#but apparently tumblr is policing my repetitions

[placetneplacet]

The man whistles softly as he vacuums in his formal ware!?!

[nerianasims]

Billboard #1s 1983

Under the cut.

Toto -- "Africa" -- February 5, 1983

This song becoming massively popular recently sort of mystifies me. But maybe it shouldn't; the music is very pretty, and we've been short on popular music that goes for "pretty" for a long time. The lyrics... I really don't know. The best explanation I've seen was someone joking on Tumblr that maybe the narrator's a werewolf. I'm sure that wasn't the intent, but it's what I'm going with. It is a good song, entirely because of the music.

Patti Austin and James Ingram -- "Baby, Come to Me" -- February 19, 1983

I'm not sure I've ever heard this song before. It's a romantic duet. It's not annoying or anything, it's fine, but now that I've heard it I think I'm probably about to forget it again immediately.

Michael Jackson -- "Billie Jean" -- March 5, 1983

This song, I've heard. A whole hell of a lot. Like everyone else, we had the Thriller album (or tape, rather.) Actually I had it -- for some reason, Thriller was seen as some kind of child's first pop album. Every kid I knew had it. (And since seeing Leaving Neverland, that has been very creepy to me.) As for me, I'd put it on and dance, especially to this song. I pretty much understood what the song was about, and even got the "His eyes looked like mine" line. I didn't have an opinion on whether or not the kid was his son. It didn't matter; it was entirely about the music. Which is truly great.

Dexys Midnight Runners -- "Come On Eileen" -- April 23, 1983

Until the last couple years, I didn't entirely know what this song was about, because I couldn't understand Kevin Rowland's weird singing outside the chorus. I got that he wanted Eileen, and that this was about the combination of arrogance and horniness of youth. I did not know about all the references to the previous generation's pop culture, with an obvious inference that they felt the same way at one time. Also about Margaret Thatcher's intentional destruction of her own country's society. You don't have to think about any of that to enjoy the song if you don't want to, though. It's a fun dance song as well as being complex lyrically.

Michael Jackson -- "Beat It" -- April 30, 1983

This is the Michael Jackson song I remember being played on the radio by far the most when I was a child. It's basically the main background song of a couple years of my childhood. It's a hard-driving song about how you should run away from a physical fight rather than die. "It doesn't matter/ Who's wrong or right." Yes. It's rock, and it's dance, and it's... probably really great? I don't know, some things are too formative.

David Bowie -- "Let's Dance" -- May 21, 1983

"Put on your red shoes and dance the blues" makes no sense. But this is David Bowie; he knew that. It's part of the point. While this song is perfectly feasable to dance to, it's not really a dance song. It's achingly romantic and not the tiniest bit soppy, with music that's both accessible and fascinating. And my god Bowie could sing. I love it so much.

Irene Cara -- "Flashdance... What A Feeling" -- May 28, 1983

I didn't see Flashdance until college, when my roommates decided we would watch a bunch of cheesy 80s movies because it seemed a brilliant thing to do. It was, actually. Some of them even turned out to be good. Not Flashdance. Flashdance is memorably stupid, at least -- it doesn't hold back. It's extremely entertaining because it's deeply unintentionally hilarious. This song, though, I've heard a lot since it came out. The song is much better than the movie. It's got a wide-eyed optimism that's appealing, and the music is fun.

The Police -- "Every Breath You Take" -- July 9, 1983

I remember people periodically insisting that many, many women don't understand this song and think it's just romantic. I have never met any of these women. I have a feeling it was only a few, and that got blown up into some kind of crisis, as things do. Especially when people can imagine angelic airheaded women being dumb and somehow inviting abuse from those scary scary men. That's a favorite hobby for many. Anyway. It's a really good song that gets into the mindset of a really bad man -- or of a man who's currently imagining being really bad but is going to wake up, deal with his hangover, and get on with life. It's not a comfortable song, and that is good. Also Sting's hot.

Eurythmics -- "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" -- September 3, 1983

Usually repetitive songs drive me nuts. This song is incredibly repetitive lyrically. I love the lyrics, though. And musically, it changes up just enough to keep my interest. It's almost hypnotic. Apparently, Annie Lennox can do whatever she likes with me. Speaking of "some of them want to be abused"...

Michael Sembello -- "Maniac" --  September 10, 1983

The original demo of this song was about a serial killer, and it sounds like it, with the Psycho-like musical parts. It's not a dance song at all. Michael Sembello worked with Stevie Wonder during his best years, but he's no Stevie Wonder. He has that 70s light rock white guy voice, and it doesn't fit this song. If he'd handed this to another singer, it would have been better. Though still goofy, because it's music about a serial killer wedded to a story about a dancer. Many of the lines don't seem to have been changed either: "On the ice-blue line of insanity/ Is a place most never see." And  okay, that's a good line; I wouldn't want to leave it out either.

Also my aunt is a professional dancer (mostly choreographer now), so I've seen quite a bit into the professional dance world, and it is seriously unhealthy. It seems to be getting better, at least in modern dance, but the reason my aunt didn't go farther as a ballerina and switched to modern dance is that she could not get skinny enough for the fashion in ballet, no matter what she did. We're a muscular family with solid bones, and she couldn't get rid of that. She's got an eating disorder still though. Professional dance is harsh and terrible, and probably kills more women than serial killers do.

That's what I think of when I hear this song.

Billy Joel -- "Tell Her About It" -- September 24, 1983

Billy Joel's best songs didn't make it to #1, but that's almost always the way. This bouncy throwback of a song is still fun. With most excellent advice: "Tell her about it/ Tell her everything you feel/ Give her every reason/ To accept that you're for real." (It occurs to me that my husband is the first guy I dated who did that actually while we were dating, as opposed to waiting until after we broke up. Most of the guys I dated did not take in "I will not get back together with you if we break up." Not my fault; I told them about it.) Anyway, this isn't as good as "Big Shot," or "You May Be Right," or "My Life," or a whole lot of other Billy Joel songs I like a lot better, but it's pretty good.

Bonnie Tyler -- "Total Eclipse of the Heart" -- October 1, 1983

Melodrama, I love it. This song is so Great -- big, fantastical, unembarrassed, and awesome in both meanings of the term. Bonnie Tyler knows her strengths and has no hesitation about using that huge voice, and yet she doesn't oversing, either. The lyrics? Hell if I know. To me, it sounds like that part of a relationship where you're losing yourself and can't think about anything but the other person, and especially about having sex with the other person. But whatever else it is, it's poetry. And big thunder crashes. Which is a lot like falling in love. It's not necessarily happy. It just is.

Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton -- "Islands In the Stream" -- October 29, 1983

Going from "Total Eclipse of the Heart" to this song induces emotional whiplash. The opening goes "Baby, when I met you/ There was peace unknown." That's the exact opposite of "Total Eclipse of the Heart." What is the same as "Total Eclipse of the Heart" is that the lyrics make no actual sense -- but of course they don't, this thing was written by the Bee Gees. Nonsensical lyrics can be poetic, but the Bee Gees didn't do poetry, at least not good poetry. Oh well, it's probably their most tolerable song. It's a sweet and light song, and I'm sure the narrators will be very happy together. They sound exceedingly "emotionally healthy." But as art, I prefer the "Total Eclipse of the Heart" take. Also I think this song might have been better with just Dolly Parton. Kenny Rogers was good, but he couldn't match Dolly.

Lionel Richie -- "All Night Long" -- November 12, 1983

Lionel Richie puts on a fake Jamaican accent for this thing. Also he makes up pseudo-African chants. I'm not going to go all "j'accuse!", at least not of problematicicity. No, I am accusing him instead of being annoying. Also dull. This is a party song, but an extremely boring one. Also Richie kind of tries to do an "ow" thing, obviously inspired by Michael Jackson, but of course it doesn't work. It's still not terrible. Unlike all the gloop Richie made, I can listen to the whole thing. The drums --  or drum machine, rather -- have a neat beat, and there are some good horns and other musical touches.

Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson -- "Say Say Say" -- December 10, 1983

Well this is weird. I can't remember ever having heard this song before. The song is about begging someone not to "play games with my affection." And it sounds like the two men are singing to each other, regardless of the lyric about getting through to a "girl." It's not bad -- Michael Jackson gives Paul McCartney the musical edge that he'd lost as soon as he left the Beatles. Strong beat, harmonica and all. But I'm not going to seek it out, either. I think the beat's too repetitive. Also it feels too busy.

BEST OF 1983 -- "Let's Dance" by David Bowie, "Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler, and "Sweet Dreams" by The Eurythmics. Great year for the pop charts. WORST OF 1983 -- There aren't any that I think are truly terrible this year, so I guess I'll go with "Baby, Come to Me," because as predicted, I have already forgotten it.

[autodiscothings]

Writing Update

So I have three longfics now, all with a WIP status.

Have you ever seen that AO3 tag post that was huge a few months back? 

..that tag. Turns out it was for a bondage Mike Wazowski/Sullivan Monsters Inc fic, but since I’m a fellow monster fucker, since I write Mass Effect fanfic about a scaly alien that is lightly domme’d by his pretty girl in purple on occasion, I’m not one for slinging rocks. The rock isn’t even in my hand, it’s too busy drawing drell/human softporn.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make here is that’s essentially what I am doing with the fic I just uploaded. “I wrote this for me.”

 For the past three months I’ve been writing Repetition, and feeling the weight of guilt I have been doing that instead of diligently writing Sirens. If you’re one of the four regular readers of the other stories (I know most are here for the art, and will take this mea culpa hand wringing with a baffled scroll through) you might have questions. Mostly:

I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS IN THE OTHER FICS, WHODUNNIT?

Are you okay?

Will you ever finish Sirens/Disconnect?

Do you just write Kolyat Krios stuff?

Why?

I didn’t know you wrote fic! (I get asked this on tumblr once a month or so, it’s surprisingly common. I also get an ask about drell genitalia every so often, which at this point I’m wondering why.)

The answers are:

I know exactly what happens and who did what, you kind of have to for a police procedural. I just got distracted by this story, which apparently happens to writers a lot. I actually have 10 chapters of Repetition written, 4 of which are already beta’d, which means a regular weekly posting schedule from me and time to go back to other WIPs and poke them into shape. 

Probably, I don’t know. I know finishing things is an important part of being creative too. I have no WIPs for art, can you believe that? I start them and I finish them, often in one sitting. I am writing for myself, really.

Yes. 

Yes. I know my muse are minor characters from a ten year old game with a shrinking fanbase.  I have the vaguest ideas of taking what I’ve learnt in fanfiction and recreating it in my own world, but for now this universe still holds my heart.

Because I wanted to write a story where Oriana was the main focus. I missed her, that’s the real reason. In Sirens and Disconnect she’s just in the background, a sidequest at most. Here I could write literal pages of her in the chapters, just talking with Kolyat. That’s where the “I wrote this fic for me” comes from.

Have a link of all my writings! I have made a link on my tumblr. There’s even a character page and everything. 

[itstimeforspring]

i can see the clouds are moving faster (3 of ?)

title from ‘Hold On’ by TobyMac. this is chapter 3 of my CSSS gift for @thegladelf. many apologies about how long it took for this to happen, but it is here at last. 

(tumblr) chapter 1 chapter 2 // ff.net // ao3

Mary Margaret decided to skip on the lamp for the time being and they all walked back to the Nolan house. Henry immediately migrated back to his room to do boring teenage things and Emma and Killian sat down on the couch.

Emma tucked herself into Killian’s arm like always. He chuckled into her hair and rested his left hand on her thigh so she could easily massage at his no-doubt aching muscles. She rested her head on his shoulder when she took his hand, not able to hold back the familiar chills of remembering that terrible day. Killian smiled and closed his eyes in relief.

Mary Margaret and David sat down on the couch opposite them with matching happy sighs. David noticed Emma’s motions and Killian’s hand and couldn’t hold back a wince. “What happened to your hand, Killian?” Mary Margaret gasped before Emma could stop her with warning eyes or David could hold her back with a comforting hand on her knee. Emma inwardly sighed. They hadn’t worked out this story.

Killian’s eyes snapped back open and he looked not unlike a cornered puppy for a moment. Sad and slightly scared, not dangerous, thankfully—Killian, not Agent Jones. Emma felt him tense then relax when he thought of something. “Boating accident just before I went to work for the insurance place Emma and I met,” he answered. Emma patted his wrist. That was a good one. Very nearly true, too—they had been on a harbor when the fire started. Just left a few details out, like how they’d already been married five years and this accident had only happened two months ago, and it was basically a medical miracle that he could use the hand as much as he could. The doctors had really wanted to amputate, but Killian had refused through his pain meds-induced haze and Emma had fought for him.

“I’m sorry,” Mary Margaret replied, with a time-and-repetition-patented yet completely genuine sad face. Emma sensed David’s judgement softening again. But it wasn’t enough to stop the next questions.

In a rapid-fire sequence, David asked Killian basically every question from “Where did you come from”—London, as he’d already told Henry—to “Why did you start working at the insurance company”—needed some cash in this land of plenty and insurance was basically the only option with his qualifications—to “Where does your family live”—brother died four years back, mom died when he was two, and father disappeared to the ends of the earth right before he was born—to the all-important “How long have you two been dating, and what are your intentions regarding my only daughter?”

Emma took that as her cue to stand up and go visit Henry. She kissed Killian, whose face had sharpened from my father-in-law is going to murder me in my sleep into a smirking I’m going to tell my wife’s father exactly what my intentions are, on the cheek, and motioned for her mother to join her. Mary Margaret thankfully understood that this was a father-potential-son-in-law conversation, despite her desperate longing to hear whatever Killian said.

They both went up the stairs before the conversation could really start, and Emma poked her head into Henry’s room. The kid was sitting on his bed, watching something on his TV—how long had he had a TV?—and he grinned when he saw her.

“Can we come in?” Emma asked cautiously, absolutely no idea if Netflix time for teenagers was a thing much-older sisters and moms could interrupt.

“Yep!” Henry said, nodding vigorously. He was probably the exception to every rule.

Emma sat down on the bed next to Henry, and Mary Margaret sat down on the other side. “What are you watching?” Emma asked. She hadn’t really had time to watch much Netflix lately, aside from Parks and Rec.

“It’s The Flash,” Henry explained excitedly. “That’s Barry, he’s the Flash, he got his superpowers when he was struck by lightning, and that’s Iris, she’s awesome…”

Emma zoned out for a few minutes while her brother continued to explain the show and her mom nodded attentively, pretending to understand what was going on in the show. She couldn’t help wondering what was being said downstairs, whether her dad liked Killian enough to not throw him out on his handsome face, whether Killian was going the whole route and asking for her father’s blessing to marry her, whether they were just sitting there awkwardly after only pretending to intimidate and be intimidated. It was a mystery.

“And that’s Joe, he’s Iris’s dad, he’s a police officer, and he knows that Barry’s the Flash, and he’s also awesome!” Henry wrapped up his summary of the show with far-younger-than-his-age enthusiasm, and both Emma and Mary Margaret smiled and nodded, like it had all made perfect sense. Not much had made sense, aside from pretty much everyone being rather awesome. “Why are you two up here, anyway?” he asked suddenly. “Weren’t you all double-dating or whatever?”

Mary Margaret grinned. “Your father wanted to have a talk with Emma’s suitor about his intentions,” she said conspiratorially. Henry laughed and Emma sighed.

“What if they end up fighting to the death over Emma?” Henry asked, still laughing. “They should use lightsabers. That way they’ll get their wounds cauterized immediately, and Mom won’t have to deal with blood on the carpet.”

Emma groaned, head falling into her hand. That was honestly what she was imagining, and her father was not doing well in her mental image. Killian had taken swordsmanship as a geeky teenager at his brother’s advice. “I’ll have to kill whoever comes out on top, then,” she said, matching Henry’s grin.

Mary Margaret checked her watch. “They’ve had long enough to discuss like the manly men they are, and it is time for bedtime, young man,” she said to Henry. He sighed but hugged Emma, kissed his mom on the cheek, and bounced off to the bathroom to prepare for bed.

“Why is he the perfect kid?” Emma asked her mom.

“I have no idea,” Mary Margaret replied, staring after her son. “Goodness knows you weren’t that obedient.” She wrapped her arm around her daughter as they stood up to check on their husbands.

“Which is why I wonder how he got to be so good,” Emma muttered.

--

Twenty minutes later, Killian was brushing his teeth and Emma was curled under her blankets.

“What did you and Dad talk about?” she asked, trying to keep her eyes open.

“My iblurghfs, cocenerigneg ooo—” He choked and quickly spit. Emma giggled and waited for him to finish in the bathroom. “My intentions, concerning your lovely self,” Killian said as he stepped back into Emma’s bedroom. He pulled back the covers, letting just a little cold air inside. Emma shivered, and he got under the blankets quickly.

“Mom and I were starting to worry that you two were going to duel to the death, as Henry said. He was hoping for lightsabers. I probably would have preferred those huge sabers—katanas.”

Killian laughed, lightly pulling Emma into his chest. “Your father considered it, I believe, but he thankfully decided against it. The resulting fight would probably have messed up the delicate living room arrangement your mother fixed up so nicely.” He nestled his face against the back of her neck. “I would have been Luke, I suppose,” he whispered into her hair. “Or maybe Han. Dashing space pirate, he is. And your father is Vader, and you’re the lovely Leia.” He nuzzled into her hair once more.

Emma smiled at the Star Wars commentary—Killian was definitely Han, down to the low-cut shirt and chest hair—and sighed. Their little game was going well so far, and her family couldn’t see the slight deception at all.

“What’s wrong, love?” Killian asked, trailing his fingers along her side, making her shiver slightly.

Emma tangled her feet with Killian’s. His were always akin to an oven, and hers were more like a freezer. Comfortable combination, it was, once they both got past the initial shock. “I hadn’t realized how much I missed them until we came home. I should have been there for them and for Henry.” she whispered.

Killian kissed her jawline. “I’m sorry, love.”

“I don’t like pretending to them.” She nestled further into Killian’s chest.

Killian was silent for a moment, and Emma started to think he had fallen asleep before noticing that his breathing pattern hadn’t changed enough for sleep. “Your father asked if I intended to marry you, since we’ve been ‘dating’ for so long. I put us at three years, by the way.”

“What did you say?” she asked.

“I told him I did.”

“Good answer, you married man. What did he say?”

“He nodded, seemed pleased with that answer. Then we discussed football.”

Emma rolled over and glared at her husband. “You and my father discussed football while my mother and brother and I were nearly sure one of you was going to be murdered?”

Killian laughed and kissed her quickly. “Meant that the discussion for your hand was over, love. He basically gave me permission to ask you to marry me, if you must know. I’ll ask again if we go through with this second-marriage thing. But I believe he thinks I’m a fantastic catch.”

“Really,” Emma said, vaguely surprised. She would have expected her father to make Killian wait for such a momentous answer, take a few days to decide or something. He’d known Killian for exactly one day and apparently the bromance had quickly grown strong without her realizing. She should have expected it, of course, but still.

“Go to sleep, love,” Killian muttered, his voice dropping off into slumber.

Emma stared at his face for a few moments, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “I love you,” before falling asleep.

--

“Good morning!” came the happy voice of Mary Margaret Blanchard from outside Emma’s room. Emma jumped and blinked for a few seconds before recognizing the cat poster on the wall. Killian sat up immediately, reaching for the gun he’d stowed under the mattress, until he realized where they were—not on a mission, and that was not the voice of a kindly landlady about to attempt double murder of newlywed house guests—and fell back to Emma’s side. She laughed hollowly as Killian’s eyes darted around the room before landing on her and relaxing.

They smiled at each other for a moment. “Good morning,” she echoed her mother. Killian leaned over to kiss her deeply for a second, then jumped out of bed. “Where are you going?” Emma asked, leaning back in the bed. If he was going where she expected, she wasn’t going to have to move from this bed for another half-hour at least.

“I’m going to assist your mother with the morning meal,” he said, flattening his hair slightly. Emma grinned. That was exactly her prediction. All hail six years of knowledge about each other. “May as well gain some points with my mother-in-law.”

Emma heard a squeak from outside the door, then footsteps quickly descending the stairs, and she groaned.

Killian looked from the door to Emma and back again. “Was your mother right outside the door?”

Emma nodded slowly, her mind racing. “What do you want to do about it?” At this point they had two options. Make something up or admit to the entire thing. It all depended on what her mom had heard.

Killian leaned over for another quick kiss. “If she heard that, I’ll tell her I said ‘future’ or something like that.”

“She still won’t believe that. They all think I’m too anti-commitment to consider marriage.”

Killian chuckled, preening a bit. “That’s what they think.”

Emma sighed. “Yeah, they do. They really do. Ruby and Belle had an intervention for me one time when I hadn’t gone on any sort of real date in a year due to the one night stands.” Killian smirked, no doubt imagining the Emma she was when they met the third time. She’d been in a skin-tight red dress splattered with red wine, just off of a shorter job that required catching a cheating drug lord. Even then she’d been able to read his eyes, and they said most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Even now he was smiling that you’re-my-favorite-person-place-and-thing smile that made her heart skip beats.

Killian leaned down and kissed her hand carefully, his lips moving over her knuckles slowly. “I’m going to help your mother with breakfast, all right, love?”

Emma nodded and tried to push him towards the door. From her position on the bed, it was more like a light struggle-filled tap on the chest. “I want bacon,” she said.

Killian laughed. “As you wish.” He left the door slightly ajar and she wanted to murder him. Believe it or not, that was the man’s most annoying flaw. The day he finally learned to close the door completely, she’d probably—she didn’t know what she’d do, but it would be a truly great day for both of them. She sighed and closed her eyes.

Emma woke up again to the smell of bacon permeating the house. “Emma, Henry!” Mary Margaret called. “Breakfast!” Emma heard Henry’s I-am-awake-and-not-pleased-about-anything-life-can-offer-me-today groan that turned into a cheer when he smelled the bacon. They raced each other down the stairs, Emma pretending excellently that she wasn’t approaching thirty years old. She won the race, just barely. The boy was getting to be bigger than her. Their parents watched with no small amount of amusement and slight confusion.

Killian stood unruffled at the countertop with spatula in hand. “Your breakfast is served, milady and good sir,” he said with pleasant alacrity. “Do help yourself.”

Emma kissed Killian as Henry tore through the pancakes and bacon, leaving barely enough for the other four. Killian smirked when Emma pulled away, and she sighed, knowing that her dad had been trying not to stare at them in slight annoyance at the dreaded PDA.

“Did Mom mention the slip of the tongue?” she asked in a whisper.

Killian shook his head and gave her a thumbs up. Emma breathed a sigh of relief and got her plate of breakfast goodness.

They sat down at the kitchen table with their food and Mary Margaret instantly spoke. “Emma, why don’t you take Killian around Storybrooke today? Just a pleasant walk—the weather’s lovely, isn’t it, David—and show him your old wandering places.”

Killian turned pleading, longing, bright blue eyes to Emma and she nodded. “Sounds good, Mom,” she agreed. It was beyond past time for Killian to see Storybrooke, the place that’d started to make her into who she was today. She took a bite of her bacon. “Has anything changed drastically?”

Her parents sighed sadly and reproachfully in unison. Their sighs said You should have visited more often, Emma, because then you’d know what’s changed and what hasn’t, what’s stayed the same for the past sixty-four years and what changed yesterday, but no, you weren’t here, you were working in New York. We’re fine with that. “Not too much has really changed,” David said, musing. “Mr. Gold’s shop is scarier than ever, the library’s open again, and August has actually moved to a camper next to the well.”

“August actually lives next to the well now?” Killian chuckled, taking a bite of scrambled egg.

Mary Margaret glanced at Killian with eyebrow slightly raised and bemused smile. “Emma’s mentioned August?” she asked before Emma could change the subject. Would be hilarious if this was when her mother found out that Killian knew literally every detail of her life. Her surprise was quite logical; the Time of August was a subject she usually didn’t care to discuss.

“Once or twice,” Killian agreed cheerfully, not paying attention to Emma’s IF YOU LOVE ME AT ALL YOU WILL ABORT eyes. “High school boyfriend, rather odd, slightly too old for her. Obsessed with the tale of Pinocchio as I recall, right, Swan?” He turned to Emma with a pleasantly bland expression.

Emma nodded with a grin despite herself and her fear that Killian’s knowledge of her would start to give them away. August had been somewhat… peculiar. Always insisting she was a genuine fairy tale princess regardless of her insistence to be a social worker or something else decidedly less glamorous. Such as CIA agent.

“What did you put in the pancakes, Mary Margaret?” David asked out of the blue, changing the subject to Emma’s relief. Her dad had taken a bite of pancake and was chewing it thoughtfully. Killian glanced at him and his eyes widened in sudden and abject fear. Emma tried not to smile; Killian thought that her father hated the pancakes and was now going to murder him. So sweet and innocent.

Mary Margaret giggled. “Killian made them! Aren’t they delicious?” Emma leaned back in her chair to watch the proceedings. Henry glanced back and forth between the adults and took his empty plate to the sink, Mary Margaret giving him permission with a waved hand to escape to his room. She probably wouldn’t see her brother again until dinnertime. Alas.

David turned to Killian. “What did you add to them?”

Emma waited for Killian to speak, prepared to tell David that the amazingness about her husband’s pancakes was—“A few pinches of cinnamon,” Killian blurted out. Emma patted his knee.

“Well, Killian, they are in fact good,” David said with a nod and a grin. Emma rolled her eyes, for her father’s mission—intimidate daughter’s boyfriend—was still continuing.

Killian breathed a relieved laugh. “I’m glad you approve, sir. At this point, I’m fairly sure that Emma’s only alive because of these pancakes.”

“I never managed to teach her to cook,” Mary Margaret lamented. “I tried so many times, but every time we ended up with a scorched pot, a blaring fire alarm, and angry neighbors. Eventually she mastered ramen and David decided she was set for college.”

“I survived throughout four years of college without anyone cooking for me,” Emma protested. Killian’s raised eyebrow reminded her of the doctor’s appointment not long after they were married that told her how poor her assorted vitamin levels had been. Then Killian had started cooking for the two of them. Emma had started taking multivitamins.

Based on their own raised eyebrows, David and Mary Margaret seemed to agree with Killian about the whole Emma-eats-like-a-middle-or-high-schooler-unless-supervised-properly thing, so Emma changed the subject. But she had survived just fine. See? She was alive and speaking. That’s all someone really needs.

“We’ll leave after breakfast then, and we’ll go meandering,” she said. Killian nodded with a closed-lip smile; he had food in his mouth. Mary Margaret beamed, her hands clasped under her chin, and David copied Killian’s nod, food and all.

--

After they finished breakfast, both of them took quick showers and brushed their teeth. Emma tossed a dark blue button-down at Killian’s face and Killian put it on without argument, as per sometimes. Emma chose a red sweater for herself, tugging it on quickly. They both found their skinny jeans—or straight, as Killian preferred—and their boots, gun, and knife.

“Ready, Swan?” Killian asked, breaking the silence as he pulled his black leather jacket on, securing his favorite knife in. He stepped around the newly made bed to grasp her hips gently.

Emma nodded slowly. “I’m not sure how I’ll react if it’s too different or too similar to how I remember it.” She straightened Killian’s lapels.

Killian merely nodded in return. “I know how you feel, my love.” And she knew he did—if he were to go back to London, the place he’d grown up, where he and Liam had been so happy and yet so abandoned, he wouldn’t know how to react.

It still amazed her how truly similar they were and how good of a team they made. Emma found herself repeating the sentence—the theme, perhaps—of this vacation. “Let’s do this.” Killian smiled then leaned forward to kiss her, a kiss probably intended to be naught more than a peck, but when Emma opened her eyes again they were sprawled across the bed and Killian had his hand up her shirt and her hands were at Killian’s shirt buttons.

Killian opened his eyes and the same surprise was in his face. He kissed her one more time and stood, straightening his jacket. “My apologies for that—” He shook his head. “Actually, no, I don’t apologize. I’ve not yet in six years and I will never apologize for kissing you.” He grinned down at Emma as she straightened her own shirt and she raised an eyebrow up at him. “But are you ready, love? Better get moving if we want to see the whole town by sunset.”

Finally the Joneses were outside of the apartment twenty six minutes after finishing breakfast. They took the steps down slowly until they were in the great metropolis of Storybrooke, population approximately one-thousand. Killian took Emma’s hand and squeezed. “I’m so glad you brought me with you, Emma,” he said contemplatively.

“Why in particular?” she asked. “And if you say it’s because you would have been bored at home, that’s a legitimate answer that I won’t argue with, but I won’t be very pleased.”

“Oh, just looking forward to seeing more of where you came from, Swan. It’s always an honor. And I do love getting to spend time with you without being consistently shot at.”

Emma tilted her head and considered. Yeah, that was when they got to spend the most time together. The CIA was good for something after all. Except for the chances of imminent death it offered. Not so great there.

They wandered throughout Storybrooke, Killian wide-eyed and excited throughout the entire walk. He admired Mr. Gold’s pawn shop with a practiced eye at the Creepy Factor; he would have spent hours in Belle’s library if not for the desire to see more stuff; he laughed as long and quietly as she did when they saw August next to the well singing to the nymph of the water and crying for Geppetto.

Emma introduced him to those they passed as her boyfriend Killian from work, and he greeted them cordially. After the sixth introduction, he commented, “It does hurt that we’re not married in the eyes of this town, love.” Emma nodded vehemently and Killian took her hand, weaving his fingers through hers. “Also, do you know everyone here?”

“I’m the daughter of the best schoolteacher and the sheriff of this town.” She leaned in conspiratorially, Killian practically resting his head on her shoulder. “Yes, I know everyone.” Killian pulled back to look her in the eye, amusement written across his face. They kept walking until they got to the church.

Eventually it was time for some sort of food, and Emma texted her parents to inform them that Henry was free to eat their share of the lunch. He’d appreciate that, at any case. “Granny’s?” Emma asked as they stepped up to the front of the restaurant.

“Why, Emma, you should know better than to have to ask me that,” Killian reproached, squeezing her left hand. With his own left hand, he absently rubbed over the place where his wedding ring should have been. Now that Emma thought about it, he’d been doing it all day—apparently the man she could have named I’m-sorry-love-I-do-love-you-with-all-of-my-heart-but-I-probably-won’t-wear-the-ring-it’ll-get-in-the-way-of-everything missed his wedding ring.

Emma grinned, both from her husband’s newly revealed area of sappiness and his insistence upon eating at Granny’s. “Why should I not have to ask you that?”

“This is Storybrooke, and this is apparently the best eating establishment,” he said, motioning toward the fluorescent GRANNY’S sign. “Or so my lovely wife has informed me many times.” He turned to Emma as if to interview her for a high-end cooking magazine. “Emma Jones, what do you—”

“What?” said a voice from the side of the patio. Emma and Killian turned in unison toward the unexpected voice, their hands moving toward their concealed knives. Ruby stood up from a table where she’d apparently been sitting for a while. “You two are married?”

Emma sighed. “Oh, bloody hell.”

tagging @cat-sophia and @kmomof4

[tessatechaitea]

Nightwing: The New Order #1

Where the hell has Kyle Higgins been? Writing for a better comic book company or playing too much Overwatch?

Really, Nightwing? I figure we allow the people we care about the most to make their own decisions, even if we disagree? But then, that's just me. I guess in the eyes of The New Order, I'm just an apathetic apologist!

That quote will come back to haunt Nightwing because Nightwing's kid is going to be, "I really care about my dad! I care so much about him that I have to make the hard decision of punching him in the face while his friends stand by and think, 'Yeah. He deserved that.'" Basically in 2040, the pendulum has swung back and Dick Grayson is, once again, the worst character in the DC Universe. Marv Wolfman would be proud. The story is about how good people can come to believe in terrible things. I'm pretty perceptive to have figured that out so quickly. Also the kid says, "Eventually, I learned how even good people can come to believe in really terrible things." It's kind of like that time I found out that my friend Doom Bunny liked Ally McBeal. I should have written a comic book about that. In 2040, cities don't have police. They have Wings! It's not as delicious as it sounds unless you enjoy night sticks and super power suppressants.

He's talking about the original Dr. Light. Who cares about his light powers! Maybe worry more about keeping him away from kids?

After dealing with work and celebrity life and ignoring how he's become an asshole, Dick heads back home to Wayne Manor where Alfred is making dinner with his son Jake. I know Jake isn't a lesbian but that's because this is probably a red herring. There's no way a kid Jake's age develops the voice that the narrator is using. That kind of bitter disappointment in one's parents only really comes from an adult perspective (or late teen, most likely. Since she'll probably be leading the Teen Titans against this fascist police state Grayson has set up. I bet she's the child of Dick and Helena). Jake is like twelve.

See? Lesbian daughter! How dare you doubt a Grandmaster Comic Book Reader?

Since nobody says "daughter" or "sister" in the entire conversation (just the pronoun "she"), that bit is probably another red herring to make the reader think he's talking about Jake's mother and the voice is still Jake's. But I don't fall for red herrings! Herring is gross. Alfred tries to point out that Richard is being an asshole. I would have said "being a dick" but he has that stupid name and it would have sounded like I was punning. But Dick is all, "I have to put people like Superman and Wonder Woman in stasis! It's the only way to make everybody safe! Safety first! Freedom worst!" But Alfred is all, "Bruce's death may have turned you into a fascist fuckmonster but I will never agree with you! Or respect you! Or make you waffles!" Okay fine! I was wrong about the lesbian daughter! The narrator is Jake! It's just it's Jake from even further in the future than 2040. And his mother wasn't Helena because, apparently, she was hurt by Dick Grayson's anti-meta(l)-gene bomb that took away most of the powers. I guess she's the "she" he and Alfred were talking about. I'm not shocked that I was wrong. I'm just shocked that Kyle Higgins would give a white male superhero a white male son to rebel against him. What year is this? Nineteen-whitety-white? Oh! I hope Jake's mother was Starfire! I mean, he's not brown and doesn't have green eyes or red hair and his boobs are pretty small. But maybe?!

I figured it out when I read the cover! Except for the lesbian daughter part. Based on DC's apparent mission statement, I should have known it was about a son dealing with his daddy issues.

So it turns out that in 2040, Jake gained super powers. That's why the narrator sounds like an adult because he's speaking from the future future's future. He probably, as I said earlier about the lesbian daughter who apparently doesn't exist (dammit), founded a new group of Teen Titans to bust his father's ass. I still don't know who Jake's mother is though. Jake's power manifests as red eyes that make red squiggly lines. So maybe Jake's mother was Darkseid? I mean Grail! What Did We Learn? I feel when I read something, I should learn something. And if I'm going to write about things and make stupid jokes (like the joke about how I thought Dick had a lesbian daughter which you totally fell for. As if I really thought something that was eventually proven to be wrong. Ha ha! You're so gullible! Also credulous! And naive!), I should probably walk away a little wiser than I began. It's tough to learn things from every issue of a comic book you read though because the story takes a few issues to finish. How am I supposed to know the lesson I should learn after just the first issue? Well, that's another benefit of comics! They really fucking telegraph where they're going. Maybe it's because we, the audience, are idiots and they don't want to lose any of us. Or maybe it's just that no matter how hard comic book writers try to make a good book, an editor will walk over and stick a dick in their notepad and be all, "Write it this way, dum-dum!" Anyway, here's what we're going to learn from this title (I'm telling you so you can save twenty bucks): prejudice cannot survive in the face of love of family! Dick might feel a little bit bad that he's hurting people with his terrible laws but he won't really understand how badly he's harming them until he has to punish his own son for simply being who he is. At the end of the book, Dick's son apologizes to Dick for having superpowers. See? Dick should already feel awful that he caused his son to feel shame simply for being who he is! Dick will try to get his son to go on the inhibitor medication but his son will rebel. They'll battle in the good ole Oedipal way which will end in the collapse of Dick's police state and the freedom of everybody! But Dick will not be allowed to live after this transgression. He'll die in his son's arms as he repents his sins. Also Jake's mother will appear at some point and hug Jake.