#and also maybe bringing Toffee back more near the end

[olden-towne]

Star vs the Forces of Evil could have been so much more interesting, were it not the way it was, but was a different way instead.

#svtfoe #star vs the forces of evil #I just think it would have been neat if Meteora had carried some miss heinous with her through her realization #and been sort of a monster assimilationist #because you can very easily see that thats what St Olga's is #her perpetuating the abuse and trauma she was put through as a kid to make her conform #I feel like they could have done more with that #maybe that conformity gives her a feeling of entitlement #''after all I went through to be accepted by your society why won't you accept me as your queen?'' #instead of her just being a big monster to battle #and also maybe bringing Toffee back more near the end #not like diegetically but having his presence be felt a little more than Star saying ''damn guess he was right woops'' at the very end #also I love Eclipsa and a bit more moral complexity with her could have been fun #also I hate Ludo #thats not like a suggestion #im just putting that out there

[awesomerextyphoon]

Home for Christmas

This is my first entry for the wonderful @navybrat817​, @stargazingfangirl18​, and @donutloverxo​’s Happy Hoelidays Challenge!

Pairing: Chubby!Bucky x Black!Reader (Fem)

Summary: You got screwed this holiday season. Thankfully, someone decided to give you a break.

Rating: 18+/Explicit

Word Count: 2,211

Warning: Unprotected Smut (wrap it before you tap it!), Oral (f and m receiving), Fluff, Angst, Talks of Anxiety

A/N:  Not gonna lie, I feel a little intimidated by all of the amazing writers participating. So let me throw my hat into the ring, so to speak. Dividers are by the lovely @firefly-graphics​. Check them out!

Back to Masterlist

“You have until the end of the month.”

“Okay, thanks.” You could barely keep your voice together you were so distraught.

You lost your job and your apartment all in the same week. You had used up most of your savings paying your grandmother’s medical bills. Your anxiety had gone through the roof since you got the pink slip yesterday. Now, six weeks till Christmas, you have to ask (beg) your friends if you can couch surf until you can get back on your feet.

You told your therapist that your anxiety had spiked to uncomfortable levels. You could barely sleep at night and you’ve had trouble concentrating on simple tasks. It felt like the world was closing in and you were helpless to stop it.

You hoped that something would give.

  Bucky was coming back from an outing with Sam when he spotted you fumbling with your keys with tears streaming down your face.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Startled, you swiveled your head, “Oh Bucky! How are you?”

“I’m fine. So, do you want to talk?”

Your lower lip quivered and the dam broke,” I lost my job yesterday, all my savings went to my aunt’s medical bills, and my landlord said I have to leave at end of the month!” you sobbed as Bucky pulled you in for a hug.

“Shh, it’s okay.” Bucky cooed as he rubbed circles onto your back.

“It’s not, but thanks.” you choked out trying to compose yourself.

It would seem that fate thought it right to mock him today. Brock got another compliment for his work and the love of his life was about to be on the streets.

Though Bucky shouldn’t be surprised that you knew next to nothing about his feelings with him being too cowardly to tell you. They first came ten months ago at a get-together Sam roped him into attending. He was enraptured by your kindness and sharp wit, plus it didn’t hurt that you were breathtakingly beautiful and your cookies were heavenly. The two of you quickly became friends going to movies, museums, and adult arcades. You were exceedingly kind and understanding even when Bucky showed you his prosthetic arm.

He wanted to go further, but he didn’t want to ruin his friendship with you.

Though, maybe…

“I was wondering, would you like to stay at my apartment ‘til you get back on your feet? It has three bedrooms and two bathrooms so you won’t be ‘invading or unwelcome’. I know you’re thinking about it.”

“But what about the re-”

“No. It’s fine. You said it yourself. You need to rest and regroup.” He was going to be fine, he was the CTO of SHIELD Inc. Both Steve and Sam have stated that he should move to a condo or a penthouse, but he’s glad that he never listened.

You nodded your head and sighed,” Okay.”

Bucky grinned, “Good. Though it’s not for free. Your payment will be in your ‘out of this world’ cooking.”

You giggled, “It’s a deal!”

  You moved in three days later. It was delightful to not have the threat of financial instability peering over your shoulder.

It didn’t take long for you to settle into a routine. You woke up around 7 AM, did some exercises and meditation, made breakfast, had a nice conversation w/Bucky, did some job searching, researched different recipes to try out, baked some desserts for Bucky to share with his team, cook dinner, had a nice chat w/Bucky over dinner and wine, and Bucky would do clean up with a movie.

Both Bucky and your therapist noticed your dramatic increase in your mental and emotional health.

Your aunt noticed how serene you looked when finally had the chance to visit her. She also teased you about Bucky and how cute the two of you would look.

You deflected your aunt in good jest, but she was not wrong. You had started to see Bucky in a new light. He was devastatingly handsome, sexy even. He was tall (6’3” / 1.9m), broad shoulders and muscular arms that you always loved to be enveloped in, eyes like the Mediterranean after a storm, luxurious dark Chestnut brown that was delightful to the touch, and a soft, protruding belly that was perfect for cuddling (though Bucky was insecure about it though). He was your own giant teddy bear who you would love to love (and fuck).

Maybe the two of you could be something more.

  “You have to tell her, Buck.”

Bucky groaned internally at yet another one of Steve’s interventions. He hasn’t been able to focus at work since you’ve moved in with him. Sam was constantly calling him out on it, and now Steve has weighed in on the issue.

“C’mon, you need to let her know how you feel. Otherwise, you’re taking advantage of her spectacular cooking and baking skills.” Sam exclaimed while biting into a Levain Style Toffee Crunch Cookie.

Bucky knew that he should say something. He was planning on telling you on Christmas Eve about the gift he bought you last week.

Now, all he needed was courage.

“She probably feels the same way, Bucky. There’s no way she would’ve stayed with you this long if she didn’t like you.” Sam added while going for his third Salted Caramel Brownie.

“I know. It’s just that she deserves someone better.”

Steve scoffed, “For fuck’s sake, man! You are smart, caring, and funny! Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have a lot to offer!”

Bucky gave Steve a smile, “Thanks, Stevie.”

“Sure. Now move over, I want some of those brownies.”

  Christmas Eve dinner was going well.

You were able to visit your aunt two days prior to which she teased you about Bucky yet again. You didn’t dare to bring up the sex dreams and times you masturbated in the shower wishing it was Bucky giving you such sensations.

You were biting into your teriyaki-glazed salmon when Bucky cleared his throat, “What’s wrong?” you asked.

“I’ve been such a coward,” Bucky uttered.

You put down your utensils, “Bucky-”

“No. I-I love you.”

What?

“I’ve loved you since that get together ten months ago,” You smiled at the memory,” I saw this kind, funny, beautiful woman who was amazing and was willing to put up with a loser like me. I know that I’m not in your league-”

You stood up,” Bucky, you’re not a coward and you’re not a loser. You have been nothing but kind and understanding this last few weeks. You let me stay with you when I was barely hanging on financially. You’ve respected my space without expecting anything in return. I know I’m not the best roommate, but-”

You were cut off by Bucky enveloping you in a tight hug, “Thank you,” he breathed.

Glancing up at him, you whispered, “I love you too.”

Bucky gathered his courage and captured your lips in a searing kiss. The kiss sent a bolt of electricity throughout your body. After a few moments, you pulled away and licked your lips in excitement.

“May I kiss you again?”

“Please.”

  The two of you were a tangled mess of limbs once you reached his bedroom. Bucky ripped off your top and chuckled at your attempt to cover yourself,” You have nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart.”

You backed onto the bed with a grin, unable to hide your giddiness as Bucky’s eyes darkened with lust and the look on his face was not unlike that of an apex predator.

Bucky took things slow, wanting to savor this moment. He worked you from top to bottom at an agonizingly slow pace. Soft, open-mouthed kisses marked his path smirking in pride at the sound of your moaning and squirming with each caress.

“Bucky please,” you begged as Bucky made his way to your chest.

Bucky tutted in response, “Let me adore you, love,” as he covered your breasts with hickeys, pinching and sucking your nipples, relishing the sounds of your moaning and mewling. He smirked at your praises as he made his way to your stomach.

He made sure to give your midsection extra love and care, “Utter perfection,” Bucky murmured as he kissed a stretch mark near your hipbone. Your heart soared at the declaration. You’ve never had a partner who complimented you let alone give you the time of day let alone a partner who actually put your needs first.

And in such a delicious manner.

Bucky was about to go in on your thighs when you stopped him,” Please, let me,” you panted as you got off the bed and undid his belt. You bit your lower lip once you got back his boxers.

He was a lot bigger than you thought.

“You sure about this, doll?” Bucky asked amusedly taking in your raised eyebrows and a sly grin.

Nodding eagerly, you laid your head in his awaiting lap and gave his dick an open-mouthed kiss followed by a long, slow lick to his weeping tip.

You were careful not to go too deep, not wanting a repeat of that one Spring Break. “Fuck, doll,” Bucky praised as you worked his dick like a lollipop. You alternated between playing with his balls and sucking on what you could fit in your mouth.

Bucky bellowed when you lightly scraped him with your teeth. He never thought that someone like you would give him the time of day. Ever since Bucky left the Army, it seemed that no one would even look at him, even before they knew about the prosthetic left arm. He was about to give up all hope of finding anyone who accepts him when you came into his life. You were his light, but you were not afraid to be imperfect. He could be vulnerable with you in a way that he has never been with anyone, even Stevie.

You continued your ministrations for a couple more minutes until Bucky gently tugged your hair, “Sorry doll, I won’t make it if keep workin’ me like this, and I want to give you my first gift this evening.”

You pouted but relented as Bucky motioned you back to the bed. You parted your legs and moaned when Bucky gave your slit a long, slow lick after kissing and nipping your inner thighs.

“Better than any baked good. Fuck! I could get addicted to this!” You giggled at the statement loving the praise.

Bucky attacked your folds with a masterfully executed battle plan. He switched between licking and sucking your clit with insane precision, scissoring your folds with his thick fingers (sometimes metal ones), and playing with your juices.

You were on Cloud Nine. Each of his movements sent wave after wave of euphoria throughout your body. Bucky’s tongue and fingers made your hair stand on end and bolts of electricity shot through your veins and danced along your skin. You grabbed a fistful of his luxurious hair and arched your back towards him.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” Bucky rumbled.

The dam broke.

“Bucky!” you shouted as Bucky lapped up your juices and crawled up to caress your face.

“You sure you want this, doll?” Bucky asked.

“Please Bucky,” You begged as he pushed himself into you inch by inch pausing once he filled you.

“So fucking tight!” Bucky breathed huskily.

“Bucky. I. Need. You.” You murmured between kisses to his neck and jaw. He started out at a slow pace, making sure you were used to his size but he intensified his thrusts once you began moaning in pleasure and begged him to go harder.

Each thrust hit you just right, sending you higher and higher, but Bucky made sure not to send you over the edge (not yet). He decided to add to your sweet, sweet torture by kissing your neck, shoulders, and collarbone. You didn’t know how much you could take, but at the same time, you didn’t want to end.

Thankfully, Bucky heard your mental pleas. He worked your clit and you came with another shout as he nipped the juncture between your neck and collarbone. Bucky came soon after with a primal roar.

Laying on Bucky’s bed and looking out the window, you saw a thick yet gentle snowfall. You were about to make a nice (if not a little snarky) Christmas remark when you felt a weight on your chest. Casting your eyes downward you found a silver snowflake on a thick silver chain with sapphires in the middle and on each of its six points. It was beautiful.

You nearly swiveled your head in shock. “Bucky you di-”

Bucky caressed your cheek and kissed you, “You’ve been so kind to me since we’ve met and I wanted to give you something as wonderful as you.”

“Well, since you put that way. I guess you’ll have to wait until tomorrow for your present.” you teased.

Bucky snaked his right arm around your midsection, “It might not be ‘til Noon at best. I’m gonna need another round.” he crooned as he kissed your neck.

Part of you wondered what the hell all those people were thinking when they didn’t give Bucky a second glance. Well, it matters not. Bucky was yours and you would be damned before you let him go.

Taglist: @giorno-plays-piano​ @lookiamtrying​ @jtargaryen18​ @sapphirescrolls​ @jobean12-blog​ @sweeterthanthis​ @gotnofucks​ @mculibrary​ @saiyanprincessswanie​ @golden-ariess​ @navegandoaciegas​ @stargazingfangirl18​ @opheliadawnwalker3​ @tilltheendwilliwrite​ @imanuglywombat​ @bucky-the-thigh-slayer​ @navybrat817​ @anyatheladyclown​ @buckysbunny​ @nacho-bucky​ @donutloverxo​ @stephanieromanoff​ @threeminutesoflife​ @angrybirdcr​ @angrythingstarlight​ @chixkencxrry​ @hurricanerin​ @marvelfansworld @the-soulofdevil​ @captain--barnes​ @drabblewithfrannybarnes​ @thebanprincess​ @winteralpine​ @leslie2898​ @buttercandy16​ @propertyofpoeandbucky​ @hevans-angel

#chubby!bucky #bucky x black!reader #bucky x reader #chubby!bucky x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes smut #mcu #mcu imagine #marvel fanfiction #mcu au #marvel au #black fanfiction #happyhoelidays2020 #happy hoelidays #holiday smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky fic #bucky x y/n #mcu fanfiction #mcu smut #marvel smut

[thefateseries-ts4]

See their debut here at Chapter 1

Give the transcript a chance, I enjoyed writing it.

It was a busy day at Langley's house, the elf who Toffee Ricci just killed. Authorities swarmed the outside of the house and local reporters were already doing live reports on tv. Meanwhile, inside the forensics team, along with a few of the local police were inside. Slage Hassen, an SBI agent, were assigned the case. It was not just Langley who had met an unfortunate death. There were others like him not just in Brindleton Bay but also in Willow Creek and Del Sol Valley.

Red McGill, a werewolf in disguise, was also here gathering evidence with his team. And there were more than enough evidence here that might prove the identity of the killer. The problem is they both know who it was.

Langley's body was covered with a white sheet and walls near him was covered in his own blood. Seeing the trajectory, it's easy to assume that he was bashed a couple of times in the head. And his DNA was all over the place. But—Red thought—the guys back at the lab would have a hard time identifying Langley as a human since he's an elf.

He glanced over to Slage who was standing on the balcony. He seemed to be enjoying the view.

In the vampire's mind he thought, 'Someone died but let's admit that this scene and air is refreshing.'

Red came over to him, "Man, I'm so glad I'm not on Toffee's bad side."

"Let's agree that at least he respects that we're either his equals or just some people who had been in the system as long as him. "

All three of them, Toffee, Red, and Slage were Lackey of mythological gods and right now what they're doing is just their day job.

"It's just so unfair that we knew it's him but we can't pin it on him."

"That's the justice system, Red. And what makes you think they're just going to arrest a prized Lackey like him?"

It's true with Toffee's vampire skills and alchemic powers, other gods wanted him to be their right -hand man, and sometimes they fight Cthulu for that and they end—well—defeated, sometimes dead.

"Dude, do you think he finally went nuts? What he pulled off in '74 has finally caught up with him?"

Red was talking about the time when Toffe had put Natalia Mayari inside a temple after poisoning her, dampening her witch powers. Both Red and Slage knew it was because of Sebastian Leinth. The other vampire had seduced Toffee's fiancée when everybody thought he was dead. Then he came back and found out about them. [Full chapter will be revealed in Book 4: Fabrics of Fate]

"He'd done much more than that before we even met him back in the thirties more or less in the 18th century." [Chapters will be revealed in Book 2: Wheels of Fate prequel sequel]

"Oh yeah, you better tell me the whole story when you saw him at the gulag when you visited the half-blood camp at that time. Is it still around?"

"The gods never stopped hunting bloodline like his, and never stopped imprisoning them. They're one of a kind. Half-god, half-creature. They're afraid they might bring an end to their kind. Yes, it's still around."

"Oh! That gave me an idea. Maybe he did went off the rails this time because of his lineage or maybe that's what he's trying to do."

"Hm?"

As we said in the early chapters, Vincent 'Toffee' Ricci, was a vampire but he was also half-god since his mother was the vessel of a snake goddess. That's everybody called him Snake, not just because of his eyes but his lineage.

Slage considered what his friend had said and soon dismissed the thought. There were a lot of things to do and his not going to be bothered by that thought...yet.

Beginning | <<<Previous | Next>>>

#strings of fate #chapter 15 #slage hassen #red mcgill #putting subs are such a pain #oc sims #red's a werewolf #slage's a vampire

[authenticcadence18]

Butterfly pt. 1

Here’s the pre-Battle For Mewni canon-divergent Starco fic I wrote in 2017!!!

Have a note from my younger self to give context to the story:

“I'm not quite sure what events lead up to this or what happens afterward...this story is just a piece of what I imagine could happen during Toffee's eventual attack on Mewni. This scene takes place on Mewni, and Marco obviously used his dimensional scissors to get there.....duh 😜.��

(Also I wrote this four years ago, when my writing style wasn’t nearly as developed/polished as it is now. I could spend hours editing it, but I‘d feel kinda bad doing that to my younger self😂.)

...

AO3

...

"STAR!!!!!!!!!"

Marco struggled relentlessly against the green chains of energy that prohibited him from moving, but there was nothing he could do but watch, horrified, as Toffee drained the life out of his best friend

"STOP!!!! YOU'RE HURTING HER!!!!!"

Piercing green magic gushed from the severed crystal imbedded in the villain's hand and swirled furiously around Star, whose electric blue eyes were growing dimmer by the second. The princess lunged at Toffee, wand-in-hand, in one final attempt to subdue him, but his magical assault had weakened her body beyond repair. With a shrill moan, Star collapsed to the ground and lay motionless, the light in her pupils now almost completely extinguished.

A sob tore through Marco's throat as he struggled against the magical shackles binding him for the umpteenth time, only to discover that he was now able to move freely. He scrambled to his best friend's side and frantically began checking for a pulse, for breath, for anything that indicated she was alright. All the while, he continued to assure her, "It's okay, Star, you're fine, it's going to be fine, please be fine, you'll be just fine, Star, PLEASE be fine!!!!"

But he felt nothing.

Star Butterfly—crown princess, heir to the throne of Mewni, and Marco's best friend—was no more.

"......you killed her......" Marco uttered blankly, staring into the sunken black eyes of the girl who'd radically changed his life in such a short amount of time. Trembling, partially from despair and partially from fury, he inclined his head to meet Toffee's watchful gaze and repeated, "....you KILLED her...!!"

Toffee chuckled, the chilling timbre of his voice not quite clicking with the spindly bird form he still had possession of. "Well, not technically," the former Ludo corrected Marco smoothly, hovering above him with a smile that could have been perceived as understanding, had he not already revealed his hand. "I've merely drained her magical life force. It would be possible to restore it and revive her if you had any healers around, but..."

He smirked.

"I believe the Chancellor is still...out of commission."

Marco's eyes narrowed. "Alright, fine! You've got Star! What about me? Are you going to suck the life out of me too before I karate-chop you into the next multiverse???"

Toffee tisked, an almost fatherly expression appearing on his face. "Oh Marco," he crooned gently, as if gently chiding a disobedient child. "There's no point in that. Without her?" He gestured to Star's broken form. "You're nothing."

With this, the villain cackled menacingly and snatched up Star's wand before zooming out of the cave and slamming a rock in front of the entrance with a wave of his hand, leaving Marco alone with the shell of the coolest girl he'd ever known.

With Toffee gone, the reality of the situation slowly began to sink in....

Star was gone.

And it was his fault.

"....STAR!!!!" Marco wailed, tears blurring his vision. "THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!!! I—it's all my fault..... If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have had any reason to cleave your wand in the first place!! You...you'd be alive..."

He took one of Star’s cold hands in his, despair weighing him down so heavily that he doubted he'd ever be able to stand again.

"You trusted me with your friendship, and I hurt you. You trusted me with your life, and I let you die....

"...you trusted me with your heart...." he managed to choke, the final lyrics of Ruberiot's song reverberating within his skull, "...and all I did was push it aside......"

He knelt near Star in silence for a few minutes, grasping desperately for answers within his head. How could this have happened? How could he have let this happen??

"You know," Marco murmured weakly, "Jackie and I decided to stop dating pretty soon after you left Earth. I knew finding my best friend and being there to support her was more important than focusing on a girlfriend, and Jackie agreed....but I also think she was convinced that I'd fallen for you..."

He winced.

“...but I guess none of that really matters now, huh?"

Marco gazed down at the princess's fallen form, wishing beyond belief that he'd done things differently in Star's time on Earth, wishing he knew what he could have done to prevent her from ending up like this, wishing he'd been able to see the truth before it had been too late to act upon it.

"I'll finish what you started, Star," he vowed, determination seeping into his voice. "I promise, I'll do everything I can to protect the citizens of Mewni and defeat Toffee. And I promise that I'll never stop looking for a way to bring you back and that you'll always be the best, most amazing friend I could've ever hoped to have, and that..."

His voice cracked.

"...and that I'll always love you."

Gently, Marco brushed a rebellious strand of blonde hair off of Star's forehead and planted a soft kiss on her brow.

"Goodbye, Star."

With this, Marco's resolve shattered, and he broke down in gut-wrenching sobs, shoulders quaking and chest burning.

So it made sense that he didn't notice when the two hearts stamped on Star's cheeks began glowing faintly.

Slowly, translucent webs of purple began weaving themselves around the princess's form, lifting her up bit by bit as they did so. Star herself did not stir, but something within her most certainly was stirring.

When Marco felt Star's fingers shift away from his, his eyes shot wide open. Out of instinct, he jerked back upon observing her continue to rise off of the ground, still unconscious. As the webs grew thicker and thicker, encasing the princess's entire body, the rosy glow emanating from them only grew as well. Marco watched in awe as the chrysalis began to vibrate when it rose to around five feet off of the ground. Faster and stronger it writhed, until at last, with a searing flash of light so bright and pink that Marco lost his vision for a couple of seconds, the figure within burst free.

"......am I dead? ..... Marco, is that you?? Are we both dead???"

Marco, unfortunately, was currently incapable of offering any sort of response. He simply stood, gaping, with his eyes set upon the girl hovering a few yards away from him.

Star waved her hands in Marco's direction, only to recoil when she found more than eight fingers—and purple ones, no less!—at her disposal. "Yikes!!" she shrieked, recoiling.

Her eyes narrowed as she examined her two newly-formed sets of limbs. "....wait a minute."

Tentatively, she craned her head back--and gasped with joy at what she discovered.

"MY MEWBERTY WINGS!!!!!!!" Star giggled gleefully, twirling circles in the air on a pair of intricately-patterned lavender wings. "THEY'RE ALL GROWN UP!!!!!!"

And indeed they were. Star Butterfly had at last unlocked the full heritage of the Butterfly dynasty coded deep within her DNA. Unfolding from her back were two massive butterfly wings adorned with shimmering hearts. Six arms extended from her torso now, and a pair of dainty antennae bobbled above her head. Her hair, now also a shade of dark violet, had shortened significantly as well, so as not to get caught in her wings.

"This is so cool...!" Star breathed. "Marco, what do you think??"

The sound of Star repeating his name finally snapped Marco out of his stupor.

"....STAR!!!!!!" he proclaimed elatedly, hastily rushing over to her with a luminescent grin on his face. "You're okay!!!!! Well—more than okay, actually!"

Beaming, Star scooped Marco up in a six-armed hug and spun him around in the air a few times, the two of them laughing and celebrating as if the events of the past month or so had never occurred.

But just as quickly as Star's mood spiraled upward, reality set back in as she began recalling where she was. Quickly, the princess set Marco down before planting her own feet on the floor.

"Wait a minute..." she voiced with uncertainty, cocking her head at her best friend. "Didn't Toffee, like, drain my powers and more or less leave me for dead? That's the last thing I remember..."

Marco nodded with a little shiver. “…yup.”

"So...how am I prancing about on newly-grown mewberty wings now?"

Marco shrugged. He had to keep blinking to assure himself that Star’s transformation wasn’t just a cruel trick of his heartache-addled mind.

Star stared at him for a moment, perplexed. Then, without quite knowing why she was led to do so, she tentatively raised a hand to her forehead and touched it—in the very spot where Marco had kissed her only minutes before.

Instantly, a wave of understanding pummeled Star, and she staggered back.

"...it was you!" she gasped.

But before she had the chance to elaborate on this, the stone guarding the entrance to the cave groaned and started shifting to the side.

“You know something, Marco?” Toffee called out as he pushed the stone away. “I’ve been thinking...maybe you have some potential after all! You see, I’ve been meaning to find a new—erm, shall we say, host? And what better person to destroy Mewni as than the former princess’s best fri—“

Toffee took pride in having mastered a distinctly precise ability to mask his emotions. It was one of the qualities that kept him on his toes after centuries of plotting against the Butterfly family. But even he, the immortal monster of legends and tapestries, could not contain his bewilderment at the sight awaiting him.

Star Butterfly was fine. More than fine, actually. She had never appeared more powerful. And Marco Diaz, the seemingly-useless karate boy, was standing right beside her.

Heroes and villain stared wide-eyed at each other, each wondering how to gain the upper hand. After matter of seconds that consisted of Toffee darting his gaze between the princess and her prince, understanding suddenly dawned upon him. He chuckled, quickly regaining his composure.

“Well well…” the monster crooned with a smirk, directing his gaze towards Marco. “Looks like you aren’t as much of a disappointment as I thought.

“And Star! Why, you look just like your mom did the last time we fought. It's a shame to think of her discovering that her dear little princess finally earned her wings but tragically had the life re-drained out of her before she really got to use them…I’ll be sure to dispose of her before she has to find out." With these words, Toffee fired a blast of green magic at the currently-wandless Star, smiling wickedly.

Star, however, wasn't going to give herself up so easily this time. Eyes and hearts igniting, she thrust her hands forward as searing pink magic gushed out of them like a waterfall and formed a bubble around her. Toffee's blast fizzled and sputtered away as soon as it touched the force-field.

Toffee's eyes widened in shock and then narrowed in disdain. He fired another shot at Star, and then another, and then another, but the warrior princess deflected every blast as effortlessly as if she'd been doing it for her whole life. When Toffee realized that he'd lost his chance to defeat her, he made a last-ditch attempt to gain the upper hand by manifesting a giant, luminescent green limb and snatching Marco—who'd been soaking up every second of the battle from the sidelines, awestruck—with it....not realizing his action would have the opposite effect of what he intended.

"NO."

The next thing Toffee knew, he was lying flat on his back with the wind knocked out of his host's puny lungs. He could vaguely make out the hazy form of Star Butterfly hovering over him with a venomous glint in her eyes.

"You can try and kill me all you want, but touch Marco....and I'll destroy you," she declared in a razor-sharp whisper.

For the first time since he'd lost his finger to Moon, all those years ago, Toffee's stomach--though, technically it was still Ludo's stomach--lurched as an unpleasant chill seized his body.

He was afraid.

With the last of his energy, the villain rose from the ground and frantically fled the cave, leaving Star's wand behind in his haste.

Star remained hovering in the air, glaring after him with the same stone-hard expression on her face.

".....Star?"

Tentatively, Marco approached the princess and grabbed the hand that was nearest to him.

"You can calm down now. He's gone."

Star's shoulders relaxed, and she gently sank to the ground, her wings and extra arms folding up and disappearing as she did so. Marco immediately knelt beside his best friend and helped her to stand, supporting her weight while she re-adjusted to her normal form.

Star winced, holding one of two hands to her now-pale forehead

"Ugh....Mom didn't tell me how draining it is to earn your wings...." she grumbled.

Marco, on the other hand, had never felt more alive. "Star, that was amazing!!!!" he exclaimed. "You just took down Toffee, the same guy who managed to defeat the entire magic high commission and drain their powers in less than two minutes!!! And after he'd drained your power, too!!!!! You still managed to beat him!!!!!!"

Star stared at the ground for a bit, the gears in her head whirring. Finally, she raised her gaze to Marco, hand still poised at the top of her head.

"But I couldn't have done it if it weren't for you.”

"....what do you mean?" Marco asked—though deep down he suspected he understood what Star was getting at.

"I--I'm not sure..." Star replied sheepishly, shrugging her shoulders with a meager chuckle. "It's just...it's like....you replenished my power source. I can feel it was you. But I can't figure out how!!"

Marco bit his lip, uncertain as to how he could be more anxious in this moment than he'd been when Toffee was about to possess him.

Then, he spotted the royal wand, which was still strewn on the floor. Swiftly, he scooped up the heirloom and held it out to Star, who seemed to snap back into focus upon seeing it.

"You're right, Marco," the princess decreed, reclaiming her wand from her best friend. "We'll talk through this later."

Grinning mischievously, Star sprang into the air and raised her arms, and suddenly she was a butterfly again!

"Right now, we have a kingdom to save!"

...

Thanks for reading!! I actually wrote part of a continuation to this back in the day but I never quite finished it...soooo I’m going to try to finish it and then post the conclusion sometime!

(And AGAIN there’s a lot of canon-divergent stuff in this fic, I know Star isn’t ACTUALLY biologically a Butterfly😅. But I didn’t know that four years ago, lol!)

#Cadence writes #Ancient art #(fic counts as art technically) #(Lol) #star vs the forces of evil #svtfoe #star butterfly #Marco diaz #starco #toffee the lizard #toffee of septarsis #star vs the forces of evil fanfic #also uh #tw: temporary character death #sorta? #angst

[scabopolis]

emma x killian au: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic

Holy moly! This (really needs to be edited one more time, but we’ll save that for AO3, shall we?) monstrosity is my gift to @hollyethecurious​ for the @cssecretsanta2k19​ (thank you for your tireless work on this!), and is my first attempt at Emma x Killian fic (eek!). 

Hollye, what a joy to chat with you over the past month. I present to you a wordy as all getout friends to lovers fic that takes place over six holidays (five holidays with a bit of disaster, and one with a bit of magic), a soupçon of Captain Cobra, and brief appearances by older brother Liam, as well as (one hopes!) romance and a whole host of other good things. Hope it brings some joy to your season. And I’m thrilled to be able to start following you on Tumblr now and send messages without fear!

And I swear -- post-road trip, a more edited version will also appear on AO3. Happy holidays!

---------- title: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic fandom: once upon a time pairing: emma x killian word count: 12,400 | AO3 link: here ----------

summary: When Killian and Emma first meet on Thanksgiving she has some rather unsavory words for him. But then they somehow manage to navigate a series of holiday disasters together. In so doing they also stumble upon a bit of holiday magic.

Thanksgiving Or, the holiday where Emma calls Killian a pervert

As far as holidays go, Killian finds this Thanksgiving to be relatively textbook. Liam and Kate both made far too much food, took utter delight in teasing him for his lack of love life, and then he went home laden with abundant leftovers. 

Only for things to rapidly become significantly less than textbook. It all started when he poured himself a glass of wine at home. 

Home: the place wherein he poured himself the aforementioned glass of wine as he began to wind down for the evening, and then somehow proceeded to spill all but a single gulp on his bedding.  Bedding: the freshly laundered, high thread-count duvet and sheets, put on the bed this morning, now soaked with Malbec. 

With one set of sheets in the hamper and the second set wine soaked, Killian tossed back the remaining gulp of wine and resigned himself to an evening of doing laundry. On Thanksgiving. 

In retrospect, Killian knows he should have just taken his brother and sister-in-law up on their kind offer to stay the night, but he’d found himself emotionally overwhelmed by the end of the night. Over dessert and coffee Liam and Kate informed him they were likely going to start trying for their first kiddo in the new year. And as excited as Killian is at the prospect of having a little nephew or niece to dote on next Christmas, it also served as a reminder of how close he’d gotten to having it all once. And how it doesn’t seem at all likely he’ll ever get that close again.

These kinds of maudlin thoughts are exactly why Killian poured himself that glass of wine. Wine that, as Killian holds the clean sheets up to the light in the laundry room, quite remarkably seems to have not stained. He does the complicated hand twisting and folding technique his mum once showed him and sets aside the fitted sheet, reaching for the flat sheet. 

Killian hears the door to the shared laundry room open behind him as one of his neighbors enters. He slides his stacks of laundry together to make room on the folding table and is about to greet whoever walked in, commiserate over their fate of doing laundry on a —

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving, you sick pervert?”

Okay. Maybe not. 

He turns around slowly to meet the steely gaze of one of his neighbors whom he’s seen from time to time in the mail room and hallways (and once in a rather lurid dream he still feels guilty about). “Do I normally do laundry on Thanksgiving? I wouldn’t consider it a tradition as such, but —”

“No. I mean steal women’s underwear.”

“Pardon?” 

She steps closer only to swipe a pair of his briefs off the table. The pair of underwear is, admittedly, a little absurd, but nothing quite warranting such a vitriolic reaction. They’re the rare white elephant gift he actually opted to keep. Aside from being the most comfortable pair he owns, he quite enjoys the whimsical print of yetis sledding and decorating Christmas trees. He takes a step towards her and she backs up.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks.

“I’m not certain what is happening here.” 

“What’s happening is, you’re a sick fuck.” 

He frowns. That seems, to put it mildly, uncalled for. “Okay, hold on now —” he takes another step towards her

“You stay there,” she demands, pointing a finger at him.

He holds his hands up in a placating gesture. He has so lost the thread of this conversation. And he really should have just stayed at Liam’s house for the night. “I won’t come near you, lass, but if you could return my trunks I would —”

The indignation on her face makes her appear incandescent. “Yours?!”

“Yes, mine.” 

His neighbor starts sputtering and then she goes silent, her jaw clenching in a way that is, if he were to be honest, rather intimidating. Still, Killian does (for some unknown reason that would likely require a good amount of therapy), what he so often finds himself doing whenever he meets his match: he smiles.

His smile only makes the frown lines on her face deepen. 

“Look,” he says, in his most sensible tone of voice. “Do you really believe I would be daft enough to steal your undergarments and then remain in the laundry folding them knowing any moment you might return?” 

It’s only for a split second, but her features relax as she considers his words. Then she full on glares at him, clutching the briefs in her fist. But then her eyes dart to one of the dryers on the wall. 

“Have a look,” he says, gesturing with his head to the dryer.  

“Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

“I would despair if you did.”

She remains true to her word, keeping one eye on him as she opens the dryer and roots around inside. He knows she’s found what she’s looking for when he hears her groan. “Fuck me,” she mutters to herself, and then pulls out a pair of briefs identical to his own. 

She groans again. “This isn’t possible.”

“Yet here we are.” 

She shuffles over and hands him back his briefs. Killian has to actively work to keep in his laugh as he watches her remove her clothing from the dryer and start another load. From the way the pink in her cheeks burns brighter, she’s aware of his gaze.

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving?” he asks. And there’s that rather becoming jaw clench of hers. “Accuse men of stealing your underwear, I mean?” 

She remains silent and Killian decides to show mercy, finishing up his folding and stacking the clothes in his basket. His neighbor gives him a wide berth as she carries her laundry basket on her hip and leaves - no, flees - the room. But not before she mutters an apology. “Sorry if I, uh, said — you know?” 

“Now, what could you have possibly said?” he asks, all faux innocence.

If possible, her blush gets even brighter. “Happy Thanksgiving.” 

Once back in his flat he texts Liam the whole story. As he putters around, remaking his bed and pouring himself another glass of wine, he bursts out into little chuckles of laughter replaying the scenario. Laughter which Liam echoes in emoji form once he responds. Frankly, this woman is Killian’s hero (Liam's too, as he offered to buy her a gift basket for helping keep Killian's ego in check). Maybe he’ll see her in the mail room and can assure her of her place of honor in Jones family lore. 

He’s settling into the couch with a book when there’s a knock. Killian frowns, his eyes darting to his wall clock. It’s somehow only half-eight, but he isn’t expecting anyone. He looks out his peephole and smiles at the sight of one his young neighbors holding a platter of baked goods. They’ve only chatted in the elevator and occasionally in the halls but Henry is a warm and charming young man, and Killian always looks forward to their interactions. Which doesn’t explain why he —

“Mom, get your butt over here.” 

“You knocked, he didn’t answer. He’s probably asleep.” And then the woman from the laundry room comes into view and it all makes a little more sense.

“When you mess up, you apologize. Those are the rules.” 

“The rules for what?” she asks.

“For life.” 

“Who taught you these rules?”

“You did.” 

She huffs out an exasperated laugh, but wraps an arm around Henry’s shoulder and pulls him close. “God, why couldn’t I suck more as a parent?”

Killian decides to put her out of her misery and answer the door. Young Henry looks delighted at his appearance, and his mom appears miserable. Like she wants nothing more than to sprint in the other direction. 

“Mr. Jones! Happy Thanksgiving! This is my mom, Emma.” 

“Sir Henry, Happy Thanksgiving to you.” He looks to Henry’s mom. “And to your lovely mum.”

Henry shoves the platter of treats at him and Killian bobbles it before holding it steady. “These are for you!” Henry needlessly explains. It’s a platter teeming with pumpkin pie, cookies, and some sort of toffee almond concoction that looks delightful. “My Aunt Mary-Margaret is the world’s best cook,” Henry says. 

“Well, thank you, Henry. And please give my thanks to your aunt.”

“I will. Now my mom has something she wants to say to you.” Emma looks ready to protest but then Henry smiles up at her, his grin wide and toothy and she shakes her head, affection for her son apparent. “Goodnight, Mr. Jones.” 

Emma watches as Henry walks down to the end of the hallway, unlocks the door, gives his mom a thumbs up, and walks inside. Once inside, Emma turns to him and mumbles something barely audible. 

“I’m sorry. What was that, love?” 

She huffs out a breath, fluttering a strand of her hair in the process. “I said, I’m sorry for calling you a pervert.” 

“And?”

“And for trying to steal your underwear?” 

“What about for calling me a sick fuck?” 

“I did not!” she protests, but at his look her brow furrows in concentration. “Oh my god. I did, didn’t I?” She shifts her weight from side to side and he’s pretty certain he hears her mutter another curse word under her breath. She looks up and locks eyes with him. For a moment all he can think is wow, green, but she starts talking again. “Look, Henry and I had a really great day at my sister’s house but then I got this message from my ex, Henry’s dad, and to be honest it sent me into a bit of a tailspin. So then I go grab my laundry and there you are with a very peculiar pair of underwear and all I could think was ‘not today, asshole’ and then — well, you were there. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re forgiven, Emma.” Then it’s his turn to frown, gesturing towards the direction Henry walked as he leans against his doorway. “How did you know who I am?” 

“Oh, I mentioned what happened to Henry and he asked me to describe the neighbor.” 

“Smart kid.” 

“Yeah.” She fidgets again, kind of shaking the tension out of her hands as she rocks back on her heels. “Well, I…that’s all, I wanted to say, so…”

“Nice to meet you, Emma. And Happy Thanksgiving.” She backs away from the door giving him a perfunctory little wave. For some reason, after he closes and locks the door, he finds himself looking through the peephole to watch Emma’s retreat. She lingers outside the door for a second before smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand and then does an entirely unbecoming and yet endearing full body shake and flail, tossing her head back and groaning. She appears to catch herself, and Killian watches as she looks to his door. Her eyes close in resignation. “You saw that didn’t you?” 

“Every single second.” 

“Happy Thanksgiving, Killian.”

Christmas Eve Or, the holiday where Killian almost freezes

It’s a working theory of hers, but Emma is willing to argue with anyone who cares that Christmas Eve is far superior to Christmas. The whole day is filled with baking, and listening to Christmas music, and lighting every baked good themed candle she owns. Plus! she doesn’t have to wake up to an overeager eight year old shaking her at dawn. It’s wonderful. 

As she stores the vacuum in the hall closet (one last round of pre-festivity cleaning), her phone vibrates. She pulls it out of her pocket, smiling when she sees it’s a text from Killian.

Texts from Killian: another thing that is wonderful these days, if not unexpected. 

11:12 AM - Killian to Emma My oven is on the fritz. Can I use yours for a bit? 

11:13 AM - Emma to Killian Define ‘a bit’…

11:14 AM - Killian to Emma Ok. Less ‘a bit’ and more ‘a while.’

11:15 AM - Killian to Emma And by 'a while' I mean the rest of the day.

Emma snorts at that one.

11:17 AM - Emma to Killian It’s all yours. Though, I thought your fruit cake would be in door stop mode by now?

11:19 AM - Killian to Emma For the last time, woman, it’s not a bloody fruit cake.

When Killian proudly told her and Henry over Saturday morning pancakes he was preparing a classic Christmas cake for their Christmas Eve celebration, and then proceeded to explain the weeks long process behind making the cake, Henry frowned. “I think that’s a fruit cake.” 

Which was the first, but certainly not the last time, Killian insisted: “It certainly is not!” And then Killian proceeded to explain, again, what a Christmas cake was. 

From Killian’s explanation of how to prepare it, though, there shouldn’t be any baking required today. Which begs the question as to exactly what Killian is doing. As the host of the event, Emma is only responsible for appetizers (thank you Trader Joe’s), and booze with the rest of the guests bringing the meal.

A meal which apparently includes a British man she met a month ago, bringing a fruit cake to the Christmas Eve celebration with her family and closest friends. What is her life?

Dare she say it, life is pretty great these days. And Killian is definitely part of why that is.

After their ignominious beginning, she and Killian found themselves bumping into one another constantly. If they didn’t cross paths in the mail room, hallway, or elevator, it was Henry - her kid who would find a way to make friends with a paper bag if given the opportunity -  who started inviting Killian to join them everywhere. While on their way to the movies it was a “hey, Killian, wanna come?” More than a few times Henry went to check the mail as Emma cooked dinner and when he returned Killian was with him. “I told him all about your chicken and dumplings, mom!” 

Somehow Killian joining them for chicken and dumplings turned into the two of them texting throughout the day — Killian in between clients at the physical therapy clinic, and Emma whenever she needed a break from real estate contracts — and then a second glass of wine once Henry went to bed. Apparently, unbeknownst to Emma, this was all leading to Killian celebrating Christmas Eve with her family and friends. Oh, and coming over the next day for Christmas morning pancakes. 

Despite what her sister and brother-in-law would like people to believe, Killian is only spending the holidays with them because his brother left for his in-laws earlier in the week and Henry didn’t want him to spend the holiday alone. That’s it! If it was more than that, would she be okay with Killian coming over while she was in her cleaning clothes? Obviously not. So, suck it universe. 

Killian shows up ten minutes later looking fine and not at all biteable in a truly horrendous Christmas sweater that no one has a right to look as…completely adequate…in as he does. His arms are laden with grocery bags. 

“All this for a fruitcake?”

“Christmas cake. And no. That has been done for some time, as you well know. I told Mary-Margaret I’d make Yorkshire puddings to go with the prime rib. And Liam would disown me if I didn’t make mince pies.” 

“How British of you.” 

“Well, I am British.” 

“You know what I mean.” Emma grabs him an apron so he doesn’t mess up his Christmas sweater and as he makes himself at home, she buzzes around getting the apartment ready - pulling the folding chairs and table out of the closet, making sure Henry has enough clean clothes to wear for dinner, etc. Henry spends the day floating in and out of the kitchen to bug Killian. He plays his video games for a little bit and then is back to the kitchen and gets annoyed because there’s not enough room for him to make a sandwich. He is only appeased when Killian reveals he brought over leftover Chinese. 

“Why did you bring so much extra food?” she asks, ignoring Killian’s disapproving stare as she bites into a cold eggroll. She’s pretty sure he also brought over a gallon of milk and what looks like leftover roasted vegetables. Weird. 

“Do you know what the two of you are like when you’re not fed?” Killian shudders in horror, and Emma smacks him in the back of the head. She also pinches mince pie filling to be a brat.

When she comes out in her loungewear, after having showered, there is the most wonderful smell of cinnamon in the air. Before she even asks Killian hands her a mug of mulled wine. How did she even get this and what does she have to do to keep it forever? Emma freezes at the thought. By this she means his friendship. Obviously.

Once Mary-Margaret and David, then Ruby and Mulan arrive, the evening, dare she even thinks it, is borderline perfect. Continuing the British Christmas theme, Killian brought Christmas crackers from World Market. Henry got so excited at the hat and little joke in his that he hug bombed Killian and the poor man spilled his hot chocolate down the front of his sweater. Henry apologizes profusely, but Killian assures him it’s okay, losing the sweater for just a black tee underneath. Which, again, is fine and makes Killian look fine and Emma really needs the commentary in her head to quiet down. 

“Hate to see a Christmas casualty,” David muses as Killian tosses the sweater aside. 

“True, but good things tend to happen to me when I do laundry on a holiday,” he replies. 

And Mary-Margaret gets this wide knowing grin, which Emma does not care for at all, but her heart is currently beating fast enough that she lets it pass. 

The high-point of the night might be when Mary-Margaret serves slices of Killian’s Christmas cake alongside her caramel apple pie. Ruby holds up her plate, sniffs Killian’s cake, and with a perfectly cocked eyebrow simply asks “Fruit cake?” Henry almost falls out of his chair laughing. 

Mulan and Ruby are the first to leave, needing to get to Granny’s where they’re staying the night. Killian offers to stay and help clean up but Emma refuses. The man spent all day cooking in her kitchen – she’s not going to make him clean, too. But when Henry hugs him goodnight and tells him they’ll see him for pancakes, Emma has to admit she’s a little sad to see him shuffle down the hallway back to his own apartment.

Henry proceeds to line up his mom, his aunt, and his uncle, debating as to who deserves to read to him that night. David wins the privilege outright when, upon Henry asking each of them to share their Percy Jackson voice, he actually recites from memory an excerpt from the book Henry is currently reading. Fucking show-off. 

Mary-Margaret doesn’t even wait for them to leave the kitchen before she looks at Emma like she must say something or she’ll burst. As Emma is want to do, she ignores it. No wonder David lobbied so hard to get the bedtime story invitation. The two were in cahoots. As they do dishes, Mary-Margaret keeps dropping conversational breadcrumbs =, waiting for Emma to take one up. Which Emma steadfastly fails to do. So Mary-Margaret stops being subtle.  

“So, Killian was here all day, huh?” 

“Yes.” 

“Huh,” Mary-Margaret says, drying a wine glass and setting it aside. “Interesting.” 

“Stop.” 

“Stop what?” 

“You know what you’re doing.” 

“Do I?” 

“God, you’re annoying,” Emma says, smacking her shoulder with the back of her hand. 

Mary-Maragret frowns and does it right back. “I like Killian.”

“He’ll be thrilled to hear it.” 

“And I think you like Killian, too.”

Emma glares at her. “Well, he’s my friend.”

“Who you very much would like to be a naked friend.”

“Mary-Margaret!”

“What?” 

She steals the towel away from Mary-Margaret and snaps her with it. “Can we be done with this conversation?”

“No. Because I have something important to say to you.” Emma groans and Mary-Margaret takes a step forward, placing a hand on either side of Emma’s face. “I know you think you’ve got this bruised and battered heart. But that’s not true, Emma. You have the most open heart of anyone I’ve ever known. And I don’t know how you do it, but as someone you let see that big beautiful heart, I just need you to know how lucky I am to have you in my life. Anyone would be so lucky to have you. So be brave.” 

Emma feels her eyes go glassy and seriously! Mary-Margaret has been in her life for more than twenty-years. How does she always do this to her? She reaches forward and hugs Mary-Margaret tight, blinking the tears back.

“I love you,” Mary-Margaret says. 

“Shut up.” Emma holds her even tighter. “I love you, too.”

After Mary-Margaret and David leave she gives Henry a final tuck into bed then takes a moment to look around the apartment. The space feels emptier than when the day started. It must be the come down from an almost perfect night. Right? Not like she’s feeling morose because there’s a person down the hall who she very much wishes was still currently in her apartment. Someone to perhaps share leftover pie and a glass of wine with. That would be absurd. It’s just that the whole night felt a little magic, and now it’s over.

Emma blows out the living room candles and that’s when she sees it — Killian’s ugly Christmas sweater draped over the back of the couch. Which Emma immediately decides she should return to Killian. It’s urgent. That sweater could mean a lot to him. Or, something. 

She locks up the apartment door and heads to Killian’s. Knocking on the door triggers a feeling of panic and she’s tempted to drop the sweater and run. But then he opens the door and his already bright eyes somehow get brighter. This was the right decision. 

“Emma! What are you —” 

“You forgot your sweater.” 

“Thanks, love.” 

She immediately notices that his apartment is very dark. Was he already getting ready for bed? This early? She stands up on her tiptoes to peek, and his smile falls. Killian wedges himself into the doorframe, closing the door behind him and obstructing her view. Emma narrows her eyes. 

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing.” 

“Do you have someone over?” 

“No. I’m just —”

“Why are all your lights off?” 

“Being energy efficient. Climate change.” 

“Really?”

“Yup.” 

“Huh. Fine, then. You should probably stain treat this,” she says, and hands him the sweater. 

“Thank you.” He reaches for it and the moment he does Emma pushes him aside to crash into his apartment. All the lights are off. He's lit a few candles, and oh fuck. Does he have someone over?

“Killian, your lights are off.”

“What do you call those?” he asks, pointing to the three-wick sugar cookie candle Mary-Margaret got him.

“Killian.” It’s a tone that usually convinces Henry he in fact does need to wear socks with his shoes but simply causes Killian to smirk at her. 

“Maybe I want to romance myself, Swan.” 

“Gross. All your lights are off," she repeats. "Even the light on your microwave.”

He looks like he wants to protest but must sense she is in a particularly stubborn mood because he stops himself. If she weren’t trying to get him to fess up Emma would take a moment to gloat that the look always works. 

“I was working on a project this afternoon and think I crossed some wires,” he says, running a hand through his hair in, she presumes, some mild embarrassment. 

“More than your oven is on the fritz," she realizes, making sense of why there is currently milk in her fridge. "Isn’t it?” 

“Seems that way.”

“Well did you —?”

“Aye, I tried, but it didn’t work, and with the holiday the electrician isn’t able to come until Thursday..” 

“Well, why not call —?”

“How do you think Leroy is going to feel about me doing an undisclosed wiring project and killing the —?”

“—yeah, I get it. Look, I need to get back to Henry, but pack a bag and I’ll see you soon.” 

“Do what now?” 

“It’s going to be 12 degrees tonight, Killian. You are not staying in this apartment without power.” 

Emma watches as he mulls over her words, considering whether or not he should abide by them. “I could sleep on your couch and then away to my flat in the morning.” 

She shrugs. “Or, you could pack a bag.” A little voice inside her head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Mary-Margaret is cheering her on. Telling her to press a little more. That it’s worth it. “Come on, Killian. You can’t freeze to death on Christmas Eve. Imagine how that would play on the evening news.” 

He laughs, shaking his head in that way he does. If she isn’t mistaken, it's tinged with a little more affectionate every time. “Depressingly, I imagine.” He breaks eye contact long enough to look down at his slippered feet. For all the times he’s made her blush in their month of friendship, it is ridiculously rewarding to see the tinge of red on his cheeks as he looks up at her. “I’d love to join you and Henry for Christmas.” 

Emma dashes home and checks on Henry. He is, predictably, still fast asleep in that way he most frequently is — legs akimbo and sticking out of the blankets like he’s preparing to start running the moment he wakes up. 

As she waits for Killian she changes into her pajamas and makes two hot chocolates, adding an extra large dollop of leftover whipped cream to the top pf each. 

Killian’s knock is borderline inaudible and it makes her smile, how she knows he’s being careful for Henry’s sake. She takes his bag and invites him to get comfortable on the couch — “it will soon be your bed, after all” — and, as has become the habit, they face each other as they sit there. There’s a lot she loves about their friendship, but high on the list is the way their conversations always start in the middle rather than at the start. She loathes small talk. 

“Your family and friends are lovely, Swan.” 

“Eh,” she says, scrunching her nose in consideration, “they’re alright.”

“You and your sister appear rather close in age.” 

She nods. “We’re only a year and a half apart.” Killian smiles, like he is happy to accept that as a complete answer if she so chooses. And maybe it’s that she’s listening to her sister, or maybe it’s Christmas, or maybe it’s that Killian faintly smells of his sugar cookie candle, but she takes a deep breath and sets her mug on the coffee table. “I’m adopted, actually.”

He hesitates, uncertain. “Emma, I didn’t mean to —” She doesn't want him to be uncertain. 

“I was with a family for three years and they couldn’t keep me. I was so young that my social worker really didn’t want to put me in a group home, so they opted for short-term care while they searched for a permanent solution. But at the end of the two weeks, when they got ready to move me to a new home, Mary-Margaret had an utter fit. Refused to let anyone near me when she found out they wanted to take me away. And then she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into her room, barricaded the door, and we hid under her bed. She was five.” 

“You remember all that?”

“I remember her grabbing my hand and us hiding. Mary-Margaret remembers some and my parents filled in the rest.”

“So after that?”

“They decided to adopt me.” 

“That’s quite the story.” Killian gently places his mug beside hers and he inches closer. His hand hovers over hers for only a moment before he settles, giving her fingers a little squeeze. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“Please don’t let this go to your head,” she says, and rotates her palm to squeeze his hand right back, “but you’re really easy to talk to.” 

“Well, don’t let this go to your head, but I can see why Mary-Margaret did what she did.” 

There’s a teeny part of her that doesn’t want to inquire further, but she blames her damn sister and her damn hope speeches for asking, “And why is that?” 

“Because I think you’re the type of person it would be impossible to say goodbye to.” 

Emma doesn’t know about that — a whole host of boyfriends might say otherwise — but she believes he believes it. Sitting across from him on the couch, his lack of electricity, and the two of them in their pajamas, Emma feels almost a glimmer of magic come back into the room. 

Christmas Or, the holiday where Emma almost accidentally murders Killian

Killian wakes up to the sound of giggling and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The gas fireplace is already switched on, as are the Christmas lights, and he’ll have to ask Emma later how she managed to prevent Henry from crashing into the tree in his excitement to get at his presents.

“I’m going to set the table, so go ahead and gently wake Killian —” And that should prepare him, but he doesn’t hear the rest of Emma’s prompt as a hurling mass of eight year old runs into the living room and jumps on top of him. “Oof,” Killian groans. “Merry Christmas, Sir Henry.”

Henry leans his face down and grins. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

“Henry, I said gentle!”

“Yeah, but you kinda winked when you said it.” 

Killian manages to sit up just enough to watch Emma try and deny that she did in fact encourage the barbarism of her child. He raises an eyebrow in question and she responds in the first true “harumph” he’s ever heard in real life. 

“Breakfast is ready,” she says. 

Killian sits at the table and apparently the Swans take their Christmas breakfast seriously. Fresh fruit, and coffee and — shit, he forgot to mention something, didn't he? he thought she knew?— breakfast burritos smothered in avocado and tomatillo salsa. 

“So, what’s the plan for the day” Killian asks, and then takes a sip of his coffee. Emma passes him the bowl of fruit, and — of fucking course — there’s bananas in it. He pours a little on his plate and hopes he can get away with just coffee for breakfast.  

Henry explains that they always eat breakfast first because his mom thinks delayed gratification is good for him — “I stand by that,” Emma says — and then he and his mom exchange presents, and then they play boardgames, and then have Christmas Eve lunch leftovers, and then they go to a movie and have popcorn and milk duds for dinner.

“Milk duds play what part in delayed gratification?” Killian asks, pushing his plate, he hopes discretely, aside.

“I’m not a monster,” she says.

“Why aren’t you eating your burrito? Aren’t you hungry?” Henry asks.

“I’m not a big breakfast person.” At that precise moment, Killian’s stomach growls louder than it’s every growled before. Liar, it seems to proclaim. He sighs. “I’m actually allergic.” 

“You are?” Emma asks. If her wide eyes are anything to go by, she is horrified.

“To burritos? That sucks,” Henry says. 

“No, not to burritos, but the avocado on top.”

“No you’re not.”

He laughs, because of course Emma would argue with him about his food allergies. “I assure you I am.”

“But when we got lunch last week, you ordered that sandwich with avocado on it.” 

He doesn’t think he should be as flattered as he is that Emma remembers that. “I took that one to go. For Liam.” 

“But…but…” and then she drops her fork to her plate and covers her mouth with her palm. “Oh my god I could have killed you!”

“Emma…” 

“I almost murdered you on Christmas.”

“I can assure you…” 

“That I almost murdered you? Because, yeah, figured that one out.”

“It’s not nice to murder people, mom,” Henry helpfully comments then reaches for Killian’s plate. “Can I have this?”

“It’s all yours.”

“What else are you allergic to?” Emma asks.

“Nothing.” She doesn’t seem to believe him as she sits with her arms across her chest, challenging him. “Seriously. Just the avocados.” And then quietly adds, “And kiwis and bananas.”

“So the fruit is also poison,” she says. “Anything else?” 

“Latex.” The instant he says the word he regrets it. It’s true, completely, but with the way Emma is looking at him it feels a little…inappropriate to say.

“Latex,” she repeats. She doesn’t break eye contact as she takes a sip of coffee and sets her mug aside. “Interesting.” 

“Why is that interesting?” Henry asks. 

Emma maintains eye contact, but her cheeks go a little rosy. "Well, um, see the thing is…" she trails off. 

Killian cuts in. “Because when I go to the doctor, sometimes the doctor or nurses wear gloves with latex in them.” 

“That’s not interesting,” Henry says.

Emma makes him an omelette and then proceeds to apologize all morning. After they open presents (Killian will remember the look of delight on Henry’s face for all his days), she also makes a quick batch of chocolate chip muffins and insists he eat several. The rest of the day unfolds just how Henry said it would. Except Henry didn’t mention he’d only make it two-thirds of the way through the movie before falling asleep on his mom’s shoulder, curled up in the seat. As he snoozes he kicks his feet out into Killian’s lap and Emma rolls her eyes and helps herself to the rest of Henry’s popcorn. 

“No personal space boundaries,” she whispers.

When they make it back to Emma’s, Henry wakes up just enough to shuffle to his room. And much like the night before, they find themselves on Emma’s couch talking over the day when she reveals she has a present for him. 

“We said we weren’t buying presents, Emma.” He completely bought her a present but was planning to bend the rules by giving it to her on New Year’s Day. Surely New Year's Day presents are a thing somewhere. Right?

“It’s just a little something,” she says. 

As Killian opens the gift he registers the novelty print first, and he is almost certain he knows what she got him. It’s three pairs of underwear in rather absurd prints and patterns. The same exact brand and style she tried to steal from him on Thanksgiving. 

She grins as he laughs tossing the paper aside. “Did you know you can get them personalized?” 

“Excuse me?” he asks.

She takes one of the pairs out of his hands and shows him the inner waistband. There it declares in embroidered thread "Property of Killian Jones."

“Just in case someone else tries to steal your underwear.” 

“Nonsense, Swan. That’s our thing.” 

The silence stretches between them as Emma rests her head on the back of the couch, her face turned towards him. Over the course of the night they’ve moved close enough to one another that their knees are touching. How did that happen? 

“Killian, I want to tell you something.” 

He swallows. “You can tell me anything you want, Emma.” 

“I —” she begins, and then cuts herself off. “I —” she begins again before stopping, letting out a frustrated groan. She offers him a tentative smile. “I want to thank you for doing everything you did for us today. It meant a lot to Henry.” She pauses, and it looks like she's going to say more, but she simply adds, “And to me.” 

“Of course, love.”

“And I’m sorry for almost killing you.” 

“I fully intend to use your guilt to my advantage in our relationship for years to come.” 

She smiles. “The electrician is coming tomorrow?”

“He said he’d arrive somewhere between 7am and 3pm.”

“Nice he could narrow it down for you.” She looks away and fiddles with the hem of her sweatshirt. “Do you want to stay here again tonight?” 

“Aye,” he says. “If you'll have me.”

"I'll have you," she whispers, her lips tinged with a smile.

And he knows he shouldn’t be disappointed. Staying the night on her couch is wonderful and generous and it means another day of getting to wake up with the Swans. But there was a little part of him that thought she was going to say — he’s not entirely sure what. Strangely enough it’s the feeling of disappointment that confirms for him a long held suspicion of his. That with Emma the more she gives him, the more he wants. Every smile she gives makes him want 1,000 more. Every story she shares makes him want to share 1,000 of his own. He’d do anything for her to know he understands her. And he’d never intentionally hurt her. And that this Christmas was one of the best of his life, and is there any way she’d be willing to give him her New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day, and perhaps Flag Day, too? 

Boxing Day Or, the holiday where Emma breaks herself

For as relatively calm and almost perfect as Christmas was, the day after is completely different. 

Henry comes running into Emma's room at 8:00 AM insisting they don’t have enough batteries. When she calmly reminds him about the extra supply in the hall closet, he runs off without a thank you. A little later she’s pouring herself coffee and Henry runs into the kitchen, grabs the poptart package out of her hand and runs out again. “I’m putting together my legos!” he shouts. 

“We are leaving in one hour, Henry.” Silence answers her from his bedroom. “That means shoes, scarf, coat and gloves.” More silence. “Henry!”

“Got it mom! One hour!” Door slam. 

She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Killian barely stifles a laugh as he watches the sequence of events from the coach. 

“How much for you to take him off my hands for the next two to three years?” she asks, trying to ignore how cute he looks waking up in her apartment, sleep rumpled with hair sticking up every which way. 

“You want me to bring him back as a pre-teen?” 

“Good point. What about one of those boarding schools in Switzerland rich step-mothers always want to send their kids to? You know those ones in movies with the Olsen twins?”

“You’re truly trying to cast yourself as the stepmother in this situation?” 

“Shut up and come get your coffee.” 

She can see why Killian and Henry get along so well. Much like her son, Killian can’t simply stand up and walk into the kitchen. No. He bounds off the couch — she has no doubt he was tempted to hurdle it simply to prove he could — and then swaggers towards her. Does he always lead with his pelvis? God, why is she thinking about his pelvis? Once he’s in front of her, his mess of hair appears even more riotous and her fingers actually twitch with the urge to smooth it down. Instead she hands him a cup of coffee and picks hers up again. If her hands are busy maybe she’ll keep them to herself. And why did she think having him sleepover again was a good idea? What was she thinking? 

Well, to be honest, she knew what she was thinking originally. But then late last night he shared why it is that Christmas is usually a hard season for him — a reminder of losing his mom as a child and his fiancé just two years ago — and all she could think about was how lucky she was to have walked into their laundry room that night. 

Killian is a big one for eye contact — she knew that the day they met in the laundry room and it’s been confirmed a million times since — and it has a very squirm inducing impact on her insides. His heavy lidded eyes make everything twist up, and flutter, and race in a way that is almost painful. But like a good kind of painful. 

“What’s your plan for today?” she asks. 

He shrugs. “Betray your kindness for a bit longer and wait for the electrician to arrive. Yours?” 

“Henry is going ice skating with a few of his friends. I’m going to go for a run after I walk him to Avery’s, but no plans after that.” She clears her throat as her pesky thoughts urge her to ask him to spend the day together. Naked, a part of her brain unhelpfully suggests. 

“You’re going to walk in this weather? And then run in this weather?” 

“I snagged a parking spot right in front and Avery’s family only lives a few blocks away. There is no way I am sacrificing my parking spot.” She turns away from Killian to top up her coffee. “And running is good for me. Helps me make sense of my thoughts when they’re all muddled.” 

“What is making your thoughts muddled?” he asks.

She freezes for a second, the question taking her by surprise, and then turns around slowly. And holy fuck why do his eyes have to be so focused on her and so damn blue?! It’s oppressive, his eye color. “I didn’t say —”

“You kind of implied.” 

“I did not.”

“You did.” 

She bites her lip to stifle a laugh, shaking her head. “You know it’s moments like these that remind me you’re the baby brother.” 

He laughs, nodding his head in concession. “True. But in this case my persistence is motivated by my own selfish curiosity."

“What makes you curious?”

“I’m curious about all sorts of things. But I have to admit that my thoughts have also been rather muddled these days.” ” He taps his lips, thinking, and that is not fair. “For instance, I’m curious about what you wanted to say to me last night. Before you stopped yourself from continuing.”

How did he —? 

“I’m curious about why you’re taking such shallow breaths right now,” he continues, sidling closer to her. 

“They’re not —”

“But really, Emma, I find myself wondering if you would be interested in knowing what has my thoughts muddled these days?” He moves even closer as he reaches behind her to set his mug on the counter-top.

She takes a shaky breath. “I might be.” 

“Then ask me.” 

Okay. So, last night she chickened out. Sitting on the couch with Killian — the fire going, and Henry asleep, and Killian sharing his life with her — Emma had every intention of doing herself, and Mary-Margaret, and every human being who finds men attractive proud by telling Killian that she thinks about kissing him. Thinks about it a lot. So, she's smart enough to see this moment for what it is: a second chance. Another opportunity to get it right. Because Killian wouldn’t be leading her like this simply to reveal his thoughts were muddled with — fuck, she doesn’t know — whether or not he should finally bump Russian Doll to the top of his Netflix queue. 

(He should, by the way, but that isn’t the point. The point is, he’s trying to lead her somewhere and she has to decide if she’s going to follow.) 

She sets her mug down and takes a deep breath. “Tell me?” She doesn't mean for it to come out like a question. 

“Emma,” he says, leaning in and resting a hand on her hip. “It’s you.” 

Now, here’s the thing. Nothing in Emma’s life has ever resembled the plot of a romantic comedy. Every time she let herself think — secretly and only in her head and only like three times — “maybe this is my big romance!” it crashes and burns and turns out the guy only looked at her with stars in his eyes because she kinda reminded him of his ex. Until she met Killian. Because no sooner does he whisper the words “it’s you” — and holy shit that is some Mr. Darcy level stuff — her son comes crashing into the room, dressed for ice skating and holding his jacket. Then he’s tugging on Killian’s sleeve and telling him he has to play Smash Brothers with him because he’s been practicing and he’s finally going to beat him but he’s only got fifteen minutes left to prove it.

Killian looks at her, a little helplessly as Henry drags him away. She smiles to reassure him it’s okay. They’ll get to talk soon. Right? At least that’s what she keeps telling herself as she gets into her running clothes and laces her sneakers. 

“Henry,” she says, walking out of her room. “Time to go kiddo. I told Avery’s mom we’d be there in 10 minutes.” Henry must be losing to Killian. It’s the only explanation for why he so readily sets the controller aside.

“See ya later, Killian,” he says, and tackle side hugs Killian before sprinting for the door. 

Emma grabs him by the hood of his jacket and pulls him back before he can bolt for the door. “Henry. Gloves.” She gestures to the coffee table where they’re waiting for him.  

“Oh, right.” 

As they walk out of the building, Emma is trying so hard to listen to Henry’s enthusiastic play by play of the game he just played with Killian but all she can think of is the fact that Killian is in her apartment. Waiting there for the electrician (and her?). Sitting there on her couch. Unless the electrician arrives while she’s on her run he’ll be there when she returns. What is she going to say? How do they even pickup that conversation? 

It’s this state of distraction that she blames for missing the patch of ice on the sidewalk outside their apartment. She slips and lands hard not even certain of what happened.

“Mom!” Henry shouts, immediately at her side.

“I’m okay, sweetie,” she grits out, trying to catch her breath. “I just slipped.” Except for when Henry tries to help her up her knee buckles and pain shoots up her leg. Shit. She sits on the sidewalk and takes a deep breath, not wanting to scare Henry. 

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Can you do me a favor, bud?” She pulls out her phone, scrolling through the contacts. “Talk to Killian and ask him to come down, okay?” Maybe she should be the one to call but she kind of feels like crying and needs a second to gather herself. To focus on not bursting into tears from shock and pain. 

After Henry hangs up — “Killian come quick! Mom fell!” — Emma steels herself and calls Avery’s mom to explains what happened. Thankfully she tells Emma they’ll just swing by and pick Henry up, no problem. 

Killian comes running outside, not even wearing a jacket the idiot, as she hangs up with Avery’s mom. Emma has to stop him from picking her up and bringing her inside immediately.

Her whole body shivers; the sidewalk absolutely icy and freezing. “We need to wait with Henry,” she tells him. 

Once Henry leaves, Emma reassuring everyone she’ll be just fine, Killian helps her up. He wraps her arm around his shoulder and she leans into him as he takes her weight and walks her inside. It’s amazing how being in pain can zap all sexual tension from an encounter because Emma isn’t thinking about Killian with his hand on her hip in the kitchen. Not at all. All she's thinking about is how nice he is, and how thankful she was that he was there to help and, okay, fine, maybe being in pain can only zap 80% of the sexual tension. Still. That’s a lot less sexual tension. 

Once back in her apartment Killian settles her in the armchair and props her leg up on the ottoman. He buzzes around, bringing her water and ibuprofen, and then asks to see her ankle. She supposes this is kind of his area, so she nods and does her best to hold in a wince as he removes her shoe and sock. He moves her ankle gently from side to side and she braces herself for the pain but it actually isn’t that bad. Until he presses on a spot at the top of her foot and —

“Holy shit that hurts!,” she exclaims.

“Good news is it’s not broken.”

“Feels broken to me.” 

“Probably just a really bad sprain but I can take you to get an x-ray if you want.” 

“Or?”

“Or I collect some supplies from my apartment and I’ll wrap it myself.”

“That option is free?” she asks. Killian nods. “I choose that.” 

“Keep this elevated.” Before he leaves for his apartment, he notices her struggle to get her other shoe off. He sighs affectionately, unlacing her shoe and setting it aside. Without asking he reaches for a blanket on the sofa, one he used the night before, and lays it over her lap. “Back in five minutes.”

The moment the door closes behind Killian tears spring to the corner of her eyes. Yes, Emma’s in pain, the ibuprofen not quite kicking in yet as she feels her ankle throb. And, yes, her butt is a little cold, but that doesn’t really explain why she starts to cry. These past couple of days have just been a lot. In a really great way, but it’s still a lot. 

The tears must be something Killian notices when he gets back because in a flash he crouches in front of her, resting a hand on her uninjured ankle. “Hey now, what’s this?”

She shakes her head, not really sure how to explain. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” 

His raised eyebrow and tightly drawn mouth indicate he doesn’t believe her, but as she dabs her eyes with her sleeve, he takes to unpacking the supplies he brought over. The truth is that it’s not nothing; more like it's everything. It’s that his apartment is down the hall and when she demanded he come stay with her and Henry he could have refused, or used his spare key to stay at his brother’s, but he didn’t. And that while she has yet to hear an explanation concerning his “it’s you” statement, she has a feeling it’s something good. It’s everything to her — the ways both big and small he chooses her and Henry. And it’s only been five-weeks but she wants more. She want more weeks. 

He wraps her ankle up then fits her to the pair of crutches he brought over. As he helps her stand, she stumbles and accidentally puts pressure on her ankle. She hisses at the sudden pain, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Careful, Emma,” he says, running a hand up and down her back in comfort. She looks up at him; his eyes are all soft and concerned. “You okay?” 

It’s you, too, she wants to say. I don’t know how or why, or even what it means, but it’s you. She nods. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

New Year’s Eve Or, the holiday where Killian meets the ex

“So tell me about this party, Sir Henry.”

Killian’s noticed that when Henry has a lot to say, he has a habit of taking a deep breath and then clenching his fists at his side. It's like Henry’s little body is bracing itself for an onslaught of enthusiasm. “Well,” Henry says, fists clenched, “Aunt Mary-Margaret and Uncle David have this big farmhouse that is so cool and my friend Roland and his dad, and my other friend Violet and her dad, and my other friend Gideon and his mom, are all coming over too and we’re having a big party. And then after we eat so much food, we’re going to play sardines inside with all the lights off, and then after that we’re having a campfire out back, and then after that…” 

Killian does his best to listen — really, he does — Henry’s enthusiasm is genuinely delightful so it isn’t hard to be interested. Usually. It’s just that as Henry is talking Emma walks out of her room dressed for the evening in a tight black dress and he kind of loses his head a bit. Actually finds himself staring at her, which he only realizes when she catches his gaze and smiles. 

“Breathe, kid,” she says, breaking their stare. “Your aunt texted and said they’ll be here in five minutes. Got all your stuff?”

“Yup!”

“Go get your shoes on, then.” Henry runs off and Killian watches as Emma inspects Henry’s pile of belongings, confirming to her own satisfaction that Henry won’t be without a change of clothes or toothbrush. 

“This party sounds fun, Swan. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend time with your friends and boy there?” 

“Nope. We’re going to Ruby and Mulan’s, and we’re dancing until at least 1:00 AM because that’s when they bring out the dancing snacks.”

“Dancing snacks?”

“Donuts and coffee for the drive home. It’s the best.” He’s about to point out that there exists these wonderful things called donut shops that allows one to purchase a donut and coffee at a time that is not 1:00 AM, but her phone rings.

Emma halts her process of shutting off lights in the kitchen to answer. 

“Hey Rubes.” As Ruby talks, Emma refreshes her lipstick in the hallway mirror. She pauses the action, groaning in aggravation at something Ruby says. “Seriously?! Can’t you be total dicks and tell them to leave? Since when? Fine! Be good people! Yeah, we’ll be there in about thirty.” 

Emma hangs up and Killian tries not to laugh at Emma’s quietly muttered, “Well, shit.” She told him a few weeks ago her resolve to never swear in front of Henry gets a little weaker with each passing year. 

“What was that, love?” 

“Apparently the sister of one of Ruby’s co-workers invited herself to the party — much to everyone’s annoyance because Zelena is apparently awful — and then proceeded to be even more awful by bringing along her new boyfriend who, pause for dramatic effect, happens to be my ex.” 

“No.” 

“Yes,” she says, finishing her lipstick and dropping the tube into her purse. “And Walsh being Walsh, he’s too much of a —” Emma trails off, her eyes darting down the hallway to see if Henry is coming — “fucking narcissistic dickhole to leave once he realized whose house he was at. I know he’s only staying to drink booze and leer at me when I show up alone. Sure, he’s the one who got drunk one night and cheated on me, but I’m the one who is going to have to deal with him.” 

“But you’re not showing up alone.” 

“Yeah, but you’re my friend date. Not my date date.”

Killian’s heart clenches a little at that entirely accurate explanation. 

Hard to believe it was only five days prior that he and Emma were seemingly on the emotional precipice of — well, something. He’s not entirely sure what, because first Henry interrupted their conversation, then Emma sprained her ankle, and then, as he was in the midst of applying his physical therapy degree in perhaps the most important context of his entire life, the electrician called to say he arrived. The man spent several hours trying to undo what Killian did, and then Emma called and asked him to pick up Thai takeout for a late lunch, and before he knew it, Henry was back from ice skating, and Emma was asleep on the couch with a bowl of Phad Thai balanced on her chest.

So, her assessment is correct. Right now they are friends and this is not a date date. Though he wishes it was, and he is certain all it would take is an uninterrupted moment for him and Emma to find that bit of magic again. He’s also convinced that Emma in her dress — black, and short, and lacy, with long sleeves and a neckline that is both wonderful and tempting — is a bit of magic in and of itself. 

David texts Emma that they’ve arrived, and Emma and Henry both get bundled up to meet them outside. Killian grabs Henry’s piles of belongings and they’re out the door. 

Emma has this whole theory that with surge pricing likely in effect all night, it would be wildly irresponsible to take an Uber to and from Ruby and Mulan’s house. Killian vetoes her theory with his medical opinion that as her PT, it would be wildly irresponsible to allow someone who sprained their ankle a week ago to walk a mile in high heeled boots. She scowls but he requests the Uber anyway. Fuck, he must be far gone because even her scowl is starting to feel like a kind of magic.

As the night goes on, Killian discovers that the problem isn’t if he should confess his feelings but rather what feeling he should confess to first. He watches Emma run in and hug Ruby and Mulan and thinks “I should confess how her smile makes everything better.” When he discovers one of his co-workers is also at the party, apparently a regular at the diner Ruby owns, Emma is kind, and warm, and eager to get to know the man, and Killian thinks “I should confess that my days don’t quite feel real until I am able to talk them over with her.” And then there’s the confession he’s been concealing for well over a month: that he wants to kiss Emma, and he wants to kiss her a lot.

Turns out Emma has a confession of her own to make. Well, not so much a confession as a bald-faced lie. 

Killian and Emma are in the middle of a rather heated debate with a couple they’ve just met about the best claymation Christmas movie when a supercilious voice interrupts their conversation, seemingly not caring about a lack of courtesy. 

“Isn’t this a festive coincidence? Us being at the same party?” Emma clenches her jaw at the voice and plasters on the brightest smile he thinks he’s ever seen. It screams false, false, false. She turns around to greet the man. 

“Walsh,” she says, and then extends her hand to the woman who must be Zelana. “I’m Emma.” 

“Oh, I’m aware,” she responds, ignoring the hand. Zelena looks at Walsh, the two of them laughing at some shared joke. 

“Seriously, Ems, what are the odds?” he asks. 

“Well, seeing as Ruby and Mulan are my friends, the chances of me being here were pretty high. I don’t even know how to calculate the odds of you showing up. Nor do I really care to,” she shrugs.  

Killian chuckles at that, bumping Emma with his hip in what he hopes is a dual gesture of both affection and camaraderie. I’m here for you, he wants the gesture to mean. It also has the effect of catching the attention of both Walsh and Zelena. 

“Emma,” Walsh says condescendingly. “You didn’t introduce us to your friend.” The emphasis on the word friend is mocking. Like, “look at me with my girlfriend, and here you are with just your regular old friend.” Killian hates this guy. 

But, because he likes to think himself a gentleman, he extends a hand in greeting. “Killian Jones,” he says. “Emma’s —” 

“Fiancé,” she cuts in almost immediately. Emma wraps her hands around his arm, snuggling into his side. “This is my fiancé.” 

“Oh,” says Walsh, glaring. Killian doubts he’s jealous as much as he’s mad Emma’s potentially happy.

“But where is your riiiing?” Zelena simpers. Killian didn’t know the word ‘ring’ had quite that many syllables. “Could you not afford one?” He's decided he hates her, too.

“Oh,” Emma says, voice quiet. “Well —” 

Fine. If they’re going to do this… “It’s at the jewelers. Being resized. It was my mum’s ring, and a little large for Emma I’m afraid.” 

“Right,” Walsh frowns. “How did the two of you meet?” 

“Neighbors,” Emma practically shouts. “We are neighbors. And that’s how we met.” 

“Rather ordinary,” Zelena says, sounding bored.

“Well, the sex is great, so…” Emma trails off and Killian almost chokes. Her expression makes him want to laugh — she apparently took herself by surprise with that one. It’s like she can hear herself saying the words and would like to be able to stop saying them, but can’t. 

He would never want Emma to think she caused him any distress. They’ll surely talk about the whole fiancé thing, but he’s been hoping all night for a magic opportunity to appear and maybe, he thinks, it’s time to make some magic of his own. 

“Truth is,” he says, “I knew Emma was the one for me months before we actually met.” He looks down at her. “I know you’re sick of this story, love, but mind if I tell it once more?” She shakes her head, eyes wide and questioning, and he turns back to Zelena and Walsh. Walsh, who it must be said, looks like he’s sucked on something sour. Killian wasn't sure he'd ever confess this to Emma, but here they are. 

“My first glimpse of Emma was in our apartment lobby. Henry must have been at a sleepover of some sort, because Emma was coming home at the early hours of the morning with her sister and friend, stumbling into the lobby clearly drunk and laughing. Then Emma shouted 'we should race!' and someone else said the loser had to make breakfast and no sooner did the words ‘ready’ come out of her sister’s mouth, than Emma took off her shoes and sprinted for the stairs.” He looks down at Emma and notices a rather stunned expression on her face. He hopes it's a good kind of stunned. Might as well keep going. “I think someone called her a cheater and Emma called them sore losers and she was up the staircase, and certainly to her apartment before the two of them even managed to stumble to the elevator. And I remember thinking to myself ‘this woman is amazing.’ We met officially in the laundry room a couple months later and she’s confirmed that thought every day hence.” 

He feels that sizzle in the air, of hope and possibility and one of Emma’s hands leaves his arm to slide around his back, squeezing his waist gently. She turns into him further, away from Walsh and Zelena. When he looks down, she leans up and kisses him, soft and delicate on the corner of his mouth. 

Walsh coughs, and Zelena says something he immediately opts to ignore. Magic. 

“Killian,” she whispers. 

“Yeah?” 

“Emma, you have to come take shots with us!” And man, Killian likes Ruby a lot but her timing is on par with Henry’s. Ruby is wearing heels that must be at least four inches high and as she approaches their little circle, wedging herself in close to Walsh, she stumbles. It feels like it starts to happen in slow motion but then all of sudden it's over: the bright red cocktail in Ruby's hand sloshes over the edge of the glass and douses Walsh in what Killian hopes is something both sticky and impossible to get out. 

“Fuck,” he shouts, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. “This is Tom Ford.”

Ruby holds her hands up and shrugs. “Oops.” She crouches down to be at eye level with the stain. “Sorry, Mr. Ford,” she says, slurring the words. 

Walsh storms off and Zelena follows. They furiously grab their coats from the hook and leave, silencing the crowd with their ire. As soon as the door slams the strained silence in the room breaks, and Ruby turns to him and Emma with a big smile. “Happy New Year, guys!” Miraculously sober once more. 

“Ruby,” Emma scolds, not sounding the least bit upset. “You are ridiculous!” 

“Excuse you, I tripped.” 

“Why didn't you 'trip' two hours ago when Walsh first showed up?” 

“I could have,” Ruby says, "but it was so satisfying to watch it happen, wasn’t it?” 

Emma looks like she wants to maintain her indignation, but then Killian bursts into laughter, and Ruby grins with unfiltered pride at her accomplishment. 

Just as Killian is plotting as to how he and Emma can escape next — (she only kissed him about two minutes ago but it feels like it’s been a lifetime; why is it the second he manages to make a little magic the universe appears dead set upon stealing the moment from him and Emma?) — Ruby tells them “Ems, I wasn’t joking about shots. I need you.” 

She looks over to Killian, her brow furrowed. “Actually, Ruby, I need to —” 

“Go on, Swan,” he reassures, “I’ll be here.” 

Ruby pulls Emma away, no further conversation, Mulan whooping loudly as they get closer. Was that a mistake? Or should he have followed them? What is he even doing? He has no strategy when it comes to Emma. He has no plan; only an intended end goal. Which is her in his life for as long as possible. Ideally with more kissing. Why has he been wasting all this time? He should have asked her out the second she and Henry brought him toffee almond bark. 

He pours himself a glass of whiskey from the liquor cart in the living room and then escapes to the back porch, sipping on the drink, cheersing the smokers out there as they all make small talk. Ruby slides the door open a few minutes later. “Come inside future emphysemiacs of the world, the countdown is starting in one minute.” 

At Ruby’s commanding tone, everyone tamps out their cigarettes or ceases vaping and moves inside. But Killian stays where he is. He’s too much of a romantic for a New Year’s Eve countdown. The strike of midnight without a kiss from Emma just might break his heart.  

The door to the patio opens again, noise swelling as he hears a few people start the countdown with a loud “60! 59! 58!” 

“Ruby, I’ll be right in.” 

The door closes. “Not Ruby.”

At the sound of Emma’s voice, every nerve ending in his body starts firing. Heart beating wildly. Palms sweating. And he’s either halfway to being in love with this woman or he’s about to throw up. 

He looks at her, and her smile is open and warm. He can’t help but smile back. “Emma.”

“Some party, huh?” she asks, standing beside him, forearms resting on the banister. Neither one of them are wearing jackets, and her sleeves might be long but they’re all lace. There’s no way they’ll last out here long. 

“Yeah.” 

She looks at him. “I feel like I should apologize for the whole fiancé thing. But —” she trails off. 

“But?” he asks. 

“I’m actually a little more interested in that story you told Walsh.”

His heart isn’t possibly beating loud enough for her to hear. Right? That noise is all in his head?

“What about it?”

“Was it true?” 

Somewhere distantly he hears the group inside continue their countdown, now hitting “34! 33! 32!” and getting louder with each number.

“Yeah. The first time I saw you was in the lobby of the building.” 

She immediately shakes her head, appearing almost angry at him. “No. Not that part. I remember that night with Mary-Margaret and Elsa. The other part. The part about me. About knowing —” A shiver runs through her. He can see the goosebumps on her skin, and yet she persists. “About me, and knowing that —” 

“Of course it’s true, Emma. I wouldn’t make that up.” 

Then Emma does the last thing he expects and punches him in the shoulder. Not hard enough to injure him but it’s surprising enough that it hurts. “Ouch!” he says, rubbing the spot she hit. “What was that?” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Are you saying I should have?” 

“Well, obviously.” She clenches her fists, and huffs out an aggravated breath. “I don’t make eyes, Killian. Okay?” She doesn’t punch him, but she does sort of push his shoulder. “I am not a make eyes person.” And she pushes him again. “Got it?”

“God, woman, would you stop shoving me?” 

“No, because you are an idiot.” 

“Are you drunk?”

“No. And are you listening to me? I DON’T MAKE EYES.”

“Okay, fine!” They’re almost shouting now, but he can still make out the “10! 9! 8!” from inside the apartment. “You don’t make eyes! I read you!” 

“I don’t make eyes,” she says, for the fourth time, a little quieter but no less emphatic. “Except I do make eyes at you. Pretty much from the first moment I met you.” 

What? Her words take a moment to register, and then all he manages to say is, “Oh.” 

Emma is having a harder time keeping in her shivers now. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest and there’s something about seeing that which springs him into action. He steps closer and runs his hands over her arms, hoping to bring some warmth to her skin. 

The group inside bursts into a jubilant shout of “Happy New Year!” and he has apparently been making eyes at him. This whole time. 

“Oh,” he says again.

“Yeah.”  

New Year’s Day Or, the holiday where Emma and Killian make magic

Emma is tempted to go inside for two reasons: one, to get out of the cold because sheesh, and two to text Mary-Margaret to inform her “I did the brave thing and all he did was say ‘oh.’ Twice!” 

But something about the way Killian said ‘oh’ the second time and the way he looks at her now has her rooted in place. He’s running his hands up and down her arms to help warm her up. It feels better than anything has the right to. 

“Happy new year, Emma,” he says. She hears the slight shake in his voice. Is he nervous, too? She kind of hopes so.

“Killian,” she says, and takes a small step closer. And, shit, she really hopes she’s not misreading his signals here. “Kiss me.” 

For a fraction of a second Killian’s hands still entirely and then his brain seems to take over. One hand snakes around to her waist and he grabs her, bringing their bodies flush, and the other goes up to the nape of her neck. Killian’s thumb and forefinger are doing this massage thing which is utterly divine, and — Oh, she thinks, we’re kissing now. 

It isn’t something she’s actively thought about — the logistics of kissing Killian — but that seems to be okay because her body is charged and humming in a way she’s never experienced before. She is suddenly struck by the sensation that she does not have enough hands. She tangles a hand in his hair, grabbing a fistful and earning her a grunt from Killian, which makes her want to do it again. But if her hand is in his hair then she can’t run it up and down the planes of his back and that’s a shame. So, she does that. But, she finds, if both hands are feeling the corded muscles of his back, then she can’t feel the firmness of his arms, which is a crime against the world. And if she’s gripping his biceps, then she can’t get a handful of what she has always suspected, and has now been able to confirm, is a phenomenal ass. It’s a problem scientists should dedicate the rest of their lifetimes to solving —  too much Killian and not enough hands. 

Killian runs his tongue along the seam of her lips and the sensation is so overwhelming she has to take a second, pulling away with a gasp. Only now they're too far away from on another so she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead to his. She keeps her eyes closed, wanting to savor the everything of the moment for another second. 

“Emma,” he says. 

She smiles, and opens her eyes only long enough to kiss him again, sweetly on the lips before nuzzling into his the space between his neck and shoulder. Either she's aggravated her ankle or something about Killian is affecting her because she's having trouble standing.

He laughs, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her once more, and yes! This is significantly warmer than the rubbing of arms things. They should have been doing this the whole time. The kissing is so much warmer. 

“Emma,” he repeats. 

“Hmm?” she doesn’t feel like she can actually say full words. Maybe it’s the not saying of full words that’s allowing her to feel this warm (also, made her something called a snowball shot and it was minty and wonderful and that might also be contributing to the warm feeling). 

“How committed are you to this hanging around for donuts and coffee thing?” 

“Why? You have a better offer?” 

“I could make you hot chocolate,” he says. 

“And?” 

“That’s not enough?” 

She smiles, opens her eyes and shakes her head at him. “Coffee and donuts. That is a beverage and a snack. You offered only a beverage.” 

“Counteroffer: I steal a box of donuts from Ruby and Mulan’s kitchen and we bring them back to your place.��� 

“Now you’re talking.” Their plan is to get bundled up in their outerwear, say their goodbyes and then grab the donuts, but it all goes to hell when Ruby asks Emma why she’s being weird and in response she shouts “I kissed Killian and I’m stealing your donuts!” She grabs a box and runs. As they try to make their getaway Ruby’s shouts at them from the front door. “I’m sending you a request on Venmo! Donuts are for non-horny guests who stay for dancing!” 

Safely tucked into their Uber (she asked about the true horror of surge pricing and Killian refused to answer), Emma finds herself fixated on the red glint of Killian’s stubble under the passing glow of streetlights. He swallows a few times as she runs her finger along the line of his jaw. 

“Killian? Has your heater been working okay?” 

He nods. “Right as rain.” 

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “Well, if it ever stopped working, you could stay at my place again.” 

The corners of his mouth twitch as he holds in a smile, and she really wants to bite his neck but she also doesn’t want to negatively impact Killian’s Uber rating. “Is that so?” 

“Just being neighborly.” 

“Obviously.” 

The rest of the ride to their apartment complex is wonderful, with the touching, and the smiling, and the knowing that she has a box of contraband donuts, but she wants more. 

As soon as they get out of the car, Killian takes Emma’s hand but she stays where she is and pulls him back to her. 

“I changed my mind,” she says. He looks uncertain, and she rushes to explain. “You should stay at my apartment even if your heat is working.” 

“Well that sounds grand,” Killian says, his voice low. 

“Well good,” she says, and that’s when inspiration strikes. Once in the lobby, she unzips her ankle boots and holds them out for Killian to take. “Trade you boots for donuts?”

“Deal,” he says. 

“So.”

“So.” 

“Who would have thought, huh?” 

“What?” he asks. 

“I mean, who would have though that me calling you a sick fuck on Thanksgiving would lead to us fucking on New Year’s Day? Crazy, right?” She asks the rather audacious question in as casual a tone as possible. Killian looks a little dazed and Emma leans up to kiss him again, smiling as their lips meet. 

“I —” he sputters. 

“Killian?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Loser makes breakfast in the morning,” she says, and then she’s running through the lobby, clutching the donuts to her chest.

Killian’s laughter chasing her up the stairs is magic. 

#cssecretsanta2k19 #captain swan #cs fanfic #captain swan ff #emma x killian #p: emma x killian #c: emma swan #c: killian jones #hollyethecurious #never stories

[theuprisingbakery]

Less Restrictive, More Unique: A Personified Short Story of Cookie Ingredients

The cookies sat at their desks, watching the clock tick down to the end of the class period. Thirty more minutes, and they would be free to enjoy their Spring Break. A simple half hour of Biology was all that stood between five friends and Spring Break plans. Ms. Chip’s back was to the students as she wrote on the board ‘INTRODUCTION TO HEREDITY AND INGREDIENTS’ and turned around to face her students. 

“Alright! Before we break for break,” she paused and chuckled at her own joke, “I want to introduce you to our new unit of study.” 

The cookies groaned. Sandy Pecan in the back row rolled his eyes, Oreo Nabisco had already slept through most of class, but Gluten FreeMont in the front of the room looked up from a doodle she was creating on her notes sheet, interest peaked. Although she was interested, she was thoroughly irritated at having yet another thing take time away from her holiday freedom.  

Ms. Chip looked at the class of chocolate chip cookies and smiled. 

“We are all products that have similar ingredients. Commonalities that make us chocolate chip cookies,  but we are also so different. Your genetic ingredients, what makes your essence so uniquely you, can be traced back through your family members. Your heredity! Let’s look briefly at the genetic ingredients map on page 54 of your textbook.” 

There was a quick rustle of pages as students flipped through their books. 

In the middle of the page was a chart that pictured different ingredients: 1 teaspoon of baking soda, 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract, and ½ teaspoon of salt, followed by different variations of flours, butter, eggs, sugars, and most importantly: chocolate chips. 

“Our recipes are unique, we learned this when we discussed DNA earlier in the semester,” Ms. Chip went on. “But,” she continued, “our ingredients make up the traits that classify us in different diets, our ingredients give us a foundation of who we are, and what we are made of. Everything about us can be traced through our ingredients: nutrition, macros, enzymes, and calories!” 

The class nodded, assured she was correct but many had faces that expressed utter confusion, as any new lesson might leave a student. Keto Atkins nudged the back of Gluten FreeMont with her pencil. 

“What is she talking about?” Keto whispered to Gluten. Gluten swatted away Keto’s pencil proddings. “Shhh!” she turned around slightly to reply in an irritated fashion, then faced back to the teacher, her eyes set on Ms. Chip’s instructions. Gluten cringed slightly at the sudden movement of turning around. She’d experienced continuous abdominal pain for the last week or two, and it always seemed to happen right after lunch. She brushed off the pain not wanting to complain and gritted her teeth, knowing she didn’t have time to deal with stomach cramps and Keto’s unfortunate inability to pay attention at the same time. 

Keto looked to her left after being silenced by her friend, where another girl was sitting. Vegan Planters was drawing a family portrait on the front cover of her Biology book; her focus had shifted attention to an art class project assigned for the break from earlier that day. Keto leaned over and whispered to Vegan, “why else was there a sudden emphasis on ingredients and heredity in Biology with less than twenty minutes left in class?” Vegan looked to Keto and shrugged, and went back to her drawing. 

Keto slumped in her seat, but suddenly made eye contact with Hazelnut Cashew. Known as “Hazel” to her friends, she was sitting in the far left corner of the class, her twin sister Nutella, or “Ella” sat directly to Hazel’s right. Both of them were passing notes back and forth. They are the worst twins in the world, thought Keto. Most twins seemed to have ESP, but Hazel and Ella had nothing in common it seemed like. Keto looked at her four friends, all in some sort of different stage of paying (or not paying) attention to the lesson. Gluten was the only one seemingly writing anything down, and Keto figured Gluten would give the rest of them a briefing on whatever Ms. Chip was explaining. 

“You are going to research your ingredients over the break!” Ms. Chip clapped enthusiastically. “I remember when I learned of my great-great-grandmother’s rare Allulose condition. Her genetic make-up used Allulose instead of granulated sugars. It was so fascinating! That’s why her chocolate chips were a bit more shiny in appearance compared to other chocolate chips.” Ms. Chip sighed, her thoughts somewhere else. “Because of her, my own chips are still shiny...  not because of Allulose, but from my own mother’s Stevia ingredients she passed on to me!” A hand went up from the back of the classroom, it was Oreo Nabisco. 

“So,” he asked, “You want us to research our families and our ingredients to see how we are made?”

“Yes, Oreo, that’s exactly it! Glad to see you are able to have some semblance of attention today, I thought maybe you were getting a little stale back there!” Ms. Chip passed out a packet of instructions and directions to the students, aware that there were only a few moments left before the students would rush out of the room to enjoy the sun and freedom that only comes with an extended holiday away from school. 

“You can present your findings any way that you wish,” Ms. Chip said to the young cookies, “but remember that you are researching your ingredients through family members only- interviews, photos, and resources will all help you compile your findings into a story to share with the class when we return! Really think- what exactly makes you so you!” With precision that only comes with teaching for years, her sentence was punctuated with the Beep-Beep-Beep bell that signaled the end of another school day. 

. . . 

Gluten and Keto had been next door neighbors since elementary school, and as the sleeve of cookie-cutter houses in their neighborhood grew in size, Hazel and Ella, followed by Vegan, all moved into houses near each other while the girls were still in middle school. By high school, they were inseparable, and were able to walk to school and home together each day. As Keto and Vegan talked about an assignment for art, Gluten started to fall behind the others on the way home. Her stomach pains were getting worse. She thought eating something small, like a piece of bread as a snack, would help but it only made her feel worse. Ella noticed Gluten walking a little slower, holding her side. 

“Gluten are you okay?” Ella asked her quietly. Ella could see that Gluten didn’t want to bring any attention to something being wrong. 

“I’m fine!” Gluten snapped at Ella, which made her immediately feel even worse. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m just so irritated today. It’s probably because we were given so much homework the day before break.” 

“I understand,” Ella smiled, and hugged her friend. They were at Gluten’s house at this point in the walk, and the girls waved goodbye to her. They would meet up later in the week to work on the Biology project together. Gluten turned around and smiled at her friends, gritting her teeth through the pain in her abdomen. 

. . . 

Ella and Hazel were in the middle of a typical dinner feud. As twins, they were almost identical in genetic makeup, except for one small particular: Hazel was allergic to tree nuts. 

“I just don’t understand,” Hazel said to her mother across the dinner table, “why you had to name me Hazelnut. It’s just so cruel, mom.” 

Her mother smiled at the girls and shook her head.

“You’re named after your grandmother, Hazelnut. Gammie Hazelnut Toffee was so kind to me when I married your dad.” Hazel rolled her eyes at her mother. Everyone in their family had remnants of nuts in their DNA except her. It was the first thing she discovered while researching her family’s ingredients.

“I just don’t understand how that’s possible,” Hazel said to her mom when she discovered this small discrepancy in ingredients. Ella immediately started the “You’re Adopted, Hazel” campaign just to irritate her twin sister, but Hazel knew better. 

“It just happens sometimes, Hazel. It’s a quirk, nothing more. You can be around nuts of course, clearly, you just can’t ingest them. You don’t remember this, but you had all your walnuts removed as a baby.” 

“Ew mom, please don’t talk about removing my walnuts ever again,” Hazel said, while Ella snorted into her glass of chocolate milk. 

Ella and Hazel had created a family diagram of a tree for their presentation. It was a tree of traits that dated back five generations of chocolate chip cookies. The girls had listed out family members across the top each with their own branch. 1 egg, ½  c. granulated sugar, 2 ¼ c. oat flour, ¾ c. light brown sugar were scrawled across the top

“Did you know,” their father chimed in, “that you have an ancestor that was part of Ruth Wakefield’s first batch of chocolate chip cookies? Ingredients were so simple at that time that Ruth chopped up barks of chocolate instead of using morsales in the cookies. The chocolate in our family was chunky and square until about three generations ago.” The girls added the story to their project. 

The girls had a list of their ingredients; some listed as the same crucial elements from their biology textbook, others were unique to their family. 

“The brown sugar,” Ella said, “is different. Most people don’t include that in their ingredients- why is that dad?” 

“Brown sugar adds to the chewiness of our family,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Most people assume that two types of sugar would make a cookie sweeter, but in reality, the breakdown of brown sugar turns into a glaze… hence chewy!” He laughed looking down at the family pet. Their dog, Chewy, pawed at his side begging for scraps. 

“Hazel,” their mother said, “Don’t worry about your allergy, you just have to be careful who you hang out with. Luckily all your friends are nut-free… well, except your sister of course!” She smiled at the twins, and started clearing the plates from the table. 

. . . 

Keto was putting the final touches on her project, noting the last piece of information from an interview she had with an aunt. Coconut flour uses ¼ the amount compared to other flours, her paper stated, and doubles the egg and liquid quantity due to high liquid absorbent properties. She knew her genetic makeup was thinner than others and often runny, but didn’t realize the extent of how different ingredients were to others. This must be why I’m so good at cross country, Keto thought to herself, because I’m made with double the liquid amount as other cookies. Her thoughts were cut short as her mother called her name from the living room. “Ketosis! Come here a minute I need to talk to you!”  Keto looked at the clock, it was so late she was surprised her mother was even awake. Normally at this hour her mom and dad were usually half-baked. Keto walked into the living room, where she realized her mother had been crying.

. . .

Vegan was in the middle of her report, typing out ‘½ c. coconut oil, melted, ⅓ non-dairy milk, 1 ½ c. chickpea flour, Vegan chocola’-- when the phone suddenly rang in her bedroom. Vegan looked at the clock. 10:15 pm. It was a little late for a phone call, but she answered it regardless. 

“Vegan!” The sound of Keto’s voice rang through from the other end in a panic. “It’s Gluten. She’s in the hospital.”

. . . 

The next morning of Spring Break started in a gloomy fashion for the four friends. The night had been punctured by the sudden news that Gluten was very, very sick and in the hospital. Mrs. FreeMont called Keto’s mother the night before, and all the girls wanted to go to the hospital immediately to see Gluten. Begrudgingly, and after hours of begging, Mrs. FreeMont agreed. 

“Girls,” Mrs. FreeMont insisted, “Before you go in to see her, you need to know that Gluten is very tired. She was poked and prodded for days, and had an endoscopy done last night. The doctors think she has...” There was a pause as Mrs. FreeMont held back tears, “Celiac Disease.” 

The girls looked at each other, confused. Normally Gluten was the science nerd who knew all the answers to anything remotely medical, but from Mrs. FreeMont’s statement, it was more serious than anyone knew. Keto spoke up first.

“Mrs. FreeMont,” she asked, “What is Celiac Disease, and how could Gluten not know she had it?” 

Hazel, Ella, and Vegan all nodded in agreement with her. 

“It’s an auto-immune disease,” she whispered, as if this cleared up any confusion. “Gluten can’t.. Well she can’t have gluten in her system. It’s been building up more and more over the last year. Even more in the last few weeks. It’s slowly damaging her intestines, so she’ll have to have part of her small intestines removed later week. She also must have an immediate flour transplant. Our whole family’s genetic flour is all-purpose. Completely,” Mrs. FreeMont held back tears, “full of gluten enzymes.” 

The girl’s mouths slacked open, horror-struck. This meant that none of Gluten’s family members would be able to donate flour to the young cookie for the necessary flour transplant. Suddenly, Vegan realized an important fact at the same time as Keto, Ella, and Hazel. 

“Mrs. FreeMont!” Vegan piped up, “Can we help? I mean…” she paused, “can we donate flour to Gluten?” Mrs. FreeMont looked at the girls collectively. 

“My sweets,” she said with a small smile, “I doubt any of you can help, so many chocolate chip cookies are make with all-purpose flour now-a-days, it’s going to take time to find the right donors that Gluten needs--” her words were cut off by Keto suddenly.

“No, Mrs. FreeMont! Listen!” Keto said. The girls all started to talk at once.

“My genetic ingredients include chickpea flour!” Vegan almost yelled excitedly, thankful she decided to study her mother’s side of the family that included other vegan and gluten-free flour alternatives. 

“And ours includes oat flour!” Hazel and Ella chimed in together.

“And mine,” Keto included, “is from coconut flour!” 

“You see, Mrs. FreeMont,” Vegan said as she looked around at her three other friends, “we’re all made from gluten-free flour alternatives. It’s in our ingredients. We can help her.” 

Mrs. FreeMont looked at the group of girls, bewildered, unbelieving at the chances that her youngest cookie would have made friends with a group of unique cookies who all held different active ingredients that her daughter needed most to survive. 

“I just can’t believe it,” she said to herself, “what are the chances…” As the girls called their parents and met at the hospital to prepare for the flour transfusion, they quietly went into Gluten’s room to tell her what they were going to do to help their friend. 

“Gluten, who would have thought we’d actually learn something helpful from an assignment Ms. Chip gave us to do!” Hazel said with a snort. The chocolate chips all laughed and filled Gluten in on what ingredients they were going to donate to help her out. 

“Does this mean,” Gluten said with a smile, “that my heredity project gets to include you all as family now too?” 

“Probably,” Keto said to her friend. The others nodded in agreement

“We’re all so similar,” Vegan quoted their teacher from the last day before break, “that we were just meant to be friends after all. This will definitely be a story to tell the class, don’t you think?”

The last thing Gluten remembered before drifting off to sleep was knowing that it felt good to have people in her life that understood her new restrictive diet, and that being made from alternative ingredients didn’t make her a bad cookie. Her new diet and new ingredients made her even more unique, just like her friends.

[hollandroos]

Run To Me; Part Eighteen

Summary: Dad!Mob!Tom. Sequel to BAK but you don’t have to read that one first. If you wish too, the link is in my bio masterlist!! Where old feelings arise but other things get in the way. Whether it’s kids, fears or things from your past coming back to haunt you.

Run To Me: Series Masterlist!

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: Sexual content that doesn’t surpass R16

Notes: Hi! So you may have noticed that my chapters are getting shorter, and that is due to the notes dropping drastically on this fic. That doesn’t mean I’m going to just drop this fic because I do enjoy writing it and I can’t leave my babe's story incomplete!! But it means that the chapters are shortening in length and the storyline is coming to a close. Please remember to leave comments and send asks and lemme know if you’re enjoying it :)

One hand securely placed in yours, breathes– low pants against your neck and toffee coloured curls tickled the side of your face. It was definitely the same shampoo you used that one time you borrowed his bathroom and you welcomed the familiar, slightly musky scent. Everything was intimate. He was touching you still, heart beating profusely against your own chest and you weren’t afraid of the consequences of the situation. Those consequences included falling deeper into your own feelings and spiralling into a repeat of traumatic events.

There was a dull ache on your hips where he’d rested his hands at one point, one that you didn’t think twice about and there had previously been a trail of kisses, soft and loving between your thighs. The blanket, nothing more than a thin sheet now rested around your waist covering the small trail of bite marks along your hip bones.

“How was it?”

Tom's voice was husky but filled with a level of concern that could compete to his voice before you went through with your events. The way he’d asked you repeatedly if this was what you wanted, checking as he touched every part of you and slipped down your body, the way he took care of you with such ease. You had melted into him.

You try to suppress a laugh, swollen lips curling up anyway. “You said that as if I wasn’t just moaning your name two minutes ago.”

“I just want to make sure that I didn’t take it too far, sweet girl,” Tom tells you, floating on cloud nine himself as he continues to decorate the area scattered with colourful hickeys with gentle kisses. “Wanna make sure that you’re okay and not regretting anything.”

“It was perfect, you were perfect.” Your hands come up to brush up against his fluffy curls, brushing them away from his forehead with a gentle hum.

He sighs, forehead warm against yours and you feel the remains of a thin layer of sweat. Tom bites the inside of his lip. “You’re too good to me.”

“C’mere.” You practically complain, doing grabby hands and Tom pulls you closer, almost impossibly close.  “If anything happens, I have the ring. I–I have it and I’ll be wearing it. Remember that”

He halts his movements, the gentle circles he’d previously been rubbing across your arm come to a sudden stop and out of pure shock, Tom tilts his head down so he can look at you, brows furrowed and eyes squinted in confusion.

“You kept the ring?” He asks gently.

You shrug your shoulders as best you can while laying on your side. “Of course I did.” Was your reply, sliding your bottom lip between your teeth.

“I thought you wanted to takes things slow?”

You suppress a laugh. “I threw that out the window the second I threw my shirt off.”

Memories of your activities flash through your brain, memories you hoped you would get to relive sometime soon. But life was unexpected, so, for now, you relied on memories. If you tried hard enough, you could still feel the mattress next to you caving slightly as he cupped the sheets with a deathly grip, hips thrusting into yours at a steady pace. There were probably dents in the wall from where the headboard had smacked against the plaster in a regular pattern.

You could still feel his wet kisses down your jaw, and reminisce while staring at the not deep– but jagged scratches down the skin of his back. Every single touch sent shivers down your spine, goosebumps to rise on your skin and dear god– Toms' arm had done a fine job at keeping your hips flush against the bedding.

“Knowing that you’re wearing that ring would really make things a lot easier.” He says, smirking gently against the pillow.

“You’re just saying that.” You say and yawn, closing your eyes briefly. You swore his bed was the equivalent to a cloud. Soft, plush, and always inviting. “I just want you to know that I’m as serious as you about this and that I’m not going to walk out this time. I’m here for the long run.”

“Hey, it does make me a little happier knowing it’ll be on your finger again. But I’m coming home, I’ll be okay.” A clock ticks away in the corner of the room, competing with Toms hushed words. You brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes.

“It’s just different that it’s your dad this time and not some drug lord or a stranger you’ve worked with once or twice.” You tell him, admitting the words that had been hard to admit to yourself. There was also the fact that Aiden was still alive and you feared his return, despite Toms reassurance that A. Aiden wouldn’t dare and B. He was already onto it.

“I know.” Tom states. “But I doubt my dad would try and seriously hurt me– I mean, he’s wicked but I’m his blood.” Tom stops, bringing your knuckles up to his lips and leaves scattered kisses. “Why are we talking about this now when there are other things we could do?” He smirks, beginning to slide down your body at snail's pace. It was teasing, tauntingly slow. “Let’s make the most of this.”

“C’mon,” You complain, staring down at the head of overgrown curls as they brush against your abdomen. Maybe you were a little needy, and maybe Tom was prepared to give you everything you needed.

“Mummy!”

He shoots up, getting tangled in the sheet and you try not to laugh, tugging it up to your chest with flushed cheeks and amused eyes. Tom wasn’t having it, breathing deeply thanks to the panic that had set in for those few seconds that he was trapped under the blankets while your daughter ran in on her toes, nightdress flowing freely as she ran in, a toy in hand.

“Fuck.” He mutters, cursing under his breath. Luckily Rosie– who now stood on the side of the bed hadn’t heard a thing. Neither of you heard her race down the hall and neither of you had heard the door open. “What’s up pumpkin?”

“Cuddles.” She cracks a cheesy, yet tired grin and puts her arms up, waiting for one of you to lift her.

Looks like your night just kept getting better.

-

The next morning, Tom struggled to get out of bed.

And it wasn’t because he was caught up in a web of sheets, head lodged between two pillows or because your arms were securely wrapped around his torso, Rosie's legs laying on top of him until he was trapped unless he wanted to wake you two up. No, it wasn’t really that, but the fact that he was swarmed with thoughts about not coming back, about not reliving last night and this morning because minutes after Rosie had come in and the two of you had a suitable amount of clothing on, she had lodged her way in between your bodies, more so on Toms chest and had drifted off into a deep sleep after half an hour of poking and prodding and toms cheeks and upper chest.

He struggled to get up because he wanted to take as long as he possibly could to savour every second he had left with the two of you because the outcome of today's events was unknown, and maybe he’d lied to you about his dad being the slightest bit sane to keep you calm, or maybe to keep himself calm. Tom knew one thing, and that was that he barely knew anything right now.

He’d hauled himself up ten minutes later then he should have, untucking the mess of sheets and retucking them around your body, pulling them up to Rosie's waist. He planted a kiss on her forehead before moving to you and she hadn’t stirred in the slightest but you… you pecked an eye open, blinking through the morning blurs and grabbed his hand right before he could disappear on you. Maybe it was because you were still in and out of sleep and it was making you more honest, maybe.

“Tom,” You had stirred, twisting around, swatting strands of hair away from your face. “We love you.”

You’d deal with any consequences later.

Tom didn’t know what to say so instead he strokes your cheek with one hand, leaning down kisses you softly. “I’ll see you later.”

“Right, so here’s the plan.” Tom sprawled the paper out on the table, a selection of dots and markers scattering the wood. Tom placed his pointer finger down harshly, assertively. “We wait for him, no one acts out of place, got it? He’s coming to us.”

Sam furrows his brows, glancing towards Jacob who stood near the back of the group of five. “How will we know when he gets there? I mean, he knows all of the secret entries and he may just rock up at the front doors.”

“I’ve spoken to Z and Jacob, they’ll be on the lookout but only them. Dom has eyes everywhere and they can’t see us acting suspiciously or they’ll pull the plug, Harry shouldn’t even be here, to begin with.” Tom snarled, he was still bitter.

Harry sent his brother a glance, knowing that the boy was still mad about him going behind his back even if in the end, it had a positive impact on the mob. Or at least they hoped that it would and god, for Harry's sake it better. Harry understood that if things were the other way around then he would’ve been mad too, but it didn’t help him feel any less bitter then what he currently felt. Emotions were running wild.

Z nods her head, hands on her hips as she listens more attentively then any of the boys in the room. “We can do this, It’s one of the easiest missions yet. You can trust Jacob and me, Tom.”

The female mobster wore her hair in a tight bun, loose strands falling around her face while the rest was gelled back. A skin-tight tee hugged her from the waist up and a pair of jeans accompanied her, rings and jewels worth thousands decorating her hands and neck. Zendaya– best known by the mob as Z was one of Toms go to people, but also one of the most secretive. She was his dirty little secret, but not in the way that you’re thinking.

Tom went to her when he needed the utmost secret business done, most undercover stuff that not even the brothers could find out about and she never peeped a word. She was sneaky and had a way of doing things that just worked. Something not even Tom understood, but he wasn’t sure that he wanted to ask.

“I have no doubts when it comes to either of you.” Tom glanced between the two, speaking genuinely and they smirk in his direction. They were the only people besides Sam and you that he’d trust with his life– sometimes Harry– currently, Harry was on his shit list.

The twins rolled their eyes, one of them snorted and if Tom were looking then he would’ve known who. Then he hears Harry pipe up.

“What about us?”

The eldest brother squints his eyes, glaring at the two through a hooded gaze. “I have multiple doubts.”

“Hey–”

-

Rosie tapped you on the arm again, watching your stir. She waited until you peaked an eye open, struggling to look up at the four-year old through hooded lashes. She sat cross-legged, wild curls held back by a set of Minnie mouse ears and you smiled- though that wouldn’t last long. You looked at her and felt pride swell in your chest, smiling lightly at the girl that was beyond gorgeous– exceeded smart and radiated good– yet sarcastic energy.

Everything felt okay until you realised that the space beside you was empty and you vaguely remembered waking up to the rustling of sheets around half an hour ago. But that moment was hazy and you were too tired to remember what had happened. Toms' fingers had traced the line of your jaw, lips pressing a butterfly kiss to your forehead. His touch lingered.

“Morning.” You mutter, words muffled as the pillows cover your face. Rosie wasn’t happy with your words, throwing the blanket off of your body and you’re welcomed with a gust of cold air. How that girl sat up, nightgown barely covering her legs and arms, you didn’t know.

“I have my appointment today, it’s the fourteenth.” She tells you, picking with the plaster on her cast. The bruises and cuts that had littered her cheeks had forehead were fading, slowly becoming a less ugly shade of purple and blue. And the cuts were becoming scars– scars that you had to work very hard to make sure she didn’t pick.

“What– oh fuck.” You’re confused for a second before you realise what she means and sit up, blankets pooling on your lap.

“Yeah, fuck.” She replies smartly. Your features go from stressed too hard in less then a second, sending her a glare though you knew it was your fault for swearing in the first place, Rosie smiles innocently.

“Don’t repeat that.” You tell her.

Rosie nods though you knew it wouldn’t be the last of it. The small girl was too consumed with the thought of finally leaving the house for the first time since they’d arrived. She loved the house, there was always something to do but she was itching to get in the car and go for a drive, or go to the park or just get out anywhere where she wasn’t confined behind those large gates that surrounded the perimeter.

“What about my appointment?” She presses, swinging her arm up in the air. The word ‘Appointment’ was pronounced wrong, sounding more like ‘apparent’ then anything.

You groan, wrapping an arm around her waist and pull the little girl into your side. She lands with a gentle thud and turns to you. Rosie always radiated warmth, and right now was no different. “We need to reschedule. We can’t go out today, sweet, things are a little tough right now.”

“My arm hurts and we’re out of those things that go in my yoghurt.” She huffs, pouting only inches away from your face. She was talking about her painkillers and you had to ask why Tom– a man that was consistently injured didn’t own more.

“Roo-“

Somehow, she manages to stick her lip out even more and you knew then that you were screwed. “Mummy, hurts.”

You give in, slinging your arm off of her. “Okay, okay, we can go. But you need to get ready now, and grab your own breakfast.”

Rosie jumps up on two feet, jumping off of the bed with a grin. She was ecstatic, over the moon though you weren’t feeling the same. If anything you were riddled with nerves. “Coco Pops!”

The promise of a sugary breakfast nudged her from the bed. Something else was nudging at you, however, more so in the back of your mind, telling you that this was a bad idea and just this time you could have said no to her, to reschedule the appointment another day and go with Tom and not while he was getting ready for a dangerous mission.

-

An hour later and three unopened texts that sat on Tom's phone, his phone of which sat in his desk drawer, you found yourself walking through the doors of your old apartment that you hadn’t been in since he’d taken you back to his. Everything sat as you remembered from last time you’d been there, except the house was much colder. The curtains were still drawn closed, woollen blanket strewn across the couch, the same wrinkles remained and family photos were scattered across the table. The grossest part was most definitely the mouldy fruit that sat on the bench and you were nearly sure that the milk and cheese in the fridge looked the same– you were too fearful of the outcome to look.

A shiver ran down your spine, discomfort settling in the pit of your stomach and you dragged Rosie in with your hand in hers, keeping a rather tight grip, but not tight enough to hurt her. She recognised the scene straight away, eyes widening as they landed on the books that were left scattered across the coffee table and her still full cup of orange juice.

“Why are we here?” She asks, looking up at you. Though she wasn’t complaining, Rosie actually liked being home in the house she’d grown up in.

You dump your keys on the bench, clattering against the table. “We have to grab something, I left your doctors papers here and we need them for the appointment.

“Can I grab a few toys while I’m here?” She asks, trying to tug herself out of your grasp.

You let the girl's hand go and she looks towards her bedroom, of course, she still remembered where it was and everything. Straight down the hall, turn left at the second door. It was the one closest to the bathroom with stickers all over the front door that she’d put there herself.

You nod towards the hall, flicking through the numerous bills and such that were left in your box. “Go ahead, but we’ll only be a few minutes.”

Rosie was ecstatic to go back to her room, missing her bed with the colourful duvet and her array of toys and children's books. But if anything you were nervous about stepping back into yours and were going to do whatever you could to stay out. You knew that there’d be clothes scattered across the floor, pictures of your once family turned up and memories are hidden in the back of drawers and under the mattress.

The place was simply scary, the equivalent to a horror house but you couldn’t forget the good memories, like the couch where you’d fed Rosie time and time again or the hall where she’d learn to walk and the kitchen stool she deemed hers day after day. There was the wall that was covered in coloured pencil– despite you scolding her for doing it at least three times. It was all the little things that made it only bearable.

You sighed and placed the papers down again, but this time closer to your keys and wallet so you wouldn't forget them because the last thing you needed was forgotten and overdue bills to add to the stress. You didn’t even know how you’d pay them considering you didn’t have a job and savings were running low.

You were so overcome with fear as you stood there that you didn’t pick up the presence of another person until it was too late– until you’re gritting your teeth together as cool metal is pressed against the side of your head, planted with such force that you swore it’d bruise soon enough. It was shocking, enough for your heartbeat to accelerate in your chest and muscles to tense. Though whoever was behind you was trembling slightly, that much was obvious.

“Don’t scream, don’t reach for your phone and don’t try to fight back.”

Part 19!

Leave comments or asks, reblog if you wish!! let’s talk about this chapter

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[diningpageantry]

Just Tell Me Why

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15957728

Word Count: 3016

Summary: Simon's got a regular coming in looking a little worse for wear on a rainy afternoon. Despite their seemingly mutual distaste for one another, they come together over sweet treats and dried tears. (Coffee Shop AU)

Notes: thank you to @jessethejoyful for going over this super quick! i basically got the idea for this, wrote it, got it edited, then published it all within 6 hours so big thanks to her for help! also, there’s a spotify playlist to go with about half the fic’s background music. this is Simon’s Nightshift playlist!

The rain patters outside, a repetitive tapping against the long, paper-covered windows. Adverts, local band posters, cram-session times and business cards close off the shop from most of the outside world, leaving a multicolored, softened haze of light to filter in. Each lamp, each overhead light buzzes in this world, closing us off from the stampering around outside as students rush to one place or another.

I hear the chime of the doorbell and the soft shuffling of feet against the straw welcome mat before the steps approach the front. The soft mutter of “Shit” and the droplets of water from a flicked head land on me, turning my attention away from the case as I refill the cookie plates.

Oh. It’s him. “Basilton,” I hiss with my most forced smile, which only falters as I notice his eyes. Blood red. Oh. His cheeks aren’t wet from the rain, they’re red on their own terms. Great, this bloody prick somehow made me feel bad for him (even if it is in the slightest).

He sneers down at me, shaking another hand through his hair as he clearly tries to keep composure. “The usual, will you?”

“Yeah, fine. Anything else?”

He drags his eyes over the restocked case and I watch him fix his cuffed sleeves. The ends are damp in spots, as if they were moping something up rather than hit by drops. “Unless there’s toffee bars in the back.”

If he didn’t come in looking as depressing as he does, I would’ve just said no and left it at that, but I know for a fact that there’s some that are still cooling (even though they’re not set enough to really sell). I hesitate, looking up to meet his eyes. They tear away from mine. “Yeah, actually, there are. One or two?”

“Tw—one. One.”

“Riiigghhhttt… I’ll grab two.”

He sends a glare over my way, but straightens himself out again. “Fine.” His hand reaches into the inside breast of his jacket, digging in for his wallet as I raise a hand, grabbing my own out of my back pocket.

“I’ve got it,” I say sternly, not leaving wiggle room for him to protest.

He simply clears his throat, head turning away as his throat clears. I’m sure he won’t give me a thank you, but his off-turned nod is quite enough before he heads off to take a seat in the far corner, opening his messenger bag and pulling out a laptop.

The harsh blue of the screen illuminates his face. The only other light near him is a table-lamp on the other side of the sofa, and it’s the dimmest one in the whole shop.

Sometimes, whenever Penny comes in to sit at the bar and bother me, she comments on how he looks like this.

“He’s so angular,” she’d whisper, narrowing eyes as she stared blatantly. He didn’t seem to notice. “Looks like Dracula’s nephew.” This is, though, after I’d blabbered to her for at least an hour or two the night before about how I catch him staring at me. She thinks I’m being ridiculous about all this. “He stares at me, Penny, like without moving his head and just lifting his eyes oh dear god he’s plotting some shit, and I saw the way he watches Agatha whenever she’d come in and we’d steal a kiss on my break and Christ, Penny, he’s going to pull some shit have you seen how ridiculously handsome he is fuck him.”

Two things were decided that night. 1) How much wine is too much wine for me, and 2) We have a “Baz-cap”, or a cap to how much we talk about Mr. Coffee-Shop.

That was, of course, until we saw him off taking Agatha’s hand right before an exam, talking to her by a bathroom carve-out.

That cut it. Agatha broke it--the whole relationship thing--off with me, and I went from having a bitter spat with him each time he’d come in to barely dealing with him, if I can help it.

Except now, I suppose.

He looks down at his laptop screen, lips drawn to a tight line as he clacks away. I take notice that in pauses between words, his fingers hesitate and tremble in the slightest. He swallows sharply, blinking so much that he can’t not be crying.

Well, shit. I put together his frankly overly sweet order of some latte with six pumps of butterscotch, pushing through the swinging door to the back and getting a plate together of two toffee-bars (throwing on a vanilla bean cake-pop because, for some reason, I briefly care).

Swiftly, I take hold of his drink and bring it over to him with a slight yet genuine smile.

There’s a gentle clink of the plate hitting the plastic bowl on the table as I set it down, followed by the gentle swishing sound of his egregiously pre-diabetic drink as I rest it beside his food. He glances up at me, then down to the plate before dragging his eyes back to mine. “You seemed to have left something extra there.”

“I know I did. Seemed like you needed it.”

He scoffs quietly, the sound dragging through the back of his throat. “Is this why people gravitate towards you, Snow?” he grumbles half-heartedly, picking up one of the bars and a napkin. It dips a bit in the middle, still obviously a little too fresh. He doesn’t seem to mind. “Your hero complex?”

“I don’t have a hero complex. I just like being nice, you should try it.”

He makes the sound again, biting into the treat. I watch as he chews slowly, dragging his eyes up to mine. He swallows all showily. “Should I? I’ve gotten far enough without it.”

“Yeah, you should. It’ll get you your own girlfriend instead of havin’ to creep up on someone else’s,” I mumble back, leaning down to clean the discarded dishes beside him and giving it a good once over with my rag. He stares at me, and I swear I can hear him laughing.

Scratch that, he is laughing, somewhat a bitter twinge to his voice. I force my head up, eyebrows knit together in frustration. “Oh fuck yo—“

“You think I want your girlfriend, Snow?”

“You can already have her, tosser.”

“I don’t want her.”

I stare at him, and I catch him staring back. His laugh has far gone and disappeared into a slightly lowering brow and drawn in lips. His eyes scan around my face, the space between us all static-y. “Alright…” I draw, completely unconvinced. “Then what the hell happened last year?”

“She came onto me, Snow,” he says flatly. “It’s not my fault your girlfriend likes me better.”

Something inside stops me from spitting on him and calling him a prick. It’s the same part of me that actually cared that this arse came in crying. “Ex. She’s my ex, now.”

His brow arches, like it usually does when I tell him off, but it doesn’t have the energy of me about to be punched in the face. Instead, he’s inquisitive. “Oh. Ex?”

“Ex,” I sigh, pausing for a second. “Why don’t you want her? Everyone wants her.”

“Not my type,” he replies, a little too quickly.

I think he notices this too, because for the first time in minutes he drags his gaze back to his computer screen, finishing his thoughts as he types. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not after her, Snow. Don’t let me stop you from your… fantasy world, hero.”

The way he punctuates the end makes me bite my tongue again, holding the words trying to urge out as I clean the surrounding tables and take back the cups.

The clock ticks on as I fill the dishes into the sink. The café’s closed in four hours, and each time I peer out, it seems to still be dead silent. I stop, occasionally, to serve a customer.

The outside world darkens, drawing into a sunset before sinking back into a world only illuminated by yellowed streetlights. Most people leave, the rain having let up for about 15 minutes and setting a cue for the dining area to clear out.

Only a few stay, one of whom is Baz.

I chew on my bottom lip, hand floating over the Spotify playlist for the shop. It’s been on “Rainy Day” since before my shift started, so I just scroll down and pick “Simon’s Nightshift” and hit shuffle. It starts echoing out as I turn to keep cleaning and just standing for a time, taking out a book to try to read. It doesn’t last, and I clean around as mostly everyone trickles out of the shop slowly.

As the rain fully picks back up to a roll, it’s just Baz and I left inside.

After nearly 10 minutes on internal conflict, I grab the last few scones in the case (the other batch in the oven) and take a seat in the plush, leather armchair adjacent to him.

Slowly, his head rises and he gives me a bored look. The redness in his eyes has all but gone, but he still seems overall unsteady. It half stops me from even saying anything, but I push through the bubble and let it pop in my hands. “Do you have someone to talk to?”

He cocks his brow at me again, pursing his lips and clearly thinking over his words (or maybe mine). “Are you asking if I would wish to speak to you about my problems?” he draws, and the way he puts it makes me feel like I’m back as a toddler when the teachers would ask me if I understood English because I was so quiet.

The pit of my stomach churns as I forcefully stuff half the scone in my mouth. My stomach doesn’t want it to go down. I force it down anyway. “Yeah, I guess.”

He exhales exasperatedly. “What are you, a shrink?”

My shoulders shrug up, then sag. “I’m just someone who’s bored at work with nothing better to do. Least I could do is pester you.”

The clacking of his keys halts as Baz stares down at his knuckles. They wrap in, then extend once more. I watch as he drums against the surface of the keyboard before shutting the lid. “Okay. Fine. Do you truly want to know?”

I nod more encouragingly than I mean. Or, maybe I do mean it and I just don’t really want to admit it, even to myself. That’s what Penny thinks I do, at least; hide stuff from myself.

I listen to him sigh as my eyes flicker down to the rest of the scone I’m stuffing in my mouth.

Baz rubs his index finger and thumb against his temple as the exhale lengthens. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this of all people,” he mutters under his breath before straightening out and looking me in the eyes. I feel his next exhale. “My mother died years back and while looking through an old textbook of hers for a course, a picture of her and I fell out. It had a message from her on it, and it got to me. There. Happy?”

I blink a little, noticing that I still haven’t swallowed yet. I do that before continuing. “Baz…”

“Don’t start with the pitying shit, Snow. I don’t want to hear it,” he snaps, looking at his hands deliberately. “I’ve heard it quite enough before.”

“No, Baz, I—“

“I said to shut it,” he says, voice as hard as an edge as he shoves his backpack into the large pocket of his bag. “Just… forget it.”

“Baz?”

He sucks in a breath as I lay a hand on his knee, my plate setting on the table as he stares. His eyes transfix on each and every part of my hand, seeming to follow the veins and the scars scattering my weathered knuckles. It takes a moment before his eyes close and I’m nearly positive he’s on the brink of tears. It takes a moment of his mouth flying open before I cut him off this time.

“Why did you come here of all places?”

There’s a hesitation in his movements, but he keeps his knee in place as his waist shifts to face me more before opening his eyes. “What does it matter to you? This is very atypical of you, either way, not telling me to piss off.”

“Christ, Baz, I’m not heartless, especially when someone’s crying.” My voice lowers as I shift, the leather of my seat squeaking. “Plus, if you’re not swooping in to snag my girlfriend—or ex, but that doesn’t matter—fuck it, why did you go along with the fighting?”

He seems taken aback by my conversation shift, but his knee draws in and sends my hand back to my lap. “Does it matter?”

I shrug, hands laying together in my lap and playing a bit with twiddling thumbs and an anxious tug at my heart. Why does it matter so much? “Guess not. I just… I dunno, don’t like the fighting?”

“So you suggest we forgo the bitterness?”

“I mean, that’s what we’re doing right now, innit?”

He glances to meet my eyes and takes a second. “I suppose we are.”

I smile a little, sitting up straighter with a growing grin. “Good, glad that’s settled.” I pause before saying what else is on my mind, but the timer for the oven beeps and I launch myself up and run over to pull everything out.

By the way Baz was packing, I expect the couch to be empty by the time I return, but instead he’s sitting there with his phone by his face, thumbs in a pattern of scrolling. I bite my lip, hesitating before leaning over the counter and giving him a smile. “Oi,” I whisper, a twinkle in my eyes as he glances up to me, hair falling in soft waves against the sharp angles of his face. It makes my heart race a little more than I’d care to admit. “You want something absolutely amazing?”

“Is this a friendly offer?”

“This is a peace treaty, now, will you take it?”

“I suppose,” he mulls, the click of his iPhone sounding over the soft thump of the music. “What is it?”

“Fresh scones.”

He blinks. “What’s so amazing about them?”

I pout a little, taking one over and sitting directly next to him this time. “Just… taste it. It’s so much better like this; fresh from the oven.” I pry open his hand, pressing one onto his palm and watching him happily. I nearly swear I see him smile. “Well then? Go on, eat it.”

His hand slowly raises to his lips, taking a bite and chewing slowly. “I swear, you’re trying to fatten me up tonight,” he grumbles before swallowing, but I don’t see him complain as he goes for another bite.

A soft, pleased sigh lets out of my nose as I sit back against the armrest, grinning. I wait until he finishes before letting myself finish my thought from before I broke the moment. “Why the hell do you stare at me?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Because you’re a trainwreck, and I can never look away,” he quips, but any malicious intent slides right past him.

“Is that really it?” I dare, pressing him further. “Because I wouldn’t come right here if my I found my mum’s left note.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have a dead mum, do you?”

“I don’t know,” I say flatly, shrugging. “I don’t know my mum. I grew up in the system.”

He blinks, narrowing his eyebrows for a moment before letting it slip off. “Interesting.”

I stop myself from making any comment beyond that, chewing on my lip. “I want to know, though,” I say quieter than before, “why you’d come here. Why you came here so much even though we had a big tiff. Why you stare at me.”

Baz’s eyes don’t look up as he chews on his last bite of scone, staring right through the chairs across the room. “Move past that, Snow.”

“Why?”

“You don’t want the answer.”

“Maybe I do.”

He pauses mid chew, freezing for seconds before swallowing and turning his head to look at me, sitting all curled up to myself and pressed up against the arm. He looks so unsure; fuck, no, he looks scared. He starts shifting in his seat, glancing around like a cornered animal trying to find an exit. “Snow…”

Something about the tremble in his hand floors me and, honestly, I can’t give an explanation for what follows. It’s like my brain shuts off between then and now, with my lips pressed up against Baz’s.

My hand’s wrapped tightly around the previously shaking hand, trying to steady them as my lips press a tad forcefully against his and I can swear he’ll recoil and slam a fist into my nose, but something in him softens for a split second as I decide to pull back. His eyes, moments before open, are now shut, and mouth open in the slightest.

Oh, fuck it.

I lean my head back in, and this time, his hand flies up to brush against my cheek as he finally kisses back and my heart is pounding against my ribcage, telling me that this, this is the answer I was looking for.

He tastes like all the sweets he packs into himself; he tastes like the sour cherry scone I’d forced onto him. He tastes like everything I’ve wanted from him.

After every bit I take from his mouth, after minutes that feel like an eternity, he lets back and watches me through heavily lidded eyes and breathes through parted, shining lips. “How long ‘til closing?”

My eyes dart up to the clock, but something in my chest tugs. I bet Ebb wouldn’t mind if I closed a tad early because the weather… “Fuck it, right now,” I whisper back, going in for another kiss.

#snowbaz #carry on #simon snow #tyrannus basilton grimm-pitch #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #simon #baz #fanfic #fic #mine #ficlet #oneshot #coffeshop AU

[banshee-cheekbones]

Are you still taking prompts? If so, can you write something about Standrew and the tongue pops? Or just standrew in general, because there's not enough of them. You're really cool, by the way.

this took so darn long to write and I am so sorry! anyway, here’s the one with all the tongue pops! 

features the following: friends to lovers, so much goddamn fluff, insecure Andrew, pining Steven, an absurd amount of cuddling, first kisses and literal sleeping together. 

4.4k, read under the cut or on ao3 here.

and it was me and you (this could last forever).

Steven is already halfway to Andrew’s desk, a heavy paper bag from a gourmet candy store near Pershing Square dangling from his fingertips, before he starts to think that this might be a bad idea.

The thing is, while him and Andrew aren’t exactly strangers, he wouldn’t go so far as to say that they’re friends. Colleagues, yes. Acquaintances maybe, but even that might be pushing it a bit.

(Of course, there’s also the slight thing that he has for Andrew, the thing that relates to how his arms fill out his shirts and how his rarely seen smile wholly illuminates his face, but, so far as he knows, Andrew is unaware of that thing, and Steven doesn’t plan on telling him about it anytime soon.

Or ever, ideally.)

But now that they’re officially going to be co-hosts, thanks to the helping hands of fate (and a suggestion from Adam), it had seemed imperative to Steven that, after filming their first episode together, he should get Andrew something to show his gratitude, something that said thank you for agreeing to this and saving my show. However, now that the present is actually in his hands, the problem is that Steven doesn’t actually know how Andrew feels about spontaneous gifts, particularly ones that are presented in public (although most of the other people who work in this pod are gone for lunch, so at least there’s that). Truthfully, he doesn’t know how Andrew feels about a lot of things, doesn’t even really know his favorite foods (which, considering the whole premise of Worth It, is a little bit yikes).

So even though he spent twenty minutes driving around the block looking for a parking spot, another thirty minutes trying to narrow down the perfect gift and a frankly absurd amount of money, the whole thing is definitely starting to seem like a bad idea.

However, before he can back out and go hide the present in one of his desk drawers (it might still be salvageable as an end of season gift), Andrew glances up at him, and Steven freezes with one foot half-raised, stuck in an awkward half-pivot position.

“What’s in the bag?” he asks, pulling his headphones off and draping them around his neck.

Technically, Steven could still get out of this, could say that the bag is nothing and he was just coming over to talk about the next episode. However, his intuition tells him that, somehow, Andrew will know that he’s lying, which is bound to lead to an awkward dynamic that will bleed through into their next video, and Steven didn’t lose one co-host only for things to get immediately weird with the next.

So he sets the bag down on the corner of Andrew’s desk (a little too hard, based on the sharp clink of porcelain that comes from inside).

“It’s a present!” he answers, and his voice seems too loud in the unusually quiet space. “Like an unofficial ‘welcome to the Worth It family’ kind of present.”

“A present,” Andrew says suspiciously as he hooks his fingers into the bag’s handles and tugs it closer. The top is taped shut, and as he picks it open, loose strands of clear tape sticking to his thumbnail, he continues, “This better not be a prank.”

“When have prank videos ever been my thing?” Steven asks, more than a little bewildered that Andrew’s mind would even go in that direction. After a moment, Andrew shrugs minutely.

“Never, I guess.” When he finally finishes picking at the tape and reaches into the bag, Steven’s anxiety shoots through the roof. His stomach is viciously churning, and his brain is filled with the thought that he should snatch the bag and run before it’s too late.

Before he can really debate the pros and cons of that particular decision, Andrew pulls four packages of candy corn out of the bag, followed by the small porcelain dish, which Steven is relieved to see is undamaged. Andrew cradles it in his palms for a few moments, turns it this way and that, expression impossible to decipher, before he carefully sets it down and turns to the candy.

“Gourmet candy corn,” he says with a slight uptick to the corner of his mouth, the precursor to a genuine smile. At the sight of it, Steven’s anxiety is replaced by something almost akin to triumph. “I didn’t know this existed.”

“Those aren’t even the weirdest flavors they had.” Steven had done a quick Google search before he actually went shopping, so he’d had some preparation for when he’d actually walked into the store, but he’d still been overwhelmed by the truly bizarre array of candy corn flavors that had filled an entire shelf. In the end, he’d gone with four of the more normal flavors: s’mores, pumpkin pie, toffee, and caramel apple. After a moment of careful consideration, Andrew grabs the s’mores package, slowly tears it open and fishes a single piece out.

“Did you find any truffle flavored ones?” he asks, looking appraisingly at the piece of candy caught between his thumb and forefinger. “Or gold coated? Can we do a whole episode on these?”

“Maybe in a few seasons. When we run out of other ideas.” Andrew makes a sound that might be a laugh before he casually tosses the piece of candy into his mouth. Steven hasn’t tried any of the flavors and doesn’t have any particular interest in doing so, but he’s prepared for Andrew to either be very into it or find it absolutely disgusting.

What he isn’t prepared for is the sound that comes out of Andrew’s mouth.

It’s a surprisingly loud popping sound, a little softer and rounder than a click. It’s not a sound Steven’s ever heard anyone make, and he has no idea what it’s supposed to mean, if it signifies a good or bad reaction, if what he actually heard was a poorly disguised gag.

Naturally, his curiosity is piqued.

“What was that?” he asks with a surprised laugh.

Immediately, Andrew’s face goes totally and utterly blank.

“Nothing,” he mutters. After pushing the bag of s’mores candy corn over so that a few loose pieces spill out onto his desk (and Steven almost groans in protest, because that’s exactly why he got Andrew the bowl as well), he wraps his fingers around his headphones. “I have to get back to work. Thanks for the candy.”

Before Steven can say so much as you’re welcome, Andrew jams his headphones back on, and if that isn’t a sign that the conversation is totally over, Steven doesn’t know what is.

As he trudges back across the office to his own desk, stomach roiling with anxiety, two thoughts fight for space inside his mind.

The first is that, the next time he gets the idea to give someone a surprise present, he’s going to run it past Adam first or sit on it for a few days, because unless he read the situation totally wrong, he might have to find another new co-host.

The second is that, while he’s definitely curious about the noise Andrew made, if he ever hears it again, he’s going to keep his mouth shut about it.

Thankfully, despite the certainty that grows with each subsequent day that passes, he doesn’t have to find a new co-host.

After three days of doing his best to avoid interacting with Andrew in any way, Andrew shows up at his desk and sits on the edge of it, which makes it more than a little difficult for Steven to ignore his presence. That being said, he doesn’t have it in him to look Andrew square in the face yet, so he settles for fixing his eyes on where the sleeve of Andrew’s t-shirt bisects his arm.

It’s not exactly a great decision, because his face flushes with unwelcome heat, but he can only hope that if Andrew notices, he blames it on something else.

“Are we still doing this whole thing?” Andrew asks with a frown. “Or did you find someone else?”

Steven shakes his head rapidly, tongue nearly tripping on the words spilling from his mouth as a fresh wave of anxiety and guilt hits him.

“No! I mean, yeah! Of course we’re still doing this. If you want to. Do you?”

Andrew nods. “What are we doing next?”

“I was thinking steak.” Steven grabs his laptop and slides over a few inches so that Andrew can better see the screen. Bringing up his planning documents, he continues, “If that’s cool with you.”

Andrew’s face lights up, and Steven suddenly understands why moths are so attracted to bright lamps and flames.

He only allows the thought to linger for a moment before he clears it away with a firm shake of his head and goes back to the planning documents.

They don’t talk about what happened with the candy corn, about the sound and the way Andrew utterly shut down when Steven asked about it, but by the time Andrew strolls back off to his own desk, they have some semblance of a game plan for the next episode and frankly, for the time being at least, Steven thinks that’s more important.

As time goes by and they finish season one, begin production of season two and somehow become actual friends along the way, Steven hears the sound often enough to get some idea of what it actually means.

It’s definitely not a thinly disguised gag or retch. When it slips out during filming, it’s usually after Andrew has bitten into something that he particularly likes-

(and while the three of them never discuss it, all of those moments are edited out during post)

-but it’s not exclusively contained to food. One day, a few days after they start filming for season two, they stop by Annie’s house to hang out for a few hours. Mere seconds after walking through the door, Andrew ends up with Annie’s cat bundled up in his arms, both of them looking as pleased as can be, and as Steven follows Annie and Adam into the kitchen to grab some drinks, he catches the sound. When he glances back over his shoulder Andrew is simply scratching the cat between the shoulders, but Steven knows what he heard.

So the sound seems to be related more to general happiness than culinary satisfaction. But even though he’s fairly sure that he’s identified the cause of the sound, Steven still has no idea why Andrew shuts down when it happens, like he’s ashamed of it.

On more than one occasion, he almost tells Andrew that it’s okay, that he doesn’t need to hide it from them, but he always stops himself before the words can fall from his mouth. Bringing it up, even if it’s in a positive light, is bound to make Andrew even more uncomfortable, which is the exact opposite of what Steven wants to accomplish.

For the first time in his life, he thinks that he truly understands what it means to be stuck between a rock and a hard place.

The next time Steven hears the sound when it’s just the two of them, it’s after the cocktail episode.

Technically, they aren’t alone, because Matt is in the driver’s seat, but he has a podcast playing and seems wholly focused on listening along. Steven could have moved up to the passenger seat when they dropped Adam off, could have at least moved to the other side of the backseat, but that would have required him to move away from the warmth of Andrew’s side and that, frankly, is the last thing he wants to do at the moment.

He isn’t exactly drunk, but his head is pleasantly fuzzy on the inside and difficult to hold up, which is how he ended up leaning it against Andrew’s shoulder. He’s not really sure how one of Andrew’s arms ended up wedged between his lower back and the seat, but he has no intentions of complaining about it. He’s happy just to reach down for the bag of candy in his lap, which they’d grabbed from a convenience store earlier in the day. It’s nothing special, cheap and obscenely sugary and vaguely peach flavored, and it feels almost crass to be eating it so soon after the crazy expensive scotch and the fancy snacks at the last location, but it’s hitting the spot all the same.

Andrew hasn’t said a word since they dropped Adam off, but if there’s one thing Steven has learned about Andrew, it’s that he has a sweet tooth, so after popping a piece into his own mouth, he roots around for another, tilts his head up so he can sort of see what he’s doing, and holds it up to Andrew’s mouth. Andrew glances away from the rain-streaked window and pauses for a moment before he sinks his teeth into the edge of the candy and pulls it into his mouth. His lips brush against Steven’s fingertips, and a light shudder courses through Steven’s body, one that he hopes Andrew doesn’t notice.

Before he can worry too much about that, Andrew makes the sound again.

Immediately, his arm goes as rigid as a tree branch against the base of Steven’s spine, and his hand stops gently moving back and forth against Steven’s waist (which is a movement Steven didn’t even notice until it suddenly ended). Steven doesn’t want to draw any attention to it but, on the flip side, he wants Andrew to know that it’s okay, that he likes the sound, that it’s just one of many things about Andrew that make him smile. Unfortunately, with all the fuzz filling his head like so much cotton, finding the words to express all of that seems like an utterly insurmountable task so instead, he drops his cheek to Andrew’s chest, curls his fingers into the soft hem of Andrew’s shirt, and says words that he can find.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, meaning it with everything he has. “Today was amazing.”

Andrew stays stiff for a few blessedly short moments before, with an abrupt exhalation, his whole body goes lax, and he slumps back into the seat. His fingertips graze against Steven’s hip as his arm relaxes, and he turns his head and presses his face into Steven’s hair.

“You’re welcome,” Andrew mumbles. The words brush against the top of Steven’s head like a gentle kiss, and another shudder courses from the crown of Steven’s head all the way down to his toes.

They stay like that for the rest of the ride.

After that, Andrew touches him more a lot more.

His fingers trace over Steven’s knee when they’re sitting beside each other during meetings or while they’re editing, he bumps their arms together when he’s made a particularly groan worthy pun, and he makes a habit out of slinging his arm around Steven’s shoulders when they’re sitting in a booth together, whether they’re filming or out with friends. While Steven tries to tell himself that it doesn’t mean what he wants it to mean, that he shouldn’t reciprocate too heavily because that’s a road liable to end in disappointment, he does it anyway. He leans his head on Andrew’s shoulder when they’re waiting for Adam to finish setting up a shot, occasionally musses up Andrew’s hair just to be a pain, fiddles with the sleeves of Andrew’s shirts or his watchband when he’s bored.

In addition to the sudden increase in their physical contact, there’s also a noticeable increase in how often Steven hears the tongue pop.

They still edit it out of the episodes when it happens during filming, but outside of that, while Andrew still flushes when it slips out, he no longer freezes. Instead, after a momentary pause, he continues with what he was doing, whether that was working on something on his laptop or whether it was letting Steven absently run his fingers through his hair while they watch a movie in their hotel room.

But even though Andrew seems to be more comfortable with it, Steven still doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to upset the balance they’ve found with each other, doesn’t want to ruin things just as they’re starting to get good.

Mainly, he just doesn’t want to make Andrew unhappy.

He never asks, but in Australia, Andrew tells him.

They’re both lying on Andrew’s bed, tipsy on one hundred year old wine (which Steven thinks is possibly the most decadent thing he’s ever consumed, gold and truffles and caviar be damned). They’re on top of the covers, and while Andrew’s head is resting on the pillows, Steven’s is down towards the end of the bed, and his feet are brushing up against the headboard. One of Andrew’s hands is resting on Steven’s ankle, covering the strip of skin between the hem of his jeans and the top of his sock. Every so often, his thumb drags back and forth along Steven’s skin, and every time it happens, Steven has to bite back a soft sigh.

The sun went down an hour or so ago, and there’s only the soft, dim glow from the lamp between the beds illuminating the room. The window is open, and the sheer curtains are gently swaying in the breeze coming off the sea. Adam is on the balcony of the room adjoining theirs, and Steven can hear him quietly talking to someone, probably Annie, on the phone; the individual words are lost underneath the wind and the call of seabirds, but the steady murmur of his voice is nothing less than utterly soothing.

Steven thinks that, if he could save one moment in his life to return to whenever he needs a moment of peace and quiet, he would choose this one.

He’s on the verge of drifting off to sleep when Andrew clears his throat and lightly squeezes his ankle.

“The sound,” he begins. His fingers carefully slide underneath the hem of Steven’s jeans and skirt along his shin, and this time, Steven can’t bite back his sigh, even as he waits patiently for Andrew to keep talking. After a moment, Andrew pops his tongue off the roof of his mouth, and Steven automatically smiles. “It’s something my mom does when she’s really happy. She’s done it for as long as I can remember.”

“That’s really sweet,” Steven says. He hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting Andrew’s parents in person yet, but he’s talked to them over FaceTime in the past, and both of them seem like absolutely lovely people.

“Yeah. It’s one of my favorite things about her, actually.” He goes quiet again, and while Steven doesn’t know if there’s more information coming or if that’s the end of the story, he doesn’t want to push. Dropping one hand to Andrew’s leg, he busies himself with tracing his fingers along the curve of Andrew’s knee, along the seam traveling down the inside of his calf, and then back again. Eventually, Andrew continues, “I used to do it all the time, when I was younger. But people always commented on it. Some of them made fun of me for it. So I tried to stop doing it. It was easier than explaining or fighting back.”

Maybe it’s the wine floating around his brain, but a sudden flush of something like anger floods through Steven. He wants to find every person that ever made Andrew uncomfortable and make them apologize.

After a moment, he realizes that he’s one of those people.

Reluctantly, he moves his hand away from Andrew’s leg and scrambles to flip himself around. He miscalculates slightly and ends up flopping down with his face mere inches away from Andrew’s, so close that their legs are touching, but he doesn’t bother to move away.

“I’m sorry that I made you feel bad about it,” he starts. “I’m sorry anyone ever made you feel bad about it. You don’t have to hide it, not around me and not around Adam.” He knows that he hasn’t actually said that much, but it still feels like he’s been talking for too long, so he finishes with, “I love hearing it. Really.”

The silence between them seems to drag on for an eternity. Andrew barely even blinks; he just stares at Steven with wide eyes, lips parted slightly. Every second that ticks by without him saying something makes Steven antsy, makes him want to fill the silence somehow, but he tamps that urge down. This is Andrew’s moment; he isn’t going to walk all over it just because he’s impatient.

Eventually, Andrew clears his throat again.

“Thank you, Steven,” he says, voice quiet and raspy, like he hasn’t spoken in ages. His hand rises and hovers in mid-air for a moment before it carefully descends and comes to rest on the side of Steven’s face. In response, Steven shuffles forward an inch or so, until he’s close enough to see the lighter flecks in Andrew’s eyes.

There’s a part of him that thinks, maybe, he should stop things before they go any further. Maybe he shouldn’t close the gap between them. Maybe he should get up and move to his own bed. Maybe, even though he’s about ninety-eight percent sure that Andrew wants this as much as he is, he’s deluding himself.

In the end, after giving it some thought, he decides that he’s willing to take that chance.

The first brush of their mouths together is more gentle than the breath that follows it. Steven keeps his eyes open and trained on Andrew’s face the entire time, so that he can back away at the first sign of any potential trouble.

That sign never comes.

Instead, Andrew moves forward, until the space between them is non-existent, wraps his arm around Steven’s back and curls his fingers tightly into the loose fabric of his shirt. Their noses bump together, and when Andrew speaks, voice even lower than usual, like he’s trying to eliminate any chance of it traveling beyond their own little bubble, his words brush against Steven’s mouth.

“Can we do that again?”

Steven’s pretty sure that, if he tries to answer that verbally, a veritable barrage is going to spill out of his mouth, an embarrassing jumble of yesand please and wanted this for so long, so he nods instead, curls his fingers into the front of Andrew’s shirt and meets him in the middle.

This time, the kiss is considerably firmer than a breath.

Steven quickly loses himself in the feeling of Andrew’s mouth pressing against his own, in the feeling of his tongue tracing Steven’s bottom lip and his fingers tightening in the back of his shirt. They kiss until he can’t breathe, but he only pauses long enough to pull in a heaving gulp of air before he swoops back in and slots one of his legs between both of Andrew’s.

Eventually, after he’s lost count of how many quick breaks they take for breath, he needs a more substantial pause. Reluctantly, heart thudding against his ribs, lungs aching in the most pleasant way he’s ever experienced, he backs away a few inches. For a second, Andrew chases after him, instinctively it seems, before he comes to his senses and slowly flicks his eyes open. He looks wrecked; his pupils have nearly overtaken his irises, his hair has been tugged into an unruly mess, and his mouth is glistening and swollen.

Steven can’t help but feel a twinge of pride, deep down in his chest, at the thought that he did that all to Andrew.

“Steven,” Andrew says, slipping his hand underneath Steven’s shirt and splaying his fingers wide at the base of Steven’s spine. “Was that okay?”

Steven’s fairly certain that okay doesn’t come anywhere close to describing what just happened. Frankly, he’s not sure if there are enough words in any language in the world to accurately describe the airy feeling in his chest and head, to describe the sheer level of utter joy permeating every inch of his body.

So he doesn’t bother trying to describe it.

Instead, he pops his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

It doesn’t sound exactly like when Andrew does it; it’s more muted, less crisp, but Andrew’s cheeks immediately flush the loveliest shade of pink, and a grin that’s nothing less than dazzling, brighter than all the neon in the world, spreads across his face. After a moment, Andrew ducks down and presses his forehead against Steven’s sternum. When he mirrors the sound, it’s muffled against Steven’s chest, but Steven hears it all the same, and more joy flows through his body like sap in a tree.

Eventually, that’s how he falls asleep; pressed against Andrew in more spots than he can count, still on top of the covers, with one arm tucked underneath Andrew’s head and the other draped around his waist, happier than he can ever remember feeling.

And even though he wakes up just after sunrise with horrible morning breath and an arm so asleep that it’s totally numb, he regrets nothing.

The next time the sound slips out while they’re filming, Andrew doesn’t freeze. He just goes back in for another bite.

When they’re editing the raw footage afterwards, Adam pauses right after that moment. Caught in mid-tongue pop with his eyes closed and his mouth half-open, Andrew looks a little bit ridiculous. Steven, on the other hand, is a little staggered to see the look on his own face; he’s pretty sure he’s never seen anyone so vividly embody the term ‘heart eyes’, and even though he’s not ashamed of it in the least, he still flushes.

“Do you want to cut that out?” Adam asks, turning in his chair to face Andrew, who has been absently drumming his fingers against Steven’s knee since they started going through the footage. Steven’s pretty sure that he knows what Andrew’s answer is going to be; regardless of the fact that Andrew’s stopped trying to hide the sound around him, having it broadcast to all of their viewers is another thing entirely.

Then again, Andrew has always been full of surprises.

“No,” he answers. Settling back in his chair, he tilts back a little and presses a gentle, lingering kiss to the corner of Steven’s mouth, and even though his next words are directed towards Adam, his eyes don’t leave Steven’s face. “It’s okay.”

Steven grins.

Yeah. It’s definitely okay.

#standrew #mine #mine: fic #this probably would have taken me even longer to write #but all this long distance angst fic y'all have been writing made me need to write fluff #anyways here's this! #also Everything in Transit by Jack's Mannequin is a Standrew album #that's just how it goes

[lifeisjustanotherstory]

W/c 21/01/2019 - the week in anecdotes and not-shower shower thoughts 

Monday

Aytaj went to Milan for the weekend. MILAN. Beats my weekend. 

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I just found out that “Royals” by Lorde came out 6 years ago this year, and time suddenly seems to have flown past. I mean...6 years? Really?! It’s probably been a year since I heard the song, and listening to it feels very nostalgic. The Youtube playlist moved on to “Team”. I used to like a particular chorus in that song - and still do - it lent itself to story ideas, and great character adventures in my head. I need to write again soon - it has been too long. 

We live in cities you'll never see onscreen

Not very pretty, but we sure know how to run things

Livin' in ruins of a palace within my dreams

And you know we're on each other's team

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Waiting for allocation of tasks from the US team. Currently have to chase Chase for our scoping file. 

(chase Chase...once you hear it, you can’t unhear it...)

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Tuesday

I wore my jumper on Tuesday, as I had planned. Getting up early, I hadn’t thought much of not seeing the brand logo on the front - it crossed my mind, only to be replaced with the thought of catching my train.

I went through the day - a good 95% of it - before one of the Managers called me as I made my way to my locker to put away my things for the day. Her name is Amy, and she lives near one of the towns that my train stops in on my way home.

“Deepa? I think your jumper is on back to front.” I lifted up the item of clothing in question, and to my deep embarrassment I was faced with the jumper’s label. I nervously laughed and headed to my locker as she made her way out to the bathroom. I was walking around with a silver pheasant on my back all day.  

Mortified doesn’t cut it.

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I accidentally put Sahil’s coffee cup in my locker yesterday and now he’s got a huge white label on it, with his name in block letters. Oops.

But at least he’s sitting next to me again. Or maybe that’s just because I always let people use my chargers. 

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Wednesday

I’m trying to make my way up the stairs without stopping, which causes me to huff and puff (no houses are blown down, however), go red in the face and get a pain in my lower abdomen. No pain, no gain eh. Anyway, my eyes met Jasper’s on the way up, and we exchanged “Morning”’s. He knows I come in early, and vice versa, but we never seem to interact any more than that.

Anyway, he held open the door for me on the 10th floor, which I felt was very considerate. He didn’t have to, but he heard me coming (granted, I wasn’t that loud) and waited. I can’t say I’ve heard all good things about this guy - but his action today spoke a lot.

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Finally relented and chose to get a breakfast from the canteen today. Still haven’t decided whether I’ll expense it though. Mushrooms were my favourite kind, wide and flat - like I’d never seen before, the egg nicely poached and the beans tasty. The sausage was all the more succulent for the guy forgetting to charge it to my total bill, which came in at a round £3.00.

Back up in the audit room and I was in mid-conversation, with my breakfast box hanging dangerously close to the edge of the table. Indeed, if not for Fahim’s hand, it could have ended up on my (suede) dress or on the floor. Credit to his reflexes for saving my day.  

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Thursday

My dad remarked that the jumper I chose to wear today doesn’t have a very obvious logo on it. What cruel irony is this?

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Did 11 year old me ever think of her 21 year old self deciding to take a 6:11 train, instead of the 6:20, just so she could catch some z’s onboard? #10yearchallenge

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Aytaj offered me some of her chocolate. It’s milk chocolate with a hint of toffee, but it looks like dark chocolate. Azerbaijani chocolate has exceeded my expectations. 

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Had to reach out to a guy from our Swiss team in order to get some accounts that the UK team needs. No need to fear - Emanuel is here (!!!)

He is also up for the weekend because let’s be real, as if that isn’t what everyone is thinking.

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Oh my gosh, just filled up my bottle and that is some.fresh.water.

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I enjoy sitting next to Aytaj. No one else would have such fun trying to solve an IT issue. Or have cool client names (Sandwich, Hong Hong...and my personal fave; Jing Jing). Or laugh about their half-eaten chicken leg on the floor. (Thankfully, it was in a box). 

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Managed to return the favour to Aytaj and gave her a chocolate biscuit. Matt H had one too. 

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Friday

Does Nick even know my name? Of course, there is no reason for him to address me by it when it’s just the two of us in the audit room. 

He promised not to rub his fancy breakast in his face as he left the room to go the restaurant. We’re approaching banter stage. 

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Fahim looked shattered, and I told him as much.

Me, over Skype; You look so tired

Fahim: my face speaks 1000 words about my tiredness lol

Me: Where’s a painting emoji when you need it?

Earlier we’d gone to get drinks from another floor today. I remarked that I don’t drink coffee, and he was really surprised. Shocked indeed. I must be one of the few people who don’t in this job. Coffee is like water for the majority of finance professionals. (I jest, but I have honestly seen people drink as much coffee as water, if not more.)

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Sahil knows I get in early, so when someone said that I’d need to go and do something at 11:30am, he joked and said “That’s like evening for her.”

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“Deepa, who you Skpying?” I could feel my stomach fall as I heard Jits ask. “You always put on your privacy screen when you’re not doing work?” I wasn’t Skyping, I was updating this blog. My thoughts will live on, as I hope them to, in this manner. Even if my currently healthy sleeping pattern doesn’t make it. 

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Nick (Dorn as opposed to Daws) asked Jits which song the line “It’s electrifying” I was. I responded “Greased Lightning” without a second thought. Jits remarked that it must have been a favourite of my parents’ in their teen years. He wasn’t right about them liking it - but they were both 19 at the time of its release. Wow.

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Watching a comedy programme and I just sat through the comedian mentioning the word ‘cunnilingus’ without any change in my facial expression whatsoever. I deserve a pat on the back for making it. Thank god my parents didn’t ask me to explain what it was...

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Saturday

Four months till my exams, with busy season yet to really start for me. Cripes.

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Attempted to read. Attempted being the key word here. Made my revision timetable though.

A bit sad about my lack of weekend social life over the next few months, as if I even had one to miss?

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Steak was worth forgoing my nap for. Only just. It’s been too long since I’ve had pure meat like this. I don’t think I could ever be a vegetarian.

Asked for a different kind of salad and got served the wrong one, only for them to bring a new one instead! Free salad, yay! (Green leaves are gr8, what)

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This new car is too clever for us. One tyre goes under the set pressure and it sets off a warning sign in the car. Ignorance really is bliss.

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To write or not to write, that is the question.

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Sunday

Lifted my stuff off the floor and found Ayana’s letter underneath.I’d completely forgotten about it. It’s nearly a month after she sent it to me, and she deserves a lengthy reply. I’l take it in my bag to work and draft a reply to write next week.

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Revision is going rather fine, if I do say so myself. Of course, I am not even one day in. Time will tell. 

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You know when you can sometimes taste what you had earlier? My cod liver oil capsule obviously broke on the way down, because my mouth has just been flooded with a fish taste. If someone kissed me right now, would they taste it?

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I wrote, and it was liberating. 

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Less than an hour to bedtime and the first edition of a week in anecdotes and not-shower shower thoughts was a success. Here’s to next week and many more.

Deeps 

#pieces of mind #diary #a week in anecdotes

[nightmarecatart]

Myths and Lies- Chapter 1- Part 1

Chapter 1

Present day

When I was five, I learned how to spell antidisestablishmentarianism because I was bored. I had no brothers to keep me occupied and I learned from an early age, the only way my half sister and me would see eye-to-eye would be if I ripped her eyes out. Tempting, shame it would be illegal with a long prison sentence.

Me being bored happened a lot.

At five years, old I also figured out the only contribution my dad had to my life is his DNA. I’ve got –my mum- Diana’s blonde hair but I’m pretty sure I got my brown eyes from him. In the name blaming game, apparently, my mum chose my first name; Alexa and he chose the unmentionable middle name. I wasn't sure if my mum was just angry with, 'invisi dad,' that day. Another story is my middle name came from one of the mutual likes both my parents had.

People bond over TV programmes, food, technology. My parents bonded over Greek mythology. Out of all the Greek Mythology names they could have picked, they picked the name of a Goddess who got kidnapped to the land of the dead. I envy kids who grew up with fairy tales as bedtime stories and girls who got to dress as princesses. I got the adventures of Zeus and got sent in a toga for fancy dress day.

On top of that, shortly after I was five, it was announced to me Father Christmas didn’t exist. By the age of six, I figured men and fathers were trouble.

The past almost thirteen years after that realisation, the male gender has done nothing to make up for themselves. Except occasionally throwing me the odd chocolate on Valentines Day. However, when I was thirteen Valentines Day chocolates did more damage. The current boyfriend at the time gave me a packet of Revels. Toffee Revels do not mix with braces. I spent my time in the orthodontist chair, thinking how I was going to dump that boyfriend. Due to my interest in science, I was split between using gravity: dropping a rock with the message on him or burning the message on his morning registration table using PH1 acid. I swayed more to the first option, as I wouldn't have to face a reminder of that relationship for the rest of my time at school.

My lack of faith in men has sort of left a large gap, when it comes to my tolerance in them. Enough to say the guy who stole my first kiss, ended up with a broken nose and I ran away screaming. Any confrontations with boys, my friends ultimately dealt with them for me. This means the first boyfriend got saved from being hit by a rock.

Fate had it; I was born in the summer. I could spend the last few days of my year staring up at the sky behind sunglasses, sipping ice-cold cola. Thankful, that the braces went before I turned fourteen; therefore, I can drink those kinds of, “Bad for your teeth,” Drinks. The orthodontist, who lived down the road from me, wouldn't catch me and tell me off with a lecture on braces rules. I know dentists don't live in their surgeries, but why does mine have to live down the road? Or did he offer some sort of same postcode discount? Apart from the orthodontist living near me, another thing was bad about summer. I was born on the wrong side of summer.

My mother gave birth to me in the middle of July. Meaning I have to spend my birthdays in school. Visions of me sunbathing down by the brook or the back garden, turned into sunbathing on the school field listening to screaming school kids. On this occasion, my birthday is on the final exam of my sixth form life. At least this gave two things to celebrate. My eighteenth birthday and the end of sixth form and I can start my gap year then get off to university.

It is due to my mum I’m taking a gap year. She hinted at things I could be doing, not one of the hints put me out of fifty miles’ radius of our, 'busy when it wants to be,' town. I put it down to she didn't want to be left alone in the oversized house and the desire she has to keep me from the outside world.

Annoyingly, from the age of eighteen she let Sarah, my half-sister, go travelling. Sarah disappears at the end of spring then reappears at the end of winter. She brings with her blossom on the trees, warmer weather and my desperate want to shoot her. My mum makes up the story that she is with her dad. That isn't proven in the Facebook photos Sarah posts. Pretty sure I've seen Sarah's dad, he doesn't look like any of the men in the photos.

Growing up, my mum did the thing of smothering me, I'm nearly eighteen and I still have a curfew. I'm expected to spend the next year working in a travel agent; I’m still waiting for my mother to see the irony.

The only good things coming my way this year: My two friends have decided to stay, and I get to stay in a clean house with my garden obsessed mother who will feed me.

Hopefully, my mind won't be damaged too much; chances are my mum's friend Athena will be over on her weekly visits making sure I'm not glued to the TV.

“I cannot believe it is our final few days here.” A blur of white and black wheeled past me in the student council room. The blur woman is being the monster of distraction. I’ve been trying to do some revision for the biology exam, which is sometime after lunch, or fifth period according to the timetable. I say sometime after lunch as the exam hall or gym is across the field, down a hill and past the smokers. I might as well start making my way there early, in case the hill decides to hate me.

“Really? You have a calendar that has counted down to these very days since September!” I sighed, pointing over to Yuuki's vibrant wall in the student council room. How Yuuki got on the student council I have no idea… actually blackmail comes to mind. The calendar is pinned in the corner is only thing that hasn't changed on her wall since September. Yuuki covered the walls in her latest Hollywood crush. This month it’s Clark Gable.

“Well I needed to put something in the calendar! Really Alexa, not everyone takes these exams seriously.” She’s probably hinting at the fact my calendar had counted down to these exams since the beginning of the year. “Besides I like the cute kittens on my calendar.” She smirked, revealing blue teeth and the fact she had been on the blue raspberry Popsicles again. At least her white shirt isn't Popsicle tie-dyed, like last time.

“Yuuki, shouldn't you either be revising or finalising student council things? For once, follow the rules on what we should, be doing in here.” Sophia called buried under paper at the other side of the room. Sophia made me glad I’m not a part of this council. It looked too much work, even if you did have Yuuki proving you could do this work with little effort, but then she normally did nothing.

However, I felt part of their pain. My luck my two close friends dragged me to wait outside every fortnightly meeting.

“If we are playing by rules. I'm kicking Alexa out; she isn't a member of the council!” Yuuki argued.

“Please do that. I might get some work done.” I groaned, tempted to bash my head on the wooden desk. I only come in here because they decide to do work every so often, or Sophia does work, Yuuki messes about. Sophia's auburn hair poked out of the paper after that.

“Alexa isn't going anywhere.” Sophia replied bluntly, pushing her reading glasses up.

“Actually, I might as well get some air. This exam might kill me. Or at least make me kill the person in front of me, that way I can examine their lungs to get the respiration questions right.”

“This is why I was against you taking biology.” Sophia stated.

“To be honest, Soph. You were against her taking nearly all the subjects here. What was it? Textiles, she would stick pins into people’s eyes... Not that she has the imagination for the arts-.”

“Yuuki. Shut up.” I said. I didn't need this a short time away from the exam. Like usual, Yuuki is too persistent and continued talking about me to Sophia.

“Geography, you were worried she would learn where to plant explosives or bury bodies. Sociology and psychology, we didn't need her to find out more things wrong with society or find out exactly how the mind works. You were pretty sure, that if she took those two subjects we would be looking at a real-life psychological horror film.”

“Ok Yuuki.” Sophia interrupted. “I complained a lot two years ago, I get it.”

“Complained?” Yuuki coughed with sarcasm, dragging out another melting ice pop, from God knows where.

“I'm going out.” I sighed. I’m used to the words that came with how my mind worked, hence I’m used to the isolation. I’m the seventeen-year-old female who is uncomfortable around people especially men, but I am also the person who understood people to the point it became freaky.

“Alexa!” Sophia called. I walked out of the modern decorated room to the pale corridor. Sophia will tell me to get back inside, if I obeyed her and stopped in the stuffy room, my headache would worsen.

Anyone else would have to add in time to figure out how to get through the labyrinth of corridors and one-way system this school has. Luckily after a few hit and miss tries here when I first started this school about six years ago, I got the navigation down to an art.

I felt like running out of the gates and throw myself on the long grass near the pond in the middle of the woods. If only, ‘I didn’t fancy doing the exam,' turned out to be an appropriate excuse to get out of an A-level exam. Maybe I should do that. Thanks to my mother, my life isn't going anywhere. She might as well chain me to the side of a cliff like they do in Greek Mythology.

“Persephone. Why did they have to pick Persephone?” I almost screamed it out loud to stop myself from hitting my head against something hard or going back to my habit of pulling my hair. As if knowing Greek Mythology stories weren't enough. I get reminded of it every time someone says my full name. “Why not let the ground swallow me up and take me to the Underworld like in the story?” I groaned, kicking a stone by the tree near the broken fence.

I rested my forehead on the tree trunk closing my eyes tight. Wishing for change. Something light land on my head, I opened my eyes and stepped back to find a dozen leaves floating to the ground.

“I've lost it.” I muttered.

“Persephone Kora.” I jumped. Turning to find the man who had sang that, he sounded proud of himself. This is the reason I’m not allowed to carry any sort of weapon on me.

“That is not my name.” I hissed, curling my fists at my sides.

“You said it was a moment ago.” The light-haired man grinned.

“No, I didn't.” I answered, trying to remember exactly what I said in that rant. I know for certain I did not say, 'I'm Persephone,' I'd rather pull my hair out, which is what I might end up doing if I don't stop pulling my hair at the roots, thanks to stress.

“Do you know what sort of reward I'd get, if I took you back?”

“A special padded cell?” I think I have found someone crazier than my mum, at least she didn't show any signs of being deluded into thinking I am Persephone from the stories. “Plus, you're on school grounds.” I pointed out trying to seem calm, hoping he didn’t need to be told that is a rule he is currently breaking.

His smug look turned into one of anger. I tried running towards the school he grabbed me by the arm pulling me in the opposite direction, muttering something about, Hades.

“Who the hell are you?” I yelled trying to kick him, missing every time. “I am not who you think I am!” There must be other females out there whose actual name is Persephone.

“You need to come with me!” He commanded. If he thought I’m going to go with him by saying that, he is 100% wrong. I tried pulling myself away; forcing him to move slightly forward in the direction I’m going, causing him to tighten his grip. Making my arm he’s holding hurt more.

“I'm not going with anyone!” I shrieked. Where is everyone when you need them?

“Fine.” He said stopping suddenly. No part of me took that, as he is about to give up.

Of course, he didn't.

He seized me and threw me on his shoulder. Then I began screaming blue murder, while kicking and watching the school grow further away as he walked across the field outside of the fence. My whole body warned me to get away as soon as possible and I believe my stomach is threatening to throw up.

“If you don't shut up and stop moving I'll make you.” He sneered. I coughed back a laugh. I’m the one at fault here?

“I'll make you put me down!” I snapped. I knew however, I'd probably never be able to do that. This has never happened to me before! I never expected to be kidnapped. I tried living a quiet life where I blended in, not causing too much attention, ignoring the slight hiccup that happened every so often. I have never learned how to get out of these situations!

Oh no. He'll kill me then throw my body in a ditch.

“Let me go!” I shrieked.

I’m on the edge of screaming, 'I don't want to die,' my emotions started to turn, slowly giving up as I felt the tears gather.

In our small town, there is a secluded area. Although, I’m not facing the direction we are going, I had a suspicion that we are heading to that area.

In the middle of this small private area is a large stone temple. As far as I knew, no one had been in it. There’s a town law that stated you needed special permission to even walk on the steps around the building. The town council were probably over cautious, thinking someone is going to vandalise the white stone, or the worn statues around the perimeter of the walls.

“Please, let me go.” I pleaded; hoping for the millionth time it would make difference. I knew we are in the private area. The old trees surrounding the temple proved it. My fear heightened once hearing the creak of the metal gate that kept people out. He had to kick the black iron door a few times, while twisting the golden door handle in the middle of it. A cloud of dust exited the dimly lit hall before he dragged me in.

“Stay still.” He threw me off his shoulder. My spine slammed against one of the inner stonewalls. I shrank back thinking how to get away. I booted him; he grabbed my wrists harsh enough I’m sure they would be bruise.

He tied my hands together, ignoring my struggles, with a loose bit of rough hanging rope that he got from one of the spikes sticking out from the wall. He walked through a wooden door into another room with a window dome, which to be honest needed to be cleaned, on the ceiling.

“I'm not who you think I am!” I cried collapsing further by the wall; I curled up in the entrance. I hid myself from the main hall.

He had locked the front door, unless I became the master of knocking down sturdy looking doors, I’m stuck.

I tried to quieten my breathing when talking in the next room started. I began panicking more inside.

He is going to kill me.

I’m going to be a sacrifice to whatever God he worshiped.

“My lord. I found her.” He muttered, over and over again, sometimes mentioning the name, 'Persephone,' Sometimes other incomprehensible things.

There’s no reply. I calmed a bit. He was busy preoccupying himself in a fictional belief. I leaped at the door.

“Get back here!” The man in the next room commanded, hearing me trying to open the door; the clunking of the gold door handle was obvious. He marched forward grabbing the sides of my shirt and dragging me back into the dusty room. I started to scream for help, when it he decided he'd be able to drag me back better if he held me by my waist and not my shirt. Panic and pain began to intensify the longer he touched me.

There’s a shiny marble alter in the middle of the room. Once there, he used the chains, which I guessed were used for actual sacrifices, and linked them to the rope that is rubbing my wrists. I couldn't see what he is doing due to being on the wrong side of the table.

His mutterings commenced again. This time they didn't last for long.

“You had better have a good reason for this!” Another voice sneered.

I kept quiet.

If I gave myself up the more likely these people would kill me. They had to be insane; the one who had just talked must live here.

“I-I,” He stuttered, almost sounding as if he’s in shock. “She-.” It is if he can't get out more than one word.

I wanted to go home. Forget the exam I have. Chances are it would be starting any minute. I wanted the new English accented man to give up go away and then I might be able to get out of here.

“Over there.” The kidnapper squeaked. I would probably have had the same reaction, if it weren’t caught in my throat, after hearing footsteps begin walking this way. I wished for once in my life the unrealistic thing would happen, and I would become invisible.

I shrank back again, shuffling, far away from the sound of footsteps.

The man who the footsteps belonged to suddenly appeared.

I could see him... And he could see me. A smile grew on his pale face.

I feel like I’m caught in headlights.

Another first, I am speechless in a man’s presence and not running away. There’s something about him that made my eyes lock onto him and even approach him, which for me, it’s the weirdest feeling ever.

“You are an idiot.” He abruptly said turning back to the kidnapper. His dark hair, which reached his shoulders, shifted with the air at his quick movement before walking away.

“What?” He shrieked in a reply. The kidnapper seemed to be the one about to have the panic attack. My respiratory system is still frozen from shock of the, Dark and Mysterious man’s stare.

“As much as I wanted to know she existed, there were rules put in place!”

I climbed up, still shaking from fear but my want to get out of here is slowly eating away at my sanity and me. I'm putting me wanting to get cosy and getting to know, Dark and Mysterious guy over there down to I'm becoming insane.

“Can I go home please?” I breathed.

“No.” Dark and Mysterious said, without even thinking.

“I really need to go.” I trembled. I’m not a people person or a person who went well with stress.

“Idiot.” He muttered shaking his head, making his way back to me.

My back is against the pillar next to the altar I’m stood next to.

“Are you going to kill me?” I worried. He then looked at me like he’s shocked that I would think of that.

“No. No. I'd never...”

“Then let me go. I won't say anything.” I don't know if anyone would believe me that there is a Greek cult here.

“I'm not letting you go.” He answered angry with me.

#creative writing #writers #writing #mythology #greek mythology #greek gods #greek goddess #posiedon #Hades #hades and persephone #persephone #demeter #underworld #romance #fantasy #zeus #Japanese mythology #yuuki onna #mortal

[restlessmaknae]

Case of emergency #1

Word count: 1043

Genre: fluff, comedy, romcom, romance

Pairing: vet!Jin & OC

Warning: -

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

Dr. Kim Seokjin is the most perfect vet that you could ask for. Even if you think that he’s more in love with your dog than with you.

Barney was sick again.

He didn’t sleep, he didn’t eat and he barely drank. Every time I was near him, he gazed at me with his mesmerizing toffee-brown eyes but his orbs were so lifeless that I couldn’t help but wonder what had I done to deserve such behaviour. I didn’t remember that I had committed anything against him. I always gave him enough food and water, took care of his shiny fur and every single day, I even took him for a walk. What could be the matter then?

Oh yes, if I failed to mention, Barney was my fluffy little dog – a 3-years-old golden retriever. He had been my constant companion for 3 years now, small wonder why he meant so much to me. Whether I was single, whether I wasn’t, he was always there to cheer me up.

Yet, he was sick again. I had already taken him to the vet 3 times but he relapsed. They said that it was normal at his age because he eventually became older and was more exposed to illnesses. Despite the fact that I had tried my best to help him get through this state, he didn’t get any better. My poor little dog…

„What should I do?” I murmured frantically as I patted Barney’s head. He looked at me with his cute puppy eyes and whimpered a little. I let out a small albeit tired sigh. I must have been such a terrible owner.

„Maybe I should bring you to a different vet. What do you think about that, Barney?” I forced a smile to make him believe that I actually felt more at ease than I looked like. However, I was absolutely terrible at acting and he also knew that. Dogs were man’s best friends after all.

After giving it some thought, I realised that it would be the best if I really took him to a different expert. But who? The question hit me like a tornado. I didn’t know anyone apart from Mr. Oh who was actually excellent at his field but he never had a single pet, so he couldn’t really understand their emotions. Not like I was the Dog Whisperer or something but I had learned maybe a thing or two since I got Barney.

In the end, help came when I least expected it. I was actually taking Barney for a walk – or to be precise, I literally dragged him out of the flat since he didn’t want to move an inch. It was a brand new symptom, he did his best to move as little as possible and it was seriously getting on my nerves. What was wrong with him?

„Hey,” Jungkook - my neighbour - cheerfully waved in my direction when he caught sight of the slightly awkward scene with my dog.

The guy was my next door neighbour in the same block of flats, so we had known each other since I moved here. He was quite a nice guy, a bit shy but a prominently polite and light-hearted one. Plus, he loved dogs, so whenever I was away, he took care of Barney for me.

„He seems a bit under the weather,” he came closer to us, just to crouch down to my puppy and gently pat his head. My dog apparently enjoyed his touch as he didn’t even flinch. He got used to Jungkook’s presence by now and they also became friends. As soon as I got Barney three years ago, the younger boy became much more interested in his neighbour’s life than ever before. It didn’t take me long to realise that it was all because he was seriously in love with puppies.

„I know,” I admitted with a bit of guilt running through me. I was quite fed up with the nonsense the vets had said to me because I was sure that my dog didn’t suffer from ear infections – it’s merely an example, they said even worse – because he didn’t have a lack of balance and he didn’t have unusual back-and-forth eye movements either. Yet, I had no idea what to do. I felt helpless.

„Have you been to the animal clinic lately?” he furrowed his eyebrows in question as he looked up at me.

„Yes, but they always say the same.”

„I actually know a guy who’s said to be a really good vet,” he suddenly blurted out and clenched his jaw. „He’s my best friend’s brother, so I can assure you that he has good manners. If you are interested, I can give you his number. Not like he doesn’t have tons of female clients already,” he said as a matter-of-factly and boosted such a boyish smile that I felt a need to swipe that grin off his face. Some things never change.

“Oh really?” I knitted my eyebrows together, inwardly taking a mental note that it shouldn’t have been a surprise, boys were usually as cunning as Jungkook. “Should I take it as a hint?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he raised his arms in defeat but the beaming light in his pitch-black eyes actually indicated the opposite. Gosh, I never thought that Jungkook would try to set me up with a guy, not mention that it was his best friend’s brother whom we had been talking about!

“Just give me his number.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he jumped up and saluted. I snickered whole-hearted upon seeing his adorable reaction. That’s exactly why it was so fun to be neighbours with Jeon Jungkook. “I hope he would be able to help you,” he said with a more serious tone as he jotted down a phone number and a name. Kim Seokjin. Well, I had never heard about him before but as long as he didn’t say the good old lines, I was alright with it.

After a proper thank you and a cosy goodbye, with the blue post-it note in my hand, I almost stepped into the elevator when Jungkook’s voice reached me.

“By the way, he’s still single,” he hollered loudly, so that I could still hear him.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have the chance to shout anything back because the elevator’s door closed and I was already calling that so-called Kim Seokjin.

#sfwbangtan #kpopwritingnet #kreativewritersnet #kkreationsnet #bts scenario #jin scenario #bts jin scenario #seokjin scenario #vet jin au #bts fluff #jin fluff #bts comedy #jin comedy #seokjin romance #jin romance #bts romance #bts fic #jin fic #restless_maknae #my story

[99homeideas]

Selecting a ceiling fan

The ceiling fan - a kid of the Industrial Revolution - continues to be one of the more smart solutions to housing convenience despite a virtual revolution within the realm of home comfort appliances. After over a century, ceiling fans consistently be a but a charming product to house cooling and heating.

When purchasing a ceiling fan, you will find types that vary from sleekly fashionable to ornately standard.

Why this particular long-term popularity? 

Indeed, the appeal is a factor. For many people, the constant, peaceful whirl of the paddles evokes the romance of many bygone days plus sultry summer afternoons. Much more essential will be the fan 's useful aspect. It is an area much more comfortable and also reduces energy bills. By forcing air that is warm downward during the cold months and stirring up breezes in the summertime, it decreases requirements on heating and also air conditioning systems. And yet it works on just pennies one day.

During the summertime, utilizing a ceiling fan along with an air conditioning is going to allow you to establish the thermostat much higher without an apparent variation in comfort. A fan 's breeze is going to make a 79-degree space feel more like seventy-two degrees. By increasing the thermostat, you can save as much as thirty % on your air conditioning costs, based on your house 's construction and also the place you live.

In the winter season, a lover can recirculate warm airflow, which usually increases in an area and is caught at the ceiling. All that you do is change it on in the reverse path (most have reversible motors). By bringing air that is warm down into the existing area, the furnace can work much less.

Hunter

A famous ceiling fan includes five blades and a toffee glass lamp bowl.

The very best of modern ceiling fans have taken a significant step up from the ancestors of theirs. They gain from more effective motors, stronger materials, much more handsome finishes, and controls that are intuitive. You can pick from scores of types, sizes, configurations, and rates. Right here we provide info that will help you choose the most effective ceiling fan for the needs of yours.

Ceiling Fan Controls

The majority of fans are mounted with a ceiling package in which a light fixture was previously situated. Generally, the light switch is replaced with a command which allows different fan speeds and also - if the fanlight settings include lights. This command needs to get a capacitor style and be produced by the very same supplier as the lover to eliminate hum and buzz.

Casablanca

"Intellitouch" version, by Casablanca, is remote controlled.

Fans located at an electric box that is not managed by a wall switch could be operated by a pull chain or perhaps, with several makes, a remote control. Casablanca's Intelli Touch handy remote control is exceptionally advanced. This control features a programmable fan and light settings. It a lot automatically adjusts the fan speed to fit adjustments in room temperature and spins the blower light off as well as on in an abnormal sequence when you are from home.

Materials and fan Blade Sizes

Fans have from 3 to 5 blades; the conventional number is 4. The quantity of blades doesn't impact performance much. Others point out that additional blades, in fact, shift much less air because there's much less room for them to get air. Though the quantity of blades does often influence the cost. Typically speaking, the much more cutters the taller the price.

WestinghouseMahogany toned leaves type the wiper blades just for this indoor-outdoor fan. The wiper blades are produced by Abs.

Blades are available in a few measures, measured through the total cutter sweep they produce: thirty, 52, 50, 46, 44, 42, and also sixty inches. Most companies do two or perhaps three various lengths. Long blades go much more airflow than brief ones.

Blades are produced from a selection of materials and are provided a range of finishes. Natural wood and painted wiper blades are produced from solid wood, cross-laminated veneer (like plywood), and also the more affordable veneered constant density board.

Finishes include organic, colors, high luster, black, rosewood, faux granite, white, bleached oak, burled camphor, walnut, oak, cherry, appliance white, and much more.

Some blades possess a reversible finish - for instance. They may provide an artificial oak search on one side along with a painted white-colored surface on the other person. Just switch the blades over to change the fan 's look.

Other blades are produced of smoked or clear acrylic. Hunter's Original Outdoor followers attribute cutters of washable sailcloth stretched over a frame; the cloth can be purchased in several colors. Both Fasco and Casablanca have related Locating and offerings. Sizing a Fan

A rule is using a 52-inch fan for as much as a 400-square-foot room, a 44-inch fan for as much as 225 square feet, in addition to a 42-inch fan for as much as 144 square foot. For areas for more than eighteen-foot in length, think about using two medium-sized fans.

If feasible, place the fan during the home, near where men and women gather. Be sure the blade ideas are a minimum of twenty-four inches from wall space or maybe sloping ceilings. Fans mounted around a ceiling might generate a "cavitational effect," and that means they go less air. Some surface mounted, low profile followers - Hunter's, for instance - are supposed to distribute much more airflow than typical models.

For ceilings taller than eight legs, hang the fan originating from a drop rod so it is lower exactly where it could be more efficient. The distance the fan must hang from the ceiling is going to depend on the ceiling's level. A fan should not hang lower than seven legs from the floor.

The support that is strong is necessary for those ceiling fans. The heavyweight of theirs and also centrifugal movements stresses hangers. Due to this particular, they should be mounted to traditional ceiling light fixture containers which are correctly fixed to framing people. Maybe they have to connect to special hangers, metal crossbars, or hooks intended for fans.

Allow me to share the suggested lengths of drop rod for ceilings which range from nine to thirteen feet or even more:

Ceiling Height (feet) Drop Rod Length (inches)

9  12

10  18

11  24

12  36

13  48

Judging Ceiling Fan Quality

Ceiling fans can cost from as few as 1dolar1 39.95 all of the ways as many as a few 100 dollars, based on the quality of theirs. A high-quality fan has multiple characteristics that you are not apt to get for under a hundred dollars. It moves air quietly and effectively. The components are nicely designed, made out of high-grade components, and sport long-term, attractive finishes. The engine has a few speeds. Plus, it is backed by a long-range warranty - a minimum of ten years.

Although fans are ranked by the quantity of air they shift, assessed in cubic foot per second (CFM). These scores aren't relevant since they're not dependent on universally accepted standards and also because a lover is seldom utilized at full speed.

The motion of air is an element on the pitch, duration, and quantity of blades; the distance of theirs from the ceiling; and also their revolutions per second (RPMs). A weak engine can spin short blades fast if the wiper blades are at least pitch of approximately ten degrees. Although this particular fan type is apt to be noisier compared to a lover which swirls longer blades at a 14-degree pitch less quickly.

Some affordable fans offered through mass merchandisers have motors produced in China. These have found to be unreliable, as confirmed by increased return rates. Low-end fans don't have quality in design and construction - they are prone to wobble and hum while at lower speeds.

A motor must have sealed bearings that need zero lubrication (these ought to cost silently for an estimated twelve years). The very best way of measuring engine quality is a company 's warranty and reputation. Moreover, be sure it's mentioned by Underwriters Laboratories or maybe an equivalent assessment company.

#ceiling fans #fans #home decor

[mancitynoise]

When Pep Guardiola was officially announced as the next Manchester City coach, the excitement among the blue fan-base swiftly escalated to fever pitch.

After all, this was a man who had re-designed modern football, orchestrating a template of imaginative possession and innovative tactical implementation at Camp Nou and Bayern Munich that was not only beautiful to behold but was astonishingly successful too. From 239 league games he had lost just 19 while his eight seasons in the technical area brought an unprecedented dominance of seven league titles and two Champions Leagues.

Yet impressive as this undoubtedly was, stats and facts do not do justice to what we witnessed with our own eyes: an adherence to style and artistry that scrambled the senses and brought a broad smile to neutrals and zealots alike.

Now, the architect responsible for altering our collective perception for what was humanly possible on a football pitch was coming to the Premier League and theoretically he could change everything we previously knew to be true.

Knew to be true and, to some, held too dear, and while Guardiola’s imminent arrival was welcomed by most – excited and fascinated by what the Spanish Grandmaster would bring to the party and how he’d fare against his arch nemesis Mourinho so recently installed across the city – others scoffed at the notion that a singular individual could have any meaningful impact on over a century’s worth of tradition and national identity.

The fact that Arsene Wenger had already arrived from oversees and remodelled our psyche from within nearly two decades earlier didn’t seem to register, and the stench of UKIP was strong in the air. Who did this cult messiah think he was coming over ‘ere and teaching us how to play the game we invented? Just wait until he encountered Stoke on a wet and windy Wednesday night.

The quintessentially British challenge of Stoke came just a week into Pep’s first season and City departed with a routine 4-1 win but this actually revealed very little about what we could expect from a coach City had pursued for several seasons to the extent of preparing an infrastructure of personnel to best accommodate him (see part one).

Those answers came in the next away fixture at Old Trafford that saw the debut of Claudio Bravo in nets while for the first time people began to properly take note of Guardiola’s strategy of centrally inverting his full-backs when in possession thus allowing his creative stock of midfielders to run amok in advanced areas.

It certainly worked that afternoon with City resplendent in the first half in particular, bamboozling United’s stolid shape with fluidity and impish movement. Yet though a derby win is always to be celebrated Bravo’s spill that directly led to a consolation goal was an ominous potent of what was to come while his sweeper-keepering (a proficiency at distribution that led to his securement in the first place with Joe Hart archly jettisoned) was precarious even for a manager who demanded bravery on the ball from his number ones.

As for the inverted full-backs, though they were instrumental that day and others that followed, Aleksander Kolorov was 31 and Bacary Sagna was 33. On the bench meanwhile were City’s other two full-backs Pablo Zabaleta and Gael Clichy with a combined age of 62.

Even amidst the giddy wonderment of Guardiola’s first summer, City supporters had been exasperated by the club’s refusal to overhaul the defensive wide areas, especially as they were so fundamental to the manager’s aims.

In his previous season at Bayern, Rafinha boasted more assists than anyone else while the importance of Dani Alves to Barcelona’s beatific dominance simply cannot be over-stated. Yet here City were embarking on an exhilarating new era with exclusively vintage full-backs; servants who had done the club proud but were frankly battle-worn with their best days behind them. It simply made no sense.

Ultimately the decision was a costly one, with Pep spending much of the campaign resorting to compromise on his ambitious ideal, either repositioning midfielders into the full-back roles or formatting his side to compensate for their ageing legs. And all the while Bravo was proving himself to be a total liability.

We fast-forward to Goodison Park, January 2017, and a 4-0 deconstruction courtesy of a bellicose Everton that was unquestionably City and Guardiola’s nadir. The UKIPers were delighted that Sunday afternoon. British football had emphatically won out against an arrogant false deity who had dared try to conquer it and the stench of brown sauce and high self-regard was insufferable as the newspapers laid in with clear relish. The beast it seemed had killed beauty with the bluntest of instruments and take your pick here between endeavour and commitment but really they amount to the same thing.

We now know of course that this rationale was presumptive and entirely erroneous because if we fast-forward again to the present day we arrive at the imminent culmination of a season that has seen City bettered just twice in the league while amassing so many points and goals that a cornucopia of long-standing records are toppling on a weekly basis.

This has all been achieved through a defiant marrying of style to substance that has produced thrilling and picture-perfect football that has rarely failed to fall short of the fantastical. At times it has brought to mind Muhammad Ali – then Cassius Clay – showing the black-and-white boxing world of the early 60s that pugilism could be a great deal more than just two sluggers slugging it out. It can be sleek and breathtaking and enriching and adventurous and all while being unbeatable and the greatest.

Consequently the gloating think-pieces declaring that Guardiola must humbly adapt to the pashun and blood-n-thunder fare dished out on our battlefields are consigned to the archives with the writers responsible hoping that they never again see the light of day for fear of retrospective mockery.

Rival managers meanwhile have had their head spun in trying to find a solution to the exquisite formula that the Spaniard has enacted onto the Premier League. It is now unquestionably the English game that is bending to Pep’s will and in every possible sense it is huffing and puffing to catch up.

At the tail-end of last month Manchester City returned to Goodison Park and unleashed an early fusillade of pinball wizardry to romp to an unassailable lead and they did so from the get-go in order to conserve energy ahead of a pivotal – ultimately disastrous – week. In the second half they passed and passed and passed; a Ferrari idling in third gear and on the final whistle the home fans stayed and applauded off a special team. It had been a masterclass in game-management and organised excellence. It had been a privilege to behold.

So what on earth happened between those two visits to Merseyside 62 weeks apart? Many will cite the signing of Ederson Moraes in the summer of last year, a keeper who not only radiates confidence instead of doubt out to his defence but follows that up with a pinged pass to feet. Undeniably the Brazilian’s attributes have been a significant factor.

Many too will highlight the costly outlay on Benjamin Mendy, Kyle Walker and Danilo as the Blues revamped their full-back options and though there is also some truth to this it should be remembered that Mendy has been absent through a long-term cruciate ligament injury since September with Guardiola forced to re-imagine Fabian Delph and Aleksander Zinchenko in the left-back role. Danilo for his part has been the only flop from the squad of 2017/18.

More than this, such application of simplicities suggests that City’s transformation took place between one season and another. In actual fact the renaissance occurred almost immediately after their Everton drubbing.

They say that the darkest hour comes before the dawn and this is certainly the case with Pep Guardiola and his complex and vaulted project in east Manchester. Just six days after they had come unstuck against the Toffees City battered Tottenham and were unfortunate to come away with only a draw. From there they lost only three more times across all competitions and regularly revelled in exhibitions of sublimity.

Perhaps Everton had been the ultimate wake-up call, eradicating any trace of complacency and leaving them with nowhere to go but forward on full throttle? Maybe the infectious energy of Gabriel Jesus’ introduction helped (thus creating a front three with an average age of 20), and maybe too several months of Jedi training had made Kevin De Bruyne’s movement instinctual by this point? Whatever the cause after being dismantled City had somehow put themselves back together swiftly and in better shape than ever before.

That summer the pundits insisted that the additions of Mendy and Walker would make City a very different beast. City fans agreed. After taking a short look at Ederson’s majestic distribution they said the same about him too. City fans agreed. Yet in their hearts Blues knew before then that something spectacular was on the near horizon. Why? Because they had already witnessed a four month prototype of what was to come.

#FootballFanCast #News