#How do you wave around warnings about the criminal justice system yet forget that it is a real thing people may have already experienced?

[thebiballerina]

Not to mention, even with the most generous socially constructed stereotype of a definition, the English-speaking Tumblr population is heavily skewed toward the U.S.A. It's hard to say how much of the no vote is accounted for by people outside the U.S., but there's no way it is all of them. Which makes these numbers hard to believe given that the U.S. treats mass incarceration like a national sport.

Consider the drinking age alone. If you are under 21 years old, any amount of purchasing or publicly possessing alcohol is a crime in any state. It is also a very normalized thing to do, at least from ages 18-21. Do you really not know anyone who has done this? It's not even stigmatized enough for me to believe that many people are unaware of relatives doing that. Not to mention all people whose relatives offered them alcohol when they were under 21; that's also very common, and it's only legal in some states under some circumstances. The drinking age is basically a running joke, except the punchline is systemic discrimination, facilitating violence, and encouraging preventable deaths. (But that's a rant for another time.)

are any of your relatives criminals to your knowledge?

[thephantomisdead]

Trial and Error — Chapter 2

(Trial and Error on AO3)

(← Return to Chapter 1)

“Good morning, Arthur.”

“Good morning to you as well, Counselor,” came my client’s cheery reply. He didn’t turn around to face me as I entered.

After the door shut behind me, I made my way to the opposite side of the room and took my seat. I placed my leather bag by my feet and dropped my ever-growing case file onto the table with a resounding thud. My client, it seemed, was chained to the table again today. I’d been warned repeatedly of the risk he posed, despite my position as his attorney. In our interactions so far, he hadn’t given me a reason for concern — in fact, he’d been polite, albeit unsettling — but the handcuffs were a constant reminder that set me on edge.

“You seem to be in awfully good mood today,” I observed.

He smiled cordially. “I haven’t had a reason not to be. Would you like to hear a joke?”

I raised my eyebrows and motioned for him to continue. “By all means.”

Arthur shifted in his chair before he began. “How do you get to the hospital quickly?”

“I don’t know. How?”

“Stand in the middle of the road for a while,” Arthur chuckled.

I cracked a small smile. It was somewhat morbid, but it was clever.

“Are those the kinds of jokes you usually tell?” I asked.

Arthur shrugged, gazing around the room. “Sometimes. I’ve always liked writing my own jokes. I try to figure out what my audience will like, but they don’t always react the way I’d hoped.”

“Do you think it’s because they’re bad jokes?”

“No, not necessarily,” he mused. “Humor is very subjective, Counselor. It depends entirely on your audience.”

“It’s funny you should mention that,” I remarked, looking through the brown file before me. “Audience and whatnot. We need to talk about how you’re going to present to a jury. We need sympathy. Did you put any consideration into what I asked you about last week?”

“Some. Do you have a cigarette?”

“I’m not giving you a cigarette,” I told him flatly. “Not until you help me do my job.”

He frowned.

“Look, we talked about this last time I was here. I can’t do this without you — that’s not how it works. You have to be a sympathetic figure, someone a jury can relate to, at least on some level. I can’t paint you that way for them if I don’t know anything about you.”

“You have a whole file on me, don’t you?”

“I need more than bare facts,” I maintained. “I need you to sit here and talk to me about your life so I can go into that courtroom and show people that you’re more than what they say about you on the news — that you’re human.”

He let out a humorless chuckle.

“Do you want to go to prison for the rest of your life?” I snapped. “Because that’s where you’re headed. What about Arkham? Do you want to end up there again?”

Arthur’s legs were bouncing nervously.

“You’ll be lucky if they send you to the chair,” I went on. “This whole city thinks you’re a monster! Do you honestly think —”

A sharp laugh escaped his lips. Arthur doubled over, covering his mouth with his hands.

“I’m trying to help you, goddammit,” I insisted, leaning forward over the table. “How is this funny to you?”

“It’s — I —”

I realized what was happening when he choked back a sob and continued to laugh. It was painful to watch.

“...take your time,” I said quietly. “You’re okay.”

As Arthur’s laughing fit continued, a guard walked up to the window, eyes wide with concern. I shook my head quickly to dismiss him, waving him away while Arthur was still occupied. The man raised his eyebrows as he walked away, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur managed. His eyes were watering. “I have —”

Another laugh forced itself from his throat.

“I know, it’s fine,” I muttered, leaning over to search my bag. “I read about it in your file. It’s okay. Just... take your time.”

As I fished through the front pockets of my bag for the cigarette pack and lighter that I knew I’d left there after my bar exam, I heard Arthur’s strangled breaths begin to even out.

“Here,” I offered, sitting up again. I nodded toward the crushed, barely empty pack of cigarettes in my hand. Arthur pulled a cigarette out with unsteady fingers, and I lit it for him before doing the same for myself. He took a long drag before speaking again.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. The ash of his cigarette fell onto the floor as his hand continued to shake.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I replied, pushing the yellowed ceramic ash tray over toward him. We sat in silence again before I continued.

“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” I admitted. “I shouldn’t have said all that. I’m sorry. I’m still trying to find my footing. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing yet.”

Arthur cleared his throat half-heartedly. He stared at the smoke floating up from his half-consumed cigarette, but he didn’t speak.

“I read through all your files,” I told him slowly, hoping to move on. “Did you really bring a gun to a children’s hospital?”

He took another drag off his cigarette and muttered something I didn’t quite hear.

“What?”

“I got jumped,” he repeated, just barely above a whisper.

“Both your employer and the police reported that you told them it was a prop.”

“One of the guys at work gave me the gun after some kids stole my sign and beat me up,” he explained slowly, holding his hand out with the near-finished cigarette between his fingers. “I tried to explain what happened, but my boss wouldn’t believe me. I kept the gun in case I needed to defend myself again... I told them it was a prop because I was scared.”

I sighed. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you. But you do realize that this makes you extremely untrustworthy, right?”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“You told your boss and the police one story, and now you’re coming forward with another,” I explained. “Even if this is the truth, it shows that you’re willing to lie.”

“We all lie,” he muttered, crushing his cigarette out. “One way or another, we all lie. I just had a good reason to.”

“I haven’t lied to you, Arthur.”

He let out a mirthless laugh. “You lie every single day, Counselor. You’re lying to me right now. You lie when you get dressed in the morning, pretending for everyone that you’re a high-brow, ‘respectable citizen’ with a good job. You lie when you buy things you can’t afford with money you don’t have, just so you can lie to yourself and say you’re happy with your state in life. Everyone lies. This whole society runs on lies. That’s the only way things get done. You’re no better than me, even though you lie to yourself about that, too.”

I wanted to respond, but I held my tongue. Our conversation wasn’t supposed to be about me, or society, or the suit I knew I’d paid too much for.

“I’ve tried to be honest with you, Arthur.”

“I’m not sure you have,” he retorted.

“I’ve tried my best to be honest with you,” I explained, “because I want this relationship to be built on trust. I want the jury to trust you, too, and if I can believe you, so can they. I’m extremely hesitant to put you on the stand because of the story you told the police, but I’m still considering it. It would give us a decent chance to clarify your side of the story, at least for the firearms charges.”

“I think those are the least of my concerns.”

Silence fell over us again. I didn’t know what to say next. I had my work cut out for me — the prosecutors had already provided me plenty of evidence to work with. Of course, I was going to try to get as much of it deemed inadmissible as I could, but I still had a sinking suspicion that I wasn’t going to win the case. The Public Defenders’ Office had stuck me on Arthur’s case all alone, and no one was eager to give me any advice. Everyone wants to help the new kid until they realize the new kid is the killer clown’s lawyer.

“I have to be honest with you, Arthur,” I began slowly. “I’m doing my best, but... I really don’t think we’re going to win this.”

He shrugged. “I never really expected to.”

“It’s why I’ve been so insistent about getting to know you better,” I explained. “I want to shoot for as lenient of a sentence as we can.”

Arthur began fiddling with the handcuffs around his wrists and sighed before he spoke. “Alright.”

“Alright what?”

“Alright, we can talk,” he clarified, locking eyes with me. “But I want to know about you.”

I swallowed and took a deep breath. “Well, what do you want to know?”

He looked up, thinking. “Why did you become a public defender?”

“Everyone wants to put criminals behind bars,” I answered, “but they always forget that real justice involves the criminal getting his day in court. Even the most hardened criminal has a right to explain his side of the story. I guess I wanted to do the dirty work that keeps the system working properly, I don’t know.”

I paused before continuing. “Why did you kill your mother?”

Arthur crossed his arms and gave me an icy stare. “You have my file. You know what she did.”

“I want to hear how you felt.”

He clenched his jaw. “I took such good care of her for all those years and look what she did to me,” he spat. “My mother could never admit that she did something wrong. She made me what I am, and she lied about it every minute of my entire life.”

My heart sank as I recalled the news reports about Arthur as a child. The beatings, the neglect, the torture and abuse... his mother had serious problems of her own, but they were no excuse for what she’d done to her own son.

“She was awful,” Arthur murmured, “and I never even knew it.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. We don’t have to talk about her anymore, not unless you want to.”

Lifeless eyes trained on the wall behind me, he spoke again. “How do people treat you now that you’re working with me?”

I didn’t like how that sounded, not one bit. Working with him. The very thought sickened me, tied my stomach in knots, and I could have sworn my heart skipped a beat.

“I’ve developed a bit of a reputation,” I answered. He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m the newest hire at the office and I’m already a leper. I think they stuck me on this case because no one else wants to deal with you,” I confessed. “No one pays any attention to me once they find out I’m your attorney. My parents found out from the news that I’m working on your case, and now they won’t even answer my calls. You’ve scared this whole city. Everyone I know is terrified of you.”

Arthur looked up, gazing into my eyes. “Are you terrified of me?”

I hesitated.

“I... honestly don’t know,” I confessed, looking away.

“I don’t want you to be,” he said matter-of-factly.

I couldn’t honestly say that I disagreed.

(Continue to Chapter 3 →)

[swanisms]

how close is close enough

notes: soulmates with benefits? one true lovers to one true loved? iDK this was an exercise in smut, ive been in a drought

also on ao3

There’s something to be said for the way a soulmate fucks.

The movies, the novels, the articles, the “Soulmates Are Great, Get Yours Now!” sales pitch is that love-making isn’t truly love-making until it’s your One True Love. Too optimistic, “Once Upon a Time” to consider that making love to your soulmate could be the last thing you want.

Fucking them, however, has its perks.

“You look ravishing tonight, Swan.”

Killian’s kiss is sloppy, more than the nip of teeth - blood wells up in what’s sure to leave her lips bruised. He isn’t looking for a reply, or any kind of acknowledgement of his compliment – more accurately, his declaration that this is exactly what he’s about to do: ravish her.

Still, it’s as it always is, because he loves being able to halt the cleverly worded retorts in Emma’s head, to leave her mind completely blanked and blissed out because it gives him the satisfaction that she can walk out that door and never look back, but he’d still be the one imprinted on her, the only one who can make her forget to breathe – naturally. It’s one of the little quirks of having a soulmate, that the oft used and stupidly impossible line is actually possible when everything is so hyper-focused on mine that I goes completely neglected.

Your soulmate is everything to you. He’s supposed to be to hers, but she likes to be hers first so it is as it always is -

“The stalking is getting prosecution-worthy.”

“Your company is the one that hired me to represent them. Appearing at an event that I’ve been invited to isn’t stalking.”

He presses a hard kiss to her lips before her pout becomes a protest of said “invitation.” Killian’s seriously intent on seeing them furiously red and swollen from his attentions, and fuck her if she doesn’t clench her thighs at the thought of his number of meetings tomorrow, when she still carries the well-fucked air about her, in her walk, in her talk, in the way she licks at the mark of his teeth on her bottom lip. Meetings he’ll have to sit through while knowing the remnants of pleasure are still coursing through her, another soulmate quirk where the spiking feelings travel along that invisible line from you to them and her flush of arousal intensifies with his frustration.

She’s come from that alone a few times.

“You may have some grasp on the criminal justice system, but I know the ins and outs, love, and I have more than a dozen arguments to shut you down before your petition even reaches a judge.”

She snorts, and effects a breathy voice, “Oh, that’s hot. Keep telling me just how you can manipulate the law in your favor. It’s just so sexy to know that I can’t do a damn thing to keep you away from me.”

“You can’t.”

Her breath catches at the gentle affirmation - this trace of genuine emotion that she didn’t sign up for. Emma only wants to feel the press of his hard length against her belly and not the leap her heart makes into her throat.

“We’ve had enough of that, haven’t we?” he breathes against her lips.

Emma’s eyes shut hastily. She doesn’t want to see the months of being unable to sleep, the anxiety launching even the thought of it out the window because of the sea between them. That it was only soothed when he caught the red-eye and got stuck at JFK for hours before taking a cab straight to her door. She’d opened it before Killian knocked, and he’d moved swiftly, bags falling to the floor as he tilted her chin to align their lips perfectly in a kiss of “hello, nice to meet you, be mine forever,” before stepping back to groan with utter exhaustion, “Can we go to bed?”

They’d slept for hours, entire days, waking up to shower, eat, and study each other in equal measure, until the exhaustion eased enough for them to actually work through this thing. They’d decided on Killian transferring to New York because picking up his entire life and moving it into hers was better than the reverse (she’d finally found a place that she liked enough to stay, not loved, but she’d made roots here, the first she’d ever been able to, and he’d understood that from the sparse, sanitized history in her personnel file. Probably more from the way she’d said, “I like New York,” into the bedspread, picking at the sheets instead of looking at him). She’d made a very minimal protest when he announced that he’d been offered a job by Regina in the past and he was certain the offer would still stand even ten years after she’d grudgingly, unhappily given it.

There was no protest at all when Emma walked into her bathroom to find him naked and dripping water on her floor because he’d opted to towel off his hair first. It had gone straight from her catching his eyes to Killian lifting her atop her sink to fuck away her anger at him for soaking her recently mopped floor. Her faucet left a deep imprint in the small of her back and he’d smirked as he massaged the pain away – and then massaged her lower and into quick decision: fuck soulmates, soulmate fucks, it is.

(She closed her eyes, didn’t she? So why can she still see it so crystal clear?)

“No you can’t,” he breathes hotly.

Her lips are captured again, her hair with them as he slips his fingers in and tugs at the tangled curls, grip tight just as she likes it - the way he likes it, a mirroring desire. Emma’s hand slips between them to palm him through his pants – her lips parting on a sharp breath at the weight of him, all of him straining towards her. Her fingers are soon at his belt, and the difficulty of doing this one-handed is worth it because her other hand grips his shoulder, nails carving half-moons through the layer of his shirt – the taut muscle feels so good to hold onto; she doesn’t like to let it go.

Killian hisses at the pain, and returns it in kind. Her hair pulls painfully at the roots as he throws her head back, her gasp embarrassingly audible - her moan reverberating through her whole body as he kisses the line of her jaw. His teeth scrape against her chin before he attacks her neck, beard and teeth rubbing the delicate skin raw. Clearly admiring his handiwork, he nuzzles his nose just beneath her ear while his body shakes against her in quiet, teasing laughter.

Emma’s fingers are fumbling now, but she manages to finally release the expensive buckle, tugs the zip down because his pants are far too tight for her to just slide her hand between the band and his skin.

The hard planes of his stomach jump inward as her nails tickle the dark hair trekking a downward path, and then his cock does, the hot, hard length seeking the heat of her palm. In some kind of feat of strength, she resists just grabbing him in hand like she wants to and brushes just her fingertips over him, not even a caress.

She moans at the slight sensation, though because he’s so hot and rigid and she hasn’t even felt his bare length yet, and she wants to so desperately, mouth parting at the thought of taking him in hand, in mouth, inside her. Emma wants to fuck him, overwhelmingly so, a wave of moisture turning her underwear useless, no point in keeping them on because they’re ruined, utterly ruined by him.

Killian licks the shell of her ear, and promises darkly – and oh, it’s a promise – “Keep that up and I’m going to fuck you right here against this door, and have the staff knocking it down because of your pretty screams - I’m quite tempted to take you until the door comes off the hinges…” He trails off only to bite at her earlobe, hard, and as she whimpers at the shock of pain, rolling her hips because she’s so desperate for the same focused attention, he asks, “Would you like that, hmm? To spend all week with an aching back, so well-fucked that every time you move you’re reminded of me, every small shift a lesson in why you shouldn’t tease a man so desperate for you.”

He is - he’s hungry for her, hips slamming forward, crushing her hand between their bodies. The door does echo the motion, her back hitting it hard. The air goes out of her from the blow, her legs parting instinctively to allow him between. Killian tugs her hair one more time before she’s scrambling to catch up and wrap her arms around his neck before he hoists her up by her ass and carries her to her bed. She remembers vaguely, that she’d brought work with her when she hears papers crinkling beneath her shoulders - but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters but how he follows her down, thrusting between her legs, forcing her skirt up so that they can collide, his erection dragging hotly against her soaked cunt. He groans as that wetness melts through his boxers too - but it isn’t all her, he’s so hard that she can taste the fluid coating the head of his cock, salt leaking from the tip in desire - desire too soft of a word for what they have - not true love-making but soul fucking -

If they don’t get undressed soon, she’s going to come in her underwear, and he’s going to curse her for ruining his pants.

Not that his curses are so bad, though, given the way he makes her reap the consequences, rutting against her until he’s hard as before, but she’s so far gone that the first thrust makes her come, the second, third, every meeting drawing out her pleasure into a bliss it takes hours for her to wake up from.

“Swan, I’m always impressed by how easily distracted you are when you’re beneath me.”

His words whip at her ears, all the warning Emma gets. It’s the bite of a man tired of having to repeat himself, but she can never stop herself from thinking of him in the past, present and future when they’re together, it all blends into just one thought: Killian, and he always has to fight to pull her from that.

He likes the fight, though, likes to drag her back to this moment - he thrusts hard, driving her into the mattress, the pain of their meeting, and indescribable pleasure, never given time to settle. He pulls back quickly, reaching his hand where his cock was, and tearing her underwear to the side, one finger already worked into her before she can think to whine, to beg, to plead her case in more than moans and twisting in the sheets.

Killian’s finger goes knuckle deep, would sink deeper if his ring didn’t catch on her tight entrance, if she wasn’t so taut already that he could slip it within, the drag of the cold metal on her sensitive walls - her gasps as he pulls out, bring his finger to his lips so she can see her juices making the jewels glimmer.

“If you don’t bloody stay here, lass, I’m going to -”

“Do what?” she breaks in.

Emma opens her eyes, because that’s her problem every time, when she closes her eyes, she can see every Killian there is, but when she opens them, he’s the only one before her. His face hovers close to hers, eyes narrowed in frustration, bright blue darkened black in maddening need. Dark hair clings to his damp forehead.

He’s so beautiful, and she reaches up to tell him so with her fingers, brushing them over his too-kissed and not kissed enough lips, down his neatly shaved jaw, over his neck and to the nape.

Her hand feels right there.

It feels right when he turns his head to kiss her arm, still maddened, but smiling when he pulls away, drags his finger free of her so she lets out a soft gasp - not of loss. It’s never that. He never leaves her; never. Merely directs his attention elsewhere, to the waist of his pants, forcing them down his hips with no care for his comfort, and properly pulls up her skirt so there’s no pull on her legs to keep them from spreading wide in welcome. He takes a short moment to divest her of her underwear, cool air making her thighs tremble.

Killian’s cock bobs between them and she looks and looks and looks until she looks, lifting her gaze from his fat length and back to his face. He’s watching her - no need to study because he knows her well, knows her best, but watches her because he -

He smiles at her, satisfied, but not amused enough to call it a smirk – his dimples too deep to simply place on the deep red blush spread from her cheeks to her chest and everywhere his eyes can see and everywhere where he can’t. It isn’t just the sweat on her skin, her hard nipples straining against her blouse or even the damp hair tossed recklessly about her.

It tangles Emma, the words in that smile. She wants to shut her eyes and throw herself back into that melee of simply him and none of that expression already plaguing her, its words echoing in her head: he’s happy with what she’s giving him and yet, wants more.

Killian’s gaze averts to her spread legs and she breathes relief out, breathes torment in when he licks his lips, filth in the quick motion, and says, “You have the most beautiful cunt.” He brings his hand to her, stopping just short of touching her to say, “It burns to the touch,” even though he isn’t touching her, not at all, and then adds, “It burns not to.”

He moves and Emma does, too. He presses his knees between her and drags her to him, his cock smacking against her, earning a hiss from the both of them. She reaches up to find that perfect handhold at the nape of his neck, and with the other she grabs his forearm, ready to pull him to her the moment he sinks within.

It takes Killian a moment to find her, his cock spreading lush wetness everywhere; she can believe she’s this wet but every time it happens she’s a little amazed, a little embarrassed of what he does to her. He’s too focused on watching her face to ease their ache, and it isn’t as if she can’t help him with that because just like him, she can’t look away. She could blink and she still wouldn’t miss it because he can hold that look for a lifetime. It’s the look reserved for her, born the moment she swung open her door to let him in. It’s the heavy gaze, the soft almost-smile that says he’s never left, never will.

Emma hates the whimper that leaves her mouth when he finally guides home, his rigid length always a stretch that she never adjusts to, so thick that it always burns when he fills her - always, something about soulmates setting you alight with a simple touch, but always to make you believe in love, not ascribed to them fucking into you until becoming one feels less like two hearts meeting and more unconvinced that they’ll ever be able to part when he’s nudging the very end of her, her walls grabbing him and not wanting to let go.

She pulls Killian down, not moving besides a slight shifting that makes her bite her lip when he pulls at her. He moans at that - buries his face in her neck and kisses her over and over again until her skin burns too. She pulls his head back, forcing him to rise above her, and returns his fervent kisses with her own. Her tongue plunges into his mouth greedily, their lips moving, maybe not perfectly in tune, but there’s no misstep; they follow each other’s lead.

Her hips follow his when he draws himself out.

But his hand grabs her waist, squeezing hard, and Emma’s pushed back down, allowing him to pull out of her, almost completely free so that she gets the full weight of his inward thrust. She lets out a sharp cry against his lips and pulls away to find comfort in his neck. She can’t see them like this, but she’s spent enough time committing them to memory with her lips that she can trace her tongue along the few small freckles dotting Killian’s skin.

She doesn’t fight the pace he sets, slow and deep - she’s happy with what he gives her, too, and yet she wants more, shudders beneath him with wanting him in fast, short thrusts that hit her hard. He flexes his hand on her waist, and releases her to flatten his hand on her abdomen and feel the shudder for himself.

“Good girl,” Killian says, kissing the crown of her head, continuing to take her the way he likes. She flushes at his words, caught in his sincere words, overcome by how easily he says it and how deeply she feels it, “You’re doing so good for me, love, letting me have you like this. You don’t know what it does to me - what a gift you are.” He keeps kissing her head, she feels it as his nose sinks into her hair with every mark of affection. “Want you -”

She keens quietly, her own nose brushing the coarse hair of his neck as she lifts her head from the embrace, parting them only so their heads can come flush together, resting - but not quite because her eyes are wide open as are his, fully aware of the other –

As aware as she is, Emma feels completely and utterly helpless to the thing suddenly rising within her, urging her to words she’s never even thought to voice.

“...more than anything?” she asks.

Killian nods. “Aye, more than anything.”

She keeps her eyes open up until the moment he kisses her, and then it isn’t about the joining of their lips, or the way he picks up speed, or even his hand crossing the distance between her belly and her curls, thumb finding her swollen clit and rubbing it in deliciously hard circles - Emma keeps her eyes open because this is more than anything, more than everything, more than it could and should possibly be.

She closes them because if she doesn’t, she’s afraid she’ll be lost in the impossibility of it all and lose the reality of it, of him.

(That Killian is hers.)

Emma closes them because, more than anything, if she doesn’t, the next words from her mouth might be “I love you.”

Rocking against her, Killian keeps kissing her until she can’t breathe from it, panting harshly as his fingers and his cock bring her closer and closer to orgasm - and then he’s talking to her, though she can barely make out the words because blood is rushing in her ears and his murmurs are nonsense at best, lust and affection and everything jumbled together.

She cries out when he increases the pressure on her clit, three swift swipes of his thumb and a deep drive of his hips completing her. She barely holds on - usually doesn’t because flying into that space between heavenly and heaven is all she wants - but this time, she doesn’t blank out, maybe because she’s come so close to ruination, maybe because she wants to be ruined, but she holds on and she hears her name, broken on Killian’s lips, a prayer that only she can answer, rolling her hips up to meet his so he rocks his pleasure against her very core, riding out his orgasm - their orgasm.

(Theirs.)

He collapses atop her, and he’s heavy, but she doesn’t push him off. She’s too close right now to let him go far.

“We’re not sleeping like this, are we?” he queries.

She likes the way he sounds after, always does, but like doesn’t really describe the depth of it - and neither does the soulmate thing, the feelings jumping from her to him to her to him. It’s just that ‘like’ never could come close to it.

“No, but -”

Emma swallows and feels her chest tighten, and her heart race. All this is dragging her towards the yawning jaws of panic – it’s all going to be ruined if he moves off of her, if she lets a distance grow. The distance that never bothered her, even when Killian was a continent away and she couldn’t sleep at all, is terrifying now - and now of all times, because she’s never felt this way, the sudden strike unexplainable.

“But -” she says again when he starts to move.

But, Killian parts them, pulling out of her and falling back on his knees so he can see her clearly. With the clarity of sight, he pulls her up too, drawing her close, worry wrinkling his brow, panic in his eyes.

“Emma, hey. It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here.”

Yeah, she’s aware, and with that awareness comes the helplessness, and the words tumble from her mouth.

“I love you, I’m sorry.”

Killian cants his head, both eyebrows jumping just as she begins to cry. She thanks whatever decided that she should have someone for her always and forever, thanks them with how much she hates this. More than anything, she hates this.

…more than anything?

She should never have asked the question.

“You’re sorry?”

He sighs and she closes her eyes, willing the tears to stop but they don’t because why would they? It feels like they’ve just been waiting to fall all along.

Waiting for her to fall with them.

“Well, I don’t mean to upset you, Emma, but I’m not.”

She doesn’t open her eyes.

But he cups her face, fingers at her neck and thumb caressing her cheek, and it’s the way he caresses the wet track of tears that makes her open them. Like he wants to brush them away, but can’t.

He smiles, humored brightness to the blue of his eyes, “No, not in the slightest. I’m glad that you’ve chosen to love me. It’s good. Puts us on the same page.”

“What?”

Killian shrugs his shoulders in explanation. Somehow, the small motion is reassuring – the followed itching at the spot behind his ear drawing her smile. She’s crying and he’s nervous, and yeah, she feels like they’re on the same page.

“I decided a while back that I’d love you because you’re mine. Not in the way that we belong together, but that you make me feel like I belong.”

She can’t think how to reply to that – to give words to the emotions that rise… “What the hell?” seems pretty inappropriate right now even though it’s her go-to response to things that throw her off course, out of mind, and completely unable to fathom.

Thankfully – or knowingly – he keeps going without her words.

“I’m not particularly fond of the fluke of birth that had us awake for three horrible months before I could convince Liam that finding you was life or death -” he pauses in consideration, a fond smile at the memory “- I think it was the motorcycle accident that turned the cards in my favor. Nothing like a concussion to get a stubborn git to give you access to his special contacts.”

Liam, his brother. Special contacts…

“What the hell?”

Completely ignoring her question, he says, “I can usually work the law in my favor, but he’s a bit of a stickler for doing things the Right Way, tends to work in the written law and not the spirit of it.”

“Yikes.”

A grin takes him, and with clear pride, he says, “You two will get on swimmingly.”

Narrowing her eyes – there’s always some double meaning when he references anything having to do with the sea – Emma asks, “Jaws theme swimmingly?”

Killian laughs, loud and obnoxious, and Emma pushes at him, rolling her eyes only to feel the lingering wetness in them, to remember that she’d been crying and he’s clearly trying to help her forget, and she loves him for that.

She loves him, and she doesn’t have to be sorry.

He looks at her, obnoxious, too-satisfied smile gone to an indulgent smile, like he wants to give her whatever she wants. Killian brushes her fingers with his. Emma returns the touch, her fingertips resting on his knuckles, stroking softly.

He clears his throat, drawing her attention back to him – something needs to be said, yeah, of course. She nods at him, offering a soft reassurance that is probably more for her than him – he knows her best, but she knows herself just as well.

“I hate that this was seemingly decided for us but -”

He shrugs, and she supplies, “I don’t hate you.”

“Thanks,” he says, his sarcasm softened by her moving to place her hands on his chest, and then sweeping across to buttons of his shirt. She starts unfastening at the neck or, rather, upper-chest because even professional doesn’t warrant an aesthetic change with him – she likes that.

Her progress has taken her halfway down when his hands fall on hers, stilling her movements.

“Thank you,” he says, his grateful words weighted with the kind of emotions that are supposed to warrant an explosion in her chest, effusive declarations of true love and forever and “‘Til death do us part…if we file this quickly we can get married tonight!”

She smiles and lets him wipe at the tears still on her cheeks while she returns to unbuttoning his shirt. With a hum of affection - and maybe just a small firework show in her heart - she says, “You’re welcome.”