#i love this mug so much its actually insane

[home-and-having-tea]

My ass: I don't have an unhealthy and likely neurodivergent attachment to inanimate objects

The humble and sturdy bee flower mug:

[ynnova]

( 🌐 ) ─── MOMENTS FROM Y/N’S 3AM LIVESTREAMS THAT LIVE RENT FREE IN MY HEAD

word count : 1.9k | bullet - point format

[ overview of y/n's livestreams ]

3am livestreams aren't uncommon when it comes to you

you usually always do these behind the company's back and it entails you doing several different things like:

gaming – often playing horror games in the dark

atiny have clips from when you played all of outlast and how terrified you were

side note: you couldn't sleep alone for the next two weeks after playing outlast

singing – this is rare because the last time you tired singing it was when you and atiny got into an argument over shrek 2's "i need a hero" and whether or not its the best animated musical number in existence

spoiler alert: it is and you still refuse to apologize for calling atiny uncultured over it

tier list – you've done a few like ranking barbie movie villains or fnaf ucn dialogues

emotional rants and sleep deprived rants – you should be asleep but you aren't

[ clip #1 : animated musical number debate ]

time has clearly passed when the clip starts

you have a slight crazed look in your eyes as you stare at the camera, eyes watching the chat

pretty sure your eye twitched at some point during the long silence

your hair was messy from having run your fingers through it several times – maybe pulled it a few times in angry

a half-eaten snack laid next to you – forgotten

y/n: no. i'm being serious, "i need a hero" from shrek 2 is THE best musical number in all of animated movie history

your eyes watch the chat explode in response

y/n: what the he– what do you mean "under the sea" is better?? what kind of uncultured swine says the little mermaid is better than shrek 2!!!

y/n: that's literally the BEST sequel in existence!! i can't believe you people

you then grab your ipad – another moment a silence passing through as you are aggressively tapping on your ipad's screen

then you are turning the volume UP before turning the ipad around so atiny can watch the shrek 2 scene.

y/n: this scene is a masterpiece – if you don't agreed then you are uncultured and your bias doesn't love you

chat immediately started screaming in chat but you ignored them

lipsinging the words of not only the song but the entire scene

you had it memorized

you called atiny who disagreed with you uncultured a few more times before you ended the live in anger – some cuss words in both korean, japanese, and english left your lips

you were promptly banned from having any solo lives for the next few months

but did that really stop you 🤷‍♀️

[ clip #2 : playing outlast so y/n losses her mind ]

your room was shrouded in complete darkness

the only light coming from your monitor and it wasn't enough

anyone watching could see the fear in your eyes

y/n: i am a grown woman, i can do this.

y/n: i'm not scared... okay, i'm gonna start... 😣

atiny: you sure about that??

is a completely mess from beginning to end

but you did it

you played outlast in one entire livestream

def screamed several times during the jumpscares – and when you get jumpscared... you jump

at one point yunho came in and sat next to you as some sort of comfort

yunho: why don't i turn on your lamp so you aren't completely in the dark

y/n: noooooo 😣 that ruins the atmosphere!!

yunho leaves to go back to bed, telling you "don't scare yourself too much"

would pause the game every time you got scared

atiny were actually surprised you finished the game at the rate you were going 😮‍💨

atiny: are you going to play the dlc and sequel

y/n: are you insane!? i barely survived this game! i'm not gonna sleep for a week, goodnight you weirdos.

[ clip #3 : relationship advice stream ]

starts off pretty normal – honestly wouldn't guess this was a 3am livestream

this one was livestreamed in a hotel room – you clearly tired from a day of schedules

but you were powering through it – blanket wrapped around you and tea in a cute mug you recently bought in your hands

glasses perched on your nose

especially after you noticed one atiny asking relationship advice

atiny: my boyfriend and i are in a long distance relationship, any advice??

y/n: communication i would say is a big thing. not just texting everyday, but making sure to have real conversation. talking about things you would in any other relationship. i think also making sure to make time for each other every now and then. virtual dates, sending each other small gifts – celebrating the small wins and not just the big victories.

and then the livestream developed into you giving relationship advice for the next 40 minutes

and then–

atiny: what's your and san's relationship like? does he spoil you? do you guys argue?

you couldn't help but laugh when you read that question

y/n: i think our relationship is at a good point right now. we've been together for a few years now and really now how to communicate and talk to each other about our problems. we also know when to give each other space – like on days off, we don't always spend those days together.

you can't help but smile at the thought of san and how much you love him

y/n: he spoils me a lot – always has. he buys me my favorite snacks all the time and lets me lay my head on his shoulder and play with his hands when i'm bored or nervous.

oh, girl, you are so in love.

y/n: i don't think we've had a serious argument in a long time. when we do then its about one of us pushing ourselves too much and not taking a break. when i had my stage accident, i think that's when our relationship hit a bump because san was worried about me... but we communicate and talk it out which helps.

y/n: i couldn't imagine not having sannie in my life ☺️

[ clip #4 : the kiss ]

the clip starts with you sitting on your bed, phone propped up like usual as you are talking with atiny – some lofi music playing through your small speaker by the bed

loud enough for atiny to hear, but not loud enough for it to be disruptive for the others in the dorm

everything is going like how it usually is with you talking about what you've been up to lately

but without spoiling anything too major in ateez's schedule

you're sitting crossed leg on your bed, ipad in lap when your bedroom door slowly opens

at first it doesn't catch your attention – you too invested in fixing the graphic you've been making for your digital journal

atiny immediately see the person enter your room and recognize them as san

chat starts to explode, but you still haven't noticed

you jump a little when san places a hand on your back – looking up to meet his sleepy eyes

y/n: what are you doing babe?

san: i should be asking you that

you grin at him and he smiles back before leaning down and capturing your lips in a kiss

you are completely caught off guard

atiny are screaming in chat – fans already screen-recording the entire thing

and san none the wiser about your livestream

you pull away looking at him shocked and san is so confuse

y/n: i'm live!

silence.

neither of you say anything for about ten seconds – just staring at each other before you are reaching over and–

livestream has ended.

[ clip #5 : "why are you 🫵 still awake?" ]

you are sitting on your bed, showing your bullet journal you've been working on to atiny

you really looked like a teacher reading a book to her class

you were talking about how you've been working on it between schedules and during downtime at fansigns and such

y/n: i've seen junk journals have been trending and they look cool. think i might try and start one in the next month

atiny told you, you should do it

as you're in the middle of talking, you immediately stop

eyes go wide as your head turns towards your bedroom door

y/n: uh-oh 😳

atiny: WHAT WHAT WHAT!??!?!?

y/n: he's home...

atiny immediately knew who you were talking about–

hongjoong

they couldn't hear it, but you could hear the dorm door opening and closing and hongjoong walking down the hallway

atiny had never seen you try to turn everything off so fast

like you were trying to trick hongjoong into thinking you were asleep

but then your door opens and you freeze – atiny watching thought it was frozen because you refused to move

hongjoong came into frame and the two of you just looked at each other

silence – did it freeze again??

y/n: why are you coming home so late?! 🫵🫵🫵 do you have any idea what time it is

hongjoong was APPALLED by your comment

hongjoong: do i have any idea what time it is?? do you have any idea what time it is?!

he then notices the livestream and glares at you

hongjoong: and are you livestreaming!? didn't i tell you to stop doing that at this hour!

y/n: mind your business! i was just about to end it–

lies

the clip continues with you and hongjoong going back and forth with each other before he makes you end the livestream to go to bed

y/n: he's using his leader powers guys 😔

[ clip #6 : sleepy y/n and seonghwa ]

the clip starts with you laying in bed, phone propped up on your bedside

you are clearly on your way to sleepland but are answering atiny's questions

atiny watching can hear your bedroom door creak open and your eyes look to see who is entering

you immediately perk up at however just came in – the person chuckles softly at your reaction

their hand coming out to pat your head and that's when he comes into frame

seonghwa – in his pajamas and hair slightly tousled from sleep

seonghwa: why are you still awake, y/nnie? go to sleep.

y/n: i'm talking to atiny!

seonghwa: you're going to make yourself sick if you stay up too late.

as you and him go back and forth, atiny gush over seonghwa's caring nature

atiny: omg seonghwa is so cute trying to get y/n to sleep

y/n: why don't you stay with me for a bit? you can keep me company while i finish answering questions! then i'll go to bed, promise!

all previous sleepiness had seemingly disappeared

seonghwa: i'm not indulging in your poor sleep habits, but fine 😮‍💨

seonghwa settles in beside you and chat explodes

atiny: SEONGHWA IN THE 3AM LIVE NOW WOOHOO

y/n: don't act too excited guys 😒

the live continues with you answering questions – you leaning against seonghwa

slowly your energy starts to leave you once more and seonghwa is already closing his eyes

blanket covering the both of you

seonghwa is quickly falling asleep, turning over and clearly getting comfortable

he isn't going anywhere anytime soon 😪

and you're not far behind him – eyes closing and mindlessly snuggling into seonghwa

stealing his body heat

atiny are absolutely losing it in chat over the two of you falling asleep together

the livestream didn't end until your phone eventually died which was promptly two hours after you and seonghwa fell asleep.

[arijackz]

PICK A CARD: What Will Your FS Admire Most About You?

⚤ “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” - Pablo Neruda

Disclaimer: This is a general reading, take what resonates. This is a gender-neutral reading, disregard any pronouns that do not apply to you.

p1 → p2 ↙︎ p3 → p4

✠ Pile One ✠ (King of Cups,Page of Cups,The World,7)

✧ Cards went wiillldddd. You stir up so much emotion in this person, it’s crazy. Your heart chakra is front and center here. You are picture-perfect harmony and universal love to your spouse. Your love can’t be contained, you love them, your friends, your favorite mug, worms out in the rain, strangers, the moon, and all the stars in the sky.

✧ All I see is a wide-ass smile, the biggest, wateriest eyes, and full cheeks. Your spouse thinks you’re sunshine-incarnated.

✧ This will sound corny, but your heart and love for the world and all its diversity make you appear angelic; God’s gift to humanity. The emotional depth you have is nothing shy of divine. Your ability to understand and reconnect your person with their inner dreamer makes you irreplaceable in their eyes. 

✧ I feel like your future spouse had to navigate around a lot of emotionally stunted people who left scars that prevented them from forming healthy relationships. Your empathy and desire to make space for peace and unity in this world give them hope that true love is alive and they are the lucky son of a bitch who gets to call an angel, theirs.

✧ I smell salt and hear waves. (I bet you’re tired of the cheesy poetry but HEY, me and your boo are OBSESSED with your energy) You truly are as beautiful and powerful as the seven seas.

✧ You know the Ouroboros, and how it's sometimes depicted as a snake wrapped around the oceans, holding onto its tail to keep the world together? Yea, that. To your future partner, you hold the key to their world. You add so much color and vibrancy. You turn over their inner ocean and awaken so much repressed child-like wonder within them.

✧ Wow. Your spouse loves the depths of you.

✧ Check for water placements, signs, and houses, in your natal chart. Some of you have insane intuition and have clairsenses. Clairaudience to be specific.

✧ Some of you are active in charities or aspire to make a difference in society. Maybe you’re into esoteric practices or anything else metaphysical.

✧ I even have a few philosophers here. Okay, KANT! (somebody please get this joke)

She Excites the Seven Seas

✠ Pile Two ✠ (Ace of Pentacles,8oW,The Emperor rev., “I Want”)

I love the kind of woman that will actually just kill me

✧ Of course, you don’t have to be a woman but that TikTok sound SCREAMED at me. Your future spouse is lowkey intimidated by you and they love it.

✧ You have big dreams. Big plans. But most importantly, a million and one ways to get you where you need to be. Your ability to say “I want this,” and then actually go out and GET it?? Your spouse is like the meme that goes “I’m a little scared, but I’m turned on.”

✧ I also see that you’re unconventional. If people have been doing whatever you want to do a certain way for years, you'll find ways to do it differently, just cause. You’re a true trailblazer. Your self-conviction is so damn alluring. Even for the people who struggle with insecurity sometimes, once you get over that hump and decide that you desire something, you fucking get it. Your partner sees you like magic. They are impressed by just how quickly your desires are set in motion for you. They feel that you are powerful and bring a great deal of power to them from just being in your proximity.

✧ You are also the “I don’t take shit from nobody” type. Not from strangers, not from your friends, your family, not even from your partner. In their eyes, you know your worth and have a strong self-foundation that nobody can tear down. There is genuine admiration and respect here. I even get the “I want to be like you when I grow up” mentality.

✧ There is a speediness to you they find very attractive. Either the way you behave, speak, or just stress about time, your pacing holds a special place in their heart. (or maybe, despite all of your responsibilities, you manage to find stillness in the chaos and slow down when necessary)

✧ The way you speak drives this person wild. It's like your voice narrates their thoughts and is the source of all of their arousal. Do with that information what you will...(don't be cruel, you make this person so nervous).

✧ I shuffled through a playlist and E-GIRLS ARE RUINING MY LIFE!! by Corpse came on and one of the lyrics goes,

She just look into my soul with them Shinigami eye Coke in my nose and a blade on her thigh. Man, I think this girl is really trying to plan my demise

✧ Yea, you put the fear of God into this person, but in a good way! Your presence can be chilling sometimes. Fire energy for sure. There are definitely people here from pile 2 of my first pac, “What are your most alluring qualities?”, check that out if you want to.

✧ Okay, this energy has me needing to take a LAP, bye.

"Man, I Think This Girl Tryna Plan My Demise"

✠ Pile Three ✠ (10oW, 9oW)(no other cards wanted to come out, real stubborn)

✧ Okay so, this feels specific?... and maybe even a lil off topic but I feel called to say this

✧ I sense that you and your person are psychically connected and share the mutual feeling that the two of you are meant to cross paths. The both of you have gotten your fair share of fuckery in this lifetime and this union feels like divine justice.

✧ This sounds a little fucked up, but you guys flourish amid trauma. Dark energy alchmaziers. You best wield your potential while you’re going THROUGH it.

✧ You had to “die” and bury yourself a dozen times to get where you are today.

✧ You are a very evolved individual. Throughout your life, traumatic events and relationships have forced you to bear a lot of weight on your back and it’s like the pressure has forged you into a diamond. With each curveball life threw at you, you stood tall and pushed to make something of yourself, proving your worth after a lifetime of strife and instability.

✧ Scorpio/Capricorn and 8th house/10th house placements. (check midpoints).

✧ A lot of you have tense shoulders, upper back, shoulder, and neck pain from the unease and anxiety your body carries. You have insomnia and may even struggle with nightmares.

✧ This person you’re coming into union with is so healing.

✧ This is something the both of you broke down and prayed for on your darkest days. This is a true partner, the soul that kept yours warm when the world was so cold. You had to put your dreamier side on the back burner to survive. This person will make you feel safe to dream again.

✧ I don’t have anything specific to say because you and your person feel so secretive  You two recognize each other’s pain and are the only people you guys trust. Like not even lil ol’ me can really get through to y'all. Y’all ride AND die for each other, in this life and the next.

✧ If you’re into astrology and already have a feel for who this person is, check your guys’ composite chart. Strong Scorpio energy here.

✧ Coming into union with this person will feel like a wish fulfillment.

✧ (short pile, it felt like a quick message for those of you who feel this connection telepathically. This is probably a secondary choice.)

"I Want To Caress The Piece of Me Within You"

✠ Pile Four ✠ (Queen of Wands, 9oP rev., 7oP, 4oP rev., the high priestess, queen of cups, “I will”)

✧ You’re a bad bitch, truly. Your fs isn’t calling you a bitch, buuuttttt she a baddie, she know she a ten! She a baddie with her baddie…. wait a minute…

✧ You may not have a lot of friends? You keep your circle tight-knit because you have been deeply hurt in the past and you guard your peace fiercely. For some of you, your home life was quite tumultuous and you struggle with financial security and inner happiness. It seemed like the world did not want you to feel good about yourself or succeed.

✧ Do you know that viral display of a deer’s ribcage with a spear through it, and how even though an attempt was made on the deer’s life, he managed to survive and lived for years after that event; all while still growing bone marrow with a giant fucking spear through its ribcage?

✧ “A close encounter with a hunter left the deer with several broken ribs and part of an arrow embedded in its body. Remarkably, the animal survived, and bone grew around the shaft and arrowhead lodged in the creature's side."

✧ "The deer lived with the arrow inside its body until years later, when another hunter killed the animal, cut the deer open, and discovered its amazing secret…As the tough tissue formed over the arrow, it acted as a splint for the damaged rib cage, strengthening the deer's injured body.”

✧ I highlighted some words that needed emphasizing. That’s how your partner sees you. They are in complete awe of the resilience and sheer tenacity you hold. They look at you and can’t believe the person before their eyes. The troubling history you usually try to hide from your romantic partners is exactly what allures this person. 

✧ You won’t ever lay on your belly and cry about life passing you by. You aren’t the type to victimize yourself and “woe is me” your way out of self-improvement.

✧ You are quite ambitious and aim to push forward, even if the odds are stacked against you.

✧ I get the message that some people in this pile have struggled with self-harm over the years. Your partner wants to kneel down and kiss your scars like a white knight, and vow to protect you emotionally and physically for as long as you’ll have them.

✧ The spear-deer imagery is so interesting. The deer represents virality. It is a symbol of piety, gentleness, devotion, and fertility. Especially with the queen of wands, the high priestess, AND the queen of cups, you provide profound love, passion, and insight to this person. However, even as a deer, you are quite badass???

✧ You are as gentle as a strand of hair but as strong as wool. Dainty but unbreakable.

✧ They have no desire to infantilize you because they know you are already your own greatest warrior. But they don’t want you to feel that you have to fight alone. Whatever burdens are on your plate, they take away as much as possible because they want to be a piece of the paradise you fight for.

✧ This is meant to be a short pac, a Tumblr post won’t do the unbelievable strength in your character much justice. Just know that your fs is so fucking in love with you and wants to spend their life by your side because of just how awe-struck they are by you.

✧ I mean c’mon… will YOU ever forget the story of the coolest fucking deer in existence??

"I Yearn To Be the Name You Call Out in Victory"

[withacapitalp]

Stuff Me, Hug Me, Take Me Home

@stevesbipanic B HAPPY VALENTINES!!! Tis I! Your secret admirer!!! I loved this prompt and I had so much fun with it thank you so much and I hope you love it!!! Special thanks to @thefreakandthehair and @hairstevington for listening to be a little feral and insane about the first thing I'm writing in a very long time

Read on AO3 instead

If there was one place Eddie never expected to end up at on Valentine’s Day, it was the mall. 

When Steve had asked to ‘take point’ this year, Eddie had imagined a day at the lake, maybe a secret picnic, perhaps even a scenic road trip. Something that was their style. A tucked away moment, quiet and held close, so it belonged to just the two of them. 

There was no way the mall - the epicenter of American greed and capitalistic cannibalism - would have that. 

“I can’t believe I found this parking spot!” Steve crowed, tossing Eddie a winning smile as he threw the car into park and grabbed his phone from where it was charging, “Wasn’t that lucky?”

“Sure, Stevie,” Eddie agreed, trying to hide his disdain, but definitely failing given the way Steve’s smile dipped. The mall loomed over them, blocking out the sun with its oppressively boxy architecture, and Eddie couldn’t help his own glow starting to dim. 

The day had started so promisingly. Steve had woken up early and slipped out of bed without Eddie realizing, coming home with ludicrously over decorated heart shaped donuts and coffee from their favorite bakery. They had traded lazy sugar-filled kisses, cuddling and watching Labyrinth. 

Hell, Steve had even managed to almost hide how much he disliked the movie, commenting on David Bowie’s ass and conveniently ignoring the plot and puppets. He hadn’t even texted Robin all morning!

And now…well now they were at the mall. 

“Are we going to a movie or something? We could’ve just gone to The Hawk. You know IMAX movies give me headaches.” Eddie said as they exited the beemer. Steve came around the front, grabbing Eddie’s hand and squeezing it twice - their signal for needing the other person to listen. 

“Trust me?” Steve offered, chewing on the inside of his lip and giving Eddie the big puppy dog eyes he could never resist. Eddie groaned, grumbling softly to himself as he lifted their joined hands up to his lips. 

“Always,” he whispered back, sealing the promise with a kiss. 

As much as Eddie hated to admit it, the mall actually wasn’t as bad as he had imagined. His brain had conjured up tortuous images of packs of useless husbands trolling around for a cheap gift to pawn off on their wives, or hordes of angsty teens lamenting not having someone to share the holiday with. 

But at almost four in the afternoon it was sleepy, practically dead. And besides, it was hard to look around when Steve was dragging him forward with a single-minded determination. All Eddie could do was try and keep up, shooting glances at his boyfriend to try and catch his eye, wondering why Steve was suddenly loath to meet his gaze. 

Then they were stopping short, Eddie stumbling and nearly tripping as Steve let go of his hand out of nowhere. He righted himself, about to tell Steve off for acting so weird, when he looked up and was struck speechless. 

“You mentioned that you always wanted to go here, but that Wayne never had the money for it,” Steve mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck and leaning out of Eddie’s space as he continued to avoid eye contact.

Eddie had told him that, but just once. Only once. He could remember the exact moment. The two of them in the kitchen of their apartment right after the move, unpacking mugs as Eddie told the story of each one and placed it with care on the shelf. It was the last mug, the final story of that night. 

“My dad promised me he would take me to Build-a-Bear for my fifth birthday. And my sixth. And my seventh. By my eighth, I stopped answering when he asked me what I wanted, ‘cause I knew it didn’t matter. By ten I was already living with Wayne, and I didn’t even want to ask him, I knew we couldn’t afford it. Wayne found out anyway, because he’s Wayne, and so he got me this mug for my eleventh birthday, and told me it was an IOU. I don’t even know why I wanted to go to build-a-bear so badly, I just got it in my head that having my own bear would be special. Something that was mine, and always would be, you know?” 

And now here Eddie was, standing in front of an ostentatiously yellow store with his heart settled neatly in his throat. 

“I know it’s kind of silly now, because we’re almost thirty. You might not even care anymore, but I thought maybe it would be a nice Valentine’s Day gift? We could build you a bear, and then you would have him forever and always,” Steve explained, his thoughtfulness continuing to choke Eddie to death. 

Eddie didn’t believe in God, but it was hard to believe there wasn’t something looking out for him. Something had to have given him Steve. There was no way this wonderful, beautiful man just landed in his lap. 

“I’m sorry I-” Steve began, obviously misinterpreting Eddie’s silence. 

“I love it,” Eddie said, cutting off the apology before it could truly begin. 

He couldn’t let Steve doubt this, not even for a single second. Eddie cleared his throat roughly, blindly reaching out and latching onto Steve’s wrist, pulling his boyfriend close and wrapping him in the tightest hug possible as he continued to ramble.

“I do, I love it and I- thank you, Stevie. You’re so- you’re just- thank you, thank you, thank you,” 

“Easy, Eds,” Steve murmured, the tips of his ears turning pink as he pressed their cheeks together and gave Eddie a parting squeeze. Eddie let him pull away, but didn’t let him go, interlocking their fingers as he began to bounce in place. 

“We’re going to Build-a-Bear!” Eddie giggled, his joy beginning to spill all over the place.

Steve nodded, smiling just as brightly as Eddie. But, when Eddie went to pull him forward, Steve held fast, keeping them both in place. 

“There’s just one rule. I don’t want you to look at prices at all. You get whatever you want, however you want it. Got it?” Steve said with a mock stern look. Eddie opened his mouth to agree, then hesitated.

It wasn’t like they were destitute. Between Steve’s job as a sub and Eddie’s work at the garage, they were making good money. But with rent, Steve's tuition, and the regular expenses, they didn’t exactly have a lot of cash to blow on fulfilling a childhood dream. 

“I’ve been saving for this, baby. Been doing extra tutoring on the nights you were with the guys playing dungeons and dorks,” Steve admitted, a pretty blush sitting high on his cheeks. Eddie’s heart clenched up again, and he couldn’t resist dragging Steve into a chaste but forceful kiss. 

“You’re the most amazing partner, you know that, right?” Eddie whispered against his lips. Steve ducked his head, pulling away and squeezing Eddie’s fingers silently as they walked into the store.  

The store was almost empty, even quieter than the mall itself. A couple of parents were watching their daughters giggle over clothes for their new stuffed animals, and a young couple was chatting by the little clawfoot bathtubs in the back, but other than that it was just the two of them. There was some bubblegum pop playing in the background, the kind of thing Steve liked to listen to when he made dinner at night. The sound of it settled Eddie instead of setting his teeth on edge, and he couldn’t help leaning against Steve as they approached the bins of unstuffed bears. 

“Go on, pick your new friend,” Steve said, nudging Eddie forward and taking a step back to watch. 

It was easy to eliminate some choices off the bat. Eddie took away anything that was themed for Valentines, or promotional, and he pretty quickly decided against anything that wasn’t a traditional bear. Normally he would’ve loved the contrarian energy of building a dragon or a unicorn, but he wasn’t just making this for right now. This was also for the little Eddie that had dreamt of having that perfect plush bear to snuggle with at night. 

But the problem was, he had never really imagined what the bear looked like. 

“Help me?” Eddie whined, turning back to Steve who shook his head fondly but walked forward anyway. Steve perused the options for a second before reaching into a bin and pulling out a charcoal black bear with brown eyes.

“What about this one? If you give him a battle vest and a band tee he would be a mini-you,” Steve offered, holding the bear out. Eddie took it, letting his fingers run over the fur and imagining the bear properly stuffed and dressed. 

It was perfect. 

They walked past the bear bins, up to a stand with plastic cases and the words “HEAR ME” above it in bright red letters. 

“Okay, one more rule for today. Cover your ears and turn around,” Steve ordered, putting his hands on his hips and giving Eddie a no-nonsense look. Eddie raised a brow, briefly considering putting up a fight, just for the heck of it. 

But there was something in Steve’s face, a glint in his eyes that just bordered on the edge of panic and a crook in his smile that made it sit not quite straight on his face. Whatever he was doing, it was probably something big. 

So, instead of being a gremlin, Eddie remained obedient, turning on his heel and cupping his ears, humming one of the band’s latest creations for good measure. He managed to get all the way through the first two choruses and up to the bridge before he felt a soft hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes. 

“Time for the best part,” Steve said in a soft sing-song tone, pushing Eddie towards the machine filled with stuffing where an employee was patiently waiting for them. 

“Hi there, guys!” She said with a bright grin, “My name is Rosie, and I’m here to help you bring your friend to life.”

Steve, being the amazing boyfriend he was, somehow sensed Eddie’s hesitancy, speaking for both of them as they got closer. “I’m Steve, and that’s Eddie. It’s his first time here.” 

“That’s so great! Okay so I am going to stuff your new friend exactly how you’d like him, then you’re going to pick a heart out of this box and follow all my instructions,” she explained in a patient but authoritative tone that reminded Eddie so much of Nancy he almost laughed out loud. He willingly handed over the bear, watching as she lined him up with the machine. 

“Firm or soft?” 

“Soft,” Eddie answered automatically, going with his gut. 

Rosie nodded and went through the process of stuffing the bear, methodically filling up each paw and giving them a good squeeze before handing the bear to Eddie for a quick check. 

“Before we do the heart ceremony, do you want to add a smell to your bear? We have some of our scents here, and I can go to the back and get you any one off this list if you want.” She offered as Eddie held his bear close. 

“Remember our rule,” Steve whispered loudly in his ear, and Eddie rolled his eyes, his heart almost filled to the bursting. He pointed out a lemon scent on the list and they watched Rosie leave to grab it. 

“Why lemon?” Steve asked, cocking his head to one side. 

“Reminds me of how the house smells on Sundays,” Eddie replied. “All your favorite cleaning products smell like lemons, and all you drink from May to September is lemonade.” 

“It’s a refreshing smell,” Steve grumbled, not a trace of heat in his tone. Eddie chuckled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“Whatever you say, Lemon Boy,” he managed to get out just as Rosie returned, a yellow bear paw held in her hand. 

“Now while I put this in and add some final touches, you choose your heart and then we will do the heart ceremony.” She instructed. 

Eddie peered into the box, his eyes immediately locking onto a plaid heart. He plucked it out, showing it to Steve who couldn’t resist laughing. It was the exact same pattern as the god-awful wallpaper he had in his room when they first started dating, and, without words, they both knew what they were thinking about. 

“Okay, are you ready?” 

Eddie nodded, bouncing on the balls of his feet as Rosie stood in front of them and held out her hands. 

“So you’re going to hold the heart just like this,” she demonstrated, cupping her hands and beginning to rub her palms together, “and you’re going to make the heart all nice and warm and toasty for your new buddy over there!” 

Eddie followed her directions to the letter as she had him flip the heart and tap three times (“To wake up his heart and get it beating!”) and lifted the heart up to the sky and waved it back and forth to give his bear very high hopes. He even turned in a circle, delighting in listening to Steve laugh at his antics. 

This was the exact kind of thing Eddie loved to do most - put on a show and lose himself in being a little silly. 

“Now, rub the heart down your back, that way your buddy always has your back. Rub it down your side, so they stay by your side forever and always. Rub it across your cheeks, so your buddy is always smiling each and every day, and hold the heart to your chest to make a nice big wish!” 

Eddie paused for a second, closing his eyes and taking a second to think. He had lots of wishes. He wished his van would hold out for just one more paycheck, that the kids would enjoy the campaign he put together for them. He wanted Wayne to stay healthy, for Steve to pass his classes, for someone, anyone, to find the band and give them their big shot. 

But there was one wish that was more important than the rest. 

“The last thing is giving it a nice big kiss, so your buddy is always full of love.” Rosie said with a flourish. 

Eddie was about to lift the heart to his lips when he paused, turning to Steve and holding it out. Steve’s lip curled in a small, indulgent, smile, and he leaned forward, pressing a long kiss right in the middle of the fabric heart. The edge of his lip touched Eddie’s thumb, sending a shiver down his spine. 

From there the process moved quickly. Rosie sewed up his bear with deadly efficiency, and Eddie and Steve tag teamed the wall of outfits to find the perfect battle vest for Eddie’s bear. Before he knew it, Eddie was sat at a tiny little computer with his bear in his lap and Steve’s chin hooked over his shoulder, both of them staring down at the blank bear birth certificate.

“I don’t know what to name him,” Eddie moaned, leaning back against Steve, who appeared to be deep in thought. 

“Beddie.”

“Beddie?” Eddie repeated incredulously, turning to look at Steve properly. 

“Bear Eddie,” Steve shrugged, as if that made any sense at all. “He does look just like you.”

Eddie snorted, leaning forward and typing out the name, then hesitating and typing some more. 

“What do you think?” he asked, trying to hide the sudden nerves that were lighting up his veins. The last name wasn’t a huge risk to take, but it meant something, something far more than either of them were willing to admit just yet. 

“Perfect,” Steve said with a kiss pressed to Eddie’s cheek. 

And that was how Beddie Bearington ended up nestled between Eddie and Steve that night as they lounged on the couch. Steve had fallen asleep two episodes deep into their Survivor binge, and Eddie was content to stay exactly where he was for at least a few more hours. He dipped his head down, pressing his face to the center of the bear’s chest and smelling the candied lemon scent that permeated through the fur. As he continued to cuddle his bear, Eddie felt something hard and square in the left paw. He pulled back, perplexed by the sudden change, carefully feeling around the object and wondering what it might be. 

With a jolt, Eddie finally put together Steve’s behavior from before. He had somehow hidden a  sound box inside Eddie’s bear, that was the secret Steve hadn’t let him hear before. Eddie slapped his forehead with a palm, unable to believe he could’ve missed something so obvious. The boys would’ve had words to say about their DM being so unobservant. 

Eddie took a cursory look down to make sure Steve was still asleep, and then pressed it, putting the bear's paw up to his ear. He had expected a song, or even some funny sound. 

Nothing could have prepared him for the soft tone of Steve’s voice, fulfilling the secret wish he had put into his bear’s heart. 

“Hi Eddie, it’s me, your boyfriend, Steve. I want you to know that you are the funniest, sweetest, most creative person I know, and I’m so happy that I get to love you…because I do. I love you, Eddie.” 

“It’s true,” a voice whispered from below. Eddie moved the bear and there was Steve, staring up at him. “Sorry I couldn’t say it before.”

“I love you too,” Eddie whispered, almost in awe that he could finally say it and hear it back. 

He could hear it whenever he wanted. Eddie pressed the button on the box again just because he could. Steve’s words filled the air as Eddie nestled Beddie into the couch and dipped his head down, hair falling in a curtain around them as they shared another kiss. 

[n0vazsq]

All I wanted | Joao Felix x Reader

pairing . . . joao felix x ex!reader

summary . . . Joao was tired; tired of the memories, tired of the dreams, tired of the flashbacks. Everything led back to you and the moment where he lost you. It drove him insane, but all he could was reminisce the time you had together in solus.

request . . . no!!

word count . . . 758

warnings . . . angst!

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . a little short but yeah!! wrote this in school in a little hurry so ignore any typos or mistakes!!

. . . It was after training and Joao had just come home, his bones aching and breath ragged. He shivered slightly, the cold air of the house hitting his skin. The usual warmth was gone, now replaced with a cold, empty presence. No one was there to fill the absence.

He could hear his breathing echo throughout the walls, the quietness of the house louder than he thought, more than he thought it would be. For a second, he waited to hear your voice, stopping whatever you were doing and coming out to hug him.

But it wasn't there. The lack of your presence was obvious; no sounds, no footsteps, and certainly no rush to greet him.

He sighed slowly, taking off his shoes and walking into the kitchen. He subtly noted the mug out of place, which would normally be in the cupboard by now. As he walked to the fridge, he prepared himself to step on one of your hair clips, except they weren't there.

Joao felt like a stranger in his own home, as if he was intruding. Something was missing.

You were missing.

The living room felt too dark, too cold without you, and as he sat on the couch, he groaned at the uncomfort he felt. What once felt like a cozy, safe haven was now a lumpy, stuffy thing under him.

He hesitated, debating whether he should actually sit down or if he should sit on the chair to his right, as if he’s unsure whether it's still his space.

As he sank into the couch, he felt a weight he didn't expect, like it’s not quite the same anymore. It smelled faintly like you, the scent throwing him into a haze of memories and flashbacks

Ache filled his chest, heart longing for you. But you weren't there anymore, and it was all his fault.

Memories of you two flashed through his mind; laughing till you couldn't breath, laying down under the stars, holding each other to sleep, the simple comfort of just being around you.

Every single thing around him reminded him of you, even things he didn't realise were yours. Once, he felt warm and lovable, but now? Now he felt like a cold, empty void filled his heart. Everything seemed different, even the air.

Everything led back to you.

It was him who pushed you away, who told you he needed space, when all he needed was you. He regretted everything he said that night, so much. He knew he was hurting, and took it on you. The only person who actually understood him.

And just like, you were gone out of his life. He remembers the door banging shut as you left, his voice hoarse from shouting and arguing with you, a crumpled tissue in his hand, full of the tears you wiped away from your eyes and threw at him.

He didn't know why he did it, why he ended things. But he knew he wanted you back, so badly. And now, he's left wondering if you two could've fixed it, or if it was already too late by the time he finally realized.

He felt his heart tighten, the longing pain taking a hold of him. Everything seemed to suffocate him, as if a snake was being around his body, its hold tight and choking. His surroundings felt empty. Dark. Overwhelming.

The silence was deafening. Joao couldn't take it anymore.

The remote was laying beside him, and he grabbed it, switching on the large TV screen in front of him. The light shining at his face was too bright, and the show that was on was your favourite.

He'd do anything to get you to come home to him. To kiss him. To hug him. To love him.

Joao regretted his actions, he knew he messed up. He should've gathered his thoughts and followed you out as you shut the door. He should've went to your apartment and begged you for forgiveness. If he had done that, maybe he wouldn't be thinking about it now.

The idea haunts him, that everything between you could've been fixed with a few words, a little patience. He could be with you now, but no, he was and idiot and he lost you because of it.

The reality hits: it’s over. He knows you can’t go back to what you were. He tries to distract himself with everything around him, but it feels pointless. Everything felt pointless.

For now, all he could do was spend his days in a haze, reminiscing you

taglist . . . @barcapix ,, @f1lover55 ,, @ilovebarcaaaa ,, @notm4d1 ,, @httpsdana ,, @paucubarsisimp ,, @bernalswifeyy ,, @nngkay ,, @justaf1girl (lmk if you want to join the taglist!)

[fatesundress]

⭑ made with love. draco malfoy x reader

summary. it's winter, you’re sick, and draco is extremely rational a terrible, doting mess about it.

tags. fluff! so much fluff! married couple, gn!reader, lots of banter, post-hogwarts with one fleeting mention of the war, draco's anxiety is whetted by a common cold, he basically treats the reader like they hung the moon in the sky and also have the power to yank it down at any given moment. he's very grumpy. but so so in love. also i ignore that wizards canonically don't get sick because idgaf

note. my sweet anons!! i tried on three separate occasions to write the requests in my inbox but sometimes i need to be in the depths of hell (ovulation) to manage smut. i'm sorry. but the draco hyperfixation came out of NOWHERE and unfortunately i had to indulge in it. also thank you so much for 200! :’)

word count. 1.6k

You are deplorable.

With a fever temperature of 39° and explicit instructions to stay in bed, you’re discernibly not in bed when he makes it home from the apothecary, a jumbled mess of the blankets he’d swathed you in left in your place. Your slippers are absent. Your slippers — in two feet of snow. Your coat is gone too, at least; ridiculously thick and unnecessarily long, though now he’s thankful for it.

Draco paces. Then he sets the Pepperup Elixir over a flame at his desk to keep warm, pours two drops of Sleeping Draught into a mug for your tea, and paces again.

He should have insisted on binding rings for your wedding, he thinks. Something to trace you in emergencies. There’s little to do without them as you’ve evidently either taken the Floo or Apparated, and, in truth, he can’t remember the last time he’s been this nervous. In school, perhaps? During the war? You have him comparing his nerves over a bad cold to those he felt during war. The insanity of that is actually not lost on him, if that counts for anything.

But you are deplorable, and his. His almost as much as he is maddeningly, irremediably yours.

How he allowed an aliment like this to infect him goes against all evolutionary sense. It’s a fever of its own. Incurable despite knowing its cause, and probably festering worse than yours.

And then the fireplace hisses and out you stumble with soot on one cheek and frost on the other, the neck of your coat zipped up to swallow half of your face. In an arm shoved deep in your pocket, a bag swings from the puffy coat crease of your elbow, and Draco baulks. It’s a muggle grocery bag — translucent enough that he can see the square imprint of your favourite sleepy-time tea, a chocolate bar, cans of what he thinks are soup, and — a lemon? Yes. A big miserable lemon that you’ve deigned was worth almost killing yourself over.

Draco does not hear whatever excuses escape your chattering teeth as he plucks your hand from its pocket, puts the bag down, pulls off your coat while you slap at his hands and insist you can do it yourself, and only because he thinks you’d hex him to oblivion if he tried, leads you with a hand on your back to the bedroom rather than hauling you into his arms and carrying you.

“A lemon,” he says, and is aware by the severity of his tone he might as well be saying a gun, or a missile, or a milk crate of Living Death cartons. “You forayed into a snowstorm for a lemon. Do you think I’m incapable of reading a grocery list? I just Flooed —”

“I got more than a lemon,” you huff in a weak voice.

It is appalling that that’s what you take from his admonishment.

Your snow-soaked slippers are tossed aside as you tumble into bed. Draco bundles you in blankets and holds his wand out to take your vitals. You roll your eyes all the while, but once the cold wears off he’s sure you’ll be burning hotter than you were this morning.

He shakes his head. “Lemons are common stock in apothecaries, you know. The shavings are essential in Weedosoros antidotes.”

“Yes, but they’re always so dry.”

“And chocolate — they sell it at Téa’s across the street for the magizoologists. Did you know that?”

“Hmph. No Cadbury, though.”

“And I’ve already warmed the Pepperup and poured you Sleeping Draught, despite your urgency for this —” He pulls the box of tea from your grocery bag, impressed with an image of a little bear with a red nightcap, a steaming cuppa, and a plate of biscuits — “Inarguably superior muggle panacea —”

“I never claimed it was a panacea —”

“Of which we should have distributed to St. Mungo’s en masse. In fact, I should owl them now so they’re informed the Sleeping Draughts are ineffective by comparison —”

“You’re insufferable —”

“Imagine all the orphans without rest —”

“Actually ridiculous —”

“You’re ridiculous. And I hate this bear. Look at his hat. Bloody Gryffindor.”

“Do you know what the wizarding world is lacking? — If you’re concerned enough to make a donation, Mr Malfoy?”

You think it’s hilarious to call him that. He does well not to mention you are, by law, also a Malfoy, and his money is your money to donate as you please.

“What is that?”

“Soup,” you say. “Canned soup — canned with love.”

“We are lacking soup canned with love,” Draco repeats, just to be sure.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be sure to write the Minister.”

“Do.”

“Only if you stay in bed.”

“Hmmm… mmmm… well. Hm.”

“Incorrigible,” he mumbles, brushing the damp from your face before getting up to fix your tea. (He kisses your cheek for good measure, big sop that he is. You do well not to mention it.) “Don’t move or I’ll cast wards on the fireplace.”

“Oh! Cast wards on the doors, too. I might go for a walk.”

He glares at you from the archway. Your answering laugh is broken by a coughing fit, and you look reluctantly glum when he raises a told-you-so brow.

Draco mutters about how ridiculous you are through the kitchen and back, as he steeps your tea, heats your soup, unstoppers the Pepperup Elixir, pours it in an old shot glass from a trip to Italy (you have no graduated plastic cups lying around), squeezes the big stupid lemon in your tea, carries it all to your bed on a tray and realises, still muttering, that these are a lot of steps. But Draco balances the tray without an utterance of magic. It’s rather impressive. You should be sorely sorry.

You are, instead, asleep.

You’re splayed across the bed like something Baroque, limbs fascinatingly posed: half under the blankets and half stubbornly poking out despite his fervent tucking, head nuzzled into the pillow with a slight frown. If Draco were any better with a camera he’d take a picture. Instead he takes careful steps to your bedside, placing the tray on the nightstand and sitting as close as he can manage without disturbing the (once more, revolutionary) arrangement of your legs. It feels criminal to wake you. His fretful anger that you’d gone out in the cold is whittled to a humiliatingly thin and empty husk, and all that remains is mushy adoration. Damn you for that; you look ridiculous anyhow.

Draco kisses your cheek again. Your nose. Your forehead. He traces an invisible portrait of your face with his fingers, as if he’s ever drawn anything better than nasty stick figures on crumpled parchment in school. You, though, he thinks he knows well enough by memory to try.

You stir, not too far from consciousness that it’s a challenge to find it again, but far enough to be audibly vexed by his summons to the surface.

Draco means to berate you in that way he's so good at — chin pointed and scowl permanently etched — but you grumble with a sick, hoarse voice and he falters in a pathetic display. “You forgot your love-suffused muggle soup,” he whispers, one hand cupping your cheek.

“Ugh.”

“Heinous, I know. Sit up for me?”

“Magic word.”

There’s his scowl. “Alohomora.”

“Not that magic word.”

“Imperio.”

“Unforgivables, Draco Malfoy?”

“Hmm, Locomotor Wibbly?”

You sink further into the bed, pulling the uppermost blanket over your head inch by inch. 

“Please,” he says, with profound displeasure.

You sit up and smile.

Draco sighs and lays the legs of the tray out over your lap. You regard his service with sleepy content, one of your hands travelling to his face in what his heart surges to appreciate is an honest thanks after his several near-heart attacks, and then your gaze finds the medically expert Pepperup in an Italian shot glass and it falls.

You groan. “Draco…”

His name says, quite plainly, please don’t make me.

Draco has enough self-respect to at least deny you this. “Wards.”

That says, quite plainly, I was not joking about the fireplace.

You look as though you’re contemplating the severity of two horrors, but it passes fleetingly, with one curse under your breath and a sour expression as you down the shot of Pepperup like… a shot. Burning Ogden’s that scrunches your face up until you shake it away with a blagh noise. 

Come to think of it, Draco's choice of glass is much more appropriate than some medical cup.

“Better?”

You shudder. “I will be.”

“Good. Have your love soup and stupid lemons.”

And then, when he isn’t expecting it, your hot palm finds the place it left off; Draco’s healthily warm, sharp cheek, the soft fuzz of hair beside his ears before your fingers card through the longer strands and you hum like he’s your favourite thing to hold onto.

He melts, eyes fluttering shut. You’re sick, and wholeheartedly deplorable, but you’re safe, and it’ll be alright.

“Draco?”

“Mm.”

“The soup.”

He opens his eyes. “The soup?”

“You know it was canned with love.”

“I trust you wouldn’t have bought it otherwise.”

“And,” you say, thumb flush over his bottom lip as you smile a groggy, self-satisfied smile, “it was made with love, too, right?”

He rolls his eyes, and kisses you nonetheless. “You never cease to ask absurd questions.”

[multiheadcanons]

I FORGOT I WAS A SPORTS GAY UNTIL THIS REQUEST. MERCS PLAYING BASEBALL, IM GONNA CALL THEM THE TEUFORT CROOKS

scout: scout gets shortstop because as the guy with the most knowledge about america’s former favorite pastime, he needs to be where everyone is the worst at. and he didn’t want to pitch or catch. fast on his feet with killer (literally) reflexes, scout is a vicious shortstop. nobody can truly cover the amount of ground scout can in the time he takes to do so. most people don’t get past scout once they’re face to face with him. by american league rules, he’s the designated hitter, but he normally plays by national league rules, since most of his team is european. he is, however, the best hitter on the team. that’s not to say the team sucks, its just that scouts quality and consistency hitting is better than the rest of them, so they let him take the bat most of the time unless they want to play by national league rules. he doesn’t care, because he is better than them. ultra mega shit talker.

soldier: soldier gets second base because that’s where he wanted to be. and nobody complained about it, so that became his position. he honestly quite enjoys baseball! there’s a reason this was americas favorite pastime. and a guaranteed home run hitter. normally fourth in the batting lineup because if they can get someone on each base, getting him to the bat is a guaranteed four points as he takes his walk. he and pyro work quite well together. soldier tells them what to do and they do it. it means soldier has had to get very good at baseball strategies. but all sport is just violence without death. if you’re bad at the sport. either way you slice it, no matter where soldier goes, he will put his all and then some into any position he’s placed in. actually looks quite friendly mid game. he’s just happy everyone’s putting their back into it.

pyro: pyro takes first base because that gives pyro one thing to do: watch the ball. sometimes it’s watch the ball and watch whoever’s on your base, but it is normally watch the ball. the team normally tells pyro where to go from there. also pyro doesn’t have to do a lot of moving, which is just fine for pyro! pyro mainly plays for the love of the game, less for the love of the competition. they also have a better arm for batting. so they prefer to not have to work themselves too hard so they can bat, if they get the chance. they’re not hitting home runs or anything, but pyro is a wildcard. they can give the opposing team a run for their money. normally sixth in the batting lineup.

demo: demo takes right field, and if i’m right that’s where his good eye is. i’ve never been good with lefts and rights. though he’s not particularly good, it’s always a thankful moment when sniper calls the ball and he doesn’t have to do anything. and he likes to play, kind of! beats actually fighting! he’s actually much better at the bat. which is kind of insane. but he can focus better. his only job is to get the bat to connect to the ball and run. normally first in the batting lineup. he can, most of the time, make it to a base. and he normally takes the risk of stealing second. he usually makes it! also not really a mean mugger, or a shit talker, unless he’s doing particularly well. he’s just happy everyone’s having a good time!

heavy: heavy is the catcher. between him and the doctor, it’s almost impossible to tell what they’re going to pitch you. there’s no real nonverbal discussion about what they’re doing, no convoluted hand signals, just two men with frightening blue eyes staring at each other. and heavy does not drop or miss a catch. trustworthy and consistent with seemingly arms that span the entire field, he’s the best man to sit in front of the ump and behind the batter. gum chewer, and a mean mug when he’s on the field. a very good sport though, anyone who strikes out get a thumbs up and a “good job, maybe next time!”

engineer: engie takes left field by default. engie wouldn’t say baseball is particularly… his thing. but when you hang around scout, you tend to pick up on a few things, and the sport happened to be one of them. so he goes where the rest of the team doesn’t really care to be, or make any comment on. he’s fine with it, but he’s better at the bat. on his best days, they’re hitting the fence, it’s just about who’s gonna catch it. but he’s not the fastest runner. and he admits that. fifth in the lineup. after soldier gives them a good lead and they can afford to lose the point.

medic: i (do)n’t want to have to bring up this man’s godlike build, so im gonna try to not bring it up. the doctor is the pitcher. the man’s got a hell of an arm on him, and an accuracy that is only beat by sniper and scout. the only thing that put medic here, instead of one of the other two, is the raw power he has behind his throws and frankly, the lack of range. doesn’t mean he’s not mean with it. hitting one of his pitches is like trying to redirect a train. it puts strain on the opponent’s arms, and when he’s up on that mound, staring daggers into you, it puts a fear in you that he might switch that ball out for a knife and chuck that instead. and his competition face is spooky. he’s almost grinding his teeth together, upper lip curled as he sneers at you. he’s also a nasty shit talker. he’ll tell you to try to hit the next pitch. a thousand dollars on the successful hit of the next ball. just touch your bat to the ball and the money’s all yours! it is rare this occurs.

sniper: sniper is the best man for the job for center field. his eyes… they’re magic. is what enemy teams will tell you. you could get a hit you swear is a home run, out of the park, and the last thing you’ll hear as you go from first to second base is “i got it!” “you’re out!” and as you turn to see who caught your guaranteed home run, you see a tall ass australian man, precariously balanced on the fence with your ball in his hand. sniper is the player that has the most people ready to fight, because he goes to the ends of the earth to catch a ball before the ground does. and snipes will fight. as will the rest of the team. you don’t get to get in sniper’s face, there’s seven other men and a pyro you will have to contend with before you can get that close to him. they’re almost pavloved with sniper in that sense.

spy: spy would never admit he knows anything about any sport, rarely ever. but he’s not the worst at baseball. he takes third base willingly, the more he can see of the field and his team the better he can operate. and he and scout work quite well in this game! mega shit talkers, but they keep their heads in the game. and quite skilled at reading the other and faking out whoever’s on the base. they’re pickle causers. and spy doesn’t have too terrible of an arm. he’s fast enough, and frankly strategic enough that he can catch a ball and also get the ball to home. not the best at batting. that’s more scouts thing than his.

[my-rose-tinted-glasses]

So I just finished My Stand In. And I gotta say, I know I said some things about Ming. But really, he's not that bad. Sure he did some things and said some things, but I mean, we've all seen worse. And he's so pretty...

No, but seriously, that's my main issue with this show to be honest. Granted I had only watched this show from my dash but I got the impression Ming was the devil himself. He was proper toxic for like 3 episodes. Ok, after that, the whole contract with Joe 2.0 to be his 'paramour' wasn't great but Joe had a choice. And yeah, he was a bit of a stalker when he started to suspect Joe 2.0 of being Original Joe. But again, I say. We've seen worse.

And here's the thing. Joe is not without blame. Sure at first he was used for his back lol. And Ming wasn't exactly honest about why he was with him. He treated Joe like dirt from the start. But he also didn't exactly lie. He didn't claim to love him or anything like that. But Joe put on those rose tinted glasses and was happy to go along and be a door mat, until his ego was shattered much like those mugs.

Also. No one forced Joe to do the stunt that got him killed. That's not on Ming. That's on Joe. Just like no one forced Joe into that contract. Joe also chose to get back into the same industry as his previous body, aware that Ming was now in the business. Joe made a lot of the choices.

So, at times, I felt like the show was telling me I was supposed to think that Ming was this horrible person, but they weren't actually showing me that. Some red flags for sure, but mostly he was just a frustrated and miserable dude that took that out on everyone around him. Then he went a bit crazy with his grief and eventually recovered and tried to get his guy back. His methods are a bit unorthodox for sure, but love makes us do crazy things.

Now for the body swap thing. The show didn't take it seriously so neither did I. I got a bit surprised every time Joe 2.0 appeared in a reflection. Like, oh that's right, he looks different. They didn't commit to that part of the stand-in concept. I'd like to think that if all of a sudden another person was to occupy my body, I think my mother would notice. Certainly before my work buddy noticed. I also think if my soul ended up in a different body, it would take some getting used to. There would be some body dysmorphia at least. But not Joe. He's just ready to go. Incredible.

Now, the final part.. First let me just say, Tong is a proper asshole and I can't believe he got his happy ending. That was the thing that pissed me off the most. The drama with Ming's family was a bit insane and the turn around a bit ridiculous. But I mean, at that point my suspension of disbelief was so stretched so why the hell not?

Despite some of its flaws, it was a very pretty show to watch. Visually, it's great. Beautifully shot and edited. And I mean, the leads are gorgeous and Poom's face should be illegal. But they're not just pretty faces, they can act and have some really strong moments here. I'm looking forward to seeing these two again.

[sophiewith7es]

some of my six of crows modern headcanons xx

nina and inej are taylor swift and phoebe bridgers best friends

inej is vegan and i will not be explaining myself

matthias’ snapchat username is matthiashelvqr but jesper’s is animal_loverjes123 because he made it when he was nine

wylan is scared of planes but not helicopters

jesper is scared of helicopters but not planes

nina and inej listened to midnights together when it was first released

jesper got matthias into star wars

jesper loves the prequels and clone wars, matthias prefers the original trilogy and rogue one

both nina and jespers first bi panic was watching pirates of the caribbean

kaz has a secret fear of escalators so he always takes the stairs even though it actively causes him more pain

kaz and wylan watch criminal minds together in silence, but they both say the line about tracy lambert together

matthias falls asleep to animal documentaries narrated by david attenborough

inej jesper and nina are big greys anatomy fans

wylan’s first crush was teenage simba

matthias plays rugby

they have a book club (audiobook for wylan)

they read the acotar series and all had vastly different opinions

nina was an avid zoella watcher

kaz doesnt pay for any streaming services but has all of them anyway, jesper also doesn’t pay but uses everyone elses

matthias pays for the netflix account though

him and nina share one profile and everyone else has their own profile

nina cried when they took new girl off netflix

kaz says he prefers dc over marvel just to cause conflict

jesper read percy jackson growing up and still has the same battered copies he read as a kid in his room no matter where he lives

nina was a harry potter reading child and also still has her original copies of the books

HARRY POTTER REWATCH MOVIE NIGHTS!!!!

wylan is a secret marauders stan

nina jesper inej and wylan are all marauders era fans but wylan is soooo much worse

wesper = wolfstar

jesper’s favourite movie is the breakfast club

kaz says his favourite movie is fight club but it’s actually fantastic mr fox

kaz follows six people on instagram: inej and all the members of one direction

he does that to piss the others off

jesper went viral on tik tok one time

matthias loves oasis (both the band and the drink)

nina fought for eras tour tickets and managed to get them all tickets

kaz is going as reputation (his usual attire) jesper as lover, wylan as evermore, inej as speak now (she got the speak now dress), matthias as debut (they got him a cowboy hat) and nina as red.

matthias secretly cried over the how to train your dragon ending

matthias and inej read a lot of classics and share their collection, they both annotate the books as well and enjoy seeing what the other has written

kaz has a do not disturb sign on his bedroom door like in a hotel and puts it on the door handle even when he’s not in there

kaz is weirdly good with technology

jesper collects mugs

kaz and inej steal pint glasses from pubs

when inej and nina listened nothing new on red(tv) they lost their minds

kaz loves boygenius

matthias and wylan love modern family, wylan’s favourite character is gloria and matthias’ is jay

jesper loves formula 1 and its the only sport he’ll watch

nina and matthias play animal crossing together

kaz terrors jesper on terraria

when they play minecraft functionally, inej is the builder, jesper is the farmer, matthias and wylan mine, kaz has netherite armour in like half an hour and nina collects flowers and tames animals

when they play minecraft disfunctionally they just blow shit up

kaz plays the guitar

inej DEVOURED the cruel prince series

zoya and genya are nina’s foster/adoptive sisters

wylan is scared of clowns and is like that one episode of new girl when nick has to go into the haunted house

whenever jesper does something stupid or doesnt do something or whatever he says ‘#yolo’ and moves on and it drives kaz insane

jesper has muggies of everyone

inej takes 0.5 pictures of everyone when theyre sleeping without them knowing

matthias loves the hunger games series

kaz regularly predicts major global events

wylan loves breaking bad

[toomuchracket]

dearly beloved (ross x reader fluff)

the final valentine's week fic! remember this shy gf one where they decided to get married in gretna? well. this is that. enjoy <3

taking a tentative sip of your tea, you turn as the door to the cottage opens. your friend hurries in, a burst of cold air following her before she slams it shut.  “what a beautiful morning it is,” she sighs, beaming at you as she takes her coat off. “perfect day for a wedding, i’d say.”

you beam over the edge of your mug, cheeks heating up at the thought of what you’re about to do. “yeah? how are the boys?”

“oh, yours is fine. he’s got a brew, he’s fully ready - he looks gorgeous, by the way, if you don’t mind me saying…”

“not at all,” you shake your head, smiling even wider. you wouldn’t expect anything less of ross, especially in a kilt.

“... and mine just cannot stop crying. keeps looking at ross and going ‘you’re getting married! i’m so happy’ and weeping,” she sighs. “like, tell that to your face, matthew, honestly.”

you giggle. “bless him. he’s a sweetie.”

“he is. my sweet little emo boy,” your friend grins. “i think ross is going to cry too when he sees you, though.”

“really?” you tug at your dress, slightly self-conscious.

she nods. “you’re radiant, babe. he’s going to love you even more than usual. and that’s saying something.”

smiling shyly, you turn to look in the mirror. you do look radiant, although you wonder how much that has to do with your gorgeous dress and pretty makeup than it does with the fact you’re marrying the man of your dreams within the hour.

within the hour. shit, you need to get a move on. you turn to your friend, currently shimmying her own dress on. “babe - oh, that’s pretty - when you get a second, would you help me put a bit of my hair up?”

“of course. that reminds me, actually,” she runs to her coat and digs through the pockets, pulling out a little box and placing it in your hand. “i was going to suggest we put that on the bouquet, but we could do something with it in your hair, if you’d like?”

you open the box, smiling at the pattern on the spool of ribbon inside. “macdonald tartan,” same as your husband-to-be’s kilt. “i love it. thank you so much, babe.”

“it was ross’s idea, actually,” she squeezes your shoulder. “needless to say, that set matty off again.”

“i know how he feels,” you smile, tears threatening to spill over your lashline at the tenderness of your man’s gesture. “only thing stopping me from crying is the fear of ruining my makeup, to be honest.”

she giggles. “sensible woman. alright,” she tugs her shoes on, and grabs a hairbrush. “have a seat, and i’ll do my best not to fuck up your hair on your wedding day.”

“my wedding day,” you laugh in slight disbelief, smoothing the skirt of your dress before sitting on one of the chairs by the window. the sun is bright on the scottish countryside, the cold ground glittering in its light; it’s stunning, and your heart soars at how lucky you are to have a setting and day like this for your most special one. “kind of insane that it’s… here. now. and it’s actually happening.”

“a bit, yeah,” your friend gently pulls some of your hair back. “you nervous?”

“nah.”

“really?”

“yeah,” you smile, eyes closing in contentment as your hair is manipulated. “always thought i’d be shitting bricks on the day i got married, if it ever happened, but i’m actually okay. dunno if it’s because i haven’t really had the time to stress about it, or if the gravitas of it all hasn’t just sunk in yet, but, to be honest, i don’t think that’ll actually happen,” you smile to yourself, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from fully cheesing. “it’s just me and ross, after all. i love him. he loves me. and we have you and matty with us, two of the people we love most and who love us most in the world. and there’s no aisle for me to trip on while i walk - how could i be nervous?”

your friend laughs; once she finishes tying an elastic in your hair, she leans down to hug you, and a tear drips from her eye onto your bare shoulder. “god, you’ve got me crying now, too,” she giggles. “thank you for letting us be a part of your day. means the world - i love you and ross, so much. can’t wait to celebrate your love today.”

“nobody else i’d rather have with me,” you kiss her teary cheek. “ribbon time?”

“ribbon time. well, take a look at your hair first,” she hands you a mirror. “i tried my best.”

“it looks amazing!” you exclaim, turning to see the face-framing strands she left out of the pretty half-up. “seriously. you’re good.”

“thanks,” she looks up at you bashfully, nail scissors poised over the spool of ribbon. “it’s cos i sit and do matty’s hair when i’m bored.”

you blink at her for a second, then the two of you collapse into a fit of giggles. “i don’t know why i’m laughing, i braid ross’s like every night to get him to fall asleep.”

she giggles even harder, awwing as the laughs fade. “that’s so fucking cute,” she waves the ribbon at you. “and now you can put this in it and be all matchy-matchy.”

“oh, i don’t know if we’re one of those couples,” you wince, sitting still so she can tie the ribbon around the elastic. “but marriage might change us. you never know.”

“well, not long now until you find out, babe,” your friend hugs you again. “have we ticked off the checklist?”

you nod. “vintage dress, old. ribbon, new. handbag is yours - thank you, by the way - so, borrowed, and there’s sapphires in my earrings for the blue component.”

“fab,” she smiles at you really tenderly. “you know, you really are the most beautiful bride i’ve ever seen. he’s a lucky man.”

“oh, no,” you shake your head, taking a sneaky glance at yourself in the mirror while you do and blushing when you see your glamorous reflection. “i think i'm the lucky one.”

she reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “shall we go and meet the boys and find out which statement is true?”

you squeeze her hand back. “let's do it.”

after a few minutes of teaching her how to work your film camera and another few of having your picture taken (always a weird experience for you, so used to being on the other side), you leave the cottage and step out into the crisp december air. across the road, outside the old blacksmith's shop you chose as your venue, you can see ross and matty waiting with the man conducting the ceremony; at the sight of your husband-to-be, resplendent in his kilt and black shirt and jacket, you speed up your walking, desperate to be with him.

matty clocks you first, walking over to greet you. his eyes - red-rimmed enough as is - well up when he sees you and your bouquet, and his fiancée winces when he wipes them with the sleeve of his suit. “hi, darling,” he pulls you into a hug. “you look amazing,” he pats your shoulder before kissing your friend. “and you look alright.”

she slaps him on the shoulder, which makes you laugh. “charming.”

“i'm kidding! you look lovely, my girl,” he kisses her head. “now,” he extends an arm out to you - you take it, and take your friend's in the other. “let's go and get you married, mate.”

the three of you walk towards ross and the officiant, both of whom smile as you approach. the latter steps forward to shake your hand and compliment you, and then it's ross's turn; he brings your hand to his lips, then keeps a tight grasp on it, eyes teary. “hi, love. you look… perfect.”

“hi,” you breathe, also on the verge of tears. “you're gorgeous.”

loud sniffling behind you indicates matty is, once again, crying. ross turns towards him and smiles, shaking his head, before turning to the officiant. “shall we?”

“indeed,” the man leads you into the old building - surprisingly warm inside, for it being a stone structure from the 1700s and it being december in the scottish borders - and directs you and ross to stand in front of the anvil, flanked by your friends. once he's made sure you're both alright, he begins. “dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

you don't really take in a word the man says, to be honest, bless him - you're too busy looking into ross's eyes, those pools of warmth you've happily drowned in time and time again. but you hear ross when he confirms that you're going with traditional vows for the ceremony, throwing a loving dig at your friends and saying “we'll leave the writing to those muppets behind us” (most likely to get them both to laugh instead of cry), as well as matty's heartfelt “love you, guys” when he presents the rings at the appropriate moment. in all honesty, you're not sure how long you stand there and wait in excited anticipation to officially become ross's wife - time seems to bend in on itself, simultaneously running fast and slow, so it's impossible to be sure of numbers and minutes and seconds. all you're sure of is the feeling of ross's hands in your own and the way he's looking at you adoringly, and that's enough for you. forever.

and then, of course, once you've both said “i do” and slid the complimentary silver rings onto each other's left hands, you're sure of the feeling of his lips on yours; soft, warm, familiar. he pulls back, smiling, and the world opens up to you again - your friends cheering through their tears, matty snapping pictures on your camera, and the officiant clapping and congratulating you both too. but ross is still at the centre of all of it, hugging you, murmuring “my beautiful wife” against your hair.

once the hubbub dies down a little, the officiant gestures to your friend to step forward. “the first act of marriage - the quaich ceremony,” he says, as she places a lovely wooden box on top of the anvil and lifts the lid. you and ross peer in, as the man continues to talk. “husband and wife share a drink, to symbolise the blending of their families, to seal their union, and to represent the sharing of love and happiness throughout their marriage.”

you knew this ceremony was happening, but you didn't know about the ornate silver two-handled cup engraved with your and ross's names and the wedding date, nor the vintage bottle of macallan whisky next to it. wide-eyed, you stare at your friend, who winks. “wedding present from me and matty. surprise!”

ross laughs. “you two are mental. thank you, though.”

“anytime,” she grins. the officiant directs her to pour some whisky into the quaich for you and ross, and she does so enthusiastically. “oh, that’s too much. sorry.”

your husband (!!) scoffs. “no such thing.”

“typical,” she rolls her eyes, while everyone else laughs. “anyway, let me toast.

“strike hands with me, the glasses brim,

the dew is on the heather.

for love is good and life is long,

and two are best together.

bless the union of these two,

eager for marriage, eager for love.

may they begin life together,

live that life together

and come to the end together.”

ross takes a handle of the cup. “ladies first, yeah?”

you grin, taking the other side; together, you carefully lift the quaich to your lips, and let the whisky pass through. the amber liquid is warm as it flows down your throat, and you can’t help exclaiming in satisfaction. “oh, that’s bloody good stuff,” you smile, moving the cup to ross’s lips. “you’ll like this, darling.”

“yeah?” ross takes his requisite drink, and his eyes widen. “oh, absolutely. worth getting married just for that, i reckon.”

the officiant laughs. “and with that… congratulations, mr and mrs macdonald. if you’d like to follow me to this table, we’ll sign the marriage certificate.”

“of course. but first,” ross necks the rest of the whisky and kisses you quickly - matty cackles and cheers in the background, while you blush. “sorry. couldn’t resist.”

you laugh, kissing his hand as you walk. “i love you.”

“i know. you just married me,” ross grins as you roll your eyes, pulling your chair out for you and kissing your head as he sits down beside you. “i love you too. d’you want to sign first, my love?”

“alright,” you sign as directed by the officiant, and pose as directed by matty and the camera, then it’s ross’s turn. “look at that - legally stuck together forever.”

“nowhere else i’d rather be, love.”

[userarmand]

so since you watched Portofino and I'm currently going through season 2 (I'm on episode 3) (please don't ask why, the pull that man has on me is truly unfathomable, my dick has led me places etc etc ANYWAY) and I need to talk to someone about it bc I feel like I'm going a bit insane, so I thought I could ask your thoughts on this.

so like, season 1 wasn't like... good... right? like we're all aware of that and I'm fully aware the entire series is built on what I'm gonna call at best shoddily constructed narrative cohesion and probably can't be watched without a huge amount of suspension of disbelief, but I simply can't believe they let this insane mess of a storyline just go to production like that. WHY are these people letting a pacifist doctor join in on the assassination??? WHY is Gianluca suddenly so gungho about Nish either joining in his resistance fight OR straight up leaving him for Lucian??? WHAT IS HAPPENING in that goddamn group of resistance fighters??? IS it a group or are those just four guys who don't have anything better to do??? WHY IS THE WEAPON OF CHOICE A HAND GRENADE?? again WHY ARE WE LETTING THE PACIFIST BE PART OF THIS EXTREMELY DANGEROUS, VIOLENT SITUATION?? you don't bring someone to the shooting range unless you KNOW he can pull the trigger!! he's a DOCTOR, he's the guy that stays behind so that when you guys come back from trying to beat up fascist there is someone there who knows how to patch you up!!!

and worse than all of that!!! is that I can't believe they couldn't come up with something better to put Nish out of commission than this bullshit bit of conflict that they literally fabricated out of thin air!!!

also, there is one glaring continuity error during the first scene in Turin where Nish and Gian have their 'fight' about the letter, when Nish comes in from the balcony where he wears his glasses on the balcony and then three seconds later they're nowhere to be seen. which isn't the worst thing in the world, but MAN if that doesn't summarize how invested they were in this goddamn storyline, I don't know what does.

okay, sorry for that, I'm a bit tipsy, anyway: man this shit sucks, but the worst part of all of it is truly that there are like... TRACES of a reasonably interesting story scattered across the show, but every time I think they're getting close to actually properly engaging with one of them they do a hard left and someone commits a micro aggression.

jesus fuck, this show is awful. that said I AM writing a fix it fic, which is less fix-it and more 'let's try and make this less stupid'-fic

anyway sorry for this, I... am going back to watching...

gianluca definitely didn't know what he was doing but idk if that was intentional on the writer’s part or not. his little anarchist faction was very much in its infancy considering it was literally just him, his two mates, and his extremely reluctant boyfriend. gian knew that nish's heart wasn't it, knew he didn't like conflict, literally said that's why he loved him, but basically pouted about it until nish agreed to join, at no point acknowledging the added danger nish was in as an indian national. neat.

so here we are with gian and his merry band of mugs who instead of digesting any actual communist or socialist theory, decide that blowing up some rando fascist would make any sort of difference in mussolini’s italy. nish had to be directly involved in the grenade shit so he'd get injured which would put him back in lucian’s orbit and reconnect him to the 'main' plot in portofino. the show wasn't wiling to delve fully into what exactly gian and the resistance movement were trying to achieve outside of individual terrorism so that storyline didn't really result in anything beyond establishing that fascism = bad, which, yeah we know :/

also i don't disagree that they were half-assing things but regarding the continuity of nish's glasses: he takes them off when the camera's on gian lol u can see them in his hand

[alchexmy]

we love insane König here.

tw | obsession | stalker tendencies

The Beginning.

It surprised him. The lengths he would go to, to feel close to you, the way he would degrade himself to quench his desires.

It really surprised him.

Wired eyes with pinprick pupils staring into the harsh blue light of his computer screen in the office, looking through your file, figuring as much of you out as possible without even having to be near you. Not that he didn't want to be near you. Oh, he very much did. But he had no real reason to be, you were just the intelligence officer, a quiet girl, absorbed in paperwork, rubbing your temples when you worked too late. And you always worked late.

That's when it had started.

All it took was one night, him planted at his desk, you at yours. Everyone else had finished up hours prior. His gaze had been enamoured by your every movement. Captivated. You didn't even notice him staring, eyes narrowing, assessing you. For some reason that lack of attention really irked him, it got right under his skin.

Then you had looked up.

"Colonel, can I ask you something?"

Yes.

He had rolled himself back in his chair, wheels bumping on the uneven carpet, silently gesturing his acceptance of your question with hands open.

That slender figure of yours had rose from its stationary position, fingers selective over the sheets they picked up, neck flexing to stretch out the long hours of arduous work. It took seven strides for you to be right beside him, the scent of your skin filling his nostrils, the undone top button of your shirt just loose enough to provide the most fleeting distraction for his mind.

You had been speaking to him with a determined, stressed tone, arms brushing. He had listened to your every word, but he had also been admiring your details. The way your nails were in perfect manicured condition, yet the skin around them bitten and picked until they were red raw. The slightly oval shape of the mole which decorated the back of your hand as it flexed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, index finger pointing out that highlighted section and this highlighted section, there is a connection here right? Your handwriting in deep black ink small, neat, cursive even, at times. It made sense, it suited you.

The conversation was brief, hands tapping the sheets on his desk to straighten them into a bundle. Do you mind? You reached over him to borrow his stapler, binding them irreversibly, putting them back on your desk. The ladder in your tights as you walked away, what had you ripped that sheer black nylon on? 

When the door swung closed 43 minutes later, he raised that stapler to his mouth, breathing in the trace of you left behind. It's not like it even smelt of anything, he could barely understand the compulsion to do it.

And so the obsession had begun.

Your mug, swiped from the side of the sink one day.

That had been him.

The kettle boiling as eyes scrutinised where your lips had been, those faint marks from your lipgloss. His only desire to emulate you, copy your actions, pouring the water in, steeping the tea and drinking from exactly where you had.

But the simple thrill died off quickly, so he had to ramp it up, needing his fix. The more he fed it the more it grew like a malignance, uncontrolled, invading every single second of his thoughts. Thus, the more he needed you, his drug.

It surprised him, how a man of such stature could creep so unnoticed through the corridors at night. It actually took him a couple of tries to get the courage to follow through, his heart pounding, a sensation so intoxicating. The third night, his fist enveloped the door handle, carefully pressing down until it clicked and he could swing it open with ease. And there you lay. His heart hammering so loud he could actually hear it echoing gently within those four walls, your four walls.

In the end, you only noticed what he had done because all of your underwear was matching, the easiest way to pack for work. And suddenly, there was an odd number.

He found new excuses to be near you, to talk to you, to smell you, to watch you. Even if you didn't see him. The middle of the night, first just standing against the door, watching you from afar as you slept, your chest slowly rising and falling. Then he would sit on the floor, his face inches from yours, the exhilarating rush making him electric. You never stirred.

Everything was mesmerising, the way you sat, the way you chewed the inside of your cheek when concentrating, the tone of your voice, the flush of your cheeks, the way you walked, the way you ate. It consumed him. He needed you. But he would never touch you, not yet. The thought of requite was tempting, yet would kill off the private intense pleasure he got from knowing you didn't know.

It didn't take long for him to figure your whole routine out. Every night around 8 you would retire from the office and head to the shower block, you would take 20 minutes to wash the day off and then leave. And you always left your caddy of stuff there until the following morning.

So he would wait 10 minutes after you finished before going to the block and lathering his body in the same cubicle with your scent.

But you see, he needed his fix.

8.30 turned into 8.29, and he used your shampoo to wash his hair.

8.29 turned into 8.25 and he scrubbed his teeth clean with your toothbrush, still damp, faintly tasting of mint as he ran it over his enamel.

But he needed his fix.

So at 8.21 he went in, practically walking into you as you left, your small body colliding into his mass. It had shocked you. Sorry, Colonel.

You had simply no idea.

No idea as headed straight into the same cubicle as always, this time, fully clothed.

No idea as he knelt down, leaning his chest forwards, his nose millimetres from the acrylic base.

No idea as he stuck his tongue out and licked where your feet had been, lapping up a little of that stagnant water infused with you.

Now it was his turn to stay late in the office, turning all the lights out, basking in the darkness.

He leaned back taking in that f—king scent which lingered all over his skin, legs spread, staring at your file in the darkness. Large hands ran through his hair as he shifted forwards, clicking on your profile photo.

He could feel the twitching, begging for release, begging for the stroke of his palm to alleviate the tension. A single digit outlining your jaw on the screen. God he wanted to finally touch you, finally have you.

The door opened, that silhouette unmistakable, making his throbbing c-ck scream.

"Colonel, I need to ask you something."

[jerry-the-leech]

I lowkey wanna cry rn for no reason but for all the reasons at the same time

Please yap to me about smth I need to talk to someone about literally anything I feel like I’m going insane

(There’s a high chance my periods just coming)

hi lovely <3 (sorry I haven’t responded to your earlier post yet)

I’m sorry:( I know the feeling 🫂🫂🫂

Okayyyy so yap time!! I’m going to do my best giving the fact the I am typing this on my phone

I’m in DC! On a school trip!! Idk if this information I should be revealing online but whatever I’m not actually saying where I live I’m traveling. we got here on Sunday and then spent the day walking around for ten miles. We saw the Lincoln Memorial, Washington monument, and the National mall and then also the Capitol. at the National mall we got ice cream and the guy was very nice and instead of 6 bucks per ice cream it was 5

idk there is something about being in the Capitol of America that makes me really hopeful and really hopeless at the same time

Idk if you have heard of “mr. Smith goes to Washington” but it is a great movie and you should totally watch it. But tbh I feel like Mr. smith. I know how corrupted and horrible and awful our government is, I know how corrupt the founders of our nation actually were, and being in the Capitol amongst ostentatiously grand buildings representing the “values of America” makes me nostalgic for what could have been, but also can never be.

DC is such a beautiful city! I really love walking around it and it’s very aesthetic too. Here are some pics I got last night

those are from our walk last night. We also went to a super cool corner with lots of street art!

Yesterday we went to the Smithsonian. Sk, Ember, and three other children were in a group with me, but we split apart and just had me, child, child. Sk and ember and child went ahead. And I really liked it!! We saw the giant squid, we walked through the star and insect wing, dinosaur hall, bone hall, African voices, gems and minerals, and maybe there was another one I am forgetting lmao

and from the gift shop I got a t shirt. It was really funny bc sk and ember both got a pin and a mug respectively with the exact same design on it and we didn’t even plan it.

I also got a ceramic porcelain crane and a ring

I wanted to get a book but I was getting SUPER stressed out by the gift shop so then I didn’t get it. Oh and a bracelet. It’s made of hematite so it’s pretty heavy and I like it bc it’s very calming. Sort of like a portable weighted blanket.

oh also on Sunday we went to a bunch of war memorials and i found it very cool. It made me very philosophical and I might post some poems about it later

yesterday we also went to the holocaust museum and memorial. Tbh I was not expecting to be affected as much as I was. Probably going to post some poems and rants about that too

but basically we all went through it at our own pace, and I was one of the last theee to leave. Overall I probably spent about 2.5 hours in there.

I almost cried but also not. It was a powerful memorial.

then today we went to the Air and Space museum. It was cool and I got a hat, an airplane model for my brother, and a pair of solar system earrings

we scheduled a visit to the planetarium and THEN I GOT SO FUCKING POSSED

THE LADY THERE NOT ONLY TREATED US LIKE KINDERGARDENETS

SHE WAS ALOS SPREADING MISINFORMATION AND CLEARLY DIDNNT KNOW WHAT SHE WAS ALTALKING ABOUT

I was asking her questions about Greek and Roman myths behind the constellations and planets and also about some other facts and she either didn’t know or answered incorrectly.

SHE TREATED US LIKE CHILDREN

also there as another school there which POSSED ME OFF

YOU GUYS ARE OUR AGE

ACT MORE FUCKING MATURE YESS I GET YOURE TEENAGE BOUS BUT COME ON

JUST BECAUSE SHE TREATED US LIKE CHILDREN SOESNT MEAN YOU HAVE TO ACT LIKE THEM

ITS NOT THAT FUCKING HARD

anyways. I’m so angry at that lady

and yeahhhwe just had lunch at the African American museum of history and culture and it was SO GOOD. I’m typing this from the free Wi-Fi. We are about to go explore

Sorry this is so long you 100% don’t need to respond to all of it

I hope you enjoyed reading

also you will be getting yapped to about my book ideas and it will be great

thank you for sending me an ask lovely I appreciate you

I hope you feel better ❤️

[ruinedmefic]

Chapter 2 - I Know It's Over

Chapter summary: Clementine's social battery plummets Masterlist ✦ Ao3 Read this fic on Ao3 (up to chapter 5) I Know It's Over - The Smiths

On Tumblr:

Read the Prologue first Or catch up on Chapter 1

January 9th 2024 | 10:43am

Clementine winced as the heel of her foot was pressed into her ass, her thigh stinging on the edge of painfully. “That's why I do yoga,” Lucky spouted from the masseuse table to her right, hearing Clementine’s hiss.

“Oh, you’d love my Pilates class,” Gabi said from the left, “I’m telling you, that’s why I snapped back so quick after having Luca.”

“Yeah, that was pretty insane actually,” Lucky said, “where’s the class?”

Clementine let their chatter drift around her, too distracted by the hand trying to worm its way beneath her shoulder blade. She bit her lip, her face scrunching up. These deep tissue massages were always Lucky’s idea, and sure, she felt great an hour or so after the ordeal, but during? It was good that she hadn’t inherited her mother’s easy bruising.

Taking a long swig from her drink bottle afterwards, she grumbled as they ambled toward her hummer in the lot outside, “I feel pulverised.”

Gabi laughed, offering a gentle pat to her arm, “you say that every time.” She zipped up her jacket, a soft, puffy thing that Clementine eyed with envy, she had layered up with a thermal hoodie under a regular hoodie, unable to find her jacket before Lucky was dragging her out of the house.

They climbed into the car, Gabi and Lucky had belted themselves in the backseat before Clementine had the chance to slot in between them, leaving her to sit beside Silent-Simon. “Right,” Gabi started, pulling out her phone, “I’ve got a meeting with Olivia and Kalahni at Tom’s place—Clem, Kalahni wants to talk with you. Lucky, you’ve got fittings with Klaus at his studio at twelve—take Linc with you please.”

“I’ll drop you off then, Lucky?” Simon asked with a glance at the rearview mirror. Clementine couldn’t help but glare at him, he used such a polite tone with everyone else—well, polite, monotone, same diff with him—but with her? Whatever partial sentence he gave her sounded like a fucking quip. The skin around his eyes would crease slightly, silver-blonde lashes catching the sun as he narrowed his eyes tauntingly. It was maddening. She hated it.

Lucky, unaware of the mental daggers Clementine was digging into the man’s side, just replied with an easy, “at home please, thank you.”

Simon didn’t so much as look at Clementine as they got onto the road.

“Are you gonna listen to me, or are you about to test my patience?”

For the past three days, it’d been like this. She knew it’d be simpler to just comply, but he had irked her like nonother ever had. If he couldn’t treat and respect her like the grown adult she is, then she wouldn’t offer him any sympathies. Simple as that.

— ✦ —

“For the sake of balance, I’m going to ask a little extra of you Clem,” Kalahni Carter had her locs pulled up into a bun, her glasses near sparkling as they perched on the bridge of her nose. “A lot of footage of you that we get, unless it’s on stage or with the rest of the band or your team, will need to be edited per your security details request to have their faces blurred wherever the shot is necessary to keep in. And in doing so, I would wager a lot of the material we get will just look poor or unusable.”

Clementine crossed her arms over her chest, “what do you mean? You want a shit ton of confessionals from me then, like some skit?” She hated when people watched her the way Olivia and Gabriella were doing now. Silent, watching the interaction, taking notes. She felt like an experiment, bugs crawling beneath her skin.

Tom was leaning against the kitchen counter, cradling a mug of tea. She was sure he was listening, but his attention was taught between his fraying notebook, computer, and phone.

Kalahni’s expression broke with a smile, “no, we’re not turning this into a comedy. I want what you want and agreed to—we’re keeping this real and personal. I was thinking we’d add in a little more of you into the voice overs with some nightly logs—”

“You want me to keep a diary?” she cut in, reaching up to twist her earring around her lobe. It made D’Angelo squirm whenever she did that, but it wasn’t something she noticed all that often.

“Pretty much. I won’t ask you to do it every day—I mean, a third of the tour is just going to be travelling— but I’m sure there’ll be a couple times where I’ll ask you to record one. However, if you could treat it like keeping a diary and make a habit out of it, that would be great.

“I was also thinking—and this is entirely up to you,” she started, waving her hand about as if she were instantly dismissing the idea, “I want to get you a camcorder to use at your own whim. If you ever wanted to record a picture to go with your diary, or there was something you wanted to contribute that we weren’t there for or really, just anything you wanted. You don’t ever have to use it, and even if you do, you don’t have to give the material to us to use. It would be yours to keep.”

She reached behind her, into her bag, nearly leaning off her stool, before pulling out a box with the Panasonic logo on the side, an image of a generic-looking camcorder promising lasting family memories, and adventure capturing from your point of view!

Clementine took the box, shrugging, “thanks.”

There was a moment of silence the Kalahni broke, giving Clementine a look, “I know I’ve said it before to all of you, but if there’s ever a day where it’s just too much, where you don’t want to be recorded, just let me or Seb know somehow, and we’ll pass the message onto our crew. This tour will be very demanding of everyone involved so I want you to know that I don’t intend to add more pressure on top of that on purpose. I think this will be a great opportunity to make something honest and passionate, you know?” she said, that warm smile on her face again. Clementine was yet to see her without it showing up at least once.

She nodded, an ounce of pressure loosening inside her chest. “Thank you.”

Tom spoke up then, drawing Kalahni’s attention to some date changes that he wanted clarified with the crew, making sure everyone was moving on the same days. And Clementine was more than happy to take her leave.

Olivia caught her by the door, “Clementine, I just wanted to properly introduce myself. Things felt a little awkward the other night, my nerves were getting the better of me,” she huffed a laugh, tucking a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear. She extended her left hand to the singer, “I’m Olivia Weaving, it’s very nice to meet you Clementine, I’ve been a fan of your work since your demo tapes and I’m excited to get to know you better in the coming months.”

The emerald sitting on her ring finger caught the overhead light in the foyer as Clementine shook her hand. “Oh, yeah, you’re recently married,” she murmured, looking back up at the woman, “will your partner be joining you? I haven’t seen—”

She shook her head, her cheeks turning rosier the longer the conversation went on, “no, he’s staying back for work. It’s okay, facetime is a great invention,” she smiled. “We’re long distance half the year any way, it’s okay.”

“It’s still a big sacrifice for a tour,” Clementine said, attempting to bury her hands in her pockets before realising she had the camcorder in one.

“He gets it, I’ve been talking his ear off about Eye For An Eye ever since you guys came onto the scene. I mean, I was a little reluctant to leave him so quickly after our honeymoon, but he said I’d be silly if I didn’t take the opportunity. Said it was my chance to travel for work.” A dimple popped in her cheek when she spoke about him.

Clementine took the bait with ease, shifting her weight onto her other foot, “what does he do? International journalist or something?”

“Oh no!” she laughed, “he’s in sports. The NHL actually—Seattle Kraken as of last year.” There was no hiding the way Clementine’s eyebrows rose. “I know, I even got some articles written about me for a change, super weird. But yeah, I promise it’s not so bad to go travel the world chasing you lot around.”

— ✦ —

Simon eyed the box in Clementine’s hand the moment she sat in the passenger seat, “takin’ up videography?”

“It’s a gift from Kalahni; she said I could use it for the documentary or just keep it for myself.”

His expression didn’t sway, if anything his brows pinched closer together, “I’m gonna check that out before you use it.”

She scoffed, finally looking at him, “oh, Las Almas is going to shoot me down from inside a camcorder? Simon, I hope you know the little people on the screen are just videos, they can’t hurt you.”

The look he gave her was somewhere in scathing territory, “why don’t you take this threat seriously?”

“It’s been almost two years since Mark was arrested and in all that time I haven’t seen or heard a thing from anyone even remotely connected. I’m not on their radar Simon; you can take a fucking breather—hey!” he took the box out of her hands. “Seriously? This is ridiculous.”

“Can you get the box out of the glove compartment?” he asked, flipping the camera over in his hands, brows furrowing at the screws.

Sighing, she opened the compartment in front of her, raising a brow at the two first aid kits and the mini toolbox. “Preparing for the apocalypse?”

“Toolbox,” was all he grunted in response. She handed it over and he flipped it open, lifting the bottom level of wrenches to flit through tiny screwheads that she’d seen her dad use on his glasses once or twice.

If he had a table in front of him, Clementine would’ve bet that the camera would be in pieces in front of him. He dismantled the camera in less than a minute, loose screws on the flat top of the centre console and stray parts in his lap or the dash. She watched him lift the skeleton of the camcorder into the light, peering between its bones like a bear checking it’d stripped a carcass of all its meat, before he began putting it back together seamlessly. It happened so quick she was surprised to see the loading sequence on the small screen, not realising that it’d been repaired again.

Simon’s voice broke her staring, startling. Her back into her body. “If anyone ever gives you anything like this; cameras, phones, computers, even gifs from your fans—I want to check them out before you use any of it.” She opened her mouth, but he raised a hand, “non-negotiable.”

“Non-negotiable?” she echoed, blinking, dumbfounded. “What is up for negotiation then?”

It was meant to be rhetorical.

“Not much, it’d be better if you just asked before doing anything.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding, right? What—I can’t take a shit without your permission now?”

He rolled his eyes, “nothing that trivial, any hotel room you stay in will be cleared by my team before you step foot in the room. You can take as many shits as you like in peace.”

“Oh, thank the fucking heavens,” she muttered, her own eyes perusing the ceiling of the car for any semblance of patience. Unfortunately, there was very little there.

“Look, if you think this is ridiculous, you’ll be shocked when we get out of Northern America. The UK will be more of the same—they’re more aware of the threat Las Almas is currently posing,” he said, shrugging, “but the rest of the world…I’m not promising a carefree escort service Clementine. I need you to take this seriously before we get out there.”

She levelled her stare with his, that knot of unease that had seized her the other night returning to roil in her gut. “Fine. Las Almas is out to kill me. What now?”

“Now you meet the rest of your security detail.”

— ✦ —

Not that she’d done any exploring in recent years, but Clementine was entirely unfamiliar with this part of L.A. Through Canyon Crest Road, a little slice of Altadena was tucked away. But they didn’t stop once they saw houses again, they kept going, and going, and going until Clementine felt a chill down her nape that wasn’t from the AC. “Where are we going?”

He spared her a glance out of the corner of his eye and the look on her face must have been a sight to behold because he actually laughed. “Fuckin’ hell, I’m not gonna kill you. I’m taking you to meet the rest of your security detail. I told you that already.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” she said, peering out the window and seeing only wet patches on the dirt and gravel road. What little greenery was left out here had a grey tinge, as if it was reflecting the sky. “And I’m not naturally inclined to believe everything you say— in case that hasn’t already been established.”

When they finally came to a stop, rain had started its gentle decent from the sky, landing in a soft pit pat on the windshield. They house they were currently pulling into the garage of didn’t exactly scream Protecta HQ, but again, Clementine braced regardless. “The fuck are you doin’?”

Opening her eyes, she looked at Simon. “Bracing.”

“For what?” he eyed her tightly clenched fists, the car jolting at the abrupt stop in the garage, the engine turning off at the flick of his wrist. “To break your thumb? Over your fingers, not under. You’ll injure no one but yourself like that.”

Feeling her ears burn hot she unclenched her hands. “whatever. Are you gonna show me your bunk bed or what?”

“What?”

“This is your clubhouse, isn’t it?”

He stared at her in a way that was becoming all too familiar, it made her feel strikingly stupid. Yet another thing he did that she hated. “It’s a temporary base of operations.”

“Okay special agent,” she scoffed, reaching for the door, “any booby traps in here or can I stretch my legs?”

His response came only in the form of him getting out of the car, appearing unharmed when he stood, looking back at her through the window. She got out, her hand itching to hold the camcorder if only for something to cling to. Perhaps she could use it as evidence of her kidnapping— “are you gonna join me or what?”

She made her way to his side, shoving her hands deep into her hoodie pockets. Following his lead, she shucked off her sneakers by the door and followed him inside into a…laundry room. She really ought to calm down.

“Where the fuck did ye put my pants Gaz? Fuckin’ bampot,” someone was grumbling, trudging through the corridor beyond the laundry in only a pair of boxers and a long sleeve navy henley. “Ach—Christ, Ghost, I’m puttin’ a fuckin’ bell on ye, I swear to—oh hello.”

“Put your eyes back in your bloody head Johnny,” Simon grunted, palming the man’s forehead and steering him in the opposite direction of Clementine, “and get some pants on. We’re not repeatin’ Amsterdam.” Johnny (allegedly) barked a laugh at the comment and retreated.

Clementine raised a brow behind Simon, murmuring, “what happened in Amsterdam?”

The man shook his head, “need to know.”

“Need to fucking know,” she grumbled as she followed behind him. She was reluctant to enter the house but not reluctant enough to linger behind and lose sight of him.

It was a very…normal house. Just lacking pictures. Well, pictures of people. There were more than enough landscape and nature photos. Nondescript blue skies and lone palm trees or aggressive postcard-esque imagery that looked like a stock image shoved into a frame galore. The more she looked around and found only similar photos, the more she figured that they actually werestock images stripped of their watermarks.

“Clementine Watson,” a grumble sounded to her right, making her jump, “started to wonder if I’d ever see more than just the name.”

The man before her had one hell of a moustache and beard. Clementine glanced at Simon who looked entirely indifferent, and she fetched her voice from where it’d been hiding behind a rock. “It’s nice to meet you.”

His smile immediately set her at ease, crow’s feet etched into the corner of his eyes that nearly squeezed shut, “don’t tell me Ghost has you scared stiff. Sent the wrong lad out to fetch you, huh?”

She frowned, looking at him and then Simon beside her, “Ghost?”

“Never heard a callsign before?” he grunted in answer, as polite as he’d ever get apparently.

“Ignore him,” the moustache said, the words appearing from behind a near-invisible mouth. “I’m John Price, you can just call me Price though,” he said, offering a wink. He turned, leaving her no choice but to follow him into the kitchen unless she stay stuck by Simon who seemed unwilling to move any further into the house. Boundary reached then, she noted. “Simon’s the head of your security detail, but everything else, comes back to me—”

“Price,” Simon grunted from behind her, “that’ll do.”

John looked at him over his shoulder and, in a flash, a decision was reached, “right. In your case, then,” he started again, that easy smile returning as he sunk into a single seater couch in the living room, “I’m just another Simon.” She must’ve pulled a face, he laughed, “one’s more than enough for you huh?”

She didn’t dare look at the Manc beside her, dipping her head. “Just not used to Simon yet.”

“That’s alright Miss Watson; I’d wager the rest of us are a touch more palatable.”

“Fuck off,” Simon grumbled, fetching himself a glass of water behind her.

She’d almost forgotten that that was something he’d need to do. Something he’d have to take off that damned mask to do. But the moment she turned, intrigue permeating the air, he turned away from her, shielding his face from sight.

The man from before entered through the living room doorway, now with pants (thankfully), he offered her a grin, quite unlike the warm smile Price had given. “If she looks like tha’, how bonnie d’ye reckon her ma’d be?” he asked Price, leaning across the couch.

Price slugged him across the shoulder, “take a cold shower you little prick.”

“Come off it, Johnny,” Simon sighed, (mask back in place, Clementine confirmed with a quick glance over her shoulder). She felt a little like she had in her meeting earlier, surrounded, examined. “You ought to play nice or I’m gettin’ you swapped for Hendrix.”

The Scotsman grumbled a curse, rolling his eyes, “call me Soap, lass.”

“Soap?” she echoed, frowning.

“Aye,” he cocked a brow in challenge, “ye got someone in yer band called Lucky, dinnae see ye laughin’ at her and she’s no’ the one watchin’ yer arse—”

“Well, her name isn’t a cleansing product—”

“But if she is watchin’ yer arse, I’ll happily take the night shift—”

“Johnny—”

“Simon, I want to leave, and I want someone else in this little squad of yours—anyone else.”

The jangle of keys was immediate, as was the scolding of one John to the other.

“That was short-lived,” a new voice said, emerging from the hallway she and Simon were just about to return to. “I’m Gaz, nice to meet you.”

The smile she gave him was taught as a rubber band, “you too.” She wanted to go home. She was still sore from her massage, analysed and ogled enough for a lifetime, and all she wanted was her bed. “No need to give you my name, I imagine,” she had aimed for a joke but couldn’t so much as muster a laugh.

His came easily, warming his face, “don’t think so, no. Soap say somethin’ crass?” he asked, his eyes raking over her face.

She turned away. Maybe this was why Simon had a mask, perhaps it stopped the feeling of the stares from singing his skin.“I’ve got somewhere to be. It was nice to meet you Gaz,” she repeated, her hands turning clammy as she wrung them in her pocket.

Heeding the tip of Simon’s head, Gaz moved aside, and she followed the broad man down the hallway, far too relieved to see the car again.

“Back to Lucky’s?” He asked, she nodded. To his credit, he didn’t say anything as she curled up in the passenger seat, drawing her hood up over her head, her tears burning tracks down her cheeks and fogging the window as she leaned her head against it.

— ✦ —

“Clementine,” a deep voice plucked her from the land of the unreachable, grounding her with a hand likely shaking her shoulder.

“Sorry,” Simon said, retracting his hand as she sat up, “we’re here.”

She looked out the windshield, blinking at the familiar house. She must’ve fallen asleep. “Oh,” she murmured, unbuckling her seat belt and opening the door. “Thank you.” She felt disjointed, sniffling, clearing her throat.

“Miss Watson?” His voice returned, a reminder in his tone.

Clementine turned back, her feet on the driveway, and saw the box oof the camcorder in one of his hands and a take-away cup and bag in the other. “Oh,” she said again, taking the box. “What’s that?” she asked, nodding at the take-away.

“You should eat something, I don’t think you’ve had lunch yet, it’s just past three now. It’s just chai and a bagel,” he said, holding the items out for her to take.

It was her usual from the bakery near the studio where they’d had rehearsal from the past three days.

“I’ll eat them if you don’t want it—” she took the food, her stomach suddenly clenching as it remembered itself.

“Thank you.” She lingered a moment, “could you—could you not mention—”

He held up a hand, “you have my word. Sorry about Johnny, he’ll acclimate within a day or two, acts like a fuckin’ twat but he’s solid.”

She just nodded. Lingering again. She didn’t know what to do—didn’t know if she even wanted to be in the house, the lights were on, and she could hear a gameshow playing.

Simon didn’t miss a thing, “want some more to eat?” She could hear his words for what they were, want to drive around a little longer?

“I’m sure you’ve got better things to do,” she said, shaking her head and closing her door, making the short trek to the front door. Hopefully she could duck away and read for a while or just sleep some more. She didn’t look back as the car started behind her again.

He’d be back by nightfall; she knew that much.

[supernatural-bias]

You van now marry me because I am interested in your tf2 headcanons

Tell me more please

so happy someone asked for this. giving your forhead a big fat smooch. also, i would habe included tracker in these, but i feel like that would have been a bit self pretentious

scout

• good artist. has drawn tom jones fanart before

• knows a little bit of french; his mom made him learn. also knows a few french songs because of this

• bisexual but battles with it a lot

• really appreciates his teammates and conciders all of them—except for maybe spy—to be his best friends

• terrified of medical procedures and terrible at hiding it

soldier

• brightest blue eyes you've ever seen

• wears underwear with the pattern of the american flag on them

• doesn't know it's not normal to have gay thoughts. literally would kiss a man sloppy style and then not understand why everyones looking at him. probably straight, but makes exceptions

• has had his hands cut off at least five times before. it's getting concerning at this point

pryo

• uses asl with their team and teaches those who don't know. they'll still use muffled sounds to communicate though

• has no gender actually. not trans, not cis, but a secret third thing

• aroace! latches so strongly onto platonic relationships though its actually insane

• attends bonfires with enigneer sometimes

• has a pair of onsie pajamas that they wear over their suit to bed at night

heavy

• is definitely in love with medic, no doubts to be had

• has a PHD in russian literature! a very smart fella, he just has trouble speaking his mind in english

• gay. so so gay. mlm all day

• the only merc to regularly check out books from teuforts library sans soldier. although he doesn't really check out books, he just yells at the librarian for not carrying sun tzu's the art of war

• sings little songs to sasha in russian

demomam

• has scars all over his chest from an accident with a grenade he had as a kid

• sends lots of post cards and souvenirs to his mom when he's on the job. he really loves her

• actually used to style his hair in dreads when he was a little bit younger, but just doesn't have time to do much with his hair anymore

• so casually bisexual; especially considering it's the sixties and seventies. takes interest in both men and women

• best friends with both his and the other teams soldier!

sniper

• his camper is such a mess all of the time. only ever cleans if he knows someone's going to be visiting, and even then there's a few stray piss bottles laying around

• plays poker & other card games with scout all the time. when they can't bet money, they'll end up using other things to play, like bullets or stray snacks

• thinks he likes both men and women. tries not to dwell on it too much since he gets anxious about it, but at the end of the day can't deny that he finds men attractive as well

• has a mug that says world's number one best sniper that miss pauling got him

engineer

• shortest mercenary r.i.p

• parental figure to pyro

• one of the only good cooks at the base. often ends up making dinner for everyone even if it's someone else's turn to cook that night

• has a prosthetic arm that he built from scratch & spends a lot of his time adding to/upgrading

• probably straight, but the biggest ally you'd ever meet

spy

• genderfluid. has a few lady disguises he's had to use before, and is just as comfortable in them as any other one of his disguises. definitely had gay sex with scouts mom before

• reverts to straight french when he gets irritated or upset

• heavily bisexual and very open about it with any of his partners. a man/womanizer

• the only merc with a sense of fashion to be frank. have you seen everyone else. soldier thinks being naked and covered in honey is the epitome of fashion for fucks sake

medic

• probably knows more about the medical field than any other doctor at the time. is actively dropping some medical talk & procedures that won't even be invented until a few decades later. he's fun like that

• owns one pair of regular clothes. everything else is lab coats and black pants. maybe a turtleneck or two if you're lucky

• super mega über gay for heavy. see what i did there

• also, i'd like to headcanon that he needs glasses because he's nearsighted of all things. it makes performing surgery hard without them

[stubblesandwich]

Slice Of Life

A Captain Swan & Captain Cobra fanfic, written for @pirateprincessofpizza for @cssecretsanta2020.

Rated: General

Words: 6,000+ (I knoowww, I'm sorry 🙈)

Author's Note: Merry Christmas, Pirate! I'm SO SORRY this is a few days late. 🙃 Forgive me. I hope the fact that it's so darn long helps soften the blow of its lateness. This is actually going to be part one of a series I'd like to do, completely inspired by your username/enduring admiration for pizza, as well as your desire for more "slice of life" scenes, surrounding different points in Emma and Killian's relationship as it grows through the seasons. Each story will feature pizza in some way or another, because pizza is great, despite what other pirates might think to the contrary. 👀

Anyway!! Merry (belated) Christmas, my dear! I loved getting to know you through our long messages, and I hope you find this fic to be at least semi heart warming. I had fun writing it, and I look forward to continuing it with a second chapter set in the 6-week era of peace in S4. 👀👀

This one is set during season 3B, with Emma trying to juggle having a good relationship with her son and make an attempt at normal in the times of the Wicked Witch--by having a shared dinner with Captain Hook, obviously. Set some evening post-Neal's death but before poor Killian has his lips cursed.

AO3 link here if that's easier ✌🏻

+++

Life is made up of moments, her father had once told her. Good ones. Bad ones. But they're all worth living. 

And this, right here? This is a good moment. 

The town, for once, is quiet. 

No new flying monkey bite victims. Nothing from the Wicked Witch. And while all nefarious villains are undoubtedly planning and plotting more nefarious deeds, tonight, Emma Swan does not care about any of that. (She doesn't even sort of care.) 

What she cares about is the black-clad, self-proclaimed scoundrel sitting across from her whose more nefarious days seem to be tucked away behind him for safe keeping. The black-clad scoundrel currently looking at her like a confused puppy, slight head tilt included. 

"And what, pray tell, is pizza?" he asks, as he reaches for his mug of beer. Granny's been trying out a few new brews on tap (that Emma is pretty sure some of the dwarves have been concocting illegally, but she doesn't have the mental capacity to check into that any further at present) and has roped Killian into taste testing one of them for her.  Killian, never one to see a lady in peril, needed no arm twisting and was happy to oblige. "I gather it's valuable in this realm, if you would stoop to homicide to attain a slice of it." 

Sometimes she truly can't tell if he's messing with her, when he talks like that. The internal lie detector she'd developed as a child to tell when another foster parent or sibling was bullshitting her, then honed as an adult to tell when even worse people were bullshitting her, sometimes gets a little fuzzy around this particular man. (Or she quite possibly gets distracted by his face and the way he tends to stand so close to her. Who’s to say, really.)  It's what she would blame, if pressed, for why she left him up on that beanstalk oh so long ago.

(Which is something she is very grateful he has never brought up again.) 

It's definitely not the fact that he stands so much farther into her personal bubble than literally anyone else on the planet, or the fact that he watches her with those insanely intense eyes of his, gaze fixed on her in that knowing way like he not only sees her, but he gets her, reads her like a book sitting out and open on a coffee table. It's incredibly unnerving. But what's even more unnerving is how she is finding that the longer she knows him, the less she really seems to mind. 

Sometimes, she feels like he stepped straight out of a Jane Austen novel, when he talks like that, and she can't tell if he's hamming it up on purpose. She's very well aware he's not from this time, or realm, or whatever. She never actually forgets that—how could she?—but she almost forgets, sometimes. Until moments like now, when he's staring at her like a quizzical puppy. A puppy who apparently doesn't know what pizza is. 

There's a little bit of beer foam on his upper lip, caught in his mustache, which she's always noticed is just a little darker, just a little more pronounced than the rest of the stubble dusting his jawline. She's wondered before if that's where the silly mustache comes from, on the cartoon version of Captain Hook from the Peter Pan cartoon. (Not that Emma has spent an inordinate amount of time admiring the artfulness of his facial hair, God no. And there's definitely no intrusive thoughts of licking said beer foam off his upper lip, no, definitely not. That's never happened to her before and it's definitely not happening now.)

All she'd said, grumbled beneath her breath as she stared at the menu she had memorized, was that she'd kill for a decent slice of pizza right about now. A perfectly normal bit of hyperbole. 

His bright eyes dance, trained on her as they so often are, but the hint of a smirk pushing at his lips is masked by his mug as he takes a sip of his beer. He licks his lip, and just like that, the foam is gone, and takes with it the distraction it was causing her. 

"Wait, hold on, back up,” she says, as if finally registering the words he’d actually said.  “You've seriously never had pizza before?" She's not sure why it surprises her, really. Nothing should surprise her by now. But pizza? Come on. Everybody’s had pizza. 

He just raises his eyebrows at her. "It's some form of food, I gather?"

She huffs a little laugh. "Yes, it's food." 

It's at that moment that Henry reappears from his trip to the bathroom and slides in next to her. Something in her heart clicks back into place as he tucks in next to her. "What's food? Did you order something yet? I'm starving." 

"You heard the lad," Hook says, and something in Emma's heart tugs like a bite on a fishing line at the way his eyes soften as he looks at her son. "What will it be, Swan? This pizza that has you so up in arms and calling for blood?" He says "pizza" like he's trying the word out, two distinct syllables that sound foreign to him. 

Henry just blinks up at him, and Emma explains, "He's never had pizza before." 

Her son's eyes bug out in unfiltered shock. "What?" 

"I know," Emma says, in a what-can-you-do sort of tone, as she reaches across and snags Hook's mug of beer from him. She can feel him watching her, and she pointedly does not look back at him as she takes a sip from it. The home brew is thick, and hoppy, and.... Emma smacks her lips a few times. "That's actually... not bad." 

Hook shrugs with one shoulder. "I've certainly had worse." 

"I've never seen you drink something that wasn't out of your flask," she comments wryly. 

With one fluid motion, he reaches across their table and steals his mug back from her, taking another sip. Kissing, her brain blurts out for thankfully only her to hear. Share a drink and it's like you're kissing was the old playground tease from her childhood. Eagerly and yet very unhelpfully, her brain then supplies her with an image of the first time she'd kissed this particular man, in a hot, sweaty, evil magic jungle, and something low in her stomach bursts open like a big, hot balloon. Get it together, Swan, she chides herself. 

Thankfully, Hook doesn't seem to notice that she's having an internal error of some kind, and simply says, "Contrary to popular opinion, Swan, I'm actually a fairly well traveled and well rounded individual with many refined tastes." 

"If you say so.” She finds herself leaning a little closer to him as his foot bumps hers beneath the table. 

"But you've never had pizza before?" Henry asks, still so very very confused about how on earth someone can just go about life never having eaten his favorite food before. Stumped, Killian just stares at the boy, frowning slightly. Emma comes in for the save. 

"Well, then, let's change that tonight, shall we?" she says, with a can-do attitude rivaling that of her mother. "That settles it. Let's order a pizza." Her flicks to Hook. "Unless you had other plans for dinner?" 

"I am at your beck and call tonight, my lady," he says, and though the innuendo in his tone is only mildly implied for the sake of her son sitting across from him, Emma still can't help but roll her eyes. 

"Can we get fries?" Henry asks hopefully, and Emma can't help but smile at him. 

"I was thinking onion rings. But sure, kid. Fries it is." 

"Get both," Hook suggests casually. "Dinner's on me." 

"No, it's fine," Emma insists, "I got it."

"It makes no difference to me, love." 

"Do you even have money?" She's never stopped to think about it before, how he's getting around, how he's been paying for a room here or what he's been using to buy food. It's such an obvious question, and yet she's never thought to ask him. 

"You have no idea what the exchange rate is for gold in this town," he says simply, as he takes another sip of his beer, and she raises her brows at him. 

"Okay, well, that's a question for later," she says. "Good to know." A better sheriff would look into that further, all the presumably stolen gold and other treasures he has in his possession, and the people in town so willing to turn a blind eye and take it as payment, but it's literally the least pressing problem in her life at this point. It's not even a problem; she has no way to prove he's stolen anything, and even if she did, she finds she just doesn't care. The fact that he has any number of gold pieces and random treasures on him at any given point in time with which to pay for goods and services is… oddly endearing. 

But, she probably should pay for her own dinner. Otherwise, he might get the wrong idea about what this dinner is. "I've got it," she says again, a finality in her voice with which he decides not to argue further. 

"If the lady insists." 

Henry, bored of their conversation, has been staring down  at the laminated menu in front of him. "What do you like on your pizza, Killian? Well, I guess you wouldn't know that. What do you think you'd like on it? Pepperoni, bacon, Canadian bacon–which is just ham–mushrooms, extra cheese--" he rattles on a list of all the available toppings, still staring at his menu, and completely misses the look that comes over Hook's face when Henry uses his given name. Emma, blessedly, had looked over at him at just the right moment, just when Henry had said "Killian", and beheld for herself the way Hook's whole face had softened. 

"Pardon?" Killian says, clearly confused. "I'm still not quite sure what it is we're ordering." 

"All right, Henry, help the poor guy out," Emma says. "Define pizza. Go.” 

Henry shakes his head, incredulous as he stares at Hook. "Wow. You're like, Amish or something." 

At that, Emma can't help the laugh that bursts out of her. Killian Jones could not possibly be further from an Amish person if he tried. For his part, Hook just frowns, mouths Amish? to himself.

"Okay," Henry goes on, "You have the crust, which is basically like bread." He holds out a hand horizontally, then stacks his other hand on top of it, alternating them with each layer he describes. "Then the sauce. Then a bunch of cheese, melted. Then whatever you want on top. Mom and I usually get the supreme, no green peppers, extra bacon, extra mushrooms. But we can get whatever you want. What do you like?" 

Killian just looks at him, flabbergasted. "Supreme is fine, I'm sure," he finally says. Emma would feel a little bad for him if this wasn't so damn funny. 

"Cool." Henry snaps his menu shut and sets it aside before turning back to his mother. "Can I get a milkshake?" 

"Definitely not," Emma says. "You had that donut at the station earlier, remember?" 

"Oh yeah," Henry mumbles, disappointed. 

It doesn't matter though, because when it comes to her son and sugar, no one in this town seems to listen to her. Ruby automatically brings out a hot chocolate with cinnamon on top and sets it in front of Henry without even asking permission. "Sorry," she says off Emma's look, sounding distinctly not sorry, "On the house. Granny insisted." 

"Thanks," Emma says wryly, sounding distinctly not thankful. 

"How's the beer?" Ruby asks Killian, who smiles up at her politely. 

"Very good. My hat's off to whichever dwarf concocted it." 

"That would be Bashful. Though he's too shy to take credit for it." 

"I imagine so," Killian says with a smirk. 

"Dwarf?" Henry asks, confused. 

Crap, Emma thinks, and tries to think on her feet, "Uh, the mining crew in town gave each other funny nicknames. Right, Ruby?" She shoots Killian a look, and he has the good sense to look abashed at his slip up. 

Ruby's eyes are wide, as if she also completely forgot they were supposed to be a completely normal town in front of Henry. "Right! They're funny that way. Anyway, I'll tell him you liked it. And I'll tell Granny to keep it on tap." She pulls out an order pad from the half apron at her waist. "What'll it be, folks?" 

"Well," Emma starts, "Killian's never tried pizza before..." 

"So we're going to change his life tonight," Henry finishes for her. 

Ruby, expectedly, shares in their shock. "Never had pizza?" She stares down at the pirate like he's suddenly grown an extra head. "What are you, lactose intolerant or something?"

"Excuse me?" Hook asks, as the mountain of his confusion just continues to grow ever taller. 

"He's just not from around here," Emma reminds Ruby pointedly, and a look of understanding washes over her. 

"Ah, right," Ruby says, "I forgot. Okay, yeah, let's change a life tonight! Pizza it is. What'll you have on it?" 

"Supreme is fine," Emma says, and Henry pipes up to add, "No green peppers, please. Extra mushrooms and bacon.” Ruby writes it down, along with the side orders, and promises to be back soon with a batch of fresh onion rings for the table. 

A comfortable silence befalls them. Killian seems relaxed, Emma notices, as he lounges against the wall, and she's surprised to find herself settling comfortably into the booth, as well. This is... nice. They haven't really had a chance to do this, her and Henry, and just hang out with someone else from her life. She's had to dance around so many things with her son, dodge so many questions, hide things and explain (read: lie) things away, with his memories gone. It's been exhausting, frankly. But, since he already knows Killian, spent an entire road trip from New York to Maine in a small car with him, this has felt fairly easy. And Henry seems to like Hook. A lot. 

But Emma should have known that this was going too well. 

"So, Killian," Henry says after a minute, having sampled his hot chocolate and found it satisfactory. "You're not from around here?" Emma's chest clenches in anxiety at whatever he's about to ask next. Please don't ask him how he lost his hand, Emma begs from behind the bars of her brain. She's not sure she can handle the amount of ducking and weaving THAT particular conversation would take. 

“That’s right,” Killian hedges, eying Henry closely, though he still looks completely at ease and prepared for whatever might possibly fall out of her son’s mouth next. 

“Are you from Great Britain? Like, England?” 

It’s almost imperceptible, the way Hook’s gaze darts to Emma before he takes another swig of his beer, and she steps in with an answer. 

“Uh, yeah,” Emma says, affecting a tone that makes her sound semi-sure but also looking to Killian for clarification, “London, right?” 

He takes the answer she hands him on a silver platter and nods easily. “That’s right. What gave me away?” 

Henry rolls his eyes, but any rudeness behind the gesture is dissipated with the smirk he attaches to it. “Uh, the accent, mostly.” 

“Ah,” Killian says with a wink. “Well, guilty as charged.” 

Emma’s not sure if they even have a version of London in the Enchanted Forest, or whatever part of that realm Killian is actually from. She vaguely remembers the Peter Pan film being set in London—probably?—but that’s about it. 

There’s a little wooden peg game hiding behind the napkin dispenser on their table, pressed up against the wall. One of those little pieces of wood with holes drilled into it, with little pegs you’re supposed to jump over each other until there is only one left. Emma knows for a fact that each of the booths has one, and that they were each hand carved by Marco. Henry watches as Hook toys with it, jumps a few pegs over each other, and Emma’s heart gives a little squeeze as Henry asks, “Do you know how to play that?”

Learning to play that simple, weirdly addictive little game was one of the staples of their Granny’s dates, in the first year she lived in Storybrooke. Every time they would sit and eat together, without fail, Henry would pull out the little piece of wood from behind the napkin dispenser and move the little pegs around. Emma caught herself doing it a few times, too, even when Henry wasn’t with her. Just stabbing the little golf tee picks into their tiny holes while she waited for her food. It was weirdly satisfying and oddly addicting. 

And now Henry has forgotten it. 

For all the memories they share of their “pretty good” life back in the big city, she knows there are a dozen more here, in this quiet, strange, terrifying little town. And while she wouldn’t trade that year she had with just her and Henry for anything in the world, she can’t help but grieve the loss of the memories she made with him here, in Storybrooke.

Hook’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts. “Aye. Want me to teach you?” 

Of course he knows how to play the silly little peg game. She watches as he explains, simply, the right strategy to win in the fewest moves. Hook slides the piece of wood over to Henry, who takes it and flips it around, eager to try for himself.

Perhaps emboldened by the fact that he doesn’t have to look at Hook when he asks, and can instead stare down at the little wooden pegs, Henry asks, as casually as possible, “So, how’d you lose your hand?” 

“Henry,” Emma starts. She can’t help the sound of a scold that wraps around her tone. 

“It’s fine,” Killian says easily, though this time he doesn’t look at Emma to give an answer for him. His left arm had been relaxing across his lap; he shifts, and brings his forearm up to rest on the table. For the most part, he had taken to wearing his prosthetic hand around Henry, in lieu of the hook. Emma and her son both can’t help but stare at it as Killian rests it on the table. 

If she’s honest, Emma misses the hook. If she’s honest, she never really actually thinks of Hook as an amputee. She’s seen him make a few creative alterations to movements more able-bodied people would traditionally use two hands for, sure. Using  his teeth to pull a cork from its bottle, or to sexily tie a scarf around her bleeding hand, for one. 

She knows he’s missing a hand. Logically, she knows this. She called him “Hook” 99.9% of the time, until she had to stop when Henry was around. It rolled off her tongue so easily, and several times, she’s had to stop herself from blurting it out in front of Henry. But it’s almost as if half the time it doesn’t even register in her brain that there are some things he can’t do as easily or as quickly as other people.

Now, as she stares down at the leather-wrapped prosthetic on the table in front of her, she finds herself missing the namesake to his more colorful moniker. To her utter horror, when she realizes she’s been very obviously staring, she glances up at Hook’s face, and she finds he’s been watching her for a while now. Emma feels heat pool in her cheeks instantly, and she leans back. But graciously, Killian only smiles softly at her, seeming, yet again, to read her thoughts easily. As if he knows she misses the hook. The bastard has the audacity to wink at her. 

Oblivious to the unspoken conversation happening right beside him between his mom and the strange man across from him, Henry pipes up, “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.” He sounds nervous, like he realizes the gravity of his social blunder and suddenly wants to give Killian an out. “Really. I… I’m sorry I asked.” He shoots an apologetic look to Emma, who tries her best to look stern. 

There’s a moment of silence that stretches out between them where Emma genuinely doesn’t know what Hook is going to say next. So many directions this conversation could go, so many versions of the truth, the unbelievable truth, that he could go with. Emma is very aware that she’s holding her breath, but she can’t seem to let it go until Killian says something. It’s the one thing in this moment she feels like she has control over. 

“Truth be told, lad,” Killian finally says on the end of a sigh, “It happened so long ago, I hardly remember what it’s like having two hands.” 

Emma releases the air she’d been holding captive in her lungs, and in place of the tightness in her airway comes a little pang in her heart. She knows this story, but she’s never asked him about this story. They’ve never talked about that moment, just the two of them, when Milah was murdered right in front of him, and then he had his hand cut off. It’s horrible, truly. She takes the horror of it for granted, and she suddenly very much does not want Henry to hear this story, even in whatever veiled shape Hook wants to tell it. It’s Killian’s story, his hand that was lost, and it’s his right to tell Henry whatever he wants about it. Emma’s heart grieves for this man before her and the tremendous losses that have shaped him. But she does not want her son to hear this story. She’s not even sure she wants to hear this story. 

Life has softened Emma too much, she fears, because while she imagines herself as being quite tough and immune to the awfulness of the world, she knows these feelings are showing quite clearly on her face and in her eyes, which are shining just a little brighter as she watches Hook. He looks up abruptly, meeting her gaze, and her heart leaps like she’s just been jump scared. 

“So you were just a kid when it happened?” Henry asks, and Hook huffs out a little laugh through his nose. 

“Not exactly, no.” 

Henry frowns. “I don’t understand.” 

Emma doesn’t envy either of them in this moment, but she especially does not envy Hook, whom she watches with nothing but sympathy. 

And in the end, Hook goes for the blunt, almost-truth of the matter. “Lost it to a Crocodile.” When he looks up at Henry, it’s with a smirk playing across his features. One that Emma sees right through. 

Henry’s mouth falls open in shock, like that was literally the last thing he was expecting Killian to say. “No way! Seriously? A crocodile bit your hand off?” 

Even Hook can’t disguise the smile—a genuine one, this time—that comes over his face at Henry’s utter, boyish exuberance at this answer. Emma’s heart swells an extra size, watching them. Of course Henry would think that was awesome, the idea of someone’s hand getting bitten off by what is essentially a modern-day dinosaur. “Aye,” Hook says, shooting Emma a knowing glance. “As I said, I lost my hand to a Crocodile.” 

“What, like in Australia or something?” Henry asks. 

“Something like that.” 

The beauty of this moment is that Hook doesn’t even really have to lie to Henry. He seemingly doesn’t have to do anything more than slightly bend the truth; Henry’s too amped up to even listen to the full answers to his questions, and Killian can continue to dole out the most vague answers on the planet. 

“Did you live there?” Henry asks. “When you were a kid?” 

“Lad, I’ve lived in and seen more places than I care to count,” Hook says, with a gleam in his eyes, “And none of them, I assure you, are more interesting and alluring than this very town.” 

Emma doesn’t imagine his gaze flitting over to her when he says the word “alluring”. She knows she doesn’t. And yet, he’s so quick about it, keeping his focus entirely on her son, that she can’t be sure. 

“Really?” Henry asks, dubious. “This town? Storybrooke?” 

“Aye,” Killian says, “I promise you, my boy. There’s more to this place than meets the eye. You just have to be willing to see, for yourself.” 

It’s the kind of answer an old, wizened Santa Claus would tell a kid in a Christmas movie about a town that was secretly the North Pole or something. It’s probably the corniest thing she’s ever heard him say that wasn’t a pickup line. And yet, Emma is surprised to find warmth prick her eyes at his attempt to make Henry feel more at home here, more interested in this town that her city boy son has written off entirely as Boringville, USA. And she gets that—she really does. She didn’t exactly think Storybrooke was hip-hop and happenin’ when she first rolled into town, either. 

Then again, she also didn’t think it was full of fairytale characters. Literal royalty from another realm. Evil queens with magic. Humanoid crickets, for God’s sake. Henry’s family is here. Whether he knows it or not, everyone in this town knows him, and so many of those people love him, would die for him in a heartbeat. And while she can’t pretend she isn’t ready to take him back to New York City the second this is all over, it hurts her heart that he doesn’t even remember those people. 

All talk of special towns and missing hands cease, however, as Ruby returns and sets a massive, loaded pizza in front of them. 

Emma has the satisfaction of watching Hook’s eyes go wide. And whatever she expected him to say, it isn’t the ineloquent, “Whoa,” that falls from his mouth. Emma and Ruby both can’t help but laugh at him. 

“Looks pretty great, huh?” Henry says, already grabbing himself a plate and eying the slice he wants. 

“One life-changing pizza, as ordered!” Ruby says with a grin. “Prepare to be dazzled, Captain.” 

Henry looks over at Emma, mouthing Captain?

“Navy,” Emma whispers, thinking quick on her feet. Henry shrugs and starts piling his plate up with pizza. He carefully positions his chosen slices to make room for the fries that Ruby sets in front of him. 

“There we go, folks,” Ruby says, leaning back with her hand on her hip to inspect the table. “Anything else we need? Refill on that beer, Killian?” 

Emma gives a mental tip of her hat to Ruby for how easily the name Killian rolls off her tongue, like she’s said it a thousand times. Hook, for his part, looks momentarily taken aback that she even knows his given name. “Uh, yes,” he says, “Sure, I’ll take another.” 

It’s a true delight, Emma finds, to see one of the most eloquent, loquacious people she knows (next to Gold, probably, which is a noticed similarity she will not be sharing with Hook) so continuously dumbfounded. It brings her great joy, actually, to keep seeing him rendered speechless by such average things.  

“Sure thing.” Ruby nods and reaches over to snatch up his empty mug. “Coming right up.” 

Ruby leaves, and Emma shakes her head at the absurdity of it all. A werewolf, giving a refill to a pirate of a beer that was illegally home brewed by a dwarf. What even is her life anymore? These are the things she didn’t even know she was missing in New York. Not for the first time, there’s a pang in her heart as she wishes she could share in the joke with Henry. She looks over at her son, watches him squirt ketchup over his fries like he’s trying to torture information out of them. Something of these thoughts must show on her face, because after a moment, she feels a little bump on the toe of her boot. When she looks up, Killian is looking at her, his expression soft, and he offers her a small smile. 

It’ll be all right, Swan, his eyes seem to say, and she feels herself relax a fraction. She smiles back at him, thankful. 

Whatever moment that’s happening between them is interrupted by Henry. “Killian,” he says, though the name is turned to absolute mush by the food in his mouth, “Pizza!” 

“Good Lord,” Emma says, shaking her head at him, “Who raised you, kid? Don’t talk with your mouth so full.” 

Henry takes a few gulps from his Sprite, swallowing it all down. “Ah, sorry. I said, ‘Killian, pizza.’”

Hook, for his part, looks thoroughly amused. “Yes, lad, I’d gathered that.” He looks down at their gigantic round entree with what can only be described as suspicion. “Do I just dig in then? No forks with you savages?” 

Emma huffs a laugh. “Only weirdos eat pizza with a fork.” Though, as she watches Henry hang onto a particularly large piece with two hands, she adds, “Unless that’s easier for you. Then be as weird as you want.” 

Killian waves off any concern on her part with a flick of his hand. “When in Storybrooke, eat as the Storybrookians do and all that.”  He slips a slice of pizza off the stand, letting it fall onto a plate with an audible plop, which he frowns down at. 

“Storybrookians?” Emma laughs. “No way. There’s got to be something better than that out there.” 

Hook shrugs, quirking a brow at her. “I’ll have to check with the mayor.” 

“She’s nice,” Henry pipes up, mouth blessedly less full this time. “She took me out for ice cream.” 

Emma and Hook, for what feels like the thousandth time this evening, swap glances. Henry, too engrossed in his pizza, doesn’t seem to notice. Moments later, when Ruby returns with Killian’s beer, being the spectacular mind reader she apparently is, she also comes bearing another Sprite for Henry and a second iced tea for Emma. 

“You’re amazing,” Emma tells her. 

“I know,” Ruby responds with a wink. “I’ll come check on you guys in a bit. If you need anything, just give a whistle.” She turns on her heel and heads back toward the kitchen, leaving them alone with their life-changing pizza. 

“All right,” Emma says, and her tone sings time’s up, buddy. “Eat up or shut up.” 

Killian chuckles, shaking his head at her. “That the saying, is it?” 

“Yup,” Emma says, popping the “P” on the end. “Sure is. Pizza time. Time to really become a man of the times.” Hook eyes the loaded slice of pizza on his plate skeptically, and Emma thinks of young Simba right before he tried a grub for the first time. “Hakuna matata, pal.” 

Henry, immediately getting the reference, laughs loudly at her side, and Emma beams. Hook looks between the two of them, once again a confused, eyeliner-wearing puppy. The poor man shakes his head, as if he’s just completely done trying to understand everything they say, and as they continue to snicker at his expense, he reaches down, scoops up his slice of pizza with his hand, and takes a bite of it. The thing is so loaded up with toppings that a few black olives abandon ship and fall back down to the plate with a soft tink. 

They both watch him expectantly. Hook, being the good sport he is, lets them stare at them while he eats. He swallows, then washes the rest of it down with a swig of beer. 

Emma and Henry give him a solid three seconds before they say, simultaneously, “Well?” 

“I’ve certainly had worse, by way of sustenance.” Hook says, shrugging, and they both groan. 

“Are you kidding me?” Emma says. “You try pizza for the first time and that’s all you have to say about it? You’ve had better?” 

“I believe what I said was that I’ve had worse food, Swan,” Hook clarifies, pointing at her with the prosthetic hand, “Which is a compliment.” 

“In what realm is that a compliment?” 

“He’s right,” comes Henry’s sigh. “This pizza is mid at best.” 

Mid? Killian mouths to Emma. She shrugs, for once just as lost as he is. 

“The pizza back in New York is way better,” Henry says, and Emma can’t argue with that. 

“He’s right. New York City does pizza like you wouldn’t believe.” 

“Yeah,” Henry says, “Remember the cart guy by our apartment that would sell it by the slice?” 

“Yes!” Emma cries. “Pizza Phil!” 

“You bought pizza from a man in a cart?” Killian asks, looking truly befuddled, clearly envisioning some kind of horse and buggy roadside pizza situation in the congested streets of New York City. 

“Not that kind of cart,” Emma clarifies with a smile. “Like a little… stand, I guess. He’d make it there, in this brick oven on wheels thing he had, and then he’d just sell it by the slice.” 

“It was awesome,” Henry says emphatically. “Best pizza in town. Sometimes Mom would let me have it for breakfast on our way to school.” 

“Yeah, well,” Emma says wryly, “Those weren’t exactly my best mothering moments. Sometimes we overslept, and pizza for breakfast it was.” 

“I disagree,” Henry says around his straw, as he finishes off the last of his second Sprite. Another not great mothering moment, Emma thinks to herself. But tonight is a special night. Henry goes on, “I think those were actually your best mothering moments.” 

“And this cart man’s pizza was better?” Hook asks, slowly, making a very valiant effort to keep up with them. “Back in New York City?” 

“New York pizza has a thinner crust,” Emma explains. “So you get more of the cheese and toppings. It’s pretty great.” 

“The best,” Henry asserts. “I wish we could have had you try it before we came here.” There’s something wistful in his tone that hurts Emma’s heart. She knows full well the bagels, pizza, and honestly food in general in Storybrooke leave much to be desired, and that her son misses the big city. She wants to make it up to him, somehow. He’s been so patient with her, through all this, and so trusting, and her heart swells with affection for him. 

“Alas,” Hook says, with a wry look to Emma, “My experience with New York City cuisine leaves much to be desired.” Vaguely, she remembers something about barbaric brigs and being force fed something called bologna. She shakes her head at him, though she doesn’t even bother trying to hide her laughter. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma says with a roll of her eyes. “All right, so we’re not as well-traveled as you are. Sue us. We’re simple folk. We like our pizza.” 

“And I will not begrudge you for that, Swan.” 

“Are there any other pizza places in town?” Henry pipes up.

“I don’t… actually know,” Emma says, glancing at Hook, who shrugs. 

“We should definitely find out,” Henry says. “We gotta try everything this town has to offer while we’re here, and compare it to back home.” 

Emma’s heart squeezes. She can feel Killian’s eyes on her, but she knows if she looks at him, she’s going to lose the battle against the tears suddenly pricking her eyes. Her voice is a little husky when she answers  with, “Yeah, kid. Sure thing.” 

“You’ll come with us?” Henry asks, looking to Hook. “Be brave again, try some more pizza?” 

Hook chuckles lowly, but nods and says, “I think I can be brave, Henry."

“Good,” Henry says, and the grin that lights up her son’s face makes Emma’s breath catch in her throat. He has the best smile, and she hasn’t seen it enough lately. 

They finish their pizza, or as much of it as they can eat, with Henry making the biggest dent. Hook, brave as he is, finishes his slice, and then dares to go for a second, which Emma counts as a win. She doesn’t keep Henry up too late, but they stay late into the evening, much later than Emma had originally intended when she took her son to Granny’s for a hot chocolate and offered to buy Hook a beer. 

And for the first time in a long time, with wicked green witches, curses, her son’s missing memories, and flying monkeys abounding, a peace settles into Emma’s heart. And for the first time in a long time, at least for this moment, she truly feels like everything really is going to be okay.