#she found his drafts on his laptop and their shared emails

[grimm-haven]

The long overdue proposal.

Beginning of Lemon Gen // Previous // Next

[tallulahneale]

Dear Diary

Summary: Smoke and Stack read Tallie's diary to find out she's been crushing on Stack more than him.

A/N: This was the dynamic I picked up on; Smoke is mean-ish and headstrong while Stack is playful and easy going. 

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Sexual content

Part 2

Looking through her online calendar, Tallie proceeds to make a note of the catering orders for the week ahead.

“Journal time!” She beams, reaching to the shelf for the notebook that keeps her thoughts, experiences and feelings a secret. But to no avail. She searched everywhere for it!

“For a pink fluffy hardcover, it should not be that hard to spot.” She mutters pacing around her room.

Meanwhile…

Smoke is running through the Club Juke ledger, while Stack creates the monthly ad for their social media pages.

“Since when do you keep a notebook?” Smoke asks his twin, pointing at the pink feathered jotter in the midst of their bookstand.

“Do I look like I even like writing?” he replies with a guffaws, lounging on velvet wood settee. With mild curiosity, Smoke wedges the jotter from it's place. The feathers on the spine tickle him as he glides a finger down the hardcover, opening the unknown jotter.

‘Dear diary, Today was a blast at Club Juke! They loved the food and it was great meeting the rest of the team-

“Cute.” a twitch forming at the corner of his lips, remembering the look of joy in Tallie’s eyes. He keeps reading with intrigue.

St and Sm kept me entertained again while doing their meal prep, and boyyyy was I grateful for the distraction. Sm was intimidating (as per usual) so it didn't bother me when he left. St stayed with me tho❤️  I love like when St's around. The playful glint of his eyes and wide stance when he lurks in the hall makes my thigh clench. and his eyes. his muthafreakin eyes! They just draw me in. I’d loveee to see 'em eyes roll back when/if I ride his fac-’

“Woah, that’s enough” Smoke mutters to himself

“You’ll never believe what’s been written on these pages” He shares, passing the jotter over to Stack with the leather tassel bookmark wedged open on the page in question.

Stack collects the jotter with a suspicious glance, taking in the feminine attributes of the dainty pages. He flips it closed to check for a name but there is none, he returns to the indicated page. As he reads, his eyebrows raise, he swallows spit causing his adam apple to bobble, before smirking.

“I think Tallie should swing by… we do need a meal prep soon” He grins, Smoke nods and drafts a note to send.

Back at Tallie’s…

A shiver shocks her bones, a superstition that a conversation is being had on her behalf. The diary is yet to be found and that makes her worry even more. In the wrong hands, it could spoil her good girl reputation. A ding is heard from the laptop resting on her desk; an email notification.

Meal prep requests from Smoke&Stack Twins. (Accept/Decline)

She smiles with relief while accepting the order, it’s always breeze cooking for them. Tallie shoots a quick reply to confirm the time and date.

———

With no luck, her diary remains lost and the appointment with the twins was here. She wanted to write a quick piece before seeing them, it would help keep her feelings at bay.

“I’ll be fine” She assures herself greeting the staff at the concierge and walking up to their floor. Tallie knocks on the door in a cheerfully way while waiting for someone to let her in.

Silence.

“They know I’m comin', right?” She says waiting patiently.

With another knock, a buzz of the bell and no response she lets herself in. The hallway is eerily quiet so she turns on the lights that lead to the kitchen. All the ingredients are already laid out on the prep corner of the kitchen counter. Butter, eggs, sugar, flour, vanilla extract, cinnamon, pecans; seems like the twins are craving pastries this week. Tallie hears a baritone mumble and quickly glances around the open plan room. Lo and behold Smoke has been lounging on the couch, the whole damn time. 

“Didn’t you hear the bell?!” She snaps at Smoke, he is the only one present. Her tone is sharp, yes, but not writing in the diary has left her on edge. Especially today... the hidden thoughts were running wild.

Choosing the perfect time to emerge, Stack walks in through the hallway in a regal terry cotton robe. She peers up at his face and eyes him to his feet. His hair is damp with the robe hung loosely around his torso. The belt not fully tied. She glances back up, his eyes already catching her lustful stare. Flustered, she looks down and then back to Smoke, who remains on the couch.

“Is she taking that tone with you or me?” Smoke asks turning to his twin with a mischievous smirk, to which Stack smirks back with a shrug.

“I don’t need to be here.” She whisper but not quietly enough. 

“Yeah but you want to be here… don’t you?” The mischief behind his smirk is now exposed as he point to the item in Smoke’s hand. Lifting up his left hand with a sway, you see the features of a very familiar notebook.

“That’s my diary!” She squirms. His back is faced away from her but she knew he is smirking like a cat that caught a canary. The flight or fight response has kicked in. Just as Tallie decides to make an attempt to run and snatch it, Stack strolls over to the kitchen counter shaking his head in warning. She freezes, glancing through her peripheral at Smoke still with her diary held high, the tassel moves…mocking her in an Irish jig. Stack steps closer to hover behind her, reading her bright eyes and steady breaths. The rope frees from its hold and leaves him open, chest bare and clad in fitting undergarments.

She gasps as he turns her flushed against the counter, facing the torment of her lust. His hands rest on the countertop, caging Tallie in. 

“Secret’s out brown sugar” He growls into her ear.

Smoke finally turns to face them, striding to the empty counter stool. He positions himself directly opposite Tallie and Stack, still smirking and flipping through the pages. She attempts to nab it back but is left bent at the waist and pressed on the surface. Stack remains behind her, tracing delicate touches across the small of her back. Keeping his hips still but firm enough for her to feel the warmth of his nether regions.

“Give it back!” She barks, suddenly fuelled by desire and fear.

“You need to watch that tone Tallie” Stack warns from behind her, removing his hand from her back and returning it to the countertop. She whimpers at the loss of his warm and rich touch.

“I knew you didn’t see me like how we both see you” Smoke starts “You sure do express yourself more on a page than in person.”

She response with a glare, keeping a sharp gaze on him and her silly little diary. ‘Don’t falter, don’t falter, don’t falter’ she thinks to herself, but Stack's gentle caress on her arm cause a shiver to crawl up her spine and lashes to flutter in want.

“I don’t know… what your talking abo-”

Stack smirks at her denial as he tugs Tallie upright, fitting into the curve of her back as he latches onto her neck. A loud mewl escapes her lips as he savagely nibbles, licks and sucks at the pulsing jugular.

“St-tack” she stutter intwining their fingers, pulling his hand to her bountiful chest. 

“Whose eyes do you want to see roll back?” Smoke demands, gloating at her demise. “Seems like it’s yours, huh?”

“W-whaa-?” Another moan slips out as Stack attacks her viciously. She always had a feeling that he had a way, with that thick tongue of his. From watching him wrap his joints to it poking out when he counts a stack of bills. Bring her back to the earthy plane, he eases off her neck moving to nibble at curve of her lobe.

“It is mine?” Stack asks, pressing the stiffening bulge of his thickness against the cleft of her rounded plump cheeks. All this while Smoke remains vigilant, stoic and unbothered.

“I-i want… w-want” she stutters, eyes flickering like a light in a horror movie, unable to handle the balance of Smoke’s smouldering gaze and Stack’s desire-filled touch. 

“Talk to us Tallie” Smoke mocks her, still firm in his demeanour.

“I want my diary back!” She cries out in longing and thirst. Being touched but not touched enough left her in a limbo. It felt like punishment. The teasing, the taunting, the edging  just because of her silly little diary. These men are a force to worship; more than just their aura, more than just their fierce gaze, everything.

“Still got tha’ tone on her Stack” Smoke says with a shrug of his hands and shoulders “You got work to do.”

He stands up and pushes the diary open on the last entry, the title ridicules her ‘Stack&Smoke twins’. Stack moves away from her space, she whines, eyes begging him not to let go.

“Relax” Smoke whispers smugly.

Stack crouches down, making his way under the flimsy fabric of her summer dress. Comfortably sat on the pristine marble flooring. With the back of his head resting against the cupboard doors, he looks up at her. The eyes that draw her in, the eyes that burn with so much compassion and power.

She looks down in acknowledgement, trapping his head between her warm supple thighs like a cushion. Smoke whistles. Her attention returns back to him as he winks. 

“I’d love to give you more, but that diary’s in your hands now.” He states, stroking the tent formed by his covered length. Deviously taking in her expression.

Her breath hitches at the gentle swat across her southern breed cheeks.

“And so it begins” She hears Stack mumble beneath her. 

He grips the thighs, holding her in place. The fabric of her panties is transparent, the wetness creating a friction. With the tip of his nose sliding against her covered lips.

His tongue follows the out line of her puffy lips through the fabric. tracing each curve up to her pulsing swollen clit and down to the entrance of her waterfall. He glides along, sucking at the fabric, wanting to taste it all.

“Pll-eease Sttackk” She begs

There’s a tut in the background. Smoke is still root on the chair, captivated at her lust.

“Ask properly” He advises, zoned in on her nipple that tries to escape the fitted blouse.

Stack nips at her inner thigh, swatting her cheeks twice in admonishment. She corrects her fault immediately, knowing what needs to be said.

“P-pl-lease Smo-ke, please Stackkk” She purrs.

With a nod, he pulls her panties to the side and slips in like a thief in the night. Tallie grinds on his thick warm wet tongue, his nose tapping at the clit. Her eyes tear-up and her fingers clenching into a fist, she watches as Smoke beckons her to lean forward. He pulls her bottom lip open, invading her mouth with his thumb. At the same time, Stack swats her again and grips the heated flesh of her hips pulling her onto his gushy slick face. Not hovering, he wants her whole weight.

The fiery gaze from Smoke was intense, the simultaneous pressure from Stack causes her to hump his lips with passion. Tallie sucks hard on his thumb, saliva wetting his finger drooling down into his palm. He snatches his thumb back while maintain the leering look of lust she held in her soul. He moves slowly, sinking his hand beneath his slacks and toys with the tip of his throbbing head, the wetness of her mouth on his thumb giving him enough friction. She mewls in delight as his paces quickens.

Stack isn’t letting up either, her slit is plunged with his fingers and her sensitive nub caressed by his tongue not yet giving her what she wanted. What she truly needed. He keeps a steady pace dancing around her clit as the wetness pools on his tongue like warm honey, down his goatee and across his freshly shaven cheeks. Tallie cries, letting out a whiny plea, asking for nothing but to cum. Her head is spinning, moaning feverishly as he eyes flutter from the cool breeze against her nipples.

"She's close" Smoke mutters, grinding into his palm as he sucks in his bottom lip.

Swats her again in warning, Stack reaches the sweet spot and thrashes his tongue. Desperate for her desire, her juice, her warm honey. Tallie let's go with a screech. She spasms on his tongue riding until her knees buckle, her eyes are back on Smoke wanting to see him finish with her. But he keeps his length hidden from her view, stroking it enough to release some tension.

Tallie can feel it. Stack can feel it. Smoke can feel it. It was in the air, the moment, she felt the gravity in the room suddenly drop, then a burst of warmth as she floods Stack with the essence of her womanhood for the second time. The twins groans in admiration. Smoke reluctantly frees his length, still tight and hard. Stack just as burdened but makes no move to relieve his discomfort.

It was all about her, these twins were selfless to the core. Smoke walks away snatching the diary from where it lay. Abandoned in the midst of their activities.

“You off all people should kno’ ” Stack starts as he stands up, placing a kiss along her chin and down her throat “Closed mouth don’t get fed.”

Tallie still in shock at the energy of the twins, blurts the first though that comes to mind.

“Do I still have to bake?”

“Do you want a bun in your oven?” The twins reply simultaneously. 

She watches as they glance over their shoulder to peer at her, mischief written all over their faces.

PART 2

A/N: Watch the movie if you haven’t already!!!! (p.s did y'all notice the play on words with her waiting to be 'let in'?)

[harmonyhealinghub]

The Fresh Start Café Shaina Tranquilino August 5, 2024

In the bustling city, Mark Thompson had climbed the corporate ladder with relentless ambition. As a high-powered executive, his days were consumed by board meetings, financial reports, and endless emails. The stress had become a constant companion, and Mark's love for cooking, once a cherished hobby, had faded into a distant memory. One evening, after another grueling day, Mark found himself gazing at an old photo of him and his grandmother in her kitchen, covered in flour, smiling ear to ear. A longing for those simpler times stirred within him. He closed his laptop, leaned back in his chair, and sighed deeply. The seed of change had been planted.

Six months later, Mark stood in front of an old, charming building in the quaint town of Maplewood. The Fresh Start Café, read the sign above the door. The paint was still fresh, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods wafted through the air. Mark had traded his tailored suits for a chef’s apron, and the gleaming office towers for this cozy, sunlit café.

The locals were curious about the new addition to their town. The café quickly became a popular spot, known for its warm atmosphere and delicious homemade food. Mark was often found behind the counter, chatting with customers, or in the kitchen, preparing dishes with a passion that had been dormant for too long.

One brisk autumn morning, Mark was kneading dough when the doorbell jingled, signaling a new customer. He looked up to see a woman in her fifties, dressed in a smart but casual outfit, with an air of confidence that reminded him of his old life. She introduced herself as Linda, a travel writer exploring small-town gems.

Linda was captivated by the café’s charm and Mark’s story. She returned every day for a week, sampling the menu and jotting down notes. They struck up a friendship, bonding over their shared love for food and travel. Linda's visits became the highlight of Mark’s day, a reminder that even in a small town, connections and opportunities for new beginnings abounded.

One evening, as they closed up the café, Linda handed Mark a draft of her latest article. "The Fresh Start Café: A Haven of Homemade Happiness," it read. Mark felt a swell of pride and gratitude. The article beautifully captured the essence of his journey and the soul of his café.

Months turned into years, and The Fresh Start Café flourished. It became more than just a place to eat; it was a community hub where stories were shared, friendships were formed, and dreams were rekindled. Mark’s transformation from a corporate executive to a café owner was complete, and in the heart of Maplewood, he found his new purpose.

One day, as Mark looked around the bustling café, he spotted a familiar face in the crowd—his former boss, Mr. Reynolds. They exchanged a surprised but warm greeting. Mr. Reynolds was passing through town and had heard about the café’s reputation. Over a cup of Mark’s signature coffee, they reminisced about old times and marveled at the unexpected turns life could take.

As the sun set, casting a golden glow over The Fresh Start Café, Mark felt a profound sense of contentment. He had found his place, a space where his love for cooking and his desire for connection could thrive. The café was not just a fresh start for Mark, but a testament to the power of following one’s passion, no matter where it leads.

[jaemified]

camera - yang jungwon

“you only love me on camera”

pairing ; yang jungwon x reader

genre ; angst, idol au

warnings ; swearing, very brief slapping

wordcount ; 0.7k

synopsis ; lee y/n and yang jungwon have always been seen as the ‘perfect’ couple in the industry, but whats seen as flawless is only on camera.

read below the cut !

y/n scrolled through the ipad, reading what engenes were saying about the two of them on live. "'you are a great mubank host, im sad your contract is ending soon.' thank you! im sad my contract is ending too. hopefully there will be another chance like this again!" she flashed a genuine smile.

"-'you guys are so cute together', awe thank you!" y/n expressed her gratitude to the camera while reading a comment out loud.

jungwon wrapped an arm around the girl beside him, rubbing her shoulder before checking his phone to read another comment from your fandoms.

"-'will we ever get a vlog of the two of you together?', well we cant say much, but you can expect one coming soon." jungwon replied with a nod.

"well its getting pretty late and we have music bank tomorrow. remember to stream bite me and support us on our latest comeback. bye engenes, love you always!" and with that, jungwon immediately removed his arm from y/n as he cut the cameras.

"i was wondering if we could go out to dinner tonight? maybe talk or even go over the script? just the two of us."

without even looking up from his computer as he responded to emails, jungwon answered y/n by saying, "y/n, you know we arent really together right? its all just a contractual arrangement for my sake, so my group and i can promote." he chuckled.

she gripped her plastic water bottle in slight annoyance and anger. of course she had known, she had always known. she just never wanted to admit to it. being together was purely for publicity, and seeing as they were in front of cameras practically 24/7, it felt all too real for y/n to want to accept it was all only on camera.

"why do you hate me?"

"what kind of question is that? i dont hate you, im just keeping it professional." jungwon mumbled with a slight tone to it.

y/n scoffed.

"so being a dick to me is considered 'being professional' now? youre so nice to all your other female colleagues. why cant you be the same with me?"

she was upset, rightfully so. i mean, she thought she found someone who cared for her even if it were just as a friend, but truthfully, he couldnt even do that in the very least.

jungwon finally looked up from his laptop, drafting the current email he was in the middle of.

he crossed his arms and looked the girl before him in the eyes.

"because youre the only one ive ever been forced to date. and sure, youre pretty but you arent exactly my type. not to mention it was inexplicably sudden."

"i really thought we were bonding, even if it were just as friends. theres nothing wrong with wanting to go out for food. we do so much on camera, so why cant we have fun without it?" y/n argued back, though still slightly offended.

"its all on contract. you read it, you signed it as did i. we both knew what it is we agreed to. so why should that suddenly change just because of however you feel?"

she walked up closer to jungwon, noses almost touching, looking deep into his eyes before whispering then stepping back.

"youre a prick."

there was a loud clap in the air, the sound of y/ns hand colliding with jungwons cheek, more specifically so.

"youre a liar."

another slap to the face.

"and youre nothing but a selfish bastard! did everything we ever shared mean nothing to you? i gave you nothing but my all, i thought what we had was genuine but no, you want to let go of that too!"

"y/n.."

"no! dont 'y/n' me now that im getting mad. you never cared while i was calm. is all it is you expect me to do is just sit there and look pretty? to make you look good because you got the wealthy, pretty girl on your arm?"

"y/n."

tears flowed down her face and she stared at his flushed red cheeks due to the force of her last slap, as well as the emotion that hit him along with it.

"wanna know why i dont give a fuck about the contract? because i loved you, i really did! and i thought you felt the same. but no,"

"now i know. you only love me on camera."'

[mxtangent]

Ben Shapiro Writing an Email - an Epic Tale

"Okay, it's one simple email, you can do it Ben, your wife is a doctor." Ben said as he bagan to type in his Thinkpad X270 laptop.

To whom it may offend,

"Ah no!" Exclaimed Ben, "it's reads as way too desperate..." Ben attempted to mash the backspace button to erase his numerous mistakes, but accidentally backed out of the Gmail website all the way back to a YouTube video named "Ben Shapiro DISINTEGRATES snowflake until they're REDUCED TO MERE ATOMS with his PARTICAL EXALERATOR POWERD RAYGUN." He briefly paused to wonder how many pages back he went, trying to decipher when in the last 18 hours he saw the video before him, as he spent all of them seeing clips of himself to gather up the confidence to write an email.

After 4 more hours of procrastinating on YouTube, Ben finally got back to writing the email

Dear liberals,

If I'm wrong about something, then why does my doctor say my brain is so big? Attached is factual proof from a doctor, (not my wife, which is also a doctor) and as you would agree that facts and logic don't care about your feelings, you will no longer be able to deny that I am extremely intelligent.

Sincerely,

Ben Shapiro, MD('s husband)

He began looking through the files of his old laptop, it taking hours to load each folder, the computer seemingly begging for mercy as each it loads more and more folder filled to the brim with clips of the times Ben was victorious in debates with young collage students. Finally, he found what he was looking for in a folder filled with different photos of Andrew Niel with badly scribbled edits mocking him.

"I should really get to organizing my files by the dwey decimal system sometime soon..." He paused for a second "But not now. Now is the time to destroy those peaky snowflakes once and for all."

Ben dragged a scanned PDF of a diagnosis for a cancerous brain tumor he got a few days back from a medical professional into Internet Explorer, and after the browser opened the PDF instead of attaching it, and Ben going back and rewriting the email, (not aware of the draft folder) he finally wrote the recipient: liberals@gmail.com.

Shapiro hit the send button with great enthusiasm, not before CCing his doctor wife who is a doctor so she could be proud of him for finally sending an email. But he immediately got a response. The email bounced. He didn't understand, the liberals must have a shared email address, otherwise how would they plan their agenda on a Google Docs? He was devistated, crying on the floor in a fetal position. He tried to get back up, but couldn't. Ben started to feel weird, like the world was made of jelly. He couldn't move. His vision going black.

The next day, Fox News held a segment about the recent passing of renouned internet celebraty Ben Shapiro, who died after an intercontinental ballistic tweet sent by the liberal snowflakes has inflicted him with cancel culture. (aka terminal brain cancer)

It is said (by Alex Jones) that the whole nation wept that day. But some whisper of a dark street corner where cheers could be heard. In that street corner, a local folk legend claims, lays the remains of a bus.

[youarejesting]

Sly like a... ? Part 7

[Master list] [Sly Master List] Beta: n/a (at the moment) Rating: All Pairing: Hybrid!BTS x FailedHybrid!Reader Genre: Hybrid au, fluff, action, adventure, angst, drama, slice of life. Some marked chapters will contain mature/smut scenes, BUT they will not have plot in those scenes and are 100% skippable without losing your place in the story. Words: 2.2k

Summary: Human’s strive to be better, faster and stronger looking to animal DNA. Thus Hybrids are born. As the rise for designer and Pedigree Hybrids increase, so do the failed attempts. There is one species scientists are unsuccessful in creating, but, folklore says they have been here all along, hiding and blending in with the humans for many millennia. How clever they are.

[First] [Prev] [Next]

Sleep broken by the whispers of scheming hybrids in your kitchen, "She loves blueberry pancakes so we are going to make them," Jimin's voice was softened and traveled like mist through the air. Your ear twitched as you pretended to be asleep a little longer not to spoil their plans. It was amazing to hear them all cooperating with one another.

There was a knock at the door and you almost laughed when he called out, "Someone gets the door before he wakes Y/n." Namjoon said Jungkook and Hoseok scurried to the door and opened it with a long and heavy shush.

"Y/n is sleeping," Hoseok whispered hushing the boy

"We are making pancakes," Jungkook explained, helping Taehyung inside, he dropped his bag and huddled with the others by the kitchen bench, you were watching them in the reflection of the television quietly bickering.

"Can I put the blueberries in?" Taehyung asked excitedly.

"Jungkook already asked to do that job," Jimin sighed, “and before you ask, Yoongi is cooking them, Namjoon added the flour, Seokjin added the eggs and Hoseok did the milk.”

“So there is nothing left to do,” Taehyung sounded so dejected, you wanted to tell him it was the thought that counts but Jimin beat you too with a job claimed only he could do.

“Go out back and get a few cute flowers, not too many and you can put it in one of the nice vases for Y/n, okay?”

The hybrid was quick to scamper out the back door in search of flowers. The sweet sizzle of pancake batter in a pan made you breathe deeply. You gave them ten minutes, you were being so considerate even though your neck was cramped.

‘Waking’ to the clatter behind you, you faked a yawn and quickly stretched sitting up, trying to appear like you hadn’t heard the whole pancake ordeal. It was cute hearing them whispering hurriedly and clamoring around behind you.

“Quickly put them on the plate?”

“Wait, put the flower on the tray too.”

“Someone, distract her,” Jimin said while you tried to check your phone inconspicuously.

“Good morning?” Hoseok smiled dragging Yoongi over, you continued ‘answering an email’ slowly scratching your head.

“Oh, Good morning, just give me a second to finish this email,” You signed off the fake email and saved it to your drafts. “Okay, all done, sorry just replying to some important emails to the school. “How are you this morning, should I make some breakfast?”

“Uh, Yoongi wanted to ask something?” Hoseok said and you paused, “Alright, what can I help you with Yoongi?”

“I was wondering if today when we go shopping if we could possibly pick up some, uh…” He looked around for something to come to mind. He seemed to be panicking and you stood up and took his hand.

“Yoongi, you know you can ask for anything right?” you rubbed his hands and looked at Hoseok and back to him, “Is this something personal you want to ask me?”

“No, it’s like that, I was wondering if I could get a CD player?” He said eyes widening at the thought.

“Would you like a CD player and CD’s or I can get you a phone and give you and pay for unlimited music then it’s portable and I can get you a nice pair of headphones?” You made sure knew his options, “It’s up to you honey?”

“Uh yeah, portable would be great,” he blushed his toes curling nervously in the fluffy rug. “If it isn’t too much? I mean it probably is, so don’t worry about it…”

“No it will be perfect for your studying to drown out the other boys and I will get you all phones anyway so we can just buy the unlimited music pass.” You smiled “I want to spoil you boys and get you everything you need and more to be comfortable especially if you are going through university, I don’t want you to think or be stressed about anything bad.”

“Good morning!” Jungkook grinned and you turned to see them all standing around the table with the a pancakes, “We made you breakfast!”

“Nice distraction,” Seokjin clapped Hoseok and Yoongi on the shoulders. You made a show of enjoying the pancakes and shared them with everyone telling them to get ready to go out as you were going to be doing a big shop.

Once everyone was strapped into the van and dressed you headed out to the store and found a park. “Alright listen to me, no matter what I will not leave anyone behind, so I would like you to walk in groups there is eight of us so let’s walk in two groups of four. Jimin will lead Namjoon, Seokjin and Taehyung, I will take Jungkook, Hoseok and Yoongi.”

But for now everyone follow me you guided them into the store, if you ever get lost please find an information desk in any store, they are marked with an i and they will make an announcement letting me know where you are. Otherwise, this is your temporary outing bracelets that have my name and number on them” You handed them out and they all grinned.

“Now that you know all of that lets go into the department store fore some clothes and such,” You handed Jimin a card and told him the budget he had and you all began exploring. They all trailed after you unwilling to part and well you were shopping in the same area. “Yoongi, this looks like it is your size, do you want to try it on for me?”

“Jungkook, these are your size, try them on too, I will be right outside” You smiled, we can talk the entire time. “They went in and you were talking to Hoseok and Taehyung who were giggling about different clothes”

“Seokjin, that’s a lovely shirt but try it on love the shoulders look a little narrow, Namjoon, that is interesting” You laughed watching Namjoon make strange outfits.

“Y/n, what about this pretty shirt?” Jimin asked passing Seokjin who took two sizes to the dressing room.

“That is from the ladies section,” Namjoon pointed at the blouse.

“Clothes aren’t gendered Joonie, you can wear any clothes in this store, I have this jacket at home and it is made for men but I look cute in it.” You explained, gesturing to the jacket and turned to Jimin “Go try it on, with these dress pants Jimin, I bet it will make you look really handsome”

Someone cleared there throat behind you and you smiled, Uh, that sweater is too big Yoongi, we will get you a smaller one and Jungkook they look really good, so if you want to find clothes in these sizes you may”

Seokjin stepped out and placed the smaller size on the returns rack and you took his shirt and placed it in your basket. Watching Hoseok and Taehyung and Namjoon head to the dressing rooms with fun styles.

“How do I look?” Jimin stepped out looking long legged and like a prince charming.

“Like an angel?” you laughed, “your hair is getting a little long do you want a cut?”

“It is a bit long isn’t it, maybe I should cut it,” He laughed fiddling with the ends.

After clothes, you went to a store for shoes and then to a restaurant for lunch. It was after lunch waiting by the toilets that Yoongi and Jungkook expressed their interest in an electronic store wanting to look at their headphones and computers. You sent them over but they walked back quickly.

“What happened?” You asked confused as to why they came back so quickly, they couldn’t have looked at the phones that quick. Their ears were pressed down and they looked upset.

“They kicked us out,” Jungkook mumbled, “They called us strays and said that we couldn’t shoplift in their store”

You told the boys to all put on their best outfits and walked over to the store when all your Hybrids finished in the bathroom, “hello, I am the owner of these Hybrids, we were looking to buy seven top-of-the-range laptops, seven phones, and a gaming console” You smiled but it was forced.

Jungkook and Yoongi’s ears were pressed back and their tail between their legs and you hummed, “which one said it?” Jungkook pointed at the young woman and man at the side of the store looking jealous.

The manager came out and you smiled, talking sweetly. He turned away and you winked at Jimin, “They said what to you, that you were strays and you couldn’t shoplift in the store, which ones said it, those two over there” 

The two in the corner paled as you glared at the manager. “Your employees discriminated against my Hybrids.”

“We apologize they were not exactly dressed befitting to their stature?” the two tried to excuse themselves.

“Does that excuse you, I am sorry, but we might have to take our business elsewhere?” You growled quite annoyed, “These are highly sensitive young hybrids who have not had the best upbringing and you want to discriminate against them. Because they were dressed in different clothes than you deem allowed to be rich.”

“We sincerely apologize and we would like to offer you a deal,” The manager said, and you looked up at him, “We will give you our highest rate of insurance absolutely free and I will have my lovely employee Mister Choi hear take you to our private room’s and make you some drinks. Mister Lee and Miss Kim you can wait in my office.”

The young man took the drink orders and ran off, you took the moment to make sure your hybrids knew you weren’t upset with them.

“I am sorry I made a scene, I just don’t want anyone to ever look down on you, I want you to be respected as if you were human and I want you to know you are worth so much.” You consoled them patting their heads. “I would like to add the necessary programs for university students to have to be added to the laptops and I would like a selection of the best games for the console, I would like these phones here, I hear they have lots of colors, and I would like one of each color, so they don’t get mixed up.”

“For the seven laptops, phones and console and games I will throw in a free phone for you miss and insurance up to 13 years for every product and each laptop will be equipped with the required paid programs to help them through University.” He smiled as mister Choi came in with drinks he handed out Hot Chocolates and coffees.

“Are you Park Jimin, the billboard Calico?”

“Yes, that’s me, I can’t really autograph anything, a government rule” He laughed, “But I will let them know about the companies excellent service and sympathies in regards to the fair sale of products to Hybrids”

“Yes many companies, are quick to add secret fees on top but your documents seem to all be checking out., I could recommend the store as a source for the new expansion they will be needing a good computer system?” 

The manager wiped his forehead sweating profusely, you had to hold back a scowl.

“This is tasty,” Taehyung hummed, his legs swinging back and forth on the seat, he was just enjoying his hot chocolate oblivious to the weight of your presence in the room. Catching his comment the manager looked up.

“Would you like to add the coffee machine, it really does make great hot chocolates?”

“If we add a coffee machine which would be greatly appreciated I would like to have some good quality headphones for free for the two your employees hurt with their words and a music subscription family pass for all the members on the phones..”

“That will be arranged,” He nodded, wiping his brow again, “Your total is forty thousand,” he said shocked but you expected it at almost four thousand each for the best laptop and almost two thousand for the best phones and a console and games and a coffee machine.

“And you are paying on credit?” The man asked, it was nice for you to leave with so much stuff and Yoongi was quiet on the drive home. Guiding him into his bedroom you sat him down to talk.

“Yoongi, I don’t want anyone to ever say anything about your worth alright, they have no idea how much you mean to me and how important you are” You stressed sitting beside him.

“Yeah I know this program means a lot to you and you don’t want it to go wrong so you got to keep us all happy.” He mumbled standing and walking to the door.

“Yoongi, no at the end of the day I want you guys to be happy in the moment if this program fails I want you all to have had a good time,” You tried to reason.

“Yeah before we get sent back to the slaughter.” He muttered, “Please get out,”

You took a deep breath and left the room unable to argue with Yoongi. Your eyes couldn’t help but sting as you stepped out into the hall.

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[fbfh]

dear baby; strawberry milkshakes - leo x reader parents au

words: 1.8k

summary: You and Leo are getting used to adulting together, when Chiron asks for your help. Next thing you know, there’s a little demigod for you two to take care of - and you’re not going to let her down.

warnings: almost boning but getting interrupted, shit is said twice, one use of fucking I think, mentions of orphanages and the foster care system, mentions of CPS, being at a CPS building, adopting a child, leo has trauma, leo and reader take in a child when you’re both 19, technically teen parents but not really, the kid has some trauma too, everyone has trauma but literally what’s new

au: sort of college + parents au

song recs: raining in new york mix - the bootleg boy (tw for some sort of sad dialogue samples), falling in love with love - bernadette peters in cinderella (1997)

a/n:  I saw a kids book called Sophia Valdez Future Prez and I know nothing about it but immediately knew I had to do a parents au where you and Leo have a daughter named sophia???????? also I accidentally gave myself baby fever whoopsie

also I was barely able to proof read this and had no brain while writing half of it so if the beginning feels rushed at all that’s why teehee

Straddling his lap, you start to take off Leo’s shirt. He tilts his head to the side as you nip at the skin gently. He moans softly, then tenses. 

"Shit!" He hisses, sitting up and pulling your shorts back up. You look at him bewildered, and he nods his head to the side, and you see a shimmery cloud that says that you have an incoming iris message from Chiron.  

"Oh shit," you echo, moving to a reasonable distance away from him, a thick throw blanket tossed gracefully across your legs and pulled up to cover your chest, and you're grateful your shirt hadn't been thrown across the room already. 

He pulls his shirt down and you toss him a throw pillow to cover his very obvious excitement. You give each other a ready as we'll ever be look and accept the call. 

"Hey Chiron… what's up?" Leo asks nonchalantly. 

"You must pardon my intrusion, dear children, I hope I'm not - er - interrupting anything.” “No, no, not at all,” you answer, hoping what you had been doing wasn’t too obvious in spite of how both of you are looking particularly flushed and deschevled, “we were just watching a movie.” 

Leo nods in agreement, and you list two different movies at the exact same time, the dark knight rises and moonstruck.

A beat passes, and you continue, “Double feature. Just finished Batman and we’re about to start Moonstruck.” 

Leo agrees. You can’t tell if Chiron is buying it, but he seems to move on relatively quickly. 

“Right. I’m afraid I must ask for your help with a rather time sensitive situation.” your brows furrow in unicen as he continues. 

He tells you about a young demigod a satyr found, not even four years old yet, but they haven’t been able to get her to camp. Apparently there were some complications, and CPS was called, now they’re looking for her parents to see if she’s going to a foster home or orphanage. If they can’t get to her before the CPS finishes processing her, she’ll be lost in the system. He’s asking older demigods and demigod families in New York, since processing time will go the fastest if the family or guardians are in-state. 

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but please consider taking her in, at least temporarily.” You and Leo share a look, hearts already hurting that life has gotten to this kid so soon. 

“I’ll give you some time to discuss this, please call me back as soon as you have an answer.” 

You agree, and the shimmery image of Chiron dissipates.

“... Oh my god,” you breathe. 

You turn to each other again, the same thing mirrored in each other's eyes. An immediate, unspoken conformation that there’s no way you can’t help this kid out passes between you. You know Leo, especially, will do whatever needs to be done to keep another orphaned demigod out of the foster system. The scope of the impact you could have on this kid’s life starts to dawn on you, and you lock eyes with Leo again, his face set in determination. 

“Estrella,” he starts, and you know what he’s going to say. 

“I know,” you confirm in agreement.

His leg is bouncing, and you lean over, grabbing a notepad and pen from the coffee table. Your mind is already racing, and you begin scribbling down a list of everything you’d need to do; get her a bed and clothes, research where she is in her developmental stages, put together a meal plan or at least some foods she’ll like - what do toddlers even eat? He starts pacing around the coffee table. 

“We gotta help this kid, we-” he cuts himself off, overwhelmed with determination. 

“We will.” you confirm, equally determined. You grab your laptop and start copying your list digitally so you can get everything organized. You stare at your reflection in the black screen while you wait for your computer to boot up. Once again, the reality of your situation hits you.

“We’re 19…” you state, in disbelief. Your mind is racing with doubts. What if you somehow make everything worse, what if you can’t handle it? He crouches next to you, placing his hand on your cheek.

“And we have a lot of love to give.” The smile in your eyes tells him that you know he’s right. You transcribe your writing, surprised that you’re okay with how fast this is all moving, and you let out another breathy laugh of disbelief. 

You go through your hastily made checklist, switching between tabs about child psychology, parenting advice, and kid’s furniture and clothes websites, strategizing with Leo on how you can pull this off, and a plan gradually comes together.

“I mean, this is a two bedroom,” he says as you look through pages of bed frames and mattresses, “we can clear out our studio and turn it into her room.” 

“And…” you add, checking yet another tab, “there’s a building nearby that rents out studio spaces and workshop areas. Ooh, and free parking.” you read on the website. It’s already late, but you send them an email anyway. Hopefully they’ll get back to you tomorrow. But for now… 

“We can get a bed tonight, but we’d have to hurry. We can probably get some pjs and maybe a stuffed animal while we’re there- toothbrush!” You exclaim, adding it to your list, “I knew I was forgetting something…”

 Leo stops pacing, and looks at you. “So… we’re doing this?” You can’t fight the smile on your face, and he already has his answer. 

“We’d better call Chiron back,” you say, excitedly bubbling out. You both enter the bathroom, and iris message chiron with mist from the shower. He answers almost immediately.

“We thought it over and…” you trail off, letting him finish.

“We want to help.” 

After changing into some presentable clothes and swinging by the store for a car seat and some other essentials (you almost forgot tooth paste this time), you’re driving with Leo to meet Chiron at the CPS office where they had Sophia - the girl Chiron told you about. You call the Ikea store not too far from your apartment, thankful you’re able to reach them before they close. You arrange to have them deliver a toddler bed to the spare bedroom in your apartment, your neighbor agreeing to let them in. Luckily, you had the presence of mind to get most of your and Leo’s stuff out of there, the corner of the living room now holding your desk and his drafting table. 

You’re still a little blurry on the details of how you’re going to get custody of this kid when you’re barely legal and have no ties to her or her family, but Chiron said he could work everything out. You assume the Mist will come in very handy. You and Leo discuss this on the way over. 

You can tell he’s worried. Knowing the horrors he went through in the foster system would be bad enough without all the demigod bullshit on top of everything. You take another deep breath. 

“This is what’s best for her,” he says matter of factly, “she needs to be with people who understand her.” You agree, and he continues, very fired up.

“She needs to be in an environment where she’s not going to be ignored and ostracized; she needs to be part of a family, not a fucking meal ticket.” 

You squeeze his leg supportively, and he takes another breath. 

“You’re right. And she’s going to get all of that.” He scoffs in agreement.

“There’s not a better place for someone like her than-”

“With someone like her.” you finish. He pulls into the parking lot and you enter, meeting Chiron in the building. Your hand holds Leo’s tightly, unsure of who’s shaking more. Chiron explains that he already had a discussion (wink wink) with the social worker, and knows that he has the perfect couple to take little Sophia in, and all you have to do is meet with her and sign some papers. 

So that brings you here, waiting outside the office door, holding each other’s trembling hands before finally entering. She doesn’t look up at you at first, until the social worker introduces you. Leo squeezes your hand, and she finally looks up, her eyes speaking a language you and Leo know. You know there is absolutely no going back from here, and you both sit down across from her. 

“Hi, you’re Sophia, right?” She looks away, clearly and understandably overwhelmed. 

“Don’t be rude, Sophia-” the social worker starts, but you cut her off. 

 “It’s okay, she didn’t do anything wrong.” you turn back to her, “You know, me and Leo have an extra bedroom at our apartment, and a kitten that I think would really like you. Do you want to come stay with us?” 

She doesn’t look back up right away, but she turns her head towards you. 

“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asks softly. How is she so precious already?

“A girl,” you reply, “named Jackhammer, because she purrs so loud.” 

She giggles, and you and Leo squeeze each other’s hands in unison.

“Really?” she asks. 

“Oh yeah,” you reply, “I’m sure she’d love to play catch the mouse with you.” She considers for a moment, then looks over at the social worker, who gives her an encouraging nod. After a moment of consideration, she replies quietly, “...Okay.” 

She hops down from her chair, and you both follow suit. The social worker hands you some papers, and you both sign. You guide her to the lobby, let Chiron know it went well and promise to update him soon, and bring her to the car. You pull out of the parking lot. 

Not long after leaving, you see a fast food place. 

“Are you guys hungry?” you ask, nudging Leo gently. 

“Yeah, I could definitely go for some fries. How bout you Sophia?” 

She nods, then asks quietly, “Can I get a milkshake?” 

Her expression is hesitant, and you get the sense she’s expecting a no. 

“Of course kiddo,” you say.

“What flavor do you want?” Leo finishes, turning to look at her. Her eyes are bright with hesitant excitement. 

“Strawberry, please.” 

After leaving the drive through, you have Leo search through your phone for any kid friendly music, and discover the only thing you have saved that’s appropriate for present company is the soundtrack to the Cinderella musical from 1997.

That’s how your little family started; driving late at night, singing along to Bernadette Peters, and drinking strawberry milkshakes.

[lnarizakis]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ COACHES DON’T PLAY

MONTHLY NEWSLETTER #3

HOT OFF THE PRESS ! Thanks for picking up the third monthly newsletter of the school year! Not what you’re looking for? Please view the masterlist [here]! This month we’ve got (Y/N)’s third piece of dating advice, and what’s this...? Our very first submission that’s not anonymous! Let’s see what (Y/N) has to say about this!

EXTRA ! miya osamu x fem! reader. 1.8k words. original characters.

DATING-SAN HELPS INARIZAKI HIGH !

Dear Dating-san,

My name is Miya Atsumu but you probably already know that. I am a second year in Class 2 and I am the setter of the volleyball team of our school. You probably heard about us at nationals last autumn. My brother, who is in your class, has a crush on someone and he doesn’t know I am writing this. If he did, well, he’d probably kill me. Anyways, I found out by strict interrogation and a couple outside sources that he has a crush on your pretty third-year editor, Asai-san. He doesn’t know much about her but he met her through seeing each other during a Cooking club meeting.

He’s constantly thinking about her and I know this because his mind wanders far more often than usual. He is not playing very well during practice and frankly it’s getting me a little annoyed. That is the reason I am writing this letter to you. Please help Osamu get together with Asai-san before his little crush on her gets him kicked off the starting line-up for our games.

Thank you very much.

From, Miya Atsumu of Class 2-2.

(Y/N) stared at the email on the screen of the school-provided computer until the words didn’t look like words to her. Everyone else in the club room with her was focusing on whatever they were focusing on themselves, and they didn’t notice the boggling eyes of the author. She swallowed dryly down her throat, and the words on the screen blending together began to look similar to fuzziness that she didn’t care to make out to read anymore. (Y/N) blinked a couple of times to get rid of the dryness in her eyes, and as she looked up from the screen to focus on something else, she saw Asai Kanako, her editor, walk by in front of her.

“Asai-senpai. Come look at this email,” (Y/N) said, catching the editor’s attention. The short-haired brunette turned towards (Y/N), and hummed, asking what was up. (Y/N) becomes for Asai to read what was on her screen. She made her way towards the author and situated herself behind where (Y/N) was sitting. Asai leaned forward and read the email with her big, hazel eyes. She scanned the email, and stifled a laugh as she read how Osamu, (Y/N)’s classmate that Asai had the pleasure of knowing she liked, ironically liked her. When she finished, she leaned back and gave (Y/N), who turned around to look at Asai’s reaction, an awkward yet teasing smile.

“Well, good luck writing your advice for this month. You’ll need it,” Asai said, with a terribly taunting tone, as she walked away. She regrouped with the other editors at a different table in the room as they gathered around to look at some funny video that the editor of the sports column was currently sharing on his phone. (Y/N) turned back to the computer screen in front of her. She placed her chin on the palms of her hand and sighed lengthily.

Just how was she going to write something for this month?

✫’ﾟ･:*:･˙

Back in March, before the next school year had even started, (L/N) (Y/N) had assumed the role of the next Dating-san for the next year and her third year. She was extremely proud of taking up the responsibility, despite the multiple warnings that the previous Dating-san, her cousin, had given to her. He warned her that she could potentially receive dark or stressful emails, or perhaps even a letter that could possibly turn things for the worse. (Y/N) swept all of her cousin’s worries under the rug, as she was currently basking in the fame that she was to receive.

Her first letter she received in April was not at all bad. She had to help a girl, whose boyfriend she had suspected was cheating on her, come to terms with if he was actually cheating on her. (Y/N) advised that the girl must reconcile peacefully with him instead of coming after the girl with whom the boyfriend was cheating, which would cause so many unnecessary problems. A couple days later, (Y/N) received a couple of looks as she walked down the second-year hallway, and the stares confused her slightly until she passed by classroom 2-4, where she was met with the girl who wrote the letter, wrapping her arms around her and praising her. The whole situation was so comical it looked staged.

Her second letter that she received in May was way easier than the first. A first-year boy, whose email came out to look like he was crying as he wrote it, needed help with a crush he had on a girl he thought was so pretty he couldn’t muster up the courage to talk to her, let alone confess to her. (Y/N) helped him gain the confidence he needed to introduce himself to her—with style, too, as he fixed up his hair and showered with a scented wash. He sent a follow-up email a week later thanking her like the god he had made her out to be. (Y/N) thought about that email for the next few days, strutting around the hallways like she owned them, hearing—or perhaps imagining—applauses all around her wherever around the campus she walked.

And now her third letter, sent to her one hot June afternoon, by a brother of the twin set that probably almost everyone knew as the Miya Twins. To make things worse, he sent the letter on behalf of someone—that someone being the one guy (Y/N) just happened to have a crush on. How does it get worse from there? She was doing so well before, and now this could possibly ruin her entire reputation as Dating-san. If she messes up her advice for Osamu (although she wishes she could, for everything in her wanted to pull Osamu to herself, claiming him as hers), the entire school would go against her and possibly riot. Oh, the possibilities! She had to get things right or else her entire career would crumble into shambles. What (Y/N) realized was that her affection for Osamu blinded her from being able to write the best advice she possibly could, since this letter that Atsumu had sent was far easier than the first (the May letter was still deemed the easiest in her opinion).

So here (Y/N) was, sitting at a blank word document opened up for her on the computer to write the best advice she could as Dating-san, but the crush she had on him blocked her from writing. Her hands hovered over the keyboard; she could imagine herself typing out what she wanted to say, but she just couldn’t. (Y/N) tapped her fingers over the keyboard lightly, so as not to keyboard-smash onto the word document, and her eyes wandered all around the club room. The person across from her, a fellow author whose name she did not know, watched as she continued her actions, slightly amused by her writer’s block.

“Cat got your tongue?” He asked playfully. A smirk ghosted upon his lips, and (Y/N) tilted her head away from the computer screen to get a better look at the person in front of her. She too smiled and shook her head no.

“Nah, more like: crush got my tongue,” (Y/N) replied, and the person in front of her nodded in understanding. He hummed, and laughed slightly. He apologized, and jokingly said that if she wanted to, she could take a walk around the campus to clear her head. (Y/N) declined the offer, not wanting to get reprimanded by their very intimidating, and—might the two authors add— very, very scary chief editor for leaving the club room without notifying him first. The two shuddered at the thought of getting reprimanded by him, especially with his scolding tone, and they went back to work.

After a couple more minutes of staring at the (still blank) word document, (Y/N) groaned into her hands, exclaiming out loud that she didn’t want to write a word of advice for her crush. It was something that everyone in the club room heard, at which they all laughed.

By the end of the club meeting, (Y/N) was able to complete a first draft of her advice column for the newspaper. She removed her hands that seemed glued to the keyboard, and stretched out her hunched back. Stretching out her arms, she groaned out loud. The author across from her stopped typing whatever it was he was currently writing and he watched and giggled as (Y/N) groaned out loud while stretching her arms. (Y/N) turned her head towards Asai, who was currently leaning back in her chair while drinking boxed milk that she got from the vending machine while sneaking out of the club room a couple minutes ago.

“Asai-senpai, can you please read over my work? I’ll send it to you,” (Y/N) asked as she clicked over some things on her computer to forward her document to Asai for her to edit and read over. Asai rolled her eyes, an action which (Y/N) had overlooked, given the distance they were apart from each other, and opened up her laptop where she would be reading the first draft.

Asai’s eyes scanned over the document quickly, not giving her full attention to it since the editor of the academic achievements column was currently telling her a story of how he almost picked a fight with someone from a different school. After reading through it once, Asai closed her notebook and promptly said that the draft was okay to be published. (Y/N) tilted her head confusedly and looked back at the document on her own screen.

Really?

Miya Atsumu:

Thanks for sending in a letter to Dating-san!

I think your brother would really appreciate the thought of you sending a letter on his behalf. It’s not easy confessing that you have a crush on someone, let alone if that someone is an upperclassman of yours.

As Osamu’s brother, you should let him off easy with volleyball practice. He may feel stress added on to what he is currently feeling. It may be difficult, but it will help him—and even you— in the long run.

For Osamu himself, he should know that Asai is a nice and easygoing person who enjoys talking with almost anyone. She has a soft spot for food, so he should probably try cooking something for her if he does fess up the courage to confess to her. He shouldn’t be shy when he talks to her because she can immediately be put off by people who don’t have a direct object in mind when talking to her. She is a very direct person and can be intimidating sometimes, but this shouldn’t deter you from wanting to make conversation with her.

I wish you luck on your endeavors! Have a great day.

From, (L/N) (Y/N), Dating-san.

taglist: send an ask to be added ! [ @lcaita @reogou @alienvarmint @annalyn-annalyn @kunimwuah @akaarin @wansseul @anime-simp ]

[ashketchup119]

Musicality

Ok I LOVE this story!! I made a whole story based off a lil convo @jemtoka and I had, and I made oc’s based off each of us and went to town. It was very fun to write, and I got to combine my music knowledge with my writing skills.

Enjoy!

When Benji had first set out to find the ghost of Beethoven, he wasn’t actually sure that he’d be able to do it. His brother had once called him “all bite and no bark”, a reference to the fact that out of the four brothers, Benji had been the only one to not outgrow his infant habit of biting things- or people- when stressed. But in this situation, he definitely felt like he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

He absentmindedly chewed on his chewing necklace as he drafted a grant proposal with his friend, Mujika. Muji was drawing in a notebook, something for his art classes, though he looked up when prompted to review the words that had appeared on Benji’s screen. Muji had done his fair share of research, and though he did want to help with the writing of the research paper, it had been agreed that Benji was the more… academic writer. The two of them had met through social media a couple of years ago, and once they’d started direct messaging, had become close friends quickly through a mesh of shared interests, similar humor, and a half-baked scheme to take over the world.

Which led them here, to a table in the back of a 24-hour McDonalds, Benji chewing the head off a stiff chewable bat pendant and Muji using his nocturnal tendencies to do things like “make sure his friend drank water and didn’t forget that he was a person.”

“Fo you fink ish bit avou duh Immoruhl Bewuved ith done? Ish kinda duh hoh vashis of arr puhposal so…” Benji trailed off, jaw absentmindedly moving over the poor bat, whose head was holding on by sheer force of will to the rest of its body.

“What?” Muji asked. He did not speak bat-in-mouth.

Benji pulled the pendant out of his mouth with an audible pop. “Y’think this bit about the Immortal Beloved is finished? It’s like, the whole basis of our proposal n shit.”

He turned the laptop towards Muji, who closed his notebook, set it to the side, and pulled the laptop in front of him. He read it quietly, and Benji began to tap out the beat to the song playing on low volume in his earbuds. He began to hum, too, murmuring lyrics under his breath as he stared off into the distance.

“I think it looks good.” Muji finally replied, turning the laptop back toward Benji and grabbing his notebook again. “I can’t think of anything else we could add to that section.”

Benji gave a little half shrug. “I guess you’re right.”

The two of them once again worked in solitude, only broken by Benji ordering fries at about 1 AM. At 3, they decided to call it quits, though Benji seemed more wired than ever and voiced some apprehension about “going to sleep when there’s so much work to be done, Muji!” Muji chastised him slightly and promised that they could come back the next day- or rather, later that day- to finish up. There were only slight revisions to be done, then it could be sent off to the Music Master Scholars, an organization dedicated to the care and keeping of the ghosts widely considered Music Masters, which included household names like Mozart and Beethoven, but also lesser-known composers like Joseph Bologne and Francesca Caccini.

Ghosts were, of course, a commonplace occurrence, though one could theoretically live their life without interacting with one. That was rare, though; ghosts had a tendency to wander, though they could only appear in places that held significance to them in life and graveyards, but even living in a house increased the average person’s chances of encountering a ghost exponentially.

But these ghosts were special, because of the knowledge they possessed and the lives they’d lead. The Music Master Scholars were the only people in the world who both knew and had access to the location of every ghost, and to join their ranks, one had to find the location of one of the ‘hidden’ Music Masters- of which Beethoven was the most hidden. Their non-administrative members were unknown, but said to be most, if not all, of the foremost music scholars in the world. How could they not be, with the Masters themselves guiding their research?

Benji and Muji really, really wanted to be Music Master Scholars.

When he was 10, Benji had been given some sort of “young musician” scholarship to visit Europe for a month. He was a double bassist, a dying breed in the modern age, and the fact that he had progressed from monotonic exercises to Baroque sinfonias in the span of four months had impressed his teachers.

His parents had gone along, too, mostly because they knew their child, and Benji did have a propensity to get into trouble. Devil’s luck, his mother had tsked, and that had been that.

He’d managed to escape the group in the middle of a museum, though he didn’t wander far. He just wanted to look at everything without feeling like people were constantly breathing down his neck.

Well. HE didn’t consider “the park near the museum” to be far. His parents did, though, he found out later.

At the park, he found a man. Well, not a man. A ghost. The ghost was staring wistfully at the museum in the distance, and started when he noticed a small child staring at him.

“Hi! Who are you?” Benji asked, clutching the stuffed animal his parents had gotten him at another museum the day before.

The ghost cleared his throat. “I’m uh…” He started in a raspy voice before pausing and clearing his throat again. “I’m,” He sighed. “I’m Johannes Brahms.”

“Yo-hahn Brahmzzzz.” Benji repeated, drawing out the last “s” sound. “Oh! You did music, right?”

Brahms smiled slightly, and nodded.

The two of them talked for a while before Benji’s parents arrived, harried and frustrated. They apologized profusely to the ghost, who insisted it hadn’t been a problem.

The whole experience left Benji starry-eyed, and with the help of a friend he’d made in Germany, he would call and converse with Brahms for hours, asking about counterpoint and meaning and technique and just in general picking his mind. The composer took this with grace, and seemed more than happy to answer the young musician’s questions. When he’d told Benji about the Scholars, Benji had immediately decided that he was going to be a Music Master Scholar.

Muji had played violin until he’d dropped out of high school to take care of his mom, and hadn’t resumed it until after him and Benji had been talking for a while. He didn’t know much about composition, but he loved music history, and after getting his GED and enrolling in college, had even majored in it. Plus, he just kinda just thought the whole thing was cool.

They’d been researching for a year and a half, with pointers from Brahms, and tips from a professor Benji’d had two years ago, a Classical scholar named Dr. Chang. Benji had once emailed her and asked, point-blank, if she was a Music Master Scholar, but she’d only sent back a cryptic winky face emoji in response.

The next day, after three more hours of sitting in McDonalds, revising the proposal (most of which was Muji saying “Benji it looks fine!” and Benji responding with “No, no, this comma in paragraph seven just makes it sound better! Ties it all together, don’t you think?”), it was sent off in an email, and Benji resolved not to think about it while Muji resolved to mention it at the most inopportune moments, just to mess with his friend a little.

They were approved a month later, and three months after that day at McDonalds, they were sitting on a plane heading to Austria, Benji mouthing practice phrases in German as Muji slept. They had about a month to traipse all over Europe in search of a ghost very few people had been able to find, and they were excited to start.

The first week was spent in Austria, visiting Beethoven’s own grave (a nonstarter; the ghosts there hadn’t seen Beethoven since he was buried, and none knew where he’d gone), his childhood home and the area surrounding.

Nothing.

The second week was spent in Vienna. There, they visited the ghost of Mozart, who was a fidgety, flighty sort. He was known for being somewhat immaterial, and often took to jumping on top of objects in a manner that caused the people around them to panic for a few seconds before realizing he was too immaterial to do anything more than whisper vaguely about his childhood. He’d tried to pet Muji’s hair and got annoyed when nothing happened, so it wasn’t a particularly long visit.

They tried to visit Haydn, but while the location of Haydn’s ghost was well-known, only Music Master Scholars were allowed to see him, as he claimed the crowds exhausted him, and he wanted to be able to give his full attention to those visiting him. It made sense, since ghosts used massive amounts of energy to communicate and interact with the world around them, and the more energy they expended, the less time they were able to spend on earth. Despite this, the two  of them did make an effort, but were summarily barred from entering.

“Next time!” Benji declared confidently as they walked to their next potential Beethoven hot spot.

They visited Brahms, who had resolved to meet them in Vienna upon learning they were coming, and spent a whole day with him, visiting locations which had been important to him and letting his impromptu history lessons wash over them with a look of awed reverence.

Beethoven wasn’t in Vienna, and by the third week the two friends were feeling the threat of rejection hot on their heels. They began keeping odd hours, trying their hardest to figure out their next move.

“Maybe we should reread our proposal? Clearly the Scholars saw something in it, right?” Muji theorized from the bed he’d claimed as his their first night in the hotel.

“Mmmm.” Benji responded from his position on the floor at the foot of his bed, still feeling the after-effects of a well-deserved mental breakdown.

“Come on, Benji!” Muji tried to motivate him. “We can do it! You’re a super cool music spy, remember?”

Benji huffed at the reminder of an old, inane conversation between the two. “I don’t know, Muji. I think it’s kinda pointless.”

“Come on, Benji!” Muji tried again. “This is like, your dream! It’s now or never! Put our mutual brain cell to use so we can find Beethoven!”

Benji sighed and got up. “Fine, fine.” He murmured as he got off the floor, grabbed his copy of the proposal from his bag, laid down on the bed, and stuffed another chewable pendant into his mouth. “Wet’s fee.”

Silence reigned for a few, brief seconds, before Muji suddenly exclaimed, “Hey! We never checked out anything about the Immortal Beloved, right?”

Benji sat up straight on his bed and spit out the pendant. “Holy shit, we never checked out anything about the Immortal Beloved.”

After a quick Google search, two train tickets, a couple of sandwiches, and a dash through the rain, they arrived at the Frankfurt Main Cemetery. There, they asked after the name they’d listed in their proposal as the possible Immortal Beloved, and the ghosts pointed them towards the back of the cemetery.

In a ghost grotto, they found a woman, calmly humming the tune from one of the Diabelli variations, though in their excitement neither Benji nor Muji could name the tune.

“Are you-“ Benji paused and took a couple of deep breaths. “Are you the Immortal Beloved?

The woman stopped humming and smiled at them.

“Ah, that is a moniker I have not heard in some time.” She arose and walked away from them, lifting her skirts elegantly in a manner which conveyed a sense of class. “Come; I think you are the ones I’ve been expecting.”

The two followed after her eagerly and looked confused when they stopped at a mail office in town. There, she reached into a P.O. box, pulled out a silver envelope, and gave it to Benji.

“This is yours.” She murmured. “Please do come to visit; it’s rare that I receive visitors.”

With this, she disappeared.

The two stared at the envelope for a couple of seconds before Benji eagerly opened it, accidentally ripping the envelope in half. He then read it, brow furrowing in confusion.

“What’s it say?” Asked Muji, eagerly, from over his shoulder.

“It says… it’s just numbers? I don’t get it.” Benji gave him the paper, trying to puzzle out what it meant.

Muji frowned, then plugged the numbers into Google.

“It’s a location!” He burst out, excitedly shoving the phone in Benji’s face.

The two of them hurriedly called a taxi, listing the location Muji’s phone had given them. They were dropped off in front of the building, and saw someone standing at the entrance. They showed the person (a Scholar!) their letter, and with a large smile, they were taken inside, their guide walking confidently as Benji and Muji trailed behind them. The interior of the building was long and winding, which left the two feeling as though they’d been deceived by the outward appearance of the building. The building had looked small and unassuming, and this place was built like a maze. They were sure they’d be lost if they tried to head back without a guide.

Near the end of the path they heard the sound of a piano playing, and warm light spilled into the hallway. They eagerly rushed ahead, much to the amusement of the Scholar.

There, facing the wall, conducting half a beat behind the sound coming from the recorder behind him, stood Beethoven.

Benji gasped, and clutched Muji’s shoulder. He pointed ecstatically at the figure in the room. “It’s Beethoven!!!” He stage-whispered.

Muji smiled widely as he nodded back. “Yeah!!”

The two of them turned around when a voice behind them cleared. The Scholar gave them each a thick letter with the recognized seal of the Music Master Scholars on the back, and the two of them stared at it, unsure of what to do.

“Well?” The Scholar prompted, rocking back and forth on their heels. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Benji ripped into his envelope first, completely abandoning the flap as he tore the side off. His hands shook as he pulled out a letter on creamy white stationary. He skimmed the words and began crying, clutching the letter and envelope to his chest.

Muji was slightly more careful, removing the letter from the envelope via the flap and pulling out the other contents of the envelope. A laminated membership card, a list of locations of other ghosts, and an alphabetized list of other Scholars with contact info and a small bio were also in the envelope. He pulled out each one, looked at it, and put it back in the envelope. He then stopped and held the envelope in his hands, staring at it.

After about ten minutes, the guide worriedly asked Muji, “Is Benji alright? He’s been crying for a while.”

Muji nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah, he cried for like two hours after I finished streaming Crisis Core for him.” At the guide’s look of confusion, he added, “Video game.”

The guide made a small noise of understanding and nodded.

When Benji’s sobs finally faded into sniffles, the three of them began the trek out of the building.

“Sorry this route is so long.” The Scholar apologized. “Oh! Also! I forgot to introduce myself.” They paused and turned, offering their hand. “I’m Soraya Cham! I was the last person to find Beethoven’s ghost. When I heard about you guys, I got excited, really. I was rooting for you!”

The two of them shook her hand and nodded, unsure what else to say.

Soraya continued, then hailed a taxi when they reached the road. They waved goodbye to Benji and Muji as the two of them got in the backseat.

“We did it!” Benji shouted once they were back at their hotel.

[allthelittlelostgirlsgrowup]

Love is History

*taps mic* is this thing on? (I stole that from Obama. He was still in office last time I posted my writing). 

So fun thing I did - write an angsty sequel to Love is Fiction. If you’ve never read it, it just got over 300 notes this past week. I figured it was time to dust this off from my drafts and complete it. 

I hope you like it and my voice sounds similiar to the last election year when I put this out. Honestly I’m so different now and I think this captures the changes I’ve gone through and the way I view relationships now opposed to four years ago. 

Love is History

“Art imitates Life right?” Belle closes the folder encasing a rough draft of her first few chapters.

“All good things come to an end.” Emma shrugs as if the concept of him being just a ‘good’ thing ending doesn’t devastate her. He was the best thing.

She thought she’d never write their break up.

“What’s the history?” Belle squints her eyes, nose crinkling as she watches Emma. Belle has been Emma’s ‘Editor’ since college. Now more official. She gets a paycheck, as Emma gets advances from a publishing company that started as a small mom and pop establishment. In the last four years, this little wagon wheel of a company is now a fleet of office buildings all over the US.

“You read book 3: “Wind’s Ally”” Emma leans back in her chair, studying Belle right back. “You know their history.”

Belle keeps her eyes on Emma, relaxing the tension in her face and suppressing a smirk. They’re at a bit of a stalemate here because Emma isn’t sure what more info is needed and Belle isn’t sharing her thoughts at the moment.

“Emma, I knew their history. They finished book 3 in a ‘happily ever after’ kind of way. What underlying issues could have brought them to this point? Why did Alysandra leave?” Emma considers the question. Why did she decide to destroy the happiest relationship she’s ever written? Why would a character who fell madly in love just change their mind? “Maybe, ask yourself why you left.”  

-/-

The sun is setting over the Manhattan skyline when she gets back to her apartment. She doesn’t know where she went after the meeting but her mind just got back to the present and she’s pissed.

Emma flings her keys across the kitchen island, kicking her heels off in a huff before stomping over to her bar cart. She pours his favorite whiskey into the anchor-etched old fashion glasses he got her one Christmas.

“History is a stupid word” she grunts to no one but a tilted glass, muffling the sound as the amber liquid meets her lips a second after. She’s taken up talking to herself these last few months. The first four were spent crying and avoiding her reflection. The loneliness finally set in one night and she made herself her own best friend. So she asks her best friend ‘why did you do it?’ as she feels the tension in her shoulder blades ease. Why? Why did Emma Swan leave Killian Jones seven months ago?

“Wouldn’t we all like to know?”

-/-

The nightmares finally stopped and she no longer wakes with a startle when she finds her bed bare of him. Its been 216 days. She’s cried herself to sleep at least 180. She’s been broken before, boys have left in more ways than one, and she has managed to wake up one day finding herself less damaged than all the others. Today might be that day for the Killian Jones saga.

Today is they announced the upcoming film and casting begins in a few weeks. She knows she needs to finish this novel, but she hasn’t finished much. She barely finishes lunch on most days, barely finishes a thought that isn’t dripping in Killian. It’s been seven months and he is everywhere, in everything. She thought progress was a slowly-operated escalator but she was finally on her way.

And then the congratulation calls come through. Text after text, email, voicemail and she’s sure in a week or two, she’ll get a card from Mary Margaret. She sorts through them looking for something she’ll never find and she has to rewind.

She left him. It wasn’t mutual and it wasn’t obvious. He had no clue. All the calls and texts he was going to send her were sent months ago when he was breaking down in voicemails and begging her to just tell him she was okay.

Congratulations, Emma, you saved him...from ever having to care about you again.

-/-

She doesn’t leave the apartment again until the 245th day. It is easy to stay inside with the modern advances in technology. People will bring literally anything to your front door. Except, maybe inspiration. That she has to go out and find.

She finds herself in Harlem. The Harlem Public Library. She has to get back to her roots. Sure, this isn’t Storybrooke, and no, she’ll probably never meet a pair of eyes as blue coconut as...but her work needs her to find a way to write.

She thinks of his face.

Three hours pass and all she has in a google doc is ‘why?’

-/-

Despite the first failure to launch, she finds she quite likes that library. She’s giving herself a pep talk this time, before she finds herself staring at a blank screen wondering why again.

“I left because I had to.” She looks at her reflection in her bathroom mirror. That’s the only statement she’s made to anyone, herself included. When her friends, her agent, her editor, and her heart ask, she tells them she had to.

She makes her way through her apartment, recounting the moments, hours, days leading up to it. There are very few things her mind makes enough sense to share. Everything else is so convoluted, so tangled up in self-loathing and years of agonizing loneliness, the average person wouldn’t get it. Some days, as she’s matured and healed, she finds even she has trouble understanding it.

There’s not a day that goes by she doesn’t spend half of it feeling nothing but regret. That’s the healthy part of her, the well-adjusted adult who grew from the little lost girl. She’s sane enough to know she threw away the best relationship she’s ever had. She’s sane enough to know she saved him from future hardships with her.

The sound of the empire striking back stirs her from her thoughts. Regina gets the Darth Vader theme as a ringtone so Emma never forgets who really owns her career.

“Hey,” Emma answers as she reaches her apartment door.

“Nice of you to finally answer your phone.” She can hear the glare in Regina’s voice. “You know you pay me to do this right? Not the other way around. Get your money’s worth, why don’t you.” Emma rolls her eyes as she packs her laptop in her messenger bag.

Regina Mills is a fierce woman, as charming as she is aggressive. She can pretty much get anyone to do anything she wants. Emma doesn’t practice in the ways of the force, but she’s certain Regina knows a Jedi mind trick or two, and as her agent, that comes in handy.

What doesn’t come in handy is her tie to Killian. Regina’s husband Robin happens to be Killian’s cousin. Emma avoided Regina’s calls for months after the break-up, afraid she’ll have to answer the same question she’s been asking herself all afternoon. Once she finally started accepting calls again, it seemed Regina had moved on to bigger and better things: A movie deal.

“Right” she sighs. “What’s my money bringing me today?”

“This isn’t money related, so much as a word of warning.” Regina’s tone doesn’t seem as sass-filled as before, so it’s clear she’s not the one wielding the threat. She actually sounds a bit sympathetic. “Belle and I pulled straws to see who got to break this to you, and I, unfortunately, pulled short this time around.”

“There’s a point here.” Emma urges, feeling ill-fated all of a sudden.

“Killian just moved to NYC.” Like ripping off a band-aid. Emma braces herself for pain, but is met with an absence of feeling altogether. Her knees buckle and she finds purchase against her kitchen island. “Emma?”

“When?” She whispers.

“Just a couple of weeks. He took a job with the NYC public libraries, he’s actually doing really well and has just approached Belle with an idea to get the youth excited about writing. There’s a chance you’ll run into him at the office, so I just...we both thought a heads up was necessary.”

“Which library?” because Fate is a nosy bitch and has no business showing up and guiding her to the man she ran from.

“Emma?”

“Which library”

“I think...if I recall correctly, his home base is in  Harlem.”

“I’ll call you back.”

-/-

She thought about leaving the country. At the very least, the state. She is overwhelmed, without a question just so damn overwhelmed. She has gotten so used to tears these days, she’s a little shocked she didn’t cry the minute she heard his name.

Her body had other ideas, because although she definitely meant to get on a train going the opposite direction, she found herself in Harlem 25 minutes later.

She sits in the middle of the library at an open table, clickity clacking as loudly as she can. Part of her really believes that maybe if she saw him, she’d remember why she left.

Another part is certain that masochism is her new favorite hobby.

He never appears.

-/- “Hey” Emma answers her phone going off for the eighth time today.

“Emma?” Belle sounds more relieved than usual. “Where have you been, I’ve been calling non-stop since 3.” Emma rolls her neck to view the time on the DVR.

7:45 pm

“Sorry, I’ve been reading all day.” she hasn’t talked to anyone for another two weeks. She does this far too often to still have a support system. Emma’s not sure she’d pour the same amount of effort into anyone who went radio silent every other week.

“We had a meeting at 2:30.”

“Sorry.” She shrugs, because honestly, nothing even matters.

“I’m coming over,” Belle says decidedly.

“No, Belle, you don’t have to do that.” Emma regrets answering on the eighth attempt. “Let’s reschedule.”

“We just did, I’ll see you in thirty minutes. Open the door.” Sure, she’s a small, sweet, meek-looking woman, but what most people don’t know about Belle is she could slay dragons with pure determination alone. In a battle of wills, she's even got Regina beat.

Emma peels herself off the sofa for the first time since noon, snuggie falling to the floor as she heads for the shower. If Bella can make the journey to her apartment, Emma can at least shower. Sure enough, 30 minutes later she’s greeting Belle at the door, a pizza in hand.

“Are you okay?” She sets the pizza on the kitchen island and wraps Emma in a hug. Emma tries to pull her head far enough to keep her hair from wetting Belle.

“Yeah, just...the creative process. Ya know.” Emma trails off as the hug ends. Of course, she’s not okay. ‘Okay’ people don’t stop answering their phones for weeks, they don’t stare at blank pages until their vision blurs. They don’t behave this way. This was her first shower in days.

“He was in the office yesterday,” Belle says after a long silence, just a full 3 minutes of her studying Emma from head to toe. Do her eyes just scream ‘Killian’ every time someone looks at her. “He said he called to congratulate you on the screenplay adaptation.”

“No, he didn’t.” She’s quick to dismiss. She scoured her missed calls for days looking for his name, he never called.

“How would you know, you never answer your phone, Emma.” She sits on a counter stool, tugging Emma to join her. “He’s going to be in every day next week, and I think…”

“No.” Emma cuts her off.

“Let me finish.” Belle opens the pizza box, sliding it toward Emma. “I think you should take a vacation. Get out of the city for a while, maybe visit Storybrooke, since you know he’s not there to run into.” Emma grabs a slice of pizza, not sure when she last ate but too preoccupied with the idea of leaving the city for a while. She ran to NYC. Now she’s running back to Storybrooke. Is he just going to chase her back and forth?

“Did he say anything else about me?” she hates the desperation gnawing at her.

“He asked me why…” Belle sighs “I told him we’ll all find out in book four.”

-/-

God only knows what compelled her to do the exact opposite of what Belle suggested and show up at the publisher’s office. Probably the same thing that led her to the Harlem library a few weeks ago. She bought a new outfit. She realizes she’s barely even worn jeans over the last eight months, and now she’s in a dress and heels like she has an interview to work here. She’s wearing makeup and perfume. She’s trying her best to cover up and signs of the wreck she’s been for months.

The office seems busier than it has ever been, many new, young faces bustling about. She keeps her features calm as she scans every inch of every room she enters for him.

“Emma?” Belle is hurried as she crosses the main floor to meet her. “What are you doing here?”

“I know.” Emma returns the hushed tone Belle is using. “I reworked some chapters, delayed the breakup, and gave more of Aly’s history.” and Belle nods, but is evidently not listening.

“He’s here.” Belle looks almost frightened. “So if you want to reconsider, I would do it now. Otherwise…”

“Swan?” no one calls her Swan. She’s paralyzed. What did she think was going to happen? How did she think she was going to react? When she paced around her apartment for three hours this morning, did she think she was going to just be okay? He would be here, he would see her and suddenly everything would be okay? “Emma…” He tries softer, less shocked, more timid.

This is the moment. In every love story, angst finds its way in, rips the reader’s heart out and although they’ve been bleeding for chapters now, they can feel nothing at this moment. Time is still, the lights are dim, and all we see is Emma and him.

He looks like himself, just more professional. He’s in well-fitted gray slacks, a navy dress shirt, his hair is longer though. He’s got more scruff on his neck than normal. His eyes are too blue, truly, for anyone to notice another inch of him. They stare at her, the same shade that’s been haunting her dreams, and she still struggles to define it. Everything. They’ve always been everything, no matter if it’s more cotton candy than blue coconut.

“Killian.” She swallows. Her throat makes this awkward gurgling sound and she wants to melt into the floor. Why is she here?

It’s suddenly so quiet but so loud. She can hear her heart hammering in her eardrums. No one says anything for a long stretch of time, maybe 2 seconds, maybe 3 hours, she can’t be sure. She just knows there is so much said in the silence.

“How are you?” She asks without thought. The look on his face is devastating.

“Sorry?” He mocks a laugh. “How am I?”

She’s not completely delusional. This is a thing humans say to one another, no? Why does it feel so foreign all at once, like she’s attempting English for the first time with a local?

“Killian” she sighs, releasing the most dizzying breath.

“I’m good” he grits, suddenly covered in constrained anger. “And you?”

And now they are strangers, all dressed up and nothing to talk about.

“Me?” Her tongue drags along her lower lip to buy time. “Good.” She nods.

“I’m just pleased everyone is good.” Belle smiles sweetly. “Now, Killian and I have a brief meeting, and afterward, if you’re still available, we can go over your rewrite.”

An exit strategy. This is quite possibly the only thing she could have hoped for.

“Swan was a bright young writer once” Killian grins, wickedly. “Why don’t you attend the meeting. We’re talking about a youth writing program.” He’s obviously bating her. How dare she show up on a day he’s here and act like she didn’t destroy him…

“Sure” she agrees. Partly because she’s too stubborn to back down from a challenge, and mainly because she did destroy him and there’s that whole thing about masochism she recently discovered about herself.

Belle looks beside herself. Her eyes narrow and she puffs her chest for a moment before leading them to a meeting space. Two more individuals join them, laptops ready to jot down notes and ideas. Her meetings are only ever with Belle so, for Emma, this seems like red carpet treatment.

He has amazing ideas. He loves the idea of bringing an artistic outlet to the children of Harlem. He was always so much more than a shelfer. He was always a dreamer, with these brilliant, compassionate ideas for helping everyone feel less alone, more encouraged.

She was always a fence, holding him back from the best parts of himself.

-/-

When the meeting concludes, Belle graciously thanks Killian for coming, makes promises of action, and attempts to say goodbye.

Killian, as good-natured and kind as he can be, has always had a persistently obnoxious side. He invites himself to the next meeting.

“This is only fair, Swan.” he smiles, though his eyes are full of darkness.

They regroup in Belle’s office after a bathroom break.

As much as Emma is dying on the inside, Belle looks absolutely disturbed by this. She can’t imagine the discomfort in being the third wheel of a breakup reunion.

“So...when we uh, when we left off, you were telling me why they broke up.” Belle sighs, knowing how awful this is. Emma smiles, hoping it lets her off the hook a little. After all, Belle told her to leave town. Emma decided to torture herself.

“Right.” Emma takes a large breath in, holding it while she pulls out her folder. Only releasing once its in Belle’s hands. Killian is studying her like he has a Chemistry final to take tomorrow and she’s the only hope. “Alysandra left Atlas for his…” She’s said it to herself. She’s made hints to others, but Killian has never had a clue. “For his own good. She’s derailed him from his journey. She’s made him less of a pirate, more of a…”

“More of a what?” Killian’s breath is sharp as it floods in through his nose and out through his mouth. “What did she do to him?”

“She reduced him to a caregiver,” Belle answers from what’s written in the text. “Alysandra took over the journey of discovery. She was suddenly the main character.” Belle looks up at Emma with a look she’d only be able to classify as “delayed understanding.”

“In a story about Atlas, Aly becomes the focus. Everything he does, he does for her.” Emma can feel herself losing composure, eyes stinging with tears, throat drier than a desert. Somehow, someway, she finds her way to Killian’s eyes. “He wasn’t living for himself anymore. He had no purpose but to love her. And it was destroying everything.”

She’s not sure if it’s understanding she expects, or maybe gratitude, for saving him from the needy monster that she is. She knows neither is what she received.

“Did you ask Atlas, perhaps… perhaps that’s what made him happiest?” Killian’s eyes are drilling into her like nails, pinning her against a wall.

She is less.

Speechless, motionless, hopeless…

Less sure she did the right thing. Less firm on her decision. Just so much less than she was the day before.

There’s movement after a long pause, not by her, but Belle, gently setting the files down and moving to leave them alone.

“Aly is an orphan” Emma explains and she can see his head start to shake, but she has to be firm. “Listen. She is not the strong-willed, rebel without a cause she pretends to be. Some days the sadness from being alone for so long stunts her. She spends hours upon hours laying awake wishing she could sleep forever. She can be a wreck, a mess, an impossible woman to love.”

Does it make it easier to talk about herself as if she’s someone else? She’s been doing it for so long, all the catharsis from writing herself into stories, just to unpack the things that plague her? Maybe she can have sympathy for anyone but her, maybe its the only way she can recognize how her behavior impacts others. Maybe the book is why she left in the first place.

“You make it impossible to love you, Emma.” She’s never seen his jaw trembling like this before. “And against all odds, through resilience and patience, I’ve found a way to do the bloody impossible. You can cover it up in characters you’ve based off of us, but this isn’t fiction. I was real. What we had...what we had was real. It wasn’t easy, but when you finally let me in, it was simple. We were happy.”

“You were happy?” She brushes tears from her cheeks as she shakes her head in disagreement. “Was it simple? To come home and find I hadn’t moved from my spot on the couch? Was that the ideal relationship you dreamt of, to see all of your energy, love, and time wasted on someone who couldn’t get themselves off the couch?”

“So you got yourself off the couch now.” Killian stands, eyes frantically scanning Emma from head to toe. “Well done, it only took the motivation of ending a relationship to do it.”

“I did it for you.” and she believes that, with everything in her, she left for his own good.

“Did you now?” He seems so out of breath for standing still. “Or could you have possibly woken up one day and realized the weight of a relationship was what was pinning you to the couch. Was it that Atlas cared for Aly too much, or was it the expectation that Aly would have cared for him in return? Was breaking my heart easier than just trusting me with yours?”

And all at once in the middle of the ocean, she can see Aly waking up all alone in the captain’s quarters, searching the whole damn ship for a man who did what the men she loves always do.

“Maybe there were days you thought I was miserable” he kneels before her as the ocean finds its way to this office. His eyes are ocean blue, always changing hues depending on if the sun is shining, or a storm is brewing or they’re in the deep. “But you weren’t afraid I’d die that way, always miserable, no...some part of you thought I’d leave before I let that happen. That’s the orphan I loved. You were never a mess. You were a survivalist.”

So maybe that’s their story. Aly watched Atlas change his life for her, and realized he’s going to live to regret it. Did the last seven months hurt less because it was her choice? If he would have pulled the trigger, would the bullet do that much more damage?

“I would have died miserable.”

-/-

The history she’s writing is hers and hers alone. When she was younger, when her heart was stolen and broken, when she always ended up alone. She was writing an escape plan.

This was the first time she was the one who left, and to quell the guilt of being her own worst nightmare, she forced herself to believe she was doing it for him. How many people have left her for her own good? How many times did she think that they were doing her a favor?

She’s been sitting motionless for who knows how long when Belle comes back. Killian is long gone but his words linger like those dizzy stars after a concussion. Her head is throbbing trying to make sense of it. This wasn’t just seven months spent believing the lie. Now she’s searching for the truth.

She gets anxious in monotony, like a stench in stagnant water, she is repulsed by the concept. She’s never wanted to do the same thing every day. She doesn’t want a picket fence, she wants…She does like a cute cottagey feel with a nice picket fence, she could…she could deal with a picket fence.

She definitely does not want a husband though, or to be barefoot and pregnant, or…

There were times, she’d look at him fresh out of the shower, or in his sleep and he’d look so much younger, she’d wonder what their kids would look like. There have been times she’s searched her fingers as they moved across her keyboard and realized her ring finger would look nice with a natural stone set in some brass band. It was never anything he did that scared her. It was that she thought about more. The concept of more scared her, and the fact that she was greedy and foolish enough to want it.

Four years is a long time to not talk about marriage, but after they moved past her initial anxiety attacks over having a boyfriend, he never really pushed for much again. Moving in together was her idea. He kept enough stuff at her place and with Elsa moving abroad, it made sense to do it. That’s as far as she was going to take it. Another few years piled up and she was busy writing and he was busy being supportive of that, she recognized she was his sun. When he made sure she ate during the weeks she barely left the house, when he kept her house plants alive, when he did her laundry, reminded her to shower, and told her he’s proud of her too often to quantify, she knew she was his ship. An inanimate object, something someone can love so much and not receive the love back in return, and sure, he’s as silly as a pirate to believe a ship that holds itself together while he’s sailing on her loves him, and that’s just her role.

Hold yourself together Emma, that’s always been your role.

She started to get bitter and insecure. What is she contributing to this relationship? How is she making him any better? Has he even written many songs since they moved in together, has she gone to see him perform, has he performed? Some days she was so enthralled in her writing, she didn’t realize he wasn’t home all day. It was his day off and he was gone for longer than a workday. He could have been having an affair for all she knew. For all he did, he deserved to be having an affair, falling in love with someone who would be there for him, encouraging his dreams, and dedicating herself to him.

After that day, she started her drafts. Killian, you’re so much more than I deserved…Or Killian, your life paused the day you met me. And finally, after months, she left him with I need this to be over.

She’s a writer, a published author, an English major and an avid reader yet, through years and years of literature and just terrible romcoms, she never learned how to break up with someone. She never knew the words to say to him, so she said nothing. He called for three-five days, she’s not sure as she was in a sobbing-induced coma.  He sent texts, he sent freaking carrier pigeons, and she locked herself in a hotel room with her laptop and her broken heart. Finally, an email came in.

Emma, I’ve moved out. Everything I’ve left is yours…among the worn t-shirts you liked to sleep in and the novels we’ve collected over the years is my heart. Goodbye Love.

“Emma,” Belle brings her back to the present after a very long, painful trip into her past. “Are you okay?”

Why is that word even used to describe how ‘good’ something or someone is?

“No.” She glances over at Belle, she thinks to ask if she talked to him in the hall after he left, if he said anything, if he seemed ‘Okay’ himself but she settles back to a business mindset. Work is the only constant. “Aly left because she didn’t want to get left again.”

“And that’s how it ends?” Belle hands her the folder back. “You can do better.”

-/-

“The concept of fiction isn’t a lack of reality, it just hasn’t happened exactly that way yet.”

She hears his voice cascading down the ramp she’s sitting at the bottom of. It's been a week since Belle’s meeting and she made her way back to the library. Back to their roots. There’s so much history in this building, but the history she’s looking for lives within her. There’s a group of teenagers huddled together like they’re on a tour. Her fingers shake as she looks back down at her laptop.

“Don’t be afraid to use your own daily vernacular. It’s just as likely as any well-researched, powered by thesaurus dialogue, but it will come to you much more easily. That’s your voice.”

His voice sounds increasingly close. She wants to look but if they lock eyes now, while he’s busy, she’s back to being the center of attention. Why did she come here? Does she want to get back to being the center of his attention?

“Swan?” her stomach flips violently. She really didn’t think this through. Her neck trembles as she cranes to look up at him. “Hi.” He clears his throat, the group of teenagers studying them closely from behind him.

“Hi” she breathes. “Uhm…”

“Do you want to meet my junior author group?” He cuts in quickly.

“Hi.” She repeats, only this time her eyes travel across the young faces. “I’m Emma.”

“Emma Swan?” A young girl in the back pipes up. “You write Cap Zeph.” ‘Cap Zeph’ is a very popular Tumblr tag, Emma’s been told. She is now a mild-day D list celebrity with the news of the screenplay adaptation. She never published under her real name until this one, Killian’s idea.

“That I do.” Emma feigns a smile.

“Emma Swan” Killian begins, chest swelling “came up with the idea in a small town library.”

“Really?” another girl with wavy blonde hair tumbling around her shoulders asks.

“Yes, and Killian Jones worked there. He’s…evidently the inspiration. Hair as dark as night, eyes as blue as the sea he sails upon.”  Every girl and one boy in the group glance at Killian, amorously. Still handsome as ever. He looks down, scratching behind his ear and chuckling dryly.  She wonders if his throat burns the same way her eyes do or if this feels so natural he’s happy to fall back into it.

“Why don’t you all find some books to research personal voice from in the YA section, hmm?” He dismisses the group quickly. They share assuming glances and move to leave in pairs, surely gossiping on the way.

Being alone again is terrifying. She doesn’t know what she’s doing here. Why does she always go looking for him? What does she want? How can they come out of this okay? What is okay?

“What brings you?” Killian starts. He isn’t looking anywhere but her and the look in his eyes leaves frost on her flesh. His expression is so blank. She has no idea if he even wants her here after their last conversation.

“I was just looking for inspiration.” He nods.

“There are study rooms.” He adds, motioning in the direction she may find them. “My office is actually at a different location, or I’d…suggest…”

“Do you hate me?” it comes out without warning.

“No.” He winces. She’s not sure if it’s because he’s lying or because he wishes he were lying.

“Why not?” She asks. He flinches.

“Christ, Swan. Stop it.” He grabs a seat across from her at the small bistro-style table she’s been working on. She closes her laptop to remove barriers between them. “I hated myself for a while. I thought maybe I should have never lost sight of who you were. You’ve always been guarded. I thought I had broken down some of your walls. I should have never assumed I tore them all down.”

This voice within her tells her that it's no man’s job to do the work for her. Her walls are her own to remove.

“What about your walls?” Emma counters. She didn’t come for an argument, but Killian had trauma, he was damaged in theory, but always presented himself as such a well-adjusted, forgiving, kind, loving man. “Maybe you had to go brick by brick, but you knew they were there. I just watched you for years never act like anything troubled you.”

He laughs, loudly.

She’s startled more that she laughs in return than questions it.

“Emma, my love...of course I was troubled. I still am. I drink far too much and try to solve all of my problems myself without anyone’s help.” He’s still smiling as he confesses.”Hell, I didn’t tell anyone we broke up for months and it wasn’t because I thought you were coming back. I just knew I wasn’t going to let anyone worry about me.”

“You’re not troubled” she shakes her head but thinks back to every time he came home frustrated and sealed himself up before she could get a good glimpse of it. “Are you?”

“I spent an entire day at the marina grieving my dead brother, over a decade after losing him. Every time I went to leave and come home to you, I’d get upset again. I used to stay away until I could pull myself together.” His smile slips into something dark and Emma realizes all the ways they failed at communicating. “I loved you just enough to only show you my best parts. I never trusted our love enough to show you everything. And it’s not because you were sad every now and then.”

And she sees the orphan in him the moment she realizes being left behind were his worst fears, too.

“You thought I’d leave…”

“I think the term is ‘best-laid plans.’” His smile is back “Convince an author to fall in love with you, live forever. Only, with my luck, I get to read my heart get broken in the exact same way whenever I’d like. I was looking forward to your book, knowing I’d get to see us in love again.” She considers the part about him looking forward to her book.

“It’s as much my book as yours.” She means that. When she first wrote the Cap Zeph short stories, she had no plan of publishing. Killian pushed for her to immortalize this, to believe in herself and sell it. When the first went well, he convinced her to meet with Regina. “I mean, you are the entire series, after all.” He shakes his head and sighs.

She doesn’t have a response and the seconds tick by. It only takes a few before they reach an awkward silence where one person makes an excuse to leave. And then when do they see each other again?

“I should get back to my writers.” He moves to stand and she wants to jump up, but she doesn’t know what words follow that. She writes fiction. It's why this book has been so damn difficult. Writing their personalities into a fantasy of pirates and fairies, that's one thing. Writing history is another. She can build on what has already happened. This in-the-moment dichotomy, will they? Won’t they? Can they make it work? It’s disturbing.

He’s the quick thinker. Always a come-back, a pun, a literary quote…

“The only thing worse than a boy who hates you…” She opens her laptop nonchalantly, as if it won’t wound her for him to leave. “...a boy who loves you.”

Among the many novels they shared, “The Book Thief” was one of Killian’s most treasured.

He stares at her with wonder glazing his face. “If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.”

Maybe she’d burn every book in this library, for a chance to experience falling in love with Killian all over again, as if it weren’t a moment in history.

The screenplay would read ‘They share a look of longing’ and she’s not sure that’s how she’d describe it. ‘Longing’ seems more cliche and not nearly as descriptive as her quickening pulse would use.

This feels like a pivotal moment where she realizes that they don’t necessarily have to not be in love anymore. They could take a slow pace, like windchimes waiting for a breeze to bring them together. That’s all a Zephyr is.

“My number hasn’t changed.”

-/-

His number has. She gets a text around 1am. Are you up? It's odd, because Killian isn’t a booty-call kind of guy, but who knows what a breakup can do to a man.

I rarely sleep before 2. Her phone rings moments later.

“Hello?” her tone sounds like a question, but she knows it’s him.

“Swan, it’s Killian.”

“Yes, Grandpa, I’m aware.” She can’t help but chuckle. Almost too elated that he’s on the other end. She can hear him laugh on the other end.

“Do you remember the first time we started speaking on the phone? You wouldn’t give me your number until maybe the 18th date.” She didn’t trust herself then. They took things so slowly.

“You know I like a clean getaway.” Is it too soon to joke about always having one foot out the door?

“What's the escape plan this time?”  

“Probably the West Coast since you chased me here”

“I did not!” His laugh is vibrating against her ribs, setting the tempo for her heart.

Could it be easy all over again? One quote and he’s calling her? One call and they go see a movie? One date and…

And thinking about the end is how she got there, isn’t it?

“Did you plan on seeing me again? Knowing you were moving here?”

“Of course. I planned on seeing you no matter where I lived...I prepared for you to come into focus and the rest of my world to blur.” He sighs and she can hear his mattress settle as he moves. “I didn’t plan on seeing you in my library again.”

“Where else would I get inspiration. You’re my muse.”

They talk til 4am. She’s rethought every word she’s said these last seven months. She rarely moves without tension tugging at the back of her neck. Her thoughts are never clear and simple, not since she left. And here, in the darkness of her bedroom, with nothing but a familiar voice on the other end, she hasn’t second-guessed a word.

-/- She’s not sure if she should call it a date. He invites her to a scholarship meeting and sure, they’re dressed up, but because it's a business meeting. He talks to the team, Belle is in attendance, and she barely says a word.

But he asks her out for drinks afterward and suddenly she’s all he’s focused on, laughing about old times, discussing the interesting twist in literature they’ve both read recently. She asks him if he’s written any songs and he beams brightly when he tells her ‘only recently, Love.’

Sometimes love is familiar, like a book you’ve read a dozen times. There’s comfort in knowing everything and loving it anyway.

-/-

“Are you dating him?” Belle watches her from the doorway as Killian moves down the hall to his meeting. They came to the office together this time, maybe a peck on the cheek occurred before his departure, and maybe Belle witnessed it.

“I don’t know.” Emma tries not to think logistically about what’s going on. It’s been 4 weeks, she’s written 8 chapters and Aly is about to find Atlas again. “For the first time since I started, I know how book 4 will end.”

They go over the recent chapters and Belle seems subtly impressed but she’s holding back. Emma knows it's Killian-related. She just knows she can’t pry without being pried open in return.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, it's beautiful. From tragedy to triumph is the Captain Zephyr way.” Belle hands the work back to Emma with a sad smile. “What makes it different this time? True love always finds its way back to one another, but how do we know they won’t split up again?” Emma knows this isn’t about the novel. They haven’t yet gotten back together to split up.

Does she know they’ll never separate again? Of course not. Killian is dedicated, devoted like a priest to the cloth. She is very aware that his heart is not yet healed, but eager to love her all over again. A few dates and late-night phone calls don’t make forever a promise anyone could keep.

“We don’t.”

-/- He’s walking her home after another fun night at a bar near her apartment. They’ve been casually seeing each other but nothing more than a kiss on the cheek or a hug goodnight has occurred. They get to her building in record time, too preoccupied by the conversation on who in Hollywood would make a handsome Captain Zeph. “Johnny Depp doesn’t have blue eyes.” Emma laughs. “You can’t just pick the most popular actors, and he’s already a pirate in another franchise.” They’re at the doors of her building and his eyes are boring into her. “Do you want to come up?”

And maybe it's because they haven’t had a real kiss in what’s very close to being a year now, but he seems almost nervous.

“I’m afraid I miss you too much.” he scratches behind his ear and looks down the road. When he looks back at her he seems shy.

“Chris Wood,” she comments. She liked him on Supergirl. “Come upstairs.”

It's the look on his face when he studies her apartment that makes her remember they broke up. As if she had forgotten months of trying to hold herself together, he reminds her that she broke him when his face floods with that loneliness.

“Killian...”

“This is a very nice place you have.” his eyes are darting from one corner to the next, lingering on the most significant differences. “So ‘New York’ it's almost as if you’ve never lived anywhere else.”

“Your apartment isn’t ‘New York?’” it's so weird that they’ve never seen each other's place when they’ve seen each other's souls.

“It’s just a place to lay my head.” He glances back at her with something almost accusatory when he says “You’ve gone ahead and made yourself a home.” And it has never felt like that, not once, when she was hiding away, when she would run home to it.

This place, this city has always been a foster home she feels like she’ll get kicked out of if she gets too comfortable. It wasn’t like their home together. Their home felt like roots. Here she feels like an implant that won’t take to the soil.

“The designer furnishings don’t mean shit to me.” Emma moves to the bookshelf, all new and shiny but it's just a box to keep what matters most. “Only what I’ve come here with is all I care to take. She pulls out a few books, “Wuthering Heights,” “The Book Thief,” and “Emma.” She hands them to him knowing they were always his.

“I wanted you to keep them.” He starts to give them back when she waves her hand.

“What do you need to not resent this place? To know I have everything you left tucked away in all these new places?” she motions for him to follow her to the bedroom and he slowly drifts behind, setting the novels on the coffee table. Her bed is covered in pillows dressed in his t-shirts instead of pillowcases. She keeps his cologne on the bedside table as if it were some expensive aromatherapy pillow spray. The blanket Granny from the local diner in Storybrooke made them lay at the foot of the bed, an anchor crocheted into the loops.

“I only drink whiskey you like. I only sleep in your t-shirts.” she sits on her bed, reaching for his hand to pull him down with her. “I don’t know what we are, and I can’t promise you I’m not a tragedy waiting to happen. I just know that I haven’t been able to erase an inch of you.”

He kisses her then. It's not on her terms, and he has only ever waited for everything to be on her terms. So when he pulls her in, hand cupping the back of her head, mouth open and adventurous, she gasps.

His other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her closer to him, her hands pressed flat against his chest as his tongue enters her mouth with desperation. She fists his shirt in her hands, pressing even closer to him as her tongue reacts in kind. It has been the longest year without him and he’s kissing her like they’re running out of time.

All at once they’re falling as he lays her down on her back, continuing to claim her mouth as his property. Her hands start moving, tugging and fumbling with buttons and zippers and just much too much fabric for her liking. When she moves for his briefs he tugs back from her lips.

“Is this what you want?” Her response is to slip her dress over her head. Any questions to follow are puffed out in a husky tone against her ear.

Sometimes love is erotica, so she catalogs every second of it because nothing has ever happened quite like this before.

-/-

They spend the next few months together and she bangs out the rest of the book in record time. Regina and Belle throw her a submission party. She dodges questions about their future and tries to focus on the book.

“So Aly and Atlas together again,” Robin questions her as Killian returns with a drink for the both of them. She knows he’s not talking about the story. Killian has been very careful to not assume much about their status. Both of them have just stuck to ‘seeing where it goes.’

But it's not like they just met six months ago. They have history, they have four years of standing together at parties and being a couple. Do they have the luxury of casually dating? If all happiness is fleeting, do they dive face-first in it or wade in the shallow end.

“I love Killian.” She says firmly. It’s never not been true from the moment she realized it, in a foreign library miles and miles away from home. He is not easily erased, and it has become glaringly obvious it will only destroy her to try. “I always have and I always will.” Killian’s eyes have never been so doe-like. She’s never been so bold.

“I…” Robin’s face flushes, certainly not expecting her to speak so proudly.

“And I love Emma, if it isn’t ardently clear. She’s everything to me and I’m happy just to exist in her life.” He raises his whiskey to her and she follows suit like a gentlemen’s agreement has just been formed: To love one another without concern of what it means. As she takes a sip she realizes what everything means. He hasn’t pushed aside his dreams in the slightest this go around. He’s been focused and driven, ambitious and busy. Somehow, he’s still considering her ‘everything.’ Maybe what she thought was sacrifice all that time ago was really just love.

So they stay in love.

-/-

Another year goes by and the first film is set to release. Although Emma and Killian still pay rent at their separate apartments, they spend every night together. Sometimes it's downtown in Killian’s studio, and other nights it's in the heart of the city at Emma’s. Commitment isn’t measured by who gave what up. It has shifted to who stays. They both do, and every day they make the decision to stay, when it's 5 months since Killian has slept alone or 10 months since Emma had dinner without him. They stay together with one promise in mind. They love each other. And for as long as Love is Present, they will choose each other.

Love is History

“Art imitates Life right?” Belle closes the folder encasing a rough draft of her first few chapters. 

“All good things come to an end.” Emma shrugs as if the concept of him being just a ‘good’ thing ending doesn’t devastate her. He was the best thing. 

She thought she’d never write their break up. 

“What’s the history?” Belle squints her eyes, nose crinkling as she watches Emma. Belle has been Emma’s ‘Editor’ since college. Now more official. She gets a paycheck, as Emma gets advances from a publishing company that started as a small mom and pop establishment. In the last four years, this little wagon wheel of a company is now a fleet of office buildings all over the US. 

“You read book 3: “Wind’s Ally”” Emma leans back in her chair, studying Belle right back. “You know their history.”

Belle keeps her eyes on Emma, relaxing the tension in her face and suppressing a smirk. They’re at a bit of a stalemate here because Emma isn’t sure what more info is needed and Belle isn’t sharing her thoughts at the moment. 

“Emma, I knew their history. They finished book 3 in a ‘happily ever after’ kind of way. What underlying issues could have brought them to this point? Why did Alysandra leave?” Emma considers the question. Why did she decide to destroy the happiest relationship she’s ever written? Why would a character who fell madly in love just change their mind? “Maybe, ask yourself why you left.”  

-/- 

The sun is setting over the Manhattan skyline when she gets back to her apartment. She doesn’t know where she went after the meeting but her mind just got back to the present and she’s pissed. 

Emma flings her keys across the kitchen island, kicking her heels off in a huff before stomping over to her bar cart. She pours his favorite whiskey into the anchor-etched old fashion glasses he got her one Christmas. 

“History is a stupid word” she grunts to no one but a tilted glass, muffling the sound as the amber liquid meets her lips a second after. She’s taken up talking to herself these last few months. The first four were spent crying and avoiding her reflection. The loneliness finally set in one night and she made herself her own best friend. So she asks her best friend ‘why did you do it?’ as she feels the tension in her shoulder blades ease. Why? Why did Emma Swan leave Killian Jones seven months ago?

“Wouldn’t we all like to know?”

 -/-

The nightmares finally stopped and she no longer wakes with a startle when she finds her bed bare of him. Its been 216 days. She’s cried herself to sleep at least 180. She’s been broken before, boys have left in more ways than one, and she has managed to wake up one day finding herself less damaged than all the others. Today might be that day for the Killian Jones saga. 

Today is they announced the upcoming film and casting begins in a few weeks. She knows she needs to finish this novel, but she hasn’t finished much. She barely finishes lunch on most days, barely finishes a thought that isn’t dripping in Killian. It’s been seven months and he is everywhere, in everything. She thought progress was a slowly-operated escalator but she was finally on her way.

And then the congratulation calls come through. Text after text, email, voicemail and she’s sure in a week or two, she’ll get a card from Mary Margaret. She sorts through them looking for something she’ll never find and she has to rewind. 

She left him. It wasn’t mutual and it wasn’t obvious. He had no clue. All the calls and texts he was going to send her were sent months ago when he was breaking down in voicemails and begging her to just tell him she was okay. 

Congratulations, Emma, you saved him...from ever having to care about you again.

-/-

She doesn’t leave the apartment again until the 245th day. It is easy to stay inside with the modern advances in technology. People will bring literally anything to your front door. Except, maybe inspiration. That she has to go out and find. 

She finds herself in Harlem. The Harlem Public Library. She has to get back to her roots. Sure, this isn’t Storybrooke, and no, she’ll probably never meet a pair of eyes as blue coconut as...but her work needs her to find a way to write.

She thinks of his face. 

Three hours pass and all she has in a google doc is ‘why?’

-/-

Despite the first failure to launch, she finds she quite likes that library. She’s giving herself a pep talk this time, before she finds herself staring at a blank screen wondering why again. 

“I left because I had to.” She looks at her reflection in her bathroom mirror. That’s the only statement she’s made to anyone, herself included. When her friends, her agent, her editor, and her heart ask, she tells them she had to. 

She makes her way through her apartment, recounting the moments, hours, days leading up to it. There are very few things her mind makes enough sense to share. Everything else is so convoluted, so tangled up in self-loathing and years of agonizing loneliness, the average person wouldn’t get it. Some days, as she’s matured and healed, she finds even she has trouble understanding it.

There’s not a day that goes by she doesn’t spend half of it feeling nothing but regret. That’s the healthy part of her, the well-adjusted adult who grew from the little lost girl. She’s sane enough to know she threw away the best relationship she’s ever had. She’s sane enough to know she saved him from future hardships with her. 

The sound of the empire striking back stirs her from her thoughts. Regina gets the Darth Vader theme as a ringtone so Emma never forgets who really owns her career. 

“Hey,” Emma answers as she reaches her apartment door.

“Nice of you to finally answer your phone.” She can hear the glare in Regina’s voice. “You know you pay me to do this right? Not the other way around. Get your money’s worth, why don’t you.” Emma rolls her eyes as she packs her laptop in her messenger bag.

Regina Mills is a fierce woman, as charming as she is aggressive. She can pretty much get anyone to do anything she wants. Emma doesn’t practice in the ways of the force, but she’s certain Regina knows a Jedi mind trick or two, and as her agent, that comes in handy. 

What doesn’t come in handy is her tie to Killian. Regina’s husband Robin happens to be Killian’s cousin. Emma avoided Regina’s calls for months after the break-up, afraid she’ll have to answer the same question she’s been asking herself all afternoon. Once she finally started accepting calls again, it seemed Regina had moved on to bigger and better things: A movie deal. 

“Right” she sighs. “What’s my money bringing me today?” 

“This isn’t money related, so much as a word of warning.” Regina’s tone doesn’t seem as sass-filled as before, so it’s clear she’s not the one wielding the threat. She actually sounds a bit sympathetic. “Belle and I pulled straws to see who got to break this to you, and I, unfortunately, pulled short this time around.”

“There’s a point here.” Emma urges, feeling ill-fated all of a sudden. 

“Killian just moved to NYC.” Like ripping off a band-aid. Emma braces herself for pain, but is met with an absence of feeling altogether. Her knees buckle and she finds purchase against her kitchen island. “Emma?”

“When?” She whispers.

“Just a couple of weeks. He took a job with the NYC public libraries, he’s actually doing really well and has just approached Belle with an idea to get the youth excited about writing. There’s a chance you’ll run into him at the office, so I just...we both thought a heads up was necessary.” 

“Which library?” because Fate is a nosy bitch and has no business showing up and guiding her to the man she ran from.

“Emma?”

“Which library”

“I think...if I recall correctly, his home base is in  Harlem.”

“I’ll call you back.” 

-/-

She thought about leaving the country. At the very least, the state. She is overwhelmed, without a question just so damn overwhelmed. She has gotten so used to tears these days, she’s a little shocked she didn’t cry the minute she heard his name. 

Her body had other ideas, because although she definitely meant to get on a train going the opposite direction, she found herself in Harlem 25 minutes later. 

She sits in the middle of the library at an open table, clickity clacking as loudly as she can. Part of her really believes that maybe if she saw him, she’d remember why she left.

Another part is certain that masochism is her new favorite hobby.

He never appears.

-/-

“Hey” Emma answers her phone going off for the eighth time today. 

“Emma?” Belle sounds more relieved than usual. “Where have you been, I’ve been calling non-stop since 3.” Emma rolls her neck to view the time on the DVR. 

7:45 pm

“Sorry, I’ve been reading all day.” she hasn’t talked to anyone for another two weeks. She does this far too often to still have a support system. Emma’s not sure she’d pour the same amount of effort into anyone who went radio silent every other week. 

“We had a meeting at 2:30.” 

“Sorry.” She shrugs, because honestly, nothing even matters.

“I’m coming over,” Belle says decidedly. 

“No, Belle, you don’t have to do that.” Emma regrets answering on the eighth attempt. “Let’s reschedule.”

“We just did, I’ll see you in thirty minutes. Open the door.” Sure, she’s a small, sweet, meek-looking woman, but what most people don’t know about Belle is she could slay dragons with pure determination alone. In a battle of wills, she's even got Regina beat.

Emma peels herself off the sofa for the first time since noon, snuggie falling to the floor as she heads for the shower. If Bella can make the journey to her apartment, Emma can at least shower. Sure enough, 30 minutes later she’s greeting Belle at the door, a pizza in hand. 

“Are you okay?” She sets the pizza on the kitchen island and wraps Emma in a hug. Emma tries to pull her head far enough to keep her hair from wetting Belle. 

“Yeah, just...the creative process. Ya know.” Emma trails off as the hug ends. Of course, she’s not okay. ‘Okay’ people don’t stop answering their phones for weeks, they don’t stare at blank pages until their vision blurs. They don’t behave this way. This was her first shower in days. 

“He was in the office yesterday,” Belle says after a long silence, just a full 3 minutes of her studying Emma from head to toe. Do her eyes just scream ‘Killian’ every time someone looks at her. “He said he called to congratulate you on the screenplay adaptation.”

“No, he didn’t.” She’s quick to dismiss. She scoured her missed calls for days looking for his name, he never called. 

“How would you know, you never answer your phone, Emma.” She sits on a counter stool, tugging Emma to join her. “He’s going to be in every day next week, and I think…”

“No.” Emma cuts her off. 

“Let me finish.” Belle opens the pizza box, sliding it toward Emma. “I think you should take a vacation. Get out of the city for a while, maybe visit Storybrooke, since you know he’s not there to run into.” Emma grabs a slice of pizza, not sure when she last ate but too preoccupied with the idea of leaving the city for a while. She ran to NYC. Now she’s running back to Storybrooke. Is he just going to chase her back and forth? 

“Did he say anything else about me?” she hates the desperation gnawing at her.

“He asked me why…” Belle sighs “I told him we’ll all find out in book four.”

-/-

God only knows what compelled her to do the exact opposite of what Belle suggested and show up at the publisher’s office. Probably the same thing that led her to the Harlem library a few weeks ago. She bought a new outfit. She realizes she’s barely even worn jeans over the last eight months, and now she’s in a dress and heels like she has an interview to work here. She’s wearing makeup and perfume. She’s trying her best to cover up and signs of the wreck she’s been for months. 

The office seems busier than it has ever been, many new, young faces bustling about. She keeps her features calm as she scans every inch of every room she enters for him. 

“Emma?” Belle is hurried as she crosses the main floor to meet her. “What are you doing here?”

“I know.” Emma returns the hushed tone Belle is using. “I reworked some chapters, delayed the breakup, and gave more of Aly’s history.” and Belle nods, but is evidently not listening.

“He’s here.” Belle looks almost frightened. “So if you want to reconsider, I would do it now. Otherwise…”

“Swan?” no one calls her Swan. She’s paralyzed. What did she think was going to happen? How did she think she was going to react? When she paced around her apartment for three hours this morning, did she think she was going to just be okay? He would be here, he would see her and suddenly everything would be okay? “Emma…” He tries softer, less shocked, more timid. 

This is the moment. In every love story, angst finds its way in, rips the reader’s heart out and although they’ve been bleeding for chapters now, they can feel nothing at this moment. Time is still, the lights are dim, and all we see is Emma and him. 

He looks like himself, just more professional. He’s in well-fitted gray slacks, a navy dress shirt, his hair is longer though. He’s got more scruff on his neck than normal. His eyes are too blue, truly, for anyone to notice another inch of him. They stare at her, the same shade that’s been haunting her dreams, and she still struggles to define it. Everything. They’ve always been everything, no matter if it’s more cotton candy than blue coconut. 

“Killian.” She swallows. Her throat makes this awkward gurgling sound and she wants to melt into the floor. Why is she here?

It’s suddenly so quiet but so loud. She can hear her heart hammering in her eardrums. No one says anything for a long stretch of time, maybe 2 seconds, maybe 3 hours, she can’t be sure. She just knows there is so much said in the silence. 

“How are you?” She asks without thought. The look on his face is devastating. 

“Sorry?” He mocks a laugh. “How am I?” 

She’s not completely delusional. This is a thing humans say to one another, no? Why does it feel so foreign all at once, like she’s attempting English for the first time with a local?

“Killian” she sighs, releasing the most dizzying breath.

“I’m good” he grits, suddenly covered in constrained anger. “And you?” 

And now they are strangers, all dressed up and nothing to talk about. 

“Me?” Her tongue drags along her lower lip to buy time. “Good.” She nods.

“I’m just pleased everyone is good.” Belle smiles sweetly. “Now, Killian and I have a brief meeting, and afterward, if you’re still available, we can go over your rewrite.”

An exit strategy. This is quite possibly the only thing she could have hoped for.

“Swan was a bright young writer once” Killian grins, wickedly. “Why don’t you attend the meeting. We’re talking about a youth writing program.” He’s obviously bating her. How dare she show up on a day he’s here and act like she didn’t destroy him…

“Sure” she agrees. Partly because she’s too stubborn to back down from a challenge, and mainly because she did destroy him and there’s that whole thing about masochism she recently discovered about herself.

Belle looks beside herself. Her eyes narrow and she puffs her chest for a moment before leading them to a meeting space. Two more individuals join them, laptops ready to jot down notes and ideas. Her meetings are only ever with Belle so, for Emma, this seems like red carpet treatment. 

He has amazing ideas. He loves the idea of bringing an artistic outlet to the children of Harlem. He was always so much more than a shelfer. He was always a dreamer, with these brilliant, compassionate ideas for helping everyone feel less alone, more encouraged. 

She was always a fence, holding him back from the best parts of himself.

-/-

When the meeting concludes, Belle graciously thanks Killian for coming, makes promises of action, and attempts to say goodbye. 

Killian, as good-natured and kind as he can be, has always had a persistently obnoxious side. He invites himself to the next meeting.

“This is only fair, Swan.” he smiles, though his eyes are full of darkness. 

They regroup in Belle’s office after a bathroom break. 

As much as Emma is dying on the inside, Belle looks absolutely disturbed by this. She can’t imagine the discomfort in being the third wheel of a breakup reunion. 

“So...when we uh, when we left off, you were telling me why they broke up.” Belle sighs, knowing how awful this is. Emma smiles, hoping it lets her off the hook a little. After all, Belle told her to leave town. Emma decided to torture herself.

“Right.” Emma takes a large breath in, holding it while she pulls out her folder. Only releasing once its in Belle’s hands. Killian is studying her like he has a Chemistry final to take tomorrow and she’s the only hope. “Alysandra left Atlas for his…” She’s said it to herself. She’s made hints to others, but Killian has never had a clue. “For his own good. She’s derailed him from his journey. She’s made him less of a pirate, more of a…”

“More of a what?” Killian’s breath is sharp as it floods in through his nose and out through his mouth. “What did she do to him?”

“She reduced him to a caregiver,” Belle answers from what’s written in the text. “Alysandra took over the journey of discovery. She was suddenly the main character.” Belle looks up at Emma with a look she’d only be able to classify as “delayed understanding.”

“In a story about Atlas, Aly becomes the focus. Everything he does, he does for her.” Emma can feel herself losing composure, eyes stinging with tears, throat drier than a desert. Somehow, someway, she finds her way to Killian’s eyes. “He wasn’t living for himself anymore. He had no purpose but to love her. And it was destroying everything.”

She’s not sure if it’s understanding she expects, or maybe gratitude, for saving him from the needy monster that she is. She knows neither is what she received. 

“Did you ask Atlas, perhaps… perhaps that’s what made him happiest?” Killian’s eyes are drilling into her like nails, pinning her against a wall. 

She is less. 

Speechless, motionless, hopeless…

Less sure she did the right thing. Less firm on her decision. Just so much less than she was the day before. 

There’s movement after a long pause, not by her, but Belle, gently setting the files down and moving to leave them alone. 

“Aly is an orphan” Emma explains and she can see his head start to shake, but she has to be firm. “Listen. She is not the strong-willed, rebel without a cause she pretends to be. Some days the sadness from being alone for so long stunts her. She spends hours upon hours laying awake wishing she could sleep forever. She can be a wreck, a mess, an impossible woman to love.” 

Does it make it easier to talk about herself as if she’s someone else? She’s been doing it for so long, all the catharsis from writing herself into stories, just to unpack the things that plague her? Maybe she can have sympathy for anyone but her, maybe its the only way she can recognize how her behavior impacts others. Maybe the book is why she left in the first place. 

“You make it impossible to love you, Emma.” She’s never seen his jaw trembling like this before. “And against all odds, through resilience and patience, I’ve found a way to do the bloody impossible. You can cover it up in characters you’ve based off of us, but this isn’t fiction. I was real. What we had...what we had was real. It wasn’t easy, but when you finally let me in, it was simple. We were happy.”

“You were happy?” She brushes tears from her cheeks as she shakes her head in disagreement. “Was it simple? To come home and find I hadn’t moved from my spot on the couch? Was that the ideal relationship you dreamt of, to see all of your energy, love, and time wasted on someone who couldn’t get themselves off the couch?”

“So you got yourself off the couch now.” Killian stands, eyes frantically scanning Emma from head to toe. “Well done, it only took the motivation of ending a relationship to do it.”

“I did it for you.” and she believes that, with everything in her, she left for his own good.

“Did you now?” He seems so out of breath for standing still. “Or could you have possibly woken up one day and realized the weight of a relationship was what was pinning you to the couch. Was it that Atlas cared for Aly too much, or was it the expectation that Aly would have cared for him in return? Was breaking my heart easier than just trusting me with yours?”

And all at once in the middle of the ocean, she can see Aly waking up all alone in the captain’s quarters, searching the whole damn ship for a man who did what the men she loves always do. 

“Maybe there were days you thought I was miserable” he kneels before her as the ocean finds its way to this office. His eyes are ocean blue, always changing hues depending on if the sun is shining, or a storm is brewing or they’re in the deep. “But you weren’t afraid I’d die that way, always miserable, no...some part of you thought I’d leave before I let that happen. That’s the orphan I loved. You were never a mess. You were a survivalist.”

So maybe that’s their story. Aly watched Atlas change his life for her, and realized he’s going to live to regret it. Did the last seven months hurt less because it was her choice? If he would have pulled the trigger, would the bullet do that much more damage?

“I would have died miserable.” 

-/-

The history she’s writing is hers and hers alone. When she was younger, when her heart was stolen and broken, when she always ended up alone. She was writing an escape plan.

This was the first time she was the one who left, and to quell the guilt of being her own worst nightmare, she forced herself to believe she was doing it for him. How many people have left her for her own good? How many times did she think that they were doing her a favor?

She’s been sitting motionless for who knows how long when Belle comes back. Killian is long gone but his words linger like those dizzy stars after a concussion. Her head is throbbing trying to make sense of it. This wasn’t just seven months spent believing the lie. Now she’s searching for the truth. 

She gets anxious in monotony, like a stench in stagnant water, she is repulsed by the concept. She’s never wanted to do the same thing every day. She doesn’t want a picket fence, she wants…She does like a cute cottagey feel with a nice picket fence, she could…she could deal with a picket fence.

She definitely does not want a husband though, or to be barefoot and pregnant, or…

There were times, she’d look at him fresh out of the shower, or in his sleep and he’d look so much younger, she’d wonder what their kids would look like. There have been times she’s searched her fingers as they moved across her keyboard and realized her ring finger would look nice with a natural stone set in some brass band. It was never anything he did that scared her. It was that she thought about more. The concept of more scared her, and the fact that she was greedy and foolish enough to want it.

Four years is a long time to not talk about marriage, but after they moved past her initial anxiety attacks over having a boyfriend, he never really pushed for much again. Moving in together was her idea. He kept enough stuff at her place and with Elsa moving abroad, it made sense to do it. That’s as far as she was going to take it. Another few years piled up and she was busy writing and he was busy being supportive of that, she recognized she was his sun. When he made sure she ate during the weeks she barely left the house, when he kept her house plants alive, when he did her laundry, reminded her to shower, and told her he’s proud of her too often to quantify, she knew she was his ship. An inanimate object, something someone can love so much and not receive the love back in return, and sure, he’s as silly as a pirate to believe a ship that holds itself together while he’s sailing on her loves him, and that’s just her role.

Hold yourself together Emma, that’s always been your role.

She started to get bitter and insecure. What is she contributing to this relationship? How is she making him any better? Has he even written many songs since they moved in together, has she gone to see him perform, has he performed? Some days she was so enthralled in her writing, she didn’t realize he wasn’t home all day. It was his day off and he was gone for longer than a workday. He could have been having an affair for all she knew. For all he did, he deserved to be having an affair, falling in love with someone who would be there for him, encouraging his dreams, and dedicating herself to him.

After that day, she started her drafts. Killian, you’re so much more than I deserved…Or Killian, your life paused the day you met me. And finally, after months, she left him with I need this to be over.

She’s a writer, a published author, an English major and an avid reader yet, through years and years of literature and just terrible romcoms, she never learned how to break up with someone. She never knew the words to say to him, so she said nothing. He called for three-five days, she’s not sure as she was in a sobbing-induced coma.  He sent texts, he sent freaking carrier pigeons, and she locked herself in a hotel room with her laptop and her broken heart.

Finally, an email came in.

Emma,

I’ve moved out. Everything I’ve left is yours…among the worn t-shirts you liked to sleep in and the novels we’ve collected over the years is my heart.

Goodbye Love.

“Emma,” Belle brings her back to the present after a very long, painful trip into her past. “Are you okay?”

Why is that word even used to describe how ‘good’ something or someone is? 

“No.” She glances over at Belle, she thinks to ask if she talked to him in the hall after he left, if he said anything, if he seemed ‘Okay’ himself but she settles back to a business mindset. Work is the only constant. “Aly left because she didn’t want to get left again.” 

“And that’s how it ends?” Belle hands her the folder back. “You can do better.”

-/-

“The concept of fiction isn’t a lack of reality, it just hasn’t happened exactly that way yet.” 

She hears his voice cascading down the ramp she’s sitting at the bottom of. It's been a week since Belle’s meeting and she made her way back to the library. Back to their roots. There’s so much history in this building, but the history she’s looking for lives within her. There’s a group of teenagers huddled together like they’re on a tour. Her fingers shake as she looks back down at her laptop. 

“Don’t be afraid to use your own daily vernacular. It’s just as likely as any well-researched, powered by thesaurus dialogue, but it will come to you much more easily. That’s your voice.”

His voice sounds increasingly close. She wants to look but if they lock eyes now, while he’s busy, she’s back to being the center of attention. Why did she come here? Does she want to get back to being the center of his attention? 

“Swan?” her stomach flips violently. She really didn’t think this through. Her neck trembles as she cranes to look up at him. “Hi.” He clears his throat, the group of teenagers studying them closely from behind him.

“Hi” she breathes. “Uhm…”

“Do you want to meet my junior author group?” He cuts in quickly.

“Hi.” She repeats, only this time her eyes travel across the young faces. “I’m Emma.”

 “Emma Swan?” A young girl in the back pipes up. “You write Cap Zeph.” ‘Cap Zeph’ is a very popular Tumblr tag, Emma’s been told. She is now a mild-day D list celebrity with the news of the screenplay adaptation. She never published under her real name until this one, Killian’s idea.

“That I do.” Emma feigns a smile.

“Emma Swan” Killian begins, chest swelling “came up with the idea in a small town library.” 

“Really?” another girl with wavy blonde hair tumbling around her shoulders asks.

“Yes, and Killian Jones worked there. He’s…evidently the inspiration. Hair as dark as night, eyes as blue as the sea he sails upon.”  Every girl and one boy in the group glance at Killian, amorously. Still handsome as ever. He looks down, scratching behind his ear and chuckling dryly.  She wonders if his throat burns the same way her eyes do or if this feels so natural he’s happy to fall back into it.

“Why don’t you all find some books to research personal voice from in the YA section, hmm?” He dismisses the group quickly. They share assuming glances and move to leave in pairs, surely gossiping on the way. 

Being alone again is terrifying. She doesn’t know what she’s doing here. Why does she always go looking for him? What does she want? How can they come out of this okay? What is okay? 

“What brings you?” Killian starts. He isn’t looking anywhere but her and the look in his eyes leaves frost on her flesh. His expression is so blank. She has no idea if he even wants her here after their last conversation.

“I was just looking for inspiration.” He nods.

“There are study rooms.” He adds, motioning in the direction she may find them. “My office is actually at a different location, or I’d…suggest…”

“Do you hate me?” it comes out without warning.

“No.” He winces. She’s not sure if it’s because he’s lying or because he wishes he were lying.

“Why not?” She asks. He flinches.

“Christ, Swan. Stop it.” He grabs a seat across from her at the small bistro-style table she’s been working on. She closes her laptop to remove barriers between them. “I hated myself for a while. I thought maybe I should have never lost sight of who you were. You’ve always been guarded. I thought I had broken down some of your walls. I should have never assumed I tore them all down.”

This voice within her tells her that it's no man’s job to do the work for her. Her walls are her own to remove. 

“What about your walls?” Emma counters. She didn’t come for an argument, but Killian had trauma, he was damaged in theory, but always presented himself as such a well-adjusted, forgiving, kind, loving man. “Maybe you had to go brick by brick, but you knew they were there. I just watched you for years never act like anything troubled you.”

He laughs, loudly. 

She’s startled more that she laughs in return than questions it. 

“Emma, my love...of course I was troubled. I still am. I drink far too much and try to solve all of my problems myself without anyone’s help.” He’s still smiling as he confesses.”Hell, I didn’t tell anyone we broke up for months and it wasn’t because I thought you were coming back. I just knew I wasn’t going to let anyone worry about me.”

“You’re not troubled” she shakes her head but thinks back to every time he came home frustrated and sealed himself up before she could get a good glimpse of it. “Are you?”

“I spent an entire day at the marina grieving my dead brother, over a decade after losing him. Every time I went to leave and come home to you, I’d get upset again. I used to stay away until I could pull myself together.” His smile slips into something dark and Emma realizes all the ways they failed at communicating. “I loved you just enough to only show you my best parts. I never trusted our love enough to show you everything. And it’s not because you were sad every now and then.”

And she sees the orphan in him the moment she realizes being left behind were his worst fears, too.

“You thought I’d leave…”

“I think the term is ‘best-laid plans.’” His smile is back “Convince an author to fall in love with you, live forever. Only, with my luck, I get to read my heart get broken in the exact same way whenever I’d like. I was looking forward to your book, knowing I’d get to see us in love again.”

She considers the part about him looking forward to her book.

“It’s as much my book as yours.” She means that. When she first wrote the Cap Zeph short stories, she had no plan of publishing. Killian pushed for her to immortalize this, to believe in herself and sell it. When the first went well, he convinced her to meet with Regina. “I mean, you are the entire series, after all.” He shakes his head and sighs. 

She doesn’t have a response and the seconds tick by. It only takes a few before they reach an awkward silence where one person makes an excuse to leave. And then when do they see each other again?

“I should get back to my writers.” He moves to stand and she wants to jump up, but she doesn’t know what words follow that. She writes fiction. It's why this book has been so damn difficult. Writing their personalities into a fantasy of pirates and fairies, that's one thing. Writing history is another. She can build on what has already happened. This in-the-moment dichotomy, will they? Won’t they? Can they make it work? It’s disturbing. 

He’s the quick thinker. Always a come-back, a pun, a literary quote…

“The only thing worse than a boy who hates you…” She opens her laptop nonchalantly, as if it won’t wound her for him to leave. “...a boy who loves you.”

Among the many novels they shared, “The Book Thief” was one of Killian’s most treasured. 

He stares at her with wonder glazing his face. “If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.”

Maybe she’d burn every book in this library, for a chance to experience falling in love with Killian all over again, as if it weren’t a moment in history. 

The screenplay would read ‘They share a look of longing’ and she’s not sure that’s how she’d describe it. ‘Longing’ seems more cliche and not nearly as descriptive as her quickening pulse would use.

This feels like a pivotal moment where she realizes that they don’t necessarily have to not be in love anymore. They could take a slow pace, like windchimes waiting for a breeze to bring them together. That’s all a Zephyr is.

“My number hasn’t changed.” 

-/-

His number has. She gets a text around 1am. 

Are you up?

It's odd, because Killian isn’t a booty-call kind of guy, but who knows what a breakup can do to a man. 

I rarely sleep before 2. Her phone rings moments later.

“Hello?” her tone sounds like a question, but she knows it’s him.

“Swan, it’s Killian.” 

“Yes, Grandpa, I’m aware.” She can’t help but chuckle. Almost too elated that he’s on the other end. She can hear him laugh on the other end.

“Do you remember the first time we started speaking on the phone? You wouldn’t give me your number until maybe the 18th date.” She didn’t trust herself then. They took things so slowly.

“You know I like a clean getaway.” Is it too soon to joke about always having one foot out the door? 

“What's the escape plan this time?”  

“Probably the West Coast since you chased me here”

“I did not!” His laugh is vibrating against her ribs, setting the tempo for her heart. 

Could it be easy all over again? One quote and he’s calling her? One call and they go see a movie? One date and…

And thinking about the end is how she got there, isn’t it? 

“Did you plan on seeing me again? Knowing you were moving here?”

“Of course. I planned on seeing you no matter where I lived...I prepared for you to come into focus and the rest of my world to blur.” He sighs and she can hear his mattress settle as he moves. “I didn’t plan on seeing you in my library again.”

“Where else would I get inspiration. You’re my muse.” 

They talk til 4am. She’s rethought every word she’s said these last seven months. She rarely moves without tension tugging at the back of her neck. Her thoughts are never clear and simple, not since she left. And here, in the darkness of her bedroom, with nothing but a familiar voice on the other end, she hasn’t second-guessed a word. 

-/-

She’s not sure if she should call it a date. He invites her to a scholarship meeting and sure, they’re dressed up, but because it's a business meeting. He talks to the team, Belle is in attendance, and she barely says a word. 

But he asks her out for drinks afterward and suddenly she’s all he’s focused on, laughing about old times, discussing the interesting twist in literature they’ve both read recently. She asks him if he’s written any songs and he beams brightly when he tells her ‘only recently, Love.’

Sometimes love is familiar, like a book you’ve read a dozen times. There’s comfort in knowing everything and loving it anyway.

-/-

“Are you dating him?” Belle watches her from the doorway as Killian moves down the hall to his meeting. They came to the office together this time, maybe a peck on the cheek occurred before his departure, and maybe Belle witnessed it. 

“I don’t know.” Emma tries not to think logistically about what’s going on. It’s been 4 weeks, she’s written 8 chapters and Aly is about to find Atlas again. “For the first time since I started, I know how book 4 will end.”

They go over the recent chapters and Belle seems subtly impressed but she’s holding back. Emma knows it's Killian-related. She just knows she can’t pry without being pried open in return. 

“You don’t like it?”

“No, it's beautiful. From tragedy to triumph is the Captain Zephyr way.” Belle hands the work back to Emma with a sad smile. “What makes it different this time? True love always finds its way back to one another, but how do we know they won’t split up again?” Emma knows this isn’t about the novel. They haven’t yet gotten back together to split up.

Does she know they’ll never separate again? Of course not. Killian is dedicated, devoted like a priest to the cloth. She is very aware that his heart is not yet healed, but eager to love her all over again. A few dates and late-night phone calls don’t make forever a promise anyone could keep.

“We don’t.” 

-/-

He’s walking her home after another fun night at a bar near her apartment. They’ve been casually seeing each other but nothing more than a kiss on the cheek or a hug goodnight has occurred. They get to her building in record time, too preoccupied by the conversation on who in Hollywood would make a handsome Captain Zeph. 

“Johnny Depp doesn’t have blue eyes.” Emma laughs. “You can’t just pick the most popular actors, and he’s already a pirate in another franchise.” They’re at the doors of her building and his eyes are boring into her. “Do you want to come up?”

And maybe it's because they haven’t had a real kiss in what’s very close to being a year now, but he seems almost nervous. 

“I’m afraid I miss you too much.” he scratches behind his ear and looks down the road. When he looks back at her he seems shy.

“Chris Wood,” she comments. She liked him on Supergirl. “Come upstairs.” 

It's the look on his face when he studies her apartment that makes her remember they broke up. As if she had forgotten months of trying to hold herself together, he reminds her that she broke him when his face floods with that loneliness. 

“Killian...” 

“This is a very nice place you have.” his eyes are darting from one corner to the next, lingering on the most significant differences. “So ‘New York’ it's almost as if you’ve never lived anywhere else.” 

“Your apartment isn’t ‘New York?’” it's so weird that they’ve never seen each other's place when they’ve seen each other's souls. 

“It’s just a place to lay my head.” He glances back at her with something almost accusatory when he says “You’ve gone ahead and made yourself a home.” And it has never felt like that, not once, when she was hiding away, when she would run home to it. 

This place, this city has always been a foster home she feels like she’ll get kicked out of if she gets too comfortable. It wasn’t like their home together. Their home felt like roots. Here she feels like an implant that won’t take to the soil. 

“The designer furnishings don’t mean shit to me.” Emma moves to the bookshelf, all new and shiny but it's just a box to keep what matters most. “Only what I’ve come here with is all I care to take. She pulls out a few books, “Wuthering Heights,” “The Book Thief,” and “Emma.” She hands them to him knowing they were always his. 

“I wanted you to keep them.” He starts to give them back when she waves her hand. 

“What do you need to not resent this place? To know I have everything you left tucked away in all these new places?” she motions for him to follow her to the bedroom and he slowly drifts behind, setting the novels on the coffee table. 

Her bed is covered in pillows dressed in his t-shirts instead of pillowcases. She keeps his cologne on the bedside table as if it were some expensive aromatherapy pillow spray. The blanket Granny from the local diner in Storybrooke made them lay at the foot of the bed, an anchor crocheted into the loops.

“I only drink whiskey you like. I only sleep in your t-shirts.” she sits on her bed, reaching for his hand to pull him down with her. “I don’t know what we are, and I can’t promise you I’m not a tragedy waiting to happen. I just know that I haven’t been able to erase an inch of you.”

He kisses her then. It's not on her terms, and he has only ever waited for everything to be on her terms. So when he pulls her in, hand cupping the back of her head, mouth open and adventurous, she gasps. 

His other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her closer to him, her hands pressed flat against his chest as his tongue enters her mouth with desperation. She fists his shirt in her hands, pressing even closer to him as her tongue reacts in kind. It has been the longest year without him and he’s kissing her like they’re running out of time.

All at once they’re falling as he lays her down on her back, continuing to claim her mouth as his property. Her hands start moving, tugging and fumbling with buttons and zippers and just much too much fabric for her liking. When she moves for his briefs he tugs back from her lips. 

“Is this what you want?” Her response is to slip her dress over her head. Any questions to follow are puffed out in a husky tone against her ear. 

Sometimes love is erotica, so she catalogs every second of it because nothing has ever happened quite like this before. 

-/-

They spend the next few months together and she bangs out the rest of the book in record time. Regina and Belle throw her a submission party. She dodges questions about their future and tries to focus on the book. 

“So Aly and Atlas together again,” Robin questions her as Killian returns with a drink for the both of them. She knows he’s not talking about the story. Killian has been very careful to not assume much about their status. Both of them have just stuck to ‘seeing where it goes.’ 

But it's not like they just met six months ago. They have history, they have four years of standing together at parties and being a couple. Do they have the luxury of casually dating? If all happiness is fleeting, do they dive face-first in it or wade in the shallow end. 

“I love Killian.” She says firmly. It’s never not been true from the moment she realized it, in a foreign library miles and miles away from home. He is not easily erased, and it has become glaringly obvious it will only destroy her to try. “I always have and I always will.” Killian’s eyes have never been so doe-like. She’s never been so bold. 

“I…” Robin’s face flushes, certainly not expecting her to speak so proudly.

“And I love Emma, if it isn’t ardently clear. She’s everything to me and I’m happy just to exist in her life.” He raises his whiskey to her and she follows suit like a gentlemen’s agreement has just been formed: To love one another without concern of what it means. As she takes a sip she realizes what everything means. He hasn’t pushed aside his dreams in the slightest this go around. He’s been focused and driven, ambitious and busy. Somehow, he’s still considering her ‘everything.’ Maybe what she thought was sacrifice all that time ago was really just love.

So they stay in love. 

-/-

Another year goes by and the first film is set to release. Although Emma and Killian still pay rent at their separate apartments, they spend every night together. Sometimes it's downtown in Killian’s studio, and other nights it's in the heart of the city at Emma’s. Commitment isn’t measured by who gave what up. It has shifted to who stays. They both do, and every day they make the decision to stay, when it's 5 months since Killian has slept alone or 10 months since Emma had dinner without him. They stay together with one promise in mind. They love each other. And for as long as Love is Present, they will choose each other. 

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Cry Me A River.

anonymous  asked:

Prompt: Cry me a river, I cried a river over you.

Part TWO:

In the days following their first meeting, Claire did as Jamie had suggested and began reading her uncle’s memoirs the moment he emailed them to her.

One box of tissues hadn’t been enough.

Neither had two.

The bin beside her bed had been emptied a few times by the maid who supposedly was only employed to clean once a week but seemed to be there every day. She would (unobtrusively) appear in Claire’s room. Remove the overflowing bin and return it empty - a task she was certainly capable of herself but had no energy to point out.

As predicted, the draft was funny, sad, motivating and humbling all at the same time. She could pick out Lamb's voice in an instant and it made her sob harder to think that she’d missed these precious moments. There were embarrassing stories written about her, but she found that she didn’t mind them. This was for Lamb, by Lamb and she knew everything he’d passed on to Jamie was something interesting and vibrant, something suitable to be shared. Her past was suddenly coming back to life before her eyes, an easier time (though she hadn’t realised it). Free of the restraints of her family name and the ridiculous entitlement that had gone with it. The words seemed to lift off the page and in an instant she was back in a dusty tent, the taste of her first cigarette still coating her tongue as she coughed and laughed with some of the younger members of the group.

It had been a flurry of thought, her mind alive with images she’d forgotten long ago, an emotional rollercoaster that excited her and punched her in the gut all at the same time. When she reached the end, Claire had returned to the beginning and started again. She read deeper into each and every word, hooked on the sentences as they took her from his early life - a life before her own had even started - through to nearly the very end, until Jamie’s voice became larger than Lamb's as he took the reins of the story.

As the day of the funeral dawned, Claire had yet to even leave the confines of her appointed room. Cleverly, food had been left on a tray outside her door at mealtimes and she had not been disturbed by anyone in the house for anything. There were calls, of course, from the family solicitor and the funeral director to arrange the final details but he had sorted the newspaper announcements in a number of different ways to ensure that colleagues far and wide knew of poor Quentin’s departure.

She had even written the eulogy - but, without thinking, she had incorporated and rewritten some of her favourite adventures from the book. It seemed fitting to use his own words, to add a little of Lamb into his own funeral.

Though without Jamie’s support, she knew she couldn’t use it.

Terror gripped her at the mere thought of asking for permission. Having been absent -her own choice- when she should have been a more conscientious niece, Claire felt unworthy of using the words Jamie had so very carefully hashed out with Lamb during their long days together. Part of her thought *maybe* he should be reading the speech that sent him off to his final resting place. After all, it was him that had seen him the last important years of his life.

She could tell, though, that there was no way he would accept that. Something about his demeanor the day he’d picked her up, unannounced, at the train station told her much of his character. He was selfless, that she could guess. Willing to go above and beyond for the people he cared for - and she suspected he held Lamb in such high acclaim that he’d personally seen to it that she was provided for in every way from the second she arrived as her uncle would have wanted (despite her previous lack of attention).  

Staring at her unpacked suitcase, the remnants of her search for a decent funeral outfit still splayed half across the floor of the small room, she sighed and turned to face her closed laptop once more. The temptation to open it up and re-read the manuscript again was growing by the minute though she knew she didn’t have the time.

“Claire?” A knock on the door brought her out of her longing and she threw the half crumpled summer dress (why she’d packed that, she’d never know) onto the bed with a pile of other rejected outfits.

“Yes? Is the car here?” She questioned, looking at her watch to confirm that it was indeed still too early and that she still had time.

“Nay, not yet. I just wanted to make sure ye were alright. Mary said ye didna eat the breakfast she prepared for ye this morning and I was a wee bit worrit.”

Pulling the ties of her dressing gown closer around her chest, she pulled the door open wide enough for him to see that she wasn’t half starved and languishing on the floor. For the first time in a while an honest smile graced her lips and Jamie’s forehead evened out and the weight of worry fell from his shoulders. “I don’t want her to think I’m not grateful...it’s just that I'm not really that hungry this morning, sorry.”

“Did ye read it?” He asked, changing tac as he pointed to her computer where it sat, positioned haphazardly on the bedside table. He seemed intrigued and the rise of his question gave her the perfect opening.

“I did. It’s...magnificent. So powerful, and funny too. I forgot how much he used to make me laugh.” Her face lit up as she spoke, the deep lines on her brow easing as she sat on the bed causing Jamie to have to cross the invisible line into her room for the first time since she’d arrived. “Honestly, I can’t imagine it not being snapped up - at least by his former colleagues and friends - the moment it hits the press.”

The smile that made Jamie’s face beam from ear to ear made Claire’s heart swell. Genuinely worried about her response, he was obviously pleased that she’d found it acceptable.

“I have a question to ask, if it’s alright with you?” She continued, his relaxed demeanour bolstering her.

“Aye, ask away.”

“I’ve written my speech, the eulogy. Reading through his biography gave me a myriad of ideas, it reminded me of how much light and energy he brought to the world...but I used it to help me in writing my account of him. I’ve tried to put my own memories into my own words, though I’d like to use some of his own -some direct quotes from the manuscript…”

“Can you hold on for a moment, please?” He asked, holding his hand up and then rushing from the room.

Holding her hands together in her lap, she waited, her heart beating double time as she tried to quell the rising panic. If he said no, she’d understand but she would have some quick thinking to do.

She had nothing to worry about as Jamie returned in a flash, a piece of paper clutched carefully between his fingers. “Here,” he said, passing it over, “read this. I think it would be perfect to add to what you’ve already written. It was something we spoke about in passing the last few days and I wrote it down, just on the off chance that it would fit somewhere. No’ knowing, of course, that it might be the last thing we spoke about in reference to the book.”

Happiness fled from his eyes for a second as the sobering reality of what they were about to do set in before he shook the sombre feeling from his bones and placed his hands back carefully in his freshly steamed trousers.

“Oh, Jamie,” she sobbed, the new tears blurring the words as she held the paper away so that they didn’t ruin the script, “it’s perfect...but I think you should read this. You heard his voice, you’ve written what he told you so beautifully that I think he would want it to be you who voiced this in church.”

Grinning as he shook his head in disbelief, he took the proffered notepad back from Claire and placed it in his jacket pocket. “Are ye sure?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Ye should wear this,” he returned, changing the conversation once more as he plucked a clean lined black dress from the unsullied pile on the case. “Ye’ve still got the blazer he had made for you, the one wi’ the tools embroidered on the pockets and down the collar?” He asked, reminding her of a later section of the book, one where he had detailed Claire’s Masters graduation gift in detail including the story of the seamstress who’d adorned the pesky fabric and pinned herself that many times she’d scored the prints off her fingers by the end.

“Yes,” replying through the rapidly falling tears, she pointed to the door where the aforementioned article was hanging neatly on the back. “I still have it.”

“Aye. The dress wi’ that. You’ll look stunning, Claire.”

--

The service went out without a hitch; the church was packed, people having travelled halfway across the globe to share this arduous time with both Claire and Jamie. She’d spoken at length, far surpassing the one sided sheet of paper she had originally intended to stick to, the words falling from her freely. She felt stronger than she had on entering, her eyes glazed and large as she took in the sheer size of the audience, but once she had started, she found it difficult to stop.

Jamie did his part spectacularly, having almost the entire visiting congregation in hysterics. Just as Claire had predicted.

It made the wake a more relaxed affair and she stayed in amongst a group of Lambs oldest friends for the most part, laughing and reminiscing with them about everything she’d been taught by them and Lamb.

Seeing the light hearted nature of the conversation, Jamie watched from afar, talking to people here and there about the anecdotes he had shared during the funeral. She’d been quiet, of course, barely making a sound in the house since her arrival and he’d been cautiously optimistic about her opening up to him sometime soon. The aura of sadness she carried with her had distanced itself, the invisible black cloud dissipating with every breath she took of Scottish air and although she was still a mostly closed book, a small part of him wanted to entice her to stay and heal in Glasgow, on neutral ground, rather than return to Oxford straight away.

“I think that’s the last, Jamie.” Breaking the silence, he looked up to see the empty living room, a few plates strewn around with various elements of discarded food in the absence of life which had once preceded it but no more mourners.

“We should…”

“How about we leave it, just until tomorrow,” she interjected, sliding the last of the food waste into an open black bag, “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”

“Aye,” succumbing to the extreme fatigue that covered him from head to toe, he grabbed a tumblr and held it aloft, “agreed. How about a wee dram and a private toast?”

“Perfect.”

“To Quentin.” The commencement began with him passing Claire a double whack of whisky before clinking his glass with her own. “A man of honour…”

“...and grace…”

“...with passion and love in his heart.”

“Long may he rest in peace.” Claire finished, slugging back the spirit and closing her dry eyes. She’d finally cried herself out, and though she felt the familiar tinge of sadness building in her chest, she managed to feel somewhat at peace herself at long last.

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

The Romance We Wrote

Stiles and Derek work for the same publishing company—Derek as an author of children’s books and Stiles a contract illustrator. They’re paired up to work on a lot of projects together but have never met. When one of their works becomes a bestseller, they finally get the chance to meet.

Commission for @loveyprophet 

His desk was covered in stacks of paper and folders, drafted stories held together by the colourful paperclips his sister had bought him as a joke, various notebooks and scraps of paper with reminders or ideas written on them, published copies of his books, colourful sticky notes, his laptop, and a coffee mug that had left a ring scorched into the wooden table top over time.

Derek sorted through the files, pulling out the pale blue folder of his latest project.

It was another collaboration with Stiles Stilinski, a contact illustrator. He and Derek had worked together on several projects now and Derek loved working with him. They had never actually met in person, but they had spent months sending emails back and forth and every draft or manuscript that they passed back and forth had fun little notes written in the margins.

Derek had memorised Stiles’ handwriting at this point, and every time he saw one of his illustrations he was mesmerised. It didn’t matter what it was, he knew the art style—slightly sketchy linework and soft colouring, not bold colour and blocked out shapes.

Stiles had a way of making his art look enchanting and inviting. And every illustration made Derek’s stories come to life.

Derek’s laptop chimed, a notification lighting up the screen of his phone beside him. He picked up his phone, reading his sister’s name before setting the phone aside again and turning back to his work.

He rifled through the collected pages of the drafted story and the sketches Stiles had made up for him—character designs and quickly drawn backgrounds that he wanted Derek’s feedback on. The manuscript pages were filled with scrawls of colourful pen.

Stiles had explained it once: red was unsolved—things that needed clarity, yellow was ‘to be confirmed’—typos and corrections or suggestions, green was solved, and blue was ‘just pretty’.

Most of the pages were full of blue—messages to Derek or little doodles in the corner of the page that always made him smile.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said, glancing up from his work to see Lydia step into his office, her long strawberry-blonde hair pulled back from her face.

“Laura just called,” she told him. “She says to tell you to look at your emails.”

“I will,” Derek replied.

“Now,” Lydia said with finality.

Derek let out a measured breath and pulled his laptop forward, opening up his emails to find several unread messages. He found the email from Laura and opened it.

Congratulations—your story, ‘What’s Mine is Yours’, is on the bestsellers list for the second month running.

Because of this, the company has set up a deal with a few local bookstores and libraries for you and Stiles to do meet-and-greets, reading sessions, and book signings—this is not optional, Derek.

I’ve attached a schedule of the dates and places as well as airline tickets for the few signings that are out-of-state.

Dress code is casual and don’t scare the little kids.

Love,

Laura.

Derek typed out a quick reply to let his sister know he’d read the email and downloaded the attachments before turning back to his work.

He picked up the piece of paper and froze, a wave of realisation washing over him.

He was finally going to meet Stiles.

Stiles span around on his chair, turning from his desk to the lightbox he had set up nearby, he grabbed a pencil and began to sketch out an illustration.

His desk was a mess of paper—sketches, pieces of paper, drafted stories he had to draw illustrations for. Scattered among the mess were coloured pens, pencils and markers, and a tablet that was connected to his computer.

He had stacks of sketchbooks full of illustrations, doodles and drafts—he liked to sketch things out on paper before transferring them to digital copies and refining the illustrations before putting them into the manuscript drafts or emailing them to Derek.

The rest of his office was full of cardboard boxes—packed full of sketchbooks, reference books, and folders of old projects. Their office was being renovated, which meant they had to move all their filing cabinets and storage boxes.

Pages of drafted stories and notes lay around him or pinned up on the wall, covered in Derek’s neat cursive writing—the writing that always gave him butterflies in his stomach and made him smile whenever he saw it.

His computer screen lit up, catching his attention. An email notification showed up in the bottom corner of his screen. He clicked on it and opened the email.

Hi Stiles,

Congratulations—your story, ‘What’s Mine is Yours’, is on the bestsellers list for the second month running.

Because of this, the company has set up a deal with a few local bookstores and libraries for you and Derek to do meet-and-greets, reading sessions, and book signings.

I’ve attached a schedule of the dates and places as well as airline tickets for the few signings that are out-of-state.

Dress code is casual.

Best wishes,

Laura Hale.

Stiles smiled slightly, a feeling of triumph settling in his chest.

What’s Mine is Yours was one of the first books he worked on with Derek—the story about two dragons – Plush and Snug – and their hoards, one of pillows and the other of blankets, learning to share.

It was also one of his favourite stories.

Derek had a way with words, a way of making everything seem so magical. He could take a story—a world of magic and adventure—and refine it into a couple-hundred words for children to read.

He opened the attachments, printing them and pinning them to his wall before pulling out his planner and writing down the dates and times—flagging them with colourful tabs.

He sent back a reply and sat back in his chair.

His delight gave way to panic as reality set in and he realised he was finally going to meet Derek.

The first meet-and-greet came around faster than Derek thought.

He’d spent the morning pacing back and forth in his apartment, fussing with his clothes and changing several times. He eventually settled on a faded grey Henley and dark jeans.

The event was at a local library—not too far from his apartment—so he decided to walk there to try and calm his nerves.

When he arrived, he stepped over to the front desk. He offered the young librarian a friendly smile when she looked up at him and opened his mouth to introduce himself when a familiar voice rang out across the library.

“There you are.”

Derek looked at the librarian apologetically before turning to look at his sister. “Hi, Laura. Nice to see you too.”

“Come on, we’re setting you up in the children’s corner,” Laura said, making her way through the rows of bookshelves and over to the corner of the library where the children’s section was.

There were two rows of low shelves with children’s book lined up on them and another shelf running along the wall. The space was open—a few plush benches were pushed up against the walls for the adults or the children to sit on while they read.

The clear floorspace by the window had been filled with a bunch of blankets, pillows and cushions for the children to sit on. There were beanbags and stools for the parents and two stools in the corner for Stiles and Derek.

They’d set it up with a table for when they signed the books, copies of the book stacked up on the table with a few on display while boxes of stock were hidden beneath the table.

A young man stood by the window, dressed in a blue-and-grey hooded sweatshirt and jeans. His dark brown eye caught the golden sunlight that streamed through the wall of windows, swirling like pools of golden liquor. His chestnut-brown hair was a tousled mess and he was covered in moles that charted constellations across his skin, a sweet smile lighting up his face as he met Derek’s gaze.

Stiles.

Derek was starstruck as he stared at the young man. He was more beautiful than Derek could have ever imagined.

“Hi,” Stiles said, smiling sweetly at Derek.

“Hi,” Derek replied, breathless. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

A soft, rosy-pink blush coloured Stiles’ cheeks. “You too.”

“The reading circle starts in about half an hour,” Laura told them. “Lydia’s going to be here in a minute to help with book sales. You just have to read the story, say hi to the kids, and sign the books. I’ve got to run, but I’ll be back in an hour or two. If you’re good, I’ll even bring you coffee.”

She took a step to leave before turning back.

“And, Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t scare the little kids.”

Derek screwed up his face at her.

Laura laughed before turning to walk away.

The reading went well.

Stiles sat nearby as Derek read the story, listening to his deep, soothing voice.

He watched as the crowd of children—who were sitting on the cushions or with blankets draped around the shoulders—watched on, mesmerised.

Once they were done, they made their way over to the table where Lydia was selling copies of the book.

There was two seats behind the table, but Derek took one glance at a little girl who was too small to look over the table and shook his head. He sat down on the floor in front of the table, greeting the kids, signing the books, getting hugs and taking photos.

Stiles joined him, sitting down beside him.

The kids lined up, looking shy or smiling broadly as they handed over their copies of the book to be signed.

Stiles and Derek opened each of the books to the first page and wrote messages inside for the children before signing them. Stiles left the occasional doodle at the bottom of a page, watching as the kids’ faces lit up with joy when they saw them.

After a while, things started to quiet down. A lot of the children had left, but one boy—who looked to be barely five years old—lingered in the corner of the room with his big sister, clutching a toy to his chest.

His sister talked quietly to him before taking his hand and walking him over to Stiles and Derek.

“Hi there,” Derek said softly. “What’s your name?”

“Corey,” the boy muttered quietly.

“Hi, Corey. I’m Derek.”

The boy bowed his head bashfully, tightening his hold around his toy.

“What have you got there?” Derek asked.

“Plush,” Corey answered, loosening his hold slightly to show Stiles and Derek his toy dragon—the same dragon from their book, the one who hoarded pillows.

“Wow,” Derek whispered, a bright smile lighting up his face.

Stiles watched in amazement as the quiet boy slowly opened up to the man.

“It’s my favourite book,” Corey said quietly. “My brother reads it to me before bed every night. And for my birthday, my sister made me Plush.”

Derek looked up at Corey’s sister.

“You made him?” he asked.

The girl nodded.

He watched as Derek’s pale aventurine eyes glimmered in the daylight, full of surprise and amazement.

“That’s incredible,” Derek said.

A sad look settled on Corey’s face as he bowed his head.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked, craning his neck to look the boy in the eye.

“I left my book at home,” Corey admitted.

Derek looked around—there was no one else there, only them.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Derek whispered as he reached under the table and pulled a copy of the book out from one of the boxes.

“We don’t have any money on us,” Corey’s sister object.

“This one’s for free, but you can’t tell anyone that,” Derek said, winking at the boy. He opened the book to the first page and signed it before offering it to Stiles.

Stiles smiled as he took it from Derek, looking down at the familiar cursive of Derek’s writing as he read over the message Derek had written.

Down the bottom of the page, he wrote his own message and drew a quick sketch of Plush before offering the book to Corey.

The boy’s eye flew open wide.

“Really?” he whispered.

A soft smile turned up the corners of Derek’s lips. “Really.”

“Thank you so much,” Corey said, trying to juggle Plush and the book. He paused for a moment. “Can I… Can I have a hug?”

“Of course,” Derek said.

Corey passed the book to his sister before rushing into Derek’s arms and hugging him tight. He muttered quietly as tears welled in his eyes. He pulled back from Derek and hugged Stiles, his tears falling down his pale cheeks.

“Come on, Corey,” his sister said softly. “We’ve got to get going.”

Corey pulled back, steadying himself on his feet before taking his sister’s hand.

She began to lead him away but he stopped, turning back.

“Thank you,” he said one last time.

“You’re very welcome,” Stiles and Derek said in unison.

Stiles waited until Corey and his sister were gone before turning to Derek. “Isn’t your sister going to notice there’s a lack of profit?”

“What lack of profit?” Derek asked, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and handing the money over to Lydia.

She put the cash in the small box they were using as a till, a sweet smile turning up the corners of her lips as she looked at Stiles and Derek.

Stiles felt a rush of warmth settle in his chest, a soft smile playing across his lips. If he wasn’t in love with Derek before, he sure was now.

He’d fallen—hard—and there was no going back.

Stiles sat on the hotel bed, resting his sketchbook against his knees as he leant back against the headboard. He had a pencil in his hand, the tip scratching at the paper.

They were days into the book tour and had flown across the country to continue the readings. They had been put up in a hotel room with double beds.

It was a large room with light grey walls. A table and two chairs sat in the far corner of the room by the large glass door that led out onto a small balcony and there was a small bathroom by the door. The beds had small tables beside them and a plush grey headboard that ran the length of the wall the beds were pushed against. Behind the plush headboard was a small shelf with a strip of lighting that lit the room.

Across from the beds was a large television, the screen lit up with light and colour. The volume was turned down and neither of them were watching—it was just background noise to break the silence between them.

Derek sat on the other bed, reading over a manuscript and making small notations and edits. Usually other sounds in the room would drive him mad, but there was something about Stiles’ presence—something about the rhythmic scratching of the pencil against his sketchpad—that seemed to calm him.

Eventually his curiosity won him over.

Derek set down his pen, looking over at Stiles.

“Do you draw every night?” he asked.

Stiles looked up, slightly alarmed. “If I’m annoying you, I can stop.”

“No, you’re not annoying me,” Derek said softly. “Quite the opposite actually.”

Stiles looked down at his sketchbook. “Kind of. I try to draw every day. A lot of the time I don’t, but I figured we’ve got a lot of downtime right now so I should probably get some practice in.”

“What are you drawing?”

Stiles’ face flushed bright red.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Derek said reassuringly. “I was just curious.”

“It’s a little embarrassing,” Stiles admitted.

“I’m not one to judge.”

“It’s you,” Stiles admitted.

“Me?”

“I need more practice drawing people and you have a really nice face—and I can’t believe I just said that out loud,” Stiles rambled.

Derek let out a low chuckle.

“Can I see it?” he asked.

Stiles let out a measured breath and turned his sketchbook around to show Derek.

Derek’s face fell, his amused expression giving way to shock and awe as he looked at the sketched portrait.

It was like looking in a mirror—although slightly distorted by Stiles’ sketchy art style, the art style that Derek loved. It was a perfect likeness—thick dark hair, a soft beard that cast a shadow across his jaw, and wide-set eyes were pale—shaded a little with his green pencil and so lifelike. It was as if they caught the light, the shade of his eyes shifting from hazel to green – clear, bright and focused. The hint of a smile turned up the corners of his mouth, softening his stern featured.

“That’s amazing,” Derek muttered, shocked.

A rosy-pink blush coloured Stiles’ cheeks as he turned the sketchbook back around, looking down at the drawing.

He paused for a moment, then with one quick movement, he tore the page out of the book.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked, alarmed.

Stiles quickly signed the bottom of the page before holding it out for Derek to take. “Here.”

Derek blinked in surprise, taking the page and looking down at the sketch. He felt a strange warmth settle in his chest, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

He looked up at Stiles.

“Really?” he asked.

“Really,” Stiles said.

“Thank you.”

Derek looked down at it one more time before carefully sliding the drawing into a folder where it wouldn’t get damaged.

“You seem distracted today,” Stiles said as the two of them returned to their hotel room. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s nothing,” Derek said quietly.

Two weeks of meet-and-greets and book signings passed faster than Derek would have liked.

Tomorrow was their last reading. After that they’d fly back home and return to their jobs, only ever talking through emails or the notes in the margins of their drafts.

The thought made Derek’s chest ache.

He’d gotten so used to being with Stiles the past two weeks that he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to not see his face—he didn’t want to imagine it.

“It’s clearly something,” Stiles argued, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “You said you didn’t judge me, and I’m not going to judge you. So if you want someone to talk to, I’m all ears.”

"When you're in the room, I find it so hard to focus on anything else," Derek blurted out.

Stiles was taken aback. His lips quivered as they moved around unspoken words. After a moment, he sheepishly said. "I’m sorry. I don't mean to be a bother."

"No, I didn't mean it like that." Derek paused for a moment, letting out a measured breath before saying, "I like you."

Stiles blinked in surprise.

"I know it sounds stupid since. I mean, we never even met before this book tour, but it..." His voice faltered and his words trailed off, shaky as he lost confidence. He dropped his gaze, looking down at his feet. "Never mind. Just forget I ever said anything."

"But it feels like we've known each other forever," Stiles finished.

Derek looked up, meeting Stiles’ dark eyes.

“I feel the same way,” Stiles continued, his voice quiet, shy. He fell silent for a second, swallowing hard as he looked from Derek to his hands in his lap. “I like you too… I really like you—and I… I’d never be able to live with myself if I didn’t tell you how I feel. But if you want to just go back home tomorrow and just go back to work and pretend like this never happened, then I can do that… I can try…”

“And what if I don’t want to?” Derek asked.

Stiles looked up at him. His shock gave way to a soft smile.

Derek took a step forward, stepping over to Stiles’ side. He gently cupped Stiles’ face in one hand, his tender touch sending shivers down Stiles’ spine. He leant forward, closing the space between them and bringing their mouths together.

Stiles let his breath fall from his lungs. His eyes fluttered shut as he leant into the kiss.

Derek’s lips were soft and warm, the kiss tender, slow and sweet.

Derek drew back, licking his lips as he savoured the kiss. He grinned at Stiles’ euphoric expression.

Stiles tilted his chin upwards, chasing his Derek’s lips. He felt Derek chuckle against his mouth as he brought them back together again. He looped his arms around Derek’s neck as he brought his lips back to Derek’s.

He fell back against the mattress, pulling Derek down on top of him.

Derek smiled against his lips, his body pressed against Stiles’ as they lay on the bed. He kissed him lightly—lovingly—slowly drawing back and resting his forehead against Stiles’.

A soft smile played across his lips.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” Stiles started slowly, slightly out of breath. “Do you want to go out for coffee sometime?”

Derek burst out in laughter, his eyes sparkling as he met Stiles’ gaze.

“I’d love to,” Derek whispered, leaning forward to kiss Stiles again.

[AO3]

[bettsfic]

We spend a lot of time appreciating you as an amazing writer, but even just from online interactions, it's obvious that you're also a great teacher. If you feel like sharing: any good teaching stories that made you feel great about undergraduate teaching / reminded you of why your work is important?

at the end of my first semester, a student, i’ll call her jessica, sent me an email saying how much she enjoyed the class and how she was planning to be a teacher some day, and she wanted to be a teacher like me. i printed the email out and put it in my journal. it was the first kind email a student had sent me, and i read it over and over.

a couple months later, at the beginning of the next semester, just an hour before i met my new students, i found out that jessica had died over break. it was alcohol and drugs, a party where she left and no one followed her back to her dorm to make sure she was okay. she was nineteen. i looked at her instagram, where her final post was a selfie with two friends, and the caption read, “i love college!” 

it’s hard to say exactly how her death affected me, but i think about her all the time. i think about how fragile life is, and about the toxicity of college culture, and all the pressures and expectations put on students, and how they’ll graduate with mounds of debt that will take decades to pay off. i think about how hard and hopeless it is to be a young person today. i think about the surprised, grateful faces i get when i show students the smallest shred of kindness or empathy.

this is my fourth year teaching and i’ve now had around 300 students. i have yet to meet a bad one. i’ve met students who have been pushed to their limits, who are exhausted, who are in the wrong place and have no idea, who have unchecked trauma, who are utterly terrified, who are lonely, sad, overworked, or just plain overwhelmed. 

once, i did a Q&A for a practicum of new creative writing teachers. i’d given them my syllabus prior to the class. they were surprised to read my lax policies, and one of them asked what i do when a student does the bare minimum, or maybe even less. creative writing is an “easy” class. inevitably you get the “lazy” students who sit in the back and work on homework for other classes, and hand in five dr. seuss sounding poems at the end of the semester.

to that i said, any student who doesn’t want to write is either overworked, afraid, or both. being overworked can’t be helped. college students are working to master their time management skills in an environment that doesn’t allow them to fail. but fear can be faced and conquered. i base my entire class around fear. they have one major assignment: write your biggest risk. i firmly believe your biggest creative risk ends up being your greatest reward. sometimes students aren’t up to the task, but if you build an environment in which they’re eager to show you the dark, ugly parts of themselves because they know you will receive them eagerly and openly, they tend to make amazing things.

i start each semester with probably over half my students utterly apathetic or even flat-out disgusted by the idea of creative writing, and i end the semester with a stack of self-assessments and evaluations talking about how much the class helped them not only see their own creative potential, but also to be less afraid to take creative risks in other environments. 

i had a student, we’ll call him alex, in my composition course last year. admittedly i put less effort into comp than creative writing, mostly because it’s not my curriculum or my primary field of study. alex sat at the back of class the entire semester, asleep, on his laptop, or talking to the people nearest him. he did not participate. he did not do the reading. he did not turn in his homework. he didn’t even know my name. on the second to last day of the semester, he turned in several assignments at once, and came to me before class started saying he’d done most the work, and could he come to office hours so i could get him caught up on the rest?

no, i said. i was too busy working with students who had been seeking my help throughout the semester. he took it well, and said thanks anyway, and in the end scraped by with a B-, mostly due to my lack of a late policy. if i’d had one, he would have failed.

i was surprised the next semester to see him on my roster for creative writing. it was clear he didn’t like or appreciate my comp class. on the first day of spring semester, he came to class high. at the end of class, i have all of my students fill out a notecard with their name and other pertinent information, and on the back i have them draw a picture. when alex turned in his card, he had only scrawled his name across the front, and on the back he drew a bird smoking a giant blunt.

the next class, i announced that anyone who came to class drunk or high would be asked to leave and they would lose their attendance for the day. i didn’t want to call him out directly. honestly, i didn’t know how to handle the situation. my mentor told me to deal with it head-on, but i didn’t heed her advice, and i wish i had. 

alex kept coming to class high. he didn’t do the reading. he didn’t participate in small or large group discussion. he didn’t do the prompt-fills or turn in any assignments. when he’d behaved this way in comp, i wasn’t bothered by it. nobody really likes comp. but this was creative writing, a class i put 200% of myself into and which i expected students to appreciate in kind (and for the most part they really do). 

midway through the semester, i ask students to schedule a one-on-one conference with me. it’s required. they get a grade for showing up, and another for doing a write-up of what we talked about. alex, like the prior semester, did not show up for his conference, or even write a risk draft for me to comment on. he sent me an email an hour later apologizing and asking if we could reschedule. the kicker: he began the email “liz.” i ask my students to call me by first name. i tell them at the beginning of the semester and again in week 5 when they inevitably forget. so alex had now been through 4 of my “the name you need to call me” lectures. and he still called me liz. and he had the audacity not to show up for his conference with no notice, wasting a half hour of my time, and then ask to reschedule.

my mentor was right. i should have dealt with it sooner. i shouldn’t have let myself get as angry as i did. but i replied to his email with a laundry list of things he’d done wrong, and i told him he was out of chances. i wasn’t rude, but i was very firm, and expected him to forward the email to his parents and the department and try to get me fired.

instead, a couple hours later when i arrived in class, he was sitting in the back of the room with his hood over his head. i was surprised to see him. it was the last day to drop classes and i expected him to be gone. he approached me as i was getting set up, and he was weeping. like blubbery, snot-nosed weeping. my first thought was that he was manipulating me somehow. boys who don’t get their way do desperate things sometimes. he told me he turned in all the assignments, and did the reading, and he’d do better from them on, he promised, and could he come to office hours? would i give him one more chance, please?

i told him to see me after class. during discussion, to my surprise, he raised his hand for every question. he was extremely off-base on most of his comments but i appreciated the courage it took not only to show up to class a weepy, tear-filled wreck, but to actually participate through it. after class, he apologized for having lost his shit earlier. he asked how he could make everything up. i told him i’d give partial credit for what he’d turned in, but he needed to come to a conference.

a couple days later he showed up at my office. i asked if he had a rough draft for me to look at and he said he didn’t, not because he didn’t try but because he didn’t know what his biggest risk was. i asked him to write an essay about how he’s struggling in college, and to use it as an opportunity for self-reflection.

up to this point, alex had been a bad bullshitter. before, when i’d confronted him about not doing the reading, he said he couldn’t because he hurt his knee. i asked what a knee injury had to do with reading, and he blubbered through an answer. he even feigned a limp, but later that day i saw him walking normally to another class. he had ridiculous excuses for everything. so when he sent me his essay, i was expecting more of the same.

what he wrote was not bullshit, but a blunt and honest account of all the problems he was having, sans whining or pity-seeking. the boldest statement he made was that he was extremely lonely. i searched between the lines for ways he was trying to manipulate my sympathy but found none. he was flat-out admitting the truth: he felt like college wasn’t right for him, he was far away from home, he thought he would make friends but he hadn’t made any, and his girlfriend was still a senior in high school and he missed her a lot. 

“it feels weird not having a happy ending,” he told me. “i kept wanting to find a positive note to end on.”

“sometimes things just suck. an essay doesn’t have to answer the questions it poses,” i said.

suddenly i got a different picture of alex’s life: he was depressed and alone, self-medicating with weed and who knew what else, and slipping through the cracks of all his other classes, where he had professors who, like me the prior semester, paid no attention to him. 

he told me he really liked the class, and liked me as a teacher, and he would spend the rest of the semester trying to be better. i’d had students say similar things just to placate me and then didn’t follow through, but alex did for the most part. he still struggled with due dates, but he kept an open line of communication with me, and owned up to his failures. he did all the reading and participated in every class. by the end of the semester, he was a different person. he told me his girlfriend had gotten into our school and that she was coming to visit him soon. he revised his essay several times, got an A in the class, and gave me a hug at the end of the semester and thanked me for my patience and understanding.

i think this story stuck with me so much because it’s about my own failure. i do my best to reach out to struggling students, but most of the time if you lend a hand, they don’t take it, and there’s not much you can do. i should have tried to help alex sooner, or be more firm with him earlier on like he apparently needed. i need to learn to be more comfortable with confrontation and own my authority in the classroom. but mostly it reaffirmed my belief that everyone is hurting, and “bad behavior” is nearly always the result of a bigger picture that sometimes we can’t see. 

[drawlfoy]

Faux Diplomacy p.1

pairing: draco x femilvermornymugglebornslytherin(a mouthful i know)!reader

request: no, i’ve just always wanted to write this

warnings: explicit language, mentions of drinking, and most importantly, the reader has a moment where she thinks of inducing vomiting (not for a disorder but for a reason totally unrelated). if you’re sensitive to that then i suggest maybe skipping the part where she describes the slytherin boy dormitories. also, drink “spiking” (not date rape drugs though, just veritaserum)

summary: ilvermorny exchange fic during 6th year. reader is sorted into slytherin along with nearly all of the other exchange students. they realize they may be there for another reason than just for diplomacy when they discover that all of them are muggleborn. slow burn for draco...you’re supposed to hate him in the beginning.

a/n: i drafted this in the very beginning of summer without the intent of showing it to anyone, so this is a pretty large step in my writing journey. feel free to share your thoughts and feedback in the replies, i’m always here to hear them! more requests are coming soon and i’ll try and whip out another original idea once i slough through the requests i have right now. also: the best friend and the reader are going to be very affectionate, and i apologize if that’s not your thing. it’s just how i interact with my friends and i like to insert my favorite people in my stories, even when it isn’t very smooth. also if you’re wondering why i have so many fics based in 6th year it’s because i always found that to be the hottest year for draco lmao

music recs: i listened to a lot of lorde when i wrote this for some reason. i couldn’t tell you why but i did lol

word count: 2,038

“This is ridiculous.”

“What?”

I turned around to look at my roommate and best friend, Bella, who was sitting sprawled out on my bed and repeated the sentiment.

“This is ridiculous. My application status is still ‘review’, and everyone else already got their acceptance letter. Do you think it means they’re trying to find a nice way to reject me?”

Bella rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“Jesus Christ Y/N, with your grades and qualifications, they’d be a fool to not let you go. I got in. Hell, even Peter got in!”

Her comment made me crack a smile. Peter was in our year, sure, but a whole idiot. He was probably the lowest ranked person in Y/I/H. His parents were super loaded, though.

“Plus,” Bella added, “Hogwarts doesn’t have much experience with muggle electronics. I hear they switched to electric acceptances for foreign matters for efficiency purposes since they were so sick of losing owls over the Atlantic. They’re a bunch of old geezers that might still be looking for the send button on your acceptance email.”

“Wait.” Y/N froze as she saw something pop up in her inbox from Hogwarts’ administration. “I think they sent me something.”

Suddenly, the hot August air was more stifling than ever. Y/N had an urge to get up and open her window, but she couldn’t leave her laptop. Her eyes were glued to the email.

“You gonna open it, or...” 

“YES! Fine, I’ll do it.” Y/N’s hand clicked on the email and hid her face. Bella’s hands began prying her fingers away from her face. 

“You’ve gotta see it, Y/N. You’ve gotta look!”

Y/N allowed her hands to drop, peering at the screen in front of her. 

No way. No way.

It took her a minute to actually comprehend the words “Congratulations!” on the screen, but once she did, her entire body began vibrating with electricity.

“Oh my GOD!”

“We’re going to Hogwarts together!” Bella shrieked, jumping off Y/N’s bed and grabbing her. The two girls clung to each other while Bella spun them in circles until they fell on the bed with dizziness.

After the Hogwarts acceptance letter, Ilvermorny reached out to the students as well to detail their departure. The 16 students selected--a rather odd number, Y/N thought--were to meet on the Ilvermorny grounds at 6am on September 1st. Dumbledore himself had prepared 4 portkeys for the students and expected them to teleport to Hogwarts using them.

As far as Y/N was concerned, this day couldn’t come soon enough. It was time for her to get away from the loudness of America.

♥♥♥♥ 

The first thing Y/N saw was a very old witch standing in front of her small group of peers. She was wearing a traditional witch hat, something no one ever did back in America.

“Welcome, students.” Y/N was taken aback by just how delicate her voice was. She always forgot how diverse accents were in Europe. “I am Professor McGonagall. We are so pleased to have you joining us for this school year.” 

The elegant old lady fiddled with her eyeglasses before she continued.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it appears as though there won’t be enough time to sort each and every one of you. We do have a rather large group of first years and would prefer to keep things moving along.” 

Everyone groaned in unison. Who did this lady think she was, taking away their chances at being sorted by the infamous Sorting Hat?

“Thankfully,” she continued, “The head of the Slytherin house, Professor Snape, was gracious enough to take all of you in. It appears as though there are exactly 16 open beds in their dorm, so it works famously. I expect you all to behave yourselves and represent your country well so that we’ll consider taking exchange students next year. We have no qualms with sending students home who don’t follow the rules.”

Everyone nodded, nervously glancing around the group. Y/N couldn’t help but wonder if people were going to be sent home, or if that was simply an empty threat.

“Well, come along then!”

McGonagall ushered the nervous group of witches and wizards across the courtyard and into a giant dining hall, much larger than the one Ilvermorny boasted.

As the students entered, the soft chatter that had filled the room faded away as the Hogwarts students examined the newcomers. Whispers replaced the chatter once they saw a magical display above them unfurl an american flag.

So much for getting away from that obnoxious American stereotype Y/N thought bitterly. What’s next, magical reenactments of the Vietnam War?

“Students,” McGonagall called. “Sit at the Slytherin table.”

A long but well kept fingernail motioned to the long table on the right side, filled with students wearing green.

“Good thing green looks great on both of us!” Bella whispered into Y/N’s ear. She giggled. 

“Yellow and red wash me out. We got lucky.”

Unfortunately for the girls, everyone else had gotten to the table first, leaving only two open seats open. When they saw who was across from them, they began to understand why they were the least desirable seats.

One platinum haired boy and a dark haired girl occupied the seats, both wearing disgusted looks. 

“Hello, I’m-” Y/N’s timid attempt at an introduction was cut short when the dark haired girl cut in.

“We know why you’re here.”

“Excuse me?” Bella looked ready to kill.

“She said,” the blond boy met Y/N’s eyes, “We know why you’re here.”

“Uh...yeah, the weather’s great this time of year.” Y/N tried to push for a laugh, but clearly it wasn’t coming.

“No, you idiot.” The girl raised one eyebrow. “Do you not know?”

“Well, whatever you think you know wasn’t deemed important enough to mention to US, so fuck off,” Bella answered.

“Jesus, Bella, we can at least be nice,” Y/N interjected. “Can you tell us? We probably already know, but sti-”

“No.” The blond boy looked slightly amused at our curiosity. “You’re right. It’s so important that of course you would know. Pansy and I are just playing with you. That’s all you mudbloods are good for, anyways.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. Blood purity discrimination? That shit was outlawed years ago in the US. If anyone even mentioned the term “muggleborn” in a less than positive light, they were blacklisted. 

“What did you just call us?”

“Perhaps you need to get your ears checked,” the girl shot back. “You heard him.”

Y/N sucked in a breath. She’d woken up at 5 for this. 

“So tell me, Pansy.” Y/N leaned over the table. “Was it an accident? Or were you just born with a pug face?”

The girl turned bright red but maintained her composure. 

“I’m sick of talking to you,” she finally said.

♥♥♥♥

“Oh, bitch, you got her!” Bella was cackling to Y/N in the privacy of her dorm room. “You were like, ‘do tell me’, and the second those words left your lips, I was like, oh no, here it comes...”

They both ugly laughed on the bed together until their sides hurt. 

“Blondie was kind of hot though,” Y/N admitted.

“Kind of. I guess, if you’re into racists.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not.” Y/N chucked a pillow at Bella/s head, just narrowly missing it and instead hitting her suitcase. 

A knock on their door sounded, stopping their shenanigans. Bella crept up to open it and saw Laurel, another girl from their year, with a few other kids.

“The Slytherins are throwing a welcome party for us in the common room,” Lucy informed them. “The nice ones are, at least.”

“There’s nice Slytherins?” Bella asked sarcastically. “Whatever. We’re in. Give us a minute to get dressed.”

Lucy nodded, shutting the door. Y/N could hear their footsteps walk away from their room.

The two rushed to get out of the sad looking sweats they were planning to sleep in, Y/N opting for a skirt and a short sleeved shirt. She’d always been a fan of old-fashioned plaid.

♥♥♥♥

Y/N did not get drunk. It was the unspoken rule between her and Bella: one of them drinks, the other one sips and plays the mom friend. Y/N was always the mom, something she didn’t mind that much, but at the welcome party, she indulged in two cups of firewhiskey. She held her liquor well anyways, and it wasn’t like anyone had to drive. 

A few hours had gone by when a Slytherin girl who introduced herself as Daphne Greengrass stood on a table and yelled, “Everyone, quiet!”

The music quieted a little and the chatter erased itself as the room waited on her words.

“In Slytherin tradition,” the Greengrass girl said, “We’re going to play a game of Truth or Dare. The Firewhiskey has been laced with Veritaserum, so if you’re choosing truth, beware! We’re playing around this table!”

With that, Daphne stepped down and all the Ilvermorny students stood frozen. Y/N couldn’t believe that the Slytherins spiked their drinks. She also couldn’t believe the fact that she accepted drinks from people she didn’t know, violating every bit of party safety rules her father had taught he. He’d be so disappointed.

Against her better judgement, Y/N allowed herself to be pulled to the table by a very intoxicated but very cheerful Bella. She managed a smile--she loved drunk Bella almost more than she loved normal Bella. She’d always heard that people became their true selves when they drank. If that was the case, Bella was the sunniest person to walk the earth.

Unfortunately for Y/N, she was sitting next to Daphne, who announced that the person to the right of her would spin the bottle to see who the question poser would be. That was Y/N.

She sighed, already deciding on asking for a dare. She wasn’t holding back any secrets, but she didn’t want to answer anything with a dumb or embarrassing detail of her life.Y/N spun the bottle, praying for it to land on Bella.

Nope.

When it stopped, she looked up to meet the eyes of the girl she insulted in the Dining Hall: Pansy.

“Well,” she drawled, a smirk forming on her face,”Truth? Or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Hm.”

Y/N could nearly see the gears in her head turning to find the cruelest dare she could. Finally, her eyes light up and her smirk deepened.

“You know who I don’t see here?” 

“Who?”

“Draco,” she responded. Y/N noticed Daphne grimace next to her. “Go wake him up and get him to come out. Of course, he probably won’t come out. But you have to at least make a valiant effort.”

“Ok.” Y/N gulped. “Where is he?”

“I’m going to assume his room.” The Slytherins surrounding her chuckled. “But if you want specifics: last door on the right of the boy’s dormitories. Zabini will let you in. You can go now.”

Y/N stumbled off with the boy she assumed was Zabini. He opened the door for her, whispering the password under his breath and looking almost sorry for her. “Good luck.”

♥♥♥♥

The dormitories were exponentially cooler than the common room, and Y/N felt herself shiver at the sensation of the air on her bare skin. The stone walls and flooring made her feel as though she was in a dungeon, something she found to be an interesting choice for a house with so many wealthy students.

Y/N slowly crept towards the furthest door on the right, pondering her options. She could, of course, just come back and lie, saying he didn’t answer. Then she remembered the Veritaserum in her drink. Maybe if she tried hard enough, she could get herself to throw it up, but her logical mind struck that idea down. The alcohol was already absorbed and she would have to explain to everyone why there was a pool of bile outside the door she was tasked to knock on. 

There was something else that was nagging at her, though, a morbid curiosity regarding what someone like him could be bothering himself with on a Friday night. If he wasn’t partying, was he sleeping? 

It simply didn’t add up.

Y/N knew what she had to do. She raised her hand to knock on the door.

[xiaq]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446814/chapters/35854725 Lucifer was an angel once.

That’s what Nursey thinks, the first time he sees William Poindexter.

Because the boy is beautiful even though he shouldn’t be. Even though he’s doubtless the kind of person who would punch you in the face if you said the words “you” and “beautiful” to him in the same sentence.

His skin is choked with freckles. It’s potentially more freckle than skin, really. Not just his face, where his nose and cheekbones are so hyper-pigmented they look tanned, but his collarbones and forearms and the knuckles of his calloused hands. The close-shaved dark ginger stubble of his hair should make his ears look too big or his mouth too wide but instead it accentuates the long curve of his throat, the cup of velvet skin between the tendons in the back of his neck. It makes his cheekbones sharper, his eyes—so light brown they look almost gold—more stark under pale spiky lashes.

He’s wearing boots and jeans and a leather jacket that could either be beat to shit for aesthetic reasons or just beat to shit, and a permanent scowl that will likely give him wrinkles at an early age but right now is just terribly flattering.

It all adds up: the interesting face, the long, wiry frame and taut, fight-ready stance, to create a body that casting directors for edgy photoshoots would salivate over. The sort of photoshoots that, if they involve teeth, it’s not because people are smiling.

The point is, he has a carefully curated look and that look is fuck off.

Nursey wants to touch him.

Nursey has never touched someone with that many freckles before and he doubts this particular someone would let him close enough to try which is, he thinks a little despairingly of himself, perhaps why he finds the boy so damn compelling.

The grass is always greener.

You always want what you can’t have.

Etc.

Etc.

Etc.

Regardless. That’s Nursey’s first impression: An angry, pigment-spangled, potentially once-divine being. An angel trying very, very, hard not to be.

Nursey reminds himself, standing in line at the administration office, trying not to stare at the nape of the other boy’s neck—the freckled knob of his spine, pushed hard against the skin just above his collar, that Nursey is at Samwell to focus on hockey, not admire transfer students who are undoubtedly straight and probably won’t share a single class with him and who he’ll likely only see from a distance for the next year and then never see again and that’s a good thing because he’s here to focus on hockey.

Except then, the new kid steps up to the receptionist’s desk and says in a rough, surprising drawl. “I’m a transfer. Poindexter. I need to pick up my dorm keys.”

And Nursey knows that name.

Because it was in the email that Coach sent out over the summer. It was the name that was written in sharpie on the scratched DVD on Coach’s desk that he’d pushed toward Nursey the day before. Coach had tapped the DVD with a blunt finger and said, “I’ve found you a new D-partner, Nurse.” And Nursey had taken the DVD back to his yet-unpacked room and played it on his laptop, stretched out on the bare mattress of his shitty lofted bed. The footage was grainy, badly spliced together and clearly shot unprofessionally from the stands, but it was enough. Poindexter was good. Big, but fast. Aggressive, but smart. Together, Nursey thought, they might be great.

So when Nursey hears the name, he doesn’t even think. He just speaks:

“You’re the new defenseman?” he asks. “William Poindexter?”

And the boy turns around and considers him with what might be contempt but what might just be the way his face looks and says, “Yeah?” like its a challenge.

And Nursey thinks:

Oh no.

***

William Poindexter has his mother’s eyes and his father’s nose and on his face they’re still a family.

He considers his reflection in the filmy bus-station bathroom mirror, rubs his thumb down the raised line of scar tissue bisecting his chin—pink and new and only partially hidden in the drip-paint collage of his freckles, and then rubs harder, more habit than intention.

After spending the summer as a stern man on his uncle’s lobster boat—sorting, banding, baiting, re-setting, trying his best to repair the limping hydraulic trap hauler that probably should have been scrapped a decade ago—layers of sunburn have turned into a tan, multiplying the pigment across his nose and cheeks and shoulders to a point where he looks constantly dirty. Like he’d been working in his other uncle’s garage and absently smeared an oiled forearm over his face.

His cousin, Saoirse, the one who’d left for New York at eighteen, got a job in marketing and now only returned home for shorter and shorter visits at Christmas time, had once said that Dex looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. He thinks she was trying to be mean. Or elitist. Or both. But he’d sort of agreed with her. He didn’t know who Jackson Pollock was, at first, but when he’d gone with his aunt into town the following weekend he’d used the library computer to google him.

At thirteen, with new calluses on his palms from his first ever boat haul, constant peeling skin over his nose and shoulders, and the kind of secret that scrapes your insides hollow, he’d found the paintings, grainy and pixelated as they were on the old computer monitor, strangely familiar.

Maybe he was like a Jackson Pollock painting: a dark, incensed, anxious, spatter of reds and yellows and blacks and blues. Too much color for one canvas. Too much feeling for containment. Too much, maybe, in general.

Someone bangs on the bathroom door and he stops glaring at his reflection because there’s nothing much he can do about it.

He uses a paper towel to dry his hands, runs his fingers, still damp, over his buzzed hair, and shoulders his duffle bag.

Samwell is waiting.

He’d googled Samwell at the same time that he’d googled all the rest of the best hockey prep schools in the country.

Same library.

Same shitty library computer.

Initially he’d wanted to try and play for a junior team, he was good enough, he’d been scouted, but now, money issues aside, billeting would be all but impossible considering his legal situation. So he’d spent stolen hours at school and after work searching boarding schools with prep hockey teams, comparing stats and rosters and course offerings, before he sent in his game tapes and paperwork with scraped together application fees and letters of recommendation from his former and current coaches.

He’d applied to six schools and was accepted at two.

Samwell was the closest, not that he really cared about staying close, but his lawyer said it would make things easier for possible future hearings if he was within a few hours drive of home. If he could even call it that anymore.

Samwell was also the cheapest, which he did care about, and it routinely produced D1 and NHL prospects which was his primary concern. A full scholarship with housing, a meal plan, and a chance to elevate his game to the point that maybe, next year, he could get a scholarship to college? Or even get drafted?

An easy decision.

After getting a handful of salt-crusted 100’s from his uncle at the harbor early that morning—payment for his summer of work—he’d hitched a ride with another stern man from Port Marta to Brunswick and then took a Greyhound from there to Boston, and then another bus from Boston to Samwell.

And now he’s here, standing outside the station with a paper map from his library’s equally shitty printer, a duffle bag from the army surplus store full of abused hockey gear, and an address written in permanent marker on his wrist.

He does have a newly-purchased cellphone, an unfamiliar weight in his back pocket, but he doesn't want to call an Uber because according to the map, Samwell’s campus is only a mile away and he’s not ready to start spending his money yet. Definitely not when there are more important things he’ll need soon. Like new skates. Books. Clothes.

He shoulders his bag and starts walking.

When he gets there, the campus looks exactly like the online pictures: Sun-dappled and idyllic with people lounging under trees and throwing footballs and weaving colorful bikes in and out of foot traffic on immaculate sidewalks.

He’s too hot in his leather jacket and the strap of his bag is rubbing the side of his neck raw but he walks with a purpose and doesn’t make eye contact when people look at him.

And people do look at him.

He’s six-foot-two, will probably hit six-three soon, dressed all in black and carrying a bag over his shoulder that’s nearly as big as he is. Doubtless, he stands out like some sort of hulking freckled raven among songbirds.

By the time he finds the administration building his palms are so sweaty it’s hard to get the stupidly ornate door open, and, once inside, standing in line on the marble floors, looking up at the vaulted ceiling, the whispered assertion that’s been following him since he stepped foot on campus gets louder:You do not belong here.

He’s felt that way for most his life, though, wherever he was, so it isn’t that disconcerting.

He clears his throat when it’s his turn, stepping up to the counter at the student center, trying to muster a smile.

“I’m a transfer,” he says, “Poindexter. I need to pick up my dorm keys.”

Before the receptionist has a chance to answer, though, the person behind him speaks:

“You’re the new defenseman?”

Dex turns to look at the speaker and pauses.

Because he recognizes the boy’s face.

He’d seen it on rosters and game footage.

During his furtive research, he’d memorized the names of three players at Samwell. Three players he thought were exceptionally good. Maybe NHL good. These would be your peers, he’d told himself.

The first was Jack Laurent Zimmerman. Center. Senior. Number 1.

The second was Christopher Franklin Chow. Goalie. Junior. Number 55.

The third is now standing in front of him:

Derek Malik Nurse. Defenseman. Senior. Number 28.

What he hadn’t anticipated is that, off the ice, Derek Malik Nurse looks a lot less like the goon he does on the ice and a lot more like the kind of boy his father warned Dex against becoming, sometimes with words, but sometimes with fists.

Because apparently off the ice Derek Malik Nurse wears cuffed skinny jeans stretched tight over the bulk of his thighs and half-unbuttoned floral shirts and pale, stretchy, yellow headbands to hold back his curls. His dark skin is clear and pore-less and the delicate gold chain around his neck should look out of place on someone so broad but it doesn’t.

He is irritatingly well-groomed.

He’s also waiting for an answer.

“Yeah?” Dex manages, and it maybe comes out more aggressive than he intended.

“I’m Nursey,” Derek Malik Nurse says, extending a hand and smiling: straight white teeth and the easy confidence that comes with money. “I’m on the hockey team too.”

Nurse’s hand is warm and dry and the torn callouses on Dex’s own chapped hand scrape jarringly against Nurse’s soft palm.

“Dex,” Dex says, because if there’s one thing hockey has given him it’s a name that his father didn’t.

Nurse squeezes his fingers, holds on a moment past comfortable, grins wider so the skin around his grey-green eyes crinkles, and says: “Dex. Chill. Coach says you’re going to be my new D-partner.”

And all Dex can think is:

Oh no.

You can find the rest of the story (all 74k words!) on A03 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446814?view_full_work=true

[1989dreamer]

Every Second Dripping Off My Fingertips--FTH 2019

AO3 link

Title: Every Second Dripping Off My Fingertips

(Comes from Somewhere a Clock is Ticking by Snow Patrol)

For @hartlessfiction (NadiaHart on AO3)

Prompt: from this gif: (paraphrased)  Derek becomes a recluse and Laura and Peter step in to try to get him to leave his house/apartment but Derek can work from home and he can order food/groceries to be delivered. After a few failed attempts, they start showing up more often, and then Peter shows up with a cat (or fox) kid (supernatural is known) and tells Derek that he now has a Stiles. Stiles is a little shit, annoying and charming by turns, he smells great, is rude, and messes things up. He also makes Derek try new things and then Stiles gets sick or something and Derek has to go outside to get help.

Warnings: Kate Argent Warning, Depression, Forced kissing, unhealthy coping methods

Summary: Six months ago, Derek was working as an underling in his sister Laura’s business when the person he shared a cubicle with turned to him and changed his life forever. Now Derek spends his days either sleeping or dodging his sister’s attempts at un-derailing his life or both.

Enter Peter and his propensity for shitty gifts.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Laura threw open the curtains, letting in the bright light of day.

Derek groaned, turning over and burying his head under his pillows. Laura snorted at him, yanking his blanket off.

“Get up,” she said sharply.

Derek groaned again and did not comply.

He was a werewolf, dammit. He was supposed to be nocturnal. Just because Laura had taken pity on him and had given him a position in her company, she thought she could run his life too?

“I’m calling in sick,” he told her.

She sighed. “No you’re not. Get up.”

He ignored her. But Laura was not one to be ignored for long, and she grabbed his ankles to haul him off the bed.

“Get up,” she snarled in his face, her teeth a little too sharp, eyes flashing red.

He flashed his eyes in response, and she pulled back, blinking at him.

Of course the fact that his eyes weren’t yellow anymore would give her pause. Hell, his eyes still gave him pause most days too.

Derek could still feel the warm, sticky blood on his hands. Could still taste the fear and anger from that night nearly six months ago.

He hadn’t told Laura about it, but he knew that she knew. She hadn’t talked to him about it yet, but the way she had taken a sudden interest in his life after that night, it couldn’t be long off.

Laura was impatient, and Derek’s reticence to leave his apartment was grating on her. She had even drafted their uncle to help her draw Derek out.

To his credit, Peter hadn’t been as invested in Derek as Laura was and as such hadn’t yet darkened Derek’s door.

That was certain to change since, according to the emails from the office, Peter was due back in the country this week. Laura would bring him here, Derek was positive.

He didn’t care and told Laura as much as she continued to drag him into his bathroom.

“You smell like sadness and guilt,” she returned, shoving him headfirst into the shower and cranking on the cold water.

Derek spluttered, letting her scrub roughly at him. Every once in a while, she’d get the desire to alpha him, and he had found the easiest course of action was to let her. Eventually, she’d get tired or have to go to work, and he could slink back to bed, answer a few emails on the company laptop Laura had commissioned for him, and sleep the rest of the day away.

Right after he closed his curtains again.

“You need to actually show up to the office.” The soap she poured on him was the scented crap given as a gift by their annoying sister. Derek was beginning to like Cora more and more the longer she lived in South America and stayed in South America. Laura wrinkled her nose but didn’t pause in washing him.

“Seriously, you need to get your life back on track.”

“My life is on track.”

“The fact that you can’t even look at me when you say that tells me it’s a lie more clearly than the way your heart skipped a beat.”

Derek rolled his shoulders. He stood, cranking the hot water on and washing off the soap. He decided he could stand to smell like strawberries far longer than Laura could stand smelling him and started the waiting game.

Laura sighed, checking her watch. She glared at it and then at Derek. “You win,” she spat. “I have to go. You need to come in to the office tomorrow.”

“Or you’ll fire me?” he asked hopefully.

She sighed again, running the back of her hand over his neck, grimacing at the chemical smell of his body soap. “No, Derek, I won’t fire you. I’ll just stage another intervention.”

Like that would scare him.

He’s survived the first few; he’d survive this one too.

Laura’s interventions usually involved her staring at him while she ate junk food. Once or twice, she’d tried dragging him outside. Joke was on her though since the only way out of his apartment was the elevator—or climbing down the side of the building—and the elevator had suspiciously been out of order for the last five months.

“I’ll see you after 5:00 tonight,” Laura told him, wrenching open the window by his bed. She tapped her watch and then descended out of view.

Derek didn’t even wait for her to make it back down to her Camaro before he slammed the window shut, pulled the curtains shut, and stripped down to nothing.

He returned to the shower to wash off the strawberry scent before finding a semi-clean pair of boxers and climbing back into bed to finish his nap.

He dreamed again of that night, of the blood under his claws, of his fangs tearing through human flesh. Of the bullets deep in his body, the pain they inflicted as he breathed, standing over the woman he’d torn to shreds when she attacked him unprovoked.

It wasn’t anything new.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Derek woke up again when Peter dropped onto his bed, crossing his legs as he settled next to him.

Peter wrinkled his nose. “You stink,” he said, insulted.

Derek grunted, rolling over so that his back was facing Peter. His uncle did not take the hint any better than Laura had this morning…It was still this morning, right? More often than not, Derek found he couldn’t keep his days apart. He would worry about it except Laura did enough worrying for the both of them.

Peter grabbed his shoulder. “Come on, Derek, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. Why do you think something’s wrong?”

Peter snorted. “Something has to be wrong when Laura calls me, saying you haven’t actually stepped foot in the office in three weeks.”

“Has it been three weeks?” Derek asked dispassionately. He honestly thought it’d been longer. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he left his apartment. Even for groceries. Not after he discovered that his favorite grocer would deliver for a few extra bucks a week.

Food was easy for Derek—just eat vegetables. Nothing that required more energy than chewing. He knew Laura would bring things with her. Sometimes, he could muster the energy it required to cram more steaks that he was never going to cook into his freezer, but more often, Laura would have to throw away the things that had gone bad. Sure, Derek could eat raw meat, but he was reminded too often of the night he had been forced to kill a hunter.

“Up you get,” Peter said, standing, drawing Derek with him. “It’s time to wash your sheets. If you don’t have the energy to wait, you can lay on the couch.”

“Lie,” Derek corrected blandly, shuffling to drop down onto the couch. He tugged half-heartedly at a blanket draped over the cushions, whining when it stuck.

Peter stifled his laughter, bending over Derek to pull the blanket free. He tucked it around him, brushing a light kiss to Derek’s forehead.

“Maybe you need live in help,” he suggested, heading back to the bed to strip it. Derek closed his eyes. Now that Peter had come, he should get up, should do something. Instead, he fell asleep before he could make himself get up again.

                                                                                                                       ~ * ~

Peter was gone when he sat up, and it was now completely dark.

Derek yawned, scrubbing at his eyes. More often than not, he would wake up disoriented after sleeping away the day. And he was still tired.

He stood up finally, blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he stumbled back to his bed. Peter had apparently been at the apartment long enough to wash and dry all the bedding and remake the bed.

Derek needed to stay upright and work on some of his projects for work. If he crawled back into bed, he knew he’d sleep until at least midday tomorrow.

He yawned again, scratching at his head, his beard, one ear. He found the laptop shoved under the bed and carried it to his desk.

Sitting down, he opened the lid, stifling yet another yawn. He was too tired to be working, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the amount of sleep he’d been getting and more to do with the way he was not rested even after twenty hours of sleeping.

While the computer booted, Derek used the restroom and brushed his teeth, scraping at the fuzzy feeling of his tongue. He gargled quickly and then went in search of a clean drinking cup for some water.

Peter must have been feeling especially gracious because the pile of dishes that had been sitting in Derek’s kitchen sink for nearly three weeks was stacked neatly, clean and sparkling, in the dish drainer. Derek stared at his changed kitchen. Trash that had been piling for almost six months was gone. His fridge, when he checked, was cleared of random foodstuffs he hadn’t touched in months. It wasn’t stocked by any means, but Derek could take care of that tomorrow…when he woke up.

For now, he drank his water and headed back to his computer.

His email inbox was so full it made him feel sick to think of responding to everyone.

Thankfully, when he mustered the courage to look, most of the emails were from Laura pestering him about coming in to the office.

Derek chose one at random and sent the word “NO.” Then he deleted each and every one of them.

When he was done with that, instead of six hundred emails, he had about forty. Much more manageable.

Except, now he was even more exhausted than when he started, so he shut the computer down and climbed back into bed.

This time, he kept tossing and turning, dreaming again of the moment he killed the hunter. Dreaming that she took him with her and of the relief that would bring.

                                                                                                                       ~ * ~

The next few days, Derek made himself get up and sit at the desk, working through the various projects that Laura kept assigning him.

He managed to stay awake for thirty-seven hours before he crashed, drooling all over his computer for a few hours before jerking awake with a crick in his neck.

He stood up and stretched until his back popped. Laura was threatening to visit again if he couldn’t prove that he was still functioning. And Peter had uncharacteristically sent an email saying to make sure his elevator was fixed within a couple of days. Derek responded that the elevator was fine. He decided he liked when his uncle visited because Peter hadn’t cared that his eyes were different, if he’d even seen them, or that Derek was changed. He was still his uncle, in turns kind, like a few days ago, and distant. If it got Laura off his back, Derek was more than willing to let Peter in. Maybe, someday, he could be as kind to Laura.

Derek shuffled into the kitchen and downed several bananas. He drank half a gallon of orange juice, and then, with his energy, he tied off the trash and dragged it to the curb.

Surprisingly, he still felt aware enough to take a shower.

By the time he got out, dripping because he couldn’t find a clean towel, there was a large envelope on his desk and an unspooled ball of yarn tangled around his living room.

Derek frowned, plucking at the string. It was blue.

He grabbed the envelope, tearing it open, revealing a note from Peter.

Dear Derek, it read, forgive me for not staying, but I had some other unattended business that required my attention. Who knew Laura liked Italian? Anyway, I have recently noticed the sad state of your apartment and feel it would be greatly updated with a very generous gift on my part. Please enjoy and don’t forget to shower. Love, Uncle Peter.

Derek tossed the letter onto his desk, frowning down at the string still in his hand. This was Peter’s gift? 220 yards of mess?

He began winding it around his hand, watching detachedly as the tangled loops dragged against the floor with a soft shush. By the time he had a large ball in his hands, he could feel his strange energy fading and he halfway entertained the idea of leaving the rest of the yarn on the floor for Peter or Laura to deal with the next time they visited.

But it felt nice to have done something, even if was just one bag of trash. Even if it was just undoing Peter’s attempt at motivating him.

Besides, it would be easier to ignore the yarn when it was contained in one spot instead of all over his apartment.

It took nearly half an hour before Derek found the other end of the skein. It was stuck in his elevator. He recalled Peter’s request, opening the door to retrieve the rest of the yarn.

“About damn time,” someone said, and Derek stumbled back, hand clutched to his chest, fangs and claws out. The person, a young man, maybe a few years younger than Derek, brunet, snappish eyes, bowed mouth, stared back at him, arms crossed over his chest. “Well?” he said, ears and tails flicking back and forth. A werecat.

Derek shook his head. “Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in? I am your new roommate after all.”

Derek snorted. “I don’t need a roommate.”

The man glanced around, eyes narrowed. “Obviously. Now, where’s my room?”

“What room?” Derek looked around his apartment, trying to see it as if for the first time: his desk positioned by the largest window, his bed by the other window, his couch and a recliner he’d rescued from a yard sale a couple years ago in the middle of the room, a throw rug Derek would never admit to liking, and a single bookshelf crammed with every single novel or research book he had ever read before his sudden extreme disinterest in all things he used to love doing.

It was sparse but not bare. It was home. Derek did not like the way the man’s nose scrunched as he studied the naked walls, the cement floor.

“It’ll do,” he finally said. “My name is Stiles. You must be Derek.”

“What did my uncle tell you?”

“Your uncle? You mean Peter. Well, other than that you’re a sad sack who needs a little help back onto your feet, nothing.”

“I’m not a sad sack,” Derek protested. Hurt, he set the yarn down on his desk, picking up Peter’s note. He reread it, trying to find where it mentioned that he was supposed to share his space, not an easy feat for a werewolf.

Stiles could not be Peter’s generous gift, could he?

“You can’t gift people,” Derek mused.

“No,” Stiles agreed, softly. “I’m a professional companion. My services can be purchased and then gifted.”

Derek set the letter down again. He rolled his shoulders, trying to disperse the tension suddenly pinching them. He sighed, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed. This time to hide rather than to sleep. “I’m sorry that my uncle has played such a cruel trick on you,” he apologized to Stiles. “I don’t need a companion.”

“That’s what they all say.” Stiles moved around the room, randomly touching Derek’s things. He paused at the bed, frowning down at the rumpled sheets. Derek had long passed embarrassment for not being tidy. It was more important to him that he dealt with his lingering ailments than make himself presentable for his judging sister.

Stiles was uninvited and unwanted. His opinion ranked even lower than Laura’s.

“Okay, so I need a room,” Stiles said. He eyed the staircase appreciatively. “Is there another room up there?”

Derek shrugged. There was, but he hadn’t been upstairs since he’d moved in, the idea of dragging his bed up the spiral staircase exhausting even before he’d been attacked by the hunter.

If Stiles wasn’t going to leave, then he could live up there. The loft was large enough for the both of them, and Peter was going to be surprised that Derek’s aggressive streak, culminated carefully by Peter when Derek was fifteen, a cruel experiment Peter was still trying to make amends for, was all but gone.

Sure, Derek was petty, but if pushed hard enough, aside from disabling his elevator (and breaking his stairs) to make it inconvenient for Laura to get to him, he would roll over, belly and throat exposed to the stronger, better wolves.

Stiles, if Derek concentrated, was nothing more than a werecat—less aggressive or territorial than werewolves in general. He could see the ears and tail fade into a faint aura. He was certain that Stiles could see his own wolfish aura but Derek was too polite to mention anything to Stiles and Stiles didn’t seem to care at all.

Perhaps this arrangement could work out after all. Maybe it would even get Laura to leave him alone.

Trust Peter to give a gift, the gift of companionship in the form of someone Derek had never seen before, and have it backfire spectacularly.

Derek grinned to himself, not even thinking about how it was the first time he had smiled in nearly six months.

Stiles wandered into the kitchen, digging through the fridge. “Your food sucks,” he called back. Derek tossed him the phone in answer.

“There’s a neat grocery store two blocks over,” he said. “They deliver.”

“So does the pizza place on Main.”

“No pizza,” Derek growled. It wasn’t that he didn’t like pizza—in fact, pizza would have been more fun to eat than an entire bag of pears and a ripening bunch of bananas—but Derek didn’t want to hate himself even more than he already did.

Laura thought he was only depriving himself, but food was the one thing Derek truly felt he had control over, and he wasn’t ready to relinquish it. Besides he didn’t want to deal with the increased amount of trash that would come from ordering premade food.

“The grocery store or nothing,” he said to Stiles and then threw himself on his bed, all energy gone.

He buried his head under his pillows but it didn’t stifle the sound of Stiles ordering an extra large Meat Lover’s pizza with stuffed crust. And a bed.

Oh well. At least the elevator was still in commission for now.

Derek went to sleep.

                                                                                                                       ~ * ~

When he woke up, Laura, Peter, and Stiles were clustered around his desk.

Great. Now Laura would know that Derek broke his elevator on purpose.

The only plus side that Derek could find was that Stiles had eaten all the pizza. The only thing left was a faint smell in the air and a box thrown out with the recycling.

“Derek,” Laura said, icily. “Nice of you to join us.”

He didn’t respond, shuffling to his chair and sinking down into it. He blinked sleepily at Stiles sitting on the edge of the desk, at Peter standing next to it, and at Laura across from him.

“This is an intervention,” Laura said unnecessarily.

Derek could have guessed. She’d never dragged more people into it before, but he was not surprised that she had progressed since she’d failed all the other times when she’d been alone.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked, trying to ignore the way that his heart was the only thing awake about him, trying its darndest to beat right out of his chest when three sets of glares turned on him.

“You need help, dude,” Stiles said. His ears and tail twitched into sight, fading quickly when both Laura and Peter turned to him. “Hey, you brought me here for a reason. If that reason is getting your relative to stop being so sad, then, hey, job accomplished, right?”

“And I suppose you have all the answers?” Laura demanded.

Stiles shrugged. “Werecats are intuitive. Plus, my dad’s a sheriff. We Stilinskis are good at solving puzzles.”

Derek wondered if he should feel hurt that he had been reduced to a puzzle. He opened his mouth to protest, or explain, but Laura jumped to his defense.

“My brother is not just a puzzle, something to be solved.”

“Sure he is. Find out what’s wrong, fix it.” Stiles rolled his shoulders. “Simple.”

Laura drooped. “If it were,” she said softly, “then he would already be fixed.”

Derek dropped his head at that. He knew his behavior was hurting the pack, but the more they pressed, the harder it was for him to open up to them. Peter bringing in Stiles and then telling him that he was a “sad sack” when Peter could smell the guilt and depression hurt. Not so suddenly, Derek wished everyone would leave.

The lingering odor of the pizza was making his stomach twist and the thought of going through Laura’s intervention was more than exhausting. Derek was weary deeper than his bones, his soul aching with it. He let his head fall to the desk, hoping it was enough to make the others leave him alone and knowing it wasn’t.

Surprisingly, Stiles shooed Laura and Peter toward the elevator.

“You won’t fix him by doing that,” he said. Derek kept his face pressed to the wood, breathing in the smell of old ink stains and dead skin cells. “Give me a week. I’ll have him back to normal. Go.”

Derek doubted that anyone could return him to “normal.” What even was normal? Going through life cheerfully, waiting for the moment when his cubicle mate would turn on him, accuse him of being a werewolf, and then try to kill him because she was a hunter?

No thank you. Derek would rather not repeat that experience at all.

Before Stiles could implement whatever fix-it he was going to, Derek stood up and marched to his bed. It only took an hour of pretending before he actually fell asleep.

Living was taking all his energy.

                                                                                                                       ~ * ~

When he surfaced an hour, two hours, a week later, Stiles had cleaned the whole apartment.

He hadn’t used cleaning agents, but he had opened the window behind Derek’s desk.

Sunlight streamed in with the fresh air, and Derek leaned out, trying to see if anyone—Laura or Peter—were scaling the wall already.

He couldn’t see anyone, but if he stretched out a bit farther he could almost smell something sweet with a sharp, aconite undertone.

Cold swept down his body, locking him into place as a woman, honey-brown hair, gray-green eyes, and a cold, bloody smile stepped out from the shadow of the building, raising a hand to point at him.

Kate Argent.

No. Kate was dead. Derek had killed her.

He couldn’t even blink. She waved her fingers mockingly, and then started climbing the wall.

Derek’s breath stuttered and whistled out of him. Lightheadedness threatened to topple him out of the window, and wouldn’t that be the ironic cherry on his fucked-up sundae?

Kate had to pass under a fire escape that stopped two floors below Derek’s, and he dreaded not being able to see her, but finally, he was able to unstick his muscles and slam the window shut.

“What was that for?” Stiles groused behind him, and Derek whirled around, scanning the room wildly.

Had he been fast enough? Kate slow enough? Was she already in here with them?

And then, he realized that Stiles had left the front door wide open.

Derek ran to close it before Kate could get in.

“What are you doing?” Stiles demanded.

Derek didn’t answer, too busy flipping closed the seven locks he’d installed after that night. He went back to the window and closed the extra locks there too before pulling the blinds closed.

His heart was still racing and he couldn’t breathe properly, but the fingers of fear still holding him began easing when he couldn’t smell Kate’s dreadful stench anymore.

He sank onto his recliner, head in his hands.

Stiles stood next to him. “What was that? What happened?”

Derek shook his head. He couldn’t explain even if he wanted to. He’d tried a million times, but the words always choked him.

Stiles sighed, and Derek thought he heard him roll his eyes too. “This is the instructions,” he said, apropos of nothing, dumping a thick binder into Derek’s lap.

The adrenaline was gone, and Derek had nothing left, so he let the binder fall. It opened to the title page. The Purr-fect Companion laid on the floor between them.

Great. Puns. That seemed in keeping with Peter and his shitty ideas of gifts.

Stiles huffed, stomping upstairs and leaving Derek slumped in his chair.

                                                                                                                       ~ * ~

Sometime later, Derek woke up with a jerk.

It was dark, quiet. The binder was still by his foot. He sighed, picking it up as if lifting the world with it. He laid it open on his lap. The first few pages were rules on what Stiles could and would do.

The next chapter was everything Stiles wouldn’t do. Sex was listed, and the relief Derek felt at that was palpable.

He had been terrified, even if he couldn’t name it then, when Stiles has called himself a companion.

Derek knew a few classmates who were now companions. Sarah from homeroom was married to a wealthy eighty-year old man and she had three-year-old twins and another on the way.

Michael from first period math would help older woman retain their vitality by fucking them.

Derek hadn’t wanted to be someone who needed companionship like that, and to find out that Stiles will do light cleaning, some cooking, and spend his evenings curled up, listening to Derek read was far more comforting than having to explain that he did not and could not feel sexual attraction long enough to perform.

Apparently, while sex was off the table, petting wasn’t.

And according to the information binder, Stiles liked getting scratched behind the ears and under his chin sometimes.

He should make an effort to be nice to Stiles. He should also make an effort with Laura and Peter, but it was so much easier to move in his slow, small circles with his predictable, safe schedule.

For now.

He hadn’t forgotten about Stiles’ promise to fix him in a week. Derek snorted. There was no fixing him. Kate had tried to “fix” him and it had resulted in this. Now Laura and Peter wanted Stiles to fix him too. Just how broken and useless was he supposed to be?

Why couldn’t they all just leave him alone?

Derek focused on the binder again, turning pages, trying to absorb the information. If he could figure out Stiles’ plan, then he could formulate a solution to it.

Or he could just keep plodding through life. It would definitely be easier.

Derek sighed, setting aside the binder. He stood, stretching. Blood rushing to his head knocked him back down, and he let his eyes drift closed.

A rattle roused him a few minutes later, and he opened his eyes to see Stiles standing by his bookcase.

“What’s going on?”

Stiles smirked before knocking one of the books to the floor. His tail and ears popped up.

He slowly reached for another book.

Derek glared at him. What had the books done to him? Why was he doing this?

Of course Stiles was a little shit. That was also in keeping with Peter’s gifts. Derek should have expected it. He didn’t know why he hadn’t.

“No,” Derek said.

Stiles just raised an eyebrow, tail swishing playfully. He slowly lifted one hand.

“No,” Derek repeated louder. Stiles didn’t stop. “No!”

Too late. Stiles used those long fingers to topple more books onto the floor.

He glanced at Derek, face blank as he reached for another book. Derek’s family photo album. The only thing he’d ever asked Laura for.

“Goddamn it, I said no,” Derek growled, striding forward to stop Stiles.

Even with two-hundred pounds of pissed off werewolf in his face, Stiles seemed unperturbed as he methodically yanked all of Derek’s books off the shelf.

When he was done with that, he climbed into Derek’s only chair, settled down, tail curled around himself, and went to sleep.

Derek should have ripped him to shreds. Would have too if he hadn’t been preoccupied scooping up his books and lovingly putting them back where they belonged before they sustained too much damage from Stiles’ show of…of what, Derek didn’t know exactly. Maybe it was a way to get Derek to pay attention to him?

The binder had said Stiles liked a good petting.

Maybe Derek was supposed to pet him?

Derek hadn’t touched Stiles since he’d been deposited in his apartment. Was that what was wrong now?

“Fine.” He shoved the last book back onto the shelf, stomping to the chair. “You can cuddle with me if it means that much to you.”

Stiles opened one eye. “Dude,” he said, bored, “if I wanted to cuddle you, you’d be cuddled already. I want pizza.”

“Pizza is,” Derek began. Stiles interrupted him with a yawn. “Fine. Pizza. But I get my chair back as soon as it’s arrived.”

“Whatever, dude.” Stiles curled up tighter, pretending to go back to sleep.

Derek sighed, shooting a glance at the ceiling like it would help him. Grudgingly, he dug out his phone.

It wasn’t until he was sitting down in his chair, a slice of pizza stuck on a plate he didn’t even know he owned by his elbow, Stiles inhaling slices almost faster than he could chew, that Derek realized picking up his books hadn’t exhausted him like it should have.

He narrowed his eyes at Stiles. “You can’t fix me,” he said. He shoved the plate at Stiles and marched to his bed. He crawled under the covers, pillow over his head.

                                                                                                                       ~ * ~

Sometime later, Derek roused himself, dragging his body to the bathroom where he could relieve himself.

In here, bottles and cans were littered, split open, bleeding their contents everywhere.

He stared at them uncomprehendingly. The smells of them mingled, blocking out any other scents.

He should have heard this happening. He hadn’t really been asleep, more in a fugue.

“Stiles?”

No answer.

Derek flushed the toilet and washed his hands, stepping over an exploded can of shaving cream. “Stiles?”

Still no answer.

Derek’s heart tripped, and he raced to the window behind his desk, peering down into the late afternoon shadows of the alleyway.

Nothing there. The elevator was still closed, the panel popped signaling that it had been disabled after the latest pizza delivery.

The upstairs bedroom? Derek took the steps two at a time, bursting up into the small attic area.

The bed Stiles had been using was made, corners hospital-precise, pillows perfectly plumped. And no sign of Stiles.

“Stiles?” Derek whispered again anyway.

Downstairs, the floor creaked. Derek could call for Stiles again. Logic stated that it was only the werecat, but Derek held his tongue and breath, slipping back down the stairs as silently as he could. He was exposed, but hopefully the intruder wouldn’t be looking at the staircase.

His luck held, and he managed to step down onto the floor before the intruder came into view.

Derek gasped.

Kate Argent let a slow smile turn her lips into a grotesque parody of delight. “Derek,” she purred, gliding forward.

“No, you’re dead.”

“Oh, am I?” Kate leaned her head back, showing off a patch of rough, silvery scars across her throat. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I killed you. You were dead. Your brother—”

“Who, Chris? That idiot couldn’t tell the living from the dead. I’m sure he told you what you wanted to hear. I mean, you did just rip my throat out with your teeth.”

“Where’s Stiles?”

Kate’s gaze flickered. “What’s a Stiles?”

Derek rolled his shoulders. “I got a houseplant,” he lied smoothly. Something he hadn’t been able to do in the months since Kate’s death. He used to lie to her all the time, and look where that had led.

“And you named it ‘Stiles’?”

Derek let his fangs pop out, claws up and ready. “I killed you once. I can do it again.”

“Big bad wolf,” Kate mocked him, unsheathing a knife. “Let’s see who’s faster.”

Derek lunged at her, ducking under the swinging blade. He tipped too far, sprawling onto his knees and off his bed.

He sat up, staring wide-eyed around the room. No Kate. He scrambled up, racing to the bathroom. No mess.

“Stiles?” he called tentatively.

“Oh now you wanna talk?” Derek whirled around. Stiles’ ears and tail were out, and he hissed at Derek. “Put away your claws, wolfy. I’m not gonna touch you.”

Derek blinked. The hallucinations were new. “I saw a mess,” he said, voice shaking. Stiles eyed him oddly. “And you were gone.”

“And what else?” Stiles waved his hand. “I highly doubt a little mess and me missing would rattle you.”

“Maybe not,” Derek admitted, feeling a little shamed and not knowing why, “but I think I keep seeing Kate Argent.”

Stiles’ gaze snapped onto his face. “Kate Argent?” he repeated. “The rogue hunter found dead outside of Phoenix, Arizona six months ago?”

Derek nodded. “She used to work with me.”

“Did she attack you?”

Derek paused. Aside from Kate and himself, there was one other person who knew that he’d killed Kate. Chris Argent had found them just after Derek had torn out Kate’s throat and Kate had fired a poisoned bullet into his side. Chris had promised to protect him. And then, Derek had passed out from Kate’s wolfsbane bullet and woken up in the hospital too screwed up to survive and yet still managing.

“Yes,” he said. He put his hand over his side. Chris had healed him before he’d left with Kate’s body, but sometimes, Derek still felt like the bullet was in him, the wolfsbane traveling to his heart.

It made his depression worse, but he couldn’t explain to his sister why he suddenly couldn’t find the energy to do things that he used to love. He was punishing himself for Kate’s death because his whole life he’d been told he was a monster but he didn’t have to do monstrous things, and yet given an opportunity, he’d done the very monstrous thing he’d been assured he wasn’t destined to do.

“Do you want to talk to someone?” Stiles probably meant a professional, but all Derek heard instead of someone was “your sister.”

How could he talk to Laura about this?

How could he admit that he’d disregarded all the careful training their parents had given them and actually killed someone? He’d done his best to hide his changed eyes from everyone, but he knew Laura had seen them and he suspected Peter had as well.

It was why, he thought, they were trying so hard to “bring him back.” It only made it harder for him to feel human. His sister hadn’t been in his life every day even though he worked for her company. And his uncle hadn’t given two shits about him since before he hit puberty.

To suddenly have their “unconditional” love felt very conditional, but he didn’t have the energy to tell them this.

It was easier to shut off the elevator, let his phone run out of battery, bury himself under his covers, and let the world pass by.

“Derek?”

“I’m fine,” he said, and Stiles snorted.

“That is the furthest thing from the truth. Seriously, just let someone help you.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Derek started, but he choked on the next words. Stiles looked at him expectantly, but no matter how many times he called himself a monster in his head, he couldn’t force the syllables from his throat.

Instead, embarrassingly, he began crying, ugly sobs ripped from his chest, snot and tears running down his face. Stiles’ severe frown morphed into shock, and he stared at Derek as if he’d never seen him before.

In a way, he hadn’t. Derek hadn’t broken down in front of anyone for years.

It made him cry harder. He couldn’t breathe, lungs seizing from the force of his sobs. Stiles moved then, arms wrapping around Derek’s body, holding him together while he shattered into a million pieces. Tiny glass-sharp, painful pieces.

Stiles walked them to the bed, helping Derek sit on the edge. He tightened his grip when Derek pushed at him, afraid that the pain inside him was going to hurt Stiles.

Werecats weren’t known for their affection, sharing the same perceived apathy as their housecat counterparts, and werewolves were tactile and needy, like their domesticated dog counterparts.

Stiles liked being scratched, and Derek hated being touched.

They should have been the opposite were-creature. Maybe Stiles would have handled killing Kate better than Derek had.

“Hey, it’s okay. Just breathe,” Stiles said, still clinging to Derek. “Come on, breathe for me. That’s it.”

Derek followed Stiles’ example, forcing air into his lungs and letting it out.

“Can you tell me more about what you see when you see Kate?”

Derek shook his head. How could he explain what he saw? What Kate had said? How could he be the reason she was still alive, if she was still alive? He’d killed her. Chris had confirmed it.

She couldn’t still be alive.

She wasn’t real.

The mess wasn’t real, which meant she wasn’t real.

It was all in his head. He was…he needed help.

“She follows me,” he whispered. “She’s dead, but she isn’t. She says that even though I killed her, she didn’t die.”

“That’s not possible though. You’re a beta, not an alpha. Even if she was able to be turned, you don’t have the ability to do it.”

“She dosed me with something right before she tried to kill me. Some powder of some kind.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “And what did this powder do?”

“I don’t know. I lost control and when I regained it, Kate was dead and her brother was there.”

“But she’s not dead now?” Stiles sat next to Derek. “Or is that powder still in your system?”

Derek shook his head. “It’s been months. It shouldn’t still be affecting me.”

“Well, Kate was a hunter. It’s possible that she knew of some way to make whatever she did to you stick around.”

They both jumped when Derek’s phone, long thought to be dead on his desk, sprang to life, trilling loudly and vibrating at the same time. Laura must have charged it before the failed intervention.

Stiles dove for it and answered it before Derek could process the fact that it was ringing and that he didn’t want to talk to whoever had accidentally dialed him.

“Hey,” Stiles said, shoving the phone under his nose, “it’s Chris Argent.”

Derek gingerly took the phone. He hadn’t spoken to Chris since that night. What could he possibly want now?

“Hello?” he said tentatively, hoping, maybe, that his whisper was inaudible.

“Derek,” Chris said. No such luck then. “I need to talk to you. Are you at your apartment?”

Derek didn’t respond. Chris had been the one to get him away from Kate’s body, but he’d taken him to hospital. Not his apartment.

“Of course you are,” Chris continued as if Derek had answered him. “Can you turn on your elevator? I don’t relish the idea of climbing your walls.”

How did Chris know where he lived?

Everything slid sideways. Derek didn’t realize it was because he’d fallen onto his side until Stiles tapped at his face, barking words he couldn’t hear over the rushing in his ears.

Stiles, panicked, red faced and wide-eyed pulled back out of Derek’s graying vision. A few moments later, he was back, a glass of water in hand.

“Drink this,” he said over the roar. Derek shook his head or he meant to. Instead, his whole body jerked and he flopped over onto his back. Tears obscured his eyes. He didn’t even know why he was reacting this way. There was nothing frightening about Chris Argent.

Instinctively, Derek knew he could trust him. If he couldn’t, Chris wouldn’t have helped him six months ago.

He was still on edge from Kate’s reappearance, and slightly cold water from the tap wasn’t going to make things any better.

He managed to sit up enough to bat the cup from Stiles’ hand. Ignoring Stiles’ indignant squawk, he stumbled to the desk, sinking into the chair.

It wasn’t much, but it did make him feel better, more prepared. He turned to face the window, expecting Chris to climb over the ledge any moment now.

The elevator rattled to life, the car descending to the ground floor.

Betrayed, Derek turned to glare at Stiles.

The werecat wasn’t visible. Instead, Kate stood by the bed, a smile on her lips, eyes shining with malicious intent.

The dull roar returned, and Derek felt stuck in his chair, watching her unblinking as she stepped over the puddle the spilled water had made.

“Oh sweetie,” she purred as she moved closer. “Did you miss me?”

His tongue wouldn’t work, and he had no words anyway.

Where was Stiles? Could he see Kate too? What about Chris? What would he see when he walked into Derek’s apartment?

Kate? Or just Derek, stuck at his desk, pinned in place by a hallucination?

Kate leaned over him, a hand coming up to cup his cheek. “I’ve missed you. Missed this.” Her lips were dry, warm, familiar.

Derek gagged at the taste of her. Nothing new there then.

Kate’s hand twisting in his shirt, tugging him closer so that she could force her tongue down his throat wasn’t anything new either.

The dagger sticking through Kate’s chest was though, and Derek recoiled as Kate’s grip slipped.

“I’m not imagining her, am I?” Derek asked Chris.

Chris grunted as he jerked Kate away. “Yes and no.” He wrestled his sister to the floor, pressing a foot to her neck to keep her still while he pulled a pouch from his pocket, upending the contents over her.

Derek blinked and she was gone.

He stood up, gripping the edge of the desk as his mind spun, trying to find a logical explanation.

Chris tucked away the pouch and removed a pair of blue-tinted glasses from his face. “Kate somehow managed to tie her energy to you before she died. These glasses enable me to see and hear spirits, if you will.” He opened his jacket, revealing bulging pockets. He patted at a few of them before he found what he was looking for. The herb he thrust under Derek’s nose was completely unappealing. He grimaced at it, and Chris shrugged, slipping the glasses back on. “It’ll help with whatever my sister did to you.” Chris wandered off, either inspecting the décor or searching for Kate’s vanished body, Derek didn’t care.

He sniffed the herb again before carefully biting off a leaf and chewing. Aside from a bitter taste, nothing seemed off about it, so he kept chewing while Chris’s heavy tread moved from room to room. Derek got the distinct impression that Chris was only making so much noise to alert him as to where he was. Which didn’t matter to Derek. His ears were working again.

For now.

Chris returned, Stiles in tow.

“What happened?” Stiles was asking. “Last I knew, I answered Derek’s phone and then I was upstairs, on the bed. What exactly is going on?”

“Kate did something, made a deal with someone powerful in order to remain tied to Derek even after her death. Keep chewing that plant, Derek.”

He could barely taste it anymore, so it wasn’t a task to cram another leaf into his mouth and mash it into paste between his teeth. “Am I supposed to swallow it?” he asked.

“No. I’ll need it later. Just get it all chewed. I’ll initiate the next step.”

“And what’s that, sweetie?” Kate asked from the kitchen. Derek pointed at her, and Chris swore when he caught sight of her. She didn’t have the knife wound anymore. Probably because she wasn’t truly corporeal.

It was annoying. Derek pointedly bit off more of the herb. Kate sneered at him and then whimpered when Chris slammed a crossbow bolt through where her heart should have been.

“What’s going on?” Stiles demanded. “What’s happening?”

“Why?” Kate asked. “Why would you take the monster’s side?”

“For too long, I’ve been on the monster’s side.” Chris withdrew the bolt before stabbing her again. “Too damn long. I’m on the right side now.”

Kate gurgled, blood running down her chin.

Stiles snapped his fingers next to Derek’s ear. “Hey, big guy, what the hell is going on?”

“Kate’s real,” Derek told him through the wad of herb. He managed to fit the last of it into his mouth to chew.

“Kate’s real?” Stiles turned to stare at where Chris was loading his crossbow. “How is she real? She’s dead!”

“Yeah, well, my sister has a lot of surprises apparently. Derek, how are you doing with that plant?” Derek waggled his hand at him and Chris nodded. “Get ready.”

Ready for what, Derek wanted to ask. Before he could, he felt hands on his neck, fingers pressing in.

He bucked but could not dislodge Kate. She laughed, hands tightening. “This is the end, Derek,” she taunted. “You’re mine. I’ll finally get to destroy you. And the best part is, as much as Chris tries to help you dispel me, there is one thing he needs that he won’t get.”

“And what’s that?” Derek mumbled, wiping at some spit dribbling down his chin.

Kate threw her head back and laughed loud and long while her hands squeezed. “You,” she hissed in his ear. “Your death.”

“That’s enough,” Chris snapped. “Derek, the herb, now.” He held out his hand, and Derek spit into it.

“And what’s that?” Kate sneered.

“Mugwort.”

“As if mugwort ever hurt a human, incorporeal or otherwise.”

“Normally yes. But not when it’s been mixed with the saliva of a werewolf.”

“That’s just an old tale.”

“And one that works. How do you think I was able to get rid of Dad so easily?” He smeared the paste over Kate’s face.

Burning ghosts smelled a lot like sulfur, Derek thought, finally able to draw in a deep breath.

Kate screeched, slapping at her face as the flesh melted through her fingers. “You idiot! You’ve killed me! Again!”

“And maybe you’ll stay dead this time,” Chris said. He pulled out a crystal threaded onto a chain, swinging it over Kate’s head. A low, guttural chant in ancient Latin accompanied the motion, but Chris’ lips were not moving.

“When he’s done with his purifying ritual, you’ll have to explain what the fuck exactly is going on.”

Derek turned to Stiles. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but Chris is banishing Kate’s soul. More than soul? She moved you, didn’t she? You said you answered my phone and then you were upstairs. She did that.”

“How? And how is he banishing her?”

Derek rolled his shoulders. “Magic?” he guessed. “The same way Kate managed to bind herself to me.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Stiles said sarcastically. “So, we just wait for Argent to finish up whatever he’s doing and then, what? What happens when Kate is finally gone? And where is she exactly? I thought she was just a hallucination?”

“She’s there, in front of Chris.” She wasn’t much more than a puddle of gray goop now. Satisfied, Chris put away the crystal and then poured mountain ash over her remains.

Derek turned away. “I don’t want to be here anymore,” he said. He hadn’t had time to think when Kate was attacking him, but now that she was destroyed, he wondered why he didn’t feel any different, any better.

He still just wanted to curl up in his bed and sleep until the world outside was nicer, until he was healed.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Chris said. “You can stay with your sister or uncle, right? I’ll finish up here and let you know when it’s safe to return.” He pursed his lips before striding purposefully toward Derek. “Call me the minute you think you see her again. I don’t care if every time it turns about to be an overactive imagination or sleep deprivation or, hell, bad food. Call me. I’ll come. I’ll make sure she never bothers you again.”

He leaned in, wrapping his arms around Derek. A hug. Derek froze.

His skin crawled at the contact, but the longer Chris had his arms around him, the less it felt weird. It felt even less unsettling when Stiles joined in.

Stiles’ tail swished behind him before curling around them. Derek imagined it was just his ears, but it seemed like Stiles was beginning to purr as well before Chris stepped back.

“I’d better…” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Call your sister.”

“Come on.” Stiles led Derek to the elevator. “We’ll call Laura when we’re outside. No time like the present.”

He kept a firm hand on Derek’s elbow, as if he was afraid that Derek wouldn’t follow him. He didn’t have to worry. As soon as the doors closed behind them, Derek sagged against Stiles, the sudden relief that Kate was truly gone sapping his energy.

He didn’t remember stumbling after Stiles after the elevator deposited them on the first floor, nor did he remember sinking down onto a random bench while Stiles called Laura.

But he did remember when both his sister and his uncle pulled up and bundled them into Laura’s Camaro.

Derek leaned his head against the window, breathing deeply, Stiles’ tail wrapped around his wrist as he animatedly related the events as best as he could.

Not even Laura’s indignant questions penetrated the fuzzy haze that settled over Derek’s bones, and he let himself drift off, holding as tightly to Stiles’ tail as it was clinging to him.

It was nice, and that didn’t scare Derek. Maybe it should have. But he was glad it didn’t.

                                                                                                                       ~ * ~

Derek woke up when Laura lifted him. Stiles’ tail was still around his wrist, and it didn’t seem like he was inclined to remove it any time soon. Derek found he still didn’t mind. It actually felt nice.

He didn’t want to examine the feeling too closely, afraid that if he scrutinized it, he might find a reason to tell Stiles to take his tail and his company elsewhere.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Kate Argent?” Laura asked, far more gently than Derek was expecting. “Why didn’t you talk to me? I’m your alpha. I’m supposed to be able to help you.”

Derek shrugged. How could he tell her that deep inside, in some secret place, he blamed her for putting Kate in his cubicle, for introducing them, for telling Kate that he would show her the ropes and maybe they’d be good for each other, wink-wink?

But more than that, how could he tell her that he knew it was his fault, that he’d given Kate some kind of signal or reason to go after him, that he’d lost control and killed her, that he still didn’t remember exactly what happened but he remembered the taste of Kate’s blood, and deeper, the morrow of her bones?

How did he tell his alpha that he endangered his pack and that the pack was saved by another hunter?

It was easier to just roll over and go back to sleep than face his family or himself in the mirror.

Maybe it was the wrong thing, but it was what was right for him.

Except now it wasn’t. Derek couldn’t explain the sudden surge of energy that caused him to sit up and pull Laura into a tight hug.

“’m sorry,” he mumbled into her hair, apologizing for more than just killing Kate.

Months of guilt washed over him, and he sobbed, pulling back. Laura latched onto him, refusing to let him go.

“No. No sorries.” Laura fisted a hand in his shirt, hauling him closer. “Never sorry. Just, promise me that you’ll try.”

Derek didn’t know what trying meant, but surely it couldn’t be worse than what he’d been doing already. He nodded. “I promise,” he said thickly. “Whatever you need.” He wasn’t ready to return to work, so he hoped trying didn’t encompass that, but anything else was fair game.

“Therapy,” she said. “And for heaven’s sake, please talk to me. To Peter. To Stiles. To the wall for all I fucking care, but talk.”

“Okay.”

One word. Derek felt the world fall off his shoulders, and he wondered if it would all be that easy.

                                                                                                                       ~ * ~

Things weren’t easy.

Jerri, the supernatural-therapist Peter dug up from somewhere he refused to divulge, thought that he was making great progress. She also thought that he was being too hard on himself, and she constantly reminded him that he was allowed to heal, even if it took years and years instead of instantly.

It’d been a full year since Chris had returned to banish Kate’s spirit or soul or whatever she’d tied to him. He’d been able to return to work, although he still ended up hiding in Laura’s office more often than not.

The contract with Stiles had run out, and surprisingly, Stiles was still around.

In fact, Derek was meeting him for coffee at the new shop down the street from Laura’s company.

Jerri was very pleased with the development of their relationship, that they even had one.

Right now, they were still just friends. Stiles settled something inside him, probably because he was a professional companion and knew how to physically touch someone without making them feel uncomfortable.

Derek arrived at the shop before Stiles and had time to order a straight black coffee for Stiles, a mocha for himself and two iced donuts.

He’d already finished his donut by the time Stiles sank into the seat across from him. “So, how was your appointment?”

“It was good. Jerri was nice. She thinks that I’ve made a lot of progress.”

“You have.” Stiles tipped his mug back and drained it in one go. Derek grimaced at the thought of him drinking the bitter liquid. And then smiled when Stiles immediately crammed half his donut in his mouth.

They spoke of a few more inconsequential-consequential items. Jerri liked to call it their “getting to know each other time” and she encouraged Derek to participate more than just grunting whenever Stiles said anything.

“Work’s still going okay?” Stiles asked suddenly.

Derek rolled his shoulders. “Could be better,” he admitted, “but I’ve been at the office every day for the last two weeks.”

“Really? That’s awesome!” Stiles stuck his hand up for a high five, and despite the burning flush Derek felt sweeping over his face, he obligingly slapped their palms together with an audible clap.

For some reason it made Derek giggle, which he tried to hide by stealing the other half of Stiles’ donut. When he protested, Derek pointed out that he’d bought the drinks and food.

“So this is a date, is that it?” Stiles asked. “Next time it’ll be my turn, huh?”

The flush returned and brought its cousin, butterflies in the stomach.

“Yes?” Derek fixed his gaze on the donut so that he wouldn’t have to see Stiles’ face. He could still hear his heartbeat though, and it picked up, double-tapping inside Stiles’ chest. “I mean, only if you want.”

“I have to say, I have been enjoying our outings, and I wouldn’t mind the obvious escalation to making it exclusive. Just let me know what you’re comfortable with and we’ll go from there.”

They chatted for a little longer, Derek still holding Stiles’ donut while Stiles stole the rest of Derek’s mocha. And then, Stiles sat up, smiling fondly at Derek as his ears popped into view. Something was up. Derek realized he didn’t mind. In fact, he was looking forward to whatever Stiles had planned. It was almost dinnertime, and Stiles loved a lot of the restaurants here.

“So this was nice,” Stiles said, smile turning a little mischievous as his tail curled around Derek’s calf. “We’ll definitely have to do this again sometime.”

“You mean like right now?” Derek returned, his own smile edging into pleased. Dinner with Stiles was always a treat. And now that they were dating—were they really?—it’d be even more fun. Or so he hoped. He let his fangs drop, using them to carefully scrape the last of the icing from the donut. He set it back on Stiles’ plate. “Let’s go.”

~ The End ~