#real curmudgeon hours over here

[thefiresontheheight]

I swear to GOD I feel like the only person in the world who has read and despised the Monk and Robot novellas. Which was weird cause I loved The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet and A Closed and Common Orbit is easily in my top twelve novels ever so I know Becky Chambers can write. It’s just so fucking twee. Everyone fully agrees with solarpunk kinda sort anarcho-syndicalism-but-we-don’t-use-scary-labels-or-talk-politics and there’s literally no fucking mention of HOW they arrived at such universal consensus. Or how society manages to coordinate so fully across an entire planet/moon. Or how the transition from post-peak oil capitalism to uhhh hopepunk post scarcity happened IMMEDIATELY after all automation simply walked out of the factories! Everyone uses pebbles instead of fiat currency and it’s totally different! No one goes to half the planet because humanity and wilderness are not things that can be mixed! It’s The Dispossessed with none of Le Guin’s self reflection.

And, like, those would be dumb worldbuilding but probably forgivable if they had amazing plots. But the plots is just wandering around talking about worldbuilding! There’s nothing else TOO focus on. And worst of all the marketing and talk about it, even that quote with the images of cats that gets reblogged a whole lot on tumblr.com, is absolutely bathing in the whole “hope in fiction is praxis/the world is stressful and we all need a break” ethos I hate. I just wanna be a hater and a grouch and I’m way too cynical to go along with it.

[mojo-bro-tho]

A Paean of Old and Present Days

Edit to include word count for AO3: 11,902 (I know)

I finally committed to posting the first 2 chapters of my emmrook fic with a Warden Rook! Still undecided on how I'll want to post the formatting for cross platform and since this first chapter is long as hell, (I'm so sorry) I'll be adding only a snippet below the cut in case it doesn't pique interest. I hope any who chose to read the full thing like it though! Warning can be found in ao3 tags and will be updated as needed.

A Warden In Name

Warden life wasn’t for most people. To be fair, most people don’t become Wardens with the reservations afforded to consider that fact. Sure, Recruits were common enough outside of a Blight but most wouldn’t take the first sip once the smell crushed their resolve. Lenore was never a traditional Warden though. 

She was chalk full of technicalities, hypocrisy, and at certain times unbridled foolishness. But if you asked the charges entrusted to her, a group of 7 Recruits, what they thought of their young leader? The answers were usually nothing short of praise, even though some of the praise could be seen as backhanded. 

Lenore was never the ‘leadership’ type, she did just fine with following orders and being led so long as the reasons made sense. Unfortunately for her and those aforementioned Recruits, tonight was shaping up to be one of those fateful exceptions. Even worse for the Recruits, Lenore was more accustomed to the taste of festering responsibility and would be more than willing to drink the chalice empty. 

She stood at the top of a building at the edge of town, watching the horde swirl below. She thought back to the moment that led her here. Orders from her Commander that a large stream of darkspawn was making an advance in the Deep Roads. Every Warden stationed under him was being deployed, Recruits included. While the majority of the experienced fighters would be sent out towards the nearest entrance, where they assumed the was legion heading, some smaller teams were deployed to secure neighboring settlements on the off chance of a breach or any splinter groups who may sneak past the vanguard. There shouldn’t have been any real danger, they were here as a precaution. But then the ground started to split open.

Lenore had sensed a shift in their movements, a cluster had veered off course into some sort of unmapped pocket of the Deep Roads. Or one that had been made recently. Her tendency to lean to the paranoid did her well in this case. She and the Recruits evacuated and barricaded the area she had sensed them congregating towards. That didn’t go over well with some of the more curmudgeon villagers, but Lenore could be persuasive for her age. Those who were smart enough to heed a Warden’s warning did well to help her charges with the barricade.

Still, having less than an hour to prepare meant it left plenty to be desired. A hodgepodge of commandeered doors, building materials, broken wagons, the more easily broken down structure of some farming buildings and sheds. If she had known the ground would split on its own, she would’ve had entire buildings broken down for parts. She was initially just worried about people interfering with the area. But this was as good as it was going to get, she supposed. A breath rushed in deep through her nose, hearing in her mind the hum of the blight getting louder and louder as they descended. Those barricades weren’t going to last much longer. 

The plan in place wasn’t too complicated, it just definitely wasn’t going to work as things stood. One Recruit, the best rider, would take off to the nearest outpost with the one horse afforded to her unit to send for reinforcements. The other’s would be divided up into rotating shifts. One group to watch the area and one to guard the amassed civillains. 

One archer and a mage wouldn’t be enough to take out a frenzy that big. They’d run out of arrows and lyrium before even making a good enough dent, Cecile’s quiver was already looking light. And going into the pit as infantry was a death sentence, no matter how good of a fighter one was. It didn’t help that the only shield bearers present were herself and another Recruit. The pit was too saturated with Blight and there wouldn’t be enough room to properly swing a sword. If they wanted a chance to actually slay the horde, they’d have to break part of the wall back down and hope the trickle that came through would be slow enough for them to pick off. Mass casualties were more likely.

The good news was that darkspawn weren’t incredibly smart. They all flooded in on the south facing wall, trying with all their claws and teeth to find a way up to gnaw at the archers with their backs to the villagers guarded by their fellow Recruits in the distance. All full of life and untainted blood. She could use that to her advantage. 

Cecile, Valwyn, and Hager held varying expressions. Staring into a cesspool of disgust and carnage would do that to anyone but they still stood firm. Lenore knew that if they all lived through this, those three at least would get a taste of what her dreams were like as a Warden. That taste might be enough to empty their stomachs of the whole thing. She would not blame them. Drawing her sword from her heightened position on the Town Hall, she called out to the three below.

“Hear me, soldiers! I’m calling for a retreat! Return to the village with the others and hold your ground.”

....

Link again in case this caught your fancy!

[futurebird]

Fake baby birds.

For some reason there have been a lot of incorrect and even fake images of baby birds going around. Perhaps you saw the AI generated fake baby peacock? The baby crow is a real photo of a real young avian... but it's not a crow (Turns out this fluffy little one is a baby rail-- more info here at the "corvid research blog" which has been mad about this photo for like years. )

Over on the Fediverse (most call it 'Mastodon') there are a lot of people posting about science and nature. @ct_bergstrom@fediscience.org, Carl T. Bergstrom shared his photo of a (real) fledgling crow just a few hours out of the nest... just look:

What a little curmudgeon! Look at the too big beak and feet! The "so done with it" corvid gaze.

This bird looks like the kind of kid who spends all their time talking to whatever adults will listen about their obsession with traffic light timing. At first? It's kinda cute and a little annoying, but then it

gets really interesting because it turns out some of the light timing problems are related to graph theory---(this got way too specific... But you know the type right? Always calls you Mr. ___ or Mrs. ___ even if you tell them not to?) If you love corvids you should follow Carl T. Bergstrom over on the Fediverse. Every day there's new drama with these guys.

[adamrevi3ws]

The Batman

If any of you knew me in the 4th grade, you knew that I was INSUFFERABLE about Batman. Well, after seeing Matt Reeves’ The Batman, 4th grade Adam is back…. with a VENGEANCE.

Compared to a lot of other superhero movie directors, it feels like Matt Reeves lives and breathes Batman comics. Hell, it feels like me and him have gone on the same damn Reddit threads. The Batman is first and foremost a film focused on Batman’s detective work, which is something the fans have been begging for decades. Additionally, The Batman is directly inspired from my favorite Batman story, The Long Halloween, but also notably takes cues from stories like Zero Year, Year One, Earth One, White Knight, and others. Unlike Nolan, Reeves isn’t afraid to sprinkle in a variety of Easter eggs and cheeky references into the script. There are so many moments where he didn’t need to include an awesome reference, but damn well says “what if I did it anyways?” While Batman movies aren’t nearly as embarrassed of their roots as the MCU is, it’s nice to see a film that boldly wears its love for the comics on its sleeve.

Speaking of bold, The Batman sets itself apart from a lot of other superhero movies by taking a lot of risks. The first risk here is effort and ambition. Instead of being formulaic, cheesy, and studio-controlled, it feels like Reeves had a lot more of artistic freedom in making it. For the first 30 minutes or so, I was kind of star struck because it felt like a…real? movie instead of a superhero movie. I think I felt that because it has more of a soul behind it, due to fantastic visuals, directing, and tone. The Batman doesn’t look like a lot of superhero movies and it makes you think “damn, why DON’T superhero movies look like this?” There’s a lot of inventive use of color and lighting, which succeed where the past few Avengers movies failed in making a compelling argument for having a whole lot of orange and grey in a genre whose source material is defined by loud and popping colors. Sometimes it feels like Matt Reeves is flexing on us in some scenes, especially with shots like the upside down shot of Batman walking away from an explosion shown in the trailers, but also the entire opening sequence that feels like something from a horror movie. While I wish the rest of the movie had more parts like this, I’m still glad it was included. Finally, Matt Reeves’ biggest flex is getting mainstream audiences to sit through a three-hour movie. I can confirm that while the runtime can occasionally be felt, it really pulls it off by feeling like you’re bingewatching a great TV show instead of watching an exceedingly long movie. I think this can mainly be attributed to its noir tone. While long, the film remains consistently compelling and barely stops running once it’s hit the ground. Much of its runtime is dedicated towards Bruce, Gordon, and Selina looking through every lead in a complex case and it’s such a delight to watch. Being such a well-made film, it’s topped off with a fantastic orchestral score that’s a lot more New Hollywood than 21st century superhero schlock.

Bringing up The Batman’s detective movie tone reminds me of some online discourse from before the film came out accusing it of being just another “dark and gritty” Batman movie, which to this I say: kinda?? Yes, The Batman can be quite dark, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean it’s realistic and definitely doesn’t mean it can’t be campy and funny. It’s unbelievably over the top and the fact that so many characters take this over-the-topness on its face value leads to a lot of laughs. There’s plenty of moments that feel like they’d show up in a Burton or Schumacher movie, but feel organic rather than corny. Speaking of camp, one of the funniest characters is Colin Farrell, masked by god knows how many prosthetics as The Penguin. Instead of the curmudgeon with a top hat, monocle, and umbrella we’re used to, we get something far more akin to Paulie Walnuts from The Sopranos, yet equally ridiculous. Unlike a lot of other designated comic relief characters (looking at you, Drax the Destroyer) Farrell’s lines don’t feel out of place, he’s just being the obnoxious and oafish Mafioso you’d expect from Gotham City. For a while now I’ve believed that the only city in America that matches Gotham City’s energy is Philadelphia, and Farrell’s Penguin isn’t a Florida Man, he’s a Philly Man. While The Batman is a dark and relatively serious movie, it’s also weird and funny enough to escape the trappings of being yet another insufferably “dark, gritty, and realistic” superhero film. It allows itself to balance the dark and camp, feeling much more like a Batman film than Nolan’s movies ever did.

The creative risks are what make The Batman great, but not all of them pan out. One massive surprise was how much I didn’t enjoy Robert Pattinson’s performance as Batman despite him being one of my favorite current actors. The Batman we get in The Batman is clearly at a very early stage, hilariously inexperienced, and perpetually gloomy. He hasn’t really formed the playboy “Bruce Wayne” persona we all know and love, and instead remains this tortured loner that only knows how to speak through his fists. Very reminiscent of the character in Frank Miller’s Batman: Year One, this Beta Test Batman still trying to figure out both sides of his identity has a lot of potential but didn’t work for me in two ways. First of all, is Pattinsons’ line delivery. I don’t know if it was Pattinson’s or Reeves’ choice to do so, but for some reason Batman’s undeveloped and depressed demeanor expresses itself by straight up him whispering 90% of his dialogue. I’m a massive fan of Kevin Conroy’s voice acting as Batman in nearly every non live action iteration of the character, and while I understand this portrayal is Batman clearly in Early Access Mode, I wish Pattinson exhibited a hint of the charisma Conroy imbued in the character. Instead we get a mumblecore Batman, so awkward that it makes the romance between him and Catwoman a bit too hard to believe. I wasn’t kidding when I said he talks mostly with his fists, because there’s no way people can hear him when he’s nervously mumbling about vengeance like he’s a school shooter. Secondly, as interesting as our woefully green Batman is, anything resembling internal character development feels slept on to make room for massive plot dynamics until the film’s climax. This connects to a larger issue with the film, which is that it has a LOT to juggle, ranging from its convoluted plot to balancing a large variety of exciting characters and themes. A lot of this is surprisingly well-managed, which I attribute to its much-needed three-hour runtime. That being said, its detective-oriented plot sometimes works to its detriment, where it’ll get so engrossed in one of the nooks and crannies of its mystery that it’ll feel like they completely forgot about the overarching plot. While most of the themes are nicely explored and ironed out, its attempts to introduce some political ideas don’t always pan out. Some topics, like the very explicit awkwardness that Bruce Wayne is in the same social circles as the corrupt elites he’s trying to purge, strike hard, while others, like exploring the effectiveness of reforming the city’s corruption, just kind of sit there and feel tacked on.

Like Dune, the last movie I had absurd amounts of hype for, The Batman’s cast is stacked with premium talent, and unlike Dune, very little of them feel wasted in this movie. I already described my thoughts on Battinson and Colin Farrell and can confirm that Kravitz, Turturro, and Wright absolutely kill it playing iconic and unforgettable versions of their characters. One of the biggest highlights of the film is Batman and (not-yet commissioner) Gordon’s relationship, portraying them as genuine friends. While Nolan’s films might show Gordon and Batman as two tragic heroes from different backgrounds developing a mutual trust to save the city, Pattinson and Wright as Batman and Gordon are simply….. guys being dudes. Wright adds a lot of subtle quirks to Gordon that makes him and Batman seem more like close friends than partners at work, creating a feeling of genuine intimacy in their relationship. Speaking of intimacy, Zoe Kravitz is near-perfectly cast as Catwoman. She nails the pure cool and simmering rage of the character like no other. Even though her badass and cunning Catwoman doesn’t feel like the best romance match for Pattinson’s depressed and shy Batman (I’d actually argue the film has a love triangle with Bruce trying to choose between Gordon and Selina), their screen chemistry is great. It seems like Matt Reeves took note of the constant criticism that superhero movies are “sexless,” lacking in intimacy, sexuality, and chemistry, and took it the opposite direction. Pattinson and Kravitz look like they studied at the “Oscar Isaac school of whoring” because their onscreen chemistry was so tight that when they finally kissed someone in my theater yelled “FINALLY!” John Turturro, playing Gotham mob kingpin Carmine Falcone, is a LOT more prominent in the film than I expected, absolutely embodying the slime in Gotham’s soul that existed long before the rise of its costumed crazies. Finally, Paul Dano’s performance as The Riddler, the film’s main villain, didn’t really do it for me. It felt a bit too inconsistent and rough on the edges for me and the character’s presence over the plot felt a lot more effective than Dano actually showing up in costume. That being said, I still respect how cool and unique the creative decisions that shaped this interpretation of the character were.

Overall The Batman blows away the competition in terms of how stylistic, unafraid of the source material, and ruthlessly unique it is. It’s not perfect, but definitely my favorite superhero movie since, idk, Spider-Verse or Logan. 9 stars out of 10.

[ladyfawkes]

Eugene Appreciation Week | Day 4: Snow - A Murder of Snows

A Murder of Snows by LadyFawkes Current Word Count: 1115 Current Chapter: 1 of 5 - The Corduroy Coat Rated T for upcoming chapters Summary: Cassandra teases Eugene one too many times about his dislike for snow. Rapunzel’s since been made aware of what one main reason is but she doesn’t know many others that Eugene has yet to divulge. He gives at least 5 examples that include reasons for him to loathe these tiny ice crystals. Each story is successively worse than the previous one.

Chapter 1: The Corduroy Coat

Eugene was shuffling around the chateau in his fluffy slippers and warmest pajamas. He’d claimed the poofiest chair and fluffiest lap blanket as well as dragging the chair to the spot closest by the fireplace. He’d lost track of the amount of hot cocoa mugs he’d been sipping, but Cassandra “helpfully” reminded him by demanding to know why he was on his sixth mug of the stuff. It was snowing lightly outside. “Just because you’re the Ice Empress of Corona doesn’t mean the rest of us have to like this weather,” he snapped. “If you weren’t such a snow curmudgeon, maybe I wouldn’t have to try and razz you out of it!” Cassandra reasoned, “This weather is so rare and so fun!!” “Maybe for you,” mumbled Eugene softly, his eyes staring unseeingly into his cocoa mug. Rapunzel was outside gathering clean snow for their water supply. The three of them took turns doing this chore and Rapunzel seemed to genuinely enjoy it and for once….it was one task he was grateful to pass by whenever she volunteered to take his place. Lance, who was too chicken to even be talked into going with them, had kept his chicken-ass self back in Corona. “In Vardaros, winters are typically vastly different,” he corrected Cass. “And that’s only one place I’ve lived or traveled through that has bad weather in the winter.” Cassandra considered him….truly considered, and replied, “I see.” She meant for Eugene to pick up the conversational ball, but she was uniquely terrible at dealing with touchy-feely subjects, and this was definitely one of them for Eugene. Ah well. Best to just say it anyway…. “Do you wanna...talk...about it?” It was clunky and stilted but Eugene could tell she was nonetheless trying to be sincere. Still he was about to rebuff her when Rapunzel rejoined from the galley kitchen, saying, “I think you should, Eugene. She needs to know and she’s listening.” “Even though most of these things are total downers?” he asked softly, idly twirling the spoon in his mug. “You might be needlessly dramatic sometimes, Fitzherbert, but you rarely ever deeply discuss anything….real. Rapunzel’s right. Out with it,” Cassandra insisted.

Eugene sighed -- undramatically -- and raked a hand over his hair. “All right, well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you guys….” ~~~~~~~((O))~~~~~~~ Little Eugene had just been given a donated winter coat. That coat came the closest to actually fitting him amongst the few others he’d tried on. It was warm and had nice buttons and he liked the way the corduroy felt under his fingertips when he touched the fabric. He went outside to show Arnie and his other few friends the nice sky blue coat. Yet before Eugene could even find his buddies, however, he was stopped by the Grundersen twins. Their red hair was closest to what Eugene imagined was what crazy-angry would look like if it were a color. Just one of those twins was more than twice Eugene’s size and the pair of them had backed him into a corner of the building outside. Not again…. thought Eugene. Left with nowhere else to run, little Eugene held up his arms in front of his face and gritted his teeth repeating, “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me!!” as if it were a mantra. “Give us the coat, runt,” the meaner one ordered. From behind his arms-shielding, Eugene looked cock-eyed at this twin and said, “But why? It won’t even fit you!” Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. The twin who was talking to him had reached over the top of Eugene’s head and grabbed the back of the collar of the coat, briefly lifting Eugene right off the ground. He threw Eugene down in some wet snow and proceeded to pin him in place with some really sharp icicles. It was their latest trick -- stabbing their victims in place like specimen bugs. Eugene slid down and only barely escaped being pinned through either shoulder. This new coat took the brunt of the punishment. The quieter twin had grabbed handfuls of snow and was cruelly white-washing Eugene’s face with the slush until his face was raw, chapped, and frozen enough that he couldn’t really feel anything anymore. It seemed like an eternity, but Eugene finally managed to scramble out of their grasp, but it wasn’t without sacrificing possession of that new (to him) warm coat. Although Eugene had eventually been given a replacement, it wasn’t nearly as warm, it was ill-fitting, and he’d actually got so cold that winter, he caught his first case of pneumonia. Not only that, but the Grundersen twins tormented him and white-washed him nearly every winter's day for close to five years. It was such a "special" season. ~~~~~~~((0))~~~~~~~ Cassandra sat back and studied Eugene with renewed regard. “And this isn’t your worst story?” she asked askance. In response, Eugene raised his eyebrows and took a particularly long slurpy pull from his hot cocoa mug. “Were those Grundersens the Stabbingtons in their younger days?” she asked astutely. “Very good,” Eugene clapped sarcastically. “And yes, none other. I got sick a lot during my days at the orphanage. Most of us smaller kids did.” “Why didn’t the orphanage do anything to stop them from accosting you?” Cass all but demanded. Eugene would’ve laughed bitterly, but instead it came out as a wan half-hearted chuckle. “You really don’t understand sibling dynamics, do you? If I had told the nuns anything, the twins would’ve amped up their attacks. As long as I shut up and said nothing, they kept their attacks down to just once a day. Most of the time.” “What finally got them to stop?” Rapunzel asked quizzically. And Eugene’s face unexpectedly lit up with a delightsome conspiratorial smirk. “I finally got big enough to outrun them and eventually humiliate them in front of the others one too many times.” Cassandra snorted. “Of course,” she replied with a half-smile. Then Eugene shrugged and grinned, “But what can I say? I do have them to thank for turning me into a fighter, though. A real scrapper.” “So you said you have even worse examples?” Cass prodded. “Okay, so you really wanna know? Then you’re gonna have to agree to stick with every single story, right here and now,” Eugene insisted. “No backing out halfway through,” he said seriously. “I’m not gonna dredge

all of this up for nothing.” “Agreed,” Cassandra said easily. “You know I’ll stick around,” Rapunzel said softly, reaching out a hand to Eugene. He grabbed her hand and gave it a little squeeze before continuing….. ----------------------- P.S. Sorry this is late, I had a VERY needy cat all of a sudden, who kept interrupting me literally every 20 minutes for FOUR HOURS as I was trying to complete the first phase of this one. And then I kept falling asleep, lol. Good thing the next day is a Free Day and I can just post this in its place.... I also happen to already have ideas for each chapter. @gleamful-lanterns @kingreywrites @autumn-ravenclaw @fishskiin

[aphspain-pure]

Back to de past, right to the future [Chap. I]

Category: Fanfic. 

Pair: EngSpa, UkSpa. 

Words: 2.611.

Genre(s): drama, historical, yaoi. 

Abstract: England feels some magical disturbance in the air that morning. How could he have imagined that it was caused by his own self, but some centuries ago. 

Pirate England suddendly appears in the Modern Era. 

________________

When he opened his eyes, England could not focus well. 

It was dark and cold, but the tremendous and familiar humidity of his cabin or any of the parts of his ship was not noticeable. Nor could he feel the typical rocking of the waves of the high seas, so he deduced that, God knows why, he was not in his boat.

He scrambled to his feet and took a quick look around him in dismay. He was in complete darkness but, thanks to the patch over his left eye, he was quickly able to get used to the lack of light. Only then he did recognize the place.

This was his magic room, where since Viking occupation times he had conjured his spells and his miracles. It was cloudy, dark and penetrating as always. There was nothing out of place except for him, who couldn't bring himself to remember how in the hell he had gotten there. He did not remember even having arrived at port, even having approached Great Britain. The last thing he remembered was being on his ship, somewhere between the Caribbean and the West Indies, and he couldn't figure out how or when he ended up there.

Grunting in disagreement, with a hangover of a thousand horrors, he decided to leave the questions unanswered for later and get up, dusting himself off, ready to go out and yell at the first servant who crossed his path. He didn't know what was going on but he didn't care, at least he wouldn't think about it until he'd had his first shot of whiskey or rum and kicked a couple of arse.

Or so he thought, unhinged, until he opened his special room’s door and took a look outside.

- What the bloody hell?

 ____________________________

In another part of London, England watched the energy in the air with a puzzled countenance, noticing slight arrhythmic disturbances in the wind while enjoying his famous breakfast tea. He was in a cozy old café from his Victorian era that still stood to this day and which England cherished with pure English love and courtesy. He had decided to have breakfast there, early, to arrive with plenty of time for the world conference that day. That was why he had left the house exceptionally early, even if he usually preferred to get up at a moderate hour and take it easy on homely mornings.

He sighed. He had once been a man of action.

Maybe America was right when he accused him of being a boring old curmudgeon.

He calmly finished his cup of tea, retrieved his coat from the courteous waiter who had stripped him of it earlier –a practice which, now almost extinct in modern times, England greatly appreciated-, thanked him and left. The day was cloudy and threateningly rainy in London, as usual.

Thus, once outside, he felt again that feeling of unease that had been attacking him for some time. A spiritual unrest, as if something bad was about to happen. Deciding not to become paranoid, he called his chauffeur to take him to the boardroom right in the center of Westminster.

 __________________________

He arrived early, and the only other nations besides himself already there were Germany, Switzerland, Netherlands, and Japan. The rest would still be in their respective hotels or even, if they had decided to fly from their countries that morning, on the plane or the airport. As far as he knew, France used to prefer the latter option when meetings were held at his place, preferring to spend as little time as possible on British soil. And England could not say that it did not understand or disapprove of it; moreover, he would resort to the same when the situation was the opposite.

He walked over, respectfully greeted the three blonde nations, and calmly placed himself next to Japan. His transoceanic friend gave him a slight bow of the head. - Ohayo gosaimasu, Igirisu-san. How has the sun risen today? –he commented, in an appropriate and neutral tone.

England appreciated the chivalricism. – It isn’t being one of my best days, but I cannot complain. Anyway, good morning to you too, Japan. –And the Japanese gave him a small and short smile.

After that all went silent, and the only thing that was heard for a few minutes was the chalk of Germany hitting the blackboard as he wrote down the important points of the day. Everyone knew that the meeting would probably end as usual, with nothing clear, with the United States laughing and claiming to be a hero every few seconds, the odd country asleep, hysterical discussions between itself and France and Russia trying to make people become one with him, but Germany still insisted on trying to create a serious atmosphere. Internally, England admired and appreciated his dedication, even if it didn't get real results in the end.

Eventually the rest of the countries began to arrive one by one. The feeling of discomfort and that something was wrong did not leave the guts of the host country, anyway.

There was something strange, even dangerous, floating in the atmosphere. His sharp, mint green eyes scanned every corner trying to find the source of the discomfort, unable to find anything. He had a pleasant conversation with Luxembourg when he arrived and later he chatted with Portugal a bit, all automatically while he went over everything. Each time the air was tighter from a supernatural point of view, as if the Disaster itself was drawing closer and closer.

It wasn't until Norway appeared in his field of vision that England paid any real attention to something. 

Usually they would do nothing but greet each other from afar with a minimal movement of the head. But if Norway had stood there, in front of him, it definitely meant something.

Getting to the point, the Nordic inquired. - What the hell is happening here? –With his frankness and usual calm voice.

England, sighing, crossed his arms and furrowed his thick eyebrows.

- It's been bothering me since this morning. I don't know what the hell it can be, but it's downright disturbing. It is… like a powerful presence but at the same time cloudy. And the strangest thing of all is that it looks strangely familiar to me.

- Yeah… -the other man agreed-. It's ... certainly familiar in some way. –Then he looked around-. And every time it seems to increase that energy. You haven't used magic again while drunk, have you? –And for a moment, England looked offended. At least before recalling the hundreds of times it had actually happened, after which he quietly apologized.

Trying to hide that he was somewhat ashamed of himself, he cleared his throat and muttered that he didn't remember conjuring anything lately. That definitely upset the Norwegian's stern gesture a bit.

- So this doesn't make sense.

A moment later the Italian brothers entered and Germany called the session off. He and Norway were forced to separate, but not before sending each other glances of beware of anything and nodding in agreement.

But in these, just as Germany was about to start with the first point of the day, the main gate that led to the huge boardroom was thrown open. 

And the most incredible thing happened.

- What the hell is going on here by gad!? –The sordid growl of the new presence broke in. They all immediately turned to look there and, simply petrified, England stood up, shocked, knocking the chair over.

In front of them stood an astonishing 17th century pirate captain, dressed in his grandiose red coat, his worn flat boots, his jeweled saber, his open ruffled shirt, the typical gold ear rings, the eye patch in the eye and the so characteristic captain's hat. His voice had been sordid and commanding and his eyes exuded the amusement and danger of a true saltwater buccaneer. Someone who, at least the European countries and some former colonies, recognized immediately. He licked his lips leisurely as he began to draw his sword.

- You're already singing if you don't want to die, you louts! What does this all mean? –And pointed the sword towards the large table full of perplexed countries.

The attention fell entirely on him, in a frozen moment of time, until someone else claimed it.

- What the bloody hell are you doing here!?

Then the newcomer pirate's eyes lifted until, surprised and interested, they rested on the emitter. He looked directly at England, dressed and mature, with an uneasy and confused smile. - I should ask you the same. What is this all supposed to be? –taking great strides and dangerously dancing his saber with that deranged look of his-. You better start spitting it all out if you don't want to taste my steel, you fucking bastard.

And England, still not fully recovered from his shock, tried to articulate something to calm the hotheaded just as the door opened a second time. This time, timidly and slowly.

- Eh… Hello? I'm sorry I'm late again, I've fallen asleep again haha… -from a newcomer Spain who nervously rubbed the back of his neck with an embarrassed gesture.

This intrusion impressively attracted the pirate’s attention. 

- You... –he blurted out, lifting the eyepatch to see perfectly with both eyes, as a wolfish grin stretched the corners of his lips and he screamed in exaltation-. On guard, you bastard!

And before Spain could even react, the subject came forward like a veritable bloodthirsty beast towards him. The ancient empire, instinctively, placed his body on guard against the imminent attack, which he would have been about to receive if it had not been for the sudden cry that devastated the room:

- SLEEP!

And the body of the said pirate man fell inert to the ground. England had conjured something to make him abruptly fall asleep. The boardroom was suddenly silent.

England and Spain looked at each other in shock.

- ...What the hell?

_____________________

 When pirate England emerged from the dark abyss of unconsciousness again, it appeared to be back at its home outside London. He blinked a few times as he growled and groaned at the post-spell pain in his tormented mind. He cursed the other England, the one from the future who had had such a naughty face, and tried to regain control of his body.

It was then that he was known prisoned. His arms were tied with a thick, scratchy rope to the back of the chair he was sitting on. He raised an eyebrow for a moment, really not very impressed, and later turned his gaze straight ahead.

The familiar face of his presumed captor managed to get an idle, amused smile from his lips.

- Scared that I might bite you, darling?

Which was quickly answered by a. – Dare to even suggest such a thing and I will hang you before you can take a step. –Which brought an even bigger smile and a greater sparkle in the other's eye.

There, sitting on the sofa, Spain was holding a rare article of paper with many hyper-realistic letters and images that he seemed to be reading carefully. But England knew better. He knew as the best what face this handsome jerk made when he was really focused, and the one he made when he tried to fake it. Catching Spain in the middle of that picaresque action seemed as charming as it was amusing, and he could not but fall into the temptation to frustrate him in his attempt.

- I do not know anything about the future, but just by seeing those whore's clothes that you bring, I think I would not mind being in your humble care a little more.

A vein was marked in Spain’s forehead who, honestly, had been years, decades…! With no real dislike for England. An insincere and tight smile showed his vain attempt at impassiveness. –This I am wearing is a simple "shirt", the type of garment that is worn today for formal meetings.

- Well, what a scandal, how immoral! With that tight-fitting blouse, I could see your nipples from nautical miles away. –To which, with a new vein marked, Spain jumped just at the time that contemporary England entered the room.

He carried with him a small silver tray with two porcelain mugs of Earl Grey and a few small butter cakes. His entrance surprised the other two. Immediately, however, Spain pointed at the captive and yelled at the newcomer. – Tell this uneducated you that neither my shirt is obscene nor am I a whore, now!

That sudden demand caught England off guard, whose first thought was to look directly at the named shirt, seeing, therefore, how the white fabric hugged and made the tanned skin transparent. He swallowed hard for a moment, which his other self took advantage of to act funny.

- From the familiar treatment that you two maintain I deduce that, very and at the same time not so much to my regret, in the future the Spanish Empire and I have that kind of intimate relationship. –Whistling at the sudden sight of a red and indignant England and an angry Spain-. In the bull’s eye, isn't it?

Making that this time, yes, Spain was so frustrated that he ended up pouncing on him.

The action awakened the green in the captive's eyes, amused to the core that he had finally made the future version of his rival lose his temper. Spain fell on him, a pair of strong hands and –although not as calloused as he himself remembered- still rough from the work in the fields surrounding his neck with accumulated resentment. 

He held back a smile.

- Ahh... I see that you are both quite rusted …

And, shocking Spain (who had still been trying to hang him), he broke free from his moorings and abruptly swapped positions.

England, from outside, watched in shock and without being able to speak as, in front of his eyes, his former self turned the tables and placed himself with the force of a beast above his current EU partner. Spain had fallen backwards and his hands had been forcibly captured on his head; he writhed like a sardine as he looked badly and –almost- growled at the one who just two seconds ago had been tied to a chair. Immobilizing his body, the pirate had mounted on him, leaving him unable to actuate any movement.

Looking indiscreet and almost with little concealed grimace, England glanced in the direction of present-day Britain. - Even a bastard child who has not seen more boobs in his life than his mother's would have loosened a knot that simple. –He growled, nodding at the untied rope lying on the ground. Making disgust, this time he directed his words to Spain under his grip-. Are you grossly underestimating me or are you so old that you have forgotten what you were capable of in the past...?

The three pairs of green eyes maintained that tense look for a few long seconds in which, little by little, the pirate began to change that tension for a deeper emotion. 

Darker and more penetrating eyes as they went down through the other's tanned build.  – Although I have to admit that this body is not that of an old man, no sir ... –taking the liberty of passing a hand from Spain’s chin to his tanned chest-. It's been a while since I saw this sinful skin so closely, I presume since 1588 …

And Spain’s eyes expanded in shock, while modern England’s nearly shook in bewilderment.

The apparition of Pirate Era England had opened something that had been buried centuries ago.

[xiubaek-13]

Whiskey

Prompt: Baekhyun + “What? Does that feel good?” + “It’s only one night, we’ll just share the bed.”

Setting/AU: Bartender

Warnings: some swearing, alcohol.

Word Count: 2,077 

“Do you plan on moping at my bar all evening?” He teased as he poured you another whiskey.

You cocked your eyebrow. “And if I am?”

He chuckled, sliding your glass towards you. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m always happy to see you but you’re mood is keeping the customers away. You can stay but… maybe for the future success of my business could you move down that end?”

You looked to where he’d inclined his head, your eyes widening. “To the dark end of the bar? Real nice Baek. I’m not drunk enough to not be offended that you’re sequestering me to the area you usually reserve for curmudgeons.”

Baekhyun shrugged. “Can I convince you with free whiskey for the rest of the night?”

“And you wonder why you aren’t making big enough profits, giving away free top shelf booze…” You slid off your stool in the center of the bar and moved closer towards the dark end of the bar but you refused to place yourself at the very end, lest you admit to yourself that tonight you were in a sour mood and that you could give two shits about the other patrons. You just wanted to come and unload your troubles on your friendly neighbourhood bartender.

“I might not be a business mastermind but I’m not half bad with math and from where I’m standing the group of eight women who have been staring at my cocktail menu for the last 20 minutes while side-eyeing you are probably going to spend more money than if I charge you for the next five or six whiskeys you’ve got left in you before you need to be carried to a taxi.”

***

You enjoyed watching Baekhyun work. No matter how bad your mood was, and today it was particularly bad, he calmed you. He had a light hearted nature and the ability to talk to anyone as well as really listen to them, which is what made him an excellent bartender. He knew the bar like the back of his hand so watching him fluidly move around to pour drinks and make cocktails with flair was enthralling.

He hadn’t been wrong. The group of girls were three things – loud, annoying and in need of an endless supply of cocktails. The latter was great for Baekhyun but it was really infringing on your night because their endless cocktail orders were keeping him so busy that he barely had time to chat to you. He’d come down your end of the bar to refill your drink and check up on you but he had to keep excusing himself from any attempt at conversation every time a loud screechy voice called out Baekkieeeee! or bartenderrrrrr! and you were getting pretty close to snapping at them. You’d had a shitty week and you’d come to this particular bar to see the one person capable of lifting your spirits only for this pack of drunk wretches to steal him from you.

To top things off somehow, even at the dark end of the bar, sleazy guys still somehow found you and insisted on hitting on you. You weren’t exactly sure which part of woman sitting alone at the dark end of the bar drinking whiskey and scowling read Hi, I’d really love to engage in small talk and fake compliments, maybe a drink or two, then definitely I’ll have sex with you but no matter how many you sent off muttering about how much of a bitch you were more kept appearing.

“Ok now I need to know what you’re saying to all of the men who keep trudging up to the bar to order a failure beer.” Baekhyun’s amused voice sounded in front of you.

You looked up from your glass confused. “Failure beer?”

He grinned as be stood up straight and put of his salesperson voice. “A failure beer is something a person orders after they have tried to pick up and haven’t been successful. They present at the bar with a defeated look on their face while muttering bitterly about whoever just told them ‘thanks but no thanks’ in varying degrees of politeness. Now normally this results in more drinking and then either more failure beers or, in some cases, a success beer.”

“Well apparently the dark end of the bar is no longer curmudgeon central, it’s evidently the new place to try and pick up chicks. Even when they show zero interest in you.” You waved a hand disinterestedly in the direction of the small dance floor. “I simply told them no.”

Baekhyun rested his elbows on the bar as he watched you, a knowing smile on his face. “It had to be more than just no with the way they’ve been muttering.”

You smirked. “Each one gets a new version of no and when they try to ignore the first no it doesn’t end well for them.”  

“What? Does that feel good?” He chuckled. Right as you went to answer one of eight screeching harpies called out and he sighed. “Making money off them is nice but holy fuck are they annoying. I’ll be back as soon as I can be, you still have two free whiskeys before you’re at your usual limit.” He smiled and made his way back down the bar towards the increasingly drunk and flirty harpies.

You continued to watch as he brushed off their advances with ease, somehow not pissing them off and sure as hell not deterring them. Sure, you’d had a handful of guys try and hit on you over the course of the night but after you got rid of them they never came back whereas Baekhyun was entering into the third hour of resisting these women.

You couldn’t blame them for trying. He was incredibly attractive. He fell somewhere between boy next door handsome and bad boy you know you shouldn’t get involved with and that was alluring. The silver hair and eyeliner didn’t hurt either. There was no harm in ogling the bartender. You had no plans to make any advances on him and you were sure he had no interest in you like that.

***

“Since when do you have a second bartender?” you asked.

“He only started recently but he’s been doing really well on the slower nights so I figured I’d give him a Friday night to really test him out.” Baekhyun was leaning against the bar watching Jongin work. “He’ll be able to fend off the women and somehow still make a massive tip at the end of the night.”

You chuckled, words slurring slightly. “And how about you mister? Going home with one of those persistent women from earlier?”

“Fuck no. I was going to finally hear the end of your story but it seems, little miss drunky, that I’ll be putting you into a taxi instead.” He furrowed his brow. “I could have sworn I only gave you six drinks.”

“Oh you did. You’re forgetting the guys that hit on me. They arrive with drinks.” You grinned lopsidedly as you started to feel the alcohol really hit you. Mixing drinks was a stupid idea and you knew it but at the time you really hadn’t cared.

He ran his hands through his hair. “Of course. You idiot, mixing drinks. What was it? Vodka and whiskey?”

You nodded. “Yup!”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Alright you, let’s get you a taxi so I can send you home safely.”

You pouted. “But you haven’t heard the end of the story yet.”

A loud male voice projected over the noise of the bar. “There’s a massive storm about to hit, if you haven’t called a taxi yet you aren’t getting one until it passes.”  

You looked up at Baekhyun as he cursed under his breath. He disappeared to talk to Jongin and a security guard before coming back to you. “What was that about?” You asked.

“I had to organise for Jongin to keep the bar open with not let anyone in. Security will have discretion for if they let anyone in once the storm hits. You aren’t going to get a taxi in time so you have two choices.” You cocked your head to the side as he spoke. “Option one, you stay here and drink water for the rest of the night until the storm passes and you can get a taxi or, option two, you come upstairs – I live above the bar by the way – and hang out with me. You can still drink water but you’ll also be able to finish your story and you won’t have to scare any more of my patrons.”

For your drunk brain it was an incredibly simple choice, you wanted to finish telling the cute bartender about your shitty week. It didn’t even register with you that he was inviting you up to his place until you were being led up to his door. You ungracefully turned and, would have fallen if not for Baekhyun catching you in his arms, looked up at him and slurred. “No funny business ok?”

He laughed and turned you back around so that he could keep walking you to his door so he could unlock it. “Don’t worry about it. You are too drunk for me to be interested.”

So while the insane thunderstorm and flash flooding hit the city you sat comfortably on Baekhyun’s sofa semi-coherently telling him about your week. Lucky for you he was pretty fluent in drunk person speak so he managed to follow most of the conversation. He’d made sure to keep refilling your glass of water and gave you pain killers when you started to sober up.

At some point his gracious hospitality dawned on you and you had to break the comfortable silence that had settled between the two of you. “Thank you by the way. You could have just left me down in the bar but for some reason you took the surly drunk upstairs to listen to her problems. Clearly there’s something wrong with you but nevertheless, thank you.”

He smiled gently as you spoke. “You’re more than welcome. I’d like to think my ability to read people is still intact, the only reason I invited you up here was because you’re a semi-regular and I’m pretty sure you aren’t a serial killer or anything terrifying like that. You’re interesting. Most people who sit at the bar to drink their problems away have either relationship issues or money issues but you’re a different breed. It’s refreshing.” He tried to stifle a yawn as he spoke but it managed to escape. “Shit, sorry. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stay up and it doesn’t sound like the storm is heading anywhere anytime soon.”

Taking the hint you stood up slowly and started to collect your things. “Don’t stay up on my behalf. I’ll just head back down to the bar and wait out the storm. Thanks again for talki-”

  He grabbed your arm, silencing you, then let it go. “Don’t read into this but, you are welcome to stay if you want. I only have one bed but I promise to keep my hands to myself if you do.”

“I can sleep on the sofa, it’s no trouble really.” Truth be told you weren’t sure if you could trust your mostly sober self to keep your hands to yourself if you were sharing a bed with him. If you found him attractive when he was working you sure as hell hadn’t been prepared for how much more appealing he was up close sprawled on his sofa.

“It’s only one night, we’ll just share the bed.” He shrugged. “Plus, rainy nights are perfect for snuggling.” He grinned as he saw your resolve crumble. How could you resist when he kept making the idea of sharing a bed so enticing?

“Fine, but if I get frisky you only have yourself to blame, plying me with free alcohol.” You giggled.

He smirked at you. “You said no funny business, don’t go tempting a man if you aren’t prepared to follow through."

You started to walk towards the hallway that would inevitably lead to his bedroom and looked over your shoulder. “Who says I can’t do both?”

[searchingwardrobes]

Here it is, @ilovemesomekillianjones​ , your birthday fic! I hope your day yesterday was amazing. I also hope you love your gift. It got way more angsty than I was anticipating, but I promise it has a happy ending and there’s enough fluff in there to soften the angst.

Summary: Emma Swan knocks on his door the morning after Christmas and continues to do so off and on well past the new year. Killian Jones knows, however, that he must tread lightly, so he never knocks on hers. Until one day in May . . . Although, technically, he doesn’t knock. Loosely inspired by the song of the same name by Counting Crows.

Rating: M

Trigger warning: referenced sexual assault because Eloise IS Alice’s mother in this, and it follows canon in how it happened; also there is a mild, brief scene of domestic violence - but it’s not as bad as it sounds! There are also cute kids, mommy!Emma and daddy!Killian, and a kitten. Yes, a literal kitten.

Words: almost 7,000 (yeah the angst fest got out of hand!)

Also on Ao3 and the final installment in my Fandom Birthday Playlist

Tagging the usuals: @snowbellewells​ @kmomof4​ @xhookswenchx​ @welllpthisishappening​ @distant-rose​ @let-it-raines​ @teamhook​ @bethacaciakay​ @thislassishooked​ @thisonesatellite​ @stahlop​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @wellhellotragic​ @optomisticgirl​  @spartanguard​ @jennjenn615​ @branlovestowrite​ @shireness-says​ @hollyethecurious​ @snidgetsafan​ @delirious-latenight-laughs​ @tiganasummertree​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @profdanglaisstuff​  @winterbaby89​ @scientificapricot​ 

And it’s been a long December, and there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last.

December

“Know what they never tell you about live Christmas trees?”

Emma Swan asks her neighbor Killian Jones this with flashing eyes and a slight scowl upon her face, yet there’s also a hint of vulnerability in the pink of her cheeks and the way she nibbles her bottom lip. She’s balancing her boy Henry on her hip, and the two year old is nuzzled into her neck with bleary eyes as he sucks his thumb. It’s only six in the morning the day after Christmas, and a knock at his door is already odd enough for Killian. A frazzled Emma Swan shooting him a random question when he opens said door is enough to short circuit his brain.

She moved into his building about two months ago, right next door, and every attempt Killian has made to innocently flirt with the woman has been met with barely restrained hostility. Hell, even his attempts at being neighborly has gotten him nothing more than an eyeroll. Yet, here she is.

“Umm, I’m not sure what you’re asking . . . “

How can he possibly be his normal, eloquent self? It’s six am the bloody day after Christmas and Emma Swan has knocked on his door.

“Taking it down,” Emma huffs, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her face and adjusting her hold on Henry. “Does a Hallmark Christmas movie ever have a montage about taking a Christmas tree down? No, they don’t, because it’s depressing and irritating and when you’re done you’ve got a damn forest’s worth of pine needles on your floor.”

Killian can’t help the way his eyebrow hitches up or the half smile that tugs at his lips. “You took your tree down already? It’s only six in the morning the day after Christmas.”

“You don’t think I know that?” she snaps, and Henry lifts his head to scowl at his mother in an uncanny way before he resumes his thumb sucking and plops his head back down on her shoulder. “But I’ve got a twelve hour shift today, and I have to get Henry to the babysitter by six thirty, and the tree’s been a fire hazard for days now. So I thought I’d just go ahead and take it down. How long could it take? But now I’ve got a dead tree in the hallway, I haven’t got a damn clue what to do with it, and Henry and I haven’t even had breakfast yet!”

Emma shuffles her Croc-clad feet, her eyes flashing even more than before. Killian takes in her scrubs for the first time and frowns.

“You’ve got another shift already?”

Emma shrugs. “The ER can’t exactly close for the holidays.”

“That is true.”

“I’m just lucky I got yesterday with this little guy.” Killian’s heart warms as she presses her forehead to Henry’s. “This guy’s the reason I got a real tree in the first place. I just wanted him to have a perfect Christmas, you know?”

“I get that. I’d do just about anything for mine, too.”

“Oh shit,” Emma groans, “I forgot about your kid! Did I wake her up?”

Killian chuckles. “Don’t worry. Alice could sleep through a hurricane.”

Emma lowers her eyes, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink. “I must look crazy to you, knocking on your door so early, rambling on about a dead tree.”

“Not at all,” Killian tells her cheerily. “I’m an early riser, first of all, and second, I will gladly dispose of your tree, Ms. Swan.”

Emma meets his gaze, a smile turning up her lips. “Ms. Swan? Aren’t you a gentleman.”

Though every attempt at flirting in the past has been soundly rebuffed, he can’t resist leaning closer to her and waggling his eyebrows. “I’m always a gentleman.”

This time, thankfully, she huffs out a tiny laugh. “And you’re sure about the tree?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he vows dramatically, pressing his hand to his heart. Emma’s eye roll in reply is for once endearing.

“Do you want me to . . . like . . . um, pay you back?”

Killian waves her off. “No, that isn’t necessary. You know that park a block east?” Emma nods her head. “They do an event every year where you can drop your tree off for free to be recycled.”

Emma lets out a long sigh of relief. “You really don’t mind? I mean, I could take it later. As long as the landlord doesn’t mind a dead tree in the hall . . . “

“Nonsense, Ms. Swan. You’ll be dead on your feet after your shift, and it will be something fun to do with Alice. She’s still on holiday from school until after New Years.”

“Oh, right, well . . . “ Emma begins to shuffle her feet again, and he can tell she isn’t used to asking for or receiving help. Little does she know how much he can relate.

“Have a lovely day, Ms. Swan,” he tells her gently, knowing she isn’t quite sure how to get out of this social exchange that probably took all of her nerve to initiate to begin with.

“You too,” she says softly before turning to go. Just as she reaches the stairwell, she looks over her shoulder at him. “And next time, it’s just Emma, ok? Every time you say Ms. I feel like a kindergarten teacher.”

Killian laughs. “Emma it is, love.”

Her cheeks are a lovely pink once again before she heads down the stairs, and he can’t deny a surge of pride that it’s now from his words rather than embarrassment. He contemplates leaving her tree in the hallway where it’s propped next to her door, but their landlord Leroy can be a bit of a curmudgeon, and the last thing he wants is Emma getting grief from the man. So he retrieves it, thinking there’s no reason he and Alice can’t dispose of their own tree while they’re at it. If the apartment will be littered with pine needles soon anyway, what are a few more?

Emma wasn’t kidding when she said it had been a fire hazard for days. When Killian picks the thing up, it reminds him of Charlie Brown’s tree. So many needles fall as he hoists it, that they make a soft tinkling sound on the worn hallway carpet. It’s incredibly light, a foot shorter than he is, and has sparse branches. It can’t have been much of a tree even when new, and it makes his heart break just a tiny bit

“You’ve had a tough December, haven’t you?”

Killian says it to the tree, but he’s thinking of Emma and Henry.

January

“Do you have a toolbox I can borrow?”

Emma Swan is soaked, her hair sticking to her cheeks and her long sleeved tee leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Killian forces his gaze to remain on her face, swallowing thickly. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, so he simply nods and rushes to retrieve his toolbox from underneath the kitchen sink. Before he hands it to her, his brow creases with concern.

“Can I help you with something, Swan?”

She scowls and grabs the handle of the toolbox, but he doesn’t let go.

“Nope, just the toolbox. And I told you - it’s Emma.”

“I didn’t say Ms.”

“You’re also not letting go of the damn toolbox,” she snaps while giving the box a tug.

He relinquishes it then, lifting his hand to scratch behind his ear. “I’m quite handy if you’re in a pinch,” he tells her, but she’s already rushing back to her own door.

“I can take care of myself,” she practically shouts before she slams her door shut.

Killian chuckles as he shakes his head fondly.

“Who was that, Papa?” Alice asks from her spot at the kitchen table where she’s eating her morning oatmeal.

“An amazing woman, starfish, who lives next door.”

He never does get his toolbox back.

February

“Did you write this?”

Emma Swan is standing in his doorway holding up a book that she’s clearly checked out from the library, judging by the plastic covering and the stickers on the binding. Killian smiles fondly at the title: Tilly Joins a Pirate Crew.

“Aye, guilty as charged.”

“It’s really good,” she tells him with a genuine smile. “Henry loved it. I wish I could get you to sign it, but it’s from the library.”

“Don’t apologize. Writers are huge fans of libraries.”

Emma smiles a bit shyly, then turns the book in her hands. “It’s a series I noticed. How many are there? Henry was pointing at all these other ones shown on the back cover.” Her gaze turns soft as she imitates her two year old. “Dis one, dis one, dis one - that’s what he said. Which is two year old speak for I want to read these, too.”

“Um, yes,” Killian tells her, leaning closer to see her copy, “this shows the first three, then there’s this one, but there’s also Tilly Goes to the Moon and Tilly on Safari.”

He looks up to see Emma’s gaze on him instead of the book in her hands. She’s closer than he realized, and he can see the flecks of gold in her light green eyes.

“And your bio says you write books for adults too?”

Killian gives a wry laugh as he pulls back to put space between them. “I used to, but Alice is my only muse these days.”

Emma nods, grinning broadly, “I thought Tilly might be based on your daughter. Henry will be ecstatic the next time we run into you in the lobby when I tell him she’s the real Tilly.”

“I wouldn’t do that actually,” Killian tells her in a low voice, leaning closer once again. “My lass will adamantly inform you that she is Alice Jones, thank you very much.”

“Of course she will.” Emma’s gaze darts from his eyes to his lips. Then again, that may be just wishful thinking.

“I can get you some autographed copies if you’d like.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t -”

“Free of charge, of course.”

Emma hugs the book to her chest, and he can see her mental battle play across her face.

“For Henry?” Killian adds, and it’s the thought of her son that causes her to yield.

“Okay. I suppose that would be alright.” She lifts a hand to tuck a stray hair behind her ear and shuffles her feet. He’s come to learn that it’s a nervous habit. “Goodbye, Killian.”

“Goodbye, Emma.”

One of these days he’ll invite her in - once she no longer seems to dash from his door like a startled bird.

March

“So how many hats has Alice gone through this winter?”

Emma Swan’s voice trails off at the end, the smile vanishing from her face when she sees Eloise standing there. Killian has never been so happy to see his Swan. He practically shoves Eloise aside to get to Emma, clearing his voice loudly.

“Swan! So lovely to see you. Eloise was just leaving.” He looks pointedly at the woman.

“Yes, I suppose I’ve said all that needs to be said.”

She looks at him coldly, and he tries not to shudder. His body deflates as soon as he can no longer see her in the stairwell. He turns to Emma with a wobbly smile. She’s standing there looking confused, twisting a wool hat in her hands. It looks familiar, and Killian realizes its Alice’s. The one they couldn’t find when she left for school this morning.

“Could you . . . would you like to come in? I just made a pot of fresh coffee.”

“Sure,” Emma says, giving her head a small shake, “I have a few minutes. I found Alice’s hat on the walk outside and thought I’d run home on my break to give it to you. The temperature is supposed to drop later this afternoon.”

“That was thoughtful,” Killian says, “but you didn’t have to do that.”

Emma waves off his concern. “The hospital is only two blocks, and I wanted to enjoy a walk before the weather changes. I am so ready for spring.”

“Aren’t we all?” They both fall silent as he pours the coffee and sets out the cream and sugar. He notes how she does her coffee - sweet enough to cause a toothache. He doesn’t know why, but he files the information away.

“Three,” he tells her over the rim of his mug.

Emma cocks her head. “Pardon?”

“The answer to your question when Eloise opened the door,” he tells her, setting his mug back down. “That is the third hat I have had to buy for Alice this winter. She lost the first two I bought her.”

“I’ve got you beat then,” Emma counters smugly. “Henry is on his fifth hat.”

Killian whistles in sympathy and then chuckles. They fall silent again, but he knows the question that is coming when Emma begins to stare plaintively into her coffee.

“So, Eloise . . . “

“Alice’s mother.”

“Oh.”

Killian knows he should probably elaborate, but just Eloise being here has already made

him feel completely unsteady. He refuses to have a full blown panic attack in front of Emma. She doesn’t press him for more information, however, and they fall silent once again.

“The Pirate Politico Series,” Emma blurts out.

Killian raises one eyebrow. “Seems we’re playing some sort of word association game today.”

“The thriller series you wrote. You were a bestselling author of political thrillers.” She gestures around his modest apartment. “What are you doing living here?”

He follows her gaze around the small space, the open concept kitchen/living combo with he and Alice’s art supplies crammed in the corner, the two doors side by side that lead into their miniscule bedrooms, and on the other side, the bathroom he shares with Alice. It’s so small he’s knocked his shins on the tub more than once while trying to trim his beard or brush his teeth.

“Well,” he sighs, running a hand wearily over his face, “let’s just say I’d do anything for my daughter.”

“Meaning?” Emma presses gently before taking a sip of her coffee.

He can tell by her expression that she isn’t trying to pry, so he lets out a long breath and decides to give her part of the truth.

“That fine arts academy she goes to isn’t cheap, even the tuition for first grade, and you know as well as I what real estate costs here in the city. But my Alice is immensely talented, and I will cultivate that and encourage it no matter what it costs.”

Emma nods, a knowing smile upon her lips. “You’re preaching to the choir, Jones.”

She doesn’t get to stay long, but he cherishes every word, every glance, every blush when he innocently flirts with her. When she rises from the table and heads to the door, she turns nervously before she reaches for the doorknob. “Um, I also wanted to ask . . . or, Henry wanted to ask, if you and Alice would like to come to his birthday party this Friday night. It’s nothing much. We’re just getting together at that pizza place next door. Around six? It’ll be us, Henry’s babysitter Mary Margaret, her husband, and their little boy Leo. Leo’s in kindergarten, close to Alice’s age, so -”

“We’d love to, Swan,” Killian interrupts her with a gentle voice and an easy smile.

She lets out a breath, and he can’t believe she was so nervous offering such a sweet and innocent invitation. He wonders as he has so many times who wounded her so deeply.

“That’s great. I’m so glad - er, or that is, Henry will be so glad.”

“So will Alice,” he tells her softly.

She rewards him with a pretty blush before she closes the door behind her.

April

“Have you seen Henry? Is he here?”

Emma’s words combined with the terror in her voice and the paleness of her skin makes Killian’s heart plummet.

“No! Alice, have you seen Henry?”

She shakes her head no as she abandons the painting she was working on to race to the door. “Is Henry okay?”

“I don’t know!” Emma cries out, racing towards the stairs. Killian and Alice are right on her heels. “I collapsed after my shift, but Henry was napping too, right next to me. I woke up, and he was gone! Then I saw that I forgot to lock the door!”

“He’s only three, Swan, he can’t have gotten far.”

Killian reaches out to give her shoulder a comforting squeeze, but she barely notices. The three of them race down the three flights, calling Henry’s name. When they reach the lobby, they check behind the potted plants and the trash cans, but still no Henry. They burst outside, still calling his name, though Henry’s nowhere to be seen on the sidewalk. Emma races out into the street, angry drivers laying on their horns and swearing in her wake. Killian pulls her back to the curb, but her fists fly out, landing on his chest. A hysterical choking sound escapes her lips, but no tears come - not yet.

“I have to -”

Emma’s shout is interrupted by Alice’s voice. “He’s over here!”

The adults whirl around to see Alice by the apartment steps. They race to her, and there is Henry crouched in the open space beneath them. A tiny ball of black and white fur is curled in his lap. Emma’s tears come then as she scoops the lad up, showering his face with kisses and clutching him to her chest.

“Henry, oh God, oh God. You scared me to death! Never, ever do that again!”

She sets Henry down on the bottom step and kneels in front of him, her hands skimming over his small frame as if checking to see if he’s in one piece. Henry seems completely oblivious to his mother’s turmoil, grinning up at her as he lifts the tiny animal he’s discovered. It’s a kitten, scrawny and mewling softly. It’s mostly white with black patches, one around its right eye.

“Look what I found, Mommy!”

Emma’s trembling, her face wet with tears, and Killian can tell the words just won’t come. He kneels down next to her and reaches out for the kitten.

“Well, would you look at that,” he says, smiling at Henry.

“It’s super skinny,” Alice comments worriedly.

“Nothing a little tuna can’t fix,” Killian assures the children, “and I think we have a can upstairs.”

“Good,” Alice says with a wrinkle of her nose, “then you won’t make me eat it.”

The four of them head back inside, but at the top of the first flight of stairs, Emma grasps his arm.

“Henry can’t keep that kitten,” she whispers. “My shifts are way too long to take care of it.”

“But I work at home,” Killian points out, “and Henry can come over and play with it any time he likes.”

Emma’s brow furrows. “But that’s a lot of work and money. You’d have to get a litter box, and clean up after it, and -”

“And Alice and I will enjoy it. She’s been pestering me for a pet anyway. Everybody wins.” He raises a finger and presses it lightly to Emma’s nose. “And don’t say a word about giving me money, Emma. That’s not how things work between friends.”

Emma’s shoulders finally relax, though he can still see tension in her face, and both of her hands are clenched into fists. He knows it isn’t about the cat anyway, so he gives her space and quiet while he, Henry, and Alice feed the kitten. Emma slowly lowers herself into one of his kitchen chairs, and Killian notices that she’s trembling slightly.

“You know what?” he announces brightly to the kids. “I think what this kitten needs next is some green grass and fresh air. How about we take him to the park?”

“How do we know it’s a him?” Alice asks.

“Hmmm . . . “ Killian replies, lifting the kitten and turning it belly up. “Aye, definitely a boy.”

“But how could you tell?” Alice presses.

He colors slightly because Emma’s there, but he’s always tried to answer Alice’s questions honestly. He gives her a brief explanation of cat anatomy, hoping Emma doesn’t mind her three year old listening in.

“Oh, he has a wee wee like me!” Henry proclaims, and behind them Emma bursts out laughing.

“I’m glad this is so amusing to you, Swan.” He smiles, however, relieved to hear her laugh.

Emma shrugs. “I’ve just never seen your face so red.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Tremendously.”

They head to the park, and Emma seems more and more relaxed as they walk. They sink onto a bench side by side as Alice and Henry race to the playground equipment. The kitten is cradled in Henry’s arms, and when they reach the mulch covered play area, they set it down. The kitten takes a few tentative steps on the strange surface, but it’s only a few minutes before he’s racing around, the kids squealing and laughing at his antics.

The two of them sit quietly watching the children and the kitten. Finally, Killian looks over at Emma and says softly, “Every parent freaks out when they can’t find their child.”

“You’ve lost Alice before?”

“Aye. We were at the market. I swear I only took my eyes off her for a second, and she was gone. Well, not gone. She’d wandered over to the bakery to admire the cupcakes. Never even knew we got separated.” He chuckles now at the memory.

“How old was she?”

“Four. It felt like it took me forever to find her, but it was probably only a few minutes.”

Emma nods then lifts trembling hands to her face. “I was so afraid.”

Killian knows, somehow, there’s more going on here. “Afraid of what, love?” he asks her gently.

“Nothing.”

He doesn’t press it, and they fall silent again watching the children. They’re taking turns going down the slide with the kitten in their laps. He ponders for a minute if the kitten’s being tortured, but then decides its okay as long as they’re holding it and not sending the poor thing down by itself.

“Emma,” he finally gathers the courage to say, “I didn’t tell you the whole truth. About why Alice and I live in this neighborhood.”

Emma’s gaze snaps to his, and she narrows her eyes.

“I mean,” he clarifies, “it’s partially true. But honestly, my royalty checks from Pirate Politico alone could get us a better place. The Adventures with Tilly books are doing pretty well too, actually . . . “ he trails off. He hadn’t meant to brag about his success. He’s stalling, that’s what he’s doing. “Is this about Alice’s mother?”

He nods, blessing Emma internally for helping him out. She reaches over and rests her hand on his knee.

“She demanded a lot of money when you split?”

Killian clenches his jaw. “We were never a couple.”

He glances at Emma, but she isn’t looking at him with either scorn or pity. “A one night stand isn’t something you have to hide from me, Killian.”

He stares down at his hands. “It wasn’t that either . . . not exactly. She’d call it that, but . . . “

Emma’s hand slips from his knee to close over his fists. “Killian, you don’t have to explain.”

When he speaks, it’s scarcely above a whisper. “I want to. The only other person I’ve told is Belle, and that’s because she practically pried it out of me. She’s my brother’s widow, you see, and I . . . “ he takes in a long, shaky breath, then releases it slowly.

He leans back against the bench, watching the children play to remind himself that some things in life are still pure. Emma eases one of his hands open from the fist he’s made and laces her fingers with his. Killian stares at their intertwined fingers, and the words begin to pour out.

“It was right after my Milah passed. She was . . . everything to me. The love of my life. I was in a dark place after she was gone, but I had one last book to complete in the Pirate Politico series. My muse died right along with Milah, though, and so I was struggling. The publishers assigned me a new editor, thinking that would somehow make a difference. It was Eloise.”

As if she can sense how difficult this is, Emma squeezes his hand gently. He manages a tiny glance her way, then stares down at their hands again, running his thumb over her knuckles.

“Eloise made sexual advances regularly, even after I told her I wasn’t interested. Even after I told her it made me feel uncomfortable. Some of them even had thinly veiled threats attached, implying it would be beneficial to my career to accept her. It made no difference to me. My desire to write seemed long gone, anyway. It got to the point that I would only have contact with her online or over the phone.” Killian pauses and rubs a hand wearily over his face before he can continue. “The publishing company had a Christmas party every year. They put immense pressure on me to come that year. I had finally, somehow, finished the damn thriller, and they needed me to rub shoulders and help promote it. I remember arriving at the party, vaguely, and I remember sitting down at the bar . . . “

Killian is embarrassed when he feels as if his chest is constricting, and he struggles to take a breath. Emma rubs at his bicep with one hand, her other still clinging to his.

“You don’t have to tell me the rest.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve gotten this far. May as well get to the bitter end.” He attempts a self-deprecating chuckle, but it falls flat. “Anyway, Eloise sat down beside me at the bar. I . . . I really don’t remember anything after that. I could always hold my liquor, so I wonder . . . Anyways, next thing I know I’m waking up in her apartment in her bed. I was sick and mortified. Getting out of there is a blur.”

“Killian,” she says softly, “that’s awful. It’s . . . it’s evil. You could have gone to the police.”

Killian laughs bitterly. “And you think they would have believed me? You think they would have charged her? No, Swan.”

“But stuff like this is finally coming out, people are talking about it now. With #metoo and everything, people should know that men can be -”

“Swan, don’t say, it please. I’ve never been able to say the word out loud. Maybe I should, but -”

“No, I’m sorry,” Emma quickly tells him, “this is your story to tell. I just wanted you to know that . . . I’m . . . on your side?”

She gives him a half shrug and an apologetic look. He’s finally able to hold her gaze, knowing despite her lack of words what she’s attempting to convey. After a moment, he looks away from her, his eyes landing on Alice.

“When she showed up at my door nine months later with Alice in her arms, I knew. The moment I held her, I knew she was mine. My lawyers insisted on a paternity test, but it only confirmed what was deep in my heart.” Killian looks intently in Emma’s eyes. “Eloise never wanted to be a mother. She never wanted Alice. She only wanted -”

“Your money,” Emma finishes for him.

Killian nods, and he suddenly feels spent, exhausted. There’s more he could tell, he supposes, but he simply no longer has the energy.

“Was that why she was here back in March? To ask for more money?”

“Anything to keep her satisfied and away from Alice. I have never invited her to the apartment, though. That day, she just showed up.” He liftsEmma’s hand to his lips and brushes a kiss against her knuckles. “I was so relieved when you showed up.”

“God, Killian, I’m so sorry. You must have been terrified. I noticed you weren’t yourself that day.”

“Until my guardian angel showed up,” he tells her with a wink.

Emma rolls her eyes and laughs. It lifts the heaviness that his tale had invoked, and they both relax against the bench. Emma doesn’t release his hand, though, and it feels natural to sit here this way. After a few moments, Emma speaks without looking at him.

“Henry’s dad never wanted him, either. When I told him I was pregnant, he wanted me to get an abortion. When I said I wouldn’t, he assumed I’d give Henry up for adoption. We had a huge fight when I told Neal I was keeping him.”

“Did he hit you?”

Emma shakes her head. “No, but I’d never seen him like that. He was literally shaking with rage, but when he saw me packing my bags, he turned back into the guy I fell in love with. He begged me to stay, said we’d make it work, and like a fool I believed him.”

“You are not a fool, Emma Swan. You are bloody brilliant.”

Emma’s smile is bright. “Thanks. It was a mistake to stay, though, I see that now. After Henry was born, Neal wanted nothing to do with him. Everything - midnight feedings, diapers, baths, it all fell to me. Henry was colicky, too, and there were times that Neal would scream at me to shut him up. Again, he never hit either of us, but I was in a constant state of anxiety wondering when he would blow up at me next. I couldn’t do anything right, either. I was stupid, naive, a bitch. He called me all sorts of names.”

Killian’s jaw clenches so hard he fears he might break a tooth. Whoever this man is, he’s the idiot for not adoring Emma and Henry. A single tear tracks down Emma’s face and Killian can’t resist reaching out to wipe it away. She gives him a tremulous smile before resuming her story.

“The last straw was last October. It was the worst fight we’d ever had, and Neal was drinking. He threw a tumbler of whisky across the room, and it shattered on the wall right above Henry’s high chair. Henry started screaming, of course, and Neal stalked out. The last thing he said to me was that brat better shut it before I get back, or I’ll make you regret it. I packed Henry and I up as fast as I could and got out of there.”

“That’s why you had so few boxes when you moved in.”

Emma nods. “I didn’t even leave a note. I just left.”

“Are you afraid he’ll find you? Is that why you were so terrified when we couldn’t find Henry?”

All Emma can do is whisper, “yes” as more tears slip down her cheeks. She dashes at them angrily. “I don’t think he will. He told me a thousand times that he never wanted to be a father. He was probably relieved to find us gone, but I still worry. I still feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Killian can’t think of a thing to say, so he simply puts his arm around her and pulls her close. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she sighs against his shoulder. He rests his chin atop her head as they silently watch the kids.

The sun is getting low in the sky when the children run over to them. Alice has the kitten cradled in her arms.

“Look, Papa, he fell asleep!”

Emma and Killian lean over and smile fondly at the adorable little ball of fur. Sure enough, it’s tiny eyes are closed and its body rises and falls with even breaths.

“He needs a proper name,” Killian comments.

“Oh, we already named him,” Alice says,

“Checkers!” squeals Henry.

“Oh, I see,” Emma says, gathering Henry onto her lap, “because he’s white and black.”

“I said chess has a board like that too,” Alice pipes up, tilting her chin as if she’s so much wiser than Henry, “but it’s Henry’s kitten.”

“Well,” Killian says to his daughter with a twinkle in his eyes, “that was certainly kind of you, starfish.”

“I know,” she says.

Killian looks over at Emma and thinks how beautiful she is in the waning light. They’ve shared their deepest traumas and their deepest fears, both revolving around the children they both love more than life itself. She’s released his hand to hold Henry, but her fingers still brush his where they rest on the bench.

And they share a kitten. Maybe he’ll be knocking on Emma’s door sooner than he hoped.

May

“When are you going to ask Emma to go on a date?”

Killian almost chokes on his oatmeal at his daughter’s question. “What in the world,” he coughs, “made you think of that?”

Alice shrugs as she scoops a giant spoonful of marmalade out of the jar and plops it onto her toast. “Cuz you like her.”

“Not so much marmalade, starfish,” he admonishes in auto-dad mode, “and of course I like Emma. She’s my friend just like you’re Henry’s friend.”

“Uh-uh,” Alice argues, shaking her head. “It’s not the same kind of like. You look at Emma like this -”

Alice widens her eyes, creases her forehead, and lets her jaw drop open. Killian can’t help but laugh.

“I do not look like that!”

“Okay like this, then -”

Now Alice clenches her jaw in an uncanny imitation of her Papa, her eyes blinking and sad. Killian guffaws even louder, tears coming to his eyes. God, he loves this little girl.

“Maybe you should try out for the next school play.”

“I might,” she says brightly before taking a huge bite of her marmalade toast. With her mouth full, she says, “There’s a summer acting camp, and I -”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, starfish.”

She dutifully swallows, then continues, “I think I wanna do it. Matilda the Musical is the -”

A loud crash comes from next door, followed by loud shouting and a scream. Alice looks at her father with wide, frightened eyes.

“What’s that Papa?”

There’s another crash, another scream, and Killian jumps up from his chair. He ushers Alice quickly to her room and presses his cell phone into her palm.

“Lock yourself in your room, Alice, and call 911.”

“Yes, Papa,” she tells him, even as tears gather in her eyes.

Killian presses a kiss to her cheek before he runs from their apartment. He doesn’t even pause at Emma’s door. It isn’t locked, so he barrels inside. A man he’s never seen before has Emma by the arm, shaking her, and before Killian has time to reach them, the man shoves Emma to the floor. She cries out as her elbow collides with the coffee table.

“Hey!” Killian yells. “Get away from her!”

The man - Neal, Killian assumes - only glances over his shoulder. “This is none of your business” he snarls.

Neal reaches for Emma again, but Killian intercepts him. He grasps Emma’s ex by the front of his shirt and shoves him against the wall.

“It is my business,” he growls. “You are never to even come near her again.”

“You fucking this guy, Ems?” Neal laughs.

Killian doesn’t hesitate - he pulls his fist back and punches Neal in the face. The man

howls and doubles over, holding his bleeding nose.

“Shit, man! You can have her.”

Killian yanks him up by the back of his shirt. “My daughter called the cops, so if you want to stick around and explain all this to them, be my guest.”

Neal’s eyes widen at that, and he runs from Emma’s apartment with grumbled curses. Killian could care less about the man, however, as he rushes to Emma’s side. He helps her up and gets her settled on the couch.

“Are you okay?”

Emma presses her lips together, her face pale, but she nods her head. “Yeah, I think so.” She’s cradling her arm against herself, and she winces when she tries to move it. “Did you really call the cops?”

“Well, I told Alice to call 911 when we heard you screaming. I’m sorry if I -”

Emma raises her uninjured arm to stop his flow of words. “No, Killian, I would have done the same. Am I embarrassed? Hell yeah, and now I’ve gotta explain this to the police.” She bites at her lower lip. “But that isn’t your fault.”

“What happened?”

“He showed up at the hospital, and I could tell he was pissed. I didn’t want him causing a scene, and I was about to get off my shift anyway, so I brought him here. I called Mary Margaret to ask if Henry could stay a little later this morning.”

Emma closes her eyes, and Killian gently put his arm around her.

“I was telling you the truth, Killian, when I said he never hit me. Today was the first time he ever did that. He wanted to know why I left him. Said I humiliated him, made him look like a fool.”

“I don’t think he needs any help in that department.”

Emma is able to snort out a tiny laugh at that, but it’s followed by another wince.

“You need to get that arm looked at too, love.”

Emma turns to him, her gaze soft and warm. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

His lips curl into a smirk. “Well, you rebuffed my heroics when your pipes burst. I had to prove my chivalry somehow. Not that I don’t think you can -”

His words are cut off when Emma presses her lips to his. It’s quick and chaste, and when she pulls back, she’s the one smirking. “Has anyone ever told you you talk too much?”

He raises one eyebrow. “I beg to differ, Swan, for every time I’ve opened my door, your standing there talking a mile a minute. Peppering me with questions completely-”

She cuts him off again with her lips, this time more aggressively, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. He responds in kind, threading his fingers through her hair and swiping his tongue across the seam of her lips. She opens for him willingly, and he feels the kiss like fire rushing through his veins. He hasn’t felt his way in far too long. When they part, they rest their foreheads against one another and breathe in each other’s ragged breaths.

“The police,” is the first thing Emma says.

Killian’s brow furrows. “That’s . . . um . . . “

“Another word association game?”

They both laugh at the shared joke. Emma strokes his cheek with her hand. “Alice called 911, and I don’t want the police thinking it was about you.”

“Right,” he says, shifting away from her and scratching behind his ear.

“This isn’t the way I imagined it, you know.”

“Imagined what?”

“Your first time in my apartment.”

“Aye,” he teases, “I always imagined knocking.”

The Following December

“Know what they never tell you about live Christmas trees?”

Killian twists his head up to see Emma. He’s been wrestling with the stupid tree stand, and Emma’s smirking down at him when she’s supposed to holding the top of the tree to keep it steady.

“That it’s a bloody chore getting them into the stand?”

“No,” Emma replies cheekily, “they never tell you how hot your boyfriend will look with his butt sticking out of the bottom.”

Across the room, Alice doubles over to fake vomit. “Ugh, I’m gonna need counseling!”

“Those acting classes are really paying off aren’t they?” Killian quips. He stands, satisfied that the tree is secure, and brushes needles and bits of bark off his hands.

“Can I put the star up, Daddy?” Henry asks, reaching up with the gold tree topper in his chubby hands. He started calling Killian that a few months ago, and neither he nor Emma had the heart to stop him.

“Sure, lad,” Killian says, sweeping him up in his arms. He holds the boy steady as he sticks the star on the tip top of the tree. Emma and Alice cheer and clap, to Henry’s delight. Killian adjusts the boy in his arms as he steps back to brush a kiss first to Alice’s forehead and then to Emma’s lips.

Killian thinks about the ring in its velvet box, already wrapped in silver paper in his sock drawer. Yes, Henry can go ahead and call him “Daddy” because soon, it will be official.

It’s been a long December, and there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last. 

[kisskissbanggang]

Learning to Share

[~30min Read, ~9K Words -- Mystery Members👀 x Student!Female Reader -- Half Fluffy Plot. Half Fluffy Smut. -- Spoilers in Tags, Classmates, Snowstorms, Threesome, Jealousy, Competition, Experimentation, Impromptu Dom/Sub, Double-Penetration, Anal, Oral, Edging]

[I miss winter already. Let's cool off with something a little hot and cold.💕] 

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Frigid air bit your nose and cheeks as you crossed campus for your last lecture before winter break. Mysteriously, Professor Brown was one of the only curmudgeons insisting on holding class on the last day before vacation, but that should be easy. You just needed to survive this last morning and then it was the bus ride back to your place. Hopefully the gentle snow drifting down wouldn't get any worse.

"Hey!" You were startled as Ten caught up to you, pulling the tail of his long scarf from under the strap of his gym bag and wrapping it once more so it shielded his face from the cold. He hooked an arm into yours. "How's it going?"

"Good," you sighed, "excited to get home after class and sleep for a few days. We're only halfway through the semester but I feel like I'm dying."

"I feel you," Ten commiserated, "When are you flying out?"

"Wednesday, remember? Can you drive me to the airport?"

"Sorry, babe," Ten winced, "my Christmas plans got shuffled around so I'm leaving --" he pulled out his phone to check the time, "-- in an hour to catch my Lyft to the bus station. I'm gonna run home and pack. Just wanted to let you know."

"What?!" No fair. The two of you were originally going to sit on the couch and drink wine until neither of you could move.

"You'll be fine," he kissed your forehead, "bring a boy home to keep you warm and don't drink all the wine by yourself." Ten turned and ran to the bus stop, carefully skirting around the impromptu ice rink that had formed in the campus square. You sighed, trudging your way to class. With your plans for the next couple of days dashed, what were you going to do with your time until you had to fly home?

You scanned the lecture hall, hoping to see if anyone had saved you your usual seat. Thankfully, Doyoung waved you over, pulling your chair out for you as you set your bag down.

"Are you alright?" He asked, concern painting his face. He grabbed your empty mug off the table and poured you some hot brew from his thermos. "You look miserable."

"I'm just so ready for winter break." You gratefully took your mug back, immediately taking a swig and feeling a little rejuvenated. "When are you heading out of town?"

"I'm not. My family lives just outside the city, remember?"

"Oh, god, you're right." You pinched the bridge of your nose in exasperation. "Sorry. I'm more out of it than I thought."

"You could really use a break, huh?"

"Certainly. I was looking forward to hanging out with my roommate for the next couple days, but he's already on his way out of town. I guess I'll have to decompress alone."

Doyoung perked up. "Want some company?"

You blushed at the offer, but were interrupted as your professor finally showed up. Doyoung seemed oddly eager to hang out. Was he asking you out on a date? Probably not. For all you knew, he could've just been pumped to hang out outside of school. You made a mental note to ask Doyoung what he meant once you reached a break in class.

❄️💙❄️💙❄️💙❄️💙❄️💙❄️💙❄️💙❄️

The chance never came. You were suddenly shaken partway through class, Doyoung's elbow sharply jabbing you in the arm to surreptitiously wake you. You'd fallen asleep? Winter break really couldn't come sooner.

"Wh-? Whuzzat--" You quietly slurred as you blinked into consciousness. Doyoung grabbed your notebook and scrawled a note in the margins before sliding it back over to you.

I can't believe this. Group project. Due during break.

You bolted upright in your seat. A group project? Seriously?

"... You will be forming independent, but related, theses based around a central subject, one that your group has chosen from the material we've covered so far," Professor Brown droned, "and what makes this a group project is that your theses will not just be related, but will also be informed by each other. Communication is key, after all. You will be taking the conclusions and opinions of your colleagues into careful consideration and incorporating them into your work. This will be short: ten pages each. However, I will also be seeing if your papers can be read in conjunction with one another, as well as independently. Now, go on. Pick a partner over our ten minute break and make sure you come up here and let me know who is with whom."

The class scrambled, but you and Doyoung stayed put. You had worked together on nearly every project you'd had in any course you'd taken together. Though you wanted to take your extra time to ask about Doyoung's intentions, you knew it'd be a better use of the ten minutes to discuss subjects now rather than later. A line had formed at the podium at the front of the lecture hall, everyone scribbling their paired names on a list for him to confer with later. You sat tight, waiting for the line to die down.

"Now, class, as we settle back into our seats," Professor Brown said as the line of students rushed, "I want us to remember the importance of keeping an open mind during a project like this, where we may come across stark differenc--"

The professor was interrupted by the back door of the lecture hall opening in the hush of the room. Into the hall spilled Yuta, a classmate so rarely seen it was easy to forget he was even in this course. He slung his gym bag over his shoulder, panting and out of breath as he tried to sneak into a back row seat.

"Mr. Nakamoto, it's a pleasure to see you in class," Professor Brown boomed so the whole class would notice, "you'll see that we've paired up for a project over our winter break. Seeing as the project can't be done alone, I will pair you up with..."

Everyone shrank in their chairs as Professor Brown scanned the room. Yuta was a more than capable student, but notorious for skipping class for practice and clubs and meetings and doing the bare minimum to get enough credit to keep up. There was no way he'd kept track of all the material from the semester so far, so surely anyone teamed up with him would have to drag him along. You nearly crawled under the desk when Professor Brown's eyes settled on you and Doyoung.

"You'll need some smart partners, so we'll stick you with a couple of over-acheivers. Doyoung, you two will be partnered with Yuta. Now, let's take some time to brainstorm."

Before any of you could protest, the click of Professor Brown's pen interrupted like a gunshot before he himself wrote all three of your names together on the list of pairs.

Yuta stood, wide-eyed and stunned in place for a second before sighing and heading your way. You clutched onto Doyoung's arm in a death grip.

"Save me," you demanded in a harsh whisper.

"Save me," Doyoung growled back, "this project sucks enough just the two of us. This is a nightmare."

Yuta made his way down your aisle in the shuffle of everyone sitting with their partners.

"Not just that."

"Wait," Doyoung noted, "what?"

"Yuta asked me out at the beginning of the semester, we went on one date, he got conveniently busy as always, and then never called again." You buried your head in Doyoung's arm, refusing to believe any of this was happening.

"He WHAT?!" The exclamation was jarring enough that everyone around you took a glance. Your nails dug into Doyoung's arm. There was an edge to his bewildered look. "That guy? What?! How did I never hear--"

You cut off his intense whisper and yanked him back down to you. "Jesus Christ, Doyoung, I'm sorry I never said anything; I know we're friends but it was never an issue since he's never here." You were babbling, trying to get all this mess out before Yuta was actually here and adding to it.

"Uhm, hello," Yuta awkwardly greeted with a small wave, "I guess we're partners. Mind if I sit down?"

You and Doyoung rapidly pulled away from each other, looking as cool and collected as possible from your recent revelation. Yuta gave you a small, shy smile as he pulled up a chair. The rest of class was torture, just coming up with any idea of what to do and turning down every possibility.

"We're overthinking this," you stated ten minutes or so later, pressing your hands down hard on the table. "This won't take us all week to figure out but we will have to at least use today. Should we go to the library after class?"

"Can't," Doyoung said, shaking his head, "they're switching to winter break hours today."

"Student cafe?"

"Same."

"How about one of your places?" Yuta asked. Doyoung gave him a skeptical glance. "We can't go to my apartment," he continued sheepishly, "we won't get any work done with my roommates around."

"Not my place, either," Doyoung sighed, "My roommate's back at the dorm by now and it's been a giant mess since midterms."

Both men looked at you now. Ten's words echoed in your head.

Bring a boy home to keep you warm and don't drink all the wine by yourself.

Well, this probably wasn't what Ten meant, but the sentiment made a fair enough point.

"My place is free. When can you all make it?"

"I have some stuff to tend to real quick after this but I can be over right after," Doyoung offered eagerly.

Yuta checked the time on his phone. "I have a quick meeting after class but I can come right away when that's done. I still have your phone number," he offered with a small smile, "How about I'll text you when I'm ready to come over?"

"It's a good thing we're not asking you to call," Doyoung laughed to himself, ignoring you as you stared daggers into him. Yuta shot him an equally sharp look, his tongue poking at his cheek as he tried to figure out just what the hell Doyoung was getting at.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

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To your horror, you received a text from both Doyoung and Yuta within seconds of each other. Based on both, you had roughly fifteen minutes to make it look like you lived in relatively civilized conditions. If you were lucky, the fat snowflakes landing on the ground would keep them from showing up too soon. Much to your dismay, the gentle wisps of frost from earlier were giving way to a bit more aggressive tactics.

You had been too preoccupied wondering what Doyoung was up to instead of cleaning. He seemed so oddly bitter towards Yuta. Surely, this must've meant he liked you as more than a study buddy, since his behavior more resembled that of a jilted lover than that of a protective friend, but how could you even broach that subject with Yuta around? And, for that matter, Yuta still had your number? How come he never called? Or even texted?

When it came to your lovely mess of a home, you'd really lucked out. At the beginning of his sophomore year, Ten had been given the opportunity to rent his grandparents' modest starter home -- only a convenient distance from the campus -- on the condition he find a roommate soon after he moved in. Thankfully, you'd already become fast friends and moved in right away once the invitation was presented. No more dorm, no more R.A. looming down the hall, no more dining plan. Having already lived here for a year, though, it was tiresome learning how to care for a house. Thus, the slight mess that had settled in once winter came.

You sprinted around the living room, picking up clothes and throwing them in the laundry room, grabbing errant dishes and throwing them in the dishwasher. You cranked up the space heater to a level only utilized for when guests were over, and quickly passed over the hardwood in the living room with a broom. It wasn't the best, but it was better. Glancing out the front window to the darkening grey skies outside, you were amused to find that Yuta's Uber arrived right as Doyoung finished walking the couple blocks from the bus stop. They paused upon meeting each other at the end of the driveway, a silent standoff before they speedwalked a spontaneous race to the porch, mindful of the icy slush on the ground. A simultaneous knock and doorbell chime sounded just as you reached for the knob and you took a deep, calming breath in vain to appear more casual as you opened the door.

Once you had all settled into the living room, crowded on the floor around the coffee table as you worked, the tension began to die down a little. Really, the paper wasn't a huge deal. Everyone was just understandably heightened from the annoyance of having to do group work over the break. Despite the collaboration needed, once you all calmed down it was easier to wrap your heads around some ideas. At least, you thought it was.

"Look," Yuta said, interrupting your momentary silence, "am I allowed to say Doyoung's idea makes no sense to me?"

"I'm right here," Doyoung deadpanned, raising his eyebrows as he peered over his glasses, "and my concept is just fine. Isn't it?" He looked to you, barely waiting for an answer before continuing. "We already started, and I'm pretty sure you don't really get a say in what we do since you barely come to class. I'm not sure how, or even if, you're passing, but I want no part in it for my grades."

"Okay, fine," Yuta conceded weakly, "I was just blowing off steam. You don't--"

"A simple 'sorry' and 'thank you' would suffice."

"Uh," Yuta stared, slack-jawed, eyes darting between Doyoung's hard gaze and your own bewildered expression, "I'm sorry for taking my stress out on you. Thanks for your efforts and ideas."

"You're welcome." Doyoung wasn't even regarding him anymore, still tapping on his laptop like this wasn't some bizarre power play you both just witnessed. You awkwardly snuggled into your hoodie, burying your nose into the plush fabric and distracting Doyoung across the table.

"Cold? I can turn up the heat," Doyoung offered.

"Oh, thank you," you smiled sheepishly, "but the heater is already up as high as it'll go. Just cold outside and the insulation on the house needs replacing."

Yuta thumbed behind him at the quaint wood stove in the corner of the room. "I'm surprised you use a heater at all. What about a fire?"

"Uh," you gave an embarrassed chuckle, "it's not exactly my forte. Not Ten's, either. This is just easier and more convenient."

"That's crazy! Do you have a woodpile in the yard?" Yuta made a move to sit up on his heels. Doyoung shot a quick look his way, gauging him.

"I think so? I think I saw one behind the shed a few months ago."

"No problem," Yuta smiled, "I'll go get some and be right back."

"Oh!" Doyoung sprang to his haunches as well, "Let me help you."

"What? Don't worry about it; it's no problem," Yuta smiled, his sweet voice mocking, "I'd hate for you to ruin your nice boots in the snow."

Doyoung sat back down, scowling and a little wounded as Yuta grabbed his shoes from the front door. His beat-up hiking boots had been sat next to Doyoung's vintage Redwings, previously mint condition before today's trial by fire. Yuta loosely slipped on the boots by the back door and threw on his coat before valiantly marching outside to investigate.

It wasn't like Yuta was wrong. He was a bit more rugged whereas Doyoung was a little more prim. Yuta seemed to live and breathe in sweats and jeans and flannel and hoodies -- an actual sporty type who liked to fill his spare time with bike rides through the woods or camping at the river during the summer. He even smelled nice and woodsy. During your one date you recalled he smelled like musk and pine needles and even coffee. Doyoung, on the other hand, had a modest collection of handsome bags that paired well with his sleek capsule wardrobe made up of soft neutrals and smooth textiles. You always liked his somewhat floral cologne that reminded you of stores you were both too broke to shop at. Mysteriously, you hooked on how he also happened to smell like coffee.

Doyoung chewed on his lip as he flipped through his notes in his notebook and on his laptop. He slipped his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry, by the way, for acting weird. I'm sure it's obvious that I feel some way about you and I should've said something forever ago." You froze, perked up at his brazen admission. So you weren't going crazy, after all. "I hate to admit I'm a little jealous," Doyoung continued shyly, "but, I mean, he's gorgeous and nice."

You leaned forward, giving his hand on the table a reassuring squeeze. "Hey, I'm just glad you told me. We'll figure this out after this whole mess of a project, okay? We can go to that cafe I like." Doyoung gave you a small smile, interrupted as Yuta kicked the backdoor in, his arms piled high with firewood and kindling.

"Thank god this stuff was covered, or we'd really be up shit creek," he laughed boisterously as he kicked his boots off and nudged the door closed. He padded into the living room and gently dropped the pile by the wood stove. "So, if I'm correct in assuming this wood pile is ancient, am I also correct in assuming you have no idea how to light a fire?" You blushed, eagerly kneeling up to join him. Doyoung rolled his eyes. He mumbled an excuse to go use the bathroom.

You suddenly found yourself alone with Yuta for the first time in months. He shrugged off his coat and quickly hung it back up by the front door and returned, dropping to a squat next to the wood stove. He checked to make sure the flume was clear, showed you how to arrange the wood over the kindling, and handed you a match to light. You clapped triumphantly as the fire crackled to life. Yuta offered you a high five and you couldn't stifle your giggle as you accepted. The touch lingered. Your cheeks warmed as Yuta gently held your hand. "I'm so sorry, by the way," he said meekly, "for never calling. I just got so busy and then I was just super embarrassed and I was positive you wanted nothing to do with me. Every few days I thought about your number in my phone and considered at least just texting you. Sorry for being a giant wuss."

"No!" You quickly countered, squeezing his hand, "No, no, no, I understand. I'd probably feel the same if I were you."

Yuta gave you the warmest smile, his hand squeezing back at yours and quickly releasing as Doyoung walked back from the bathroom. He looked concerned. "Have you seen outside?"

Getting up, you and Yuta both joined Doyoung as he opened the front curtain. Sheets of snow were drifting across the lawn and street beyond, piling up and glistening. The slush on the sidewalk and driveway had completely snowed over and more by now.

"Oh, shit," Yuta mumbled, "how am I going to get home now?"

"Do you have basic channels?" Doyoung asked, pointing at the cute little TV in the room. "We can see if there's a weather report so we can get a better idea of what's available."

You nodded quickly, grabbing the remote and flipping on the television. Just as you found the news confirming that, indeed, tomorrow's snow drift was early and stronger than predicted, a buzz sounded throughout the house. The electronics surged before suddenly dying out with a crackle. The three of you stood, looking at each other in the growing dim of the living room as the stormy sky outside grew darker.

It was as good a time as any to break out the wine, you figured. The boys watched curiously as you opened the fridge and pulled out your two boxes of wine. You set one on the counter, then clicked open the kitchen window to toss the other box into a pile of snow in the backyard to keep cool. Twisting off the cap, you nearly drank straight from the box when you noticed Doyoung and Yuta staring. Sighing, you grabbed three cups from the cupboard and poured one for each of you. The boys got the hint and came forward. You clinked your cups and each took a sip of the cheap wine.

"Generator?" Yuta asked optimistically. You shook your head.

"Am I imposing if I ask to crash on the couch tonight?" Doyoung sighed, grimacing at the sour aftertaste. Again, you shook your head.

"If anything I assumed you'd both already figured you should hunker down here for the night," you mumbled, "and the stove is now the hottest thing in the house. We'll all camp in the living room."

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Thankfully, with a gas stove in the kitchen, dinner was easy enough to scrap together with the help of some candles and a headlamp Yuta had found out in the shed during his expedition. The mood was kept light enough, the boys even managing to warm up to each other some, and conditions were kept civilized as the water was still running for the time being. However, things still felt tense. You'd settled for sitting in the exact middle of Yuta and Doyoung, finding that if you sat a centimeter closer to either of them where you were all bundled up in front of the fire, they attempted to scoot closer to you.

The box of wine felt suspiciously light as you noticed Doyoung shiver. "Got any extra blankets?"

"Yeah," you nodded, "in the hall closet. Want me to go get them?"

"No, no," Doyoung shook his head with a smile, "I'm sure I'll find my way." He switched on his phone's flashlight and ventured down the hall. You turned back, gasping into a laugh as you noticed Yuta had silently slid up next to you. You hushed yourself, trying not to giggle at his sudden proximity. It was, admittedly, really nice to hang out again, even under these circumstances.

"This is going to sound crazy," Yuta whispered, "but would you go out with me again? Give me another chance?"

"What? Of course," you found yourself whispering, blushing from the wine and his face so close to yours, "I've just been waiting for you to ask." Yuta smiled, his sweet grin making you smitten and eager as he leaned close, his lips nearly brushing yours as Doyoung stumbled back into the living room empty-handed. You fell back in surprise, craning your neck to see him in the dark.

"Alright," Doyoung laughed, "I'm less capable than I thought."

"It's okay! I'll grab them." You rolled and got up, feeling your way down the hall. You wrenched open the difficult door of the hall closet and grabbed all the blankets you could get ahold of, as well as some extra pillows from yours and Ten's rooms. Softly, you padded back down the hallway but stopped short, listening in on a hushed conversation happening in the living room.

"Yuta, just knock it off already, you had your chance."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's my turn."

"Turn?! What is this, grade school?"

"Oh, shut up. You hardly know her, anyhow."

"And you do? I thought this was your first time here, too."

"What does that prove? We help each other with assignments, we talk, we eat together. Plenty more than you can say."

"And I want to do all those things with her, you tool."

"And more?"

"Jesus, don't make me sound like the bad guy when you clearly want that, too."

You gracefully waltzed back into the living room, your mountain of blankets in hand and appearing to be none the wiser -- even ignoring that Doyoung and Yuta would be sitting hip to hip in their fervor if it weren't for the box of wine separating them. The duo immediately shut up and rose to their feet. Yuta grumbled something about finding the extra wine before making his way into the kitchen and stepping into his boots by the back door. Doyoung tossed another log on the fire before helping you with the blankets.

"Watch out for this guy," Doyoung spoke quietly, "I think he's up to something."

"Up to something? What is this, Doyoung, True Crime Stories?"

"Want it to be?" Doyoung deadpanned, and you did your best to hide the shiver that ran down your spine as you set up a little blanket nest in front of the couch. You'd be hard pressed to deny you didn't like this dark edge to how Doyoung spoke to you. For as goofy and neurotic as he could be, you knew there was something to him that he didn't quite advertise. Maybe this sudden possessiveness was connected to that. Doyoung reached for you. It was barely even a reach, his fingertips daring to brush your hip and instantly retracting once Yuta shambled in through the back door, switching the wine from hand to hand to clap the snow off his shoulders and shucking his boots off.

It took a few tries of various pleas, cups of wine, appeals, and ego stroking to get the two men to calm down enough to focus their energy on hanging out with you rather than competing with each other. Eventually, you were all settled in a cuddle pile on the plush carpet, cheeks rosy and everyone a little more jolly as you hung out. You actually gave Doyoung a chance to enjoy hanging out with you outside of school. You found out that you had both belonged to the same film society but during different years, and now you both considered returning again. Yuta was thoroughly engaged while you actually got to know each other. You made a plan to go hiking together as long you also got to check out your favorite museum together some time. The boys nearly died when they realized they were wearing the same jeans -- Yuta's having been thrifted downtown years ago and Doyoung's bought in perfect condition from an online reseller. In the dead of the night with the snow whistling outside, you finally started to feel drowsy. Your head rested on Yuta's shoulder, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath while you stroked Doyoung's hair, who had curled up to lay his head on your lap. You were surrounded with the smell of pine and flowers and coffee, with two spare heartbeats lulling you to sleep.

You barely dozed off just as Yuta woke himself up with a soft snore. You glanced up, sharing a quiet laugh and locking eyes. It was only a moment. He took your fingers in his, thumbing the back of your hand as his gaze fell on your lips. You gave him the smallest nod and his lips were on yours, gentle and soft and warm. His scent tickled your nose in the heat of the living room, cranked up in intensity with each breath you took of him. You nearly forgot Doyoung in your lap as Yuta's hand slid up your arm to stroke the pad of his thumb across your cheek. He kissed you again, smiling contently as you gladly sighed into him. In fact, you were so caught up in the moment that you hadn't felt Doyoung's arm around your waist until you turned back to catch him catching you.

"Having fun without me?" Doyoung asked plainly, raising his eyebrows in unamused assumption.

"Doyoung," you gasped, only amplified as his charged silence. He made brief eye contact with Yuta, and then you, before his lips found yours as well. It was only a moment before he sat back. The three of you sat, stunned in the series of events that just transpired. What possibilities were even available now? Any consideration you'd been making towards either of them just multiplied in complexity and now all three of you waited in excruciating silence. Doyoung and Yuta shared an intense stare-down. Really, you barely had to be there. They each clutched one of your hands and you wondered if they’d be tempted to try and grab you for their own like a game of tug-of-war. This had to be settled.

In an impulsive decision, you looked to each of them before pressing a quick kiss to Doyoung’s lips. A proud smirk graced his face as you turned to face a confused and somewhat hurt Yuta, only made more confused as you placed a quick kiss on his lips as well. You turned back to Doyoung. His pride had turned into the same look of confusion. “I like both of you,” you said simply, “so either we’ll have to make some tough decisions or learn to share.”

The boys looked to each other again, nodding in mutually bewildered acceptance of the situation before they both lunged into you. You gasped at the combined sensation, Yuta’s hot and eager lips peppering one side of your neck with nips and pecks as Doyoung’s lips lingered on the other side, methodical and patient. Their hands traveled up and down your body, Yuta searching and Doyoung wandering. Any time either of them happened to catch a kiss from you, the other instantly noticed and wanted one as well. Yuta's hand slid across your tummy as his arms went to wrap around your waist, but Doyoung batted him away. Despite your request, not much sharing was coming too easily.

You spun and scooted away from the boys on the floor, facing them as they still crowded the space you had just been occupying. "If we can't do this," you spelled out calmly, "then we won't." Doyoung returned Yuta's silent plea with contemptuous acceptance. He offered a hand to you to let you come near again. You hesitantly accepted, curious to see what his plan was. You were surprised as he led you into Yuta's arms. Was he giving up?

"Yuta," Doyoung said quietly, firmly, "I want to see you kiss her. Let me see if you're as good at pleasing her as I'm going to be."

You observed, wildly intrigued at what Yuta would do. His tongue poked at the inside of his cheek, cocking his head just the slightest bit in his threatened pride. He made his move. Yuta pulled you onto his lap, his strong hands running up your back and pulling you close. He gave you the smallest moment of hesitation before his lips grazed yours -- just the smallest moment needed to fill you with adrenaline and make you gasp. Unlike before, his kiss was needy, but also leading. Your tongues barely had a chance to mingle when you caught Doyoung's gaze out of the corner of your eye. He had risen to sit back on his heels, watching intently, his long fingers resting on the growing bulge in his jeans. You were suddenly made aware of Yuta's own stiff erection pressed up under you.

Yuta tensed in his kiss as Doyoung slid -- prowled -- closer, his fingertips brushing your hair back over your shoulder and making you shiver. Whatever power inside Yuta that allowed him to be simply wary of Doyoung rather than intimidated was impressive, as he cautiously didn't stop kissing you, even as his grip around you tightened just the smallest bit. Almost like he was afraid to lose you. Doyoung gently guided your head back and away from Yuta, smirking at your shaky breath.

"Is he good?" His simple question was directed at you. You didn't even take your eyes off Yuta's as you nodded breathlessly, awaiting Doyoung's next move. "Good. Let's see what else he's good at."

Doyoung's cool hands surprised you as they slipped under your sweater. Yuta backed his hands off of you, patiently and carefully waiting. Your sweater was lifted up over your breasts, the skin there instantly raising in goosebumps. You moaned softly as Doyoung's fingers thumbed over your raised nipples and you couldn't stifle your small smile as you noticed both boys perk up at the noise. Yuta took the hint and leaned down just enough to tentatively run his tongue over the sensitive nub. Doyoung gently pulled you back against his chest, sitting back and nuzzling your neck as Yuta sweetly licked and sucked on your nipples. He followed you forward, now leaning over you between your legs and alternating between your breasts to give them equal attention. Doyoung's fingers walked down your belly, letting you get a good view as he dipped below the waistband of your jeans.

"Does that feel good?" Yuta asked. His tone suggested enthusiasm, but his wary gaze suggested a fog of jealousy still drifting through him. You hesitated, your heart racing while you nearly forgot to breathe.

"Answer him, baby." Doyoung was confident, challenging you to pick a favorite as his lips grazed your ear.

"You're both driving me crazy," you breathed, your head swimming as both boys sank their teeth into you in teasing retaliation, Doyoung in your neck and Yuta in your breast. You observed as Doyoung's free hand snaked around into Yuta's hair. He froze, tense and on edge but his lips still on your chest. Doyoung firmly, gently tugged Yuta off of you, smirking at his grunt and signaling him to stay still as he began to unbuckle your belt. He slid your jeans down your chilly thighs, his hands caressing you as he pushed the denim down your legs, your panties following right behind. Yuta watched intently until the hand in his hair returned and led him down to your heat. You were still surprised at how cooperative Yuta was being as his warm lips ghosted over the soft lips of your pussy. Doyoung's hands returned to your breasts as Yuta finally ran his tongue over your clit, tentatively sampling you before diving in and devouring you. You erupted into moans, already too turned on by the entire situation. Doyoung rolled your nipples in his slim fingers, pulling you back to kiss you and whisper playful teases at you.

"Is he good, baby?"

"He's so good," you whimpered, earning a groan out of Yuta between your legs.

"Do you want more?"

"Yes, please, Doyoung, I need more."

Doyoung smiled graciously against your lips as he tugged on Yuta's hair again. "You heard the boss, Yuta. She wants more. I say we get you to lay down and she can take a ride. Sound good?" Yuta nodded, probably looking just as lust-drunk as you as Doyoung eased out from behind you. He pulled Yuta up close to him, first running a finger through the slick that had coated his chin and feeding it back to him. Yuta made cautious eye contact, carefully sucking the juices off of the offered digit and closing his eyes with a thick groan as Doyoung leaned in to lick more off his face. "What do you say?" Doyoung asked, firmly cradling Yuta's chin. "Doesn't she deserve to ride your face?" Yuta nodded gratefully towards both of you, practically entranced as he reclined to lay back on the rug.

Both boys looked on, admiring as you slipped off your sweater and let it fall to the floor, all the layers underneath quickly following behind along with the jeans you finally kicked all the way off. You made a show of releasing Yuta's straining cock from his jeans first, earning a choked groan out of him before you climbed up and let out your own breathy moan as you eased down onto his eager tongue. You pulled Doyoung closer and held onto him for support as you straddled Yuta's face with your trembling thighs. Tentatively, you let your hand grip around Yuta's firm cock, causing him to take the slightest pause at the sensation. You pumped his length in your hand as you gained more confidence, letting your hips rock back and forth on the tongue massaging your clit. Doyoung absently massaged your breasts, more consumed with watching you. Both sources of attention went straight to your head, making you dizzy with arousal. You were interrupted with Doyoung's snarl in your ear as he noticed Yuta's moans underneath you grow more earnest. Suddenly, his hand was on yours on Yuta's cock, gently peeling your fingers away. He took the stiff erection into his hand, making Yuta jerk and exclaim from under you. You lifted just enough so Yuta could regard Doyoung.

"What are you doing?" The quiver in his voice wasn't accusatory. Yuta may as well have been asking for directions. His voice slurred, thick with arousal.

"You're getting a little carried away," Doyoung soothed with a tone more fitting for comforting a child, "Don't you think she gets to cum first?" Yuta whined, but he nodded enough for you both to notice. "Let her cum first," he continued, "and then we'll take care of you." Doyoung took the small moan falling from your lips as a sign that Yuta had continued licking and shared a satisfied smirk with you. His hand remained firm on Yuta's cock, and the sight alone was helping your orgasm build. Doyoung sweetly swept your hair back over your shoulder as your breathing grew more ragged, the climax quickly becoming inevitable. Both boys shuddered as your body contracted, your muscles clenching in waves as your light-headedness hit its peak. You slumped forward, hoping to escape from Yuta's persistent tongue, but you were met with Doyoung's warm hand pushing back down on your thigh. His slender fingers traveled down to Yuta's hips, working at his jeans to push them down to his knees.

"You're making a mess. You better keep going," Doyoung slyly ordered, "if you stop before I say so then you won't get to cum." His hand had begun pumping at the hard cock in his grip, slowly but consistently traveling up and down the whole length. Yuta hesitated beneath you, but quickly clamped his hands down over your thighs as well to hold you in place. You cried out, the overstimulation seeming to prolong the passed orgasm. Doyoung's smirk persisted, and you both loathed and loved the feeling it gave you, the rush it filled you with. Yuta could hardly keep up, stopping regularly to let out a pained moan from his delayed orgasm and giving you a welcome reprieve.

Soon, you were both begging Doyoung to call it off. Only when you both sounded close to tears did he seem to be satisfied. You gratefully collapsed off of Yuta, spilling onto the rug next to him as you tried to catch your breath. Yuta, however, did not get off that easily -- literally. His fists balled up to his sides, he could only grit his teeth as Doyoung kept his tantalizingly slow pace. He struggled to keep from thrusting into the fist around his cock. "Please, Doyoung," Yuta breathed, his eyes squeezed tight as he pleaded, "I need it. I feel like I'm gonna fucking pass out." Doyoung couldn't contain his pitying laugh. His hand was soaked in Yuta's seeping precum. You felt the need to interfere -- to challenge Doyoung and see where exactly his desires lay, as well as helping Yuta finally reach his orgasm. You gingerly fought your tired muscles to rise up to your knees, catching Doyoung's attention before you hooked a finger into his waistband. You pulled at his belt and jeans, quickly getting his pulsing erection into your own warm grip and making him yelp. He instantly fell against you, his head on your shoulder. However, his hand still didn't let up on Yuta. You watched, pleased at the scene that was oddly serene and severe at the same time, both boys breathing hard and outlined bright in the hot glow of the fire.

"Doyoung," you spoke softly in his ear. Your free hand rose up to stroke his hair as his breath grew heavy, "haven't I been good?"

"So good, baby," he breathed.

"And Yuta? Hasn't he been good?"

"Yes, he's behaved himself," Doyoung choked out against you. You stroked him swiftly and firmly, bringing him up to speed much too fast. It was nice to see that you were the exception to Doyoung's dominance if you wanted.

"If I got to cum for being good, then so does he, doesn't he?"

"Yes, baby." With the simplest of reluctant replies, Doyoung was able to pick his head back up. He turned his gaze back to Yuta writhing on the floor. "You want to cum, right? That's why you've been so good?"

"Yes, Doyoung, yes, please. I've been good. I'll be good. I'll do whatever you want just please let me cum." Yuta was practically hoarse from his repressed orgasm, nearly seething as Doyoung quickened his pace to the breaking point and then quickly backed off.

"You know what you have to say, don't you?" Doyoung smirked at the silent reply, Yuta desperately searching for the unapparent answer. The dominance had entirely returned. "What do we say when someone does something nice for us?"

"Th-thank you," Yuta muttered, shivering from too much desire and lack of proper circulation.

"What was that?" Doyoung laughed, pretending not to hear.

"Thank you, Doyoung," Yuta strained. His head pressed firmly back against the floor as he grit his teeth.

"Could you repeat that? I'm not sure I-- oh Jesus--" Doyoung collapsed, nearly folding in half as you gripped his hard-on tightly.

"Doyoung," you sweetly chided, "you made your point. Yuta will be grateful." Yuta furiously nodded his head in agreement. Doyoung sighed, wincing as your hold on his cock lessened into a gentle caress, and finally regained his pace on the leaking erection in his hand. Yuta cried out a final 'thank you', clawing at the rug underneath him as he finally shot out his orgasm. You instinctively leaned down, catching as much of the warm load as you could in your mouth, moaning at the erotic sensation. You sat back up, startled as Doyoung pulled you into a quick and heated kiss.

You both watched, amused as Yuta melted into the rug, his hair matted to his flushed face with a sheen of perspiration. His chest heaved as he finally was able to get his heart rate back down. You leaned down, pressing your lips to his forehead as he calmed down, and he gently held your hand. You caught Doyoung looking at you expectantly.

"My turn?"

"Hmm," you pondered coyly, "am I ready for another round? You were pretty mean to Yuta just now. Do you deserve it?" Doyoung looked distressed, if only for a moment. You set his mind at ease with a stifled laugh as you pulled him close. You tugged at his sweater, peeling it off along with the thin shirt underneath and admired his toned chest before you lay down next to Yuta on the rug. Pulling the exhausted man into your arms, you pulled Yuta's shirt off as well. "Is this alright?" You asked him, looking back and forth between him and Doyoung, "I know this wasn't exactly what the three of us had in mind."

"I'm fine, I think," Yuta breathed, still coming back to earth, "I'm still coming to terms with that orgasm, but I'm definitely not feeling bad."

"Definitely not bad," Doyoung noted incredulously, "you're still hard." Looking down, you were equally impressed as you noticed he was right. Doyoung excused himself to grab a glass of water, leaving you and Yuta momentarily alone once more after he threw another log on the fire.

Yuta pulled you into his arms and rolled you on top of him, holding you close. He tucked a loose tendril of hair behind your ear, cupping your flushed face. "How about you? Are you okay?" You nodded enthusiastically.

"Of course. This whole thing is surreal, but I'm enjoying myself. You seem to be enjoying yourself, too." You let out a breathless giggle, referring to the soft head of Yuta's cock kissing up against your dripping entrance. He smirked in return, gently rocking his hips up to dip the head inside. You shivered, suddenly letting out a surprised squeak as a firm set of hands began easing you down on the sore erection. You both groaned before regarding the presence behind you. Doyoung replied with a sly smile before reaching under your ass to shimmy Yuta's pants all the way off. Somewhere between here and the kitchen, Doyoung had finished undressing as well.

"Jesus," Yuta laughed, "you're so quiet! We need to put a bell on you or something."

"Sorry," Doyoung chuckled, "you were having a moment. I just wanted to help it along."

He certainly seemed to have had that effect. You already began slowly grinding your hips against Yuta's cock, his own hips meeting yours the best they could in this position on the floor. Doyoung reached a hand out, groping and palming your ass as you rode. You both momentarily froze as his thumb brushed against your asshole.

"Sorry--!" Doyoung instantly apologized.

"No-no-no," you quickly recovered, "it wasn't bad."

You nearly cooed when you noticed a blush crawl over Doyoung's cheeks. Yuta was practically on another planet, too preoccupied to notice. "Are you... Are you shy about it?"

"I mean, I didn't ask or anything--"

"Doyoung, none of us particularly asked anyone anything," Yuta suddenly interjected.

"I've experimented plenty before, you know," you said matter-of-factly. Doyoung babbled, half jealous, half bashful. Yuta raised an impressed eyebrow at you as he stifled a laugh. "Oh my god!" You laughed, playfully punching Doyoung in the arm, "You thought I'm innocent, didn't you!"

Doyoung gave in, hanging his head and laughing shamefully. "Ugh, am I that obvious? I guess I had you figured wrong."

"Is it a bad thing?" Yuta asked.

"What? No! Of course not!"

"Then..." You carefully proposed, "Do you want to try it with me?"

"Like... At the same time?"

You simply nodded in reply. Doyoung stared. Yuta stared. You officially surpassed both their expectations. You bit at your lip. "I always wanted to try," you admitted. "Are you okay with it?" You directed at Yuta. He nodded expectantly, picking up his dropped pace underneath you and meeting your thrusts again. Grabbing Doyoung's hand, you pulled him closer to the two of you. You pecked a kiss to his blushed cheek as he ran his fingertips back over the curve of your ass. The pad of his middle finger brushed the slick entrance of your pussy and up against the puckered hole above, making you both gasp and shiver as he gently pushed the digit into you. Though you had, in fact, experimented with anal both on your own and with a partner, you'd never had two partners to try this with before. The closest you had gotten was trying with an old boyfriend with the help of a dildo, and you'd given up from an impatient lack of proper care and preparation.

Doyoung was, of course, much more attentive, almost taking too much time to stretch you open. Surely, Yuta couldn't hold off a second orgasm forever. You had to practically beg Doyoung to add another finger, assuring and reassuring him that you were fine and loving it. Replacing his slow hand on his member with your own, you hoped to coax him along and make him just a little more eager. "Please, please, Doyoung," you breathed, "I need it. I need you in me, too." He nodded earnestly, slowly pulling his fingers out of you. You arched into his touch as you felt his hands on your hips again.

"Hold on a second," Doyoung chuckled darkly. You and Yuta took notice -- his confidence was back. "I need to get wet real quick." Just as you were about to question, Doyoung's hands lifted you off of Yuta's cock. Your protest was shocked into a sudden moan as Doyoung sank his whole length into your sopping wet heat. Yuta's hands clutched onto your thighs, hypnotized into silence as Doyoung bounced you hard back against his cock. He teasingly pulled out, pushing you back onto Yuta's aching dick before leaving you empty once more and impaling you again on himself. "There," he soothed, running a surprisingly gentle hand down your back, "all lubed up and ready to go." He eased back out of you and let you sink back down onto Yuta's length. Yuta let out a satisfied groan to have you back down against him. Both boys' eyes bore into you as the head of Doyoung's cock finally eased up against your hole, watching as your moans turned to whines as you slowly, persistently took the length inside of you.

Your thighs trembled and you leaned forward, resting your forehead on Yuta's chest and arching your ass up to meet Doyoung's hips. Both of them caressed you, whispering sweet praise and encouragement until Doyoung was fully rested inside of you. You finally sat back up, realizing that both boys' eyes were locked on each other. "Holy shit," you panted, "I feel so..."

"It's oddly intimate, right?" Yuta laughed quietly, fluttering his eyes shut at the sensation of Doyoung nestled tight up against him through your walls.

"Goddamn -- That's definitely a word for it," Doyoung agreed, his hold on your hips wavering from the stimulation.

"Doyoung -- Yuta -- Somebody please move," you whined, your hips fighting on which direction to move. Tentatively, the three of you figured out a rhythm that worked: you moving back with Doyoung's thrusts, and moving forward with Yuta's. You took your time, feeling each other out and enjoying the drawn out sensation.

"Yuta," Doyoung moaned out, "how have you not cum again yet?"

"My refractory period is dumb," Yuta struggled, "sometimes I'll stay hard but won't cum for an eternity. Guess it's one of those times, except this is bringing me dangerously close."

"Oh, thank god," Doyoung hissed, "I felt like a dick getting close already."

"I'm not surprised, I mean you haven't even orgasmed once yet."

"Uh--"

The three of you grinded to a sudden halt. You craned your neck to gaze back at Doyoung, the blush returning to your cheeks.

"When?!" You laughed.

"Uh... Earlier. When I went to the bathroom. Took care of some tension."

"My bathroom, Doyoung?!" You and Yuta failed to keep down a guffaw.

"Stop or I'll never cum again." Doyoung's head lolled back as he sighed in embarrassment. You reached to squeeze his hand on your hip, but were surprised as Yuta beat you to it.

"Don't be so dramatic and help us cum," Yuta playfully jabbed. Doyoung gave him a thankful smile and you yelped as his thrusts resumed behind you. Amazingly, the shared real estate inside you meant that Doyoung's cock angled Yuta's just enough right into your g-spot in this position. In fact, they'd been collectively pounding up against it this whole time, surprising you as you felt a rare penetrative orgasm approaching.

"Holy shit," you moaned desperately, "you're both going to make me cum if you keep this up."

"That's as bright of a sign as we're going to get," Doyoung laughed, "and not too soon, either."

"I'll fucking say. I've been holding back for the past two minutes."

"Wait," Doyoung blurted, "wait-wait-wait I'm just about there--"

"Hurry up, then," you cried out, "oh, Jesus--!"

Your legs clamped down around Yuta, the erratic pulsing of your muscles pulling both his and Doyoung's orgasms out of them, eventually syncing all three of you together. You lay in a heap, breathing each other in and finally collapsing into a pile as both boys gently eased out of you.

"Do you need anything?" Doyoung offered. You weakly smiled and shook your head, rocking up onto your feet and teetering like a fawn down the hall to the bathroom to freshen up.

You gazed in the mirror, face flushed and glowing and your hair a ruffled mess. What did this mean for the three of you? Would it be possible to figure out an arrangement that would work for all of you? You grabbed a couple towels and washcloths and a pack of wet wipes before making the trek back down the hall. You paused just short of the living room, not wanting to interrupt the conversation inside. As you peered around the corner, both boys were wrapped up in blankets by the fire, hip to hip.

"-- Yeah, I'm fine. Great, even." Yuta assured, sounding a bit dazed, still.

"I'm glad. I've just never... You know?"

"Me neither... Wait, really? You've never been in a threesome, or with a guy?"

"Uh, yes."

"Seriously?! You're a natural. I mean, as far as I can tell."

"How flattering."

"Oh, I'm teasing, you big baby. You're a natural slut. A real manwhore."

"Yuta, oh my god--"

"Definitely a good dom, that's for sure."

"Yuta -- wait, really?"

"Yeah! That edging was, uh, heh, pretty great. I could really be down for that again."

You could see Doyoung's blush in the glow of the fire even from where you stood.

"That is," Yuta teased, "if you're not still going to be all territorial."

"Well, she's nobody's territory. We're not dealing with flags, here. But I see what you mean. I had you figured wrong, too, I guess. I'm sorry about that."

"Hey, don't worry; it's kind of cute, if not a little obnoxious."

"I think it's cute, too." You finally interrupted, emerging from the dark with your supplies. The boys backed up about a foot away from each other, getting a laugh out of you.

You probably had nothing to worry about. Not even the assignment. Not even the snow outside. In fact, you wanted the snow to last forever.

❄️💙❄️💙❄️💙❄️💙❄️💙❄️💙❄️💙❄️

[sanctuaryforalluniverses]

Getting inside Danny Williams’ brain, movie edition (“Partners” DVD extras)

For those of us who write fanfiction, one of the weird world-filling-in activities we sometimes have to do is try to come up with a comprehensive list of a character’s preferred leisure time activities. Sometimes they’ll give us hints on the show, but in most cases the show focuses far more on what they do at work than what they do during their off hours. Fanfiction, on the other hand, is often written about a character’s off hours, leaving us writers to gather clues and try to extrapolate from there.

Which is how I ended up having a very weird weekend trying to come up with a definitive list of movies I was certain Danny would really like. Because I honestly don’t think he’s a huge movie watcher (his go-to “crap there’s nothing on TV” option is usually sports of some kind) but he’s got too much movie knowledge not to appreciate the medium at least a little. Unlike Steve, Danny’s response to being forced through several different romance movies was to analyze them, deconstruct the various tropes, and learn to predict them in other movies. Casual viewers, in my experience, just don’t DO that.

Also, the one movie we know he loves, “Enemy Mine,” is a freakin’ classic.

The thing is, though, that it’s kind of a weird classic. For those who haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing the movie for themselves, “Enemy Mine” is a 1985 West German-American science fiction film starring Dennis Quaid and Louis Gossett, Jr. The two are pilots on opposite sides of an interstellar war, and they both crash land on the same planet. They hate each other, slowly become friends, and when Gossett’s character dies in childbirth (his species can reproduce all by themselves), Quaid’s character promises to take the kid back to Gossett’s home planet for a naming ceremony. He raises the kid for awhile, accidentally gets “rescued” and taken away from him, and steals a ship to get the kid back.

Unsurprisingly, the movie was a total box office bomb. That’s what tends to happen when a movie is really, really, good, but also completely fails to follow any conventional box office formula for success. If you boil it down to its bare essentials, “Enemy Mine” is about talking, aliens, and feelings. There’s a solid chunk of sci-fi fans who are fond of it, and count it AMONG their favorites, but it’s pretty rare for someone who isn’t a fan of sci-fi to like it. Let alone love it as much as Danny clearly does.

And Danny… there’s no way I’m buying a secret fondness for sci-fi. Someone in his life must have been a fan (I’m suspecting Matt, who I imagine must have been a big fan of escapism) but that man is so non-nerd he couldn’t casually come up with SUPERMAN when trying to put a name to his red-caped “costume” in the season 3 Halloween episode. I hadn’t even thought that was POSSIBLE. (He manages a reference much later in the series, but that’s after DC’s latest spate of movies. The marketing saturation was so dramatic at that point anyone who consumed even the most casual media couldn’t escape it).

Feelings, however… Danny’s a BIG fan of feelings. He was so openly moved when we saw him watch “Enemy Mine,” and he would ABSOLUTELY be one of those people who enjoyed sobbing over movies because he could never let himself cry in real life. Also, the man is a deeply emotional, deeply sentimental asshole, no matter how hard he tries to pretend he’s a tough guy. So if he’s going to seek out a movie on his own, it’s probably going to have to offer the same dialed-up-to-11 emotional catharsis that “Enemy Mine” does.

Also, he clearly doesn’t mind movies where the characters spend most of their time just talking to each other. Hell, he probably even loves it.

On that note, here’s a not-comprehensive-but-definitely-reliable list of some of Danny Williams’ most-watched movies, in no particular order.

Arrival

This one… Danny has to save this one for special occasions. The things the movie says about parenthood and consciously letting your heart get broken because of the sweetness along the way hits him right in the heart every single time, but there’s also a dead kid involved. Yes, she’s sort of at the edges, but we also get Amy Adams talking to her dead daughter in voiceover and it just wrecks Danny EVERY SINGLE TIME. Some of the things the movie says about choices and accepting pain also mess him up, but it touches on some deeper issues and he really doesn’t like to look at any of that too closely. It’s a beautiful, well-made movie (he WILL rant about how Adams deserved an Oscar for it), but sometimes he just can’t allow himself to get emotionally wrecked like that.

Steve only sort of understands why he gets so emotional over it. But every time they watch it together, he keeps his arms around Danny the entire time and doesn’t say a word about any tears he sees.

Beaches

Listen – I will physically fight anyone who tries to tell me this isn’t one of Clara Williams’ favorite movies. I am dead certain she watched this ALL THE TIME when Danny was growing up, and I’m sure he’s told several people that he suffered through it. But listen – lifelong friendship, massive weepiness, AND New Jersey? Danny loves this movie nearly as much as his mother does, and will absolutely watch it any time it happens to be on TV.  He’s seen it so many times he can actually recite the lines of some of the big scenes along with the movie, but is careful not to let himself do that too often.

Steve absolutely teases him about this one, but if Grace catches him watching it she’ll sometimes sit down on the couch and watch it with him. Like her father, she also likes the movie far more than she’s willing to admit to, and is the one person Danny will actually let himself say the lines with (she does it with him). For the funeral scene and the bits after, Grace will inevitably get weepy and snuggle up close to her father.

Gifted

This one is just super obvious. In the movie, Chris Evans spends the entire movie figuring out how to raise his adorable super-gifted niece despite pressure from nearly everyone to give her up, and in between tries and fails to have some kind of dating life. It’s a celebration of the fathering spirit, and Danny relates HARD to it. It doesn’t get him as teary as some of the other ones, but there are enough emotional moments to leave him satisfied.

Up

Who DOESN’T cry during Carl and Ellie’s life together at the beginning of the movie? Danny found this one when Grace was still young enough that Disney made up a huge portion of her movie diet, but he’s stuck with it even though she hasn’t. He’s actually grown to like the movie more and more over the years, and what he hasn’t realized yet is because it’s really closely tied to the fact that he got dragged to Hawaii the year after the movie came out. The idea of a curmudgeon traveling to a hellish wilderness in the middle of nowhere and finding a family and new purpose in life when he gets there just started RESONATING with him for some reason, you know?  

Bonus movie that Danny USED to watch all the time and now just can’t anymore: Ghost

Honestly, “Ghost” used to be one of his go-to movies. It’s got nearly the feels-per-minute ratio of “Beaches,” and is slightly less embarrassing for a grown man to be watching. Plus, Danny is a very intense, very specific kind of romantic, and the idea of a love that outlasted death appealed to him on a really fundamental level. Of course, he mentally classified as a fantasy, not so much because of the ghost as the idea that a married couple could actually love each other that much. But hey, who doesn’t enjoy a good fantasy now and then?

But after he and Steve got together… well, he’s TRIED to watch it in the years since. More than once, in fact. But it’s not long before he sees Patrick Swayze staying close to his wife, or trying to protect her from his murderous business partner, and thinking about how Steve would absolutely do that if he could manage it at all. Or he’ll see Demi Moore having such a tough time after her husband dies, and he can’t help but think about how destroyed he’d be if anything happened to Steve. If any of the close calls he’s had over the years were just a little bit closer. How easy it would be, even with Steve being more careful, for someone to shoot him one day.

Ever since then, he hasn’t ONCE managed to watch the movie all the way through. Eventually, he just stopped trying.

[hashtagnarnian]

Commitments~ k.nj

Namjoon x Reader

NonIdol!AU

Journalist!AU

~inspired by 27 Dresses~

Summary: Your little sister is getting married, and you’re getting interviewed by the Commitments columnist at the local paper, Kim RM... but you’re hiding a big secret.

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: hi everyone! this is my first posted big imagine:) Enjoy!

Warnings: none, I think! :) maybe slight(?) angst... basically fluffy af

It was your sister’s turn to show up in the commitments section of the local newspaper. She’d been getting ready to get married to the love of her life from her studies in Korea, some big name journalist by the name of Kim Taehyung.

It had become a gift of yours over time, attending weddings, painting the scene like a fairytale, and publishing it for people to read. But since you’re more of the family fiction writer and not a journalist, you sat in your apartment, waiting for the random dude that would be coming to your place to interview you, the big sister, the professional maid of honor, about your sister’s big day. You were waiting for all the shit coming to you. How did you feel about your little sister getting married first? Is this how you imagined everything going?

But no one bothered to ask. And so you carried on in your world of writing short stories and working at a dead end job in a publishing company, under the thumb of a middle-aged curmudgeon that enjoyed pushing everybody to their limits, in the nicest way possible, of course. You were a poetry editor, something that murdered you from the inside out. Poetry had never once been your forte, as you spent a large majority of your teenage years writing crap on the internet based on Harry Potter and One Direction and other things like that, escaping life. Poetry was so deep and metaphorical, at least the shit that got tossed at you was.

A knock echoed through your apartment as you pulled on some baggy shorts, running to look through the peephole. A tall guy wearing jeans, a white tee, and an open button-up stood in the hallway, a notebook in one hand, fidgeting with a pen in the other.

“Hey, this is Kim RM from Commitments, I’m doing the piece on your sister and Taehyung, can I come in?” You were surprised to see someone so unlike what you’d pictured in front of you.

“Yeah, sure!” You opened the door and let RM in- his smile widened as he looked at you, admiring the fact that you were simply in relaxed attire- tank top, baggy shorts, hair up in a fan bun. “Come on in. Would you like some coffee or water or, I dunno... I’ve got... sparkling red grape juice?” You mentally kicked yourself for that remark. The guy- RM- held up a voice memo recorder with a smirk.

“The maid of honor is an interesting character, enjoys drinking sparkling grape juice,” he remarks into the recorder. You can’t help but sigh as he speaks again, this time right to you. “Actually, I’ll take the grape juice. Thank you.” You pour him a glass of juice into a champagne flute, passing it to RM and taking a seat on the couch opposite him. He’s scribbling in his notebook already, seemingly waiting for something to happen.

“What could you be writing about already?” you ask curiously, leaning forward. “I haven’t said much yet.” You smirked at RM, who was looking rather blushy now that you caught him. A gentle smile affixed itself on his mouth.

“When you write a good commitments column, you personally describe the appearances of things and well, I dunno, it’s like writing a novel,” he said. “So, what do you do for a living?” He sips his grape juice as you contemplate what to say.

“Well... I’m an editor at a publishing house, and I work with poetry,” you start. “But I’m also a bit of a writer. Fiction is my thing. I like turning real life into something a little more, well, sparkly, I guess.” RM lets out a breathy laugh as he remarks about your “life sparkles” into his recorder. You’re different than he expected.

“So, I’m gonna get this regular crap out of the way before I get to anything good: how do you feel about your little sister getting married before you?” You swallowed, dreading the question.

“I feel happy for her. She’s spent so long looking for the right person, and I’m really thrilled she found Taehyung. Those two go hand-in-hand better than I’ve seen in a long time,” you remark, becoming more comfortable talking honestly. “I’m proud of her, too, for finding someone that’s honestly good. Not a lot of those out there, RM. Not a lot at all.” You drink more juice, chugging down a good half of the glass before letting out a very small burp, hoping it went unnoticed.

You catch a very sneaky smirk out of the corner of your eye. “Actually just, um, you can call me Namjoon. RM is just an alias so no crazy women come stalking after me,” he says. “You would be surprised, it’s kinda wild. There are so many people interiested in this stuff.” You can’t help but laugh at this. “Anyways, I didn’t catch your name, I’m so sorry. How should I call you?”

“Y/N L/N, that’s my name,” you said. “Publishing house slug by day, writer and bridesmaid by night. A total badass.” Namjoon smiles an extremely bright smile as you describe yourself at a great sarcastic length, looking at you intently, until he catches sight of a closet behind you that appears to be bursting with fabric. He sets down his notepad and stands up with a strange eagerness.

“Wait a minute,” Namjoon mutters, walking over to your closet of shame. “This isn’t what I think it is, is it?” He grabs the door handle, but as he’s about to open it you fling your body at the door, preventing his eyes from setting upon the many, many dresses behind that door.

“I really, really can’t let you do this,” you say, attempting to pry his oddly strong fingers off of the door handle. “This will quite honestly ruin my reputation.”

“Well, Y/N, let me tell you right now, my impression of you is educated, kind of silly, and supportive,” he says, yanking the door open while still staring straight at you. “I highly doubt anything could ruin tha-“

The fabrics of roughly thirty dresses stuck out of your closet, and you can’t help but turn an aggressive shade of scarlet. Namjoon’s eyes appear to bulge out of their sockets. You hide your face between your hands, walking away, stubbing your toe on the corner of your couch in the process.

“Y/N... how many dresses are in there?” he whispered, almost nervously. You uncover your face, looking him directly in the eyes.

“Th-thirty one...”

“You’ve been a bridesmaid thirty-one times? These are all so scary looking, are the brides trying to torture you?” He picked at part of a rather gross looking peach colored dress, pulling at it.

“Okay, that one isn’t that awful,” you said, taking it off of the rack and putting it up to your body.

“Not that awful, are you kidding? What color is that, puke?” he mused. You roll your eyes in protest.

“I will put it on and prove it,” you said, running into the bathroom. Namjoon couldn’t help but giggle.

“Alright, alright, I’ll be out here.” He sat back down on the couch, picking up his glass of sparkling grape juice, enjoying the sweet fizz. You pop out of your bedroom door, spinning around, showing the dress off. Namjoon dribbles juice down his chin in mild shock and horror.

“What in the fuck is this?” he laughed as you started with him, realizing just how atrocious the thing really was. It had a diagonal hem, just a little too long for your shorter legs. The straps were really awkwardly placed- needless to say, you looked like a mess. “Seriously, a beautiful woman like you, and they make you look like that? I’d say the bride doesn’t want to be upstaged.” Your face turns scarlet for a different reason this time.

“What?” you say as Namjoon in turn becomes pink. He grins, picking up his notepad, scribbling out a note, and flipping to the next page. You’re sitting across from him in the atrocious dress, drinking juice and waiting for his next move.

“Yeah... you’re a beautiful person, Y/N,” he said. “Anyways, back to the garbage. What’s your favorite part of a wedding?” You grinned, your answer being the most immediate one you could think of.

“Okay, well,” you say. “When the bride walks down the aisle, and everyone stands up and looks at her in all her glory, I look at the groom. His face, his smile, sometimes even tears... it’s my favorite thing. You just know how things will be in their life when you take a look at him.” Namjoon can’t help but stare at you, your innate passion and knack for describing the most mundane things bubbling to the surface. You catch him in his awe, and you grin. After an hour more of talking, he rips off a piece of his notebook paper and hands it to you.

“I have to be on my way, Y/N, but,” he says, standing up from the chair. “I still have some more things to ask you for the article, so... I left my number there for you. Maybe text me when you’re available and we can go get coffee?”

“I would love that,” you say, holding your hand out for a handshake. He returns the favor, letting your hands hang gently for a bit as you smile. He lets go gently, waving, shooting a massively pearly grin your way as you shut your apartment door.

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with PAVEL LAM, who is TWENTY-FIVE years old. He is often called PUCK and is NEUTRAL. They use HE/THEY pronouns.

There were too many gold-hearted knaves in Verona, too many rogues who would surrender their mind, independence, and soul at the slightest show of softness from a pretty face. But what one never was, never knew, and never craved couldn’t be responsible for their DOWNFALL. Softness never helped make living off of table scraps any easier, it didn’t make his dirty rags of clothes any more comfortable. It didn’t bring back his mangy, sorry excuse for a father who’d been found wasted away with his equally shabby mistress behind some alleyway, it didn’t wake his mother from her drug-addled stupor to feed her only son.

The gods seemed intent on making a JOKE out of Pavel’s life, and so he resolved to beat them to the punchline. Armed with nothing but a dastardly sense of humor tinted dark with the dirt and tar in which he was raised, he bid his mother a goodbye and a merry “thanks for nothing!” and went on his way to carve a path with his nails and teeth. He swindled to survive, delighting in his own antics, only ever eating food stolen from another’s plate. He impersonated tour guides and stole unsuspecting tourists’ wallets as they cooed over street markets, he drank the wine of richer men as he distracted them with slight of hand. Odd jobs sustained him as he grew from child to teenager, though he was always sure to emphasize he took “dishonest jobs only. I didn’t eat dirt for the first eight years of my life just so I could wipe it off your floor.” He helped expose cheating spouses for a pretty coin and lost count of how many weddings he’d been hired to ordain. Not one job asked of him ever made him pause, none except for ONE. In hindsight, he should have asked for far more than what was offered, but Pavel was just as desperate as the client, who very clearly wasn’t as wealthy as he was vengeful. The job was simple. Kill the man’s previous supervisor who let him go. The target flaunted his wealth and was too easy to spot from the way his face contorted in disgust at Pavel’s tattered clothes. Killing him had been easy, albeit messy (as first kills often are), and to Pavel’s annoyance, his hands shook and his voice quivered when he reported back to the client of his success. “Are you alright?” they asked. What a LOADED question.

The rest was, as less interesting people would say, history. The killing was a thrill, yes, but it paid well, and the better he became the more people were willing to offer. Meager scraps became opulent feasts, he traded in his ratty clothes for fine leather and replaced his little hovel in Saint Petersburg with a studio apartment in the heart of Verona where the weather was milder. Some things, though, never changed, and though he could afford a sniper rifle or any other weapon that made his job easier and stealthier, he preferred his knives and revolver - call it VANITY for wanting to prove he could be a top-tier assassin who still relied on close combat. Clients and targets ranged from politicians to CEOs to diplomats, but he likes to think despite his CHANGE in fortune, he’s still the “same ol’ fun-loving curmudgeon” he always was.

He evades and escapes from the law, from loyalties, from his own conscience like TAR, slick as it slips through one’s fingers, eager to stain and ruin. His laugh rings louder than the cathedral bells, mirthful and dark, and it boasts of a man with no stake in vengeance nor sympathies, UNTOUCHABLE, walking the cobblestone streets as if they’re his own clouds upon Mount Olympus. One could argue there is no real malice behind his intentions, for that would insinuate anything beyond strict neutrality, and they’d be right. It was his oldest excuse in his almanac, that he couldn’t possibly give enough fucks to worry about anyone besides himself. He kills for anyone with enough coin, though no amount so far has been able to buy his loyalties. Assassinating was an ugly business, certainly, but mobs, permanence, consequences - well, there were FEW things that could make a jester CRY.

ORPHEUS AHULANI: Past admiration. Pavel had only been a teenager when he first became acquainted with Orpheus, believing to have found a kindred spirit in him, a fellow anarchist and reveler. The admiration has since cooled into resentment and disappointment since Orpheus joined leagues with the Capulets - “Orphy, really, you’ve sold out! This is very not punk of you.” - and, sure, the guy was promised his own underground kingdom, but how much longer would it be until the Capulets decided they’d have no more use for either old Orpheus or his castle built from sand and shit?  Pavel’s always quick to remind Orpheus of how fickle organized crime can be, that if someone declares you ruler of an underground kingdom, they’d be just as willing to bury you alive beneath it.

NIKOLAI BORISOV: Unwitting victim. Pavel didn’t mean to ruin the man’s good word and reputation, really. It was an accident, a hilarious one, but sheer coincidence, and a collision was bound to happen considering their professions. Nikolai liked his explosions and dynamite and bombs (perhaps a bit too much in his opinion, but that was neither here nor there) and Pavel was running late to a spot where he knew his target would be and perhaps tripped over a wire or something and set it off some meters and meters away. Prematurely. Three hours prematurely, apparently. Strange how Nikolai can’t seem to get over it.

ALVA FAE: Showoff. Pavel gets it. He’s not the only one in Verona who can shoot a gun, but ever since Alva’s come to town all he hears about is how good a shot the opera singer is, how they could shoot the button off a suit and it’d somehow retail for higher than it was bought. The fact that they’re so reluctant to prove their finesse and insist that it’s all behind them irks Pavel further, and he makes it a game to see how far he can push them, goading them constantly into indignation (though never into blatant exasperation or violence, unfortunately). He’s convinced their saccharine demeanor is a front and delights in watching it flicker, just for him.

HUGO KIM: Vermin. It’s not often anyone earns Pavel’s genuine hostility– that would imply he cares enough to let them crawl under his skin in the first place. Oh, but he doesn’t care about Hugo - doesn’t really even know the guy, so it’s nothing personal. It’s just the man’s utter hypocrisy, preaching goodness and holiness and nonviolence when the priest is in cahoots with the fucking mafia that offends Pavel’s delicate sensibilities. Besides, God never thought to have mercy on a boy who had to crawl his way out of the gutter - if He had mercy on a bunch of mobsters, well, it’d be the least shocking thing Pavel’s ever seen.

Pavel is portrayed by JACKSON WANG and was written by EM. He is currently OPEN.

[coffee-obsessed-writer]

Harvest Days

Dean x Reader; Sam Winchester, Jody Mills

A/N: This was written for @ravenangel33 ‘s Autumn Challenge. I had Hayride for the prompt, though cider has trickled into the mix a bit. Thanks for hosting the challenge, hope you enjoy this!

Summary: Dean and Sam have been asked to help out one of Jody’s friends build her farm’s “Harvest Days” activities. After putting together the ‘haycorn’ maze, Dean ends up taking a test run of the new Haunted Hayride attraction with Y/N. When events take a slight turn, they find a different way to spend their time.

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, language

Words: 4.7K

Everything Tags: @his-paradox  //  @sorenmarie87  // @lefthologramdeer  //  @grace-for-sale  //  @redm81  // @becs-bunker  //  @docharleythegeekqueen  //  @moonchild-shoshanna // @idontfuckingknowgurl // @geeksareunique

SPN Tags: @soythedemonqueen  // @kazosa  // @lucifer-in-leather// @perseusandmedusa // @tiquismiquis // @mrsbarnes-rogers  // @yorkeylover // @through-thesilver-lining // @illysamorgan// @fictionalabyss // @gettinjoyful // @auntsalgal // @stuckupstucky// @miss-spnm0mma // @teller258316 // @spnhollis  // @sweet-things-4-life // @hobby27 // @sweetlythoughtfulbird // @theoriginalvicki // @dreamchester67 // @xxwarhawk// @assassinofmasyaf // @babykalika2001 // @negans-wife // @superwhovianfangirl // @toobusynerdfighting // @vickyfarley // @missihart23

Dean huffed as he launched the haybale onto the stack that was already on the verge of teetering over. He watched in a moment of panic as it rocked slightly but righted itself before it brought the rest toppling over. He smirked proudly, following up with a sigh of relief as he turned back towards the hundred other bales that needed to be masterfully laid in place.

The sun was warm, but there was a crispness to the air that only came around with the month of October. Though he had been standoffish, and was trying to maintain his surly demeanor about having to be on this farm doing manual labor for free, he couldn’t help but hide a smile as his boots crunched through the leaves and his nose picked up the scent of apple pie and cinnamon that was carried with the breeze.

Sam was waddling by with two stacks of hay atop the one he had gripped by the bale hooks. “Enjoying yourself, Dean?” he asked as he gently laid them on the ground near the end of the maze wall.

Dean gave him a deadpan expression. “Oh yeah, it's a real blast.”

“Come on man, it's not so bad,” Sam mused and inhaled a deep breath of air. “Being out in the fresh Autumn air… I’m sure there’s some of that loaded apple cider for you somewhere.”

“Now that I would be interested in pursuing.”

“Interested in what?” Jody asked, approaching from behind and tossing down a bale of her own. “If you’re interested in her—” Jody motioned with her head towards Y/N but was cut off before she could continue.

“Not a girl this time Sheriff,” Sam quipped, which earned him a dirty look from his brother. “The hard cider.”

“Oh, yeah, that stuff. It’s damn good too, boys. Just wait ‘til we’re done and Y/N will be dishing it out by the bucket full.”

“And this is something she does every year?” Dean asked, motioning to the acres of land around them that normally functioned as a working farm but was now cleared and being set up for what they called Harvest Days.

“Yup. Pumpkin patch, hay and corn maze, caramel apple dipping, all kinds of fun stuff. I think she’s even set up a haunted hayride this year.”

“Haunted hayride? Really?” Dean rolled his eyes. “’Cause we don’t deal with enough ghosts, right?”

Jody cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at Dean. “Why are you the way you are? Why do you insist on being a killjoy? It's Halloween! Kids like to be scared. For one-night, set aside your job, stop being a curmudgeon and just have some fun!”

Sam snickered, and Dean smacked him on the shoulder. “Hey! I have fun. I shoot pool, and… and I drive fast. I love loud music, and I’m all about candy for the kids. As for Y/N…” Dean paused and looked over his shoulder towards her one more time, “never said I wasn’t interested.”

“Oh, really…” Jody mused, turning and looking at him with exaggerated curiosity. “How interested?”

Dean glanced Y/N’s way again and just as he caught sight of her, a ray of sunlight came through the crack in the trees. It illuminated her profile, just as she was smiling their way. “Oh, you know,” he said, trying to remain casual and unaffected by her, “I wouldn’t say no to a roll in the hay.”

He wiggled his eyebrows at them, but they just rolled their eyes in return. “What? I’m kidding! She’s gorgeous, but she’s your friend, Jody. Come on, you know me.”

“Yeah, I think that’s her problem, Dean,” Sam teased and playfully hit Jody in the arm. “Come on, I got a few more bales to give this side a bit more height.”

“Just promise me that if you do make a move, you’re not going to use that line on her, okay?” Jody asked him as she walked backward alongside Sam, her hands clasped in a mock prayer. “Seriously, I beg you, rethink your strategy.” She flipped back around and continued with Sam to get the last few hay bales.

Dean scoffed and mumbled under his breath, “You should be rethinking your strategy. Calling us up here, makin’ us work for booze…” Dean paused considered his own grumblings. “Actually, that’s pretty smart…”

  You were putting the finishing touches on the bottles of cider you planned on giving out to Jody and her friends when the work was done. Sheriff Mills had become a good friend over the last couple of years, and when you mentioned needing help for the farm’s annual harvest days, she didn’t hesitate to volunteer her extended family. Doling out bottles of your family’s popular hard cider was the best way you could think to say thank you.

Dean and Sam Winchester rolled into town the day before and you immediately got the feeling Jody had hijacked them into helping. They didn’t seem too gung-ho at first, but after a brief sidebar, she returned them with willing-to-help smiles and ready to get started. Since then, you’ve gotten to know them a little, though Sam seemed much more approachable than his brother; much happier to make conversation and get to work wherever you directed him too.

Carrying the apple crate of bottled cider from the house, you caught sight of Jody talking to the guys. You smiled at them all and noticed Dean’s eyes lingering for a moment longer than the other two, watching you carefully. Though after a moment of consideration you didn’t know if the longing look in his eyes was for you, or for the coveted cider you were carrying.

After placing the crate down where it belonged in the equipment barn, you went about adding the oil and gasoline to the tractor. You needed to get it primed for the haunted hayride; wouldn’t want it getting stuck out on the back end of the farm with no lights. Going about your work, you didn’t hear the doors slide all the way open until Dean’s voice filled the void.

“Need any help?” he asked peaking his head around the side of the hulking machine. “Old girl running’ alright?”

“Oh, hi. Um, I’m good thanks. She’s a bit cranky, but she’s just like most old broads, show her some TLC and she’ll start to purr like a kitten.”

Dean chuckled but didn’t turn to leave. Instead, he watched you move about, giving the tractor a final once-over before climbing up onto the seat.

“You sure know you’re way around one of those,” he said casually walking around the perimeter, bending down to peer in where he could.

“Been driving this one since I was ten,” you said and went about making the engine roar to life.

Dean stepped back in response but wore an impressed grin. “You takin’ her for a spin?”

“Soon. Just wanted to get the engine going. Gotta finish a few things, then was going to run her the length of the haunted hayride. Just want to be sure everything is in place.”

“Want some company?” he asked with a sly grin. He certainly had the look to him of a man that was trying to flirt, but unsure which route to take. “I’m a sucker for a good hayride.”

“Yeah, sure,” you replied with a shrug, trying to hide your growing interest in the rugged stranger. “Might need your help reburying some of the scarier gags.”

“Well, you’re in luck. Just so happens I’m great at burying bodies…” Dean paused and chuckled nervously when he realized how he must have just sounded. “I’m not a psycho, I swear—”

“Don’t buy it Y/N, this guy is a crazy sonofabitch,” Jody chimed in, placing the last crate of cider down by the other. She laughed and elbowed an offended Dean in the ribs. “Oh, come on now puddin’, you know I’m teasing.” She shook her head and turned back to you. “Thought you’d want this in here for now. Saw some of your other volunteers eyeing it up, didn’t want it to go missing.”

“Thanks, Jody. Got two more in the house, but they are safely tucked away. These here are for you guys to take with you when you go.”

Dean’s face lit up. “I’ve been hearing a lot about this famous cider!” He grabbed one from the crate and cradled it carefully. “Can’t want to get into this.”

Jody plucked it from his arms. “After the maze is done, then you can get shitfaced.” She placed it back in its spot and turned to leave through the double sliding doors. “Come on, there’s work to be done!”

“Great. Looking forward to it!” Dean grumpily called after her then turned back to you. “I guess I should get back to the maze, but uh, if you end up takin’ her out…”

“I’ll come to find you.”

“You better,” he said, trying to be serious, but the grin hiding beneath his furrowed brow bled through. He turned and left, breaking into a slight jog to catch up with Jody. You watched him go, craning your neck out to get a better view and couldn’t deny that there was an attraction there.

Trying to shake it from your mind, you went about the tasks at hand and finished getting the tractor ready for its test run. Giving it some gas, you directed the hulking piece of machinery through the doors and out into the fading autumn sun.

  An hour later, the day’s light had finally given way to true dusk. The colors in the sky were reminiscent of cotton candy, which created a dreamy backdrop against the line of red and yellow trees that dotted the horizon. Jody and Sam had finally finished building up the entrance of the maze, while Dean completed the side wall. Most of the time though, his eyes were drifting over to wherever you were.

You did your best to ignore him, but the more your gazes caught, the more you found yourself enjoying it and wondering what he was like. By the time all the other back-breaking labor was complete, the farm was shrouded in full darkness, except for the one lamp post and little ghost party lights strung across the grounds.

“Guys, this place looks amazing!” you exclaimed, clutching your hands to your chest. You were touched so many people had arrived to get the farm ready for its annual Harvest Days, and all solely for a bottle of cider. You didn’t make any money from this event, it was free to all the families who arrived; only having them pay for any pumpkins or pies that they wanted to bring home. It had simply been a tradition started years before by your grandfather to bring some autumn fun to the area and one that you wanted to continue with for as many years as you could.

It had been getting harder and harder each year pulling it off alone. But this year, you were surrounded by an amazing group of helpers and felt overwhelmed by their kindness.

“I honestly cannot even begin to say thank you to all of you. Some of whom have driven hundreds of miles to be here,” you looked at Sam and Dean specifically. “These guys here, all the way from Kansas, just to pitch in. Even our own Sheriff, taking time away from keeping the streets safe, just to build a haycorn maze. I love you all, and I really hope you guys come back tomorrow to enjoy the festivities! But for now, go home, get some rest! There are bottles of cider over there for everyone to take home. Enjoy it!!”

The crowd of volunteers hollered and clapped when you mentioned gran’s infamous hard cider and quickly dispersed to get their share. You noticed Dean talking to Sam and Jody, then tried to force the small smile off your face that appeared when you saw him walking towards you.

“So, no tractor?” he asked, mildly disappointed.

“Oh, I still have to take her for a spin, but everyone’s busted their ass the past few days, no need for them to stick around and wait for me to finish that.”

“You shouldn’t go alone. What if you get stuck?” he asked, leaning against the frame of the pie stand beside you. “I can’t in good conscience let you go alone.”

“If you insist…” you shrugged up one shoulder and when you caught his gaze again, there was no mistaking his intentions now, and that worked just fine for you.

  You steered the tractor along the long stretch of dirt path and pointed out to Dean the different areas where volunteers would be hidden tomorrow in the vein of scaring the riders.

“Who’s driving this baby tomorrow?” he asked and shifted on the small bench in front of the steering wheel.

“Why, are you angling for the job?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t exactly have a lot of experience, but, uh, how hard could it be?”

“Not hard at all. I do have someone who can do it, but if you want the job… I could show you how.”

Dean’s tongue darted out over his bottom lip before curling into a frisky grin. “Really? Cause, yeah, I wanna drive the tractor.”

You shifted the gears and let off the gas, then moved over enough to offer him the steering wheel. “Have at it, cowboy.”

Gripping the steering wheel, he followed your instructions on getting the tractor going again. Dean bounced the ancient hunk of metal through the haunted route and listened to each one of your directions. He was doing great, until the sharp turn at the burnt-out cottage. He went into the turn a bit too fast and ended up getting the one rear tire stuck in a muddy rut.

“Sonofabitch!” he yelled and hopped down when he realized what had happened.

You turned off the engine and climbed down, using the flashlight from your cell phone to investigate.

“No getting this unstuck without help. Gonna have to walk back to the main shed, grab the new John Deere and come pull her out.”

Dean looked around and realized just how dark it was out on the hayride route. He turned and surveyed the burnt-out cottage and felt a shiver run down his spine.

“That’s… that’s a long walk, Y/N. Can you just call someone maybe?”

“Are you scared of a little walk through the fields?”

“No… No! Of course not, I just mean, it's muddy, the terrain is uneven. Don’t want you to fall and break your ankle or anything.”

He actually had a good point. Considering his suggestion, you quickly dialed Darren, one of the guys that lived up the road, hoping he could help. You paced around while explaining the situation and sighed with relief when you ended the call.

“He can be here in an hour or so.”

“An hour?” Dean snorted. “Doesn’t he live up the road?”

“Yeah, about forty-five minutes up the road. He’s my closest neighbor.”

You grabbed the blanket that was thrown over the driver’s bench on the tractor and climbed up in the trailer full of hay where the riders would soon sit.

“Might as well get comfy. We got time to kill,” you said and patted the spot beside you. Reaching under the seat, you pulled out a large thermos of warmed hard apple cider. “Thought this may come in handy.”

Dean’s face lit up and he happily took the spot next to you. “Well, this just turned into the best breakdown story, ever.”

Untwisting the top, you took a swig from the thermos and passed it to Dean. You watched as his perfectly shaped lips caressed the mouth of the container and found yourself starring just a little too long. When he released the bottle from his mouth, he finished with a refreshed sigh and licked the remains from his lips.

“Damn, I can see why people come from all over for this,” he passed the bottle back to you and leaned back against the haybale seat. “This place you got here, its pretty damn amazing.”

You looked out over the fields and felt a rush of love for your home. It was your favorite kind of night. A clear sky, a million stars, a half moon providing illumination that bounced off the rows of corn still in need of reaping. “I love it here,” you said wistfully. “Can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

You talked on for a while. Mostly about the farm and how it had been in your family for generations. Dean listened intently as you spoke about your grandparents, what they’d taught you, how they helped raised you and why the harvest days were an important marker for you, and for the community. Passing the bottle back and forth, Dean found a lull in your tale and asked what he had been wanting to know all night.

“You, uh, live here alone?” Dean asked pensively, gauging your reaction from the corner of his eye.

“Yes. Been here alone for years now,” you replied but hoped there wouldn’t be more questions about that. Your romantic history was not something you wanted to delve into, not when you were about to get drunk with Dean. He really was something quite spectacular to look at, and just from your conversations with Jody, you knew he was much more than just a pretty face.

“That’s a damn shame,” he said and took the bottle back from you when offered. “Girl like you shouldn’t be alone at night. Or anytime, really.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well for one, you make this,” he raised the bottle in salute, “and this is an elixir from the Gods. Second, look at you, you're gorgeous, you can bake, tend the farm, fix a tractor… what can’t you do?”

“Apparently get a boyfriend,” you snickered boldly, starting to feel effects of the cider, but didn’t care one bit.

Dean nearly spat the cider from his lips but was able to keep it in and swallow it down. “Sweetheart, anyone that doesn’t look at you and immediately want to fill that role is a God damn fool.”

“You’re a flirt,” you teased, taking a long pull from the cider.

“Well, you make it fun,” he mused softly and the warmth of his breath hit the cool air and swirled up into the darkness.

The way his eyes fell upon you as if scrutinizing your every curve, and the way the moonlight was laying across the fields behind him brought on a wave of confidence that you didn’t normally experience.

You turned to face him, and before you could stop yourself, you grabbed a fistful of his shirt; pulling his body closer, you leaned in and kissed him. There was no gentle brush of the lips, or hesitant hovering before you dared touch him. The dreamy night aesthetic of the hayride made you crave his kiss, the cider made you bold enough to go and get it.

Dean froze and for a moment you feared that maybe you’d been reading him all wrong. Maybe it had just been the speed in which you went for it because he quickly broke the spell he was under and kissed you back. His hand reached around and cradled your head, his fingers getting tangled in the mess of hair and hay that was intertwined. Without removing his face from yours, he gingerly took the thermos from your hand, placed it on the floor of the trailer and then lay you back against the hay.

His tongue parted your lips; his free hand exploring your body, hitching up your jacket and shirt enough for the cold night air to touch your skin. Dean’s weight on top of you was something you didn’t realize you needed to feel. It had been far too long since anyone was attending to you the way he desperately wanted to.

He was hard in the confine of his jeans already. Normally Dean would try to be much smoother, take his time in an effort to woo the girl, but with you, he didn’t care. He wanted you, and there was no denying that the longer your make-out session under the stars went on, you wanted him, too.

You gripped him tightly, letting your fingers run up along his skin under his heavy flannel. Dragging your nails lightly at first, you felt a low rumble in his chest when they dug in. He pulled his lips from yours, but not with the intention of stopping.

“If this is too fast—”

“Just shut up, Dean,” you whispered and pushed him back towards you. “I’m tired of moving slow. Sometimes, fast isn’t so bad.”

“Yes ma'am,” he cooed and buried his face in your neck.

Dean’s lips, the ones you’d been unable to take your eyes off of, trailed warm, biting kisses down the length of your neck to your collarbone. He sat up briefly and only to unbutton your shirt low enough to expose your bra to the night air. Immediately ripples of goosebumps marched across your flesh.

“You’re cold,” he whispered roughly and gingerly placed one of his large hands across your breasts, both to feel the voluptuous curve of them, and to warm your skin.

“Maybe a little,” you said with a giggle and propped yourself back to a sitting position.

The devious twinkle faded from his eyes, and you wanted to reassure him that what had just been started, wasn’t nearly over. You covered his hand that was still on your chest, with one of yours, and placed the other around his neck. “But I didn’t say to stop.”

Dean had a look of lust in his eyes that said he wanted to devour you, but in that moment, you just felt an insatiable need to have him. Right then, right there; no slow burning build up, no long, lavishing foreplay. Dean took your cue and ran his hand down the length of your body until he reached your thighs. There was no desire in waiting for Dean, either. He plunged his hand between your legs and rubbed up against your sex. Even with the fabric between you, it caused a rush of heat and you were more than ready. He worked at unbuckling your jeans, just as you quickly pawed at his.

As you worked on getting free of your clothes enough to feel flesh against flesh, his breathing was getting heavier with anticipation. Once your jeans were removed enough to not be a burden, Dean shimmed his jeans down enough to allow his cock to spring free. It was already slick with precum and despite the chilly air, erect and ready for you. He stopped for a moment and looked up at you, a devilish sort of grin tugging at his mouth, his eyes narrowed on you. In one quick motion, he grabbed your hips, pulled you on top of him and thrust up into you.

An explosion of sensation tore through you. You fought back the urge to scream out, then realized there was no one around for miles. Dean groaned beneath you and buried his face into your chest. His teeth pulling down your bra, his fingers digging into your hips as he bounced you on top of his dick.

You rocked back and forth, the swirling haze of the cider and euphoric sensation of him filling you up was what made you unable to open your eyes. You were afraid if you did, it would all end up being a dream.

Finally relenting, you opened them and gazed down at him. Dean’s eyes were blown back with lust, his body was warm and he smelled like a mixture of hay and cider. You wanted to talk, wanted him to talk, but the movement of your bodies was far too captivating for any sort of words to tumble out.

With each thrust, both of your breathing patterns grew rapidly, you knew that release would come soon and as much as you never wanted the moment to end, you relished in each moment as it got closer.

“Unff… Dean… fuck… me, I’m gonna—” you moaned, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“I’m trying baby,” Dean growled and hammered up into you with a new pace he never even realized he had. His mouth clamped down on your one exposed nipple, and it was just enough to send you over the edge.

The graze of his teeth against you there caused your climax to hit, your walls rippling around him, still buried deep inside you. Crying out his name only made him dig into your sides harder until he couldn’t hold himself together anymore.

“Fuck!” he growled again, both wanting to bury his face into you, but pull you off his lap before he came inside you.

You pushed his face between your breasts but lifted your hips enough that he spilled his release down the inner parts of your thighs. Holding onto each other tightly, you stayed that way for a moment, trying to find a regular rhythm for your breath.

“Jesus,” he mewed before looking up at you. “I wasn’t expecting all that.”

“Me either,” you said softly, caressing the side of his face gently. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“A bottle of cider, maybe?” Dean teased and helped you up from the awkward position you found yourself in.

“Perhaps,” you mused and pulled up your clothes.

“Whatever it was, feel free to include me anytime. Sorry about the mess,” he apologized, looking away a bit sheepishly, “I’m normally more prepared.”

Dean stood up, fixing his own clothes then helping you to rebutton your shirt.

“Its fine, I have zero complaints,” you paused, suddenly nervous to ask, but you had to know, “… you?”

“Only one,” he said and momentarily looked far too serious.

“Which is?”

He smiled softly, a small bunch of crinkles taking shape around his eyes. “We don’t have time to do it again before Darren comes.”

Motioning with his chin to look behind you, you saw the headlights of Darren’s truck approaching from off in the distance. A huge swell of relief washed over and you rested your forehead against Dean’s chest. When you looked up at him, he took you by the shoulders and kissed you.

“I don’t think I am the right guy to drive the tractor tomorrow, though,” Dean said regretfully.

“Why’s that?”

“Cause every time I get to this turn, I’m gonna remember what just happened, and probably end up putting her in the ditch.”

“Well,” you started and grabbed the scruff of his shirt again, “that’s okay. I think I have few other ideas of how you can be helpful around here. If you’re planning to stick around for the harvest days, anyway.”

“Honey, I’m all yours. Use me, abuse me… do your worst,” he said with a sly smirk and a pout of his lips.

Darren’s truck was now less than a hundred yards away and closing in on the front of the tractor. You took a moment to relish what was remained of your impromptu moonlight hayride and knew you weren’t ready for it all to be over yet.

“So, if that means you’re sticking around for a couple days, you wanna, maybe, stay here?”

“Wouldn’t wanna go anywhere else,” he bent to kiss you, but as headlights from Darren’s truck shined on him from behind you, he started to chuckle at the sight of all the hay in your hair, which made him think back to what he’d said to Jody earlier in the day.

“Something funny?”

“No, no… you just… here…”

One by one he pulled the straws of hay from your hair and you quickly straightened up your clothes.

“I was thinking, we have the rest of this to check out anyway, right? And that seems like a job best left for the morning. Kinda late to drive anywhere now, and there’s still a whole bottle lot of cider back up at the house…” Dean trailed off, leaving it up to you to draw the conclusion he was trying to make.

“Get this hunk of junk free and take party this back to the house?”

“You read my mind,” he said and kissed you again. “Besides, I need me some of that pie you got up there. “Other than you, it has been the only thing on my mind all day.”

[plutoxplato]

zeyde.

eyns

My grandfather sat at the foot of my bed

At six years old, my tongue bumbled over my anglicized versions of the Yiddish that he tried to teach me

He was six when he learned his second tongue and I can barely see the first now

I fell asleep to it

tsvey

My grandmother sits in her chair, in her memories and in solidarities

Her entire family died in the holocaust, she said, but they would have been so proud of you

I was eight then, and I turned on the television because why should her memories become mine

The rest was drowned out

dray

My grandfather, the doctor, the American, answered our childish questions with patented Jewish humor

Do you have a middle name? My sister and I (eleven) asked

No, he said, we were too poor

Why didn’t we understand why didn’t we see it

fir

At Passover dusty labeled bottles lined the bending shelves around Seder, filled with silent and ancient prayer

At twelve, I learned that glass was what remained of the Kristallnacht when the family pharmacy was smashed in

How do you pronounce Kristallnacht?

finif

My grandfather had donated his body to science, true to himself even in death

We stood in the living room, sitting Shiva

One of his friends stood up

Bob was a mensch, he said

A mensch is someone who is grumpy, and a curmudgeon, but he’s the best guy you’ll ever know. You can’t quite place it, but he’s one of the best friends you’ll ever have

Mensch, was it

Menshh

zeks

He’s gone and I am fourteen and I have memorized the Hanukkah prayer

I say it with my grandmother for all eight nights

zibn

I am fifteen now and I am moving to America to London and I have to go through hours of footage from silver, dusty labeled tapes

I press play and there is my grandfather, teaching me how to spread cream cheese on a bagel when I was four

I cried and cried and cried because that is all I have of his teaching now

And I see now that after his death was the only time that I appreciated what he was during his life.

akht

I am sixteen and I finally talk to my grandmother about the Holocaust and her family and what I am

We go to the Synagogue, seemingly for the first time

Sitting in the car with her, I ask to put on the Barry Sisters when I had asked to turn it off years before

Can you hear the clarinet in Rhapsody in Blue? That is Klezmer, that is in your blood, that joy is where you come from

nayn

When I am twenty, if my grandmother bubbe is still here

Have I listened to her words and said them like I should and like he deserves?

Will I have taken the time and respect to my own blood to carry the star that pained me?

Will I have learned?

tsen

As my grandfather passed on his language to lifeless air as I fell asleep in front of him

How would I have known that out of all the phrases, his real name, it is reduced to almost nothing

Only the numbers remain

Eynes Tsvey Dray Fir Finif Zeks Zibn Akht Nayn Tsen

How could I have known that

The decade I didn’t speak cost me a tongue

[hopevalley]

S6E2: Phone Rings & Heartstrings (Episode Write-Up)

You can also read this on my site here.

And here we are at the beginning of another new season! How do you feel? Like it’s been forever? Like it’s been little more than the blink of an eye? I know for me it’s a combination of both. It’s crazy to think a year has passed since S5! But we’ve made it to the next chapter of When Calls the Heart! I wonder what this season will have in store for us?

Plotlines for this episode:

Motherhood

Laura & College

The Telephone Comes to Hope Valley

Rosemary Plays Cupid

Jesse and Clara

The Saloon Closes

Not related to the episode exactly, but I noticed they didn’t reference Jack’s death directly in the “last time” clip. For a second, I thought they weren’t even going to let him have a speaking line, but they gave him half of a sentence. Also unrelated, the new part of the intro is great! I just wonder why they didn’t take the time to do new character bits for the characters, while they were at it. Some of these are pretty outdated.

So here we are at:

Plot #1: Motherhood!

I’ll admit that I was dreading this part a little bit. It’s hard to say where the line is between “teacher” and “mother.” I was afraid one might eclipse the other (and you know which one would be doing the eclipsing, because this is Hallmark). That said, I think overall they did a pretty good job of including the baby without making him this big overwhelming part of the actual story.

So, we find out that Jack Junior is four months old, making it almost May 1916.

The general ‘plot’ here is as follows: Elizabeth has to go back to work and finds it difficult. Molly, Rosemary, Florence, and Clara have agreed to take turns watching the baby, but it bothers Elizabeth that little Jack won’t have a more concrete schedule; she’d rather have a more stable arrangement.

This isn’t a very long or detailed plot, but it works. Everyone I know who had to go back to work bawled their eyes out when they had to drop their babies off at daycare. I know I would! Elizabeth finding it hard to balance being a mother and a teacher makes sense, but the best part about this is that she doesn’t consider quitting teaching for even a second.

First, I think it’s fair to say she needs the money, but second…she loves it! How can she balance Jack with teaching in a way that feels satisfying? That tells her that her child is getting the best arrangement she can afford while also allowing her to work to provide both the necessities and fun things?

Elizabeth’s slight clinginess isn’t really a shock or a surprise to me. It’s natural. She spent four months doing whatever she wanted with her life and her baby, and to have to hand him over to someone else every day for hours and hours… Well, it wouldn’t feel good.

I think the best part of this plot was that, like I said earlier, it wasn’t overdone. Nothing about it felt overdramatic or unnecessary.

And it wrapped up neatly with the next plot on the list:

Plot #2: Laura & College

Laura is out of school, now. In my opinion, it’s definitely that time. She’s gotta be about 15 or 16 by this point, and that’s when education ended for the majority of people. And it’s nice to get to see that transition, because with characters like Gabe, we just didn’t get it.

Free from the constraints of having to be in the classroom, Laura’s taken a job to help out her dad: working part-time at the mercantile. She loves to read, and devours the books Elizabeth loans her, but she’s given up on the idea of college. It costs too much money, and her dad needs her help.

Elizabeth, determined to find a way to make it work, writes to an acquaintance of hers who is an administrator of a preparatory school in Hamilton. She includes Laura’s grades and a recommendation letter.

Laura is accepted as a corresponding (or correspondence) student! It’ll let her study at home and send in her work (or maybe let her do it under Elizabeth’s supervision), so she’s still free to work and help her dad around the farm.

Unfortunately that leaves her little time to do her schoolwork…

So Elizabeth offers a solution that will benefit them both: Laura can be Jack Junior’s nanny! Then she’ll have a little downtime to work on her schoolwork, and it’ll pay more because it’ll be full-time.

Laura accepts the deal!

Again, this plot wasn’t huge or convoluted; it wasn’t dramatic. It was nice! And I loved how the general ‘motherhood concerns’ plot tied into this one. It didn’t need to be heavily intertwined at all. They just needed to connect. Which they did, and quite well.

That said, I don’t know if I’d trust a 15/16-year-old girl with no real babysitting experience to be full-time nanny of my baby! In that way, the solution is…maybe just a pinch too convenient? Wilma was established as being poor, and with a school-age child, maybe she would have been a better choice.

But I can’t deny that there’s a lot of room for future drama with this, too. Laura will have the opportunity to grow as a student and as a nanny! Maybe she’ll make mistakes. Maybe she’ll almost regret accepting it. Maybe… Well, it just leaves things open for some good future potential!

Plot #3: The Telephone Comes to Hope Valley

This plot isn’t really a very big deal, mostly because they skipped through all of the potential drama that would have happened when Abigail had to get people to actually bring the telephone to town. I guess at least Henry mentions that it couldn’t have been easy—and, on the plus side, too, it seems that any of the drama Abigail went through to get the phone there? Was kept from everyone else.

So… the telephone is coming to Hope Valley! There will be a line in the mercantile, the mayor’s office, the jail, and Lee’s office. As Henry says, that’s a good start!

The drama here is all good-natured. Ned tells the company he can definitely figure out the wiring, but uh…he can’t. 

He really can’t. He has no idea what he’s looking at, and the directions are confusing…so the big reveal for their four o’clock call is an awkward silent mess. Embarrassing, but also funny in a mostly good-natured sort of way.

The telephone company sends Fiona Miller to straighten things out, which she does, and not without a little sass (or uh, flashin’ a li’l ankle)! She’s easy to like. I hope she sticks around past the second episode, personally, but I can’t quite figure out if she’s meant to be a longstanding cast member or just one of those “couple of episode” characters. It’s easy to imagine it going either way.

Anyway, she fixes things right on up, the phone rings, and Abigail answers it.

Again, another…rather calm plot. It’s giving us a nice set-up for future plotlines by giving the cast access to a telephone. So who knows how things might go? It could be interesting.

That said, the one thing about this plot that I didn’t care for? Bill’s role as a curmudgeon. Was that really necessary? S1 through S4 Bill was a little tactless/thoughtless sometimes, and not emotionally open, but S5 and S6 Bill have been almost unbearably awful. I’ll talk more about this later, but the slight role he played here in this particular plot doesn’t even make sense for his character. He lived in the city for the majority of his life.

I’ll forgive this particular folly if the writers take it in an interesting direction—like Bill being phone-shy (because, for example, he relies a lot on body language/facial expression to have a conversation and gets super awkward on the phone, so he prefers wires due to it giving him the ability to think through what he needs to say and write it down to send). Otherwise it just comes off as more of the same with regards to the figgy pudding plot in the Christmas film: he’s just there to laugh at.

I’m worried that that’ll be the new norm, though. Incoming horrible joke: Bill shouting loudly into the telephone like he’s never used one before. (UGH. Just typing that gave me hives.)

Plot #4: Rosemary Plays Cupid

Now this plot was fun. It was also quiet, kind of muted, not really long, and definitely not meaty. But it served its purpose well. It also gave us some seriously awkward stuff to cringe over that wasn’t Bill’s character. Thank goodness!

So the gist of it is pretty simple: Rosemary decides that Faith and Carson have good teamworking skills, so she ambus—I mean, uh…sets them up! At her house, for dinner! Where everything ends up being awkward and weird, and all Faith and Carson talk about are…beans.

That’s right.

Beans.

Faith eats lots of beans because she can’t cook worth anything, and Carson…does not consume beans. Because they make him gassy. Great dinner conversation!  

Afterward, Faith and Carson start to bond a little over how awkward the dinner was (I mean, nothing brings a couple together like complaining about being set up, right?), but Carson gets carried away and says, “Doesn’t she realize how ridiculous that would be?”

Carson was probably trying to make things not-awkward, but all he did was make things…extremely awkward. The worst part (or best part, if we’re talking about the great acting these two did) was how Faith’s face the entire time is kind of like, “Oh crap, I can imagine it…and it’s not bad at all” and Carson drops that “ridiculous” line right on top of it, hurting Faith’s feelings and making everything between them vaguely awful.

Which we didn’t get too much of in this episode. They literally run into each other in the clinic and it’s awkward, but Carson just seems confused about it, and Faith is the one being avoidant.

Rosemary thinks her entire plan was a disaster, but…

Well, we know she got the ball rolling. ;)

Plot #5: Jesse and Clara

I love Jesse and Clara, and here they get a nice, simple little plotline that feels like it’s getting solved in a reasonable amount of time. They’re also both very cute the whole time.

Jesse purchases some land, which comes as a (pleasant) surprise to Clara. He takes her around pointing out where he’d like different buildings to go, and uses the pronoun ‘our’ to describe the barn. When Clara brings it up (“Our barn?”) Jesse responds in the affirmative (“Of course…our barn.”).

Unfortunately Clara thinks this is the beginning of a marriage proposal, but…it’s not. Jesse says it’ll happen eventually, but he wants to be more stable. Clara accepts this, but…it bothers her, so she talks to Abigail about it. Abigail’s advice is mostly to just…talk to Jesse about it, so Clara makes the effort, and Jesse pretty much just repeats himself: he wants to be in a better financial state.

Clara isn’t persuaded by this, because Jesse has a good job already, and gets kind of short/snippy with him. Jesse ends up coming forward and confessing that when he was younger he stole from a general store with some friends and he’s still paying the man back (the parts that his friends got away with).

All is forgiven when he admits that he wants to start with a clean slate: the real reason he hasn’t proposed yet. He doesn’t want something like that marring the beginning of their marriage together. He wants to prove that he’s a better man by making things right where he should, first.

All in all, a pretty good plot. Reasonable. Clara’s disappointment in not getting a proposal was more than understandable. They’ve been courting a long time, so I don’t blame her for thinking it had finally arrived only for it to just be generalized talk.

That said, this could have definitely been a bigger plot? So I’m surprised they left it as just this little thing. Him sending away $10/month could come across as a lot of things if anyone saw him doing it. But props to keeping this storyline simple! The only thing I think I would change is…maybe having Jesse talk to someone else in town he trusts (could have been just about anyone; if Dottie were around I’d probably suggest her, but Lee or Bill would be a good choice, too) to get the incentive to confess the truth to Clara. Even just a small scene where he looks thoughtful, maybe talks to himself a little in that ‘do I tell her’ ‘do I not’ way and then decisively puts down his tools and walks toward town would have gone a long way into making it seem like he was telling her for more reasons than because she’s being snippy and short with him.

Overall, though, a sweet and enjoyable plot. Jesse calling Clara m’dear was so cute it nearly killed me instantly.

Plot #6: The Saloon Closes

This was the meatiest plot of the episode by far, and with good reason: Tom Trevoy’s mother took ill (in a long-term sense), so he and his wife moved to Union City, but he keeps traveling back to Hope Valley to oversee his saloon, but the commute is awful and he isn’t with his family as much as he’d like, so…he decides to sell.

It’s an incredibly profitable business—or at least it has the potential to be, being the only saloon in town, as Henry mentions to Lee—so the fact that it’s going up for sale is a Pretty Big Deal.

Or at least, it is to Bill and Henry.

The short of it is that they both have half the funds ($4,500) and try to get Lee to cough up the other half for a partnership. Lee tells both of them he’ll have to discuss it with Rosemary first. Rosemary (more or less) talks both men into making this venture about her, because of course doing so will get them her approval (even though it’s clear neither of them really want to do these things for her). In the end, she and Lee are split about who they should choose. Rosemary thinks Bill is the safer investment; Lee would like to trust Henry. They disagree so thoroughly that they decide together to not partner with either of them, which leaves Bill and Henry to, uh, partner with one another. They hate the idea but end up talking about it. Unfortunately, they get their money together too late; Tom sells the bar for $1,000 over asking price to an out of town buyer.

How did the out of town buyer even find out about it in less than two days? Who knows.

Suspension of disbelief? Sure, okay. I can buy it easily enough.

Anyway, overall this plot is pretty good. Bill and Henry both make great points about one another: Bill might do the books for the café (we’ve seen him doing this), but he doesn’t oversee daily operations; he’s more or less a silent partner. Henry is definitely a businessman, but he’s had past issues with honesty and, uh, money.

They’re both risks for very different reasons.

But also, they don’t like each other, so it makes sense that they’d make these kinds of digs at each other in order to try and get the upper hand.

I think my favorite part about this plot was at the end when they were working together to try and buy the saloon. I wish we could have gotten that conversation on-screen, though; it would have been great. I’m sure it was mostly about the fact that the investment is pretty sound, they almost can’t lose with it, and do they really want to wait and let someone else buy it? At least if they own it, they can control what happens/how the space is used/et cetera.

Henry and Bill disagree on most things, but neither of them is stupid.

Henry doesn’t know enough about that type of business to be of much use actually doing the physical work involved in keeping it up and running, but he could be great at striking deals and keeping track of profits/loss. Bill knows enough about balancing books to see if Henry��s up to no good, but he’s also a very hands-on kind of guy, so I feel like he could do all right with the ground level kinds of things.

Still, I feel like a partnership between them would go belly-up pretty fast. They just don’t get along in other capacities enough to…make it work long-term, I think.

It’s definitely for the best that someone else bought it up.

But hey, for a second we were able to see Bill and Henry getting along!

Miscellaneous Thoughts:

Molly…had a hair appointment…in…Benson Hills… What? These women are not rich. That was a bad line. Literally anything else could have sufficed. She went to Benson Hills to get a pretty fabric she couldn’t get in town, for example. Or she went there to drop off donations for a church drive. There are so many other things they could have picked that wouldn’t seem ridiculous (not to mention unbelievably shallow in this time period).

Tom…HAS A WIFE???? We’re probably meant to think she’s been around from the beginning, but now it makes me sad she wasn’t around… The saloon owner’s wife could have been a really fun role for somebody to play!

Now, I promised I’d get back to it, so here we go: Bill was easily the worst part about this episode, and the sad thing is, like I’ve said before, he’s my favorite (regular) character! I don’t know why they decided to suddenly swerve Bill into old grumpy-gus curmudgeon territory, but so far there’s been no reason for it; it makes him hard to like and undoes all the character development he went through in the first four seasons. I don’t want to spit out a 3,000-word essay rant about why I hate this, but I figure it deserves a serious mention here, too. I hope this series isn’t going in the direction of making Bill the go-to laugh-at character. That isn’t good humor writing. It’s cheap and lazy. Please don’t let me down, writers.

Also, can I just say how cringey the weird “charming” parts were with Bill in them? You know what I’m talking about. These parts. UGH. They were terrible and weird. I’m not sure what was going on there; it almost feels like bad stage direction. Bill hasn’t done that since Season 2, and even then it was part of a persona he eventually ended up shedding (along with his job as a Mountie). Why bring it back now? It, too, undoes character development. I’ll be keeping a close eye on this.

There were so many random children…I’ve never seen before. I just wanted to point it out.

Why does only Abigail get the ‘modern’ looking telephone?

Baby Jack was cuter in this episode than in most of the stills, and Elizabeth’s nightgown was lovely.

Florence’s expressions aimed at Elizabeth for not leaving fast enough? Priceless. I mean, that’s a good spot of humor there. Nobody is mocking Elizabeth for having feelings, but we can have a good little chuckle at it.

Lee getting busted pretending to take a phone call was so cringey but mostly in a decent way? I don’t think Bill is so tactless he wouldn’t realize what Lee was doing (see my rant about Bill above) but it’s a situation we can all probably relate to a little bit. Nobody likes getting busted for practicing! A better way of doing this scene would be for Bill to look concerned, or amused? Like, “Who are you talking to?” or, “Talking to yourself?” to start out, with no condescension in his tone of voice. But…that’s just me.

Overall Thoughts:

This was a good first regular episode to the season. It definitely gives me hope about the episodes to come! Bring on the good content!

[sanctimoniousscrawlings]

Prompt #1 : Lull of the Forest

 Greenvale is quaint. At least that’s what the townsfolk say. Personally, I’ve never been fond of life here. Half the people here are ignorant and bigoted. They’re nosy and self-serving. Nine times out of ten I’ve found that the thick veneer of kindness and good ol’ fashioned neighborliness is born of duplicity, and to be quite honest it’s exhausting.

 I’ve been saving money to leave since I turned sixteen and got my first job in the town’s only book store- a tiny thing, barely larger than my room back in my apartment. I’ve been thinking of moving to a big city- it may be too crowded for my taste but I’ve found that it has the opposite vibe to small towns. People start out assholish and then turn out to be kind. It’s a pleasant surprise.

  Here I am ten years later with only half the cash I would need to get my own place somewhere I’d actually like to be. I’m scrolling through real estate sites and beginning to reconsider the whole roommate thing, much as I revile the thought of having to live with random strangers when my phone pings. It’s my best friend, Demeter.

 D: omg Riley did you hear  Me: oyg did I hear what?  Me: and are you sure I can’t convince you to come with me  D: Dylan is gone and certainly not, you know I can’t stand urban environments  Me: pls tell me he absconded from the woods with his tail between his legs and the only thing he left behind was a trail of urine  Me: I really don’t want him living next door to me again  D: ...  D: i heard the fairy house is a pretty grizzly scene  Me: wow  Me: guess i won’t have to live next door to him after all. neat.  D: i know he was an asshole but do you need to be so blase about it?  Me: only as much as he needed to chase me with a MIG torch  Me: look, i know you aren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead (but honestly he shouldn’t have been such a dick) and I wouldn’t wish death on anyone- but I definitely don’t have to care that he’s gone  Me: besides, he probably pissed off whatever’s in those woods. haven’t you noticed that when the people who live in that house are super cool, the hidden folk just play (mostly) harmless pranks- and they have never ever attacked children  D: no, they just kill the parents and steal the kids  Me: the bad parents. We both know the Bonners were abusing their kids. And pretty heavily. How many times did you call cps on them?  D: ...monthly. But that doesn’t make it right. Those kids are probably scarred for life- and scared.  Me: maybe. I think I might try buying the place tbh- I don’t even have half the money for a place in any of the cities I wanted to move to but I have more than enough for that place. It’ll be a dent in my funds, but I think it will be worth it.  D: what  Me: hear me out: I’m a misanthropist. They are clearly also not fond of people. Maybe we’ll get along. Plus, I can keep the deed to this place to protect the forest from the idiots in town moving in.  D: First of all that’s a stupid idea. Second of all, you’re too kind to be a misanthropist. You’re just a curmudgeon. A philanthropic curmudgeon.  Me: what  Me: that doesn’t even make sense  D: you’re grumpy af but I’ve never seen you do anything to cause even the people you hate the most harm. Hell, how often did you help Dylan with his homework or share your food with the delinquents who couldn’t afford lunch when we were in school.  D: the whole “I hate humankind blah blah blah destroy all humans” thing is just a front because you always had this complex about helping everyone and it kept backfiring. And then after Ashe...  Me: sorry, Demi, gotta go. I’ve got paperwork to fill out.  D: DON’T YOU DARE MOVE INTO THAT HOUSE I S2G RILEY ANDREW FERGUSON

 I know she cares but I really can’t deal with this right now. I’ve got a house to buy.

 For the next two weeks, I avoid Demeter. I love her but she’s overbearing sometimes and I’m not gonna let her talk me out of this. All the paperwork is taken care of and fortunately, my lease was ending at the end of the month so this should prove to be a smooth transition. All my packing is complete and I get to move into my new place in another few days.  My shift ended at the bookstore so I head back to the apartment only to find a grey slip of a man waiting for me.  “Riley Ferguson, there you are. Your presence is required at the law office of Paz & Squalor. If you have some time to accompany me there, I urge you to.” His voice was strained and gravelly. “It concerns the property in the woods.”  “Sure thing. Let’s go.” I wonder if there’s a hitch in the bureaucratic workings and if there is I’m damn well gonna sort it out.

 An hour later and I’m in Ms. Paz’s office. She peers across the desk at me with a grave look on her face and I can see that she’s mulling something over. The look of concern in her eyes is disconcerting.  She starts abruptly, clearly having decided to get on with whatever I’m here for. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Ferguson.”  “Loss?”  “Dylan Daniels. You are Riley Andrew Ferguson, correct?”  I nod, but the confusion on my face doesn’t assuage her concerns.  “He left the house to you in his will. And everything in it.” She opens a dwarer of her desk and pulls out an envelope, clutching it to his chest. “He also left you this.” She extends the envelope across the desk. “Sorry it took so long to get this to you. The police only found his will a few days ago- everyone was unaware he even had one until then. I just need you to sign some things.” She pushes a stack of papers and a nice pen across the desk. I’m too stuned to respond. “Riley.” She pauses and reaches a hand across the desk to squeeze mine. “I know this must be very hard for you. Take all the time you need.”  The next few hours are a blur. I find myself at my desk, clutching the sealed envelope. There’s no way this isn’t some sort of prank. He probably has the entire town in on it- they have always distrusted me here. People gossip about what sort of mental issues I may or may have. “He has the autism,” is the most favored line I hear from the elderly ladies at the old rumor mill. I am a hundred percent sure they don’t even know what autism is- and to be honest that gets to me far more than them actually suggesting I’m on the spectrum. There are worse rumors of course. I have schizophrenia and murdered my own family in a hallucination. Or I’m a sociopath and did it in cold blood. Of course, it doesn’t matter that I was asleep in the back room at work at the time- trying to avoid going home. My boss is a little scenile and his word isn’t good enough to assuage the good people of Greenvale.  They’d probably accuse me of doing Dylan in, too, if it weren’t for his proximity to the woods.  Deep breath. I open the envelope. There’s a letter inside. When I pull it out, another piece of paper drifts down to the floor. It’s stained with graphite- the pencil must have been smeared. I reach down to pick it up and freeze before I can. I recognize my own writing on the small paper. What the actual hell?  I pick it up and read it, wracked with anxiety. It’s a poem. It’s a poem I wrote in eighth grade. A flashback takes me back to when I wrote it. My first real crush on a guy. It was a boy I had P.E. with every year of middle school. I had just started dating a girl I rode the bus home with when I realized that I liked this guy and the poem quite bluntly reflected the turbulent emotions I was feeling at the time. I had a firm grasp on metaphors but even now subtly and nuance elude me when I experience emotion- which happens far more often than I would prefer. More importantly, why would he have this?  How did he even- I’m hit with another memory. I wrote that the day that little demon stabbed me in the hand with a pencil. I still have the black mark under my skin. Bastard gave me my first tattoo. He must have taken it from my binder when I was in the nurse’s office. Okay. But why would he keep this? It was fuel he could have used to burn me before I came out my senior year.  I remember the letter. With some trepidation, I begin to read it.

Riley,

 I was really hoping to tell you this in person. Frankly, I’ve been trying to for years but you evaded me at every turn. You can’t evade me at this one, though. My death ensured that- that is unless you’re not reading this and I misjudged your caliber on the whole fairy house thing. I don’t know, I figure you’d thrive there for some reason. I think Walt Whitman said something about the strongest tree in the forest is the one that sprouts against all odds.

 My eye twitches at the butchering of the quote and that he confused Walt Disney with Walt Whitman, but I carry on.

 Anyways, sorry not sorry for rambling. I like you. No, that’s putting it mildly. I think I’ve been in love with your weirdness since we first sat together in that class. I had hoped you wrote this poem about me but was too afraid to ever ask you about it. I know it’s no consolation for the animosity I displayed toward you, but I was just so terrified. Your presence left me unsettled and we got stuck together so much after that. So I reciprocated and instilled the fear in you that you put in me. It was wrong and I really am so sorry. Now you know how I feel, though. I bet the creatures of the forest got me. If I’m right, you owe me a kiss when next we meet, wherever that may be.

         Love,              Dylan Daniels. P.S. And I mean love. P.P.S. I know I got the quote entirely wrong. I bet you did that thing where your eye twitches when you can’t correct someone cuz you’re frustrated. That will be another kiss. P.P.P.S. No dictionaries were harmed in the writing of this letter. P.P.P.P.S. Well, I might have lit one on fire after.

 I feel disgusted after reading the letter. He was an asshole and a creep.  A knock at the door startles me into yelping. I catch my breath to answer it and Demeter pushes her way in.  “Sit. We’re talking.”  I do as she says; I’m still reeling from everything I just found out and Demeter is the last person anyone should ever piss off. She may be a kindly teacher and a great friend but not even the gods can save someone incurring her wrath.  “You got the house, didn’t you.” It clearly wasn’t a question but I nod quietly anyways. She sighs. “Well, if anyone from this town could thrive there it would be one of us, but still. What were you thinking?”  I stare into the nether. “I don’t know anymore. I don’t even want the house now,” I murmur. “It’s tainted. He even ruined the fairy house for me.”  “What do you mean? You knew he had lived there when you made the ridiculous plan to swoop in on it.”  I silently proffer the letter and poem without looking at her.  She lets out an incredulous whistle. “Well... He tried to put his heart in the right place. I think. Ooh, girl, this boy was a mess.” She pauses, squinting at the letter. “Wait. Did he leave you the house? Holy hell.”  Demeter stayed the night.  I woke up the next morning to a note on my bedroom door: I’ve reconsidered the roommate thing. Be back soon, packing my stuff.  If they didn’t already, the townsfolk were about to think Demeter insane, too.

 Days later and we were moved into the house, though I was still uneasy. He left a lot behind- including some nearly new furniture. Probably for the best given how spartan Demeter and I both lived. I brought a desk and computer while she brought house plants and a bed.   The house was old and quirky and had an air to it that we both adored. The rear garden was pressed right up against the old forest; with the fence having rotten away long since the tenants before Dylan had lived there, a new one was half built in its place- and wildflowers had overtaken most of the space. All except for one tree that sat in the center of our new yard, between the forest and the house. The entire rear half of the house had large beautiful windows that faced the forest, as well as a massive section of glass doors that opened up to the rear garden, almost like an entertainment area, thanks to the simple stone porch.  “Oh, I am so fixing this up.” Demeter sounded giddy, standing in the decrepit garden. “We’ve totally got this.”  “I hope so.” I can’t shake the uneasy feeling I’ve had all weekend. “I’m heading in to set up some of my supplies.”  I leave Demeter to her own devices and get to work in the back room with the enormous glass doors. After a few minutes, it feels as though the very air is weighing on me. I open the doors wide, not paying any mind to the dangers of the forest. Let them come, they’d probably make better company than 99% of the good townsfolk of Greenvale. The invigorating scent of the forest fills the room and I’m suddenly in the mood for oil pastels.

 It’s been a week now and I still feel trapped whenever I’m in the house. I feel as though I’m being watched any time I’m on the property. The eyes from the forest seem more curious than anything- it’s inside that I feel I’m in danger. After going on an unnecessary shopping trip for the umpteenth time since moving in, I decide to be productive and prepare a basket of food for those that dwell in the forest. Fruits, nuts, pepitas, and even some actual food I cooked up. I set the basket out back, near the treeline, and go back to the room I claimed for my studio. When next I look outside, the basket is empty and moved closer to the house.  I hope they enjoyed it.

 I get home earlier than Demeter and begin to make a habit of leaving food out for my new neighbors- including a dish of milk on my window sill. Each day, the basket is returned closer and closer to the house. I begin finding gifts of seeds, flowers, and odd trinkets in the returned basket. Demeter joyously nurtures the seeds into all manner of strange and exotic plants.  One day, when the house is feeling particularly stifling, I decide to go to the forest edge to get away from it. I find a cozy spot beneath a tree and start writing. I hear the basket being moved but I’m too in the flow to pay any attention- that is until I notice a curious fox looming over my notebook. I don’t want to spook it so I continue writing. Eventually, the fox lays its head on my wrist, watching the pencil soar across the pages. I suppress the urge to make a high pitched noise in joy at this blessing.  My trips to the forest edge became more frequent- as did the fox’s joining me. I started bringing treats for my new friend who cozied up to me as I worked. One day, when Demeter was out later for student conferences, I went out to the back porch- still outside but sheltered from the storm that had rolled in. I mistakenly drifted off to sleep to the sound of rain- and far more easily than I could have fallen asleep inside the house.  I awakened to find myself wrapped in a fine silk cloak lined with the softest fur I have ever felt in my life- and I pet a lot of cats. I also note that I am now inside and the doors are shut. It’s already morning, as well.  Demeter is in the kitchen, making herself a quick breakfast before she heads off to work.  “I’m glad to see you made it home safely. Did you bring me inside?”  “What? No, you were asleep on the floor when I got home last night. I feel like it’s the first time you’ve slept since we got here.”  I grunt noncommittally and leave the room.  Later on, I return the cloak, folded in the basket with yet another assortment of tasty goodies. This time I'm reading rather than working on one of my projects. The fox returns once more and- to my joy- curls up in my lap. I stroke his soft fur while I read and eventually I can hear the soft contented snoring of my vulpine buddy. I'm so comfortable that for the second day in a row I make the mistake of falling asleep outside.  This time, as the beams of morning sunlight drift through my eyelids, I’m in my room. The luxurious cloak is covering me once more and the fox is curled up next to my head. The Prompt Next