#cs soccer fic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

beckettj · 10 months ago

Text

The Heart of a Villan - Chapter 1/5

It only seems right that I post the first chapter of this self-indulgent fic (combining two of my favourite things - CS and AVFC) on my birthday! The other four chapters to follow weekly.

Chapter One - Amongst Devils and Villans

Summary: Three-thousand miles from home, Henry drags Emma into a land she never imagined venturing to; the realm of English football. She holds no interest in the sport but when she’s approached by Villa Captain Killian Jones, she determines that there could be something in the sport for her after all.

Words: 7.1k exactly

Read on Ao3

“Mom, Mom, look! Look! There it is! Isn’t it amazing?”

Henry bounces enthusiastically in the middle of the closed-off road, pointing to a structure in the near distance, a combination of brick, concrete and steel; their intended destination, so help her.

Emma shakes her head, “It’s just a building, Henry.”

His jaw drops and his eyes boggle as if they’re about to burst out of his head.

“Just a building?” he repeats incredulously and points to it once more, as if she’d mistakenly looked at the wrong one, like it is easy to miss as it towers over the trees and houses which line either side of it. “That stadium is a fortress, older than you and I combined!”

A grand total of thirty-eight years. It didn’t take much beating.

Henry continues his spiel, “It’s been home to Aston Villa football club since eighteen-ninety-seven. It’s withstood the tests of time, adapting and growing with the support its amassed. Games have been won, drawn and lost here, there have been many highs and many lows but that stadium has stood strong through it all. It draws in crowds of over forty-thousand and today we get to be a part of that!”

She certainly can’t fault the kid for his passion, but it is a passion she most definitely does not share. She has no interest in watching grown men chase a sphere of air around, and yet that is precisely what lies in store for her afternoon.

Curse her parents for organising a surprise trip to London for Henry’s spring break. Curse her dad specifically for securing tickets to a soccer game. And curse her dad three times over for coming down with food poisoning, forcing her into being the one to accompany an indescribably excitable Henry on a two-hour train journey from London to Birmingham ahead of what he described as ‘the greatest match of his life’.

The second train – the one towards the outskirts of Birmingham – had been, by far, the worst. They had been packed like sardines and motherly instincts had kicked in, Emma clinging to Henry for dear life so not to lose him. The carriage had stunk, a pungent concoction of beer and sweat, making the thirteen-minute journey hell. Henry had been in his element, surrounded by claret and blue shirts, his face lighting up like Christmas morning, as he joined in with the chants and was doused in beer when the train had unexpectedly jerked.

He remains in his element, soaking in the developing atmosphere around the so-called fortress that was Villa Park. There remains an hour-and-a-half before the game is due to kick off but Henry had been insistent on arriving early, talking relentlessly about the club store, programmes and watching the players warming up – as if he isn’t about to watch them play for ninety minutes.

Whose idea was it to make soccer matches ninety minutes long?

The things you do for your children.

“Mum, come on,” Henry urges, and he rushing as if they’re about to miss kick-off. “The store’s this way.”

If Emma thought the growing horde of people on the street were overwhelmingly claret and blue, the club store is, impossibly, even more consumed by the colour scheme. Everywhere she looks, she’s met by a sea of claret and blue.

There’s no escape.

Henry is like a kid in a sweet shop, using his small size to manoeuvre effortlessly through the tiny, cramped, oversubscribed matchday store. By the time he returns to her he’s struggling to carry everything he’s collected, a heap of clothes and other products in his arms. There’s a beaming smile on his face and she doesn’t have the heart to let him down, to make him choose a few things, so she agrees to it all – they’re on vacation, she can worry about it when they’re back in Maine and far away from the unpleasantness of the crowded soccer store.

She helps him with his haul, carrying a claret and blue scarf, baseball cap, water bottle and backpack for him as they squeeze through people to join the queue at the checkout. They wait their turn, weaving through the queue barriers as the line slowly goes down, Henry talking non-stop the whole way, rambling about players and tactics, his words flying straight over her head.

Emma’s relief is strong upon reaching the front of the queue, gaining a temporary relieve from Henry’s excited ramblings. She drops the items in her hands onto the cashier’s desk, on top of the pile Henry’s already formed, and the cashier eyes the haul with faint amusement.

“First time?” she asks.

“Yeah!” Henry nods eagerly. “But hopefully not the last!”

Emma sure hopes it’s her last. Her dad would take the next one, even if she has to contract food poisoning herself to ensure it.

“You chose a good match for your first one. Nick three points from Man U here today and we slip into that Champions League spot. Should make for a good atmosphere,” the cashier remarks as she scans each item through the till. “Who’s your favourite player?”

Emma knows this one. She knows she does. Or she should; Henry talks about him twenty-four seven. It starts with a ‘J’, she knows that much; James… Jense…

“Jones!” Henry answers. “He scores the best screamers.”

Emma raises an eyebrow. He scores what now?

“Do you want printing on your shirt?” the cashier asks as she scans the soccer shirt through the till.

Henry looks to Emma for her permission, momentarily taking her by surprise. It’s the first time since entering the store that he has stopped to consider the restraints of money. She sticks by her earlier decision; they are on vacation.

“Whatever you want, kid,” she encourages him.

Henry’s grin impossibly widens and he turns back to the cashier, making his request, “Jones and the number nine please.”

“Good choice,” the cashier smiles at him. “Bear with me one moment and I’ll get that all sorted for you.”

She crosses to the workstation at the back wall of the till, getting to work lining up the letters on the shirt.

Henry turns to Emma, “Can I put the shirt on when it’s ready?”

Emma’s unsure, imagining him disappearing in the sea of claret and blue on the street. A glance out the window confirms it’s only getting busier out there but when she looks back at him, his soft, brown, puppy-dog eyes melt her worries away and she relents, “Sure thing, kid.”

He tilts his head and proposes, “Don’t you think you should get a shirt?”

“Not a chance, Henry,” she responds immediately.

“A hat then?”

“No way.”

“A coat?”

“Nope.”

“A scarf?”

“No.”

“This then,” Henry picks up a claret and blue pen, complete with the Aston Villa logo, from the shelves below the cashier desk. “You can never have too many pens.”

“Fine,” Emma agrees, if only to subdue his pestering.

He smiles triumphantly and adds the pen to the pile of items still awaiting their venture through the till. The cashier returns with the printing on the shirt completed and promptly processes the rest of their items, all the while Henry excitedly tells her his predictions for the game.

Emma very nearly falls over in shock when the final total flashes onto the screen. Whoever would have thought slapping a lion badge onto a claret and blue item would make it double in price? She’s very nearly leaving the store with one less arm and leg than she had entered with. She recovers from the initial surprise, repeats her mantra in her head – we’re on vacation – and completes the purchase.

MATCHDAY PROGRAMMES £3.50

Henry grabs her hand and pulls her into another queue the moment he notices the sign on the little kiosk just a few feet from the stadium. He looks the part now; his claret and blue shirt matching those of others in the line. It’s a short, fast-moving queue and they get to the front to discover the kiosk doesn’t accept card which makes her look the fool as she continues to struggle to get her head around which British coin represents which value. The man at the stall helps her out and she can only trust that he hasn’t ripped her off.

Henry keenly takes the programme from the man’s outstretched hand and wastes no time in looking at it.

“Mom, look! Jones is on the front cover!” Henry excitedly exclaims.

Emma rolls her eyes. Of course he is. Jones this. Jones that. He might as well be renamed ‘Mr Aston Villa’.

Henry waves the programme in her face, trying to show her but his hand is so unsteady all she initially sees is a blur of claret and blue. Eventually he calms and the programme steadies in her hand, allowing her a good look at the Jones that her son so often raves about.

“Woah!” the utterance escapes from her subconscious.

She regresses to a teenager all over again, ogling a hot celebrity in her favourite magazine. It’s ridiculous and yet there she stands, mesmerised by piercing blue eyes and a roguish smirk which screams ‘I’m good and I know I am’ but in a hot, self-assured way as opposed to brash arrogance.

“Woah what?” Henry eyes her suspiciously.

“Woah… he,” she drags the word out and thinks fast, reading off the programme’s subheading – saved by the print, “is making his three-hundredth competitive club appearance today. That… that is some achievement.”

That starts Henry off on reeling the player’s entire history off to her, detailing the day he signed for Villa and where he’d signed from. Emma lets him spurt the information off as she silently rejoices in getting away with one there. She composes herself as Henry recounts his favourite goal of Jones’.

“Come on, kid,” she prompts Henry once he’s done. “It’s about time we get inside the stadium, don’t you think?”

“Woah!” Henry breathes out, utterly fascinated as they step out of the stairway and into the stand, taking in the sight of the stadium before them.

Even Emma has to admit it’s impressive. They are halfway up the stand, seats descending to pitch side in front of them and more rising higher behind them. The pitch looks immaculate – each blade of grass cut to precision – the greenest green Emma recalls ever seeing; the stage set and the audience beginning to congregate, staggered across all four stands in the near forty-three-thousand capacity theatre. The spring sun sneaks between the gap in between their stand and the one to their left, lighting up the pitch impeccably and providing an appreciative warmth to the open air venue.

People mull around the stadium, heading to their seats, wearing their claret and blue shirts outright or throwing them over the top of a hoodie for added warmth. She can’t shake the feeling that she sticks out like a sore thumb. The strong red of her jacket stands out against the dull claret of the home supporters and she quickly notices that where she holds paper tickets – printed by her father in the hotel reception – most fans are carrying season cards, proudly broadcasting themselves as frequent visitors.

She fully embraces the tourist look by asking a steward for help finding their seats, the combination of letters and numbers and blocks and rows nothing short of confusing. As much as she had frowned and scowled at the tickets, it had refused to become any clearer.

The steward kindly leads them towards their seats and, where Emma had been expecting to be led upwards, she leads them down the stairs, each step taking them closer to the front of the stand.

“Mom, look how close we are getting to the pitch!” Henry breathes out excitedly.

His eyes widen as they get closer and closer and when the steward finally stops, she’s at the front row, putting a hand out to indicate down it.

“No way!” Henry exclaims.

Yes way.

The steward encourages them to continue on down the row, telling Emma that the number on her tickets will match the ones on the seats a little further down the row. She thanks her and they are quickly able to find their seats, just along from the left post of the goal.

“This is incredible!” Henry marvels as he leans forward onto the low railing in front of him, staring onto the pitch mere metres away.

“Make sure you thank your grandpa when we get back tomorrow evening,” Emma tells him.

He nods absently, preoccupied and mesmerised by the view in front of him. When the players emerge from the tunnel, jogging onto the pitch to commence their warmup, Henry jumps to his feet, bouncing excitedly as he sees his favourite players in the flesh for the first time. He points each player out to her, naming them and spieling off facts and statistics which she ultimately zones out, just nodding and responding ‘oh yeah?’ intermittently.

Her own attention is captured by Jones as he leads a line of players in a series of stretches, instructed by their coach. He’s just as the picture on the front of the programme had captured him – his blue eyes really are that blue and he carries and conducts himself with the same confidence that had oozed off the page. There’s a precision to each stretch he executes, a focused determination to do things properly, to give himself his best chance ahead of the game.

As inviting as Jones is on the eyes, even he can’t pique her interest in his sport for the second the stretching session is over and he has the football at his feet, engaging in drills with his teammates, she grows bored. Her attention turns to her phone, checking in on her parents and filling them in on Henry’s experience so far, sending over some photos.

The players finish their warmups and head back down the tunnel, the stands really starting to fill up as kick-off grows nearer and the music blaring around the stadium builds with the atmosphere.

Henry’s excitement is at an all time high, unable to keep still on his seat and he grins at her as he says, “It’s nearly time for kick-off!”

Perfect. Just ninety more minutes until freedom.

The players re-emerge from the tunnel to great fanfare; the opposing players exchange a series of handshakes before taking their positions ahead of kick-off. The claret and blue players originally position themselves in the half closest to her and Henry – who all but screams in her ear about how close he is to Humbert and Booth – until a whistle from the referee changes things.

Both teams switch ends and the stadium descends into a pantomime, the crowd booing the players in red as they jog to the positions vacated by the home side just moments prior. Emma doesn’t understand the grievance among the crowd who swiftly lead into a booming and unanimous; ‘Who the fuck, who the fuck, who the fucking hell are you, who the fucking hell are you?’ chant and she’s extremely surprised to hear Henry screaming it at the top of his innocent voice.

“Henry!” she says, stifling chuckles.

He looks at her innocently, “What?”

“Language.”

“We’re at the football, Mom. It doesn’t count at the football.”

Emma’s momentarily thrown by his use of the word ‘football’ – since when was her son British? She opens her mouth to argue but Henry jumps into the next chant, pointing aggressively towards the opposition goalkeeper accompanied by the majority of the home crowd as they present a repetitive rendition of, ‘wanker, wanker, wanker’. Emma is left wondering just what the player had done to illicit such a reception and when, exactly, her son had developed an affinity for British insults.

The referee blows his whistle and the game begins, prompting a roar from the crowd, living up to the lion which stands pride of place on the club badge.

The time on the electronic scoreboard ticks by ever so slowly – one team kicks the ball around for a bit until the other team gets it and does exactly the same. Neither appears to be in too much of a hurry to actually put the ball in the back of the net and Emma’s confused because she thought that was the whole point of the game.

Emma can think of a hundred places – perhaps even a thousand – she would much rather be but Henry’s loving it – joining in with chants at the top of his voice and screaming at the referee about decisions and fouls and offside calls – his enthusiastic investment becoming one of the few positives to her experience.

She has long lost interest in watching twenty-two men run around and kick a ball, electing to amuse herself instead by listening to the comments of nearby supporters and wondering whether they had ever heard themselves.

It had started fairly tame;

“I don’t fancy Scarlet, you know.” “You don’t?” “Nah, he’s been off his game the last few weeks.”

But then it got wilder;

“Oh, Jones wants it! Give it to him, Locksley, give it to him!”

“Pereira’s gone through the back of Humbert!”

“Booth needs to step up and fill the hole that Locksley’s left wide open.”

But her favourite of them all was definitely, “Scarlet needs to stop letting Cardozo inside of him!”

Her fun comes to an end with three sharp blows of the referee’s whistle, prompting all the players to disappear once more down the tunnel into the stadium. The stands empty out, hordes of people heading into the concourse. She smiles; freedom at last.

Henry turns to her, “Jones is going to score in the second half, Mom, just you watch. He didn’t get much service that half but when he gets his chance, he’ll take it! All he needs is one shot and bam, goal!”

Second half? Emma sighs. She had forgotten they still had another half to go. The first forty-five minutes had felt like a lifetime.

“Can we get hotdogs?” Henry asks, his requests endless.

She reminds herself of her mantra – we’re on vacation, worry about it later – and agrees.

By the time they return to their seats – thanks to a huge demand for refreshments – the second half is already underway. Henry can breathe again – the kid panicking the entire time they were in the line about missing a goal – the scoreboard remains the same, displaying no goals, and Henry tucks contently into his long-awaited hotdog. Emma follows his lead, both taking their eyes off the game for a moment to bite into their food.

The crowd roars into life around them and a ball comes flying out of nowhere, knocking the hotdog out of Henry’s hand and smashing into his face. Emma’s own hotdog joins Henry’s on the concrete floor, dropping absent-mindedly from her hands as she looks to Henry; his hands cradle his nose, blood leaking heavily through his fingers, tears pouring from his eyes. She grabs the napkin from around her hotdog, moving Henry’s hands from his face and holding the napkin against his nose. It disintegrates from the heavy flow of blood in seconds and her hands grow wet from the fluid. She grabs the napkin from Henry’s hotdog, replacing it with hers.

“Oh, bloody hell!”

Jones has stepped over the advertisement boards and leans on the railings in front of her seat. His blue eyes are not the same piercing, confident ones printed on the programme, instead they’re dull, wide and numbed in horror.

He’s gone, almost as quickly as he seemed to have arrived, running the width of the pitch, waving his arms frantically above his head. Emma gratefully accepts tissues from the woman seated behind her as the second napkin disintegrates beneath her fingers.

Jones returns with two first responders in tow. They jump the railings with ease, taking over from her in tending to Henry. Emma holds her blood-covered hands out helplessly, not entirely processing what was happening.

Henry had just wanted to eat his hotdog and watch his team.

He’d been so excited.

A warm hand touches her arm. Jones is leaning on the railing again and reaching out, to her.

“Are you alright, love?” he asks gently.

She nods absent-mindedly.

“I can only apologise profusely,” he continues.

His eyes shift towards Henry and he scratches at the back of his ear as he watches the boy receive treatment. Emma starts to put the pieces together; a wayward ball, a lingering football player – Jones was the guilty player responsible.

“It’s okay,” she responds vacantly.

She’s too distracted to maintain a conversation, focused entirely on Henry, surrounded by the two first responders. She can’t see what’s happening amongst the mass of hands working on his face, but she clutches his hand tightly, letting him know she’s still there.

“We’re going to move him to our first aid station. We can treat him better there. If you’d please follow behind us,” one of the first responders fills her in.

She nods, still struggling to muster words, shocked by the sudden turn of events. It doesn’t feel real. Flashes of Henry’s excitement prior to the game keep burning into her mind, highlighting the cruel twist of fate. The two first aiders help Henry to his feet, his vision obstructed by the multiple tissues they were holding over his nose. They guide him down the single step and along the walkway, pointing out the big green first aid station sign on the opposite side of the stadium for her benefit. She can see where they’re going, and it’s quite the trek.

The whistle blows to resume the game and the crowds roars once more as the Villa players successfully defend the corner.

“I don’t want to miss the game!” Henry complains, his tears subduing for his fear of missing out to soar.

Emma’s hit by a flood of relief when she hears him speak, even more so when she realises he’s well enough in himself to be concerned about missing the match.

The man beside him laughs, “Spoken like a true Villan.”

“Mum, look! We didn’t miss anything!” Henry can scarcely believe his luck.

He’s bouncing with excitement again and Emma is terrified that the flood of blood from his nose is going to return, aggravated by the movement. She places a hand on his shoulder, a feeble attempt to calm him, as he points to the scoreboard, still reading ‘0-0’.

A series of cold compresses, a couple of pages of paperwork, the administration of pain medication, and a series of checks to make absolutely certain that, by some utter miracle, Henry had escaped without a broken nose, had kept them busy for forty minutes.

There’s five minutes left of normal play and yet Henry is in high spirits. As they follow the steward leading them back to their seats, there’s a residual bounce in Henry’s step as he marvels at how close to the pitch and the players he is. The action is all up on their end too, far away from where they’d be if they were in their seats. The Villa players gather in the opposition’s box, preparing for a corner.

Emma’s eyes scan the mass of claret and blue shirts amongst the red ones, eventually landing on Jones who stands right on top of the penalty spot, watching Locksley as he catches the ball thrown to him by the ballboy.

“Today’s attendance is forty-two-thousand-three-hundred-and-fourteen. We thank you for your support,” booms out over the speakers scattered around the stadium.

Jones’ eyes meet hers, catching her looking at him. She holds firm, not looking away, refusing to back down and hide. He breaks eye contact – too quickly – shifting his gaze, quick and honed in, until his blue eyes land on Henry. The tension appears to physically ride out of Jones’ body; his shoulders loosen, his head lifts higher and a small smile tugs at his lips. His head turns, gaze returning to her, and he mouths, sorry, love.

Emma’s heart skips a beat. Forty-two-thousand-three-hundred-and-fourteen people in the stadium and, out of them all, he acknowledges her. She forces herself to remain calm and keep her composure; he has no other motive for his interest in her besides compassion or guilt, or both. She opts to send him a reassuring smile and hopes she’s not blushing.

The game has reached ninety minutes by the time she and Henry get back to their seats. The announcement of an additional nine minutes of stoppage time is met be a loud, motivational roar from the home supporters, urging their team on to nick the game in the dying moments.

Henry’s eyes light up at the news that he’ll at least see some of the second half. He turns his gaze expectantly to the pitch and jumps into the chant of ‘allez, allez, allez’ the crowd have initiated to spur the players onwards.

Emma finds herself getting drawn in, sitting on the edge of her seat, as she watches not so much the game but one particular player. She is fixated on Jones and even when he’s one of the furthest from the ball, she still watches him; taking control, pointing and shouting as he makes his commands. Her mind wanders back to the sorry, love; the moment he’d taken out of the tense, end-to-end game to apologise once more. Her mind drifts back further, to the comfort he had tried to offer her during Henry’s initial treatment; the warm, light touch of his fingers against her arm. Professional sport stars had always seemed so distant with their high wages and expensive cars and houses; to have been to so close to someone in such a profession and received such genuine concern was a reminder that they were human too. Jones was human, a man who wasn’t just chasing after a ball full of air; he was a man focused on remaining in position, constantly running, looking for his best opportunity to strike, waiting patiently to receive the ball, determining when to press, when to drop back, and when to make runs behind the back line, all whilst giving instruction to his teammates.

Watching Jones, following his every movement, switches something in her mind and everything Henry had been rambling about suddenly made sense. Watching Jones playing on the shoulder of the last man and timing his runs transforms the offside rule from quantum mechanics to adding one and two to make three; something she doesn’t need to think twice about – it’s simple, instantaneous.

Five minutes of stoppage time pass and the tension has grown exponentially. Each time the ball finds its way back to the Villa goalkeeper, there’s an urgent cry from the crowd to get it forward. Emma holds her breath as the goalkeeper does just that, launching the ball through the air, a near desperate punt up-field, one heading towards Jones. He takes the ball under his control with a single touch, eliciting great applause, cheers and murmurs of adoration from the crowd. He moves fast, knocking the ball around his defender, and chasing after it.

One ball, three men all charging for it; Jones in the centre, a straight run to the ball, a defender either side of him, closing down the angle. They’re all close and from Emma’s distance it’s difficult for her to determine who will get there first.

She hopes it’s Jones.

Her hands are clenched close together and she murmurs a faint ‘go, go, go’ under her breath. If he can get to it first, he’ll be ahead of the two defenders, leaving just the goalkeeper to beat.

The defender to Jones’ right opts for a change of plan, adapting the angle of his run so to get into the space that Jones will enter should he get to the ball first. The defender to his left stays on path, eyes fixed on the ball, determined. Jones gets there first, knocking the ball a touch forward; the defender makes a desperate slide, missing the ball and taking Jones’ legs out from under him, sending him flying to the ground.

Emma gasps as the crowd roars in unanimous fury, raising to their feet and screaming at the ref. The referee brandishes a yellow card for the player in red which only increases the infuriation and level of protests amongst the onlookers.

“That’s a clear red! All day long!”

“Are you fucking blind, ref?”

“He’s taken him out!”

Emma grips tightly onto the railings in front of her, too far away to decipher the severity of the stoppage. Jones remains on the ground, the club’s doctors receiving the signal from the referee to approach. As he receives treatment, the crowds erupts into a strong show of support with a chant to the tune of ‘drunken sailor’.

“Scores with his left foot and his right one Slots it in the net for Aston Villa What a player, what a striker! Super Captain Jo-ones!

Super Captain Jones! Super Captain Jones! Super Captain Jones! Can not stop him scoring!”

It’s a joyful tune that the crowd repeats multiple times over with indisputable passion and heart, Henry all-but deafening her as he screams it at the top of his lungs, but Emma does not resonate with the cheeriness. There’s a tense apprehension increasingly rising inside her the longer Jones remains down. She watches him receive treatment to his right knee, nervously hoping he is fit to continue playing. It’s stupid, feeling so concerned about a guy she barely knows, a guy she didn’t care about just an hour ago, and yet her fingers drum impatiently against the cool metal of the claret railing, her other hand gripping it tightly, clinging to what little support she can find.

Her concern is purely fuelled by Henry, she reasons; his special day has already been severely disrupted and she doesn’t want him to face the disappointment of watching his favourite player getting stretchered off.

After what feels like an age, Jones rises to his feet, prompting a huge applause to erupt from the crowd. Emma joins in, a loud whoop even escaping her lips, and Henry chuckles beside her; was it a chuckle of relief? Jones moves to stand on the sidelines and, after most likely making herself sound like a total novice to those around them by asking the question, Henry explains that players who receive medical treatment have to wait at the side of the pitch until waved back on by the referee. He's unable to provide her with a reason why, shrugging, and she’s left none-the-wiser.

On the pitch, Locksley prepares himself to take the subsequent free kick and, as the players all bide their time in taking their positions, Emma returns to an earlier game;

“Right on the edge of the D. Perfect position!”

“Locksley’s a master in these situations.” “I don’t know… he put it straight down the keeper’s throat last time.”

“He’s going for it. He’s giving him the eyes.”

Locksley takes a deep breath in, takes a short run up, and strikes the ball. The crowd collectively holds their breath as the ball lifts over the wall of red players, dips towards the goal, looking certain for the top right corner until a gloved hand appears out of nowhere, tipping the ball over the bar and out of play, a series of ‘oooh’s’ ringing out from the crowd.

The claret and blue players all hurry into their positions for the coming corner. Jones gets waved on by the referee and races to the penalty spot. Emma looks to the scoreboard for the time. It shows one-hundred-and-two minutes, more time added on for Jones’ treatment, making it impossible to know when that final whistle was going to sound.

The crowd remains loud, cheers, applause and chants ringing out from all four stands of the ground, the supporters sensing blood – or hoping and praying against all odds – and persisting in urging the players on. Locksley hastily places the ball at the corner, steps back, raises an arm, and hits it, lifting it dangerously into the box. Emma watches the movement in the box, players on both teams scrambling to gain positions, to get themselves into the path of the ball, to get something, anything, on it. She watches as Jones leaps into the air, throwing himself forwards, his head connecting with the ball, changing its trajectory and sending it riffling into the top left corner of the net.

Emma jumps for joy, a move synchronised with a huge majority of the crowd. If she thought earlier cheers were loud, the one which erupts around the stadium is a whole other level, her ears ringing as she happily joins in, screaming at the top of her lungs, her voice box be damned. Henry throws himself at her, engulfing her in a hug as he jumps up and down.

“I told you! I said Jones would score!” Henry beams.

“You were right, kid,” Emma returns, smiling at his glee at his own prediction coming to pass.

“Look, he’s coming this way!” Henry exclaims.

Emma turns her attention back to the pitch. There’s a big huddle of claret and blue players celebrating with fans in the North Stand but she sees Henry’s correct; Jones has jogged the length of the pitch back to the Holte. He halts momentarily, to exchange a celebratory and extravagant handshake with his goalkeeper, before jogging forwards once more. He nears their stand, prompting the roar of the crowd to increase once more, celebrations restarting as the crowd then dives into their chant for him at full voice.

Jones stops at the edge of the pitch. He points directly to Henry, a gasp of surprise escaping her son’s lips, and, over the roar of the crowd, he yells, “That one’s for you, lad.”

Henry’s jaw drops and he stares mesmerised after his hero as Jones jogs away.

The referee blows the final whistle, the crowd roars a final, deafening roar, players exchange handshakes and then the stadium starts to empty out. Henry insists on remaining in place until all the players have left the pitch – some still undergoing their lap of appreciation around the pitch, clapping the fans for their support. Henry is soaking up every last bit of the matchday experience and Emma can’t blame him for who knew when they’d make it back again? Three-thousand-miles is a long way to travel for a ninety-minute match.

The stand is almost empty when Jones approaches them both, a wry smile on his face, “I’m glad you’re still here. How’re you holding up there, lad?”

Henry stares, utterly starstruck, and Emma has to nudge him.

“I’m okay!” Henry eventually responds and promptly changes topic. “The goal was awesome! You’re awesome!”

“Yeah, nothing broken,” Emma jumps in to provide reassurance after Henry excitedly brushes over it. “Just heavy bruising but it’ll give him a tale to tell his friends back home,” Emma expands.

“And where would home be?” Jones hangs around, showing interest in them. “America?”

Henry nods, “It’s a town called Storybrooke.”

On Jones’ lost look, Emma expands, “It’s in Maine.”

“That’s a fair trek only to receive a ball to the face for your troubles,” Jones comments apologetically. “It would appear I have a lot of making up to do.”

He pulls his shirt off. Emma’s eyes drift downward, unashamed to wish to appreciate the body of a dedicated and hard-working professional athlete. She’s not met by strong, chiselled pecs or rock-hard abs but disappointment as Jones is a tease and wears a blue base layer below his soccer shirt.

Jones hands the soccer shirt to Henry who looks like he’s on the edge of passing out from shock as he takes it, but manages to stumble out a star-struck, “Wow, thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do, lad,” Jones responds with a bemused smile. “It’s a miracle the ball from that clearance didn’t take your head off.”

“If I get your shirt out of it, then it’s worth it!” Henry grins.

He dives eagerly into the carrier bags at their feet, drawing Jones’ attention to them.

“That’s quite the haul you’ve got there,” Jones remarks, sounding impressed.

The comment distracts Henry from whatever it was he had originally gone in for, for he begins pulling each item out of the bag, one-by-one, showing them to Jones. Emma expects Jones to brush him off – he’d done the gesture of the shirt to make up for the ball in the face, he’s well in his right to leave – but Jones stands there, patiently listening and responding, taking time to engage in conversation and make comments about the various items being thrust towards his face. It takes her by surprise but it’s endearing to watch him almost match Henry’s enthusiasm towards the soccer club.

Henry finds the matchday programme towards the bottom of the bag and appears to remember what he’d been doing prior to getting distracted. He holds the programme up to Jones, the latest in the conveyor belt of items he’d been displaying to the Villa Captain.

“Would you be able to sign this for me, please?” he asks.

“Of course I would. But have you got a pen? Because, uh,” he taps either side of his shorts to emphasise, “no pockets.”

Henry turns to Emma and prompts, “Mom?”

His expectant look reminds her that she does have a pen; the very one Henry had coaxed her into buying at the Villa store and then proceeded to refuse to let her put it in any of his three carrier bags in fear of it leaking over his precious merchandise. She retrieves said pen from her jacket pocket – noting that ink leakage hasn’t occurred – and hands it over to Jones. He inspects the pen, noting its colour and branding.

“Ah, so you are a fan! Just choose to sport the opposition’s colours, eh?” Jones teases with a playful smirk.

Henry jumps in before she can find a response, “No, I had to convince her to even get the pen. She doesn’t even like this sport. She’s only here because grandpa ate some funny oysters and got food poisoning.”

Jones chuckles, amused, as he signs Henry’s programme and Emma has to do some damage control, her own son actively jeopardising any small slither of a chance she had with the guy.

“I daresay I’ve been converted by a stand-out performance today,” she declares.

Jones hands Henry his freshly signed programme and raises an eyebrow, humming, “Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm, that Locksley’s quite the player,” Emma ribs. “He can really… stick it in the mixer.”

She silently thanks the supporters stood behind her – long since left – for not only entertaining her with their comments throughout the first half but for helping her to learn some of the soccer lingo so not to appear a total novice in front of such a seasoned pro.

There’s an unreadable gleam in Jones’ eyes as he watches her – she can’t work out if he’s amused or wants to curse her out.

“Given I did boot a ball into your lad’s face, it’s only right I make it up to you by putting a good word in for you with Locks…” Jones muses, and she thinks he’s playing along, “It’s just a shame that the man’s happily married.”

“Well, in that case I’m more than happy to settle for second best,” Emma returns.

“Ah, but would second best be happy to settle for you?” Jones counters.

“If you don’t tell him he’s second best,” Emma replies playfully.

Henry glances between the two of them and interrupts with that youthful honesty, “You two are being weird.”

Emma looks back to Jones, spotting the smirk on his face as he holds back laughter. Emma fails to demonstrate such restraint, bursting into a fit of laughter which prompts Henry to stare at her, utterly bewildered.

As Emma composes herself, a new voice is thrown into the mix.

“Killian, Sky are pushing for an interview.”

That one sentence changes Emma’s mood in an instance. She’s pulled back to reality, a reality in which Jones isn’t some hot guy she’s playfully teasing but a top soccer player who’s only shown her the time of day because he smashed a ball into her son’s face. The television cameras are summoning, calling time on her brief snippet of interaction with Jones. His own guilt subdued, good deed done, he would forget about them both the second he disappeared down that tunnel.

“I’ll be right there,” Jones tells the suited man and he promptly turns back to them both, “Before I go-”

“Oh! I need to show you one more thing!” Henry exclaims eagerly, clinging onto the interaction for dear life, and he spins around to show Jones the back of his shirt. “Look! I’ve got your name and number!”

“Good choice, lad,” Jones smiles warmly at him then turns directly to Emma, seizing the segue, “May I ask for your name and number?”

Emma stares blankly at him and just about manages to keep her jaw from dropping; that, she had not been expecting.

“Only, Scarlet took great pleasure in telling me that my wayward ball knocked your lad’s hotdog out of his hand,” Jones continues casually. “It only seems right that in my efforts to make it up to you both, I ensure that the two of you eat well tonight. That’s assuming, you’re staying in the city?”

“Yeah!” Henry nods eagerly, bouncing up and down. “We’ve got a stadium tour booked tomorrow so we’re staying nearby tonight.”

“Perfect!” Jones grins. “I can get done here and then get in contact, if that’s okay with you?”

Those blue eyes beam into her hopefully and Emma’s brain is scrambled. She can’t work out his intentions, but she knows she’s longing to spend more time with him. She nods slowly.

“In which case, uh, best I’ve got for paper…” he thinks on his feet and taps his left hand with her pen before offering both the hand and the pen to her, stretching his left arm over the railing.

She’s in a haze as she takes the pen and scrawls her number onto the back of his hand.

“Just take a deep breath and go to the game, for Henry,” she recalls her dad’s encouragement prior to ushering her out the hotel room early that morning. “You might even surprise yourself and have some fun whilst you’re there.”

Something tells her that spending the night with Villa Captain Killian Jones was not the ‘fun’ her father had been referring to.

Tags: @teamhook @laianely @booksteaandtoomuchtv @exhaustedpirate @anmylica @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @winterbaby89 @undercaffinatednightmare @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @captainswan-kellie @motherkatereloyshipper @soniccat @jrob64 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jonesfandomfanatic @myfearless-love

#cs ff #captain swan #the heart of a villan

12 notes · View notes

amourjins · 7 months ago

Note

THANK YOUUU im excited for ur minji fic then 🙏🙏

-😈

in fact..

does soccer player!minji sound weird CS i thought ab it earlier n.. 🧐🧐

#🕸️—jins.interacts #🕸️—😈#amourjins #hmmm!!!!

5 notes · View notes

celestie0 · 10 months ago

Note

i actually adore kickoff sm n Im so glad you wrote it about soccer bc ive genuinely never found a fic that has a gojo soccer au.. Also if you get confused on soccer i think it would be easier to just watch basic soccer trainings on yt than watching professional soccer cs it does get confusing a bit 😭 coming from a person who plays soccer!!

hiii dear thanks sm im glad you’re enjoying kickofff <33 and yes HAHA it’s been sm fun to write him as a soccer player, i feel like the sport fits his personality for some reasonnn.

yess that’s what i’ve been doing so far! and using chatgpt too haha, and omggg you play soccer that’s so cool 🫣 but also makes me kinda nervous i hope i’m doing the sport scenes justice so far loool (the other day i realized how MASSIVE soccer fields actually are and i was like oof🧍🏻‍♀️aint no way gojo & reader are locking eyes across the damn field💀)

i have another reader on ao3 that actually knows a lot about film photography and i’m so desperate to please her w accurate knowledge 🤣 i will now be trying to please you with the soccer scenes!

#thank you for the ask dear 💞#kickoff #asks

3 notes · View notes

seriouslyhooked · 6 years ago

Text

Scoring Your Love (Part 17/18)

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six,Part Seven,Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen, Part Fifteen, Part Sixteen. Story also onFF here and AO3 here. Banner by the wonderful@timetravelandfairytales

Modern AU where Killian is a world famous soccer star who has hit rock bottom and been sentenced to the place where ‘football’ legends go to die – America. While here he crosses paths with Emma, an up and coming musician and film scorer who challenges everything he thought he knew and makes him want more than the game he’s always loved. Will be filled with fluff for days. Rated M.

A/N: So at last I find myself at a chapter I have long been anticipating, and it has certainly taken long enough to get here. Between school and other fics, this has been a slower updating process than I expected, but I am hoping the next two chapters will be worth it. They are the last two chapters this fic will get for the time being (though I am planning an eventual epilogue, that I will hopefully write when I’m on winter break). That being said, you should all strap in for my usual dose of CS cuteness with this one! Thanks so much for reading, and hope you enjoy!

“All right, all right! I know you’re pleased with yourselves but I need you all to settle down, or I can’t say what needs to be said!”

Robin’s voice was raised as he addressed the team at the halfway point of their playoff game against New England, but the good humor of the moment shone through all the same. This was supposed to be a very competitive match. Their opponent was highly ranked, and they were in the semi-finals. The winner of this game would move on to the final round, and the victor of that game would win the MLS cup. But instead of it being a close call, this was turning into a blow out, much to the enjoyment of Killian’s teammates. The score was 3-0, and since Killian had played a part in each of those goals, he was rather pleased with himself, just as Robin knew he would be.

“So it turns out the first half has been a bit of a walk,” Robin said when the room had settled some. “But I don’t want any one of you pulling off the gas. We need to go out there and play just as hard as we did this half. For lack of a better phrase, we can’t go taking our eyes off the ball.”

The groan that emanated through the room at Robin’s cliché words would have been laughable in any other moment, but for Killian, his high production on the field today wasn’t the product of determination, but of anticipation. Right now, Emma was out there, watching in the stands as they played for a chance at the league’s title game, and he wanted to do her proud to be sure, but this wasn’t where the evening would end. After this game commenced, Killian had a night he hoped they would always remember planned out, and this waiting to get there was slowly eating away at him. To reassure himself he moved back to his allotted locker area, pulling from his jacket the little black box that held a token of his future.

The ring inside was one that meant more than money could buy. It was his grandmother’s ring, and it was one of the few mementos Killian had not only of her but of his mother as well. It had been her wish before she was sick that Killian should have it someday, and after keeping it safe for years, Liam had returned it a few weeks back when they’d made up again.

“I know now that doubting you was fruitless, brother,” Liam had said after meeting with Emma and apologizing for his part in their falling out. “You did as Mum always wanted. You let your heart lead you, and you found a good woman very worthy of your love.”

Killian could not possibly agree more, and with the Gold mess now behind them (the bastard had actually been denied bail, meaning he was sitting pretty in a jail cell) things with Emma had been at another level. The happiness he had known before seemed to eclipse itself, and though it was still soon – too soon by certain standards – Killian’s certainty in his love for Emma had only grown. This was an attachment and a bond that would not be going anywhere, and he felt a need to tell her this and to beg her to let them start their life together once and for all.

“Bet it feels like this game is taking forever,” David commented from beside Killian, pulling Killian from the reverie.

Killian noticed the team meeting was finished as his friend said the words. Robin had concluded whatever motivational speech he had in store while Killian was busy thinking of other things and his teammates were all preparing to return to the pitch. David, though, seemed just as unfazed by the game before them as Killian, instead turning his attention towards Killian’s plans, which he was already apprised of.

“Aye. I just want the blasted match to be done with.”

“I get that,” David said with a genuine tone before feigning a whisper. “But maybe don’t go yelling that in front of these guys. We haven’t all won world titles before.”

“Sorry, mate, I -,”

“No need to explain,” David said with a shake of his head. “You love her. I understand that more than you know.”

“So you and Mary Margaret then… it’s evolved to that so quickly?”

“Yup, and you better get on with proposing unless you want me to go first. I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

Killian laughed at David’s bombastic statement as they headed out of the team room and back down the hall towards the field once more. His friend’s tone was so decided, so absolute, and to many other men it would seem crazy, but Killian could totally relate. He himself had been in love with Emma for what felt like forever, and that was obvious in everything he did. Even now, as he walked back out into the arena, his eyes immediately searched for her in the spot he knew she was sitting in. Only when he found her did he find any sort of real comfort, and when he saw that she was looking at him too he was lost. Damn if that woman wasn’t the most remarkable thing the world over. She was a treasure, and he had every intention of squaring this game away so he could remind of her that fact.

Luckily for Killian and his team, the second half proved just as fortuitous as the first. It was a runaway in the end, not so unlike a few other games they’d had this season, but as they arrived back in the team room the celebration was immediate and rowdy. Everyone was in the best spirits, but Killian’s impatience remained. He wanted to get going. He knew he had to stay for Robin’s speech and eventual toasting, but he tried to calculate in his head how soon he could depart and at what time he could sneak out.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” The question came from Graham and Killian turned to look at his friend who had the same knowing grin on his face that David had had before him. Killian was going to respond that he did, but that it had to wait, but then their coach stepped in with a surprising announcement.

“Indeed he does. He’s off to get the girl, though a word to the wise, I’d suggest you hit the showers first. I don’t know how romantic a night it’ll be if you show up pitch-fresh.”

Killian stopped himself before he could ask if Robin was sure. Truth be told, Killian didn’t want to risk anyone changing their mind. If they were saying he could run off and clean up quickly before heading out without consequence, then he was damn well going to do that. Grabbing his things as quickly as he could Killian thanked them both and wished them a good celebration before heading on his own merry way.

Within ten more minutes Killian was showered and ready to find his Swan, and much to his delight she was waiting for him too. Tiny, it seemed, had found her again during this game and she was waiting for him in the same place she had been at the first game she came to. It made Killian think of just how far they’d come to see her here again, but when she saw him watching her, Emma didn’t hold back this go around. Instead she walked right up to him and pulled him in for a kiss that stole his breath away.

“You were something else tonight,” Emma murmured when they pulled back. Her eyes were darker than they had been a minute ago, giving away the heat and desire she was feeling. It made Killian crave more, and his hands held her close despite their being out here in the open. Hell if he cared who saw them. His hope was that the whole bloody world would know they belonged together in just a matter of time.

“So I did you proud then, love?” he teased and Emma bit her lip, drawing his attention to her mouth once more.

“You could say that. Mostly you just made me want you though, and honestly I’m a little sad you didn’t come out in your uniform. I spent a good chunk of the game thinking about how you look in it…”

“Fuck,” Killian groaned, his head totally spinning out of control as he faced his Swan in full effect. She was deliberately trying to get a rise out of him, but he knew she meant the words too and he made a mental note to create a space for her to live out those dirtier fantasies of hers soon. “We’ve got to go, love, or we’ll never get out of here.”

“Go? I didn’t realize we had plans.”

“Oh we have plans alright,” Killian stated with finality before bringing her hands up to kiss one by one. “You trust me, don’t you Emma?”

“Always,” Emma agreed and Killian beamed back down at her before leading her out into the LA evening and towards a key step in their story that he couldn’t wait to get to.

…………….

Staring out the window of Killian’s car as they cruised down the 101, Emma felt a sense that she was exactly where she most needed to be.

So far her day had been wonderful. She’d woken up with Killian and got to spend the morning with him before he had to head to the stadium to prep for the game, and then she had the chance to go and see him in action. Her friends were all there, including Mary Margaret and Ruby (who were cheering along for their own guys, having both committed to David and Graham respectively) and Belle and Elsa. Since Elsa was there, Liam had also made an appearance. He was prone to showing up wherever Elsa was these days, and Emma loved to see the two of them at the start of what she knew would be a long-term romance. They were both so smitten and cute as could be, but Emma tonight had been totally focused on Killian.

In the time she and Killian had known each other, Emma had learned so much about this sport. She knew that certain things took so much skill and finesse, and though she’d loved seeing him play that first game, she had so much more appreciation this go around. Seeing Killian out there playing his heart out was riveting and amazing, and it was like everyone in the stadium knew they were witnessing greatness. Four goals for the night and three assists was a crazy number, and the footwork and the rhythm that he had, and that he inspired for his team was breathtaking. For Emma though, greatness didn’t end with the game. In fact, it seemed it was only beginning.

“You realize that before I started dating you I was actually well known for hating surprises, right?”

Killian’s chuckle filled the space around them as his hand came to take hers. The feeling when they touched was still dazzling, and though time had made it a familiar thing, Emma still marveled at the buzz it sent humming through her.

“I do realize that, Swan. But I am also fully aware that you happen to like my surprises, and I’m hoping this one will prove my best yet.”

Emma jokingly mumbled something about him being over the top, but the sentiment faded away when she saw where they pulled up. They’d been driving up the coast to Malibu for some time, but Killian just pulled up in front of a gated home that was truly remarkable. It sent a shiver of recollection through her, since the gates and the grand façade made Emma think of their first date, but this home was more modern and in turn just a little more vibrant. In truth, it was probably the most beautiful house Emma had ever seen, and as Killian drove up the driveway, Emma could already tell it would have the most breathtaking views of the water and the coastline.

Without more than a few words shared between them, Killian parked and opened her door, taking her hand and leading her into the house. On the inside Emma felt that despite it’s extravagant size, this house still felt like a home. It was warm in here, inviting and open and the space filled with promise. The sound of the waves that could be heard ever so slightly in the background soothed Emma almost as much as the feel of Killian’s hand in hers, and she found herself sighing a little, loving the calm that came so quickly when they were alone. She ended up following Killian through the whole place, thinking to herself that the owner of this house had exceptional taste, and that it was crazy how perfect the ambiance was. It was a beautiful blend of what her place looked like and what Killian’s had going for it (though clearly done at a much more expensive rate), and though Emma knew it was likely just another friend of Killian’s making a beautiful date possible for them, Emma couldn’t help thinking that a house like this might be truly ideal.

“I was hoping I could tempt you into dinner with me here, love,” Killian said after they’d walked around the first floor, seeing all the home had to offer on this level while heading towards their real destination. “But then I reasoned dinner wouldn’t be enough. So perhaps we could start with a walk on the beach. I think we’re only a few minutes away from sunset.”

“That sounds perfect.”

The look of happiness that Killian shared with her at her words touched Emma’s heart. He was so invested in her enjoyment and he always looked for her approval and what she wanted. That thoughtfulness was indescribably wonderful in her mind, and it was a fundamental part of this man who she loved so dearly. He was romantic and sweet, even if he had a charming and sometimes roughish way about him, and as Emma looked out at the open sea and the vibrant sunset that set against it, she leaned into Killian, cherishing his warmth and strength and presence.

“How do you keep doing this?” Emma asked. “How do you keep giving me so much and making me feel…” Her words trailed off. There was so much she always felt with him, it was almost impossible to describe.

“How do I make you feel, Emma?” Killian asked, bringing her face back up to look at him as he held her close. She studied his handsome features, made all the more gorgeous in the dwindling light, and then she confessed everything that she held in her heart.

“You make me feel like love will always be here and like it’s more than enough. I feel braver with you, surer in myself and in my future. I feel like anything’s possible, and like the happiness we’ve found isn’t going anywhere. At least not any time soon.”

Killian’s brilliant blue eyes shone bright with his own joy at hearing her words, and it made him even more irresistible. To have someone be so open and candid in their adoration of her was intoxicating, and Emma didn’t think she’d ever get enough of the sensations that came with knowing Killian loved her so deeply and so truly.

“If I had my way that happiness would never leave, Emma,” he claimed as his hand ran up her side, gently sending tingles through her whole entire being. “Tell me, Swan. What do you think of this place?”

“I think its paradise,” Emma admitted as she looked back around at the ocean and the house and this private strip of beach that came with it. “It’s like a little slice of heaven. I can’t believe how close it is to home.”

“About that… what if it was home?” It took a second but realization dawned on Emma.

“Oh my god, did you buy this? Are you moving here?”

“Only if you’ll move with me,” he said. Emma’s jaw dropped from the shock, though in the back of her mind a little voice told her that she’d known this was coming. It was only a matter of time before Killian made this move, but she nearly fell over as he made another one, dropping down to one knee right there in the sand.

“Killian, what are you doing?” She asked, even though she knew. She watched him pull a small black box from his pocket and Emma was certain that a ring was inside of it, but still her breath caught when she saw the band (and diamonds) in person.

“Call me old fashioned, or perhaps just terribly impatient, but I can’t help it dreaming of us being here together while my ring is on your finger.”

Emma felt tears welling up in her eyes. The emotion of the moment was overtaking her, but it was all good, so very very good. There was no fear or anxiety in her heart at all. She wasn’t scared of this future, in fact she’d been hoping for it for so long she wondered if she hadn’t wished this into happening. Still it felt too good to be true – how could this really be her life? How could any one person be so lucky?

“Emma Swan, from the moment we met, I knew I was in trouble. I was at risk of falling completely and irrevocably in love with you, and low and behold I did. This wasn’t what I thought I would happen. I never imagined that I could feel this way or know with this much certainty that you are the key to damn near everything, but here I am, love. I look at you and I see forever. I see a life worth living, a love that will not end, and a hope unlike any I have ever known. You bring everything to life, Emma. You make anything possible, but the only wish I have – the only one I’ll ever have – is to spend the rest of my days loving you and showing you just how much you mean to me. So with that being said. Emma Swan, will you -,”

“Wait,” Emma said, closing her eyes for a moment and gathering her courage to ask one last question. When she opened her eyes again Killian looked concerned, and he’d risen to his feet, coming to hold her again. He looked so worried, and she hadn’t meant to do that – but she had to just hash this one thing out before she said yes, which she was absolutely going to do.

“Emma?”

“I want to marry you – I will be marrying you,” she said, prompting Killian to exhale a breath and pull her closer, but she kept talking, not wanting him to get ahead of himself. “But I want to be sure that this is what you want. We don’t have to stay here, Killian. If your heart is back in England, we can make it work. This house is gorgeous –honestly it’s beyond perfect – but we can find happiness wherever life takes us, whether it’s here or not.”

“My heart is wherever you are, Emma,” Killian promised her as his hand came to cup her cheek and his smile returned to full brightness again. “And I signed the final contracts today. I’ll be staying on with Galaxy. I’ll be staying right here. Nay, we’ll be staying right here.”

“We will?”

“Aye, love.”

Their excitement propelled them towards a kiss Emma was dying for. It felt so good and so happy and so right, but before she could totally get swept away into her husband, and whatever his other plans were this evening, she felt she had one last thing to say.

“I think I kind of messed this up.”

“Not possible, Emma. You are by definition perfect.” Emma rolled her eyes, causing her fiancé (her fiancé!) to laugh again.

“Could you maybe… ask me again?”

“As you wish, love.” Killian dropped down on bended knee once more, looking up at her with nothing short of elation as he took this final step. “Emma. You know everything now. You know my heart and my wants and all I wish for you and I together. Will you please make me the happiest of men and agree to be my wife?”

Emma laughed at the way he said it, but her answer was still the same. Yes. A million times yes.

Her answer was more than satisfactory this time, and as soon as Killian slipped the diamond ring on her finger, he surprised her by sweeping her up into his arms and marching her right back onside into the house. He moved past everything they’d seen before, and the dinner was, for the moment, forgotten. Instead, Emma’s soon to be husband was on a mission, and it entailed him climbing up the stairs with her and getting her into a bed – their bed – to have his wicked way with her.

“I had all these ideas in my head, Emma,” Killian said gruffly as he stripped clothes she was wearing from her body, causing her pulse to pick up and her breathing to hitch.

“You did?” She asked, dazedly as he started removing his own clothes, distracting her with his toned physique and lust-filled gaze.

“Aye. I was going to take my time with you, drive you wild, spend hours pleasing you and only you. But I think that will have to wait. I don’t think I can keep my self control.”

“I don’t want you to,” Emma said as her hands ran across his chest and down his abdomen, coming to unbutton his jeans only to shove them down and reveal all of him to her. “I just want to feel you. All of you. Right now.”

Emma heard him say something that sounded an awful lot like ‘bloody minx’ but she was too distracted from his ministrations to her body. He was everywhere all at once, his mouth, his hands, everything over took her senses. She’d give into a kiss, only to feel the rough but smooth texture of his fingers tracing down her body to where she wanted them most of all. He teased her ever so lightly, bringing her closer to the edge that she had already been wandering towards, but before she could fall he changed tactics, scattering her thoughts and sending shivers down her spine. She was wrapped up in Killian on all fronts, but it wasn’t enough. It was a tease of what she wanted, only a taste of what was coming, but then he thrust inside her, filling her up and making her see stars and feel totally complete.

She couldn’t say how long they lasted, but his pace was perfect and the rhythm was designed for bliss. She fell over the edge, but he held on, wringing her out a second time and then a third before finally giving over. But even after they were both spent and panting for breath, Killian never let up. He held her close, protecting and worshipping her at the same time, and making Emma feel like she was the most important thing in the whole wide world.

“God I love you, Emma. I love you more than words can ever say.”

“I love you too,” Emma whispered. “Thus the whole marrying you thing.”

“You should know I’ve used up pretty much all of my patience, love. I don’t think I can wait much longer to make you mine.”

“So we won’t wait,” Emma said easily, both surprising and delighting Killian with her agreement. “Well we have to wait a little bit. You have to win the cup first, and then we can talk about getting married. I think we can figure something out before next season starts.”

“If I win the cup, can we get married sooner?” Killian asked, sounding almost like an eager boy instead of a slow and measured man in that moment. His excitement was infectious and Emma pretended to consider before yielding.

“How soon are you talking?”

“One month?” Killian asked hopefully. “I’ll take care of everything, love. I know you’re busy with work and your friends and the like. But I’ll move mountains for this. You’ll see.”

“Okay. If you win the cup, you can pick the day. As long as my friends are all there, I’m good.”

“Oh, you’ll be better than good, love. I can guarantee you that.”

And for the rest of the night Killian showed Emma just how much better than good things would be from now on. Because now that they had each other, there was no stopping the happiness that would come. It was a given, just as their love would be for the next, oh, sixty years or so.

Post-Note: Ooh girl I gotta say it had been too long since I wrote a proposal for an AU and it was so fun to do that for this one! It’s also an interesting proposition because the chapter lengths are so short for this story, but I have to say I think it was the right dose of fluff (though I will let you guys be the judges of that). As I said before there is one more chapter left and it will be the wedding. I also imagine I will get around to a flash-forward epilogue, but as I said that’s going to take a long time to get to. Anyway, thanks so much to all of you for reading, commenting, reviewing, and sending me messages. You’re all awesome and I appreciate you more than I can say! Hope you have a great rest of your weekend!

#captain swan #captain swan au #captain swan fic #cs fic #cs ff #cs fluff #cs au #cs soccer fic #emma swan #killian jones #soccer star killian #ouat soccer fic #the whole storybrooke gang #musician!Emma #CS proposal #cs smut #scoring your love #scoring your love au #scoring 17

32 notes · View notes

rosyadventure · 3 years ago

Text

Fics by Theme || Like a Boss

Masterlist of Lists | Holy Grail Fics

In celebration of Women's History Month (in the US) and (belated) International Women's Day, these are my favorite fics that star a strong, confident, badass OC.

💪 = read these first (if you haven't already)!

P.S. I was planning on releasing this list earlier in the month but I've been busy studying for my board exams 😅. Hopefully I'll be able to get on a more regular schedule in mid-April after it's over!

After Midnight Series (m) by @gyukult | JJK | doctor reader, bad boy JK, fwb

Watch (read?) as the OC realizes that she does want a family, children, and white picket fence after all, and navigates finding a serious relationship while maintaining boundaries at work.

“Jeon Jungkook only likes seeing you after midnight.”

At the Heart of It All Series (m) 💪 by loseyoutoloveme (AO3) | KTH ft. Jaehyun (NCT) | college au, established relationship au, CS major reader, soccer captain TH, football captain Jaehyun, e2l, Jaehyun really calls Tae every letter in the alphabet except V

For all of the women in STEM out there, a story where the OC learns to own her intelligence and ambition instead of hiding behind a facade to please her parents. Tae isn't painted in the best light in this story (and of course, this is a fictional character) so you might want to skip this one if that upsets you.

How much longer can you keep up your ruse of being the perfect daughter and future, supportive soccer wife before everything comes crashing down?

Break My Mind's Eye Series (m) by @flowerwrites06 | JJK ft. MYG | arranged marriage au, fashion designer reader, drug lord JK, older brother TH, police officer YG, angst, mentions of drug use

A tale as old as time: sacrificing yourself for someone you love. I'm amazed at how the OC manages to flourish as a fashion designer in the face of adversity, and has the clarity of mind to make tough decisions that affect her and those around her.

"Jungkook thinks marriage is the only way to seal a deal."

Chism Series 💪 by @kpopfanfictrash | KTH | fantasy au, magic reader, winter god TH, s2l

This OC is strong in terms of her magic abilities as well as her resolution to stand up for what's right. She has an open mind and a lot of curiosity, which drives her harrowing journey to bring back seasons in a land that is permanently stuck in summer.

“Do not listen to what the prisoner has to say and above else, keep your head. The old gods may be dead, but the humans are living.”

Fight for You Series (m) 💪 by @ahundredtimesover | JJK | rich au, heiress/marketing executive reader, bodyguard JK, s2l, angst

All of us have had hurtful assumptions made about us – in the OC's case, everyone thinks that she's superficial and more interested in socializing than taking over her parents' business. What I love about this OC is how she stays true to herself and allows others continue to think what they want (even though it still hurts).

Jungkook takes the job as your bodyguard with the sole intention of earning enough money to fund his dreams. It takes him a long time to realize that his dreams are a lot closer than he previously thought.

From Home Series (m) 💪 by @gyukult | JJK | fake dating, baker reader, rich JK, e2l

The OC has a culinary degree, two jobs, and several bones to pick with Jungkook (the biggest of which seems to be his lackadaisical attitude toward money, even though he no longer has any). While working hard to achieve her dream of opening a bakery, she also learns how to accept help from others.

When Jungkook is kicked out, cut-off from his parents’ money, and forced to be a member of the working class, he views you as his ticket back home.

Matchmaker Series (m) 💪 by @bonvoyagenoona | JJK ft. MYG | CEO reader, banker JK, CFO YG, e2l

Aside from the fact that this OC founded her own business using evidence-based methods of matching people together (super cool in and of itself), I love how she's so confident in the algorithm that she's willing to take on the worst possible customer.

"How are you supposed to help find Namjoon the perfect match when Jungkook keeps sneering at your state-of-the-art, well-researched system? Then again, there’s nothing that your science can’t fix."

No Blueberries (m) by @gyukult | KTH | college au, reader & TH work at the library, annoyances2l (enemies seems too harsh)

It's refreshing to read about an OC who straightforwardly and unabashedly pursues a relationship with someone she's interested in.

You're a simple woman who knows what you want: Kim Taehyung.

Office Hours Series (m) by @bonvoyagenoona | KNJ ft. KSJ | college au, professor reader/NJ/SJ, e2l

For all of the women out there struggling through their graduate studies in academia, the OC tackles challenges that almost seem too real: balancing teaching and research duties with mental health, the struggle to get tenure, and dealing with divorce when all your work is tied to your married name.

"Just over twenty-four hours ago, both of you were looking into each others’ eyes from across a conference room table, screaming that the other would shut up. Now, you realize that there are so many more questions to ask, and that you desperately want to find out each other’s answers."

Once Upon a Bracelet (m) by @ladyartemesia | JJK ft. KSJ | fantasy, sorceress reader, prince SJ/JK, e2l

I love how fierce this OC is – she's never one to back away from a challenge, and she finds someone who kindles her sparks into wildfires.

“Jeon Jungkook is (probably) a former necromancer and (definitely) the wrong prince… but the bracelets tell a different story.”

Ready or Not Series (m) by @littlemisskookie | KTH | Battle Royale (Hunger Games-esque) au, dystopian au, student reader/TH, ☠️

NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. A story in which the OC has been trained her whole life to win the Battle Royale, and she fully intends to win.

"Your class field trip turns out to be a battle to the death."

Reliability Series by @mrsparknamjoon | KTH | CEO au, businesswoman reader, CEO TH, e2l

A series that starts with "fake it 'til you make it" and turns into loving yourself enough to know when you should leave a poor work environment and relationship that isn't working out.

You don't know what you got until it's gone. When you leave Taehyung's company, he realizes that he's lost more than a trusted advisor and former business school rival.

Scumbag Series by @tangerineyoongles | MYG & PJM (feat. KSJ) | ongoing, bookstore owner reader, flower shop owner JM, angst, s2f2l, mentions of death and alcoholism

Strength comes in different shapes and sizes. Sometimes the hardest thing to do in life is to admit that you were wrong, acknowledge that your actions hurt others, and move forward the best you can.

"Life had not dealt you a favorable hand, but instead of trying to make the best of it, you live your life with a bitter kick in your step, taking anyone and everyone you can down with you."

Straight Shooter (m) by @snackhobi | MYG | futuristic/sci fi au, weapons builder reader, assassin YG, e2l

I appreciate how this OC is confident in her abilities as an amazing weapon designer and continues on with her work (albeit with stronger protection) despite a terrifying break in.

Yoongi swears that the only reason he visits you is because you’re the best gunsmith in the city.

The Road to Radiant by @kookskingdom | JJK | gamer au, team captain reader, rival team member JK, e2l

A reminder that even good leaders have moments of self-doubt, and that teams are only as strong as the weakest link.

When one of your team members leaves to join your rival team, you scramble to find a replacement.

#bts fic rec #bts scenarios #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #taehyung x reader

107 notes · View notes

welllpthisishappening · 7 years ago

Text

It’s a Funny Old Game (2/2)

Killian's not sure why he agreed to this. Well, no, that's not true. He does. Because Henry asked. And, well, maybe they're some kind of family now.

Emma's not sure why she hasn't said anything. Well, no, that's not true. She does. Because she's not supposed to. And, well, things were pretty good already.

Or: A quasi Out of the Frying Pan sequel with soccer.

AN: There’s an actual soccer game in this part of the soccer fic I was never planning on actually writing. Soccer and fluff and feelz. As always, I cannot say enough about @distant-rose & @laurnorder who rationalized all of these feelz and we’re like...uh, yeah, obviously you should write the thing. They’re the best.

Also on Ao3 if you’re looking there.

“This is, easily, the coolest thing we’ve ever done.” “You’re not actually doing anything,” Emma pointed out, glancing at David who, appeared, to be ignoring her completely.

Mary Margaret shook her head, hitching her arm under Leo’s legs and babbling something that might have been words before turning back towards Emma. “Don’t pop this bubble for him,” she said. “He thinks he’s going to get out on the field. He’s going to collect dirt or something.”

“What?” “Yeah, yeah, Mom, we’re going to get dirt,” Henry yelled, bobbing on his toes. He didn’t trip, but he did stumble over the words a bit, voice picking up and excitement obvious in every letter and Emma had been right – he made a jersey.

Or he’d done some jersey-type surgery on one of the several dozen jerseys he owned – getting rid of the name patch on the back and writing out Jones and that, certainly, didn’t do several different things to Emma’s entire body and her ability to not cry in public places.

David probably would have laughed at her.

Well, no, he was too busy plotting how to sneak onto the field at Yankee Stadium and, apparently, steal dirt.

Will would have laughed at her.

Will helped Henry and Roland make a sign at the bar the night before.

“I don’t understand this dirt thing at all,” Belle muttered, doing her best to avoid Roland’s feet when she fell in step next to Will. He was hanging over Will’s shoulder, face flushed from the blood that had rushed to the top of his head and Regina didn’t even look surprised by any of this.

Emma wasn’t really either – a year after Killian had moved downtown and they’d all kind of mixed and mingled and it was some kind of family in a big, emotional way that was underlined and bolded and, maybe, had fireworks going off behind it.

At least that’s how Emma kept thinking about it. And nearly proclaiming in the middle of the kitchen at the Jolly with flour smeared across her jeans.

God, what an idiot. That wasn’t...not yet, at least. Not technically.

So Killian helped Henry with his homework and made dinner when he wasn’t running service at the Jolly and they liked to spend Sundays on the couch with video game controllers in hand and he’d almost gotten good at killing zombies.

They were comfortable and domestic and Emma was so goddamn lucky it, sometimes, made her head spin if she thought about it for too long.

She usually didn’t have time to think about it for too long – far too busy with a filming schedule that always seemed to require another appearance in studio and another cookbook and she really needed to start thinking about more recipes, but she’d been focused on a few other things for the last two weeks.

Ariel would call it distracted, you’re distracted and had, several times, but Emma didn’t have time for that either and she’d nearly forgotten the orange slices before.

“Uncle David wants to steal dirt from Yankee Stadium,” Henry explained, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because Derek Jeter touched it.” “That doesn’t even make any sense,” Emma muttered. Henry actually turned to gape at her, eyes wide with disbelief and sports-based offense and she couldn’t actually wave her hands, laden down with orange slices and stress-fueled bake goods because she hadn’t thought of a single recipe yet.

“Yes it does,” David argued. “This is the house that Jeter built, after all.” “Oh my God.” Mary Margaret mumbled something else against Leo’s head that sounded suspiciously like your father is insane and David rolled his eyes. “I thought this was the house that Ruth built,” Robin said reasonably and they had to be close to their seats.

Ruby and Regina had joined forces a few days before – each personally offended that the massive and extended family of Killian Jones wasn’t immediately offered half a dozen rows of seats for a charity soccer game and the combined weight of their fury probably caused several Yankee Stadium ticket agents to cry.

“No, didn’t you hear?” Will asked, making a face when Roland moved on his shoulder. “This is the house that Jones built. We’ve been guaranteed, at least, forty-seven goals.” “See, you’re acting like this doesn’t matter to you,” Emma said. “But you were the one trying to ask Killian about strategy three nights ago.” “How do you know that?” “I have ears? And eyes?” Will made a face, pressing his head against Roland’s shoulder when the kid started laughing and Regina tried to tug his own makeshift Jones jersey down when it rode up his back. “How’d the last run through go yesterday afternoon? Cap didn’t want to talk about it when he got in for service.” “And you don’t think that was some kind of sign?”

Will opened his mouth to say something else, but Robin mumbled shut up, Scarlet and that was the end of that conversation.

Emma did her best to smile – certain it was going to be fine and good and it was a charity game for God’s sake. No one expected them actually play well.

But Killian was Killian and, by extension, Emma was Emma and Henry had brought, like, a dozen friends because there was so much goddamn room in their several designated aisles and it felt like some kind of terrifying ocean of teenage-expectations.

“He just wants to impress you and Henry,” Robin muttered, knocking his shoulder familiarly against Emma’s once they made their way into the seats and they were only a few feet behind the benches. “Mostly Henry, I think.”

There was a waiter. They had their own in-aisle waiter. Ruby had definitely made someone cry.

“Yeah, I know,” Emma said. “He could do that by waking up in the morning, though.” “That was actually pretty romantic.” “It felt weird when I was saying it.” Robin laughed softly, tapping his fingers on the armrest next to him and the Stadium looked completely different. Not that Emma had ever actually been to a baseball game, but she imagined there wasn’t usually a whole other field on top of the field when the Yankees played.

“Does it look especially soccer?” she asked and she saw Robin smile out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m not sure if I know what that question means, but the proper term is football pitch and, yes, it does look like a proper match.” “That was almost oppressively British.”

“Old habits. You know, Ruby and Gina forced him to film a promo thing yesterday. It was part for the network and part the team and it’s up on both sites. That might have been why he was attacking the vegetables during service last night.”

“Oh,” Emma mumbled, a wholly underwhelming response and maybe her eyes and ears weren’t working nearly as well as she thought they had been.

“Ruby didn’t show you?” Emma shook her head, something churning in the pit of her stomach that felt like a mix of nerves and anxiety and the hope that Killian didn’t actually break any bones because they’d already done the whole soccer injury thing with Henry six months ago and she wasn’t sure if she could go through that again.

“Should she have?” Emma asked and Robin made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

Henry and Roland were already cheering – at the grounds crew – and that sign wasn’t going to make it to kickoff, already slightly wrinkled by wind and they probably should have made two so there was no issue over sharing.

“Depends on your response, I guess,” Robin replied, leaning to his side to tug his phone out of his pocket. “For the record, A sent the link to me last night with just, like, twenty-seven exclamation points and the promise that it would mean something to you.” Emma narrowed her eyes. “And she didn’t think it would make sense to just, you know, send it to me?” “You know, A. She lives for this back-room drama and I’m fairly positive she was terrified of what Killian would do if he found out she was the reason you got your hands on that video.” “And you’re cool with that kind of lingering threat?” “Eh,” Robin shrugged. “My kid is obsessed with him. He was the best man at my wedding. I’m fairly confident he won’t actually try to push me in front of the downtown-6 later.” “We drove up here. Your wife has questionably strong connections with town-car companies.”

Robin beamed. “Exactly. Here,” he added, pushing the phone into Emma’s palm and the video had already started playing.

Emma tugged her hair over her shoulder, trying to shake away that one strand that seemed determined to stay in her eyes and he must have just finished practicing because his hair wasn’t quite set and there was a sheen to his face that might have actually been the most attractive thing she’d ever seen in her entire life.

God.

She could feel Robin’s stare on the side of her head – watching and waiting for some kind of visible reaction and the whole lot of them had probably seen this stupid video. Mary Margaret kept shifting in her seat.

She’d totally seen that stupid video.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s going to be a lot of fun,” Killian said, answering a question from an off-camera reporter. “Who do I think is going to be the best on the field? Well, if you want to get technical, the correct term is pitch.” He flashed a smile at the camera, eyebrows doing something that should be illegal in every country in the entire world. “But, uh, honestly,” he continued, tugging on that piece of hair that curled just behind his ear. “Me? Is that the wrong answer?” The invisible reporter laughed – or that might have just been Emma and she barely even noticed when the waiter started passing out drinks and food and there was alcohol in her other hand before she realized someone had actually ordered anything.

It was probably Ruby.

She had a tendency to just...take over.

“Em,” she shouted, pushing up slightly in her chair. “Em! What if you did a section on better stadium food? Like, you know, hot dogs and hamburgers and, oh man, steal Killian’s hamburger recipe. We’ll sell a million copies.” “I don’t think she’s listening to you,” David muttered, taking an exaggerated bite of what actually appeared to be a corndog.

Emma glanced up, grimacing at the food in her brother’s hand. “Are you guys talking?” she asked. “And what the hell is that?” “Delicious.” “I don’t think that’s a type of food, technically,” Mary Margaret pointed out. She twisted in her chair, careful to keep Leo Henry as still as possible and fished through the bag at her feet, tugging out a plastic container of what Emma immediately knew was squash.

And Cheerios.

“M’s, are you mixing vegetables and cereal?” Emma asked, gaze flitting between Robin’s phone and her sister-in-law and having an actual, coherent conversation was proving rather difficult when Killian kept smiling at the camera.

“He’s got very specific tastes,” she explained. “He likes gourd-type vegetables and...one specific type of vaguely disgusting cereal.” “It really is horrible if they’re not doused in sugar isn't they?” Mary Margaret shrugged. “At least it’s not all squash all the time. It was Killian’s idea, actually.” “Wait, what?” “Yeah, when was that David? A week ago?” David mumbled, a mouth full of corndog and a drink in his hand and Emma tried not to actually do damage to her eyes when she rolled them. “Anyway,” Mary Margaret said. “Whenever we were at the Jolly last. He said something about grains and it might actually go pretty well with the squash and, you know, I tried it the other day and it’s not really that bad.” Emma blinked, the noise from the video dulling in her ears and it kind of felt like she’d sunk through the very padded, very fancy chairs they’d been allotted. “You ate your own kid’s food?”

“Is that weird? What if it tasted awful?” “He’s a baby. I don’t think he’ll remember.” Mary Margaret didn’t say anything and Leo Henry made a decidedly one-year-old noise, grabbing a handful of Cheerios and stuffing them in his face with the same grace and tact his father had in the next seat over.

Emma shook her head, but that was mostly so she knew it was still connected to her body and she hadn’t just floated into the atmosphere, buoyed by feelings and emotions and she really couldn’t cope with the convergence of all of this at once.

Yeah, well, like I said, it’s a good cause and I’ve got a kid...I mean, I’ve got...it’s a good cause.

Robin chuckled when Emma’s eyes widened, threatening to fall out of her face and possibly onto the field and that would probably scar Henry for life or something.

“Wait,” she stammered, not sure who she was talking to, but Ruby was still half-standing in her chair and she had that look on her face. “Did he…” “Yup,” Will shouted a few seats away, popping his mouth on the word and Emma could barely hear it over the sound of her pulse beating in her ears.

“See,” Robin mumbled. “This is why he didn’t want really want you to see the video. Scroll back for two seconds and you can actually see the tips of his ears go red.” Emma let out a shaky laugh, body falling forward with the force of her exhale or sigh or, maybe, just a complete swoon , but she did as instructed and Robin wasn’t lying. The words were out of Killian’s mouth and she could tell the exact moment he realized what he’d said.

He looked like he froze for half a second, blinking just a bit quicker and his tongue pressed against the corner of his mouth. The off-camera reporter asked another question and Killian nearly jumped to attention, spine straightening and shoulders shifting and Emma wondered if it’d be really weird if she just leapt onto the field – the pitch, whatever – and started making out with her boyfriend.

“Yeah, yeah,” Killian continued on the video. “You know, it’s easy to kind of get sidetracked with stuff we think is important, but this kind of throws everything all back into pretty stark focus. These kids are going through stuff we could never really understand and if I can run around for a couple hours, at Yankee Stadium no less, than, yeah sign me up. Plus, I’ve been promised orange slices later.” Emma was fairly certain she was still cognizant and conscious, but Robin and Ruby seemed to be having some kind of silent conversation over her head and Mary Margaret was mumbling something against Leo Henry’s head that sounded suspiciously like Aunt Emma is making weird faces, that’s right.

Henry and Roland were still yelling.

It made more sense now – the players were coming out for warmups.

Oh, well, shit.

He hadn’t actually put his uniform on at home – There are rules, Swan, you have to get dressed in the locker room or it’s bad luck – and, in some theoretic vision, Emma knew he’d have to wear a uniform and even what the uniform looked like , but even her most detailed expectations failed to match up with what had actually just arrived along the first base line of Yankee Stadium.

“You alright there, Em?” Ruby asked and even Mary Margaret laughed.

Emma shook her head – not sure if she was answering or just trying to ignore her very loud, vaguely hysterical friends – but she barely had time to even consider a sarcastic response before Killian was jogging their direction and damn , that was cheating.

“Hey,” he said, coming up just short of the wall and his smile probably could have powered the entire borough when he saw Roland and Henry in front of him.

Roland tried to climb over the concrete and the rolled up tarp towards Killian, but Henry grabbed him around the waist immediately – and then nearly let him fall when he noticed the number on Killian’s back.

“You ok, kid?” Emma asked, but Henry didn’t answer her. He stared at Killian, matching flushes on each of their faces, and Emma was never going to hear anything except her over-excited heartbeat.

“Good number,” Henry muttered and Killian managed to smile even wider.

“Yeah, I figured it’d be good luck or something. I mean Rol expects me to score, what was it, mate? Forty-seven goals?” “Forty-eight,” Roland shouted.

Killian hummed in agreement, eyes flashing towards Emma. She was breathing through her mouth. And she didn’t remember when she stood up. “Hi, Swan,” he grinned, all easy confidence and certainty and blue eyes that seemed to actually match the blue in his goddamn uniform.

This was some kind of joke.

It had to be.

She was absolutely dreaming all of this.

“Hi,” Emma said, but it came out a bit breathless and Ruby was going to injure her spleen with the force of her cackle. “Oh my God, Ruby, shut up.” “No, no, I get it,” Ruby laughed.

Emma couldn’t actually press her hands to her cheeks – certain they’d probably be scalding with the force of her embarrassment – holding, as she was, four Tupperware containers of baked goods and goddamn orange slices.

Killian waved his hand towards Ruby and she didn’t actually stop laughing, but she sat back down and started making faces at Leo Henry. “You look a little distracted, love,” Killian muttered, moving in front of her and resting his arms on the wall.

“Shouldn’t you be warming up?” Emma asked. “Stretching or...kicking something?” “Are you interested in watching me stretch?” “Oh my God, you’re worse than Ruby is.” “I’m going to try not to take offense to that, Swan. And, strictly speaking, yeah, I probably should be, but I don’t think I can actually get penalized for anything.” “Yellow card.” “That was good.” “I do occasionally listen.” Killian eyes brightened or just got bluer or maybe Emma had really lost her mind. She should eat some orange slices. Up her metabolism. Or something. That didn’t even make any sense.

“True,” Killian said, resting his chin on his palm. “And sometimes you are noticeably distracted, Swan.” “And sometimes you stumble over interviews in promo videos.” She was an idiot.

Robin might have actually sighed next to her and Will mumbled something under his breath that sounded like jeez, Emma, now he’s going to be thinking that all game and Killian might have actually scraped his elbow trying to move his hands off the concrete.

“Huh,” he muttered, running his hand through his hair and rocking back on his heels. “Locksley or Scarlet?” “I’m pleading the fifth. That’s how that works, right, David?”

“Absolutely,” David promised, clearly not listening to a single word Emma had asked, far too busy detailing the dirt plan with Henry again.

Emma sighed. “They want to steal dirt,” she explained and one side of Killian’s mouth twitched. “Something about Derek Jeter and not Derek Jeter and who’s that guy Henry’s obsessed with?” “Aaron Judge,” Henry and Killian answered immediately.

“Right, right,” Emma muttered, taking a deep breath and piling her small Tupperware collection in front of her. She leaned forward, tugging on the front of Killian’s jersey – he was wearing a jersey, God – and she was fairly positive his whole body seemed to sag forward, fingers wrapped around her wrist.

This was the last place they should be having this conversation.

Or the last place they should be having this conversation if Emma could actually formulate a coherent sentence, but that jersey was distracting and he was distracting and she couldn’t help but wonder why nothing had happened in the last two weeks.

She was kind of frustrated it hadn't happened in the last two weeks.

Although, she should probably buy Ariel some kind of gift. For not telling or talking and everyone knew everything about everyone in that restaurant and it was some kind of miracle that someone hadn’t just told Emma what the plan was.

She’d just...stumbled into it? Well, no, that wasn’t really true either. She’d gotten back from filming two weeks ago and Henry had clearly already been home – backpack dropped just inside the door and one shoe left in the middle of the hallway and she’d just meant to move the goddamn fucking sneaker.

She hadn’t really meant to ruin everything.

Or potentially ruin everything if they ever acknowledged what everything was.

Her head hurt.

And Emma hadn’t even opened the box.

She’d been too busy trying not to pass out in her kid’s room when she was fairly certain said kid was three blocks uptown at her boyfriend’s restaurant.

But now boyfriend seemed a bit juvenile and they’d been living together for a year and Killian had said I’ve got a kid on an actual, official interview.

That went on the network site. And probably got e-mail blasted to the kinds of people who got e-mail blasts from the network.

God, why hadn’t he actually asked yet?

“Swan,” Killian said, squeezing his fingers and she nearly dislocated her entire vertebrae snapping her head back up. “You went all glossy there, love. Are you ok? Do you need an orange slice?” “Maybe,” Emma admitted. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until it suddenly felt like her lungs were going to explode. “You’re totally right, this is totally distracting.” Killian twisted his eyebrows – any sense of pre-game, pre-match , nerves almost visibly falling away as soon as Emma mumbled out the words and the compliment and Henry was staring at them like he was expecting something to happen.

She was an idiot.

The box was sitting behind his soccer cleats. It might still be there.

Henry totally knew.

“They weren’t actually supposed to show you,” Killian mumbled, leaning forward again and for half a second Emma thought he was going to kiss her. But there were cameras everywhere and a small army of soccer-playing teenagers and he really should go stretch.

Will would never let him hear the end of it if he strained something.

“Yeah, I believe that was mentioned,” Emma said. She grimaced slightly when her elbow bumped against the wall, but she moved her fingers anyway, tracing over the back of Killian’s neck and down his arm and he actually looked like he shivered. “It was a good video, though. Even with the stammering.” “That so?” “Why would I lie about that?” “I honestly have no idea. I hadn’t really gotten that far in the stages of worrying.”

“What exactly are the stages of worrying?” Killian clicked his tongue, teeth tugging on his lower lip when Emma’s nails scratched through the bottom of his hair. A camera shutter went off somewhere. “Realization,” he started. “A quick and sudden determination to fix it as quickly as possible. Avoiding the issue completely. Threatening your friends with metaphorical pink slips if they even so much as breathed a word of said worry to you and, uh, stress baking.” “That’s it?” Emma asked. “And you were all the way to just before stress baking?” “I had practice. And a dinner service. I didn’t really have time to get to stress baking.” “Naturally.” Killian laughed under his breath, leaning his head back against Emma’s fingers and someone called for him from the field. Pitch. “I think they actually expect me to play soccer,” he muttered, ignoring Roland’s not-so-quiet screech when he used the wrong word. “Football, football, football,” Killian corrected quickly. “Deep breaths, mate.”

“You’ve got to go score, Uncle Killian,” Roland yelled and it sounded like more of a demand than whoever was actually coaching that team.

“He should probably be in charge,” Emma muttered, working another smile out of Killian and that felt like scoring eighty-seven goals and forty-six penalty kicks and scoring in soccer was, apparently, very limited.

Football.

God.

“Between him and Henry I have been taught every way Wayne Rooney and David Villa has ever scored, so it’s almost like I’ve been double-coached,” he said. “I’m fairly positive my MVP trophy has already been personalized.”

“Awfully confident all of a sudden.” “Yeah, well, you brought orange slices.” “And baked,” Emma added. “Don’t forget the baking.” “Does it count if I cleaned up the frosting disaster at the end?” Emma shook her head deftly and both Ruby and Mary Margaret were going to choke or pass out and David should probably hold Leo Henry if that happened.

“No,” she said, something in the pit of her stomach fluttering like she was fifteen and flirting with the captain of the football team. Actual football. Not whatever it was they were doing. “And it wasn’t really a disaster,” Emma continued. “More like a debacle. At worst. It just, you know, kind of flew everywhere when the bowl fell. The cleanup doesn’t award you any points or goals or whatever.” “Rough crowd.” “Compliment the baked goods later and then we’ll talk.” Someone yelled Jones from the other side of the field and Emma was fairly positive she’d heard that voice on her TV screen and there were more photographers there than she expected. They should probably stop flirting on the sidelines.

She couldn't seem to stop flirting on the sidelines.

“It seems I have a game to play,” Killian muttered, rolling his eyes as soon as the exasperated sound came a few seats away. “Match. I know. I know it’s a match.”

“Go play, Lieutenant,” Emma said, but her hand had found its way to the front of his jersey again and he couldn’t actually walk away when she was holding onto him like there was a magnet there.

His eyes flashed at the rank and Emma tried to smile like she was a teenager and there there weren’t actual teenagers a few feet away or a photographer trying to get them all to pose.

“For The Daily News, ” he explained and Emma’s head snapped towards Ruby out of instinct.

“Put it in the cookbook with your stadium series section,” she shrugged.

Killian furrowed his eyebrows. “Wait, what?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Emma said quickly, but Killian didn’t look impressed. “Also, Ruby, you’re an awful producer.” Ruby sounded like she growled and the photographer looked a bit intimidated, shifting back and forth on his feet until Regina seized control of the situation and told anyone who wasn’t part of the group that they had to get out of frame since they didn't’ have parental permission to put their picture in New York City tabloids.

“Thanks,” the photographer said a few moments later, still glancing warily at Ruby who looked like she was considering all the ways to get copies of his photo without actually paying him.

Killian turned back towards Emma – and she was going to say something, really, she was. It was going to be motivational or inspirational or something straight out of an 80s movie, but she didn’t get a chance.

He kissed her.

In front of the cameras and the teenagers and what felt like the entire goddamn world.

Emma leaned forward, arms moving around his neck and the wall pushed painfully into her stomach, but she barely even noticed when Killian did that thing where he seemed to try and breathe her in.

Or maybe just pushed his hand into her hair.

“Distracting,” Emma mumbled, resting her forehead against his and she couldn’t actually see his mouth, but she knew he was smiling.

“For luck,” Killian said.

He didn’t need it.

And Emma wasn’t really surprised – he’d never really needed it, no matter what he thought, and he looked so goddamn good in that stupid uniform, she’d probably steal it. Or something. She had no idea if he had to give it back.

He scored.

Twenty-two minutes left on the clock – or, as both Henry and Roland and a small fleet of teenagers were quick to point out the 68th minute – the ball landing on his feet and in the back of the net in a blink. Emma wasn’t sure what kind of noise she actually made, a scream or shout or whatever kind of noise a person would make when they found a ring box behind her kid’s soccer cleats two weeks ago and then watched a video with her boyfriend mumbling over future-type qualifiers.

And then, she was fairly certain, she nearly passed out.

She almost didn’t hear it. She was too busy screaming and jumping and she should have been better prepared for Killian in a soccer uniform.

But she wasn’t and Emma certainly wasn’t prepared for the kid on Henry’s other side – a defender on the travel team he’d played for that summer named Ben or Bill or something.

“Henry, Henry! Did your dad just score?” “Yeah, he did,” Henry shouted back, jumping in tandem with Roland and the sign was a bent-up mess by the 68th minute of play. “Did you see that shot? He totally wrecked that defender!”

Emma stumbled slightly, an impressive feat considering she hadn’t actually taken a step, and she nearly took out the orange slices before Robin dropped a knowing hand on her shoulder to steady her.

“Deep breaths,” he muttered. “Just focus on that piece of gum stuck to the wall.” “That’s disgusting,” Emma grumbled.

Robin laughed softly, but he didn’t move his hand and Emma knew Will was staring at her too. “You should probably tell him,” Robin added. “You know at some point. Not now, obviously.” “I think he’s a little busy now.” “That’s what I’m saying, but, you know, eventually. And then live happily ever after or something.” Emma nodded slowly, lips moving in response, but she wasn’t sure she actually said anything.

They won the game.

It’s a match, Mom, we’ve been over this.

They won the game.

Ruby stared at a security guard until he opened up a gate to the field and Regina glared at every groundskeeper who even dared to look their direction, marching them towards the media scrum just outside the box.

That was good, Mom! You’re totally a respectable fan now.

Emma let that slide, trying to shift the Tupperware containers on her hip and Killian was already surrounded by reporters and more photographers, answering questions with his hand stuffed in his hair and his left arm twisted behind his back.

“You good?” Mary Margaret asked, appearing at Emma’s side and holding her hands out expectantly. Emma blinked in confusion, lips parting slightly and Mary Margaret didn’t miss a beat, just grabbed two of the containers without a word. “That’s not an answer,” she pointed out.

“I’m not sure I understand the question,” Emma admitted.

“That kid. And the yelling. And the video.” Emma considered her answer for a moment, but it was almost blatantly obvious and maybe she should just ask him.

No, that’s not how this worked.

She was fairly positive that’s not how it worked. She’d never...done any of this before.

“Yeah,” Emma said, snapping the word out when she realized she hadn’t actually answered Mary Margaret. “I am. Is that weird?” “Emma, you just asked me if it was weird that you were happy.” “That’s probably weird, right?” “Absolutely.”

“I really should have been better prepared for how good he looks in that uniform too,” Emma said and Mary Margaret’s laugh probably alerted several birds and fairies of an impending happily ever after.

Mary Margaret nodded in agreement. “It’s not a bad look.” Emma smiled, shaking her hair over her shoulders and the rest of the team had, finally, noticed the baked goods and orange slices, descending on her and Mary Margaret quickly, a mess of hands and elbows, all determined to get sustenance after the match.

Emma did her best to hold onto the containers in her hands, could hear Killian trying to work his way out of the interview, but there were more questions and the entire stadium seemed to freeze when someone asked him about how your wife made food for the team.

“That’s just bad prep,” Mary Margaret mumbled and the metaphorical birds paused mid-flight.

David looked like he was trying to figure out a way to actually arrest the journalist, but Emma shook her head again, twisting back towards a suddenly paler-than-normal Killian.

She shrugged.

And that wasn’t really the most romantic response, but no one had really asked the question.

There weren’t any questions in the Jolly later that night either – the not-so-secret celebratory dinner Ariel had planned with food that would have been better if Killian was cooking it, a fact he was quick to point out as soon as the new sous chef was back in the kitchen.

They ate it anyway and Killian helped Will mix drinks, grinning at Emma every time his eyes met hers. It was almost enough to distract all over again.

The alcohol helped.

They took more pictures – Killian’s participation trophy featuring prominently in all of them and Ruby tried to bring up the cookbook no less than eight different times.

Emma drank some more and Killian snuck into his own kitchen to make her onion rings, wrapping one arm around her waist to drop the plate in front of her at the bar and leave kisses on her neck.

Roland fell asleep draped over Killian eventually, body twisted in some sort of improbable way and he whined when Robin tried to pry his hands away from the shirt he had gripped in his fists. Mary Margaret took a picture of that as well. There weren’t any questions on the three-block walk downtown, Henry weaving just a bit until Emma wrapped her arm around his shoulder and he didn’t even argue when she pulled him against her side.

He was half asleep by the time they got into the apartment, toeing out of his sneakers and leaving them directly in front of the door. Killian tossed his keys on the table, rolling his shoulders slightly and Emma didn’t even try to get her jacket on the actual hook.

It was domestic. It was nice. She was happy. The metaphorical birds were chirping at nearly eleven o’clock at night.

“Hey, teeth,” Emma said, miming a toothbrush with her finger when Henry started to clomp down the hallway.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “Night, Mom. Night, Dad. That was a crazy good goal before.” Emma’s... something cracked when she snapped back towards Killian, his eyes dangerously wide and jaw nearly on the floor and she wasn’t sure he was breathing. The bathroom door slammed shut and Killian jumped, blinking quickly like he was trying to get everything into focus.

Emma moved slowly, reaching a hand out cautiously.

He didn’t flinch when her hand landed on his arm.

“Did he…” Killian started, shaking his head in response to a question he hadn’t actually finished. “He’s tired. Something about the sun and draining energy and he’s just talking in tongues.” Her heart expanded and then exploded and the birds were singing some kind of love song medley in the middle of the apartment. “I’m fairly positive he was still speaking English,” Emma said and Killian let out a shaky laugh. “And that’s not the first time that’s happened today, so I don’t think you get to blame the sun.” “What?” “Some kid. I have no idea what his name is. Red hair, freckles all over his cheeks. Plays defense?”

“Brandon.” “Wait, really?” Killian nodded. “I am one-hundred percent positive that kid’s name is Brandon. He’s got a peanut allergy. Don’t ask me what his last name is though, I have no idea.”

“I mean, I thought his name was Ben, so you’re definitely winning on that front.”

“Was his name an important part of the story?” Killian asked, some of the surprise leaving his voice and he didn’t look quite as tense, one hand falling to Emma’s waist.

“Nah, that was just part of the set-up,” Emma muttered. “You scored and he told Henry his dad scored and there was no argument, just another string of adjectives to describe your goal. So, again, not the first time that’s happened today. Or the first time people have made sweeping assumptions about your family qualifiers.” “I thought your brother was going to kill that journalist.” Emma winced and this conversation was not going the way she expected it. That was kind of a trend...for her life.

Huh.

“Would it really be so bad?” she asked, practically shouting the question in the otherwise empty living room. She could hear the sink still running in the bathroom.

Killian furrowed his eyebrows, his hand stilling on her side and her shirt had rumpled slightly under his fingers. “Your brother killing a journalist at Yankee Stadium?” he asked. “It’d probably make it difficult for him to get dirt.” “I think Scarlet stole some for him.” “That doesn’t surprise me at all.” “That’s not really what I was talking about.” “You don’t say.”

Emma rolled her eyes and maybe she was the one who’d been drained by the sun because she actually stuck her tongue out, pushing slightly on Killian’s chest to try and get him towards the couch. He took the hint quickly, backing up and dropping into the corner, tugging her down with him until she was flush against his side with her legs perpendicular over his.

“What’s this really about, Swan?” he asked, brushing his fingers through the ends of her hair. “And when were you going to tell me about the cookbook?” “Probably when you weren’t freaking out about a charity soccer game.” Killian opened his mouth, but she snapped her jaw in frustration and the smirk that settled on his face was absolutely cheating. “I know it’s a match. I understand the terminology.” “You’re bouncing all around this conversation, love.” “That’s because you’re not telling me about interview revelations.” Killian sighed, resting his head on her shoulder and his arm tightened around her waist. “I didn’t...we’ve only kind of talked about it,” he mumbled. “Even if I’ve been thinking it for awhile.”

“How long is awhile? Exactly?” “Weeks. Months. Since the very beginning.” She needed to stop holding her breath without realizing it. She was probably doing permanent damage to her lungs. Or her brain. Her brain needed oxygen, right?

That made sense.

“I didn’t even help with Henry’s jersey,” Emma said. “He did that himself and asked Ruby to make sure there were tickets for his friends and he drew all the letters on the sign so Rol could color them in. This is...he’s thinking it too. Obviously.” “Obviously,” Killian echoed, a note of disbelief in his voice that didn’t belong there.

Emma took a deep breath, trying to draw on some kind of conversational and emotional courage she’d only recently discovered she had. “Would it help,” she started, choosing her words carefully, “if I mentioned that I’d also been thinking about it? In the affirmative?” Killian pulled his head up slowly, staring at her like he couldn't quite believe she was there or talking and Emma tried not to bite her lip too tightly. “The affirmative?” “You need to stop just repeating what I’m saying.” “That’s because I’m very confused.”

“I’m just saying...that if there were questions or, you know, whatever. My answer would be...yes.” “Yes,” Killian said, dragging the word out until it sounded long enough to be a keynote speech at the United Nations. “And I’m asking what, exactly?”

“Are we having the same conversation right now? I’m not sure that we are.” Killian shrugged, one of his shoulders brushing up against Emma’s in the process and he really did look confused. And just a bit nervous. “You would make a terrible pirate, you know,” Emma continued. “Hiding treasure in blatantly obvious places.”

Killian blanched, lips pressed together tightly and Emma was momentarily distracted by how ridiculously blue his eyes were before he was kissing her or she was kissing him and it didn’t really matter because they appeared to, finally, be on the same conversational page.

Emma didn’t remember swinging her leg over his hip, just that he groaned when she moved against him and they should probably stop doing this with a fourteen-year-old kid who regarded them both as parental authorities down the hallway. “Ah, gross,” Henry sighed, leaning against the wall with his arms cross and his feet crossed at the ankle and he’d learned both of those things from Killian. “You figure it out yet, Mom?” Emma nodded, her back not appreciating the twist she’d put it in when she tried to glance over her shoulder. “It’s your fault, you know. If you hadn’t left your sneakers everywhere, I never would have found it.” Henry scrunched his nose – and he’d gotten that from her. “Oh. Sorry.” Killian sighed, but he didn’t actually seem frustrated, he looked like he was bordering close to ecstatic and Emma understood the feeling. “You could still help, you know,” he said, nodding back towards the hallway and he didn’t have to say another word before Henry was sprinting towards his room and the box that was, apparently, still sitting behind his soccer cleats.

“He helped me pick it out,” Killian muttered and Emma’s stomach leapt into her throat and her heart did something absolutely impossible and she’d probably never stop smiling.

“He’d make a better pirate than you,” she said.

“I hope so.”

“Here, here, here, here,” Henry cried, sliding into the couch when his socks didn’t provide the necessary traction to stop immediately. “What happens now? Shouldn’t there be candles or something? There are always candles in the movies.”

“I don’t think we even own candles,” Emma said and Henry deflated immediately.

“For real?” “We’ve got to have candles somewhere, right?” Killian asked. Emma shook her head. “You should have candles, love. If we’re going to do this, we should do it the right way.” Emma was still smiling. And still sitting on top of Killian. “I really don’t need candles.”

“This wasn’t exactly the plan. At least let me get up, Swan. We’ve got to follow one of the rules.”

She made a face that absolutely did not belong in that current situation and Henry was jumping up and down again, the box still clutched tightly in his hands. Killian took a deep breath when Emma moved, running his fingers through his hair and resting his left hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“Thanks, kid,” he muttered, turning back towards Emma and she couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t really mind.

Killian grinned at her – any trace of smirk or joke forgotten as soon as his thumb flipped open the top of the box and Emma sat up straighter, pressing her heels into the ground like that would prove this was actually happening.

He got down on one knee.

“I’ve been hiding this behind soccer cleats for the last three weeks, so you’re already painfully aware that I didn’t really have much of a plan,” Killian started. “But this is...you are all I want, Swan. All of this. Us and this apartment and this life and charity soccer games and cookbooks and ridiculous filming schedules. I want that. Indefinitely and forever and side by side. No matter what.” He glanced over his shoulder at Henry, beaming and still jumping and Emma didn’t remember when she started to cry. “So, Emma Swan,” Killian said. “Will you marry me?”

She must have nodded and something in her brain told her to move, leaping off the couch and nearly knocking Killian off balance, but his arms caught her and Henry groaned when they started kissing again.

“Mom, Mom! You’ve got to put the ring on,” he shouted, phone out and shutter clicking and Emma did as instructed.

Killian kissed her again and then kissed her knuckles and her cheeks and her eyelids and if they never moved off the living room floor, Emma wouldn’t have minded.

They made hot chocolate and Henry fell asleep on the couch, his head on the arm and legs splayed out over both Emma and Killian. She was close to falling asleep herself, lulled into rest by Killian’s fingers tracing across her arm and the dim light reflecting off her ring.

“You never actually answered the question,” Killian said suddenly, mumbling the words into Emma’s hair. “If you want to get technical.”

“What?” “I asked you to marry me and you never actually answered. Just attack kissed me on the floor.” “Was that not an answer?” Emma asked, not quite able to hold back her laughter. “No.” “Ah, well, I thought that would be kind of obvious when I said yes before you even asked.” “You’re evading on purpose, Swan.” “I absolutely am,” she agreed, burrowing her face against him.

“An answer, Emma.” She’d probably tease him about the slightly desperate edge to his voice at some point, but they had the rest of their lives for that.

They had the rest of their lives for that.

“Yes,” Emma breathed and the word seem to settle in the very middle of her or maybe on her left ring finger.

She was never going to stop smiling.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just like this.” They fell asleep on the couch and made pancakes the next morning with peanut butter chips and cinnamon in their coffee and Mary Margaret screamed when Emma called her.

#cs ff #captain swan ff #ouat ff #this is just like....fluff #like a cloud #cloud fic #WITH AN ACTUAL SOCCER GAME #finallyyyyy

43 notes · View notes

plant-flwrs · 4 years ago

Note

Heyy!! I wish you would write a fic where Fred is lowkey really into Shakespear and Romeo and Juliet and tries to woo the reader cs she’s muggleborn? Idk but it would be so cute!! 🥺

romeo and juliet // fred weasley

masterlist!

summary: Fred reads Romeo and Juliet and can’t help but fall in love

a/n: schools out, so hopefully that means more time for writing! thanks for the request anon i thought it was adorable, hope you like it!!

(2.5k)

At first, it was a secret. Fred had no intention of actually enjoying it. He had simply accepted the book Professor Lupin had lent him, thumbed through it, and stayed up all night to read it by accident.

Maybe it was because Lupin had seen the way Fred looked at you across the class, separated by hidden bloodlines and upbringings. You, with your muggle pens that you smuggled in. You, with your muggle records you used an entire bag to carry onto the train. You, with your muggle magazines that spread through the common room like wildfire. You, with those weird little things called cigarettes that you sold in your third year to the older students. You, with the way the older pureblood witches would sit and ask you to do their hair for them because only you could do all the newest muggle styles. You, with your reluctance to Quidditch but your love for soccer.

Fred was gone, absolutely gone for you. He was even more behind than usual in class because he couldn't help but find you with his eyes, no matter the room you were in or the distance between you both. Remus Lupin, the secret romantic, asked Fred to stay after class.

"Mr. Weasley," Professor Lupin called, feet kicked up on his desk while he levitated a novel wandlessly in front of him. A half-eaten apple rested on a napkin beside a chocolate wrapper and Fred was forced to remember the breakfast he had barely eaten, choosing to instead pretend he hadn't noticed the fact you had only sat a few seats away.

Fred stood in front of Lupin's desk, waiting as the room emptied out and George shot him a wink from the doorway.

"Yes, Professor?" Fred rocked on his feet, hands stuffed in the pockets of his robe. He tried not to wonder if you had noticed that he had been called behind, or if you had noticed him at all. He vaguely registered that this might what his brother would call 'pathetic'.

"You never turned in that essay on wandless defenses," Lupin said slowly, the book moving to rest on his desk as he moved his feet to the ground.

Fred was quiet, biting the inside of his cheek as he couldn't seem to recall the last time a teacher had bothered to talk to him about his assignments instead of deeming him a 'lost cause' or a student who 'simply wouldn't apply themselves'.

Professor Lupin sighed, moving again to stand. Fred thought he caught a flash of pain on the professor's face, perhaps a wince as he stood, but the moment was gone before Lupin was giving Fred a calculating and sympathetic glance.

"Do you need an extension?" Remus offered, leaning his hip against the desk and inclining his head to show Fred the importance of this offering.

"I'd appreciate that, Professor," Fred admitted.

They were silent again, Remus still looking at Fred like he was something to figure out. Remus shifted, eyes dropped to his desk and lips lifting.

"What's got you so preoccupied?"

Fred was blushing before he could think of a lie, and then he realized he didn't want to lie. He hadn't even told George about his crush on you- no doubt it was obvious. Fred had had flings and crushes on loads of girls, all fun and easy, but this felt heavier. He didn't want to have a fling with you.

"I guess-" Fred sighed, removing his hands from his robes and wiping them on his trousers, "I've just been distracted recently. A lot on my mind."

"Ah," Remus smiled fondly, nodding slowly.

A book began to move from a pile in the corner, elegantly and easily avoiding the tall stacks of clutter and various lumps of papers to levitate to Fred. Fred reached out for it, moving it in his hand to read the cover. Romeo and Juliet.

"I'll make you a deal, Fred," Professor Lupin said, his voice sounding so mischievous that Fred was surprised he hadn't become ten years younger right in front of him. "You can either write the essay on wandless defenses, or you can read that and write an essay on 'Romeo and Juliet'."

Fred thumbed through the book, eyebrows furrowed. He had never liked reading, most of the books at the Burrow belonged to Bill, Percy, or his father. He was pretty sure that George would find Fred reading Shakespeare to be just as funny as the time they released Cornish Pixies in the Slytherin changing rooms.

"Yeah, alright."

Fred managed to eat dinner that night, with you safely at the opposite end of the table. The curtains to his fourposter had been closed for hours and the light from his wand had been steadily bright for just as long. He had gone from laying on his back, head propped up beneath his arms, to resting his back against the headboard, to sitting upright in the center of his bed, head propped on his fist, to laying on his stomach, to laying on his back again with his head at the foot of his bed, and soon enough, the sun was flooding through a crack in the curtains. He had just finished Romeo and Juliet when he heard the showers starting.

"Lupin!"

Remus stopped and watched Fred catch up to him. He looked tired and simultaneously wide awake, his hair was a mess, and Remus was almost certain that he was wearing his pajama pants beneath his school robes.

"Mr. Weasley," Remus said cordially, continuing his walk to the greenhouse.

"I wanted to talk to you about that book you lent me-"

"Oh, you can keep it, if you'd like. I've read it dozens of times."

Fred hesitated, a wide smile spreading over his face, "Oh, thanks, Professor! It's just, I wanted to tell you I really liked it."

"You've finished it, then?" Remus asked with an impressed smile.

"Read it last night," Fred admitted, somewhat embarrassed.

"I look forward to the essay, then," Lupin said with a kind smile and a nod, turning into the greenhouses and leaving Fred in the corridor.

Inside his robes, he felt the weight of the tiny book against his chest. He kept it in a pocket there, fingers itching to hold it and read it again.

He couldn't help the roaring thoughts in his head. The idea that you were his Juliet, that you and he could find a hidden love, just for you two, amongst your external differences. He was oddly disappointed by the ending and decided he might not completely finish the book if he read it again, perhaps pretend it ended differently. He leaned his back against the stone wall behind him, fighting a blushing smile from his face.

So, Fred loved Shakespeare in secret. He loved reading in secret. He loved the weight of the book in his hands in secret. He loved the words and the phrases in secret. He loved the way it made him think in secret. He loved you in secret. He loved in secret.

Until you started dating Thomas Meadowbrooke. Thomas was a Ravenclaw, wickedly smart, handsome, kind, and the victim of many of the Weasley twins' pranks for a while. George didn't directly ask Fred why they were suddenly pranking this one boy so relentlessly all of a sudden, but he didn't need to.

Thomas wore blazers with patches on the elbows and combed his silky hair down the middle. He always had a flower in his coat pocket to give to you and he always carried a book of poetry with him. He was sensitive and wistful in all the ways girls loved, including you.

You thought Thomas was painfully boring. He would fawn over you in the most annoying ways, giving you poems that he wrote (horrendously awful, they were) and quoting lines from old and boring books to you. He didn't listen to Joan Jett or Janis Joplin and he cringed when you played your records. He suggested Bach or Debussy instead. He was boring.

You had only agreed to go out with him because he asked. Thomas Meadowbrooke may have been able to put a cornish pixie to sleep just by talking to it, but he was undeniably handsome. Well, he was more handsome before he had fallen victim to a particularly entertaining Weasley twin prank that turned his hair gelled and spiked up for a few days.

You broke up with Thomas soon after. He took it well, saying it gave him fuel to finish some poetry he hadn't been inspired enough for before.

Remus heard this gossip quite excitedly.

"She did, did she?" Remus tilted his head, a coy smirk on his lips.

The smell of fertilizer was strong, but he learned not to mind it as he watched the merry witch digging in various pots.

"He was quite heartbroken, the poor thing. Filius said that when he did routine bed checks, he could hear Thomas crying for weeks!" Professor Sprout sighed, patting down the soil and checking for weeds.

"Teen romance is always quite fickle," Remus commented, following Pomona as she moved to the next pot.

"Says you!" Pomona playfully scolded Remus, her red cheeks filling as she smiled.

Remus chuckled, thinking back to Sirius who would sneak into his office later to distract him from grading papers.

"You know, Pomona," Remus said in that voice of his, the one that got Sprout to drop her trowel and lean in close to hear the latest gossip. "I think Fred Weasley's got a bit of a crush on Y/n."

Pomona gasped, dirty hand flying to cover her mouth. She paused, scrunching up her face and sticking her tongue out to spit out the clump of dirt.

"He hasn't!" she continued, not minding Remus' amused smile and the clean rag he offered her to wipe her hands.

"He's always staring at her," Remus said, thinking on it. "I reckon he's quite the secret romantic."

Pomona cooed and awed as she continued to tend to her plants, she and Remus trading anymore gossip that they could think of.

The weather changed at quite a convenient time for Fred. With the slightly warm but still a bit chilled fall weather, Fred could dawn his lighter coats. His lighter coats that happened to have wonderfully shaped pockets on the inside, just the right size for a book.

Fred wondered if you had gone out with Thomas because Ravenclaw book nerds were your type, or if you had broken up with him because Ravenclaw book nerds weren't your type. Fred had spent almost all of the warm weather contemplating how he was going to continue to live if he was determined to remain secretly in love with you. By fall he had figured it out.

Fred wasn't going to hide anything, not the books he had recently begun to love, or the way he loved so strongly. He wasn't going to miss meals because you were so distracting. He wasn't going to suffocate under his crush on you.

It was a beautiful day. George was up in the dorms with Lee working on a prank and Fred had decided to take a walk down to the Black Lake. His lighter coat was a bit heavier because of the book in the pocket, and Fred pushed his hair out of his eyes as he looked down at the ground to avoid stepping on tree roots. He found a nice spot beneath a tree, resting against the trunk and reading.

"Hey, Fred," a voice called, coming closer as they easily avoided the maze of tree roots.

Fred looked up to see you, in those perfect muggle clothes you wore any chance you could, hair styled in that wonderful muggle way, one of those muggle cigarettes tucked behind your ear, walking towards him.

"Hey," he responded, surprised by how easy his voice sounded.

"Have you been reviewing at all for Lupin's?" You sat next to Fred like it was the easiest thing in the world, brushing your shoulder against his.

"No, not really," Fred closed his book with his thumb tucked between the pages saving his spot.

"Mmm," you hummed, leaning your head back against the tree and closing your eyes. "What're you reading?"

"Romeo and Juliet," Fred replied, looking at your profile while he had the chance.

"Didn't think that was your thing," you said playfully, opening one eye to catch Fred looking at you.

He flushed and turned his gaze to his hands in his lap. "Me neither," he admitted, swallowing.

"I always liked ‘The Taming of the Shrew’, personally."

Fred smiled to himself, because of course, you had also read Shakespeare, and of course, you would have a cool favorite.

"I like that one, too," Fred said lamely, enjoying the way you were smiling at him.

By winter, Fred had devised a plan. It was perfect, more perfect than any prank he had created or any Zonko's product he had bought. He would die if he kept all this love to himself, so he decided all he needed was one kiss.

The Yule Ball was in full swing, the classical and slow music long forgotten as everyone moved to the dance floor and rocked to the loud and fast rhythm. Fred had seen you when you first arrived, noticing with glee that you were alone, and hadn't lost sight of you since. He had removed himself from the heavily crowded dance floor, stumbling to the table with the juice he and George had spiked hours earlier. He loosened the collar of his robes and pushed his already disheveled hair out of his face.

You watched Fred move through the crowd like a tornado, a mass of energy that you felt required to look at and admire. He strode to the table, a quiet and self-satisfied smirk on his lips as he took a long sip of punch.

Fred caught you staring at him with pleasant unexpectedness. You looked just as beautiful as you did when the night started, skin glowing and everything dawned upon you with your magical muggle-ness. Fred put his cup down, a comfortable pink hue warming his cheeks, and approached you. He touched his hand to yours.

"Hey, Fred," you said with an entertained smirk, glancing down at his hand on yours.

"I need you to do me a favor," he slurred, voice easy and breath warm as it landed on your skin.

"What kind of favor?"

"I need you to kiss me," Fred pulled his mouth away from your ear, looking to your face.

He didn't have much of an opportunity, though, before your lips were on his and you stole his breath. He tasted of the spiked punch and his hands were trembling and careful as they rested on your waist. You grabbed a fistful of his robes, pulling him close to you with urgency.

He pulled away, lips red and swollen, with his eyes still closed.

"I need you to do me a favor," you said, mouth hovering above his.

"Yeah?"

"Kiss me," you whispered, just loud enough for Fred to hear.

He listened, and held onto you with less trembling and more confidence as you kissed for the second time.

#fred weasley #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley fic #fred weasley imagine #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x y/n #fred #weasley #george weasley #professor remus lupin #fred weasley fluff #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #hogwarts #yule ball #romeo and juliet #Shakespeare inspired fic

538 notes · View notes

shipsxahoy · 7 years ago

Text

Anyone know any good CS soccer AUs?

suddenly have a hankering..

or if you’re writing one, I WANNA BE TAGGED THANKS!

#cs fic #cs fic rec #cs soccer #cs soccer au #cs au

31 notes · View notes

artistic-writer · 5 years ago

Text

The Paradox of Light :: CS AU : Rated E :: part 4

Title: The Paradox of Light by @artistic-writer Summary: Imagine having one person, one constant, one love in your life that holds your head when you go under the surface. They will be there forever, holding your hand through everything life can throw at the pair of you, but what happens when a crack forms? What happens when it grows into something neither of you can control? What happens when the one person who was there to guide you becomes an obstacle and rather than hold you up, they pull you down? How do you find your way out of the darkness without your light? Rating: E Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, alcoholism/alcohol abuse, sexual addiction, domestic violence, fighting, choking, erotic asphyxiation (use in a non-informed manner), depression, death of Liam Jones, panic attacks, PTSD, attempted rape/non-con/dub-con, stab wounds, bar fights, rehab/AA meetings

- but there is a happy ending to this story, i promise.

Author’s Note: I missed this ficversary because of everything that is going on in the world right now, but its been in the plan to re-release it as a multichapter for some time. It’s A LOT otherwise and whilst I initially always intended this to be a one shot, because I wrote it in one go, its not logical to expect people to stop and read so many words in one go. The lovely fanart by @itsfabianadocarmo features in all chapters, so go show her some love!

PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS!! This fic has a lot of them for a reason. If you want to ask about any, please don’t be afraid to message me.

Part Four [ below the cut ]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two months ago

There were certain times when Killian never went out to drink and those were the happier times, when Emma felt like they might be like they once were. His beloved soccer team’s semi-final match against their biggest rival was one of those times, however, he was never far from the bitterness of an alcoholic beverage. The game hadn’t even reached half time yet and he had already plowed his way through a six pack, the bottles still wet on the outside from the condensation that had not had time to evaporate.

It was a rare occurrence for both of them to be home at the same time. Killian often worked late, heading straight to Will’s bar, and if he was home early, Emma nearly always had a late shift at the precinct that meant they would not cross paths again until the next day. Knowing he would be home because of the game meant Emma could arrange this evening, spend some time together, just the two of them, and hopefully begin to mend the pieces of their relationship.

It wasn’t exactly that their relationship was completely broken, but neither could deny that it was cracking and coming apart because of their ignorance to their own destruction. But tonight, Emma had a plan, to secure the edges of their love before it split and frayed beyond salvation.

And it began with interrupting the half time interlude dressed in only lingerie.

“Oh, Killian…” Emma sang, walking down the stairs as silently as her bare feet would allow on the wooden steps.

“Hmm?” He grunted, gulping another mouthful of beer from a new bottle and frowned at some slow motion replay on the screen with a disgruntled noise.

“Are you busy?” Emma cooed sweetly, padding across the floor and letting her fingers trail along the back of the couch where he was sitting. She stepped sideways, her freshly shaved legs smooth as they rubbed against each other. It wasn’t the only thing that Emma had rid of all hair and her lips quirked up at the corners at the thought of Killian seeing her.

“No, It’s half time,” He mumbled against the cold, glass lip of the bottle in his hand. He was slouched back into the cushions, his shirt having been discarded in excitement over a goal, and his lounge pants slung low on his hips. Hair covered his entire torso, the droplets of water from the outside of his beer sitting in tiny bubbles on the thatch that poked out of his waistband, and as she walked past Emma couldn’t help but rake her nails over his shoulders.

“Oh good,” she purred, reaching the end of the couch and stepping into his peripheral . She knew he could see her. His stomach caved in from his intake of air and he almost choked on the swig of beer in his mouth, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and turning to look at her with a slack jawed expression.

“Fuck me, Swan,” he stammered, fingers gripping the bottle in his hand so tightly his fingernail beds turned pink under the hard surface.

“That’s the plan.” Emma sauntered around the couch until she was standing before him. He licked his lips and ran his tongue over the edge of his teeth, eyes roaming over her dressed in a brand new piece of lingerie he had never seen before. It was stunning, a blood red corset made of bone and lace that left nothing to the imagination, hidden underneath a sheer black long sleeve gown, but it’s most defining feature was a black lace halter neck choker that made Killian grin salaciously.

“Nice outfit,” he smirked, bouncing the balls of his feet on the carpet in front of him, fidgeting as blood rushed to his groin.

“Oh, this old thing?” Emma rolled her eyes, flicking her loosely curled hair over the back of her shoulder.

“That is not old,” Killian bit his bottom lip, his eyebrow bobbing up his forehead. He motioned towards her with the beer bottle, extending his arm.

“How can you be so sure?” Emma took a step forward, shrugging her shoulders and letting the gown silently flutter to the ground behind her.

Killian took another swig of his beer, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Emma the whole time. “I would have noticed,” he said smugly.

Emma tilted her head to her chin, looking down her torso, barely able to see her feet over the balconette bustier that so comfortably housed her ample breasts. “You like it?” She blinked, opening her eyes to meet his once more without lifting her head. Her teeth worried her bottom lip, turning the plump skin white as she bit down, and she swivelled her hips sideways.

Killian’s gaze drifted to the profile of her ass, the skin bare and the string of her thong disappearing between her cheeks. It took everything he had to keep his hand on the bottle and not reach for her curves, his fingers itching with the memory of how she felt under his touch. He flexed his fingers, rubbing his hand along his thigh and hating the way the cotton of his pants felt nothing like her skin. With one last chug of his beer the bottle was empty, and he swallowed hard, a tiny droplet escaping his lips and rolling down the lengthening hair of his beard. All he could do was exhale, hard and forced, his chest heaving in another breath.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Emma smirked, giving him a wink and slipping out of his view towards the stairs. He sat still, composing himself she was sure, until she heard the thud of the empty bottle against the coffee table and then silence as he switched the game off. Emma lifted her leg onto the first step, turning back to offer him a coy smile. “Are you just going to sit there all night?” She teased as she ascended the stairs.

For a man who was already half cut, Killian moved like a rocket, springing to his feet and bolting across the space between them in less than three strides. Emma squeaked, feet pounding the stairs as she ran, pulling herself on the handrail to increase her speed. When Killian stumbled she giggled and took advantage of the distance she manage to put between them, flying through their bedroom door and turning to face him just as she reached their bed. Killian made it to the door and leaned on the frame, muscles bulging at his biceps and breathing heavily, his hair flopped over his forehead, the grin he had been wearing now replaced with a feral, cat like stare.

He was stalking her like prey and Emma had never felt so exhilarated.

“You are a siren,” he said accusingly, reaching up to scratch at his almost full length beard. It sported a few grey hairs, streaks of white mixed in with his usual gingery hues that accented the silver that had formed over his pointed ears.

“And you are too slow,” Emma rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, hands on her hips. “Must be the grey,” she winked.

Killian took a step into the room, straightening up and reaching for the door. He wrapped his fingers around the hard, wooden panel and slammed it closed behind him, smirking when Emma jumped a little with anticipation. “Silver fox, right?” He whispered darkly as he approached.

Emma nodded, letting her eyes roam over his naked torso once more. Her skin hummed as he approached and a soft whimper fell from her mouth as she noticed his arousal tenting his pants. He stopped inches from her and his manly scent invaded every one of her senses immediately, making the blood pound in her ears and her core ache.

“Don’t they mate for life?” Killian purred, his breath hot on her face. He pushed his hands into the side of his loungewear, pushing the material down over his thighs and letting them pool at his feet. She swallowed hard, not caring that her plan had been turned around on her, and rubbed her thighs together to alleviate the tension between her legs.

Completely naked, Killian was exposed. It had been so long since they had played this sort of game, made love, seen each other naked even, and her eyes flitted over his scars. They were everywhere, littering his body and a constant reminder of what had happened to him overseas, and Emma had forgotten how many he actually had. She didn’t care, he was exactly how she wanted him, each divot, rippled and raised bit of flesh a trophy of how hard he had fought to get back to her.

Emma lifted her gaze, fixing her stare into the oceanic depths of Killian’s eyes. “Forever,” she whispered.

He paused, his heart stopping for a second as he comprehended her words. He looked away sheepishly and gulped. “After everything?”

“Killian, please, don’t,” Emma said softly, closing the gap between them and pressing herself against the firmness of his chest. Her fingers tangled themselves in his beard, curling into the wiry hair and gently tugging his face up to look at her once more. “Don’t. Not tonight. Let’s just…”

“I know,” He said with a weak smile. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You’re right,” Emma laughed, pushing herself from his body and watching his expression change instantly. It became more playful, his eyebrow jumping up on his face and his cock twitched back to life. “I should just…” She turned from him, still feeling his eyes burning into her back. She reached at her side and pulled down the zip of the corset agonizingly slowly, the clicking sound almost lost over Killian’s groan of frustration. “...take this off,” Emma dropped the barely there lace corset to the floor and peeked over her shoulder.

“Bloody Hell,” Killian ground out through a clenched jaw.

“And maybe this?” Emma hooked her thumbs into the waistband strap of her thong, teasing the material down over the curve of her ass and watching Killian’s resolve slowly disappear. He was so worked up she could practically see his heart thundering in his chest, vibrating his chest hair and making his skin come to life.

“Maybe I could help?” Killian growled, his feet planted to the floor, his whole body paralyzed when Emma bent over as she pushed the material to her knees, letting it go and fall the rest of the way unaided. She stretched forward over the bed and a moan tumbled from her lips when her nipples brushed the comforter and sent them into rock hard peaks. Emma slithered across the top of the sheets, careful to keep her legs closed, and gave him another sultry look over her shoulder.

“I can think of a much better way you can help me,” Emma purred, rolling over onto her back and palming her breasts. “Do you want to know how?” She cooed, beckoning him with a finger.

Killian just growled again, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he crawled up onto the bed and over her naked form. Emma sucked in a breath, carding her fingers into his beard again and leveling his gaze with hers. He hovered above her, his body not touching hers but both of them could feel the electricity radiating from their skin, shocking the others to attention. “I know exactly how,” he said teasing her bottom lip with his, offering her the softness of his lips only to tear it away at the last second.

Emma grinned, clawing the sides of his face and arching her back off of the bed, desperate to feel his thatched chest tickling her sensitive nipples. Killian moved back, denying her pleasure with a sly smirk. “Roll over,” he rasped, finally pressing his lips to hers, quickly giving her a taunting kiss that he knew would leave her wanting more. She chased his lips when he pulled away, pouting her bottom lip out with a sulk.

“You’re a bad boy,” Emma chuckled playfully as she turned, resting her body on its side. Killian moved into the space behind her, his erection rubbing the crease of her ass and his lips finding the skin of her shoulder, sucking the flesh into a purple bruise almost immediately.

“You have no idea,” Killian whispered, his nose nuzzled into the space behind her ear and making the hairs there stand to attention with his words. They were enough to send her body into a shiver that was only eased by the huge arms wrapped around her and his hands trailing down the curve of her breasts and over the jut of her hips. Resting completely in his embrace, head on his bicep and with no space between them, Emma felt more loved than she had in a long time.

“What are you going to do to me?” Emma begged, feigning innocence. She knew exactly what he was going to do, she had known from the second he pressed his body to hers and had ghosted his hand over her stomach, moving lower but never touching where she wanted him to the most. Killian inserted his hand between her clenched thighs and lifted her leg back and over his hip, the half excited half impeded moan that left Emma’s mouth instantly surging to his groin.

“I’m going to…” he began darkly against the side of her face, his breath almost louder than his words. Killian slid his fingers down her inner thigh, so close to her exposed bundle of nerves that Emma tried to clamp her thighs around his hand but Killian stopped her by pulling her leg back onto his hip.

“Killian, please,” Emma whined, moving his arm she was laying on so that he was cradling one of her breasts in his hand.

“I can smell you,” he said gruffly, kneading the flesh in his palm. “You are so wet I can practically taste you, Swan.”

“Please…” Emma writhed again, the tightness between her open thighs a cruel torture that only Killian could devise. He angled his hips and his length smoothed over her entrance, poking at her clit before he withdrew and the sensation disappeared. Emma gasped and Killian held her tighter, repeating his thrust but never entering her. The angle was perfect, the ultra responsive nerve endings just inside of her exposed to his assault every time he rolled his hips.

“What do you want, Emma?” He panted into her ear, his voice like fire, licking at her need and burning away her insides.

“You,” she almost cried, the feel on his length sliding over her entrance becoming too much too quickly. She was so close and he hadn’t even entered her yet. “I want you.”

Killian reached between her legs, enjoying the gasp from her lips as he purposely brushed the heel of his palm over her clit and helped himself in. Her warmth sucked him in, tight and slick, and it finally felt like they were on their way home. Only, as soon as he began to move, the darkness inside of Emma reared its head and her body cried out for more of the self deprecating behaviour she craved.

“Choke me,” she whimpered between his thrusts, turning her head to catch his eye. Killian slowed him movements, sweat beading his forehead under the flop of his fringe as he fought to compose himself. Even her slightest movements were sending him towards the brightness of climax and he was a little confused by her words, his brow knitting together and he shook.

“Are you sure?” He gasped, his balls tightening at the mere mention of her words.

“Do it,” Emma moved his arm from her bosom until his hand was on her throat, the relief washing over her instantly. She felt like she could finally let go, let herself bathe in the brilliance only he could bring her, and when his grip tightened, her eyes rolled back in her head and she felt her entire body go limp in his grasp. “Don’t stop until I’m there,” she told him firmly as he began to move once more.

“I won’t,” Killian promised through a grunt, hips pistoning into her. The hand around her neck grew tighter, fingertips creating a line of inevitable bruises, the pain receptors under each sparking to life. Emma’s mouth fell open even wider as she gasped, her lungs burning with every breath, the lack of oxygen sending her into a panic that translated into pleasure everywhere else in her body.

Killian doubled his efforts, muscles bulging around her shoulders as he pulled her head to his chest, eager to give her the enlightenment she desired. Emma felt faint, the edges of her vision blurring and the heaviness in her limbs disappearing. Her lips tingled and the feeling in her legs disappeared, travelling up her body until with a frown she could feel nothing else and was shrouded in black.

There was no light where she was.

No warmth or comfort, just bleakness and the cold.

The deafening sound of silence, the empty expanse of her mind engulfing her completely.

“Emma!” She heard Killian shout but his voice was distant and muffled like he was underwater. She was floating, specks of light pricking behind her eyes each time she heard her name. “Emma! Baby, wake up!” Killian’s voice grew louder and she felt herself get pulled into a different position, a huge flat palm gently tapping the side of her cheek. “Come on, Emma, come back to me.”

She gasped, like she had erupted from the surface of a lake where she was surely drowning, inhaling hard and coughing as her eyes flew open and she clawed out at nothing. She felt flesh and hair, her hand colliding with what she assumed was Killian’s face as she blinked her vision into clarity.

“Emma!” Killian screamed, his voice full of relief. He bundled her spluttering figure, somewhat tinier than before, into his arms, holding her across his lap and rocking her back and forth like he was soothing a child. “Oh my God,” he whispered, lips pressed to her hairline, the words muffled against her skin.

“What...what happened?” Emma rasped, her voice physically changed and deeper. She was confused and her head pounded with a migraine like nothing she had ever felt before. She winced, closing her eyes to block out the glow of the bedroom lamp overhead.

“I am so sorry,” Killian whimpered, almost crying.

“Killian…” Emma choked out again, ignoring the scratch in her throat as she swallowed awkwardly. “What happened?” She repeated, stilling his rocking motion when she tried to sit up out of his embrace.

“I...you…” Killian stammered, his breath hitching between words. “I…” he tried again, his face screwing up as his emotion got too much for him and his tears spilled out of his eyelids. He buried his face in his hands, the sounds he made similar to when he had found out Liam was dead, like an animal caught in a trap in the most excruciating pain.

“Hey, hey,” Emma grabbed his hands instantly, pulling them from his face and cradling his head in her hands. “It’s okay,” she said softly, her own voice catching in her throat.

Killian launched himself into her arms, pulling her to him tightly as best he could in their sitting position on the bed, and Emma felt the tension leave him on a breath. “I didn’t mean to…” he sobbed into her shoulder, licking the tears from his lips quickly and holding the back of her head like it was a precious stone. “You passed out, Emma,” he pulled back from her and wiped away his tears with the knuckle of his thumb, pushing the skin of his cheek across his face until it was dry. “What if you…What if I had...” He paused, pinching his eyes closed and chasing away the thought of losing her at his own hand. “We went too far.”

Emma sat in silence, looking at the panicked look of his confession, the searing pain of his still visible handprint branding her neck. He was right, they had taken things too far this time. They had been dancing at the edge of darkness unaffected for too long, their reward worth much more than the risks, only now they had fallen into the depths and there was no beacon to guide them home.

“I’m okay,” Emma assured him again but she knew it was a lie. Things had changed between them and she knew that they had to change.

One month ago

For the last four weeks, there had been a tension between them. Emma knew it was her fault to a degree. She had pushed Killian too far, helped him cross a line he had promised he never would, all because she selfishly wanted her escapism in the form of her high. She craved it, still, but had forced herself to quit cold turkey from that day, the thick, purple hand mark around her throat a constant reminder of why. Killian had felt the most guilt, ramping up his drinking habits almost immediately, his rage increasing overnight with his feelings of inadequacy.

Emma had gone from seducing him to turning away, shying from his affections because she was petrified of needing more. She didn’t understand her addiction and couldn’t fathom how or when she had become so dependant on the release Killian could give her. All she knew was that it was something they needed to fix together but Emma was struggling to reach Killian and make him see that they needed help. Like any dependant, he thought he could fix things himself and they did not need the intervention of an outside party.

If Emma had only known how the rest of the day was going to pan out.

That morning they had talked a little about dinner and Emma had agreed to cook some sort of slow cooked casserole as it was one of Killian's favourites. A good, hearty, warming meal was just what they needed as the bitterness in the air had begun to creep in earlier in the evenings, Killian’s late night bar antics leaving him vulnerable to the cold. Alcohol had a way of tricking the brain into thinking the body was warm, so when he promised he would make a start on their fix by arriving home before dinner, Emma threw herself into prep.

When she heard the key turn in the door before nine that night, she smiled to herself, a real joy washing over her as she idly chopping vegetables in the kitchen. Maybe they could be saved after all.

“Swan?” Killian called, like so many other nights her had returned home. It was like he needed to hear her voice, make sure he had made it home and she was still there.

“In the kitchen,” Emma called back, fixing her gaze on the vegetable she was chopping, careful not to slip and cut herself. She heard him stumble in the foyer, grumbling to himself when he struggled to toe off his boots, and she lost her smile immediately. “How was work?” She called softly.

“Same old, same old,” Killian grunted, leaning against the dining table after he had appeared in the kitchen. His shirt was dishevelled yet again, his hair and beard unruly and as he shrugged off his jacket, Emma saw the pink tinge to his knuckles.

“How are your colleagues?” Emma prompted, averting her eyes back to her chopping.

“Chatty,” Killian bit out, evidently angry about something. It took everything Emma had not to turn around and comfort him the way she had been, the way they had been comforting each other, and as if reading her mind, Killian scoffed, a sound of disgust leaving the back of his throat in a guttural tone. “You want to make them stop?”

Emma stopped her chopping, resting the knife on the countertop and turning to face him, her arms folded over her chest and her feet crossed at the ankles. She was wearing just a pair of leggings, warm but practical with a pair of thick, slipper style socks and a small plain tee. She sighed a little, looking down at her wiggling toes. “You know I can’t do that.”

“That’s right,” Killian sneered. “You got better.”

“I didn’t get better,” Emma snapped, tightening her arms across her chest defensively. “I got wise.”

“Wise?” Killian laughed maniacally. “To me?”

“To us,” Emma said firmly, staring him down.

“Oh, I see,” Killian raised his voice, stepping towards her and wobbling a little on unsteady feet. “You don’t need your fix anymore so you don’t need me anymore,” he spat, jabbing an accusing finger at her.

“That’s not it,” Emma said calmly.

“Isn’t it?” Killian arched his neck, looking down at her suspiciously. “We don’t have sex anymore,” she shrugged, waving his hands around as if an audience was listening to him. “You haven’t kissed me in days, Emma. Fuck, we don’t even talk anymore!”

“We talk,” Emma nodded but he cut her off with another disapproving scoffing noise.

“Barely!” He squeaked, his volume rising a bit more.

“Look, it’s not my fault you are drunk all of the time! How am I supposed to talk to you, Killian? Tell me that. How am I supposed to talk to you when you are so full of rum you reek of the stuff!” It was Emma’s turn to shout now, her anger rising like bile in her throat.

“Oh, right, but it was okay for you to take what you wanted, huh?” Killian took a last step in her direction, his breath sour and bitter against her face as he shouted. “You didn’t seem to mind what I smelled like as long as you got what you needed!”

Emma barely lifted her head, looking at him with just the movement of her eyes. “Don’t,” she warned him, her voice low and her jaw clenched.

“Don’t what, Emma?” Killian boomed. “Don’t tell you the truth?” He laughed, shaking his head and little. “You get angry at me because you know I am right, and you can’t get angry at yourself. You are a fucking hypocrite, and you know it.”

“So what if I am?” Emma screamed at him, her cheeks flushing with prickles of red and her ear tips burning. He was standing so close to her she could practically feel him on her skin. “At least I realised it was wrong.”

Killian laughed, throwing his head back and planting his hands on his hips. It was a fake laughter, forced and evil, and it made Emma feel so small the sting of tears pricked at her eyelids. “Emma, you were willing to almost die to get your high. Don’t lecture me about what is wrong.”

“Drinking is not the same as sex,” Killian huffed. “You used me for your own emotional gain, and for what? Did it fix any of your damn problems, huh? Did it bring Liam back? No. We are still fucked up.”

A silence fell between them, the sound of their rapid heartbeats pounding in their ears on each breath. Emma stared at her feet, gripping the counter behind her for some sort of stability, Killian’s words cutting into her deeper than he probably realised. Killian moved first, stepping to the side with a disgusted shake of his head, and pulled open the cabinet behind her.

“What are you doing?” Emma snapped spitefully.

“Getting a drink,” Killian’s hand reappeared with a half consumed bottle of dark rum clutched tightly in his fingers. He slammed the door and Emma jumped, her eyes pinching closed and a feeling of dread seeping into her chest. She swallowed hard, watching the man she no longer recognised pull the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spit it across the room. He tossed his head back as he drank hungrily, finishing the rest of the bottle before he even needed to breathe.

“Is that necessary?” Emma raised an eyebrow at him.

“With all this judgement?” Killian quipped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Absolutely!” He sang, slamming the empty bottle on the counter.

“You’re a bastard,” Emma snivelled, the lump in her throat making her voice squeak and her lip tremble.

“Finally!” He roared, again addressing his invisible audience. “I was wondering how long it would take you to cry!”

“Fuck you, Killian!” Emma shouted at him, leaning forward and smacking him hard in the chest. She knew the wounds from the bar fight were healed in the upper layers but they had taken longer in the sub layers of his skin and they were sore. He winced, rolling his shoulder backwards to absorb some of the blow, but giving her a cock sure grin that sent her into a further rage.

“You don’t like to hear the truth, do you Swan?” He jabbed. “You know I am right and it tears you up that a fucking drunk can see what you can’t!”

“You don’t know shit about the truth!” Emma screeched, fists balled at her sides.

“I know you hurt, we both did, and I know that the only way you could make it disappear was to fuck. How many times did we fuck for that reason, Emma? How many times did you use me?” Killian stepped back into her space again, eyes roaming over her tight fitting clothes that accented all of the curves of her body. He reached out his hand and let his fingers rest on her hip but Emma stepped back.

“Get off of me,” she sobbed, her voice low and full of rage, her back hitting the counter as she pulled away.

“Come on,” Killian jeered, trapping her against the counter with the weight of his body. “Don’t fight me, Swan. I know you are hurting now,” he said sickly sweet, his eyes watching his hand as he ran his knuckles down the curve of her cheek to wipe away her tears. Emma turned her face away, her nose turning up when the smell of stale smoke and ales filled her nostrils. “I can make it go away.”

“Killian, no,” Emma said firmly, planting her hands on his chest but unable to move him backward.

“Just think about how it will feel,” Killian purred against the side of her face, fingers gripping her lower jaw and turning her face back to his. The fear in her eyes set him alight and Emma felt him harden in his jeans, his erection pressing into her groin and evident through her leggings. “I know you want to feel.”

“No,” Emma said again, her resolve firm. “Not like this.”

“This is exactly how you made me feel,” Killian growled, releasing her jaw and reaching between them to fumble with the button of his jeans. Emma’s breath hitched in her throat, heat and sweat tingling at the base of her spine with panic. He grabbed her hand and shoved it into his boxers, closing her fingers around his length and giving himself a few strokes, his blunt fingers digging into her wrist so hard she cried in pain as she tried to pull away. “Used. Worthless. Like nothing,” Killian grunted, stroking himself harder with Emma’s hand.

“You are worthless!” Emma shouted at him and he paused his movements, mouth agape and glassy eyes darkened with fury. She pulled her hand free and pushed against his chest again, his body giving a little under her assault which made him take a shaky step back. “You are nothing!” Emma spat.

“You ungrateful cunt!” Killian seethed, surging forward and grabbing her by the throat with both hands. Emma screamed in fear, cowering away from his touch and raising her arms to defend herself. “I gave you everything and you won’t even give me this one little thing!” He sneered, sliding his hands to her shoulders and spinning her away from him.

“Help!” Emma called out, her cries falling on deaf ears. It was Friday night and their neighbours would be out for dinner or some other such activity. They were alone. She was alone.

Killian leaned his entire weight onto her back, pressing his elbow into the space between her shoulder blades until Emma had no choice but to lay face down on the cold countertop. Her tears pooled under her cheek, Killian’s hand holding the back of her head so tightly and making sure she was trapped. “If you won't give it to me,” he slurred darkly, grabbing the back of Emma’s leggings and pulling them and her panties down over her behind in one rough action that made her flush hot with horror. “I’ll take it!”

Emma was dreaming. She had to be. There was no way that the man she loved and had loved for over half her life would do this to her. There was no way that Killian Jones would let himself be so blinded by resentment, be so livid, that he would take it out on the woman he loved. Emma was terrified, the events unfolding in slow motion and the sounds of his hateful rant overwhelmed by the buzz in her ears.

That was when she saw her reflection, looking back at her, eyes puffy and red, from the polished steel blade of the knife. She didn’t recognise the person she had become, a meek, mousy thing without the strength to find her own light, but she would be damned if she didn’t have the strength left in her to determine her own destiny.

Emma kicked out, taking advantage of a split second in time when Killian swayed backward again, his inebriation on her side. Her foot connected with something hard and she felt him let her go as he stumbled back, doubled over in pain. She bolted upright, tears blinding her wide eyes and hands shaking as she grabbed the knife from beside the pile of freshly chopped vegetables and held it out in front of her.

“Stay the fuck away from me!” She wailed in a quivering voice, her hair messed up and only still half in a ponytail. She was trembling from head to toe, her adrenaline off the charts and she struggled to find the breath she needed to say anything else.

Killian sank to his knees with his hands covering his partly exposed member that had begun to shrink back into its flaccid state. He let out a groan, eyes tightly closed and chords of his neck straining to fight away the pain that had invaded his groin area. There was sweat across his brow and his face had paled. He opened his eyes, the clear blue back once more that made Emma’s heart swell with solace, and then promptly fell forward onto his hands and threw up a foamy, dark brown liquid concoction of rum and bile.

Killian coughed, the sound hacking in the back of his throat each time he alternated between clutching his stomach and his manhood, the dull aching sensation jumping from one to the other. He finally stopped retching and sat back up on his heels, exhausted and drained, arms hanging loosely at his sides and face wet from tears. Emma tightened her grip on the knife, fingers constantly repositioning themselves over the handle to get a firmer hold, but when Killian looked up at her with nothing but remorse in his eyes, she relaxed a little and let out a tense breath she had been holding.

He was pathetic, physically drained, a mere shell of the man he portrayed to the world. Killian was broken, a million pieces of who he used to be scattered all over the world. Some he had lost abroad, flashes of horrific memories imprinted on the back of his eyelids from service and an inner voice that never let him sleep. Some he had lost more recently, buried with his brother, never to return, just like the man he had called his hero. He blinked away his tears, his heart falling to his stomach when he realised he had finally hit the bottom of the bottle, the end of the road, and was at the lowest he could ever get in his miserable life.

There would be no coming back from this, the whites of Emma’s knuckles and the whites of her eyes evidence of her distress. How could he have let the demons win? How could he have been so weak? He had broken his promise, to Liam and more importantly Emma, and he in no way deserved mercy. He was now a slave to Emma’s retribution, the glint of the knife in her hand as she towered over him all he could focus on. He would willingly accept any punishment she saw fit if it meant she would spare him the ache in his heart he knew was coming.

“Emma, I…” he whispered through his tears.

“Get out,” Emma said darkly, tossing the knife back onto the countertop and reaching for her leggings, pulling them back up her shaking legs to try and regain some sense of dignity.

Killian’s chest heaved with another sob, his emotions on full display. “But I have nowhere to go,” he pleaded weakly, his beard dripping with foamy spittle and mucus dripping from his nostrils. He had nowhere, no one but her to run to, but he had crossed a line that not even she thought they could come back from. Emma looked at him and at what he had become. What she had let him become.

“This is so hard,” Emma snivelled, wiping her nose with her forearm. She knew what she had to do, even if it meant a sacrifice neither of them would have ever made before.

“Emma, no,” Killian implored, shuffling on his knees through the patch of cold, putrid sick between them but not even caring. “It doesn’t have to be,” he panicked, reaching out for her.

“Killian…” Emma sobbed, looking away.

“Emma, please, don’t do this. Don’t leave me,” Killian cried, his words catching in his throat, watery and muffled from his sorrow. He clutched at her legs and through the fabric of her leggings he felt Emma turn rigid under his touch.

“Killian, please, this is already hard enough,” Emma pushed against his shoulders weakly, her hands moving of their own accord to lace her fingers through his ruffled hair and pull his face against the warmth of her body. She felt him sigh, his cries filling the room, the cries of a man she didn’t even recognise anymore.

“Emma…” He began but she cut him off quickly.

“Look at you,” Emma cried. “This isn’t you. I can’t watch you destroy yourself anymore,” Emma sniffed, pulling his face from her sweater and tilting his head so he was looking up at her with wide, watery, childlike eyes.

“I’ll get help. I promise, I’ll get help,” Killian nodded in desperation.

“I don’t want to give up on you…” Emma told him softly.

“So don’t,” Killian interrupted her eagerly, his chest shuddering with another rack of sobs.

“You scare me,” she cried, the honesty in her voice shocking even her. Killian looked up at her and he was small, innocent and as much a victim of his own actions as she was, but he would never change if she didn’t find the strength. “I have to go, Killian,” Emma smiled weakly down at him, her tears falling down her cheeks. This time she did not stop them, letting the salt filled droplets fall from her chin. She brushed her thumb over the apple of his cheek and wiped at the tears that had burned lines into his scruffy, unkempt stubble littered face. “You can’t mend with me here. I can’t help you anymore.”

That night Emma walked out of their home, away from the blackness in her heart and the turmoil that had torn them apart for the last seven months. She didn’t look back, taking just a few personal items and the clothes on her back. She didn’t kiss him goodbye and he didn’t try to kiss her, because they both knew that if they had the faintest of contact it would set the fires burning within them once again and they would be back where they began, scrambling for the surface under a sea of sorrow.

This wasn’t her home anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time. Now New York was calling her name, a city full of lights where she could get lost and bathe in the eternal brightness of being nobody forever.

#ca au #hurt/comfort #the paradox of light #tpol #icymi

16 notes · View notes

snowbellewells · 5 years ago

Text

CS Fic Rec Monday: “Onside”

Oh my goodness! If you haven’t been reading this incredibly sweet and heartfelt MC by @kymbersmith-90, then you have definitely been missing out on a gem! The modern au worlds of single mother Emma and soccer standout Killian Jones collide when she writes a letter to the star of her very sick young son’s favorite team, asking them to help shine a light on a desperate medical need. She gets a lot more than she had even hoped for, and we get a huge amount of precious Captain Cobra bonding, and some lovely slow burn friendship and more between Killian and Emma. Bonus points for utterly irresistible CaptainCharming bromance as well. Definitely check out this WIP, it’s SO worth it!!

“Onside” by: @kymbersmith-90

#cs fic rec monday #csfrm #cs modern au #captain cobra #charming family fluff #medical angst #swan believer #onside #cs fic rec

21 notes · View notes

kmomof4 · 6 years ago

Text

Today for CS fic rec Monday...

I’d like to highlight one of my very favorite authors in the fandom today for @csficrecmonday!!!

@seriouslyhooked

I remember telling her years ago that I was seriously hooked on her fics. Her tumblr handle made it very easy to remember her! She is my go to when I want CS falling hard and fast, over the top fluff, no angst, hot smut, and the best of happily ever afters!!! I have read all her CS work and they are all absolutely FANTASTIC!!! Most of it is on fanfiction, but some has made its way over to ao3. My absolute favorites, in no particular order are:

The Lady In Red

Originally part of her Mixtape, that I also heartily recommend, this one is mine. As in I asked for it, and boy did she deliver!!! I’m so glad Emily moved just it to ao3, because I have no idea what chapter it is on the mixtape. Prompted from the song by Chris De Burgh.

Hope Springs

Emma Swan never expected life to be this good: her kid is happy, she has the best friends anyone could ask for, and she's living her dream working with horses on a ranch. But all of that changes when her best friend Ruby comes home married to Liam Jones, because Liam's brother Killian is the kind of man that makes a good life an amazing one. All Emma has to do is give him a chance.

Souvenirs

Modern AU where Emma has grown up in Maine her whole life and runs a store with Ruby and MM called Three Fates Treasures. Killian Jones is the new guy in town, who moved here to buy the local bar. Only Emma and Killian have met before, and now she can't help but wonder if their past has influenced his plans for the future. Includes tons of fluff and a happily ever after.

Scoring Your Love

Wedded Bliss and Asterisks

Emma Swan is a self-proclaimed enemy of love who just so happens to be an up and coming wedding dress designer. She's convinced that true love is nowhere in her future but then she meets Killian Jones, a handsome and charming man whose magazine is covering the opening of her new boutique. Suddenly Emma finds herself drawing up new plans for her life, ones that seem to all be leading towards her own form of wedded bliss. Includes falling in love on trains, lots of friend fun, and all the CS cuteness your heart could ever want.

Within Your Ocean Eyes

AU period piece set in our world where Killian is a pirate in the early 1800s and Emma is a local girl, who though an orphan is beloved by the people of her small town of Storybrooke Maine. Emma is a school teacher and Killian is the Captain of his ship. They fall madly in love despite staggeringly different ways of life, and become the stuff of legend.

Accidentally on Purpose

Emma Swan is a small-town schoolteacher who thanks to a friend's bachelorette party has been dragged to Vegas. The city of sin isn't exactly Emma's speed, until she meets Killian Jones. They agree to one night but sort of get married accidentally (on purpose). Now Killian must convince Emma this thing between them is real despite how it began. Includes smuff and a CS happily ever after.

Lifted by Love

I believe this was the first of Emily’s works that I ever read. And it still holds a very special place in my heart!

An 8 part series that follows Emma, Mary Margaret, Ruby and Belle on a girls' vacation in the white mountains. Killian, David, Graham and Will also happen to be in the same complex. Thanks to some typical male stupidity, the groups cross paths and sparks fly as a result. One part per day of the trip and eventual epilogue.

And finally,

Lost Souls and Reveries, her CSSNS fic for last year.

Killian Jones is a wolf shifter without roots, without plans, and without a pack. He’s a rogue, someone humans should avoid and shifters should be wary of given his lineage. But one night years back set him on a path he didn’t realize he was taking, a path leading to the future he was destined for. That future is tied up in one woman – a human named Emma Nolan. Together Emma and Killian will find not only answers but a love that’s truly fated. But will love be enough to set both of them free, or will past demons win out in the end? (Answer: love always wins – I am writing this so despite some tiny pockets of angst it’s basically a fluff-filled insta-love fest).

All of her fics are so sooooo good!!! I hope you enjoy all these as much as I have!

#csficrecmonday #csfrm #week 6 #seriouslyhooked #lost souls and reveries #lifted by love #souvenirs #hope springs #lady in red #accidentally on purpose #within your ocean eyes #wedded bliss and asterisks #scoring your love

36 notes · View notes

lizacstuff · 6 years ago

Photo

This is a @cssecretsanta2k18 gift for @edgeofrealms It was such a joy getting to be your CS Secret Santa and I’m so sorry this is so late. Shall we call it a New Year’s gift? This little fic was inspired by our conversations. You said you liked fluff and you said:

“I wish we couldve seen more of their life post- the final battle. like emmas pregnancy and how they adjusted to being married.”

So that’s what this is, I hope you enjoy!

Title: Making More than Pancakes

Summary: Emma’s pregnant and a wee bit cranky, Killian’s bent on reading pregnancy books and feeding her nutritious food and the Charmings have decided it’s time to decorate the nursery. Set post 7x02, a heartwarming look at a day in the life of Captain Swan while they’re expecting.

Fanfiction.net AO3

xxx

Emma looked down at her breakfast and sighed. She loved her husband, she really did, but she did not love pasteurized Greek yogurt with vegan, gluten-free, protein-rich granola for breakfast. At least there were some berries on top. Where did one even get organic, vegan, gluten-free, protein-rich granola in Storybrooke?

She looked over to where he was bustling around the kitchen wearing a ‘Pirates have more fun’ apron that a then 16-year-old Henry had thought a hilarious Christmas gift. “Did you cross the town line to get this?” she pointed to the bowl on the table in front of her.

His eyes lit up, clearly delighted with himself. “Aye.”

“Why?”

“The market in town has insufficient selection. I read-”

“Oh boy,” Emma interrupted and put down her spoon. “I’m going to take the internet away from you.”

His eyes widened in horror at the thought. “The computer contains much useful information on your current state, Swan. You and the baby need calcium and protein and nutrients and-”

“They have granola at the market here in town,” Emma pointed out practically, before adding, “And you don’t have to drive an hour to get it.”

Killian shook his head. “The brand at the local market is full of sugar and very few nutrients comparatively.”

“Why does it need to be vegan if you’re putting it over yogurt anyway?” Emma asked practically.

“It doesn’t, but this brand was rated the most nutritious in a variety of categories.”

She looked at him with the sweetest smile she could muster. “You could make me a pancake instead.”

His smile in return was affectionate, but he shook his head.

“Why?” Emma whined.

“Because they are nutrient free and last time you put chocolate chips and whip cream on them. Empty calories. Pancakes are for special occasions. A treat.”

“It’s Saturday, Saturday should be a special occasion.” Emma replied with a note of irritation in her voice. Then she motioned to her husband, “If you won’t make me pancakes, then why are you wearing that apron? All you did was put yogurt in a bowl.”

Emma had been showing flashes of annoyance as the pregnancy progressed, however he’d read several pregnancy books and they informed him this was normal, having something to do with hormones. With a smile, Killian moved towards her until he could lean around and drop a kiss on her forehead. “I’m wearing it because it reminds me of our lad.”

“Oh.” Emma’s frustration crumbled and she felt her heart squeeze at the mention of her son. Their son. She missed him fiercely. “I miss him, too.”

“I’m sure we’ll see him soon,” Killian said with more conviction than he felt.

“You know what would help with the missing?” Emma asked with a bit of a sniffle.

“What, love?” Killian asked with twin notes of curiosity and eagerness.

“Hot chocolate.” Emma supplied hopefully.

Killian leaned back against the stove and cocked an eyebrow at her, but before he could respond, the front door banged open.

With a start, they instantly found the source of the intrusion. Storybrooke might have been quiet these last few years, but they were still both in a state of constant readiness.

Emma sighed with relief and a bit of exasperation. “Mom, we’ve talked about knocking.”

“Pfft, you’re almost nine months pregnant, what would there be to walk in on?” Snow chuckled, as she made her way into the living room, carrying a large laundry basket filled to the brim.

Emma gave her a pointed look that was supposed to convey that her mother was wrong, but internally she winced. It had been awhile since there’d been anything to interrupt.

“I’m sorry it’s so early, but we dropped Neal at soccer practice and since he has a play date afterwards with one of his teammates, we actually have some free time this morning.”

“What’s all this?” Killian asked as he wandered towards the couch and peered into the basket now sitting on the coffee table.

“Swatches, paint samples,” Snow explained eagerly, before adding, “It’s time to make some decisions on the nursery.”

“Killian and I were thinking we’d wait until the baby comes, since we don’t know if we’re having a boy or a girl.”

“Nonsense,” Snow waved that idea away with her hand. “You don’t want to bring a baby home to an unfinished nursey, trust me you will not have the energy to decorate after the baby is born. There are plenty of wonderful options that are gender neutral. Besides, who ever heard of a color having a gender anyway? Personally, I like this one,” she pulled out a card with bright, sunshine yellow paint on it and brought it over for Emma to inspect.

Emma turned the card over in her hand. “It’s a bit much.”

“Yellow is a happy color,” Snow replied brightly.

“I did read that on the computer,” Killian agreed. “There was a study of children and the color of their living quarters, children in yellow rooms were happiest.”

“Yeah, but our infant will need sunglasses in order to sleep and I don’t know where we’d find ones that tiny,” Emma retorted sardonically.

“Well how about this?” Snow pulled another paint chip from her bag, this time a deep turquois.

“We agreed that we were going to offer to help, not force our taste on them.” A voice from the door sounded.

“Dad,” Emma smiled at the welcome sight of her father and started the arduous process of pushing herself up from the table.

Her father gestured for her to stay put, instead he walked over and dropped a kiss on her head and then looked to Killian, “Nice apron.”

“An old gift from Henry.” Killian replied without a trace of self-consciousness.

David paused for a beat and then nodded, a sign he understood the impetus behind Killian wearing the apron. Then he clapped his hands together. “I hear you have a crib that needs to be built, lead me to it.”

Killian glanced to Emma with a raised eyebrow. “You called your father? I thought you wanted to help me assemble it?”

“I did, but that was before I got so uncomfortable that I can’t even sit on the floor. Dad and I assembled Neal’s, so he knows what to do.”

Killian didn’t show either emotion, but he was both relieved and disappointed. In the last trimester of her pregnancy, Emma had exhibited less patience than usual. With David, he would make quicker work of the crib than he would with Emma, but it had been something he was looking forward to doing with his wife. There was also the fact he was exhausted and had been planning to go back to bed after breakfast. It had been a late night, or rather early morning, of sheriff duty and he’d gotten less than two hours of sleep… but perhaps working without sleep would be good practice for when the baby came. Resigned to his fate, he looked to his father-in-law. “The boxes are in the nursery, as are an assortment of gadgets and tools, do we require anything else to complete the task?”

“A cold beverage?” David suggested with a grin.

“Beer?” Killian asked with surprise. Over the years, the two had spent a lot of leisure time together and Killian knew that when David referred to a cold beverage he meant beer.

“Sounds great.”

“David!” Snow admonished with a scandalized expression. “It’s not even 9am.”

David shrugged, but relented and pointed to the coffee pot. “Then I suppose a bit more caffeine wouldn’t hurt.”

Killian poured them both cups, and then offered to pour one for Snow who declined saying she’d help herself. The expectant father started to follow David, but then turned back to his mother-in-law and said, “See that she eats her breakfast,” before disappearing up the stairs.

“Covering it in chocolate syrup is the only way you’re getting me to eat this.” Emma retorted softly enough that she knew Killian wouldn’t hear.

“Is it so awful?” Snow asked as she surveyed her daughter’s half-eaten bowl of yogurt and granola.

“No, it’s not bad, it’s just not pancakes… or waffles… or French toast… or a bear claw.”

“Ah… has he at least stopped offering fish for breakfast?”

Emma gave a huff of a laugh, “We broke him of that habit years ago, but, yes, now he only eats fish for non-breakfast meals. However, these days he’s being very careful about what fish he serves, you see apparently some fish is recommended as part of a diet for pregnant women, but you have to be careful about mercury. He’s an expert. All I know is once a week we have salmon for dinner… usually served with broccoli and spinach.”

“Well it’s not a bad thing that one of you is worried about nutrition.” Snow said as she walked to the coffee table to retrieve her laundry basket full of items. Once she’d heaved it on the kitchen table, she poured herself a cup of coffee.

Emma felt herself prickle at her mother’s comment, but instead of saying anything about it sighed, “I miss coffee.”

“I’m sure Killian would make you some decaffeinated,” Snow replied perkily.

Emma refrained from rolling her eyes, but she felt like it. “Not the same.”

“Well you’ll be able to have coffee soon enough.”

“Sure, after another six months to a year of breastfeeding.”

Snow looked at her daughter with concern. “Everything okay?”

At that, Emma looked up, “Yeah, sure, why wouldn’t it be?” Wanting to change the subject, she pushed herself up from her chair so she could take her breakfast dishes to the sink and on her way back motioned to her mother’s basket. “Show me what you brought.”

Excitedly, Snow removed paint chips and fabric swatches and starting laying them out on the table.

Emma looked down at the abundance of color in front of her. The paint chips made a vivid rainbow against the wood of the table. Then her eyes traveled to the fabric swatches. There was a swatch with ducks, one with whales, and one with frogs. Other samples had themes ranging from clowns to sail boats to the moon and the stars, some had the same patterns, but in different colors. Overwhelmed Emma plopped back down in her seat.

Snow sat down next to her and started explaining the colors, the differences in tone and hue, which were complimentary, which would work with the fabric. When she finally stopped talking to take a breath, she glanced expectantly to Emma who in turn was looking a little dazed.

“Emma,” Snow nudged her gently, “What do you think?”

“What do I think? I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. Other than… how am I going to be a good mother? I don’t eat right and I can’t even pick a color for the nursery!” Emma replied, startling even herself. Instantly she felt a hot sting behind her eyes. She sat for a moment willing herself not to cry, she did not succeed.

“Oh honey,” Snow said as she searched for a tissue. Finding a napkin, she handed it to Emma before reaching over and rubbing a comforting circle on Emma’s back. “Where is this coming from? You’re already a wonderful mother.”

Emma just looked at her and blew her nose.

Snow knew what she was thinking, and a bit how she felt. Henry had been an adolescent when Emma came into his life, mothering an infant was different. “You’ll be great with an infant; you were great with your brother when he was a baby.”

“Babysitting is not the same… also there was a time when you wouldn’t even let me hold my brother.”

Snow grimaced guiltily at the memory. “Oh Emma, you’re not letting that bother you, are you? Those were very special circumstances for a few days while you were having trouble controlling your powers. You’re perfectly in control of them now; it’s no longer a concern at all.”

Emma shrugged as she let her gaze drift down to her stomach. “Maybe, but this little one is going to depend on me for everything. There’s so much more responsibility with a baby.”

Snow looked at her incredulously before saying, “The Savior, who had the weight of the world, the weight of everyone’s happy endings on her shoulders, and won, isn’t responsible enough to care for a baby? Hogwash.”

Emma snorted at her mother’s colorful language. She hadn’t thought about it like that, she had shouldered a lot of responsibility in the not so distant past. Even if it wasn’t the same. She’d never asked to be the Savior; she’d just done what was necessary when thrust into the role. However, she had asked to be a parent; she’d tried to get pregnant for a very long time, and now that the time was almost here, she was afraid she wouldn’t be up to the task.

“I don’t know. There’s so much to think about… you said it yourself.” Emma sounded a bit defensive as she mimicked her mother’s words from a few minutes earlier. “‘It’s not a bad thing that one of you is worried about nutrition.’ See, I can’t even be trusted with what I eat.”

Snow shook her head, but replied gently, “Are you kidding? Emma, you are eating healthier than 90% of pregnant women I’ve ever seen.”

“But that’s just because Killian has been doing the shopping and the meal prep, if it was left to me; I’d be eating onion rings and pancakes.”

“Then have a pancake. You deserve it. Killian might be going a little bit overboard with the nutritious eating, but it is good that one of you is worrying about it. You balance each other out, and you will continue to balance each other out as parents.”

Emma sat back and thought about that. Maybe that was true, maybe they did balance each other, he shored up her shortcomings and vice versa.

While Emma was pondering that, Snow’s mind went in a very different direction. After a minute, she swallowed roughly and said a truth that none of them confronted very often. “Emma, one thing we know for sure, your baby is going to have a much better mother than you had.”

Emma looked up quickly and met her mother’s eyes. “Mom, don’t say that.”

“No, it’s true; we both know it’s true. I think you know how much I wish things had been different, but I wasn’t there, but you will be. That is the most important thing. Being there.”

Emma bit her lip, and then in a rough voice, said, “I do worry about that, about something going wrong again. I know I won’t have to make a decision like the one I made with Henry, but I do worry about something happening outside our control…”

Snow brought her hand to her daughter’s belly. “You will be there for every moment with this precious gift, and I promise you, your father and I, and Killian, of course, will do everything in our power to make sure nothing separates the two of you. If Henry or Regina happen to stir up more trouble while they are off adventuring, and goodness knows what Rumple is up to, then we’ll deal with it as a family, but there will be no separating of babies from their mothers.” Snow’s eyes were full of unshed tears, but she smiled brightly, “I decree it as Queen. And President of the Storybrooke Town Council.”

“Then it is done,” Emma replied with a laugh and reached over and gave her mother a hug. It was silly, there was no kingdom in Storybrooke, but her mother’s words gave her comfort. Unlike when she was pregnant with Henry, she was surrounded by people who loved her, supported her, and would help her keep this child safe.

“You know what?” Emma asked with a sniff as she turned back to the table. “Maybe I can pick a color. The yellow is growing on me, if kids with yellow walls are happier then why not… but not that bright yellow you showed me before, is there something a bit softer?”

“How about this one?” Snow fingered through the pile until she found the one she was looking for. She handed the card of pale, buttery yellow to Emma.

Emma held out the chip in front of her and tried picturing the room they’d designated as the nursery painted in the warm color. Yes, this could work, cheery, but not overwhelming.

“It’s called duckling yellow.”

Emma smiled, that sealed it. “Perfect.”

Xxx

“You’ve resorted to force-feeding your wife, huh?”

Killian looked up at David from where he sat on the floor looking at the directions that came with the crib. “Force-feeding? I’m doing no such thing. I’m providing plenty of nutritious sustenance for Emma and our unborn child.”

“Right, well, I found when Snow was pregnant that she had cravings and it was best to let her have whatever she wanted.”

“Of course, I want Emma to have her heart’s desire, but if left to her own culinary devices all these years, she and Henry would have subsisted on a diet of pop tarts and items that are breaded and fried.” Killian frowned disdainfully. “It’s even more important now that Emma is with child that she is supplied with an abundance of healthy food.”

“You might slip in a hot dog now and then, is all I’m saying, to keep her happy and sane.”

Killian looked at him in horror. “I will have you know that processed meats are not recommended for pregnant women.”

David looked at him, actually impressed. “You have studied up.”

“The internet has been most enlightening and I’ve read several books.”

David nodded as he organized the assortment of screws that came with the crib, and then cleared his throat before stuttering, “Um… I… have something… but… uh… I don’t want to offend you…”

That stopped Killian and he looked up from the crib directions he’d been reading. “That’s an ominous beginning.”

David shrugged before launching into an explanation. “Recently, I was throwing the ball with Wilby and it sparked an idea. I ordered some things and played around with them in the barn. Long story short, I made you something that might come in handy, but I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you around my grandchild.”

“Ever more ominous,” Killian knit his brows together, but said nothing more. He had his own trepidations about what kind of father he would be, he wasn’t sure he was ready to listen to Emma’s father list his inadequacies, especially if it had to do with him not being fit to be around his own child.

David reached in his pocket and pulled out a small rounded object that appeared to be made of some sort of rubber. He handed it to Killian.

Killian turned it over in his good hand, “What is it?”

“It was a rubber ball, I cut open a bunch of them trying to find one with the right consistency, and then I shaped it and cut it down to size. It’s to blunt the sharp end of your hook while you’re holding the baby. Honestly, I thought it might give you confidence and comfort, especially when you have a newborn. I know I was nervous about holding my kids as infants and I don’t have a sharp appendage.”

Killian studied it and saw that there was a slit on the flat end of the object. He squinted in concentration as he brought it to his hook and slid it on. He turned it one way and then the next surveying the bulbous pink object and then tried it out several times by knocking it on the hard wood floor. His hook bounced off the surface, damaging neither the floor nor the ball.

David pointed to his handwork, “See I put tiny reinforcements in the slit so that the hook wouldn’t slice through the softer material.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Killian said feeling quite gratified. “This is… this is great. I… I, it would be a lie to say that I haven’t been apprehensive about it, I thought I’d switch to the false hand I wear when I need disguise, but I’m more comfortable in the hook, so… I… thank you.”

Pleased that his gift had been taken in the spirit it had been intended, David nodded and said, “You’re welcome. One less thing for you to worry about and now that I’ve figured it out; I can easily make another if you need it. Let me know.”

“I appreciate that.” Killian said before gulping. A moment later he added, “You’re right, these days… a lot of things cause me worry.”

David looked at him quizzically; it wasn’t very often that his son-in-law opened up to him. “Well that’s very natural at this stage of the game. Every expectant father who is only weeks away is worried.”

Killian nodded, but then added, “Not every expectant father has my history. It’s not… well, you know better than anyone, I don’t have a great history with fathers.”

David took a deep breath and then shook his head. “Killian, that’s all behind you and you’re not going to make the mistakes our fathers made and you’re not going to go back to being the person you were. You have experienced more than most people would over several life times and it has brought you to a place where you are not only a changed man, but a wise man.” David them slapped his son-in-law on the back. “Plus I know you are going to be a great father, look you’re sitting there in a silly apron just because Henry gave it to you. You’re already a great father, and you’re a great husband. And if you’ve convinced me that you’re good enough for my baby girl, you know it’s true.”

Killian swallowed roughly, met the other man’s gaze, and gave him a nod of acknowledgement. Then a grin stole over his face as he held up his hook. “This is a fetching pink color; you must think we’re having a girl.”

“Actually, the ball that had the right density just happened to be that color. It’s just a plus that you get to walk around with a pink accessory.”

“As with my apron, I will wear it with pride.” Killian said and he meant it.

Xxx

The crib assembly took longer than anticipated, but eventually was complete. Snow left hours earlier only to return with Neal, so it wasn’t until early afternoon that Killian and Emma finally found themselves alone.

By mutual agreement, they headed to the bedroom… to sleep.

xxx

With a slightly suspicious smile and a mischievous gleam in his eye, Killian moved silently across the kitchen, until he sidled up behind his wife, simultaneously sliding his hook arm around her midsection and pressing a kiss just below her ear.

“Hi.” Emma relaxed back into him, still keeping an eye on the stove.

“Hi, my naughty wife,” Killian murmured into her ear, pressing his nose to her temple and taking in her scent.

“Naughty? I don’t remember doing anything naughty recently; did I miss something during our nap?” Emma sighed and closed her eyes, briefly enjoying his embrace, before getting back to business and flipping a pancake with practiced finesse.

“Love, you know why you’re naughty, you shouldn’t be exerting yourself in this manner. It’s my job to feed you while you’re eating for two. If you were hungry, why didn’t you wake me so I could prepare dinner?” With his free hand he rubbed the shoulder over which he was not leaning.

Emma gave a quick shake of her head. “Because you were resting. You barely slept last night, between me tossing and turning and then you having to go out on that 2am drunk and disorderly – we really need to do something about the dwarfs,” she flipped another pancake with her right hand as her left came to caress the hook that was resting gently on her belly. “You should have slept in this morning, but instead you got up to make me breakfast, which was unnecessary by the way, and then my parents showed up. I wanted to let you sleep, and besides I’m not an invalid, I can make pancakes, and you won’t make me pancakes,” Emma said the last part with a note of defiance. She set the skillet on an unused burner and turned off the stove. “However, if you want to get naughty that can be arranged,” her voice was seductive as she turned in one fluid motion and searched for Killian’s mouth with hers, intending to deliver a searing kiss.

Or at least that had been the plan. However, as soon as she turned, her swollen stomach hit Killian’s midsection knocking him back so forcefully that his feet tangled and he fell back, his behind hitting the tile of the kitchen floor.

Killian chuckled good-naturedly as he reached to steady himself on the floor, but Emma burst into tears.

His laugh died instantly on his lips, and his heart dropped at the sound. He scrambled to his feet and in an instant was wrapping his arms around her from the side, pulling her to him. “Love, please don’t cry, what’s wrong?” he whispered as he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“I’m huge,” she sniffled after a minute, “And not sexy, and probably couldn’t get naughty even if you wanted me.”

He squeezed her gently, “Love, you are 36 weeks pregnant with our child which is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, and not a moment has gone by since the day we met that I haven’t wanted you.”

“You’re just saying that,” she sniffed.

Killian let go of her only long enough to reach over to the kitchen counter and grab a tissue. Tenderly he dabbed her wet cheeks. “I promise you I’m not and I’ll happily prove it to you if you doubt my veracity, but for right now why don’t we get you off of your feet and I’ll finish… dinner.” With his chin, he nudged her cheek towards the kitchen table.

Instead of moving to disentangle with him, she relaxed more into his embrace. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me… that’s the second time I teared up today.”

“The second?” Killian asked with concern, “When was the first?”

“With my mom, it was silly… just feeling a little overwhelmed with fabric and paint choices.”

Killian leaned back slightly so he could see her face. “Darling, it’s totally natural. According to the pregnancy book your hormone levels are changing and many women find that they cry more easily during pregnancy.”

“I haven’t finished the pregnancy book.” Emma admitted.

He gave her a gentle squeeze. “That’s all right because, I have.”

That made Emma smile. Her mom was right; they did balance each other out.

“I suppose you’re going to throw those out,” she looked longingly at the pancakes on the stove, “and instead feed me a skinless, organic, free-range chicken breast over a bed of quinoa with steamed carrots and green beans.”

“Of course not, Swan. If you want pancakes, pancakes you shall have.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He kissed her temple. “Emma, I want to take care of you. I want you to have everything you and the baby need. Perhaps I went overboard with the healthy eating. I want you and our baby to be happy and if pancakes make you happy, so be it.”

Instead of moving to sit down, Emma turned her face and pressed her forehead to his. “Thank you, I love…”

With an expectant grin, he leaned back and waited for the end of her declaration.

“…pancakes,” she finished with faux earnestness.

Killian chuckled, guided her to her chair at the kitchen table, and then bustled around getting plates utensils, butter, and syrup. He even sprinkled chocolate chips over the inviting mound of pancakes on her plate. Emma looked ecstatic.

As she dug in to the feast, Killian sat across from her and said, “I had a talk with your father this morning. He encouraged me to relax a bit on the healthy eating.”

Emma swallowed a mouthful of the delicious food and admitted. “And my mom encouraged me to appreciate how you balance out my tendencies towards junk food.” Emma held out her glass full of orange juice to Killian as if to offer a toast. “Here’s to balance.”

“To balance,” Killian clinked his glass against hers. “Speaking of your parents�� wisdom…” He leaned back in order to rummaged around in his pocket, before pulling out his new pink, hook protector. “Your father gifted me with this.”

“What is it?” Emma asked curiously.

Killian placed it on his hook and then brought it to tap against the table, “It’s to protect the cygnet.”

Emma shook her head, “Our baby doesn’t need protecting from you.”

Killian thought about that for a second, he certainly hoped that truer words had never been spoken. “No, never, but your father’s instinct was right, I’ll feel more confident holding our infant, changing diapers, feeding, if I’m wearing it.”

“Okay, whatever makes you more comfortable is good, because you are going to change a lot of diapers. I mean… a lot… mountains upon mountains of very, dirty diapers.”

“As you command, Captain,” Killian replied unfazed.

Emma smiled brightly at him and then remembered what else she talked to her mother about that morning. “Oh, hey, after I stopped crying, I actually did find a color for the nursery.”

“Aye?” he cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at her.

She nodded, “If you agree, of course.” Then she pushed back her chair, grabbed the paint sample from the counter and came around the table. Killian was a little surprised when he realized her intent to sit on his lap, but he dutifully pushed back his chair from the table to give her room. She plopped down, put one arm around his neck, and showed him the swatch by setting it on her pregnant belly. “It’s called Duckling Yellow, it’s not nearly as intense as that first yellow mom showed us, but it’s cheery like you said, and warm, and it would go with a lot of other colors and-”

“It’s perfect.” Killian interrupted.

“Are you sure, I don’t want to make the decision without you.”

“You’re not, I love it.”

She pressed a kiss to the apple of his cheek. “I’m so glad you’re the father of my child.”

He crooked his neck back in order to get a better look at her. “Well, Swan, we’ve been married for five years so I hope there’s no question about that…”

She laughed but shook her head. “No, I mean it. I know I’ve been a bit… cranky lately.”

“My, love, you are growing our human inside of you, you may be as cranky as you wish.”

Emma smiled and kissed him again. “That’s why I’m so grateful.”

“You’re grateful you’re cranky?”

“No,” she nodded as one hand caressed the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m grateful I have a partner who doesn’t care that I’m cranky and who wants to be there with me every step of the way, and who reads pregnancy books and goes to a lot of effort to feed me healthy foods. The last time I did this, I was terrified, alone and in a cell. Now I have the most wonderful man in the world getting up in the morning after two hours of sleep just so he can make me a healthy breakfast. It’s… it’s wonderful and I appreciate it. I want you to know that.”

He leaned in and stole a kiss. “Well, Swan, I’m glad that you’re the mother of my child. We’re in this together.”

Emma beamed at him, brimming with happiness. They were in it together.

“But…” Killian’s face contorted into an exaggerated wince.

“But what?” Emma asked with concern.

“Darling, you have to get up my left leg is going to sleep.”

Emma pouted as she stood. “See, I’m huge, I knew it.”

“Nah, I just needed you to stand so I could do this.” Killian abruptly stood and then in one fluid movement, he easily picked her up– one arm behind her back the other under her knees– and headed towards the stairs, intent on a bit of naughty time. Emma shrieked and giggled the entire way to their bedroom.

The End.

#captain swan #cs ff #csss 2018 #cs secret santa #cssecretsanta2k18 #emma swan #killian jones #cs fanfiction #making more than pancakes #my fic

90 notes · View notes