#Take a guess of how long i spent drawing on that onion man

[the1weird1pencil]

I sadly don't have a pizzasona (yet)

So I drew a few sonas from the game instead.

Day 4: Pizzasona

[wkemeup]

Sunrise (7)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 4.8k warnings: ✨kissin✨ 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

“I can't believe this happened,” Natasha groaned, sinking further into her couch cushions as if it could swallow her whole. She held a bottle of cheap vodka in her right hand, her left digging through a bag of sour cream and onion chips. Her red hair was untamed for the first time since you’d known her with strands sticking out at the sides and pieces falling out of her braid. She took another swig from the bottle.  

“Maybe it’s not that bad?” you offered, though the slight alteration of your pitch gave way to your doubt.  

Natasha had been hired through her new security firm to work the art rooms at MOMA. You’d walked her through the hiring process and sat through hours' worth of practice interviews and resume building and anxiously bouncing your knee as you both huddled around the library computer and waited for the email to come through confirming her hire.  

She’d worked so hard for this job. She’d held it for almost six months without incident.  

Nat deadpanned as she wiped the excess droplet of vodka from her lips with the wrist of her sweatshirt. “I tackled a civilian, Y/n.”

“You said he was acting suspicious! Isn’t that enough of a defense?” you tried, betrayed again by your tone. You winced.  

“He was staring at me with those beady little eyes of his,” Nat grumbled, shoving a few more chips in her mouth, continuing before she had a chance to swallow. “He kept looking over his shoulder toward me like he was checking the surveillance of the exhibit, like he might be staging a robbery in his head or coming up with methods to blow it all to shit.”  

She huffed the hair from her eyes, only for it to fall down exactly back into place at the center of her forehead. “Turns out the only plotting he was doing was to get my phone number. Didn’t know that, of course, until I’d had him pinned to the ground and his hands behind his back.”

You sighed. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for veterans like Natasha to struggle in maintaining steady employment. Adjusting to civilian life never came easy. It was why so many soldiers chose to reenlist again and again. Even after years of PTSD and the fractured relationships their distance left behind, they boarded that plane. You’d witnessed it firsthand.  

“They fired me,” Nat admitted, sinking further into the couch.  

She was one at the VA the others feared. With her strong features and deep voice, intimidating glare and the aura of a woman twice her size, no one took to her be anything but the stone-cold persona she amplified. You were one of the few she let her guard down around long enough to see the fragile, loving person underneath.  

“I’m sorry, Nat,” you told her. You reached for her hand, squeezing it in your own.  

She shrugged. “It’s fine. Move on to the next one, right?”

You nodded. Keep moving forward. It was the most she could do.  

“But enough about me,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “What’s going on with you and the broody amputee?”  

“Nat!” You swatted her hard on the arm.

She was unbothered, shoving another handful of chips into her mouth. “Don’t pretend like it's not completely obvious how much the two of you are into each other. Every time I look up to take a sip of coffee at book club, one of you is making heart eyes at the other. Spill.”

You didn’t know where to begin. It felt like you’d known Bucky your whole life. But you started with the moment Sam introduced you at the VA. You told her about the moments at the library and how eagerly he read through every book you placed in his hand. You told her about the coffee trips to Luciana’s and the extra time he spent helping you set up for book club and cleaning up when it ended. You told her about the walks in the park and surprise visits at the library. 

There were a few moments you left out, like Bucky’s panic attack on the crowded streets and the flashback episode the fireworks created, but you told her about the good parts. The holding hands. The comfort you felt when he walked into the room. The kiss you’d shared just a few hours earlier.  

“Shit, we’re talking about James Barnes, right?” Natasha laughed as you told her he’d been the one to press forward to kiss you first. “Sam used to talk about him all the time before he started showing his face around the VA. I’d gotten the impression that he was barely keeping it together after what happened over there, like he was a ghost or something. Sounds like he’s got some game back though.”  

You nodded, a laugh on your lips though it felt a little drained. You thought of the picture on Sam’s desk and the vibrance in Bucky’s smile with his arms thrown over the shoulders of his closest friends. You thought of the version of the man Natasha described, the same one Sam referenced in the library the day before when he thanked you for helping Bucky find himself again.  

Curiosity crept it. It was more than that, though. You wanted to understand how a man so full of life and charm and energy could be wiped clean so quickly. You wanted to know, not for your own selfish indulgences, but so you could better understand the man you were falling for. A man who lost himself for so long and was only now starting to pick up the pieces again.  

“Do you know what happened to him?” you asked, a bitter taste of shame lingering in your mouth.

“I don’t.” Natasha shook her head and you sighed, nodding. You resigned to let the inquiry go entirely – it wasn’t something you’d ever ask Bucky about directly, but then Natasha cleared her throat. “I do know he came home with a Bronze Star, though. Sam said he won't even look at it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A what?”

“A Bronze Star. It’s awarded for exceptional bravery in combat,” Natasha explained. “My guess is it’s got something to do with how he lost his arm.”

You suspected as much. He carried himself with such distain, as if he couldn’t stand the body he was in. You’d felt the sharp cringe in his back whenever your hand drew too close to his left side, how he’d often stare at you in disbelief whenever you so willingly reached out to touch him. He’d never once removed his jacket in front of you and sometimes you wondered if he made careful avoidance of the mirrors in his own home, too.  

***

The first time you saw Bucky again, you’d kissed him on the sidewalk. Rushed up to him as you skipped steps descending outside the doors of the Brooklyn Library, hands pressed firmly to the sides of his face, and just... kissed him.

It startled him at first, enough for his arm to hold out at his side, frozen, for just a second too long before it settled on your spine. Your fingers gently traced along the stubble on his cheeks, smiling bright against his lips, and he’d kissed you back as tourists and locals filtered through the busy walkway as if they were little more than a blur around you.  

It became routine, it seemed, for Bucky to be waiting at the steps of the library for you. He didn’t shy away when you raced towards him, didn’t flinch when you reached for his hand, didn’t hold his breath so tight he could hardly focus.  

Instead, he was full of laughter. He made jokes that would put Sam’s cheesy one-liners to shame. He walked with you on empty residential side streets even when his anxiety had started to ease only so could take his time with you, dragging his feet along the pavement to stay by your side as long as possible. It was what he told you, anyway, and your heart just about leapt from your chest. 

You began to see glimpses of the man in the framed picture upon Sam’s desk. Outgoing. Flirtatious. Charming.  

Sam noticed the difference almost instantly. The way his eyes flickered over to the two of you, narrowed upon the absence of space between you both as you leaned against Bucky on the couch, books nestled in your hands. Sam had been standing in the doorway to book club, peering in through the window, when you noticed him staring. His smile grew wide upon his face, a very unsubtle and enthusiastic thumbs-up followed, and you waved him off before Bucky noticed he was there.  

No one in book club asked questions when after another meeting, you’d taken to resting your head on Bucky’s lap as you read, his own book settling on your shoulder. Tony peered over the top of his binding a few times with a curious stare the time Bucky had finished his book early and spend the remainder of the time reading yours over your shoulder, his finger drawing patterns on the top of your thigh, a kiss pressed to your shoulder here and there. Natasha smirked from her seat on the floor.  

It happened so quickly, how easily you’d fallen for him.  

Always in the smallest moments, in the sweetness of his smile, in the way he glanced over at you every so often as if he were checking to make sure you were still there. He opened up pieces of himself to you, set them gently into your hands and waited to see whether you’d keep them safe or throw them to the fire. It was agonizing for him – the vulnerability of trust – but you’d hoped that by protecting the pieces he showed you, he’d feel safe enough to give you more. You wanted it all. You wanted all of him.  

Sam insisted he’d never seen Bucky smile as much as he has been since he met you, including in the time before the war. It surprised you at first, until you remembered the photo on Sam’s desk. It was the same smile Bucky flashed you just moments before when he swiped a bite from your donut while you were talking to Tony. Teasing. Lighthearted. The weight of mere feathers on his back.  

“Y/n? You alright?”

Bucky’s voice drew your attention away from the tourists wandering around the park, taking photographs of the ducks at the edge of the pond and the old oak trees with leaves of fallen red and orange at their roots, the open branches giving way to a view of the Manhattan skyline.  

You blinked a few times, turning to Bucky as he sat on your left, his brows furrowed in concern. You must have been quiet for too long, which was unusual for you, so you pushed out a smile for him, a slight squeeze in his hand.  

“Just thinking,” you told him.

“What about?”

You pulled his hand into your lap, tracing over the lines in his palm absentmindedly. A distant pulse of his heartbeat could be felt in the tips of his fingers.  

“You.”  

He smiled at that, the corners of his mouth curving high up into his cheeks. A twinge of pink rested on the tips of his ears. He chuckled in an effort to hide his nervousness, though it lingered into his voice. “Me? I’m sitting right here.”

“What? I can’t think about you?” you teased, bringing his hand up to your lips as you pressed a kiss to his knuckles. He watched you with the kind of awe that left him speechless for a moment. It was your favorite look on him; how his lips parted ever so slightly, the blue of his eyes shading into something softer, the muscles in his face slacking.  

He cleared his throat. “Uh, I guess that’s okay.”

“Good,” you smirked, setting in against his side. You rested your head on his shoulder, playing with his hand in your lap as you watched two little boys chasing the ducks around the pond, flapping their arms and trying to encourage the ducks to fly.  

You’d been sitting on the old, wooden bench under the tallest oak tree for nearly two hours when you glanced up to find a series of dark clouds rolling in and obstructing the cast of red and oranges filtering along the horizon. They hung heavy and ominous as a shadow lingered over the park.  

“Hey Bucky?” you started, sitting up straight as you gestured to the clouds. He had a sort of sleepy look in his eyes like he could have been content to sit there with you all night long. “We should probably get out of here before—”  

You felt the first raindrop on your cheek. Wiping it away, you looked up into the sky just in time as sheets of rain poured out from the clouds. You gasped, grabbing a firm hold of Bucky’s hand and yanking him up to his feet.  

“Come on!” you yelled over the rush of rain as it slammed onto the cobblestones in the park and shook the trees. Bursting into laughter, you threw the hood of your jacket up over your head in a half-ditched effort to stay dry. Bucky’s hand secure in your own, you took off running, only for his laughter to follow you as he chased you down the streets.

Rain drenched into your hair and ran in droplets down your spine, clothes soaked through to the bone by the time you realized where you were running. Luciana’s was just around the corner, calling to you like trumpets at the golden gates. Hot chocolate nestled between your palms, the warm hum of the radiator, nibbling on leftover pastries from the day. Truly, Heaven.  

By the time you reached Luciana’s, you’d nearly slammed into the door trying to get inside. The canopy was incredibly small, no bigger than space for a single person, but you reached out and gripped Bucky by the lapel of his jacket and tugged him beside you to pull him from the rain. You could feel the heat of his breath through his labored pants, the small puffs of warm air pressing out into the cold, and you laughed nervously at how close you were standing.  

“Her daughter has a dance recital tonight,” Bucky read from the sign posted on the inside of the door. “It’s closed.”

Sure enough, as you looked inside, the lights were out, chairs flipped upside down and resting on the tops of the tables. Rain poured against the windows, the mist of it still catching your spine and you pressed up closer to Bucky, nearly against his chest. You tried to control how fast your heart was beating, but you were almost certain he could feel it.  

“Okay, let me think,” you said, more so to yourself, as you looked out into the streets. They were empty, save for a few cars going about ten under the speed limit and a few teenagers sprinting by in backpacks and school uniforms. Your apartment wasn’t too far from here...

“Follow me!” you shouted over the rainfall, grabbing a hold of his hand.  

***

Bucky didn’t have much time to ask questions, because your hand was in his again and suddenly you were dragging him back out into the streets. You took him down the block, through a few back streets, and along a series of brownstones with fallen leaves littering the streets and the high arch of tree branches shading the sidewalk in small relief from the rain.

You skipped up a few stairs, shouldering open the door and pushed Bucky inside. He waiting in the small doorway as you dug through your bag for a pair of keys, wiping a line of rain from your forehead. You exhaled in relief as the door unlatched and you reached for Bucky’s hand again, guiding him inside.

One floor up and the first door on the left, you stepped inside of your apartment and quickly began rushing around to rid yourself of your jacket and the soaking wet shoes on your feet. Bucky stood planted on the doormat, the door closing slowly behind him.

Rain tapped against the outside windows, a dark cloud of grey hanging in the sky and casting a shadow into your living room. A single lamp illuminated the space in a soft yellow tone, touching over dozens of blankets hanging over the couch and bundled up in a basket on the floor, books piled high on the coffee table, newspapers with highlighter marks folded neatly on the kitchen table, and a few cardigans draped over the chairs.

“Can I make you coffee? Tea?” you asked from the kitchen as you wrung out your hair in the sink, shaking off the excess droplets from your hands. Bucky glanced down at the floor, realizing he was carrying water through the hardwoods in your apartment. He winced, quickly making his way back to the doormat.

“I’m alright, thanks,” he said, keeping himself as small as he could on the mat.

“Take your shoes off,” you instructed, pointing to the series of boots lined up by the door. “I’ll go find you some dry clothes.”

With that, you disappeared into your bedroom.  

Bucky stepped out of his shoes, wandering further inside. He’d been too out of it the last time he was inside your apartment, too unfocused with one foot across the ocean to really look around.  

He found himself drawn to the hallway leading up to your bedroom, with pictures hanging along the wall in old, wooden frames. Some from what looked to be your childhood, with softer features upon your face and dressed in overalls and bright pink sneakers. Then, a few from high school with your arms hung around the shoulders of your friends, mid-laugh. But there was one in particular that caught his attention. 

At the very end of the line, hung a photograph of you standing in front of a couple who looked to be your parents. You seemed to be a few years younger, judging by the cut of your hair and the softness in your features. On your left was a man dressed in an air force uniform, hands clasped behind his back. You were standing on an airbase, smiling, but your eyes were red, reflective. Like you’d been saying goodbye and were desperately pretending otherwise.

“This was all I could find,” you said, emerging back from the bedroom with t-shirt and sweatpants in hand. They were too large for you, men’s sizes, and Bucky felt his heart clench as he saw the faded air force logo on top corner of the shirt. He wondered if it belonged to the man in the photo.

“Thank you,” he nodded as you placed them on the counter.  

You were wringing out your hair with a towel when he realized you’d changed, too. The dampness on your skin clung to the fresh cotton of your t-shirt, pulling it tight against your chest. He exhaled a tense breath.  

"God, look at you,” you laughed, a hand reaching up to touch the tips of his hair as they dripped excess water down onto his shoulders. You pushed it to rest behind his ear, brushing the lingering rain from his cheeks. “It’s unfair, you know?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, confused. “What is?”

“That you look this handsome soaking wet.”

His instinct was to laugh, but the way you were looking at him made his breaths a little shallow, his stomach twisting into knots. You weren’t teasing as you said it, no lingering joke in its wake. He swallowed.  

“I... uh... what? No.” He tried to brush it off, but your hands had slid along his waist behind the hem of his jacket and it stopped him dead in his tracks.  

He held his breath as you flattened your palms against his stomach, running your fingers over what once had been hardened muscle before he let himself fall into darkness that took over his life for months. Now, his body favored something softer. You didn’t seem to mind though as you bit down on the fullest part of your lip, hands sliding around to his spine.  

“Let me take this off? Please?” you asked, voice low, with the kind of inflections laced within your tone that made Bucky shift uncomfortably in his stance. Your hands slipped up along his chest, lingering by his shoulders and you gripped onto the lapel. It was soaking wet.  

“You must be freezing,” you tried again, a little lighter this time, offering him a sweet smile. You must have noticed his apprehension because you softened a bit, letting your hands rest against his cheeks as you drew his attention to you. “It’s alright, Bucky. It’s just me.”

He searched your eyes as you gazed up at him and though he tried, he found no reason to turn you away. His heart was pounding in his chest, his right hand shaking a bit, but then, you leaned forward and captured his lips against your own, and suddenly, he was at ease again.

You kissed him and his right hand found its way to rest against your lower back, pressed flat against your spine; it clenched into the fabric, seeking more, and his fingertips brushed over a sliver of bare skin. He felt your hands slid down along his neck, to his collar, until they slipped under the fabric of his jacket against, resting on his shoulders. You were waiting for his permission.  

Then, as you pulled away from his lips for only a second, he nodded. Your lips returned to his almost instantly, and he wondered if maybe you were trying to distract him, or help to ease him as the fabric draped down off his shoulders. His heart was thunderous in his chest, louder than the press of rainfall against the windows outside, but there was a sense of calm in it, a nervousness certainly, but a comfort, too.  

He felt the weight of the jacket lift from his shoulders as you set it to hang over the chair. He felt instantly lighter, like you’d removed an anvil from his back, and he suspected it had less to do with the rain-soaked fabric than he cared to admit. He kept his eyes closed as your hands roamed along his shoulders, focusing on the feel of your lips as they traveled from the corner of his mouth along his jaw line.  

“Bucky?” you called so sweetly it nearly made his knees buckle.  

“Mmm?” He felt a little dizzy, high on the touch of your lips to his skin.  

He heard the soft ruffle of fabric as you grabbed the clean clothes you brought for him on the counter. Then, your hand slipped into his and he let his eyes flutter open. You were watching him with more affection than he was prepared for. His heart lurched forward, aching to jump right into your arms.

“Come this way.”  

He nodded, trailing behind you as you led him into your bedroom. The lighting was dim, barely casting in a soft orange glow from the lamp at your bedside. The clouds were still dark and heavy as they hung outside the windows, the rain obstructing the view of the brownstones across the street.  

“Here,” you set the clothes on the bed. “Get changed alright? I don’t want you catching a cold.”

You smiled for him and his heart just about burst. Then, you disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.  

Bucky stepped forward, running his hand over the Air Force logo in the top corner of the t-shirt. He picked up the shirt, and held it against his nose. It smelled like you, like maybe you’d been wearing it for years now, but there was a name written in sharpie on the inside tag. It was barely legible, but it didn’t look like your own. He tried not to think about who gave you this shirt and who wore it before him, and he quickly removed the damp one soaked to his skin in favor of the one you’d given him.  

He changed his pants, too, and a wash of relief came over his body as the chill faded from his skin. The clothes were warm, soft, and he raked his fingers through his hair, thankful it had dried enough to stop from dripping down onto the fabric.

“Hey,” you called, emerging from the bathroom. Your eyes paused on him for a moment, taking him in with the fresh clothes on and something unrecognizable flashed over your features – something that resembled sadness. You shook it off quickly, pushing out a smile as you walked toward him. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to your hairline as you wrapped your arms around his waist. “Thank you.”

You leaned up to kiss him again and he swore everything around him came to a sudden stop. You tugged him down onto the bed, sliding in behind him as you threw the covers over you. Bucky kept his back pressed to the mattress as you climbed over his waist, settling with just enough of your weight compressing against him that he found a relief in it.  

His right hand slipped along your waist line, sliding flat over bare skin, warm to the touch. You smiled against his lips and he found himself laughing as you peppered kisses along his cheekbones, his nose, his hairline, down along his jaw, and then finally – back to his lips again.

So lost in you, in the moment, he felt his left hand slid along the underside of your shirt, fabric brushing over the top of his hand as he touched over your ribs and inching closer to your chest. He stifled a moan as he cupped at your breast, swiping his thumb along the pebbled nipple. It wasn’t until he felt an echo of a muscle spasm at his left shoulder that he realized he wasn’t feeling anything at all.  

His eyes snapped open and he found his right hand at the base of your spine, your shirt untouched. Reluctantly he glanced down at his left side; the open sleeve of the t-shirt leaving no pretenses in its wake. He was empty there. A piece of him missing. He tried to swallow back the frustrated groan before it passed through his lips, but you heard it. You felt it, too.

“Bucky?” you questioned, concern littering your eyes as you pulled away. “Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No, of course not,” he replied quickly, brushing his hand along the side of your face until it drew a smile back to your lips. The way you were watching him, like maybe he could entrust you with the darkest parts of himself, if only for glimpse, and it pushed him to say more. “I just... I hate that I can’t hold you the way I want. There’s more that I would—” He groaned, head sinking back into the pillows. “I’m not used to... I don’t— I don’t know how to with only one... um...I haven’t— Not since before—”  

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, his ears flushing red. You seemed to understand what he was saying as you nodded ever so slightly; the fact that he’d barely learned how to manage his life again with only one arm – everything from washing his hair to getting dressed in the morning, to chopping vegetables and reading a book. He hadn’t even attempted to consider what it was like to be with a woman like this; to want to hold her and please her and touch as much of her as he could. It never crossed his mind before you.  

“I’m in no rush,” you said simply, like maybe you were implying you’d wait around long enough for him to figure it out. Or maybe, you’d be willing to help him learn again. You leaned in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “It’s late. You’ll stay tonight, won’t you? I don’t want you out in that storm.”

Bucky nodded, feeling a little dizzy as he stared up at you. Backlit from the soft glow of the lamp illuminating around you like a halo, Bucky would have said yes to just about anything you could have asked of him. Relief pressed over your features and you sank down onto the bed beside him, curling up against his right side.  

Your arm draped across his waist as his circled around your shoulders, fingertips drawing patterns along your skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Then, you reached over him to turn off the lamp and a comfortable darkness blanketed the room, the only break from the silence the gentle tap of the rain against the windowpane.  

For the first night in months, he welcomed the kind embrace of a dreamless sleep.  

[the-ace-with-spades]

(3/6) the best is yet to be

five times someone realized Ronan and Adam were basically married and one time they actually were

Part 1 │Part 2 │Part 4 │Part 5 │Part 6

Read on ao3

Tad had been living on his own since his parents sent him to a boarding school when he was twelve. But being in high school now had its perks — he had his own credit card that he could buy whatever he wanted and never had to eat that awful cafeteria food they served in the dorms.

He usually ate out because it was the fastest and the most sociable but he tried to keep the dorm room and communal kitchen stored with pre-made meals and snacks in case he didn't want to socialize. Eating out alone wasn't really an option when someone has so many friends that go eat in the same places.

The frozen meals didn't always work and he had burned two pans already. The stuff you just have to put in the microwave was far easier.

Henrietta was a crappy small town and there were only two actually big supermarkets near the school. It was already quite late when he decided he wanted onion rings with chilli sauce so he drove a couple of streets and stared around the frozen goods alley, realizing it was probably too late and most of the good stuff was gone.

It was also unbearably hot, since the first heat waves just started to settle in for the summer, and the crappy supermarket AC wasn't working, so standing in the frozen goods alley was the only option, now that he was there and didn't have the energy to leave.

"Come on, we don't need a list," some guy said, way too loud. The voice seemed almost familiar in a sense that Tad had heard it before but he couldn't place where because it reminded him of someone but didn't sound exactly like someone.

It came from behind the alley with toilet paper and Tad couldn't see exactly who it was and wasn't exactly in the mood to go back into the non-heated area.

Maybe it was better. Next, he heard another voice but it was quiet to the point that Tad could only recognize that this someone was speaking something sharp and judgemental.

"I didn't forget it, I just think we could use going wild once in a while."

There was more hashed words in answer to that and if Tad had to guess, it was the wife. In his experience, wives had a tendency to be hysterical about the slightest misbehaviours — his dad had had four of them and every single one of them would argue with him about stupid stuff like why they didn't have a jacuzzi in the house, or why the pool wasn't cleaned twice a week instead of one, or why there was no grill in the kitchen. In Tad's experience, a wife wasn't worth the trouble. Not that Tad even wanted to have one.

"I could pay, I'm going to use up most of the stuff anyway," the man said, obviously fed up now.

He was met with even more sharp words. Tad knew how it worked — his dad often used quiet but pointed words and silent looks and it always felt even worse than being yelled at.

"Babe," the man said, trying for a softer but still frustrated tone.

There was no answer so that was the moment for silent, disappointed looks. If he didn't know that the guy chose to be with — or probably get married to — whoever he was talking to, Tad could almost pity him.

"Fuck, okay, just wait here, I'll go for the shitty list to the car."

And there was back again that annoyed tone with no fake sweetness. It definitely sounded more familiar now.

Tad hated married couples. They would always argue in the middle of the store — or any other place, to be honest — and were always loud and spend weekends in supermarkets or Home Depot like they were their regular date spots and take way too much time to decide about basic stuff like which color of a carpet they should use. He had yet to see a married couple that wouldn't argue about everything that should be casual in life.

This was exactly why he was never getting married.

The stamping sound went away with the guy leaving the store, hidden by the shelves and drawing away, further to the entrance. He was most likely pissed off, even though this was probably some stupid reason to be pissed off and grumbling to himself about his stupid wife. Tad knew the type — rural town couples that hated each other but pretended otherwise because they already spent the money on the wedding or already had a kid together.

Tad heard a deep sigh behind the shelves.

Married. Couples.

Maybe there was enough cool air in the milk and yoghurt fridges alley.

The store was mostly deserted, except for him and that married couple he still hadn't seen, he noticed only a small group of teens from Mountain View next to the chips and a woman with a sleeping baby at the checkout.

The fridges with milk were warm. Henrietta was a crappy town, and this no-name, locally owned supermarket was even crappier. The AC didn't work and the fridges felt like someone was turning them off and on every couple of hours.

The noisy sliding door opened again when he was contemplating buying vanilla milk, and the angry stamping could be heard, becoming louder and stopping in the cereal alley nearby. Tad was ready for the next argument, really, it was like the cheap version of reality tv. At least the baby at the checkout wasn't crying.

"I got the fucking list."

And the next quarrel was there.

There was silence and the cart in that alley moved — it was just a couple of seconds before it stopped again with a horrendous screech.

"Come on," the guy said. "Don't give me the silent treatment, it was just a stupid list."

There was a longer, even quieter monologue that was just as exasperated.

"Fuck, I know," the guy said, now giving in. "I'm sorry."

Tad didn't hear anything at all but there had to be an answer because the guy said, "You asshole."

This didn't exactly sound like something you should call your significant other just after a fight but Tad wasn't one to judge.

The cart moved again and Tad pretended he was busy choosing between vanilla and chocolate milk and not at all eavesdropping.

From around the corner of the shelves, Adam Parrish, leaning heavily on the handlebar, pushed the cart closer to the wall with the fridges. What made Tad freeze at once was Ronan Lynch, with his chin hooked over Parrish's shoulder and arms wound around his waist, hanging onto him like a leech. Really, this just ensured that his opinion on Lynch was right and Lynch was a parasite that fed on people who would otherwise make great friends, like Parrish or Gansey.

There had been different rumours about Lynch in school. Some said he was dead in a ditch. Some said he was in rehab in some private clinic in Florida. Some said he left with his brothers for DC. Some said he fucked off and became a farmer. None of those ideas seemed realistic but Gansey was adamant about not answering any questions and no one had seen Lynch in almost two months so the imagination was flowing wild. Personally, if he had to choose, Tad would bet for the second option.

"Parrish," he said, because he really didn’t know what else he could.

His eyes were still going up and down the weird fixture that was both of them, practically glued to each other, when Adam answered.

"Carruthers."

Parrish was wearing a black jean jacket full of tears and patches and pins and with slightly too long sleeves — too expensive to be his — and it looked completely out of place on him, Tad had only ever seen him in that crappy secondhand school uniform. Underneath he had the coveralls, tied low on his hips, faded out and stained with oil. If anything, Tad felt hot just looking at him.

The brightness of Lynch's shirt was almost as unexpected, because he had never seen him in anything but the school uniform, or black clothes — it was a red Coca Cola t-shirt, a little too small on him.

Tad made a step closer, reaching his hand for that weird handshake-high-five that Gansey and Parrish often did. Parrish took a step back and that step meant he was hips-to-hips with Lynch who was clinging to him. Instead of moving out of the way or yelling at Lynch to move out of the way, Parrish just stood there, ignoring it completely, like this was something normal.

"So," he began, pointedly ignoring Lynch. "What are you doing here?"

"Grocery," Parrish said and when Tad didn't find anything to reply with for a minute, he added. "We ran out of toothpaste. And some other stuff."

The we there was very explicit.

"You want something, shithead, or can we do our thing without your stalker eyes on us?"

Lynch was pleasant as always.

Maybe Tad should ask Parrish if he was blackmailed into, well, whatever that was. Maybe Parrish would finally realize all the hints Tad had been giving him and realize that he had options other than Lynch.

But then he realized — it had been Lynch's voice, back in the toilet paper alley, just unbelievably calm.

[nafeary]

Matchup requested by @munarisblog

Hi! I was wondering if I could get a match up for Ikemen Vampire please! 🙏🏻💕

(I hope you’re still receiving them, if not I’m sorry! ;~;)

Appearance: I have expressive dark brown eyes and dark brown wavy hair that goes a little past my shoulders. I’m 1.56 m and I have a pear like body shape (small waist, but flat chested :’D🍐). I look younger than my age and people never believe or guess my age correctly. I have a tiny beauty mark on my upper left lip and long eyelashes that I’m very proud of! :3

Personality: I’m a latina girl, sun scorpio/moon libra, INFP-T and ambivert. At first, I’m shy, and reserved towards strangers yet I’m polite and respectful. However, once I’m comfortable… oh dear~

I’m funny (I enjoy making people laugh), childish (yet I can be mature, serious and wise when the situation requires it), a little pervert, honest, very affectionate, feminine, empathetic, sweet and kind. I don’t mind helping others (with chores/work, listening to their problems or giving advice/comfort).

Sadly I’m very insecure about my capabilities and body, so I’m very hard on myself and self cautious. I tend to keep everything to myself, because I don’t like people worrying about me or causing problems. I’m also very indecisive, shy, AN OVER THINKER, absent minded and naive, a little dramatic, lazy and noisy (just a little ^^’).

Likes: small physical gestures (both give and receive. I love showing affection towards my love ones!), listening to music, sing, dance, fashion, cooking, sleeping, swimming, day-dreaming, tea and coffee.

Dislikes: ungratefulness, injustice, liars, hypocrisy, waking up early, people invading my space or taking my things without permission, fights/discussions, when someone nags me, feeling stupid, sweat, onion and fish

Hobbies: playing phone games, making edits/memes, cooking, embroidery, drawing, reading manhwas (Korean “mangas”), playing the transverse flute, singing, dancing and writing

Random facts: I sleep hugging into something (stuffed animals or even people), I know 3 languages, I’m ichthyophobic, I blush easily, I’m easy to tease and I’m studying nutrition :D

I’m really sorry it ended up being very long and I delivered it late ;-;. I loved the match ups you have done so far and I wanted one! Also your work is great!! Keep the good work and stay safe! 💕 (if you’re not receiving any more match ups, feel free to delete it (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞)

I knew you were sweet, but this made me love you even more~ and don’t worry about the length of it, it gives me more material to work with, so no worries :))) thank you so much for all the kind words, and I hope you’re safe too 💙

I ship you with, *le drumrolls*

The Gentle Angel

Vincent Van Gogh

I. Ship. It. That’s all I can say. Jk, I wouldn’t do that lol Theo might kill me.

At first I was like, oh my, you’re both overthinkers (which was obvious when Vincent was self conscious because MC would call him adorable but Leon and Jean masculine). But that my Cupid’s arrow was like “bro, but everything else fits so well”. And i gotta say, Cupid knows his shit.

So, you’d become friends really really quick, similar in the aspect of social etiquette, not to mention that both of you are probably the reincarnation of cinnamon roles. He’s often catch himself inspired by you; be it your unique and passionate sense of fashion, the tones drifting through the air when singing along to Mozart’s pieces, or your dancing to the early sun, his artworks seemed to paint themselves.

Theo, of course, noticed, and promptly teased his brother, of course. You, of course, noticed, and promptly teased the artist, of course. (He mentioned your growing blush, which quickly shit you up in embarrassment.)

The moment marking the beginning of your relationship, was when Vincent himself asked you to be his muse. Arthur had seen your frown as you gazed solemnly upon your reflection. King of perception told Theo, who then told Vincent.

He couldn’t believe his adorable dorky unique and beautiful ears. You were insecure? About your body? Seldom had he had the chance to meet an exotic beauty such as yourself, and he couldn’t help but seek you out. In his room you had asked him how to pose, and he replied with nothing short of the sweetest smile. Whatever you are comfortable with.

You were aware of your growing feelings for the man (apparently mutual ones, according to his younger brother), and you couldn’t help perverted thoughts from infiltrating your thought process, especially after he had given you constant reassurances of your misplaced insecurities. Considering your close friendship, you felt little to no timidity.

This boy choked when he turned back around, your dress dangerous just above your breasts. Wanting to show you that he was serious about this, he began painting anyway. He confessed his feelings then, and the night was spent with one cuddle session after another.

Bonus: After allowing you to use his paint, you’d draw memes of the residents (especially Theo and Arthur. Dazai found it so hilarious, he fell off the window sill, to your delight.... because he laughed, not cause he almost died).

You’d often pester Theo about his eating habits, claiming it to be more than deadly. Vincent was ecstatic that instead of four cubes of deadly poison sugar, he only put 1 3 into his coffee, as per advice of his nutrition expert and girlfriend.

[dealbrekker]

The Stars in a Child’s Eyes

So my friend informed me that the fandom rather loves the idea that Lucifer created the stars, and I immediately fell in love and decided to write this.  I’m still only on season 2, but can reasonably assume Chloe learns the truth eventually.  So this little scene takes place after that.  Enjoy!

~~~  

“Lucifer!”

Trixie’s cry of welcome from the other room sent Chloe’s heart pounding even as a grin parted her lips. Maze, seated across the counter, shot her a look, winked, and disappeared into her room.  Chloe’s face warmed, but she steeled herself and shouted a greeting from her spot in the kitchen.  A grunt of exasperation answered, and Chloe knew Trixie had enveloped the Devil in one of her particularly jubilant hugs.

My child is hugging the Devil.

The idea would never really vanish from her thoughts, she knew.  It was…too much.  Too much for her human brain to handle entirely.  Even that phrase, human brain, was too much.  Too self-aware.  And, if the knowledge that Satan himself walked the earth no longer bothered her in what should have been an obvious way, there’d always be that voice that nagged: The Devil.  

This was to say nothing of her heart, which somehow made her prided logic as inconsequential as a tickle under the nose.

Indeed, hers positively leapt when the man in question poked his head around the corner and leered dramatically at her.

“Detective!  I would come deliver a proper greeting unto you, but,” he grunted again and turned, one hand planted firmly on the wall. “Small human, please, I’m talking to—yes, alright.”  He turned back to Chloe.  “Your offspring is outlandishly annoying today, Detective, did you not walk her or something?”

His body jerked, and Chloe could only assume he was being tugged in the opposite direction by Trixie.

“Manners, Trix,” she warned halfheartedly.  Seeing Lucifer manhandled by a little girl held a certain charm.  Especially once he made a show of relenting.

“Yes, human child, what do you want?”

Trixie huffed.  “I want to show you my constellations. Mommy just put them up today! They glow in the dark!”

Lucifer shot a look at Chloe.  She was unable to read his expression.

“Oh,” he said.  “Color me intrigued, tiny child.”  He let Trixie lead him off to her bedroom.

Chloe refocused her attention on the vegetables on her cutting board.  The recipe called for three carrots, an onion, garlic…

Her fingers were the only things in the game, this evening, with her head and feelings conspiring to draw her toward the muffled voices down the hall.  Not the safest way to go about using cutlery.  Trixie’s voice came to her most clearly.  She was so excited about the plastic sticky stars Chloe had brought home that afternoon.  The girl’s class had been studying space this week, and she had spent that time educating Chloe and Maze about what stars were made of and the fact that space was a vacuum and as such, no one could hear you scream.  Choe expected that fun tidbit was more for Maze’s benefit than hers. The demon—demon—had laughed enthusiastically.  

“That is true,” she’d conceded when Trixie had beamed at her.  “But what fun is that?”

Chloe had put the brakes on the rest of the conversation by telling Trixie to go get her homework started.  She’d long since given up on chastising Maze with words, but threw the wicked thing a look anyway.  Maze only chuckled.

“Those schools would shit themselves if they knew how space really came to be.”

Chloe, immediately interested but unwilling to show it had asked, “Oh?”

Mazikeen turned flinty eyes on her.  Her lip had curled in that needling way.  “Lucifer created the stars.”

Chloe had no reason to disbelieve those words.  She’d spent enough time skeptical of a lot of things, that this fact clicked into place rather easily.  Lucifer meant light bringer, after all, that much she recalled from her youth.  He’d done inhuman things plenty of times in her presence.  Turning on a few lights seemed almost blasé.  

Trixie’s voice rose from her room, and Chloe set down the knife and wiped her hands.  Slipping down the hall, her mind dwelled unerringly on the fact that her ten-year-old was currently lecturing Lucifer on the mechanics of red dwarf stars and black holes.  Stopping quietly outside the door, she wondered how much Trixie truly understood of Lucifer and Maze.  Hell, she probably understood more than even Chloe did, smart creature that she was. If she knew the truth, the little girl had taken it in stride, and treated the pair with as much blinding enthusiasm as she’d always shown.

“And this is Ursa Major and this is Ursa Minor,” her voice piped from behind the dark crack in the door.  “Ursa is latin for bear.  I guess if you squint, they kind of look like bears…”

She was cut off by an obnoxious snort of derision.  A sound came, like snapping fingers, followed by a gasp of emotion so strong, Chloe felt the hair on her arms rise.  The black shaft of space between the door and the frame lit up and flashed, almost like a fire had started.  She eased the door open and looked inside.

Stars—no, galaxies—spanned the ceiling of Trixie’s room.  Chloe felt her mouth drop open and the air catch in her lungs.  No more could you see the plastic ones tenderly pressed to the plaster earlier that day.  The space was laden thick with real stars. They bloomed like flowers in double time, flickered like sparklers in July, gave off heat that should have melted skin but merely warmed the air comfortably.  The exquisite glow seeped through the dark and turned the room white.  

Trixie looked at the stars and nothing, nothing, would ever mirror the beauty of them reflected in her eyes.  Chloe tore herself away from the image to look at the being responsible for it all.

“No, no.” Lucifer scoffed.  “That’s not meant to be a bear.  Or a lion.  Or a dipper.” He muttered something under his breath, but Chloe only heard dipper repeated with scorn.  Trixie giggled.  Lucifer snapped his fingers again, and the room grew brighter still, more stars erupting across the ceiling.  So many, they seemed to trickle down like dust motes, and cling like snow to Chloe’s lashes.  “I ignited a swath of pure, unbridled chaos into creation’s pitch-black nothingness, and you ridiculous humans had to go and play connect the dots.”

Chloe nearly laughed out loud at the indignant spasm that crossed Lucifer’s face.  “It was random,” he insisted, more so to himself, now. He was watching Trixie play with the stars.  She’d hesitated at first, afraid to touch the balls of light.  But now she grabbed them up and threw them around like confetti.  His voice was low.  Reflective.  “It was wild abandon in all my Father’s order.”  Trixie laughed as a star shower spun around her, faster and faster until Chloe could only see the blur of her features.  Her daughter did not notice Lucifer twirling his fingers to shape the whirlwind, but Chloe did.

Lucifer’s eyes glittered in all that starshine, and he sighed.  She wondered, suddenly, how his wings would have looked amidst so much heavenly light.

“It was my way of saying, ‘Here is that beauty you’re trying to so hard to manufacture.  Instant, unplanned.  Just.   Here.’”

Miniature supernovas exploded around the room, and Trixie gasped delightedly, her joy as effervescent as the popping suns.  Chloe heard all of this, and could not remove her gaze from Lucifer as he rubbed stardust between his fingers, his own attention fixed on the glimmer at his command.

A loud shout of triumph brought both of them out of their reveries, Chloe more slowly so she did not miss the slight widening of Lucifer’s eyes or the quick quirk of his lip.

Trixie had pushed and pulled stars before her, shaping them into a mass that sort of resembled…

“Well,” Lucifer hummed.  His head turned, then, and his eyes caught Chloe standing in the doorway.  She felt pinned under their age—billions of years and twice as many stars passing between the two of them in a single, human heartbeat.  She could not know that when he looked into her eyes, he swore nothing would ever replicate the grace of his stars shining there.

“I suppose it does look a bit like a dipper.”

[johnnys-so]

I recall you saying you don't know Day6 well enough for an analysis, but what about now? If you can, we'd love one. Thank you!

HEYOOO! 

Umm a lot hasn’t changed on that front but I feel like the distance might be a good thing so I’m going to attach some small mini-analysis after the cut.

sungjin

Bob is literally the most dad friend ever and I think he really takes the cake (though GOT7′s JB comes a close second). He looks so constantly done with all of his members, and yet - probably the one who cleans the kitchen and makes sure to stock up on water/ramyeon/veggies etc.

I feel like he was born to be the hyung, you know? He is the responsible and primary caregiver type. Even though he doesn’t make a big show of it, it seems to be a big part of his personality that he takes care of other people

Also, my god his humour is just.... something commendable, truly. He can’t be funny to save his ass but atleast he keeps trying and i think THATS what so funny about him??? sungjin-ah.... never give up bby

I feel like he’s the least complicated of all members. He doesn’t seem to be the emotionally volatile type and seems very centred in his personality, he also seems oddly like he might have a sister? a younger one (does he? idk, mydays pls let me know). it’s just that other than the protective bear stereotype, he does seem emotionally well-adjusted. Maybe he’s just at that point in life where he can encounter a shitty day or some sort of hardship and look at it straight and say - ok, that’s fucked up. But I guess we gotta just work through it. (in comparison, wonpil would be shrieking through his lungs AND working through it)

in terms of a temper i think he most certainly has one but it takes him a while to get there and i don’t think he’d talk through it AT ALL. maybe cleanliness would be his pet peeve? (im just shooting in the dark here)

to wrap it up, sungjin is the sort of guy (in my opinion at least) who has a strong and steady value system and he’s sort of ok with dealing with the world as long as he has it figured out in his head. He knows who he is, and therefore there is little conflict he brings to the world. If he wasn’t playing in this band, I’d 1000% see him settle for the corporate life and clean9 to 5 job which lets him come back home by 7pm and have some cold beer while watching football and hearing his kids play in the living room

Jae

Aww man this skinny bitch. I feel like the fandom is sleeping on his ‘annoying prankster’ potential because i think  he’d give peeves a run for his money

derives great joy from the misery and anguish of others (probably has Wonpil maniacally laughing in the background)

on a normal day Jae is the sort of person who’s probably going through memes on the phone while everyone’s having a serious conversation about their tour or like their everyday schedules. He has a few things he cares about in life and is okay to take a backseat when it comes to the other shit. As long as he gets what he needs (a possible slytherin mofo?)

But that’s not to say that he’s easygoing or wishywashy about the things that he does care about. Music, matters a lot to him. Even though he’s not academically musically instructed (as young k is) he has spent a whole lot of time and effort into educating himself to the point that it really shows in their albums (i could wax poetry about the complexity of Day6′s music and how its so refreshing in it’s personality of being both goth and peppy i-). So Jae is most certainly determined, goal driven and very intrinsically motivated

Also, very much in his head. If he doesn’t have a strong pisces placement, I’m willing to eat my foot. I feel like while Young K is very intense about his emotions, Jae gets very emotional about the people he surrounds himself with.

With people: not very trusting of everyone. Has a chosen few that he goes to certain things about. Might be the kind of person who distributes his troubles by categories to various confidants. But also, trust is something that is earned with jae. But that is not to say that he won’t get along with other people. He’s cordial and is good in engaging a crowd (as a performer, MC, friend, VJ) but he’s also good at drawing lines and boundaries

the most incredible part of his personality for me has always been his work-ethic and his drive to be better. He’s always challenging himself through his existing skill set, but also pushing himself to learn new things. Sounds like a bloody workaholic to me. 

probably shit at figuring out his own feelings/emotions/attitude about certain things. But always up for being the wise advice-giver to other delinquents (read: jamie)

sarcastic wit to sass everyone for days. probably a loki over thor guy

Kink master extraordinaire. Likes cooking up shit and encourages people to sin.

Young K

emo baby af. But we all knew this so more on that later

The ultimate Onion of a personality. Young K, off the bat, seems like he hides so many layers. Not purposely at all, but simply because he’s unable to communicate the extent of his mental world to the public

one beautiful way he has found to channelise all of his thoughts and ideas about the world is clearly through his music and lyrics. But he’s also extremely creative in other ways (art and fashion). I feel like he’s the sort of person who feels most confident and assured in himself when he’s creating. 

socially, what a mess. I wouldn’t say he has trust issues like Jae does but im pretty sure he’s made some foolish mistakes about choosing friends and not realising how to navigate that friendship (friendships where he has demanded too much or has been demanded too much of??). But otherwise a jovial fool the kind of person who laughs the loudest (and dorkiest) at a dinner with friends

how’s his alcohol intake? I have this super funny intake of a drunk young k trying to write mini love poems for all his friends and sungjin being called to take him home and the call actually begins with “did he try to be poetic again?”

while im trying to paint a picture of him as a jester (because young k also needs to be seen for beyond his emotionality) he’s the kind of guy that would surprise you with how brilliant he is. An actual wisecrack/genius, and very underappreciated. I wouldn’t be surprised if he someday returns to teaching

Right. Emotionality though. If he isn’t some pisces (sun or moon) i will actually yell. He’s the definition of ‘someone who navigates an alternate plane, is open to a world that most people don’t even begin to understand exists’. i feel like speaking to him about abstract concepts - such as the existence of truth, the point of life, the definition of beauty, other existential phenomenon - would be so much fun because he’s have such an interesting and unconventional take on things. I feel like he’s make me humble with the words he has (he already makes me feel so secure with all of his lyrics because i realize, even if the world is shit what a relief that someone like young k exists)

probably would be a guilt-ridden but a wonderfully emotionally supportive boyfriend. Someone who understands your demons all too well and would go the extra mile to provide whatever help he can

1000% has high neuroticism scores that would be cause for concern. someone give him a Beck’s depression inventory right away.

HAHAHAHAH probably the fucking kinkiest mofo, after Jae

Wonpil

An actual baby!!

No ok but wonpil has matured THE most in all of Day6 and i really didn’t realise it until i notice how his expressions have become more closed during airport pics, and his voice has gained a new level of emotionality in live stages, and he’s also a lot more reserved these days on variety shows

still the most extrovert in the group. I just think the fame, the crowd, the possible betrayals as a result of their growing fame and having to be an adult in this tough situation - has gotten to him. But that’s inevitable really. None of us can be protected from the reality of life that leeches away at our innocence

such a vibrant soul. Such a giver. As a friend, he’s literal sunshine. Not much of a protector, but more of an amicable I’ll-always-be-there-for-you sort of person (though im guessing the amount of people he extends this courtesy to nowadays has probably reduced. 

fucking made to be an entertainer. He’s naturally funny and attracts all the energy (and eyes) in the room to himself. A very good mood maker if you will

in terms of neuroticism, I think he’d be more on the depression (from the constant stress workstyle and the increasing loneliness) than an anxious person. I think he probably is a bit volatile in his emotions but that’s because he gets lost in the moment. He’s literally someone who lives in the present far more than he lives in the past (sungjin or young k) or the future (jae)

don’t think he's intrinsically motivated much. Prone to a lot of lazy days, a lot of extreme gaming and just randomnly playing jokes and pranks on people. he’d need some strongly external guidance/deadlines to get his work ethic going

high extraversion and agreeableness, probably low on conscientiousness (especially discpline) but fascinated by aesthetic beauty (openness to experience).

Dowoon

Honest to god i cannot figure him out. I think it’s a case of - im trying to look deeper and harder but the truth is, it’s not even that complicated

underappreciated oppa potential 100000%

still comes through as a dork of a maknae. has zeROhand eye coordination outside of drumming. the kind of kid who breaks the glassware and blames it on his sibling (wonpil) and his parents totally believe him because he could do no wrong (aka sungjin grudginly yells at wonpil, again, about house rules)

just a man dedicated to his drums and his food. if he can play some solid beats, get some work done on the albums, play a nice set on a tour, have some chicken and beer while he is resting, have his hyungs fool around in the green room --> he good bruh

but by no means does that make him a fool (though i do think he’s a bit of a fool sometimes when it comes to picking up social cues about wonpil/jae making fun of him. he lacks the 눈치 you know what i mean)

Also (maybe I just love plot twists) but i think he’d be eerily good at picking up on people feeling sad/depressed/lonely/off in general. He’d be like that guy who just walks into the room and sees you just slinking away on the sofa and he thinks.... nah im just going to give them space and go get myself some food. But literally a few seconds later, he sits by you on the sofa, offers you food, and asks what’s on your mind. The silent supporter kind. Willing to listen, willing to be there for you

i don’t know much about dowoon so im just going to end this with: arms that can lift kids/ crush you in a bear hug/ pin you against a wall and leave bit marks on your neck

sorry if that didn’t cover much. I sort of only know day6 with their music. If im extremely wrong or way off about someone, please reach out and correct me!!

[jhsbrat]

stories that never were pt. 4

beautiful mane, i’m the lion. 

beautiful man, i know you’re lying. 

genre: stories that never were pt. 4

word count: 2,966

warnings: some fluff, mostly angst

Day 117

“Babe,” you giggle, holding on desperately to the bars of the roundabout, hair whipping around you as the world spins. “I’m gonna puke!”

Hoseok laughs but doesn’t stop, his breath coming out in quick pants as he pushes the playground contraption faster. Cheeks ruddy from exertion, his eyes nevertheless follow your movements as your hand slips from the bar and you allow yourself to lay back flat on the twirling disk. He waits for an opening and then slides onto it as well, settling himself against your side. You turn your head to look at his face, his dark hair falling against his brow and chest still heaving up and down.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“I’d have to say the same.”

The two of you smile at each other dopily, the rotating movement of the roundabout making you a little dizzy.

“When you offered to go on a midnight walk with me, I didn’t think this is what you meant.” You sigh and burrow a little closer into his chest.

He chuckles and you feel the reverberation, the pound of his heart.

“Well, I wanted to show you my favorite place in the city to look at the stars,” he strokes a hand against your hair, down your back, tickling the dip before your jeans where light fuzz grows. “There’s just something really cool about looking up at the night sky while slowly spinning. It’s peaceful, you know?”

You move away from the warmth of his chest and turn your gaze upwards instead, eyes moving around the constellations watching you. “Yeah, it is a good view.”

Hoseok takes that moment to look back at you, drawing the hair back from your face to see you better. “A great view,” he says softly.

Day 244

You watch Hoseok execute another spin, then pause to look at himself in the mirror.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, going back to his starting position.

You sigh and go up to him, hooking your chin on his shoulder. Beads of sweat roll down his neck. Parts of his white shirt have gone translucent with perspiration. You catch his gaze in the mirror, the reflection of your two bodies staring back at you.

“C’mon, you need a break. Let’s take a drive into the city. The monuments are beautiful at night.” You tease, nipping at his nape. The moisture there slips onto your tongue, but it’s been a long time since the taste of his sweat made you curl back in distaste.  

He smiles softly, but shrugs you off. “I just really want to get this down. The showcase is coming up soon. You can go home, I’ll meet you there later.”

Moving slowly, you walk around the dance studio to pick up your belongings before heading towards the door. Stopping at the entrance, you turn around to watch him one more time. He’s twisting in front of the mirror, moves sharp, eyes precisely following the movement of his limbs.

You leave.

Day 43

“Face it, you’re shit at beer pong!”

“Well, I’m sorry I spent most of my college career actually studying for class instead of partaking in Neanderthal drinking games.” You say as you walk up the steps to your townhouse, sliding the wristband with your key tied onto it off your arm.

Hoseok trips up the steps to your side. His cheeks had slowly gone red over the course of the night. It was true that during his four years at university, most of his Saturday nights were lazed away at random house parties, perfecting his free throw from the end of a ping-pong table. But your weekends post-graduation were consumed of getting absolutely hammered, courtesy of creepy guys at downtown bars and bad decisions. It had afforded you, at the very least, with a way better tolerance level than the man beside you.

“I think I’m going to hurl,” he mutters, hands stuffed in his pockets.    

You roll your eyes, but self-righteous isn’t a good look on you when you’re struggling to fit your key through the lock. Hoseok giggles and comes closer, trying to help, but it just results in your keys clanging to the floor instead. Both of you dive for them at the same time, butting your heads into each other.

You groan and slide to the floor of your stoop in defeat. “I’ll just sleep out here, no worries.”

“I may be stupid, but I’m not drunk and I’m not leaving you out here alone,” Hoseok clambers down to join you, then stares off into the distance. “Wait-“

You snicker and nuzzle your head into his shoulder. “That was cute.”

Hoseok grins, looking down at your face. “Wow, was that you expressing an emotion?”

You wrinkle your nose and straighten up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re kinda like a closed book, you know. I never really know what’s going on in there.” He taps the side of your temple and smirks, then flops down to spread out his limbs on your doorstep.

You blink, looking out into the empty street. “Did you want me to relay my every thought to you or something?”

He chuckles and you can hear how the sound travels up his chest, through his diaphragm, low and hearty. “No, not exactly. Just a little more vulnerability would be appreciated.”

“You’re awfully coherent for a drunk guy, aren’t you.”

He flips onto his side, long legs splayed out down the steps. “Drunk words are sober thoughts. Besides, you’re just trying to change the subject right now.”

You clench your jaw. “Fuck you, here’s me being vulnerable: Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Hoseok looks up with a snap of his neck, mouth open like the breath had just been punched out of him. You stare back, determined not to regret your words. Intent on not letting out a laugh and excusing them by your drunkenness, the alcohol pounding your heart. There’s no way you’re taking them back now, no matter how much you want to, and you’ll just have to live with the consequences when he says-

“I thought you’d never ask.”  

Day 278

“You’re so bright. You’re like the sun.”

Hoseok grins at you quickly before looking back at the road, hands maneuvering the steering wheel in smooth motions. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug and lean your head against the car window, eyes watching the city whizz by you. The lights blend together and you blink, slow and hazy in your fog of tequila. He takes one hand off the wheel and drops it onto your knee, tickling the skin there softly.

“C’mon, tell me.” He’s coaxing, effortless.      

You roll your head over to face him again and take in his profile. The sharp jut of his nose and the curl of his dark hair against his forehead, it fills you with want deep in your gut.

“You draw people to you. It’s so effortless. You just give parts of yourself to every person you meet, so openly, like it’s easy. It makes people feel like they’re special and they come back for more.” You say it slowly, like you’re still thinking of the words before they tumble out of your mouth.

His hand squeezes and draws slowly up your thigh, cavalierly pushing up the skirt covering your skin. “You say that like it’s a bad thing to be liked.”

You’re still looking at him when you speak next, folding your knees up to hug them against your chest, knocking his hand aside. “I feel like there’s nothing left for me.”

Day 455

“Jimin, where’s my vanilla milkshake?” You look down at the table, an array of burgers and fries arranged on top of it.

The pink haired boy scoots over in the booth to make room for you. “Didn’t get it. You know you’re lactose intolerant and I won’t have you farting up a storm in my car on the way home just to satisfy your sugar obsession.”

You pout and plop down in the seat next to him. “Thanks, dad. Where’s Hoseok?”

“Right here,” your boyfriend jogs up to join you, sliding into the opposite booth seat. “Sorry, I was finding parking.” He leans over to give you a quick kiss on the cheek.

Jimin cocks a brow. “There was tons in the back when I got here.”

“I guess it filled up fast,” Hoseok shrugs.

You hum noncommittally and push over his plate. “Here, this one has no onions. I’ll give you my fries if you split your milkshake with me, Jimin refused to get me one-”

“Probably for good reason,” a soft voice lilts from beside you. “Swimsuit season is coming up, you know.”

An artificial rose scent cloys your senses and you scrunch your nose, looking up to see a girl standing next to you.  

“Hello, Satan. Nice outfit,” Jimin chirps, glancing down at the other girl’s skirt that barely grazed the tops of her thighs. “Aren’t you a little chilly without the heat of hell fire surrounding you?”

“Jimin,” Suji grinned, twirling a lock of her dark hair around her finger. “Why, are you offering to keep me warm?”

Jimin just snorted and returned to eating his fries. The other girl turned her gaze to your boyfriend.

“Hi Hoseok. Great workshop yesterday, I think I’ll sign up for another.”

“Thanks, Suji. That’s good to hear, hope I’ll see you soon.” He smiled politely at her. She shot you and Jimin another glance before waving goodbye, sashaying out of the restaurant.

You watch her walk out and other diners do too, heads turning to follow her figure. Then you shift to face your boyfriend.

“She was at your studio yesterday?”

Hoseok coughed and took a sip of his Coke. “Uh, yeah, she’s actually pretty good. We did a hip hop lesson and-“

The rest of his sentence is drowned out by the thoughts in your head, the way the other girl looked at him replaying in your mind.  

Day 12

“Then you would just multiply prior probability by posterior probability and divide by the normalizing constant. And that’s how you would use the Bayes rule to determine the likelihood of an event based on prior knowledge of the event conditions.” You look up proudly from the equations you drew in the salt on the table.

Hoseok blinks, eyes sliding back into focus. “Uh. So. That’s what you do at work?”

You falter a bit and start wiping away the salt back into the shaker, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry, I know it’s boring-“

“No, no!” Hoseok rushes to say, grabbing your hands to stop you. “I never said that, it’s just…nothing like what I do at work, you know? I talk all day for a living, nothing hard about it.”

You nod slowly. “I don’t think it’s difficult, it’s just math, right? Plugging in numbers and all.” The diner’s neon sign flickers on in that moment, casting both of you in its red light.

Hoseok snorts and twirls his finger through the pile of salt, drawing stick figures. “Yeah, to you. I still add things using my hands.”

You lips stretch, watching him erase the figure he had and start creating a flower instead. “Well, I could never do what you do. Talking to people all day exhausts me and I’m just not charming enough to be a real estate agent.”

He looks up then, pausing in his ministrations. “I think you’re plenty charming.”

Day 573

You’re too fuzzy to think coherently, too much noise and alcohol sloshing around in your head to draw out thoughts. So you speak them instead.

“He was drunk, Jimin,” you plead, more with yourself than the boy in front of you. “So am I, right? It doesn’t- it never-“

“Don’t finish that sentence,” your friend warns, jaw clenched. “It’s bullshit, an excuse, and you know it.”

Your lip trembles and brows draw together to furrow a little cavern in the center of your forehead. Hoseok always called it cute and it was why he could never take you seriously when you cried, preferring to coo and pinch your cheeks in adoration instead. Jimin didn’t share that feeling.

“It’s not, it’s the truth,” you hiccup, a rancid taste in your mouth. Tears are already threatening to spill over and down your cheeks, but you continue rambling. “It doesn’t matter when you’re drunk, you don’t know what you’re doing-“

“Honey,” the boy’s eyes have finally softened and that’s what finally breaks the dam for you. His arms circle around your body as you sob, gently petting away your hair so he can murmur in your ear.

“In my experience, what really defines someone is what they won’t do.”  

Day 1

“Jimin, I swear to god, I’m leaving in five minutes and your punk ass better be in the car with me or else you’re finding your own way home tonight.”

The boy in question blows out a breath of smoke, then pouts. His sunglasses have slid down his nose to reveal his eyes, strained red in the haze of the party. He throws an arm around his friend, stretching a bit to compensate for their height difference.

“C’mon, Hoseok, don’t be like that. The fun is just getting started. Here, you want a hit?” The pink haired boy offers up his tightly rolled blunt, but Hoseok just grimaces and shakes his friend off instead.

“Nah, what I want is to be snuggled up in my covers in approximately 15 minutes, with or without you.”

“Oooh, is that an invitation, Hobi?” Jimin grins lecherously at him. Hoseok just fixes him with a stare.

“Five minutes. I’ll see you outside.”

Hoseok turns and leaves his friend in the living room of the stranger’s house they were in, trudging down the stairs and back out into the crisp cold of the front lawn. He looks at his watch to check the time and sighs, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket to make his wait go by quicker. Then he hears a sniffle to his side.

Turning his head a little to the left, he sees you sitting on the curb at the end of the block, alone. Knees drawn up to your chest, arms and legs bare from the dress you had on. You were crying.

His eyes snap back to his hands in front of him. Determined to mind his own business and do his time until Jimin comes back out, he fits his cigarette between his lips and pulls the lighter up. He takes a deep inhale and closes his eyes. You sniffle again.  

Letting out a breath, smoke coiling out from his mouth, he holds the cigarette between his index and middle finger by his side and chews on the inside of his cheek. Another sniffle and he squeezes his eyes shut. Then he turns to face you again, words coming out in a tumble.

“Hey. What are you doing? It’s freezing and you’re basically naked.”

You startle and pick your head up from its resting place on your knees, twisting your neck to look over at him. The mascara around your eyes has smudged and the tip of your nose has gone pink. Your skin is furrowed between your brows and it’s almost endearing.

“What’s it to you?” You snap back.

Almost.

Hoseok’s brows shoot up. “Listen, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to die of hypothermia while I was here standing witness. Feel free to go back to doing so once I’ve finished this cigarette.”

You stare at him for a moment, then: “Can I have one?”

Hoseok blows out another breath of smoke, then chuckles, making his way over to you. “You’re lucky I feel bad for you.”

You ignore him in favor of picking up the cigarette and lighter he held out in his hand. Holding it in your fingers for a moment, you just stare at it before bringing it up to your lips.

“Other way,” he says, tapping the end with the filter. “Unless you enjoy smoking straight tobacco.”

You flip it around and then try lighting it. Hoseok reaches over to cup his hand around the lighter, trying to prevent the wind from interfering. You inhale deep and cough out the smoke hard, drawing an arm up to cover your mouth. He watches you in mild interest.

“If you’d never done this before, why’d you want to try now?”

You release a shaky breath and try again, taking a shorter inhale in this time before immediately blowing out the smoke again. Then you shrug. “Dunno. Seemed better than just sitting here and having you watch me in pity. Something to do, I guess.”  

The end of Hoseok’s lip quirks up. “Why were you crying?”

Bringing the cigarette back up to your mouth to suck in, your eyes cross to watch the end of it burn. You wait a second, trying to inhale the smoke deep before coughing it out again. Then you turn to look at him, eyes tearing up from the burn in your chest.

“You don’t care.”

“I cared enough to come over here, didn’t I?” He shoots back.  

You snort, then stub out the rest of the cigarette on the asphalt. He refrains from telling you it was a waste of his Marlboro.

“What’s your name?” You turn to look at him properly now, cradling your face in your hand. Your cheeks have started to go rosy now too. He wants to offer you his jacket, but something tells him you’d just ask him to fuck off.

He tells you and finishes his own cigarette, flicking its remains out into the street. You repeat it softly to yourself. “That’s a handsome name.”

He chuckles. “Won’t you tell me yours?”

You smile.  

e/n: come tell me your thoughts!!

[flying-elliska]

HS Reunion AU pt. 3/?

Heyyy I know we thrive on pain here ^^ but if you want a break maybe for a minute, here’s some more incredibly wish-fulfill-y fluff. They’re all thriving adults (for the most part), the reunion starts and Daphne has a surprise ! 

SAMEDI 17:44 

The day of the reunion dawns bright and sunny. They’ve just spent a lazy morning in bed, enjoying each other, only getting up after noon. Lucas promised his husband that this time would be for them, so he kept his itching fingers away from any keyboards or screens. Eliott made crepes with melted chocolate, deliciously decadent. They curled up together on their big couch, read, watched a weird documentary about deminer rats, and rearranged their utility closet. Lucas's still surprised about all the things they’d managed to lose in there, including four different brooms, one of Eliott’s best lenses hidden in an empty cereal box (why), a bag of onions that had taken on a life of their own, and an album of honeymoon photos they’d completely forgotten existed, maybe because it was the one where they both sported completely sunburnt noses after going off trail for a week in Nepal and looked like a pair of molting lobsters. 

The reunion is at 18. They will be having dinner in the old foyer, before going to party on a rented boat on the Seine. Lucas parks the car a few blocks away. He really wants them to have a little time to breathe and enjoy the sun before the madness starts.

It's a gorgeous early summer day, with a little breeze deflecting the heat and sunlight glittering on the water. It’s incredibly thrilling still for some reason, walking hand in hand with his husband along the Canal St Martin, this close to their old school.

Eliott can’t stop grinning at him either. He looks like a vision in his tight black turtleneck, camel longcoat swung over his shoulder, hair as wild as ever. His eyes are intense and full on mischievous, in a way that really does something to Lucas’ underbelly feelings. 

“Hey, so...things are heating up between you and that girl Chloe, huh ?” 

Lucas rolls his eyes. Of course he would go there, the asshole. 

“Yeah, she’s incredible. Woman of my life. Might ask her to marry me in the fall. I always wanted a honeymoon in Bali” 

“Bali, hm ? That’s cute. Are you sure she’s the one, though ?”

“Yes absolutely. She ticks all my boxes ! I mean, she’s such a ...female woman !  She even has breasts and everything ! I think. It’s amazing. Everything I need right there.” 

Eliott laughs out loud. Lucas loves that sound more than anything else in the world, and the fact that they can joke easy now about their earlier jealousies and mistakes feels very healing. 

“Love at first sight, then.” 

“Oh you know how it is, girl bumps into boy once, it must be true love.” 

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Are you talking about yourself now ?”

Eliott raises his eyebrows in a way that makes Lucas blush, then stops and pulls him closer, until their noses almost touch.

“I don’t know, do you have any boxes left for me to tick ? Or are you all ticked out ? Are you sure your boxes are being ticked appropriately ?” 

“Oh, okay, we’re playing it like that, dirty talk in the street ? I don’t remember that part.”

“Why don’t we make up for lost time ?”

“Wait, don’t you have an imaginary girlfriend, too ?”

“Nah. I’m not even playing at that.”

“Well then, you can tick my boxes anytime.”

Eliott smiles and wraps his arms around Lucas’ head, drawing him into a passionate kiss, unhurried and slow, that tastes like minty toothpaste and cigarettes. They have all the time in the world. Lucas thinks of his teenage self, who’d yearned for this so fervently even as the idea of holding another man’s hand in the street terrified him, and he kind of wants to do a victory dance on the spot. 

A few seconds or maybe minutes later, someone coughs loudly next to them. History repeats, apparently, but thankfully with better timing. 

“Well, I see you two are still as disgustingly in love as ever.” 

Emma is standing in front of them, an amused expression on her face. She looks good, if a little jet lagged - hair in a pixie cut, tanned, bag slung over her shoulder, looking as carefree and adventurous as ever. Lucas moves to hug her as if they’d last seen each other last week. 

“Glad to see you made it.”

“Daphne would have reached across two entire oceans to kick my ass if I didn’t. And you know, I figured my family might like to see me, accessorily. And you, still can’t get you past the Périphérique, I see ?” 

“That’s a gross overexaggeration. We toured half the world for our honeymoon.” 

“And let me guess, you’ve been shackled to your desks ever since ? Well, at least you’re rocking the “just rose from my coffin” look together.” 

“Oh, sorry, not all of us want to look like Australian beef jerky.”

They fall easily into bickering the rest of the way, insulting each other in a friendly manner. It really is like old times. The place hasn’t changed much, except for a lot more vegetation in the courtyard. Seeing it evokes a tangled knot of complicated feelings in him. They haven’t been back since graduation, really. When they’ve reached the gate, Eliott holds Lucas back for a moment, taking both his hands. Lucas can feel his husband is nervous. 

“You know, say the magic word and we’re out of there in a second, okay ?” 

Eliott leans forward muffles his laugh in Lucas’ collar. 

“How is this worse than Cannes, seriously ?"

"I almost wish there were paparazzi now, as distraction."

"Let's pretend there are and put our game faces on, then."

Eliott laughs again and ruffles through Lucas' hair, who protests but lets him do it. He always does.

From across the courtyard, he sees Manon come toward them. 

She looks better than the last time he saw her, when she was fresh from her breakup with some hotshot war reporter. He loves this woman, truly, that's his sister right there, but god he wishes for her own sake she’d grow out of her taste for passionate, moody assholes. And it's not the first time, nor the last, he feels he will have to help her pick up the pieces. But that's okay. She's always been there in his most difficult times.

And now she's there, standing tall, wrapped in a designer coat, rocking her signature red lipstick even though there are bags under her eyes and he knows this is the look she wears when she's pretending to be okay. He realizes then one of his goals tonight will be to make sure nobody bothers her about her love life. She's an amazingly accomplished woman. That's all anybody needs to know.

Eliott gives her an extra long hug. Those are the best thing in the world, and his husband has always been intuitive about these things. Good.

Together, they move towards the foyer.

Their old haunt is completely gone - the mural, their ratty old couch, all the things they'd painstakingly gathered together. The space has been merged with another room and is twice as large. Then again, it makes it possible to fit in enough tables, which might not have been possible back then. Their old beat down furniture has been cleared to make room for lush greenery and designer sofas, uncannily clean for a high school. It's been lavishly decorated too, with a banner, pastel streamers and golden balloons. In front of the window there is a buffet full of all sorts of drinks, salads and cakes. It's definitely too much for this type of occasion but then again. Daphne. 

When they enter the room, heads turn, and the gazes aimed their way are a bit too curious and insistent for his taste.  Well, they did end up being one of the most dramatic squads in their year, in the end, it was to be expected but...It’d better be admiration for his on-his-way to famous husband, and nothing else, because if he’s grown out of one thing, it’s suffering fools. He feels both Eliott and Manon’s grip on his arms tighten. 

A very enthusiastic Daphne appears out of thin air in front of them, as if on wheels. She looks like she stepped out of the pages of a magazine, baby blue dress, hair carefully plaited with little glass flowers, as peppy as ever. She welcomes them, kisses all of their cheeks and then directs them to their table, where they find little calligraphied tags to their names in the plates, before storming off again.

Their table is already half-full. Arthur is there, in a crisp suit, accompanied by a posh, bored looking brunette. He is pointedly not talking to Basile, sitting next to him. Lucas sighs internally. He'd really hoped that was over. Basile is accompanied by a vaguely bird-faced woman, who is wearing the exact same disastrous color scheme as him, brown and bright green and red. And then there's Imane, looking impeccable in her deep red scarf and elegant black dress, and her husband Yousef, in deep conversation. Finally, to round it off, there's two random people Lucas already feels sorry for.

They all greet each other. It's a little awkward. He's happy seeing Imane and Yousef though. It's been a while, what with their little daughter and Imane's company getting off the ground and his own crazy schedule.

Lucas gets a text from Yann saying he's going to be late. Basile launches into an explanation of his latest crowdfunding project, something about an app and cryptocurrency that barely registers. The room slowly fills up. Arthur talks about his family company's ventures into the South Asian market. Lucas slowly starts feeling like he wants to jump into the Seine. He didn't come here to witness how boring his friends have become and how adulthood is descending on them to make them into pre-mummified copies of their parents. He thinks he'd almost rather go back to hear college age Basile brag about all his conquests in graphic detail. Almost. And he can feel his husband tensing up next to him; he knows how much Eliott hates speaking about his work archievements, that it always feels like bragging to him, that he wants the work to talk for itself.

Thankfully, this is the moment Alexia chooses to make her entrance. Far from toning herself down, she's only become more colorful and boisterous over the years. Hair bubblegum pink, in a dress marked with a giant golden thunderbolt, she makes all heads turn in her direction. Lucas used to think she was a little obnoxious, to be honest, but she's like a breath of fresh air now. She plops into a chair at their table and immediately launches a debate about the worst part of the new foyer and if they could donate another paper toilet rolls sculpture. It's a relief from everyone posturing about their jobs. Although honestly, Alexia's probably the most successful of all of them. He can never wrap his head around what she does exactly, except that it involves millions of online followers, sponsorships in the US, dancing videos with cats and her own shoeline.

Eliott leaves and comes back with drinks for the both of them. They clink their craft beer bottles against each other and Eliott leans down to whisper in his ear :

"Too bad they took away our couch"

Lucas snorts.

"Fuck no, that thing was a health hazard when we were here already, can you imagine after ten years ?"

"I don't know, I mean. It could have been fun to recreate some memories after everyone leaves." Lucas chokes on his beer. If Eliott is trying to distract him, it's surely working.

Across the table he can see Arthur's date look at them with a contemptuous glance on her face. The woman exhudes as much fun as a bag of frozen broccoli. Petty, he plants a sloppy kiss on Eliott's cheek. If they've earned one thing, it's the right to not worry about what people think of their PDA, goddamn.

Daphne arrives at their table and sits down, slightly out of breath.

"Hey guys ! I'm so happy you are all here ! It's been a while, huh ? I have a surprise for everyone later, I hope you will all participate, I'm counting on you !"

For a moment Lucas is terrified she's going to quiz them on their lives or force them into some sort of weird bonding exercise. Then he sees the look on Basile's face and realizes they have worse issues to worry about. F*cking hell, they dated for a few months ten years ago, and he's still looking at her like she hung the moon, and right in front of his girlfriend too. It took him years to get over her, they were gross the first time, and if Basile does something stupid it's going to take the awkwardness levels from slightly unpleasant to excruciating for the rest of the evening.

Then a tall, beautiful woman with dark skin and long tresses comes toward their table, effortlessly elegant in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She puts her hand on Daphne's shoulder.

"Hey babe, sound's all set up."

Daphne blushes up to her ears.

"Hey everyone, uh. This is Sam. She's my work partner and also. Uh. She's going to be my wife."

The table erupts into shouts of congratulations, surprise and joy. Manon hugs Daphne, Basile's expression falls to the floor, and Alexia claps her hands laughing. Lucas isn't surprised, but he is proud. For a long time, Daphne was even deeper in denial than he was. And Sam looks awesome.

Lucas exchanges a smile with his husband. Maybe coming to this reunion was worth it after all.

[you-guys--are-losers]

Your Selection

Summary: Prom season has finally arrived, and the students at Midtown are not immune to all of the drama and excitement that comes with it. Peter's junior class is thrilled to be attending for the first time. People are pairing off to buy tickets a month in advance, and the ones who are in relationships have a new commitment to make to the dance.

This year, that includes Michelle Jones.

Peter does not know what he feels as he realizes exactly what this means, but as MJ is pulled further away from the trio they worked so hard to form, he knows it feels wrong. What feels even worse is watching MJ change without them for someone who takes her for granted... And then some. But it is not his place to say anything about her relationship. If it makes her happy, then it is his job to respect it.

However, each day brings Midtown closer to prom, and each day mounts tensions higher. How much pressure can Peter and MJ's relationship take until it snaps in two?

Characters: Michelle Jones x Peter Parker

Word Count: 1,498

Warnings: Swearing, Self-Consciousness

@one-way-ride @prettylilparker @transient-transition @nerdofthehighestcalibre

26.5 Days Until Prom

Peter doesn’t know why he feels so good that MJ is coming to movie night tonight. 

The thing on Friday was a one-time thing, he reminds himself, nothing more than a fluke. It was just because of stupid prom, which will be over in a little less than a month, anyway. But Peter is more relieved than he would like to admit that MJ is coming, and he tries to ignore the fact that her decline to come over had spooked him more than he cares to admit. 

When the end of the day comes, Peter is more than ready to go home. Their wood shop class completely numbed up his mind, and he is looking forward to having some stimulating conversation and Star Wars banter to massage his brain back to life. Ned is waiting by his locker at the end of the day, and Peter watches as his best friend’s face light up.

“Hey!” Ned greets cheerfully. “Guess what?” Before Peter has a chance to answer, Ned is rattling forward. Unbothered, Peter opens his locker and slides a few books into their places, leaving his backpack lighter and his books organized. “Betty actually talked to me today. I mean, it was about the project we have due on Friday, but like, she didn’t seem bored. And after she asked me about my shirt! I had to, like, explain basically all of Star Trek for her to get the reference, but you know. She even laughed and stuff!” 

A grin spreads across Peter’s face, and he nods. “That’s great, man!” he exclaims, turning to lean against his locker so that they can wait for MJ. “Hey, at this rate, maybe by the time you’re thirty you’ll actually have asked her out.” 

Ned doesn’t seem bothered by the comment. Rather, he takes on a lofty attitude, saying, “Hey, don’t joke, man. You gotta take your time, make sure that you give her a while to realize she’s into you, then that’s when you make your move-” 

“-and then you wake up and realize that you’re still a nerd with no balls,” MJ’s serene voice finishes from behind Ned. Though her tone is as lofty as ever, both Peter and Ned have learned to tell when she’s joking, and based upon the way that one corner of her mouth is quirked upwards, she doesn’t mean it. Peter doesn’t know why, but he straightens up and tugs lightly at his collar at her approach, and he can’t stop a grin from crossing his face. 

Ned makes a face and shoots her a look. “Come on, man! Is it so hard to believe that I could actually ask someone out?” 

“I would like to be able to say no, but you don’t exactly have to best history with things that put you under pressure,” she replies as she quickly opens her own locker. Peter watches as MJ takes the massive pile of books in her hands and shoves them into the locker, shoving it shut before they can all fall out on her. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking ab-” 

“Last week, you squeaked when the toaster popped and you didn’t expect it. The toaster.” 

Ned’s face turns red, but he tries to look stubborn. “That’s a perfectly legitimate reaction!” 

“Then you unplugged it, and kept doing that every time we went back there for days.” 

Peter lets out a small huff of laughter, and a grudging smile crosses Ned’s lips. “Whatever. Can we just go? I want pizza.” 

“I agree with that sentiment,” MJ pipes up, turning to look at Peter for confirmation. For a moment, her dark gaze catches him off-guard, but he quickly nods. 

“R-right, um, yeah! Yeah, we can order it on the phone on the walk home.” 

“I want sausage,” Ned announces as they begin to walk. “And onions.” 

“And remember,” MJ reminds as she falls into step with Ned. “Half has to be-”

“Mushroom, spinach, and full tomato slices,” Peter finishes as he pulls out his phone, grinning slightly. “I know. You’re not exactly the most unpredictable.” 

MJ looks affronted, but Peter can tell she’s hiding a grin. “Excuse you, I am not predictable.” 

“You wear, like, the same three hoodies on repeat with that jacket thrown in there every once in a while,” he responds, not looking up as he selects the number for the pizza place. 

It is Ned’s turn to let out a little snort of laughter, and Peter hears her mumble of, “Yeah, whatever, loser.” But it’s comfortable, this trio of theirs, and the walk home is relaxed even though Peter spends most of it on the phone while Ned and MJ compete over who can kick an empty beer can farther down the sidewalk. 

The pizza has arrived, the movie is rolling, and the smell of MJ’s hot chai tea is mingling with that of tomato sauce in Peter’s living room, the way that it always does when she is here. Peter shouldn’t be on edge, really. He should be paying attention to Ned’s Jar Jar Binks impression, which is absolutely perfect in every way. Normally, it never fails to get a laugh out of Peter. But today, it isn’t working the way that it normally does, and Peter hates it. 

He knows it’s because MJ has been texting furiously for the last twenty minutes. 

As far as Peter can remember, MJ hasn’t ever so much as looked at her phone during a movie night. She doesn’t particularly like her old Blackberry, and it rarely goes off. She comments every so often that the only person who really texts her is her mom, and only about their schedules and the like. If Peter has to guess, however, he doesn’t think that this is her mom. If it was, MJ would hardly have any reason to be letting out the soft, frustrated puffs of breath that she does whenever the phone buzzes again, normally just after she’s set it down.

After a while, Ned picks up on it, too. He glances over when the phone buzzes, then back at Peter as MJ picks it up and starts to type furiously. She only seems to begetting more and more annoyed, and finally after a particularly long time spent typing she sets down the phone with unnecessary force. 

Ned swallows, glancing at Peter before looking back to MJ. “Hey, uh...” he says slowly, trailing off when MJ’s intense, frustrated gaze fixes on him. “You good?” 

“Of course I’m ‘good,’“ MJ mutters, glancing back to the movie. “Why wouldn’t I be good?” Peter and Ned exchange another look as her phone buzzes at that specific moment, and a soft, frustrated exclamation escapes her lips. 

There is a moment of silence, and for a moment all three of them are just looking at one another. 

“Fine,” she mumbles after a moment, letting a long tuft of hair fall in her face. “It’s... It’s this stupid freaking dance.” 

“You mean prom?” Peter asks, raising an eyebrow. “Stupid, freaking prom?” 

“Stupid, freaking prom,” MJ repeats, nodding. “I just... Ugh.” 

Ned looks slightly concerned. “So what exact stupid, freaking thing happened?” 

MJ glares over at her phone. “Lukas said he was paying for the tickets,” she mutters. “I said I could pay for mine, but he was all like, ‘No, I want to pay for my date!’ And I’m an idiot, so I let him, and I ended up spending a little more on a dress than I would have, since I had that extra money I wasn’t spending on a ticket.” 

Peter nods slowly, trying to ignore the sinking feeling he gets in his chest when she says ‘my date.’ MJ isn’t anybody’s anything, but he doesn’t feel like she wants him to point that out right now. 

“And now, he’s texting me saying he didn’t buy the tickets and used the money to pay for some ‘unexpected thing’ in his stupid tech class, and he’s asking me if I can buy my own ticket.” MJ’s eyes are filled with a peeved irritation, and Peter decides that he is glad he is not on the receiving end of that look. “I wouldn’t have minded, but now I’m going to have to take on extra shifts to pay for it, and--” She breaks off, running an agitated hand through her hair. “Ew. Now I sound like a stupid, whiny girlfriend. Shoot me, Parker.” 

Girlfriend. Peter rather feels like the one who is getting shot. 

“Nah, that sucks, man,” Ned chimes in, glancing at Peter. “I’d be ticked off.” 

“Yeah, well,” MJ sighs, shaking her head and picking up the phone to shove it in her pocket. “It’s dumb. I guess I probably shouldn’t have said anything anyway, so if you tell anyone I’ll murder you. I think I read something about not talking about being pissed at your partner with anyone but your partner, so I should probably just talk to him. But I’ll do it after I’m doing roasting Anakin to a crisp.” 

Ned laughs, and a little grin spreads across Peter’s lips. Still, it’s small and slightly strained... She’s trying so hard, and she should be, of course. But Peter can feel that little bit of worry inching in again, because she’s drawing closer to Lukas and away from them. It’s stupid and childish to feel that way, but Peter can’t help but feeling like if it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have that issue. 

Because MJ deserves more than being used and inconvenienced. 

[welllpthisishappening]

It’s the Thought That Counts (3/3)

It was, in theory, a good idea. It was, in theory, an absolutely fantastic idea. Because there was still, sometimes, a crisis or two in Storybrooke and nothing would be more chaotic than trying to find a Christmas present on Main Street, while also trying to keep said Christmas present a secret. Ordering gifts on the internet makes sense. It’s just a few clicks and online sales and the presents will be there in plenty of time for Christmas to be perfect.

Emma and Killian are positive.

Except then the presents don’t show up and it’s Christmas Eve and plan B isn’t so much a plan as it is just a bit of pre-holiday desperation and the entire town knows what they’re up to.

Rating: Mature’ish. There’s kissing. CHRISTMAS KISSING.  Word Count: 11K’ish. And two POV. And fluff. So. Much. Fluff.  AN: Merry Christmas everyone!! I hope everyone got what they wanted and then a few things they didn’t know they wanted and gets to eat all the candy canes all day. This story was so much fun to write and @theonceoverthinker deserves all the words and emotional payoff and fic makeouts. Here are some fic makeouts. A particular shoutot to @distant-rose for sharing the same brain as me and suggesting Killian’s present for Emma after I already wrote myself into that scenario.  Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll. 

Marco is not, in fact, asleep by the time Killian raps on his door – but it’s close.

It’s late and cold and the old man’s eyes get wide when he realizes what exactly it is Killian is asking of him, but Henry is already adding to the request and discussing design options and how long everything will take and my mom will probably be able to help…you know with magic or finding you magic...wood or something.

Killian chuckles under his breath, but he hasn’t really been able to catch his breath yet because he and Henry absolutely sprinted the last few hundred yards down the street and it’s after dark and, even with the detour for onion rings and grilled cheese at Granny’s, Emma’s going to be home soon and there is a Christmas Eve plan.

There are movies to watch and some popcorn monstrosity to eat and he can’t wait.

“Killian will totally pay you,” Henry promises and Marco’s eyes get even wider as if he’s personally offended by the idea. “I mean he was willing to bribe everyone into silence so…” “We agreed to stop calling it bribes,” Killian mutters, but it doesn’t do him any good and Marco’s already drawing sketches and mumbling under his breath about working through the night. “And you don’t actually have to spend all night working. This is…” Marco gapes at him as if he’s just suggested he start working in steel instead of wood and Killian bites his tongue. Henry laughs. He’s going to do damage to his throat. “We’re working under a deadline, Captain,” Marco says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world and he wasn’t half a step away from his bed a few moments before. “And if her majesty would be so kind as to help locate some wood, I’m sure my boy would be happy to get it for me. After that, it’s more muscle memory than anything else. I’ve made plenty of these in the past.” He nods back towards the sketches he’s already finished and Killian’s not even surprised to see several different ideas already and maybe everyone in this blasted town has some hint of magic. Or maybe they all simply want Emma to get a present.

It’s probably the latter.

Killian nods, finger tracing over the graphite sketch and Marco tilts his head as if he’s being inspected. “You really can get this done by the morning?” he asks, nerves clawing at the back of his brain still and he’s already watched enough of those films to know that there is something particularly impressive about Christmas morning.

“Of course,” Marco nods. “As I said, the design is the tricky part. But if Henry might be so kind as to bring the old piece here, I could even use some of the cushioning from that to help construct this. Might cut down on time.” Henry twists his mouth when Killian glances speculatively at him. “I mean... I guess?” he shrugs and it’s not the certainty Killian was hoping for. Although, he supposes, neither one of them began this day believing one of them would be asked to push Emma’s office chair down Main Street. “It seems like it’d be kind of obvious. You’re probably going to have to give everyone like two-hundred doubloons or something to shut ‘em all up if they see.”

“You’re just picking out numbers now aren’t you?” “I have no idea what the conversion rate of doubloons to normal money is.” “Far higher than whatever mathematics you’re doing.”

Henry scowls, but he’s already got his phone out of his back pocket and pressed against his ear, mumbling words under his breath when, presumably, Regina answers. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says. “I don’t know...I’m not the one making the chair.” He shifts his shoulder, holding the phone with it and glancing in Marco’s direction. “Mom wants to know what kind of wood she’s supposed to be looking for and…” He turns towards Killian, smile tugging on his lips. “Wanted to point out that Mom and Grandma were just seen leaving the library and very much on their way home.”

Killian’s whole body droops with the force of his sigh and even Marco laughs lightly at the dramatics of it all, but he’s not sure how quickly he can run and they were supposed to be home two hours ago.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbles, tugging on his hair. “Alright, are we…” Marco grins, grabbing a set of tools and nodding in response to a question Killian hasn’t actually finished. “What do you say to ten o’clock on Christmas morning, Captain?” “You can do this that quickly?” Henry asks before Killian can even begin to think about nodding. Marco shrugs. “It’s a rather easy design. And I’m not chopping the wood. Ten o’clock seems more than manageable.” Killian blinks, compliments and thanks sitting on the tip of his tongue, but there’s a flash of smoke in the workplace and Regina appears in front of them, August in tow and there’s suddenly a distinct lack of space in the room.

And what appears to be several stacks of wood.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” Regina gapes at Killian, waving both hands through the air and August grunts when she nearly elbows him in the side. “Emma was turning down your street five minutes ago. You’re supposed to be home.” “Where are you getting this information from?” Killian asks. Regina shrugs. August tries to shift his weight so he doesn’t damage his back while keeping a hold on the ridiculous amount of, what might actually be, birch tree in his hands.

“Snow has been texting me updates because everyone knows both you and Emma have spent all of Christmas Eve lying to each other.”

“This is not a lie.” “It’s a calculated move against Christmas,” Henry mutters and Regina quirks an eyebrow.

“That almost sounded rehearsed,” Regina says. The entire room jumps when August dumps the wood on a nearby table and he mumbles a quiet apology while Killian wonders if he can just will himself into his own living room. “And,” she adds, nodding pointedly in Killian’s direction. “You really need to get home. Because you’re not the only one with issues. So go play distraction.” Killian narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Oh my God,” Regina groans. “You are here. Emma was, clearly, not at work all day and spotted by no less than five dwarves, one former cricket and her father is sitting in the station pretending like he’s ready to exercise some authority sooner rather than later. It’s obvious what’s going on isn’t it?” He shakes his head slowly, but it only takes half a moment to realize and Henry’s words seem to ring his head –  you weren’t the only one who ordered things online.

Goddamn internet.

He curses several sea monsters again.

Henry laughs.

Marco hammers something.

Regina makes a noise that almost resembles a growl in the back of her throat, kicking at his ankles, when Killian doesn’t automatically move, but it’s all starting to make sense and he runs a hand over his face when his mind can’t seem to settle on a particular point.

“Marco,” he says suddenly and the man’s eyes snap up towards him. Regina practically hisses. “We just need to add one more thing to this design.” It takes a few more seconds and Regina is seething by the time Killian closes his mouth, but it’s important and this is important and Emma’s, apparently, spent the better part of her day running around Storybrooke as well.

He realizes somewhere around the halfway point of his near-sprint home that he probably could have asked Regina to just magic him there, but that absolutely feels like cheating and just arriving in the middle of the house would probably terrify Emma.

The front door is already unlocked when he twists the handle and Killian squeezes his eyes closed when he realizes he didn’t make it back on time.

There's humming coming from the kitchen when he toes out of his boots and his keys make a quiet noise when he dumps them on the tiny plate he still can’t quite believe actually exists for such a thing in this realm.

She’s standing in front of the sink, rocking back and forth and there’s music coming out of one of the speakers. It’s one of those carols she’s been singing under her breath for weeks – even if she won’t admit to it.

She’s clearly been home for quite some time already – hair pulled up and standing in her socks with a spoon in one hand and a bowl resting on her forearm.

“And here I thought we’d be dining on popcorn and malt balls,” Killian mutters, stepping into her space until his chest is half an inch away from her back and Emma doesn’t flinch. She probably smiles. He assumes she smiles

He absolutely knows she smiles when she leans back, resting her head on his shoulder and her hair threatens to find its way into his mouth.

“You’re late,” she mumbles, eyes twisting up to try and stare accusingly at him. She only manages to cross them and he’s laughing before he can stop himself, an arm wrapped around her middle to try and pull her even closer. “And a great, big, giant liar.” “I resent the implication, love. You were supposed to be at work, filing non-existent paperwork.” “Yeah, well, if you weren’t so weirdly efficient that would have been a plausible excuse.” “Once again, these insults seem to sound like compliments, Swan. What are you making?” “Baking,” she corrects, swiping her finger through the mixture and it’s equal parts endearing and distracting. “Or, well...eventually when the oven heats up.” Killian hums, but he’s suddenly far more interested in that small bit of Emma’s jaw and the way her breath hitches slightly when his lips land on it and they’re alone in that very large house with an oven that isn’t quite prepared to bake whatever’s in that bowl.

“You need to put the bowl down, love,” Killian says, fingers tracing over the curve of her hip and just underneath the hem of a shirt that is, at least, two sizes two large. It might actually be his.

She laughs, turning slightly and trying to drop the bowl on the counter without dumping batter all over the floor or, he’s quick to realize, move too far away from him. It does something absurd to his ability to take a deep breath and his lungs still aren't entirely recovered from his sprint across Storybrooke.

Emma presses up on her toes, slinging one arm over his shoulder and letting her fingers drag across the back of his neck and he can just barely make out her slightly smug smile before his eyes flutter shut. “You going to tell me the truth now?” she asks, voice low in his ear, but he’s far too busy kissing the side of her neck to be worried about consider the words.

And the words get a little strangled when he nips at skin.

Killian grins.

“God, you’re the worst,” Emma sighs and there’s a distinct lack of frustration in that insult. She tugs lightly on the charms around his neck and he’s already done enough damage to his lungs, he’s not sure any of his other internal organs can hold up to a slightly different fight. “C’mon, I’m serious. Did you talk to Regina too?” He pulls back slightly, narrowing his eyes and Emma’s expression is cautious at best, like she’s worried she’s giving up a particularly damning secret. “Yes,” Killian says slowly, not sure if he’s answering the right question. “But I’m fairly certain we’re talking about two different things.” “How is that even possible?” “At this point I really have no idea.”

Emma lets out a slightly shaky laugh, smile more tremulous than it should be when they were just a few moments removed from kissing in their kitchen. The oven timer dings. “Were you also thinking about bribing the citizens of Storybrooke into silence today? Because I feel like that kind of goes against whatever sheriff duties we have or whatever.” “Why were you considering bribes, Swan?”

“You’re answering questions with more questions. That’s against the rules.” Killian grins, eyebrows lifted and his fingers tighten around her waist when he pushes his hand completely under her shirt. Emma bites her lower lip. “I wasn’t aware of the rules, love, just the general idea of Christmas,” he says.

“And Solstice?”

It is, easily, the last thing he expects to hear. He blinks, at least, several hundred times and Emma’s smile returns to that realm of cautiously optimistic, like she’s certain she’s said too much or too little and she yelps when he tugs her back up towards him, lips slanting over hers and this entire holiday has been nothing short of infuriating and exhausting and an incredibly blatant reminder of how much he absolutely loves the woman in front of him.

She gives as good as she gets, fingers in his hair and hand flat on his back and her hips cant up when they actually run into the counter, laughing against his mouth as he makes some kind of strangled sound.

“How did you know about that?” Killian asks in between kisses and sounds and it takes several years for their oven to reach actual cooking temperature, but it’s become some sort of heat source in the corner of the kitchen and the room has reached almost tropical levels.

Emma shrugs, tugging her lips back behind her teeth and half her hair has fallen out of the tie it was in. “Mom,” she answers. “We were...well the internet is the worst and a bigger liar than you and I was complaining all day and talking about Santa Claus and Mom is, like, weirdly really ani-Santa which seems almost out of character, but....” She shakes her head when she starts to trail off and Killian’s smile gets wider and Henry’s going to be home any minute. “So she told me that Christmas here isn’t even remotely like Solstice and there are little presents and that sounds really nice and way less stressful and…” “The internet is the worst?” Killian finishes and Emma shrugs slightly, letting her head fall against his chest. He kisses the top of her hair.

“You really didn’t talk to Regina about it?” “Did you?”

She nods, twisting the fabric of his shirt slightly with the crown of her head. “Yeah, a couple weeks ago when I realized the offerings on Main Street were anchors for tourists that my mom thought we should put in our bathroom.” “You’ve lost me, Swan.”

“I asked Regina about ruining someone’s memories if they delivered presents across the town line, was met with several sarcastic responses, got an e-mail this morning that none of my presents were coming and then spent the last few hours contending with dwarves, my mother’s eternal optimism and wooden anchors that tourists can get personalized in that one knick-knack shop and...trying to avoid you. All day.

And the lying thing, which just seemed wrong on Christmas or Solstice or whatever. But then you were also lying and not doing it very well and I’m still kind of confused about who told you to buy presents on the internet.” Emma huffed when she finished talking, eyes wide with something that felt a bit like holiday-based defiance and it looked entirely like Henry and discussions regarding curfew.

Killian smiled, bumping his nose against her cheek and she hadn’t actually moved her fingers away from his neck, scratching lightly when he didn’t respond immediately. “Henry,” he says, mostly into her hair and she does flinch at that, surprise coloring the movement. “Who felt very guilty about the woeful incompetence of your mailing services. Although he seemed rather concerned about whatever points I was going to lose if I did not provide a present on Christmas morning. And what he was going to do.” “I don’t need a present from Henry. Or you, if we’re being technical.” “We’ve covered this already, Swan. It’s not about needing it. It’s about wanting it and doing this...well, it’s about time we were able to actually celebrate something, don’t you think?” She nods slowly and he can feel her lips tick up when the thought seems to almost audibly hit her. “And he was totally worried about not having a gift for Violet, wasn’t he?” “I believe that was part of the concern as well, yes.”

“God, shouldn’t she have cooties or something? When we did we move into the buying our girlfriend’s gifts at Christmas territory?” “Would it be better if it were Solstice?” Killian asks, wincing dramatically when Emma’s swats at his arm and they’re both going to sweat to death in the middle of their kitchen because their oven doesn’t make any sense at all.

“You’re being difficult on purpose.”

Killian shakes his head, grabbing her hand and kissing across her knuckles, just above her rings. “Charming, love,” he counters. “There’s absolutely a difference. And, if we’re still on that particular train of thought regarding presents, you didn’t have to buy me anything either. I’m more than happy with a few uninterrupted hours with you.” “Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen on Christmas,” Emma grumbles, twisting slightly until she’s more comfortably tucked against him and the counter isn’t pushed into her back. “And I wanted to. I thought we’d decided on that.” It’s like the words sink into him and the heat in the kitchen isn’t quite as stifling, just like some kind of ember sitting in the pit of his stomach that seems stretch through his limbs and into his muscles and Emma smiles at him when he meets her gaze.

“See,” Killian mutters, ducking his head and he can still feel the turn of her lips when he kisses her. “Charming. I’m absolutely charmed, Swan.”

Emma rolls her eyes and groans, but her fingers find the front of his shirt and she tugs him back towards her without much ceremony, the sound of laughter lingering in the air even when he’s a bit more focused on whatever noise she makes when his tongue traces over her lower lip.

And, after everything else that’s happened that day, it shouldn’t really surprise Killian that Henry finds them in the middle of the kitchen.

“Jeez,” he groans, crossing his arms and rocking back on his heels and neither one of them heard the front door open. “You know you guys do have a room. And a door to that room.”

Emma makes another noise, somewhere between frustrated and not even remotely embarrassed and the only movement she makes to pull away from Killian is to drop back on her heels and twist around his side to stare appraisingly at her son.

“What’d you get your girlfriend for Christmas, kid?” she asks. Killian nearly chokes. Henry looks as if he’s trying to decide whether or not to run out of the kitchen or just drop onto the floor. Emma lifts her eyebrows – waiting and smiling and she’s won whatever competition none of them realized they were staging.

Henry mumbles out a string of words that are, perhaps, meant to be English, but just sound a bit like bracelet and shiny and dessert.

“Did you say dessert?” Emma asks, voice catching slightly and Killian’s lungs are never going to work correctly again. He keeps trying to swallow his laughter, but that serves to make it even more obvious and every one of his muscles is protesting at how tightly he’s holding himself up.

Henry’s face is as red as the lights they hung on the house weeks ago. There’s snow in his hair. Of course it’s started to snow.

Emma gapes at Killian. “Did he say dessert?” “I think he means the lass will be joining us at your parents’ house for some form of after-dinner dessert,” Killian says. Henry lets out a breath of air he was absolutely holding and Emma’s shoulders sag slightly when she realizes she’s jumped to several absolutely incorrect conclusions.

“That’s not what I meant at all,” Henry grumbles, stuffing his hands in his pockets and the snow in his hair is starting to melt. “Why is it so hot in here?”

Emma nods towards the forgotten bowl still sitting on the counter. “We were making cookies. For tomorrow night. Dessert.” “Right, right, dessert.” “Exactly.” Killian’s well aware he’s missing something, some idiom he hasn’t quite gotten a grasp on yet, but from everyone’s tone and matching blush, he assumes it’s something less-than-festive. “It’s a perfectly good present, Swan,” he says and his attempts at regaining control of the conversation miss their mark when Emma’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead.

“You helped him pick it out?”

He shrugs and Henry makes some kind of warning noise, but that only draws attention to him when he tries to grab a spoonful of cookie batter out of the bowl. It clatters back against the side when he drops it, looking almost scandalized when both Killian and Emma shout hey at him.

“God,” Henry laughs, shoulders shaking as he tries to catch his breath and jump onto the edge of the counter in the same moment. “That was almost crazy impressive. And the only reason we were in the store was because Killian was trying to steal treasure or something.”

Emma turns to look at him, something that feels a bit like amusement flashing across her face. “I haven’t stolen any treasure in quite some time, love,” Killian says. “We left a note.” “Wait, wait, wait,” Emma stammers. “You went into a store for…treasure?” “Jewelry,” Henry corrects softly and Killian’s still not sure he understands why they call it grounding, but he’s already considering several days in the brig and a distinct lack of Violet and the couch.

Emma tilts her head. “Jewelry.” “This is not going where you think it is, Swan,” Killian promises.

“And where do I think it’s going?” The kitchen is silent for a few moments, save whatever it is their oven is doing and whatever it is Henry is doing, sounding as if he’s trying to scrape batter off every inch of that bowl. And he’s half a mind to just tell Emma what the present is, even when it’s not ten o’clock the next morning, but she’s already smiling softly at him and she’s very good at reading him.

And telling when he’s lying.

Or not.

“Is it snowing outside, kid?” Emma asks, glancing up at Henry’s slightly damp hair. He shrugs. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. Alright, well, let’s go.” “What?” Henry balks. The spoon is halfway to his mouth.

“Stop eating all the cookie batter. You think I can make snowballs fly with my magic?” Henry nearly falls off the counter, spoon falling onto the surface and the batter seems to fly everywhere, landing on the floor and the door to the cabinet by his head and Emma shakes her head in disbelief. She flicks her wrist and the mess is gone as soon as it’s arrived and Henry’s already sprinting back towards the front door, shouting about rules and points for hits and it already sounds far more complex than any of the plans they’ve attempted that day.

“What do you say, Captain,” Emma says, turning back towards him and letting her hands trail over his shoulders. “I can’t imagine you’ve been in many snowball fights. I feel like I’ve already won.” Killian quirks an eyebrow, one side of his mouth tugging up and they still haven’t actually moved out of the kitchen. “I think you’re suggesting I’m not capable of holding my own in a fight, love,” he mutters, lips ghosting over hers. “I’ve spent all day contending with a holiday I only slightly understand and learning about some strange elf man who breaks into houses. I think I can deal with the weather.”

The smile on her face seems to light up the entire house – and there are already more lights on the house than usual.

Emma beams, eyes bright and smile easy he’d fight several different holidays and, at least, half a dozen different forms of weather if he got to see that every day for the rest of his life.

“Did you really get a present?” Emma asks softly and Killian nods before she’s even finished the question. “And wrapping paper?” “We didn’t actually get to the wrapping paper portion of the day, but I’m fairly certain this would have required quite a lot.”

He’d done it mostly for the reaction and he’s happy to see the way she stutters slightly when the words make sense. And then she smacks at his shoulder again. “Are you serious?” Emma shouts and that was not the reaction he was expecting. “Seriously, what the hell? God, why didn’t we talk about this! This is a normal thing, normal couples talk about. They set gift-giving budgets and they stick to them!”

“I didn’t pay anything for it,” Killian says immediately, rushing over the words because Henry’s already calling for them and he really is curious to see if Emma can enchant snow.

“But you said…” “That your thoughts were going in a direction that was not quite correct.” “So what was the note for?” “The jewelry.” “And you didn’t buy a ridiculous amount of jewelry?” Killian shakes his head, pressing a kiss to Emma’s cheek and she doesn’t blink when she stares at him. “No, Swan,” he says. “It doesn’t seem quite...you, does it?”

Emma licks her lips, eyes darting around the kitchen like she’s looking for certain the present, with or without whatever wrapping paper actually is, will appear in front of her. “Wait,” she says suddenly and Henry’s walking back into the kitchen because you guys are taking forever, jeez. “Did Henry buy his girlfriend jewelry? Is that what’s going on?” Henry freezes, eyes wide and mouth agape and Killian tries to remember all the reasons this seemed like a good idea a few hours before. “A bauble, Swan,” he reasons. “For her wrist. There weren’t even any gems in them.” “Tennis bracelet,” Henry corrects quietly, hands stuffed back in his pockets. “It was...it’s nice. I think she’ll like it.” Emma nods slowly, head snapping back and forth between her son and Killian and he’s fairly certain they’re both holding his breath. “You took Henry Christmas shopping?” she asks softly, a note in her voice he wasn’t entirely expecting, but isn’t opposed to either.

And that time, he licks his lips.

Henry groans.

“Aye,” Killian says and Emma seems to sag against him, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. Her hair is in his face again. He doesn’t say anything.

He smiles.

“Can we go throw snow at each other now?” Henry asks impatiently and Emma laughs into Killian’s shirt.

“I mean I’m totally going to throw them at both of you with magic, but, yeah, we can do that.”

It takes her a few moments to get the hang of it – something about the shape of the snowball not holding up to the magic when she tries to move it and her first few attempts end with snow landing on her head, somehow, but Emma is nothing if not determined and by the time she figures it out both Killian and Henry are running back towards the side of the house, searching for shelter from a barrage of enchanted snow.

They settle into some kind of team and it’s a battle as intense as any he’s ever been a part of, snow and laughter flying through the air in equal measure as Henry provides ammunition for Killian and they both try and duck behind trees to avoid Emma’s attack.

And at some point, Henry decides the best plan of attack is to, well, attack, but there’s a slope on the side of the house and Emma has the higher ground and Killian dimly remembers both of them quoting something with those string of words. He barely gets his warning out before Henry is dashing up the ground, a small arsenal balanced in the curve of his elbow and it takes, exactly, four seconds for the first snowball to hit him squarely in the chest.

He falls to his knees when three more arrive, toppling back down the hill towards Killian’s feet.

He’s still smiling.

Even when Killian starts throwing the snowballs he made at him.

“That is cheating,” Henry shouts as soon as Emma comes around the corner, flakes in her hair and a blush in her cheeks and they’ll probably all have frostbite by the time this is over. “We were supposed to be allies!” “Pirate,” Killian says, throwing another snowball. It misses when Henry twists away, grabbing a fistfull of snow and tossing it at Killian’s knees.

They stay outside until they’re shivering and in desperate need of hot chocolate and food and they’ll have to make more cookies to bring to David and Snow’s because they eat most of the batter while waiting for the oven to reheat again.

Henry falls asleep on the couch, head propped up awkwardly on the arm with his legs stretched out over both Emma and Killian. They fall asleep too.

And none of them should be very comfortable, but all of them are incredibly comfortable wrapped up in blankets and each other and the warmth that seems to permeate every single inch of that house and by the time Killian blinks awake to find that it’s nearly four in the morning, he half considers staying there.

“What time is it?” Emma mumbles, from where she’s laying with her head on his thigh and the words land mostly in his stomach.

He brushes his fingers over the back of her neck. “Early. Or late rather. You want to move, love? We should probably get the lad into bed or he’s going to dislocate something.” “Or kick me in the head,” Emma adds, pushing up off him in just enough time to avoid a particularly well-placed foot. She tugs on the bottom of Henry’s shirt. “C’mon, kid, you’ve got to go upstairs. If you don’t brush your teeth at some point, you’re going to get like eight-hundred cavities.”

Henry grumbles, something that might be an objection and Killian can never decide who is worse when they just wake up – the teenager draped over him or his wife. It takes a few more moments or prodding and muttering about dental hygiene before Killian twists his arm underneath Henry, tugging him up when he stands and they’re a strange, four-legged monstrosity up the stairs and into his room.

“If you don’t brush your teeth, I’m not going to pretend I didn’t find about that whole milkshake thing, like two seconds after you left Granny’s,” Emma warns. Henry clomps towards the bathroom, but there’s little argument and he might even smile when he moves past their bedroom door minutes later, mumbling something that sounds like Merry Christmas under his breath.

And Killian falls asleep smiling.

She wakes up at some point, dimly aware that she’s not where she expects to be.

She’s supposed to be on the couch.

She remembers the couch and how comfortable she was – exhausted, but in the kind of way she’d been certain only existed in Reese Witherspoon movies after montages with laughing and smiling and, apparently, enchanted snowballs. She can still taste the mint of her toothpaste on her tongue and the hint of hot chocolate, but she can’t remember how she got to bed and she’s momentarily terrified because, well, she’s her and this is Storybrooke, but then there’s suddenly an arm around her waist and warm air on her neck and she can feel his smile when he presses his lips to her skin.

“We’re fine, love,” Killian whispers and Emma exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, closing her eyes lightly.

He’s impossibly warm, voice still tinged with sleep and fingers drifting over her stomach and she lets him curl against her, like he’s trying to wrap up with her, but that only leads to thoughts of wrapping paper and Emma suddenly remembers it’s Christmas morning and he never learned what wrapping paper is.

She laughs, burying her face into one of the pillows propped up against the headboard and under her and Killian’s hand stills momentarily. He hisses slightly when her body presses against his, mumbling something that might be words, but also might just be the request to stop and continue at the same time.

Emma flips over, hair flying everywhere as she moves and his eyes are slightly darker than normal when she meets his gaze.

“You really don’t know what wrapping paper is?” she asks and Killian’s eyebrows fly up at the question he quite clearly wasn’t ready for.

“I was admittedly a little distracted trying to stop the entire town from telling you my Christmas plans and shortcomings.”

He’s grinning when he says the words and she knows he’s joking, but the sentence still cuts across her like some kind of knife and Killian’s hand starts moving again, tracing patterns over her spine when he tugs himself closer to her.  

“I’m really mad at the internet,” Emma grumbles. She lifts her own hand, resting her palm on his cheek and he leans into the touch, letting his eyes flutter shut when her thumb brushes over the scar just below his eye. “And I can’t believe we were doing the same thing. That’s just…” “Rom-com?” Killian suggests and Emma’s whole body shakes when she laughs.

“Yeah, exactly like that. How did we get upstairs?” “Do you not remember that?” Emma shakes her head, but it only serves to get more hair in her eyes and Killian’s whole face does something stupid when he reaches up to card his fingers through the strands. “We fell asleep downstairs. I have no idea what exactly the Miracle on 34th Street ended up being, you were very nearly concussed by Henry’s feet, I woke up, you made some kind of milkshake threat and I’m fairly positive the lad did, actually, brush his teeth.” “That might be the miracle in Storybrooke.” “Indeed.”

She bites her lip lightly, trying to to document the moment for posterity or something because her husband keeps staring at her like she’s the center of the goddamn universe and it’s Christmas Day and they all fell asleep on the couch the night before.

Like a family.

With presents.

And snow.

The lights looked fantastic in the snow.

Emma shifts under the small mountain of blankets she’s tugged on top of herself at some point in the middle of the night – or, well, technically the morning and memories of marching her kid up the stairs are starting to flicker through her mind and she can almost remember one of Killian’s hands on Henry’s shoulder.

“You look like the Cheshire Cat,” Killian comments, ducking his head until he’s in her eyeline and he grimaces when her feet brush up against his thigh. “Although I don’t think he was ever an actual piece of ice. How you manage to stay freezing cold after stealing all the blankets is a marvel I’ll never quite understand.”

“Is that a compliment?” “I’m not entirely sure. You are incredibly talented at stealing the bedding though, love.”

She grins, something shooting down her spine and it seems strange to flirt with her own husband in their own bed, but they’ve always been particularly good at this and the banter is easy to fall into even before coffee and, hopefully, presents.

“Pirate,” Emma mumbles and his eyes flash, some kind of emotion she can’t quite name before coffee flashing across his face.

“Aye,” he agrees, barely getting the word out before he’s kissing her and the blankets twist in between them, a mess of high-thread counts and hands and freezing-cold feet.

She, somehow, ends up on her back with her hair splayed out over several different pillows and Killian hovering over her, weight resting on his forearm and blankets pooling at his waist. And her hands move like there are magnets in her fingertips or possibly in him and neither one of those thoughts are particularly romantic or holiday-appropriate, but then she’s tracing her fingers over his chest and he’s not objecting and there’s more kissing before Emma can continue to consider the idea of magnets or how they work.

He’s trailing kisses across her neck – and it must still be early because there are no footsteps in the hallway or knocks on the door and Emma’s only slightly worried about scaring her kid for life sooner rather than later – when she realizes what he called her.

“Hey, that was a reference,” Emma says suddenly, jerking her head to the right and nearly slamming her forehead into Killian’s.

“Excuse me?” “You just made an Alice in Wonderland reference! Was that supposed to be a joke?” “Swan, I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

“You called me the Cheshire Cat. That’s from Wonderland, right?” He nods slowly as if she’s lost her mind and Emma rolls her whole head, growling low in her throat when she understands. It’s not a reference. It’s a...fact. “For real? That’s a real thing?”

“You know that Wonderland is a real place, love.” “I know, I know, but I just figured it was all kind of twisted the same way all these stories are and I hoped hallucinogenic cats were kind of off the table.” Killian shakes his head in confusion, eyes wide and it’s almost enough blue to distract her, but really that might just be the slight weight of him on top of her still and she’s got so many questions. “You know...like plants and smoke and they make you see things. The Cheshire Cat is kind of like that.” “I promise he’s not.” “No?” “No,” Killian repeats. “He’s, well, truth be told he’s rather obnoxious. All talk, little fact. Spends most of his time smiling like a fool and bouncing from place to place. Quite good at teleporting. Without the smoke.” “And you were comparing this jerk cat to me? That seems kind of like an insult, actually.” Killian hums, smile just as confident as ever and it’s absolutely because he can see the goosebumps on her skin when he brushes his lips over that particularly sensitive spot behind her ear. “I’m hoping the rest of the day makes up for my fault in judgement,” he mutters and her whole body moves out of instinct and several other verbs they probably don’t have time for. “There was some success to the rather hastily formed plan yesterday.”

“Yeah?” He nods again, fingers dipping dangerously low on her hips and she’s not sure who groans more when she rolls away.

Killian looks vaguely scandalized.

“We do not have time,” Emma grins, pulling one of the blankets with her and wrapping it around her shoulders, shivering as soon as she’s out of the cocoon of warmth that she’s fairly certain is just Killian.

He eyes her dubiously, as if he’s trying to come up with all the reasons they can make time, but they’re really going to do damage to Henry’s psyche at some point and they ate all the cookies they’re supposed to bring to her parents’ house.

“Maybe you’re the Cheshire Cat,” she accuses and she can’t quite cross her arms when she’s trying to hold a blanket that is almost too large to be practical. Her mother bought it when they moved into the house. The second time. It’s incredibly soft. “Trying to distract me,” Emma continues, but her words lose some of their venom when she nearly trips over her own feet and incredibly soft fabric.

She’s always vaguely impressed by his reflexes, certain it’s something to do with the ocean and The Jolly and a few seconds to make a snap decision, but the cool steel of his hook wrapping around her wrist and keeping her balanced sends a shockwave of emotion down Emma’s spine all the same.

Killian shifts his eyebrows.

It’s distracting.

“I never said the Cheshire Cat was a distraction,” he argues and she digs her heels into the floor so he can’t tug her back towards the bed. “And this was clearly a misplaced choice of words.”

Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat, eyes flitting across his face and they’re just...very good at the banter. It makes her pulse pick up. “Yeah, something, like that,” she mumbles. “Well, luckily for you, I’ve got a way to redirect the conversation so to speak.”

He lifts an eyebrow, pushing himself up against the pillows and maybe they need more blankets if he’s just going to sit there and look like that while she’s trying to maintain a certain level of festive. “I’m intrigued, Swan,” he says and she rolls her eyes because that’s the only response she can think of that isn’t just...jumping him or something.

She shakes her hand and he pulls his arm back to his side, lips pressed together and eyebrows lifted and his patience is some unspoken challenge.

Emma is very determined.

She tugs one of the dresser drawers open and she wasn’t really surprised to find that there was no wrapping paper in their house, but Happy tried to sell her more anchors when she went back into the store the day before, just a bit out of breath because she’d absolutely run there.

“Belle wouldn’t actually take any money,” Emma says, turning on the spot and thrusting her arm out into the space in front of her. Killian blinks. “Which, you know, I guess is good because you really do have another gift coming once the internet decides to do its actual job and…”

She trails off when she realizes Killian’s gaze has drifted away from her face to the package in her hand and Emma bites her lip because he looks somewhere between stunned and amazed and it’s a pretty good mix on a face that she was already considering spending most of the morning kissing.

“So,” she continues, taking a step forward and sinking onto the edge of the bed. “I was thinking about what Mom was saying about Solstice and little gifts that are supposed to be, you know, like super meaningful or something and when we ran into the library…” “You ran into the library, Swan?” Killian asks incredulously and of course that would get his attention.

“You were running down the street. I...I was supposed to be doing paperwork.” “Ah, but I already knew you were lying.” “And I knew you were lying as soon as you tried to tell me you were sick. You’re woefully out of practice at all of this.” “Seems like a good thing, don’t you think?”

Emma nods, twisting her legs underneath her and there’s still a blanket draped over her shoulders. “Yeah, it does,” she agrees. “We were really bad at that yesterday.” “Exceedingly.” “Good word.” “Have we circled back around to you running into the library, Swan?” “No, no,” Emma objects, turning the gift in her hands and Killian keeps waiting because she doesn’t know how to do this without it sounding overly sentimental, but maybe that’s what holidays are for. “I love you,” she says suddenly and, maybe, a bit too loudly and he blinks again because she’s shouting feelings in his face. “Just...I couldn’t just get something nautical because it was too obvious, but, well...you’re you and so we were going to go buy something for The Jolly because Granny kept making suggestions and being scandalized by my eating habits…” “Did you dunk your onion rings in your milkshake?” he asks knowingly and just a bit smugly and Emma’s eyes bulge. Killian shrugs. “You’re rather a creature of habit, love. And some of those habits are disgusting food choices.” “I’m not going to give you your gift now.”

Killian laughs softly, blankets shifting again when he moves closer to her and she’ll probably never understand the physics of him pulling her close enough that she’s not actually sitting on him, but her legs drape over his anyway and he still smells a bit like snow.

She’s not sure what snow smells like until that moment.

“I haven’t thought about Solstice in…” Killian starts, voice a little ragged and maybe it was alright to start shouting feelings in his face. “A very long time.”

“Mom said it wasn’t really the same exact thing.” “It’s not. No strange elf man.” Emma makes some kind of strangled noise, pushing her face into Killian’s chest and she’s fairly certain he kisses the top of her hair. She can’t really focus on anything except whatever his fingers are doing along her back. “It’s...quieter, I suppose. A chance to reflect after the harvest ends and eat quite a bit after the harvest ends.” He laughs softly to himself, like his mind is several centuries away and Emma is still filled with questions, but she bites her tongue to keep silent. He’ll tell her.

She knows.

“I wasn’t...there wasn’t much time for those kind of frivolous things when I was a lad, but even after my mother was gone and my father…” His chest moves with the force of his deep breath and Emma blinks so she won’t actually start crying, fairly certain that will ruin the moment entirely. “Well, after he left, Liam did his best to keep things as normal as possible. As normal he could when there was...nothing. He used to try and get me pieces of parchment. Little stories I could keep in my pocket. Must have cost him a fortune.”

Emma snaps her head up, breath catching in her throat and any thought of crying flies out the windows that are absolutely locked behind her.

She’s still not much for fate or plans or anything that isn’t absolutely in her control, but this entire stupid town keeps trying to call her princess and this is just a bit too perfect to be anything except the fairytale it absolutely is.

“What?” Killian asks cautiously.

She grabs the gift next to her, nearly pushing it into his chest and he chuckles softly when he finally sees wrapping paper in real life. “Ah, that’s what you meant by designs,” he mutters and Emma nods dumbly because her mind can’t quite keep up with any of this.

It was just an idea.

A haphazard, sentimental, product of the goddamn dysfunction of the internet idea.

God, she hopes he likes it.

That is...if he ever opens it.

“You can just rip it,” Emma explains and Killian makes a noise that sounds like of course tugging on edges and she’s not even remotely surprised to find he unwraps gifts like he’s unfolding a map. It’s almost perfectly on theme.

He doesn’t say anything at first and for one incredibly long moment, Emma’s almost terrified that he doesn’t like it, but that thought joins the other ones and she’s too busy kissing him back to be worried about anything else.

Her legs are already over his, so it’s only a matter of moments before she’s got her knees on either side of his hips and her fingers in his hair and his hands are heavy on her waist, some kind of rhythm that’s almost too easy to fall into settling between them.

“I’m going to assume you like it,” Emma mumbles, but the words get caught somewhere between her mouth and his and Killian barely answers before he starts kissing her again.

She’d seen the book what feels like several million years ago, researching some crisis she can’t quite remember perfectly, but even then she knew he’d love it because he’s such a nerd and so curious about everything in this realm and he wants to know.

It’s not a textbook, but it’s certainly denser than any of the other books in the library – a history of seafaring and the age of exploration and tales of ships and captains and, Belle was quick to point out when they finally found it the day before, several different maps that were, apparently, to scale and vaguely ancient and Emma knew Killian would spend at least several weeks examining all of them.

“I love you,” he says, pressing the words against her lips and her cheeks and just under her eyes and Emma can’t help but believe him because he can’t seem to stop touching her and repeating himself. “Did you….” Emma shakes her head. “No, no, no, I didn’t even know Solstice was a thing until yesterday. Why didn’t you say anything?” “Why didn’t you say anything about this elf man or being able to purchase gifts off the internet?” “Because you keep calling Santa an elf man. That’s not really how it works.”

“Emma.”

She groans when they transition out of one feeling to another and she’s glad she’s still wrapped in blankets because discussing this part of Christmas is a bit depressing – like jumping in ice water. “I...well I really wasn’t sure if the internet thing would work. I mean it didn’t, obviously, but more that I wasn’t sure if I’d ruin someone’s life by asking for things and, you know...that’s not really me and I’ve never…

They gave us presents some times in the houses and things like that, but there weren’t traditions and certainly no magic snowball fights or gift requests and it was more just hoping there’d be enough pie to go around by the end of the night and I know that’s different now. I know you’re here and Henry’s here and you went on some crazed present rush to make sure this was perfect, but it seemed kind of selfish to ask and...Santa’s totally an elf. Like it’s weird if he’s just a guy up there with only elves, right?”

It’s as depressing as she expected it to be and then some and she just wants to get back to the kissing and, maybe eventually, some coffee and some more cookie batter.

And Killian already knows.

Of course he does.

“Aye,” he nods. “Absolutely weird.”

Emma sighs, but she’s not biting her lip and that seems like a step in the right direction. “I’m glad we’re on the same page about that.” “Same book in fact.” “That was almost as bad as your lies.” “Charming, Swan,” Killian corrects, nosing lightly at her cheek and they’re never going to get out of bed. “We’ve discussed this already.”

She’s about to say something – something witty and romantic and absolutely endearing, she just hasn’t figured out what yet, but there’s suddenly a knock on their door and Killian’s already opened the book, eyes flitting along lines and nautical terms and Henry’s shouting something in the hallway.

“Guys,” he yells. “Mom! Killian! You guys need to come out here! Like, now!” He starts kicking the door when they don’t answer immediately and there’s a dull thud against the wood that might just be his whole body at some point. “Seriously, this is a big deal!”

Emma laughs, swinging her legs back over the side of the bed and Killian closes the book lightly when he shouts are we under attack, lad towards the half-open door.

Henry doesn’t even look entertained.

“You guys are seriously going to want to see this,” he says instead, already halfway down the hallway and Emma lifts both hands in a move that’s equal parts confused and slightly impressed.

“We’re apparently being summoned,” she mutters, grabbing the t-shirt at the foot of the bed and tossing it towards Killian. He catches it. “Don’t think a vague bit of athletic talent and making out is going to make me forget that you actually called me the Cheshire Cat this morning.” He flashes a smirk at her, hair slightly worse for wear when he tugs the cotton over it. “I’m more than willing to test out several different make out attempts again, darling,” he laughs and Emma sticks her tongue out.

The smirk gets more pronounced.

“Insufferable,” she mumbles and Henry’s shouting demands again from the foot of the stairs.

Killian, finally, moves out of bed, but not before leaving the book on the nightstand next to him and the care he takes with it does something absolutely ridiculous to her heart and, at least, twenty different internal organs. “C’mon love,” he says, bumping his shoulder against hers. “Let’s make sure whoever is attacking us doesn’t come into the house.”

Henry’s still screaming for them when they finally come up short of the front door and Emma opens her mouth to make some quip about heat \, but all the words seem to get lost on their way from her brain to her tongue.

She freezes.

And she’s fairly certain she sees Killian wink at Henry.

There’s a not-so-small pile of presents sitting on their doorstep – bags and boxes and brightly colored wrapping paper and Emma nearly trips over the thermos at her feet when she steps forward, the scent of hot chocolate and cinnamon wafting up towards her.

There are dozens of packages, all of them with tags and she can make out a different name on each and every one, every person she knows and know her leaving something on their doorstep as if that’s where the tree is and…

Emma spins, hands flying up to land on Killian’s chest when she nearly crashes into the gifts. He smiles at her – brighter than any lights or the top of a Christmas tree and it’s slightly disconcerting, but Henry’s already reading off names and guessing what’s in gifts and staying upright is suddenly a very specific type of challenge. “Oh there’s food too,” Henry exclaims. Emma’s fingers tighten, but Killian’s gaze doesn’t move away from her face and his fingers are a bit colder when they cup her cheek, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She’s not entirely certain this isn’t some kind of dream.

Some kind of crazed Christmas dream.

It’s far too cold to be a dream.

“We just have to heat it up,” Henry continues. “I guess it is kind of like a freezer out here, but...oh, no, no, there’s another note. Mom did it. Poofed it here.” “What?” Emma asks sharply, twisting and she’s breathing louder than she probably should. Henry nods. “There’s another note, but it’s from Grandma. Here.” He pushes the piece of paper towards Emma and her hand trembles slightly when she pulls it out of his grip, her mother’s loopy scrawl obvious even from several inches away.

Emma,

You deserve it and more. I barely even had to ask. I mentioned something to Granny weeks ago and the entire town rose to the occasion. I think some of them actually managed to get the internet to work correctly for them, but that’s neither here nor there.

Granny says it would be insulting to the food if you reheat in the microwave. Her words, not mine. Merry Christmas and Happy Solstice, sweetheart. We’ll see you this afternoon.

- Mom and Dad

She’s not crying – some kind of actual Christmas miracle, she’s sure – but her breathing isn’t quite even either and there are so many gifts and so much paper and one very large gift right in the middle of it all that’s missing both a note and any semblance of paper.

It’s a chair.

An actual chair made of actual wood and the cushion on the seat looks incredibly familiar.

It looks suspiciously like the fabric from her office chair. Her torturous, uncomfortable, doing permanent damage to her spine office chair.

Only this chair doesn’t look anything like a torture device – it looks comfortable and soft and that doesn’t even make any sense because it’s made of wood, but Emma isn’t convinced her brain is getting the oxygen it needs to form coherent thoughts.

She brushes her finger over the back and there aren’t actually any arms on it because she likes to sit cross-legged at her desk and Killian teases her about it endlessly and…

“You’re the only one who knows I sit like that,” Emma says, glancing over her shoulder to find him staring at her expectantly and just a bit warily and both emotions seem to fall off his face as soon as she licks her lips.

Killian nods and Henry laughs and it’s some kind of picture-perfect moment that she’s fairly certain can’t get better until her eyes flit over the top of the chair and something that looks a little bit like a carving and Emma’s positive her heart actually stops.

Buttercups.

The very same as the one on her wrist that matches up, almost perfectly, with her father’s crest.

“Do you like it?” Killian asks softly and Emma tries not to actually jump, but she can’t pull her eyes away from the chairs and the details and she doesn’t actually turn around.

He got her a chair.

In one day.

With buttercups on it.

Sentimental, indeed.

“Swan?” Killian prompts. The whole house creaks when he moves, hand falling on her shoulder and she hardly considers what kind of affect this is going to have on Henry’s psyche before she launches herself at her husband.

Henry laughs. At least she thinks that what that noise is. Emma’s far too busy being festive. And making out. But, if asked, she’ll definitely claim festive.

“How did you do this?” she asks, somehow managing to retain enough oxygen in her lungs that she can actually get words out. Killian looks somewhere close to overwhelmed, but in a good sort of way and their front door is still wide open.

There is still a mountain of gifts on their front porch.

One of them should turn on the oven if they’re going to use it. Otherwise they’ll never eat.

“I didn’t really do anything, Swan,” Kilian says, eyeing her meaningfully when she scoffs. He got her a chair. An office chair. It might be the single most romantic thing she’s ever received. “The case in the jewelry store squeaked,” he continues. “Reminded me of your chair.”

She laughs and it’s slightly manic and sounds a bit like disbelief and Killian’s mouth twitches. “So you were actually pillaging the jewelry store?” “We left a note.” “Did Sleepy know that?” “He was asleep, love.” “Oh my God.” “Inspiration struck, we had to leave. Time was of the essence. Marco can only work so fast.”

Emma’s eyes widen and her kid is still laughing, moving presents around her and Killian and she hears the telltale click of the oven. “You went to Marco?” she breathes and he nods again.

“I’ve no idea how he managed to finish this in a few hours, but a ten o’clock deadline was his idea, so I’d imagine he spent most of the night.” “That’s….” Killian doesn’t let her finish. “Merry Christmas, Emma,” he says and there’s more kissing and Henry yells some more and eventually they do close the front door.

They get to her parents’ house – with only two dozen cookies because a full bowl of cookie batter was too much temptation and most of the morning was spent with flour all over the counter and spoonfuls not-so-subtly snuck in between detailed decorating plans and Emma’s certain the muscles in her face will ache for at least a week from overuse.

Most of the town piles into the farmhouse by the time the sun sinks behind the clouds and it starts to snow again, but there’s more food than any of them can eat and Regina waves her hand and there are even more desserts and steaming apple cider and rum goes pretty good with that as well.

Emma’s teetering just on the edge of pleasantly buzzed a few hours later, tucked against Killian’s side while Henry plays with her brother in front of a TV that’s showing some Christmas classic and she might fall asleep on this couch too.

“I love you,” she whispers, pressing the words into the curve of Killian’s neck and she’s fairly certain she doesn’t imagine his lips turning up.

His chest shakes when he laughs, but he definitely kisses her and his arm tightens slightly. “I love you too, Swan. Don’t fall asleep.”

She does.

Because Christmas and Solistice is hectic and crazy and nothing like any of those VHS movies promise her it would be.

It’s better.

[cosmosogler]

hey guys. i had bad dreams and a lot of trouble sleeping!!! i woke up a bunch of times and every time i was tangled up in my pjs. my pants had somehow become backwards at the waist.

when i did get up i reached up to stretch and my shoulders, like, clicked back into place with an audible snap. i can’t tell if that hurts or not.

i was a little slow to get moving. while i was checking facebook this morning snoopy pooped next to my desk. i was pretty annoyed about that, especially since this was right after i’d fawned over her for a while. i’d only stopped because she got up to get water and i thought she was done being petted.

i showered and spent a long time in there just thinking. i don’t know what i was thinking about. i guess i was thinking about thinking in the shower. either way, it was a while.

then i made a quiche i’d bought yesterday. i think it may have made me sick. the cashier at the grocery store hadn’t put it in my freezer bag... along with the eggs. something in there doesn’t smell quite right but i haven’t found it yet. no, it’s not the eggs.

i was doing something but i don’t remember what it was!!! at 10:40 ish, or 11, somewhere in between there, i started packing for school. i decided i should probably dole out my trail mix rations finally since i’ve had the jar sitting in my pantry for 6 weeks. i love trail mix. not sure why i never took the time to separate it into servings. i even just enjoyed the process of measuring out 1/2 cups and putting them in bags to put in my lunch box over the next two weeks.

i biked over to campus but i was very leisurely about it. just didn’t have the drive to pedal as fast as i could i guess. good thing the physics building is downhill. i don’t quite have the stamina to stand on the pedals but i am trying to practice a little bit. getting pretty good at sharper turns at least, and i can hold my arm out to signal for a whole second now instead of just kinda... waving it and grabbing the handlebar again real fast.

and no part of me has gotten snagged in the pedals or chain in a week so that’s good!!!

once i got to my office i had a little trouble getting started with my work. i think it took 40-45 minutes... i again do not remember what i was doing other than browsing the internet. fatigued.

i did work for an hour before i stopped for lunch. i finished studying my class notes and adjusting a few things to account for understanding the material a little better. i wish i’d been more careful about transcribing what the professor had written previously... i left a few frustrated notes about how i couldn’t hear what he said, or his handwriting was too bad to make out, or how he’d written half an equation on the board and not ever finished it. but a few things i could have made better note of- like the slant of the tensor indices. i didn’t realize that was important until much later.

i do ask him to clarify sometimes, if i can’t read whether a word says “sine” or “mmnmnn”. and his Vs look like Ns. that REALLY trips me up because we use both of those a lot.

but i can’t ask every time.

i talked to suzanne about having all the grad students upload their class notes into an online database so we’d all have all the information we’d collectively written down. she said that’s actually a great idea and we have a scanner in the department for people who write in real old fashioned notebooks (like me). 

might run it by luis and taylor later... one of them could probably help me set up some kind of dropbox or google doc collection.

my lunch was pretty great. i had a sandwich and a banana and had a terrible stomachache but felt a little more settled after the banana. i had to try real hard not to puke though for like an hour.

after that i finished my classical assignment due tomorrow. it took about an hour too. and another 40-ish minutes sprinkled through the rest of the day making small corrections as i discovered why i shouldn’t include a factor of 2 here and there.

suzanne watched me try to explain one of the problems to harrison and corrected me a few times when i got confused by terms i’d heard her use when she explained it to me. it got me flustered at the time because harrison looked like i was making it worse but at the same time i’m glad i had to articulate what exactly the problem was asking for and get my course adjusted right away as soon as i made a mistake.

still not quite sure what “geometric analysis” means, especially in comparison to, i think it was, “numerical analysis.” both of those involve popping variables into equations and making substitutions and getting an answer. 

at about 2:30 i walked over to the union with suzanne and jennica in the rain. i was half under suzanne’s umbrella so when we got inside half of me was immediately cold and soggy. one sleeve of my shirt was just soaked but the rest was lightly sprinkled or just dry.

i’m wearing one of my favorite shirts today. it’s soft and gray and loose and it says in big white letters “DON’T BOTHER ME     I’M BUSY” and there’s minions posing. 

not sure what the minions are doing there but their frozen screams of karate rage match my mood at all times so i will allow it.

i’ve had this shirt for years. i wear it like literally every laundry cycle.

anyway i sat with my two classmates and talked about sand while they ate wendy’s. i don’t quite remember what started the tangent, but it involved me telling a joke about body surfing with my brother and getting slapped around by the waves and dragged along the beach haha.

when we walked back it wasn’t really raining any more. i originally didn’t mind the rain until it got ice cold over the span of three seconds. but anyway i got right back to it!!! i think. i mostly ate trail mix for a little bit and goofed off with harrison and talked about the classical homework. suzanne wants to work on the last two quantum problems tomorrow so i let that assignment be for now.

i compiled all the questions we’ve been assigned in classical so far and their solutions. i printed out just the questions from the first assignment to take home with me. i meant to work on it tonight but i ran out of time. that took forever though. i joked about it to harrison. i said “it’s so great to be working on a project that is not really doing actual practice problems.” 

he said “yeah, i love dicking around instead of working.”

i said “that’s what it’s all about!”

i was kinda bummed that doing the homework took so long... and none of us had ANY energy at all. luis didn’t even come in. taylor came in in the mid-afternoon but then didn’t actually sit and do any work. rebika left before that. jennica was... riding up and down the hallway in an office chair flopping her arms around like a terrifying crab woman. 

we’re tired.

eventually i was getting ready to leave when jennica wanted to talk about pirates for like 15 minutes. we ended up on pseudo-politics. not actually talking about any issues in particular, but rather how we approach them. i started getting pretty dark thoughts so i hopped on my bike and went home. 

i mean, they weren’t any darker than the joke i’d made earlier. 

taylor had said something. harrison replied, “who are you, my mother? if all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you do it too?”

i laughed and said “absolutely. of course, the joke is that i would have done it without all my friends. jumped off the bridge, i mean.”

we talked about how high the bridge was, and if it was over water or not. there were a couple “it doesn’t matter how high it was as long as you believe in yourself” comments because taylor was involved with the conversation.

anyway i offered to make muffins later in the week and then i went home at 6:30-ish. at 7:00 i started making TEMPEH TACOS!!!!

they were so good. oh man. i only exploded one thing too. i actually ate the entire meal even though it was way too much. i cleaned up the dishes bloated and happy and everything smelled like limes. because i’d put like a quarter cup of lime juice in with with the crumbled tempeh. which was only a big enough serving for one person.

i bummed around on the internet for a while after that, and then at about 9:30 i got back to work for a little bit. i made a complete rubric for the labs i gotta grade, so hopefully now it will be faster and more cut and dry. at about 10:10 i started writing here.

looking at my to-do list... i didn’t get as much done as i would have liked. things always seem to take twice as long as i plan for, even when i feel like i’m allocating a generous time slot to relatively minor things. like giving myself a full hour to finish half a classical problem that specifically asks for no (dynamical) equations. all i had to do was draw a triangle and do some trigonometry with suzanne.

being a master avoider has some downsides. like even when i want to focus on a project my brain is sneaky about avoiding it. which is why i spent 80 minutes putting together an easy reference for doing the practice problems instead of actually doing practice problems.

at least i recognized all the questions and had a vague idea of how i would go about solving them. i’m really, really hoping it doesn’t take twelve hours to do one old assignment like it did the first time around.

looks like grading will have to slide this week. i can do it for a little while every day but there’s no way i can get it all done on monday and get enough sleep to do my best on the exam on tuesday night.

i don’t WANT to screw around all the time. but it seems like that’s what keeps happening.

and no matter how much work i get done i should always have gotten MORE done.

something good about me today was MY AMAZING, FANTASTIC COOKING PROJECT. IT WAS SO GOOD YOU GUYS. IT WAS SO GOOD!!! it’s not quite what i remember making back at home a few months ago, but it was great in its own way and i think making the tacos either way will do it for me! maybe a little less lime juice next time. maybe that’s what was overpowering the earthy nuttiness of the tempeh. i even sauteed the onions for a little bit to take the edge off and that helped a lot toward making the crumbled tempeh taste more complete and less like a collection of onions and chili powder and limes. 

oh! and i came up with a great way to avoid the Onion Tears. i put my fan next to my cutting board and had it blow the fumes out the window while i chopped. snoopy sat on the ottoman and watched me.

i think cooking a nice, for real meal for myself every now and then does a lot toward lifting my mood. i wish i had time to do it more often. even just putting my freezer stuff in the oven instead of the microwave can do a lot for the texture even though it takes four times as long.

i’m not sure how i got so good at this. maybe part of it is that my own food just tastes better because i know how much work i put into it. *i* went out and bought the stuff. *i* chopped up all the onions and the tempeh and boiled it. *i* set aside the serving i wasn’t using for leftovers later. *i* spent 35 minutes putting everything together. part of the flavor is just feeling good about making this thing for yourself.

but even the stuff i’d make at home mom seemed to like at least. 

part of it might be that i know what a lot of things taste like and how much god dang chili powder i love to have on everything. and it’s kind of easy to judge from the smell how much, comparatively, of that thing i should put into my pan. i have a decent sense of smell. raised by dogs and all that.

and half the fun is realizing you don’t have something and improvising with what you do have. and seeing what happens when you do that. 

and dumping piles and piles of chipotle rub you stole from your mom’s pampered chef set on everything.

by “stole” i mean she said “you can have this one and i’ll order a new one. and then another new one for myself.”

i wish i had more cooking vocabulary. i don’t have anyone to talk to about it and i don’t really know... what kinds of words to use when i do talk about it? like until a few hours ago i wasn’t really sure what the difference between “saute” and “fry” was. still not quite sure why “broil” is different from “bake.” 

kind of feels like when i was at home and i didn’t have anyone to talk to about physics for eight months. and kind of feels like when i like a tv show and don’t have anyone to talk to about it for years. you get out of practice.

anyway it’s 11:15 and i’d like to be in bed real soon so i can start getting up early like a normal person again. if i get up at 8 the sun’s been up too long already and i’ve woken up like five times because it comes right through the window directly into my eyeballs. 

[theclaravoyant]

AN ~ for the Anon who prompted (paraphrased):

Genderfluid!Daisy getting drunk and trying to come out to their partner(s)

For the ship of my choice I decided to try my hand at some TripDaisy, and while I don’t think it came out (*ba dum tsh*) as fluffy as you may have intended, I hope the mild angst/hurt/comfort/fluff blend is satisfying :) Hope you like it!

Read on AO3 (~1300wd). Rated light T.

-

now take a hold of your soul

The small club buzzed with life as Daisy Johnson sat at the bar, casually nursing a lemonade as she looked around for someone she was expecting. She beamed when, at last, she saw Trip enter at the other end of the room. As he passed the tables and the dance floor, looking for her, the strobing pink and green lights shone richly on his dark skin, and on his white teeth that shone across the room at her when he beamed back. He opened his arms as he got close, and Daisy slid off her seat, waving for their first round of drinks before embracing him with a kiss.

“Congratulations!” she called, over the music. “You did a great job today! So glad to see you’re finally getting some recognition!”

“You know what they say though,” Trip said, brushing her off, although his humble smile glowed. “Behind every great man is a woman –“

“Shoving him full of congratulatory drinks?” Daisy suggested, holding up one shot for herself, and one for him. “The first one’s the good stuff. It gets more budget after that ‘cause I’m not made of money, but cheers!”

Trip laughed. “Cheers!”

They tapped their glasses together and threw the shots back, and then Daisy pointed a finger at the jukebox. Someone she’d paid earlier dropped a selection, and the iconic 80s drumbeats filled the bar.

“Ooh!” Trip called. “This is my jam!”

Daisy laughed. She’d never met a man with more jams than Trip, and the enthusiasm with which he beckoned her out onto the dancefloor was enough to draw the attention of half the bar. With eyes on them, Trip leaned into it, pretending to throw a lasso around her and pull her toward him before both of them launched into a semi-co-ordinated dance. Whether it was nostalgia or infectious enthusiasm, Daisy was pleased to find that the rest of the crowd got in on the action with ease. Dancing, singing, and eventually, karaoke, made for an even better night than Daisy had planned, and by the time she and Trip had retired to one of the booths – both tipsy, sweaty, and breathing hard – she was riding a high of sugar, alcohol, and endorphins.

“Love you,” she murmured, cuddling into his chest even though they had the whole booth to themselves. “’m proud of you. You know that? You are bad. Ass.”

“Well, thank you, I am,” Trip agreed, turning his glass between his fingers with pride and a little drunkenness swelling his chest. “That’s why we make a perfect pair.”

“Shux.” Daisy grinned a slow, lazy grin, and lay her chin on her hands on the table. She was drunk enough to feel warm, and Trip’s hand was strolling over her back, and if she sunk any further into relaxation, she reckoned, she’d soon start purring like a cat. The sugar high was wearing off, for now. Either that, or she was ascending a level of drunkenness. Probably both, as the still-dancing crowd seemed to blur in time and colour before her eyes. “Geez, how are those guys still going?”

Trip laughed. “When did you turn into such an old granny?”

“The body is willing,” Daisy explained. “The 5am starts are not.”

“Oh, shit, May’s gonna freak –“ Trip very nearly giggled, and Daisy giggled too, her nose crinkling as she did.

“Nah, I got tomorrow off. Gotta treat my man to a proper congratulations!” She slapped his chest – slowly, drunkenly, fluidly and inaccurately – in praise. Then fell into it, and settled there, her face a little mashed into his chest, where she whispered: “Damn, you’re ripped.”

“Oh, you like that?” Trip raised one of his arms, showing off his guns to Daisy, who poked it with a finger.

“You have really nice muscles,” she said. “And a nice face. And a nice ass.”

“Damn right,” Trip agreed. “And I think this ass wants to get us some water, hm?”

“Hate to watch you walk away,” Daisy agreed, mashing the saying into one. Trip headed back to the bar, dancing so that his hips gyrated exaggeratedly, and Daisy, true to her word, watched. By the time he had fetched the jug of water and returned though, the alcohol and the sugar crash and the warped way that time worked when she was drunk - and that time being spent alone – was bringing Daisy down, fast. The smile had faded from her face and she stared at the blue liquid that was her cocktail, as if she could see straight through it to something that still, somehow, meant nothing. Trip swapped the cocktail out for a glass of water and Daisy looked up at him: part of her still distant, but part of her surprised. Maybe even surprised that he’d come back.

“Do you think I’m a freak?” she asked.

“Nah, man,” Trip insisted. “I mean, only in the good ways.”

Daisy snorted derisively, and took a swig of the water, and pulled a face. She’d been looking forward to restoring the sugar high, but she knew water was better for now.

“They’re all bad ways,” she said. “I never fit.”

“Hey, the way things are going, if everyone fit, the world would be a way worse place,” Trip pointed out. “And besides – you fit with some people. The important people. You fit with me, right?”

Daisy sighed.

“I don’t know.”

Trip frowned. He shifted his seat, moving back to Daisy’s side and pulling her into his arms.

“Hey, now, where’s this coming from?” he crooned. “You and me are good, girl. Don’t get down on yourself about that. There’s plenty else in the world to worry about, but not that.”

Daisy shook her head.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

“Always.”

“Sometimes… I don’t always feel like girl. Which is crazy because like, I don’t even know what feeling like a girl is supposed to feel like – like that’s crazy, right, how is that a thing – but like… I feel like I just know sometimes. I’m wrong.”

“No,” Trip assured her. “You’re not wrong, Daisy. You’re here. Your existence... is what it is, but it's not wrong. You matter, no matter what. Hey. How long have you been feeling like this?” Daisy shrugged.

“I dunno. My whole life, I guess. I thought it would go away when I found out all the Inhuman stuff but it never really did. It’s just what I am. Just another freaky layer to the freak onion that is my life.”

Trip squeezed her in a hug, kissed her hair and whispered in her ear: “I love the freak onion. Don’t you forget it. And you know, you’re not alone. There’s words for people like you.”

“Yeah, -“

“Nice words,” Trip interrupted, before she could start on a list.

Daisy pouted. “If you start spouting some cheesy shit like ‘hero’ or something I’m getting a cab.”

“You are a hero, whether you like it or not,” Trip pointed out, “but that’s not what I meant. I mean, there’s a whole bunch of people out there who don’t feel like they’re what they were born as -”

“I’m not-“ Daisy started, but Trip didn’t let her cut him off.

“- and some of those people only feel it some of the time. Like, there’s this thing called ‘genderfluid.’ I don’t remember much about it, it came up in Group once, but it’s pretty self-explanatory, isn’t it? Must be where your gender, is like… fluid.”

Daisy took a long drink of water. Trip took this as a reminder, and poured himself one too. And they started again.

“Gender…fluid…” Daisy murmured, pulling out her phone and googling the term. She squinted at some of the articles through her drunkenness. “That’s cool. Lots of gender binary bullshit though. You sure it’s really a thing?”

“Yeah. If you read what people actually talk about, people who experience it, a lot of it sounds like what you said just now. I mean, maybe consider again it when it’s not 2am and we’re not pretty heavily inn—in—well, drunk.” He laughed at himself. “But I’m pretty sure it’s a thing.”

“And – and I mean if it is,” Daisy put forward. “You don’t mind?”

“Look, I’ve revealed a lot of things I’ve regretted at 2am DNMs,” Trip said, “so if you wake up tomorrow and want to forget this whole thing, that’s fine. But if you follow the trail and it means something, I’m here for you. Names, pronouns, the whole shtick if you want.”

“Thanks, but I mean for you,” Daisy pressed. “For us. I mean, if I’m not a girl all the time – that sort of means you’re… not straight all the time.”

Trip shrugged.

“I’m easy, girl. Man. Whichever.” He grinned. “And if it turns out I swing more ways than I thought I did yesterday then that’s fine with me.”

He leaned back against the seat, smooth as a player, with a falsely self-aggrandising grin that, gradually, coaxed a smile out of Daisy at last. Then, more sincerely, he reached for her hand and looked into her eyes.

“Look, Daisy, you’ve always been special,” he said. “You’re an orphan with a family. You’re a human alien. You’re a hero, but you’re also an oxymoron, and that doesn’t mean you’re a freak. Not in a bad way. It just means you were never going to fit in someone’s neat little boxes, and that’s okay. ‘Specially since, you know, ticking boxes - you’re doing that left right and centre, as far as I’m concerned.”

Daisy groaned silently, but she was still smiling.

“I tick your boxes? That’s what you’re going with?”

Trip nodded, a sparkle of mischief back in his eyes as he became satisfied that the worst of Daisy’s drunken despair had passed.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “I’ll be here all week.”

Daisy rolled her eyes.

“Shut up and drink your water, babe,” she said, and she drank too.