#if anyone reads within the leather and lace universe they are always touching there

[romanarose]

The ONLY thing I’ll say about Pedro and Giada is

Here is me, about to give my friend the biggest fucking smooch on her wedding day!

I, like Pedro, am very affectionate with my friends.

Pedro would not be touching Giada like that with her husband RIGHT THERE if there was anything happening

No one would be stupid enough to fuck with the green goblins wife

Also, and feel free to correct me if this is incorrect or a stereotype but it is very American cultural standards of affection being used as THE standard. My best friend my whole life is Mexican-Guatemalan and in my experience, kissing and touching and holding is just much common. Now that I’m an adult, I visit every few years and her parents always kiss me on the cheek.

This is such a none issue its embarrassing

[unholyobsessions]

Oblivious Memories

Pairing: Julie x Luke

Description: The Universe is in charge of soulmates and making sure they meet. They have never met anyone as oblivious as Julie and Luke. 

Read on ao3

Warnings: none 

Word Count: 2.3k 

Masterlist

For my jatp secret valentine @vividblues262 I hope you enjoy this and you have a as good of a time reading it as I had writing it. thank you to @screwunsaidemily for organizing this! @jatpsecretvalentine​

The Universe is a powerful being. They create many great and beautiful things but the one they are revered most for, is soulmates. Each person is assigned someone who they are meant to be with. One just isn’t complete without their other half. 

According to everyone, you just know who your soulmate is. There is no specific experience. Some claim to see a string connect their wrists, others say it’s like seeing color for the first time, and others say it feels like your heart stops beating only for it to start again with the same beat as their person. 

Each soulmate meeting is unique, and the Universe admits, each pair is different. Some more stubborn than others to meet their person. So getting some people together is harder than others. 

But the Universe has never had a harder, more oblivious pair than Julie Molina and Luke Patterson. 

. . .

Julie Molina hasn’t met her soulmate but she doesn’t worry, she knows it will happen when the time is right. She traces the tattoo on her forearm, the black music notes that stand out against her white t-shirt, as she lets her mind drift on the topic.  

Julie doesn’t know what she’ll experience but she hopes it will be memorable. 

Lost in thought, she doesn’t hear the footsteps echoing down the hall and toward her room until the door slams open. 

Flynn stomps in, fingers plugging her ears and Carrie follows behind her, clearly annoyed at her girlfriend’s antics. 

“Damn it Flynn just listen to me!” Carrie exclaims. “Julie tell her to listen to me!” 

Julie simply stares at her two best friends, rolling her eyes and shrugging her shoulders. Flynn won’t listen to her and whatever Carrie did to get her to act childish is not her problem. 

“La la la la la,” Flynn chants, getting louder with each word. And Julie had promised herself a long time ago that she would not get involved in their fights. They’re soulmates and should know how to figure it out themselves, but Flynn hasn’t been in her room for two minutes and she’s already getting on her nerves. 

Julie stands with a sigh, walking over to Flynn and yanking her arms apart. “Flynn! Stop yelling,” she commands. Flynn immediately pouts and starts mumbling about Julie being unfair and taking sides. 

Julie ignores her best friend and turns to Carrie, who has already made herself comfortable on the beanbag next to her desk. “What’s going on?” Carrie starts explaining what happened between her and Flynn but Julie shakes her head to stop her. “No not that. I mean why are you here? I thought you guys were busy today.” 

Flynn pulls her arms from Julie’s grip and goes to sit next to Carrie, seemingly forgetting that they were arguing not five minutes ago. “We were busy, but then the museum got boring so we decided to come here to drag you out of your room. We’re getting coffee.” Flynn isn’t asking, and Julie has learned to recognize when she won’t win. So, she pushes her feet into a pair of sneakers, too lazy to untie and retie the shoe laces, and slips on a cardigan over her dress. 

Julie shouts a goodbye to her dad and linking her arms with her friends’, they all make their way to their favorite coffee shop a few streets away. It’s crowded, as it usually is on Saturday afternoons. The tables are filled with students typing away at their computers, attempting to finish essays at the last minute. The booths are filled with friends, gossiping and laughing together. Julie is dragged to the counter, where she orders her usual vanilla iced latte, smiling politely at the barista. 

Leaning against Carrie’s side, Julie looks around the shop as she waits for her drink. She finds herself looking at the corner booth, crowded with four boys discussing something she couldn’t quite hear. One of them is hunched over a notebook, lip between his teeth and pencil tight in his hands. Julie stares, intrigued by the brunette. He lifts his head, eyes closed and mumbles something under his breath. When he opens his eyes, they stare right at Julie and she feels her stomach twist with embarrassment. Before she can turn away and try to forget the interaction ever happened, he smiles at her and goes back to writing in his notebook. 

Julie’s stomach twists again, but with a completely different feeling. Flynn snaps her out of her daze by placing her iced latte in her hands. Julie thanks her and allows herself to be dragged outside, rolling her eyes when Flynn says that she wants a new jean jacket. Conversation distracts her as she walks away, not allowing her to dwell on the foreign feeling. 

The Universe frowns down at them. What just happened? They’ve been putting both of them in the same rooms for years and they never even acknowledged each other’s presence. And when they do, they ignore each other? Did they not feel it? The pull toward their soulmate? 

The Universe sighs, frustrated. They will have to work a little harder on this pair. 

. . .

A week later, Julie is at the mall with Flynn, helping her find a pair of sneakers to match the jacket she bought the week before. The store they’re in is small, with white walls and red accents. It’s inviting, so it’s no wonder this is the first one they visit. Julie makes a beeline for the benches, and tells Flynn where to find her when she is ready to model the shoes she’s chosen, if she finds any that ‘call to her.’ 

She scrolls through her phone, mindlessly liking posts on instagram, leaving a comment here and there and entering a couple of giveaways. A loud laugh makes her head snap up and her heart flutter. She doesn’t recognize the voice but there is a yearning within her that she doesn’t recognize. Twisting her head, trying to find the source of the beautiful noise she sees the guy from the coffee shop with an arm slung over his leather jacket clad friend.

His smile is blinding and Julie doesn’t want to look away, no matter how much she knows she should. He says something back to his friend that causes the dark haired male to push the brunette away. The push lands him in Julie’s way as he stumbles into the bench. 

On instinct, Julie grasps his arm in order to stop him from hitting the floor. Their eyes meet and Julie’s heart screams, but neither attempt to make a move, or even speak to each other. 

The Universe smiles. Finally. Nothing can get in between them now. They’re in front of each other. They’re touching. They have to know. But then. 

Flynn’s voice reverberates across the store as she says that nothing spoke to her. Willing herself to stand up, Julie averts her gaze and walks away, not understanding why her chest feels like it will burst open with every step she takes.

The Universe could scream. Just how hard will they have to try to get these two idiots together. They didn’t make a mistake. There is no such thing as soulmates who aren’t meant to be, whether they be platonic or romantic. No, these two are just too dense and oblivious for their own good. 

Time for plan C, the Universe decides.  

. . .

The club is packed. Sweaty bodies push against her and Julie crinkles her nose. She doesn’t normally frequent clubs, especially places as packed as this one, but Flynn and Carrie dragged her out tonight (as they do every weekend) because apparently this up and coming band is playing tonight and they are sure that she will love them. 

Julie doesn’t doubt that she will, there is hardly a genre of music that she doesn’t enjoy, but she much prefers to listen to them from the comfort of her room, or anywhere else that doesn’t require her to interact with drunk people who keep pushing her. 

She is not really listening to Flynn and Carrie’s conversation, only nodding whenever it seems appropriate. It isn’t long till the lights dim even more than before and a spotlight lights up the stage. Four guys jog up the steps and the crowd screams joyfully. 

They all get ready and as soon as the drummer counts them in, the song starts. The lead singer looks up and Julie stops breathing. He starts singing and her sight goes black. Suddenly, memories that she is sure aren’t hers start flashing before her. 

A young boy getting his first guitar. 

Him meeting his friends and making a pact with them.

The same boy, older now, writing his first song. 

The boy laying on his bed, fingers brushing against the tattoo on his forearm, identical to hers.

Starting a band with his best friends, his brothers. 

She sees him fight with his mom, loose a relationship so important to him.

She sees him breakdown as he pedals down the street.

He’s there at the mall, the record store, the ice cream parlor, the bowling alley. 

He’s always there. Moments she’s shared with the people in her life, he’s always there. So close but just out of reach. 

Then it’s him meeting her eyes at the coffee shop. Their moment at the shoe store. 

The pictures start flashing faster now and it’s harder for Julie to make out what they are but what is clear to her is that it’s her, growing old with the brunette. With Luke. 

His name is Luke, and he is her soulmate. 

And even though she has never heard their music before, she starts singing. The lyrics of the song written by Luke coming naturally to her. It’s the first time she’s sang in over a year and it feels like a breath of fresh air. 

Luke suddenly can’t hear anything. His bandmate’s instruments fade out and all he seems to be able to hear is an angel-like voice, coming from somewhere in the crowd. 

His eyes search for the source and once he locks eyes with the girl his vision goes black. 

He sees a girl, sitting next to her mother on a piano bench as she makes an attempt to play. 

Then he sees her again, sitting with another girl on the playground, and as all the other kids are playing, they’re performing a song. 

The girl is older now, playing the piano keys in a perfect melody. Her mom is still sitting next to her and she’s smiling down at her. 

She’s in the hospital, carrying her little brother for the first time.

The girl is sitting on the piano again, this time alone and there are tears streaming down her face. 

He sees her loose her mom and therefore her music. He sees her not even hum for over a year. 

Then he sees himself, walking past her, not noticing her. She’s everywhere. That time at the beach with Reggie, she was there, playing with her family. 

His walks down sunset boulevard with her only a few feet away. How could he not notice her? How could he possibly miss her when she shines brighter than anything in the world?

But he notices her now, and he will keep noticing her in the future, as images of her growing old with him and making music together flash before him. 

He comes back to reality to see her still looking at him, singing, and he realizes that he missed his cue, but he doesn’t care, because nothing matters more than the beautiful girl, Julie, who has taken his breath away. 

Julie, his soulmate. 

His tattoo stings and he winces, finally breaking eye contact with Julie to look down. The music notes are glowing and when he looks back up he notices Julie’s are too. 

The music continues and he wonders if everyone is witnessing the moment or if only him and Julie can see. His next verse is coming up and he knows he can’t miss another one so he leans forward to his mic and starts singing, not taking his eyes off of Julie. 

She stares right back, singing the lyrics loudly and passionately. The show continues much the same and if he were to ask anyone, they would say it is the damn best he has ever played. Once it’s over he runs off stage and out the back door, planning to make his way to the front of the bar. He runs down the alleyway and crashes hard into another body. 

Lifting his arms to steady the person, his heart stops. She’s there, standing in front of him, looking up through her lashes and he does the most drastic and impulsive thing he has ever done. 

He kisses her. He kisses her because he is so sure that he would die on the spot if he didn’t. And Julie kisses him back.

Luke cups the back of her neck as she tangles her fingers in his hair. After a couple of seconds, or maybe years, they pull away. 

“Hi,” he whispers. 

“Hi,” Julie responds. 

“I’m Luke,” his voice is much too breathy, and he is still attempting to get his lungs to work properly. 

“Julie,” she doesn’t sound much better. 

They both smile and then burst out laughing. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” Luke admits once he has calmed down. 

Julie shakes her head. “I would say that we should get to know each other but I just saw your whole life played out, which by the way I have never heard of it happening.” 

Luke’s smile widens. “Well I have also never heard of soulmates meeting and not realizing they are soulmates so I think we’re just special.” 

“Yeah,” Julie says resting her head against his chest and listening to the beat of his heart matching hers. “I think we’re special too.” 

The Universe leans back, smiling down at the pair. They were a hard one, possibly the hardest they’ve ever had to do. But as they study them, already falling in love with each other without having to even say much, they know that it was worth it. The Universe wasn’t ready for Julie Molina and Luke Patterson, but they are now and the whole world better get ready. 

[neoculturetechxgot7]

Gardenia on the crown - J.J.H

4; dreams of sunshine eyes

pairing: Jung Jaehyun × Reader

genre: angst and the shy touches of fluff

length: around 2,5k words

warnings: mild swearing

// masterlist //

``

Starry flames flicker on the hundreds of candles saturating the ballroom with golden hues, reflecting on expensive pearls and tangling through lace trim and floral paterns. Nobility swirls around the soft notes of violin and piano, men in tailored suits kindly asking for the pale hand of shy princesses, inviting them to a dance that will stain the night with their scent.

You’re standing in middle of it all, fitted flawlessly in the embrace of a young prince's arms and slowly losing your sanity to the sight of his stunning features, iridescent shadows from the crystal chandeliers casting a sparkling galaxy on his skin. His eyes, those that captured your thoughts from the very moment their Egyptian caramel shade dipped into your soul, still have you mesmerized and utterly lost in their enigmatic depths.

He spins you around so gently, cremé gown blooming around your ankles in the heated rhythm and a moment later, you feel his fingertips sear a temptingly slow path around your waist when you step forward.

"You haven't told me your name yet..." A breathless whisper falls from your lips, accompanied by the over-accelerated pound of your heart. The charming stranger who managed to gather all of your attention to the excellence of his dance and the alluring electricity beaming from his entire presence is still hiding behind anonymity. The ache to discover something as simple as his name is swallowing you alive.

"My name is Jung Jaehyun, my lady...”

You wake up suffocated in the cradle of cloud coloured sheets, nightgown clinging low on your decolté and a rushed pulse racing through your veins. Midday sun refracts from the window, brushing peachy shimmer on your skin and a sweet heat around the endless void of the room.

Yet, somehow, your body feels absolutely numb. That night... Your brain is playing the filthiest game by reminding you of it.

Your glance swivels around the intricately decorated wooden furniture in protest to your mind trying to shove more images of that dying dream before your eyes. Sweaty fingers reach up to rub them a little too harsh, leaving you with a shadowed vision of a vortex of colours and a low sigh dips past your lips.

If you only knew that magical night would be your very first meeting with the devil personified, you would've locked yourself in the cozy escape of the underground library, or your room or maybe the kitchens...Hell, even the moldy, freezing dungeons your father caged criminals in would seem like a better option than being in that ballroom, at that time, with him...

Two sharp knocks on the door slice through your self-pity thoughts just as you're about to hop off of the comforting warmth of the bed, naked feet hitting hardwood floor.

"Come in!“ You shout, hands instinctively tugging on the white silk of your tiny sleeping dress to conceal the exposed expanse of your chest.

But the relieving sight of your maid has your limbs going slack as she walks in, a smile on her face that makes some type of jubilation sizzle under your skin.

"My Lady, you're finally awake!" The girl chirps with the lightness of her kind heart and then quickly trods towards your still seated form. "Will you be attending the morning assembly in the dinner hall or would you prefer breakfast in bed?"

At her mention of any kind of...well...social interaction with the arrogant existence of the royals, your body goes limp and fluffy pillows hug your backside as you fall back. The sole idea of seeing Jaehyun again exhausts you. It's barely been a day since you first arrived and his face is plastered everywhere. Even your damn dreams...

The maid presses her lips in an empathetic line before sparing you the most understanding of all glances. Oh, she knows better than anyone how you'd hate to see that man after having spent the entirety of last night listening to a nice, long monologue of unspeakable and profane adjectives to describe your soon-to-be husband.

Sometimes you wonder what level of patience one must hold to be able to withstand your -borderlone hysterical- hate speeches.

"I'll inform his wonderful grace of your absence, my Lady." With that sarcasm dipped remark, the girl pivots on her heels and strides towards the door, blush skirt flowing behind her. "And bring you some breakfast."

"Thank you."

♤

You finish the very rich meal within minutes -the cooks around this place are priceless, a blessing for your tastebuds- and after a little bit of sinking in a puddle of self loath and cursing your failure of a fate, you decide to distract your mind by simply getting lost in the magic of a book. Literature is a hidden paradise for you, poetry, a little heaven.

Back home, you'd always have a book resting by the wooden extend of your nightstand, every night fading between yellowed pages and inked words that took you on a trip to fantasia. Maybe reading something can help now too...right?

No.

Because you're running a dainty finger over the red and black book spines lining every shelf of the grand bookcase only to skim the leather binding of old catalogues and dictionaries. Your eyes frantically scan each and every title in search of the slightest trace of good, classic literature, those pieces that leave you gasping after the very last sentence, but to no avail. Annoyed at the obvious lack of quality writings, you pull one of the many useless books out, trying to check if the one behind it, on the inner lining, is any different.

An hour later there's a sea of stacked books expanding on the floor of your bedroom, over the oak bureau by the window and some even sprawled across your unmade bed, yet nothing seems close to your taste. You found a couple of fairytales, the ones mothers escort their kids with to the sweetness of sleep. Even dug out a little notebook full of scraped poetry, written in midnight ink and infinite pages of dreamy calligraphy. But it didn't really pick at your interest either, so it now lays untouched on your nightstand, keeping company to ruby necklaces and a porcelain vase filled with roses.

Your knees bend over the plush mattress as you take a good seat in the boredom that has already started to define this day. With nothing else to do but stay in your room and stare at the elegant carvings on the walls, your pinky is twitching; sign of the bottled up energy that's currently restricted due to your absolute refusal of meeting eyes with the royals.

If only you weren't this stubborn and lowered that ego, maybe today wouldn't completely go to waste...

Then, something tickles at the back of your head; an idea?

A library. They must have one here, right?

Maybe visiting the palace library will be a convenient option. You can still spent time alone, buried in the wrinkled edges of lettered paper, while also keeping that well needed distance from Jaehyun and his awful family.

But then again, you don't even know how to get there and the so unpleasant possibility of bumping into too familiar faces has your skin coated in a drizzle of coldness.

Even so, your feet subconsciously plant onto polished floor and lead you to the door, expensive golden silk with embroidered morning stars blossoming around your ankles. It takes you no time to step delicately into those pointed heels that clank an air of intimidation with every step, as you -for the umpteenth time- curse every forsaken force in this damned universe for binding you with such a fate.

Having to sneak out of your own royal chamber like a common fugitive simply to enjoy the smallest comfort of reading a book. Pathetic, to say the least.

♤

You find yourself striding down the seemingly endless stretch of a hallway, peach tinted light bouncing of off smooth stone that arches into a high ceiling. Large, curved openings formed the one side and thick marble columns separate them.

It took a lot of wandering around wide halls and visiting two of the many towers of this palace for you to reach this point, the faintest wave of spring heat kissing your neck and cheeks as a reward. Surprisingly enough, you were met with no person you knew, only kindy greeted by maids dressed in creamy beige, a humble smile on their faces. Once, you actually happened to spot -what you thought would be- one of the ladies of the court and her small escort following shortly behind, heavy gowns of cotton and purple satin flowing with her every delicate step. She bore an almost blank expression, lips pressed together in a manner that made you wonder if she disliked this place as much as you did.

Taking a peak outside the enormous windows, you realise you're walking the perimeter of a circular yard, the expanse of its area covered in emerald, neatly cut lawn. A whole lot of people are gathered, small kids playing around with leather balls, servants scurrying to get some random task done and a big group of men standing on the very middle, some carrying weapons of all sorts.

With feet inching closer to the stone edge, your stare rakes their sun bathed faces and thankfully you recognize none. They are all of noble ascent, from what you can tell at that distance, golden threaded crests decorating the corners of their uniforms.

While your eyes fight to grab onto the stitched details, they happen to -so tragically- fall straight onto another pair of breathtaking brown orbs and within a fracture of a heartbeat you're pulling back and hiding behind the column.

Fuck.

Momentarily, the edges of your vision blacken as you suck in hungry inhales, a nice bunch of profanities roaring in your head to mix with the thumping in your ears.

You just can't avoid him, can you?

Shaking your head to get rid of the slight panic possessing it, you slowly slide to the side again, solely to catch another glimpse of Jaehyun. He’s surrounded by a small crowd of men, holding a steady grip on a steel forged sword that's so well polished it seems almost like platinum.

What a sight.

His glove clad fingers tighten as he ducks to an attack stance, raising the light reflective metal in the air as if it's the lightest feather. You notice the absolute perfection in his technique, balanced from the very handle all the way to the sharp tip and can't help but admire how, the next second, it comes down to slice morning breeze and barely scratch Jaehyun's opponent. He's incredibly skilled, every move laced with such precision, and you notice the subtle flames his eyes emit when seizing each chance.

The other is quick to deflect any incoming hits, but still overwhelmed by their lighting speed and strength that eventually goes in for an attack himself. He bringing his own blade up and aims for the prince's chest, leaving you watching with complete devotion to the scene, as he takes a hasty step forward.

Something inside your chest clenches in such an unexplainable manner and time itself dramatically unfolds, each second slower than the previous.

But then, Jaehyun ends the match with a swift and simple dodge to the side, sword simultaneously flying to crash against the side of his opponent's armor with a loud, echoing bang.

He should’ve watched the ribs. Always watch the ribs, you think while gazing the loser gasp in slight pain.

The nobles all around the young prince cheer -much like you do on the inside without realising-, yelling out praises along with a well-deserved applause as he drops his heavy weapon, that sunshine blessed smile making another appearance. His cheekbones literally shimmer with the milky glow of victory, all of that aristocracy putting even the highest of angels to shame. He stands proud and tall, fingers carelessly ruffling auburn strands of auburn hair, their tips dripping sweat but still giving him the look of effortless beauty.

You're about to retreat back to the shadows and run away before your body gets completely enchanted by the spell of his irresistible attractiveness...but that ice in the pit of his gaze cuts straight through your unprotected soul once his head turns.

You're suddenly frozen in place, prematurely surrendered to the way his eyebrows furrow and your expectation is yet another cocky grin and probably another stupid comment meant to irritate you the moment you face him. If it weren't for the starstruck expression plastered on your face, mouth slightly agape, maybe it wouldn't have been this bad but no, that's not the case today.

It's pretty damn obvious you've been watching, pretty damn obvious you've been lurking like a creep and gawking over the impressive ability of fighting he has conquered.

And he's well aware of that fact because those pearly, white teeth get covered by a way too smug and way too annoying smirk, it's curvy edge cutting through your dignity harder than any knife ever could. You note the way his chest heaves from the lightness of a chuckle.

Oh the embarrassment, oh the pain of your intimidating facade being all wrecked down in a split second.

If only never seeing him again was an option...lf only you could stay away from his stupid beauty and bluntly cold demeanor...

"Greetings, my Lady." A honeyed voice suddenly disrupts your desperation, causing your reflexes to stick your back falt against the smooth stone in horror.

Yet when your gaze snaps to the source of those words, you find a curious and somewhat charming a pair of sunshine filled eyes trained on your form. A toothy grin, white and beaming with luxury, is spread across the young man's face, a perfect contrast to his autumn skin.

Taking in a short breath of relief, your royal instincts kick in and you bow respectively at the gentleman, while he moves forward, hands folded behind his back in a kind manner. "Good morning my Lord."

"I'm afraid I do not recognise your face, darling. Are you new around here, perhaps?" He asks and it seems as if heaven lost one of its angels; his whole being radiating a unique kind of divinity as he stands so confidently.

"Oh yes." Your knees bend once more as you quickly introduce yourself, trying to sound as formal as possible, getting over the previous scare. "My name is (Y/N) of the (Y/L/N) dynasty and I'm present here as the rightful betrothed of prince Jaehyun."

His eyelids momentarily shot open after hearing your title, almost in shock, and that smile flashes impossibly brighter before he bends in respect. You feel warm fingers snake behind your own and with an airy pull he places a fragile peck on the back of your palm, as soft as freshly picked petals, to make you shudder.

"I'm so delighted to finally meet your grace. I am prince Heachan, cousin of your beloved."

You internally cringe at that last comment...As if Jaehyun and his wholesome stupidity could ever be loved...

"Nice to meet you too, prince Heachan." Your reply comes with a slight tilt of your head, pleasantly surprised at how well behaved and gentle he looks and acts, despite being a member of that horrible family.

Heachan takes a short look around, as if searching for something, and then aims his friendly glare back at you, this time baring a questioning expression. "And you're here without your escort?"

Your shoulders quickly stiffen, realising you have to explain yourself for carelessly wandering around the palace without a single maid accompanying you, something highly unusual for someone of your importance.

He notices that and chuckles and your heart softens at the way the apples of his cheeks shine with such a dull pink.

"Well, I'm looking for the library and..." Your eyes trail a regretful path down the hem of your dress, feeling a little embarrassed at the words you're about to speak. "I think i got lost..."

The boy laughs again, this time a little louder and more genuinely, one hand propping on his waist, sinking into the bejeweled red velvet of his shirt while the other makes an airy gesture. "This definitely isn't the library, or anywhere close to it, dear."

He extends an inviting palm, eyes glimmering with traces of a blazing summer and the tint of pure gold as he continues. "But I can take you there, if you please."

//

previous || next

[wonderlustlucas]

greatest gift - park chanyeol

⇢ prompt I cannot form an answer with my lips because I am so focused on yours. ⇢ pairing chanyeol x female reader ⇢ word count 8.7k ⇢ genre fluff & smut ⇢ warnings explicit sexual content, fingering, unprotected bathroom sex!, dirty talk, chan loves mirrors, borderline dom!pcy but it’s pretty soft, friends to lovers, christmas, i kind of got some classic white people at parties vibe but that may just be me, chanyeol in christmas pajamas ⇢ summary After years of being in love with your best friend’s cousin, Park Chanyeol, one certain Christmas party leads to some unbelievable confessions and activities in the bathroom that most certainly would get you on Santa’s naughty list.—christmas party!au ⇢ a/n merry belated christmas!! i apologize for the lateness... anyway. & happy new year!! :) for being almost 9k and for me taking 15 centuries to write i actually wrote this moderately quick so yay i hope u enjoy sex c christmas chanyeol

read the sequel here!

Judging by the blinding streaks of radiant sunlight penetrating through the blinds and the distant hum of activity from the streets outside your window, you have slept way longer than you bargained for. With a mesmerized sigh you soak in the warmth upon waking up, stretch your arms and yawn, shedding the remaining glimpses of a dream.

However, the sound of your phone ringing like an annoyed rattlesnake renders your peacefulness impossible, having awakened you in the first place, and you grudgingly reach blindly for the chiming nuisance.

“Hello?” You mumble into the speaker after kneading your eyes with your knuckles and swiping across the screen, the thick enchantment of sleep still clouding your brain.

“Jesus, ___, did you just wake up?” The obvious bewilderment in none other than Park Seoyun’s tone causes you to laugh groggily, only fueling her astonishment tenfold. “Wow, I’m glad I called when I did then,” she utters.

“Why? What’s up?” You ask, converting the call to speaker mode and resting the device on your chest. “Because you’re supposed to be ready in three hours?” She says, tone laced with annoyance. “You know, the Christmas party? The one you’ve gone to with me every year?”

Oh, yeah.

Ever since you were young, Seoyun has invited you to attend nearly all of her family’s gatherings throughout the years, a tradition that began as a nonchalant need of a friend’s company to survive the dreadful hours spent with family and friends she had no real interest in seeing.

Sad, how that works.

Of course, you would not complain, considering over the years you have bonded with her family just as much as your own.

“Pfft, of course,” you laugh in a weak attempt to blow off your forgetfulness, “I totally remembered. I’m on top of the game right now, Sunny. Nothing to worry about.”

“Mm,” she hums in faux belief, you can practically see her eyeroll, “Chanyeol asked if you were coming.”

Chanyeol? Park Chanyeol? Park fuck-me-in-every-way-known-and-unknown-to-man Chanyeol?

“Of course he did,” you scoff, trying to play off the way your heartbeat rapidly picks up at the thought of him asking whether you would be there as if you do not care, “I’ve only been to every one of your parties for like, the past fifteen years.”

Seoyun laughs. “Anyway, I’ll be over around five. Try not to take too long just so you can impress your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” You shout in protest. At the silence that follows you realize she has already hung up. Bitch, you sigh, rolling over to check the time, sheets rustling loudly in your ears. The 2:00 pm blinking back at you from your digital clock takes a few moments to process through your brain before you realize just how badly you overslept and how much your sleep schedule is fucked.

Still, this cannot take the stupefied grin off your face.

It takes everything within you to kickstart your nerves into working, just some cereal and you’ll be on your way, you tell yourself, finally sweeping the ruffled blankets elsewhere and abandoning the warmth of bed. Walking out of the room, you make your way into the kitchen and wince at the momentarily blinding light bouncing off the windows before continuing on to unroll the bag of Honey Bunches of Oats and pour a hefty serving into a bowl, the scratching and ruffling of plastic filling the otherwise silent apartment.

Because even after eating, watching an episode of iCarly, and spending an unnecessarily prolonged time in the shower to shave, the thoughts racing through your brain are of one person and one person only: none other than Chanyeol.

Seoyun claims that it did not take her long to recognize your developing crush on her cousin, considering she had been shipping the two of you the second you told her that you thought he was cute in sixth grade.

According to her, the slaughter that your heart (and underwear, as you got older) endured every time you came twenty feet of the panty-dropping man was excruciatingly obvious and she forced the confession out of you like a fisherman casting mercilessly. Whether it was the effects of alcohol or solely the accumulation of being caught and needing to reveal everything to your best friend, you spilled everything to Seoyun after your first high school party without a hint of hesitation or embarrassment because let’s be real, there’s absolutely nothing shameful about being attracted to such a man.

Nonetheless, it was still terribly awkward. Not only is he Seoyun’s cousin, but Chanyeol has also always been a step ahead, considering he is three years older.

For example, years ago when he was starting university and you were only a junior in high school, you could have sworn that he was blatantly flirting with you over text only hours before he posted a picture with some gorgeous senior perched prettily on his lap. You mopped around for hours, and Seoyun’s only form of consolidation was, “Don’t worry. He’s a hoe.”

As if that helped.

Even before that, years prior when you were in eighth grade and he was a sophomore, you had joined Seoyun on her large family vacation for the first time. During movie night, you were curled up dangerously close to his chest and could not remember any of the horror film the following day considering you had prayed the entire time that he could not hear how your heart did somersaults in your chest or why your lower stomach squirmed every time his breath fanned against your neck. Weeks later, you cried yourself to sleep when you found out he had a new girlfriend, knowing it was way too good to be true for him to share your feelings when you were in middle school.

After all, you were just a ‘little sister’ to him.

Or, when the same event occurred only a few months ago, while you, Seoyun, and the rest of her cousins snuggled up to watch the new Jurassic World instead of going out for the third night in a row, Chanyeol eagerly leaped to sit beside you and, as a result of his dramatic begging, you became his pillow and slept through the night with his arms wrapped snuggly around your waist and his legs entangled with your own.

It would not have been so bad if you did not wake up with a boner pressing against your back.

Still, this excludes the random ab pictures sent over SnapChat if a conversation turned a certain direction, the videos of him playing a new song he would text, the intense checking-out, the questionable touches, the heart-stopping compliments, and so, so much more that has transpired over the years. And yet, the realization that hurts the most is not simply an attraction to a gorgeous man just out of reach, it is that you know that you love him.

If it was not for the years and personal time spent with him, you would have never developed such a raw emotion for Chanyeol. It would have never grown past a basic attraction. But no—his baby face mismatched with his deep voice, his bright personality that can lift the spirit of any room, the somewhat concerning way he still does not know how to handle his general largeness, his effortless ability to make anyone laugh, his unfailing kindness, his ears, his laugh. Oh, the list goes on and on.

The way he oozes natural charm fused with all the times and tiny memories spent together made for a solemn night several years ago where you had the incomprehensible realization that your universe starts and ends with Park Chanyeol.

Ever since they retired and moved into a smaller living space, Seoyun’s grandparents have held every holiday gathering in the common room of their apartment building. It’s convenient, free of charge, and, as a result of their first-class living, luxurious and very, very large.

After setting foot into the building’s first floor through the immaculately flawless glass doors and gawking at the pristine white marble floors, guests make their way to the common room just past the receptionist’s desk, where a woman sits in front of a computer, waiting drearily for her shift to end. The common room is like a perfect magazine cover with its linen white curtains, the kind of white untouched by hands and devoid of dust.

Upon entering said room, to the left is a fairly open space accessible for the Pollyanna gifts—aka where all the ladies in their mid-forties and fifties flock around like seagulls to discuss their favorite candle scents for the winter season.

To the right of this is a lounging area with a sofa, two loveseats, a long glass coffee table in the middle, and a fireplace against the wall. Nothing more, nothing less. Besides the facts that the leather of the couches and fur pillows appear to be real and that the fireplace’s mantel seems to contain enough expensive knickknacks to pay off student loans.

Past this is where the party really begins. Also known as the dining tables. Two huge mahogany tables with matching chairs take up most of the bright room’s space, left without a tablecloth and daring guests to ruin the perfectly varnished shine. Two tall, gold candelabras command attention from the center of each table, holding smooth white candles that go without being lit each year. To the right of the tables is a grand piano, shiny and pitch black against the white marble floors and white walls and waiting to be played. No one ever plays.

The far end of the common room is another lounging area, this one with an enormous television instead of an extravagant fireplace mantel. Next to this is the entrance to a small kitchen for the party to store and serve food “buffet style,” if so desired. Stainless steel appliances seemingly untouched by hands, brick walls painted white, and the same marble floor throughout the entire floor. Out of the kitchen, a hallway with two bathrooms leads back to the lobby.

Having been here so many times, walking in with Seoyun at your side is no problem. Even greeting all her family and their friends, albeit your awkwardness when it comes to being social, is not a problem. Trying to silence the animalistic sounds of your growling stomach until dinner is ready is also, surprise, ultimately not a problem.

Now, what is a problem, something that started as a minor concern during the first ten minutes after arriving but now consumes you alive, is that after two and a half fucking hours, Chanyeol has not spoken to you once.

At first, you thought he may have just not seen you. But after making eye contact for even a split second one too many times within the first hour, you know he had to of seen you. Even when you and Seoyun went over to stand by him and two more of her older cousins, he still refused to say a word. So now, as you sit alone on the leather sofa, angry, hurt, and trying to ignore a woman talking much too loudly about her new duvets while Seoyun is off doing God knows what, you have no other option but to just look around the luxurious room in order to occupy your thoughts in some way that does not end up going back to Chanyeol.

Deciding on the richly carved mantel of the fireplace just in front of you, you start from the exquisite plate-glass clock in the middle and scan to the right: a silver drinking-cup, a small oval portrait of a young woman framed in gold, and a crystal vase filled with white tulips. And then to the left: two dainty china figures of a lamb and a shepherd, a porcelain, heart-shaped box, a blue cloisonné pitcher, and several other bisque porcelain figures—a dachshund, a cat and kittens, and an angel.

Just as you are getting to the flower pots sparsely placed throughout the room, a flimsy box is suddenly flung onto your lap. When you look up, completely zapped out of your daze, Seoyun flops down beside you with a grimace.

“Pajama time,” she sighs, lifting the lid of her own box and pulling out the fuzzy Christmas top, “perhaps I’ll end my life now.”

Laughing, you do the same, amused and not as disappointed as you thought you would be when you lift the plain red long-sleeve shirt and plaid red and white pajama bottoms. “Hopefully it’ll be quick this year.”

One of Seoyun’s family Christmas traditions you have grown accustomed to is her grandmother buying all the children pajamas and forcing them into one big family photo, whether you are actually family or not. What many of you did not realize was that “children” simply meant the youngest generation.

So now, ranging between the age of two and twenty-eight, nearly half of the party’s guests have to stop what they are doing and change for the picture.

“I hope so, too,” she mutters, scowling as she watches a wave of guests head for the bathrooms, “come on. There’s a closet in the computer room where we could get changed.”

Nodding, you follow Seoyun to the hallway and head for the conveniently unoccupied computer room and shut yourselves in the dark closet before changing. “Are you okay? You’ve been awfully quiet,” she suddenly springs on you, effortlessly popping the bubble you have secluded yourself in. “What? No, I’m fine. Just tired… I guess,” you answer, laughing shakily as you pull the pajama bottoms up your legs. They are terribly snug around your butt.

Past the darkness speckling your vision, you can still see Seoyun glaring at you, seeing right through your bullshit. You take in a deep breath of the stale air.

“Just… I don’t know. I sound like a baby. Chanyeol has not said one word to me since we’ve been here,” you say, pushing your arms through the sleeves of the red shirt, “and I don’t know why, or if I did anything, or if he’s just being a dick. I have no clue.”

Seoyun exhales loudly, planting her hands firmly on her hips before, “Listen, I don’t know what is up with him, either. I know it’ll be hard, but don’t let him get to you. Just ignore him too, stop looking at him so he sees you don’t give a shit about him.”

“But I do give a shit,” you grumble, jutting your bottom lip out and staring at your feet.

“Well, today you don’t. Don’t let him win, okay? Show him you could care less,” she preaches, reaching out to pull you into a hug and you graciously take it. “Thanks. I’ll try,” you mumble into her neck, squeezing her tightly before stepping back and collecting your clothes.

“Ready for this picture?”

“I was born ready.”

You were not, in fact, ready. For as soon as you left the closet and met up with every other person dressed in ridiculous pajamas at the lobby, Chanyeol came sauntering in looking like he owned the damn place.

Even in Christmas pajamas, he still managed to look like a god.

Stop looking, you scolded yourself when he glanced over. And you did, turning away from where he stood and moving to the opposite side of the group for the twenty minutes it took until everyone was there for the picture. Huddling over one of Seoyun’s younger cousins, you smiled until your jaw was numb as every adult fumbled with their cell phone, proud that you managed to forget Chanyeol.

So, when you and Seoyun end up splitting up in search of another place to change since a young janitor had taken to cleaning the computer room, you were rather shocked to see that the only person in line for the bathroom was you. Perhaps everyone had gone home after the infamous picture.

But what is even more shocking is to watch disbelievingly as Park Chanyeol strolls towards you from the end of the hallway as you lean against the wall opposite of the women’s bathroom, waiting for whoever is inside to open the door. His entire walk you glare at him coldly, pulse quickly picking up as he gets closer.

After what seems like the walk to Calvary, he’s finally beside you.

“___,” he greets with an innocent smile, leaning on the wall with you and you wince, quickly looking away from him. From what you can see from your peripheral vision, he’s looking at you, yet you refuse to look back. There is simply no shot that you would so easily brush off the fact he has ignored you the past few hours, no matter how much you ache to.

“Aw, what?” Chanyeol whines after processing your lack of acknowledgment. He shifts closer, bare arm brushing yours and you cannot fight your shiver. So quickly you are putty in his hands. “Mad that I didn’t talk to you today?”

Yes. Biting your tongue to keep back the sarcasm that bubbles like acid at the back of your throat, you only grace him with an icy glance before crossing your arms and returning your gaze to the door across from where you stand. “Don’t be like that,” he grumbles, voice unacceptably low as he stoops down to rest his chin on your shoulder. Brain on overdrive at his proximity, you finally look at him with his big puppy eyes and sigh, “Say you’re sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” he smirks, eyes bright with triumph. What a child.

The hot annoyance burning its way through your veins only intensifies and you shrug his head off your shoulder, sidestepping further away and praying for whoever is occupying the restroom to hurry their ass up. When a quiet protest slips past his lips, you look over at him, head pounding because why does he have to be such a dick and why does he look so good?

You simply cannot fight it, the way your gaze mindlessly travels up his body, albeit the dumb Christmas pajamas that just barely stretch over his build, scanning over the proportions of his frame, lingering on how taut the white tee-shirt is against the expanse of his shoulders and chest, and finally struggling to settle back onto his face. When you meet Chanyeol’s eyes, you know he knows, for you were far from nonchalant.

When a noise analogous to a growl resounds from his throat, you are momentarily blindsided, seeing stars, as this was the last reaction you expected and yet, your nausea only triples when he takes two long strides to stand beside you. No—not beside you. In the blink of an eye Chanyeol is against you, hands reaching for your waist and pushing you back with enough force that a gasp escapes you upon impact with the wall. Or, maybe that was simply the shock from it all.

“You know,” Chanyeol mutters, voice so dangerously deep your stomach churns, “I did that on purpose. I like watching how you react to me.”

“Excuse me?” You laugh, sounding way more out of breath than you would like to as you stare wide-eyed at him, fear of the unexpected rooted deep in your stomach. Your mind simply cannot process his words or understand why he takes your change of clothes bunched up in your fist and drops it on the floor with his own. “You heard me,” he smirks, hands gliding lower, lower, lower, oh, you find purchase gripping his biceps when his fingers dare to press into the flesh of your ass, “I can read you like a book. Sometimes,” he pauses, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I feel like I know you better than you know yourself.”

Every ounce of breath seems to be stolen from your lungs, floating in the air as he speaks, you cannot seem to think with him like this and the acceptance that you are simply a piece in his game of chess angers the sensible part of you. “That sounds like manipulation to me,” you finally say, cocking your head to the side and staring up at him with a certain hardness in your gaze. “Mm,” he hums, seemingly pondering for a moment before ducking down to press his lips under your jaw, placing a sloppy kiss to the tender skin before, “like I said, I enjoy watching. You can’t catch my hints to save your life, so I had to switch things up.”

Your mind is in no shape to process his words with his mouth on your throat, so quickly he tarnishes the skin there, bruising with bright magentas and deep violets and God, what about hints? Squeezing your eyes shut, you cannot help but wonder if this is it—the straw that breaks the camel’s back, shatters the vase and shakes the earth—whether you are stuck in some disturbingly unfair dream or if this is all happening because he somehow feels the same.

“You’re quiet again,” Chanyeol grunts, deserting your throat to meet your gaze and the curiosity softening his features has you weak in the knees, “what are you thinking?”

You swallow, overwhelmed, studying the hesitance that crosses his beautiful face before breathing, “I really can’t think when the only thing I’m focused on is your lips.”

That’s it. The chord inside him finally snaps and Chanyeol closes the distance, silencing the heavy breaths that leave your lips with his own. Twelve years still were not enough to prepare either of you for this moment. A sensation akin to the explosion of fireworks, kissing Chanyeol has a burst of vivid, fizzing sparks coursing through your veins and coloring your insides. The urgency of the kiss—opening his mouth with yours, his hands returning to knead your ass and pull you closer, your hands wrapping into his shirt—translates into a sort of unspoken mutual understanding that settles into the core of your heart, affirming that this should have happened a long time ago.

Chanyeol breaks away to trail his lips lower than before and your whimper of protest at the loss of just kissing him is quickly cut off with a gasp when he licks the indent of your collarbone, working back up your neck to slide over your jaw. When he pauses at the side of your mouth to offer you some recovery time and raises his eyes to meet yours, you gather the courage to tenderly cup his face in your hands and plant a softer kiss on his lips. In response he exhales in relief, hugging his arms around your waist and pulling you impossibly closer as his tongue finds its way working against your own once more.

Certainly, you must have died and gone to heaven to experience such bliss.

Warmth blooming in your chest, your hand slides away from his jaw to the nape of his neck, tugging at the hair there and Chanyeol gasps into the kiss, immediately responding with his lips moving and pressing in such a way that has your head positively swimming. Just like that, you are drowning in warm, heavy air as the dizzy sense of euphoria shifts into desire welling within you when he bites your lower lip, tugging it into his mouth to suck on. “I can’t believe,” he breathes against your lips, breaking away to stare down intensely into your eyes, “this is the first time we’re doing this.”

“In the hallway of your grandpa’s apartment lobby, to boot,” you laugh breathlessly, searching Chanyeol’s face for the emotion hidden beneath the darkening of his stare. You’re somewhere in between losing yourself to his lips roughly tumbling over the apple of your throat and dragging your fingers under his shirt, hands cool against the burning heat of his back, when the bursting open of the bathroom door across from where you stand turns the hot moment to ice. Scrambling to get away from one another, you and Chanyeol start in a frantic series of yelps, kicking limbs, and pat-downs before you urge yourself to glare at whoever occupied the single woman’s restroom for such an excruciatingly long time.

Gaze softening once you recognize that it is one of Seoyun’s distant cousins and her young daughter, you watch with a new wave of embarrassment flushing over you as her eyes flick back and forth between you and Chanyeol, both clearly riled up and panting, before leading her toddler in the opposite direction as she bites against a knowing grin. For a long moment you watch her go, the reality of what just took place sinking to the pit of your stomach and you trace your swollen bottom lip with the pad of your finger, clenching your eyes shut to somehow burn the touch of his lips into your mind forever.

Chanyeol’s loud exhale somewhere besides you cuts your daydreaming off short, and you turn to look at him as the fire in your veins starts to dwindle into ash. “We just,” you start, voice catching in your throat and sounding much weaker than you intended, “what was that?”

Having him off of you gives you unfiltered access to stare at him, pupils blown and his breath coming sharply, and your gaze subconsciously travels down the length of his body in order to engrave the image of how beautiful he looks in this moment onto your brain for eternity until, oh, you finally take notice to the bulge that the thin material of his pajama bottoms do little to hide. Seeing this, you at last register the hot drip of desire between your legs and the way your body trembles with uncontainable want.

“I… I don’t know,” Chanyeol admits, his low, hoarse voice draining any control you had left, “I would like to do it again, though.”

Do it, please, please do it, you want to say, pulse jump-starting at his declaration. Instead, you are rendered speechless, unable to form coherent thoughts, let alone words, with the muffled hum of festive celebration from his family just around the corners. In a sudden act of impromptu bravery, you bundle your clothes—his, too—into your arm from the floor and stretch over to grab his wrist before quickly kicking open the bathroom door and hurrying him inside after you.

“Let me get this straight,” you start once the door clicks shut, voice suddenly booming in the small confines of the bathroom and Chanyeol jerks in surprise when you slam the clothes onto the floor with an ungratifying thump, “what is going on here? Because that was not a normal kiss—that was like… a sicko mode kiss. And I mean, you have to know by now I have the biggest crush on you, no, actually, I’m totally in love with you. So if you’re just doing this to mess with me, then I don’t know wh—"

Overwhelmed but enamored by your quick, almost unintelligible spiel, Chanyeol figures his best bet at shutting you up is returning his hands to your hips to pull you flush against him and latching his lips to yours, capturing your mouth and train of thought in such a deep kiss it sucks all the air out of your lungs. Instantly, your fingers thread through his hair, lost once more to him—his musky fragrance, the sinful way his tongue wraps around yours, the effortless manner he lifts you up onto the marble countertop.

“Can I take this off?” He asks suddenly, breathless as he pulls away, fingers toying the hem of your tee-shirt up your back. Afraid your words would come off as a croak, you only nod, trying to reel yourself in on how oddly polite his question is juxtaposing to the darkness of his hungry eyes. In one quick motion, Chanyeol helps rid you of the garment, tossing it to join your change of clothes on the freezing tiles. Sighing at the sight, he brings his hands to your chest, lost in the way you shiver beneath his featherlight touches tracing the column of your throat, coasting over your collar bones and finally to the swell of your breasts spilling out from the underwhelmingly mediocre beige bra. It’s with yet another surge of bravery and desire do you reach behind you, fumbling to undo the clasps and watching as Chanyeol’s stare turns to something predatory as he soaks it all in.

“That’s just unfair,” he groans, hesitating, for he fears that if he reaches out and touches you this way, you will break under his fingers like a porcelain doll. In the end, he realizes he is being foolish—he knows you’re here to stay—and at last brings himself to stand between your legs. Finally. Your breathing turns heavy when his mouth starts its ravishing once more, nipping and sucking tender marks down your jaw and at the junction of your neck and shoulder. At last, his lips meet your breast and he does not hesitate in taking a bud gently between his teeth, rolling the other into a hard peak between his index finger and thumb. This time you cannot suppress your moan.

“Oh,” you swear, “fuck.”

Smirking against your skin, Chanyeol relishes in the sound, eyes heavy-lidded and blood pumping hotly under his skin as he bites a violet blossom on the mound of flesh before switching sides. “Chanyeol,” you whine, nails digging crescents into his arms when the sparks tingling up and down your spine seek for more. The sound of your voice, so weak, so needy, has his dick twitching against the restraint of his boxers and he growls into your skin before pulling away.

“___,” he starts, voice gruff as his hands come on either side of you, laid flat against the cold marble to cage you in, “I’ve fantasized about this moment for years, and I have to say I never once imagined it would be at our Christmas party.”

He pauses, gently taking your hands in his and helping you off the sink before hurriedly turning around to lock the door. Your heart suddenly seems to be surging electricity through your veins rather than pumping blood. When he steps closer again, he unexpectantly spins you around, hands splayed across your stomach to keep you upright, forcing you to take in the reflection in the mirror.

“On vacation, I’ve imagined waiting until everyone’s left to fuck you in the sand,” he starts slowly. Your eyes almost roll back into your head at the sheer audacity of his words. “Or, at Seoyun’s twenty-first birthday party. You had no idea how badly I wanted to rip that dress off and fuck you against the bar in front of everyone to see.” By now, you are shaking, knees ready to buckle under the weight of his words and yet you cannot find it in yourself to look away from the pink swell of his lips and the words that slip past them.

“I thought you would have caught on this summer when you woke up with my cock digging into your ass,” Chanyeol hums, nuzzling into your neck, “all night I had to keep myself from stealing you away and making that your favorite vacation yet. So tempting, you are.”

You press your legs together and swallow past the dryness of your throat.

“You seem to have forgotten that I’ve been waiting for this since I was like, twelve,” you sigh, his intoxicating touch making it rather hard to breathe, “well, not this. But having you. Being able to love you and… you know. Call you mine.”

“You’ve always had me, though. Always been yours,” he returns quietly, endearingly, and presses a chaste kiss to your shoulder. At this, you take a moment to try and memorize what the mirror reflects: the heavy breathing you share, untamed hair and swollen lips, cheeks over-heated, his hands traveling softly up and down the expanse of your abdomen in an oddly unfitting but appreciated act of gentleness, skin damp with a light sheen of perspiration and the cute curls of his dark bangs contrasting harshly to the heaviness in his eyes.

Washed in a warm glow from the dim overhead lights, you almost look untouchable together.

“It hasn’t always seemed that way,” you say, bitter, for all these years have passed of you hopelessly in love with him, “where we really both that dumb to never see it?”

Chanyeol blinks, understanding, before his grip on your waist tightens and he exhales on your neck once again before, quietly, “Let me prove it?”

His hot whisper against the side of your neck only causes a stronger wave of arousal to suck you in and you’re suddenly weak in the knees, the coil in your core winching tighter. Answering his question with only a miniscule nod, you are hardly able to form a response by the time Chanyeol is tilting your head to face him and melding his mouth to your own once more before nudging you forward, pressing you into the edge of the sink. His hands are quick to tug his shirt over his head and he does not even grace you with enough time to worship his figure as he is already crouching down, reaching around your hips to untie the knot of your pajama bottoms and shimmy them down your legs. An utterly embarrassing whimper leaves your throat when Chanyeol’s fingers hook around the elastic of your panties, yanking them down in an unceremonious rush.

You almost miss the gorgeous that slips past his lips when he rises back to his full height to admire you, licking his lips and surveying you with such a lecherous glint to his eyes that you quite literally feel yourself become wetter. “You okay?” He asks, pressing his chest to your back and growing harder just from watching you stare dumbly back at him with your fucked-out expression and he’s barely even touched you yet, every atom of your being vibrating with need as his hand travels tauntingly slow toward your center.

“M’perfect,” you gasp as he draws a featherlight line up your slit with the pad of his finger, “just perfect.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Chanyeol purrs in your ear, arm tense as a wire as it balances holding you upright and parting open your folds. Oh God he’s going to be inside me you think just as his middle finger finishes toying at your entrance and finally presses in enough to easily slide in to the knuckle. Your hands scramble to grip the lip of the sink as a moan tears from your throat, a shiver wracking your figure when he effortlessly adds a second finger to add to the delicious stretch.

“You are,” you rasp, squeezing your eyes shut when he takes care to draw a rough circle to your clit, “such an asshole.”

“How so?” Chanyeol chuckles darkly in your ear as you greedily roll into his hand to meet his thrusts and suddenly his shoulders are trembling. His control is chipping away at a much faster rate than he had hoped.

“You’ve kept me waiting—fuck,” you hiss when he dares to dig deeper, “all this time.”

His pace is absolutely agonizing, swirling his fingers as he pulls them out, massaging your clit for only a heartbeat before pressing back inside of you again. “How do you think I feel?” He growls back, ignoring how you whimper and writhe under him as he finally pulls out of you to ruthlessly flick at the sensitive bundle of nerves. “Chanyeol,” you sob quietly, arms trembling violently and knuckles white as you grasp the sink impossibly harder, “ngh, Chanyeol, please.”

“You look so pretty like this,” he sighs, other hand coming up to stroke strands of hair away from your face, “I bet you’d look even prettier with my cock stuffed in you.”

“Fuck, fuck,” you whine, clenching around nothing as the tight coil begins to unravel and you manage to choke out, “if, fuck, if you want that to happen you have—you have to stop.”

“Mm,” Chanyeol contemplates, obsessed with the idea of making you cum like this but also dying to bury himself within your velvet walls, “alright.” Not that he wouldn’t pay up to do both.

Next time.

With the muscles in his arm beginning to grow tired, he finally relents after a particularly brutal flick that leaves your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

Without the sticky press of his body against yours and the relief of his fingers off of your cunt, you are left to shiver again, sucking on your bottom lip viciously to try and recover from the earth-shattering pleasure that still smolders like a forest fire in your core and ignites your nerves. You turn slightly to focus your gaze on Chanyeol as he stares, breathless, at the floor, chest erratically rising and falling and hand glistening as a result of your arousal. Finally, you can appreciate his figure in a different light, mesmerized by every curve and indent of muscle glistening with sweat. It is during this moment of adoration that you decide that Chanyeol’s shoulders are your next favorite thing, second to his ears.

Well, maybe your third, you remind yourself when his length, arching impressively long and thick beneath his pajamas, catches your eye. Ignoring the fragility that has your bones rattling, you cannot help but reach out for him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pressing your bare chest to his, breathing out a relieved sigh against his skin. He shivers, and you realize he is just as shaken up as you are no matter how sturdy his hold feels once his arms curl around your waist.

“You said you’re in love with me?” He suddenly asks, voice vulnerable as if he fears you are going to take everything back and desert him. “For as long as I can remember,” you swear honestly, it really has always been him, and lean up to skim your lips along the sharp angle of his jaw. Chanyeol exhales shakily and curls his fingers into your sides when you reach the soft nook under his ear and suck at the skin, proud that you can reciprocate the same effect he has on you.

Laving your tongue over the bite once you are satisfied with the mark, you step back until you can sit on the edge of the marble countertop, heart racing a mile a minute as he loosens the tie of his bottoms just enough so he can drop them to his ankles. “Cute,” you pipe, regarding his Santa-spotted boxers and ignoring the rush of heat to your already drenched core. Grinning at your comment, Chanyeol ultimately shuts you up when he tugs down his last article of clothing, his now unclothed length red and angry when it slaps against his stomach.

“Wow,” you say without remorse, staring only a second more before dragging your gaze up to his eyes, “I knew you had an award-winning dick!”

“You can’t just say that kind of stuff,” Chanyeol chuckles, guiding you to stand before turning you to face the mirror. Then, in a tone lower than you have ever known it, “Are you still on the pill?”

Impressed with how he happened to remember such a minute detail about your life, you offer a tiny nod, suddenly feeling flushed and dizzy all over again because how is this real?

“Thank God,” he says, leaning over your shoulder to kiss you and once more you cannot think or breathe with all the love and adoration loaded into one kiss. After pulling away and pressing a firm hand on your back to further bend you over, Chanyeol groans at the sight of your breasts swaying so enticingly at this angle, but redirects his attention to taking hold of his cock and dragging it along your slick center, coating it in your juices and his precum. You nearly jump at the contact, a shock of electricity darting up your spine at the realization that this is really, truly happening.

You have only just registered him carefully positioning himself to your entrance by the time Chanyeol is rolling his hips forward, slowly dragging against your velvet walls and filling you to the brim. “Oh my God,” you breathe, followed by a series of moans that tumble past your parted lips.

“Fuck me,” Chanyeol groans past gritted teeth, thrusting into you at a slow pace with you clenching so tightly around him. “I am,” you simper, dragging your eyes up from the floor to see his disappointed eye roll as your core slowly but surely loosens around him. “Still rude, even with my dick in you.”

You are keenly aware of Chanyeol leisurely drawing his cock almost completely out of you, nestling just barely within your entrance before slamming back in to draw a high-pitched cry past your open mouth. “Baby, you have to be quiet,” Chanyeol rumbles from above you, voice like thunder in the small bathroom as the powerful, rough tilts and thrusts of his hips ease slower but harder.

The fire in your stomach that had begun to simmer down after his fingers had left you only minutes before suddenly consumes you whole, pleasure washing over you hotly with each thrust of his cock past your slick walls. You’re a panting, mewling mess in no time, euphoria fizzling in your abdomen and shooting up your spine when the hand that is not anchoring you in place dips to brush against your throbbing clit.

“Look at me, baby,” Chanyeol shudders, fucking into you relentlessly, “please look at me when you cum.”

With your fingers growing numb as a result of your iron grip on the sink, you blink away the stars clouding your vision and focus on his face, strands of obsidian hair damp with beads of sweat that trickle down his sideburns, cheeks flushed and glowing rosy, and his soft features struggling to hide the haze sitting over his mind of how incredible you feel as your walls start to tighten around him once more.

“___,” he moans, hands curling into the dips of your waist to rock your body in synch with his drives, “I hope you know I love you more.”

This is all you need to hurl you over the edge. The coil within your core winding tighter and tighter suddenly snaps at his words harmonizing with a particularly hard thrust against your g-spot. For a blissfully long moment, all you see is searing light freckling your vision, body trembling as your orgasm washes over you. Chanyeol moans sharply at the feel of you clenching so impossibly tight around him, throwing his head back and praying to memorize your loud cry.

Ensuring you ride out every second of your climax on his cock, Chanyeol sloppily thrusts into you, chasing after his own high at the sight of you so blissfully fucked-out in the mirror. He quickly follows, coming inside of you with a harsh shudder. Limbs growing weak with pleasure coursing hotly through your veins, you remain in your bent position, eyes widened in adoration as you watch him give one last feeble thrust into your raw cunt to finish out his high.

Then, he draws out of your walls, trails of his pearly cum seeping out with it, and a rush of air escapes your lungs. The moments that follow are peaceful, quiet to catch your breath and not once do you worry that any of what just occurred was a mistake.

When you finally heave one last breath and open your eyes, you spin around to Chanyeol, who leans utterly exhausted against the wall. “Hey,” he smiles innocently when he looks up, all the lust that had darkened his features completely draining away. In its place is his usual soft goofiness. “Hi,” you reply, stepping closer to wrap your arms around his waist.

There is no roughness in this kiss. Instead, it’s deep and longing and reassuring in that this was not a one-time thing.

“If this doesn’t make you my boyfriend, I think I’ll have to end my friendship with Seoyun,” you breathe against his lips before reclining back to meet his eyes. He chuckles, hand dropping to pinch your ass and you yelp, jerking closer to him and away from his hand as he retorts, “This better make me your boyfriend. I don’t know what else I’d have to if it didn’t. I’m all out of ideas.”

“Yah,” you grumble, planting your hands against his chest to push yourself off of him, “or, you could’ve just flat out confessed.”

Chanyeol raises a brow, watching as you clasp your bra back on, “Hey, I’m not the only one who goes without blame. You could have said something sooner, too.”

“Yeah, whatever. We’re both dumb,” you grumble, sitting down to pee while simultaneously pulling your sweater back over your head. You watch on, calmly, naturally, as he dresses himself back to his regular clothes before standing to do the same.

“I don’t want to go back out,” Chanyeol whines, bumping his hip to yours to make room so he can wash his hands with you, “I wanna stay here with you.”

“In the women’s bathroom? Really?” You laugh disbelievingly, running your hands through your hair to somehow not only tame it, but lay it so it covers the love bites higher up on your throat. Groaning at your dumb sense of humor, Chanyeol waits for you to zip up your boots, not even bothering to explain what he meant, before gathering your pajamas with his and cracking open the door to check if the coast is clear.

“Good?” You whisper, clinging to his back. When he nods, you head out into the hallway together, clinging to his side like a koala and barely blinking an eye when his fingers intertwine with yours, his hand snugly enveloping your own. With a different wave of warmth blooming in your chest and up to your cheeks, you yank Chanyeol to the wall just before the corner, smothering his lips with yours and curling his sweater in your fists.

“Are we telling them… or just winging it?” You whisper, drawing back when his tongue threatens to slip past the seam of your lips. Too soon to get lost in his taste again, no matter how sweet he tastes against your lips.

There would be plenty of time for that later, anyway.

“Act natural now, but,” he murmurs, staring down at you with so much marvel weighted in his gaze you feel as if you may implode, “maybe by the end of this damn thing they’ll know.”

“Okay,” you agree, leaning up to peck his top lip one more time before continuing on through the empty kitchen and into the main room, ignoring the faint thrumming coming from your groin. Navigating through the dwindling crowd, you first make a pit stop to grab your cell phone where you left it on a coffee table before seeking out a spot on the sofa. Not even two seconds after sitting down, it dings with notifications.

[9:04 PM] yeol (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧: I can’t believe I can kiss you whenever I want now

[9:04 PM] yeol (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧: I miss you already

[9:04 PM] yeol (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧: even though I can see you rn

Your head snaps up, dying to find him and unable to hide your smile. Once you find him across the room, looking unfairly delicious for someone who just had their dick inside you, he winks. You grin, looking back down when your phone buzzes again.

[9:05 PM] yeol (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧: I want everyone to know ur my wifeyyyy

[9:05 PM] YN: yeol its been like

[9:05 PM] YN: a minute

[9:05 PM] YN: and slow down there, tiger. i need the ring first

[9:05 PM] YN: but don’t worry. they’ll know soon:’)

“___!” Shouts a familiar voice and you jump, scrambling to shut off your phone before searching over the cluster of guests until you find Seoyun waving near the piano. You make your way over, grabbing a bowl of potato chips on the way.

“Hey, where have you been? Took you an awfully long time to change,” she asks as soon as you are close enough, suspicious, “you missed Pollyanna.”

“Sorry, I, uh…” you trail off, frantic, mind drawing a blank as you try to think of a reasonable excuse, “had to—”

“She was with me,” a gruff voice cuts in, thick with smugness as his hand slaps onto your shoulder. Face draining of color you side glance to Chanyeol who stands closely behind you, his other hand sliding to hook his fingers into the belt loops of your jeans. When you dare to slowly look back to Seoyun, her gaze follows the path of his hand, processing, before focusing back on your face with raised brows. Then, “What are these?” She gasps, reaching to pull the collar of your sweater down, exposing a splotch of purple blossoming across your skin.

“Ay!” You grumble, smacking her hand away and jerking closer to Chanyeol. “You guys… seriously?” Seoyun grumbles disappointedly, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers. You tilt your head up to Chanyeol for help, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he gives a lopsided grin.

“It took you guys this fucking long just to fuckin a bathroom at our Christmas party?” She hisses, planting her hands on her hips as she bellows out a disbelieving laugh.

“We’re dating,” Chanyeol announces loudly once she has stopped snickering to herself like a lunatic. So loud, in fact, that a few heads close enough spin to see just who is dating who.

You suddenly wish the floor would swallow you up.

Seoyun nearly chokes. “Well, then,” she coughs, rocking on her heels, “shove a quarter up my ass because I just played myself.”

Her face softens when she watches Chanyeol securely wrap his arms around you from his spot behind you. She sighs. “I knew it was going to happen soon. You guys have been all over each other this past year. I’m pretty sure half the family has been waiting for this,” Seoyun beams, eyes twinkling joyously, “except you didn’t get a shot of getting one of Julia’s Italian cookbooks as a gift.”

“Fuck, man. I really wanted to add another to my collection,” Chanyeol fake whimpers and you laugh with Seoyun. “What’d you get?” You ask her, pouting in disappointment when Chanyeol unwinds his arms to stand next to you.

“Don’t be jealous, but,” she pauses, digging into her pocket before pulling out an Amazon gift card, “I actually got the best gift, to be honest. All the other shit was dumb knickknacks. Key chains and shit.”

“Seoyun!” Someone calls from behind you before you can express your envy. She grits her teeth.

“I’ll talk to you lovebirds in a bit. Mom needs me,” she sighs, giving your hand a squeeze as she moves past you.

Only a heartbeat later Chanyeol is stepping in front of you. “Sorry you missed out getting a gift,” he frowns, dropping his hands to hold yours but pauses when he realizes you are still holding the basket of potato chips, “I hope you’ll still have a merry Christmas.”

You laugh, brows drawing together when he seizes the basket out of your hands to place on top of the piano albeit the please keep things off piano sign. “Seriously? Nobody could ruin this Christmas even if they tried.”

When Chanyeol leans in close, resting his forehead against yours and sharing your breath, your fingers run down his spine to pull him close. The world falls always when he kisses you again, soft and slow and comforting in ways that words would never be. With his hand resting just below your ear, thumb caressing your cheek, you cannot help but smile against his lips when you feel the beating of his heart against your chest.

“Love you,” Chanyeol whispers.

Screw Pollyanna. In the end, you got the greatest gift of them all.

[syven-siren]

His God Is A Woman

A/N: Just a little piece about the reader’s and Michael Langdon’s adoration for one another. Inspired by Ariana Grande’s ‘God is a Woman’. I encourage you to listen to it as you read this. I wrote this at 2am yesterday when I couldn’t sleep so please forgive any grammar errors or complete nonsense lol. Also, this is my first writing piece ever on Tumblr! Woohoo! It’s been years (about 5) since I’ve written anything for a creative purpose. I really want to get back into it. It’s probably not a strong writing piece but I’m going to try to improve. If anyone has or knows of a good prompt list to challenge me in writing, please feel free to message me or send me an “ask”. Thanks! 

Feedback is always appreciated. 

Tagging: @squirrelacorngliterfarts  (Thank you for your support! ☺️🙈)

You, you love it how I move you You love it how I touch you My one, when all is said and done You'll believe God is a woman And I, I feel it after midnight A feelin' that you can't fight My one, it lingers when we're done You'll believe God is a woman

No sound reverberates through the vacant halls as you make your way to Michael’s office. Those residing in the Sanctuary have gone to bed long ago. The chill of the marble floors makes you wish you had slipped on the discarded heels by your bedroom door. As you enter his office, you take note of the folders and files haphazardly strewn about the room; the white papers contrasting the dark wood that furnishes his office. You find he is slumped in his leather lounge chair savoring a glass of fine alcohol. His hand grip the glass tightly revealing the stress of the day. Leaning against the door as you close it, you attempt to calm your heart. Your eagerness to be near him is as strong as ever. It is as if your body is drawn towards him like a magnet. The tingle of knowing he is so close leaves your limbs feeling weak. 

With the soft click of the door, Michael peers up at you as if only just noticing your presence in the room. In an instant, your body is lit ablaze with desire. Shifting your weight, you try to find some friction between your thighs. You seek a release which only he can grant. The effect this man has on you seems otherworldly but then again Michael Langdon is no ordinary man. From the beginning of his campaign to create a new world, he has had an aura of authority and confidence about him. He can have any person he wants yet somehow he has chosen you. You feel honored to be gifted his love and affection. If only you knew how much he craves you. If only you knew how he is always in awe of how you love him unconditionally. 

I don't wanna waste no time, yuh You ain't got a one-track mind, yuh Have it any way you like, yuh And I can tell that you know I know how I want it Ain't nobody else can relate Boy, I like that you ain't afraid Baby, lay me down and let's pray I'm tellin' you the way I like it, how I want it

His blue eyes lock with yours as he runs his thumb over the crystal glass held within his grasp. His gaze flows along the black silk robe which clings to your body. He can’t help but appreciate how it has slipped off your shoulder to expose the thin strap of your bra. He admires how your skin is flushed whether it be from the cold or knowing you were in the presence of your lover. To him, you are ethereal. A masterpiece to be honored. 

And I can be all the things you told me not to be (Yuh) When you try to come for me, I keep on flourishing (Yuh) And he see the universe when I'm the company It's all in me

As you come to halt in front of him, you wait for him to make the next move. He leans back in the chair allowing you space to sit in his lap. You sit straddling him. He places the glass on the table next to the chair but his hands are not unoccupied for long. Soon, the robe is untied and hanging loosely at your sides. It leaves you exposed to his curious eyes. Your body adorned in black lace is almost too much for his self-control. His vision rakes over your body longingly as if trying to imprint the beauty of you to his mind forever. His hands caress the sides of your thighs. Slowly, they slide towards your waist. The trail of his touch leaves your skin burning in excitement. The chill of his rings doing nothing to relieve you of the heat coursing throughout your body. 

His hands find their way to your back drawing you close to him. Flush against each other, you can feel him. You suck in a ragged breath. The sensation of finally being near him causes your eyes to close in satisfaction. It’s overwhelming. A simple action turns you into a complete mess. No man will ever affect you the way Michael does. Your hips move on their own. Grinding to feel him against you. Your back arches leaving no space, no gap, between the two of you. His fingertips ghost over the side of your neck to the outline of your jaw and finally to your lips. He is marveled at the sight of you.

You, you love it how I move you You love it how I touch you My one, when all is said and done You'll believe God is a woman And I, I feel it after midnight A feelin' that you can't fight My one, it lingers when we're done You'll believe God is a woman

He wants to know every peak and valley of your body. He wants it seared into his brain for all time. The feel of you is like an addiction; one he will never be able to overcome. You open your eyes in time to meet his gaze again. These are the moments he craves. The ones where the two of you are alone in the silence of your love for each other. In these moments, he can express his gratitude for your loyalty. He brings your face closer to seal the final gap between the two of you. When your lips finally touch his, it is a further indication you were created just for him. You both fit perfectly together. And when you finally part, his look is one of reverence. He can’t help but question if you are truly real or just a figment of his imagination. If you are just a mere mirage, he hopes you stay forever.

He may be the anti-christ but he will worship you until the end of this life and into the next.  His queen. His god.

The individual images are not mine unless stated otherwise. Credit for all individual images belongs to the original owners. The mood board/collages are mine. Please give credit if you are using my moodboards/images/collages. Thank you!

[wistfulcynic]

Their Way By Moonlight: Soulmate Magic (Chapter 8)

In which Killian meets a very old friend in New York and Emma finds she has a surprising skill. 

a/n: This is a monster of a chapter, folks, nearly 9k words. I know a lot of people routinely write chapters that long or longer but I was always that guy who produced 9.5 pages for a 10 page essay assignment, so it’s weird for me. It’s a lot of words and a lot of dense ideas and canon callbacks and what I’m saying is make a cup of tea and get comfortable before you start reading. 

And thank you to everyone who is reading. Your comments and reblogs feed my soul and I’m so grateful for them and you 💕 

Summary: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time the Saviour is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from her son and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Hook are soulmates, working together within their shared dreams to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from the clutches of evil yet again. (Alternate 3B, set in the What Dreams May Come universe)

Rating: A hard M

Tagging: @teamhook @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke @thejollyroger-writer @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @bonbonpirate @lfh1962 @laschatzi @katie-dub @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop

Anyone wishing to be added to or dropped from this tag list, please do say so.

Read it on AO3

Soulmate Magic:

New York City, the previous year:

(Emma and Henry had just sat down to breakfast when there was a knock at the door. They exchanged surprised looks. 

“Someone coming over?” asked Henry. 

“No,” said Emma, eyes widening as the knock came again, louder and more insistent this time. “Henry, wait here,” she said, getting up and switching off the radio as she went to the door. She opened it, and gaped for a moment at the man on the other side. He was dressed head to toe in black leather, somehow looking much less ridiculous and far more attractive than he should have in such a getup. She had never seen his face before, but his eyes… she caught her breath. 

She knew those eyes. 

“Swan,” he said, looking at her like she was the most precious thing in the world to him, and she knew his voice too, recognised the way it spoke her name. 

“I know you can’t remember me, but—”

She did remember him, though. How could she not? He was literally the man of her dreams. 

Driven by instinct, she grabbed the collar of his absurd coat and pulled his lips to hers, into a kiss that was achingly familiar. 

Bright white light burst from their joined lips, and Emma remembered. 

She remembered him. 

She remembered everything.)

---

One month later: 

Killian hunched his shoulders against the bitter wind that swirled around the buildings as he went past, the tallest, greyest buildings he’d encountered in all his travels, the wind that was somehow colder than anything that had ever whipped off the sea and onto the deck of the Jolly Roger, somehow always blowing directly in his face no matter which way he turned. He almost wished that he had permitted Emma to wrap that scarf around his neck before he left, or gods forfend even acceded to her request that he do up all his shirt buttons. Though no, the buttons were a bridge too far; he’d rather be cold. Despite having accepted, almost with good grace, the practical necessity of wearing the clothing of this realm, there were some points on which Killian refused to budge. Habits forged over a lifetime were hard to break, and, as he had explained to Emma with exaggerated patience, he had lived at least three lifetimes at this point. Not to mention that precise buttoning and neckcloths reminded him of the navy. As long as he had anything to say about it, his buttons would remain undone. 

“Suit yourself,” she’d huffed, rolling her eyes. “But when you come home with frostbite, I will be saying I told you so.” 

Killian scowled. He was not looking forward to that I told you so. 

Wishing it didn’t feel so much like ripping away the last tattered remnants of his pirate identity, he slowly —and rather awkwardly, curse that useless wooden hand— managed to work the zipper of his new coat until the garment was securely —and yes, warmly, curse Emma too— fastened up nearly to his chin. He popped up its collar —that at least felt right— and rolled his shoulders, suppressing a sigh as his body heat began to collect beneath the densely woven wool. 

Emma was right, New York winters were a bitch. And oh, was she going to be bloody insufferable when he returned home swaddled like an infant against that insidious chill. 

He would have to find a way to distract her from her gloating, he thought with a smile, knowing that it was the daft, besotted smile he’d felt on his face far too often of late but unable as ever to do anything about it. He was daft, after all, and besotted, and every time his mind drifted onto thoughts of how things were now with himself and Emma, of the intimacy that had blossomed between them, he was powerless to prevent that smile from forming on his lips.  

His happiness terrified him. Even with Emma still pretending to ‘date’ the monkey-man, Walsh, trying to glean as much as she could about who he really was and why he was here, and how he could possibly have invaded their dream, even with the concern about what if anything had happened to her family in the Enchanted Forest, even with the uncertainty as to why and how their kiss had returned her memories, the past month of the two of them together had been bliss of a sort he’d never known before, better than anything he could ever have conjured up even in his wildest fantasies. Nothing in his imagination could come close to touching on the way it felt to have her open up to him, to break through her walls and finally know the real woman behind them. That wonderful, vulnerable, brave, flawed, compelling, extraordinary woman. The same woman who not long since had tensed defensively if he even stood too close to her was now lacing her fingers with his or combing them through his hair as they sat on her sofa watching movies, dropping soft, casual kisses on his shoulder or his jaw or his lips, surprising him by grabbing his shirtfront out of nowhere and kissing him properly until they were both hot and itchy and Henry was sighing pointedly and marching to his bedroom, making remarkably unsubtle allusions to “giving you two some freaking privacy” as he went. 

For the first time in the whole of his memory Killian was sleeping soundly through the night. Emma had warned him that New York could hold dangers for those who weren't careful, but her apartment was by far the safest place Killian had slept since he’d left the naval academy, free as it was from rival pirates or demon children, vengeful mermaids or krakens with scores to settle, any one of whom could appear at any moment over the horizon or from the depths of the sea prepared to rip apart his ship and slaughter its crew, starting with him. Pirate captains slept with one eye open or they slept with Davy Jones, simple as that. But Killian no longer had a ship or a crew or even a hook, at least not when anyone was around to see it. What he had instead was a welcome place in a small apartment, a haven of safety in a non-magical land with a sturdy lock on its door and a warm, soft bed full of the woman he loved so deeply he sometimes feared he might drown in it. Each night he sank into unconsciousness knowing that the next day would dawn with Emma’s nose pressed into the crook of his neck, snoring softly against his skin, her legs twined with his, and that if he woke her with a trail of kisses along her jaw or his fingertips over the curve of her hip she would grumble at the early hour but sigh into his touch, shifting to allow him greater access to her body. 

She told him her secrets and listened to his, listened with boundless empathy but no judgement, not flinching even at the most shameful tales of his darkest misdeeds. “I don’t care what you’ve done,” she said, laying her head on his chest, “Only what you do now and in the future. I’m glad you told me but it doesn’t change how I feel. I know who you are, Killian, and I’m always going to choose to see the best in you.” 

She hadn’t flinched even when he’d broken under this show of faith in him, when he’d squeezed her far too tightly and dampened her hair with his tears. She’d simply snuggled closer and stroked his back as he wept, whispering soothing words until all his tears were shed and slowly, slowly, Killian felt her love seep into his cracked and blackened soul and begin to heal it. He would be the man she saw, he vowed as she drifted to sleep in his arms. He would be worthy of her, no matter what befell them, no matter what it took.   

He had no idea what he had done to merit this turn of fortune, but while he wasn’t about to question it he also knew deep in his heart that it was temporary. Such happiness always was, for him. Killian Jones did not get to live a quiet and peaceful life in the company of the people he loved. Of that he was certain. 

 This would end. The only questions were how, and when. 

He turned the corner onto a wide street, louder and busier than the one he’d just left, teeming with people who all appeared intensely keen to be anywhere except where they were. He kept up his brisk pace as best he could, weaving through the crowd, but the rushing people rapidly became more numerous (Don’t take your walk at rush hour, Emma had said, he really should start listening to her) and when he came to the next junction he turned abruptly, not looking where he was going, wanting only to be away from the push and press of people. 

As he did so his elbow slammed hard into one of those many rushing people, connecting sharply with the man’s midsection. Killian winced. “Apologies, mate,” he began, turning, his expression apologetic until his gaze met those of his unintended victim and he caught a flash of electric emerald, a hue he hadn’t seen for the better part of half a century. 

For a moment he stood, stunned, unable to believe it possible that he could be standing here with this man, in New York bloody City of all places. Then anger flashed through him and he recovered. “You!” he hissed, and the emerald eyes narrowed. Killian made a grab for the man’s arm but he moved with astounding speed and before Killian could react the man’s fist had connected with his jaw and he found himself flat on his arse on the cold concrete of the sidewalk. 

Fortunately, Killian was no stranger to being knocked down and he leapt quickly to his feet, heading off in pursuit of his old friend. The other man moved quickly but the crowd was thick, and Killian, who had no qualms about using his elbows and an expression of snarling menace to get people out of his way, soon caught up. He clutched the man’s  arm and pulled him into a nearby alley, slamming him back against the brick wall of an Italian deli and clenching a fist in the front of his coat. 

The man winced at the impact and Killian took advantage of this brief incapacity to study his face. It was a good disguise, he thought. He’d never have picked this man out of a New York crowd or had cause to suspect he was anything out of the ordinary if he hadn’t recognised those eyes. They opened suddenly, the man having evidently recovered, and Killian had a moment of dizzy disorientation as the edges of his world glowed green, weakening him, the faint strains of harp music curling around his consciousness with an inexorable pull. “No!” he snarled, and pushed with all his strength against the man’s chest, breaking the eye contact just in time and stumbling backwards, shaking his head to clear it. “So it is you, Oisín,” he said, when he had his bearings again. “I must say you’ve got a bloody nerve, coming at me fists first.” 

“I gotta nerve?” The voice was pure New York, nothing like he remembered it. A voice to match the face. “Who just tackled who in an alley, pal?”

“And who left whom in Neverland, mate? It’s I who should be punching you.”

“Neverland?” The man attempted a dismissive scoff, but Killian knew him too well. “You’re crazy—”

“Oh, no. No, don’t do that. Don’t play that game.” Killian straightened to his full height and looked the other man directly in the face, carefully avoiding his eyes. “I name you, Oisín, son of Fionn MacCumhaill, king of Tír na nÓg,” he said firmly, his voice resounding off the narrow walls of the alley, echoing into a space that did not exist in it. “I name you and I name your debt to me.” 

The man heaved a sigh that was heavy with the weight of ages, and the whisper of his breath bore the fragrance of rain-washed hillsides, and his skin began to spark and shimmer with an ancient magic. The New York face melted away and reformed into the youthful yet careworn visage of the last creature in whom Killian had fully placed his trust. The emerald eyes, now wide and clear and unobscured by the puffy flesh of his disguise, glinted with both menace and respect. “Very well, then,” he said, in a voice that held no trace of Queens but made Killian think of long nights under swaying trees, of music and dancing and drink that could make him forget everything, even why he should wish to remember. “Come with me, Killian Jones.” 

As he spoke, tendrils of light the same hue as his eyes curled up from the pavement where he stood, twining a winding path up the brick wall to form a shimmering doorway behind him. He stepped backwards through it, disappearing into a hazy gloom, and Killian, with only the smallest pause to wonder what the devil he was getting himself into here, followed. 

---

Roughly a year later:

A small sign in the window of the bookshop proclaimed it ‘OPEN’ when Emma arrived the following morning. She smiled to herself. The sign was so typical of what she’d come to recognise as Killian’s old-fashioned style, with the word actually engraved into a background of dark wood, its letters painted in a shade of blue that recalled his eyes, delicately highlighted in a silver that made her think of his rings. Rings, plural? prodded the voice that now seemed to be forever in her head, her own voice, urging her to think despite the haze of confusion that clouded her mind. How many rings does he wear?

She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, trying to stave off the blossoming ache behind her right eye. One ring, she thought. She was sure that Killian wore only one ring, his wedding ring. She could remember it clearly from just days ago, his hand in hers as she’d caressed the engraved band. He had one hand and that hand wore one ring, she was certain of it, so where did those other memories —how were they memories— of chunky silver jewellery come from then, of a blood red ruby winking as he gestured emphatically with his hand? How could she have memories of the thumb of that same hand tucked behind a belt buckle that seemed impractically, almost comically large? And was he wearing an earring?

Everything about Killian, from his shop to his clothing to the sign in his window was elegant and tasteful. Even his truck had a sort of style to it, old enough to qualify as an antique and meticulously maintained. Gaudy rings, huge belt buckles, dangling earrings and bright silver clasps on a leather vest, they all seemed so incongruous to the man she was coming to know, and yet also somehow perfectly suited to him. He’s a man who knows how to curate his appearance for maximum impact, whispered the voice. Everything about him now illustrated subtlety, spoke of someone who wished to remain inconspicuous. At least, as inconspicuous as anyone could be with his face and his magnetic charisma. But what if he didn’t? What if he wished to attract attention rather than deflect it? How would he dress then?

She had the oddest feeling that she knew. 

She pushed open the door and smiled again, trying to ignore the gentle warmth that rose in her chest at the sight of him, softening the tingle of attraction she always felt in his presence. The attraction at least she could rationalise; he was almost ridiculously good looking and she was a heterosexual woman with functioning eyes, of course she found him attractive. But the warmth was worrying. The warmth was more. 

He was sitting behind the large, carved-wood desk, a small frown creasing his forehead as he read the massive and ancient-looking book in front of him. She wanted to smooth that crease away with her thumb. With her lips. The urge to soothe him was almost irresistible.  

Stop it, she told herself firmly, you’re married. 

Yes you are, whispered the voice. To him. 

---

The previous year:

Killian emerged into a low-lit room full of objects that were indistinct at first, obscured by an eerie gloom. He blinked and peered into the darkness as slowly the haze of the doorway’s magic dissipated and the objects resolved, becoming recognisable as tall bookshelves, tightly-packed with volumes of all sizes and colours, illuminated by the natural, warm sunlight shining through the windows of what Killian now recognised as a small bookshop.

“Have a seat,” said Oisín, gesturing to one of two overstuffed armchairs that flanked a small table in a cosy corner of the room. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Killian very much would like some tea, or even better a swig of rum, but he had played this game before. “I think, on balance, I would not,” he replied with a wry smirk and a raised eyebrow. 

Oisín’s eyes twinkled bright and viridescent in a face that now appeared not much older than Killian’s own, a narrow and noble face with sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin, framed by waves of hair as pale as moonlight. “You always were a clever man, Hook,” he said. “Worthy as both friend and adversary. It broke my heart, you know, to watch you wasting your considerable skills on vengeance.”

“Oh, aye? And is that why you left me behind?” Killian felt again a remnant of that old anger sparking back to life, recalled the burning sense of betrayal —another betrayal— when he’d realised this man he had trusted was gone, leaving him with no ally remaining in all of Neverland, no recourse but to deal with Pan.  

Regret flashed across Oisín’s face, brief but sharp. “Please sit, Killian.” His voice was low now, with a note of earnest regret that Killian had never heard in it before. “Sit, and share a pot of tea with me. No obligation, no tricks. You have my word.” 

“Your word,” growled Killian, his fist clenching involuntarily against his thigh.

“Yes.” The regret was stronger now, sorrowful and ashamed, but Oisín did not look away. “I broke my word to you once, long ago, my word that had been given in recompense of an invaluable service, and now I owe you a debt. I will ensure that debt is paid. I swear it on the honour of my father Fionn MacCumhaill and on the heart of my beloved, Niamh. There is no danger to you here, Killian Jones. Be welcome in this place.” 

Killian might lack Emma’s powers of lie detection but he knew Oisín, had fought for him and against him, had been drunk and rumbustious alongside him, had wept at his side in both joy and sadness, and despite the inherent untrustworthiness of his kind had always considered him a true friend. He could detect no trickery in the other man’s words, only a genuine remorse of the sort he had come to know so well himself. If there was an explanation for his erstwhile friend’s conduct in Neverland then Killian would like to hear it. He sat. 

Oisín nodded. “I’ll get the tea.” 

Killian took the opportunity of his brief solitude to observe his surroundings more closely. The shop was small and packed with things, but packed in such a way that it appeared more cosy than cluttered. The bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling and the volumes they contained, from what Killian could observe from his chair, were both eclectic and haphazardly arranged. He noted half a dozen different languages that he himself could read and several more he had never encountered before. Some of the books were frequently handled while others had spent perhaps years untouched on their shelves, that much was evident from the dust patterns upon them, while the fact that there was dust at all suggested that this shop was not much frequented. The whole effect was of a private library from which any outside incursion, even that of someone come to tidy up, was forbidden. Yet the bustle and noise from outside the window told him that the magical doorway had not removed them from the middle of New York City. 

A mystery, thought Killian with cutting irony. How unusual for a king of the Fae.  

 Soon Oisín returned bearing a beautifully painted porcelain tea set upon a polished wooden tray. He laid it carefully on the table between the armchairs, balancing the tray between his hands as the rickety table wobbled and resettled under its weight. As he lifted the teapot to pour Killian’s attention was caught by the minutely rendered floral design on the delicate china, which as he watched appeared to move, waving as if in a breeze, though one that sadly failed to shift the dusty air within the shop… What shop? No shop, he was in a field, the flowers were moving, swaying gently, there was something at the corner of his eye— Oisín set the teapot down with a sharp thunk and Killian jumped in his seat, blinking rapidly. When he refocused his gaze the flowers on the teapot were still. 

“Milk only for you, as I recall,” said Oisín’s amused voice.  

“Aye.” He had grown complacent in this land without magic, Killian thought in disgust. He must remember where he was now, and whom he was with. 

Oisín tipped a splash of milk into both cups and set one in front of Killian before making himself comfortable in the other armchair and raising his own cup in toast. “Sláinte,” he said. “It’s not whiskey, but your good health all the same.” 

“And yours. Sláinte agad-sa.” They sipped together. 

 ---

Back in the present: 

What? What did you say?

You heard me.

No. 

No?

No, I’m not married to Killian. Of course I’m not. I can’t be. 

To who then?

To, um, to W —what was his name?— to Walsh. Yes. Walsh.

Come on, Emma. You know that’s not true. 

“Swan?”

Emma blinked, shaking herself out of the disturbing conversation in her head. Killian had looked up from his book and was regarding at her with that warm smile that made butterflies dance in her belly and she felt almost shy. 

“Um, hi,” she said, trying not to squirm. “So you’re actually open this time.”

“Aye, today’s the big first day.”

“Well, I guess, congratulations? You’re not having, like, a grand opening or anything?”

“No, I don’t plan to do much advertising of that sort. Word of mouth is best for a business like this one.” 

“Huh.” Emma didn’t know much about small businesses, but that seemed like an odd attitude for the owner of one to take. Still, Killian appeared confident. 

“So,” she said.

“So,” he echoed with just a hint of teasing.

Her lips twitched. “You said I could come by to look at those books I bought the other day.” 

“Indeed. They’re right here.” Killian retrieved her purchases from the drawer of his desk and handed them to her. 

“So can I just—” she gestured around the shop. 

“Aye, make yourself comfortable, love. There’s a sofa now,” he said, nodding towards it. 

“Oh,” gasped Emma, taking in the generously sized piece with its deep-set buttons and antique leather. “I love that.”

“Henry chose it.” The pride in his voice warmed her heart. 

“Kid’s got taste.” 

“He’s a clever lad.” 

She wanted to ask more about his son, had the strangest urge to ask all about his loves and hates and what he wanted for his future and what most scared him —why do you want to know those things?— but it seemed intrusive and a bit weird so she just smiled at Killian and took her books over to the sofa instead, making herself comfortable on the age-softened leather and opening the one on the principles of magical practice. 

Reading a book about magic made her feel faintly ridiculous; she wasn’t certain why she even wanted to read it or what she thought she might find in its pages. Obviously she didn’t believe in magic, didn’t actually think it could exist. She was a practical woman, she worked in law enforcement for fuck’s sake. Fantasy had no place in her life. She dealt in realities. 

She was just… curious. 

She began to read. 

Within minutes she was deeply engrossed in the book, so fascinated by the spells it described and the lore behind them that she wholly forgot where she was. She didn’t notice Killian quietly going upstairs and returning several minutes later with a cup of hot chocolate that he placed on the table at her elbow, though she did drink it as she read about how to store up magic in a sort of reservoir and call upon it when it was needed.  She didn’t notice that she was mouthing the words to the spells as she read them, didn’t notice her hand flexing on her knee as she read about how to summon objects. Didn’t notice the white light shimmering and sparking at her fingertips. 

But Killian did. 

---

The year before:

“You weren’t fit to come into this world,” said Oisín, setting his cup in its saucer and looking at Killian with eyes that held no threat to him now. “That’s why I left you behind. Understand, Hook, that you were mad in those days, obsessed with your crocodile. After Bae made his escape it was as though you lost your will to live, and once I learned you had succeeded in distilling the dreamshade I knew I couldn’t take you with us. You were reckless and didn’t listen to anything like reason, far too dangerous and unpredictable to bring along. Too dangerous to be let loose on this realm.” 

“Aye.” Killian felt a wash of shame at his friend’s words, made bitter by how deeply he understood that they were true. He had been mad, then, and untrustworthy. Perhaps betrayal had been what he deserved. 

“In my visions I saw the outlines of the Dark One’s plan,” Oisín continued, “and that it would soon bring him to this land. I broke my word to you not to thwart you or to protect the Dark One, but to protect the realm he would soon inhabit.” He paused to sip. “My realm.”

Killian’s own sip choked him. “Yours!” he spluttered. 

“Oh indeed.” Mirth brightened Oisín’s eyes again as he watched Killian cough and wheeze. “This is where I originate.” 

“Here.”

“Well, no, not here, precisely, not New York. My native land lies across a vast ocean. It is a place far less prosaic than this one, less… functional. Far more open to the idea of magic and of creatures not quite human.”

“An ideal spot then, for the likes of you.” Killian sneered, having recovered his breath if not his dignity. 

“Oh, you may sneer, Hook, but while this is not precisely a land without magic, it is one where magic is extraordinarily rare, making its unusually high concentration in my land essential for the survival of my kind.” 

“So magic does exist here?”

“It exists in pockets, in corners, in the tales its inhabitants pass down through their generations. Here you are a children’s story and I a myth, though of course we are real enough in other lands. For those accustomed to magic navigating this place requires subtlety, a thing of which I know you are capable, but at the time of our departure from Tír na nÓg you could not be. Your anger and your drive for vengeance were too great. I left you behind with the intent to return once I had secured this land against you, and figured out what the Dark One intended by coming here.”

“And yet he proceeded with his plan unhindered,” Killian felt compelled to point out.  

Oisín drained his teacup, and seeing that Killian’s was empty as well refilled both before he spoke again.

“When the Dark One first landed in this realm I could sense his presence but not his location. He was obscured somehow in a way I’d never encountered before.”

Killian nodded; this made sense. “He was shielded by a curse. The curse that brought him here.”

Oisín gaped, for once so astounded that he allowed it to show. “A curse brought him here? From the Enchanted Forest?”

“Aye.” 

“What kind of curse could do that?”

Killian wished he knew. “A very dark and very powerful one, I am reliably informed.” 

‘It would have to be. Both of those things.” 

They sipped more tea. 

“At any rate, I waited,” continued Oisín, “As first the years and then the decades passed I waited for any sign of the Dark One’s power manifesting here, but there was nothing. Then one day about, oh, two years ago, something changed. For the first time I could see clearly where the Dark One was and that he had managed to amass some magic, far more magic than this land generally tolerates. Yet I could not move against him; despite being visible he was still inaccessible to me, shielded by a force I could not identify.”

“Likely by the remnants of the curse,” Killian speculated. “It had been broken, but traces of it in the form of a magical boundary still remained.” The memory of a gunshot, both quieter and more powerful than he had anticipated from the modern weapon, came unbidden into his mind and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The dark stain of blood spreading across an innocent woman’s shoulder, he remembered that too, and the blankness in her eyes as she fell across the invisible barrier surrounding the town. Her terror as Rumplestiltskin healed her, his own twisted triumph at his enemy’s despair. Killian’s hand clenched involuntarily on his teacup and he forced himself to relax before he crushed the delicate china. There were so very many things he had to atone for, he’d nearly forgotten about that one. Another entry on a shamefully long list. 

Oisín was watching him carefully, his expression kind. As if he knew what Killian was thinking about. More than likely he did. “And then,” he continued, once he knew he had Killian’s full attention, “I sensed him, fully and sharply and most surprisingly here, in New York City. Followed almost immediately by you.” He chuckled and shook his head, half in disbelief, half reluctant admiration. “I couldn’t believe it. How you managed to travel to this realm I don’t mind confessing I still have no idea.”  

“Probably because you never thought I’d take Pan’s deal. Obviously you didn’t, or you wouldn’t have left me in Neverland.” 

“That is indeed true.” Oisín’s eyes were sorrowful. “You took the deal, then.” 

“I did.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Killian shrugged. “It was a desperate act by a desperate man.” And one I do not wish to discuss, his tone implied. 

“Quite.” Oisín cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, even Pan’s deal wouldn’t have brought you to this realm.” 

“No. I came here on my ship, first through a portal from the Enchanted Forest then simply out of Storybrooke’s harbour and down the coast to New York.”

“Storybrooke?” 

“The name of the town created by the Dark One’s curse. That curse brought him to this land but he had to wait until it was broken before he could leave Storybrooke and venture out in search of Baelfire-- that was his aim in coming here. Beyond Storybrooke’s boundaries he had no magic, so I knew that was when I had to strike.” 

Oisín nodded, as if Killian’s words confirmed a long-held theory. “I thought that would be the case. I knew you had the concentrated dreamshade and that without his magic the Dark One would be at your mercy. I travelled here as quickly as I could, arriving just in time to see you stab him.” His eyes twinkled with laughter that did not appear on his face. “That must have been satisfying.” 

“Oh indeed.” Killian may have come to regret, deeply, the harm his quest for vengeance had caused innocent people, but he was not so reformed that he didn’t still recall the satisfaction of his poisoned hook sinking into Rumplestiltskin’s chest, the culmination of over two centuries’ determined effort. The fact that it had ultimately come to nothing diminished that satisfaction only slightly. 

“Well I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, for my part I had quite the job undoing the damage you did.” 

“Undoing the damage… you’re responsible for the Dark One surviving?” Killian hissed. 

“There are consequences for killing a Dark One, Hook, consequences I’ve warned you about on many an occasion. Ones I did not wish to see befall you, despite how much you may have deserved them. I was unable to do anything to counter the effects of the dreamshade, but I did…nudge Baelfire’s memory enough to allow him to sail your ship back to this Storybrooke where the Dark One could access his magic. And I gave another little nudge to that pair of idiots who were doing Pan’s bidding in this world. Told them where to find you in that closet.”

“I’d wondered about that.” 

“They were easy to manipulate, no doubt why Pan was so fond of them, but Bae… well, he was also easy but seeing him was a shock. He had changed almost beyond recognition.” 

“Aye.” Killian’s hand clenched again as he thought of his Emma, young and alone and with child, incarcerated for Baelfire’s crime. Bearing and birthing Henry behind bars, giving him up because she couldn’t raise him alone. All because Bae had been a bloody coward, just like… “I thought he was his mother’s son, but it turns out he has quite a bit of his father in him.”  

“He always did. You didn’t wish to see it.”

“That’s probably true.” Killian had wanted so badly to have a part of Milah back that he had overlooked a great many aspects of Baelfire’s character which in retrospect may have foreshadowed the man he became.  

“But then once Greg and Tamara had taken me back to Storybrooke, you remained here, what, on the off chance I’d be back?” he asked. 

“No, I left New York shortly after you did. Then about a year ago I sensed her here, in this city, and so I returned as well. I knew it could only be a matter of time before you followed.” 

“Her? Whom?” Killian wasn’t certain why he bothered to dissemble, obviously Oisín with his gift of sight was as irritatingly well informed as he had always been. Perhaps he just didn’t appreciate being as easy as Greg and Tamara.  

His friend gave him a look of indulgent amusement, with just a hint of exasperation. “Emma Swan, of course,” he replied. “I sensed her connection to you during your first visit here, and by the time she returned it had grown considerably stronger.”

Killian’s eyebrows snapped together. He had never really objected to Oisín’s ability to divine the truth of things, but his relationship with Emma was personal.  It was private, for them alone. “What connection?” he growled. 

 “The cosmic ties that link you,” said Oisín, and Killian barely suppressed an eye roll. “They are remarkably powerful. A…” he paused, fixing Killian with an intense stare. “A soulmate connection?”

“A what?” Killian had heard of such things of course, but had always dismissed them as overwrought nonsense. 

Oisín bristled at his scorn. “I’m certain you heard me.” 

“Perhaps I simply couldn’t believe my ears. Whatever makes you think that Emma is my soulmate?” The idea displeased him in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He loved Emma fiercely, had always felt intensely connected to her, but something about a soulmate felt… fated. Inevitable in a way he strongly disliked. Like they’d had no choice. 

“Do you dream about her?” asked Oisín, the intensity of his gaze unwavering. 

“Aye,” replied Killian automatically, then shook his head. “But that’s no proof of anything. She’s a beautiful woman and I desire her. Naturally she appears in my dreams.” 

“Yes I imagine she does, but as I believe you have already figured out it is far more than that. The dreams I refer to are no ordinary dreams.” He sat back in his chair, a small, irritating smile on his face. “Tell me, Hook. What do you and the lovely Emma Swan do together when you dream about her, hmm?”

Killian flushed, much to his annoyance. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business, mate.” 

Oisín’s smug smile widened. “I knew you were the shared dreams kind,” he said, all but smacking his lips in satisfaction.

“And just what the devil does that mean?” 

“There are many different kinds of soulmates. The ones who can share dreams are the rarest. I told you it’s a powerful connection, one unconfined by the rules and boundaries of physical space.  She’s been calling you to her, for nearly a year. That’s what I felt.” 

“I felt it too,” Killian acknowledged reluctantly. “I thought it was just me, missing her.”

 “In part at least it was. Being soulmates does not guarantee the development of romantic love, though it does facilitate it. You fell in love with her even without awareness of the bond that linked you, and when you were separated you missed her, and both those things… opened the conduits, so to speak, and allowed her to call for you even across realms.”

“But how could she, when she had no memory of me?”

“She had no memory and yet she still dreamed of you. That’s the magic, my friend, both the magic of the soulmate connection and her own remarkably strong magical abilities.”

Killian shook his head, scowling. “I don’t like this, mate.” 

“No,” replied Oisín, rather grimly. “I don’t imagine you do. You never were one to believe in fate, were you Hook?”

“Decidedly not.” 

“And yet you must.” 

“Must I?”

Oisín rose from his chair and the air shifted around him, making him appear taller somehow, his hair flowing in an unseen breeze. “I owe a debt to you, Killian Jones,” he declared in a voice both deep and resonant, “And I intend to honour it. Since you no longer require my assistance to escape Neverland, instead I will aid in arming you for the battle which I have foreseen you are soon to fight. The first step is to help you understand the weapons you have already at your disposal. Come with me.” 

---

And present day again: 

To summon an object, call your magic to you and hold the image of the object in your mind. You must know the exact location of the object, and picture it and its surroundings in as much detail as possible. Then simply wrap your magic around it and pull it to you. 

Emma had walked to the bookshop that morning. Her bug was so distinctive,  everyone always knew where she was when she drove it, and she didn’t want anyone knowing that she was spending time with Killian —Who do you worry would find out?— or visiting a shop that sold books about magic. 

Her car keys were on her desk at the Sheriff’s station. They were just to the left of her computer keyboard, between her empty takeout coffee cup from Granny’s and the potted succulent that she’d had for over a month and somehow managed not to kill. Yet. 

As she pictured the keys in her mind she felt… something hard to describe, warmth maybe, or energy, strength, power perhaps. It felt like she was pulling it from the air into herself; she could feel it as it moved through her, coiled and waiting for her to direct it. She thought about her keys and it surged into her mind and wrapped itself around them, enveloping them in sparking white light, and then— 

The keys were in her hand. 

Emma leapt to her feet, sending the books tumbling from her lap to the ground, and stared in shock at the keys. 

It wasn’t— they weren’t— she couldn’t have— it wasn’t possible. 

“Swan? Is everything all right?” Killian had come running on hearing the commotion, and she turned to see him standing several feet behind her, a worried frown on his face.  

She shook her head. “I have to go.” 

“What? What happened—”

“Nothing, nothing happened. I have to go.” Panic was beginning to rise in her throat and all she could think about was getting away, going back to a place that felt familiar, and safe. 

“Is there anything I can do?” His eyes were soft with concern and… and something she didn’t want to think about and she couldn’t be in the same room with him anymore. 

She shook her head, backing away. “No! I just— I have to go, okay?” Hurt flashed across his face, squeezing her heart. She wanted to fling herself at him, bury herself against his chest and have him envelop her in a comforting hug. He gave the best hugs —how do you know that— and she craved his touch. He would make it all better, make the panic go away, and— and she had to get out, before she did something stupid. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

“Emma—”

“No, no please.” She stretched her arm out, stiff and locked at the elbow, willing him away from her. “I’m so sorry.” 

She turned and ran from the shop. 

---

And again one year before: 

Leaving Oisín’s shop Killian found that his feet carried him straight home despite the turmoil in his mind. He unlocked the apartment door with his own key, but for the first time since Emma had presented it to him this action was unaccompanied by a rush of pleasure at the trust it represented. 

Once inside headed straight for the rum. 

When Emma found him some time later he was sitting in brooding silence, forearms resting against the edge of her dining table and rum bottle within easy reach, glaring at the bottom of a crystal tumbler like it owed him money. 

She frowned. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know if I have the words.” 

Her lip twitched. “I find that hard to believe.” She grabbed a tumbler for herself and sat down next to him, holding it out. He raised an eyebrow but filled her glass without comment, almost smiling himself when she tapped it against his own. They drank in silence for several moments before he spoke. 

“Do you know how old I was when Liam died?”

“No.” 

He laughed bitterly. “Neither do I. We didn’t exactly celebrate birthdays on Silver’s ship. As near as I can recall I was six when my father left, meaning at the time of Liam’s death I was no more than twenty.” 

“Twenty…” Emma breathed, trying to imagine it. 

“Aye. Little more than a boy. A boy with no family, no kingdom, no career. Nothing but rage. Rage and a ship and a loyal crew.” He took a deep swig of rum. “We held Liam’s funeral on the deck of the Jolly Roger. That was customary when any member of the crew died but it was particularly ceremonial in the event of a captain’s death. As the acting captain and the ship’s only remaining officer I was expected to give the eulogy. It was my duty and also of course for my brother…” his voice roughened and trailed off, taking another swallow of rum before continuing. “Before I went up on deck I sat in the captain’s quarters for a long time, thinking about what to do. The expected thing, the wise, thing, would have been to go back to the kingdom armed with the information we had gathered about dreamshade and the dishonourable intentions of the king. But I was too angry for wisdom, and certainly too angry for the delicate diplomacy that would have been required to expose the king and his plan. So, as you know, I chose piracy. I chose to seek vengeance for my brother’s death rather than justice, chose the path that would feed my anger when I should have followed the one that would allay it. All my life things had been done to me, decisions made on my behalf without my volition, from indenture to the navy, even Liam’s protectiveness was a means of control over me. When he died I was devastated, but I was also free, for the first time ever in my life, to choose my path for myself. And I made the wrong choice.” 

He drank again, his lip curled bitterly, regret and self-loathing evident in every line of his body. “All these years,” he continued, “bloody centuries, I’ve wondered about the path I didn’t take, about the honourable life I could have led if I’d made a different choice. And now,” he practically spat the words, “Now I discover that there wasn’t any other path. There was never any choice.”

Emma wanted to hug him, longed to soothe away his pain, but she knew that he was in no mood for tenderness. “Babe, what are you talking about?” she asked instead, curling her hand tightly around her glass to stop herself reaching for him. “What brought all this on?”

He turned to face her, his smile bright and brittle. “I found out today that you and I are soulmates. That’s why we had those dreams.”

Emma blinked in disbelief. “Soulmates? Really? Is that a real thing?”

Killian nodded. “Aye, that was my reaction as well. I’d heard talk of soulmate magic of course but it always seemed fantastical to me, far too tidy a thing in a universe that is essentially chaotic. But I’ve seen the evidence, Emma, and it’s undeniable. We tick every bloody box. It explains not only the dreams but also how our kiss returned your memories when there was no curse here to break. It explains the connection that has always existed between us, before we were even on the same damned side. Even when you hated me.” 

“I never hated you.” 

“Well you certainly didn’t like me very much.” 

“You were kinda gross and offensive, to be fair.” 

“Aye.” He drained his glass, refilled it, and drank again. 

“I felt that connection though, you know,” she said softly. “Something in me, my gut or whatever, kept telling me to trust you, even when I knew I shouldn’t. That’s why I left you on the beanstalk. I didn’t trust myself or my reactions to you.” 

He nodded. “And for my part I found to my considerable dismay that I had a genuine urge to help you, even if that help came at a cost to myself. For the first time in centuries I wanted to do something that wasn’t purely selfish.” He smirked wryly. “Cora nearly bloody killed me for it.” 

“Did you let me win that swordfight at Lake Nostos? I’ve always wondered.”

He smiled, and this time it was genuine. “What do you think, love?”

She smiled back. “I think for the sake of my ego I won’t press you for an answer.” He actually chuckled at that, and she risked reaching out to place her hand on his arm. “But babe, all of that is in the past,” she said earnestly. “We’re together now, and honestly those dreams, they’re what made me able to open up to you, to let you past my walls. So… that’s good, right?”

“Aye, of course it is. Being with you, winning your trust and affection, it’s the best thing that has ever happened to me. I can’t regret it, but…” 

“But what?”

“But it shouldn’t be possible. Literal centuries separate your birth from mine, love, had I lived a normal life I’d have been dead long ago. If you and I are soulmates that means somehow the gods, the fates, the… the fabric of the universe, whatever you will, it knew that I would live long enough for us to meet. And how could that be possible unless every detail of my life unfurled exactly as it did? Where was my choice, Emma? Where was my bloody free will? Was there nothing I could have done differently to forestall the awful things I did?” He emptied his glass once more but this time did not refill it, instead curling his hand into a fist on the table. “And the worst, the worst thought in my head right now is: Would I have? If I could go back, if I could choose, would I choose to forestall those deeds, to live an honourable life knowing it would mean that I never met you? And what does it say about my character if my answer is no? If I say that all my terrible acts, all the pain I caused, it was all worth it because it brought me here to you?”

“Oh, Killian.” 

“I love you Emma, so bloody much, and you have saved me, but saved me from the very thing that made it possible for you to save me. It’s— well, frankly it’s giving me a headache.” 

“That’s probably the rum.” 

“Aye.”

She leaned over the table and kissed him, first on his cheek and then when he turned to face her on his lips, softly, in comfort and support rather than passion. He sighed and stroked her cheek, resting his forehead against hers. 

“We have much to discuss, Swan,” he said. 

---

In the present once more:

Emma forced herself to stop running once she was out of the bookshop. Running drew attention. It looked suspicious. And there was nothing suspicious going on. She squeezed her hand around her car keys, feeling their sharp edges dig into her skin, painful and undeniably real. 

She’d just— forgotten she had them. That’s all. She must have decided that it wasn’t safe to leave them just sitting on her desk like that, where anyone could walk in and take them. That was it. She’d had them in her pocket and she’d just— taken them out, or something, while she was reading, and she’d been surprised because she’d forgotten about them… Yeah, that was plausible. 

...that’s a plausible excuse for grabbing me…

What? 

Killian’s voice in her head this time, so familiar but with a note of provocative flirtation she’d never heard in it before. 

Haven’t you? 

No, damn it, she thought at the voice, her voice, back again prodding at her from inside her own mind. I just met Killian like a week ago and he’s not my husband and my car keys were in my pocket the whole time. 

What else is in your pocket? 

Emma reached into her jacket and pulled out the evidence bag with its small sample of ominously sparkling grey powder. 

You’ve got to give it to him, he’ll know what to do with it. Go now. 

I can’t—

You can. You have to. Go! 

Emma turned around on feet that seemed to move without her conscious input. They carried her back into the shop, marching her straight to the desk where she held out the evidence bag to an astonished Killian, refusing to look at him or acknowledge the complicated range of emotions that flickered across his expressive face when he saw her. 

“Emma, are you all right?” God his voice was so soft and he sounded like he really cared, and—

“I’m fine.” She summoned a smile from she didn’t even know where, waving the bag at him. I just wanted to give that to you. I guess… you know what it is?”

“Aye.” He took it from her hand and placed it on the desk behind him. 

“Well.” Emma nodded. “Okay then. Bye.” 

She turned to go, but Killian caught her elbow. Her heart leapt and thundered and when his hand slid down her arm to grasp hers she swallowed a gasp and stiffened every muscle in her body to stop herself from lacing their fingers together and holding on for dear life. 

“Emma.” She wouldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t. 

“What?”

She heard him swallow, then draw an unsteady breath. “You can come back any time,” he whispered. “Your books will still be here.” 

Sparks crackled from their joined hands. Neither of them noticed. 

“Okay.” Her pounding heart was making her dizzy. “I will, I just— I have to go now.” 

“Aye.” He released her hand and she wanted to cry at the loss. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.” 

She nodded, and fled. 

---

And now the most recent time: 

When Regina returned that evening she poofed directly to the apartment where she found Killian sitting at the kitchen island, awaiting her. 

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” he said. “Or would it be good morning?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does not. Regardless of the time of day, I do hope you’ve come prepared to live up to your moniker, my Evil Queen. Because I have a plan.”