chakotay ignores the claim in favor of putting forth B'Elanna again, firmly. Janeway predictably dismisses her as unqualified and Chakotay disagrees, arguing that he knows her. He's worked with her. He KNOWS that B'Elanna can excel at the job even if she doesn't meet Starfleet/Janeway's qualifications. He doesn't value those qualifications over what he's observed about her - just as he didn't value Carey's title over what he knew about the gap between his and B'Elanna's abilities. Then, Chakotay switches gears. He admits that Janeway's right - he does view the Maquis as his crew but that's because Janeway (almost self admittingly) doesn't and if he doesn't, who will they have? [What kind of captain, kind of man, would he be?] "You're going to have to give them more authority if you want their loyalty." "Theirs or yours, Commander?" Janeway frames Chakotay's words pointing out the flaws in this plan which I outlined earlier, as almost a threat (if she doesn't have Chakotay's loyalty it'll most definitely mean mutiny). Chakotay asserts that it wasn't a threat, he's only trying to help by telling her how the Maquis crew will react to what she's telling him. "I'm sorry you can't see that" - not an apology for what he said but that she isn't willing to budge, not willing to listen to him and acknowledge that she might be as biased towards her crew as he is towards his. Chakotay is trying his best to acclimate his crew but if Janeway isn't willing to do the same, to talk to her people as he's talking to his, then this will not end well and that isn't a threat. It's just the reality of the situation. He then asks permission to leave, showing he is willing to observe Starfleet protocol (just as when he asked permission to speak freely), and Janeway lets him go, exhaling at the intensity of their debate when alone in her ready room.

[marcia-11111]

Daffodils. III. The broken souls pt. 1

I apologize for the very late update, however last half a year was quite hectic and unstable for me - from a toxic job to the exams. But now, I'm better.

Tag list: @idk-bro-gay @kiopanxp @hellothere9597 @hsxhype @mareonyan @is2sae

TW!

Breakup, angst, and heartache

Sae Itoshi is a Japanese prodigy pursuing his dream of becoming the world's best midfielder. In the race to his own goals, he loses the person dearest to him: you. 

(y/n) (l/n) - Sae’s ex-partner. You are an exchange student from a Spanish university who came to Japan. You met him a few years ago during your year abroad in Spain and became his partner. You have moved on, or you thought you had. However, what will happen when the one who wanted you to avoid him the most finds himself again in your life? Is he going to prove his love to you? Or will everything turn into another heartbreak? Does your heart want the Japanese prodigy back?

All "Blue lock" characters belong to the authors of the manga and anime "Blue lock".

Please don't translate, plagiarise nor use my works on other social media platforms, etc.

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

Trying to find a student job abroad was such a hassle. Only a couple of days have passed since you came to Japan in search of a peaceful year, having known of him not being fond of his homeland. However, fate is full of surprises. 

For some, love was simply not a part of their destiny. It must've hurt, but it was the truth, especially for you. Why would a heart decide to suffer instead of leaving all the emotions behind? 

You have already been jobhunting for a couple of hours, but everywhere seemed to be well-staffed or you're unqualified for the job. Regardless how hard you tried, you're left with no option. 

"What a hassle." A sigh escapes your lips. Out of nowhere, a window pops out—a job offer for a soccer club manager, part-time. “Blue Lock? That popular programme?” You read it out loud. The description seems quite fitting, and you lack any other options. “But if it is soccer...” You released a sigh. No need to worry; the possibility of Sae coming there is low. You decide to apply. Fortunately, it's a smooth process that you could finish quickly. 

“Now, there is some time for myself!” You chuckle and turn on the TV. The sight of the next minute causes you to flinch. “Sae…”

“Itoshi Sae, the prodigy midfielder’s last assist, caused Royale Youth to win against the FC Barcelona team; however, the soccer player refused the interview offer!” You sigh once more and load a (f/m) to watch. “No need to think about him.” Still, the lingering feelings in your heart remain unchanged, no matter how much time passes. A single tear streams down your cheek. 

“...”

“Hah. What a time we had.” You focus on the movie instead, struggling to abandon the sadness in your heart. 

Sae’s POV

Everything has seemed bland since that day I had discarded everything I deemed worthy of my attention. All of my life had lost its color. I destroy everything I came across as it should (not) be. 

I walked across the beach aimlessly - the shore reminded me of the better days before Madrid, fame and the force of expectations, insatiable greed and hurtful pride. I became a hope of Japanese soccer, but… No, I am not like that. Whom I wish to fool? The outside world crushed me and molded in a form the child self of mine wouldn’t recognize, a cynical person whose mean words hide the hurt.

“Ugh.” I sigh. The sun shone brightly, blinding me for a moment. A moment later, I notice something (f/c) on the sand. Usually I wouldn’t give a damn about an item, but some unknown force convinced to pick it up. My eyes widen. “W-wait.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s (y/n)’s handwriting. But how come they’re? Especially, after everything that has happened. I didn’t dare topen the diary, but when I stood up straight, a photo fell out. It looks drenched with tears. Tears, which didn’t have time to dry up yet. It means they’re here not that long ago. But how do I dare think about her? Finally, I leave the beach, hoping that my past mistakes wouldn’t haunt me.

[david-goldrock]

You voted for, so let me translate the entire poem

Let us talk about god About blind faith, and cold logic, and a lacking purpose A pale alternative to a pointless and alienated existence About the mantle and the lady and all that is familiar And the bitter truth of the thorn in the rose And the dangers of sugar and the cold reality Let us talk about god dsgnruwhurjehgtsbvalk

That is what I managed to write before the cat jumped on my keyboard Glanced at the words, glanced at me, glanced at the words And turned to lick its own ass

"Well, what's your opinion?" I asked it, for it is known cats do not tend to spare criticism If you wanna hear "Wow what a beautiful song" go and ask the dog For the truth, turn to a cat

Left the ass, glanced at me Glanced at the words, glanced at me His entirety is a Nietzsche's mustache The eyes of the abyss that looks back at you Uberkatze that will soon herald that god is dead (supercat, a reference to Nietzsche's "uberman") Opens his moth to talk, and thus spoke Zarathustra: "For someone who claims that god doesn't exist, you write about him a bunch, do you feel threatened?"

What? Threatened? From what? A flying spaghetti monster? No I just think that faith and god is a cool concept

It scoffs and responds: What do you fuck about? You dig (talk an excessive amount about something) And are an infidel And forces to confront And freeze in your place From the horror of the truth Because Darwinist monkeys Tried to trick To pile stones That cannot be lifted And cells from a fetus And a fossilized snail And big bangs And facts that most, as all Dwarven (become small, as dwarfs) On the banks of the everyday Of 7 billion Yearning souls From the heart of each land To the shore of each sea Go and tell all these That god doesn't exist

And then it hit me: The religification has come to me in my home! Because of course, a cat that once in Ancient Egypt was a god Now that were back to writing in emoji hieroglyphs, and the cat-worshiping gets a rejuvenation on all the walls of the internet Of course the cat will stand up to the side of the messianics, the darkened, the preachers and return-in-answerers (to return in an answer is a jewish idea, which I am unqualified to explain, but in this context it means to become religious) Well - Not in my house I won't be silent and I won't accept Religious compulsion from the mouth of a creature that licks its own ass

And it tells me: From the perspective of a cat Things are a bit different There is no Damocles' sword of time that is ticking Death approaches The end of the movie And in the meantime, we eat, and fuck Without doubting The world, ourselves By Allah Ya Allah You digged With all that messing around with "purpose" We start, we decay There's no one above No stairway to heaven Hell has no elevator

Well, exactly, so why search for imagined meaning? Why not settle for what there is - We were born for a short existence, kitty Let us fulfill it instead of casting the responsibility on some kind of creator There are better things to live by

Like what exactly?

Yes The tree is but a tree And the sea is but a sea But has anyone ever Seen democracy? Touched an ideology (In order to get the feeling of its texture) Or grasped an idea? Just today I hunted justice And I held a vision I hadn't met a cat That had counted its steps By a measure of morality Or a written contract Ironically you with the brain You don't have smarts Just the mercy of words That will build you a dam To stop the nothingness And to act as a reminder But the nothingness is winning I am sorry to herald And yet there's no shame in filling that which is empty Even you -

Me? I am a nihilist anyway, I don't believe in anything

Even you Rise very morning to work For money, a feeling of recognition and honor Maybe money exists if people live for it? If people are held by it? If people are worth because of it? If people fight, vouch for each other, sacrifice for it? If there's money, then there is god, why not? Nations and peoples and states ignite Flames in tens of thousands of hearts As far as I am concerned if all of them exist than god does too

Let us ask the audience, we'll do a survey here Who's more real, god, or Brad Pitt? Sorry for shoveling messages down your throats But no one ever died for Brad, the poor guy Certainly hadn't lived for him What is true: You You examine in a magnifying glass A view that's seen by a telescope Fight for flags And scoff at a horoscope If faith is a perspective Then the world's a kaleidoscope If life is a raging sea Then god is a periscope One can see with him high up And all looks clear If you hadn't begun to sink by now For this pitcher is hollow Take the word of a cat Every time over You kill god To crown under him A different hollow pitcher

You wanna talk about god? Let us talk about love Where is this love that you talk about? That you sing it?, that you write it? That you live it, you experience it You die for it, you kill for it Where is the evidence to prove the existence of this love? This catalyst, this causer The motive, the engine of life The battery of the existence, the fuel of the soul Where is this love? If there is no god, what about your love? If there is no god, what about love? If there is no god, what about love? If there is no god, what about love?

Its mustache bristles, and his eyes are boiling fire He finished And returned to lick its ass

I should have asked the dog

[slocumjoe]

some things I love about the companions 💞

Ada; is best girl. She's a cool ass robot who gives me glue and doesn't judge me. No, this is not my "transformers prime permanently rewired my brain" bias for robots. At risk of sounding like a 12 year old boy, Assaultatrons are just badass designs. And she's blue!

Cait; is a lot funnier than anyone gives her credit for. Also, weirdly educated? For example, she wonders if Raiders like tunnels as a "Freudian" thing. Few people she'd have met would known about Freud, so she'd have to have gone and read about it herself. Also also, is on Danse's level of romantic sweet talk. Girl makes me swoon.

Codsworth; somehow hates the wasteland more than X6. His wording and tone is very optimistic but you can tell that, underneath his chipper facade, Codsworth is so fucking grossed out by everything he sees. Also, the only two companions he doesn't trust to keep you safe, are Piper and MacCready. Make of that what you will.

Curie; X6-88 (like, 10 years old) calls her unqualified and she (200ish) basically tells him to get the fuck back in the play pen

Danse; Sending his eyebrows to space by showing the smallest amount of care and affection. I'm pretty sure this man would die if someone asked if he was okay.

Deacon; talks a big game about being a liar, and being very good about it, but if you don't read that 'recall code' ASAP, he bugs you about it constantly because he hates lying to you. It's not even that you're being naive, he genuinely hates that he's being trusted when you were supposed to question him.

Dogmeat; my favorite thing about Dogmeat is that I'll spend an hour scrapping all dog houses in Sanctuary, make him a little area in my backyard with a house, food bowl, toys, a rug, and classical music, and he thanks me by getting up on my countertops to sleep, using my antique pie collection as bedding.

Gage; Wears a fake eyepatch and throws hissy fits when my army of sexy chads curbstomps his furries, Nepo babies, and Joker stans. This is entirely wishful thinking and I get why this didn't happen, but I would have liked an option to convince him "Hey, I'm coming back with my army to wipe out all these raiders, but I'll give you a chance to join me or leave since you also seem to hate these chuckleheads." I appreciate his shady convict uncle vibes. I would let him teach Shaun how to cheat at cards.

Hancock; takes mentats to feel "intellectual" when he has the second highest INT of all the companions. Also, his puppy dog eyes. "IM FERAL NOW" as he gets his ass kicked by a legendary god roach

MacCready; dork man. he has more cliche stock line jokes than Deacon. I unironically vibe with his taste in trailers, fucking LOVE leopard print (fake bc we don't fuck with wasteful animal hunting like that). He's a very cozy companion to travel with, for lack of a better description. Like if a thermos of soup was a human.

Nick; Nick is what I imagine Mac would be like as he got older—just a laid-back weirdo who wants whats best for you and will insult you so you understand that. I love his tacky ass agency sign. I wish you could put him in other clothes, because I need him in a bathrobe wielding a cane against my enemies. Just really succumb to the grumpy uncle vibes.

Old Longfellow; reminds me strongly of my old neighbor, an elderly southern gentleman who was a sniper in the military, had a chunky rottie named Baby, and once watched me play Fallout and gave his opinions on the design of the weapons in game. That man is now in Thailand with his girlfriend. I've never traveled with Longfellow but I'm pretty sure its a 1 to 1.

Preston; if you don't take Preston to Quincy, I don't blame you, because oh man, does he not have a great time there! Preston sounds five seconds away from snapping his gun over his knee and going for strangulation in Quincy. King shit.

Piper; I was pretty harsh to Piper but I love her gaslight gatekeep girlboss approach to her life. She's like an adult Junie B Jones. Piper has never had her shit together and is self-medicating with sugar harder than Hancock and Cait do with drugs. She's a cringefail woman. If Bethesda was brave they would have gone with her pixie cut concept.

X6-88; a blank canvas for me to go wild on with the fanon. But I love how he's just an asshole 10 year old murderbot that's scared of heights, thinks Power Armor is so cool he privately fangirls over Danse, is scared of children, and gushes over how awesome the Survivor is to his courser buddies. What a babe.

[liskantope]

I have a lot of mixed thoughts nowadays about the "threat to democracy" angle to Trump's potential re-presidency.

On the one hand, Trump has made it abundantly clear, from long before the period of the 2020 campaign season when he began priming his base to expect the election to be rigged against him, that he has a fundamentally antidemocratic mentality, that for him, the concept of "democracy" is what it means to a (not particularly bright) second-grader: a fancy word for something that in the US we say we value all the time but which doesn't mean anything of significance. He has instilled a similar mentality among his cult following, and it's eroding our collective sense of what it means to be the United States and our once robust underlying trust (across political ideologies) in our system of elections. It already culminated in the events of January 2021, which made our country an embarrassment to the world and suggests that more violence and strife is in our future as long as he's on the political scene (even if Harris wins in November, I'm dreading how the Trumpists are going to react).

For me on a gut level, the deepest pang of insult and disgust (among very many!) associated with Trump getting into the White House again comes from the idea that he's unqualified not only in his inability to competently handle object-level issues but on the meta level of having no respect whatsoever for democracy, which to me represents the error-correcting mechanism of supreme importance in any system and the primary feature that, uh, makes America great (and revolutionary, back in the 18th century).

But then, at the same time... let's say he wins again. Where does his disrespect for democracy lead, exactly?

Trump has very deliberately undermined trust among his base in elections, and this time around he'll do better with appointing people in crucial positions who will fix elections for him, but what will this mean, concretely? It seems to me that the worst I can conceive of, without inventing scenarios that go completely off the rails, is that Trump manages to find the energy and knowhow to fix the results of a number of 2026 midterm elections and then get through more legislation in the second half of his term than he would have and maybe this includes an abolishment of term limits so that he could run again and fix the results to win again. This does seem quite bad, but it's also pretty far-fetched that he'd actually be able to do all this (starting with doctoring the visible results of a great enough number of midterm races to make a real difference), and anyway, the damage done would be severely hampered by (1) the fact that he'll be getting into his 80's and seems quite likely to drop dead quite suddenly, and (2) his lack of actual focused ideological beliefs (like what's he actually going to try to accomplish with one or two more terms?) -- he's seeking to get back into the White House basically because campaigning is fun and power and attention feel good and it's a way of screwing around and keeping the law from catching up with him.

Maybe I'm lacking in imagination on this, and I do remember Sam Harris having someone on his podcast who described a very concrete scenario of Trump eroding democracy if back in power that sounded pretty scary the way it was spoken at the time, but I can't remember the details now. Meanwhile, the recent Supreme Court decision about presidential immunity seems murky and up to interpretation and like it would maybe require a pretty contrived situation to allow Trump to get away with something truly dictatorial.

I think it's good that Democrats are reminding voters over and over again how incredibly offensive Trump is with regard to his attitude towards our democratic ideals; it seems that a lot of Americans care about this (rightly) and it will help Trump get defeated. That said, I don't know that it does any favors to throw around such vague and dramatic phrases as "will destroy democracy" though. First of all, what does that mean? Secondly, to the extent that it exaggerates the situation, it sounds hysterical, which is something the other side can always capitalize on. I suspect it has, at least in that Trump himself has noticed on some level that he can use desperate and freaked-out-sounding rhetoric from the other side as fodder for trolling.

It really bothers me the way the anti-Trump side has completely taken the bait in moments like Trump's comments about how he'll be a dictator on day one only. It would be one thing to be upset and offended because Trump's cult has flaunted the democratic process and the perception of it in serious ways and so it's in extremely bad taste for him of all people to be flippant and joking about it. It's another thing to hear the "I'll be a dictator but only on day one" comment and conclude in a serious tone, "See? He just admitted right out that he wants to be a dictator!", as if we shouldn't all have the collective psychological intelligence to understand that speaking that way is a form of mischievous, irreverent, trolling-while-projecting-a-strongman humor that Trump has always specialized in (and is indeed what makes him so refreshing to so many people).

I'm similarly really annoyed at the reactions -- including from such smart and sensible commentators as David Pakman -- to Trump's recent remark to a Christian audience about going out and voting just this one time and then he'll "fix" it so they won't have to vote again. I heard that the first time, and it was fairly obvious to me that there were several more likely explanations as to what he meant in context apart from "I'm going to make myself dictator for life" -- the first one that came to my head was "the main reason why a lot of Christians vote is the abortion issue, and Trump is implying that he'll 'fix it', meaning get an amendment passed banning abortion everywhere". Then I saw in an clip from a Trump interview afterwards (I only saw this because it was played by David Pakman I think, though he professed not to understand any sense of what Trump was saying) that Trump's explanation for the remark had to do with Christians not voting in very large numbers. ("I know you don't always care enough to vote, but do it just this once and then you won't have to again" actually sounds very close to the usual line, popular on the liberal side, about "this is the most important election of our lives", with my own personal addition of "vote to resoundingly defeat MAGA so that maybe the each subsequent election won't continue to be the most important of our lives.") I found out today from Matt Lewis' weekly podcast episode with Bill Scher that the context of Trump being concerned about low Christian voter turnout was in fact plainly acknowledged in earlier parts of Trump's same speech, although Scher says that the oft-cited notion of Christians not voting is a myth. Trump's confident claims that he'll "fix everything" are characteristic of him (and one of his main recognized demagogic rhetorical faults he's ridiculed for!) and a much less athletic explanation for his comment than "I'll change the country so that there won't be any elections", a thing that he's never said or implied.

Of course, if Trump cared a shred about truly assuring people that he has no dictatorial inclinations, he would be careful not to make comments that could even remotely be interpreted as such, and one could argue that in that context his "vote for me now and I'll fix it so that you won't need to again" comment was offensive. I'm not sure whether he maybe even intended that comment to be misinterpreted by his opponents this way so as to rile them up, although I seriously doubt that he was being that clever. I just wish people would stop feeding the troll and walking right into the trap of interpreting as much as possible in terms of "destroying our democracy" and treating every remark Trump says as a way of taking the man much more seriously than he deserves, even while at the same time we could simultaneously call attention to the seriously threatening aspects of Trump and Trumpism.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Winkfield Twyman, Jr.

Published: May 26, 2024

Every time a crusading medical school dean admits an uncompetitive, unqualified black student, said medical school dean hurts my niece. When you make crazy assumptions about the health needs of black women, you are harming my black niece. And by giving the incompetent false hope, you have made my niece’s journey in life that much harder.

Let me explain since the narrative only seems to go one way these days.

My niece is a smart pre-med student at a top university. She has several doctors in her family. Is she a privileged black person? Yes, she is. She is a graduate of a prominent private prep school. She has traveled the world. Her parents are no strangers to acclaim on the world stage. She is an Ivy League legacy daughter, the descendant of a Central American family, and wants to become a doctor.

Sadly, these are lousy times for my niece to apply to medical school.

First, there are crusading medical school deans who are not holding black applicants to the same standards as white and Asian students. Expectations for blacks have totally collapsed at some medical schools to my horror. At one local medical school and to boost diversity, standards are no more. “Standardized tests that up to 50 percent of some UCLA cohorts now fail…Nationally, only 5 percent of students fail those exams.” At this medical school, eight medical school professors, including four members of the medical school admissions committee, revealed that black applicants have a lower bar to overcome.

The first-year curriculum contains a mandatory course on “structural racism.” Structural racism. “Other units discuss the ‘sickness of policing’ and link ‘Queer liberation to liberation from the carceral state.’" Meanwhile, what are the failing medical students learning? “And the students that remain have become increasingly entitled about their ignorance with one professor reporting that he was berated by a student in the operating room who accused him of putting her on the spot when she could not identify a major artery.”

If I can help it, this incompetent student will never see me in a medical capacity.

Second, my niece deserves to be admitted in flat out competition with other applicants for admission. To do otherwise plants doubt in her mind as to her qualification and doubt in the minds of her white and asian classmates and doubt in the minds of her faculty members. Why set my niece up for the imposter syndrome, that she doesn’t belong and can’t handle the work?

Third, my niece is not marginalized. She is not oppressed. She is not suffering from structural racism. The required first-year curriculum would expose my niece to zany dogma and slogan words. She needs to learn about major arteries. Her instruction should be color indifferent.

Fourth, the longer lasting evil is the poor perception of black doctors as a group in the larger world. Who in their right mind would feel comfortable going to a doctor who has failed their first and second-year exams? I wouldn’t. It is not about race. It is about competency. My niece deserves an admissions process that allows my niece to hold her head high in medical school. One does the opposite when one erases grades and MCAT scores in favor of boosting diversity.

Let’s talk about the foreseeable consequences of throwing standards to the wind for black applicants to medical school. One doesn’t magically become a medical genius in medical school. That is magical thinking. As with all things in life, garbage in becomes garbage out.

Did you know that Michael Jackson died because his black doctor, Conrad Murray, negligently administered the drug propofol? Dr. Murray lacked specialty training. The drug was not supposed to be administered as a sleep aid. Jackson’s death was ruled a homicide by the Los Angeles’ Coroners Office. Dr. Murray graduated from Meharry Medical School where the average MCAT score is 503. For purposes of comparison, the median MCAT score at Yale Medica School is 522. The median MCAT score for black applicants is 494. There is a world of difference between 494 and 522.

Michael Jackson was a part of my growing up. I loved Michael Jackson. I cut Dr. Murray no slack.

We have been down this road before with no competitive standards for admissions to medical school. Remember the Bakke case in 1978? I do. The white male applicant Alan Bakke's MCAT score overall was 72; the average applicant to UC Davis scored a 69 and the average applicant under the special program for black applicants was a 33. The UC Davis Medical School denied Bakke admissions. Bakke had to go the U.S. Supreme Court to gain admissions to medical school. He graduated in 1982 and led a fine career as an anesthesiologist at the world-renowned Mayo Clinic.

And as for the applicant who replaced Bakke? What became of the black medical student Dr. Patrick Chavis admitted with almost non-existent MCAT scores?

Dr. Chavis left a wake of carnage in his medical career. Dr. Chavis “performed liposuction on 43-year-old Tammaria Cotton and killed her. Two other women came close to being killed at Chavis’s incompetent hands.” Note well about the character of Dr. Chavis: “Yolanda Mukhalian lost 70 percent of her blood after Chavis hid her in his home for 40 hours following a bungled liposuction; she miraculously survived.”

An incompetent doctor tends to remain a danger to the public. “In 1997, the Medical Board of California suspended Chavis’s license, citing his ‘inability to perform some of the most basic duties required of a physician.’ The board further noted Chavez’s insensitivity to patients’ pain. The board had access to a tape recording of patients screaming in agony while Chavez humiliated them.”

How did Dr. Chavis meet his end? “According to a Los Angeles County Sheriff's detective I spoke with last week, Chavis was murdered on the night of July 23 in Hawthorne, an economically depressed neighborhood on the southern edge of Los Angeles. Three unknown assailants shot him during an alleged robbery at a Foster's Freeze.”

I fault the admissions committee at UC Davis that admitted an uncompetitive and unqualified applicant to medical school for reasons of boosting diversity, not merit. Black patients like Michael Jackson and Yolanda Mukhalian deserved competent black doctors.

It is difficult to identity all instances where nominal standards for medical school admissions have caused patient harm on the back end. The internet doesn’t easily lend up stories of failed black doctors who should not have been admitted to medical school in the first place. If one can’t identify a key artery in medical school, stay away from me and my family. I don’t care about your race. I care about your competency.

I know a doctor who failed his residency boards over twenty times. He spent perhaps half of his adult life taking the boards twice a year. He never passed but he could always take the boards again, and again, and again. The medical school admissions system failed this person. He should have been encouraged to discover his real talents in life in his early 20s. Indeed, the hunger for increasing the number of black doctors sucked in this young man and the rest was a long slog through study all the time year after year after year. He grew to hate his profession and life. Would you want to be his guy’s patient? He eventually passed as a middle-aged man. It was poignant, a dream deferred.

These are the foreseeable consequences of choosing race over qualifications. Wasted lives and endangered patients.

Conclusion: My niece deserves a world where she can pursue her medical school dreams free of ideology, dogma and slogan words. She doesn’t want to become a Dr. Conrad Murray, a Dr. Patrick Chavis or a resentful young doctor who can’t pass her boards. She wants a fair and square opportunity to be admitted on good faith terms. Medical school deans do my niece no favor if they play around with identity politics and the dreams of my niece.

She wants to do no harm. And admissions committees for medical schools should do the same.

[tallmantall]

James Donaldson on Mental Health - Self-Help Can Become No Help At All If You’re Not Careful

The right self-help book or course can be a powerful tool to guide people toward a resolution. Many people can attest to experiencing transformation because they put the information to use right away. People have gone from nervous, shy, and lacking in confidence to become calm, outgoing, and confident in their ability to do things. This is where a self-help book or course works very well. But it can easily be argued that, like all things taken too far, self-help can be harmful.  There is so much self-help literature out there now and so much advice on how we can become better versions of who we are. Is it helpful? Is it constructive? Or is it harmful? Why Self-Help Can Be Damaging Many, many people will attest to having been positively influenced by self-help books and videos. And then there are those who have been damaged by them. The most common way the damage can occur is when the self-help book or video or course is used as a delay tactic. This is when people use self-help as a way to avoid actually doing the work to improve themselves. In other words: people will buy a self-help book, watch a few videos, purchase a course and then will instantly feel as though they’re making good progress toward being a better version of themselves. They’ve made the effort by buying the book after all: so they can pat themselves on the back and keep on reading. And then they buy the next book. And the corresponding course. And then the videos. And then the next book. And they feel great about themselves except they haven’t actually changed anything. Self-help is destructive when it is used as a delay tactic. #James Donaldson notes:Welcome to the “next chapter” of my life… being a voice and an advocate for #mentalhealthawarenessandsuicideprevention, especially pertaining to our younger generation of students and student-athletes.Getting men to speak up and reach out for help and assistance is one of my passions. Us men need to not suffer in silence or drown our sorrows in alcohol, hang out at bars and strip joints, or get involved with drug use.Having gone through a recent bout of #depression and #suicidalthoughts myself, I realize now, that I can make a huge difference in the lives of so many by sharing my story, and by sharing various resources I come across as I work in this space.  #http://bit.ly/JamesMentalHealthArticleFind out more about the work I do on my 501c3 non-profit foundationwebsite www.yourgiftoflife.org Order your copy of James Donaldson's latest book,#CelebratingYourGiftofLife: From The Verge of Suicide to a Life of Purpose and Joy Link for 40 Habits Signupbit.ly/40HabitsofMentalHealth If you'd like to follow and receive my daily blog in to your inbox, just click on it with Follow It. Here's the link https://follow.it/james-donaldson-s-standing-above-the-crowd-s-blog-a-view-from-above-on-things-that-make-the-world-go-round?action=followPub www.celebratingyourgiftoflife.com Know Who to Trust The other issue is that self-help can be negative because you aren’t getting the right information or it’s coming from an unqualified person. The good thing about the internet is that anyone and everyone can contribute. The bad thing about the internet is that anyone and everyone can contribute. There is a lot of incentive for people to appear as experts to get visitors to their sites and then earn cash from the number of visitors. The problem is that many people follow advice that is based on zero evidence and that is offered by someone who has no authority or credibility to offer it. For instance, its common knowledge that visualizing your goal can help you achieve it. What isn’t common knowledge is that this only works if it's done correctly. Which means there is a wrong way to visualize. The lesson here is simple: question what you read then as you try it in your life decide if its really working for you. If it doesn’t make sense or if it isn’t working for you, then seek out someone who has credibility by asking for recommendations from trusted colleagues. Read the full article

[gingersnappe-9]

Quisiera: Just Thinking (5)

Javier Peña / F!Reader; Post Narcos

Masterlist || Series List || Taglist Form || PREVIOUS || NEXT

1.6K words

Warnings: Mature content (18+ only), male masturbation, rude/sexual language, profanity. Hot and bothered Javi is KING. A touch of angst

A/N: This is one of the few times I've written smut and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did writing it!

The lack of rain was becoming a real problem. The earth was dry and crusted over. The grass had all but shriveled up into dry pieces of useless hay. The town was getting closer to issuing water ordinances to help conservation efforts. It was down right infuriating. And to make matters worse, the heat only exaggerated the nagging thoughts floating around Javier’s head, forcing him to relive that moment of goodbye on your front porch over, and over again.

Muñeca.

He had the audacity to call you “doll”.

What the hell was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. That’s what.

Javi had been chastising himself for the past several days after your night out together. Had he not made that one move at the end, Javier would’ve categorized it as an unqualified success. It was becoming increasingly easy to be around you. To look at the way you lit up when you talked about your job, even when you complained about how tired it made you. He enjoyed the way your hands waved through the air when the two of you drove in the car together. Hell, he even enjoyed the little look of surprise that flashed across your face when he sauntered off to his car.

He didn’t understand. You baffled him, and not knowing was something that Javi did not handle well.

Later that night, Javi found himself laying in bed staring at the ceiling for the millionth time in his life. The covers were thrown to the side as Javi lay in only his boxer briefs, the room too hot, and his mind far too hot and bothered to have any amount of unnecessary clothing touching his skin. The herbal scent of your perfume still clouded his olfactory system, sending his mind reeling.

Javier could feel himself hardening, and nothing was left to the imagination when he had found the courage to open his eyes to peek down at the place between his hips.

He didn’t blame himself. It was a natural reaction. Perfectly healthy. Javier wasn’t a stranger to nights spent with himself; afterall, if you didn’t want to have sex with yourself, then why would anyone else? He was never ashamed of that. What he was ashamed of were that these thoughts were developing around you.

You. The girl up the road. The girl who grew up with him. The girl who rode horses better than anyone he knew. The very girl who won contest after contest; so good he learned that you competed in college, even got a scholarship. But you were so much more than what he remembered. He liked your sharp tongue. Javier found it amazing that the meek girl he once knew had turned into this tough as nails woman. Someone so unafraid to call him out when he was acting like a dumbass. You matched him tit for tat and something in Javi liked that. A lot.

It started as gentle pawing, a means to satisfy the internal itch so he could get some fucking sleep. Javi let his mind wander into dangerous territory. He recalled how soft your cheek was. The way it yielded to the subtle pressure of his lips. Javi thought about what it would’ve been like to kiss you more. To feel the way his mouth curved around the column of your neck. To feel your heartbeat race as he kissed firmer, then scrape against the sensitive skin with his teeth.

His hand slipped under the band of his underwear to firmly stroke his dick. Something he’d done countless times before, but this time, it felt just a little dirtier. It was you that was doing it for him. And try as he may, Javi couldn’t help but want to think of you. His mind conjured more material that he could scold himself for later. Now it was too good not to indulge.

Would you squirm? How would you sound? His mind recalled memories of your laugh, your smile, god your fucking mouth. How good would you sound as you moaned for him? Would you curse and beg as he nipped and sucked down the expanse of your torso? Did you like having your nipples teased? How easy would it be to make you beg for him to devour what he could only assume was a very pretty cunt. Javier thought of how good you looked. How you would look even prettier as your sensibility broke the moment he put his mouth on you. The soft sensation of the delicate skin as he sucked your needy little cunt.

Javier picked up the pace to his imagination. Somehow his boxer briefs were pushed down past his ankles and his dick was dripping. The warm fluid made the glide of his hand easier, but the thought of that smart fucking mouth going down on him was even more sinful and delicious.

The idea of your warm mouth wrapped around his cock flooded Javier’s mind. He couldn’t help but let out a breathy oh fuck, Baby at the thought of it. Javier pegged you for a tease. You would probably swirl that sharp fucking tongue around just right then leave him with nothing.

His hands unconsciously followed the whims of his fantasy version of you. They slowed, and pumped up and down with a firm fist. He wanted to run his hands through your hair. Grip and tug on it just a bit to let you know how good it felt. How good you made him feel.

Your voice floated into his mind. Every single moment he’d ever heard you say his name came rushing into his head.

A new idea fluttered through his mind.

Hearing your pretty voice break and choke on his name as he finally breached your soft cunt. The image of your mouth uttering swears and moans while riding on top of him was both too much and not enough at the same time.

Javi furiously began to pump his fist around his cock. He imagined bringing your tits to his mouth, happily marking and sucking on them as you continued to shudder and clench around him. God. You probably felt fantastic. You would probably beg him, whisper and scream please for him to let you cum. For him to cum because of you.

The clearest image came into focus in Javier’s mind. Your hair a bit messy, your eyes dark and needy, warm yellow light casting soft shadows across your face, your lips swollen and glossy, and nothing but him filling your thoughts and your pussy. Then you whisper his fucking name in that oh so sweet way.

He came undone and he came hard. The image was too real and it sent him careening over the edge Javier didn’t even realize he was teetering over. His stomach tightened and the crescendo washed over his body releasing every chemical in the body responsible for pleasure. When his breathing finally evened out, the image of you had faded into the periphery of his mind and Javier was left with only his thoughts once more.

He laid there, thinking about what he’d just done with his cum on his hands and stomach. He hadn’t had sex in a while, but something felt different about this. It felt so real, visceral. It felt fucking amazing as far as self-completion went. But it was wrong.

Javier slowly sat up, grabbed a bath towel that needed to be washed anyway, and wiped himself off.

The reality of his situation hit him and the shame inevitably came crashing back down. Normal people didn’t masturbate to the thought of their childhood friends. Normal people didn’t use a perfectly innocent kiss on the cheek as an excuse to orgasm. Normal people didn’t betray boundaries of companionship like he just did.

So Javier sat there on his bed, just thinking.

He dragged himself out of bed to go grab a cigarette from his coat pocket. A light pair of shorts were chosen in lieu of underwear before he walked down the hall to the coat rack. When he got there, he found the pack empty.

“Shit.” Javi whispered to himself in the dead of night.

You crept back into his mind. He knew you weren’t a fan of smoking, and you probably would’ve scolded him had you found out he sometimes smoked in the middle of the night. So back to the solitary confinement of his bedroom he went with nothing but his thoughts. Thoughts that called made him think he was a jerk. Disgusting. Someone who couldn’t control their urges to the point they would go so far as to masturbate to a friend.

No one would know of course. But it would haunt Javier, just like everything else did. He had gotten very good at hiding his inner demons from people. It came with the territory. It came with being him. Javier knew he was never a great person to begin with. For Christ’s sake, he’d left the only woman he thought he loved standing at the altar. He left his entire family behind to go become some hero, only to fall short in the end.

Maybe that was the reason he never let himself have anyone nice?

All of the girls he had in Colombia were sex workers. It was their job and it was part of Javier’s job to get information from wherever to take down Escobar and then the Calí Cartel. It was business. There were no feelings behind it. Did he want any of the girls who crossed his path to get hurt, no. But it was transactional.

You were different. You were so good. Wonderful. A genuine person. Anyone with a working pair of eyes could see that.

So there he sat alone, thinking about what he’d just done, doing his version of praying that his common sense would come back to him; because the last thing Javier ever wanted to do was hurt you like he’d hurt people in the past.

"Quisiera" Taglist: @hnt-escape @betti-book @mcueverday @elinedjarin @athalien @nicolethered @thegreat-annamaria

Javi (all) Taglist: @elinedjarin @thegreat-annamaria

All Stories Taglist: @athalien @rosiefridayrogersunday

[this-account-doesnt-exist]

Gundam Wing Secret Operation (1996) Side B (Part 8)

Heero = H; Duo = D; Quatre = Q; Trowa = T; Wufei = W; Treize = TR; Zechs = Z

~~~

W: Operation Three: Wufei’s Training

~~~

(SE of sword fight)

TR: Is this your limit?

W: Treize!!

(Treize disarms Wufei)

TR: It seems that you have gotten better, albeit no where close to my level.

W: Just kill me! Why do you always let me live?

TR: Dueling with you is something that I very much look forward to. Anyways, after this match, our score is now 10-0. Get better before you come to challenge me again.

W: Damn it!!

~~~

(Piano music)

D: Quatre, so this is where you’ve been! I figured that that’s the case since I heard the sound of the piano. 

Q: Duo, did you need me for something?

D: Eh, no really. I was bored out of my mind being alone, so I was just wondering if you’d be down to play some chess.

Q: I will be more than happy to play against you. But if you wanted to play chess, wouldn’t it be better if you had asked Trowa to be you opponent instead?

D: Well, both Trowa and Heero wandered off to godknowswhere. Plus, those two are always so quiet when we play together! Sometimes I just crave playing against someone who’s open to yelling stuff like “gotcha!” and “what about this!”, ya know? Instead of being so level-headed all the time, I wish those two would act more emotionally from time to time…

W: You’re being too loud.

D: Oh, Wufei, I didn’t notice that you’re here.

Q: Wufei was kind enough to listen to me play the piano.

W: I just happened to be in the same room.

D: What’s wrong with you today? Why do you seem even crankier than usual?

Q: Duo, leave Wufei alone. His feelings were hurt really badly.

D: Haha. Did you challenge Treize to a duel and lost again?

W: (Grunts)

Q: Duo! Why did you have to rub salt into his wound like that…

D: Turn the frown upside down, Wufei! You’re not really at fault for losing. Especially since Treize is older, more handsome, richer, have longer legs, more popular with women, smarter, and more skilled at sword fights than you are!

W: (Whimpers) I am…weak…

Q: Duo, why are you the one delivering the final blow! Even if you’re telling the truth, there are things that you just shouldn’t say out loud!

D: Quatre, you’re not helping here. Hey Wufei, don’t be so upse…

W: Just leave me alone! I’m a loser…I am unqualified to pilot Nataku…

(Wufei sulks in the corner) D: Jesus christ, stop with your negative vibes! I can’t stand depressing atmospheres like this! Why are the majority of the Gundam pilots so gloomy!

W: Duo.

D: Yah?

W: I’ve been wondering about this for a while now, but are you simply incapable of shutting up?

D: Hey, that was rude! You basically called me a blabbermouth!

W: Am I wrong though?

D: Uh, well, I do talk a lot…but that’s still better than guys like you who barely talks! Am I right, Quatre?

Q: Sometimes less is more.

D: Quatre, you’re pretty harsh sometimes.

W: Just like you, Treize is an expert at talking crap as well. Thanks to that, I always have a hard time concentrating during our fights. Is my training lacking?

D: Hmmm. Alright, Wufei, let’s set you up with some special training then!

W: What?

D: If you could win a verbal argument against Treize, then maybe you’ll stand a chance against him in a duel as well!

W: Me, winning against Treize?!

D: Overwhelm your opponent with your words, then…attack when they’re not prepared! This is common sense when it comes to fighting in the streets!

Q: This is the secret weapon that Duo uses to win in fights, right?

D: You can tell? Even back when I was in living the colonies, I’ve never lost a verbal argument against anyone!

Q: I don’t think that that is something worth bragging about…

D: Anyways, using the appropriate words is the first step to victory! Let’s do it, Wufei!

W: I get it now…I will do it! I will win against Treize!

D: That’s the spirit! Let’s go Wufei, time for your special training!

W: Heck yeah!

Q: Both of you, make sure to come home before supper!

~~~

Q:..Despite telling them that, Duo and Wufei still haven’t made it back yet.

H: Just let them be. They’ll return when they’re hungry.

T: That’s true.

[Door opens]

D: ‘Sup y’all!

Q: Duo, Wufei, welcome home!

D: Gosh, I’m starvin’! What’re we havin’ tonight?

Q: More importantly, Duo, how did Wufei’s training go?

D: It went great!

H: We’re talking about you here. Surely you just spent the entire day fooling around again.

D: That was mean, Heero! I was seriously trying to help Wufei!

T: Even so, it’s hard to imagine that Wufei could become a wordsmith in such a short period of time, especially when taking into account of his personality.

D: Wufei, say something! Show them the result of your training!

[Wufei steps forward]

Q: Wufei?

W: (Clears throat) Ay yo y’all, what up with dat gloomy face? YOLO!!!

[The boys fall off their chairs and exclaim in disbelief]

H: Hey Duo, what on earth did you teach him?

D: Nothin’ much, all I did was lecture Wufei on how to talk like a normal, happy teenage boy!

W: Huh, was that not good enough?

Q: Well, um, Wufei…

W: Let me try again (clears throat) Ay thx for comin’ by! The weather today pretty fine eh? Me? I’m feelin’ awesome! 

[The boys fall off their chairs again]

W: Finally, I realized that I have been wasting my time by not speaking more! Who knew that talking could be so much fun? The discovery of the endless possibility of words has broaden my horizon, and I am determined to share this joy with you all toooooooo!!!!

H: Duo, make him shut up!

D: Aw man. I’ve always wanted someone who’s more energetic on the team though!

T: In a certain way, now that Wufei has learnt to talk like this, defeating Treize might actually be possible…

Q: Why do I feel like Wufei has forgotten that even if he could win against Treize in a verbal argument, as long as his sword fighting skills doesn’t improve, he would still lose in the end…

W: The new me is invincible! Treize, your blabbering is no match to my machine gun-like talking skills!

H: I am going to shut him up!

[Sound of utter chaos unfolding in the background, the boys yell over one another, Heero tries to strangle Wufei while the others attempt to stop him]

~~~

[Part 7] [Part 9]

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 38

of the wwx emperor au I’m thinking of calling Fuck the Canon: Happy Endings For Everyone

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37

Information gathering has always been XingChen’s domain.

It is not precisely that ZiChen lacks the necessary skills to gather information on his own. For many years now, they have been partners on equal ground, sharing both pleasant and unpleasant tasks. But some areas are better left to XingChen. There is something about his placid nature and gentle countenance that invites confidence. People simply find themselves telling XingChen the most intimate details of their lives, frequently without any urging on his part.  

ZiChen does not posses this particular skill. He is certainly capable of extracting information, but it is always done by a more direct means. XingChen’s way may yield better results, but it also takes a great amount of time and restraint, neither of which ZiChen has in abundance.  

Even now, waiting in Nie HuaiSang’s receiving hall, he finds that his patience is growing thin.

XingChen hates it here.

Even as a child, XingChen had disliked the Immortal Mountain, the court rules, the pretense of politeness, and the clandestine tactics. At the age of twelve, he could play the court games with the best of them. The fact that he had survived YanLing DaoRen’s reign speaks volumes of his abilities and his endurance. But ZiChen does not remember ever seeing XingChen truly happy here, even as a child, even during those early, peaceful years, before YanLing DaoRen had fully sank into the grip of madness.

ZiChen had been fourteen years old when YanLing DaoRen himself had tasked him with protecting the little Prince.

At the time, ZiChen had been little better than a servant. The Song family may have begun its service under the Immortal Empress herself, but they had never climbed to any position that matters. ZiChen’s grandfather had been the Lieutenant General for all of three months, before a mercenary arrow ended that advancement. ZiChen’s uncle had died in a cradle. And ZiChen’s father, a mild-mannered, generous man, had always had a better head for numbers than any other skill which may have elevated his family. As a teenager, ZiChen had been a scrappy, permanently angry youth, who took forever to grow into his ears. He had picked fights with anyone who looked at him the wrong way, and took pride in winning each time.

YanLing DaoRen had liked ZiChen, but he had throughly misunderstood his character. ZiChen may have been devoted to the little Prince, but his devotion was impossible to come by, and in the end, he had none left over for the Emperor himself. When YanLing DaoRen had decided that the little Prince had to die, he had found, to his chagrin, that the youth he had tasked with protecting XingChen had become his greatest obstacle.

ZiChen understands why XingChen hates the Immortal Mountain. It is not only the memories of his past life that give him discomfort, but who he is forced to be in the present, taking part in affairs he would rather avoid. They had come searching for a murderer, but XingChen is currently trapped in a pitched battle between the Emperor and the Council, trying to find a middle ground on a matter that should be the least of their concerns.

ZiChen believes that the Emperor should marry whoever he wants. He does not understand why a dozen sect leaders and every Imperial official somehow must have a say on the subject.

Still, when in the Immortal Mountain City, XingChen is the Emperor’s only blood relative. He may be the notorious Rogue Prince who had abandoned his rank and his title, but when XingChen spoke, even the High Councilor did not dare interrupt.  

It is not a bad thing, for the Empress’ brother to shake up the existing power structures. Between XingChen and the Emperor, the Council will find themselves reconsidering the scope of their influence. But this left ZiChen having to do everything else, even those tasks which he is utterly unqualified to perform.

Luckily, there is one person in this forsaken City that ZiChen does not abhor, and if allowed to see him, ZiChen is likely to find his task much easier to accomplish.  

Finally, a servant appears from a side door, just when ZiChen is about to lose the last of his patience.

“The Royal Companion will see you now.”

ZiChen follows her into the Royal Companion’s study, a room as eccentric as its owner.

Silver-green drapes, a fortune worth of silk, temporarily hide the Royal Companion’s desk. The green carpet is so thick, ZiChen feels his feet sinking with each step. The space is not small, but it is visually overwhelming. Dozens of paintings lay discarded in piles. Shelves filled with books and scrolls and sheafs of loose paper cover an entire wall. A single, intricately carved stand holds a heavy saber, its steel glinting menacingly next to messy piles of silver brocade. Another stand holds a dozen painted fans, each one impossibly delicate, the lines feather-light.

Nie HuaiSang is seated at his desk, another fan spread out on a small stand, a paint brush in his hand. He does not rise from his seat.

ZiChen does not feel himself slighted. He respects this boy, a child really, regardless of his youth and temper. He is the only person ZiChen had ever met whose devotion matches his own. As ZiChen would burn the world for XingChen, Nie HuaiSang would do the same for the Emperor. Their methods may differ, but in essence, he had found they were very much the same where it mattered.

ZiChen bows, “Greeting the Royal Companion to the Emperor.”

“No need for such formality, Daozhang. Come have a seat. Should I ask for tea?”

“No need. I am only here to inquire about the recent events in the Immortal Mountain.”

Nie HuaiSang places his brush aside with care,   “I believe that the Emperor has given me a diluted version of your hunt. Not intentionally, you understand, but he has been-- rather preoccupied with other matters.”

ZiChen fights the urge to roll his eyes. The Emperor is eighteen and in love for the first time. If his behavior in YiLing is anything to go by, preoccupied is a fairly mild word. They are lucky that the Emperor is managing to focus on anything else of importance.  

“I would appreciate a detailed accounting of this-- murderer, and any other information you may have. In turn,” Nie HuaiSang says, “I am willing to place my considerable influence at your disposal in the pursuit of this creature.”

“The Royal Companion is thoughtful and reasonable,” ZiChen says, “How may I repay this generosity?”  

Nie HuaiSang smiles, “As it happens, I am hunting as well. I would very much appreciate your assistance.”

[bwbatta]

tinsel

Abstract: After a slow day, Bucky decides you two need to decorate your apartment.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: none

Word count: 447

A/N: just a short cute idea I thought up since all I want to do is decorate for christmass! Divider is by @whimsicalrogers!

“Ugh” you slammed the lid of your laptop shut and rested your head on top of it, as if to collect your thoughts

Your boss was, for lack of a better word, a control freak. This meant he had the belief that you couldn’t do anything up to his standards, even though all you did was your absolute best and it still didn’t even come close to his obscene and unfair standards.

This also meant he barely gave you any work because in his words, you were too... unqualified.

In fact, you were the complete opposite.

A chuckle was heard across the room as your gaze snapped to your boyfriend who was watching you with a fond gaze of his own.

“Everything alright?”

“Just Gabe being a complete ass again” you huffed

Bucky made his way across the room to stand behind you, placing both hands on your shoulders to give you a small massage.

“Says I don’t know what I’m doing and whatever I am doing is wrong. The usual you know”

Letting out a sigh, you leaned back in your chair feeling your head rest against his chest.

“He’s an ass” he placed a kiss to the top of your head

“Yep”

“And you’re now going to take a break and pay attention to me so I can make you feel better”

“Bucky” you whined “I’ve got work to finish off”

“Not now you don’t” he grabbed your hand pulling you up from the chair “come on”

Standing up from your seat, he closed your laptop lid and pulled you through to your kitchen where he looked at you with glee, watching you take in the large boxes of Christmas decorations he had got out the cupboard.

With a laugh you stepped forward to see what he had been doing for the last hour.

“Now I know you and Steve are the ones with the artistic eye, so I just thought that we could decorate since Halloween is now over and it’s Christmas next” he shrugged his shoulders “you can be the brains and I'll be your loyal muscle, all you need to do is tell me where to put everything”

“You do realise, we need to get a tree too then? We can't just do this halfheartedly”

“Steve is already on it, says he’ll drop one round later for us”

Rolling your eyes you turned away from the box of tinsel and towards your handsome boyfriend. Sinking into his arms, he pulled you closer as you buried yourself in his chest.

“Thank you”

“You needed a distraction, doll, and I'm happy to be that distraction”

“Alright Mr Distraction, let’s get this place Christmas ready”

[lemondoddle]

The Incident

ao3 link

It was Thursday afternoon and Jon was hiding in his office, pretending that he wasn’t avoiding Martin. Well. Alright. He was avoiding Martin a little bit, but it’s not like he was avoiding him out of malice or irritation, he just… can’t really look at him right now, which doesn’t exactly sound better. Look, the whole mess had started because Martin had suddenly become a lot more...tactile around Jon. It’s not that Martin wasn’t a touchy-feely person in general- Jon noticed Martin’s friendly touches with Sasha and listened to rave reviews about his hugs from Tim- it just seemed so sudden and unlikely for Martin to extend that to Jon. He assumed that technically being Martin’s superior (along with being a bit of an ass if he’s honest with himself) would have deterred the man from being so friendly, and yet...

  It was little things at first; a hand on the shoulder to get Jon’s attention, seemingly not being aware if their hands brushed while he handed out tea, and on one particularly distracting occasion, a large but feather-light hand placed on Jon’s back as he squeezed past him in the breakroom. Each time left Jon still feeling warmth in the areas Martin had made contact, as if he was still there. Nothing he couldn’t shake off and ignore to fall back into his work though. At least- it was like that until The Incident.

The Incident had occurred just minutes ago.

Jon had been walking through the stacks of the archives looking for a specific statement that might have been related to the one he’d just recorded. He would describe making his way through the shelves as “a bit lost in thought” while others might say “dead to the world”. Either way, his attention was preoccupied and therefore did not notice Martin making his way from the other end. The thing about the stacks is that there is very little space in between shelves even for one person, much less two. Martin did his best to stay out of the way, as he often seemed to do, but inevitably bumped against Jon as he made his way past. Jon jolted back, snapping out of his trance, twisted to face the sudden contact and immediately slammed his back into the shelving unit behind him somewhat violently. Upon impact, some of the file boxes haloing Jon began to wobble and tip forward. Martin took notice and lunged forward with an “Oh!”, splaying his arms out to stabilise the boxes. Once the commotion settled and Jon was aware of his surroundings, he desperately wished he wasn’t as he took in the scene in front of him. Pinned against the shelf with Martin in incredibly close proximity, arms on either side of Jon’s head. None of which was helped by their disparage in height leading to Jon being nearly face-to-chest with the man.

It took several agonizingly long seconds to process what on earth just happened before either of them started to move. “Oh christ- I’m so sorry Jon I didn’t mean to startle you-” Martin sputtered, face flushing an impressive shade of pink as he backed away quickly as he could while still being mindful of the shelves. As he did so his hands rested feather-light on Jon’s shoulders for just a moment before falling away, but Jon felt that phantom heat all the same and had to take yet another moment to compose himself.  

“It’s, uh, it’s fine Martin. I was a bit zoned out there, I had no idea you were there.” Though not quite as red as Martin, Jon’s face still burned as he desperately avoided eye contact. While the shock and mortification dissipated, Jon’s mind lingered on that small touch and took note of another feeling, familiar from his previous moments of contact with Martin that he couldn’t quite place. There was something else there, an underlying emotion lurking after each of the brief touches Jon received, but only after the contact had ceased. Relief didn’t feel quite right. Coldness? No, it was more- wait.

Loss. Longing. A desire for the contact to return and to stay.

Fucking Hell.

At this realization coming on with all the grace and tenderness of a freight train, Jon did his best to spit out an excuse and promptly sped out from the stacks, refusing to look back and silently thankful for always having been a fast walker. He snaked through the bullpen back to his office and caught a glimpse of Tim and Sasha, who were fairly in view of the whole scene and most likely having an oscar-worthy dialogue through eyebrow and facial expressions alone. Jon somewhat succeeded in not slamming the door shut before collapsing into his chair, throwing his glasses off and pressing his hands so hard into his face he’d be concerned of bruising in any other circumstance.

So, there he was. squirrelled away in his office and wishing he could deny himself as easily as he does the statements that surround him. As if taking on the archaic archives mess in a position he was unqualified for wasn’t enough, now he’s got a traitorous heart to boot. Great. It just had to be Martin of all people hadn’t it? Might as well be his luck to fall for the one person he’s been the biggest ass to. What on earth was he going to do now? He was only good at ignoring his feelings when he didn’t look too closely at them, but now that he has unwillingly confronted them he doubted they’ll be easy to push down again. Before Jon could get even farther down his thought spiral though, there was a knock at his door.

“Jon? Are you alright in there?” Martin’s muffled voice could be heard through the door.

 Uh oh. He was in no way recovered enough to be facing anyone at the moment, let alone the source of all these… feelings. Jon froze like a deer in headlights (or as Tim would say, a deer in the headlights of lo- nope nope shut that thought down immediately. focus.). It seems as though Jon’s indecisive silence was enough of an answer for Martin, who called out again.

“Jon? I’m coming in there, okay?” 

Shit. Act natural. Jon scrambled around his desk for a few seconds and managed to shove his glasses back on and grab hold of a statement copy and a pen to pretend like he was doing something as Martin timidly stepped through the door. “Hey, I just wanted to check that you were okay after I knocked into you, you looked pretty spooked back there if I’m being honest.” Jon didn’t even have it in him to pull a face at Martin’s use of the word “spooky” as he fumbled for a sufficient answer.

“H-honestly it’s okay Martin, not the first time I've been startled due to focusing on something, that’s not what I was worried about.” It seemed like a perfectly reasonable response, that is until Jon replayed the last sentence in his head and realized his mistake.

“Really? Then what was?” Martin’s face scrunched up a bit while he recalled their encounter, which only seemed to deepen the furrow in his brow. “Oh, jeez Jon you should have told me that I was being too touchy with you if it made you uncomfortable!” His hands fluttered to reach out in an apology before seemingly catching himself and withdrawing again. Jon wished that implication would have brought relief, however he found panic spiking yet again and a desperate need to correct it as he rose from his chair.

“No no Martin i- it’s fine I don’t mind when you, ah-” he stopped short. This was all getting to be a little too much for his brain right now.

“Really? Because you don’t sound terribly convincing at the moment..”

“Yes, really! Look-” he reached out to Martin to prove his point. “See? Completely fine.”

Martin’s face turned from slightly concerned to wide-eyed and rapidly reddening. “Um...Jon?” he squeaked out.

“Yes? what is it?” Jon finally looked down at where he reached to Martin and briefly wondered what Elias’ strategy was in hiring a head archivist who lacked a brain.Turns out that Jon hadn’t settled for just a hand resting on the arm, oh no, instead he opted for taking Martin’s hand in his. So there they stood in Jon’s office. Holding hands. Jon wondered what the odds of lighting striking him were while standing in a basement.

“O...kay.. Um, do you think you maybe need to sit down again?” Jon would have liked to be irritated at the way Martin was speaking to him as though he was an elderly particularly off their rocker, but he had to admit that the rapid string of events has done quite a number on his composure, so he conceded and moved back to sit down. “Uh, J-Jon?” 

“Hm? Oh-” Realizing that his hand was still gripping Martin’s, Jon finally pulled his hand away and sat down. Martin let him settle down for a moment before grabbing another chair and pulling it to his side to sit by Jon.

“...Right. Now,can I ask what’s actually going on, Jon? Because even before what happened today you've still acted odd when I would touch you, but I had just kinda shrugged it off before, thought it was just you being you, I guess. But seriously, if it makes you uncomfortable I’ll gladly stop! You just need to tell me.”

 “Martin, I can assure you that how I have reacted has not been because of you specifically,” He hoped Martin couldn’t tell how bad of a liar he was, “I apologize for worrying you, but you don’t have to change how you interact with me. I-i don’t mind.”

Martin stared at Jon while the words sunk in before he tentatively reached his hand out and placed it gently (always so gently) on Jon’s arm. “So. is this, okay?” Jon once again stilled and did his best to sound sure but not too eager.

“Yes.”

“A-and...this?” Martin’s other arm reached out to rest on Jon’s other arm as well, mirroring the touch from earlier. “This is okay too?” His eyes were locked onto Jon’s, face in an intense yet unreadable expression. Jon felt his own hands moving of their own accord to lay on Martin’s arms, only trusting himself to nod as they stared into each other’s eyes. Jon’s brain was already frazzled at this point but he could have almost sworn that the space between their faces was shrinking and inching together, closer, closer…

“-Hey Jon if you’re done being weird I finished the follow-up on the goldfish statement if you w- uuuuuhhhhh…” Tim’s voice rang loud and clear as he barged in but quickly stopped short at the sight in front of him. The two flinched away from each other instantly, Jon smacking his elbow on the desk and Martin nearly knocking off the contents resting on top of it.

“CHRIST Tim!! Knock! Please!!” Martin squawked, face turning bright red that, combined with his freckles, made him look like a rather embarrassed strawberry. Jon was caught between glowering at Tim and avoiding eye contact with him at all, still rubbing his sore elbow. Tim’s face on the other hand was transitioning from bewilderment to an unreasonably cheeky grin while he caught on to the situation.

“My, my! So sorry to interrupt the newlyweds, how ever rude of me!” If Tim’s smile got any wider it could have been statement worthy. “Come to think of it, I just remembered some important case notes I want to check over with Sasha, it’s very important she hears it. Well then, I’ll just leave you two to it then, eh?” And with a dramatic wink, Tim left almost as quickly as he entered. Jon and Martin stared at the office door for a few moments waiting for their heart rates to settle when Martin broke the silence.

“I should uh, go out and check on them before they get too loud about it.”

“Right…”

Martin looked back to Jon once more and, after a moment’s hesitation, quickly grabbed Jon by the hand and gave a light squeeze, offering a shy smile before quickly heading out of the office.

 Jon, left staring slack-jawed at the door once more, decided what his next move as Head Archivist would be; dig out his phone and earbuds, pull up an ancient playlist, lay on the floor and maybe think a little too much about hands and warmth. 

[welllpthisishappening]

On This Night and in This Light (2/3)

Emma Swan knows she’s pretty good at what she does.

Helping the magically afflicted and affected find jobs in this realm isn’t the most glamorous thing in the world, and, sure, there’s a lot of paperwork, but she figures she’s helping people and that’s the important thing. It’s structured. Calm, even.

Until. It’s always until.

Killian Jones shows up with his stupid smirk and his tendency to lean against the door frame in Emma’s office and his distinct lack of magic. Or knowledge of what they’re really doing at Mills Personnel. Everything kind of goes off the rails after that.

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Rating: Teen Word Count: Just under 7k this time AN: Hey there, internet. Thanks for saying some very nice things about this mess of words, I hope it provides a few minutes of nonsense escapism today. If you haven’t already, and are capable: please, please, please go vote. As safely as you can. And if you need a few more distractions, or want to shout about things varying from the state of the world to how much better Guy Fieri is than anyone else on Food Network, I’m around. Don’t hesitate to shoot me a message. Last chapter of this one coming on Friday. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the top

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“She’s been stuck in a vase for the last century,” Emma explains, shoving the stack of file folders towards Ruby. Who cannot possibly be comfortable balancing on the back legs of the chair like she is, with her feet propped up on Emma’s desk. “Can you sit like a normal person for half a second, please?” Ruby does no such thing. She sticks her tongue out, instead. “So she’s been in a vase. Why should this concern me? That’s not even the worst curse I’ve heard of this week.” “Don’t lie to me like that.” “I’m not,” Ruby says, but that also sounds a bit like a lie and it’s only a matter of time until the chair falls over. “Two days ago, Mary Margaret got some guy who had been stuck in one of the trees in Central Park for like...hundreds of years. That’s multiple centuries, you know.” “I know how time works. This is not a competition.” “Isn’t it, though?” Emma sighs. “What happened to the guy?” “Oh, crazy powerful. Like—magic falling off him in waves, so Mary Margaret wanted to bring Regina in. Y’know, make sure we weren’t sending some evil force out into midtown Manhattan. But turns out he was straight up light magic. And super smart. Apparently being a tree leaves a lot of time to retain most of the known facts of the passing universe.” “Did Regina make him a resume?”

“And then some,” Ruby nods. “Fabricated some transcripts, got letters of rec, the whole nine yards, plus a few more football fields for good measure. Word on the street is he’s a cinch for the new philosophy job at Columbia.” “What street is that, exactly?”

Ruby flips her off. That’s fair. “What are you so worried about with vase lady? Give her a resume, send her on her merry way and be done with it.” “She’s got no real applicable skills for modern capitalism.” “Well, that’s because modern capitalism leaves a lot to be desired,” Ruby reasons. “Anything else? Pros, cons, potential for a girlfriend?” “There’s something wrong with you.” “You make out with the new guy yet?” Heat prickles the back of Emma’s spine. She ignores it. Badly, but an attempt is made. “He’s been here for like a month and a half. New guy is no longer an appropriate moniker.” “Right, right that’s not an answer, though.” “Why do you care?”

“Uh, because you obviously do?” Ruby quips, but it sounds like a challenge and an accurate one at that. If anything, Emma cares too much. “That same street is jam-packed with tourists and interested parties, all of them certain that you and Jones spend your lunch breaks together and have been spotted on more than one occasion, huddled together going over files and names like you’re going to save the human race with minimum-wage jobs.” “This is awfully cynical of you.” “I know! It’s like we’ve switched positions entirely. Although I already would have made out with the new guy, so it seems like we’ve each retained some of our more crucial characteristics.”

The heat moves. Shifts to the base of Emma’s spine and threatens to tug her through her chair, directly into the floor when she can only imagine it will engulf her in a rather small bonfire, fueled solely on her feelings for Killian. Of which there are—

More than she expected. 

It’s that stupid piece of hair. And, like, everything else. Every time he leans against her office door frame, her magic threatens to reach a boiling point. And she’s not sure if the specific glint that appears in his gaze whenever that happens is legitimate or her own wishful thinking but it’s one of the few things Emma refuses to give credence to. 

“It will only end badly.”

Ruby’s eyes bug. “What will, exactly?” “He doesn’t have magic! He—Belle must know, right? She’s been with Scarlet long enough, you’d think he would have mentioned the stoning.” “Phrase that better.” “Shut up,” Emma mumbles. “I just...if Belle knew what this place was, then why would she and Will try to get a job for Killian here? It’s not safe for a normal.” “Oh my God, are you committed to that term? It’s awful. And you’re rehashing old points. I know for a fact you told Regina all of this when Jones got hired. If she’s not worried about it, why are you? Still?”

Emma doesn’t have an answer to that question. Or two questions, she supposes. 

At least not reasonable ones. Still, that especially pessimistic part of her brain borne of foster homes with drafty windows and thin blankets, and the deep-rooted certainty that everything was temporary, is quick to stretch out across the rest of her consciousness. 

Like it’s got claws, or something. 

“I just don’t want anything to happen.”

“You mean you don’t want him to freak out,” Ruby amends, only pulling her legs back so she can rest her chin on her bent knees. “Right?” “It’s not totally unreasonable.” “No, it’s not. But it’s also kind of depressing that you think it has to be.” “I don’t—” Emma starts, argument ready and only kind of rehearsed. There’s no chance for any other words, though. Not with footsteps coming towards them, and her door’s never entirely closed, but it still manages to squeak when Killian leans against the frame. 

With his feet crossed at the ankles. 

“Hey,” Emma says, far too breathless to be anything except flirting and Ruby’s lips all but disappear when she pulls them behind her teeth. “You, uh—can I help you?”

Furrowing his brows is also a reasonable response to that particular question, because he really does not deserve the “new guy” moniker anymore, and Emma knows he puts three packages of Splenda in his coffee. 

They go get coffee sometimes. Outside the breakroom. 

“Wasn’t really looking for any help, love,” Killian says, and Ruby doesn’t do anything. Emma will have to thank her for that at some point. “Just wanted to see what you were up to, but uh—” His eyes flit towards Ruby, whose face is still pointed at Emma, and that’s probably for the best since it doesn’t look like she’s taken a breath in the last two minutes. “I can come back later if you’re busy or—” “—No, no,” Emma shouts, at the same time Ruby exhales and spins and Killian’s eyebrows fly into his hairline. 

The whole thing is an unqualified disaster, honestly. 

“I’m not busy. I can—this can wait.” His eyes are definitely getting bluer. And Emma’s magic is very nearly out of control. Digging her heels into her shoes only sort of helps temper the light falling off her ankles. “Who’s the client, though? Anyone interesting?” “Oh, yeah,” Ruby says before Emma can stop her, “hasn’t ever had a job.” “Never?” “Unforeseen obstacles, I guess. Lots of—” She grabs the file, detailing Elsa’s curse and how her sister had been tricked into capturing her and the whole thing is kind of depressing. “Family issues, you could say.” “Huh, well good for them getting back out there, then. Not easy to start from scratch. Any leads on where you’re going to send them?”

Emma shakes her head, yanking the file out of Ruby’s hand and hopefully giving her a paper cut in the process. Not only is she a pessimist, she’s now the villain she wanted to avoid being. “Got a lot of interest in meteorology, I guess. Maybe try and get her an internship at NY1 or something.” “Wow, that’s ambitious.” “Yeah, well, I’m nothing if not the best at job placement.” No smirk. A genuine smile. Emma’s stomach tries to fly out of her mouth. That would be off-putting and might ruin the moment when Killian adds, “I did actually have some other reasons for showing up on your doorstep, Swan.”

“Making out,” Ruby coughs, but it’s not a very good cough and Emma can only be expected to control her magic for so long. 

“Mary Margaret invited me to your game night this weekend,” Killian says. “And I uh—well, I just wanted to see if you were going.” Blinking is not the best response. It’s a God awful one, actually. And the only one Emma is capable of. She’s all too aware of Ruby’s stare, and the blatant hope etched onto Killian’s face, but she can’t do anything except blink and breathe through her mouth and—

“Do you want to share an Uber or something?”

Any hint of nervous energy falls off him. Visibly, almost — leaving Kilian standing in Emma’s office doorway with a smile so wide she’s worried about the state of his face and the longevity of her heart’s ability to keep functioning when it’s beating this quickly. 

“Yeah, yeah, that would be great,” he says. “I...I could meet you at your apartment? I don’t think Belle and Scarlet were invited, but—” “—That’s stupid, and Mary Margaret would never exclude anyone. Tell them to come too.” Realizing what she’s said after the fact is kind of disappointing, but the words are already out there and just as visible as the other emotions and she’s going to blame Mary Margaret for all of this too. “I’m sure David would want to see Will again,” Emma says. “But, uh—if you still want to meet at my apartment, we can go together?” She feels like she’s standing at the edge of something. 

A cliff, or the shoreline. That’s a better analogy, actually. Waves lap at Emma’s toes, comforting in their rhythm, but with the potential to wash everything else away and she’s teetering on the edge of a full-blown spiral complete with metaphorical rip tide when she notices Killian’s head move. He’s nodding, that’s why. 

“Yeah, I’d love that.” “Yeah?” “Yeah,” he repeats. “It’s a date.”

He’s gone before Emma can make sense of the words, or what exactly they’re doing to any of her limbs. And it’s probably wrong to take some perverse pleasure when Ruby’s uproarious laughter turns into a pointed gasp. 

As soon as the chair wobbles underneath her. 

“I don’t have your number, actually.”

Another Friday, and Emma’s about to walk out of the office when she hears footsteps not-quite running, but possibly jogging rather briskly towards her and Killian’s already smiling when she turns around. “Oh,” she says, “uh, yeah I don’t think you do, actually.” “We should fix that, don’t you think?” There are suddenly too many things in her mouth. An expanding tongue and more teeth than the average human, Emma is sure. All of which makes it impossible for her to do anything other than nod slowly and reach her hand out even slower and the spark of something under her skin when Killian’s fingers graze her palm is almost akin to an electric shock. 

Putting in her number without dropping his phone on the floor feels like winning the lottery. 

Emma’s never won the lottery. In any variation. Like, not even a scratch-off ticket. 

“Do you want to get a drink, or something?”

Maybe she’s pushing her luck. Emma’s winning metaphorical lotteries now, so she’s not sure what the protocol is, but he called it a date and her magic is threatening to explode out of her and that all kind of culminates into—

“I’d love that,” Killian nods. Emphatically. Enthusiastically. Some other word that starts with the letter ‘e.’

They don’t make out in the cab, which is only kind of disappointing. 

And Will only laughs for twelve seconds when they walk into his bar. He doesn’t make either one of them pay.  

Of all the things Emma could be, while sitting on her couch waiting for a text message on Saturday night, nervous is absolutely the dumbest. 

Butterflies churn in her stomach, flapping their stupid metaphorical wings until she’s sure they pose a legitimate threat to several of her internal organs, and it’s a miracle she hasn’t started pacing yet. This feels like a line. One she’s not just crossing, but leaping over. 

With a pole vault, or something. 

She’s never been particularly athletic. 

But inviting Killian to game night seems like she’s also inviting him into the rest of her life, and Emma has found that’s exactly what she wants and Elsa had texted her that she’s got an interview with NY1 on Monday morning. So, really, Emma should feel good. At least cautiously optimistic, especially when her hair is cooperating. 

And sure—maybe that’s because she also magic'ed her hair to curl softly at the ends, but that’s neither here nor there, and she really just wants something to go right. She wants this to go right. With Killian. 

She’s started to think words like with in regards to Killian, which is—

The front door buzzer...buzzes. 

Racing to the door, she nearly trips over her own feet before slamming her whole palm into the speaker. “Hi,” she says breathlessly, and she’s fairly certain she can hear the soft hum of Killian’s answering laugh. Might be more cautious optimism, though. 

“Hey love, you ready to go?” She nods before she remembers that Killian is actually several floors beneath her. “Yeah, yeah, lemme just put shoes on and then—is the car down there already?” “Very prompt, yeah,” The butterflies mutate. With more wings than the average breed, and probably just a hint more magical and Emma will never admit to closing her door behind her, blinking exactly once and appearing in the building’s lobby. 

Cutting out the stairs middle man makes sense in the moment. 

Killian doesn’t mention anything about it. Emma’s not sure he can, what with his jaw threatening to find the sidewalk and his chest moving as much as it is and the butterflies declare a decisive victory. “You look incredible, Swan.” She...did not expect that. She’d like to hear it seventy-five more times. 

“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself. How come you don’t wear leather jackets at work?” “Trying not to overwhelm the general populace with how good I look in them.” “Ah, yeah, yeah, that’s fair,” Emma laughs, humming her thanks when he opens the car door for her. “Am I not the general populace, then?”

His hand is very close to hers. Enough that if one of them weren’t a goddamn idiot, they could flip their palm and lace their fingers together and it’s that realization that makes Emma do just that. Plus, the leather jacket. 

It’s ridiculous how good he looks in that leather jacket. 

Killian’s lips twitch. He squeezes Emma’s hand. “I don’t think so.” “Good to know,” Emma murmurs, and neither one of them tries to let go until they reach David and Mary Margaret’s apartment. 

In retrospect, maybe they should have come up with some ground rules. 

Because in the fifteen minutes since Emma and Killian walked into David and Mary Margaret’s apartment, it’s become blatantly obvious there’s more going on than meets the eye. It’s a set-up, is what it is, really. 

And not a very good one.

David keeps shooting furtive glances every time Emma shifts, like he’s waiting for her to jump Killian. And ok—so maybe the thought had crossed her mind in the backseat of the Uber, but she’s at least got some morals, and Belle’s inability to communicate nonverbally with Will is almost impressive. Every look is more absurd than the last, Ruby snickering on loop until it sounds like the inevitable soundtrack of the night. 

“Subtlety isn’t really one of your strong suits, is it?” Emma mumbles, leaning against the kitchen counter with a glass of wine in her hand that she knows won’t be strong enough to combat the night in front of her. 

Mary Margaret scrunches her nose. “Is it that obvious?” “Came with flashing neon lights and like...I don’t know, smoke or something.” “Suggests there were also potions involved.”

Eyes darting back towards the couch and the plethora of board games David supposedly “discovered” in the hallway closet, Emma tries desperately to keep her expression neutral and her pulse as calm as possible. Only one of those things works. Maybe, like, half a thing. But Killian doesn’t do much more than meet her gaze with an easy smile and that same sense of self-confidence Emma is starting to covet just a bit, because she’s starting to hope it’s catching.

No such luck yet, but apparently she’s something of a consistently cautiously optimist and she’s back on that alliterative kick again. 

“He’s the one who asked me if I was coming here tonight,” Emma reasons, “which seems kind of silly all things considered and—” “—Or maybe he just wanted to make sure you were going to be here and that’s all it was. Because he likes you.”

Strictly speaking, Emma has had boyfriends. She’s had—well, that’s not important, but there have been things. This is not a thing. She doesn’t want it to be. She wants it to be more than a thing, and something possibly important and she hasn’t been able to shake the way that Zelena woman glared at Regina, but Regina hasn’t brought it up, which makes it absolutely none of Emma’s business and her fingers are glowing. 

Not quite subtle, either. 

Mary Margaret looks victorious.

“Don’t do that,” Emma chides, but that only gets her more teeth with the smile and it’s not as threatening as it should be. Mary Margaret is predisposed not to be threatening. 

Prone to romantic subplot, maybe. But nothing so nefarious as threatening. 

“He doesn’t know anything,” Emma adds. “Like—about me, or Mills, or...any of it. You don’t think that’s a problem?” “To the prospect of your inevitably cute kids?” “Stop talking to Ruby so much.” Mary Margaret scoffs. “As if I have a choice in gossip participation. Although, I have to admit, she’s probably right. At the very least these potential kids would have nice eyes. Like turquoise or something.” More goosebumps appear on Emma’s forearms, which is only kind of lame, but she can also hear David and Killian arguing over who gets to be the thimble in the Monopoly game they’re apparently playing and that rather quickly takes precedent. And she’s momentarily distracted by the sock-covered footsteps moving into the kitchen. 

To the best of Emma’s knowledge, Will Scarlet doesn’t have any magic of his own — was simply cursed in another realm that one time, but it also seems like he’s got a few other talents and one of them is quite clearly eavesdropping. 

He’s also not subtle about it. 

So, that’s a trait all of them share. 

“He talks about you non-stop,” Will says without any preamble, “it’s honestly starting to get annoying. Emma this, Emma that, hair that can reflect the sun and all that pining garbage. Do you seriously put cinnamon in your coffee?” Mary Margaret’s shoulders shake. “Has for as long as I’ve known her.” “You don’t make it sound like the single most attractive thing anyone has ever done, though.” “Yeah, well, I don’t want to make out with Emma.” “Can you believe they haven’t made out yet?” “From what I’ve been told, there’s some sort of pool in the office.” Sliding down the counter and collapsing on the floor is a very interesting prospect all of the sudden. “Where did you hear that from?” Emma demands, but Mary Margaret just mimes zipping her lips shut and it’s the first time she’s been able to keep a secret in her life. “So, you don’t work for Mills,” Will continues, Mary Margaret shaking her head, “but are you…”

That gets him a nod.

“Can talk to animals,” Emma explains softly. “Makes her a favorite amongst the first graders at PS 31, and helps when Ruby’s transformed.” “And Ruby is a—” “Werewolf, yeah.” “Huh, huh, cool. Y’know I knew a couple genies in Wonderland?” Widening her eyes, Mary Margaret looks genuinely interested and Emma cannot believe this is a conversation they’re having so close to the decidedly non-magical guy she’d very much like to make out with. Sooner, rather than later. 

“Swan,” Killian calls from the living room, making her jump several inches, “if you want to pick your piece, you’re going to have to do it now or David is going to try and control everything!”

“I want the hat or I’m not playing,” Emma shouts, and David’s uproar over that is as entertaining as it is expected and it’s nice to realize she isn’t the only one who cheats at this game. 

By Emma’s count, Killian’s got at least two-thousand dollars hidden up his right shirt sleeve. 

He’s good at it, she has to give him credit. Bills disappear without much fanfare, just a quick shift of his wrist and the only tell he has is the tip of his tongue finding the corner of his mouth, but Emma’s also pretty goddamn preoccupied with his mouth and he’s just bankrupt Belle.

“Ah, c’mon,” she groans, “how do you have enough money to build hotels on Marvin Gardens? That should not be possible!” Killian shrugs. “Guess I’m just that much better at the game than you are, or something.” “Or something,” Emma agrees. “Thoughts to add, love?” 

Chaos doesn’t necessarily ensue at the endearment Emma is also starting to covet, but vaguely obvious looks are exchanged without much concern as to who sees them, and Ruby isn’t even trying to hide the phone she’s furiously texting into. 

“None whatsoever,” Emma promises. “Just that you’re a God awful cheater.” “Oh, God awful implies I’m not doing it well.” “And that sounded a hell of a lot like an admission.”

Shaking his head makes that one strand of hair shift again, the hint of a smile playing at the ends of his mouth. “I’ve got nothing to admit. Except that I’m something of a Monopoly master-mind, obviously.” “Move your arm, then.” “Excuse me?” “Does anyone else feel like we shouldn’t be here for this?” Will murmurs, grunting softly when Belle’s elbow collides with his stomach. 

“Move your arm,” Emma repeats slowly. “That hotel empire was built on dirty money, and I can prove it.”

All Killian does is grin. No smirk, no teasing. Just grins straight at Emma with the force of several thousand suns and—

Nothing falls out of his sleeve. 

Her jaw drops, magic fluttering at the back of her brain. “How did you do that?” “A master never reveals his secrets. Bad magical form.” “This is a magic trick, then?” Emma is glad none of them are spies. They’d all suck at it. Wide eyes meet somewhere in the air above her head, and she’s a little worried Ruby’s going to dislocate one of her thumbs with the speed of her typing. She still doesn’t look away from Killian. Can’t come up with a single reason to do anything except stare at him and commit the frankly absurd length of his eyelashes to memory. 

“At least an attempt,” Killian says. “How’s it going?” “Not nearly as well as you think.” Will gags. “Really don’t need to be here for this.” And Emma isn’t sure why it feels like another sign — or maybe an admission she wasn’t entirely expecting, but the words feel as if they filter into the space between her ribs and wrap around her irregularly beating heart and while she’s not much into miracles, she’s got to believe one occurs when her hair stays normal. 

“So,” Ruby says pointedly, “saw that client of yours was back one more time, Jones.”

Any sense of magic disappears. Into the void that’s abruptly appeared in the center of Emma, a growing sense of dread she doesn’t completely understand. 

Killian runs his fingers through his hair. Still no stolen bills. “Was she really?”

“Yuh huh. From what—” Ruby waves her phone. “—Graham said, she showed up in a huff, wanting to see Regina and—” “—She did see Regina,” Emma finishes. Every pair of eyes in that living room turn towards her. “After I nearly ran her over on my way out. That was weeks ago, though. But, uh...she didn’t seem super psyched to be there. Regina definitely knew her.” Seriously, they would all be horrendous spies. Whatever expression David’s face morphs into does nothing to help Emma understand what he’s trying to tell her, or why Ruby was texting Graham, but she’s got her suspicions about the last one and the buzzing between her ears almost makes it hard to hear Killian. 

“She was super specific,” he says, “wanted all these things for a job, but didn’t want to actually work at any of the jobs I could find. Said temping was below her.” “Jeez,” Belle mutters. “A delight.” “One way to put it, for sure. Like Swan said though, that was weeks ago, though. Right when I started.”

Something isn’t adding up. Math’s far from Emma’s favorite subject, but she’s always been fairly good at picking up on lies and deceptions and there is something wrong about Zelena whatever-her-last-name is. 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything about that?” Emma asks, 

Killian grits his teeth. “We weren’t exactly friends at that point. And I already told you I’d been trying to show off when I first got there.” “He’s a very sore loser, in case you haven’t noticed,” Belle adds. 

“I didn’t think I was losing, just—is wanting to do a good job a crime?” “Not on its own,” David answers, “although maybe when it comes with other caveats.”

Ruby’s next make out cough is her worst one yet. The tips of Killian’s ears go pink. 

“Well,” Mary Margaret says, clearly trying to get the conversation away from interfering friends and less-than-pleased customers and back towards cheating at board games, “what should we play next?”

Emma destroys the lot of them at Settlers of Catan. And she only has to steal, like, three resource cards. 

Walking her home is Killian’s idea. 

Emma doesn’t put up much of a fight, but she’d like the record to take note as it were. This was not part of her plan. Neither was getting his jacket. 

But at some point in the middle of Washington Square Park, the wind had started to howl and the leaves had started to swirl around their feet and before she knew it there was leather hanging from her shoulders. Smelling suspiciously like saltwater.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Emma mumbles, even as she tugs the lapels closer. Warmth floods her, as if the jacket’s made of fire, which is only passably insane, but her magic is on overdrive and there’s just enough moonlight to see the way shadows dance across Killian’s face and—

“Well, this is the wooing portion of the evening,” he says, “so it felt timely.” “There’s a wooing portion?” “Disappointing that wasn’t more obvious. You did call it a date.” “You called it a date,” Emma amends, “and a group one, really. Which I never thought counted.”

Slowing down is also not part of her plan. Still, her feet drag and her fingers flicker at her side, waiting for a moment she isn’t sure will arrive because the moment also involves hand holding and she’s standing on Killian’s left side. 

“What’s the best date you’ve ever been on?” Stopping entirely is probably wrong. It’s closing in on midnight, and Emma’s had her fair share of wine, which might also explain the fluttering fingers. That’s an excuse. She knows why it’s happening and she knows what she wants and—

“I don’t know that I have one, really,” she admits. “Maybe once. I, um—well, the guy I’d been...dating’s not really the right term. That’s not important. Just that we broke into this closed carnival. Brought hot chocolate with us, and turned on some of the lights so we could sit on the swing ride. Talked for hours.” “Doesn’t sound that bad.” Emma hums noncommittally. She doesn’t mention the rest — how the lights hadn’t been part of Neal’s plan at all, just a happy accident that was actually a flip of her wrist and burst of power and she could have gotten the ride to work too, but Emma didn’t want to freak him out. 

That would come later, anyway. 

“What about you?” Emma counters. “Best date ever?” “Haven’t been many, if I’m being honest. But, uh—there was one night on the water, a very cheap bottle of champagne, more stars than I knew ever existed in the sky. That might have been the best.” “What happened to the date’e?” “She died,” Killian replies, a distinct lack of emotion in the words. "Car accident and,” his eyes drop to his arm, “everything sort of went to shit after that.” “I’m so sorry.” Scoffing, his inhale is sharp enough to almost be aggressive. “Nothing to apologize for. How’d you meet Mary Margaret, then?”

Emma considers her options. There’s the usual: lie. Completely and utterly, come up with anything except what actually happened and what actually happened was Mary Margaret saw Emma levitating hot dogs off a street cart on a Sunday in December and almost immediately decided to make sure nothing like that happened ever again. But there’s also another option: the half-lie. The hints of truth mixed in with caveats that won’t make Killian run, and Emma’s not sure what she’ll do if he runs. 

From her, specifically. 

She opts for choice number two. And Emma tells him. 

How she trusted Neal, believed he loved her and wanted a future together. Only she omits the part where he realized she was a witch, probably because she told him, and started formulating his escape plan. Which then led to Emma getting arrested for one of his get-rich schemes. She mentions that part. She doesn’t talk about how the magic that usually roars in her during times of emotional upheaval all but disappeared as soon as the cuffs clicked around her wrist, doused out by disappointment and betrayal. 

She recounts Mary Margaret’s mother-hen tendencies, a relationship borne of happenstance that led to a ramshackle family and a sense of belonging and—

“Saturday game nights,” Killian smiles. “Sometimes we play Mario Party and it’s way better than you cheating at Monopoly.” “Certainly sounding like you’re obsessed with my ability to cheat, Swan.” “How’d you do it?” Another head shake. A smile that threatens to brand itself on her goddamn soul, and that’s so melodramatic really the only option Emma has at that point is to press up on her toes, grab the front of Killian’s shirt and kiss him until it’s all either one of them can think about. 

Half a dozen Monopoly bills flutter to the ground. 

Emma has every intention of exclaiming. Of pointing out the lie, as charming as it might be. She really does. Except even the idea of pulling her mouth away from Kilian’s seems like the dumbest thing she could conceivably do, and she’s not an idiot. 

So. 

With one hand curled around the back of his neck, Emma’s fingers push into the tuft of hair at the base of Killian’s head. It gets her a much-appreciated groan, his tongue tracing her lips until she opens her mouth and then his tongue does something else, that might be more impressive magic than whatever they’re capable of. Individually, or otherwise. 

He tilts his head. Changes the angle and deepens the kiss, pulling Emma flush against his chest until their hips bump and she’s the one groaning and possibly even gasping and she wonders if it’s possible for the Earth to fly off its axis. 

Feels that way. 

Breaking apart only leads to them coming back together even faster, neither one of them all that interested in personal space. Killian’s arm circles her waist, fingers inching up her spine as he tries to find some room between the variety of fabric she’s wearing and Emma gasps when he reaches skin. “Going to do absolutely horrible things to my ego,” Killian murmurs, and it’s all Emma can do to hum in what she hopes sounds like approval. 

“You’ll have to give those bills back.” “I think they flew away. Guess Ill just have to buy replacement ones, and deliver them in person at the next game night.” Magic threatens to knock the air from Emma’s lungs. It’ll have to go up against Killian’s ability to kiss, and he’s very good at kissing. Her, specifically. 

“Who won the bet, do you think?” Emma asks, and they’re apparently just communicating in sounds now. “They, uh—apparently there was a kissing pool.” “Oh, I did.” “What?” “I did,” Killian says again, dropping his mouth to drag kisses along the side of Emma’s neck. “Under a false name, naturally. But I had by Sunday and—” “—What time is it? Also do you honestly believe people didn’t realize it was you? You have very memorable handwriting.” “I’m sorry, what?”

Bending back isn’t wholly comfortable, but it’s worth it for the slight pinch between Killian’s eyebrows. “You make these little swoops with your letters, it’s very fancy. People totally knew. Also I think it’s Sunday now, so you might have lost whatever loot you were going to get.” “Did I, though?” “Not if I’m the loot in this situation,” Emma laughs. Laughs. Loud and free and so ridiculously genuine it might be the first time she’s ever laughed like that.

Killian kisses the bridge of her nose. “Never.”

Leaving a trail of clothes from Emma’s door to her shoebox-sized bedroom is absolutely a cliché, but it’s also a cliché that ends with a naked Killian in her bed, so that’s a pretty acceptable victory as far as she’s concerned. 

The whole thing is fast and slow, good and even better, which is a nice change of pace for Emma really. She refuses to spend long on that particularly depressing thought. 

Particularly when Killian’s head falls back onto one of her pillows and the length of his neck makes for a very appealing kissing surface, and he lets that happen for all of thirty-two seconds before he’s flipping Emma and crowding into her space, tracing a path down her body with his mouth that ends with—

Fireworks. Or an explosion. Either one is also pretty cliché and even more wonderful, and Emma doesn’t wake up once after she falls asleep. 

“Ok,” Emma says, “so lemme get this straight, sometimes you turn into a cricket and—” She tries not to grimace. “Help people follow their conscience.”

Archie nods, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “That’s exactly it. Which is why I don’t think I can do telemarketer work.” “Understandable, I guess. Lots of lying in those kinds of things. And I—well, don’t need you to turn into some kind of immoral pill pusher.” “I’d rather we didn’t, if that’s at all possible.” “Let’s see what we can do, then.”

Two hours and what feels like several thousand searches later, Emma’s fairly confident they’ve found Archie Hopper the ideal job doing temp work in one of the psychologist offices on Madison Avenue. “It’s not perfect,” Emma says, not sure why she feels like she has to explain her rationale, “but it’s a step in the right direction and it could lead to a more permanent spot.” “I’m sure it will. Thank you.” “Ah, that’s just my job, it’s—” “—You’re very good at your job,” Archie interrupts, and that can’t be morally correct. Emma takes the compliment anyway. “Is there something you want to talk about, though?”

Lifting her eyebrows, the telltale hint of guilt that lingers in the back of her throat is uncomfortable. “Getting in some extra practice before you start at the office, huh?” Archie’s expression doesn’t change. Not judgmental. Not expectant. Patient. Like he knows. Or can read Emma’s mind. Magic is so overrated, honestly. “I, uh—maybe not to you specifically. Shit is that super offensive?” “No. Who do you want to talk to?” “The guy three offices away.” “Because he—” “—I don’t know, we haven’t really gotten that far. He’s…” Words fail Emma. Clump together in a ball of anxious emotion that doesn’t serve any purpose except to clog her windpipe. The problem is she wants to tell him. Desperately, in fact. Wants to lay all her metaphorical cards on the table, because two weeks after waking up to a decidedly shirtless Killian whose left arm seemed glued to her waist, Emma can’t stop thinking about that morning or the potential for future mornings and there have been more mornings and she might want indefinite mornings and really she’s just a complete disaster. 

“Does he not know what you’re capable of?”

Emma narrows her eyes. “Are you a mind reader too?” “Not quite, more empathetic. So, let’s have your worst.”

“I think—do you think it’s possible for two people to have any sort of future together when they’re not being totally upfront with each other?” “For a time,” Archie concedes. “But you’re always looking over your shoulder, aren’t you? Waiting for the other shoe, and eventually the truth will have out. Might as well be in control of it when you can.” “Kind of depressing.”

He clicks his tongue. “Proactive.”

In the last few weeks, Emma’s come to realize she’s ridiculously attuned to everything Killian does. Part of her wonders if it’s a magic thing, but he doesn’t have magic and she’s not the kind of person Archie thinks she should be. Asking Regina has only crossed her mind a few times. 

She ignores them every time. 

Including right now, with Killian leaning against her door frame. Crossed arms stretch the limits of his shirt’s fabric, the same one that was sitting in one of Emma’s drawers that morning. He’s got a drawer at her apartment. 

She’s got like—four drawers. Sharing them is a big step. 

“Hey love,” Killian says, nodding in Archie’s direction. “When you’ve got a couple minutes you think you could help brainstorm before my three o’clock gets here? Has been out of the country for years, no GED, but claims a vast knowledge of the candy industry.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll be right there.”

Winking is really one of his lesser talents. 

“So,” Archie says eventually, as Emma hands him a card with all the details for his first day, “that’s three offices away. Magic?” “Nope.” “Unexpected.” “Very.” Standing up, the chair squeaks when Archie moves. “Tell him. Soon as you can. Otherwise what’s the point?”

Emma isn’t sure there is one. Or how good advice from a part-time cricket can be. 

What’s the most ridiculous client you’ve ever gotten? 

Are you texting me while you’re working? Yes, and that’s not an answer. 

Because whatever your answer is, I’m fairly positive I just beat it. Competitive weirdo.

Swan. 

Uhhhhhh I once got a guy who was narcoleptic. Fell asleep while we were talking, and that made people not want to hire him. 

Emma leaves out the part where the guy in question was also cursed. It’s not important. Or so she’ll rationalize for the rest of the afternoon. 

She got him a job working retail at a Sleep-More Mattress store, anyway. 

Nope, I still win.

No one is competing, babe. 

Staring at her phone, Emma’s eyes linger on the words she hasn’t said out loud, but typed almost too easily and the three dots pop up on her screen immediately. 

I am. Only job history is in combat. Says she’s good with a sword and capable of defending a variety of important people. So, I’m now open to suggestions as to her future employment options. 

Now it’s starting to sound like you want me to do your job. 

And, Emma thinks, finding a job for what legitimately sounds like some sort of knight protector might be out of the scope of Killian’s capabilities. 

Concede that I’ve won, and then I’ll even let you help me. 

Wow. With an offer like that…

Mulan does actually have more talents than her self-proclaimed skills with a sword. Her sense of direction is unparalleled, and her ability to navigate is even better and she almost sounds excited at the prospect of driving an Uber until Emma can come up with some other idea. 

And losing a competition she didn’t agree to isn’t really so bad. 

Not when Killian’s arm hovers above Emma’s head, her back pressed against his office door and any desire to mumble even more trash talk gets lost in the exact way he kisses her. 

He keeps staying over. Nights spent curled on the couch watching every cooking competition they can find on Hulu, and the general consensus finds that Guy’s Grocery Games is the kind of positive chaos they can both get behind. 

Chopped might be overrated. 

Beat Bobby Flay is the worst. Hands down. 

They pick out recipes to try, and sometimes Emma flutters her fingers and things appear in her cabinet that weren’t there before, but she’s totally rationalized that as a reasonable and very little white lie and she forgets all about it when Killian flicks mashed potatoes at her left cheek. 

Weekends find them wandering the city, hands clasped together and he’s always careful to slide the cinnamon container across the counter of whatever coffee place they inevitably stop at. Crisp wind doesn’t do much to stifle the small inferno constantly blazing in the middle of Emma’s chest, and she doesn’t wear his jacket again, but the small pile of his shirts in her drawer grows and they really are nice to sleep in. 

Comfortable, she says. 

Killian beams. Every single time. And kisses that one spot underneath her ear. 

Life goes on and something starts, and builds, and Emma forgets almost entirely about how often Regina holes herself up in her office with her phone pressed against her ear. Instead, she and Killian talk about clients and help each other with job ideas and somewhere in the realm of one forty-two on the morning of Halloween, Emma realizes with unflagging and absolute certainty that she’s in love. 

With the guy whose arm is still curled around her waist.  

[pitviperofdoom]

It’s impossible for me to get into a fandom without coming up with an AU or two. Or ten. I’ve got several for TMA, and I’ve written for a few of them already. 

Under the cut is the beginning scene of the one that I’ve developed the most. I’ve been sitting on it for a while, and I don’t have enough to start posting on AO3, but I thought I’d share this here at least. 

Hope you guys like Head Archivist Martin!

***

When Martin received the e-mail summoning him to Elias Bouchard’s office at his earliest convenience, he thought, Well, that’s it then.

It was only a matter of time. Honestly, it was a miracle he’d made it this long. It was a miracle he’d made it in at all; he’d applied to the Magnus Institute almost on a desperate whim, because surely an academic institution would take the time to run basic background checks on new hires. But then he’d gotten a call back, and then he’d gotten a second interview, and then he’d been called in to fill out all the necessary paperwork, and that had been years ago, now.

And now here he was, staring at a formal message from his boss, requesting his presence for a meeting to discuss “his future with the institute”. And that could only mean one thing.

Of course, Martin thought distantly as he typed out some generically polite response. All things come to an end eventually. It might be a stretch to say all good things come to an end, because sometimes he wondered if this job really was a good thing, if the stress of waiting to be caught in his lie was worth it when he still had to stretch his funds to cover rent and food and Mum’s care and scrape together a rainy-day fund for any inevitable disasters.

Martin got up from his desk, half-heard Hannah’s greeting as he passed her on the way out of the library, and numbly pointed himself in the direction of Elias’s office. Already his mind was racing through the math, calculating how long he could afford to hunt for a new job.

At some point he shook himself. It was no good to walk in panicking. He just had to stay calm, somehow. Be polite. Hope like hell that he’d made himself useful enough to at least broach the topic of listing someone as a reference.

…Yeah, right.

He was lost deep in thought—so deep, in fact, that he didn’t notice his coworker until he was already colliding into them.

Luckily, he was walking slowly enough that the crash wasn’t terrible, even if the other employee seemed to be in a hurry. It was more surprising than painful, and they both kept their footing, so… could have been worse, really.

“Sorry, so sorry—” Martin stammered out, stumbling back, and froze when his eyes landed on his coworker’s face. “O-oh. Morning, Jon.”

The look he got in return could have split rock. “Do try to watch where you’re going.”

Martin couldn’t help but wilt under the glare, for all that Jonathan Sims was nearly a head shorter than him. “Sorry, again,” he said. “Are… you alright?”

“Obviously I’m alright,” Jon retorted, already storming away.

“No, I know, I didn’t mean us crashing into each other, it’s just, I was wondering if…” Martin hesitated, with the growing dread of someone stepping into a minefield. Jon had paused but was looking increasingly impatient, so Martin ripped the bandage off. “I mean, are you alright, work-wise?” Jon’s scowl deepened. “It’s just, if you ever need—I dunno, an extra set of hands, or—” Jon left without a word.

“Guess not,” he muttered, mentally kicking himself. It was stupid to offer anyway, when he was probably minutes away from being let go.

Something about literally running into Jon had knocked his growing nervousness off balance, and he was almost paradoxically calm when he knocked on Elias’s office door. It was mostly open already, but it seemed the polite thing to do.

“Ah, hello, Martin.” Elias’s voice, calm and clipped though it was, brought the nervousness rushing back. “Close the door behind you, if you don’t mind.”

Martin did as he was bade, then took the chair that Elias indicated for him and tried not to fidget. “You, er, wanted to see me?”

“Yes, of course.” Across from him, Elias shuffled papers that Martin was too nervous to look at. “It’s a matter of some urgency, so thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Of course,” Martin said, trying not to fidget. He opened his mouth to say something else, couldn’t think of anything, and closed it again.

“You’ve been with the institute for about six years now, haven’t you?” Elias went on.

“A-almost, yes.” Martin replied, heart pounding in his throat. Distantly he wondered if Elias could hear it.

“Good, good. As I said in the e-mail, I was hoping to discuss your future with—”

“Have I done something wrong?” Martin blurted out, and immediately regretted it. For a moment he longingly imagined vanishing into thin air just to escape the situation. Or a hole opening up underneath him, maybe.

Elias raised an eyebrow at him. “If there’s anything you can think of…?”

“I mean, the wording was a bit ominous,” Martin stammered out. “So I was just wondering if—if there was something wrong… with how I was doing things?”

“Hardly, Martin,” Elias replied, and the relief that flooded through Martin made him light-headed. “Quite the opposite, actually. I was more than satisfied during your last performance review, and you’ve yet to give me any reason to change my mind.” Elias leaned forward, hands clasped neatly in front of him. “I’m sure you’ve heard about… recent developments, with Gertrude Robinson.”

“The head archivist? Y-yes.” Against all odds, he did know about recent developments with Gertrude Robinson, namely that no one had seen her in a while. She was already a reclusive woman—Martin had only met her twice and seen her from afar a few times besides that—but lately she seemed to have vanished outright.

Martin wasn’t close with anyone at the institute, either in the library or elsewhere, but that didn’t mean he didn’t hear the gossip. It didn’t mean he didn’t notice things, like the lack of people coming in to give statements. Or how dark and still the Archives had been over the past week or so.

Or how sullen and angry Jon had been, for about as long.

“Well, work in the Archives is never done, and unfortunately she was already somewhat… understaffed,” Elias went on. “Since the beginning of her absence, I’ve been reviewing employee files in the hopes of finding a replacement.”

“Oh,” Martin replied. In the back of his mind he thought, No, absolutely not, he can’t possibly mean…

“Simply put, Martin, I think it would be best for the position to go to you.”

“Oh,” Martin repeated. “M-me? Really?”

“I can think of no one better for the job,” Elias said with a thin smile.

“Really.” Martin struggled to keep most of the disbelief out of his tone. “No one better? Not… I-I don’t know, the person who’s already been working in the Archives for the past year?” He swallowed, with some difficulty thanks to his dry throat. “I… sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful? But I thought… I thought Jon would replace her, as her assistant… since he’s already been working under her, a-and he’d know the archives better, and…” His voice trailed off.

“I understand,” Elias assured him, his smile turning almost friendly. “And you’re right, I did strongly consider him for a time. But, his duties were largely research and clerical work for Gertrude, and he unfortunately lacks a background in library and information science.” He indicated one of the papers in front of him—a familiar CV, Martin realized. His CV. “You, on the other hand, have been working in our library for the past six years, and you listed a previous job at a records repository.”

“Oh, right,” Martin said faintly. What his CV didn’t say was that he’d been in the night cleaning crew, not the accessions department.

“I understand if it feels a bit daunting, but don’t worry,” Elias went on. “I have great faith in you, Martin. And as you said, Jon’s familiar with Gertrude’s system, so you’ll have his expertise to fall back on.”

Oh God. Oh God, if he took this job then he’d be Jon’s boss. Unqualified, clueless, and living a lie, and Jon—with actual experience and competence and an existing predisposition to dislike him—would be his subordinate.

Oh, the thought made him ill.

Martin took a deep breath. He’d just have to turn it down. There was no upside to taking it; he was technically unfit for the job he already had, and he certainly wasn’t prepared to be anyone’s boss, especially not Jonathan Sims in the archives of the Magnus Institute. If he took this job, they’d find him out for sure.

“So, if that’s settled, we may as well discuss a pay raise and expanding your benefits,” Elias went on lightly. “These things come with a promotion, of course.”

Martin froze in his seat, uncomfortable and stiff in spite of its padding.

He thought of the bills on his kitchen counter, and the perpetually empty rainy-day fund. He thought of his mother, in that care home in Devon that wasn’t going to pay for itself.

“A-alright,” he said quietly, slumping a little in defeat. His eyes were fixed on that damned CV, and because of that he almost missed the look of calm satisfaction in Elias’s eyes.

Twenty minutes later, Martin wandered back out of Elias’s office in a daze. His feet carried him not back to the library, but down to the archives where the air turned dusty and stale. He wasn’t sure what he was there for. Maybe to apologize? Jon must have heard. Elias must have told him first, and that was why Jon was so irritated with him when they ran into each other.

Not that it mattered, in the end. Jon was nowhere to be found down there, and Martin could only search for so long before the air of the place got to him and he fled back to the library.

Even down there, away from the rest of his coworkers and well away from Elias Bouchard’s office, Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that every eye in the institute was on him, just waiting for him to screw up.