#i think this classifies as flirting in this universe

[iccarian]

“who’s a girl gotta screw around here to get a gun ?” ― @entriprises, shiv owens.

methodical polishing of dirty rag over dirtier grip of 14 mm slows to a complete falter, head tilting to meet the gaze of the other across the room. pointedly, eyes then draw away, making a theatric show of looking at the expanse of no one else in their company before returning to shiv with a slight squint. a scoff pulls from her lips, arcing toward a crooked smile. ❝ i admire your drive, hotshot, but hell no. ❞

index pointedly hooks the loop of the trigger, weapon dangling as she deposits it behind her for the sake of. ❝ and don't even think about taking that question to anyone else out there. ❞ ari leans back on her palms, giving the brunette a once over before shrugging. ❝ you can clearly take care of yourself without one. ❞ or at least, ariah stays close enough by her side to not have to worry about it.

[gghostwriter]

You’re the Risk, I’ll Take it

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader

Summary: The three times Spencer followed advice and the one time he didn't (or as I'd like to better explain it, the three times Spencer fails to flirt and the one time it worked)

Warning: fluff! Just fluff!

A/n: I wanted to write something cute this time with Season 1 Spencer in mind--one of the best eras if you ask me. Hopefully I did him justice in this. The idea of this cute baby boy trying to flirt is too precious honestly. Also, if a guy did the last act for me, I'd fold like a lawn chair, yep. Risk by Gracie Abrams was on repeat while I was writing this and no proof reading was done. Let me know what you think!

Main masterlist

The first move Spencer tried was advised by Derek Morgan, the renowned ladies man

“Kid, admit it. You like her,” Morgan pestered him with a slight smile on his face. 

Spencer scoffed, trying to throw him off from the truth but monumentally failing. “S-she’s my closest friend. We joined the team at the same time, of course I feel most comfortable with her,” he noted his companion’s eyebrows raising higher and higher with each word. “Plus, she likes hearing what I say even if it has no relation to the case. She asks me questions and genuinely remembers.”

Now it was Morgan’s turn to scoff. “You could be talking about Star Trek and it’s physics mistakes and she’ll still hang on to every word you say.” 

“Actually, there aren’t that many scientific errors in Star Trek. Especially considering—”

“Reid.” 

“Right,” he nodded once, trying to push away the urge to continue further. “That still doesn’t mean I like her.” 

Morgan tapped the wheel twice before turning to face his partner. “Then answer me this. How do you feel when she walks through the office doors?” 

“Happy, I get the same feeling when I see you or Elle come in too,” he found his fingers very interesting then. Like they held the key to unlocking the mysteries of Dark Matter and the answer to the controversial scientific theory ‘Do parallel universe exist?’. He wasn’t telling the whole truth—didn’t want to because how could he, a man of science, explain the other bodily reactions he has when you walk in a room. How he hears his heart stutter in his chest with just a glimpse of you—the first time it happened, he thought nothing of it, but by the third, he considered making an appointment with a specialist for possible heart arrhythmia. How he sees the room brighten when you smile in his direction—perhaps light sensitivity, and how he feels his body heat up when you utter the words ‘Good morning, Spence.’—possibly hot flashes. Self diagnosis that he ruled out once he found you to be the common denominator. That left him with a riddle, a personal conundrum he lost countless of sleep over trying to solve.

“That’s a lie, Reid. You can’t be that happy to see me. You never blush like a tomato when I enter the room. For Greenaway, I could see it but for me, nu-uh,” he argued back. “Okay, what about when she’s not there, what do you feel then?” 

“Sad, similar to how I’d react with you and Elle,” he blurted out another half truth. Another surface level answer that doesn’t fully cover how lost he feels without your comforting presence beside him, how gloomy any room he enters in without you in it, and how incomplete his days were without hearing your voice. 

Morgan snickered. “Lies, you have to learn how to lie better to fool an FBI profiler, Reid. You don’t think I—the team, notice that you’re quieter when she isn’t on the case with us?”

“Wait. Wait, the whole team?” His voice goes up an octave. You were part of the team, did that mean you knew of the effect you had on him too? “D-Does everyone have the same idea as you do? Everyone?” 

“Not everyone, kid. Your secret is still safe,” He smiled wide like a cat that caught the canary. “So it’s true then, you like her.” 

Spencer knew there was no escape from trap, he was just glad that his secret still remained classified from the other party involved. His shoulders sagged as he nodded to confirm Morgan’s findings.

“So what’s your play then?”

His head whipped to face his companion so fast he felt his meticulously styled hair escape the confines of his ears. “Play? There’s no play. Nothing. I’m not going to do anything and this conversation stays between us.” 

“Oh c’mon lover boy, you have to do something,” Morgan challenged. “Y’know she likes you back, right?” 

“No she doesn’t! I mean, why would she?” Spencer rambled on, unable to comprehend what Morgan was saying. “She’s her—beautiful, smart, and cool. Every case we get, there’s at least one police officer hitting on her. And I’m me—I talk too much and get awkward in every situation. The exact opposite!”

“Reid, don’t sell yourself short. She likes you, trust me on this.” He paused, listening to the update on the intercom before continuing on. “So here’s what you’re going to do. Compliment her outfit, girls appreciate that. Easy enough, don’t you think?”

Spencer really didn’t think so after all he had the tendency to go off on a tangent whenever he talks to you but he agrees nonetheless. If Morgan believes he could do it then he couldn’t mess it up, right?

———

Wrong. It was wrong to take Morgan’s advice. Never mind he can recall everything he has ever read, never mind he has an IQ of 187. What good were his talents if he, Dr. Spencer Reid, couldn’t string the proper sentences along?

It started when you walked into the office wearing this light yellow blouse that made you more radiant than he thought possible. It was as if the a ray of sun had graced the bullpen and stunned his mind into silence, rendering him tongue-tied. All his monologues and hypothesis bouncing around his overactive brain fell away and the only thing he could think of was how pretty you look.

Morgan cleared his throat, bringing him back to the living. Spencer averted his awestruck gaze and busied himself with an imaginary lint on his red sweater. 

“Hey Y/N, did anything good this weekend?” Morgan asked as you settled into your desk adjacent to his.

You shrugged nonchalantly and teased back. “I bet it wasn’t good as yours, Morgan. Picked anyone up last Friday or are your charms no longer working?”

“Huh, i see where this is going. Somebody woke up on the wrong side of bed today.”

Morgan chanced a peek at Spencer and internally groaned. How you didn’t notice the kid’s crush on you was beyond him—all the staring and blushing he does when you’re near was a dead giveaway.

“Reid. Reid,” Morgan called out.

He closed his mouth and gulped. “Hm, what?” 

Morgan pointedly stared at him and titled his head towards your direction. A movement lost to you as you noted Elle leaving Gideon’s office.

Spencer opened his mouth to catch your attention but before he could even utter your name, Elle intervened. “Question for you, the foot path killer. Why’d he stutter?”

You swiveled to face her, not having caught Spencer’s intent to speak to you. The unit chief then called them in for a case—an arson case in a university campus. His shoulders drooped as they rushed to the jet afterwards with no chance of small talk. 

When there was a lull in the plane—case discussion finished, he steeled his already apprehensive nerves and took the chance, quickly wishing he hadn’t.

“S-so, your shirt’s yellow,” he stated out loud like it was some sort of revelation. 

“Yes,” you drawled out, unsure as to where he was going with this. “That’s right, Spencer.”

He drummed his fingers on the table and continued on. “Did you know that airplanes tend to avoid the color yellow as it causes dizziness and nausea? A number of studies have shown those exact results and that’s why it’s almost never used in interiors of various forms of transportation and rarely use in advertising. It’s like how the red is the most common color used by restaurants as it psychologically makes the viewer hungry.”

You looked down on your top. Yellow was one of your favorites and you specifically chose this as Penelope said and you quote, it looks good on you, brings out your eyes. Boy genius would probably react to it too so naively you splurged on it. But this—this wasn’t the response you were hoping for. “Spence, are you saying my shirt is making you feel nauseous?”

He blushed and stammered out a strong refusal. “What, no! No! I—I meant to say—you, you look nice.”

You giggled under your breath, finding his long-winded route to giving you a compliment cute. “Nice nice or airsickness nice?” 

“Nice! Just nice!” He defended on, his voice cracking at the end. He caught Morgan’s wide eyed gaze then as if he couldn’t believe what train wreck he just witnessed. 

Cheeks heating up further, Spencer slouched in his seat and busied himself with the files wishing that he could build a memory eraser so he could wipe the events from his and the team’s minds or better yet, a time machine to redo the whole thing all over again.

The second move Spencer tried was advised by Elle Greenaway, the new recruit

“Do you think it’s weird that I knew that ballad?” He questioned during one of their cases in San Diego. It bothered him since the start of the case. How Morgan had teased him about his incapability of asking out the opposite sex. Never mind that you defended him right back, that’s a lie, it made him feel special that you did but the joke was still true. A cold stone truth. 

Elle laughed, flipping her phone repeatedly on the table while waiting for the unsub to take the bait. “I don’t know how you know half the stuff you know, but I’m glad you do.”

“Do you think that’s why I can’t get a date?” He asked as he fiddled with the unfinished Rubik’s cube in his hands.

“Have you ever asked her out?”

There was no need to ask who Elle was referring to, everyone knew of his innocent—well maybe not so innocent at times specifically during his state of dreaming—crush for the second youngest member of the team. He shifted his eyes to focus a few tables before his—at you, sitting beside JJ. “No."

“That’s why you can’t get a date.” 

One of the precincts phone then rang, it was the unsub, causing him to table that conversation in his vast memory. 

———

There’s an English saying that states ‘the second time is the charm’ and Spencer was hoping there were some truth to the idiom even with no scientific explanation to back it up. 

A few cases after San Diego, he got an opening that he was unexpectedly looking for. The team was on their way back from a case in Virginia. It was late and the profilers were all tucked in their little corners of the jet decompressing while you and Spencer were huddled on the sofa quietly discussing Doctor Who. 

“How could you say your favorite is the Ninth Doctor when you haven’t even seen the older episodes?” He rambled, clearly he would have to do something about your limited knowledge in the great universe of Doctor Who. He’d like to explain it all, 695 episodes of the classic era to you. He’d take any topic really just to have your interest.

You stared into his hazel speckled eyes and smiled, amused by his reaction. “It’s a bit hard to catch up on a show that’s been around since the 70s. Plus, it’s a challenge to look for copies.” 

“Actually, the show started in the 60s—1963, to be exact,” he clarified. “Garcia has copies we could borrow and watch together. If that’s—” he cleared his throat and clenched his fists closed, feeling his nails dig into his palms. “—that’s alright with you. If—if not, there’s a convention happening this weekend. I have an extra ticket, if you want to come with—only if you’re not busy, I mean.”

“And risk you spoiling every episode to me? I’d rather watch it alone, if you don’t mind.”

That dragged his optimism to a crash as if a twenty ton weight landed on his chest, rendering him immovable. Of course you were going to say no. There was no proof that you’d reciprocate his interests—he inwardly cursed himself for believing otherwise.

“But, I’d like to go with you to the convention,” you said and silently added as your date to yourself, shifting in your seat with a blush blooming on your cheeks at the thought. “Always wanted to go to one. If you’re fine with me not being in a costume. I think it’ll be too late to find one, don’t you think?”

Just like that, the weight on his chest lifted, making him feel weightless with glee. A wide smile grew on his face, threatening to burst his cheeks as he shook his head. “That’s alright! But you—you can always dress up as Rose!”

You titled your head to the side. “Rose?” 

“You know, the Ninth Doctor’s companion?”

“I know who she is, Spence. I just thought you didn’t watch the revived series?”

He softly scoffed. “I never said that! I watched it too, mainly to compare it to the classics but I’ve seen it.”

You leaned in, wanting to ask about his opinion on it. “Well, what do you think? I happen to be part of the minority who think the actor who reprised the role did alright.”

He liked seeing you like this. It made him feel like a puppy who had his owner’s undivided attention. All wide eyed and interested in his conjectures as to why the actor was alright himself but the problems were his short stint—making people vilify him over that decision—and the material some of the writers came up with. He appreciated you nodding along and supplying your own thoughts on the subject. It warmed his heart that here was a beautiful, smart, and cool person—way out of his league, he might add—giving her precious time away to discuss a nerdy sci-fi show that he could not rant and rave to about to anyone on the team, except for Penelope, and she’s rarely on the field with them. 

Your show of interest made him feel seen. Not as an agent with 3 PHDs, not as a genius with 187 IQ, but rather as a person with a right to express himself and occupy space. He wasn’t Agent Spencer Reid with you nor Dr. Spencer Reid, he was just Spencer who likes to watch Doctor Who and read literature in their original language. 

The third move Spencer did was proposed by Penelope Garcia, the spirited tech analyst 

“What do you mean you took her to a convention? For a date?” Penelope squeaked out, unable to comprehend the logic behind the genius’ actions.

“She said she always wanted to go,” Spencer stated as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor. He had fun over the weekend. Going around booths with you, listening to invited guest panels talk about the behind the scenes, explaining the reference every costume that you’ve pointed out, and just basking in your presence beyond cases. It was a memory he had replayed over and over after it had ended. It occupied his whole mind, and that’s saying a lot, causing him to do nothing and sit in his leather sofa and smile like a lunatic during the rest of the weekend.

“Well yeah, but that’s not date material! A date is supposed to be intimate—you and I go to conventions together, do you count that as a date?” 

“What? No! No, of course not!” 

“Exactly, boy wonder. Then what makes you think she’ll count that as a date?” She countered back as she entered her office with Spencer in tow. 

Silence. Oh.

Penelope sighed, having read the despair painting his face. “Did you at least dress up as the Ninth Doctor?”

“What? No. No, I went as the Fourth Doctor. I even hand-knitted the scarf myself.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before repeating what she just heard. “You didn’t dress up as her Doctor?”

“No,” he paused, unsure where she was going with this. “Should I had?”

“Yes! Yes, you should have!” Penelope slapped his arm out of frustration. “Why didn’t you call me once she said yes? We could have talked game plan or strategy or at least have gotten you a leather jacket to match her choice of companion.”

“Oh, I messed up then, didn’t I?” He slumped despondently on the office chair. “You—you don’t think she thought of it as a date at all?”

She played with her feathered pen, trying to find a way to salvage it for Spencer. “Did you take her out to dinner after?”

He shook his head, finally realizing his mistake.

“Oh Spencer,” she approached gently. “I can scoop for details with Y/N later on and report back to you?”

He shook his head. It didn’t feel right to have Penelope betray your trust and go behind your back over a mistake that he made. You were a honest person and you deserved to be treated with respect and reverence even though all he wanted now was peer into your viewpoint of the date—not date—and figure out once and for all if you saw him as anything beyond a co-worker and a friend. 

“Hm, I think I might just a solution,” Penelope blurted out of the blue. 

He looked up with a sliver of hope blooming in his chest. Maybe third time’s the charm. Besides, Penelope was the colleague you spent most of your time out with. You once mentioned that you considered her your best friend, besides from him of course. 

“You can bake her a batch of cookies! No one can say no to that,” she excitedly explained, believing it to be full proof—except for the fact that he doesn’t know how to bake. He wants to ask you out on a date but not to the expense of burning his whole apartment building down. 

“I can’t—I can’t bake, Garcia,” he squeaked out. “Did you know that 44% of all reported home fires are caused by cooking and baking. Those fires have resulted in an average of 470 civilian deaths and 4,150 civilian—”

She interrupted. “I’ll give you my recipe and detailed instructions to follow. That’ll make it easy peasy for you, boy genius.”

“C-can’t I just buy from her favorite bakery instead?”

“No can do, Doctor. Her favorite cookies just so happen to be my creation. She told me so herself.”

“Well, can’t I just ask you to make it for me? I’ll buy the ingredients!”

“Nope,” she dragged out her refusal. “Think of it as an act of service to her. Plus don’t you think it’s highly romantic when she finds out that you baked them yourself?” She swooned just thinking about it.

“Romantic? It won’t be romantic when I burn my apartment down, Garcia.”

She sighed. “Fine, I’ll supervise if you want. This weekend, granted if we’re free. But you—” she pointed her feathered pen at him. “—better be prepared and I’m just supervising, okay? I’m not baking it myself.”

He sighed. At least having Garcia around would make it easier.

———-

It did not in fact make it easier. Spencer burnt two batches before six pieces were considered edible. Garcia couldn’t understand, hell, he also couldn’t. Baking was precise and from his scientific viewpoint, it was a lot like chemistry. He loved science and anything academic, so how is it that he failed miserably, twice, when it came to baking? 

He shook his head as he entered the office. The first one—he stole a glance at Hotch’s office and saw movement—correction, the second one arriving early. Sometimes he wondered if the unit chief ever goes home, first in and last out.

He settled in his seat before promptly fidgeting from anticipation. Statistically speaking, you arrive earlier than Morgan or Elle which gave him enough time to gift the paper bag of cookies sitting hidden in his satchel without bringing attention to and embarrassing himself. He’d like to have little to no audience if he ever does mess it up for the third time. 

He brought out the cookies, afraid they’ll get crushed between his hardbound books, and placed them on your desk before standing to wash his clammy hands and make coffee. Counter intuitive of him to do as he was already a bundle of nerves and by drinking caffeine he was doubling that but maybe the smell would calm him before shooting up his energy by drinking.

As he exited the mens room, Penelope stepped out of the elevator and squealed. “Is she here? Is she? Did I miss it?”

He shook his head vigorously, trying to silence her excited glees. “No, she’s not here yet. She’ll—” he looked at his watch and ran the numbers. “—be here soon. I’m about to brew coffee. Do you want some?” He opened the door for both of them to enter the bullpen.

“Ick, no thanks,” Penelope said, scrunching her nose at the thought of drinking even a sip before scurrying away to her cave. “I’d rather not ruin my taste buds on bad coffee.”

He laughed and turned towards the kitchenette. With the coffee brewing, he drummed his fingers on the counter and mentally rehearsed what he would say to you. If he practiced, there’s less chance of messing it up like the first time, right? In his state of concentration, he missed you entering the office in all of your beautiful glory.

“Ooh cookies!” you exclaimed as you opened the unknown package on your table.

Spencer abruptly turned, hitting his side on the corners as he did. His eyes widened as he registered you holding the unsigned paper bag of treats on your desk. 

“They must be from Penny,” You continued on, oblivious to his presence and the devastation your remark caused him. Of course, he’d find another way to mess it up. You glanced around and your smile widened as you took in his handsome presence. “Oh hey Spence! Look, Penny made me cookies!” You tip-toed out of excitement. 

He smiled at your enthusiasm for something as simple as treats in the morning. The giggle you gave out as you entered the kitchenette was enough for him to slightly care less for the truth. He loved bringing out the happiness in you. It was like his own personal sunshine shining down on him, soaking him with vitamin D and boosting his overall sense of wellbeing. “Do you want coffee with that? It’s still hot,” he offered. 

You tapped the side of your hips with his as a sign of good will. “Thanks, Spence! This is turning out to be a great day, don’t you think?”

He watched as you busied yourself with putting cream and sugar in your of cup and sighed wistfully. “I think so too.”

And the last move Spencer did was recommended by no one but himself, the awkward 187 genius

With all three acts not delivering, he promised to try one last time without any outside interference besides from yours in his memory. You always did tell him to be himself in any situation, no matter how much he stumbled through any awkward situation—always there giving him a pat on the back for encouragement. 

Over the weekend, he spent his time reading two of your favorite books—which didn’t take much but he did read them again and again, regardless of his eidetic memory, trying to understand why these specific books were your comfort. Always pushed within the confines of your go bag, dog-eared and brown from age. He wanted to know how they’ve become an extension of you and how it had shaped you to the woman he has fallen in love with. 

He found himself hunched over his dining table, underlining sentences that made him think of you, scribbling away on the margins (and sometimes on post its too), and tabbing the written pages with a variety of colors that each represent an emotion. The act in it of itself made him feel closer to you than he thought possible. Lines in the books that made him think, ah so this was what formed your kind spirit. This is why your empathy knew no bounds. And this is why your beauty is inside and out.  

Spencer laid down to rest, anxious for the next day, Monday, to come. His heart threatening to beat out of his chest but his mind oddly calm as if it had a precognition that everything would turn out just right.

———

You arrived earlier than he did, throwing him off balance. 

“Hey Spence!” You greeted with a smile. “I got you a croissant and some coffee from that shop near my place.”

He blushed and stammered out a thank you. You were wearing a deep purple blouse that matched the scarf around his neck—the birthday gift you’ve given. He was no believer of the mystics but he took all of these as a sign from the stars. There was no way he would mess this up now.

“I—I got you something too,” he looked inside his satchel, hands shaking from it all. Gods, he wished this would go well or else, he might just die from embarrassment. “It’s nothing much but—I read your two favorite books and just—I wanted to discuss it with you,” he brought out the tabbed copies and presented them to you. “These are for you. I know you have copies of your own but I-I put my own notes on which lines reminded me of you.”

Your face turned red at the notion behind it all. Here was the BAU genius, the certified lover of the classics and the academia, the man who had your affections since day one, reading two contemporary literatures just for him to present you a gift like no other. You reached out and hugged the precious copies to your chest. 

“Thank you, no one’s ever done this for me before,” you breathed out, falling deeper into attraction with the perfection in front of you. “ Hey Spence, I may sound delusional asking this and you can say no if you want to but—” you visibly gulped, unaware of the audience nearby. “—would you like to have dinner with me? I make a mean lasagna.”

He turned red and vigorously nodded. “Y-Yes. Yes, I’d love to have dinner with you.”

You giggled, sounding like wind chimes to his ears. He did too, giggle I mean, from the triumph of finally knowing that his feelings were willingly reciprocated.

“Finally, you love birds!” Morgan shouted as he swung his arm around Spencer. “Didn’t know how much we could take from this pretty boy—” pointing at him “asking for advice and you—” pointing at you “—pretty girl is as dense as a rock. Tell me again how��d you end up as profiler with those observation skills.” 

A hand whacked him at the back. “Way to ruin the moment, Morgan.” Elle chided before turning to Spencer with a smile. “See told you, you could get a date.”

[landoslvr]

MRS TELEVISION | a. frederick

summary: a scroll through your internet presence as 'mrs television'. [social media AU.]

pairing: fem!reader x arthur frederick (arthurtv)

faceclaim: bri kerr

notes: first piece for mrs television out of the wag universe. bri is gonna be the main fc I use for mrs television, hopefully you like it!

liked by arthurtv, arthurfhill and 1,129 others

yourinstagram helped out on someone else's video for once, chris finally let me leave the dungeon!!!

view all 92 comments

user she kills me

user hottest producer award goes to...

chrismd_10 drinking on the job?

yourinstagram constantly

user she looks peppered in the 3rd slide

user first risky pic from y/n ever on the 6th slide

georgeclarkey thanks for the candid of me and my man 😌😌

arthurtv please someone get him away from me

user y/n's friend is inhaling that guinness 🫢

arthurtv great photography for the 1st and 3rd pictures, big fan!

yourinstagram humble as ever mr television

liked by georgeclarkey, wroetoshaw and 1,398 others

yourinstagram lots of fun at work recently, constantly mixing business and pleasure 🥂 chrismd thanks for keeping me employed even if I drink at work

view all 120 comments

user I can't tell if shes joking about drinking at work 😭

user its definitely a joke, most bts has y/n yelling at chris to pull his head in lol

user she keeps him in line!

yourinstagram have been going on 15 years

user we thank you for your service 🫡

arthurtv no jerseys at the match???

yourinstagram the nerve!

chrismd_10 who's that handsome fella in the last slide?

miniminter leave the md clutches and come to sidemen

yourinstagram throw in talia and you have a deal

georgeclarkey you drunk

yourinstagram seems to be the new normal now, just embracing my new brand (like you and your Invisalign ads)

georgeclarkey too far

liked by callux, arthurtv and 1,781 others

yourinstagram more of a traveller atm than a producer! enjoyed spain very very much, definitely swipe to the 8th slide to see what arthur classifies as a front flip

view all 328 comments

arthurtv it's called being flexible, you wouldn't know anything about it

yourinstagram your six-year-old sister does a better front flip than you

arthurtv leave flora out of this

user guys stop flirting in front of us 😭😭 the false hope hurts

georgeclarkey always appreciate meeting a fan

yourinstagram die

calfreezy that photo was sacred y/n

chrismd_10 I feel ashamed, embarrassed

willne the absolute cheek

user why is no one talking about how good y/n looks in these pictures??

faithlouisak Im thinking the same thing?

user literal island princess

user is that danny aarons in the 5th picture 😭😭

yourinstagram dont even ask how he got the invite

chrismd_10 we're still not sure tbh

liked by callux, arthurtv and 1,901 others

yourinstagram filmed a very *cool* video this week 🌨️

view all 234 comments

arthurtv again, who is your photographer???? such raw talent is exquisite

yourinstagram im very close to letting him go actually, you can have him!

user arthur being the first to comment on her posts fuels my mrs television heart really, give us something guys

user I love them at my core I can't lie

user she is just so pretty

chrismd_10 get back to work

yourinstagram I literally just want to breathe chris

user someone make chris let y/n go, she needs to be a free woman

bezhinga faiths phone is dead but she says 'u look leng'

yourinstagram I love you faith kelly x

liked by callux, arthurtv and 2,193 others

yourinstagram very good friends! (happy one year doofus)

view all 401 comments

user A WHOLE ASS YEAR???????

user who even are they????????

user I feel like I have been swindled here miss l/n

user can we finally call her mrs television??? shes more than chris' producer now, she's one of us

arthurtv best friends for life! (I love you very much)

user I can't tell if im going to cry or faint tbh

user why is he always playing chess, arthur PLEASE

yourinstagram I'm asking this question all the time?

chrismd_10 I take credit for this relationship btw

yourinstagram how so?

chrismd_10 if I hadn't sat with arthur in class and then dragged you into our group project, I like to think this wouldn't have happened

georgeclarkey I love all of the fans so much but please stop sending me these pictures of my fiancé wrapped around another woman

user GEORGE PLEASE

[fantazygirl-blog1]

I'd literally die for a fic where Light actually realizes that killing L is counterproductive to his goal as Kira.

Think about it, as he is, Light, while a genius with death note powers, is just a random university student after all. He doesn't have connections, or influence in powerful circles. He also lacks proper access to information abt the world's worst criminals who are still being investigated and may never even be brought on as a suspect on an ongoing case. And while Light's family isn't poor, they're comfortably middle class. Light doesn't really have that many resources, and if he had gone on with his plan to become a police officer, he wouldn't be able to get much more than that.

Meanwhile, L is literally a world renowned detective, clearly has connections and influence over very high up people. He has the trust of most world's governments. Being a detective so highly sought after, he obviously has access to a hella lot of classified information abt very dangerous criminals Light would LOVE to get rid of. L is also filthy rich, so that wouldn't be a problem either.

So clearly, Light working together with L would be the smartest, most efficient way to achieve Kira's initial goals. Light is supposed to be a master at manipulation, scheming and charismatically convince people to be on his side (and let's not forget that manipulation and scheming are Lawlight's brand of flirting) so why wouldn't he try to seduce L to see things from his perspective?

Like, I want to see Light aggressively scheming to get L on his side while L is just there like wtf is going on, why isn't he trying to kill me? I want canon-like intense mind games except L and Light are on totally different pages. I want L to immediately see through Light's attempts at manipulation and fall even more in love with the total evil asshole that makes L feel alive for the first time. I want them both one upping each other and annoying each other and finally working together as they should be.

Does anyone know ANY fic like this? Or if not, is anyone interested in picking up this idea?

[alaskasmonsters]

𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 (michael kaiser)

pairing: michael kaiser x gn!reader

contents: flirting, foreign language (german), teasing, petnames, enemies to lovers, mistaking attraction for hatred, reader has anger issues

w/c: 2.486 (istg this was meant to be short,,,)

summary: kaiser is infuriating. there is just something about him that made your blood boil. and when the boy started teasing you in german, knowing damn well you had no idea what he was saying you could only imagine what type of things he was saying about you.

a/n: oh look it’s my favourite trope. mistaking attraction for hatred. <3 kaiser speaks german in this one because *looks at hand* i do what i want :)) you’ll find the translations for what he says at the bottom of the post. they are pulled from my own brain (this is me trying to say i am in fact fluent in german shshshhs) also writing some of kaiser’s lines made me cringe bdhdh ngl he thinks he’s so hot 🙄🙄 and he is also the title is lowkey highkey misleading hahaha

Kaiser got under your skin like no one else did. He always had that particular skill. No matter what he did, no matter what he said, the boy infuriated you to no end.

Everything about him down to his stupid smirk, his playful tone, his insufferable confidence and sometimes even just the way he would look at you… there was nothing in the world that managed to rile you up as much as being stuck in the same room as that boy.

Unfortunately, this was something that happened quite often. Kaiser and you being forced upon each other, like the universe was playing some twisted game, waiting to see who of you would break first and go at each other’s throat.

And you were pretty sure you were losing.

If getting the chance to choke Kaiser could be classified as a loss, that was. Maybe it would be a blessing. Maybe you shouldn’t look a gifted horse in the mouth. Maybe you should just wipe that arrogant smirk off his smug face forever and call it a day. Then you’d be rid of the pest called Michael Kaiser.

The boy who managed to bring out the ugliest side of you. An angry side, a spiteful side, a childish side. A side you did not like about yourself. A side you’d rather ignore, push deep deep down to the depths of your subconsciousness and never let see the light of day again.

You had no idea what you did to deserve this. Why the universe decided to punish you specifically was beyond your comprehension. Haven’t you always been an upstanding citizen? Haven’t you always tried your best to not be an asshole, to not let your anger get the best of you? And yet, and yet, here you were once again, standing in front of Kaiser, who was regarding you with one of his trademark smirks, while you were struggling to keep your cool.

The boy knew exactly how to push your buttons and he never held back. No, he seemed to bathe in your attention, all satisfied smirks and gleaming eyes, and your anger only spurring him on in his mission to be the most infuriating man on the planet.

You didn’t even know who started it this time but you were blaming Kaiser anyway. After all he was usually the one breaking the unspoken rule that was put in place for the two of you that said you were not allowed to interact. Because of how little you got along you were also advised to avoid each other as much as possible.

Regardless of who was the initiator today, it didn’t matter. The damage was already done. The “damage” being you, standing here, chest swirling with burning hot anger and Kaiser, who had nothing better to do than make it worse.

Like fucking always.

You hated Kaiser, and most days you were sure he hated you, too. Still, it was always you who got upset with him and it was always he who liked to make a joke out of the whole situation. Probably because he knew it would only infuriate you more.

The boy loved pushing your buttons.

“Weißt du, du bist echt süß,” Kaiser purred, tilting his head to the side as he regarded you, “Einfach zum Anbeißen.”

You frowned, jaw clenching in irritation as you glared at his smug face, the mocking tone of his voice not going past you.

Even when he was speaking another language. Despite knowing full well you couldn’t understand him and that you hated it. He loved it, though. Speaking German when you were already angry, knowing it only made it worse.

Whatever insults he spout at you or names he called you in the other language, with a fake smile in place, you couldn’t possibly know. But you expected the worst.

“Michael,” you warned.

His eyebrow ticked up at the usage of his first name.

That was only a small triumph. He preferred being called by his last name, especially by you. He was a weirdo who got off being addressed with the title of an emperor, and you weren’t an exception. You knew it made his skin buzz, could see it in the way he’d lit up.

Kaiser nodded, seemingly to himself as he leaned his shoulder against one of the lockers of the dressing room. Why you were even in here was beyond you. Maybe today was the day of bad decisions.

“Und dann ist es noch so einfach, dich sauer zu machen, fast schon witzig,” he continued, not dropping his smirk.

His eyes narrowed at you mockingly, hands pushed deep into his pants pockets. He seemed to look relaxed but you knew he was watching you like a hawk, waiting for what you’d do next. If you’d leave, like you did many times, storm out and slam the door shut behind you or if you’d talk back, something you often couldn’t resist either.

Your jaw ticked. Knowing that Kaiser was well aware of how easy you were to anger and provoking you anyways was something that got your blood boiling like nothing else. Your heart was already thumping wildly in your chest, the sound of it rushing to your ears. Adrenaline was coursing through your veins, spurting you to act, to run or to argue or maybe to punch him. And worst of all, you could already feel the onset of shivers.

It was such a nasty betrayal of your body.

Whenever you got upset, you started shaking. It was most likely the adrenaline but if driven to a certain point of anger it’s something you couldn’t help. Your hands and your shoulders and your legs would start shaking and you’d stand there looking like a stupid chihuahua — at least Kaiser loved to compare you to one of those.

He loved to make fun of you for it. He loved to make fun of you for a lot of things…

Your body moved before you could think.

“You’re a fucking jerk,” you hissed, stepping closer until you were stood right in front of him and digging your finger into his chest.

Kaiser didn’t appear appalled or the slightest bit worried about your trembling form. His grin was sharp, eyes narrowed with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Your anger, like so often, only seemed to spur him on.

He leant forward, pushing off the wall, weight against your finger on his chest increasing as he came face to face with you. Before you knew it his hand was on your face. His fingers found your chin, pointer finger gently lifting it as his thumbs graced your cheeks.

You froze, heart skipping a beat in disbelief at the audacity of this man. Your face flushed, you could feel the anger in your cheeks now.

“Wenn du meinst, Schatz,” Kaiser mused, emphasizing the last word and leant closer, your noses barely a breath apart.

Your hands tightened into fists by your side. You should move. You should push him away, maybe slap him while you were at it but you found yourself frozen, completely shocked by the intrusion of personal space. That was unfair. He couldn’t do that when you were angry.

Wait, no! He couldn’t do that at all!

Kaiser hummed, watching the conflict wash across your face with interest, lifting your chin up higher and dipping his head lower.

That was the moment your brain decided to bid its goodbye, your brain cells frying with its departure.

You had no idea what was happening. Whether Kaiser had just seen something on your face and gracefully decided to take it upon himself to remove it with his lips, or if he had finally thrown his last bit of dignity out of the window and was planning to bite you.

Which didn’t make much sense, because out of the two of you you were certainly the one struggling to keep yourself from being violent with him. He had never even come close, unless he was as good at hiding it as you would like to hope you were.

Kaiser’s face was still moving closer.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you realized what the only logical follow up to this action was and you stopped, not moving away when you easily could have, waiting for Kaiser to seal your lips with his.

But before it could come to that Kaiser stopped, waiting a moment, before drawing back, observing you out of hooded eyes and taking in your…whatever expression you must be making that moment.

If you had to guess it was probably similar to whatever a crashing Windows would be looking like.

“You look like you really want this ‘jerk’ to kiss you, though,” he murmured, still only centimeters away from your lips.

Before you could decide to do anything, like actually push him away or maybe pull him closer or any other insane thing, Kaiser giggled, fucking giggled, before pulling back. He didn’t withdraw without planting a kiss against your forehead, though, making you flinch.

What the-

You gaped at him, blinking. Then you realized what just happened.

You had almost let Kaiser kiss you.

You. had. almost. let. Kaiser. kiss. you.

You had almost let Kaiser kiss you!

No, wait, this wasn’t even all there was.

Kaiser had almost kissed you!

Kaiser, the most infuriating man on the planet, the asshole that got off on fighting with you, had almost kissed you. No, he did kiss you! On the forehead. He had planted his lips there, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. Which it wasn’t!

Who even did that? Who kissed their…their…enemy anywhere?

Your hand touched the space above your brows his lips had touched, as you stared at him. He gave you a challenging look.

“You’re….you’re so? You’re unbelievable!” You stuttered, completely out of your depth.

The both of you had entered new territory with this action of his and you had no idea how to act.

“Oh? Am I?” he asked unconcerned.

You glared at him, raising your finger then changed your mind. Instead you turned around and started stomping towards the door. You could not be dealing with this right now.

You simply refused.

Kaiser chuckled, snatching your wrist. “Come on, don’t be like that. If you wanted me to kiss you you should have just said so.”

You clenched your jaw, somehow managed to talk yourself out of actually hitting him and instead only ripped your wrist from his grip.

“I didn’t !”

“Mh?”

“I didn’t want you to kiss me, you asshole,” you bit out, turning to look back at him over your shoulder, face lowered and eyes narrowed to give him your best glare.

Kaiser looked unimpressed.

“Is that so?” He tilted his head to the side, grin cheeky.

“Oh now you can speak a language I understand,” you growled, winning the inner fight against your voice of reason and facing him again.

“Magst du es nicht, wenn ich deutsch für dich spreche?” He feigned hurt, placing his hand over his heart. “Das verletzt mich echt.”

You wanted to bury your face in your hands and scream. But you didn’t. Because you were strong. So, so strong. And so brave about it.

“You know I hate that. Stop being so fucking infuriating.”

He snickered. “Why are you even so mad at me all the time?“

“Because you’re infuriating!” You deadpanned.

“And yet you find me irresistible.”

“Irresistible not to beat up.”

“How crude.”

“Shut up, already?”

With every moment the urge to wipe that self-satisfied grin from his face became stronger and with it your resolve to hold back slowly started to crumble.

Kaiser seemed to notice. Just like a shark who smelt blood he could always detect your weaknesses.

“Or what?” The challenged, stepping closer, voice lowering into a murmur, “You know, if you don’t stop being so rude I might actually have to kiss you to shut you up.”

You gaped at him, trying to step back and gain more distance between you when he took another step forward but your feet were rooted to the spot.

Was it really so easy to catch you off guard? Was Kaiser really capable of reducing you to such a mess with the threat of a kiss?

The boy laughed softly, enjoying whatever expression you must be making with your face right now. Maybe this time it was similar to a cornered animal.

“I said shut up,” you repeated, but your words had lost their heat and your face wasn’t just flushed from anger anymore.

A few moments ago you had fantasized of punching Kaiser in the face, and now…now he was saying those confusing things like they had been on his mind for a while now and you were unable to shift your focus anywhere but his slowly approaching lips.

Why did he even think of kissing you? You hated him. He hated you. What kind of fucked up game was this?

Kaiser bent forward again, suddenly directly in front of your face. How he had managed to get so close again was a mystery to you.

“Make me,” he murmured, a challenge visible in his eye.

You snarled, your anger finally taking the upper hand as your arm shot forward, fingers burying themselves in the fabric of Kaiser’s collar. You considered pushing him away, forcing him to give you space. Instead, and for no reason you were able to understand you pulled, yanking him down. Then you pressed your lips to his.

Kaiser‘s mouth felt warm against yours, lips both chapped and soft, the hand now on your waist firm. He pulled you closer, returning the kiss with fierce

You shouldn‘t question this. Not right now…maybe never. Yeah, never was probably for the best.

“Maybe you don’t hate me as much as you pretend you do,” Kaiser hummed against your lips.

The words managed to bring you back to your senses. At least partly. At least enough for you to realize what you were doing. And what you were doing was kissing Kaiser, you, who had been given a chance and still chose.

Had you actually just done this?

“You! I- Fuck you!” You hissed.

This was…You hated Kaiser. You hated him. He made you angry. On purpose! What were you doing here…kissing him?

You loosened your grip around Kaiser‘s shirt and used your flat palm to push him away. The boy didn‘t stumble, barely took a step back when you had already turned around, ready to run off.

Kaiser‘s amused laughter followed you as you pushed through the door and rushed down the corridor. His last shouted words, “Bye Schatz!” accompanying you as you disappeared behind the next corner.

You couldn‘t believe what had just happened.

You had kissed Kaiser. And the worst part about it? You kinda wanted to do it again.

translations:

“You know, you’re really cute. I could eat you right up.”

“Not to mention how easy it is to rile you up, it’s almost funny.”

“If you say so, honey (=verbatim ‘treasure’).”

“Don’t you like it when i speak german for you? That hurts me.”

“Bye honey (=verbatim ‘treasure’)”

taglist: @crystal-lilac @duf3h6237 @hufflefluffslytherin @chucky-26o1 @lordbugs

[artbyblastweave]

Curious if you'd say you've ever seen a superhero work that genuinely deserved the alt-history genre classifier, and otherwise at what point its even possible to use it vs going 'this has decades of in-universe history but doesn't deserve to be called alt-history for [REASONS]'

Only one I can think of off-hand that has enough granulated timeline-development would be Wild Cards, but curious if you think others qualify and/or if you think WC doesn't qualify

I can't really comment on Wild Cards extensively (haven't read that much of it) but I can comment on a few other works. To briefly be the guy who talks about the same three works all the time:

Watchmen I think totally qualifies- Nixon is on his fifth term, electric cars are ubiquitous due to Dr. Manhattan's ability to synthesize lithium, Vietnam is the 51st state, the zeitgeist is consumed by pirate comics, and everyone in New York got murdered by a giant fake squid. And superheroes are real.

Unfortunately I also have to note that The Boys flirted with this; among other things, superheroic "intervention" resulted in the Brooklyn Bridge getting destroyed during 9/11, Prescott Bush and some of the other Business plot guys got wiped out during an attempted superheroic field test in World War 2, The War on Terror is being fought primarily in Pakistan, and Dakota Bob is president because George Bush Jr. killed himself playing with a chainsaw. The fact that none of this really pans out into a tangibly different society is deliberate, as part of the comic's drumbeat that superheroes, while roundly bad, also fundamentally don't matter, and are at best able to make things bad in different ways without really changing the shape of the structures that produced them.

Worm is in kind of a weird spot here- it objectively is an alternate history, countless things are different, whole nations are gone, we see a lot of alterations to the culture- but it gives limited airtime to a lot of the specifics of how things got to where they are, beyond the broad clusterfuck generated by the parahumans. To some extent, the fact that the world is radically different is downplayed until the back half because society at the start of the story is Stepford-smiling through an immanent apocalypse- and, you know, the immanent apocalypse is ultimately kind of the relevant difference from our world. But on the whole, I doubt there's a really tight worldbuilding document documenting all the ripple effects on the dramatis personae of history. The story's pretty vague about, for example, what the American presidential lineup has been since Reagan, what electoral politics look like in a world of Capes. It's vague about basically everything else in that nitty-gritty, concrete-details vein.

I do think that all of these, Worm in particular, highlight a major issue you're gonna run into when trying to do alternate universe stuff with capes, and it's that, first of all, doing really robust, thoughtful and fleshed-out alternate history is already really fucking hard, requiring a strong command of the history and culture of maybe up to the entire world, depending on the scope of your project- and superhero stuff already suffers from really strong American provincialism, so the depictions can get stupid fast if you aren't careful. Then on top of that the nature of the cape genre is that you're going to be following a pretty pared-down central cast; authorial and audience bandwidth will be tied up with what's going on with these specific guys over the course of their story, which can get in the way of a birds-eye view of their world, unless you're specifically structuring the story in a way to dodge that issue (which, you know, I get the impression Wild Cards did.)

I also think a commonality in the above works is that a lot of the alt-history changes are instrumental, included not as the result of the author trying to hyper specifically model falling dominoes from a specific point of change, but because they help the work to make its point. I doubt Alan Moore has a one-hundred-page forum thread detailing the fallout of America winning the Vietnam War, but such a thing would be beside the point- which is that God being an American Agent would fuck shit up geopolitically, regardless of the specifics. I mean a lot of this is vibes-based already, right? In objective terms the MCU has been an alternate history for years, but it doesn't claim that label, doesn't market itself as such, so it isn't. I think it comes down to whether you decide to wear that outfit on the runway, and how well it hangs on you once you've opened yourself to judgement on those grounds.

[suhnshinehaos]

treacherous

...a spin-off to crush culture ! synopsis : after a couple of instances of accidental matching clothing, yangyang finds himself in a dating rumor with possibly the most famous person on campus : yn, the bassist of an up and coming band. yangyang doesn’t seem to have a problem with it. unfortunately yn, who has also built up a reputation for being cold as winter, does. pairing : liu yangyang x gn!reader genre/s : university au, student council + band au, fluff, angst, humor

act three, part three : a familiar face

written part wc : 1.4k

previous  ➤  act three, part two next  ➤  act three, part four treacherous  ➤  masterlist 

you take a few deep breaths before opening the doors. one, two, three. inhale, exhale. you can do this, you remind yourself, though you’re not entirely sure if you actually believe it. it doesn’t take a genius to figure out which familiar face your bandmates were referring to. 

when doyoung mentioned an interview with kwangya club magazine, the first emotion that tugged at your system was disappointment. while you never had any problem with cc!yn, you also knew that they were a music writer for the magazine; yangyang wrote for fashion. the next emotion that coursed through your veins was an excited anticipation. you hadn’t seen any other ncit alum outside of your bandmates since graduation. seeing a familiar face would certainly be a refreshing change of pace from working.

the cold air from the air conditioner hits your face as soon as you stepped into the room, but you were nowhere near bothered. instead, your ears picked up on an ever so familiar voice and your eyes immediately move around the room to locate its owner.

you spot him by the windows, with your bandmates and your manager, and just like that your feet begin to move on their own. 

“i actually voted for this guy when he ran for council. truly one of my biggest regrets.”

you hear the teasing tone in mark’s words as you move in closer, but his voice is nowhere near as loud as the beating of your own heart.

“come on, i think i did a great job in the council.” yangyang runs a hand through his hair before looking down at his feet, “i threw great events, didn’t i?”

“it’s good to see you seem to know each other well, i trust that this interview will go well.” doyoung nods towards yangyang, and just before he could respond, doyoung waves you over. “yn! good, you’re here. we can get started.”

you watch as yangyang’s eyes widen at the mention of your name, looking up from his shoes to meet your gaze so quickly that you fear he would have somehow injured his neck. 

“hey, yn.” he breathes out, and the way he says your name was enough to send shivers down your spine. it held so much weight despite its quietness.

you offer him a small smile, so small that you’re not even sure if it classifies as one, “hi, yang.”

“so, um-”

“it’s been-”

you both start your sentences at the same time, and make gestures for the other to proceed with what they were planning to say first. it feels strange, awkward even. when you were both in university, the atmosphere was never awkward between you and yangyang. even when you had first met. he always found a way to fill up the space with his teasing and flirting, and you always responded with a masked annoyance and eventual endearment.

but now, neither of you knew what to say.

hendery lets out a low whistle, trying to look at anything but the two of you. doyoung is doing the opposite, his gaze darting back and forth between you and yangyang, completely intrigued at the change of atmosphere. mark pretends to check on his phone, but you could tell by the brightness of his screen that he was just swiping his thumb back and forth across his home screen. 

dejun, ever the reliable best friend, breaks the silence.

“so, since yn is here, should we begin? we do have a lot of schedules to get through today.”

“yes, of course!” yangyang speaks claps his hands together just a little too loud, before leading you to an area where a couch and a couple of extra chairs had been set up. “right this way.”

“that will be all, thanks for your time.” yangyang politely smiles, closing his notebook and stopped his recording device. he stands and offers to shake each of your bandmates’ hands, which they take. however, when he reaches you he can’t help but grip a little tighter and hold on a little longer. 

you and your bandmates excuse yourselves and make your way to where your manager was waiting by the door. yangyang lets out an exhale of relief, closing his eyes for a brief moment. he did it, he was able to finish the interview in one piece.

then again, that was mostly attributed to yours and your bandmates’ sense of professionalism. especially in the way they made the interview feel like a bunch of old friends catching up. 

still, there was a weight in his back pocket. the texts that johnny had sent just as the interview was about to begin played on a loop in his head. if you can’t do it for yourself, do it for yn.

yangyang’s gaze travels across the room until they land on you. there’s a strange tugging sensation that makes it feel like he’s being pulled towards you, but it’s not like he’s making any effort to stop himself either. 

“hey yang-”

“can i talk to you?” he doesn’t mean to be rude to hendery by cutting him off, but to him everyone else in the room had disappeared. yangyang needed this. he needed you to know. it’s all his fault. if there was any sliver of doubt in your mind, he wanted it gone.

you look towards doyoung, silently asking if you can.

doyoung nods. “sure, but make it quick. i’m taking you guys to another interview in a bit.”

yangyang leads you to the farthest corner of the room, mentally preparing himself every step of the way. how does he even begin? is there a right way to begin? does he just show you his phone and let you piece everything together yourself?

when he finally stops walking and is faced with your waiting expression, his mind draws a blank. he stands, tense and unblinking, as you crossed your arms in front of your chest and chip away at the air of politeness and professionalism you held onto this entire time. what’s left is a faraway look of hurt in your eyes, the kind that made his own heart ache.

“i didn’t want to do it.”

“then why did you?” a sigh moves past your lips, your voice the quietest he’s ever heard it. still, he misses that all too familiar and comforting sound, even if it was tinged with disappointment and undeniable pain.

his hand shakes as he reaches for his phone, even more so when he hands you his phone. in it contained an album of screenshots of texts between himself and your previous manager, himself and renjun, as well as his group chat with renjun and cc!yn as per johnny’s suggestion when he talked with him in his office the day prior. it took a lot of scrolling back, but yangyang always knew he eventually wanted you to know. he just never thought the universe would give him the opportunity to do so, or if he even had the guts to go through with it.

yangyang could only watch with bated breath as your eyes scanned through the texts, your eyebrows furrowing deeper and deeper each passing second. it’s the longest, quietest, and heaviest three minutes of his life.  

“yang, listen-” you hand him his phone back, and for the briefest of seconds your fingertips brush against his. before you could even finish your sentence, a voice calls out to you from across the room, your manager’s.

“YN! WE NEED TO GO, INTERVIEW GOT MOVED UP.!”

“but-” you turn to look at him, and yangyang could tell in your expression that the gears were turning in your head, cycling through every possible emotion and every single word you wanted to say. 

yangyang shakes his head with a sad smile, not wanting another manager mad at him. he gently pushes you towards the direction of where your bandmates and manager are, “it’s okay. i just wanted you to know. for both our peace of mind.”

“YN! YOU CAN CATCH UP SOME OTHER TIME.”

you sigh, turning towards him, “is your number still the same? you didn’t block mine?”

he nods and you respond with a nod back before jogging towards doyoung and your bandmates.

yangyang was having lunch with giselle, jaehyun, chaeyoung, and seungkwan in the office pantry when he received a text.

bonus !!

#dvforkwangyaclub , aka. yangyang's interview : coming soon

sneak peek of part ??

from reese, with love <3

yeah... this one was a lot huh? apologies for the long time between updates, it took me a while to work on this one. thank you for reading, i'd really love to know what you think! hope you're doing well and taking care :)

[yeonmuse]

Puppy Love | Lee Sanyeon pt 1

Pt 2

PAIRING: Golden boy Sangyeon x Best friends Coworker Reader

WORD COUNT | 2.1k

GENRE Fluff

SUMMARY in which Lee Sangyeon visits his best friend at a rescue shelter he volunteers at and finds himself captivated by his Coworker.

It was almost spring break and recently the weather had been nice and sunny outside which only meant the guys were free to do whatever they pleased,and in Sunwoos eyes this was the perfect opportunity to have a kick back. Sunwoo was known around the university for throwing some of the most insane and exclusive parties,last party he threw they filled his entire swimming pool with bubbles and rented out water slides, sprinklers, and ball pit balls and threw one of the biggest parties at his family's estate.

“Are you sure you can even top your last party? It made headlines in the news and it’s still trending two months later.’’ Kevin spoke absentmindedly as he scrolled through his phone in the backseat of Sangyeons car.

“I gotta admit, it was one of your best.’’ Eric finds himself agreeing with Kevin from the passenger seat.

“Yeah , but I think I can go a little bigger, or maybe I should just try something a little more calm this time, ladies love a man that can show off his diversity. What do you think hyung?’’ Sunwoo slips a little closer to the driver and passenger seats, slipping his head through the opening above the middle compartment.

“You’re asking him as if he’d really know, i’d be surprised if he even paid his surroundings any attention with all the girls that were falling at his feet the entire time.’’

“Hey it’s not his fault the girls love our golden boy.’’ Kevin chuckles, finally having lifted his gaze away from his phone long enough to be involved in the conversation.

It was true that Sangyeon was very popular at their university, truth be told all of them were pretty popular amongst the ladies on campus. On top of being rich and good looking all of them were some of the most eligible scholars at the school which might come as a shock to many when they cross paths with a few of them. Amongst all eleven of them Sangyeon was the most popular, perfect grades, perfect looks, great with kids and an absolute gentleman, his only downside being he was a complete charmer. When it came to the ladies on campus he never shied away from their flirting and temptations, of course he never slept with any of them but he’d find himself stealing a few kisses or two, makeout sessions and the occasional flirting with a random girl sat upon his lap at the parties. Though he would never cross the line of going any further than that.

“Yeah no matter how much of a playboy our golden boy is they just can’t seem to leave him alone.’’ Sunwoo kicks back against the back seat, his feet hanging outside of the car window.

“Playboy?’’ Sangyeon almost sounded offended at his friend having called him such a thing

��That’s what I said.’’

“I am not a playboy, just because I kiss a girl or two it doesn’t classify me as a playboy, Erics way worse.’’

“Hey wait why was I dragged into this.’’ Eric chimes in from his spot in the from seat

“You know that what you just said is exactly something a playboy might do. “I may kiss a girl or two” it was clear that Sunwoo was amused by his friends denial of his own behavior

“And let’s be honest, it isn’t like you ever turn any of them down, at this point I wonder if you even know what it’s like to not have someone just fawning over you.’’ Kevin adds onto Sunwoos words only adding more fuel to the fire.

“You two do realize that I can go without just hooking up with some girl right? You’re both making it seem like I live off the attention.

“Mmm i guess we’ll have to believe it to see it, since sunwoos party is coming up let’s see you put your words into action.’’

(paw prints indicate a time skip )

🐾🐾🐾🐾

The four of them had finally arrived at their destination, Sanyeon parked his car in the empty spot closest to the door as always and they all stepped out before taking a look up at the familiar sign.

“I’ll never understand why Younghoon chooses to work when his parents own half the fucking restaurants in this city.’’ Eric stretches out his arms before closing the car door.

“He doesn’t work here he just volunteers, it’s where he rescued his dog Jiji so he comes here often with jiji to help out.’’ Kevin slips his phone into his pocket and the four of them enter the building.

As they entered the building it was both chaotic and lively, between the sound of the dogs barking and their paws against the hardwood floor and the occasional yelling from the employees that had been watching over them all. Kevin, eric found themselves distracted by the puppies as Sunwoo and Sangyeon made their way to the counter to wait for Younghoon.

Leaning up against the counter Sanyeons eyes scanned over the playpen area, an amused smile on his lips as he watched Eric and Kevin prance around with the dogs as if they were one themselves. The smile slowly faded on his lips as his eyes landed on her. Her smiling face as she stood amongst the dogs making them do tricks and run around for treats. As many times as he had come to visit Younghoon here or pick him up because the brat never felt like driving, he had never set eyes on her.

“Oh you guys are here early.’’ Younghoon who finally appears behind the counter places a box of dog toys on the counter as he spots his two friends standing there waiting for him.

“Sanyeons idea.’’ Sunwoo looks over at his dear friend who he could tell was obviously not the slightest bit interested in the conversation being had.

“Who’s that.’’ Sangyeon finally opens his mouth to speak, his eyes still fixated on her who was now gathering all the puppies to take them outside.

“Uh, yeah no before you even think those thoughts in your head, let it go. Her names Yn and she just moved here a few weeks ago, i won’t allow you to treat her like one of your little minions.’’

“Minions?’’

“Yes minions, no offense Yeon , but you’re a great guy and all but when it comes to women you like to have your fun and it doesn’t go beyond that.’’ Younghoon’s words only shed further light on the earlier conversation the others had had in Sangyeons car

“We tried to tell him, but then he started spewing nonsense about not needing the attention.’’ Sunwoos' persistence on the topic only made Sangyeon roll his eyes.

“Whatever he said in the car, or whatever nonsense was spewed leave her out of it, she’s supposed to be starting the new semester of uni with us and I want you to leave her alone. She’s not like your other pick mes and fangirls. She worked hard for her scholarship and she’s really sweet. I don’t need you playing around with her if you aren’t really interested.’’ Grabbing the box he entered with Younghoon walks off before joining Yn in the playpen, the both of them eventually disappearing out back.

🐾🐾🐾

Of course Sangyeon had listened to his friend's words, but that didn’t stop him from admiring her, or spending every chance he got to observe her. He even went as far as going to pick up younghoon every day for the next two weeks. Younghoon of course found it suspicious at first, but eventually he had gotten used to his friends' persistent visits. On this day, Sangyeon found himself doing something quite foolish, something he had never done before, after all he was never the type to chase, he was always the attractor.

There he was standing outside the familiar building where his best friend would usually volunteer. The only difference was, Younghoon wasn’t here today and he knew that. The moment he walked inside he realized how dumb it was to just show up there without reason, he had no plan what-so-ever.

“Can I help you?’’ A soft voice spoke up from behind him pulling him out of his thoughts, as he turned around to face the owner of the sultry sound, his eyes landed on her.

“Oh- you’re Younghoons friend, I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. Did he not tell you he doesn’t come in today?’’ For a moment all Sangyeon could do was just stand there in silence, this was unusual for him , usually when it came to women he always had the right words to say , but right now he was completely stuck.

The moment he opened his mouth to speak he was interrupted by a loud bark and a brown dog chewing at the leg of his pants.

“Kio No!!’’ She frantically runs over and reaches down to pick the pup up off of the floor.

“I’m sorry he’s one of our newer rescues. He tends to get a little over excited when he sees new people. We’re still kind of training him.’’ She apologizes as she gives the pup a stern look at which Kio whimpers and lays his head on her shoulder.

“Anyways, I didn’t really catch your name, did you want me to tell Hoon you stopped by?’’

“Ah right, Sangyeon, Lee Sangyeon. You don’t have to mention it, I'm sure i’ll see him today so i’ll just tell him i stopped by.’’ He lied, he knew very well younghoon didn’t work today and he would absolutely not be telling him that he stopped by, to younghoon his true intentions would immediately become clear.

“Okay well if theres nothing else I can help you with i’ll get this little guy into the playpen.”

“Wait- actually there may be something you can help me out with.’’ he stops her as she had been preparing to turn around and return to work. She simply looks at him as if asking him to continue, but the way her curious eyes looked upon him waiting for him to say more made him want to just hug her.

“You attend Whisper University right? I’ve seen you around campus sometimes and I’ve seen your name at the top of the boards in the lecture halls.’’ their conversation was interrupted as Yn was being called back to work by her coworker (the coworker that everyone including Younghoon absolutely hates.)

“Ah I’m sorry I really don’t mean to cut this conversation short but, if I don’t get back to work she’s going to complain the entire time.’’

“Wait- what if I rescue a dog, wouldn’t that give us time to talk?’’

“You want to rescue a dog just so you can talk?’’ as if realizing how weird it may have sounded he immediately corrects himself

“No no, that came out wrong. Initially when I came here I was going to adopt, but you thought I was here for Younghoon so I didn’t want to say anything.’’ at his panicked response Yn couldn’t help but laugh and he found himself admiring her once again.

“I was only kidding Sangyeon, come on we can talk in the back while you look.’’ Hearing his name from her lips was like hearing the song of angels, he needed to hear it again

“So you attend Whisper University too? I honestly didn’t know you went there, Younghoons pretty much the only person I know there so far and he didn’t really mention that you all went as well.’’

‘Of course he didn’t’ Sanyeon thought to himself

“Yeah he probably didn’t want to overwhelm you with so many new people since there are a lot of us.’’

“Mmm makes sense, now what exactly did you need to ask me?’’ The two strolled past a few kennels here and there, none of the puppies having caught his eye. Truth be told he wasn’t even thinking of puppies when he came in, but now he was too far deep into his lie.

“ well lately i’ve been struggling with Chem, I noticed you’ve been top of the board for a week now and i could really use some help.’’ He lied again, in fact he was a complete ace at chem, had been since high school, but he knew studying with her would be the perfect cover to get close

“So you need a tutor?”

“If that isn’t too much to ask, ill obviously pay you for your time.”

“Hm…okay, how does the cafe down the street sound? 7 o'clock saturday?” That was the day of Sunwoos party, obviously he was going to take her up on her offer but he knew that would mean coming up with some sort of excuse to tell the others.

“Sounds good, I'll meet you there.” He responds with a subtle smile curved onto his lips

“Now onto the task at hand. Has anyone piqued your interest?”

“Huh?”

“Um…the pups, have any one of them caught your eye.”

After her words a soft snore could be heard from the pup that was now fast asleep on her shoulder.

“Is kio Ready for adoption?”

[with-love-from-hell]

2, 14, 19 and 26 for the asks if you’re still doing them!

2.  Do you drink tea or coffee? How do you take it? 

I don't drink much of either but I drink coffee more often than tea- and I'm very particular about the tea I drink (I found that I've really only liked hibiscus-based teas for some reason). Anyways, With my coffee, I usually use about 2-3 TBSP of creamer in it. For tea, I use about 4 TBSP of honey or Agave nectar (but I prefer honey).

14. What’s your favorite color? 

See here's the thing about favorites for me...lol. I have a hard time picking one, and I have a few distinct colors that I like above all else: Cerulean Blue, Sage Green, Steel Blue, Royal Blue, Plum Purple, Pine Green, Black, and Vermillion Red. I do have a favorite color combination though, and that's Cerulean Blue and Tiger Orange!

19. Do you have a best friend? How long have you been friends? 

I have a handful of very, very close friends that I talk to regularly, and I think there's two in particular that I would classify as "best" friends, though I don't like dichotomizing that way if I can avoid it because it's all relative lol. Anyways, I've known one of them for 8 years, and the other for 7 years, and I've lived with both of them (one you might all be familiar with- they're handle is @offscreen-demon-flirting)

26. What are some seemingly childish things you like? 

Lmao like 75% of my interests are seemingly "childish" but I don't give a shit and like them anyway. I love stuffed animals, stickers, fidget toys, and a variety of children's TV/Movies (some favorites are Bluey, Spongebob, Summer Camp Island, Winnie the Pooh, The Fox and the Hound, Adventure Time, The Muppets- specifically the Muppet Treasure Island movie, Bambi, Robin Hood - the one with the animated fox). I also have a collection of figures/toys/posters/plushies from various things like Godzilla, Star Wars, the DC Comic universe, and Pokémon. So yeah- a lot of my life surrounding childish things lol.

ask me stuff

note: Idk why tumblr refused to let me answer these until today bc I tried 7 times over my 4-day weekend but here we are lol.

[hypostatic-oath]

I can see it depending on personalities and on the characters themselves tbh. It's an interesting thing about hsr - they have different perspectives on the Aeons (Yaoshi my controversial beloved) and other entities based on cultural and personal experiences and that is actually shown. Since hsr characters are familiar with videogames, though, it is easier for them to grasp the concept of what is actually going on. It is possible that some may see you as a sort of Aeon or spirit, some seriously and others for the meme (*cough* the trailblazer *cough*).

The first thought that comes to mind is that Silver Wolf has immediately gained a kindred spirit. Someone who also understands that the world is a game? Finally!

She'd 100% be the most talkative and the most nonchalant. Reality is a game, of course there's people playing. And if they happen to be chill, well, she's more than happy to lend a hand. Befriend your local Silver Wolf, y'all. She's onto you. Idk enough stellaron hunter lore to know whether she'd share it with the others, but this girl would know what's up.

The Trailblazer now uses you as an excuse for anything. Dan Heng and March wonder what the Trailblazer keeps looking for in the belobog dumpsters? Not their fault, it's definitely you who insists on investigating. They put their feet up on the couch and Pompom is panicking? You made them do it. They keep flirting with everyone? Clearly, your doing. They introduced themselves as something super dramatic and largely innacurate? Guess who's to blame. "The devil made me do it but I also kinda wanted to" vibes from them. Like yes, those are things they would've been naturally inclined to do or say... but it was totally, definitely the MyStErIoUs SpAcE bEiNg that made them do it. They will 100% think you're the Stellaron that is inside them at first. (I love the fact that we can just. Fuel the trailblazer's dumbass energy. Like hell yes eat garbage for the achievement. We're basically their intrusive thoughts at this point and we are winning.)

If you end up being considered an Aeon, oh boy. Prepare for the weirdest Simulated Universe encounter. Imagine pulling up to one of the worlds and

If that is the case, Herta is most likely smug about the fact that you get her for free, because essentially she gets unlimited access regardless of whether you pulled her or not. I wonder which type of blessings ya'll's Paths would have...

Idk enough stellaron hunter lore to base this on more than "sounds cool idk" BUT. Keeping in line with my interpretation of sagau, I'm gonna say that the player as an Aeon would be considered the kind of entity responsible for making events come to pass. (If you don't play the game, Kafka doesn't put the stellaron in the Trailblazer's body, no one defends the Herta Space Station from the Antimatter Legion, Bronya never discovers the truth, etcetera that I will not list to not spoil the game for anyone). This ties in with the whole "slave of destiny" thing Elio has. One of the player's Aeon titles could very well be "Bringer of Destiny" or "The Fate Enforcer" (kinda like Yaoshi is seen as "The Plagues Author" and Lan is "The Reignbow Arbiter"). Either way, the Stellaron Hunters are rocking with us for now. Silver Wolf knows the truth, Kafka is the first person we meet and the first person we help/guide/control in the game...

The Xianzhou's Divination Commission classifies the Aeons into three groups: "The Arbiters," who determine mortal births and deaths, and are highly connected to the rise and fall of civilizations, "The Sacrosancts," who are difficult to predict as good or evil, and "The Authors of Calamity," who are seen as the main culprits behind all disaster. With this in mind, I'd wager that you would fall somewhere along the Sacrosancts, but one can never be sure. After all, who's to say that the disruptive arrival of a force that sets catastrophe in motion just by existing wouldn't be immediately placed among the last group? I do believe that it'd depend on the way each of us as players interacts with the world.

sum thoughts about sahsrau, like would they hate your guts for stuff, idk or would they think of you as an Aeon?? It probably depends on your personalities or smth like that :P

[thescarletwriter-414]

Billy Hargrove has never had someone truly love him, until he met you.

So this is basically an au. AU where Billy doesn't get flayed and is also not a jackass.

I think Billy Hargrove was a terrible person, I mean lets be honest. But I love Dacre so this basically an au in stranger things universe with Billy's experiences but Billy's vibe is more Dacre Montgomery than Billy Hargrove.

also i edited this sleep deprived and high so there's probably a lot of mistakes sorry lol.

Word count 2k

Warnings: talk of abuse, sex, cursing, a lot of angst but also comfort

Billy Hargrove has never had someone truly love him. 

He thought his mom did, but what kind of mother would abandon her child, let alone leave their child with someone like Neil. 

-

Billy Hargrove has never had someone truly love him, so he doesn’t know how to love. 

He loves his step sister, though he would never admit it, and he definitely doesn't show her that he truly cares for her. 

-

Billy Hargrove has never had someone truly love him, so he sleeps around a lot. 

He’s spent most of his teenage years sleeping with any girl who would give him the time of day. Most of his weekends are spent at some party flirting with a pretty girl and if she flirts back he’d take her for a “drive.” 

He didn’t do feelings and crap. The last thing Billy wanted was a girlfriend, he just wanted someone to have a fun night with then say adios before the sun came up. 

-

Billy Hargrove has never had someone truly love him, so he flirts with girls at parties.  

Billy knew how to flirt, but not sweetly, it’s Billy Hargrove for gods sake. It was dirty, straightforward and to the point. Until the night he met you. 

He was at Carol's party one weekend. Her parents were out of town so she was obligated to throw a huge rager. 

You gave him a challenge that night, you were the first girl that flirted with him with the same dirtiness and straightforwardness he threw at you.

He assumed you were going home with him that night, but when he asked “Do you want to get out of here” even with that goddamn smirk on his face and twinkle in his eye you politely declined. 

He looked shocked, and before he could even think of what to say next you put a slip of paper into his hand and whispered in his ear “But you should call me sometime pretty boy.” and walked out. 

His eyes stayed on you until the front door of Carol's house closed behind you. 

Billy went home that night without even thinking of flirting with another girl because he couldn’t get you out of his mind. 

-

Billy Hargrove has never had someone truly love him. So he has never gone on a date. 

Billy’s gone out with plenty of girls, but he wouldn’t exactly classify those as dates. 

Billy called you the day after the party asking if you wanted to hang out. You replied with another question asking if he was asking you out on a date. Billy panicked at that moment and said “No." and when he heard nothing but silence on the other end of the line he spoke again. “Do you want me to take you on a date?” 

You let out a small laugh at how flustered he was getting. “Well that’s usually how this works.” 

“Uh okay, Friday work?” 

“Sure pretty boy, see you friday.” 

After he put the phone down his eyes shot open. What the hell is he supposed to do on a date? 

He resorted to asking Max not knowing what else to do. She tried teasing him until he threatened to break her walkman if she even tried to crack another joke. 

So Friday night he took Max’s advice and took you to dinner. It was at a diner, not the most romantic place for a date, but Billy was learning and he wasn’t used to putting this much effort in for a girl. 

The date went surprisingly well. You kissed for a little while in his car parked by the curb in front of your house until you got out and walked up to the front door. He didn’t get out to walk you to the door but he watched you as you strolled up until you had gotten inside. 

That night something in billy changed, he didn’t want to talk to you just so you would fuck him, he still would like you to fuck him, but he also wanted to talk to you for the sole purpose of just talking to you, and billy didn’t like talking to most people.  

-

Billy Hargrove has never has never had someone truly love him, but you wanted to make sure he was okay. 

After that night you started hanging out. You got to know him, and you looked out for him. It was confusing for him at first. You would ask him how he was feeling if he was quiet that day. The first few times he just brushed you off, but you kept asking. 

After you continued to ask even after getting nothing but silence half a dozen times before it finally dawned on billy. You genuinely wanted to know if he was okay. You weren’t just asking to ask like when someone asks how your day is going in passing. He didn’t understand why but you really just wanted to know if he was okay. 

-

Billy Hargrove has never had someone truly love him, but you took care of him when he needed it. 

Billy started to very slowly let you in and tell you about his home situation. He’s never really told anyone about it, he didn’t want to seem weak. He hadn’t told you the full extent of what happens behind closed doors in the Hargroves house, but he trusted you. He knew you would never make fun of him for getting his ass beat by his dad, which he has always assumed would happen if he ever told anyone. But he still couldn’t bring himself to tell you everything yet. 

He saw the heartbreak in your eyes when he first told you about the things his dad had said to him one night. 

Him and his dad had gotten into it, he wasn’t hurt too bad, just a bruise on the side of his torso that he didn’t want to show you. 

Billy spent the entire next day stuck in his head. He hated how Neil had that power over him but his brain wouldn’t focus on anything else but the words he threw at him and the look in his eye when he pushed him to the floor and kicked his side without showing an ounce of remorse. 

You noticed his demeanor was different as soon as you sat in the passenger seat of the red camaro. You two were sitting in his car, the radio playing quietly in the background, neither of you paying any attention to it, parked in front of a local burger joint. Billy hadn’t said anything that night unless you asked him something, but even then he wouldn’t even respond with a full sentence just “uh huh” “yeah totally” 

Billy slowly started to open up to you if he had a bad day, but it was still hard for him. He’s kept all of this to himself for the better part of his life, so it’s still difficult for him to talk about how he was feeling and especially hard to talk about his dad. 

You reached out to hold his hand, and he gave yours a gentle squeeze still staring forward not looking at anything in particular, just being lost in his thoughts. 

“Billy, are you okay?” you asked in a gentle voice. 

Without even looking at you he replies “Yeah I’m fine.” 

You sigh, bringing his hand into your lap, holding it close. “You’ve been really quiet the whole night and have hardly looked at me.” 

He swallowed the lump in his throat, he knew you wouldn’t believe him if he tried to act okay and you wouldn’t stop asking until he told you what was bothering him. 

Billy looked down into his lap letting out a heavy sigh before turning to face you. “My dad and I got in a fight.” 

That night Billy told you about the screaming match he had with his dad, though he left out that he had a good size purple and yellow bruise right below his ribcage. 

-

Billy Hargrove has never had someone truly love him, until he showed up outside your window. 

Early that evening Neil started making sly comments towards Billy, which was a pretty normal evening if he was being completely honest. As the sun slowly faded down that night Neil found more and more reasons to start an argument with his son. When it gets to the point where his dad is yelling loud enough for the neighbors to hear, Billy know’s there’s nothing he could say or do to prevent what was gonna happen next. 

His dad beat the shit out of him that night.

Billy lay slouched against the side of his bed, trying to stop crying, the tears kept coming though. Billy pulled himself up from the floor hissing in pain as he grabbed his car keys and coat heading towards the door as fast as he could without running. He made it to his car letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. He would usually just drive around aimlessly listening to whatever music played on the radio, but that night the only thing Billy wanted was you. 

He pulled up across the street from your house sitting in his car for a few minutes debating whether or not he should go in or just leave. 

He knocked on your window lightly, it wasn’t the first time he’s showed up outside your window, but he couldn’t shake the nervousness he felt waiting for you to pull back the lavender curtains that were a barrier from you to him. 

Once you finally pulled the curtains back and he saw your face. You were smiling, excited to see your boyfriend, Billy felt his whole body relax once he laid eyes on you.

He took a deep breath before speaking. “Can I come in?” His voice quivered despite his best attempts to keep it steady. 

Your smile quickly faded hearing his voice, you moved to the side of the window allowing him room to climb through. 

He swung one leg inside but struggled with the other due to the newly forming bruises on his side courtesy of his dad’s boot. 

Once you realized he was struggling you went to grab his arm and help him into your bedroom. He had never been more grateful that your house was only one story. 

You ushered the curly haired boy to sit on your bed. You looked at him with wide eyes. The only light shining in the room was a small lamp sat on your desk, but even in the dim lighting you could clearly see all of the cuts and bruises adorning your boyfriend's face.

You rushed to sit next to him, Your small hands gently grabbing his face and turning it to the side allowing you to see all of his injuries. Your mouth hung agape trying to ask what happened, but unable to find the words. 

Billy sighed pulling back, your hands falling from his face. He licked his lips before choking out the words. “My dad and I got into another fight.” 

He looked back up at you, your mouth still hung open as you looked at the blonde boy staring back at you. You had never seen that much pain and desperation in his eyes before. Still failing to spit out any words you reached forward pulling Billy into your chest, your arms tightly wrapping around him. He leaned into you further and the walls all came crumbling down. He cried and let out all of the sadness, anger and despair that was held inside him for so long.   

After he calmed down, he told you everything. What happened that night, that it wasn’t the first time this has happened and that it wouldn’t be the last. 

- 

Billy Hargrove has never had someone truly love him, but he trusted you. 

After that night, anytime Neil needed a punching bag, Billy knew he could come to you to patch him up. 

You changed him, broke down his walls. He loved you with a love he didn’t know existed. He wanted to protect you, and you protected him. It was impossible for him to look at you and his heart not to swell. Your laugh was music to his ears. The taste of you was sweet like honey. His favorite scent became cotton candy because that’s what your perfume smelled like. He yearned for your touch, because holding you felt like home. 

The day Billy Hargrove laid eyes on you his heart became yours, and he trusted you to protect it. 

-

 Billy Hargrove has never had someone truly love him, so he’s never said “I love you” 

One night as he laid holding you, your head resting on his chest as he listened to the sound of rain falling outside he got lost in his thoughts. But these thoughts weren’t tormenting him, they made him feel whole. He looked down at you, you looked so peaceful laying there with him. 

He had never said those three words in years, but it was the only words that swarmed his mind when he looked at you. 

He kissed your forehead pulling you closer to him, biting his lip before finally saying “I love you y/n” 

You felt your heart swell at those words. You looked at him. This boy gave you his heart and you gave him yours. “I love you too billy.” 

Billy went to sleep that night feeling truly loved. 

Billy Hargrove has never had someone truly love him, until he met you. 

[allwaswell16]

A fic rec of One Direction fics that crossover with or take place in another universe/fandom as requested in this ask. Thanks to the Rare Pair gc for helping me find some rare pairs for this rec! You can find my other fic recs here. Remember to leave kudos and comments to the writers if you enjoy the fics! Happy reading!

-Larry-

💘 Take My Breath Away by @realitybetterthanfiction

(E, 153k, Top Gun crossover, pilot Harry, flight instructor Louis, character injury, ptsd, angst with a happy ending, smut)

There is a prestigious school in the British Royal Navy classified as Premier Delta - or as it is known by its flyers, 1D.

💘 somewhere in between lightning by jassy117, @shiningdistraction / shiningdistractionwrites, @nauticalleeds

(E, 99k, Love Island crossover, reality show, exes to lovers, getting back together, pining, miscommunication, summer, law student Louis, baker Harry, sexual tension, smut)

A summer gone wrong (or very right) when, under Liam’s persuasion, Louis finds himself drunkenly applying for Love Island, and getting accepted.

💘 Who Painted the Moon Black by throughthedark

(E, 95k, Hunger Games crossover, angst, violence, friendship, romance, prostitution, mental health issues, happy ending)

Hunger Games AU where Louis Tomlinson is district six's victor from the 69th Hunger Games and Harry Styles is district seven's victor from the 72nd Hunger Games

💘 Felt Nothing Like Home by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird

(E, 61k, Bon Appetit crossover, friends to lovers, baker Harry, chef Louis, divorce, post divorce, sexual tension, flirting, youtube, fluff, smut)

The Bon Appétit YouTube channel has become an unexpected success partly due to the newest series developed by classically trained pastry chef Harry Styles who is intent on making the art of baking accessible to the masses.

💘 like cabbages and kings by you_explode / @nobodymoves

(E, 60k, Alice in Wonderland crossover, magic, magical tattoos, pining, friends to lovers, childhood friends, royal Harry, drug use, fantasy, smut)

When Louis was a kid, he had a series of very vivid dreams about a place called Wonderland.

💘 you came into my life by @disgruntledkittenface

(M, 57k, Queer Eye crossover, firefighters, closeted character, coming out, pining, fluff, slow dancing, kissing, smut)

When the Queer Eye cast and crew sweep into Louis’ small town and fire station to make over his best friend and coworker Liam, Louis’ carefully constructed walls start to fall down and he has to face his fears – and the only guy he’s ever been able to see a future with.

💘 As We Were, As We Are by @jaerie

(E, 51k, Dunkirk crossover, Harry as Alex, WWII, violence, injury recovery, amnesia, ptsd, smut)

Alex is a British soldier who has been injured in battle, Louis is a RAF pilot with amnesia.

💘 But I’m the Quarterback by 4ureyesonly28 / @evilovesyou

(E, 51k, But I'm a Cheerleader crossover, conversion therapy, religious guilt, homophobia, self harm, angst with a happy ending, strangers to friends to lovers, first time)

At True Directions, Harry meets four other boys and five girls, all there to be cured of their homosexuality.

💘 a promise lives within you now by sarcasticfluentry

(E, 45k, Lord of the Rings crossover, fantasy, Middle Earth, elf Louis, human Harry, royalty, friends to lovers, soulmates)

Louis is an Elven prince, next in line to become King of Mirkwood, and Harry is the orphaned Human boy who grows up alongside him.

💘 Just Me, Him, and the Sun and Moon by @sadaveniren

(M, 45k, Pokemon crossover, action/adventure, tournament, falling in love, farmer Harry, professor Louis, angst with a happy ending, smut)

a gratuitous Pokemon AU featuring farmer!harry, professor!louis, paradise, pokemon battles, love, and the fate of the world

💘 Breakable Heaven by amomentoflove / @daggerandrose

(E, 44k, Greek Mythology crossover, Hades, Persephone, kidnapping, falling in love, dark Harry)

“I think you’re the most magnificent creature I’ve ever met.”

💘 Love Like Wildfire by perfectdagger (sincerelyste) / @whatevertearsyou

(E, 21k, Harry Potter crossover, a/b/o, alpha Harry, omega Louis, Hogwarts, established relationship, friends to lovers, fluff, smut)

Louis was an Omega and a Prefect. Harry was an Alpha and a little rascal.

💘 You Tilted My Hand by @taggiecb

(G, 12k, Anne of Green Gables crossover, university, newspaper, small town, Canada, photographer Harry, artist Harry, writer Louis, insecurity)

Harry Styles arrives in Avonlea, Prince Edward Island for his first day of a coveted and prestigious summer internship at the Avonlea Chronicle.

💘 If Only We Wish Hard Enough by @lululawrence

(NR, 5k, Peter Pan crossover, Louis as Peter Pan, Harry as Tinkerbell, friends to lovers, innocence, pining, fluff, no smut)

the five times fic where Louis is Peter Pan, Harry is his best friend Tinkerbelle, and it takes them awhile but they figure things out

💘 Love's Extraction by asphodelknox / @iamasphodelknox

(NR, 3k, Star Wars crossover, established relationship, kidnapping, rescue mission)

Louis and Niall are kidnapped by Imperial spies on the planet Taris. Harry, Liam, and Zayn set out to rescue them.

-Rare Pair-

💘 Little Lion Man by @writcraft

(E, 123k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw, Harry Potter crossover, Hogwarts, age difference, coming of age, hurt/comfort, grief, ghosts, kink exploration, smut)

It’s his final year at Hogwarts, and Louis can’t wait to leave for good.

💘 tonight make me unstoppable by @1000-directions

(T, 20k, Louis/Bucky Barnes, Marvel crossover, Starbucks, PTSD, anxiety)

Bucky rolls and he rolls until he changes his luck.

💘 Nice Boys Sometimes Kiss Like That by yeah_alright / @uhoh-but-yeah-alright

(T, 7k, Harry & David Rose, Schitt's Creek crossover, pre-canon, strangers to friends, gallery opening)

Harry Styles showing up at David Rose’s latest gallery opening is certainly unexpected.

💘 Premier Fantasies by @haztobegood

(E, 3k, Harry/Ted Lasso, Ted Lasso crossover, coach Ted, kit man Harry, age difference, light d/s, smut)

Catching glimpses of Coach Lasso standing on the sidelines during matches had been one thing, but standing next to him on the sidelines was another.

💘 Copy of a Copy of a Copy by @fallinglikethis

(T, 3k, Zayn/Liam, Eureka crossover, scientists, scientist Zayn, sheriff Liam, exes to lovers, pranks, love confessions)

When a lab demonstration goes wrong, suddenly there are many Zayn Maliks running around town.

[tiredassmage]

Astor(ses): 5

Shay: 7

Uhhhh Tyr: 10

love you bestie <3

Short context on the first one for those who may not have seen me rattle it off before, Astor is probably my longest-lived OC who I take with my practically everywhere I go - and whom generally shares the same core values, regardless of changes to fit the media I subject him to at the current time. xD

5. Guilty Pleasures. This one happens to be something they could probably differ on, lol.

Not that he exactly feels guilty about this, but if there is not time for tea, time will be made for tea. Especially after saving the literal whole damn universe and finally getting that psuedo-retirement feel in his bones, he finally has the time and headspace for some proper damn self-care.

Anyway, actual guilty pleasures he'd blush about? Romcoms. There was a day he'd swear up and down he'd not read silly little romances, particularly if things got heated anywhere in the running, but, hey... he is a bit of a romantic at heart. Even if he's utterly oblivious about flirting until you all but hit him in the face. Unironically would enjoy poetry. Sappy, flowery poetry. Sleeping in every once and again also feels really nice even though he usually doesn't. Spending an entire day in pajamas, especially if its just to cozy up and read on the couch.

Man's usually busy, okay?

Astor Astserses likes to indulge in a little local cultural exploration when he can when he's somewhere new. Local food - for better or for worse - is usually an experience you can't quite find anywhere else. Do they have a sightseeing tour if its a more touristy area? He'd love to see it. He'd also probably spend his entire day with his nose buried in a library and holobooks if given half a chance. And his inner child would love a chance to stop at the petting zoo. So, it's mostly for kids, but some things you just don't leave behind. (As if summoned, my dog tried to lay across my keyboard as I typed this. Everyone say hi James!)

7. Their tickle spots.

Your bastard son would rather shrivel up into a raisin (a terrible thing for his narcissistic streak) than admit to being ticklish. He'd gruffly claim he isn't, but I think it'd be more hilarious if he was, especially if it's in like. His ribs. Typical. Predictable. Easy to reach when he does - rarely - let his guard down. He would swear anyone with this knowledge to secrecy because he can find you. He knows where you sleep.

Thank you for indulge my son. 10. Fears/phobias.

I'm not sure Tyr fears anything enough to classify it as a phobia, but fears? Sure!

A fear of discovery is maybe an obvious, but probably the most lingering one. Close advisors are in on his history as a double agent serving the Republic while taking Imperial orders, but Tyr has almost a dread - that he's, granted, rather good at masking most of the times - that discovery isn't an if, but an inevitability. And that the consequences will be unpleasant, at minimum, and... unfortunate. He usually skips right over the 'should've quite while you were ahead' flavors of this because he... didn't and he really sees no point in changing that now.

And... realistically, he wouldn't want to. It's a weird thing where he's starting to realize more recently that he doesn't want to fight this war forever, but he also has no actual plan for stopping. He doesn't know what that would look like and he's not motivated enough to try to find out. It's also kind of a sense of duty thing for him. He knows how to fight back and therefore he feels like he should. Where he is now is a prime position from which to do so, so doing anything else almost feels like abandoning ship. I'm sort of getting ahead of myself because @captainderyn also asked 6 (vices) for him and this is related, but I'll save that ramble for there. xD

I don't think he's consciously confronted the deeper uneasiness of not... exactly knowing who he is if he isn't Cipher Nine, even all these years later as Alliance Commander. He's not out from under his Intelligence career because it's what put him in this position, so he's never had cause to entirely discard that identity. Not even necessarily a reason to want to. Want to get away from the Empire and its ways, yes, a want to leave what happened to him in the past, certainly, a desire to never again be that level of pawn, absolutely, but he also sees himself as Nine as his own tool. Nine was another mask that helped him survive in a world without Imperial Intelligence to report to. Out of necessity or convenience, he still bore it like a shield as much as the dagger in the night.

You also probably won't catch him walking Odessen's wild alone at night ever again. Just a precaution. Earlier through the day? Sure. He's slipped off a few times to clear his head.

"We need to talk" is also never a good sentence starter and not even he's immune to that. Nobody liked that.

[lovenona]

and i repeat: anthropo-ceramics geto suguru is the type of toxic where he'd take your virginity, make a sculpture about the experience, then smash it on the ground as a metaphor

this ask is my entire life. this ask is my lifeblood. everyone please saddle up for the ride of a lifetime, otherwise known as 1500ish words of toxic geto featuring sukuna being a good fucking friend – please continue at ur own risk this absolutely contains geto being a pretentious toxic fucker and mentions of virginity/first time but yes i guarantee it does have a happy ending (link to the full college! cinematic universe here) 

let’s begin with the basics – why wouldn’t you fuck geto suguru? he has the type of beauty that lingers on the back of your eyelids even after you’ve long since departed from him; it’s the kind of fragrant, lasting beauty that you think sculptors muse over when they coax life from their marble. he’s smooth, like still water, and calming, like the sound of birds rustling and leaves swaying at dawn. he is helen: a beauty that nations would go to war over. 

and sure, he is pretentious, the kind of toxic pretentiousness that festers inside of all pretty boys who call themselves “leftists” but can’t be bothered to call their mothers or to care about their partners. but it’s the way he speaks, the way he looks at you with such fervor and attention in his eyes that you’re utterly willing to let him break your heart. 

and maybe it’s not often that someone looks at you the way geto does: it’s not often that someone looks at you like they want you, body and soul. and it feels nice to be cared about, to be flirted with, even if the figure doing the flirting condescends you in a way that is different, harsher, colder, than the way ryomen sukuna does. 

so geto suguru takes you on dates. after the avant-garde poetry reading, in which you feigned excitement as he recited a poem on global imperialism that you didn’t quite vibe with, he brings you to local bookstores with overpriced yuppie memoirs, farmers’ markets with organic fruit, human rights protests and philosophy meetings where greasy boys bitterly discuss the communist manifesto. he takes you to dinner, too, to vegan restaurants that you can’t help but rave about on yelp later and to bars where they serve your cocktails in mason jars. 

geto suguru, for all his faults, is incredibly lighthearted with you; he makes you feel beautiful and desirable and warm, even when he’s explaining anthropology to you with such intense vigor that you lose track of his meaning. after everything, you’d be lying if you said you regretted your time with him.

after awhile you let geto fuck you – and yes, he was your first time, which you were naturally quite nervous about. but you appreciated him because he waited for you; he never pressured you into behaviors you didn’t want; he never asked you for services you weren’t ready to provide. and so when you slept with him, after an invigorating open-mic night at the fair-trade coffee shop near campus, you felt ready for the intimacy. geto made you feel attractive, comfortable, safe. he praised you the whole night, gave you caresses that lit you up like fireworks, provided such a level of god-tier aftercare you still reminisce about it, even now. 

but that’s the thing about anthropology-ceramics major geto suguru: he’s quietly toxic. he’s a poison that sneaks up on you, infecting your bloodstream when you least expect it. 

you weren’t sure if geto wanted to pursue a relationship, either. you’d fucked, sure, and you went on dates, but he was always the type to avoid long-term commitments. rumors float around campus of the many partners he’s ghosted, of the relationships he exploited for his own “artistic musings.” they aren’t loud rumors, to be sure, but they hang around his aura like a strange, ghostly scent. 

geto is a pretentious little fuck. you’ve known it and agreed to enter his circle anyway. maybe you hoped, perhaps naively, that the rumors would simply not apply to you.

which was a stupid idea. three weeks after the experience, since which you have only spent one-on-one time with geto only a few times, mostly to talk about school, the art department hosts an art show. it’s a regular occurrence, where the art students show off their best works, grad students display their in-progress theses, and outsiders can browse the displays, drink wine, offer to give outstanding students jobs and internships. it’s truly a big fucking deal for the art department; many of the school’s the most successful artists received their first acclaim here. 

you’ve always enjoyed attending, even if the level of talent and expertise sometimes intimidates you, even if you know you’ll never be on this level. you know sukuna’s got a few paintings lined up to be on display – paintings you’ve modeled for, drawings you’ve watched him labor over for hours on end. you reckon that for all your begrudging time together, you might as well show your face in support. 

but what you didn’t count on was geto’s contribution.

at this art show, there are, every now and then, some interactive performances, speeches, explanations on certain works. so it happens that from the back of the auditorium you watch geto take the stage, wheeling a small, white sculpture behind him. from your perspective it could have been a flower – perhaps a lily, but you can’t be certain. 

(geto always did like sculpting precious, dainty flowers.)

he doesn’t call you by name, but he doesn’t have to. he talks at great length in that smooth voice of his about the construct of virginity, the purity culture plaguing the globe, the emotional sensitivity of having your first time. geto seguru tells an avid audience what you felt about fucking for the first time. he recreates the entire night for two hundred listeners: he recalls the foreplay, the insecurity, the orgasms. he doesn’t call you by name. he doesn’t have to. 

he may have asked for your consent the first time. but he certainly did not ask your permission to do this. 

you’re not sure if you should laugh or cry when geto dramatically smashes his own sculpture, citing the “destruction of virginity” and  the need “to demolish a social desire to classify one’s morality based upon their sexual activity” and “the symbolic popping of the cherry” among other phrases that are utter bullshit. you’re watching the fragments dance across the stage and you feel exploited. you feel used in a way that feels utterly worse than anything else geto could have done.

did he ever like you? or were you simply a muse for this moment? 

you’re about to ditch the art show and go wallow in self pity at your apartment when a familiar presence slides in beside you.

“that’s kinda fucked,” sukuna says, hands in his jacket pockets. he’s looking at you out of the corner of his eye. his tone tells you he’s joking. maybe he just doesn’t know. “no one gives a shit about virginity constructs anymore, idiot.” 

“yeah,” you respond, but the energy is gone. you feel strange, like you’re hovering outside of yourself. your head hurts: you’re angry. you decide you’d like to cry when you get home. “what a piece of shit.” it comes out strangled and lost. 

sukuna notices the dejection in your voice, the sag in your shoulders, the way you’re just barely able to hold yourself together. he may be arrogant, not ryomen sukuna is not mean.

a familiar arm around your shoulders, keeping your sanity together. “shit’s lame. let’s get the fuck out of here.” it’s a phrase that captures everything that remains unsaid between you: i’m going to beat the shit out of geto the next time i see him. that’s absolutely unbelievable.

you never explicitly told sukuna about your weird relationship with geto: you didn’t have to. it was always evident to the both of you. it was written in the way you’d look a little bit longer in geto’s direction, in the way you let yourself be strung along and become someone else. you’ve hung around sukuna long enough that you know his body language and that he knows yours. you’ve hung around sukuna enough that there are a lifetime of stories that never need to be told. 

you nod. “yeah.” thank you. i know. 

you’re both uncharacteristically silent when you exit the auditorium, when you collect sukuna’s belongings that are still lounging by his artwork as you prepare to leave. ryomen sukuna is famous for never shutting the fuck up. but as you button your coat, he’s silent, and it’s strange. comfortable.

“thank you,” you say with uncharacteristic softness as he throws a sketchbook back into his backpack and zips it shut. 

“why?”

“for asking my permission,” you say, gesturing to the gallery wall behind him, to the painting of you – “eros” – that you had posed for awhile back. even now, you find that it captures an essence you did not know you possessed. “he didn’t. ask, i mean.” 

ryomen sukuna has always craved your attention. and maybe he’s glad he’s got it back – but it feels sour. he doesn’t understand why he’s so fucking upset for you. he doesn’t understand why he wants so badly for you to be happy again. what he does understand is that he plans for retribution. 

“that’s fucked,” he settles on. “what bastard doesn’t ask for consent?”

you smile – and he does too, one that’s less feral and almost kind. and so you fall back into routine, already, some kind of weight lifting from your shoulders. ryomen sukuna may be a menace, but you can rely on him, trust him: that much you know. 

“you know,” sukuna says offhandedly as you exit the building and enter the parking lot. “i know where geto’s car is, i’m just saying. and i’d be lying if i said i didn’t have an extra precision knife in my backpack right now.”  

[daisyachain]

I read Haruhi Suzumiya as a reaction to Evangelion specifically. Am I wrong? Maybe! Eva used and/or started a lot of real common tropes in anime/manga/light novels. The points I’ve got in my favour is that Nagato is explicitly a Rei clone (Ayanami and Nagato both being the names of battleships according to TvTropes). The jargon and mysterious vague organizations draw a more tenuous link (The Organization and the Data Thought Entity ring of NERV or SEELE). Kyon for his part is an anti-Shinji, an aggressively cynical and genre-aware protag instead of the most naive boy alive.

[[MORE]]

If Haruhi is an Eva parody, we’ve got a pretty easy Yuki = Rei and Haruhi = Asuka love triangle. Mikuru is harder, but Mikuru (big) has elements of Misato. Taniguchi and Kunikida are pretty clearly Toji and Kensuke. Random classmates whose names I always have to look up. Leaving, drumroll, Koizumi as Kaworu. No explanation needed there.

The closest Haruhi Suzumiya has to a running plot is Kyon and Haruhi’s romance. They butt heads, they barely seem to like each other, and every arc has to end with them reconciling or making some kind of choice that brings them closer together. Similar to Shinji/Asuka it kind of fills the role of Only They Can Deal With Each Other. Except it’s actually a fun little friendship instead of a dumb annoying godawful mess because I hate Eva and it’s a pain to even think about. They’re literally destined to be together via time loops and the very fabric of the universe as woven by Haruhi.

Only, the love polygon that was such a big part of the Eva (especially the fan response to Eva) is integrated into Haruhi despite the foregone conclusion. Disappearance is an in-universe KyonYuki AU. Kyon has to accept Yuki’s feelings and reject her advances to save the day. Kyon being horny for Mikuru is a recurring (annoying) plot point where an excess of attention or kindness towards her triggers whatever plot-driving conflict with Haruhi that is going to happen in that story.

So the closest thing to a recurring plot in Haruhi is the Kyon/Haruhi romance, and one of the major recurring complications (after Haruhi being an unmanageable nuisance) is Kyon straying from Haruhi. Both of the female SOS brigade members are threats to the endgame that Kyon has to deal with to win the day. Except—there’s a third SOS brigade member! Koizumi.

Koizumi’s a parody as much as a character played straight just like everyone else. He’s the soft-spoken ambiguously motivated bishie that starts with Kaworu but trickles down through a series of White Haired Anime Boys. Canonically he’s got a crush on Haruhi and handles it through OHS-prohibited levels of passive aggression and insinuating that Kyon is into her.

That’s not the whole story. There’s a running gag of Koizumi borderline flirting with Kyon like Kaworu does in his scenes. So! Just because of who he’s parodying, Koizumi is as much implied to have a thing for Kyon as Mikuru. Which means that following the structure of Haruhi, there has to be an arc where Kyon and Koizumi’s friendship is tested and leads to Kyon definitely choosing Haruhi over him. I don’t think it’s happened yet, because Koizumi never gets his own spotlight. Also hard to do, since Koizumi likes Haruhi as much as Kyon. The romantic conflict goes two ways.

What does set Koizumi apart from the girls isn’t his unavailability as a romantic interest, it’s the role he has in the plot. Mikuru, Haruhi, and Yuki rarely chat with Kyon. Mikuru is classified, Haruhi decrees instead of conversing, Yuki doesn’t say anything ever. Leaving Koizumi to handle most of the dialogue Kyon has with another person. He’s got a strong presence throughout the various stories despite not getting his spotlights (like Mikuru and Yuki) because someone has to talk about all the cool math stuff the author found in his old textbooks that day. He doesn’t need a colour story because he’s always there.

The closest thing we get to a Koizumi episode is the Surprise arc. It’s been a while since I reread, but I remember the climax being Kyon and Koizumi storming the school to rescue Haruhi from the anti-SOS. There’s no conflict separating them at any point in the arc, Koizumi isn’t ever tempted to join the anti-SOS or whatever. It just doesn’t line up with Yuki or Mikuru’s roles. I don’t think that there are ever going to be more Haruhi Suzumiya books after that one 2020 bunch, they’re just a silly few parody novels that occasionally have some adventure or puzzles. Still, it’s so obviously making fun of Eva that it feels wrong for it not to close the circle and have a short Kaworu story. For old times’ sake.

[welllpthisishappening]

Emma Swan, Olympian is not a phrase Emma Swan, totally normal person, ever expected to hear.

But she never expected one night at a party hosted by her college's baseball team to change her entire life, either. So, it should really come as no surprise that Emma Swan, Olympian, is now something of international sensation. Or that her husband has become a bit of a social media star.

——— Rating: Teen with sports feelings Word Count: 7.5K AN: As promised and because of who I am as a person, I wrote Olympic fic. I can neither confirm nor deny that there is an actual plot here, but there is a surplus of fluff and sports-based feelings. So, that’s something. Thanks to the Detroit Lions, specifically, for posting this Tweet and to my husband who is very much aware of what content I want the internet to provide me. Operation: Make Killian a New York Yankee as often as possible continues.

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

No one told her the questions would start to blur together.

That would require media training, Emma imagines. And no one is giving a first-time Olympian in a sport that only a handful of people marginally believe warrants notice from the IOC any sort of media training. She got, like, an orientation packet. With a lopsided staple in the top left corner. On her commercial flight. That she booked herself.

Twenty-plus hours crammed into a seat that she’s only a little concerned did permanent damage to her right knee, with a meal that was so chewy Emma was about four seconds and one exasperated, entirely exhausted exhale from asking if it was, in fact, made of plastic.

Mostly, the staple is what’s still managing to frustrate her. As frustrated as she can be at the Olympics. No one is supposed to be frustrated at the Olympics. Not really. Not while experiencing the pinnacle of athletic achievement, the calluses on Emma’s fingertips some sort of badge of honor that she’s wearing with at least a modicum of national pride, and everything is fine.

Her qualifying time was absurd. Where absurd is a compliment and very close to a record she’s suddenly determined to shatter.

So, she’s alone.

Big deal. So is everyone else. This Olympics, at least. Plus, Killian wouldn’t have been able to come no matter what the state of the world was. Even so, the quiet stands are admittedly weird. All these empty arenas with empty seats, the distinct lack of a roaring crowd no more obvious than when the world’s best athletes step to the line. Staring at the climbing wall in front of her four hours earlier, Emma swore she could hear every single beat of her heart echo between her ears.

And that’s—well, solitude is par for the course with an adolescence like hers, half-filled suitcases and brand-new faces in brand-new towns, but she’d gotten used to one town, and the town is actually a city, and the city has long since felt like home, and her fingers reach for the rings dangling above her Team USA t-shirt. They did give her an absolute shit ton of t-shirts, so that was nice.

Except—

Something keeps tugging. Nagging at the back of Emma’s consciousness, almost like she’s forgotten her keys on that flea market table they found in Park Slope two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Because for as well-versed Emma may be in that singular sort of existence, she’s also well-removed from wanting it, and at least three of her knuckles crack. Curling around her rings.

Muscles in her cheeks stretch, another nod and quick blink to avoid the threat of blinding via camera flashes. Someone really should have told her about this. She probably should have assumed. Human interest is the driving force of at least three-quarters of the stories in sports, and Emma’s not used to being the story, per se, but even she has to admit most of hers makes for a good one and they are still asking her questions.

Emma blinks again. Hopes she doesn’t look like a serial killer or the weird blonde, slightly sweaty cousin of the Joker, her smile starting to feel as if it’s painted on her face. She nods. Hums. Listens to questions that are startling in their tonal similarity to Charlie Brown’s teacher, and Emma wonders if Charlie Brown ever got a different teacher or what the school structure of the Peanuts’ universe is and, God, how old was Charlie Brown, even? To withstand that sort of consistent bullying. Was Linus the same age as him? No, right? How long did he carry the blanket around? Was Linus the same age as Sally? Why didn’t the red-headed girl with curly hair get a name?

She nearly falls out of her chair.

That might make the front page of several blogs. Possibly even the back page of a New York tab.

Careful to keep her feet on the ground, Emma lifts her head, directing her eyes toward the source of a question that must have been asked several times if the note of amusement mixing with deadline-based exasperation is anything to go by. Her smile definitely makes her look like a serial killer.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles, and none of the oxygen she does her best to inhales makes it even close to her lungs. “I, uh—what was the question?”

The reporter grimaces.

“I wanted to know if you’d seen the video of your husband yet.”

Ice runs down her spine. Every single drop of wholly disgusting sweat falling in rivulets down either one of her cheeks freezes. Oxygen disappears from the room. Or so Emma assumes, what with the crushing feeling pushing down on her lungs and whatnot.

Her mind whirs. Races through possibilities and pitfalls with a speed that would be impressive if Emma weren’t already so close to that record, and she is going to break that record. Somehow she manages not to fall, though. From her chair or the metaphorical climbing wall in her brain, ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth and the increasing size of her tongue.

Her nails are going to leave little half-moon creases in her palm.

“I don’t—” she starts, and eventually she will wish she was more articulate. For what turns out to be a very nice story.

Standing up, the reporter’s seat creaks as she moves toward the desk they deposited Emma behind after even. Several Olympic officials move to block her, but Emma shakes her head again, and she’s not exactly high-priority on the list of defensible athletes, anyway. So, none of them flinch when the reporter slides a phone closer to Emma, her crazed thoughts briefly lingering on how many phones a reporter could possibly need, but then her eyes drop, and she’s not sure if her ears can actually perk, but Emma certainly tries because she hears him yelling before she sees him.

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s collegiate life, because Anna demands it.

She’s only half-listening, so Emma can never be entirely sure what it was, exactly, she was agreeing to, but in her experience, the agreement doesn’t matter so much as the action, and her roommate’s younger sister is unstoppable when it comes to action. So, Emma is dimly aware of a plan. Something about the baseball house and that one left fielder is in a handful of her classes.

David—something.

He’s got a girlfriend, too. A nice one. Who always smells like sugar when she slides into the seat next to David whatever his last name is, sitting in the row in front of Emma during their Tuesday-Thursday statistics class.

Emma hates statistics.

She doesn’t hate Anna, though. Or her roommate, one of the better college-based surprises, and either Anna has magic or Elsa is an enormous pushover because somehow all three of them are ready at the same time, and the walk to the baseball house isn’t far.

First-year players guard the door — passing out color-coded wristbands that absolutely do not do their job because it takes about six seconds of well-meaning flirting and batted eyelashes between Anna and a mountain of muscle masquerading as the team’s starting catcher to get them inside. With purple wristbands and two tickets for jungle juice instead of the keg.

“Victory,” Anna cries, twisting through the crowd. Half of it is already teetering on the edge of drunk, the rest free-falling into the pit of imminent hangovers, and Emma isn’t sure she’d classify their drinks as a victory, but it’s definitely better than watered-down beer.

And it doesn’t take long, really. By Emma’s shaky count, it’s not even a half-hour before the muscle — who introduces himself as Kristoff, and really is pretty cute, actually — returns, standing unnaturally close to Anna’s left shoulder, furtive glances shared out of the corners of their eyes. Emma rolls hers. Elsa’s appear perpetually stuck to the ceiling. It looks oddly sticky up there.

“Go,” Elsa says, and it’s not an instruction. Barely counts as more than a whisper, really. Anna lights up all the same. Like an alcohol-fueled Christmas tree.

Who does not need telling more than once.

Hands reach and smiles widen, Kristoff mumbling something that sounds like it was nice to meet you before he’s following Anna back to the beer pong table, leaving Elsa and Emma standing in the middle of a sea of raging hormones. All of which want to be there way more than either one of them does.

“Well,” Elsa mutters, “that was polite.”

Emma snickers into her glass. A mostly empty glass. That’s surprising. “Got that going for him.” “Plus, his on-base is nuts this year.”

“Say that again.” “On-base percentage,” Elsa repeats, making sure to do it slowly for maximum sarcastic emphasis. Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That won’t end well. There are too many shuffling feet in this room.

“What does that mean?” “How often he gets on base.” Opening her mouth does nothing. Closing it does even less. Elsa looks overjoyed. “I know things,” she shrugs, “and I’m pretty positive Anna and Kristoff have been not-so-secretly dating since the start of the semester, so—” “You stalked your sister’s secret boyfriend?” “Stalk’s a very dirty word, don’t you think? No, no, there was no stalking. There was light research. One Google search and a single click to the team’s roster, and now I know he’s from Minnesota, too.” “Awfully convenient for the romance of the century.” Humming, Elsa takes a larger-than-usual sip before scrunching her nose in displeasure. At her empty cup. Emma has no idea how they ended up with empty cups so quickly. Suddenly the baseball house feels a bit like a time warp. Enter and drink and find the love of your life. Or something like that.

“I got next,” Emma says, ignoring Elsa’s laugh because she is not the sort of person who says things like that. It’s this house. This place. With its music and its happiness, and she’s not really a sports person. Can only marginally understand the joy of watching other people accomplish something. She has no idea what on-base percentage is.

Still.

Her feet move. Fingers curl over the rim of red solo cups, like the most cliché version of her college self. Her drinks get refilled. And it’s just as Emma’s about to let herself wonder if, maybe, sports aren’t all that bad and might even possess a bit of inherent romanticism, she slams into something.

Someone, more like.

Taller than her, he has to peer down his nose to glare at Emma. That’s fair. They’re both far more damp than they were ten seconds before. Some of that moisture ensures that the hem of his shirt sticks to his stomach. A very flat stomach. That draws Emma’s eyes because she’s human and slightly intoxicated, and it takes quite a lot more than she’s willing to admit to lift her chin, but then she’s glad she does. Even with the understandable glare.

“Shit,” she breathes, “your eyes are stupid blue.”

He narrows them. She hates that. Which is about all it takes for her to get royally pissed off, too.

“Can you pay attention to where you’re walking?”

The stupidly blue eyes blink. Darken a shade, like all his frustration is centered directly around his pupils, and the shirt he’s wearing is team-branded. Another baseball player, then.

“You ran into me!” Oh, Oh. Well, that sucks. He’s got a good voice, too. Eyes and voice and the few strands of hair that fall toward those eyes when he continues to glare at Emma likely aren’t supposed to make her stomach flip.

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

“Because you take up so much space,” Emma snarls He leans forward. Looms, really. Over her and around her, smelling like punch and body wash. It’s gross and absolutely wonderful. “Gotta pick a lane, love. Either I ran into you, or I was in the way.”

“It can definitely be both and there is nothing resembling love here.”

“So I can see. You have a name, wrecking ball?” “My shoes are never going to unstick from this floor.” To his credit, he does waver. His lips twist — which makes it all too obvious how much Emma is staring at his lips, but, seriously, the alcohol. Plus, it’s so hot in this house she can barely think straight. She wonders where he buys his body wash. He smells better than he should in this house. So, it's clear he considers. Ponders, even. Until his hands dart out and those hands are somehow warmer than every person in this house combined, heat scorching through Emma’s t-shirt as he lifts her off the ground.

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “Look,” he grins, “you’re unstuck.” “Bastard!” “Eh, not technically.” “What?” “Not technically a bastard. Orphan, I suppose. But that’s kind of a mood ruiner, don’t you think?”

Emma’s fish impression is really going great. The grin becomes a smirk. Her stomach refuses to stay still. “Is there a mood to ruin?” “Might be if you tell me your name.”

Emma wavers, that time. Considers and ponders. Weighs the pros and cons while laughter drifts past her ears, consummate collegiate experiences that she’s only ever let herself be passably jealous of. A dark-haired girl’s talking to Elsa in the opposite corner.

And the hand hanging in front of her wiggles its fingers.

It’s still ridiculously warm when she grabs it. “Emma Swan.” “Killian Jones.”

Anna’s secret relationship becomes a real relationship no less than sixteen hours following what Elsa begins to call the Drink Incident.

And they become—

Baseball people.

Becoming baseball people is not bad. Not really. Emma likes the baseball team. She understands what WHIP is, now. Kristoff adores Anna, so that’s good. David, who does, in fact, have a last name, continues to be as nice as assumed, and his girlfriend sort of quasi adopts Emma. Mary Margaret Blanchard brims with positivity and an innate sort of joy that would usually annoy Emma, but most of that joy also serves as a direct counter to the snark that Killian Jones appears flush with. So, it’s something of a wash, really.

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

“Stop that,” he grunts, glaring at the board with the sort of force Emma’s become accustomed to in the last few months, while she taps on the space in front of her, “I know how many spots it is.” Emma smiles. “So move, then.” “I’ll be bankrupt.” “Capitalism does that.” “Tell me more about capitalism, Swan.”

She doesn’t startle, so there’s that. Not much else, though. Not when a noticeable bit of equally familiar heat skitters down her spine. Her head tilts. His head remains frustratingly still, staring at the board like the spaces will change or Mary Margaret will tear down some of her hotels on Marvin Gardens.

Neither thing happens.

The heat pools. At the small of her back, inching dangerously close to that space between her hips, like it’s trying to tether her to this spot and this moment and its people. Baseball people. People who so clearly care about everything so much that even the cynic in Emma can appreciate it. Plus, they’re all ridiculously competitive.

David had to take a walk when Mary Margaret bankrupt him earlier.

“That’s about the extent of my capitalism knowledge,” Emma admits with a shrug, “I sucked at economics.” Pulling his gaze away from the board, Emma’s less prepared for the force behind Killian’s eyes than she was for the appearance of a nickname that might not warrant the title. It’s just her name, after all. But it sounds like more than that. Sinks under her skin with alarming ease, the precise tone of it wrapping its way around a variety of internal organs until they’re all beating at the same tempo and— “Move my piece for me.”

Kristoff groans. Mary Margaret chuckles. Elsa looks far too sure of herself. Knows everything, indeed.

And it’s not really a command, but there’s that same sense of something that found its way into the sound of Emma’s name and Killian’s voice, and he catches her by surprise. On a variety of levels. His fingers jump the moment hers reach out, all heat and an alarming size difference, his brows lifting when she turns her head.

“You’re taking this game way too seriously, you know,” Emma says. What she doesn’t say is more important, though. Because they’re not friends, really. They’re—acquaintances. Some kind of appropriate metaphor regarding a planet’s many moons and the tendency of those moons to orbit something far bigger than them. But they like each other, too. As much as they dance and twist, do their best to avoid getting hit in the batter’s box, Emma’s more comfortable bantering with him than just about anyone she’s ever met, a challenge in every conversation, and she’s rather loath to realize she’s memorized the different ways the blue in his eyes flash.

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

“Matter of pride, Swan.” “Is it just?” If there are other people laying on their stomachs in that living room, half-empty glasses by their hands and equipment stacked in various corners, Emma forgets about them. Quickly. Immediately. Killian doesn’t move his fingers.

He nods.

And Mary Marget only kind of gloats when she bankrupts him.

She dances when she wins, though.

It’s embarrassing. It’s absolutely, goddamn wonderful.

Realizing that baseball is a game of statistics ruins kind of Emma’s day. It makes Killian laugh. Her favorite sort of laugh. Where he throws his head back, an arm around his middle, and his shoulders shaking. Those same strands of hair she noticed that first night fall back toward lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting in an angle Emma is sure she could determine if she just didn’t hate math so much, and it takes about four seconds, her head tilting back and forth twice and one swipe of her tongue to lean forward on the couch they're sharing, tilt her head up and press her lips to his.

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

A bases-clearing double into the left-field gap.

She knows so many baseball terms now, it’s ridiculous.

It’s because she keeps going to games. With Anna. Without Anna. With Elsa. Without Elsa. With Mary Margaret every single time. And it creeps on so slowly, she’s practically a Jane Austen heroine, but then Emma finds she cares as much as everyone else. Screams herself hoarse at every crack of the bat. Jumps and fist bumps with startling regularity. Experiences the flutter of butterflies in her flip-prone stomach before ninth-inning rallies.

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

Because the Draft is a week away, and the nerves rolling off him are even more potent than his body wash. Bought in bulk from a locally-owned company, she learns.

Killian hates capitalism, too.

Which is only part of the reason she likes him, but right now all of the reason is centered around how it feels as if the world is shifting on its axis and what, precisely, he is capable of with his tongue. Quite a lot if this first time at bat is anything to believe.

Emma laughs.

Joy bubbles from the very center of her, pushing at the seam of her lips, and it’s not much of a seam when her mouth is open to accommodate tongue, but it’s enough of a sound that Killian pulls back. No glare. Definitely eyebrow movement, though.

“That’s not the best confidence boost, you know.” “I’m straddling you,” Emma counters, nodding toward the knees on either side of his, and she has no idea when her fingers found his hair. It’s very soft.

“How did that happen?” “What was that about confidence?”

Dropping his head, she gets a different sort of laugh, one that’s just as potent in its ability to settle into her bloodstream and the empty spaces around her heart, and sports have turned her into a sap. “I like you a lot,” Killian murmurs. Emma’s heart explodes. Metaphorically speaking.

“Good.” “Expand on that, for me.” She pinches his side, almost prepared for the way it leaves him bucking beneath her. Less prepared for the mutual groan it causes. Killian’s eyes widen. “I like you a lot,” Emma repeats, and his arms tighten, and her heart knits itself back together, and the second time through the kissing order is even better.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s nearly-adult life, because Anna demands it.

“I just think it’ll be fun,” Anna says, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, she ignores the pointed look Emma and Elsa exchange. Elsa’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth “Think about it,” Anna continues, “we need something to do before the game, anyway. This way we’re—you know, staying active.” Emma’s eyebrows jump. Fly. Soar into her hairline where the level of her disbelief sits, all too aware of the ring hanging around her neck.

A Draft Day gift. As much as a family heirloom can be a gift. But Killian claimed it was good luck, his brother’s ring, because turns out that snark is at least a partial product of a wholly depressing childhood, and Emma supposes there’s something to be said for common ground. Understanding, too. Stories shared over weeks that turned to months that turned to years and seasons in the minors, and it absolutely figures Killian’s Major League debut is happening in Cincinnati. Where Kristoff plays.

It’s ridiculous how in love with him she is.

Killian. Not Kristoff.

Anna is still talking. “There’s nothing else to do in Cincinnati,” she reasons, which seems unfair to the city itself but not entirely untrue, and even the concept of chili on spaghetti grosses Emma out. “Also,” Anna adds, sounding as if she’s reached the final bullet point on her list of possible arguments, “I’ve got a Groupon deal for this place.”

Elsa blinks. “I didn’t realize Groupon was even still a thing.” “Surprise!”

Emma’s laugh isn’t entirely honest, but her sigh of acceptance is and—

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

At rock climbing. Indoor rock climbing. Her feet push her up the wall with ease, the steady ache in her arms welcome and wonderful and a slew of other alliterative adjectives. That leave Killian grinning like a maniac, but it’s been a weird and equally wonderful day, without a hit, but two walks, so that ups the on-base, and Emma’s really, seriously in love with him.

“I don’t know what it was,” she says, preening just a bit under Killian’s stare. Hotel lighting casts shadows on his cheeks, slumped as he is against every pillow they could find. Even the ones in the closet. He’s not supposed to be in here for much longer, both of them aware of the team-ordained curfew hanging over them, but the pre-game nerves are long gone. Replaced instead with exhilaration and endorphins, the kind that could win Elle Woods a headline-making case. “But,” Emma continues, “I just kept moving, and the guy said it was, like, a course record. Is course the right word, you think?” Killian lifts a shoulder. Even as it’s covered in ice and tape. The play he made at third is going to show on loop. On TV. In Emma’s memory. She’s never yelled that loud before.

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

“This is your show, Swan,” Killian chuckles, pride infusing the words. As if she’s the one who deserves the pride today. It’s entirely possible she cried for multiple minutes after that play. They definitely showed that on the YES Network. Mary Margaret texted her no less than forty-seven times.

“I was really fast.” Killian hums, fingers fluttering enough to make it clear he wants her closer. Emma doesn’t argue. They’re a mess of limbs and mouths and that tongue thing they’ve collectively gotten better at giving and receiving over the years, hands that warm with the sort of confidence borne of repetition. Some joke about BP and finding your swing.

“Plus,” he says, a soft laugh at Emma’s noise of displeasure when talking means far less kissing, “becoming a rock climbing savant means more upper-body work, and you know how I love your arms.” Guffawing the way Emma does is not particularly romantic. Doesn’t matter. The sound comes, and the joy remains, a steady stream pumping through all her extremities and clouding her thoughts. In the best way possible. Before Killian, Emma didn’t know this could be that. Fun and easy, not quite simple, but something she’s willing to work for. Athletes are notoriously determined, after all.

Part of her wonders if a proclivity to rock climbing makes her an athlete, too.

“Please,” she says, laughter clinging to the letters even as she finds herself moved directly over Killian’s outstretched legs, “provide, in detail, everything you enjoy about my arms.” “I didn’t say enjoy.” “Were you misquoted, Jones?” His eyes flash. Glow, honestly. At her and because of her and athletes also know how to work their opponents. Goad them into making mistakes. Something about a pitcher’s duel and a battle in the box. Where the box is this bed. And Emma’s winning.

“I love your arms,” Killian says. Dragging his mouth against the column of her throat leaves goosebumps on Emma’s skin. Her back arches. His hand flattens. The compliments continue. Turn into promises. Guarantees. Of a future that’s spread out at their feet now, if only they reach for it.

Turns out Emma’s pretty good at reaching for things. When she wants them.

“This isn’t, like, free-scale, though, is it?”

Her heart cannot be expected to handle much more of this.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, “all proper safety precautions were taken. Plus, I wouldn’t fall off the wall.”

Killian’s expression shutters. Not in any of that frustration Emma so clearly understood when his shirt was damp, and her shoes were unsalvagable despite his best efforts to get the school’s equipment manager to dry-clean them. No, it’s—it’s something big and important and unspoken, and Emma pulls his hand up. To rest directly over the rink that’s still tucked beneath her t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

It’s got his last number on it, at least.

“Would you catch me if I fell off the wall?” He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t mention the absurdity of a question that does not make sense, but those literal and metaphorical clock hands are ticking, and if they don’t replace his ice soon, they’re going to destroy these sheets. “Every single time, Swan.” “Right back at you.”

Killian doesn’t miss curfew, but it’s pretty close.

And Emma wakes up to twelve texts with links for indoor rock climbing gyms in the greater New York City area.

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

Grunting more than laughing, Emma’s fingers curl around the rock in front of her. Chalk cakes itself on the pads of those fingers, stuck beneath her nails and, somehow, the bend of her elbow. “Are you not an All-Star?” she asks, glancing at Killian.

“I do not see how that factors into this at all.”

“Huh, weird.” “Suspiciously sounds like an accusation.” “Weird,” Emma repeats. They’re halfway up a wall only one of them is really supposed to be on, but the other person several feet below them is faring far worse than the pair of them combined, so, that takes precedence in her mind. “He knows a lot more curse words than I realized.” “He’s showing off,” Killian grumbles, forehead resting against the wall.

Will Scarlet hasn’t moved in five minutes. Possibly six. Maybe a round ten. He's much better at second base.

“I cannot feel my arms,” he calls, and Emma’s laugh is better that time. Purer, somehow. As if happiness can actually have a sound. Even happiness that comes with sweat on her temple and a noticeable ache in her triceps and she sort of loves this.

Sort of is a vast understatement.

“Showing off, huh?” Emma asks. She finds her next footfall with ease, happiness blooming into confidence that’s become nearly consistent these days and weeks and years. It does not take her long to feel the stare that’s lingering on her. On her ass, specifically.

She glances over her shoulder. To find her fiancé smiling at her. And staring at her ass.

“Can I help you, love?” “Whatcha doing?” “Ogling you, obviously.” “Forearms feeling good?” He nods. Sort of. There’s a distinct slope to the back of his neck and more sweat on his brown than Emma’s. Not as much as Scarlet’s, probably. “Fantastic,” Killian drawls, “keep going, Swan, someone’s got to show us how to do it.” “Try not to fall off the wall, huh? Last thing we need is the might of the Yankees front office coming after us.” “I don’t think I can move my hands,” Will shouts. Killian doesn’t move. It’s impressive forearm strength. Blushing on the wall is not usually how Emma’s days go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises, and Emma moves. He follows her. Up the wall and to the top, a quick brush of his lips against her shoulder that leaves Scarlet cursing even more, despite his presence on the floor, but then there’s lemon-flavored water and exceptionally soft towels and Emma’s caught a bit off guard by the question.

“Are there leagues for this?” Will asks. “Because you should probably be winning things for this.” Emma blinks. Considers. Wonders. Turns to Killian.

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

“We could look.” They do. They fill out paperwork. Buy fancy climbing shoes that Emma claims cost too much, but Killian’s a pushover and even more stubborn and she wins the first race she signs up for.

Plus, ten more after that.

Emma climbs indoor rock walls. Killian hits home runs. Occasionally they do these things simultaneously, and it usually leads to her nearly falling off the wall because everyone in her Tribeca gym knows what it means when WFAN is playing on the speakers.

Sometimes they shout out John Sterling’s home run call with him.

She gets better. He gets better.

They do end up destroying sheets in various hotels across the country. For various reasons. Not all of them post-game or ice related. There are games and events. Wins and losses. Back page spreads that Emma frames and hangs on their apartment walls, right next to other, smaller frames, with the same smiling faces who, once upon a time, called a sticky-floored baseball house home, and Killian’s fingers are warm in hers when the tears prick her eyes at Anna and Kristoff’s wedding.

There are stories. Think pieces and hot takes on a variety of drive-time radio shows. Those are all about Killian, though. He’s the athlete. The true one, some stories say. It’s impressive what Emma does, they admit, but it’s a hobby, and she’s got a grown-up career, anyway. So, she’s got more climbing records than she knew ever existed, but she’s not doing it for press, and both Mary Margaret and Anna weep at her and Killian’s wedding.

She wears her ring on a chain next to her other one when she climbs.

Every time Killian notices them hanging there, Emma swears, his eyes brighten. It’s her favorite thing in the whole, goddamn world.

“What is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just holds the sheet of paper he must have printed out in the clubhouse because they certainly don’t have a printer at home, and one of the edges is bent. Like he had to fit it in his back pocket.

“Going the stoic route, huh?” Emma quips, but there’s a noticeable hitch in her pulse. One that’s been there for weeks. Since the rumblings started, and the rumors began, whispers of possibility, and first-ever has a very nice ring to it. One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “Oh, that’s not fair.” “I’d like the record to show, that the only reason I didn’t know immediately was because I was in the trainer’s room, so—” “What were you in the trainer’s room for?” Killian ignores her. Well, sort of. His eyes shift, and his gaze holds, and Emma knows. Right down in the marrow of her. What the paper is and how Scarlet is the one who printed it out, but she’s even more confident Killian carried it home, and that does something funny to her entire worldview. Widens it and minimizes it at the same time, focusing on this and them and the possibility that creates.

In an athletic sort of way.

“My shoulder’s kind of sore.” Emma scoffs. “Oh, that’s pointed.” “I’m sure your shoulders are fine. Golden, even.’ “This is not your best work, you know that?” “Look at the paper.” “Did you fold it yourself?” “And then took a car back home. You really didn’t see yet?” Emma shakes her head. He knows the answer, too. He’s the one with the Google alert, after all. Because she’s still a bit of a pessimist at heart and an adult with a real job, and this is too much and abjectly terrifying, and the last thing she expects is for Killian to crouch in front of her.

One of his knees cracks.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as Emma does her best to swallow her laugh. Warm hands land on her thighs, a quiet steadiness that helps the state of her pulse and makes the possibility of the unknown a little less overwhelming. The lines crossing the center of the paper are absurdly straight. “You’re going to go.” “Oh, that sounded like a decree.” “A suggestion.” “A strong one.” “Mmhm, with the utmost confidence.” Emma makes an impressive sound. “Who’s doing your media training? What an impressive vocabulary you’ve got on you.” “Ready and willing to use it in a persuasive manner.” “Keep talking like that, and you won’t have to.” The smirk disappears. Evolves into a grin that is only Emma’s and only appears in moments like this, support clinging to air molecules and the ends of hair that constantly seems determined to fall into Killian’s eyes. “Passed, huh? All cool with the IOC.” “Decidedly cool. Officially an Olympic sport, now. Although the name could use some work. Sport climbing lacks a little oomph, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it?” “Emma Swan wins Olympic gold.” “Kinda wordy.” “Prophetic,” Killian corrects, hands shifting and pulling, and Emma has to widen her legs. His head’s at a very good kissing angle. “You’ve already got the qualifying numbers.” “You looked at the qualifying numbers?” “Don’t insult me like that. What do you think I did in the backseat?” “Planned the entire 2020 Olympics, apparently.” “Not the entire Olympics,” Killian counters, "just the part involving you. And maybe my individual expectations regarding the United States baseball team, but that’s another conversation altogether.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

Widening her eyes does nothing. Emma didn’t expect it to. Not after years and games and events because rock climbing has events, and one time Mary Margaret made her a sign. Killian held it. He’s taller, that’s why.

“Don’t,” Killian repeats, “this is happening.” “Yuh-huh?” “You heard me. It’s your turn, now.” Melting is an impossibility. Like, for a human. Even so. Emma feels like she’s melting. Some of that pessimism evaporating under the warmth of Killian’s gaze and his hands and the determination in the precise angle of his chin. Same one he uses when he steps into the box with runners in scoring position.

Lumping herself into that group isn’t as insulting as Emma once believed it would be.

“God,” Emma groans, “that’s romantic.” “You’re really selling it, love.”

“This is supposed to be a hobby.” “One you’re exceedingly good it. World record good at it.” “I like you.” “That’s my end game, yeah.” She laughs. Smiles. Continues melting. Which is easier once they get rid of their clothing, and their bed is way more comfortable than any hotel they’ve encountered. And she falls asleep with Killian’s lips against her ear, Emma Swan, Olympic gold medalist whispered on loop like it’s a mantra he’s been practicing.

They postpone the Olympics.

It sucks. Everything sucks. Baseball sucks. Gyms are closed. Emma gets creative, and Killian gets research-prone. They build a makeshift wall. She tosses him BP.

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

Time passes. Some things change. Others don’t. Their wall stands up to the elements of their building’s courtyard, and Killian’s hitting better than ever this season, a victory Emma’s going to claim as at least partially hers. And then the Olympics are back, and it’s qualifying and racing and a record that’s just out of reach, but she’s good enough even without it, and, this time, she’s the one packing a suitcase.

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

Holds onto her like he’s only a little afraid she’s going to fall off the wall, but now the wall is international competition, and Emma’s freaking out a little.

“I love you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

His arms tighten. “I love you too.” “Gold medal?” “Gold medal.” “Hit some home runs while I’m gone, huh?” Lips graze her temple. Her forehead. The bridge of her nose. Emma might be crying, and Mary Margaret’s definitely recording, a small mob of red white, and blue surrounding them. “I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises.

“Good.”

He hits three before her first qualifying round. So, Emma takes that as a challenge. She’s an athlete now.

It’s why, she figures, her fingers don’t slip on her first run.

Her feet are sure. Her breathing is steady. There’s no one cheering her name, but she’s long since memorized the exact way Killian’s voice lifts above a crowd. How he pushes up on his toes to watch, as if standing up taller makes sure he’s closer to her. Should she need him when she falls off the wall. Only, Emma doesn’t fall, and she’s got no intention of ever falling and—

Her laugh shudders out of her in a watery sort of way that makes the journalist still standing in front of her flinch ever so slightly. Twitter makes sure the video starts playing again as soon as it finishes, which is somehow the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her. Best because, well, Emma’s honestly not sure she’s ever seen her husband like this.

Worst because she’s very nearly goddamn crying. Again.

Bobbing on the balls of his feet in front of his locker, whoever’s recording the video — it’s Scarlet, obviously — is practically frenzied behind the camera, barely able to contain their laughter. Killian doesn’t notice. He’s holding his own phone, all five of his free fingers firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. It’s gotten softer with age, Emma thinks.

She can’t stop watching him.

Every inhale is a clear struggle, the bobbing turning into pacing and quiet mumbling she can hear perfectly. As if she’s standing right in front of him.

Or at least slightly to the side. So as not to stand on the logo in the middle of the clubhouse.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, another noticeable snicker from Scarlet, “right there, right there, and pull, pull—Swan, pull up!”

“I did pull up there,” Emma mumbles. To the reporter, maybe. Or the world. Possibly her husband. Who was definitely more nervous about the first run than her.

God, that’s romantic.

Killian’s still talking. Shouting, more like. It’s a miracle Scarlet hasn’t fallen over yet.

“Faster, faster, you can go faster than that, Swan—” Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s kind of insulting.”

There’s an appropriate titter of laughter from the peanut gallery, which is a joke she was not trying to make, but she’s also dangerously close to swooning in the middle of press and she should have asked the Yankees for media training. Someone would have made sure she didn’t make a total ass of herself.

“Show me the time,” Killian yells, another demand that isn’t that. It’s too wobbly a string of words to hold any real power, just the supportive sort of desperation Emma’s felt in a variety of ninth innings and series-clinching moments. “Faster! Faster!” “Talking to the time or the judges or your wife?” Scarlet asks.

Killian nearly snarls.

Emma blinks. Hyperactively. Crying is not usually her shtick. More camera flashes...flash, Emma barely noticing them with her eyes glued to a phone screen that isn’t hers because she at least knows not to bring her phone to a press conference, and she can only imagine how many text messages she’s gotten.

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

She knows because Killian gets some rather impressive height on his celebratory vertical. Fingers abandoning his hair, his fist pumps the air, and Scarlet’s not laughing so much as he’s whooping, a steady stream of yeah, yeah, yeah in the background. And for about half a breath, Emma’s worried Killian may turn one of his ankles on his landing, but he’d think that was insulting, and she’s really just full-on swooning now.

“How many people have seen this?’ she asks the reporter, already knowing the answer.

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

“Pretty much the whole world.” When Emma was a kid — the sort of kid who believed alone was better, and there was strength in singularity, that would have terrified her. Bowled her over, really. Left her running without looking back, desperate to shed any sort of notoriety because notoriety meant attention, and attention meant inevitable disappointment.

Maybe that’s why she was never much of a sports person.

Sports disappoint you. They build you up and let you down, a sharp and sudden fall without a safety net. But sometimes. Sometimes, every so often, something wonderful happens. Sports lift you. Right up an indoor wall. Because, she knows, sports’ power comes from belief, from surrendering yourself to something bigger and better, and she’s back on that alliterative kick, but the tears are barely clinging to her eyelashes now and Emma herself is bigger and better, now.

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

“Let’s go,” Killian cries, and there it is. Her sound and their sound, cheering across an ocean and time zones that are still kind of messing with her sleep schedule.

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

It ends, as with most things in Emma’s gold-medal-winning life, because Anna plans it.

Stepping out of the terminal, it takes less than a full breath for the cheers to start. For the banners to lift and the tears to flow, a small platoon of support covered in the sort of patriotic gear they definitely got from the Old Navy in Herald Square.

Flashes burst behind Emma’s eyelids because she’s got to blink or she’ll definitely fall over. Her legs wobble beneath her, contending against a wave of triumph and jubilation, which is sort of the same word, but they’ve got a game at the Stadium tonight, so she doesn’t expect, she just hopes and reaches, and he has to twist around both Anna and Mary Margaret.

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

As is the way Emma slams herself against him. On purpose, this time. Killian’s arms tighten, more cheers and shouts, and people a few feet away start chanting USA over and over. Emma barely hears them. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, so she’s kind of preoccupied.

They’re all arms and mouths, and her legs wrapped securely around a body that probably shouldn’t be supporting hers when she knows he slid into second two nights ago, but Killian clearly has no intention of letting her down, and the medal around her neck bumps against her rings.

“You’re a very good cheerleader; you know that?” He hisses. In what, Emma can’t imagine. Embarrassment, if the red tips of his ears are anything to go by, and she’s got ideas as to why that is and how long the conversation about social media with Scarlet went, so Emma does the only reasonable thing.

She slams her lips against her home-run hitting husband’s, doing her best to make sure the gold medal doesn’t mistakenly impale either one of them, and the world tilts again. With victory and sports-based support and the sort of love that comes from believing in something bigger.

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Please,” Emma scoffs, “don’t insult me like that. Plus, I’m claiming every one of those home runs as my own, so comparatively—” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

Her laugh doesn’t even sound like her when Emma hears it played back — another video that someone tells her goes viral, only she doesn’t care about hits or site traffic, just about the particular shade of blue in Killian’s eyes, and she wears her medal to the game that night.

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

Or so the New York Post back page claims the next day.

Emma frames it.