#I have scoured AO3 for crumbs

[potatonugget7]

Heyo, I've recently gotten into QSMP and am noticing I can't find a whole lot of GT, despite all the potential. Which feels weird coming from DSMP and Hermitcraft. I just wanna know where y'all are at, it's lonely here.

/lh

[ginnyweatherby]

just over here losing my mind about Charlene Doofenshmirtz again nbd

[starryficsfinishwen]

I just want to thank you for all the BEAUTIFUL Lee fanfics you wrote! I recently started playing PGR and naturally got to the point where I would sell my soul for the happiness of the Gray Raven squad. Just as I was lamenting over the fact that there is such a small amount of Lee fanfics in English I came across your AO3 account and was absolutely blown away! Your fanfics are SO good! I am fangirling over them for a while now. I really appreciate you writing so much for Lee and, while I can't speak for the whole community, you are definitely this fellow Lee fan's savior!

I also had this problem while I was in the early stages of PGR. Fell in love with Lee when his Hyperreal frame was released so I scoured Tumblr and AO3 for the crumbs. Nothing caught my attention, except for a few ones HUHUMS

PGR was--or still is--my comfort (meanwhile the game: *deep depression mode*) and Gray Raven's tenacity and camaraderie really gave me immense comfort so I really wanted to write about them.

anyway thank you for enjoying my fics!! I'm very happy that ure happy and I am excited to share even more as I have a lot more stuff ready to pop out of the oven LOL

check out my other fics here, including wuwa!

[lanceappreciationblog]

@Lance fic anon, I feel your pain. I went scouring FF.net and AO3 for even the barest crumbs of content I could find. There are some diamonds in the rough out there, but you gotta look hard! I can give you some recommendations though, if you don’t mind romance in some of them:

(FFN) The Lost Mermaid and her Dragon by KuraOkami13 - a Lance-centric Lance/Misty fic where they wash up on an abandoned island! Unfinished (tragically) but GREAT Lance characterization and super cute romance. About 27 chapters. (I highly recommend this author’s other Lance/Misty works too, this one is just my fave! :D) (Actually, on that note I’d recommend most Lance/Misty fics on FFN. You should try them!)

(FFN) Striving Towards Victory by Nightshadekiller - a typical OC self-insert fic where the main character is Lance’s daughter. I haven’t read much of it but it’s cute and well-written so far, and dad!Lance is a popular trope in Lance fandom. Ended up being abandoned around 30-something chapters.

(FFN) Tabula Rasa by purple-drake - A Team Rocket darkfic where Lance is abducted by Giovanni and brainwashed into being one of his Executives. Contains mature themes (drugging, nightmares, psychosis, etc.), so don’t read unless you’re okay with that! Also tragically unfinished at 11 chapters, but is worth the read for those who can handle it.

(FFN) Another Ordinary Day by purple-drake - A oneshot about Lance being a cool G-Man who does cool G-Man things. Very action-packed and satisfying!

(FFN) The Climb - A cute, short multichapter ship fic about Lance training his dragons to be stronger in the Charicific Valley with Liza, a character from the anime. Technically a sequel, but it’s not necessary to read the first one, which is Steven-centric. The Lance characterization in it is pretty cute, and I like Liza! Also, it’s finished! Yay!

(FFN) challenges by ohlookrandom - A fun, silly multichapter fic about Gold sweeping the entire Johto League and Lance having a minor crisis over it.

(FFN) Tempered Skies by Silent Railgun - A Lance/Jasmine fic that sparks after Jasmine acquires a Dratini in need of care and affection. I haven’t read much of this one either, but so far it seems well-written and it has an interesting premise!

(FFN) Just Want To Relax by seclinalunica - A humorous anime-verse fic about Lance trying to go on vacation while Ash and Goh ruin everything. 4 chapters, probably abandoned, but worth it for the laughs!

(AO3) Dragon’s Dance by A_Pen - Mod already mentioned this fic, but it’s one of the best-written fics I’ve ever read, and a super awesome Lance origin story! It’s at 16 chapters right now but still being written I think. Go read it!!

(AO3) Dragon Support by StratusCloudSurfer - A cute oneshot about Lance showing Silver how to care for Dratini.

This ended up being super long (clearly, I am not normal about the spiky dragon man) but I hope these are to your liking!! ☺️

Thank you so much anon! I'll check out some of these too when I get the time!

[fuumiku]

hiiiii you don't need to reply to this i just wanted to say thank you for the kimbliza :)c its always refreshing to see riza rarepairs and i think your brain is huge for liking kimblee/riza ... i rarely see people being interested in it and i think thats a shame when they only have one interaction in the entire series BUT it is kimblee calling riza out on her bullshit while also calling her ojouchan/little lady like cmon... just that leaves possibility for such an interesting dynamic.... and im personally obsessed with the valentines day art bc this meme instantly came to my mind when i saw it LMAO anyway!! thanks again for sharing your kimbliza i hope to get to see more of your art/thoughts of them!!! have a nice day!!

Omg thank you so much! :D I don’t usually answer asks like these out of self-consciousness but the meme is too accurate to keep to myself and you are sooo right! I loved your tags as well lol they gave me a good chuckle.

I can’t find the post again, but I once read a post that went like "the reason that you’re both touch-starved and touch-averse is that you’ve spent so long without human touch that you interpret every contact as a threat" and I really do think that fits them both. Hehe might as well put a song I love here that fits them and this theme really well: Touch by July Talk

If you want more of my thoughts, @fumifooms is the blog to look at! I’ll link my kimbliza tag on there here. I recently did a sort of masterpost of kimbliza crumbs in canon because I am starved. I’ll also shout out @tombraxas because they churn out awesome kimbliza posts and fanfictions regularly! I owe it to them for having radicalized me as a kimbliza shipper lol

Kimblee literally meaningfully impacted Riza’s character fundamentally so hard like damn!! For a rarepair that is a massive win. Idk the interaction they had feels so special. I do think people tend to forget that Kimblee doesn’t say the things he does out of malice, ouugh he’s so interesting!! I think Kimblee and Riza have soo many parallels actually. Blunt and strong convictions vs quiet, reserved and a follower. Both ready to kill their superior/commanding officer if the situation demands it. His iconic “don’t avert your eyes from the dead” speech was originally meant for her not Roy and no one can take any of this away from me. I’m like Denji eating the cake with my hands lolol. The flavor kimbliza has is simply unmatched. Riza is my special wet cat little war criminal princess (Wet cat and war criminal have the same first letters, if not equivalent then explain 🤨 /j)

I do plan on making more kimbliza art yes! I actually have a few actual Valentine’s day themed ones in the works lol. I’m rather slow and busy though… ;w; Also fics! I’ve already made two short ficlets, see them on my ao3! I’ve been hyperfixating on them for like 2 months now with no sign of stopping… I have so many wips. My kimbliza spotify playlist is my longest playlist ever 😭 I scoured both ao3 and ff.net and read everything about them I could find. I may be obsessed.

[rowenaaine]

Any Gotham AO3 fanfic lovers that can help me out?

After several (failed) attempts, I figured out the pw to this tumblr. Yay me! I had created a new one this week @jeremiahwasrobbed to ask this awesome community about a couple of my old AO3 fics. I stupidly deleted my AO3 account because of my job (also rowenaaine) rather than orphan my work and...well...I am missing two of my longest works:

“How’s It Gonna Be” (a Wayleska post-season Gotham finale fic - I was only able to recover ch 25 using the Wayback Machine but no earlier chapters) 

“Paying for It” (an Oswald x Jeremiah BDSM fic - I have drafts of the first 20 chapters but not the next 20 or so from the published version…) 

UPDATE - awesome members of the Gotham fandom sent them to me!

Is there any chance someone previously downloaded them for offline reading / inspiration / translation? I’ve scoured my cloud server, my hard drive and a few other places but damned if I can even find crumbs. I would love to continue both of those fics but there is no way I can recreate all those missing chapters.

I did manage to recover my best Wayleska fic, “Poison in the Blood” (was my most popular too) and will be republishing that one at some point. After re-reading it, it still makes me as emotional as it did in 2018.

Thanks in advance, even if all you can do is say “no.”

[sailtoafarawayland]

Hope and Surprises

A Captain Swan Family Ficlet...

I’m brushing off a very old collection for this little tale, but it seems like the appropriate home. The first two chapters were written five years ago, but I hope you enjoy them all the same, if you haven’t already. Onto the new addition...

Rating: G

Setting: Enchanted Forest AU

AO3 - FF

Hope and Surprises

Killian felt something tugging him from the warm fog of sleep, whatever dream that had been beneath his eyes slipping from him fully as a soft hand pressed against his cheek, the familiar touch accompanied by a sound that would never fail to make his heart swell with joy.

“Papa,” came the urgent whisper, his daughter's palm tapping insistently against him as he blinked the sleep from his eyes, surprised to see that the cottage was dark, sunrise still many hours away.

He smiled at the sight of her face hovering close to his, her brow furrowed over blue eyes that mirrored his own, the soft dusting of freckles across her cheeks a map of his favorite constellations.

“Wake up, Papa,” she insisted, her teeth chewing at her lower lip with worry as she glanced over his shoulder toward the pile of blankets behind him.

“Why are you up so early, love?” he whispered in return, stroking her soft blonde curls, tangled and wild just as her mother's were in the morning.

She fixed him with a look of great impatience, something else she'd inherited from her fiery mum who was still sleeping soundly on the other side of him.

“You have to get up, Papa – right away.”

She stepped away from the bed, little arms crossing stubbornly in front of her chest, her nightshift bunched and sticking out from beneath the dress she'd tugged haphazardly over her sleep-tousled curls.  

“Very well,” he murmured, carefully extricating himself from the blankets, the cold touch of the wood planks a fleeting discomfort at the sight of his daughter's wide smile. “Tell me then, what mischief have you managed so early this morning, my little cygnet?”  

“Papa, be quiet,” she whined, a stocking foot stamping on the floor as she took his fingers and dragged him toward the far side of the cottage, parting the heavy tapestry that separated he and Emma's sleeping area from the rest of their home. “I tried to do it all on my own, but it was too much to carry.”

Killian shivered in the morning chill, glancing longingly back toward the trunk where his clothing was neatly folded, but the tapestry was already falling back into place behind them, and his headstrong lass wasn't about to give him a moment to gather even a shirt.

His night breeches would have to do.

She pulled him past the table and over to the hearth, gesturing toward an array of destruction and mess he would have needed to have been blind to miss.

“Oh, darling,” he crooned, kneeling and taking in the spread she'd created by the small light of her lantern – the jam smeared and dripping over the edges of a thick slab of bread, the wooden bowl cradling berries drizzled with a golden sheen of honey, the rough mug filled to the brim with what smelled like Emma's morning tea, and all of it set out in a neat line on one of the large wooden trenchers. “Mama will love it. You've done well, my wee lass.”

Hope beamed, glancing eagerly toward the other side of the still dark cottage, her fingers tugging at the back of  her dress that just so happened to be facing the front, laces hanging down to her knees.

“Do you see? I even made Mama's tea, for her belly. Can we bring it in now, Papa? I want it to be a surprise.”

Killian bit back a sigh, instead smiling hopelessly at their daughter. He knew it was far to early to go about waking his wife, but Hope had put such work into her surprise that he couldn't bear to put her off a moment longer.

“Aye, of course we can, love – shall I do the carrying and let you do the waking?”

“Yes, you carry it, Papa. It's quite heavy, and I'll give Mama kisses to wake her.”

Killian carefully angled the wooden platter over the edge of the stone hearth, just enough that he could balance it on his wrist before gripping the other side tightly and rising to his feet. He bit back a grimace as the tea spilled over the edge of the mud, running coldly along his arm and pooling at the base of the bread.

Hope galloped across the dimly lit floor and tossed the tapestry aside, any concern over secrecy long forgotten and replaced by the excitement of sharing her surprise with her mother.

Catching the heavy tapestry with his shoulder before it could swing entirely closed, Killian eased into the small space he and Emma shared as their own, Hope already bouncing against the frame of the bed, her fingers curled into the feather mattress while her legs did a jig beneath the folds of her dress.

“Mama,” she whispered, bumping her pink tipped nose against Emma's, her tiny fingers rising to push back the curls from her mother's face as she tried again, this time more loudly and closer to her ear. “Mama, wake up!”

“Hope,” Emma mumbled, eyes blinking heavily as she drew back and stretched beneath the blankets, rolling her face deeper into the downy pillow. “Hope? What is it, sweetie? Is everything alright?”

“Happy Name-day!” Hope sang, unable to keep still any longer and launching herself onto the bed, nuzzling herself into her mother's chest as Emma shrieked and laughed, pulling her close. “Papa and I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh, you do? Aren't I the luckiest mama in the world.”

“I'll not take credit for this one, love. This surprise is courtesy of our little cygnet,” Killian chuckled, carefully moving the serving trencher toward the bed and resting it across his wife's lap as she wrangled Hope onto the other side of the bed, stilling her bouncing legs with a hand, “but she's done a lovely job of it. Happy Naming Day, my love.”

“Thank you,” Emma sighed, pulling their daughter's head against her shoulder and kissing the top of it soundly. “This looks delicious, and I was so hungry that I was certain I couldn't sleep a minute longer.”

“Were you really?” Hope asked, dipping her finger into a run of honey that had made its way free of the berry bowl. “It's because you're eating more now, I think.”

Killian choked down a laugh as Emma glared playfully at him from the bed before returning her attention to their daughter's gift.

“Are these fresh berries with honey?”

“They are,” Hope nodded, “and I really didn't eat any of them – because today is your special day, Mama.”

“You know what would make this day even more special?” Emma whispered, picking up a bruised raspberry from the top of the pile and holding it aloft. “Sharing this delicious breakfast with my sweet girl.”

“Well, it was a lot of work making all of this,” Hope reasoned, eyeing the berry, “and I think I'm awfully hungry now.”

She plucked the berry from Emma's fingers and popped it into her mouth, chewing happily before snuggling into her mother's side and reaching for a few more. A large yawn followed a string of black berries, and before long Hope's sticky fingers had fallen quietly to her side, eyes flickering closed.  

Killian watched as Emma lifted the cup of tea and took a careful sip, grimacing at either the temperature or the taste before setting it carefully on the small table beside the bed. Hope was beginning to drift back to sleep at her mother's side, and Emma was picking lazily at the berries while she cuddled their daughter. He stepped carefully back through the tapestry, turning to survey the damage that had been inflicted upon the hearth once more.

By the time he'd finished scouring honey from the stone and sweeping crumbs and crushed berries from the floor, he was more than ready for his own cup of tea, but a quick sip of the concoction their daughter had left in the kettle told him that he'd be searching for fresh mint to replenish Emma's supply – surely Hope had used half the jar for one pot. The cold and early morning catching up to him, he made sure the rest of the cottage was as it should be before turning back toward the bed, brushing the tapestry aside.

He pressed the image that greeted him into his heart – Emma curled protectively around Hope as they both slept against the pillows – the trencher of breakfast nibbled on and sat aside. Emma's cheek rested against the top of Hope's blonde curls, and their daughter's hand was pressed to the large swell of her mother's stomach where either a little brother or sister was still growing.

It would be another moon still before the new babe entered the world, and another Name-Day to celebrate – but Killian knew that no matter how many early, sticky breakfasts he needed to clean up in the wee hours of the morning, he would happily relish each one for the rest of his life.

END

Tagging: @justanother-unluckysoul @kmomof4 @the-darkdragonfly @teamhook @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight @tiganasummertree @pirateprincessofpizza @lfh1226-linda @alexa-fangirl-forever @alifeofdreams @superchocovian @donteattheappleshook @hollyethecurious @caught-in-the-filter @snowbellewells @itsfabianadocarmo @stahlop @karlyfr13s @elizabeethan @rkrbirdgirl @batana54

[ggigigoode]

pLS i just need more daya fics i have been scouring this hell-site & ao3 for mere crumbs i am starving and needy and desperate 

[tundrainafrica]

I know you're a big Levihan account, so I know you have a better understanding of what's going on. So im scrolling through the levihan hashtag (like I normally do), and apparently there's a argument going on about 136? I'm so lost. Also, why didn't anyone talk about it when the chapter came out. Why wait till now? (Sorry if it's a lot!)

By big you mean obsessed? 

Yes. I’m. big. on. Levihan. I’m literally Levihan trash. Like check out the title on my Tumblr. I aint changing that soon.

I started this account to create more content for Levihan after 132 to scour through levihan content while mourning the death of our commander. And can I say, this community is just incredibly small and I feel like this certain need, this duty and this desire to provide more content for this small Levihan community because imo, Levi and Hange are the two purest people in AOT (because really when have those two weirdos ever acted on personal desire) and their ship is just pure goodness. And I wanna spread the goodness because there is so much one can learn about relationships just by how Levihan developed (?) Like I wrote about it a long time ago. Check it out here.

But I know shipping wars have been total shit and for some reason Levihan has been taking the brunt of all the hate? Like apparently there are points where Ereri and Eruri fans gang up against Levihan fans on twitter and I see a lot of my mutuals getting random anonymous messages about how Eruri and Ereri are canon while Levihan is not. 

Yo, we’re literally the disadvantaged ones here. I mean to give you a brief look on the situation on the actual numbers of the Levihan fandom...

Oh look at the Levihan fic numbers on AO3. Okay 1000 is a lot but let us consider the fact that not all these tags are Levihan-centric stories and some either put these tags there just to bash the relationship or just put them there as a side ship to Yumikuri or Eremika.

And let’s just compare that ship to this ship... (Which is still pretty good imo)

Or this juggernaut of a ship :’) 

Okay I know I’m digressing because that’s not the question... But yeah I think the stuff I mentioned above could give some context on this shipping war. 

Disclaimer: I’ve stayed out of Twitter so I don’t know how bad it can be but I’ve chatted up some people about it both on Tumblr and Twitter and I’m just gonna discuss this based on how I remember it.

So this panel up here started a whole ship war apparently because eruri stans say “Levi was only talking about Erwin,” while Levihan stans were saying “Levi was talking about both Hange and Erwin.” 

(Personal interpretation:  Levi was talking about the whole survey corps.)

I have no idea what was going through the translators head when they were doing this but the translation is flawed. The ��you’ is plural in the Japanese translation so Levi wasn’t just talking about Erwin. (You can read a more detailed break down on grammar here  Credits to @faerielleart for this.)

And this whole translation fiasco started a shipping war and as Levihan trash lemme give you some of my two cents in the matter. 

Levihan feels like the pure underdog of AOT ships. I don’t know why but for some reason, so many people are just looking for a reason to put down Levihan. I was talking about these with some moots last night and we were thinking if 126 and 132 happened with Levi and any other ship up there, everybody would be so eager to call Eren/Levi or Erwin/Levi canon but the moment we get it for some “unconventional” or “unpopular ship” suddenly “it’s just camaraderie” or “Hange’s just tired.” 

As if Eruri and Ereri had any more obvious crumbs similar to 126 and 132. (Sorry I’m just so tired of reading the antis hate on twitter. This is the closest I’ll go to a shipping war.) 

I stand by my theory that Yams is a Levihan shipper. He just couldn’t let them happen because a majority of people in the fandom would explode for reasons. I mean the manga hasn’t even ended but we already have people freaking out over the pronoun ‘you.’

[sukirichi]

— LOVE LETTER FROM ANON ; 💌

this is from an ask i received. i copy pasted and replied here as a text post since i can’t put “read more” on anon asks and it’s quite long hehehe. to the anon who sent me this, i give you loads of my love, thank you so much for everything !!

[ the ask ]

hi lovely,

i just read earned it and i have a couple things i’d like to say to you if you don’t mind. before i start, i completely understand if you don’t want to share this ask or even read at all which is fair. but if you do decide to read it, i know that one person such as me cannot change the decisions a writer had made such as discontinuing a series but i hope that this allows you some sense of peace or happiness towards your creation and end of earned it. i’m actually writing this is my notes before i send it to you so that’s how you know i truly mean it. buckle up baby!

i’d like to start with this; i just read and finished all the remaining chapters of earned it. i don’t know how to say this without sounding arrogant or cocky which truly isn’t my intention here, i promise so i’ll just say it as is. i swear to ever loving god, i’ve scoured the entirety of tumblr, ao3, fanfiction.net, wattpad, everything and anything, and it still isn’t very often that i find works like these, far and few between dare i say. ive looked through almost everything i could get my hands on to read in the jjk fandom and dear god, do you manage to keep on surprising me. i’ve read majority if not all your works along with following you on ao3 and tumblr, and i must say. i truly am so fucking impressed. completely and absolutely fucking floored if you will. the amount of plot twists and pure emotion you managed to put into this is only something i can dream of ever creating.

i cannot lie, it truly my hearts to think that people gave you so much shit over this to which ended in you deciding to discontinue along with your lack of interest which at least, is understandable unlike the hate. i literally cannot comprehend how people would be unhappy with the outcome so far after reading it since it was beyond fucking magnificent in my eyes. it kept me on my toes the entire time whilst never managing to bore me once and as someone with adhd, thats fucking hard to do, i’ll admit it. props to you. and as much as i want to grovel and beg for crumbs, something, anything to know about how it ends, i know that that will most likely accomplish nothing to both you and i so decided to just say this.

thank you for writing this. thank you for not only writing it but dealing with the experience of unwanted and negative criticism to the point you had to stop and discontinue it whilst also being generous and amazing enough to keep it up so other people could still read it. i really hope your proud of earned it and how it turned out so far, because if i were you, i’d be so bloody fucking proud i wouldn’t know what to do with myself.

my friends often tell me i overstep my boundaries and i really hope i aren’t doing that with this but i just really, truly, wanted to express my genuine appreciation and thanks towards your writing and towards you as a writer that puts out content, not to mention for free!!!!, for people like me. i also don’t want to seem as if i’m glorifying earned above all your other works, because that’s not what i mean. your writing is just… just fucking chefs kiss. sorry, my brains starting to run out of words at this point but oh my god. thank you for letting me experience the experience of earned it even though there was no proper end. i’d rather have that than nothing at all. and maybe i misread this entire thing, maybe you are goddamn proud of your work, which you fuckinf should be considering the pure quality it is. once again, chefs kiss!!

i just… i don’t know what to say anymore. your writing, quite literally, has made me completely fucking breathless in a good way of course. anyways, i hope this wasn’t too much of a ramble and at least managed to make you smile or something. have a lovely day sweetheart!!!! <333 :*)

OMG ANON PLS FORGIVE ME IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK ME DAYS TO RESPOND TO, I DIDN’T WANT TO GIVE YOU A HALF ASSED RESPONSE SO I WAITED TO GET MY MENTAL ENERGY BACK TO A HUNDRED PERCENT SO I CAN SEND BACK MORE LOVE TO YOU WHOLEHEARTEDLY !! FIRST OF ALL UHM… 

you really made me speechless with this one, you have no idea. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve reread this and teared up a little bit because you know… I’m so shocked like I really have no idea what I did to receive such a sweet message because I’m just writing silly fanfics when I’m feeling it yknow? Or at least that’s what it seems like because it turns out I have a huge impact on others and I’m able to make people happy like I’ll never EVER get used to that feeling and I mean that in a good way !! Like I’m in a constant state of disbelief that people are this affected by my content and I’m just… 

I’m so thankful truly PLEASE can I give you a hug I’m so happy sobs sobs sobs

also baby, thank you sm for this again AAAAHH. I’m not sure if you really mean ‘Earned It’ the mafia! gojo series or ‘Reckless’ the CEO gojo series though ?? Both are discontinued but Earned It was discontinued bcos my dumbass killed Naoya there and he was my favorite so I lost the motivation and it was all my fault SOBBSSS. as for Reckless though, yeah I’d say it was mostly the hate I got for it that demotivated me into continuing it :// but if this ask is meant for Earned It, then yes thank you so much for the kind words as well, though I didn’t really receive hate for it so no worries !!

and aaah anon im…I’m at a loss for words lmao but the part where you said where you would be proud if you wrote it, that’s really…LIKE IDK it just hit me bcos oftentimes I look at something I poured my heart into, but then I’d have days where I’d be like YIKES that wasn’t a good one. its so easy to forget the effort we put into something when we’re affected by external factors. and yeah even though I really don’t want to continue either series anymore, thank you for leaving me the important note of being proud of myself <33 

although the series (earned it) wasn’t really something I’d properly executed and planned for, I do remember being passionate over it and feeling truly excited to update. even if it didn’t end out the way I wanted it to, it’s still something I poured my heart on and that’s magnificent on its own, so I’ll be prouder of myself from now on <33

no worries bb you are not overstepping any boundaries at all !! believe me when I say this ask truly do means a lot to me – more than you’ll ever know. messages like these are what keeps me going, as feedback is important to writers, but most of all it’s the genuine support and sincerity that gets to me. 

I’m truly humbled and grateful right now. thank you for this again and again and again.

THIS MADE ME MORE THAN SMILE !! there’s a lot of things I’m struggling with even if I don’t publicly express it, but messages like these will always have a special place in my heart. I’m sincerely grateful for everything, and I’ll continue writing here and sharing my works!! It’s supportive people like you that make these moments worthwhile. I’ll never forget this message anon AAAAH I LOVE YOU SO MUCH THANK YOU THANK YOU YOU HAVE AN EVEN BETTER DAY OR NIGHT, you have me weak in the knees for this

OKAY BRB SOBBING IN HAPPINESS

[sushiandstarlight]

Better for the Toil

Read this story on AO3

The tattered blanket is laid out under a young apple tree.  It’s still too young to bear proper fruit, even if Crowley could will it so.  He won’t: there’s time for all things now and the toil of it brings a restful feeling to his very bones.  The toil of it, that’s something that the humans and even his angel figured out before he did.  Why toil when you could have?  Why scour the world for a single book when you could summon the words?  Why carefully cultivate a garden, when you could force it to your will?  There’s nothing they can’t believe they should have in this world that they can’t have on the very basis of that belief.

Crowley’s life, both before and after the fall had been a force of will: willing stars to form in his palms and placing them in the heavens.  Willing questions into being and pouring them out only to be dropped by Her will.   Willing humans toward temptation and letting them do the rest.  Even his own atrium was a place where living things bent their will around his, to do as he pleased.  If they did not comply, they were removed.

But, work and toil and reward... those were things he was only understanding now.  Long days in the sun and the rain, planting and weeding and fertilizing and hoping.  Triumph and disappointment.  Long nights reading books and articles and learning.  No longer bending things to his will, but asking those things to follow him; to stay and grow with him.  

It wasn’t just about the plants.  His angel was settling himself on the blanket in front of him now, the dappled sunlight filtering through the gently breeze-blown leaves making patches of his hair glint and glimmer; his eyes, too, as they squint into a soft smile.  The smile quirks as his shining eyes shift to the picnic basket by Crowley’s left hip.  More learning and toil, but of a joyful kind: he’s figured out that what the angel so loves about the human food is the artistry and the work that goes into it.  A simple scone or an eight course meal; it takes knowledge and planning and desire to bring it about.  The same substances can be created in an instance with the snapping of fingers, but the process is lost- the desire is no longer tangible.  Style, yes.  Substance, no.  You can not taste the love of the thing if there is no strain in it’s conception.

Crowley opens the basket and hands teacups and a thermos to Aziraphale- leaves grown in their garden- as he lays out plates of meaty hand pies and mini desserts.  They share the quiet of midday, watching small birds flit in and out of the tree above them carrying bits of twigs and moss; somewhere above them the birds are nesting, building something for a family.

Crowley thinks, too, as he watches the sun-dappled angel enjoy the rewards of his toil, tasting the patience he’s acquired to form pastry, cook tender meats, and wait for leaves to dry...  That the two of them together are more work and toil and patience than creation or will.  Will would have had them tangled together on a wall that surrounded paradise, but that was just a start, a leaning towards the same sun.  Will had nothing to do with the accidental meetings over time, that was all learning the steps to their dance- to who the other was, to who they were themselves.  Will had nothing to do with the missteps and misunderstandings along the way, those were weeds fighting for the same space- to pull them apart.  If will had anything to do with them then, it was to part them.  But still, they leaned toward that same sun; together, winding around one another a vine or leaf at a time.

It wasn’t will but common goal- toil and substance in shared work- symbiosis and efficiency.  I will do the work of two for your rest and you will do the work of two for mine.  Neither could force the other and neither could do both without their combined communication and desire.

When common goals had given way to understanding and understanding had given way to want, that much was murky.  It wasn’t will or miracle, either, more like something warm and bubbling beneath the surface, unseen until the proper time.  Something revealed in the saving of books at literal pains and backrooms open long into the night: the work of opening, blooming into new things.

It’s a home purposefully built together: the combination of style and comfort, compromise and concession.  The physical as twisted and entwined as the metaphor: heated and tested and weathered until only one thing stands where there was two.

He waits until the shadows are longer and drawn out across them and the grass and the crumbs of their shared meal.  Until a head of downy curls is resting in his lap, eyes half shuttered in rest.  He doesn’t wait to draw things out or out of nervous fears and doubts.  He waits for the quietest moment of the day, the stillness, to pull the last thing from the basket: a small wooden box, hand carved.  He hands it over and combs back the soft curls with his fingers as his angel opens it to reveal a delicate pair of rings, hand carved with tangles of vines: no discernible beginning or end to them.  Later he will put words to this for him, but for now he doesn’t want to break the quiet and, it seems, he’s not alone in that.  

Aziraphale holds the rings up to the light, turning them this way and that so the setting sunlight catches in all the tiny grooves.  He smiles up at him and beckons for his hand.  They hold their hands up, side-by-side against the leaves above them, admiring the fit of the rings.  Fingers entwine to bring them closer, as they should be: a symbol of purpose and will, but more the reflection of all the work and toil that’s come before... and the desire to grow together from here.

[ninetalees]

Sufferance, chapter 3

Is finally here! Been working on this on and off for the last few weeks. Hope you enjoy! As always, feedback is appreciated. Also, let me know if any of you get the movie I’m referring to, lol.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24019411/chapters/59125465

They didn’t speak about what had happened the next day.

Or the next, or the next. Before Hop knew it, it had been a week and the atmosphere of simmering tension had not eased. It was mind-numbingly frustrating and Hop wanted to understand, but how could he ask, where would he start? All he could do was watch.

He watched Bede smiling along with Sonia, on his knees in the dirt in the Weald, brow furrowed in concentration on the PC in the lab or with his head in a book. He especially watched him when he bade him farewell in the evenings, his pale skin and flowing hair set alight by the shimmering hues of the sunset. Hop watched, but he couldn’t understand; he couldn’t read the thoughts that flitted behind Bede’s eyes and hung unspoken between them.

“…you know you have talked about nothing but Bede for the whole of this conversation?” Gloria’s voice cut across him mid-sentence, as he was complaining how Bede was so mannerly around Sonia, all smiles and questions about her work. Hop was convinced it had to be a front; he had never known Bede to warm to anyone without a lot of graft on their part. More fool them.

“Well, I have a lot to say,” Hop replied, affronted. “It’s not like I care or anything, I just need to vent. He’s so…” he gestured with the hand not holding the phone – one that happened to be holding a piece of toast. From the corner of his eye he could see the spray of crumbs that littered the floor. A problem for later; the whole place could do with a clean. He had been so busy with work for the last week he’d hardly had time to even consider anything else.

“Uh-huh, sure sounds like you don’t care.” There was a wryness to Gloria’s tone that set Hop’s teeth on edge. “This happens every time you two hang out, you know. You don’t stop going on about him for ages.”

“Like I said, I have a lot to say about him,” Hop shot back. “He’s just so… I don’t understand what he’s trying to do, you know? Like I was saying, he’s so pally with Sonia – she actually likes him – always asking her questions about what she does and about the Weald and about science. As if he actually cares.” He snorted. “I get that he’s here to work – this project obviously is important to him, I’ll give him that, but as if he’s ever been nice to someone for no reason in his life. Like he actually gives a toss about anything Sonia or anyone in this town does.”

“Hop,” Gloria sighed, exasperated. “He’s not trying to do anything. I told you to give him a chance, didn’t I?”

“I have been,” Hop growled. “I’m just saying to you, best mate to best mate, that he’s a pain in the arse and no-one seems to be able to see past his weird, smarmy front. I mean, if he’s so interested in science and what we’re studying at the lab, why would he not ask me? We spend way more time together than him and Sonia do. It’s because he’s not trying to gain my favour because he knows I know what he’s like.”

“You may be my best mate but Bede is my friend too, you know,” Gloria replied with a yawn. “And maybe he’s not asking you questions because you’re being hostile as shit? I wasn’t going to tell you this, but the night I stayed after you left he said that it had been really nice to for the three of us to spend that time together. He’s making an effort Hop, you should too.”

Hop stood to begin getting his things together for the day ahead, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his cheek. “Don’t take his side,” he snapped. “And we all say sentimental shite when we’re drunk.”

“It’s not about sides, Hop. There are no sides.” He could hear the roll of her eyes in her tone. “Look, I’m not going to indulge you further about this. I have to go anyway – big press conference this morning.” She clicked her tongue with disapproval. “I hope you’re doing okay. I love you lots, y’know? Try not to overthink about Bede. I know you refuse to believe it, but he is a good guy. He’s changed.”

“I love you too,” Hop replied, weakening. He sighed. “I… maybe to you he’s changed. But I still… still think…” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You go – I need to get to work too. Talk soon.”

“Talk soon.” Gloria hung up. Hop took the phone away from his ear and stared aimlessly at the screen for a moment. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Gloria – Bede had changed, for her. Because he respected her. But not Hop – as far as Bede was concerned Hop was a mere small-town professor who had thrown in the towel on battling because he had failed. And Hop couldn’t tolerate that. He hadn’t mentioned to Gloria what had happened with Amelia. Truthfully, he was a little ashamed of how he had reacted; his feelings had just been compounded in the moment. He was used to Gloria and her fans whenever they went anywhere together, and their fawning had never bothered him in the slightest. Never before had he been able to associate the word contrite with the shiny-haired, stuck-up footnote on his life that was the Ballonlea Gym Leader. But that day he had apologised – apologised for what? Offending Hop with his fame? For reminding him that he had everything Hop had once wanted? Did he not understand that Hop had moved on?

He pocketed his phone and piled his breakfast dishes into the sink before heading out. The weather that morning broke the sunny spell they had been enjoying for the past few weeks; the sky was grey, threatening rain, but the spring heat still hung heavy in the air. Hop had already slipped out of his coat by the time he arrived at the lab. Sonia, seated at the PC, raised her hand in a wave without turning around. “Morning Hop,” she greeted. Hop set his bag at the door and came to stand behind her, eyes alight with curiosity. “Morning,” he replied. “Whatcha looking at?”

“Just having a glance over some of the environmental comparisons yourself and Bede have made between the Tangle and the Weald so far.” Sonia gestured to the graphs on the screen. “Bede mentioned you hadn’t had much luck in scouring out anything notable yet, so asked for a second opinion.” She leaned forward, squinting in concentration as though looking more closely would uncover some as-of-yet unrevealed secret. “I haven’t caught anything either. But that’s what science is all about, right? Trial and error.”

“This whole excursion might prove to be useless,” Bede’s voice came from behind them, and Hop whirled to see him making his way down the stairs from the balcony, face obscured by the pile of books he was carrying. He set them on the countertop and came to stand by Hop. “But it was something Opal always talked about looking at again, so… I thought it might be nice to pick it up. In her honour.”

The three of them fell silent for a moment. Opal had passed away 3 years ago. It was an inevitability, of course, but not one that anyone who had ever known Opal had ever entertained. She had always seemed larger than life: a garish pink thread on the tapestry of the colourful characters of Galar’s elite. Hop couldn’t imagine how disconcerting it must have been to watch her grow frailer and frailer, culminating on that grey autumn day in Ballonlea. When he stole a glance at Bede his features were creased, the line of his shoulders rigid. The sight of him swallowed in the throes of his grief was a lightning flash of déja-vu, and for a moment the two of them were standing side by side at that graveside again, Hop’s throat thick with half-formed sentiments that couldn’t arrange themselves into words.

“She had a greatly inquisitive mind.” Sonia’s gentle voice wrenched Hop back to reality. She had turned in her seat to face Bede and laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. Hop noted how Bede tensed under her grip for an instant before rearranging his expression into its usual mask of neutrality. “Thanks, Sonia,” he murmured.

Sonia smiled encouragingly and squeezed his arm once more before getting to her feet and breezing past them to her desk. “That reminds me.”  She plucked a folder from among the swathes of papers scattered into disorganised piles on her desk. Hop had always thought it must be a physical extension of her mind: outwardly cluttered, but everything had a place and Sonia knew exactly where that was. She waved the folder in their faces, then slapped it into Hop’s hands. “This is for you to bring over to Gr- Professor Magnolia’s.” She flushed at the near slip-up. “She called this morning to inquire after your research; she helped Opal when she came to look into the Weald, a long time ago. I told her I would put together some notes and have you bring it over. Is that okay?” she grinned at Bede. “She was excited to see you – said it’s been too long.”

To Hop’s surprise, Bede’s expression brightened considerably. “Oh, really? One step ahead of me as usual – I had meant to get in touch with her to let her know I was around.” The more time Hop spent with Bede the more apparent were the gaping holes present in Hop’s image of him, a photograph over a flame. He’d had a peripheral awareness of Opal’s friendship with Magnolia but at no point had he thought to draw the conclusion that Bede must be close with her, too.

“Word travels fast around these parts, Bede,” Sonia replied with a laugh. “Unlike me, she didn’t forget you were coming. When I went round for tea yesterday that was the first thing she asked about – when you would be dropping by to show her what you had accomplished so far.” She nodded to the folder. “I put that together this morning, said I would send you both over today. Since it’s a joint effort.”

“Of course.” Bede’s tone was tinged with excitement. “I can’t thank you both enough for your help.” Hop bristled instinctively, but couldn’t locate anything in Bede’s expression but genuine warmth. He shook off the discomfort and smiled shakily back, and was glad when Sonia swooped in to respond for the two of them.

“Not at all! That’s what we’re here for: to answer questions about Pokémon and their world.” Hop mumbled something that could pass as agreement before slipping the folder under his arm. “Let’s be off then,” he said to Bede. He nodded at Sonia. “Be back in a tick.”

“Take your time! Magnolia will be thrilled to see you both.” She beamed. “You’ve been working hard, you deserve a break.”

Hop wasn’t sure he would classify this as a break – he would probably rather be working – but refrained from complaint in the face of Sonia’s palpable delight. He knew she often worried for her grandmother; after her husband had passed away she was all alone in that house and Sonia was often too busy to visit as much as she would like. Magnolia was independent and hard as nails, but at least with Hop and Bede there Sonia could relieve herself of the nagging concern for a few hours. Instead, Hop departed with a smile and a nod, the folder clutched to his chest.

Bede strode ahead, his gait hurried and purposeful. Hop trailed a few paces behind, not quite dragging his feet but making no effort to keep up, either. By the time he reached Magnolia’s house Bede was standing by the gate, tapping an impatient rhythm in the dust.

“You never told me you’d been around these parts before.” Hop remarked as he drew up beside him.

“You never asked.” Bede slid open the latch and motioned impatiently for Hop to follow as he trotted up the garden path. Hop scowled at his dismissiveness.

“Oh, right, because I’m supposed to ask you about every possible scenario that might have happened in the world in order for you to mention it. Because that’s how conversations work, is it?”

They were standing outside the door, now. Bede rolled his eyes and raised a hand to bang the Pyroar knocker against the peeling paintwork. “How would I know? You’re always the one insisting I don’t know how to talk to people when I tell you not to yell in the pub.”

Hop’s eyes narrowed. Indeed, there may have been one or two instances of that particular nature. He opened his mouth to snap back only for the door to be flung open to reveal a beaming Magnolia. She had taken to using a zimmerframe in her old age (after much coaxing from Sonia), her posture slightly hunched like a half-folded deckchair. But the smile on her face did more to brighten it than the wrinkles did to crease it. In that moment, with her white hair shining in the crack of sunlight between clouds and the glimmer of delight in her eyes, she appeared ten years younger.

“Bede, dear,” she greeted. “It’s been too long. Have you grown?”          

Bede grinned and skirted neatly around her zimmerframe to gather her into a careful hug. “No, I think you’ve shrunk.” Hop balked at his cheek, but Magnolia only laughed.

“Your tongue is sharp as ever I see.” She tutted affectionately and released him. Bede’s cheeks were pink, perfect ponytail ruffled from the embrace. Hop barely recognised him.

He only realised he had been staring when Magnolia touched his arm. “And lovely to see you too, Professor.” She nodded to the folder in his hands. “Is that for me?”

“Uh…” he blinked stupidly for a moment. The research. “Uh, yes. Yes it is.” He proffered the folder. “Sonia mentioned you were interested in our research?”

“Bring it through, I have the tea on.” Magnolia turned to shuffle back into the hallway. “And yes, very interested. As I’m sure Bede has told you myself and Opal started this project years ago. She was always interested in the Weald, but League life is so busy.” Magnolia let out a wistful sigh. “And life is so short. Before you know it, you’re an old crone like me, confined to days spent watering plants and endless cups of tea.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. Sonia is run off her feet trying to get you to stay indoors, I bet,” Bede replied with a laugh, following her inside. Hop was left standing in the doorway, reeling. How was it that he was the one out of sorts, here in the town of his birth? Bede had come and now nothing made sense. His life had been a clear, shallow lake: uncomplicated and safe. Bede had dropped in like a stone, the resounding ripples touching everything Hop had once known to be absolute – his friendships, his career, his past. Now he was left squinting into the pool, struggling to recognise the constantly shifting reflections.

“Hop?” Bede poked his head around the doorway of what must have been the living room. “You alright?”

Hop started. “Uh, yeah. Fine.” He met Bede’s gaze. There remained a dainty flush to his skin, strands of white-blond falling messily into his eyes. In that instant Hop had the bizarre urge to grab his shoulders and shake him, pull him real close and dig his nails into his skin. Maybe if he got close enough he could see what he was missing, could claw out the contents of his brain so well concealed by wry smiles and disparaging sniffs.

 Instead he shut the front door and made his way into the room from where Bede had appeared. It was indeed the living room. The lights were low, so much so Hop could mostly only make out the shape of things. The plush furniture, the oblong shadows of chests of drawers and dressers along the lengths of the walls. Every available surface was decorated with photo frames, even the dusty piano in the corner. Hop’s eyes were drawn immediately to flashes of red in several pictures, bright spots in the relative darkness. He wandered up to one in particular over the fireplace. A much younger Sonia stood with her arm thrown carelessly around Leon, under the shade of the trees in Magnolia’s back garden. They were laughing, faces alight with excitement and despite the stillness of the image Hop could envision so clearly their playful jostling it were as though they were standing there in front of him, brimming with joy and youthful exuberance. He stared until his eyes watered and the edges of his vision blurred. There was probably a photo like that of him and Gloria, somewhere.

“Cute picture.” Bede materialised behind Hop so suddenly he whipped around, arms flailing, and narrowly avoided hitting Bede in the cheek.

“Yeah,” Hop replied at last. He shoved his hands into his pockets so as to avoid any more near-accidents. They observed the photo, the silence sitting heavy on their shoulders. When Hop glanced at Bede his usual smooth expression had resettled into place, the hair that had been falling around his face pulled back. He found himself wondering in that moment what Bede had been like as a child: he hadn’t up until now ever entertained that fact there had been a time when the now-Gym Leader had been wide-eyed and top-full with hope for the future. Hop knew Bede had not had the easiest start in life, having spent some time in an orphanage, but his insight ended there. Bede had never spoken about his beginnings himself – all the information Hop had he had gleaned from his League Card as a Gym Challenger. He had never dwelled any further.

He opened his mouth to ask – he didn’t know what exactly – when Magnolia returned, slowly wheeling a drinks tray laden with a teapot and matching china. Bede flung himself across the room to help her and she laughed at his fussing as he carefully set about transferring the contents of the tray to the coffee table.

“I told you, I didn’t need help,” she scolded affectionately. As she spoke, however, she lowered herself carefully into an armchair, the seat a perfect indent of her shape, happy to let Bede take charge. Hop moved to assist Bede by pouring the tea into the cups. It annoyed him he had not jumped to help immediately: his reaction times were off, as though he were moving through cement. Somehow, Bede fit this scene moreso than he did. If this had been one of the photos on the walls Hop would have been the accidental thumbprint in the corner.

Once the tea was poured and the places set, Hop and Bede took their seats. Hop blew on the steaming cup in his hands, enjoying the damp heat on his skin and how the sensation distracted him from Bede and Magnolia’s murmured recounting of an old story about Opal. Eventually, Magnolia raised a slightly trembling hand to point at the folder sticking out of Hop’s coat.

“Anyway,” she began. “On the subject of Opal, I would be extremely interested to have a look at what work you’ve done on her project thus far.”

Hop snapped to attention and laid down his cup to draw the folder from his inner pocket and hand it to her. “Yes, of course,” he replied, business-like. “As you can see we haven’t made a great deal of progress yet. We’ve noted some similarities between the Tangle and the Weald on the basis of temperature and certain species of plant-life, but that’s about it as of yet.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There’s far more differences than there are similarities, that’s for sure. In fact the differences are so vast I can’t help but wonder if the similarities are merely coincidental and we’re looking from the completely wrong angle. But I don’t know where else to start.”

Magolia’s eyes twinkled with interest, and her fingers leafed through the report with an ease unweighted by age. “Hmmm.” She clicked her tongue. “I would be inclined to agree with you. I was surprised when Opal came to me first – I told her, besides the fact that they are both forests, the two locations would have very little in common. But she was insistent, and her preliminary research was sound – according to all known literature Weezing did indeed first inherit its Fairy-typing in the Weald.”

Bede raised a finger. “If I may,” he cut in, glancing at Hop as though for permission. “It is interesting that it’s only Weezing. There are no other Fairy-types to be found in the Weald at all.” He titled his head. “There obviously is something about the environment that is attractive to Fairy-types in particular – that has to be true. Otherwise Weezing would have never developed the typing in the first place. But why only Weezing? Why have no others spawned there?” He sighed. “It’s perplexing indeed.”

Unthinkingly, Hop had lowered his hand to run a finger around the smooth metal of the Pokéball in his pocket. He wasn’t in the habit of carrying his entire party around with him anymore – the wild Pokémon that populated the areas surrounding Postwick and Wedgehurst were less than threatening. It was Zacian who accompanied him today, the legendary beast who had chosen Hop as its partner. Not no others. Zacian was the Fairy-type protector of the Weald. He sat up straighter in his seat with this sudden realisation, eyes widening. Could it be..?

Hop said nothing. This was something he wanted to look into himself first, to determine whether it was worth sharing with Bede. They were supposed to be conducting this study together, he knew that, but he couldn’t bear the thought of introducing Zacian to Bede, to opening up this part of his world to him quite yet. It was too precious, a thread that pulled taut together the lives of himself, Gloria and their hometown. No – he would look himself first; it was unlikely to be the answer, anyway.

Bede and Magnolia had moved back to talking about Opal, so Hop could allow himself to zone out of their conversation. He mostly watched Bede, enraptured. It were as though his usual cool exterior had quite literally thawed away: Hop had never seen him so animated, so uninhibited. He gestured and laughed – like laughed, head thrown back, teeth glinting in the low light – and was receptive to Magnolia’s affection, her gentle hand-pats and cooing smiles. Hop remembered seeing a movie, once, where the narrator talked about rude people only wanting to be loved, and if you were to show them that love they would open like a flower. How strange it was, to observe Bede bloom before his very eyes.

The afternoon was more pleasant that Hop had expected it would be. They talked a lot about Opal, her legacy and influence, about their shared pasts, about Sonia, about Gloria. They spent very little time, in fact, straying into conversation that could be labelled scientific. At one point Hop chanced a glance out the window, and all of a sudden the sun was low in the sky, shades of orange and pink streaked across greyish-blue. When he withdrew his phone from his pocket to check his phone, 5:34 blinked back at him in the encroaching darkness.

“Oh wow,” he stood. “Half-past five already! We should be getting back.” He grinned at Magnolia. “Sonia will be wondering where we’ve gotten to – today was supposed to be a working day.”

“Oh, wisht. She knew well what would happen.” Magnolia gave a dismissive wave of her hand, as though batting Hop’s words out of mid-air. “The moment I heard you were embarking on this project, I asked her to make sure you two came around at some point. It’s such a joy to see the youth delving into scientific study. It’s not a glamourous path, but such an important one.”

Hop’s smile became soft. He did not know if her words were for his benefit, but it left a lightness in his chest nonetheless. “Thank you,” he murmured, shaking her outstretched hand. “I think so too.” It steeled his resolve, knowing someone like Magnolia was behind him. He had seen Sonia, her own flesh and blood, have to fight for her approval – it wasn’t granted lightly.

Bede joined him on his feet. “I agree.” He nodded to Hop. “I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this without Sonia or Hop, and Opal would have been lost without you.”

Hop eyed him warily, expectant of a punchline. Bede’s gaze was unblinking, wide and sincere. It equally left him warm and made his skin crawl. “Is my job,” he replied, his tone breezy and reflecting none of the unease that had settled like a rock in his stomach. He was glad when Bede moved to lean forward and carefully hug Magolia goodbye; Gloria always said his expressions were an open book. He couldn’t account for what he was feeling now.

Bede and Magnolia said their farewells and Hop and himself headed out. They left Magnolia sitting in her chair with their research. She would have seen them out, she said, if she had been 10 years younger. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she had gripped Bede’s arm, her lips curling into a mischievous smirk. “Manners are a youngster’s game. Get old and you can do and say as you please.”

They had all laughed, then, and Hop was glad the visit had ended on a lighter note. He still felt out of sorts, his skin prickling with apprehension. The sensation persisted as they stepped out the front door and into the diminishing daylight. Hop paused to take a deep, calming breath through his nose. The familiar notes of woodsmoke, of earth and freshly-cut grass steadied him, kept him grounded. This was his home – his little corner. Nothing could change that. He caught Bede’s inquisitive sideways glance as they made their way out the gate and set off in the direction of Wedgehurst, but Hop pretended not to notice. He remained stubbornly silent, in fact; hands jammed into his pockets and posture hunched like that of a stubborn child’s.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that quiet at any social gathering.” Bede’s smooth remark broke the silence. Hop lifted his eyes from his shoes to examine his face. His gaze was fixed on the sky, shoulders thrown back in a more relaxed fashion than Hop had ever seen. Normally Bede’s teasing would have him bristling but now he could only laugh nervously, still uncertain.

“Yeah, well, was pretty difficult to get a word in edgeways.” Hop found his voice at last. “I didn’t realise you and Magnolia were that close.”

“She and Opal were close friends.” Bede turned to face him. “They saw each other when they could. And Magnolia isn’t difficult to grow to like.”

Hop pressed his lips together, searching his expression. Bede wore a small, aimless smile, awash with memories of better times. This was what he had wanted, a glimmer of an opening, fleeting as a fish darting out of sight of a shadow; he had to move now or it would be lost.

Instead, words spilled from his lips before he had a chance to register what he was saying. “I mean, old ladies always had a thing for you anyway, didn’t they?”

Hop had strolled a few paces ahead before he realised Bede’s pale figure was no longer in his line of sight. He stopped and turned around, to be faced with a Bede he was far more familiar with; jaw tensed, eyes steely, all rigid, straight lines down to his hands that were curled into fists.

“Could you stop?” the words escaped from between Bede’s clenched teeth in a hiss. Hop blinked warily at him, the unease that had sat in his stomach melting out to run ice-cold through his veins.

“Stop what?” he asked, proud his voice didn’t tremble. He looked so angry.

“I have tried with you.” Bede’s tone was terrifyingly even, at odds with the rage that creased his features. “I understand that you don’t like me, and that’s fine. I don’t need you to like me. I don’t need you to be my friend.” He took several steps towards Hop so their faces were mere inches apart, and Hop wondered for a spilt second if he should be prepared for Bede to punch him. “But I do need you to stop being a fucking child so we can work together. You need to get over the fact that I beat you and was nasty to you seven years ago. You need to move on.”

Hop flinched at his words, as though they had dealt a physical blow. The chill in his veins has been replaced by fury that burned white hot and itchy beneath his skin. “You think that I don’t like you because you beat me in a battle seven years ago?” he snarled. “You really think that’s the reason?”

Confusion flitted across Bede’s expression, momentarily displacing the mounting tension. “What other reason is there?” he asked. Hop wanted to curl his fingers into his stupid, perfect hair and drag him close to spit the words in his ear.

“I don’t like you because you’re a self-important, disparaging piece of shit who thinks they’re better than everyone.” Hop’s voice rose. “I don’t like you because you trampled my confidence in the mud and have the audacity to suggest that was just you being nasty. And I especially don’t like you because you think you’ve fooled everyone, but you haven’t fooled me.”

Bede’s eyes narrowed. “I respected you, you know,” he murmured. “You made a good life for yourself, on your own terms. I tried to show you that. I thought this would be different, I really did.” He took a step back. “I should have known better.”

Without another word Bede brushed past him, a spectre retreating rapidly into the dusk. Hop was left standing alone, blood drumming in his head. It was the adrenaline coursing through his system that had been holding him upright, and upon the passage of the perceived threat he collapsed to the ground like a newborn foal.

He wanted to call out, make him come back and insist they finish this, but when he opened his mouth the metallic tang overwhelmed him. He raised a tentative hand to his lip and realised he had bitten it so hard it was dripping crimson into the dust.

[bewareofchris]

Public Relations 24/??

R atm | Alec Hardy/Dr. Bill Masters | Broadchurch, Masters of Sex | Strong language, eventual sexual situations

“The fact that Alec Hardy was not currently, had not ever, and did not want to date the American sex research did not seem very important at all to the town of Broadchurch.  They did what they had always done with a little bit of juicy gossip: they made a spectacle of it.”

<< prev | Part 1 | AO3 Link

“Good,” said his immaculately dressed wife, when Bill answered the door with his shirt unbuttoned, untucked and unpressed.  She was tugging her gloves off her hands as she breezed past him into the room with the air of a woman who required no invitation.  “I was hoping you’d still be home.”  

She stood at the better end of his crumb-covered sofa with a wrinkled nose and a pointed, pained smile of politeness etched onto her face.  The little marks he’d left on her neck had almost completely faded.  (But the scratch marks she scoured down his back had not healed quite as quickly.)  If she took note of the debris of a hastily tidied coffee table or the distinct smell of a grown man having spent far too much time laying in his filth, she was polite enough not to mention it.

“Libby, I don’t think it’s a good idea.  You.  Being here.”  He pushed the door closed with one hand and pulled his shirt closed with the other.  He felt stupid doing it, but the feeling was commonplace enough now that it didn’t stop him.

“Honestly Bill, the sex wasn’t worth the twenty years preceding it.”

“That’s not fair.  It wasn’t all terrible.”

“It wasn’t all great,” Libby corrected.  But she turned on her heels so she was facing him with an almost regretful stare.  “I don’t want to get into it, Bill.  I don’t.  I’m not interested in rehashing it.  You have your way of seeing our marriage and I have mine.  We’re never going to see it the same because we never wanted the same things.  If we can’t admit that to each other...”

Neither of them knew how that sentence was meant to end.  Bill wasn’t cringing because the words stung.  He wasn’t even looking at Libby anymore.

“I didn’t come here to talk about us,” Libby said again.  “I’m here to ask you, again, to really think about what you’re doing.  To, for the first time in our relationship, put someone else’s needs over your own.”

Bill jerked sideways at that.  At the words, and the meaning behind them, and the implication that he hadn’t ever cared.  (Maybe he hadn’t, what did he know, but it felt like he had.  It felt like he’d put in time, and effort, however little, however infrequently.)  “I’m not giving up my children, Libby.  If that’s what you came for, you can let yourself out!”

“Bill!”  Libby’s steps were loud as drumbeats.  Her hand caught him by the shoulder and she pulled him to stop most of the way to his bedroom.  “Think about it.  You’re in no position to take care of children.  You’re barely in a position to take care of yourself.  There was half a pizza on the floor under your couch, Bill.  Your shirt has wrinkles!  Do you know how much bitching you did about your shirts?  How many times I had to iron them and fold them before I finally did it the way you wanted it done?  Look at this,” she pulled his shirt front away from his body to show him the wrinkles he already knew about.

“They’re my kids too, Libby.  You can’t just decide that they’re yours because you bullied me into them.”

“You never wanted them,” Libby said softly.  “You never held them, you never sang to them--Bill you have a beautiful voice, and you’ve never sang to our children.  Maybe all of this had to happen, maybe we never should have stayed together as long as we did.  But this isn’t about you.  This isn’t about me.  For once, I am begging you, make this choice based on what’s best for your kids.”

It was a terrible thing to ask a man who had never once had a choice made in his favor.  A stark and ugly reminder that neither his mother nor his father had ever once asked themselves what would have been best.  Mother turned her music up in the kitchen and gently closed doors.  She protected herself from the beatings that hadn’t found their way to her.  Father was a sadistic, cold bastard with boxer’s fists.  

“Am I that awful that my children will benefit more from never seeing me again?” Bill asked.

Libby’s hand smoothed down his shirtfront.  Her meanness broke, just a little, and beneath it all the hurt he’d dealt her.  She said, “maybe not always.  But you have work to do.”

Bill was defenseless against the truth.  He nodded his head.  “Fine, fine.  But--But, you’ll send me your address, and phone number and once I…  Once I get settled, we’ll talk about…”

Libby nodded.  “Of course we will, Bill.” 

(The way she said it, with such pity, couldn’t be entirely believed.  Whether the waver in her voice was her lack of faith in him or her lack of ability to keep the promise was unknowable.)

--

I’m returning to work today.  

I don’t know if my continued attempts at conversation are welcome at this point.

I hope you are well.

Bill’s texts came within seconds of one another.  A great flurry of chirpy noises and vibrations from Hardy’s phone.  Across an ocean, the man was working up the courage to go to work at a business he owned.  Hardy was having his afternoon sit down, where he leaned back into his couch and waited to see if his heart was going to keep beating.

It wasn’t a work day for him.  He had spent an hour or two staring at the Sandbrook case files, hoping to make some more sense of the same facts he’d already seen a dozen times.  Miller hadn’t even come in and looked at the past weekend.  Hardy hadn’t minded at the time, because he was tired enough just from the small talk they’d exchanged over dinner.  

Fred had been fussy.  That’s what Miller said.  Fred will just start fussing, and he won’t stop.  

Hardy had stood on his front step thinking about telling her that she could have let the boy sleep on Hardy’s bed.  That there was no need to drive all the way back home.  But he hadn’t said the words, so she had wished him a good night and left.

That was days ago now.  Days of quiet, and awkward attempts to send Miller a text that seemed to be worth the time it took to compose it.  He’d worried over his phone, agonized over a simple message, and in the end just sent her something like (what are we supposed to talk about?)

But these messages were from Bill.  These messages were begging for a response.  These messages didn’t bring him any sort of mean-spirited joy.  

Hardy sighed at himself, at his heart, at his cottage, at Bill, and pulled the phone off the table to type a reply.

Of course I want to talk to you, Hardy said.  (And he left off the bit on the end that went something like: I just don’t want to hear about your stupid sex life.)  Why are you going back if you don’t want to?

That’s a relief, Bill sent all in a rush, and: I made a promise that I have been failing to keep. 

Hardy was working on crafting a reply that conveyed his interest without just blurting out: what promise.  The best he managed was: must be a big promise.  (And he cringed as he sent it.)

I’m going in to meet with my secretary’s wife to talk about the best methods to proceed for getting pregnant.

I’ve never met Betty’s wife.

There was a litany of possible answers to Bill’s statement.  Hardy could invite him to talk about the promise, he could acknowledge what a significant promise it was.  He could ask about Betty (because he’d heard the name, but he hadn’t heard any details).  But he found himself slouching into a more comfortable slant on his couch.  He sent:  I don’t like meeting new people.  

It’s all awkward, everyone wants to tell you their name.  They need you to repeat it.

Then you’ve got to worry, what sort of impression am I making?  Do I need to make a good one?  Am I ever going to meet these people again?  

Bill’s reply was a laugh wrapped up in little letters, he said: what a pair we’d make, never meeting new people for fear of first impressions.

Hardy smiled at the phone, and wished that little glow of warmth in his chest had been a little dimmer.  It was one thing to amuse himself with long conversations and another thing entirely to be confronted with the reality of this growing knot.  Bill had become, without Hardy’s consent, a person that he longed to talk to.  Their conversations never had to be about anything at all.  It only mattered that they had them.

And it was hell when Bill was so casual about their non-existent future.  

Come to Broadchurch, you’ve already made your first impression.

Bill’s answer was immediate: Yes.  A bad one.  And then: I have to go now, maybe we could talk later?  I could call?

Hardy was a fool, but he said: That would be fine.

--

Bill was not, despite appearances, avoiding Virginia.

(Or maybe he was.  She didn’t seem bothered by his avoidance.  She was helping in her own way, always going left when he went right.  It was a companionable co-avoidance of the other.)

Betty cleared her throat when Bill leaned back in his chair so he wasn’t as visible through the doorway when Virginia walked past.  She was tapping her fingertips on the table, frowning at him for being a coward.  “If you want, I could get up and close the door.”

“No,” Bill said, “don’t be silly.”  But he didn’t lean forward again until Virginia had passed and the sound of her heels were no longer audible in the hall.  “Now, should we start or would you like to wait until your wife arrives?”

“Helen is always a little late,” Betty assured him, “I would have brought her in with me this morning, but she had a client that was paying double to get her hair done this morning.  If you want I can go until she gets here, let you get back to work.”  She paused a second, just long enough stare at him with her disbelieving eyebrows, “in your office.” (As far from Virginia as he could get without leaving the building.)  

“No,” he said, “no, that won’t be necessary.”

“You’re going to have to talk to her eventually, boss.  That’s the name on the door, you know?  Masters and Johnson.”

Well, that was assuming that Bill was planning on staying here.  That was assuming that he even wanted to stay here.  He couldn’t name the feeling that was tying him to this office, but it didn’t feel like purpose anymore.  No, it felt a bit more like fear.  That if he went too far from this place he’d worked his whole life to get, that he’d be lost.  The study was an anchor that had trapped him in this life.  

“I appreciate your concern, Betty--”

“No problem, boss.”

“But, I assure you that everything between Ms. Johnson and I is cordially professional now.  I have spoken to her on multiple occasions.”  (Accidentally, when good manners required that he greet her or policy demanded that he review her requests and reports.)

Bill was spared Betty’s response by a polite knock at the conference room door.  Helen was breathless and pink-cheeked, made rosy with nervousness.  

“Sorry I’m late,” she said.�� “I’m so glad to meet you, finally.”  

“Yes, it’s good to meet you as well.  Betty’s said nice things about you,” Bill said as he stood to shake Helen’s hand.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Betty, still sitting in her seat, grinning at him like he was an idiot.  They’d never had a single conversation about Helen in the years that they’d worked together.  In part because Bill had never asked, and in part because Betty must not have trusted him.  The first he’d even heard of Helen was when Betty asked for help to have a child.  Bill had turned her down on the basis of traditional families.  But that was their secret now, just a polite lie.

“Oh please,” Helen said, “I’m sure she was exaggerating.  Thank you for making time to see us.  We thought we were going to have to pay a man to have sex with me.”  (And that, apparently was the worst fate Helen could imagine.)

“Well,” Bill said, “let’s not have it come to that.  Although you will need a sperm donor if you haven’t already found one.  It can be someone you know or an anonymous donor through a sperm bank.  I have a list of recommendations of reputable businesses that deal in that sort of thing.”

“We’ve got someone in mind,” Betty assured him.

“He’s got a ton of kids,” Helen added as she pulled out a chair to sit in.  “So, we know there won’t be any problems on his end.  So, how do we start?  Are their tests?  I’ve always had very regular periods.  I eat healthy.  I exercise some.  I don’t know what you need to know.  Maybe I should just let you talk.”

Helen looked at her with such adoration.  She smiled at Helen like she’d never loved anyone more fully in all her life.  It was a look he’d never seen on Betty’s face, not once in all the time that he’d known her.  (And even if he had already felt like an ass by denying her the chance at a child once; he felt worse now.)  

“I don’t think he minds listening,” Betty assured Helen.

“Not at all,” Bill said.  “I’d like to hear your expectations and your preferences.  We can talk about the technical things in a minute.”

“Oh.”  Helen set her purse on the chair next to her and shifted in her chair.  She looked at Betty, like she hadn’t expected to be invited to talk at all.  “Well, I’d like it all to be as natural as it can be.  I know obviously, there’s going to be some unnatural things.  Obviously, I don’t want to have sex with a man, but if it’s not necessary I don’t want to have to take a lot of drugs, or injections.  And, if I have to have any procedures or anything like that, I’d prefer to have you do them.  Personally.  Betty told me that you’re the best at what you do, but I know sometimes doctors make decisions and then someone else does the work, and I don’t know that we’ll ever be able to try this again.  It must cost a lot.”

“No,” Bill said softly, “not this isn’t going to cost you a lot.  There will be a fee for acquiring the sperm if you chose to use a sperm bank, but you will not be charged for my time or any testing that can be done here at the office.”

Betty’s eyes were rimmed pink and Helen looked as if she had been slapped.

“That’s fantastic,” Helen gasped.  And then she rushed ahead with, “he’s not at all like you said,” to Betty.  

Betty laughed and leaned forward to drag her wife into a quick kiss.  Her hand was curved around Helen’s face, and Helen was whispering: “we’re going to have a baby.”

Bill cleared his throat and flipped open the folder in front of him.  “Well, before we can determine what sort of testing, if any, we need to perform, there are some questionnaires that you will need to fill out.  There will also be a physical exam that we could do today, or you can schedule for another day.”

Betty dragged the folder across the table and handed Helen a pen.  They were reading over it together, whispering answers into each other’s ears.  Bill was useless to them, left to sit and watch (and wonder, maybe, why he’d never been so happy).

--

The conversation had started with, “Why are you awake?”  He hadn’t even bothered to say hello, and why would he?  It was eight in the morning for him, he was barely awake enough to think up words to say at all.  But at least it was close to an acceptable time to receive a phone call, standing at the counter in his kitchen, contemplating the contents of his cabinets.

Where Bill was, it was well past dark (at least).  So late at night, it must have been early in the morning, and any respectable person would have been sleeping.  But Bill Masters must not have considered himself respectable.  

“Did you know your accent gets harder to understand when you’re tired?”

“I’m not tired,” Hardy objected.  He turned away from the hopeless endeavor of finding food he wanted to eat.  “Why are you awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Bill said.  “If you’d prefer I didn’t call, I could hang up.  It just seemed like making a phone call would be less work than texting you.”

Hardy hummed at that, working out if he wanted to continue demanding why the man couldn’t sleep or encourage him to call whenever the mood struck him.  “Well, you’ve already called.  No sense in hanging up now.”  He was leaning back against the countertop now, hyper aware of the state of his kitchen.  It didn’t matter to the man who couldn’t see it, but the poor state that Hardy had left it in made him feel self-conscious.  “Did you want to talk about why you can’t sleep?”

“No.  I was hoping you’d have something more interesting to talk about than my insomnia.”

“Why do I have to make the conversation?” Hardy asked.  “If you call someone, you should have something to say.”

“We could talk about your medical condition,” Bill offered.

“We could talk about your work conditions,” Hardy retorted.

Bill growled into the phone, like a man that had to sit up in bed because the person on the other end of the phone was being annoying.  You could hear it in the effort of his breath, how he was preparing himself for a proper fight.  You couldn’t express your annoyance while laying down.  You needed to be upright for that sort of thing.  

“Fine,” Hardy said before Bill had a chance to speak, “I don’t have anything to talk about.  Do you celebrate Christmas?”

“No.  Let’s not talk about Christmas,” Bill said.  “What time is it for you?  Shouldn’t you be eating breakfast?”

“I refuse to be lectured about my eating habits by another person.”  (Now that he’d struck up a decent exchange of texts with Miller, he was already being harangued about making sure he had enough to eat.)  “There must be something that we can talk about.”

“Have you purchased anymore shirts since I saw you?  Still wearing the same two identical blue ones?”

Hardy sighed.  “I will hang up.”

Bill was laughing at him, but at least it was a soft sound.  “Fine, how is your case going?  I remember you mentioned that you’re going to have Ellie look it over and see if she could find something you’ve missed.  Did she come and do that?”

“Miller’s had a look.  Probably won’t make any progress on it until the holidays are over.  She’s got kids, you know?  Young kids.  Fred’s barely walking.”

“What kind of gifts do you get for a child that young?  I’ve always been bad at gifts.”

“Why would I get him a gift?” Hardy asked.  He hadn’t even considered that he might be required to give Fred a present.  There had been no talk of exchanging gifts.  He didn’t expect Miller to think of him while she was shopping.  “Should I get him a gift?  Do people do that?  Give gifts to their friend’s children?”

Bill’s silence was a contemplation of how best to respond.  He’d been struck dumb by the question, but he didn’t sound as exasperated as Miller would have when he finally spoke.  “Yes, I believe it’s something nice that you could do.  I don’t know if you have to.  Seems like your partner could use an extra bit of niceness this year.”

“What do you get a child that young?  What do you buy for a boy?  I’ve never had a boy.”  He pushed away from the countertop to find somewhere more comfortable to continue the conversation.  He’d planned to make his way to the couch, but he ended up laying in bed instead.  

Bill was shrugging on his end, “blocks?  Cars?  I remember Libby bought Johnny a good deal of dinosaurs one year.  He was very into them.  But Howie didn’t seem to care for them.”

They sank into a conversation about nothing.  They talked about toys, and stupid things they’d done as boys.  They talked about Christmas songs they hated, and the relative disgustingness of eggnog until Bill was yawning into every word.

“I think you should sleep now,” Hardy said, but he didn’t want to.  He could have talked longer; he could have soaked up the sound of Bill complaining about his (former) Mother in law’s vindictive fruitcakes for so much longer.  

“I should,” Bill agreed, and maybe it was only imagination that made it sound like he was sad to go.  “You should be the one to call next,” he said, like saying: don’t make me put in all the effort.

Hardy was smiling to himself, hand pressed to his quickening heart beating in his chest.  He said, “I will.  Sleep well, Bill.”

“Have a good day, Alec,” was the answer, and the regretful sound of the call disconnecting.

@marvelmisha, @e3105eb, @may-darling, @bigleosis, @it-is-ineffable, @stardust-andwine, @echelongaga, @imnotokaywiththerunning, @heirofsarcasm, @thedoctorsblogger

[obviousleeanonymous]

Chutes and Ladders CH 11

Summary: To climb to the top, you gotta fall down a chute or two or three or four… and break a few bones. But it’s okay, ‘cause time heals all wounds. Right?

(Because I fogot I never posted this here, fam.)

CH1 AO3

You jangled the doorknob, a loose component rattling uselessly. The door remained locked. In your backpack of things that were not yours before you shoved said not-your-things within, you had varying screwdrivers and gizmos and gadgets and kawoozits. Before you fiddled for an aforementioned screwdriver that might work as intended, you stared down the basic welcome mat. Stepping back, you used your foot to flip the stalwart foe. Lo and behold, a nondescript key was underneath! People still did that? It was like asking to be robbed.

Shrugging to no one in particular, you slid the key into the brass lock. At worst, it would simply not be the correct key, so it hardly hurt to try.

The door opened with ease, creaking profoundly—a testament to people’s inherent stupidity. Not that it much mattered anymore, you have yet to encounter another person during your—how many days?—vagabondage.

The stench of stagnacity flowed from the room, with sepulcher heaviness and choking dust, and out to the hallway like water rushing through cracks in a failing dam.

You only took a single step into the room, absorbing the still-scene before closing your eyes.

The hum of cicadas became the electric sibilation of the refrigerator. Insensible jargon filtered through a small television on the countertop. A man brushed remnant crumbs of breakfast toast off the plastic laminate surface and perused a paper. A child ate cereal, secretly adding more when the adult was sufficiently distracted all the while grinning at her deft subterfuge. A teenage boy with horrible bed hair shambled groggily into the kitchen...

Was this morning routine—

You opened your eyes, suddenly grateful to be brought back to the derelict living area trapped in a state of perpetual abeyance, just waiting for someone to return to the moldy bowl on the table, pick up the fallen ceramic cup, and resume reading the long irrelevant newspaper. Coffee stains covered the the front page, obscuring the date, but you guessed it to be several months ago.

You made a home out of the bits and pieces others left behind.

After scouring the defunct abode at a listless pace—nothing to gain in haste but waste—you garnered a sizable stock of canned goods still within decent expiry and more clothing to augment your hobochic ensemble. And, of course, a magnificent, comfortable, plush, relaxing, state of the art, better than an organic mattress bean bag chair. Vintage puke chartreuse to boot!

The beds were aight tho’.

As you meandered through the modest apartment, you flicked the light switches and tested the faucets. Predictably, there was nothing in terms of basic utilities, but you spotted some change on the floor. A brilliant idea tickled and caressed the crevices of your gelatinous brain-muscle.

Hefting the prized bean bag awkwardly over your shoulder, you departed the apartment, stopping only to collect the scattering of coins. Locking the door with the key was an afterthought.

You knew every payphone, could practically smell the anachronistic booths from miles away.

You had a brilliant plan.

+_____+_____+

Payphones irrevocably meant something to you, something special, intrinsically intimate in a manner that should never logically be. Emotional lows were had within four enclosed grimy, semi-opaque walls.

But this… This felt different. Cathartic, even.

You reclined on the bean bag, shoved into the cramped booth, legs propped on the protective casing that partially housed the phone. The dense cord only barely reached far enough. Your head lolled back, blood rushing, and you gazed at the sky—buildings in Spartan hues cutting into vibrant cerulean like jagged teeth.

Though you were certifiably certain you were on hold longer than you had been speaking with the operator and subsequently a customer service rep of the Z-City Waterworks, you had a pocket full of change and nothing better to do.

The irritatingly dross hold music cut off, a voice tentatively questioning, “Hello, miss—”

“Yah. I need water in my place.”

“...And you are sure you’re a tenant of Junction Crossing?”

“Yep,” you glanced at the crude scratches on your arm, roughly resembling the building name and apartment number. Keys made poor knives and even poorer writing instruments. “Number 124C.”

A long pause.

You tried to readjust, stretching your cramping legs but your walking-limbs slipped on the glass. So you wiggled, further digging yourself into the forming contours of polystyrene beads.

“I’m terribly sorry, but no one lives there.” You could feel the tense smile surely plastered on his face—for no one could sound so artificially pleasant.

“I do. It’s why I’m callin’ ya. Yakno. Water.”

“That neighborhood is a warzone. We don’t service it but if you relocate to a safe—”

“Sweetcheeks McGee, what is the name of your biznass,” you never even gave him a chance to respond, “Z-City Waterworks! I. Am. In. Z-City. You can’t not not give me water. That’s like murder.”

“I—That—You… How is murder?”

Oh Sweetcheeks walked into that debacle. Inhaling, you bawled melodramatically, “You want me to die of thirst!”

He sighed, giving up. “Ok! Ok! I’ll put it through but it will be turned off when you don’t pay.”

“‘Kay, Sweetcheeks.”

The other line went dead and you tossed the receiver, not caring to get up just yet. Rather, contemplating the meaning of life seemed a much more topical subject—which was nothing.

You just didn’t want to recall anything other than the right now. Guilt had no place—this is your new life, a new you. All else be damned.

But then you saw him walking all casual-like, a glorious baldylocks bedecked in a boob-tastic hoodie staring blandly at a receipt with a meager bag of groceries limply dangling in his other hand.

At first, you wanted to ask how he made the world upside down, but you remembered how you were reclining as the next best thing came out of your mouth. “Ya scrub, buying shit.”

He halted, staring at you in blank volumes that resonated with your being and said a solitary, “Eh?” He was familiar, a kindred animal—though you just met him, this bald fellow did not seem like a person who tolerated bullshit.

You could dig that.

“Ya live here too, right?”

He shrugged, “Yeah.”

“There’s like a ton of abandoned stores, bruh. Mad easy to get fat like cats.”

His eyes widened marginally. “How come I never thought of that?”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to do, neighbor. Wanna go lootin’?”

He took a minute to contemplate, picking his nose with minimal zeal. “Ok, I guess.”

[thedreamparadox]

New NiD fic soon? I am starving and scouring ao3 for crumbs of NiGHTS content 😭😭

Nothing any time soon. Idea block's definitely a thing rn. I have some stuff handwritten I need to type up but not nearly enough for a whole fic.

[swanandapirate]

anonymous swan (1/1)

It was @captainwiley’s birthday a couple of days ago and to celebrate the joyful day the world gained such a wonderful and crazy person, I’ve written a fic. This is inspired by how @captainwiley and @artandteaandstuff got introduced to each other but with our lovely ship instead (the road is a bit bumpier because have you met Emma and Killian?) ♥

summary: A Google Docs AU where Emma and Killian both get asked to beta-read something of David’s and start anonymously bickering about every conceivable grammatical and lexical and any other feature of the English language in the Google Docs Comment section but what happens after David decides to intervene?

Ohhh intrigueeee.

rating: T for some swearing

~10,000 words

ff.net / ao3

Major love to @ofshipsandswans for listening to me ramble ♥

(Let’s pretend that once Docs assigns you an animal it stays the same. Sorry for the mistakes, btw. Selina is not only amazing but also my beta)

She sat sunken in the soft leather couch, tucked in a corner with a blanket hiding everything from the neck down. Soft music sounded through the room, drifting to every nook chasing away the quiet, the eerie feeling that occasionally lingered in an empty apartment. Emma placed her palm on her face, fingers sliding into her hair as she tiredly rubbed her eyes. It wasn’t even nine yet, school hadn’t been particularly demanding as her early morning class got canceled and she got to sleep in, and still, exhaustion seemed to follow her every move and step. It didn’t help that the days were getting shorter, daylight becoming scarcer, any sign of warmth vanishing into clouds of air.

As tempting as it might be, she wasn’t going to go to bed at nine pm on a Friday. She just couldn’t. That was not an option. She was twenty-one, not seventy-one, for crying out loud. Though she did fit the description with her warm blanket, mug of hot chocolate with a dash of cinnamon, and an episode of that soap opera her best friend and roomie Mary Margaret insisted on recording and that Emma secretly watched when she was alone in their apartment.

Mary Margaret was out on a date with Emma’s brother David, who basically had become a second roommate to Emma. She didn’t mind, however. She loved her brother dearly, ever since they met in middle school, they’d been two peas in a pod and after David’s mom—their mom— decided to adopt Emma, their bond only became stronger. Mary Margaret was thrown into the mix when Emma befriended her in high school and when she introduced them, it was—according to her brother and Mary Margaret, Emma was more skeptical about it all— love at first sight.

It was best that she stayed up until they returned. Emma knew Mary Margaret: dimmed lights and a shut bedroom door would lead to a discussion because she was concerned about Emma’s welfare and social life and so on. And if there was anything Emma could live without, it was the concerned mom speech. She already got her fair share of those from her actual mom, she didn’t need them from her sister-in-law as well.

The lock of the door clicked as the key was turned and Emma hastily grabbed the remote control to stop the episode. She threw the blanket off her and grabbed one of her books. When David and Mary Margaret walked in, slightly giggly and drunk on some expensive Italian wine, she seemed less the spitting image of a socially deprived person and more of that of an intellectual seeking diversion. Not that they would notice anyway, so focused on each other.

“Hey Ems,” her brother greeted her, wide smile on his face.

Oh, he was drunk. He absolutely never called her Ems.

“Hi, David.” Emma looked up, trying to keep herself from laughing. “Wow, it seemed like you two had a great night.”

“We did,” Mary Margaret replied. “Your brother is such a gentleman, Emma. He makes me swoon.” The way Mary Margaret stretched out the word made Emma cave, her laugh filling the apartment.

“Good that he does, Mary Margaret.” She put the book back down, wiping a tear caused by her moment of amusement away, before contently sighing. “Well, I am pretty tired so I’m going to turn in. Night, guys.”

“Night, Emma. We love you,” they said in sync. The alcohol clearly did not blur their supposed true love bond.

Emma snickered. “Love you too, lovebirds.”

The last thing she saw before she closed the door was her brother caressing Mary Margaret’s face while they lovingly gazed at each other and the last thing Emma thought before falling asleep was how she yearned for that kind of love as well.

-/-

“Morning,” David groaned as he emerged from his and Mary Margaret’s room, shutting the door quietly, most likely to grant his girlfriend a few additional moments of sleep.

Emma sipped her coffee with an amused smile while jumping off the stool next to their breakfast counter and grabbing an extra mug to provide David with a necessary kick of energy.

“Morning to you, too. How’s the hangover?”

David flashed her a grateful smile as he accepted Emma’s kind gesture and wrapped his hands around the warm mug.

“Bearable, actually. Mary Margaret forced me to chug something that seemed like a gallon of water so I’m sure that, once I properly wake up, I’ll be as fit as a fiddle again.”

“Good.” She wriggled back onto the chair and continued to munch on the Pop Tart she had chosen as breakfast. “I wasn’t looking forward to spending my Saturday with two grumpy zombies.”

Emma could see the effects of the coffee on David as his gaze became more open, more attentive and as the corners of his lips subtly began to rise.

“How is my lovely sister doing this morning, by the way,” he inquired after a moment, his cup almost empty already.

Narrowing her eyes, Emma took a sip again, watching David over the rim of her mug and trying to figure out why it suddenly seemed as if he was attempting to coax her into doing something she would not like. She knew that tone, had heard it far too often over the years.

After clearing her mouth, she decided to go for the direct approach. It was far too early to beat around the bush. “What do you want and/or need?” She asked, eyebrows shooting upwards.

“You remember that dissertation I’m writing to get my degree?”

She did remember what he was talking about since he had been fretting over the ten-thousand-word paper for months now and the deadline kept on creeping closer. It was important to her brother, if he got his criminology major, the chances of him getting hired as a police officer—a lifelong dream of his— would increase considerably. So, she had endured every freak out session and every lecture about the exact subject he had chosen because that was what siblings did. Once the time came for Emma to write hers, in social studies this time, she knew David would do the same for her.

“Yeah, it’s difficult to forget.” Emma nodded. “But what does that have to do with me?”

She stood up to clear her plate, halting by the trash can to clear some of the remaining crumbs and depositing it in the sink. Turning on her heel, she faced her brother again.

“I need you to work your magic.” David had an apologetic look upon him as he shrugged, his police-themed PJ’s moving along.

“Which is?” She encouraged him to be more specific, to tell her exactly what she needed to do to help him.

“Read it over, give me some feedback, correct the errors that are most definitely in there?” he spoke, his voice rising as if, besides the work he had written, he was now also second-guessing his request to her.

Emma didn’t consider herself a nitpicker, but she had an eye for details and an affinity towards the English language fed by countless stories read and countless tales originating from the depths of her mind. It was a mere hobby, nothing more than an escape when things got too much to handle and people became too demanding that had originated when she was still a foster kid. That did not change Emma’s devotion or attention to detail, however; if anything, it enhanced it.

She wasn’t a nitpicker but she was the kind of person that noticed when commas stood in the wrong place or when the author should have used whom. Numerous of David’s high school assignments had to pass Emma’s watchful gaze first before getting the green light to be handed in and Emma couldn’t understand why her brother was so hesitant about asking her help now. She loved to help him, time and time again.

“David,” she said, soft and reassuring. “Of course, I’ll do it, you’re my brother. I’ll happily correct whatever mistakes I find and give some constructive feedback.”

A joyful smile broke the surface of David’s worried expression. He approached, arms open to embrace her in a hug. Emma wanted to comment on how this was all a bit too much for a simple read-through but as she felt his hand cup the back of her head, she reconsidered, basking in the warm feeling and memories.

-/-

She had to search for the right moment to tackle David’s text. Late in the evening hardly ever worked because her mind was often too clouded with the information it was bombarded with throughout the day, her eyes too tired after staring at textbooks and screens for over six hours, and her fingers fast to make a mistake as they were slow to take commands after writing down seventeen pages of notes. Emma doubted either of those elements would ameliorate the text, if not even worsen.

About four days after David had asked her, Emma finally sat behind the small wooden desk in the corner of her room, opening her laptop and shoving the chair closer. She scoured their Messenger chat to find the link to a Google Docs he had sent her, Emma claiming it would be easier to comment and adjust things on there and David following her advice.

She drank from her mug of coffee, slightly burning her tongue and rubbing it to the edges of her teeth to get rid of the feeling. Softly humming along to her Spotify playlist, Emma saw the link transform into a site and the site slowly loading and supplying a so far six-thousand seven-hundred-word-essay. She could do this, this was what she did best.

As she began to read the introduction to get a general view of what criminological theory she most definitely would not understand the essay was about, she noticed something. Footprints. Steps of someone else who had taken the path she was about to embark on. The words flashed by as she rapidly scrolled down to see if the entire document had already been scrutinized by someone else. And indeed, it had. This “anonymous python” had consistently left feedback on what her brother had written, the blue boxes appearing every paragraph or so.

anonymous python: Effect is the noun, affect the verb

anonymous python: Maybe change this word to another one. You use it thrice in two sentences.

At the end of David’s every line, Emma’s eyes dashed to the margin to see what the other proofreader thought, if they had noticed the same things she had before adding her own. She considered every comment the anonymous python had made, nodding her head in agreement with the logical and just ones, and frowning while reading those that were pure nonsense. Before she knew, she was pressing the reply button to refute whatever claim this Python was making.

anonymous python: You should add a comma here, Dave. It will structure your sentence a bit more.

anonymous swan: Please ignore the anonymous python, David. A comma is useless here, put an em-dash instead.

After checking about a third of the document and losing herself in countering any- and everything that Python had said, Emma looked up at the arrows of her clock, awfully close to the time she was expected in class. In a rush, she locked her computer, chugged the remains of her coffee—a drop missing her mouth and running down her chin before her hand hastily wiped it away— stood up, snatched her bag from her bed and dashed away to her class.

She made it with one minute to spare.

-/-

The weariness engulfing her from head to toe, Emma collapsed on her bed, an unceremonious thud in her flannel sheets. The mattress needed to process the shock, the sudden additional weight and softly bobbed as a ship might’ve on the water. Her room hadn’t quite warmed up yet, so, to give her body the warmth it yearned for, she crawled under the covers. A sigh left her lips as she settled in her own little cocoon of warmth and peace. Not feeling up to do anything else, she was planning a nice evening of scrolling through every social media app known to mankind. Emma struggled to retrieve her phone out of her jeans’ pocket without letting the cold air hit her skin, wriggling around in her sheets and turning from left to right.

A small blinking light caught her attention and she paused the fight against her sheets and pocket. Her eyes turned into slits to be able to determine the source, which was her laptop, still standing on her desk. She forgot to turn it off, right. Just before she could take the decision to ignore it, to keep it like this until the next time she needed it, her brother’s voice appeared in her mind telling her that it was bad for her computer. He wasn’t even here right now and still, he was lecturing her. Grunting, Emma reluctantly lifted her sheets and let the shivers attack her body. Three steps were all it took to reach her desk. Her fingers hit the right combination of keys to unlock the device and she began the close all the tabs she had accumulated during her last browsing session. As she moved her mouse to the red box that would close David’s paper, a sentence caught her interest.

See new changes made by anonymous.

It certainly wasn’t David, or it would’ve said that he made the changes and she didn’t change anything since she last saved everything. It had to be them. The anonymous python. With a strange feeling, a mix of excitement and apprehension, swirling inside of her, Emma looked for the alterations that had been made while she was away.

anonymous python: Excuse me? I do have a degree in English literature, I think I know when a comma is necessary, thank you very much.

“Oh, we’re being snobby, are we?”

Emma snorted and rolled her eyes. So, Python was that kind of person. All indignant and offended when someone knew better and pointed out their mistakes. Also known as Emma’s least favorite kind of person.

anonymous swan: Well, they clearly failed to teach you the most basic of punctuation.

She was already sitting at her computer, reading the document, and the adrenaline had given her new energy, so she might as well continue to do so instead of mindlessly scrolling through social media and watching cat videos. That way she could claim to be productive even if she didn’t actually do anything for school.

Suddenly a blue box popped up on the top of her screen with the white depiction of a snake in it, signaling that the anonymous python had returned.

Shit.

In a surge of panic, Emma shut the page down. Eyes wide and heart beating way faster than it ought to, she stared at her desktop image, hoping that they hadn’t seen her. It was one thing to anonymously bruise someone’s ego, a whole other thing to be in the same online room at the same time with that person, both painfully aware of what had been said.

It was time for a food break—or at least, that was what Emma told herself. She went in search of something to eat and came across a little message from Mary Margaret.

Good evening, Emma. You probably forgot but my archery class is tonight so I won’t be home ‘till late and David is staying at his own place. There’s leftover spaghetti in the fridge for you to devour. Enjoy and see you tonight.

-MM

Times like these made Emma really appreciate her friend and her caring nature. Mary Margaret was sweet, so innocently and selflessly sweet. Emma had told Mary Margaret numerous times that she could also just send a text, seeing that it was indeed the twenty-first century but Mary Margaret persisted and unknowingly brought a smile to Emma’s face every time she found a yellow post-it stuck to the refrigerator, or their table, or her bedroom door.

Emma removed the spaghetti, placed it on a plate and stuck it into the microwave, drumming her fingers against the counter as she waited for her serving of warm food. The seconds ticked away before the machine made a releasing sound while announcing her food was ready.

Plate in hand, she returned to her room and, more importantly, her computer. Taking a deep breath and first a bite of the still too warm food, Emma unlocked her computer again, bracing herself for the response of her online…— of somebody.

Oddly enough, they hadn’t reacted to her obvious jab, so Emma felt her nerves settle, only to be replaced by raging fire as she saw what they had reacted on. Which was almost every comment of hers.

anonymous python: Wrong. Your formulation is even worse than Dave’s original one.

anonymous python: A semicolon? In this sentence? I think not.

Emma was fuming. The audacity of this person. She spent the next half hour alternating between arguing on every comment they made, proving why exactly she was right and angrily chewing on her food. Reading and beta-ing were what she was good at. She didn’t need some know-it-all pointing out all of her mistakes when they were, in fact, not. There was a reason David specifically asked for her help.

(She was ignoring the fact that David had clearly asked someone else as well.)

With more force than was necessary— and healthy for her computer— she shut her screen, in dire need of something to distract her, to lead her away from her place of absolute rage and vindication. It was Python’s right to comment on her remarks as she did the same on theirs but the big difference was that hers were correct and fair criticisms while theirs were just a whole load of crap set out to drive her up the wall.

How very childish.

Continuing to revise David’s paper wasn’t in the cards right now, so she left her desk and decided she’d watch some more of that soap opera. It was the perfect opportunity seeing that Mary Margaret wasn’t getting home until late. As the title track played, Emma chose to be the bigger person and to not get carried away in this feud that had somehow unleashed. She was a responsible and smart adult and was better than this.

-/-

“Son of a bitch,” Emma yelled, fingers typing at inhuman speed. “I’ll show you just how fucking American I am.”

-/-

Emma woke up to the jingling sound of a notification and groaned, burrowing her head deeper into her pillow. She’d created this rule for herself that once she woke up, she could not go back to sleep so as her hand sloppily hunted for her phone, she prayed to Zeus that the time would be some ungodly hour so she could go back to sleep.

Zeus disappointed her.

As he often did.

Tapping her code, Emma saw what had caused her phone to chime and take over the role of her alarm clock.

David Nolan created this group chat. You, David Nolan and Killian Jones are a part of it.

Why would her brother create a group chat when they already had one? And who was this Killian Jones?

It was most likely by accident, a butt-dial sort of incident, though Emma failed to see how it was possible to add two random people who had never interacted to a group. His butt must’ve been oddly specific. Mental images flashed by her closed eyelids, turning her expression into a grimace. Thinking about her brother’s butt was a very bad idea. She should probably stop and focus on the overall situation. David hadn’t sent any additional messages which almost confirmed Emma’s suspicion of it being an accident.

Emma Nolan: ?

Emma Nolan: What’s this?

The white bubble appeared instantaneously and Emma awaited what her brother had to say.

David Nolan: A request to the both of you to stop bickering in the comment section of my paper. Your like little children.

The two of them? Was this mysterious Killian Jones the anonymous python that plagued David’s essay? She reread the message to assure she wasn’t imagining things but that was the message that his text contained. And a mistake.

Killian Jones: Dave, *you’re

Emma Nolan: *you’re

They’d responded at the exact same time and his message was all the confirmation she required. Oh, he was it, alright. Python felt the insistent need to call David Dave on every other comment and it was yet another thing about him that annoyed her and here he–Killian Jones–was using the exact same nickname with the exact same casual air that made Emma roll her eyes every single time. Why did people feel the need to nickname someone else and then only use their nickname? Dave this, Dave that. Emma was quite frankly annoyed. Even more than she already was.

David Nolan: You got my point, so quit it.

David Nolan: Though I am eternally grateful to you both for doing this. Just stop bickering.

The moment Killian had seen the message, Emma could feel him staring at her, assessing her. Not in the creepy way of course, but he wasn’t replying, nor was she, neither of them willing to acknowledge each other now they knew who exactly was hiding behind those pseudonyms. It felt like an online stare down to see who would crack first.

Even though she wanted to be strong, to show this Killian Jones just how stubborn she could be, her brother was still online, awaiting an answer, and what he was asking her—them— was only fair. Emma sighed and typed out a short answer before pressing send.

Emma Nolan: Okay.

Killian Jones: Fine.

-/-

“ Mary Margaret?” Emma said, her right hand holding a wooden spoon as she stirred a pot filled with vegetables and made sure their dinner wouldn’t burn.

“Yes?” her friend answered, walking around their dinner table and stretching her arms to set the plate and glass she was holding on the other side.

“Do you know a Killian Jones?” Her eyes focused on the orange of the carrots and the green of the broccoli.

“Why?”

Because he was incredibly annoying and a smartass and because Emma had discovered that he was also breathtakingly gorgeous after clicking on his Facebook profile. But she still hated him, let that be clear.

Mary Margaret inspected her work, quickly checking off a list of things they would need for dinner and when she concluded everything was present, she rearranged her dark pixie cut and looked up to Emma, who avoided her gaze and went on with stirring with the utmost concentration.

“Doesn’t matter, just answer the question, please,” she muttered.

There was a silence but Emma didn’t dare to turn around to see what was taking Mary Margaret so long before answering. She was just about certain what kind of look Mary Margaret’s expression would bear.

“I know him,” Mary Margaret finally gave in. “He’s one of David’s good friends. Killian is very nice, slightly full of himself but he has a heart of gold.”

Even though Mary Margaret appeared to be convinced of her view on Killian Jones, Emma couldn’t accept it. Mary Margaret saw the good in everyone even when there wasn’t any good to be found. She would give a speech about how everyone was redeemable and that one only needed to hope, so her opinion wasn’t reliable.

“I think you’re depreciating how full he is of himself because he seems pretty egocentric to me.”

And even that was an understatement.

Emma lifted her eyebrow, having found her confidence again and finally facing her friend.

“Why are you asking me this if you’ve met him?” Mary Margaret’s fair skin creased as she frowned.

Extinguishing the fire, Emma removed the vegetables and placed them on the table, turning around to grab the other components of their dinner.

“We haven’t met in real life,” she explained, “We’ve only interacted via Google Docs.”

“And it did not go well?” Mary Margaret assumed correctly.

Thinking back to what had been said, she shook her head, blonde locks slightly swaying along. “Not well” was an understatement too.

“To summarize: we fought incessantly and David made us promise we would call a truce.”

They both settled in their opposite chairs, Emma serving herself and getting ready to eat until she noticed that Mary Margaret hadn’t taken any food yet and was instead staring at her with a confused look.

“I can’t say that this doesn’t surprise me,” she spoke, drawing her eyebrows together anew. “I always thought you two would hit it off. Maybe you should you get to know each other a bit better, you do have some things in common.”

Getting to know him better was just about the last thing Emma wanted to do. It could only end up being a disaster.

“Well, it’s never going to happen. I hate Killian Jones.”

She visibly ended the discussion by taking a large bite of her food, overacting the whole thing to make her message clears but that didn’t stop Mary Margaret from making one last comment that did absolutely nothing to reassure her.

“If you say so, Emma.”

-/-

anonymous python: For goodness’ sake, Swan, he used the wrong tense here. How did you not see that?

anonymous swan: It’s creative license, Jones. It can work. Also, we’re not supposed to bicker and it’s Emma.

anonymous python: We aren’t bickering if you just agree that creative license in a dissertation is bollocks, Swan.

anonymous swan: EMMA. And no can do, sir. I suppose we are bickering.

-/-

anonymous swan: Jones, I am begging you. Please stop changing everything to British spelling. We’re in America. Adjust.

anonymous python: Normally I prefer to do more enjoyable activities with a woman begging me, but you’ve left me no choice. Care to show me?

David Nolan: Jones, stop hitting on my sister. And what did I tell you about bickering?

anonymous python: We’re just having a bit of fun, David.

David Nolan: Then have fun somewhere else than my dissertation.

anonymous python: You heard him, Swan. Let’s have fun somewhere else. Drinks on me tonight, The Merry Men, 9 pm.

David Nolan: No, you’re not doing that.

anonymous python: Don’t fret, Dave. You can join too.

-/-

She shouldn’t actually go, should she? He must’ve been joking, daring her to do something only to not show up to make fun of her. But why would he invite David as well? He wouldn’t do that to his friend, would he? Even though Emma did not hold him in any high regard, he did seem like a good friend to David. So, his proposal must’ve been genuine.

That didn’t help with sorting out her thoughts, it only gave her more questions, more doubts and fears. One thing, however, was blatantly clear.

Killian Jones confused her.

And not in a good way.

(Or so she told herself.)

-/-

The neon letters of the bar flickered against the inky night, a lighthouse in the dark to guide her ashore. She hadn’t figured out yet if it was a trap leading her to the cliffs or not.

Emma inhaled, the cold air almost painfully filling her lungs and shut her eyes. She hadn’t entered, hadn’t met him for real, hadn’t gotten drunk and she was already regretting this.

A decision had to be made. Either to enter or to go home. The internal debate with herself couldn’t last the entire evening or she would freeze. Wrapping her red leather jacket a bit tighter around herself, she shivered. Go inside or go home. There was a warm bar right in front of her and if she chose to go home, she would have to wait for a cab in the cold.

In the end, the prospect of feeling her fingers again won as Emma pushed the heavy wooden door and entered the bar. The heat warmed her skin and she knew she had made the right choice.

Her eyes roamed the room as she searched for her brother’s sandy colored hair, but to no avail.

“And here I thought you wouldn’t show.” Emma was startled by the voice suddenly appearing to her right. And by the accent. It didn’t make it difficult to guess who it belonged to despite the fact they had never spoken. She felt her heart speed up as she faced the source. “Swan.” He smirked, a cheeky and cocky thing that told Emma she had made the wrong choice. “Pleased to finally meet you.”

His hair was a chaos of black, his eyes a sea of blue. And if the dim bar light did not mislead her, his beard a haze of red. No amount of Facebook profile pictures could’ve prepared Emma for this.

“You know my name is Emma.” She stared at him with a raised eyebrow, the picture of not amused and unimpressed. Or so she hoped.

Jones laughed, a resonant thing, while pushing up the sleeves of his light blue shirt which totally did not make him ten times more attractive.

“I do, but I like Swan.” He shrugged. “It suits you.”

“And why is that?” she said, the suspicion coloring her voice.

Their eyes met and even though Emma wanted to look away, she couldn’t; the connection was too strong to sever. He didn’t move either, or blink, or answer the question she’d asked him.

“Feisty and beautiful.” was his reply after a minute or so. Perhaps it was more a couple of seconds. She had no idea. It was like the hard drive of her brain had been deleted and she’d forgotten how to do the most basic of things. Like breathing. Emma took a deep breath through her nose as she shook herself out of the trance. “I must say that your profile picture does not do you justice,” Jones continued.

Emma is surprised her eyes don’t roll out of her skull but the heat rises to her cheeks, nevertheless.

“Wow.” Emma scoffed. “It’s a good thing that you’re buying because I’m going to need a lot of alcohol to handle this.” Her hand drew a circle around his silhouette in the air.

“Say no more,” he smirked and led her to two empty bar chairs.

-/-

“Jane Austen? That’s your favorite author?” she almost shouted in disbelief. Emma had to stop herself from laughing. “Is it because you see yourself as a Mr. Knightley? I hate to break it to you, you’re not. At most a Mr. Elton.”

“I beg your pardon?” He looked genuinely affronted but Emma didn’t know if it was because she was mocking his choice of favorite author or because she was comparing him to one of the worst characters in Emma. “What’s wrong with Jane Austen, she quite frankly wrote terrific books. Who’s your favorite author, may I ask?” he challenged her.

It didn’t take Emma long to come up with a name.

“Hemingway,” she said before taking a swig from her bottle of beer and contently nodding as she thought about it again.

Jones tilted his head and quietly hummed as he considered her answer.

“Very good author,” he finally reacted and Emma was about to start beaming with pride when he continued to speak, “but definitely not worthy of the honor of being your favorite. You need to pick someone who deserves it, with whom you would love to be friends. I for one would love to be friends with Jane Austen. Hemingway… not so much.”

“What?” She tried to find some sign of ridicule or humor but found none. He was being completely honest. And she did not agree in the slightest. “That’s bullshit. I don’t need to like Hemingway as a person to like him as an author.”

“But who he is as a person is reflected in his books. Trust me, I have a degree in literature.”

“Ugh, this again,” she complained and rolled her eyes, a very common occurrence when she was in the company of Killian Jones, it would seem.

“It’s the truth. Oh no!” he suddenly shouted.

Emma almost fell off her bar stool, her hand flying up to her chest in shock and barely missing her bottle of beer on the counter. She looked around, eyes frantically searching for something amiss before they landed on Jones again who sat calmly on his stool, amusedly watching her.

“What?”

“We’re bickering, Swan,” he announced. “David would disapprove.”

Emma clenched her jaw in anger while she attempted to get her heartbeat back to normal.

“You just scared the shit out of me. Where is David by the way?

Jones raised his shoulders, showing that he did not know either what was keeping her brother. Bent on finding out why he hadn’t shown up in the last hour, she fished her phone out of pocket and dialed David’s number. The bar and the area surrounding it kept on getting busier, so as the dial tone rung in Emma’s ears, she left Jones there and went in search of a place where she would be able to hear what David’s most likely lame excuse for running late would be. The continuous ring stopped with a rustle, telling her he had finally picked up.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hey, it’s me. Where are you?” She settled against a brick wall in some hallway not frequented by other people.

“Um.” Emma narrowed her eyes as David struggled to get a uniform answer out. This was suspicious. “I can’t make it.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, sorry, Emma. I have to go.”

And abruptly she was met with the end of the call and silence. Nothing in that call seemed like her brother. The last-minute cancelling—could you even call it that if he was supposed to be here an hour ago— the general vagueness, the abrupt end of the call. Odd. Very odd.

Thinking about it had her frowning as she walked back to the spots Jones and she occupied earlier and that he was still protecting against predators

“Is everything okay?” His eyes showed concern for her.

“Yeah,” Emma reassured him, smiling to get rid of the scowl on her face. “David is not coming.”

Grabbing her deserted bottle of probably lukewarm beer, Emma climbed back onto the stool.

“I don’t really mind if I’m being honest. I’m quite enjoying myself with the present company.”

Were they sitting closer than before? They must be. Emma wasn’t able to discern his distinctive smell before, nor could she see the small scar on his right cheek or how long his eyelashes were. It almost managed to take her breath away.

“I should probably go home,” she whispered.

“Come on, Swan, don’t let a man drink alone.” She felt his gaze trace her face as he pleaded with her, both verbally and physically.

They stared at one another again and for a split second, Emma was certain they were going to kiss. He was going to lean in or she was and their lips would meet and she’d be kissing Killian Jones. The other people around them would disappear as they focused on each other and how their tongues would interact and time would stop as they pulled and pushed, fighting for control and the upper hand. She would moan, he would groan, the feeling so satisfying and it would definitely be mind-blowing. She would instantly regret it.

“I have to go,” she said weakly. “I have an early class tomorrow.”

It was a shit excuse and they both knew it.

-/-

“So?” A chirpy voice behind Emma spoke. At this hour, there was only one person in this apartment that scattered chirpiness: Mary Margaret. “How was your date with Killian?”

How she reminded Emma of how her mom behaved when she went on her first date. Way too nosy and excited about the whole ordeal.

“It wasn’t a date,” Emma reminded her friend. “David was supposed to show up too but he bailed on me.”

Which still confused her. Her brother, who had gone to great lengths to avoid that Jones spent time with her, was suddenly okay with leaving them alone at night, with alcohol involved? It seemed awfully out of character for David. He considered himself her savior, the big brother that had to keep all harm away from his little sister. Killian Jones was far from being harmless and David was aware of that.

“I know.”

“You know?” Emma turned her head, suspiciously eyeing her sister-in-law. If there was one person that could make David not act like himself…

“I might be the reason why?” Mary Margaret grimaced and confirmed Emma’s suspicion.

What the hell?

“Mary Margaret!” came out as a shout. Emma didn’t even try to hide her displeasure.

Of course, she meddled. After her comment from before about how she thought they should get to know each other, Emma could not be surprised that she made sure that they did. She couldn’t be surprised but she could be disgruntled.

“Sorry.” Her hands went up as a defense mechanism. She didn’t seem sorry at all, making it all so much worse. “But, how was it?”

Emma let her change the subject because deep down she’d been wanting to discuss it with someone. She hadn’t rightly figured out what exactly it was she wanted to discuss but she knew she needed to verbalize it, even if it was only an attempt to. Killian Jones did things to her, things she couldn’t wrap her mind around, things that were all over the place as if they swung from left to right, from one opposite to the other and she was stuck watching it all take place.

“He’s … urgh.” It was both a sigh and a grunt at the same time and the best thing she could think of to describe her evening.

“Emma Nolan at loss for words, I didn’t think I would live to see this day.

“I’m not at loss for words I can give you a million words to describe Killian Jones. Aggravating for instance. What else?” She bit her lip in thought, trying to prove she hadn’t lost any of her magic powers. “Oh!” She raised her finger a bit too excitedly as another word came to mind. “He’s also pedantic, conceited and most of the time very…”

“Distracting?” Mary Margaret prompted with a look of compassion.

Emma let her shoulders sag, her whole body following as she dropped herself on their couch. It took a lot of energy to pretend. “Very,” she faintly admitted, hair strewn across the leather and eyes glued to the ceiling.

She felt her legs being lifted as Mary Margaret made room for her to sit on the couch too.

“Emma, there is nothing wrong with asking him to hang out again,” she assured her, a squeeze following meant to emphasize her words but Emma shook her head disagreeing. Mary Margaret couldn’t know that for certain, she lived in this brightly colored fairytale world where everything went great and everyone was happy and got their Happily Ever After. Emma didn’t believe in all of that. This thing with Jones wouldn’t lead to that if they—she— acted on it. She didn’t know where it would lead her and that was why she wouldn’t dare to take the plunge. Staying safely ashore was far safer than risking to drown.

“And grant him the opportunity to gloat at every given moment?” She sat back up, trying to shake off the conflicting feeling and immersing herself back into her earlier mindset. The mindset from when Jones was just still anonymous python and she couldn’t stand the sight of him. Maybe Mary Margaret would believe the act she was putting on. “No, thank you. I need to stay as far away from Killian Jones as possible.”

-/-

“Swan?” Emma froze, her hand still reaching out for the box of hot chocolate mix and her eyes shutting as she winced while hearing the nickname only one person in the whole world called her. Just her luck that that one person was also the one she was avoiding with might and main. But apparently, she couldn’t even go to the supermarket in peace. Maybe if she didn’t move, continued to stand there with her hand in the air, he wouldn’t approach her? Perhaps he would just walk by with an acknowledging nod and she would go about her day without having to face Killian Jones after she very obviously stood him up two weeks ago. Who was she kidding, the universe wasn’t kind enough to grant her that gesture. “What a lovely coincidence.”

Taking a breath, she turned around, a neutral expression on her features instead of the alarmed one they bore.

“Jones,” she curtly addressed him.

He was wearing a dark burgundy sweater, a pair of dark jeans and a warm coat over it to protect him from the outside temperatures; his hair was still a controlled mess and his cheeks slightly rosy due to the cold but what caught Emma’s attention the most was the smile that did not waver from his face.

“I’m happy I’m running into you.”

Emma had noticed that. She needed to be strong, however, to not get distracted by the way his eyes crinkled.

“Why exactly is that?” Her brow skeptically furrowed.

He moved his shopping basket to his left arm to take a step closer to her. Her body wanted to back away but the rack with hot chocolate mixes was in the way. The distance between them had declined so much that, because of their height difference, Emma was now forced to look up to look him in the eye.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something but I didn’t want to do it via Messenger.”

There was a foreboding silence as they watched each other. He wouldn’t dare. She had just gone through two weeks of agony and he wasn’t about to reset her whole process by saying what she thought he was going to say. He couldn’t.

“I wrote an essay for an academic publication-” Emma felt her chest deflate as she let the air out of her lungs in relief. He wasn’t. She mentally thanked Zeus. “-and I was wondering if you could take a look at it?”

“Take a look?” Emma repeated harshly. “Why?” She didn’t give him any time to reply and answered her own question, “To boost your ego? You know what, I think I’m gonna pass. Hey, I have an idea. Maybe you should ask one of your flings, I’m certain they’d love to have the scoop of reading the essay of the prodigal Killian Jones.” To finish her statement, she added a sly smirk— though it was more of a sneer.

They bantered and jabbed, all with the same air of sarcasm and mockery, this was what they did. But why did he appear so defeated, then? So sad? He wasn’t supposed to; he was to supposed to counter with his equally clever remark, another battle in their never-ending war.

“Emma, please, would you read it,” he begged. It wasn’t the way he said it but what that caught her off guard. He’d never called her Emma before. Never, not even once. He purposely and stubbornly refused to. So, this was dead serious. “I’m begging you. I’ll do anything in return. I just need a second set of eyes.”

The desperation drenched his words and Emma could feel her resolution of staying detached fall apart, piece by piece.

“Okay,” she said, before thinking about what she was doing. Her heart clenched at the sight of his distressing disposition and wanted to banish it once and for all. She was pretty sure it would do everything in its power never to see that look again. “You can send me the file. I have to go now but I’ll take a look tonight.”

“Thank you so much, Swan.” He managed to smile a small smile. “You’ve earned my eternal gratitude.

She had no idea what to with that.

Not even five minutes later, her phone chirped.

Killian Jones has sent you a friendship request.

Sighing, Emma clicked accept. It was just a Facebook friendship, she was aware, but still, it was more. She’d agreed to help like a friend would. They suddenly became friends instead of fluctuating in the grey zone of enemies-but-not-really. It felt weird to enter this new territory. To have Killian Jones as a friend while she spent so much time being annoyed by him and far too much time with him residing in the back of her mind.

Killian Jones: Thanks again for doing this, Swan.

Emma Nolan: No problem. So, what do you want me to do precisely? Spelling, grammar, anything else?

Killian Jones: Well, spelling and grammar should be on point, but it can’t hurt to double check. It’s mainly the message, however. Do you get what I’m saying? Am I not repeating myself? Is there a clear structure? etc. I’ve read it so many times now that I’m second guessing every word and phrasing.

Emma Nolan: I can do that. I’ll read it as soon as I can.

Killian Jones: Be kind, Swan.

Emma Nolan: Eh. I’ll see how good this is before making any promises.

-/-

It wasn’t just good, it was incredible. Written with passion and intelligence. He incorporated humor in an academic essay and managed to get away with it. He drew her in from the very first sentence and kept her attention for the whole thirteen pages, the speed with which she was reading only increasing so she could see what else he had written. Fuck, he was talented. And she now had to admit it to him.

anonymous swan: I would add em-dashes here just to clarify the structure of your sentence.

anonymous swan: Good metaphor, I’d go even further with it. Compare more to it, the reader won’t mind one bit

anonymous swan: I thought you said creative license in academic essays was “bollocks”? Someone isn’t being consistent.

Killian Jones: I was expecting you to be more critical

Emma Nolan: So was I, but there was nothing to be critical about. It was really good, surprisingly enough.

Killian Jones: You think so?

Emma Nolan: I do. Well done, Jones.

-/-

Killian Jones: Swan! Guess what!

Emma Nolan: What?

Killian Jones: Because of my essay, I got nominated for the Newcomer of the Year award!!

Emma Nolan: Wow, Impressive! Congratulations!

Killian Jones: Thank you! Apparently, they attempted to reach out to me as soon as it got published, but they got my contact information wrong. The award ceremony is tonight and I thought I’d ask you to come along as a thank you.

Emma Nolan: Jones, I’ve already told you that I did absolutely nothing, stop trying to thank me. Emma Nolan: Besides, fancy award ceremonies and I don’t mix. I’m going to skip. But have fun!

-/-

“Have you heard the news?”

Emma startled as her brother barged into her room without knocking, without so much as a word to warn her of his entrance. In confusion, she took out her earbud, the white pod still blasting her playlist of study music, and silently asked him what he was doing with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

“Have you heard?” he repeated, his voice insisting.

Slamming her book shut and pulling out her other earbud, aware of how she would not be able to do any studying when he was interrogating her in her room’s door opening, she turned to him, begrudgingly giving him her full and prompt attention.

“Heard what, David?” The annoyance was obvious in how she almost spit the words out.

“Killian’s essay got nominated for some prize.”

“I know. Good for him. I already congratulated him.” She failed to see why David had to kick down her door and announce it, interrupting her sacred reversion time. She was finally being productive.

“That’s all?” he asked, disappointed about something Emma couldn’t figure out.

What more could he want?

“Yeah,” she stretched out the word, watching him. “I was invited to come along but I passed. What else do you want me to say?

“Emma!” She was definitely missing something to understand this whole situation. “He asked you out and you said no!”

David provided her with the missing information, but she was wrong, it did not help whatsoever to understand.

“What? I said he didn’t need to thank me with some fancy dinner.” Her voice rose in pitch as she slowly began to comprehend what was going on and tried to defend herself. She was innocent.

“Knowing Killian, he took it as a rejection.”

“No, he didn’t,” Emma was convincing herself more than David at this point. “What are you talking about?”

David grabbed his phone, ceremoniously cleared his throat and started reading, “5:21 pm: “Mate, do you think it’s a good idea to ask your sister to join me? But like on an official date,”” he horrendously copied Jones’ typical lilt. “And then just now, 7:57 pm: “Dave, I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve tried so many times, but I think she’s just not interested. I should give up. Anyways, I have to go. I have a ceremony to attend.””

Her brother was awaiting a reaction but Emma was right there with him, no idea how or what she should react. All she knew was that she didn’t want him to give up. So, all this time spent talking and bickering, that was him trying?

“What happened to him being this suave ladies’ man?”

“Do you really believe that’s who he is? Or even was?” His blue eyes were solemn as he questioned her opinion of his friend. She could see it there, the close bond the two of them had, the way David wanted to protect Killian. Perhaps the reason he never introduced Emma to him wasn’t because he wanted to protect her, but because he wanted to secure his best friend’s fragile heart.

“No,” she answered, head and eyes cast downwards in shame. “Okay, but what do you want me to do about it?”

The look he gave her didn’t leave a lot to the imagination and if it wasn’t quite clear yet, his arms crossing in front of his chest did tell her what he wanted her to do.

“When did you become such a fan of Jones and me together?”

His stern gaze and posture softened again as he thought of an answer which led Emma to think that the answer would be something she wasn’t ready for yet.

“Since I saw how much you’ve both changed since you met one another.” He stepped closer and went to sit on a corner of her desk. “Mary Margaret had to open my eyes but once seen, it could not be unseen. I didn’t completely realize how much you two were talking.”

“About your dissertation,” Emma clarified.

David looked down at her, not a trace of pressure or implication. Only a simple question with no underlying meaning; he was giving her the freedom to answer as she pleased. “Are you sure about that?”

They weren’t only talking about his dissertation. Every conversation might’ve started that way but they slowly but surely drifted to another topic, time and time again. She’d gotten to know a lot about him over the past few weeks she’d considered him a friend, and he about her, more than she cared to admit.

She shut her eyelids and shook her head. Once she reopened them, David sympathetically watched her. The hairs on her body stood upright with the realization that she wanted to try too. Finally, she had gotten ready to risk it, to give him a chance. But Killian told David he was done trying. Fuck.

“Now go.” David shook her out of her contemplation.

“What?” Emma replied in confusion.

“To the ceremony.” David grabbed her arms and helping her out of her chair. “You might still make it on time.”

She had only just come to the realization that she liked him and she already supposed to go and tell him? Oh no, she could not do that. Emma needed at least another couple of days or so to accept it all, and then visit him on her own terms, and then maybe bring up the topic. This was going way too fast.

“David, I can’t just barge in!”

What would it look like? Her swinging open the doors of a black and tie event in her sweatpants and oversized sweater, hair a mess—and not the good kind like Jones’— out of breath and sweating, disrupting some important person holding a speech and all eyes flying over to her just to say that she liked Killian Jones enough to want to date him. Emma’s worst nightmare, that was what it looked like.

“Yes, you can!” he disagreed, pushing her out of the room.

“Why are we yelling?” Mary Margaret appeared in the hallway and joined the conversation.

Before Emma could turn around and answer her question, placating Mary Margaret and downplaying everything to avoid her interference, David took the opportunity to recruit her onto his side.

“Emma is going to Killian’s ceremony to tell him she likes him.”

Waving her hands, she attempted to transfer the message that that wasn’t what they were doing. Everyone needed to calm the fuck down. David needed to stop pushing her, both physically and emotionally; Mary Margaret needed to stop looking at her with that sparkle of hope in her green eyes; and Emma needed the space to breathe and not freak out about everyone knowing she liked Jones.

“Oh my god!” Mary Margaret joined the yelling and simultaneously did so with Emma.

“No, I’m not!”

Her head was starting to hurt and to relieve the pain, Emma began to rub her temples with the tips of her fingers.

Mary Margaret came closer and tenderly placed her hands on both of Emma’s shoulders.

“Emma, you should,” she advised, bringing the yelling to an end with her soft voice. “It would be so very romantic.”

David came to stand right next to her, nodding and echoing what his girlfriend had said, yet again a reappearance of their trademarked true love bond.

“Why are you two like this?” Emma inquired as a last refusal, no idea what she was supposed to do right now. She could feel those two sets of eyes staring at her and pulling her over that line, convincing her, regardless how hard she might be against the idea.

“Emma.” She looked up at her brother and sister-in-law, who were standing awfully close to her in a tiny hallway. “Do you like Killian?”

“Yes.”

Mary Margaret smirked, an unsettling sight because she was not the type of person that smirked. Emma knew that it was decided. They were going.

“Then put on that pretty dress in your closet—you know that soft pink one— and go to the ceremony. I’ll drive.”

Emma supposed it was time to do some grand romantic gesture of her own. Ugh.

-/-

She slipped into the dark room, her dress swishing against her bare legs, and softly closed the door behind her. Scanning the room, she went in search of him and after some squinting, she could spot him in the front row. He looked an awful lot like the day she ran into him at the supermarket, nervous and afraid, with as only difference the suit he was wearing instead of his woolly sweater.

“To end our evening, we would like to announce our Newcomer of the Year,” the slightly balding man on the stage announced. Emma smiled, she had made it just in time. “The winner of this prize is a young, up-and-coming author. After recently having graduated in the studies of English Literature–”

And never shutting up about the fact that he did, Emma thought.

“–our laureate received acclaim for his dissertation and he managed to prove again with his recently written essay that this was all due to his talent and dedication. We are very pleased to announce that this year’s winner is Mr. Killian Jones.”

She clapped and whooped as she saw him walk towards the stage with a brilliant smile, pride swelling and spreading in her chest. He truly deserved this.

Killian reached the microphone and accepted the little statue, giving the host a handshake and looking at the bronze prize in awe.

“Thank you very much. I cannot properly express what it means to have your support. Writing and reading have been passions of mine ever since I was a young lad and to take this path was, therefore, a logical option I’ve not once regretted. Me standing here today would not be possible without my brother and mother who read countless stories until their voices went hoarse, without the amazing friends I have, and without the incredible people who read and gave feedback when the doubt grew too large and to whom I’m eternally grateful. So, thank you. I will treasure this moment forever.”

His speech was met with loud applause and Killian left the stage again, still shaking his head in disbelief. She was about to surprise him again. Waiting in a corner of the room until the mass of people wanting to congratulate him had dispersed and he was alone again, Emma left the shadows and walked over to Killian, who was admiring his prize yet again.

“I believe congratulations are in order. Newcomer of the Year, well done.”

Killian’s eyes left the trophy and moved to her, wide and blinking to see if this was real.

“Swan,” he breathed. “You’re here.”

She shrugged. “I decided that I might try one of these fancy award ceremonies.” Jones beamed as she leaned in. “I particularly liked your speech. Tell me, are there a lot of incredible people that read your text? Or was it just me?”

“Just you, Swan. You are more than enough.”

Fuck these stupid fancy award ceremonies for not being an appropriate place to attack him with her mouth.

Five Years Later

“Are you nervous?” she asked, running her hands through his dark locks, making them look just right. After taking a small step back and nodding approvingly, her hand slid down, settling on his cheek and caressing the soft skin there.

“Why would I be nervous?” His blue eyes looked up and betrayed that his confidence was all just an act.

Which Emma already knew, of course. She knew how he reacted to publishing his own work, to letting people he didn’t know and trust read the things he had worked on for weeks, months and even years sometimes.

“Because I know you and you’re publishing something that’s a bit bigger than just an essay in a magazine this time.” Emma’s eyebrows rose and Killian let out a sigh.

“Yeah,” he finally admitted, covering her hand with his own. “I’m bloody nervous.”

A smile crept on her face and she curled her free arm around his, pulling him closer to her to whisper a confession in his ear.

“I was waiting until you would say that.”

“Were you?” he questioned, tilting his head and lifting one expressive eyebrow.

Moving her head up and down, Emma confirmed. “So I could do this–” Her lips gently brushed his, an innocent thing, but it wasn’t about passion right now. It was about calming him and his nerves down and kissing her almost always seemed to have that effect. “– and tell you that your book is amazing and that everyone is going to love it. It’s the best thing you’ve ever written, Killian. And it can’t hurt that you had the world’s best beta-reader who also happens to be your lovely wife.” She winked, earning a laugh from Killian. “I’ve finally picked a favorite author that deserves it and that I love ” The words carried the memory of their very first date— first according to Killian, Emma wasn’t really convinced of that— and managed to eradicate the last remnants of stress inside of Killian as his hand stopped trembling and his eyes only contained love.

“You’re brilliant, you know that, right?” He cradled her cheeks before letting their foreheads touch.

“And you’ll do great, you know that, right?” she whispered back with closed eyes, reveling in the moment.

“I love you, Swan.”

She felt his lips on hers again and kissed back, the sensation still making her feel lightheaded as it had when they first kissed on the parking lot of the venue Killian had won his first award.

“Go knock them dead.”

He winked one final time at her before walking out on stage, a thunderous applause welcoming him, and Emma left the backstage to join the audience.

“Hello everyone, welcome and thank you for being at this reading,” Killian greeted his fans. “I’ll be reading the first couple of chapters and afterwards, you can get your copy signed if you’d like.”

The book on the stand was opened and Killian began to read.

“This book—and all of its em-dashes— is dedicated to the anonymous swan.”

A/N: This fic—and all of its em-dashes—  is dedicated to the notorious nonnie