#and uhhh I don’t often make live reblogs of me reading chapters so don’t expect more moving forward lol

[w1lmutt]

Oh I can tell this series is gonna keep giving me emotional damage

[lifeinahole27]

CS ff: “Walking the Tightrope” (Epilogue) (au)

Summary: Killian’s daily routines are a matter of habit. When he wakes up late one morning, his routines all change for the better. Emma doesn’t care about routines, but she does care about Killian, no matter how reluctant she is to admit it to herself.

Rating: E (the content warnings matter this time!)

Content Warnings: There’s uhhh... poetry smut.

A Special Thank You: My continued gratitude to my lovely friends, @captainstudmuffin and @phiralovesloki. And a heap of love to @captainswanbigbang for putting this together and helping me accomplish this.

A/N: Holy crap! Here we are! It’s the end of the story!! Now, for those of you who read the original story, there’s not a whole lot that’s changed. I edited everything to fit the rest of the story and writing style, since the original version was a little rough, but other than little bits, it’s what you remember. If you didn’t read this, then welcome to the end! 

My eternal gratitude to those who helped me finish this, those who helped find my errors (my two lovely ladies are listed above), to those who read this! Who reblogged it! Who left comments and sweet tags and sent messages and made this all worth it. I constantly say that I cannot express how thankful I am and it’s true. With only words, I can only say, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. <3<3

This epilogue is meant to tie bows around a couple major things and send these off the best way I know how. I still have a stack of headcanons and info that wouldn’t fit in here. I would love to share these things if anyone is curious. If you are, or have questions, or want to talk about specific parts, please send me messages. I would love to chat about this world that has lived in my brain and morphed over the last FIVE YEARS. 

(Poetry included is not mine: All rights reserved to Pablo Neruda "My love, understand me" and "Night on the Island" and to Leonard Cohen "The Mists of Pornography")

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 |

Find it on Ao3 & FFN!

-x-

Epilogue: The Art of Poetry

-x- April 

The day that Killian forgets the coffee mugs on his counter is the day he locks himself out of his apartment for the first time. He and Emma huddle on the front stoop together in the early morning chill waiting for his landlord to come unlock the door. He opens his jacket and pulls her closer, jumping when her cold nose touches his collarbone and she chuckles as she repeats the action until her nose is warm and he’s even warmer. They thank Marco profusely when he arrives with the spare set of keys.

They’re also both late for work that day.

The next day, when Emma comes back from getting coffee, there’s an envelope propped in front of her computer at work. When she opens it, a weight settles in the envelope and she pulls out the folded note. Killian’s neat handwriting stretches across the paper.

“My love,

understand me,

I love all of you,

from eyes to feet, to toenails,

inside

all the brightness, which you kept.

It is I, my love,

who knocks at your door.”

So next time I lock myself out, you can unlock it for me.

She peers into the envelope to see the key resting in the bottom and thinks he may be onto something with poetry if it always sounds like that.

Emma makes sure to beat Killian to the door when they walk back to his place after work so she can try out her new key, and she only smiles wider when the lock slides open. She makes a big show of swinging open the door, gesturing him inside with a sweep of her arm. 

When she gets home that night, Snow and David have once again broken into her loft, but she doesn’t much care for two reasons. Firstly, she knew they were going to do this after they texted her twenty minutes ago and asked whether or not she was spending the night at Killian’s. Secondly, it takes her five whole seconds to read the message on Snow’s shirt that proudly states that she’s “Pregnant AF” (the shirt’s words, not hers) and there’s a whole bunch of happy crying and flailing that follows. 

-x- Late August

Emma arrives home a little late one night to Killian already making dinner. The routines they do still live with all include household chores and the way they divvy them up, and she’s perfectly fine with the structure he’s brought to her previously chaotic lifestyle. He glances over his shoulder when she walks in and smiles.

“Get stuck late again?”

“Not quite,” she says as she comes to stand behind him. “That smells amazing, by the way.”

“It’ll be done in just a bit.”

“Want me to set the table?”

“I’d like to know why you’re avoiding a simple inquiry into why you were so late in such an obvious manner.”

Emma sighs heavily. “I kind of walked all the way back to the loft before I realized I didn’t live there anymore.”

“Kind of? I don’t think that’s something you can kind of do, love,” he says, still managing to stir whatever it is he’s making even when she goes to swat his arm. 

“Okay, so I did. You said it yourself, though. Old habits, right?” She hops up on the counter to watch him cook. 

“Indeed, love. So, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How do you feel our adventures have measured up to the expectations?”

“Well, you didn’t turn into a frog.”

“Aye, I’m sure there’s still time for that. We’re only in the middle of this tale. We’ll just have to see where the pages take us from here.”

“You are such a fucking romance novelist,” she says, laughing brightly when Killian removes his sauce from the stove and turns it off before he moves in to attack. And even though she’s squirming to get away from his nimble fingers as they target her ticklish spots, she sends up a quick thank you to Killian’s faulty alarm clock and his old habit of routines. 

-x- September

“You could just leave those until later,” Killian says, coming up behind Emma as she washes their dishes from dinner. He has his hand and hook on her hips and his lips on her hair, his voice full of implication. 

He’s learned not to try to talk her out of cleaning up, and instead he just enjoys distracting her in the best ways possible. 

She’s wearing a skirt - something she only does when she’s out of leggings - and the soft gray jersey fabric clings to her hips before flaring and draping down. It hides much of her legs, but her backside looks fantastic in it. On top, she has a light yellow shirt that’s tickling at his memories, the lines of a poem he once memorized during his university years making their way back to mind. 

Steady movements continue as she washes and rinses each dish, stacking them in the drying rack before starting to scrub out the sink. He’s struggling to remember the lines, yellow sweater, and with a smirk he glides his hand down to palm the back of her thigh.

“These are anything but boyish haunches,” he says out loud. Emma gasps as the shift from peaceful innocence to dirty.

“What?”

He hums, nosing some of her hair aside so he can find her neck with his lips. “From a poem. Your shirt brought it back to me. ‘The Mists of Pornography’ was the title,” he responds, moving his hand to the front of her thigh and sliding it up to rest on a spot right below her hipbones.

“Why am I not surprised that you know something with ‘pornography’ in the title?”

“Ah, but Swan, it’s about much more than that. Close your eyes. Listen,” he says, and uses his hook to brush the hair off her neck and lean closer to her ear. He sways just a little bit closer as he starts to speak. 

When you rose out of the mist / of pornography - He runs a single finger along her spine until it rests between her shoulders - with your talk of marriage / and orgies / I was a mere boy / of fifty-seven / trying to make a fast buck / in the slow lane / It was ten years too late / but I finally got / the most beautiful girl / on the religious left / to go with her lips / to the sunless place - and here he makes sure to push his hips against her to emphasize as she snorts. He continues reciting, crowding her against the counter, making sure the edge is pressing right where he wants it to.

This was my life / in Los Angeles / when you slowly / removed your yellow sweater - As he speaks, he slowly draws her shirt over her head and she lifts her arms - and I slobbered over / your boyish haunches - He runs his hand over the path that started this all and pushes the skirt off her hips to rub over the back of a now-bare thigh - and I tried to be / a husband / to your dark and motherly / intentions.

I thank you / for the ponderous songs / I brought to completion / instead of fucking you / more often - He punctuates by rolling his hips against her and she gasps as she clutches the sink for stability, and he keeps going.

Your panic cannot hurry me here / and my panic and falling / shoulders / our shameless lives / are the grains / scattered for an offering / before the staggering heights / of our love - His hand glides over her stomach and up to cup a breast through her bra. He’s sure she can feel where his cock is pressing against her ass, hard and wanting. Her hips are pinned against the sink and with each line, he thrusts against her, slowly lighting the fuse of what promises to be a spectacular orgasm if he doesn’t stop.

And the other side of your anxiety / is a hammock of sweat / and moaning - It’s getting harder to pay attention to the poem, especially when he pulls down the straps and cups of her bra, palm meeting her already hardened nipples as he alternates between them. Her body shudders with pleasure and he struggles to continue - and time comes down / like the smallest pet of God / to lick our fingers - he licks her shoulder instead - as we sleep / in the tangle / of straps and bracelets. 

With a great deal of effort, he keeps going, trying to make the lines appear in his head so he can read them off with ease and still give her the attention she deserves - and Oh the sweetness of first nights / and twenty-third nights / and nights / after death and bitterness - She reaches one arm back to wrap around his neck and firmly grasps his hair - and the impeccable order / of the objects on the table - He’s rocking her into the counter at just the right speed and he can tell how close she is with each new word - the weightless irrelevance / of all our old intentions / as we undo / as we undo / every difference.

With the last word of the poem out of his mouth, she tugs hard at his hair and she climaxes, coming undone and leaning back against his chest and tries to catch her breath. 

“Oh god, Killian,” she moans. He’s still rocking them against the counter as she rides out her orgasm. “By far, this is the most interesting way you’ve ever made me orgasm.

“Have I made you a fan of poetry yet, Swan?” He moves his hand back down to her hips, his fingers sliding just under the waist of her panties. She feels loose and light as she turns in his arms and pulls him against her.

“A couple more poems like that and I can definitely be convinced,” she says. “But for now I think I’m more interested in spending time with this one. What was that about lips and sunless places?”

His mind reels because she drops to her knees between him and the cabinets. He grips the counter for stability when she drags her teeth over the zipper of his slacks.

“Think you can recite another one?” She unfastens his trousers, sliding the material down and taking his boxer briefs with it. She wraps one hand around the base of his cock, lightly gripping his hip with the other.

“Hmm?” He’s concentrating really hard on not rocking his hips forward into her skilled hands, incredibly aware of the counter just behind her head. The absolute last thing he wants to do is accidentally give his girlfriend a concussion.

“Another poem, Killian. You have another one up in that head of yours?” She leans in and licks the tip of his erection, grinning up at him.

His mind scrambles for any other poems he memorized.

“You’re making it incredibly difficult to concentrate, love, but I did always love a challenge” he admits, another moan pulling from him as she wraps her lips around the head and sucks lightly. She pulls back again and looks up at him, her smile shining in her eyes.

“You once promised to read me dirty poetry. You’ve given me one. Surely you have another up there,” she says before leaning forward to kiss a spot below his hip bone. 

“There once was a man from Nantucket,” he starts, but she cuts him off with her laughter.

“No, no. Make it a good one.”

The poem that finally makes its way to his mind is not dirty, but he knows she’ll appreciate it. He clears his throat, closing his eyes and trying to concentrate on the words in his head instead of the love at his feet.

All night I have slept with you / next to the sea, on the island. He begins, and she runs her hands along his thighs. Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep, / between fire and water. She grips his cock again and begins stroking it gently, placing kisses along his hip again as he continues.

Perhaps very late / our dreams joined / at the top or at the bottom, / up above like—

“Fuck, Emma,” he moans, her mouth going from the innocence of kisses to wrapping her lips around him once more and swirling her tongue around the tip.

“Keep going,” she pants out when she breaks away, dipping her head right back in when he starts reciting once more.

Perhaps your dream / drifted from mine / and through the dark sea / was seeking me / as before, / when you did not yet exist, / when without sighting you / I sailed by your side, / and your eyes sought / what now—/ bread, wine, love, and anger—/ I heap upon you / because you are the cup / that was waiting for the gifts of my life.

The hand that isn’t gripping the base of his cock trails up his thigh once more, pausing on his hip for a moment before brushing under the shirt that he’s still wearing and she runs her nails down his chest.

I have slept with you / all night long while / the dark earth spins / with the living and the dead, / and on waking suddenly / in the midst of the shadow / my arm encircled your waist. / Neither night nor sleep / could separate us.

She begins bobbing her head while her hand strokes the rest of his length, and it’s a struggle to remember the last stanza for a moment. He drops his head, opens his eyes again to watch her move and it’s too much. His movements against her during the first poem had already aroused him, and her attentions on him now are pushing him closer to the edge.

Emma moans around his length and his knuckles go white where he’s still gripping the counter. He can feel his release coming and she feels it too, speeds up and doesn’t prolong the torture. When it hits him, he has to brace his feet a little more so he doesn’t collapse. He’s breathing hard when she gracefully stands back up into the cage of his arms. She’s grinning, the cat that got the cream, as she winds her arms around his neck.

“Is that the end?” she asks, fingers threading through his hair. He shakes his head and swallows, wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.

I have slept with you / and on waking, your mouth, / come from your dream, / gave me the taste of earth, / of sea water, of seaweed, / of the depths of your life, / and I received your kiss / moistened by dawn / as if it came to me / from the sea that surrounds us.

He kisses her after saying the last verse, tasting his release still lingering on her tongue, and she hums into the kiss.

“Not bad,” she says when she breaks the kiss. “You may have just swayed my opinion. I’m now pro-poetry.” She’s smiling when she meets his eyes, and he chuckles. He places one more kiss on her forehead before bending to hastily pull his underwear back up, stepping out of his discarded trousers and leaving them on the floor.

“I’ll try a lofty and pretentious one next time,” he promises, remembering their previous discussions about poetry now that she’s brought them up.

“Only if you’re fucking me into the mattress when you do it,” she says off-handedly. He huffs out a laugh and rests his forehead against hers.

“You’ll be the death of me, love.” He hugs her tight to him as he says it and he can feel the laugh vibrate through her.

“But you love me anyways,” she responds, dancing her fingers across his shoulders.

“Aye, until the end of time.” He kisses her again, and she whispers her love for him across his lips.

And when they wind up in bed a short time later, he recites whatever he can think of—limericks, haiku, even a poem by Shel Silverstein—as he fulfills her request. 

When the Save-the-Dates go out a few months later, there is, indeed, an asterisk at the bottom that says “David was right.”

[goforwardgreenwriter-blog]

The Worm Reads: The Assassin’s Blade, Ch 23-24

Sorry this took so long but this book is fucking exhausting

Celaena and Ansel knew their little escapade with the Asterion horses would have consequences. Celaena had at least expected to have enough time to tell a decent lie about how they acquired the horses. But when they returned to the fortress and found Mikhail waiting, along with three other assassins, she knew that word of their stunt had somehow already reached the Master.

But how? Who told him? Who the hell saw them steal the horses and somehow got back to the fortress before them?

So, get this. The Mute Master has them alone in his chambers, no doubt about to get furious at them for pulling such a stunt, right? And then Celery pulls this fucking shit.

And suddenly, as the memory of that day echoed through her, she remembered the words Sam kept screaming at Arobynn as the King of the Assassins beat her, the words that she somehow had forgotten in the fog of pain: I’ll kill you!

You’re about to be possibly kicked out of a training fortress that you need to receive a letter of approval from in order to be allowed home and now you’re suddenly splooging over a guy because he... didn’t want you to be hurt? Like any decent fucking human being? God I fucking hate you, Celery, you stupid piece of shit.

After Celery finishes drooling  over Sammy wanting to kill Arobynn for hurting her, she at least has the good sense to take the fall for the idea since this is Ansel’s home and getting in trouble would extremely affect her.

Apparently the Mute Master is fairly chill with them stealing horses and Ansel tells Celery she can go tomorrow for her first private lesson. Jesus Christ, finally, this story is going somewhere.

Their punishment next morning is cleaning animal shit out of the pens.

Another benefit was that they didn’t have to go running. Though after four hours of shoveling animal droppings, Celaena would have begged to take the six-mile run instead.

Not really a benefit then, is it?

Celery goes to the Master’s hangout on the roof for her first lesson.

Celaena cleared her throat again, and the Master finally turned. She bowed, which, strangely, was something she felt he actually deserved, rather than something she ought to do.

Celery learning that diplomacy is a thing?? She really does grow stupider as the books go on, since in E0S she threatens and attempts to stab the people in a political meeting that don’t agree with her viewpoint.

The Mute Master gives her a basket with a snake inside and tells her to observe its movements, so she spends the lesson moving with the snake and copying its movements. It’s actually really cool and more interesting than generic swords training.

SJM describes some more cool training in passing about how Celery has to study the movements of other animals like bats and rabbits. So let me get this straight; a whole page in the market scene was dedicated to Celery crying because she wanted new shoes, and that’s plot important, but you skip over her training which was the whole point of her coming to this place.

I’m.... speechless. Utterly speechless. It isn’t often you see someone fail so badly at all aspects of writing, but SJM has done it. She has officially failed at a basic component of storytelling. And her books are New York bestsellers. Truly, the world isn’t a fair place.

And every day, Celaena went to sleep after lunch and dozed until the sun went down, her dreams full of snakes and rabbits and chirping desert beetles. Sometimes she spotted Mikhail training the acolytes, or found Ilias meditating in an empty training room, but she rarely got the chance to spend time with them.

Ilias I kinda get, but you’ve spoken what, five words to Mikhail? You have no relationship with him lmfao.

There were quiet moments also, when she wasn’t training or toiling with Ansel. Moments when her thoughts drifted back to Sam, to what he’d said. He’d threatened to kill Arobynn. For hurting her.

Ask me if I give a fuck. Seriously, I don’t. I don’t feel this chemistry at all and I’m dreading when we return to Arobynn’s assassin joint and we have to read multiple paragraphs of Celery splooging over how hot Sammy is.

Next chapter opens up with Celery putting make up on Ansel because it’s apparently her birthday.

“What?” Ansel said. Celaena shook her head. “You’re going to have to wash it all off.” “Why?” “Because you look better than I do.” Ansel pinched Celaena’s arm. Celaena pinched her back, laughter on her lips.

Girls being friends? Pure and wholesome. Too bad SJM ruins it immediately after with this.

She hadn’t even dared ask the Master for her letter yet. But more than that … Well, she’d never had a female friend—never really had any friends—and somehow, the thought of returning to Rifthold without Ansel was a tad unbearable.

Hmm... it does raise the eyebrows a little that Ansel is super masculine and a “stronk female character’ like Celery and she is the only girl Celery has ever considered as a friend.......almost as if... it’s sexist towards girls who aren’t masculine like Celery.....hm...

At the party people are dancing with no music, which is whack af to Celery.

Though she loved, loved, loved parties, Celaena would have rather spent the night training with the Master. (...) But he’d insisted she go to the party—if only because he wanted to go to the party. The old man danced to a rhythm Celaena could not hear or make out, and looked more like someone’s benevolent, clumsy grandfather than the master of some of the world’s greatest assassins.

Hey, you leave him alone. He’s one of the few good characters in this shitty ass story, and if he wants to dance like an old grandpa, then let him.

Celery sees Ansel dancing with Mikhail and makes it all about her own feefees for Sammy, as usual.She gushes over how Sammy is totally in love with her and how she totally busts a nut every time he looks at her or some stupid shit like that.

Someone touched her shoulder, and Celaena looked up from her empty wine goblet to find Ilias standing behind her. She hadn’t seen much of him in the past few days, aside from at dinner, where he still glanced at her and gave her those lovely smiles. He offered his hand.

Poor Ilias, man. Obviously Celery doesn’t owe him anything, but.... you deserve someone so much better, Ilias. Imagine if it were Sammy here instead of Celery. I want that fanfic, someone write it.

Ilias and Celery eventually ditch the party since Celery’s feet hurt from dancing.

What would he say—that is, if he could speak—if he knew that Adarlan’s Assassin had never been kissed? She’d killed men, freed slaves, stolen horses, but she’d never kissed anyone.

God, we’re really going there, aren’t we... god I’m so tired....

First off, good job on shaming any older teenagers because they’ve never kissed someone before, as if that makes them weirdos. Makes me feel fucking amazing as an 18 y/o who hasn’t kissed anyone yet. Thanks, SJM.

Second, who gives a shit?? In fact, Celery, you have a good excuse for not kissing anyone; you’re an assassin. If you told Ilias, he’s probably just assume you’re too busy with work to settle down with someone. Like, do you think he’s really gonna make fun of you for not having kissed anyone before? Does SJM know how human beings function????

Anyways, Ilias does try to kiss Celery, but immediately stops when she backs away. Man, a male character who respects boundaries?? In MY SJM book?? Never thought I’d see the day.

“I—I can’t. I mean, I’m leaving in a week. And … and you live here. And I’m in Rifthold, so …” She was babbling. She should stop. Actually, she should just stop talking. Forever.

You really should. Sadly, Celery doesn’t take her own advice.

Ilias is just like, “whatever, that’s cool fam,” and goes to his room. I can’t believe SJM is making me praise a character for respecting personal boundaries but holy shit, that’s how low the bar is with her characters.

Alone in the hallway, Celaena watched the shadows cast by the torches. It hadn’t been the mere impossibility of a relationship with Ilias that had made her pull away. No; it was the memory of Sam’s face that had stopped her from kissing him.

First off, that semicolon is making me wince when a comma would’ve sufficed better, so jot that down. Second, unghhhh I don’t care, I don’t give a shit about Celery’s sudden crush on Sammy! He deserves someone who will treat him right!

Ansel arrives late next morning to shoveling shit duty because she slept with Mikhail. Again, ask me if I give a fuck.

Out of the blue, Ansel gets all pissy and jealous of Celery training with the Mute Master. It’s so literally out of nowhere and so obviously shoehorned in just so there can be conflict. SJM looking up basic writing tips and was like, ‘Oh shit, my story has no conflict and I need a falling out before the final climax! Uhhh Ansel is mad at Celery, yeah okay.”

Celaena’s throat tightened, and she cursed herself for feeling so hurt by the words. She didn’t think the Master felt that way at all, but she still hissed, “Yes, my glorious fate. Shoveling dung in a barn. A worthy task for me.” “But certainly a worthy task for a girl from the Flatlands?” “I didn’t say that,” Celaena said through her teeth. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Jesus Christ, Ansel, I think I hate you almost as much as I hate Celery. Ansel is one of those fucking assholes who twists around words of others and reblogs someones post with a shitty “So you’re basically saying you hate all of (x) people, are you OP?” guilt trip.

Celery is like ‘whatever, nobody cares about you reclaiming your shitty homeland even though it has nothing to do with our conversation and I only brought it up because the author wants us to hate each other now” and Ansel stomps off. Riveting Drama, this is, these characters are so well developed! I totally care about how this conflict will resolve itself!