#the idea of a world that can understand your intentions? your impossible dreams; your hopes; your aspirations?

[palismet]

whyyyyyyy would it be flesh. why would it be flesh!!

like i get it, all magic comes from the titan and everything is bodily and physical and real in that way. but belos' kind of magic is artificial. it's mechanical, all pipes and metallic and machinery.

so if it's flesh, it has to be a kind of artificial magic that uses real magic, but - falsifies it. uses it to create a kind of mockery of itself. something tinged red, made wrong. powerful in execution but not quite right.

i do love the idea that anything his artificial staff magic creates is golden (aesthetic themes bc belos is just Like That, it's good vibes) but why must it be flesh. is it an intimidation tactic? is that just what magic is like? could he do something else and just decided hey, this one is gonna be flesh for funsies! he would do that, wouldn't he.

[freyaphoria]

freyaaaaaaa, can you write something about yandere mingi tho i really cant see him as yandere haha.

fun fact me and mingi actually share the same birthday so this could be my birthday present!

a/n: Firstly, happy birthday!!! You were born on the same day!?!?!?! Wow, congratulations! I was also bragging about that I was born 2 days before Jongho loll but you, same day!?!?!?. Secondly, I can't see mingi as yandere either. I wrote this but he doesn't sound like yandere at all. Anyways, I hope you like it though! Love u!♡ AND THANK YOU FOR 500 FOLLOWERS! IS THIS REAL?

Happy Birthday to Us

tw: yan!mingi, mingi is delusional, kidnapping, stalking, chloroform use, fire mentioned, scissors mentioned, happy birthday mingi!!!!♡

wc: 2230

taglist: @aim-blossom

The entire city was slowly getting ready to fall asleep. The lights were off in most houses, enveloped in the peace of silence. But the same could not be said for you.

It was so hot that even though if all the windows of your house are open, you were still sweating and you were having a hard time falling asleep because of that.

You didn't know when you fell asleep, but you woke up with a loud bang coming from inside. You waited to hear a voice again so that you could really hear the sound and understand that you weren't still dreaming.

A walking sound

Someone was walking inside your house right now.

None of your friends had a spare key and your family lives far from your house; so it was impossible for someone you knew to enter your house.

As your heart started to beat faster, the first thing you thought of was calling the police from your phone. With a trembling hand, you looked for the phone you always put on charge on your nightstand before going to sleep.

You couldn't find it. Your phone was gone.

You were sure you had plugged it into the charger next to you, but it wasn't there right now. The "thief" must have entered your room and taken your phone while you were asleep. You cursed yourself for being such a deep sleeper.

If the thief entered your room, took your phone and didn’t do anything to you, then he had no intention of killing you. So you figured that if you stayed quiet and still, he would steal what he was going to steal and get the hell out of your house without hurting you. But what if he changed his mind and wanted to kill you before he left the house? What if he entered your room again and this time saw that you were awake and attacked you?

You weren’t thinking straight because of the adrenaline. For a moment, you considered yelling out your window to the neighbors and telling them to call the police. But the thief could kill you before the police arrived, so you ruled that idea out. You could have texted your friends to call the police on your computer. If only you hadn’t left your computer in the living room last night. Shit, you had no way of communicating with the outside world right now.

You looked for a hard object to defend yourself if he came to your room again but couldn't find anything except your dull scissors, and you made a mental note that if you survived tonight, you would buy something hard instead of a stuffed animal for your room.

With your shaking hands, your increasing heartbeat, and your eyes filled with tears, you listened to the sounds coming from inside but you couldn't hear a sound for a while. You pressed your ear to the door to hear better.

A crackling sound broke the silence from somewhere not too close to your room, from your kitchen, probably. It sounded like a lighter being lit. When the crackling sound came a few more times, you were sure that the person was trying to light the lighter. Was he going to burn your house down? You couldn't let him burn you alive here; you would rather the thief stab you to death than burn you alive. When the crackling sound came again, you wanted to run out of the house in panic. You thought that if you ran fast enough, you would reach the front door and throw yourself into the street, and then you would run too fast so that he wouldn't be able to see you in the already dark streets. You didn't want to burn to death here.

You opened the door to your room very slowly, making sure not to be heard. When you heard a voice from the kitchen while peeking into the hallway from your room, you held the scissors in your hand tighter. He could start a fire at any moment and you wouldn't be able to leave the house, so you had to be fast; as you quickly passed the hallway, you looked at your living room on your left. Your TV and computer were just as you left them. Why? Why hadn't he taken anything?

As you approached the entrance next to the kitchen, you started to shake incredibly. Your breathing became irregular and your head was spinning, but you were trying to pull yourself together.

When you came to your kitchen door, you froze. It was pitch black inside, but a small orange light filled the room. He would really burn your house down.

You panicked and started running towards the door. He must have heard you right now. When you reach the front door, your hands were shaking so much that you couldn't open the locks on your door. What kind of thief locks the door after entering a house?

"Love? Where are you going?"

You froze.

Everything froze.

It was like the world stopped spinning. You were really going to die.

Cold sweat started to run down your back. You turned around and looked at who he was. You were going to die, but you at least had the right to see who your killer was, right?

You looked at his face carefully but you didn't know him. He wasn't someone you knew. He was tall and had sharp features. If you weren't about to die and saw him on the street, you would probably find him very attractive. Hey, look on the bright side. At least your killer was handsome.

"Why are you so scared, Love. It's me. Mingi." You wondered if he would get mad at you if you told him that this was the first time you saw him and you didn't know him. "I-I don't know you." He didn't hear you. "Oh wait, I have a surprise for you." He ran to the kitchen as if he had remembered something. You wanted to move, but your legs wouldn't move.

He was approaching you with a birthday cake in his hand, it had lots of candles on it. Ah, that explained the sound of a lighter coming from the kitchen.

“Happy birthday!” Yes, your birthday. Tomorrow was your birthday. So since it was past 12, today was your birthday. At that moment, you couldn't think of being surprised that he knew your birthday.

You held up the scissors as he continued to approach you. “Stay away from me!” You couldn’t really hurt anyone, but you tried to look scary. You probably looked like a kitten, hissing and arching her back right now.

“The candles are melting. We should make a wish and blow it-” “Please let me go!” He looked up at you slowly, his head tilting to the right. “Let you go? But we haven’t celebrated our birthday yet?” Half of the candles on the cake had melted and the candle wax was leaking onto the cake. You were leaned against the door behind you as he tried to pull the cake closer to you. “I-I don’t want to…” your voice sounded weak and shaky. He started singing as if he hadn’t heard you, slowly moving the cake from side to side, acting like he was celebrating a very happy birthday.

"Happy birthday to us, happy birthday to us, happy birthday to my dear love and me, happy birthday to us!"

What did he mean us? Was it his birthday too?

"We should make a wish before we blow the candles." He looked very happy, he smiled at you with squinted eyes. You had just managed to come to your senses from the absurdity and shock of what had happened and you took a step to the right, escaping the area he had cornered you in. Now, you were halfway to the entrance of the house; this time Mingi was closer to the door and you didn't have much of a chance to get out of the house anymore.

"Why are you doing this?!" He sighed and rolled his eyes. "What do you mean why am I doing this? Because today is both our birthdays. It's also the day you finally welcome me into your home! We should have celebrated with a cake, right?"

Today was very special for Mingi. He was finally able to meet his love face to face without a window in front of him or having to hide behind trees, whom he had been stalking for years and dreaming about every day, every second. Also, it was the first time he celebrated his birthday in his life. He had been planning this day for months. He even prepared the first sentences he would say when he saw you and you ran into his arms.

He had been watching you for so long without you knowing that he had convinced himself that you were made for each other. It couldn't be a coincidence that you were both born on the same day; you were definitely made for each other. He was so absorbed in you that he even thought that you loved him, that you were aware that he was stalking you, but that you couldn't go and talk to him because you were too shy.

"No, I mean, why did you enter my house! And how did you enter!?" Mingi giggled. The candles on the cake had now completely melted and gone out. "You're so cute and stupid when you're scared. Of course I came to take you to our new home. And you left the windows open, so didn't you invite me?"What? What was he talking about?

"I didn't invite you!"

The cake in Mingi's hand suddenly fell to the ground. Its icing scattered in different directions. "You didn't invite me? Don't be ridiculous. Then why else did you sleep with your windows open! You invited me! You wanted me to break into your house and finally take you to our new house so we could live happily ever after!" He was acting crazy. You were startled by his sudden shout. "Look, our candles went out and the cake is ruined because of you. But don't worry, wait! I still have a surprise for you!" His mood changed instantly, he cheered up and rummaged through his bag that was next to the door and that you hadn't noticed before, pulled out a gift package and handed it to you. "Here, my gift for you." It wasn't a very small or very large gift, its shape was rectangular prism and the gift package was carefully wrapped; if he did this, he must have been quite talented.

You definitely didn't want to open the gift. So you didn't take the gift from his hand and gripped your scissors tighter. Could you do it? If you didn't do something right now, you never would. He was saying to take you home. You were afraid that if you were kidnapped, no one could find you.

"Come on Love. We're running out of time." When he brought the gift closer to you, you tried to stab his arm that was holding the gift with the scissors, but of course you failed. His hands were so big that he easily grabbed both of your hands with one hand and stopped you, ripping the scissors from your hands and throwing them somewhere far away. "I knew you would do this. That's why I bought you this gift. Let me open it for you." While he was still holding both of your hands with one hand, he tried to tear open the gift package with his other hand. But when you tried to free your hands from his grip, he pulled you towards him, spun you around, leaned your back against his chest and held you from behind. His arms were around your waist and this time he opened the package with both hands. You were still struggling in his arms, but it was impossible to escape because his arms were tightly gripping you. He was so big and tall that it was impossible for someone as small as you to escape from his grip.

When he finally opened the gift, you saw that it was in a box. It looked like a medicine box. He opened the box and took out a brown bottle. "I knew you would be excited when you saw me, so I got you this gift to relax a little!" Chloroform. You were definitely fucked now.

"No! I don't want it!" You started screaming and struggling in his arms. You were scratching his arms with your nails, making them bleed, but he wasn’t moving at all. After pouring 4-5 drops on the gauze he took out of his pocket, he forcibly brought it to your nose and pressed it. You tried not to breathe, but how long would you hold your breath? You wouldn't last long. With panic, you tried to kick him from behind with your legs, but he was like made of steel and remained still as if it didn’t hurt at all.

“Do you know what I wished for before the candles on our cake went out?” Your head was starting to spin as you smelled the chemical. You couldn’t understand what he was saying. “I wished for us to be together forever. Actually, this isn’t just a wish. We’ll be.” You didn’t pass out right away. Chloroform doesn't make a person pass out instantly like in the movies, and it doesn’t keep you unconscious for hours. So he pressed the cloth against your nose for a while. After breathing in the gauze for about 2-3 minutes, you felt your consciousness slowly fade away and you let yourself fall into his arms.

Mingi finally had you. You would wake up in about 15 minutes, so he had to grab you quickly and get you into his car as soon as possible. He took some duct tape and extra gauzes from his bag and put it on your mouth so that you could breathe the chemical continuously, to keep you unconscious until you get your new home.

He brushed your hair from your face and kissed your forehead. "Everything I do is for us to be happy together. We will always be happy soon. Happy birthday, my most precious."

[iamafictionfreak]

TIS THE SEASON TO BE MERTHUR!

Just... Look at them!

I miss everything about this show. Even the very bad CGI and the weak-ass plot points/armour/conveniences/contrivances.

One Christmas Eve, almost 11 years ago, the entire Merlin fandom was butchered into tiny little distraught pieces. It didn’t matter if your favourite character was Merlin or Morgana, Gaius or Gwen. The showrunners held no qualms in destroying your dreams for Gwaine or Perce. The writers did not hold back in their aim to crucify the smile on your face, to forever turn it upside down. No ship was spared. All hopes for the show to finally commit to their original intent, to bring peace between peoples, to save Albion, to allow Merlin his freedom and Arthur the truth, was brought to a bitter, fatalistic end.

Not that I need to repeat this to you, you know what happened, but it’s worth reiterating that this travesty occurred… on Christmas Eve.

CHRISTMAS. EVE.

Christmas Eve.

The night before Christmas, the night before the day where all rules are broken and we can frolic like children around a decorated tree filled with twinkling lights, our collective hearts were shredded.

This event (once we recovered a tiny bit from the shock) gave birth to a plethora of astonishingly well written, poignant, devastating, hilarious fanfictions that had helped nurse our wounds, for nothing could TRULY heal (except a follow-up season with the original characters, come ON BBC) us.

After nearly 11 years of watching these brilliant entries grow, I never thought I’d jump on this bandwagon and write my own fic.

But I've had a few very shit years, as have many people around the world, and I started to wonder as we do when we want to prove magic can still happen.

My brain decided that it wanted my hands to write the most indulgent, likely over done fic in existence for the fandom. This thought stuck with me throughout the year – I was being STALKED by myself – and wouldn’t leave me the hell alone. This hasn’t happened in a long while.

Still… you’ll eyeroll at the idea. It's so OBVIOUS, I'm embarrassed by myself.

What if Arthur discovered Merlin’s magic from the get-go, from episode 1?

WAIT. Hear me out…

So, Merlin saves Arthur for the first time and Arthur SEES. He sees his eyes glow.

He knows he should tell his father, but his instincts are screaming at him. Honour is at stake. This stranger saved his life. How could he reward it with an execution? So, a chance needs to be given, doesn’t it? A chance for Merlin to give up magic forever and live a life of goodness, to turn away from evil and serve Arthur…

Except Arthur can’t help but wonder. About Magic, about Merlin and magic, about the law and all the whys attached and his place within this chain.

But he also can’t trust this peasant who cavorts with the devil, practices wickedness but smiles like a child and offers compassion to everyone. Someone so duplicitous must be dangerous… except Merlin’s an actual idiot! And it’s getting really difficult to keep his guard up.

But isn’t that how sorcerers work? They twist the mind with pleasing ideas, they tempt and coerce, they manipulate.

And slowly, Arthur finds himself being manipulated too. For how could he ever want to trust this man- but he does. He does.

And we’ve never been allowed to see Merlin deal with a S1 Arthur who’s in the ‘know’. Who’s forcing him to keep it secret, who’s threatening him with trial by fire, a young Arthur who’s ignorant, arrogant and so desperate to understand what he cannot trust.

Then there's the layers, royalty versus peasantry, friendship versus alliances, goals versus ideals.

I want to write a fic where this trust is built from the ground up. One of the things about the show that made it impossible for me to let it go is that the ‘relationship’ between Arthur and Merlin fits exactly zero categories, yet all of them.

Master and servant.

Friends

Family

Allies

Enemies

Romantic ideals

Platonic soulmates

Absolute Soulmates

I could go on. And it's one of those rare shows where the writing would be given more oomph if the males leads had dared cross a line or two.

Realistically, they weren't even friends. They were master and servant who'd become a little co-dependant. Arthur could never admit to anything more because of his station, but would he have been able to being completely himself around Merlin if he'd known the truth? We never see Arthur truly be himself. He wasn't allowed to be, not even with his wife. There was always a wall - it was how he was raised and any attempt to develop was killed by plot.

We never saw Merlin completely free, not with a single person. He started happy and healthy and innocent. A liar. He ended up bitter and terrified and angry and alone. Still a liar.

What would he have become if there'd been one person he could truly trust- not Gaius. Not a man already broken and brainwashed by his own self. A victim of the system just as much as he perpetuated the hate and completely unaware of the trap he lived in.

Many of the characters in the show have the versatility and potential to be written a trillion different ways, is it any wonder that fics continue to be written?

Well, I wanted to explore a slow burn development of trust, with Arthur learning how wrong he was, how much he’s trampled on, and all about the seemingly normal peasant boy who meant more to the world than Arthur could possibly understand. What would they have become if they’d been given the time, hm?

When they were young - yes, I'm going there - wild and free.

What of Morgana, what if she could have trusted? What if she could have understood? Would it have turned out differently? Would she have still become the other side of Uther's coin?

Would Merlin still have ended up alone?

There’s lots more I wanted to touch upon, it’s a big what if, but that’ll have to wait for another post.

I’m writing a 5 part prologue that occurs between episode 1 and 2. I’m hoping to release it for Christmas and then take the time to write the rest of the season.

Unless… you guys think it’s a waste of time? Let me know.

In the meantime, I’m STILL SUFFERING (fucking show) and it's making me write, write, write!

(gifs not mine)

[just4jinx]

during the night.

idol ! ryujin x 6th itzy member ! reader (wlw)

warnings: fluff, mentions of nightmares, slight anxiety, intentional all lowercase

word count: 860

you were almost aware you were dreaming but couldn’t do much about it except wait it out, hoping your body wakes up sooner than later. this was definitely the worst nightmare you’ve experienced in a while, or at least since debuting with itzy a few years back. after multiple minutes of jumpscares within the nightmare you jolt up in bed with a loud gasp, immediately noticing how hot and clammy your body felt. your chest rises and falls rapidly, desperately trying to catch your breath with no success as you grip onto the duvet sheet which is still resting over your lap. you hear a slight rustle coming from across the room and you take another deep breath in.

“ryujin?” you stay pretty quiet despite only one other person being in the same room as you. you wait a few moments for a response.

“are you okay?” your roommates tone is sweet but slightly groggy. she did just wake up after all. ryujin is the member closest to you, emotionally and physically. you love the other members, but it’s different with her. she’s always deeply cared for you, and as much as you love and appreciate it, you simply cannot understand why she goes to the extent she does for you. although, you cannot complain… you have genuine feelings for this woman.

“im… okay.” you reply, your breath slightly shaky. your attention is quickly brought to the sound of movement in the room once more, but it’s too dark to see what’s happening. you jump as ryujin’s gentle hand rests on your shoulder, her whisper that follows being the only thing you can focus on in that moment. “hey, scoot over.” you immediately oblige and move yourself to the side, tapping the empty spot beside you. ryujin slowly slides into bed with you and pulls the duvet up to cover you both up to your chests, her arm then slipping under you and wrapping around your body, pulling you as close as humanly possible.

“you’re okay, i got you.”

after hearing her words you deeply exhale, happily cuddling up to her as your heart races, but now it wasn’t due to the nightmare. ryujin has always been big on touch… always holding onto your arms during dance practice and hugging you tightly every time she spots you in the area. hell, she’s even tried to feed you her food without letting you do it yourself. its confusing for sure, mainly because you’ve never had friends who act this way. her intentions have always been unclear but with every interaction your feelings grow stronger to the point where its truly impossible to ignore, and you have no idea what to do about it. you’re absolutely terrified of ruining the best friendship you have ever experienced.

you hum in content, ryujin’s arms making you feel as safe as always and the last thing you want is to leave her embrace when the morning comes. the silence in the dorm room isn’t awkward at all — it’s comforting. only she can make you feel this way. you eventually notice your breathing going back to a normal pace, and your body is no longer shaking. the discomfort has gone entirely, and this wouldn’t have been the case if you were alone.

ryujin runs her hands gently along the skin on your arms, tracing circles with her index finger while being careful not to catch you with her longer nails. after a few moments you notice the scent of her hair and her perfume too, both of which being coconut, and you cant help but smile to yourself because it suits her perfectly. you’re calm, but at the same time your mind is full — full of her, full of her soft touch and her angelic voice. you feel bad for it but in reality you want more of it, and you want it to be only you who experiences it, not a care in the world how selfish that may sound.

after spending what feels like an eternity contemplating it, you lightly lay your head on your roommates chest and bring your hand up a little to search for hers. once you feel your soft skin brush against hers, you bite down on the inside of your lip, nerves taking over your entire body. this is it, and you’re sure it’s easier in the dark than if you could see her. your fingers completely intertwine, gripping onto each other tightly like your lives depended on it, and you loved it.

“ryu?” you quickly whisper, ryujin’s thumb now lightly rubbing your hand in a comforting way. you so desperately want to ask a million questions such as, what does this mean for us? is this platonic? does she have feelings for me? will we go back to how things usually are in a few hours? you almost feel the need to confess — just let it all out here and now so you won’t have to worry about it any longer, but your thoughts are quickly cut short once the other woman parts her lips to respond. you notice her smile as she speaks.

“it’s okay, i know.”

eee my first writing post on here!! i was pretty nervous but thought f it!! this honestly reminded me of the hunger games catching fire, you know the “will you stay with me?” “always.” scene… oml. anyways i hope u enjoyed!! <3

[soaplickerrr]

Stray Love

~ The Question ~

Chapter #7

〉〉 Previous Chapter

〉〉 Next Chapter

Warnings ~ Fem Reader, Kissing (TWICE 🙀🙀🙀🙀)

This is short, all chapters will be short, and the story will overall be short. I'm trying to get used to writing again.

Proofread by @hereforthedrinkss

~~~~~~~~~~

In the days following the concert, your bond with Hyunjin deepened in ways you hadn’t anticipated. Late-night texts turned into phone calls, and inside jokes became a part of your daily routine. Hyunjin’s witty remarks and playful banter kept you laughing, while his heartfelt conversations made you feel understood and cherished. Each day brought you closer, and the thought of seeing him again filled you with excitement.

Two weeks after the concert, Hyunjin invited you to the dorm. You accepted with a mixture of eagerness and nerves. When you arrived, the rest of Stray Kids were there, filling the space with their energetic presence. They greeted you warmly, teasing Hyunjin and making you feel like part of the family. However, Hyunjin quickly leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “Ignore them. Tonight is about us,” he whispered, his tone light but sincere.

He led you to his room, which was cozy and full of personal touches. Sketches and photos decorated the walls, and a few art supplies were scattered on his desk. You both settled in, starting with some social games to ease the tension. Laughter filled the room as Hyunjin’s quick wit kept the mood lively. He made playful comments, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he effortlessly won each round.

“Are you secretly a pro at this?” you asked, laughing as he won yet another game.

He grinned, leaning closer. “I’m just good at reading people. Especially you.”

Your cheeks flushed at his words, and you playfully swatted his arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he shot back, his smile widening.

The conversation soon shifted to more personal topics. You shared stories from your past, moments that shaped you, and the dreams you held close. Hyunjin listened intently, his expressions shifting from amused to thoughtful. When it was his turn, he opened up about the pressures of being an idol—the relentless schedule, the constant scrutiny, and the difficulty of maintaining personal relationships.

“Sometimes, it feels like I’m living under a microscope,” he admitted, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your hand. “Everyone’s watching, but no one really sees the real me.”

You nodded, feeling a deep connection with him. “I get it. It’s hard to find someone who truly understands.”

He smiled softly, his gaze unwavering. “But I think we found that in each other, didn’t we?”

You squeezed his hand, your heart swelling with affection. “Yeah, we did.”

There was a moment of silence, filled with unspoken emotions. Hyunjin took a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” he began, his voice laced with a hint of nervousness. “I know we haven’t known each other for that long, but... would you be my girlfriend? You can totally say no, it’s okay, but I really like you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the hopeful smile on his lips. Without hesitation, you smiled and whispered, “Yes, Hyunjin. I’d love to be your girlfriend.”

Relief washed over his face, quickly replaced by joy. He leaned in, and you met him halfway. The kiss was long and passionate, filled with all the emotions you had been holding back. His lips were soft and warm against yours, moving with a gentle urgency that made your heart race. You felt his hands in your hair, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. The world around you seemed to disappear, leaving just the two of you in that moment.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless. Hyunjin rested his forehead against yours, his eyes shining with happiness. “You have no idea how happy you’ve made me,” he murmured.

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you. “I think I do.”

The evening continued with more conversation, laughter, and sweet moments. Hyunjin’s playful side resurfaced, making you laugh with his witty comments and funny stories about the members. You talked about your favorite movies, music, and even debated over the best pizza toppings.

“Pineapple on pizza is a crime,” Hyunjin declared, his tone mock-serious.

You gasped in mock horror. “How dare you! Pineapple is the best!”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “We might have to agree to disagree on that one.”

Time seemed to fly by, and before you knew it, it was dark outside. Reluctantly, you realized it was time to go home. Hyunjin borrowed Changbin’s car and drove you to your apartment.

When you arrived, you got out and walked to his side of the car, tapping on the window. He rolled it down, and you leaned in, giving him one more passionate kiss. His eyes closed, and a dazy smile spread across his face as he kissed you back.

"Goodnight, Hyunjin," you whispered, pulling away.

"Goodnight," he replied, his voice filled with warmth.

You walked to your front door, feeling light and happy. Opening it, you turned and waved goodbye, giggling and smiling. As you stepped inside, you knew this was just the beginning of something beautiful.

🏷️ : @bswrldd

Yes, I truly do think pineapple on pizza is good.

[kamesama]

— match-up trade: jjk.

for @bokutosbiceps › match-up trades › HI BBY, so excited to do trades with you again. i hope you like this <3 I GOT SO EXCITED WRITING THIS—

your match: itadori yūji.

gleamy-eyed glances of admiration, lips so softly agape. wide smiles and shameless, heartfelt laughs. blushing cheeks and red noses. ghostface mask stuffed under the bed. pondering inquires about life lost to the comfortable silence, sucked into the walls and concrete — it feels good to simply voice them out. bad movies that you love solely for the experience they provided. salt on your lips and aftertaste of pop-corn. sizzle of cola. warm colours; salmon pink, sunset orange, honey yellow. matching items, lockscreens or phone cases. your favourite snack brought to your door in the ungodly hour to support you through your efforts. hugs so tight and warm they make everything feel alright. items lost in the piles of laundry, underneath the cushions or in plain sight. worn-out hoodies that you cannot let go off. admiring the view. inside jokes that are impossible to explain to the third person. looks that speak volumes and provide wordless telepathy-like understanding. the best part of a song.

yūji, oh yūji. the sunshine in a jar; the heart of gold; the idealist. his latte-brown eyes simply skim over whatever shield is draped over you by your silence. he doesn't care. a piercing look — intentional or not — is too little to push him away, to sway him. and he doesn't miss the moment in which your true self peeks out, carrying the overwhelming plenties of good fun and howl-worthy laughs against its chest.

your ambitions are worthy of admiration, and yūji cannot possibly wrap up how wonderful it is that you bear such dedication to people close to you. he relates. he would crawl through hell and back for humanity; he would claw onto rocks, stones and pebbles even if he loses the sense of touch on his blood-covered fingers. the idea that you give the time of your life to chase the dream in which you can help the sick and needy makes his heart warm. yūji loves you for it. he also admires your brains, because he could never.

there is a grand similarity provided by the mutual lack of seriousness and it is your little escape from the creeping shadows of reality. but, both of you wield the ability to take off those rose lenses and face the world. yūji is your ray of sunlight on the cold day in mid-december, but he comes to you in the hours of heavy traffic and loud, buzzing life with shoulders dropped and hopes scattered about his mind, hiding. he eats your reassurance up like a starving man, hanging onto whatever piece of comfort — spoken or not — you can offer him. likewise, he praises you when you feel like you've strayed into a dead end path and pats your back when you claim that you simply cannot handle it anymore.

the quality time is wondrous. he flashes you his boyish grin when your sight meets his face and he listens to that one logic-twisting thought that has been lurking in the back of your mind for a while. he talks you into watching that one show with him and comforts you with the lie that "it's just one more episode, please?" conversation flows endlessly, flawlessly, effortlessly and so does the river the two of you sit by. you're observing the stream, but yūji strains his neck to absorb the sight of your profile and the cute point of your nose.

it's been a long while since he's mentioned jennifer lawrence.

other matches: gojō satoru.

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

[onlinewealthcreater]

Your road to success should be painted in consistency

Take a moment to sit in silence and reflect on the journey of your life. Ask yourself, "Am I in control of painting my own picture of success? What role does success play in shaping my life's canvas?" It is crucial to consider whether you are following your own path to success or allowing others to snatch the brush from your hand and paint over your story of triumph.

Throughout my own journey, I have discovered two thorns that often leave us deeply disappointed with our pursuit of success. The first pain point arises when we permit others to dictate how we should achieve success. We allow their opinions to influence our decisions and actions. However, when embarking on the path to success, it is essential to define what success truly means to you, individually. The problem with allowing others to interfere, even if their intentions are good, is that their perception of success may differ from yours. Consequently, living out someone else's idea of success will inevitably leave you feeling like a failure, trapped in a dark hole of emptiness.

To overcome these obstacles, we must reclaim the power to shape our own destinies. We must resist the temptation to conform to society's expectations and instead embrace our unique visions of success. By doing so, we can paint a vibrant and authentic picture of triumph that resonates with our true selves.

Make the choice today to define for yourself what your idea of success is. As a successful individual, who do you aspire to be and what actions will you take? In my opinion, true success lies in prioritizing your own happiness and finding purpose not only for yourself but also for others. Instead of comparing your journey to someone else's, concentrate on how you personally define success and create a roadmap to guide you towards achieving it.

The second common source of disappointment is the false image the world portrays, suggesting that following a specific formula will lead to instant success. How many times have you come across advertisements promising success if you simply follow steps A, B, and C? Unfortunately, these promises are nothing but lies, designed to benefit the ones making them while leaving you feeling disillusioned and inadequate.

It's time to stop listening to these deceitful claims and start painting your own picture of success. To ensure you stay on the right path, it's crucial to reject the world's false promises. Instead, focus on implementing systems that will support you in achieving your destiny. These systems should consist of clear, actionable steps that will guide you towards your goals on your journey to success.

On your journey towards success, it is crucial to remember that success does not happen overnight, and there are no quick fixes to achieve it. Whether you like it or not, success requires consistent practice. To be successful, you must constantly remind yourself that no matter how grand your dreams may be, they will not materialize overnight. You need to put in the necessary effort and work diligently.

When building your success story, it is important to focus on taking one step at a time. Stay disciplined and remain persistent, as achieving success requires unwavering dedication and devotion to your plan.

Understand that your success journey will not be easy. Be prepared to face obstacles and train your mind not to give up, but rather to focus on finding solutions to overcome these challenges. Take small steps towards your dream every day, consistently working towards it.

In the daunting world of striving for success, let me be a beacon of hope. It may seem impossible to achieve your success story, but it is not. It is merely a roadblock that slows you down. However, if you remain committed to your success and put in the necessary work, setting goals and implementing systems to maintain consistency and discipline, success will undoubtedly come your way.

To conclude, let me remind you that you are the most significant supporter on your life's journey. Define your own road towards success and diligently strive towards these significant milestones. Follow your plan with unwavering consistency and discipline, and above all, refuse to let others hijack your story.

[glassessence]

Modern Soulmate AU | Watanabe

M O D E R N   S O U L M A T E   A U   |   W A T A N A B E

-- You see in black and white until you meet your soulmate. --

There have been violent protests for days now and this morning graced us with a magnitude 5.9 earthquake. Suffice to say I’m feeling a little ~shooketh~ (pardon the pun; I’ll show myself out haha). 

Anyway, I’ve been writing a lot of angst lately and wanted a change of pace. I love the idea of soulmates, so here’s an AU featuring university professor Watanabe. I’m super tired at the time of this posting so grammatical tenses are all over the place. I’m sorry. I zoned out so hard during this that it’s half stream of consciousness lmao.  

Also, it’s in dot-point format because I have no time to write it into an actual oneshot *cry* Also, if anyone cares, here’s what I have planned for future instalments in this series: 

CEO Lee | Secretary Reader

Pop singer Kamui | Backup dancer Reader

W A T A N A B E   |   U N I V E R S I T Y   P R O F E S S O R

Watanabe has seen in faded colours since the start of the semester. He knows his soulmate is a student, but doesn’t know who.

It’s not until you stay behind to ask him a question that it happens. He turns to you and his world bursts into riotous technicolour. Your world explodes into colour, blues and greens and yellows beyond your wildest dreams.

For a moment, both of you just stare at each other. Watanabe is speechless, blown away by the colour in your cheeks and the light in your eyes. You’re backlit by the soft afternoon sun and all he can think of is how beautiful you are.

You’ve always considered Watanabe handsome but unattainable. You’d always figured someone like him would be taken. All the good ones were. 

But now, he was your soulmate. The knowledge feels impossible and knocks the very breath out of you. 

“It’s you,” Watanabe breathes, so quietly you barely hear him. His hand reaches out. Long fingers are inches from your face when he seems to remember himself. He drops his hand. Clearing his throat, he asks you how he can help.

You’re so shocked at the blazing colour of the world that you’ve forgotten your question. “N-Nevermind, professor. I’ve gotta go.” Heart hammering and face flaming, you rush from the room as fast as you can. 

The next few weeks are super awkward. You’re not sure how to talk to Watanabe and he seems to be avoiding you. He rushes out after every lecture and doesn’t meet your eye. Even though your world looks so beautiful now, it feels grayer than ever.

Watanabe feels miserable and impossibly conflicted. He wants to get to know you, to hold you and kiss you. Knowing you were out there alone was a pain he could hardly bear. 

“You’re kidding,” Bruce says over beer one day. He eyes his lonely friend. “Keep it secret, Watanabe, but you have to do something. This doesn’t just happen to anyone, you know.”

You stopped going to lectures, unable to stand the reality of Watanabe purposefully ignoring you. Was it because you were a student? Or… did he have someone else? The very possibility of another woman filled your heart with envy. 

Noticing your absence, Watanabe grew concerned. He was a university professor, after all. Regardless of whatever bond connected the both of you, you were still his student. 

He reached out to you via email. Y/N, I haven’t seen you in lectures lately. Is everything okay? 

Your response was curt. Thank you for checking in, professor. I’m fine, just been feeling a bit unwell lately. 

Guilt shot through Watanabe. It seemed it was your turn to avoid him. He knew he deserved it. His heart ached. Bruce was right. Something had to be done. I see. I don’t want you to fail the subject.  I think we should have a catch up over coffee to discuss your progress.

Your heart skipped a beat. Was Watanabe asking you out on a date? Or were you reading way too much into it? Regardless, you dressed well. The day was bright, warm and sunny. You’d grown used to the brilliant colours, but still took immense pleasure in seeing the autumn leaves fall. 

He was dressed in a casual button down and slacks, long hair knotted at the back of his head. Handsome without trying, as usual. You eyed him warily. He’d made his intentions clear so far. You didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot. Still, something in you ached for his touch. You tore your eyes from his lips. 

Watanabe admired you. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you, but seeing you again up close, he was taken aback by your eyes. “You came,” he says simply. “Of course,” you reply casually. “I don’t want to fail the subject, after all.”

Watanabe quirks a smile. “I’d certainly hope not.” The two of you sit down. The conversation is initially focused on your academics and all the content you’d have to catch up on. However, it soon spirals into something else. You make him laugh, a deep rumble that kindles something in your soul. He possesses a sharp intellect that you’re desperately attracted to. Time passes in the blink of an eye. 

“I should go,” you say, gathering up your things as the sun is setting. The sky is overcast, pregnant with heavy clouds threatening rain. “Yeah,” he agrees. “My bad.”

“No,” you counter boldly. “My pleasure.” His eyes widen, but he looks away. He says nothing, but the disapproving frown tells you enough. Your smile fades. “Watanabe...What is this?” His answer is bitter. “Wrong,” he says.

Hurt and anger burn in your chest. “Wrong?” you echo. You point to your eyes. “You think this is wrong?” You slap your palm to your chest. Your voice breaks. “You think this is wrong?”

“No,” he growls, frustrated. “Never. But I’m a professor and you’re a student. I can’t take advantage of you.”

“You’re not taking advantage of me! This is meant to be! I-Is there someone else?”

He stares at you in disbelief. “No, of course not. I just...can’t.” You bite your lip. “I can’t bear to be around you,” you say softly. Raindrops splatter onto the pavement. “I’m going now.”

You turn from him and walk into the pouring rain. Watanabe runs after you. “At least let me take you home. You walked here, right?” You keep walking, trying to ignore the magnetic pull of him. “I’m fine.”

“Dammit woman,” he says, voice low. He grabs you by the arm and forces you to face him. You have to look up to see his face. “Why are you being so difficult?”

Something in you cracks. “Because,” you say heatedly. “I can’t bear to be around you! To want you so much it hurts. To want to touch you and kiss you and be beside you. To know that you’d rather be alone than with me!”

“That’s not true!” he roars back at you. “I want you. So much. I want to leave my marks on you and make you my woman. But I can’t! People will judge you and I won’t allow that.”

“Fuck them,” you reply. “You’re just a coward, Watanabe.”

His hold on you loosens in shock. You take the opportunity to break away. The sky was black now and the rain showed no signs of relenting. You hated how brightly the moon shone and how beautiful the night was under her silver touch. 

Suddenly, a hand pulled you back. Lips touched yours, warm and velvet soft. Watanabe kissed you deeply. His tongue snuck into your mouth, twining with yours like long-lost lovers. His hand curled into your hair. The other encircled your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Reluctantly, he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours. His breathing was heavy. “I’m not a coward,” he whispered in your ear. “I just don’t want you to suffer because of me. Others might not understand. They might attack you. I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I could never,” you answer softly. “Never, Watanabe.”

The two of you made it back to his car. But it was a good deal later into the night that you returned home… 

[the-single-element]

Christ, the King

In the early 20th century, as the dust settled from the incomprehensible death toll of World War 1 and the political upheaval that it created, Pius XI wrote a pair of open letters about the role of God, and the role of seeing others as our own family, in an increasingly nationalist world.

One of the results of those letters was a new religious feast day, which we celebrate today: a solemnity that celebrates Jesus as "King of the Universe".

What an interesting title.

After all, Jesus spoke often of a certain Kingdom. But he also said that the Kingdom about which he spoke is "not of this world".

And to describe him as its "king"... well, that's not new. After all, we see people try to call him a king throughout the Gospels. And every time people do it... he dodges the title. He refuses to use it for himself, neither confirming nor denying. He says "those are your words, not mine". He even leaves the area to avoid people acting on that idea.

On the other hand, he freely admitted he had authority. He deliberately equated himself with the "Son of Man" of Daniel's apocalypse, a connection confirmed in the later apocalypse written by John of Patmos.

Surely he has authority in the Kingdom of God.

Surely a Kingdom has a King.

So what was he running from? Why was he so gunshy of the role?

Well. What do we imagine when we think of kings? We picture absolute authority, yes. But... as this world understands authority.

We imagine a man on a throne, draped in expensive clothes and accessories, leaning on a sword. We imagine a man who lords it over his domain, who wields his power according to his own will, without any checks or balances, whose might is such that he can unilaterally establish justice... or else, act unjustly and not only get away with it, but get everyone to act like it isn't unjust.

We imagine... at the farthest extreme... Tom Parkinson-Morgan's fever dream of a man wielding life-or-death power who doesn't even realize anymore that his decisions are life-or-death, a man who "may murder without a single impulse, or even intent, sight, breath, or even thought of his murder [...] an idiot indifferent to his own violence."

Jesus's contemporaries might have had such thoughts about other kings. But their concept of "the king of Israel" was, at least at first glance, more positive. Their dreams were aimed in another direction: the hope of the Messianic age. They imagined that the Messiah, the "son of David", would restore the kingdoms of Israel and Judah. Would reclaim a particular stretch of sacred land between the Jordan and the Mediterranean, would free them from Roman control, would maybe even conquer new territories for the Jewish people to live.

A brighter vision, for them. But there's that nationalism that had Pius XI so worried, right? Our people, our kingdom. Someone from our own culture and ethnic stock sitting on a throne, conquering by the sword.

Over and over, the Gospels remind us, by their descriptions of Jesus's contemporaries, just how badly Jesus's message was misunderstood in his own time. He tried as hard as he could to explain the unfamiliar logic of the Kingdom of God - saying things directly, using metaphors and parables, and even performing miracles that could serve as working, real-world examples - and people consistently took it the wrong way.

And none more than this. People who accepted him as the Messiah - people who should have been in the most receptive position to understand what he was trying to say - were so sure they knew what "king" meant that if he ever uttered the word they would have "dragged him off" to put a crown on his head and a sword in his hand.

But that kind of kingship is impossible in the Kingdom of God. It doesn't even make sense. In the Kingdom, in that world we long for, authority is service - the two are one and the same. Jesus described it himself, modeling what true kingship is (according to the Kingdom's logic) at the Last Supper, in contrast to those earthly kings.

And if Jesus is the King of this Kingdom, it's not by his earthly descent from David. It's not even exactly by his divine nature.

No. He came into his Kingdom on the Cross. That's why he replied to the repentant plea of that crucified man to "remember me when you come into your kingdom" with "today you shall be with me in paradise". The Kingdom had come to Earth, there, on a bloodstained hill.

And this is otherworldly to us. Not because we can't understand it in the abstract, in theory, but because it's so hard to relate to our day to day existence. Like... what the world would even look like if this was true? What would it even mean to have a world where authority is not the power to command and control, but rather found in service? So many of our baseline assumptions about humanity, about society, are tied up in a paradigm that seems antithetical to this.

We even have idioms for it, don't we? Idioms to express the cynical acceptance that brute force can make people treat evil as good. Phrases like "might makes right".

Yet as otherworldly as we may find it... this is the Kingdom Jesus has established. He came into ultimate authority by ultimate service. By going to die, he touched the foundations of the Kingdom of God and has built his fortress on that bedrock. He has proven by example, by dying and by resurrecting, that the existence of the Kingdom means, far from "might making right"... that somehow, in defiance of everything we've been taught by this world... right makes might.

What does that mean for us?

We await the Kingdom. We listen to Daniel and John's apocalyptic imagery, their promises that beyond the tribuations lie an incredible hope, that beyond the desert lies the promised land, that beyond the Cross we may find the Resurrection.

The hope of awaiting the Kingdom is the hope that, some day, all of a sudden, the rules of this world won't have power anymore. That's what Advent is about - knowing what we're missing, and waiting "with inexpressible longing" for it to finally arrive.

But we need to actually know what we're missing. We need to be careful about the allure of earth-logic solutions.

We need to be a little hesitant, in particular, about longing for rulers. For some universally loved political leader - or at least, "universally loved" among those we associate with - to establish earthly peace. Do we think that will free us from worry? Do we think that kingdom will last?

David, the King of Israel whose descendent Jesus's contemporaries were awaiting, had such a kingdom. But his dynasty crumbled too, tragically, because he eventually capitulated to using his earthly might, to being a king in the earthly sense (counting his subjects like cattle, and choosing the best of the herd for himself), instead of relying on God's logic.

And in our modern age... well, Pius XI wrote those letters, in part, because he was watching kingdoms crumble right outside his window. He was one of the first popes, after the Middle Ages, to openly acknowledge that earthly monarchies had no special advantage over other forms of government or state (although it took, as it often does for Catholic hierarchs, longer for Rome than it did for almost any other institution).

The world as we know it is passing away. Its logic is metastable - it looks unshakeable, it looks secure, but push it too hard and it collapses.

And what of our own authority? What of our own power?

There's a reason we have another one of those idioms, grown in the soil of our cynicism over a cynical world: "power corrupts".

We can't let ourselves think of power like this world's logic encourages us to. The danger of, without even noticing it, knuckling under to "might makes right" is too great to ignore.

And this is the reason that, despite Jesus's protests when he was here, there is a reason to imagine him as a king. Not as an earthly king, but as a King of the other type, a King in the Kingdom of God, whose authority has made a beachhead in this world as well.

Because if, as John of Patmos implied when his apocalypse turned to the topic of Christ's future triumph, Jesus is not just a "king" but a "king of kings", an emperor?

We who have power here on Earth, to survive - to not be destroyed by the bribe that turns kings into tyrants - must be willing to turn that power into service. To see that power as delegated, as entrusted, and "to whom much is entrusted, much will be required". To join our own earthly fiefdoms to a world and a power structure where authority is service - where to give multiplies the gift astronomically - where life isn't zero-sum or mathematical but find its foundations in expressions loving care... and then to act like it.

The Kingdom of God - the only kingdom or authority which does not pass away - is coming.

And the more of our own lives we can join to that kingdom, to the eternal world and its weakness that is stronger than strength, the more of it will survive to see the new heaven and the new earth.

May this be a hope for us, as we enter the season of Advent, and through all the long years until that moment when Jesus returns in glory, the King of Kings who wipes our tears away.

After washing their feet, Jesus put on his robe again, sat down at table with them, and asked, “Do you understand what I was doing? You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and you're right; that’s what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash each other’s feet. I have given you an example to follow. Do as I have done to you.

[idontlikeem]

For the ask game, perhaps "sleep intimacy" and "royal AU"? I love your ideas and writing!

you can find the fic tropes mashup game here!

ahhh anon thank you so much!

i had a lot of fun with this one—i so rarely dream up ideas where at least one of them isn't still a hockey player, so this was a blast!

So for this one, I think our setting is the Kingdom of Canada, a modern-day semi-constitutional monarchy that wrested its independence from Britain at some point and promptly established its own royal family.

Canada is known for its educational institutions—so much so that a young man from Siberia, from a good family but not a great one, might travel across land and sea to the capital of Canada for university, as opposed to attending one of the myriad of options in Moscow.

Zhenya likes Canada. The elected officials mean the people are represented, more or less, and the Crown is less prone to the wild excesses of Russian’s ruling class (although, to be fair, Zhenya is not sure how much of that is the absolute nature of the monarchy, and how much of it is down to Sasha just being...Sasha). The King and Queen are fair, and kind, and the Crown Prince…

Well. Zhenya met him at school, in a math class they were both taking out of requirement and not interest, and he was immediately infatuated.

Sidney is kind, and quiet until you get to know him, and perhaps a little too serious, but—he’s got the weight of an entire country on his shoulders, after all. It’s understandable.

Zhenya still thinks he needs to laugh more.

After graduation, Zhenya had always planned to return to Russia, to take his shiny new degree and put it to use, but when he talked about his plans with Sidney, and Sidney had looked at him like his world was crumbling and said, what if you stayed here instead, and you could come work for me, well not for me, for the palace, and you could keep going to school, like you’ve talked about—

Zhenya breaks his father’s heart, when he announces his intention to stay in Canada and keep going with his studies, but his mother understands, he thinks. Even if she didn’t, Zhenya was never going to say no to Sidney, not when he really asked for something. He so rarely asks for anything.

And so Zhenya starts earning a salary. His official title is Personal Aide—what it means in practice is that he’s set up in a suite of rooms connected to Sidney’s through a shared sitting room. He has Sidney’s calendar on his phone, and he’s copied on all sorts of emails, but his main responsibility is essentially making sure Sidney doesn’t worry himself into an early grave (he’s already started on the grey hairs). Since this is something Zhenya has been doing since they met, he finds his job entirely unchallenging.

His educational path takes him to mostly self-study, with monthly meetings with his advisors, so he’s got plenty of time to stick to Sidney’s side during the days, and they spend quiet evenings together, Zhenya doing his research and Sidney reading through laws and proposals and letters, all the daily tedium involved in preparing to run a country. Sometimes they’ll go to dinner with friends from school, and Sidney’s occasionally whisked off to formal events that Zhenya’s not high-born enough to attend, but they’re together a lot.

And it’s in those quiet still evenings where Sidney starts to confide in Zhenya about his other expectations, the ones Zhenya hadn’t known about.

Canada’s constitution requires its monarch to be married. Zhenya had known this in the abstract; he’d been more focused on the fact that it explicitly stated that the nature of the marriage didn’t matter, meaning, Canada allowed same-sex unions (another reason he came here for school, although one he’d kept to himself) than what it meant for his friend Sidney.

Sidney hadn’t dated in school. It would have been impossible for him. He’d hooked up plenty, but it had been discreet enough that one would be forgiven for assuming the Crown Prince was entirely chaste.

Zhenya knows he’s not. It’s a knowledge that burns him if he examines it too closely.

It is Sidney’s parents’ wish that he begin courting soon, Zhenya learns one night over hushed conversation; they’d like him to be settled and happy in his marriage before the throne is his, to minimize stress and provide him with solid support during the transition.

It makes sense. It makes all the sense in the world, Zhenya knows this. He just—hates it. He hates the idea of someone else staying up too late with Sidney, listening as he whispers out his fears and hopes and dreams. He hates the idea of someone else being the recipient of Sidney’s private smiles and rare, subtle little eyerolls when he’s bored and restless.

He doesn’t know what will happen to him, when Sidney meets someone he could love.

The suitors start making appearances at the more informal events Zhenya attends. Some of them seem fine, he supposes, but he doesn’t like the way they look Sidney over; as if they’re picturing him as a pretty thing to dangle off their arms. He doesn’t like the proprietary way they glance around the throne room, the familiarity with which they address the King and Queen.

He keeps quiet, though. It’s not his place. And if sometimes he notices the Queen watching him speculatively, well—that’s not his business either.

Luckily, Sidney sends them all home after no more than a day or two; the only ‘suitor’ that stays for longer is Sasha, and that’s because he’s not really there to try and woo Sidney, but had instead leapt at the trip as a chance to visit with Zhenya. Sidney had watched them greet each other with a small smile, and then proceeded to disappear for the entire week that Sasha was there. Zhenya had appreciated the time with his friend, but he’d hoped they could get to know each other.

Once Sasha leaves, Sidney is strangely cautious, withdrawn, but he soon returns to his normal self, and Zhenya shrugs and puts it from his head. There’s a new suitor expected any day, after all.

This one doesn’t take, either. Nor does the next one, or the one after that, or the one after that, and Zhenya...wonders, a little.

But he’s held Sidney’s confidence for years now. The increasingly pointed looks from the Queen, the King’s efforts to single Zhenya out and get to know him—none of that means a thing if it’s not what Sidney wants, and if Sidney wanted Zhenya, surely he must know he could have had him from almost the day they met?

I’d be so much better for you than any of them, Zhenya thinks to himself as he watches the second son of some North American dignitary squire Sidney about the gardens. His hand is too low on Sidney’s back. Zhenya turns the page on the book he’s pretending to read.

It would be wrong, to use what he’s learned of Sidney over the years to try and win his heart. It would be—dishonest, a betrayal of their friendship. Zhenya could never do that to Sidney. Plus, he’s from a good family and not a great one, and good isn’t enough for the Crown Prince. Isn’t good enough for Sidney, who is kind, and quiet until you get to know him, and perhaps a little too serious, but—

Zhenya loves him. And he can’t do anything about it.

[random-imagines-blog]

Teenage Queen {Viktor Krum x Reader}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 2835 Summary: Related to one Champion, ex of another and the budding love interest of a third. It’s one weird year.

Your final year at Hogwarts was not turning out to be as perfect as you had expected. You were just hoping that everything would go as normal; no deadly and dangerous adventures for your little brother Harry and his friends, no fighting with your boyfriend Cedric. Just a perfectly mediocre year where you focus on your studies, get good NEWTS and move on to train at your dream job. And then along came The Triwizard Tournament. Well, at least it was for Seventh Years only, and you had no intention of entering - and your fourth year brother certainly wouldn’t have a part to play in it, would he?

You couldn’t have one simple year at Hogwarts, could you? Not that you blamed your brother but ever since he had come along in his first year, things have been going wrong left, right and center. First, your boyfriend Cedric had been chosen as the Hogwarts champion, which he didn’t even tell you that he had entered. You were mad about that, but then when it came to the interviews and Rita Skeeter poking around, you had enough of it. Even his friends were coming along and asking questions about your personal life, since he was the only one of the FOUR champions to have a partner. This ended up in you breaking up with him, because he didn’t see the big deal about all of the intrusive questions. It was mutual, eventually, but you had to wear him down in order for him to see that it would be better if you spent some time apart.

And then Harry, sweet little Harry Potter who couldn’t catch a break, was chosen to be the Fourth Champion, which was entirely unheard of. You had charged into the room where the champions were and you gave Dumbledore a mouthful of words, as well as the Minister of Magic, but the rules were the rules and he had to compete. You tried throwing back that the rules had stated that it was only for Seventh Years, and that there was only to be one champion per school, but they claimed that their hands were tied. After that, you took Harry’s hand and pulled him out of there so the two of you could talk alone.

You were devastated. Especially in the coming days when it became apparent that a lot of people, including his best friend, thought that he had put his name in the Goblet of Fire. It was completely far away from Harry’s personality, and you vowed to help him through everything, studying your ass off on his tasks on top of your school work. He still had Hermione, though, and that was a relief. You were more worried about him than you had been about Cedric, whom you were convinced would do absolutely fine in the Tournament, and probably didn’t need your assistance.

-

You were sitting by the lake one day, doing your extra-curriculars. You took just the necessary classes this year, having dropped Divination and Arithmancy so you wouldn’t have to study as hard. But you were doing studies of your own, particularly in Russian. You wanted a job in which you got to travel the world, so you decided that taking languages, a course only done through talking books, was a good way to go. You were fluent in French, and learned more about pronunciation through the Beauxbatons students, but you didn’t know much Russian, so you decided to take that up so you could communicate with Durmstrang as well.

You were coming along pretty well, though your pronunciation needed some work. You were practicing in the weak sunlight of the Scottish Autumn, muttering to yourself. “Ya chuvstvuyu-” You started to pronounce, then realized it didn’t sound right, so you tried again. “Ya chuvstvuya,” You put more emphasis in, “-tvoyu lyubov segodnya.”

“Ochen khorosho!” The book praised back to you. You smiled, the romantic phases being something that you wanted to master. Okay, so maybe you weren’t entirely over the break-up with Cedric. It wasn’t him in particular, it was just having someone to care about, someone to care about you that you missed.

“Who var you talking to?” A puzzled voice said. You looked up from the speaking book to see that there was a student in front of you. You were so into your book that you hadn’t even noticed anyone approaching. The sun was behind him, casting his face in shadow, though the robes showed Durmstrang.

“Myself,” You said, then held up the book to show what you were doing. “Practicing Russian. I’m on the chapter of romantic phrases.”

The student looked delighted, and much to your surprise, he sat down with you, looking over the pages. It was only as he leaned over to take a closer look, his finger running across some of the words, which made the book giggle aloud, that you realized exactly who it was. You turned red at this realization - because it was nonother than celebrity champion Viktor Krum, who you had just seen at the World Cup. You remembered the way that Cedric had gushed over how good of a seeker he was, and how amazing his flying techniques were.

“This one good-” He said, pointing to a certain phrase and then said it out loud. You read along with it, your eyes following his finger, but he added more to the sentence, words that you weren’t sure of.

“What does that mean?” You asked, realizing that you were still as red as a rose at his close proximity. You tried to tell yourself to act natural, pretend that it wasn’t a celebrity - a very handsome celebrity - that was this close to you, but you found it impossible. It wasn’t everyday that someone came into your space like this. The last person had been Cedric, but the two of you didn’t spend any time together since the break up. Just nods in the hallways, and awkward grins if you had a class together. You haven’t tried to date anyone else since, though Rita kept coming up with stories about you cheating on him with other boys. You hoped she wasn’t snooping around now with that damn quill of hers.

“You var my paradise,” He said, in his heavily accented English. That part was in the book. “-My...” He looked around, as if having trouble with translation. He pointed up at the sky, and then did little flapping motions with his hands. When you gave him a puzzled look, he put his hands above his head, his index and thumbs together to make a circle.

“Heaven?” You asked. He shook his head so you took another guess after piecing it together. “Heaven?" He nodded, with a smile and then continued to look around. He then pointed straight towards the sun, which was hiding behind clouds. “Sun?” You guessed once more. He nodded again.

“You var my paradise - my heaven - my sun.” He said, looking quite proud of himself. And he was saying it while he was looking right at you, which just made you feel all the warmer. You hadn’t really given anyone attention since Cedric, and since most of Hogwarts thought you two were the dream couple, no one else had tried to hit on you. But here was Viktor Krum, reciting such lovely things for you in a language that you were only beginning to understand.

“Beautiful,” You muttered in his mother tongue, and he beamed as he recognized the word. Until it was no longer light enough to study, and you had to conjure up a light and keep it in a jar - thank you Hermione for that idea - in order to see anything, he helped you along with your studies. And yet, you never seemed to get past the chapter of romance. He introduced you to new phrases, and would practice with you until you had the pronunciation down perfectly. The book had been quiet for a while, having no critiques for you, you were doing so well. “Thank you so much - you taught me a lot,” You said, getting onto your feet.

“You’re velcome,” He said, bowing his head respectfully, jumping up effortlessly. You scrambled to put your book into your bag, and he helped you, holding your bag open for you. “Maybe you can help me,” He suggested. You tilted your head, questioning what this man could ever want help with. The first task had gone swimmingly for him, he was a Quidditch star, he was handsome to boot. “With een-glish.”

“Oh, of course!” You said with a grin. “I would love to help. Why don’t you meet me in the library on Saturday?”

-

Four different boys asked you to the Yule Ball, and you had said yes to only one of them - sort of. Unfortunately for Harry, it wasn’t his best friend Ron who just seemed desperate to go with anyone. When you told the two boys that you already had a date, your brother kept questioning who it was. He seemed to have a theory that you were back with Cedric, which couldn’t be further from the case. You just left them guessing, looking forward to seeing their faces when you appeared.

Thanks to the small fortune that your parents had left for you and Harry, you were able to afford a stunning dress. And with some small alterations, you could probably make it last forever. It was your favorite color, floor length with see-through sleeves and a pinched waist to really bring out your body shape.

That, along with your confident smile and you were ready to go.

Your date wasn’t in your house, in fact he wasn’t even from this school. You flushed as you remembered exactly what Viktor had done in order to ask you, and you had to applaud his trickiness. He had written out ‘Will you go to the ball with me’ in Russian, and asked you to translate it. You had done so, thinking that perhaps he wanted to ask out one of the many Hogwarts girls who had fawned after him throughout the hallways, but instead of repeating it back to you, he had said ‘Love to.’ It took you a minute to realize what he had done, and you couldn’t stop laughing once you had it figured out. You agreed with that, and your date was set.

You were going to the Yule Ball with a champion. That was what worried you the most. The attention that you were going to get since you and Viktor had to participate in a dance in front of the student body. He hadn’t had the time to practice, since his own Headmaster was keeping him busy with studying for the tasks, but you did have another willing partner. Your brother Harry. It was easiest with him since he had to do the same dance at the same time.

As you walked down the stairs with a couple of other girls who were meeting their dates, you were nervous to see if all of that practicing had paid off. You caught your brother’s eye as he went down the stairs and gave him a confident wink. He had asked out one of the Patil twins, you had heard, and you were very much looking forward to teasing him about it after all was said and done. Your date wasn’t at the bottom of the stairs in the herd like many of the other males, but further back, trying not to bring attention to himself. He stepped forward when you reached the foot of the staircase, maneuvering expertly through the people in his red suit, and held his hand out to you. You took hold of it, making many in the crowd gasp.

“Krum?” You heard your brother and his best friend say in unison.

You gave a teasing little wave to them as you were lead into the Great Hall, which had been transformed into a beautiful ballroom for the occasion. It looked like a winter wonderland in here, and it took your breath away. You were given a grand entrance, where Viktor, Fleur and Harry were also introduced, before taking part in the dance. You couldn’t help but notice that you were also getting looks from Cedric, who was here with Cho Chang, a pretty Ravenclaw.

You ignored all of those looks, focusing on Viktor, and Viktor alone. He remained the stiff, very concentrated man that you had gotten to know through your studies, though once in a while, when no one was looking, he smiled. The dance went off without a hitch, which was amazing considering he had to lift you. That’s the part that you were nervous about, but his strong arms managed to do the task and you felt safe throughout. You did feel a little better once both feet were on the ground.

Once the dance was over, and the band began playing something less traditional and upbeat, you were able to blend more into the crowd. “I get us drinks,” Viktor winked, giving you a thumbs up as he departed from your side for the first time of the night. You felt even more flushed by the wink than you did by the dance, so you leaned back against one of the columns and took a glance to see who had brought whom.

You smiled as you watched Harry and Ron sitting, refusing to dance with their dates. An older Gryffindor had asked Hermione, and the two of them were out on the dance floor. For the first time, it seemed like the school was entirely at peace. Houses with other houses and schools with other schools. You couldn’t help smiling as Hagrid danced with Madame Maxime. Even Dumbledore had a turn on the dance floor.

“May I have a dance?” A familiar voice said from next to you. You turned to look into those honey colored eyes that had made you swoon the year before, but now - now you just felt nothing. And it was great to just feel nothing.

“I don’t think so,” You said, smiling through your rejection. “Viktor will be back any minute with some drinks. I’m absolutely parched.”

“He wouldn’t let you dance with an old friend?” Cedric asked, raising an eyebrow. You saw through what he was doing, unfortunately. Playing the nice guy. You realized that him seeing you with Viktor must really have gotten under his skin.

“I’m sure he would,” You said, demurely. This was like something right out of a book for teenagers. A love triangle - but you weren’t going to let it be that way. That required feelings for the third person, and you no longer had that. Still, you felt like some sort of Queen with all of the attention that you were getting. “But I honestly just want to save every dance for him. He’s a wonderful dancer, must come with being a professional athlete. Did you see him out there?”

“I did,” Cedric conceded. “And I saw how happy you were - so I’m happy for you, y/n.”

“I’d hope so,” You said, spotting Viktor coming forward. You excused yourself from Cedric, and went to meet him, taking the glass of punch from his hands. You noticed that for the first time in the night, he wasn’t looking at you, but was scowling over at Cedric. You had told him about your past with Cedric, and about your brother being Harry. It hadn’t worried him at all that you were close with two of the other contestants, or at least it hadn’t until now. “Thank you,” You said, laying your hand upon his arm as you took a sip from the glass goblet.

“Vhat did he vant?” Viktor asked, pointing his chin towards Cedric, who was still standing by the column, looking at you solemnly. You shook your head as the ugly beast called jealousy made an appearance.

“He wanted to tell me that he’s happy for me, that I’m here with you,” You said, smiling, since it was a truth, though maybe not the whole truth. “And I must say, I share the feeling.”

The stoic look remained on Viktor’s face for a moment more. You didn’t like it. This was supposed to be a happy occasion. You leaned in and pressed a kiss onto his stubbled cheek, and grew excited as it seemed to light up. He was finally smiling once again, and you both turned so your backs were towards your ex. “Vant to dance?” He asked, draining his own cup.

“With you?” You said, leaning in so you could rest his head on his broad shoulder. “All night long.”

[sxfik]

cause we're dancing in this world alone (when people are talking)

read on ao3 • main masterlist • law school masterlist

summary: a puzzle with a missing piece and a kite with a fragile string, finding what they need most in their young, shaky lives.

or: ji ho finds understanding through the most uncharacteristic gesture.

a/n: hello hello! this is a little different from what i usually write (bc i usually write solhwi) but i felt a lot of inspiriation for this and yeah i listened to a world alone by lorde when i wrote this. so i feel like listening to that song might enhance your experience (or maybe not, who knows) i left room for more ? maybe i can write more for them but idk, whenever inspiration hits i'll add more. as always, i hope you enjoy this <3

word count: 1281 words

Growing up with a father who managed a toy company, Ji ho grew up with piles of prototypes and failed toy ideas. One would think, wow, that's the dream, but not Ji ho. No, as a kid, his favorite aisle in the store was the puzzle aisle.

Every time they would go shopping, he'd clasp his dad's hand, warm and big in his tiny hands, and drag him across the store. He felt his excitement build as he looked up at the rows upon rows of puzzles, each with a different image, and difficulty level.

He'd get one every single time he went, two if he did well on his exams. As he rode in the back of his father's car, his heart would swell with anticipation of his puzzle, sitting in a bag alongside the groceries. As soon as they arrived home, he'd rush out of his seat, rummaging through the same colored bags until he found his prize.

He'd rush in, running up to his desk in his room until he could unwrap and get started. He'd spend hours of his time, any spare moment from studying or playing outside, to put the puzzle together. He'd start from one corner, fitting together each piece methodically until the picture formed brilliantly and gradually.

He would fit together his life in this same way, each task fitting rigid and neat into his routined life. He'd wake up at 8 everyday, his alarm clock unchanged since elementary school, take a shower, get ready for school, go to school, go to his after school tutoring session, come home, workout, shower, study, eat dinner, sleep. Rinse and repeat.

Despite this, every time he got close to the end, the very end, he'd lose a piece. He'd be so close, get so close, but he's still lost a piece despite his every effort.

And no matter how much he squinted, or covered up that one patch of emptiness, it was impossible to ignore. It stood out to him, the sight almost an eye sore. His mother would always comment, in her sweet, tired voice "Ah, jiho-ah, such a pity you lost the piece." A pity, indeed. The picture would always be incomplete.

He would search everywhere he could, in the playground, in the pockets of his jeans or his school uniform. He'd rip apart his room, he would pull apart his schoolbag, but to no avail. He could never be able to find that one piece.

And as he grew up, graduating middle school and high school at the top of his class, and making it all the way to the best law school in the country, he felt as if he lost a puzzle piece. Something was always missing.

So maybe it was the pressure of his studies or his newly found friendship with his roommate or just absolute insanity that led him to this particular situation. It really was a mystery. More than the situation, however, it was the girl sitting next to him, a plastic water bottle in hand that was definitely not filled with water, that was the real mystery.

The air was humid, almost thick as it wrapped around them as they sat together in the bleachers of the school grounds. A comfortable silence stretched between them as both of them drank, their shoulders relaxed and light. Unlike his time with the guys in the study group, he felt his guard lower with this girl, the rival who had watched him grow just as he'd watched her.

"It's funny," Kang Sol suddenly piped up, startling him slightly. Ji ho turned to look at the woman seated next to him, with questioning eyes.

"What?" he asked, a familiar crinkle in his forehead forming.

"My whole life, I felt like I was holding onto a kite, the string thin and fragile," she paused, taking a sip from the bottle, "Any movement would cause it to break, cause the whole thing to fall apart," she sighed.

"The wind was so strong and unrelenting. Each time I think I can loosen my grip, someone will walk by with scissors or the wind would blow stronger, or there would be a storm coming.  I held on so tight, so very tight," she whispered the last few words, her eyes shut tight. Sol was clearly drunk, her words slurred slightly and her voice having a tilt to it that wasn't present when she was sober. "And then all of a sudden, the kite flew away. Despite my every effort to hold on, it still flew away," she finished, staring intently at the plastic bottle that now held half the alcohol it did earlier.

He contemplated responding, scared if he said anything that she'd close up like a clam, before adjusting his glasses. "Was it painful? When it flew away?" he asked after a moment of silence, his voice tentative and unsure of what to ask.

And then, she did the most un-Kang Sol B action ever. She started laughing.

He blinked. In all his years of knowing Sol B, he had never seen her so... euphoric. She was laughing, her shoulders shaking with delight, her eyes crinkled. He couldn't help but watch her, wide eyed as he saw her face devoid of the calm, coldness it usually held. It held mirth, warmth, as she grinned and he couldn't look away. She looked so girlish, so unlike herself. Unlike anything he'd ever known her to be.

"No," she finally shook her head, the smile stretched across her face, "It was freeing. I didn't feel so... tethered, anymore. It's the most bliss i'd ever felt," she breathed out, her lips still curved slightly as a gentle breeze blew back her hair.

As she finished, she finally, finally, turned to meet his gaze, still wide eyed. Her eyes were calculating, as she looked at him, her head tilted as if he was the mystery that she was trying to solve.

As if she wasn't the true mystery. He still remembered the first time he'd met her, in his math class. She was the same as she was back then, her hair short with bangs framing her face. She was always stone faced, always calculating as if she was preemptively preparing for battle.

Kang Sol refused to speak to her classmates, her head held high and her gaze held firm. She was matter of fact in everything, and just like him, followed a natural routine. So despite them competing for the top rank, he'd respected her.

On their very last day, she had approached him first, her gaze still held above him. He was met with an outstretched hand, and he met that hand shaking and confused. And wordlessly, she had returned to her seat as if the moment never happened.

For years, it had confused him, why she did that. Why was she the first to reach out? Why didn't she say anything? Why did she shake my hand? Why me?

Watching her, drunk and filled with mirth, it clicked into place. Understanding. It was always understanding that had linked them together, despite both of them being avid rivals. Even though she had so many things he did not, she was a mirror image of him. In her oddest moment, he understood her, in a way that no one else could. Looking at her, observing the woman who had held onto a kite that was always meant to fly away, he understood her.

He smiled slightly, looking down at his bottle, before taking a sip. It's true, the realization dawned on him. You'll always find what you're looking for the most in life when you're not looking at all.

[angryhausfrau-writes]

Still Living With Your Ghost

Hawkeye shows up on BJ's front porch one year, two months, three days, and seven hours after the Korean war ends. And he looks - Jesus, he looks rough. Tired and pale and wearing army boots and his blue Hawaiian shirt. He looks like a ghost.

BJ can't not invite him in, even though it's the middle of the night and Hawkeye can't really seem to explain what he's doing in California beyond something about wanting to see palm trees. So BJ gets him tucked into bed in his and Peg's unused guest room – still mostly empty even though the house has been finished for a while now. But it doesn't appear to matter much to Hawkeye, he passes out pretty much the minute his head hits the pillow.

BJ wakes up the next morning, sure that all of this had been a particularly vivid dream. But there Hawkeye sits, in BJ's living room, flipping and flipping and flipping through the television channels at whatever ungodly hour Erin has decided is morning.

BJ rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “Morning, Hawk. Sleep well?”

“Morning, BJ.” Hawkeye springs up from the sofa, like he used to spring out of his army cot. Like he's just been sitting there, waiting for BJ to wake up so he can drag him into whatever mischief he's dreamed up.

But this isn't Korea. BJ doesn't play those kind of pranks anymore.

And it doesn't look like Hawkeye is going to answer BJ's question. So BJ just works on getting the coffee percolating and making sure Erin doesn't throw cream of wheat all over the kitchen.

Peg drifts out of their bedroom a little later, takes a piece of toast from the table, kisses BJ on the cheek, collects Erin out of her high chair, and breezes out the door. Off to meet with a client, probably. Which means that BJ's stuck staring at a fidgeting Hawkeye from across the table, silence stretching awkward and molasses thick between them.

“So, uh, how you been, Hawk?” BJ thumbs at a chip in the Formica of the table top.

“Oh, you know. Busy. Doctoring.” Hawkeye is looking wildly around the kitchen and he hasn't touched any of the food on his plate. “Looks like you've really been living the high life here, Beej. Look at this place! Nice, real nice, BJ. You're a lucky guy.”

“Yeah, yeah I sure am.”

“And you're still a surgeon? Working at a hospital and everything?” Hawkeye's now looking intently at a point just slightly to the left of BJ's eyes, expression fixed in something that could be described as a smile, maybe.

“Yep. Nothing as exciting as Korea, though. I took out a gallstone two days ago, and that's been the highlight of my week.”

Hawkeye laughs, too loud and too sharp. And he's back to looking wildly around the kitchen, peering into the living room, rocking sideways in his chair far enough to almost overbalance. “That's nice. Not exciting is nice. Boring. Quiet.”

“Yep.”

Hawkeye is now tearing his paper napkin to little shreds that he's sprinkling over his eggs like snow.

“Look, Hawk. Not that it's not great to see you and all. But what are you doing here?”

Hawkeye goes back to staring at the point just slightly to the side of BJ's face. “Oh, you know. Thought I'd drop in on my good buddy. And see some sun, some sandy beaches – you're a little lacking on both fronts here, Beej. I confess myself disappointed. This isn't the California all those travel brochures promised me. Swimsuits and suntans. Palm trees.” Hawkeye waves his arms wide, gaze rocketing around the kitchen. “Where are they, BJ? Where are the palm trees?”

BJ laughs. “You're a little far north for that kind of thing. We mostly have rain and fog.”

Hawkeye nods. Grimaces. “I hate the rain. We spent years and years and years in the rain. Or the snow. So many years.” Hawkeye's staring again. “You know how cold it gets in northern Maine? I want. I wanted some sun, you know? A change of scenery.”

“Well, since you're in California already, you could drive south, you know. It's a ways, but you could go find a beach and some palm trees, like you said.”

Privately, BJ thinks a little sun would do Hawkeye a world of good. He's looking even paler than usual. Wan. Tired. Like he hasn't been sleeping.

“Yeah? You think so?” And Hawkeye looks up at BJ with such hope in his eyes. It's blinding. Terrifying.

So that's how BJ finds himself in the family station wagon with Hawkeye lounging practically sideways on the front seat, staring out the rainy window at San Francisco as they head south on Route 5 towards warmer climes.

“You know, I've never been to San Francisco,” Hawkeye says conversationally. They're driving through down town, and the tall edifices bear down on them like giants. Hawkeye has to keep his neck craned up, up, up to get even a glimpse of the gunmetal sky. “I've been to San Diego. Spent a whole weekend there when I was in med school. But I never quite made it to San Francisco, somehow. Surprising, I know...” Hawkeye trails off with a vague gesture.

“It's a nice city,” BJ says, inanely. But he's not quite sure what's happening here. And small talk is about all that's left to him.

Hawkeye smiles, sharp as a knife. And there's something lurking there behind his eyes that BJ can't identify. “I'm sure it is.”

They drive in silence for a while.

Suddenly, Hawkeye's head snaps down and to a street that runs towards the bay. “What's down there, Beej?” He asks it almost desperately.

“Uh, the docks I think.”

Hawkeye nods. Tips his head towards the ocean like he's listening to something far away. His eyes skitter over the dashboard desperate and wild.

“Lotta kids shipped out of those docks the last two wars,” Hawkeye says, apropos of nothing that BJ can understand. “Lotta kids who never got to come back home.”

“Uh, yeah. Though I guess they were hard up enough for doctors that they sent me over on a plane instead.”

Hawkeye nods distractedly, knee jostling against the passenger door. He's staring out the window again.

“Hey, Beej, pull over will ya? I really need a drink.” He gestures at a bar that BJ probably wouldn't have even noticed if Hawkeye hadn't pointed it out. BJ pulls over. He could use a drink himself. He'd forgotten how – how strange and alluring and difficult Hawkeye could be.

The bar is dead this time of day. Empty except for a few older men who look like they've probably been sitting on those same bar stools for the past decade or so.

Sitting at a shadowed corner table with a bottle of bottom shelf gin and BJ can almost believe he's back in the Swamp. That no time at all has passed since Korea. Hawkeye is certainly drinking like that's true. It's almost nice, the nostalgia that's carried on gin fumes.

And Hawkeye has calmed down a little as he sits there, no longer looking like he's going to crawl out of his skin. In fact, he looks almost wistful as BJ chatters on about Peg and Erin and his life in Mill Valley. Though what part of all that it is he longs for, BJ doesn't know. He'd never expressed much interest in marriage or kids before. But maybe he's finally looking to settle down.

BJ muses on the impossibility of a settled Hawkeye while the real one heads off to the bathroom. The bar has filled up in the intervening hours and it's hard for BJ to keep track of his skinny frame and dark hair, even as tall as he is. Though Hawkeye's usual slouch has gotten even more pronounced than it was in Korea and that doesn't help matters any.

BJ wonders what exactly happened to him to change him so much. To wear Hawkeye down like he's been.

But before he can think too long on it – before he can become maudlin – Hawkeye's back at their table and putting a wad of crumpled bills down on the scarred surface. Clearly a sign that he's ready to leave.

They troop a little unsteadily out to the car.

“So, how'd you find our fair city?” BJ asks as they pull out into rush hour traffic. The had really slipped away from him in the warm dark of the bar. He'd had no idea it was so late.

“Well, I can now say I've sampled all of the bountiful pleasures that San Francisco has to offer.” Hawkeye grins bright and sharp even through the alcohol. “So what's say we blow this joint and go find some nice sandy beach somewhere? Preferably a nude one.”

BJ grins at him and turns onto the highway.

They drive past rocky coastlines and pine covered mountains. BJ thinks Hawkeye falls asleep about an hour or so in, his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window, eyes closed and face marginally more peaceful. But it's hard to tell.

At some point, though, Hawkeye jerks upright, looking around frantically, as if trying to figure out where he is.

Where they are is the vast empty farmland west of Mendota. Hawkeye spends a few miles staring out at the fields as they blur past the window. BJ leaves him to it.

In all honesty, BJ is starting to wonder if this was the best idea. Hawkeye seems scattered and distracted and manic like he was at the end of the war. Like he'd been after the bus and before he'd been committed.

Maybe BJ should have kept him in San Francisco. Called Sidney. Gotten Hawkeye some help instead of driving hundreds of miles to some unknown destination for some unknown agenda.

But they've already come this far. It would be dumb to turn around now.

“Did you know,” Hawkeye says in a voice that can barely be heard above the radio and the incessant thrum of the tires on asphalt. He clears his throat and tries again. “Did you know that during the Great Depression they used to gather all the unsold fruit and pour gasoline on it so that the starving people fleeing the Dust Bowl couldn't eat it?”

Hawkeye's staring intently at the side of BJ's face, more than wide awake. And maybe BJ spoke too soon.

“Uh, no. I had no idea.”

Hawkeye goes back to looking out the window. “I always thought that would be a terrible way to go,” he whispers so quietly, BJ isn't even sure he's talking to him.

A few miles later, they hit a town big enough to have a diner. Hawkeye's still quiet and staring, and it's past seven anyway. They may as well stop and get some dinner. Hawk hasn't really eaten anything but a handful of pretzels all day.

They both order cups of coffee and BJ watches Hawkeye add something out of a hip flask into his mug. Hawkeye obviously catches BJ looking and waggles the flask in his direction, offering. BJ holds out his own cup. This is feeling... This is feeling a little too close to Korea, all of a sudden, even though they're smack dab in the middle of California. And the liquor burns harsh and familiar down BJ's throat.

He coughs. “You make this yourself, Hawk?”

Hawkeye grins. “A guy's gotta have a hobby. And most of mine dried up after the war.”

BJ assumes he's referring to chasing nurses. He sure spent enough time at it – even if he was never all that successful.

Before BJ can get too far into asking Hawkeye about his triumphs or trials in the pursuit of the fairer sex – always sure to elicit an amusing (or steamy) anecdote – the waitress returns to take their order.

Hawkeye gets a hamburger and french fries. BJ orders a chicken sandwich and Hawkeye flinches so he orders a hamburger instead. And when the food gets there, Hawkeye devours his meal ravenously while BJ chats about Erin's recent trials with attending daycare since Peg is out of the house some days for her real estate career.

Hawkeye's obviously not one for conversation tonight, so BJ just keeps talking about his wife and his life and his beautiful, perfect, wonderful daughter. And Hawkeye sits in the booth, leg jittering against the tabletop and he tears his napkin into shreds and lets them snow down onto his empty plate. And when the waitress stops by again to top up their coffees, Hawkeye drinks about half the cup all in one go and then refills it with moonshine.

He's so alike and unlike the Hawkeye from Korea. The Hawkeye BJ knows more intimately than pretty much anyone other than his wife. And BJ can catch glimpses of that man in Hawkeye's gestures or his terrible honking laugh. But in a lot of ways he's a complete stranger. And it's difficult to sit there in the diner – in the real world – with this man that's half myth and half ghost and from a part of BJ's life that he'd honestly rather forget.

It's almost a relief to settle up and get back in the car. Hawkeye isn't asleep, BJ doesn't think. But he is quiet and still and content to just stare out the window into the empty dark.

In the car, in the dark, nothing is real. It's not like the harsh light of the diner where he can see Hawkeye. Here, BJ can pretend that nothing about what's happening is strange. He can pretend everything is normal.

But eventually it gets late enough that he's got to stop driving or he's going to fall asleep at the wheel and run them both into a ditch. BJ pulls into the first motel he comes across. And it's shabby and rundown, but a far sight better than a tent in Korea, which is where he half expects to collapse tonight, stuck as he is between past and present, waking and dreaming.

The only problem is that there's only the one bed.

BJ offers to sleep on the floor. But Hawkeye says he's being stupid and that it's not like they haven't slept together before. Which, that's stretching the truth a little. But BJ doesn't really want to sleep on the floor.

So that's how he finds himself laying in bed with Hawkeye - who's obviously still awake, BJ can see the gleam of his eyes in the dark – and feeling intensely awkward about it. It's a double bed, but they're both tall. BJ could probably fill up the bed all on his own. It's difficult to keep from touching Hawkeye - especially because if this were him and Peg, BJ would be spooning his wife, curling around her back, holding her in his arms. And BJ hasn't really slept with anyone other than her for a long time. Which is why he has to fight himself not to do the same with Hawkeye. A Hawkeye who's whispering a soft goodnight into the darkness between them.

BJ turns to face away from him and tries to go to sleep.

He wakes up to Hawkeye sitting bolt upright in bed, tears streaming down his face, absolutely dead silent as he cries.

BJ reaches a tentative hand out, lays it whisper light on Hawkeye's shoulder. “You ok, Hawk?”

Hawkeye turns his unseeing eyes to BJ, tear tracks gleaming in the moonlight filtering through the motel curtains. Blinks a few times, as if he's surprised to find BJ really there. Reaches out with a trembling hand to brush the tips of his fingers butterfly gentle against BJ's cheek.

“Beej?”

“Yeah, Hawk. I'm here.”

Hawkeye crumples forward into BJ's chest. And BJ holds him in his arms. Feels the silent sobs that wrack his skinny back.

“I dreamed that this was all a dream,” Hawkeye whispers into the join of BJ's neck. “That I'd lost you and I couldn't find you – no matter how much I looked and looked and looked.”

BJ gathers Hawkeye closer. “I'm right here, Hawkeye. And I'm not going anywhere.”

Hawkeye pulls away from BJ's arms. Looks up at him – and he looks, he looks sad and understanding and gentle. “Everyone leaves sometime, Beej. I won't hold it against you.”

And then Hawkeye's getting out of bed to go take a shower.

BJ feels strangely bereft without Hawkeye in his arms, so he busies himself getting ready to leave. It's still disgustingly early – the eastern sky just barely starting to turn pink – but it's not far to Los Angeles now. And BJ doesn't really want to spend any more time in this dingy, claustrophobic hotel room than he has to.

When they descend into Santa Monica, Hawkeye perks up from where he'd been sitting listless in the passenger seat. He practically has his head sticking out the window like Waggles does, staring out at the silvery gleam of sunlight on the ocean. Practically vibrating in his seat at the knowledge that they're getting close to the sandy beaches his heart desires.

BJ exits off of Route 5 and takes them through the wide boulevards and down to the beach.

Hawkeye grabs his arm on the steering wheel. “Look, Beej! Palm trees!”

“Yeah, Hawk. Just as advertised.” BJ smiles at Hawkeye fondly. His excitement is infectious. Buoying.

So different from his mood just a few hours earlier.

When they get to the actual beach, BJ has barely parked the car before Hawkeye's flinging himself out of it and down onto the sand. A cacophony of seagulls spirals into the sky, squawking at being disturbed by a six-foot plus lunatic sprinting towards the water.

BJ watches, amused and perplexed as Hawkeye starts throwing his clothes off with wild abandon, stripping until he's down to his skivvies, barely halting his headlong scramble towards the water. And he switches to genuine incredulity when the now mostly naked Hawkeye flings himself into the surf, struggling out past the breakers, until he's genuinely swimming in the marginally calmer water of the Pacific Ocean.

“Jesus Christ, Hawk,” BJ calls out to him from the beach. “Come back up here, you loon. You're going to get hypothermia.”

Hawkeye grins back at BJ as he floats serenely on his back, waves bobbing him gently up and down, hiding and revealing him from BJ's view. “Good thing I know a doctor then, huh Beej?”

But Hawkeye does eventually emerge from the water, shaking himself kind of dry – and splashing freezing water all over BJ's shirt. He's smiling big and genuine, and BJ thinks this whole trip was worth it just for this moment. Just to see Hawkeye look happy and unburdened and mischievous like he used to look. Like he looks in all of BJ's best memories of Korea.

BJ thinks he could stand to stick around Santa Monica a while longer. So they get Hawkeye dried off and bundled up in dry clothes and they head for a little cafe just off the beach so they can eat breakfast. By which BJ means he eats breakfast and Hawkeye drinks five cups of coffee and steals one piece of BJ's toast. But it's an improvement on yesterday morning.

And then they bum around the waterfront, stopping in at the little tourist traps, showing each other dumb knickknacks. Hawkeye discovers an especially hideous Hawaiian shirt at one of the stores - and almost talks BJ into buying it before common sense (and the thought of Peg's reaction) prevail. Hawkeye pouts, but grudgingly admits that a shirt covered in scantily clad hula girls might not be the best thing to bring home to one's wife. Though it's not like he knows what wives do or don't like, Beej, honestly. And BJ supposes that's true enough.

Eventually, it gets to be late enough in the day that other, far more sane people start gathering on the beach to swim or sunbathe or whatever. And Hawkeye takes this as his cue to drag BJ back to the sun and sand and palm trees he's so obsessed with. BJ goes willingly enough, truth be told – Hawkeye's led him far more terrible places than the Santa Monica public beach.

And it's nice to laze around in the sunshine with Hawkeye reading next to him, shaded by the parasol he'd brought along in his ratty army duffel. Honestly, BJ's heartened by the fact that Hawkeye planned this trip out well enough to bring things like swim trunks and sun block and a truly terrible pair of Groucho glasses instead of sunglasses. It makes all of this feel more like a prank and less like Hawkeye's unraveling again.

It makes BJ almost happy to remember all the trouble they used to get up to. Makes him able to tell stories back and forth with Hawkeye, able to quibble about the details when one of them insists the other had been responsible for whatever part of their prank had gone wrong. Hell, they even reminisce about Charles, and that's someone BJ had been more than happy to never think about again.

Anyway, it's all really nice. A nice vacation from the real world.

But that's all it is. All it can ever be. Because he's got a wife and a kid and a life waiting back for him in San Francisco. And Hawkeye's probably got a half dozen girls waiting by the phone for him to call.

“C'mon, Hawk.” BJ claps his hands brusquely and stands. “We should probably start heading home if we want to get in by dinner time.”

Hawkeye looks up at him from behind those stupid, stupid glasses. And it's hard to tell, but he might just look as conflicted about leaving as BJ feels.

“Yeah, ok, Beej.” Hawkeye stands and brushes sand off of his trunks. Starts putting away his beach towel and umbrella. Knocks against BJ's shoulder, a friendly little nudge. “This sure was fun while it lasted, though. Kinda wish we could've stayed here forever.”

BJ nudges him back. Gets him moving in the direction of the car. “You can always come back again.”

Hawkeye smiles sadly. “It wouldn't be the same.”

And then they pile into the car to head back to San Francisco. Hawkeye stares out the window again, curled up against the passenger door. Obviously not feeling like talking any more. So BJ just concentrates on navigating the way home.

The drive goes much faster this time, probably because they don't stop anywhere. And because BJ's a little lost in thought. Seeing Hawkeye again has brought up a lot of memories he'd done his best to bury when he went home to Peg and Erin and real life. The station wagon's bench seats feel full of ghosts.

None more haunting than Hawkeye Pierce – famed in song and story – a half buried memory of the worst parts of BJ's life. And currently curled up in the front seat of BJ's car like the remnant of a terrible, wonderful dream. So he's got a lot to think about.

It's no wonder BJ startles when Hawkeye brings a gentle hand to his shoulder. They're home. And they've apparently been sitting in the driveway for a while if Hawkeye's teasing, “Nice of you to join us, Beej,” is any indication.

“Sorry, Hawk. Lost in thought.”

“Well, don't hurt yourself.” Hawkeye smiles bright and warm. Like the sun.

And then they're both turning sideways to face one another. Hawkeye's hand is still on BJ's shoulder, light but so, so heavy.

And then Hawkeye kisses him. Sweet and chaste and far too brief.

And BJ wants to cry at how right it feels. How much of a culmination of their entire tumultuous friendship it feels.

At how much it feels like goodbye.

“C'mon, Beej. Let's get you home.”

Hawkeye claps BJ with the hand on his shoulder, brusque and friendly. And Peg's standing on the front porch, waiting for him. And Hawkeye's got a Greyhound ticket back to Maine in his pocket.

They leave the car and head into the house.

[sloppy-butcher]

Can you do C E J K L X for Trapper? :)

yes. i am still answering these. i apologize for the wait, these past few days have been rough but i am finally working through the block. thank you for the ask and i hope these are good enough for you and imm sorry for the wait <3

;;edit, pls no more fluffy alphabet requests, thank you :)

Fluffy Alphabet for The Trapper (Evan Macmillan)

Comfort - How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?

It may take a while for him to notice you suffering over there in the corner, his head so far lost in his own thoughts that all the world around him was a passing blur. But once he does, when your soft whimpering breaches his overcrowded ears, Evan would immediately call you over. He’d grunt softly, his gruff voice shattering the nights silent air and causing you to raise your head and cast your troubled eyes over him. Evan curses himself for not noticing earlier.

A large, scarred hand stretches out and welcomes you to join. Once you manage to curl up beside him, Evan pulls you even closer, his big arm acting as a makeshift scoop and firmly secures you to his side. He would use his massive body as a shield of sorts to protect you from yourself and the cruel outside world. Though words are not exchanged, your true feelings never really given verbal expression, your anxieties begin to die and burn away from the heat of Evan’s body.

He uses his size to comfort you and his intimacy to project his support for your plea. He is there to guard you, maybe not to talk, but to stay with you until it eventually passes.

Equal - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

He would be the dominant one. 100%. Though he is not one to verbally command you, it is through side ward looks and scowls that he gets his point across. He folds his arms and looks down at you, the brow behind his mask furrowed in annoyance. 

He determines when it is a good time to cuddle, when to smooch him, how hard or how gentle. It’s not the he doesn't enjoy your affections, it’s just that he is very busy man and must plan his time accordingly. As much as he loves to indulge in your love, he must keep up the hard work lest his boss catch wind and take you away. 

You can try be a brat to him, stomp your feet and complain about the lack of cuddles. But that little act won’t get you too far with a man who can just pick you up as if you weigh nothing and sling you over his unharmed shoulder. It would be like trying to fight a brick wall - impossible. 

Jealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

Oh yes - very much so. He gets jealous at even a mere look from another survivor or killer. Though he does not show it, Evan is a very possessive man, guarding his things with the politeness of a viper in a gentleman’s suit. he holds his tongue and steads his hand but his eyes say it all.

You are his and his alone. If you are so interested in other then leave and don’t involve him. But as long as you claim to love him, giving him your body and soul, then he will protect you and possess you like he did with everything else valuable in his life. 

He glowers at passerbys, he spits at idle talkers and he flexes his biceps threateningly at lingerers. He towers behind you like great storm, rolling in power and violence. You could ask him why he acted like such a child but you would get no response from him. This was not a talking matter - things like these have to be demonstrated. And so they shall. 

How Evan internally deals with this growing lump of jealousy is he sits alone and thinks - more like contemplates. he ponders away and has bountiful ‘shower-conversations’ in his head. Sure acting this way would make him perceive to be an asshole but to hell with what others think. He would die before he’d ask someone to step down. 

Kiss - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

In the beginning, no way. The man has had little to no practice at all and is completely lost when you first approach him with a smooch. He’s dead stiff and his eyes remain open as if afraid you are pulling some kind of cruel trick on him or that you might disappear in disappointment. His lips are chapped and many times when you have pulled away you find blood on your lips and can taste copper in your mouth. He apologizes for his appearance and asks why you would even wish to be so intimate with such a monster. You reassure him by placing your hand on his cheek and pressing your forehead to his, “Because I love you, Evan.”

However, with enough practice, he softens and succumbs to your encouragement. Once he eases into kissing Evan becomes very demanding and can go quite a long time without breathing. His tongue is also very powerful and is often very hungry. When he gets like this, Evan will cup the back of your head in his big hands and will provide you with extra support as he deepens the kiss, leaning into you with great, needy force. His tongue is unstoppable as his hunger for your love grows.

The first kiss is most definitely awkward and quick, a dream of a kiss that goes by too fast for it to be properly appreciated. You catch him working at his bench, his hands preoccupied with his copious amounts of bear-traps and spare parts. You wander in beside him, casting an eye over his shoulder and noting all the new cuts and bruises on his fingers. You sigh and lean into him. Evan immediately bends to your presence, sighing in his own way and relinquishing some of his attention to you.

Oh, how wonderful you are to him. So kind and forgiving, beautiful as the sun he never sees anymore. Evan moves closer to your warmth, allowing himself to momentarily bask in your love. As his face moves towards yours, an idea sparks and before he could full asses the pros and cons of such a venture, he smashes into your lips. Keep in mind, he was still wearing his mask and when he pulled away, Evan saw blood leaking from small cuts along your lip line. Evan feels unspeakably shameful for hurting you with his neediness. You smile and gently guide his face back to yours. You promise to kiss him more if he takes his mask off next time.

Love Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?

If Evan could go his whole life without admitting he had feelings for you, then he would gladly do so. He has buried many a things deep in his heart, tucking them away under rugs and behind paintings where they would never see the light of day again. Yeah, sometimes the burden of these suppressed emotions would eat away at his soul always leaving him feeling just that bit emptier and hollow. 

He supposed he could just bury his love for you the same way he buried everything else, but that bitch had claws and an iron grasp - he simply could not run away from his feelings towards you.

So one night, when the build-up in his chest grew too painful to hush over, Evan stops you as you try to leave. It was late and you were saying your goodbyes when you notice his hesitation. He remained stoic, his face an impossible book of unimaginable rumination. He shuffles awkwardly for moment before managing to choke out a single phrase.

“Stay.”

In that simple word you feel his true intentions, his complete and restrained desperation to not be alone. You see his hand twitch towards you and you understand his silent plea. You nod your agreement and nothing more is said. 

XOXO - Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle? 

Most days, not really. Like previously explained, Evan is a man of routine and most of is work days have no spare time for excessive cuddling and the such.

However, he is ALWAYS craving your touch. 

When the odd off-day arrives, Evan wastes no time in scooping you up in his large, beefy arms and taking out his frustrations on you. He holds you against his hot body relentlessly, often pressing his chin into the side of your neck and breathing down your side. he kisses you without hesitation and goes wild even your return his affections. He is selfish during these moments and can hold you for hours on end, content just to be with someone who loves him. 

[supraveng]

Silence - part 2

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader, Tony Stark x waitress

Words: 1550

Warning: angst, cheating Tony, sad angry reader

Sequel to Silence 

A/N: I wanted more angst but with a happy ending, hope you like it

@photography-to-all​ @ just-dreaming-marvel-2 @ winchester-wifey  @ justa-traaash  @ vesta-ro   @ mostly-marvel-musings

The weekend flew by in a blur and before you knew it, it was Monday morning and you were back at the Tower, debating with yourself if you should head into work like every other day or request an immediate leave of absence.  The med bay could run without you for a few weeks til you figured out what the hell you were going to do next.  But that wasn’t you!  

You worked too damn hard in your career to run away from a job you loved.   Walking through the lobby and heading to the elevators, you were pleasantly surprised that FRIDAY took you straight to med bay just like every other day for the past 2 years.  You breathed a sigh of relief as you exited the elevator and headed toward your office, but that relief was abruptly shattered when you walked in to find Tony waiting for you.  

“You’re here” he whispered, almost as if he wasn’t sure you were real.   That’s when your anger resurfaced and you just couldn’t hold back.

“Last I checked I still work here” you raised your eyebrows at him “but then again, I’m kept in the dark around here more than i realized, so maybe I should check with HR?”

“No, no, you are still the head of medical, nothing has changed” he stated, trying to reassure you.  “Can we talk?”

“I know I can, can you?” you fumed.   “Last I checked, you didn’t answer my questions, so I’m not sure what I could possibly talk to you about”

“I deserved that, and you deserve an explanation” he countered and motioned for you to join him at the small table in your office.  

You reluctantly sit across from him at the table and stare into this beautiful brown eyes.   He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, which worried you, but you couldn’t let your emotions show.   You needed to protect yourself.  

“Ok, I know the waitress at the restaurant. We met two months ago” he cleared his throat as he continued.  “She approached me, stating she had information I would not want to get leaked to the press” his eyes met mine and he looked so ashamed that I wanted to hug him but I had to stand my ground.  “Her name is Samantha, but I call her Sam” he states and that’s when it hits you.   He’s been meeting with Sam regularly in the last few months, even texting at all times of the day, but you assumed it was Wilson. 

“So do you call her Sam so that I wouldn’t question you further or did she ask you to call her that?” you almost snarl at him.  

“That is the name she asked me to call her, I had no intention of keeping this a secret from you, but I didn’t know how to tell you what was going on and I needed to figure things out first” he defended but you just scoffed.

“Figure things out?  You and I have been together for over a year, we’ve been living together for months, what is there to figure out?  You found someone prettier and younger so you made your choice.  The interaction at the restaurant certainly didn’t look like someone trying to blackmail you, so don’t insult me with that excuse.”  you were fuming now, feeling like he was trying to weasel his way out of this with more lies was infuriating.  

“No, that’s not it!  Please let me explain” he begged

All you could do was roll your eyes in a huff as you sat back in your chair.  Arms crossed you gestured him to continue.

“I asked Happy to do a thorough background check on her before agreeing to meet with her.  That took a few days because I wanted to know everything about her and the possibility of what she might have before making contact.   You have to understand, these types of threats happen all the time, but there was something about her that was different.  She knew things that no one knows”  he told you earnestly. 

“Great more lies!” you replied sarcastically “how many skeletons are in that closet of yours anyway?”  

“Honey please…” but you cut him off. 

“Don’t call me that, right now, I am not your honey or sweetie.  I am only your employee and I’m trying to get an answer to my question I asked you 3 days ago, but just getting more excuses” sighing you were about to leave the room.   This was too much, you knew now that he’s been lying and why stop there, he had an entire weekend to orchestrate this new web of deceit.  

“I’m sorry, I know you want to know how I know her, and I’m trying to tell you and make you understand this mess I’ve made and why it happened” he hung his head breathing deeply before looking up again.

“Happy found out a lot about her, the most important part being that I knew her mother ages ago, so any incriminating evidence she might have on me could be legitimate”

“Ok, so you were scared?  I get that, I do.  But we are a team Tony, at least I thought we were, but hiding anything from me, it just makes me wonder if you are as committed to me as I am to you.   And for obvious reasons”  you choke out.  Trying to remain strong and brave while your heart was breaking became impossible. 

“I know, and I’m sorry, I love you” he whispered

Shaking your head at him “So what is the big news?  There’s obviously something more than knowing her mother” 

“There is, I agreed to meet with her, so I invited her here to the tower for dinner” he stated looking at you cautiously 

“What? When?” you were confused as how this woman had come here, to your home, right under your nose and you had no idea.

“When you went to visit your sister”

“Oh……..so i’m out of town visiting my sister in the hospital and you decided that was a good time to bring her here, to our home?” you question

“It’s not like that, I wasn’t sneaking around, it just happened to be a coincidence” he sighed.  At this point you could cut the tension in the room with a spoon.  He was trying his best to remain that perfect facade he has created for himself, while your world is crumbling around you with nowhere to go.  

You took a deep breath “Ok, then tell me.  Tell me what’s going on”

“She came for dinner and we chatted for a few minutes before I had to ask her why she contacted me.  That’s when she pulled out a file full of papers and handed them to me” It wasn’t until he was sliding the folder across the table to me that you realized all of your questions had been sitting there in front of you this whole time. Your hands were shaking when you opened the folder, sifting through the documents you looked at Tony with tears in your eyes.  

“Why have you been hiding this from me for 2 months?” you asked

“I honestly don’t know, I’ve never been so scared of anything in my life.  This was not what I was expecting.   But I honestly didn’t know what to expect.  What I do know is that you are the love of my life and I don’t want stupid shit I did 25 years ago to ruin us.    But apparently I did that all on my own.”  he responds as he reaches out and takes your hand in his.  

“I’m not mad but I’m hurt that you kept this from me, you obviously don’t trust me” you sniffle as you look up at him.

“That’s not true, I trust you with my life and I know I should have told you.  I was trying to figure out how and then she was at the restaurant, I didn’t know she worked there, I was in shock that we ran into her and I was a little worried that she might say something.  I spent the whole way home trying to decide how to explain to you who she was and before I could even open my mouth you were gone.  I was worried about you so I sent Happy to go get you and bring you back so I can explain but you didn’t come back.   I called you all weekend, I left probably 50 voicemails telling you I was sorry and needed to explain.  I didn’t expect to see you here today and I’m so glad you are here, I missed you so much.   And I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you” he tells you with tears streaming down his face.

“We need to do something else first, this file is missing an important piece of information” you tell him while taking deep breaths trying to calm yourself.  

“I know, and the only reason it’s not there is because you are the only person I trust to do this” he tells you with a sad smile.

“Well, then, we should fix that.   Call Sam and invite her over.  Let’s find out if she really is your daughter” you smile back

[welllpthisishappening]

But Once a Year (5/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: 10K — canon had to catch up, and stuff had to happen, and happily ever after requires some adjectives AN: Guys! This is a completed story! One I had absolutely no intention whatsoever of writing. For that am even more grateful than usual that you all clicked and read and said very nice things. It’s always an absolute joy to write about these two idiots falling in love. I hope your holidays were fantastic, and January is very kind to you, and I am taking suggestions as to what I should write in 2021. (Or: if I should just post a bunch of fic I’ve already written, there’s so much fic already written)

Ao3 links in the reblog, because Tumblr’s tagging system is something of a colossal joke. 

————

She’s got no idea where Killian went.

Especially impressive since they haven’t left the house yet, but the house is also fairly massive and there are a lot of people and some of them have magic, and most of them have weapons, and one of Emma’s knees cracks when she crouches in front of Hope.

Who is wearing pajamas that match Lucy’s, and holding a stuffed animal whose right arm appears to be holding on by a quite literal thread, and has absolutely no idea what’s going on.

It’s a strangely positive thing.

“You’re going to be ok,” Emma tells her daughter, which she hopes isn’t the lie it feels like. “Everything’s going to be ok. We’re just—we’ll be back soon, alright?” That’s not really a lie, either. Depending on how the next ten minutes or so, go. And part of Emma expects impatience — from the other adults nearby, magical or otherwise, but a quick glance over her shoulder only shows Mary Margaret wiping away tears, and Regina’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth, and the overall tightness of David’s jaw cannot possibly good for any of his teeth.

Taking a deep breath is an exceptional challenge.

“For presents?” Hope asks, and it takes Emma a moment to understand the question. Nodding hurts her neck. And, like, her heart.

No one turns off their Christmas tree in this future, it seems. Colors splash across one of Hope’s cheeks, what feels like several thousand emotions and at least a dozen internal organs twisting in Emma’s center and she barely manages to rasp out, “yeah, of course,” before there’s moisture in her eyes and her vision is going blurry and at the very least it’s comforting to know that one of the steps in her parent’s house creaks too.

“Emma,” Regina murmurs, and she’s nodding again. Hair brushes the hand that’s landed on her shoulder, as warm as ever, but there’s tension in the move as well and Killian’s lips don’t shift when Emma tilts her head up.

Something’s going on. More than the obvious. And she wants to ask, she does — but the worry churning in her gut moves to the center of her throat, and makes it impossible to voice questions or demand anything more than what he’s already given, and they’ve got no idea how to get her back. Except for—

Killian’s eyebrows lift. Ever so slightly, barely enough movement that it should even count, but Emma’s become something of an expert on his face in the last few days, and she can’t blink away the tears fast enough. Mourning something that’s happened and hasn’t, and absolutely needs to.

She can’t ruin this.

Plastering a wholly unnatural smile on her face, Ruby lets out a huff of air as she marches forward and scoops Hope into her arms. “For presents,” she repeats, “Mom wouldn’t miss that, would she?” Emma shakes her head. Seriously, every inch of her aches. With those pesky emotions and magic, and she cannot fathom how she manages to stand back up without falling over, but then there are fingers tangled up with hers and she’s brushing strands of hair away from Hope’s eyes, and leaning forward to kiss the bridge of her nose and—

“I love you.”

Whispers flood her ears, soft enough that for a second Emma truly believes she imagines them, but none of this has been the dream she’d convinced herself it had to be, and the sound isn’t as terrifying as it should be. Is like the excitement borne of picturesque Christmas mornings, and a ridiculous number of cookies, and magically-maintained snowmen.

Killian’s eyes widen, ever so slightly. Part two.

“Dor and I’ll stay here,” Ruby says, seemingly unconcerned with whatever’s happening between Emma’s ears, but Killian’s staring again and Emma’s barely breathing and she probably nods if the movement of her hair is any indication.

More instructions are doled out, plans Emma only half listens to while also trying to stay conscious and it’s only after the screen door slams behind them that she realize she doesn’t actually have a weapon. She’s fairly certain she won’t need it.

Because she’s absolutely positive this is going to work.

Well, she hopes at least.

“Don’t let go, ok?” she mumbles, mostly into Killian’s shirt and he kisses her hair. More than once, like he’s trying to reach a quota and that’s only kind of depressing, but then there’s magic stretching around them and inching up the back of Emma’s calves and she hopes she hears what she thinks she hears.

When he mutters “never” in her ear.

If there were any doubts that they were dealing with the disintegrating fabric of reality, they’re all immediately dismissed as soon as Emma opens her eyes. Trees bend in the middle of their trunks, broken branches littering the ground as what feels like genuine electricity crackles in the air, sending sparks that occasionally rain down like they believe they’re drops of water and allowed to do that.

Clouds that look suspiciously familiar, but lack that hint of magically-induced purple, blot out any sort of light in the sky. They’re puffier than they should be — the clouds, and also Emma’s eyes because she might be crying again, and she’s not particularly knowledgeable about meteorology. Still, she’s seen more than one curse broken and this isn’t quite the same. The lack of color dries out her mouth, although that may also be because she suddenly can’t catch her breath.

Magic tugs at her brain and her muscles, rising up in defense and something that isn’t really bravery. More like fear, at what the clouds can do and what they’ve already done, and the soft whoosh of Killian’s sword leaving its scabbard is far more comforting than it should be.

Wearing those pants with the sword belt is something Emma doesn’t want to forget. “Kinda looks like they’re eating everything in their way, doesn’t it?” she breathes. “Like, it’s—pulling everything up out of the ground, wrecking it at the foundation.”

“Not exactly ideal, is it?”

“You’re making jokes.” “If I don’t know, I’m fairly certain I’ll fall over.”

Scoffing, Emma licks her lips, and that doesn’t do anything except momentarily wet her lips, but her heart’s also trying to explode and the pop of Regina’s teleporting ability is loud enough to make both of them flinch.

“Oh shit,” Henry mutters, wielding his own sword. Both of those things are going to take Emma some time to get used to. Which she doesn’t have.

Not when tiny whirlwinds explode around her ankles, caking her jeans with leaves and dirt-filled snow, and she briefly wonders if that’s because of her or just bad timing on their arrival. Feels like an insult all the same.

“So, uh,” David says slowly, “what do we do about this, then?” Rolling her whole head seems like an entirely excessive response, but Emma supposes Regina’s never been one for subtlety and it is still kind of impressive when she does the flame thing. Fire jumps between her fingers, like one of those bouncing balls on sing-along VHS tapes, and really the answer is pretty simple. “Emma needs to leave. Weeks ago, if we’re being frank, but—” “—We’re not being frank, are we, Your Majesty?” Killian interrupts, low and a little more pirate than he’s been since Emma woke up here. Regina tilts her head. Her neck muscles don’t appear to be dealing with the same limitations Emma’s are.

“How do we do that, though?” Ella asks. “We’ve—I mean, we’ve tried just about everything haven’t we? Zelena’s spell didn’t work.” Regina hums. Looks a little smug, but with a hint of worry that’s also oddly comforting in a slightly vindictive way and there’s no warning before Tinker Bell appears in front of them. Smaller than usual, with wings that move as quickly as a hummingbirds and Emma’s eyes widen so quickly they manage to water even more and it’s easier to hear Killian’s soft laugh when he pulls her against his side.

What looks like sparkles, but may actually be pixie dust floats in the air, Regina’s sigh of impatience barely passing her lips before Tinker Bell is a full-sized person again and that full-sized person looks as terrified as the situation demands and— “Wonderland’s gone too,” she announces. “I only just got out.” Emma’s eyes are going to fall out of her face. It will be gross and undoubtedly uncomfortable. “Out. What does—what does that mean, exactly?” “What it sounds like. It was—” Shuddering, Tinker Bell wraps both arms around her middle, as if she’s trying to ensure she doesn’t fall apart either, and guilt appears to be the prevailing emotion threatening to sever Emma’s spleen at the moment. She’s only partially confident as to where her spleen even is. “Those,” Tinker Bell continues, pointing up at the clouds advancing on them, “they’re…cannibalized versions of magic.” “Oh,” Henry says, “gross.” Mary Margaret sniffles before she kisses him on the cheek. He’s holding Ella’s hand very tightly.

“It is,” Tinker Bell agrees, “because it’s all wrong. Broken, even. The opposite of what you’ve created here. Anything unified is gone, shattered from the inside out and—” “—That won’t stop, will it?” Emma asks, already knowing the answer. It’s been the same since the start, but it was so easy to fall into this start and live this life and she’s hardly noticed Regina. Lifting her hands towards the clouds like she could fight them, or stop them and her electricity metaphor had been almost accurate before.

Lightning explodes from Regina’s palms, feet a bit wider than usual while a muscle jumps in her temple, and the first brush of Killian’s thumb against Emma’s wrist makes her flinch again.

The clouds pause. For a moment.

Seem to shudder against the force of Regina’s power and strength, but there’s another crack and a branch that slams into the ground with an alarming speed, shaking the ground under yet a different pair of Emma’s boots, and, well—

That’s that, as they say.

Only they don’t ever mention the shadow-type vines that also explode from the ground. And for a breath, Emma’s not there. She’s sitting on different ground, in an entirely different realm, while her sword half hangs from the makeshift belt on her back and lights dance in front of her eyes. Blinking doesn’t do anything. Breathing heavily only makes the sound echo in her ears and air heave out of her lungs, and Emma can’t get her bearings. Is being twisted and torn until she’s certain she’ll be ripped apart. Right there, in the in-between, and—

No.

Giving in isn’t an option. She’s got people to save, and a kid to get back and a life to live. And the hand squeezing hers is tight enough to pull her back from a variety of edges. In any version of reality, she’s sure.

Head falling forward, Emma slams into something solid and that’s probably not another metaphor. Blades flash at the edge of her vision, both David and Henry moving quicker than she’s ever seen, while Mary Margaret slings arrow after arrow at something that isn’t entirely substantial and Killian’s hook moves under Emma’s chin.

At one point she might have thought that was a threat. She’s the world’s biggest idiot, obviously.

“No,” Tinker Bell replies, far later than is conversationally acceptable, honestly. “It won’t. Nothing will last if you don’t go back, Emma. It all hinges on you. That’s why Pan did this in the first place. He knew what you meant, to the whole world.” She groans. Like a goddamn hero.

“That might be a little heavy, Tink,” Killian mutters, and Emma makes another noise. Disbelief and charmed and wholly endeared, plus that other thing that she knows will make all the difference and at least eight of her knuckles crack. When she curls them into his shirt.

Patterned, naturally.

“Are you quoting things?” He nods. “You think it’s very cute.” “I’m not sure you could ever really be cute.”

“Is this honestly happening right now?” Regina snarls, sweat dotting her brow and Emma barely notices. Can’t really pull her eyes away from Killian when he’s smirking at her like that. “Flirting at the end of the world?” “Seems as good a time as any, doesn’t it?” Emma challenges. More pixie dust falls on the forest floor, shining brightly for a few prolonged seconds. That’s something of a confidence boost.

For Emma. And her feelings. And her plan, half-cocked as it may be.

“Expand on that for me,” Killian grins.

Keeping her head lifted is one of Emma’s more major successes. At least recently, and while her muscles don’t entirely appreciate it, the jut of her chin makes it easier for Killian’s fingers to ghost over the edge of her mouth and push into her hair and—

“Your eyelashes are unnaturally long,” she says, and the grin widens. “It drives me nuts.” “Does it just?” “Yeah, from like—the get, really. At first I thought it was a fairytale thing, y’know…have to be painfully attractive to be part of the story, but—” “—You end up in the book eventually.”

Heart explosion is not nearly as painful as Emma assumed it would be. If anything, it just makes her feel like she’s floating a bit and her magic gives her a buoyancy that leaves her lighter and softer and she turns into the palm cupping her cheek. “Spoilers,” she chides. “What do you—what do you think happens?” “When you go back, you mean?” Emma nods. Doesn’t really want the answer. Might actually be terrified of the answer, because the timeline is as knotted as it’s ever been and time travel is way more trouble than it’s worth. She’ll probably kick Peter Pan too, just to cover all her bases. “Will you,” she whispers, and holding Killian’s gaze is something of a rather disappointing miracle, “will you all—” “—I don’t think so.” “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

One side of his mouth tilts up, eyeing her with passing amusement and that other emotion and his fingers trail towards the chain hanging around her neck. “Between the vaguely twisted compliments and the actual insults, I’m not entirely sure this is going to work, love.” “What isn’t going to work?” Henry asks sharply, swinging his sword through a shadow.

Grunting, one of Regina’s knees buckles as she continues to fight against the cloud and Ella’s back pressed against hers only just manages to keep her standing. “Get on with it, already,” she hisses. “Or at least try it.”

Nerves explode under Emma’s skin, racing up her arms and threatening to drown out the magic that’s as strong as it’s ever been because the magic is clearly smarter than her, and it’s unreasonable to think she’d be able to deal with that exact shade of blue in Killian’s eyes.

“You make sure I’m alright.”

He blinks. Fair, honestly. Words keep tumbling out of Emma without much thought, but she needs him to know this and this might be the crux of everything else and she’s nodding again. “Over and over,” she continues, “when we’re on the Jolly, and I’m—” “—In the crew’s quarters doing pull-ups.” “You remember that?”

“I’m rather attracted to you, you know that right?”

Laughing with tears in her eyes is as patently absurd as it is nice, and the shadows inch closer. “Could probably do with some reminding every now and then,” Emma admits, “but I, uh—that’s what happened before, too. Sitting outside the Echo Caves and you were supposed to be asleep. Showed up anyway, to make sure I was alright. You always do that.” “Something of a habit.” “So you’ve mentioned.” Humming, there’s not really any way for Killian to get closer to her, but he certainly tries and Emma hopes she doesn’t forget that either. She’s not entirely sure how her memories will deal with everything they’ve been through in the last few weeks. And, like—her life, but that sounds kind of melodramatic. “You don’t need me to take care of you,” Killian says softly, “but it’s—making sure you’re alright is like…making sure we’re following the right course.” “Am I the star in this analogy?” “Several times over,” he replies, “and it’s easy to follow.” “Oh, what was that about backhanded insults?”

Warm air brushes her face when he exhales, nosing at the tear stains her over-abundant emotions have left behind. “I have no idea what will happen,” Killian whispers, as if he’s speaking only for Emma and she supposes that’s at least partially true. “I doubt we’ll disappear, not when it appears time’s much less of a straight line than I originally anticipated, but Her Majesty was right. Nothing’s set in stone, love. That’s half the fun.” “Sounds like a hell of a gamble too.” “Aye, but you’ve also got a pirate who’s rather willing to cheat on your behalf.” “Did you use weighted dice?” He kisses her hair. The edges of her eyes. Down the bridge of her nose and just above her mouth, which is really a very cruel tease, but if they were running out of time earlier, then they’re operating on borrowed minutes now, and Emma’s calves almost audibly object when she pushes up on her toes.

“Just sleight of hand,” he says, “it’s very impressive, I know.” “Something like that, yeah.” “This wasn’t fair to you, Swan. To—to be thrown into this, and I can’t…”

Shaking her head, she’s never actually let go of his shirt, so Emma doesn’t have an excuse for how much her fingers tremble. “No, no, no, if you apologize I will step on your foot, I swear to any God you can come up with.” “Several, actually.” “Nerd,” she insults, and it’s as far away from that as it’s possible for a four-letter word to be. Killian’s eyes have gone glossy. “This wasn’t what he thought it’d be. Pan, I mean. He—he thought he’d take me off the board, keep me locked here because I’d be so tempted to stay and I—” A tree branch falls dangerously close to her right foot. “Well, obviously I was, but…” “But?” Emma presses her lips together. Ignores the ache in her legs and the area directly around her heart, taking more pleasure than she should in the overall circumference of Killian’s eyes while her magic practically sings. Soars out of her, until the ends of her hair light and the shadows don’t retreat, but they freeze for a second and that’s all she really needs. “Seeing it all,” Emma starts, “living it, that’s why I can go back. Because I want to live it. No cheating, no advancing to Go. God, fuck—am I really making Monopoly jokes right now?”

He beams. Stares at her like she’s that star, and a few other constellations for good measure. Possibly the Sun too, but Emma’s the one who’s all too willing to orbit around the whole lot of them, and she kisses him before she can think better of it.

“You make sure I’m alright,” she repeats, “ten-thousand times over, until I end up here. And it’s just not better, babe, it’s—it’s a life, a real one. The kind I used to think was some great, big joke, but that house is so big and our kids are so good, and it’s—” Killian wipes away the tears. For the best, really. Since Emma isn’t entirely sure she can unclench her fingers. “I love it,” she breathes, “I love—”

In any other situation, she’d almost resent being interrupted. As it is, being interrupted with the press of Killian’s mouth against hers is one of the better things that’s happened to her. Like, ever. And she’s already pressed up on her toes, so really the whole thing is pretty practical.

Tilting her head, Emma’s grip threatens to rip his shirt and her spine isn’t all that pleased at the arch she’s put it in, but his hand is flat against her back, the kind of steady presence she’s sure she could build everything around. They’ve gotten better at this, she thinks — less frenzied than it was in Neverland, but somehow even better, like they’re sitting on simmer, a low heat that simply exists and isn’t as overwhelming. She’s not sweating, at least. She’s wrapped in cashmere blankets, and comfort and some other word that starts with ‘c’ because Emma’s ability to linger on the alliterative in times of heightened feeling is actually pretty impressive.

At least until Killian’s tongue swipes the seam of her mouth, and they drift a hint closer to frenzied, and somewhere in the realm of desperate and she genuinely does not notice the first band of light.

Or the second, quite frankly.

It isn’t until the colors arch over them, and several people gasp, that Emma realizes they’ve done something fairly tremendous. Beams of glistening magic curl around them, some hanging from the bend of Emma’s elbow and the curve of Killian’s hook, draping either one of their shoulders and falling off the sleeves of their respective leather jackets.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes, fully expecting Killian’s smile and hoping for his laugh and she’s done more hoping now than she has in the first twenty-nine years of her life.

Henry clicks his tongue. “Oh you can say it, huh?” “I’m your mom, that’s how it works.” More laughter, as out of place as ever, but the light doesn’t disappear immediately and Killian’s jaw has gone slack. “Has that not happened before, then?” Emma asks him.

“You called me babe.” Regina groans again. Henry snickers, ducking his head into Ella’s shoulder, and Emma’s not sure what her parents do, but her mom is definitely crying and she’s crying and there’s something shimmering on the other side of Tinker Bell.

“Told you it’d work,” she says with a knowing smile. “She just needed to get there. And, y’know, be willing to walk away. Which doesn’t sound as romantic as it is, now that I think about it, but might be kind of in the spirit of Christmas.”

Killian rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” Emma nods, “that’s—” She cuts herself off that time, Killian’s fingers lacing through hers so he can give her hand three quick squeezes and that number was probably random. Maybe. True Love’s goddamn Kiss.

“Falling in love with you probably isn’t very easy, is it?”

The tears fall. Drop from the corners of his eyes onto cheeks, one of which has a scar on it and Emma wants to know how that happened. Wants to learn every single thing about him, and them and collective pronouns don’t quite terrify her anymore.

“Not always,” Killian agrees, another strange way of doing it, “but I do always think it’s worth it. For everything we get.” “This?” He nods. “And then some. Because you’re the single most stubborn lass I know, and Pan’s an absolute fool.” “Call me lass again, and see if I kiss you anymore.” “I’m almost confident on that front.”

Smiling doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t affect the muscles in her face, or the overall state of her heart, and that may have something to do with its exploding tendencies from earlier, but Emma’s eyes keep flickering towards that portal and everything ahead of her, and the wave of determination that crests her consciousness doesn’t take her by surprise.

She’s going to get this all back.

Like a Christmas present, waiting under the tree to be opened, and another promise and Killian squeezes her hand again. Before kissing her once more, in a way that doesn’t feel like a farewell, but has a hint of promise and expectation and Emma hugs Henry. And her parents. Glances at Regina, and goddamn Tinker Bell, and hugging Henry again simply makes sense. “Come save me, huh?” he murmurs into her hair. “That’s the plan,” Emma promises. Twisting her neck, Killian’s not more than an inch behind her, but the shadows threaten again, making it difficult to see him and eventually she’ll argue that’s why she doesn’t entirely notice when his hand moves, darting towards her pocket and back so quickly it’s not much more than a blur, and her lips barely brush his before they’re pulling away from each other.

To get back to each other.

“I’m going to love you an absolutely ridiculous amount,” Emma promises, and Killian’s eyes brighten. Brand themselves on all those memories, and even more feelings. “More than I do now, even.” “I look forward to it.”

Bumping her chin against her chest when she nods, Emma’s next inhale is shaky at best, but her steps are sure and she doesn’t feel anything when she falls backwards, or notice the way Regina’s hand shifts ever so slightly.

Her feet slam into the ground. Ground that hasn’t exploded with glowing, vaguely evil plants yet and that’s all it takes to set her plan into motion. He hadn’t remembered, after all. And Emma can only sort of remember now.

Smoke on the water, her thoughts drift through a haze that’s far more metaphorical than she entirely appreciates, and she makes it all of eight larger-than-usual steps before those same feet land on boots and she barely stops herself before she collides with Killian.

A Killian who looks at her like he’s surprised to find her there, but not entirely opposed to it, and whatever thoughts continue to cling to the forefront of Emma’s brain know what else he wouldn’t be entirely opposed to, and that’s not bad, might even be good and great and she can’t remember why her lips feel like they’re tingling. That’s—

Strange, that’s strange. As is the number of times she blinks, and his hook flies to her waist. To keep her steady. Or something. Magnets, maybe. “Swan, are you—” “—Fine, fine,” she breathes, only just able to keep from kissing him. Hard. His lips part slightly when she keeps staring at him, eyes tracing across his face like she’s recommitting it to memory, and she supposes she is, and he was coming to find her. All over again. “You’re here though, right? This isn’t…this is real?” Hair threatens to fall into his eyes, head at an angle that Emma is sure simply exists to torment her. “Why wouldn’t it be?” “I—I don’t know,” she admits, and it only sort of sounds like a lie. Emma shakes her head. That doesn’t help, really. “Is my mom still ignoring my dad?” “Very much so. You shouldn’t be out here, you know.” “Neal’s not dead, though?” “No,” Killian says, lips forming a perfect circle on the second letter. Emma’s staring at his lips. Again, or always. Or whatever, honestly.

“Ok, ok, that’s—that’s good, well maybe not the ignoring part, but we’ll figure that out and we’re going to figure this out.” “Wasn’t a question.” “No it wasn’t.” His eyes narrow, neck remaining at that angle. “Good. It shouldn’t be.” “Awfully confident of you.” “No, no, I’m only confident in you, love.” Something flutters at the back of Emma’s brain — part memory and even more desire, and this feels like something they’ve done already, but that can’t possibly be true and those particular words in that particular order are as honest as Emma’s heard. She must have fallen asleep.

“C’mon,” Killian continues, hand reaching for hers and she doesn’t pull away. She lets his fingers tangle with hers, and every squeeze against her palm is enough to settle her pulse and her magic, and he doesn’t let go of her until they get back to camp. Neither one of them mention how she doesn’t pull away, either.

They plan. Plot, and discuss and Neal’s something of an issue — as is her mother’s pointed and unnecessary romantic advice, but Emma knows her objections fall on deaf ears, especially when that same mother keeps ignoring her father, and she’s not sure she’s ever known fear like she feels in Dark Hollow.

If asked — and Emma can’t imagine why she would be, but she’s at war with her own thoughts and some sadistic childlike-monster who’s already fucked with her more than he should be capable of — she’d argue it was because of what Killian tells her. When I win your heart plays on loop in Emma’s brain, but it’s also because, somehow, she knows he will and does, and fire bursts out of her in the middle of yet another shadow attack.

“How did you do that?” Neal asks, sounding far more surprised than he should and something in Emma’s center recoils at the tone. “Regina. She’s teaching me magic.” Not entirely a lie, not really. But Killian’s eyes snap towards her, and she’s apparently just as good at ignoring things as her mother. “She’s teaching you magic?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods, gripping the coconut in her hand a little tighter. Six months ago, that would have felt like the most absurd sentence in the world. Now it just pisses her off. “I guess she is.”

There’s more, because of course there is. Wendy Darling and Neal are something of old friends, and she’s somehow an even worse liar than Emma, but the truth means Henry’s death and she can’t breathe. Can hardly stand, but is also standing closer to Killian and she keeps calling him Killian. In her head.

His hand squeezes hers; exactly three times.

“It’ll be fine, love,” Killian murmurs. Naturally, it’s not.

Watching Henry hand over his heart is a nightmare Emma will see for the rest of her life, wholly unprepared for the way her kid drops to the ground and the strength of her ensuing magic threatens to blind her.

Regina’s not much better, honestly. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out and then there’s magic and a wave of her hand, and—“He’s not dead yet,” she tells Emma, like that’s acceptable, but she’s got no idea what else to do and the growing feeling that she’s forgotten something very important.

Preservation spells are as freaky their name implies, it turns out.

Henry doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, but he also isn’t dead and Emma figures that’s at least one positive. While she’s attacked by a tree, and taunted by Pan and Regina’s admission leaves her reeling just a bit. That is until it turns out Peter Pan is also Gold’s father, and the absurdity of it all makes Emma want to scream and cry and they somehow save Henry’s heart.

In Pandora’s Box.

Really, the rest is a blur — adrenaline mixing with magic and an above-average amount of gasping, and Killian offers Henry the captain’s quarters. Emma doesn’t think before she walks, leading the pair of them towards the door, and there’s a shadow trapped in the sail and they’re on a flying pirate ship, so honestly her knowledge of that pirate ship’s layout should be the least of their worries, but something, something…open book.

“You want to tell me what’s going on, now?” Killian asks, finding Emma what feels like a lifetime later. Hours, actually. Most of which she’s spent leaning against the railing, while trying to breathe in as much salt air as possible and Regina’s still in the cabin with Henry.

“Aside from the obvious?” “Whatever’s got you staring so intently at the horizon.” “It’s calming,” Emma reasons, and there’s some truth to that as well. There’s also something in her back pocket, a piece of clothing that miraculously isn’t totally destroyed with mud and the after-effects of fighting for their collective lives.

“It often is, although you’re thinking so loudly, I can’t help but—” “—Do you think you’ll stay in Storybrooke?”

Killian tenses. He’s close enough that Emma can practically feel the way his muscles tighten, but there’s more to it than proximity, and it’s got to be nearly his turn at the helm. Neal can’t stay up there forever.

“If you think that would be a good idea.”

Rolling her eyes makes her head hurt. She might also be dehydrated. The knowledge that there’s a flask of rum stashed somewhere under the cot in Killian’s cabin is one of the few things keeping Emma conscious. Captain’s cabin. Semantics. She has no idea how she knows that. “That’s not really what I asked,” Emma argues. “Do you—is that something you’d like?”

She shouldn’t be as nervous as she is.

The future is suddenly blurry, and not entirely uncertain, but she fought like hell for it and now there’s this growing sense of optimism taking root in her. Like it’s the foundation for everything else, strong and certain and that’s a rather daunting change of pace for her. The certainty, not the adjective choices. Gold made it so David could come home too. They all get to go home. So, Emma doesn’t move very quickly when she turns, just presses her lips together and—

Hopes.

Pixie dust requires a certain amount of belief to work, after all.

“I would,” Killian breathes. He leans forward, or Emma leans forward, and it genuinely does not matter because there are mouths and hands and it’s over before it really begins, the rail of a flying pirate ship threatening to dig into her back. She’s never been more comfortable. “Ok,” Emma says, footsteps coming towards them, “that’s good.”

“You saved him, you know.”

“Motivation’s a funny thing like that.”

“Certainly is,” Killian agrees, “and you had that in spades. I just—” He smirks. The bastard. “Telling you I knew you would makes me a bit of a cad, doesn’t it?” “More than a bit, maybe.” He chuckles, letting his head drop closer to hers. “Why’d you know where the blankets were in that cabin?” “Far too perceptive for your own good.” “I prefer to see it as an acute observation.” “And you’re more than just a pretty face, huh?”

“Sounds suspiciously like you think I’m pretty.”

“Occasionally,” Emma says, standing on wobbly knees again and they’re dancing without music. “I don’t know, really, but we’ll get there, I think.”

Leaning back, Killian’s eyebrows shift and his thoughts practically come with cymbals, but he doesn’t press her anymore and Emma doesn’t actually believe she fell asleep. Outside the Echo Caves, but all of those thoughts feel like dreams now, and Neal doesn’t ask any questions — which is either a victory or a crushing disappointment, depending on which way you look at it, but Emma can’t bring herself to leave the railing, even when the wind picks up and goosebumps prickle her arms and the something in her back pocket is a tiny slip of paper.

Torn at the edges, like the person who grabbed it was pressed for time and flush with determination and she’s never actually seen his handwriting before. It doesn’t make an ounce of difference. Swooping letters linger on the looseleaf, no matter how many times Emma blinks, the words the same and she tries very hard not to rip it. Holding it as tightly as she is makes that easier said than done.

Still, it doesn’t change.

I love you.

As clear as the tears that return to her eyes will allow, and Emma’s not surprised to find him already looking in her direction. She smiles, and goes below deck.

They don’t make it very long before something else gets fucked up.

They barely make it like—two weeks. Pan isn’t dead, and Henry’s not Henry and the whole thing is a disaster that frequently ends with Emma slumped against the nearest wall she can find, the hand gripping hers squeezing at regular intervals, like Killian is trying to remind her of something, but she might just be hoarding every touch and every feeling and it figures.

Standing at the town line, Emma’s not sure how she’s going to get in that car and drive away from this town and these people and her mother kisses her forehead. Softly and almost reverently, and David’s hand finds the back of her head, holding her as tightly as he had in Neverland and Emma knows he’d like to do that forever, but that won’t be possible in five minutes and she’s not going to remember.

Any of them. At any point.

She’s still not sure why the timing of it all seems so important.

“That’s quite a vessel you captain there, Swan.”

Smiling is the only way she stops herself from kicking him, or possibly kissing him and she’s not prepared for what Killian says next. If she ever gets to remember this, that will seem vaguely ridiculous. All things considered.

“There’s not a day that will go by that I won’t think of you.” He means it. Emma knows that, too. As much as she knows she should have said something — a string of words that’s still a little overwhelming, but the sheet of paper basically lives in her jacket pocket now, and for someone who feels as if she keeps bouncing around time, or at least realms, she also continues to run out of it.

“Good,” she says, and one side of his mouth moves. Tugs up while he stares at her, and struggles to step back and everything disappears. Behind a cloud of purple smoke, and a line that’s brushed away as easily as if it had never been there at all, and Emma forgets.

Most of it, at least.

Some guy knocks on her door, knows her name, and immediately tries to kiss her. It’s not the strangest thing Emma’s ever encountered, but that’s because bail bond’s a weird gig, and he keeps showing up. Gives her a note with handwriting that looks suspiciously familiar, and proves even more than that and her hand shakes. While pulling a weather-stained piece of paper from the folds of her wallet, and she’s got no rational reason for keeping it. Not when she’s got no idea why she has it in the first place, but every time she considers throwing it away, something tugs between her ribs and flutters at the back of her brain and the swoop on the top of his ‘o’ is exactly the same.

She doesn’t mention that before she drinks the potion. And she only balks slightly at the word potion , so that’s another victory and— “Killian,” she breathes, memories flying back. Some arrive quicker than others, while a few hang in the shadows and she knows there’s more to the sheet of paper than she’s willing to admit. Magic fights with her, trying to piece together things that don’t entirely make sense, and she can remember things that don’t make sense. Pirate ships, and flashing swords, and a house with enough windows that it likely sets a record.

And a hand slipping a sheet of paper into her back pocket.

“Miss me?”

It’s a joke. A bad one, at that. Especially coupled with a smile that barely reaches his eyes, but Emma finds herself nodding all the same and he doesn’t stumble backwards when she launches herself at him, hugging as tightly as she can.

The paper goes back in her wallet before they leave for Storybrooke.

She’s going to leave. Get back in her car and go back to New York, and raise Henry like a normal kid, but Emma can’t shake the feeling that there’s something inherently wrong with that plan, and it doesn’t have anything to do with wicked witches or newborn brothers, but maybe deja vu for something she hasn’t lived yet, and Killian’s eyebrows fly into his hairline. When she does the unthinkable.

“Come with us, then.” “You’re not serious,” he challenges.

“Like a heart attack, maybe. I just…none of this is safe, and New York was, I mean…you could be part of—” “False memories, based on magical nonsense.”

Shoulders slumping, Emma can’t come up with an argument to that. Only kind of wants to, but she’s not in the book, and Henry doesn’t want to leave. The dreams she keeps having make sleep something of a pipe dream. And she’s something of a mess, but Killian’s a much better dancer than she expected him to be.

And she’s not surprised to find him rounding the corner of Regina’s dungeon, although it’s nice to be saved, even when she’s perfectly capable of doing it herself. But then his arms threaten to crack several of her ribs ten minutes later, and Emma has a few theories about that. None of which she voices, far too busy memorizing the way his thumb feels when it brushes her cheek, and her mother’s not dead.

Doesn’t remember her, but time travel beggars can’t be choosers. Another burst of deja vu rattles through her, and there’s no magic to jump in her veins, but Killian glances her direction all the same and the wand is heavy in her hand. One that’s magical again, a portal home because it is home and you trade your ship for me isn’t much more than a whisper on warmer-than-usual wind. He doesn’t blink when he answers. She’ll think about that for quite some time.

After she stops thinking about how good they are at kissing, because they are exceptional at kissing and it’s very simple. To fall into this head first, the feeling and the emotion and Killian chuckles when Emma’s magic begins to thrum under her skin.

She tells her parents about Neal.

About what he did, and how he did it and their eyes widen so often she wonders if they’ll get stuck like that. Killian’s hand doesn’t leave her shoulder.

They announce the change two days later. Prince Neal is Prince Leo and he’s still as cute as ever, with a tendency to spit up on whoever holds him.

“Are you alright?” “You’ve asked me that like ten times.” Nodding, Killian doesn’t move and Emma can’t imagine what kind of damage this is doing to his knees, but he doesn’t seem inclined to stand up either and she’s finally starting to get some feeling back in her toes. Fingers, too. Which makes it easier to drag the tips of them over his cheek, and his eyelids fluttering shut is a jolt of confidence she’s going to cling to. “And yet,” he drawls, “I’m still very curious.”

“I’m fine,” Emma says, not for the first time and she knows it won’t be the last. He shifts the blanket draped across her legs, tucking it under her side like—“A mother hen pirate.” “That’s rude, love.” “You’re going to give yourself a coronary.” “I don’t know what that means.” Laughing softly, her lips are still a bit chilly when she presses them to Killian’s skin. Warm, like always. Some joke about her own personal sun, and something else about walls made of ice and she doesn’t think before she mumbles, “you want to lay down, or something?” “Your father might challenge me to a duel.” “Not confident in your own sword skills?” “I’m very confident in my skills, but—” “—C’mon,” Emma interrupts, ignoring Killian’s protest when she pulls her arms out of the mountain of fabric covering her, “you’re warm, anyway.”

She realizes she loves him before she says it.

Well before, honestly. And she wonders why that feels inevitable, almost like it’s already happened, somehow but that’s—well, that’s impossible. She should rid that word from her vocabulary. And the inevitability of telling Killian everything she’s feeling isn’t totally surprising, either. Has been coming on so gradually that don’t you know, Emma, it’s you doesn’t knock her entirely off course. Might right her, actually. Direct her back towards some star or something else nautical and decidedly sentimental, and she cannot rationalize how quiet she is when he falls.

Dies, really.

This alternate version of him that still managed to rescue her, and she couldn’t save him and that’s not right. Two-way streets operate in both directions, but she didn’t tell him and everything feels like it stops. Not long enough. Time refuses to linger the way Emma needs it to, lungs threatening to disintegrate, and this isn’t real, can’t possibly be real and Henry’s pulling on her sleeve, telling her they have to go. He’s right. They’ve got to get out of here. Fix it, and give Emma more time, and she doesn’t spend any of it thinking before she rushes up the loft stairs and clings to him tightly enough that they fall over.

That will feel poetic later.

Standing in the center of Main Street, with a dagger in her hand and magic in the air and it’s familiar all over again, another burst of deja vu, and the exact opposite. Wrong, on a fundamental sort of level that she still can’t ignore and she closes her eyes. Thinks of what could be, or what she hopes will still happen, and then she tilts her head up and meets eyes that are far too blue to be fair and it’s easy to give voice to the words she hadn’t before.

That’s nice, she supposes.

Being as consistently confused by her own thoughts is one of Emma’s biggest pet peeves. “I love you.”

“Getting more and more difficult not to tell him. Isn’t it, dearie?” Sighing, Emma doesn’t bother glancing up from the half-finished dream catcher in her hands and Killian’s not going to be happy that he fell asleep. He likes to think he can protect her better while he’s conscious. As if he could protect her from her own mind.

“Do you even remember it?” Rumplestilskin continues, and it’s not really him. She has to keep reminding herself that. “Can see into your thoughts, y’know. And I don’t think you do.” “Shut up.” He doesn’t, of course. “The Queen did something. Changed something, somehow. Can feel the dregs of her magic, clinging to your memories and—” He leans forward. “—So can you, can’t you? Wonder why those scenes that appear behind your eyes every time you blink, feel so real. All that fairy tale fodder, and another thing you’ll miss out on. Strange how that version of your personal prince charming never mentioned what happens to you, isn’t it? Almost as if he’s keeping secrets. Maybe that’s a sign.” “Shut up.” She doesn’t mean to say anything. Responding only ever eggs the apparition on, and Emma’s head feels as if it will split in two. It might help if it did.

Every one of Rumplestilskin’s teeth is on display when he smiles. Like a goddamn crocodile.

“You could likely get your memories back. If you wanted. All that power surging through your veins. Or maybe,” he continues slowly, “part of what you’re feeling isn’t anything more than fate."

"No, that’s not true."

"Sure of that? Absolutely positive? Anything is possible, after all."

And the idea takes Emma by sudden and overwhelming surprise, part of her hating even the thought, but her feet are already moving and she might be running if the stretch of her legs is any sign, and Merlin doesn’t look up. When she slams open his door.

“You know, don’t you?” “Everything you’ve forgotten?” he asks lightly. “Yes, I do.” “What do I do about it?” “Would you like to do something about it?” “Did Regina do something to my memories?” Emma presses, leaning against the door as soon as it shuts behind her. One of his shoulders lifts. “He—the voice in my head…keeps taunting me about it, and I don’t—is any of that possible? That life?” Finally lifting his gaze, Merlin looks exactly as he did in that movie theater Emma only half believes she actually remembers, and time travel continues to be one of her least favorite things. “Depends,” he replies, “on you, and your next question.”

“I shouldn’t know. Right? Shouldn’t remember, I—he was looking at the house. The one I remember us living in sometimes, and I don’t…it’s impossible. To get back to that.” “He already told you it wasn’t,” Merlin argues.

I’ll never stop fighting for us.

Emma licks her lips. Coming up with anything else to say is difficult, and she’s still holding the goddamn dreamcatcher. That makes it easier. To give into instinct, and she’s broken. At her most basic level. Ripped apart and stitched back with pieces that don’t entirely belong to her, and remembering any of it feels like a cruel trick.

Lifting her arm, the whole thing only takes a few moments. Nothing more than a soft pull, and what feels like a soap bubble popping.

“Feel better?” Merlin asks, gaze dropping back to his table and his task and Emma nearly growls at him.

“What are you talking about?” “That’s what I thought. It won’t all disappear, though. Magic’s got a way of leaving a mark, especially magic like that.”

She leaves before he can make any other cryptic announcements, and Dark Ones don’t really need sleep. Emma sits on the bed for the rest of the night.

Dreams happen occasionally.

In the few days between — after the blade broke apart in her hand, and the decision that she won’t take this lying down, fuck whatever the world says about death and Dark Ones — visions start to creep into Emma’s subconscious. Sometimes they aren’t good, are a startling reminder of how it felt to fall to the ground, and the exact way dew soaked through her jeans, or how cold he was when his hand fell away from hers. And then sometimes they’re…not that.

They’re bright, and laughter rings out in the space Emma can’t quite define. Like it’s somewhere she’s been before, lived in even. Happily so. Scents hang in the air, a mix of salt and sweet and there’s almost always an arm curled around her waist, whispers in her ear and the steady press of kisses along her neck. Soft footsteps echo down carpeted hallways, and there’s garland wrapped around the staircase railing. Lining their ridiculous number of windows, and draped across branches of a tree.

For Christmas.

Emma isn’t sure how she knows that, but the snow outside is a good clue and it’s that — the growing desire to make this dream something closer to a reality, and no one questions her decision. To go to the Underworld. The same way she doesn’t second guess her steps as she races towards Killian, blood on his cheeks and nothing at the end of his left arm and he’s heavier than she remembered. Slumped against her chest with his breath in her ear, and it’s not quite the same as the dream, but they’ll get there.

They’ll get there.

Emma repeats the phrase — over and over, stumbling down a path she’s only passably confident will lead them outside, and he squeezes her hand. Three times.

Sometimes they dance.

In the kitchen. In the living room. She’s got this habit of hoarding records, and Killian’s far more interested in antiquing than he’d ever be willing to admit. Emma makes pirate jokes about it.

If only because it inevitably guarantees that spark in his eyes.

The one that makes her shiver, and reminds her of something she can’t quite remember and—she gasps, a hand spinning her on the kitchen floor. Away from the sink of dirty dishes and anything remotely responsible.

“I’m going to get your shirt all wet,” Emma grumbles, but that doesn’t appear to concern him very much. Or at all.

“Good.” “Good?” “Was that confusing?” Killian challenges, metal already working under the hem of her shirt. There are flowers on it.

“You think you’re very funny.” “I think I’ve got fantastic rhythm, and I can hear you thinking from across the room. What’s got your magic so loud?” Without stopping, Emma’s magic responds in kind — a symphony of possibility, and the growing sense of want that sits like a nearly-comfortable weight in the pit of her stomach, and sometimes she tells him. About the dreams, and the scenes that feel like she’s lived them before, and Killian never tells her she’s crazy. Even when Emma wonders if she might be. Instead, there’s simply this look of his own want, crinkling the skin near his eyes and she kisses away the pinch between his brow. Which makes it easier for her to ask— “Why this one?”

“Excuse me?” “This house,” Emma clarifies, and the conversation’s a little late. They’ve been here for years. Watched Henry grow up, and taught him how to use a sword, and watched movies until they could quote them back without a single mistake. So, really she should have figured it out before, but Emma’s had her suspicions. It’s only now that she’s greedy enough to ask about them.

“You know why.” “Would love to hear you say it.” “Pirate,” Killian accuses, without any insult and Emma giggles when he pulls her back to his chest. “And I—well, it’d be nice, don’t you think?” “Yeah, it would,” Emma says. The agreement tumbles out of her with ease, partially because of that aforementioned greed and the memories she can’t shake and Merlin said something to her. About magic’s tendency to leave something behind.

There’s a sheet of paper still hidden in her wallet.

“So,” she continues, “great big house, with lots of rooms and—” “—It’s your choice, Swan.” “That’s not how it works, and you know it. A combined team of planning and feeling and—” He dips her, she tries very hard not to giggle again. Fails miserably. “—Self-proclaimed rhythm. We just…this isn’t just about me, this is an us thing.” The music doesn’t stop. They only kind of do, Killian leaning back with a glint in his eyes that’s different than it normally is and Emma’s not sure when she started breathing through her mouth, but it’s drying out her lips and that’s not the first time she’s said that.

She doesn’t think so, at least.

“I’m a rather large fan of that string of words,” Killian says. “And you.” “Seems like a requirement of marriage.” “And parenting?” “Yeah?” “Yeah.”

Kissing him is really the only reasonable option. And Emma considers herself fairly reasonable, although her magic nearly makes a light bulb explode a few hours later and it’s difficult to be annoyed by the smug look on Killian’s face when he’s not wearing any clothing.

“What about Regina?”

Half a dozen heads snap towards Emma, some of them sporting bemused expressions, while others wear flat out disbelief and she doesn’t blink. Her fingers tighten, under the table where she’s gripping Killian’s hand and she can’t seem to get comfortable.

There’s way more of her than she’s used to, and the books claim she’s in some stage called nesting. Which Killian uses as an excuse to make Swan jokes at every opportunity. It might be driving her insane.

So, Emma will use that as an excuse. “What do you mean, Your Highness?” Grumpy asks her, and Killian can’t quite mask his laugh. Even with his teeth pressed distractingly into his lower lip.

“I mean,” Emma starts, “that if we’re going to combine all the realms, maybe having Regina in charge might not be the worst idea. She’s got queenly experience.” “Wow,” Regina says slowly, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” “No it is not!” “Top five, at least.” “You’re ruining this.”

Scrunching her nose is not a normal Regina reaction, but Emma figures it makes sense considering the circumstances and it’s a lot of responsibility. Uniting all the realms is a pretty daunting prospect, that will require enough of her own magic that Killian’s already freaking out just a bit, and somehow Emma can’t bring herself to be frustrated with that. Endeared, maybe.

And absolutely certain this will work.

She doesn’t know why. She looks at the slip of paper in her wallet, like four times a day.

“You’re sure?” Regina asks, Emma nods. “Alright, then I’d uh—it’d be my honor.”

They buy too many gifts. Hope is a baby. One who won’t have any memory of her first Christmas in this absolutely massive house, with a tree that Anton gave them a discount on.

“For milestones,” he reasoned, and Emma resolutely refuses to admit that she cried. But Killian brings it up more than once, and that gets her to roll her eyes and smile against his mouth when he ducks his head to kiss her and Snow White went above and beyond this year. Decorations line Main Street, cookies shared from every business and every person and all those people keep smiling. At her, and them and their kid is way cuter than her brother was.

Emma doesn’t mention that.

Killian does, at least when he whispers it to her while Leo tears apart another paper-covered box, and Hope gurgles in the crook of his arm. And Emma figures this is as good a time as any. To tug the folded envelope out of her pocket, flipping her wrist at the expectant and slightly confused look on Killian’s face. “What’s this?” “A gift,” Emma snarks, barely twisting out of the way to avoid him nipping at her nose. Like some twisted and very attractive Jack Frost. There’s some silver in his hair now.

He uses his hook to open it.

Emma clicks her tongue. So as not to push into his mouth. That might scar the kid.

“I don’t—” Killian says, pulling the scrap of paper out of. He holds it like it’s precious, and it is for Emma, but she also doesn’t entirely understand it and it’s kind of a selfish gift. “This is my hand writing. Why…I don’t remember writing this.” “And I don’t know when I got it. But I have it.” “I can see that.” “No, no, you don’t understand. It’s—I’ve had that for as long as I can remember. Since before New York, at least.” Killian’s eyes flash. To her and possibly through her, and Emma’s shrug is half-hearted at best. “Memories don’t always stick in this town,” he reasons, but it sounds like an excuse. For something she still doesn’t entirely understand.

“Yeah, I know. But it’s been there. Was in my wallet, and I had it in Camelot, babe. Used to pull it out sometimes, when you were—” “—Dead?” “God bless us, every one.” His laugh lacks any real amusement. It’s not very festive. “I’m going to ask you something,” Emma says, fully prepared for the way his lips curl.

“Eventually you’ll bypass the proclamations, Your Highness.” “Why do you squeeze my hand? You do it all the time.” “Do I?” Blotches of pink appear on his cheeks and he might want to lie, but his ears can’t and that’s not as weird a sentence as it should be. “Only three times, you realize?” “Don’t insult me like that.” That laugh is better. Purer, more like him and Emma’s magic flickers when he kisses her cheek. He’s constantly kissing her cheek. And her hair. Temple. Anywhere he can reach, like he’s always looking for a reminder and proof, until Emma knows she depends on it just as much as he does.

“Made it easier,” he says, “saying it without actually using words.” “And the words were…” He doesn’t really glare — that’s against the rules at Christmas, Emma’s sure, but his head lolls and his lips quirk and magic jumps. In her. To him. Whatever, really. “I love you,” Killian says, easy as some other cliche and Hope squirms between them. When they start kissing.

To suggest that what happens next happens suddenly, also makes it seem like Emma is paying attention to anything outside the little bubble of family and feeling, and neither one of those things is true. So she can’t say that. Her mother can.

Gasping and yelping, and there’s color everywhere — rivaling the lights that hang all over, because no one does holidays and milestones better than Her Royal Highness Snow White of Storybrooke. Emma curses.

Like a goddamn princess.

Remembering something that hasn’t technically happened yet threatens to make Emma topple over, but she’s really good at standing now and Killian’s arm is around her anyway. That helps. Perpetually.

“What the hell was that?” David demands, with as little grace as any of them can exude.

Emma shakes her head, refusing to blink. Despite the moisture there, and the feelings and she remembers. Has this whole time, kind of. The semantics probably aren’t important, at least not as much as the light is and was and will be.

Perpetually.

She doesn’t answer. Not her dad, anyway.

“I love you,” Emma tells Killian instead, and it takes some time to explain it all later. True Love and its somewhat inconsistent if not equally wonderful tendencies, and while that future in the past may not happen exactly as it had, this is somehow better and Emma was right.

They got here, eventually.