#the stars and city lights / college verse.

[briillicnt]

@blushdrunks said [ snowball ] sender throws a snowball at receiver / from marissa

he let out a small gasp of air when he felt the cold white powdery snow hit the back of his head. he reached back to wipe away the cold bits, and turned towards her, a small grin plastered on his face. “ so that’s how it’s going to be now? “ he reached down and scooped up a small pile of snow, packing it into a ball. “ is this your way of getting me to shut up about finals? “ he took a step towards her, and threw the snowball at her, careful not to hit her in the face. “ take that! “ 

[kiwiana-writes]

2023 Writing Round Up

Thanks @welcometololaland and @rmd-writes for the tags! It’s been a weird year; there was definitely a point at which I thought I was done with sharing my writing publicly, but here we are 😂

JANUARY

Brain break 😁

FEBRUARY

We knew we were the fortunate ones [The Last of Us; Bill/Frank; rated E; 2,294 words]

First times are both awkward and exciting, apocalypse or no apocalypse.

MARCH

My mind has been expanded [Schitt’s Creek; David/Patrick; rated T; 422 words]

In which the author David finds out their his spouse has never seen Rocky Horror

Got me an appetite, now I can taste it [Schitt’s Creek; David/Patrick; rated E; 3,002 words]

Kink!verse s05e12: chastity cage for @minerforaheartofgold

APRIL-JUNE

Brain break 😁

JULY

We were supposed to find this [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated M; 3,384 words]

The canon-adjacent soulmarks fic

Honey lips and words so true [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated E; 1,580 words]

A smutty little prompt fill for @rmd-writes

All the city lights on the water [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated T; 500 words]

A series of NYE drabbles as a prompt fill for @hullomoon

Before this all goes grey [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated T; 455 words]

A painfully soft Paris morning prompt fill for @stereopticons

Looking like our bodies might fuse [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated T; 637 words]

Post-canon paparazzi feelings prompt fill for @hullomoon

Just come along, baby, take my hand [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated E; 1,335 words]

The ‘Alex and Henry watch Netflix’s How to Build a Sex Room’ fic @celeritas2997 made me write

Feel your hands in my hair and you whisper my name [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated E; 2,508 words]

The barbershop meet-horny for @celeritas2997

AUGUST

With so much of my heart (that none is left to protest) [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated E; 65,586 words]

Actor AU, Alex and Henry performing in a queer reimagining of Much Ado About Nothing

SEPTEMBER

Bukkake Breaky Heart [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated E; 2,532 words]

Alex has a fantasy. Henry makes it happen.

Empty your heart of its mortal dream [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated G; 3,641 words]

Alex steps inside a fairy circle and Fey Prince Henry appears

The star to every wandering bark [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated T; 3,895 words]

A 5+1 coda set during the epilogue of With so much of my heart (that none is left to protest)

I don’t know if I should go with XX Pro or Valencia [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated T; 2,854 words]

Henry sends a thirst trap to his ex… or does he?

OCTOBER

Kinktober 2023 [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated E; 6,200 words]

31 days, 31 kinky double drabbles

I’ve carried this song in my mind [RWRB; Arthur&Henry, Alex/Henry; rated T; 2,529 words]

Five times Arthur tries to get Alex and Henry together from beyond the grave, and one time two times his intervention isn’t needed.

Handprints in wet cement [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated E; 2,421 words]

Five things Henry learned during his Oxford Slut Phase that he shared with Alex, and one thing they learned together.

NOVEMBER

Puck It [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated E; 9,739 words]

College AU, Alex as a NCAA division I, NHL-drafted hockey player

Kinda think that I might be his type [RWRB; Alex/Henry, Alex&Bea; rated E; 12,864 words]

Alex agrees to be his friend's fake boyfriend for a weekend. He is not prepared for his friend's brother.

A Practical Arrangement [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated E; WIP 1/3 chapters, 6,136 words published, to be finished before the end of the year]

An anachronism stew, royalty-arranged-marriage AU

DECEMBER

All Those Christmas Clichés [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated M; WIP 16/25 chapters, 4,800 words published]

Daily triple drabbles: snapshots of the lead-up to Christmas 2023.

Puck It Real Good [RWRB; Alex/Henry; rated E; 1,793 words]

A smutty interlude set during Puck It

Tagging @affectionatelyrs @anincompletelist @cha-melodius @clottedcreamfudge @cricketnationrise @dumbpeachjuice @getmehighonmagic @happiness-of-the-pursuit @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @indestructibleheart @inexplicablymine @myheartalivewrites @sparklepocalypse @stereopticons @tintagel-or-cockleshells and, as always, anyone who wants to play!

[cheekycheesecake01]

Biker!Benatar x G/N!Reader

18+ Minors DNI! Yall, I have been thinking thoughts that should NOT have been thunk! Hence, the post. I had no idea where I was going with this. I ended up making my first smut fic.😭

Warnings/Tags: Blowjob, public sex, mutual orgasm, praise, leather.

He may not look like the type, but Benatar's been a biker since he got his license back in college

Rides a chopper motorcycle at night after dealing with the guys all day.

He's got diamond studs in his ear from post-high school graduation era that he still wears. They twinkle in the night from the city lights.

He'll let you ride the back of the motorcycle.... he might floor it just so you could get scared and cling onto him.

He listens to a variety of artists on his late-night rides. TV Girl, Cigarettes After Sex, Joji, Lana Del Rey, just to name a few.

He'll stop along his trips to jot down whatever is on his mind. He has a scrapbook of songs he likes and his favorite lyrics.... some of which include:

"I dreamt I was standing in your doorstep

Licking sweat off of your forehead

With your finger in my mouth

And the sound when leather jackets hit the ground

You should hear when you're not around

When it's just us horny poets

Who can't wait to write it down

Swear we were only being honest

Do you like these little sonnets?

'Cause I wrote them just for you"

Despite the meaning of the song itself.... that verse reminds him a lot about you. Specifically, that one night...

Remember the detail that Benatar doesn't like to have sex anywhere that isn't his bed?

Well, there was one exception....

So it was a breezy Saturday night. 12:45 AM, clear night skies with twinkly stars that went on forever with the moon. Clinging onto Benatar's jacket... he was playing the music as the pipes of the chopper rumbled. Wrapping your hands around Benatar's waist, hands getting lower and lower until they were right where you two wanted them. Benatar's breath catches in his throat and looks at the next exit on the highway.

He took it.

He went all the way to an empty parking lot that was hidden behind a bundle of trees. He turns the ignition off and said to you that night: "We ought to be quick.... I don't like being out in the open..."

You were stunned. Benatar was the more conservative person in the group. He was shy at the mention of sex.... let alone having it in a parking lot. There was a silence.... you both wanted it. You wanted each other. Right then, right there. But no one was making the first move.... until Benatar said to you in his polite British accent: "Get on your knees, love."

That was how it started....

The parking lot was quiet with the trees whispering into the night. The moon shined upon your eyes as you gaze up at Benatar. He clutches your hair, trying so hard not to moan, not to pull your hair too hard, not to get caught, but it was just too good...

He slowly thrusts into your mouth. Your tongue flicks at his tip, tasting his precum and moaning at the feeling of it twitch. Benatar groans, petting your head and saying: "Go on, love... touch yourself... I can't be the only one enjoying myself... let me watch you. Let me watch you cum..."

You were, once again, shocked by how lewd the man was. But, you complied, and your hand slipped into your pants. The parking lot had the trees whispering as the scandal unfolded before them. Your knees pressed against the concrete, making you wince at the pain only for the feeling to be replaced by your arousal at the sight of Benatar. His blonde locks were disheveled, his shirt was sticking to his chest, and his leather jacket.... was rattling and tightening against him.

You took out your hand, the fingers glazed with your precum. Sweat rolling down your forehead from the intensity of the situation, the visuals, the taste, everything.... his cock in your mouth twitching making you moan with pleasure. He looks down at you... completely different from the usual Benatar.

His eyes were glossy from the moonlight with a lustful haze looming over them. His lips were parted, and his eyes kept staring at you.... at your lips. He thrusts into your mouth more, picking up the pace a little. Then, he leaned over you, getting closer until his head was against yours. There was silence once more. The sexual tension is getting to its peak as he licks the droplet of sweat off of your forehead. You then dipped your fingers back into your pants to collect more of yourself, and bring it up to his lips.

He continued to lick the sweat off of your forehead and let your finger slip into his lips. He engulfs them with his warm, wet tongue, greeting them with a moan. You push your head further, trying to suck him more. He bucks his hips and said: "Love, I can't do this anymore.... I need to get rid of this..."

And the sound when leather jackets hit the ground...

He pulled up his indigo shirt, trying to cool off and have something to muffle him. His teeth tugged the cloth, a small tear heard as he thrusts faster. Your hand remained in your pants and you went faster and faster. Benatar struggles to hold in a moan in the process of holding your head and telling you: "You're doing so good, love. Oh, your mouth is so good..."

That was what did it... your body felt warm all over as it began to spasm. Your mind goes blank with pure pleasure, and this visual made Benatar lose his grip. The sudden hot rush of his cum coated your mouth. He bellowed a loud moan and gently pulled out, pulling up his pants and buckling them.

He helped you up, letting you sit on the bike as he rubbed your knees and swept away the gravel and pebbles. He picked up his leather jacket from the ground and slid it over your shoulders. He kissed your forehead and whispered to you that night: "You did such a good job, love. So good for me... too good for me."

He slid his thumb across the corner of your lip, wiping off the remains of your adventure before licking his fingertip and smiling. He gets on the bike and waits for you to wrap your arms around him when he turns on the ignition and says: "Shall we go?"

The following night, Benatar got inspired from the previous encounter and he looked at his paper, and he couldn't wait to write it down, swear he's only being honest...

Then... the next late-night ride, he handed you a book of poems with the question...

"Do you like these little sonnets?

'Cause I wrote them just for you."

[thosekillerheels]

First, please don’t feel you have read this whole thing-it’s a stream of consciousness love letter. Dearest, dearest, dearest To Venus And Back💗 you are my second favorite Tori record, and my only “ all purpose” one, meaning I don’t have to be in a particular mood, I just push play and float in your interplanetary glow. If I had to describe you in one word, it would be LUSCIOUS. I’ll never forget Tori describing Venus on VH1 Women First as “a bleeding watercolor coning out of your speakers.” Listening this morning, I was taken aback by the perfection of every note, every breath, every sound. So I’m doing things differently this time-going song by song to luxuriate in your beauty.

-Bliss-the last cassette I bought “in real time.” Your dark, mysterious tone, your driving intensity of the last, repeated chorus, the timbre and tone of Tori’s voice (here and throughout the record), the “weird Tori-“ness of the verses, the “I said”’s. So freaking good

-Juarez-Bliss is fantastic, but it was when I heard Juarez for the first time, I KNEW this record would be thebomb.com. Only T could make just 3 piano notes so haunting and effective. The percussion, the “rubber band” twanging sound (obsessed) the background harmony, the lyrics, the breathy vocals and the way they trail off at the end of some of the lines. I always envision a purple desert(all the songs are purple. The songs and the album art mirror each other completely)

-Concertina-so light and airy, with some slightly jagged edges from guitar

-Glory Of The 80’s-it always tickles me that there’s HARPSICHORD in the very beginning. Another thing only T could do, make harpsi work in a song set in space. “Orbiting around”,always reminds me of Black Dove for some reason. Yaaaas Bugle Boy Models, Silicon Party Barbies, drag kings called Venus, and “karma drawn up in lines”-a nod to the prevalence of coke during the decadent decade! And yes, I bought The Story of O (in the wild at a used book store) because of this song

-Lust- my sweet, sweet, girl. You’re absolutely “one of my best friends out of all the songs,” and one of my most used phone alarms. Beautiful, ethereal lyrics, and a piano refrain that, like the slithery keyboard of Riot Poof’s chorus, never, ever, ever loses her shine. I listened to this song a lot when I was homesick at college. Love, love, love. She lives inside my bones

-Suede-subterranean, dark, purple and dull glowing green like electronic lights. The Pay Per View performance is my JAM. “Swallow her whole star intact-I mean!!

-Josephine-Such a dear heart. I love the stripped down recording against sparkling mental images of Paris at night, looking out over the city. And “empty like the Tuileries” always carries extra poignance as an illusionto Tori’s miscarriages

-Riot Poof- MY GIRL! sensual, reptilian, warm, a GROOVE. Another song where I love all the sounds. The chorus has been my ringtone since 2008. A VIBE.

-Datura-I mean!!! Epic in every sense of the word, withThe epitome of lusciousness. The Dionysian, ancient vibe of the the first part, with a pagan veneration of nature herself, flower by flower. The flowers of Tori’s garden in Florida at the time and a real moment for anyone like me who loves Tori’s speaking voice. Then “is there room in my heart…” I alway visualize flying through dark space among the stars. The zinging/shooting star sound is one of my favorite sounds on the whole album. Obsessed. Then we float out even further to the “Dividing Canaan” part-when the percussion, especially the cymbals, becomes a intergalactic ocean where we swim, and swim, and swim. The first time I listened to this song, I thought a new song had started, and was confused. Later during that time, “Dividing Canaan” became a vehicle for me for meditative, centering practice. I would balance a book on my head and focus my attention in a meditative gaze. I remember specifically using the book Naked Lunch, I think just because it was around

-Spring Haze-more amazing percussion. More purple land and skyscapes. I’ve always loved the slightly melancholy mood of this song, and the rhythmic interplay of the vocals, drums, and piano is a great example of the sonically detailed layering on the entire album-you really have to listen to SH to hear everything-like Datura, Riot Poof, GOT80’s, and Juarez. The deepening ocean is warm and lulling

-1,000 Oceans- Simple yet beautiful, the only landscape (Salisbury Hill) that evokes the color green. The piano mimics calm ocean waves. Another comfort song of love and protection

-Zero Point-This girl!! Another epic, another visit to a now apocalyptic Paris. I believe T made the right choice putting Datura on the record. I love how Zero Point was such a mystery for so long though. Datura and Zero Point are intrinsically connected because their “format” is exacttge same, and yet they are completely unique in themselves. I really took the litany at the end into my spirit and my identity when ZP first came out, and like Lust, she’s in my bones. I think a lot about the power of the ancient, universal, leaning feminine force the narrator has ascended into-she has access to the Om, the Vatican Library, and other “places”where sacred/secret knowledge of the universe and the self without Ego can be found for those who are dedicated to a spiritual quest of self and universal knowledge. Years ago, someone was collecting essays for a book about different things Tori. Zero Point/secret knowledge, involving the Mayans, Buddhism, and other shit. So, an exploration of a facet of The Divine Feminine. The project fell through, but I read a lot and researched, and I still have all those notes. Maybe I should restart that project for my own academic curiosity and achievement.

I think it took me about 2 hours to write this. This album lives behind me heart, a place Tori talked about while promoting the album. I love, love, love her. Happy Birthday, love; I’ll go anywhere with you(and back) always and forever 💜💜💜💜

[seekslight-arch]

headcanons  ✧.*  modern / star  guardian  verse

⸻     basic  information legal  name:  luxanna  crownguard most  known  as:  lux nicknames:  sparklez  (by  @tealsteel's  ezreal),  little  light  (by  @apostisms'  sylas) date  of  birth:  october 19th gender:  female place  of  birth:  high  silvermere,  demacia currently  living:  valoran  city spoken  languages:  english,  french,  german  (fluent),  korean  (in  process  of  learning) education:  attending  college hair  color:  pink eye  color:  also  pink height:  5  ft  4

⸻     family  information: siblings:  garen  crownguard,  older  brother parents:  pieter  and  aughata  crownguard children:  none pets:  mimi,  a  bunny  (her  familiar)

⸻     relationship  information sexual  orientation:  closeted  bisexual relationship  status:  dating  @apostisms'  sylas  &&.  dating @tealsteel's  ezreal since  when:  a  very  short  amount  of  time,  few  months  maybe  —  sylas,  middle  school?  high  school?  a  veeery  long  time  —  ezreal

tagged  by:  @tealsteel (thank you!!) tagging:  @apostisms,  @lightshielded,  @deathdxnces (any muse of your choice, but mayyybe ekko?),  @windchaser,  @pitgritted, @fluxjumped, @noctumsilenced, @moonlightviigil (any muse of your choice, maybe hwei to flesh him out a bit?), @yunalai, @witchcraftandburialdirt (any muse of your choice, buttt haru maybe?), @stahri-light you!!

[justforbooks]

With his shrewd eyes and his forks of corn-yellow hair, Julian Sands was a natural choice to play the valiant, romantic George Emerson, who snatches a kiss from Lucy Honeychurch (Helena Bonham Carter) in a Tuscan poppy field in A Room With a View (1985). “I wanted him to be real, not a two-dimensional minor screen god,” he said. “I liked him in his lighter, sexier moments, less so when he was brooding.”

Sands, who has died aged 65 while hiking in mountains in California, was dashing in that film, but he could also project a dandyish, effete or sinister quality. He was blessed with a mellifluous voice and a lean, youthful, fine-boned face, even if, as a child, his brothers insisted he resembled a horse. (He agreed.) In James Ivory’s film of EM Forster’s novel, he was pure heart-throb material. His participation in the notorious nude bathing scene was no impediment to the picture’s success.

Prior to that, he had played the journalist Jon Swain in The Killing Fields (1984), Roland Joffé’s drama about the bloody rise of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. The picture marked the beginning of his friendship with his co-star John Malkovich. “I’d been cautioned by Roland to keep my distance from John because he was an unstable character,” Sands recalled. “And John had been told by Roland to stay away from me, because I was a refined, sensible person who didn’t want to be distracted. In fact, we bonded instantly.”

Malkovich directed Sands in a one-man show in which he read Harold Pinter’s poetry. First staged in 2011, the production had its origins in an occasion six years earlier when Pinter, suffering from oesophageal cancer, had asked Sands to read in his stead at a benefit event in St Stephen Walbrook church in the City of London. The writer “sat in the front row with his stone basilisk stare”, Sands recalled.

Not all his work was so highfalutin, and a good deal of it fell into the category of boisterous, campy fun. In Ken Russell’s Gothic (1986), he played the poet Shelley, who indulges in sex, drugs and séances with Lord Byron (Gabriel Byrne) and the future Mary Shelley (Natasha Richardson), and is prone to recite verse naked in thunderstorms.

In a similar vein but far less deranged was Impromptu (1991), which brought together other notable 19th-century figures including George Sand (Judy Davis) and Frederic Chopin (Hugh Grant). Sands, who played Franz Liszt, described it as “Carry On Composer”.

Born in Otley, West Yorkshire, he was raised in Leeds and Gargrave, near Skipton; he later described his childhood as “part conservative and part Huckleberry Finn”. His mother, Brenda, was a Tory councillor and leading light of the local amateur dramatic society, while his father, William, who left when Julian was three, was a soil analyst. Julian made his acting debut in a local pantomime at the age of eight.

At 13, he won a scholarship to Lord Wandsworth college, Hampshire. He moved to London to study at Central School of Speech and Drama, and while there became friends with Derek Jarman. He played the Devil in an extended promotional video that Jarman directed in 1979 for Marianne Faithfull’s album Broken English. The role had been intended for David Bowie, who dropped out at the eleventh hour. “You’re devilish,” Jarman told Sands. “You can play it.”

The actor’s first film appearance came in an adaptation of Peter Nichols’s stage comedy Privates on Parade (1983), starring John Cleese and Denis Quilley, from which his one line of dialogue was cut. There was more rotten luck when he won the lead in a new Tarzan movie, only for the financing to fall through. It was eventually filmed as Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes (1984), with Christopher Lambert donning the hallowed loin-cloth.

On television, he starred with Anthony Hopkins in the miniseries A Married Man (1983). In Oxford Blues (1984), he was a rower butting heads with a Las Vegas parking attendant (Rob Lowe) who has tricked his way into a place at Oriel College. He was in The Doctor and the Devils (1985), inspired by the Burke and Hare case. “I had a roll in the hay with Twiggy which took about 15 takes,” he said.

Following A Room With a View, he agreed to play the lead in Ivory’s next Forster adaptation, Maurice (1987), before abruptly dropping out and fleeing to the US. In the process, he left behind his wife, the journalist Sarah Sands (nee Harvey), who described him as “restless” and “dramatic”, and their son, Henry. “I’m not the first person to create stability and security and then dismantle it even more effectively than I created it,” the actor said.

Once in America he took on an array of film parts. In Warlock (1989), he played the son of Satan, wreaking havoc in modern-day Los Angeles. Investing this pantomime villain with lip-smacking brio, he was likened by the Washington Post to a “hell-bent Peter Pan” and nominated for best actor in the Fangoria Chainsaw awards. He reprised the role in Warlock: The Armageddon (1993).

As an entomologist in Arachnophobia (1990), he was called upon to have as many as a hundred spiders crawling all over his face. Alternating these mainstream projects with arthouse ones, he played a diplomat in pre-war Poland in Krzysztof Zanussi’s Wherever You Are … (1988) and a monk in Night Sun (1990), the Taviani brothers’ adaptation of Tolstoy’s short story Father Sergius.

For the Canadian horror director David Cronenberg, he starred in the warped and witty Naked Lunch (1991), which disproved those who had declared William S Burroughs’s original novel unfilmable. Just as outré but less accomplished was Boxing Helena (1993), directed by Jennifer Lynch, daughter of David. Sands played a surgeon who keeps a woman captive by making her a quadruple amputee.

After starring as a young classics teacher in his friend Mike Figgis’s film of Terence Rattigan’s The Browning Version (1994), Sands worked a further six times with that director, appearing in his movies even when he was an unorthodox choice for the job in hand. One example was the part of a menacing Latvian pimp in Leaving Las Vegas (1996).

Later roles include a mysteriously unblemished Phantom in Dario Argento’s version of The Phantom of the Opera (1998), Louis XIV (whom Sands described as “the first supermodel”) in Joffé’s Vatel (2000), a crime kingpin named Snakehead in the Jackie Chan vehicle The Medallion (2003), a computer security wizard in the comic caper Ocean’s Thirteen (2007), a younger version of the businessman played by Christopher Plummer in David Fincher’s take on The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (2011) and a sadistic paedophile in the gruelling wartime odyssey The Painted Bird (2019).

On television, he was a Russian entrepreneur in the fifth season of 24 (2006) and the hero’s father, Jor-El, in two episodes of the Superman spin-off Smallville (2009). For the BBC, he played two very different actors in factually based one-off specials: first Laurence Olivier in Kenneth Tynan: In Praise of Hardcore (2005), then John Le Mesurier in We’re Doomed! The Dad’s Army Story (2015).

His recent work includes Benediction, Terence Davies’s haunting study of Siegfried Sassoon, and the thriller The Survivalist (both 2021), which found him back in the company of Malkovich. One of several titles still awaiting release is the drama Double Soul (2023) starring F Murray Abraham and Paz Vega.

Sands never stopped wandering, walking, running and climbing. “I am on a perpetual Grand Tour,” he said in 2000. Asked in 2018 about his eclectic career, he explained: “I was looking for something exotic, things that took me out of myself. I think I found myself a little boring.”

He was reported missing while out in the San Gabriel mountains, north of Los Angeles, in mid-January 2023. His remains were found in June.

In 1990 he married Evgenia Citkowitz. She survives him, along with their two daughters, Imogen and Natalya, and his son.

🔔 Julian Richard Morley Sands, actor, born 4 January 1958; died circa 13 January 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[briillicnt]

“ and i’ll just smile, and make believe that i don’t feel a thing. “ he did his best to fake a smile but, it instantly fell flat. it was hard to fake what he was feeling when he had a freshly baked good in front of him. that, and he wasn’t a liar — he hated liars. “ yeah… that doesn’t work for me. “ 

spotify wrapped starter —@exilcds sent ' 🎁 '

[themasksephinywears]

Tucker Mills

Name: Tucker Mills. Gender/Pronouns: Male; He/Him. Age: 38. Birthday: August 17th. Nationality: American. Birthplace: Raleigh, North Carolina. Current Residence: Gibsonton, Florida. (In alternate realities) Occupation: Army veteran. Height: 5 ft. 11 in. Sexuality: Bisexual. Fandom: Triple Frontier. FC: Lucas Till.

Brief Background: Growing up the middle child, Tucker’s life was fairly drama-free. He had loving parents, and he grew up super close with his twin brother and younger sister. Where there was one of the Mills children, you would always find the other two close by.

When he was fifteen, he realized he was bisexual. Chase and Heather were the first to find out, and they always supported him, eventually encouraging him to come out to their parents before he left for college and joined the military. It was a little awkward for awhile, for his parents to adjust to the news, but they never hated or exiled Tucker from the family.

After getting his bachelor’s in business, he joined the army alongside Chase. The two were actually deployed to the same base in Iraq. They had the option to request a transfer but steadfastly refused. Sadly, only Chase would be the one to come home.

A week before his death, he half-joked with his brother once they were finished with their tour, they should go on a trip to Disney World with Heather and told him about his plans to maybe move down to Florida, open up a video game bar.

He was buried in his childhood city of Raleigh, North Carolina, leaving all his belongings to Chase and Heather. In his will, he requested his brother to look after Heather and take her on a trip to Disney World.

Personality: Sarcastic, playful, a shameless flirt. He loves to joke around and have a good time with people he's fond of. He is very loyal, hardworking, and stubborn. He can be a bit impulsive, act first-think later kind of person, but he is not completely reckless.

Likes: Spicy food; Alternative rock/metal music; American football; Margaritas; 80's action movies; Star Wars; Roller coasters; Vanilla, sugary scents; Sugar cookies; Racing and fighting games.

Dislikes: People falsely taking credit for things; Keeping still; Broken promises; Red wine; Cheaters; Strong fishy smell; Artificial cherry and strawberry flavoring for medicines.

Random Headcanons: -He is the younger twin, and he is one inch shorter than Chase, much to his annoyance. He loves his brother, but the two can be a bit competitive with each other, and they're both protective of Heather. He does call her his "baby sister" only to tease her. -He has five tattoos. 1) A matching tattoo on the left side of his chest of two lion paws. 2) His first tattoo, on his upper right shoulder of a skull and crossbones he got to try and impress his first girlfriend during his freshman year of college. Later on, he added embellishments to it to make it similar to Jack Sparrow from POTC. 3) On his left side, there is a light green heart with a "H" inside and a blue star with a "C" to represent Chase and Heather. 4) "May the Force be with You" on his left thigh with a X-Wing outline. 5) "Do or do not. There is no try." on his left forearm with a lightsaber hilt. -His favorite color is black cherry red, his favorite animal is a penguin, and his favorite food is hot wings. -Although Tucker is a giant flirt, and he really enjoys flirting, he is much more selective on those he seriously dates or sleeps with. Sex is a very intimate thing for him. -He has a big sweet tooth. -He is not the best singer, but he really enjoys karaoke for the fun and will purposely pick obscure songs.

[Other established verses below cut]

MAIN-ALT VERSE

This follows the main verse save for the fact both brothers return home from their combat tours. The pair took their little sister to Disney World for vacation. He is also the one to talk Chase into them moving to Florida.

Tucker became friends with a couple of soldiers within their battalion named Alex and Cameron, both who lived in Tampa, Florida. The three friends discussed opening a bar, and Tucker honestly thought it would be a good business venture for them. Plus, Heather was getting married! Their little sister would be looked after, everything would be good...

Until one night when she called up her brothers crying. The twins had no idea their brother-in-law was abusive. But once Heather confided to her them he was, they immediately went back up to North Carolina to pick her up. Tucker almost put him through a wall, but Chase called him off. He did let him go--with one last threat that if he ever touched his sister again, not even the “Hounds of Hell will keep me from ripping you apart”.

After getting her stuff and getting her out of the house, they immediately brought Heather down to Florida. Chase’s ex Ariel had a cousin down in Florida who was a divorce attorney, who helped Heather to file the petition to divorce her husband; Tucker reached out to a couple of buddies, found out a local urgent care clinic was in need of nurses and helped Heather to get an interview.

The three live together in an apartment, along with Oreo, Heather’s puppy. He currently works both as a security guard at Heather’s clinic and as a part-time bartender, saving up for his bar.

MARVEL/MCU VERSE

He joined S.H.I.E.L.D. along with his brother after being in the army. He is a field agent, preferring something more stimulating than a desk job. He gets results, even if he is a little messy. He works best with his twin brother. Prior to moving to New York for S.H.I.E.L.D., he did threaten Heather’s ex-boyfriend with a baseball bat. He didn’t hit him with it, but he did break the headlight on the man’s car.

PACIFIC RIM VERSE

Chase and Tucker enrolled into the jaeger pilot program after being in the military, moving to Hong Kong along with their younger sister. He was co-pilots with his twin before one kaiju attack left their jaeger destroyed and Tucker with a broken back. Thankfully, he survived and recovered, but he couldn't keep up the physical demands of being a pilot, so he 'retired' and became an instructor instead. He sometimes has to use a cane for support. When Chase and Tucker first came to Hong Kong, they were in a mandatory quarantine period...that was near the harbor. Tucker grew sick of the intense fish smell after a couple of days.

[briillicnt]

he led her through the crowd, his hand wrapped around hers, keeping her close. he could hear her saying something behind him but, her voice is drowned out by the loud techno music playing around them so, he is unable to make out what she is actually saying. he felt her tug at his shirt again which caused him to stop for a moment, turning and leaning down to her so that he could hopefully gather what she is saying. “ what? did you just say you wanted to leave? “ he asked, shifting slightly forward towards her so that his mouth was near her ear again. “ do you want to leave? “ he repeated again, giving her hand a light squeeze, almost as a sign of reassurance. “ we can leave… if that’s what you want. “ he whispered into her ear, standing up straight so he can look around then, spotting the exit in the far corner. “ stay close. “ he told her, shooting her a small smile before he started leading her towards the exit.

Where had she been? Lila had been at the bartop asking for another round for herself which was probably not the best idea given her track record with drinking and how easily she could slip back into bad habits, but tonight she'd been a little anxious and the booze always smoothed everything over. At least that was the excuse. "Oh, I- I was over at th-" She started explaining and then lost her train of thought once more when she felt his breath on her cheek, and his voice in her ear. Her fingertips tightened in his. "I could use you, right now..." She replied, pulling back a little just to catch his gaze. "Yeah, f'course." Lila hummed, letting him lead as one hand stayed locked in his she walked slightly behind him, the other hand rested on his side and she grabbed his shirt slightly. "Maybe you'd wanna go soon? We could go, soon- I mean, together... just you 'n me?" She was bored of everyone but him and everyone seemed to want his attention tonight, Lila hated it. Maybe it was selfish but she just wanted a moment alone with him.. or maybe more than just one moment?

[onsunnyside]

hey just wanna ask can you pretty pls post something bout like drabble sneak peak anything related to ata ari and starlet on 9th of july 🥹🥹 this day is my birthday and i cant do anything cause half of my friends in out of country or city and my family has their own issues that cluld be a really beautiful birthday present for me ofc u dont have to but anyways i think u get the topic love you and your stories have a nice day best friend

hi bestie dearest, i'm so sorry you couldn't do anything for your birthday 🥺 please know that I'm celebrating for you all the way over here and sending you so much love and sweetness for your special day. i hope all your wishes come true !!

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 | dark!alpha!fraternity president!Ari Levinson x omega!activist!reader

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 | dark, a/b/o dynamics, assault, power imbalance, violence, misogyny (within a/b/o designations), mean!ari, manipulation, size difference, possessive behaviour, blackmail. mentioned/implied (not on reader): assault (brutal mugging), beating, injuries.

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | a snippet of A Tough Act: starlet has the lead role in a performance, but at what cost?

𝗪/𝗖 | 1.37K

𝗔/𝗡 | the masterlist isn’t posted yet, but this is from my new series set in HCV (Howard college verse). here is a special drabble for you, birthday anon. consider it also a snippet/spoiler bc this will be in the fic. it's a part I knew I wanted to write as soon as I outlined their story

You try to ignore him, strangled breaths leave your clenched teeth as you apply lipstick, gripping the tube so tightly your knuckles nearly cramp. You’re fuming, shaking with pure rage as the previous night replays in your mind. 

You didn’t witness the assault, but you watched the video of it, he made you. It kept you up for hours on end, her choked pleas, the awful snap of her leg, and the aftermath of her bloody and bruised face. A lone tear slips from your eye before you wipe it away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction or ruin the makeup that took an hour.

Your bones go rigid as he inhales. 

“How does it feel to be the star of the show?”

The lipstick drops with a clank as you spin around, jabbing a finger in his built chest. “She’s in the hospital because of you.”

“And, you have the lead part because of me.” Ari swiftly replies, blue eyes calmly meeting yours, “When are you going to realize there is no playing nice in your profession. People will step all over you to get what they want, tear you to shreds and spit on your grave. And, you’re worried about some girl?”

The thick false lashes flutter against your cheekbones as you turn away, glaring at the exact replica of your costume just in a different size that fit the other student, the phenomenal actress who rightfully deserved the lead role because of her hard work and dedication. 

Unlike you, who got it because of the terrifying news that shook the entire production. 

“You could’ve killed her.”

Ari rolls his eyes, easily pushing you back until you’re pressed against the vanity. The yellow lights illuminate your frame like the sun. He fixes your headpiece, pink lips draw into a slow smirk. “Don’t be dramatic, starlet, she’ll recover in a few weeks.”

“And probably never come back because she’s fucking scared to get mugged again!”

His reflexes are fast when he slams your raised fist into the mirror, and makeup clatters to the ground as the vanity trembles. The force could’ve cracked the glass, and that plants two seeds into your stomach, one of alarm and one of fury. 

He scowls, his eyebrows low as a dark shadow takes over his eyes. “Her fear is not my problem, and it isn’t yours either. She didn’t care about you when she stole your part—”

“She didn’t steal it.”

“Well, she didn’t deserve it any more than you did.” He slides his fingers between yours, entwining your hands. “You were so upset when you didn’t get it, did you think I’d just let her do that to you? Fuck up all your chances to make something of your life?”

Because fucking up your life was his pleasure, and no one else could take that from him. 

Perhaps you should be used to his behaviour by now, but this was far worse than the teasing, unconsented touching and borderline stalking because that was all inflicted onto you. This time he purposefully hurt someone else and traumatized them for the rest of their life. Heavy guilt sinks deep, reminding you that you brought yet another person into your stupid mess with the Arcadia president. 

“She almost lost sight in her right eye.” You spit, “If you think my career is going to be built on the suffering of an innocent girl—you’re sadly mistaken.”

“Fine then.” He breathes, he drops your hand, stepping back and crossing his arms, his biceps almost tearing the seams of his shirt. “Don’t go on stage, don’t perform the part you’ve thrived for.” His tone lowers to a growl, “See how far you’ll get by being nice.”

Your nails dent the surface of the vanity, red hot wrath burns bright within your chest. You despise him with every cell of your body. 

Ari gestures to the wide-open door, cocking his head tauntingly. “Fucking go if you aren’t grateful for my help.”

You grit your teeth and shoulder past him. When you’re one step away from the doorway, he speaks again. 

“I’m sure the Dean and the police would be curious as to why you never came forward about her assault. After all, you know exactly who did it,” He tuts, “You saw what they did, and you know why.” 

Your feet freeze as a deep thumping fills your head, pounding against your skull and shaking the rest of your body. The dressing room exit is within reach, one more step and you’ll be away from him, and hopefully, never get his cruel help again—but that was wishful thinking. 

“They’d wonder why the great omega rights activist withheld information about the brutal mugging of another helpless, young omega.” Ari appears by your side, his heady scent filling your senses as a sickness takes over, “You’d probably lose your scholarship and all credibility. Think you’ll survive with that on your record?”

You meet his eyes, neck stiff as you read his expression. One quirked brow with squinted eyes, plump lips in a relaxed smile. 

“They’ll never believe you.”

“Won’t they? It’s my word against yours. And you may be a star performer, but you’ll never have what I have—superiority. Your reputation is standing on thin glass, and something like this could shatter everything you have. And those dreams of yours—are just going to be fantasies you’ll never reach. Are you ready for that to happen?”

When you don’t reply, he steps behind you, his firm chest pressing against your back. “The door is right there,” He whispers into the side of your face, lips ghosting your skin, “along with a false sense of independence, and a future you can kiss goodbye.”  

The next few seconds feel like hours when your feet refuse to move, trapping you and your dreadful realization that he’s right. No matter how hard you tried, fought and screamed, you’d never be like him or any alpha. 

He hums pridefully, drinking in your corset-style dress that enhanced your figure, “That’s my girl. I expect a thank you tonight, baby.” 

Your name is called before one of the crew members pokes in, looking startled at the sight of the big alpha crowding your space. He stutters for a moment, wide brown eyes meeting yours, “Uh, curtains in fifteen. Mrs. Aiko wants to speak to you beforehand though.”

And just like that, you can move again. As if the presence of someone else snapped you out of whatever rotten trance Ari put you under. “Thanks, I’ll be right there.” 

The young man leaves with a forced smile and the air feels lighter. You tilt up your chin and step forward, but Ari grabs your arm and digs his fingers into your flesh when you try to shove him off. “I could’ve lost my presidency because of that whore. Don’t disappoint me out there. I’m expecting a standing ovation.” He loosens his hold, settling for bringing your knuckles to his lips, he presses a chaste kiss, lingering for a few moments too long. “Break a leg—”

You scoff at his sick humour. 

“—or don’t, I have no clue what they’d do if both their best performers were in casts lying in the hospital.” He laughs and goes to the door, placing a single red rose on the table, “We’ll be in the back row.”

He perks up at your shock, “Oh, you thought I’d come alone?” He teases, running a hand through his shoulder-length brown hair, “No, the boys love theatre, plus, they want to know if their blood-stained clothes are worth it. Steve was really upset he dirtied that Kappa hoodie from legacy.” 

You can almost hear the vile sounds of fists and feet slamming into the poor omega’s body and her broken sobs. 

Ari disappears around the corner before returning with a canvas tote bag, he sets it on the floor and you can see the familiar red and gold crescent and a few of the stitched letters on the back ‘LEVI—’

“That’s for after the show, and if you do good, we’ll celebrate back at the house and you’ll get much more than just a sweater from me.” He winks, “Best of luck, starlet. Make me proud.”

[dharma-divine]

Worth The Wait (smut)

Pairing: Josh x (Female) Reader

Word Count: 3,075

Summary: After an infinite search to find someone worth your time and body, the cute singer from the bar takes your virginity. xx

WARNINGS: 18+!! for obvious reasons

“Are you okay with this?” the curly haired boy asks as he hovers over you, his legs intertwined with yours. His features are half lit in the orange glow of your salt lamp across your room, but you can see his sincerity with the slight furrow of his brows.

You had met him, Josh, at a bar tonight, a lucky find after you were bold enough to venture out on your own. You just moved to Nashville, happy to get a fresh start right after graduating from college, and you’ve been desperate for some company. You have no friends here, having moved from the West coast where you grew up, but the adventure of creating a new name for yourself excites you. Sure, it’s getting lonely after a week of wallowing around your partially furnished apartment, but you feel a glimmer of hope that you are truly where you belong.

“Yeah, just um…” you trail, your heart thumping in your chest. “I’ve never done this before.”

You’re a virgin. You fucking hate using the word, with all of its gross generalizations and presumptions, but it’s true. Assuming the qualifications of virginity is that someone has to stick it in you, you are less than familiar, but you’re certainly no stranger to the realm of sex. You masturbate regularly, you have since you were barely a teenager, and you know the ways of your body perfectly at this point. You’re well versed in the sweet euphoria of an orgasm, and all of the ways you can achieve one. You know how to twirl your fingers perfectly against the sensitive bud of your clit, and that if you arch your back just a bit while using your favorite toy, you get that sensation deep inside you that has you seeing stars. You know the sounds of your staggered breathing and visceral shudders as you reach your peak, and how you like to curl your knees up to your chest to savor your throbbing comedowns.

You’ve learned the inner workings of your sexuality to a tee, but you have yet to find someone worthy of sharing it with. It’s not that you’re “waiting until marriage”, or any of that other bullshit you’re asked about when you feel the need to tell people that you’re a virgin. You don’t see your virginity as some sacred rose that’s meant to be gifted away, however you don’t want your first time to be careless and lackluster. You simply want to be with someone who respects you and is willing to learn you and your body, but damn, has that been hard to find.

You’ve had countless guys with their hands down your pants before, asking if you’re about to come while the whole time they’ve just been blindly fondling your inner thigh. You’ve had your head shoved to their crotches, begging to be sucked off with no exchange for your own pleasure in return. You were over the selfishness of men, and you decided you’d rather stay a virgin than fuck someone just to say that you fucked them.

You came to these conclusions back home, where your patience for men was spent, but in this new city, you have a strike of hope. That’s why your body tingled with excitement when you met Josh’s eyes in the dive bar you’re trying to become a regular at, his gorgeous smile glinting in the cascading lights. Josh had just gotten off his set on stage with his band, and you were certain you got his attention by the way you had already caught his eye contact multiple times during his performance. He was the lead singer, and his voice had the roof blowing off the small space. The group attracted quite the crowd, people pouring in halfway through their first song. He has an enigmatic voice, favoring an era decades before either of you were born. You were able to catch him right as he got off stage, though you swore he was heading in your direction anyway

“Enjoy the show?” he had asked, waving the bartender over as the band was breaking down their set.

“Absolutely, your voice is incredible,” you replied, leaning into him a bit, trying your best at flirting.

Your attempt proved successful, with him buying you a shot and inviting you to sit with him and his band, who you found are actually his brothers, or at least the guitarist and bassist are. You found them all really attractive, musicians admittedly always being your type, but you definitely favored Josh. He’s mesmerizing, his speaking voice just as charming as his singing, and you love how he speaks with his hands. You remained fixated on him the whole night, listening to his tangents and laughing at all of his jokes, even when his bandmates didn’t seem so impressed.

By the end of the night, you were both properly wasted, but not quite done with each other. That’s why, after making out in the back of an Uber over to your place, he is now in your bed, on top of you.

“Oh,” he replies to your confession, though his tone is endearing. “That’s alright, I can guide you through it. Only if you want to, though.”

“I do,” you voice promptly, perhaps sounding a bit more desperate than you would like, but you melt when he shines that million dollar smile at you when he senses your eagerness.

“Very well,” he nods, leaning down to kiss you. “I’ll start.”

He begins to move his lips down to your neck as he positions himself better, brushing your hair back as he explores the new territory. You whimper at the gentle pressure and suction, rubbing his bare chest through his partially buttoned shirt. Your hands begin to move instinctively, hastily undoing the rest of the buttons, the shirt sliding off of his shoulders.

“Not in any rush, are we?” he quips through a cheeky smile.

“Of course not,” you grin, pulling him into another kiss. “I’m just excited.”

He chuckles against your lips, reaching for the hem of your shirt as well. He gently pulls it off of you, revealing a dainty lace bra underneath. He lowers his lips back to you, his tongue sliding into your mouth as one of his hands brushes over your breasts. His touch is feather light at first, but he eventually builds up to a fervent knead as he favors your left. The pad of his finger circles over your nipple, the sensation sending an electric thrill right between your legs. He notices your rouse, his hand moving down and sliding between your clenched thighs to further the pleasure. He pulls them back open, his palm rubbing against your heat though your tight jeans.

“These were difficult to put on,” you inform as you pull away, glancing down at his wandering hand. “They’re gonna be hard to get off too.”

He slits his eyes, a devilish grin spread across his lips as he takes your claim as a challenge. He doesn’t speak, and instead swiftly moves to unbutton and pull your zipper down, before moving to kneel between your legs. He slips his fingers underneath the hem of your waist, yanking it down with the tight flex of his arms. You let out a yelp at the sudden movement of being pulled towards him, and you’re impressed to find that he managed to get the waistband down to your knees.

“Or, maybe not,” you giggle as you attempt to pull them off the rest of the way.

“Turn over,” he instructs, lifting his chin so he’s looking down on you, his eyes dark and alluring, a smirk still curving his lips.

With a feverish flutter in your chest, you do as he says, turning onto your stomach. You feel him grip the hem again, pulling it further down until each of your legs are freed, then you hear the denim hit the floor behind you.

You suck in a breath when you feel him hover over you, the bed sinking on either side with the pressure from his hands. Then one side eases, and you flinch when you feel the contact of his fingers between your legs.

A moan escapes from your lips as he traces the crevice between your folds, traveling down it until he reaches the bottom to your swollen clit. His fingers begin making tight circles directly over it, the stimulation almost too overwhelming for you. You feel a warmth seeping through your body, and your legs start to tremble a bit. You’re desperate to grab at something, his body being just barely out of reach, so you resort to tightly gripping at the sheets. You let out another guttural moan, your cheek pressed to the mattress and your eyes clamped shut.

“Good girl,” he praises, which only sends another wave of pleasure coursing through you. “You’re doing amazing.”

“F-fuck,” is all you can manage to breathe out in response.

Just as you think he’s gonna send you over the edge, you feel his fingers leave you to unclip your bra, then slide under your torso to swiftly flip you onto your back again.

Your desperate hands grab for his body, pulling him into another kiss. He tugs the straps of your bra to slide them off, and you have to let him go for a moment to free them from your arms. He takes no time to tend to your now bare breasts, his lips finding one of your nipples and sucking gently. You rake your hands through his luscious curls, looking down at him through half slit eyes. His flick up to meet yours, his fan of lashes batting slowly as his tongue swirls around you.

One hand is working at your opposite breast as he uses the other to begin undoing his own pants, and you hear the quiet zip of his fly. He then completely lets go of you, marveling at your bare chest as he pushes his waistband down.

“Do you want me to…?” you begin to ask, propping yourself on your elbows, your eyes averting to the bulge that’s peeking through his briefs.

“Don’t worry about me,” he affirms, sliding off the bed for a moment to take them the rest of the way off. “Right now is about you.”

You didn’t think a man was capable of saying such a thing. You nod, pursing your lips together as you admire his slender body. You actually want his dick in your mouth, but you assume you’ll have the chance eventually.

He leans back onto the bed, straddling his legs over yours, and to your surprise, his hand laces around your neck. His fingers flex firmly against it as he plants a kiss on your mouth, before his lips and tongue begin leaving wet splotches all the way down your body, until he reaches just below your navel. He then releases his hand to lay flat on his stomach, both of his arms wrapping around your thighs to hoist them onto his shoulders. His eyes are flaming as they stare back at you, reaching a hand down to move your lacy panties to the side. He holds eye contact as he lowers himself to you, his flat tongue lapping at your folds. Your hips buck up at the contact, and he uses a hand to press them back down to the mattress.

“Try to stay still,” he instructs, and you feel his warm breath against you. “It makes it feel better.”

You inhale deeply, trying not to writhe under his touch. He’s right; when he brings his mouth back down to you, you only slightly arch your back into the mattress instead of thrusting upwards, and the electric sensation shoots through you just like it does when you’re playing with yourself. He continues to work his tongue at you as you’re nearing your edge, and then you feel two of his fingers enter inside of you, immediately curling up to hit just the right place. He pumps in and out of you, keeping his mouth suctioned to your clit, the lewd sounds of your wetness mixing with your moans and heavy breaths.

“I want…” you whimper through closed eyes, blindly reaching for the sides of his face as colors dance behind your eyelids.

You don’t want to come yet, not until he’s inside of you, and you know how good it’s going to be after he’s already threatened your edge.

“Anything you want, mama,” he moves back up to whisper into your ear, and you feel him nip at your earlobe, a chill running through your entire body at the hint of pain.

“I want you to fuck me,” you order meekly, cupping the side of his cheek to push his face back in front of you, pressing your foreheads together.

You open your eyes to see his teeth sink into his bottom lip in a mischievous grin.

“You’re a natural at this pillow talk,” he compliments, leaning backwards and snaking a finger under the waistband of your panties.

You blush a smile, lifting your lower half off the bed for a moment to let him slide them off of you, tossing them to join your discarded jeans somewhere off the side of the bed. He takes his briefs off too to reveal his hard-on pressed to his abdomen, the head already glistening with pre-cum. You slide your tongue through your pursed lips, nearly salivating at the sight of it. You’ve never had such a positive, visceral reaction to seeing someone hard for you. Maybe it’s because he’s doing the exact opposite of what others have; he’s making you wait for it, tending to your every need first before his. Normally giving head is a chore, but now, you yearn for it. You suddenly sit up, your legs neatly folded under you, before he has the chance to move back towards you. He curiously raises an eyebrow at you.

“What are you…” he begins to ask, but stops once you fall forward onto your elbows, your ass still in the air, your face lowering to be eye level with his length. You look up at him through your lashes, your mouth agape, lifting a hand to gently wrap around his shaft.

He sucks in a breath, raking his fingers through your hair.

“You don’t have to-“

“I want to,” you interject sternly to let him know you don’t feel pressured.

You then take him into your mouth, your tongue lightly swirling around his head to taste him, before you push it all the way to the back of your throat. You feel him quiver in your mouth as you fight back your gag reflex, humming to relieve the pressure. You’re only able to travel up and down the length of him a few times before you feel his grip tighten in your hair, pulling slightly to signal you to come back up to face him.

You do as he instructs, lifting yourself from him and sitting back up.

“Lay down on the pillow again, princess,” he tells you, wrapping an arm around you to guide you back.

You nestle yourself comfortably as he steps off the bed for a moment, rustling with his jeans on the floor and pulling out his wallet. He slips out the silver packet of a condom and leans back onto the bed, ripping it open with his teeth before tossing the wallet back on the floor. You admire the soft curves his back as he faces away from you to roll it on, before turning back around and climbing over you.

“Are you ready?” he asks, and you nod eagerly.

“Yes, definitely.”

You take a deep breath, wincing a bit at the slight burn as he slowly slides himself in. It’s not the most pleasant at first, but he’s warmed up enough to where it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as you’ve heard it could. He kisses you as he builds up a rhythm, your harmony of breaths and curses filling the room. You don’t think you’ll get close to coming again until he slides two fingers into your mouth, and you taste yourself lingering on them still. He slides them past your lips slowly, before moving them down to find your clit.

“You feel so good,” he smiles, swirling his wet fingers against you as he builds his momentum.

The feeling of him deep inside of you, now mixed with the electricity of his fingertips has your head dizzy with stars, and you feel the delicious sensation begin to build up inside you again.

“Are you gonna come?” he asks, and for the first time, you can answer positively.

“Yes, please keep going,” you plead, the uncomfortable burn now completely dissipated, and you revel in the intimacy of your bodies connected.

“I am too,” he breathes, the steady rhythm he was building beginning to fall apart.

Seconds later, you feel your peak rush over you, your stomach clenching with each intense shudder. He joins soon after, his forehead falling against your shoulder as he rides his climax.

“Holy fuck,” he moans, turning his head to kiss your neck. He then collapses to the side of you, grabbing for one of your hands and lacing his fingers through yours as both of your breathings settle.

“Thank you,” you say once you emerge from your daze, turning to your side to nuzzle your head against his chest. “That was amazing.”

“I’m glad I could make it worth the wait,” he replies, his chest vibrating against the side of your face.

“Let me clean up real quick, then we can get back to this,” he says just as you feel yourself dozing off.

He rolls off the bed and shows himself to your restroom that’s peeking from the hallway, switching on the light and gently shutting the door behind him.

You let out a relaxed sigh, closing your eyes and relaying the journey to this moment. You feel grateful for finding someone so considerate and willing to make your first time worth it.

You’re drifting from consciousness when you feel Josh crawl back into bed, wrapping an arm under you and pulling you back to him.

“Goodnight, love,” he whispers, his voice deep with sleepiness. “You were great. Let’s do this again sometime, I have more to show you.”

You sleepily lift a hand to reach over and rustle his soft curls with your fingertips.

“Absolutely,” you agree, just before you finally lull to sleep.

[darkandstormyart]

Xicheng fic recs

(figured i might make a list of my own)

(to be expanded as i dig out more treasure/remember stuff)

in no particular order:

Deep as the Yearning Night by FreckledStarKnight

“At first, it was pure chance. The second time was accidental. And the third time? Well, they say the third time’s the charm, after all. Lan Xichen discovers that Jiang Wanyin sings beautifully and is immediately enamored by it. His pursuit of Jiang Wanyin’s secret talent leads to a discovery and a series of events that he did not anticipate at all. Not that he’s complaining, of course. He got what he came for and more. Or, how two sect leaders get together through the song called love. CQL-verse.“

post-seclusion lxc

trying to get jc to sing

bonus lxc & jin ling feels i hadn’t considered before

cute

Always use protection by hesselives

“In which Lan Wangji attempts to hire a new bodyguard for his older brother, a well-known traveling exorcist. Jiang Wanyin doesn’t even make his carefully considered list of Top Ten Candidates, and yet here he is.

Lots of wandering in the countryside, distant yelling, and mildly inconvenient spirits.”

bodyguard au

honestly just really intersting worldbuilding

Rewrite the stars by Arashii

“Five great kingdoms have been fighting for years and when the kingdom of Yunmeng is destroyed, the Crown Prince Jiang Cheng vanishes.In Gusu, Lan Xichen makes an offer impossible for Jiang Cheng to refuse. His life or revenge? There’s only one option and Jiang Cheng swears loyalty to the man he hated the most his whole life, the Crown Prince of Gusu, Lan Xichen himself.Written for XiChengFest2020 - Day 4“

ROYALTY AU ROYALTY AU

enemies to lovers!

flashbacks! i love flashbacks so much ohmygod

No paths are bound by Arashii

“In seclusion, Lan Huan has the support of a ghost no one has seen since the massacre of Yunmeng Jiang. His feelings start changing with the often visits and conversations they share. Before Lan Huan can confess though, he ascends, leaving everything and everyone behind him.

Two hundred years later, back to the Human Realm and without powers, the Martial God Zewu-Jun has a mission to uphold. His Heavenly Calamity started. The clues are little and the support comes in the most unexpected form, the current Ghost King: Sandu Shengshou. Now they need to stick together to contain a menace that is slowly growing.“

TGCF AU TGCF AU

ghost king jiang cheng come on

doesn’t follow tgcf plot, just the setup so no spoilers

jiang cheng gets the dogs and the xichen he deserves

once upon a dream by cafedeolla

“Xicheng soulmate AU

An au where your dreams are small snippets of your soulmate’s day. They’d show small things like buying coffee, reading a book, or hanging out with people from their perspective.

The problem was that people always have expectations and Jiang Cheng knows he always falls short of them. Time and time again.“

soulmate au, but being soulmates is more a problem than a solution

misunderstandingssss all over the place

now with a squel (in progress?)

Lan Furen series by jagaimocchi

“Jiang Cheng leaves Lotus Pier before the Wen Internment Camp and before the destruction of his home. When he meets Lan Xichen on the run from the Wens after the burning of Cloud Recesses, his plan to live a peaceful life away from cultivation sects is quickly derailed. Now, free to make his own choices, he cannot find it in himself to leave the other man's side.

With love, patience and time, Jiang Cheng finds his own happiness and peace with his past.“

have you ever wanted a fic where jiang cheng peaces out from home in search for a better life, bc he’s Had Enough??? jags got you covered

adorable xicheng

good uncle-dad-figure Lan Qiren

ongoing <3

Just around the riverbend by JungleJelly

“One day.

Jiang Cheng just wanted one day of peace and quiet, away from home, away from his responsibilities, away from his idiot brother and his nutcases of a mother and father. Just a few hours alone — him and a boat and nothing else.

Clearly, that was too much to ask for.”

now with a new story in the series which is adorable too!!!

mermaid!lxc need i say more?

Bad ideas (where they lead) by JungleJelly

“Jiang Cheng is a busy man. Fortunately, he is also a huge pushover when it comes to his sister, so when she recommends that he start doing yoga, he agrees pretty easily.Featuring Lan Xichen in yoga pants, Jiang Cheng’s inability to handle a crush, and, perhaps most importantly, a big fluffy dog.“

done for 2020 MXTX MiniBang

yoga instructor Lan Xichen

Jiang Cheng is: struggling with a crush on the yoga guy from youtube & very angry about that

If there’s a price for rotten judgement by TheWanderingHeart

“All Jiang Cheng wants to do is, well... his job, really. Other than that? Keep the city safe, keep his nephew alive, keep his sanity intact (if possible).

So when his brother calls with unexpected news, he knows all of that is about to fly out of the window.

***

[Every instinct is telling him don’t ask, you don’t want to know. By this point, Nie HuaiSang has scooted closer to listen. Jiang Cheng takes a steadying breath and pulls out his antacids. “What did you do?”]”

superhero au, come on

jc just trying to do his job in peace

(he can’t)

i love it so much oh my god *sobs*

The Form of Boneless Ice by TheWanderingHeart

“Mythical beasts have long ago been driven to extinction by the gentry — hunted for sport, but more importantly for their magical cores. Since then, there remains only one creature that has never been caught. The Jiang’s retreated a long time ago. Abandoning land altogether, they sought safety where the humans could not reach.It all comes to a head though, purely by chance. (Or is it by fate that a spontaneous decision allows for them to meet? If fate were a rock!) Jiang Cheng suddenly finds his whole life balanced on the head of a pin — on the flimsy promise of a human boy. In his opinion, things cannot possibly get worse!(But then they do when the Wens decide it’s finally time to search for the elusive merpeople, and suddenly nowhere is safe.)“

there she goes again, with another beautiful xicheng story full of awwww and mythology

actually one of the first xicheng fics i read

i chose it because there were mermaids

painfully accurate takes on Jiang family dynamics

kids! lots of kids!

Let me Slytherin to Your Heart by TheWanderingHeart

“Jiang Cheng never thought he'd return to Hogwarts, but in hindsight, he probably should have known that someday he would.With his nephew about to start school, he reluctantly takes his good friend's bad parenting? career? advice and ends up tumbling head-first back into the madness that he hoped he'd left behind... and rediscovering some feelings he thought he'd left behind too.“

Harry Potter au!

just really fecking cute

lots of snakes

[I am not going to link all of Jo’s fics, though I probably could, just my 3 favourites. UOSB is there by default]

Talent Hunt Crew Finds Angry Guy Shouting On College Campus, Recruits Him For Vocal Projection Abilities by oh_fudgecakes

“Jiang Cheng, resident Angry Guy and heir to a conglomerate empire, has never been the apple of his father’s eye. Quashed under the shadow of his brilliant brother, the music prodigy Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng sees his chance to turn things around when he is recruited by the All-Stars Lan Talent Hunt. One problem: he can’t sing to save his goddamn life.As he struggles to develop his nascent singing abilities, Jiang Cheng finds himself sucked into the whirlwind drama of reality TV, helped along by his adoring siblings, his irritable vocal coach Wen Qing, and strangely enough, the unfairly attractive host of the All-Stars Lan Talent Hunt, Lan Xichen. Somewhere in the glare of the stage lights and an unexpected first love, Jiang Cheng stumbles upon the thing he was searching for all along: the courage to dream — and to attempt the impossible.“

done for 2019 MXTX Big Bang

uuuuuuuuuuh i might have cried maybe

heartwarming? painful at times? lots of family love?

slowburn xicheng being lovely

The Provenence of Hope series by velithya

“A chance meeting on a night hunt sets a course of events into motion that will change everything. Featuring Xicheng getting together, recovery for Lan Xichen, healing for Jiang Cheng, and always, always, hope.“

got everything. feels. hope. love. ~~healing~~

A Small Measure of Peace by Sandstone112

“With his brother in seclusion, Lan Xichen finds himself in temporary custody of his nephew with little to no expertise in the child-raising department. Uncertain and alone, Zewu-Jun is willing to do everything to be the person Yuan needs—even if it means inviting Sandu Shengshou to a playdate.“

a loooot of adorable family times with jc and lxc taking care of their nephews

good grandpa lqr!

canon but fixed and less painful

🍋🍋🍋🍋🍋if you wish to avoid scurvy:🍋🍋🍋🍋🍋

Some day I’m gonna make you mine series by locketofyourhair

xicheng getting together through the years

friends with benefits but the real benefits are the friends we made along the way

Take me over (take me tonight) by velithya

jiang cheng has a tattoo and lan xichen doesn’t stand a chance

i'd be the sweet feeling of release (mankind now dreams of) by piyo13

two bros, chilling in a cave, no feet apart because they don’t want to lose their cultivation powers what are you gonna do

haven’t read yet and shame on me, but AM GONNA:

Upon Our Silver Bridge by TheWanderingHeart obviously

““When the path ignites a soul, there's no remaining in place. The foot touches ground, but not for long.” ― Hakim Sanai

**

Lan Xichen's sorrows have caught the attention of something. Unlike the adventures and foes they have faced before, there is no obvious enemy here to defeat. If this is the same thing they thought had taken Nie Mingjue's life, then he believes it is fated for him to die as well. Nothing can stop the black fire when it wants to burn.Jiang Cheng is sure his part in this is over. Wei Wuxian is back, his grand adventure concluded, and he'd never been at the centre of it anyway. So what does it matter what happens to him in the end? Slowly, he will come to realise that there will always be a battle to fight, a story to tell, a choice to make, and there is no such thing as an end to anything.“

it was difficult to do things in 2020 and few i regret not doing more than not reading uosb yet :’(

i will tho

Emergency Help Wanted by piyo13

“EMERGENCY HELP WANTED I lied when I got my job. I told them I had a kid so I could leave early from work to pick him up from daycare, take him to doctor's appointments, and occasionally miss a day when he's sick. Long story short, I'm in too deep. I didn't think it through. Looking to rent a kid for bring your child to work day. Must be a boy ages four to six, longish dark hair, likes soccer. Must also be artistic as the macaroni noodle paintings I made seem a little advanced for his age. Also, I will pay extra for someone willing to play the role of husband when dropping him off. He's a prosecuting attorney who often brings his work home. Message me for further details. Serious inquiries only.“

Running Our Hands Through Embers by MarvelousMar

“If asked, Jiang Cheng would compare falling in love with Lan Xichen to a moth inevitably drawn to a flame.It burned.***In which Jiang Cheng discovers that even death can't help him escape from his trauma, so he embarks on a quest to save the people he loves, fix what he can, make the love of his life fall for him, and maybe, somewhere along the way, do a little bit of healing.”

The Beginner’s Guide to Moving On by InvincibleMel

gone from ao3, but i think there’s a link with a pdf going around

[welllpthisishappening]

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

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

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

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

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

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

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

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

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

So, she’s alone.

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

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

Except—

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

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

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

She nearly falls out of her chair.

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

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

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

The reporter grimaces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

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

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

David—something.

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

Emma hates statistics.

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

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

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

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

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

Who does not need telling more than once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still.

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

Someone, more like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

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

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

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

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they become—

Baseball people.

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

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

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

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

Neither thing happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

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

He nods.

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

She dances when she wins, though.

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

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

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

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

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

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

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

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

Killian hates capitalism, too.

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

Emma laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Killian. Not Kristoff.

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

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

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

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

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

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

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His t-shirt.

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

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

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

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

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

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

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

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

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

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

Sort of is a vast understatement.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

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

Plus, ten more after that.

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

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

She gets better. He gets better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In an athletic sort of way.

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

One of his knees cracks.

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

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

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

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

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

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

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

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

They postpone the Olympics.

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

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

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

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She can’t stop watching him.

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

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

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

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

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

God, that’s romantic.

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

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

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

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

Killian nearly snarls.

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

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

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

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

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

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

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

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

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

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

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

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

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

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

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

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

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

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

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

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

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

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

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

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

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

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

Emma frames it.

[bessmrvin]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑   𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐓

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬.

NAME   :   elizabeth ‘ bess ’ mildred cai marvin

NICKNAME   :  bess, ol’ bessie, marv

ALIAS(S)   :   magpie

GENDER   :   female

SIZE:   5′5″  

AGE   :   verse-dependent, eighteen +

ZODIAC   :      cancer

SPOKEN   LANGUAGES   :   english   ,  japanese (conversational, but it sounds very american), vietnamese (learning)

𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥   𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬.

HAIR   COLOR   :   black, has had it dyed blonde for many years.

EYE   COLOR   :   dark brown

SKIN   TONE   :   tan

BODY   TYPE   :   curvy, pear body type; her weight is in her hips, breasts, and tummy. appears mid-size, size 14-16. hourglass shape with a tummy.

VOICE   :     her voice is feminine and clear with a bit of vocal fry. [LINK]

DOMINANT   HAND   :   right

POSTURE   : she is actually quite neutral when it comes to her posture; she isn’t overly straight-backed or slumped.

SCARS   :   has a large scar on her left arm from falling onto a rock during the ‘ransom of the seven ships’ case,

TATTOOS   :   none ; wants a very pinterest-y, early 2010s tattoo

BIRTHMARKS   :   some freckles across her face, a beauty mark mole by her eye.

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝.

PLACE   OF   BIRTH   :   ho chi minh city, vietnam 

HOMETOWN   :   river heights, illinois

SIBLINGS   :   none

PARENTS   :  linda marvin (adoptive mother), paul marvin (adoptive father)

𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭   𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞.

OCCUPATION   :  verse dependent ; college student / beauty salesgirl / amateur detective

CURRENT   RESIDENCE(S)   :   verse dependent; river heights, illinois ; bayport, massachusetts ; other

CLOSE   FRIENDS   :  nancy drew, george fayne, ned nickerson, joe hardy, frank hardy,

RELATIONSHIP   STATUS   verse dependent, typically she is always in love or in a relationship or dating or pining. she loves love.

FINANCIAL   STATUS   :   upper middle class

DRIVER’S   LICENSE   :   yes!

CRIMINAL   RECORD   :   debatable; is on records for aiding nancy, but hasn’t been charged for anything.

VICES   :   ice cream, cute men, boy band merch

𝐬𝐞𝐱   &   𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.

SEXUAL   ORIENTATION   :   closeted bisexual

PREFERRED   EMOTIONAL   ROLE   :   caretaker

PREFERRED   SEXUAL   ROLE   :   submissive / pillow princess

TURN   ONS   :   emotionally   /   personality-wise: dreamy, funny, accepts her, indulges her wild stories/fantasies, protective, when they cook for her physically: sometimes her physical likes conflict; it can confuse her. she likes pretty vibes but also uber masculine vibes, tattoos, piercings bigger/taller than her, blue eyes, deep voice, dyed hair, plump lips and strong jaws.

TURN   OFFS   :   talking over her, fatshaming her, mean comments, cheaters,

LOVE   LANGUAGE   :  acts of service (giving) , quality time (giving/receiving), gift giving (reveiving).

RELATIONSHIP   TENDENCIES   :   unreliable. she falls in and out love like breathing. she has had too many relationships to count. she loves love. she loves like a star burning out, passionately and all encompassing until like a flash shes onto her next crush. she is easily bored and needs a lot of excitement to maintain a relationship’s spark. commitment scares her as well - if she in a relationship and her partner expresses moving forward in a way that she doesnt feel ready for she’ll clam up and more often than not that feeling leads to her ending the relationship sooner rather than later.

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬.

CHARACTER’S   THEME   SONG   : the feels / tw.ice [LINK]

MENTAL   ILLNESSES   :  n/a, undiagnosed general anxiety disorder

PHOBIAS   :   phobia of the night (always needs a light on or a nightlight)

SELF   CONFIDENCE   LEVEL   :   9/10  

tagged   by   : stole it

tagging   :   @shaggee , @interxstitial ,  @roshale​ , @imperfectluv​  ,  @robinbckley​

[briillicnt]

" looks like this will take a while, huh? " he's not really speaking to anyone in particular, if anything he's talking to himself like he usually did in situations like this. he wasn't really the type that enjoyed being locked away in silence forever. nor was he the type that liked waiting. he sat back in his seat, and pressed the back of his head against the wall behind him, waiting for the receptionist to call him in.

@exquisitexagony liked for a small starter.

[theartoflovingthomashunt]

specifically for your hollywood u verse- what kind of films did alex make/star in while she was attending college? what was her senior thesis film?

and what kind of films do you think hunt made when he was in college?

Thanks so much for the ask! 💛

With Alex's sunshine, bubbly personality she was cast in a lot of romantic lead roles as the girl next door type or the country to city girl while attending college. She had fun with them and liked that they always had a happy ending. However, she definitely felt unfulfilled and wanted something with more depth and heart.

I think her senior thesis film would either be a film that raises awareness of a social issue through the plot's narrative and the genuine and heartfelt acting... or a short aesthetic film on coffee (no words, just shots of coffee brewing, mixing milk in coffee, steam coming off of the hot cup, aka satisfying images related to coffee... ending with her taking a sip of coffee and a satisfied mmm, close up on her lips smiling).

But the second one might just be for fun to see how Hunt reacts when he finds out she wasted her time making a film about coffee. Though he'll be impressed with the film's composition and how well it actually came out.

Thomas has always and will always be pretentious and a film snob. He made artsy films with interesting camera angles, lighting, tones, subjects. He was very concerned with his mise-en-scène and carefully and painstakingly crafted each frame of his films. Students and actors who worked on his films hated how meticulous he was and how he treated each project like the next Citizen Kane!

I also headcanon that Thomas spent hours studying Orson Welles so you can definitely see Welles' influence on him, especially his early work, until he finds his rhythm and becomes a famed director in his own right.

Thomas definitely made films that he felt mattered. Nothing fluffy. No blockbusters or big hits. Nothing that relied on CGI or any kind of graphic editing. Everything in his films was genuine and authentic. He wanted to tell stories that had heart while making films that were visually stimulating and pushed what was normal.