#he looks at the ring with a soft smile. wow swan likes rings too!!

[mccallhero]

favourite ouat scenes: 34/?

[since0202]

Chapter 2

There was cool air blowing over Grace’s face when she pulled her eyes open. She pulled in a deep breath as her eyes darted around the room to take in everything. For a brief moment, she didn’t realize where she was. The darkness of the room crushed in around her and the familiar shapes were shifting menacing blobs. 

Grace pulled herself up and rested on her elbows. Cold sweat freckled her forehead and beaded through her hair. Low, blue evening light flooded her shared room. 

How long have I been out? 

The white and black Quileute blanket was pulled up around her waist. She wasn’t sure how it had gotten there. Had someone covered her or had she pulled it up over her in her sleep? 

For a moment, Grace tried to recall what she had seen right before she went out. She was pretty sure she’d seen her father’s face, but didn’t think anything of it as she usually had visions of her dad as she fell asleep. The moment between her and Edward escaped her at this moment, whether that was her own mind trying to protect itself or something else was unclear. 

She swung her legs over the side of her bed and tested her weight on her legs. Feeling fine, she stood up and slowly made her way downstairs. Charlie was parked in front of the TV watching some fishing championship show. He glanced over at her as she walked past. 

“Didn’t know you were here, were you upstairs?” he asked. 

“Uh, yeah, I fell asleep I guess.” Grace’s throat scratched and she excused herself to the kitchen to get some water. As she filled the glass, she had sudden flashes of her interaction with Edward. She closed her eyes tightly, a painful grimace pulling across her face as the light from these flashes were blinding. Grace leaned with her back against the edge of the sink and gulped down the glass of water. 

Just as she finished, a shrill ring came from the left–the landline. Grace eyed it for a moment, skepticism furrowing her brow. 

“Can you grab that, Gracie?” Charlie yelled from the living room. Grace took one more beat and then shot her arm out for the phone. She felt like she knew who it was before she even answered it. 

“Swan residence.” Her voice was smoother, but with a lower cadence to it, smokey and soft. 

“Grace.” 

Silence. Breath caught in her throat cutting her means to speech. 

“Grace?” Billy’s familiar, warm voice echoed on the other end. 

“Yes. Hi.” Grace finally managed to push out. 

“It’s good to hear your voice. I’ve been meaning to come by the house and see you but our truck is having some issues running. Jake is fixing it, but I wanted to see how you were settling it.” His voice was tinged with emotion, she could hear it. She could feel it, even as far away from the rez as she was. She could feel it and she could feel a pull coming from the other line. 

“I- I’m fine Billy, thanks for checking in.” her voice slightly cracked as she spoke his name out loud. 

“Oh, Gracie-” It seemed like he could feel her emotions too. It was too much. Right now it was way too much. 

“Listen, thanks for calling, but I was just about to start cooking dinner and I have some reading to catch up on. School’s starting soon and I want to be on top of things...for mom. So I- I have to go.” The words hurried out and away from her like a runaway train. If she paused for too long, a sob would overwhelm her and she didn’t want that to happen. 

“Right. Listen, about school….If you wanted to come to school on the rez, it might be an easier transition. You know you’d be welcome and it might be good to reconnect-”

“Thanks Billy, but I really have to go.” She hung up. Guilt flooded through her instantly. Her hand hovered over the rehooked receiver for a moment before she pulled away and jerked open the fridge. 

“Charlie, you hungry?” She yelled from the kitchen, trying to practice control in her voice. 

“Uh, yeah, sure! Thanks Grace.” he called back. 

She wiped one fallen tear from her cheek and got to work. 

-----

August 

The first week of school was upon her. She had been trying to clear the jitters rushing through her for the past month. 

July had passed without incident and August was much of the same. Bella had invited her to go hiking a couple of times and they even went to Port Angeles for a bookstore run together. Edward had made himself scarce since that first day they had met. Grace had been concerned at first and worried that she had offended him somehow or that he didn’t like her. 

During her trip to Port Angeles with Bella, she asked her about it. 

“What do you mean?” Bella asked, feigning surprise. 

“I mean, I don’t know, I just haven’t really seen him. You always skip off to be with him and by the time I come downstairs he’s like halfway out the door. Is it something I said?” Grace placed a loose piece of hair behind her ear. She had opted for pulling her hair up into a messy bun and some pieces hung in strands around her face. 

“Grace, that’s definitely not what’s happening.” Bella responded, shaking her head and smiling. Grace narrowed her eyes. 

“Then what’s happening?” She asked. Intuitive as usual. Bella tripped over an uneven step in the sidewalk and looked down abruptly. When she looked up, she pointed to a shop ahead of them. 

“Let’s check out this place!” Grace had let it go for now, but she realized that there was definitely a reason he was keeping her distance. She just wasn’t sure why. 

----

The Sunday night before her first day at Forks High, Grace was in the bathroom braiding her hair into two soft plaits. She wanted to make a good impression and part of any good impression at a new school was making sure you only stood out in good ways. 

For Grace, one of the best features she liked about herself was her hair. She understood how typical that was, but it was something that connected her to everything she wished to forget and yet she loved it. Her black hair was shiny and coarse and it fanned out around her face announcing itself first as her most prominent feature. It fell straight down her back most often, but in the damp of Forks, her hair had a slight wave to it which she could enhance using braids her mother taught her when she was younger. 

Her mother loved her hair and had spent countless hours throughout her childhood combing it with her fingers and a brush and braiding it expertly through her slender fingers. 

Grace caught her eyes in the mirror and slowly combed through the loose ends of her hair with her fingers, carefully braiding each piece. Bella climbed the steps and rested in the doorframe of the open bathroom. 

“Hey, so Edward usually gives me a ride to school in the mornings, but I was thinking we could just take my truck since it’s your first day. Sound good?” 

Grace turned and gave her a quick smile. “Yeah, thanks.” 

More confirmation of him avoiding her. Well, he couldn’t avoid her forever, they had AP Chem together. 

The morning drive into school was easy, if a little dreary. The hum of Bella’s truck was comforting. Bella had promised to show her around to her classes and introduce her to the group of friends she had at school. I was surprised when she mentioned friends other than Edward seeing as she only ever spent time with him that summer. Regardless, Grace would be thankful for new people. 

When they parked, Bella’s eyes rested over Edward’s Volvo parked a few rows away. He was waiting on the steps for her. A light drizzle began misting from the sky. Bella couldn’t help but smile and Grace couldn’t help but feel happy for her. This guy, however intense, seemed to bring out the brightest parts of Bella. 

They both popped open their doors simultaneously and slung their bags over their shoulder. Grace smoothed down the frizz forming on her wavey black hair and was pulling her sleeves down when she heard  joyful exclamation from Bella. 

“Jake!” Grace’s head shot up and her eyes darted around the parking lot. Maybe this was some school friend. But once Grace rested her eyes on the warm, broad figure of Jacob Black, she knew who Bella was addressing. 

Though taken by surprise, Grace couldn’t help but feel a warm, calm pulse through her. Bella bounded toward Jake and Grace hesitated. Jake cracked an overwhelming smile, emanating glee as Bella threw her whole body at him to catch despite the raised looks she was getting. He embraced her and Grace, head up, clutching her backpack trudged forward on the weight pavement. 

“What are you doing here?” Bella asked, the smile still plastered across her face. He returned the smile in kind and nodded toward Grace, only glancing briefly at her before gluing his eyes back to Bella. 

“My Dad wanted me to drop off a good luck gift for Grace, so I thought I’d swing by.” Bella blew out a breath of happy air and peered around Jake to meet Edward’s gaze. Jake looked over his shoulder, unimpressed and seemingly undisturbed. Edward was keeping his face smooth, but Grace could feel what felt like jealousy coming from his eyes. Bella hesitated and then patted Jake on the arm and with a “It was good to see you, come by soon!” she skipped off across the parking lot, leaving Grace facing a towering Jake. 

“Hey,” his voice was friendly, warm, uninvested. Grace pulled her backup up a little bit, her eyes falling to the ground. 

“Hey” she returned. 

“You haven’t come by the rez. My dad was hoping you’d stop by.” he relayed coolly. 

“Yeah, sorry. Just been busy getting ready for my new life.” She gestured around her. Jake smirked. 

“Right, well anyway. I’ve been tasked with dropping this off.” He unfurled his right hand before her. In it was an intricately braided cedar bracelet, dotted with green and auburn bloodstone. Grace’s mouth automatically fell open at the incredible detail woven through the patterned bracelet. This was something her father once showed her how to make when she was little but the art of it escaped her now. 

“Wow.” she breathed. She could feel tears coming to her eyes  and took a step back to look up at Jake to steady herself. She didn’t know why, but this felt like what she needed. To look upon a familiar face, like her own and feel the pull of home and it’s comfort. Jake held her gaze for a moment, his dark eyes swimming with mystery. 

“Here.” He closed the gap between them and deftly encircled her wrist with the bracelet. He tied it off with a quick braid, mirroring the pattern of the bracelet and then gently raised her wrist and lowered his head to meet it. She could feel his warm breath move across the delicate skin of her wrist and just the hint of his lips brushing the base of her palm as he took the long loose thread in his mouth and bit it clean off. 

“There.” He smiled, satisfied with his work and letting her hand go quickly. 

Grace couldn’t take her eyes from the bracelet for a bit as she tried to hush the well of emotion budding inside her. She took a deep breath and smiled up at Jake, feeling more whole than she had in awhile. 

“Thanks.” 

“Of course.” he shoved his hands in his pocket taking a step back and retreating somewhat. “Come by sometime. I don’t know how long I can keep Billy at bay with these faulty repairs I’m pulling.” He ducked his head and jogged off waving to Bella as he passed. 

Faulty repairs? Was he buying her time? But why? She watched him disappear down the street toward his Rabbit and hop in a drive off. Every cell in her body felt pulled in the direction Jake was driving off in, but Grace planted her feet, wrenched her gaze up to meet Bella’s and a seemingly bristled Edward, and moved toward the high school. 

This can work. She repeated to herself. It had to. 

[ohmightydevviepuu]

the last test and proof / part four

oh hey hai guess what we’re still here celebrating @profdanglaisstuff.   A VERY MERRY UNBIRTHDAY, etc.  ❤

@katie-dub and @thisonesatellite again deserve thanks for their insights, as ever.  @shireness-says and the NO!  CURSE!  RENAISSANCE!!

part one | part two | part three | AO3

Things Emma and Hook Haven’t Talked About Yet:

1 - Neal 2 - The time she’d left him with a giant 3 - The time he’d left her in a cell 4 - Milah 5 - True. Love’s. Kiss.

The time he left her in a cell.

Okay, but.

Hook had left her. He’d left her, locked her in a cell and she could still hear the malice in his voice, the way it dripped from every letter, from every syllable. Emma closed her eyes and could hear it, the bite and the anger when he said, The time for that is done.

When Emma looked into his eyes and understood exactly what her mistake might cost her.

Just as I am done with you.

She rolled over, the sheet slipping away from her in the bed that wasn’t hers, sunlight streaming in through the open curtains, and waited. She waited for that feeling, that feeling in the pit of her stomach that always told her to run--but there was only the feeling she got when she thought she’d have to leave, like she was missing something. Home.

Emma got up from the bed and looked for her jeans on the floor, her jeans and her shirt and her underwear, and thought again about the qualities of a werewolf’s hearing because she was in one of the rooms at the B&B, the room that--apparently--Granny had given to Killian so he could “use the facilities” or whatever, like Emma even believed that.

Granny had a crush and Granny liked to look and Granny totally had a plan and they had played right into it which was fine. Great, even. Orgasm(s) and Feelings and she had kissed him and she hadn’t made out with someone like that since--ever, god, just lying there and feeling the other person against her as the kisses went from sweet to sexy and back again, her heart pounding as his eyelashes brushed against her cheeks and she felt the softness of his hair in her fingers.

Killian was gone but there was a note on the table with a little swan drawn at the top and the words i’ll return soon, please stay as long as you like and a little hook drawn underneath and next to the note was a cup of coffee mixed with exactly the right sugar-to-coffee ratio and a generous splash of milk. It was still hot.

Neal had never learned how she took her coffee.

Speak of the devil: Neal was in the diner, in a booth with their son and a plate of French fries between them. Emma watched them and couldn’t stop herself imagining the same scene playing out with Killian at the table, probably teaching Henry how to cheat at dice or poker or whatever games pirates played when they gambled. She couldn’t stop herself imagining another version of the scene, between Hook and Baelfire on the decks of the Jolly Roger where he’d apparently stayed for a time in Neverland.

Teaching him to fight with a cutlass that sat in his cabin some two hundred years later.

Neither of them ever talked about it, but Hook had taught Neal to sail and to play cards and to pick locks, never break in without a plan to break out and all of that; Hook had cared for him, maybe even loved him. Knew him well enough to decipher the drawings on the cave wall, port and starboard and a hook and an abandoned accounting of time when all hope was lost. Only that last one Killian knew the same way Emma knew, from painful personal experience. The look you get when you’ve been left alone.

They were--all of them--sentimental; Killian with the cutlass and Baelfire with his scrawled memories and Emma with the weight of an old keychain around her neck like an albatross.

They were, all of them, Lost Ones.

Emma slid into the booth next to Henry and grabbed a fry. (Wondered if Killian knew she preferred onion rings.) Met Neal’s look as it shifted from a smile to something less pleasant--yes, Neal, sex hair was a thing, too bad they so rarely got to do it in a real bed with so many orgasms; Emma smirked and raised her eyebrow.

Henry, smart kid that he was, excused himself to go to the counter and sit with Ruby, climbing over the divider in his haste to escape.

“Jesus, Em,” Neal muttered.

“Don’t be a dick, Neal,” Emma snapped.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine, how about I just break into your room and--”

“I was right about her.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Neal said.

“None of this is okay,” Emma said. “You showing up here acting like Henry’s father--”

“I am Henry’s father!”

“Do you even care at all about me, what it’s like for me having you here, the mess it’s making with Regina--”

“So the Evil Queen gets a say?”

“She’s his mother,” Emma said, exasperated. “He loves her.”

“And Hook? You don’t know what I know about him.”

“So tell me. Tell me what happened.”

Neal ran his hand through his hair and looked around and said, “Emma, he killed my mother.”

Emma’s response was immediate. “No, he didn’t.”

“As good as--he might as well have torn her heart out himself!”

“Seriously?”

“He wanted to kill my father,” Neal said. “He tore my family apart.”

“Neal.” Emma tipped her head to the side. “You know that’s not true. Your family--they were a disaster. They left you. Both of them. You told me that.”

“So that’s how it is now,” Neal said. “A good screw and you’re just--”

“Fuck you, Neal.”

“--is that what he told you, now you’re just making excuses for what he did, apologizing for him after--”

“Wait, what?”

“Come on, Emma, you know he tried to pull this with me the other day. He wanted to talk. About his regrets or some bullshit. You know I wished we could have been a family, Bae.” Neal rolled his eyes and suddenly Emma knew exactly what happened.

Not on the Jolly Roger. Only Neal and Killian would ever truly know that, but--in the cells.

And, well, maybe on the Jolly Roger. Because this--this was what Neal did: he lashed out, he pushed, he blamed everyone but himself. It’s what she did, too, and once upon a time it had been something they’d had in common, that fuck-the-world mentality.

And Killian--he’d pushed back. Let his anger overtake him, because that’s what he did, that’s how he coped, how he covered up his hurt and his pride and that’s what she’d seen in his eyes when he’d looked at her all just as I am done with you.

Disappointment.

And it was so easy, wasn’t it, to play down to expectations; Hook left her because she left him and now--

“Neal,” she said. “I can’t live in the past anymore.”

“You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”

“No. I’m not.” Emma shrugged. “The time for that--it’s done. You know that. I want to stop running.”

“You think Captain Hook is going to stay here, with you?”

She did. She believed.

The door opened and every head in the diner turned.

Not Emma’s. She didn’t look away from Neal, couldn’t, really, not before she said this: “No, Neal. I believe that Killian Jones is going to stay here. With me.”

And then she turned and the fry in her hand dropped onto the plate and her mouth fell open because Killlian-fucking-Jones had just walked into the diner like he’d stepped off of the pages of, like, GQ or something--in perfectly-fitted blue jeans and black boots and a red partially-unbuttoned Henley under a black vest and a black leather blazer.

A leather blazer.

And Emma didn’t miss the coat at all because--that view, it deserved to be on display. Wow. Did it ever. Granny was gonna break her neck, seriously.

Killian Jones walked in, not Captain Hook, and Tink trailed in behind him clutching a bag in her hand and looked around and saw Emma and winked and waved and gave her a smile, all, It’s good, right and fuck, yeah. It was. Killian turned back to Tink and followed the direction she was looking and saw her with Neal and Emma didn’t even think.

She left the French fry on its plate and stood up and walked straight over to him and this part would get easier, right? They’d figure out the routine and the comfort level but right now she just wanted to touch him, to let him know that she was there.

She understood.

She’d already known but now he was there in the clothes and she understood.

“Hello, beautiful,” she said and watched the smile blossom on his face.

Killian Jones was going to stay here. With her.

--

@optomisticgirl @spartanguard @kmomof4 @stahlop @carpedzem @karl0ta @captain-emmajones @mariakov81 @therealstartraveller776 @klynn-stormz @withaheartfulloflove @gingerchangeling​ @scientificapricot​

[scarlettwitcher]

Úlfur Minn Part Two

Request: by @laneygthememequeen: Hello lovely! I just saw that youre open to requests and are itching to write something for soft boi geralt! If you’re open to it, can I request a geralt x reader where reader seems like super innocent but is like an actual warrior/badass and he’s just like in awe. Or maybe where the reader is in like a dress for some reason and she usually doesn’t wear dresses because they’re inconvenient for fighting and ends up having to fight in the dress. take care and I hope you have a wonderful day💖

Summary: After Jaskier is finally able to convince Geralt to be his bodyguard for Pavetta’s betrothal dinner, shit goes down and Geralt has to make the decision of whether or not he should tell Y/n how he really feels.

Characters:  Geralt, Reader, Jaskier, Calanthe, Eist, Mousesack, Pavetta, Duny, mentions of secondary characters in the show.

Word Count: 3140

Warnings: angst, fighting, mentions of blood, cursing, slight fluff, canon typical warnings

Author’s Note: HOLY CRAP! The love I got for this series was crazy! Thank you all for your support. I’m getting this part out earlier than I usually do since I am going to be busy tonight. I really hope you guys like part two as much as part one. As always, shoutout to my home girl @queenxxxsupreme for being the amazing human she is for helping me! My requests are open, so challenge me and make me write angsty fluff. My taglists are also open so just send me a message if you’d like to be on any list! Happy reading and as always, feedback is always welcome! Love all y’all!

Previously on Úlfur Minn...

“You're not a prude Y/n.” You stood and took a deep breath as you walked around the room with pensive thoughts clouding your head. “Look, I was able to get you a rather beautiful dress and I might've bedded a hairdresser...She agreed to help.” You frowned at Jaskier as you quickly shook your dress.

“Dress? Oh no, no, no. I don't like dresses. You know this Jask.”

“You're gonna have to deal with it Y/n. If Calanthe can wear a dress, then so can you.” You groaned loudly at him as he laughed softly. You nodded at him to show you the dress and thus, you all prepared to attend the dreaded event.

Now...

If you weren’t so occupied trying not to trip on your dress, you would’ve noticed the way Geralt was staring intensely at you. He would never say it to the Bard but the dress he picked for you was perfect. It was a deep red, almost maroon color with a tight corset in the middle. The neckline plunged dangerously close to your chest and the shoulder straps we're hanging to the sides of your arms, the long sleeves skin tight until they reached your hand where it attached to a ring you placed around your fingers. The hairdresser had curled and picked up your hair on the sides, with small jeweled clips holding your hair up. And for jewelry, you opted to wear a small simple necklace Geralt had given you years before. He couldn't help watching you every second he had. 

Jaskier walked in and watched everyone before nodding towards Geralt. “Right, so stick close to me, look mean and pretend you’re a mute. Can’t have anyone finding out who you actually are.” 

“Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!.... And Y/n of Skellige!”

“Oh, shit.”

Mousesack walked towards the three of you and smiled widely. “I haven’t seen you since the plague.”

“Good times, Mousesack.”

Mousesack started laughing as he looked at Geralt, shaking his head. “I’ve missed your sour complexion. I feared this would be a dull affair, but now the White Wolf is here, perhaps all is not lost.” He looked at Geralt’s clothes and frowned. “Why are you dressed like a sad silk trader? Geralt looked at Jaskier with irritation.

“What?”

“And Y/n, darling! Where have you been hiding yourself?” You blushed softly and shrugged as you hugged Mousesack tightly. He pulled back to look at you but kept you in his arms. “You always get more beautiful every time I lay my eyes on you especially with that dress." Mousesack took a second to let his eyes wander over your form and you felt yourself cowering just a bit under his gaze, your cheeks flushed.

You could never get used to the way men looked at you. "My oh my, thank the gods for it.” You blushed darkly and giggled as you shook your head. 

“It's nice to see you too, Mouse. It's nice to see you never change.”

“Don't tell me you've been traveling with this grumpy man.” You giggled as you looked at Geralt. The way he was looking at you and Mousesack confused you. He looked…. angry, almost jealous.

“He’s actually great company. I enjoy traveling with the Witcher.” Mousesack looked at you before looking at Geralt and then returning his gaze to you, a knowing smirk appearing on his features.

“ Witcher, walk with me.” With that, you took your leave with Jaskier as Geralt watched you walk away. He grunted quietly at Mousesack before reluctantly following him, not wanting to part from you. From the moment you entered the room, the men’s eyes were following your form. He didn't like the way they looked at you. Eyes full of lust and admiration. In Geralt's mind, only he could look at you so but he could never act on his jealousy. He had to step back and watch you alongside everyone else.

“....gen crown for years. A tad rough around the edges, but they’re of the earth. Like me.” Geralt's mind quickly caught back up to the conversation, listening to Mousesack as he spoke.

“Old and crusty. How long before this horse trading is done? I find royalty best taken in…” Geralt looked visibly uncomfortable as he watched all of the royals with caution. “small doses.”

“I wouldn’t count on leaving before dawn. These suitors will vie all night for Princess Pavetta’s hand. Marrying into this monarchy is a mighty prize. Who wouldn’t want to be king of the most powerful force in the land?”

“Hm. So, which one of these little shits is your coin on?” 

“Come with me, there’s much for you to see. It’s not a fair bet. That red-headed scanderlout over there, Crach An Craite, will marry Pavetta. The Lioness has already arranged it with the boy’s uncle, Eist Tuirseach. No one would dare make a move on an alliance that powerful.”

Geralt's eyes drifted to Eist before a small smirk painted his lips.“Handy with a blade.” But soon it dropped and was replaced with a scowl as he watched the man make his way to you, watching you laugh at something he said. “And with women, too.” Mousesack followed where his sight was set and laughed, shaking his head.

“All an act. Queen Calanthe refused his proposal three times after King Roegner died, despite the two of them gliding around each other like courting swans.” Geralt watched as you finished speaking with Eist and made your way over to Jaskier as he was cornered by one of the lords. You immediately moved in front of Jaskier, defending him from the lord. The lord grabbed your arm roughly and pulled you away from Jaskier. “No, no, no. She was not living in her husband’s shadow again.” Geralt watched angrily and left Mousesack hanging as he made his way over to you and Jaskier. He reached you first and checked you over silently for a moment before moving to Jaskier’s side.

“Something about you reminds me of a scoundrel I once saw fleeing my wife’s chambers!"

“Um, well…”

“Drop your trousers.”

“What?”

“I didn’t get a proper look at the little shit’s face, but that pimply arse I’d remember anywhere.”

“Well… uh, uh… Ah, Geralt.”

“Forgive me, my lord. This… happens all the time. It’s true, he has the face of a cad and a coward. But, truth be known… he was kicked in the balls by an ox as a child.”

“Well, that’s…tr- true.”

“Apologies.” The lord pulled out a coin with shaky hands and tossed it at the bard. “Here, drown your… sorrows on me, eunuch.” The lord turned to look at you and nodded softly. “And praise you for… sticking with this bard.” You looked at the man wide eyed as he walked away.

“Oh, wow. Thank you. Thank you so much. First of all, you hog all the fanfare, then you go and ruin my courtly reputation.”

“I saved your life. You’re on your own from here on. Try not to get any daggers in your back before dawn.” Geralt took a step back and you joined his side. It was the safest place for the night and you had noticed how uncomfortable he had been since the beginning. You slowly reached up and held his arm as he looked down at you. He clenched his jaw, watching your sweet eyes try to read his. Your presence alone was all the comfort he needed. He grunted at you and moved a tad bit closer to you as his eyes drifted back up to watch the lords. Some were watching the both of you and Geralt glared at them. He felt you shuffle next to him and he knew you hated the attention and decided to distract you and keep your mind off of it. “You look...nice.”

Your eyes snapped up to look at his, wide with surprise. “R-really?” Geralt nodded as he reached up to push a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He bit his lip before moving to look away from you. 

“Thank yo-”

“You lie, you little shite! You never faced so much as a bad meal in your life, never mind a manticore.”

“I’ve had manticores thrice as fat and ugly as you perish under my steel!”

“Under your bullshit, more like. How many stings has it got, then?”

“Two.” You felt Geralt huff a snort next to you and you smiled before whispering. “Are you going to say anything or should I?”

“You? The Y/n wants to say something in a room full of lords?” You mock glared at Geralt and bit your lip.

“Hah! Go away and shite! It’s five. I know.” 

“Don't taunt me Úlfur minn. I would when it comes to defending those I deeply care about.” You whispered. You didn't notice the way your words took hold of Geralt's heart and the way he looked at you, too busy at watching the lords argue.

One of the servants alerted Queen Calanthe of Geralt's presence and noticed the both of you in the corner, whispering and laughing with each other. She smirked and dismissed the servant. 

“I’ve actually killed one.”

“You-” Before the men could fight, Calanthe’s powerful voice echoed across the room, commanding the attention to her. “Enough! We have a renowned guest here tonight. Perhaps he can declare which esteemed lord is telling the truth.” Everyone’s attention had turned to Geralt and unfortunately, you. You cowered under everyone's gaze and Geralt moved enough to be able to shield you behind him. He hated the way the men looked at you as much as you did.

“Neither.”

“Are you calling me a liar, old man?”

“Aah. The Butcher of Blaviken bleats utter nonsense.” Geralt felt the way you tensed at the title and he knew you were about to defend him. Geralt looked up and caught Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier shook his head softly as his eyes drifted to you. Geralt swallowed thickly as he clenched his jaw. He slowly reached his arm behind him, out of everyone’s view for you to hold. You held his hand gently as he spoke.

“Perhaps the lords encountered… rare subspecies of manticore.”

“Perhaps our esteemed guest would like to entertain us with how he slayed the elves at the edge of the world?” There were loud cheers and even some men raised their mugs towards Geralt.

“There was no slaying. I had my arse kicked by a ragged band of elves. I was about to have my throat cut when Filavandrel let me go.” Everyone groaned as they looked at the Witcher in disbelief. 

“But the song..”

“Yeah, the song.”

“At least when Filavandrel’s blade kissed my throat, I didn’t shit myself. Which is all I can hope for you, good lords. At your final breath, a shitless death.” Geralt raised his cup towards the room as he heard you snort behind him. “But I doubt it.” You couldn't help yourself and you lost yourself to a fit of giggles and Geralt found himself smiling as he took a drink of his ale.

“It would have been your blade at Filavandrel’s throat had you been there, Your Majesty. Not that any elven bastards would crawl from their lair to meet you on the field.” Calanthe’s eyes left the rather intimate scene in front of her to briefly glance at Eist before they returned to Geralt. She smirked as she watched him be protective of you. She found it interesting and wanted to know more.

“Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night. Come, Witcher. Take a seat by my side while I change.” Geralt tensed next to you but you rested a hand on his back before whispering for only Geralt to hear.

“Go. Don't worry about me Úlfur minn.”

“Hm.”

You watched as Geralt was escorted to the Calanthe’s royal table. He kept his eyes on you as he sat. You looked around nervously. One of the lords approached you and tried to flirt with you. You were kind and respectful but tried your best to not lead the man on. “Damn this cursed thing. I’d as soon see this night out in armor.”

“As would I.” Geralt grunted out as his eyes never strayed away from you.

“Indeed. Tell me how does a witcher finds himself at my daughter’s wedding feast dressed like a…?” Calanthe laughed before nodding towards you. “And with such a fair maiden like her?” 

This made Geralt look away from you and at Calanthe but chose to ignore the latter part of the question. “I’m protecting the bard from vengeful royal cuckolds.”

“Hm! Idiots, the lot of them. Still, I’m glad of your company, which could prove handy. I have no doubt blood will spill here tonight.”

“Ah, save the good Queen’s breath. I’m not for hire as a bodyguard.”

“You were hired just so by the bard.”

“I’m helping the idiot free of his coin.”

“And he’s the idiot? I’m simply saying, surely if all goes to hell here tonight, I can count on you to strategically remove certain irritants that may present themselves? I’d do so myself, only I’m bound to uphold an artifice of decorum and… fairness."

“Hey. I can’t help you.” Geralt’s eyes returned back to you. You were now alone as you looked around the room, feeling lonely. You always hated being alone at events when both of your guys got occupied. You couldn’t go with Jaskier and Geralt was busy with the queen who didn't invite you to sit at the table with them. It was enough to tell you you weren't welcome. You looked up and your eyes locked with Geralt’s. You watched how his face softened as he looked at you. 

“So perilously direct. As Queen, I could command it.”

“If I were one of you subjects.”

“I could torture you so very slowly into compliance.” Geralt looked away from you and at Calanthe as he smirked and you easily could've taken it for heavy flirting.

“Her Majesty will do as she wishes. I’m not for turning.”

“Oh, come now. Everyone has their price.” You felt a painful tug at your heart reminding you that he wasn't yours. He was only making sure his friend was okay. As you looked away, Geralt's eyes were back on you and he willed you to look back at him. Calanthe saw this and licked her lips, about to comment again on you when she was presented with Lord Peregrine of Nilfgaard.

You had decided you didn't want to watch anymore of the queen’s shameless flirting. You looked around for Mousesack and made your way over to him as Jaskier started singing one of your favorite songs. You tripped over the dress as you cursed quietly. God, how you hated dresses. Geralt felt his jealousy punch him straight in the face as he watched you laugh at something Mousesack said, obviously teasing you about your dress as he grabbed it, holding in his fingers. You were too innocent and wouldn't have noticed the intense flirting Mousesack was trying to do with you. It was one of the things he loved about you. You were always so innocent, everything was constantly going over your head. He knew it was due to how you were raised and ever since he met you all those years ago, he wanted to protect that innocence.

“How much more of this peacocking must I endure? This… All this because male tradition demands it. If I were a man, I could simply tell the whole lot of them to fuck off, declare outright who Pavetta should marry and have done with it. Or, better yet, let the poor girl decide her own fate.”

“Something tells me this isn’t the first time you’ve navigated the vagaries of male tradition. In fact, I’d wager you thrive on it.”

“Spoken as one who has navigated his own share of fools. Speaking of.” Calanthe pointed towards you as she watched Geralt glare at the druid who held your attention.

“Hm.”

“Tell me, Witcher, why are there so few of you left?”

“Hm.” Geralt sighed as he looked down at the table, knowing that distracting himself with conversation with the queen was better than to watch you with someone else. “It is no longer possible to create more of us, since the sacking of Kaer Morhen. Tell me, Your Majesty… why do you risk your life on the battlefield when you can rest on your throne?”

“Because there is a simplicity in killing monsters, is there not? Seems we are quite the pair, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt only grunted in response as he took a large sip of his drink. The silence was interrupted by a knight fighting a few guards at the entrance. Geralt watched with a scowl as the knight made his way to the center of the room, getting down on one knee.“Forgive my late intrusion, Your Majesty, and for the misunderstanding with your guards. Please! I come in peace. I need but one moment of your time. I am Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald and I have come to claim your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“A knight… of no renown… from a backwater hamlet… who dares to enter my court without revealing his face?” You glared at Calanthe’s words. You didn't really like the queen but at the moment, you couldn't contain your detest with her. She was hardly ever kind and it bothered you to no end. 

“I apologize, Your Majesty. A knight’s oath prevents me from revealing my face until the sounding of the twelfth bell.”

“Bollocks to that.” Eist took a step forward and tugged off Duny’s mask, dropping it in disgust. Everyone gasped as Calanthe stared at Duny, repulsed.

“Witcher, kill it.”

“No.”

“Whatever the price.”

“This is no monster.”

“I order you.”

“This knight has been cursed.”

“You’re as useless as the rest of them. Slay this beast!” Two guards stepped forward but Duny easily beat them as he turned back to Calanthe with desperation.

“Lioness of Cintra, I come to claim what is rightfully mine! Pavetta. By the Law of Surprise.” Before anyone could speak more, more guards appeared and attacked Duny. He carried himself easily as he defeated the guards around him, slashing at them. But as more guards entered the room, he became overpowered and was hit roughly in the face. He fell and rolled onto his back as he stared up at the guard holding a large axe over his head. He panted as he stared up at the guard with fear as he dripped blood from his lips. You growled out in anger at the queen’s disregard for the man’s life. You ran and grabbed his discarded sword as you stood over Duny. “NO!” The guard swung the axe and you swung the sword at the same time, cutting it in half as the axe fell into Duny’s hands. You swung your sword again, slitting the guards throat. He looked at you and nodded, before getting up and looking at all of the guards that surrounded the both of you. Geralt growled in anger at you for putting yourself in such a compromising position. You looked over at him and shook your head, telling him it wasn't the moment for him to scold you. He made his way to your side, almost hovering over you. 

“Kill them all!”

Forever Tags: @iwantthedean​ @authoressskr​ @sorenmarie87​ @reigningqueenofwords​ @goldenolaf25​ @giftofdreams​ @winchesterprincessbride​ @chelsea072498​ @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian​ @itakeawfultoawholenewlevel​ @fictionalabyss​ @gabby913​ @angelkurenai​ @sea040561​ @sleepylunarwolf​ @smoothdogsgirl​ @carryonmyswansong​ @feelmyroarrrr​ @evyiione​ @supersassyprobablysad​ @sofreddie​ @sis-tafics​ @nitelotus​ @trexrambling​ @dancingalone21​ @manawhaat​ @mermaidxatxheart​ @winchest09​ @ellen-reincarnated1967​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​ @just-another-busy-fangirl​ @lovebodymindstuff​ @backseat-of-deans-67chevy​ @chook007​ @akshi8278​ @evansrogerskitten​ @bringmesomepie56​ 

The Witcher Tags: @alwayshave-faith​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @queenxxxsupreme​ @stretchkingblog97​

Úlfur Minn Tags: @laneygthememequeen​ @saint-hardy​ @uncoolcloudyhead​ @katiejmac​ @justlovetoreadfics​ @writingthingsisdifficult​ 

[beyondcanon]

fanfic: a family wedding

wow. what a wild ride. how much i missed writing and didn’t even realize.

wynonna earp/wayhaught. Waverly and Nicole’s wedding turns everyone into a bridezilla. Complete. Read on AO3.

Read Chapter One

ii.

Jeremy is wearing all black, with an earpiece and clippings, fussing over a gigantic ice swan being carried by four large men/demons.

The statue wobbles and he squirms. "Careful!"

"You are not going to ruin this marriage, people! C'mon!"

The same old, beat-up blue pickup truck arrives, boxes and more boxes perched on top. Wynonna opens the door, leather jacket glistening in the cold autumn sun.  The wind blows her hair like a L'oreal ad and she takes off her sunglasses in slow motion.

"Nothing can go wrong with this amount of booze, Jeremy." She smiles, licking her upper lip and tapping the pickup's ceiling three times. "Trust me."

"I'll believe it when I see it and complete a thorough inventory."

Wynonna rolls her eyes, but there's no bite to it, much like getting used to your family's quirks as a destiny. She sips from her flask. "As long as I get quality control duty."

-

The bright sun wakes Nicole, stretching over her skin. She grunts and turns to find the other side of the bed... empty? Cold?

"Waverly?" Eyes darting open and reaching for her gun under her bed, she sits up in a rush.

Her soon-to-be-wife is sitting on the armchair, painting her toenails. The sun creates a halo across her hair; she smiles, the corner of her eyes crinkling. "Morning, baby."

Nicole lets out a shaky breath and hides her gun again. "Sorry, I-" She scoots closer to the edge of the bed. "I got scared for a moment."

Waverly offers her a soft, soft look. The soft pink robe reaches the floor as she walks the few steps between them. "I woke at the crack of dawn and couldn't sleep, thinking about marrying my best girl."

Hands on Waverly's hips, Nicole pulls her closer to stand between her legs. "Excited?"

"I painted my nails and did my eyebrows and my hair was such a mess," Waverly straddles Nicole's lap, "I had to do something about it, and then I re-wrote my vows twice, first in my head and then on a piece of paper, which I hid it from your curious eyes." She chuckles when Nicole hides her face in the crook of her neck and takes a deep breath.

"And here I was, thinking someone would wake up with a hangover."

"Never." Waverly huffs, squeezing Nicole's shoulders. "Then I started thinking about you, pretty face and great butt, but I couldn't bring myself to wake you up. You looked so cute and I want to marry you already," she whines.

Nicole pulls back and takes a long moment to look at Waverly's face, hand placing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"What are you thinking?" Waverly tries to read her expression and fails. "Are you having second thoughts?" Her eyes widen and Nicole blinks three times. The words stalling falling from her mouth in quick succession, barely a shred of a second to think, "Because that's totally normal for the bride or groom to get really nervous with such a big decision, and we decided to spend the night together so there's no one to calm you down besides me, which isn't going to help much, because I'm the girl that got you stuck here with a big responsibility and a ring on your hand and I-"

She's so cute. Nicole smiles and kisses her, gentle and sweet, one hand cupping Waverly's cheek. It does get her to stop babbling.

"I love you." She joins their foreheads and Waverly takes a deep breath, still a pout on her lower lip. She licks and kisses the pout away, scratching the back of Waverly's neck until she lets out the little sigh Nicole knows so well. "Wherever you go, I go. This is it, baby. You and me."

A loud knock startles them both. "Are you decent?"

Nicole grunts and throws her body back on the bed.

"And Wynonna." Waverly laughs. "Come in!"

Bottle in hand and reeking of whiskey, Wynonna stumbles in.

Nicole raises an eyebrow. "It's 10 am."

Wynonna waves and scoff. "I have something important to say." She stops in the middle of the room and looks at Waverly and Nicole.

"I don't want you to move out." She takes a deep breath. "I like having both of you around. It's... better. Safer. We haven't talked about it, but I know you're probably planning to move to Nicole's-"

"Hey," Waverly answers like she's trying not to scare a kitten. She gets up and gets closer to her sister. "You're not losing me."

"Us." Nicole sits up on the bed.

Wynonna takes a gulp and winces. "We can fix the house, get you more room, better locks, soundproof the entire place, anything you want."

"Wynonna," Waverly whispers, a hand on her sister's arm and eyes watering.

"We built something good, baby girl." Wynonna sighs. "All of us. Together."

Nicole looks at Waverly and they have an entire conversation between them.

She gets up to stand in front of Wynonna. "We'll always fight by your side." She grabs the bottle as Wynonna tries to take another sip. "I'm sure we can figure something out."

Wynonna takes the bottle back and shrugs. "Whatever. Just... think about it. It's not like I'm charging you rent or anything."

Waverly goes in for a hug, but Wynona scurries away without closing the door.

"That was..." Nicole breathes out. "Unexpected."

Wynonna peaks her head on the door. "I'm dealing with a lot of shit." She drinks from her bottle and leaves again.

-

The kitchen is a mess of pans, pots, and seasonings.

Rachel points at the table. "I've made you breakfast. Doc said you both need a full stomach to start the day." She shrugs like she doesn't even care. "He also said he expects you for Best Cowboy duties in 30min."

Waverly claps and does a little jump. "What are we having?"

"Vegan chocolate chip pancakes, scrambled tofu, tea, and a green smoothie for you." She places on the table a procession of dishes. "Real eggs with bacon, a cappuccino, and french toast for Nicole because she doesn't need to suffer the indignity of eating vegan on her wedding day."

They take a seat. "It looks amazing." Nicole smiles. "Thank you, Rachel."

"Yeah." Rachel grunts, taking powdered sugar and finishing the pancakes. "I figured I was your best shot at eating something edible."

It tastes every bit as good as it looks.

-

Nicole pulls Waverly by the waist until they are flush against one another. "Good luck with the best ladies." She steals a kiss, and then another.

"Good luck with the Best Cowboy." Waverly smiles, coy, messing with the lapel of Nicole's jacket. "Don't do anything too crazy."

Nicole could kiss the daylights out of her. "Can't wait to see you in a wedding dress."

"Oh, you're going to love it." Waverly's voice drops two octaves too low and Nicole shivers. "Later, gator." She pushes Nicole out the door and enters the house giggling.

Nicole looks around the front yard filled with people coming and going. Doc arrives from a distance.

She jumps when Mercedes screeches, further terrorizing the catering crew. "Unacceptable! Don't you people know how to fold a cloth napkin properly?"

She demonstrates three times and makes them prepare and place each one to perfection. A young boy tires and folds the wrong way.

Mercedes hisses. "I will kill you and your whole family."

The boy gets it right the second time.

Nicole mouths an apologetic "She doesn't mean it," even though she knows Mercedes does very much mean it.

Doc arrives, thankfully. "Let me take you away from the madness, Sheriff." He opens Charlene's door for Nicole.

"Not a moment too soon." Nicole jumps in.

-

Nedley, clean-shaven and dressed in a handsome wool suit, is waiting for them at Shorty's. "I took the liberty of getting the first round started." He points to the drinks on the counter.

"You know how to please a man," Doc sighs and takes his hat off, downing his whiskey in one gulp.

If that man isn't Wynonna's soulmate, no one is.

"How are you feeling?" Nedley helps Nicole out of her coat. "Getting the jitters?"

"Not really." Nicole walks with him towards the booze. "I wish the wedding started already. I can't wait."

"Young love." Nedley gives her a knowing smile. "Just a couple more hours, darling."

Nicole smiles back and grabs her drink.

-

The phone rings across the room.

Nicole rushes to it. "Is everything okay?"

"No demon, Sheriff." Wynonna scoffs. "With Peacemaker and Rosita, we're more than covered. Your girl, however, is having a little freak-out."

Waverly can be heard in the background. "I am perfectly reasonable!"

"Could you tell your woman you still want to marry her?"

Nicole bites back a smile. "Sure."

A moment later: "Hi, sweetie."

"I heard my best girl is having a little freakout."

"Am not."

Nicole can hear the adorable pout in her voice. "I can't wait to be married to your beautiful face, you know." She hums. "Watching you walk down the aisle. Having that ring on your finger."

Waverly sniffs. "Really?"

She overhears Wynonna's fake puking and Waverly's whispered "stop it".

"Mhmm. Celebrating with our family. Carrying you inside the bedroom and having my way with my wife."

Waverly sighs. "It feels so good when you say that."

"Wife. Partner. Love of my life." Nicole's voice is pure honey. "My wife, and no one else's."

Waverly purrs. "I can't wait, too. I bet you look so sharp."

Nicole smiles because she does: brown pants and vest, crisp white shirt, hair down in delicate waves. "I bet you look drop-dead gorgeous."

"Can we get married already?"

"Just one more hour, baby."

-

No trace of chaos and confusion when Nicole arrives:

Decoration in place, flowers everywhere, ginormous ice swan, blue sky smiling at her.

Jeremy greets them in a dark grey suit, earpiece still in place. "Welcome to your wedding, Nicole."

Arms locked with Doc, she smiles and allows Jeremy to lead them.

The guests stand up — the whole town, in their best Sunday attire.

Doc's firm hand over hers keeps hers from trembling. "One foot in front of the other. That's all there is to it."

The music begins: it’s Ella and Louis' Tenderly.

They walk slow and sure, locking eyes with the crowd as they pass.

The altar they made themselves over two laborious weeks looks perfect.

Nicole takes her place, Doc right behind her.

Heart thumping, mouth dry, she has no idea how much time passes before the music changes to Cheek to Cheek.

Waverly and Wynonna appear, arm in arm.

Waverly waves with a nervous smile, and they lock eyes. This is it.

Yes, Louis, her heart beats so she can hardly speak.

Her dress is so pretty. She's everything Nicole has ever dreamed of.

She dries a stubborn tear or two, breath caught.

Wynonna clears her throat. "Make an honest woman out of my sister, will you?" They take their time in their hug; this time it's not awkward. "I will skin you alive if you do anything to her and I will enjoy it."

"Noted." Nicole chuckles, squeezing Wynonna one last time before stepping back.

She offers a hand to Waverly, who takes it to climb the one step to stand in front of Nicole. "Gorgeous," she mouthes.

Waverly's brown eyes sparkle. "You're here."

She takes Waverly's hands. "I am."

Nedley begins his speech. He talks about union, love, and dedication. All Nicole sees is how Waverly's hair catches the light, the smell of lavender and honey, and the cool autumn breeze against her skin.

-

The silence falls thick, the air pregnant with expectation.

"Nicole, you turned me inside out since I first met you. Thank God Shorty didn't fix that tap." She gives a bright smile, squeezing Nicole's hand. "I never thought someone so generous, so loving, could exist, and yet here you are, standing in front of me. You give me more than I could ever hope to get out of this life. You see me." She makes a long pause. "I love every part of you. I promise you everything I am."

"Waverly..." She takes a deep breath. "You have the most kind, beautiful soul I have ever met. I'd be crazy if I didn't fall for you, if I didn't fight for us. Every time you look at me, my heart flutters with how much love I carry for you in my whole body." Her voice trembles. "I'll follow you wherever you go. I'll choose you, again and again, and again, as long as you'll have me. You are my destiny."

She slides the ring on Waverly's finger with trembling hands.

Waverly draws a sharp breath before taking the other ring and doing the same.

Nedley declares them officially married.

"Finally," Nicole sighs. She pulls Waverly close, turning and bending her backward before giving her a deep kiss.

The crowd cheers, fireworks exploding in the sky.

-

The food looks amazing, but Nicole wouldn't know.

It's a flurry of movement: greeting guests, shaking hands, Jeremy taking hundreds of photos.

Wynonna grabs the microphone and announces: "Let's get this party started!"

Rachel presses play and I Put a Spell on You comes on.

With a mischievous look, Waverly rips her dress to reveal a cooler, shorter dress underneath.

Nicole takes off her vest, throws it on Wynonna's face, and opens three buttons on her white shirt.

Waverly takes a few steps back, hips moving to the beat and finger calling Nicole forward.

She pretends to be busy rolling her sleeves up, eyes never leaving her wife.

Shoulders moving, steps in quick succession, Nicole follows. They circle each other, smiles broad and malicious.

One, two, three slow steps. Nicole pulls Waverly flush against her.

Waverly pushes her away and turns, only to be pulled back again.

That perfect ass grinds against Nicole, hand reaching to the back of her neck, "Just wait until I'm alone with you," she whispers in Waverly's ear and feels her shiver.

She grabs the hand on her neck and uses it to turn Waverly back to her again, bodies moving together in perfect sync.

"When you do," Waverly tells her, hungry eyes and lips parted, "you'll find I'm not wearing any panties."

Nicole almost misses a step.

-

The party roars, booze flowing. Rachel's impeccable setlist keeps everyone high, horny, and in the mood.

Soaked in whiskey and sweat, Nicole dances with her wife. A hand holds her glass up, a firm palm spread on Waverly's lower back, hips moving together.

She's everything Nicole can see, smell, feel.

Foreheads together, Waverly mouths the music against Nicole's lips, breaths mingling. Arms around Nicole's neck, she leans back, exposing that sexy neck and a dirty smile.

Nicole wastes no time kissing her pulse point, teasing with her teeth. Waverly grabs her hair, pulling her closer, whimpering.

"Baby," Nicole soothes the skin with her tongue. "I need to have you."

She gets a breathy moan. "And how are we going to make that happen?"

In the middle of her haze, Nicole assesses their surroundings. The house is filled with people to the brim, the front yard is full of people making out...

-

The music thumps on, muffled in the background.

Waverly jumps on Nicole, who promptly grabs her thighs and pushes her against the barn door. "My wife," she groans over and over again between kisses, biting Waverly's lower lip.

Waverly wraps her legs even tighter around Nicole's waist, grabbing her hair. "Baby, please." They moan in each other's mouths when their tongues meet, and it's not enough. "I need you three fingers deep, right now."

Nicole grunts, throbbing with want, taking Waverly to a pile of hay and settling on top of her. "Anything my girl wants," she pulls the dress down to kiss those perfect breasts, "she will get it." Her mouth latches on a nipple, sucking and biting and pulling just how Waverly likes it.

Waverly whines, nails sinking on Nicole's back. She spreads her legs further, so willing, dress riding up her thighs.

"You're so wet." Nicole sighs, running a slow finger through Waverly's folds. "Is that all for me?"

Waverly gasps and pulls Nicole closer. "All for you, baby. Just for you."

Nicole can't deny her any longer, two fingers slipping inside.

"Yes yes yes-", Waverly moans, hips canting when Nicole picks up the pace. "More, baby, more."

Gasping for air, Nicole adds a third finger. "So good," she mumbles, "So tight." Her voice strained, watching Waverly biting her lower lip in pure bliss.

She gets faster, rougher, taking it almost all out before thrusting inside again, feeling her wife pulsing around her fingers.

"You fuck me so good, baby," Waverly gasps, holding on to Nicole's shirt for dear life. "Only you," she moans, again and again.

"All mine." Nicole curls her fingers, hard kisses on Waverly's neck, as her wife gets even tighter, wetter, more desperate.

Waves comes with a sharp cry, tears falling, back arching.

Nicole stays inside her, kissing her earlobe softly as she whimpers.

"So good." Waverly kisses her lazy and slow, whimpering when Nicole takes her fingers away. "So good." She sighs, taking Nicole's hands and dutifully licking her fingers.

Nicole groans when Waverly starts sucking. "Don't make me fuck you again."

Waverly smiles. "Counting on that, baby."

Nicole leans in for another kiss.

-

Wynonna barges into the barn with a big, big smile. "Told you so!"

Waverly and Nicole scramble to cover themselves, behind some wooden boxes.

"Couldn't get past midnight, could you lovebirds?" She wiggles her eyebrows before leaving. "Pay up, losers!"

"Man, couldn't they wait another hour?" She hears Rosita. "I was counting on the money."

"Tell me about it. Could have been one hour earlier." Is that Doc? "Take it."

Nicole rolls her eyes, a grin on the corner of her mouth.

Waverly bumps shoulders with Nicole. "That's the life you chose." She starts getting dressed.

Nicole watches, everything else fading to the background. "It's the life I chose," she agrees, admiring the lean back of her wife and how her tousled hair moves.

Waverly reads her eyes and giggles, offering her hand. "C'mon, there's a whole party waiting for us."

Nicole closes the buttons on her shirt and lets Waverly pull her up.

She cups her wife's face for a long moment, basking in how she leans into the touch and closes her eyes.

Waverly wraps her arms around her, their breaths in sync.

[bumblesimagines]

What Happened?

Part 2

Request: Yes or No

You traced your fingers over the countless books Carlisle owned, eyes studying the covers and names until one caught your eye. You gently slid it out of the shelf, looking over the hardcover book and tilting your head. 

“‘The Circle In The Forest.’” You quietly read the title, furrowing your brows as you stared at the cover picture. A fairy ring. It looked familiar. You flipped open the book, eyes scanning over the words. 

“A good choice.” You flinched, looking at Esme. She gave a small smile, heels clicking as she approached you. You looked back down at the book, seeing the picture of a fairy. You turned the page, feeling your heart pick up a bit. 

“I always thought the ‘mark of a fairy’ was beautiful,” Esme commented, tracing the symbol. You would’ve thought so too if the symbol wasn’t an exact replica of your birthmark. Your mouth felt dry. 

“Where’s the bathroom?” You asked softly. 

“Just down the hall,” Esme replied. You nodded, leaving the study and heading down the hall. You found the bathroom and entered, closing and locking the door behind you. You stood in front of the mirror, raising your shirt and tugging your pants a bit down to look at your hip where your birthmark resided. Your mother had always said it looked like a triangle with a cross connected to the bottom. You had always thought that it was a weird birthmark. You looked at the picture in the book. They looked exactly alike. You heard gentle knocks on the door.

“Hey, uh, Sam’s back.” You heard Jacob say softly. 

“Can we talk?” You glanced at the window. You could squeeze through but you were in a house full of vampires and now two wolves. It’d be dumb to try. You fixed your clothes, closing the book and opening the door. Jacob gave you a smile. You saw the look in his eyes. The look of concern and curiosity. You swallowed, grabbing the book and following him. Sam was waiting outside. 

“So, what happened?” Carlisle asked. 

“I followed his scent to a two-story house. The backdoor was wide open and there was broken glass in the kitchen. I didn’t have to go upstairs to know there was a dead body.” Sam said. All eyes flickered over to you. You frowned, feeling judged. Surprisingly, Rosalie was the one who approached you. 

“Don’t look at them, look at me, what happened?” You opened and closed your mouth.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you,” Rosalie assured.

“H-he got mad and I got s-scared that… That he was gonna hurt me again and.. And I hit him with the glass and went upstairs and he chased me so I went into… into his room and I got his gun but I.. I didn’t mean to shoot him, I.. he was my dad, I didn’t wanna hurt h-him, I swear! I j-just wanted him to l-leave me alone-” You explained, stuttering and stumbling over your words. Rosalie hugged you, letting you cry into her shoulder. Your knees grew weak and Rosalie slowly let you onto the ground. You curled up against her, sobbing as she rubbed comforting circles on your back. She knew how it felt to be hurt by someone who was family. 

“I’ll contact Charlie in the morning, tell him what happened,” Carlisle said. You slowly started to calm down, holding the book close to your chest. Esme crouched down by you and Rosalie.

“Come on, sweetie, I’ll make you some tea.” Esme cooed. Rosalie slowly helped you up, taking you inside. You sat down at the table, watching Esme make the tea. You placed the book on your lap, looking down at it. You opened it, flipping through a few pages until you got to the page that spoke about a certain type of fairy. A Hobgoblin. You glanced up at Esme as she put the tea in front of you.

“We have a spare bedroom,” Esme said. You closed the book, grabbing the tea and following her upstairs and into the bedroom. You sat on the bed, sipping on the tea as you put the book on the nightstand. You finished the tea, putting it aside and looking at your ring, tracing the words.

“Mama, what does this mean?” You asked, pointing to the ring your mother wore. She gave a smile, tracing the words.

“It’s in Irish. It means ‘My Love’.”

“Mo gra?” She nodded, pecking your temple. You hummed, picking up your soccer ball.

“Can I go play in the forest?”

“Remember our rules?”

“Trust your gut, respect nature, don’t take anything that isn’t yours, and don’t stay out late.” You watched her nod and let you go. You dropped the ball, gently kicking it as you headed into the forest. You made sure to avoid hitting trees, flowers, and mushrooms. You kicked the ball past a tree, watching it roll around the tree. You were about to go and retrieve it only for the ball to roll around the tree and back to you. You might’ve been six but you knew that wasn’t exactly possible unless someone hit it. You picked up the ball, slowly approaching the tree and peeking around only to see no one. You furrowed your brows, peeking around on the other side. You squeaked and jumped back, seeing (E/C) eyes. The man chuckled, watching you. He looked like.. You. 

“You’ve grown so much..” He cooed, eyes softening. You blinked. Mama said to never talk with strangers but it seemed like he knew you. 

“Are you friends with Mama?” You asked. 

“She hasn’t told you about me, has she?” He frowned. “Maybe when you’re older, she’ll tell you.” 

“What’s your name? I’m (Y/N) and I’m six! You have really big ears, Mister. People with big ears are ugly but you aren’t really ugly. Maybe it’s cause you look like me.” The man stayed silent, staring at you.

“Wow..” He laughed softly, while his eyes shone with a supernatural brightness, mysterious and quite warm. “I can see that we really look alike, and well, maybe we are more similar than what you think we are.” 

In that moment, you heard your mother calling you, saying that you needed to come back home so you could have your dinner and go to sleep. In that moment the man’s eyes shone, this time with sadness and when you turned you could feel a soft caress at the top of your head. You turned back to the man to say ‘goodbye’ but he had already disappeared into the woods. When you were eating your dinner with your mother; your father was still working; you asked her about the mysterious friend that she had and asked why he looked so much like you, she got nervous and avoided the question, but the same sadness shone in her eyes. You never saw that man again and she never said who he was.

“(Y/N)?” You grunted, opening your eyes. Alice stared down at you with a smile.

“Sherrif Swan is here, he’s gonna ask you some questions, okay?” You nodded, standing up. Alice waited for you to go to the bathroom before taking you downstairs. A middle-aged man offered a smile and shook your hand. You sat in the kitchen and he got a pen and pad.

“Firstly, I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” He started off. You nodded, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Can you tell me everything that happened yesterday? Carlisle already told me but I need to hear it from you.” Charlie explained. You nodded.

“From the start of the day?”

“Yep.”

“In the morning, I did my schoolwork on the laptop while dad was at work. I was home alone most of the day so I did work and chores around the house. I started to make dinner and finished when dad got home. I served it and we sat down but dad complained about it not being done the way he likes it... He got really angry and…” You focused on the flower in the corner.

“He grabbed me and I hit him with some glass…” Charlie cleared his throat.

“You don’t need to continue, you’re young and shouldn’t have to go through it again. You’re mother, she’s (M/N) (L/N), correct?” He asked. You nodded.

“And she died from head trauma after falling down the stairs, right?”

“No.” Charlie looked up from his pad, raising his brows.

“No?”

“He pushed her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dad pushed her down the stairs.”

credit to @magmagicstyle​

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 9: Now I Love Your Shadow And I Love Your Curls]

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Til I Die” by Parsonsfield. 

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sex, violence, and drug use.

Word Count: 7.6k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @maggieroseevans​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @escabell​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​ @deacyblues​ @tensecondvacation​ @brianssixpence​ @some-major-ishues​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @youngpastafanmug​ @simonedk​

Field Trip

“You want to go to Chicago with me?”                

I coughed, having almost inhaled a chunk of pineapple off my slice of GrubHubbed pizza. We were sitting on the grass outside Forks And Spoons under the shade of the maple trees, which were turning from jade to ruby to amber to fool’s gold, rejoining the earth they once rose from one fallen leaf at a time. It hadn’t rained in almost four days—was that some kind of record?!—and the leaves littering the ground crunched when I stepped on them, which I did purposefully and often. The breeze was soft and whispery and temperate. I could get used to this whole having actual seasons thing. “What, in like a hypothetical, at some point in my life kind of way?”

Joe smiled. His U Chicago hoodie of the day was black. “No, as in this weekend.”

“Really?”

“The Cubs have a game on Saturday, and it’s supposed to be rainy and overcast the whole time, and I just thought...” He shrugged, toying with a piece of pizza crust before tossing it to the squirrels. He’s nervous, I realized. How the hell do I have the ability to make the sexy undead Italian man nervous? “It might be nice for us to be able to get away for a few days. Away from my family. Away from Charlie. Not that I don’t appreciate the ambient noise of his snoring from the living room couch, it’s super endearing, I seriously consider dating him instead of you at least twice a week.”

“Go for it. Charlie could use a rich husband. His pension is pathetic.”

“You wouldn’t miss me?”

“I am not necessarily opposed to clandestinely seducing my sugar daddy stepdad should the occasion arise.”

Joe crossed himself like a nun passing tattooed, cursing, lip-pierced teenagers on the sidewalk. “Lord, protect me from this harlot.”

A weekend away. No Charlie, no constant and chaotic whirlwind of Lees, no Ben. I hadn’t spoken to Ben since our misadventure in the Lee kitchen; if he wasn’t avoiding me of his own volition, he was following orders to stay away. Joe claimed that they’d talked it out. I wasn’t sure if I believed him. “I accept your invitation. Although, truthfully, I’d rather get hit by a bus than watch an entire real-life, no-commercial-breaks baseball game.”

“I accept your acceptance. And I’ll throw in a visit to the Shedd Aquarium, just for you. They have baby sea otters.”

“Sweet.” I checked my iPhone. “I’m gonna be late for Chemistry.”

“Anything fun planned?”

“We’re doing a lab involving hydrochloric acid. I’m highly concerned that Ben will accidentally spill some on himself. The miraculous instantaneous healing thing might raise a few questions.”

“Hm,” Joe replied. But he wasn’t looking at me; he was looking at my bandaged hand. And he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Joe, I’m fine.”

“Yeah.” He took a preoccupied swig of his Dr. Pepper. Solemnity never seemed right on him; it was like he was wearing somebody else’s skin. “You’ve mentioned that.”

“Hey. Mob guy.”

Now his eyes flicked to mine.                              

“No more sad spaghetti.”

“Okay.” He surrendered, took my face in his hands, gave me a kiss on each cheek and then one quick parting peck on the forehead. “You win. I’m not sad. I’m ecstatic, actually. I’m gonna be eating my weight in hotdogs and mustard-slathered pretzels on Saturday. What’s there not to be ecstatic about?”

“The fact that your license says you’re only twenty and consequently can’t get a beer?”

Joe blinked, remembering. “Fuck.”

I drained my Diet Coke, flung my pizza crust to the skittering grey squirrels—no eerie albino forest friends today—and pulled on my backpack. “See ya. Have an awesome time in Game Theory.”

“Thanks, I probably won’t!” he chimed, waving, grinning compliantly; and yet did I still sense some lingering menace of disquiet, of fear? I suspected I did. Chicago would cure everything.

Ben tensed when I walked into Professor Belvin’s classroom, ran his fingers through his unruly blond hair, peered fixedly down at his notebook and feigned obliviousness. There was already a metal tray of Erlenmeyer flasks, labeled bottles of solutions, burettes, goggles, gloves, and an unassembled ring stand crowding our small table by the open window. Autumn air poured in like seawater through cracks in the hull of a ship.

“Guess who’s gonna see the Cubs play up close and personal this Saturday?” I announced.

He pretended to have just noticed me. “...You...? But that doesn’t sound like you.”

“It was Joe’s idea. I’m acting like I’m not totally thrilled and freaking out about it, but I am. Don’t tell him.”

Now Ben was the one staring at my bandaged hand. His green eyes were large and unfocused.

“I’m fine,” I insisted.  

“Sure,” Ben returned noncommittally.

I started skimming through the packet of lab instructions and setting up our titration experiment as Professor Belvin circulated through the classroom, observing, commenting, offering suggestions and critiques. My wounded hand—still sore in the lull between Advil doses and relatively useless—was quite the embarrassing hinderance; I fumbled with a large glass flask and almost dropped it.

Ben shook his head and reached out to stop me. “Here, oh my god, this is so pitiful, sit down. Please sit down. I’ll set it up. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thanks.” I peeked at his notebook. “Your handwriting is atrocious. Haven’t you had like a century to work on that?”

“Penmanship was never at the top of my to-do list, tragically.”

“What language is that, anyway?” The phrases scrawled in black ink in Ben’s notebook definitely weren’t English. Or Italian. “Elvish? Are you a lowkey Lord Of The Rings fan? Magic and self-sacrifice and nearly insurmountable evil, I could see that being your thing.”

He smirked, struggling with the ring stand. “It’s Welsh.”

“Welsh,” I repeated, perplexed. “Welsh...like how Gwil is Welsh?”

“Precisely.”

Professor Belvin checked in on us, nodded in approval, reminded me that I was always welcome to stop by at bowling league activities, and resumed his wandering.

“Gwil still speaks it,” Ben continued. “The rest of them speak it too. At least enough for basic communication.”

“I didn’t know,” I said, fascinated, examining the long, unfamiliar words riddled with Ls and Ws and Cs. “But that must be very useful.”

“It is. Welsh is nearly a dead language at this point. It’s like talking in code. I always refused to learn it on principle...or maybe I was just being difficult. I would study other languages, Arabic, Japanese...but not Welsh. That was always Gwil’s language. Their language. It was a Lee thing. But now...”

“Now you’re sort of a Lee too,” I finished for him, smiling.

“Whatever,” Ben said, hiding behind his bangs.

I watched him as he at last tamed the ring stand, secured the burette, placed the Erlenmeyer flask. Then he began reading the labels on the solution bottles. “Guess what else.”

“What, Baby Swan?”

I grinned, showing off my unremarkable, entirely benign human teeth. “I’ll bring you back your very own U Chicago hoodie.”

That night, after a pleasantly prosaic dinner with Charlie—burgers, one veggie and one of the conventional variety, and milkshakes at Danny’s Diner—I started packing a small, Arizona-sky-blue suitcase as sparse raindrops pattered against the roof and moonlight streamed in through the open window. Then I ticked off my mental inventory.

“Jeans, sweaters, pajamas, socks...”

I pawed through the top drawer of my old, scratched dresser—the same one that had once upon a time been Renee’s—and contemplated the bra and panty options. Would my theme be comfort and practicality, or feral impenitent seductress? Friday and Saturday in Chicago would be our first nights alone together. That had to be significant, right? After some deliberation, I gathered a handful of lacy, transparent, and/or exceptionally skimpy lingerie from Victoria’s Secret that Jessica had more or less forced upon me during a shopping trip in Port Angeles last month. As I dropped them into the open suitcase, I glanced up to see the albino owl outside my open bedroom window.

“You never know,” I told the owl, shrugging.

It leered judgmentally back at me with those gory red eyes.

“Oh shut up. How many eggs have you laid in your lifetime, Casper The Unfriendly Ghost? Probably like a bazillion. Freaking feathery trollop.”

The owl had nothing to offer in its own defense.

“Why don’t you ever come around when Joe’s here? I’m sure he’d love to meet you. He’s pale and weird too. Although I like his eyes a little better than yours. No offense, Snowflake.”

The owl blinked, tilted its gaze at me, ruffled its feathers and sent the raindrops that had gathered there flying in every direction.

I slid my iPhone out of my back pocket, spun around, and snapped a quick selfie with the owl in the background. “Say cheese, Marshmallow!”

The owl immediately unfurled its wings and flapped off into the trees, vanishing.

“Huh. I guess homegirl is camera shy.” I texted my selfie to Archer, typing out with my thumbs: I am the Steve Irwin of Forks. Behold, one of my many forest friends.

Archer replied a few minutes later: WOW! Pasty and mildly disturbing. Exactly your type. :)

“Yours too, apparently,” I murmured, smiling in my empty room.

I went to my full-length mirror with the plastic, teal-colored border, briefly appraised my reflection, felt a dull swell of approval for what I saw there. The version of myself that had once been so consumed by fears of inadequacy seemed impossibly far away, maybe even fictitious, a dream so vivid I could mistake it for truth. Three things were taped across the top of the mirror: Joe’s Official Citation!! No More Sad Spaghetti!! post-it, his Official Whatever You Want Pass, and a photo of us dressed up together and standing in front of the limo in the Lees’ driveway just before the Calawah University Homecoming dance. I peeled off the Official Whatever You Want Pass, carefully folded it into a neat little square, and tucked it into my wallet.

When the rain began to pour and thunder rolled in off the Pacific Ocean, I closed my bedroom window; but I remembered to leave it unlocked for Joe.

Departure

“Got your license?”

“Yes, Dad,” Joe sighed.

“Got your airport snacks?”

Joe held up the gallon-sized Ziploc bag filled with pumpkin and white chocolate chip cookies. “We’re ready to rock.”

“Call me when you get there safe,” Mercy fretted, hugging me and then Joe. “And Joseph, sweetheart, you make sure you keep an eye on her. She’s never been to Chicago before, it’s a big city, and O’Hare is an absolute nightmare, it’s so easy to get lost...”

“I don’t think he needs any reminders, love.” Dr. Lee laid a hand on her shoulder, stroked his neatly-trimmed beard with the other, watched us with a vague and wistful smile.

Mercy went back to trimming the flowers she had spread out across the kitchen countertop, white calla lilies that she threaded one by one into a translucent sapphire blue vase. “Now don’t forget to say goodbye to your brother. He’s out back feeding the new ducks. And I expect these ones to stick around for a while, thank you very much.”

“Mom, I don’t need to say goodbye to Rami. I’ll just think it. Really loudly.” Joe rubbed his temples with his fingertips and squeezed his eyes shut. “Peace out, you nosy bastard.”

“Joseph,” Mercy pleaded.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go say goodbye. Don’t get all aggressive. Don’t take it out on the flowers.” Aggressive...what a joke. I doubted that Mercy Eleanor Lee, formerly Martin, had a single aggressive bone in her immortal body; not even the infinitesimal stapes of her inner ears or the sesamoids of her feet.

“They’re calla lilies,” she replied dreamily, tending them like children. “And they symbolize love, and beauty, and fidelity...”

My nostrils itched and burned faintly in dissent. “I think I’m allergic to them.”

“You’re allergic to fidelity?” Joe asked, raising his eyebrows. “That’s it, now you’re definitely not getting my reclaimed virginity. No ma’am. I am not hit-it-and-quit-it material.”

“Oh sweet baby Jesus,” Mercy murmured.

“I’m going,” Joe said, showing his palms in capitulation and disappearing out the back door. I dragged my suitcase to the front one, politely declining Mercy and Gwil’s offers to help.

Lucy—her bleached hair in a high half-ponytail and wearing polka-dotted black tights, combat boots, a plaid miniskirt, and an extremely Octoberish orange sweater—was sitting cross-legged on the roof of Gwil’s Volvo. God, he’s such a dad. “Have a nice time,” she chirped artfully.

I opened the hatch of Joe’s Subaru and threw my suitcase inside. “Why do you sound like you already know I will?”

“I might have some relevant clairvoyant insight.”

“No way.” I stared up at her, stunned, my hands on my waist. “But you can’t see me, right...?”

“True. But this vision wasn’t of you. It was of Joe. You just happened to be there.”

Interesting. Very interesting. “And what transpired in this vision?” A night full of hot, steamy, blissful vampire sex? A girl could dream.

Lucy closed her eyes, recalling it fondly, maybe even cherishing it. “You were sitting in the stands of a professional baseball game. I could hear the crowd roaring, the umpire’s trumpeting interruptions. Blue and white...everyone was wearing blue and white. And you were there together—Joe a vampire, you human, side by side, almost entwined—shouting to each other over the thunderous noise and laughing and pushing nuggets of soft pretzels into each other’s mouths. So happy. I’d never seen Joe so happy.” Her striking pale eyes came open. “And he’s someone who’s already rather prone to happiness, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I have,” I agreed.

“He’s never been serious about anybody else. I hope you know that.”

“I know that’s what he tells me.”

“It’s the truth,” Lucy insisted. “I would know if it wasn’t. Rami would know, Ben would know. Joe...he’s kind of the opposite of you. He’s always been the easiest to read. He’s the one Rami hears most loudly, the one who shows up most often in my visions. He’s clear, you know? Uncomplicated. Authentic. And what you mean to him...it’s something everybody sees. It’s a contagious sort of lightness, of joy. So thank you for that.”

And if whatever mysterious genetic switch that renders me immune to your talents wasn’t flipped, I’m pretty sure I’d look the same way. “I should definitely be thanking you,” I said. “You guys have a pretty cool existence going on here. And I’m so grateful to be invited into it.” For however long this lasts, anyway.

“None of us really invited you,” Lucy demurred. “We just let it happen.”

“So everyone knew I was coming? Because you saw it?”

“Everyone but Joe.”

“You never told him?”

“No. Not even now.” Lucy turned sharply towards the trees, as if she heard something in the soaring western hemlocks that swayed drunkenly in the wind. After a moment, she continued. “I’m not sure if I can even explain why. It wasn’t that I feared changing the timeline or something...my visions always come true regardless. Always. But I guess...” She tugged on her short half-ponytail, pondering. “I guess I didn’t want to cloud any of his decision-making, any of his emotions with the specter of the inevitable. I wanted whatever he felt for you to be completely organic. And it is.”

I considered her. “You are extremely thoughtful for someone who spends as much time shopping as you do.”

Lucy laughed in a high-pitched, almost juvenile trill, netting her fingers beneath her chin, her elbows resting on her bent knees. “I do like to shop. I didn’t always though.” She peered off into the trees again, this time pensively. “Did Joe tell you anything about my life before Gwil saved me?”

“Aside from the copious hippie jokes, not really.”

She nodded, her eyes far-away and still lost in the forest. “Gwil and Mercy are inordinately wonderful people. My biological father and mother, unfortunately, were not. And maybe they couldn’t help it, because from what I understand their parents were monsters too. I don’t think of them very often now, not even to resent them. But when I was alive I burned with it, with all that hatred, with all that bitterness. Every bruise was another log on the fire. Every screaming match or hurled plate was a splash of gasoline. So I ran away and found what I fancied to be a new family, and I lived on basement couches and out of vans and in abandoned buildings, and I explored increasingly inventive ways of putting that fire out.”

The October breeze cascaded through the trees, carrying echoes of birdsong and disembodied distant voices and the scent of pine. It reminded me of Joe.

“Chemically speaking,” Lucy said, “that first hit of heroin, that first high...it’s the best you’ll ever feel in your entire life. Nothing else will ever compare. Not skydiving, not backpacking through Southeast Asia on some Pulitzer-prize-winning journey of self-discovery, not winning the lottery, not the births of your children, not falling in love. And once you accept that, what’s the point in stopping? Everything you ever experience will live in the shadow of that needle. You’re twenty-five and you’ve already seen the endgame. You’re born, you suffer, you catch a glimpse of paradise, you pay bills and push shopping carts down the aisles of grocery stores and insipidly smile your way through your husband’s work parties until you die. What’s the fucking point? So I didn’t stop shooting heroin. And the whole time, I knew it was killing me. That’s what they don’t tell kids when they force them to make those idiotic classroom promises to never do drugs. You know it’s killing you, but you don’t care. Because it feels so goddamn good. Because it becomes the only sliver of your existence that doesn’t cut like glass beneath your skin. Sometimes you love things so much you let them kill you, isn’t that ridiculous?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer her; still, I heard my own voice: “Yes, it is.”

“It took dying for me to see that life is worth living. That there’s magic in the mundane and the frivolous. And that there’s beauty everywhere if you bother to look for it.” Lucy uncrossed her trim legs, leapt gracefully off the Volvo, and—with definite but not unkind scrutiny—pulled at the collar of my thrift shop sweater. “Even in your very, very, very misguided fashion preferences.”

The front door of the Lee house swung open, and Joe jogged out, carrying his suitcase. Gwil, Mercy, Scarlett, Rami, and Ben appeared on the porch to wave us off.

“What’d you do?!” Joe demanded, pointing at Lucy.

“Nothing,” she quipped.

“You guys gotta stop doing this!” Joe exclaimed. “You know what you’re doing, you know exactly what you’re doing, you gotta stop cornering people and forcing them to listen to your creepy tragic backstories! Nobody freaking asked!”

Lucy chuckled patiently and stood on her tiptoes to hug him goodbye. “Have fun.”

“You know it.” Joe tossed his suitcase into the Subaru and opened the driver’s door. “Ready, Baby Swan?”

“Almost.”

I walked to the wrap-around porch, climbed the steps, held my hand out to Ben. My stitches had almost completely dissolved over the past week, and the clunky impediment of bandages was no more. Joe crossed his arms and watched from beside the Subaru with an uneasy frown, but he didn’t try to stop me. He nodded to Rami, so subtly I almost didn’t notice. Rami nodded back.

“I will miss your melodramatic brooding immensely,” I told Ben. “Please do some fun family stuff while we’re gone. I’ll see you soon. Dan eich bendith.”

“Dan eich bendith,” he replied, taken aback. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he ignored my outstretched hand and embraced me, his grasp so strong and yet so careful. His scent like crisp leaves and salted caramel and autumn sieved into a bottle unfolded in my lungs like an opened book.

“I Googled that especially for you,” I whispered. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m in awe.” His words were characteristically sardonic, but I heard warmth in them as well. When Ben pulled away, I saw that everyone else was smiling. Mercy had tears in her eyes.

I retreated back down the porch steps and met Joe by the Subaru. “Okay, mob guy. I’m good.”

He slid on his sunglasses, shook his head, flashed a proud and toothy grin. “You definitely are.”

All the way down Route 101 to the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, we listened to Joe’s classic rock mixtapes and my NOAA Ocean Podcast episodes, reviewed the weekend itinerary, ran through the bare essentials for me to understand an MLB game (“Which I am totally not excited about whatsoever,” I informed Joe, who knew enough not to believe me).

When the Boeing 747 ascended above the clouds and unimpeded sunlight poured in from the other passengers’ windows, Joe put on a black sleeping mask over his sunglasses and reclined his seat, tried to nap, passed the time until he would be safe beneath the curtains of the sky again.

Somewhere over the Dakotas, as I leafed through a book about the Great Barrier Reef for my Marine Botany class, Joe’s hand bumped mine. “Hey,” he said drowsily, seriously; and I braced myself for some emotional declaration, some dire warning, some grave realization of the futility of what we agreed—almost always wordlessly, and yet unfailingly—was love.

“Yeah?”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Uh oh,” I replied, smiling now.

“Flag down the flight attendant and get some more of those honey roasted peanut packets,” Joe said. “I’m starving myself back to death over here.”

The Windy City

The bat cracked deafeningly against the baseball pitched at nearly a hundred miles per hour. It was a home run. The crowd erupted into mindless, primal shrieks of conquest; and when Joe jumped to his feet, clapping and cheering and nearly spilling his blue-and-white bucket of popcorn, I found that I did as well. I screamed for the team of a city I’d never lived in, sank back into my seat beside Joe, nestled against his chest as his right arm closed around my waist and hauled me in closer, as his left hand teased me with a soft pretzel nugget hovering just out of reach. And in that moment, I felt like Lucy, snatching Polaroids out of the space-time continuum of the present and the future and the past. There was where Joe and I were right now, of course; the day we had met each other in the nonfiction section of the Calawah University library; the dance floor at Homecoming; the first night he snuck soundlessly into my bedroom window; all those years we still had left to spend together. Not forever, but perhaps long enough.

“I like this baseball thing,” I told him over the roar of the crowd, twirling my fingers around the curling locks of dark hair that stuck out from under his Cubs cap. Or maybe I just like you.

“Whew, thank god.” Joe wiped his forehead with the back of his hand in mock relief. “Now I don’t have to break up with you.”

After the game—a 5-3 Cubs victory, close enough to keep the spectators’ blood pumping throughout—we boarded the L, held onto the metal railings as the packed train car bumped and swerved along, and disembarked in Little Italy. Historic brownstones were interrupted by a freckling of pizzerias, Italian ice stands, and sports bars spilling out shouts of triumph and despair. We were staying in the Four Seasons with a view of Lake Michigan; but we had an hour of daylight—albeit chilled, dreary, and forever threatening rain—left in our Saturday. Tomorrow would be the aquarium, and then dinner before catching our flight back to Seattle, back to the greenery and fog and eternal dampness that I was beginning to think of as my home. Had I really only left Phoenix two months ago? Had I ever really lived there at all?

“So,” Joe said as we walked under shedding green ash and black cherry trees, his arm draped across my shoulders. “Guess what the University of Chicago has. In addition to a killer Economics PhD program, which yours truly will be graduating from in approximately 2027, astonishingly aged not a single day. Maybe he’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline.”

“Hideous sweatshirts?” I guessed.

“One of the best Marine Biology departments in the world. And the affiliated Marine Biological Laboratory up in Massachusetts, where they send their PhDs to do research.”

“Wait, seriously?” I stopped abruptly, the heels of my boots squealing against the sidewalk. “You mean...for me?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, for my other girlfriend who is also inexplicably super obsessed with the ocean. I clearly have a type.”

“You want me...to come to Chicago...with you...after graduation? For like...a five to seven year commitment?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, that just sounds...serious.”

“Huh. What do you know. I guess we’re serious after all.” He took my hand and pulled me gently forward, leading me down West Taylor Street. He seemed to have a destination in mind.

“How is this going to work for you, anyway?” I asked, beaming uncontrollably now, trotting along beside him. “Living in a place that isn’t Washington or Scotland or Alaska?” Chicago was cold and cloudy for a lot of the year, true, but few cities were Forks-level wet and sunless. Forks-level tyrannically depressing, I would have said two months ago.  

He shrugged, unphased. “Night classes. Sunglasses. Faking a chronic illness so I don’t have to leave our house. I’m really good at that one. Plus I can get a doctor’s note any time I want one. I’ve got connections, you know.”

Our house. He said OUR house.

Joe came to halt in front of a stately yet plain brownstone which now operated as a trendy bookstore, the kind that sold six dollar lattes and hosted anarchist poetry slams on Friday nights.

“Is this where we’re going to crack hipsters’ kneecaps as a bonding activity?” I asked.

“This is where I grew up.”

I looked again, studying the earth-colored stone quarried over a century ago, the wrought iron railings that framed the front steps, the rectangular windows revealing the illumination and shadows of other families’ lives. “Joe,” I said softly, leaning into him, searching for my words.

“There were eight Mazzello kids: Joseph, Charles, Mimi, Salvador, Donna, Lucia, Bianca, and Giuliano.” He rattled them off like a jingle from a fast food commercial. “And I was the oldest. So when my dad dropped dead of a heart attack in the middle of his shift at the Zenith Radio factory, it was my job to step up and figure out how to keep everyone fed. I was seventeen and completely hopeless at school back then; Sal was always the smart one, the disciplined one, he ended up as a math professor at Loyola University. I was just some directionless, grieving kid who never shut up. But there was a place for boys like me in Chicago in the 1920s. The mob could get you money. The mob could turn that same incessant chatter that got you bruised at school into something useful. And the mob could give you a family.”

Joe watched the brownstone solemnly, meditatively, his hands in his pockets.

“My mom sobbed for an hour the first time I brought home an envelope full of bills with Hamilton’s face on them. She knew how I got it. But how could she say no, how could she tell me to stop? We’d never seen money like that. All my siblings could finish school. My sisters could have new dresses on days that weren’t Christmas and Easter, my brothers new shoes, Sal the glasses he needed so badly. My mother always had something to put in the offering plate at church. And once you were in the mob, it wasn’t exactly easy to leave. But they took care of their own. After I died, they sent my mother money for years, until her own children were established enough to support her. That’s when I learned that money wasn’t just something that put food on the dinner table or kept the lights on. It’s a way of showing loyalty, of giving people peace and comfort and meaningful choices in their lives. It’s how I’ve been taught to give back to the world. So I guess I shouldn’t have disparaged my fellow vampires back in Forks, because there’s a slice of my tragic backstory, Baby Swan. Now you know. And you should know everything, since we’re in this thing together. Or maybe I just want you to.”

I laid my palm against his cool and flawless face, ran my thumb lightly across his cheek. “You really are serious about me.”

“I am alarmingly serious about you.”

“Even though this thing of ours has an expiration date?” Since I can never become a vampire. Since I will never have the distinction of being a permanent fixture of the Lee coven.

“That’s not a problem for today. That’s a problem for ten or fifteen years from now, whenever you decide you want to settle down and have kids and do the whole Great American Dream bit. You’ll be sick of me by then anyway. You’ll be dying to get away from us. Hahaha, get it? It’s a pun. Dying to get away from the vampires.”

I couldn’t imagine ever being sick of Joseph Francis Mazzello. Still, ten or fifteen years felt almost as good as forever to me. Fifteen autumns, fifteen Christmases, fifteen journeys around the sun that he avoided so deftly. “Why me, Joe?” I asked, incredulous. “You could have anyone. Any human, any vampire. Why me?”

“Because you’re you,” he said simply. And his mystified dark eyes added: What kind of a question is that? “You’re smart and you’re hilarious and you actually care about the world, about where it came from, about where it’s going, about people and places and animals that you’ll never meet. You’re indomitable. You’re fearless almost to the point of recklessness. And yet you’re so kind. You’re even nice to Ben, and humans are never nice to him...they’re either horrified or confused, or they’re too busy fantasizing about him to remember that he’s a real fucking person. But you’ve always tried to see the good in him. Even when he didn’t deserve it.” Joe shook his head, marveling. “And yeah, I’ve...I’ve screwed around, full disclosure. I’ve done the hookup thing. And it was great for what it was. But I never wanted more. I never felt some gnawing, sentimental, Hallmark-channel need for connection, to understand who they were as people. And then I met you, and...I want to know every single goddamn thing about you. I want to know your favorite color, what books you read, what the hell is so appealing about pineapple pizza, what you dream of. I feel like I could never get tired of trying to understand you.”

A refrain circled through my mind like a whirlpool, dragging every other thought down into oblivion: I love him, I love him, I love him. “Blue,” I said at last.

“What?”

“Turquoise blue, like the sky in Arizona. That’s my favorite color.”

The smile, slow and wonderous, rippled across his face. He took my hand again. “Come on.”

Joe led me onwards, down a few blocks and around a corner, as the muted sun receded from the sky and the first stars took its place, pinpricks of celestial light in a blanket of violet, azure, amber, rust. He stopped in front of the Church of Saint Lawrence, established in 1902 according to the sign mounted on the brick wall that faced the street, perhaps the same church that he had once visited with his family as an impatient child, snickering with his brothers and sisters and kicking the back of the pew in front of him with shoes that never fit quite right. There was a fountain bubbling with transparent water, a statue of the Virgin Mary at the center, coins made of copper and nickel and zinc glinting through the water under corridors of silvery luminance cast by the streetlights.

“I lied about not having my own superpower,” Joe informed me mischievously, not at all serious.

“Oh, did you now?”

“Absolutely.” He opened his wallet, rooted around, pulled out a penny and handed it to me. “I can make wishes come true. So go ahead.” He nodded towards the fountain. “Make your wish.”

The penny was worn and nearly indecipherable, but I was just barely able to read that it had been minted in 1928. The same year Joe was turned. “Joe...I can’t just throw this away!”

“You’re not throwing it away. You’re exchanging it for a wish. Now wish.”

I closed my eyes, chose my wish, tossed the penny into the fountain. The plink it made when it hit the water was bright and yet mournful somehow, like windchimes, like flickering candlelight.

“Outstanding job,” Joe complimented.

He was so visibly proud, so content, so faultless. The streetlights threw shadows across the sidewalk, the fountain, the whole world it seemed. I laced my fingers behind his neck, gazing up at him. “What are we doing tonight, mob guy?”

“I’m so glad you asked. You see, we have options.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“Door Number One,” Joe began. “It’s been a long day, and you’re exhausted from the illustrious honor of witnessing a Cubs victory firsthand. So we go back to the hotel, find some shark documentary on tv, order room service, shower, and drift off into a peaceful slumber. Just like last night.”

“Not bad. How about Door Number Two?”

“Door Number Two. You’re tired, but not that tired. We go back to the hotel, find that same aforementioned shark documentary, but totally ignore it and make out instead. Maybe we even round second base, in the spirit of the Cubs. Whatever you’re up for. Then we shower and drift off into a peaceful slumber.”

“Even better,” I said, and I meant it. “And what’s Door Number Three?”

Now Joe became jittery; his eyes darted to the fountain, the church, the cars that rolled lazily by. He was so desperate to conceal his hope, to not impose any undue influence upon me. I felt infinitesimal, almost weightless drops of rain against my cheeks, my collarbones, the downy undersides of my arms. “Well, uh, Door Number Three is...it’s...well...uh...it’s...”

Door Number Three is a home fucking run. “I want Door Number Three.”

“Really? Because you don’t have to say that, you can say no, that’s completely fine, it’s more than fine actually, it’s awesome, it’s totally cool, I’m seriously fine either way, and you can obviously change your mind whenever—”

“Wait.” I broke away from him, yanked my own wallet out of my purse, found the Official Whatever You Want Pass, hastily unfolded it, and presented it to Joe. “I want Door Number Three.”

He barked out a shocked laugh, accepted the pass, studied it in disbelief. “You are full of surprises, ma’am. It took me a hundred years to find a woman like you. And I don’t think I ever will again. Makes one wonder if this whole eternity thing is all it’s cracked up to be.” He tucked the pass into his pocket and kissed me beneath the streetlights, beneath the stars. “So there’s one tiny caveat to my wish-granting superpower.”

“Yeah?”

He smiled impishly, nudging the tip of my nose with his. “You have to tell me what you wished for.” He was joking, as he almost always was; I didn’t have to tell him anything. He wouldn’t press the issue. I doubted that he was really expecting me to answer at all. And yet I wanted to tell Joe; I yearned, for once, to be as clear as Lucy had said he was.

“For you and me,” I replied in little more than a whisper. “And for forever.”

Home

The only thing that startled me was how profoundly unstartling it all was, how wholly uncomplicated, how effortless.

I didn’t feel like a different person afterwards. I didn’t feel that some latent spark of lust, of carnality had been ignited, had singed through me, had left me forever marked like the heights of children ticked off on a doorframe over decades; I felt neither ruined nor awakened, no wiser, no older, no more enlightened as to the incalculable eccentricities of the vast and enigmatic universe. I felt only happiness, and exhausted satisfaction, and a deep, dreamless peace that engulfed me like frothy fingertips of waves dragging pebbles and shells back into the sea. I felt only a homecoming that was measured not in miles but in soul.

We slept in as the morning sun rose over Lake Michigan, bought Ben a hoodie (black, of course, per his usual aesthetic) from the University of Chicago gift shop, strolled unhurriedly through the dimly-lit, relentlessly blue pathways of the Shedd Aquarium. As I stood in the glass tunnel and watched sawfish and blacktip reef sharks soar by overhead, Joe linked his arms around my waist, tucked his chin into the dip of my collarbone, kissed the slope of my jaw.

“What do you think?” he asked, perhaps a touch apprehensively. “Could you get used to the Chicago life for a few years?”

“I would be tempted to kidnap some of these guys and bring them home to live in our bathtub. But yes.”

And Joe murmured, smiling, his lips to my temple: “That’s illegal, ma’am.”

Our flight back to the West Coast took off after dusk, and there was no blinding sunlight for Joe to avoid; only immense glooms of clouds and gleaming distant stars and the unfathomable void of space, cursed with crushing pressure and darkness like the cervices of the ocean floor.

Fifteen years might not be enough, I thought, resting my forehead against the cold airplane window as the city lights died behind us, as Joe’s hand weaved through mine on the armrest. But forever sounds just about right.

Larkin

There once was a boy born in a stone cottage with a dirt floor in a vanishingly inconsequential village just west of Clifden, Ireland. It was February 9th, 1672, bitterly cold, miserably wet, and the sea was murderous with storms. His mother was illiterate, as her mother had been, and as her mother had been as well, all the way back to people who painted mammoths on cave walls with their fingers; she was thirty-three and already exhausted with living, her seven children forever underfoot, her full and ruddy cheeks perpetually smudged with dirt from the field and ashes from the fire. Her husband was a failure and a drunk, but half a day’s worth of work once or twice a week was better than none at all; and as much as she never would have admitted it, he was a tether for her in a world that was often, as she had learned, both lonely and cruel.

She gave the baby boy a name—a strong Irish name, none of that audacious English rubbish—that meant rough or fierce, just like the sea that rose and ruptured against the rocky cliffs outside. He would need to be rough to survive in this world. He would need to be fierce.

He began like all the other children had been: sweet and yet anonymous, yielding, needful, worryingly small. She rocked him absently with one arm as she stirred the stew pot with the other. She sang to him, told him stories long before he could comprehend them, tales of the Lord and the saints and all their malevolent adversaries: serpents, pestilence, demons, dragons. She tossed stray sticks to him so he could carve pictures into the dirt floor and keep out of the way as she labored with the laundry or the sewing. And he grew, and he grew; and there was nothing remarkable about him at all, that boy speckled with mud and soot and the perpetual bruises of children mostly left to their own devices, that boy with pallid skin like his mother’s and black hair like his father’s and eyes so light and vibrant a brown they were nearly gold.

The boy was a baby, and then a child, and then a young man. And his mother realized one day—all at once, as a mother does when their attention is divided among so many other lives, when the children’s analogous faces bleed into each other and even their names sometimes escape her, even those names that she had chosen herself from the stories her own mother once passed to her through threadbare whispers—that people had a habit of following him, of listening to him. That there was an ether of allure that hovered around him like the mists that clung to the precarious, crumbling cliffs that touched the sea; that there was something like what the heathens called magic. And when the war came, that boy who was no longer a boy left his mother’s stone cottage and enlisted in Clifden, lied about his age, signed his name with an X because that was all he knew how to spell. But he was sure to tell the man who handled the ledger that he did have a real name, a good Irish name, a name apt for a soldier, a name that his mother had told him meant rough or fierce: Larkin.

There are men who join wars out of loyalty, principle, love for their homes; and then there are men who join to escape their homes, perhaps to forget them entirely. If you were to consult that ledger signed in a pub in Clifden, Ireland in 1688, you would read that I fought for Ireland, for the Catholics, for Christ the Lord and all his saints. But what I really fought for was my own resurrection: to take that boy stained with dirt and ignorance, drown him in the blood of other mothers’ trivial sons, and dredge up some greater version of myself that I had always known existed, that was hidden somewhere in the netlike darkness of the marrow of my bones.

People follow me, and they always have. I couldn’t tell you why. When I called them to enlist, when I thrusted swords and pikes into their calloused farmers’ fists, when I told them they could fight and live to see their wretched homes again, they believed me. I climbed the ranks like a ladder, like a mountain made of bones. And all those other mothers’ sons laid down for me so I could walk across the bridge of their spines to what I mistakenly assumed was invincibility.

At the Battle Of The Boyne, my horse was shot out from under me. A Williamite caught me beneath the ribs with his dagger. And as I bled out, staring up at the sky and impatiently waiting for the pain to vanish as my consciousness withdrew like low tide, I became aware that someone was lifting me, holding me, spiriting me through the battlefield and then the wilderness; and that my pain, in a disconcerting turn of events, had swelled to a vicious and unrelenting inferno.  

Three days later, I woke to find that I was resurrected again, this time as something more than human. The man who turned me was blond-haired, light-eyed, agile and yet gentle, ancient and yet ever-changing.

“I thought you’d survive,” Nikolai said in a thick Slavic accent, standing over me with a kind smile. Then he helped me to my feet. “You have greatness in you. It sweats out of your pores, it’s in every word you speak. What a shame it would be for all of that to go to waste.”

He taught me everything: how to read and write, how to hunt, how to dodge the sunlight, how to survive an existence that was both theoretically endless and yet forever on the precipice of being cut short. He introduced me to the Draghi, to vampires who were remarkable for their ferocity, or their creativity, or their curiosity, or their cleverness, or all those things at once: Victorien, Honora, Elizabeth, Kestrel, Zhang, Sergei, Ana, Gwilym. And most crucially, Nikolai showed me that my human talents were magnified several times over, that his own followers were not immune to them, that there was power in collecting exceptional individuals like pieces of china stacked in a locked cabinet; and that if I could learn to climb immortal bones, the ladder never needed to end.  

You never quite get used to the power, to the invincibility, to the promise of eternity. You never take it for granted. It hits you, again and again, in ceaseless and victorious waves. Once I was a barefoot toddler who sketched dragons and Catholic saints from the stories my mother told me into the dirt floor of our drafty stone cottage. Now I live in palaces with marble floors, with spiral staircases and libraries and gold-dripping ballrooms, with unobstructed views of any sea I choose. Now I am the dragon.

My phone rang, and I checked the name on the screen. Then I answered. “Hello, beauty. How’s the other side of the Pacific treating you?”

And Liesl answered, in a soft and astonished voice: “I don’t think Lucy can read her. I don’t think any of them can.”

I could feel it again. Another wave, crashing through me like the ocean, like the unstoppable rolling of time: power and insatiability and exhilaration. I smiled in my twilight-lit study as long-dead stars rose outside and the wind howled like wolves over the East Sea. “You know what to do.”

[sandersstudies]

Espresso-ly for You - Chapter Two

I liiiiiive! Or at least, my writing does. Like I said, I can’t and won’t promise regular updates on this one, but the sweet sweet coffeeshop AU will never let me go for sure.

Chapter One Here 

***

“Hey there, long time no see!” Janus said over the top of his mug. It was the one he brought from home, with a snake for a handle. 

“I saw you on Sunday,” Virgil said, slouching his backpack off his shoulder to store in the employee cupboard. 

“Yeah, but so much has happened since then,” Janus said, and then sipped his drink loudly. “Did Logan tell you about the birds that were fighting outside on Tuesday?”

“No.”

“See, of course he didn’t, he doesn’t care about the fun stuff. God, you look exhausted, let me get you a pick-me-up, you raccoon.” He began to measure a shot of espresso.

“I’ve already been drinking way too much soda to stay awake,” Virgil said.

“I’m not giving you soda, am I?” Janus asked, turning on the steam wand. “I’m giving you sweet bean juice, it will give you things no other drink can.” The shots pulling from the espresso machine dripped like warm honey, and Virgil had to admit they looked enticing. Janus was the most skilled barista in the cafe, going to local barista competitions three years in a row, and making it to the final round the last two years. 

“One of the benefits of working here is all the free coffee you want,” Janus said. “Might as well take advantage of it.” He’d barely looked at the machine while preparing the milk and espresso, but now, with a few seconds of intense focus, he guided his pitcher across the surface of the crema to create a delicate rosetta. “There, my nicest flat white of the day, all for you.”

Virgil took the cup and sipped. Perfect, creamy foam. 

Janus picked up his own cup and slurped the last of the coffee inside. “Well, better prepare for the lunchtime rush,” he said, checking his watch. “How was it yesterday?”

“Not too bad.”

“If you want to run register and food the first hour, I’ll run bar and then we can switch,” Janus said, reaching behind himself to tighten his apron strings. “If it slows down I’ll do a restock but I think we should be fine.”

Janus had been the first barista to push Virgil to run the espresso machine solo. When the morning or lunch rush came and there was a line out the door, Janus would watch and speak encouragingly, but never step in to rescue him the way Logan did.

“See these two cups?” Janus had said one day when Virgil could barely hold a milk pitcher without shaking. “These two drinks are the only ones you need to worry about right now. All those other drinks, all those other people, they don’t exist to you. It doesn’t matter if there are three drinks or thirty drinks waiting, you’re always working on these two drinks, and two drinks only.”

Eventually Virgil learned how to fall into a rhythm where he prepped one shot as another one pulled, poured one milk as another one steamed. Janus would flit back and forth from the register to the hand-off, confidently ringing in and handing out drinks as Virgil’s hands shook too hard to stop cups from spilling.

“You don’t need me,” Janus had said. “Someday you’re gonna be stuck up to your elbows in cappuccinos and I’m not going to be here, and you’ll have to haul them out of yourself. If I rescue you now, you won’t be able to do it then.”

Virgil had burned with frustration that Janus wouldn’t help him. But when the line dwindled, Virgil found himself reaching for the next cup in line, and it wasn’t there. He’d done it, he’d seen only two drinks in front of him and had conquered a breakfast rush. The customers had become a blur, and he’d honed in on more lattes and macchiatos than he could count.

“The next challenge,” Janus had said as they shared coffee in the following lull. “Is to bring the customers into focus too. Two things matter in coffeeshops, the coffee, and the people. You can’t let either one distract from the other.”

“You want me to do all that and small talk?”

“It gets easier with time.”

The retrospect that proved Janus right didn’t help Virgil to not feel aghast at the suggestion. It was easy to envy Janus’ ease around customers, asking Wendy how her radishes were doing as he poured her coffee, telling jokes to kids, and showing them the swan he’d drawn in their father’s latte. 

Virgil tied his apron and went to the front register. He ran his fingers over the screen. Pretending to type up a long order was his key both to eavesdropping and to looking busy, especially if he furrowed his brow just enough to look focused. Whenever a particularly angry customer started to complain at the other end of the counter, here Virgil would be, tapping like he was crafting a novel and not hitting the button for “doppio” a dozen times in a row. Meanwhile Janus, usually, would be the one at the end, silver-tongued and composed, listening with raised eyebrows and a soft smile. He’d turn around only when the cafe was empty to say “could you believe that jerk?”

A gaggle of college girls in matching volleyball t-shirts approached, and Virgil glanced at Janus, who cracked his knuckles dramatically. “May the coffee gods guide me,” he said as the bell on the door jangled merrily. 

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

“Large iced vanilla soy latte.”

“Medium blended caramel coffee, extra caramel, whipped cream.”

“Small almond latte.”

And so on down the line. Janus remained unfazed, continuing to greet other customers who braved entering the store despite the line. He called out every drink he made and made eye contact with each girl who picked hers up, even (Virgil thought he saw) winking a couple times. The hum of the espresso machine and hiss of the steam wand filled the cafe, singing along to the piano playing over the speakers. Was this Logan’s playlist?

The line didn’t end, after that. The girls cleared and were replaced by tides of office workers in pressed clothes from the smattering of office buildings that hemmed in the coffee shop on all sides. Friendly receptionists and personal assistants were a favorite of Virgil’s, and were perhaps the only ones who called him by endearments that didn’t feel horribly awkward.  Most of them tipped well. 

The cafe chairs filled up, representing casual business talks, friendly meet-ups, and solitary breaks from long days. All the grind-never-stop types had the coffee to-go, and those taking a quick respite adored the cafe’s “for here” cups. Virgil liked to watch for the people who perked up or relaxed with their first sip. One of the personal assistants from the building across the street (Virgil thought her name was Jackie) put her cappuccino to her lips and leaned back into her chair, the tension around her eyes softening.

A moment came where a couple of middle-aged women paused to examine the menu, and Janus appeared as if by magic at the register. 

“Tag team, let’s go! Your turn on the bar, kid.” 

Virgil moved to the espresso machine. Janus had not only finished the drinks in front of him, but wiped down the counter and machine to leave Virgil the perfect surface to begin again. The middle-aged women put in their orders, and Virgil felt like his vision zoomed in as he began the two drinks in front of him, and the two after that, and the two-

He was getting better at this now, even managed a croaked “hello,” to most of the customers who walked in the door, and a “thank you” as they took their drinks. He let the steam wand run a few extra seconds to feel the warmth bead on his face every time he started to get anxious. 

The lunch rush came to its merciful end, and Virgil took his break to chew a PB&J sandwich before Janus left for the day. As the clock hit two, the elder barista pulled his keys from the cupboard.

“I bid you adieu and an easy close,” he said, twirling his keychain around his hand as he clocked out. The jingle of his keys was followed by the jangle of the door behind him, and Virgil was alone in the cafe.

He brewed fresh coffee - they’d almost run out during the rush, and pause to sweep the floors and wipe down the counters. Running the store for the last three hours before close, and the chance to close the store by himself was both a responsibility and a chance for peace that Virgil appreciated. He liked helping customers, more spread out then before, and in between them finding little things to clean, extra minutes to practice his latte art - damn, how could Janus draw a rosetta so effortlessly? All Virgil’s came out looking like lumps. 

He aerated the milk gently, and heard the front bell ting.

“Hey there,” Virgil said without looking up, tilting his pitcher so the foam was perfectly incorporated. He turned the steam wand off and gently groomed the milk to pour. “Sorry, I’ll be right with you.” 

The milk texture was almost perfect. He guided his pitcher over the crema and… produced a haphazard rosetta. It was lopsided and a little mangled from Virgil swirling the crema too hard, but it wasn’t one of his worst attempts.

“Hey, that looks pretty good!” 

Virgil looked up and felt his ears get hot. Roman was leaning slightly over the bar (oh wow, he was even taller than Virgil had thought), staring at the cup. “Could you do one like that for me?”

Virgil swallowed. “Yeah uh… yeah, sure.” Nevermind that it was much harder to make oat milk froth properly. Virgil grabbed his non-dairy pitcher.

“Oh, could you make it as an large cinnamon-”

“Yeah, I got it.” Oh no, I cut him off. In too deep now. Virgil felt Roman’s gaze on him as he made the latte. The cinnamon-sugar topping made a nice base to draw with, but Virgil didn’t have as much experience with oat and soy, and the rosetta was barely visible as he finished it. Roman stared into the cup.

“Sorry,” Virgil muttered. “Still practicing.” 

“Oh, that’s okay,” Roman said, but sounded a bit disappointed. He left a ten on the counter. “Thanks for trying, the extra’s for you.” 

He left the cafe, and Virgil watched him vanish down the street, but just before he was out of sight, he put the to-go cup to his lips, and Virgil saw his shoulders relax.

[barnesandco]

Nikah: March

Story Masterlist

Nikah: noun, Arabic, meaning the contract of marriage.

Bucky marries Peter’s former tutor because her student visa’s about to expire and the government isn’t granting her a green card. Can she find a way to permanent residence by marriage, and if so, will it be at the cost of their hearts?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: None.

A/N: Written under the Arranged/Accidental Marriage trope for @mermaidxatxheart​ ‘s writing challenge. Thank you all for reading and commenting! (Picture below is mine, btw)

Bucky’s birthday arrives amidst blooming flowers and a pollen-scented breeze, the day marked by preparations for a party Sam is throwing for him at one of the hotels downtown. Avengers and close friends only, yet he’s spared no expense, insisting on a proper welcome back. The captain is unrelenting in matters of social activity, especially since he has been spending minimal time with his teammates since his marriage. Marriage. He shakes his head at himself in the floor length mirror as he straightens his cuff-links and moonlight catches on the gold band on his finger. It no longer feels like a burden.

Rather, it’s a seed that’s been planted on him, and it’s taken root inside him, growing, growing, growing into a steady feeling of friendship with the person he wears it for. An understanding, a companionship. He refuses to confess to anything more, even within the confines of his own mind. His heart, on the other hand, has no compunctions about making its opinion known, setting off like a hare being hunted whenever she approaches. Most dangerous assassin in the world, defeated by her smile.

She offers him one now when she enters, picture perfect elegance very nearly succeeding in concealing her nerves. Bucky’s nerves, meanwhile, are on fire at the sight of her, sensory overload short-circuiting his brain. He finally turns to look at her directly and the fox-hunt pace of his heart stumbles, stutters to a stop.

“You- you’re- jeepers,” Is all he can manage, the rosewater blush deepening on his cheeks. It has the opposite of the desired effect, and she steps back, mascaraed eyes widening, horrified.

“It’s too much, isn’t it. Oh God, I knew I should’ve-”  She begins to reach for a tissue box on the dresser and Bucky stops her. Lowers her hand slowly and keeps a hold of it, as if she will float away otherwise.

“Jesus, doll, stop. You’re perfect,” He tells her, and she slips her hand away but smiles a little as she sits on the foot of the bed - their bed - to put on her shoes.

“Thank you. You look nice, too,” She says, lifting the hem of her black gown as she pulls on pearl white heels. The matching clutch - pearl encrusted - is on the bedside table, and he hands it to her as they leave the room and then the apartment. 

“Hang on, your tie is loose,” She says the moment they enter the elevator. He can’t even press the button for the ground floor while she holds him in place. The split-second it takes for her to wrap her hands around the green silk and pull it tighter stretches into hours, the graze of her knuckles gentle in his cotton-covered chest. He has enough time to carve the shape of her cupid’s bow into his mind, the descent of her jaw to her chin into his lungs. After half an eternity, she puts distance between them again and presses the button while he tries to smooth his hair back only to feel the short strands tickle between his fingers, and he remembers cutting it last week.

The lobby is bustling, people coming and going like bees in a hive, and they nod their hellos and offer the doorman a Good evening before getting in the car Sam sent. The seats are cold and comfortable, and the chauffeur tips his hat once in the rear-view mirror before putting the Rolls Royce into gear.

“ ‘Possess ye, therefore, ye who borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue’ ” She murmurs, letting her fingers trace the stitching in the butter-soft leather. 

“Marlowe?” Bucky asks, turning away from the New York evening, that special, streetlights-reflecting-on-wet-asphalt evening, to look at his wife. 

“William Cowper. The Task.”

“I think I’ve read that one,” He lies, fully prepared to come clean, and she looks at him curiously. 

“Wow, really? Even I haven’t read all six books,” She says, dubiously verging on impressed, and Bucky drops the facade.

“I’m pullin’ your leg. I’ve read some of Cowper’s work. Don’t remember much, but bits and pieces of school are still there,” He explains, all cheeky smile. “What’s it about? And why in God’s good name is it six books long?” This - the conversation, letting her talk about her work, her passion for literature - this he can do. Playful questions intermingling with genuine intellectual interest is manageable. Her beauty, her grace, the cloud of perfume that bleeds into his veins and makes his lungs strive for air, is not. So he concentrates on what he knows. Or doesn’t know, apparently.

“Honestly, what isn’t The Task about?” She laughs, eyeshadow glimmering like stardust in the smile wrinkles in the corners of her intelligent eyes. “Cowper had a bit of a breakdown during his barrister training in London, and retired to the countryside. In 1781, he met his friend Lady Austen, who later gave him a task to write about, to cheer him up. He started, and then just followed that train of thought wherever it took him.”

“Which book is that line from?” Bucky asks as the car stops in the inevitable Friday night traffic jam. At least they accounted for it, leaving early on purpose to avoid tardiness.

“I don’t actually remember. I think it’s from an extract in which Cowper criticizes the superficial pleasures and unnecessary luxuries of city life,” She answers, opening her clutch. Her phone and a tube of lipstick peek out but she reaches deeper for a pair of earrings.

Closing her eyes, she fastens the first one on the side Bucky can’t see, the other crescent-moon shaped accessory in her silk draped lap. The flower made from pearls matches her bracelet, the two pieces of jewellery clinking together as she puts on the other one.

“City life, huh?” Bucky muses, trying desperately to calm his heart. The earrings dangle, contrasting wonderfully against her simple black gown, and he swallows. She looks like royalty.

“Yeah, many poets of the time wrote a lot about the beauty of nature. They had a lot more of it at their disposal, I guess,” She shrugs.

“Do you have any favorites?” “Nature poems? I don’t know. There are so many good ones. Wordsworth’s To the Cuckoo, Herrick’s Daffodils, Yeats’ Wild Swans at Coole, Tennyso-” She cuts herself off with a huff of a laugh at herself.

“What is it?” 

“Nothing, no- I just-” She laughs again, trying to wave her hand like she’s shooing a fly. “I just have conflicting feelings about these poems by classical authors who write about nature. Poems that express a keen appreciation of beauty yet are fillled with sadness because so many beautiful things are short-lived and because human life itself is so short,” She says, twirling the ring around her finger, deep in thought. Bucky doesn’t know how he found her. This simple, wise soul, in the midst of all the chaos of the world. The chaos of resettlement. 

The chaos of the kitchen, an hour before dinner as the Avengers prepare dinner together, is unholy. Sam’s panicking about dessert while Wanda stirs the marinara sauce for spaghetti in her signature demure fashion, while Peter’s pile of handmade spaghetti grows taller and the pasta dough shrinks. His phone lights up on the table, and Bucky - kneading more dough nearby - is the only one who notices. He calls for Peter and pushes it over to him, not knowing what the point of having a phone is if it’s always going to be on silent, but Peter holds it out to him after just a moment of conversation.

Bucky reads the caller ID on the top and sees who it is, closing the kitchen door behind him, flour on his black t-shirt, as she speaks.

“Hi, Bucky. I hope I’m not disturbing.” 

“No, not at all. Have you decided?” He asks, pacing the hallway, staying out of sight of the others. Not that it matters, they’re still fairly busy. She had seemed unsure when they met, and he had given her time to decide it she wanted to do this. 

“Yeah, but I just- this is a huge favor,” She says.

“Not to me, doll. I’m just helping a friend of a friend,” He says, and it isn’t entirely true. That isn’t why he’s doing this. Something in him wanted to help, wanted to repay the debt of kindness that he owes the world. This is how he wants to do it, although he doesn’t think it’s fair that he gets to choose his penance.

“I thought you said Peter talks your ears off.” Bucky cringes, grateful she can’t see his face, even though he can hear the joking lilt of her tone.

“He’s a good kid. And I want to do this. Do you?” 

“Yeah.” A lengthy pause, heavy and tangible, even across the phone line. 

“When do you want to get married?” She asks finallly, voice shaking. His hand is, too. 

“We have a week-long mission right after Christmas. Boxing day arms deal in Sao Paulo,” He replies, cursing the Brazilian gangs who could find no other time do get up to no good. Evil doesn’t go on vacation, and neither do the Avengers.

“So… New Year’s Eve?” She asks, doing the math. He realizes that’s true. A week from Boxing Day.

“Yes. Shit, you don’t have a ring-” He begins to say, freaking out about the logistics. He didn’t even propose properly.

“It’s okay, we’ll figure it out.” “Alright, I’ll see you then.”

“Bye Bucky.”

“G’night.” He bids her farewell, then looks at the phone, asking himself what the hell he’s just gotten himself into. A knot builds and twists in his body, and he tries to loosen it. Breathes, and makes his way back.

“I’m engaged,” And the kitchen freezes in time as they all drop everything - not literally, Sam’s holding a knife - to look at him. The smile on Peter’s face is brighter than the Christmas tree in the adjacent common room, and the somersaults in Bucky’s stomach only settle at the sight of his relief.  

It seems that his teammates gave him a later time on purpose, because they’re all ready, dressed to the nines and wine-tipsy, waiting for him when they enter. It’s a small ballroom, downtown Manhattan, quaint and graceful. A chorus of Happy Birthday erupts in the room, and he smiles and thanks them. The hugs pile on, and he begins to introduce his wife to his friends. Home away from home for the man who has never had one since the 1940s - until he met her, that is. She’s home now, though he wouldn’t tell her that.

Instead, he relishes in the grin she offers him between introductions, till Sam drags him off to stand him on a chair and sing a birthday song. The party commences in much a similar fashion, too much noise in the room for a couple of dozen people. He stays away from Thor’s alcohol, knowing she doesn’t drink, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. 

He’s just thinking about how she might be dealing with the hectic atmosphere when her hand slips into his while he’s talking to Harley Keener about letting him look at his arm. He’s shocked, looks at her to see her smiling and concentrating only on the conversation, but he can tell she’s tired. It’s been hours, and he knows he can’t leave early - it’s his party - but he just wants to slip those heels off her feet and sit and talk, still in partywear, for hours on end. Let her quote Byron and Cowper and Austen to him, poems and essays and books, until he falls asleep on their sofa. Instead, her voice says something he isn’t expecting at all.

“Is it possible to put some sort of temp regulation in it?” She asks curiously, head tilted to the side like a sparrow. Harley thinks it over for only a second.

“Of course, why?”

“It hurts in the cold. He rubs and rolls his shoulder a lot in the winter,” She answers, and the thoughtful observation astounds him. It’s accurate, but it hadn’t even occurred to him, the movements that she’s citing entirely subconscious. They talk to Harley for a while longer, and then dance to several of Bucky’s favorite songs. Billie Holliday is crooning in the background as the second-to-last guest exits, leaving only his wife and his captain and his deputy director. When the door shuts behind them, they break apart, and Sam and Maria approach, ready to call it a night.

The car ride home passes in complete silence, a comfortable weight resting like a blanket between them, so much so that she falls fully asleep on the way, her head resting against the cold window when they arrive. He doesn’t have the heart to wake her, so he goes around to her door, opening it slowly and lifting her into his arms, not caring what it might look like to onlookers. It’s late, and there are few of them, at least in the lobby, and as the elevator doors shut, her head curls against his shoulder, hair tickling his Adam’s apple.

Bucky looks down at her, her resting, easy expression, the chandni earrings still on, and thinks: what a way to turn 103.

Taglist:  @suz-123​ @mermaidxatxheart​ @buckyreaderrecs​ @shield-agent78​ @corneliabarnes​ @readerandcinephileingeneral​ @stevieboyharrington​ @notsomellowmushroom​ @veganfangirl5​ @mood-pancakes​ @lbuck121​ @starnight-charmer​

[hookedonapirate]

Miss Fix-It

Summary: Miracle worker. Relationship Guru. Savior. 

Those are just a few of her monikers, but most people have taken to call her Miss Fix-It. Helping broken-hearted women get back together with their former boyfriends is her specialty. How does she do it, you ask? Simple—she becomes his date from hell so he’ll realize what a catch he had before he let her go.

Emma Swan is an expert at fixing relationships, it’s just too bad she’ll never have one of her own. 

Her particular set of talents is put to the test, however, when a cheating ex-girlfriend requests her services. Emma’s reluctant at first. It’s not an easy task to make someone seem like a catch when they’ve cheated, but the potential client is an emotional wreck desperate to get her former boyfriend back before he heads back to England. Besides, Emma Swan never backs down from a challenge. They don’t call her Miss Fix-It for nothing. She’ll find a way to make him wish he was back in his ex-girlfriend’s arms, no matter what it takes. If only she can squash the feelings she develops for him and stop breaking her rules.

A/N: I know, I know, I shouldn't be starting any more stories, but I was rewatching a movie I saw a long time ago, starring David Boreanaz, called Mr. Fix-It and I had to write my own version of it. I also did a gender swap because David's character was just too Emma Swan to not write it that way. So this is pretty much My Best Friend"s Girl meets How to Lose a Guy in 10 days. I was originally going to write this for Captain Swan Movie Marathon, but I just couldn't help myself or wait to share it! Some of the ideas in the story regarding relationships and love may seem stretched for the purposes of this fic, so please keep in mind, this is only fiction. 

A big shout out to @ultraluckycatnd​ for beta reading and to @onceuponaprincessworld​ for letting me share my ideas with her!

Chapter 1

“Thank you.” There’s a rare appreciation in Emma’s tone as she steps inside, offering up a slight smile at the stranger holding the door open for her. 

“You’re welcome,” he replies with a downward nod, his smile mirroring hers. 

He’s easy on the eyes and evidently a gentleman, doting on the pretty brunette attached at his arm who’s neither surprised nor offended by the polite gesture he’s offering another woman. Or at least, she doesn’t appear to be. 

Emma looks back, peering through the glass doors to admire the happy couple as they make their way down the sidewalk. The man places his hand on his date’s back as he kisses her temple, and the woman leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Emma smiles at the palpable love and affection they show each other before disappearing from her view.

Sometimes Emma wonders what it would be like to have something like that. But then the reality bomb explodes in her face, reminding her of the love she’d lost, the love that ruined her life. She’s reminded that she’s just a lonely twenty-eight-year-old who’s never truly been happy. Well, she was once, but it was too short-lived to count for anything. The memories make her stomach churn, her smile quickly fading into a frown. 

Shaking the thoughts away, she spins around on her heels, her bright, fire red stilettos clicking on the floor, golden curls bouncing around her shoulders as she looks around, searching for the dining area. She doesn’t need the hard work, the sacrifice or the baggage that tends to accompany relationships. She doesn’t need the heartache. Which is why she’s here at Juliet. The name of the restaurant is a bit ironic, though, considering she’s no Juliet, nor is she looking for her Romeo. 

Her eyes circle around the dining area until she spots the man she immediately recognizes from the photo. His face is buried in his phone but he has the same brown, curly hair and handsome profile. 

Emma approaches his table with slow, uncertain steps, an apprehensive expression etched in her features. “Graham?” 

He peers up from his phone, his eyes immediately lighting up when he sees her. He springs up from his seat to greet her and sticks out his hand, flashing an easy smile. “Emma…”

His cologne is a little too strong and she almost chokes on the vapors as she slips on a smile and slides her palm in his. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he greets in a warm tone as he shakes her hand. His grip is timid and shaky, and his palm is a bit sweaty, but she can tell he’s nervous, so it’s par for the course. “Wow, you look...” his words trail off when he releases her hand, his eyes moving up and down to appreciate her form, “...much prettier than I expected.” 

“And you’re more handsome than I expected,” she compliments with a cheeky grin. “Photos from the internet can often be—”

“Fake? Outdated? Photoshopped?” he says, pulling out a chair for her.

“Exactly,” she laughs and sits down, scooting her chair up to the table as he reclaims the seat across from her. She sets her clutch purse on the table and can’t help but notice the booth to the right, where a couple is sitting on the same side of their table. She hates when couples sit on the same side of the table at a restaurant; it’s just sketchy and weird. The only time this should be acceptable or appropriate is if they were on a double date. But this couple is clearly not. The man is cozied up comfortably with his date—who, not to mention, appears to be half his age—with his right arm wrapped around her as he whispers in her ear, the wedding band on his left hand resting on the table, glinting in the soft, luminous light. Emma can’t tell if his date is also wearing a ring or not, because she’s sitting on the other side of him, but it’s highly unlikely. She looks too young to be married, but then again Emma was only eighteen when she eloped. That’s a different story for another time though.

“What would you like to drink?” the waitress asks, pulling Emma from her reverie.

Feeling a desperate need for some liquid courage, she peels her eyes from the couple to address the waitress. “I’d love some Moscato, please.” Even in her early twenties, she never drank wine or any alcohol really, but then she discovered its value as a social lubricant and how much easier it is to perform her job when she drinks, so she forced herself to develop a taste for it.

When the waitress leaves to fetch the bottle, Emma rests her hands in her lap as she kicks off the conversation. “So, tell me, what do you do for a living, Graham?” 

Graham places his arms on the table and joins his hands together, his nervous demeanor melting away. “I’m a police officer, hoping to be a detective someday.” 

“Hm,” Emma hums in genuine interest. “A detective, huh? So, you must be good at solving crimes, then? What can you tell me about the couple at the table next to us?” she asks, nodding toward them.

“I said,  someday,”  Graham chuckles. “I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I’ll humor you. The man is either cheating or just recently divorced,” he says, without even glancing at the other table. 

“How can you tell?”

“For one, spouses don’t sit next to each other at a restaurant, they sit across from each other and gaze into each other’s eyes and wait to cuddle up on the sofa in the privacy of their own home like normal people. And two, he has a ring on his finger, but she doesn’t.”

Emma turns her head and stretches her neck, trying to see over the man. “How can you tell she’s not wearing a ring?”

“I noticed when they sat down. Besides, she looks young enough to be his daughter, she’s way too young to be married.”

“I know, right?” Emma agrees with a strained laugh, pointing a finger at him. “You’re going to make a fine detective one day, Officer Graham.”

He blushes, a nervous laugh escaping his throat as the waitress returns. After she drops off the requested bottle of wine, Emma brings the wine glass to her lips, appreciating the heady fragrance and the well-balanced mixture of sweetness and bitterness on her tongue as the liquid glides down her throat. “What about you, Emma? What do you do for a living?”

“I fix up houses,” she answers simply, setting her glass on the table.

“Ah, so you’re like a handyman, then?”

“Handywoman,” she corrects. “My dream is to start my own reality show like the Property Brothers.”

He lifts a flirty brow. “A woman who’s good with her hands? I like that.” 

Emma blushes and holds up her open palms, a sly grin curving her lips. “Believe me, I’ve worked wonders with these things.” 

“I don’t doubt that,” he says with a smirk, shifting in his seat. “So, how did you get into that line of work?”

“When I was eight, I got bored one day, so my grandpa gave me a hammer and told me to go play.” 

Graham looks at her, wide-eyed, his jaw falling open.

Emma laughs. “I’m joking. My grandparents were house flippers long before house flipping became popular and they’re the ones who raised me, so handiwork sort of became second nature to me.”

“Ah, I see,” he says before taking a sip of what she determines is whiskey, based on its distinct, yeasty smell and amber-brown liquid.

“So, tell me, Graham, if you don’t mind me asking—how is a guy like you single?”

He chuckles and sets down the tumbler, rejoining his hands on the table. “Well. I’ll be honest, Emma, I have a fear of commitment.”

Emma raises a brow toward her hairline. “Oh really? I have to say, based on your Zoosk profile, you strike me as a guy who’s into something more than a casual fling.”

Graham reaches for his drink again and curls his hand around the glass as he stares vacantly into the tumbler. “Well, I used to think I could be in a serious relationship. I was dating this woman I really liked, but things just went way too fast.” He glances at Emma, guilt clouding his face. “She talked about getting married and having kids, and I’m just not ready for all that yet. I’m still young, you know?” he says before taking a sip of his drink.

Emma nods in understanding and crosses her arms on the table, leaning toward him. “Well, since you felt comfortable sharing that with me, can I let you in on a little secret?”

Setting his drink down, he mirrors her position and leans over the table so their faces are only a few inches apart. “Of course.”

“I don’t do commitments either. I don’t like to be tied down…” a cheeky grin overtakes her face as she adds, “well unless I’m being tied down in bed. I like to live in the moment.”

He smirks, discernibly aroused by her confession. “Well, then we want the same thing.”

Emma nods in agreement, even though she’s not buying it, and throws back her wine like it’s hard liquor, gulping it down quickly before setting the glass down on the table and wiping off her mouth. “So, what do you say… wanna get outta here?”

She doesn’t have to ask him twice before he’s tossing some cash on the table to pay for their drinks, before he’s rising from his chair and offering his hand. “My place?”

She glances at his hand briefly before lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. “Perfect.” She grabs her purse and slips her hand in his, rising from the table. She’s feeling warm and slightly buzzed as they head toward the exit doors, his hand resting on her back. Alcohol always makes this so much easier. 

Once outside, his arms are around her and his lips are on the shell of her ear while they’re moving quickly but clumsily, and she’s giggling when his beard tickles her skin. Before they make it to his vehicle parked in front of the restaurant, she tugs on his sleeve to stop him in his tracks. 

He removes his lips from her ear and pulls away slightly, lifting a questioning brow, resting his hands on her hips. 

“Before we go to your place, I have to be upfront with you about something.”

“Okay,” he nods, waiting for her to continue.

“I failed to mention this in my profile, but... I only do one night stands.”

“Oh, uh… that’s cool,” he says, but she can tell by the way he removes a hand from her hip and scratches his head and the uncertainty in his eyes that he’s not being completely honest with her. Or himself. “I’m totally down for a one-nighter.” 

Emma's shoulders rise and slump with relief as she flashes a toothy grin. “Okay, well now that I know we're on the same page, I do have a few rules you should know about.”

He nods, urging her to go on. She hasn't scared him off yet, and instead, he seems to be intrigued. 

“I don’t do any type of intimacy. So no kissing or cuddling, no foreplay,” she pauses when he furrows his brows in disappointment, his smile quickly dimming, “and this next rule is very important…”

“What’s that?” he asks, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

“You have to wear a pillowcase over your head as you fuck me. I can’t risk getting attached to anyone.” Emma has to suppress a smirk when she sees the doubt clouding his eyes. “Oh and one more thing…”

He forces a small smile. “I’m afraid to ask…” 

She can tell he’s not nearly as interested as he was before, so what she’s about to say will definitely push him over the edge. She’s sure of it. 

She leans in closer, whispering in his ear. “You’re my second date tonight, so if I’m already leaking cum before you enter me, that’s why.”

Graham quickly removes his hand from her hip to cover his fake coughs. “I’m sorry, I’m feeling a cold coming on and I don’t want to get you sick, so I’ll have to take a rain check.” 

She waves off his words with a flick of her hand. "Oh, it's okay, I don't mind. Who knows what other ailments—or diseases for that matter—I contracted from the other guy anyway," she laughs. “I don't believe in condoms. Or any type of contraceptives for that matter."

Emma has never seen a man hightail away from her so fast in her entire life. Not even that one time when she told a guy she was on a first date with that she would cut off his balls if he ever so much as looked at another woman. 

She smirks as she watches Graham jump into his car, the tires squealing as he peels away from the curb, racing down the street. 

Emma turns on her heels and casually strides over to her car, thoroughly satisfied with how the date ended as she digs into her purse for her phone. She gets in her car and waits for her screen to light up. 

Three... Two... One…

Like clockwork, her phone buzzes and she answers it, bringing the phone to her ear. “Emma Swan.”

“You’re a freaking genius! I don’t know what you did or said to Graham, but he just texted me and wants to get back together!” 

Emma looks at her fingernails, admiring the manicure she'd gotten earlier after receiving a paycheck from her newest client. “I didn’t do anything. He just needed a little reminder of how hard it is to find someone like you, that’s all. Remember, Kaitlyn, you’re a catch. I just helped him realize that.”

“Oh, Emma, thank you, thank you, thank you! A million times thank you!” she cries into the phone. 

“Well now that he's reaching out to you, remember to dial down the intensity, okay?”

“What do you mean?” Kaitlin asks, confusion evident in her tone.

“I mean, he told me the reason why he broke up with you is because you were moving too fast for him. You have to give him time to catch up with you. But don't worry, he'll get there eventually. You just need to move at a slower, more natural pace to get him where you want him to be. Otherwise, you'll be calling me up a month from now, asking for my help again, but I never do the same job twice, got it?”

“I got it, but you have nothing to worry about. I won't screw this up again, I promise.”

Emma hopes so both for their sakes. All of her first attempts have so far proven to be successful, with the exception of one case (it's not Emma’s fault the guy turned out to be gay), but a second attempt would just be wasting her time. If a relationship doesn't work out the second time around, that usually means it wasn't meant to be. 

“Okay, just remember what I told you and you'll be fine.”

“Okay, I will,” Kaitlyn says before there's a brief pause. “Oh, I’m sorry, I have to go. Graham’s calling me. Thanks again!”

After the call ends, Emma tosses the phone in her purse and inserts the key in the ignition. When the engine roars to life, she turns on the radio and pulls out of her parking spot, looking forward to changing into pajamas, lounging on the couch and watching Point Blank. She looks forward to sleeping in her bed all alone and pleasuring herself with her battery-operated friend without worrying about having to impress anyone in the sack. And the next morning she’ll wake up refreshed and trot off work like she does every day, waiting for the next distressed woman to show up at her office in a mess of tears, begging Emma to help get her man back. 

And she’ll agree to it because it’ll take her mind off of her own lonely, depressing life and allow her to focus on someone else’s problems. She not only helps women repair their broken relationships but, unlike broken pipes, she fixes them quickly and efficiently with no clean up required. She does it with a smile on her face and her heart locked up tight because she’s a professional and she's amazing at what she does. 

But hey, they don’t call her Miss Fix-It for nothing, right?

[aprilqueen84]

Halloween Treat

A/N: Today is the one year anniversary of my story “Halloween Treat.” So I decided to edit it a bit and post again. If you have already read it or if this is your first time I hope you enjoy it.

Summary: The Swan-Jones family are in for an extra special treat this Halloween

Tag List:  @hollyethecurious, @resident-of-storybrooke, @kmomof4, @jennjenn615, @nikkiemms, @kingofmyheart14, @xemmaloveskillianx, @angellifedeath, @facesiousbutton82, @a-faekindagirl, @kymbersmith-90, @winterbaby89, @ekr032-blog-blog, @laschatzi, @teamhook, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @capswantrue, @bmbbcs4evr, @kday426, @tiganasummertree, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, @Ifh1962-Ifh1226-linda @met8, @meganhinsley, @captswanis4vr, @laurielulou,

Emma stood in front of the bathroom mirror staring at her costume for Granny’s Halloween party tonight. Earlier in the week Hope had overheard her conversation with Snow and had been so excited, saying that she wanted to wear “matching” costumes with mommy. She just couldn’t say no when she looked up at her with those bright green eyes of hers. When her daughter had told her what she wanted them to dress up as Emma shouldn’t have been surprised “Winnie-the-Pooh” is one of Hope’s favorite books and movies.

“You will look so cute Emma,” her mother had said, but she didn’t feel cute. At nine months pregnant and her due date less than three weeks away all she felt was tired and her back has been hurting all day so she was entitled to be a little grumpy. Okay, so the costume was really cute and very comfortable. She was dressed in a long sleeved yellow dress with a short red shirt over it resting just above her belly. On top of her head sat bear eared headband, and to round out the outfit she was dressed in black leggings with ballet flats.

She picks up a black drawing pencil to color her nose that will put the final touches on her “Pooh” costume when she heard a knock on the door and Killian’s voice. “Swan, are you almost done? We don’t want to be late.”

She finishes and puts down the pencil and calls out. “Yeah. I’m coming!” She walks out of the bathroom to see her husband bent down fixing their little “Piglets” ears. Killian was dressed in black slacks with a long white button down shirt with half of the buttons undone to reveal a blue under-shirt with a large S in the center. Also a tie hung loosely around his neck, slicked back hair and thick fake black glasses completed his Clark Kent/Superman costume.

Hope looked over to see her mother standing in the doorway. “Mommy!” the three year old called out as she ran up to Emma and hugged her around her legs. “You look pretty mommy.”

Emma looked down at Hope. Her head barely visible over her large bump and smiled at her. “Thank you baby girl. You look pretty too.” Hope giggled and stepped back and to twirl in front of her parents as Emma and Killian giving each other amused looks. She was dressed in a long sleeved shirt, the sleeves of which were pale pink while the rest was dark pink with black lining. She was also wearing a pink tutu, and the finishing touch was a headband with pink pig ears on top of her dark blonde hair. “Are you excited to go to the party sweetheart?”

Hope nodded her head in excitement. “Yes it’s going to be so much fun!” All of a sudden she got quiet and asked. “Mommy. Daddy. It’s not going to be scary is it?” her bottom lip started to tremble and tears filled her eyes. Killian went forward and immediately lifted her up in his arms, while Emma came forward to rub circles on their little girls back.

They gave each other confused looks at Hope’s change of emotions. Killian was the first to speak to his daughter. “Cygnet of course it’s not going to be scary. We are only going to Granny’s darling,” but Hope didn’t look convinced.

Emma lifted her hand to wipe her daughter’s tears and tried her hand at reassuring her. “We promise you baby there is nothing to be afraid of, okay. We will be with you the whole time,” Hope looked at both of them for a few seconds, before finally nodding her head in acceptance. “Alright now why don’t you go downstairs and grab your shoes, Daddy and I will be down in a minute?” They each gave her a kiss the cheek then Killian set her down on the ground and she left the room.

After she left they turned to face each other, arms going around each other. “Hello love. How are you and the babe doing?” Killian asked moving is hand down to rest on her belly.

Emma moved her hand to rest over his and replied. “We’re fine. Although your son is making my back hurt and I really do look like a fat bear in this outfit,” She rubbed their hands up and down over her bump when suddenly their son gave a big kick to where their hands were. They both smiled down at where they felt the kick.

“I think the wee lad disagrees with you love and I have to say I think he’s right you look smashing,” Emma looked at him tenderly, he always made her feel special and beautiful when she wasn’t feeling either.

“Well I think you make the perfect Superman, soft and strong at the same time,” their gazes met and they both leaned forward, but before their lips could meet the baby sent a sharp kick to Emma’s ribs. “Ow!” she gasped. Clutching her stomach tight, breathing in deeply for a few seconds until the pain stopped.

“Emma! What’s wrong?” Killian asked her in a panic. He had never seen her react that way to one of the babies kicks before.

“Nothing. I guess he just doesn’t want to be late for the party. We should get down to Hope,” she gave him a small smile and a quick kiss before turning and headed downstairs.

When they got to Granny’s the party was already underway. The diner had been transformed, white cobwebs covered the ceiling with spiders of various sizes attached to them. The counter had several cauldrons with white smoke bubbling out of them and onto the floor. White candle “ghosts” with black felt glued on them sat on all the booth table tops. Tall “dead” trees with fake bats attached to them are standing in the corner of the diner.

“Wow! Granny’s did a wonderful job with the decorations,” Killian observed as they walked through the doors. Glancing down at Hope who was looking at the room in awe. “See little love it’s not scary at all right?” Hope nodded her head in agreement.  With that she was off and running over to the apple bobbing game where her grandparents and her Uncle Neal were dressed as pirate’s. He looked over to Emma who had been strangely quiet since they left the house and she had also been rubbing her side allot. “Swan, everything ok,” he asked gently touching her arm.

Emma jumped a little at his touch. She admits she hadn’t been paying much attention to anything since they got here or really since they left the house. “What?” she asks confused.

“I asked if everything is okay. You’ve been really quiet tonight and rubbing your side love, are you feeling alright?” Killian turned her to face him, putting his hand and hook on her arms.

“Killian I’m fine I,” Emma paused when she saw the look on his face. The one that he gives her when he knows she is not being a hundred percent truthful. “Fine! My back is still hurting and my ribs are still sore from where the baby kicked me earlier,” she confessed. He didn’t say anything until he suddenly took her by the hand and led her to one of the booths. “Killian what are you doing?” she said, bewildered by her husband's behavior.

He gently lowered her down into the seat. “Swan. Why didn’t you tell me you were still in pain, maybe we shouldn’t have come tonight,” He said frantically pulling a chair up next to her. “I think that you should rest here for the rest of the night,” his hand hovered over her not sure where it was safe to touch her, afraid he would cause her more pain if he touched her.

Emma took his hand in hers. “Killian calm down, I’m fine,” she reassured him. He went to protest, but she cut him off firmly. “I’m nine moths pregnant, everything is going to hurt at this point,” she raised her hand to his cheek and her touch immediately calmed him.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Killian turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand. “I overreacted. Forgive me?” His eyes meet hers and she pulled him forward into a loving kiss.

When they pulled back she responded. “Of course I forgive you, I love that you worry about us and want to take care of us,” she paused before saying. “How about this, I promise to rest if I need too and I will tell you if anything feels different deal?”

Killian nodded his head. “Aye. Deal love,” he bent his down to her belly. “Now my little lad, I need you to be good for your mommy alright?” his eyes moved to Emma’s and gave her a wink.

Emma giggled at her husband. “Okay baby whisperer how about you go help our daughter out,” she said pointing over to where Hope was playing the “Witch Hat” ring toss but not being able to quite get the glow stick ring to land on the hat. Emma could see the frustration start to grow on Hope’s face. “Go on Man-of-Steel, go save the day,” Killian pressed a sweet kiss to her forehead, stood up and walked over to their daughter.

A few hours later Emma was once again sitting in the booth seat. She had been up a few times making the rounds chatting with everyone. She helped Hope decorate her pumpkin at the arts and crafts table, and played a few games with Killian and Hope now it was time to go. As soon as she thought that a sharp pain shot through her side, the strongest of the night. “Ok buddy just let me get daddy and we can go.”

She felt bad for keeping Killian in the dark all night about her contractions. They had already been here by the time she knew for sure that’s what the pain in her back really was. The pain they thought was the baby kicking had been the first real contraction of the night, but they had been far apart and brief. It was only within the last hour that they had started to grow in intensity and frequency, so it was time to get Killian and go to the hospital.

Killian had been keeping an eye on Emma all night looking for signs of discomfort. While he could tell she was a little uncomfortable, it seemed that what had been ailing her had passed. He was talking to Rogers when he spots Emma making her way back over to the booth walking slower than normal and holding her side. He excuses himself, when he gets to the booth Emma is breathing deeply, rubbing her belly. “Emma darling what’s wrong?” he asked anxiously.

Emma raised up a finger, indicating to give her a minute. After a few more deep breaths she looked at him and said,“Killian I think we should go.”

“Alright I’ll go fetch Hope and tell everyone we are going home,” he went to turn, when Emma put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“No, Killian not home. To the hospital, the baby’s coming.” She told him.

Killian’s eyes grew large and he crouched down in front of her. “What! Emma are you sure, when did it start?” he asked her in a hurried voice.

“Yes I am sure. It first started at the house. You know the pain in my back and the baby’s kick, well it was actually labor pains,” she stopped as another contraction hit her, grasping Killian’s hand. When it stopped she said breathlessly. “and it’s been getting steadily worse all night.”

Killian reached out to place a hand on her belly, he could feel how tight it was. “Emma why didn’t you tell me?”

Emma covered his hand with her. “Because I didn’t want to ruin tonight for Hope, she was so excited to come and dress up together and I just couldn’t disappoint her,” she sighed. “Besides it’s still in the early stages, my water hasn't even broken yet, but I think it’s getting closer.”

Killian jumped up and carefully lifted her up onto her feet, slowly walking her over to where her parents were, informing them that they were about to have a new grandson. Shock and then happiness overtook them, as they said goodbye to Hope she was confused as to why she couldn’t go with them. They told her that they needed her to stay with  her grandma and grandpa and the next time she sees them, she will get to meet her new baby brother. When they got into the car, they face each other and smiled, they were going to have another baby.

When they got to the hospital they were admitted very quickly, the perks of being the Sheriff and Deputy of the town. As Emma was changing in her hospital gown and Killian into borrowed scrubs, her water finally broke and from there it was very fast pace. When the doctor came in to examine Emma, she was shocked to discover that she was already ten centimeters dilated. A short time later Emma was pushing with Killian beside her holding her hand and giving her words of encouragement. “Come on Swan, you can do this,” she gave one finally push and a few seconds later a healthy cry rang out into the room.

Killian and Emma both cried in relief, Killian leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead. The doctor lifted up their son and placed him directly onto to Emma’s chest.

“Oh Emma! He is so beautiful,” he reached his finger out to gently stroke his cheek. “Hello there my lad I’m your daddy and this is your mummy.”

Emma looked down at her son in awe. “He’s here Killian. He is finally here,” she leaned in to kiss his forehead. “He still needs a name,” she paused in thought, “What about Aiden?”

Killian pondered for a second. “Aiden? Aye my love that's a fine name, we still set on his middle name?” she nodded her head. “ Well then it settled welcome to the world Aiden Leo Jones.”

The End

[lotornomiko]

Light Grasping Darkness (2 of 6 NOT safe for work fanfic)

Captain Swan Smut Ahoy! NSFW....

Emma didn't think there would ever be a time where she'd grow used to teleportation. Not the rocky, downright violent travel of portals that led to other worlds, and certainly not the far gentler but no less stomach rolling jolt of reality stripping away. The dark greens and browns of the forest smeared together, and when that blurring of realities had finally stopped, Emma had found herself in a room that wasn't in any way familiar.

She also wasn't alone, the Dark One---Hook, right up against her. His arm was around her waist, but she didn't mind that or the fact that the pirate kept on pressing them together. Not when Emma had her hand on his cock, her grip entirely one of a sexual purpose, meant to soothe and arouse and most important of all, distract, keeping Hook from acting on the murderous command that he had been implicitly given.

It was a command that would see Emma dead, see the ruin and destruction of everything she had ever truly cared for. She couldn't afford to forget that, though neither could Emma allow that knowledge to hinder her now. Emma couldn't allow for a single second of hesitation, needing to keep Hook lusting, and in her control for as long as possible.

It was a delicate balance she would have to strike. A balance between letting herself go to desire, but not becoming so far gone as to forget herself in the process. This thing with Hook wasn't about scratching an itch, wasn't about love or lust, so much as survival. Hers and her family's, Emma was still so unsure if she could guarantee a happy ending for them all.

That fact had despair wanting to well up inside her, but Emma stuffed down all that unwanted and useless an emotion. She couldn't let sadness or anger fill her, couldn't let her thoughts prove so distracting that she hesitated long enough for Hook to recede, and the Dark One to take over. Emma would be deader than dead if that then happened, for she doubted she'd be able to coax Hook out a second time.

In a way it was like holding a tiger by it's tail, Emma safe so long as she didn't let go. Of course it wasn't his manhood that she needed to keep firm grip on, so much as the lust that Emma so obviously caused within Hook. A lust that had been there from the moment they had first met, Emma seeing through his lies, but being the hard ass unwilling to trust the pirate as far as she could throw him.

Sometimes the woman wondered if she had let herself be blinded, her defense mechanisms kicking up in response to the attraction between them. Hook had reminded her of Neal, a con artist with enough charm and personality to worm his way into an unprepared heart. It was Hook's flirtatious ways that had set alarm bells ringing in Emma's head, the woman knowing she couldn't afford to be dazzled or charmed by the pirate, couldn't allow herself to be hurt by yet another man.

In her haste to protect herself, she had done Hook damage. She had hurt and betrayed him, had let herself be deaf to the truth he had spoken. A truth that had him siding with whoever could get him to Storybrooke, all so that the pirate could go after Rumplestiltskin.

So many things had gone wrong because Emma hadn't been able to trust. Hadn't WANTED to. And now it was too late, or so it seemed to Emma, the woman fighting to keep the frustration, the sadness out of her eyes. Trying to stop thinking about the if only, and focus on the present, on Hook and on what she was doing.

With her hand lightly stroking the pirate's cock, Emma gave Hook her most inviting smile. "You're not about to let me do all the work, are you pirate?" She had meant to tease, to seduce, but the words came out as a challenge. A challenge Hook was only too eager to take up, his mouth suddenly there, hot and pressing on her lips.

It was too sudden, too soon, Emma not yet recovered from the earlier choking and the recent teleportation. She swayed in place, practically swooning in Hook's embrace, vaguely registering the soft, throaty chuckle the pirate let out.

"Always knew you'd fall for me...."

Once Emma would have snapped out an angry protest, but now wasn't the time for displays of hostility. She merely leaned against his front, peering at him with lashes that were lowered to hide the dazed look in her eyes.

"Still trying to catch my breath." She readily admitted. Hook seemed to flinch at that, his gaze being drawn to her throat, which was colored with the bruised imprints of his hand. He looked ready to say something, to offer up some sort of apology that Emma didn't want. She raised her free hand, cupping a cheek that was lightly covered in dark colored stubble. She didn't tell him it was okay, didn't try to make excuses for him. Instead Emma tried to ground him in the present, to keep him focused on a moment that might be their only chance.

To her surprise, Hook turned to press a kiss into the palm of her hand. It was a surprisingly tender gesture, one Emma might find endearing under any other normal circumstance. Now it only made her want to cry, here where there was no room for softer emotions.

"Emma..."

"Shut up and kiss me, Hook." She ordered, and even in her breathless state, she sounded fierce.

"Bossy little blonde." But his eyes weren't dancing with the playful light Emma had come to associate with Hook's flirtations. He was far too serious, too focused, and she knew then that Hook understood that this was distraction at it's best. He understood and was letting it happen, letting Emma use his desires to keep the Dark One at bay.

Neither one of them wondered how such a thing could even be possible. Neither thought to question how attraction and sexual want could be that strong. How something like lust, even one that had gone denied for months now, could hold enough power to stop what was thought to be inevitable.

In short, neither one thought to consider the impossible, both too damaged by love to dare give it a chance. To dare let its seeds take root, to let it blossom and bloom, and ultimately heal. It wasn't just that both fought against the possibility of loving again, as they simply refused to even consider the chance of it as ever happening.

But love was a powerful magic of its own, and never was it easily deterred. It would fight for its chance, steal away into the most hidden recesses of a heart. Taking what moments it could, it would nurture and grow, and if given half a chance, might someday be powerful enough to break curses. Even a curse as powerful as that of the Dark One.

But it wasn't there yet. Love waited hidden, just out of sight and mind, but retaining enough presence for the darkness to notice. The possibilities it offered was too seductive for the darkness to ignore, even as it courted ruin by embracing the love.

Emma would have laughed, scoffing the very notion of love having a mind and hopes of its own. She might have been born in the Enchanted Realm, but for all intents and purposes she wasn't truly from there. She had simply lived too long in a land without magic, had been hurt too badly to want to believe in the power of love and kisses.

If she had believed, the power that would have surged between them would have knocked Emma flat on her back. As it was, Hook's hungry kiss still left her swaying in place, the fingers of her free hand digging into the torn leather of his coat.

"Wow..." She managed to say out loud, when the room seemed to stop it's spinning. The corners of Hook's mouth turned to that familiar smirk, the pirate nodding as he huskily agreed.

"Wow." He was looking her in the eyes, his sea dark gaze full of sexual heat and promise. She almost blushed in response, something Emma hadn't done for a man in years. "Always knew it would be this good with you, Emma...."

And then she was kissing him, Emma not wanting to hear any more. Hook made a sound, a surprised grunt that turned into an eager moan. His good hand clutched at her waist, the cold metal of his hook at the small of her back. He was surprisingly well behaved for a pirate, Emma having expected a man like him to grope her the first chance he got.

"You can touch me, pirate." Emma told him, then bit and pulled at his lower lip. "I won't break."

"I want to do more than just touch you." Hook told Emma, to her own private thrill. "I want to eat you up."

"All in good time." Emma said in a light tone that belied how affected she was by his words. How her heart had quickened it's beat, excitement quivering through her at the picture that his simple words had brought to vivid life in her mind. But Emma wanted more than just to imagine it, she wanted to shove Hook to his knees, and force him to make good on his desires.

But she couldn't rush this. Every moment was precious, every moment yet another second that meant she was alive. As much as she wanted to tear off his clothes, to throw him down on the floor, and ride him to a bucking orgasm in all haste, Emma forced herself to go slow. To savor the moment as much as she could.

Was Hook thinking similar thoughts? Was it why he so clearly held himself back? When he was rock hard and throbbing, actually thrusting lightly into her hand's grip in an effort to get some sort of relief. It had to be bordering on pain, and yet the pirate hadn't made a move to divest her of a single piece of clothing.

Nor she him for that matter! A fact she could take care of easily enough, Emma changing her grip on his coat, so that she could begin tugging it downwards. Hook neither tried to help nor hinder her, kissing her again, their mouths both open so that the pirate's tongue easily swept inside.

His taste, the salt of the sea, was on her tongue. Emma made a pleased sound, playing her tongue against his, neither taking control nor giving it up completely. Waiting for him to master her, stifling a sigh when he continued to hold back.

"Hook...." Her tone came out warning, Emma turning her face to the side. His kisses were nibbles, tiny little exclamations of ardor against the side of her face, his tongue darting out to do a single, long lick of her skin.

"God, you taste good." Hook muttered feverishly into her skin. "Makes me hungry for more..."

"You..." The teasing words she had been about to speak, were lost to her gasp, Emma finding Hook had tired of holding back. With a great wrenching sound, her favorite red leather jacket was split seamlessly in two. Emma could only gape in astonishment, Hook pulling the two halves off her, and the shirt underneath it as well.

His eyes dark with appreciation, stared at the flimsy lace of her black bra. Always one to dress nicely even down to her undergarments, Emma's bra was more decoration than functional. Barely able to keep her breasts contained, and not at all hiding the fact that her nipples were stiffening.

"Love the way you dress." Hook moaned, his mouth already going to her breasts. Emma gave an involuntary jerk of her body, back arching as Hook's mouth closed eagerly over a lace covered nipple.

It was almost too much, the combination of his mouth and the scratchy lace rubbing over her sensitive nipple. Emma cried out, the sound that of pure satisfaction as Hook licked and laved at her nipple, his cheeks hollowing out whenever he began that sweet sucking motion.

All thought almost left Emma, the woman barely able to concentrate on anything but the feel of what Hook was doing to her. It frightened her how badly she wanted to forget, how easy it would have been to give herself over so completely to the moment. Her fight or flight instincts kicked in, Emma trying to back away, to get free of Hook's arms, and that devilishly wicked mouth.

It was easier said the done, the pirate undeterred. Holding her with arms that could very well be made of steel, Hook moved when Emma did, lifting his mouth up off her breast to kiss her senseless against a wood paneled wall. Emma almost whimpered then, rapidly being swept away by Hook's passion, by the excitement that filled her, the fierce longing want that sucker punched her into weakening before him. Her legs buckled, and suddenly they were around Hook's body, Emma having let go of his cock to wrap herself around him.

His hand was gripping her bottom, that hook of his rubbing it's cold metal along the length of her spine. It was the shock of cold against her warmed skin that almost brought Emma back to her senses, but Hook's kisses stole away whatever reason she tried to grab for.

It was so fiercely that they kissed, Emma's fingers finding the holes in his clothing. Digging in, then tearing them wider, ruining the remains of his shirt with her passion. Her legs were locked tight around him, Emma's dampened sex seated directly over Hook's cock. Pure instinct had her moving her hips. Emma rubbing herself on him. Causing a sweet, maddening friction that left them both growling, Hook's hips moving, thrusting against her as though he was already inside her.

She actually whined in need, kissing Hook just as hard, as desperately as he had her. Both their lips were swollen, their breaths rasping out of them in deep pants. Her chest heaved in an attempt to catch her breath, drawing Hook's attention back to her breasts. His hook was suddenly there, ripping the lace open, the bra's remains hanging down as a limp frame on either side of her chest.

"Such magnificence..." She heard Hook whisper in awe. And then his mouth was back on her, and it was a dozen times better without the bra in the way. Emma took to moaning, arching her back and pressing her breasts against Hook's lips. He didn't just go for her nipples, he kissed all over th round skin that they were a part of, leaving love bite imprints on her flesh.

"Enough, enough..." Emma was saying, but she didn't want him to stop. She caught at the back of his hair, attempting to haul him away from her breasts. Hook growled in protest, but only until she made her demands known.

"Need you inside me NOW." She told him, locking their gazes together. He didn't hesitate, didn't ask if she was sure. Hook merely stripped her of her jeans, and the panties on underneath, and within half of second of that, was thrusting inside her.

"Oh yes..." Emma hissed out in welcome relief. Desire pooled, everything about Emma tightening around Hook, her nails digging into his back, her legs locking in place. Hook actually hissed back, flashing pearl white teeth in a feral grimace.

"Too tight, too soon..." He actually seemed to be struggling, standing frozen as his cock throbbed with near violent need inside her. Emma couldn't bring herself to relax, didn't want to let go for a single instant. She clutched at his back with her hands, bit down hard on his right shoulder a second before she issued a demand.

"Move."

With the bitter, metallic taste of his blood on her tongue, Emma felt the powerful surge of Hook's hips all the way from her head on down to her toes. Before she could even decide if this was pain or pleasure that he was giving her, Hook had found a rhythm, steady but deep, and just on the side of frantic.

Her back bumped against the wall with every thrust of Hook's hips, Emma biting, and clawing at whatever she could reach. Going wild as she decided that yes this was bliss, all pleasure and satisfaction, the friction their bodies were generating together making them both crazed and desperate.

Sweat beaded on both their bodies, Hook taking the time to lick several droplets off of the top of Emma's breasts. When he began teasing her nipples with his deft tongue, Emma's hands found their way into his hair, fingers clutching at his scalp while the woman made breathless sounds of appreciation.

Her nipples were a steady ache, soothed only when Hook's lips was around them. The wet warmth of his mouth a curing salve that needed constant applying, every sucking pull of his lips making Emma wiggle and whine and go even wilder against him. Squirming, moving her hips to match his thrusts, tossing her head back in open abandonment.

Emma lost herself completely, living only for the moment, for the sensations their joining was creating. Purpose forgotten, Emma looked at Hook, and was taken in by that seductive dark beauty, entirely entranced by the sin glittering in his eyes.

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

To Be Continued...

[justanoutlawfic]

Coming Home: Chapt. 3

Summary: Emma is forced to stay in Storybrooke longer than expected and runs into some familiar faces...along with one she just can't recognize. 

Also on AO3/FF

Emma has only ever had three good father figures in her life. At least that she can remember. It’s more than a lot of foster kids might have had, she realizes, but in one way or another, they’ve let her down.

 There was the first dad she ever really had. The father that fostered her for three years. She can’t remember much about him except that he smiled a lot and they’d get bear claws every Saturday morning. At least towards the end of her stay with the Smiths, which was where she got her old last name. She changed it not long after she left the Nolans and found herself living on the street. An older boy told her a different way of looking at “The Ugly Duckling”. The duck became the swan, because she believed in herself. Emma supposed she could believe in herself too.

 There was Bill, when she was around 12 or 13, the years all start to blend together. He took her to a father/daughter dance at her middle school. He and Katie were going to take her on her very first vacation: a camping trip. Her foster brothers, their biological sons, were going to come along. Then Lily had to go and ruin all of that. The way Bill looked at her and said that she had put “his children” at risk. She realized he was never going to love her the same way he did Max and Zach. He hadn’t even fought for her when she ran away.

 The last was David. She had been with him less than the Smiths, but longer than Bill and Katie. For seven months, she had a home. David had promised her that he was going to be her forever father. After Jerry Smith, it was a promise she treasured. And then after David, it was a promise she never really believed again. She didn’t understand how he could go from playing with her, teaching her how to make cookies and checking for monsters in her closet…to just letting her slip away.

 Emma dealt with Henry at the beach. The kid was messed up, there was no doubt in her mind about that. He resented Regina and Emma felt for him, but she also knew that was his mom. They needed to work out whatever issues they had. Henry kept trying to insist his life sucked but Emma struggled with feeling for him. He had a mom that had called the police the minute he went missing. A mom that genuinely seemed to miss him. Regina and Henry were going through a rough patch, but they were going to be okay.

 It broke her heart to watch him forlornly walk into the house, but she knew just as she had 10 years ago, that it was for the best. Regina looked at her skeptically and Emma couldn’t blame her there. This was the second time her kid had run off in 24 hours and Emma had been the one to show up with him. She said her goodbyes and climbed into her bug, fully intending on heading out of Storybrooke and back to her life in Boston.

Until her bug stalled in the middle of Main Street. Which, like her former foster mother, hadn’t changed a bit.

 Billy, the mechanic, came fairly quick once Emma got the number from the waitress at the diner. His news, however, wasn’t as bright.

 “I’m a bit backed up,” he said. “I’m not going to be able to get to this for a while.”

Emma groaned. “You have got to be kidding me. I’m trying to get out of town. I’m not even from around here, what am I supposed to do now?”

Billy gestured behind him to the inn. “There’s a bed and breakfast? You could stay there.”

Emma shut her eyes, tipping her head backwards. She supposed she didn’t have much of a choice. “How backed up are you?” She asked.

“A week.”

“Of course. And you’re the only mechanic in town?”

“This is Storybrooke.”

“Right.”

 Emma turned around and headed towards the bed and breakfast. She hadn’t ever had a reason to stay there during her first go around in Storybrooke. She did happen to know the owners. If they remembered her, was going to be another question.

 Emma walked inside and up to the front desk. No one was around, at least not at first. Suddenly, she could hear arguing coming down the stairs. Yup, that was familiar. She remembered once asking Mary Margaret and David why Ruby fought so often with her grandmother, but they never had an answer.

 “I should have gotten out of this town when I had a chance!” Ruby yelled.

“I’m sorry my hip replacement ruined your travel plans,” Granny called back. She saw Emma and her entire demeanor changed. “A guest. My, we don’t get many of those.”

Emma arched an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

“No.” She scurried behind the desk. “It’s just you?”

“Yes. I’m looking to stay about a week.”

“Sounds perfect. Would you like a forest view or a square view? Normally there’s an upgrade for the square, but I can waive it.”

Emma couldn’t help but smile as Granny frantically busied herself behind the desk, looking for her ledger and a pen. It was clear she didn’t recognize her yet. “The square is fine.”

“You look familiar,” Ruby piped up. “But I haven’t seen you in a while.” She looked a bit closer. “You’re not…you’re not the kid that Mary Margaret and David fostered way back when, are you?”

Emma cringed at the mention of Mary Margaret and David. “I am.”

“Wow. I can’t believe it’s you.” Ruby looked her up and down. “You’re…you’re so grown up!”

“Yeah that’s what happens when you get forced out of town.” Emma turned away from Ruby and back to Granny who had the book open once again.

“What was your last name again, sweetie?”

“It’s changed, actually. Swan. Emma Swan.”

An unfamiliar accented voice spoke up from behind them. “Emma.” She turned her head and found a shorter man with shoulder length brown hair, dressed in a fancy suit. A cane was clutched in his hand. For the life of her, Emma could not place his face. “What a lovely name.”

“Thanks,” she replied, not knowing what else to say. Emma was one of the most popular baby names out there, not like it was something more unique. Yet, the man just kept smiling at her. It was starting to creep her out.

Granny reached out past her holding a wad of cash. “It’s all here,” she said firmly, though Emma could tell her usual demeaner was cracking.

“Yes, of course it is, dear.” He accepted the money and placed it into his jacket pocket. Then, he turned to face Emma. “Enjoy your stay…Emma.”

 He slowly walked out of the inn, making sure to look at each and every one of them as he did. The door shut behind him with a ring of the bell above it. Emma finally got the nerve to speak to Ruby again.

 “Who was that?”

“Mr. Gold.” Ruby shuddered a little, watching behind the curtain as he walked away. “He owns this place.”

“You mean the inn?”

“No,” Granny looked deeply afraid. “The town.”

 Emma tilted her head and more memories began to flood back. She vaguely remembered a Mr. Gold working with her former foster parents towards the end of her stay in Storybrooke. He was an attorney, they told her and would be helping them adopt her. That obviously hadn’t happened.

 She shook it off, not wanting to keep thinking about the past. “Can I get the key to my room, please?” She asked. “It’s been a long day.”

******************************************************************************************

Emma woke up the following morning, slightly forgetting where she was. For a minute she expected to be back in her Boston apartment with the calligraphy painted front door. Instead, she had a lumpy mattress under back and a scratchy blanket over her body. She climbed out of bed and walked to the window, not caring that she was just in a white tank top and her underwear. On the streets below her, the town was aflutter with people heading to work and school. She cracked her neck, trying to get the pressure of the awful night from out of her.

 Before she could text her boss to let him know she’d be out of commission for the week, there was a knock at the door. Heading over, she opened it hesitantly to find Regina Mills on the other side holding a basket of apples. This town was too strange for her liking. Had it been that way when she was little?

 “Did you know that the honey crisp tree is one of the most vigorous apple trees?”

 Emma tilted her head. It was too early and she hadn’t had any coffee or cocoa to deal with this agricultural lesson.

 “It can survive temperatures as low as 40 below and keep growing,” Regina prattled on. She gave Emma a soft, yet firm smile. Emma suddenly realized she wasn’t here to give her gardening tips. No, this was a threat. “It can weather any storm. I’ve had one I’ve tended to since I was a little girl. And to this day, I have yet to taste anything more delicious than the fruit it offers.” She plucked an apple off the top and offered it to Emma, who slowly took it.

“Thanks,” she said, giving Regina a weird look.

Regina extended the basket to her. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy them on your drive home.”

“Actually, I’m going to stay awhile.” Regina blinked several times in under two seconds. “My car broke down and you only have one mechanic. He said it’s going to take a week.”

“Oh.” Regina loosened only slightly. “With all due respect, Miss Swan, I do think it’d be best if you stayed away from Henry during this time.”

“With all due respect, Madam Mayor, your son’s the one that sought me out. I have no intentions of further complicating your lives. I just want my bug fixed so I can leave and get back to my life.”

 Regina didn’t look so convinced, but she nodded nonetheless.

 “I do have him in therapy, you know.” Emma raised an eyebrow. “Henry. The situation is under control. I know what’s best for my son.”

Emma hadn’t planned on questioning Regina’s authority, but she could tell the woman was clearly afraid she was. “You’re his mom,” is all she said in response.

“Yes. I am.”

 Regina walked away, taking the rest of her apples with her. Emma sighed and took a bite of the one she left behind. At least she got a free breakfast.

***************************************************************************************

Emma didn’t know what else to do with her morning, so after grabbing a cup of coffee from Granny’s she decided to take a walk.

 The town really was the same. None of the shops had been updated in the past 23 years. The people all looked the same for the most part too. It was like they all drank some version of spiked water or had great deals with plastic surgeons.

 Or Henry’s theory about them all being cursed by Regina is true.

 Emma rolled her eyes. There was something weird about the town, but magic wasn’t it. Fairytales, wishes on shooting stars, she stopped believing on all of that ages ago. Henry was still a kid, it was cute that he thought that his school teacher was Snow White. Maybe less cute that he viewed his mom as the Evil Queen but what pre-teen didn’t at times?

 As Emma rounded the corner to go off Main Street, she found herself walking to the house where she had spent most of her time in Storybrooke when she first lived there. The big blue house with the wraparound porch. There had once been a yellow and white bike, that David helped her learn to ride. Mary Margaret’s garden was long gone. Her old foster mom’s station wagon and David’s truck weren’t in the driveway, instead replaced by two Volvos. She had seen Mary Margaret’s car at the school, so was there a chance that they no longer lived there?

“I had a feeling I might find you here.”

 His voice was soothing, like warm water. She didn’t want to turn around and see his face. She tried to block out the memories, just as she had over the years. Yet, the most prominent one floated up. The two of them sitting in front of the TV, wearing matching jerseys and yelling at it at the top of their lungs. She had tried her best to learn everything about football and had probably failed. She mostly liked the snacks that David made before the games and the way she could curl up against his chest, most likely falling asleep. It had been the first way they could truly bond after she came to live with them.

 “What, you’re stalking me now?”

“We were afraid last night that you left, that we missed our chance. Then word got around town that you checked into the inn last night. We had some hope.”

“My car broke down, just waiting for it to be fixed.” She suddenly had a weird feeling. “Did you mess with it?”

“No, no. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t put you in danger. All of that, was just one big coincidence.”

 For some reason, Emma believed him. She slowly turned around, forcing herself to look at the man she had once called “Daddy”. Like everyone else in the stupid town, he looked exactly the same. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a bit of fuzz around the cheeks. It used to scratch her when he gave her a kiss, but she never complained. He even still dressed the same, just like Mary Margaret. David wore a blue flannel shirt and some jeans. His badge stuck out over the pocket of his pants, showing off that he still held the same career.

 David’s eyes glistened at the sight of her and she almost had to look away again. “Mary Margaret was right, you’re all grown up now. I don’t get how that’s possible.”

“It’s been 23 years.”

“I just…I didn’t think that much time had passed. In my mind, you’re still 5 years old and we’re going out for ice cream after school.”

Emma didn’t smile at the memory. “I told your wife what I’m going to tell you. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Mary Margaret and I aren’t together anymore.”

 That’s one thing that changed.

 She remembered looking through David and Mary Margaret’s photo albums, more specifically their wedding one. Mary Margaret always looked like a princess to her. She even wore a tiara. In those seven months she spent with them, David and Mary Margaret had probably been the healthiest relationship she had seen until Bill and Katie. They laughed together, they kissed and went on the occasional date night. The two were always saying “I love you”. To Emma at that age, it was like being fostered by a fairytale couple. The way they looked at each other as if they were the only two in the room. It made her feel safe somehow.

 Now it was like all of that was taken away, on top of their happy family.

 “Well that’s…too bad.” She wanted to ask why. She didn’t get how two people that in love didn’t work out, but she didn’t want to feel even more involved in their lives. “It still doesn’t change what I said.”

“Stay in Storybrooke, Emma.”

“I’m here for the week until my car gets fixed.”

“Stay longer than that.”

“Why do you even care?” Emma threw her hands in the air. “You two gave me away and then couldn’t even be bothered to say goodbye or explain why to me.”

“It was a complicated situation. We wanted to but social services…”

“No, that’s bullshit. You two were just two more people in my life that let me down.”

David let out a disgruntled sigh. “If that were true, then why would we be here fighting for you Emma? Why would I be trying to get you to hear us out when you clearly hate us? For God’s sake, I was your father…”

“I don’t know! Maybe you have some weird guilt! Maybe you think it’ll get Mary Margaret to talk to you! What I do know is, you’re not my dad, David.” She fixed him with a look. “You made sure of that.”

“Emma, we lo….”

Emma stormed away, not letting him get another word out. She didn’t want to hear it.

 She didn’t want to hear that they loved her. Because what did it matter? They had just let her go in the end.

[welllpthisishappening]

All the Subliminal Things: Epilogue

Killian Jones has a plan and a box and a question sitting on the tip of his tongue. Only he and Emma have never been particularly good at plans. 

They’re better at falling into something that never really felt like falling, all ease and normalcy and beginning to expect the unexpected. So, he doesn’t really ask, so much as he states it and the next thing he knows, they’re on a plane leaving JFK. 

Without telling any of their friends. 

—–

Rating: Still teen, but just with like...a ton of kissing.  Word Count: 7K’ish. Lots of Disney World knowledge. More kissing.  AN: A few days ago I got a very lovely ask with some very nice words about All the Subliminal Things (plus a very nice message from @idristardis) asking for some kind of epilogue. And there are genuinely few things I love more than writing fluff and Disney World, so combining the two was a no-brainer of perfect day-off activities. Here you will find: kissing, fluff, more kissing, seriously more fluff, a bunch of Disney World moments that are far too autobiographical and how convenient it is that the Tangled bathrooms are that close to Peter Pan’s Flight at Magic Kingdom. 

As always, I can’t thank you guys enough for saying such lovely things about the words I spew at you and to @cssns for hosting this event. I’ll have some more supernatural words later this month. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll. 

—–

He genuinely, one-hundred percent does not mean for it to happen the way that it does.

That, however, seems to be how they operate –– unexpected and even better, a string of wonderful and slightly magical, all ease and two years of ups and downs and how comfortable it is to fall asleep on the couch together.

They fall asleep on the couch all the time.

It’s a ridiculous habit.

It’s painfully domestic.

And, sometimes, just painful, but Emma likes to say that’s because Killian is old and she always flashes him that very specific smile when she does it. That makes it less painful.

So, really, he can’t be held accountable for what happens. Because Killian did, in fact, have a plan. He had an idea and expectations and a box that’s been burning a hole in his pocket for the last few weeks.

Metaphorically.

But then Emma swings open the door of the bar, hair sticking to her face and color to her cheeks and––“We got him,” she proclaims, slumping over the front of the counter with a huff that probably shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.

She lets her head fall forward, a soft thump that is also the single most wonderful thing Killian has ever seen, a joy that’s practically radiating out of her because she and David had been looking for this particular asshole for months, paperwork and long nights and part of the reason he hasn’t actually been able to put the plan in action.

And, really, he’s glad that justice has been served and Emma will probably have some department-mandated time off now and--

She tilts her head back up, staring at him from underneath her eyelashes. Her eyebrows pull low, all concern and confusion and Killian can’t entirely ignore the fluttering of nerves in the pit of his stomach.

That’s absurd. This is...well, it’s magical and soulmates and he’s fairly certain of the answer he’s going to get, but he’s also a human being and he wants. With every single fiber of his being. He’s surprised there’s not a constant stream of smoke coming from his left pant pocket.

“Babe,” she drawls, letting a finger drag through a ring of condensation he should probably clean up at some point. “This is the part where you congratulate me on being the best police officer in all five boroughs.” “All five of them?” “Wow, that is scathing.”

Killian lets out a breath, more nerves and Emma’s eyes narrow slightly. “No, no, no,” he mutters, ducking down to grab a pair of empty glasses he hopes are clean. Honestly, it is a miracle Robin hasn’t killed him yet.

Ruby has asked what the hell is wrong with you no less than forty-two times in the last two weeks alone.

And he doesn’t quite run around the side of the bar, but it’s definitely close enough that it draws a laugh out of Emma and, he supposes, that’s fair. They’re both a little out of breath by the time Killian moves into her space, an arm around her waist when he spins her on the stool he didn’t even realize she was sitting on.

Her legs part, just enough that he can crowd against her, hands on his chest and his fingers brushing strands of hair away from her forehead.

“I love you,” Killian says, barely getting the words out before he’s ducking his head and catching her mouth with his. He can hear Emma’s sharp inhale, the crack of her knuckles when she curls her fingers around the fabric of his shirt, and one of her hands flies into his hair.

There is absolutely, positively no way to know how often they’ve done this. It’s probably an obscene number at this point, drifting into the thousands, at least, but that’s also a good thing, the best thing, and Killian genuinely cannot think when Emma’s leg wraps around his calf.

She surges up, trying to get even closer and that never fails to make his whole world shift slightly, as if she’s greedy for every bit of it, trying to claim something that’s been hers from the very first moment he walked into that coffee shop.

That makes him a little less nervous.

About everything.

God, Ruby is going to be obnoxious about this.

David too, probably.

Robin may just be thankful to have a, relatively, normal business partner again.

And, eventually, the need for oxygen proves to be more pressing than the need to keep making out in front of the relatively small Tuesday night crowd, Killian’s shoulders moving quickly while he tries to regain his bearings.

“So, that’s a no, huh?” Emma asks, laughter still clinging to her voice. She pulls back slightly, chewing on her lower lip and he briefly considers pulling her off the bar stool, dragging her into the back office and doing several unspeakably unprofessional things.

It would not be the first time.

“What gave me away?” “Well, I’ll admit that it’s been kind of back and forth, but Locksley said you’ve been weird for the last couple of weeks and--” “--Are you gossiping about me with Locksley, Swan?” “Ruby brought it up first and then Locksley confirmed it. So, really, you may actually be the most popular guy in all five boroughs.” “Including Staten Island?” “You don’t want to include Staten Island?” Killian shrugs, another quick kiss because, well...he can’t come up with a reason not to. “I can’t say I’ve got much of an opinion on Staten Island. I don’t know that I’ve ever been to Staten Island in my entire life.”

“What, really?”

“Why would I?”

“Yeah, that’s fair, I guess,” Emma admits. “Plus, the the toll over the Verrazano is just absurd now and you’d have to drive all the way through Brooklyn.” “God forbid.”

“The BQE and the entire borough of Brooklyn exists just to make me angry, I swear,” Emma says, and this is not the first time he’s heard this particular string of words in this particular order. It is also impossibly endearing.

Killian hums, lower lip jutting out. Emma nips at it. He was kind of hoping that would happen. And his hand has moved at some point, drifting over her side and the slightly rumpled shirt she’s got on, pulling until the fabric threatens to untuck from dress pants he’s, at least, seventy-six percent positive she wears just to drive him insane.

“Is it against the rules for New York’s finest to be critiquing the toll system?” Killian asks, clicking his tongue when Emma digs the heel of her shoe into his leg. “Swan, if you get my pants all dirty, I’m going to be really annoyed.” “That so?” “That’s not an answer.” “About the tolls?” He nods, fairly certain this entire conversation has gone completely off the rails, but it’s also kind of par for the course and if he doesn’t stop thinking in clichés, Killian may, actually, go insane. Emma blinks, lips twisting into something resembling a scowl. “Ok,” she says, tongue flicking out in a way that is far too distracting. Even with, like, six other people in the bar. “What is your deal?”

“What?” “Your deal,” she says slowly. “Locksley is legitimately worried. He thinks you’re overworked or something, which is--” “--I’m not the one catching dangerous criminals, love.” “Is that what it is?” “Is that what what is?” “Killian!”

He kisses her again. Something about habit or how much he’ll never be entirely used to the way she says his name, like it’s hers in a way that it absolutely is. So long as they both shall live. Eventually. Maybe.

Hopefully.

“If I tell you I’m exceptionally proud of you are you, in fact, going to kick me?” Emma huffs, but her mouth is still distractingly close to his and the breath of air on his cheek is warm. “I don’t think I have enough dexterity in my legs, honestly.” “Good word.” “Yeah, well, flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Not flattery,” Killian promises, and that’s probably a step in the right direction. Promising. Declaring. The ring is in their apartment. “Honesty. I know how hard you’ve been working, Swan and the charges’ll stick. You’ve got more than enough evidence.” “Most of which you probably shouldn’t be aware of.” “Ah, semantics.”

She laughs again – giggles, almost – a softness to it that makes any lingering sense of tension disappear and he’s so, impossibly, completely in love with her Killian can’t believe he hasn’t gotten it sky-written yet. That’s a very soul-mate type thing to do.

That’s probably why he hasn’t done it.

Because this is that, but it’s more. It’s...everything and easy and simple and a complete contradiction to both of those things and he also can’t believe they haven’t gone to Disney World yet.

“Is that what it is, though?” Emma presses, digging the tip of her finger into his chest. “Were you worried about me? And this Gold dick?” “Phrase that differently.”

She scoffs, head colliding with his collarbone. “You are a very frustrating man, you know that?” “And you are very much charmed by that, my love.”

He doesn’t mean to do that. It’s happened a few times, a quick change that isn’t really much of a change because it is the absolute and complete truth, but it also feels a little possessive and like a line Killian kind of wants to pole vault over.

Emma glances up again, smile tugging at the ends of her mouth. “Yeah, that’s true,” she whispers. “Seriously, you’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking. Nothing was ever going to happen to me.” “I know.” And he does. Killian knows. He watches her walk out the door every morning with the certainty that she will walk back through it, has gotten so used to falling asleep with hair in his face that he can’t imagine a scenario that is any different, but he’s also all in and his mind cannot begin to process even the idea that any of this might not be.

It, simply, does not make sense.

Plus, he figures the world owes him.

But that seems like a dick move. Not Gold dick, but something different.

“Ok,” Emma says, stretching the word out until it sounds like several paragraphs. “So, then. What’s your deal?” “I have no deal.” “Babe. Seriously.” “No deal,” Killian says, not quite an exact repeat, but enough that he’s almost prepared for the skeptical look Emma’s face morphs into. “I just--”

“--You just?”

And, really, he has no idea what happens next. Honestly. It’s like falling into something, a rush in his ears and thud of his pulse, a burst of light in his vision that’s a bit like staring at the sun and there’s probably a metaphor there and, eventually, Killian will realize that it is, in fact, fairly magical. It’s oddly similar to the moment.

His moment.

Again. As if it’s trying to prove itself or remind him that having a plan is, sometimes, overrated and that’s really all there is to it.

The words spill out of him. There’s an alcohol joke to be made there. He doesn’t make it. He proposes instead.

“Marry me,” Killian breathes, and he’s dimly aware of Emma’s foot falling back onto the floor. She blinks. He blinks. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t want to blink. He wants to see every single shift of her face, every expression, every twitch and the exact color of her eyes when she does, finally, process the words he didn’t actually mean to say.

He’s glad he did.

It’s more subtle than sky-writing, anyway.

“Fucking fuck,” Emma mumbles, eyes widening to a size that almost immediately makes them water when she realizes what she’s said. Her hand flies to her mouth, jaw going tense and another inhale that’s sharp enough to cut several metaphors.

And, honestly, laughing at his soulmate’s reaction to his less-than-planned proposal is probably against the rules of several different universes, but they’ve never really been very good at following the rules anyway and Killian throws his whole head back with the force of it.

“Oh my God, Swan,” he chuckles, chest shaking and it seems like the air gets sweeter around them. “Are you serious?” “Are you?” He stops laughing. Immediately. Enough that the silence that rings out makes it blatantly obvious that his neck cracks when he jerks back, eyes wide and Emma’s lip twisted between her teeth.

She’s very clearly not breathing.

“Swan,” Killian says, not quite a sigh, but the hope that he’ll eventually be able to make that tone of voice disappear entirely. As if she’s not quite sure or nervous about the hope he can practically see brimming in her gaze.

He reaches up, dragging his thumb over her lip until her teeth let go, and one of them probably gasps as soon as her hands finds his prosthetic.

“I planned this differently,” he admits, and he’s almost genuinely concerned for the state of her eyes. “I’ll have to apologize to Locksley. I--that’s what my deal is.” Emma’s jaw drops. Her tongue flashes again, quick enough that it’s barely there before she’s letting out a shaky exhale and the first tear that lands on her cheek brands itself on Killian’s entire soul.

He is drowning in metaphors.

“I love you,” Killian says. “I should have led with that.”

“Because of my thoughts on the Verrazano Narrows and the overall state of the MTA?”

“I mean, it’s part of it.” He chuckles, more endearments and something seems to settle in the pit of his stomach, a soft weight that doesn’t feel uncomfortable, more like it’s keeping him rooted to the spot or possibly just to her and Killian isn’t entirely opposed to that second one. So long as they both may live. “But it’s...well, it’s more than that, love. And it has been from the start. It’s…”

He has to finish his sentences.

That’s becoming more and more difficult.

“It’s...how much you care. About everything and everyone. You want to do something good, Swan and you do...just by opening your eyes in the morning.” That makes her roll her eyes, which he almost expected. He kisses her again, lets his forehead rest on hers so Emma can keep her fingers in his hair. And keeps talking. “It’s how much you hate scrambled eggs and your thoughts on the amount of cream cheese they put on bagels at Dunkin.” “It’s gross, that’s why. People take the phrase cream cheese sandwich way too seriously.”

Killian kisses the bridge of her nose. And her right cheek. And her left cheek. And the curve of her jaw. He can’t stop, tracing a pattern that isn’t actually there, but one he feels as if he can see. That’s another metaphor.

“I know, Swan,” he continues, “and it’s all of that. It’s these pants--” “--The pants?” “Swan, if you don’t stop interrupting, I’m not going to be able to get you to swoon properly.” “I mean, I think you’re doing an alright job now, honestly.” “Yeah?” She nods. “Yeah. Are you into my pants?” “I’m super into your pants. And you. And how you cried at the end of Moana--” “--Ok, that didn’t happen.” “Emma.”

She scowls, a scrunch of her nose and pinch of her brows and they’re starting to draw a few curious glances. It might be because, at some point, Killian’s hand has moved underneath her shirt. “I might have cried at the end of Moana.” “I know you did, love. That’s my point. I...I love you. And, more than that I...God, I like you so much. Even when you leave the pillows on the floor.” “Is this the part that’s supposed to get me to swoon?” Killian hums, brushing his lips over that pinch until he can feel it disappear. “It’s you, Emma. It’s always been you. No matter what. With the magic or without, with societal rules or expectations. I’d...I’d always get pulled back to you. And I want to keep doing that. On some kind of indefinite loop. With pants that make me lose my mind a little bit.”

“I can’t believe you keep talking about my pants.” “I really like your pants. And what they do to your legs.” “Oh my God,” Emma breathes, but there’s more laughter and tears that are trending more towards emotional than depressing. Killian kisses them away. “I love you too,” she adds, “Way before the moment, which, incidentally is cheating that you’re using again.”

“Yeah, that was the point.”

Whatever sound she makes at that, etches its way onto every inch of him –– every dark corner of his brain, the parts that remember being alone and scared and absolutely terrified that everything he wanted was some kind of fabricated lie of the universe.

But then he’d come to New York and--

“I walked into that coffee shop and it was like seeing the sun for the first time,” he says. “Settled everything, made it easier to breathe. I…” Killian’s eyes flutter shut, a shift of emotion and Emma’s hand is cool when it lands on his cheek. He kisses the inside of her wrist. “I can breathe when I’m with you.” She kisses him that time. It’s nice. Perfect. Happily ever after.

“Yes.”

He blinks again. And blinks. And might, honestly, gasp. “Wait, what?” “Babe,” Emma grins, and she’s moved off the stool at some point, standing on tip toes with an arm slung around his shoulder. “That was the answer. Yes. Obviously.”

The world shifts, Killian is positive. It alters its course of rotation or something happens to gravity and he’s not totally sure how the Big Bang actually worked, but whatever appears to be happening in his bar may be oddly similar.

“Obviously,” Emma repeats, as if saying it again will help him believe. It might.

“The ring is at home.”

“That’s ok.” “I really want to marry you.”

She blushes. It’s the greatest thing that has ever happened to him. Bar none. She’s the greatest thing that has ever happened to him.

Obviously.

“Ask one more time,” Emma mutters, and Killian can hear the want there, the same muted hope he’s been living for years. He nods, taking a step back and sinking onto his knee and, at least, four of the six people in the bar gasps.

She laces her fingers through his when he tries to lift her hand.

He takes a deep breath.

“Emma Swan, will you marry me?” Something, something, the goddamn sun. She beams, a shade of green he’s never seen before, but is probably going to covet the rest of his life, dropping down in front of him, which catches him by surprise, but then Emma’s lips are on his and Killian can’t think of any words.

At all.

“Yes,” she says again, pressing all three letters against his skin, repeated over and over, muttered in his ear and behind the bar, where she isn’t technically supposed to be, but he’s heard all about that evidence so he figures it’s a wash.

And the ring fits, sitting on her finger with those same fingers resting on his chest later that night, hair in his face and the quiet sound of Emma’s breathing lulling him to sleep.

He calls off the next day, some piss-poor excuse that Locksley absolutely does not believe, but Killian does not care and Emma keeps twisting her ring around her finger.

It may be driving him insane.

Which is saying something considering the fact that she’s resolutely refused to put pants on.  

There’s a laptop propped up on her thighs, fingers flying across the keyboard with a determined look on her face.

That lasts, approximately, four hours.

And several cups of coffee.

“This is ridiculous,” Emma sighs, slumping further into the corner of the couch. “There is just...do you know how expensive DJs are?” “Oh God, why would we get a DJ?” “That’s what I’m saying!” Killian hums, lifting his arm up so Emma can curl against his side. She slings her legs over his,her  head on his shoulder and fingers absentmindedly toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. “But it’s apparently less expensive than an actual band and--” “--Wedding bands are...something, aren’t they?”

Emma clicks her teeth, not quite frustration, but maybe just a sense of general overwhelmed and that’s not really the vibe he was hoping for. He hates that he even though the word vibe just now. He’s also running on, like, four hours of sleep, though.

He’s really glad she’s still not wearing pants.

“According to a TimeOut article I just read--do not laugh at that,” Emma adds quickly, when Killian opens his mouth, and he nips at her finger when she presses it to his lips. “Ok, seriously. This is just...there are a lot of things. And I was, you know, psyched to--” “--Get married?” “You say that like you aren’t.” Killian shakes his head, ducking down to mouth at the side of her neck. It earns him the exact noise he was hoping for. “I think I’ve proved my level of psyched, love. But I don’t want it to be some kind of something.”

“Explain that,” she says, rolling her shoulders so he’ll look up at her.

“You saw Locksley and Regina’s wedding. They had a fish course. It was absurd.” “It was nice. ‘Ish.” “Swan.” She huffs. “I was so intimidated by that castle.” “I do not want to get married at a castle,” Killian says. “And you despise fish. You’re the world’s pickiest eater, really.”

“That’s rude.” “That is a fact. All I’m saying, Swan, is that this does not have to be some kind of cookie-cutter, soulmate thing. There doesn’t have to be a castle or fish or anything you don’t want. I’m here for you, love. That’s it.”

“That was stupid romantic.” “Yes, exactly.”

She scoffs, but the smile is obvious when she kisses him again, all heady and emotional and Killian’s hips cant up as soon as she scratches at the back of his head. They haven’t actually told anyone, yet. That will, eventually, prove important.

“What if,” Emma starts, and Killian’s not sure when her legs moved to either side of his, but he can’t bring himself to complain. Her breath hitches when his hand moves up her spine. “I really can’t have a conversation when you’re doing that.” “I’m not entirely opposed to not having this conversation.” “Ok, slightly rude again and a little confusing with the double negatives.”

“What if we what, Swan?” “You know you only have to wait twenty-four hours after getting a marriage license to get married in the city of New York?”

Killian’s hand freezes. And Emma’s smile widens, a glint in her eyes that’s far too knowing and---“When did you look that up?” “As soon as I saw how expensive it was to have DJs at a wedding. It doesn’t make any sense. Just play Spotify.” “You want to play Spotify at our wedding?” “Not if we elope.”

The laugh that bubbles out of him is not like any other noise he has ever made –– equal parts joy and something akin to relief and twenty-four hours seems like an almost reasonable amount of time to wait to be married.

He’d more into, like, twelve, but he figures he can last a day.

So long as Emma takes her pants off when they get back from the city clerk.

“Honestly?”

Emma scrunches her nose. “Was that you double checking, or…” She yelps when he stands up, legs wrapping around his middle, like he’d actually let her fall. It’s another metaphor. And they don’t walk back to the bedroom, so much as they stumble, pausing every few feet so Emma’s back can collide with a wall, roaming hands and searing mouths, a press of hips on hips and her fingers never leave his hair.

They both put pants on before they go to the city clerk, impatient in the back seat of an Uber and Killian nearly throws his credit card at the man behind the desk when he says it will cost thirty-five dollars to get married.

Emma’s whole body shakes when she laughs.

The artificial light reflects off her ring.

Killian Jones marries Emma Swan, soulmate, best friend, the love of his goddamn life at three twenty-four on a Thursday.

They don’t tell their friends.

They have to ask a stranger to be a witness.

A man named Archie with glasses that are almost comically thick reads the vows off a slightly browned index card.

It is absolute and completely perfect.

And it really doesn’t last long –– partially because they just decided to do this and partially because they don’t even have rings, just a suit that was hanging in the back of their closet and a dress that’s more cream than actual white, but made Killian’s eyes widen all the same when Emma walked into the living room that morning and--

“Do you, Killian Jones, take Emma Swan to be your lawful wedded wife?” Archie asks. “To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?” The muscles in his face ache, far too much use in far too little time, and Killian has to swallow before he can answer. “I do.”

Emma’s fingers tighten around his left hand.

“Do you, Emma Swan, take Killian Jones to be your lawful wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?” She blinks, tears and something bigger than that, lips parting into a smile that Killian is certain he’ll think about with startling regularity. Once every day for the rest of his life. At least.

“I do,” Emma says, and he barely hears the rest.

There’s something about power and the city of New York, but the buzzing in Killian’s ears is too loud and his heart is beating too fast and--well, Emma kisses him. Before Archie finishes.

Her fingers tug on the front of his suit, pulling him forward without much grace, an arm around her waist and tongue tracing across her lower lip and someone might whistle.

That seems to spur them on.

Killian tilts his head, lets his nose brush over her cheek and his fingers drift over the back of her dress. She steps on his shoe. Emma’s fingers move, dragging up the back of his neck and making his hair stand up, a mess of feeling and emotion and official.

So long as they both may live.

Obviously.

“I love you,” she whispers, the words hanging in the minimal amount of space between them and it’s difficult to see through the tears clouding his vision.

He feels as if his chest is too tight and flying apart at the seams, bursting with feeling and magic and how this kind of settling is distinctly lacking any negative connotation. “I love you.”

Archie coughs, not quite pointed, but maybe a little uncomfortable and Emma ducks her head into Killian’s neck when she starts to laugh. “Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” he says, the first time those particular words have been uttered in that particular order and Emma stills.

And for half a moment, the worry that slinks down Killian’s spine is annoying, but then Emma’s glancing up at him –– all green and love and––“Oh, that sounded good,” she breathes.

He can’t held accountable for what he does after that.

One of her shoes falls off.

Someone else whistles.

“So, what do we now, wife?”

Emma’s smile widens. “I’ve got an idea, actually.”

 Eventually Killian will ask Emma, his wife, when she finds the time to do so much internet research. As it is, he’s far too busy being stunned that it worked and there is a website with other people’s cancelled Disney World vacations for sale.

They buy one.

Five days. At a resort that is, apparently, very fancy, something about a pool the internet is consistently impressed by and he’s fairly certain Emma hasn’t stopped smiling once in the last forty-eight hours.

That’s all he really cares about.

He’s a sap.

And he kisses the bend of her knuckles, fingers laced together and more light reflecting off her ring, as soon as they take off.

 Of all the things that he has ever seen in his entire life, watching the way Emma’s entire face changes as soon as she walks into Magic Kingdom may be Killian’s favorite.

He can actually see her inhale, the way her shoulders shift and her eyes widen. Her lips twitch slightly, like she can’t decide if she wants to smile. Her fingers flutter at her side, only one hand because the other one is still wrapped up in his, throat shifting when she swallows and lips pressing together, a tight line that doesn’t quite match up with the suddenly quick pace of her breathing.

And he knows it’s wrong to be glad as soon as the first tear lands on her cheek, but he also knows it’s not sadness, it’s hope and romance and, well, romance again.

It is, after all, technically their honeymoon.

“Oh, shut up,” Emma grumbles.

“I didn’t say anything, Swan.” “Yeah, yeah, you didn’t really have to.” She turns, hands flying to his chest, and she’s going to do damage to her sandals if she keeps pressing up on her toes like that. “You look very pleased with yourself.” Killian shakes his head. “I’m happy, love.”

She doesn’t drop back to her heels. That’s nice. “Yeah, me too. I think that’s how it’s supposed to work here.” “Just with you, maybe.” “What a line.” He hums, ducking his head and this is not the place for it. There’s a crowd and people and someone in a red vest is trying to get them to move because there may very well be a parade starting soon, but Killian kisses Emma anyway, lets all the want and need and several other relationship buzzwords find their way into the movement.

“I think we’re going to get run over by a parade float,” Emma mumbles, drawing a laugh out of him and a possible agreement out of the clearly stressed out red vest. “Alright, what do you want to do first?” “How many different types of foods do you think are shaped like Mickey Mouse here?” “At least a dozen.” “You’re low-balling it.” “You think it’s more than a dozen?” “You should start with the pretzels,” red vest says, flashing them a grin despite her attempts to keep people from crossing the sidewalk. “And I really do need you to move.” Killian hums, fingers finding Emma’s again. “Let’s go find a pretzel, Swan.”

“We’re only at ten,” Killian says, two days later and he’s not sure either one of them have ever eaten this much food in their lives. That’s really all they’ve done. They eat and they drink and they make out in public places.

And, well, they take each other’s clothes off with an almost alarming amount of frequency, but he’s still using the honeymoon excuse and they do, at least, wait until they get back to their room for that.

They haven’t used the pool once.

It has a pirate ship next to it.

And a lot of kids.

Whose parents probably wouldn’t appreciate how often Killian likes to kiss his wife.

He keeps using that phrase.

Word, really.

Title?

It doesn’t matter. He uses it and thinks it and someone in one of the stores on Main Street gave them buttons that say happily ever after on them. It’s gotten them more food. And champagne that one time.

Emma rolls her eyes, taking a particularly aggressive bite out of a pretzel shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head. “That’s ridiculous,” she says, reaching out to brush her fingers over the fake headstone in the line queue they’re waiting in. Haunted Mansion appears to be her favorite ride.

She hums the song at the end.

Killian doesn’t think she realizes she’s doing it.

“Ten Mickey Mouse shaped foods, love. And I really don’t think the ice cream cone counts because it’s just a cookie on top of ice cream.”

“You’re just getting particular now. Also you hated those cake pops.” “If I’m going to pay six dollars for something on a stick, it should at least be an entire cake.”

Emma scoffs, shuffling forward when the line does and shivering slightly when they move into the air conditioned building. She hands him a piece of pretzel over her shoulder, trying to surreptitiously eat what may actually be their fifteenth pretzel before they get on the ride and she laughs every time the lights flicker in the entry room too.

He is hopelessly in love with his own wife.

It’s nice.

It’s obviously what was going to happen.

“Welcome, foolish mortals to the Haunted Mansion,” Emma mutters under her breath, leaning back against his chest. There’s hair in his face again. “This chamber has no windows or doors.”

The lights flicker again, Emma’s body shaking against Killian’s and she jumps slightly. That might have more to do with his mouth against her neck than anything else.

And she keeps humming the song long after they get off the ride, another loop around Magic Kingdom that gets disrupted by the parade –– “Seriously, there are so many parades here.” “You are very anti-parade, babe.” “It ruins the walking pattern of the whole park, Swan.” “So we’ve heard.” –– before they have fast passes at Hollywood Studios and they are both absurdly competitive at Toy Story Mania.

“You looked up cheat codes last night,” Emma accuses, pushing her 3D glasses up the bridge of her nose after he’s won. Again.

“I did no such thing.” “Show me your internet history.” “No!” “You cheated. You’re a cheater.” “I just have better hand-eye coordination than you, that’s all.” He twists his eyebrows, half a smirk and the tip of his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek and Emma groans. And kisses him. Her glasses slide down her nose again. “And they weren’t cheat codes,” Killian adds. “They were suggestions on where to aim the rings on that one game so you could get a shit ton of points, that’s all.”

“You are the worst.” He hums, holding an arm out when she clamors in front of him. "Still married me.” “You keep bringing that up.”

“Yup.” It makes her laugh, the sound of plastic being thrown in the bin echoing around them. “Alright, husband, where to now? Because if it’s not Tower of Terror, I think this marriage is destined for disaster.”

“Good alliteration.” “C’mon.”

He’s gotten very good at timing the photos on the drop, fingers brushing over Emma’s stomach at precisely the right time, making her laugh even louder and smile even bigger and she’s very quick to point out that buying the pictures now is pointless, they’re all on the website, but he’s kind of stubborn and they’re married, which isn’t an excuse, although it may be a reason and she buys a frame for it.

They drink around EPCOT on their last night there, not particularly good planning, but it is what it is and what it is is delightfully buzzed.

“This is professional curiosity, Swan,” Killian says, not sure when his words started slurring slightly, but it might have been somewhere around Morocco.

She nods against his shoulder, legs wobblier than normal underneath her. “So you mentioned when you were talking about the one guy’s pour technique in Canada.” “It wasn’t very good.” “Too much foam.” “Exactly.” “Is that why we’re only doing liquor? No threat of pour issues?” “No,” Killian shakes his head, which leads to his lips dragging across her forehead and he didn’t realize he was that close to her. “That’s so we don’t die on the flight home tomorrow.” “Oh, don’t mention tomorrow.” “What’s the matter?” Emma shrugs, tilting her head up and there’s just enough sobriety in her gaze to be...sobering. “I love you,” she says, which isn’t the last thing he expects to hear, but they’re also a few steps away from a giant statue of a Viking, so it’s probably not the first thing. “And, I--God, this has been so good. This whole thing and I don’t…” “You don’t?” “No, that’s not what I mean. I guess--” She licks her lips, a shaky breath and she’d really liked that ride in Norway when they’d ridden it a couple days ago. Maybe they should get some school bread to eat. Soak up the alcohol. “I’m happy. And not really surprised because you make me happy, but...I’m just glad we did this. That it was ours.” She shrugs again, as if she’s not sure of the reception she’ll get to the words and so, really, the only rational thing to do is kiss her until her left knee buckles. It ends up being her right, but Killian will work with what he’s got.

And he’s got her.

Obviously.

“I love you so much.” “That’s really good news,” Emma mumbles, a quiver of something that still sounds like nerves and there’s more to this than what she’s saying. “We’ve got to tell people eventually, you know.” “I do. And I have an idea about that.” “Do you just?” He hums, smile stretching across his face and excitement twisting around the base of his spine. It’s pleasantly warm. Like magic or something. “I do, but first, we are going to try the margaritas inside the pyramid thing--” “--That is not what it’s called.” “Inside the pyramid thing, because the subReddit said they were better than the ones outside.” “You are obsessed with the subReddit.” “Yes, let’s drink margaritas.” They do –– and they don’t try the ones outside, far too aware of the states of their livers, but the ones they have are pretty damn good and make Emma grit her teeth in the most delightful way, and then they’re on the monorail and standing in front of Cinderella Castle and there’s a camera pointed their direction. “So,” the photographer says, “what did you guys want to do, exactly?” Killian stuffs the Sharpie back in his pocket, an arm around Emma’s waist and maybe the smile is also permanent now. She holds her hand out.

The photographer laughs.

“We’re telling our friends we got married,” Emma explains, more laughter and kisses and she actually gasps when he dips her.

Their phones buzz, in tandem, for fifteen minutes straight.

Ruby sends four different audio messages.

David sends a photo of Mary Margaret. She’s crying.

Locksley writes finally with several exclamation marks.

 And the rest of the night goes on –– starlight and moonlight and fake light, from trees and off rides in the back corner of Fantasyland, neither one of them quite buzzed anymore as they meander past the Tangled area towards Peter Pan’s Flight.

Emma stops walking.

Killian nearly falls over. “Swan?” She chews on her lip, chest heaving enough that he’s worried her pin is going to fall off. “Love,” Killian continues, a cautious step forward and his left hand on her waist. “Are you alright? You want to sit down?” She shakes her head, the ends of her hair fluttering a sudden breeze and--

“I wouldn’t want you to look at my internet history either.”

He can feel his eyebrows fly up his forehead, that same feeling of dread and worry mixing together with whatever his pulse is doing and the edges of his vision have started to go a little spotty. Maybe he’s not entirely sober yet.

“I don’t--” “--I know, I know,” Emma cuts in sharply, and she can’t seem to decide what to do with her hands. “I just...well, I was thinking about it before you even proposed and I--” “--You’re going to bite through your lip, love.” Killian thumbs at it, trying to pull it away from her teeth, but Emma is also stubborn and so obviously nervous and part of him probably knows. Part of him appears to be having a moment. Over and over. Again and again. Falling into a life and a feeling, a sense of security and want and how easy all of those things are.

He supposes that’s how it should work.

And how it has, even before he knew.

He’s always kind of known.

“Whatever you’re thinking, Swan, whatever you were looking up, it’s not…” “--I want to adopt a kid.”

His eyebrows are going to stay locked at the top of his forehead for the rest of his life.

Killian swallows, eyelids fluttering shut despite his best efforts, because he kind of knew, and he wants and wants and wants. With her. Obviously. “Yeah, ok,” he breathes, and Emma actually gasps. It makes him laugh. “Were you not expecting that?” “I…” “Swan, c’mon, love.” “Are you serious?” “Are you?” “I feel like we’ve done this before.”

She lets out a breath, body sagging forward, which isn’t much since she’s also pretty close to him and that’s as nice as it’s ever been. “I love you,” Killian adds. “And I know you think it’s too soon and--” “--Stop reading my mind.” “I’m not, love. And it’s not. It’s--” He shrugs, a tilt of his head and a smile that’s as genuine as any he’s given her all week. “I love you,” he says again. “And we’ve both been...you changed everything, Swan. If we could do that for kid, together, then I am in. All in.”

Emma tilts her head up, probably not an invitation to kiss her, but they did just decide they were going to try and have a family a few feet away from very intricately decorated bathrooms, so. Killian kisses his wife.

Hard.

And the fireworks start.

Loud.

There’s music and color and more light, reflecting off the ring on the hand that’s resting against his chest, tears on Emma’s cheeks and, maybe, on his cheeks, and they didn’t even read all of their text messages.

“We’ll swap internet history when we get back to hotel, yeah?”

Emma clicks her tongue, but then she’s laughing and kissing him and--“Maybe not the first thing we do.” “Deal.”

He keeps reading the Disney World subReddit.

And Emma sends him links. To an adoption agency. And baby stores. And how to bring a toddler to Disney World without losing your mind.

And three years later they do just that.

Henry likes the pool at the Beach Club.

He smiles and splashes, making faces and squirming in Emma’s hold while Killian tries to take pictures, ignoring any preconceived worries about his phone and its proximity to water. And they ride rides –– not Tower of Terror yet, because they are, actually, responsible, but Henry is delighted by the music on Haunted Mansion and even more so by Pirates of the Caribbean and Killian’s rough estimate is that they buy sixteen cake pops.

Over the first four days.

They eat more food and meet characters, something cliché about seeing joy reflected on your kid’s face that changes absolutely everything all over again, and, on their last night there, they stand in front of Cinderella Castle with smiles on their faces and a camera pointed at them.

Mary Margaret’s answering text message includes what may be a record-setting number of w’s in her aw.

Henry likes the fireworks too.

That feels oddly cyclical. As does Emma next to Killian, the feel of her lips obvious even through his t-shirt and it probably isn’t easy for her to get her arm around his middle when there’s a kid there, but they might both be holding that kid together and he kisses her hair.

“You happy, Swan?” “Yeah, I am. You?” “Yeah.”

Henry and Emma both fall asleep on the bus, her head on Killian's shoulder and their son’s arms wrapped around his middle.

[raven-black102]

The Underground Ring

Requested by Anonymous: jasper hale X boxer reader please

I've added a few things to the story. The reader is a boxer in an underground fighting ring. The reader is very close friends of the boss and get paid a lot of money to support family and other shit. There also a secret the reader has kept from her Sister Bella. How you like it and enjoy!

(Y/n)'s POV

"So your coming?" I asked my sister as we sat at a table by ourselves. "I mean. Just don't get hurt." Bella said as she bit her bottom lip. I narrowed my eyes at her as she looks towards the door. I raised an eyebrow as I follow her gaze to see the Cullen's. "I'll see you later." Bella said as she packed her things.

"Bells." I said sternly making her stop as she looks at me. "You don't have to come if you don't feel comfortable. I understand." I said softly as she looks at me. "I don't want you to go." She said as I sighed heavily. "I hate seeing you limping in pain when you come home- If you ever come home. You'll disappear for days and me and dad won't hear a single word about you." Bella said as I frown slightly.

"I'm sorry." I mumbled as I kissed her forehead causing her to gasp. "I'm already in to deep. I can't get out." I said as I grabbed my stuffed and walked outside to my bike.

"(Y/n)! Please! Don't go!" Bella begged as I started my bike. "Bella Swan." I said as she wrapped her arms around me hugging me tightly. "Please. I don't want to lose you." Bella said as I saw Edward waited by the wall. I narrowed my eyes at him know what and who he and his family are.

'Take care of my sister for me will you Edward?' I asked as his eyes widen looking at me. 'I'll be gone for a few weeks. Make sure nothing happen to her.' I thought as he nod his head. "Come on. I need you to give me some luck in my match tonight. If you want you can take your boyfriend with ya." I said as Bella look to the school to see Edward standing there.

"Okay. But." Bella started causing me to laugh softly. "Don't worry I'll have a room for you and them." I said kissing her cheek before getting on. "Your just gonna leave without saying goodbye?" I heard as I smiled slightly seeing Jasper walking out. "Well if I do your just gonna make it difficult for me to leave then yeah." I said as Bella went to Edward.

"Maybe it's because I don't want you to go." Jasper said softly as I pecked his lips. "Its my job." I said softly as Jasper frowns. "You don't have to work." Jasper said as I smiled at him. "I want to. Its what I'm good at." I said as I peck his lips one more time before riding off to a secret hideout.

Time Skip

3rd Person POV

Bella, Edward, and Jasper were in a room a bit far away from everyone and the ring. It's been almost 2 weeks since (Y/n) left to who knows where and Bella found a note saying where (Y/n) would be. "Hello everyone in here with (Y/n) (L/n). How do you feel?" The reporter asked as (Y/n) is wearing nothing but black clothing.

"I feel a bit excited. You know. Being the 'Queen' f the underworld is what people calls me." (Y/n) said with a smiled that light up the whole room. "How long have you been doing this?" The reporter asked as (Y/n) bit her bottom lip.

"Oh where do I begin?" (Y/n) laughs softly as she looks up. "Um... I'd say when I was about around 10. I helped my boss create this place and the rules. We don't fight just for bets and shit. We do it for fun." (Y/n) said as the reporter nods there head.

"So let talk about your Boss William Blake. Is he really in charge or is it you?" The Reporter asked causing (Y/n) to burst out laughing. "William." (Y/n) started with a smile as Jasper frown feeling a bit Jealous. "Don't worry about William Jasper. His married and has two kids and a baby on it way." Bella said as Jasper slightly relaxed.

"William is a family man. He has kids of his own you know. I may have helped him built this place but his the one that supports and pay for all this." (Y/n) said with a soft smile that can make anybody weak on there knees. "Wow. Um... One last question." The reporter said causing (Y/n) to nod her head. "Are you single?" The reporter asked blushing madly.

"You want me too?" (Y/n) joked with a wink before walking away. Jasper slightly chuckled at (Y/n) flirty playfulness. "Now its time for the match." The reporter said still blushing as the screen when dark.

Time Skip (cause I'm to lazy to write a fight scene)

With a smooth dodge (Y/n) and jumped on her opponent and wrapped her legs around there neck. (Y/n) used her weight and quickly spined her opponent and knocked then down.

(Y/n) got up as the ref started to count to ten only for the opponent to get up at eight. "Come on (Y/n)!" Jasper and Bella yelled at the screen. (Y/n) smiled slightly as she walked towards her opponent only for then to grab her and throw her roughly on the mat.

"(Y/n)!" Jasper and Bella yelled causing Edward to chuckle. The ref startes to count to ten only for (Y/n) to slowly get up with a blood coming out of her forehead. "Stay down bitch!" The opponent snarled causing Jasper to slightly hiss. "I can do this all day." (Y/n) said with a small grin as Bella chuckled. (Captain America reference anybody?)

The opponent went for another punch only for (Y/n) to push them and moved back. "Her special kick." Bella said in awe as (Y/n) jumped high and spined before moving a leg out kicking the opponent hard in the face.

"Smack!" The hit knocked out the opponent cause the ref to say the match is over as (Y/n) whipped the blood away. "Here is you win of this match is (Y/n)!" The ref yelled causing everyone to cheer. (Y/n) quickly left to change and bandaid up the cut so Jasper doesn't loss control.

Time Skip

"Owch!" (Y/n) hissed as Carlisle chuckled slight. "Quite whining (Y/n). You had worst." William said as Jasper stood next to him. "I know I have you donk. Ow!" (Y/n) yelled as Carlisle put some rubbing alcohol on the cut. "The perks of being a boxer." (Y/n) mumbled under her breath.

"So you must be Jasper Hale. Nice to finally meet you." William said as him and Jasper shake hands. "I would say the same but (Y/n) never told me about this little side career." Jasper said as he glared at (Y/n) playfully.

"That alright. (Y/n) doesn't like mixing her career life with her personal life. That why she changed her last name to (L/n) instead of Swan. That and her father would have killed her and come for me." William said with a wide grin.

"Reasonable." Jasper said as Carlisle raised placed a band aid and pat her head. "That should do." Carlisle said as (Y/n) looks up at him with a soft smile. "Can you not tell Charlie about this Carlisle please." (Y/n) said causing Carlisle to slightly smile a nod his head before leaving along with William.

"Does this mean your done fighting?" Jasper asked as he walks towards (Y/n). "Nope. I am born as a fighter. It just gonna be one of the perks you going to have to deal with." (Y/n) joked causing Jasper to slightly smile softly. "I can deal with that. As long as you tell me when you'll go here and that you doing come home with cuts and bruises." Jasper said sternly.

(Y/n) chuckled as she peck Jasper cold lips. "No promises. But since I did win do I get a reward?" (Y/n) purred as she wraps her arms around Jasper neck. "Mhm." Jasper hums as he pulled her close and picks her up. "I'll give your reward in the showers." He purred out softly as they went to the bathroom where the shower is.

.

Tagged: @ravenmoore14

[hopeduckling13]

Find My Way Back To You: Chapter 28

Summary:  Hope Swan-Jones is the product of the product of true love and her true love, so her having very powerful magic was always in the cards. Luckily she lives in a town where everyone is very familiar with magic, so nothing can go wrong, can it?

Or so everyone thought, but then one day as a newborn Hope accidently travels back in time with her mother Emma.

How will the past population of Storybrooke react to their Savior having another kid and being married? And more importantly will the Savior and her baby daughter find a way back home to all of their loved ones?

- - -

Catch Up:

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857127/chapters/34395467

FF.NET: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12964592/1/Find-My-Way-Back-To-You

Tumblr: [Prologue] [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11] [Chapter 12] [Chapter 13] [Chapter 14] [Chapter 15] [Chapter 16] [Chapter 17] [Chapter 18] [Chapter 19] [Chapter 20] [Chapter 21] [Chapter 22] [Chapter 23] [Chapter 24] [Chapter 25] [Chapter 26] [Chapter 27]

Reblog to be tagged in future chapters

Taglist: @capswantrue 

~~~ EMMA’S POV ~~~

Hope and I have been trapped in the past for a whole month now. Every day I lose more and more confidence, that we’ll find our way back to Killian. 

Why does time-travel have to be so freaking complicated?

Probably because it hasn’t been done yet – only twice. And somehow, I’m lucky enough to have been part of it both of those times. It just doesn’t feel like a whole lot of luck. I hate it actually.

I just want to go back home to the rest of my family. I see them here, but they’re so different. It doesn’t feel like my family is here at all sometimes. Just some other people, who might act similarly as my loved ones. They also treat me just the same, I suppose. But this still doesn’t feel like home.

I can tell because I miss my version of Storybrooke. I miss my future.

I don’t know how long I can go on like this. It’s hard. 

I just want my husband back. He’s someone I can’t even really hang out with here since it’d be suspicious. We weren’t friends back then, after all.

I just miss him so bad.

Luckily, Hope doesn’t seem to be aging, despite us having been here for a whole month. She still looks like that cute 3-week-old baby. She also hasn’t learned anything new. 

That’s great since it means, Killian isn’t missing out on anything - except spending time with us. 

I wouldn’t wish that on him. I know how it feels like since I gave Henry up. I do have some fake memories of raising him from birth, but those aren’t real. I never got to see him grow up because he deserved his best chance and I couldn’t give that to him.

And it feels even worse knowing, that now I missed another big part of his life.

I don’t want that to happen to Hope and Killian, and it seems like it won’t. Unless, of course, we never make it back to Storybrooke. That would suck.

But Killian wouldn’t notice then, would he? Because the future would never be the same. 

If I’m stuck here forever, I’ll never get married to Killian in the first place and Hope won’t even have been born. Will she just vanish one day?

I hope not. She’s my only real happiness in this place.

Except maybe Emma. She is kind of like a twin sister to me. I love that. I will miss her once we’re gone. I can tell it’s going to be hard for her to say goodbye, too. At least until I erase all of her memories.

Then, it’ll be like we never existed at all.

She isn’t enough reason to stay here though. I wouldn’t do that to her since me being here might mess up her happy beginning, too. I can’t risk that. 

She deserves to be with Killian and Hope one day. 

So, yeah, I have to find a way back home. It can’t be impossible, right? I just probably haven’t tried hard enough yet.

“Emma?” Mom’s voice surprises me and I almost jump. 

I mutter Shit under my breath.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She says quietly while approaching me. “I was doing some laundry and found these in your pockets. I thought, that I should give them to you.” 

She puts both my engagement ring and wedding band in the palm of my hand. 

I smile gratefully at her. “Thank you.”

She smiles in return and sits down next to me on the bed. She looks at Hope, who is lying in her crib. She has her eyes open but is completely quiet. She must be exhausted. She hasn’t slept much for a while now. I can tell, that she isn’t happy here either. She misses her dad.

I play with the rings by rotating them around my finger. I don’t even notice until mom looks at the rings.

“They’re beautiful, Emma.” She says softly.

“I know. My husband has got a good taste.” I smile proudly. He really does have really good taste. But what did I expect? He’s a pirate after all, so of course, he knows good jewelry.

But I can’t tell the past version of my mother.

“I’m glad you're happy.” She says. “Emma was so broken and lonely when we first found her. She still is. Sometimes I was worried, that she was never going to be okay. That she’ll never be happy. Thank you for showing up and showing me, that my baby gets what she deserves in the end.”

“You had doubts? Wow. That’s scary. No wonder I was so lost back then. If not even you were sure, I’d find my happy beginning. You are like optimism in human form.”

Mary Margret nods slowly like she’s afraid I’m going to get mad. I’m not though. I might’ve reacted that way a few years ago, but now I don’t see this as an attack.

“Hey, it’s okay that you worried about me. I never thought, that I’d ever be more than a lost little girl, who didn’t matter. But then Henry brought me to Storybrooke. For a long time, I didn’t realize this, but he wasn’t bringing me home to break a curse. He was bringing me home. He brought me back to my family.” A few happy tears run down my cheeks. 

I can also see some tears forming in Mary Margret’s eyes.

I take her hand in mine and look at her with meaning.

“I’m not mad, that you were worried about me. It only means that you care deeply about me, which I really appreciate. Thank you.”

I hug her tightly.

Then we hear the front door and Hope starts crying. I pick her up and cuddle her. She calms down immediately.

A few moments later, Emma comes running up the stairs.

“Is everything okay? Did I startle her?” She asks worriedly.

“A little, but it’s fine. She’s okay now.”

Emma sighs and reaches out her arms. I give Hope to her and she cradles her head while balancing her on her hip. 

“I’m so sorry.” She whispers into Hope’s ear. 

I run my hand down Hope’s back. A mistake, I realize too late.

It only takes a moment until Emma’s eyes fixate on my rings. This is the whole reason I didn’t wear them - I didn’t want to freak her out and now I failed at that.

To my surprise though, Emma seems okay. She even has a soft smile on her face.

“It’s okay, if you wear them, you know? I know about you being married anyway, so there’s no need to hide them from me. I won’t freak out.” 

Wow. She’s making progress. Maybe our combined magic will get me and Hope back home after all. Maybe she’ll be able to control hers soon. Who knows?

“Thank you.” I hug both her and Hope.