#behold my lovely mother. not at all really knowing what a writing prompt is

[stealingyourbones]

My mom wanting to help me make prompts for my blog. She has no clue what I do on my blog but is enthusiastic and wants to encourage my creativity. She’s a bit confused on what writing prompts are but she has the spirit. I need you all to let my mom know how wonderful her ideas are:

- “the pink cat screamed out loud” “the fox skipped through the orchard and came across the pink cat.”

- “The wind whipped through her hair on the top level of the ferry that took them to spookatron island”

- She looked down at the sea and saw the Georgia’s cliffs and crashing waves below her. At least a thousand feet below

- She yelled for the life preserver as the cliffs fell away from her feet.

- The undulating sea roiled against her face, flattening for decades.

- She lept over the bridge with no concern in mind, lunging to grab the flailing glove.

- Loose helmets and no goggles, plus three mopeds equals = help me in crying.

- The sky was painting in gorgeous colors but oh no! There’s something in the sky. What is it?

Also

My mother: “do you get paid for your work?”

Me: “ i mean I have a Ko-Fi? There’s legal issues with getting money from licensed products”

My mother: “You still should get paid.”

[strawbeerossi]

Daydreaming || 1/3 ||

Part two || Part three

Pairing: Fem!reader x Aaron Hotchner

Description: When Jack makes a new friend at school, Aaron is happy to listen to all the stories his son shares about their days together. At another child's birthday party, Aaron gets to meet him as well as his mother.

Content Warnings: Fluffy fluff fluff with a pinch of angst, Jack and Finn are happy to tell all of their parents' business, the two boys try to play matchmaker, reader is a widow, mention of parental death, mention of unspecified illness, mentions of guilt, smiley Aaron (!!!)

Word Count: 1.6K

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My first Aaron fic! Y'all let me know what you think! I'm considering making this a series depending on y'all's thoughts!

Aaron had heard enough about Jack’s new little friend Finn Y/L/N to write a book, it seemed. He liked dinosaurs, liked to read picture books, and he was great at making pretend food. The father loved hearing the tales his son would come home with from a busy day at school. It started with him talking about his day, giving his father all his graded papers for the day, and he had to read for twenty minutes for his reading log.

After that, he was more than happy to gush about his day with all his friends, Finn being the newest and most exciting. It seemed like they got along well, lord knows he got enough notes from Jack’s teacher about his talking and joking while he was supposed to be paying attention.

Aaron hadn’t met the little boy until Jack was playing with him on the school playground when he was coming to surprise him by picking him up early after a gruelling case.

The cases with children always made him hug his son a little tighter, so this wasn’t too out of left field. He could remember a little blonde boy hurrying behind Jack to the fence, the little boy already seeing his father from the parking lot that was next to the playground. 

“That’s my daddy!” Jack gushed, the seven-year-old letting his small hand poke through the fence to point Aaron out. Finn looked like a cheerful kid, waving quickly at the black-haired man who couldn’t help but smile as he noticed his son’s excitement. “Hi, Jack’s daddy.” The blonde greeted, his hand opening and closing in the sweet form of a smaller child’s wave.

“My name is Finn.” He spoke confidently, a beaming smile on his face with dimples making their grand appearance. “Are you really a superhero? My mommy says that my daddy was one too!” He spoke, head tilting to the side.

Was.

Before he could answer, the boys’ teacher had already caught notice of the familiar father. “Hello, Mr. Hotchner!” She spoke, greeting the father. The older woman offered a content smile. “Nice to see you. Jack, buddy, go get your things. Finn, come play, honey. Your mom should be here soon.” She mused, watching the blonde wave at Aaron again before he was rushing off.

That afternoon, he was taking Jack to get ice cream while sitting across from him. “Hey, buddy..” Aaron began, now curiosity taking over him. “What does Finn’s dad do?” The words came out a little softer. Jack knew about death, being familiar after losing his own mother at such a young age.

“Well, he said that his daddy used to drive a firetruck.” Jack responded, dipping his spoon in his ice cream before putting it in his mouth. “But he got sick one day, and he died.” The bluntness of children was something to behold. “He was a little baby so he can’t remember.” He added soon after. 

After the encounter with the older male, Finn was opening up to Jack more in school about his own father, telling him stories that he’d heard from his mother at some point.

Talking about the death of his father also prompted Jack to open up about his deceased mother as well. They spent a lot of time sharing stories from either their surviving parents, or even sneaking pictures to show one another on the playground.

As the days turned into weeks, it wasn’t long until the first child in their class was having a birthday party. Aaron made it a point to take the day off for that, mainly because his son was over the moon since Finn had already told him at school that he was going. Jack had dragged Aaron around the store for what felt like hours, the two looking at suitable gifts for the birthday girl and even a nice card that they signed. 

Jack was holding the gift bag in his hand, proudly walking alongside his father up the driveway while his other hand was safely held by Aaron. “Come on, daddy.” He began, quickly hurrying to the front door, having to stand on the tips of his toes so he could ring the doorbell. The father behind the door looked cheerful enough, despite the house being full of children who were already excited enough, the sugar later going to make them bounce off the walls more. 

As the party was moving to the backyard, it wasn’t long until quite a few parents were already talking amongst each other. Aaron felt strange, if he was honest. He couldn’t put his finger on why exactly. “Sorry we’re late.” There was a woman’s voice sounding through the other side of the fence, unlatching it before making her way inside with a smile, Finn by her side as he was quickly running to join the party.

The woman in question was captivating, a smile on her face as she was carrying a gift bag on one arm, leaning down to hug the birthday girl with the other. So she was a parent who was involved. Aaron wished that he could have the luxury of knowing everyone in the class, already being familiar with his son’s friends.

“Daddy!” The word pulled Aaron from his thoughts as he was turning to look at his son, a smile on his face. “What’s up, Jack?” He asked, now kneeling down to get on his son’s level. “That’s Finn’s mommy.” The child whispered, stating what Aaron had already pieced together. “We should go say hi.” He spoke, which Finn had already gotten his mother’s attention as his hand was tightly holding onto hers as he was happily tugging her behind him. 

The minute that the two parents were finally brought face to face, both of their son’s looked more than satisfied. “Hi, you must be Mr. Hotchner. I’m Y/N, Finn’s mom. It’s very nice to meet you.” The woman offered a smile as she was holding her hand out for him to shake.

“He’s a superhero.” Jack spoke up, making the two parents laugh. “Is that so? Well, are you Spider-Man or Batman?” Y/N asked, a wide smile gracing her features while Aaron just couldn’t help but match that smile.

She was beautiful. 

“She has a crush on Spider-Man.” Finn cut in, looking up at Aaron as if to signal for him to say that. 

Were these two little shits trying to play matchmaker?

“Unfortunately, I’m only an agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Aaron responded with a chuckle, much to their sons’ dismay. “Oh, with the FBI.” Y/N recognized the name while offering a smile. “I write for the paper. I’ve written so many articles about your team and the good that you all do.” She confirmed, a smile on her face.

“I’ve spoken to Jennifer Jareau on several occasions as well when it comes to pushing out stories in order to help you all catch the local people you catch.”

She was surprised she didn’t recognize who he was, however it made sense considering she didn’t come face to face with the team too much, only speaking with the communications liaison when she was needed. 

The two boys were facing one another before shrugging, slowly growing bored of the adult conversation before they were heading off to go play with their friends. “I’ve heard a lot about Jack. He’s such a sweet boy.” Y/N smiled. “I was worried about Finn starting at this new school. He was going to a smaller, more private institution last year but.. He just wasn’t happy there any longer and I know I’d hate to be stuck somewhere that I don’t like.” 

Aaron smiled while nodding along with her words, giving her his full attention since their children were off playing. “Yeah, Jack was telling me about that. He told me something about a teacher there who wasn’t so nice.” Aaron added on to the conversation, making the mother nod. “You’ve got no idea. I don’t know why she bullied a six-year-old but.. Mama put an end to that fast.” Y/N shook her head as her hands were in her pockets.

“I don’t mean to come across as rude for putting my nose in things that aren’t my business,” Aaron spoke while he was looking at the woman in front of him. “But how do you do it? How do you make being a single parent look so easy?” He asked, making Y/N offer a small smile.

“I’ve been a single parent for a long time. To be honest with you, I used to feel selfish for getting pregnant even though I knew my husband at the time wasn’t going to survive what he was going through.” She admitted. “I make it look easy but I can promise, it never gets easier.” She said softly.

“I um.. I heard about your wife from Finn. I truly am sorry, even if it was a while ago. I know it’s hard losing the one person who you thought would be around much longer.” Her words were soft, a small smile on her face. “And I hope you know that you are doing a really good job. I know your life is busy and your career can be a headache but that little boy loves you. He looks at you like you’ve hung the moon.” 

It was something he needed to hear, something that Aaron appreciated. They had a deep understanding of one another in that aspect, the knowledge that there is hope of moving forward after tragedy. It was a long road but they both handled it like pros. 

“After the party, me and Finn were going to go get some lunch and have a little picnic in the park, if you and Jack want to join us. I think that he would be absolutely over the moon to invite you both.” Y/N spoke, which there was now a smile gracing Aaron’s features once more as he was looking back to his son.

“We’d love to.”

[marigold-hills]

Dunes and Waters

PART 1 • NEXT PART

PART 2:

Here is the thing about living alone: the routines. Little patterns of behaviour, daily rituals. Like turning on the kettle for tea before going to brush your teeth. A cigarette smoked out the kitchen window while waiting for it to cool down. Cryptic crosswords in the morning paper.

Remus has been living by himself for six years, ever since his mum died and his dad decided he couldn’t live with the reminder, going off to travel the Scottish Highlands and never returning. And he likes it, Remus does; never mind if he’s in his tiny studio in London, his old university accommodation, or in this lovely hotel in Egypt. Being alone suits him.

This morning, his crossword is half (and incorrectly) completed. The water from the kettle emptied and not replaced. His cigarettes – of which he still had three, he’s certain – all gone.

Worst of all? Sirius Black, hair up in a knot held up with his wand, sprawled out onto Remus’ favourite windowsill smoking what must be his last cigarette.

He looks like a cover of an album. Framed by the morning sun. Velvet Underground would pay a fortune for a picture of him right now, dressed in a loose billowy shirt he’s procured from Merlin knows where, and nothing else but boxers. Andy Warhol would paint him like he painted Marilyn – obsessively, repeatedly. Immortalise how he flicks the cigarette, a bit of ash falling onto the windowsill. Runs a restless thumb down the line of his bottom lip. Hums to himself softly and Remus thinks I was right because even subdued like this, it truly is a voice to behold.  

“I didn’t know how you take your tea,” Black says in leu of greeting.

“With hot water, to start with.” The meaning (refill the damned kettle!) seems lost on him, as he goes back to watching the world outside the window.

Must be a strange thing, to be here. Yesterday, and for the last two months, he woke up in a tiny cell made even smaller by the range of the chain holding him down. The window too high up and too small to give sunlight or a view, and even if he’d managed to get up there, he’d only have seen the sunken walls surrounding the jail.

Remus refills the kettle (again) and turns it on (again).

“Might making me one too?”

And Remus is a polite person. His mother taught him to be. So he turns off the kettle. Adds enough water for another tea, and hopes that this time is the last time.

“I like it real sweet,” Sirius drawls, stretching his vowels like a cat after a sun nap. “Lots of sugar.”

“You can add your own.”

“So inhospitable. So cruel. I’m sick, you know?”

“Sick enough to smoke all my cigarettes. Did you take your potions at least?”

A sharp tiny smile, a break in the veneer. “Knew you wouldn’t mind, Professor. You look like a right standup guy. The kind that lends others his smokes and his tea.”

“Potions?” Remus doesn’t let the man derail him. It must be an insult, with the way Black says it, but the doctor asked him to keep an eye, and he promised.

Never mind that he really doesn’t want his work delayed if Black gets worse on account of his own stupidity. It’s too important. Too time-sensitive.

“Yes, yes. I’ve taken them. Scouts honour, Professor. Or should I call you Doctor, instead, hmm? I’m sure you have one of those as well.”

“A doctorate? No. Not yet.”

“Pity. Professor it is then.”

“Just Remus. Please.”

NEXT PART

NOTES:

So I’m not going with the prompts this month because they just REALLY didn’t fit this story, but should still have 500 word bits every day :)

im currently applying for jobs so can’t write as fast as I normally do (they all have tests! Or hackathons! So so long), but will keep updating hopefully as usual

i love love love cryptic crosswords. They’re confusing as hell and fry my brain in such a delightful way :):):)

how are we all surviving AO3 being down?

@tealeavesandtrash

@moon-girl88

@hoje--aqui

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged!)

[qqueenofhades]

For a winter-themed prompt: our favorite time travelers and something involving piles of blankets?

"Lucy," Flynn says, with just enough bite in the growl of his voice to make it plain that this time, he really means it. "Come over here."

"Just a minute." Lucy doesn't look up from the stack of essays scattered across the kitchen table, which are making her lose the will to live the longer she beholds them, but if she doesn't finish them now, she'll have to worry about them and/or work on them over Christmas, and that sounds even worse. "I'll be right there."

"That's what you said ten minutes ago," Flynn points out, with his usual sardonic unconcern. "And twenty minutes before that. I'm sure the world won't end if Johnny Freshman doesn't officially earn his C- in the next three hours." He considers, then shrugs. "Though if we're going by the excerpts you were reading to me earlier, I think that might be generous."

"These grades were due to be submitted yesterday, and the department only gave us an extension because MyWeb crashed." Lucy's voice, by contrast, is increasingly brittle. "I don't have time to just throw that aside, even if I want to. I have to finish this first."

"Ah." Flynn regards her shrewdly. "It's your mother talking in your head again, isn't it?"

Lucy flinches. It is truly unsettling how well this man knows her -- and yes, the shrill taskmaster in her head does sound suspiciously like Professor Carol Preston, reading Lucy's own essays with red pen and making any number of helpful suggestions. But it's true that she has end-of-term responsibilities that cannot just be errantly flung aside, no matter how tempting it is to just snuggle with Flynn on the couch in front of the tree, and she looks back down at the essay. Which is a mistake, and she groans aloud. "Another AI-generated one, are you kidding me? Aren't these kids supposed to be smart?"

Flynn looks at her with a I-seriously-doubt-it expression.

"Right. Forgot who I was talking to." Lucy sighs, writes PLEASE EMAIL ME TO DISCUSS THIS on top of the page in large capital letters, and sets it aside. She's grimly reaching for the next one, hopefully not "written" by ChatGPT, when Flynn pulls out the chair next to her, sits down, and whisks the pen out of her hand. She goggles at him. "What are you -- "

"If these need to be finished," Flynn says, "I'll finish them. Go sit."

"What? You don't -- it would be against the rules for you to grade my papers, when this is my class and I'm the faculty of record -- "

At that, Lucy stops short, shakes her head, and sighs deeply. She and Flynn stare each other down, which as usual, he wins. She rubs her eyes, gets up, and leans to briefly kiss the top of his head. "Please don't fail everyone, all right?"

Flynn makes a sound as if to suggest he makes no promises, then gets to work, ripping through the papers with his usual terminator efficiency: whether altering history or grading history, there is nothing and no one that can stand before his stubbornness, and it is, if she's being honest, definitely one of the sexiest things a man has ever done for her. She pads to the couch, wraps up in the blankets, and lets her exhausted brain veg out, staring at the glowing tree, until Flynn signs off on the last one, gets to his feet, and crosses over to join her, settling on the couch with a creak. He puts his arms around her, and Lucy burrows into his chest, letting him hold her close. "Thanks," she murmurs, as he tucks the blanket around them both and pulls them into a more comfortable position. "I love you."

Flynn grins into her hair. His voice, this time, is very soft. "I know."

[sky-fire-forever]

Hey there! For DADWC, how about "It was my fault. It was all my fault." for Cole & Hawke? Happy writing!

Thank you so much for this prompt! FOr @dadrunkwriting

I use Scorpius Hawke, who uses they/them pronouns.

The Inquisition is quite the thing to behold. Scorpius doesn’t really know what to make of it, in all honesty. They trust Varric when he says that the Inquisition is trying to be a force for good and the Inquisitor himself seems a good enough sort, but something about the whole thing makes Scorpius’ skin crawl. 

Maybe it’s because of their holy mission; calling the Inquisitor the Herald of Andraste seems pretty damn overzealous if you ask them. Or maybe it’s just all the similarities it has with the Chantry despite supposedly being its own thing. Scorpius and the Chantry never really got along, especially after what Anders did and Scorpius’ support of him.

So yeah. The Inquisition is a pretty mixed bag, but for now, Scorpius will trust them. What other choice do they have now that Corypheus is back from the dead? Someone’s gotta fix it and Scorpius has to help because they’re a hero or whatever. 

“Relax, Giggles.” Varric pats them on the shoulder. “You’re too uptight.” 

“Uptight? Me? Perish the thought.” Varric is right, though. Over the past few years, Scorpius has lost a lot of their humor and the lightness with which they used to carry themself. Though, that started fading during their last days in Kirkwall, after their mother’s death. 

“Laughter, lasting, loving. Charm them with a smile or a laugh and they won’t look deeper, won’t see the hurt.” A voice appears almost out of nowhere. 

“What–”

Scorpius turns to see a young man with shaggy blond hair staring at them with a creepily intense gaze. 

“It hurts. Laughing used to help, but it doesn’t anymore. Just makes the hurt worse. Like a knife twisting, turning, hurting.” 

“Cole,” Varric warns. But the man doesn’t stop. 

“A blast of fire, heat, burning. People dying. It was my fault. All my fault. If I’d seen the signs, he never would have–”

“That’s enough.” Varric cuts the man off and Scorpius remains completely unsettled. “Sorry about him, he gets carried away.” 

“Yeah, no kidding.” Scorpius gets the feeling that their mind has been invaded. It’s not a pleasant sensation. 

The man — Cole? — tilts his head to one side. “It isn’t your fault,” he says. “He would’ve done it anyway.” 

“Come on, kid. You need to back off,” Varric says seriously.

Cole frowns, his gaze never leaving Scorpius. “I just want to help.” 

Scorpius laughs uneasily. “Not very helpful, kid. No offense.” 

Cole just stares at them and they get the feeling he can see into their very soul.

[dearlymrme]

Hi! For the prompts list, could you do 131 with Papa Secondo? I love the idea of him being really soft with his partner when he’s in private (or when he’s high because let’s be real he steals primos stash after a long day of papa-ing), and I think it’s a great prompt for some fun and funky Papa Pitbull content

Thank you for the ask! It was absolutely fun to write. We need more soft Secondo. I have only been high and felt serious effects twice. The first time, it made me feel so comfortable, and the sensation that my whole skin was wrapping me in a warm hug. The second time was from vaping and gave me uncontrollable laughter to the point my stomach was cramping, and I got five minute abs.

Cherry Poppers (Secondo x Reader)

Secondo x Reader || Recreational Drug Use || Age Difference || Daddy Kink || Innocence Kink || WC: 3031

His brothers call him a cradle robber, but neither of them are much better. Primo's wife is thirty years younger than him, and Terzo's current lover is twenty below. Your age doesn't matter much to him, but it does play a part. It's also about the fact that you are very inexperienced. Your friends had called you a prude, you didn't drink, you didn't party, you didn't even jaywalk, brought up by your mother to be afraid of damn near everything that was fun, that was wild and 'outrageous'.

You had realized that you lived your life under a gaslighter and got away. You needed a place to stay to get your life in order, support from people that would encourage you to live. You made new friends, and while you may not have made satanic vows yet, you certainly threw away your old ones. Then you met him. Your innocent but charismatic and eager sense to behold everything labeled 'evil' is what attracted him. Despite being the most inexperienced little swimmer of the church, you toed the water, liked how it felt, and wanted to swim.

You just needed someone to catch you when you jumped into the deep end.

And he was more than eager to be those arms.

He popped your cherry in more ways than one. Alcohol, dancing, sex, and now drugs.

The bed was comfortable, apparently one of the comfiest you had ever been on. He can only imagine the look of confusion of his brothers' faces when they enter their rooms to see all their pillows missing. Said foisted pillows were stacked as a mountain behind him, supporting you both nearly upright but conforming enough to let you relax and sink in them.

He had told you to get comfortable. You had quickly toed off your shoes, removed your borrowed hoodie, which practically ate you, and all but fell on your face into the nest, sighing in bliss. He then brought out the entertainment of the day. A small bong, marble in pattern with rich brown and cream colors, and already loaded.

You stared at the piece with wide but eager eyes. Sat up and then leaned against his side. He chuckled as you made grabby hands and then gently took the glass from him. He then waved the lighter in your face, snatching it out of reach when you tried to take it.

"Never used one before?" He asked, knowing full well you haven't.

"No. But you're gonna help me, right?" He nods and then lets you take the green Bic lighter before tapping his finger gently at the loaded dish.

"Press the lighter to it and let the smoke gather until I say when." He instructs. You swallow your excitement and try not to grin like an over eager kid before doing as he told you.

Now, you watch as a cloud forms inside the glass bowel. He gauges carefully, taking in your fascinated and excited expression as you watch the glass fog.

"That's enough." He taps your knee. "Now, seal your mouth over the top and breathe it in." You do as he instructs and lock your lips around the smooth glass opening and breathe. He bites his lip, picturing your lips wrapped around something else.

The smoke is hard on your lungs, causing a strain that you can't help but cough through it. A cloud of smoke leaves your mouth as you hack.

"Sorry." You choke, embarrassed. Secondo gives a chuckle from beside you, taking the glass from your hands.

"That's alright, ciliegia. Cough it out." He guides, and you try to breathe through it, but it's more a wheeze before it catches in the back of your throat again and you cough again.

He loads it up again. Letting the smoke gather much longer than you did before inhaling deeply. He doesn't cough, though, and you're impressed because it feels like there's something scratching the inside of your lungs.

He blows out a steady stream, and you settle into his side as he leans back against the pillows and lets his head loll. He hums, already a little high, and he feels his body practically turn into liquid as he enjoys the warmth.

"Now, we wait." One of his arms slings over your shoulder. He's casually dressed down, one of his off days, and of course, he spends it with you. He's not wearing his gloves again, and you shudder at the memory of his soft hands trailing down between your thighs, not but a week ago.

You're not the only one thinking about it. Being able to feel your skin against his has his dick quickly stirring against his slacks, and he takes a deep breath through his mouth. Ah, it was that kind of trip.

"Damn brother. I see how it is. Give us the commercial and keep the good shit for yourself."

"You nicked from Primo?" You ask and he huffed.

"He's not going to miss it. Old fart probably won't even notice until it's too late. Besides, who do you think he's growing it for in the first place? Us."

"Us specifically or like, the royal us?" He waves a hand.

"Doesn't matter. It's serving its purpose." He snickers. "For the good of the church." You laugh at his little cheer and lay your head against him. Content and very comfortable all of a sudden.

You run your hand over the bedsheets, and it kind of tickles. The duvet is embroidered with a very ugly gaudy but fancy pattern, clashes yet matches the room so well. Tracing it and catching on the fancy stitching causes your hands to tingle, and you lift one to look over it, and then you slowly begin to rub your fingers together.

It's almost as if you could feel your fingerprints. But your fingertips are just a part of your skin. You're just feeling your skin. The realization that, no, it's not your fingerprints. You just have skin. It seems to be the funniest thing in the world to you because you start to giggle and can't seem to stop.

"I think it might be kicking in." He chuckles and leans over to place a kiss on your forehead. You hum, further sinking into his side as it feels like his whole body has just opened up and enveloped you in a hug, or is that just your skin?

You're high. That's funny. You giggle again. It's funny just knowing you're high and that that's what is responsible for the giggles. Why is this so funny? It's funny that it's funny. You snicker and start to laugh again.

Secondo is now laughing with you and turns your head to place another kiss on your forehead and then leans down to kiss you on your mouth.

What an interesting feeling, his lips gliding against yours. You ruin it by breaking into another fit of giggles.

"It's good, right?" He smiles, earning a very enthusiastic nod. Then he simply stares at you, smiling joyously. It's a good look on him. You're so used to the hard glare and strong lines on his face, but he looks so young when he smiles. He's still staring. You're in the midst of breathing between bouts of girly laughter and looking him deep into his mismatched eyes.

"What?" You ask him, and his smile grows.

He breaks apart loudly and leads kisses behind your ear before nipping on your lobe gently. It sends a spark down below to your naval and has you huffing in quickly building arousal.

"Oh, don't mind me. I'm just enjoying the view." He takes advantage of your pause between fits of tittering to capture your mouth again, and this time, you moan into the kiss. His tongue his hot and heavy in your mouth as you attempt to slowly explore it. His kisses are always passionate, always letting you feel your way into what's comfortable and then gracefully leads you into something amazing.

Then you snort as his words finally hit you, and you push him lightly on the shoulder. He playfully attempts to bite your hand, snatching it up as you try to get away and laying kisses on your fingers. They tickle, too.

"Wanna try something?" He asks

"Always if it's with you." Now you're laughing at your own cheesiness.

He reached for bong again and took a deep hit. The water gurgling breaks through the room. It's starting to stink, a combination between the weed and his natural spicy smell. It's not a bad scent, but it'll definitely be stuck to you and your clothes for the rest of the day.

Then Secondo grabs you by your jaw and leans in close. You've seen this in movies. As he blows the smoke in your face, you breathe it in, eyes shining as your lungs complain. You turn away to cough again and hum as it serves to make your head feel heavier and your body hotter.

Secondo drags you back again by your chin and captures you're lips once more. This time you're taking change and he happily allows it. It's still a little clumsy and he knows that's because of the weed, you're a fast learner, you went from 'never kissed a man' to professional in a matter of weeks with his practice.

You hand skims his inner thigh, bumping right up against his cock and he's quickly reminded of just how damn hot this is. Getting you high and taking advantage of you had been the plan of the day but he hadn't accounted on it having this much effect on him.

He mentally grumbles another 'fuck you' to his older brother and breaks the kiss with a loud smack. He hisses against your chin, baring his teeth and grabs your hand as it skirts his knee.

"I'm so hard right now." He admits and then presses your hand directly against his aching dick, straining against the inner seam of his pants.

You murmur his words back to him in a daze and dare to look down at the indent of his cock in his jeans. At the sight, your core tightens and you press your thighs together.

"Can I sit on it?" You ask him because if it feels this good from just him touching you, you can't help but wonder what it would feel like if he was fucking you. You're already wet, the drug has you practically leaking, you can feel the slickness between your folds just from shifting your legs. The action sending spark of arousal further through you and your stroke Secondo's cock through his pants, wrapping your hand around the indention and giving a firm squeeze.

He groans, not expecting you to take charge, and his cock jumps against your palm.

You suddenly feel achingly empty.

"Yeah? You wanna sit on Daddy's cock?" He rephrases the question in a way that has your breath hitch and butterflies fluttering in your chest from his use of the word. Yeah, you want that. Absolutely. The longer you go empty the more desperate you suddenly feel for it. Your pussy clenches on nothing in desire for something. You nod dumbly as your hands go from gripping his dick to fumbling with his button and zipper.

He happily helps you, and together, you pull out your prize. Released from tight constraint of his pants, Secondo gives a grunt of relief and wraps a hand around his member, giving it a firm squeeze. It's flushed an angry red and already dribbling with precum.

He snickers as you thumb at the head for a moment, fascinated by the feeling of wet against your finger. Then you're distracted by the heat of his dick, hot, smooth, and soft the skin is. You trace your hands down to tangle with his thick pubic hair before throwing your leg over his and hovering in his lap. He lifts your skirt, watching as you part your underwear to the side and carefully line his cock up with your entrance.

You sink low enough to pop the head inside of you and have to bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from crying out how good it feels. Just that small amount has your legs quivering and cunt spasming. You can feel every bit of the bridge between his head and his shaft. It's hot, fascinating at how it feels hotter outside your cunt as your combined heats just melt into one, kinda like what you're doing now.

Secondo hisses between his teeth, hands grabbing at your thighs, but he makes no move to lower you. He has no intention of rushing you. He wants you to experience every bit of this at your own comfortable pace. He needs something to hold, though. If he doesn't have something to at least dig his nails into, he's going to lose his mind.

He blows out steadily through his mouth, nearly whistling before he takes in your appearance. You're flushed, your eyes are puffy and red from the smoke, and transfixed on where your bodies are joined, even though a small amount. You look so cute like this. Trusting him to take care of you, to hold back while you adjust, to help you through the dark water as you figure out how to swim amongst the sharks.

It makes his head spin, the amount of control he has over you. He pushed the first drink into your hand and then more as he helped you figure out what you had a taste for. He helped you let loose, weave and grind your hips against his as he taught you how to dance to that naughty stripper's music, and the again slowly move to something more casual in his office later that night. He's the one that pulled your cute little panties down around your ankles and ate you out for thirty minutes, stretched you out for ten, and then fucked you slow and carefully for what felt like an eternity.

He's getting high from more than just the weed. You were as good as a drug.

"Come on. I thought you wanted to sit on it."

Oh yeah. You did say that.

In one fluid and smooth drop, you take him fully . You croak a low gasp because it's tight with no prior preparation, but you're slick enough and wanton enough that it goes in easy. Your body all but welcomes the sudden fullness, the way your cunt starts to envelope around his prick, smooth skin that feels molten hot against the wet walls of your pussy.

"Fuuuuck. You're so tight." Secondo grunts as you force him to immediately bottom out. His balls, already tight, pressed against the slopes of your ass.

"So full." You describe, almost caught in a dream and press your hand to your lower stomach. You must be imagining it, but you could swear you feel a bump from his cock inside of you.

You reach up and wrap your arms around him, resting your head on his shoulder and just feeling for a moment. Secondo seems to understand this and returns your hug, running his hands up and down your back in soothing motions. It tickles, bursts goosebumps all over your body, and makes you take in tranquil breath.

"Can I move, ciliegia?" He asks you, and you nod before he rolls back against the pillows, bringing you with him as he props his knees up and starts to move.

He gyrates his hips with a meticulous rhythm, a slow ride, he's in no hurry.

You feel absolutely wrecked from the inside out and it was good he was taking charge at the moment because you can barely function properly right now, lost in the sensations of his cock dragging back and forth against your walls. Then he rubs his cockhead direction into your g-spot and you sob in pleasure.

"Shh, it's alright, piccola. Just hold onto me. Hold onto Daddy." Secondo licks his lips and takes in deep breaths, trying as hard as he can to make this last. "I'm gonna take good care of you."

The weed enhances everything. You feel as hot as an oven. He palms your ass and snickers. A literal cake fresh out of the oven. Shit, now he's the one laughing at his own joke.

You want to weep by how stimulated you feel. And when he suddenly starts to laugh, it resonates deep inside your chest while you par him with soft mumbles and whines of pleasure. He dares to thrust, just once, and your body immediately locks up on him as he plucks an intense and long-lived orgasm from you.

It crashes, tearing softly through your stomach and spreading from your limbs and curling your toes. You've never felt one like it before. It's like a movie in slow motion. Secondo grunts, as though pained, and for a moment, you thought you had tightened hard enough around him to injure him.

"Hurt you?" You mumble, brained. Secondo spits another laugh and shakes his head. He sucks in a breath, tenses, and lets out a rattled groan. He hugs you close, so close. Then he arches, tugging you as firmly to his chest as he can. His lips press gentle but firm kisses to your shoulders, nosing your shirt out of the way so he can touch skin.

He stops, and you feel it. You feel his dick jumping inside of you, hard throbs in uneven time as he shoots rope after rope of cum into your soppy wet cunt, directly into your womb. You sigh in bliss and rub your hand over your lower stomach, imaging what it must look like, having his load burning white into the pinks of your cunt.

You sit together like this for a moment, Secondo's eyes half shut as he enjoys your heat for as long as comfortable. Eventually, he's going to have to pull out, but for right now, this is paradise. You then press your lips to his ear and tell him something that's only so damn funny because of how much he considers it.

"We should fuck high as often as possible."

[professorsnape394]

The Dark Mark

Pairing: Severus Snape x Reader Rating: 😠 Request: @kylosbitch ‘Hii! Can I request 28, 16, 17 from the Angst list? I ADORE YOUR WRITING!🥰’

@purpledragonturtles ‘Hi! I really appreciate your writing. I read on your bio that request are open, could I request Kiss scenarios number 10 or Angst number 16? Your pick obviously🥰 Thank you so much💚’

A/N: Thank you both so much for your requests, they both chose the same prompt so I just decided to double up as I have also already done Kiss Scenario 10 here. It's just a little One shot/ dialogue piece but I hope you like it. Thanks for your patience

Warnings:  Angst. Mentions of death, murder and torture.

Word Count: 639

Credits to Gif Creator.

The dark mark stared back at her; the stark contrast of jet-black ink against the deathly pale skin of his forearm was a shocking sight to behold.

Severus had finally chosen to reveal his dark, sordid past to his girlfriend y/n after a few months of dating, he figured if he was going to propose to her, she deserved to know the worst of him.

Removing the glamour charm from his arm had been the easy part, confessing the details of his allegiance to the dark lord was harder to articulate.

She stared at the exposed area of his arm; his usual black sleeve had been rolled up to allow her a full view of the monstrosity. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, that was, what little she actually heard of his excuses before her brain completely shut down. Her mind went blank, her vision grew fuzzy, her hearing faded to a low muffle and her body turned completely numb to all movement and feeling.

There was only one thought on her mind.

Had he been there the night they died?

It was Voldemort’s followers, the Death Eaters, who had been responsible for the murder of her entire family, along with many others. Tortured to a fate worse than death, the Death Eaters bled them dry of every scrap of information they had regarding Albus Dumbledore, until finally allowing them the kindness of death. Her mother, father, sister and unborn niece were all killed in a single night. Everyone she had on this Earth, gone.

“Were you there.” Y/n managed to squeak out, her throat scratchy from the lack of moisture. “Were you there when they killed my family?”

Severus could only nod in return.

“Did you kill you them?”

Severus wanted to say no. He wanted to tell her he had nothing to do with it, that he never laid a finger on them, but he had to be honest.

“Truthfully…? I have no idea.” And it was true. The young Severus had blocked out the faces of those he had killed in cold blood, his way of coping, forgetting that they were real people with real lives. He truly had no idea who had suffered at his hands during Voldemort’s rise to power.

“Billions of people in the world, and I choose you.” Y/n sobbed, bringing her hands to her face. “How stupid was that.”

She was in such a complete state of shock, she practically burst out laughing. But the look on her face said she found nothing about this funny.

“You don’t mean that.” Severus whispered hoarsely.

“Don’t I?” The pale blue eyes that once sparkled in her head had turned grey, cold and lifeless. The last spark of joy she had held onto all these years had finally flickered out. All light extinguished.

“Please, that wasn’t me. I’m a different man now.” Severus begged, trying to make her understand.

“Don’t give me that.” She spat. “You can’t erase what you’ve done, all those people, those families who suffered because of you. You might have forgiven yourself for your past mistakes, but not everyone has that luxury.”

Severus dropped to his knees, ashamed.

“I love you, y/n, that hasn’t changed.”

“But I have.” She turned her back, refusing to look at him. “I don’t love you anymore.”

“Please, don’t do this.” A stream of tears ran down Severus’ cheek.

His tainted arm reached out to stop her from leaving. She winced, shoving him violently away from her.

Y/n turned back as she reached the door, staring down at him, a crumpled mess of black fabric sprawled pathetically on the floor.

“I don’t ever want to see you again. Get out of my life!” She yelled.

The slamming of the door emphasised the finality of her words which echoed around the room, consuming Severus whole.

~

Taglist:

@ayamenimthiriel @lizlil @entirelymesmerising @mikariell95 @snapefiction@snapesmoonlight @a-queen-and-her-throne @amazingzou

[If I'm missing anyone or you would like to be added to my tag list just shoot me a message or comment down below and I'll get you added asap.]

[thekisforkeats]

Ooh jm + shy kiss for the prompts?

Ohhh good one! I had to think about this a little and actually wrote up a bunch that didn't quite work at first. But! Here it is!

Set somewhere in the first few minutes of 160, in those weeks between arriving at the safehouse and Hazel Rutter. Featuring autistic Martin trying to navigate social situations because that is evidently what I write now.

(Incidentally the term "weak ties" was coined by a Stanford researcher in 1973. Link to the relevant paper. Credit where due, and all.)

(No beta no edits we die like archive assistants.)

.

.

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It takes Martin a week to convince Jon to come down into the village with him.

If he's being honest with himself--and he's trying very hard to be honest with himself these days, so he can identify any Lonely-type thoughts--he really just wants to show off his boyfriend to the nice lady at the little shop in the village where he's been picking up essentials.

Martin is a naturally friendly person, or maybe a naturally personable person. This was not always the case; he had to practice a great deal to memorize all the scripts to smooth social interactions that other people seem to navigate without thinking about it at all. It can be horribly exhausting, just going to the shops. It's one of the reasons the Lonely appealed to him; how much easier to just move through life without having to recite all those canned lines?

Now that he's out of its grip, he's come to realize how much those interactions matter. He's been reading a lot on the internet about depression and social interaction, about social circles, and one thing that caught his eye is the idea of "weak ties," those people we're not exactly friends with, but who we see on a regular basis and who help us feel connected to a larger community. People who don't really know us and yet know something about us that helps us feel seen. The bus driver who gives you a familiar nod every morning. the barista who's prepping your order as soon as he notices you in line, the shop lady who tries to keep your favorite tea in stock.

So Martin is trying to cultivate those relationships, to feel part of a wider community, rather than just relying on Jon. He thinks that maybe if he'd had more of that, before, if he'd tried harder to go through the world being seen, he might have handled Jon's coma and his mother's death in some kind of healthier manner.

Maybe not, of course, but he's going to use any tool he can to keep the Lonely at bay.

At any rate, even beyond being very good at social scripts, Martin does genuinely like people, he's a good listener, for an autistic guy he's practically a social butterfly. And Elspeth is a nice lady, maybe mid-40's, the kind of person who runs a shop because she actually likes interacting with a stream of customers on a regular basis. So she's just the sort of person for Martin to practice his "weak tie" skills.

Because, naturally, one of the key benefits of "weak ties" is that they are the sort of people you get to be public about your relationship with when none of your closer friends are around.

Yeah, no, all of the above is just flimsy justification, if Martin's being really honest with himself. He's just madly in love and wants literally everyone within a 500-mile radius to know.

That morning, Martin makes a big show of how badly he wants to spend time with Jon, no really, but he really does have to go down into the village.

"We're out of tea!"

"I don't think we have anything for dinner!"

"But I really want to keep listening to you talk about Scottish history!"

And so on.

Jon gives him a tolerantly amused look, and Martin flushes. Is he that transparent, or is Jon just that good at reading him?

"I suppose I can go into the village with you, Martin," he says, eyes glittering. "Since you're so terribly interested in the House of Stuart. I'd hate to leave you wondering what happened to James II."

Martin would feel guilty, but he can tell Jon is pleased to be "indulging" him, and it's not like Martin hasn't been listening to Jon infodump about whatever random facts Beholding's been given him all week.

They hold hands all the way down into the village, and it's nice, to walk through the place and be seen, together. It's comfortable. They'd held hands on walks before, long ago in London, before the Unknowing, but back then they hadn't been sure what they were, hadn't managed to broach the delicate barrier between "friends" and "something else." Now, they're "boyfriends," and Martin keeps finding himself wanting to go up to each person he sees on the street and shout, "This is my boyfriend, Jonathan Sims!!"

By the time they reach Elspeth's shop, he's feeling a little giddy.

He pushes open the door and the little bell rings, and Elspeth looks up from behind the counter and smiles. "Martin!" she says, and Martin's whole body warms in a very pleasant manner, that this woman he's only known a week remembers him. "Oh, and this must be the elusive Jon." She gives them one of those teasing smiles people give to new couples, glittering eyes and amusement at the silly things people do when they're in limerence.

"Yes," Martin says, and suddenly the words stick in his throat. "Yes, this is... is... umm..." Oh, why has he suddenly frozen like a deer in headlights? Why can't he remember the right words?

"Jonathan Sims," Jon says smoothly, stepping forward to offer the woman his hand. "And yes, I'm Martin's boyfriend."

It occurs to Martin, all at once, that neither of them have said that out loud to anyone else. No wonder he's frozen up.

Elspeth glances at the burn scars on Jon's hand only briefly, then smiles--and it's a genuine smile, not one of those pitying ones people sometimes put on when they see scars like that--and shakes said hand. "Pleased to meet you," she replies. "Elspeth Douglas." She has the Highland accent, but softened; she spent her 20's and 30's in London, she's said, and came back to take over the family store when her father fell ill. The similarity might be part of why Martin likes her--that and the fact that it seems that helping her sickened parent improved her life.

"Ahh, yes. The not-so-elusive Elspeth." Jon actually flashes a grin, which Martin finds remarkable. Since when is Jon... friendly? Well, maybe he's trying for Martin's sake. If so, Martin very much appreciates the effort.

The woman behind the counter laughs, and says, "How can I help you?"

"Oh," Martin manages, his brain catching up and letting his mouth work again, "we're just here for tea and things."

"Of course," Elspeth says. "I'll be here when you're ready."

They turn away, to go deeper into the aisles.

"She seems nice," Jon says almost absently. "Shame about her fa--" He pauses, and frowns. Shakes his head, looking irritated. "You didn't tell me about that," he grumbles.

"No, I didn't. But thank you for trying to keep it in," Martin says.

Jon sighs, lowering his voice. "It's becoming harder and harder to separate what I've learned on my own from what Beholding gives me. How much of my thoughts are mine anymore? Did I actually memorize all those facts about the House of Stuart, or am I getting the... mental Wikipedia page, as it were?"

"Seems like a thing you'd know," Martin comments offhandedly. He's focused on figuring out what kind of rice to buy. He wants to try his hand at sticky rice, which really should have calrose, but Jon likes jasmine rice. Do they get both?

He doesn't want to think about Beholding, and how much of it is Jon anymore. He prefers just thinking about it as something like a smartphone app Jon can use without having to actually have a phone in front of him. He does not want to think about how much of his boyfriend has been potentially consumed by some kind of eldritch thing that feeds on fear.

He really doesn't want to think about the idea that maybe soon, Jon won't even need rice anymore, and will just live off statements, no matter how much he jokes about his partner's "eating habits."

Jon has been talking as Martin's been staring at the rice, but Martin hasn't heard any of it. He's brought back to himself by a squeeze of Jon's hand in his.

"Hey," Jon says softly. "You okay?"

In Jon's voice, Martin hears all the concern that Martin himself has been feeling. He forces himself to look at Jon, and sees bright green eyes staring out of a deep brown face. He realizes he's gotten used to the color of Jon's eyes; before the coma, Jon's eyes were brown, like a deep carnelian, and so large and dark sometimes Martin thought he could fall right into them and be happy drowning there. Now they're green, bright and disarming, and Martin's pretty sure this is why Jon still wears glasses he no longer needs, to hide those strange eyes behind plastic lenses.

Those eyes are looking up at him intensely now, and Jon's brow is furrowed, and his mouth is pulled into a frown in a way that highlights one of the worm scars near his lip, and all of it is adorable, but it's also disconcerting for the contrast between the softness of his voice and the intensity of his expression.

Is Jon as afraid of losing Martin to Forsaken as Martin is of losing Jon to Beholding?

Martin frowns at him for a moment, then sighs. "I just..." He has to look away, back to the bags of rice. "I just... don't like thinking about that. Beholding, and... all of it. I just... I just wish..."

"You wish we could be normal." Jon's tone is still soft, and filled only with love and no sort of guilt or self-recrimination.

"Yeah," Martin says, still staring at the rice.

There's a hesitation, and then Jon says, softly and slowly, "You know... normal people deal with these sort of difficult things, too. There's so much out there that can hurt people... the things we deal with, they're weirder than most of the rest of it, but..."

"Yeah, I know, Jon, I just..." Martin hunches his shoulders. "Don't want to lose you again," he finally mumbles.

Jon hesitates a moment, and then he leans in to give Martin a soft kiss on the cheek.

Martin flushes bright red--Elspeth's right there!--and turns to stare at Jon. "W-what... what was... that for?!"

Jon, too, is blushing. "I just... ah... I just... wanted you to know that... that I'm... here. You haven't... lost me. Or anything."

"Oh," Martin says. "Well. Thank you."

There's a moment where they just look at each other, and then Jon blurts, "...Can I kiss you again? It's just, I haven't all morning, and I really sort of wanted to spend the morning cuddling, but you wanted to come down to the shops..."

"Here?!" Martin stares at him.

"We can go behind the shelves if you like," Jon says, blushing furiously.

For some reason, this makes Martin giggle, and then he leans down to brush his lips to Jon's. Softly, shyly, as if they haven't been kissing each other all week, because he really is terribly aware of the fact that there are other people around.

"Tell you what," Martin says as he pulls back, surprisingly breathless despite how short the contact of their lips was, "let's finish up the shopping and then we can cuddle all afternoon."

Jon smiles up at him. "Promise?" The smile widens. "You're not going to drag me around to introduce me to every villager individually?"

"I was not--!" Martin glares at him, but now Jon's smile has become one of those shit-eating grins he gets sometimes, and Martin can't stay mad at him at all.

"You knew," he accuses, but there's no heat in it.

"I had a hunch," Jon says, humming. "I didn't want to spoil your fun, though."

Martin rolls his eyes, and then reaches out to take Jon's hand again. "Well, then, we'd better get to it. Jasmine or calrose? Rice, I mean."

"Both, I think," Jon says. "I find myself very much desiring normality of late, and rice is a terribly normal sort of thing."

[theglitterypages]

for your writing prompt, levi with either 14 or 61, your choice <3

Prompts List

Prompt No.14 “Just shut up and kiss me now, will you?”

Title: Secretly a Romantic

Pairings: Levi x fem! reader MODERN AU

Summary: You've always been insecure of your physical appearance and it only became worse when people around you kept on telling you how you gained weight and your boyfriend, Levi Ackerman saves the day.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1000+

•••••••••••••

“Sweetie have you noticed that you're gaining a lot of weight right now? You're looking so chubby, your Aunts and Uncles have noticed it because of your pictures in social media.” you looked up at your mother with a sigh, you don't have to hear her saying this everyday, honestly you're so fed up with it.

“It's your fault that she's getting bigger like that, you're the Mom and you should look out for her. Look at those baby fats on her belly, looks awful.” Your father appeared from the kitchen and you clenched your fist, tears started forming at the corners of your eyes and you breathed out. “I have to go, I won't come home tonight. I'll sleep at Levi's place.” you simply told them and walked out of your house.

The moment you entered your car, you bursted into tears, you do noticed that you've been gaining a lot of weight, you know it already but people kept on telling you all about this as if you don't know, asking where's the old you, where's the once sexy figure they all adored.

It's exhausting because you don't hated how you gained weight before but because they kept on bugging you about it you started hating it, you started hating seeing what you're seeing on the mirror, your parents aren't helping either, especially your relatives, it's funny how they think this is all fun, how they think that this is just a joke when the truth is it is crushing your confidence.

You wiped away your tears and started the car's engine to drive to your boyfriend's house.

Levi immediately stood up from his couch upon hearing two consecutive knocks on his door. He opened it just to see you with swollen eyes, you don't have to say anything to him, he already knew something was up and he knew that you need him.

He immediately pulled you close to his chest and shut the door behind you two, he leaned against the door as he held you close to him, his hands combing your long hair, the way he cares for you just made you cry more, your boyfriend has always been wonderful to the point that sometimes you think that you don't deserve him.

“Baby, hush...tell me what's our problem, love?”

He gripped on your shoulders and slowly pushed you away from him so he could see your face, he tucked the strands of your hair behind your ear and wiped away the tears in your eyes, Levi was smiling as he do this, he rarely smiles yet he did, just to give you comfort, he leaned in to kiss the tip of your nose and you looked at him with a sad smile.

“Lev, how do I look?”

“Beautiful as always.” he answered sincerely.

You pouted and he sighed, he nipped your chin using his fingers and he pressed his lips on yours gently, when he pulled away he smiled at you. “I love you.” he whispered, he held your hand then and pulled you towards the couch, he made you sit on his lap and you stayed close to his chest. “Tell me what's wrong.” he said as he draw circles on your back, his voice is calm and soothing as if he's singing a lullaby.

“I gained weight, I look awful, Mom and Dad has been fighting a lot about who's responsible for making me fat. They said I look awful.”

Levi stopped drawing circles on your back as his brows met. “They want you to be skinny as fuck than seeing you looking healthy?” he's not the type to make such a big deal in weights or figures, he works out a lot to keep his body in shape but he respects people who doesn't go to gym or people who don't have any diet routine, it's their life, their body and their choice.

“So I really gained weight.” you chuckled bitterly, Levi sighed as he cupped your face gently. “As your boyfriend, I want to offer nothing but my honesty, love and loyalty to you. So yes, baby you did gain weight but I still love you nonetheless.” he rested his hands on your waist then as he pressed his forehead on yours.

“But look at you, you've got a good figure, girls are probably drooling whenever they see you.”

“Baby, you have no idea how other men looks at you. I'm afraid I would get in trouble if I'll do something about their stares.”

Levi could see that the sadness in your eyes is still there even though he's being sincere in everything that he says, your weight doesn't matter to him at all, in fact he likes it this way, because before you two started dating he knew how you're purposely skipping meals so you wouldn't gain weight. He hated it that's why when he had the chance way back, he's purposely giving you snacks or treating you to meals just so he could make sure that you're not skipping meals anymore.

“I'm gonna try to lose weight again, Lev.”

He knew how you take everything you want seriously, that's one of the things that Levi loves in you, the way you have clear goals, the way you are so determined in everything you want and when Levi heard you wanted to lose weight he knew you would really do it.

He reached out for your hand and lifted it up so he could kiss it, he looked at you with a small smile then.

“Is this what you really want?”

“Yes, I want to lose weight.”

“Baby, if you want to do this just because of your parents or because of other person this won't work. Because this is you that we're talking about, you're suppose to live for yourself, not for the others.”

You bit your lower lip and sighed. You just wanted the insecurities to go away, you hated it when everyone in school kept on saying that you gained weight, you hated that your clothes are getting tighter, how you can't wear crop tops now because of your belly, you started tearing up and Levi pulled you close to his chest, letting you cry for a while as he caress your back in a comforting manner.

“Shh, stop crying. It's fine, nothing's wrong about gaining some weight. Look at me,” Levi ordered and you looked up with swollen eyes, his hand made his way on your nape and he gently pulled you towards him so he could kiss you, the kiss was nothing but pure passion and love, he was talking to you through that kiss, he didn't have to say the words but the way he held you close, the way his lips brushes against yours, he reassured you that he loves all of you.

“If you really want to lose weight no skipping meals, we'll be working out at home.”

“Why not on the gym?”

“You want me to kill the bastards who would look at you? I can't be a murderer right now but maybe after I become a lawyer.” you laughed and playfully hit his chest before you raked your hands on his raven hair. “Kidding aside, if you wanna do this, I'm not against it.i If working out to lose weight would make my baby feel better, I'm cool with it but if you changed your mind and decided not to do this I'd still support you.” that's the least he could do as a boyfriend, whenever you want to achieve something, he wanted to help you in every possible ways, he wants to do everything in his power to make you feel better, just so he could see that sweet smile of yours.

“Thank you.” you hugged him and buried your face on his neck, Levi sighed in contentment and hugged you back, his fingers combing your long hair as he keeps you close. “I don't think that's how you say I love you.” he chuckled.

“I love you Levi.” you told him before pulling away to cup his cheeks as you look into his silver eyes, it amazes you how you can look into his soul with those eyes, the way his feelings becomes transparent to you because of his eyes never cease to amaze you up to now.

“I love you too. I'll always be your boyfriend and your best friend alright? So I want you to stay like this forever, whenever something's wrong or something happened to you, good or bad just tell me.”

You had to admit that his words make your heart melt, Levi has always been the sweetest boyfriend, even before you two dated he's always been caring towards you even though he's always cold towards others. “You're secretly a romantic do you know that?” you teased.

He smirked as he bit the insides of his cheek as his silver eyes looked straight into yours, a hint of amusement visibly seen on it. “A romantic just for you.” he replied. Levi never imagined that he would fall so deeply like this, he had always believed that he wouldn't be whipped for anyone until he met you, the only woman who didn't hesitate to shot back sarcastic remarks when he teased you.

You're a fighter, always been a fighter and he loves how your brows would met when you're upset because of something, he loves the small pout and the way your voice sounds, it calms his nerves.

“You were a jerk to me before and here you are...”

“Just shut up and kiss me now will you?”

He didn't wait for you to reply, he immediately mold his lips on yours as he lovingly caress every parts of your body, silently telling you how in love he is in every part of you.

••••

A/N: I really hope everyone's having a nice day, if you guys are experiencing something similar to this, you should know that what's important is how we see ourselves.“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” always remember that :>

I just made this one based on prompt 14 and to cheer myself up and the other darlings who's experiencing this kind of scenarios. Love y'all😘

[welllpthisishappening]

It all kind of happens in slow motion.

One second, Emma hears the crack of the bat and the requisite roar of the crowd, and the next her eyes have widened to a size most scientists would likely advise against. Because, standing at home plate, that same home plate multiple baseball players are sprinting toward, is her kid. More or less waiting to be run over. That is, of course, until Killian Jones.

———

Word Count: 4.1K Rating: Flufffy fluff fluff of the fluffiest variety AN: Writing has been something of a legitimate challenge for me in the last few weeks, but earlier this week @ohmightydevviepuu sent a link to this tweet, tagged me, and said what I basically took as an unspoken prompt. Like, you’re going to send me video of a bat boy getting scooped up at home by a player in the middle of the game and then think I won’t write about it? Not possible. Even with the aforementioned writing challenges. Nothing stands a chance against my love of baseball. Here’s hoping the Yankees turn it around in the second half. Neither Aaron Judge or I deserve the season we’ve had so far.

———

Biologically speaking, Emma Swan is perfectly aware that the current positioning of her heart is more or less impossible. 

Stuck somewhere between the back of her throat and the pit of her stomach, it makes her all too aware of the now-empty chasm in her chest, stretching out toward her arms and threatening the structural integrity of her lungs, neither of which appear all that intent on working properly. Oxygen is a luxury not currently afforded to her capillaries. Instead, nerves mix with anxiety and the telltale flush of adrenaline that probably also makes her look relatively crazy because her pupils are definitely dilated and she does not know nearly enough about science to be making any of these claims. 

Whatever, really. 

It feels like that ooze from that movie. FernGully, Emma thinks. With the fairies. She thinks they were fairies. She’s not entirely certain they were fairies. 

And the ooze was definitely oil, obviously. There was a message involved in that movie. Not one that she appreciated when she was seven and Tim Curry’s animated-oil voice sort of freaked her out. But, like, she gets it now. The environment, and everything. With or without fairies. With Robin Williams, though. 

She’s positive about that, at least. 

Robin Williams was definitely in that movie. 

Less positive about the ability of her heart to actually split itself in half, as it seems wont to do at the moment. So, as to make it easier when it inevitably soars out of her mouth and falls onto the scuffed-up clubhouse floor beneath her feet. Naturally, this will happen simultaneously. For maximum effect. 

Much like the fireworks currently exploding over the left-field bleachers. 

She’s not sure if fireworks do explode, actually. That seems dangerous. Likely to lead to injuries and sounds that don’t resemble the  oohs and ahhs a ballpark generally inspires. Explode probably isn’t the right word. Maybe something more like…detonate. 

No, that’s worse. Way worse. She’s got to learn more words. Find a thesaurus or a dictionary or—a fireworks expert would be ideal, honestly.

Someone who could give her a detailed description of the inner-workings of a Yankee Stadium pyrotechnics display on a Tuesday in July, enough words that Emma’s mind would still for a few moments, allowing her to catch her breath and reestablish a consistent heart rate, and both of those problems could also likely be solved by sitting down, but the chair to her left looks a little wobbly, and her legs appear to have minds of their own because science is rather quickly becoming a lie and—

“Is he alright?” She spins. Nearly falls over. Her knees are also awfully wobbly, that’s why. 

Despite all of that, and the overall circumference of her pupils, the voice doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t even flinch. Shows absolutely no signs of imminent stumbling. And that’s probably because the voice is a man, one who is in possession of world-class instinctual reactions, and his hair is still damp from his post-game shower and it absolutely makes her something of an atrocious mother to acknowledge that last thing as quickly as she does. 

His shirt sleeves are noticeably sticking to his biceps, so that helps too. 

Opening her mouth, Emma is going to say words that are both vaguely intelligent and passably accurate, absolving this Major League Baseball player of any of the guilt he so obviously feels. Which is just patently stupid, really. None of this was his fault. None of it was anyone’s fault, really. 

Except maybe the idiot who left his bat at that particular angle across home plate, but Emma’s an adrenaline expert these days and walk-offs are understandably exciting. First walk-offs more so. 

She’s happy for Scarlet, really. 

They won the game. 

Everything is fine. Great, even. She nearly jumps twenty-six feet in the air at the next boom of fireworks. 

The pinch between the Major League Baseball player’s eyebrows gets—

Pinchier. 

The little roll of skin draws Emma’s attention, effectively robbing her of the ability to respond like an almost-sane person, but she’s also still trying to rationalize why she can remember the words to several FernGully songs while also being unable to recall what flavor PopTart she had for breakfast earlier this week and she figures watching her kid nearly get run over by professional athletes approximately forty-two minutes before gives her a fairly reasonable excuse. 

For opening and closing her mouth no less than eight consecutive times. 

Like a goddamn fish. There were no fish in FernGully. Least not so far as she remembers. 

It’s entirely possible she squeaks on attempt number five. 

The Major League Baseball player’s eyebrows do not move. It’s equal parts frustrating and incredible to behold. 

“I should probably thank you, right?” Emma asks, not quite regretting the words immediately, but it’s awfully close. That gets her some movement. Of the eyebrow variety. One eyebrow, specifically. Arching up, it somehow still manages to pull her attention directly toward eyes that should be the star of their own marketing campaign. Not quite Yankee blue, but distractingly blue, and it takes everything in her not to huff as dramatically as she wants to. Once the athletic trainer is done with Henry, Emma is going to make him examine her lungs. Rationality rules the day. 

Major League Baseball player shakes his head. It’s dumb to call him that. She knows his name. Knows at least some of his history. Is still staring obnoxiously at his freakishly attractive face. 

Freakishly is kind of mean, too. As far as descriptions go. 

“Unnecessary,” he says, an undercurrent of worry still clear in the letters. Ducking his head, he takes a cautious step forward, almost as if he’s wary of what Emma will do, and she supposes that’s fair. What with the impressive vertical she’s in possession of these days. “Anyone would do that.” “I’m not sure they could, actually.”

At some point in this otherwise shitty experience of a night, Emma is vaguely confident something will go the way she wants it to. Aside from winning. She’s glad they won. Seriously. 

“No?” “No,” she echoes, and it’s not like she can feel him. A few feet of space separates them, so whatever heat appears to be wafting off the Major League Baseball player in front of her, with his damp hair, and stupid, stupid, stupid eyes is as impossible as any of the various impossibilities currently taking place within her person. 

And yet. 

He sticks his hand out. 

It’s disarmingly earnest. 

“Killian Jones,” he says, confidence replacing the nerves, and Emma begins to see why there are so many stories. And Twitter threads. Regarding his face and the potential for that face to date a variety of other attractive faces across at least four of the five boroughs. Somehow Emma doesn’t think Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, is schlepping out to Staten Island for a date. 

Nor does she believe that Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, has ever once let the word schlep pass through his conscious mind. 

She takes his hand. 

It is—

Surprisingly warm. And...not quite soft, that’d be impossible with the job he performs almost nightly. But the calluses on the pads of his fingers aren’t as rough as Emma expects, which also suggests she’s managed to ponder the overall texture of Killian Jones’s fingers in the last twelve point six seconds, and that’s not entirely true. What is true is that Ruby thinks Killian Jones is real good-looking and has determined that the phrase quite a catch is the pinnacle of humor, so, sure, Emma has possibly considered the possibility of paths crossing and intersecting, and her hand looks minuscule wrapped up in his. So, that’s something to think about later. 

Their arms move. Bob up and down as society dictates they should, and he’s smiling at her, and she’s trying not to look like a serial killer, straining to hear the voices behind the door, and it does not work. 

“Why do you think people are so consistently fascinated by fireworks?” If he’s surprised by her absolutely inane question, he doesn’t show it. That’s points. For what, Emma hasn’t totally decided yet, but it’s something, and it’s probably good, and they’re going to play that clip on loop for weeks. Longer, probably. 

Every goddamn day if the Yankees make the postseason. 

When the Yankees make the postseason. 

Her dad wouldn’t appreciate the buffer. Leaves room for loss, and that is not the Nolan way. Not when there are championships to win, and this was supposed to be the best possible time. Smack dab in the middle of the season, with the All-Star break looming, Henry would get to suit up as batboy for one game that didn’t mean much and wouldn’t draw too strong of a spotlight, no murmurs about nepotism by internet trolls who couldn’t possibly define the word with any sort of accuracy, but also like to shout about canceling and culture with an almost alarming sense of self-righteousness, so, of course, the whole thing was now blowing up in their face. 

Much like the goddamn fireworks. 

It wasn’t Will Scarlet’s fault. 

Wasn’t Henry’s fault, either. 

His job was to get the bats out of the field of play. Doing it while the field of play was still active was a mistake any kid could have made. Just so happens that it’s Emma’s kid, and the grandkid of the Yankees’ hitting coach, and that means something to the New York media and the New York fans, and if Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman with an arm that can make cross-field throws with ease, wasn’t also so quick-thinking and sure-footed, scooping Henry up as he crossed home plate and avoiding the ensuing swarm of players at home plate, all intent on celebrating Will Scarlet’s first-ever career walk-off, Emma can only imagine what would have happened. 

Trampled. Stepped on. Broken bones. Concussions. 

They’re checking Henry for a concussion now. He absolutely does not have a concussion. He was laughing while he was carried off the field. Like he hit the walk-off. 

Front office is absolutely petrified she’s going to sue them. 

The thought hadn’t even once crossed Emma’s mind. Plus, she’s sort of busy. Holding Killian Jones’s hand. His stupid, warm hand. 

“Bright colors,” he says, responding to a question Emma’s nearly forgotten about. Jumping is more challenging when his fingers tighten ever so slightly. “Flash, boom. Taps into baser instincts, I think.” “You think people’s base instinct is to enjoy explosions.” “Phrasing that as a statement makes me think you don’t agree with me.” “You didn’t want me to thank you,” Emma points out.

“Well, no,” he says, and the precise way his eyes drop does something specific to all of her instincts. Leaves her flush with a heat that reminds her of Fourth of July sparklers rather than any sort of massive explosion, and that’s not bad, per se, although it’s admittedly a little surprising. As is the slight uptick of precisely one side of his mouth. It takes her a moment to realize he’s smirking at her. And another for her subconscious to admit that it’s working as intended. Her shoulders drop half an inch. While Emma pulls her hand back to her side. “Thanking me suggests I did anything to warrant the thanks.” “Big words.” “For a dumb athlete, you mean.” “That wasn’t a question, either.” “No,” Killian repeats, “it wasn’t.” “I’d really like to thank you. I—Dad told him when to come out of the dugout, so he definitely knew the rules, but I think he was super worried about you tripping over the bat.”

The smirk becomes a full-blown smile. Which is no less than forty-seven thousand times more powerful. Equivalent to staring directly into a solar eclipse or gazing upon the dark side of the moon, and Emma should at least do some research before coming up with these internal examples. Basic Google searches would provide her with the necessary information. 

“That’s more or less what he told me, yeah.” Emma’s nose creases. “Talked your ear off after your daring rescue, huh?” “Keep complimenting me like this, and my ego won’t know what to do with it.”

She hopes she’s not blushing as much as it feels like she is. The state of Killian’s eyebrows and the precise curl of his lips make that seem unlikely. “Your reflexes are unparalleled.” “Something about big bucks and why I get paid them.” “Oh,” Emma laughs, unable to stop herself, and she doesn’t remember deciding to stop pacing, only that her knees appreciate it once she has, “you think you’re real funny, don’t you?” “I think I’m moderately funny, not the hero you’re suggesting I am—” “Oh, I never used the word hero.” “—And you never actually told me your name.”

“Because you don’t know who I am.” It’s not a question, either. Neither one of them mention that. 

“I do,” Killian concedes, “Henry was also fairly quick to mention exactly who he was and where his mother was sitting.” Emma’s nose is going to freeze in this position. “But I gave you my name, which makes it only fair that we’re all square and whatnot.” “Whatnot, huh?” “Yup.” He pops his lips on the letter. Which is also unfair. In, like, the grand scheme of the world. The black ooze that is not actually oil when used in this particular metaphor recedes. Leaves Emma with a chest cavity that is partially full of butterfly wings and the growing sense of anticipation that isn’t quite as nerve-wracking as it should be. Like she’s about to step into the batter’s box with two outs and runners in scoring position. She’s totally going to hit against the shift. Fluttering her fingers at her side, Emma doesn’t lift her hand. It doesn’t matter. 

Killian’s eyes drop. To the movement. And her. And part of her shies away from that because part of her has spent a lifetime tucked into a shadow that didn’t belong to her and doesn’t belong to Henry, but now there’s some joke about Peter Pan to be made because they live in an internet-age and Killian Jones has a very good face. So. Viral video, enter stage right. Starring Henry Swan, Killian Jones, and the inevitably uneven pitter-patter of Emma’s traitorous heart. 

“Emma Swan.” “I think you should sit down.”

“Why is that, exactly?” “I’m worried about your legs.”

Whatever noise she makes can’t quite be classified as a scoff. It hurts her throat too much. And it’s not a laugh, either. Even as the butterflies threaten to rise up in mutiny of Emma’s more rational feelings, and she gets the distinct impression that Killian is reading her mind. Trying very hard, at least. 

“Sounds like a line.” “Might be a line,” he admits, which draws another wholly inhuman sound out of Emma’s barely-functioning lungs. 

“Did he kick you on the lift?” Killian hums. “You’d kick too if you were just hauled off your feet, so I understand the reaction. What I’m more worried about is the inevitable bruise on my foot from the bat landing there.” “Ah shit, really?” “I’ve had worse.” “But not in 4K video that people will play on loop for the rest of the news cycle. If not longer.” Narrowing his eyes, Killian doesn’t immediately respond. Mind reading requires a modicum of focus, Emma assumes. Instead, he rests a hand on her shoulder, directing her toward the chair and ignoring the soft crack her left knee as it bends. “That’s what you’re worried about.” “Stop sounding so confident.” “I can only sound how I am, Swan.” “Oh, I’m not sure we’ve reached nickname status yet,” she mumbles, pushing down the soft rush of metaphorical insects doing their beset to soar out of her barely-parted lips. “But, yeah, I—I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was totally terrified in the moment.”

“Understandable. Grown men barrelling down the third-base line at your kid are a lot to take in.” She snorts. It’s not cute. Not dignified. Killian smirks. “Should you be concerned that the Scarlet was making such solid headway behind you? Are you exceedingly slow?” “I am league average.” “How fast can you get out of the box to first?” “I’ve never timed it.” “Liar, liar.” “Please don’t make a crack about my pants,” Killian says, “I won’t be able to cope.”

“Oh God, you think you’re charming, too.” “I’ve had no complaints.” “To your face, at least.”

Throwing his head back, the laugh that erupts out of him is not of volcano proportions. Of which there was also one in FernGully if Emma’s memory is to be trusted.  An arm circles his middle, stretching muscle and ensuring that Emma notices just how corded that same muscle is, the slight bend of his wrist leaving her off-kilter. When he meets her gaze, she swears his eyes are brighter. “Yeah, yeah, that’s true,” Killian concedes, “no one has flat out told me I was lacking charm to my face.” “This thanking you thing is going great.” “And I continue to not need thanks. Why are you worried about the video getting out there? Filmed in 4K like you suggest, at least we’ll all look great. Sharp pixels and whatnot.” “What do you know about pixels?” “You basically heard the extent just now.”

She’s getting better at laughing. The ooze has almost all but disappeared, Emma twirling a strand of hair around fingers that are intent on moving, and it’s an old habit. One Killian’s gaze catches on. Immediately. Quickly. Seriously, Emma needs a thesaurus. “Baseball’s always been my dad,” she says. “And that’s—well, we’ve lived this game, me and my mom, weekend series and West Coast swings, waiting up for him to get home because the flight got delayed, but Henry’s just a kid, getting thrown into this world because of his last name and who his family is? That sucks. Nothing was supposed to happen tonight.” “Nothing did happen.” “Because of you.” “I’d like to believe Scarlet, ridiculously fast as he might be, would not run over a small child,” Killian says. “And, uh, for the record and all that, I got a bad jump off first because I didn’t know if they were going to catch it in left. No one wants to get caught on the base paths.” “Yeah, that’d be embarrassing.”

He must hear the hitch in her voice because the next thing Emma realizes, her fingers are twisted back up in Killian’s, and she’s warm and falling and flying, and it’s good and weird, and the door swings open. 

They both jump.

So, that’s something. 

Rushing out quickly enough that he nearly trips over his own feet, Henry’s head leads the way and finds Emma’s stomach, a tangle of limbs, and overly-excited words, all of which rival the now-finished fireworks display in volume. 

It takes Henry about five and a half run-on sentences to notice Killian standing there. 

His eyes widen. His mouth drops. Killian grins. Emma tries very hard not to die. It only sort of works. 

She blames the faulty body parts she’s in possession of. 

“Killian,” Henry exclaims, clamoring back to his feet and nearly falling again in the process. Hands that belong to both Emma and Killian dart out, steadying Henry while their eyes meet over the top of his head. Killian winks. He tries. It’s more like a blink than anything. “Hi, hi! You did so good tonight! And we won, and I got to go on the field and—and, it was so,” Henry heaves a deep breath, “we were so good.”

Collective pronouns do something to Emma’s entire state of being. 

Flips it on an axis she hadn’t been aware previously existed until it almost feels as if this was the path they’d been directing themselves toward from the start. Her eyes flit toward Killian. Who is already watching her. 

“We did,” he nods, “maybe next time, though, you wait one extra second to grab Scarlet’s bat, ok?” Seeing her own nose scrunch reflected back on her kid is not the worst thing that’s ever happened to Emma. The vibrating phone in her back pocket, might be. 

It’s one-hundred percent, Ruby. 

“That’s what grandpa said too,” Henry grumbles, digging a toe of the cleats Emma’s mother bought him last week into the ground, “but I wanted to make sure you didn’t fall.”

Definitely dying, then. A systematic shut down of all necessary internal organs. It’s not as bad as Emma would have expected. 

Neither one of Killian’s knees crack when he bends. That seems heavy-handed. 

“And I don’t want you to fall either,” he says, “so we agree, right here, right now, not to let the other one fall, huh?” Emma holds her breath. Ignores the pinch in her lungs and the clearly unstable nature of both her mind and her heart, digging her nails into her palms. To ensure she isn’t tempted to haul Henry back toward her. Or push that one strand of hair away from Killian’s forehead. 

Henry nods. “Deal.”

They hook their pinkies together. 

It’s adorable and as endearingly charming as everything else Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, has done since he walked into that hallway. Less so when her dad emerges from the office, the athletic trainer on his heels to not-so-quietly inform Killian that he can’t just blow off post-game like that, and the second wink is as bad as the first. 

She does her very best to memorize the movement. 

And the joy on Henry’s face the next morning when a box arrives on their doorstep, a genuine, game-worn Killian Jones jersey inside. She doesn’t notice the note at first, tucked between the cardboard and the tissue paper someone must have bought for him. He can’t have bought that tissue paper himself. He just—it’s unfathomable. 

Emma knows he bought the tissue paper himself. 

As clearly as she knows that those numbers in that particular order will lead to Killian Jones answering his phone and that her voice likely won’t shake when she replies to the question written in surprisingly loopy script. Which is why, Emma will argue, she does reply. In the affirmative. To several questions over the course of the remaining season, and they don’t star in any more viral videos, but there are a few pictures once they clinch the division. 

Drops of champagne cling to the tips of Emma’s eyelashes and the ends of Killian’s hair, hands on her waist that blaze a quick path up her back and around her middle, and she has to tilt her head up to get the right angles. Of lips. While they kiss in the middle of the clubhouse, the hat someone forced onto Emma’s head falling and it’s impossible to hear over the sound of celebratory fireworks, but she can somehow still hear Henry’s laugh ringing out from the general area near Scarlet’s locker, and his jersey collection is growing at an impressive rate. 

No one can withstand the overall cuteness of him. 

Emma included. Emma, especially. 

Sometimes she worries she’s so happy she’ll burst, unable to contain the sort of emotion her body is still acclimating itself to. But then she realizes just how dumb that is and happiness cannot possibly be quantified, and her head is buzzing enough from champagne that she nearly misses Killian when he says, “people love the bright spots, Swan.” It’s not the most romantic thing he’s told her. Doesn’t crack the top five, quite frankly. She swoons all the same. With her kid laughing and her team winning and that’s about all the sentiment she’s willing to acknowledge before her tongue is in Killian’s mouth. He groans. She grins. 

And he’d been right about the video. It wasn’t the embarrassment Emma worried it could be. Was mostly relegated to the corners of the internet set aside for formerly popular content as soon as the season ended, spoken about only in fond recollection as the other seasons went on and the wins kept coming and all three of them stand on a parade float with the World Series trophy a few dozen feet away, several Novembers after that first game. 

It’s a Thursday afternoon, then. 

And yet Emma never entirely forgets. What the video meant and what it did and she’s not remotely surprised when it finds its way back to the forefront of the sports zeitgeist on a Wednesday in July. Most mentions come with similar taglines and messages. Something about feeling our age and wanna feel old because that bot boy, David Nolan’s grandson, Killian Jones’s stepson, he’s getting drafted now. 

Got drafted, technically. 

Third round, video of the soon-to-be third baseman for the San Diego Padres makes the internet circuits and garners plenty of interest. It’s not the most exciting video, though. Henry just hugs his family. Who hug tightly back. 

What is more exciting is the box that arrives on Emma and Killian’s doorstep. With a note that eventually earns a frame next to the last one and a wholly official, game-worn jersey that has a noticeable streak of dirt across the left sleeve. From sliding head-first into home plate.  

[rosy-cheekx]

for the soulmate prompts! 5: you have a colorful mark where your soulmate will first touch you

This definitely isn’t like my usual fics, but it was a ton of fun to write!! I hope you enjoy it! I am here for the Martin angst.

Fingerprints on the Soul

Martin has never believed in soulmates. Or, rightly, he has never believed he has one. He has a mark, sure, an opalite shimmer in the shape of a hand, small and slender, circling his wrist. It grows with him, and Martin assumes, this alleged soulmate.

But it doesn’t feel right for him to have a soulmate. He’s never had time for it. Leaving school at 16, his mother has been his world, the only point of connection in his life. And regardless of how they get on (or rather, didn’t), he couldn’t see himself having room for another person to care for. He barely had time for himself.

When he was 8, his best friend was named Rachel. They got married in the playpark one day; Martin’s jump rope and Rachel’s Raggedy Ann the witnesses to their elopement. They didn’t kiss, gross, but they pressed their hands to each other’s soulmate marks. Rachel’s hand was too chubby for the kid-sized hand on Martin’s wrist, and she couldn’t quite get the angle right. Rachel’s mark was on her hip, five delicate purple spots her mum told her were probably fingerprints. “Someone very gentle,” she repeated her mother’s words with pride. Martin wondered what a whole hand on the wrist meant. Probably bad. His mother grabbed his wrist when he was in trouble, dragging him to the timeout corner. That never felt like true love, what Rachel said soulmates were supposed to be.

When Martin was 19, he watched Terry, a Northern boy with shaggy hair dyed a black so dark it was almost blue, grab his wrist and pull him into the stockroom of the Tesco’s, and for a moment his heart lifted. But as a boy who smelled like deli meat and tasted like cigarettes kissed him, hands on his waist, he realized it was the wrong hand. He kissed back, of course, though he knew it wouldn’t last.

Martin was 21 when he decided not to think about a soulmate anymore. There are plenty of dating apps, people sending pictures of marks to see if they match in color or trying to string together a narrative that rationalizes any sort of reason their touches could be each other’s. He’s always wondered if it’s all self-imposed, someone you like touches you in the right spot and your brain convinces you it’s been them all along. It’s naïve, Martin thinks, Childish.

His mark is hard to hide; the wrist is fairly conspicuous. Martin has taken to wearing long sleeves, watches, bracelets, even a very brief leather cuff stage, anything to minimize the glaring brilliance of an opalescent handprint, radiating against his freckles skin. Sometimes when Martin is in his flat, in the quiet and the dark, he traces the fingertips with his own, trying to imagine a scenario in which his wrist is held in such a manner, the fingers at such a strange angle. The rainbow of color shimmers in light, hypnotizing to behold.

Martin was 24 when he joined The Magnus Institute, though he said he was 30. He wasn’t sure why that lie had slipped out, but it had felt right to give himself a boost in years, if nothing else to make sure there was sufficient time for all his “degree work” to have been completed. Elias seemed to believe him. Made him seem more professional too, to be a 30-year-old looking for a job, rather than a measly 24. Silly, really. His actual age wouldn’t have made a lick of difference in the things that mattered.

Being 28 years old when he is moved to the Archives wouldn’t have changed the way Jon treated him, for one. Martin was a pro in being accommodating, especially to the people that held power in his life, but damn if Jonathan Sims didn’t make it difficult. The harsh criticism, the sneering glances, the biting words he thinks Martin doesn’t hear every time he listens through a statement for details to research. It all hurts.

(Sasha hugged him warmly, in that first week working in the archives, promising it would get better; he saw the light blue mark on her palm. Tim had one to match, he noticed the following day, when he had handed him a Chinese takeaway. He had laughed at Martin’s sputtered realization, flipping his hand over for Martin to see and loudly declaring it “the most boring sign of love,” grinning at Sasha’s desk as he said so. He didn’t ask about Martin’s.)

His age wouldn’t have changed, he doesn’t think, his insistent motivation to make Jon proud. To prove that he is not a waste of space, the way everyone seemed to think of him; that he is clever and capable and he earned that fake degree, godammit. It certainly wouldn’t have changed his choices that night, he’s certain of that. No matter what age he could have been (granted, young enough to climb/fall through a window), Martin is fairly certain he would have always gone back to that flat that night, seen the form of Jane Prentiss for real, in the flesh…or what was left of it. Being 28 or 45 or 30 wouldn’t have changed the viscerally terrifying two weeks he spent locked in his flat, stuffing towels under his door and checking his skin compulsively. His mark was a ridiculously glamorous beacon through it all, like a diamond necklace on a corpse.

Initially, Martin wasn’t sure Jon had a mark. That would require him caring for another living soul and, besides the warm banter he seemed to exchange on occasion with Tim and Sasha, he didn’t seem to be an affectionate man. He wasn’t sure, at least, until he was back in the Archives, trying not to shake as he told Jon what had happened, and he listened. Not only did Jon listen, but he believed him, cared fiercely, making him a cup of tea, buying him takeaway, and demanding to Elias that Martin be able to stay in the archives. One night, when Jon was working late and Martin was sitting on the floor with him in flannel, caught up in a debate on whether or not all things could be classified as “bowls” and “soups,” (“a file is a bowl for statement soup!” Martin had insisted, unable to hold back the grin) he felt that delightful, horrible twinge deep in his gut, and shit. Of course he would develop a crush on Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, His Boss. But how could he not? Jon’s face was a delightful mix of irritation, erudition, and humor as he tried to entertain Martin’s inane theory. And being there so late all the time had taught Martin to notice little quirks about Jon: his insistence to please others, especially Elias; his stubborn refusal to take care of himself (Oedipus complex much, Martin?); how adorably squished his face looked when he fell asleep on his desk, lips parted in a pout.

Martin let it sit. It didn’t matter. Hard to take someone on a date when you’re living in the basement of your workplace. And besides, he knew Jon didn’t like him, so what was the point? It was great poetry fodder, anyways.

God, but then it happened, like he knew it would. The worms and the screaming and Jon and Sasha. He had been frozen in a moment of fear and confusion, unable to make out the words Jon was saying as he grabbed Martin’s wrist and pulled him to safety, tugging the larger man along behind him. And then they were running and the worms were leaping and oh god they were everywhere. Martin faintly registered the ever-growing circular patches on Jon’s trousers, the glimpses of blood-slicked silver like a bullseye.

And then they were safe for the moment and Martin had his corkscrew and cuts open Jon’s trouser and all he could say was I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know it hurts as he carves into the flesh of Jon’s leg, wishing he could block out Jon’s whimpering cries of pain. It’s not until he and Sasha can wipe away the blood soaked into Jon’s leg that Martin sees it, underneath his crimson-slick fingertips, precisely under them: iridescent fingertips and a distinct heel of a palm, under and around the first wormhole, where Martin had braced the skin for the first incision. He sits back on his heels and glances down at his own wrist again, where Jon had pulled him along behind, and realized that, even as they were running for their lives, something had slotted into place in his mind, a sense of peace and knowing and yes. He hadn’t noticed it, what with all the death. Jon must have sensed it too. How was that the first time Jon had touched him? 

Martin didn’t say anything, and tentatively lined up his hand with the mark again and still. It fit. Even with the strip of Martin’s shirt they’ve tied around Jon’s leg to stem the weeping wound. Martin sighed, in relief and exhaustion and fear, and Jon weakly held out a hand for Martin to take. They watched Sasha peer through the window in the door and squeezed the hand of the other tightly, a message of hello, and I know, and I’m here. If they ever got out of here, they would discuss it. Figure things out.

Maybe even get a coffee. 

[citrus-lady]

Hi! Present mic is a comfort character of mine and I was wondering if I could request some Headcanons for him talking to a student he saw was having a rough time mentally?(I love your blog btw!!🧡😭)

Thank you!! Your support means a lot! This one was actually pretty easy to write because my mother is a teacher and talks about work a lot!

Present Mic Comforting a Troubled Student!

First of all, Present Mic is such a cool and caring teacher. He’s pretty much the goofy teacher that raps lessons and makes corny jokes during class to try and make his students relaxed and make class interesting. 

He’s not a very strict teacher either and is pretty lax in class as long as his students are behaving and don’t take advantage of his lenience. 

His first and foremost concern is the well being of his students. He puts their mental health and well being before their grades. After all, what kind of teacher is he if he can’t keep his students healthy and teach them?

Present Mic is also really dedicated to his students' learning, so if a student wants to meet after class, during lunch, or after school, he almost always says yes. If he knows that his class has a big assignment in another course then he’ll ease off the assignments that week. he encourages class participation and for his students to ask questions, he even has them play review games before a test to make learning more fun. 

Mic is definitely the kind of teacher to have some sort of treat jar in his class for correct answers or game-winners, he even puts rad stickers on his students' homework when they do a good job. Mic is also understanding that hero school is different from regular school in the fact that students also have training and internships they need to do outside of school on top of extracurricular activities. That’s why he also will allow due date extensions if a student asks for it before the due date.

Present Mic doesn’t even assign that much homework, maybe one or two worksheets a week, and doesn’t have heavily weighted tests. Instead, he chooses to opt for more creative projects and presentations, so when he notices that your grades start to slip suddenly he takes notice. 

He also notices when you’re motivation and enthusiasm to participate in class starts to diminish and he becomes concerned. It seems like these days you always have your head down or aren’t paying attention in class. 

The last straw for him is when you stop participating and turning in assignments altogether. For a while, he thought maybe you were just going through a rough patch or were being swamped in other classes, but now he knows something is really wrong. You’re usually such a good student in his class! 

This prompts him to investigate. First, he decides to talk to your other instructors to see how you are doing in their classes and to see if they have noticed the same things. Low and behold you are also tanking in your other classes and the other teachers have noticed your behavior as well. Some of them have even tried to convince you to seek out help from the guidance counselor. 

Mic knows that most students really don’t want to go see the guidance counselor on their own accord and won’t really respond well to a stranger probing into their personal life problems. So instead, Mic decides to confront you personally to see what’s wrong. He likes to think that his students look up to him and trust him enough to talk to them if they are having problems. 

This is when he asks you to stay after class and once all the other students are gone he questions your behavior as of late. He makes sure your comfortable and that you know you don’t have to tell him anything you don’t want to. At the same time though he needs to know what’s wrong so that he can help you. 

Whether you are having issues with your family, friends, or hero work he will be able to comfort you and give you expert advice all while making you laugh and feel better. Present Mic doesn’t seem like it but he is able to calm down and offer sage words when needed. 

If something serious is wrong with your home life then he is going to intervene. Whether that means reporting abuse or offering you a place to stay he’ll do it. Present Mic is already pretty much your mentor so he has no problem taking you under his wing. 

If you are getting bullied at school then he is definitely going to use his position as a teacher to put a stop to it. He is 100% the type of teacher to use cheesy stop bullying slogans like ‘ it’s not cool to bully’. Present Mic doesn’t tolerate bullying at all and will punish bullies. 

And if you need advice or help regarding hero work then you’ve definitely come to the right place! After all, who better to ask than a pro hero himself! He will answer any questions and quell any doubts you might have about hero work and reassure you that you will be a great hero someday! 

Overall, Present Mic wants his students to be healthy not only physically but also mentally while they are learning. Being a hero isn’t just about physical strength and skill, it’s also about mental and emotional stability.

[marlasomething]

Jonmartin Week 2022 Day 7: My Own With You Each Night

Hello there!

As said in previous one-shots of this week, I cannot see a "challenge" and let it go so...Jonmartin week 2022 here we are! The idea is "forcing myself" to write piece of under 1K in different universes, let's see how it goes...and today it didn't go (ALMOST). Hope @jonmartinweek like the penultimate stament (pun intended) of this collection.

This was written for the prompt of day 7: Growing Old Together/Forehead kisses and it's another alternative post Mag200, a bit less dark than my previous ones (if you don't count the fact that a Jon and a Martin's conciences had been murdered in the process of making this fic, that is).

Also: I will try to end all one-shots with the line of the finale "One way or another. Together". Only half this time...sorry

As usual, do please forgive my quick tipper and non-native speaker mistakes,

Marla

Allons-y!

AO3 version!

Whole week Masterlist!

Apparently, Jon’s body could still feel pain.

That was all his brain (if he still had a brain, that was) could think about as Martin’s knife carved his way through his body, ripping apart the few flesh that remained completely human, provoking a slow, absolutely vivid death to The Archivist.

He would have liked to say, even if only to himself, that in his last minutes the other man’s lips against his were still in his mind, but it just hurt too much.

Physical pain overcame his love for Martin the way he always believed it would never have.

The only thing he was able to process as life finally left him was the exact shape of the blade that was cutting his connection to that pantomime of lie he had entangled himself in.

As he died, he heard a scream from a voice that sounded almost like his, just…more at ease with existence (if that made any sense), pledging for dear life.

Then, he woke up.

He was so socked at the mere fact of being able to breath (he realised, he hadn’t actually properly breath real air in months) that he didn’t even manage to let a gasp scape his mouth.

The first thing he noticed were his hands, they weren’t as terribly bony as they had eventually become, and the swelling due to exposure to whatever Not-Even-The-Beholding-Knows-What had been in the ambiance after the world changed was gone; just regular bit too long fingers, as they had always been beforehand.

Without any remarkable scar on them; though there were so many paper cuts he couldn’t but recall his college years.

Then, he noticed another thing, underneath the hands, where the bed covers were…he couldn’t see the patterns correctly.

His lack of vision was back.

He had never been so glad of needing glasses (actually, never before had he been glad of this fact). Out of a mechanical instinct he didn’t even know where it came from (he DIDN’T KNOW IT; he could have screamed of pure glee, hadn’t he been so shocked), he reached the bed table and picked up his glasses (he guessed they were his, at least) and forced himself up with a pair of legs that weren’t really his (they looked like the legs of someone who run, not on a daily basis, but quite regularly; that just wasn’t him, he had sometimes lost a bus just because he hadn’t wanted to run, for Lord’s shake!).

It was Tim’s idea, to help me with some stuff I was going through, as a counter-measure, and it stuck. Plus, I finally got to spend time again with Gerry since work always keeps us so busy…

He froze in place.

That weren’t his memories and yet…

…Gerry, friend from childhood, raised by his father after his mother had turned out to be an abusive monster (to no one’s surprise).

…Tim, friend and co-worker at the bookshop/detective agency (because why have a normal life?!) with Sasha and…he turned.

“Martin” he couldn’t have chosen a better word to premiere his new vocal cords.

A figure grunted from underneath the bed sheets and finally turned.

He had forgotten how the other man had looked without an absolutely not-taken-care-of beard. Or without never ending eye bags, or consumed features.

Or, for instance, non-white hair.

Please, be my Martin; he praised in silence, as much as he knew it was selfish, almost cruel, to want this man to have been substituted by his partner.

But, for once, the Universe(s) smiled at him.

He would recognise that tone anywhere.

“Jon” he run towards him (more, he stumbled to the bed without any short of synchronization). “You are alive…I am just…I ki…”

“It didn’t stick, apparently” in a similar manner as he had done before, the other man put on his glasses (another bizarre thing to witness; him wearing glasses that were in perfect state) and smiled widely at him.

“That T-shirt looks more mine than yours” he grinned at him, feeling confident about his own not precisely impressive physiognomy for once in his existence (saying, even thinking in that sentence with the word live instead of existence felt almost like a joke at that point).

“Want it back?”

It had been hours until either of them lowered themselves to pick up the phone to an extremely upset Sasha.

“We were crazy worried! I know you two have the day off but…we’ve been calling. A lot” it was quite strange to actually recognise her voice at first sight.

Just as it was heart-warming.

“Yes, uh…sorry Sash; Jon had a weird day” he received a small punch on the side.

She sounded suddenly worried.

“Is he…again…you know…do you guys need help?” by Jon’s face, Martin deduced whatever Sasha was talking about (he hadn’t had a moment yet to look up his new memories, since he had spent a whole morning just holding tight the other man and speaking softly of nothing and everything at the same time) was something Jon had suffered too in their world and just, never spoke about.

A bit late to be surprised by this sort of revelation, as much as it saddened him.

“Um…no, just…you know, silly morning.”

“Ok, fine, right. Anyways, we were calling because we were going to have dinner to Gerry and Michael’s, if you wanted to…you know…”

“Oh, better not today, sorry. We really…well, you know.”

“I know, newly wed and all that jazz. See you tomorrow, then.”

“Bye Sasha!” Jon screamed, so he could be heard perfectly clear at the other side of the sound.

“Goodbye Sasha” as he hung up, he gave the tinier man a kiss in the forehead.

“I cannot believe we missed our own wedding.”

“Weddings are overrated, is the day to day that really counts…the…” he took a deep breath. Apparently, it was Jon’s new biggest hobby: tasting oxygen. “Getting old together, we are going to get old together. If we don’t kill each other in the process…ok, a bit too soon, sorry.”

He shut up and just went back to just bury his face on Martin’s shoulder and the other man smiled. He knew there was something they hadn’t brought up, how, if the two of them were here… they were too, likely closer and more powerful than they could actually imagine.

And yet…

…he looked at the man slowly falling asleep again against him.

They were ok, they had friends and a whole life to get old and grey and, eventually, die. Yes, it was true; perhaps, their own past would catch up, and they were end up again trapped by the horrible world they had just scape; but they would get through it.

One way or another.

Together.

[redstarwriting]

My Light

Stephen Strange x Reader

Request: “Prompt for whenever you want it: the reader is the legal guardian of their sibling's (who died in an accident) toddler and the reader is trying her best at parenting. One day they find out the child has magic abilities, but everything goes tits up because Mordo shows up and tries to take said powers. Cue our favorite sorcerer saving the day. May we have a progression of him and the reader falling for each other? Thanks in advance and feel free to disregard the ask if it is too silly”

Word Count: 1,773

Genre: Fluff | Little Angst

Warnings: swearing, death of a loved one, attempted murder, Mordo in general

A/N: Very sorry for how long this took me to write! Like I said, writer’s block is a bitch. But it’s here now! And the ask was not silly at all! It was very fresh and fun actually. I hope you enjoy it! I write best for Stephen it seems, so hopefully I lived up to your expectations! Also, I made the child gender neutral because why not, you know?

───────────────────────────────────

“Ori. Put. The paintbrush. Down,” you try your best to sound strict, but Ori the two-year-old has other plans. They just painted an entire… emblem, you guess, on the wall of your apartment. Again. You cannot figure out how they keep getting into the locked painting cabinet butt yet here you both are. You just sigh before bending over and picking them up, only to get a paintbrush to the face. “Okay, Ori, now you’ve done it,” you say, a mischievous glint in your eye. Ori looks at you with confusion before you snatch the paintbrush, setting it to the side and gently toss them on your couch and scream, “You’ve unleashed the… Tickle Monster!” You “attack” them, only to be met with happy shrieks and giggles. You’ve discovered this is an easy way to tire them and distract them from what they were just doing. You’re just now getting the hand at this whole… parenting thing. Ori isn’t your biological child, they’re your sister’s. Sadly, she died in a freak accident, leaving little Ori in your care. The worst part is Ori was there when she died. One day when she was cooking, the oven malfunctioned and exploded, catching the entire house on fire. It’s believed that she was killed instantly in the blast, and even though Ori was playing ouutside when it happened, they were still there for the entire incident. Granted, they didn’t understand it, but still. It’s really sad. And you’re trying your hardest to be the absolute best parent for them as you possibly can be.

They just make it so damn hard sometimes.

After your tickle-tack, Ori was worn out. It was about their nap time anyways, so you take them to their “big kid bed” as they just stopped sleeping in a crib, and tuck them in. Of course, you still have a baby monitor in their room to see and hear when they need anything. You go and sit on your couch, reveling in the moment of silence you have while Ori sleeps. Then suddenly, their crying pulls you out of it. You sigh, getting up to go check on them only to realize that when you get to their room, there’s a man in there. And he’s targeting Ori. Oh hell no.

“Who the fuck are you?!” you scream, immediately picking up one of Ori’s wooden blocks and hurling it at the intruder’s head. Good call, (Y/n). That’ll stop him. He doesn’t even catch it, just waves his hand and it deflect back, hitting you directly between the eyes instead. “Ow…” you mumble, rubbing the spot where the block collided with you. “This is none of your concern,” the man says, beginning to move his one hand in a circular motion while holding the other in place in front of him. You hear something behind you and turn around to see an orange glowing circle leading into what looks like the ocean?! What the fuck?! Suddenly, the man runs toward you, and you scream thinking you’re about to get pushed in when suddenly he is literally thrown against the wall beside him.

“Bad,” you hear Ori squeak, and you turn your attention to them only to see their hand out in front of them and… is that magic coming out of their palm? “You made this complicated, young lady,” the man says, standing up again, and you turn your attention to him once more. “W-what-”

“I didn’t want to kill you, but it appears now I must. This child’s real mother interfered when I tried to take their powers the first time. It appears I’ll have to do what I did last time again,” he says, and your blood runs cold. Did this man just admit to murdering your sister? And did he just say he was going to murder you too? You were frozen in place when he started running at you again. This time, though, another portal looking thing appeared and another man stepped into Ori’s room, and the other guy was suddenly frozen mid-run. Max capacity for this room is you and Ori, by the way, so there was a lot going on in a space that did not hold that much. “You gave me quite the chase, Mordo, but it looks like it’s over,” this new guy says, and you break out of your frozen state to run over to Ori and pick them up.

The man named Mordo follows you with his eyes, and you glare at him. The man who saved you walks toward this Mordo character, but before he can do anything, he suddenly breaks out of the trapped state he’s in and starts swinging his staff at him. The guy who saved you and Ori curses under his breath, and suddenly, you’re pushed into a new location with him following. You look around, noticing that you’re somewhere with what looks like a bunch of antiques. “Sorry about that, I figured the best thing to do was flee here instead of completely destroying your place. Besides, I’m not so sure you would be able to handle the mirror realm, so I definitely wasn’t about to take you there. Now, let me explain everything that just happened.”

You blink and the next thing you know, you’re in a chair while Ori is preoccupied with a giant coloring book and multiple crayons. “Your sister’s child possesses a type of raw magical talent, and I’m afraid the man who broke into your home is going around and stealing magic from others who have it. I believe it would be beneficial for you and the child to live here for a period of time until I either apprehend him or Ori is able to defend themselves if needed.” “Uh… wait okay, hold on, what?”

“Well, I was pretty blunt with my explanation but-”

“No, I understood your explanation I’m just a little shocked over the fact that this little thing is magical, that Mordo dick literally murdered my sister, and now you’re telling me it would be beneficial if I moved into this place when I don’t even know who you are or where this place is and I don’t have any of my belongings and-“

“Calm down, (Y/n). I’ve had all your belongings transferred over to here already. My name is Stephen Strange, and I need to teach Ori about their powers before Mordo takes them from them,” Stephen explains, and you just stare at him. “I promise you this is to protect you and Ori. Mordo won’t stop until every sorcerer and sorceress no longer has magic. I can help.”

And that is how you ended up living in the Sanctum Sanctorum with Stephen Strange with Ori. This place was a lot nicer than your tiny two bedroom apartment, and the best part is you didn’t even have to pay rent. Even if you wanted to go to work, Stephen said it would be too much of a risk with the lunatic magic stealer still running around, so you couldn’t even work anymore. You mainly spent your time playing with Ori or walking around, tidying up and reading. Although you weren’t learning magic or anything. No matter how many times Stephen tried to convince you to.

Oh, speaking of Stephen, the two of you really hit it off. So much so that after about three weeks, Ori started calling him “daddy.” Both of you were taken aback by that and frantically tried to explain to them that, no, Stephen was in fact not their dad, but they weren’t having it. Of course, you found the sorcerer very attractive and didn’t necessarily hate the idea of him being Ori’s “dad,” but honestly, he probably didn’t feel the same and it would be so complicated having two magic users in the family are you kidding.

Nonetheless, Stephen did treat Ori like his child as well, which made you two talk even more than usual. After a while, you two knew each other better than anyone else.  It started slow, with him just asking how your day was and how Ori liked their new home and such, but eventually faded into him asking how you were, no how you really were don’t give him that fine bullshit, what your favorite foods were, what you thought of his outfit, what you were doing later, all these things.

Of course, this all progressed after a few years. In fact, Ori was now five years old, and you have never met someone who advocated for you to get a significant other more than this kid. You always told them you didn’t have time, and that you would find one when you wanted to. Ori would then bring up the time that Stephen gave you the biggest room in the Sanctum when you got there, and the time that Stephen got you your favorite food because you had a bad day, and that time that Stephen took you out on the anniversary of your sister’s death to distract you from missing her and how he did that literally every year and, yeah. You get the point. Ori wanted you and Stephen to get together. And the damn kid was too smart and remembered literally everything at age 5 maybe you should just stop telling them stuff.

Then one day, Stephen approached you while Ori was busy practicing magic. “May I sit?” he asks, and you grin up at him, nodding. He sits next to you and clears his throat. “Ori has gotten very good, you know,” he says, and you nod. “Yeah. Their magic is really strong. And pretty. Prettier than yours, anyway,” you tease him, and he grins. “Well, that’s what happens when your magic is light based. It’s always a sight to behold.” “Light based?”

“Yes, their magic is unique, and they certainly have a flair for making someone’s day brighter,” he says, and you laugh. “Yeah. Well, I guess their name fits them.”

“Oh?” “Don’t tell me Mr. Sorcerer Supreme I-Am-An-Actual-Doctor-You-Know doesn’t know what Ori means.”

“Looks like I’m stumped.” “Wow. Okay, well Ori quite literally means ‘my light’ in Hebrew. I guess my sister named them well,” you explain, and Stephen nods. “Well, they certainly brought light to my life,” he says, and you grin. “Good, I’m glad. They brought light to mine as well,” you say, staring at them as they practice. You don’t even notice Stephen looking at you until he speaks, “The light they brought me was you, by the way.”

Needless to say, Ori got their wish of you and Stephen getting together.

[moody-bloosh]

Give me some Fugo kiSses

when they cry (Pannacotta Fugo)

content warning! yandere stuff sacrificial lamb au 

yandere starter prompts (closed) - kisses + pannacotta fugo 

Pannacotta Fugo is the only son of the most influential family of your village. Your family has served his for generations and it is only because of that fact that you have the privilege to know him. For the village and even his family had scorned him as a monster for his strange white hair and piercing red eyes.

But to you, he was simply beautiful.

It was the case when you were first introduced to him as a child, and it remains still to this day now that you have both grown. Your mother was his wet nurse and you were raised together as milk siblings. You were his only friend, his only companion, the only person who did not revile him for his appearance. You would take to combing his hair, telling him all about your day that he might in turn try to live vicariously through you. Fugo would secretly teach you how to read, how to write, things that you were not allowed to learn ordinarily but skills that Fugo seemed eager to pass onto you, just so that he had someone to talk to him about his books, about the things he learned.

As you continued to grow, it quickly became apparent that his intellect was nothing short of just amazing. It was an insult not to call him anything but brilliant. Though people still disliked his appearance, he learned not to pay heed to any of their statements. Because the important thing was that you stayed by his side even though all the years that had passed by the two of you.

And then suddenly, you were ripped away from him.

You.

The only light in his bleak existence. His only friend. The only person he had ever loved.

There was a tradition in your village, one that was centuries old. It was said that there was a monster that dwelled within the forest that seemed to ensnare and wrap around the village. The monster had never outright harmed your people for it only demanded one thing in exchange for keeping your little village safe.

Human sacrifice.

Through an unknown selection process that was privy only to the elders of your town, a single person was selected. In exchange for one human life, the village would be guaranteed safety, security - even a bountiful harvest. Your life would be snuffed out, all for the sake of all those horrible villagers who had only ever scorned him, who had been disgusted by him. When they come to take you away, he fights tooth and nail to keep them from taking you. At least until he’s wrestled into the ground and you beg for leniency for his take.

Before they take you away, you comfort him, one last time. You hold him tight and you press a kiss against his forehead. Sure you were terrified. But you supposed maybe that … if it was for his sake, you wouldn’t mind. Because you would have done anything to protect him, to keep him safe.

“I’m doing this … because I love you,” you said gently, a little serene smile on your face, even as the elders dragged you away. Like a lamb to the slaughter, to be ‘prepared’ until you were set to be devoured by the ancient, unknowable evil that demanded blood from your village. .

The night before you are to be sacrificed, right after they had dragged you away, he sneaks into the ceremonial hut you are to be kept in. You are a vision, dressed in a white gauzy fabric. Your eyes are a little red from crying, as is natural with someone about to be killed the next day. And then you hear him. His voice coming in through the little window that lit up the hut.

You try to ease your tearful hiccups and you turn to look at him smiling, “y-yeah, Fugo?”

Even in the face of death, you thought of him. Of how you didn’t want to see him off with a frightened or sad look in your eyes. Though your resolve quickly crumbles when he reaches his hand out to you. You carefully walk over to the window and gently clasp his hand, pressing it against your face as you looked up at him.

“I wish we had more time together,” you say sadly, your eyes bright with the beginnings of more tears and your lips formed in a sad smile.

“And we will,” he reassures you, his tone fraught with heartache. “We’ll have all the time in the world.”

Fugo purses his lips for a moment as he looks at you, trying to memorize every last bit of your face. He trembles. This … this couldn’t be it for the two of you, right? His voice is shaky as he speaks again.

“Do you want to die together?” His voice is heartbreaking to say the least, his eyes are bright with unshed tears as he clutches onto you, looking at you desperately, “just as we’ve been together as children for so long. We’ll be together even in death.”

“No,” you hiss out desperately, clutching onto his hand tightly. “Y-you have to live for my sake! Don’t throw your life away for me.”

“It’s the only thing I can do, a world without you … maybe it’s not a world worth living in. If the village wants to sacrifice you, maybe it’s not worth saving!”

As he says those words, something flickers in his mind. A dark idea, whispered by the devil himself. He smiles as he looks up at you, a terrible smile on his face.

“I know,” he says happily. “I know how to keep you safe now.”

You blink at him, surprised, not really understanding the deeper meaning of his words

Cupping your face through the window, he wipes your tears away. “I promise, I’ll save you and if I can’t - at the very least we’ll be together.”

Your eyes widen in horror - what was he going to do?!

“N-no!” You gasp out as he pulls away from you, reaching out for him, “F-Fugo! Don’t! I swear it’s okay, y-you don’t have to do anything that puts your life at risk!”

But he doesn’t hear you. All he can think about … is a life with you. A future with you.

It was so close, he could taste it.

He makes his way to the deepest part of the forest, the cave the monster called its home - the site of your murder for tomorrow. He doesn’t quite know what he expects to see, for he certainly did not believe in the existence of a monster. But lo and behold, he had found one. The creature is strange - taller than most men, checkered with white and purple and it’s inhuman eyes bore right into him. Copious amounts of drool drips from the monster’s strange lips. The creature slinks out of the dark cavern and stops, facing him. Everything is quiet for a long moment as he regards the creature.

“You’re not the sacrifice, are you?” It’s voice is ragged, a dangerous edge to its tone dripping of its words but it sounds bored.

“I’ve come to cut you a deal,” Fugo says carefully, emboldened. How curious that he, reviled as a monster, was now speaking to a true monster so casually.

“Oh? And what mind that be, little human,” the monster croons, slithering closer and closer to Fugo.

“You can forgo this ritual sacrifice nonsense and just do as you wish,” he says coldly. “Take the whole village for yourself but let the sacrifice and I escape.”

“And what should keep me from devouring you two, hm?”

“Simple,” he says easily, in such a matter of fact way that anyone who was listening would have no choice but to obey. “While you enjoy your meal of the whole village we escape, and tell me, what would two forgettable morsels be when you’re already gorging on the whole village hm?”

“And what’s stopping me from eating you and the next sacrifice, hm?”

Fugo stares back at the monster, unblinking.

“Because you would be foolish not to take my offer. The greatest meal of your life, a never ending banquet, and you want to give up all that for two little morsels? Perhaps you’re even more of a fool than I thought.”

The monster seems to consider his words getting terrifyingly close to him. But Fugo barely even blinks. No matter what happened… he would be with you regardless. The monster seems to smile and then it slowly heads back into its cave.

“If I find you two still around by daybreak, I’ll devour you both, regardless.”

All you remember is being led through the forest. Your eyes red and swollen from the crying and your heart heavy with anxiety, worry over what Fugo could have possibly done. Thankfully you see him at the procession. The one that all the adult villagers took as they led you to the monster. Your heart lightens considerably though you can’t help but have a bit of suspicion for how … how Fugo smiled as he looked at you. As if … he knew something the others didn’t.

You’re pushed to the front of the cave and everyone waits with bated breath for the monster to arrive. But instead, the forest comes to be bathed in a heavy fog. One that Fugo happily takes advantage of as he grabs you by the hand and whisks you away. You have no idea what is happening, only hissing at Fugo quietly not to mess up the ritual. But of course he doesn’t stop.

And then the screaming starts. And you don’t have to hear the words come from his lips because you just know. You’ve been with him since you were children, you were his closest friend, his only confidant…

He’s sacrificed the whole village for your sake.

When he leads you through the dark forest, amidst the fires and the screaming. His hold on you is tight enough to bruise. Your breathing is ragged, your cheeks soaked from your crying. All around you can hear dying gasps, fearful screaming as the monster tears through the adults. Fugo leads you away from all that.

You’re terrified more than anything.

Because you know now that the true monster is taking you by the hand, and leading you away from the slaughter - the slaughter he had concocted.

All for you.  

[seriouslyhooked]

Can’t Say No (At Christmas)

CS one-shot set in the future. Hope is three and Emma and Killian are still very much in the throws of a happily ever after, but Killian wants to do something special for Emma for Christmas. With the help of their family and the town, he manages to fulfill a Christmas wish for his wife in exactly the kind of over-the-top fluffy and sweet way you’d expect from me. Includes holiday surprises, Christmas cheer, and a healthy dash of true love. Rated T. Available on FF Here and AO3 Here.

A/N: Hey all! I really did not know if I was going to be able to get this drabble done, but I am so happy to say that I did and to share it with you all tonight. I know that this Christmas is going to be so different for so many of us, and that it has been a hard year of uncertainty and stress. My gift to our little fandom is this story, focused on Emma and Killian a few years after we got to see them in the show. It’s inspired by the spirit of Christmas, the cheesiness that only Hallmark movies can provide, and the song ‘No Problem’ by Dylan Schneider. I love the idea that Killian cannot deny Emma anything, and that at Christmas he has to make Emma’s wishes come true. I hate to spoil any more of this, but I will just say thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!

“I don’t know how the hell you pulled this off, mate, but I got to hand it to you, this is really something special.”

The words David uttered from the bottom of the ladder were high praise, despite the dig at Killian’s favorite endearment. Tonight though, Killian would let the jab slide. He simply didn’t have the time or energy to pretend to argue with Emma’s father. Instead he hustled down the rungs and back to solid ground beside his friend. He took stock of the room once more, running his hand through his hair and tracing each corner of the barn with his gaze. There was very little about the place that was recognizable. It had been sufficiently transformed, from an old, dusty tomb of farm equipment, to a space fit for the evening ahead.

“It pays to be a good guy in the end,” Killian joked. Playing up the early days of their knowing each other when Killian was anything but a hero. “Turns out I’ve helped quite a lot of people these past few years. They were eager to return the favor.”

“That’s true enough, but I think the fact that you did this all for Emma plays a big part too.”

There was no doubt about that, and the mere reminder of his wife brought a smile to his lips. She was going to be surprised by this, and there was nothing that he loved more than surprising his Swan. Killian could hardly wait for the look of excitement that would spread across her face, and the light that would appear in her jade colored eyes. Her cheeks would flush from realization, and her hands would move unbiddenly, as if she couldn’t quite contain the excitement or suspense. Emma was always the most beautiful of women, and a miracle to be sure, but when treated to a gift that was truly worthy of her, she was transcendent, his own personal star and tempting taste of heaven.

“Any word from Snow?” Killian asked, checking his watch and seeing they had made good time, despite the hecticness of the day. He had enough time to catch a shower and prepare himself, but he needed to be sure that Emma and Hope were sufficiently occupied in the meantime.

“Better – she sent a video while you were hanging the last of the garland.”

David offered his phone and Killian laughed at the sight. Snow and Emma had taken Neal and Hope out of town to a nearby ski resort that was hosting all sorts of winter activities for kids. In the video Emma, Hope, and Neal were all making snow angels, until Neal gave the signal and he and Hope pivoted to throwing snowballs at Emma. The only problem was Hope was far too little and bundled up in snow gear to be effective. She was having the time of her life though, and at the end of the video, Emma scooped their daughter up and nuzzled her close, bestowing a kiss on her curly brown hair, which had escaped its winter cap. Hope was a dazzling blend of him and Emma, but her goodness and ability to inspire love was totally her mother’s doing.

“Perfect. You good here for the time being?” David nodded, pivoting from his assistant role to commander in chief with the quickness of one-time prince. Content that his tasks were in good hands, Killian headed out, eager to put the next parts of his plan in place.

Things moved quickly from there. He showered and readied himself for the kind of night his Emma had imagined, ignoring the strangeness of his reflection as he did. He would never feel quite right in these damn tuxedos, but Emma’s wish was specific and it included the blasted suit. It also included a number of gifts for Emma and for Hope, which he pulled from the one place in the house Emma never ventured to – the garage. From the back of the storage space there, he grabbed a number of boxes that he’d stuffed away last week, and brought them all inside. After checking the contents were free from any water or dirt, he was convinced things were as they should be, and he left the gifts underneath the Christmas tree.

The only thing left to craft was the note for Emma that would set her surprise in motion. He hadn’t dared to write it out before, wanting to save it for this moment. It felt right to speak from the heart and to put in words exactly how he felt tonight. Still, it took time to get the letter exactly right, and he must admit he grew a bit sentimental when crafting it. A time or two he fell into recent and more distant memories of their lives together, feeling the warmth in his soul that could only ever come from the truest love. Luckily, he had enough of his wits about him and time was on his side. Soon he heard the sound of a car pulling up the drive just as he closed the envelope with Emma’s name and placed it on the tree, and with the stealth accrued in his past life, he slipped out the back door just before his girls came in.

“Mama, look! Santa came early,” he heard Hope say as he quietly rounded the side of the house. For a moment he was truly tempted to steal a look and watch this scene play out, but he reminded himself that there was still more to be done, and instead headed down the street to where a not so patiently waiting Snow was parked.

“Killian, thank God! I thought you’d never get here!” she exclaimed as he opened the door, but before he could reply, young Neal let his own thoughts be known.

“Mom, it’s been like sixty seconds. Literally. Look, I timed it on the stopwatch Henry gave me. 63 seconds.

“No, has it only been a minute? I’m so excited I can’t tell. It feels like forever. I was waiting for this all day. It was so hard not to spill the beans.”

“But you didn’t, right?” Killian checked, pivoting to Neal for the truth. When the boy gave him a thumbs up, he let out a breath. “Good. But it all might be for not if we don’t get a move on.”

“Oh, right. We’ve got to go. We’ve got a Christmas miracle to deliver.” Neal groaned at the words and Killian remained quiet prompting Snow to ask the question, “Sorry, too cheesy?”

“For tonight? No, strangely it’s just right.”

And with that, they pulled away from the curb, headed back towards the barn and the long-awaited surprise.

……………….

“Mama, look! Santa came! Santa came!”

At first Emma didn’t understand the words from her daughter. She was just trying to get her bearings after peeling the snow clothes off of Hope and discarding her own jacket on the hook by the door. Her boots were barely off and her scarf was still wound around her neck. She couldn’t imagine how Hope still had so much energy, but then she remembered – three year olds were like comic book characters, with a super power of endless energy.

“Christmas Eve is tomorrow, honey,” Emma said, righting her clothes and letting go of a big breath, before walking towards the living room. “Two more sleeps until Santa.”

“But look, Mama, pwesents!”

Emma followed her daughters pointing finger across the way, and low and behold there were gifts under the tree that had not been there this morning. Her curiosity was peaked, but when she saw the white envelope secured in the branches of their evergreen tree, she had an inkling of what was happening.

“Killian,” she murmured walking forward, and running her fingertips across the delicate paper.

“Daddy?” Hope asked excitedly, and Emma nodded as she opened the envelope, only to fight off tears of love when she read the letter.

My Dearest Emma,

There are no gifts that I could ever give you that compare to all you’ve given me. I know and accept that, but this time of year is different. It’s a season predicated on love, light, and yes, even a bit of magic. So I had to try, for your sake and for mine.

Christmas is about showing the people you love what they mean to you. It’s about giving love and feeling love, and knowing that even in the dark of a winter night, there is hope and light ahead. It’s about reminding loved ones that you care, that you’re rooting for them, and that their dreams are your dreams too. You taught me that, you and Hope and Henry, and I swear to you that all I could ever want is to make you happy, and to grant the wishes you carry in your heart.

“Ooo, pwetty,” Hope said, dragging Emma’s eyes down to where her daughter had already begun opening the parcels below. Inside the white garment box was a gorgeous crimson colored dress, breathtaking in its elegant design. The satin and the beading were exquisite, and the color was to die for, and like something from a dream. Hope offered the box to her, knowing even at age three that it wasn’t the right size for her. “For you, Mama.”

“Thank you, princess,” Emma said, taking the box in hand, wanting to look at it in full, but knowing the letter was still more important.

You are everything to me, Emma. Everything and so much more. You and our children hold my whole universe in your hands. Tonight, I hope to take your hand in mine, and remind you that in life, all you really need is the perfect partner.

“He didn’t,” Emma whispered, looking down from the letter which had been signed with love by her pirate. Then she looked at the other presents Hope was opening. A beautiful pair of heels, a white fur muff, and a necklace that sparkled, along with all the same things for Hope that were more their daughter’s style and perfect for her size. The last gift was another envelope, with a card. On the top in cursive script it read ‘Selected Suitors for Emma Jones’ and the only name was Killian’s. “Oh my god, he did. It’s a dance. He planned a Christmas dance for me.”

“Dance?” Hope asked and Emma crouched down to help her daughter really open her own garment box, where a beautiful princess-style dress was waiting for her. As soon as she saw it Hope let out a sound of pure delight, clapping her hands together at a hastened clip. At that moment, the front door opened, and Emma looked, expecting to see Killian but instead seeing her son, dressed up in a tuxedo and looking downright dashing. It would have been a shock either way, but this year, when she’d been bracing herself for her son being away for the holiday, it felt like an even greater gift.

“Henry?” she asked, as Hope bolted for her brother. Instinctively, Henry scooped her up, accepting all her hugs and kisses before turning his eyes back to Emma.

“Surprise! Well, part of it anyway. But we’ve got to get a move on, or we’ll be late.”

“Where are we going?” Hope asked. Henry responded by whispering in her ear, low enough that Emma couldn’t hear. Whatever he said made Hope gasp. “Really? We’re going there?”

“Sure are. But we have to get ready. Don’t worry, Mom, I’ve got Hope. You do what you need to do.”

Emma was spurred into motion, grabbing the gifts marked for her and heading upstairs. In thirty minutes, she and Hope were both ready for whatever awaited them, and though Emma had her suspicions, she was in no way prepared when they arrived at the old McDonald farm. Pulling around back to the barn, there were dozens of people milling around. Everyone in town was here tonight, dressed up and partaking in merriment, but when they left the car and walked inside, Emma was truly stunned.

“It’s beautiful,” she said aloud, taking in the gorgeous decorations. The space was totally transformed, a perfect blend of rustic refinement. The colors were vivid and vibrant, the air was warm and filled with the scent of cinnamon and honey, and the joy here was palpable. There was a buzzing electricity that crackled in the air. This was what all those Christmas movies strove to recreate but could never quite capture, and Emma took it all in knowing that her husband had made this just for her.

Scanning the room for him, Emma was first greeted with the sight of her Mom and Dad and brother. They came forward immediately, hugging her and Hope and Henry and extending their thoughts.

“Oh, honey, you look spectacular!” her mother exclaimed with tears in her eyes, holding her hands and looking at her red dress. It was a truly wonderous design, that hugged every one of Emma’s curves just right while still feeling of the season. It was classic and timeless and more than a little sexy, but it was appropriate for the night, when everyone was dressed to the nines.

“So do you guys,” Emma said honestly, taking in her mom’s sapphire ball gown, and her Dad and brother’s tuxes.

“I’m a princess, Grandpa,” Hope said happily and Emma’s father immediately agreed as the band began to play a slower melody.

“There’s no denying that. Care to dance with me, Princess Hope?” He asked, bowing to her daughter. Hope giggled but took Emma’s hand instinctively, looking at her for permission and clarity.

“What about you, Mama?”

“Don’t worry, sprout,” Henry said nodding across the room and using his favorite nickname for his sister. “Dad’s got her taken care of.”

Emma’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of Killian, as if this was a first date and not years into their marriage. She couldn’t help the butterflies swarming within her, and then, like magic the crowd of people parted, and there, across the room was her man. It should have come as no surprise how handsome he would look. Emma was well versed in how roguishly hot her pirate could be, but in a tux it was a whole other story. Maybe it was the rarity of seeing him like this, or maybe Killian was just one of those men who was born to wear a tux, but either way she was struck by him. Everything seemed to stop around her, and all she could sense was the man who completely owned her heart.

A few moments later they were together again. Emma hadn’t even realize she’d been walking towards him, and him to her, but when he took her hand she felt her blood hum in anticipation. She was caught in his eyes, sensing the mixture of love and desire that was so intoxicating, and waiting for him to speak, because words in this moment truly failed her.

“You look stunning, Swan,” he said to her, the gravel of his tone washing over her and sending a shiver down her spine in that delicious kind of way. “The fantasies I’d conjured in my mind’s eye could never do you justice.”

“So you were fantasizing about this, huh?” she asked, her voice thready as she turned, purposefully taunting him with a view of all her best angles. This time he let out a low growl that spiked her desire to tease him. God damn, there were people around! How could she be this hot and bothered? Oh right, she was married to a sinfully attractive and impossibly romantic man. This was par for the course.

“Aye, love, and I promise those musings will prove more than satisfactory when we get home.” His voice dipped low and she swallowed hard, trying to tamp down her own building need. Then something shifted in his eyes, and she knew before he said a word that something immensely thoughtful was about to be shared. “I hope it’s everything that you wanted, love. Those blasted ‘Hallmark towns’ have a lot more built-in Christmas cheer than Storybrooke, but all it took was a hint that this was what you wanted, and everyone came together.”

It dawned on her that the wish he was referring to was one that she’d made a few weekends ago when they were laying in bed watching TV. She usually skipped the Hallmark Christmas extravaganza, but this year she was feeling sentimental. Maybe it was the fact that Hope was finally hitting an age where she was starting to understand the season, or more likely it was the pregnancy hormones from their little one on the way. She was only twelve weeks along, and wasn’t even showing yet, but her self-coined pregnancy induced crazy brain was in full swing, and had been from the start. The only thing getting her through most days was Killian, and then he went and did something like this… it was too much for her, she couldn’t take it.

“I love you,” she confessed, blurting it out like it was some big secret instead of established fact. “Like a lot. A lot a lot.”

“A lot a lot,” Killian parroted with a grin, pulling her with him out to the dance floor before taking her in his arms. She melded into his muscled physique, trying not to swoon as the melody carried them away.

“You know I’m not as good at the whole poetic declarations thing as you are.”

“Few can be, love,” he joked. She raised her brow at him in quiet consternation, and he only laughed before turning her into a low dip on the dance floor and reminding her that he was in total control of himself out here. “But where words might fail you, action is your strong suit. You show me every day how much you love me, Emma. And every day I thank my lucky stars to have that love.”

He made a fair point. Emma was, after all, a woman of action, and so she decided to take some now. Though they were dancing, she stalled their moment to pull him in for a kiss, giving them both a taste of what was to come when the night drew to a close. The sparks between them ignited instantly, and without looking, Emma knew some of her magic was radiating from within. When they pulled apart she was almost dizzy from the delight, but Killian was even more effected. He had that boyish grin of his in full display, and that tiny hint of bashfulness that came when he’d done something really well. Only when she heard the oohing and aahing of the people around them did she realize their magic had created stars along the ceiling of the barn, making it appear that they were all dancing under an inky black sky bursting with constellations.

From a distance, Emma heard her daughter ask if it was ‘magic time’ now, but before she and Killian needed to step in, Regina told her ‘Not tonight, kid,’ and Henry whisked her off for her another dance. This gave Emma and Killian time, time to enjoy the fruits of all he’d done, and to revel in this moment for as long as they could.

“Merry Christmas, Killian. You’ve made it so perfect, I never want it to end.”

“What is it they say in those movies, love? Oh right – every day is Christmas when we’re together.”

And even though it was horribly corny, and she should have rolled her eyes at such a lame joke, Emma found that she couldn’t. She was simply too happy and grateful to feign otherwise. Instead she savored every moment of their Christmas dance, and the night they shared thereafter, knowing this would be one of the best days she’d ever had, and that somehow, some way, her pirate would find other means of making the future just as bright.

……………………

Girl I got a no problem Yeah, it's a bad habit, the way I gotta have it With or without you around All ya gotta do is call me, and tell me that you're lonely You're always stringing me out Yeah, they say the first step to quitting it Is admitting it, so here it is Girl, I think I got a no problem On my hands, 'cause I can't say no to you Once you start you know I can't stop it Even if I wanted to Yeah, I get tongue tied every time I try To do what I oughta do Girl, I got a no problem Yeah, 'cause I can't say no to you Girl, I should know better, yeah, I should know never To let you in just to leave If it's just two letters, then why can't I ever Find a way to piece 'em together Let's say the first step to quitting it Is admitting it, I'm admitting it, here it is Girl, I think I got a no problem On my hands, 'cause I can't say no to you Once you start you know I can't stop it Even if I wanted to Yeah, I get tongue tied every time I try To do what I oughta do Girl, I got a no problem Yeah, 'cause I can't say no to you Those smokey blue eyes staring back at me Yeah, you already know if you're asking me What the answer's always gonna be It's gonna be, yeah Girl, I think I got a no problem On my hands, 'cause I can't say no to you Once you start you know I can't stop it Even if I wanted to Yeah, I get tongue tied every time I try To do what I oughta do Girl, I got a no problem Yeah, 'cause I can't say no to you Those smokey blue eyes staring back at me Can't say no to you Yeah, you already know if you're asking me Girl, I got a no problem That the answer's always gonna be 'Cause I can't say no to you Girl, I got a no problem 'Cause I can't say no to you

Post-Note: So, what did you think? Hopefully you enjoyed this little dose of holiday cuteness and none of this is offensive in any way or to any story line. Most of you know I never watched the last season of the show, so I don’t know what they say happened to Henry and everybody. I only knew Emma and Killian did eventually have a baby girl named Hope. Anyway, I want to wish all of you a very Merry Christmas and healthy holiday season. I am grateful for you all, from the ride or die readers who comment on every post, to the people passing by who just wanted a little bit of Christmas cheer. You are such a force for good in my world, whoever you are, and I thank you for your light and kindness in these trying time. I wish you all the best this Christmas and in the New Year, and more than anything I wish you love! Sending my best vibes your way now and always, xE.

The Captain Swan Mixtape oneshot series:

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9,Part 10,Part 11, Part 12,Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22, Part 23, Part 24,Part 25, Part 26, Part 27, Part 28, Part 29, Part 30, Part 31,Part 32, Part 33, Part 34, Part 35, Part 36, Part 37, Part 38,Part 39,Part 40, Part 41, Part 42, Part 43, Part 44, Part 45,Part 46,Part 47, Part 48, Part 49, Part 50, Part 51, Part 52, Part 53,Part 54,Part 55, Part 56, Part 57, Part 58, Part 59, Part 60,Part 61,Part 62, Part 63, Part 64, Part 65, Part 66, Part 67, Part 68,Part 69,Part 70, Part 71, Part 72, Part 73, Part 74, Part 75,Part 76,Part 77, Part 78, Part 79, Part 80, Part 81, Part 82, Part 83,Part 84,Part 85, Part 86, Part 87, Part 88, Part 89, Part 90,Part 91,Part 92, Part 93, Part 94, Part 95, Part 96, Part 97, Part 98,Part 99,Part 100, Part 101, Part 102, Part 103,Part 104, Part 105,Part 106, Part 107,Part 108, Part 109, Part 110,Part 111, Part 112,Part 113, Part 114, Part 115,Part 116, Part 117, Part 118,Part 119,Part 120, Part 121, Part 122, Part 123,Part 124, Part 125,Part 126, Part 127, Part 128,Part 129,Part 130, Part 131,Part 132,Part 133, Part 134, Part 135, Part 136, Part 137, Part 138,Part 139,Part 140, Part 141, Part 142, Part 143, Part 144, Part 145,Part 146, Part 147, Part 148,Part 149, Part 150, Part 151,Part 152, Part 153, Part 154, Part 155, Part 156, Part 157, Part 158,Part 159, Part 160, Part 161, Part 162, Part 163, Part 164,Part 165, Part 166, Part 167, Part 168, Part 169, Part 170,Part 171,Part 172, Part 173, Part 174, Part 175, Part 176,Part 177, Part 178, Part 179 , Part 180, Part 181, Part 182, Part 183, Part 184, Part 185, Part 186, Part 187, Part 188, Part 189, Part 190, Part 191, Part 192, Part 193, Part 194, Part 195