#but that is just a frankly absurd amount of pillows to answer with

[thedivinemechanism]

We're all aware you barely sleep, but if you do, how many pillows are in your bed? Trying to prove a point here

I have 4.67.

One of them is an orthopedic pillow that keeps my knees from hitting each other when I sleep on my side. The .67 pillow was an ordinary memory foam pillow that got chunks torn off it. I'm not sure how it happened or where the pieces went, so don't even ask.

That being said, I sleep like a ball bearing and usually wake up underneath my pillows... somehow...

[bloobeary]

The hallway light is off when he gets home, but the one over the stove was on. Bucky knows that Steve did it on purpose so that Bucky wouldn’t have to stumble around inside in the middle of the night. It makes his heart stutter in his chest no matter how many times he sees it. So sweet, that guy of his. He’ll buy Steve some flowers, and make him breakfast and kiss him stupid tomorrow.

He toes off his boots at the door, and sets his bag down on the couch, that way it won’t make as much noise. There’s a few hours of night left before the sun starts to come up, a few hours before Steve peels himself out of bed and heads out for a run.

He’s asleep now, Bucky notices from where he creeps in through the bedroom door, arms around Bucky’s pillow, sheets around his hips. He’s even wearing one of Bucky’s old t-shirts, one that he’s sure he tossed in the hamper before he left. His mouth is a little open, and his hair is going every which way, and Bucky loves him so much it hurts to breathe.

He’s not around enough-- he knows this. Not that it’s on purpose, or Steve would ever hold it against him, but Bucky knows he misses him when he’s gone, just like Bucky misses Steve when he’s gone, too. But Steve gets all quiet and sad about it, mopes around like a droopy flower until Bucky gets home and refuses to admit that it’s hard on him. Usually, it doesn’t take much more than Bucky gluing himself to Steve like a burr to a sock for his smile to reach his eyes again, but Bucky’s not stupid. Plus, Natasha tattles.

Steve goes on ops just as much, ex-Captain America doesn’t get sidelined just because he changed uniforms, so Bucky doesn’t sleep much when Steve’s not around. He sits in bed staring at the ceiling until he can’t take it anymore. Things get fixed when Steve’s gone. Not that any of them are the ones that need to be fixed, but Bucky just needs something to do with his hands. He wonders if Natasha tells on him, too. They’re real pieces of work, two peas in one fucked up pod. They’re figuring it out.

The truth is they work too much, both of them. In and out of the house like it’ll hold them hostage if they stay for too long. Retirement comes up every so often, but even though Steve doesn’t carry the shield anymore, and Bucky’s not the Winter Soldier, they never get around to it. They’ve got too much time coiled in their bones to sit still, he thinks.

Really, Bucky doesn’t trust himself to ever leave if he gets used to being around Steve all the time. It’s hard enough leaving after they’ve got one day off together, Bucky can’t figure what it’d be like to take any actual amount of time off. After the helicarriers and everything else, Steve grabbed Bucky by the shoulders and said dont ever disappear on me again. Bucky shares the feeling. He thinks if they were to retire, officially and on paper, he’d never let Steve out of his sight again. That such a bad thing? He hears it in Steve’s voice, though he’ll never say it, not like that at least.

Bucky undresses quickly, quietly, on his side of the bed, back to the window so he can watch Steve sleep, make sure he doesn’t wake him up. He should shower, really--there’s dried sweat and what feels like a layer of grime caked onto his skin, even though he washed off the dried blood somewhat unceremoniously before debrief and he stinks. He should shower, but that would add ten minutes between him and Steve. It’s a selfish, unhygienic thought, but one he has anyways.

Steve takes a deep breath and stirs a little, and Bucky goes still, holds his breath until he settles again, face tucked into the pillow. Bucky’s heart feels too big for his body, then, and he decides that a shower can wait. He’ll change the sheets the next morning, as penance.

He crawls into his side of the bed, and wraps his arms around Steve’s middle, tucking his face into the rise of his neck and taking a breath. He smells clean and warm and a little like lavender--something about some fancy lotion he bought recently, his brain supplies-- he smells like home.

Bucky hopes a little distractedly that Steve will wake up on his own. He wants a kiss or a thousand and his heart yearns for Steve’s smile, but he also knows that once Steve’s up, he’s up. Bucky’s been jealous of him forever. How the hell can you get out of bed at three in the morning and be ready to go without so much as a cup of coffee? Standing there all chipper, eyes a little tired but bright nonetheless while the rest of the Howlies scraped themselves off the dirt trying to find some sort of energy. He could blame the serum, but the truth is he’s always been like that, even when he was too sick to stand. It’s absurd, is what it is. Bucky takes a breath and presses his lips to the back of Steve’s shoulder.

Steve doesn’t wake up quite, but he does lean back against Bucky’s chest, warm. It’s not a kiss, but it’ll do.

Not such a bad thing at all.

“Buck?” Steve asks sleepily, a few hours later, once the sun is filtering in through the blinds. He yawns and stretches a little. Bucky doesn’t even have to look at the clock to know that it's six-thirty on the dot. “When’d you come home?”

“Few hours ago.” He mumbles, and he feels Steve turn in his arms, and put a hand on his chest right over his heart. Bucky opens his eyes. The fine smatter of freckles over Steve’s nose greet him, and he can’t help but smile. “I love you,” He says, sincere, and Steve smiles, finally. Nearly a century’s worth of hearing it, and it still makes him blush. Some primal part of Bucky's ego swells with that. If he were anywhere near half awake he's probably puff his chest out like a fucking rooster or something equally stupid.

“Aw hell,” He says, laughing a little at himself before leaning forward to give Bucky a quick kiss. “I missed you. You okay?”

Bucky nods and holds Steve tighter, closer. “You gonna go run?”

Steve thinks about it, at least he pretends to. “No,” Steve says finally, simple as that. Bucky kisses him again.

Bucky could sleep another ten hours, and Steve’s liable to let him, even if he himself won’t. Steve puts a hand in Bucky’s hair and scratches at his scalp softly; it feels good, but Bucky makes a face, cause it’s dirty and greasy, and he really needs that shower. “What?”

Bucky shrugs. “I need a shower.” He says but makes no move to get up. “I stink.”

“You don’t.”

“Liar,” Bucky says, and then has to yawn right through it. “Don’t let me keep you if you got things to do.” He mumbles, resting his head against Steve’s collarbone.

It's mostly just so Steve doesn’t think he has to waste his day next to his exhausted and frankly quite dirty boyfriend. Not that said boyfriend will complain about lazing in bed all day next to him. In fact, that’s at the top of his things to do today list. He’s so warm and soft and right there. Bucky slides his hands up under Steve’s shirt, pressing them against his back. Bucky feels like he’s made of silly putty.

“Ain’t a damn thing in the world that’s more important than you,” Steve says, says it in the way he gets sometimes, all serious like he’s under oath or something. Bucky bites him and then kisses right over it.

“We work too much,” Bucky mumbles, feeling himself fall back into that syrupy sleep state. His hand is still in Bucky’s hair. He yawns again, and Steve smiles, kisses his nose. “Should take a vacation.”

“Should retire.” Steve one-ups him.

It’s a joke, kind of. Only it’s not.

“Yeah, we should,” Bucky says. He means it. He means it this time. “Sit on the porch and read the newspaper, and then fuck like married people at the end of the day,” Bucky says, and Steve laughs. He yawns again, and Steve says something, maybe, but he doesn’t quite catch it.

“Did you mean it?” Steve asks later, much later, when the sun’s going down again and they’ve both showered. He’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch, holding a cooling mug of tea in one hand, sketchbook open but untouched on his lap.

“Mean what?” Bucky asks, looking up from his phone. He pokes his socked foot into Steve’s hip when he doesn’t get an answer. “Hey,” He says, frowning a little. Steve won’t look at him, embarrassed for whatever reason. “Come here.” He asks, and Steve dutifully sets his cup down and snaps his sketchbook closed before scooching over to sit near Bucky. He throws an arm around his shoulders and manhandles him around, a little so that he’s sitting up against Bucky’s chest.

“Mean what, baby?” Bucky asks again.

Steve shrugs, and then sighs. He turns to look at him. “That we should retire.”

Bucky blinks and then thinks about it. He could do without shipping out every couple of days, he’s getting old, after all. They both are, technically, but Steve wears it better. Probably because he did all his sleeping in one go. Even then, Bucky’s a year older, so he has well earned the right to complain, thank you very much.

“Yeah.” He says, and it surprises both of them. Steve turns to look at him, eyes wide, mouth half caught on a smile like he’s not sure he should yet. “You?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, I think… I think I did.” He says, and then a smile curls onto his face. Bucky laughs at him, for good measure, and Steve kisses him. “I miss you, you know.”

“Aw, babe,” Bucky teases, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder and hugging him close.

“Oh, Lord.” Steve chuckles and tries to squirm away, but it’s half-hearted, and Bucky’s got too good of a grip on him for it to work. “You miss me?”

“Course I fucking miss you,” Bucky says, honest, and Steve surprises him by grabbing him by the chin and kissing him. The angle is a little weird, but it doesn’t matter.

“So what now, huh?” Steve asks, and Bucky shrugs.

“Sit on the porch,” Bucky suggests, and Steve snorts.

“We ain’t got a porch.”

“I’ll get you a house with a porch that wraps all the way around it, like in that movie you made me watch,” Bucky says, and Steve laughs.

“The Notebook?”

“Sure.” Bucky says, not sure himself of the name but he does know that the end made him get a little teary-eyed, and Steve full-on cried, like snot-bubble cried, and they didn't let go of each other for the rest of the day. Not a very comedic romantic comedy.

“Yeah, and what else?" Steve asks, still half-joking. "Could we get a dog?"

Bucky thinks about it, thinks about how somewhere in the middle of Europe they found a stray litter of puppies, how Steve carried three of them zipped in the front of his jacket until they found the nearest inhabited town, how he tried to hide how upset he really was when they had to leave. Bucky takes a good long look at him, how there's still a light dusting of blush on his cheeks, and puts a hand on his face.

“Whatever you want, doll.” Bucky says, and he means it.

[1oserjk]

— pop goes the cherry

jungkook comes back home to find you visiting as well, all grown up — in more ways than one.

childhood friends / brother’s best friend au

+ this isn’t smut but alludes to the subject of it n the loss of virginity, so if u are uneasy wit the idea then pls!!/ refrain!1!1 

x masterlist

* .✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*. * .✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*.* .✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.

“Will you calm down and just listen to what I have to say?” 

He’s teetering nervously back and forth in your way too pink bedroom you should’ve grown out of by now. Thankfully, you were visiting for a short amount of time before you’d go back to university to leave him in the dust for another few more years, just like the rest of the times you’d done it. He decided to stop by for a night, courtesy of your brother’s invitation that his little sister was back in town along with them. He mentioned adamantly about wanting the whole family together, which if you added everything up, Jungkook was—and still is—included in the whole ordeal. 

He was initially fine, perfectly normal as any other night at the Kim’s house. That was until he walked through the door and saw the face he’d tried to rid out of his head, since he graduated high school and fled to elsewhere, only moving back when you’d finally left home. Until you smiled at him and granted him a whiff of your irritatingly sweet perfume and your strawberry scented hair. Until you tugged on your low-cut dress that hit at the tops of your thighs to reveal an unnecessary amount of skin to him, because now all he could think about was if you really grew a cup size larger than the last time he’d seen you. 

He shouldn’t have been thinking these things in the first place when his best friend was just downstairs, probably assuming he’d taken a trip to the restroom, but here he was, in your bedroom with you who sat sweetly with your legs crossed atop each other in front of him. 

The room looks the same as a few years back, when he’d come up to knock on your door to announce that dinner was ready, by your mother’s orders. Instead, he’s here, actually inside, by your own asking of a private talk. 

What he didn’t expect was for you to ask such an absurd question. 

“Will you take my virginity?” 

He’s dumbfounded. Absolutely shocked that those crude words had come out of your mouth. It should’ve revolted him that he was being offered something he’d never do to your brother. Never ever. This was sick. 

So why did the offer only entice him further? He blamed it on the skirt of your dress that pooled around you when you sat. Or the way your doe eyes widened when you’d look up to gauge his reaction. He was waist-deep in the pool of attraction towards you. It was no hidden fact. Something in your eyes told him that you knew it too. 

“I—Can you elaborate on what you just said?” 

You shrug. “I just think it’s time to get it over with.” 

He would scream in rage of frustration if Taehyung wasn’t in the house, or here at all. The tops of his knuckles turn white in the insides of his grey sweats and his veins that snake around his arms protrude even further. It should’ve made you intimidated, a bit nervous over why he was acting like it was such a big deal but it only makes you rub your thighs together and bite at the corner of your lips. Especially when he stood there, practically towering over you and your small form. It was incomparable, you really should’ve been intimidated. But in the end, it was Jungkook who was. 

He timidly takes a seat on the small loveseat spaced out in the corner of your room. Enough for him to actually breathe and gain composure he lost in the beginning. He rests his forearms on the tops of his thighs and he thinks. 

Taking a deep breath in, he starts, “Virginity is a big thing to lose..” 

Your eyes roll back at the attempt of such an old man approach. “Don’t even try to back me out of this,” you huff. With a pout, you exasperate, “I mean, I’m already twenty-one! Don’t you think I deserve this?” 

He tinkers with the thought, “I get that, but it doesn’t make sense over why you’re choosing me to do the deed.” The palms of his hands are splayed out in front of him, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Jungkook,” you promise. “No one is pressuring you to. But I don’t think you realize that I have the capability to choose whoever I want. I’m choosing you for a reason.” 

Soon enough, something snaps in him to face the reality of the stupidity in this conversation. “I’m glad you see me as a great candidate,” he drips with sarcasm. “But I’m your brother's best friend. I’ve been his best friend since I moved in the next street over when I was five.” 

You shrug again, “—So?” 

He glares, feigning cluelessness while he lists off, “Well I don’t know, it’s not something your brother has to lay out for me to know that you’re not allowed to be touched and flirted with. It’s common sense and decency,” he exasperates. “In what sense would it be morally right to fuck you?” 

“That’s the problem!” You point. You crawl up on the bed to sit comfortably with your feet tucked under your thighs. A teasing pose you were clueless to note. “I’ve been so deprived from new experiences and feelings Jungkook, it’s absolutely tiring,” you groan. Your fingertips run through your hair and it ruffles messily below your palm. Jungkook takes a long and hard swallow to cope with the stir in his pants. He avoids your gaze when you stare longingly at him. 

“Do you remember our time in highschool?” You suddenly ask, and his eyes flutter before shifting precariously to your door, anxious for anybody to knock or even worse—stomp into the room with no warning, something your brother was highly prone to do. When his eyes land back onto you, he nods slowly and carefully. “You were in varsity along with my brother while I had just passed the auditions for a new spot in the junior varsity cheerleading team,” you further explain and his left foot starts to bounce, fingers tightening on the handle of the cushioned chair. Of course he remembers, what with taking up some of the field for practice, running around the track with skimpy shorts, eyes already on you when you would wear the mandatory skirts on game days. God, he remembers so clearly, as if it was just yesterday. “And you had your farewell game as a senior?” 

Throat tightening while his eyes widened, only remembering a sliver of what happened right after, when the team had taken their final win for the season. 

Tongue coming out from the corner of your mouth to skim across your lips, your head tilts, almost teasingly when you hand him a small smile. “Do you remember, Jungkook? When I ran up to you and—“

“—kissed me,” he finishes off, and your eyes show surprise when he does. 

Covering up your slight satisfaction when he reiterates the memorable moment, right before a few months later when he left the town in such a rush. Frankly, you’re quite delighted that he remembered some of the last moments between the two of you. You attempt to keep your cool and the growing grin when you scoff. “On the cheek,” you correct with a shrug. “It was probably nothing to you.” 

“But it was still a kiss,” he argues, “And it was from you in the end.” 

“Did you like it?” It’s abrupt and rushed, but your feelings were urgent to know. After all these years. “Did you feel anything for me at that time?” 

His mouth opens, yet nothing comes out. He closes it back up to think some more, let the right words filter out before he regrets anything. He would be mortified if you were able to pick out his feelings for you, that he failed to stop thinking about you ever since he stepped foot out of this house and never turned back. That he reciprocates the same overwhelmingly long crush you’ve had on him ever since Taehyung had introduced you both to each other. 

“I was thankful,” he simply answers. “Glad that I had you along with Taehyung. I appreciate you both.” 

It’s a fair enough answer to reel back and to stop mulling it over for a while. At least until he’s gone and you have all night to recall back your conversation of tonight. 

He’s so close yet so far away to grasp, so you ask, “Do you know what it’s like to never know the feeling of being touched, Jungkook?” 

He takes an interest at the ground, avoiding to give you a valid answer. 

You scoff, tilting your head to the side to narrow in at his face, “Of course you don’t. You lost your virginity years ago to Park Chaeyoung,” you spit. His eyes widen significantly. How would you have known? “Right inside of your room while I waited for you downstairs..” 

His brows furrow, “I—How?” 

Again, you shrugged carelessly. “You were supposed to tutor me that day. I figured you were taking longer to get ready. Until I heard her, and then you.” Your nose scrunches and for a second you let your vulnerability show, a flash of hurt from the memory of walking into the familiar house, finding and hearing out your newfound nightmare and what was the worst case scenario for you to experience. Your head shifts down and you begin to fiddle with your fingers unsurely. “I showed myself out the door when I realized where I was and what I was doing.” 

That was right. He had just taken her out after practice to a crummy restaurant and back to his place. He figured he’d do it before his parents got home from work and thought he’d manage to squeeze it before you arrive for your lessons that he volunteered himself for, plainly because he felt you slipping from his fingers when you began your own trek to highschool. He felt like he was the absolute shittiest when he ran a few minutes late only to get a call from Taehyung that you felt too sick to study anything that day. Little did he know you were sobbing yourself goodnight into your pillow. 

The tables have definitely turned now. The bed was your throne and you sat there perfectly composed — something you weren’t a few years back. If anything, if jungkook hadn't been sitting like he was now, his knees would’ve buckled beneath him to fall to his downturned fate and humiliation. 

“Don’t think that was it, gguk,” you test. “I sat patiently with all of your other pathetic relationships right after.” Your nails pick at the bedding beneath you, right in the middle of your parted thighs, a place he’d like to put his head in between. “You went through a lot of them.. And fucked for most of it too,” you chuckle bitterly. 

He watches you slowly crawl at the edge again, fingers digging into the mattress. You can’t help but take notice at the dark chocolate locks placed perfectly at the front of his forehead. 

“Swear it was like,” you took time to think, and with a pout you continue, “once you found out how to work your dick, you forgot all about me and left me in the dust.” 

He stares dangerously ahead to find you teasing with a smile, like the she-devil you quickly became. 

“No fair, Jungkook,” you tsk. “I’m a big girl now.” You wiggle your hips with a giggle. To get him driven to want you—no—need you. To see what he’s been missing all these years. Murmuring hazily, you prompt, “Don’t you think it’s my turn now?”

He stands abruptly, clearing his throat that ran dry, “Isn’t this shit supposed to be meaningful to you? With a person you love and care for?” 

Your eyebrow raises, “Was it meaningful with Chaeyoung?” He’s silent. Clapping your hands, you conclude with a sinister smile, “Well then, I think you’ve given me my answer.” 

“Why me?” He questions.

Sighing, you run your fingers through your hair that has grown a few inches longer the last time you saw him. Fuck, you were pretty. He’s noticed it growing up, and he’s paying the repercussions of it now. “I don’t know, Gguk.. I want to get this thing I have for you out of my system already.” It was an easier thing to confess when it’s been already a few years to grieve on his absence, a bit impatient from having to drag on the secret you’ve held so near and dear to your heart and scratched into every diary you used to own in your teenage years. Thinking of those, you’ve realized you have been meaning to burn the stash of books under your desk in some time. You make a mental note of that for later. “I figured you owe me this for abandoning me a few years back. I want to have a taste so I can stop these cravings I get so often these days.” 

The childish heartbreak runs deeper than that, but you save him the gory details for later—or never. 

His throat restricts itself to give an answer but his cock twitches, failing his belief to tell you that he would never go that route to bestow such havoc to your own brother — his best friend. Why didn’t you see any of that?

You click your tongue, observing the older boy squirm in his seat. “Your hands are starting to get fidgety.” Nodding in confirmation, you slide your legs over to sit regularly. A few seconds before you’d make the move of making your own seat on the same spot he had been nervously planted himself at, what was supposed to be a safe distance away from you in the first place. 

God, he was so easy to read sometimes. 

He makes a fist, ridding them from your view. The tip of his ears run red and he flusteredly looks away. 

“You never answered my question,” you taunt. 

Exasperatedly, he answers, “Because I don’t think it’s much of a good idea.” 

Sighing begrudgingly, you make your advancement towards him. “Jungkook,” Your tone was dipped in honey, stirred around to further the smoothness to it, causing it to make it easier for you to persuade him into the light of all things bad. “That’s not what I asked.” 

Now standing in front of him, he has no choice but to look up with a million questions surrounding his head. You precisely slide a knee to the outside of his left thigh and a hand to the opposite shoulder to meld support. You almost catch off balance when you lean further into him. It traps him into grabbing at your hip to steady you. You have him exactly where you needed him most and you don’t even realize it. 

You’re already seated on top of him and he starts to sputter for you to get off, especially when you sat so preciously on top of the overwhelming bulge he holds so distinctly. 

“W-What are you doing?” He pushes for you to move but you cling both hands on his shoulders to balance the sudden movements from him being underneath. 

“Call this an act of bonding.” You massage on his shoulders to relax him and it visibly shows when they start to loosen under your grip. “I haven’t seen you in a while, it’s only understandable.” You shrug. “Why are you so iffy about it now? We always did this when we were younger.” 

“Yes, when we were younger. When there was no space in the car or an extra chair to sit on—platonically. We’re adults now, _____,” he emphasizes. 

“Which makes it all the more better,” you ease with a smile he melts at. “Because our choices aren’t ran on our mindlessness we used to hold when we were younger,” you shift around and he hisses, “and we can clearly pick out our feelings.” You lean forward, eyes narrowing, letting your hair fall around him, resembling a curtain and covering up the brush of your noses from the suffocating proximity you hold. “So why don’t you make it easier for the both of us—scratch my back while I scratch yours—and tell me exactly what you want.” You ground down and he gasps. “What I’m willing to give.” 

“_-_____,” he mutters, pinching at your hip. You hiss and release a bit, your signature pout forming right after. “Are you asking for your brother to catch us like this?” He scolds. 

Then, you’re suddenly gone. 

You're quick to get up with a huff, even when his hands argue otherwise, practically tugging you forward and down, you ignore it and whip around to return back to the bed draped in the different shades of pink you’ve accumulated over the years. 

“What a tough cookie,” you sarcastically mutter to yourself, plopping your ass back onto the bed and returning to the same pose you held just a few minutes ago. “Not a fun one either,” you state for him to hear clearly, observing him stand and walk forward from your peripheral. 

He sighs. “Don’t be mad at me.” 

“I’ve been mad at you ever since you left, Gguk,” you admit easily and with your eyes, it lures him to hold an expression of guilt when he catches you so sad from the reminder of it, wondering if this was what it was like the whole time he was gone after that. 

It hurts him—and it must’ve been even worse for you. 

“I missed you.” He hopes you take it as a form of an apology. “Would’ve been worse if I stayed—If I did something to hurt your brother really badly.” He shudders at the mere thought of it. 

“Just.. Let’s not talk about him right now?” You reason. “Kind’ve tired of hearing about the bastard that’s stopping me from receiving any kind of action from you right now.”

He snorts and he’s close enough to tilt your chin upwards. “Hey,” he calls. “He loves you.” 

You lean back to let your ass meet the bed with your thighs on each side of you. Sighing, you nod, “I know.” 

He doesn’t loosen his grip. 

“Look,” you start. “It’s not like I’m asking you to light some candles and be gentle. I just want it gone. Take it away. I don’t care if you stick it in, finish, and roll over. I just want to get this over with.” 

He scowls and lets his brows furrow together, “Is that all you think of when it comes to sex? Just some time to pass by? To give and that’s it?” 

“I’m not left with a lot of theories after being declined from it for so long,” you reason. 

He stares at you longingly and you grow antsy when his hands that cradle your cheeks never leave their gentle touch, you wonder if it would be this soft when you would be in bed with him. 

“I’m leaving again in a few days,” he abruptly announces and your frail fingers that are wrapped around his wrists loosen significantly. Your eyes widen and you backtrack completely. 

“Again?” 

He only nods. 

Your eyes unknowingly well up and you close in on yourself immediately, alarmed at the fact you have shown your true self to the one person you’ve longed for the most and for such a cost that doesn’t even benefit you in the end. You rip his hands away from you, almost like a band-aid that’s been clinging onto you for a few long days now, turning gross and dirty and you hate it—absolutely hate the way he openly plays you to run into a deceiving mirage, that everything would be okay when he would come back. 

He calls for your name, yet you don’t listen. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he says. “I—I figured your brother would tell you when I came. I’m only here to get a few things before I would leave again.” 

Your eyes flutter closed and you shift your head, refusing to let him see the way you crumble, especially when he practically towers over you when he doesn’t even mean to. 

“I can’t—I won’t take something that’s supposed to be special and just leave,” he explains, heart panging when you don’t lift your head. “Please understand me,” he begs. 

“Leave,” is all you manage to mutter out. “Please, get out.” 

“_____..” He attempts to lift his hand out to touch you again, but you turn away and refuse, only leaving him to be hurt by the action. 

“Tell Taehyung I’ll be down in a minute,” then you glare at him, “Because that’s what you came here for, right? To tell me dinner is ready?” 

“I-I..” Nothing else comes out, so he only nods to save him from making anymore mistakes. 

You let out a small laugh, it cracks in between, but the facade is still there. “I think it’s the fact that If I didn’t tell you the way I felt, if I didn’t sit you down to tell you myself that I want you and make an absolute fool out of myself like this — you probably would’ve never spoken for yourself..” 

He falters, close to arguing until you repeat yourself all over again, hurt and annoyed, “Get out, Jungkook.” 

He reluctantly obliges, shutting the door closed and ignoring the thump that hits the door right after, one of your pillows hitting against the surface while you pathetically sit in the middle of your room with tears running down your eyes so pathetically and to your own humiliation to bask in. 

-

Taehyung’s brows furrow and he stands in the middle of his parent’s backyard porch with utter shock. It’s close to two in the morning and he’s tipsy. “You’re leaving early? We just got here.” 

It’s a long gulp from his own bottle. “Yeah.” He utters some bullshit about his work and how they want him back sooner. Of course, Taehyung never presses, believing in every word that comes out of his mouth. In a lot of ways, you were both so similar. He doesn’t mention the abrupt confrontation that only happened several hours ago, nor the fallout of it either. 

“That sucks,” Taehyung says, “You were the one to suggest coming back home.” 

“Yeah.” He gulps the rest down and it burns this time. Midway he only realizes he traded out the beer bottle for the cheap vodka when he previously reached his hand out for another. He stops when the face that takes up most of his mind starts to dissipate into something blurry and lacking definition. 

This way, it’s easier. 

“I did,” is all he replies with. 

* .✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*. * .✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*.* .✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.

this was a 1k drabble from my old blog so i cleaned it up n added 2k+ words to it!/!/ i wanted to revive it bc she’s so memorable to me

* .✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*. * .✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*.* .✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.

[welllpthisishappening]

The PyeongChang Triple (15/15)

It’s the Olympics. The. Olympics. And Emma’s running out of post-it notes to write schedules and plans on and there are more games and more expectations and not enough time for any of it. She’s fine. Totally. Absolutely. If she could just sleep. Or stop feeling as if her knees are going to give out every time she stands up. Or get Ruby to stop staring at her like that. It’s fine. After all Killian Jones, captain of Team USA, keeps promising it will be.

He’s going to win. Again. At the Olympics. And Killian’s not nervous. Not about that. It’s hockey. He could play hockey in his sleep. Probably. He’s never tried that. But he probably could. And, sure, there are expectations and games and schedules and barely any time for what he wants to actually be doing, but winning a Gold medal isn’t bad. After all, Emma Swan, temporary New York Rangers Olympics team social media manager, keeps promising it will be.

They’re fine. They’re going to win. Together.

Rating: Mature. Swearing, hockey-type violence, lotsa making out. Word Count: 12K’ish. I make no apologies.  AN: Oh. My. God. Well, here we are, at the end and I’m a mess of thoughts and feelings and, at the risk of sounding like an overly emotional loser, an incredible amount of gratitude. Because life is life and writing about this stupid hockey team with his hockey feelings and sports emotions is such a delight and I cannot tell you guys what it means that you also think so. I flail over every comment (and send screenshots to my husband, legit) and read all the tags and get a lil’ jolt of excitement when you send questions and prompts and messages telling me you’ve started watching hockey because of this story. It is the best. I’m not going anywhere fic-wise, AngstFest2k17 deserves to see the light of day at some point and I’ve got an ever-growing list of Blue Line prompts and another story idea bouncing around my brain. So keep sending prompts and questions and thoughts and I’ll keep flailing. As always @laurnorder​ & @distant-rose​ deserve all the credit for making sure this story exists. Also on Ao3 and FF.net

There was babbling in her ear.

Or gurgling. It might have been a bit closer to gurgling.

“What?” Emma asked, bobbing on her feet slightly and tugging the small, gurgling bundle a bit closer to her chest. “What’s the matter, baby?” “She’s probably freezing cold,” Ruby muttered, shaking back and forth and the highlights in her hair almost matched the color of her nose and the flush in her cheeks. “Is this safe? Shouldn’t you be in a suite somewhere? Shouldn’t we both be in a suite somewhere? With heat? And hot toddies or something?” “You think they’re serving hot toddies at a hockey game?” Emma asked skeptically and Ruby shrugged.

“I don’t know and I don’t care, but they should. We should have made that a requirement when we agreed to do this thing.”

“Ruby, you don’t own the team. I don’t think you’re in charge of scheduling. Or Winter Classics. That’s absolutely a league thing.” “Give me a couple more years and it will absolutely be a me thing,” Ruby said and there was a promise in her voice that left little doubt for argument.

The mound of blankets and baby in Emma’s arms made another noise – something that sounded dangerously close to a few moments away from a cry – and she shifted on her feet again, muttering nonsense against an impossibly small blue and white hat.

“C’mon, Peggy,” Emma pleaded, rocking back on her heels and that was a mistake. The heel of her boot hit against a pile of snow she hadn’t seen before and she could already feel the moisture creeping through the so-called impenetrable leather. “God damn,” she muttered, drawing a chuckle out of Ruby.

Emma glared at her. “Shut up,” she hissed and Ruby’s grin turned a bit more confident. “You know we almost slept four straight last night. Didn’t we, kid?”

There wasn’t an answer from the three-month-old in her arms, just another gurgle that Margaret Jones should probably have patented at this point.

“Almost,” Ruby repeated, taking a step forward and resting her hand on the top of the blankets Peggy was wrapped in. It really was freezing. And, maybe, starting to snow. “You causing problems for your parents, Pegs?” she asked, dragging a finger across fabric with hockey sticks all over it.

“Nah,” Emma muttered, pressing a kiss to the top of Peggy’s head. Or her hat. There wasn’t really much baby to be seen, far too wrapped up in defense of the wind and the, possible, snow at Yankee Stadium.

Ruby rolled her eyes, the sentiment in Emma’s voice nearly melting the goddamn ice in front of them, but there was some truth to it and maybe that was even more sentimental.

Her hormones were still all out of whack.

And she was absolutely exhausted.

They’d found out about a year after the repeat wedding, Emma waking up in just enough time to feel the world shift and flip and barely get out of bed and away from the pillows in just enough time to collapse on the bathroom floor.

It wasn’t like they were trying, but it wasn’t like they...weren’t trying.

 They were good at happy and family and her heart practically grew fifteen sizes every time Mattie screamed dad when Killian got home from road trips, sprinting out of bed or of the couch and giving him just enough time to drop his bag before leaping into his arms.

So, they hadn’t really planned it, but they’d talked about, mumbled discussions in the middle of the night and after games and the back corner of the restaurant, a few moments on their own when Mattie started trailing after Roland with cries of teach me how to shoot on his lips.

“What if…” Emma whispered one night, resting her foot on the bottom of the stool Killian was perched on, a plate of half-eaten onion rings in between them.

He quirked an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly and Emma wondered when he’d started being able to just read her mind.

“What, Swan?” “What if we had another kid?”

He nearly knocked the onion rings off the counter, dodging forward to push the plate back to safety and Emma mumbled athlete under her breath.

“Emma,” Killian said slowly, the sound of her name lingering in the space between them. It sent a shockwave down her spine and butterflies in her stomach and neither of those things were the right kind of description for what she felt – wanted and needed and so goddamn loved, sometimes she couldn’t think straight with the force of it.

She tried to smile encouragingly, shrugging slightly while taking a sip of her drink and Killian’s eyes hadn’t left hers, far too blue to be entirely fair.

“I mean,” she muttered, leaning forward slightly to rest her hand on his knee. He pulled her fingers away before she could even hit the jeans, lacing his fingers through hers and squeezing tightly, his thumb resting just underneath the ring she’d resolutely refused to ever take off.

“Yeah,” he answered earnestly, nodding for good measure and the butterflies in her stomach were threatening to fly out of her mouth.

“Yeah?”

Killian nodded again and that space that had existed between them just a few moments before seemed to evaporate as quickly, his feet back on the floor as he took a step closer to her. Her knees hit his when his left hand landed on her hip.

She could hear Mattie and Roland shouting on the other side of the restaurant – the sound of chairs scraping across the floor a telltale sign they’d started building some kind of makeshift goal and Emma dimly wondered what they were going to use as a puck.

There wasn’t much time to think about that when Killian started kissing her – lips finding hers with his hand still holding onto her hip like some kind of anchor.

There was no way to be sure how many times he’d kissed her. Or how often she’d kissed him – not far behind Mattie whenever Killian came back from road trips and his arm would snake its way around her back, pulling her tight against his side with a kid latched to his hip and his lips on hers.

The kid wasn’t ever very impressed by any of that.

It made Emma smile just to think about it, the easy sense of security and indefinite that just seemed to exist now, an apartment that felt like a home and a, frankly, absurd amount of pillows in every room.

He still texted her as soon as he landed, updates on Scarlet’s continued battle with turbulence, and Robin’s tendency to steal the arm rest, and they’d started learning their own facts on road trips – a small contingent of what The Post referred to as next gen Rangers whenever the front office decided they could travel.

“You’re smiling,” Killian muttered softly, lingering against her and Emma didn’t remember standing up. Or slinging her arms around his shoulders, trying to pull him even closer to her in the back corner of the restaurant.

“I’m assuming that was some kind of yes.” “Some kind.” “We never really had a honeymoon,” Emma said and Killian’s eyes got a bit wider. “We could...you know…” “Go on.” “We are in public, Jones.” “Ah, not really,” Killian argued, tongue pressing into the corner of his lip and they had a kid. They had an entire hockey team in the same room as them. She still shouldn’t want to grab him by the front of his league-mandated jacket and kiss him until he couldn’t stand up.

She absolutely did.

“You keep trailing off, love,” Killian laughed, dragging his hand down her side until the fabric of her jersey – his jersey, still and always and some kind of absurd emotional nonsense – clumped under his fingers. “One might assume that you’re distracted, somehow.” “Yeah, well, you’re good at making out in public places, I guess.” “You guess?” Emma shrugged. “We’ve circled back to the honeymoon idea. Or, at least, the highpoints of a honeymoon. You’ll get fined if you don’t show up to games.” “We could afford the fine.” “Not with two kids.” Killian stuttered slightly at that and Emma silently congratulated herself on her ability to catch him by surprise. “Two,” he repeated softly and Emma shrugged again.

“Half a line.” “It could be a girl.” It was a simple sentence, just a few words and they were still standing questionably close, hands moving without even really thinking about it, tracing out patterns against each other, but Emma could hear the meaning there and the want and Killian Jones, dad, might have been her favorite thing in the entire goddamn world.

Particularly when she was Emma Swan, mom.

“So, that’s a yes, then?” she asked, hating the uncertainty that crept up in her voice. “We could, you know, maybe, try? Or not really try to be not trying? Does that make sense?”

Killian hummed in the back of his throat, pulling his hand up to trace his thumb across the chain she kept around her neck and the ring that had, at some point, worked its way over the front of her jersey.

“There were, at least, three double negatives in that sentence, Swan,” he chuckled, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers.

“I think you kept up.” “Perceptive, that’s why.” “Good. Wouldn't want to pass on anything less than perceptive to future generations.”

A glass broke on the other side of the restaurant, Will shouting nice shot and Roland grumbled under his breath, a string of words he probably shouldn’t even know.

“I think Mattie scored,” Emma added, glancing over her shoulder at the scene behind her. Killian’s eyes shifted away from her mouth, darting just above her head and the smirk turned into something close to pride, his shoulders rolling back slightly when he tried to turn her against his chest.

“Five hole,” he said, nodding towards the lopsided chairs and what appeared to be a knotted up napkin sitting a few feet behind a still-furious Roland. “That was a good shot.” “See, genetics.” “You know,” Killian mumbled, dragging his lips just behind her ear and Emma felt him laugh against her when he noticed the goosebumps he’d left in his wake. “We seem to be pretty good at this kid thing, Swan. Only seems right to keep going.” Her knees felt weak and Killian’s hand tightened knowingly around her waist, pulling her back flush against his chest and she blushed at how breathless her response was. “Practical.”

Killian kissed her again, teeth coming dangerously close to the skin of her neck and he’d barely moved his hand when a blur of blue and white and dark hair collided with both of them.

Mattie Jones – tiny hockey stick clutched tightly in one hand while he swung it at Killian’s legs – was still not very impressed with his parents. Or their discussions about passing on hockey talent and an ability to understand the English language to another kid.

“Goal,” Matt yelled and that might have been his favorite word in the English language. “Goal!”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t just started singing the song,” Emma said, running her hands across his forehead. He was still swinging the stick, the plastic hardly even making a noise against Killian’s leg.

“Two minutes,” Killian said, ducking low quickly and swinging a suddenly hysterical Mattie over his shoulder. Roland had run over at some point, shouting Hook, he cheated and Emma grinned in spite of herself, pulling on the back of the Jones jersey Mattie never seemed to take off.

They were really good at this.

So, they tried – or didn’t stop themselves from trying and Margaret Elsa Jones was born just a few weeks before the Christmas break, announcing her arrival with a blizzard that forced the league to actually postpone games.

They called her Peggy and she was, in Emma’s not so unbiased opinion, perfect. She’d be even better if she’d consider sleeping more than a few hours at a time.

They were getting there.

“How long are they supposed to be out there?” Ruby asked, jerking Emma back to the present and the snow and the hockey warmups happening in front of her.

They were hours early for the game – something front office kept referring to as family skate and Emma had to force herself not to actually roll her eyes at the Rangers inability to come up with a better name.

She and Ruby had started calling it wreck your emotions skate whenever they talked about it.

“I have no idea how long we're out here,” Emma answered honestly. “Isn’t that your thing? Got to let the photographers come and take pictures and be adorable?” “There are no photographers here,” Ruby said sharply and Emma made a face, widening her eyes meaningfully.

“Ruby Lucas, defender of the New York Rangers children.” “Just the ones I care about.” “You’re totally Mattie’s favorite.” Ruby’s expression shifted, eyes lightening and jaw unclenching and she shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the entire world.

It kind of was – between Ruby and Killian, Emma wasn’t sure who Mattie idolized more, trailing after both of them whenever they were at games. He followed them into the locker room, effectively claiming the bench in front of Killian’s as his own during his very first season opener and the entire goddamn team was ready to do his bidding at the first sign of want.

But Ruby and Killian were different.

Emma wasn’t sure how it worked, some sort of unspoken agreement between the two of them and she wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if they’d shook on it some point, a muttered Lucas and Cap in the corner of the Garden as soon as Mattie was born that they’d both be ready and willing to defend him against...anything.

The story came out just before they got married, again. It led The Post sports section just before the All-Star break, a column that earned screen times on SportsCenter and morning talk shows, questioning Killian Jones’ decision to skip out on the weekend in order to get married, again.

It just doesn’t make any sense. He’s sitting in some kind of two-week goal scoring skid and the Rangers haven’t won since the start of the month, but Cap seems more worried with floral arrangements and making sure his kid sits in on every single post-game presser.

Don’t even get me started on the professionalism of that.

Or lack thereof.

Deadlines, it appear, don’t matter much to Cap when there’s no threat of a trade nearby.

Killian had broken three sticks. Arthur smashed his whiteboard and Robin had to actually hold Scarlet back, twisting his arms behind him when Will started screaming that he was going to kill that asshole.

Ruby, however, hadn’t moved.

She’d read them the column while leaning against the wall of the locker room with an even look on her face and her voice didn’t waver once when she promised she would take care of it. There wasn’t another column. Or another byline for that columnist.

Ever.

Ruby took her role as Matthew Jones protector very seriously.

And Matthew Jones, it seemed, did not know how to stop on skates.

Emma sighed loudly when he crashed into the boards in front of her, hands flying up to try and brace himself against the bench and Killian was half a step behind him, eyes wide and hair matted down with snow. He glanced up cautiously at her and Ruby.

“We’re working on that,” he promised, bending his knees to pull Mattie away from the boards. “We’ve just got to learn how to twist our feet a little bit so we stop, right, kid?” Mattie nodded enthusiastically, snow flying off his hair and a smile lingering on his mouth. “Yeah,” he yelled. “But I like going fast!” “You’ve got to stop to score, Mattie,” Emma pointed out, tilting her head when he started to wobble just a bit his skates. Killian reached out to grip his shoulder, keeping him balanced and she’d almost gotten used to the idea of her kid growing up on ice.

She only worried a little bit about this deep-rooted desire to go as fast as humanly possible.

He’d probably run over his fair share of goalies.

“What happened to your hat, Mattie?” Emma asked, lifting her eyebrows slightly and glancing at Killian who, suddenly, couldn’t seem to meet her gaze.

“It was an unsuspecting victim of speed, Swan,” he said, twisting around their kid to lean his shoulder against the boards.

“Yuh huh.” “That’s just talent, love. Can’t deny talent.” “Yeah, you’re an enormous help.” He grinned at her, brushing his hand over Mattie’s hair and he nearly fell over when the three-year-old tried to skate over his feet, a bit desperate to keep up with Roland and Henry when they streaked by them.

Killian groaned – a skate somehow finding the inside of his ankle and Ariel would kill all of them one by one if he actually got hurt before this game.

“Jeez, Cap, relax,” Ruby laughed, tapping her fingers on the glass to get Mattie’s attention. “You score on Rol yet?” Mattie shook his head despondently and the baby in Emma’s arms fussed again, not quite appreciating the influx of sound and shouts and pucks hitting up against the boards. “No,” Mattie mumbled and Ruby might have been snow melting on the ground, staring at the kid in front of her with a fondness that made Emma’s heart clench. “He said he was going to race Henry.” “I bet they know how to stop,” Emma mumbled and Ruby glared at her like she’d just suggested her own son was not capable of being the greatest hockey player to ever play the game.

“You know what you should do mini-Jones,” Ruby continued and Mattie’s eyes widened at the nickname, still not quite balanced on his skates when he tried to start jumping up and down.

“What?” “Challenge both of them to a race.” Emma groaned and even Killian looked a little frustrated by the suggestion, far too aware of just how seriously Roland and Henry took on-ice competition.

“He’s three, Lucas,” Killian growled, tugging Mattie back against his leg. Ruby shrugged.

Mattie, however, did not seem remotely concerned about his age – or the distinct lack of size he had against either Roland or Henry.

“Dad! Dad! Dad,” Mattie screamed, officially waking up his sister in the process. Emma rolled her eyes skyward, sighing when the snow hit her face, and Mattie had started hitting the side of Killian’s hip, certain he simply hadn’t heard him and wasn’t just doing his best to pointedly ignore whatever plan was, apparently, being formulated.

“What, kid?” Killian asked, bending down until he was eye-level with Mattie.

“I’m going to go race Rol and Henry.” Killian flashed a slightly panicked expression in Emma’s direction, but Peggy was still crying and it was absolutely freezing, wind whipping the edges of the blankets out of their tuck. Trying to get Mattie into the suite when the game actually started was going to be a distinct challenge.

“Why don’t we try and take some shots instead,” Killian suggested, but Mattie was shaking his head before the words were even entirely out of his mouth.

“No, I want to race.” “Of course you do." Killian's eyes kept darting towards Emma, something in between nervous and that stupid, adorable pride that seemed to flash across his face whenever Mattie wanted to get on the ice.

He always wanted to get on the ice.

“We could put Uncle Will in goal though,” Killian continued and Emma couldn’t quite hold back her laugh at the tone of his voice, pleading with a three-year-old in the middle of Yankee Stadium.

Mattie shook his head. “Rol said he would race me later.” “Oh my God,” Ruby groaned loudly, swinging her leg over the top of the boards like she was going for a line change. “Come here, mini-Jones. I’m going to kill myself.” Mattie practically jumped to attention, pulling away from Killian to move towards Ruby and Emma scoffed when she used her kid as leverage.

“Lucas, what the hell,” Killian snapped, but Ruby brushed him off, both her feet landing on the ice without incident or any sort of death.

“Cap, seriously, if you don’t calm down, you’re going to go insane before puck drop and that’s just not a good media look.” “Ruby,” Emma cautioned, but she might have stayed silent for all the good it did her. Peggy was still crying, Killian stuck halfway in between both kids as he tried to make sure neither one of them dissolved into some sort of on-ice meltdown.

Ruby shook her head, fingers wrapping tightly around Mattie’s jersey. “It’ll be fine,” she said, a certainty in her voice that made it almost painfully obvious she had a plan. “Come on, mini-Jones, let’s go before your parents start making out over the boards. It’s gross.”

Mattie made noise – somewhere between an agreement and a determination to go race children nearly double and triple his size – and Ruby didn’t let go of his jersey, letting him half drag her across the ice while she shouted for Roland and Henry.

“It was an almost valiant effort,” Emma said, pushing up on her toes to balance some of her weight. Killian made a face, but she didn’t move – and he didn’t have a leg to stand on, metaphorical or otherwise, when there was a three-year-old crashing into the side of Yankee Stadium because someone hadn’t taught him how to stop yet.

“Stopping’s the easy part,” Killian reasoned. He skated forward, knees hitting up against the boards, but Emma wasn’t certain he even noticed, gaze focused on the baby and the blankets in her arms. “Hi, sweetheart,” he muttered, tugging his glove off his hand to trail his fingers across Peggy’s wrapped-up arms.

“If stopping’s so easy, how come he hasn’t figured out how to do it yet,” Emma challenged and Peggy started gurgling again, twisting in her arms when she tried to work out of the blankets and grab hold of Killian’s finger. “God, you’re a child menace.” “It’s all that excess charm, Swan,” he said, flashing her a smile and she couldn't even roll her eyes. It absolutely was. “And I told you, love, stopping is a distinct work in progress. We’ll get there.”

“He’s ridiculously fast. For a three-year-old.” Killian hummed, a self-satisfied look on his face like he was painfully aware the only reason Mattie was fast was because of him. “Where are your skates, Swan?” “I’m not skating,” she said, nodding towards Peggy. “Kind of preoccupied. You know, at one point, she was sleeping.” “Yeah? Finally exhausted, huh?”

“The almost in almost sleeping consistently is going to slowly kill me, I’m positive.” “Ah, we’ll get there too.” “You are too easily pushed over, Cap. How are you even standing up? You’re the one who spent most of the night in a rocking chair.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Swan,” Killian countered, kissing her temple lightly and he’d never put his glove back on. He pushed her hair back behind her ear, letting her rest against his chest and Emma tried to breathe the moment in, the Stadium still loud with family and skates and both of those things crashing into boards that couldn't be very sturdy, set to be taken down nearly as soon as the game was over.

He’d woken up before her – snapping to attention as soon as the first sound had come across the room and they were going to have to find a new apartment soon. She’d blinked open her eyes to find Killian slouched in a chair in the corner of the room, feet stretched out in front of him and the bottom of his team-branded shirt riding up, like he’d only just remembered to put it on before letting a three-month-old rest her head on his shoulder.

He was mumbling under his breath, fingers drawing out patterns on Peggy’s back and Emma hadn’t wanted to move, far too focused on the look on his face, the quiet awe in his gaze whenever his eyes flickered down to their daughter.

He glanced up at her with wide eyes and she could still see how goddamn blue they were in the dim light from the street outside and it only took one nod of her head to get them both back into bed, Emma’s head on Killian’s shoulder and Peggy on his chest.

“And,” Killian added, hand lingering on the back of Emma’s neck. “I am absolutely exhausted.” She laughed softly, burrowing against his jersey when a gust of wind swept across the stadium and they had to be close to breaking some kind of record for temperature in outdoor games. “Come out on the ice, love.” “What? I’m not wearing skates. I’m holding a baby.” “Those are both very good facts, Swan, but neither one of them prove why you can’t come on the ice.” “I’m going to fall on my ass if I try and get over those boards,” she argued. “How’s that for a fact?” Killian shook his head, reaching forward to try and pull Peggy into the crook of his elbow. Emma didn’t move – even when he shook the glove off his left hand and held his palm up at her. He crooked his finger out her, backing up slowly and that was absolutely cheating.

She couldn't argue with a jersey and snow in his hair and that stupid smile on his face while he was holding a suddenly no longer crying baby.

Killian Jones, father of Emma Swan’s children, was absolutely not playing fair.

“That’s dumb,” she mumbled and he lifted an eyebrow at her. “You can’t just do all of that and then expect me not to be vaguely attracted to it.” “Vaguely,” Killian repeated skeptically and Emma rolled her eyes, swinging her legs over the boards until both her feet were flat on the ice. She didn’t move another inch. “That’s insulting, Swan. Go ahead and admit you’re incredibly attracted to all of this.” He drew his hand in front of him, pointing between the RANGERS emblazoned across his chest and Peggy, grinning at the tiny girl until he worked something that almost sounded like a giggle out of her.

“Jeez,” Emma groaned, but she was standing now and Killian absolutely knew he’d won. He skated back towards her, skates coming up just short of her boots in two seconds flat and she barely had a chance to catch her breath or mumble some insult about stopping before his lips caught hers.

“Did I mention I’m glad you’re here, Swan?” he mumbled, pressing her back slightly until the bench dug into the small of her back. He groaned when her hips moved.

“It’s kind of my job,” Emma said. “We’re supposed to be SnapChatting. There’s contest winners on the ice.” Killian’s chest shook when he laughed, but his hand fell on her waist and his grip on Peggy didn’t shift when he kissed Emma again.

“Oh my God,” Will groaned, hitting the back of Killian’s skates with ice when he stopped. His hand was wrapped around Ruby’s wrist, pulling her along the ice behind him and her face was flushed from the snow and the wind and, probably, laughing so hard. “Gross! Gross!” “God, Scarlet, shut up,” Killian sighed, not even bothering to turn around.

“Fine, then I’m not going to tell you that your kid is demanding your presence at the other end of the ice, about to take on both Rol and Henry in some sort of skills competition Lucas has only just come up with.” “It’s, literally, a race, Scarlet, we went over this on the way over here,” Ruby corrected. “And mini-Jones is absolutely going to win.” Emma scoffed, peering around Killian to level Ruby with a disbelieving stare. “Oh yeah? You strap him to some kind of motor, then?” “Emma, do you have no faith in me at all?” “No.” “Rude.” “Can we go?” Will asked impatiently, tugging on Ruby again. “Mini-Jones is going to wreck, obviously. Shouldn’t you be SnapChatting this anyway, Emma?” “I have an assistant for that,” she said, but Will and Ruby were already gone, turned towards the far end of the rink and the line of children. Only one of them didn’t stop.

Mattie hit the boards again.

“Ok, so we really need to work on stopping,” Emma muttered and Killian nodded. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her away from the bench and Emma gasped when her feet started sliding across ice. “God, caveman,” she hissed. “Give me some warning before you just start dragging me places.”

“Next time we play in a Winter Classic with pre-game skate and you don’t bring skates, I’ll make sure to warn you, Swan,” he chuckled.

Mattie had pushed himself back into line at some point – pulled to his feet by Roland while Henry shifted him on his skate so he was actually facing the right way – and Ruby was explaining rules to whatever it was they were about to do.

“You guys ready?” Ruby asked, staring staring pointedly at Roland and Henry. They both nodded. “You ready to destroy ‘em, mini-Jones?”

Mattie nodded and Emma clicked her tongue, not entirely sure destroy was the best word for a three-year-old to be particularly enthusiastic about.

Ruby ignored her.

“Alright,” she said, holding a Rangers towel she certainly didn’t have when she’d been standing on the bench. “On your mark, get set, go!” Will reached forward, pushing on Mattie’s back and neither Henry nor Roland made much headway before they both fell to the ice, a mess of limbs and staged dramatics and Emma didn’t even try to stop her laugh.

Killian’s arm stayed around her waist, but she could feel his body shaking against hers and he cheered louder than anyone screaming Skate! Skate! Skate! In her ear like Mattie could do anything except skate.

He didn’t know how to stop.

Robin caught him at the other blue line, a one-man wall between Mattie and the boards, tugging him up until he was laying horizontal in his arms. There was a collective whoop of excitement from the entire Rangers first line – hands thrown in the air and phones held loosely in hands to capture the moment or something particularly sentimental and Mulan’s camera might have been the loudest noise of all.

“Dad! Dad! Dad,” Mattie yelled, trying to climb back to the ice and Robin winced when a particularly well-placed knee ended up in his side. Killian grinned at Emma, kissing her cheek quickly and Ruby muttered God, Cap, give me your kid, pulling Peggy into her arms. He moved after that, dragging Emma along with him and meeting Robin and Mattie at center ice.

He bent his knees at the same time he came to a stop, nearly pulling Emma down with him and Killian glanced up at her, grimacing slightly. “You were great,” he promised, turning back towards Mattie. “Super fast.”

Mattie beamed at them, throwing his arms around Killian’s neck and all three of them lost their balance at that, a mess of limbs and skates and camera shutters.

They won the game. Eventually. And Emma got the contest winners to their seats and promised to find something to drink so they wouldn’t freeze to death.

Ruby made the bar open up for hot toddies.

Killian scored, giving the puck to Mattie with a smile on his face as soon as they walked into the locker room afterwards. He barely let go of it long enough to put on the shelf over his bed.

Her phone dinged hours later, sitting on the nightstand in the apartment and Emma hissed in her breath, glancing quickly at the crib in the corner of the room. Still asleep. She swiped her phone across the screen, sinking back into blankets as Killian’s arm inched around her.

“What’s the matter, Swan?” he mumbled, face half pressed into the pillow and her hair.

She laughed softly, blinking so she wouldn’t do something stupid like cry over the photo on her phone screen and, maybe, wake up Peggy again.

It was a picture – all four of them, Mattie clinging to Emma’s leg and Peggy back in Killian’s arms and she was staring at him or he was staring at her with matching looks on their face. They looked happy.

Other level happy.

The kind of happy Emma had never allowed herself to even consider, certain, it was a lie they fed to kids who grew up alone, just to make sure they didn’t go completely crazy.

She’d absolutely failed on that whole not crying thing.

“Swan,” Killian muttered again and she’d never actually answered him.

“Nothing,” she promised, putting the phone back on the nightstand next to her and twisting around so she was facing him. He blinked twice, that exhaustion he’d promised he felt before visible in every inch of him and Emma pressed up to brush her lips against his. “Nothing’s wrong.”

And it wasn’t.

She saved the photo.

He couldn’t seem to move away from his locker.

He knew he had to. He had to get up and get on the ice and there wasn’t anyone else around, the sounds of the team he only half knew now making its way around the corner of the still-open door.

They were playing soccer.

It was, apparently, a thing now.

Killian took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair and he couldn't quite ever remember being this nervous. At least not before a hockey game.

But this wasn’t just a hockey game, this was the hockey game in some sort of caps lock and, maybe, bolded way. The hockey game that would change everything and end everything and this was it – finally.

“You’re some kind of walking cliché,” Emma muttered, grinning at him as she leaned against the doorframe.

“I’m sitting still, Swan,” he argued and she scoffed under her breath, taking a step into the familiar space. She sank down next to him without a word, nudging her knee against his and Killian felt like the entire goddamn Garden was going to fall apart around him.

“Did you scrum?”

“Lucas would kill me if I didn’t.” “She’s way too busy trying to keep ESPN away from that rookie. They’re demanding a comment about his status for tonight and she looks like she’s come up with several different ways to kill them already.” “Why is she even dealing with that anymore?” Killian asked. “Way below her pay grade now, right?” Emma shrugged. “Ah, sometimes there’s comfort in falling back on old habits. And she’s got a fancy corner office and VP after her name now, but Rubes misses the scrums and dictating what quotes the entire New York media got.”

“That was almost heavy-handed, love,” Killian muttered, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She was smiling at him.

“I had a feeling.” “Yeah? About what?” “It’s a big deal,” she said like that, somehow, explained it. It kind of did.

This was it.

Again.

He’d played out his max deal, the zeroes that were supposed to keep him in New York for the rest of his career had done just that  – he’d stayed and they’d built something, two Cups and two kids that wore his jersey to every home game and went to All-Star weekend the season before, some kind of last ride nonsense that made Killian’s shoulders clench every time he heard it.

Except it didn’t end the way it was supposed to.

It ended in the second round, on the road, without his kids or his wife, just Robin snapping a stick over his knee and Will throwing his helmet so hard against the visitor’s locker room that the stupid thing cracked right down the middle.

He’d saved the text messages he found on his phone that night.

I love you. We love you. Come home.

The picture she’d sent was still his lock screen and his home screen – Matt and Peggy sitting on the couch still wearing Jones jerseys long after the game had ended and they’d lost, smiles on their faces and pillows stacked in between them.

He came home to find all three of them asleep, a mess of bodies and hair stuck precariously in between limbs and Killian could barely see Emma underneath the two kids on top of her, heads on her shoulders and arms splayed over her stomach.

The floor creaked when he bent down to try and make sure Matt didn’t inadvertently pull Emma’s hair out of her head and Killian winced, cursing the old in the new apartment they’d bought a few months after Peggy had been born.

Matt mumbled something, blinking against the light of the still-on TV. “Dad?” he asked softly and Killian’s heart lurched. He probably wouldn’t ever get used to that.

“Hey, kid,” Killian muttered, sliding his bag off his shoulder and squatting down so he was level with the couch. “How was Mom’s event?” “Rol was mad. He said that Sens guy was offsides.” Killian also thought that Sens guy was offsides, but the new coach – hired after Arthur left to take some kind of front-office job with the league before the start of the season – didn’t see that and they hadn’t challenged and they’d lost the entire goddamn series.

And the season was over.

And it wasn’t supposed to end like this. “It happens sometimes,” Killian said, an excuse that didn’t ring quite true in the face of a slightly sleepy six-year-old.

“But…” Matt started, voice rising impossibly quick on just three words and Killian shook his head, brushing his hair out of his eyes. His knees were killing him. There was a bruise on his thigh that he was half convinced would never disappear.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

They were supposed to win.

It was supposed to be something perfect, some kind of storybook ending that would make it all worth it and his kids would see them win a Cup and Emma could, finally, change the picture on her phone.

Matt sighed softly, shoulders somehow managing to sag even when he was laying on his side and Killian fell back when he felt arms around his neck and a knee pressed into that bruise on his thigh.

“You should have won,” Matt whispered, face pressed against the front of Killian’s league-mandated jacket, hands gripping the back of the fabric tightly, like he’d been waiting all night to break into tears over a hockey game.

Killian’s breath caught in his throat – not just because of the other knee that seemed intent on trying to collapse his lung – and he pulled Matt against him, shifting so his leg wasn’t twisted up underneath him and both dangerous knees were moved to either side of his waist.

He wasn’t sure who held on tighter, Matt’s chest heaving against Killian’s front and it was some kind of miracle they hadn’t woken up the entire building, let alone Emma and Peggy.

“Hey,” Killian said softly, nudging his shoulder up when it seemed Matt’s cry had run its course. “It’s ok. It’s just a game, Matt.” Matt stared at him like he’d just suggested the sun would never rise again. “What?” Matt asked, his voice scratchy with his disbelief. “But, but, Dad! You lost! And that guy was offsides and...you should have won! You were supposed to win!” Killian had dealt with everything from heartbreak to sorrow to the complete desolation of rock bottom over the course of his career, hiding flasks of ancient rum in the floorboards of the brownstone, but he couldn’t quite remember anything cutting across him as sharply as those words, Matt’s certainty that he’d win and keep winning settling in the pit of his stomach like some kind of anvil.

“I know, kid,” Killian sighed, tracing his fingers over the back of Matt’s jersey. He noticed a movement on the couch, Emma lifting her head slowly. She smiled softly at him, eyes trained on his hand and the numbers underneath it.

“But,” he continued, not quite sure he could come up with a reason that seemed plausible when he was just as frustrated. Maybe more. Probably more. God, it was all over and he wasn’t ready for it to be over.

Irony was a motherfucking joke.

Killian took a deep breath, glancing back at Emma. She had her lip pulled tightly between her teeth and arm wrapped around Peggy, but she didn’t blink when she met his gaze.

Explain. Tell him it’ll be ok. Believe it’ll be ok.

“But,” Killian repeated. “It’s not the end of the world. They’re still going to play next year and we can go to games and all of Mom’s events. They can win next year.” He knew it didn’t work as soon as he pulled away, staring down an unconvinced Matt who probably would have crossed his arms for good measure if he weren’t too busy holding onto Killian’s jacket like a vice.

“You’re not going to be there though,” Matt grumbled and Killian shot a desperate look Emma’s direction.

“Mattie,” Emma said softly and his head snapped around at the sound of his own name. “We talked about this kid, after the game.” That anvil in the pit of Killian’s stomach seemed to press down harder – and it was almost too easy to fall back into some cycle of this, hating and disappointing and it wasn’t supposed to end like this.

They were supposed to win one more time.

HIs kids were supposed to see him win.

“I know,” Matt groaned, twisting around and rolling his eyes with a move that was so painfully Killian, it seemed like the universe reaching out and slapping him across the face. Emma pulled her lips back behind her teeth, eyes widening slightly and Killian groaned, shifting to try and redistribute some of his son’s weight on his legs.

“There’s a but coming here, I’m sure of it,” Killian said, far too aware of just how much his kid was like him even without the pointed eye roll or distinct physical similarities.

They both wanted to win.

A bit desperately.  

“But,” Matt half-shouted. “None of that matters if you’re not there! It’s stupid if you’re not playing! And Uncle Robin’s gonna retire and Rol’s gonna play for Worlds and he said he might not be back for the playoffs next year and….” He took a deep breath, eyes just a bit too wide and they were dangerously close to a return to tears. “And Henry’s gone and I...I don’t care about hockey!” Killian gaped at him, not entirely prepared for the complete meltdown they were staging in the middle of the living room. Emma pushed up slowly, pulling Peggy with her and muttering under her breath when their daughter started to stir.

“Matthew,” Killian said slowly, pulling his hands away from the front of his shirt. He was very close to choking him with his own tie.

Matt shook his head deftly, lips set in a straight line and he got that from Emma. “Dad, you were supposed to win!”

He was.

Killian bit his lip tightly, trying not to join a six-year-old in some kind of utter breakdown over hockey on the floor. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and Matt’s gaze had turned a bit desperate, staring at Killian like he had the answers to the universe and how to win a Stanley Cup a third time.

The couch creaked again when Emma moved, but she didn’t say anything and Killian had always been dimly aware of this – Emma’s certainty that Matt actually thought he was some kind of Captain America practically ringing in his ears.

Matthew David Jones, as promised, grew up on the ice.

He grew up in locker rooms and on team flights and post-game team dinners at the restaurant with an entire hockey team defending his honor and keeping his name out of headlines and off the internet. He had a closet full of team-branded merchandise and both Emma and Killian knew he kept that Winter Classic puck in his backpack, carting it back and forth between the apartment and school like some kind of good luck charm.

And the whole thing made Killian go a bit cross-eyed, the idea that his kid could love something as much as he did, could want to be on the ice as much as he did, but it all seemed to be blowing up in his goddamn face in the middle of the night on the living room floor.

Killian moved his hand again, tracing over his own name on his son’s back and Matt pressed his forehead into his shoulder blade.

“I wanted to win,” he mumbled and Killian’s eyes darted to Emma. She smiled again, brushing her lips over Peggy’s head and she’d finally woken up as well, pushing dark hair out of her eyes and pressing a hand into Emma’s stomach before jumping off the couch.

Killian groaned when another kid landed on top of him, an elbow coming dangerously close to his eye and Emma shifted to the center of the couch, pulling her legs up to rest her chin on her knees. She was playing with the ring around her neck, the smile still lingering on the corner of her mouth and, at some point, they’d gotten pretty good at not even having to say things.

It helped when there were kids around.

Kids who, desperately, wanted to win hockey games.

Emma shrugged, head tilted slightly and she could have been a flashing neon sign for how obvious it all was.

One more season.

We’re going to win. Again.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy,” Peggy shouted, screaming his name in Killian’s ear. He squeezed one eye shut, trying to keep his balance.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he muttered. He tugged her back against him, running a hand through barely-curling hair and her jersey scratched against the back of his wrist and the scars on his left hand. “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” “We wanted to see you! And Mommy said we could wait on the couch and we watched TV and ate popcorn!” She narrowed her eyes slightly, voice lowering like she was telling him a secret and Killian tried to look even remotely patient. “MD was really mad,” Peggy whispered, nodding towards her brother like he couldn’t hear everything she’d just said.

“I was not,” Matt argued, knee hitting Killian again when he twisted to glare at Peggy. “Not as much as Rol! And not as much as Leo! Dad, Dad! Leo threw his stick after you guys lost. Uncle David got really upset. It broke right in half!” “It was all very dramatic,” Emma added and for half a second Killian forgot he’d lost and that guy was offsides and his career had ended on the road with Locksley and Scarlet arguing a few feet away from him.

For half a second it didn’t matter.

There were kids hanging off him and Emma hadn’t let go of her ring, staring straight at him with something that almost looked like contentment in her gaze.

And if he could come home to this, could be sure that this was here, no matter what, then maybe the game didn’t matter.

Or, at least, didn’t matter quite as much.

And he’d probably brag to David that his son hadn’t broken anything in a public place as soon as he saw him.

“Daddy, where's your ring?” Peggy asked, a slightly scandalized voice that probably shouldn’t have belonged to an almost four-year-old.

He hadn’t put it back on yet – because he was a melodramatic fool who couldn’t quite bring himself to stop thinking about turnovers and antiquated plus-minus ratings and what he could have done to make sure they’d won the game the entire time he’d been sitting on the plan. So he hadn’t pulled the ring off his neck or put it back on his finger, covering up the ink that wrapped all the way around the base of it.

Emma had called it sentimental, but she always traced over it, eyelashes fluttering every single time and maybe that’s why he’d done it, just a few weeks after wedding number one and just before camp started that year – to remember the look on her face whenever she pushed the ring back on his finger as soon as he came back home.

“That’s mom’s job, Mar,” Matt sighed, sounding like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He made a face at her, eyes rolling again and Killian clicked his tongue.

“Nuh uh,” he said, tugging on jersey until Matt met his gaze. “None of that.” Matt grumbled, trying to pull away from Killian – but his right hand wasn’t bruised and he had enough of a grip on the jersey that even a surprisingly strong kid couldn’t quite work out of the hold. “Sorry, Mar,” he mumbled and Killian sighed.

Emma laughed so loudly she nearly fell off the couch. “What?” Killian asked sharply. She just shook her head, shoulders still moving when she fell back against cushions and pillows and the mountain of blankets they must have stolen from all of the rooms in the apartment.

“Nothing, nothing,” she promised. “Just mirrors, or something.” “Mirrors?” “Or something. God, someone should be taping you and then showing it back. It’s like he’s studied you or something.” “Swan, you’re not making any sense.” “Well, it’s the middle of the night.” “Two in the morning. That’s not middle of the night, just late,” Killian argued and Emma’s eyes flashed with amusement. Matt groaned. “Although,” he added, glancing down at the kids still clinging to him. “It might not be a bad idea to get off the floor and find some kind of bed.” Matt and Peggy started arguing almost immediately – demands to hear more about the game and after the game and something that sounded like highlights that Killian couldn’t quite believe he’d heard – but he was exhausted and bruised and so goddamn disappointed his body still ached with it.

Although that might have been the bruises too.

“Come on,” Emma said, swinging her legs back onto the floor and prying Peggy’s arms off Killian’s neck. “We waited for Dad, time to go to bed.” Peggy stuck her lower lip out, some kind of perfect pout Emma and Killian were both convinced she practiced. “But,” she argued. “He just got here!” “You were asleep five minutes ago,” Emma laughed, lacing her hand through Peggy’s and trying, rather unsuccessfully, to pull her down the hallway. There were tears welling in her eyes and Killian steeled himself for another meltdown in the living room – although melting down over bed and not hockey seemed a bit more normal than anything else.

“I want to stay with you,” Peggy continued, pressing up on the balls of her feet as she grabbed the front of Emma’s t-shirt. Team-branded. His name was on the back of that one too. God, they were all still wearing his number.

“Margaret,” Emma sighed and Killian couldn’t quite take a deep breath, still sitting on the floor with Matt half on top of him and an entire family wearing his jersey hours after he’d come off the ice for the last time.

“Yeah,” Matt yelled, stepping on Killian in an effort to get up quickly. He tugged on Emma’s free arm, pulling on her third round of replacement laces. He’d given her the first ones a few days after Matt was born, carrying them around in his pocket for days, an idea he couldn't quite understand – they were already married and there was a Stanley Cup ring around her neck that she hadn’t ever taken off, practically growling at the doctor when they’d tried to move it in the hospital as soon as she’d gone into labor.

But it felt important , somehow, another tangible reminder or something that didn’t quite make sense, but her wrist looked bare without them and, well, the laces had been the very first thing he’d given her.

Ah, well, maybe the second.

But saying you’ve actually given someone your heart sounded absurd outloud, even for someone as decidedly melodramatic as Killian Jones, former captain of the New York Rangers.

Killian hissed when Matt tugged a bit too forcefully and it’d be more difficult to get another set if he wasn’t on the team anymore.

“You guys have a TV in your room,” Matt added, as if that decided that. “And,” he continued. “Your bed is huge.” “That’s true,” Killian admitted and Emma’s head snapped towards him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly. He shrugged.

Selfish, needy, clingy ass – who didn’t want his kids on the other side of the apartment when all of this was over.

“Yeah, ok,” Emma mumbled, but the ends of her lips quirked up. “I’m bringing the popcorn though,” she continued, staring at Killian as if she was challenging him to argue with her. He didn’t. He was starving.

“Of course, Swan.” Matt made some kind of  at the nickname and Peggy beamed at both of them, holding her hands up with the obvious intent of being lifted off the floor as soon as Killian stood up. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, groaning slightly when her hair hit against her face as she flopped over his shoulder and every single muscle in his body protested at the added weight. “You’ve got to take the jersey off.” Peggy froze against him, her toes pushing into his stomach and maybe his liver or something and Killian startled underneath her. Emma laughed softly, pulling Matt against her side and resting her chin on the top of his head.

“What?” Killian asked.

She shook her head slowly, taking a step towards him and brushing her lips against his and it took everything in him not to surge up against her – far too aware of what it felt like to be without her the night before and, God, if he hadn’t missed her more than anything it was some kind of impossible lie.

“I love you,” she said softly and Matt made some kind of strangled sound, complete with a tongue half hanging out his mouth. “No matter what.” It took what felt like another full season to get two kids ready for bed – teeth brushed and arguments over keeping jerseys on and trying to drag the blankets off the couch and into the room at the other end of the hall ended with three frames knocked off the wall, one gold medal inexplicably on the floor and a knocked over coffee table that, just, didn’t make any sense at all.

And it must have been close to three in the morning before Matt and Peggy were asleep, the sounds of the TV barely audible over their quiet breathing as Emma burrowed against Killian’s side, one kid on either side of them.

“He waited for you, you know,” Emma said softly, voice just a bit mumbled against the t-shirt he’d pulled on.

Killian shifted, doing his best not to move Peggy too much where her head was resting on his chest. “What?”

“Mattie,” she explained. “He was fine, or fine’ish, at the event. You can absolutely brag to David too because not only did Leo break his stick, but Mattie was the one who got him to calm down. David and Reese’s couldn’t do anything.” Killian could feel his eyes widen, knew his mouth had fallen open and the weight on top of him, suddenly, felt impossibly heavy – somewhere in the realm of the weight of the entire goddamn world.

Emma nodded, his silence an answer to a question she hadn’t even really asked. “He kept it together the whole time. And we talked about it, about losing and the end in some kind of impossibly large way.” She sighed softly, blinking quickly against the tears that had found their way into the corners of her eyes.

“But, uh,” she continued. “I think, I think it all kind of broke when you got home. That’s why he freaked. It all felt very, very real.” “It is, Swan,” Killian said, a note of bitterness in his voice that didn’t belong in that room with popcorn and kids and she wasn’t even trying to stop the tears from falling down her cheeks, gripping his t-shirt just a bit too tightly.

“I know. I just….” “What?” “It shouldn’t end like that. Not for you.” Killian let out a shaky laugh, his own vision blurring just a bit and in their collective determination to focus on their kid’s dental hygiene, neither one of them remembered his ring, still hanging on a chain around his neck.

“Here,” he said, leaning forward as much as he could and tugging the chain over his head. “Your move, love.” Emma rolled her eyes, but she pulled the ring out of his fingers, twisting it slightly like she was staring at it for the very first time. And he wasn’t sure if he’d stopped breathing or started breathing far too quickly, but it kind of felt like the room was spinning and Killian kept staring at her if only because he was half certain she was some kind of anchor.

Idiot.

“Indefinitely,” Emma muttered, sliding the ring back on and her thumb lingered over that one scar that ran from his wrist up to his index finger.

“No matter what, Swan.”

She was still crying, silent tears running down her cheeks, and neither one of them could actually flip on their sides, kids laying on top of them and pillows in between them and Killian’s foot was twisted up in a blanket.

“Do you…” Emma trailed off, worrying her lip between her teeth. “Did you think about it?” “It ending like this?” She hummed and Killian tried to shrug. It didn’t really work. “It’s different than it was before, Swan. It’s not like there’s nothing besides hockey. There’s more than that. The game is the lowest thing on the list of things I’m worried about.” “What’s at the top?” “A three-way tie for first place includes everyone in this bed.” “Sap.” “You’re the one who texted me to come home, love.” “That’s true,” she admitted. “And I wanted you to. We all did. They’re not going to take that jersey off for days, you know that, right?” “That’s ridiculous.” “Super dad,” Emma muttered and Killian scoffed out of instinct, that tiny, desperate voice that was still half certain he wasn’t anything without hockey rearing its ugly head as soon as the final buzzer had sounded.

“Swan, you planned ten events this postseason. And, at least three quarters of the reason Henry is even going to school is because of you.” “Ok, that’s not even remotely true. It’s not like I wrote the stories.” “You read them. All of them. As soon as he e-mails you something new, you drop everything and read it.” “That’s because they’re good.”

“So are you.” Emma sighed, flipping her head back up to stare at the ceiling, but her right hand had found his left and Killian smiled when her fingers laced through his. “One more?” she asked softly and there it was, the question and the idea and the hope that had been lingering in the back corner of his mind since he’d read her text message.

“What do you think, Swan?”

“That’s not my call.” “Sure it is.” She glanced at him and he’d probably never get used to that look – something that felt a bit like understanding and a lot like want and it felt a bit selfish to not just constantly fall to his knees and thank whoever for sending her to New York and him and this entire family.

“It shouldn’t end like that,” she whispered, squeezing his hand slightly. “Tell Gina one more. Scarlet will be thrilled.” “Phillip might actually pass out on the ice,” Killian muttered, talking so he didn’t do something stupid like dissolve into emotion in the middle of the bed. “He looked like he was going to cry during handshakes too.” “If you don’t think Mattie didn’t immediately point that out to me, then you’re not nearly as perceptive as you claim to be.” “Smart kid.” “It’s because he’s determined to be you.”

Killian’s stomach flipped and he pressed the heel of his foot into the blanket it was still wrapped up in so he didn’t just start making out with his wife in between both of their kids.

“I didn’t send anything out,” Emma added, sounding a bit like she was sharing classified secrets of the New York Rangers community relations department. “About you or even Robin for that matter. Ruby and I decided last week. We weren’t going to do anything until, at least, after the Cup. Whoever won that.” “You are incredible, you know that?” Killian asked and the words fell out of his mouth as soon as he thought them, only just managing not to actually shout them at her. That would have woken up both kids.

“What a line.” “The absolute, honest truth.” Emma shifted against him, trying to find a way to burrow her head against his shoulder when she was still on her back with someone else’s arm flung over her stomach, but it almost kind of worked and she’d moved enough that his lips could find the top of her head with relative ease.

“One more?” she asked again and Killian took a deep breath before he answered.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “One more.” Regina wasn’t surprised – shrugging a quiet obviously when he told her two days later – and both Phillip and Will had shouted, knocking over several stools along the bar in the back corner of the restaurant, screaming until Matt had joined, yelling even louder when Scarlet lifted him onto his shoulders with practiced ease.

He came back.

A one-year deal with a player option for a second because Regina was, well, Regina and there were plenty of headlines – plenty of speculation and just a few mutterings that it felt a bit desperate, particularly after the last ride tour the season before.

And it wasn’t perfect that first season, but the second, the second season, the last season, they kept winning.

They won the President’s Trophy and that rookie was incredible, just as fast as Killian, still, inexplicably was, breaking Phillip’s scoring record with a month left in the regular season.

They kept winning and Matt and Peggy had been in the stands when they’d clinched the conference finals at home, Killian absolutely refusing to touch the Prince of Wales trophy when he posed for pictures.

He was half certain Matt hadn’t worn anything except his jersey for the better part of the last month.

And now, he was frozen in front of his locker, teammates playing soccer in the hallway and he could vaguely make out Scarlet’s arguments about hand balls or something he probably didn’t understand, Emma on his side with a hopeful smile on her face and her hand wrapped up in his.

Game five at the Garden.

They could win.

“Scarlet’s going to kill himself,” Emma mumbled, leaning her head on the side of his shoulder and he hadn’t actually put his jersey on yet.

“He’s old, that’s why.” “Don’t let him hear you say that, he’ll probably check you into the boards during warmups.” “He’d have to catch me first.” Emma grinned at him, tugging her head up sharply and her hair shifted off her shoulders when she moved, a flash of green eyes and confidence and absolute certainty. He was going to score four goals – at least.

“There’s that confidence,” she said, hooking her finger underneath the front of his pads.

He probably should have kissed her. All things considered, that probably would have made the most sense, but he suddenly realized Emma was sitting next to him in front of his locker and they were only a little over an hour off of puck drop and she probably should have been anywhere else except sitting next to him in front of his locker.

There was an event outside and fans to relate to and towels to hand out.

He hoped their kids got towels.

Emma absolutely made sure their kids got towels.

“Not that I’m not glad you’re here, Swan,” Killian started, letting her hair fall over the tips of his fingers, “but why are you here?” She laughed, shaking her head slightly and pulling away from his hand and there was a protest on his lips for half a moment – before she tugged the hand back down and wrapped her fingers around his.

There was something just a bit off about it though, the smile not quite reaching her eyes, and Emma’s lip was in between her teeth, gaze falling to the unlaced skates on Killian’s feet.

“Swan,” Killian repeated and her head practically snapped up at the sound. “How’s the stuff outside?” “Crowded.” “That seems good.” “It is,” Emma agreed. “For sure. I’ve got, like, a ridiculous amount of video of Mattie scoring on that virtual reality thing. Although I’m not sure we should do that anymore because he seems pretty convinced he can actually score on an NHL goal now and get drafted like..tomorrow.” Killian chuckled slightly, but she still hadn’t really answered his question – and she was still talking.

“Plus, here, here, I know you’re supposed to be focused, but seriously, look at this,” Emma continued, shifting on the seat to tug her phone out of her back pocket and push it into his chest. The jersey was absolutely enormous.

It was close to touching the ground, covering Peggy’s knees and just above her ankles and Killian didn’t even have to look at her shoulder to know there was a ‘C’ there, far too preoccupied with the excitement on her face and the blue and white pom poms in her hands.

“Where did she get any of this?” Killian asked and Emma rolled her eyes.

“Your brother and El apparently bought out Chase Square. Mattie’s got a new jersey too. That, however, took a bit more convincing. It was like Henry 2.0.” “Jeez,” he muttered.

“They’re excited.” “Who? Liam and El or our kids?” Emma’s eyes flashed again and he’d done it partially for the reaction and partially because it was absolutely true and an absolutely legitimate question.

The answer was probably Liam.

“The compromise in all of this was for Mattie to wear his jersey under the new jersey as some kind of double-force good luck charm. There was a very long explanation and probably could have used a PowerPoint if we had time, but, suffice it to say he’s certain you’re going to score, and I’m quoting here, forty-two goals.” “Forty two,” Killian repeated, quirking an eyebrow and Emma nodded seriously. “Seems a little high, don’t you think?” “Eh, I don’t know. Par for the big-moment course or something, right? Correct me if I’m wrong, Cap, but did you not hat trick during an Olympic gold medal game?” “Ah, but that was different. That was for more than the game.” “Isn’t this?” Emma asked and he would have heard the question behind the question even if she were still at her event and he was on the ice and the entire goddamn Garden was screaming.

“Silly question,” he muttered.

He kissed her after that – it would been ridiculous not to.

And he could hear her breath hitch against him, that very particular noise in the back of her throat lingering in the back of his brain long after they stopped making out in the middle of the Rangers locker room.

“How many times do you think we’ve actually made out in here?” Emma asked, fingers still tangled up in his hair and the front of his pads and Killian nearly fell off the bench.

“Hundreds? Is that a lot?” “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s been awhile, right? If we were counting everywhere in the Garden it’s got to be in the thousands. God, does that make us the worst professionals in the whole world?” “Eh, maybe not if we win.” “We’re totally going to win.” “Emma Swan, optimist.” “Emma Jones, optimist,” she corrected softly and Killian’s heart leapt into his throat and possibly out of his mouth and, promptly, landed in front of Emma where it had been for the better part of the last ten years.

He kissed again – unable to come up with any reason not to – and they’d somehow managed to twist their legs together, determined to get that extra half an inch closer to the other. “Why are you here, love?” he asked again and she scowled at him.

“It really did almost have something to do with making out.”

He was half a breath away from something slightly sarcastic, an offer to make out just a bit more before puck drop, but he opened his mouth and his breath rushed out of his lungs and Emma smiled as soon as he figured it out.

“Hat trick,” she said said softly.

Killian’s laugh was shaky at best and that was stupid because he was so goddamn happy he couldn’t quite remember that there was still a hockey game to play.

He had to leave this locker room eventually.

“Emma,” he said before he could stop himself and she made a face, twisting her mouth slightly at her own name.

She nodded, pulling herself closer to his side and he worked his arm around her waist without even thinking about it, hand falling back on her stomach without a word.

“A blueberry,” Emma continued. “That’s what I’m...guessing she and or he is. Depending on timing, or whatever. We should go to the doctor after you win a Cup. I’m thinking...Christopher. Goes good with William.” His heart was racing impossibly fast – it felt like he’d just tried to outrun getting checked by Scarlet – and the muscles in his face were going to cramp from smiling so much, but it felt like the entire world had flipped in that moment and those seemed like acceptable prices to pay for a third kid.

A third kid.

They were going to have a third kid.

“Seven weeks?” Killian asked, trying to think back to websites and they hadn’t really been trying, again, but they hadn’t really been avoiding it and maybe he’d go buy out the rest of Chase Square after the game.

“God, why do you remember that?” Emma muttered, but she hadn’t moved away from him, hitching her leg up over the top of his thigh.

Killian shrugged. “It’s important, Swan.”

“You’re a giant, sentimental sap, you know that? With an internet addiction.”

“I’m trying to stay informed.” “Internet. Addiction.” He rolled his eyes and he’d always kind of known it would be like this – knew they understood each other in some kind of meaningful, overpowering way, but it was, somehow, still more than that. It was giant and sentimental and chock full of that sap he’d been accused of because, at some point, they stopped understanding what the other had been through and started looking forward to what they were building together.

Ten years and, maybe, three Cups and, now, three kids later and they’d survived headlines and internet rumors and several incarnations of laces around her wrist and Killian was certain he loved her more than he did that very first moment in the brownstone.

The pillow was sitting in the corner of their bedroom.

Still.

“Hey,” Emma muttered, tugging lightly on his pads. “You….you’re good? Like with this? The hat trick or the first line or whatever? That’s as many hockey metaphors as I could come up with on the way over here.”

“Both metaphors are fine, love. And, yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be good? Or the best?” “The best?” “The best.” She made a face, scrunching her nose and keeping her lip in between her teeth. “Blueberry, blue-seat blue,” Emma whispered.

“Seems like a sign.”

“Are we into that? Fate seems kind of lame, doesn’t it?” “Ask me that question after the game, Swan.” She did.

She barely kept her balance on the ice when they opened the far doors, tugged along by two kids and a whole battalion of Jones jerseys – all of them racing towards Killian with smiles on their faces and their arms through in the air and they’d won. Again.

Hat trick.

And it was different than the first two – kids jumping on top of him and over him and Peggy nearly choked him on the ice before Will had finished skating around with the Cup, screaming in his ear when they started pumping music through the Garden speakers.

“Dad, we won! We won,” Matt screamed, landing hard on the ice when he tried to climb up Killian’s side. Emma rolled her eyes, bending down to haul him back up and pull him tightly to her side. He didn’t seem to notice, still talking a mile a minute against her side, detailing everything from the final minute of play to Killian’s goal and when’s the parade, don’t we get a parade.

“Relax, kid,” Emma laughed, nodding when he moved back towards Roland who caught him without even breaking his stride on the ice.

“God, you’re enormous,” Roland said, pushing Matt away from him to muss his hair and work a groan out of the eight-year-old. “Hook, stop feeding this kid so much.” “If memory serves, mate, you were just as big at eight and just as enthusiastic about winning a Cup,” Killian muttered and he was dimly aware of the camera shutters when he skated towards Roland Matt.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” “That teenage angst knows no bounds, huh?” Roland made a face and Emma laughed, inching closer to his side and wrapping an arm around his waist, the other hand carding through the end of Peggy’s hair. “You went pretty fast, Hook,” Roland continued and if Killian wasn’t already certain his heart was still sitting on the locker room floor, he would have been positive it fell on the ice at the sound of the nickname and the age-old compliment.

“Not completely washed up yet.” Roland rolled his eyes. “You want to race, Matt?” he asked, pushing on the kid’s shoulder again and Matt’s eyes practically light up.

He nodded quickly and Killian hadn’t noticed he was already wearing skates.

“When?” Killian asked, glancing down at Emma.

“Five minutes left in the third. When you guys went up by two. He was convinced it was a win.” “Efficient.” “Confident.”

“Come on, Rol,” Matt whined, tugging on the front of Roland’s jersey and he wasn’t wearing skates. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

“Fine, fine,” Roland sighed, crouching low with his toes pressed into the ice. “Ready, go!” He was off half a second later, pushing back on Matt’s shoulder to give himself a head start and Matt only screamed about cheating for half a second before sprinting after him.

He almost beat him.

“First round,” Killian muttered, kissing the top of Emma’s head. Peggy mumbled against his shoulder, pushing her forehead against his neck and Killian tightened his arm, hugging her closer to her chest. “You tired, little love?” he asked, leaning back to meet her eyes.

Peggy shook her head, huffing an exasperated sound that didn’t sound particularly five and a half, and Killian lifted his eyebrows. “I want to race too,” she grumbled.

That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting.

Emma fell against his chest, body shaking with laughter and Killian gaped at his daughter – he probably should have expected exactly that answer.

“They’ll all go in the first round,” Emma mumbled. “That’s obviously the only answer.” “Obviously,” Killian agreed. He turned quickly, and the music was still blaring and there were still a questionable number of Jones jerseys on the ice, Liam tugging El along the boards while Lizzie chased after Matt and Roland and Henry had both hands on the twin’s shoulders, pulling them towards Will and the Cup.

Robin kept taking pictures – his phone held loosely in his hand while his thumb just kept tapping on the screen like he couldn’t decide what to focus on.

“What?” Emma asked softly, the sound shooting down Killian’s spine and landing right in the very center of him, some kind of metaphorical flame that probably could have melted the ice they were standing on.

“You happy, Swan?”

The smile inched across her face slowly, eyes meeting his and they’d won – in some kind life-changing way that didn’t really include hockey.

“Incandescently,” she answered, tongue pressing into the corner of her lips and he exhaled, trying to press the sound of her voice and the look on her face into his memory. “Come on, Cap, you want to race?” “What?” “I think you’ve been challenged to a race, Cap. By two different Joneses, no less. Seems wrong to deny both of us.” “You’re not wearing skates, love.”

“I guess we’ll just have to team up or something then. You want to race both of us, Peg?”

“Yeah,” Peggy yelled, already trying to climb back down Killian. “Let’s go. Let’s go! Dad you’ve got to help mom skate, ok?” “No backing out, now,” Emma muttered, holding her hand out and Killian took it without a second thought.

Peggy was already halfway to the blue line. “I think we’ve been absolutely destroyed, Swan,” Killian muttered and Emma shrugged.

“Ah, worth it.” He pulled her forward, dragging her across the tiny space of ice between them and the yelp she let out seemed to echo in between his ears. “What are you doing?” “I was promised a race, love.” “We lost already.” “Well, I don’t know about that. Come on, skate with me. Or, you know, glide. Whatever.” She didn’t say anything for what felt like forever and Killian was half nervous she’d mutter something about sentiment under her breath, but she didn’t. Emma just nodded, smile a bit softer, but just as certain when she tightened her grip on his hand.

“Yeah, ok,” Emma whispered and it sounded like a promise.

He kissed her at center ice, underneath that giant scoreboard with the music still blaring and their kids a few feet away, screaming and skating and someone was still probably holding the goddamn Stanley Cup.

That was how it was supposed to end.

Perfectly.

[jiminpoppins]

[ROA]

Hi there! You’re about to witness a whole lot of word dump up ahead so fasten your seat belt, hold on tight, enjoy the ride!

Note: This is an extremely long post 

101 reasons why Jikook/Kookmin is my ultimate OTP or 101 times Jikook made my heart flutter

1) When Jungkook tries to find reasonable excuses to hold Jimin’s hands (in which he usually succeeds). Example: A decent round of arm wrestling or a hand massage.

2) It’s nice to know Jungkook isn’t the only one who enjoys the occasion; Jimin does too, even comes up with the most absurd idea (like who arm wrestles while sitting 5ft apart? and knowing he will definitely lose?) urm 128 rounds, 128 losses...

3) The way Jimin ruffles Jungkook’s hair, as if to say “You did well, baby. I’m proud of you” or the way Jungkook leans into Jimin’s touch when he pats his hair.

4) When Jimin asked for kisses from Jungkook, but he panicked and jokingly pushed Jimin away, all the while grinning like the shy boy he used to be.

5) The moment Jimin asked for a peck on the cheek on Jungkook’s birthday but Jungkook just smiled at the camera.

6) When Jungkook softly answered “no” when asked by Jimin if he likes his hyung that much. He just couldn’t resist teasing hyung because of how adorable he would look afterward.

(Time frame: 3:45-4:10)

7) The numerous times Jungkook would wait for Jimin even though he keeps on complaining about Jimin’s sloth-like pace.

8) When they strut around the airport or basically anywhere, side by side. Even when others are way ahead they would take their own sweet time.

Backstage...

After fansign...

and of course, at the airport....

9) Jungkook probably feels that it’s a part of his responsibility to make Jimin happy, so more often than not he would try to joke around and comfort the older, even if it means turning himself into a dork.

10) The glistening look in Jungkook’s eyes whenever Jimin talks in interviews. 

11) When Jungkook made Jimin wear a tiara at a fansign and called him princess.

12) The uniformity of Jimin’s Twitter hashtags when Jungkook is there with him. It’s always #JIMIN and #꾹, making it easier for trash like me to find what I'm looking for haha.

13) Jimin and Jungkook being domestic and sharing soggy cereal in one bowl, using one spoon. Also the many times they share drinks and food.

14) “I will sleep here with Jimin” while pointing at the top bunk of the caravan in Bon Voyage , which, for me, strengthens the possibility of them sleeping together in the dorm. Reminds me of this too: “Everyone, Jungkookie cuddles me to sleep”.

15) When Jungkook suddenly stepped in front of Jimin while he’s talking to apply lip balm on his lips. The hyungs’ reactions were gold. They were stuck to one another like glue the whole broadcast and It hit me hard.

16) The times Jimin said “I Love You” to the camera and Jungkook stared at him like he’s the one being confessed. 👣

17) Jungkook knows his limit when he makes fun of Jimin, always being there for his hyung when insecurity gets the better part of him and I think that's very, very beautiful. 👣

18) It’s OBLIGATORY for me to include We Don’t Talk Anymore cover by JM and JK here. No explanation needed because I’m sure you feel the same way as I do.

19) When Jungkook waited for Jimin to complete the formation during his part in The Rise of Bangtan in Nanjing, then turned to Jimin and serenaded him.

Serenades Jimin...

Turns to fans...

20) Jungkook knows Jimin, remembers every single thing Jimin does better than the man himself. He’s quick to answer things pertaining to Jimin.

21) When Jimin fell down at Taipei airport, Jungkook wasn’t there because he was filming Flower Crew. He joined them a little while later for their Epilogue On Stage. However, on their way back to Korea, Jungkook made sure to stick close to Jimin and walked by his side until they checked in. The fact that Jungkook was there with him made me cry a little./okay lie/

22) When Jimin took a blanket and a soft, fluffy pillow and tucked Jungkook in, and made sure he’s comfortable enough. Also the fact that Jungkook didn’t even bother waking up and sleeping in the room.

23) The amount of times Jungkook and Jimin hang around with each other, usually accompanied by another member.

A date

Big Bang Concert with Hoseok

At the waterpark with Jin

Eating Ramen at Hangang with Namjoon

24) “오~갖고 싶다” (Oh, I want you) That iconic moment in Now3 need I say more.

25) When Jimin hung around behind the camera while Jungkook was getting interviewed. 👣

26) When Jungkook squished behind Jimin when Jimin got his photo taken even though he could’ve gone away and NOT be in the camera.(Fancafe content)

27) When Jimin picked up a slice of cake and fed Jungkook in Bon voyage.

28) Jungkook’s way of carrying Jimin up bridal-style during Limbo game still has me feeling some kind of way, and I will not get tired of seeing it, not anytime soon i bet. (Every time it appears on my feed I’ll stare at it for hours)

29) How Jungkook’s ears perk up whenever Jimin says something. He’s extra attentive when it comes to Jimin. I don’t know if Jimin’s melodic voice gets him or what, cause if it is, boy I feel you. Example: Run! BTS in the US, when Jimin screamed “엄마ㅏㅏㅏㅏㅏ~~~~” (mommy~~) because he’s scared of the roller coaster and Jungkook was like “왜?” (why?)

30) When Jimin laughs an octave higher whenever Jungkook does something funny.

31) The way Jimin sat on Jungkook’s lap and how tight Jungkook pressed him against his chest in Summer Package Dubai.

32) Jungkook didn’t bother about the fans’ parents who sat across him because he needed to make his hyung look good and that was all that mattered.

33) After Jungkook hurt his back at Mama, Jimin took care of him at the airport, gently keeping his hand on Jungkook’s back the whole time they were walking.

34) The fact that Jungkook and Jimin monitor each others’ scenes when they’re filming, waiting around and constantly giving support.

35) When Jungkook and Jimin held hands on stage.

36) The No More Dream lift that has changed over the last couple of years.

37) That moment Jimin made siren sound when Hoseok told everyone that his sister liked Jungkook. I find it cute. (Sukira)

38) When Jimin and Jungkook being lovey-dovey at Manila Airport. 👣

39) Jungkook and Jimin still had their own photoshoot even though they’re both paired up with someone else. Also the iconic “Jeomsoon-ah, please be my baby’s mom” by Park Jimin.

40) Jungkook randomly barging in and interrupting Jimin’s vlive and just....the immense amount of flirting and eye-fucking throughout the whole video...caught me off guard. 👣

41) No matter how many times Jungkook messed around with him, Jimin didn’t have the heart to say stop. He couldn’t say no to Jungkook; that’s how soft he is for the maknae. But yea, speaking quite frankly, Jungkook didn’t even try. There are million other ways to piss someone off but what he did? nope, that’s not how you do it,boy haha. (Run BTS spy episode)

42) And it took 0.000001 sec for Jimin to say thank you to Jungkook. Although Jungkook kept telling him he’s handsome, something he rarely does, Jimin still couldn’t catch on;Still became flustered and shy afterward. It made me asdfjkl. (Undercover mission in Japan)

43) I love Jungkook’s determination. Jk’s inner monologue: I have to make Jimin hyung wear this goddamn headband *gets on his back and forces him to wear it*

44) When Jungkook pinched Jimin’s nipple the instant Jimin went in for a hug lol. (Fancafe content)

45) Jungkook and Jimin have no chills when they’re seated together at fansigning events. They pay attention to each other more than they do to their fans. (don’t get me wrong they still love their fans)

46) When Jimin pretended to be mad at Jungkook for not sitting beside him at a fansign, and how Jungkook played along,claiming his current seat was his original seat when it’s not lol.

47) When Jungkook snatched the snack from Hoseok’s hand for himself, but stopped and gave it to Jimin instead when Jimin asked to be fed.

48) The various times Jimin snakes his slightly smaller hands around Jungkook’s waist and shoulder, and sometimes when it seems that Jimin has difficulty standing after putting his hand on Jungkook’s arm, Jungkook would bend to better accommodate him.

look at him tiptoeing...

49) When Jimin back-hugged Jungkook (and kissed his shoulder from what i saw).

50) The cutest nicknames they gave for one another. 👣

Ooops...

Okay pause. I’m afraid I’ll have to break it down into two parts, as seeing how freaking long this has gotten ahaha. Part 2 will be posted really really soon~~~

[welllpthisishappening]

Tripping Over the Blue Line (14/45)

It’s a transition. That’s what Emma’s calling it. She’s transitioning from one team to another, from one coast to another and she’s definitely not worried. Nope. She’s fine. Really. She’s promised Mary Margaret ten times already. So she got fired. Whatever. She’s fine, ready to settle into life with the New York Rangers. She’s got a job to do. And she doesn’t care about Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers. At all.

He’s done. One more season and he’s a free agent and he’s out. It’s win or nothing for Killian. He’s going to win a Stanley Cup and then he’s going to stop being the face of the franchise and he’s going to go play for some other garbage team where his name won’t be used as puns in New York Post headlines. That’s the plan. And Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations isn’t going to change that. At all.

They are both horrible liars.

Rating: Mature Content Warnings: Swearing, eventual hockey-type violence AN: A lot of stuff happens here and this is a very long story and a very long season and that’s as much of a spoiler as I can give. I can’t thank you guys enough for your incredible response to this story. @laurnorder, @beautiful-swan & @distant-rose continue to be beacons of light and support and wonderful’ness. Also on Ao3, FF.net & tag’ed up on Tumblr. 

He always woke up early.

It used to drive Liam insane – Killian waking up with the sun and there weren’t really any birds in New York except for pigeons, but he woke up with them too, suddenly and regularly as if his eyes were pre-programmed to snap open as soon as the light fell across that tiny apartment above 125th Street.

And he’d leap out of bed – or the mattress on the floor in the corner, it was never really a bed – and he’d be ready to go as soon as his feet hit the floor, eyes bright and shoulders set and Liam would grumble about five more minutes and Killian never listened, shaking his shoulders instead and demanding he get up as well.

It was one room. Liam didn’t really have any other choice.

He kept waking up early even when they moved downtown and he had his own room and a mattress and a box spring and a, frankly, absurd amount of pillows because Mrs. Vankald almost loved decorative pillows as much as she loved clichés and detested public transportation.

It was actually a good thing then – early-morning ice times and they didn’t take the train to Chelsea Piers, but it still took, at least, twenty minutes to get uptown and Killian regularly found himself shaking Liam’s shoulders again, demanding he get up and bring an extra bottle of Gatorade.

The practices were even earlier in Minnesota – sun barely up when Killian’s eyes snapped open. Liam grumbled then too, muttering several choice words under his breath that should have frustrated Killian, but just made him laugh – loudly. Liam hated that.

He’d woken up before Liam on draft day, a bundle of tense muscles and nervous energy that didn’t really feel entirely human,  an out-of-body experience that felt a bit like a dream from the moment his eyes opened until he heard his name and crossed that stage and he was a professional hockey player.

Killian couldn’t break the habit.

He rarely even needed an alarm – something in the back of his mind serving as a wake-up call far earlier than he actually needed, even as a professional hockey player who was a bit desperate to live up to expectations and, later, make amends for failing to meet those same expectations.

And if draft day had felt like a dream, then his whole career felt like some sort of alternate universe and the night before had felt like...impossible.

She hadn’t left.

He’d asked her not to – and that was a bit desperate and felt a bit like pushing and stepping over that metaphorical blue line, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

He didn’t care when he sent her the picture either, even when Will almost saw him in the back seat of the town car, falling into something that almost resembled flirting and he might have been thinking about her for the better part of the entire game – the color of her dress and the flash of her eyes when his hand landed on her back. That seemed important.

He didn’t want her to leave.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt that, the last time anyone had stayed, fallen asleep pressed up against his chest and when Killian did wake up, without the alarm he absolutely forgot to set the night before, his arm was still wrapped tightly around her waist.

That seemed important too.

It must have been early, he thought, not even bothering to lift his head off the pillow when he glanced towards the windows, still grey and overcast from the night before. It wasn’t raining anymore and if Killian was someone who waited for some kind of sign to prove he could want what he wanted, he would have considered that particular change in the weather as a very particular type of sign.

Emma shifted against him, face burrowed against one of the half a dozen pillows they hadn’t even bothered to push off the bed the night before, and she was still asleep, breath coming slowly and easily. Killian’s, however, was not – not when she unconsciously rolled her shoulders and all of their clothes were still strewn in a line from his front door to his bedroom and, fuck,  he should have tried to go back to sleep.

He tried to take a deep breath, to move away from her, and the hair that was absolutely in his face, without actually jostling the mattress and he knew, immediately, it hadn’t worked. She made a noise in the back of her throat – something that was a mix between tired and content and they hadn’t really slept that much – and Killian bit his lip tightly, trying to will himself away from want and desire and back to something that was a bit more acceptable to whatever time it was on a Saturday morning.

“What time is it?” Emma mumbled, back pressing against his chest again and she might have sounded tired, but she absolutely knew what she was doing.

“Early,” Killian answered. “Go back to sleep, Swan. I wasn’t trying to wake you up.” Emma hummed in agreement and for half a moment he thought she had fallen asleep, breath evening out again, until she turned suddenly, twisting around underneath the arm he still had draped over her. “Or,” she said slowly, voice still scratchy from sleep or a distinct lack thereof, “we could not do that.” He felt his eyebrows shoot up immediately, surprise settling on his face and he moved before his mind had really caught up to the rest of his body, lips on hers and hand gripping her waist just a shade over the wrong side of tight. Emma sighed against his mouth, shoulders falling into the mattress when he moved her onto her back and it was quicker than it had been the night before – when all he cared about was tracing every inch of skin and cataloguing every single sound she made – her hands a bit rough when they dragged down his back.

She froze almost immediately, body going stiff underneath his and Killian pulled back sharply, eyes narrowing with the sudden dread that they’d run straight into the walls he was a bit terrified of stumbling against.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, trying to work back to his side of the bed. And he wasn’t certain when he’d developed a side to the bed or when, exactly, he’d managed to work his way above her, hovering over her with his hand inching dangerously low down her thigh.

“Wait, what?” Emma asked, confusion settling on her face as well. “What were you apologizing for?” Killian dragged his hand up – doing his best to not show how disappointed he was to move away from her – and waved it through the air, glancing meaningfully at her. “It was a bit of an attack, Swan,” he said softly.

“Well, that’s dumb.” “A rather pointed opinion.” “I just realized I was scratching the heck out of your upper-body-injury back,” Emma sighed, smile tugging on the sides of her mouth and she stared at him with something that might have been amusement. “I didn’t...I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

His mouth hung open and that probably wasn’t the right reaction either because Emma’s smile disappeared almost immediately, falling back into nerves and anxious clicks of her tongue. And now he had something else to wonder about – when she’d worked her way into the middle of everything,  settling in the center of his life like he’d been waiting for her and he couldn’t say any of that out loud, an overwhelming sense of romance he was certain would send her sprinting towards her dress in his living room and straight out his door.

He was a greedy asshole because he didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything except stare at her intently, eyes tracing across her face and back down to her lips and the curve of her neck, and he wouldn’t say anything because, if he was being totally honest, he never wanted her to leave.

“Killian,” Emma asked, teeth tugging on her lower lip. “You’re staring.” “Ah, well, you make it easy.” She rolled her eyes, but the smile was back and she hadn’t actually let him move, still hovering just above her with a distinct lack of clothing between them.

“I thought we’d agreed to tone down on the charming.” “I don’t remember that at all, Swan.”

Her breath hitched when he moved his hand back, lingering on the top of her thigh before shifting in between her legs, fingers moving everywhere except where he knew she wanted him. She squeezed her eyes shut, lips pressed together tightly when she tried to shift, determined to move her body towards him if he wasn’t going to move his hands towards her and Killian clicked his tongue quickly, shaking his head.

“Although I do remember someone accusing me last night about being impatient,” Killian said, leaning forward to whisper the words against her ear before dragging kisses down the side of her neck. “Pot calling the kettle black or something. What is it, exactly, you’re trying to accomplish here, love?” Emma groaned or maybe sighed, eyes still closed tightly and her back arched when his thumb brushed a very specific way, mouth snapping open and it might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Killian,” she muttered again, pushing her shoulders into the mattress and a pillow had somehow managed to work its way under one side of her, hair fanned out over the edges of it.

“Yuh huh.” “You are a tease.”

“No, no, no, not a tease, Swan. I’m simply taking my time.” “That’s also dumb,” she said sharply and he laughed before he could stop himself, smile on his face and lips still on her neck.

Emma tugged on his hair a bit tighter than necessary and Killian’s eyes flashed towards her, but he couldn’t think of anything except the way she kissed him, a mess of lips and tongue and teeth and if she was as impatient as he’d claimed she was, well, maybe that wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

He gave up on teasing almost as soon as she made that noise, something in the slightly tenuous control he’d been trying to maintain snapping when he could feel her everywhere all at once and they both groaned when his hand moved again. And if his breath caught in his lungs and his vision swam just a bit at how obvious it was that she wanted him – just as much as he wanted her – then it wouldn’t exactly be a lie.

Because he did – want and need and that one word kept flashing in the back of his mind like it was trying to refocus all of his energy on making sure she knew it, until she believed in him and told him whatever she wasn’t, until the walls were down completely.

He didn’t say anything. Again.

He just kept moving instead, hips rocking against hers, matching up in a rhythm that didn’t quite make sense with his hand still firmly entrenched between her thighs, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop either.

Emma muttered something in his ear and he couldn’t really understand it, only a few words registering and they sounded like you and now and her hand was in his hair again. She grumbled when he moved and the smile on his face was probably carved there at this point, pausing only long enough to kiss her again before he all but yanked the drawer out of the night stand next to his bed.

“See,” Emma said softly. “I’m not the only one who was impatient.” “Ah, well, you were issuing demands, love. Who am I to say no to that?”

“It was hardly a demand. And you’re not exactly complaining about it, are you?”

He knew she was trying to joke, to meet his banter with some of her own, but her voice tightened a bit and her teeth were back on her lip. His mind practically screamed at him to tell her,  something, anything, to promise that it wasn’t a complaint, it was an honor or something equally absurd and if he woke up early with her sleeping against him every day for the rest of his life, he wouldn’t argue at all.

It was an overwhelming sort of feeling and a world-shaking realization, right there in the middle of his bed, Emma Swan still laying on her back underneath him and, God, he had a fucking condom in his hand.

But he’d always been like this – always waking up earlier than he had to and ready to prove something he didn’t really need to and this all felt a bit similar. This felt a bit like waking up.

Because she hadn’t argued with the set-up and she’d kissed him in Tarrytown and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her for the last five weeks and he just wanted to get her to smile on some sort of consistent basis.

And he was a mess – a jumbled, twisted-up pretzel of emotions and guilt and the last time he’d done this, it had all blown up in his face, but he wasn’t complaining and he was three-quarters of the way towards love before he realized he’d taken the first step.

He absolutely loved her.

“I’m not complaining, love,” he said softly, tugging on the wrapper with his teeth because he couldn’t bring himself to actually stop touching her. “The complete opposite in fact.”

She smiled.

They didn’t move for what felt like hours – and that wasn’t really a problem since they actually had hours before he needed to be at film – tangled up in each other and the blankets and more of the pillows had made their way onto the floor. He thought she’d fallen asleep again.

“Tell me something,” Emma said suddenly, voice cracking through the otherwise silent apartment.

“About?” She shrugged, or at least tried to shrug, only one shoulder really moving when she shifted on her side to look at him. “Why do you have so many pillows?” Killian barked out a laugh, propping his head on his right hand. “Old habits.” “Pillow-related habits?” “I was...ten? Maybe? When Mrs. Vankald decided she was going to redecorate the entire brownstone. The whole thing from top to bottom, repainted and refurnished every room, and it drove Mr. Vankald insane because there were people in the house for months and we hadn’t really been there that long and, well, like I said before none of us were particularly good at following the rules.” “The apocalypse children.” “That makes it sound far worse than it was,” Killian laughed. “Just like halfway to the apocalypse.” “What does this have to do with pillows?”

“I’m getting there, Swan, but you keep interrupting.” She made a noise in the back of her throat, muttering at him as he pressed a kiss against her temple, rolling onto his back and taking her with him until her head was resting on his shoulder, hand splayed out across his stomach. “Alright, so she was redoing the whole house and it was the first time either Liam or I got the chance to really have some sort of say in how things would look in the house. So she brought all of us to some ridiculously fancy and expensive store in SoHo and we got to pick. Whatever we wanted for all of our rooms.” “And you picked pillows?” He nodded, kissing the top of her hair again and ignoring whatever it was his stomach did when she understood something about him. “Exactly that. It was like a symbol or something.” “Of?” “Home,” Killian said simply. “You have pillows in a home, a real home and that’s what it was, eventually. It took some time to feel that way and it was easier for Liam, but that was probably because I never actually wanted to date either Anna or Elsa.” Emma laughed softly, head shaking just a bit against his chest. “You said you thought they dated while he was in Minnesota.” “I still do. Neither one of them will cop to it, but I’m fairly certain. Banana is too. It doesn’t really matter though. They were always going to be this. Their picture-perfect selves and their absurdly adorable kids.” “It must be hard that they’re so far away,” Emma said softly, thumb tracing out a semi-circle across his stomach, and there was something in her voice that made him certain she understood again.

“Why would you say that?” She shrugged and he could feel her lips tick up against his skin. “It was like that with Reese’s. I mean she’s not exactly my sister, but she’s been around the longest and between her and David, it’s like some built-in support system. It wasn’t always easy to have them on the other side of the country.”

It was as if he could see the walls crumbling just a bit the longer they were there, her words sinking into him and it felt a bit like common ground, that same, unspoken understanding lingering in the air around them.

There wasn’t really much air between them – there really wasn’t much space between them.

“When did you meet Mary Margaret?” he asked, certain that was a safe question and didn’t feel like pushing.

“Freshman orientation,” Emma answered immediately. “They did those ice-breaker things, you know, the ones that are almost painful to actually participate in and we ended up sitting next to each other. She thinks it was fate.” “And you don’t?” “I’m not so big on fate. Seems a little romantic for the real world,” she said, bitterness creeping into her voice and that, obviously, hadn’t been the right question. “We lived together all four years, even once we moved off campus and that apartment in Boston was awful.” Emma laughed quietly, recalling a memory or a moment and Killian tightened his hold on her waist instinctively.

“She and David started dating our sophomore year. He’d been around when we were freshmen, but they’d been firmly entrenched in some sort of cliché will they or won’t they thing the entire year. Mary Margaret attacked him.” “Wait, what?” “Well, not attack, so much as stole. They were both trying to get into the same class and Reese’s got the last seat. David tracked her down, broke into the system or something that was totally against the rules and he found us leaving the dining hall one night. Accused her of stealing his spot and that he needed the class to meet some requirement and that was a complete lie because we were freshmen, but it didn’t matter.

He didn’t let it drop. They kept running into each other. All over campus. He’d just be there, talking about the seat in the class and how she’d robbed him and finally she had enough.” “What happened?” “Reese’s talked to the professor, got him to comp David into the class just before the deadline and they sat next to each other for the rest of the semester. The rest, as they say, is romantic history. They’re going to get married at a castle.”

“Belvedere?” Emma pulled her head up, the end of her hair brushing across his chest. “How did you know that?” “We’ve been over this, Swan. I know everything.” “I’m serious.” “I grew up in New York. It’s kind of a famous thing.” “You’re like my own personal guide book.” He laughed again, hand pushing into her hair so he could tug her down to kiss him again and, eventually, they were going to have to get out of bed. He just couldn’t bring himself to consider more than the next few minutes or the idea of letting Emma leave his apartment and whatever bubble of calm they’d managed to create there.

“So,” Emma said, pulling herself away from him and ignoring his soft groan of indignation. “What you’re really telling me is that you’ve got a ridiculous amount of pillows on your bed because you’re trying to make it feel like home. Again.” Killian tried to not look as struck as he was and he knew it didn’t work as soon as he met Emma’s gaze, something in her eyes that was just a bit softer than usual. “It’s a slightly ridiculous habit, I know,” he mumbled.

“No, no, it’s not. It’s...it’s nice.” “Nice?” “Put a shirt on and I’d be able to come up with a few more adjectives I promise.” “Are you telling me, Swan, you can’t think straight when I don’t have a shirt on?”

She rolled her eyes, reaching forward to hit against his shoulder, but he was an athlete and there were reflexes and he caught her fingers before she could actually make contact, pulling her fingers up to run his lips over her knuckles.

Emma stared at her own hand, mouth parted just a bit like she was surprised and Killian found himself wondering, not for the first time, what had made her believe she needed the walls or why they needed to stay under the radar or what had happened in Los Angeles that seemed to leave her just a bit bitter when she talked about castles in Central Park.

“Where did Liam and Elsa get married?” she asked suddenly, tugging her hand back. She kept it trained at her side, fingers flat against her thigh and not on his stomach.

“Downtown,” Killian answered. “Some ridiculously expensive loft that Banana picked out. There was a band. I gave a very bad speech. They make fun of it every Christmas.” “What could you have possibly said that was so bad?” “Oh no, it wasn’t like that, Swan. I just haven’t always been quite so well-spoken. And trying to impress an entire loft full of people wasn’t exactly in my wheelhouse of talents at that point.” She laughed softly, head back on his shoulder and her hand moved cautiously until it found his, mindlessly tracing against the one scar that ran up towards his middle finger. “I can’t quite imagine you as anything except ridiculously confident.” “I’m going to take that as a compliment.” “That’s how I meant it,” Emma promised. “Did they make you get up and dance too? Twirl some date around the floor?” “There was dancing. No date though.” “What?” Killian shrugged, fingers tapping out a slightly nervous rhythm on her hip – and now they were moving toward some fairly uncharted emotional territory for him.  “I think you’re overestimating me quite a bit, Swan.”

“But,” she sputtered, pulling her head back up to look at him, disbelief written on every inch of her face. “You’re...well you.” “And?” “And there are whole sections of the internet obsessed with your face.”

He made a face at her response, not entirely prepared for the incredulous look she kept giving him – as if she couldn’t quite believe he had hadn’t brought a fan to his brother’s wedding. Or, oh, well, that was disappointing.

She had an idea about him already – the fifth or the seventh wheel of the New York Rangers, depending on who he was being forced out with at any given time and hockey wasn’t the most popular sport in this city, but Emma was right, there was a whole section of the internet seemingly obsessed with his face.

There were always rumors.

None of them were true. He was far too focused on getting up early and getting out on the ice and being ok and he didn’t have time for anything that wasn’t practice or drills.

Emma, however, didn’t appear to realize that, eyes darting down towards the tattoo on his forearm. She thought Milah was a fan.

Well, fuck.

“No, Swan,” Killian said, not entirely sure what he was disagreeing with. “I wouldn’t...that’s, that’s not me.” She still hadn’t moved her gaze, just nodded slowly and he could feel her take a deep breath against him. “I just figured with the set-up...and Will seemed awfully disappointed we weren’t…” “Well it was a lie, love.” “Yeah, but…” “No, Emma,” he said again and her eyes widened when he used her real name. “She wasn’t. She didn’t even really like hockey very much.” “Milah?” Killian nodded slowly, taking a deep breath as he sat up a bit straighter, Emma moving with him easily. “Milah,” he repeated softly and, if he were being honest, a bit reverently, the name sounding almost foreign on his lips. He tried not to say it. “It happened after I hurt Liam. He hadn’t even been discharged yet, could barely string a sentence together and they weren’t even sure if he ever would be able to at that point. And it was bad, Swan, I was, uh, bad. I left the hospital one night and El didn’t even try to stop me. We were already out of the playoffs, first-round loss that didn’t seem to matter much after Liam got hurt, so I went to a bar and drank. For hours. I thought I’d passed out when she started talking to me.

She knew who I was, but she wasn’t a fan. The first thing she told me was that she hated hockey and at that point I did too. She bought me my next drink. And I stopped drinking alone after that. She gave me her number and it took a week to drum up the courage to actually call, mostly because El said she wouldn’t let me in the hospital room again if I kept showing up looking like the world was about to end. She’s always been good at that, always known exactly what I was thinking. Sometimes even before I did.” “What happened when you called her?” Emma asked softly.

“She asked what took so long.” He laughed softly, but he didn’t run his hand through his hair, searching out Emma’s instead and he sighed when her fingers wrapped around his. “We didn’t really tell anyone, but they all knew. I didn’t scream at them as soon as they looked at me anymore and I started going to offseason workouts again and Robin stopped staring at me like some sort of wounded animal.

When the doctors told Liam he’d never be able to play again, when he had to announce he was retiring from a hospital bed, she came. She came to the hospital and she waited outside the door and I…” He shook his head slowly, blinking quickly like that would somehow get the memory out of his head. It didn’t. Even Milah hadn’t been able to get him to forget it.

He remembered every moment of that afternoon, how Liam had spoken slowly so he didn’t stutter over the words and how El’s fingers had shook in his and how Mrs. Vanklad had put both her hands on either side of Killian’s face and promised this wasn’t his fault.

It was.

Emma didn’t move, was hardly even breathing anymore and they’d dived head first into the deep end of emotional.

He wanted her to know.

He kept talking.

“Liam knew after that,” Killian continued. “Asked about her when they finally released him from the hospital and I told him, some sort of proud look at what I’ve found kind of conversation, like it was almost as good as him and El. And it was good. For months. She told me she didn’t hate hockey as much anymore and I was skating well and there were mutterings about the Hart and a real run at the Cup. We were two weeks out of the playoffs when it happened.” Emma gasped softly and she was biting her lip again – he knew without even having to look at her. “Your hand,” she said slowly, thumb moving over another scar.

“I don’t remember much, but there was another car and a crash and they told me she was dead on impact.” “I didn’t know there was anyone else in the car.” “Not many people did. Or do.” Emma stared at him for a moment – like she was waiting for the next emotional bombshell and she looked a bit surprised when he didn’t move, like she was just waiting for him to push her away and that didn’t make any sense at all.

He’d told her because he wanted to, needed her to understand. This wasn’t just...something. This was everything.

“I did,” she said softly, not meeting his eyes.

“Did what, Swan?” “Dated a fan. I mean it’s not quite the same because I’m not on the cover of the program or on the side of the Garden, but, well, I did.” “When?”

She shifted again, tongue moving across her lips before she twisted her mouth and considered her answer. “LA. A couple of months after I got there. He was in Starbucks and we started talking and he was nice and he smiled and…” “What?” “It didn’t work. He said things and, well, they were all true, all of them, but he left too and…” Emma cut herself off, mouth clamping shut with an almost audible crack as her eyes looked anywhere except Killian. And he realized suddenly she’d never told him why she and the guy who took her job had actually broken up and he should have known from the get-go. They’d both left.

They’d left and then she’d been shoved out the door in Los Angeles and stumbled into this and this team and he was already so in love with her, he was positive his head hadn’t stopped spinning in the last five weeks.

“Too?” Killian repeated and Emma nodded, a short, jerky movement that didn’t quite match up with everything he already knew about her.

“Neal,” she said. “His name was Neal and he had this great job and he knew about hockey and he travelled all over the country with the Preds and I’d never had anything like that. Reese’s and David were the romantic ones. They stared at each other like they understood the great questions of the universe when their eyes met and it never really felt like that with Neal, but I thought, maybe, it could have. If I let myself believe, if I trust him enough, then it would work.” “And you’d understand the great questions of the universe, too?”

“Exactly.”

She moved again, tugging on the ends of her hair as she twisted against the blankets, legs still tangled up with Killian’s. “I didn’t,” Emma continued. “Figure out the great questions of the universe. He got a job with the league and he settled into some sort of proper nine to five and he got mad when I wasn’t around and I didn’t travel much with Vancouver, so I was always stuck up there. So, one day, he just stopped calling and he stopped coming to Vancouver and that was that. He just left.” “Ass,” Killian muttered before he could stop himself and Emma laughed softly at the obvious frustration in his voice.

“Yeah, that’s what Reese’s said. And she, like, doesn’t believe in swearing. I don’t even know why he took my job or got my job. He claims he didn’t take it. He must have met Gold when he was working for the league, but I don’t know, it just seems like a step down.” Killian tensed underneath her – the mention of Gold and how this guy,  Neal, was somehow associated with him enough to warrant taking Emma’s job, making every one of his muscles constrict. “What?” Emma asked, glancing at him in confusion.

“Nothing, Swan, just, they’re all idiots in LA if they forced you out of your department or gave your job to anyone else. Last night proved it. It was perfect, love.” She made a face, scrunching her nose and scoffing under her breath and, eventually, he’d make sure she accepted compliments just a little easier. “I’m just glad the tents didn’t fall apart and Arthur’s speech wasn’t quite as bad as it could have been.” “Robin wasn’t lying. He’s much better with the fans than he is with his own team.” “Is that weird?” “Coaches are, by their very nature, weird people, Swan.” Emma laughed again, any concern at the way he’d reacted to Gold’s name gone and they’d seemingly survived emotional fairly easily – she still hadn’t left. “I’ve had an idea about that, actually.” “About coaches?” “Well players acting as coaches.” Killian lifted one eyebrow – ignoring his buzzing phone and that was probably Robin or Scarlet or Liam, all intent to discuss last night’s game and why he hadn’t actually gone back uptown to get food. He hadn’t mentioned that to Emma, another tradition he didn’t particularly care about, especially when her hands were in his hair and he’d been rather single-minded the night before.

“You going to answer that?” Emma asked, nodding towards the still vibrating phone.

“Nope. Tell me about your idea.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, I was just thinking, the instructional thing went so well and the kids were so psyched and I swear, Henry only wants to text me so he can find out how you’re doing in practice, and maybe we could build on that.” “How?” “A charity game? Maybe before Casino Night? Or no, no, no, after Casino Night because then we could auction off things. Meet and greets and spots on the team and it could all go to GD and maybe a little extra to Henry’s house and we could get alums and maybe a few celebrity fans and I mean Bobby Flay loves the Rangers, right? You think Bobby Flay would be willing to play in a charity hockey game?”

“I’m sure Bobby Flay would do whatever you asked, Swan.” Emma sighed, but it sounded a bit like giving into the compliment and he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, eyes following her hands as she started using them to aid in her explanation and her words started jumbling together a bit when her voice picked up.

She was excited – and even if it hadn’t been a good plan, he wouldn’t have been able to stop smiling, watching Emma’s eyes light up just a bit when she realized he was listening intently to every single part of her idea.

“You think that could work?” she asked.

“I know so.” “We’d need coaches.”

“You could get coaches.” “Would you coach?” He narrowed his eyes slightly and Emma looked taken aback – like she was bracing herself for the refusal. “Are you asking, love?” “Maybe.”

“I’ve never actually coached anything before, you know. You’re asking a complete novice to help with your very well-planned event.” “I literally just came up with half of it in bed.” “My bed,” Killian pointed out, moving back towards her until he was above her again and she was squirming against blankets and the few pillows they hadn’t pushed off the mattress yet. “You came up with half of it in my bed.”

“Was this a casual suggestion to get out of your bed?” Emma asked, voice tinged with something that probably could have been classified as a giggle when he started kissing just behind her ear.

“Not at all,” he mumbled, hissing in air when her hand moved first and he hadn’t entirely been prepared for that.

He could miss film. He could absolutely miss film. Or at least be late for film. He’d only get fined. He could pay the fine.

Regina would kill him, but he could pay the fine.

And deal with Scarlet and Locksley when they asked where he was – again. And probably tell Liam and El. And he had another PT appointment that afternoon before they got on the plane and there were two away games ahead of him before he could get back in this bed – preferably this bed with Emma in it again.

He should have gotten up. He didn’t.

He kept kissing her and Emma’s hand kept moving and he tried to tell her something – probably something about how she couldn’t do that if they wanted to stay on the very specific path they seemed to be treading, but he couldn’t seem to remember any words.

It didn’t really matter.

Emma moved, hands on his shoulders and hair threatening to brush across his face and they both might have gasped at the contact when they met again, her head landing on his shoulder and his hand gripping her hip.

He was totally going to be late to film.

“Shouldn’t you be downtown?” Emma asked later, leaning back against his side. “Or, you know, like at least trying to get downtown?” “I’ve been a bit preoccupied, love.” “Reese’s is going to ask where I’ve been. Oh shit, I only have my dress.”

“I think there’s leggings in my closet,” he said without thinking. Emma just lifted her eyebrows and stared at him. “They’re Banana’s. She stays here whenever she ends up in New York. You can take a shirt too if you want.” “Thanks.” “Of course.”

Emma moved before he did, jumping out of bed and towards his closet, sheet wrapped around her shoulders and his heart might have stuttered under his ribs – or stopped completely. He only knew when it restarted, quicker and louder than usual. She found the leggings quickly and grabbed a t-shirt from the back corner of the closet, a Winter Classic hand-out he’d gotten when they played at Yankee Stadium a few months into his second season.

“The rest of my clothes are still by your door,” Emma said, nodding towards the hallway with a small smile on her face.

Killian shrugged. “Preoccupied.” She rolled her eyes, lip twisted in between her teeth as she moved back towards the living room and the bra he was still certain was sitting just a few feet away from his kitchen floor. Killian groaned slightly when he moved towards his, somehow, still vibrating phone to find a message from the entire platoon – Locksley, Scarlet, Liam, El and even Anna, who probably only knew what happened in the game because she’d gotten updates from El.

He ignored Locksley and Scarlet, both of them demanding to know where he’d been the night before, and focused on Liam’s messages.

That was a hell of a pass, little brother. Tell Phillip the Rookie he should be grateful for a set-up like that.

I’m going to assume you’re still asleep, which doesn’t make any sense at all because you’re you.

Ok, either you’re dead or you’re already in film. If Scarlet got up this early for film you need to tell me because it’s some sort of modern-day miracle.

I am not in film.

Did you die on the train downtown?

I’m not downtown either.

It took almost a full minute for Liam to respond.

If I say ‘good’ does that make me a horrible influence on my little brother?

Younger brother. And that was the best pass I’ve ever made.

He didn’t wait for Liam’s response, tossing his phone on the mattress and grabbing a pair of shorts from the closet, walking back into the living room to find Emma sitting on the arm of the couch. She had her phone held lightly in her hand and a crease in between her eyebrows, staring at the screen like it had personally offended her.

“You alright, love?” he asked, making her jump slightly.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” she said quickly, but she was clutching her phone now and the crease in between her eyebrows hadn’t disappeared. “Reese’s thought I was dead. I guess David was halfway to the station to announce some sort of man-hunt on my behalf. I only just convinced her I wasn’t actually dead.” “What did you say?” “That I’d gone uptown with the team and spent the night with Ruby.” “She won’t ask Ruby about that?” “Probably.” The crease got a bit deeper and for all the emotional headway they’d taken that morning, they seemed to have taken a dozen steps backwards in those few moments when they’d, finally, gotten out of bed.

Fuck.

“They’ll fine you if you’re late for film,” Emma said, a picture of clinical indifference sitting on the edge of his couch in his clothes.

“I’m not worried about that.” “What are you worried about?” “You.” “I’m fine.” “Tell that to your very narrowed eyes and tense shoulders.” She smiled slightly, but the tension didn’t leave her shoulders – if anything they got straighter, sitting up as if there was a hockey stick strapped to her spine. “I’m fine,” Emma said quickly. “I just...I’ve got to get back home. Or, well, to Reese’s at least.” The smile flashed again, not quite meeting her eyes and the walls were higher than they had been before, blocking out everything she was thinking or worried about and in the next few days, Killian would blame that for his desperation.

She pushed around him, muttering something about finding her heels and where the closest one train was and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her up short in front of him. “Emma,” he sighed. “Come on, talk to me.” “What about? People are going to know. They’re going to talk.”

“I don’t care.” “I do. We decided. Under the radar.” “Fine, Swan. That’s fine, but you can at least be comfortable here. You don’t have to worry about anything here.” “I’m not uncomfortable.” Killian eyed her meaningfully and she shifted her stance, chin jutted out a bit as she met his gaze.

“Why did you tell me about Milah?” “Why did you tell me about Neal?” Emma huffed, lips pressed together tightly and they’d run straight into arguing far too quickly. “We shouldn’t have done that,” she said softly. “This was supposed to be…” “What?” “Easy.” “Is it not?” “Not if you’re sharing deep, dark secrets and people are talking and thinking the only reason I’m here is because Ruby got me the job and so I could fill some sort of role in your team’s ridiculous relationship circle.” “No one thinks that, Swan. I don’t think that.” “No?” “Of course not. I care about you. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear.” “If you’re talking about last night…” “I’m not.” “What then?”

He took a shaky step forward, far too aware of what would happen if he said too much or didn’t say enough and it felt a bit like balancing on some sort of ridiculously sharp knife. She flinched when he tried to touch the back of her wrist and Killian barely suppressed his groan, closing his eyes lightly.

“You’re not just filling some sort of role in any sort of relationship circle,” Killian said slowly. “And if you want to keep doing under the radar, fine, they all believed us the other day when we promised there wasn’t anything going on. But I told you I cared and I do and I told you about Milah because I care.” “I don’t understand.”

“I never thought I’d be able of letting go of her...of my Milah. I didn’t think that was possible. That’s why they tried for the set-up in the first place. I’ve been some sort of fifth and seventh and ninth wheel for the better part of the last five years. They were trying to help. Eventually I should probably thank them since they did.” “Did what?” Killian took a deep breath, throat tight and mouth dry, but the words felt simple when he said them. “I didn’t think there would ever be anyone else. That is, until I met you.” Emma didn’t say anything, phone falling out of her hand and clattering against the carpet under her feet and that wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for. He’d at least hoped she’d say something back.

And, then, when she finally did, he wished he hadn’t heard her.

“I’ve got to go,” she said quickly, crouching to grab her phone and slip her feet into her heels and the door shook in its frame when she slammed it shut behind her.