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h1myname1sk0rg · 3 years ago

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Cheaters Never Prosper

Part 1 - Summer Beginnings

Pairing: Brother’s Best Friend!Bucky x OC

Summary: Bucky brings his new college girlfriend to the lake house. Old feelings arise and he has to fight to win the game he and Ace have going, but as they say, cheaters never prosper.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3.1k

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“That’s right folks, it’s gonna be a hot one out there today! Kickin’ off the summer 37 degrees and climbing, so stay cool and safe out there!”

Music from the radio buzzed through the kitchen and into the living room, crackling occasionally. The house was dim, all the curtains drawn shut to block out as much heat as possible in the large house and Acelynn Rogers was unimpressed. Trudging her way down the tall set of stairs she wandered into the kitchen where her mom was stood, digging through the fridge. “Don’t lie to me, lady. I know you’re just trying to cool off.”

Chuckling, her mom pulled the large watermelon from the back of the fridge. “Oh hush, you’re gonna be late for school.” She reached for the knife on the counter, pointing it at her daughter as she spoke.

Grumbling something about how the school was too warm and that they should just “cancel it anyway,” because, “who needs exams”, she stuffed the laces into her dusty sneakers and walked out of the house.

The air was stuffy and damp, Acelynn seemed to sweat within seconds of stepping onto the front porch. The metal railing was too hot to touch and her thighs rubbed together uncomfortably as she scrambled down the stairs. Red braids could be seen through the bushes and right on time, the face of her best friend appeared at the front gate to her (oversized) family home. “Wanda!” she cheered, drawing out her name in excitement.

“Acelynn!” Her friend cheered back in the same tone; something that had become a ritual for the past five years they had known each other. That was the only time they used each other’s full names, often too lazy and shortening it to one syllable instead.

The walk to school was short, but not sweet. It was muggy and far too uncomfortable for any amount of physical activity. “I can’t wait to go to the summer home.” Ace sighed, absolutely delighted to go visit the mansion they visited every summer just outside a small town a few states over.

Wanda nodded in agreement, brushing her braids off her shoulders. “Me too, I can’t believe my parents are actually letting me go, and bonus, we can drive. We are going to be in for a wild summer.”

That they were, a wild summer was an understatement though, especially considering her parents wouldn’t be joining them until two weeks later and were even going to let her drive the convertible down to the house after this weekend’s graduation ceremony. Stepping foot onto the grounds of their high school just as the bell rang, they waved goodbye, “you’re coming over tonight, right?” She called to Wanda, who in turn gave a thumbs up as she spun on her heel and jogged through the front doors. Acelynn turned the other direction and sprinted for her math exam, sliding into her seat just at the last second.

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Watching the clock tick by second by second made her want to slam her head through the desk in front of her. She had done three exams today and finished her last one with thirty minutes to spare. It was all she could do to keep from asking to go to the bathroom and just never coming back. Just as she felt herself zone out again, the bell rang. Shooting up from her seat, she grabbed her belongings: a nearly empty bag and the pen she used to draw on her leg after finishing her exam. Sprinting from the classroom, she stopped in the hallway to plan her route and, expertly, she dodged excited seniors and the leftover freshman left and right before coming to a stop in front of the front doors.

Breathing deep, she pushed them open to step outside, but not before Peter Parker came sprinting out of nowhere and tackled her to the ground. “We’re free!” He cheered, causing laughter to erupt from Ace.

Grinning, she tried shoving him off. “That we are!” Grabbing her hand, Peter helped her to her feet and she caught sight of Ned and MJ catching up behind them. Aside from Wanda, Peter was her best friend. They shared the same birthday and were born in the same hospital. Her parents were best friends with his aunt and uncle and they practically grew up as siblings. “The invitation is still open to join Wanda and I at the summer home next week, we leave Sunday morning after grad.”

The three friends all looked to each other and sighed, “we all got jobs last week, we’re stuck here, sorry Ace.” Peter nodded at Ned’s statement and she sighed even though she understood because her and Wanda were told to get jobs for the summer in that little town. “We’ll still make it for our birthday weekend though.” At that, Ace’s eyes lit up and she grinned mischievously.

“Alright deal. Steve said he would buy us drinks for that weekend and my parents said that they would leave early.”

The friends said their goodbyes and headed home, Wanda and Ace turning the other direction to head to their neighborhood. “So this weekend, I’ll go pack at home after grad and then come by for dinner, deal?”

Ace nodded, “that works, I still need to find out when Steve and his friends are coming down.”

“Do you think Barnes will be there?” Wanda asked, even at the mention of the last name her cheeks flushed. They grew up really close for years, with him being Steve’s best friend. Their parents called him Acelynn’s long lost brother, sometimes she pretended to hate the guy, teasing him and him teasing her back. Wanda knew she was head over heels in love with him. That being said, Ace did hate him. Hated his perfect teeth and his perfect hair and the perfect way he dressed. Hoping it would go away when Bucky left for university, she paid him no attention last summer. It upset both Steve and Bucky that they didn’t hang out much, but she covered it by working at the bakery all summer and spending as little time as possible at the summer home.

Shrugging, she tightened the straps of her backpack and set off down the cement stairs of her high school. “Don’t know, don’t care to be honest.” A lie. A flat out, dirty lie. “Even if he was, why would it matter. He’s a pompous college boy anyway, I don’t need that.”

Their bags sat uncomfortably on their shoulders and the sun beat down on their necks, Wanda stayed silent and watched Ace fight with herself back and forth about her conflicting feelings about the oldest Barnes. They passed his family home at the end of the street and like always, Ace searched for his car. Her heart pounded in her chest, but the sleek black car stayed missing in action. Swallowing dryly, she glanced to Wanda who used this silence to speak up. “Let’s go swimming. Get our minds off graduation.” The proposition brought up her newly dampened spirits and she nodded, the two jogging their separate ways to grab their swimsuits.

Acelynn entered the house, the temperature change was welcome, but insignificant in it’s efforts to cool her down. She changed and pulled her shorts from earlier on and wiping her sweaty palms on her thighs, smeared the black pen ink.

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The bike ride to the river was warm, too warm. Rubber bike handles came off on their hands and they were glad to see the dirt road that held access to the lake. Whipping down the dusty path, they hollered and cheered. The ride made her feel free as the breeze cooled her hot and sweaty skin. Trees passed by, light reflecting off the girl’s faces and they smiled, coming to a screeching halt at the bottom. Just as the dust cleared, they both sprinted for the dock. Wanda grabbed Ace’s waist and they both wrestled each other into the freezing cold water, their backs hitting it with a satisfying smack.

Laughing, they pulled themselves from under the water and sighed in relief as the coolness settled onto their skin. The sky was blue, not a cloud in the sky as Ace lay on her back, floating on the water and letting her blonde hair soak. Water flooded her ears and she closed her eyes enjoying the peace and quiet.

Bucky laughed as Ace splashed him, Steve jogging up the hill to get the ball that Bucky ‘accidentally’ tossed up there. Hands running over the water, Ace smiled, once again enjoying the peace of being with her brother and his friend. The peace was ruined when Bucky tackled her under the water, she gasped at how cold the water was. Having been too chicken, she hadn’t quite gotten in yet. She got used to it quickly when she realized that Bucky was just kind of... staring at her. Grabbing his face, she pulled him in, kissing him with so much passion they both had to break for air much sooner than either of them liked. Bucky, grabbed her again, pulling her in and holding her tight to his chest as they shared that moment. She took a deep breath in, shocked beyond words. Looking up at him, she closed her eyes for a moment and-

Cold water hit her face and she gasped. Wanda’s laughing broke through the leftover memory fog and she glared at her before laughing herself. “Come on, we gotta go. Your mom is gonna kill you if you’re not home for dinner on time.”

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Graduation was warmer than the sun. The gym was hot and there were too many bodies for the outdated air conditioning to manage. The small graduating class of 50 sat in chairs on the floor and parents sat up in the bleachers. Ace was bummed out, her brother hadn’t shown up and he promised to be there. The valedictorians talked about nothing and in turn, her and MJ looked at each other from across the room, shooting each other with finger guns to ‘kill’ each other. Wanda was sat in front of her and the two girls just kept banging their heads together while their principal droned on and on about how “adulthood is beautiful and everyone will do wonderfully in college.” The speech had been the exact same as at Steve’s graduation a year prior and when it finally came time to walk the stage, everyone trudged, the heat making them feel sludgy.

Wanda walked as gracefully as ever, her brother Pietro following with a light jog and a jump in the air. Rolling her eyes at the athlete, Acelynn waited for her turn, dripping in a pool of sweat in her crumby fold up chair that felt like it would collapse at any second.

“Acelynn Rogers.” Her principal said with a smile, they had gotten to know each other quite well... on many occasions. Her family cheered, and she grinned. Her grin only grew when she saw her big brother standing beside her mom in the bleachers yelling the loudest out of them all. After the ceremony concluded and students were recognized and given awards (Ace included for her impeccable attendance which should have been a joke) she sprinted out to the parking lot in her sneakers. Her mom got her in a dress, but she had tossed the heels aside as soon as the ceremony ended.

“Stevie!” She shouted and he turned, grinning as she ran at him. She jumped into his arms and he hugged her close.

“Acely!” He cheered, spinning her around and absolutely crushing her ribs. He set her down and kissed the top of her head, “you’re graduated!”

“I’m graduated! Are you staying for dinner?” She so desperately wanted him to say yes, but he shook his head sadly.

“Sorry, kid, I gotta go to the lake house tonight. Buck is meeting me there,” Wanda whipped her head around from where she stood with her family, crushed under her brothers arm, “and I have to let him in.”

“Oh, yeah okay. That’s fair. We’ll celebrate tomorrow though?” At that Steve nodded, sending a wink her way and she smirked in response before her mom squished them together for a picture.

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The Rogers’ (minus Steve) and the Maximoff’s had dinner together that night. It wasn’t often that everyone got together, but they did today. Her mom cut up vegetables in the kitchen, talking about nonsense work stuff with Wanda’s mom and their dads cooked burgers on the barbecue. It was short and sweet, the humidity becoming too much for everyone so they retired early. Wanda’s parents hugged their daughter goodbye like they would never see her again even though she would see them in a few weeks when she drove back up for their own trip.

The girls spent the evening packing for the summer, passing out on Acelynn’s bedroom floor that night. They woke up early, the sound from the neighbour’s lawn mower shocking them as though cold water had been dumped on their heads. “I guess that means it’s time to go.” Wanda crawled up from her spot on the fluffy rug and stretched. Plucking a record off the wall, Ace nodded, slipping it into its covering to set in one of her many bags.

They got dressed, both just choosing a cropped band tee out of Ace’s closet and a pair of jean shorts. They ran downstairs for some breakfast and said goodbye to her parents, calling a “peace out, homie” up to her father in his office, who in turn scolded her for such informal language.

Much like the day before, the air was sticky and too warm, the garage still stuffy from having gone unopened for several days. After struggling to cram their belongings into the trunk, they finally got it organized and closed. “All the cassettes are in the front somewhere, see if you can find them before we get outta town,” Ace was buzzing with excitement. She felt as though someone took a box of popsicles and just blended it all up to inject into her. They were graduated, it was summer and they only had to pop back to drop off Wanda in three weeks. She was stoked.

Taking off across town, they stopped at the gas station for some drinks and a couple snacks before heading out. As they left town, the nice houses started to become fewer and far between, more trees than civilization. There were a few camping spots, but none really. It wasn’t a large town that they lived in, but it wasn’t a small one either. People lived their lives; some would move, many simply stayed. Families in that town ran many generations back, all intertwining as friends or relatives somehow. Although it wasn’t obvious, Ace was desperate to leave. She wanted to experience the city, live a little, do something other than sit around this little town her whole life. Ace was eccentric as her father liked to say, more outgoing than many people in town, but they all just liked her like that.

Trees and mountains grew tall beside them over the hours, sometimes the terrain flattened out. Other times it didn’t. They stopped at a diner about halfway to the “mansion”, right around one in the afternoon. They took it as takeout and drove up to one of the many beach accesses that littered the highway. There were tons of little lakes littered throughout their drive and they took a moment to stand in the fresh water and watch people swim, talking about how good their sandwiches were and what it would be like to be one of the many ducks flying overhead. With a sigh and a stretch, they got back in the car and headed out again.

They barely made it to town, having forgotten to fill up with gas for a third time. They rolled into the gas station just on time, filled up and took the rest of the drive to the mansion. The mansion sat near the lake, about twenty minutes out of town and down a back road. Her parents built it when they first got married, always wanting to have a place to escape to in the summer with the kids, her and Steve felt like they grew up in two places.

As they neared the house though, Ace found herself growing nervous. “Wan, I haven’t seen him in a year and a half… it’s dumb because I kinda missed him.

Wanda had been fully expecting this revelation, just wasn’t expecting it when they were driving along the nicely paved road lined with beautiful red maple trees so close to the house. “Of course you did, you kissed him.” Wanda stretched in the passenger seat, her legs and butt sore from sitting all day, “At least be civil. You can hate him all you want if you so choose, but we both know you’re in love with him.”

Acelynn sighed, glancing to her friend briefly before signalling to turn into the driveway. Wanda’s jaw dropped in awe, “I forgot how nice…” she trailed off, watching as Ace’s face fell. The beautiful lake house had an upper and lower porch, the upper porch extending off the bedrooms upstairs and windows adorning the house in various places. It was a beautiful home, Wanda felt it was almost indescribable, there were no words for how magnificent (and massive) it was. There was a four car garage next to the house that matched the siding. One of the doors was open, housing an all too familiar shiny black car for Acelynn’s liking. “He’s here.” Wanda murmured in an almost creepy sing-song tone.

“And so are we.” She shook her head, pulling up around the planter in the middle of the driveway and stepped out, stretching her legs. “Steven!” She called, pulling the trunk open. On cue, he came bounding down the steps. He ran for his sister who screamed and ran away, a chorus of “no” falling from her lips as he grabbed her waist and hoisted her over his shoulder.

“Barnes! We have a delivery!” He called into the house, grabbing the suit cases with his sister pounding on his back.

“Put me down!” She shouted just as Wanda spun around, wide-eyed and looking rather distraught. Before she could ask anything that’s when she saw it too.

Bucky hand in hand with a beautiful, skinny, tall blonde, Steve’s girlfriend traipsing behind them with a similar expression on her face that Wanda had, hers more apologetic. The red-head Steve was dating, Natasha, knew everything whereas Steve knew nothing aside from the little crush.

Feeling sick, she held onto Steve’s arm a minute as he set her down. Her heart crushed on the floor, she could see it being stepped on right under Bucky’s feet and tears welled in her eyes. Why would he care? She was stupid to think the kiss meant something to him.

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A/N: I hope you all enjoyed it, this was my first tumblr fic and I’m really happy with it so far! I will be posting other parts with time (unless of course no one wants me too).

#bucky barnes #bucky x oc #bucky fanfic #bucky fluff #bucky x oc series

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stereksecretsanta · 4 years ago

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Merry Christmas, everchanginginks

For @everchanginginks. I hope you enjoy this gift!

Read On AO3

*****

Just down the hall from the quiet studying of history students in Room 17-B lies classroom 17-A which, contrasting its quieter neighbor, is filled with sugar-fueled enthusiasm as adolescent students gleefully tear into their candy atom diagrams. Only after getting the go ahead from their awesome chemistry teacher wearing a colorful periodic table tie over a blue dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, of course.

Said awesome teacher places the end of a blue raspberry sour punch straw in the corner of his mouth and chews with an unabashed grin. As he’s halfway through the straw the bell rings and he breaks into his parting spiel for his students, the straw sticking from the corner of his mouth like a cowboy.

“Okay class, please make sure to turn your worksheets into the tray on your way out and please take your candy diagrams with you. You’re not gonna break my heart if you don’t eat them, I just don’t want next period to deal with this period’s mess. Tonight’s homework is on the board and on the syllabus, and don’t forget to submit your vote for Teacher of the Year during lunch if you have not already. Have a good rest of your day everyone, and as always come to me with any questions...and that means any ."

Scattered responses of “Okay” and “Thanks Mr. Stilinski” and “Bye” fill the room as the students start to file out the classroom.

“You’re about as subtle as a brick to the teeth.” Says a mildly amused female voice from over his shoulder.

Stiles finishes the candy and turns around to look exasperatedly at the strawberry blonde speaker sitting behind his desk, "And you’re underestimating how important this is. My reclaiming of the throne is in danger!"

"Uh huh..." MIT grad and certified genius Lydia Martin nods in mock understanding as she sips from her floral patterned ceramic travel coffee cup.

"Thanks again for agreeing to come in and lecture for my AP Chem students on such short notice by the way.” Stiles scratches at the tousled mess on his head and offers the open package of sour punch straws from his desk, “You are a literal God send."

She grimaces and waves the proffered sugary confection away, "For someone in the sciences, your improper use of the word 'literal' is rather concerning. Perhaps your throne is in more danger than previously thought."

“Don’t say that, you’re gonna jinx it!” He reaches over and raps his knuckles against his wooden desk three times while speaking a mile a minute, “I need to win, I can’t have mister ‘look at me bringing my history and polisci students on the coolest field trips in the history of this school because I can somehow pull strings to make these trips a reality despite there being like no funding--seriously how does he do it--and my students adore me even though I constantly look like I probably lure people into the woods with my beautiful eyes and murder them in my free time’ beat me at my own game, again !”

He huffs at the end of his tirade and looks to Lydia for understanding, but she avoids his gaze and poorly suppresses snickers under her breath.

“C’mon it’s not that funny. I know he can ‘smolder’ his way into the heart of even the most introverted student,” Stiles gesticulates with each emphasis, “but I have charm , I’m approachable , I understand these students. I love my job and I do everything in my ability to give these students every opportunity they deserve . If that’s not ‘Teacher of the Year’ material, then I don’t know what is.”

Stiles stops, taps his chin thoughtfully and sighs, “Though I totally understand that the title is purely for bragging rights, and it ultimately comes down to just continuing to be the best teacher I can be. Derek is a great teacher that also deserves the title and I can respect that, but gosh darn does he get my competitive side riled up.”

“Uh huh…” Lydia hums and taps her fingers against her cup as she pointedly looks past Stiles, “Mr. Stilinski, I do believe there’s someone that needs your help?”

“Oh!” Stiles quickly straightens himself and his tie, and turns around with a wide grin, “What can I do for--YOU!” Stiles quickly twists his expression into a frown and throws a finger up accusingly after registering who was darkening his doorway.

Standing in the doorway with a glare that could send a lesser man running for the hills is the previously mentioned competitor and last year’s winner for ‘Teacher of the Year’, mister ‘coolest history teacher’ Derek Hale in all his annoyingly gorgeous, stubbly, glory. He side-eyes Stiles’ organized chaos in the chemistry lab from behind thick framed hipster looking glasses and grimaces, “Am I interrupting something?”

Stiles grits his teeth, he can practically feel the judgement over his classroom’s state radiating off of the (not even tenured!) history teacher and no amount of soft looking cable knit sweaters could lessen that blow. “As a matter of fact--”

“No, you’re not interrupting anything at all Derek.” Lydia places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder as she walks past him, “I was just about to go say hi to Kira.”

Derek moves aside to let Lydia pass, she turns to smile at Stiles from the doorway, “I’ll come back by 6th period for your second AP Chem class. I think I’ll also grab some lunch from Whole Foods.”

“Uh...Bye?” Stiles weakly waves at Lydia’s parting back. He refocuses his attention on the offending history teacher and crosses his arms across his chest petulantly, “Alrighty, what d’ya need Mr. Hale?”

With a roll of his eyes, Derek holds up a handful of papers, steps forward, and emphatically places them in Stiles' inbox, “Your mail. I know your TA usually grabs it for you, but he’s out sick today. And I was already in the mailroom.”

“Whoa, wait wait, how do you know that my TA is out sick today, have you been stalking my classes? Are you trying to find a way to one up me? Steal some of my stellar teaching techniques because you know that you’ll lose otherwise?” Stiles narrows his eyes as his lowers voice into a conspiratorial tone while leaning forward to scrutinize Derek’s expression, “What’s your game here Mr. Hale ?”

Derek hazel eyes widen incredulously as he scoffs, “I don't need to stalk your classes, Liam's one of my students too. And please remind me, what did I do to make you so hostile again?”

“Playing dumb isn’t cute. You know full well what you did.” Stiles pokes at Derek’s chest and--oh that’s a soft sweater--puffs his own out, “But no matter what, I’m going to take what’s rightfully mine .”

His competitor’s face reddens in anger and Stiles feels a thrum of excitement at his ability to break Derek’s usual expression of ‘sourpuss lumberjack murderer’. A sly grin works its way across Stiles’ face as he shrugs coyly, “What can I say, I’m a man who knows what he wants.”

Stiles’ wrist is suddenly grabbed by a warm, slightly calloused palm--there may be something to that murderer in the woods theory--and wrenched away from the soft sweater. “And what would that be, Stiles?” Derek growls--who the hell growls --while leaning in way too close for comfort.

“What would that be? Um...I want to win? Obviously?” Stiles splutters as his face reddens, offended that Derek would suggest that there would be anything else . “I’m gonna own you, Derek. I’m gonna own you so hard, you won’t know what hit you.”

“How about you take me to dinner first, before you ‘own’ me?” Derek says matter-of-factly.

“Uh no, how about you take me to dinner to celebrate my overwhelming victory over your grumpy ass? Doesn’t that make a little more sense than going to dinner before either of us win?” Stiles rolls his eyes, laughing at Derek’s lack of logic. But his laughter sputters out and he stills once his brain processes what just happened. “Wait… wait wait… was that some sort of sad attempt at asking me out in the most backwards, reverse engineered manner possible?”

Stiles looks Derek in the eyes, who nods patiently, as if Stiles was one of their students that needs tutoring.

“Oh my God. Oh my GOD !” Stiles backs away and into his desk, voice rising in panic, “What even? What’s happening here? Are you trying to throw me off my game? Cause that’s a dirty tactic, even for you. Because there’s no way someone like you would legitimately ask out someone like me . That just doesn’t make sense. You’re like a sexy lumberjack murderer historian, and I’m like a young Bill Nye. I'm in the sciences , and you're in the humanities . And you don’t even like me. You haven’t liked me since your first day!”

“Hold on.�� Derek holds his palms up defensively, “What are you talking about? You were the one glaring at me like there was no tomorrow.”

Stiles inspects Derek’s expression for any sign of deception, seeing none he sighs. “Fine, I guess it was just so unimportant to mister bigshot Hale to remember measly Mr. Stilinski. Do you remember moving into your classroom?”

He nods, urging Stiles to continue.

“So I didn’t know that the new teacher was moving in that day , so when I saw a big package outside of your soon to be classroom, I assumed that it was my delivery of graduated cylinders that was dropped off to the wrong room since it was early in the morning and people make mistakes sometimes, y’know?” Stiles gives Derek no opportunity to say anything and continues at full speed. “I went over and got ready to take the package, only to have you open the door and give me the scariest look in my entire life . Do you remember what you said to me, Derek?”

“You said,” Stiles changes his voice to imitate Derek’s, “‘That is my private property. If you value your time at this school, you will leave it alone. If I see this behavior again I will bring it up with Principal Yukimura’. So, yeah! Something about that kinda exchange can make a guy think you hate them!”

Derek groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Oh my God...You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Oh, so you do remember? Or did you conveniently forget threatening me?” Stiles grabs another sour punch straw and chews it angrily, “Because I sure as hell didn’t!”

“Stiles…” Derek laughs breathily, “I thought you were a student . I wasn’t wearing my glasses and it was dark . Oh my god . I thought the first time we met was in the teachers' lounge, and by that point I already unknowingly made a terrible first impression on you. No wonder you looked at me with such hatred. Oh my goodness.”

“...oh.”

“Yeah, oh…”

Stiles chews the straw thoughtfully and rocks on the balls of his feet. “So… about that backwards dinner invitation…”

“Yeah?” Derek perks up slightly, looking almost adorable , though Stiles would never say that outloud.

“How about whoever wins ‘Teacher of the Year’ gets treated to dinner, hm?” Stiles holds out a hand for a handshake.

With a goofy grin revealing adorable (there’s that word again!) bunny teeth that brighten up Derek’s entire face, much better than the usual murderous look, he enthusiastically takes Stiles hand and shakes it.

“Deal.”

Epilogue

“I still can’t believe it!”

“I know.” Derek hums as he reaches over to refill Stiles’ glass.

“Honestly, who saw this coming?”

“Certainly not me,” Derek swirls some pasta around his fork and fondly watches Stiles throw back the wine as if it was jungle juice rather than a nice glass of Chardonnay.

Stiles’ honey-brown eyes glimmer with the same kind of mischievous enthusiasm that Derek remembered seeing for the first time at the first assembly of the school year. He gave some sort of spiel about the importance of working together and not being afraid to ask for help, which ended with a demonstration of elephant toothpaste. Derek is embarrassed to say how much he grew to admire the gawky chemistry teacher after that assembly.

“I absolutely kicked your ass dude.” Stiles leans across the table to grab the dessert menu. “Since it’s your treat, I think I’ll indulge in some dessert.” He worries his bottom lip, which makes Derek have to cough and turn his attention away.

“Don’t call me dude.” Derek weakly responds.

“Ooh, this one is topped with bourbon vanilla bean chantilly cream, which is basically bougie whipped cream. How do you feel about bread pudding by the way?” Stiles looks up from the menu through his eyelashes--and there is no way he doesn’t know how he looks--and flutters them exaggeratedly. “Or are you too sour over losing to wittle ol’ me?”

Derek snorts and reaches over to clasp Stiles’ free hand, “On the contrary, I’d be happy to lose to you again.”

Stiles returns the gesture and leans forward, eyes glimmering, his face mere inches away from Derek’s, “Promise?”

Derek is suddenly very glad that they are sitting because he can feel himself go weak in the knees. He nods thoughtfully, “Yeah, I promise.” And leans forward to close the gap.

Their first kiss tastes like garlic bread, which is a little unconventional, but Derek wouldn’t have it any other way.

#everchanginginks #stereksanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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shannendoherty-fans · 4 years ago

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People, September 9th 1991

High School Confidential

By Tom Gliatto and Michael Alexander.

Photos by Mark Sennett.

Beverly Hills, 90210 Gets Its Heat from a Dangerously Cute Cast of TV's Hottest New Stars CONFIDENTIAL MEMO: FROM: The Vice Principal TO: The Faculty, High School U.S.A. I'm sure I don't need to remind you what happened when we didn't prepare for Bart Simpson last fall. The school was flooded with rude, antieducational T-shirts. Some cows were had. Well, as a new school year gets under way, I believe we face another daunting challenge: Brace yourselves for Beverly Hills, 90210. That's the Fox drama about unworldly twin teens Brandon and Brenda Walsh (played by Jason Priestley and Shannen Doherty), recent transferees from Minneapolis to the Hills of Beverly. There they struggle to assimilate into the fast-lane lifestyle of West Beverly Hills High School, where the kids come equipped with BMWs, call waiting and designer surfboards. In the process, the teens examine their emerging identities and the problems that adolescents everywhere face.

The show languished in the Nielsen ratings against Thursday powerhouse Cheers last year. But Fox had no replacement, so it stayed. While we were on summer vacation, new 90210 episodes began airing, and the show landed in the Top 20, becoming the most popular show among teenagers. To some extent, I take responsibility for having ignored 90210. I made the mistake of reading newspaper critics instead of my daughter's diary, and so I believed, as Howard Rosenberg sniffed in the Los Angeles Times, that the show was merely a "ZIP code for stereotypes and stock characters." Little did I know that this show would mesmerize teens by doing emotionally realistic shows that involved adolescent rebellion, alcoholic; parents, a breast-cancer scare and plenty of worrisome teen sex. "Most shows for adolescents," says 90210 creator Darren Star, "seem like they are written by 50-year-olds who think teenagers behave like 7-year-olds."

It also doesn't hurt that the show's male stars, Priestley and Luke Perry (who plays brooding loner Dylan McKay), are "to die for," as my daughter puts it. These two have each been receiving about 1,500 fan letters a week. So be vigilant: Surely some of these will be written by our students...during class! And I'm afraid that 90210 is only going to get bigger with our kids, if producer Aaron Spelling is to be believed. "I thought The Mod Squad and Charlie's Angels got a lot of publicity in their heyday," says Spelling, whose company produced those shows, "but it doesn't compare to this. It's crazy. We have merchandising coming out of our ears"—a complete line of T-shirts, beach towels, notebooks, etc. "And now these actors can't walk down the street!"

Or even streak through malls. You probably saw those alarming news reports about a frenzied mob of 10,000 fans that stampeded Perry when he appeared at a south Florida mall last month. "It's a little scary," says Perry. Scarier is the amount of time students will waste this fall discussing Luke. And Jason. And who is sexier. I provide some information on the two. Jason Priestley, 22, plays Brandon Walsh, a model of thoughtful level-headedness. In real life, however, the brown-haired, blue-eyed star, who started acting in commercials at age 4 and played an orphan on that very nice NBC sitcom Sister Kate, is no Oliver Twist. He likes dirt bikes, bungee jumping and is a chain-smoker (just about the whole cast puffs it up��but not on-camera). Vancouver-born Priestley likes to hang out in Las Vegas. As for his real romantic life, he was reportedly dating actress Robin (Doogie Howser, M.D.) Lively last spring, but it seems likely that now he is too busy for such dalliance;. He must be on the set 14 hours a day, five days a week. To avoid ever-present fans, Priestley says, "I look different from my character when I'm just walking around. I don't shave, I don't dress like Brandon."

On the show, 26-year-old Luke Perry (Brenda Walsh's boyfriend, Dylan) sports a leather jacket, dagger sideburns and a squint that spells t-r-o-u-b-l-e. Although he grew up and graduated from high school in Fredericktown, Ohio, he seems to have attended James Dean wise-guy classes. Perry, who played country-boy Ned Bates on the ABC soap Loving, entertains the 90210 cast by strutting around bare-chested making jokes. Does he have a girlfriend? "No. You know how I can get in touch with Linda Hamilton?" What kind of music does he listen to? "Tom Jones is awesome." Are he and Priestley ever mistaken for each other? "He's mistaken for me on his good days." And 90210, he says, is "the best show on television, except for Jeopardy!" We should act quickly, faculty, when we see any signs that Beverly Hills, 90210 is disrupting normal student activity.

How abnormal might things get? Consider: "It's almost like there are cults," says Brian Austin Green, 18, the North Hollywood High grad who plays the cutely dweeby David Silver. "Girls go to school the day after the show, and they actually become these characters. They say, 'Okay, today I want to be Dylan, you can be Brenda, you can be Brandon.' " Needless to say, students caught pretending to be TV characters should be brought directly to my office for detention. But you know, it might not be a bad thing if our students could show some of the good sense that the 90210ers display in coping with the pressures of fame and fortune. Jennie Garth, 19, who plays the very sexy, very blond, very snotty Kelly Taylor, is particularly admirable. The youngest of seven children, she grew up on a farm near Champaign, Ill., until her schoolteacher parents moved to Phoenix when she was 13. "Living in a small town and coming from a very tight and close family instilled a lot of standards that I need to live up to," says Garth, who just bought a home in Sherman Oaks. She also recently supplied her parents with the down payment for their new home, setting a splendid example for today's youth.

According to a tabloid that someone left in the faculty lounge, Memphis-raised Shannen Doherty, 20, a veteran of such wonderful shows as Little House: A New Beginning, is the only cast member to be accused of behaving like "a spoiled brat" on the set. But she maintains she is no such thing. "I think everybody gets in a bad mood," Shannen says. "You do not work 16-hour days and not start feeling it. But I have never thrown a tantrum. I've gotten upset on the set, but it's never been just to be a bitch. You have to stand up for yourself in this business. That was something I was told when I was 12 years old and working with Michael Landon."

As with about half the cast members, Doherty is in a relationship—in her case, a real-estate developer with whom she's exchanged commitment rings. "You really have to date a while before you decide if this is the person you want to marry," she says with Brenda-like candor. Almost sounds like the relationship could be a future 90210 plot. "The problems of young people have accelerated," says Aaron Spelling, "and so have their feelings and thoughts." The show, he says, has kept pace: Even with their Clearasil-perfect complexions and plump allowances, the students at Beverly Hills have encountered their share of problems. "We had the guts to make Luke Perry be a member of AA," says Spelling. "We had Jason, our star, drinking and driving. That's reality."

And, apparently, the adulatory fan mail often includes a sad dose of that reality. "I got a letter the other day from a girl who mentioned the show we did on parental drug abuse," says Perry in a rare moment of seriousness. "She wrote about catching her father freebasing in the basement. I get letters like that all the time, from people all over the country." Gabrielle Carteris (at age 30, she's 90210's oldest cast-kid), who plays Andrea Zuckerman, the bright student who comes from the wrong side of Rodeo Drive, remembers an encouraging close encounter in a grocery store. "One girl came up to me after we'd done the breast-cancer show," says Carteris. "She said, 'I went home with all my friends and we checked our breasts for lumps.' "

In conclusion: Maybe I didn't need to write this memo. Maybe things won't be that bad, even if every locker in every corridor has a picture of Jason, Luke, Shannen or Jennie in it. Perhaps our dear little school is more like West Beverly Hills High—at least the TV version—than I thought. That's what Ian Ziering, 27, thinks too. "The reality on the show pretty much mirrors the way life is all over, in terms of teenagers," says New Jersey—bred Ziering, who once did Fruit of the Loom underwear ads and now plays 90210's curly-headed jock, Steve Sanders. "There's a mystique about Beverly Hills. But that's not what keeps people tuning in. The show could have been Montana E-I-E-I-O." By the way, should any student pronounce his name "eee-an," correct him or her, please. It's "eye-an."

-- WHEN BEVERLY HILLS, 90210 PREMIERED last October, Highlights, the student newspaper at Beverly Hills High, ran articles mocking the school's TV counterpart, West Beverly Hills High. "They said that the show was a joke," says Jenny Brandt, 14, a sophomore at the 1,900-student school. But as the story lines improved and Jason Priestley and Luke Perry became stars, the jokes stopped, and Brandt found herself, like many of her pals, glued to the set on Thursday nights from 9 to 10 P.M. "No phone calls allowed," says Brandt. "Except during commercials." Hope Levy, a 17-year-old senior, has taken fandom a step further with her friends. "We have little handmade cards," she says, speaking from her mom's car phone. "They say you're a member of Club 90210." While some kids think the show treats them as snobby stereotypes, most agree with sophomore Jordan Rynes when he says, "It's like a soap opera for teens. The shows dealing with drinking and drugs are the most real—adults don't realize how accurate it is."

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funkyfreshramblings · 4 years ago

Text

A Story Twenty Years in the Making

CW: Swearing, sex, transphobia (Look, I'm not proud of who I was).

Shortly after I was born, a cousin of mine was as well. My mother took me to a store where she looked to buy a dress for her new niece to celebrate her birth. A woman stopped and looked at my mother, baby Devon in the stroller, dress in her hand, and curiously spoke up.

"Excuse me miss, but you know that you have a boy, right?" The woman shopping, presumably for her own daughter, had said to my mother.

"Of course I know I have a son. What about it?" My mother said in response.

"Well, that's a dress you're holding. Why would you be buying that for your son?" The woman puzzled.

My mother, quick as a whip and smarter than most people I know today, responded without a second thought.

"I'm letting him experiment with his sexuality."

---

At twelve (12) years old, I became aware of this really weird website. You see, everyone was talking about it, a schoolyard rumour we didn't dare to talk about in front of the teachers. The mythical status of this website was nothing to scoff at, students would huddle around and talk about their findings. It was like an ARG, a new puzzle added every day. The school was rife with these conversations, and everyone was hooked.

I'm of course talking about Pornhub.

Obligatory "don't go on Pornhub unless you're the legal viewing age in your country" aside (even though I'm aware those warnings stop nobody), I too became a curious mind. One day, when my parents had slipped out of the house and I was alone, I pulled it up on my computer upstairs. What I say fascinated me, women and men having sex.

Sex. Woah. Penises, vaginas, anuses. There was everything on this website. Everything. Including this one tab which I didn't dare click.

This one category had what appears to be two men on it. I assumed it was two men, after all neither of them had pronounced breasts like all the women had. And the title of the category? Gay. 'What the fuck does that mean?' twelve-year-old (12) me thought. I ignored it, thought it was weird, and continued on.

In the back of my mind, I was curious. A few weeks after watching straight porn and being mostly repulsed by how awful the women screamed in those videos, I tried it. I clicked on the category tab and was immediately hit with my first exposure to the gay community.

'Twink? Bear? Fisting? Now that's nasty.' I was curiously disgusted but clicked on anyways. "Twinks" looked cute, so I clicked there. Wait, cute? Did I really think these guys were cute? Like I thought my girlfriend was cute?

The video was, simply put, less aggressive than straight porn. Holy shit was straight porn aggressive. It terrified me how much those women screamed like the men were killing them by inserting their penises too far into their bodies. But gay porn looked softer. It was sweeter, with more love. After all, sex is about love, right? Forgive my younger self, you see. He clearly did not understand that nothing in porn is about love. But hey, when working with a half deck, you have to make the cards work.

So I watched gay porn over straight porn. That doesn't mean I'm gay! But wait, if gay porn is between two men, what is porn between a woman and a man. What's porn between two women? Never mind, I'm not that curious about two women together.

A quick Google search sent me down the most soul-searching adventure I'd ever partake in. At least, up until this point.

I soon learned what gay meant, what straight meant, what lesbian meant. You mean boys liking other boys was normal? Girls can like other girls? Wait, you can like boys and girls?

Oh, wait, you can also not be sexually attracted to anyone.

Asexual was a term I first read those years ago, and I soon thought that it described me. See, up until this point, women never interested me sexually. I was twelve (12). Sex really never crossed my mind, even when it was supposed to. But I was watching porn, I thought!

Doesn't matter. I didn't want to be part of those acts. That's what made me ace, I thought.

My lord was I wrong. (Not about ace people, but about my identity. This is where things get juicy. And chuddy.)

---

Okay, so cut to two years later. I'm fourteen (14), in grade ten (10) during Art class. One of my friends sat beside me, my ex across from me, and I hated Art class. Why'd I taken this god-awful course again? Regardless, as I sat there and thought, I thought about my bullying up until high school.

I filled out as a kid. I mean that literally, I grew tall and wide really quickly. No one fucked with me when I was in high school. No one wanted to, and I faded to the background.

But in elementary school, I was the new kid. Backing up to 2009, eight-year-old (8) Devon moved. I would celebrate my ninth (9th) birthday in a class where no one knew me or no one cared. Well, that's not true. One kid cared. Bless that kid. Regardless, 9-year-old (9) me had a target on his back. A big one, and it quickly meant I was being bullied.

My mother is terrifying. I use bold there because I don't think italics can describe just how terrifying mama-bear is when she's angry. After finding out that I was being bullied, she pulled into the school and chewed out the principal. And the parents. And the kids. Hell hath no fury like a mother who went through the shit mine did. So quickly the bullying died down.

Stopped? No, but quieted. My new friends surrounded me in a wonderful bubble of love, but that didn't mean they also didn't pick on me. The most common insult? Gay.

Gay? Like, porn gay? No no no, I said. I'm not gay.

Cut back to 14-year-old (14) me, thinking throughout Art class. I swear Ms. Taylor had it out for me. Oh, right, gay.

'Holy shit.' I thought.

'Wait. They're right, I'm gay. I like men. Holy shit I really like men. Men are hot, and I want to be with one so bad. But I live in this crap town of conservatives (my parents taught me right, conservatives are some of the shittiest people on the planet after all).'

Okay, so I'm gay. I figured that out at the very least! Now I have to tell people.

Oh. Fuck. I have to tell people.

Coming out. Hell, as I like to call it. First to my friends. My friends would understand, after all, I had a pansexual friend. What the fuck does pansexual mean? Never mind that Devon, focus on your own damn self for a second.

Oh. My. God. I have to tell people.

I pulled up my big boy pants and blurted out in the middle of class...

Nothing. What did you expect?

I waited 'till the next morning. That made sense.

---

"Hi, Sierrah!" I said to my colourful friend. Her hair was always a different colour every month and still is. I wish I had half the hair strength she must have.

"Hey, Devon!" She said, blue backpack on her back, meeting up with me to walk to school in the morning.

"I have something to tell you. I'm gay." She looked at me and squealed before wrapping me in a big hug.

"I'm so proud of you!" Okay, one down. A lot more to go.

My best friend in high school used to be someone who I absolutely despised. We bonded over our shared dislike of our shared ex. We became really close. Telling him was pretty easy. Okay, two down.

Remember that girl I sat beside during Art? Not my ex, the one I bonded with my best friend over disliking, I meant the girl sitting beside me. Well, let me tell you.

No one can give me a reception nearly half as good as what she did when I told her.

"Sara, I'm gay," I said. Less than five (5) seconds later, my face was buried in the tits of Sara. That was... fun. Not sexual in the slightest, it was fun. She was warm, and she loved me. I could tell that as a friend, Sara would become the most important person in my life. Thank you, Sara. Should you ever read this.

I hope someone reads this.

Anyone?

Moving on, I eventually told all my friends that day. None of them gave a shit! Cool!

My parents.

Oh no. My parents were next.

I'm skipping that part, it's no longer relevant.

Sorry. (Not sorry in the slightest.)

---

So I graduated the gay kid of 2018. Yay! Seventeen-year-old (17) me made it to grad!

But before I did, I need to preface this part of the story. I was, unfortunately, a fan of Soygon of Asskad. And Blairina Weiss.

Shame. Shame. Shame. Not a day goes by where I'm not sorry for my actions during this period of my life. I am so profusely sorry for the racism and transphobia I perpetuated during this period of my life. I was even homophobic. God damn it, Devon, what the fuck are you doing?

I am now a proud socialist. University helped. So did Vaush, and BadBunny (who's chat might be reading this. Henlo Nicole! Henlo chat!).

Scream at me about Vaush later.

Okay, where was I? Right, grad. University applications.

I made it into the University of Toronto Mississauga. Canada's best university. One of the best universities in the world. Holy shit, I should be more proud of myself for that. I am proud. I made it there, and as I write this, I'm on my last year.

Here's to me becoming a med student soon, I hope!

So school happened. I went to school as a shy gay kid with undiagnosed anxiety problems. That wouldn't last, and soon my anxiety was written in the prescriptions I was handed over the counter for Lexapro. This is where I met my first friend from university.

He will remain unnamed for legal reasons.

He introduced me to one of the most beautiful men I've met to this date.

S. (Name redacted for reasons you need not know. Not legal reasons. Personal ones. Please respect this decision.)

Woah, was this guy just... hot. He was an athlete, no way he'd like me. He probably also sleeps around, and I don't want that.

Boy was I wrong. I soon found out that S was very much into me. I was someone's crush. Wow!

That eventually turned into a... relationship. You get the gist. Affirmation.

I was very, very gay. S helped me understand that I was very very gay.

Okay, so eighteen-year-old (18) Devon was gay. That was very clear.

So that's the end of the story, right?

No.

We just crossed the halfway point.

---

Cut to twenty (20). I am gay, an active chatter in BadBunny's (Twitch streamer, not singer) discord, and really really confused.

See, progressive streamers like BadBunny typically have features to add yourself to a role on Discord that would tell everyone your pronouns when they clicked on your profile. This is a really good way to affirm pronouns of everyone, so I'm down.

Well, I do have one problem. Any/all isn't listed here. Wait.

Wait...

Any? All?

Why do I feel like this?

I'm cis. Let me make that clear. I am cisgendered. I identify as a man, I was born a man, and I think I will always be a man. I think.

But I know pronouns don't necessarily tell you someone's gender. They is a really popular pronoun for all sorts of non-binary identities, all of which are different from each other. So pronouns do not equal gender.

Can I really use they/them, she/her, he/him, fae/faer, fawn/fawn, etc/etc. all while being cis? I think so, let's try it! I don't know how to describe my gender, all I know is I'm apathetic to my pronouns.

Cut to a TikTok video. I learned my fucking gender identity from a TikTok video. This is why representation is important.

"Gender Apathy" we're the words coming from this person's mouth. She? He? Them? Didn't matter, they didn't care. I didn't care.

We didn't care.

Holy fuck.

---

Google has been a really important resource for me as an academic student. Wikipedia articles affirm my suspicions before I move onto Google Scholar to look up articles.

I'm fucking kidding.

Fuck Google Scholar.

But Google did introduce me to the world of fandom wikis.

Is gender wiki a thing? LGBTQ+ wiki?

As it turns out, it is.

Gender Apathy is an article there, as well as many many other identities. If you're question, do some keyword searches. You'll never know what you find.

Anyways, Gender Apathy. Cisapathetic, which I kind of interpret as someone who identifies as cisgender but doesn't really care? I guess? This is all still confusing, but whatever. Cisapathetic.

I quickly shared this with all my friends. I found something new out!

But we aren't done yet.

---

Cut to a little while later. It's Pride month, 2021. This month, if you happen to read this as soon as it goes up! Someone on TikTok is making Pride moths.

Fucking TikTok.

Moths were, at one point, a really popular meme online. Lämp. Gen Z humour will be the end of us all.

So naturally, people found a love for moths. Great, that's lead us to this point. I notice during these videos that these moths are pretty. I want one, or rather, two.

I want the modern Pride moth. The trans flag and a black and brown stripe were included on this modern Pride flag to signal that BIPOC are central to Pride, and need to be celebrated and that our trans friends need our help. Need our platform. Need our rights too.

And I wanted the Gender Apathetic moth. After all, it was something new I discovered! Well, I noticed something in the comments while I was requesting a Gender Apathetic moth from this creator (they were open to suggestions, so please don't heckle me about it). One commenter said the words "are you doing a Neptunic/Uranic/Saturnic moth as well?" What the hell are those?

To the LGBTA wiki!

Neptunic is described as a sexuality "attracted to women, feminine non-binary people and neutral non-binary people."

Saturnic is described as a sexuality "attracted to androgynous aligned non-binary people."

Uranic is the one I'm really curious about then. I'm attracted to men, after all. Uranic is described as a sexuality "attracted to men, masculine non-binary people and neutral non-binary people."

Woah.

So let me back up a little bit.

When I had access to Twitter (they suspended me for defending my sexuality from someone who was saying gay men all have AIDS, so thanks Twitter) I once made a thread talking about how I didn't feel comfortable with calling myself gay.

"But Devon," I hear you say, "the whole first half of this story was dedicated to you realizing you were gay! How can you say that after wasting so much of our fucken' time?"

Give me a minute, dear reader. Let me explain what I said in this thread.

As I type this out, I recognize the transphobia I had against trans-men even while typing out that thread. I want to say, right here, right now, that my sexuality is trans-inclusive. Men with vaginas are still men. I am still very much attracted to men with vaginas. But this thread still falls on transphobic remarks. Once again, I profusely apologize for my past. I am currently working towards being a better person to my trans friends, both online and offline. I am doing my best to be better. I love you all, and I thank you for taking the time out of your day to read this.

Oh, and U of T, if you're reading this, before you even think about kicking me out for admitting my previous bigotry, I urge you to think about your staff first. Jordan Peterson still has a job and makes the campus trans-exclusive as he continues to teach. Catch yourself before you come for me, a student doing his best to be better.

Okay, so back to the Twitter thread.

I essentially said something along the lines of this:

I really struggle with calling myself gay when in reality, I'm only attracted to people with penises, and who lack vaginas and breasts. I would have sex with non-binary people who have penises. So am I really just "gay?"

But in a lot more words. Before I continue, I want to take the time to explain how this comment is transphobic, and why I am sorry and why I want to explain that I no longer feel this way. Okay? So, here's the short of it:

I go by the term gay, but by saying I'm explicitly only attracted to people with penises while liking men, I was indirectly making the point that trans-men are not men if they too do not have penises.

This is not true. Trans men are men, and I have come to realize my attraction for trans men as well, despite genitalia. My sexuality encompasses men of all kinds, and non-binary people who are masculine aligned or neutrally aligned. Once again, I can only apologize and do better.

I am sorry for my previous transphobia. I hope I can make it better by acknowledging it and doing my best to avoid these implications ever again.

Okay, now that we have all of that out of the way, let's talk Uranic again.

Uranic really does describe me. I feel it in every bone of my body, that I really do find myself sexually attracted to even non-binary people.

So, gay is out, uranic is in.

Where does that leave me today?

---

When I started this post, I explained how I was a cisgendered gay man who was a liberal who almost fell down the alt-right pipeline. But as I type this post, not only has my identity evolved, but so has my political ideology. I am a cisapathetic, uranic man who still uses the term gay in casual conversation because it's easier even though it doesn't really describe me, socialist.

BadBunny/Nicole, chat, if you're reading this, thank you. You helped me a ton in discovering socialism and to reject ideas of capitalism that only serve to continue the systematic racism against black people, the systematic transphobia that kills trans people, and even the systematic homophobia I face as a "gay" man.

Wow, that was long. Really long. If you made it this far, give yourself a pat on the back. You just read the life history of a twenty-year-old (20) and how he came to understand his identity.

I love you all.

Signed,

Devon.

FunkyFreshHomo on Discord.

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txemrn · 4 years ago

Text

Catalyst

a Prequel to the Nanny Affair

Chapter 2: Covalence

Need to catch up? Chapter 1: Acquiesce

Rating: 18+ (Mature Audiences only)

Word count: 3255(+/-)

Warning: language; sexually suggestive language; mention of physical abuse, drug abuse, assault and adoption

"Alright, Pine Shadow family, here are your finalists!" Principal Larson's voice booms over the gym speakers. One would think he's announcing a night of rough and rumble with the WWE rather than announcing the award winners for a middle school science fair. Regardless, his enthusiasm is contagious much to the science departments delight. "Let's give them a big Wildcat round of applause for all of their hard work!"

As the audience abrupts into cheers, there she sits, melting into her chair as her knees bounce feverishly in fear. Her French-braided hair accompanies a denim headband, keeping the stray strands of brilliant wheat out of her gray eyes. Against her mother's disgust, she picks at the rubberbands attached to the hardware in her mouth. In her young 12-year-old mind, the audience seems to be doubling--no, tripling in size.

She worries if her hard work will payoff with a shiny blue ribbon--if any ribbon at all. Mrs. Ferguson and Coach Kincaid gave her nods of approval when she created elemental silver from the glucose mixture and Tollen's reagent-- who wouldn't be impressed with a 6th grader with an advanced passion for chemistry? But still, she worries.

"And," the principal continues, "our first place winner is--" The anticipation thickens the air as every movement seems to propel through space in slow motion. Like a dramatic montage of Rudy sacking the Georgia Tech quarterback to clutch the W for Notre Dame, or an injured Danny LaRusso crane-kicking Johnny Lawrence to become the All-Valley Karate Champion: this was her field; this was her stadium; this was her Hail Mary. All of the hours of research at the library; all of the frantic trips to the hobby store; the redundant presentation practices; the late evenings followed by the early mornings accompanied with the inevitable break downs. It all came down to this.

"Our first place winner is… Brynn Schuyler!" The applause is defeaning as time seems to stop. Did she hear the principal correctly? The name sounded very familiar--like her own name!

"Brynn Schuyler!" Did she really just win the coveted first place ribbon at the science fair? She froze, her tiny little body unable to process the abundance of emotion she was encountering all at once.

"Where is Brynn?" Outside of being gifted her hamster and her mom letting her wear clear lipgloss, this is the most incredible day of her life--

She feels a tap on her shoulder. "Ma'am?" The veiled-look from her eyes washes away; the clouds around her head vanish. Reality hits. "Are you Brynn Schuyler?" She feels the warmth of rose flood over her fair complexion as the barista interrupts her morning ritual: reminiscing.

"Uh--yes," as she brushes her fingers over her brow, as if to create a shield to her embarrassment.

Smooth. Real smooth, Brynn.

She quickly brightens, extending her hands, "I'm sorry. That's--"

"Iced venti white mocha latte with a blueberry muffin… and two mini cinnamon maple scones?"

I don't know what would be nicer: reading out my order for everyone to hear or calling me a 'fatass'.

"--me. Yes, thank you," she whispers with gnashed teeth behind a courtesy grin. As she slithers back down into her seat at the local coffee house, Brynn hides the pastries in her backpack, keeping them well within her reach as she continues to work: scouring the wanted ads.

Next Tuesday makes four months of no job and no steady income. She has been on seven 'promising' interviews with no avail. She is able to keep her bill collector's away with her savings account, but even that was beginning to dwindle like her existence.

Brynn is a scientists, a chemist to be exact--or at least she was. Her love for science led her from the suburbs of 'the City of Brotherly Love' to the University of Massachusetts at Amherst where she studied education. Her dream was to impose the wonders of science on young minds as they experienced the physical world around them. But, after her personal observation of the devastation of Alzheimer's disease with her grandmother, she took an unexpected internship with the Massachusetts's Alzheimer's Disease Research Center. She realized she didn't want to just teach science; she wanted to do science. One Master's degree in Chemistry later, she was well on way to making a real difference in the world. Or so she thought.

'Benson's BBQ: Host needed'--maybe. 'Browning Steel: Welder with experience'--no. 'Bus Depot: driver wanted, great benefits'--no. 'Cutshall Clearance Store--stalker needed'-- surely they don't mean 'stalker', but they may need an ad editor.

She had scored the chance of a lifetime when she was hired on as one of the first female level I Chemists at the Lincoln Laboratory at MIT. She quickly graduated from fetching coffee, dry cleaning and business lunches for her superiors--also known as a research assistance--to finally being a project manager of her very own, very first multi-million dollar research study. But after twenty-months with no success, the funding was pulled on the project, the wind knocked out of her sails. The punches didn't stop there: her team of men threw her under the metaphorical bus and it was 'off with her head,' her moment of glory now over. She often feels foolish that she thought she could actually make a difference in the world; even worse, she felt agonizing guilt for being a woman that couldn't hang in a man's world, feeling as if she was responsible for a sudden shift backwards in equality.

'Danny's Barber Shop: receptionist'--maybe. 'Danny's Cake Decorating: baker'--no. 'Danny's XXX videos: call for details'-- uh, Mr. Danny has his dick in one too many pies.

Bzzt.

Saved by the text.

She giggles to herself in seeing she has a message from her roommate Jenny. Knowing that this is about to become a full-on text conversation, probably more suitable for an actual phone call, Brynn folds up her marked-up paper, and stretches her legs. She grabs her second scone, placing it into her mouth to hold as she piles her greasy hair into messy bun on top of her head, secured with a pen.

She swipes across her spider-cracked screen; the message: 'Turn around whore! ;-P'

"Brynny!" Brynn ducks as if she is about to be hit. "I thought that was your Corolla parked outside!"

"Jenny! You scared me!" She exhales loudly. "What are you doing awake? It's--" Brynn looks at her phone, "holy shit! Is it really almost noon?" She has no place to be; she just hates the feeling of time slipping by unnoticed, especially with her not being an active participant in life these days.

"I'm sorry, girl--"as she sits her coffee cup down at Brynn's commandeered table, "And you're right--I should probably still be asleep." She stifles a yawn, "I had a very busy night--"

"At the bar?" Brynn raises an eyebrow, "Or with Xavier?" her lips curling into a knowing grin.

Xavier is the first intact penis Jenny had ever been with--and she was loving it. It had been the topic of conversation during their 3AM chats this week, but when Jenny didn't come home from her shift at the bar last night, Brynn automatically knew Jenny must be exploring the new uncharted territory at his place.

"I didn't--I mean--" Jenny let's out a scoff. "Fine. Both."

A giddy Brynn scoots her chair closer. "Ooooo do tell."

"I--" Jenny pauses for dramatic effect, "happen to have a very--"

"Insatiable appetite? Ferocious needs?" Brynn giggles as she wraps her delicate fingers around her straw, gradually sliding them up and down its length.

Jenny clears her throat, straightening out her overall posture. "I was going to say, 'healthy sex life,' but since you have to be a thirsty bitch about it--" she leans in closely to Brynn, grabbing the remains of her scone. She flanges her lips around the breakfast pastry, fluttering her eyes closed, finally letting out a soft moan when she takes a nibble. "Oh honey, he was ferocious." She draws a sip from her hot coffee before lowering her voice. "And he satiated my appetite very… very… well."

Brynn jokingly sticks her fingers in her ears, pretending to be disgusted, yet squealing in excitement. Jenny playfully hits her arm as the two women uncontrollably giggle as they continue to enjoy each other's company.

Jenny Browder and Brynn Schuyler were a very unlikely pair. They met in undergrad in a entry-level sociology course during their first semester freshmen year. Of the two, Brynn was mature and focused, especially when it came to her education. Often times, she had to be the voice of reason with a newly uncaged and untamed Jenny who was more concerned with socializing and drinking.

Jenny was brought up in a strict, Fundamentalist household, the kind that saw dancing and playing cards as evil. She somehow convinced her parents that God was calling her to attend UMass after a life-long career of being homeschooled. It was 'Goodbye, long dresses,' and, 'Hello, Bombshell Bra.'

She never returned back home. Even when she failed out after Sophomore year, she packed up her guitar and headed for Nashville to become a star. The two friends had quickly turned back into strangers.

Brynn will never forget they day Jenny stumbled back into her life. In the midst of grad school, Brynn had volunteered at a free/low-cost community health clinic offered to lower-socioeconomic families. Jenny was waiting outside the facility, chain-smoking her last four cigarettes. Brynn was unloading testing equipment when she recognized a very familiar purple butterfly tattoo.

"Jenny?" Hearing her name, she instantly responded. She looked so different--older even, weathered. Her once-lustrous auburn hair looked as if it hadn't seen a brush--or soap, for that matter-- in weeks. Her eyes had lost their glow, surrounded by gray bags. Even though she kept her arms crossed in an attempt to hide it, her stretched-tight shirt boasted a growing bump. But, perhaps the most bothersome was the severely picked scabs, scratches, and bruises, littering her entire body.

They made cordial small talk until Greg, her alcoholic and abusive fiancé, honked his horn from his rusty Ford Ranger, notifying Jenny it was time to leave. Before she could run out on her again, Brynn quickly dug a pen and Post-It pad from her white coat, and wrote down her cell number. Truth be told, she never expected her to call.

Two o'clock in the morning about 3 months later, Jenny called. In his usual anger fueled by Wild Turkey, Greg had beaten her and forced himself on her until he passed out from the exhaustion of his stuper. But, something was different this night; something snapped in Jenny's brain. Enough. Her body was frail and bleeding; but her spirit was kindled, coming alive with courage, telling her she was not broken, telling her to fight. Fueled with what could easily be described as courage--or insanity--she stole $12 from his wallet and packed an old duffle bag with a change of clothes and a water-stained Post-It note.

At a gas station outside of Boston, Brynn picked up a very pregnant Jenny. They sat in the darkness, the cabin filled with silence and stillness; but the conversation was loud and clear: Jenny was terrified. Terrified to talk, terrified to act, terrified of her past and terrified to even imagine a future. Brynn reached over and grabbed Jenny's hand as they both quietly sobbed. They weren't freshmen anymore.

All of a sudden in the quietness of the car amongst all of the chaos, a baby began to dance. Waves and ripples fluttered across Jenny's abdomen; flips and tumbles quickly ensued, becoming stronger and stronger. They took her breath away for a moment, but quickly returned in the form of tiny giggles. Brynn's eyes sparkle with wonder as she gently places her hand on her friend's belly, gently rubbing circles with her thumb and fingers. Jenny places both her hands on Brynn's, guiding her around her bump, occasionally pressing deeply until finally they are greeted with a kick.

For the first time in a long time, Jenny wasn't terrified. Her head wasn't pounding from an incessant ache, a craving for just one more hit. Her body was breathing, healing in between the throws. For the first time in a long time, Jenny had clarity. And she was ready to talk.

Jenny got the necessary help she needed. She spent time at a battered women's shelter where she was safe and protected; she was able to receive prenatal care and some deeply therapeutic counseling. She even painfully detoxed from her methamphetamine addiction. But her biggest victory: she was beginning to forgive herself, allowing herself to heal.

Six weeks later, a very round and overdue Jenny gave birth to a beautiful red-headed, 9 pound 8 ounce boy. Her heart swelled with love--a love she had never experienced before--as they placed him right on her bare chest. Overcome with joy and tears, the new mom kept him safe and sound, snuggled in a blue receiving blanket in her healing arms. She had already missed so much--she didn't want to miss another moment: she wanted to remember how his chunky cheeks felt against her lips as she kissed him. She wanted to remember the gentle smell he had after his first bath. She wanted to remember that tiny, fierce grip around her finger, a grip that would extend past her finger and right around her heart. A grip that would never let go, even well-after she laid him into his new mother's arms.

Jenny Browder is the strongest woman Brynn knows--and probably will every know. Even while she was still rummaging through the train-wreck that was her former life, Jenny had the selfless spirit of a saint and the bravery of the finest medieval warrior. She had nothing of value to her name except for her battered heart; but being the mother of all mother's, she gave her last possession away. She knew that in order to give her son the world, she had to place him in a new world.

Jenny celebrated five years of sobriety last month, and has empowered many women throughout the New England area with her story, speaking at meetings and volunteering part-time at a crisis center. She reconnected with her cousin Sean and his husband Charlie a few years back; feeling a pull to be near family, she moved to Newark, a few blocks away from the happy couple. She now has a home--an apartment--of her own, a car, and a steady income, bartending at a local, lively bar called Annex. As an added benefit, she also gets to perform twice a month with the house band. Going back to school might even be in her future; but for now, she is happy to be living life again--even if that meant hosting a squatter on her couch in the form of her best friend.

"Any luck on the job front?"

Brynn blows a raspberry with pressed lips in her exacerbation. "Well, today's options include wearing daisy duke's at a BBQ joint, or becoming a baker--possible porn star--with a man named Danny--"

Jenny laughs, "Ewww, gross. Do I even want to--"

Brynn waves her hand in front of her face, erasing the air of the horrid idea, even if it was a joke.

"Well, the perfect job is out there."

Yeah, yeah, yeah…

Brynn sighs, "Oh, Jen, you have to say that--"

Before she can hang her head down, Jenny interrupts the pity party, grabbing the remains of massacred muffin from Brynn's hand. "No, I don't. And believe me--" She stares warmly into Brynn's stormy eyes, "You are a catch. You are one in a million--"

"Are we still talking about jobs, or--"

"The perfect job is out there for you--trust me! We are one day closer to it." Not missing a beat, "Speaking of which--" Jenny rocks back and forth in excitement as her heart-shaped lips spread into a smile.

Oh, God…

"What are you doing tonight?" The words almost slur together like a waterfall crashing out of her mouth.

Don't invite me out. Don't invite me out.

"I think I'm gonna--you know--stay in, order out. Look for more jobs--"

"And feel sorry for yourself?"

Damnit, she's good.

Brynn sighs deeply as she lays her head down on her crossed arms.

"Well, it's a good thing we're not going out. You are just--" she lies, "accompanying me to work--"

"Jenny!"

"Brynny," Jenny fires back as both women compete in a staring--moreso glaring contest. She gives in first to the silly gesture, her look warming with affection. "Look, I-I know things have been have sucked recently--"

That's an understatement.

"You need this. It's time to join the world again. You can't just stay cooped up in the apartment all the time--"

"Um," Brynn clears her throat. "I do believe I am in a coffee shop right now." She smirks while delicately fanning her arms out in the air, as if she was showcasing a brand new car on a game show.

"C'mon, girl," Jenny whines, "You know what I mean. Just come up to the bar. Sit and talk with me. Keep me company. Meet some of my regulars. You will feel so much better about yourself--"

"You know I have nothing to wear."

12 pounds, fucking 12 pounds, and my entire wardrobe seems to have shrunk overnight.

"We'll figure something out--I promise! C'mon!" Jenny quickly bounds to the door with a sluggish Brynn in tow. "Besides," Jenny whirls around to continue, "You have a lot of miles left in this thing--" spanking Brynn's butt. Reflexively, Brynn immediately shields her pained bottom, her mouth gaping open. Jenny continues. "I've gotch'ya with shots all night. At least come window shop--it's Thursday night, which means the corporate hotties are shopping for some young ass--"

"Oh, yes. Because a one-night-stand and a raging case of chlamydia will cure my problems--"

"Hey, a shot in the ass, and you're good as new," Jenny jokes, making her apprehensive bestie crack a smile. "That's why I said, 'window shop.' Plus they're rich and love flaunting that they are rich. So--" Jenny shrugs her shoulders, "More free drinks for you!"

Brynn folds her arms across her chest, averting her gaze into the bustling traffic. She starts chewing on the sides of her mouth while letting out a long-winded sigh, clearly uncomfortable with the whole idea. The fact is she was embarrassed of herself, of what had become of her life. There she was, merely existing, living on her best friend's couch with no prospects--job-wise and love-wise. And now that her former-slender body sprung unwelcomed curves, she feels more comfortable in hiding--from the world, and from herself.

Jenny steps back out of her black sedan. She pushes her sunglasses back into her short hair, the sunshine illuminating her scarlet layers. She places her hands on her hips as she silently challenges her friend to a battle of wills.

Brynn feels her piercing gaze, but she can't bring her self to match it. Jenny never pushes her to do anything--and now, all she wants to do is help pull her depressed house-guest out of her mucky misery. And Brynn knows that she will be grateful for the night, especially tomorrow morning. She just needed the little shove.

Brynn breaks their silence with a long, drawn out sigh. "Okay."

"Yes, yes, yes!" squeals Jenny. She slides back into the driver's seat, adjusts her sunglasses and bellows across the parking lot: "Get in loser! We're going shopping!"

Brynn could only hope it was for a new life.

@choicesficwriterscreations

#the nanny affair #choices #choices stories you play #choices tna #pixelberry #tna sofia #tna mc #tna jenny #tna sam #tna robin

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dynowrites · 6 years ago

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Tagged: @obfuscateyummy @giraffe-puppy @madpanda75 @southern-magnolia @katmstanton @lyssa1385 @onelovesr

Word count: 1585

Raine: 16

Dominick: 11

Raine was just starting her sophomore year of high school. As she brushed through her brunette hair that she has just straightened, she glanced at herself in her mirror. Over the last few years, her mother, aunts and uncles hand helped her with her makeup and hair. But there was one thing she was lacking in her eyes, breasts. Even if her estrogen pills had helped them grow a bit, she felt like they weren’t big enough and people still saw her as a boy.

“Raine? Honey the school just called. They cancelled due to the snow.” Dante said as he popped his head into his daughters room.

“Are you home today?” Raine asked her father. He nodded with a small smile.

“Maybe we can go visit abuelito and abuelita if the snow lets up a bit.” Dante said as he walked down the wall to tell Dominick about the snow.

“Dad? Can I borrow your laptop?” Raine said as she walked out of her room. He nodded as he slowly began to open Dominick’s door.

“It’s on the kitchen table. Charger should be dropped over the back of the couch.” Dante told her before Raine ran down the stairs. Luna and Maverick where chilling on the couch and cuddled Raine once she got comfy on the couch with them.

Raine has talked to her parents a few months before about a few surgeries to get done within the next few years. Her parents had tried to reason with her to wait until after graduating high school before they seriously began to talk about it. Curious, Raine began to search for doctors to give her breast implants. She had done some light research on her phone a few days before when someone at school was making fun of her for still being in a training bra.

All afternoon, Raine did the research. When Macee got home from work, she greeted her family before helping Dante finish up dinner. The family quickly set the table, said grace and then began to eat. Macee watched Raine as she slowly ate and picked at her food. She’s only seen her like this a few times, usually whenever she gets bullied.

“Raine, you okay?�� Macee asked. She looked up from her plate and nodded some.

“Well, sort of… you know that one kid, Alex? He was making fun of me. S-saying I’ll never be a real girl since I-I don’t have boobs…” Raine began to tear up. Dante looked at Macee as she shook her head.

“If I have to straight up go into lawyer mode with his parents, I swear to God. Raine, you don’t need breasts to show if you’re a girl or not. You really want guys eyeing you up like a piece of meat? It’s disgusting.” Macee said. Dante watched his wife and nodded.

“B-But there are surgeries I can get! To give me bigger boobs! I’ve done the research-“

“Is that why you wanted the computer? Raine, look. We’ve talked about it and we agreed that after you grad-“

“That’s two years! Alex has been bullying me since we started high school! Calling me a freak a-and other really mean words! I want boobs! Mami has big boobs and it’s not fair!” Raine shouted. Dominick looked between his sister and parents and slowly left the dinner table with his food.

“We’re doing everything your therapist has told us to do, Raine. We agreed you are to wait until you are an adult to get any type of surgeries. Attacking your mother for what she has is not right.” Dante shouted at the girl. Raine’s eyes quickly began to tear up.

“It’s not fair! You two do everything for Dom! You give him everything he wants and I ask for one thing and I’m told no! It’s not fair! I want to feel more like myself but you’re denying me!” Raine shouted back at Dante. Dante stood up and flared down his daughter.

“Raine Eleonora Carisi! You go to your room right now! You’re grounded!” Dante said to the teenager. She pushed herself away from the table, pushed her chair in hard against it before rushing off to her room. Dante sighed and covered his face when he heard her door slam shut.

“It’s okay, Dante. I’ll go talk to her, alright?” Macee ran her hand down his back to calm him down.

“I know she wants to be herself, Mace. She needs to understand that I don’t want her making this decision now and regretting it five years down the road.” Dante said as he sat back in his seat. Macee nodded and got up from the table and headed towards Raine’s room.

“Raine, sweetie? Can I come in?” Macee asked as she gently knocked on the door. A quiet ‘go away’ was heard but Macee slowly opened the door.

“I said go away!” Raine shouted as she threw one of the stuffed animals she had on her bed. Macee was hit in the chest with it as she sighed.

“Honey, I know you’re upset. When we do things for Dominick, it’s not like the stuff we do for you. We’re trying, love. We really are. Your father and I don’t want you making the decision-“

“Of what?? Becoming a woman?” Raine snapped back. Macee slowly inhaled then exhaled as she walked over to her daughter.

“I don’t like having bigger boobs, Raine. Trust me. If that’s the only reason you want boobs now, then you need to listen to me. I remember when I was your age and it was like they grew overnight. It sucked, a lot. Guys always eyeing me up, trying to get with me just because of them. Do you really want that? Is that the only reason you want boobs right now?” Macee asked her daughter. Raine slowly sat up in her bed and grabbed the one bear Macee had bought her a few weeks before.

“H-he’d stop bullying me. I-it’s not fair! You have big boobs and I have nothing. I’m still in training bras since I can’t wear a real one! You’re supposed to support me and instead, you’re tearing my dreams down! I hate you!” Raine shouted. Macee stared at her daughter with tears in her eyes before she got up and left the room. Dante was walking up the stairs and noticed his wife rushing towards the bedroom.

“Mace?” Dante asked as he followed his wife. When she finally got to their room, she burst into tears. “Macee, doll, hey. What’s wrong?” He asked as he pulled her into a tight hug. Macee sobbed against his chest and slowly wrapped her arms around him.

“S-she said she hates me! W-we should just… let her get the surgery..” Macee whispered against Dante. He sighed as she gently ran his fingers through her curls.

“She’s a teenager, Mace. They say they hate their parents a lot. I remember Mia doing that to dad once when he said she wasn’t allowed to go to a party. Hell, she ran away a few times, even if it was to Noah’s apartment. Let’s just give her some space, alright?” Dante said. Macee nodded as she looked up at Dante slowly. He smiled at her and gently kissed her before wiping the tears from her her eyes.

Macee and Dante soon returned to the kitchen to pack up the leftovers and do the dishes. The two then cuddled on the couch with Luna and Maverick while watching some movie. Macee was just starting to fall asleep when they heard someone walking down the stairs. Dante assumed it was Dominick coming downstairs but saw Raine standing at the bottom. Dante gently shook Macee as she slowly sat up and yawned.

“Mami? Dad?” Raine called our softly. Dante smiled some and moved over some to allow her to sit between her parents.

“Yes, honey?” Dante asked as Raine hesitated before sitting between her parents.

“I’m sorry. I just got upset. Alex has been bullying me for the last few weeks and saying I’m not a girl. I’m just… I’m saying I am so I can… see them naked…” Raine’s eyes quickly began to tear up. Macee rolled her eyes and looked at Dante.

“I’m going down to the school tomorrow. I’m going to talk to this principal and talk to Alex’s parents. I’m tired of this little asshole! He’s performing a hate crime and I’m not letting him sit here and do this to my daughter anymore!” Macee said. Dante sighed and shook his head.

“Raine, don’t you have something to say to your mother?” Dante said with a raised brow. Raine mumbled something. “What was that?” He asked.

“I said I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry, mami. I’m just.. I thought that if I got boobs, Alex would stop bullying me.. I don’t hate you. I love you.” Raine said as she hugged her mother tightly. Macee smiles and held her daughter tightly in her arms.

“I love you too. You wanna watch a movie with us? I think Wonder Woman is on next.” Macee teased. Raine’s entire face turned red.

“Just because I dressed like her three Halloween’s in a row as a kid doesn’t mean anything!” Raine said as she covered her face.

“I can find another-“

“No! I-I mean, we can watch Wonder Woman, it’s cool.” Raine interrupted her father. Dante chuckled as he turned the movie on and cuddled his daughter and wife.

#dacee family #dacee #dante and macee #dante carisi x macee barba #dante carisi #macee barba #raine carisi #dominick carisi

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thepresidentofendys · 6 years ago

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A kid looking through the window

There once was a 8 year old girl named Zoey Miller living with her parents name Kelly smith, Nick Miller that lives in California in August 1st, 2009. But they moved to Arizona because Zoey's principal said there was a school that Zoey could attend to. There wasn't enough public schools in California but there wasn't much of a choice because Kelly and Nick wasn't gonna put her in the private school or home schooling Zoey. The next day at 7:30 Kelly woke Zoey up to get dressed and get packed up. Zoey got confused why her mom woke her up this early in the morning.she didn't question why but she got dress and ate breakfast. They arrived at the airplane to Arizona for 2 hours in the plane.they grad there luggage and backpack then walking out of the airplane. Zoey said" do we have to live in Arizona mom. You should of let me stay in that school and my friends are there". Kelly says" the principal had decided to put you in the different school because she didn't know what to do with you or the other kids though". "And there be lots of fun there kid"Nick added. Zoey nodded and continuing walking. Kelly and Nick was looking for a taxi they had called earlier but 10 second later they found the taxi was waiting on the lower level of the airport. They put the luggage in the truck then got in and Kelly pay him 20 dollars for waiting for 2 hours and the direction to the new house. The diver nodded and drove off to the house. 6-7 minutes the driver stopped to parked the car. They thanked the driver and got out of the car then get the luggage out of the car. The driver drove off somewhere else. Kelly said"do you like the new house Zoey". Zoey think a little bit then says" I kind of like the house". Kelly kneeled down putting her hand to Zoey back. Zoey looked at her mom then said" I know this is new and difficult to you but this is not your discussion to do. Is the principal discussion to put you in the different school. Okay Zoey". Zoey says" alright mom I understand what you are saying". They walked to the door to open it and went inside then unpacking there stuff. To be continued.....

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roastyoualive-archive · 6 years ago

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He’d had to read the letter a few times to make sense of it. It had to be a mistake. Even when Mom showed up and asked him what it was, when she read it and gasped her pride, he didn’t believe it.

“Valedictorian?!” She’d exclaimed it so loud he was sure the neighbours would pound on the walls and tell them to shut up. “Oh, honey, that’s amazing!” She threw her arms around his shoulders. That was a mistake, he wanted to say. Had to be. He was able to swipe the letter again when she was hugging him. ... Nope. That was his name, alright. ‘Mr. Warren E. Peace’. ... Yeah.

Had to be a joke, then. There’s no way this would be allowed. He wasn’t stupid, he knew how these things worked. Kids like him didn’t get to be representatives of anything aside from ‘What Not To Be’ posters. Hell, he was lucky the Board was even letting him graduate. He still remembered hearing Mom arguing over the phone to even let him be allowed to attend Sky High. She thought he hadn’t heard. He had. He’d just never gotten around to letting her know. But, if they’d disliked him so much then, before he’d even gotten involved in the super community, what had changed? Yes, some things were different. Sort of. The Stronghold Support Group had been making waves. But progress had been slow. There’d been a lot of backlash. It wasn’t surprising, but, it was pretty extreme. Everyone seemed ready to pounce at everyone else’s throat for the tiniest thing. So, putting him on a pedestal in front of everyone - Baron Battle’s son, on stage for the world to see? That was throwing a match into a pot of kerosene and expecting nothing to go wrong.

... Unless that was their plan. Let everything go wrong and then crow about how they’d been right about him, all along. Did that sound paranoid? Absolutely. Might as well start building the tinfoil hat now. But he had his reasons. It’s not like anyone in the super community had been friendly to him since- Well, ever. (With five lovable, dorky exceptions.) This was a major one-eighty. It didn’t make any sense. (And, unknowingly, he was right. It had taken a lot of arguing back and forth at both the Board and Agency meetings for this to be considered ‘acceptable’. Nobody told him that, though.) But, if they were waiting for him to crash and burn, they could keep waiting. Spite was one hell of a motivator. ... And this would look great on his college applications, if he didn’t mess it up. And Mom seemed so excited, he wouldn’t ruin this for her.

(He wasn’t sure if he was excited or not. He was mostly just nervous. Nervous and stressed.)

The stress would only continue to grow. If he’d thought he’d had a shortage of free time before, that was nothing compared to how things were now. Most lunch breaks were spent in the library researching and wearing pencils to the nub, or... Talking to people. That was probably the hardest part, for a few reasons, and he had to recruit a few of the others for help in that department. Sped up the process, at least. Many hands make light work. He brought books to the Lantern to read while he washed, as usual, but the subject matter was different. After his weekend shifts, he’d bus or walk down to the city library (it was quieter than the apartment, and the resources there were beyond helpful). A bit of negotiating let him in to the school computer lab to use the printer. The stack of papers got a raised eyebrow or two. Most people just assumed it was for a report or something. He didn’t bother correcting them.

The last few days of school came and went. He was grateful he’d gotten so much time in advance to work on this. (If he’d asked around, he’d learn that he had Principal Powers to thank for that. She knew he worked, and so decided early notice was more than fair. But Warren didn’t ask. So Warren didn’t know.) Exams seemed to fly by. Warren had to put speech-writing on hold for studying. He’d sacrificed sleep, meals, a social life (not like he had one, anyways), and more things than he could count for a 4.0 throughout his entire high school career, he wasn’t losing that, now. He made himself feel better about the ‘lack of productivity’ by having Mom read the drafts over in the mean time. There weren’t too many others who could, due to the subject matter. But he knew what he wanted to talk about, and thought the inconvenience was worth it. After a few days spent with his face buried in a textbook on different peoples’ couches, tests were done and scores were in. Report cards came home. He sat on the stairs with the others - by the ledge, in their usual spot - and listened to groans of dismay, exclamations of surprise, and proud pats on the back. He offered a bit of sympathy himself, a few teasing remarks. The usual faire. Good-byes when his bus driver stepped to the driver’s seat. Offered a somewhat forced smirk at their enthusiasm at the upcoming graduation, a shrug and a nod at promises to sit together. Like he’d hang with anyone else. The six of them were a clique of their own, always had been, always would be. (He hoped so, anyway.)

He showed Mom his report card. She seemed proud as she always did. Added a teasing ‘I’m not surprised’ and tugged him down to kiss his forehead.

“Oh, Warren, you’ve worked so hard.” She said, giving him a squeeze. “But you did it! You survived!”

“I did.” He said, returning the hug. She was so little... It was easy to forget she used to be a superhero. She stepped back and placed her hands on either side of his face, smiling a watery-eyed smile up at him.

“Guess we’ve gotta start thinking about college for you, now, huh?” She said that so sincerely. Like it’s something they’d ever be able to afford.

“Might take a year off.” He shrugged. Like that’d make a difference. She frowned, brushed some hair from his face.

“You don’t have to.” She said, and he averted his eyes. “We can make it work.” He nodded, pressed his lips into a thin line. In his dreams. He didn’t say that, though. Didn’t want to kill the mood. She sighed and shook her head, dropping her hands to his shoulders.

“You’ve grown up so fast, you know that?” She tilted her head to the side. He nodded. (’Too fast’, she might’ve said. But this wasn’t the time or place for that conversation.) “Feels like just yesterday, we were trying to teach you your ABC’s.”

“Think I’ve got the hang of them, now.” He says, offering a smile. She grins back and nods with a soft laugh.

“I know you do.” She hugs him again, tighter, this time. (He’s pretty sure he heard his back crack.) “I’m so proud of you, baby.” He hugged her back, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Thanks, Mom.”

... If he’d thought she looked like she was about to cry then, that was nothing compared to grad night. The Peace family had tried to avoid the super community for years. This would be Mom’s first step back in years. (Not entirely true. She’d made a few calls when the Board had kicked up a fuss about Warren’s attending Sky High, and the agents there had learned that Monsoon was titled after a storm for a reason.) This would be the first time Warren faced them all like this. So, he’d gotten done up in his dad’s old suit. The same one he’d worn to homecoming on that first wild and unbelievable year. And she’d gotten a dress from... Somewhere. When he’d asked, she said she was borrowing it from a friend. He thought she looked great, anyways. As for the suit, well - he regretted it. Graduation robes were hot, even to him. Mitigating the heat with his powers only did so much. He was considering taking off his jacket, but decided against it.

The ribbon draped over his shoulders drew some stares and even more whispers. The same sort of things he’d thought. Warren Peace? Really, that’s who they chose? Bullshit, said some. This oughta be good, said some others. Who’d his dad kill to make that happen?, said a third party. Who’d his mom-- The fourth was cut off by a glare and a snarl. Congrats, said his friends, who mostly already knew, calming the air to a tangible extent. They walked in in procession, and he regretted the fact that the line was alphabetical (last names), but at least Maj was behind him. Peace and Queen, v. 2.0. The guy in front of him - Freddie Park - glanced over his shoulder a few times as they waited outside the gym. Warren didn’t bother to ask why. They filed in to some ridiculous orchestral music. Parents waved and clapped and cheered and camera flashes mixed in with the school lighting. He picked Mom out of the crowd. Looked like she’d gotten there early enough to get a decent seat. Maj’s mom was beside her, of course. Peace and Queen, v. 1.0. Mom was smiling so hard it looked like she was about to split her face in half. She waved, and the little disposable in her hand flashed a few times. He did his best to avoid looking too embarrassed and slid into his seat, kicking the paper-filled waste basket under the chair so he’d have somewhere to put his feet.

The teachers did their best to stress the alphabetical order, and, for the most part, it worked. But that didn’t stop people from leaning back in their seats to talk across the rows and aisles. Quips about the speeches the staff made. Harsher quips about the Board’s. At least they all knew the teachers, but when some old suit got up to drone on in front of a bunch of super-teens and thought they’d pay attention, it was only the fact that their parents were here and this was grad night that kept it from turning into a bloodbath. A roar of cheers broke out when The Commander and Jetstream took the stage to present the trophy for ‘Hero of the Year’. (Yeah, based on the Royal Pain one. Someone had the bright idea to turn the whole thing around and make it into an award for the graduating class. Not what Warren would call a good move, but, nobody asked him.) There were notably fewer cheers when Mr. Boy got up to present Sidekick of the Year. (That was a thing, too. Warren figured there was some bigwig patting themselves on the back for being so progressive.) Hero went to Will, to nobody’s surprise. The votes had been pretty unanimous. Sidekick went to Gina Connors. Will, of course, said he couldn’t have done it without his friends. This was met with vocal support from the rest of their group, and even Warren clapped along. The camaraderie was ruined when Jetstream - Josie - kissed her son on the cheek, and the fact that Will’s blush was visible from the back row sent snickers rippling across his peers. Warren didn’t really agree with Gina’s win, but, he was probably bias. ... He also thought that her powers might have had something to do with it. Handwriting mimicry. But his vote probably hadn’t counted for much.

He’d written four names on the ballot, after all. Probably against the rules.

He got a handful of awards. Shared the Phys-Ed one with Will, and nobody was surprised. They were a team, after all. People were shocked at the community service one, though, and so was he (he shared that with Taylor Lewis and Layla. There weren’t many three-way ties like that). He collected a few plaques, a few pins, a few cords, and the gold-standard certificate. Had to pile all of them on his chair when it was finally time to go up. (He’d noticed, as he was stepping down from the podium with the certificate, Mom switching a new roll of film into the camera. Where’d she gotten the money for that?)

Deep breath.

He pulled the trash bin out from under his chair and weaved his way through tie aisles. Maj gave him a nod of encouragement, which he mutely returned. There was a hush as he took the stage. A few whispers. A handful of claps. Mostly from Mom, Ms. Queen, and the rest of the SSG. Looked like he really could count on them for anything. He set the trash can down by the side of the podium (ignored the confused looks) and let the papers rest just under the microphone. He opened his mouth to speak, and--

“YEAH, that’s my BOY!” Zach’s voice was so loud, it almost seemed like he was trying to give Boomer a run for his money. Abigail Bruin and Leslie Black (to either side of him) had jolted away like that would save their eardrums. Little late for that. Still, it broke the tension a bit. Warren was grateful, in spite of his raised eyebrow and rolled eyes. Waited for silence. It wasn’t a long wait. He picked up the first page of his stack.

“July fourth, 1776. Declaration of Independence. ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal’.” He held up the paper for all to see, two fingers on the bottom of the page. He looked up just in time to catch the gasp when that hand caught ablaze. “Not at Sky High.” He dropped the paper into the bin, flicking a bit of fire in after it to keep it ablaze. He picked up the second piece of paper.

“December fifteenth, 1791. Amendment Six. ‘In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury’.” This was also set on fire and dropped into the trash can. “Not at Sky High.” If people weren’t paying attention before, it looked like they were, now.

“December tenth, 1948. Universal Declaration of Human Rights. ‘All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.’” Also set on fire, also dropped into the trash can. “Not at Sky High.” By now, there was a decent blaze at his side, and a lot of the adults in the room looked visibly on edge. (Mom looked proud. She’d heard him practice this a dozen or more times.)

“When I was six,” he looked up, ignoring the script he’d prepared, just in case. “If you asked me what my dad did, I would’ve told you he sold cars. And I would’ve been proud of it.” He pulled a tiny Hot Wheelz out of his jacket pocket. Picked it up at the second-hand store earlier that week. “I didn’t understand how cover careers worked. I was six. All I knew was that cars were cool.” He let the car roll across the podium as he talked. A faint smattering of chuckles through the crowd. He caught the car before it fell. “I thought I wanted to be like him. I wanted to sell cars. Or drive them. My friends and I used to talk about being in NASCAR when we grew up.” That hand caught fire, now, blazing brilliant white with wound-tight nerves. When he opened his hand, the car was gone, and a mangled mess of plastic and metal sagged in its place.

“August fourteenth.” If his voice sounded unsteady here, he didn’t notice. “1997. International Court of Justice transcription, Judge Quyen Tran presiding. ‘For your crimes against humanity too numerous to recount, I hereby sentence you to four consecutive life sentences within the North Alaskan Penitentiary for the Supernaturally Enabled. May you never again see the light of day’.” It hurt to read, but he kept his composure as he tossed the metal-plastic lump into the flaming waste basket. It wobbled slightly, and he steadied it with his foot.

“Baron Battle got his trial. Warren Peace didn’t.” He didn’t look up at the crowd, and didn’t admit to himself that he couldn’t. “The day before I turned seven years old, I received my own life sentence. Just the one - but it was enough. It was different than the kind Judge Tran would’ve given me. The sentence I got,” he did look up here, briefly. “is the kind with no cell, no shackles, but still prevents you from ever being free. It’s the kind that makes every door close before you get anywhere near it.” He looked to Mom for a confidence boost. She was nodding, smiling a smile that seemed strained. He figured she wouldn’t be smiling for long. He was getting to the part where he’d stopped reading to her and started reading to the mirror.

“The sentence I got is the kind that makes grown adults look at a seven-year-old kid - one who still wears velcro sometimes, because tying shoes is a new thing - and say that he’s never going anywhere in life. The kind that makes teachers look at a kid who can barely see over the top of their desk and think ‘he must have done something to deserve it’ when he says something about how he’s being treated. The kind that makes them look down their noses from their safe ten-foot distance at a kid who’s just graduated from picture books and talk. Maybe they thought I couldn’t hear. But I could. It was like living in an echo chamber. People said I was dangerous. I’d never amount to anything. I’d end up in juvie, if I was lucky, and my poor mother for having to put up with me.” An exhale against the silence. “The thing is, when you hear that often enough... You start to believe it. By the time I was in middle school, I thought they were right. I mean, if everyone-” He looked up again, caught his mother’s gaze. “Almost everyone, is so convinced of that, who am I to tell them ‘no’? You just start to accept the majority’s rule. You believe you’re a criminal, even if you have no record. You believe you’re good-for-nothing, even if you try your hardest. You believe you’re a burden on everyone around you and curse your invulnerabilty to Hell and back from preventing you from lifting that burden.” There was a different kind of silence over the room, now. A colder one. A heavier one.

He kept going.

“I never got a trial. I never saw a jury. But a thousand judges sat before me and the verdict was unanimous. And with all the naivety of youth, I thought I was the only defendant. But that wasn’t the case. When I first came to Sky High, I had a reputation before I even walked through the door. I’ll admit, I didn’t do much to get rid of it. I might as well own up to the cafeteria thing, now, since everyone already knows about it. That one’s on me. ... But it was Stronghold who put the holes in the walls.”

“My bad,” Will offered from where he sat. Warren smirked and rolled his eyes. A few quiet laughs in the audience.

“Back then, I thought it was just me. That I’d said or done something back in first grade to deserve all of it. That something was wrong with me. ... Turns out that assumption was what was wrong. It’s not just me. It was never just me.” He straightened his stack of papers, took a second to straighten his posture.

“Donna Reese was in the year above ours. Her grandmother was a villain who called herself Lady Fracture. Donna’s mother is unpowered and a civilian. I ran into Donna not long before tonight. She works at an autoshop as a secretary and apprentice, volunteers at a soup kitchen in her free time, and never misses an episode of Criminal Minds. She also can’t get hired by the Agency as a hero. She’s applied seventeen times to date. When she asked why they turned her away, she was told that she was too dangerous. Too unpredictable. She’s pretty sure that’s also why she gets stopped and searched at the gate every time she goes back to the Agency, when everyone else is allowed to pass through without interruption. Donna’s eighteen years old, and has no record. Not even for speeding. She’s not old enough to drink, but apparently, she is old enough to give up on.” That paper was also dropped, flaming, into the trash can. The dying embers devoured it greedily.

“Phillip Ashfield is a sophomore here at Sky High. His cousin is a villain called Bile Intent, who’s currently locked up in Fort Brant. That’s medium-security, for those wondering. Phil’s a comic book enthusiast who’ll talk about his favourite heroes with anyone who’ll listen, and some people who won’t. In his freshman year, you could always pick him out of a crowd, ‘cause he always had someone’s logo on his T-shirt. He had the Commander’s castle on a few times, Beacon’s lamp, Gold Fang’s gate, Animalia’s pawprint, and I even saw him with Mom’s ‘M’ on, once or twice. His friends told me he always got so excited when someone recognized who he was supporting that day. He wanted to be just like them.” He looked up from his paper here to fix the crowd with an almost accusatory stare. “He wanted to be just like you.” A pause to let that sink in, before he looked back to his papers. “I’m using the past-tense for this, and the shirts, because a few days before the end of his freshman year, Phillip Ashfield, age 14, was cornered by a handful of upper-year students in his way home from school and physically assaulted. I got a chance to talk to his parents, and they said it was hard to tell how bad the beating actually was, since he’d had paint thrown over him and the limited-edition 1988 Jetstream shirt he’d been so proud of. He’d reportedly been told to stop pretending. That he wasn’t fooling anyone. He’d never be a hero, and they’d probably already had a bed waiting for him at Brant. That he should do everyone a favour and lock himself up before he hurt somebody. And yeah, before you ask, I’ve been told similar. Phil was fourteen then, he’s fifteen now, and I never saw him in anyone’s logo again. He’s barely old enough to get a learner’s permit, but he’s beyond old enough to condemn.” Another burning paper dropped into the bin.

“Jason Jaspers, son of Marco Polarity and a civilian father. Jason likes card tricks and poker and country music. He hates being in school and skips frequently. Hangs out with a group of civilians at the Spotlight down town. But I can’t blame him. Would you like going to a place where your locker was so badly vandalized you couldn’t open it any more? Where you had an entire bowl of punch dumped onto you your first homecoming? Where you had your clothes stolen at gym, only to turn up later clogging one of the toilets in the guys’ washroom? And, by the way, gym clothes belong to the school, so, better hope you have something else to wear home, Jay. He’s turning seventeen in a week, and he’s already decided he’s not applying to the Agency. He’s heard the same stories that I have- The same ones Donna heard, Phil heard, that so many kids like us hear: They don’t want us there. Just like everywhere we’ve tried before, they don’t want us. So I don’t know what Jay’s gonna do with his life, but I sure as hell don’t blame him for leaving the community behind.” Another flaming paper. He was glad he had the fire to vent, otherwise it’d be a lot harder to keep his composure.

“Whether our parents, grandparents, cousins, relatives, whoever deserved what they got, sure, yeah, they probably did. But we didn’t. I didn’t think that way at the time. I still thought it was just us. I still thought it was justice. That we’d done something wrong, all of us, to deserve the harassment and the abuse, because that’s what it was. That we as children still trying to find our place in the world had done something so horrible that for my entire experience at Sky High, all four years, there was only one teacher who was halfway decent to me throughout and that was Coach Boomer.” He pointed in the Coach’s general direction. “But I’m sorry, Coach, ‘cause if we’re still following the court metaphor, then you’ve presided over more mistrials than I can count, because it still wasn’t just us. And it never was.”

“When Will and I totaled the cafeteria, we both got detention for it. Not my proudest moment, but, hey, I had it coming, I’ll admit. Meanwhile, there were a pair of upper years who wreaked havoc every day. Half-drowned kids and their belongings in the toilets, stole lunch money and food, assaulted and harassed the staff in front of crowds of people. I didn’t meet them in detention. I met them in gym, because they were the star athletes. What’s the difference? They targeted sidekicks. I can’t help but wonder - If Will hadn’t gotten his powers in time to throw me through the teacher’s lounge, would I have gotten in trouble for it? I dunno. Maybe not. Those two - Speed and Lash if you’re curious, you probably remember what happened to them - weren’t the only ones, even if they were the worst. Making life hell for the sidekick class was a school tradition. My friend Zach--”

“WOO!” Came a voice from the crowd.

“Yeah, that’s you.” Warren nodded. “In Freshman year, he got the award for ‘Most Useless Superpower’.” When he looked up again, accusation was mixed with an angry defiance. “Why is that a thing? In what world is it okay to tell a fourteen-year-old, in a written, official school document, that he’s useless? ... I guess the same world where telling another freshman that he’s lucky the Agency is letting him step on school property is acceptable. ‘Cause I’ll tell you right now, the fact that we have that award is disgusting, and Zach is anything but useless. He’s one of the most painfully upbeat and optimistic people I know. He’ll face any challenge head-on without flinching, he’d rather die before betraying a friend or leaving someone behind, and he’s the first person in the caf to start shoving food at me if he thinks I’m not eating enough. He’s a damn good person who any of you would be lucky to be anything like, and he doesn’t deserve the shit you put him through,” (Oh, they weren’t too happy about the language.) “And don’t ask me to repeat myself, Glowstick, because we both know I’m not gonna. But, you know what? Maybe being a good person at Sky High is useless. That’d explain why there are so few of them. ‘Cause just like the list of kids like me, the list of kids like Zach goes on. Andy Dwyer graduated school flinching when half the hero class of his year walked by. Mavis Acrowitz was five minutes late to every class because there were some halls she was terrified to walk through, so she had to find other routes. Leo Winters was a master at faking sick, because the nurse’s office was the only place he could eat his lunch in peace. Toby Price did homework for himself and the Hero who had a locker next to his - Bec Lewis - so he’d be left alone, and took the blame from his parents when his grades slipped as a result. Scott Green just dropped out. Couldn’t take it any more. Dunno what happened to him.”

“It wasn’t a secret these things were happening. We all knew it. But it happened out in the open, and it was never really punished, so we assumed that’s just how things were. When the staff turned a blind eye or even encouraged it, that only cemented the idea. And Mr. Boy - I never had you myself, but one thing came up pretty frequently when I was talking to people about this. You were almost unanimously the favourite teacher, because you made the kids you taught, the sidekicks - the Hero Support - feel like maybe, just maybe, they weren’t worthless, after all. Maybe they could amount to something, even if it was living in someone else’s shadow.” He looked up again. “Think about for a second. In this entire school, only one teacher told an entire class of kids they had some value. Only one teacher out of the entire faculty treated them with the respect the Declaration-” (he pointed to the trash can) “says they deserve. And he was a sidekick, too. I can’t be the only one who sees a problem with that.”

“When I helped save the school from Royal Pain - and yes, I am playing that card - I won the award for ‘Most Likely to be a Villain’. I got it every year. Even this year. You can check the year books if you don’t believe me, but you probably do. You guys voted for it, after all.” A bitter shrug. “That was the year Zach got ‘most useless superpower’. And someone got that award every year, too. That kind of thing sends a message. It tells us that it doesn’t matter what we do. Our actions and our efforts aren’t important. All that matters is things completely outside of our control. Whether it’s kids like me who get blamed for things our relatives did or kids like the sidekicks who get shunned for the powers they were born with, you look at us and brand us as criminals, as losers, and wastes of time and wastes of your breath. You see us as failures and throw us away before we ever get the chance to be anything else!” There’s heat distortion around his hand as he gestures to the trash can again, but he clenches his fist and takes a breath and it’s gone before any fire can bloom. “But who cares? Because all we are is villains and sidekicks. And you’re the good guys. ... Which only makes the fact that I have to get up here and tell you this all the more ridiculous.”

“You’re the adults.” He waved a hand to the crowd. “We’re the children.” He thumped himself in the chest with an open palm. “You’re supposed to be showing us right from wrong. But not at Sky High. You’re the teachers, we’re the students. You’re supposed to be encouraging us - all of us - to be the best we possibly can. But not at Sky High. You’re superheroes. It’s your duty by choice - A responsibility you willingly took on - to stand up to injustice, to protect those who can’t protect themselves, to make the world a better place, to be- Well, heroes. But not at Sky High.” He threw the rest of the papers into the trash bin. Only a few small flames remained.

“Things need to change. They need to change yesterday. It’ll be difficult, and it’ll take all of us. But it’s well past the time that, when people talk about kids feeling unsafe in school, when they talk about the discrimination rampant in the Agency and in the education system, when they talk about how they feel like they failed the younger generations and have no clue where they went wrong, that we can honestly and proudly say, ‘Not at Sky High’.” He took a step back from the podium, picked up his trashcan, and walked off stage without a word. He wasn’t sure where the clapping started. Maybe Mom, maybe one of the others, But it caught on - mostly from the sidekick kids, he noted - until it was loud enough that Powers had to wait a moment for silence. Warren walked past the rows of students. He was stopped, briefly, by Zach, who pulled him into a tight hug. Warren decided not to complain too much. Patted him on the back, untangled himself, and moved to the middle-back of the gym where the Ps, Qs, and Rs were sitting. Maj moved the awards on his chair so he could sit and nudged him with her shoulder.

“Nice one, Hothead.” She said, and he nodded.

“Thanks.”

“Thank you, Mr. Peace.” Powers said, once she was satisfied with the volume in the room. Warren looked up just in time to catch a conspiratorial smile she shot his way. He arched a brow. She clearly knew something he didn’t. He wasn’t sure to feel about that, but she carried on before he could dwell too much on the thought. “Now, if I could request the help of our staff in lining up the student body, it is my honour to present our graduating class of 2008 with their diplomas. Yes, good- Thank you. Patricia Abernathy...”

#suicide mention //#abuse mention //#violence mention //#bullying mention //#ask to tag //#;holy blank blankman (ｄｒａｂｂｌｅｓ)#;v: but hey; that's high school (ｐｏｓｔ－ｍｏｖｉｅ　ｃａｎｏｎ)#long post //#;ignited (ｉｎ　ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒ)#;r: strongest hero I know (Ｐｅｎｎｙ　Ｐｅａｃｅ)#;r: not wonder woman (Ｐｒｉｎｃｉｐａｌ　Ｐｏｗｅｒｓ)#;r: can't get them to stop talking to me (Ｓｔｒｏｎｇｈｏｌｄ　Ｓｕｐｐｏｒｔ　Ｇｒｏｕｐ)#i dunno if they did val before or after at your school but we did awards with speakers here and there | val | diplomas at mine so #that's how it's formatted #sb: warren peace as valedictorian is a bad idea #warren: literally burns a copy of the declaration of independence on stage; casually drops the fact that he was suicidal in middle school;#reads the entire faculty the riot act; swears a few times #diana powers: are you kidding this was a GREAT idea #BUT YEAH SOMEONE MENTIONED VALEDICTORIAN WARREN AND I LOVE THAT IDEA SO MUCH SO HERE YOU GO HE'S MAD ABOUT MANY THINGS #also this is currently unedited so. forgive any typos i'll go over it after class

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secret-captain-swan-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 40791/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8

Read on: Ao3

Emma arrives at Mamie’s the next day around noon. Killian’s learned her schedule by now to know that she teaches on Thursday mornings. While normally she takes her time to set up her stuff and open her laptop before ordering, today she walks right up to the counter.

“Swan,” He says, when she finishes her order and stands waiting at the end of the counter.

“Hi Killian,” She says, her face brightening as she faces him. His heart soars a bit at her expression. He makes her happy. That’s certainly something.

“How are you this day, fair maiden?” He asks.

She gives a signature eyeroll, but that doesn’t detract from the fact that she just smiled at him.

“I’m alright,” She says, “Teaching was chaotic this morning, but I survived.”

He wants to reach out and calm her, but he knows they aren’t there yet. In the privacy of a bell tower or her apartment, but not here in Mamie’s.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Swan,” He says, “After all, you’re like me.”

“Like you how?” She laughs.

“Good at surviving,” He replies, his voice is the slightest bit more serious. He can tell she senses it too. Because that’s the truth, they’ve had to fight to survive their whole life. They’re good at it. That’s what makes them kindred spirits.

She nods, her face a touch more solemn too at his declaration. She knows it too.

“Medium cappuccino,” A voice announces.

Her order arrives in a to-go cup, breaking the quiet moment.

“So anyway, Queen Mary Margaret called this morning and offered another ticket to the opera on Friday. Any chance you’d be up for Opera Round Two or whatever?” She says.

“Are you asking me on a date?” He flirts, before flinching at the instinct.

“I’m asking you to come to an opera with me,” She replies, her voice a bit steelier now. “As business partners.”

“Of course I’ll accompany you,” He vows.

“Great, I’ll text you the details,” She says, hiking her bag over her shoulder. It’s nearly bursting with books today.

“You aren’t staying?” He asks, trying not to sound immensely disappointed.

“I’ve got to head out,” She tells him. “I have a huge thesis deadline for Friday. I love Mamie’s, but I need a quiet library and no distractions.”

“What library?” He asks, just trying to keep the conversation going so she won’t leave.

“The one at Misthaven U,” She tells him. “Have you seen it before? It’s gorgeous.”

“No I’m not acquainted,” Killian replies.

“Really? I thought you loved books. This place is literary paradise,” She tells him.

Killian scratches behind his ear, “Perhaps I could accompany you?”

Emma looks mock-annoyed at his expression, but shrugs and says, “Yeah, sure. Come on.”

They walk through Old Town, across the bridge, and to the campus. Autumn is on the cusp of settling in now. The streets are starting to gather with dried leaves, bright and fiery hues of orange and yellow against grey stone roads. Emma’s dressed in a black dress today, tights, boots, and her signature jacket. He thinks about taking her to the countryside when the trees really being to change. He wants to show her the low country flushed with autumn colors.

As they walk through the campus, he glances at Emma. She looks so at home and confident here, navigating her way through the old and new buildings of the university. It’s a place that Killian hasn’t spent much time in, or any at all really. He wasn’t good at school. Maybe he could have been, in another life where he was raised in the castle, tutored by a Royal Scholar. But growing up in the system, spending time in a Young Offender’s institution, battling depression or whatever dark, apathetic demon haunted his teenaged years- all those things had made school just another task in survival. He wishes he had Emma’s comfortability here. While they may be kindred spirits, he all of a sudden feels crippled by how different they are.

“Are you okay?” She asks, stopping in front of an old building, noticing how bizarrely quiet he is.

“Yes, of course, love,” He replies, not wanting her to dwell in his own inadequacies.

“Well, get ready to see the greatest library I’ve ever seen,” Emma prefaces, as she wiggles back and forth in front of the door.

Killian breaks into a smile, seeing how joyful Emma seems about going to see books.

They walk inside and Killian’s eyes adjust to the dark. The library is all dark wood, stained glass, and books that go from floor to ceiling. It’s exquisite.

“This is amazing, Swan,” He tells her.

“I know, right?” She enthuses.

He follows her to a table, where she sets up shop. Emma stacks her books, her dainty school supplies, and fancy laptop. Killian feels another wave of intimidation. He doesn’t have anything with him.

“I’m, uh, going to find a book,” He tells her, leaving the table to set off through the library.

He weaves through the tables. The silence of the library is intimidating and uncomfortable. He makes his way to the wall of books. He realizes that the shelves nearby are restricted, ropes around them preventing people from reading them. They have old and withered covers, but still it seems silly to Killian to have books people can’t read. He exits the main hall of the library, heading into hallway upon hallway of books. It’s dizzying and he can’t find anything he’s looking for.

Killian likes libraries. He knows the Dewey Decimal systems. He’s worked shelving books before, so he doesn’t how he can possibly be so incompetent in this one. Three hallways and two staircases later, he finds a section that seems to contain literature. He hastily grabs a selection of books, hoping one of them will suffice.

“Did you find something good?” Emma asks, looking up from her laptop, still typing, when he returns to their table.

“We’ll see,” He mutters, beginning to sort through the stack.

“This place is so magical, right?” Emma tells him. “I always find the most interesting books and stuff. It makes me feel like some sort of Academia Disney Princess or something.”

Killian laughs. Emma in simply being herself, lightens his mood.

“Hey, I’m going to go get some resources from the Fairy and Folklore Collection,” Emma tells him. “Will you watch my stuff while I’m gone?”

He nods, “Of course, love.”

“You still haven’t remembered what collection you found The Gold Bug or whatever in.”

“Yellow Carriage, love,” He tells her, “The Gold Bug is by Edgar Allen Poe.”

Emma laughs and runs her hand through her hair, “Right. Well, if you remember let me know. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She gets up and heads off down a hallway. Killian tries to make sense of his stack of books. He reads a few pages of one, but finds it too dull to continue. Another is accidentally in a different language. Another is a critique of a book and not the book itself. Killian feels himself grow more frustrated. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t really want to be here. The space feels suddenly confining. He wants to escape, to breath fresh autumn air, and forget about this stupid Ivory Tower library.

But Emma’s gone and he doesn’t want her laptop to be stolen. So, he stays at the table and muddles through the books. Eventually, he finds one in the stack that is passable to read for a few hours. It’s not terribly entertaining or philosophically interesting, but it’s good enough. He’s too uncomfortable in this space to truly relax.

Emma returns an hour later with a whole cart full of books. “I found all of these collections I haven’t looked through. Do you want to help me?”

Killian nods, happy for an excuse to feel useful or purposeful in this foreign place. They make their way through the tables of contents, scanning for fairy tales that look promising.

“What do you think of the Silver Carriage?” Emma asks.

“Let me see,” Killian requests, as she passes him the book. He scans the story. “No, this one is totally different. The hero is a man and it involves him marrying a turtle.”

“Let me guess,” Emma teases, “He kisses the turtle and it turns into a princess?”

“A prince, actually,” Killian tells her, surprised. “And then they ride off in a sunset to their happily ever after.”

“Oo, progressive. I like it,” Emma says, nodding with a smile. “But no luck for my thesis.”

Killian smiles her and feels a bit more comfortable.

They spend a few hours in the library searching through the fairy tale anthologies. Killian still hasn’t warmed up to the library, but he’s happy to have spent the afternoon with Emma. He loves glancing up from his book to see her reading, the colored light from the stained glass illuminating her blond hair. He can see the particles of dust around her, her eyes looking fondly upon books. Killian didn’t know until now that bookishness could be incredibly sexy.

Around 5pm, Emma looks up. “Well, no luck. We might as well call it a day.”

“Will you be okay for your deadline tomorrow?” Killian asks.

She grimaces, “I told my advisor that I found possible lead on a source for the The Yellow Bug and he wanted me to edit my chapter before I turned in this new draft- but obviously, that’s not going to happen. It’s best to just focus my energy now on editing the rest of the thing. Professor Shepherd will just have to understand.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more helpful,” Killian says, “I wish I could remember.”

“No, it’s fine,” Emma says, as she stacks the books back on the cart. “It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

Killian just wants to make everything easier for Emma. The less stressed she is about school, the more opportunities he’ll have to take her out around Misthaven, to read books with her at Mamie’s. He tries to think of something that would help.

“What if you asked the queen for help?” Killian asks, adding his books to her stacks.

Emma frowns, as she tosses the rest of her things in her tote bag. “Honestly, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. She’s a fairy tale expert, but that doesn’t mean she’ll help me. Especially once she learns that it has to do with Blanche Neige.”

“That’s so true,” Killian says, realizing how dim his advice is.

“Her library however,” Emma says, “That might be a lead. I wonder what fairytales she has of her own collection.”

Killian grins, “She did say you could study there whenever you like.”

“I’ll ask her on Friday,” Emma says. “Hey, did you like that book you were reading? I could check it out for you.”

Emma’s charity seems weird. She’s let him into this weird, elitist world like it’s nothing. It’s like she’s assuming he’d want to stay in it.

“No, it’s fine, love.”

“Alright, I’m going to take out a few things,” She says, “I’ll be right back.”

A few minutes later, Emma’s bag bursting more than before, they make their way to the door. They walk out of the dark library, blinking as their eyes adjust to the bright sunlight.

“Where to now?” Killian asks.

“I really need to get home,” Emma decides, “I have so much editing to do.”

“First, you need dinner,” Killian tells her. He wants more time with her. He’s pretty sure he can never enough of Emma.

“Do I?” Emma protests. “I think I just need quality time with my dissertation.”

“There is a pretty decent crepe stand not far from your apartment,” Killian tells her. “What if we stopped there on your way home?”

“Fine,” Emma says, before cracking a smile.

They head to the tram station, happy to find the train waiting for them. Emma swipes in, and, as usual, Killian hops the turnstiles.

They ride along to the next station. Killian watches the university turn slowly into the business district. The tall buildings envelop the sides of the tram, outside the window business people leave their offices for the day in neat suits.

“Tickets and tram passes out,” A voice commands.

He watches as Emma digs in her bag for her tram pass.

Killian blanches. He’s been caught before. He’s paid a few fines, but all of them less than how much he’d pay for a tram pass. Those things are bloody expensive. All the same, he’s never been embarrassed to get caught. But it’s different besides Emma. All of a sudden, he feels a rush of shame that he’s never felt before.

It’s just like in the library earlier. He doesn’t belong. Emma’s world is universities and tram passes. Killian is a scoundrel, a thief, a low-life bartender. He doesn’t belong in her world. How could he even imagine dating her? How could he even imagine being enough for her?

“Sorry, mate, I’ve forgotten to buy one today,” Killian tells the officer, as he scans Emma’s pass.

“Sorry, mate, but that’ll be 100 euros,” the officer replies, not amused.

Killian accepts the citation, crumpling it and throwing it in his pocket.

“I could have just swiped you in,” Emma tells him. “Seriously, this student pass gives me like way more swipes than I could possibly use. Next time we can just use it-“

“It’s fine, Emma,” Killian grumbles.

“It’s not a big deal,” Emma shrugs. “It’s no burden to me and it’ll save you some fines.”

“I said, it’s fine,” Killian says more forcefully this time.

Emma looks shocked at his tone. He’s never been anything but kind to her. He has no reason to be anything but kind to her. Yet here he is, lashing out at her. She is just trying to be helpful, not knowing that she’s poking at a sore spot.

She’s quiet for the rest of the ride to her neighborhood. The crepe stand is along the canal. They get crepes. Emma selects one with egg, spinach, tomato, and cheese. Killian’s has chèvre and mushroom. Once they have their crepes, they go to sit along the canal.

“Wow, you’re right,” Emma says, “These are really good.”

Killian smiles, feeling some of the awkward tension between them dissolve.

“The food game in Misthaven is really prime,” She remarks, as she continues to chew.

“I’m glad you like it here,” Killian tells her.

A boat starts floating down the canal, one of the locks shifting to help it through.

“Hey, what did you think about the library?” Emma asks.

Killian wants to tell her the truth. He wants to say that he felt stifled there, uncomfortable, out of his league. He wants to say that being at a university reminded him of everything he didn’t know, all the opportunities to better himself that he missed. He wants to say that the feeling haunts him because it makes him feel not enough.

But he can’t tell Emma that. He can see the happiness in her eyes when she talks about the library.

“I really love studying there,” Emma says. “I seriously can’t stop instagraming it. I’m sure that my followers are all annoyed.”

“I don’t think they could be,” Killian says.

He’s itching to change the subject. He doesn’t want to talk about the damned library anymore.

“I wish you didn’t need a student ID to get in,” Emma babbles, “Because I wish you could study there anytime you want, Killian.”

“It’s no big deal to me,” he says, biting his crepe so he doesn’t have to keep responding.

“Wait! I know,” Emma exclaims, “You could take a class. Tuition is free here for Misthaven residents and you have enough time. You love literature anyway.”

“I don’t think I could,” He mutters.

“Why not? You’re well-read. You are definitely cleverer than the students I teach. You could just try a class and see if you like it. Wait, you could probably do a whole degree. Just take one class at a time, maybe double up when you can. In a few years, you’d have a basic degree-“

“Shut up, Emma.”

Her mouth snaps shut. Her are eyes are wide with shock at his admonition.

“I’m not taking a bloody class at that university.”

“Why not?” Emma protests, annoyed.

“What’s wrong with me as I am?”

“What?”

“Why am I not good enough? Why do I need a degree?”

“You don’t need one,” Emma says slowly, “You just seem interested in literature and I thought you’d get a lot out of it. I know I have.”

“I didn’t grow up like you,” He snarls.

“You grew up exactly like me,” Her voice is sharp.

“Did I?” Killian says, raising an eyebrow.

“Since when are we playing ‘my life was harder than your life?’” Emma shoots. “I thought we were kindred spirits or whatever.”

“I thought so too. But, no one was there to tell me that I needed to do well in school to get out of this trap. No one was there to tell me to get a degree. I was just trying to survive secondary school. I was trying to not feel so empty all the time. That’s why I read books. So I’d feel less empty, less alone.”

“Me too,” Emma protests.

“Did you? Or did you read them because you knew they’d make you successful in life? Did you read them because you wanted good grades and fancy universities? Did you want free opera tickets and advisors and libraries? Did you do it because you wanted to feel more important and more smart than everyone else?”

“What the hell?” Emma spits. “Why are you doing this?”

Killian wants to stop. He’s being rash, and mean. Mean to Emma who he adores. Why is he doing this? He can’t stop.

“Maybe it’s because you need to know that you can’t fix me,” Killian snaps.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” Emma protests, crumbling her crepe wrapper.

“Are you sure you just don’t think I’m not academic enough for you?” Killian says.

“Why would I care if you are academic enough?” Emma says, “I just thought you’d like to learn more about books. I enjoy learning about books. And we seem to like the same things.”

“Well maybe we aren’t as similar as we thought we are,” Killian spits out, regret washing over him.

“Maybe not. But can you just chill out?” Emma says, “You didn’t need to make a big deal out of this. You know what? I have a thesis to write. I’m not going to waste my time tending to your sensitive male ego.”

She gets up, turns on her heel, leaving Killian by the side of the river. He watches her go. He wants to chase after and apologize. She’s right- he’s too sensitive. His ego is turning a sweet idea from Emma into something nefarious and he knows it’s not. Killian wants to make it right. Emma’s one of the first miracles that’s come into his life in a long time. But right now, he can’t move. He’s weighed down by his anger. He’s stooping in it. And he lets her run away.

Emma wakes up the next morning. She was hoping that a night of sleep would clear her head from The Killian Debacle, but instead she’s still livid. She’s very tempted to stay under the covers all day so she doesn’t have think about him or their fight yesterday.

What was he thinking? She’s always thought of Killian as her weird life twin, but now she’s not sure. That reaction from him was so left field and she doesn’t know what to make of it.

Ugh, no, she can’t stay in bed because she needs coffee to process. She crawls out of bed, cringing at the chill. She’d slept with the window open, hoping that the fresh air would clear her mind. But an autumn chill has finally settled and she’s cold outside her blankets. She pulls a long cardigan over the leggings and tank top she slept in. She slinks into the kitchen, frowning at her empty cupboard. She’s going to need to make a grocery run to grab at least some things to eat for breakfast. But she can start with coffee at least. Emma pulls out the French press. The least she can do is coffee.

That is, until she opens her bag of grounds and realizes she’s out of those as well. She lets out an angry grunt and throws the bag across the room. Then, she lets out another angry grunt as she realizes that now she has to go clean up the residual grounds that fell out of the bag in her anger.

This all Killian’s fault, she thinks, as she goes to find the vacuum.

Seriously, all she had wanted to do was share her favorite library with him. Because he showed her his church tower view of town. Because he comforted her the last two days when she was an emotional mess. Because he’s cute and she kinda likes him, even if she isn’t ready for a relationship with him yet. She’d thought it would be a way to share something of herself with him. She isn’t good at sharing emotions or feelings, but she could share a library with him.

That was until he made it all about himself. It’s evident that Killian has some sort of inferiority complex or some weird unworthiness that Emma hasn’t been aware of till yesterday. She knows she must have set of some sort of nerve in suggesting he take a class. It’s not her fault. I can’t be. How was she supposed to know that he’s so fricken sensitive? But all the same, it’s not her job to prune his ego. If he has issues to work out, if he feels inferior, she can’t fix that for him. That’s the kind of thing he has to heal himself.

She vacuums up the grounds and then heads to her room to change into something that doesn’t smell like she slept in it. She finds a pair of skinny jeans and a flannel top. She grabs a beanie as well, realizing how cold it is. She isn’t in the mood to study at Mamie’s. She’d rather spend the day in her room. She turned in her thesis draft last night, so her plan for the day is mostly lesson planning with maybe a hint of pleasure reading. The kind of thing to do in your jamies and endless mugs of coffee.

But, well, her pantry has other ideas, so to Mamie’s she goes.

She’s surprised to find no texts from Killian when she checks her phone on the tram. She’s always thought he’d be the kind of guy to grovel. The kind of guy who blows up your phone with apologies after any fight. But her phone is silent, so maybe he’s still angry. She can also see Killian has the kind of guy to hold a grudge for a long time if provoked. Maybe he’ll stay mad at her forever.

It’s not even like she was trying to make him mad. It’s not like she wanted him to feel bad about himself or whatever. She’s not going to apologize. She has nothing to apologize for. Right? Right?

And who is she going to go to the ballet with tonight? Does this mean they aren’t business partners anymore? Why did Killian have to freak out like this and throw a wrench in their plans?

She’s angry. But she’s also concerned. Killian wouldn’t throw everything away if he wasn’t really hurt.

Gritting, her teeth, Emma gets off the tram and heads to Mamie’s. She’s weirdly happy that’s she fueled with rage and frustration, otherwise she might have fallen asleep on the tram.

She arrives to Mamie’s and relieved to see Killian isn’t there. She doesn’t know what to say to him. Would she apologize? Would he?

She gets in line for her cappuccino, a smile coming to her face at the very idea of caffeine.

“A large cappuccino for here, please,” Emma requests.

The barista nods.

“Name?” She asks.

“Emma,” She replies.

She heads to her usual table to spread out her work. She pulls some American literature books out of her bag, stacking them neatly, and flicking open her laptop.

“Cappuccino for Emma,” A voice calls.

She pauses. It’s not the chirpy voice of the barista.

It’s Killian’s.

All of sudden he’s there. He’s holding out a to-go cup with “I’m sorry, Swan” scrawled across the drink holder.

“Look, I was completely out of line yesterday,” He begins. “Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am to have a-“

“Wait, Killian,” Emma interrupts, “Can I have the coffee? I’m kinda dying here.”

“Certainly,” He says, handing Emma the mug, “But please let me continue. I’ve been rehearsing this, love. Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am to have made a best friend as intelligent, as ambitious, as successful as you. I often feel as if I’m not smart enough, not worthy enough to know you. And yesterday, that inferiority got out of hand and I took it out on you.”

“Killian that’s silly, okay?” Emma tells him, “I’m definitely not some holier-than-thou intellectual. We’ve been over this. I did get really lucky and I acknowledge that. But that doesn’t mean I look down on you. I never look down on you.”

“I know. I wasn’t fair to you,” He says, “I’m sorry.”

“Look I can’t make you feel worthy, only you can do that. I can’t make you feel intelligent, only you can do that. But know that you truly can do anything you want. You can take a college class. You can open a bookshop. It’s never too late to live the life of your dreams.”

Killian scratches behind his ear. “I’m not so sure about that. But thanks.”

Emma smiles at him and nods at him to sit across from her. “So are we still on for the ballet tonight?”

“Of course,” He replies.

“Good, because I had no clue where I’d find a date this late, you know?”

“Hmm, so it’s a date?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Swan.”

The ballet that night is elegant, if a little cliché. Cinderella by Prokofiev. Emma loves watching each of the different fairies prance across the stage. And the music itself is just as good as the dancing.

At intermission, she and Killian stop by Mary Margaret’s box. If there is tension from the Blanch Neige incident of the day before, it’s not evident now. In fact, the Queen more insistent than ever that Emma stop by for tea this Wednesday and that she should bring her homework to stay and use the library afterwards. Emma can’t complain, because she knows that the plan is truly starting to work. The Queen is infatuated with her. The Queen is believing to suspect that Emma is the princess.

Tagging some pals: @sambethe @lenfaz @pocket-anon @the-corsair-and-her-quill@kmomof4 @kiwistreetswan@princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story @shady-swan-jones@katie-dub@1handedpiratewithadrinkingprob @midnightswans

#cs ff #cs au #captain swan #emma swan #killian jones #cs mc #CS modern AU #cs crew #cs mafia

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artificialqueens · 7 years ago

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Older (Biadore) - 2/? - nellie

A/N: I don’t usually write this quickly, but I wanted to get the beginning parts done so I could get on with writing the actual story, which will take me a little longer. This basically just sets up the next chapter, but there is angry Adore, which is my favorite kind of Adore.

So, on with the lesbians!

Exactly one week later, Adore is angry. This is nothing new for Adore, who has what her last school principal termed “anger management and self-control challenges”. He was right too, because it’s a fucking challenge not to lose your temper when you’re surrounded by assholes and Adore isn’t always very good at taking the higher ground.

In fact, she’s never very good at it.

Which is why she’s sitting in the guidance counselor’s office scowling at nothing in particular as she waits to be told yet again that she has to calm down if she doesn’t want to get expelled.

“Adore.” Miss Visage isn’t smiling. Adore doesn’t know her that well, but she gets the feeling that Miss Visage rarely smiles which isn’t exactly the best trait in someone you’re supposed to confide all your deepest secrets to.

“I’m not sorry,” Adore retorts.

Miss Visage sighs. “Adore, you got into a fight and punched a boy in the face. A boy, who couldn’t retaliate because he knew he’d be expelled.”

Adore makes a show of blinking in confusion, her brow knitted as though she’s deep in thought and trying to process what Miss Visage has just said. “So you’re telling me it was sexist of me to punch him?”

Miss Visage stares at her.

Adore stares back.

She hadn’t meant to punch him. She doesn’t even know his name and it isn’t like she actively goes out looking for trouble, no matter what people think of her. Trouble just seems to find her. And anyway, he was a fucking bully who was trying to pick on her and she can’t see anything wrong with self-defence. Maybe next time he’ll think twice about calling people names just in case they haul off and punch him.

“Am I expelled?” Not that she really cares, but her mom will be pissed if they have to find her a new school, especially halfway through the year. She’ll probably end up repeating the whole grade and then she’ll never graduate.

Miss Visage pauses as though she’s trying to drag out the suspense and really make Adore think about the consequences of her actions before shaking her head. “Not this time. But you need to control your anger. I can give you some strategies.”

Strategies. Strategies aren’t going to help, not when it’s everyone else who’s the problem. “Can I go now?”

Miss Visage nods, and Adore is out of the office in a split second. She checks her watch; it’s 2:30 and definitely an acceptable time to leave. If they didn’t kick her out for fighting they’re probably not going to kick her out for truancy and anyway, she’s still too angry to be in class. She tries not to get so keyed up, she really does, but it’s fucking hard in a world where nobody really understands you. She doesn’t think anyone in her life has ever asked her why she gets so angry. They’ve just told her that she has to stop, as though she’s doing this for fun and she really enjoys feeling so out of control all the time.

Newsflash: She doesn’t.

When she gets home she sees a note from her mom on the counter. Adore – won’t be home tonight. Here’s money for a pizza, love you, mom.

That’s some responsible parenting, Adore thinks as she pockets the money. She’s seventeen years old, more than old enough to look after herself for a night but the fact that her mom has been doing this for as long as she can remember makes it a little more questionable. But whatever, it’s nothing new and at least she has the apartment to herself. She could get drunk, or high, or completely fucked up. She could do her homework (laughable). She could do anything she feels like except for the one thing she wants most which is someone to talk to. She’s sad and she’s alone, and neither of those are feelings that she’s comfortable with.

So she does what she always does when she feels this way – goes to bed and hopes that maybe if she’s lucky she won’t wake up again.

***

It’s dark when Adore wakes up, the buildings outside casting shadows over her bedroom. She blinks and checks the clock next to her bed, still groggy from sleep. She’s slept for close to five hours and the anger has faded, mostly replaced by exhaustion and a bitter kind of resignation. She’s not sure which is better.

She doesn’t really know what makes her think of it, but she suddenly remembers the club from a week ago, the one she’d been to with Violet. It’s a Thursday and Bianca Del Rio is probably performing again. Maybe Adore can deal with her anger by watching the comic insult people onstage, living vicariously through her, or something like that.

She takes awhile to choose the perfect outfit and outlines her eyes carefully in black, telling herself that the reason she’s putting effort into her appearance has nothing to do with the fact that Bianca had sort of flirted with her last time she was there and she wants to make a good impression. She’s used to lying to herself, but this seems particularly unbelievable, even to her. While she’s at it, she also tells herself the reason she’s not inviting Violet along is because Violet’s flunking English and needs to do homework. It has absolutely nothing to do with Adore wanting all the attention for herself. Nope. Not at all.

The club is quiet when she gets there and she realizes she’s early. So much for making an entrance. She hovers awkwardly near the bar, trying to decide if she wants to stick around for hours just on the off chance that she might get to talk to Bianca again and is just about to leave when Courtney spies her. “Hey, girl! Adore, right?”

Yet again, Adore wonders how many people this club actually gets if the bartender can remember her name after meeting her once a week ago. “Yeah. Hey.”

“I am so glad you’re here.” Courtney does actually look glad to see her, which is kind of a new experience where Adore’s concerned. “The other bartender called out so I can’t leave the bar, but I always take Bianca a drink before her set. She’s not as funny when she’s sober. Can you do me a favor and give her this? Backstage is just through there.” She gestures to a door down the other end of the club and pushes a glass of something in Adore’s direction.

“Um. Sure.” Can Adore see an issue with being alone with Bianca Del Rio backstage in a seedy club at 8pm on a Thursday night? No, she most definitely can’t see any kind of issue with that. She takes the drink and shoots Courtney a smile. It’s tentative, but it’s the first time she’s smiled all day, which still counts for something.

Courtney smiles back, her teeth almost blindingly white. “Thanks, you’re an angel.”

Adore briefly wonders if she can get Courtney to write some kind of character reference for her to take to school. To whom it may concern: Adore Delano is an angel and not a troubled child with no career prospects and no future. Sincerely, Courtney the Australian bartender. She’s still giggling to herself as she walks through to the backstage area. She’s not sure what she expects, but what she finds is a long corridor with one solitary door at the end which kind of makes her think she might be the next victim in a horror movie, but she knocks anyway, holding up the drink when Bianca answers.

Any normal person would probably go with something safe. ‘Hi’ perhaps, or ‘Courtney asked me to give this to you.’ Maybe even, ‘remember me, I was the girl you met a week ago and I know I didn’t show it, but I think you’re fucking hot.’ Adore, however, who has been accused of being many things but never normal, smiles brightly and says, “do you ever think about what if we’re all just characters in someone else’s movie and we just don’t know it?”

To her credit, Bianca rolls with it, taking the drink and stepping back to let Adore into the room. “No. If I’m a fictional character I want to be the star.”

The room is kind of dingy but the lighting is good and there’s a couch that Adore immediately makes a beeline for. There’s a rack full of dresses, all of which are too glittery to be believed, and the counter near the mirror is covered in more makeup than Adore has ever seen in her life. It’s impressive. Bianca sweeps a pile of lipsticks out of the way and sets the drink down, sitting at the mirror and looking at Adore through the reflection.

“Adore, right? I remember you.”

Adore nods, swallowing hard. “That’s me.”

Bianca picks up liquid liner, leaning forward towards the mirror and beginning to line her eyes as she talks. “What brings you back to our fine establishment?”

Adore opens her mouth to give some kind of glib response or witty comeback, but her mouth and her brain aren’t communicating with each other and she comes out with the truth instead. “I had a shitty day at school and I wanted to shake it off, you know?”

“Mmm.” Bianca blinks a few times, looking intently in the mirror at her eyes before picking the liner up again. “What college do you go to?”

Oh. Right. Bianca thinks she’s 22. Even that makes her a loser, since 22 year old Adore should have graduated college by now and she’s sure as fuck not going to pretend she’s in grad school, but given a choice between being the girl who’s in college at 22 and the teenager who isn’t legally allowed to drink she goes with the former. “It’s just community college. I had some shit… I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Mmm,” Bianca says again. She stares critically at her reflection for a moment before starting work on the other eye. “I feel you. My day job is in costuming and it’s often shitty. You want me to do your eyes for you?”

The sudden change of topic makes Adore blink, her brain scrambling to catch up with her ears. “What’s wrong with my eyes?” She can’t tell if it’s an insult or not. Okay, so her aesthetic is a casual blend of fuck you coupled with a dose of fuck this, but Adore’s always been pretty proud of her makeup. It makes a statement. The whole classy older woman thing that Bianca has going on might work for her, but it’s not Adore’s style.

Bianca laughs. “Nothing, I just thought it might be fun.” She finishes her other eye with a flourish and blows her own reflection a kiss.

Bianca is different backstage. She’s more relaxed, smiling more freely and not above making stupid faces just to see if she can get Adore to laugh. It’s a little disconcerting, but Adore would be lying if she said she didn’t like it. It’s flattering to have someone like Bianca willing to talk to her. It’s a change from being told she’s nothing but a waste of space, anyway. So Adore nods her assent as she catches Bianca’s gaze again. Bianca’s answering smile is almost predatory and Adore feels her mouth go dry, but it’s too late to back out and if she’s honest she doesn’t want to.

Bianca kneels between Adore’s legs. “Close your eyes.” Adore does as she’s told, feeling the coolness of the liquid liner on her eyelid. Bianca paints a thick line above her lashes, ending in what Adore can only assume is some kind of cats eye. She repeats the process on Adore’s other eyelid, her hand slow and steady. The brush disappears and then suddenly Bianca is blowing gently on Adore’s eyes to dry the makeup. Adore bites her lip, reminding herself that Bianca is old and smart enough to have anyone she wants and there’s absolutely no reason why she’d ever want anyone like Adore. “Open.” Adore opens her eyes to see Bianca’s face and she’s so, so close. Bianca rests one finger on Adore’s jaw and it’s all the invitation she needs, closing the remaining distance between them and kissing Bianca.

It’s Adore who breaks the kiss first, glad for the makeup covering her cheeks. She knows she’s blushing.

“Listen.” Bianca’s voice is rough and she clears her throat before continuing. “I don’t know what your plans are for tonight, but you’re welcome to come home with me.” She traces the outline of Adore’s lips with her thumb as she speaks, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Adore’s just forgotten how to fucking breathe. Adore’s used to clumsy high school boys trying to feel up her tits when they think she’s not paying attention. She’s not used to someone just outright propositioning her – but she likes the directness. She wonders if Bianca is this confident in bed, and then her heart most definitely stops beating for a second and she does her best to put all thoughts of Bianca and sex out of her mind before she collapses right where she is.

She’s not that successful.

She’s also not that sensible, so she doesn’t even stop to think about the potential consequences of fucking Bianca. So she nods, and Bianca smiles in a way that makes Adore want to just shove her down onto the couch, but she shows some restraint and merely brushes her lips against Bianca’s for a second before getting to her feet.

“I’ll see you later. Have a good show.”

#adore delano #bianca del rio #courtney act #biadore #lesbian au #high school au #nellie #rpdr fanfiction #submission #older

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yetanotheremptypage · 7 years ago

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Lucky (Girl Meets World)

AO3 || FF

Riley grows up in academia, learns how to be quiet by sitting in libraries while term papers are written and rewritten, how to read by quizzing her parents with flashcards, and how to love in the too-small apartment she doesn’t remember by the time she’s five.

The first few months of Riley’s life are a balancing act. Senior year means theses, and grad school applications, and job hunts, and circling apartment ads in every newspaper they can find. Topanga and Cory fight, trying to figure out who has to give up what to make this work. Eric, as annoying as he is sometimes, is a great babysitter, never fails to make Riley laugh, and is the only reason they haven’t all killed each other yet. For Cory’s birthday, the Matthews parents send them a fat check that rests, uncashed, on their kitchen table for weeks, then Riley gets a stomach bug and can’t keep anything down, spends a night in the ER with an IV hooked up to her, and that check-- and the Easter one, and half of the Mother’s Day one-- goes to hospital bills. By the time the Father’s Day one rolls around, Topanga has a summer job as a law clerk and Cory’s waiting tables when not in his Teach For America training. Their apartment is a shoebox and they can’t turn on the AC too often, but Riley, the sweetheart she is, doesn’t even seem to realize anything is off about their current living arrangement.

Cory and Topanga have a plan. She goes to law school full-time. Cory is doing Teach For America during the day and chipping away at his master’s at night. Riley is passed around between them and Eric and daycare and the nice old man upstairs. They’re constantly exhausted, barely have time to do more than kiss as they trade off who’s holding Riley, but neither of them would give up their life, their little girl, for the world.

Most of the time, the plan works.

The first time it doesn’t, Topanga almost cries. Almost. Cory has parent-teacher conferences all night, daycare is closed, Eric has somehow gotten mono, the old man upstairs is out of town since his daughter had just had a baby, and she has a paper due in two days and needs to spend time at the library. She lays the landline back down in the cradle and sighs, running a hand through her hair, then makes her decision.

Riley’s first time in a library is at ten months old, dressed in a Jack-o-lantern onesie and wrapped in a thick purple blanket. She sits calmly in her carseat, chewing on a ring of plastic keys and batting the collection of things attached to the handle. Being a college library in the middle of midterms, the baby is a perfect distraction, and random people keep coming up to Topanga and asking if they can play with her baby. She agrees, because it makes Riley smile to have people play peek-a-boo with her. One boy is in the creative writing MFA program and reads her part of the story he’s working on, asks her questions she can’t answer but rather coos to and he interprets how he wants. A girl majoring in German speaks to her in only German so she can get some practice in, and Riley stares at her in confusion. Another girl, this one in pre-med, names every bone in Riley’s body, pointing each one out, and Riley squirms, laughing every time the girl finds one of her ticklish spots.

In four hours, Topanga has written two and a half new pages, bookmarked six more sources, and gotten the numbers of twelve new babysitters.

After three years, Topanga graduates magna cum laude from law school.

It is a perfect day.

Riley wears a yellow dress the little girl describes as “fluffy” and shiny white ballet flats. She skips around the hall the graduation is being held in while Cory, unsuccessfully, tries to calm her down. Topanga laughs from her place in line and Cory grins his goofy little grin at her.

The next week, Topanga begins her true job, not just an internship, at Elliott Brown. By the end of the summer, she’s already been promoted.

Once Topanga’s started at Elliott Brown, Cory quits Teach for America. He has just a few classes left for his master’s, and is able to be a full-time student for a semester to get it all done. He goes back to working part-time at the café six blocks from their apartment. Day care is expensive, after all.

Just before finals, Cory goes to a job fair and is introduced to the principal of John Quincy Adams Middle School, who is looking for a new history teacher for the upcoming school year.

This man is none other than Jonathan Turner.

He calls Shawn that night and the two catch up. It’s been awhile since Shawn’s come around, and they spend the night talking like a young, lovesick high school couple. Shawn tells Cory about Los Angeles, and Houston, and Chicago, and Atlanta. Cory tells Shawn about Topanga, and school, and work, and Riley, always Riley. Shawn always seems to clam up when told about his unofficial niece, nods and says, “That’s great, Cor,” with little to no emotion behind it. He’s so wrapped up in his daughter that he almost doesn’t notice.

...Almost.

The summer after Cory graduates, they move into a new apartment. It was a graduation present from her and their parents, and technically Riley pitched in what she could find in the couch cushions ($3.27). It is big, and spacious, and within weeks, it becomes clear that Riley is not going to remember their shoebox. It’s almost upsetting, really. That’s the apartment she spent the majority of her life in, with all of her secondhand furniture. One of the few signs is that she still piles herself up in blankets and sweatshirts once it gets cold outside, like she expects the heat to not be on.

Topanga takes the morning off so she can take Riley to her first day of kindergarten. Cory had already said goodbye to her before he left for JQAMS that morning, and there had been lots of tears-- on his part. Topanga thinks she’s going to be stronger.

She thinks.

“You’re going to love kindergarten so much, Riley,” she whispers, straightening her little girl’s pigtails. The mother just behind Riley’s shoulder is glaring at her, clearly aware that this mother is at least ten years younger than her, and so she does her best to focus just on her little girl’s big smile. She doesn’t want to focus on anything else.

“Daddy says it’s like preschool,” Riley says sagely, and Topanga laughs and nods. “But with homework.” She wrinkles her nose at that. She’s been around homework her whole life, after all, and Cory’s procrastination sessions are legendary in their household. A bell rings and Topanga straightens up, taking her daughter’s hand.

On her way back, wiping away tears, she practically runs into…

“Stuart?”

“Topanga!”

As she walks away, she can’t resist texting Cory, You’ll never believe who I just saw.

Five blocks over, Cory’s phone buzzes loudly in the middle of reading his class syllabus and he jumps.

“Sorry, that’s probably my wife- my daughter starts kindergarten today-”

“Wait, Mr. M, how old are you?” a boy in the back of the class asks loudly. One of his friends slaps his arm. “It’s a fair question! Look at him; he looks fresh out of college!”

“I’m actually twenty-six, Mister… Lawrence. Ha, that’s my wife’s maiden name. Got any cousins named Topanga?” he teases, rambles, really. A girl in the front of the classroom shoots her hand up. “Yes, Ms… Quinby.”

“If you’re twenty-six, and your daughter is presumably five, that means she was born when you were twenty-one, when you were likely still in college. Isn’t that a little young to become a parent?”

He flounders.

Cory opens the door to Riley’s room to call her for dinner and finds two girls in it.

He’s not embarrassed to admit he screeches a little bit.

“Who are you?”

“Daddy, this is Maya Penelope Hart and she’s my best friend!” Riley announces. He smiles, though it feels a little more like a wince.

“Maya, don’t you need to be getting home? It’ll be dark soon.”

“It’s okay. My parents probably won’t notice I’m gone.” That strikes a chord with him, and he asks for her phone number. She frowns, but then rambles it off, and Topanga graciously calls it. The woman on the other end, Katy, thanks them profusely, tells them she had been worried sick. Tells them she is about to leave for her shift at the Nighthawk, but that her husband would let them in.

Cory takes Maya home, and Riley insists on tagging along. Their apartment is far enough away to be in another school district, the same one his Teach for America gig was in, though he was with high schoolers, not elementary schoolers. He knocks on the apartment door, but there’s no response. Maya is about to knock on the neighbor’s door when someone calls her name and an older woman rushes in, pulling Maya close. Her grandmother, live in, basically a nanny. She opens the door, and while Riley doesn’t seem to notice anything-- Thank God for that he can’t help but think-- he does. It might as well be the apartment he and Topanga lived in after their graduation from college. Gammy-- she hasn’t offered her name and he hasn’t gotten the chance to ask it, but that’s what Maya called her-- only seems about his parents’ age, so Katy and her husband-- was it Kevin?-- must be somewhere around his age. He almost laughs. He and Topanga never expected to meet other parents with first graders but still in their twenties, and now they know two.

“What would you think about having another baby?”

Cory’s head snaps up from the paper he’s grading to look at his wife. Her computer is open and her hands are on the keys, but she’s looking at him.

“What?”

“Riley mentioned wanting to be a big sister when I was tucking her in. And-”

“Now you’re thinking about it,” he says and she nods, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear nervously. Now he thinks about it. They’re settled now, with well-paying jobs, an apartment certainly big enough for four people, and a daughter with the biggest heart in the world.

He loves being a dad. Topanga is a brilliant mom.

“So?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Just four months later, he’s buying a pregnancy test on his way home from work, and it’s positive.

Riley had been excited to be a big sister, but when the day finally arrived, it was like she’d clammed up. When he comes to relieve Mrs. Svorski sixteen hours after leaving his little girl, she is curled up in a ball on the couch, crying.

“Riley!” he cries, rushing over to her and pulling her close in his arms. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought you and Mommy left! Like Maya’s daddy!” That sentence makes his blood run cold. Was that why Katy had been avoiding his calls?

“What happened to Maya’s daddy, sweetheart?” he asks instead, running his hand through her hair.

“He went for a walk last week and hasn’t come back. Maya doesn’t know where he is,” she manages to say around hiccups. Cory clutches Riley closer.

“I’m not leaving you or your brother, that I promise you, okay?”

“Okay,” she mumbles out.

Over the next few years, he watches his two girls-- because, he’s decided, Maya is his now. He knows about Kermit from Katy, knows how they lived their life and he knows that things are going to be different. He watches Maya slowly crumble, watches the walls go up as Katy spends more and more time at the Nighthawk and at auditions. Isla-- Kermit’s mother, Gammy Hart-- does her best, but it’s not the same. She, after all, is working weird, long hours so she can watch Maya. Cory watches, and it breaks his heart that he and Topanga can’t do more.

Instead, he sets an extra place setting at the table, and comforts Riley when Maya’s problems make her cry and ask why Maya is so sad while she herself is so happy. He can’t answer that one for her, which breaks his heart. After all, he and Topanga had been in the same situation as Kermit and Katy back when they had found out about Riley, but somehow, they had made it out. They had gotten to a great place in their lives, with their two kids and their great jobs and amazing apartment.

Of course, Riley doesn’t remember life before this apartment, and because of that, doesn’t realize just exactly how lucky she is. And that breaks his heart more than anything, because it will be years before she ever understands.

Riley starts John Quincy Adams Middle School at age ten. She no longer wears hair bows or pigtails, but still wears her Mary Janes from time to time. She’s almost as tall as her mother, just as awkward as her father, and her bright pink braces decorate every single one of her many, many smiles. Maya is by her side every step of the way, their arms threaded together. He knows the next few years are going to be difficult for them, that things are going to pit them against each other and bring them even closer, but he also knows that things between them won’t be this close forever. He, after all, barely speaks with Shawn anymore. Jack only recently accepted his friend request on Facebook, Rachel rarely talks to anyone that isn’t Eric, and no one’s heard from Angela since she and Shawn went their separate ways.

In the staff room all day, he is practically showered with compliments for his daughter, how well-behaved she is, and some wise soul has mentioned how close Riley and Maya are, so she gets the same treatment. He’s a proud father, so he can’t help but believe it.

By the time they’ve reached his seventh grade history class, though, he knows they’re not quite as sugar and spice as they’ve been presented, and setting off the sprinklers with a sparkler while inciting a homework rebellion cements this.

In the blink of an eye, his daughter is a high school graduate with an acceptance letter to New York University framed on her wall. She had fallen in love with it early in her sophomore year, but had spent every second since then telling whoever would listen that she wouldn’t get in, had even set up her list with “dream school” NYU and “realistic number one” Syracuse, but then she did. Maya, of course, had done the exact same with the Pratt Institute, but now she was in. Farkle’s ED acceptance to Princeton hadn’t been a surprise. Lucas was headed back to Texas, Zay to California, and Smackle to Princeton, just like the two of them had vowed years ago.

It’s weird for him that his daughter is going to college but not moving out. Then again, with the astronomical tuition of NYU, he doesn’t want her to ever live in campus housing.

As he watches from the stage with all the other teachers while the graduates toss up their caps, he catches Topanga’s eye from the audience. Auggie is beside her on one side, his hair swaying everywhere as he jumps up and down. Shawn and Katy are standing on her other side, their arms wrapped around each other. She smiles widely back at him, tears pooling in her eyes, and he flashes back to that heart-stopping moment he found the What To Expect When You’re Expecting book on their old and ratty banged up coffee table eighteen years ago. He had been so terrified, yet somehow, despite everything, Riley is perfect. She leans over to pick her cap off the floor, and once she’s back up, Lucas and Maya have their arms wrapped around her, and all six of them are in a big group hug at the edge of the stage. Tears are rolling down his face, but he smiles. Yeah, he and Topanga are pretty lucky.

#girl meets world #riley matthews #cory matthews #topanga matthews #cory x topanga #fanfiction

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wsfireballoon · 5 years ago

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Other than the infamous Ozark Music Festival which was held at the Missouri State Fairgrounds one weekend in 1974 and which still scandalizes the quiet Missouri community of Sedalia, my principal brush with rock festival history came in June of 1969, two months before Woodstock. It was a three day event called the Denver Pop Festival, and I was only able to attend the first night (Friday) which I picked because the headline band was Iron Butterfly. I was musically immature I suppose, because I chose that night over Sunday when the headliner was The Jimi Hendrix Experience. It was to be their last public performance -- he played without the band two months later at Woodstock. Saturday, the big name was Tim Buckley, whose music I have come to treasure in the intervening years... another performer who died too young. I kind of wish I had seen him. My sister was living in Denver at the time. I was a fresh college grad, not really looking for a teaching job because my 2D deferment had ended with graduation and I was waiting to be drafted. (It happened toward the end of summer on my birthday, Aug. 18 of that year... the very day Woodstock ended. Denver Pop was an experience! I've included links to a couple of write-ups below. Denver had a large hippie community and head shops and street people on Colfax Ave. There was spontaneous nudity at the concert. Crowds push in and tore down the fences, so before the weekend was over the festival had been declared "free." I felt cheated, having paid good money to get in. Occasionally I could see skirmishes with security on either corner of the grandstand. In restrospect, it was probably a good thing that I picked the first night as things got pretty gnarly on Saturday and Sunday. This was the Friday night line-up that I saw: June 27 * Big Mama Thornton * The Flock * Three Dog Night * Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention * Iron Butterfly It was still light when I found my seat in Mile-High Stadium and on the stage was what I took to be a large black man in a plaid shirt leaning against a piano. It turned out to be Big Mama Thornton and when she started to sing there was no doubt this was a woman with blues authority. I learned later she was the writer of Elvis' "Hound Dog," and "Ball and Chain" which Janis Joplin had made her own at Monterey Pop. Of course Big Mama closed her set with that epic blues song and brought down the house The Flock most people will not have heard of, but they featured an electric violinist in the line of David LaFlamme and Papa John Creach. I thought they were very good and I have their (only?) album in my record collection. Three Dog Night was amazing of course with their three prime vocalists but I think I was most pleasantly surprised with The Mothers of Invention. Frank Zappa was playing games with the audience and in good humor and by the time his band performed the Denver skyline was all aglow at the far end of the stadium. He had one band member who did nothing but stand on the edge of the stage and shake his voluminous head of hair throughout the set. Frank played one of his jazzy suites too -- he was so far ahead of the audience. The last band to perform was Iron Butterfly and "it was what it was." They closed the night with a good long set and of course an extended version of "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida." That's what I had come for. We were all on our feet jumping and swaying. Ron Bushy, the drummer, appeared to be dressed only in a sheet. He threw it off in the middle of the song and played his drum solo in his skivvies (I think)! Through the years my memories have faded. For awhile I couldn't even placed the Denver concert in the right timeline. I remember I had hair longer than I would have had in the military. But I couldn't remember it taking place before Woodstock. I suppose it's true that youth is wasted on the young. https://www.9news.com/.../73-d4d16f91-22e6-4408-ba55... https://djteesupdate.blogspot.com/.../history-of...

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secret-captain-swan-blog · 7 years ago

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Castle on the Hill

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 40791/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7

Read on: Ao3

Emma wonders how thin the floor below her is. She also wonders if the person who lives below her can tell that she’s been pacing for the last hour. It’s always been her nervous vice- when starting a new family, before English exams, waiting for grad school acceptance letters- she’s always taken to walking in circles. And despite what Killian told her the day before, despite the millions of assurances she’s told herself- it’s not stopping her from walking in circles around her apartment’s floor.

When her phone rings, she flinches before pulling it out of her bag. The phone was an early investment, a Misthaven Sim card so that she’d be able to get calls while here. Now, she extracts her phone from her purse on the counter.

She’d spent hours before worrying over what to wear. What does one wear to meet a queen? She finally settled on a navy knee-length skirt that tied at the waist, a striped blue and white button up, and fake pearl earrings. A little make up, a professional pony tail, and a suitable brown leather tote finished her look.

“Hello?” She says into the phone.

She still hasn’t mastered area codes, but she can tell from the country code that it’s a Misthaven number.

“Hallo? Dis eez Jacques, of zee Queen’s securitay,” He says, his Misthaven accent thick and hard to understand, “Zye am waiting outside, when you please.”

“Oh right,” Emma mutters, “Um, merci? I’ll be there in a moment.”

She grabs her purse, gives her pony tail a final tug, and then heads down the stairs.

Waiting for her outside the apartment is a black car with the royal seal on it. Emma’s beginning to get familiar with it now having seen it on the Royal Box at the opera, but also on many other public places in Misthaven.

The man exits and opens the door for her. She steps in, a little bewildered by the treatment. Inside, there are bottles of sparkling water inside the cup holders, an assortment of fresh fruit between the two seats. Emma tries not to feel completely out of place.

“Eet well be a twenty-minute drive to zee house of zee Queen,” The driver says, as he slips into the front seat, “Zif you need anyting, please just let me know, Madame.”

“Merci,” Emma manages again.

She watches from the window as the car drives through the familiar streets of her neighborhood, before giving way to more unfamiliar areas. They drive past the outskirts of Misthaven City, where there are still a few rundown buildings left to be restored. The sight of them gives Emma the chills, remembering the pawn shop of her first week.

Still farther they drive and the city gives way to the countryside. Misthaven is a very small country, but it does have a sizable amount of countryside considering how small it is. There are friendly green farms, cheerful windmills, and old grey cottages flicking past her window.

Slowly they begin to drive up the mountain, there are more trees here, along with winding mountain roads. Occasionally she gets a peak of the town from mountain side, and each time it is farther and farther below her. Emma can imagine why a Queen like Mary Margaret would want to live here- far from city center and the troubles and stress that come with it.

Finally, the car stops in front of the small chateau. It’s elegant, light grey stone and archways. Emma can see some stained-glass windows farther up. Did Chagall do these ones too? There are gardens going off in all directions- a neat rose garden, organized in Tudor patterns, then beyond that an English-style garden with follies and wild flowers.

“Emma!” Queen Mary Margaret’s voice calls.

Emma had been so engrossed in taking in the estate, that she didn’t notice the Queen’s arrival. The woman is waving brightly, walking down the main stairwell to greet her.

“Your majesty,” Emma says, dropping a curtsey.

“Oh my dear,” she says, “Don’t feel the need to engage in such dramatics. You are at my home. It’s much more casual here.”

“Oh, right, okay,” Emma says, trying to figure out what ‘casual’ means to a queen, “Well, it’s great to see you again.”

“You as well, my dear,” the Queen replies, taking Emma’s hand to give it a friendly squeeze. “Come on in. Welcome to my house.”

The inside is just as seriously insane as the outside. There are ancient tapestries lining the entrance hall, fine dark wood, and golden embellishments. Emma feels like she’s entered some sort of historical display house, not a place that a real person actually lives in.

“This is a really lovely place,” Emma says politely.

“Oh,” the Queen replies, “It’s just our old summer place really. It’s not as ornate as the main castle. I wanted a simpler life when I returned here.”

Simpler life? Emma not certain this exactly what she’d describe as simple.

“Do you have a lot of these?” Emma asks, “Other houses?”

The Queen sashays her way down a corridor and Emma follows.

“Yes, of course,” She says, “There is family home by the seaside, close to the Belgian border. And then in south there is a small, little estate that has been in the royal family for years. It was supposed to go to Emma.”

The Queen pauses and gives a little glance back before adding, in a more melancholic tone. “My daughter. Princess Emma.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma replies softly.

There is a moment of silence that falls between them, as Emma looks down awkwardly, picking at her nails.

“She’s out there,” The Queen replies, “I feel it inside me. One day she’ll return to the kingdom and she’ll have her house in the southern valley.”

It’s a lovely thought. But Emma can only think of Killian’s thoughts the day before. She’s probably dead. If not, she could be anyone.

“I know it sounds silly,” the Queen says, “but I’m very bad at giving up hope.”

“That’s admirable, your majesty,” Emma tells her.

The Queen smiles softly, ruefully, before leading Emma towards a pair of French doors.

“Let me show my favorite room in the house,” She says, her voice is brighter now.

She leads Emma into a small green room with gold stripes. The room is circular with long windows that open out onto the woods nearby. Upon further exception, realizes that the walls aren’t just green and gold. The walls are a forest.

The gold stripes work as illustrations of trees, diving the walls into a multitude of foliage. As Emma gets closer, she sees more- knots in trees, tiny fairies and nymphs peaking out of trees, birds and butterflies, mushrooms and moss- all of it detailed into the walls.

Her eyes turn to the ceiling, it’s decorated so that one half shows the night sky and the other the day. Puffy white clouds and sunshine on one side and glittering constellations on the other.

“I see why it’s your favorite,” Emma remarks.

“I call it my Enchanted Forest Room,” the monarch tells her.

“It’s dazzling,” Emma murmurs.

The Queen beams and leads Emma over to a table. The table has already been set for tea with fine china cups with delicate floral designs. Seconds after they sit down, a servant (holy crap a freaking servant) brings over cart with a pot of hot tea and three-tiered tray of treats and sandwiches. The whole thing is so beautiful that Emma’s fingers twitch as she tries not to Instagram the scene. Seriously, this place would get so many likes.

“Is tea alright for you?” The Queen asks, “Or would you prefer coffee or hot chocolate?”

Emma would always prefer coffee and she’s pretty sure that Princess Emma would ask for a hot chocolate, but the truth is Emma’s nervous and doesn’t want to disturb the woman.

“Tea is perfect,” She replies.

The queen nods at Emma and she knows that it’s her cue to pour the tea. Emma’s listened to enough of Belle’s talk on regency books to know that it is a sign of respect to the elder woman to have the younger pour the tea. But that doesn’t actually mean that Emma knows how to pour the tea. Especially when the tea pot is hot and heavy (and like, obviously, not in the good way).

She tentatively reaches for the pot, not sure where to put her hands. Does she keep her hand on the lid while she pours? Will her wrist actually hold the weight of the pot? Emma puts the handle in one hand and the spout, but she’s instantly burned.

“Fuck,” she hisses, pulling back her hand.

The queen looks up at her, eyes wide.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry your majesty!” Emma says, “I didn’t mean to use foul language in front of-“

“Oh please,” she laughs, “I may be a queen, but I’m still human! Let me show you.”

The queen takes the pot gingerly in her hand, one hand on the handle and the other on the lid.

Dang it. It was the lid!

The queen pours Emma’s cup and then her own. She takes a bit of milk and sugar, before adding a small lemon tart to her plate. She nods at Emma to do the same. In turn, Emma swirls in a splash of milk and puts a small pink macaron onto her plate. She’s pretty sure that there are sparkles somehow baked into the cookie.

“So, Emma,” the Queen asks, “How are you liking Misthaven so far?”

“Very nicely,” Emma replies, “The university is very supportive. It’s a beautiful place to spend a semester.”

“It is, isn’t it?” the queen smiles, taking a sip of tea, “The library is just breathtaking. When I was getting my degree, I used to try to sneak in there to study. I’d dress like a commoner- with a baseball cap and everything. Normally my security would find me and drag me out, you know, off to study in the royal library- but the few minutes I’d get in there would be amazing.”

Emma smiles, taking a nervous sip of tea. She’s drawn in by a specific detail.

“You have your own royal library?”

The queen blushes and smiles, “I do, a few actually. There is one in the main castle, but mostly it’s just filled with legal books now that the parliament has relocated there. A lot of government scholars study there. I’ve moved most of the fiction to my private library here. And the overflow to the Princess’s castle in the valley.”

“Wow,” Emma murmurs, “I can’t imagine having so many books to myself.”

“I know that being queen comes with immense privilege, trials too, but definitely privilege. I think that all the books are the biggest part of that, and the free opera tickets,” She laughs.

“I remember the first time I got a library card,” Emma says, a little wistful between munches of macaron, “I felt like I won the lottery. All those books, as many as I wanted to read, all for free. I’d never felt so lucky.”

The queen smiles, “Well, Emma, since we are friends, you are welcome to use my library whenever you wish.”

The Queen of fricken Misthaven just offered her library to her?

Emma gapes a little bit, “Thank you. I’d really love that.”

The Queen blushes again and takes a sip of her tea.

“So what do you like read?” Emma asks.

“All sorts of things,” The Queen replies, “Classics, of course, Austen, Eliot.”

Dang it, she should’ve meet Belle instead, Emma thinks.

“But I also have a soft place for fairy tales,” She adds.

Emma looks up from her tea, a smile playing on her lips.

“Me too,” Emma blurts.

“Do you?”

Queen Mary Margaret’s eyes look as bright as Emma’s own.

“The Red Fairy Book saved my life,” Emma tells her, “Seriously, those books were my first favorites.”

The queen looks like she might cry, “I had a copy of those that I meant to give my daughter. The shoe books too- you know Ballet Shoes, Dancing Shoes, Theater Shoes- those ones. And all the Little House on the Prairie. And Anne of Green Gables. And Little Women. The Secret Garden. And of course, The Little Princess. I wanted her to read all the little girl classics.”

Now Emma feels like crying too. She has never thought that she’s the kind of person who could feel bad for a queen, yet she feels overwhelmingly sad for this woman who never got to watch her daughter grow up. A daughter which Emma is trying to impersonate, kinda. Emma doesn’t know how to react so she reaches for another macaron and shoves it in her mouth.

Then she mumbles, “I’m sorry you didn’t get to read them with her.”

“Thanks Emma,” she says, “What other things do you read?”

“Well, I like kind of post-modernism and contemporary things. You know? The weird, techno-infused, inventive things,” Emma says, “Creative, unique stuff.”

She takes another sip of tea before she keeps going.

“I’m also into world literatures. I like the concept of books as nations. I’m really interested in how we tell stories about different places and cultures, and how those stories change based on who is writing them,” Emma explains.

“Wow,” The queen says, “Your interests seem to be all over the place, yet you seem to be very articulate about what you like.”

Emma smiles, pleased.

“My favorite,” she continues, “is Blanche Neige. Have you heard of her? I think you’d like her since you like fairy tales.”

There is a small pause as the queen grimaces, searching for what to say. Her voice is grave when she responds.

“Actually, sorry, not to be rude, Emma, but I don’t really care for Blanche Neige.”

Emma feels like she’s been slapped in the face.

WHAT DOES SHE MEAN SHE DOESN’T LIKE BLANCHE NEIGE?

Emma is immediately grateful that she’ll have Killian to call tonight to rant to about this whole situation.

The queen continues, “It’s just that I don’t think she has the right to speak about Misthaven. This tiny country is my life, my whole life, and she uses it as a plot device.”

“That’s not fair,” Emma snaps, “She uses it to encourage revolution. She uses it to stand up for Misthaven during a time of oppression.”

“Does she?” The queen asks, “Or does she take advantage of the oppression to capitalize on a story?”

Emma gapes. She can’t believe that the queen doesn’t like Blanche Neige.

“Do you even know if she lived in Misthaven at the time?” The queen demands, “There is no proof that she cared about Misthaven. She was just someone making money and getting sympathy by using exploited people.”

Emma gulps. The woman is taking down the most important person to Emma and it makes her feel borderline sick. Blanche Neige is Emma’s life. The idea that Blanche Neige is anything but a hero seems blasphemous to her.

“Does that mean that no one can write about exploited people? Tons of people write everyday about the Holocaust, about genocide, refuges, war, oppression of all forms.”

The queen frowns, “I’m sorry if it sounds harsh. This is the real world, my real world, not an academic classroom. My husband died for Misthaven. My daughter died for Misthaven. My friends, my guards, my subjects- they all died for Misthaven. If Blanche Neige thinks it’s as easy as climbing a tower to find a savior, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Emma swallows and exhales before saying, “I’m sorry for bringing her up, your majesty. I truly didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay Emma,” She says softly, her tension defused after her outburst. “Your heart is the right place. I won’t dislike you for liking her writing, but just please respect my request to never mention her again in my house.”

Emma nods.

“Would you like a tour now?” The queen asks, rising.

Emma stands immediately. That seems like another Jane Austen-y thing to follow. Don’t sit when the queen is standing? Not that there are queens or kings in Jane Austen, but still it seems like a proper thing.

“Sure,” Emma says.

“Let’s start with the library,” The queen says, “I wasn’t lying before, you really are free to use it whenever.”

She leads Emma down several hallways, before she approaches a pair of doors. She gives Emma conspiratorial grin, before throwing them open.

It’s an immaculate library. Emma’s never seen anything like it.

While the Misthaven University library is all dark wood, this room is bright with long windows. It’s all marble floors, gold leaf, and ornate blue reading chairs. Emma wants to explore it all immediately. Just from where she’s standing, she can see several large fairy tale anthologies. She wants to devour them immediately.

Emma can only begin to forgive Queen Mary Margaret for the Blanche-Neige-hating-thing because she has an impossibly perfect library.

“Can I really use this anytime I like?” Emma gasps.

“Of course, my dear, you are very welcome here,” The queen tells her.

“Do you mind if I look around?” Emma asks.

“Take your time,” The queen smiles. “I’ll leave you to it. Just give me a ring when you’re done and I’ll finish the tour.”

“Thanks,” Emma mumbles, as the queen backs out of the room. Emma gazes around at the gorgeous library, grinning, before pulling a stack off the shelf and curling up in a chair.

Killian is just finishing his shift when Emma calls.

“Ah, there you are, love,” He says, flopping onto his bed, the exhaustion of the long shift leaving him.

“Hey Killian,” She replies.

He listens to her voice. There is something tired and hesitant about it.

He’s been thinking about her all day. Her meeting with queen. He’s proud of her for even agreeing to the thing, despite her walls and baggage. He knows how it is to open one’s self up to vulnerability after being hurt by someone. In essence, it’s what he’s doing with Emma now.

“How’d it go, Swan?” He asks.

She lets out a moan, “Good I guess, but also horrible.”

“Horrible,” He repeats. “How so?”

Emma lets out another sigh.

“Here, actually, stay where you are. I’ll be right over,” He replies, hanging up.

He stops at Mamie’s on the way, grabbing two drinks, before heading towards the tram. It’s early evening and chilly. Killian’s wearing a lumpy knitted navy jumper (a gift from Ruby’s mamie last Christmas) and a pair of jeans, but it’s almost not enough. Early September has brought with it a kiss of fall.

It’s hard to jump the turnstiles with two warm beverages, but Killian Jones isn’t an ordinary rapscallion and he manages it surprising grace (or so he tells himself).

He arrives at Emma’s apartment twenty minutes after her call. He rings her apartment and she buzzes him up. She waiting at the door when he arrives.

She’s dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants, the European jogger style ones that stay close her legs. She also has a bright pink sports bra and a thin tank top over that. Her blond hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders. The whole look is obvious casual, so it’s alarming how incredibly sexy she is. Damn it Emma Swan.

Yet all the same, he can see faint smears of black on her face. Smeared mascara. She’s been crying.

“Emma,” He says softly, “What’s wrong?”

She lets him. Her grey blanket is crumpled on the couch. Her stack of Blanche Neige books are scattered across the sofa and coffee table. He wonders what she was doing before he arrived.

“Ugh,” She groans, “it’s all so stupid.”

“What’s stupid?”

He takes a seat on a stool at her counter. She slides in beside him.

“The reason I’m upset,” She replies, folding her arms on the counter and pressing her head into them.

“There’s no stupid reason to be upset,” He laughs, “Out with it, Swan.”

She makes a grunt from where she’s buried her head.

“I’ve brought Mamie’s cocoa, if that will tempt you to tell me,” He tells her.

She reluctantly raises her head, rolling her eyes as she takes the mug.

After a sip she says, “Is there cinnamon on this?”

They both let loose into laughter.

After it calms, she tells him.

“Queen Mary Margaret doesn’t like Blanche Neige.”

Killian laughs again.

“Swan, this is what you are so upset about? Her majesty doesn’t share your same taste in literature?”

Emma takes another sip of cocoa.

“No, it’s not just that. She doesn’t just dislike Blanche Neige, she abhors her. Or moreover, she seems to think that there is something morally abhorant about liking Blanche Neige.”

Killian is beginning to put it together. Blanche Neige is Emma’s life. The queen’s condemnation of the author feels like a condemnation of Emma herself.

“She thinks that Blanche Neige had no right to write about Misthaven and their troubles. She doesn’t think that she was encouraging revolution, so much as profiting off of it,” Emma continues to explain.

“I’m sorry Swan,” Killian says.

She nods at the book messy, “I’ve been spending the rest of the afternoon rereading her books, trying to prove to myself that Blanche Neige is a good person.”

“Of course, dear old Blanche is good,” Killian laughs, “She saved our lives.”

Emma nods, “I guess. I mean this is a huge issue in literature today. Who gets to tell what stories? Can you tell a story about a place you’ve been? Can you tell a story about a struggle you’ve never been through? Are you bringing attention to a place or people in need? Or is it merely profiting off their tragedy?”

She sips her hot chocolate.

“I always thought that the argument was irrelevant. Who cares who tells the story? Literature isn’t about the author or the author’s intentions. The novels we read need to analyzed on their own,” she continues.

Emma removes the lid of the cocoa, using a spoon left on her counter to eat a bit of cinnamon flavored whipped cream.

“But it’s different now that I’ve met someone whose life has been so affected by the tragedy. Queen Mary Margaret lost everything. Does someone have a right to capitalize on that pain? I don’t know. The whole thing makes me feel sick.”

“Oh Emma,” He says.

He stands and moves behind her. He sweeps her hair from her back and over one shoulder in a single movement. Emma might be afraid of kisses and not ready for anything beyond friendship, but he’s realized that he can help her make progress in small, tender gestures. Holding hands, hugs, shoulder rubs- they are all enough to start to break down Emma’s walls. She deserves to be touched by someone who cares about her.

“Is it okay I rub your shoulders?” He asks.

“Sure,” she says, resting her chin on the counter.

He begins to soothe soft circles into her shoulders. Her skin is smooth underneath his thumbs. Beneath the skin, he can feel knots in her muscles. She holding a lot of tension and stress in.

“Did you tell her that Blanche Neige is your dissertation?” He asks.

“No,” Emma mutters, “I don’t know how she’d react if she found out. This whole thing would probably come to a halt.”

“Is it really that bad?” Killian asks.

“She told me never to mention Blanch Neige in her house again,” Emma sighs.

“Yikes,” Killian remarks.

“I know,” Emma laments, “And she invited me to use her library. She wants me to keep coming back and having tea with her to talk about books. It’s going to come up at someone point.”

“So ride it out till it does,” Killian says, “Or make up a fib if she asks. Or tell her you can’t answer.”

“That’s true,” Emma agrees, “It’s just that she’s so much of my life. It’s hard not to share it with her.”

“I know,” Killian says. “What you need, love, is something to take your mind off of this predicament.”

Emma turns to him and he nods over to the couch. Her eyes widen a bit, making an assumption.

“Not that,” He says, chuckling.

He walks over to where her books are scattered and begins to stack them neatly, sliding them onto her shelf.

“I think you need a break from Blanche Neige,” He says, “You can read her tomorrow when you’ve had time to clear your mind.”

Emma walks over to her couch, her hot chocolate in hand, and pulls the grey blanket around her. Killian perches on the corner of the sofa.

“What do you say to another book?�� He asks.

“What do you have in mind?” She replies.

“Have you read The Princess Bride?” He asks.

“I remember being a group home where it was one of the few VHS tapes we had,” Emma muses. “I think I watched it a million times that year. But, uh, no. I never read the book.”

Killian grins, “Well, good. You’re in for a treat.”

He slides of the arm of the couch to settle beside Emma. Her legs are tucked under her and she leans in a little to listen. Killian can smell a light floral scent waft off of her, probably her shampoo.

He pulls up the novel on his phone and settles into the story. He’s always liked reading out loud and Emma is good listener. Stories are part of her DNA and so she reacts spectacularly, her eyes wide with wonder at the most surprising turns, then glazed with tears when she thinks the lovers had lost each other for good. Killian tries not to smirk to see such rawness on Emma’s face. While she seems self-assured, walled-in, she has a secret soft spot- at least for characters in books.

In a few hours, Killian has made his way through half of the book. Somehow, between Buttercup and Wesley losing and finding each other again, Emma’s legs turned up over his. By the time they make it out of the forest, Emma’s head has drifted to his shoulder. Killian tries not to all out grin as Emma’s comfortability around him.

Okay, so they might not be dating for now. Killian hates it, but he can accept it. He can accept it if it means tender hugs like they shared yesterday. He can accept it if it means her falling asleep on his shoulder, her lovely legs draped over his. He can accept it if it means her late-night calls, showing up at her apartment to find her in her pajamas. He can accept it if it means this quiet, unspoken intimacy. Sure, they aren’t a couple, but they are close. It’s only been a few weeks of friendship and they are this close. He can live with that.

Her eyes begin to flutter shut, so he nudges her.

“Emma, love, you’re falling asleep,” He says softly, “I should go. We can finish the story when you are more awake.”

She stirs a bit, humming.

“I should go,” He says. He doesn’t want to. He wants to more time with her.

She hums again, mumbling something that sounds like, “Keep reading.”

“I don’t want you to fall asleep and miss part of the story,” He tells her.

“I guess that’s fair,” Emma says, detangling herself from him. She stretches and gets up to let him out.

“Are you a little less perturbed?” He asks her, as he makes his way to the door.

“I guess,” she says, her voice still sleep-laced.

She runs a hand through her hair, making her waves dance. “I just wish I knew who she is.”

“Who?” Killian asks, trying to follow her sleepy thoughts.

“Blanche Neige,” Emma says, “If I knew who she was, I could just ask her why she wrote it. I could figure out if she was here or not. I could figure out if she is as bad as Queen Mary Margaret thinks she is.”

“If anyone can figure it out,” Killian says, “It’s you. I’m pretty sure it’s you.”

Emma rolls her eyes lazily. “Thanks Killian.”

“Good night, Emma.”

Tagging some pals: @sambethe @lenfaz @pocket-anon @the-corsair-and-her-quill@kmomof4 @kiwistreetswan @princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story @shady-swan-jones @katie-dub@1handedpiratewithadrinkingprob @midnightswans

#cs ff #cs au #captain swan #emma swan #killian jones #cs mc #cs fic #cs mafia #cs crew

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