#Those three little bastard * read with British accent*

[thebookowal]

So here it is

I draw this today, and I feel so so selfish because I didn’t paint the people in the background including me

One of the background characters (@akikothefuzzball )

-I’m so embarrassed of you that I did not draw your sona before it actually looks amazing. I just couldn’t find any color plate of yours again I’m so sorry-

I tried to find there sona colors but I had a small reference of just the head and I was embarrassed to meet up a different color on there sona so I decided to paint everyone in the background by the “iconic “ color

Except the people in the front and I apologize to everyone in the background that I did not color anybody, so to make it fair I did not even color myself

And if he didn’t understand what is actually going on at the picture those three musketeers in the front have something to do with @ntls-24722 falling to the floor

And actually really proud of it

Except marshmallow marshmallow was hoping for a bloody prank

But he didn’t get it

@wakebymoonsleepbysun you and  Treble Alto And Tenor they want you to jump on a pacific trampoline because they think It can make you jump higher than the rest.

Oh yes and beside me is donut he’s my baby

@artastic-friend said a really funny joke to artem

And that’s it

I thought this one was the funniest I try to look for three that were calm and only one in trouble, and I spent half my day doing this…..

(I hope the trampoline broke your fall Ntls)

[batmanie]

Worth it - Batman TAS

Out of the few books available at the Arkham rec room’s otherwise empty bookshelf Professor Crane had chosen to read “Pride and Prejudice” today. He had read it about ten times already but the small book collection was not getting any bigger and it was still better than reading the Bible.

“Alice’s adventures in Wonderland” had been banned from Arkham’s library quite some time ago for triggering a certain inmate, and “Christmas Carol” had lately been decorated with obscene doodles by the Joker which Jonathan did not wish to see ever again. The nursery rhymes book was always an option but currently, Harley had her fun with that, giggling each time she read a funny one.

Crane was sitting on the couch with his nose in the book, not bothering anyone with his presence. Next to him, Tetch was staring at the TV. The poor man looked so bored, mindlessly channel surfing, probably too high on medication to be able to entertain himself with any Wonderland plots.

With Joker not around, the rec room seemed calm, almost as calm as the sky before a heavy storm. And said storm came unexpectedly in the form of Jervis Tetch.

The bored man on the couch had switched to the Gotham’s evening news channel, listening in to the street interview with one of the new candidates for the city council, and then, out of nowhere, he threw a massive tantrum – his outburst included flipping the coffee-table and accidentally hitting Harley’s head with it. That, of course, resulted in Doctor Quinzel’s aggressive response. Not much remained left from the unfortunate table after Harley had finished with it.

Professor Crane watched in delight how Mad Hatter fought against a guard twice as big as himself, while Harley attempted to smash both of their heads with a table leg before two other guards managed to tranquilize her.

After a few more minutes, the rec room was calm again and Jonathan got back to his book. But as much as he tried to ignore the incident and focus on the plot, a little voice in his head, the voice of the psychologist who he’d never truly ceased to be, kept whispering a very important question. “What exactly has just happened here?” The voice asked, teasing Jon’s professional curiosity. He cast another glance at the tv. The candidate from the evening news smiled at the camera, still explaining how much he was helping the community.

Professor Crane had his suspicions. And who would have guessed? Mad Hatter broke out of Arkham no longer than three days after that event.

David Colton was in his mid-thirties and he was a man in his prime, looking exceptionally professional today in his expensive dark-blue suit, white shirt, and striped blue tie.

“Smoother than Bruce Wayne,” he thought with a pleasant smile, checking himself in the mirror.

Oh, yeah, he still got it! Still looking as youthful and handsome as the prom king he had been back in his high-school days.

“Almost ready Mr. Colton,” the make-up lady told him, and put some more powder onto his already fluid-heavy forehead. “No glossy faces on TV, that’s my rule. Those spotlights know no mercy,” she joked.

David chuckled. “The only thing that is allowed to shine tonight, is my charisma.”

They would have laughed some more, if not for a sudden knocking on the door to his private dressing room.

“Come in,” David called and took a deep, calming breath mentally preparing himself for showtime.

He was ready to present his best self to Gotham again, and at this rate of him constantly being invited to interviews, the seat in the council was practically his already.

His father was right, the ability to make a good impression and a thing for charity was everything that mattered in this town after all.

The door opened and a short man in a trench coat walked in, not a staff member judging simply by the lack of an ID. Yet, the man seemed familiar – Colton just couldn’t quite place him.

“Can I help you, pal?” He asked the newcomer, hiding his irritation behind a polite smile.

The man smiled brightly and took a few steps into the room. “Oh, yes, yes. I think you can,” he spoke with a quiet yet excited voice.

Colton caught his fake British accent right away – and again, it felt like he had heard it before.

“However, I wouldn’t call you my pal.” The man continued grinning. “Would I? Won’t I? Would I? Won’t I?”.

“Listen, pal,” Colton cut him off, not bothering anymore to be that polite. “My interview is starting in a few minutes. Can we get back to this conversation later?”

“I’m afraid that later will be too late,” the strange man shook his head and took out a silver pocket-watch. “It will take only a moment…”

David sighed, the intruder was really hard to get rid of – he hated those nosy people who worked for the press.

“Very well then.” He stood up from his seat and turned to his guest to shake his hand and introduce himself properly. “David Colton,” he offered his hand to the shorter man.

The man didn’t take it, which led to a very awkward moment.

“Oh, but we know each other,” he explained, staring at David with an intense glare.

Colton, confused as he was, took a closer look at the stranger – his blonde, messy hair, big nose, and even bigger front teeth. Suddenly it clicked. “Gotham High! Jervis, was it? Jervis the Jerkface,” he laughed at the old memories of those past, glorious days of his youth. “How have you been, Jerv?”.

“Surely not as good as you.” There was a hint of fake sadness in Jervis’ voice as he put on the black, old-school top hat that he had held in his hand behind his back the entire time.

That single move made Colton recall some very disturbing stories straight from Gotham’s underworld. He cast a worried look at the make-up lady – she looked terrified and about to scream.

Slowly, he gazed back at the small man before him – the man who used to be just a nerdy kid from his high school, a weird boy that everybody had laughed at – Jervis the Jerkface, Beaver-man, Ratter.

“They don’t call me names that often anymore,” Jervis said calmly, as if he had just read his mind, a nasty grin creeping back on his face. He held a card in his gloved hand. “They simply call me the Mad Hatter.”

-#-

Like every other Saturday, the rec room was hosting the four lucky high-profile inmates who had earned their right to be in here, thanks to their good behavior. This time it was Doctor Isley, surprisingly enough, Nygma and, even more surprisingly, Croc who accompanied Professor Crane during his well-deserved book-time.

Everyone was minding their own business, Ivy was occupied taking care of a small flowerpot of violets, Edward played chess with himself and Croc, well, Croc was currently using his claw as a toothpick to get rid of the remains of his dinner.

Jonathan relaxed on the couch that he had the luxury of having only for himself for once. He had tried to bury himself in a book but couldn’t concentrate on reading – something was on his mind ever since Mad Hatter had disappeared half a week ago. It was this tiny, little voice again, telling him to put the book aside and turn on the TV instead.

Slightly irritated by his own decision, he did as his intuition had told him to. The evening news was about to end and an interview with some philanthropist politician was about to start right after commercials.

When the show began, the fat, jovial host greeted his enthusiastic audience, gaining some applause in return, then he introduced the main guest of the evening, David Colton – Jonathan recognized the guy – it was the same politician who had been talking about the importance of charity just a week ago on the news.

Colton looked a bit stiff, smiling unnaturally wide. As the applause died out and the first question was asked, he didn’t move for a good few seconds, as if he didn’t even hear it. Jonathan couldn’t shake off the impression that the man was either on some medications or very, very stressed.

“David?” The host tried again as the uncomfortable silence dragged for too long. “Will you tell us about your foundation? We are all dying to know more.”

“No, Sam,” said Colton with a strangled voice, his face still kind of strange – more like a mask with a very fake smile and a dead look in his eyes. “First, I want to talk about my teenage years.”

“OK, let’s hear your story,” the host agreed, happily, probably determined to get anything at all from his non-cooperative guest. “I’ve heard you were an overachiever. A football player, a class president and even a prom king. Isn’t that right, David?”

“No. I was a selfish bastard who tormented less popular kids. I called them unfair names, put them in a locker, and made other boys beat them up just for a sake of it.”

The audience gasped at this confession. The host’s jaw dropped for a good five seconds.

Jonathan smiled to himself, satisfied that his intuition had not failed him.

“I was a popular kid so I never took the blame for my misbehavior,” Colton continued with a very calm and steady voice, his face showing no emotion. When the camera took a closeup on him, Jonathan noticed a tiny little detail – a 10/6 card sticking out of his boutonnière.

“I never cared for others' wellbeing either, this charity-thing is just for show. I only care for the fame and attention. In fact, you may say I’m not even a human being. I’m an ugly, stinking, lying chimpanzee.”

As soon as Colton finished his last line, an inhuman howl escaped his mouth. The audience screamed in terror. Colton suddenly jumped onto a couch he previously sat on, and he started to act like a real monkey.

Sam – the host – went utterly speechless, he jumped up from his own seat and just stood there, stunned.

Colton, screeching and howling like a mad chimpanzee, grabbed a glass of water from the tabletop and threw it at the host.

“Help, somebody help!” the poor host started screaming.

Meanwhile, Colton was jumping up and down on a couch, making “Ooh, aah!” sounds.

Before the security managed to catch him, Colton already had taken off his pants and his white, hairy ass was revealed for all of Gotham to see.

After that, the show was hurriedly cut off and the weather forecast started.

Professor Crane didn’t even notice that all the other rogues had joined him on the couch, and were now staring at the TV like a bunch of little kids watching their favorite cartoon.

“Well, that was definitely one way to destroy someone’s political career,” Nygma commented with a hint of amusement.

“A few more minutes and he would have started throwing his own poo,” Ivy added with a disgusted frown.

“Poo,” Crock giggled like a five-year-old and everyone else had to roll their eyes. “I like monkeys, monkeys are so stupid.”

“Well, actually, chimpanzees are…”

“Oh, shut up, Nygma!” Both Ivy and Crane growled as one and Edward went quiet.

“Anyway, Tetch should be back with us any minute now,” Pamela concluded with all certainty. “I hope his little revenge was worth a punch in the teeth from the Bat and getting dragged back to Arkham.”

Professor Crane didn’t say a word but he knew from an experience that yes, it was totally worth it.

[echo-three-one]

Whatever It Takes

A sequel to "A Forgotten Memory"

Alex is once again tasked to continue his mission in pursuing the threat that had caused hundreds of missing persons turn up dazed the next day. But now he isn't alone, join him along with the elite Task Force 141 as they hunt down Nero, discover the secrets behind his plans and put an end to this memory erasing nightmare.

Chapter 1 to another story made by Ray (echo-three-one) Comments and Reviews appreciated! I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️

"Resurgence"

"Alex"

CIA Warcom

Boracay Island, Philippines

Alex basked himself on the warm sandy beaches of the Philippines. He wasn't able to enjoy his vacation after the Nero mission, because he was sent immediately to Urzikstan and Verdansk immediately followed. And now that all of those were over, he now laid down on a beach chair and let the ocean breeze blow on his relaxed state.

Philippines was a nice country, the people were hospitable, the food was delicious and unique and the scenery was beyond amazing. Despite his metal leg, people still looked up at him the way they look at tourists and he was all of the hospitality and attention from his fellow Americans who are also on vacation to locals who were just amazed on how the leg works.

It's been a lot of months ever since Samantha forgot him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they'll meet again, that's why no matter many women try to show interest in him, he shrugs them off politely by pretending he has a girlfriend. A simple lie that he built for himself in hopes of a miracle of meeting her again.

He always brought her letter with him, some edges of it got burnt from the time he manually detonated a C4 explosive to destroy a gas factory, It was almost torn and faded, but he couldn't leave it somewhere safe. He wanted it to be with him wherever he goes. 

'Don't you dare forget about me'

His phone rang. He quickly fished it from a small pouch he bought that the locals made and immediately answered.

"This is Alex speaking." he chimed.

"I'm sorry to bother you at this time of day Alex, but I have a feeling you'd want to jump in on this." a British accent so familiar informed him over the other side of the line, It was none other than Captain John Price or Bravo Six, a comrade he once fought with back in Urzikstan.

"I'm all ears." he said, sitting up straight and letting his metal leg sink in the sand.

"Looks like your boy Nero is back on the grid. That Sneaky bastard kidnapped the Daughter of the Head of Defense, again." Price relayed.

Alex's heart thumped faster, his breathing became quick. He wished to meet her again but not like this. Not her being in harm's way all over again.

"Shit. Count me in. But.." he hesitated. He wanted to help but remembered he disobeyed CIA orders back in Urzikstan, making him unable to provide support.

"I've talked to Laswell. She's creating a special assignment for you."

"What does that mean?"

"It means welcome to the 141, Alex." Price said as he cut off the call, followed by a message regarding his departure to their base.

~

Alex can't help but worry about Samantha's condition. They've played with her memories multiple times and he thought that it would all be over after she decided to alter everything about them. Guess the enemy didn't know and they're still after her.

The soldier leaned on to the small circular glass pane as he looked at the clouds pass by. His hands were fidgeting each other while his non-metal foot bounced up and down at a fast rate. His seatmate, who happens to be a teenager, noticed his distracting leg movement but ignored it as rock music blasted from his ears. He was a completely different Alex right now and he believed that he'll be back to normal as soon as he sees Samantha safe and within his grasp.

When you have a heavy metal stick as a leg, customs is going to be the most annoying place in the world. Everyone looked at Alex as soon as he passes the metal detector and everyone else's eyes were on him. Of course with a few more safety checks and a whole lot of explaining, Alex was good to go. 

"So, you're the one they call Alex" the heavily British accented driver mused, breaking the silence of their ride to the 141 base. He was looking at him via the rearview mirror, chewing on what Alex hoped to be gum.

"Yep. That's me." he replied, turning to the view of the British streets which confused him a lot as it was the opposite of American or even Global streets.

"Heard they thought you were dead back there. In Georgia." he added. He was quite the chatterbox but CIA Agents are all about the information.

"Yeah. Tried to manually detonate the C4. After that… I just ran for my life." Alex answered, his head was realizing why he did it. What pushed him to think that he could make it out alive. Was it because it's for the greater good? The idea of freeing Farah's country from the harm of the gas? The idea of a chance to meet Samantha all over again? Or something he couldn't explain.

"Well, we're glad to have you back, Alex. But it's a shame it's no longer in the CIA." the driver waved as Alex opened the door and unloaded his stuff.

"As long as it's still about saving the world." he replied, making the driver smile. 

"That's what we do, right?" he agreed as he entered in his car leaving Alex in front a quiet gray building, the Task Force 141 Base, his new home.

Alex pushed the heavy doors open revealing a large hall, multiple round sofas were embedded to the ground and a huge staircase that split left and right greeted him. Multiple heads turned as he opened the said door and slowly walked his way to the nearest person who happened to be panting from exhaustion by the sofa. His metal leg clanked on his every step as the soldiers begin to recognize him. They smiled as soon as Alex's eyes met theirs and some even waved, Alex met them from several missions from the past, some were from the Demon Dogs and his previous designations, Delta Force.

"Where's the briefing room in this huge building?" he asked the soldier in a black t shirt drenched in sweat as he spun his towel trying to keep up with his breathing. He didn't speak but he nodded in acknowledgement and pointed to the hallway on the left. Alex left him a thanks and he walked his way to the direction where he pointed.

Just a few steps after the beginning of the hallway, the people from the main hall cheered and laughed, this made Alex turn around and he saw a young blonde man with spiky hair dash across him, he looked like he's on his way to your destination as well.

"Excuse me! Sir!" he yelled and Alex immediately halted. The young man panted in front of him and took a few seconds to breathe before he countinued his words.

"I'm Gary Sanderson, and I was supposed to guide you to the briefing room. You must be Alex." he reached out a hand and Alex shook it, quietly making your way to the room.

The huge door slid open and they found themselves in a dimly lit room, a huge screen loomed just by the wall and chairs were placed around a long circular table. Alex could spot a few familiar faces, faces he once saw and fought alongside with in Verdansk. There was the balaclava boy, Ghost, the Mohawk Man, Soap, their Captain, John Price and a few big heads from the United States. There were also new faces like Gary, who was now discussing something with another new soldier, a female soldier who sat by Price and a few new more who were already sitting on the chairs. There's also someone missing, Kyle Garrick, he pondered where he was.

The former CIA quickly saw Gary rush to Price's seat and whispered something causing him to lean on his chair, stand up and walk to his side. 

"Glad to see you back in the fight, Alex." he muttered, patting Alex's shoulder.

"I won't skip out on this mission, this one's close to home." he replied, patting his back in return.

"Yeah, heard this was your last mission before the Russian Gas." 

"Yeah. It's a loose end on my side." Alex nodded, crossing his arms.

"Good thing Shepherd had some sense in him. Not unlike your CIA heads, huh?" 

Alex nodded. He remembered he did an illegal thing against the CIA, and that was siding with Farah's forces, who were reclassified as global terror groups at that time. He silently thanked he could still step back in the fight along with the good guys even after that event.

"Yeah. I might have to thank him soon enough." Alex murmured and Price guided him to the briefing which was about to start in a few minutes.

~

"Before we start our mission briefing, I'd like to welcome each and everyone of you to the 141. A group of the most elite warriors from around the world tasked to eliminate terrorist threats lurking in the shadows. One of which, goes by the name Nero…" General Shepherd's voice was deep and serious, while the screen showed a photo of the guy they're after. His face looked punchable, as manifested by the way Alex clenched his fists while he stared at his soulless eyes.

"… whose goal is still unknown. He poses a threat as he has been out in American soil, which we believe is the one behind the multiple missing and reappearing person cases across the country." he continued, eyeing Alex. He knew a little bit about the case, maybe because he read his report.

"Since he poses no evidence of terrorist activity as of now, we are assigned to rescue and locate the daughter of Richard Coleman, America's Head of National Defense. We don't know why she was kidnapped but we believed it is or ransom or threatening purposes." The general explained, pacing back and forth, his shadow covered the screen.

Alex wanted to say something. Something about the details surrounding the case. It was written on his report. But then again, maybe the general already knew about the alteration, and since Samantha doesn't remember any IP Address, it was no longer worth noting.

Samantha's face was projected on the screen. Alex's heart began to beat faster, she looked different now, a little chubbier, longer hair and her smile felt happier. It was heartbreaking that she got caught in the crossfire again. After all those efforts of making her life normal.

'If our paths would cross again, I hope you'll remember me the way I remembered you before I take this operation, A good memory that's supposed to last forever. '

'Don't you dare forget about me.'

Her words echoed in his mind, using the same voice she had when they were together. 

"I will save you again if I had to.." he promised to her mentally, as he tightened the clench he was already doing.

"Our intel reports that twelve hours ago, local informants spotted an unknown flying vehicle just by the Georgian Border, local authorities confirmed that this wasn't one of their aircraft and we believe it could be the getaway vehicle of Samantha Coleman and her captors… We are still looking on to this so for the meantime I want each and one of you to be fully alert and ready for deployment."

Everyone else fell silent. It meant they agreed at what the high ranking official said. A few more words were exchanged such as new additions to the team, aside from Alex. He didn't seem to focus much on the second part of the brief as his mind worried a lot about Samantha. If his instincts were right, she's probably sedated once again, taking a trip down her own memory lane.

Chapter 2 : F.N.G.

[scarofthewind]

Is it alright if I ask for the Slashers of your choice and their s/o meeting (and basically adopting) a feral child after they protect their s/o from a victim who tried to harm them?

A/N: I am going to do two instead of my many boys because each one is going to be a bit long. Hope you enjoy! BTW THESE ARE VERY LONG!!! Trigger warning (mentions of abuse and pedophilia).

                                    ________________________

Brahms Heelshire: “What are you doing?” A soft voice asked from behind you as you tugged your rainboots on. 

“I’m going to the shed. I need to get the shovel so we can plant those flowers out front tomorrow.” Brahms started at you blankly. “What?” You asked.

“Shout if you need anything.” He replied, kissing your forehead. 

You smiled, “Not like you don’t watch me from the windows anyway.” Brahms mumbled under his breath and you pulled the hood to your jacket over your head and walked outside. The cold air greeted you harshly as rain caressed your face. You ducked your head and made your way over the to shed which was a few yards away. 

Trying not to slip in a mud puddle, you neared the brown building and paused in your tracks when you saw that the door was open. You waited to hear something and moved forward when a crash erupted from inside. 

“Hello?” You shouted over the sound of the pouring rain and watched as a face appeared in the door way; crouching near the ground. You stopped and felt your heart nearly stop with fear. Big eyes stared at you as a head full of wild hair tilted to the side, sizing you up. You saw the dainty hands wrap around the side of the door and you let out a breath. The faded blue shirt it wore was nearly torn off and you could see bruises and scratches on the dirtied skin. 

Something in your mind clicked and you put your hands out, slowly moving forward. “Are you lost?” The child made a hissing sound and crouched back to the ground and scooted back inside the shed. 

“Wait-” You put your hands to your ears as the sound of a gun going off near you made you flinch. The ringing in your ears was painful and loud as your eyes watered from the pressure. A man you’d never seen before was yelling and pointing his gun at you. 

“Where’s the kid!? I know you’ve seen him!” The man walked over to you from the side of the shed and forced you to the ground. His back was to the door and you could see the child watching with big eyes. 

“I don’t know any kid! I live here alone!” You said calmly, knowing Brahms would be here any moment. You froze at that realization; Brahms couldn’t fight a man with a gun. 

The man smacked your face with the back of his hand and placed the end of his gun at your chin. “Where’s the fucking kid!” You watched from the corner of your eye as the kid slowly crawled across the grass towards you. Coming up from behind the man, it looked you in the eyes from a few inches away and you realized what was about to happen. 

“I’ll ask you one more time; where’s the k-” The man didn’t get to finish his sentence as the child jumped up and snapped his head back. You rolled out of the way as the gun fired at your previous spot on the ground. 

You watched in horror as the man fell lifeless to the ground and the kid snapped his neck a few more times in different angles to make sure he was dead. You let out a shaky breath and it’s eyes locked with yours, crawling quickly over to you and staring inches away from your face. 

So many questions went through your head and you felt your motherly instincts come through. You watched as the child eyed your face and slowly reached up to touch your cheeks and nose. The boy made a humming sound and it took you a minute to realize it was trying to pronounce something. “M-M-” It tried, and your heart calmed down. “M-m-mommy. Mommy.” It chanted, it’s voice unused but still it held a British accent. 

“Mommy.” You replied and the child smiled briefly before footsteps came your way. 

“What the fuck happened!? What is that!?” Brahms asked angrily and loud, moving toward you too fast for the child’s liking. It growled at Brahms and held your head in its arms, crawling in your lap and pulling your jacket around him. 

“(Y/N)…” Brahms put his hands up to show the kid he meant no harm and you could barely breathe. 

“Brahms, it saved me.” You looked at it as it stared at your lover from inside your jacket, quietly growling. “It’s just a little boy. Not even ten yet.” You spoke softly, careful not to frighten the child. 

Brahms was breathing heavily and he was completely drenched. Sighing, he looked over to the body of the man on the ground. “Jesus. Get inside, take him with you. I’ll deal with this.” He motioned to the house and you stood, taking the kid in your arms and walking back to the house. 

“Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.” He repeated, playing with your hair as you shut the door behind you and went into the kitchen. You set him down in a chair and he crouched in it, looking around the house and watching as you made him a quick sandwich. You put the plate in front of him and he stared at you. 

“You poor thing.” You said softly, taking the food and slowly showing him how to eat it. Eventually, he finished the sandwich off and then proceeded to follow you upstairs as Brahms came in. 

“I’m going to get him cleaned up. Maybe he’s a missing kid and we just don’t recognize him.” You said and Brahms nodded, locking eyes with the kid who tilted his head at him. 

“C’mon.” You said to the boy and he looked up at you and smiled. 

“Mommy. Mommy.” He crawled around the ground in front of you and you made your way into the bathroom. You’d never known how to take care of a child, but you and Brahms had been trying for one so you had been reading up on how to care for one. The bath wasn’t the hardest part. It was cutting and combing the child’s hair and trying to get him into some clothes that were Brahms’ from when he was a kid, was. 

He had beautiful green eyes and light blonde hair that was wavy when dried. You took the child downstairs and watched as it tried to walk normally into the living room. When he saw Brahms, he hit the floor and ran to your legs. “Mommy.” It wined, and your eyes met Brahms’. You knew that look.

“Brahms...”

“We will talk about it when he’s asleep.” He brushed past you and hurried upstairs while you sat by the fire with the kid and slowly let him fall asleep on the couch next to you. 

“We can’t keep him.” Brahms’ voice said as he sat on your other side, staring at the child ho was drooling on the sofa. “He’s wild.”

“So were you.” You snapped. “We can help him.” 

“That man knew who he was. He was looking for him! More people will if he was someone’s child.” Brahms argued quietly. 

“Look at his wrists and ankles and tell me he was loved.” The scars from where the skin had been rubbed off too many times from cuffs were ragged. Brahms sighed and rubbed his face. 

“Brahms we can give this boy the care he needs. If we are good parents with him then maybe when he’s older we can have one of our own.” You pressed, watching as the child nearly rolled off the couch. 

“He’s already attached to you.” Brahms ran a hand through his hair. “Fine.” He caved, and you smiled, leaning up and pressing your lips to his. 

“Mommy...” The child whimpered from behind you, tears forming in his eyes from what you imagined would be a bad dream. Your heart ached and you pulled him up into your lap, wiping his tears and cooing to him. He nuzzled his face into your shoulder and made eye contact with Brahms. One of his hands was against your neck and the other was slowly reaching out towards Brahms’ face. 

You held your breath, watching as his small fingers touched the side of Brahms’ scar. “D-D-Daddy.” He formed the word after a few tries and Brahms felt a smile etch its way onto his face. 

“We’re keeping him.” Brahms nodded and let the child giggle when you did. This was going to be the start of something great.

Norman Bates: You watched from the window of the coffee shop as the little girl across the road sat on the sidewalk with nothing but a torn up dress on. You’d seen her a couple of times before but never thought anything of it; assuming her parents were around somewhere. 

“(Y/N), are you even listening to me?” Norman taped your hand and you looked back at him. 

“Sorry.” You mumbled and tried to focus on his rant about how H.P. Lovecraft was a deeper and darker author than Edgar Allen Poe. Your eyes wandered to the little girl again but she was gone. 

It took three more weeks until you saw her again; standing across the road from the coffee shop but wearing the same dress. She looked more malnourished and wild than she did before. You had come alone to the café this time and ordered an extra loaf of lemon cake just in case. You had questions and your mind raced as you watched her. 

She walked towards an alleyway and you watched as a man approached her, only to disappear in the darkened corner. Your heart leapt into your chest at the horrible thoughts that ran through your head and you got up, practically running out the door. 

“Hey!” You shouted as you went to the entrance of the alleyway, the man had a hold on the girls arm and a disguising look in his eyes. “Get your hands off her you filthy bastard!” You yelled, backing up as he threw her to the ground and turned to you.

“What are you going to do about it doll?” He mocked, adjusting his pants so they weren’t so obvious as what he was about to do. 

“What the hell is wrong with you!” You snapped, pushing past the pig to the girl who was crying on the ground. 

The man grabbed your arm and brought you close to his face; you could smell the alcohol on his breath. “She’s a little girl.” You said.

“Want me to take you instead?” He smirked and you then started to fear. This man had a foot in height on you and was a lot bigger build. 

“I’ll scream.” You warned and the guy frowned. 

“I’ll cut your throat before you do any of that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He didn’t manage to make it to your neck as the little girl took it from his grimy fingers and jumped up, piercing it through his neck. 

Instantly, the man let you go and you waited until he hit the ground before taking the girls arm and running back home. 

As soon as the front door shut, you shouted for Norman. You heard footsteps pounding on the stairs as he came around the corner, a worried look in his eyes. “What happened!?” He asked, reaching your face and cupping it in his hands. 

“I was at the café and I saw the little girl and there was a guy in the alleyway and he almost-” You trembled with anxiety and worry of what just happened. The small child clung to your legs and Norman nearly jumped out of his skin when she tried pushing him away from you. 

“Back!” She yelled, moving in front of you and pointing for Norman to move back. He obliged. 

“(Y/N), what the hell!” He shouted, his eyes not leaving hers. 

“She thinks you’re going to hurt me.” You realized, kneeling down to her level and turning her to face you. “He’s good. Not going to hurt us.” 

“Us?!” Norman asked and you sent him a look that made him shut his mouth. 

The little girl looked at you and nodded, wrapping her arms around your neck and letting you hug her. “Momma.” Her word went straight to your heart and you gave Norman a look that he knew he couldn’t argue with. 

“He was trying to hurt her and then me when I stopped him. He pulled a knife but she killed him with it.” You watched as Norman ran a hand over his face trying to process all that was going on. 

“Did anyone see you?” He asked and you shook your head as the child began to play with your hair. 

“She’s been abandoned, Norman. She has no one.” You smiled at her as she giggled when you poked her cheeks. Norman let out a groan.

“Clean her up. I’ll make dinner and will go into town tomorrow to see if she’s on a missing child poster.” You nodded and carried the girl to the bathroom where you bathed her and brushed her hair from her golden brown eyes. Her strawberry blonde hair was soft to the touch after you brushed the knots out. 

You found some of your old clothes and managed to make a nightgown out of an old shirt. You put her hair in pigtails and went downstairs with her, her hand holding onto your leg the whole time. 

Norman saw her peeking out from behind you and kneeled carefully, looking at her. “Do you have a name?” He asked. The little girl shook her head. 

“Do you know how old you are?” He continued and she looked at her hands before putting up seven fingers. He smiled at her, “Good job.” The little girl smiled and moved towards him.

“Do you know where your parents went?” Norman asked and she paused. You braced yourself for anything that could go wrong. 

“Poppa dead. Momma left.”

“Where did she go?” You asked, the little girl looked at you with tears in her eyes. 

“Store.” Your heart hurt for this girl and you looked at Norman who you could tell felt the same. “This many years.” 

The moment she held up two fingers, you nearly cried. You scooped her up in your arms and let her cry into your chest. “We aren’t leaving her. We aren’t leaving you behind. We will never do that to you.” You told yourself, Norman and the child. That was a promise you made. 

Norman nodded, rubbing your back as he silently agreed, letting the little girl slowly get used to the idea that some men where good and wouldn’t hurt her. 

After a few minutes, you managed to get her to sit down and eat, to which she did without complaint. Norman watched as she scarfed her food down and had to tell her to slow down before she choked herself. 

“Play!” She said as soon as you were done eating. Norman placed the dishes in the sink and all of you went into the living room. An hour passed of Norman lifting her up and flying her around the room like an airplane, she finally fell asleep. 

You pulled a blanket over her sleeping form and you made a palette ready for you on the floor next to the bed she was in. “Just for tonight. Until she is certain we aren’t leaving her.” You told Norman as he watched you from the doorway. Nodding, he came over and hugged you.

“What a wild day.” You sighed and he chuckled, kissing you softly. 

“I love you. This is going to be good for us.” Norman said quietly, looking at the small girl who started to whine. 

“Momma.” She called, sitting up a bit, waking up. 

“Stay with us?” You asked Norman as you cooed her back to sleep and made yourself comfy on the floor next to her. Norman nodded, turning the light off and moved to the floor, laying next to you and the new child he would soon call his daughter. 

[gentlemen-of-lies]

Gentlemen of Lies, chapter 2

(Carvour)ting around London with a British bastard and some classified files.

(Next chapter) (Chapter 1)

————

Curt stayed up until late, studying the files he’d been given. He’d luckily escaped another power cut, and his bedside lamp stayed firmly on, flickering in desperation for a new bulb.

There were only four suspects to memorise, three men and a woman. There was little evidence against them; in fact the most damning evidence was against one of the men- Andrew Hayes- who spoke three languages: English, German and Russian. Two of those languages were very much unfavourable in this social climate, although very useful for being a spy of course.

By midnight, Curt was starting to fall asleep. He knew he had to study the files but God... they were so boring.

He soon decided he’d studied them enough; even if he didn’t know every piece of information, too late a night would do him no favours in the morning.

His watch beeped at five am the following day, and for once he didn’t sleep through it. ‘Okay, Mega,’ he thought to himself. ‘Time to get your act together. Show that Carvour bastard he’s not the only one who can do his job.’ Curt sat up in bed, the cogs in his head turning as he worked out a brief schedule. He had to get dressed first of all; whether Owen really was going to lend him some clothes, he didn’t know. But at the moment, he still only had his three day old outfit, which was hanging over the back of the chair, in an attempt at getting aired, despite the air in the room being as damp as the outside weather.

He needed a shower, that was essential. Just some running water to get himself clean and shave off the itchy stubble on his chin... he sighed. Was he really going to have to ask that woman down the hall? He supposed it was worth a shot. If worst came to worse, he’d just have to ask Bill for a solution, although the less he interacted with him the better.

He got himself dressed, shaking his clothes to try and rid them of creases. His hair was patted down and he chewed around three mints at once, crunching them into dust. He looked at himself in the cracked mirror.

‘Not bad, Mega.’ Hopefully in the short walk from his room to the woman’s he’d magically gain the skill of flirting, and win her over into letting him use her bathroom.

Amazingly, he did convince her, ten minutes after leaving his room. But only because his flirting was so desperate and pathetic sounding that she had no choice but to take pity.

“It’s surely a mark of how needy you are that I’m even letting a strange man into my room,” the woman said.

“Cut me some slack,” replied Curt, making a beeline for her bathroom and shutting the door behind him. “All I’ve heard since I’ve been here are remarks of how much of a mess I am,” he continued through the locked, wooden door. “Maybe if your country had better facilities.”

“Maybe if your country didn’t produce such weak men.”

“Huh. Feisty. I like that in a woman.” The woman didn’t reply, but Curt was hardly that invested in the conversation anyway. What mattered right now was finally- he had a shower. And holy, did it feel fantastic! If it was up to him, he’d spend all day in there. But he didn’t have time. It was edging on six now, and while it was still a good four hours until he had to meet Owen, he still had plenty to do. Besides, there was certainly no harm in getting there early, before Owen. In fact, he decided he was going to do just that. Make Owen the one running late. Who was incompetent now?

Curt accidentally nicked his chin a few times while shaving, but he brushed the droplets of blood away with his fingers and splashed his face with the rusty water from the tap. By the time he reopened the bathroom door, he was feeling like a new man.

The woman was still there, writing at her own table, which looked much less rotten that Curt’s.

“Thanks for letting me use your bathroom, Mrs...?”

“Miss. Miss Dorothy Lowe.”

“Well, Miss Lowe. I appreciate the hospitality.” Dorothy didn’t bother to respond, so Curt- as awkwardly as always whenever he had to try and act smooth around a woman- showed himself out. It was quarter to seven. All he had to do was grab the files and find the station. How hard could that be?

————

“It’s not far from here,” Owen had said. “Here’s a map,” Owen had said. The map was bullshit, it was in black and white and Curt could barely read it. The streets were as disorientating as always, and Curt was almost knocked down by a bus trying to cross the street at the same time as studying the stupid map.

He gave up, and decided to ask passers by.

“Go all the way up the street, turn left, right again and it’ll be there,” said the first person he came across, a man wearing a trench coat and sporting the biggest moustache Curt had ever seen.

“Thanks.” Curt followed the instructions given, but it soon became clear that moustache man had no clue what he was on about. And Curt had to ask two more people before he finally spotted the red and blue circle of the underground.

9:30. Had he really been wandering around London for an hour and a half? An hour if he discounted the sandwich he’d picked up from a local café, which he did. And either way, he was still early.

Beat that, Owen.

At ten o’clock on the dot, Owen showed up, once again wearing his brown cap pulled over his eyes. Typical, he wasn’t even late.

“Good morning, Mega,” he greeted. “I see you’ve shaved at least.”

“Shaved, showered and ready to go.” Was that line as bad as it had sounded? Owen ignored it altogether.

“I hope you didn’t arrive too early. Don’t want you hanging around looking suspicious.”

“Uh... no. No I arrived five minutes ago,” Curt lied. He was beginning to think that Owen could see right through him, and the feeling was unsettling to say the least. He barely even knew the man, and nor did he particularly like him.

“Good. We’ll get a move on then.” Owen crossed the street, Curt following closely behind. “You read the files then?”

“Yeah,” replied Curt. “And none of them seem much like suspects except the guy who speaks Russian.”

“Well if there was too much evidence against them they would have been fired by now.”

“Sure, but why them and not everyone else as well. Why were they singled out?”

“Favouritism? Who knows.” Curt didn’t know if he was going to get anywhere with this case.

“What am I even doing here?” Curt asked, finally voicing the question that had been on his mind ever since he’d arrived. “Can’t MI6 sort this out themselves? It’s just a mole, and I don’t know anyone who works there.”

“My best guess would be experience. How long have you been in the field?”

“Less than two years, and even then I mainly just sit at a desk reading through files.”

“Hm. Experience then. I got a lot of unnecessary cases myself. Was sent off to Belarus in my first year because of a suspected assignation plot.”

“That’s quite big.”

“Oh hardly, both the assassin and the assassinated were civilians, and it had nothing to do with the war either. Simple case of a murder charge and jail time. All I got out of it was an improvement on my Russian accent.”

“How long have you been in the field?”

“Going on four years now. Joined when I was twenty.

“So did I.”

“Then perhaps we have more in common than I thought.” Curt took that as a rare compliment. “Now then, I have a flat in Nevern Square. As you can tell by the name, there is a square in the middle. We can talk there. It’s usually empty at this time of day.”

“You sure it’s not too open?”

“It’s surrounded by a gate and only residents have the key. It’s private enough.”

So they made the short walk to Nevern Square, truly a square surrounded by tall, thin flats. The garden itself was fairly bare, much more so than the other gardens that Curt had walked past during his vague exploration of Earl’s Court when he first arrived, which wasn’t so much an exploration as a hunt for somewhere to sleep.

Owen took out a small key and opened one of the locked gates with it. The gate squeaked as it opened, the rusty iron bars dragging along the floor. Owen closed it behind him.

They went to sit on the nearest bench. Curt scanned the park. It really was empty, which wasn’t surprising. Even if everyone wasn’t at work, there was hardly anything to do in here. You could barely walk a dog since its parameter was so small.

“So out of all the suspects,” Owen began, launching back onto the case. “Did any of them stand out to you?”

“Yeah, actually. What about you?” Owen hesitated, an unfamiliar reaction of his.

“To be honest, no. I haven’t found any evidence worth checking out.” Curt raised his eyebrows in suppressed excitement. Did he finally know something that the great Owen Carvour didn’t? Owen paid no attention to his clear look of arrogance.

“I’m surprised,” said Curt, his voice almost gloating.

“Why, what did you find? You’re not going to mention the Russian-speaker again are you? Half the people in MI6 speak Russian. You can’t be a spy if you only know one language.”

“No not him. I’m talking about that other guy, light hair...” Curt took a second to recall the name. “John Lawson.” Something crossed Owen’s face for a split second, not long enough for Curt to properly catch.

“It’s not him,” replied Owen, with a strangely firm voice.

“Well, how do you know?”

“I just do.”

“But he has a history of working with explosives.”

“So? We’re looking for a Russian spy, not someone who blows things up.”

“No we’re looking for a bad guy, and that’s what bad guys do. Blow shit up.”

“Do you realise how childish you sound? Bad guys and good guys. This is the real world, Mega, not a comic book. It’s not Lawson. Move on.”

“Jeez, why are you getting so defensive?” Owen just rolled his eyes, and wouldn’t reply.

“I’ll take you to Bletchley Park. That’s where Andrew Hayes works. Languages aside, I never trusted him myself. Can’t put my finger on why, though. We can follow him, spy on him, and you...” he turned to Curt. “Can make friends with him.”

“Me?” Owen nodded.

“Of course, he doesn’t know who you are. Although I suggest using your real accent. Your British one could really use some work.”

“I thought I sounded alright.”

“You sound like someone mimicking a film star. Just tell him you have family here or something, no links whatsoever to any secret service. Get him to open up. Also...” Owen handed Curt a brown duffel bag that he’d been carrying around the entire time. “Change of clothes. You can give them back to me when you leave.” Curt assumed he meant leave the country, but he could never really tell with Owen. Nevertheless, he took the bag, with a stiff thank you, setting it down beside his feet.

“Wear them tomorrow when you’re trailing Hayes. You want him to think you’re a well-groomed, strapping American. Not a hard-done-by yank, lost in a foreign country.”

“Fine.” Curt ignored the thinly veiled insult, focused as he was on the case itself. He still suspected Lawson, but clearly he was getting nowhere on that lead with Owen around. But perhaps he didn’t need to.

Andrew Hayes wasn’t the only one who worked at Bletchley.

[volturialice]

Spork Haven chapter 25: gone with the fucking wind

welcome to spork haven, where I spork the EL James fic you’ve never heard of

previous chapter | next chapter | contents

previously on Spork Haven:

recently-dumped actor!edward Possibility’ed his way back to london! esme was there! there was a time skip and everything interesting happened offscreen! orphaned ex-hotel maid juilliard dropout zillionaire murder witness bella moved back to new orleans with jasper! emmett went through her garbage and came to london to tell edward that she’s (gasp) pregnant! edward’s hopping a flight across the atlantic to snatch his girl back from that luminous-hazel-eyed fucksmith jasper!

chapter 25 has one of the best opening sentences to date:

there are a mere 6 “fucks” in the first paragraph, in which Edward describes how he has stepped into “Gone with the Fucking Wind.” there are actually several more Gone with the Wind references in this chapter (at least, I assume that’s what’s being referenced; I’ve never actually seen or read it), enough to make it clear that erika sees plantation owner life as aspirational. because of course she does. fair warning that this chapter is absolutely steeped in “la di da, wasn’t the antebellum south grand” racism.

still standing outside Bella’s mansion, Edward is deeply unnerved by the flora of Louisiana. (us locals too, Edward. careful of that spanish moss, there are probably chiggers in there.) having run out of Gone With the Wind references, he’s forced to reference a different movie:

if you wanted to look at english oaks you could’ve stayed in england, asshat.

still standing outside (seriously, he’s out there for a full page) he hears Bella playing the cello in her mansion and thinks about how he can’t let her “slip through his fucking fingers.” then he rings the doorbell, “heart in his fucking mouth,” and...

Bella’s housekeeper answers. Edward is shocked that his old-money, plantation-owning girlfriend has servants. a few things to note about Bella’s housekeeper are 1) she’s Mrs. Cope, 2) she looks exactly like the middle-aged, blonde housekeeper from 50 sh@des (is that also Mrs. Cope?), and 3) that she talks in a comically rendered southern accent.

I honestly can’t believe we made it this far into the story without hearing the word “master” only for it to show up now, in this context. 🤢 oh well.

once inside, Edward makes a dozen more Gone With the Wind comparisons as he describes the furniture and architecture. pretty amusing how he and erika think it’s gay to drink champagne, but not to wax poetic about upholstery and Scarlett O’Hara’s crinoline.

at last, “Little Bella Swan” (spelled right for the very first time! gold star, erika!) appears. at first she’s “shy as fuck,” but then she admits she’s missed him and that’s Edward’s “fucking cue” to start making out with her, in a paragraph full of hot, sensual details like this:

I’m sorry, but did you just say she was...running her fingers...through your stubble? 

how long is this alleged “stubble?” did Edward grow the patchy, ginger equivalent of a full-on Gandalf beard and just forget to mention it to the audience?? HOW is she running her FINGERS through his STUBBLE?

...this is the sideburns kink all over again, isn’t it

anyway, they keep making out, blah blah, it’s getting hot and heavy, when

oh no! has the Dicksona been suffering from amnesia? how tragic! guys i’m starting a gofundme for the Dicksona please chip in if you can 💕

anyway, Bella drags Edward up to her bedroom, he describes in great detail the “dark wood” bed complete with “fuck-off gossamer mosquito net,” and then tells us he doesn’t notice his surroundings because he’s so horny for Bella.

....erika. just a little writing tip. you don’t get to describe Edward’s surroundings in minute, Antiques Roadshow detail and then tell us he doesn’t notice them. that’s not how storytelling works in the first fucking person.

anyway, Bella gives him a blowjob

“using her teeth”

and then they have sex. erika makes sure to tell us all about such pertinent details as bella’s

well at least one of them showers.

we’re also told about her steel nipples.

then Edward calls her “homely,” which I know can also mean “cozy and familiar,” but I can’t get past the meaning of “ugly.”

and of course, the scene wouldn’t be complete without Edward once again reminding us that Bella is his safe haven.

anyway. that’s all that’s notable about this particular humdrum sex scene.

still in bed, Edward asks Bella to marry him. before she can answer, they’re interrupted by “the fucking doorbell.”

y a w l 

that’s right, it’s Jasper! none other than the fucksmith himself. 

Edward reacts with the calm stability he’s renowned for

and demands that Bella answer his marriage proposal right that second. Bella tells him it’s complicated.

then she throws on some clothes and goes downstairs to see Jasper. Edward is appalled that she’s talking to “that fucksmith” while going commando.

and then. and then we get the GAYEST PASSAGE imaginable. fasten your seatbelts:

that’s right. Edward...wants Jasper...to see him half-naked with his fly undone.

safe haven is a story about unrequited Edward/Jasper and the tragedy of comp het actually

it doesn’t help that one of the next sentences is:

yeah, Edward. I bet you wish he was. bet you wish he was getting ALL up on them.

Edward—who has been explicitly told to leave Bella alone and let her talk to Jasper—shows up to half-nakedly interrupt their conversation and mark his territory. then he promises to go “back upstairs” and leaves the room, but hangs around to eavesdrop on the rest of their conversation because he’s a controlling piece of shit.

at first, Jasper tries to make a graceful exit, but when Bella gets tearful and starts pleading (girl why? you don’t like him), he snaps at her that she’s obviously made her bed and she can lie in it (I hear it’s dark wood and has fuck-off mosquito netting!)

and with that, the luminous-hazel-eyed fucksmith drops the mic and leaves.

Bella wanders back into her bedroom and tells Edward she wanted to let Jasper down easily, which. bad job there. she also apologizes in a way that makes it sound like she’s about to re-re-break up with him, and “the abyss opens its foul mouth” before him. it’s no Dicksona, but this abyss sure gets mentioned a lot.

but of course Bella isn’t breaking up with him—she’s just confessing that she’s pregnant! 

Edward tells her he already knows, and when she asks how, he says

but wait, erika, I thought mad meant crazy? my little american brain can’t comprehend this sentence! I shan’t ever be able to make sense of all these erudite britishisms. ‘tis all too advanced.

Edward tells Bella about Emmett’s dumpster diving and narcing, and she’s totally cool with it. she didn’t tell Edward she was pregnant because she was afraid he’d leave her.

but she...had already...left him. make it make sense, erika

Bella doesn’t understand why a “hot shot movie star” like Edward would ever want to be saddled with a filthy rich, mansion-owning cello prodigy like little old her. Edward interrupts by proposing to her yet again (for those of you keeping track, this is the third time,) only this time it’s Worse.

okay, first of all this is horrible for me personally because my parents got engaged in the middle of Siberia and the only available ring for sale was an earring, so. thank you, erika, for permanently ruining my family history.

second of all,

the absolute audacity of this man.

put yourself in SH!Bella’s shoes for a second and imagine your kazillionaire movie star boyfriend proposing to you with your own earring that he stole. 

like, obviously erika was trying for romantic spontaneity here, but a) it’s not spontaneous when it’s the third time this has happened, and b) he flew across the ocean with the explicit intention of winning Bella back. he couldn’t have stopped and purchased a ring at some point? he made everyone pull over at Tiffany’s on the way to the Oscars, for fuck’s sake.

the moral of the story is “no need to spend three months’ salary when your girl has severe self-esteem issues,” because of course “Isabella Swann” (yep, we’re back to Swann) says yes. Edward reassures her that he’s cool with the whole baby thing and wants lots of kids, and tells her (out loud!) that she is his safe haven. Bella asks him to “make love to her” again and they end the chapter in

ok then.

best “fucks”

“fuck off columns or colonnades or whatever the fuck they’re called”

“fucking Atlanta”

“fucking servants”

“the fucking doorway”

“another fucking century”

“fan-fucking-tastic”

“no more Mr. Fucking nice guy” (edward)

“fucking bastard” (edward)

“a fucking marathon”

next (and final) chapter: eternal fucking flame

[blitheringmcgonagall]

The New Sailing Master

Another day in lockdown so may as well post this here:

(A silly Wolfstar pirate AU in which all that happens as I told @malfoy is that Remus meets everyone and then they (Wolfstar) snog...)

“Good Lord, he’s damned cute.”

The voice is smooth, smooth and polished, and dangerous, and he sounds like a Lord.

“He’s half drowned.”

Another voice, nearly as posh, but mischievous and warm.

“Still thoroughly dashing,” the posh fellow states, with finality, as though he’s used to getting his own way, as though he’s the boss.

“Fuck off, twat,” the second bloke says carelessly, laughing, as though he thrives on annoying the first bloke. “I bet he thinks you’re an idiot.”

“Captains are never idiots, Prongs!” Poshest Bloke says in a scandalised voice. “By default, they are always intelligent, resourceful and sexy.”

A group of female voices cackle loudly, sounding like they are falling around the deck laughing.

“Ha ha, hilarious, Marlene,” he replies sarcastically. “Are you implying I’m lacking any of those qualities, you pest?”

He sounds like he’s smiling though.

“Nope!” a rich, confident drawl. “I’m implying you’re too easy to tease. It’s such fun, and we’re so bored!”

More merry laughter, and the sound of bottles clinking.

“Fuck you, Mc Kinnon!” the posh voice is definitely amused, and he can’t help being annoyed with himself for finding it so attractive.

He hates rich bastards.

“It’s nearly as much fun as teasing the Quartermaster.”

This voice sounds very close to him, it’s cheeky and her laughter is infectious. The accent is familiar, local, Jamaican perhaps?

He smiles.

“By Jove! He’s awake!”

He opens his eyes and blinks repeatedly. He’s staring up at a pair of startlingly beautiful grey eyes, the colour of sunlight glinting off calm seas, a rugged half-smile, a raised eyebrow, wet black hair cascading onto broad, tanned shoulders, though his skin will burn in the midday sun. It should be illegal to be so handsome.

“Fuck,” he rasps, attempting to sit and coughing up copious salt water.

Handsome Bloke clears his throat, looking concerned.

“There, there!” Cheeky Voice says behind him, giving him three hard slaps on the back. “That’s better!”

“Thanks,” he says croakily, turning around to look at her.

She has beautiful dark skin, high cheekbones, hair plaited in cornrows and dyed with henna, giving it a reddish tint. She has startlingly unusual eyes, almond shaped and a deep vibrant green colour. He can’t help staring into them.

“Evans,” she says casually, extending her calloused hand. “Lily Evans. Master Gunner.”

She wears a man’s white shirt with rolled up sleeves, fitted waist coat that shows off her curvy figure, and flared trousers. She has a long knife on her belt and a pistol strapped onto her hip.

“Lupin,” he says, his voice hoarse and thin, shaking her hand firmly. “Remus Lupin.”

“Lupin,” grey eyed Handsome Bloke repeats, licking his dry lips. “Welcome aboard the Blithering Idiot.”

“And you are?” Remus says stiffly.

This man is far too posh and dandy to be a nice fellow.

“Sirius Black, the Sirius Black, pirate lord extraordinaire?” he winks at Remus and plays easily with a knife, twirling it from hand to hand, attempting to impress. “I’m world famous apparently. Legendary Scourge of the British Navy and best-looking pirate to boot?”

Remus notices the elegant long fingers and veins tracing the back of his hands and forearms, the tattoos that encircle his upper arms and peek out under his sleeveless top.

“Never heard of you,” he lies, calmly folding his arms.

There isn’t a single soul from Kingston to London who has not heard about the fabled exploits of this famous pirate and his crew of outrageous marauders.

Sirius Black stares back at him, stunned into silence.

“Ha! Priceless! I like you already. James Potter, Quartermaster,” the second posh bloke jumps up grinning at Remus and hops onto the rigging, hanging off it carelessly. “Meet the rest of the crew!”

He waves his arm towards a blonde woman dressed entirely in black with a black hairband and gold hoop earrings.

“That’s Marlene Mc Kinnon, Master Rigger.”

She grins roguishly at him.

“Dorcas Meadows, Striker.”

Dorcas nods her head, her hair is also braided like Evans’, she is willowy and tall and looks imposing and stern until she sends him a friendly smile. He smiles back. She salutes him and rests her head on top of Mc Kinnon, who plants a besotted kiss on her lips.

“Mary Mac Donald, Master Cooper.”

Mary is petite, and has fair hair curled into sweet ringlets with rosy cheeks from too much sun, she wears a cap to screen her face.  She smiles politely as Remus scratches his head, trying to imagine how she ended up aboard this pirate ship. He notices two long daggers hanging from her waist, and makes a mental note not to make any assumptions about this motley crew.

“Peter Pettigrew, Master Cook.”

The blond-haired smaller man laughs aloud.

“More like only cook!” he says, rolling his small blue eyes good-naturedly.

“Trifling detail, my good Sir!” James Potter calls back, jumping off the rigging and somersaulting back onto the deck.

“Show-off!” says Lily Evans, rolling her eyes, as he lands right in front of her, ruffling his wild black hair.

James Potter’s hazel eye shines, he’s clearly smitten with her.

“You’re just jealous, Evans,” he quips, squeezing her shoulder fondly.

His eye patch is oddly attractive.

“You’re an idiot,” she sighs, but her eyes dance with longing as she stands on tiptoe and presses her lips softly against his.

James Potter presses her closer to him and returns the kiss.

“Oi! You forgot about me, lovebirds!”

“My deepest apologies, this is Benjy Fenwick, Master Carpenter and Occasional Surgeon, whenever the need arises.”

Remus winces at the idea and Benjy has the decency to shrug, his gold front tooth flashes in the sunlight.

“You’re lucky we rescued you, Lupin,” the Captain grumbles, adjusting the sails, he’s been glancing at Remus covertly during this entire time.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone near as gorgeous in his entire life. Remus Lupin is tall, taller than him, annoyingly. He’s slimmer, looks a bit underfed in fact, his eyes are a wonderful amber colour – liquid, enigmatic, soulful. His skin is a deep, golden brown colour and his soft, wavy hair a russet brown. His lips are full and the pirate desperately wants to kiss them. Lupin, with his capacity for calmness in the face of the most feared Pirate in all the Atlantic. He’s angry at himself for being so pathetic. Usually he has no time for such ridiculous tomfoolery, good looks be damned, wouldn’t lend his heart to anyone, for fear of losing it. Besides, he never learnt how to love, not properly. He’s scared to, damn it, terrified, in fact.

Sirius Black does not do love.

“That depends,” Remus shoots back.

He looks proud and dignified and as though he couldn’t give a toss what Sirius or his crew think.

“On what?” Sirius Black finds himself saying, surprisingly.

“On what you plan to do with me,” Lupin answers.

He doesn’t look scared, yet he must be, at least a little.

“That depends,” Sirius Black says, with a glint in his eyes.

“On what?” Remus Lupin replies.

“On how annoying you are, Lupin.”

The Captain of the Blithering Idiot is hard to read, and Remus has no idea whether he is threatening him or joking.

“I’ll wager you’re more annoying on a daily basis than I’ve ever been,” he says, staring Sirius Black straight in the eyes.

Evans and Mc Kinnon guffaw loudly as James Potter hands Lupin a bottle of rum, grinning wildly.

“Never a truer word spoken!” Mc Kinnon says, as Evans pats the Captain’s arm affectionately.

Sirius Black’s scowl deepens as he continues staring at Lupin. He’s equally attractive when he scowls, if not more so. Lupin seems undeterred, he raises his right brow, takes a long swig of the vicious tasting alcohol and winks at him. The pirate blinks in surprise. Lupin’s mouth slowly turns upwards into a warm smile.

“I can be pretty infuriating too,” he says, by way of an apology.

“You never thanked us for rescuing you,” Black says, looking decidedly flustered and still irritated.

“Thank you so much for rescuing me, Captain Black, I owe you my life,” Lupin says, gushingly, his smile growing too wide.

He’s teasing now, and the pirate has no idea how to respond.

“He jumped into the sea himself, which is unheard of, Sirius Black leaving his ship!” Meadows calls out as she polishes the ship’s compass.

“To what do I owe this honour?” Lupin asks Captain Black.

“Never you mind, Lupin,” mutters Black, swiping the bottle of cheap rum from Remus’ hand and gulping an inordinate amount.

Mc Kinnon doubles over in silent laughter and Sirius Black curses her, giving her a dig with his elbow.

“Ouch! You bastard!” Mc KInnon shouts, still chortling, as she hops onto the rigging to get away from her grumpy Captain. “Shall I tell our lovely Mr. Lupin why you rescued him, then?”

Her eyes are sparkling with amusement and Lily Evans’ face is lit with delight at her Captain’s discomfort.

“Fuck off, you renegade!” Sirius says hurriedly, and in one quick movement he lifts himself up beside Mc Kinnon with a warning glare.

 Continue reading The New Sailing Master ...

[mertronus]

Secret Mission

Chapter 3

Read it on AO3 or FFN

M for language and innuendos. (No graphic smut though. Not on this one... So maybe T? I'm still learning. Feel free to comment or message me what you think, I'm saying M to be safe 🤷🏾‍♀️)

----

Hermione lay back on the bed and smiled up at the ceiling, thinking back to those early weeks of the mission.  Merlin, her and Ron fought daily...several times a day if she was being honest.  He wasn't exactly an arse; on the contrary Hermione found him to be quite humble and he even seemed to question himself and his Captain's overall faith in him as a competent leader for the team.  But he contradicted and questioned everything she said.  When she tried to inform him and his team on normal Parisian culture, he teased her and cracked jokes in an insultingly awful French accent.  When she suggested locations where the gang of wizards they were to track down may frequent, he implied that a fair British-turned-French maiden such as herself couldn't possibly know where the rugged and dark population would frequent.  When she suggested reading material for Ron and the team, he used the books as a pillow for a kip.

He had horrendous table manners, talked with his mouth full, his language was appalling, his hair was too long and always unkempt, he brandished his wand with an utter lack of finesse, and he did it all with a silly slanted grin that made Hermione feel infuriatingly flustered.

There was no denying it; Hermione fancied Ron Weasley.

After a few days of staying in the Ministry's secret bunker, Ron's team was moved discreetly to Le Chateau Cache, "The Hidden Castle", in the south of France.  It was secured by the French Ministry's Unspeakables, and thus the only ones who knew about the castle, where it was located and who was being housed there were the two Unspeakables, the nine British Aurors, Hermione, and Head Auror Besson.  

It was a beautiful spacious home with room for the seven men and three women (Hermione and the two female British aurors "Dora" Tonks - who refused to give her full name and demanded to be simply called Tonks - and Padma Patil).  Tonks and Patil bunked together, so Hermione took a room to herself that she soon realized shared the small, cozy sitting room with the bedroom Auror Weasley claimed for himself.

It was on a quiet evening, three weeks since the start of the mission, that Hermione found herself in the sitting room reading by the fireplace, when Auror Weasley strolled into the sitting room from his bedroom.

"Granger, what are you still doing up?"

"Reading up to reacquaint myself with -" Hermione looked up as she spoke and her voice caught in her throat.  Weasley was fresh from the shower.  He had a towel wrapped low on his waist, gripped only by his large left hand at the hip, while he used his right hand to dry his hair with his wand.  His muscular shoulders and chest were glistening in the light from the fireplace and her eyes took a second to follow a thin line of ginger hair that trailed down from his belly button only to disappear behind the white towel.  He was stunning.  "uh...erm," Hermione cleared her throat and shook her head.  

"With Nice?" he offered.  The team was scouting locations in Nice where they thought some of the dark French Wizards may be hiding out.  Hermione nodded as she averted her eyes.  She tried to gather her thoughts and steady her breathing.  Merlin will he go and put some clothes on!  Weasley came over by her perch on a chaise and peered over her shoulder at the books.  "These are all in French," he scowled.

"Did you expect them to be in Russian?" she scoffed.  He rolled his eyes, giving Hermione a moment to glance over his chest once more.  He's standing so close.  Mon dieu...he smells delicious.  Delicious?  Pull yourself together Granger!

"Obviously not but maybe some English would be nice.  How are we," he motioned to himself and his team, "supposed to get anything from your ruddy books if they're all in French?"

"I think you're forgetting, Auror Weasley, that's what I'm for.  I'm your team's translator.  For French language, culture and geography."

"Well, yeah, but what about when you're not with us?"

"I'll always be with you," she sat up straighter and tensed.  She knew where this was going.

"The hell you will.  You're not going anywhere near these dark wizards we're rounding up.  Especially not if they're auror trained.  I have to look out for my team, I can't look out for you too!"

"I am highly capable of taking of myself Weasley, I will have you know.  I received top marks in my defense classes at Beauxbatons and have been trained specially by Monsieur Besson himself."  Hermione was standing now and her voice was raised and getting higher with each word.  Hermione noticed him cast a wordless spell on the room she could only assume was a silencing charm.  She squared her shoulders and stood to her full height, ready for tonight's row.

Unfortunately, Weasley's full height towered over hers.  And he used that to his advantage as he stepped closer and literally talked down to her.  "You think that good grades in sodding school classes or a week of 'specialized' so-called training is going to help you when one of those bastards pulls his wand on you?  Or worse?!  No, Granger.  You are to stay here, out of harm's way," he practically growled through his teeth.  "I will not be held responsible for a Ministry intern getting injured or...not on my watch."  He emphasized the word intern, Hermione noticed, as an attempt to belittle her.  She would not have that.

"I am a paid employee of the Ministry of Magical Affairs of France who happens to hold the respect and complete faith of the Minister himself as well as the Head Auror and the Head of the entire Magical Law Enforcement office!  They would not have sent me otherwise!"  Ron scoffed.  "Do you expect to keep me locked up here?  Like a-a little French damsel in distress locked away in your tower?"

"If I have to, yes!" he bellowed.  "You're not an auror, Granger!  You're not trained for combat and you will not go scouting with us!"

"And the nine of you are not trained on French culture and only two of your team know just the very basics of the language!  They admitted themselves they can ask for the loo, order food, and, as they so eloquently put it, 'catch a few French birds'!  You would give yourselves away immediately!"

"That's why you brief us before we leave!"

"Yes, I brief you before you leave."  Weasley nodded at her, satisfied.  But she wasn't done.  "Then I accompany you - as Head Auror Besson assigned me to do!" Her voice rose again at the last words to cut off his attempt to interrupt in protest.

Weasley got close to Hermione once again, clearly exasperated, but this time he bent low to her face.  "Fine.  You want to tag along and play little French auror with the big boys, be my guest.  But you're on your own.  You think you can protect yourself so well, go right ahead!"

"Fine."

"I-we won't protect you."

"I don't need protecting."

"If you get hurt-"

"I won't get hurt.

"Fine."

"Fine."

Silence.  Neither moved, their faces so close his long nose practically brushed against hers.  She glanced at his full lips then looked back up at his eyes only to realize they were on her own mouth.  

It happened in slow motion, but so quick she barely saw it coming all at the same time.  His lips were on hers and she gasped in surprise.  As if by instinct her eyes fluttered closed and her fingers found their way up his soft yet hard chest and shoulders to the back of his neck, sliding into his still damp hair.  His right hand pressed against her back pulling her into him, his left hand still had to keep his towel at his waist.  She swallowed his moan as she sighed against his mouth.  The tension of the past three weeks had built up so quickly, Hermione felt as if she would burst.

They kissed for what felt like hours, but was only a minute before they finally pulled away.  Hermione's chest rose and fell quickly at her stuttered breathing.  Ron Weasley just kissed me, she thought to herself as she stared into his blue eyes.  And now he's looking at me like he wants to devour me.  Merlin I'm in trouble.

As Hermione dozed off to the memory of her and Ron's first kiss, she didn't hear the hotel room door quietly open and shut as the tall redhead let himself in then leaned against the door watching her sleeping form in their bed.

----

Merlin, she's so beautiful. Ron leaned against the door and took a moment to stare at his sleeping wife.  Her long hair sprawled across both pillows in a mass of brown curls, her gorgeous little mouth slightly open as soft snores sounded through her lips (although she swears she does not snore), one hand tucked behind her ear, the other - her left - across her stomach.  Her ring glittered in the bit of moonlight seeping through the windows and Ron was reminded of his own ring.  He lifted his left hand and his wand in his right, tapped his third finger and wordlessly lifted the concealment charm from his matching wedding band.  

He sighed and wondered if he should hope she would stay asleep when he crawled into bed.  Being away from her all day meant he really wanted her to wake up.  He wanted to talk to her, hear about her day, then treat his wife of just two weeks to a proper rogering.  But, he knew that this meant telling her about his day...

And telling her that he did not, in fact, tell his mum or family about her yet.  

Somehow Ron had the feeling this would lead to a lonely shower instead of bedding his wife, something he'd rather avoid if you asked him.

He sighed resolutely as he removed his trainers, socks, trousers and shirt, littering the floor as he made his way to the bed - she would fuss at him in the morning no doubt - and crawled onto the squeaky mattress in nothing but his pants.  As she stirred to the motion in the bed, Ron took a deep breath.  Here we go.

He moved in and put his arm over her as her eyes fluttered open.  "Ron?"

"Were you expecting your other husband?" he teased as his lips brushed against her temple, her nose, her lips.  She hummed in response, her arms snaking around his neck.

Suddenly she pulled back, clearly wide awake now. "You're very late," she said with a scowl.

"I know, Love, I'm so sorry.  My dad walked me out to leave two hours ago," she raised her eyebrow at him, "but then at the last minute just had to pull me into his work shed to show me a new toy he was tinkering with.  That led to an onslaught of him showing me all his newest muggle toys.  I couldn't get away to come back to you fast enough."  He moved in to kiss her again, hoping he could distract her.  Perhaps get some action before the row.  Although, our make-up sex is quite explosive too.

"Ron," she murmured against his lips.  "Ron," she said his name again and more firmly as she pulled back.  Shit... "Did you tell your family?  Did you talk to them?"

Ron sighed and sat up to lean back against the headboard.  Hermione followed suit.  "I couldn't Mione.  There was just so much going on today with my return."  Hermione tsk'd her disapproval.  "I know!  I'm sorry!  I'm so sorry.  But you don't understand, I can't just blurt it out to them.  This is huge, my mum especially will likely be devastated she didn't see her youngest son married off.  I really want to tell her first, and have her come meet you alone.  Give her time to adjust and accept before the others find out."

Hermione watched him deep in thought, then actually nodded in understanding.  "I think I get that.  From what you've told me about your mum, she keeps you all close.  You're right, this will be a big deal for her."  She paused.  "So, you'll tell your mum privately, bring us together to meet, then tell the rest of the family?" Ron winced and Hermione bristled.  "What?" she groaned.

"Well...what I didn't realize...there's also the added issue of Harry."

"Your best friend?"

"Yes.  And Ginny, my sister...his fiancee."

"Yes, I remember."

"Well...Step one is to tell my mom alone.  But I think I need to add a step two - tell Harry and Ginny alone.  I have to break it to them gently."  He looked at Hermione's puzzled face and turned to face her.  "Mione, Harry proposed to her a year and a half ago.  They waited all this time, refusing to get married until I returned.  He said he couldn't get married without me by his side."  Ron looked at her pointedly until realization passed over her face.

"And yet you took the step without him at your side," she breathed out understanding the dilemma.  "You're worried how he'll feel about that."  Ron nodded sadly.  "Do you think he'll be angry?"

"No...not necessarily?  Gin might.  She's a bit of a hot head."

"Wonder where she gets that from," Hermione mumbled.  

Ron pushed her shoulder gently and scoffed.  "Anyway, I know for sure Gin will feel put out.  But it's harder to say with Harry.  He'll be thrilled, not doubt, but he may act thrilled and try to hide his disappointment in me.  Especially if he finds out with the whole lot.  At least, if I can sit with him alone or just us and Gin, he'll be more honest about if he's hacked off about it or not and I can hopefully take a moment to smooth things over with him."

"Well...okay.  Step one, you tell your mum, tomorrow, so she can be the first to know and meet me.  Step two, you break the news gently to Harry and Ginny, so you can talk to them about your decision and make sure they don't feel left out from this major moment in your life.  Then...am I okay to assume that step three will be the remainder of the family?  Or is their an owl who needs to hear about us first?"  Ron took her joke and chuckle as a really good sign.

"Well, yeah actually... Pig may feel a bit put out as well."

Hermione guffawed.  "Ronald...your owl's name is...Pig?  Really?"

Ron laughed.  "Pigwidgeon actually."  Hermione looked at him deeply puzzled by the name.  "I know!  Ruddy ridiculous name!  Ginny named him after Sirius, Harry's godfather I told you about, gave him to me.  Before I could consider an actual, proper name for him, that was all he would answer to!  Silly little owl he is.  So, I call him Pig for short."

By the end of his story Hermione was laughing.  Ron joined in then tucked a curl behind her ear as their laughter subsided.  "Merlin I love your laugh," he said quietly.

"Well it's a good thing you're relatively funny then," she said.  She gave him 'the' smile as she sank back down to the pillows.  Ron was so overjoyed that she was not upset with him that he almost missed it.  He caught on as her fingers began to play with the ginger hairs that made a trail down into his pants and the bulge immediately began to grow.

"Why, Mrs. Weasley," he cooed softly as he rolled himself to hover over her, "I thought you were tired.  You were already asleep when I came back."  He ran his index finger softly over her eyebrow and down her cheek to trail along her jaw.

"Oh no, that was just a power nap Auror Weasley.  You see," she tucked her chin and looked up at Ron through her lashes, "I have a special mission tonight."

"You do, do you?"  She nodded with an almost inaudible 'mm-hmm'.  Ron chuckled.  She is going to be the death of me.  "And what might that mission be?"

"Well," she lifted her leg to wrap around his muscular thigh, "I've only ever been bedded in France.  I am quite looking forward to adding England to my list of countries where - umph!"  Ron interrupted her with a deep, passionate kiss.

[bibliothesoph]

hi! i've got a firstprince prompt i thought you might like to write about! alex being assigned to present about the current monarchies for his class in law school because his professor is a lowkey shipper 😄❤️

Law School 101

Law school might be hell sometimes, but at least Henry’s always waiting for him after a long day with a glass of whiskey and a smile on his face. Most of the time, Alex just wants a cuddle when he gets back, especially when it’s one of the days where he has his Trusts and Estates class. It’s a stupid class, really, and not something he’s actually interested in. His so-called ‘academic advisor’ told him to take it, though. She said it would help prepare him for the bar. So he’s taking it. And he hates every minute of it. And his professor, some girl who he’s pretty sure isn’t really qualified to be teaching the class or, at the very least, should be given some classes on professionalism, gawks at him the entire time like he’s some sort of thing here for her entertainment. He gets a lot of different treatment, but the looks he gets from her are by far the most unsettling. He swears that she’s writing fan fiction about him while he’s taking tests.

One day, a particularly boring and long day, she asks him to hang back after class. Everyone else has been given topics for presentations they’re supposed to do next week, but not Alex. With his bag slung over one shoulder, he goes up to her desk and waits for the rest of his classmates to leave so they can speak about whatever this is about privately.

“You probably noticed I didn’t give you an assignment, Mr. Claremont-Diaz,” the teacher starts, shuffling some papers around on her messy desk.

Alex nods. “Yeah, I did.”

She smiles up at him. Up close, she doesn’t look as creepy as he first pegged her to be. A little bit of a daydreamer, maybe, but normal-looking. “I was hoping you could, using your unique position and connections, put together a presentation on the British Monarchy.”

He blinks at her, perturbed. “What about it?”

“Hm?”

“What about the British Monarchy? I mean, this is Trusts and Estates so––”

“Oh, right. Of course. A presentation about trusts and estates, then.”

He refrains from rolling his eyes, trying to keep himself as level-headed as possible. “Specifically with the monarchy?”

“Sure. It might help to have some sort of, uh, visual aid.”

He folds his arms across his chest. He can’t help but note the mug there in the sea of her papers. It’s yellow and, in neat, cursive script, reads “History, Huh?” in black letters. “Yeah, like a Prezi or a Powerpoint or something, right?”

He’s just fucking with her now, but it’s pretty fun. She seems a little stumped by it, given her confused expression. “I mean––well, you know the Royal Family well, don’t you?”

Cocking his head to the side, he raises an eyebrow. “So, basically, you want me to bring a member of the Royal Family in here to show off to the class.”

She frowns. “No, of course not. I’d like a thoughtful presentation. And, if it happened to include some sort of Q&A section after with, say, a member of the Royal Family, I think that’d give your classmates something to get excited about, don’t you?”

He plasters on a fake smile and nods. “Yeah, sure. I’ll work on it.”

As soon as he gets home, he collapses into Henry’s waiting arms. Henry catches him, of course, and guides him over to the sofa, depositing him on the cushions before joining him there himself. When Henry’s sitting down next to him, Alex wraps his body around him like a touch-starved koala, wanting nothing more than to just stay here forever instead of dealing with this fucking professor that’s driving him insane.

“What’s wrong, love? Bad day?” Henry asks, his fingers combing through Alex’s curls.

Alex looks up at him and shakes his head. “No. I mean, kind of? Weird, mostly.”

Henry hums and plants a kiss into Alex’s curls. “Would you like to talk about it? Or shall I just go get some whiskey and put on Bake-Off?”

“If you leave me,” Alex warns, “I’ll kill you.”

Henry laughs and wraps his arms around Alex, holding him tightly in his embrace and resting his chin on top of Alex’s head. “If you kill me, you’ll have no one to cuddle.”

“Pretty sure my professor wouldn’t mind taking up that position,” Alex murmurs.

The words make Henry’s entire body tense. He pulls away with a frown on his face and his eyebrows knitted together, suddenly very serious. “Alex, did your professor––”

“No,” Alex assures him, taking Henry’s jaw in his hands. “Sweetheart, I didn’t mean it like that. I just––she’s a fan, apparently.”

Henry still looks nervous. “A fan of what, exactly?”

Alex shrugs. “I dunno. You and me, I think. Firstprince or whatever it’s called.”

Henry chuckles and the light comes back into his eyes. He kisses Alex’s nose. “That’s hardly reason to be annoyed, love. Wouldn’t you rather her be a ‘fan’ than hate us?”

“I guess? But she’s making us do these presentations and, of course, she’s making me do one about the British Monarchy.”

“Why does that upset you?” Henry asks, rubbing calming circles onto his back. “Surely this presentation will be easy for you, yes? Since you can just ask me?”

“She wants me to bring a member of the Royal Family in to do questions or some shit. It’s not like anything I present will even matter.”

Henry is silent for a moment, still rubbing circles onto Alex’s back while he thinks. “You know I don’t mind––”

“You’re not going in, okay? I want to get an A because the material is good, not because you’re there and wooing everyone with your nice ass and pretty face and sexy accent.”

Henry rolls his eyes. “I won’t be doing any ‘wooing,’ that much is certain,” he assures him. “And I’d also like to assure you that all three of those are specifically for you. Especially the first one.”

Alex grins and kisses him because he fucking can.

When the presentation rolls around, Alex is nervous. After some discussion with Henry, he decided to cave and bring in a member of the Royal Family to please his teacher and ensure his A. When she calls him up, he goes up to the front of the class and hooks up his computer to the projector so they can see his slides.

As soon as the title comes up, there’s some laughter from the back of the room.

“Hi, I’m Alex. Today I’ll be talking about the British Monarchy as it relates to trusts and estates, specifically about heirs and laws concerning that. But, before I begin, I’d like to introduce a special guest.”

Everyone goes silent, clearly excited to see the guest. Alex shoots a nod over to Cash, who’s sitting in the corner of the room, telling him to go bring the guest from the hall.

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” Alex begins, “I didn’t like him at first. I thought he had a boring name and was just some sort of snobbish and privileged bastard, but after getting to know him, I can wholeheartedly say that I’m so glad to have him in my life. He’s different from the rest of the Royal Family as you probably know by now, but he’s very special to me. Plus, you know, it doesn’t hurt that he’s an amazing cuddler.”

The class chuckles as Cash comes in with the guest.

“So, without further ado, I’d like to present His Royal Highness,” Alex says, gesturing to the aisle where Cash is escorting the guest in, “David Fox Mountchristen-Windsor.”

Needless to say, he got a very annoyed look from his professor after that but, since he had put in the work, he got an A on the presentation. And a note from the professor saying that, while it was a creative way to incorporate a member of the Royal Family, unless David is a service dog, he was not actually allowed inside the building.

[ivebeenmade]

Not The Vampire Chronicles

(major reboot on an old love, work in progress of course but here’s the face claims and a little fic)

Lestat:

Louis: 

The monster has been listening for months. The man on the radio is all the more interesting as his mood becomes more and more obviously the signal to the end of his human life. But he can’t have that. As a generosity, a courtesy, he plans to allow the radio DJ to take his own life, to end his human life. 

It’s a favor. If he’s being honest with himself- something he tries very hard never to do- he’s never been this nervous. Not in all the years he was alive (longer than he claims but not all that long), and definitely not in the century or so (always exaggerated in the company of the undead) he’s been a vampire.

He’s only done it a few times, and almost every time either went wrong or the one he chose did, somehow. They often left him, for all the love he gave them.

Lestat believes that this one will be different. That they need each other. Each night, as he listens to him for several hours; the irony of the subject of his desire working a ‘graveyard shift’ isn’t lost on him. Those around him, who’ve been dead longer, would say he’d always just been there for the aesthetic. He’d fix his hair in the mirrors they could now catch their reflections in, and he’d laugh agreeably. He was the most beautiful monster you’d ever meet.

The DJ would be even more beautiful.

*

He’d had his gig since he left his home and family behind. It was for the best, he’d told himself, as they already expressed their disapproval that he wouldn’t make more of himself with the chances they’d given him.

It was all a thinly veiled excuse to ignore, to pretend that they never would have approved of any life he chose to live. Not unless he wanted to live it lonely.

Louis became a self fulfilling prophecy in LA anyway. He never could keep a relationship down, or really stomach most people anyway. Even on his late night show (a damn good gig that payed well enough to live in the expensive city) he’d gone off the rails on people when they called in. Losing his temper, for the DJ, boiled down to an even toned scathing retort that made him both all that much more popular and hated by ‘a certain type’.

A first generation American with a simple dream hadn’t met to be some kind of viral sensation. Too much attention for him. Between the music, the praise and critiques of bands’ latest albums, this gig had somehow become a big fucking deal.

It’s the night it gets personal- or maybe he was just feeling lonely that night and some random asshole asks the wrong question- that his mind gets made up.

Louis has been taking shots all night. Not abnormal for him, and it’s probably his natural tolerance for alcohol that’s kept his boss from getting the word that he’s not-quite-three-sheets-to-the-wind when he hosts the show (if they minded at all) that’s kept him from losing the only thing in this life that’s keeping him going. 

To be fair, and to take responsibility for himself, it’s not just one call that sends him over the edge. But it is. Some silly comment about the music he’s been playing, the ‘type’ it’s for, the ‘type’ some members of the band are, and he lets loose, rages, and signs off early. 

The message he leaves his fans with isn’t cryptic at all, telling them he’ll leave them with some good tunes but he couldn’t possibly promise what his replacement would do to them. For that he was sorry, “but fuck this, I’m out.” 

There’s no one to leave a note for, no one to apologise to. Except maybe himself but he’s never been good at that. He’s learned not to be too proud of anything, accept any praise for anything. There’s always a catch.

Swigging from the bottle now, when he reaches for the key he shouldn’t have to the roof of the station, he feels the wind and the end of the night surround him. There’s no more anger, frustration, he doesn’t hate his life at this moment. He doesn’t like it much either though. 

Right in front of him, there’s so much possibility, and right below him too. There’s his car, around the corner the janitor will just be getting in. He shouldn’t even hear this from where he starts his shift. No telling how long it’ll take to find him, but yet again he’s making it easy on everyone else. 

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t close his eyes. Louis isn’t sure he’ll die instantly, not everyone is that lucky he’s read, but he’s pretty sure this is the easiest way. His body certainly won’t be any trouble.

*

The monster Lestat knows that tonight is tonight. Hell, if every fan of the program doesn’t, they’re fools. Humans have a knack for that, though. 

He’d expected to have to follow Louis home, that he’d use some other method. But he’s just in time to see with his preternaturally honed sight, the DJ taking one final swig and, not jumping or falling, but just- letting go in a grand gesture. 

The body hits the car, so gracefully posed and if he’s already dead (even close to it) he looks so beautiful and alive. To give him the gift he remembers he must drain his blood; he can already smell the trickle of it, and knows that underneath this beautiful suicide the body is messy. His cold fingers find a fading pulse, and with a thrill he realises he’ll have to help him along before he gives him his own blood. 

Louis’ eyes are closed, and Lestat reaches out with his mind. He’s not conscious, not feeling this. And from the taste of him he was heavily intoxicated. Even after he cuts his own wrist (with a small knife Louis keeps hidden inside his coat- ah the poetry) it takes everything in him to wait the time it’ll take for the injuries from the fall to knit themselves back together. It’s then that there’s a groan from Louis. It pains the monster to hear it.

“What would the others think of this, eh,” Lestat mutters to himself. “I don’t mind, you’re worth it Louis.” He kneels next to the body, listening and waiting, in a dark suit with a subtle expensive brocade you wouldn’t see in this light. It’s the least flashy of his suits, something you have to be close to notice how expensive it is. The DJ, in turn, wears a simple pair of worn dark jeans and a bomber jacket. His modern hairstyle shaved close to the sides, the black curls slicked down on the top of his head dyed deep blue and purple here and there. Interesting, decorative, a lot of effort to put in if you’re suicidal.

Somewhere deep and dark and barely alive Louis hears a gentlemanly british accent; he’ll remember this as a fever dream later on even after Lestat fills in the details. Something about it is good, comforting; all said and done not familiar to him. He’ll remember death hugging him, and being ripped from it. When he comes out of it, he’s going to ask this bastard what the hell was so important about him to save his life. It had never mattered to anyone else. 

*

[lacklustergalaxies]

Whumptober 2019 Day 16: Pinned down

So, uh, kinda went a little overboard with today’s prompt. Sat down with the Outbreak soundtrack in my ear and wrote this in one shot. Yay :) So, set in the outbreak world (when’s quarantine coming out anyways?) here’s a wounded Jäger for day 16 of @whumptober2019. (~1000 words, continued after the cut)

Warnings: Thoughts of suicide, being hunted, zombie virus?, isolation, wounds, pinned down.

When Jäger crashed landed in the middle of the Truth and Consequences, he didn’t expect to survive the impact. But it was just his luck that he was alive with a couple wounds that formed a blood trail that could lead those… things to him as he tried to run away from any sort of danger. What a lucky bastard he was… Death might’ve actually been better in this scenario.

He was alive though, and that meant that he couldn’t die now. His teammates were looking for him, and even though it wasn’t much, he technically had a full mag on his pistol ready to go. He trained for headshots in practice, this was just an extension. So, if he could just rely on his training and run away, get out in time with just these wounds, he could make it.

There was a clicking sound to his right that then faded into a murmuring… like a human. Fortunately, Jäger knew better. Doc made sure to give them all a thorough run-down of these creatures, and that meant how to avoid the threat. If he could just stay quiet, not draw any attention to himself, he could maybe find and meet his teammates halfway and shorten up his tense wait.

Being the lucky bastard he was… of course he stepped on some broken pieces of glass than crunched beneath his feet. The murmuring stopped, and the clicking came back. That was bad. He readjusted his grip on his gun, ready for a fight. Now, in this alley, there was only one entrance, so he just had to train his sights on that one spot… there was a quiet rumbling, and he steadied himself.

The screeching popped up behind him and he fell on his back, shooting at the rooter’s body, though he only managed to hit it once before it disappeared back into the earth again with an echoing screech. Again, and again, they formed a pattern. He would run in one direction, trying to get to his teammates, the rooter would pop up in front of him, and then he would unload some bullets, most harmlessly pinging off the black scarred tissue that seemed to act as armour, and it would disappear again. It seemed to back off on attacking him though, which was good. That was good.

After what must’ve been the fifth time it scared him he was ready to give up, ready to allow the claws to pierce his skin. He was near the end of his stamina, and that thing seemed to just be playing with its prey.

“Aasgeier,” he spat out. This was his last mag, and after that… who knew what would happen?

He leaned on a vehicle and looked at the remains of his helicopter. How much farther was his team?

And then he saw it… He had moved, what, maybe a hundred meters down that road, being chased by the monster thing all the way? But his tracker said that he hadn’t moved at all… which meant that he was going to be lost and in enemy territory because his stupid GPS tracker was broken…

The screeching started again, and he had to make a choice. Keep going or go back and maybe hope that his team would reach him before anything else.

And he had to go back.

He took a step forward and felt the ground tremble just the slightest. Humans were conditioned to find patters, so he could to, he reasoned. The panic that rose tasted more like vomit, and at that point, it could’ve been either.

The sound seemed to surround him on all sides as he ran for his helicopter. He just hoped, that he could make it in time and—

“Scheiße!” he took a step back and fired a few more shots, counting each one. These were his last ones.

Five.

Four. Three.

Two.

The monster popped up behind him and he fired again.

One.

This thing… either he was missing more shots than he was accustomed to, or there was more than one, or… or…

There was one left. And if an entire mag wasn’t enough to get him to safety, one could guarantee that he wouldn’t change into one of those at least.

But like it could read his mind, it leapt on him as he brought the gun up to his jaw and tried to pull the trigger. Instead of ending it painlessly, Jäger could only reach out for his gun as it clattered away from him.

All at once, the air was driven out of his lungs and a fire ripped down his leg and then through the rest of his body.

Fire… It surrounded him, but he didn’t think it would feel like this for him. As he reached one arm for a flare, one of the hooks stabbed his sleeve, pinning that arm to the ground. His knife. He shot his other arm to it, and just managed to pull it out and grace the skin around the things face – if you could still say it had a face – before it too, got pinned down to the ground. Now, he was face to face with this thing as it bared its teeth and screeched in his face.

Although he was always trained to keep his cool, to keep calm and think of a way out, the only thing that clearly stood out to him was his heart beat, and how it was going so fast, he couldn’t even feel the pauses in between. And as it went up, his breath matched it, breathing out whatever life he was holding onto. The last thing he saw was teeth.

Before the gunshots rang down the street and embedded themselves into the thing’s side, drawing it’s attention away from the now wounded Jäger. There were a few more shouts and bullets before he felt hands putting pressure on the new wound on his leg.

“Oh no you don’t.” A rough British accent growled. “You still owe me twenty quid.”

He opened his eyes to see smoke’s mask as the SAS op was patching him up. “Here’s my pistol, we’re not gonna be out yet. Some bastards followed us to you, and evac isn’t here yet—He’s stabilized,” he yelled out to his teammates. As Jäger felt his head go numb from the sudden change in his emotions, he saw two other run up towards him. But he was as safe as he could be in that moment. Just needed to hold on for a little longer…

[fightevilandthengetblownup]

OT3FIC: Sheepdog

18 -  gift approach creepy cap catch repulsive glasses plan  

---

If Jack Crawford rolled up the drive in the big black car of his, he would think it was his biggest birthday ever and that Will had found him the very best present - all gift-wrapped in a shiny, black Impala bow. Three of the high level ‘criminals’ that constantly circulated the agency were sat around his kitchen table playing some card game that was half Go Fish, half Uno and used Monopoly real estate cards instead. He’d sat down to play earlier and excused himself with a head ache within ten minutes to go to the front lounge with a sigh instead.

“They still playing whatever game that is?” “Yeah. I... What even are the rules of that game? How do they all know it?” “I’m not sure, you’d have to ask Jo.” “Did they play it together as kids?”

“So far as I know, they only met as adults actually.” Grey replied, shifting in his spot on the couch to raise his arm around the top of Will’s shoulders as Will sank down beside him and leaned into the open space. As he rested his head back against the other’s shoulder, the empath could almost immediately feel the headache fading away.

“What? I thought-” Will mumbled the words out, before reaching a hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Aren’t they related, somehow?”

“Well, family for Jo isn’t exactly blood-related.” “Oh?” “You’ve met Bobby, right? He’s like a dad for her but he’s not her dad-dad. Same as Sam and Dean, they’re like her brother’s but they aren’t actually related to her in any way.”

Will nodded a little bit, sinking into the nook of the other’s side with a quiet sigh. “I just thought they must have been related somewhere along the line.” He frowned a little, tugging his glasses off to rub more thoroughly at his nose. “Or at least grew up around one another.”

“I think they just learned the game through Bobby, he was in all their lives early on.” Grey replied, shifting a little and then moving his hands towards the his head, and Will let out a quiet groan as the shadow began massaging gently through his curls. “They...they aren’t so bad as their first impression might give off.”

“You mean Dean isn’t a jerk who makes comments to Jo about two guys on the go at once?” “...He said what?” “Don’t worry about it, Jo already punched him for it.” “Oh good. But yeah, Dean might be a bit-” “Of an asshole-” “Yes. But he’s not so bad. He is very... protective of Jo.”

“Jealous bastard.” Will muttered under his breath, leaning his head back into the other’s skilled hands with another sigh as the tension he could feel building at the back of his head disappearing with each rub of the other’s fingers over the area gently. The moment Will had shook the other’s hand, the hunter had crushed his palm, flexing the strength more than was necessary for such a hold, and that the very next thing had been for the hunter to let go and spin about to talk to the blonde and completely ignore his existence had been odd. On top of that, had been how blank a slate the hunter had felt like in that small handshake - almost as silent as the shadow brushing his hand through Will’s hair, and Will had had to fight down a shudder from how silent it had felt. Only a few humans had felt like that in Will’s passing, and usually those were the kind that he ended up with his gun held out towards them.

The empath sighed again, reclining further into the warm embrace and touch, feeling the twitch in his forehead of the oncoming headache before adding, “Sam seemed okay - nice enough, it’s just... He’s so loud.”

“What?” “He’s loud, so very very loud.” “I..didn’t hear any voices raised?”

“Not that kind of loud, ma douceur. He just fills the air with his self.” The empath muttered, snuggling in closer as the last of his headache faded away and he turned under the other’s arm with a tiny frown. It had been almost so strange that the first handshake with the taller hunter had been just as silent and quiet as his brother, all calm and quiet and soft, and Will had almost thought it was just a family trait or his never having met the men. That was until Will had sat beside the hunter for the one and only round of their strange card game that they all began, when within two minutes he’d felt the headache starting from just how loud the feelings of happiness, excitement and joy as well as an undercurrent of pain that poured out of the tall man as he held an almost blank look towards the table or the smallest of smiles so different to the rush of emotions that Will could feel coming out of him. “Sam just bleeds all over the place.”

Grey looked confused for a moment, and Will tipped his head back to look at the other as he kicked his feet up on the other end of the couch to watch the confusion and then comprehension cross the blue eyed man’s face. “He does?” The other sounded surprised, an eyebrow raising curiously, “I always found Dean to be the loud one.”

“And you always say Jo’s quiet-” “I mean, not always.”

Will found himself laughing at that, shaking his head as he paused to hear the sound of laughter bouncing from down the hall in the kitchen, a tiny frown forming as he heard Jo’s high and light in a way he rarely heard until she’d been home for over a day from a hunt - and yet she was already within an hour of getting home. A tiny flicker stabbed at his stomach thinking it over until her felt two fingers probing and smoothing over his forehead and eyebrows.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grey said quietly, continuing to smooth gently over the other’s forehead, and then pressing a kiss to the space after a moment. “They’re just.. it’s a world no matter how much we try, we’re not going to understand or fit in.”

“But-” “It’s out of our grasp, Will. They grew up in their little secret world, and they’ll keep living in it even if they do other things with other people.”

---

The man was completely blank. Blanker than blank - Will was used to blanks after being around the shadow and his psychiatrist, but this man read as completely nothing at Will’s approach. Absolutely nothing came off of him, and if the man hadn’t been walking and talking, Will would have thought him dead.

Will had held a hand out to shake, the manners his mother taught him still there  - the little voice that sounded like her that said they might not have much money and the roof over their head could be taken from them, but no one could take away their manners -  despite the years and years of issues and problems and anxiety that such touching had caused in his childhood, and felt a shudder run down his spine when the shorter British man had rebuffed the greeting with a sneer.

There had been something inherently repulsive to Will as he watched the man talk - the way he’d twitch his hand out as if to reach towards the shadow, the looks of disdain that were sent his own way whenever Grey’s attention would be pulled away from the suited man, and the way the moment Jo’s blue car pulled along the drive way the man was gone - as if Will had been privy to only a tenth of what was going on, and the way Grey’s shoulders had slumped on occasion at some veiled word or phrase or other had set Will’s teeth on edge. If he’d been any more like Jo and less non-confrontational, he would have found himself shooing the man off of their front porch the moment Grey’s arm had jerked downwards as if in pain away from the man at one point.

He’d not brought it up with the shadow afterwards, the way the other man had scurried inside rather than wait outside to greet the blonde and help with the grocery bags full from the trunk was signal enough that whatever it was Will had walked up the drive with the dogs from their walk to was something unusual and uncomfortable for the man.

It wasn’t for a few more days that Will managed to ask quietly if Jo had any clue as to who the man was and what may have affected the other so much that Will knew just why he had felt the way he had.

“You’re sure he was British? Had an accent and everything?” “Yes. Was wearing some black suit and shirt, and kept trying to touch Grey.” “He didn’t manage to get inside did he?” “No? He just, uh, they were just talking on the porch when I got home.”

“Well good, I didn’t want to have to get the smell of sulfur out of here on his account.” Jo had hissed the words out, her hands clenching in a tight way that Will only saw when talking about Hannibal Lecter or Jack Crawford, before she sneered with a look almost similar to the same as the British man had had himself. “If he’s ever ‘round again, can you tell him to shove an iron rod up his arse until it disappears.” Jo’s voice took on a mocking of the man’s own accent briefly, horrible and hilarious sounding, but Will couldn’t find it in himself to laugh at it.

“Of course, ma deesse, but who was he?” Will reached a hand out gently to placate her, and pulled back entirely at the sheer swarm of cold fury that was thrumming through her, what had felt like a general buzz of annoyance before was translating as pure hatred the moment he had touched her skin. “Jo-”

“That was fuckin’ Crowley.” “...That was Crowley?!” “Yeah, the fuckin’ piece of trash disgustin’ foul motherfuckin’-”

“Jo!” Will said again, reached out again now he was prepared for the feeling of hatred and repulsion that would rush through him the moment he touched her, shaking her should a little before the blonde silenced herself with a scowl. “I’ll tell you immediately the next time I spot him.”

The cold rage continued to run through the other, and Will almost felt sick from how much was filled and hidden under the soft smile and gentle ‘thank you’ he received from the blonde - her face nothing but genial and kind compared to the rolling fury underneath; and rubbing her shoulders and neck gently before suggesting they take the dogs for a walk, Will filed the information away to ask the shadow about just why Jo was so mad the next time.

---

The sun was sharp overhead, and Will was thankful for the dappled shade that the oak tree provided as he lifted the hoe up again and began on the next row of digging and troweling. Reaching a hand up, he lifted the front of his cap and wiped the sweat that was collecting from his brow with a huff. It had been hard work thus far, yet he was working just as hard as the blonde with her cut off shorts and the shadow that was working harshly to pull the dead tree root out of the ground a few feet over where the next vegetable bed was planned for.

“Well looky here! What a group of cuties you’ve got here, brother!” The cheery voice appeared out of nowhere, and Will dropped the heavy wooden end of his implement down upon his foot in surprise as he span about to stare towards the tree the voice came from. The dark haired woman let out a laugh as she stepped forward, her boots far too formal and fancy for the dirt of the farm and her outfit better suited for a runway than the country. “Oh look at the new one! Cupcake, did you catch this one too?”

“Shada, good to see you.” Jo was the first one to reply, but made her way towards him instead of the newcomer as the other man made his way across to the brunette. “Here to help with the garden are you?”

“Not in the slightest! You’re all so dirty and sweaty.” “Sometimes that’s fun.” “He sure looks fun!”

“Shada, please stop eyeing off our boyfriend.” Grey cut over whatever Jo might have replied with, reaching the woman and bringing her in for a quick, brief hug. “Will is not yours to oggle.”

“Well, he should wear a shirt and not look so ruggedly handsome.” Shada replied, a smirk on her face as her eyes ran over Will in a way that made him want to hide behind the slight amount of cover that Jo could provide, shifting to the side and covering half of his front with the blonde in a single move. “Awwww don’t hide!”

“Shada!” Grey’s voice was loud as he snapped back at the woman, tugging on her arm to turn the woman away from the pair. “Stop being-”

“Fine, fine. I’ll stop!” “Good.” “I just wanted to come meet your new human, brother.” “Well, you could be politer about it-”

“Oh very true!” The woman chirped back before Will blinked and she was gone from the spot near the other, and not even a foot away from him right before Jo, and smiling up at him. “Well, I’m sorry - it’s nice to meet you, Puppy, my name’s Shada, Grey’s favorite sister.”

“Pu-puppy?” Will stammered the word out, tilting his head to the side and pulling Jo closer in front of him between him and the new woman with a frown. She seemed amused by the move, but the fact he couldn’t pick up much off of the woman, Will wasn’t surprised to hear she was like Grey - the faint amusement clear but little else.

“You’re goin’ with Puppy?” “Yes, Cupcake, you’re all about baking and he’s all about those dogs!” “I mean...”

“Jo! Don’t give her an inch with that!” Grey’s face was almost entirely red as he approached, giving a disapproving look to the blonde as Jo shrugged a shoulder at him, and Will struggled to keep up with who was saying what and to whom. “Shada, please, his name is Will and you should remember it.”

“Maybe I will, maybe I Will.” Shada’s eyebrow quirked up alongside the edge of her lips in a small devious smirk before she turned back to her brother entirely and began bringing up something about some other sibling needing a hand or a guiding hand or something. Whatever it was, they turned and moved away while Jo turned in his arm and laughed at the peculiar look on his face at just how like a warm breeze the female shadow was - there in an instant and gone quite as fast.

---

This was him. The moment Will saw them from across the bar, he knew immediately who it had to be. The slight roll of menace but an underlying playfulness coming off of him directly purely towards the blonde made it abundantly clear between that and the description he had heard several times from the pair that this? This was the other brother.

Will had always been told to have an exit plan on the off chance he ever encountered the dark shadow. Ever since Jo had looked over his shoulder and isolated over five of the cases Will had been brought in on and failed to locate the killer on, both shadow and hunter had known it would be only a matter of time before he crossed paths with him. He’d thought that the best strategy was to remove himself from the situation, to back away and hope to avoid being noticed. And always have an iron knife in his boot.

However standing there, staring across the other side of the bar from where the blonde had her head thrown back in a laugh and he could see the hand reached out covering hers on the bar top? Will only followed one of those planned elements at all.

Stalking around the end of the bar and sidling up behind Jo, the empath slid his arm around the waist of the blonde woman as if there was nothing amiss and turned his face to look in her direction even as he kept his eyes looking out the corner towards the other man and the twist of a sneer that was forming on his face.

“Ma deesse, you didn’t tell me you’d be out tonight?” “I had to meet with another friend earlier and then I ran into-”

“Ah yes, your friend here?” Will asked, the question sounding not at all question-like as he turned to stare at the other man who was looking down his nose at him with a look of disdain on his face. He slid his hand more firmly around Jo’s waist, pulling her back against his front firmly and around to cover her stomach possessively. “I haven’t had to pleasure to meet you yet. Gray isn’t it?”

“Oh, have you been telling your new dog about me, sweetie?” The dark haired man smirked a little, his eyes following Will’s hand for a moment before they went entirely towards the blonde’s eyes instead. “Or is it the runt telling stories?”

“I-” “I don’t need either of them to tell me about you, you’re making yourself famous in my work.”

“Am I now?” The shadow almost seemed to want to laugh, though it came out more of a sneer as Will shifted his grip and turned to press a kiss against Jo’s head for a moment when she’d tried to interrupt. As much as he loved when Jo spoke and would talk back and tease, he didn’t care in that moment looking down the other shadow that he’d walked in the footsteps of. Will could not have the man that had done such destruction and horror, the bloodshed and depraved acts, anywhere near his angel without wanting to remove them as soon as possible. “And what exactly do you do, dogman?”

Will felt his own lips twisting into a dark grin in response as he moved his other hand to cover and pull Jo’s hand from under the other man’s, the feral look and shadows of the bar making the pair of them match in the dim lighting.

“I hunt men like you.”

---

[let-it-raines]

CSJJ Day 14: The Writing is on the Other Side of The Wall

Summary: Emma Swan’s favorite author is her next door neighbor, but just because she loves his writing doesn’t mean she loves him. She doesn’t even like him. In fact, one could say that she absolutely hates Killian Jones and the way he blares his music through their shared walls and how he’s always incessantly flirting with anything that breathes. 

He drives her insane, and she’s about one three am wake-up call away from breaking into his apartment and throwing his speaker out the window. Or maybe she is one three am wake-up call or one knock on her door away from her life beginning to change forever. 

Rating: Mature

A/N: Hey, I’m back again! I hope you all have been enjoying the first half of this event (and that you will enjoy the rest) and are reading all of the great works out there! Everyone involved in @csjanuaryjoy is just wonderful ♥️ I’d also like to thank the anon who sent me the prompt for this story. I’ve been waiting to share this with you!

Also found on ao3 | here |

Tag List: @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke @teamhook @onceuponaprincessworld @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @ekr032-blog-blog @branlovestowrite @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @nikkiemms @dreadpirateemma

His hand falls to his side, grasping tightly to the wound and firmly applying pressure to try to get the bleeding to stop. He’s desperate, his entire body surging with pain, and he knows this is likely it for him if Kate doesn’t get here soon to help him. God, Kate. He loves her, and he needs her.

But she’s not here.

“Fuuuuck,” Emma groans, slamming the book closed before tossing it across the room, a dull thud echoing when it hits against her dresser. “How the hell do you just end a book like that? Seriously?”

She throws her head back against the bed, closing her eyes and grimacing thinking about how she just stayed up all night reading the newest addition to the Crashing Waves series. She’s pissed, feels as if her own heart has just been ripped out of her chest or like she’s been shot in the stomach like Connor. It’s dramatic, but she has to go to the office for a meeting in – she looks down at her phone – three hours on no sleep.

Damn you, Killian Jones.

Almost as if on cue, music starts blaring from the other side of her bedroom wall, muted sounds of Hozier playing through the sheetrock. If she was asleep, it’d wake her up, as it does almost every night. God, her neighbor is so annoying, and maybe she’s a little pissed because he’s the reason she never gets any sleep. Usually it’s because he plays music during all hours of the night (and day), whenever inspiration strikes him apparently, but tonight it’s because his new book came out yesterday and she absolutely couldn’t wait to read it.

It’s ridiculous, really. She’s a scraping by bail bondsperson who lives in a crappy apartment with thin walls (obviously) and a frankly disturbing pipe system for her water, and her neighbor is an accomplished author whose books are always on the best-seller’s list, usually the top. She read something the other day about them possibly being adapted into a television show or a movie, so he’s obviously doing well for himself. Hell, she just bought his book for twenty dollars.

But he still lives here.

It doesn’t make any sense.

It’s still the reality, though. Her neighbor is one of her favorite authors – and she has a hell of a lot of those – and she absolutely hates him when it comes to him being a human being that she personally knows.

Really, really hates him.

The music is one thing. Yes, she knows that she works weird hours, never really does have a regular sleeping schedule, but she’s not disturbing other people during sleeping hours…okay, so her skips don’t count. They’ve done something illegal and then skipped out on their court date, so they deserve to be disturbed during sleeping hours. But she’s still home a lot at night, often sleeping, and she’s woken up every time he starts playing music…which always means he’s writing. She only knows that because she’s read all of his books and watched a few interviews (on Good Morning America totally by accident she swears) and he’s said that he writes while blasting music.

She wants to blast him.

Does that even make any sense? Probably not, but she’s exhausted.

But it’s not just the music. He’s an asshole, and she’s not exaggerating. He’s impossible to talk to without him flirting with you in that deep British accent of his, and for awhile, she thought maybe he was just hitting on her. He’s not. He talks that way to everyone, and it gets under her skin in the worst way possible. She doesn’t know why, but it does.

Sometimes, though, while she’s talking to him at the mailboxes or asking him to quite nicely shut the fuck up, he’ll get this glazed over look in his eyes, looking above her forehead, and it’s like he’s no longer a participant in the conversation. She doesn’t know why he does that, but she’s not here for people ignoring her.

There’s been enough of that in her life.

Don’t even get her started on how he always gets the best parking spot. She’s never once been able to park near their building. She’s always parking blocks away while his Chevelle is nearly always resting in one of the spots just a few feet from the door.

The thing she hates most about him, though, is that he was once witness to this awful, blow-out break up she had with her ex. It was humiliating, her face red and tear-stained as she yelled at Neal and the girl he was cheating on her with to get the fuck out of herapartment, their pants basically still around their ankles. She was heartbroken, her body physically feeling like it couldn’t go on anymore, and when she looked up, there he was coming up the stairs with a few bags of groceries in his hands and a dumbfounded look on his face that’s forever scorched in her memory.

“Swan, bloody hell. What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” she sniffles, wiping at the tears at her eyes and taking in a shuddering breath, “Just…forget you ever saw anything. It’s not important.”

“Love, it – ”

“Don’t.” She holds her hand up before taking a step inside her apartment. “I’m not your love or anyone else’s apparently.”

That wasn’t…he didn’t do anything wrong there, but he was there and now she associates that moment with him. It was one of the many low points in her life, one she doesn’t like to remember along with the foster homes and all of the people who have left, but it often does in the middle of the night when her body’s fighting sleep…but then the music always starts.

“Jones,” she yells, reaching up and pounding so hard her fist hurts, “turn the music down. I’m sleeping.”

It’s a lie, but she doesn’t even care, especially when he never does end up turning the music down. Bastard.

She walks into Lucas Bonds at nine that morning, the largest travel mug she owns full of coffee and her eyes covered in dark sunglasses to keep herself from dying in the sunlight and bad florescent lights in the office. She’s exhausted, every limb in her body somehow dragging behind her, and if she doesn’t have a nap soon, she might very well pass out.

“Woah, why the hangover kit?” Ruby laughs the moment she plops down in her chair, the wheels turning as she slides back. “I didn’t know you were going out last night.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why do you look like you’ve been run over with a truck?”

“Didn’t sleep. Like, at all. There was maybe an hour in there at the end.”

“Hot neighbor keeping you up again?”

“You could say that.”

“What?” Ruby practically flies out of her chair, leaning forward and clamoring over the desk to get in her face. “Did you finally get rid of all of that sexual tension and fuck him? Damn. Way to go Swan.”

“Ew,” she groans, sliding her glasses to the top of her head and taking another sip of her coffee, “I did not fuck him. I barely know him.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“It has when I have to see the guy again. Ruby, why are we here this early? Couldn’t she have done this later? Where’s Granny?”

“On the way. She’s running late.”

“Of course she is.”

Granny finally rolls in a quarter until ten, and it takes no more than thirty seconds for her to get down to business, going through their quarterly reports, trends, and tips for improvement. It’s ridiculous how detailed her boss is, but it works. It would just work better if they did it on another day. But she really does only have to blame herself, even if she is blaming Killian, and after Granny divides up cases for the next two weeks, Emma heads home and immediately falls asleep, hoping for no more music from next door.

Her weeks pass as normal, hours spent working tracking down skips far outnumbering the hours of music blaring through her bedroom wall. She knocks, Killian ignores it, and everything that she knows about her life stays the same.

Then the heater in her bug breaks in November, the chill of Boston biting while she drives around in the frigid air. She swears that it’s colder inside of her car than it is outside, and that makes for some long nights watching for her skips to pop up where her info says they are.

She figures this guy isn’t going to show, and she curses him to herself. His bail was larger than her normal guys, possession of a hell of a lot of drugs but not enough to be a drug dealer, and the pay from his fee would be enough to fix her heater so she doesn’t freeze to death in the winter. She’ll have to do more honey traps instead of stakeouts if she doesn’t get him, and she’s honestly not sure what’s worse.

Freezing to death in her car.

That’s worse.

But then Jeremy Lockhart steps out of the bar he’s apparently been frequenting, and she knows she has to make her move now before the future frostbite begins to consume her. As quietly as she can, she gets out of her car, making sure the door closes without so much as a click. She jogs up to him, her gun hitting her side under her shirt while she moves.

“Excuse me,” she calls out, putting on her sweetest voice, “excuse me sir.”

He turns around and a grin that makes her skin crawl moves across his face. “Yes, darling?”

She shudders, the pet name sounding disgusting on his lips, but he can’t know she thinks that. “I have a flat tire, and I was wondering if you could help me.”

His eyes study her, flicking up and down her body while his tongue pokes out and runs across his bottom lip. “For a woman as fine as you, of course.”

“Oh thank you so much. You’re just the biggest help.”

She leads him back to her car, walking just behind him so she can grab her handcuffs from her belt, and while she’s fumbling, she doesn’t notice Jeremy turning on her, his fist colliding with her cheek and sending her to the ground.

“You’re the bitch who’s been following me,” he spits, the saliva landing next to her stinging cheek. He kicks at her calf, and she cringes, attempting to think through her next move if he doesn’t walk away. “Maybe next time don’t drive such an obvious car. A fucking yellow bug, like you’re a daisy or something delicate when you’re obviously not.”

At that, he jogs away, gravel kicking against her all the while she cups her cheek, trying to assess the damage and make sure he didn’t knock out any teeth or break something. Fuck, this hurts. Like a lot. It hurts a hell of a lot, her face throbbing and stinging while she gets up and walks to her car, her kicked leg dragging the slightest bit. Bastard. He’s a bastard, and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. When she settles inside, she pops down her visors, checking the mirror to see that the left side of her face is red and beginning to swell. She’s sure a bruise will form, but honestly, despite all of the pain, all she can think about now is not having the money to fix her damn heater.

Happy winter to her. It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

It’s a long drive home, a wreck causing the usual late-night traffic to be backed up and at a standstill. Her face continues to throb while she sits there, rubbing her hands up and down her arms and listening to the music play from her radio. She can already see a bit of purple coming in, something that’s going to take a lot of makeup to cover up, especially since she knows she’s going to have to take the honey trap cases again.

Granny’s going to be so pissed at her for going after Lockhart alone.

She’s kind of pissed at herself. She should have known better, but what’s done is done.

After two hours, most of which was spent scrolling through Pinterest on her phone and draining her battery, she makes it back to her apartment around one in the morning, finding a spot a few blocks over and walking the rest of the way, trying not to get pissed at Jones’s car parallel parked right near the entrance. She hurts, her body stiff from the sitting and the hits, and it takes her longer than it should to climb the three flights of stairs.

She’s just made it to the top when the door next to hers opens and Killian walks out in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else. She gulps, her eyes moving over him. She can’t stand the dude, but as Ruby says, he’s hot. Him being shirtless, his lean muscles and black chest hair on full display, isn’t really helping her think otherwise, and if she didn’t think her body would fall out from under her for walking downstairs, she’d turn around and walk away so as to avoid all of…that.

It’s very distracting, especially with the way he’s got an anchor tattooed on his hip, dipping into his pants with his treasure trail of hair and a slight bulge. Yeah, she’s never going to be able to forget that, and all she wants is to forget this night.  

But she can’t avoid him, so she takes a deep breath before walking toward her door, trying as hard as she can to hide her limp and keep the left side of her face out of his view as he fiddles with his door knob. God, he’s so weird. What the hell is he doing? She inches closer, trying to keep her gaze away from the way his muscles dip into a v-shape and the damn tattoo, but then he turns around just as she’s passing his door.

“Hey, Swan? Late night ou – bloody hell, what happened to your face?”

She cringes, the movement making her face sting even more. “Quite the thing to say to a woman, Jones.”

His hand automatically goes up to scratch behind his ear, his lips ticking up on one side and the muscles of his arm twitching. “That’s not what I meant, love. You’ve,” he motions toward her, circling around her cheek, “you’ve got quite a bit of a bruise forming. Did someone…did someone hit you? Are you alright? Do I need to take you to the hospital? Or the police?”

“I’m fine,” she sighs, trying to school her features. “It was just a skip gone wrong. You don’t have to worry about it or me.”

“If you’re sure. But I’ve got…I’ve got a frozen steak in my freezer if you want it. To help with the swelling, not to eat. Though you can eat it if you want.”

She rolls her eyes. He’s being nice, not his usual cocky self, and she doesn’t want to be rude to him. Okay, so she does. She wants to complain about the music and the flirting and ask why he’s studying his door knob in the middle of the night, but she bites her tongue. The steak would be a hell of a lot better than the ice pack she was going to make in a Ziploc bag, so she nods her head.

“Alright then, you can follow me in while I get it or you can wait out here.”

He walks inside without checking to see if she’s following him, so naturally she follows him. His apartment has the exact same layout as hers, but his furniture is a hell of a lot nicer. It almost makes the place look nice and a little less crappy. He’s got a brown leather couch with a plaid throw draped over it, more throw pillows than anyone has a right to, as well as two matching arm chairs. Unsurprisingly, his walls are covered in bookshelves, the tall dark oak stretching from floor to ceiling absolutely covered in books, meticulously organized by size and color.

Wow. That’s…insane. But he is a writer, she guesses. He’s got to be really into books and a little eccentric. The random music and studying of a doorknob are proof enough of that.

“Here,” Killian offers, holding the steak out to her, “I hope this helps.”

“Thank you.” She takes it and presses against her cheek before beginning to walk back to the door. “I, um, maybe you could not play the music tonight so I can sleep. Or have you considered headphones?”

He smiles with his entire face, his teeth shining against his stubble, before winking at her. “You know how it is, love. It’s my method for writing. I can’t change things up or the next book will never get written. Have you read any of them?”

“No,” she lies, pressing the steak a little further into her cheek while his eyebrow raises in question. “I honestly have never considered it. Never really have time. My neighbor is an asshole who can’t be quiet.”

“Aye, but an asshole with a frozen steak that’s yours to keep.”

“How gentlemanly of you.”

He winks again, his smirk positively salacious while he hovers over her, the heat of his body consuming her for a moment until he takes a step back. “I’m always a gentleman.”

Miraculously, no music plays from the other side of the wall that night, and she manages to sleep through the night, only waking to stick the steak back in her freezer and make herself an ice pack. She’s really got to invest in some of the premade ones, but she’d preferably like to not get punched again. She wakes the next morning with a purple face and a slightly swollen eye, but it’s not as bad as she thought it would be.

She’s going to pretend it’s not from the steak keeping the swelling down.

Granny is indeed pissed that she went after Lockhart alone, and so is Ruby. They give her an absolute earful before telling her she can’t go out looking for skips and has to work in the office until her face heals. She protests, the need for a heated car and money calling her name, but Granny says no. And when her boss says no, she has to listen. She may be older and a grandmother, but she is absolutely terrifying when she needs to be. She’s the only motherly influence Emma has as well as being her employer, so Emma begrudgingly listens.

Loyalty and a paycheck and all that.

She’s sitting on her couch, a bowl of popcorn with melted milk duds next to her, while she does some research for Ruby, trying to track down skips and working up fake Tinder profiles to be used in the future. It’s just as she’s drafted a profile for Jacqueline Carmichael, a spicy (she can’t believe these are the types of words that work on men) brunette who just loves to have fun, that there’s a knock on her door. She closes her laptop, putting it on the coffee table and wiping her hands on her jeans before walking over and stretching up on her socked toes to look through the peep hole.

It’s Killian. He’s standing outside of her door and rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands behind his back.

She sighs before she unlocks her door, turning the bolts and undoing the chain before the wood swings open.

“Hi, Jones.”

“Hello, love.”

She waits for him to say something else, to give his reason for knocking, but he doesn’t. instead he smiles at her, gaze never leaving hers. He looks almost…giddy. What is – what is happening?

She leans against her doorframe and crosses her arms. “Did you need something?”

“Have you ever considered having a ride-a-long with you when you’re tailing skips?”

Oh hell no. That is not happening.

“Nope. And I’m not going to consider it now if that’s what you’re asking. I like to work alone.”

“What if I pay you?”

That gets her attention. She could use the money. Like, she could really use the money, and while it would totally mess with her method, it wouldn’t be that bad would it? Would he talk too much? Would he try to tell her she was doing her job wrong? Is it worth the money?

Money is a girl’s best friend.

“Why?”

“I’m looking for some inspiration and practical experience for my new book.”

“How much are you willing to pay?”

“I, um,” he mumbles, scratching at his chin, “what would you like?”

She hesitates, unsure of what to ask for. “Is this going to be a one-time thing or multiple rides?”

“Multiple, probably.”

She thinks about it for a moment, weighing what’s appropriate and knowing how much he has to make. “Can you swing two hundred per ride?”

He grins, nodding his head. “I can do that.”

“Perfect,” she smiles, reaching out and shaking his hand, ignoring the warmth of his palm and the strength of his grip. “I’m not going out again until next Monday, if I have something. You good to go out late at night?”

“Ready to go whenever you are, Swan.”

She’s pretty sure she just made a deal with the devil, but money is money. It better be worth it.

“So what exactly are we doing?”

Killian’s fidgeting around her desk at the office, going through her pens and papers and swirling her coffee mug all while she looks through their database to see if they have anybody they’ve paid bail for miss their court dates. They’ve got two, both men, and she knows that they’ll be easy to bring in.

“I’m looking for work.”

“It doesn’t just come to you?”

She rolls her eyes before rolling her chair back and propping her feet up on her desk. “For a writer, you sure as hell don’t do any research.”

“This, darling,” he points to her and grins, “is my research.”

“Okay,” she sighs, piling her hair up into a bun on her head so it’ll stop falling in her eyes, “so most of our work is done in the office. If someone can’t pay for their bail, which happens a lot for people who commit small-time crimes, we pay it for them for a fee, usually a percentage of their bail. That’s how we make our money.”

“So when do you chase people down?”

“Only about fifteen percent of the time do we have to do that. Most people show up to their court date, we get our money back plus the fee, and we’re good to go. But when they don’t, Granny has Ruby and me, as well as Will who mostly works out of office and does long distance stuff, more bounty hunter-ish, track them down and bring them back to court so we can get our money.”

“And that’s what you were doing when you got beat up a few weeks ago?”

“I didn’t get beat up but yes.”

“Huh,” he sighs, leaning back and stretching his hands above his head, his sweater lifting a bit to reveal some hair on his stomach and the tip of his tattoo, “interesting. So you really do mostly sit in the office or at home?”

“Yep. It’s not as exciting as people think. It’s a lot of sitting on your ass.”

“But do you like it?”

She shrugs. “It pays the bills. And I do like the adventure sometimes. Don’t like the getting punched or late nights. Aren’t you supposed to be writing this down?”

He taps his head. “I’ve got it all up here. But I’m also recording it on my phone.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “I hope that’s okay.” “As long as you’re not doing anything creepy with it, that’s fine. I’ll kick your ass if you do.” She rises from her chair, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “You want to go for that ride?”

“Absolutely.”

“So now we’re sitting around on our asses but in a car.”

“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes, reaching into her cup holder and grabbing the coffee they stopped for before making their way downtown to wait outside Josh Plunkett’s apartment building. “Can I ask one more question?”

“That’s what you’re paying for.” “Why is it so bloody cold in here?”

“Heater’s broken.”

“And you don’t want to fix it?”

She rolls her eyes, having to hold back every sarcastic and biting remark that’s running through her mind. Yeah, this is definitely going to be more difficult than she thought it would be, which isn’t saying much. “I was going to use the money I got from the guy who gave me a black eye to fix it, but we never caught him and lost all of our money for him. So no heater.”

Killian doesn’t say anything else, just hums in response, and that’s pretty much how it goes for the next four hours. Sometimes he asks questions, most of them about her job, but that’s it. He’s still the same flirtatious guy that he always is, but it’s not nearly as obnoxious. Maybe it’s because she’s not tired and he’s not blaring his music through her wall. Instead he’s quietly listening to music through her radio, keeping his hands away from the knobs and letting her pick.

Good.

Plunkett never leaves his building, and since she can’t technically go inside, she gives up for the day, driving them back to their apartment and parting ways after Killian gives her the money he owes.

Over the course of December, Killian Jones becomes a constant at her side. He’s annoying and a little insufferable, but he’s also helping to make her two hundred dollars richer much faster than she usually would. Plus, not that she’d ever tell him, she’s kind of geeking out about the fact that her job could inspire a part of the next Crashing Waves book. When things get quiet, sometimes she almost asks him about what’s going to happen next, if he can tell her if Connor is going to be okay, but then she’d have to tell him she’s obsessed with his books.

And that’s just not going to happen.

He’s warming up to her though.

Maybe that’s just the coffee he brings her before every ride-a-long. He only had to ask once to know how she takes it, and he’s gotten it right every time since. If anything, that wins him the tiniest of points. The fact that he’s kind of funny and makes up commentary for the people they see walk by who aren’t her skips gives him some more of these fictitious points if only for keeping her entertained for hours on end.

Her phone buzzes on her bedside table, and she rolls over to pick it up, an unknown number popping up on the screen.

Unknown: So I’m thinking I’m the Castle to your Beckett.

Emma Swan: Jones?

Unknown: Killian Jones. Richard Castle. Same thing, milady. We’re both suave, dashingly handsome writers with beautiful law enforcement partners.

God, he’s so dumb. She wonders how long he took to piece together the idea that he’s anything like Castle. Hell, that’s probably where he got the idea for this whole thing. She snickers under her breath before burrowing under her blankets and looking back at her phone.

Emma Swan: How the hell did you get my number?

Killian Jones: Watched you type your phone password in, swiped it when you went to the bathroom last week, and then texted myself before deleting the message off your phone.

Emma Swan: Creepy, dude. You could have just asked.

Killian Jones: Yeah, well, it’s too late now because I have your digits, love.

Who the hell says digits? Killian can be old fashioned but not old fashioned enough to say digits. Yeah, he’s a curious case this Killian Jones.

Killian Jones: I’m about to write some. Will it disturb you if I play my music?

Emma Swan: Always.

Killian Jones: Well, I do so fancy you when you’re yelling at me. And when you’re not.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes before twisting in her bed. Sure enough, his music starts blaring through her bedroom wall. She doesn’t bother texting back, knowing he’s likely getting in the writing zone and dead to the world, but she does bang on her bedroom wall, not expecting a response as always.

But to her surprise, he knocks back twice…and then cranks the music up.

A laugh escapes her before she can stop it, and she yells out, “Asshole.”

“So what exactly is she doing with us today?” Killian asks her before looking back at Ruby in the backseat.

They’re in Killian’s Chevelle today while her bug is in the shop getting fixed – as funded by Killian Jones and his new obsession with bail bonds – and Ruby had demanded to ride along on their ride-a-long as well as actually being here for work. This car is a million times nicer than her car, than their apartments honestly, and she’s for some reason relieved that he’s made some concession to his wealth, even if she used to be annoyed every time she saw his car. Plus, it’s got these adapted heated seats that are to die for.

Seriously.

Her ass has never been this warm.

“Same could go to you, buddy,” Ruby challenges, poking her head up between the two of them while Killian drives them to the bar where her date is waiting. “This is my job, too.”

“I know that, but Emma’s showing me a honey trap date tonight. I wasn’t aware that took two people.”

“It’s for if he tries to run away,” she explains to Killian, patting him on the arm and telling him to take a left at the next turn. “And Ruby’s also sadistic and likes to watch the poor guys go from thinking they’re on a date to being taken down to a station and put behind bars.”

“Damn right.”

“You’re quite the character, love.”

“Yeah? You gonna write me into your book? I think I’d probably read them for that.”

Killian chuckles and looks over at her, raising his eyebrows. She shrugs and shakes her head in response. She doesn’t have any answers for Ruby either but man does she love her friend.

“Maybe,” Killian acquiesces, winking at her so Ruby can’t see, and her stomach does some kind of weird flip. “I’m still working out all of the kinks in my plotting process, but I like where things are going. The development is coming along quite nicely. The pub just up here, darling?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she answers, pointing toward an open parking spot, “park there so we can get to the car quickly if we need to.”

Ruby’s gone ahead and walked into the bar, the three of them not daring walk in together, and she and Killian stand outside the entrance. It’s absolutely freezing, and her dress barely covers her previously warm ass. God, she hates this sometimes. She’s adjusting her dress, pulling it down her thighs and propping her boobs up all while Killian very obviously looks the other way.

“Alright,” she claps, trying to get his attention back to her, “how do I look?”

Killian finally looks her up and down, his blue eyes tracing her body in a way that doesn’t make her entirely uncomfortable. Then again, she did ask him how she looked. She gave him permission to check her out. His tongue pokes out, running against his bottom lip, and she chooses to ignore the tingling sensation at the base of her spine and the way her legs unexpectedly feel unsteady. It’s the heels. It’s got to be the heels.

“Beautiful,” he compliments, and heat rises to her cheeks. Suddenly his thumb is touching the corner of her lips, their bodies entirely too close so that she can feel the heat radiating off of him compared to the chill of the air. Holy shit. What is happening? “You’ve got a bit of stray lipstick.”

He abruptly pulls back, but he doesn’t step further away from her until he places his thumb in her eyeline. Sure enough, there’s a bit of her red lipstick on his finger.

Oh.

That makes…he was being helpful, but none of that changes the way her mind is suddenly cloudy and every part of her is reeling from their proximity and the way her body is responding to him. It’s not – she’s not felt that way before, not with him, with Killian. He’s her obnoxious neighbor, the incessant flirt. He’s not someone who should make heat flutter between her thighs at the touch of his thumb to her lips.

She doesn’t do relationships, not anymore, and she can’t afford for any part of her to want Killian Jones.

“Thank you.” She smiles before shaking herself out of it, getting herself back into the mood to work. That’s why they’re here after all, not for her to want to sleep with Killian. “So I’m going to go inside, find Jason, and in three minutes you can come in and sit at the bar or wherever gives you a good enough view for your notes, okay?”

“Sounds perfect.”

At that she leaves him as well as trying to leave behind all of these weird as hell feelings she’s suddenly having after whatever that was. Jason’s sitting at a table in the middle of the room, the other tables around him only mildly crowded. Perfect. That’s always better than back corners.

“Jason?” she questions, her voice higher pitched than usual, legs still the slightest bit unsteady. “You’re Jason, right?”

“I am,” he smiles, his eyes looking up and down her body in the same way as Killian’s did…but somehow more salacious. She really hates doing this sometimes. Has she already thought that? Probably. She can’t think it enough. These guys are all scumbags. “You’re Laura, right?”

“Yes, so nice to meet you.”

She settles down into the chair across for him, finding Ruby up at the bar just for safety purposes. Jason seems nice enough, but he also missed his trail for refusing to pay child support. So he’s an asshole, just not a dangerous asshole. Hopefully.

“So what do you do, Jason? I know that’s super boring first date conversation, but a girl just has to ask.”

“I’m a lawyer.”

He’s a liar.

“Oh really?” she flirts, leaning forward to twirl her drink around and prop her boobs up, the flesh practically spilling out of the material. “That’s so fascinating. What’s your specialty?”

“Oh, um, law suits.”

And not an inventive liar at that.

“So it’s not skipping out on providing over twenty thousand dollars for your children who you abandoned?”

Yeah, so maybe that last little part was for her. She enjoys taking guys like this down if nothing more than personal satisfaction for how her parents abandoned her. And, you know, to make sure those kids at least have the financial support to have a better life than her, asshole dad aside.

The smile on Jason’s face changes almost as quickly as the one on hers does before he’s throwing his wine all over her dress and running toward the door. Yeah, this is exactly why Ruby’s here.

“Dammit,” she mutters, knowing the dress is unsalvageable before getting up and heading toward Jason only for Killian to literally come out of nowhere and punch him in the face, causing Killian to curse and Jason to tumble backward into her waiting arms. “Or maybe not.”

She grabs Jason’s wrists, handcuffing him, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Ruby on the phone, likely with the guys down at the station to come pick him up since they’re near the precinct, as well as sliding extra cash over to the bartender for the disturbance they caused.

“What do you even know about family, bitch?” Jason mutters to her while they’re waiting outside, and the sting hurts as much as if she’d been the one to be slapped tonight.

“Not a thing and yet somehow more than you.”

Jason scoffs, and she sees Killian staring at her, his gaze so intense he could drill a hole on her head. She’s never told him anything about her time in foster homes, not more than possibly casually letting it slip, and she hopes that it’s not pity in his eyes. She can’t handle it if it is, so she makes sure to look away, training her gaze on the flickering neon light of the tattoo parlor across the street.

It’s another hour before Jason is loaded into the back of a cop car and her paperwork is all filled out so they can get their money back. Killian drives them back to Ruby’s apartment, dropping her off, before he drives them home, getting the best parking spot right next to the side entrance.

Bastard.

She never gets that spot. How the hell does he do that?

They’re silent as they walk up the stairs, her heels long gone and replaced with the slippers she brought with her, and by the time they’re standing in front of her apartment door, she’s exhausted, not wanting to think about anything.

“Thanks for tonight, Swan.”

“I should be thanking you. You’ve got a mean left hook.” She reaches down to grab his hand, running her fingers over the bruised knuckles. He hisses in response, his face contorted in pain. “You need to ice this.”

“Aye, but it seems I’ve given away my best icing steak.”

“Lucky for you I’ve got one.” She unlocks her door, having to kick it open with the rusty hinge, before stepping inside. “Come on.”

Killian follows her inside and to her freezer. She’s since invested in those nice ice packs, but after some rummaging, she finds Killian’s steak. It’s got to be freezer burned at this point, but it’ll work for her purposes. She smiles as she turns around, closing the door behind her, and holds the steak in the air.

“And I present to you, your best icing steak.”

“Bloody hell,” he laughs, his hair falling over his forehead, “I didn’t think you were serious. You didn’t cook this?”

“Nah, wasn’t ever in the mood. And it’s coming in handy now. Pun intended.”

“A regular comedian, love.”

“I know.” She hands it over to him before turning around and opening the door to ruffle around her freezer some more, finding a frozen pizza that should be edible. “You want something to eat? Pizza?”

“That sounds good.”

She pops the pizza in the oven, setting a timer on her phone, before she and Killian settle down onto her couch. It’s two in the morning at this point, most of the world asleep, and that makes it so much harder to find something on her cable package that’s not cartoons or infomercials. Eventually she gives up, leaving it on TCM, and falls back into the couch, the wine stain on her dress obvious.

“You a fan of old movies, love?”

“Sometimes. I think a lot of them are sexist as hell, but they’re kind of nice to watch on, like, a rainy day with all of the lights turned off and a cup of hot chocolate.”

“That sounds nice, Swan.”

Silence settles between them and while she’d usually let it, she feels far too uncomfortable about all of the events of tonight, so she changes the subject, trying to lessen whatever charge she feels in the room and fill the remaining space with conversation.

“Was that your first time ever punching someone?”

“Second,” he smiles, twisting his head to look at her, their noses barely an inch apart. She can feel the heat of his breath when he speaks. “Really? What was the first?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I really, really do.”

His lips fall into a straight line, and his hand finds its way to his ear, scratching at his scruff. “I, um, well my brother had just died, and I was drunk off my ass trying to cope. Got angry at a guy in a pub and his face kind of collided with my fist.”

Oh. Oh shit. That’s not what she was expecting. How the hell does she respond to that? How does anyone respond to that? How did he respond to losing his brother? Besides the punching because she just can’t…she can’t imagine loving someone and then losing them through death. Not at all. That would be heartbreaking.

She reaches over and takes his unharmed hand, squeezing and letting her fingers linger there. “I’m sorry, Killian.”

“About the punch?”

“About your brother. I didn’t…I didn’t know.”

“How could you? I don’t talk about it, and we aren’t exactly the best of friends.”

That stings. She didn’t…she wouldn’t have considered them friends three months ago, but she does now. He’s grown on her. Granted, it’s kind of been like a fungus, but he’s grown on her after spending so much time together. There’s only so much you can avoid while sitting in a cramped car. He’s playing down his feelings, his eyes glancing toward her before looking away. She’s learned to read him, and that’s definitely what’s happening. They’re not nothing. They definitely have something going on.

Is he…is he scared that she doesn’t think they’re friends or acquaintances or whatever they are? She doesn’t have a lot of friends, but she thinks that’s what this is.

“Hey now, we are friends, Killian Jones,” she assures him, leaning her head a bit closer to his and squeezing his hand again. His eyebrow quirks, something she’s learned is one of his ticks along with the stupid ear scratching he just did. “What? We are. We hang out. We talk.”

“I pay you for all of that.”

“That makes me sound like a prostitute.”

He shakes his head from side to side, smiling while his eyelashes hit against his cheeks. Is he…blushing? “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, I know.” She brings her bottom lip between her teeth, debating on whether she wants to say her thoughts of not. “But I bet we’d somehow get along even if you weren’t paying me.”

“We didn’t exactly get along before.”

“Yeah, well, you were a cocky asshole who played his music at all hours of the day and night. Now you’re a semi-friendly asshole who plays his music at all hours of the day and night.”

“Such a distinction.”

She laughs at his playful eye roll before releasing his hand and clapping her hand on his thigh, pushing herself off the couch and taking the frozen steak with her. “You want a drink?” He nods his head in acceptance. “Rum?”

She walks over to the kitchen, puts up the steak, checks on the pizza, and grabs two glasses from her cabinets and a bottle of rum that’s almost completely full. She doesn’t remember why she bought it. She’s not that much of a rum drinker, more of a whiskey and beer girl herself, but that doesn’t really matter now as she pours she and Killian a sizeable glass, the liquid burning as it travels down her throat.

It feels good relaxing after constantly working, and she slumps down on the couch next to Killian again, her dress riding up her thighs, before handing him his drink. She and Killian continue to talk, television shows and weird stories that seem to roll together without any awkward pauses now as they both continue to drink and eat the pizza. After awhile, a fire starts burning in her belly, her body warming and her senses dulling the slightest bit.

When she looks over to Killian his cheeks are flushed red and there’s the slightest bit of sweat framing his forehead, his hair pushed back from where he’s been running his fingers through it while he’s been rambling on and on about his first book tour and how he’d accidentally spilled his coffee on a young fan’s book and had to give her a new one only for her to request to keep the ruined one because it was coffee he was drinking.

“That’s fucking weird,” she snorts, rum practically coming out of her nose. “Who would want a ruined book like that just because you’d had some of the coffee on it?”

“This lass apparently,” he laughs, leaning forward and putting his hand on her knee, the heat of his palm seeping through her skin.

Everything is so warm, his hand, her skin, the room. She’s not drunk, but she’s definitely buzzed. And the buzzing is making Killian’s lips and the way he keeps running his tongue over them especially attractive, the pink a nice contrast to his black scruff. He probably tastes like rum, and she wants to taste it on his lips instead of in the glass.

So she does.

She grabs his shirt collar, pulling him forward and crashing her lips into his while her nose squishes against his face. He whines, the sound shooting straight to her core, before his hands harshly grip into her hair and his lips move against hers. He’s rough with her, the softness of his lips completely cancelled out by the harshness of his whiskers, and when she bites down on his bottom lip, hard, he emits a groan that comes from the very back of his throat before his tongue thrusts into her mouth with no preamble. It’s a hot, wet slide, the sensations shaking her and curling her toes.

When she pulls back, she takes a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart and mind, but then his lips are moving along her jaw and down her neck, landing at her collarbone and sucking a mark in her skin that’s going to stay longer than the wine stain on her dress.

Her dress that is far too constricting right now.

She moans when his hands start moving…everywhere, up and down her back until they’re on her thighs, under her dress and pulling it up until it gets stuck at her ass. She’s not at all responsible for what happens next and the way that her dress comes up her body to rest around her waist or the way Killian’s pants come undone and a condom from his wallet goes on while her underwear is slid to the side. And she’s definitely not at fault when she straddles Killian’s lap and rides him into oblivion. It’s rough and rushed and the basic definition of a quick fuck, but she doesn’t care. He’s filling her completely while his hands dig into her ass and his lips leave their mark against her skin.

“So bloody tight, Swan,” he grunts into her ear before slapping her ass. She has to hold onto the back of the couch with such force, her breasts pressed against Killian’s chest while she moves above him. “Feels so good fucking you, being inside of you.”

“Shut up.” She moves her lips to his to get him to be quiet, their groans mixing together until there’s not another sound in the room and her eyes begin to have black spots behind them, the humming of her body at a high while Killian pulses inside of her. She comes on a shuddering breath, the unexpected quickness making it all the more intense, and she’s so gone that she doesn’t feel anything but her trembling legs.

Afterward she rests on top of him still, catching her breath, and before he can even pull out of her, she realizes her mistake.

“That was…”

“A one-time thing.” She moves so that he slips out of her before pulling her dress down to cover her. “You can go home now. There’s a trashcan by the front door.”

She doesn’t look at his face, shame rushing over her, but in the brief moment before she looked away, she saw the flash of disappointment in his eyes before there was a clench in his jaw. She hears his pants being zipped and his breathing settle before he grumbles under his breath.

“As you wish.”

That night she falls asleep in her wine-stained sex-mused dress without removing her makeup or brushing her hair. Except she never really falls asleep. She stays awake and lets her mind run through…everything. She can’t believe she slept with Killian. How could she be so stupid? Why did she even want to sleep with him?

She fucked up, and she has no idea how to fix it. She has no idea if she even wants to fix it. This isn’t what she does. She doesn’t sleep with people she has to see the next day, and she sure as hell doesn’t sleep with anyone who she knows as much as she knows Killian, who she may have some kind of feelings for. They all just leave anyways, and he may be just next door, but he won’t always be. He can’t be. He can afford a nicer place, one across the city with a doorman and an elevator. He’s not going to stay. This is all temporary, just like him spending time with her most days in their ride-a-longs. It’s not going to last.

It’s too much. It’s all too much, and if she could go back in time two hours, she thinks she would.

While suffering through her misery, the hangover already starting to set in, she expects music to blare through the wall, some kind of anger writing coming from Killian.

But the music never comes.

And it doesn’t come the next day.

Or the next.

She doesn’t hear any music blaring from Killian’s apartment for days on end. In fact, if she counts correctly, she doesn’t hear any music from Killian’s apartment for twenty two days, and despite having the opportunity to sleep peacefully for the first time in years, she can’t.

She picks up his books a couple of times, thinking about rereading them, but instead she puts the latest one away in her bedside drawer, slamming it shut and electing not to look at anything that reminds her of Killian.

She does her stakeouts and honey traps and research alone. It’s something she did alone for half a decade, but she hasn’t worked alone in months, not since late-November. But it’s March now, almost April really, the weather blustering outside and the snow beginning to melt into rain, and she’s all alone.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ruby asks her one day, tossing her burger wrapper in her direction. It lands on her stomach, and she simply brushes it off into the trash can next to her desk and continues eating while filing her paperwork online. “Are you just not going to talk now?”

“Nope.”

“Someone peed in your Cheerios. Tell me so I can go kick their ass and get you out of this funk.”

“No one peed in my Cheerios. Just busy doing work and eating. Not a lot of time for talking.”

It’s the truth, but it’s also a lie. She could talk, but she just doesn’t want to. She’s not in the mood. She wants to do her work, eat her food, and go home to the silence.

“Emma, seriously,” Ruby coaxes, her voice suddenly soft, “are you okay?”

She plasters a smile on her face before looking up at Ruby over the top of the computer. “I’m fine. You want to go out tonight?”

“To work or to drink?”

“Drink.”

They go to the bar around the corner from her apartment, walking into the dull wood-paneled room with its dim lights and smell of cigarettes and alcohol. It’s the perfect place to drink and not be bothered, which along with it being in walking distance from her apartment, makes it somewhere she frequents. But of course tonight being a night she wants to be left alone, to drink a few bottles of beer and talk (maybe) to Ruby, there’s a guy that comes up and slides onto the stool next to her.

He’s handsome, but it’s not right. His hair is too light and too curly, while his eyes are green instead of…blue. The scruff in his face is more like a beard, and his accent, well, there’s really not one. He just sounds normal. There’s no smooth velvet British accent, no dulcet tones that make her skin prickle when an innuendo spills from his tongue. And while she doesn’t know, doesn’t have any interest in finding out, she knows his lips won’t feel right either.

“Hey, buddy,” she stops him in the middle of his sentence, knowing it’s rude, “I really appreciate you coming to talk to me, but I’m not really feeling it tonight.”

“Oh,” he gasps, his wide eyes suddenly straightening and slimming, “well you could have told me that before I put in the effort.”

“I didn’t ask you to talk to me.”

He gets up from the stool, cursing her under his breath, but she doesn’t care. Ruby whistles, the sound reverberating throughout the room. “Damn girl. Why don’t you just bite off his head? It’d be less painful.”

“He was an asshole.”

“He was okay, Ems.”

“He was nice until I shut him down, which always shows a guy’s true colors. You ask them to respect your personal space and they just run away. Always running away.”

She takes a sip of her beer, the liquid coating her throat while condensation falls off the bottle and she blocks everything out but the broken bottle on the top shelf in front of her.

“So what exactly did Killian do to make you so doom and gloom?”

“Why would Killian have any power over me?”

“Because you like him.”

“I do not.”

“Bullshit.” She glances over toward Ruby then, and all of Ruby’s features are focused on her. “That’s bullshit, Emma. You live in the land of being alone except for me and Granny. And yeah, I know you have a fucked up past. We all do. If anything I’ve googled about Killian is right, he does too.”

“Rubes…”

“No, let me finish. You are not a sunshine and roses kind of girl. You’re moonlight and overgrown weeds, but there are people who prefer the night and love the wildness of the weeds. I have never seen you happier than you have been the past few months and whether you like it or not, Killian is part of that.”

“I don’t need a man to make me happy.”

“No, no you don’t. But it doesn’t change the fact that he does. So tell me, what the hell could he have done that was so bad that you’ve been moping around like this for nearly a month?”

She sighs, closing her eyes before opening and looking Ruby dead on. “We fucked.”

“Did you not want to? Is that what the problem is because I’ll kick his ass and chop off his balls.”

“No, I wanted to,” she explains, waving Ruby away before she goes and murders Killian. “We were buzzed, leaning a bit toward drunk, and it just happened. I’m pretty sure I started it. And then I told him to get out. Haven’t heard from him since.”

Ruby’s hand reaches over to hers, holding her palm in between her hands. “Emma, you hurt his feelings. The guy is head over heels for you, he finally gets to be with you, and then you kick him out. I’m not saying you have to go running into his arms or anything, but he probably deserves an apology, for you to talk to him instead of ignoring him. And you probably deserve to realize that you deserve more than sleazy guys hitting on you in bars on a Tuesday.”

“When did you become an expert on feelings?”

“I’m not. Just an expert on my best friend.”

Emma smiles then, the corners of her lips twitching up, before she leans forward and embraces Ruby, holding her as tightly as possible. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to finish drinking with you,” she answers, determined to forget about Killian for a night and focus on spending time with her best friend. “That’s all I can do right now, okay?”

She falls asleep that night a little easier than she has been, and when she wakes at ten the next morning, she’s not nearly as groggy as she usually is. Getting out of bed, she stretches her arms out and accidentally knocks against the wall.

Shit.

Her body freezes in its spot, fear coursing through her as she waits for any response. A knock. Some music. His voice.

She doesn’t hear anything, and that nearly breaks her. Everything Ruby said last night was right. She likes Killian, and that’s exactly why she pushed him away. Stupid, stupid girl.

Taking a deep breath and steeling her nerves, she purposely bangs on the wall before grabbing her phone and blaring whatever first pops up on Spotify until she hears a muffled curse and a slammed door. There you go, Killian. A smile breaks out across her face that only increases when she hears a similar banging on her front door.

It takes less time than usual for her to walk the few steps and unbolt the locks, swinging the door open to Killian’s scowling face. “Bloody hell, woman. Would you politely stop the damn music?”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?” he scowls, everything about his demeanor angry and annoyed and just how she thought it would be. God, she’s missed him. “It’s early, I’m sleeping, and I don’t want to hear any of that crap.”

“You haven’t been playing your music.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, his mouth gaping open before closing while he furiously blinks. “W-what?”

“You haven’t played your music in twenty-three days.”

“So?”

“That means you haven’t been writing. Why?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t felt like it. I’ve lost the muse lately.”

She takes a few steps forward, ending up with her toes nearly touching his bare feet and her forehead at his nose. “Killian, I’m so sorry that I kicked you out like that.” “Swan, it’s fine.” He reaches up to scratch behind his ear. “It was nothing.”

Liar.

“It’s not. You’re not a random guy. You’re a friend…okay, you’re more than a friend, and I treated you like shit. That’s not okay, and I’m sorry.”

He chuckles before running his hand through his hair and looking up at the ceiling. “Love. I am thirty-four years old, and I have never been this confused by a woman in my life. You’re bloody infuriating.”

“I know.” She chuckles under her breath before reaching out and tentatively touching his wrist, testing the water between them. “And you probably hate me for it.”

“No,” Killian answers, her heartrate picking up to ridiculous levels, “I don’t. I like you, love, have for quite awhile now, and I’d give anything in the world to get a chance to be with you without one of us running away or following the other at work. I quite fancy you, Emma Swan, even though I really want to yell at you.”

“I quite fancy you too.”

“Good.” He smiles before taking a step forward and closing the door behind him. “Now that we have that settled there’s several things that I’d like to do with you in the next hour.”

With that he surges forward and cups the back of her head, pulling her lips into his and devouring her while their hips push together. It’s much more intense than last time, not a one of her senses dulled by alcohol or lack of sleep, so she can feel every inch of him pressing against her while her hands find his back and just try to feel every inch of covered skin until they’re slipping under his t-shirt.

She pulls back, her cheeks flushed and chest heaving, and she can barely catch her breath. Her eyes flutter up and find blue staring down at her.

“Please don’t make me go, Swan.”

“I won’t. I’m not…I’m not good at this, but I want to try. God help me, but I want to try.”

“Are you sure?” he pleads, his eyes searching hers for something. “You have to be sure.”

She doesn’t hesitate to answer though her voice does shake a bit. “I’m sure.”

She squeals when Killian’s arms pick her up, literally sweeping her off her feet and walking her to her bedroom, kicking the door closed and dropping her on the bed so that her squeal is even louder, echoing throughout the room while the mattress bounces underneath her and she tries to catch the breath that was knocked out of her. When she looks up, he’s staring at her, eyes somehow hungry and dark with desire as well as dancing in amusement. She doesn’t know what to do, how to feel. She wants him, but she also wants to be with him, to walk the tentative tightrope of whatever it is they’re doing beyond sex.

Before she can move, he leans down, propping his hands on either side of her shoulders and caging her in. She expects him to kiss her, but he doesn’t, not in the way she was anticipating it. His teeth drag against her exposed collarbone, tongue trailing right behind them, and she gasps out his name with surprising fervor while his teeth and whiskers burn her. Her hands find his back, nails digging into the material of his t-shirt, and that only pushes him further, his tongue dipping into the hollow of her throat while their hips press together, moans escaping them both.

She smiles when his lips find hers, the heat in her belly calming for a moment before he bites her bottom lip and she allows their tongues to curl together. Then it all comes back in a blazing inferno, every inch of her skin heating the more they press themselves together.

“Killian,” she breathes, pulling back from him only for him to press several quick pecks against her lips, making the room lighter than it has been.

“I want you,” he mutters, trailing more hot kisses against her jaw before licking into her mouth, making her toes curl again and again.

“Have me,” she sighs before laughing, “did I really just say that?”

Killian smirks against her skin before his hands find their way under her shirt, trailing up until he ghosts over the swell of her breasts, her lack of bra making everything heightened. His hands are gentle but rough, callouses he’s likely formed from writing with pen and paper when he gets ideas instead of on his laptop covering them, and she whimpers when the pads of his thumb and forefingers find her nipples, bringing them to straining peaks.

“Your breasts are glorious, and I’ve never even seen them.”

Killian is full of the cheesy lines this morning, but apparently she is too.

“Would you like to?”

His eyebrow quirks, practically reaching his forehead, and she knows the answer to that is yes. So she inches backward, letting Killian move back from her, before lifting her shirt over her head, the coolness of the air far outweighed by the heat of his gaze. He studies her as if he’s studying a text, his eyes tracing every inch of her skin while his palms test the weight of her breasts. His touch is as intoxicating as his voice, and her core flutters in anticipation.

Then his lips are on her skin and he bites down against a nipple, teasing her and causing her body to switch between pain and pleasure, never quite sure what she wants. She thinks she just wants it all.

It’s overwhelming the way she feels him everywhere when all of his intentions are focused on her breasts, pushing her into the mattress, and she has to run her fingers through his hair to find some kind of steadiness, holding him to her skin until he starts moving down her body, tongue tracing her freckles while his erection presses against her thigh through his pajama pants. Yeah, this is already a million times better than last time even with the bit of morning breath and newness of them to each other.

His fingers hook into her pajama shorts, pulling them down and off of her body all the while he kisses down her calf, lingering at her ankle before moving up and hovering above her core, his breath hot over her flesh.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, dipping down and pressing a kiss to her mound.

Her back arches off the bed, he smirks, and she snarks, “if you think a vagina is pretty to look at then you’ve got some issues, bud.”

Killian laughs against her skin, his chest rolling and the vibrations reaching her, before his fingers find her flesh, swiping through and gathering the wetness that’s pooled there. It’s – fuck – it’s good, the foreplay not something they did in their jumbled, buzzed mess, but then he slides a finger into her while his thumb finds her clit and she’s flying.

Or almost flying. She’s not quite that keyed up, but she is when Killian continues to curl his fingers inside of her while he moves up the mattress to kiss her again. Then she’s flying and there’s black spots behind her eyes and she can’t breathe from the way her breath catches in her throat and everything stills for just a few seconds.

But then she comes back to herself, and she can feel the way that sweat has beaded at her forehead and how her thighs feel slightly sticky while Killian hovers above her smiling.

“What?” she laughs, reaching up to push his hair off his forehead. “Why do you look so stupid?”

“Tis nothing. You’re just glorious like that, your cheeks flushed and lips pink while you scream out my name.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“Shut up,” she scoffs, pushing him off of her before sticking her hands into the waistband of his pants, his tattoo sticking out the slightest bit, “and take off these damn pants.”

“You’re so romantic, darling.”

Her hand brushes over his obvious erection, and he hisses, his teeth clenched and his face scrunched in pain. She feels satisfaction, but she also feels desire, wanting him to be inside of her just this second. “Are you telling me you don’t want to fuck me, Killian Jones? Because we need to do that. I don’t think I’ve ever talked this much during sex,” she tugs at his pants again until his cock emerges and brushes over his ink, “and I’d like some of this.”

He pounces on her then, crushing his mouth to her as he pushes her into the mattress, his body absolutely everywhere. There are words mumbled about protection, and Killian grabs the condom from her beside drawer, taking a little bit too long but then he’s sliding into her in one smooth movement. Fuck. He’s heavy and thick, dragging against her walls in the best way possible as her nails dig into the skin of his shoulders and her feet wrap around his ass, pushing him further into her so they both groan. He begins moving within her, soft and slow thrusts, while his tongue lavishes her breasts, teasing her as they get into a rhythm.

“Killian,” she whines as he rolls his hips, deep and hard, at the same time that he bites down. “Oh, Killian, fuck, that’s good.”

“You’re so fucking tight, squeezing me. This is incredible. You’re incredible.”

He mumbles the words against her breasts before moving up and murmuring more into the skin of her neck. But then he’s kissing her while moving inside of her, their chests heaving together and everything simply feeling right, muscle strains disappearing in the ecstasy of it all. She knew this time would be different than the first. It’s not a drunken hookup, but that’s not the only difference. She feels connected to him somehow and more than just because they’re physically intertwined. It’s like she’s drowning in him, in this, and Killian’s the one with the life raft.

Yeah, she’s definitely been spending too much time with him if she’s thinking like that.

“You’re so beautiful,” he compliments on a shaky exhale before the slow movements increase and he’s fucking her into the mattress, hard and fast as his thumb moves against her clit, “and so bloody frustrating.”

She’s not – he’s not…she doesn’t have any words, so she uses her mouth to bite into his collarbone like he did to her earlier, digging into his skin and using her heels to make himself bury into her further, feeling her completely. He’s filthy with his whispers, murmuring things like you’re so wet, I want to fuck you forever, and a man could live within you and never tire. The last one makes her laugh while also gasping into an orgasm that overwhelms her, the breath in her chest escaping her while small pinpricks dance across her skin. He fucks her through it, his words coming out on stuttered groans, before he gently pushes into over and over and over again, coming inside of her in a way that makes her eyes close again in the bliss of it all.

When it’s over, she’s spent, and she tries to catch her breath, letting Killian rest on top of her and just drinking it all in.

Yeah, so maybe her neighbor isn’t so bad after all. (And she’s entirely surprised that the Crashing Waves books aren’t absolutely filthy with the way he speaks.)

“You know, love,” Killian whispers sometime later, her curtains closed to block out the light while her nails trace the hair on his chest. “I found something interesting in that drawer of yours.”

“Hmm, I don’t think my vibrator is really all that interesting.”

“No,” he laughs, leaning forward and pressing several lingering kisses against her cheeks, “but Crashing Waves is.”

Oh shit. Oh my God. The book. His books. She’d…she hid the last one in her bedside drawer when they weren’t speaking, and he saw it. He saw it when he went for the condom. She risks looking at him, and he’s absolutely smirking, his eyebrows dancing across his forehead.

Yeah, so he’s still a little bit of that same asshole.

Good. She’s not sure what she’d do without his snarky comments and quick wit. She’s really come to like them as much as she likes him.

“Oh my God, you saw that?” She slaps his shoulder before burying her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex. “You weren’t supposed to ever see that.”

He laughs against the crown of her head while his hand rubs up and down her bare back, fingers trailing into her hair. “I didn’t know you were such a fan of my work, darling.”

She pulls back then, smiling up and him and appreciating the lightness of his gaze. “What are you talking about? I’m a fan of every part of you.”

She kisses him then, soft and sweet and everything.

It’s only later, after a few more rounds that have her spent and after a hell of a lot more talking, when Killian gasps, “we should have played music, love.

I will admit that my books are more about mystery, action, and drama than romance, but I’m also aware that the romance between Connor and Kate is a reason I have so many dedicated fans. I’m sad to say, however, that I fear I have done them an injustice. No, nothing horribly bad will happen between them – if Connor recovers from where we left off mind you – but I’ve written this great love only to find out it’s not so great.

You see, I met a woman recently. Well, not so much recently. We’ve known each other for quite a bit, and I’ve always been infatuated and enamored by her even if she despised me. She’s bloody brilliant in every way possible, and I’ve been able to really and truly discover that as I’ve slowly and surely gotten to know her over the past few years. And I tell you this and tell you that I’ve not written a great love story because she’s taught me what great love actually is.

It’s passionate and messy while also being altogether simple and boring. She riles me up and calms me down all in a five-minute span, and whenever I think I know what’s going to happen next, she surprises me. You see, I love her with every fiber of my being and nothing in my life has ever been so painful and thrilling all at once. It’s wonderful, and I hope that all of you experience a great love one day. This one is it for me. There will never be anything like it.

So to my love, my Emma, my wife, thank you, darling. You push me to be my best, and this book would not be possible without you.

Seriously.

It is you, after all, who inspired me and taught me that even those things we think are impossible may very well be possible. After all, you love me.

Killian Jones

Husband, Soon-to-be father, Honorable Bail Bondsperson, Amateur DJ, and Author.

[johnsspacesuittight]

A lil unfinished SAF fic

Hi Spies Are Forever fandom, here’s a little Curt x Owen fic I never really finished, but I kind of like it so I thought I may as well share what I have

__________

Agents Carvour and Mega

Banquet for the American Republican Party

Manhattan, New York 1954

Curt glared at Cynthia annoyed as her assistant came by with his suit hanging it on the door inside his hotel room. "Why do I even have to be here? I have more important things to do than spend my evening dancing and parading around here." He said pulling back a few strands of dark hair with his free hand. The other was hand-cuffed to the heater on the wall beside him.

"MI6 will be there tonight Mega, and they will expect my best agent to be there. Especially since they are bringing that bastard Owen Carvour." Cynthia said hinting for her assistant, Susan, to take the suit over to Curt. "Besides, there is a lot of important people there tonight, you never know when you might need a good agent. So behave, will you Mega?" She commanded rather than asked giving him a glare.

Rolling his eyes Curt gestured to the handcuffs that tied him up and with an annoyed groan Cynthia ordered Susan to take it off him. Rubbing his wrist with an annoyed expression Curt accepted the suit Susan was handing him. "Now if you'll leave me alone to get dressed." Curt suggested beginning to shove the two out of his hotel room.

"If you dare even think of climbing out the window Curt I swear-" Cynthia didn't even get to finish her sentence before he had slammed the door in her face and locked it behind them. Knowing he was well alone Curt pulled the t-shirt he was wearing over his head and easily exchanged it for the white dress shirt belonging to the suit Cynthia had got him.

The banquet was starting in an hour and Cynthia had just managed to drag him down there threatening to fire him if he didn't come. When he had then still refused to join her for the banquet she had locked him to the heater to stop him from escaping and taken his own gun, to which Curt had finally given in. Figuring it wasn't worth loosing his life over a boring banquet, although he might just die of boredom from it anyway.

Parties like that really wasn't Curt's favourite thing in the world. He was way too impatient to manage just wandering around and talking to people that you actually hated but had to pretend that you liked because it could cause a civil war or even a world war if you didn't. Curt preferred dangerous situations that gave him an adrenaline rush, which was why he was an agent for the government in the first place.

Only about fifteen minutes later Curt was all dressed up in the suit which consisted of a black bow tie, a white jacket and his usual black shoes that Barb had given him three months back. Curt had only worked for the American secret service for two years, but had quickly become their best agent, a grand scale professional who could compete for the title of the world's greatest spy. One of the only few standing in the way of that was MI6's Owen Carvour. Whom Curt had yet not met, he had only heard the rumours.

With his hair as styled as the rest of him and another quick glance in the mirror Curt decided he looked good enough and opened the door to walk out and down to the ground floor where the ballroom was, and the banquet was to be held. If it hadn't been for his quick reflexes Curt would have walked straight into the tiny frame just about to knock on his door. Curt stopped in his tracks.

"Barb!" He said surprised at seeing the younger woman all dressed up like this. She was wearing a long ball gown in blue, and her usually terrible blonde haircut was pulled back into a slightly less terrible hairstyle. "You look nice." He complimented, even surprised himself that those words came out his mouth while talking to her.

Her cheeks flushed a deep red and Curt cursed on the inside knowing complimenting her wasn't going to help. "Curt, I -we were looking for you." She stuttered slightly, smiling shyly. "You look nice too." She then added, realising she hadn't given a response to his compliment.

"Thanks Barb, you ready to head down?" He then asked and she nodded, doing her best to keep up with him as he begun walking down the hall. She was quite a small woman and it wasn't weird that she had trouble keeping up with him. They reached the end of the hall in a minute and took the elevator down to the ground floor from there.

Entering the ground floor of the building was a mess. People were everywhere, most of them more important than Curt would ever be. Leaders of governments, agencies and parties, people that could in fact end up creating a world war if they got of on the wrong foot. Both Curt and Barb discovered Cynthia at the same time, and with a much lesser tempo then a few minutes before, they headed over to her.

"Ah Agent Mega, Agent Lavernor, welcome. Barbara I want you to meet someone, this is Aron Marco who works for NASA." And as Barb was thrust into an excited conversation with the man with glasses Curt headed away from the scene. He gazed around, trying to find the bar but before he had the chance a voice behind him spoke. "Looking for the bar as well?" The voice carried a strong British accent and an obvious charm to it, and as Curt turned around, coming face to face with the man who had spoken he understood why. With dark slicked back hair and a face that seemed to carry a constant side smirk the man was just of Curt's taste. Dark mysterious eyes that he could already tell held much history. He was taller than Curt and carrying his dark grey suit with great elegance.

The man's smile widened just a little as their gaze's met, maybe almost in recognition. "Ahh, amusing that I was to just bump into someone like you." He said, then offering Curt his hand. "I am Owen Carvour, also known as your greatest competition Mr. Mega." He smirked charmingly as Curt took his hand and shook it. The two paused for a moment their gazes reading into each other, and Curt almost forgot that his hand was still gripping into the others. In a swift movement he let the other's hand fall and turned his gaze somewhere else, pretending to still be looking for the bar.

Not really meaning to Curt discovered the bar and met eyes with Owen for a second nodding to the bar behind him. Owen smirked turning around to see it for himself then he looked back at Curt and offered him his hand again. For a moment Curt hesitated fearing that someone in the room might notice, but upon seeing that everyone there seemed quite busy with their own things he laid his own hand into the others.

Owen led him across the room to the bar, with their hands well hidden between them. Owen sat down at the bar first, catching the attention of the bartender. Their hands had already then let go of each other. "Two vodka martinis for me and the gentleman." Owen ordered as Curt elegantly slid into the barstool beside him.

The bartender nodded and went to work, paying no attention to the two anymore. "So you're Owen Carvour huh?" Curt questioned looking him up and down. "I expected someone greater looking I must admit." He added and Owen turned his head just a bit with an amused and just as charming as before smirk.

"What am I not good enough for you?" He questioned raising his eyebrows expectantly. Curt really expected the great Owen Carvour to be even more professional looking, this man wasn't bad looking, he just didn't look like as much of "the world's greatest spy" as Curt would've thought. Although Curt wasn't exactly sure what he had expected.

"Oh I didn't say that, in fact you are just my type." Curt smirked bobbing his head just slightly closer to Owen who's smirk was just as evident. Just a second later both had a drink before them and had their attention turned away from one another. Curt had picked up his glass and was spinning it slightly in his hand, the ice and glass hitting with each other in clinking noises. Owen had picked his up and seemed to be examining it for a moment before he turned to Curt, his glass still raised.

"I propose a toast." He said, turning Curt's head as well so that their eyes met once again. Curt frowned slightly at this idea, not knowing exactly what they were supposed to toast for. This wasn't much of a special celebration exactly, for the two of them to meet. "To what?" Curt questioned scrunching his eyebrows slightly together.

"To the world's greatest spies." Owen smirked and Curt let out a laugh, lifting his glass up to Owen's and letting them clink together. "To the world's greatest spies." He repeated and then both took a nice big sip of their vodka. Curt looked at Owen as he sat down his drink and ran a hand through his slick dark hair pulling it back. He was about to speak up again, but he didn't have the chance because they were abruptly interrupted.

"Agent Mega, you've met Agent Carvour." Cynthia's voice rung behind them and Owen spun around swiftly practically leaping off his chair to greet her as a real gentleman. He took her hand and leant in close kissing her softly on the cheek.

"Cynthia," He said and Curt noticed how his accent made her name sound almost delicate which wasn't something he was used to thinking about her. "Always a pleasure." He smirked and to Curt's surprise Cynthia looked actually flushed at this greeting. Which he had in fact never seen before either. Maybe Owen was in fact as charming to women as he appeared to Curt.

That was when Curt noticed the man that had arrived with her. He recognised him immediately from the organisation's files. He was the leader of MI6 and therefore also Owen's boss. "Yes, it's been quite the pleasure in fact." Curt responded to Cynthia's previous comment and couldn't help but notice the widening smirk on Owen's face as he said this.

"Well, boys," Cynthia began pausing to straighten her dress. "Andrew here and I have been discussing recent happenings and come to discover you two are working on the same leads. And as this is international business we thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to work together on the next mission." She explained and Curt could feel Owen's eyes on him and already knew him well enough to know the smirk on his face.

"That sounds like a marvellous idea Cynthia, I'm sure Curt and I will quite enjoy working together." Owen said, Curt finally looking at him again instead at Cynthia. "Or what do you think chap?" Owen then added, hitting Curt swiftly but not too hard on the chest. Curt nodded in agreement which seemed to make Cynthia quite happy. She exchanged a glance with Andrew before nodding.

"Well good, now if I may borrow Curt for a minutes there are a few people I need to introduce my best agent to." Cynthia then said taking a hold of Curt and pulling him away from both the leader of the MI6 and it's best agent. She pulled him along to some important world leaders that he didn't pay attention to, not because he was bored but because he was too busy staring at Owen from across the room. The other seemed to be playing it cooler than he was, chatting to a few people and dancing with beautiful women in long gowns. Only when he did his eyes stayed with Curt every time they had the chance. The small glances and smiles Owen sent him from across the room as he too chatted and danced around were driving him mad.

Curt had always known he wasn't exactly like everyone else, that women weren't so much his area as everyone seemed to think. He respected women and liked their company but that was all. Men on the other hand, that was a little more complicated. Now Curt knew it was wrong and every piece of society told him no, but Owen wasn't the first he'd met that he had taken interest in or who had taken interest in him. Yet Owen for sure was the most intriguing out of those he had met. First of all he was a spy, he recognised Curt's lifestyle and the way he lived. If anything Curt felt it was perfect because they were both spies and now they were even working together. If fate wasn't trying to cook something up between them Curt didn't know what was happening.

"Curt." Barb snapped a finger in front of his face, catching his attention again. He had switched Cynthia out with her about an hour ago and had been dancing and chatting with her for a while just because he had nothing else to do, and because Owen seemed so busy with his own things. "What were you thinking about?" Barb questioned and Curt just shrugged.

"Just a mission Cynthia was talking about earlier. I'll be working with Agent Carvour from MI6." Curt made sure his way of addressing Owen made it seem as though he thought of the other agent purely professionally, because there wasn't supposed to be any other way for him to think about Owen.

"Oh yes, Owen." Barb commented acknowledging that she knew of him, maybe even personally. Though Curt took noticed that she didn't speak of him like others seemed to do. Even when Cynthia had been calling him a bastard earlier it had been with admiration, Barb spoke of him as if he didn't matter to her at all. No admiration in her voice, her eyes didn't light up she didn't seem to be interested, at all even though she sounded as though she knew him, which Curt found interesting.

He was about to say something more when he looked over to the spot Owen had previously been in and not seeing him there. Almost in distress Curt glanced hastily around although trying to make it seem as though he was just looking casually around. When he didn't see Owen anywhere else in the room he went over all the possibilities for where he could have gone and settled for the most likely to be the toilet. "Excuse me for a moment Barb." He said quickly as he begun moving through the crowd trying to not interfere with anything.

When he arrived at the toilets he paused for a moment outside realising he really didn't have any good reason to be in there. He could just wait outside to see if Owen was in there, but then decided he would go in. Just in case it was empty in there other than Owen and he could do what he had wanted to for an hour and a half.

Just as he came through the door of the men's bathroom, hands grabbed his shirt collar and pushed him towards an open stall. Before he even had the chance to process what was happening Owen's lips were on his only moments before they entered the stall which he quickly shut behind them, still kissing Owen. "You're as smart as I thought." He said breaking apart from Curt for a moment and smirking slightly at him with those shining dark brown eyes. Then Owen was kissing him again and Curt let his arms join too placing them around Owen's neck pulling him even closer to himself.

Curt had been with men before, though never for more than a night never for more than a short amount of time. He had never got to know them or developed real feelings for them but Owen was already so different, for Curt knew he already had feelings for him. He had only known Owen for a few hours, and he didn't know much about him, but Curt could already tell Owen understood him in a way no one else could.

"We should get out of here." Curt breathed letting go of Owen for a second to look him in the eyes and speak to him. The other's eyes sparked with curiosity at this comment and stopped for a second to push back his dark hair, which Curt found way too attractive.

"Are you sure?" Owen questioned keeping his voice low incase someone was in the bathroom or was about to enter it. "Do you want to do this?" He said putting his arms around Curt's neck and running them down the back of his head and through his hair.

"I want you." Curt whispered kissing Owen again tenderly. The other smirked, before nodding and backing out from the stall letting it close behind him. Then Curt heard him going over to the sink, washing his hands as if he had just been to the toilet and then his steps across the floor leaving. Then Curt did the same. Exited the bathroom stall and then the bathroom.

He met Owen right outside, waiting by the door beside the bathroom, one that led out into an empty lobby. Owen's smirk was apparent, and Curt was itching to kiss him again right then and there, but knew the better of it. Owen nodded at him professionally, and opened the door, holding it open for him. Curt walked outside, and Owen followed suit, letting the door slide shut behind them. The moment it closed Curt kissed Owen again, having already checked to see that no one was around. He could feel Owen's constant smirk still on his lips as he kissed him back, pushing him up against a wall behind them.

Owen then pushed back a little. "My room," pecking him in between sentences. "Or yours." He smirked, his arm up against Curt's throat as if they were in a fight, and not in the middle of making out with one another.

"Mine is just a few floors up." Curt grinned pushing away his now quite messy dark hair. Owen grinned too and nodded, taking his hand and pulling him towards the elevator. The room was still empty, and the moment Curt had pushed the button for the floor they were going to he begun kissing Owen again. Not roughly and hungrily anymore, just body against body close, lips softly touching in between. When the elevator opened the two stood a feet apart, with arms crossed, but the floor was just as empty as the rest.

Curt took the lead, heading for his room, and Owen followed closely, Curt could almost feel his breath on the back of his neck, but it wasn't an unpleasant thing. When they finally reached his room, Curt put the key in the hole and swung the door open, pulling Owen in after him by his collar. Owen closed the door, and locked it, before pushing Curt up against it while freeing himself from his jacket at the same time. Then he begun tugging at Curt's jacket, but Curt had other plans, pushing instead Owen, while still kissing him, towards the large bed.

....discontinued

[mayquita]

Pictures of Reality - Epilogue

Hi everyone! I can’t believe that we have reached the last stage of this journey, but yes, this is the final chapter. I’d like to express my gratitude one last time to all of you for your comments, kudos, likes, reviews and reblogs. Thank you so so much.

Summary: Emma Swan returns to her birthplace, Storybrooke, in search of a fresh start after a life marked by abandonment and betrayal. After a year there, she finds the stability she needed and also the possibility of learning about one of her passions, photography. Killian Jones, a former British war reporter with a tragic past, establishes himself in the same town as an instructor of photography, following in the footsteps of his best friends, the Nolans. What will happen when their paths cross? Will their common passion for photography help them heal old wounds?

Rating: M (Language, mature themes, implied sex)

Warnings: Alcohol abuse, mentions of the loss of a limb in an armed conflict.

Other ships / Characters: Although, obviously, this is a cs fic, Snowing plays a major role here, mainly David. In fact, the story contains three different points of view, those of Emma, Killian and David. Also, Henry appears in the story as Regina’s adopted son but he is not Emma’s biological son.

Beta: I’d like to express my gratitude, as always, to my beta @jarienn972 I’m aware that you have had to deal with a monster of more than 100k words and English is not my mother tongue, so I value your effort even more.

Artist / art: Go visit @imagnifika’s blog and enjoy her amazing art. There are two arts accompanying this chapter, the first one includes a moment that happens at the beginning. Regarding the second one, I'm putting it at the end, for reasons. That art is special for me because I made a request to Kate and she made her magic in no time and create that amazing edit. Thank you so much.

Art for the prologue/ Art for chapter 1 / Art for chapter 2 and banner / Art for chapter 3/ Art for chapters 4-5  / Art for chapters 6-7/ Art for chapter 8 / Art for chapter 10 / Art for chapter 11 / Art for the epilogue

Special mention to @saraswans , thank you so much for your perpetual support, for believing in me when I doubted myself and for offering ideas to make this story grow. Another special mention to @onceuponaprincessworld , It has been a pleasure to chat with you throughout these months :)

Don’t forget to go read and enjoy the rest of the amazing csbb stories and art.

Word count: ~ 8400 (116k total in 16 chapters)

Also on (From the beginning): Ao3 / Ffnet (Current Chapter) Ao3 / Ffnet

Tumblr: Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11  Chapter 12  Chapter 13  Chapter 14

What to expect from this chapter? We’re celebrating Emma’s new birthday… and more…

EPILOGUE

Emma Swan. Storybrooke - October 23, 2018

Even though Killian was waiting for her in the living room, Emma took her time to study her reflection in the bathroom mirror. On the day of her twenty-ninth birthday, she looked exactly like the day before.

Well, that's not entirely true, she thought as she pursed her lips as if to throw a kiss. Since today was her special day, she had pushed herself with her physical appearance, having every intention of leaving her boyfriend bewitched the moment she made her entrance.

Her eyes seemed bigger and the green color brighter thanks to the discreet dusting of eyeshadow that she had applied and just the right amount of mascara. Her lips were an invitation to be kissed and her hair fell in soft golden waves over one of her shoulders, just the way he liked.

True, it was her birthday, she should be the one who received special attention. Killian also didn't need any push to, well, satisfy her in every way, but she enjoyed this game of seduction and already knew in advance that her boyfriend was going to spend the whole evening thinking about the best way to get rid of that dress and have his way with her. If she played her cards well, that might happen even earlier than expected.

Indeed, the chosen dress was perfect for her plans, she checked as she turned to catch the different angles through the mirror. Her attire choice had been a flowing draped creamy dress accented with a gemstone belt. There was also another small detail, a zipper running down the back of the dress so she might need help to finish dressing. After one last look at her reflection, her lips drew a wicked smirk and then she went in search of her improvised assistant.

Killian did not disappoint her. The moment she appeared in the living room, walking toward him while her hips swayed slightly, his eyes locked on her, following her every move. When she got to where he was, she turned around, showing her bare back as she cast a suggestive glance over her shoulder. "I may need some help."

"Bloody hell, Swan. We should be leaving in fifteen minutes." He growled, his warm breath caressing the skin of the back of her neck and sending a chill down her spine.

"Where's the rush? It's my day today. I'm allowed to be late." She purred and then bit her lower lip, feeling the first touch —and she hoped not the last one— of his fingers on her bare back.

An hour later and after being thoroughly satisfied, they finally left his (their) apartment, both wearing the same sated smiles and flushed cheeks.

Their destiny was uncertain, at least for her. The only thing Killian had revealed to her was that they were going out of town to get her birthday present but that, evidently, they would be back in time for the party at Granny's in her honor. Still, on the drive to that unknown destination, she insisted, since she didn't feel particularly comfortable when things were not under her control, even for a good reason.

 "Where are we going?”

"Out of town, Swan.”

(Rolling eyes)

“Is my gift something physical?”

“You'll discover it shortly, love.”

(Really?)

“When we arrive? (Yes, I know, I'm behaving like a little girl, but I don't care)” 

“Patience is a virtue, just relax and enjoy the ride.”

( Double rolling eyes)

So she had no choice but to ‘enjoy the ride’ by looking out the window and trying to figure out from the different directions they took where they would go. To be honest, she also glanced at Killian from time to time who was exuding total confidence driving his new adapted vehicle as if he had been doing it all his life instead of just for the past three months.

She didn't stop admiring the ease with which Killian had ended up accepting his prosthesis and its implications, using the substitute of his hand to his advantage instead of making it an inconvenience. Still, the road to that level of acceptance had been long and hard — more than two years. Even now, he experienced some rough days, when the frustration of not being able to do something took over him or when the phantom pains of his missing limb paid him an unexpected visit.

Today wasn't one of those days, fortunately, since she couldn't bear to see Killian suffer, whatever the reason. Today his bright smile, his mischievous gaze, and that expression, a mixture of contentment and nervousness —  probably due to her impending surprise— made him irresistible in her eyes.

She supposed that they were going to Boston when they passed the sign with that name and turned onto the road that would take them to the center of the city. Her curiosity grew at times while she wondered what would await them there. When Killian started parking a few minutes later, Emma peered out the window, but nothing rang a bell.

She then looked at Killian, "I don't see anything interesting out there. Where are we supposed to be?" She asked, sounding perhaps a little more grumbling than she felt.

Killian smirked at her after rolling his eyes. "I'm afraid we're going to have to walk a bit. Also, I need to ask you a favor. Can I trust you?"

"It depends..." She tried to hide her true feelings by masking them with a halo of indifference, despite the fact that the damn bastard had managed to capture her interest, leaving her a nervous wreck and beyond excited.

"I need to blindfold you until we get to the place. That or you offer me enough confidence to walk there with your eyes closed. So, what's your choice, Swan?"

"I don't get the need for so much mystery but anyway - eyes closed. You’re not going to ruin my makeup for the second time this morning." She pouted as she felt her cheeks flush, recalling the reasons for the first time.

Killian also seemed to remember since, despite his smug grin, the tips of his ears turned a deep red in a way that made him so freaking adorable. Gods! She loved that man.

"Okay, let's do this." He patted the steering wheel of the car and, just as he was about to open the door to get out of the car, he turned to her, raising an eyebrow in warning. "Don't think I'm taking my eyes off you for a second."

"You and I know that, surprise or not, you aren't able to take your eyes off me." She countered. Two could play this game.

"And you and I both know it's all your fault. You're irresistible, love." Without giving her time to react, Killian leaned toward her and gave her a quick kiss on the lips before turning and getting out of the car.

He was at her side in an instant, opening the door and offering her his hand to help her out. She pressed her lips together holding back a snort. Always the gentleman... "Now, if the lady would be so kind as to close her eyes..." She gave him one last look, letting out a deep sigh before dropping her eyelids. "Trust me, Swan." He whispered in her ear, sending goosebumps down her skin. Next, she felt him draw her to him slightly and wrap his arm around her shoulders. "Let yourself go."

And that she did. Walking blindly, depending on someone else to guide her steps so as not to stumble or simply not to hit any obstacle on the sidewalk, turned out to be a demonstration of absolute trust in her partner. But, although there was always a bit of innate fear, she felt safe, once again, in his arms.

They didn't walk for long. If her sense of direction didn't betray her, they simply went around the corner and stopped a few steps later. "We're almost there, don't open your eyes yet."

When Killian moved away from her, she felt unprotected somehow and very tempted to do just that - open her eyes. She resisted though. Instead, she decided to use the rest of her senses to figure out what was happening around her.

She heard the tinkling of what sounded like keys, mixed with the ambient noise of the street. Then Killian's warm hand entwined with hers as he pulled her subtly. "We're almost there, just a few more steps, love." He whispered again.

Emma let herself be guided, feeling the temperature rise as they entered wherever Killian had taken her. The outside sound was muffled the moment the door closed behind them, giving way to absolute silence.

Killian pulled her once more, making her walk a few steps, her heels echoing broadly on the smooth surface of the floor. That gave her a clue that they were probably in a large room, getting her curiosity and impatience to increase.

"It's alright, Swan. You can open your eyes now." Killian muttered behind her.

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking a couple of times until her vision adapted to the new lighting in the room. When her gaze finally settled on what she found in front of her, her mouth fell open on a gasp and her eyes widened. "Holy shit!"

Her gaze traveled throughout the room while she remained in awe, unable to believe what she saw. They were in an exhibition hall. And her image -  several of her images - appeared in all the photographs that hung on the walls.

Her gaze then fell on Killian who remained silent at her side, his brows furrowed slightly, waiting for her reaction. "You did this, didn't you?" She mumbled in a barely audible voice, her hand waving in an attempt to encompass the entire room.

"Aye?" He wrinkled his nose as he closed one eye, as if suddenly feeling insecure.

"Let's see if I understood correctly... You've organized a photo exhibit in a Boston showroom, using the photographs you took of me?"

"That would be a pretty accurate description." He confirmed tentatively while handing her an explanatory brochure.

The former British war reporter and award-winning photographer, Killian Jones, reappears after three inactive years to present us a new photographic collection, inspired by his muse, The Lady Swan, to whom the exhibition owes its name. True to his style, the collection stands out for the elegance and sophistication of simple lines alternated with powerful lighting games. All the photographs are in black and white, endowing the collection with the sobriety that characterizes the artist.

 The complete collection is for sale. All the benefits obtained will go to different non-governmental organizations that currently collaborate in locations of various active armed conflicts, as well as those working in cities that have suffered war attacks.

"Oh my God." A wave of pride, admiration and pure love seized her, causing her to throw her arms around his boyfriend's neck while kissing him hard. "You're bloody amazing." She mumbled in a poor attempt to imitate his accent as she grabbed the back of his head, sprinkling kisses on his cheeks, lips and any exposed skin of his face.

"I suppose that by your reaction, you approve of it." Killian said between chuckles, while trying to respond to her kissing attack with one of his own.

She pulled back a bit of him looking for her eyes. "Are you kidding me? This is wonderful, and I haven't even seen the photos in detail yet... As long as there are not any inappropriate photos... You know what I mean..." Emma raised an eyebrow suggestively while she bit her lower lip.

"You'll have to verify it for yourself." He winked at her, but then his expression changed to a more serious one. "The exhibition hall doesn't open to the public for another week, but I wanted to show it to you before, both as a birthday present and also to confirm that you give us permission to use your image. Just say the word and we will back out. This is important, Swan. " Killian looked at her intently.

She had no doubt that he would do it, that if she didn't agree, he would take down all the photos on the wall with his own hands. That certainty did nothing but increase her feelings towards him, causing a lump in her throat while she looked at him completely stunned, unable to utter any words.

Killian must have interpreted her silence in the wrong way because before she could reply, he continued with his explanation. "It's reward enough for me to have witnessed your reaction. That’s what I wanted when I set up all this, to show you how wonderful you are as a model and maybe, to believe in myself again. I’m getting it now through your reaction. I don't give a shit about what others may think."

"Others, and with others, I mean the rest of the world, are going to be impressed with your art. You deserve to have the rest of the world recognize your talent in the same way that I do." She nodded to emphasize her speech. Her reaction managed to pull a smile from his lips, to which she responded with one of her own. "And now, I may need a special guide to tour this exhibition." Emma offered her hand, ready to enjoy her gift in its entirety.

What impressed her the most about Killian's art work, besides his undeniable talent, was that walking around the room observing the photos was like walking through their shared memories. Each image, from the simple photo of her strolling on the beach at sunset to the photo in which only her hands appeared braiding her hair, all had a special meaning for her, and for both as a couple.

But there were four special photos that caused her to gasp when her eyes landed on them. The first photo was chosen from that photo shoot in early May, when she was wearing his black shirt. Yeah, the one with the bare shoulder.

It was amazing how Killian had managed to capture her enigmatic gaze and convey sensuality and delicacy at the same time. He made her look like a powerful and impressive woman. A strange sensation settled in the pit of her stomach when she saw herself in that startling image, as if she did not identify with the person that appeared.

Killian must have sensed the emotion crossing her mind since he circled her waist with his arms from behind as he murmured in her ear. "It seems that I changed my mind and I've decided to share the marvel I've got for a girlfriend with the rest of the world." "I'm not complaining." She turned her head looking for his lips for a quick kiss. "I look damn good there. I don't know how you did it." "It's all your merit, Swan." "Sure." She rolled her eyes as she continued walking.

The next photo pulled her lips into a smile for both the image itself and the memory behind it. Killian had managed to capture a close-up of one of her eyes and a tear that had begun to slide down her cheek. A new wave of admiration washed over her since he had captured the moment, pausing the tear eternally on its way down. And even though the photo was black and white, the intense brightness of her gaze was evident.

What people wouldn't know was the light source or that she wasn't crying with sadness - well, maybe yes, or, whatever... They had watched Titanic together for the first time a couple of months ago and Killian had made fun of her from the very beginning since she had been trying to hold back tears throughout the film. With the inevitable death of Jack, she hadn't been able to help it anymore and a furtive tear had finally escaped. Killian had decided at that precise moment to grab his camera, of course. And now, they were seeing the result right here.

Approaching the next photo, the one that occupied a privileged place in the room for obvious reasons, she screamed, literally. "Oh my God!"

The dimensions of the photo were somewhat larger than the others, which made it stand out even more. Emma’s image stood in the center of the picture with her back to the camera, submerged up to her waist in a lake. She wore a white dress and over it, a kind of light coat of the same color, adorned with fake feathers. She had her arms raised on either side of her body at shoulder height, the wide sleeves of her cloak creating the effect of wings in the air. Her hair was pulled up in a high bun and her head was slightly tilted upwards, her neck stretched out, her elegant posture emulating a swan. The light at that hour of the day fell over her in such a way that it seemed that a luminous halo surrounded her. The image was hypnotic and powerful and perfect. And it was her boyfriend's artwork.

But the best of all was the story behind that picture. They had found the cloak while walking through an antique market one summer day and Killian had felt inspired, so he had spent the next two days looking for the best location to carry out the photo shoot. Despite her initial apprehension of getting into the water with clothes on, she had enjoyed the photo shoot, following Killian's instructions and contributing with her own ideas since she was enthusiastic about emulating her namesake swan.

Given that the place Killian had found was sufficiently recondite, they had decided to celebrate the end of the session in a rather pleasurable way, gaining not only memories of one of her best jobs as an improvised model, but memories of making love under the trees, a blanket of vegetation beneath them. A warm feeling ran through her body as Emma shared a knowing glance with Killian. Without a doubt, their minds were reliving that unforgettable moment.

She remembered something else too - something not so nice. She had been so excited to see the result of the photos that she had felt totally devastated when Killian had told her that he had inexplicably lost the content of that photo shoot.

"You didn't lose the photos! You're a liar!" She recriminated him poking a finger into his chest.

"Sorry?" Killian gave her an apologetic look, but the grin he wore indicated he didn't feel sorry at all. "I needed you to see the picture for the first time right here, Swan." His lips drew a pout in his attempt to defend himself.

"I want a copy of this photo." She sued.

"As you wish." His head made a slight bow. "You can have all the copies you want, love." He assured.

She looked at the image again, discovering with each glance a new small detail, like the few clouds that adorned the sky. "It's just perfect, Killian. Congratulations."

"Again, the merit is all yours. Well, and maybe the sun also has something to do with it as that day, it decided to grace us with its splendor. But I mean it, you're not only stunning but you're always willing to participate in my crazy ideas. I really appreciate it, Emma." As he spoke he approached her, invading her personal space and placing both his hand and his prosthesis on either side of her waist. She, in turn, encircled his neck with her arms.

"I'm in love with an artist, I'm the privileged one here, believe me."

After being enthralled for a few seconds, both lost in each other's eyes, Killian shook his head slightly, as if trying to get out of the trance and offered his hand to Emma, guiding her to the last photograph of the exhibit.

Again, contemplating the image brought more emotion to her already excited heart. This time her eyes filled with tears and her heart fluttered as she looked at the picture in front of her. A photo of a family hug that she remembered very well, of the day she had finally decided to accept that she was part of a family. She had her back to the camera, but the image did show the faces of her parents, both wrapping her up in a protective hug, wearing the same expression of relief and love.

"That's the only photo of the collection that I took with my mobile, but I felt the need to include it here, since that's your life now - our life." He corrected himself as he reached for her cheek to wipe away the tears.

"See? You ended up messing up my makeup." She made a sound that was half-sob and half-giggle. When she got her emotions to calm down she finally was able to thank Killian properly. "Thank you so much, Killian. This surprise has exceeded expectations and this birthday gift competes with the one I received last year, the one who brought me to you."

"Speaking of which, love, your gift may not be over yet. In fact, I need you to close your eyes again. It will only be a few steps, I promise." He seemed so excited, almost bouncing in place, that she could not do anything but accept, close her eyes and trust him.

Only a few steps later they stopped again while Killian whispered that she could already open her eyes. When she did, she found a new smaller showroom. In contrast to the previous room, the photos that appeared hanging from the walls were an explosion of color. She didn't identify the photos at first, too shocked by all the emotions she had experienced throughout the day. But when her brain finally processed what her eyes were watching, she had to cover her mouth with both hands to avoid screaming again.

Killian had filled the walls with her own photographs, the ones she had taken and edited over the past few months. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized that she was contemplating her first photographic exhibition.

"Killian..." It was the only sound she could utter before a sob bubbled in her throat. Her agitation did not diminish when he handed her her own informational brochure, rather quite the contrary.

The amateur photographer, Emma Swan, presents her first photographic collection, Pictures of Reality, a work that stands out for the ability to immortalize little pieces of the reality of her place of residence, Storybrooke, a town located on the coast of Maine, and turn them into something special, beautiful and full of meaning. The intelligent use of colors in these small everyday scenes gives her work a great visual quality.

She was not just crying now, her eyes were two fucking fountains. Her gaze was so clouded with tears that she wasn't even able to observe her own work. "God, Killian, I hope this is the last surprise, because I swear I'm going to dry up inside."

This time, he did not even bother to wipe her tears, as it would have been an impossible task. He directly handed her a tissue as he pulled her lightly to guide her through the exhibition hall.

Now, she understood his insistence for her to edit her own photographs. He had managed to make everything that hung on the walls appear to be the result of her work, minus the actual printing of the photographs. And she admired him even more for it, for giving her the wings that would allow her to fly to reach her dreams.

"You're bloody brilliant, love. See all those photos? They’re talking, they're telling us stories, you've been able to capture those stories in your images." The smile of pride that adorned his face was enough for her to be about to burst into tears again, but this time she resisted.

There were photos taken from the docks, families walking, an old man sitting on a bench and telling stories to his grandchildren while the kids watched him enraptured. Killian had also included the photo of Olaf, the snowman, the one that she took the day of their practices in the snow. There were also photos of the nature that surrounded Storybrooke, photos of its inhabitants, photos of Henry, of her parents... Even the two of them also appeared, or at least their two hands intertwined.

Something changed in Killian's attitude as they stood right in front of that photo. His usual confidence seemed to have abandoned him, and a slight blush colored his cheeks. It was evident that he was up to something but she was not sure that she could handle even more surprises.

"Don’t you think there's something missing in that picture?" He asked, his chin pointing toward the photo as he reached out to scratch behind his ear.

Emma tilted her head, studying his features from under her lashes for a few seconds until her gaze finally drifted to the image. Her eyes narrowed trying to detect what could be missing. "I don't know, maybe the lighting? Or the saturation? Or perhaps the focus?"

"The photo is perfect both artistically and technically, but there is something missing on one of your fingers." Out of the corner of her eye, Emma watched as Killian pulled something out of his pants pocket and showed it to her. A ring.

"No!" She gasped unable to stop the emotion.

"No?"

A wrinkle of worry appeared on Killian's forehead as he remained still. Dammit! She shook her head and hurried to explain herself. "I mean, it's an 'I can't believe this is happening' sort of no..." She held her breath as she thought her heart was going to explode if he did not make any move.

After a few seconds that seemed eternal, the corners of his lips twisted upwards, the flash of something promising dancing in his eyes. "It would be an honor for me if you'd allow me to be a part of our own pictures of reality by becoming your life partner." Her gaze bored into his briefly until she shook her head in an attempt to get out of the trance. "Is that your way of asking me to marry you, Jones?" "Is it working?" He offered her a tentative smile. "Yes!" "I'm afraid I need you to be more specific here. That 'yes' means that it's working or that you do want to marry me?" "Oh my god, Killian." She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I want to marry you." Emma affirmed before throwing herself into his arms and capturing his lips with hers. An endless number of sensations danced inside her, causing her to feel like floating, not quite sure if what she was experiencing was real or just the sweetest of dreams. Only when they parted to catch their breaths did she realize that he still held the ring in his hand. "What are you waiting for? Put that ring on my finger, Jones." Emma offered her hand palm down. "So demanding, Swan." He smirked while he finally placed the ring where it belonged. "But you love me." "I do, with all my heart."

A flash crossed her mind at that moment when she remembered the first birthday they had shared, his, and the Nol... her parents' warning that he never celebrated it. "Would you let me do something special for you for your next birthday? I mean, I won't even get close to this, but I can try."

"Even at the risk of sounding a bit corny, my birthday will be special enough just by having you by my side."

"You know what I mean, Killian..."

There was a pause in which Emma was able to deduce that Killian was torn between staying anchored to his past or giving the future a chance. The ring she now wore on her finger was an indication and the bright smile he offered anticipated the answer, to her relief. "Even though you don't need to do anything special..."

"I don't need, I want to." Emma corrected.

"Okay then. I won't be opposed any surprise when it's time to celebrate my next birthday."

"Good." Her mind then began to work frantically, searching for ideas about how she might surprise him, now that Killian seemed willing to move on. Maybe that promised trip to London… But there were still a few months left for that. In the meantime, she still had many hours ahead to continue enjoying her special day.

//

Emma couldn't stop glancing at her new ring on the ride back to Storybrooke. Not even in her best dreams had she imagined that she would end up engaged on her birthday. The possibility of a wedding was something that she wouldn't ever have thought of until now, honestly, since from the day she had chosen to give a new opportunity to her relationship with Killian, she had decided to enjoy the day to day, without thinking too much about the future.

She didn't really need a ring, not an engagement, or even a wedding to consolidate her feelings towards Killian but somehow, the idea of celebrating with all their friends and family the commitment of their eternal love suddenly sounded more and more appealing. She couldn't wait to see the reaction of the others.

"I guess David will jump for joy when he finds out, now that he can finally call you son..." Emma made a deliberate pause. "...in-law."

"Well ..." Killian gave her a sidelong glance before focusing his eyes on the road again. "Your father may be aware of the news already... I... I asked for his blessing the other day..."

"Of course you did." Emma shook her head slightly as she couldn't prevent a smile from appearing on her face at the evidence, once again, of the strength of her new fiance's relationship with her father. A new idea crossed her mind at that moment, something she hadn't thought about until now. When the wedding took place, someone would have to walk her down the aisle and someone would have to be Killian's best man... No doubt David was going to be a very busy man that day.

With that in mind, she leaned against the back of her seat and closed her eyes, letting the last sunshine of the day caress her skin while a sensation of bliss spread through her body.

//

The first thing Mary Margaret did when Emma and Killian came through Granny's door was to look at her left hand as her eyes filled with tears and then she wrapped them both in a tight hug.

There were other curious reactions to the announcement of their engagement, such as Ruby and Graham's.

"Tell me it was you who asked him, Emma." Ruby demanded with a pleading look.

"Eh, not really." Emma replied slowly, not quite sure what all this was about. Her response caused Graham to raise his fist in the air in triumph as Ruby let out a snort of annoyance as she handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

"Wait... Is this a kind of bet or something?" Killian asked as he furrowed his brow in confusion.

"It's totally a bet. Here, my boyfriend and Ruby had the brilliant idea of betting who would be the one asking for the other’s hand in marriage." Elsa explained trying (and failing) to keep a serious expression.

Emma and Killian looked at each other while Killian raised an eyebrow and his lips began to draw a smirk. She shook her head in disbelief, for not having been aware at any time of the bet of her two friends, but she also felt glad because, with their gesture, they implied that they were certain that the engagement would happen sooner or later.

"It's not funny." Ruby grumbled as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Why do men always have to do it? Elsa, you're my last hope!” Ruby smirked at her, showing that she had already recovered after finding a new target. Graham and Elsa instead blushed in unison as they both looked at the floor. It seemed obvious that soon new wedding bells would sound in Storybrooke.

To the relief of the new couple in love, the other guests began to approach Emma and Killian to give them the appropriate congratulations. Henry was the last to do it. After sharing a hug full of affection with Emma, his gaze traveled from Emma to Killian while he wore a thoughtful expression.

"If the three best photographers in the town will be the main ones involved in the wedding, who will be in charge of taking the photos?" He asked with genuine interest.

"Well..." Killian raised his eyebrows as he glanced at his former students, all present at the event. "I think we have quite a few candidates here who will do a worthy job."

"We learned from the best, professor!" Will shouted, causing the rest of them to clap, while the tips of her fiancé's ears turned a characteristic pink color. There was no doubt that Killian had left a mark on each of them and for one reason or another, that course would always remain in their memories. In hers, of course, the course had a special place.

Once all congratulations on the engagement finished, it was time for another celebration, her birthday, and the reason why the party had been launched in the first place. If she thought the surprises were over after their visit to the exhibition hall and after getting engaged, she was wrong. Maybe she had already known in advance that a party in her honor had been waiting for her in Storybrooke, but what she did not expect at all was to find so many displays of affection, so many smiles, so many gifts. Everything for her, all because of her.

The arrival at Storybrooke two years ago had meant the end of her lonely birthday celebrations, but this was the first time she had done it with a real family around her and with the promise of the new family that she and Killian would soon start.

She kept the tradition of blowing the lonely candle in a cupcake, but now she didn't need to take a selfie to capture the moment, many people volunteered to do so. It was Elsa, the second most advantaged student of the course, the person chosen to immortalize the scene while Emma closed her eyes and let herself be carried away by the feeling of being loved, and with the simple wish that both her happiness and that of her loved ones last forever.

The tears shed didn't end with Killian's surprises either. She had never considered herself a weeping person but now that love in all senses of the word ran wild through her veins, she finally allowed herself to express her feelings and be vulnerable.

For that reason, she was unable to hold back the tears when she opened her parent's gift. An old Polaroid camera, the same style as the one Killian still had and like the one she had lost so many years ago. A new wave of affection both to her parents and to her recent fiancé —it was evident that Killian was also behind this surprise— took hold of her.

She reserved the last tears for later, with Killian and the four walls of their bedroom as the only witnesses. Besides the camera, her father had also given her a new letter. Although she had felt the almost unstoppable impulse to read it right there, she had finally preferred to do it in privacy. It was like this: holding the letter handwritten by her father while Killian's arms wrapped her as the happiest day of her life ended. The best part was that that day was only the first of many that were to come.

My dearest Emma,

Happy birthday, my dear daughter. May all your dreams come true.

I’m aware that we have already established that now that we have finally met, these letters are no longer necessary. But, since this has been my only contact with you all these years, would you allow me to write you one last time? Or maybe we could turn it into our little tradition, something just between you and me. Would you like that?

I'm honestly unable to explain in words how utterly happy I am to be with you on this special day and not just settle for watching you in the distance or writing longing letters hoping against hope that one day they would reach to you.

That day arrived at the moment when, in your huge generosity, you decided to forgive us and include us in your life, being part of your family.

I know that I will live the rest of my life trying to compensate you for all these years that we have spent separated. But today is a special day for you and also for us, it's not time to look back to the past but to look forward.

It's likely that when you read this letter you will have discovered the surprises that Killian has prepared for you. You can not imagine how incredibly proud I feel of you, of your talent, of your ability to achieve everything you set out to do.

Maybe your hand, the one that holds this letter, is wearing now something that wasn't there a few hours ago. Killian came to me a couple of weeks ago, telling me all the plans he had for your birthday and asking for my blessing to marry you.

I was aware that this would happen sooner or later, but that didn't stop my heart from bursting with happiness knowing that my family was finally going to be complete, that the person I've seen growing up, my best friend, that loyal and honorable man, will be part of our family officially.

I send my best wishes to you both, so that you are able to build that family that you deserve so much. We will be by your side whenever you allow us, helping and supporting you in this new stage of your journey in life.

I won't assume that I will be the one that walks you down the aisle, Emma, but in case you are so kind to choose me, it would be my most complete honor to accompany you on that special day and witness one of your milestones. We have lost so many throughout your life that I honestly hope not to miss a single one more.

Your father who loves you and will always be by your side,

David.

Killian Jones. Storybrooke - May 3, 2021

It was a bright day in early May. The soft sea breeze ruffled his hair as the warm sun's rays caressed his skin, the salty scent penetrating through his nostrils. Killian was at the docks, leaning over the railing, holding his inseparable camera between his hand and his prosthesis while he captured the magic of the sunset, the sky turning into a canvas of reddish and orange hues.

The ocean had always had a calming effect on him, both the sound and the movement of the waves had managed to alleviate the agony of his heart or make the burden of his past more bearable. Even now, when his heart was not only in peace but overflowing with happiness and his old ghosts were no more than a vestige of the past that only made an appearance from time to time, he still enjoyed the effect of the sea on him. Both he and his wife did so to the point that they had begun to consider buying a boat and making photographic expeditions along the coast of Maine. Or even further, only they would establish the limit.

His wife. He let the word slide through his mind as he could almost taste its meaning by watching the ring in his hand, one of the many proofs that what he was experiencing wasn't a dream, it was real. So real that sometimes the feeling was too overwhelming. This was his life now, waiting for his wife and father in law in one of their favorite spots of the town to later enjoy a peaceful dinner together. It was a simple and perhaps predictable life but he wouldn't change it for anything in the world.

Emma had asked him on occasion if he missed his years of adventure traveling to exotic places or working on risky missions so that the world would not forget the most disadvantaged people. The answer was always immediate. No, he didn't miss his previous life, not when he now had something to live for. And he could always fight injustice by offering his services in another way.

Just then, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, while a sense of anticipation hummed under his skin. He just needed to turn his head slightly to find the cause. Emma, his wife, the imminent future mother of his daughter, the love of his life, was walking towards him, causing his heart to flutter. She looked like a goddess, dressed in all white, her golden hair dancing to the rhythm of the sea breeze, her lips drawing a loving smile and her bright green eyes fixed on him.

His fingers began to tingle so he had no choice but to give in to the impulse, grabbing the camera to capture the image of the impressive woman he had for a wife. She was his muse, the person who had brought inspiration back to his life, after all. Knowing she was observed, she didn't hesitate to pose for him while her hand caressed her very swollen belly.

Only when he was satisfied enough with the result of his improvised photo shoot did she approach him, planting a loud kiss on his lips.

"This tiny little baby is not even born yet and she has already got more pictures than her mother and father together. I don't even want to imagine what will happen to us when she finally decides to arrive. We're going to have to buy a new apartment just to get more walls to hang her photos."

A laugh bubbled from his chest as he pushed aside the camera that hung around his neck to make space for his wife in his arms. "Oddly enough, I wasn't taking pictures of her, but of her stunning mum."

"You mean the whale I've become." She grumbled, her lips drawing an adorable pout. "I honestly can't wait for this baby to arrive, I think I'm going to explode at any moment."

Killian chuckled as he bent over until his face was at the same level as Emma's belly, leaving a delicate kiss on the fabric that covered her as he whispered, "Don’t listen to your mother, little love, she is and always will be the most beautiful woman, at least until you get here, of course."

He didn't need to look at his wife's face to know that she was rolling her eyes at that moment, although the smile pulling at her lips would become wider.

"This baby and her mom are pretty hungry. Why don't we head for Granny's right now?"

It was then that Killian realized that Emma had arrived alone. She and David were supposed to come directly from the newspaper office and then the three of them would meet with Mary Margaret at Granny's.

True to her decision, Emma had begun her studies to become a journalist and she was already in the process of getting it. Meanwhile, she had started to work in the local newspaper under her father's orders, thus achieving not only a source of income but to strengthen bonds with David.

"Where's your father?"

Emma rolled her eyes before answering. "He got a call from Mary Margaret for him to pick her up. Guess where she was?"

"In our house?" Killian asked, knowing in advance the answer for Emma's reaction.

"Yeah, apparently she's found the nicest crib sheet set ever and she just had to have everything ready because of the imminent arrival of this little human being." She pointed towards her belly. Although there was a slight bit of complaint in her voice and her brows furrowed slightly, Killian knew that she didn't mind at all that her mother had taken control of the baby's preparations.

They had previously talked about this and both agreed. Emma understood their reasons, accepting that their granddaughter was going to give them the opportunity to experience all that they had missed with her since, in addition, they had decided long ago that they wouldn't become parents again, that they wouldn't look for a substitute for their lost daughter.

Emma and Killian weren't going to complain if that meant lightening their responsibilities and enjoying more time together. They even have already predicted future dates when their little girl had grown enough to stay in the care of her grandparents from time to time.

"By the way, I caught David again today." Emma's voice brought him back to reality. "He adores you, you know, don't you? He was talking on the phone with someone and he wouldn't stop talking like this 'my son this... my son that...'  He seems to always forget the 'in-law ' when he refers to you."

A warm sensation spread to his heart when he heard Emma. The feeling was mutual. If before the ties with David and Mary Margaret were strong, now that they had officially become family they were indestructible. David was not only his father-in-law but his best friend, his co-worker from time to time and the father figure he had needed so much since the loss of his brother. "But you and I know that doesn't bother you, right?"

"Nah, I find it pretty adorable, sort of weird, but adorable nonetheless." Emma offered him a soft smile while her hand caressed her belly again. "And now that I'm talking about him, I'm going to send them a text because my stomach is literally growling. I'm gonna faint if I don't eat any food in the next few minutes." Emma pulled the phone out of her purse and typed on the screen quickly. Next, she offered her hand. "Shall we?"

"We shall." Killian held her hand but instead of walking, he brought her hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles as his eyes locked on hers. "Did I tell you today how much I love you, Swan?"

Emma remained thoughtful for a few seconds before answering. "Only a couple of times, but I wouldn't mind listening to it again."

The adorable smile that appeared on her lips almost made him forget to say the words, but he repressed the desire to kiss her senselessly until a little later. "Just a reminder, I love you Emma Swan-Jones."

"I love you too, Killian Jones. And now kiss your wife already."

He happily obliged.

David Nolan. Storybrooke -  May 3, 2021

When David arrived at his daughter and Killian's apartment, he went directly to the small nursery, the room next to the master suite that had served as a dark room before they decided to move into that apartment and transform Emma's old apartment as a photo studio.

Mary Margaret was already there, but instead of keeping busy or simply watching distractedly the bedroom that would welcome their granddaughter in just a few weeks — in just a few days if they were lucky— he found her in the middle of the room, staring at the screen of her phone while covering her mouth with her free hand.

A tug of concern settled in the pit of his stomach as he hurried to get to his wife. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

Mary Margaret flinched as she noticed his presence, while she looked away from the phone at him, her eyes full of tears that threatened to spill. "David..." She gasped. Then she shook her head, as if she had finished processing the information, while her face lit up. "Nothing is wrong, it's the opposite of wrong, actually. Everything is perfect." She breathed out while she handed him her phone.

Hi mom! Did dad already arrive? Your granddaughter and I are starving, so we're heading to Granny's now. Don't be late unless you want to arrive when I've devoured half of Granny's pantry. ES

Oh, and mom? Can you get me the jar of pickles that I keep in the cupboard? I may have a kind of craving right now and Ruby texted me to inform me that they have run out of stock. Can you believe it? ES

Mom and dad... David's heart thudded in his chest as his stomach fluttered, when he read those words for the first time. Emma had accepted them as parents a long time ago, and he was aware that she referred to them as such when talking to other people, but never when talking directly to them. Until now.

And the way she had chosen to do it only increased his love for her. She had used a simple text, something causal that in other circumstances would be impersonal, and had transformed it into something magical and special just by using two words. He didn't know if his poor heart would resist when she finally uttered the words out loud.

"Let's go get our daughter and son." David grabbed his wife's hand, pulling her gently while placing a soft kiss on the top of her head. Before leaving the nursery, he took a last look, while a warm sensation spread to his heart. Their granddaughter wasn't yet born, but her bedroom was already full of life, with warm colors, photos, and drawings adorning the walls. Even the old rag doll that was once destined for Emma now occupied a privileged place in the room.

There was no doubt that she would always be surrounded by memories in the form of pictures and stories and, above all, surrounded by the love of her entire family. He couldn't wait to finally meet her, hold her in his arms and never let her go.

TheLadySwan Family, that wide concept that encompasses endless possibilities, such as the unconventional family, without blood ties between its members, but with an indestructible union despite the misfortunes they go through. Or as the family that is reunited after too many years apart and whose members have to re-establish the ties that were broken at the beginning. Or as the family that is about to add a new member, a tiny person who has not yet been born but who has already managed to create unbreakable ties with the rest of her loved ones. Your whole family is looking forward to your arrival, Hope. 

//

This is the end...

I will never be able to thank the mods of @captainswanbigbang  enough for creating and organizing this amazing event and for allowing me to participate. Thanks to that, I’ve managed to finish my first MC. This story has meant so much to me on so many levels that this experience will always remain in my memory.

[pcndemoniums]

MALACHI THORN - WELCOME TO ASHBOURNE VERSE

FULL NAME:  malachi avery thorn

NICKNAME/S: mal, bastard, you, asshole, leech, motherfucker, cocksucker, among others he doesn’t know about.

D. O. B.: april 30th 1913

D. O. D: april 29th 1945

AGE: 105 years old, 32 human years

GENDER: cis male

ORIENTATION: homoromantic bisexual

NATIONALITY: german and british

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: he/him

SPECIES:  human ( formerly) , vampire ( currently )

BLOODLINE: furorem & orphan

BIRTH PLACE: london, england

CURRENT LIVING SITUATION:  a house in ashbourne

OCCUPATION:   co- owner of the pit & pademonium

LANGUAGES: english (fluent), german (fluent), french (advanced), italian (conversational), spanish (conversational), japanese ( conversational )

ACCENT: british with a hint of german.

OTHER TALENTS: gifted painterand violinist. knows how to play the piano but doesn’t practice it. sometimes writes poetry but doesn’t share it.

APPEARANCE:

HEIGHT: 5′11

BUILD: slim but with good muscle definition

SKIN TONE: fair

HAIR COLOR: dirty blond/brown with redish highlights

EYE COLOR: blue

GLASSES OR CONTACTS:  none

BIRTHMARKS/SCARS: a few scars running down his back from his time spent in concentration camps.

TATTOOS/PIERCINGS: i like jomo’s tats so i’m using them as hc’s. a skull and violin tattoo on his left side. he used to have a serial number on his forearm but it’s gone now.

LEFT HANDED/RIGHT HANDED: right handed

MOST PROMINENT FEATURE: intense glare and malicious smile

CLOTHING STYLE: casual style. he enjoys wearing  modern slim fit sweaters or basic t-shirts, paired with jeans and boots. he often accessorizes with leather bracelet or necklaces. he also favors leather jackets.

FACE CLAIM: joseph morgan

RELATIONSHIPS:

FAMILY: derry thorn (father, deceased); claire thorn (mother, deceased);  jacob, noah, alexander and mason  (siblings, deceased)

PETS: human pets count?

BEST FRIENDS: anne lavenski & henryk barczak. ariana fawn gets a shout out

FOES: everyone else

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: being gross with henryk barczak

SIRE: who cares?

FLEDGLINGS: anne lavenski, nicolette gardner, justin anderson, beatrice marshall, dimitri valentin, a full congregation, sid vicious ( he’s not dead guys ),  a group of traveling actors in paris, among others.

FAVORITE FLEDGLING: anne lavenski

BLOOD SIBLINGS: none that he is aware of

PERSONALITY:

WHAT WOULD BE THEIR CHARACTER ARCHETYPE: the manipulator, the corrupter

STRONGEST CHARACTER TRAIT/S: cleverness, has a photographic memory, artistic, passionate, can read people easily, loyal to those he actually loves.

WEAKEST CHARACTER TRAIT/S: jealousy, fear of abandonment, has deep trust issues and insecurities, prone to violence, reckless and impulsive, loud mouth, possessive and cruel

PHOBIAS/FEAR/S: abandonment, tight spaces (claustrophobic), isolation

BIGGEST SECRET/S:  he doesn’t tell people about his past and what he went through. there are a few people who know because they were either there, because he trusted them enough to tell them or they put two and two together somehow. only two people know he has night terrors and what they are about.

BAD HABITS: jumping to conclusions, acts before he thinks, tightening his jaw when angry, drinking far too much, smoking, pushing people away even when he wants them to be around, sabotaging his own happiness

OBSESSIONS: henryk barczak, painting, making fledglings ( although not so much anymore ), being a life ruiner

RELIGION: atheist

ZODIAC SIGN:  taurus

HOGWARTS HOUSE: none. he would get kicked out on day one

MORAL ALIGNMENT:  chaotic neutral. yes, neutral, i was shocked too

OPINION ON DRUG USE: good for spicing things up

OPINION ON ALCOHOL USE: he’s basically an alcoholic, what do you think?

OPINION ON SWEARING: a necessary evil

QUIRKS:

HOBBIES: painting, reading, playing the violin, glorious murder, pushing people’s buttons

OUTDOORS OR INDOOR PERSON: depends on his mood

FAVORITE TYPE OF MUSIC: classical, 70′s rock and some alternative music. he went through a punk phase in the 80′s but it was short lived.

FAVORITE COLOR: red, duh

FAVORITE FOOD: blood, double duh. although if we are talking human food, he does like his onion rings.

FAVORITE ANIMAL: butterflies, don’t judge. well, moths to be more precise.

FAVORITE BOOK: don quixote by manuel de cervantes and fahrenheit 451 by ray bradbury

FAVORITE SCENT: leather, cigarettes, whiskey, aftershave, the way henryk smells after sex

INSTAGRAM: malbrotz

WHAT DOES THEIR VOICEMAIL MESSAGE SOUND LIKE: “please deposit 25 cents for the next three minutes”

PAST /FUTURE:

WHAT WERE THEY LIKE AS A CHILD: very inquisitive, always trying to figure things out. was reckless from the start and a bit of a handful because he could never stay put. he was the youngest of five boys who liked to bully him a little, so he learned how to put walls up at a very young age.  

DID THEY GROW UP RICH OR POOR: poor

DID THEY GROW UP NURTURED OR NEGLECTED: nurtured. his father wasn’t around much because he worked all the time but he was a mommas boy.

WHAT DID THEY WANT TO BE WHEN THEY GREW UP: before the war started, malachi had plans on moving to italy or paris to learn more about art and music.

SMELL THAT REMINDS THEM OF THEIR CHILDHOOD: the smell of rain on grass, freshly baked bread because his mother used to bake all the time.

BEST CHILDHOOD MEMORY: his mother and him used to play in the rain, jumping on puddles. one time he got really sick and spent a whole day in bed. his mom brought him home made soup and spoiled him rotten by telling him all kinds of stories.

WORST CHILDHOOD MEMORY: when his father died. his mum died when he was an adult so its not exactly a childhood memory even though the pain was a lot worse.

ARE THEY/DO THEY WANT TO GET MARRIED: fuck no. but he does want to spend his life with a certain someone.

WILL THEY EVER SETTLE DOWN SOMEWHERE: if its worth it.