#dropping desserts in my mailbox
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the-moon-files · 2 months ago
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I like your stuff! I like rereading the space orc stuff! Have a great day!!
😀... 🥺😭💝💓💞💕❤️‍🔥💖💝💘🤲💌 THANK YOU SO MUCH-
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ANON- U CANT JUST SAY THAT AND LEAVEEEE
PEACE OUT LOVELY ANON 😭,
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kinktober #10
Full Moon 🌕 / Containment Breach ☢️ (both-ish!)
Because nothing is ever private in a small town, the word that Ethan’s bad knee is acting up again ahead of the full moon spreads quickly. Maybe this means I’ll make it through a shift without stretching my stomach out for the next week, he’d joked to Vanessa, but lo and behold, she’s sitting at the cafe counter on a Friday evening when Mrs. Spier bustles in with a deep ceramic dish covered in foil and wrapped in a dish towel, and she watches Ethan’s face freeze in grim recognition.
“Ethan, dear, we heard about your knee,” says Mrs. Spier, reaching over the counter to pat his face sympathetically. “Don’t tax yourself, sweetheart. Just stay in and we’ll make sure you’re plenty well-fed.”
Ethan approximates something like a smile. Vanessa grips the edges of her barstool. 
“Thank you,” he says, because Ethan is a good boy who was raised — well, politely, at least. From what Vanessa’s heard about his father, the jury’s still out on right. “I’ll be all right, Mrs. Spier, but I do appreciate it.”
She pats his hand. “Of course, dear. Any time. Mrs. Thomas and I are always happy to provide.”
When she’s gone, Ethan lays his arms on the counter and dramatically drops his head onto them. “Why?” he asks, and Vanessa pets his hair soothingly. “Why is it always me? Can’t they send someone else casseroles for once?”
“Because you’re a nice boy,” says Vanessa. “And everyone likes seeing you fed. And they know you’re too much of a gentleman to say no.”
He groans, pulling himself upright and flicking a dishtowel across the counter. “Well, with the stuff from your friend, I’m not even supposed to shift tonight, right? So I can just stick it in the freezer.”
“You shouldn’t physically shift,” Vanessa corrects. “I have no idea whether you’ll have any of your other usual symptoms.”
The syrup is from Vanessa’s mentor Joan, who lives states away and deep in a forest without a postal address now but still managed to make a vial of aubergine liquid appear in Vanessa’s mailbox a few days ago. She promised that it would prevent Ethan from transforming to avoid any further damage to his knee, but her instructions neglected to mention any side effects and there wasn’t time to send a letter back and ask. But Vanessa trusts her, and Joan would have warned her if Ethan were going to spend the next eighteen hours as a human body with a dog’s brain.
“I’ll be over as soon as I finish dinner with Sir Malcolm,” she promises. “I’d invite you along, but —”
“But you can’t have a werewolf at the table,” says Ethan wryly. “Understood.”
“Not even a temporarily disabled one,” she apologizes. “Take care. Don’t do anything foolish while I’m gone, please.”
She slips her bag over her shoulder, and Ethan meets her for a quick kiss. “I’ll try not to.”
As she leaves the cafe, she nearly collides with Mrs. Barrett and another casserole.
— 
Vanessa fidgets all through dinner with Malcolm and his chess-rival-slash-home health aide, Sembene. The meal is perfectly nice — Sembene is a gifted cook in addition to his other talents — and it’s lovely to speak with Mina again, even if it is mostly to relay her responses to her father’s questions. 
Sembene has just served dessert — a maple brown butter cheesecake that Vanessa can’t help thinking would go perfectly with her morning coffee — when her phone buzzes in her bag. Malcolm dislikes cell phones, especially when their usage flies in the face of the formal dinner etiquette he was brought up with and has yet to shake, but he’s in the midst of monologuing at the chair reserved for Mina’s spirit about a book he read on the Franklin expedition and doesn’t appear to be losing steam any time soon, so Vanessa throws caution to the wind and surreptitiously fishes her phone from her bag. 
Come over, says Ethan, and a tendril of heat runs through her. 
Eyes on Sir Malcolm, she types something that she hopes approximates What are you up to?
“Now, you know, at the time, there was much conjecture about the existence of some supposed Open Polar Sea,” Sir Malcolm is saying. Mina rolls her eyes at Vanessa, who stifles a grin. 
Gaining weight, Ethan replies with a picture of two casserole dishes scraped clean. Vanessa does everything in her power to keep a straight face, but something must betray her, because Mina snorts and stage-whispers, “Are you sexting your werewolf boyfriend at Friday night dinner?”
Which is incredibly rude, because Vanessa literally can’t reply to her without everyone else hearing, so she settles for narrowing her eyes reproachfully and moves her foot around under the table until she finds Mina’s cold mist and kicks her.
Malcolm’s book review lasts another half hour, and she passes along Mina’s bored interjections with increasing restlessness. Ethan is holed up in his apartment stuffing himself with casserole and instead of being there to help things along, Vanessa is learning more about a group of doomed Arctic explorers than she ever cared to know. 
“Will you stay for coffee, Vanessa?” asks Malcolm finally, and she seizes her opportunity to flee. 
“No, unfortunately. I’ve an engagement early tomorrow morning.”
“Ah,” says Malcolm, a gleam in his eye. “With your gentleman?”
Vanessa squirms. “Yes.”
“She’s sexting!” cries Mina, precisely because no one but Vanessa can hear her. “I saw Goody Ives sexting at the table!”
“Oh, hush, you,” she says to Mina, and Malcolm gives her a fond, sad smile that almost makes her wish she could stay a bit longer.
“You two were always teasing each other,” he says. “I expect she’s telling you to bring him around some Friday evening. We’d all like to meet him.”
“Yes,” Vanessa agrees as her phone vibrates again. “That’s what she’s saying.”
As she unlocks her bike in the moonlight and flips on the headlamp on her black helmet, she opens Ethan’s latest message: a picture of his swollen belly flopping out from his unbuttoned pants, shirt ridden up to the crest of his stomach, with the caption Containment breach.
— 
She uses the keys Ethan gave her for emergencies to let herself into his apartment and finds him spread out on the couch, a pillow behind his head and both hands cradling his overfull gut. He doesn’t look green, as she’d feared, but he’s definitely flushed, and he’s breathing is shallow, like his appetite might have crowded out his lungs. A third casserole dish sits on his coffee table, half-eaten. 
“Sorry, it took me forever to get out of dinner,” she says, draping her coat and bag over one of his two kitchen chairs. “How are you doing?”
He gives a pitiful groan, and she perches on the slice of free cushion near his knee and rests one hand against his hot, stretched skin. “God, that feels good,” he says in greeting. “Your bad circulation’s finally good for something.”
“Yes, you’re welcome. I take it that Joan’s potion had no bearing on your usual side effects?”
Ethan tries to stifle a belch in his fist but times it poorly. Vanessa pats his belly sympathetically. “Yeah,” he says, puffing out a long breath. “I’d say it didn’t. Only difference is the wolf's stomach is a lot bigger.”
“Oh, poor thing.” She strokes at his belly gently, and he lets out a soft sound that unlaces something inside her. “Look at you, at the mercy of your appetite. You must feel quite heavy.”
“You have no idea. I feel like I swallowed a bunch of wet cement. You probably couldn’t — urrp — even see it in that picture with my gut in the way, but the button on my jeans burst clean off. It’s over there somewhere.” He waves toward the half of the apartment that functions as his bedroom. “I was too full to get up and find it.”
Without meaning to, Vanessa’s hand slips down to grip the bottom of his stomach, where it’s just soft flab and stretch mark scars. “Of course you were. You ate two entire casseroles and part of a third. You ate yourself out of those pants, of course you couldn’t get up.”
He hiccups. “Those things weighed at least four pounds each. The old ladies aren’t fucking around.”
“And you still managed to finish so much of it,” purrs Vanessa, carefully maneuvering more of herself onto the couch without putting pressure on Ethan’s stomach. 
“Want to know the worst part?” he asks, chasing the words with a heavy belch. 
“Yes,” says Vanessa, kneading his stomach like a cat.
“I’m still hungry,” says Ethan, and it’s all she can do not to pounce.
“Do you want me to help you finish this one?” she asks, indicating the half-eaten casserole on the table.
Ethan slumps back against the arm of the couch. “No, I can’t do any more casserole. I don’t know if I should eat any more, anyway. I can barely move now.”
“Afraid your appetite will get the better of you?” she teases, grazing her fingertips over his distended stomach. “That you won’t be able to help yourself?”
“Yes,” whines Ethan. “I have no idea if my body even knows I haven’t transformed. For all I know my stomach will let me eat ’til I burst.”
“”Well,” she says, “I’ve got something for you, too, if you’ve got just a bit more room.”
Ethan winces. “Is it a potion that’ll let me go back in time and not make this decision?”
“No, sorry. It’s cheesecake.”
“Vanessa!” he groans.
“Not much cheesecake,” she amends. “Just a slice. Sembene sent it home with me for my breakfast, but I’d just as soon as let you have it. It’s maple brown butter, and it’s excellent.”
“Don’t tell me that!” says Ethan, curling one arm around his belly. “Christ, Vanessa, I think you want me to get stuck on this couch. What, so you can have the bed all to yourself?”
“Of course I’ll help you to bed,” Vanessa soothes, leaning over to kiss his forehead. “You’re nice and warm, and you’re not nearly so big that we couldn’t share it.”
“Sounds like there’s a yet there,” grumbles Ethan.
His stomach gurgles. Vanessa pats it gently. “Is that a yes on the cheesecake?”
Ethan shifts his weight and burps once, twice. “Yeah,” he says grudgingly. “I do want the cheesecake.”
“Well, now you’ve made some room,” she says, tousling his hair as she takes the casserole dish and brings it to the counter. She returns the battered tinfoil to the top of it and makes space in the fridge, then retrieves the cheesecake from her bag. She takes a plate from the cabinet near the sink, a fork from the drawer by the fridge, feeling a bit tender about knowing where to find everything in his apartment. The first time she’d checked on him after a shift, she’d felt so awful about having to bother him for every little thing — where was his first aid? his towels? his detergent?
“This is going to sound counterintuitive,” says Ethan, pushing himself up on his elbows, “but while you’re up, can you get me a beer?”
Vanessa shoots him a playful look. “You just want me to hear you belch all night.”
“You say the sweetest things,” he returns dryly. “I just wanna take the edge off a little. But I guess it’s not the end of the world if you get a little hot and bothered about it.”
He mirrors back her coy look, and she pops the top off his beer and swoops back to him, delighted. She helps him straighten up and nestles in beside him, bare feet tucked beneath her. He takes a long pull from the bottle and burps again, then sets it on the end table beside the couch. 
“All right,” he says. “Hit me with some cheesecake.”
“I promise it isn’t much,” says Vanessa, balancing the small plate on the crest of his belly. “Is that okay?”
He nods, and she slices off the first bite with the side of the fork. His eyes flutter closed as it lands on his tongue, and Vanessa watches, enchanted.
“Fuck,” he says through the mouthful. “That’s so fucking good.”
“Isn’t it?” She feeds him another bite, and one of his hands — maybe unconsciously — comes to rest on the side of his belly, as if bracing himself for what’s to come. She inhales sharply, and he grins at her.
“Oh, hot and bothered already? You haven’t even seen me waddle to bed yet.”
Now it’s Vanessa who closes her eyes, imagining how much he’s eaten and how badly it will affect his gait, his ability to move without wincing or grunting with discomfort. How she’ll have to help him into clothes he can sleep in, because his jeans and work shirt won’t do. How heavily he’ll fall into bed, the positions he’ll have to stay in so as not to upset his stomach. 
“Oh, god, I’ve killed her,” says Ethan, and she snaps back to herself to find him grinning. “You short out there for a second?”
“I can’t help it,” she says, feeding him another bite. “You’ve given me a lot to work with here.”
“Yeah, about that,” he says, slugging from his beer. “I was thinking — hic-urrrrp — earlier, shifting probably burns at least some of the calories I consume as a wolf, right? So even when I gorge myself —”
“Every time,” interjects Vanessa.
“— some of that is immediately getting used up when I shift back. But tonight I’m not shifting at all, so all those calories I’d normally burn off are just gonna pile up.” He pats his belly, and the lowest part, where his bloat gives way to soft fat, jiggles tantalizingly. “I’d say one casserole probably adds up to a few pounds on its own, never mind two and a half.”
Vanessa whines, pushing herself gently against his hip. “You’ll wake up tomorrow ten pounds heavier.”
“Mmm, then I’m gonna need someone on the other side of the bed to conduct some experiments to see which clothes still fit.” He swallows another forkful of cheesecake. “Strong possibility that none of my clothes are going to fit for the next week, regardless.”
“I think I may burn out some light bulbs this weekend,” says Vanessa. “Or perhaps my pipes will start leaking. Something that I’ll need to ask you to fix by reaching up over your head so I can have a little treat when your shirts ride up.”
“Oh, am I your little treat?” asks Ethan, amused.
She scoops the last bite of cheesecake onto her fork and brings it to his lips. “There,” she says softly. “Yes, you are. How do you feel?”
Ethan hiccups. “Stuffed,” he says. “Massively stuffed.”
“Poor little thing,” she murmurs, kissing the top of his head. “Can I help?”
He nods, tugging his shirt up over the tightest part of his stomach. “Work your magic, please.”
Vanessa prods and presses, massages and manhandles. Ethan belches from the exertion of her hands on his skin, his eyelids growing heavier as her touch grows gentler. He gulps the rest of his beer and lets Vanessa push out the residual air in his stomach, and she kisses his neck as he groans and rolls his hips, trying to find a modicum of comfort.
“All right,” she says softly, stroking his hair as his eyes begin to close again. “We should get you to bed.”
He belches once more, soft and airy, and lets her prop an arm across his shoulders. With effort, she heaves him up to standing, and he lets out a sharp exhale as his weight shifts. Vanessa reaches to brace his belly with her free hand. His breathing is harsh and shallow as they slowly make their way across the room to his bed, and by the time he drops onto his mattress, he’s panting, breath stolen by the tremendous glut in his stomach.
“Oh, god,” he groans, wrapping his arms around his hugely bloated belly. “I’m never eating again.”
“You say that now,” says Vanessa, helping him tug his shirt over his head. His gut sits heavily in his lap, rolling over the undone waistband of his jeans and onto his thighs, and she jerks a little, involuntarily, at how large he looks.
He helps her get his jeans off, and she fetches a fresh, oversized t-shirt for him to wear to bed. He struggles into it as she changes into the spare pair of pajamas she keeps in his bureau, and then she crawls into bed and pulls him to her.
“Oof, careful,” he gasps, and she loosens her grip. 
“Sorry, sorry,” she murmurs into his ear. “There’s just so much of you I want to hold.”
Ethan huffs. “Yeah, well, just wait until all this settles. There’ll be even more of me, and it’ll probably jiggle.”
“Oh, darling,” she teases, pulling the covers up over them both. “You say the sweetest things.”
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nancypullen · 2 years ago
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Valentine’s Day
If you know me, you know that I don’t get excited about Valentine’s Day.  Scheduled affection is not my bag.  I’m fortunate to be married to a very romantic guy, so I feel loved every day.  Don’t get me wrong, I will celebrate the heck out of it - usually because it means chocolate and/or a meal that I didn’t cook.  I was a big fan of February 14th back in elementary school when we’d make mailboxes out of decorated Captain Crunch or Frosted Flakes boxes.  I found great joy in covering that cardboard with paint and doilies and glitter.  We’d walk around the classroom dropping valentines in each mailbox, even the jerky boys who threw the ball too hard in dodge ball.  Then we’d party with sweets and games.  So sure, that was fun.  Then you grow up and there’s more pressure- no, thank you.  I always hated when February rolled around if I was sort of casually dating someone or in a fairly new relationship. I’d always want to ask, “Can we agree to NOT make a big deal out of Valentine’s Day? I’m not even sure I like you yet.”  I hated it it (still do!) when a guy would spend way too much money. I had a sweet boyfriend my senior year of high school who gave me a small bouquet of pink roses and a handwritten list of all the things he loved about me.  I’ve since lost the list but it was priceless - from deeply sweet, “You’re kind”..to practical, “You wear cute clothes.” to hilarious, “I like the way you sing Rock Lobster”.  That’s the sort of stuff a girl will remember.  That fellow has since gone coocoo for Cocoa Puffs, but when we were kids he was sweet. Fast forward about forty years and I’ve enjoyed decades of beautiful February days with Mr. Pullen.  He never fails to surprise and delight me, even when I make him pinky promise that we are not doing valentine stuff this year.  I beg him, I plead with him, and he swears he’ll stick to it. Then I wake up to beautiful stuff like this.
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I came downstairs this morning to a sweet note and gorgeous roses. I ran up to his office and half yelled, “When did you even do this? Did you go out at 3am or something??”  He said that he picked them up yesterday and kept them in the chilly garage last night.  That’s my lover boy.   We’re treating ourselves to dinner from Shore Gourmet tonight. I much prefer eating at home in my sweatpants to going out. So we picked up our order for their “Valentine Meal Kit” today.  Here’s what was included...
First course - baked brie in puff pastry with chocolate strawberry jam and crostini
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I’ll pop that into the oven to turn it golden brown, and while it cooks we can enjoy champagne poached shrimp.
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The main course is cocoa rubbed petite filet of beef for two.
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 and crab cakes! Yummm!  Mickey can have all the beef, dibs on the crab cakes!
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The sides are simple, but pleasing.
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And for dessert, beautiful chocolate covered strawberries.
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They also included a freshly baked mini loaf of bread with butter.  I won’t touch that but the mister will love it.  I’m glad I ate light today because I’m about to murder some crab cakes.   This is romance to me - it’s easy, it’s fun, and it’s shared with the one I love. If you have a sweetheart, don’t try to make a huge, expensive gesture to impress him/her - just give them what you already know they like. Watch their favorite movie and get their favorite take out, maybe order pizza and fix that thing that’s been broken for six months, or just make a list of all the things you love about them, from the silly to the serious.  Don’t let commercials convince you that your Valentine’s Day has to break the bank. Romance can not be purchased. It comes from the heart. Just be sweet to each other.   
That’s it, my big holiday post. But I can’t leave without mentioning all of the forms that love takes - it’s not just for sweethearts.  It’s your dear friends, it’s people who sprinkle kindness in your days, it’s you holding the door for a stranger, or encouraging a coworker. It’s siblings and parents, it’s everyone in your circle.  It’s all around us.
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That’s the opening to one of my favorite movies, Love Actually, and I still think about it all these years later. We’re surrounded by love, it just doesn’t make the news. Go out there and spread some love. Be sweet. Be kind.  Make everyone your valentine.  Stay safe, stay well, spread love.
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Nancy
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itsstrawberrymochi · 2 years ago
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Tr characters x sick! reader
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Because one of my favorite people is sick and we can’t have that 😡
For you @kingkyoujurou get well soon 🫂
Warnings: mention of changing in Shin’s part but no description of anything nsfw, swearing
Not proofread
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Mitsuya
- Mitsuya was bestowed with the title of husband material for nothing
- Taking care of people is practically like breathing to him, the male had spent has his entire life caring for others he took (and still takes care) of his little sisters since they were babies, he took care of his close friends in Toman and he takes care of you
- So when it comes to helping you get through a nasty cold it’s not something new to him and he always knows what to do
- Especially when it comes to convincing you to take the bitter tasting medicine since he has past knowledge of what he did to make his younger sisters take theirs
“ Come on y/n if you take your medicine then I’ll get whatever you want for dessert deal? ”
- Mitsuya is an extremely busy man starting your own clothing line is no walk in the park
- But for you he has all the time in the world
- He’ll close his shop down for a few days or leave a few hours early to tend to you
- And no matter how much you try to tell him you’re fine and he should go back he’s refusing to leave your side until you get better
- Mitsuya doesn’t mind cuddling when you’re sick he knows having a nice warm body next to your shivering one would make you feel better and help you fall asleep faster plus he doesn’t get sick very easy so he’s ok with being that close
- Along with taking care of you Mitsuya would also tend to any task you aren’t able to do because you are too sick, you won’t even have to ask him because he’s already on it
- And even with taking care of you, your home and his shop he still manages to make you a home cooked meal everyday he believes it’s a lot better than having canned food or buying from a restaurant
- By the time you feel better it’ll be like you never got sick because everything is in order and you aren’t behind on anything all thanks to your amazing boyfriend Mitsuya
Shinichiro
- Like Mitsuya taking care of someone who’s sick isn’t new to him
- He’s the eldest Sano so he’s been helping with runny noses and high fevers for as long as he could remember
- He would 100% sacrifice his health if you want to cuddle
- He puts your comfort above his own
- Would buy you alphabet soup or the ones with the cartoon character shapes because he knows it’ll make you laugh
- Speaking of laughing Shin would try his absolute best to make you smile when you’re sick
- He knows you’re miserable and in a lot of pain so he thinks laughter is the best medicine .... get it
- Kinda treats you like a baby who’s incapable of doing anything
- He feeds you, changes the cloths for your fever ,wipes your messy mouth, helps you undress to take a shower helps you dress after etc etc
- Shinichiro refuses for you to lift a finger while you are ill and opts to do every single task even changing the channel on the television for you
- You have plants? He’s gonna water them, pets? No problem he’ll feed them, you need to drop something off to the mailbox? no problem he’s on it
- Baby boy doesn’t care if you can do half of those things yourself he’ll still do it he just wants to make you comfortable and your only job as of right now is to get better
Draken
- Draken took care of himself his entire life without any help so he knows for sure how to take care of someone else just ask Mikey
- Draken can be a bit of a…. stick in the ass when you’re sick
- And not in an intentionally annoying way just in a I’m doing this for your own good kinda way
- He becomes extremely strict when you’re sick (dr seuss got nothing on me 😣)
- He makes sure that you’re eating healthy and taking all your meds
- He refuses for you to eat any junk or skip your medicine just because it’s yucky
- As much as he wishes to be with you every second while you’re not feeling well he can’t D&D motors always has work to do and the staff is already small
- So every lunch or break he gets he’ll always use it to visit you and see how you’re doing
- He’ll also send you messages through out the day to make sure you’re ok (dr Seuss what’s uppp??)
Draken 🥚 🐉: Y/n/n if I come home and see you haven’t eaten all your lunch and didn’t take your medicine I’m gonna beat your ass
- he’s aggressive but it’s all love 💗
Wakasa
- He’s a dick =_=
- Since you were so sick you’ve just been sleeping all day
- You didn’t even realize you had a shit ton of miscalls from Wakasa and when you finally got back he immediately asked why haven’t you been answering his calls
- You explained to him you were sick
- And you know what the dummy said?
“ Ew I better stay away from you then don’t wanna catch whatever you have”
- If he was next to you right now you would strangle him
- He told you to get well soon and hung up
- You honestly thought that would be the last you heard from him for the day, until about an hour later he walked into your bedroom with a couple of grocery bags of stuff
- they were filled with your favorite snacks, medicine to make you feel better and some food
- Wakasa carried you to your couch so you could get out of your stuffy room, opened a window for some fresh air and cuddle you on the couch watching a show until you dozed off
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riotgirl21 · 3 years ago
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Kuroo: Ravage
Warnings: CNC, bondage, spanking, name calling (slut, whore), dacryphilia, breathplay, biting, forced orgasms, breast slapping, manhandling.
Tagging my bb @m-mortimer
You were sure someone was following you. There had been a shadow behind you for at least 15 minutes as you walked home after getting some fresh air and grabbing some things for dinner. But everytime you turned around, you couldn't see anyone. The footsteps echoing behind you, feet in time with yours as you weaved in and out the people on the street. You had a few groceries in your hand and needed to get home to cook dinner.
Opening the door to the apartment complex, you checked behind you in the glass and sighed in relief when no one was there. Rushing through the foyer, checking the mailbox as you passed it before taking the lift up, you pressed the number for your floor and jumped when a hand stopped the door closing at the last second. A tall guy, hoodie over his head with dark glasses and a black mask on with some dark jeans and trainers.
"What floor?"
"Second."
Coincidence.
It had to be.
Looking at him from the corner of your eyes, you tried to see if you recognised him. He wasn't wearing anything that would make him stand out and he barely spoke so you couldn't check his voice. As the lift pinged, you were shocked when he let you go in front of him, even going as far to hold it open so it didn't close on you. Hand holding it open, you stared at how big they were, fingers spread over the metal keeping it from closing.
You smiled politely, walking as fast as you could without arousing suspicion, juggling the shopping in one hand while rummaging for your keys in your bag. Swearing when the peppers and aubergine rolled off the top, you crouched down to pick them up when a hand held them out to you. The hand attached to the guy you saw earlier, squatting in front of you as he gathered the bits you dropped. You paused, a little shocked that he was still there.
Precisely where did he live?
"Lemme get that for you."
You had barely opened your mouth to speak when he took the bags from you, standing and waiting for you to find your keys. Hazel eyes staring at you as you stood there confused for a second, eyebrows raised expectantly.
"Your keys?"
Huh?
"Yes. Right. Sorry."
Opening your bag fully, you shoved your hand in and rummaged for your house keys, slipping it into the door you paused and turned, holding your hand open for your bags. A gasp leaving your mouth when he was suddenly too close, the same hand that helped you now covering your mouth, his tall body pushing you into your apartment and against the wall. Stealing your breath as his other hand, now free of the groceries that littered the floor held your nose. Your hands coming up to slap him, scratch him, something, anything.
"Make a noise and I'll keep going until you pass out."
That made you pause, body relaxing a little and then a little more when his fingers on your nose loosened a tad, just enough for you to breathe. Looking up at him, you pleaded wth your eyes. Tears running down your face, breath now small hiccups as the hand on your nose suddenly disappeared. Fingers gathering the tears running down your face, staring at them with a dark smile before licking them clean like it was a decadent dessert.
"Mmmm, tears already. Aren't you full of surprises?"
Leaning in, tongue licking up your cheeks to collect the stray ones, chuckling as you moved your face away. The hand on your mouth suddenly tight, moving it back roughly before his teeth sank into your bottom lip, ignoring the mewl of pain you let out.
"Do that again and it'll be blood I'm licking off you instead. Got it?"
You nodded, eyes wide in fear as he pulled you forward and spun you around. Your back now to his chest as you moved through your apartment, door kicked shut and locked as you mourned the loss of the exit and your way to get help. Landing with an oof as he threw you back first onto the sofa, body looming over yours with his legs pinning yours down. You tried to buck him off, you swear you did, but he was so big and strong, he didn't even budge. Finally screaming in frustration, kicking and slapping him when he chuckled loudly for your breath to be stolen again when he wrapped his hand around your throat and covered your nose.
"What. Did. I say?"
Darkness creeping into the corners of your eyes, rolling back as he held you like that. Sucking in a deep breath when he removed it , only to do it again. And again. And again. Until you were gasping, mouth dry as your hands scrambled for purchase on his hoodie. The worst part? You could feel yourself getting wet, a wet patch forming in your underwear each time he restricted your airflow.
Removing the sash from your coat, he tied your hands together before flinging you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Moving through your place, opening each door until he found what he wanted and threw you onto your bed. Your body bouncing as he moved over you, hands tugging down your jeans and underwear at once. The horror of what he may find making you kick your legs only to be silenced by a sharp slap on your ass. The sting making your whimper and curse, skin throbbing as he pulled them off.
"Oh ho! Lookit this wet pussy." A grin on his face, he had removed his mask and jacket and you could see the cords in his arms. Veins popping as he moved, mouth tilted up in a grin.
"Fuck you."
"Oh, I plan to."
Wait, what?
You tried to turn away when his hands opened you wide, knees open as he stared down at you. Fingers trailing lightly up and down your pussy, very lightly caressing your pussy lips. Thrashing side to side, you whimpered loudly when two fingers were pushed inside you with no warning.
"Tight, wet little pussy. Fuck, you're such a little slut aren't you?"
Shaking your head, you sobbed when his mouth attached to your clit. Lips firmly fixed on it as he suckled, tongue flicking up and down while his fingers curled inside you. You couldn't help your body's response, the way your pussy started dripping around his digits, the way your clit was erect and begging to be played with. Your nipples stiff peaks in your bra, hips tiling back to take his fingers deeper.
"No, stop. Stopstopstop. Oh fuck. Don't... please don't."
A hum as he took a last lick, tongue playing with it as he spoke.
"Need to prepare you. Get this little whore pussy ready to take my dick. Unless you want it now? Want me to hurt you? You get off on that, slut? Like being hurt?" You shook your head, words difficult as his fingers continued moving inside you. "Don't lie to me. I saw how wet you got."
"I-I don't... no. Just stop, please. I don't want this."
The last word was a whisper, his thumb strumming against your clit as his finger fucked you harder, faster. His other hand tugging the neck line of you top until it ripped, tugging your tits out its confines aptly before slapping them left and right. Hand pinching and pulling your nipples, the pain-pleasure zapping through your veins. As he crawled up your body, his mouth bit into the skin of your stomach and breasts. Teeth sinking into the sensitive skin around your nipples, mouth sucking them until you squirmed, gripping them in a tight suction which had you keening as your back bowed.
"Stop! Get off me. It hurts, that hurts."
The mouth in question moved up your body, attaching themselves to your neck as he bit you, tongue licking the spot where he'd left a mark. Hips settling between yours as he tugged down his jeans, you could hear the jangle of his belt and could feel his dick press against your wet pussy. Shaking your head to get him, loose you screamed when pushed inside you. The intrusion making your head drop back, back arching as his thick girth opened you up.
"It's always the biggest whore's with the tightest pussy. Mmm, fuck. Where you been hiding this huh?"
The pace he set was punishing, hips snapping against yours as he pulled your legs from under his and pressed them to your chest. Legs spread pussy open as he rutted himself inside you, balls slapping against your ass as you cried. Tears running down your face again, the mascara you had on now black smudges against your cheeks. Through the blur, you were vaguely aware of him licking them away again. Hand covering your mouth as he pounded you, his dark laugh ringing through your ears while he used your body. The worst part was that if felt so damned good, so good. He was hitting every spot inside you, his cock spearing you open and the grind against your clit was making your legs shake.
Dammit.
"Aww, little slut's gonna come? Huh? You gonna come all over my dick? Yeah you are. You're gonna come for me." His teeth gritted as he felt your pussy pulse, your legs twitching as you gushed around his length. He continued fucking you through it even when he told him to stop, knowing it was all in vain when he told you to 'shut the fuck up and take it.'
"Again. Come again for me, slut"
He undid your hands, pinning them above your head as he changed the angle, hips slamming onto yours as the bed bounced. His head buried in your neck as he grunted, cursing as he groaned, the sound low and pained as he emptied himself inside you. The realisation making you hiccup as he grinded on your pussy. Tongue licking a trail up your neck, the licking slowly becoming kisses as he intertwined his fingers between yours. Hands now stroking your jaw, holding your head as he rubbed his face on your sensitive skin, nosing the juncture of your throat and down to your nipples where he lapped and suckled them gently.
"Happy Anniversary, kitten."
You giggled, the sound light but still a little shaky after the adrenaline high, taking your fingers through his hair, now sweaty and matted more so then usual.
"Happy Anniversary, Tetsu."
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imagine-docx · 5 years ago
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Summary: Being neighbours with a cute boy has some perks. Also, Sam is being the best wingman (no pun intended) he possibly could. [neighbour!chubby!buckyau]
Warnings: Swearing, and some insecurity mentions and some body shaming.
A/N: Hello, quarantine has me writing again as I am officially done uni for the year. So please enjoy this jumble of different AU’s thrown into one. - Amanda 
➽───────────────❥
You have lived next to James Barnes for the last two and a half years and you guys never really talked, just smiles and nods whenever you see him, and occasionally swapping mail that accidentally went to your respective houses, this was mostly because your schedules conflict but also Bucky didn’t know how to talk to a cute girl but he won't mention that part.
You’ve heard rumours about how he was a serial abuser and other nonsense from the neighbourhood, because honestly Anita from five houses down creates random fantasies she might as well be an author.
He was so used to getting stares and glares for his left prosthetic and round stomach, due to the rumours that were spread around the neighbourhood and he always shied away from contact with anyone in the area. You on the other hand? God literally sent you, so warm and loving. 
He was working on his car one day, while his cat was outside with him. Looks back to see Alpine and doesn’t see his cat, slight panic until he sees that Alpine wasn’t there, but that cat is everywhere so it doesn’t bother him that much.
He heard soft lo-fi music coming from across the fence, indicating that you were outside. He looks over and sees you sitting there, on your computer between papers and notebooks and his cat sitting with you.
To you, Alpine wasn’t much chaos, in fact, a designer, he would randomly paw at something and it clicked with you that the two outfits look good.
“I’m so sorry, my cat is bothering you.” Bucky called out.
“Not at all, he constantly is spending time over here, love him like he’s my own,” you smiled at him.
“Thank you for looking out for him,” he said, looking down at his feet.
“Not a problem. You look exhausted, come get some coffee!” You exclaimed, with the brightest smile he’s ever seen, plastered onto your face.
“Are you sure?” He didn’t want your reputation to be tainted by having him over for some coffee.
“Come! How do you take your coffee?” you said, trekking back to close all your notebooks because honestly, it's not everyday that your cute neighbour talks to you and work can always wait.
You went inside to make both of you a cup of coffee, his black, and yours with some cream and sugar. You also plated two lemon bars for the two of you, and grabbed a little yogurt from your fridge for Alpine to enjoy. 
“I’m surprised you wanted to be seen with me. Especially with all the rumours, I found everyone believing them.”
“Honestly, half of them came from Anita and she is a whackjob. I’m surprised people listen to her.” You said taking a sip of your coffee.
He laughed, “You would be surprised, people look at me like I killed someone.”
“When I first moved in she told the entire neighbourhood that I got a divorce and needed massive space from my ex husband because I found him cheating with one of his juniors. People actually believed it which makes it worse. For like a year I was getting sympathetic looks for a divorce and relationship that didn’t even happen.” You cut a piece of your lemon bar with your fork.
He laughed, and felt so much more comfortable with you, like he has known you for so long. “My old place caught on fire, and I got trapped, lost m’arm. Girl left me because I had no arm, no place to stay, hit rock bottom, gained a few pounds, and Stark helped me by getting me this arm, even though I work for him and he paid for this place for me.” He said looking down, he felt comfortable enough for you to know what happened, but avoided your look, scared of judgement. 
You reached out for his flesh hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, “You’re doing amazing James, don’t listen to what the neighbourhood chatties have to say. That’s why half of their men turn off their hearing aids when they talk.” 
He smiled and you removed your hand, “Bucky.”
“Pardon?”
“Call me Bucky.”
“Alright, Bucky. So how did Bucky derive from James, because there is no correlation” you said, shoving the piece of lemon bar into your mouth.
“From my middle name, Buchanan, and I guess it stuck with me since.”
“Wait, you work for Stark Industries?” You said realization dawning on you.
“Yeah…” He said unsurely as if you would kick him off your backyard patio set and never talk to him again. 
“I provide the latest and never seen before suits to Tony Stark!” You laughed.
“Insurrexon?” He asked.
“Yes sir, the one and only fashion director for Insurrexon.” You said.
He laughed, “So you guys are the reason he prances around his office saying his suit is worth more than everyone’s rent.”
“Sounds like a very Tony thing to do, but yes. I am the cause of that.” 
You laughed and spent the remainder of your day talking with Bucky in your backyard while Alpine takes occasional nips at the yogurt left for him.
➽───────────────❥
Since that day, you and Bucky practically became best friends. With your schedule practically all over the place you two were constantly texting to help compensate for the fact you probably saw him for a total of 10 minutes or less a day.
He noticed some days you were coming home super late and noticed the lights in your washroom and bedroom are the only lights that were on when you came home and after that he assumed you fell asleep. He felt bad knowing you didn’t eat and were constantly on the go and eating probably the most unhealthy things possible just to stay alive. So he would drop you off extra portions of whatever he made. 
Or that's what he likes to tell himself. One day on his break he saw the cutest reusable container, it was glass and had little black dresses on it with a hot pink lid, and knew it matched you perfectly. That night he had an extra portion of stir fry and rice leftover in your mailbox with a note saying, ‘make sure you eat something doll’, knowing you would check it before going inside and you would hopefully eat it. 
The next day after the longest shift he possibly could have had, he checked his mailbox and saw the container was back in his mailbox, he frowned thinking that you didn’t eat it. He saw a yellow post-it note attached to the top ‘thanks for looking out for me, btw the stir fry was delicious’ and he smiled, picking up the container he noticed it was quite weighty. He opened it and saw a slice of red velvet cake, keeping the grin on his face, he closed the container, gathered his mail and went inside. 
And that started the entire back and forth exchange of goods.
He would cook dinner for you to enjoy at night when you come home and leave it for you, the next day he got his container back with a form of a baked good.
Everyday on his way home, he was thinking of things to make you to impress you, there were lasagnas, soups with garlic bread, steaks with mashed potatoes, and he always went above and beyond to make it with love for you.
You on the other hand found it so sweet and kept giving him cute little desserts you would bake such as cupcakes, cheesecakes, and cookies, and when you couldn’t bake anything, you would make sure to pick something up on your way home from work.
This clockwork happened almost all the time.
➽───────────────❥
Bucky was in the break room at work with Sam and Steve, and Bucky couldn’t help but gush about how cute he found you.
“Aw Baby Bucky has a crushy wushy on his cute neighbour,” Sam said, reaching for his cheeks to pinch them.
“Knock it off Wilson,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes.
“Buck, I haven’t seen you this happy since Dot,” Bucky winced at the mention of his ex.
“She seems to like you, and enjoys your company, make a move,” Steve said, nudging his ribs.
“She doesn’t look at me that way,” Bucky muttered.
“Buck, she literally ignores what everyone said and openly hangs out with you, I think she likes you.” Bucky felt a little string of hope when Steve said that, but couldn’t help but feel insecure.
He was 34 years old, slightly overweight and had a prosthetic and was IT director for Stark Industries. You on the other hand were slightly younger than him at 30 years old, but, god took his time creating you, you were beautiful inside and out, had a killer personality and worked as a fashion director for one of the biggest fashion chains in North America. You two were on two different levels and you were nowhere in his league.
“So Buck, when are you gonna cook me dinner?” Sam said, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Not in your lifetime.” Bucky retaliated, feeling a buzz in his pocket, he pulled out his phone and saw it was you and instantly smiled.
“His girlfriend messaged him, that's why he’s all smiley” Sam nudged him once again.
The three of them continued talking until Brock Rumlow, the resident dick and lead prosthetic designer walked in. 
Brock pushed passed Bucky to get something from the cabinets. Brock had an attitude problem with everyone and it was still surprising that he worked at Stark Industries. “James Barnes has a girlfriend? Does she close her eyes when she fucks you? Because you are hideous.”
“Rumlow,” Steve warned.
And that’s when Bucky felt coffee trickle down his skin and the scent of coffee engulfed his nose. “Hope your girlfriend cleans you up, she might as well throw you out.” Rumlow said pushing past him.
“Buck-” Sam started before making a beeline to the mens washroom.
Bucky stood in the mirror and looked at himself, his hair was drenched with coffee, his cream coloured cardigan and white shirt were covered in brown coffee splotches, his pants and shoes got minimal damage. He dunked his head over the sink and tried washing out his hair.
As his head was over the sink, there were tears in his eyes. Of course his neighbour wouldn’t like him, he was weak. He looked in the mirror knowing he would have to sit in his coffee stained outfit for the rest of the day.
“Buck? Stark wants to see you whenever you come out.” Steve said from the other side of the door, giving him some space. 
He managed to murmur out an “okay” knowing Steve’s quality hearing would have heard him. It took him a solid 30 minutes before he made his way to Stark’s office. “You wanted to see me?” Bucky said walking in.
“Ah yes, I heard about the coffee incident in the break room.” Tony said. 
“Sorry about that.”
“Not your fault, it’s Rumlow’s. Also how do you deal with Sam? I heard him screeching from here about how he was gonna, and I quote ‘Brock Rumlow’s shit so hard he wouldn’t have seen it coming.’” 
“A lot of alcohol and tuning him out.” 
“Makes sense.” Tony reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and handed him a card, “Take this, go buy something to wear. Can’t have my top IT director brewing in coffee like he’s a piece of tiramisu.”
“No Stark I can’t take this, you’ve done a lot already.”
“Nonsense. Take Sam and Steve with you, I can’t hear Sam screeching about fighting someone for the rest of the day, that’s gonna be one hell of an HR complaint I’m gonna have to deal with.”
“You got it.”
➽───────────────❥
And that is how Bucky, Sam and Steve spent two hours walking around Brooklyn attempting to find clothes for Bucky. Bucky couldn’t find anything that made him feel right, it was emphasizing his stomach which he didn’t want to show off.
This kept making Bucky smaller, and he didn’t want to be out anymore. Sam kept trying to hype him and Steve was reassuring that he looked fine. But after that altercation in the break room, they understood that he wasn’t in the best mood and just wanted to go back to the office and have this Friday be over. 
➽───────────────❥
You were sitting in a tiny coffee shop called Dream Bean with Wanda and Natalia planning for the next collection that was supposed to drop for Valentine’s Day, the ‘Love Bomb’ collection.
“I’m thinking colours like pastels, reds, pinks, whites.” Wanda said.
“So take Valentine’s Day and throw it into a collection?” Natalia said.
“Pretty much.” You stated.
“Makes sense.” Natalia stated, taking a sip of her iced latte.
“Is this more date night and sexy lingerie?” Wanda asked, working out a sketch in her notebook.
“I mean a lot of people are single on Valentine’s Day, so why not make it a feel good collection.” You stated nonchalantly, sitting back into your chair and taking a sip of your iced coffee.
“Oh, I love having a creative genius,” Wanda exclaimed, brushing her pencil gently across the sketchbook.
“I mean it's a part of my job description,” you laughed, taking a sip out of your iced coffee and looked out the window. You noticed a familiar face. Bucky. Your heart skipped a beat, until you saw that he was drenched in coffee. Your heart hurt for him.
“Hey? Hello? Anyone home?” Natalia waved in front of your face. 
“Oh sorry.”
“You okay?” Wanda asked.
“I just saw my neighbour-”
“Oh the cute one you’re so smitten by?” Nat wiggled her brows. 
“The dinner one! Aw he’s so cute and treats her well.” Wanda said.
“He was covered in coffee and he seemed upset.” You started, wishing you could do something for him. That’s when it clicked with you, “Do we have any samples from the ‘No Guidance’ collection?”
“I think there are copies in my office.”
➽───────────────❥
Bucky got back to work and sat in his chair, and ran his hands over his face. He felt horrible and nothing could make this day better. Rumlow’s words managed to hit deeper than he wanted it too. Usually, Bucky was very dismissive about what Rumlow said, but now that you were a part of his life, it hit deeper.
The elevator dinged, signalling someone was coming up. Secretly he was hoping it was the grim reaper ready to come collect him. “Package for-” He read the package, “James Barnes?” 
“That’s me.” He said not even looking up. When he did, he was greeted by a massive navy blue box with a yellow ribbon tied around it, and saw some white text but couldn’t make out what it said due to the distance. “Thank you.”
He noticed that the box said ‘Insurrexon’ and was confused. That was the company that you worked for. He untied it and was greeted by a white paper with black pen ink staining the paper on top of the red wrapping paper protecting whatever was in the box. 
‘Was in a meeting when I saw you drenched in coffee and wanted to help you out. Hope you like it. Also, can’t have my chef soaking wet, it could get him sick’ and it was signed off with your name. 
His heart burst with awe at the fact she went out of her way to get him clothes so he wasn’t wet. Part of him was embarrassed that she saw him in that state, but the joy overtook that feeling. He took the clothes to the washroom and was going to change.
He worried that he wouldn’t fit in it, but as he slid the items on, it fit. Maybe you did have a good knowledge at measurements and knew what would fit.
He looked himself in the mirror and grinned at the fact she picked an all black outfit with a light washed denim jacket and some black combat boots, he was upset at the fact that she knew how big he was, but was overtaken by happiness as his neighbour, someone he took such an interest in, picked this out, out of the goodness of her own heart.
Once he walked out of the washroom he was whistled at by Sam, “Looking good girl.”
“I thought you didn’t like anything.” Steve stated.
“His lovely girl at Insurrexon sent him stuff,” Sam said, holding up the note with his hands.
“Hey!” Bucky grabbed it. “None of your business.”
“Alright ‘chef’.” Sam mocked.
Bucky reached out to slap Sam’s head. “Hey, hey, hey, no workplace violence!” Steve said, breaking it up. 
➽───────────────❥
It was the end of the day and Bucky had to drop reports back off to Tony. He walked in and gave him all the files that Tony needed. “Is that Insurrexon?”
“Yeah,” he responded.
“Look at you go, getting into the big leagues, huh?” Tony punched his shoulder, “Wait, was it on my credit card?” Tony nearly cried out.
“No-”
“Wait, this collection didn’t even come out yet. How did you get this and how much did you spend?” Tony cried out.
“One of my friends work for Insurrexon and sent it to me for free.”
“Was it a lady friend?” Tony wiggled his eyebrows. Bucky blushed, “IT WAS! But honestly Tinman, you had a long day. Go home, get some rest, spend some time with your girl. I’ll see you Monday.” Tony said shooing Bucky out of his office. 
➽───────────────❥
Upon reaching home, Bucky realized how expensive the brand truly was, and the amount of hype behind it. He also realized that Tony wasn’t lying and this was a collection that didn’t even come out yet, yet you still gave him a copy of it. He paced around his living room, even though his paycheque said he made quite the amount of money, the worth of this collection laughed at that amount. He couldn’t possibly pay it back. He was running through scenarios on how to bring it up and pay her back. He finally looked back at the clothing that he folded and put into a bag to return, and saw Alpine looking up at him, “What should I do, bud?” Alpine just meowed back at him before leaving and returning to wherever he was.
It was close to eight pm when he noticed that you came back home. Your car was in your driveway, and your living room light was on. He had to pump himself up before walking over to your door, he knocked on it three times before you opened it.
You looked even more beautiful, and he didn’t even know it was possible. There you were, makeup free, hair dampened signalling you showered, a pair of black shorts, and an oversized grey NASA shirt. He noticed you were on the phone and mouthed, “I’ll come back later.” He turned around and was about to walk off. 
That’s when you grabbed his flesh wrist and pulled him inside. Closing the door behind him, he kicked off his shoes and admired your living room. He was unsure if he should sit, he looked at you as you were talking to whoever it was. You looked back at him, and signalled for him to sit down. He cautiously sat on your couch. Pen in your hand, you wrote on the post-it note.
“That’s just gonna delay ‘FIVE’ and we’re going to have to push back ‘Love Bomb’ which will have to be scrapped until next year,” you said running your hand through your hair.
Whoever was on the other line said something, you sighed, “It’s a Friday night, I can’t worry about this. Send out an email scheduling an interview on Tuesday for all the directors of different divisions.”
He admired you, even in comfortable clothes, you were a business woman strategizing ways to not prevent any delays. “Yeah, so me, Nat, Wanda, Okoye, Nebula, Val, Carole and Erik.” You wrote it down on your little post-it note, “Alright, thanks Gamora. Have a good weekend.” You said before hanging up. 
You turned around being greeted by Bucky sitting there, “Hi,” he said letting out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.
“Hi there. Sorry about that, work has my ass on a platter right now,” you said, chuckling, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
“It’s okay,” he looked down and remembered why he came, “You didn’t have to do what you did.”
“And what was it I did?” You asked ridding your dining room table of the computer and a few sheets of paper that were littered across the table.
“Give me clothes.” He responded watching your movements.
“Bucky, it’s not a problem. You looked upset and I wanted to help you,” and after those words left your mouth, his heart nearly exploded into tiny pieces.
“I can’t possibly pay you back for this. Even Tony said it was too expensive.” Bucky said rambling. 
“Bucky, do not worry about it. You don’t have to pay me back,” you said gently.
“Are you sure?” He asked.
“If you want to do something, hang out with me,” you said.
“Pardon?”
“We could order dinner? Dessert? Mario Kart? I am open to criticism.” You said jokingly.
“I’d like that,” Bucky said grinning from ear to ear.
“Alright soldier, what are you craving?”
“Pizza?” He said.
“Alright.” 
➽───────────────❥
Of course it was a Friday night and your favourite pizza joint had an hour wait time before they could make your order, and don’t forget the 30 minute delivery window. And honestly, you both didn’t mind and enjoyed each other’s company. Yet here you were sitting on your couch playing Mario Kart together. “I fell off again,” he grumbled at rainbow road.
“Hah- oh no,” you said, getting blue-shelled.
“I just fell off, how can I possibly fall off again?” He exclaimed.
“No no no, don’t red shell me.” You said, rushing to the finish line. The moment you crossed it, ‘FINISH’ flashed across the screen. 
Bucky got up at the sound of the knock on the door, “Pizza’s here.”
“Oh, use my card to pay!” You said going to get your wallet from your bag.
“No Doll, I owe you,” he went to the door.
You stood hovered over your bag due to your cheeks burning from him calling you ‘Doll’. You went to the kitchen and grabbed two plates, and two cups getting ready to set the table. Bucky joined you in the dining room with the extra large pepperoni pizza, wings and soda. 
For some reason, to the both of you, this felt right. Like this is something that you two should be constantly doing. You two were laughing at childhood stories, work stories and other funny things that have happened to you two. He helped you clean up the table and wrap up the extras. 
You took out two pieces of plum cobbler and warmed it up, “Ice cream?” you asked.
“Do you have?” Bucky asked.
“What kind of girl would I be if I didn’t have any?” You joked.
“You have a point,” he laughed.
You two were back at the dining room table. Bucky let out a heavenly groan as he took a bite of the plum cobbler, “I love plum so much, and this tastes amazing.”
“Plum is that fruit that you can always enjoy,” you said, taking a bite of your own.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, where do you get these desserts? They’re amazing,” he said, taking another bite.
You sheepishly said, “I bake the majority of them.”
“They’re amazing, doll. Maybe you should get out of the fashion industry and get into baking.” He joked.
“I don’t know about that part,” you chuckled, “Wanda and Nat might have my head on a stick if I leave.”
“You guys are that close?” Bucky asked.
“Practically attached by the hip. We met in freshman year of college because of this stupid textile course. Here we are ten years later, in the same company. What about you? Any close friends that are work friends but would also commit manslaughter if you left the company?”
He laughed at the comment, “I have Steve, him and I have been friends since childhood and he kept getting beat up in alleys and I had to save him. Then there’s Sam, the drama queen. Him and I met through Steve.”
You nodded your head, signalling you understood. “I don’t want to intrude, but what happened today? Why was there coffee all over you?”
He shifted in his seat, “Oh, uh.”
“You don’t have to answer. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m feeling much better now, sugar,” he said, grabbing your hand and giving a gentle squeeze with his flesh hand. 
“That’s all that matters,” You said squeezing back
The two of you continued eating your dessert in harmony, occasionally making jokes.
➽───────────────❥
Bucky didn’t want to go, but it was nearly 1:30 am and he should probably let you sleep. He was strategically trying to leave the clothes on your couch without you noticing, which obviously failed.
You leaned against your door with one bag containing the clothes you gave him and the other containing leftovers and a good portion of the plum cobbler he seemed to enjoy. “Goodnight,” he said, prior to trying to walk off your porch. 
“Wait, Bucky?” You asked.
He turned around, “Yes sugar?” 
You hugged him, at first he couldn’t believe it, but knew this possibly wouldn’t happen again and hugged back. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Anytime doll,” he was so ecstatic, he didn’t notice that you slipped the two bags into his hands. 
“See you around?” You asked, sheepishly.
“Of course.”
You let out a smile, “Night Bucky,” before the door closed.
He smiled, before realizing she slipped him food and the clothes. He shook his head and trekked his way home.
➽───────────────❥
Over the next 2 weeks, you and Bucky got so much more closer. He came to Insurrexon when she was in and could take breaks. Other than that you tried to meet up at random diners, restaurants, bakeries, wherever was convenient to the both of you.
➽───────────────❥
It was a Friday afternoon and Bucky was irritated, Brock was making sly comments about him knowing that Bucky heard it. And on several occasions, Steve had to hold back Sam from swinging and Sam stating that, “Rumlow isn’t ready for this smoke.”
Bucky sat at his desk looking over the file Tony gave him this morning and making notes in the margin for him and Bruce to look over once Monday hit. He felt someone’s presence next to him, “Brock I don’t wanna deal with this right now,” he mumbled out, not even looking up.
“Brock? From Pokémon? I always thought I was more of a Rosa from Black and White two,” you joked.
Once he heard the familiar voice, his head snapped up and grinned, leaning back into his chair, “Thought you were more of a May from Sapphire.”
You laughed, “Is that my favourite fashion director from Insurrexon?” Tony called out.
“Of course it is,” you turned to Tony, smiled and pushed back your hair.
“Are you bringing me some new designs? Or are you terrorizing my IT director?” He said, wiggling his eyebrows.
“I prefer the second one.”
Bucky enjoyed the banter between you and Tony, “Then you are banished from my company.”
“Before you banish me, can you at least let me steal your IT director for an hour for coffee? I will bring him back in perfect condition.” You pleaded.
Tony pretended to think, “Fine, I’ll give you an hour and fifteen, but I want him back in mint condition.”
You said, “Scouts honour.”
Bucky got up and stretched his knees, “If anything comes up, let Sam deal with it until I get back.”
“I would rather not, I’ll pass it off to Banner and hopefully he doesn’t rage out.” Tony joked.
“See you at the Rocket fashion show in a few weeks?” You asked Tony.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll bring Tinman with me,” he joked.
“Doll, meet me at the elevator? I want to pass my file to Banner before I leave.” Bucky asked.
“Of course. Bye Tony,” you said before walking back to the elevator you just rode up.
Bucky grabbed the file off the desk, “So this is the girl who has my Bucky Barnes smitten?” Tony said, examining his movement. 
He blushed and stuttered, “N-no, where did you get that from?”
“Buck, you literally called her doll, and the way you look at her says otherwise,” Tony said, “Don’t let her slip out of her fingers, she is a wonderful person and I can tell that she genuinely likes you back,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and handed him a card, “It’s on me, now go get your girl.”
“Thanks Tony,” Bucky murmured out.
“Don’t worry Buck, now I will pass this on to the big guy,” Tony spoke, taking the file out of his hand.
Bucky met you at the elevator, you were leaning against the wall on your phone waiting for him. He finally took in how gorgeous you looked today. A quarter sleeve baby blue button up that was fashionably tucked into the high waisted dark blue skinny jeans, some black heels and rose gold jewelry to accent it all. “You ready Doll?”
“Been ready, let’s get some coffee. You look like you need it.” You said.
He smiled and pressed the button for down, you two were laughing and Bucky’s face dropped when the elevator doors opened. Rumlow. He got in, and you could feel the tension. You grabbed his hand and reassuringly squeezed it and kept your fingers interlocked.
Earlier when you were walking in the building, you ran into Steve and Sam by accident who were coming in from their ‘afternoon stroll’ and Sam went off and told you everything about Rumlow. “You know you don’t deserve someone like Chubs over there, why don’t you get with me instead, I’ll show you a good time.” Rumlow said.
“And you don’t deserve a job here, I can’t wait to go to Tony and let him know there’s a harassment claim against one of his employees. He wouldn’t like to hear that his favourite company can’t be providing him fashion anymore because of a harassment claim, would he now?” You gritted.
“Bitch,” Rumlow muttered before getting off.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Bucky said, trying to let go of your hand.
You kept a grip on his hand, “I don’t have to, but I do. You don’t deserve any of that.” “So where do we wanna go?” Bucky said. 
“Up to you,” you smiled at him.
“Well, we are going somewhere expensive because Tony gave me his card,” he chuckled.
You laughed, “Can’t wait.”
➽───────────────❥
You stuck out your tongue, turned back around and walked in the direction of your home.
You and Bucky enjoyed your time at the cafe. He ordered a large black coffee and a plum tart, you ordered a large iced coffee and a rainbow bit cake. His hour was up and you were walking him back to Stark Industries. Your left hand in his right hand, everything about this seems normal.
You two laughed in harmony. You turned towards him, “I’m done for the rest of the day. Movie tonight?” You asked.
“Of course.”
Bucky was about to walk off, before you called out, “Hey Bucky?”
He turned back, “Yeah doll?”
You reached out and grabbed his hand, and pulled him closer to you. You planted a soft kiss on his lips. His eyes widened, upon realization, he kissed you back.
You pulled away, “I promised Tony his IT director back, I’ll be waiting for you to come back.”
He kissed your knuckles, “I can’t wait.”
You were walking away, but turned back. “Also, don’t kill Sam. He told me everything.”
He blushed then realization hit him as to what you just said and let out a loud groan, “You two are the sneakiest.”
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carpsurprise · 4 years ago
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i finally got some writing inspo!! here’s something for my fellow haley simps <3
plot: when haley feels indebted to the farmer for helping her find her great grandmother’s bracelet, she invites them over to give them a gift.
word count: 1.3k
notes: ok gn!farmer like usual but... mmm tried to do a lil something w/ haley’s character but that’s kinda if u squint!! i’ll also post this on ao3 just cause why not am i right?
The farmer knocked on the girl’s front door, waiting anxiously for someone to appear behind it. There was muffled talk behind the door. In a few short moments Emily opened the front door with a large smile, greeting the farmer with a quick side hug.
“Hey! Sorry, I’m getting ready for work,” she apologized, running back off to her room with haste. 
Haley had appeared next from the kitchen, a frilly apron tied around her waist and neck with a spatula in hand. “There you are!”
The farmer nodded, walking further into the kitchen and taking a seat at the table. Haley spun herself back around to check the timer atop the counter. She murmured to herself something about five more minutes before setting her weight against the counter with a smile.
“Thanks for coming, it’ll be done in just a few moments.”
“You made me food?” The farmer questioned, memory lingering back to the handwritten note that had made its way into their mailbox, covered in stickers and sweet perfume. 
She scoffed, trying to hold back a shy smile. “Well, yes,” she sheepishly admitted, “I wasn’t sure what else to do for you. I told you in the letter I wanted to try to show you how grateful I am for finding my great-grandmother’s bracelet.”
The farmer smiled at her, shaking their head gently. “Haley, really, it’s fine.”
“I need to show you I’m thankful. So many people wouldn’t have helped me out, and I understand why; but still, I’ve treated you like dirt and you still helped me out.” She kept herself quiet for a moment. “I don’t like the feeling of being indebted to someone.”
 There was no use in talking back to her, leading the farmer to quietly accept her gesture. She talked idly as the timer clicked rhythmically, mentioning the stickers she had adorned on her letter in passing with an excited expression. Emily had emerged from her room with her bag thrown over her shoulder, waving a quick goodbye to the farmer and to her sister. As she closed the front door, Haley turned her attention back to the farmer.
“I also made her some. She’s been pretty generous to me recently, I feel like I need to pay her back too. It’s always tricky when others are nice to me. Maybe I don’t like the feeling of being less than someone else,” she shrugged, “or maybe it’s nothing.”
Her self reflection had made the farmer spiral into their own thoughts. She hummed to herself unknowingly, turning herself back around and moving dishes in and out of the sink. The farmer looked at her apron. Haley’s initials were embroidered on the ribbon tied around her waist, likely a gift from her sister. Music was playing quietly from the living room, just barely above a whisper. The farmer turned their head from the living room to Haley’s figure.
“You’re a very kind person, Haley, I just don’t think you think of yourself that way.”
She placed the dishes down suddenly, all of them clattering against each other in the sink. Seconds of silence had passed before the timer snapped to a stop, ringing its shrill ring. The surprise of the timer had made Haley jump slightly, leading her to grip the edge of the counter for a couple breaths. Despite her new sudden behavior, she turned around with a smile, her hair flying with her. “It’s done!”
Haley pulled the oven mitts over her hands, bending over into the oven with a shaky breath. She nearly dropped the dessert onto the counter, ensuring it was on a stand before pulling her covered hands back and waving them by her sides with an exasperated sigh. Pulling the door of the oven closed, she messed around with the controls, shutting it off and throwing a smile to the farmer over her shoulder. 
“Just gonna let it cool for a sec before I bring it over!” She called, grabbing knives and forks to set in front of the farmer and the empty chair across from them. The farmer left a lingering look on the second set of silverware, their eyes trailing up to look at her inquisitively. “What? I never said anything about giving the whole thing to you.”
This seemed more like Haley. The farmer peered over at the dessert, and the ceramic pan that only half hid the farmer’s thank you present. The top looked like baked crust, easily giving away what Haley’s gift was. She rushed over to the pan, pulling the oven mitts over her hands once more and moving the pan to the center of the table. It was what the farmer had guessed it to be: a pie, but decorated much better than they had expected from Haley’s abysmal baking skills.
The farmer tilted their head, marveling at the cut out hearts and braids atop the pie. “Wow, Haley! This looks amazing, I almost don’t even want to eat it.”
“You most definitely are, that’s for sure,” she teased, sitting down across the farmer. She brought her finger to the crust gingerly, poking it gently to see its texture. She nodded to herself, still propped up on the table with a sweet smile. “We’ve got, like, thirty minutes to kill before we can eat it.”
She sat back in her chair, beginning to chat with the farmer about herself and them, and the upcoming fall festival. Haley talked about what a bore it usually was and how she only truly cared for the pigs and other farm animals that Marnie would bring. The farmer talked about their planned grange display, trying their best to make it interesting for Haley’s sake. Thirty minutes had passed, leaving Haley more giddy by the moment to have the farmer try her pie.
Haley cut the farmer a slice of pie, insisting it was her responsibility to do so, also cutting herself a piece and placing it on her plate with little care. The farmer grabbed a fork, pausing and looking at the spilling contents of the pie. They looked at Haley, who had followed their train of thought and made it apparent on her face.
“Apple pie?”
She nodded. “Mhm.”
“Like the apples you had asked for me to give you a couple days ago?”
Haley had already put a piece in her mouth, nodding to not speak with her mouth full. It was good timing, leading the farmer to think it must have been intentional. They nodded with her, matching her slow, yet knowing nod. The farmer stuck their fork into it, the warmth and flavor making them sigh through their nose with a delighted roll of the eyes. Their reaction had made Haley perk up, loving the silent compliment of her baking. 
She swallowed quickly, propping her elbows up onto the table with a bright smile. “It’s good?” The farmer nodded. Haley kept her smile, flipping some of her hair behind her shoulder and bringing another piece up to her mouth. “I’m so glad, but it’s definitely— at least partly— due to your apples! Those things were so good, I couldn’t keep Emily off them!”
“Thank you,” the farmer spoke in between bites, wanting to continue the conversation without the temptation of more apple pie. 
“So, are we even?” 
The farmer rolled their eyes and brought a napkin up to their mouth. “Haley, I’ve already said you don’t need to do anything for me in return. It’s completely fine, you don’t owe me anything.”
Haley shook her head, biting back her smile. “Hmm, how upsetting. I guess I’ll have to do something else for you so you agree with me.”
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elsanna-shenanigans · 3 years ago
Text
December Contest Submission #9: Of Artifact, Snow, and Love
Words: ca. 5,500 Setting: mAU/Warehouse 13 crossover Lemon: No Content: vi0lanc3
Author’s Note: if you’re a fan of Warehouse 13 be aware I changed up the timeline of H. G. Wells
Lockinge, Michigan
December 18th, 10:23PM
Claire frowned at the sun shining brightly in the clear blue sky. The forecast that morning said there’d be no white Christmas. 
“Goddamn climate change.” She took a sip of water and impatiently waited for her best friend. They were supposed to meet in this cafe fifteen minutes ago.
“Sorry, sorry!” Her best friend slipped into the seat across from her. “My alarm didn’t go off.”
“Uh huh.”
“No, really! The batteries died.”
“Uh huh.”
“Please forgive me?” Big brown eyes pleaded for forgiveness.
“Okay, fine. You’re buying me dessert.” Claire always caved to Lisa when she got all wide-eyed and sad looking.
“Of course! I know how much-“
CRACK!
Both women instinctively ducked at the loud noise that shook the table and rattled the large bay windows they sat next to.
“Holy shit, what was that?”
“Ummm… Claire?” Lisa’s voice shook. “Look outside.”
The woman stared, speechless.
Where once there had only been very small piles of dirty melting slush in places, now a thick layer of snow covered every square inch of space outside. A glance up showed still blue skies without a single cloud floating by.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
Basketball sized balls of snow appeared out of thin air and dropped from the sky, smashing cars. As suddenly as it started, it stopped. Car alarms blared, mailboxes were smashed, and people around them murmured in fright.
“How did…” Lisa’s voice trailed off.
“I don’t know.” 
* * * * * 
Myka Bering finished rereading her report and signed it. Satisfaction in finishing paperwork never got old. Now she could enjoy her muffin in peace.
Click thud. Click thud. Click thud.
So much for peace. She couldn’t wait until Pete got off those crutches. The man didn’t seem to grasp that other people besides him lived in the bed and breakfast who needed to sleep, read, and generally hear their own thoughts.
“I’m telling you, Claudia, there is no possible way Batman would stand a chance.”
Ugh. This argument again. 
“Batman would totally win. He’d just make a kryptonite weapon and wipe the floor with him.   Superman is useless without his powers. Look at the Superman 2 movie. Useless.” Claudia sat at the round table and grabbed a blueberry muffin from the plate at the center of the table.
“And Superman could just toss him into outer space.” Pete flopped down heavily into an empty chair and leaned the crutches against the table. “Ooo, muffins!”
Every morning for two years Leena made sure there were freshly baked muffins for them and every morning Pete acted surprised to see them.
No part of her cared about their ‘who would win’ arguments so she tuned out their words and focused on the people instead. 
This month Claudia sported a green streak in her short red hair and a new Star Trek pin on her jean jacket. Not even twenty-one and she already was an important part of the team with her computer skills and inventions. At least those things Myka understood. Pete with his ‘vibes’ and childish antics hopelessly frustrated her, though, when she’s honest with herself, it balanced out her analytical mind perfectly.
That whole “we’re not coworkers, we’re family” crap old bosses would condescendingly spew never made sense until now. She guessed nearly dying together on multiple occasions brought people closer together than a seminar on proper evidence collection techniques.
“Good morning, darlings.” The lilting English accent grabbed Mika’s attention.
Helena.
Three days into her joining Warehouse 13 and Myka still had to pinch herself that the H. G. Wells was not only actually a woman, but worked for the Warehouse in the 1880s. Being preserved in bronze for a hundred and thirty years didn’t slow the English woman down one bit.
“Morning, H. G.” Both Claudia and Pete greeted in unison before going into another argument about superheroes.
“Are they really going on about this again?” Helena snagged a muffin and sat down in the open chair next to Myka.
“It’s like their morning coffee.”
“Ah. To each their own, I guess.” 
While they waited for Artie to show up with their new assignment, she snuck glances at the woman next to her while Helena asked questions about the pop culture references the other two made. Long silky dark brown hair, deep brown eyes, slender fighter’s build, and a relentless drive to excel in all things made Myka feel plain with her boring brown hair and uninteresting hazel eyes.
“Are you okay, darling?” 
The soft whisper in her ear caused her to shiver.
“Yes,” Myka squeaked out. How did Helena always catch her?
“Listen up people, we have a ping.” Artie hustled in carrying a folder and his ever present black bag.
“A ping?”
“It’s when an Artifact gets all Artifacty and starts causing chaos.” Claudia’s explanation left a lot out.
“Ah, back in Warehouse 12 we called it a Curiosity.”
“Fascinating, but we have work to do.” The folder slammed down onto the table, Artie’s continued outrage at H. G. Wells’ reinstatement clear. “We have sudden snowfall in Lockinge, Michigan.”
“Uh, Artie?” Hesitantly Pete spoke, even his normal obliviousness picking up on their boss’ bad mood. “It’s Michigan, snow’s pretty normal.”
“Isn’t Michigan one of the states having a mild winter?” Watching the news every night, a habit Myka picked up when she moved to the middle of nowhere South Dakota, proved to be helpful once again.
“Precisely. Videos are showing three inches of snow suddenly appearing in seconds and it only showed up in Lockinge.”
“Now that sounds like an Artifact. But what’s wrong with having a white Christmas?” Claudia, still new to the world of Artifacts and their deadly nature, asked with a curious look.
“Nothing, if you don’t mind it triggering another ice age and wiping out most of humanity.”
“That would be bad.”
“Yes, it would be. Eight people are in the hospital with two in critical condition from being hit with large snowballs. With Pete out of commission and Claudia forbidden from field work for the time being,” a glare at the two agents silently sitting across from him, “Myka, you’ll have to go with H. G.”
“Oh goody, not here even a week and I already have an assignment.” The woman looked pleased to not be stuck on the sidelines.
Artie, on the other hand, looked positively disgruntled.
“Myka, you’re in charge. Feel free to shoot her if she gives you any trouble.”
“Artie…” This hostility grated on her nerves.
“Here.” He thrust the folded towards Myka. “All the information we have is here along with your airplane tickets and money. Don’t forget to get receipts. Now get going before anyone else gets hurt.”
“On it.” She grabbed the folder from the table before walking out of the room.
“Don’t forget bags!” 
“We won’t!” Did he really think she’d forget to grab a couple before leaving? The silvery static bags Myka had only seen holding computer parts before getting this job, were tucked in every jacket and piece of luggage she owned in the, admittedly likely, chance an Artifact crossed her path. While Artifacts could range in size from a pearl to a blimp, the static bags could handle most things.
‘Don’t forget bags.’ 
Pssh. Please, how else would they neutralize the Artifacts to bring back and store in the Warehouse?
* * * * * 
Anna closed the front door quickly and rushed to crank up the thermostat. She did not dress for snow that morning. The weather lady called for clear skies. 
That dirty liar.
After picking up eggnog and cherry pie for Christmas, she had left the grocery store to find everything covered in snow and the pleasant ten minute walk to stretch out her legs turned into a freezing twenty minute slog. 
“Cold. Coldcoldcold.” Food in the fridge and Anna placed the tea kettle on the stove to boil. A cup of Earl Grey should take the chill off. 
It didn’t take long before Anna walked into the living room with a steaming cup and a desire to watch Christmas movies until her sister came home.
On came The Santa Clause and she snuggled under a blanket. Distracted eyes flitted to the large plastic jar roughly two-thirds full of silver coins nearly hidden by the branches of the Christmas tree. Memories came to mind of their parents giving them a much smaller jar to fill when they were little kids. Throughout the year, she and Elsa would do extra chores to earn quarters to put in that jar and, once full, they’d go on a day trip of their choice. One year the zoo, another miniature golf, and even a traveling carnival. Their parents paid for the tickets and food, and the coins were split evenly between them to spend however they wanted.
Four years into a six month stay after their parent’s fatal car crash, they revived the tradition with a larger jar. Eight months ago Elsa caught her piling in pennies and banned them from the jar. A pity really because Anna planned on requesting a trip to the beach.
Thoughts of Elsa in a black bikini kept her up at night.
Her hopeless, one-sided, crush didn’t mean she had to live like a nun.
Sounds of the front door opening and closing interrupted her fantasies.
“Elsa?” 
Footsteps walked to the living room.
“What happened?” Anna rushed over and wrapped the blanket she’d been using around a shivering Elsa. “Did you get caught in the snow?”
“Yes.”
“Sit on the couch and I’ll make you a cup of hot cider.”
“But-“
“Sit,” Anna interrupted, “let me take care of you.”
“Okay.” Clearly exhausted, Elsa relaxed into the couch with a sigh.
It didn’t take long before Anna returned with a steaming mug of hot cider for her sister and slipped under the blanket to cuddle. The faint scent of pine tickled her nose. Every shop this time of year positively reeked of the stuff and she idly wondered which shop it came from.
For the next six hours they watched Christmas movie after Christmas movie. Sometime during the second movie, snores came from the head laying on Anna’s shoulder. Elsa missed lunch and the rest of their movie marathon but she obviously needed the nap and getting the opportunity to hold her sister for hours made an average day wonderfully perfect.
Little sleepy grunts were heard before Elsa sat up rubbing tired eyes.
“Feeling better?”
“I’m still a little cold.”
“Still?” Anna frowned worriedly. “Do you want another cup of cider or a blanket?”
“No.” A big yawn. “I’m fine. I think I’ll go put on a sweatshirt.”
“Are you sure?” A cold draft caused Anna to shiver.
“Yes. Don’t worry.”
“Oookaaay.” The worries continued.
* * * * *
“I don’t see any snow here at the airport.” Seatbelt clicked shut and Helena peered out of the car’s windows.
“The information Artie gave us said the snow only fell in a ten block radius.” Myka adjusted the rental’s car seat before pulling out of the lot.
“I’ve heard of Artifacts that caused a person to freeze into blocks of ice but not one that suddenly created snow.”
“Me either. We should check out the area first.”
“Ten blocks is an awful lot of area to search.”
“The snow fell in almost a perfect circle. We’ll start in the center and work our way out.”
“That sounds like a… oh dear.”
Myka slowed the car to a stop. They watched the snow slowly travel along the road, expanding the area it covered and creep up to cover cars.
“That doesn’t look good.” Helena frowned.
“No.” A sigh. “No, it doesn’t.”
* * * * * 
Elsa slipped on a sweatshirt sporting a cat wearing sunglasses, a gift from Anna two years ago, and stood in front of her little space heater. Shaking fingers pulled out the necklace she bought earlier that day and placed it on her dresser.
Tiny bright blue crystals formed the shape of many small snowflakes with a large clear one in the center, all sparkled in the dying afternoon light. At the first sight of the necklace in the display case at the antique shop, Elsa immediately knew she had to buy it. Sparks traveled up her arm the moment she touched it and an intelligible whisper could be heard. 
Knock. Knock. Knock knock. Knock.
“Can I come in?”
No. Waking up in her sister’s arms cuddling under one blanket overtaxed already frayed nerves; she barely held herself back from pushing Anna down and kissing her senseless. Why couldn’t she have stayed in blissful ignorance instead of figuring out her feelings?
“Elsa? Are you okay?”
Shit. She sounded worried.
“I’m fine, Anna. Come on in.”
Even in a ratty purple T-shirt with a hole near the collar and faded green sleep shorts, Anna’s beauty stole her breath.
“Did,” Elsa cleared her throat, “did you need something?”
“I wanted to see how you were doing.” A concerted frown. “Elsa, you’re still shivering.”
“I’m fine.”
“Uh huh.”
“Honestly, I am.”
“You should come back downstairs with me. I’ll make you another mug of hot cider and we’ll watch Miracle on 34th Street.”
More cuddling sounded like a slice of heaven on earth and absolutely the worst idea on a long list of bad ideas. If she went down there now she would ruin everything they’d built over the last four years.
“I just caught a chill from the unexpected snow. The space heater is helping.”
“If you say so. I’ll make tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner.”
Comfort food would be good. Right now she’d try anything to calm down her racing heart. Elsa had no clue why it was so difficult today.
“That’s beautiful.” Her sister’s gaze focused on the necklace. “Where did you get it?”
“I found it in the antique shop on Richmond Street. It… it called to me.” The literal tinkling female voice she heard had to be her overactive imagination.
“It matches your eyes.” A finger gently caressed one of the blue crystals.
The voice whispering in her ears grew louder and a spinning sensation enveloped her body.
“Tell her… she’ll understand… tell her… everything will work out…”
“I’m going to lay down and rest for a bit.” Or collapse in a heap right there. That possibility seemed more likely.
“Do you smell pine? I keep smelling it around the house.” Anna’s confusion shone through loud and clear.
“No.” Elsa concentrated on remaining upright.
“Okay. Maybe it’s clinging to my hair. I’ll come get you for dinner after I shower.”
A kiss on her cheek.
How easy it would have been to turn her head and feel those soft lips on her own. But she held herself back despite the whispers urging her on.
Once Elsa heard the bedroom door click shut, her knees buckled and pure white snow covered every surface.
“What’s happening to me?”
* * * * * 
Myka found an empty parking spot in the busy downtown shopping district. Residents, unconcerned by the sudden appearance of snow, bustled in and out of stores. She knew from experience nothing phased holiday shoppers.
“Okay, this area is about the center.” Snow, once only about three inches thick, now covered her feet and dangerous looking icicles dangled from streetlights and buildings. 
“These decorations look like they’ve seen better days.” Helena didn’t look particularly convinced the worn, mass produced snowflakes, Santas, and candy canes could be the source of energy.
“Highly doubtful but that…” Across the street and down an unremarkable alley they trekked having seen a sparkle of something that way. In ice up and down the brick wall of the building, a pattern of different sized five-pointed snowflakes glittered in the fading light. 
“Did you ever see something like this at Warehouse 12?” Myka touched a snowflake, the surface smooth as glass felt chilled though not icy cold. 
“We collected the original Royal Stewart tartan worn by King Robert the Second. It turned the wearer and everything they touched into that pattern then suffocated you if you didn’t have permission from the Queen to wear it. This, though, I haven’t seen or heard of before.”
“I’ll call Artie. Maybe he’ll recognize the design.” Out came the large, brass rectangular box with a video screen from before video screens were invented. If the connection these Farnsworths used weren’t completely secure, Myka would have been embarrassed to even be seen with one. The device beeped when it established a secure connection.
“Did you find anything?” 
The gruff greeting gave her pause.
“Ooo is that Myka? Can I say hi?” The video shook from what she assumed was Pete reaching for Artie’s Farnsworth. 
“Yes, it is Myka and no, you can’t say hi. Get back to filing those index cards. I work with children.” The annoyed muttering came through clearly. “Did you find the Artifact?”
“Not yet. We did find something interesting.”
“Show me show me show me.”
She turned the Farnsworth around.
“Wait, could it be… Myka, step back, please. Yes, yes it has to be.” 
Sounds of rushing footsteps and rustling of paper.
“Where is that book? Pete, get out of the way.”
“But I wanna help.”
“You can help by staying over there.”
“Artie?” She turned the device back to her and Helena joined her to watch the indecipherable images whirling on the screen and sounds of Pete being in the way. 
“Here it is! Does this look familiar?” He held up an open book to the screen showing an illustration of the same five-pointed snowflake. 
“Remarkably familiar.” Gaze darting from the screen to the wall, Helena confirmed they were nearly identical. “Where did it come from?”
“This is the personal symbol of Queen Elsa from the kingdom of Arendelle.” Excitement had Artie answering the question before realizing who asked it.
“Who is this Queen Elsa and where is Arendelle? I’ve never heard of it.” Pete asked from off screen.
“Arendelle was a small but old kingdom located on the tip of Norway.” He turned several pages to a portrait of two women. 
Myka studied the image and, once again, wished the display was in color.
“This woman,” Artie tapped on the woman with lighter hair, “was their last ruler, Queen Elsa. She fell in love with this woman,” he tapped the woman next to her with darker hair.
“H-h-h-hot.” 
Everyone ignored Pete.
“Her sister, Princess Anna.”
“Oh, ew.”
They continued to ignore him.
“I’m guessing that didn’t work out.”  Maybe she had seen too many hateful, horrible things on the job for Myka to feel anything but sad at what must have been an impossible situation.
“Actually, Princess Anna returned her sister’s feelings. Things, presumably, were going well between them until 1854 when their relationship became known causing a riot in the capital. This is where things get interesting, some unknown Artifact activated and wiped all traces of Arendelle and the sisters from everyone’s memories, including all literature and art. Except,” Artie’s smug face appeared on screen once again, “except for those inside Warehouses 12. It’s defenses shielded them.”
“Did agents from my warehouse ever figure out what happened?”
“No. All traces of them and the Artifact vanished. There were rumors Queen Elsa could control snow and ice. There’s no mention of what Artifact did that either.”
“Thanks, Artie.” 
“You’re welcome, Myka. Just be-“
“Hey Artie, I finished inventory for aisle 657. Hey, is that Myka and H.G.? Hi guys!”
“Hey Claudia, catch!”
 CRASH!
“Pete, don’t touch that!”
A beep and the screen shut down, the call ending amid more sounds of things falling.
“Looks like Artie has his hands full with those two.”
“Yup.” Myka did not envy the man one bit. “So if Queen Elsa had been rumored to be able to control snow, the Artifact must be something she could have with her normally. Like a ring or a hairpin. Maybe her crown?”
“Not a crown. Those are usually only brought out for special occasions. I agree it’s most likely jewelry. Probably one of the kingdom’s heirlooms passed down for generations.”
“We passed by an antique shop.” Quickly stepping out of the alley, Myka looked up and down the snowy street. “There. Three doors down.”
Once inside the warm shop, simply called “Antiques,’ Helena rang the bell at the empty counter. The clear glass case was crowded with old looking costume jewelry and the shop itself was piled high with various things from dressers to porcelain angel figurines.
“Hello hello! Welcome to my shop. My name is Kai. How may I be of assistance?” An older, portly man with thinning brown hair seemingly appeared out of nowhere and stood behind the counter.
“Hello. I’m Agent Bering and this is Agent Wells,” she held up the leather case showing her badge and ID, “we’re with the Secret Service.”
“Secret Service? The President is coming here?”
“No, we also investigate threats among other things.” Always the first question, Myka answered absently with the usual cover ID, more curious about the several empty spots in the case. “We have a few questions for you, if you have the time.”
“I doubt I know anything that could be of help to the Secret Service.”
“You’d be surprised. Did you sell anything this morning sometime before eleven?”
“Umm,” he looked confused, “why would the Secret Service need to know that?”
“We’re not at liberty to say.”
“Alright. Let’s see, I sold a first edition of Alice in Wonderland, a set of six champagne flutes, and a crystal necklace.”
“The necklace,” Helena spoke up, “what did it look like?”
“It had small clear crystals situated to look like a large snowflake with blue crystals around it forming smaller snowflakes. I bought it at an Estate Sale last month. It looked pretty old but I couldn’t find any information about it.”
“Do you remember who bought it?” Could this be the Artifact? It was never this easy. But Myka wasn’t going to complain if it was.
“Elsa’s a close friend. Is she in some kind of trouble?” Kai hesitated.
“She isn’t in trouble. We just need to speak with her.” Elsa? Myka felt excitement bubble up.
“Elsa lives about twelve blocks from here on Nevin Street. 487 Nevin Street. The house is covered in Christmas lights.”
“Does she perhaps have a sister named Anna?” Helena asked casually.
“Yes,” a startled look, “her younger sister. They live together.”
The two agents exchanged a look.
“Thank you for your time. You’ve been a big help.”
Before he could ask any questions, both women quickly left the shop.
“Two sisters named Elsa and Anna and snow just happened to suddenly appear after Elsa bought that necklace? There’s no way that’s just some coincidence.”
“I stopped believing in coincidences in 1889.”
“Let’s go before the snow gets any deeper.”
* * * * *
Anna knocked on her sister’s bedroom door, the loud bangs and cold air leaking from the room causing her to worry. 
“Elsa? Are you alright? It’s nearly dinner time.”
“I’m f-fine. Have dinner without m-me.”
Now she knew something had to be wrong. Not once in four years did they miss having dinner together. They might eat early or late but always together. Anna reached for the door handle.
Locked.
“What the f…” She didn’t even know the doors could lock. “Elsa, please open the door.”
“G-g-go away, Anna!”
Howling of wind came from the room.
“No! Let me in! We can fix whatever’s wrong!” Panic laced the edges of her words.
No response.
“Elsa!”
Ding. Dong.
The doorbell startled Anna. 
Ding. Dong.
Whoever was at the door didn’t matter. She needed to get this door open.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“This is the United States Secret Service, please answer the door.”
Shit. Did criticizing the President’s foreign policy online really merit a visit from them?
Ding. Dong. Knock. Knock.
“Open up!”
Anna rushed down the stairs. The sooner she got rid of her unwelcome visitors, the sooner she could get back.
“Yes?” Anna tried to lean casually against the open doorframe. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Agent Bering and this is Agent Wells. Do you and your sister have some time to speak with us?”
“Now isn’t a good time. Can you come back tomorrow?”
“It’s urgent we speak with you both now.”
“Well, like I said, we’re busy right now. If you leave a num-“
BOOM!
The doorframe shook. Without a second thought, Anna spun around and raced up the stairs.
“Elsa?! Are you okay?” The once cool hallway turned icy cold and seeped through the thin clothes she normally wore to bed. Snow pushed out from under the door. “Please, unlock the door!”
The howling wind grew louder and the locked door shook. Tears filled Anna’s eyes.
“Is your sister in there?” 
“Yes.” Now was not the time to lose it. Maybe these agents could help. “Something’s wrong and I can’t get the door open.”
“I can handle this.” 
Anna did a double take at the English accent having assumed only those born in the US would be eligible to be Secret Service. Whatever. If she could help her get to Elsa, Agent Wells could be from Mars for all she cared.
Out came a zip up brown leather case and the woman selected two oddly shaped metal sticks then got to work on the lock.
Every second felt like an eternity as they waited. The wind howled angrily and more snow pushed its way out from under the door.
“There, that should do it,” Agent Wells stood and turned the handle.
The door didn’t budge.
“Well, so much for that.” She stepped back, lifted her right leg, and slammed her foot against the door just above the handle sending it flying open. 
* * * * * 
All three women rushed into the room. Snow covered every surface of the room, wickedly sharp looking icicles hung from the ceiling, snowflakes spun dizzily with the swirling wind, and the smell of pine nearly bowled Myka over.
“Anna! Get out of here! I can’t control it!” A woman with long, blonde hair on hands and knees shouted to be heard above the noise.
“I won’t leave y-“
“Watch out!” Myka dove into Anna and pushed her out of the path of a bolt of lightning.
All three women crawled in the snow to put the bed between them and Elsa.
“Where’s the necklace?” 
“What?”
“Earlier today your sister bought a necklace. Where is it?”
“What does that have anything to do with this?”
“First, the necklace. Then we explain things.” Kinda. Myka had gotten good at explaining just enough about Artifacts to outsiders without giving away secrets.
“I saw it on the dresser behind her earlier.”
Of course. Why couldn’t it have been anywhere else?
“Myka, I’ll go get it while you distract Elsa.” Helena slipped on a pair of the purple nitrile gloves that would protect her from the effects of the Artifact.
“Okay. Be careful.”
“I always am, darling.”
“Hey, Elsa!” Myka stood up. “You almost hurt Anna with that bolt of lightning.”
“How does she know our names?” Anna’s confused question could barely be heard.
“Were you trying to kill her?”
“Of c-course not. I love my sister!”
“I doubt that. It looked like you were aiming right for her. Did you want the house to yourself? Or were you just tired of having your annoying sister around?” 
“Shut up! You’d never understand how I feel about her! Anna’s everything!”
Past an enraged looking Elsa, she could see Helena grab the necklace off the dresser. 
“Oh yeah? Then why can’t you control this storm?” Just a little longer and Helena would be back safely. “You wanted to drive Anna out. You wanted to hurt her. You wanted to make sure she never came near you again.”
“NO!”
A bolt of lightning, larger than any she had ever seen, shot her way and Myka dropped to the floor in the nick of time.
“You really pissed her off.”
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed. Bring the necklace over here before she kills us both.”
Helena crawled past Anna and waited for her to open the silvery bag that would neutralize the Artifact.
“Anna, look away. This is going to be bright.” Once the woman turned her head, Helena dropped it into the bag sending a copious amount of sparks flying into the air.
The wind stopped.
“Haha! We did it! Another Artifact for the Warehouse.” 
The momentary pause ceased and the wind picked up again.
“I thought that was supposed to work? Why didn’t it work?”
“I don’t know.”
“Back in Warehouse 12, I helped retrieve the dancing shoes of Antonio Carvaggio.”
“Who?”
“Exactly. He was a young man who desperately wanted to be a professional dancer but his parents forced him to take over the family fishing boat. Whoever put on his shoes would dance until they confessed what they truly wanted, even after the shoes were neutralized.”
“Are you saying Elsa needs to confess to Anna for this to stop?”
“Or Anna to her.”
“No. No way. The wind is stronger now. Anna would have to get closer and it’s too dangerous.”
“I can get closer. Elsa won’t hurt me.”
“She nearly did earlier. We can’t risk it.”
“Do you have any suggestions then?”
“Yes.” Myka pulled out her Tesla gun. “We knock her out, tie her up, and then call Artie.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, umm…” The brass and glass shaped gun in her hand looked like it belonged in a Steampunk novel and not in the modern world. “Think of it as a long range taser. It won’t hurt much, it’ll just knock her out. Mostly.”
“WHAT!?”
“Myka, hand it over.”
“What? No! It’s my Tesla.”
“And I’m the better shot.”
“Fine. Fine. Anna, you should close your- Anna?” The spot next to Myka was empty. “Helena, wait.”
A peek over the bed revealed Anna crawling through the snow and wind towards her sister.
“This will work, Myka. Trust me.”
“It better!” If it didn’t, the Artifact would be the least of their troubles.
* * * * * 
Almost to her sister, Anna wished she wore winter clothes and not her bumming around the house clothes. They did nothing to keep the biting cold out. The smell of pine nearly bowled her over.
“Elsa!” The wind stopped in their little spot but continued to rage in the rest of the room and she sat uncomfortably on her knees in the snow.
“Anna?” Scared blue eyes met her. “You have to get out of here. I can’t control this!”
“No, I’m not leaving you.”
“I might hurt you!”
“You won’t.” Numb fingers cradled Elsa’s face.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
Elsa sniffled and hot tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Do you know what my favorite memory is?”
“No.”
“On the day it had been a year since I moved back in, I came home from work to you having made lasagna and chocolate cake for dinner. You were so happy to have me living here with you and wanted to celebrate. That’s when I knew.”
“Knew w-what?” Tears continued to fall and Elsa looked confused.
“That I… I…” Anna’s throat closed in fear. If she was wrong there would be no place on Earth left for her to go. A deep breath. “That I had fallen in love with you.”
The wind stopped entirely.
“You… love me?”
“Completely.” Taking a chance that Elsa really was happy, Anna leaned forward and pressed their lips together. Stillness she had never felt before enveloped her when soft lips danced with hers and deepened the kiss.
Snow vanished, the smell of pine disappeared, and the room warmed.
* * * * * 
Helena would be impossible to live with now.
* * * * * 
“Thank you both for helping us.” Fingers entwined firmly with Anna’s, afraid to let go of this impossibly happy dream.
“You’re welcome, but we didn’t do much. It was all Anna.” Myka smiled at them.
If she was at all disgusted, Elsa thought she hid it well.
“Thank you for not shooting my sister, Agent Wells.”
“Shooting me?!”
“You’re welcome. Now have a long, happy life together, please.” The other woman smiled just as widely as her partner.
“That’s the plan.” Anna snuggled into her side.
Elsa felt her heart soar at her sister’s response and wished to never wake from this perfect dream.
“Farewell.”
“Goodbye.”
The two strange women left with the necklace safely tucked away in a bag. 
Anna closed the front door after one last wave goodbye.
“What a day-mmph!”
Elsa could no longer hold back now they were alone and pressed her lips against the wonderfully soft, delightfully sensitive, absolutely perfect lips of the woman she loved and, incredibly, loved her back.
“Umm…” Kiss. “I have to… oh god…” Kiss. Kiss. “Prepare dinner.” Kiss.
“How about,” Elsa nibbled along Anna’s jaw and whispered in her ear, “we order take out and find other ways to occupy ourselves.”
Gentle tugging led her to the living room where her sister pushed her down on the couch and straddled her lap.
“Sounds good.” Soft kisses slowly traveled up her neck, finding every spot that made her gasp. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
And they did.
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nyxdelanuit · 4 years ago
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Pleased to Meet You is an Understatement (Iida x Reader)
To say Iida was an over-zealous student would be a bit of an understatement. Every paper was researched to the extent of his abilities, every outcome perfectly documented and bullet-pointed for easier consumption. So when he was assigned a random civilian pen pal to acclimate to dealing with fans in his senior year at UA, he had taken it seriously. He started off writing with a bit of a professional distance to his words, each letter looked over by Aizawa’s discerning eye before being mailed out to the accompanying school.
 Empty pleasantries were exchanged both ways throughout the assignment, and Iida was more than content with the grades he had received on his replies. It became a way for him to unwind after the stressful week, something he looked forward to after all the taxing assignments and his internship. He was almost sad to see the assignment end, even with the perfect grade.
It wasn't until Kaminari had burst in, bragging about the date he had set up with his penpal that he even considered continuing to write. All that it took was a simple request to Aizawa, and he had your address, printed in your familiar script. So you had also looked forward to continuing your back and forth. He had never been more excited to retreat to his room as he had been that night.
A few more months, he had thought. Looking back on that sentiment, he felt rather foolish. It had been the better part of two years since he had graduated, and he still looked forward to the dainty envelopes hidden in his mailbox. Over the years, had dropped his professional front, allowing you further into his personal life. You had reciprocated, sharing stories of your failed relationships and- in comparison to Iida's work as a pro hero- mundane life.
 He was enthralled, he enjoyed the witty banter you displayed in your writing while also being amused by your naivety of certain things. Would he be so clueless, too, if he hadn't become a hero? Or was that just another quality you held that made him so drawn to you? He wasn't sure he'd ever know. You had suggested meeting many times, but Iida's schedule wasn't very accepting of plans. He tried to assure you so often that it wasn't reluctance on his part, but merely a matter of scheduling. Even then, you'd spot Ingenium racing off on the television hours after your appointed meeting, feeling a little less hurt that he hadn't intentionally blown off your date.
 Iida had enough. How many months had he waited, how many years led to this? He put in his request, a full two days off. Only a national emergency would keep him from you this time.
 He hoped there wasn’t a national emergency.
 You had been so patient, so accepting of the days you spent huddled in cafes and coffee shops, bistros, and bars, waiting on a man that wouldn't show. He felt he needed to make it up to you, despite your insistence against it. Iida himself didn't know why he was so adamant about taking you to such a nice restaurant. He was dressed up more than he was used to outside of events for his agency, and when he saw you fidgeting outside the restaurant, he was quick to assume you were also not used to such lavish places. Yet his breath caught when he saw you all the same, as nervous as you appeared.
 He had seen pictures, sent with your letters that carried the ghost of your scent, but seeing you living and moving in front of him was… different. A good different. You had stopped his mind so, he barely felt more competent than Kaminari during their English lessons. When you recognized his frozen figure, you smiled like the sun, thawing his unmoving form, and he barely caught himself before he made a fool of himself right in front of you.
 He didn’t know how to greet you. A bow, a handshake? Too informal for the way you gripped his heart and head. A hug would be too presumptuous of him. Would you be offended if he placed his hand at the small of your back to guide you in? All these thoughts ran through his head, but you merely wrapped yourself around his arm, gliding into the gilded doors with ease. How could you be so calm when he, the pro hero, was so stilted?
 Through dinner, he was amazed by your grace. He never thought such simple things could consume his thoughts so entirely, like the way your lips wrapped around the rim of your glass, or the way your eyes narrowed as you laughed at something he said. Lesser men would say he was stricken by your beauty, but he knew it was something else. Something that he had ignored for much too long.
 You had made your home in his heart, and now that he had seen you, he wasn’t sure he could ever make you leave. The years of correspondence, much more than any of his classmates and most of his family, had made you a precious commodity that he hadn’t known about until he saw you, truly.
  It all passed too quickly for him, dinner turned into desserts, into drinks. He could postpone it no longer, especially dressed as you were. Your outfit was no match for the night’s chill, and he had run out of excuses besides one.
 “Let me escort you home, I insist.” You giggled, called him a gentleman. How your praise made his heart skip. Wrapped around his arm once more, you fought the breeze as he walked, slower than he should, to your apartment. Much smaller than his, if you knew what he would already do for you, would you decline his offer to put you up somewhere nicer?
 No, that was much too fast. He lingered outside your door, noticing you linger too. Perhaps, if he was reading the atmosphere correctly, he wouldn't have to convince you to let him finance a nicer place. Perhaps, if things went as he wished, he could ask you someday to live with him.
 “May I kiss you?” His voice was quieter than he intended, but it complemented the demure look on your face.
 "Whenever you wish, Iida." His hands brushed your cheeks, wind-bitten and chilled as they were. His hands felt like fire on your face, the kind that was tempered by the confines of a fireplace. One meant to warm instead of raze.
 “Would it be rude of me to ask you to call me Tenya?” His finger grazed your lip, and he wondered if he could wait for your answer before his restraint wavered.
 “Only if you intend to return the favor, Tenya.” He knew the answer now, all restraint vanished from him as his name slipped from your lips. It was a dangerous game for him to play, letting a singular word have such power over him, even if it was only from your mouth.
 When his lips met yours, soft and yielding, he once again thought himself a fool. If he felt the call of his name was dangerous, it held no risk compared to the feeling of your lips.
Taglist: @beatific-drabbles @zbops @moonsaye @dadchis-girl @verdandi24-blog @cornchipsanddip @gokm1023 @animefandomally @rocorambles @say-my-name-assbut @idalinette @animewh0re @queenmira29
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kazoo5480 · 3 years ago
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Wedding preparations were fully underway, and Emma was as calm as Killian could hope for. Regina knew their secret and After Emma’s appointment, and made slight alterations to Emma’s gown but nothing noticeable to anyone who didn’t know she was expecting.
The town was beginning to bustle, and RSVPs had been flooding their mailbox. Belle helped Emma create the seating chart, and stepped in as a wedding planner. She argued with her father over floral arrangements, and the band about the ceremony, she nitpicked every single detail fighting everyone because she simply missed feeling useful. Emma was overjoyed to hand over those tasks to her.
Killian suggested to Belle that she start her own business with Jefferson seasonally as a wedding planner. She had never thought to do it, and she and Jefferson had agreed it would be a wonderful venture to try out for the upcoming summer season, with socialites and summer residents continuing to flock there for their regular summers.
The Gold estate had sold, and the furniture inside of it, but the club had not. Belle had been wracking her brain when she decided that it should be converted instead of sold. She and Killian devised a plan to reinvent it as a community club, with no membership fees to keep it inclusive for everyone.
The pool would be used for a swim club both for adults and children offering swim lessons, the inside could be redirected for rental, or community events. Classes, daycare, something that the children and people of Storybrook actually needed, shedding the skin of its previous use.
Belle asked Killian if he would be the Director of it, help her run it and he happily obliged agreeing that it would be good to make use of it for not only Storybrook but other towns not so far away. They agreed they could keep the ballroom as is for Wedding Rentals, and that would supplement income, helping to pay staff to keep the place afloat, the grounds already perfectly manicured, and ready for usage.
Emma’s building had quietly begun its transformation, wood floors were to be installed, along with new large windows for the front, but it would still be a few months before it was ready to open, but she was fine with waiting, watching her dream slowly unfold.
Her next doctor appointment showed that she was indeed progressing well into her pregnancy, her bump only slightly increasing in size. Emma was completely outed by Belle who was leaving her own appointment when Emma was exiting hers with Killian holding birthing pamphlets.
Emma was nervous, but Belle was so excited that she was practically bouncing up and down with joy for Killian and her, and squealed hugging them both. She promised to keep their secret, but could hardly contain herself.
Emma began to feel more comfortable with the changes happening all around her, and Ruby and Vic were coming into town tomorrow so they planned to have a big cookout inviting all of their friends so that everyone could meet each other, and Ruby would be attending Emma’s next fitting with Regina. They were heading home when Killian veered off towards a part of the town she hadn’t explored yet.
When he pulled into the dealership, Emma looked at him confused.
“Come on Swan,” he said, tugging her out. A thin man came out and greeted them both with a smile, and Emma looked around the lot spotting a gorgeous yellow convertible. She left the men to talk assuming Killian needed something for their car when he joined her a few minutes later.
“It’s a beautiful car’ he said, and Emma smiled nodding. “The yellow reminds me a bit of your hair Swan,” he said smirking at her, and Emma looked at him, eyes wide.
Killian dangled the keys in front of her, and she gasped. “Oh my god, Jones. What did you do?” she asked.
He smiled, “Happy wedding day angel,” he said and placed the keys in her hand. Emma looked down and at the car, and back to him.
“What!” she said excitedly, her hands going to her cheeks in shock.
He laughed, and she jumped into his arms and spun her around. “I had it ordered some time ago, but I thought it would be best that you had a car of your own. Now it makes even more sense since we won’t always be going the same way to work” he said smirking at her.
Emma was overwhelmed, her eyes filled with tears. “You bought me a car,” she said softly, shaking her head in disbelief.
Killian cupped her jaw and placed his forehead against hers. “I bought you a car, a car for us, a car for you, our family,” he said and his thumbs swiped away her tears. “Are those happy tears angel?” he asked.
Emma nodded and kissed him hard. Her arms wrapping around his neck and he grunted at the force of her small frame pulling him against her.
“I take it the lady approves,” the man said behind them, and Killian laughed nodding. “I think that is a fair assessment mate,” he said, and Emma smiled at the man.
“See you at home?” Killian asked nudging her nose with his, and she nodded.
“Wow” she whispered, and he kissed her cheek strolling back to his car.
Emma nervously climbed in, and Lumiere showed her how to lower and raise the convertible top, and the gears inside for headlights, the radio, and she nodded thanking him. He stepped out and Emma buckled herself in running her hands over the smooth leather of the steering wheel. Her heart was somersaulting in her chest. Killian had given her freedom, a life, and a family she thought caressing her small bump. He had given her everything. She tried her best not to cry but began sobbing, Lumiere looked concerned and handed her his handkerchief.
He left her alone a moment, heading inside, and she just continued to cry, the lost girl had found everything, a home, her home, and she felt so loved at that moment that she didn’t know what to do.
She let herself calm down, and used the mirror to clean her face up, Lumiere walking back to her asking if she was alright, and she thanked him nodding. He told her to keep the handkerchief and laughed, and she nodded in thanks, starting the car up and heading carefully out of the lot.
Killian was wondering where on earth Emma was when she pulled into their driveway at last. He looked up, and immediately saw the red cheeks and he smiled at her as she made her way to sit beside him.
“Are you alright, angel?” he asked as he wrapped an arm around her waist. She nodded tucking her head into his chest.
“You have given me so much, I just got overwhelmed,” she said in surprise. He smoothed her hair and rubbed her back.
“You gave me life Emma, you breathed life into me back in New York when I was a shell of a man, and you popped up here, gluing us back together. We have a family, a life, you will have your work, our child growing inside of you, you have made us a family as much as I have love” he said.
Emma nodded, “wait here,” she said going inside to grab her envelope out of her drawer that she had hidden away. She sat back down beside him and handed it to him.
“Happy Wedding Day,” she said.
Killian took it from her looking at it curiously and tore at it carefully. He glanced at the paperwork as he unfolded it, and smiled. “Emma Swan Jones”, he murmured. “You changed your name?” he asked her.
Emma nodded, “We both came from nothing Killian, I had nothing to offer you besides myself. Our child and I should have the same last name as its father, and my husband. I made Swan my middle name, and my new name is and will always be Emma Jones” she said with a smile.
Killian crushed her to him, his tears burning in his eyes. “I don’t know how we got so lucky” he whispered and she nodded.
“I know,” she said back and caressed his cheek.
“Does this mean I can’t call you Swan anymore?” he asked her, and she giggled.
“I will always be your Swan,” she said and he nodded, his smile wide and happy, Emma saw the sheen of tears in his eyes and knew she had picked the right gift.
“Well Emma Jones, I think that you are the most marvelous person in the whole universe, and our babe is going to be the luckiest, most-loved child on the planet with the best mum anyone could hope for” he whispered.
Emma smiled, “I think the baby will be the luckiest because it has two parents devoted entirely to it, and to each other” she whispered back.
Killian leaned back and kissed her softly. “I think we should celebrate, go get dressed,” he said and Emma raised a curious brow at him. “Anton’s,” he said, and she smiled and headed into the house.
Killian dressed while she finished in the bathroom,  his jaw nearly dropping as Emma stepped out dressed in a black gown, with a sheer overlay. Her curls were pinned back on one side, and she had had a sparkling bracelet on, with earrings to match. He swallowed, his throat thick, and he thought instantly to the night at the new yorker, that black satin gown and his fists clenched.
Emma noticed the change in his face, “You don’t like it?” she asked him warily, and he shook his head stepping toward her.
“You look stunning angel, absolutely stunning,” he said and kissed her red lips carefully.
Killian drove the new car to Anton’s. The large man came out, surprised and happy to see them. He brought them each a glass of wine, and Emma smiled happily when her favorite pasta was placed before her.
“A toast to us, for making our way to each other, to our life, and you, the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on,” he said, and Emma clinked her glass against his, taking a small sip.
A small dance floor in the back had a few couples on it, and Killian smiled at the song “Green Eyes” by Jimmy Dorsey as it crooned out. Killian took Emma’s waist, and hand in his and begun to sway along to the music, singing lowly in her ear. When the tempo picked up, he began spinning her wildly, dancing as they used to years ago in dark New York nightclubs, and Emma laughed, matching him step for step. Her perfect dance partner.
Anton surprised them with a small dessert and drew hearts in chocolate around the plate for them. Killian laughed, and Anton nodded, “I’m not Ingrid but I can throw a little something together in a pinch,” he said leaving them to finish their meal.
They headed home and held her shoes in one hand as she stepped out, and turned to look at the moon over the water. Killian grabbed a blanket off the rocker leading Emma to the beach, not too far from the house. They laid back, looking up at the sky, the darkness blanketed in millions of stars.
Emma shivered beside him and tucked herself closer. Her arm draped over his belly, he kissed her temple and told her stories of the constellations. Emma sighed her heart content, her belly full, and Killian’s voice soothing over her.
“Tonight was perfect, a perfect ending,” she said smiling against his chest, and he chuckled, kissing her temple as she yawned.
“Come on love,” he said and pulled her to her feet leading her to their small cottage by the sea while the sky overhead blanketed them in stars.
Killian unzipped her gown, lowering it slowly as she stepped out of it, hanging it in the closet. She pulled the hairpin out, and her curls fell in long waves to her back. Killian quickly hung his suit up and stood behind her in the mirror as she removed her earrings, taking advantage of her exposed throat.
His arms wrapped around her waist, his chest to her back as her green eyes followed his movements in the mirror. He unclasped her bustier, and pulled it away, as Emma spun in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his lips to hers in a practiced kiss. His hands flexed against her bottom, pulling her closer to his hips, and she smirked against the kiss.
Killian lifted her effortlessly and moved to the bed, going down to the mattress atop her, never taking his lips off of hers. He began fumbling with his shorts, pushing them down, and Emma lifted her hips pushing her panties down. She broke the kiss and moved up the bed, laying among the nest of pillows.
Killian knelt before her, taking one smooth leg in hand, and began rubbing her foot, earning him a sigh from Emma. He began kneading up her calf, to her thighs, before starting the assault on the other leg. Emma was squirming, her heart thudding in her chest, his blue eyes filled with mischief as he slowly began kissing his way up her thighs.
Emma reached for him, pulling him up to her mouth, and he obliged knowing Emma’s stamina was not quite what it normally was. He didn’t care, the moment her lips were on his, all he wanted was to make love with her. Her soft lips and perfume invading his thoughts, as his cock ached to be inside of her.
He lined himself up, teasing the tip of his cock through her silky folds, and Emma gasped, her red painted lips curling into a smile. Killian inched forward, his eyes trained on Emma’s face as he pushed himself deeper, her core enveloping him tightly as he pulled her thighs over his, arching her back into the mattress.
Killian plunged slowly, in and out of her channel at a languid pace. Her cunt was so soft and warm, the angle allowing him to slide over that spot deep inside of her, and every time he hit it Emma let out a whimper of need.
“Come here” she panted, and he carefully inched forward, hovering over her and slid one hand into her curls, his weight resting on his forearm as he continued his thrusts. Emma pulled his lips to hers, her tongue seeking his, as he continued pushing them both towards release.
His forehead and upper back had a sheen of sweat to them, Emma’s hands slid across his skin seeking purchase on his back holding him to her, just as his hand gripped her hair holding her still. She felt her orgasm igniting, the crackle in her veins pumping through her, and every stroke of him inside of her pushing her further toward the edge.
“I love you so much” she whined as her hips bucked seeking more, and Killian slowed, pushing himself as deep as he could go. Emma gasped as their pelvises rubbed, the thatch of hair at his base rubbing deliciously over her clit, and she was lost. She gripped his biceps calling his name as it rolled through her, and Killian grunted loudly, she felt his release in hot lashes deep inside of her, coating her as he continued rolling his hips, his eyes closed, dark lashes fanned over his reddened cheeks.
He slowly laved each of her stiff nipples, before he rested his forehead on her chest. “You’ll be the death of me one day angel,” he said and Emma giggled.
“Not too soon I hope,” she said and he looked up at her and smiled.
“Let me clean you up,” he said darkly, and he inched his way down her, placing soft kisses to her bump and she felt his tongue swipe through her folds. Emma arched with a cry, and he stopped and moved toward the bathroom, bringing a warm wet cloth to her, gently wiping.
“Sorry love, did that hurt?” he asked and she shook her head, earning her a curious look.
“I am just more sensitive now,” she said. “And sleepy, hold me,” she said and he wiped himself quickly, laying beside her, and folded her into his arms.
He kissed her hair, his fingers stroking her back softly, and began humming low, a tune she had not heard for many years now, as he held her firmly against him, his heartbeat beneath her ear lulling her to sleep.  
The next morning, Killian readied some coffee, and pancakes for Emma, and heard her walking down their creaky hallway floor towards him. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt and smirked as he felt Emma run her fingers through his chest hair as she hugged him from behind, her soft robe against his skin.
“Morning Angel, pancakes ok?” he asked her and Emma laughed.
“Always,” she said as she grabbed two cups of coffee to join the glass of juice he had already poured for her.
“Are you ready for Ruby?” He asked as he brought the plate of pancakes to the table, sitting across from her.
“I don’t think one is ever really ready for Ruby, but yeah, of course, I am happy to see her and meet their little ones,” she said.
“Do you plan to tell her?” he asked.
“I think Ruby will smell it the moment she steps foot in town” she laughed and Killian nodded.
“I think you might be right, we will just ask her to keep that trap shut,” he said, earning him a giggle from Emma.
The day was brisk, Killian noticed the leaves beginning to droop a little on the trees, the air blowing through the screen door he left open, a bit cooler. He could smell Fall on its way to Maine. He smiled, he loved this time of year here, and with the wedding next week, the temperature shouldn’t be too cold but he was glad Belle made sure the tent had sides.
Emma sat down on the bed, her stomach churning, and she desperately tried to keep her breakfast down, nausea hitting her from out of nowhere.
Killian came in and eyed her, and walked back out to grab a ginger ale out of the pantry and cracked it open as he walked back settling next to her, and Emma took it from him taking a small sip.
Killian rubbed her back softly, and Emma gave him a half-smile. “Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be” he said.
Emma opened the letters sitting on the nightstand, and grabbed her pad, crossing off people and checking Belle’s list.
“I think that is everyone,” she said, “no one said no” she laughed and shook her head.
“Even Mulan?” Killian asked and Emma nodded. She is taking a train up, and I already got her room at Granny’s for three nights. I think we have completely booked her up with our out-of-town guests, but I am glad Ruby and Vic are renting a house. It will be much easier on them” she said.
Killian thought about it, “I will have someone stock the fridge for them” he said, and she nodded in agreement. “What time are they arriving?” he asked looking at the clock.
“Um I think not until this afternoon, I gave her our address, and directions, I think they will unpack so perhaps we should do the fridge ourselves and wait for them at their cottage,” she said and he nodded.
Emma decided to start the bath and went to the porch where Killian was reading. “Hey sailor, you want to join me in the bath?” she asked. Killian was up and out of his chair like his ass was on fire and Emma squealed as he scooped her up hurrying down the hallway. She giggled as he set her to her feet, and dropped her robe, Killian taking her hands in his and knelt before her.
He placed his lips on her tiny bump “ Mo stoirín, please give your mummy a break today. She wants to enjoy her day with her very old friend, so if you can give her belly a break your papa would appreciate it” he murmured and kissed her stomach.
Emma looked down at him and giggled, “what on earth did you call it?” she asked.
“Little darling in Gaeilge. Our child will speak both” he said and she nodded.
“Okay,” she said and he helped her into the tub until she sat and climbed in behind her as the water continued to fill around them.
He pulled Emma back against his chest and began rubbing her shoulders, earning him a sigh of contentment out of Emma. “Mo Anam Cara” he called her, explaining to her that he called her his soulmate and Emma smiled at him, kissing his jaw. “What can I call you?” Emma asked him.
“Is tú mo ghrá” he replied, and Emma did the poorest imitation of his phrase, which made him laugh out loud. Emma splashed him.
“You don’t have to be mean about it Jones,” she said and he was still chuckling, and she pouted.
“You are my love" he replied and squeezed her. “I wasn’t making fun of you love, but I also had never heard such a poor attempt before” he tickled her side and she groaned.
“I hate you,” she said and he kissed her neck.
“Liar” he whispered in her ear and nipped her earlobe, and Emma trembled. This was absolutely a game he was willing to play with her, and trailed his fingers down her arms, smirking at the goosebumps he left in his wake. He kissed her neck, nosing over the soft skin beneath her ear, and he felt Emma’s breath hitch.
“Cold love” he kept teasing and Emma turned in his arms. Her small hand gripped the length of him and her hand pumped him earning her a moan from him, his blue eyes burning into hers. She closed the distance between their lips and Killian settled his hands on her neck and cupped her jaw with his thumbs, kissing her deeply, nipping her bottom lip, and soothing it with his tongue.
“Killian” she panted, and he urged her up on her knees, pulling her to his chest, and moved forward to give Emma room to wrap her legs around him.
“Are you comfortable love?” he asked staring up at her and she nodded, her hair damp around her face and he guided himself inside of her with one hand, his other hand on her hip keeping her steady. He watched her pupils blow wide as he pushed deeper inside of her, her lips parting, breath ghosting over his lips.
Once he slipped inside of her completely, he groaned against Emma’s lips as her hands sifted into his hair, her elbows on his shoulders. She continued kissing him as he gripped her lower back, rocking her gently back and forth, while buried as deeply as he could go. The friction of their pelvises rubbing, her clit being constantly stroked by the thick thatch of hair at his base causing her to moan out, her sensitive folds constantly being brushed by it.
Emma placed one hand on the edge of the tub as water sloshed around them, hitting the floor in wet smacks. She locked her eyes on his, and she licked at the sweat gathering on his upper lip, and Killian sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, lightly nipping at it. She loved him so much, loved when he made love to her just like this, slow and unhurried, connected in every way, and so close they could feel each other’s, heartbeat against the others.
“I love you” she whispered, “my husband,” she said with a smirk, and Killian’s lips parted, as he tilted her pelvis to hit her at just the right angle so that she cried his name out.
“And your husband will always take care of you angel” he moaned as she clenched around him.
He kissed up her throat, his hand tangling in her curls as he maneuvered her just where he needed her to be, to hit all of those deliciously sweet spots of hers. Her skin tasted of vanilla, and her soft skin was marked lightly by the scruff of his beard.
He murmured praises against her skin as he continued pushing himself deeper, her rocking the only movement, but enough. He could orgasm simply from being buried unmoving inside of her, feeling her heat wrapped around him like a glove, so tight it was like a fist gripping him.
“Come on angel, let me see you fall” he growled as he nipped at her throat and Emma slid her knees to the outside of his thighs. She lifted herself, gliding up and down his shaft, the warm water moving her effortlessly.
Her arms began to tremble, Killian’s hands at her waist assisting her up and down movements, He braced his feet against the tub bending his knees slightly to alter her descent, and she cried out. “I’m so close” she panted, and he kept assisting her in the punishing pace of chasing release, his head tipped back and a moan escaped his lips as one particular glide had his eyes nearly rolling back in his head.
“God it feels like fucking heaven being buried inside you. Fuck me, Emma, take everything you need, take us together” he begged her, his blood singing in his veins, needing her to come, to drag him over that precipice with her.
Emma reached between them and began rubbing at her clit, right above their connection. She gasped, the sensation rippling through her, and she moved faster, grinding down on him until Killian’s hands gripped her hips and her hair tightly dragging her gaze to his.
Emma could see him barely able to restrain himself, she had complete control over him at this moment, and they were so close, their eyes wild, mouths sliding messily across each other until he gripped her ass and thrust up into her.
She was gone, crying out his name, stars bursting behind her eyelids as she heard him growl as he released himself deep inside of her. Emma held on to him tightly riding out the wave that rolled through her, her legs locked and tired, chests panting against one another.
Killian buried his face in her neck, kissing the reddened skin softly. “Oh angel, gods your perfect” he murmured against her skin, his cock twitching inside of her. She sighed, sated and her blood humming through her body. She lifted herself and laid against his chest. She felt him kiss her hair, stroking her back as they laid there in the cooling water while they caught their breath, hearts slowing to a steady pace.
“We need to clean up” he murmured, and she nodded her arms still wrapped around his torso. She twisted and plucked the stopper out of the tub draining it, and she turned the knobs on, and the shower came raining down on them.
Killian stood first, helping her to stand and she began scrubbing her hair, his soapy hands massaging her skin, and she swatted him away with a smirk as she shampooed her hair leaving him to rinse under the spray. He smiled at her, unable to stop himself from running his palm over the small swell of her belly, over their child.
“At some point, you have to wash,” she said and he grinned.
“I know, I know. Finish up, and get yourself together he said as he scrubbed his skin with soap and he helped Emma step out. He finished up quickly, trimming his beard up, and Emma was in the kitchen writing a list out.
“Go finish up, then we can head to the market and get their house stocked,” he said, and Emma nodded, and yawned.
“Are you tired? Maybe I should go get everything and you can nap. I will come back to get you he said, and she smiled at him nodding.
“Okay, but I want to help, so wake me when you get back she said sleepily and she padded down the hallway. Killian made quick work of shipping, and stopped by Maurices for some fresh flowers, for their house, and Ruby and Vic.
He dropped by the station and checked in with Robin who told him no word yet for DC on Emma and Belle, and Killian let him know that they would have friends here this week, suggesting Regina and him attend a Barbeque at his and Emma’s house.
“I’ll call you, or Gina will call Emma to confirm,” he said and nodded at Killian as he walked out the door.
He pulled up and went into the house, Emma quietly dozing on the bed, and her eyes popped open at his footsteps. “That was fast she said, and eyed the clock, a frown on her face. You were gone nearly an hour” she said sitting up to stretch.
He smiled at her as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She pulled her curls back into a braid and slipped her shoes on.
“I’ll get myself together better once they are all set,” she said, and he nodded, helping her into the car and parking beside the cottage on Maurice’s property.
“Wow,” Emma said, taking in the view, Maurices beautiful landscaping and she was a little envious. “I don’t have a green thumb but I wish our yard looked like this,” she said and Killian laughed.
“Soon enough angel, let’s get through the wedding and we can talk houses. Alright?” he asked, and she smiled but nodded grabbing a bag of groceries and walking into the small house. She set the on the counter and opened the windows facing the water, letting the ocean breeze blow through the house airing it out.
Killian followed suit and went upstairs doing the same in the bedrooms, heading back down to help Emma unpack everything. He handed her the flowers and she searched for a vase, setting them on the table for Ruby with a note. They left the windows open and headed back to their own house, Emma immediately popping her hot rollers in as she gathered things for their dinner.
She was nervous to see Ruby, she applied her makeup carefully, and pulled on her floral skirt and eyelet blouse, wanting to be comfortable but not have her belly on full display just yet.
Killian popped beers into the fridge and was chopping vegetables when the phone rang, Emma picking up the receiver and mouthed “they’re here” at him and he smiled at her.
“They will be here in an hour, they want to unpack everything,” she said as she headed to the bedroom to take her curlers out. She finger-combed her soft waves, and once satisfied she went to help in the kitchen.
Killian had rice going on the stove, and vegetables and chicken roasting in the oven. She smiled at him knowing he was making lighter foods for her sake, and stirred the lemonade in the pitcher, and laid out some snacks on a tray until dinner would be ready.
She had just sat down on the couch when she heard a horn honk and immediately stood swaying a little on her feet. She was just about to reach out for the arm of the sofa when Killian’s hands wrapped around her waist steadying her on her feet.
“Everything ok?” he asked looking her over, and she nodded. “Just stood up too fast I think,” she said and kissed his cheek heading out onto their porch to greet them.
Ruby squealed and ran at Emma hugging her tightly, and Emma felt Rubys large belly against her own, and Ruby pulled back and smiled at her, and saw Killian, running to him next and he embraced her kissing her cheek.
Vic called out “don’t mind me, I will just unstrap the monsters myself,” he said sarcastically, and he lifted both children out of the backseat, and they toddled towards Emma.
She laughed, one was a perfect copy of Ruby, and one was the spitting image of Vic. She scooped the smallest one, Samuel, into her arms, and their elder son Peter was lifted by Vic.
Killian took Samuel from Emma and watched Emma lead Ruby inside the cottage. Vic eyed him, setting Peter down, and pulled Killian in for a hug.
“You look great, so does she. All seems well?” he asked and Killian laughed and nodded.
“Mary Margaret mentioned to Ruby you had some trouble up this way, but she didn’t tell Ruby what was going on. What happened?” Vic asked, concern in his eyes.
Killian shook his head, “I handled it. Threats gone, some Yorkies caused trouble with a local family, and Emma. But we can talk about it, just not here” he said and Vic nodded in complete understanding.
Emma and Ruby came out laughing with lemonade, and the tray of snacks and set them on the small table, and the toddlers were already heading toward the beach. Ruby and Emma trailed after them, and Killian snatched a blanket up, carrying the lemonade, and Vic grabbed the tray.
They had a makeshift picnic on the beach while the boys played in the sand, the sun was not quite cool enough yet to send them inside. Ruby had a million questions and zeroed in on Emma.
“You are pregnant, aren’t you!” she exclaimed and Emma laughed rolling her eyes. She looked to Killian, and Killian nodded.
“We knew you’d sniff it out Red,” he said and Ruby cackled and clapped her hands, Vic grinned at them.
“Congratulations, wait. M’s doesn’t know this does she?” Ruby asked and Emma shook her head.
“I was waiting for her to get here, I was hoping to get through the wedding before anyone noticed,” she said and Ruby nodded.
“Well, you look great, both of you. God, I am thrilled you two finally figured it all out” she said and squeezed their hands.
Killian kissed Emma and she sighed. Ruby looked like she was going to burst with excitement, and began peppering them with questions and asking about the town. Emma told her all about the school, and Ruby’s eyes widened.
“Wow. That is like a dream come true Em’s. I am so happy for you” she said and Emma smiled at her. “A baby, a wedding, and now a business. You surely don’t waste any time do you, Jones?” Ruby teased and he blushed, nodding at her.
Killian asked Vic about their business, and what was happening down south. They both filled Emma and him in on their lives there, and the possibility of wanting to be closer to them, that business was fine, but that they were not quite sure Florida made sense for them anymore with their expanding family.
Killian offered up some thoughts about Storybrooke and the potential for them there. Vic was not quite sold on it, but Ruby seemed eager to scope the town out for herself. Emma mentioned Dave and M’s coming and seeing houses while they visited and Ruby looked shocked, and possibly a little envious.
“I am going to be the only one left out” she pouted, and Emma pulled her into an embrace and kissed her friend’s hair.
“You’re never left out Rubes. Guess that means you have two weeks to convince this guy to move you here too” she said jokingly and Vic shook his head.
“You two, always ganging up on me,” he said playfully and ran after one of the boys who was getting too close to the surf.
Emma and Ruby packed up the beach and left Killian and Victor to wrangle the boys up. Emma pulled the chicken and vegetables out, letting them rest on the stove, and Killian and Vic came in shortly once they had gotten most of the sand off the kids.
They went to sit in the living room, and Killian put some music on, handing Victor a beer, and they continued chatting through dinner.
By the time full dark had come, both boys had crashed, and Killian helped load them into the car seats, and Emma told Ruby she would pick her up before the appointment at Regina’s and to bring her dress along, in case it needed alterations too. They hugged goodnight and waved as they drove out of sight.
Emma helped tide the kitchen until Kiliian sent her to bed, wanting her off of her feet. She waited for him, and he crawled in, picked up the book, and continued reading aloud until they both drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, Killian got up and phoned Ashley, a neighbor asking her to babysit for them a few hours each day if she could manage, and secured this evening for all of them. He wanted to take Ruby and Vic out to dinner after Emma’s appointment, but he also needed to speak with Vic one on one while the girls were busy.
He asked Ashley to go to their cottage to watch the boys around 3, and she agreed happily as long as she could bring her daughter Alexandra along.
Emma came out dressed already, and padded into the kitchen making some toast for herself, and poured some juice for herself, and Killian. He relayed his plans to Emma, and Emma suggested they go to that little seafood restaurant near the pier.
“You don't want to take them to Anton’s?” he asked surprised, knowing that his pasta was one of Emma’s major cravings and she shook her head. “Why not? Anton will be delighted to see you gorging on his pasta so soon” he asked her and Emma blushed.
“I probably shouldn’t eat so much pasta,” she said quietly and nibbled at her toast.
Killian gaped at her, “Why the hell not?” he asked, leaning back in his chair completely flummoxed. Emma shrugged and continued avoiding his eye contact.
He leaned over the table and dragged her chin toward his gaze. “Talk,” he said.
Emma’s hand went over her belly, and he waited patiently. “I just don’t want to put on too much weight, not before the wedding,” she said. Killian knelt beside her and spun her legs toward him.
“Is that all, you are concerned about putting on weight before the wedding? Sod the wedding love, you should eat what you want to, and it isn’t like you are eating it every night. It is ok Emma. You are with child, our child.  You are not to deprive yourself of anything that you want unless it is pancakes and cake every day. Even if I have to buy all the lace on the eastern seaboard and hire Regina three people to help her remake the bloody dress. Am I making myself clear?” he rapped his knuckles on the table.
Emma laughed and nodded. “I don’t want to get fat, I understand healthy weight gain but somehow that pasta just seems like I am overindulging,” she said quietly, her insecurities bleeding out.
Killian eyed her, “love you have hardly gained five pounds, and when you showed up here you were already underweight. I want you to be happy so if you don’t want pasta, fine. We will eat stinky seafood, and your tummy won’t be filled with that delicious pasta you want” and Emma glared at him.
He chuckled and leaned in kissing her belly and then pulled her lips to his. “I want you happy and healthy, your belly full, our child content, and I do not want you to deprive yourself of anything,” he said.
Emma nodded, “let’s let them choose, that seems fair okay?” and he grumbled but nodded.
He stood heading toward their room to dress as he called out, “you want the bloody pasta, even if I have to pick it up on the way to the seafood restaurant” he said and Emma giggled knowing he would do it.
She dialed up the cottage, and Ruby picked up, and Emma let her know about Ashley and Ruby was so excited as she relayed it to Victor. Emma offered to come to get Ruby and take her around town and show her the school space, and Ruby was thrilled, needing a few moments to dress.
Emma went off in search of Killian when she found him sitting in the guest room. “Whatcha doing Jones?” she asked, leaning against the doorway.
He shook his head, “what you said upset me” he said.
Emma frowned and walked to sit beside him.“Why?”
“Because you’re the most beautiful woman in the entire world. My entire world, and on some level you are concerned that some sort of weight gain while you grow our child is going to make you unattractive, and I don’t know how to fix that, to make you see what I see” he said. Emma’s heart clenched and she turned, pushing him back flat. She crawled atop of him and he looked up at her, his blue eyes clear and searching her face for where her mindset was.
“I know you think I am the most beautiful woman in the world, your world. I know to you I am, but to me, I am allowed to have doubts, and insecurity, your only job is to make sure that you reassure me when I feel so badly that I am not unwanted or unloved. I need to know that if I gain ten pounds or thirty, that you love me” she said and he moved so quickly she hardly registered it.
Hovering over her she felt his fingers pull her panties down her hips swiftly, and he smirked. “Then I shall take that duty very seriously, love” and knelt before her, his head disappearing beneath her skirt.
Emma arched as his tongue made contact with her clit, and she moaned.
Killian licked his lips and spread her folds wide with his thumbs. The sheer fabric of her dress over his head filtering the light, but he could see her arousal, her folds slightly swollen and he began lightly suckling at her, dipping his tongue into her core and moaned at the heat surrounding his tongue. She tasted like honey and vanilla, that jasmine scent lingered and he relished the taste of her coating his throat, down to his belly as he drank her in.
Emma squirmed, feeling his tongue dip inside of her, twisting and curling as he continued, and she jerked when he inserted his thumb, opening her wider and the finger rubbing lightly over her clit, as he continued.
Killian was growing painfully hard in his slacks, he pulled back and unbuckled them and stood dropping them to the floor. He leaned over Emma lining himself up and rubbed the tip of his cock against her opening.
Emma’s eyes burned into his, “get inside me now” she demanded, and her legs hooked behind his legs, pulling him closer.
He groaned as he slid the head of his cock inside of her, her heat enveloping him, and he inched inside of her slowly, her tight cunt gripping the head of him tightly.
“Please” she begged and he thrust forward. He pushed himself in and out of her heated walls, Emma grabbing the back of his neck and pulling his lips to hers in a lush kiss, her lips so soft against his, her tongue darting out to tease his own, and he swallowed her cries as the tip of his cock rubbed over that ridge deep inside of her.
“Fuck Angel, you’re going to make me come,” he said and kept his forehead against hers.
“Together” she whined, and he snapped his hips faster, while Emma clung to him, her nails biting into the skin on his neck.
His orgasm rushed up, not wanting to fall without her, he lightly pinched her clit and felt as she clamped down on him, squeezing him so tightly he thought he would pass out.
They cried each other’s names out together, and Killian continued slowly rocking while she drained every drop out of him.
“Killian” she whimpered, as he continued rocking, he had only softened a fraction, when the sound of her voice had him hard again.
“Angel, you need more?” he asked her, brushing her curls off her temples and she nodded.
“Please” she begged, and he smiled at her, he didn't hate the hormones of pregnancy so much when she was so needy for him.
He quickly knelt before her, bunching her skirt to her hips, exposing her to his gaze. He groaned seeing his cum trickling out of her core, and began lapping at her, licking her glistening folds.
Killian inserted two fingers, coaxing their mixed arousals out of her, and drinking down every single drop. He lifted her legs over each of his shoulders, and Emma arched, her hips bucking, trying to get closer, her heels digging into his back pulling him in.
He continued suckling and licking her at a quick pace, careful to keep his tongue and teeth gentle on her sensitive skin. He already felts her walls heating, fluttering, and he knew she was so close already. He curved his fingers grazing the soft spot inside of her, and she screamed, a fresh rush of her arousal seeped over his tongue, and he kept going, helping her ride it through.
Emma’s head slumped to the bed, her limbs felt boneless and tired. Killian kissed the inside of her thigh and loomed over her, a pleased smirk on his face.
“Does my angel require more?” he asked inches from her lips.
“No, you fiend, now I need a nap” she giggled and playfully pushed against him. He nuzzled her nose with his and kissed her chastely. He straightened his trousers and shirt, pulling Emma to a sitting position, and knelt to place her panties back on her.
“Why Swan, did I wear you out already? It’s still morning love” he teased and she glared at him without a hint of malice behind it. He pulled her to stand and tugged her panties back up, righting her dress, and spun on his heel to go wash himself up.
Emma came in and combed her hair which was now disheveled and Ruby would know right away why she was late. She smiled, looking at Killian fix his hair, using water to make it lay correctly again. He turned and smiled at her, and wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her quickly.
“Pasta?” he asked her again like he did it all to prove a point. Prove to her that he found her desirable, any time, any place, any weight, and she loved him for it.
She smiled and nodded, “even if they pick the seafood place?” she asked and he chuckled.
“Of course angel, just what your heart desires” and he patted her ass walking toward the kitchen. Emma rolled her eyes and grabbed her handbag, ensuring she had a sleeve of saltines in it, and her keys, she tucked her sunglasses inside and walked out slipping her flats on.
Killian came out and looked at her, “where are you off to? It’s early for your fitting” he said.
“I was going to take Ruby around, show her the space, maybe do a little shopping. Spend some time together” she said, and he nodded.
“I will follow you, I planned to hang out with Victor anyways before tonight” and he grabbed his sunglasses, tucking them in his shirt pocket.
“Are you going to tell him?” she asked, and he cocked an eyebrow at her.
“I don’t know yet,” he said, and she believed him.
They drove up the road, and Killian pulled in first, Ruby walking as fast as she could with her garment bag towards Emma’s car, and her eyes nearly popped out of her head.
“Is this your car?” she asked her, and Emma nodded.
Ruby whistled, “Damn. I picked the wrong guy” she teased blowing Vic a kiss and he shook his head at her smiling. “Love you” she waved and the boys ran over hugging her legs and she bent placing kisses on each one, leaving her red lipstick on their cheeks.
Killian came toward Emma, "see you in a bit?” he asked, and she smiled nodding.
“We will come back here when we are done, I am sure Ruby will want to change for dinner,” she said and he nodded.
Killian cupped her jaw, the sunlight sparkling in her green eyes, and he locked his eyes on hers. “I love you. Come back in one piece, both of you” he said and Emma leaned in to close the distance.
He shook his head as he watched them drive off, Emma was a cautious driver, she would be safe. Ruby however was another story, he chuckled as he slung Peter over his shoulder making his way across the lawn towards Vic and Samuel.
“Hey. Seafood or Italian tonight?” Killian asked him.
“Italian, we have enough seafood in Florida Jones, and Ruby can hardly stand the smell right now, and I doubt Emma could handle it either,” he said and Killian smiled.
“What’s it like? Being a father?” he asked his friend.
Vic barked out a laugh, “being a human jungle gym, tiny humans kissing you, and smearing something sticky on you all the time. But Ruby, watching her be a mom is the best. I never thought I made any good decisions until the moment I decided to marry her” he said.
Killian nodded. “You will be fine, so will Emma. Plus you didn’t waste any time at all, you will probably have three in three” he said laughing.
Killian cocked an eyebrow, “what does that mean?” he asked him.
“It means you two can hardly keep your hands off each other so three in three years, Emma will probably be pregnant as often as Ruby is” he joked and Killian chuckled. “So, you want to tell me what’s going on?” Vic asked, and Killian eyed him and gestured to the kids.
“Boys, snacks and cartoons” he called out and they scurried into the house, Vic set them up with some crackers and juice, and turned the small set on, Donald Duck waddling into view. “That will keep them busy for a while,” he said and sat down.
Killian swallowed the Iced Tea Vic had offered, and he looked down at his hands not knowing where to start. He trusted Vic, they had committed many misdeeds together, he was a safe space.
He told the story from the beginning, from the time he left Ruby and his house until now. Neil, Boston, the shooting, Emma coming back, all of it. He told Vic the details of the night they saved Belle, and Vic remained silent through it all listening to him.
Killian finished and drank his tea, gauging Vic for a reaction.
“I would have finished him if it were me,” he said shaking his head. “You never let them walk before Jones, why did you hesitate? I mean this is a guy who threatened your wife” he asked.
“There were federal agents involved, if I killed him, they would have known. Too many people saw me, I led them to the bunker in plain view” he said.
Vic shook his head. “If it had been Ruby, I would have torn him apart,” he said. “But it is now isolated, there hasn’t been any more up this way?” he asked.
Killian shook his head, and Vic sighed in relief. “We left the life, I don’t want to risk my family ever again. Ruby, ever again. Is it safe here?” he asked and Killian nodded.
“A good place for families, we could use some help. Belle wants to open a community Center, and the town could always use another restaurant” he said, his friend nodding.
“Ruby could probably help Emma out at the school too, and if we get M’s here, Ruby could easily do a boutique with her in town, there is only one for women, there is plenty of room to grow this place,” he said.
Vic rapped his knuckles on the table. “Maybe, we will see. For now, it’s just a vacation, I would feel more comfortable until the trial is over, make sure no one comes sniffing up this way again. It’s not like we were good men Jones. Florida gave me the clean slate. You got one here, I don’t want to draw attention to us” he said, and Killian nodded in understanding.
“I have some errands to run, but I will head back by around 6ish, the girls should be back around then,” Killian said standing, and Vic waved him off, heading back inside.
Killian headed toward Marco’s and pulled up in the alley, the garage door open while he worked. He turned the machine off.
"Killian my body, what is the news today?" He asked him dusting his hands on his apron.
"Hi, I just wanted to see how everything was coming, say hello. Do You need anything? He asked.
Marco shook his head. "Come see" and he led Killian around, lifting a tarp. The chair was built, and the frame of the dresser. Killian ran his hand over the pieces, "They're beautiful Marco" he said and Marco beamed.
"A few weeks and they'll be ready. I'll say around November" he replied and Killian nodded.
"I'll leave you to it," Killian said, and he headed out heading towards the butcher and placed an order for their barbeque, and stopped into the barber getting a trim and a shave. He headed home and saw Emma's car at the building. He was tempted to stop but wanted to give Emma and Ruby space.
Emma flicked the blinds open, and Ruby smiled as she took it in. "Emma! It's going to be perfect!" And hugged her as tight as she could with her burgeoning belly.
Ruby cradled her cheeks, "I am so proud of you Em" she said and Emma nodded.
"God, you guys were made for each other, I am so glad you guys made your way back together. And this place, and a baby. You have found your home and I think it’s incredible" she said wistfully and hugged Emma again, and Emma hugged her back, her eyes watering but just smiled.
"Shall we go see the dress? Emma asked, and Ruby clapped excitedly, as Emma navigated toward Regina’s house.
"Whoa, this place is massive" Ruby declared as they walked toward the front door.
"She is a lovely person, you'll like her. Sharp tongue and a sense of humor to match" Emma said ringing the bell.
Regina greeted them happily and led them into the studio. Ruby's eyes nearly rolled out her head and Emma smirked at her.
Regina hung her dress up in the changing rooms and instructed Ruby to change into her own dress. When she emerged Emma smiled, and Regina was impressed that the dress fit Ruby so well.
"Up on the podium please, let me check the length" and Ruby followed her instructions, turning, and holding still as Regina made a few alterations and then helped Ruby step out of her dress.
"Your turn Emma" Regina beamed, and Emma slipped the dress on, feeling that nervous flutter as Regina slid the zipper into place and began fastening the buttons.
Ruby impatiently sat, looking around the studio when they emerged. She gasped and immediately began crying. Emma stepped on the podium, and Regina bustled around her and fastened her veil into her hair to give the full effect.
"Well?" Regina asked, and Emma's eyes filled with tears as she took in the image of herself.
"I look like a bride, oh Regina. It's beautiful" she whispered and spun trying to see every detail.
Regina nodded and smiled. "One more fitting, two days before, but I think this will be fine, I don’t see much change in weight, your sash will deflect from any attention to your waist" she explained and grabbed Emma's hands. "It has been a pleasure to be a part of this," she said and Emma hugged her tightly.
"You brought something to life when I didn't even know what I wanted, it’s perfect!" Emma said and Ruby was wiping tears away with tissues and just nodded, unable to speak.
Regina smiled and unzipped and unfastened the buttons. She carefully removed Emma’s veil and helped her out of her dress.
Emma changed quickly and they sat and chatted for a few moments, introducing Ruby properly and they spent a little time talking, agreeing to the barbeque at their cottage as Emma and Ruby took their leave.
"God Em, that dress is going to rock Jones's world" Ruby teased and Emma laughed.
"I hope so!" Emma said as she navigated toward the rental cottage.
"Are you going to tell me what happened? Ruby asked.
Emma knew she would have to explain. She told the story, the necklace, leaving, Boston, and how she ended up here. She told her version of the Neil story leaving the gory details out, and by the end, Ruby just shook her head.
"It’s safe now though? And Emma nodded.
"Good. Because I'm going to make Vic move here!" She exclaimed, as if she could bend the wall of the world to meet her expectations and Emma smiled at her.
"I am proud of you Em, I'll see you tonight. Before you say it, I won't tell M's any of this, but I will tell her about your dress because I can’t hold that inside!" She laughed as she exited the car.
Emma got home and immediately went to their room and began pulling her hair out, and popped her curlers in. Killian wasn't back yet, but she went to the pantry drinking a little ginger ale and some crackers before going to apply her makeup.
Killian made it home and she heard him make a call to Anton's, before he came into the bedroom, and slid his arms around Emma’s waist as she combed her hair.
"You look perfect," he said and his hands caressed her belly before he knelt, and began whispering to her belly in that strange dialect.
"What are you saying?" She asked.
"To let mummy enjoy her pasta and the dancing that will surely follow" he replied, smiling up at her.
Emma giggled, "alright casanova, get dressed" she chided.
"As you wish, angel" and promptly began stripping and pulled out a suit.
"What color are you wearing tonight?" He mused looking at ties.
"Green," she said and Killian searched until he found the tie he wanted. He dressed quickly and helped Emma zip her dress up, and she grabbed her clutch down, taking a few items with her.
"All set?" He asked and she nodded as he led her to his car, and made sure she was settled, before sliding behind the wheel.
Ruby smiled as she entered the restaurant, her bubbly personality charmed Anton and he led them to their booth and a bottle of wine and water was promptly delivered.
They each had a glass and toasted as the first course came out, and they lost themselves in conversation and memories. As Emma swayed in Killian’s arms, she smiled watching Ruby and Victor dancing a few feet away.
By the time they left, Anton had slipped Killian an extra order of pasta, and a knowing smile and they headed home, where he tucked it away in their refrigerator.
Emma was exhausted, and Killian helped her out of her gown, tucking her in closely. The next few days seem to fly by quickly, and before they know it, Dave and Ms had arrived and the wedding was two days away.
He marveled at the setup Belle was overseeing on the beach, and the trucks coming and going. Emma sat on the porch watching and their friends came by often, and Emma spent this particular morning wrapped in her robe overlooking the sea.
"Everything alright, angel?" He asked and she smiled grasping the hand he had laid on her shoulder, and she kissed his hand.
"Just thinking about being the luckiest girl in the world" she mused as she rubbed her belly. Killian was surprised she was able to keep the baby a secret from Mary Margaret but they planned to tell everyone officially tonight at the rehearsal dinner.
David had officially been offered a job here, and they were seeing housed that morning. They planned to announce that at dinner as well, and Emma couldn’t be happier.
She didn’t even notice the tears streaming down her cheeks until Killian knelt before her and wiped them away.
"Tell me," he said, and she laughed, blaming her hormones.
"I'm deliriously happy," she said quietly, and he understood.
"Everything we dreamed about Angel, is just two days away," he said wiping her tears away and she nodded.
"It's just so surreal," she said.
"I know angel, it’s perfect' he mused and kissed her head, as he went inside to grab her present.
"I got you something," he said and handed her a slender velvet box.
Emma looked at him surprised when she took it with shaky hands. She gasped when she opened it. A beautiful bracelet of Diamonds. Sapphires and aquamarines lay inside with matching earrings.
"Killian, oh my god. It’s beautiful" she whispered and he sat across from her.
"Your something blue" he stated. "Do you like them?" He asked and she nodded.
"You always outdo yourself" she mused, running her fingers over them. "This is rather extravagant though sir," she said and he laughed.
Emma went inside grabbing her little box and brought it to him. He looked surprised and amused when she handed him two boxes.
A handkerchief embroidered with their wedding date lay in one, and a gorgeous pair of cufflinks in the other. "Seems I am not the only one outdoing themselves today," he said and kissed her softly.
Emma beamed at him, and he chuckled. "Let’s get ready for the day," he said and they showered quickly, dressing and got ready to go see the vendors at the beach.
Everyone gathered around the large table set up for their dinner, as Belle guided them through the rehearsal of the vows, they opted to do the ceremony outside the tent on the beach, under s canopy of white roses and freesia, ivy, and gardenia, and Belle was like a drill instructor.
Killian choked up as Emma made her way toward him in the sand, with her makeshift bouquet of ribbons and everyone lined up in their spots, doing it once more at Belles’s insistence.
They chose Anton's for the dinner, and he brought out family-style dishes of food not being served at the wedding, but Emma’s pasta was the exception. They made their announcement, and their friends cried and toasted them, and when Dave made his announcement, they cried all over again.
They danced with one another, changing partners and even Will Scarlet took Ruby and M's for a spin on the floor, and Killian sighed in contentment, watching their old lives and new ones melding together.
Ruby and Ms insisted that they spend the night before the wedding apart, much to his dismay, and Regina offered her home to the women which they gladly accepted.
Dave and Vic set up a makeshift stag party at Victor’s cottage, where they shared drinks and memories, and Killian later lay in their bed unable to sleep. He thought of how so much had changed so fast, his fingers rubbing over the wedding bands in his hand, and he realized he had fought and won everything he had set out for when he stepped off that boat in America. He was proud of himself for the first time in his whole life.
Emma enjoyed her own party at Regina’s, a lovely evening with Ruby, M's, Belle, Mulan, Regina, and Zelena. They toasted, and ate cake, and shared their own stories and memories, old and new, and Emma cried a few times as she realized she was going to get her happy ending after all. She slept soundly, missing the warmth of Killian but knew it was worth it.
Belle called early, and Zelena’s team swooped in, taking over Regina’s house like a salon. They primped and plucked and prepped everyone, including Regina, and Killian called around lunch.
"Hi" Emma exclaimed.
"Hi Angel, happy wedding day," he said, and the sound of her voice was exuberant snd he smiled at that. "You ready?" He asked.
"Absolutely" Emma replied as Zelena fussed over her.
"Alright, well I love you. See you soon" he said, not wanting to choke up talking to her.
"I will be the one in white, or ivory, or lace. All of the above" she giggled.
"I love you more than anything, angel," he said and hung up.
His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest, and when Dave and Vic arrived, they shared a strong drink, toasting to his big day, and they relaxed, getting only mildly tipsy. Belle admonished them for drinking and scurried off barking orders at all the vendors, Ingrid's truck arrived and Killian saw their cake being carried in.
He glanced at the clock, realizing he needed to get ready. Vic and Dave took off to shower at their places, taking his car, and Anton began setting up shop in his kitchen.
He dressed and pulled his new cufflinks on with his tux when Belle came in, dressed in a beautiful chiffon gown of pale blue, looking gorgeous.
"You look incredible," he said, hugging her. They sat on his bed, and Belle handed him an envelope.
"If this is money, I don't accept," he said and she laughed.
"Open it," she said rolling her eyes.
Dear Killian,
Today's the day, and I couldn't be happier. Thank you for loving me, for fighting for me, for us, for our happy ending.
I love you beyond measure, and wanted to reassure you I will be there, from every day forward I choose us, and I love you. No, take-backs, or exchanges. You're stuck with us Jones.
Love,
Emma
Killian teared up and Belle rested her head on his shoulder handing him a tissue.
"You deserve this, all of it. Here" she said. She handed him another envelope. He took it and opened it, seeing a land deed.
"Belle, I can't accept this," he argued.
"This is my gift to you, build a house here, make your life here, raise your family there. It's a beautiful spot overlooking the water, its beachfront, and it is one thing I want you to have. It has been in my holding for quite some time. A future that I hoped one day to give you on a day like today when I purchased it two years ago. This was always for you Killian" she said and he hugged her.
"Why?" He choked out.
"Because you were part of our family, and even though a lot has changed this hasn't. You are our family, and that gift was meant for you with, or without Emma. It is just more perfect now that she will share it with you" she said.
He had tears streaming down his cheeks as he clutched her against him. "You are my best friend" he whispered and placed his hand over her swollen belly. "I will love and protect you both for all of my life," he stated.
"I know," Belle said and dabbed his tears.
"Now let's get you married," she said and Vic and Dave arrived as he had pulled himself together, Belle fussing over each of them, pinning their boutonniere's on.
Guests began arriving and Belle went out to oversee the setup.
Emma stood in Belle’s living room as Regina zipped her onto her dress, and Zelena fussed with her makeup once more, and Ruby and Mary Margaret held hands crying watching Emma be dressed. Mulan stood stoically and just smiled.
"You ladies need to stop crying, I understand hormones but you're ruining your makeup" Zelena huffed as her team swooped in to fix them all up.
Mulan and Emma hugged, and they didn’t need words. They just held hands, and Mulan said a Chinese blessing over Emma and held her hand to Emma's belly. "bǎi nián hǎo hé" she whispered, "It means to wish a hundred years of conjugal bliss and harmony to the couple. It encompasses my hope for you to have an everlasting journey of love together," she said and Emma hugged her again.
"Thank you" Emma murmured and all the women gathered around her checking her over.
Belle came in, assisted by Will, and his eyes widened, "you look beautiful Emma. Jones is a lucky man" he said and Emma smiled. Belle looked so happy, and her hand was still clasped in Wills which made this day even sweeter, they all were getting their happy endings.
"It's time," Belle said.
Emma nodded and they began heading down toward the cottage where Emma would wait, and Marco stepped inside, "I would be honored if you would allow me to escort you down that aisle, and Emma almost cried.
"Of course, thank you, Marco," she said and gripped his hand. Emma looked out and could see the seats filled, and Killian fidgeting. She smiled.
Belle signaled and Marco led Emma out and down the steps. "Ready?" He asked her, and Emma smiled and nodded.
He led her down an aisle lined with beach stones, and she looked up as the music changed to Pachelbel's Canon. They came around the tent into view and Emma heard gasps and smiled, and then she looked forward.
Green locked on blue until she stood before him.
Killian was sure his heart skipped a beat when he saw her. His eyes watered, and he swallowed thickly. She looked like an angel, ethereal almost, her gown exquisite, and the smile on her face showing sheer joy. She made her way to him, Marco handing her to him, and their eyes remained locked on each other as they recited their vows, and their wedding bands slipped on one another's fingers.  
"By the powers invested in me, I am honored to announce Mr. And Mrs. Killian Jones. You may kiss your bride."
Killian cupped her neck and wrapped an arm behind her waist as her arms banded around his neck, kissing much more passionately than appropriate, but they poured every emotion, every pain, every healed scar into that kiss.
They rested their foreheads together, staring into one another's eyes, until the crowd whistled and they turned to raise their hands and everyone clapped as they made their way toward the tent, followed by their guests.
Champagne flowed freely, people milling about, raucous laughter, and dancing, surrounded by friends and chosen family.
As their song played, Killian swayed her around the dance floor, his arms firmly around her as he whispered Happy Wedding day angel. We made it" and Emma giggled.
Emma nodded, "We got our happy ending Killian, in a cottage by the sea, with our friends, and a family. Everything you wished for so long ago" she said stroking the back of his neck.
He smiled at her, "that's where you're wrong angel. We just earned our happy beginning" he murmured, and they stayed just like that. Green locked on Blue.
@sailtoafarawayland @omgmarvelous
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luluwquidprocrow · 4 years ago
Text
i know their names, i carry their blood too
originally posted: august 13th, 2018
word count: 19,681 words
rated: teen
beatrice snicket, lemony snicket
family, angst with a happy ending, VFD, assorted original vfd characters, assorted canon characters repeatedly mentioned, one small girl going through a lot of unpleasantness, most of the time by herself, attempted kidnapping (legit vfd recruitment in action), also one small girl trying to avoid a decent amount of trauma and loss
summary: A man has come back to the city. Beatrice Baudelaire, eight years old and miles away, is trying to find him.
opening notes:
this fic relies pretty heavily on the beatrice letters, and there are a few references and one code that will make a lot more sense if you’ve read all the wrong questions and the unauthorized autobiography!
title from the crooked kind by radical face
.
Beatrice learns early on, at seven and with a bare ankle because they said they don’t require the tattoo anymore, that if she turns the doorknob slowly and lifts it up at the same time, her bedroom door doesn’t stick when it opens. At eight, she learns if she stays close to the hallway wall, avoids the places where the floor groans under her feet, especially in the spot in front of the chaperone’s room, then she can make it in absolute silence to the staircase. The stairs are trickier—most of the steps have warped over time—so she wraps her hands tight around the banister and inches along the edge until she stretches out a tentative foot and finds the smooth carpet of the ground floor rug under her socks.
At almost one in the morning, everything, every overstuffed armchair and faded green wall and well-stocked pantry, is smothered in black shadows. Beatrice doesn’t mind. She can still find her way around. She had walked around for a week with her eyes closed to prove a point a few months ago. (The point was that she could tell anyone by their footsteps, which she could. The result was that she could navigate the entirety of headquarters in the middle of the night. She knows every creak in every floorboard and what everyone’s shoes sound like now.)
A proper adult might ask her if she’d like a light on so she can see a little easier at one in the morning. A proper adult would probably think she’d be afraid of the dark, after everything that happened. Then again, a proper adult would probably not have put her in this situation to begin with. She’s not entirely sure. She’s only known a few proper adults in her life, or people older and taller than her to the point she considered them adults. She hopes she’ll know at least one more.
From the report a volunteer smuggled to her during dinner in the mashed potatoes—and from the confirmation from another volunteer during dessert, waving his spoon through the air at her—and from the further confirmation from the chaperones standing in a corner with their heads together and mumbling not very quietly at all—a man was seen. Far away, on the thirteenth floor of one of the nine dreariest buildings in the city. A man they tell stories about, a man no one seems to know for sure, a man who might be a detective, or has had that printed on an office door at one point or another. A man who hasn’t been seen in a long, long time.
“That’s him,” Beatrice had said.
“How do you know?” a volunteer had asked. “You’ve never seen him either.”
Beatrice hasn’t, but she thinks she’s allowed to make an educated guess here. A niece should know her own uncle, even by rumors. And she knows him like she knows the back of her hand, or the floorboard underneath her bed she stashes the picture and the ring under, or the books she’s read in the middle of the night when she was supposed to be asleep, the ones they tried to hide from her so she couldn’t read his name. She knows.
(One of the older chaperones told her—or muttered disparagingly in her direction after Beatrice asked the same question for a whole hour one day, because no one would give her a straight answer—that she has the analytical eyes of her mother and the stubborn streak of her namesake and the brazen attitude of her uncle. Another one told her later, a little more kindly, that she looks like her father when she reads, quiet and studious. So, she knows.)
Her backpack is a heavy weight on her back as she creeps through the downstairs rooms, her shoes gripped in one hand and a letter almost crumpled tight in the other. She’d written it after dinner, tucked away in a corner of a room that no one ever looked in (the bathroom closet, of course), the typewriter across her lap and the news still fresh in her mind. She tapped her fingers against the keys. How should she address the letter? Because she’d have to send a letter. It was only polite, after all. But calling him uncle outright might be a little too much, a little too soon. Dear, she typed, for a start. Dear—physically distant relative? Closest living relative? The person she had to find, because he could help her find the people most important to her? This had to be perfect, and Beatrice knew it would be, but she still had to think—
Dear Sir, she settled on, with a small, pleased smile.
That was when she’d heard the voices from outside in the hall, filtering through the bathroom door.
“This can’t be good news,” said a chaperone Beatrice never liked. “He’s a wanted criminal, isn’t he? And I heard he was responsible for that other fire a few years ago, too. What if he comes here?”
“How can we trust someone like him?” said another one that Beatrice had almost respected until that moment.
“It’s probably not even him,” said a third voice. “There’s been too many people with his initials showing up over the years. With any luck, he’s dead and gone.”
Beatrice frowned, mostly in anger, because that was such an awful, rude thing to say about someone. She knew it was him. There was no way it couldn’t be. But the chaperones had a point about the initials, and it made her think of something else. In case the letter went astray, because the mail could be so unreliable, especially so far from the city, she should preface it with something, shouldn’t she?
I have no way of knowing if this letter will reach you, as the distance between us is so very far and so very troublesome, she’d written, proud at how professional she sounded. And even if this letter does reach you, I am not sure it will reach the right person. Perhaps you are not who I think you are.
But she’d learned one important thing here, and that was that you had to be certain, because you might be wrong. So at the end of the day, it was merely a pretense, a formality. There was nothing she didn’t know for sure, because she was certain.
My name is Beatrice Baudelaire, she typed, with a fierce determination and her head held high. I am searching for my family. Then she’d known that she was going to leave.
Beatrice squints up at the grandfather clock in the corner of the main room, trying to see the time through the shadows. If she cuts it too close she’ll run into the chaperones doing their middle-of-the-night check on the neophytes. She has to be out of the building before it comes to that. The ground floor of headquarters is silent as a grave right now, as dark as one too, and she steps close to the couch where the floor won’t talk back to her as she makes her way to the heavy ivory front door, washed grey in the dark.
She knows from experience—from carefully watching and listening—that the door is locked (silver, outdated, the kind from the old hardware manuals Beatrice has extensively studied in the dead of night) from the outside, the volunteer who locks it then running up the fire escape and back inside through an upstairs window. But the quickest way out is always the easiest way in. She puts on her shoes and takes off her backpack, unzips the latter as slow as she can, and feels around for the thin red ribbon.
She shifts her hair, shoulder-length and blonde with a curl at the very end, away from her face, and ties it back securely with the ribbon.
An older volunteer had given her a lock pick the previous week after Beatrice helped her solve a word game—there’s no way she would’ve been able to get one otherwise. The chaperones almost always seem to know when someone’s doing something they shouldn’t, considering how much else they miss. Beatrice takes it out and gets to work, moving quickly and quietly, listening for the barely audible tick when one of the tumblers releases. One of the chaperones laughs upstairs, a disembodied thing in the darkness, and Beatrice grips the tools harder so she doesn’t jump and drop them.
The lock clicks sharply, the door easing open with a heavy creak. Beatrice freezes in place, straining her ears, her breath still in her throat. She’s sure someone had to hear that.
Something creaks upstairs.
The floorboard outside the chaperone’s door.
Beatrice snatches up her bag, squeezes herself through the gap and outside, and pulls the door shut behind her. She runs down the stone steps two at a time and doesn’t look back.
Ten blocks away, when she’s sure no one is looking, Beatrice drops the folded letter into a public mailbox.
The only train out of town leaves at five in the morning. Beatrice gets to the station with plenty of time to spare, and easily memorizes the route she’ll have to take to get to the city. It’s a long one, so she sits down on one of the benches and counts out her change. She digs the ring out of her bag, the heirloom from the island Sunny had given her that Beatrice had hid from the chaperones, and tries it on different fingers until it stays and doesn’t slide. Then she waits, tracing the low ceiling beams with her eyes, swinging her legs back and forth.
She knows just what he’ll be like. Not too tall, keeps to himself, intelligent. Sensible, maybe a little tentative, a little worried. His books made it sound like he’d been through a lot, after all. But she’s not too concerned about that. He’ll talk to her, because she’s his niece, and she’s read everything he’s written, and they have a good deal in common. They both like big words, long books, and could take or leave the sea.
She has one picture of him, of the side of his back and a corner of his face and one hand, or the side of the back and the corner of a face and the one hand of a man Violet and Klaus didn’t know, but a man Beatrice knew couldn’t be anyone else. There were three other people in the photograph—the uncle she’ll never meet, and the Baudelaire parents.
Beatrice hadn’t meant to take the photograph. It was their photograph, Violet and Klaus and Sunny’s, the last thing they had of their parents. But she thought it might be the only glimpse she’d get of her uncle, especially when she’d only known about Jacques, so she would sneak it out of Klaus’s commonplace book when he wasn’t looking. She’d wonder who the other man was, since that was before she knew. And she’d meant to put it back, but—but there hadn’t been time.
Violet and Klaus told her her mother had blue eyes, and so did Jacques, and she has them too, so she knows she’ll see the same shade of blue in his eyes, another link between the two of them. Excitement flutters around inside of her like a million wonderful butterflies, and she can’t help but smile. Not only is she going to find the family she lost, she’s going to find the family she didn’t even know she still had until a few months before. Beatrice can’t think of anything luckier.
There’s not too many people on the train when it comes into the station, so Beatrice picks a windowseat all to herself, pressing herself close so she can see everything passing by. She doesn’t want to miss a single thing. She swings her legs again, heels kicking the seat, and waits for the train to start moving.
“Aren’t you a little young to be traveling alone?” the woman across the aisle asks. She lowers yesterday’s evening edition newspaper and gives Beatrice a pointed stare behind her thick-framed glasses.
“No,” Beatrice says.
“You seem a little young,” the woman continues.
“I’m short for my age,” Beatrice says.
The woman gives her another look, specifically at her feet, and then looks back up at Beatrice with a raised eyebrow. She ruffles her newspaper imperiously and disappears behind it again.
Beatrice swallows, her shoulders pulling in. She makes a point to stop swinging her legs and sits up straighter. She keeps at it, even when the woman gets off at the next station and she’s by herself on the train.
She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she jolts awake at a flash of light across her face. It flickers jagged on her hands, lighting up the seat beneath her, bright and blinding white. She looks around frantically, expecting to see rain and bending wood, to hear the roar of crashing waves, before she remembers she’s still on the train. There’s no lightning on a train. It’s just the sun streaming in from the window. She watches with wide eyes as it creates patterns on her arms and her dress, then tears her gaze away and stares hard at the faraway houses outside the window instead, clutching her bag in her lap. Beatrice thinks of big words (pietrisycamollaviadelrechiotemexity surely counts as a word, and she spends ten minutes testing out pronunciations), long books (Anna Karenina is long, and she can probably still read it even though she already knows the central theme), and anything but the sea, until her hands loosen and her shoulders drop and the sun is high enough that she can’t see it.
Beatrice had first found his name buried in old reports, in thirteen files jammed into the back of a drawer, down in the basement at headquarters when someone had asked her to find a flashlight. She found a bat instead, clinging to the rafters, and it blinked at her with big, black eyes. Beatrice blinked back, because she knew all about all kinds of animals, especially the ones the organization trained, and she didn’t mind bats. Then it fluttered down on top of an old filing cabinet in the corner.
Beatrice wandered over and picked out faded letters that spelled Baudelaire on the front. Eager, because no one at headquarters would talk to her about Violet or Klaus or Sunny, or answer her questions about where they might be, she yanked it open and found files and files with a distinct cursive signature ending each one—Lemony Snicket. And her stomach had twisted up tight, because she could hear Klaus like he was standing right behind her, telling her the name Kit Snicket.
Kit Snicket, Beatrice had echoed.
That’s right, Klaus had said, smiling. She was your mother.
Beatrice knew all about her mother. Violet and Klaus and Sunny had told her her mother was a good person, a volunteer, someone who had helped them, and they had helped her. That was how Beatrice was born. And she knew all about Jacques, because they’d said the same thing about him. But they’d never mentioned a Lemony. She knew better than to think he was her father, because she knew her father’s name, too. Dewey Denouement. They’d said his name only once, and she’d repeated it over and over again to herself. Beatrice didn’t know who this was.
She read through them all in the dead of night so no one would bother her, because Beatrice knew they were watching her, closer than they watched the other neophytes. She tried to find the four volumes she’d found hints at in other files, although she never managed to pin them down. But the thirteen files told her enough. They confirmed that Violet and Klaus and Sunny were still out there somewhere, just like she thought. They confirmed their stories, although with other details they hadn’t said or had relayed differently—but Beatrice had never doubted what they’d told her to begin with.
And they confirmed that Lemony Snicket was her uncle, and he was alive.
All of Beatrice’s hopes became real, became fact. There was someone else out there, someone who could help her. Someone who was family. Someone who could help her find Violet and Klaus and Sunny. Someone who knew the whole story too.
So then she just had to wait. She had to wait, and learn, and sit through someone telling her how to make a meringue when she knew full well how to make a meringue, and how to pick a lock and how to define a word and the right way to escape a burning building. She had to keep waiting until the right moment came and she could leave and try to find him, try to find them all. And Beatrice would know when it was. She was Beatrice Baudelaire, after all. She knew everything now.
Beatrice spends three weeks switching trains, eating greasy sandwiches from the vendors hanging around in the old, dingy train stations. Sunny wouldn’t like any of the sandwiches at all, but Beatrice has to make do with what she can. No one talks to her, so she doesn’t get a chance to try out any of the other things she’d thought to say after she spoke to that woman. I’m visiting a relative. I’m in a special program. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers? She’s a little bummed about that, because she practiced the perfect eyebrow raise in the hand mirror she took from one of the chaperones, but it’s really for the best. She doesn’t need to be sidetracked.
Instead, she listens to how the trains sound smoother and sleeker closer to the city, watches how the stations get more impressive. She takes pamphlets from each station until she has a neat collection detailing train mechanics, local restaurants, and sometimes, if she finds one, the smallest books she’s ever seen. Beatrice sits in the hard station seats and flips through them while she waits for her train to come in. Mostly they’re books she’s read before, but she thinks they’re cute, being so tiny. She’ll show them to Violet and Klaus and Sunny, and her uncle, too. She knows they’ll enjoy them.
A voice mumbles indistinct static over the loudspeaker. Beatrice finishes her sandwich, puts the latest brochure in her bag, and gets on the next train.
The train station in the city is enormous, bigger than headquarters. It certainly looks as old as headquarters, but a little more distinguished, with a solid white floor and an endlessly high ceiling. Beatrice would be able to appreciate it more, she thinks, if there wasn’t so many people, all bustling past in a flurry of suitcases and elbows. None of them spare her a second glance, not even when she climbs up on top of one of the curved benches for a better view of the entire station.
Whenever Violet couldn’t figure out how to fix an invention, or Klaus couldn’t figure out the meaning of a sentence, or Sunny couldn’t figure out how to change a recipe, they would take it apart and look at each individual component before continuing. The same principle works for a city, Beatrice figures. A city is just a collection of streets, one right after the other, and all of them go somewhere. It’s not too hard to find out where, especially when you have the right map.
She finally spots the map display, drops back onto the floor, and goes and grabs every single map available. She squeezes her way through the crowd mobbing around the exit and emerges out on the city street into a sudden deluge of bright lights and noise. Beatrice blinks until it all evens out, all the traffic lights and towering buildings and the people, hundreds and hundreds more of them. She swallows, presses herself against the outside wall, and takes a moment to watch everything.
It’s strange. The ocean was vast, and they rarely ran into anyone out there, and headquarters, tucked away in a small town miles from the sea, had only about twenty neophytes and a handful of teachers and chaperones. But the city is full of jostling bodies and constant sound, like the whole world rushing around her, a storm that doesn’t stop. Beatrice thinks she might be scared, if she wasn’t so systematic about it. You can’t be scared if you know everything. It’s just different, is all it is. She reminds herself to breathe and thinks it’s just different.
Beatrice spreads the maps out in the park across the street, holding the edges down with rocks so they don’t blow away when the breeze kicks up. Everything is marked on the maps, every street and building and corner store, and even the best places to see certain birds. One map includes Nine Dreary Buildings to Avoid on Your Lunch Break, which is absurdly specific but exactly what she needs, and Beatrice hunts them all down with a careful eye and a black pen. All nine buildings are within a few blocks of each other, clustered in the center of the city. She’ll have to go through all of them, just to be sure. Klaus taught her it was good to be thorough. She puts the rest of the maps away and starts looking.
The first two buildings are too short to have a thirteenth floor. The third building looks like it was condemned years ago and no one bothered to do anything with it. The fourth building has so many floors that Beatrice loses track when she stands on the sidewalk and tilts her head back to try and count, and she looks through the directory inside the doors but doesn’t see any mention of her uncle’s name (or a pseudonym, or an anagram, or even just a suspicious blank space).
The walk to the fifth building takes the longest, because Beatrice has to find a path around the construction being done on seventh street, and takes ten minutes to wrestle with the map and figure out which street she’s on when she winds up in a dark alley with a lot of cigarette butts and one very noisy pigeon who tries to steal her map. The sixth building has the suspicious blank space on the directory, but it’s on the fifteenth floor. The seventh and eighth buildings, when she manages to find them, were mislabeled and wind up being two different diners, one of them even across from a completely different train station. Beatrice admits that they’re still pretty dreary-looking and uncomfortable, especially the latter one. She certainly wouldn’t want to eat at a place called The Hemlock Tearoom and Stationary Shop. That’s just tempting fate a little too much.
The ninth building proclaims itself to be the Rhetorical Building in faded but still distinct black print on an otherwise grey building, with a tattered brown awning over the glass double doors. It’s definitely tall enough to have thirteen floors—Beatrice counts twenty rows of windows going up the side. She bites her lip and scans the directory. Her heart leaps when she spots the little card for an office on the thirteenth floor. The name scribbled out, but whoever did it used a faded black pen and didn’t do that good a job, so she can still see the very clear L at the beginning and the S somewhere in the middle. She bites her lip around a smile.
This is it. This is her uncle’s office.
Beatrice pushes the doors open and takes a cursory glance around the lobby, and finds the inside lives up to the dreary reputation too. She wouldn’t have put so much sagging grey furniture and scuffed flooring and wilted potted plants in an office building. She ducks down as she hurries past the front desk so the bored receptionist doesn’t see her, vaguely wondering what it is about the building that her uncle likes so much to have an office here, and heads up the staircase. She can ask him when she sees him. She can ask him everything when she sees him, although everything is just one single question, but it’s everything to her.
The thirteen floors pass in what feels like a matter of moments, and Beatrice breaks into a run when she gets closer to his office, bursting through the doors onto the thirteenth floor. She darts from door to door, looking for the right number, wood creaking under her shoes, and almost barrels right into a panel of old, frosted glass on a door halfway down the hall. The only writing on it says DETECTIVE in peeling letters, which is exactly what she expected. Beatrice grins and knocks a few times, bouncing on the balls of her feet. When there’s no answer right away, she tries the doorknob.
The door is unlocked.
Beatrice tries with everything she has to contain her excitement, but it still comes through in her shaking hands as she turns the doorknob. “Hello?” she calls.
She comes face to face with a cloud of dust. Beatrice coughs into her fist, waving her other hand around to disperse it, and looks up to find a cluttered, but empty office.
Beatrice frowns and walks inside. The blinds are shut tight over the windows, so she eases them open carefully, letting in just enough light to see, and the office still doesn’t have anyone else in it. She checks under the desk, and out on the fire escape, and even under the papers on the walls, but there’s no reasonably tall man with her eyes waiting for her. She huffs out a sigh, her shoulders falling, but then the papers on the wall catch her attention. She looks closer.
They aren’t just papers—there are photographs mixed in, pictures of people she’s never seen before, and pictures of places, cities, hotel rooms, at least one rental car office, an all-you-can-eat buffet, and two separate theaters, and newspaper articles and pages ripped from books, all framing a humongous map of the city and surrounding areas, bigger than any she picked up at the train station. The papers are connected by a thin red string, wound around tacks and marking pins and what looks like an old bottle cap for a soda Beatrice doesn’t think sounds very pleasing. The middle of the map has more recent ones, polaroids dated a few months back of steep, rolling hills, a note paperclipped to one, neat typewriter type proclaiming it could be possible, underlined in a smooth, even blue pen. There’s a path marked beside them, curving through a wide and unlabeled space in the map.
That must be it, she thinks, nodding to herself. He’s not here, and she could be more upset about that, but she can’t be when now she knows exactly where he went. He’s pretty obvious for a detective, which makes her smile around a laugh.
She turns to the desk, which leans a little to one side, papers and a typewriter balanced precariously. A strangely-shaped paperweight sits on top of a stack of papers, and Beatrice mentally runs through every single animal she knows but can’t find a match. It looks like a snake or a worm or an eel, only with too many teeth.
Beatrice clambers up into the chair behind the desk, settles herself, and looks at the typewriter. It’s an old model, but well-cared-for, with shiny keys and a brand new ribbon, almost like it was waiting for her. Beatrice rolls in a sheet of paper, and then runs her fingers over the keys. She’s sure he won’t mind.
Dear Sir, she types. I am writing this on the typewriter in your small, dusty office, on the thirteenth floor of one of the nine dreariest buildings of the city.
I am leaving this city, only hours after seeing it for the first time, to follow your path of yarn and pins. I am heading for the hills…
When she leaves his office and starts hunting through the bus schedules for an idea of how she’s going to get to the hills, she realizes, with an exhilarated jump of her stomach, that it’s now March 1st. She’s been nine years old for a whole day.
On her last birthday on the boat, which Violet had radically modified before leaving the island and on the journey after, Sunny made her a cake. There were no candles, because none of them ever used a candle, at least when Beatrice was looking, and Violet and Klaus read her favorite story, and everyone got icing all over their hands and faces. Beatrice can just barely hear the way they all laughed. There’s a thin fog over the rest of the memory, one that strangles the excitement out of her. She can’t quite recall what the weather was like, or what she wore, or what flavor the cake was or even what the story was and especially how close it was to the day where—
Beatrice clears her throat and looks back at the bus schedules. She doesn’t think I have to find them. She thinks I will find them.
Beatrice takes one look at the sandwich counter in the bus station and resolutely decides she’s too hungry for another sad, uncomfortably greasy sandwich, and she needs a much better option. She takes out her map and backtracks to the Rhetorical Building, because the closest diner is on that street, right across from the office, between a tailor shop and a building shaped almost like a short, squat pen. For a city that on the whole is a lot more dreary than she thought it’d be, the diner looks bright and welcoming, with soft lights in the windows and cheerful blue curtains. Klaus taught her to be aware of her surroundings, so she makes sure she looks at everything when she steps inside.
The diner isn’t very big, but it’s clean and well-kept, with tan booths against either wall, a line of square tables right down the middle, and a counter blocking most of the kitchen from view. The pictures on the walls are all framed and organized in neat rows, and Beatrice’s gaze moves quickly from the few pictures of an ocean and a group of people in front of a boat to the other ones of cityscapes, and then to a completely blank piece of paper with #47! scribbled in the lower right corner. She looks to the other side of the room and finds a tightly-packed bookshelf near the counter. She thinks Klaus would definitely approve.
She climbs up on top of one of the counter stools and smooths out her skirt, and then sees a tall man standing behind the counter, flipping an oozing sandwich on the grill. He looks at her with wide eyes, surprise clear on his face, but then he smiles, so genuine she could’ve just imagined the shock. Beatrice thinks he looks a little like a movie star, with that thick red hair and easy stance.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
“I don’t have much money,” Beatrice says, because Violet always taught her to be honest. Sunny taught her to lie, but she thinks Sunny would like this man too, if she saw that sandwich.
“Not a problem,” the man says. “It’s on the house. What do you like?”
“What are you making?”
“The best grilled cheese you’ll ever eat in your life,” he says, and he slides the sandwich onto a plate and sets it in front of her. Then he puts a napkin and a glass of water beside it and smiles expectantly.
It is the best grilled cheese she’s ever eaten in her life. It puts the millions of sandwiches she ate at all those train stations to shame. When the cheese pulls when she takes a bite out of it, she knows that Sunny would love this sandwich. It seems almost unfair to get it for free. “Are you sure it’s okay?” she asks through a mouthful of toasted bread and mozzarella and a hint of pepper.
“Tell you what,” he says, wiping his hands on his apron. “Have you read anything good lately? My friends and I are always looking for book recommendations.”
She wishes she could get everything in life with a good book recommendation, because that sounds like a great system. The last book she’d read had been back at headquarters, so that she would understand a certain code, but Beatrice liked it a lot anyway. She was told it was a classic too, and she knows lots of adults like it when you read classics. “I read a book about a girl who goes out to dinner with her family,” she says, “and cracks an egg on her forehead. Not at the dinner, in a different chapter.”
He laughs. “A friend of mine liked that one when we were kids,” he says. “She went around trying to crack an egg on her forehead too, made me go through a whole carton of eggs.”
“Did she do it?”
“She sure did. Got egg all over my aunt’s diner in the process, but she looked me right in the eye and told me it was worth it.”
Someone else sits down farther down the counter, and the man walks off in their direction, leaving Beatrice alone with the grilled cheese. But he comes back, a curious look in his eyes. “So what brings you to the city?” he asks.
She thinks this is the question where she shouldn’t be entirely honest. Beatrice sits up straighter in her seat, trying to pull the sandwich apart into smaller, more dignified bites, the cheese oozing. “I’m visiting a relative,” she says.
“A relative?”
“A relative,” she says. “That’s all.”
“Do you need any help?” he asks. “I know this city like the back of my hand, and I’d be happy to—”
“No,” Beatrice says. “I know what I’m doing.” She finishes the last of the grilled cheese and wipes her hand on the napkin. “Thank you very much.”
He frowns a little, like he wants to ask her something else, but then he settles on another smile. “If you’re ever in the area,” he says, “or you need anything, even just some good food, stop on by.”
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Jake Hix.”
“Beatrice Baudelaire.”
The only thing about the journey into the hills that Beatrice didn’t account for is all the open space.
The bus driver only takes her as far as a convenience store on the outskirts of the city, so Beatrice walks the nearby dirt roads out into the hills, stopping at the first sight of open, empty land. She grips the straps of her backpack, standing at the edge of the misty and faded earth spread out all around her, reaching on and on and on, sloping down at dangerous angles before disappearing completely in a thick haze. She swallows hard and stares even harder.
Beatrice focuses on the color. Even in late winter, it’s green, pale but distinctly green. They’re hills, not the ocean, with a horizon blurred white with fog and clouds. Nothing is a dangerous, roiling blue-black-grey, and the tall crests of the hills don’t move like waves, and nothing rushes through her ears like a scream, except the wind, which is much less thunderous than water. After all that, it’s almost silent, in the hills. It’s silent, and it’s not all that open, is it? There’s at least two scraggly little trees that she can see. Landmarks. Points of reference. She is not alone in the hills.
He’s out there, somewhere.
She starts walking.
Without the train schedules for something to keep track of, Beatrice isn’t sure how long she spends in the hills. Time passes in cool nights and cloudy days and an awful lot of grass with actually very few trees before, in a low valley in the hills, she reaches an encampment of about thirty shepherds. Beyond them, where she expects sheep, is an impressive collection of yaks. They might be the only people she runs into out here, and she’s starting to get worried, not so much that she won’t find her uncle, but that she’ll overlook him completely in all this space. The path on the map in his office was pretty vague. She’s going to have to ask them.
Beatrice approaches one of the shepherds. He looks like he’s the oldest, his wild and white beard tangling in the wind. He holds a thick, dark bell in one hand, his elbow propped against a sturdy walking stick, and watches Beatrice with startlingly cold eyes as she approaches.
“Excuse me,” Beatrice says. “Have you seen a man around here?”
“Depends,” he says. His voice rumbles like deep thunder, and it makes her flinch. “What’s he look like?”
Beatrice thinks about it. “Average height, not bald, fully clothed, answers to the initials L.S.”
“Oh,” the shepherd says, straightening up. “Him! He was here for a while. A strange one. Kept to himself most of the time. Stayed in that cave about two miles away.” He rings the bell, and the sound clunks and thunks against her ears. The yaks in the distance raise their heads and gaze in his direction. The shepherd, meanwhile, looks back at her with a raised eyebrow. “Seemed like he might have been waiting for someone, I thought.”
She feels a twinge of guilt and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She should’ve gotten here faster. “Can you take me there, please?” she asks.
“I don’t do anything for free,” he says shortly.
“I don’t have much,” she says, frowning, and it’s more true now than it was when she told it to Jake Hix. Between all the train fare and the subpar sandwiches and then the cost of the bus, Beatrice figures she has maybe seventy-five cents.
The shepherd bends down, sweeping a critical eye over Beatrice. When his gaze finds her hands, he points at the little band around one of her fingers. “That,” he says. “That would do.”
“Oh,” Beatrice says. She looks down at the ring, dull in the lack of sunlight. She’s seen it sparkle beautiful gold and red, the carving of the initial in the stone glittering brighter than anything. Something lost, something that was found again after so much time. Beatrice likes wearing it, even though she doesn’t always think about it.
But it’s not like it is a family heirloom, for her mother or her father or for Violet and Klaus and Sunny. It belonged to the Duchess of Winnipeg, and although it found its way through her family anyway, it’s certainly never really been Beatrice’s. She just thought that she’d be able to give it back to the Duchess at some point.
She slides the ring off her finger and holds it up for the shepherd. His beard parts in a smile, revealing awfully shiny teeth, and he snatches the ring up and drops it into his pocket. The yaks are closer now, and he winds his hand into the rope around one of their necks and drags it over. He climbs up onto its back and stares at Beatrice. “It’s a ride. You’d best get on.”
Beatrice pulls herself up behind him. She tracks the sun this time, over the huge shoulders of the shepherd, watching it dip through the sky as they ride.
“Did he say anything?” Beatrice asks at one point. “The man.”
The shepherd scratches at his chin. His elbow swings back as he does, jostling into Beatrice’s ear. “Something about a root beer float,” he says. “I’m in the mood for a root beer float.”
“That seems a lot to ask, in the hills,” Beatrice says, tilting her head to the side to avoid the elbow. “The closest diner is back in the city.”
“No, that’s what he said. I’m in the mood for a root beer float.”
“Oh,” Beatrice says, feeling her face flush.
“Well, there you go,” the shepherd says, some time later when he stops in front of a low but deep cave jutting awkwardly out of the earth. Beatrice thanks him, slides down off the yak, and makes her way inside.
There’s nothing much in the cave—just a few sheets of loose, stained paper, and a whole lot of bats, almost indistinguishable from the shadows. They squeak when Beatrice gets too close, so she leaves them alone in the back and focuses on the rest of the cave. A few sheets of peeling and faded flower-patterned wallpaper cling to the curved walls. A collection of wires sits near the mouth of the cave, and a lone light bulb rolls by her feet. The wind collects in the hollow at the center, making it drafty and uncomfortable. She pulls her sweater tighter around her.
From the shepherd’s words, she knew he wouldn’t be here, but it still stings to get all the way here and then find out he’s gone again, to find out she just missed him. But that just means she has to try again, try harder. That’s not a problem for her. She’s been through worse.
Beatrice rifles through the sheets of paper left behind. She picks out the least ruined one, the only mark a K by a ripped corner. She pulls out a pen and sits down.
Dear Sir, she writes. I have found you at last—but you’re not here.
She finishes her letter and folds it neatly. She didn’t bring a single envelope, and she looks around in her bag to find something else she could possibly trade for the shepherd to send her letter. She doesn’t think he’ll care for a sweater or her lock pick, and she needs them. Beatrice walks out of the cave, staring into the direction of the city. She can’t quite see it, but she’s sure it’s there, just as sure as she is that she’ll find her uncle when she gets back.
She starts to figure out how she’ll get back, because she can worry about the letter when she finds the shepherd. How long it’ll take to get out of the hills, where to catch the right bus, how she can find the diner—when one of the younger shepherds, not much older than her, trots over, tugging a yak behind him.
“The city’s a long ways away,” he says when he stops beside her, panting a little. “I think your best bet is this yak here.”
Beatrice stares at him, and then the yak. The yak yawns at her.
“He’s pretty comfortable,” the boy says, smiling. “And he’s got a good sense of direction. The best yak this side of the hills, I guarantee it.”
“What about the other side?” Beatrice asks.
The boy laughs. “No comparison at all.”
“Don’t you need him?”
He shakes his head. “I can make do without him for a while.”
He tells her he’s heard about a shortcut back to the city, through a mountain rather than the miles of rolling hills. Beatrice has never been on a mountain. When he points it out to her, an enormous shimmering outline through the fog, it’s the most amazing thing she’s ever seen in her life. It looks nothing like the ocean.
The mountain is dangerously uneven, but Beatrice has never been so high up before, and that and the yak make up for all the sudden dips and drops in the path. The yak seems to know where he’s going—she never has to keep him on track or nudge him along, and he always stops around sunset and lets her curl up against his side. Sometimes he stops in front of the occasional bush, and Beatrice makes sure she can identify the berries on them with what Klaus wrote in his commonplace book, and the two of them snack to keep up their strength, Beatrice making sure not to stain the edges of the notebook with juice fingerprints.
Sometimes she flips back, back to when Klaus was a few years older than her, to the page where she’d taken the photograph. She’d replaced when both the objects became hers. She likes reading what he wrote, the little bits of her family’s story, like he’s right beside her on this mountain even as he was trying to get through the Mortmain Mountains. Recipes Sunny put together, things Violet said, pieces of codes and books and memories.
The notebook was the last thing he gave her. He’d thrown it at her during the shipwreck, and she can still see that, plain as anything. The black clouds and the thunder and the lightning, the wood splintering up in a roaring crash under her feet, everything slick with the endless rain and the thick, dark waves, including the edge of wood keeping Beatrice afloat. Then Violet’s voice, shouting we’ll find you, I promise—
Beatrice pages through the notebook, staring at Klaus’s immaculate handwriting. “How much more mountain do you think there is?” she asks the yak.
There’s a lot more mountain, days and days of mountain. Beatrice promises herself that if she ever has to do this again, she’s bringing a calendar.
When she gets to the bottom of the mountain, the ground covered in rocks and patchy grass, still a ways out from the city but definitely closer to it than the spot where the bus had dropped her off, Beatrice isn’t sure what to do with the yak. She climbs down, dusts him off, readjusts her bag, and then watches him. The yak watches her. Then he yawns, turns, and starts meandering back in the direction of the hills. She figures he probably wouldn’t be the best yak this side of the hills if he didn’t know how to get back to the shepherd.
“Bye,” Beatrice calls.
The city is uncomfortably close when she gets back, full of a heavy, simmering summer heat. She wipes the sweat off her face and thinks she could also go for a root beer float right about now. But there's probably a lot more diners than dreary office buildings in the city, ones that will be harder to eliminate than the offices were. She's not even sure if he'll be in his office now either, after he wasn’t where he was supposed to be in the hills. The thought sits in a knot inside her, twisting up the more she thinks. She of all people should know where he is. What sort of person is she, if she doesn't know the whereabouts of her own uncle?
Beatrice winds her way carefully through the masses of people still crowding the sidewalks, as if they never left, like the same people from months ago have been standing around here all this time. She could pull out the maps, but she doesn’t see a place to put them down and look at them again. Beatrice finally comes to a halt in front of a square, stocky building, old pillars framing the tinted glass doors.
Violet and Klaus and Sunny told her about libraries. She doesn’t remember the one on the island, or the island itself, although Violet told her both were massive, and they didn’t have much of one on the boat, just a collection of books Klaus brought from the island. But Beatrice knows that a library is a sanctuary, a calm place, where someone is supposed to feel safe. She knows that her uncle considers a library all of those things too. And even if she doesn’t find anything, at least it’s probably air conditioned.
Beatrice heads inside.
The first thing she notices is that everything is so quiet. But not an unnaturally still quiet, more of a gentle, unobtrusive one, interrupted only by the occasional shuffle of paper. Beatrice understands with a rush what Violet and Klaus and Sunny meant. It’s like stepping into a whole world, one she could spend hours and hours in just reading, among the bookshelves and pale cream carpet and broad windows letting in a sunlight so serene that for the first time it doesn’t make her hands clench in fear.
Beatrice takes her time going through the library, taking it all in. She makes her way through aisle after aisle, down a staircase to the lower level. A short wall separates the little lobby near the staircase and the rest of the floor, and she follows it around where it curves to look at the room.
Her breath catches in her throat. Ten feet ahead, there’s a man standing in front of a glass case, his hands deep in the pockets of his suit jacket. Beatrice walks a little closer, staying against the wall, until she can see the plaque near the case, describing something about poetry and actresses and dedication to the theater. She can see herself in the glass, a distorted short reflection in a pale pink dress, and she smooths her hair on instinct. Beatrice looks up, and up, until she can see the sharp reflection of the man, blue eyes and dark hair and a suitcase beside him that has seen better days but still clearly proclaims the owner to have the initials L.S.
Beatrice ducks back behind the wall in her surprise, her hands gripping each other. What are you doing, she thinks frantically, her heart pounding and pounding. There he is!
But when she pushes herself away from the wall, her mouth open to call out to him, he’s gone. Her heart drops, and she rushes towards the glass case. She skims through the poem for a hint about anything, as he seemed to look at it with a great deal of concentration, but she stops at the line a word which here means “person who trains bats” because who writes a second verse with such an uneven rhythm, and there’s no way baticeer is really a word—then she hears quick footsteps thudding in the hall behind her. She turns and runs towards then.
Beatrice follows him outside, barely keeping up. He runs incredibly fast for a man of his age in this heat, whatever that age is. Beatrice knows it’s certainly much older than she is. She sees the edge of his hat, the corner of his suitcase winging around another street, and she keeps running. It’s him. She’s going to catch up with him.
She follows him to a nearby park, where she finds him yards away of her, almost collapsed on a bench, leaning to the side to examine something on the seat. Beatrice slows up. And then he’s on his feet again, strolling towards the lake. There’s something forced about his casual stance, and she picks up her pace, thinking somewhere inside that this is ridiculous. They’re both looking for each other, they’re both here, and she should just—
He bolts off, this time leaping with an unexpected agility over a patch of shrubbery, which Beatrice dodges around easily when she reaches it, tearing out of the park after him. Moments later, she sees him throwing himself into a bus one street up, disappearing completely when the doors snap shut.
Beatrice lets out a disbelieving groan, staring at the retreating bus. She can’t believe how difficult he’s being, or for what reason, or why he treats the city like a place he’s desperately trying to escape. For as much as he runs, he sure still seems to wind up back here eventually.
But now that she’s seen him, she knows exactly where he’s going. Where else would he go in the city, on this particular bus route? Beatrice has looked over all the maps, and she remembers exactly where to go. She wipes the sweat off her face, takes a breath, and keeps on going.
He still makes it to his office building before her. When Beatrice stops at the corner, clutching the nearby lamppost and gasping, the bus is already far down the street and he’s nowhere in sight. She swallows and heads for the Rhetorical Building.
The lobby is dreadfully cold and still dreadfully dreary, but she barely notices it this time. Beatrice bypasses everything and sprints right for the staircase, not even trying to hide.
It could be because she’s already run so much, but taking the staircase this time seems to take an eternity. She’s so sure she can hear him, wheezing a floor above her, and that pushes her forward when her lungs burn and her legs ache. She makes it to the thirteenth floor, flings the door open, and barrels down the hallway to his office door.
Beatrice tries the doorknob first, but it doesn’t yield. She pounds on the door for five whole minutes, and it rattles and shakes but no one opens it.
One of the doors further down the hallway opens, and a man sticks his head out. “Something I can help you with?” he calls. “I’ve never seen anyone open that door at all. Can I—”
“Thank you,” Beatrice says quickly, hoping she sounds more firm than out of breath, “but I have this under control.” The man shrugs and closes the door. Beatrice continues knocking and knocking.
Maybe you were wrong, a voice in her head whispers. Maybe it’s not him.
I’m not wrong, Beatrice tells herself. I’m not wrong.
She huffs out a sigh, drops her backpack on the floor, and pulls out the lock pick. She doesn’t want to pick the lock, but this is it, she’s not waiting anymore.
The lock springs easily. Beatrice jams the picks back into her bag, grips the doorknob, and hauls the door open.
The office is empty.
Beatrice gapes around at the office, almost incredulous. It looks different than it did before—the papers, notes, and photographs on the wall are new, linked by a thick blue yarn now. The typewriter has a sheet of paper sticking out of it, like someone was just there (and he was, he was just there, she knows he was). There’s a framed picture on the wall of a lighthouse. The curtains are different, stark white and clean and fluttering in the breeze because the window is open.
She runs over to the window, climbing out onto the fire escape. It’s distressingly empty as well. When she grips the railing and leans over to look down the rest of the stairs and into the alley below, she doesn’t find anything at all. She stands there a moment longer, just in case he reappears, her whole body coiled with anticipation. Then another moment, and another, and another after that, until the moments stretch into minutes and her expectations finally die like a doused fire. She pushes herself away from the railing, slides back inside, and slams the window shut. Beatrice glowers at it, then eases it back open. He’ll have to be able to get back in later.
She takes a look at the wall. Before, it was easy to tell where he was going. Now, Beatrice can’t figure out what any of the notes mean. They’re all scattered pictures of beach sand and close-ups of waves and an unsettling collection of curling, spindly things that look like dried seaweed. She catches a few glimpses of his handwriting, mostly just question marks, and some typewritten notes signed M. No matter how hard she tries, her eyes keep finding their way back to the pictures of the ocean, pearly blue and peppered with stark-white foam. Her jaw clenches, and she turns away sharply.
The desk has more papers on it than it did before, but no paperweight. Beatrice flips through them, but she doesn’t find her letters, or letters from anyone else. What she does find are lists of places she’s never heard of, most of them crossed off. The paper in the typewriter is completely blank, but she doesn’t feel like writing anything. She stares around the office, pointedly avoiding the wall, and tries not to feel too angry or too disappointed. It doesn’t work very well.
Beatrice walks back into the hallway and shuts the door behind her, frowning down at the floor. She follows him all this way, and she has him, they’re mere feet from each other, and then he leaves?
Maybe, she thinks, and then she stops, because she’s not wrong. It was him, it was, and despite how the decor has changed, this is the office she was in before. He was here, and then he was gone, and so there has to be a reason he’s gone now, a reason to figure out so she can track him down again. Maybe something came up, business, or an enemy, or maybe he was just hungry, or—or—
sssssssssshh.
Beatrice whirls around and wrenches his office door back open, staring desperately inside. But there’s still no one there. She shuts the door again and looks up and down the hallway. “What was that noise?” she says.
The door down the hallway opens again, and the same man sticks his head out. “Someone say something?” he asks, gazing at Beatrice.
“What was that noise?” she asks.
The man shakes his head. “I didn’t hear a noise.”
“I thought I—”
“It was nothing, probably.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know, shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Shouldn’t you be working?” Beatrice shoots back. It’s uncharacteristic of her, but she’s tired all of a sudden, and she doesn’t like how this bone-deep weariness feels. The man looks affronted, and he shuts his door with a loud bang.
She traipses downstairs, all thirteen floors. Beatrice walks past the old desk and the sad grey furniture and the limp potted plants and makes her way towards the front exit. She’ll just have to wait until he comes back, and she can do that across the street in the diner, where at least she can try to wrangle another sandwich out of Jake Hix. The grilled cheese feels like years ago, after trying to survive on the mountain.
Beatrice hears it again.
It’s a scuffle, or like a slither—the drag of a shoe, a split second brush against furniture.
Beatrice stops in the middle of the lobby, looking around. She only now notices it’s completely empty, the receptionist missing from her desk. A chill ripples down her spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioner. “If it’s nothing,” she says, “then what’s that noise?”
Something curls slowly around her left ankle, something like thin, calloused fingers, and then a hand clamps tight over her mouth. Beatrice gasps, the sound muffled by the hand. Someone heaves her up, jerking her back into a set of arms, wrenching her close to something dark blue and black. She inhales fabric softener and cotton but the color makes her think of salt and brine and she can’t breathe. She can’t breathe.
“When we drive away in secret,” rasps a woman’s voice in her ear, “you’ll be a volunteer. So don’t scream when we take you—”
Beatrice grabs at the woman’s hand with both her own. She drags it away from her mouth and manages to gasp, “The world is quiet here!”
The woman freezes. Beatrice lurches forward, tumbling out of her arms and onto the warped floor with a small shriek and a horrible thud. Beatrice feels horrible, with a red mark around her ankle and her whole body shaking as she stares up at the woman. She doesn’t understand, and that scares her almost as much as the woman. She hadn’t just learned the poem at headquarters, Violet had told her about it, it was something Violet’s parents used to say, but she didn’t—she hadn’t said—Beatrice doesn’t understand.
The woman—tall, in a thin, dark blue sweater, her hair massive and unruly and black—bends down in front of her. Beatrice inches back, trying to catch her breath.
She squints at Beatrice almost suspiciously. “Well, young lady,” she says, “have you been good to your mother?”
My mother is dead, Beatrice thinks in her panic, and then she forces herself to clear her throat and stop it. “The question is,” she pants, “has she been good to me?”
“You’re a volunteer,” the woman says.
No I’m not. “Yes.”
“What’s your name?��
“Beatrice Baudelaire,” Beatrice says.
The woman raises an eyebrow. “Baudelaire?” she repeats, scoffing. “Beatrice Baudelaire?”
Beatrice frowns. “Yes,” she says again.
“Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“I do,” Beatrice says, blinking. “It’s the only name I have.” Which isn’t exactly true, but she’s never felt that Snicket suits her all that much. Beatrice Denouement, even, sounds like someone sophisticated, not a short nine-year-old girl with only a fierce determination to her name. Which is still Beatrice Baudelaire, no matter what this woman says.
The woman straightens up, her face cold, and then she seizes Beatrice’s hand and pulls her roughly to her feet. “You’re coming with me.”
Headquarters in the city is a lot different than the one Beatrice was in out in the country. The main difference is that this one is predominately underground, hidden under a two-story library on the corner of a busy street, and seems, from a cursory glance, like it’s going to be harder to sneak out of. They had to walk through a set of locked double doors in the back of the library labeled Secretarial Department, which lead to a long, tunneling hallway devoid of any typewriters, after all. It’s full of sudden dips and the occasional staircase and one long ladder that leads, when Beatrice climbs down it, to the sewers. She focuses hard on the layout, the curves of the passageways, the way the water drips, on the faded signs she can’t read hanging onto the domed walls, so that she’ll stop thinking about the churning in her stomach.
The path ends in another set of doors, framed in the darkness by flickering torches. Beatrice stumbles to a halt in front of them.
She’s sure that Violet and Klaus and Sunny, while they were on the island and on the boat, had to have used it. There were things Sunny made that could only have been made on top of something hot, even though Sunny always got that fierce, unreadable look on her face when she talked about what she could remember of fires. But Beatrice never saw it. She never saw flames jumping around each other, spitting in the darkness, smoldering orange turning into dangerous white-hot tongues.
Beatrice thinks of lightning and wet, foundering wood under her hands. She feels salt in her mouth again.
The woman shoves her through the doors.
The narrow hallways are bathed in cold, buzzing orange light, an unsettling color against the red brick walls and the hardwood floor. It’s almost claustrophobic, a maze Beatrice can’t parse even when she pays attention. They go up a set of stairs, their footsteps echoing in the silence, and then the woman steers her towards a door around the corner.
She catches a quick glimpse of the plaque on the door and its unnatural shine—vice principal—before the woman pushes her through it as well. Beatrice finds herself in a cramped, shadowy room, illuminated with one single lamp on the desk, where the outline of a tall man sits, hunched over what looks like a stack of papers.
It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the thin gloom hovering at the edges of the lamp. The shapes on the shelves along the walls sharpen. They look like tea sets, if tea sets were collections of just small, differently-patterned oblong jars, all topped with fragile lids, a handle on either side.
Beatrice swallows. She never saw what Esmé Squalor was so desperate to find. She wonders if one of the sugar bowls crowding the shelves around her is what she was looking for.
The man looks up and sets down his pen. “Who’s this?” he asks, his voice a low, heavy murmur.
“My name is Beatrice Baudelaire,” Beatrice says, before the woman can say anything.
The man raises an eyebrow at her, like the woman had, and then leans back in his chair. The look he gives her isn’t suspicious—it’s appraising. Beatrice shivers.
“Well,” he says.
They put her in a room down the hall and tell her firmly to stay put. It’s a windowless room with pale walls and only a few other students, all of them her age and sitting behind typewriters, and a particularly flatfooted and wrinkled old instructor, who starts sobbing when Beatrice tells him her name. He motions to a free chair with a long white handkerchief and manages to tell her that they’re writing business letters. He motions to the blackboard and tells her there’s the format. He motions to the typewriter in front of her and tells her, please, write a nice letter, and they’ll all make it through the day.
He shuffles away from her, back to the front of the room. Beatrice watches him go with a confused frown. She doesn’t have time for this—to be stuck here again, or to try and figure out what’s going on, or to try and reason what she’s supposed to say in a business letter. She drops her eyes to the typewriter. It’s not too bad, but certainly not as nice as the one in her uncle’s office. She presses a few of the keys to test them, and they stick and then stab back into the air with loud, fierce snaps, so much that she jolts back in her chair. He’d never give her a typewriter this bad.
Beatrice gets an idea.
She has to get word to him somehow. She has to survive, too, and she’s perfectly capable of doing that anywhere, although she would prefer to do it in a situation where she isn’t at risk of being accosted violently around the ankle at any given moment, among other things. It seems like her best bet to get to him is to stay here, and not wait, this time, but let them lead her to him. It won’t be too hard. This city and this organization are his. He’s here, in this room, and he’s here, in this city, and she knows she will find him if she stays here.
She gives herself a shake and rests her fingers on the keys.
Dear Sir, she types, one eye on the instructor, now leaning against the wall and wiping his face with the handkerchief. I am writing to inquire further on the matter we discussed earlier this year. I’m in my business letter writing class, which is taught by a flat-footed man so sad and unaware that I am certain he will give me an A on this assignment without reading anything but the first sentence of each paragraph. I could say anything here at all. For instance: a “baticeer” is a person who trains bats. I learned that in a poem I watched you read.
The instructor straightens up, still dabbing under his eyes, and wanders around the room, glancing periodically at the typewriters. Beatrice schools her expression into business-like thoughtfulness. When he comes by, he scans the first line of her letter, heaves an enormous sigh, and keeps walking.
After careful consideration, Beatrice continues, biting down a smile, I am pleased to enclose the following information.
The instructors confirm her identity after careful consultation with twenty different people, all of whom Beatrice has never seen before, and a series of photographs and files Beatrice isn’t allowed to see, all of them crowded in an office and staring down at her an hour and a half after Beatrice has finished her business letter.
They tell her it was very irresponsible of her to sneak out like that from the country headquarters. Beatrice does not tell them it was very irresponsible to have a lock so easy to pick and a headquarters so easy to navigate in the dark. She stares back up at them, tries to look appropriately chided, and hopes they’ll think she feels appropriately chided. What she does feel is cornered.
One of the adults standing towards the back, his face in shadows, scoffs under his breath. “Just like her uncle,” he says.
“Which one?” asks another.
“You know,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “That one.”
“The dead one?”
“Aren’t they both dead?” asks a different voice.
“No, I’m sure at least one of them is alive—didn’t you get that message?”
“You know for a fact I haven’t gotten a single olive jar in three months, since someone broke my refrigerator—”
“For the last time,” someone sighs, “I did not break your refrigerator—”
Beatrice takes the opportunity to slip unnoticed from the room and into the hallway. She takes slow steps, listening to the little click of her shoes on the tile. The adults at the country headquarters had been secretive but easy to predict. The adults here, though—
She stops. She peers down, past the hem of her dress, and lets herself look at her left ankle.
It’s not that she doesn’t like it here, with this organization. They’ve given her a place to stay, and most of the volunteers her age were kind to her at the last headquarters. Most of all, she has vague memories of Violet telling her that people who read that many books can’t be all bad, that most of them were just trying their best, that they’d been noble enough in the end. But she’d said it with a curious look on her face that Beatrice can almost picture, like there was so much more Violet wasn’t sure how to say, like she still hadn’t figured something out, and it hurt to think about it.
That silence had carved out a worry in Beatrice, a hole she feels in her stomach now. She tries to imagine a permanent mark on her ankle, a tie, an anchor, bigger than a promise to be noble enough. She knows what Violet and Klaus and Sunny told her about what happened to them, and she knows what she’s read in the thirteen files, and she knows Klaus wrote in his commonplace book that the organization was their only hope. She knows there are a good many details that maybe they hadn’t left out when they told her their story, but maybe just hadn’t gotten around to telling her at the time. Beatrice knows about the hard choices between what seems right or wrong—and she knows the iron grip that woman had on her ankle. She knows about the circumstances that killed her family, her uncle, her parents.
Because she could be wrong, she has to be certain. Beatrice doesn’t like being wrong. She looks up at the hallway, the old pictures on the walls, the lack of windows, the flickering lights casting shadows around her, and tries to feel certain that her only choice is to stay.
With the considerable amount of volunteers in the city, Beatrice figures she’ll have to share a room with someone, but one of the adults takes her to a single room, off to the side, and tells her, once again, to stay there and not make any trouble.
It’s a simple room, with a bed, a closet, a desk, two lamps, and a bookshelf (already stocked, and she stops perusing it when she finds the book about the girl and the egg and the family dinner, because her hands start to shake). No windows. The walls are all solid stone, but the floors are wood, and Beatrice turns the lights off and stands in almost total darkness—there’s still a sliver of light under the door from the hallway—and tests out the places where the floor squeaks for hours. She memorizes the room, feels with her hands for catches or knobs or secret compartments and doesn’t find a single one.
The light under the door disappears. Beatrice, standing by the bed on the opposite wall, goes completely still. She listens.
After ten seconds, the lock on the door clicks.
After a whole three minutes, the shadow under the door still hasn’t moved. Beatrice swallows and keeps watching. She knows better than to try and pick this lock. They aren’t going to make getting out easy. Finding him might not be as easy as she thought, either.
That doesn’t mean I won’t, Beatrice thinks.
She fully expects to sit through their classes again, to tell the teacher how Sunny taught her to make a meringue, to relearn the same codes she learned from Klaus’s commonplace book, to listen to someone besides Violet explain the scientific principles of the convergence and refraction of light.
She doesn’t. Instead, she finds herself in the vice principal’s office again, early in the morning, although it’s impossible to tell in all the shadows in his office. She takes a moment to wonder where the principal is, but then the vice principal starts talking.
“You strike me as a young woman with a lot on her mind,” he says. “Someone very intent on her goals. And we value that here, you know. Commitment, dedication, loyalty. I think you—and the organization—would benefit the most if we assigned you to a chaperone immediately. There’s a place for you in this world, Miss Baudelaire, and I am most anxious for you to find it.”
Beatrice almost thinks he’s being incredibly nice, if it isn’t for the way his eyes glitter and the way he leans back in his chair, so slowly she barely notices until he’s staring down at her, almost pinning her in place.
Violet did teach her to be polite, but she also taught her to stand her ground. She swallows. “Thank you very much,” she says. “Do I get to pick my chaperone?”
“I’m afraid not,” he says, and he doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “We haven’t allowed that for quite some time.” The vice principal smiles. “It lead to some unfortunate events.”
Her chaperone is a woman named Marguerite. Beatrice looks through every record available and can’t find any positive proof that Marguerite has ever had a last name. What she does find out is that Marguerite spent her own apprenticeship working with the remaining volunteer animals.
She gets a letter telling her to meet her at the aquarium on the other side of the city, with just enough for the bus fare. Beatrice checks the letter over and over again the whole way there, but she doesn’t find any other hint about what she’s supposed to do to find her chaperone.
Beatrice wanders the aquarium for a long, uneasy hour before a short woman with chin-length, curly blonde hair catches her eye by the jellyfish tank. The woman gestures at one of the jellyfish. “I always thought they looked like clouds,” she says, in a soft voice. “I like to look at them when summer is dying.”
Beatrice bites her lip. She stares at the jellyfish and tries not to see them, tries to watch the reflections in the glass instead. Summer is dying. She always thought she’d be good at codes if she had to use them, but actually hearing them out loud just makes her uncomfortable. It could just be all the water, though.
“Well,” she says carefully, “summer is over and gone. And you can see clouds any time, you just have to look for them.”
The woman smiles, a surprisingly gentle smile, the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling. Beatrice thinks she looks too young to have lines like that. “Marguerite,” she says, extending her hand. “You must be Beatrice.”
Beatrice shakes her hand.
“What sort of animals do you like, Beatrice?”
Beatrice looks away from the eerie blue glow of the tanks around them and says the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’t think bats are all that bad.”
As it turns out, the organization’s last collection of trainable bats is in the hills. The whole trek back into the mist, Beatrice can’t help but think her timing could sure use some work.
Beatrice and Marguerite set up camp in the cave, close to the shepherds and obviously very close to the bats. They pull down the remains of the wallpaper, and between the two of them, Violet’s inventing knowledge, and another piece of wire from Marguerite’s pocket, they rig up the light bulb. It casts a dim and hollow yellow light around the cave before it sputters and flickers, drenching them in a momentary darkness before lighting back up.
Beatrice gasps out of shock. The light bulb reminds her of the lamp in the vice principal’s office, something scary and unknown in a place that’s supposed to be safe. Fear grips her chest, and she makes an excuse to Marguerite that she doesn’t even remember and gets out of the cave as quickly as possible. She sits at the mouth of the cave in the darkness with her legs stretched out in front of her, her hands in her lap. Beatrice tells herself that hugging her legs to her chest would not be very mature.
Marguerite comes over and sits down beside her, not too close but not too far away. “Some children are afraid of the dark,” she says.
“I’m not,” Beatrice says, truthfully. Klaus taught her constellations, and Sunny made up her own, and Violet made a telescope so they could see them better. Beatrice knows there are beautiful things in the darkness, and she likes the quiet.
“It’s alright if you are,” Marguerite says gently.
Beatrice knows why Marguerite says that. It’s something a lot of the chaperones think. Some of the adults themselves are probably scared of the dark, even when they haven’t lived through a storm at sea. But she’s not. She’s not scared of the dark. The afternoon was when the storm started, and the dark was when the storm stopped, when everything calmed down. She couldn’t see anything at all, not the broken wood under her fingers or how alone she was, and she could breathe. She could keep floating and imagine Violet and Klaus and Sunny were still right there, telling her she’d make it.
Too much light is what frightens her. Too much light, like a jagged streak through the sky, lightning carving the boat in two, illuminating every fractured piece and the fear on Sunny’s usually calm face. The flashlights of the volunteers who found her, combing the beach for something else, the beams cutting cold white light against the sand.
“Beatrice?”
Beatrice looks up. She uncurls her fingers, which she only now notices had clenched tight into her palms. She swallows. “I’m not afraid.”
Marguerite smiles. She reaches over and squeezes one of Beatrice’s hands, just once.
“We’re going to be training bats to deliver messages,” Marguerite says in the morning. “It’ll be useful, especially all the way out here in the hills.”
Beatrice stares at Marguerite, and she hopes her incredulity isn’t too apparent on her face. She clears her throat and tries to think about how Violet would address this. “Are bats really the best to use?” she asks. “What about telegram wires, or even just pigeons, since they could fly at any time, or—”
“Sometimes we have to send messages at night, and bats come in handy for that.” Marguerite doesn’t interrupt her, just speaks patiently, reasonably, like making a point in a casual debate. “Sometimes the easier way can be more dangerous. People expect that more than something different.”
Beatrice isn’t sure if that makes complete sense. Marguerite definitely notices her confusion, and she smiles. Marguerite smiles a lot, but it’s never condescending. “It can be a little hard to understand,” she says. “I thought it was when I was your age, too. But it’s not a volunteer’s job to question, Beatrice. It’s a volunteer’s job to know, and to trust in what they’re doing.”
Somehow, it sounds right the way Marguerite says it, with her soothing voice. It sounds right, the idea of just knowing, since Beatrice is so certain in it anyway. She has to remind herself that they started this whole conversation about the absurdity of bats being used as a messenger system to counteract that. Beatrice has seen a lot of absurd things, because Violet told her about all her inventions over the years, and Beatrice isn’t quite sure how all of them worked but she knows that they did. But training bats, especially to deliver messages, just seems to take it a little too far.
“It’ll take a bit of time before we can train them that well, though,” Marguerite says. “Have you ever held one before?”
At the very least, training bats gives Beatrice something to think about. You really have to focus, otherwise they squeak too much. It gets easy after a while, once Beatrice knows how to do it. Marguerite is impressed, but Beatrice just tells her that you can do anything as long as you know how to do it.
Marguerite isn’t very talkative, which Beatrice appreciates. What she does say doesn’t always make that much sense, but she never pushes Beatrice or pressures her. She tells Beatrice stories about her own apprenticeship, the last of the volunteer feline detectives and what Marguerite’s own chaperone told her about the eagles. It’s the kindest anyone has ever treated her since Violet and Klaus and Sunny, and that makes Beatrice feel more comfort than she has in some time.
Beatrice is hunched over a notebook while sitting at the mouth of the cave, trying to figure out how to get the bats to follow the patterns of the yaks, because she’s sure that makes at least some sense, when the young shepherd who loaned her the yak last time comes up to her. Beatrice smiles at him, but she stops when she sees how nervous he looks.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
The shepherd bites his lip, looking over his shoulder at Marguerite, who’s examining one of the yaks in the field, and then motions quickly at Beatrice. “You forgot something,” he says.
Beatrice frowns. “What?”
He reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a small circle. The weak sunlight catches on the slim gold band and the dark diamond set in the center, and Beatrice’s heart leaps when she can see the thin initial in the stone. He puts the ring in Beatrice’s hand and presses her fingers around it.
“I think you might be able to give it back to her, one of these days,” he says.
“Do you know her?” Beatrice asks, clutching the ring with both hands. “Do you know where—”
But the shepherd shakes his head, glances again at Marguerite, goes rigid when he sees the older shepherd approaching her, and then scampers away. Beatrice watches him go, until he’s a shrinking figure among the yaks and she can hear Marguerite calling her name. She lets herself wonder, for a moment, where the Duchess of Winnipeg is now, how much the shepherd knows, why no one can ever give her a clear answer. Then she reminds herself that none of that matters. She has all the answers she needs. She just has to get through this. She just has to get through this, and find her uncle, and then find her family, and she just has to get through this.
She slips the ring in her pocket.
She turns ten while they’re in the hills, which she only knows because she packed a calendar this time. She doesn’t tell Marguerite because Beatrice doesn’t want her to make a big deal out of it, because Marguerite would, and Beatrice spends that night staring up at the stars and trying to make up her own constellations. She connects lines and dots into books, wrenches, a whisk. Then, with her eyes shut tight, she tries to remember that last birthday. It was four or five years ago now, wasn’t it? And there was cake, she knows there was.
Beatrice forces her eyes open. What she remembers is Violet, tying her hair back with a ribbon as she worked on the boat; Klaus, adjusting his glasses as he read to Beatrice from a book; Sunny, talking cheerfully into the radio Violet had built. Everything else is all in pieces, a puzzle she’s losing the parts to.
I have to find them, she thinks, blinking fast. No. I will find them.
The first time Beatrice sends out a bat and it comes back, days later, with a message from one of the shepherds they’d sent out to expect it, she feels a lot more pride than she ever thought she would about training bats to be mail carriers. Marguerite laughs and sweeps Beatrice up into a tight hug, drawing her close, and Beatrice hugs her back.
In late summer, the hills still misty and chilly, they get called back to the city. Marguerite and Beatrice make their way back to the city on foot this time, through all the hills, no mountain. Beatrice sorely wishes she still had the yak.
When they get back to the city, Beatrice actually doesn’t see much of Marguerite. Marguerite tells her only that something is happening, but not exactly what. In the meantime, she tells Beatrice it’s for the best if Beatrice stays at headquarters, where she can write up the reports on training the bats. Beatrice figures someone would’ve had to write the reports at some point, so she doesn’t mind—except that someone seems to be watching her at all times, especially when she uses a typewriter.
Beatrice spends most of her time underground and growing increasingly frustrated, because it’s been months since she’s written to him, months since he’s heard from her, and he must be wondering where she is. He must be. She’s watched mail leave the city headquarters, and they never put a return address on anything. How can he write back to her if he doesn’t know where she is?
But he has to know. He’s been here. He’s in this city, and so is she, and wouldn’t he be able to figure out what happened to her, being a detective and all, or at least a man who has that printed on his door? He went through this too, he knows where she is, why does it have to take so long?
Marguerite comes back, and they go on assignments and scope out pet stores and parks and the occasional fancy restaurant, but Marguerite also lets her look in every single diner window they pass, and lets her linger on the street with the Rhetorical Building, even when the street is wildly out of their way. Then they go on less and less assignments, and she sees less and less of Marguerite, and Beatrice spends her time in so much silence that it starts to dig under her skin, a burrowing restlessness.
At night, she sneaks into the record room again. She isn’t sure what she’s looking for. Maybe the four files she couldn’t find at the country headquarters, or anything about her family, or anything about the organization. Anything at all about anything. And it’s not to find anything new, it can’t be, it’s just—it’s just to reassure her. He’s going to find her. She’s going to find him. They’re going to find her family.
In the back of the room, in a dusty filing cabinet drawer she has to pry open with two pens, she finds a thin, dark brown folder half-stuck under the back of the cabinet. Beatrice wiggles it out, flips it open, and sees the shape of a single piece of paper. She pulls out a flashlight from her pocket, steels herself, and flicks it on, squinting against the light.
It looks like a legal document, almost like a sort of deed, yellowed with age. Beatrice scans through it, and her frown deepens when she finds out it’s for a room in an office building, a room on a fourteenth floor, an office—an office in the Rhetorical Building, right above his. Beatrice grips the edges of the paper and reads further. Her heart stops dead when she sees a bold, imposing signature in red pen across the bottom of the page.
Beatrice Baudelaire.
She’s been in the building, but she’s certainly never tried to get an office there. This must be her, she realizes, reminding herself to inhale. This must be who they named her after.
Beatrice knows about Beatrice Baudelaire. She wasn’t just engaged to Beatrice’s uncle once, she was a person, a mother. She taught Klaus how to fence and how to throw a punch, and she taught Sunny how to scream, and she taught Violet how to stand her ground and be fierce and formidable. She could bake and sing and act, and she ate strawberries in the summer and danced with her husband to old records and took her family to the beach and read long books to them and did different voices for each character. Now, years later, here she is. A whisper in Beatrice’s ear, a gentle kiss on her forehead.
Beatrice Baudelaire sounds like she was a wonderful mother.
Beatrice shakes her head quickly and slips the deed into her pocket. It’s not like she thinks about her own mother a lot. Beatrice knows all about her anyway. Kit Snicket was a good person, a volunteer, someone who helped. So was Dewey Denouement. But sometimes she wonders, just a little, just for a moment, what things would be like if her mother was alive. If her father was alive. If they would’ve liked her. If they would’ve read to her, if they would’ve taught her things, if they would’ve liked strawberries or some other fruit and if they danced and if they baked and if they could act or sing. If she’d still be here, scrambling for the remains of her family. If she’d still see flashes of lightning when she closes her eyes, and the harpoon gun and fungus she’s imagined and the sandy grave at the far edges of her memory and the Baudelaires got their parents, didn’t they, if only for a while, how come she didn’t get hers, how could Violet and Klaus and Sunny do that—
Something creaks upstairs.
Beatrice slips from the records room, shuts the door, and feels her way through the darkness. Her hands find the banister of the stairs, and she creeps up them slowly, waiting for another noise.
The upstairs floor creaks for a second, and then stops. Then another creak, a little further down the hall, like someone’s taking long strides, trying to be light and quick. Beatrice heads up the rest of the stairs and sees the hazy outline of a shape in the darkness, one with short, curly hair.
“Marguerite?”
Marguerite turns, looking over her shoulder, still poised to keep going down the hallway. “Beatrice,” she breathes.
Beatrice hasn’t seen her in what feels like ages, although she knows it’s only been about a week. She walks towards Marguerite, and even in the darkness she can feel a heavy tension in the air. “Where are you going?”
Marguerite turns around all the way and bends down in front of Beatrice. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, “but I have to leave.”
Beatrice hears every word of that sentence perfectly, and somehow she still doesn’t understand it. She blinks. “What do you mean?”
“I was going to leave this with the vice principal for you,” Marguerite says. Beatrice hears a slight rustle, Marguerite digging in a pocket. She takes Beatrice’s hand and places something in it, a curved, spiral wire with a handle at the top. A corkscrew. “Something—something came up, and it’s not safe for me to be in the city anymore. I’m starting back for the hills tonight.”
“I can go with you,” Beatrice says, “I can—”
“No,” Marguerite sighs. “I can’t take you with me. I really am—so, so sorry, Beatrice.” Her voice cracks, and her hand settles on Beatrice’s shoulder. “There was so much I was looking forward to, so many things I wanted to do with you, but sometimes things don’t work out how you want them to. But you’ll be okay, I know you will. You’re brave and resourceful, and you’ll be a wonderful volunteer.”
Beatrice frowns at the slim outline of Marguerite’s face. Her fingers curl around the corkscrew, pushing it hard into her hand. She swallows and finds a lump in her throat, one she tries to breathe around. “But I—”
“Don’t worry,” Marguerite says. Her voice is still so gentle, but it doesn’t make sense with her words. Nothing about any of this makes sense. “You’ll know what to do, Beatrice. We all do. I know you will.”
“I know now,” Beatrice says quickly, “I just—”
“I have to go,” Marguerite whispers. The weight of her hand disappears from Beatrice’s shoulder, and then her face is gone, and Beatrice stands in the hall and listens to Marguerite’s progress downstairs from the distant creak of the floorboards. The sound of footsteps vanishes not long after, and Beatrice is alone. The metal of the corkscrew sits cold against her palm.
Beatrice listens, and listens, and listens, and hears nothing else.
Beatrice hasn’t cried in a long time. She knows she has—everyone does when they’re younger, and she can remember, through that fog, Sunny making faces at her to cheer her up—but it feels such a wrong thing to do now. Hot tears spill down her cheeks, her eyes squeezing shut, her mouth pressed tight so the rising whimper in her throat doesn’t escape.
It’s not as if she didn’t expect Marguerite to leave. All the chaperones do, eventually, and even if she had liked Marguerite she knew somewhere it wouldn’t last. She just didn’t think it would happen like this, so soon, that just like that she’d be gone, swept away from her. All the thoughts Beatrice tries so hard not to think come rushing into her—how much longer will this take, how much longer will she have to do this, how much longer will this feel, because she feels ten years old for the first time and so lost, still adrift in an ocean that could tear her apart as much as it could lead her somewhere safe. She wants to go home, but the only people who were ever home to her feel further away than ever. In a second, the despair and uncertainty she’s been running from overtake her like a crashing wave.
She thinks awful, vicious things. The Baudelaires are dead or they would’ve come for her by now; her uncle hates her and never wants to see her; her mother was a horrible person to die and leave her all alone like this; she’ll grow up like they all did, abandoned.
Beatrice walks back to her room, step by step. She shuts the door, and then sinks down and starts sobbing into her knees.
The vice principal calls her to his office the next morning. Beatrice sits in the chair in front of his desk, her hands in her lap. She’s shoved the memory and the uncertainty and the guilt of last night to the back of her mind, but it still flutters in her lungs, a light panic she tries to smother with each careful breath.
He seems to have acquired even more sugar bowls since the last time she was in here, and they tower above her on those whisper-thin shelves and make the office feel even tighter. A different item sits on the shelf right behind his desk, about the size of a milk bottle, and Beatrice stares at it. It stares back at her with a dark, beady eye, the long face and snout of an impossibly cruel animal, teeth bared and black. Then she notices—it’s only half of a statue, like it’s been cut down the middle, revealing a smooth, solid wood interior.
The vice principal himself looks unbothered, impassive as always. “It seems you’re without a chaperone,” he says.
Her hands tighten together involuntarily. “I’ve been without a chaperone before,” she says, and her voice only trembles a little.
He smiles. It is a thin and humorless smile, smug, and he leans slowly, too casually, back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests and his own hands folded neatly. She wishes he would stop doing that.
“You look like you want to ask me something,” he says.
Where is my family and when will I find them?
But she knows he won’t tell her. “What do you want to ask me?” she says instead.
The vice principal almost laughs. His eyes are dark and fathomless blue. “What did Marguerite leave you?”
Beatrice does not think of the corkscrew up in her room. But she has to say something, she has to show him something. She puts her hand in her pocket and finds the folded-up deed she’d stuck there last night. A deed for an office in the Rhetorical Building. A deed signed with an identical name.
She stares at the vice principal straight on. “An office,” she says. “On the fourteenth floor of the Rhetorical Building.” Beatrice pulls the paper from her pocket, unfolds it, and sets it square on his desk.
He stares at it, and then keeps staring at it, his eyes flicking over the paper as if looking for a loophole. When he doesn’t find any, his mouth thins, his jaw clenching. She’s never seen him with so much emotion on his face before.
“I’ll need a typewriter,” Beatrice says.
The next thing Beatrice does is get business cards. They say Beatrice Baudelaire, so no one will bother her about that, and then Baticeer Extraordinaire, because that’s the closest thing to an occupation she has right now, and then The Rhetorical Building, since that is the name of the building, and finally Fourteenth Floor, which is self-explanatory.
The third thing she does is go to her office. It hasn’t been used in a long time, so it’s empty and dusty and even colder than the lobby, and full of one too many spiders. Beatrice spends an afternoon cleaning the years out of it, and even repairs the radiator, Violet’s ribbon keeping her hair back from her face.
She sets her typewriter carefully on the desk, puts Klaus’s commonplace book in one of the locked drawers, puts the corkscrew in a completely different drawer, and then realizes she has very little else to put in the room. A business card taped to the door, some paper beside the typewriter. The brochures and books she collected from the train stations lined up on the little shelf on the wall. She keeps the Duchess of Winnipeg’s ring on a long chain around her neck so she always has it with her and no one else can see it.
She uses the back entrance so she doesn’t have to go through the lobby.
She stays awake in the office the first few nights, watching the window in the dark in case they try to come back for her, but Beatrice is left alone there.
Beatrice doesn’t know how old the building is exactly, but it must be old, because the wood creaks, and it creaks specifically and consistently in his office, right below hers, muffled but very distinct.
She finishes typing her most recent letter, pulls it out of the typewriter, then takes the corkscrew from her desk and sits down in the middle of the floor.
The wood parts, splitting easily into tiny spiral shavings, and Beatrice keeps twisting and twisting the corkscrew until there’s a reasonable hole in the floor and she can hear the creaking a little more clearly. It’s a small hole, not large enough to see through but large enough to put her letter through if she rolls it into a tiny tube, like she said she would. She throws the corkscrew back on her desk, grabs the letter, and starts to roll it up.
The creaking stops. Then the wood groans low, like he’s leaning on a specific spot, and she leans close and listens.
“Snicket,” says a woman’s voice.
Beatrice startles, jumping back with a slight gasp. She didn’t account for someone else, she didn’t think he knew anyone else, she didn’t think it wouldn’t be him pacing. She doesn’t know who this is.
“Did you always have that hole in your ceiling?” the woman says.
Someone replies. Beatrice can’t hear what he says, but the voice is a low murmur. That’s him, she thinks, biting her lip. That’s him
“You want me to come in here and find you buried under your ceiling one of these days?” the woman continues. “Don’t you think I deal with enough already as your editor?”
He says something else, something Beatrice still can’t hear.
The woman sighs. “If we don’t leave soon, we’re going to be late, and Cleo might just kill you.”
Beatrice waits until she hears the door close, and then sits for a few seconds in the silence, willing her heart to stop rocketing in her chest. She re-rolls the letter, looks down at the hole, and then pushes the letter through it and presses her ear against the floor. Beatrice can just barely hear it bounce off the ceiling fan, uncurl, and land open and waiting on his desk with the tiniest crinkle of the paper.
She sits back on the floor with a long sigh. She hopes she isn’t waiting too long, and Beatrice doesn’t do a very good job of squashing down the worry that she might not know how long it’ll take.
She waits a whole week and still doesn’t get a reply. No one comes to her door, no one tries to get in through the fire escape, no one leaves any secret messages anywhere, and she doesn’t hear anyone pacing in the office below her. She doesn’t hear the woman’s voice, and she doesn’t hear any sign that he’s in there at all. Everything is eerily quiet.
Beatrice goes across the street to the diner, because she figures being miserable but not hungry is better than being miserable and hungry. When she pushes the door open, Jake Hix catches sight of her from behind the counter and grins broadly. “Hey, Beatrice!”
She means to smile, but there are four people sitting at the counter, and all of them turn and look at her with interest. Two men wearing glasses who look like brothers, a sharp-eyed blonde woman in a cloche hat, and then the man in the middle, pale and staring at her with wide eyes. Beatrice looks back at him, suddenly breathless. Not just a mysterious figure she’s never seen, or one she glimpsed in the middle of a chase, but a real, physical person in front of her.
“It’s you!” she exclaims. “You’re here!”
They keep eye contact for a single, almost terrifying second—but then he clears his throat, holds up a hand, and spins around, putting his back to her.
Beatrice stands there, torn between disbelief and irritation. The other two men say something, and the woman rolls her eyes, gets up, pulls them to their feet, and herds them past Beatrice and out of the diner.
“Give him a moment,” the woman whispers to her, winking.
She doesn’t want to, she wants to go over and sit beside him and get right to things, but she picks a corner booth by the window anyway and sits down. She still has a good view of the counter from here. She swallows and tries to quell her anticipation. She wonders how long a moment is, to her uncle.
Jake walks over and gives her a smile. “What can I get you?”
Beatrice looks over his elbow at the counter, at the glass resting in front of her uncle. It occurs to her that she’s actually never had his drink of choice. She looks back up at Jake. “A root beer float.”
Jake smiles.
“And, could you please do me a favor?” she asks, unzipping her bag and digging around inside. “If I give you a message, would you give it to him?”
“Sure thing,” Jake says.
She takes out one of her business cards and turns it over.
Cocktail Time
I am sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends. I only wanted to talk to you.
The waiter agreed to bring this card with your drink. If you don’t want to meet me, rip it in half when you are done with your root beer float, and I will leave and never try to contact you again.
Ideally, she doesn’t want to say that, to give him an out, now that they’re both here, now that she’s this close, but it’s polite. She figures he’ll appreciate that.
But if you want to meet me, she continues, biting her lip, I’m the ten-year-old girl at the corner table.
B.
Beatrice folds the card in half and hands it to Jake. She watches Jake walk back to the counter, lean in and hand her card to her uncle, watches him open it with shaking fingers. He reads it, but he doesn’t turn around and look at her yet. He takes a sip of his root beer.
Jake brings her her own root beer, and she drinks it and barely tastes it, her eyes still fixed on her uncle. She reminds herself not to swing her legs and settles for jiggling her foot against the smooth tile, a tiny little tap as she waits and waits and waits. She thinks of looking anywhere else, trying to remain sophisticated and calm, because this is it, for real, but she doesn’t want to miss a single thing. She curls her hands together in her lap, forgets about the root beer float. She counts out the seconds in her head, stops when she thinks it’s stupid, starts again when he pushes his glass away and looks at the note again.
Finally, he stands up. He refolds her business card and puts it in his pocket. Then he turns, and he faces Beatrice, coming over and stopping beside her table.
He’s just like how Beatrice imagined him, now that she can finally see him, instead of just across a crowded street or a library wing. Definitely average height, if a little bit taller, in a grey suit and tie, his hair dark, thin at the temples. He looks at her half-finished drink, and then slowly meets her eyes, and they are blue, the same blue as hers, the best color she’s ever seen, brighter than every dark and endless sea. The corners of his mouth turn up a little, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He sits down across from her and extends his hand.
“My name is Lemony Snicket,” he says, his voice deep but soft, just as she expected.
Beatrice smiles, and her face almost hurts with the force of it. She shakes his hand with both of hers. “Beatrice Baudelaire.”
Lemony Snicket takes her to the park a few streets over and buys her ice cream. She points out that they could’ve had ice cream in the diner, but he tells her that he would rather have their conversation away from where a journalist could come back at any second and faithfully record every single moment of it. Beatrice eats her vanilla with sprinkles and figures the journalist had to be the woman, with eyes like that, and then she watches her uncle. Her uncle, real and in person after all this time, after almost two long years of searching, finally beside her.
He matches her pace, which isn’t very brisk, but he looks like he could run at a moment’s notice. He keeps his hat drawn low over his eyes, his gaze lingering on shadowy trees and exits and every single discarded cigarette butt before moving away. He takes quick, economical bites of his ice cream (vanilla, caramel swirl, in a cone).
“Did you like my business card?” Beatrice asks. Her voice comes out a little louder than she intended, which probably explains why Lemony jumps.
He pulls her business card out of his pocket. “It’s very nice,” he says. “Do you like bats?”
“Well,” she says, “I think they’re cute, but that’s all. I’d rather not work with them.”
“Are you saying that you gave me a false business card?”
“You can put anything on a business card,” Beatrice says brightly, looking up at him. “Do you still have those ones that say you’re an admiral in the French navy?”
Lemony looks shocked, then embarrassed, and then takes an incriminating crunch out of his cone. He doesn’t answer.
Beatrice’s throat sticks a little when she swallows her ice cream. She ducks her head, her shoulders bunching up, and scrapes at the bottom of her cup with her spoon. He’s just a quiet person, that’s all, she tells herself, and she’d thought that before. That he doesn’t have anything else to say is just because—just because he doesn’t have anything else to say. That’s fine. They have more important things to talk about than bats and business cards.
She waits until they’ve both finished their ice cream and points out a bench for them to sit down on. She even makes sure it’s out of the way, under a tree, reasonably shady and away from prying eyes, if that’ll make him feel better. Lemony hesitates for a few seconds before he agrees, and they sit down. Beatrice’s legs dangle off the edge, and she holds her hands tight in her lap and reminds herself again not to swing her legs.
“You said you didn’t know where Violet and Klaus and Sunny were,” Beatrice says, leaning towards him, “in your research. That you didn’t know what happened to them after—” Her voice catches. “—after we, we left the island. But that was years and years ago. You have to know now.”
Lemony looks at her, and this close, Beatrice can see the lines around his eyes, etched into his face. They only seem to deepen the longer they look at each other. He folds his hands together, just like hers, and Beatrice bites down on the inside of her lip, her toes wiggling in her shoes.
“No, Beatrice,” he says. “I do not know where the Baudelaires are.”
Some of the air disappears from her lungs, and she gapes at him. “Well—then can you help me find them?”
Lemony sighs. “I have looked,” he says slowly, “but my associates and I have found very little. I do not know if—”
“But you have to know!” Beatrice exclaims. The corners of her eyes start to burn, and she can feel a sharp sting tightening her throat, because he was supposed to know, she was so certain, and he had to be too, so why? “You have to, you’re the only person I’ve got left, and I came all this way to find you, and you—you—” Everything comes tumbling out of her, everything she’s been pushing aside and burying down inside her since the shipwreck, every cruel thought and punch to the gut, every second spent waiting. She’s never talked this much in her whole life, and now she can’t stop, even with Lemony looking at her with wide, broken eyes.
“You left me all alone out there!” Beatrice shouts, her voice cracking. “I followed you for two years, all by myself, and I wrote you letters, and I followed you into the hills, and I stole office space to be close to you, and I did everything I could to find you, and you didn’t do anything!”
She wants to be angry. She wants so much to be angry, to keep yelling, to hurt him, but now she can’t stop crying. “I thought you h-hated me,” she sobs, rubbing at her eyes, tears sticking to her fingers and her cheeks. “I th-thought you never wanted to see me, ever. I thought—I thought—”
Something soft brushes against her wrist, and she lowers her hands and finds Lemony, offering her a handkerchief. “I did not, and I do not hate you,” he murmurs firmly, for a man as heartbroken as he looks. “I could never.”
Beatrice takes the handkerchief and wipes at her eyes. It doesn’t do much in the way of stopping her tears.
“This is an awful thing to say,” Lemony begins quietly, “but the horrible truth is that I did not know if it was you. I did not know if you were—someone else.”
Beatrice swallows thickly, curling her fingers around the handkerchief, clutching it in her lap. She knows what he means and it’s like a dull knife twisting inside her.
“And I know you are not her,” Lemony continues, “or my sister—although you do look remarkably like her—or an old villainess intent on exacting a stiletto-heeled revenge after all these years, or a morally grey woman for whom I still feel a great deal of sadness and guilt. I wondered, though. I think even the most rational mind will wonder in the depths of loss, even when it knows better. It is a wound that does not want to heal, or at least one that I believed could not. When I did know it was you, which I assure you was only within the last year, I—I did not know if I could help you.”
“Why not?” Beatrice asks, sniffling. She chances a look up at him, out of the corner of her eye, and catches a quick, haunted look passing over his face. He stays quiet for a little longer, as if figuring out the right words.
“I was afraid,” he whispers. “It is no excuse for what I did to you, but it is a reason. When I was a little older than you, I made a considerable amount of promises, few of which I managed to keep, and I told myself that fear didn’t matter, which was an admirable if incredibly incorrect stance to take at the time. And since then, very few things have gone right. I lost my family, my friends, the loves of my life, and everything I had, because of that fear. You can have the best of intentions, and still doubt, and still worry, and only realize much later that all you’ve ever done was wrong. I once said that people do difficult things for more or less noble reasons—but it is truly so much harder than that.”
Beatrice lets the words sink in. She thought she knew what it was like to struggle with a decision, to do something villainous to be noble. She thought she understood her uncle and her family—all of it—after everything she’d read, after Klaus saying that it took a severe lack of moral stamina to commit murder, after Sunny suggested it and the fire regardless, after Violet worried about Hal’s keys and disguising her and her siblings and all the other tricky things Beatrice remembers her worrying about.
He looks like Violet, Beatrice realizes suddenly. Not really his facial features, but his expression, just like when Violet told her the volunteers were noble enough. He looks as lost and worried about the consequences as Violet did that day. She feels that hole in her stomach again, that gaping uncertainty—that fear. Beatrice thinks of avoiding the lobby where the woman grabbed her ankle, lying to Marguerite in the hills, covering up her doubts with a vehement optimism. She thinks of every time she read about Lemony’s fear and all the things she didn’t understand until this second, all the things she still doesn’t understand, because there is still so much, so many secrets she could drown in, trying to find them all by herself.
“I put you in a great amount of danger by not stepping in,” Lemony says. He looks at her straight on, his eyes filled with tears. “I did to you the same thing for which I despised so many people, people I too was supposed to trust, because of my cowardice. I cannot apologize to you enough, and you do not have to accept it, Beatrice. I would not blame you if you didn’t.”
Beatrice sniffles again, her mouth wobbling, and watches him for a moment longer. “I don’t know,” she says carefully. She doesn’t like saying it, but it’s true and she has to say it. She takes a breath. “I don’t know.”
They sit in silence on the bench for some time. Lemony wipes his eyes at some point with the back of his hand, and Beatrice holds his handkerchief back up to him, but he shakes his head with a small, trembling smile and tells her to keep it. Beatrice runs her thumb over the handkerchief, each individual stitch along the hem, the afternoon breeze drying her face. She thinks, almost impossibly, that she feels a little less lonely. Not quite not alone, but just not as lonely.
“Although my associates and I have found very little,” Lemony says, “that isn’t to say that there is nothing to find. If you would like, I would like to help you find the Baudelaires.”
Beatrice’s head shoots up, her eyes wide. “Really?”
“Really. We can hope for the best, at least.”
“I’m good at that,” Beatrice says. “I—it can’t be impossible. Everyone thought finding you was impossible. But you’re here.” And he is, isn’t he? Despite his previous absences, here he is. It doesn’t fix everything, not immediately. But it can be enough for right now. Here he is. Here they are.
ending notes: 
i went into this fanfic with a pretty clear idea of where it was going to go, and then realized i’d need to pull out the beatrice letters so i could put them in this, and then did a lot of screaming along the lines of ‘i need to put a yak in this??????????????????????????????’ and ‘good job danhan you shot a hole through my characterization AND my timeline.’ so this vibes with maybe like, 85% of the beatrice letters. i did what i could. (and then this fic gave me so much trouble when i was trying to edit it. like, so much trouble. i only hope this all like, reads okay.)
but once i thought of ‘quiet lil child knows really so little about the world and has been through so much that she adamantly and somewhat optimistically clings to what she does know and that is challenged over time,’ i was reluctant to stop writing that. babybea is definitely her own person but she’s also definitely her mother’s daughter, so that girl is gonna be pretty tightly wound up and trying her best to hide it. i didn’t really buy her constant worry that lemony wasn’t who she wanted him to be while she was writing to him. because she does still have that bright but firm optimism of her father!! and i didn’t want babybea to be as rooted in (or as dependent on) vfd as her predecessors because she has to be the character to break that cycle. she has way more important problems than unattainable worldly nobility….and training bats.
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florenceandthemachine · 5 years ago
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we all know that i will cling to my “jackson’s parents are trash” headcanon until my last dying breath, but every once in awhile i like to imagine things being a little bit happier. so. talk to me about stiles giving jackson the first healthy relationship he’s ever had and inspiring him to work on things with his parents. stiles sitting through awkward family dinners and pushing the three of them to say what they need to say. stiles telling jackson how proud he is of him with soft kisses.
ugh UGH hell yes 911 send somebody bc this post killed me. it killed me because it would be all Jackson and his personal growth. it would be Jackson who decides to work on his relationship with his parents, it would be Jackson who learns what love is from Stiles, it would be Jackson who is left with more good days than bad and that confuses the fuck out of him, because it would be Jackson that realizes one day that his baseline isn’t angry anymore. and he tries to thank Stiles for that and instead Stiles just flicks his forehead and shakes his head because “oh no, you can’t give me credit for that. it was all you, baby.” because it WOULD BE ALL JACKSON.
Well, it would be Jackson and his supernatural senses. 
it does start with Stiles though, and that Jackson is 100% sure of. it starts with Jackson picking up the phone, maybe six months into them dating and seven into being a werewolf (they moved fast, so what?) to a hysterical Stiles on the other line, begging and pleading for Jackson to come pick him up from his house, he’s locked himself in his room and Jackson doesn’t even wait before breaking a land speed record in his Porsche, leaving tire marks on the lawn and almost knocking over Ms. Fitzpatricks mailbox when he takes a turn (way) too fast. 
He gets to Stiles house just in time to see Stiles make the drop from the lattice outside his window to the ground, and throws his door open as Stiles dives into his car, literally burning rubber as he backs out of the driveway and floors it onto the road. Once Stiles is calmed down enough to talk, Jackson pulls over—some fifty miles away from either of their houses—and pulls Stiles into his arms.
It would have been something small that escalated into something big—like, Stiles would have just told the Sheriff about the supernatural and the Sheriff would have been pissed, and he would have been yelling and Stiles would have been yelling back, and then someone would have said something about Claudia and the yelling would have immediately upgraded to screaming, voices ripped raw as things are thrown at walls (never at one another, but things should not be thrown in general). It breaks Jackson’s heart, it reminds him of the fights he had with his parents, and he would be terrified for Stiles from the moment they crashed at Jackson’s place to the moment he asked Jackson to drop him off.
But Jackson is a good boyfriend so he would oblige. He’d drive Stiles home and step out of the car when he realized the Sheriff was still home. He’d be a second too late to say something when the Sheriff throws the front door open, and his claws would slice through the metal of the hood of his car when Stiles took off—but it would be toward his dad, not away from him, and Jackson would be blindsided when they both collided in a hug, apologizing to one another, crying, and thanks to his supernatural senses he could hear every word and smell every tear. 
He had thought that kind of fight would be it for Stiles and his dad, those kind of fights were it for Jackson and his parents, but they were both just... hugging and apologizing. It blew his mind. Moreso, it made him think.
He’d lay his thoughts bare for Stiles, as he always did, one evening as they were watching a movie on Jackson’s too-big TV in his too-big bed in his too-big house. He’d ask Stiles how they did that—how they just apologized. He had tried a few times with his parents, but the moment the fight was over, they acted like it had never happened, so he had just started to get angry about that, too. How did they just talk, and forgive one another, so easily?
Stiles would give him a totally bizarre look, and when he spoke, it would be slow and guarded (as though he couldn’t tell if Jackson was honestly confused or if he was about to make fun of Stiles for being close with his dad) but he would go on to talk about how important communication was to the pair of them, and how they hit their breaking point after his mom died, and how they knew they were the only family they had left so they had to make it work, even when they didn’t want to.
Jackson would just stay silent as Stiles spoke, tugging the other male closer to his chest. He didn’t think he had any family left. But maybe it would be worth a shot. 
He is Jackson, though. He’s not Stiles. So he doesn’t try to worm his way into it, he doesn’t go for the coy tricks, he just comes outright with it and walks into the kitchen the next morning when his parents are making breakfast. 
“I want you both to meet my boyfriend. Properly. So I invited him to dinner on Friday night. He would probably demand pizza, but I’ll get him to compromise to pasta. Don’t...” and he would let out a long sigh as both of his parents stare at him, slack jawed in shock. “Don’t forget about it, okay? It’s important to me.”
And he would turn out of the kitchen and pretend he didn’t notice the dropped spatula or the twin looks of shock. 
Dinner would go as well as anyone would expect, meaning it’s awkward and stilted and there’s only a few jokes that actually makes anyone laugh. They have pasta and spumoni for dessert and Jackson kisses Stiles goodnight before he drives home (Jackson would be meeting him later, once his parents were both out, but that was not a part of the night he wanted to broadcast). When Stiles leaves, Jackson turns to them both, and it’s like three baby deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming train. 
“Well, he... he seems nice.” His mother would speak first, and it’s the kind of sentence in the kind of tone that would usually make Jackson bristle. He would be a half second away from snarling at them, telling them that it didn’t matter what they thought, to can their niceties and their fucking lies and—
and only then would he realize that her heartbeat didn’t stutter once. 
She genuinely thought he was nice. 
Somehow, that was the biggest shock of the evening.
“He is nice. He’s... way too nice. He’s great.” Jackson probably looks as shocked as they do as he speaks, and his father seems to take the momentum and run with it. 
“He seems like he really makes you happy. It’s a good thing, Jackson. It’s good to see you happy like that, I’m... glad.” and it’s another sentence that Jackson would have put money on being a lie, but just like his mother, his father wouldn’t have a heartbeat out of place. So Jackson would nod, and wish them a good night, and practically book it to his room to call Stiles before the shock wore off and he passed out. 
By the time he falls asleep, he can barely register his mom crying upstairs. He’s made her cry before, of course, but this is the first time that she seems happy about it. 
Nothing is perfect, though, and nothing good lasts forever. They would seem to be locked in a dance of two steps forward and one step back. They would have a few great nights and then a meltdown fight, and then his parents would ignore it and it would get even worse and it would feel like they were right back to square one. 
Now, though, he had Stiles in his corner, silently nudging him to “communicate, Jacks. God, do you know how hot communication is?” and no amount of growling could get Stiles to change his mind, so the day after their next blowup, Jackson would sit down in the kitchen and demand that they talk about it. And once they recovered and said “Jackson, we don’t have anything to talk about”, he would take a deep, calming breath like Stiles had taught him, and—
and he wouldn’t smell anything. There was no malice in the air, no anger in their emotions, nothing but some confusion between them and burning bacon. They both honestly, legitimately that the fact they had all been screaming at one another last night was magically forgotten because... what, they had gone to bed and woken up the next day?
Jackson would literally leave in a state of shock, and he’d approach Stiles immediately and “Stiles I was all fucking wrong about them oh god” and Stiles would be like “what, they’re actually great people? not likely” and Jackson would be like “what? no, they’re just a totally different kind of asshole. still not in a good way.” and Stiles would be like “Jackson there is literally no such thing as a person who is an asshole but in a good way” and Jackson would be like “uh, yeah there is, that’s you” and Stiles would laugh and punch him and then kiss him. ANYWAY.
It would be as much of a shock to his parents, honestly, that Jackson had Feelings that Didn’t Go Away and it would probably take Stiles sitting in on a dinner a month to moderate conversations in a healthy way. Which, of course, would be really weird for his parents at first (”Jackson, sweetheart, Stiles is nice but he’s a child, not a therapist” “mother if you don’t talk to him about these things in person I'll only give him my side later on”), but they would both latch on to Stiles like a lifeline the moment they realized that he was fluent in Jackson speak. 
(the first few explanations that Stiles gave they actually laughed at, like they thought it was a joke. but the minute they turned to Jackson, who was bright red and stone faced and unable to meet any of their eyes, they both sobered up so fast it gave Stiles whiplash. it was a little dramatic, but if it got through to them, Stiles was okay with it.)
that time that Jackson stole his dads truck? was to go practice lacrosse after dark on the school field, where he knew his Porsche would get stuck, because he thought if he got good enough to be captain again his parents would come to a game. that time that Jackson dumped Lydia out of the blue and demanded that they change the locks on the house? because he didn’t think he could trust the one person he had given his heart to at the time, but he couldn’t risk breaking that last tie between them, just in case. the time that Jackson had come back from the winter dance after dawn, with blood spatters all over his tuxedo? 
“Jesus, his best friend had almost died. Have some compassion, you assholes.”
Stiles looked as shocked as they were, but before he could apologize, Jackson was laughing.
It would be another few months before they were finally comfortable around one another. Not great, not by a long shot, but comfortable enough that Jackson’s parents knew they actually needed to take the first step in talking with their son, and Jackson would usually actually give them a complete answer.
it wasn’t perfect, and it might never be, but it was progress. and Jackson was happy enough with that. 
one night over dinner—Stiles and Jackson’s one year anniversary—his mom has a question. “okay, so wait, what did we do wrong when you started to shred your sheets?” she asks, and Jackson and Stiles look baffled, before waiting for her to elaborate. “you know, like a year ago, maybe a little more—right before you two started dating—I used to do the laundry and find Jackson’s sheets completely torn up. Well, no, not torn, because they were cut perfectly smooth. It was like you were hacking away at your bedspread with a pair of kitchen shears.”
Stiles chokes on his coke, putting two and two together, trying not to laugh at the mental image of brand new baby werewolf Jackson accidentally clawing at his sheets. Jackson just groans, his face bright red, head on the table.
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nancypullen · 3 years ago
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Still Alive!
I’ve been MIA for a couple of weeks and didn’t realize that people might think I’d been felled by COVID.  Nope, just some good old-fashioned laptop issues and severe boredom.  I have nothing to talk about.  Want to hear about my exciting new mop? Not even kidding about that - it’s the most thrilling thing to happen around here in weeks.  My sister turned me on to the O-Cedar spin mop.
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It sells as a set for about $30, the mop and the special bucket, and it’s pretty fabulous.  Your water goes in the bucket (obviously) and you pop the mop into that swirly part to wring it. The pedal is for operating the spinner part and you can squeeze it as much or as little as you want.  BUT, even though this set is really handy (honestly, it’s fun) the real magic is in the recipe for cleaning solution that my sister shared.  Pay attention, it’s complicated....the hottest water your faucet provides and a teaspoon of Tide powder.  Not kidding.  She adds a splash of bleach if she’s doing bathrooms, but I steer clear of bleach (I have a long history of ruined wardrobes).  You’ve got to use Tide powder, not a pod, not the liquid - I don’t know why, that’s just what I was told.  Anywho, this little combo is amazing.  Floors that sparkle and smell good, and that mop is easy to run up on baseboards too - with some good tunes playing I could mop for hours.
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Yup. We’re also trying to get the house ready to list.  Getting rid of stuff is time consuming.  We’ve hired a company to paint the kitchen cabinets. Although we had them done five or six years ago, that company did an awful job.  We’ll touch up paint and trim elsewhere, the front door needs a fresh coat. I should probably freshen up the mailbox as well.  First impressions and all.  We’ll be listing during daffodil season and ours are already popping up.  I may have to invest in a few more pots and dress up the entry.   So other than caressing my new mop and making trips to Goodwill with boxes of stuff, what have I been doing?  Making earrings.  Good lord, so many earrings.  I’m having fun learning new techniques, but I only have two ears.  Because I’m still a rookie I’d be embarrassed to give them away.  I will, however, send some to my sister. I made these today and she’ll be the recipient.
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Aren’t those fun?  I figured the X’s and O’s would be just right for Valentine’s Day.  I used a silk screen to make the patterns on the red and green sets - so easy!  The pink and orange pair just involved a little braiding and twisting and smooshing.  Working with clay is really therapeutic.  I’m still doing a million things wrong and have yet to invest in better cutters or findings, but when I’m happier with my results I’ll do that.   I spent some time working on animal prints and never quite got it right, but at least figured out what I’m doing wrong.  Still, the results are wearable if no one looks too closely.
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I actually wore the ones on the right out in public and didn’t get arrested or anything.  I figure I’m always masked and no one recognizes me with blonde hair so I can get away with anything.  Tomorrow I may wear a pot on my head and go to Kroger in my slippers. Other than mopping and making earrings by the dozen I have perfected my snacking techniques.  I think I’m ready for competitive eating.  I held steady the first year of this pandammit, but I have to admit that I just don’t care anymore. Oh, I still make healthy meals - it’s the snacks that are killing me.  Here’s an example - I love Dannon’s Light & Fit Greek yogurt. I buy vanilla, or if I can get my hands on it the vanilla and toasted coconut.  It’s delicious.  But I can make it better.  I take a perfectly good cup of yogurt - something like 70 calories- and drop in some chopped walnuts.  That’s not good enough, nope, I have to take a single Dove dark chocolate square and chop that up too.  Stir all of that together and you’ve got yourself a dessert.  It’s so yummy.  It also doubles the calories. I do that with everything. I take a perfectly good dish and say, “Ya’ know what would make this better?” and I swear my thighs start to clap.  They love it.  I need an intervention. Alright, that’s enough nonsense for tonight.  Just letting you all know that we’re alive and well, just boring.  I’ll try to come up with something interesting for tomorrow.  I’ll go soak in a bubble bath and think about it.  Until then, you know the drill...stay safe, stay well, stay sweet to each other. XOXO, Nancy
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alj4890 · 5 years ago
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A Second Chance
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(Thomas Hunt x oc*Amanda)
A/N:  We are picking up directly after Thomas showed up at Amanda’s suite door and told Kathleen he was her father. The rest of this chapter shows what follows after such a revelation.
Tagging some of my fellow Mr. Hunt lovers. @lxaah11​ @alleksa16​ @penguininapinktuxedo​ @blackcoffee85​ @stopforamoment​  @hopefulmoonobject​   @krsnlove​   @annekebbphotography​ @hopelessromantic1352​ . @sunflowergirl05​  @desireepow-1986​ @greywitchyshots​ @lilyofchoices​ @moodyvalentinestories​ @emceesynonymroll​ @my-heart-beats-for-ya​ @aworldoffandoms​ @ab1901​  @flyawayboo​ @i-bloody-love-drake-walker . @trappedinfandoms  @kate-mckenzie
Catch up here with Chapter 1
Masterlist
Chapter 2
Kathleen's eyes widened. "Mommy?"
Amanda seemed to snap out of her shock. She knelt beside her. "Kathleen, you remember when I showed you the pictures of the man, I said was your father?"
She nodded. "You said he was at work. That's why he couldn't be with us."
Amanda swallowed nervously. She had hated telling her daughter that lie. "That's right. Well, he's had a chance to come see you. This is your father." She stood up and silently pleaded he be kind and not hurt Kathleen's feelings.
The little girl hid somewhat behind her mother's skirt and peeked out shyly at him.
Thomas gentled his voice to try and put her at ease. "Kathleen, you have a very pretty name."
She mumbled. "Thank you."
Thomas stood upright and stepped forward. "Amanda, why didn't you tell me?"
Her hazel eyes clouded in confusion. "Tell you what?"
He gestured silently toward their daughter.
"But you knew. Kara Bennett said you did and didn't want either..." She trailed off when she saw both sadness and anger contort his handsome features.
"I never knew." He whispered harshly. "I came to Cordonia multiple times and was refused to be told where you were by your servants. No one bothered to mention that you had given birth to my child."
Kathleen eased out from behind Amanda. She reached out and touched his hand.
Thomas paused in his denial and looked down at her. He relaxed his fingers and watched as she slipped her little hand in his.
Amanda knew this meeting was inevitable and stepped back. "Please, come in."
He allowed Kathleen to lead him over to the couch.
"Daddy?" She whispered in a tone filled with nervousness and uncertainty.
He swallowed uneasily. He had no idea how to act around this little girl. "Yes?"
Her smile reminded him of Amanda's, down to the one dimple that formed on the left corner of her lips. "You'll stay?"
He nodded, thinking she meant for the moment. "Yes, of course."
She leaned closer toward him. It was unnerving to have his own intense eyes focused on him. "I'm like my friends? I have a daddy."
Amanda chewed on her bottom lip. She hadn't realized how much Kathleen had missed having a father. She should have. She should have tried harder to make Thomas be a part of their child's life. Her stubbornness in denying they needed him had done this.
"Yes, you do." Thomas glanced up at Amanda for guidance. Was he screwing this up?
Kathleen stepped closer. Her voice still held a great deal of uncertainty. "Can I, um, have a hug?"
His arms reached out and he grunted when she threw herself into his embrace. Her little arms were wrapped tight around his neck. He rested his head against hers and held her, wishing he had known this little creature from the beginning.
Amanda lifted her eyes up, trying not to cry. How many nights had she wished Thomas had been there, having a sweet relationship with the one perfect part of their time together?
"Excuse me." She mumbled when another knock was at the door.
"Room Service." The porter pushed in a cart loaded down with covered dishes. He greeted Thomas and Kathleen while waiting on Amanda to finish signing the receipt.
"Thank you." Amanda said after adding his tip.
Kathleen wiggled out of Thomas's arms and held his hand. "Can Daddy eat with us?"
"I'm not that hungry." He stated, not wanting to put them to any trouble. He didn’t know if he could swallow a sip of water with how stunned he was by this revelation holding his hand.
"We ordered a number of dishes since neither of us could decide what we really wanted." Amanda interrupted. "Feel free to eat whatever you like."
Kathleen sat down beside him and smiled. "Do you like grilled cheese?"
Thomas nodded. "I do."
"Mommy! Daddy likes grilled cheese like we do!" Kathleen yelled out when Amanda walked into the kitchen of their suite for some extra plates.
"Is that so?" Amanda smiled at her happiness. "I know you and your father share a number of characteristics."
"We do?" She sat on her knees and pulled on Thomas's arm. She began to question him on everything from favorite holidays to his favorite kind of chocolate.
When she asked him what animal with stripes was his favorite, Amanda laughed.
"Sweetheart, why don't you eat and give your father a break? I want that tummy of yours to feel good tomorrow. We don't want to cancel our plans."
"Can Daddy come with us to the zoo?" She asked. "You want to come with us, don't you?"
Thomas met Amanda's eyes. He searched for any sign that she didn't want him to. "I would like to."
Kathleen beamed at him as she settled more against his side. She split her grilled cheese sandwich and handed him half. "Here you go."
Thomas took it and smiled at her sweetness. If he had only known of her existence, he could have had moments like this with both his daughter and Amanda.
He quietly observed mother and daughter's behaviors and words toward one another. His lips had remained in a near permanent smile at the apparent love between them.
Once dessert had been shared among the three of them, Amanda announced it was bedtime.
Kathleen pouted slightly. "But Daddy's here."
Amanda laughed. "That doesn't mean time has stopped." She picked her up and leaned her forehead against Kathleen's. Their noses rubbed, causing the little girl to giggle.
Thomas thought it was one of the sweetest sounds he had ever heard.
"Go brush your teeth and then I'll tuck you in." Amanda sat her back down and nudged her toward her room.
"Yes mam." She stopped and hugged Thomas. "You'll tuck me in too?"
"I will." He promised, smoothing her hair out of her little heart shaped face.
She hurried off leaving Amanda and Thomas alone for the first time.
He cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence. "She's amazing."
Amanda's smile turned tender. "Yes, she is." Her eyes lowered from his. "I knew you would think so if you ever met her."
Thomas stepped closer and gently caressed her cheek. "I know we have a lot to discuss." He tilted her chin up. "But there hasn't been a day that has gone by when I didn't think of you nor stopped missing you."
Amanda could feel herself drawn toward him as his lips lowered. She forced herself to step back. "I missed you for the longest time." She straightened her shoulders. "But we need to talk over everything...including that."
He dropped his hand and followed her into Kathleen's room. The little girl said her prayers and then hopped into bed. She had several stuffed animals on and under the covers.
"I can't wait to go to the zoo." Kathleen told them.
"Seems like you already have your own personal zoo right here." Thomas remarked.
She giggled again and started telling him the names of all her toys.
Amanda chuckled and shook her head. "You can introduce him to the rest tomorrow." She pressed a kiss to her cheek and covered her up. "Snug enough?"
Kathleen nodded and repeated their usual bedtime rhyme. "As a bug in a rug." She looked over at Thomas. "Goodnight Daddy."
He leaned down and gently kissed her forehead. She hugged him again before settling down.
Amanda led him out and left the door cracked open.
"We need to keep our voices down while we talk." She excused herself for a moment, leaving him on the couch as she went into the other bedroom.
Thomas couldn't sit still and began to pace while waiting on her to return. His thoughts and nerves were on edge with all he had discovered this evening. He had hoped, since it was a Cordonian hosted charity event, to find out where Amanda had been all this time. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought she had given birth alone.
He had removed his jacket earlier and had loosened his tie. He went ahead and took it off. He unbuttoned the top three buttons of his dress shirt. He knew he would need air once they began to talk.
Amanda reappeared with a black binder. She hesitated a moment and then handed it to him. "I've made certain to carry this with me whenever I travel in case I ever bumped into you." She sat down in a chair near the couch. "I began filming Kathleen from her birth. I didn't want you to miss seeing her as the months and years passed."
He opened it and read the titles of the numerous discs. Each one had a date listed. The birthdays and holidays were all there. Her first time sitting up. First crawl. First step. First word. So many things he had missed.
"You made this for me?" His voice was raspy with emotion. "You did all this though you thought I didn't want anything to do with either of you?"
Amanda nodded. "I think a part of me couldn't believe the man I had known wouldn't want to know his own child."
He set the binder to the side and focused on her. "Why didn't you try to contact me?"
"I did the night she was born. I called a few times. You never answered and the mailbox was full." She explained.
"You could have called the studio. Called Addison or Holly. Anyone! You could have come back to California and demanded to see me." He argued. "Why did you give up?"
 Her eyes narrowed. "I returned to California when I found out we were having a girl, hoping you might be willing to hear me out this time. But then I ran into your Kara that you were sending flowers to. She told me at my most vulnerable point that you didn't want me or our child. Your lack of contact seemed to back up her claims that you were glad to be rid of us." 
She straightened her shoulders and looked him in the eye. "My reasons for not pursuing you after Kathleen’s birth were simple: I was caring for an infant. I was unsure with everything and centered my every thought on raising her. During the search for Cordonia's next queen, I was asked by Liam's father to reside at my estate in the Highlands. He didn't want to take a chance on the people possibly wanting a single mother as his son's wife. Then I was ordered to remain there by Liam when the attacks from the Sons of the Earth occurred. I remained in the Highlands while Liam and Riley dealt with some other problems that struck Cordonia. I haven’t been home since shortly after Kathleen was born."
"Those were the times I was in Cordonia." Thomas admitted. "I came hoping we could have a second chance. The months apart had been agony."
She rolled her eyes, feeling very little sympathy for his plight. "Imagine them pregnant with the belief that you were unwanted."
"I am sorry you went through all that. I promise I would have been with you during every step if I had known." He reached over and took her hand. "I never gave up on finding you. Each year I attended charity events that I knew you used to support, hoping to see you there."
Amanda slowly shook her head. "As sweet as that is, I'm afraid the version of me you searched for is no longer here." She held his unwavering gaze. "I've changed since having Kathleen."
He took her hand between both of his. "I would be surprised if that experience had not brought about change." He lifted her hand to his lips. "I would like the opportunity to know who you are now."
Her fingers trembled slightly in his grasp. "I'm not sure that is such a good idea. I at one time hoped you would want both me and Kathleen. Now, I am only concerned that she has a relationship with you."
"She deserves to have a family with both her parents." He countered. "I never stopped loving you. I believe if you give me a chance, you will see that we are meant to be together."
 She chuckled. "Meant to be? Like Fate has a hand in our destiny?" Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. "After everything that happened, I don't believe in any of that anymore." She cocked an eyebrow at him. "You, yourself, used to doubt such romantic nonsense."
"Once I lost you, I realized that there was some truth in it. There is such a thing as the perfect person for everyone." He gripped her hand. "I tried to date others after that first year without you and I tried again last year. No one could hope to compare to you."
Amanda had to harden her heart to the very words she had once dreamed of hearing. She didn't know if she wanted to fall in love with Thomas again. She had done quite well on her own. Did she really want to have all the excitement and uncertainty of romance again?
Thomas watched the conflicting emotions flicker on her face. "I don't need an answer right now. I only wanted to express what my hope is. I will begin any type of relationship you want for the time being."
Amanda's eyes cut to him. She thought of now knowing he was innocent in all she had held against him. She then remembered how much she missed having him in any form in her life. "Thank you." She laced her fingers with his and squeezed his hand. With Kathleen growing up, she knew she would want his input in her upbringing. "I wouldn't mind us being friends again."
He forced a smile. It wasn't what he wanted to hear, but hopefully he could change her mind as time went on. "How long are you planning on remaining in New York?"
"A week." She smiled at him. "Kathleen's birthday is Wednesday. She loves musicals and The Wizard of Oz. I am going to surprise her by taking her to see Wicked." She tugged his hand. "Why don't you come with us?"
 "I would love to." He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "Where are you going after New York?"
"Back to Cordonia. I have so much to catch up on after years of absence." She explained.
"I don't suppose I could come with you." He offered. "I don't have any films or such planned. This could give me an opportunity to get to know Kathleen." And try and win you, he thought.
 "She would love that." Amanda's smile was the happiest he had seen all night. "You are more than welcome to stay with us." Her lips trembled with mirth. "Goodness knows, we have plenty of guest rooms."
"Thank you." He let go of her hand and stood up. He reached for the binder she had given him. "Perhaps you and Kathleen would like to come to my suite for breakfast in the morning."
"She loves to sleep late like me." Amanda admitted with a laugh. "Why don't we say ten thirty?"
"Perfect." He gave her his room number while she wrote her cell down.
Pausing at the door, Thomas pulled her close for a hug. He felt her stiffen before relaxing in his embrace.
"I can't express how happy I am that I finally found you." He whispered.
"I…I am too." She admitted a touch breathlessly. She closed her eyes at that feeling that had long laid dormant that she had only felt when in his arms. Safety, reassurance, and cherished mixed together in a warm, soothing feeling.
His lips brushed her cheek as he let her go. She stumbled back and nervously tucked a short lock of hair behind her ear. She tried to keep her voice from shaking. "Goodnight, Thomas."
"Goodnight, Amanda."
***********
He spent the rest of his evening watching disc after disc of Kathleen from birth to a ballet recital performed a little over a week ago.
He swallowed the last of the third glass of scotch he had poured. Seeing his daughter become the little girl she was now had been eye opening. His heart was practically bursting with pride over having a hand in her creation.
It also ached with even more love for Amanda. Each disc had a sentence or more of her talking as if the two of them were standing beside one another while watching their child in wonder. 
As a baby and toddler, the camera was dropped often while she rushed after a quick Kathleen. Amanda's laughter followed their little one as she tried to stop the tiny runaway.
Birthday's and Christmases had someone else filming while Amanda held their daughter. Seeing the wide-eyed wonder on Kathleen’s face drew him in, but it was Amanda's that captivated and held him. Her joy and love couldn't be contained with their child. It was something he had only glimpsed in her before. That was what had caused him to fall in love the first time.
Watching her, he realized the truth. Amanda believed herself changed. He knew that wasn't it at all. The only changes the camera revealed were that those qualities he had admired so much in the beginning of their relationship had only become enhanced with the birth of Kathleen. Amanda was still the same, only much more desirable in every way.
That was why no one else had managed to steal his heart. Thomas wanted that type of love and affection. He knew she was the only one capable of giving that depth and quality of the emotion to him.
After years of trying to capture these honest emotions behind the camera, he caught every simple touch, every heartfelt word. The camera didn't lie. It revealed everything he so desperately wanted.
For a man that had found himself not really caring what path he took after his last film, he was now seriously focused on and planning every strategy he could use. Thomas would be the father Kathleen needed. He was going to do all he could to make Amanda fall in love with him again. He would make the three of them a family.
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punkpoemprose · 5 years ago
Text
December 15th- Pen Pals
Universe: 1940′s AU/ WWII American Homefront AU
Rating: G (General Audiences, this is fluffy)
Length: 4222 Words
A/N: I wanted to write smut for this one, but it just came out fluffy AF. It’s pretty saccharine but I loved writing it <3
She wasn’t quite a Rosie. Other women she knew, those she’d went to school with or knew in town were, but she wasn’t. Her family had always had money and she didn’t need to work. All the local factories were well staffed, and while she was certain she would be capable of factory work if called to it, she’d been raised a debutante. Her parents had taught her about society, dressing well, throwing parties and being well spoken when the occasion called. They’d also raised her and her sister to take over the family business, which now, with their parents passed on, and most men off to war, she was taking to well enough.
Had Anna been a nurse she would have been in Europe already doing her part. Had she been trained as a secretary she would have been on a base somewhere taking notes and making calls and rushing about to ensure that things were moving smoothly. Had she been a pilot she would have been out fighting. But she wasn’t any of those things, and the war had come upon them so quickly that it had left Anna, 18, just out of school, no time to train. So, she worked with what she had.
She put little strawberries on the tops of the cupcakes she’d baked and frosted. They’d go in her car soon with the rest. That her parents had allowed her to learn to drive had been a blessing. Most of the girls didn’t drive, so she spent plenty of time doing all the running. It was an essential part of her duties as a head hostess after all.
She’d found her part of the war effort with the USO. She wasn’t much for a fighter or a builder, but she had a quick wit and she was good at planning things and brining people together. She’d made and served hundreds of meals, planned dances, talked to soldiers to give them a bit of solace, though what she was proudest of was the letter writing campaign she’d organized. No soldier from their hometown was going to go more than a week without a letter from some girl or another down at the USO. Anna herself wrote to three men religiously, week after week. Updates about town, little care packages of cookies and homemade jam and silly photographs she’d take with the girls, whatever she could do to let them know that they were being thought of and watched over.
Two wrote back religiously, both a bit older than her. They had wives that wrote to them too, so while they were always happy to get Anna’s letters, she was grateful that they didn’t flirt back. Anna was happy enough to be their reporter and secret “ace in the hole” on the home front. For Valentine’s day last year she’d picked up and delivered chocolates to their wives in their names, she sometimes would call and pay for a service technician to go over and fix something at home that they normally would. She had the money and she had the time, and it was one less thing they had to worry about, and one more thing she could do.
The third however, he was just a little older than her, and he so rarely wrote back that her heart was eternally skipping a beat. He was on the Eastern Front, where exactly she didn’t know, which meant that every week when she sent him a letter, she had to hope it would find him. Every week when she wrote him a letter, she begged him to write back, because she lived for the days when she saw his handwriting in her mailbox. Private First-Class Kristoff Bjorgman was, by all accounts, what kept her up at night. She knew of him but didn’t really know him. He’d gone to the all boy’s school in town, and someone told her in a whisper that he’d been a ward of the court, that he had no family to speak of and was very quiet. She didn’t even know what he looked like.
She did know how he wrote to her though. She’d saved every letter. The most recent, from over a month ago, she kept in her pocket. Hostesses were supposed to be sweet and happy and helpful. They were supposed to sit at the side of servicemen and women when they were home, whether they were shipping out soon or whether they were back for some time. To write letters, to be a piece of the home front was not necessarily expected, but it was appreciated and endorsed. Having feelings for enlisted men, however. That was something they were warned against in their training.
No one had warned her how mere letters could make her feel.
Dear Anna,
It’s still strange to me to address you as such given that we’ve never met, but I’m starting to feel like I know you and Ms. Arendelle is, as you put it “terribly formal and boring”.
I’m grateful for the sweets you sent along, military chocolate is all fine and good, but your cookies are better. I never had much for baked goods growing up, you’re spoiling me. Some of the other men get care packages too, but none as good as yours. They joke that they want you to teach their girls how to bake, and after this last batch I think they’ve become quite serious about it.
Thank you too for the photograph. You didn’t have to drive all the way out to the bluffs to take it but seeing the lake again after what feels like years really lifted my spirits. The one you sent of you standing in front of the scenery gave me a smile too. You look like you’re about to deliver some clever line in a movie. You looked pretty lovely beautiful, if that’s not too much for me to say. If it is, you can write me and let me know and I won’t say so again, but if not, I do mean it.
I wanted to let you know every time one of your letters comes through, or sometimes when I get a whole batch of them at once, it just makes me happy to know that you’re back home writing them. You’ve become a lifeline for me Anna, and I can’t ever thank you enough for that. If When I make it home I hope you’ll let me try.
If I know where I’m heading next I’ll send along an address. If not, I’ll just hope your letters make it.
I miss you, even though that doesn’t make sense.
I hope this finds you well. Don’t let them work you too hard at the USO. You’re already doing so much.
Yours,
Pfc Kristoff Bjorgman
Kris
P.S. I forgot to answer your questions, I was so taken by the photos and the sweets. I don’t smoke, it never really interested me much. I played a bit of baseball in school, and it’s the only sport I follow much. If you want to send me scores, I wouldn’t mind, even if they’re late. Though we do get updates here every now and then on baseball, football, and boxing. Problem with baseball is that most of the players I followed have been drafted too. Bet we could have a hell of a game with just enlisted. I hear there’s a women’s league now that’s making news? If you happen to catch a game on the radio I’d love to hear about it. What about you Anna? You smoke?  You follow any sports?
When he wrote her, his writing was full of strike outs and rewrites and while everything he said was well thought out, it gave her the distinct impression that he wasn’t used to corresponding with others, let alone with a woman. She thought maybe he was flirting with her from time to time, and while she’d never admit it to a soul, she was a relentless flirt back, because after all the letters they’d exchanged, she’d gotten to know him. He’d been a fireman before the draft made him a soldier, and oh while she didn’t know what he looked like, she imagined he was strong. All the firemen she’d ever seen were strong, and he’d played sports in school, so he had to be at least a little bit athletic. She imagined him from the pieces she had. He liked good food, and animals and being out in nature. He liked the lake, and she’d spent hours driving down to the bluffs, not only to send him photos, but to just imagine him there. It was hard to imagine someone without knowing what they looked like, but she could imagine the conversations they’d have.
He was shy and sweet, but unafraid to share his thoughts. He’d seem gruff to others, but she’d written to him and heard his thoughts on life and love and the war, so she wouldn’t be put off by it. She’d imagined meeting him for the first time. She thought about how he’d smile at her, maybe they’d share a hug. In her most daring daydreams, she thought that she’d press a kiss to his cheek to welcome him home. It would completely scandalize her sister, Anna kissing a perfect stranger, and yet she smiled at the thought because he wasn’t a stranger at all.
She sighed, picking up the box of strawberry topped cupcakes and bringing it out to her car. She didn’t have time to daydream. She had a dinner dance to put on, and while she was already dressed for it, she had cupcakes to drive over, dinner to cook, a band to instruct, makeup and hair to touch up, girls to prep, and ultimately men to serve and chat and dance with.
Her heels clicked against the blacktop of her driveway as she went, the breeze catching the stubborn hairs that were refusing to stay tucked into her victory rolls. She’d tackle them soon enough, packing her tools for the war effort in her vehicle; cupcakes, decorations, a makeup bag, a clipboard, and of course, herself.
***
When everything was sorted, dinner and dessert served, and the band just starting to play, Anna finally let herself walk out of the back room and into the dancehall.
She did this every week, and yet it always worried and exhausted her. She was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for one of the girls to be sick, for her USO uniform to rip, for the band to simply not show up in time.
Tonight though, everything had gone according to plan, and she had even had enough time to change out of her uniform and into one of her dresses for the dance.
“Anna,” one of the girls called to her when she stepped out to where the action was happening. She almost didn’t hear her over the sound of the band playing “Begin the Beguine” and the giggling of the other ladies, dancing out on the floor with the various servicemen they were entertaining for the night.
She nodded and walked over to have a better chance at hearing what she was saying. Anna loved a good dance, but she found herself wishing that this one was a bit quieter. She’d had a headache since noon, and she was trying to keep in a good mood, but the noise wasn’t helping matters.
“What can I do for you?” she asked. The girl was newer, just recently volunteered, and Anna was used to the girls only calling on her when they needed a hand with something. They were friendly enough, of course, but none of the girls really chatted with each other once an event was on unless they really needed to.
“It’s more about what I can do for you,” the girl said, coyly smiling, “There’s a man here asking for you by name. He just got back into town, must be important.”
“Well who is it?” she asked, trying her best not to nervously straighten her dress as the girl caught her up to speed.
“I didn’t ask his name,” she replied, “but he’s one of the only men still sitting at a table without someone chatting with him. I tried, but he just smiled all shy and asked if you were here.”
That, Anna decided, was odd. Usually she was so busy behind the scenes keeping things working that no one knew she was there, let alone asked for her. There were some enlisted men she knew well enough before the war started for them to be able to ask for her by name, but really, none of them were particularly shy and probably would have been just as happy talking to another woman. It certainly wasn’t her ex-boyfriend. He’d run up into Canada to dodge the draft, and she’d broken up with him before that.
She nodded politely to the girl and decided it best to go and see for herself.
There was only one table with a lone man, and while she couldn’t really get a good look at him with the lights dimmed for dancing, he didn’t look at all familiar to her. She turned her charm on high as she approached him, wishing that she’d checked her teeth for lipstick before walking out.
“Hi there,” she ventured as she sat down at the circular table across from him. She smoothed down her skirt and smiled, getting a better look at his face in the light of the candle that sat in the center of the table.
She didn’t recognize him. He had the sort of face she’d remember. Dark eyes, light hair, and a wide nose. He was wearing his uniform, a few other men in the room were too, but most wore suits. Most were trying to forget for a few hours that even though they were home, they were at war.
He recognized her. She saw it in his eyes when he looked at her. He smiled and his eyes did too. Her stomach twisted into knots, there was nothing she hated more than forgetting a face. She didn’t want anyone she ever met at the USO thinking that they were forgettable.
She stuck out her hand anyway, better to act as she should and then tell him later that she had simply not recognized him in the dark, or that he was even handsomer than when they last met, should she realize that they did in fact know each other.
“Anna Arendelle,” she said with a smile, “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure?”
He took her hand carefully and she felt butterflies in her stomach when their fingers touched. His hands were so much larger than hers, so much rougher. He was probably a good foot or more taller than she was, and she knew so even sitting down.
“Not officially,” he said by way of response, adding, a bit nervously, “You’re lovelier in person… if that’s not too bold of me to say.”
It clicked then. No other man would ever question his boldness at the provision of a compliment. No other man would recognize her and smile without her recognizing him. She couldn’t believe it, she couldn’t even voice the thought for fear of being wrong.
“It’s kind, not bold,” she replied. “It’s a wonderful compliment to give a girl.”
“Is it?” he asked, giving her a coy smile, “I wouldn’t really know, I’ve only ever tried to compliment one girl.”
It was him. It was definitely, and without a doubt, him. She thought about all her daydreams. The ones where she hugged him, the ones where she kissed him and welcomed him home. She could hardly muster the strength of will to hold herself together let alone be so bold.
When she hadn’t heard from him she’d thought the worst. She always thought the worst when he didn’t reply within a month. It was so easy to be scared when she heard everyday about how brutal the war was. She put up a brave face at the dancehall, at the meetings and at the get togethers, but the truth was that when she went home to find no letters, she worried herself half to death.
“She sounds like a very lucky girl.”
He laughed, and it was a wonderful sound. Anna’s heart skipped a beat. She’d been so worried about him; she’d never expected to be able to hear him laugh. She hadn’t even been able to imagine his face, and she was glad that she hadn’t tried very much, because nothing she could come up with would be as perfect as what he was.
“Oh I don’t know about that…” he trailed off, and for a minute looked thoughtful, “I just realized you might not actually know who I am… I never sent you a picture did I?”
She laughed at that, at the way he looked so concerned after just teasing her back that she might not know who he was.
She shook her head, more certain now than she’d been even moments before. She was also certain that she was correct in her assumptions that he was, in fact, a man who had never or only extremely rarely, spoken to women. He was good at it so far she had to admit, but he also seemed terribly nervous at it, like someone just learning to drive a car.
“You didn’t, but I think I figured it out anyway. I’m not one of those girls that writes to every single serviceman you know. You’re special Kristoff.”
The smile that spread across his face warmed her from head to toe.
He squeezed her hand gently and she couldn’t help herself but to intertwine her fingers with his. This was not protocol in the hostess handbook, but she’d really never been one for rules anyhow. Structure was good and important, but rules were made to be broken.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t write you back. I was in the hospital… shrapnel… and even though I healed fast, they sent me back home. I don’t know for how long, but once I knew they were sending me back, I just… I needed to come see you.”
Anna flushed. She almost wondered if the room had suddenly warmed by a few degrees, but of course she knew it was just her reaction to him. He was real, and there, and holding her hand while giving her a look like she was the only woman on Earth. She normally took flirting in stride from the men who came to her dinner dances, but that the man she’d been writing to for so many months was there was so inconceivable to her that she threw out the whole rule book.
“You were hurt?” That had been her worst nightmare when she hadn’t heard back from him, that he was injured or worse.
“It’s alright,” he said, “I can’t really walk on the leg much yet, but what doesn’t kill you…”
She shook her head, “Guess I shouldn’t ask you to dance then.”
He shook his head and chuckled, “I’d try to if you wanted me to, but I’ve always had two left feet anyway.”
“Oh I doubt that,” she replied, trying her best to breathe as he openly admitted that he’d dance on an injured leg to please her. She was used to flirting, but this wasn’t flirting. This was his honest interest in her, this was talking to someone she’d already made a connection with. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful dancer when you’re not hurting.”
He took the compliment and grinned, “To be honest I’ve never really tried enough to know.”
“Well when you’re feeling up to it, we’ll have to try.”
She only noticed the crutch leaning against the chair to their side after he’d mentioned being injured. It was a relief to know what whatever had happened, or however badly he’d been hurt, he was getting around on his own now. That was a good sign if nothing else.
“I’d like that,” he said, then looked thoughtful for a moment, “Do you want to go someplace quieter?”
Oh she did. She very much did. She wanted to sweep him off to some dark corner and kiss him, but despite her willingness to throw out the rulebook, it wasn’t really an option.
“I do, but I have to stay here and clean up and make sure the girls head off home with their chaperones instead of…”
She flushed, then added, “Well there’s some rules…”
He nodded.
“What if I stay until after you’re done?”
“Oh!” she was surprised to hear him say that he planned to stay, to wait for her. It was absolutely against the rules, and she knew she should politely decline, but she’d rather hang up her uniform than not spend time with him. “I would love that.”
***
The last girl was off before the cleaning was done. Anna was perfectly content to do the rest herself, and she found, with great pleasure that Kristoff was an enthusiastic assistant for the last of her evening tasks.
“So you’ve really never gone to a baseball game?”
She was washing dishes and he, sitting on a barstool she’d brought in to keep him off his leg, was drying.
“I really haven’t. I heard them on the radio, and my dad bought a television not long before he passed, so I watched a few of the televised games, but I’ve never gone in person. My parents didn’t take me out much unless it was to a social event or something.”
He shook his head and took a cup from her hand, their fingers brushing as he did so. She knew she shouldn’t be blushing so, that she shouldn’t be alone with him in the first place but seeing him there had been like seeing an old friend, and she wouldn’t trade these moments of comfortable small talk for the world. Unless, of course, he offered something a little more than friendly, in which case she’d gladly trade up.
She’d started to form a crush on him when they were writing to each other. He was reserved at first when he wrote, gruff, uninterested in her charity, but as time went on he softened to her, he wrote to her about the dreams he had, about the places he wanted to go and about how he’d always wanted a dog. Most recently he’d written about how he wanted a family, about how if he made it out of the war in one piece he wanted to settle down and make a life with someone. It had been so easy for Anna to imagine being that someone, and now that she was meeting him well and truly, she could see it even clearer.
“We’re going to have to change that,” he said as he wiped the glass down and set it with the rest of the dry dishes on the counter, “It’s America’s pastime after all. You’re a patriotic gal, makes sense you should go see a game.”
She smiled and lowered her head to hide her blush. She didn’t know if he knew he was implying he’d take her to a game as a date. He wasn’t really a flirt, he was straightforward and true and she liked that about him. She liked everything about him really. He was so different than the sort of person she thought she’d fall for, the kind of person her parents had always thought that she would fall for. He was an honest man, he worked hard, he didn’t have much but himself to give, but Anna liked that. He wasn’t tactful, just kind.
“Are you asking me on a date?”
She couldn’t meet his eyes. She could be coy. She could flirt, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to show him that the girl who wrote him letters, was hoping that he meant that he wanted to take her on a date. She couldn’t bear to see him give her an apologetic look if it wasn’t what he meant.
His hand reached out and touched her arm gently. She was learning that about him too, the despite how large and strong he was, he was gentle. Every touch he’d given her was tentative, gentle, borderline tender.
“Yes. I’m trying to anyway.”
Anna grinned at that and turned to look at him.
His smile was nervous, and that was just another endearing thing about him.
“I’d like that very much then,” she replied, not bothering to duck her head down to hide her flush.
“Good,” he said, and then cleared his throat, “I mean, that’s… thank you?”
She laughed at that. He was new at this. She loved that.
“Thank you for offering to take me,” she replied, trying to keep herself from giggling more when he smiled at her laugh, “I’m looking forward to it already.”
She was looking forward to more than the baseball. She already wanted to give him a kiss, to put that victory red lipstick to work. She thought though, what could be more patriotic than kissing a soldier at a baseball game and leaving that symbolic red on his lips?
She was nothing if not an all-American girl.
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catalinaroleplay · 5 years ago
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CATALINA ROLEPLAY PRESENTS...
The opulence of the ballroom is staggering as you slowly make your way through emerald curtains. Gold drips and glitters from every surface, save the gleaming marble floors. Rich fabrics–brocades, silks, velvets–hung from the walls as well as the guests. To an observer, you are no more than a part of a moving mass in a sea of beautiful bodies. The mood of the individuals around you indistinguishable in unseen currents beneath the dark surface of their intricate masks. Conversations swirl in a cacophony of sounds. Laughter and lively chatter freely mingling in the air along with the harmonious melodies of the cover band. Beneath dry ice smoke spirals in an array of reds, purples, and greens.
You’re unable to spot the dance floor due to the sheer amount of Catalina Islanders dancing to upbeat music. 
One would assume there was hardly room for any more yet you manage to find some as you approach the gathering of both familiar and unfamiliar faces. You laugh, the sound barely heard over the noise, as one of them playfully spins you into the arms of another. It wasn’t long until more people begin to join you. Like kids left unsupervised on a playground all the patrons around you are free and inhibited. Amongst these people one finds themselves given complete permission to feel elation, to feel the sort of bond that is usually denied in the coldness found in bigger towns and more infamous cities. In this room, no one is a stranger and everyone’s invited to experience joy as one to celebrate the island they all called home. 
In Character Information:
Date: Saturday ─ January 25th, 2020. 
Time: All attendees must arrive by 8PM and are allowed to leave the Ball at 2AM. 
Location: Catalina Casino Founder’s Ballroom which is located on the 2nd floor of the venue.
Invites: All invitee’s received a gold, emerald green sealed invitation on Saturday, January 18th, in their mailbox, welcoming them to an exclusive celebration for Catalina’s Founders Day Masquerade Ball. Upon your arrival, you must bring your invitation to get access to the festivities behind the emerald green curtained doors. You will be expected to leave your cell phone at the front door, which will be returned back to you upon your departure. The hosts of the Founders Ball would like to keep their future plans for the town a secret, allowing these to select invitees a preview beforehand. 
Theme: Founders Day Masquerade Ball ─ Colors scheme will be Red, Green, Gold, and Purple. 
Dress Code: Creative Black Tie. Ladies must wear Floor-length evening gowns. Men must wear a tuxedo. The color scheme is Red, Green, Gold, and Purple. A MASK is required and apart of the theme. Please incorporate these colors into your outfits for the evening. 
Live Performance: Versatile Latin cover band, Caribbean Dynamics Band (Dinámicos Del Caribe), will be providing entertainment for the evening. Song suggestions are recommended and highly encouraged. So bring an extra pair of dancing shoes if you’re worried about your feet hurting!
Dance Performance: Early arrivals will be treated with a performance by Latin Dance Pro Entertainment, a highly sought after group of dancers from Los Angeles personally booked by founding family members Santiago Cabrillo & Bianca Viscainos, who will be performing the Flamenco and the Bachata for guests shortly before dinner is served.
Dinner: A traditional Spanish cuisine of ─ Gazpacho, Gambas al ajillo, Croquetas Tortilla Española, Jamón, Paella, and Albondigas will appear on every table precisely on 9:00PM. All of these food items are brought to you exclusively by Bistro at Atwater, one of the Founder’s Family beloved and trusted restaurants. If any food options are off-limits due to allergies, being vegan or vegetarian, please give hosts a heads up to prepare an exclusive dish for you. We want everyone to enjoy themselves.
Desserts: Do you have a sweet tooth? Luckily, we have that taken care of you. You can expect Flan, Churros, Tres Leches Cake, Crema Catalana (Spanish Crème brulée), Tarta de Manzana Casera (Apple Tart), Goxua (Spanish Tiramisu), Bunuelos de Viento (Fritters), and Mantecados (anise-scented drop cookies).
Drinks: Courtesy of Le Rouge in Ventura, the staff of bartenders will be at your beckoning call and with an exclusive, personalized menu of drinks will be showcased on the bar and every table. Bartenders can make ALCOHOLIC and NON-ALCOHOLIC options of these drinks. Please specify to your serving staff on their roundabouts to your table. 
Activities: Due to the lack of cell phones for this event, if you would like your pictures to be taken, photographers and photo-booths ─ three in total ─ will be scattered around the ballroom so you, your partner, or your friends can snap pictures together for memory sake! Let’s be real, you don’t want to forget anything that happens tonight.
Out of Character Information:
The time is finally here….. our first event for Catalina. It’s been a long time coming but we finally made it happen. The group has been open for over a month and a few days, give or take, we thank everyone for being kind and patiently waiting for us to the ball rolling. It had been a chaotic couple of weeks in the beginning, but things are starting to look bright as we all indulge in this group journey together. More will be coming your way, and that’s a definite promise. You can take my words, Admin Steph, to heart if I ever break my promise. Calling myself out in writing this OOC portion.. you bet! While I want to keep this message short and straight to the point, there’s a lot of detail provided in this event for all of you to read over. So I remind you all to read carefully, send us any messages if you have any concerns and worries ─  because we are here to assist you all! 
Have fun with this event! I love events because it gives me the ability to get out of my comfort zone, in a different element, and interact with other muses on the dashboard that we haven’t before. I will say... carefully watch out for more information coming forward with the event because we are going over the top with Catalina’s first event to hit it off with a BOOM. Enough of the rambling, let’s get on with the other important information as well. Please take the time to read thoroughly through the information provided below: 
Beginning Date: Saturday, January 25th ─ 12PM CST / 1PM EST / 6PM GMT. 
Ending Date: Saturday, February 1st ─ 5PM CST / 6PM EST / 11PM GMT.
Event Threads: Sunday, February 2nd ─ 5PM / 6PM EST / 11PM GMT. Have all event threads completed by this date and time.
Previous Threads: We kindly ask all non-event related threads to be wrapped up or put on hold for the event, just so everyone can focus on their event threads with no other worries. If you have previous threads that you’d like to continue after the event, please draft them before the start of the event so you don’t lose them!
Acceptances: No acceptances will be held during this event. We’ll be bypassing January 27th (Monday) and January 31st (Friday). It gives us, the admins, to enjoy the event with our members. While we’ll still be checking the main and updating the application count and answering any questions coming in, our activity may be fleeting. 
Starters: All starters must be tagged #catalina: starter and #catalina: founders day ball. Please remember, once there becomes a certain amount of event starters in the tag, you must respond to THREE STARTERS before posting your own. Group rules’ still apply during events.
Tags: Any edit, such as your character’s outfit of choice for the event can be tagged #catalina: founders day ball and #catalina: media! All edits will be reblogged on @catalinamedia. 
Lastly but most importantly: Remember to have fun! Allow yourself to have fun, reach out to other members, and allow organic connections to take over.
Once you read over everything, hit that heart to spread the love!
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