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lili-marlene1939-1945 · 2 years ago

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ELVIS PRESLEY : UN GÈNE DÉFECTUEUX L'AURAIT-IL CONDUIT PRÉMATURÉMENT À LA TOMBE (et sa fille Lisa-Marie Presley également ?)

Il y a environ une semaine, suite à une discussion avec mon père sur notre artiste préféré à tous deux, je me fis un devoir de retrouver sur le vaste web, l’article que j’avais lu il y a quelques années, au moment de sa sortie. Vous connaissez sans doute, pour ceux qui me connaissent, l’importance que je mets à ne choisir dans mes lectures de culture général, que des sources fiables et scientifique – ou du moins, écrites par ceux qui ont une expertise reconnue. Ici, c’est un médecin, le docteur Forest Tennant, médecin légiste qui a eu accès au rapport d’autopsie d’Elvis Presley à titre d’expert dans le cadre du procès qui a été fait au docteur Nichopoulos – ou « Dr Nick », comme on l’appelle de part et d’autre – suite au décès du chanteur. Rappelons que le rapport d’autopsie d’Elvis ne sera disponible au public que dans 4 ans et huit mois, soit le 16 août 2027, lorsque ça fera 50 ans que le King est mort.

En gros, il y est écrit qu’un gène déficient aurait joué un rôle majeur dans la mort prématuré de l’interprète de « Hound Dog » ou « Suspicious Minds ». Et il y a encore quelques jours, je vous aurais écrit ici que cela n’a sans doute pas été étranger à la mort de sa mère chérie, Gladys, décédée au même âge que son fils, soit 42 ans, et cela, 20 ans jour pour jour plus tard.

Cependant, aujourd’hui, je dois hélas rajouter aussi que ce gène était sans doute déficient dans la mort de Lisa Marie Presley, la fille d’Elvis et petite-fille de Gladys Smith, sa grand-mère maternelle qu’elle n’a pas connu non plus, décédée le 12 janvier dernier, quatre jours après le 88e anniversaire de naissance de son père. J’espère que sa mère, Priscilla, exigera que ses petits-enfants soient suivi médicalement parlant de très près, pour qu’il y ait enfin un Presley qui dépasse les 55 ans – ce qui n’est pas arrivé depuis 4 générations.

Voilà donc un éclairage dont on n’a pas – ou peu – entendu parler depuis la mort d’Elvis Presley. Je me suis contenté d’en faire la traduction, car vous l’aurez deviné, l’origine était en anglais. J’ai fait un peu de recherches sur les termes médicaux. Vous trouverez les explications en fin d’article. Les chiffres un peu en hauteur au milieu des phrases sont des notes de fin de document qui vous réfèrent à ces explications, où j’ai essayé de vous rendre la chose la plus simple possible, pour des concepts parfois qui ne sont pas évidents. Je les ai mis immédiatement après ceux de l’auteur, le docteur Forest Tennant, à la toute fin.

Avant de vous offrir ce texte, une toute dernière mise au point : en anglais, le terme « drug » signifie autant « médicaments » ; « médication » que « drogue » au sens où on l’entend en français quand on pense à l’héroïne, à la cocaïne, à l’acide, au crack, etc. Or, Elvis n’a jamais pris de telles substances. Jamais il ne s’est injecté quoi que ce soit qui n’ait légalement été prescrit. Ainsi, j’ai eu des scrupules à traduire « drug » par « drogue », pour tout ce que cela véhicule. Ainsi, j’ai choisi « médicaments ». Cependant, il est tout à fait vrai qu’Elvis en abusait largement, même s’ils étaient prescrits. Car après tout, quel médecin aurait pu dire « Non ! » à un tel homme ? Et pourtant, ils auraient dû !

Bonne lecture !

14 juin 2017

Elvis Presley : traumatisme crânien, maladie auto-immune, douleurs et mort prématuréd

Par Dr. Forest Tennant, M.D P.h

Au printemps de 1981, je travaillais dans mon bureau de West Coniva lorsque ma secrétaire m’a dit qu’un avocat voulait me parler d’un cas.

« Dr Tennant, je suis James Neal. Je suis avocat, et je défends le docteur George Nichopoulos (Dr Nick), le médecin d’Elvis Presley. Incidemment, si mon nom ne vous sonne pas de cloche, je suis l’avocat qui a poursuivi Richard Nixon pour l’affaire du Watergate ». L’appel était tout sauf attendu ; quelques mois plus tôt, j’avais représenté le Gouvernement des États-Unis dans le procès contre le médecin de Howard Hughes. Dans ces années-là, j’étais le seul médecin qui avait étudié les opioïdes[1] à la fois comme antidouleurs et comme simple addictif, et j’ai fait beaucoup de témoignages juridiques et judiciaires.

J’ai accepté l’offre de monsieur Neal de réviser la cause du docteur Nick, et je me suis retrouvé embarqué dans une étude concernant les problèmes médicaux d’Elvis et de ses nombreuses addictions.

À cette époque, la controverse était centrée sur l’usage de médicaments par Elvis, et s’il était mort ou non d’une crise de cœur ou d’une possible overdose de drogue. Il y avait peu d’intérêt pour ses problèmes médicaux sous-jacents ; de ses douleurs ou pourquoi il était décédé à l’âge relativement jeune de 42 ans. Docteur Nick s’était vu accablé de charges criminelles d’homicides, parce qu’il avait été le principal médecin qui faisait des prescriptions à Elvis.

Monsieur Neal et sa firme d’avocats m’ont fourni un monceau de documents concernant l’histoire médicale d’Elvis, incluant les dossiers médicaux en possession du docteur Nick ; les dossiers de ses hospitalisations, ainsi que 161 pages d’enquête privée de l’histoire médicale d’Elvis [sic] et de ses abus, tous rassemblés par monsieur Neal et sa firme légale. J’ai donc accepté d’être un témoin de la défense dans le cadre du procès d’octobre 1981 de Memphis, au Tennessee.

Tableau 1 : Rapport d’autopsie final

1- Cardiomégalie avec hypertrophie du ventricule gauche[2] [3]

2- Arthrosclérose coronarienne de légère à modérée[4]

3- Œdème pulmonaire – de légère à modérée[5]

4- Ponction pulmonaire – légère[6]

5- Hépatomégalie, dû en partie à une métamorphose graisseuse du foie[7]

6- Splénomégalie légère, principalement congestive[8]

7- Arthrosclérose des reins, modéré

8- Néphrosclérose, légère[9]

9- Sclérose papillaire sur une seule papille, ancienne, du côté gauche[10]

10- Arthrosclérose de l’aorte et des artères cérébrales – légères[11]

11- Lividité cadavérique prononcée – moitié du corps

12-Congestion capillaires et pétéchiale, moitié haute du corps

13- Inflammation et gonflement de la conjonctive, bilatérale et modérée[12]

14- Perforations cardiaques[13] ; récentes

15-Hémorragie gastrique ; récente. Légère.[14]

16-Péricardite restrictive[15]

17-Cicatrice à la paupière gauche

18- Cicatrice au dos de la main droite

19-Cicatrice sur la fesse gauche

20-Déficience en Alpha-1 Antithrypsine[16]

Le jury s’est mis de mon côté et a libéré le docteur Nick de toute charge criminelle. Ils ont trouvé que celui-ci était un médecin qui a pris soin d’Elvis pendant plus de 10 ans.

Quoique j’ai accompli mon devoir, le mystère de la kyrielle de problèmes médicaux qu’avait Elvis et sa mort prématurée m’a mystifié depuis cette époque.

Tout d’abord, il apparaît qu’Elvis Presley allait bien, approximativement avant les 10 dernières années de sa vie. Dans les 3 dernières années de sa vie, Elvis était si malade et handicapé qu’il nécessitait une infirmière 24 heures sur 24. Après le procès du docteur Nick, j’ai soigneusement entreposé tous mes dossiers en sachant qu’un jour, la science aurait la réponse quant à la compréhension des problèmes médicaux et la douleur qu’avait Elvis.

Je crois que ce jour est venu.

Les progrès dans la gestion moderne de la douleur nous a finalement fourni suffisamment de connaissances scientifiques concernant les traumatismes crâniens, les maladies auto-immunes, et la douleur pour enfin révéler son histoire médicale. Après avoir rassemblé les preuves ; après qu’il ne me soit apparu clairement que les problèmes de santé qu’avait Elvis découlaient de plusieurs coups à la tête qui l’ont conduits à une maladie inflammatoire d’origine auto-immune, avec une douleur centrale subséquente. Les événements qui ont précipité sa mort ont été de l’arythmie cardiaque, étayée par l’abus de médicaments, un bagage génétique fatal, et le tout accéléré par une diète horrible. Cet article étudiera comment j’en suis arrivé à cette conclusion.

La controverse concernant la cause de la mort

Lorsqu’Elvis est décédé de façon intempestive le 16 août 1977, une grande controverse s’est abattue sur le public. Les pathologistes – incluant le Coroner du Comté de Shelby, au Tennessee – ont découvert qu’Elvis était mort d’une crise cardiaque. Cependant, l’émission « 20 / 20 » du réseau ABC, animé par Ted Koppel, croyait que le chanteur était plutôt mort d’une overdose de médicaments, et elle a déclaré qu’il y avait eu dissimulation concernant ce décès. Les journalistes se sont demandés pourquoi des charges criminelles n’avaient pas été déposées à l’endroit du docteur Nick par le procureur du Comté de Shelby. La popularité et l’influence de cette émission ont eu un impact. Le Conseil pour la protection des malades du Tennessee a étudié la question, pour ensuite blanchir le docteur Nick de toute accusation d’avoir agi de façon non professionnelle, sans manifester de l’éthique qui vient normalement avec une telle profession, ou qu’il ait commis une faute grave. Néanmoins, ils l’ont accusé d’avoir prescrit une médication inappropriée à 10 patients, incluant Elvis Presley ainsi que le chanteur Jerry Lee Lewis (13). Peu de temps après, le Bureau du Procureur général du district a arrêté le docteur Nick, alléguant qu’il avait volontairement et délibérément prescrit des substances contrôlées à ces mêmes 10 patients, pour lequel le Conseil pour la protection des malades l’a trouvé fautif.

Le rapport d’autopsie

L’autopsie d’Elvis Presley a été l’objet de la controverse publique.

Comme plusieurs ont pu lire, Elvis a été retrouvé mort gisant face à terre, sur le plancher de sa salle de bain de sa résidence, Graceland, par sa petite amie, Ginger Alden. Depuis combien de temps était-il mort lorsqu’elle l’a découvert reste inconnu, et le restera sans doute, mais les tentatives pour le ranimer ont été infructueux. Son autopsie a été pratiquée au Baptist Memorial Hospital de Memphis le jour de sa mort. Le pathologiste en chef était le docteur Thomas McChesney, et le consultant sur le cas était le docteur Jerry T. Francisco, le Coroner du Comté de Shelby. Le diagnostic de pathologie final est énuméré dans le tableau ci-dessus, les items 15 à 20 inclusivement.

L’une des trouvailles majeures était l’importance de la condition cardiaque et cardiovasculaire d’Elvis Presley. Même s’il était sous traitement pour hypertension, le docteur Nick – comme les autres médecins qui ont vu Elvis quand il a été hospitalisé dans les années précédentes – ignorait que son cœur faisait plus du double de sa taille normale (520 g), et qu’il avait de l’athérosclérose dans ses vaisseaux coronaires, son aorte, et ses artères cérébrales.

On a aussi découvert qu’il avait une déficience en Alpha 1 antithrypsine, ce qui est une condition génétique rare qui cause l’emphysème. Un examen microscopique de ses poumons révèle un« infiltrat lymphoide interstitiel inflammatoire rare, en particulier sous l’épithélium des bronches ». Les diagnostiques listés dans le tableau ci haut sont tirés du rapport d’autopsie d’Elvis. Fait intéressant, les pathologistes l’ont testé pour des déficiences immunitaires, et ils ont trouvé qu’Elvis avait une hypogammaglobulinémie, un trouble du système immunitaire, tel qu’indiqué par des niveaux réduits d’immunoglobulines A (IgA) et IgG. Les études de formation de rosettes ont révélé une diminution du nombre de cellules T[17] et de cellules B (lymphocytes)[18]

Ma révision rétrospective de son autopsie, une fois pairée avec son histoire médicale parsemée d’anormalités multi organes sur une période de 10 ans, révèle clairement qu’Elvis souffrait d’une maladie inflammatoire d’origine auto-immune[19]. Pour aider à confirmer la présence d’une maladie d’origine auto-immune, j’ai découvert que les dossiers du docteur Nick révélaient qu’avant sa mort, Elvis avait une éosinophilie[20] et une protéine C-Réactive (CRP) élevée.

Étude toxicologique

Des échantillons d’urine et de sang d’Elvis, ainsi que des tissus ont été prélevés lors de l’autopsie, puis ont été envoyés aux Laboratoires Bioscience à Van Nuys, en Californie, considéré à l’époque comme l’un des plus prestigieux, professionnels et des plus précis aux États-Unis. Ma copie du rapport d’autopsie a listé 10 médicaments différents trouvé dans son sang, incluant le métabolite du diazépam, dont seulement 2 avaient été prescrits par le docteur Nick (tableau 2). Le 17 octobre 1977, le docteur Ronald Oremich et le docteur Norman Weissmann, de chez BioScience expliquent :

« La présence de diazepam, de métaqualone, de phénobarbital, d’Étchlorvynol et d’ethinamate se sont trouvés être sous leurs niveaux normaux. Cependant, la codéine était présente à un niveau dix fois supérieur à la concentration normalement acceptable dans un cadre thérapeutique. Compte tenu de la dimension poly pharmaceutique de ce cas, celui-ci doit être considéré sous l’aspect cumulatif des demi-vies (période où un médicament ou une drogue font leur effet sur l’organisme) de cette médication et de leurs interactions respectives identifié dans le rapport ».

Comme ce rapport semblait contredire la cause cardiaque de la mort, le Baptiste Memorial Hospital a demandé une révision des résultats au docteur Irving Sunshine, professeur de toxicologie à l’Université de l’Utah, mis de l’avant par BioScience. Il a présenté cette opinion dans un rapport écrit le 2 mars 1978.

« (…) Des données pathologiques m’ont été transmis, ainsi que des résultats toxicologiques. Selon l’histoire médicale du défunt, il semble que celui-ci ait été mobile et fonctionnel au moins 8 heures avant son décès. Ces informations prises ensemble semblent toutes indiquer que peu importe sa tolérance aux médicaments retrouvés dans son sang, il est indéniable que ceux-ci aient été un facteur ayant joué un grand rôle [dans le décès du patient] ».

Le procès du docteur Nick n’avait pas pour objectif de définir la cause de la mort, mais de déterminer si le médecin avait tâché de soigner Elvis au meilleur de ses connaissances et de son éthique. Conséquemment, la controverse concernant la cause de sa mort – la crise cardiaque ou une overdose médicamenteuse – fait rage depuis 1994, lorsque l’État du Tennessee a réouvert l’autopsie. L’État avait alors retenu les services de l’ex-coroner du Comté de Dade, à Miami, le célèbre docteur Joseph Davis, qui avait fait des milliers d’autopsies. Il avait affirmé qu’Elvis était mort d’une crise cardiaque, ce qui a une fois de plus soulevé la controverse publique. Il en a expliqué ses raisons ici :

« Le corps d’Elvis Presley était dans une position telle qu’on aurait dit qu’il allait s’asseoir sur la cuvette des toilettes au moment où l’attaque est survenue. Il penchait vers l’avant sur le tapis, ses fesses à l’air vers le haut, et il était mort avant même de toucher terre. Si cela avait été le fait d’une overdose médicamenteuse, Elvis Presley aurait glissé dans un état d’endormissement progressif. Il aurait remonté le bas de son pyjama et il aurait rampé afin de tâcher de demander de l’aide. Cela prend des heures de mourir d’une telle façon ».

De plus, le docteur Davis a noté qu’Elvis était très obèse – il pesait alors 350 livres, plus les 50 livres qui avaient été gagnées dans les derniers mois – qui ont mis une grande pression sur son cœur ; le corps avait au moins deux heures de rigidité cadavérique, et il n’y avait pas d’œdème pulmonaire, signe d’une overdose médicamenteuse.

Mon avis, que j’ai eu à donner lors du procès du docteur Nick, était que les médicaments peuvent avoir déclenché et endommager son cœur, jusqu’à l’arrêt de celui-ci, mais c’était hors propos car le docteur Nick avait seulement prescrit 2 des nombreux médicaments retrouvés dans le sang d’Elvis. Ce que personne ne savait à ce moment, était que quelques médicaments, particulièrement les opioïdes, peuvent intervenir dans la conduction de l’impulsion électrique cardiaque et peuvent causer un arrêt soudain à partir d’une arythmie cardiaque. L’exemple le plus connu est le Syndrome du QT long[21], un désordre du système électrique cardiaque qui se produit lorsque des opioïdes et d’autres drogues sont prises ensemble. Cette réaction toxique surgira davantage chez des patients connus pour des problèmes cardiaques. Je crois maintenant que la mort d’Elvis était partiellement due à la codéine. Il en avait obtenu par un dentiste, la veille de sa mort. Il en avait pris plusieurs comprimés, et son sang en contenait dix fois la dose thérapeutique prescrite.

Taux des médicaments retrouvé dans le sang. d’Elvis Presley suite à son autopsie :

1- Codéine - 1,08 ug/mL[22]

2- Morphine - 0,03 ug/mL[23]

3- Methaqualone - 6,0 ug/mL

4- Diazepam - 20 ng/mL

5- N-Desmethydiazepam - 30,5 ng/mL

6-Ehtinamate - 10-20 ug/mL

7- Ethchiorvynol - 5-10 ug/mL

8- Pentobarbital - 3,4 ug/mL

9- Phenobarbital - 5,0 ug/mL

10- Butabarbital - 11,0 ug/mL

Je crois qu’Elvis aurait eu un CYP2D6 défaillant. Pour soutenir cette hypothèse, il y a des preuves qu’Elvis aurait mal réagit à la codéine dans le passé, et son dossier médical affirme qu’il y était allergique. Elvis avait aussi eu des réactions violentes à l’alcool, ce qui est propre aux personnes ayant des anomalies métaboliques du cytochrome.

Histoire médicale

Elvis est né le 8 janvier 1935 à Tupelo, au Mississippi. Son frère jumeau est décédé à la naissance. Entre sa naissance et l’âge de 32 ans il n’y a aucune preuve de problèmes de santé très significatifs, sauf si ce n’est de son hypertension. En 1958, lorsqu’il a été enrôlé par l’Armée des États-Unis à l’âge de 23 ans[24]il était en bonne santé. Pendant son service militaire, il était excellent à faire des push-ups. Après l’Armée, Elvis a fait des arts martiaux et il en est devenu expert. Il était en mesure de casser des planches de ses seules mains. Il jouait aussi fréquemment au football avec ses employés, dès qu’il en avait l’occasion.

Malgré le fait qu’il fut en bonne santé, le style de vie d’Elvis était atroce. Ayant débuté tard dans son adolescence, sa diète était constituée principalement de gras, de glucides. Ses périodes de sommeil étaient inadéquates, et cela, sans parler d’un usage multi pharmacologique (amphétamines, opioïdes, et sédatifs). Tel que noté ci-haut, l’alcool le faisait entrer dans des rages violentes, alors il buvait peu. Apparemment, il n’a jamais fumé.

Le docteur Nick a vu Elvis comme patient pour la première fois en 1965, et il est devenu son médecin de famille régulier le 27 février 1967, alors qu’il était âgé de 32 ans[1]. À cette époque, Elvis se plaignait de vertigo, de mal de dos et d’insomnies. On lui a diagnostiqué une labyrinthite. L’hypertension (une pression sanguine de 140/96) était évidente à ce moment-là. Les symptômes de vertigo se sont résorbés après environ 1 semaine du début de son traitement pour sa labyrinthite. Cependant, il a développé une amygdalite peu de temps après cet épisode de labyrinthite. Le 21 septembre 1970, Elvis a consulté le docteur Nick pour une inflammation ou infection de son œil gauche. Il pesait 163 livres, et sa pression sanguine était toujours haute, avec 160/100. Des tests ont été requis pour sa une fonction hépatique, pour son taux de sédimentation érythocytes. On a aussi demandé une analyse d’urine et un test de recherche de MTS (siphilis). Tous les résultats sont revenus normaux et négatifs, à part une hémoglobine légèrement élevé (16,8 g/L) et un taux d’éosinophilie de 5,5%.

Suivi de nouveau en mars 1971, son infection d’œil s’était aggravée et il a reçu le diagnostic d’une infection de l’iris et d’uvéites. Un test de lupus erythematosus était normal, mais un test CRP était marginalement haut. L’année suivante, en 1972, Presley a développé 2 ou 3 épisodes de prostatite. Il avait des maux de tête progressifs et des douleurs lombaires entre 1967 et 1977. Une radiographie montre la sortie d’un disque à L4. Ses maux de têtes ont débuté après un coup grave porté en 1967, et qui est un peu plus loin ici.

En 1973, sa santé a commencé progressivement à prendre une pente descendante. À cette époque, il est devenu vraiment malade, et ne pouvait quitter le lit. Après qu’il soit tombé dans un coma, on l’a ramené par avion à Memphis où il a été admis à l’hôpital Baptis-Memorial le 15 octobre 1973. Il est entré d’urgence avec la jaunisse, un trouble respiratoire sévère, et une sueur manifeste dans son visage. Il avait aussi un abdomen distendu et il était a moitié conscient. Pas moins de 9 médecins ont travaillé sur son cas. Lors des tests, sa fonction hépatique était haute, ce qui indiquait qu’une hépatite était présente.

Puis un problème majeur a été découvert : Elvis avait été vu par un médecin sur la côte Ouest qui a alors traité son mal de dos à l’aide d’une mixture de Meperidine (Démérol) et de Cortisone (probablement de la méthylprednisolone). Presley a commencé à suer, vu l’excès de Cortisone (un syndrome de Cushing). La sueur sur son visage ne s’est jamais tout à fait résorbée. Les tests sanguins ont démontré qu’il y avait insuffisance d’adrénaline due à l’excès de Cortisol administré. Un ulcère gastrique et une hépatite ont été mis à jour, que ses médecins mettaient sur le dos d’un excès de cortisol. Il recevait non seulement de la Meperidine d’un médecin, mais aussi beaucoup d’autres médicaments. On lui donnait, entre autres, de la Methadone pour palier à l’effet des symptômes de sevrage des opioïdes. Avant de quitter l’hôpital, on diagnostiqua du glaucome dans les deux yeux. Un ophtalmologue lui prescrivit alors des lunettes de soleil spéciales, et on lui donna des médicaments pour la douleur et pour dormir, parmi les autres symptômes. Alors qu’il était hospitalisé d’octobre à novembre 1973, on lui a prescrit des phénobarbitals, et de la méthadone pour le sevrage. Des médicaments pour l’œdème et pour la constipation étaient le Furosemide (lasix), Mylanta, Colace et Dulcolax. Pour dormir on lui donnait de l’Ethinamate (Valmid), hydroxyzine (Vistaril) et Propoxyphene et Meprobamate (Darvotron). Pendant son hospitalisation il a reçu de la Meperidine pour la douleur, Methaqualone (Quaalude) et l’hydromorphone (Dilaudil)

Hospitalisation I

15 octobre – 1er novembre 1973

Œdème, secondaire aux injections de cortisones

Ulcères gastriques

Hypertension

Hépatite toxique

Mal de tête conséquente à un syndrome de Cushing

Hospitalisation II

28 janvier – 13 février 1975

Volvulus Sigmoïde[25]

Mégacôlon toxique[26]

Hypertension

Le foie gras

Hospitalisation III

21 août – 1er septembre 1975

Foie gras

Cholestérol élevé

Hypertension

MPOC (Maladie Pulmonaire Chronique Obstructive)

Mega-colon dû à l’abus de laxatif.

Hospitalisation IV[27]

1er au 5 avril 1977

Gastro

Douleur au nerf sciatique

Anémie légère.

Elvis s’est remis assez bien, et il a été en mesure de retourner faire ses spectacles. Il a pu fonctionner assez bien pour un moment. Ses abus de médicaments, sa diète et son style de vie ont néanmoins progressivement pris leur lourd tribut sur sa longévité et sa santé. Malheureusement, au début de 1974, la santé d’Elvis s’est clairement détériorée. Son oncle, Lester Presley a résumé ainsi le tout :

« Elvis était en forme entre 1957 et 1974. Mais à partir de 1974, il n’allait pas bien. Vous ne pouviez plus lui parler! ». À un moment donné le The Houston Post a écrit « Presley regardait, parlait, marchait et chantait comme un homme très malade ! ». Il se plaignait constamment de douleurs sur scène. On l’entendait dire à plusieurs occasions « Oh God ! J’ai mal ! »

Il a requis de nouveau une hospitalisation au début de 1975. Il continuait à avoir de l’hypertension ; un taux élevé de cholestérol ; et d’un mégacôlon.

Le docteur Nick a cru bon d’engager une infirmière à temps plein, Tish Henley, afin de s’occuper d’Elvis, à la fois à Graceland et en tournée. Elle essayait de garder les médicaments hors de sa portée, mais Elvis se détériorait mentalement et physiquement et pouvait difficilement rester seul. Le docteur Nick a décidé de lui faire un programme de médications, et de les lui faire administrer par l’infirmière. Ce programme a bien fonctionné pour un moment. Mais plus tard cette année-là, Elvis s’est écroulé lors d’un spectacle à Las Vegas. Son infirmière soupçonnait une overdose avec détresse respiratoire. Elle a pris des dispositions pour le faire transférer à Los Angeles et de là, à Memphis, où il a été admis au Baptist Memorial le 21 août 1975. Une nouvelle maladie avait apparu : de l’emphysème, même s’il ne fumait pas, et son affection du foie avait progressé, sans parler du mégacôlon qui était aussi présent. À la fin de 1976, il était si handicapé qu’il passait son temps dans sa chambre à ne vouloir voir personne, mangeant des cheeseburgers et acceptant les prescriptions du docteur Nick. Ces prescriptions contenaient une combinaison d’hydromorphe, d’ambarbital, de sodium, de methaqualone, de dextroamphitamine (dexedrine), de Percocet et d’hydrocodone. Il écoutait la télévision et la radio. Puis, motivé par sa petite amie Ginger Alden, Elvis a semblé aller mieux en janvier 1977. Mais cela n’a pas duré longtemps, car quelques semaines avant sa mort, Elvis est redevenu malade lorsqu’il était en tournée en Louisiane. Il avait de la nausée, et un flu intestinal. Sans parler de son nerf sciatique et le tendon qu’il s’était étiré. Il est rentré au Baptist-Memorial pour la quatrième et dernière fois le 1er avril 1977. Il avait de l’anémie, ainsi que son hépatite, ses MPOC (Maladie pulmonaire obstructive chronique), son glaucome, son hypertension et son mégacôlon.

La cause du déclin d’Elvis

Elvis avait clairement une histoire dont les processus avaient affecté une multitude d’organes – soit le foie, la colonne vertébrale et les yeux – mais à ce moment, ses médecins n’avaient aucune idée une maladie auto-immune progressive et inflammatoire. Le concept de « maladie auto-immune » commençait tout juste à être étudiée. À la défense du docteur Nick, celui-ci avait diagnostiqué chez Elvis un syndrome de Cushing et croyait que son mal de tête était inhérent au trauma crânien que son célèbre patient avait subi en 1967. Le docteur Nick me l’avait raconté : « Elvis n’a plus été le même après qu’il se soit cogné la tête en 1967 ».

Le trauma crânien

Le facteur le plus sous-estimé dans le déclin d’Elvis Presley et de sa mort prématurée a été les traumas crâniens répétitif. Il est maintenant reconnu que de multiples traumas crâniens peut causer une maladie auto-immune inflammatoire, qui peut ensuite attaquer n’importe quel organe dans l’organisme. Les termes contemporains pour qualifier les développements pathologiques [sic] qui peuvent faire suite à un trauma crânien sont des syndromes post-concussions, le TBI et les maux de têtes chroniques. Quelques-uns des symptômes post-traumatiques incluent la perte de mémoire, des traits obsessifs compulsifs, et un comportement irrationnel ou illogique[28]. Elvis a démontré plusieurs comportements obsessifs-compulsifs à certains moments de sa vie. Par exemple, il a donné des cadeaux très luxueux à de purs étrangers ; faisait affréter son avion pour traverser le pays sur des coups de tête ; et il s’était persuadé qu’il livrait une guerre légale et officielle à des trafiquants de drogues. À cette occasion en 1970 [sic][29] il a volé jusqu’à Washington de façon impulsive, et en a appelé au Président Nixon sans y être invité. Il s’est fait faire un lifting en 1975. Il dépensait plus de 500 000$ par mois et à sa mort, il était presque dans la dèche à cause de ses dépenses folles.

Le premier document où il est fait mention de trauma crânien remonte à 1956. On a rapporté qu’Elvis poussait sa Lincoln Continentale dans une station d’essence de Memphis et il a demandé au responsable de vérifier son système de climatisation. Lorsque des passants l’ont vu, ils ont accourus et l’ont entouré en lui demandant un autographe. Le responsable lui a alors demandé de dégager, et Elvis lui a répondu « Ok mon gars ! Donne-moi juste une minute ! », et il a continué à signer des autographes. L’autre s’est alors mis en colère et il a frappé Elvis au visage, envoyant la vedette au sol tête première. Elvis lui a rendu la politesse et un autre gars est sorti de nulle part pour se joindre à la bagarre. Les trois hommes ont été arrêtés et accusés d’agression, de mauvaise conduite, et de coups et blessures.

Plus tard cette année-là, Elvis et ses musiciens étaient assis à une longue table dans la salle Shalimar de l’Hôtel Perry de Toledo. Un jeune travailleur de la construction voulait impressionner une fille qu’il venait juste de rencontrer au bar. Il s’est rendu à la table d’Elvis, et lui a dit brusquement « Êtes-vous Elvis Presley ? ». Elvis s’est aussitôt levé et souriant lui a tendu la main. Mais plutôt que de recevoir de l’autre un geste amical, le gars s’est mis à tabasser Elvis. Il en a été assez sonné.

Juste avant qu’il n’entre dans l’Armée, en 1958, Elvis a réservé le rink de patins à roulettes Rainbow Rollerdome de Memphis pour 7 nuits en lignes et il a rassemblé une bande de patineur pour jouer à un jeu qu’il avait inventé de « guerre ». Au moins une fois Elvis a eu le dessous et s’est retrouvé sous tous les gars empilés par-dessus lui dans une foire d’empoigne. Les jeux étaient suffisamment durs pour qu’Elvis distribue à chacun du Percodan. Il en prenait 4 en une seule fois chaque fois qu’il jugeait en avoir besoin.

Cependant, le trauma le plus sérieux s’est produit à Bel Air, à Los Angeles en 1967, juste avant que commence le tournage du film Clambake. Il a trébuché sur le fil électrique dans sa salle de bain, et il est tombé tête première sur le bain en porcelaine. Il est tombé, assommé, et sans connaissance pendant une longue période – cependant, on ignore exactement combien de temps.

Il s’est réveillé et s’est mis à jurer, ce qui a réveillé Priscilla Presley, qu’il allait épouser quelques semaines plus tard. Elvis se frottait la tête et une bosse de la taille d’une balle de golf était apparue. Les médecins ont été appelés. Elvis leur a dit « Je crois que je me suis vraiment fait mal ! ». Le jour suivant, il n’était plus lui-même et il a dû être ramené à Memphis pour récupérer. Ses gardes du corps ont décrit son humeur comme étant déprimée et abattue. Sur le chemin du retour, il voulait arrêter fréquemment dans des cabines téléphoniques afin d’appeler un DJ de Memphis pour lui demander de façon répétitive qu’il fasse jouer la chanson Green Green Grass of Home de Tom Jones. Une fois arrivé à Graceland, il disait voir sa mère décédée assise sur le lit qu’elle occupait lorsqu’elle y avait vécu entre 1956 et 1958.

Après son traumatisme crânien, le comportement d’Elvis est devenu progressivement erratique et irrationnel. Par exemple, on a rapporté qu’en 1975 il refusait de se laver, à un point tel qu’il avait développé des plaies sur le corps. Il avait aussi commandé des comprimés inconnus de Suède qui selon lui le « laveraient de l’intérieur ». ��Pendant 2 semaines d’hospitalisation en Août-septembre 1975, il s’est plaint 26 fois de maux de tête ; de 14 insomnies et de douleurs générales 4 ou 5 fois sur chaque quart de travail des infirmières. Ces symptômes relèvent typiquement de traumatismes crâniens.

Les patients avec un trauma crâniens sont maintenant fréquemment référés aux Cliniques de douleurs. Leurs douleurs sont clairement d’une nature centrale qui a une distribution de fibromyalgie que les patients décrivent comme «douleurs partout », tel qu’Elvis se plaignait. Il en avait développé de sérieuses les dernières années de sa vie. Je traite des patients de trauma crâniens qui se plaignent d’avoir des douleurs sévères et constantes, de l’insomnie, des dépressions et une variété de déficiences mentales.

Tous ont eu des anormalités de la glande hypophyse et de signes de maladie auto-immunes.

Maladie inflammatoire auto-immune

Une analyse rétrospective des traumas crâniens d’Elvis montre clairement qu’Elvis a développé ou accéléré sa maladie auto-immune après son trauma crânien le plus sérieux en 1967. Ses blessures précédentes ont probablement contribué à sa détérioration, puisque les multiples traumas sont cumulatifs dans leurs effets. Plus il y en a, et plus les symptômes sont graves. Historiquement, on croit que l’auto-immunité suivant un trauma crânien a toujours été considérée comme étant le résultat d’un dysfonctionnement hypophysaire. On croit maintenant qu’un TC provoque un relâchement du tissu cérébral qui « s’égouttent » dans le système sanguin. Mais ces tissus cérébraux ne sont pas supposés se retrouver dans la circulation sanguine, parce que pas à leur place, ils sont toxiques ou plutôt antigènes[30] au reste de l’organisme. Si cela est vraiment arrivé, et je crois que c’est le cas, ceux-ci ont agi comme des agents infectieux ou vaccins puisque cela a fait en sorte que des anticorps se sont formés. Ces anticorps se sont ensuite attaqués à leur propre organisme. Il est même possible que ces anticorps anormaux ont attaqués et endommagé encore plus le cerveau.

Les anticorps « retournés » ont attaqué d’une façon aléatoire. Un jour ils attaquent les articulations ; le suivant, les yeux ; le cœur ou le foie. Presley a clairement souffert d’attaques multi-organes, basées sur son histoire clinique, et elles ont variées dans le temps d’une manière typiquement auto-immune. L’un des problèmes, avec l’auto-immunité est que cela produit de l’inflammation et abaisse la résistance de l’organisme face aux agents infectieux. L’inflammation des artères du cœur (coronaire) et du cerveau (cérébral) sont maintenant connus pour être le résultat final de l’inflammation [sic]. Presley avait de l’hypertension et de l’artériosclérose, indépendamment de sa maladie auto-immune, mais sa maladie auto-immune a indubitablement accéléré le processus inflammatoire. Il est notable qu’Elvis ne pouvait plus faire ses habituels sparages dans les deux dernières années de sa vie, conséquemment à la rigidité et la spasticité desquelles il était atteint. À certains moments, il devait même prendre une canne pour marcher. La douleur se développe dans les jointures et les muscles avec traumatisme crâniens. Il est probable que les prises de médicaments d’Elvis était surtout une automédication.

Abus de médicaments, addiction et overdoses.

Le problème de prise de médication d’Elvis Presley était légendaire. Ce qui n’est pas connu est qu’il a fait au moins 4 sérieuses overdoses qui l’ont amené dans le coma et qui ont nécessité une réanimation avant sa mort. Si quelqu’un survit à une overdose, le grand risque est un dommage cérébral qui est subséquent, vu le manque d’oxygène. Les abus de médicaments d’Elvis a commencé avec les amphétamines quand il était adolescent, et cela a pris de l’ampleur lorsqu’il est arrivé dans l’Armée. Il était connu pour soudoyer les pharmaciens allemands pour obtenir de grandes quantités d’amphétamines. Après sa décharge, Presley a passé une période à abuser de l’alcool. Cependant, il ne buvait pas régulièrement, mais quand il le faisait, il le faisait excessivement. Quand il buvait, il avait des crises de colère et il se battait physiquement avec des membres de son entourage. Il l’a fait au moins à 2 occasions. Vers la fin de la vingtaine, début trentaine, son alcoolisme était accompagné par une augmentation de l’usage d’amphétamines et de sédatifs. L’utilisation d’une telle médication a eu une progression fulgurante après sa chute dans la salle de bain en 1967, et il a ajouté l’utilisation d’opioïdes à ses abus. Malheureusement, Elvis avait un panel de médecins, de dentistes, et de pharmaciens en Californie, au Nevada et au Tennessee, complaisants, et qui le fournissaient en prescriptions. Certaines de ses connaissances ont relaté comment il les dupait pour les obtenir.

Le gérant d’Elvis, le Colonel Parker espérait que son mariage avec Priscilla était pour réduire cette consommation, et il a bien semblé que ce fut le cas pendant quelques temps. Cependant, l’usage de médicaments et ses comportements bizarres étaient devenus si terribles qu’elle l’a quitté en 1971. En janvier 1973, Elvis Presley était booké pour des spectacles à Las Vegas. Les médecins, au Hilton Hotel l’approvisionnaient en Dextroamphetamines, en diazepam, en ethinamate, en Hydromorphe et en Meperedine, de façon illimitée. Il a aussi commencé à s’injecter les opioïdes. Le dosage avec des drogues injectables sont difficiles à contrôler, et le 23 janvier 1973, Elvis a fait sa première overdose avec de l’hydromorphine injectable. Sa petite amie l’a trouvé comateux dans le lit, ne respirant presque pas. Heureusement, le médecin de l’hôtel a apporté de l’oxygène. Après cet épisode, il a continué à abuser de médicaments. Linda Thompson, la petite amie d’Elvis, a raconté qu’il prenait tellement de médication qu’il tombait endormi alors qu’il était en train de manger. Elle lui a d’ailleurs nettoyé le gosier à huit reprises pour éviter qu’il s’étouffe. Sa seconde overdose est survenue le 28 juin 1973, et le docteur Nick a dû le ranimer avec des stimulants.

Il y a deux théories pour lesquelles quelqu’un peut abuser de médicaments : la première est pour atteindre une certaine euphorie afin de s’évader d’une vie ennuyante ou d’une vie stressée. L’autre est que certaines personnes sont nées avec des sentiments étranges et qu’ils prennent alors une large variété pour se soigner eux-mêmes. Selon mon expérience, les patients qui ont eu des traumas crâniens prennent plusieurs médicaments pour traiter les symptômes étranges que cette condition puisse amener. Elvis semblait prendre cela pour les 2 raisons, à un moment ou un autre de sa vie. Un autre facteur est qu’il n’a jamais eu la chance de grandir et de devenir une personne normale. Avant ses 21 ans, il était célèbre, adoré, pourchassé et riche. C’est une route commune pour ceux qui n’ont jamais eu de vie.

Le docteur Nick a essayé tous les trucs qu’un médecin puisse essayer pour contrôler la prise de médication d’Elvis. Il trouvait un médicament dans la maison d’Elvis ou en tournée et il les détruisait. Il essayait de prescrire les médicaments les moins dangereux tout en gardant Elvis fonctionnel. Il substituait sans cesse des placébos. Le docteur Nick, Priscilla, et ses amis essayaient répétivement de le convaincre d’entrer en cure de désintoxication, mais il a toujours refusé. Selon les circonstances, je ne sais pas quels autres trucs a pu essayer son médecin pour l’aider. Une chose est claire : son abus de drogue l’a conduit à tomber, qui l’a conduit à son traumatisme crânien ; puis son trauma crânien à des overdoses, qui ont fini par lui ont endommager le cerveau. Au moment de mourir, il n’était plus fonctionnel et requérait qu’une infirmière s’occupât de lui constamment.

Sommaire

Cette analyse médicale a été donnée en grande partie pour attirer l’attention aux traumatisme crâniens. Je crois qu’Elvis Presley savait pertinemment que la maladie le conduirait à mourir, mais il ignorait pourquoi. En rétrospective, je crois qu’Elvis Presley était un cas classique de traumatisme crânien cumulatifs, suivi par une maladie auto-immune inflammatoire. Rien de tout ceci n’était connu ou reconnu à son époque. Je suis confiant qu’il serait content de savoir que sa situation difficile peut en avoir aidé d’autres, puisqu’il était gentil et généreux.

Seulement récemment on a compris que les traumatismes crâniens peuvent être la source de comportements bizarres tel que la réclusion, les habitudes obsessives compulsives, la paranoïa[31], l’hostilité, l’envie, les habitudes sexuelles, l’hygiène défaillante et l’utilisation de drogue. Cela peut aussi causer une dysfonction de la glande hypophyse et ainsi mettre en branle une maladie auto-immune inflammatoire qui peut produire, avec le temps, une multitude de dysfonctions de l’organisme. Le syndrome de douleurs central chronique du trauma crânien peut ne pas seulement produire de la douleur sous forme de maux de tête, mais également de la colonne vertébrale, des articulations et des muscles. Ces patients sont souvent faits mal diagnostiqués, ou on leur dit qu’ils ont de la fibromyalgie. Les traumatismes crâniens peuvent être cumulatifs, ce qui veut dire que chaque trauma additionnel ajoute un risque de symptomatologie. Les overdoses que Presley a eu sont souvent à la source de l’anoxie au cerveau et peuvent empirer les problèmes de dysfonction cérébral. Et tout au sommet de tout cela se sont trouvé être des problèmes génétiques qui incluaient de l’hypertension, un mégacôlon, des anomalies du cytochrome et une déficience de l’antitrypsin.

Par chance, aujourd’hui ces patients qui ont eu des traumas crâniens commencent maintenant à pratiquer fréquemment la douleur [sic]. Elvis Presley a certainement empiré sa condition avec une diète atroce, l’utilisation de médicaments en quantités dangereuses, et un style de vie pour le moins douteux. Cependant, une étude de l’histoire médicale d’Elvis Presley est très instructive à savoir comment un trauma crânien peut conduire à des conditions cliniques qui peuvent être prévenu et traité.

Crédits et sources utilisées

La plupart des sources utilisées, autre que les informations directement issues des dossier et archives d’Elvis Presley sont issus du livre intitulé Down The End of a Lonely Street : The Life and Death of Elvis Presley écrit par Peter Harry Brown et Pat Broeske. Cet ouvrage a été écrit en 1997, et contient des informations détaillées après des années d’enquête de la part de ces deux auteurs. J’ai contribué aux faits tel que je les ai connus, mais la connaissance de la condition sous-jacente n’était pas connue à l’époque. En partie suite à mes encouragements et à ceux des autres, le docteur George Nichopoulos a donné une entrevue à Dennis Breo, de l’American Medical Association en 1986, qui contenait plusieurs de ses pensées médicales concernant Elvis. Le livre I Called Him Babe : Elvis Presley’s Nurse Remembers, par Marion J. Cocke était très éclairant sur son état détérioré et ses soins médicaux puisqu’elle était sa principale infirmière accréditée à Memphis.

Cet article n’aurait pas pu être écrit sans l’aide directe de Carol Shiflett, de Sewick, en Pennsylvanie, auteur de Migraine Brains and Bodies : A comprehensive Guide to Solving the Mystery of Your Migraines and Aikido Exercices for Teaching and Training. Carol est un vrai journaliste-expert des trauma crâniens, et il a été en mesure de m’aider et de démêler les mystères médicaux d’Elvis Presley.

Traduction : Kareen Healey

NOTES OF THE AUTHOR

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Notes: This article was originally published June 17, 2013 and most recently updated June 14, 2017.

NOTES, RÉFÉRENCES ET EXPLICATIONS :

[1] Les opioïdes désignent les médicaments issus de la feuille de Coca, et qui tiennent le rôle d’analgésiques (antidouleurs). De façon générale, ils sont prescrits, suite à des chirurgies importantes pour enrayer les douleurs aigües. Ils peuvent aussi être prescrits pour des douleurs chroniques. Ces substances, légales et banales jusqu’à la Seconde Guerre mondiale dans les pays occidentaux, elles sont très contrôlées de nos jours car elles engendrent une très grande dépendance physiologique (manifestations telles qu’agitation, augmentation substantielle des battement cardiaques, de la pression artérielle, douleurs au cœur, tremblements, sueurs froides, etc.) et dépendance psychologique. Il y a aussi des opioïdes synthétiques, tels que le Fentanyl et la Méthadone, qui sont de loin beaucoup plus puissants que leurs pendants naturels.

[2] La cardiomégalie est une augmentation de la taille du cœur – que l’on appelait autrefois un « cœur de bœuf ».

[3] Hypertrophie du ventricule gauche : ou (HGV) est l’épaississement de la cavité du muscle de la cavité inférieur du ventricule gauche qui est la principale cavité qui pompe le sang. Elle peut être causée par une sténose aortique ou une hypertension artérielle.

[4] Arthrosclérose coronarienne : Maladie coronarienne. C’est le rétrécissement d’une artère par le cholestérol et pour laquelle on fait des pontages.

[5] Œdème pulmonaire : C’est une insuffisance cardiaque du ventricule gauche aiguë et grave avec hypertension veineuse pulmonaire et inondation alvéolaire.

[6] Ponction pulmonaire : liquide dans les poumons.

[7] Hépatomégalie : Augmentation de la taille du foie

[8] Splénomégalie : Augmentation du volume de la rate.

[9] Néphrosclérose : atteinte rénale provoquée par la présence d'une hypertension artérielle.

[10] Sclérose papillaire : rétrécissement d’une papille.

[11] Idem que l’arthrosclérose.

[12] Inflammation de la conjonctive : Inflammation de l’œil infecté par un virus, des bactéries et des champignons

[13] Perforation cardiaque : est une tamponnade cardiaque, soit l’accumulation de liquide dans l’enveloppe d’un ventricule.

[14] Hépatomégalie : Augmentation de la taille du foie

[15] La péricardite restrictive est caractérisée par l’épaississement du péricarde (enveloppe qui contient le cœur) ce qui gêne le remplissage et l’expansion des cavités. Cela se caractérise par une insuffisance cardiaque et un œdème des membres inférieurs, une augmentation de la taille du foie (hépatomégalie), une turgescence des jugulaires (gonflement) marqué à l’inspiration.

[16] Déficience en Alpha 1- Il s’agit d’un trouble héréditaire dans lequel l’absence ou le faible taux en enzymes alpha-1 antitrypsine cause des lésions aux poumons et au foie. Les adultes atteints peuvent ainsi développer de l’enphyzème, un sifflement ou de l’essoufflement

[17] Cellules T : Ce sont des types de lymphocytes, que l’on appelle aussi globules blancs qui aident à la réponse immunitaire à reconnaître les infections et à détruire les cellules anormales. Elles sont impliquées dans la réaction auto-immune, on peut deviner ici comment.

[18] Lymphocytes : Ils sont la mémoire du système immunitaire capable de reconnaître les antigènes, c’est-à-dire virus ou tout corps étranger qui envahit l’organisme d’une façon ou d’une autre.

[19] Maladie auto-immune : Une défectuosité du système immunitaire où les « petits soldats » (c’est-à-dire les anticorps) qui normalement s’en prennent à un envahisseur étranger (virus, infection, etc.) à l’organisme afin de le protéger, finissent plutôt par s’en prendre à leur « propre camp », c’est-à-dire à l’organisme lui-même, essayant de le détruire en partie (comme dans le cas de la sclérose en plaque ou la Fibrose Kystique)ou en totalité, comme dans le cas d’une allergie mortelle, par exemple. Dans le cas d’Elvis, il n’y avait que des parties de son propre organisme qui était touché, cependant, les conséquences ont fini par être dangereuses pour lui.

[20] Éosinophilie : Augmentation d’une substance présente dans le sang, l’Éosinophile, et lorsqu’elle dépasse 1500, comme dans le cas d’Elvis, cela peut provoquer une leucémie, la maladie de Crohn ou de Whipple.

[21] Le QT long : le cœur prend plus de temps qu’il le devrait pour se recharger entre deux battements cardiaques. Cela peut être dû à la prise d’opioïdes, mais cela peut également être le fait d’un problème hypophysaire comme le Cushing ou de thyroïde.

[22] Le tableau 2 note que la codéine avait un ratio de morphine de 36 pour 1. Aujourd’hui, nous savons que la codéine doit être convertie en morphine comme antidouleur. La codéine est métabolisée par les enzymes cytochrome P450-2D6 (CYP2D6) du foie. Si cette enzyme fait défaut, la conversion ne se fait pas, ce qui fait en sorte que la codéine s’accumule à des niveaux toxiques dans le sang qui peuvent causer des arythmies cardiaques, particulièrement si d’autres drogues sont présentes dans le sang et si le cœur est déjà endommagé. Si Elvis avait un métabolisme rénal normal, la présence de codéine dans son sang aurait été beaucoup plus basse dans son sang et le niveau de morphine aurait été beaucoup plus haute sur le rapport toxicologique.

[23] Le tableau 2 note que la codéine avait un ratio de morphine de 36 pour 1. Aujourd’hui, nous savons que la codéine doit être convertie en morphine comme antidouleur. La codéine est métabolisée par les enzymes cytochrome P450-2D6 (CYP2D6) du foie. Si cette enzyme fait défaut, la conversion ne se fait pas, ce qui fait en sorte que la codéine s’accumule à des niveaux toxiques dans le sang qui peuvent causer des arythmies cardiaques, particulièrement si d’autres drogues sont présentes dans le sang et si le cœur est déjà endommagé. Si Elvis avait un métabolisme rénal normal, la présence de codéine dans son sang aurait été beaucoup plus basse dans son sang et le niveau de morphine aurait été beaucoup plus haute sur le rapport toxicologique.

[24] Elvis a été appelé sous les drapeaux pour ses 22 ans, soit en 1957. Cependant, comme il était alors en train de tourner le film King Creole, le Colonel – et Hall Walis directeur de la MGM – ont demandé aux Forces Armées si Elvis ne pourrait pas avoir quelques mois de libre avant de se présenter au bureau de conscription de Memphis, étant donné que beaucoup d’argent serait perdu si le film devait être laissé en plan jusqu’à son retour, trois ans plus tard. Reprendre alors le tournage aurait été impossible, étant donné qu’Elvis n’aurait plus tout à fait la même apparence, et cela se verrait au grand écran. De bonne grâce, l’Armée a accepté de différer son enrôlement, qui s’est alors faite en mars 1958 jusqu’en 1960.

[25] Retournement d’une partie du tube digestif (colon, très souvent) sur lui-même. Il y a mortalité environ dans 20% des cas, la plupart du temps par gangrène.

[26] Complication potentiellement fatale d’une affection intestinale. Il est caractérisé par un côlon très dilaté qui peuvent provoquer de la fièvre, des douleurs abdominales, ou d’un état de choc. Cela peut être causé par une maladie chronique inflammatoire de l’intestin (comme la maladie de Crohn) ou une constipation chronique.

[27] Hospitalisation 1960 : Fracture d’un doigt et hospitalisation 1975 : Infection suite à un lifting

[28] Le délire religieux qu’avait Elvis à partir de 1968 qui alla crescendo jusqu’à sa mort en faisait probablement partie.

[29] En fait, c’était plus justement en 1972 où Elvis s’était levé aux petites heures du matin pour déployer son Boeing 707 et aller à Washington pour demander une rencontre personnelle avec le Président des États-Unis Richard Nixon. Celui-ci le reçut, et à la demande d’Elvis, lui donna une plaque de la DEA (Drug Enforcement Administration). Elvis retourna chez lui quelques heures plus tard, se disant devenu agent effectif et sous couverture de cette agence américaine. Cependant, une lettre accompagnait la plaque qu’Elvis a toujours caché au public, par lequel la direction de l’agence fédérale stipulant bien qu’il ne s’agissait que d’un « trophée » ; d’une « parure » , mais en aucun cas d’une plaque lui octroyant quelle que droit que ce soit d’arrestation ou de punition. C’est d’ailleurs à partir de là que les rumeurs ont débuté après son décès, affirmant qu’Elvis avait dû être mis sur le programme de protection des témoins et faire croire à sa mort. D’autres auraient même vu les hélicoptères sur la pelouse de Graceland dans l’après-midi du 16 août 1977, date à laquelle Elvis est décédé.

[30] Les antigènes sont des protéines étrangères à l’organisme. Les virus sont des antigènes. Ils déclenchent la multiplication des lymphocytes B qui se transforment en plasmocytes qui sécrètent les anticorps qui eux, sont les « petits soldats » qui sont chargés de détruire les antigènes. Les lymphocytes T sont la « mémoire » capables de reconnaître les antigènes. C’est leur reproduction que visent les vaccins. Le Covid est un antigène, et sa présence déclenche la multiplication des Lymphocytes B qui deviennent des plasmocytes en mesure de sécréter les anticorps. Lorsqu’on est vaccinés, on reçoit des Lymphocytes T qui est la mémoire du système immunitaire et qui le reconnaîtra si celui-ci se manifeste de nouveau. Pour Elvis, ce sont les morceaux de son propre tissu cérébral qui déclenchait toute cette réponse immunitaire.

[31] Dans les années 70, il a fait une obsession que les fans, venus le voir à ses spectacles, puisent lui voler les énormes bagues qu’il portait.

#elvis presley #lisa marie presley #maladie héréditaire #maladie auto-immune #mort

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fittish · 10 months ago

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part 2!

For about half the walk Neal was sweltering, sweat pasting his shirt to his back. Then like a switch flipped he was freezing again, trembling to his core and resisting the urge to wrap his arms around himself.

Amid all this his head was swimming, he could barely focus on not running into anyone, and it finally occurred to him that this really wasn’t going to work.

He was in no shape to go undercover. He just had to tell Peter. Even though every aching bone in his body told him to keep hiding it, never betray any weakness, get the job done, that’s what he had always known. But he tried to fight the instinct, Peter wasn’t like that, this job wasn’t like that.

The van came into view, parked a little ways up from the cafe. Neal braced himself and climbed inside.

It was just Peter in there, focused intensely on a screen of security footage. He glanced up at Neal’s arrival.

“Hey, Neal. Thanks for coming in on a weekend. I just saw the suspect enter the building about two minutes ago. Sit down, I’ll get your wire.”

Neal opened his mouth, willing himself to get the words out. He was sick, too sick to do this. With a fever and aches and- and- he couldn’t make himself do it. Everything was getting hot again, his head spun and he sank down into a chair without saying anything.

Peter wheeled over to him, wire in hand. He looked like he was about to say something, but stopped when he actually got a good look at his CI. Various shades of suspicion and concern colored Peter’s features before soft realization won out.

“You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question.

Neal’s eyes flitted back and forth before meeting Peter’s. “Yes.” He sighed, eliciting a couple crackling coughs.

Peter didn’t say anything, just reached out a hand and pressed it against Neal’s forehead. It was soothingly cool against his hot skin, and Neal almost whimpered when Peter pulled away.

“Jesus, Neal, you’re on fire. Why’d you even come out here?”

“I wanted to solve the case. And you asked. I thought I could handle it, but…”

“But you’re sick as a dog,” Peter finished for him. The agent sat back, contemplating, before he spoke again.

“Okay, here’s the plan. Don’t worry about this guy, we’ll get him soon enough. I’ll drop you off at home, and return the van. Get my car, then come pick you up.”

Neal squinted at him. “Pick me up? For what?”

“To take you to my place. I just… want to keep an eye on you.”

“You can just check my ankl-“

“That’s not what I meant,” Peter interrupted, his expression serious. “That fever is no joke, Neal, and I doubt you even own a thermometer.” His eyes lightened slightly. “Plus, El makes the best chicken soup you’ll ever have.”

Even through his fevered daze, Neal could sense the genuine care and worry in Peter’s words, it made a strange feeling in his heart.

“….You don’t have to drop me off, I can walk,” Neal finally responded.

Peter let out half a chuckle. “Right. If you can make it to the other side of the van on your own, I’ll let you walk.”

Neal gave an indignant look, but as soon as he stood, black spots crowded his vision. He lilted forward, and Peter rose to catch him by the shoulders, letting the CI’s weight fall limp against him. It was only a second before Neal stirred, barely lifting his head to mumble, “Fine.”

Peter just hummed affirmative, setting Neal down in a seat before heading to the driver’s.

After Peter dropped him off, Neal did manage to get into the house on his own. Unable to convince himself to climb the stairs to his apartment, though, he landed in June’s sitting room instead.

Reclined on a small sofa, Neal hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep until he woke up to the feeling of another hand on his forehead. It was smaller and softer than Peter’s, and Neal pried his eyes open to see June’s worried face hovering over him.

Neal immediately slid back on the couch, trying to distance himself from her. He jerked a hand up to his face as a burning itch overwhelmed his nose.

“hhH’KSHhuh! huh! hhH’PPSCHhuh!”

“Oh Neal, bless you, sweetie.”

“Mmmh, June,” Neal croaked, “you should really stay away."

“You’re just like Byron, not letting anyone fuss,” she tutted, though at the sound of the doorbell she did move away, letting Peter in with a soft hello.

Neal felt sleep pulling at him again while he listened to them talk.

“Yes, I found him asleep right there, I don’t think he’s been upstairs.”

“Mhm. Thanks, June.”

Peter was crouching in front of him now, and Neal tried his best to keep his eyes open.

“Neal, hey, do you want anything from your apartment?”

Thinking felt out of reach, so Neal just shook his head.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Peter stood, offering a hand which Neal limply grabbed, letting himself be pulled to standing. A wave of dizziness overcame him, but once everything straightened, he was able to follow Peter out the door, waving a weak goodbye to June as he passed her.

Neal was barely aware through the ride to Peter’s house, though the familiar interior of the agent’s car was comforting. Peter was silent, and Neal tried to sleep again, but every bump in the road rattled his aching brain.

“Peter?” he rasped.

“Yeah?”

“Are Jones and Diana this sick?”

“Uh, no. You’re just special,” Peter replied lightheartedly, but Neal could see the concern overhanging his gaze.

Once they arrived, Neal took as deep a breath as he could manage before pulling himself up and out of the car, pleased when he didn’t black out. He followed Peter inside and couldn’t help but smile a little when he heard Elizabeth’s voice from the kitchen.

“Peter? I wasn’t sure if you’d be home, so I didn’t make you any lunch. I can- oh, Neal!” She had wandered over while talking, and stopped at the sight of Neal’s disheveled form.

“Hey, hon,” Peter greeted, stepping forward to give her a kiss. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but he’s really sick, and I wanted to keep an eye.”

“Oh! Yeah, I mean, of course.” She approached Neal with purpose, reaching up to cup his cheek and frowning at the heat she found.

“Well that’s no good. Neal, sweetie, do you think you could eat something?”

Neal just shook his head.

“Okay. Hon, will you help him upstairs? I need to gather some supplies.”

Peter had to grin at his wife’s endless compassion. “Of course.”

Neal made it up the stairs on his own, but it sapped the very last of any energy he had left. He breathed hard at the top, devolving into a coughing fit that tore at his already wrecked throat. Peter rubbed his back through it, and kept a hand there to lead him to the master bedroom.

Once there, Peter deposited him on the bed and turned to dig in the dresser beside it. He faced Neal again, a pair of flannel pajama pants and a well-worn FBI sweatshirt in hand.

“I know it’s not your usual fancy digs, but these are the comfiest clothes I’ve got.”

If he were feeling slightly more like himself, Neal would have scoffed at the idea of wearing Peter’s cozy pajamas. As it was, though, he just wanted desperately to take his suit off and go the hell to sleep, so he held out his hands.

Peter handed him the clothes with a satisfied grin.

“I’ll leave you to it. Try not to pass out again, huh?”

Neal made an indistinct noise in response, already tugging off his tie.

By the time Peter knocked on the door, he received a hoarse “come in” and entered to see Neal stood in front of the mirror, absolutely swimming in Peter’s oversized crewneck. Elizabeth followed him in with an armful of supplies.

“Neal, sweetie, please sit down! Make yourself comfortable.”

Neal looked at them in bleary confusion. “This is your bed. I- I can stay on the couch.”

Elizabeth clicked her tongue. “Oh please Neal, I insist. You need some quality rest, and for that you need to sleep in a bed.”

Neal blinked at her but complied, sinking down onto the edge of the bed while El set down everything she had brought. Peter just watched, unsure of what to do now that El had gone full mother hen.

Neal watched her with glazed over eyes, sniffling lightly. Elizabeth pulled a thermometer from her pile and gently placed it in Neal’s mouth.

He had the fuzzy thought that if he were more with it he’d probably feel incredibly awkward, sat in El and Peter’s bed while they hovered over him. As it was, he only felt exhausted. He sat quietly until the thermometer beeped, letting El take it back and watching her expression darken at the readout.

“103, Neal? Lie down, now please. Hon, will you get a wet washcloth?”

Peter nodded and disappeared into the ensuite. El offered a hand and helped Neal stand so she could pull back the covers, gesturing for Neal to get in. He did so, his body feeling so heavy he basically just fell in, letting his eyes close while Elizabeth adjusted the blankets around him.

Peter returned, handing off the washcloth for El to place it gently across his CI’s burning forehead. Neal groaned quietly, but didn’t open his eyes, and his breathing seemed to slow and relax. Peter and El shared a look before creeping out of the room, closing the door most of the way.

“Oh, shit,” El said in a low voice, “I didn’t give him any fever reducers.”

“It’s okay, let’s just let him sleep,” Peter responded, “If it hasn’t gone down in a couple hours, then we drug him.”

El gave an amused smile, though worry still dominated her soft features.

“Okay,” she sighed, then stretched up to kiss her husband. “Come on, let’s have some lunch.”

untitled neal suffering

sooo i’ve had this 90% written for like two years at this point, and i’m finally satisfied enough to post it. this is part 1, more will come almost immediately i just wanted to break it up a bit. enjoy!!

Thursday

Peter’s team was a tight knit group, almost a family. It was honestly one of the things Neal loved most about his job, even if their closeness sometimes led to less than stellar situations.

When Diana had sneezed once in the elevator down to the van, she quickly brushed it off as nothing.

It was more than nothing now, if the sudden blessings from Peter ringing in his earpiece were any indication.

“Gesundheit.” A long pause. Neal was barely paying attention to the store he was meant to be casing, straining to hear the conversation going on in the van.

“Yeah, we can handle this. Go home.”

Looking out the window across the street, Neal smirked as he watched Diana hop out the back of the van. She got a few steps away before clearly bending with the force of a sneeze caught into her cupped hands.

As he watched her sneeze again before walking away, he felt a brief sympathetic itch in his nose. He gave it a firm rub, taking a deep breath and getting back into character as George Price.

The rest of the day was uneventful, though after dinner there was a scratchiness lingering in his throat that several cups of water didn’t wash away. He went to bed early, hoping to stomp any buds of illness before they took root.

***

Friday

Neal woke up feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. His head and throat ached, and when he tried to draw a breath it whistled stuffily through his nostrils, sending a tickle cascading through them.

“Hih’kSSH!” He caught the quiet sneeze in his folded fingers with practiced precision, then pinched his nose against the lingering irritation.

Standing felt like a monumental task, but once he was up Neal was pleasantly surprised to see he didn’t look half as bad as he felt, maybe a touch pale.

Getting dressed actually made him feel somewhat better, more alert at least, even though his collar and tie felt slightly suffocating against his sore throat. He downed a glass of water, not finding any appetite for breakfast, and headed to the office.

Stepping off the elevator, Neal noted Diana was nowhere in sight, still out for the count then. He tried to sniff inconspicuously, fighting with the growing itch in his nose. His cause wasn’t helped when he saw Jones turn away from his desk and into his elbow, mostly muffling a violent sneeze.

“HWRRFSSSH!”

“Not you too,” Neal offered as he approached with a sympathetic smirk, willing his own nose not to betray him.

Jones brushed him off with a flick of his hand. “I’ll be alright, we need the manpower on this case. I told Peter I’d go home if I needed to.”

Neal just nodded, turning back to go to his own desk, scrubbing briefly at his nose.

By the time Jones went home a few hours later, coughing often enough to agree he was distracting more than helping, Neal was barely holding on to his veneer of health.

An uncomfortable, itchy fullness consumed his nose, and his whole body was starting to ache. His head was swimming, and he wondered if he wasn’t getting feverish. He still wasn’t looking too bad, from his brief assessments in the bathroom mirror when he hid there to blow his nose. He pointedly avoided Peter anyway, determined to stay undetected and on the case after they’d lost two agents already.

He made it through the day apparently without raising Peter’s suspicion. He was immensely grateful it had been a stay in the office, pore over paperwork kind of day, as he had zero energy for fieldwork and suspected his voice would give him away before long. With that in mind he kept his goodbye to Peter as short as possible, turning down a ride home and leaving as fast as he could still make seem casual.

His nose started to drip and itch in the stuffy elevator, and he cursed the fact there were other people riding with him, or he would have let himself sneeze. As it was he held it back, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth and taking shallow, careful breaths. When the doors finally opened, he rushed to get out of the building, where the cold sting of fresh air and the holding back combined to overwhelm him. His face fell into his steepled hands as a mess of overdue sneezes forced their way out.

“heh’TSsh! huh’tTCH! hH’PSSch! -tSSch! -kSSChh! hH’ESCHSschuh!”

Thoroughly disgusted and embarrassed, Neal reluctantly tugged his silk pocket square from its place, wiping his moistened hands and upper lip before shoving it in his back pocket and striding away. Luckily, it seemed like all the FBI agents streaming out the doors were far more interested in getting home than paying any mind to Neal’s display.

***

Getting home took any remaining wind out of Neal’s sails, and finally walking through June’s door was an enormous relief. He hurried upstairs, not inclined to share his burgeoning illness with his sweet landlady.

Once in his apartment, Neal took off his shoes and tie as fast as he could as he beelined for his bed. As he disrobed the rest of the way, a glance in the mirror told him he was definitely looking worse for wear now. He pointedly averted his gaze and collapsed into bed, not caring that it wasn’t even 6pm.

Sleep came quickly with the promising thought that he had nothing to do for the weekend, he could just sleep this sickness away.

***

Saturday

It was especially upsetting, then, when Neal woke with a start to the shrill tone of his phone ringing. Grabbing at it, he blearily made out Peter’s name and the time: 9:13am. He groaned and answered it.

“Hm?” His voice was strained and hoarse, he fought the urge to cough.

By contrast, Peter’s voice sounded strong and clear. “Neal. Sorry if I woke you, but it’s important. I just got word that our suspect is attending a brunch downtown. If we catch him there, we just might be able to close this case early. But we’d have to send you in. Are you game?”

Neal rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, weighing his options. He felt much worse than he had yesterday, head heavy and nose completely blocked, almost definitely feverish. But the idea of finishing the case early and the subtle trill of excitement in Peter’s voice made him push it all aside.

He covered the mic on the phone for a second, clearing his throat forcefully.

“I’m game.”

“Great.” Neal could hear the smile in Peter’s voice and couldn’t help but smirk himself. “It’s not too far from you, Cafe Lune, meet me there at 10.”

“Ok.” Neal hung up without another word, suddenly unable to hold back a couplet of itchy sneezes.

“hih’TSSChh! -k’tSSCH! Uhh…”

Reluctantly he slid out of bed and immediately found himself freezing. He shivered his way to the shower, and though the hot water felt amazing at first, after just a couple minutes he started to get lightheaded. Even after getting out and drying off, the dizzy, overheated feeling followed him, and he started to sweat as he buttoned his shirt and pulled on his slacks.

After getting dressed and forcing down a slice of toast, Neal felt… just as awful as before. The shower had cleared his breathing somewhat, but outwardly he looked a mess. Shadows hung under his eyes, his cheeks were flushed, and despite all his effort, he just couldn’t hold himself with the same casual confidence that was usually second nature to him.

A brief look at his watch had Neal sighing, tightening his tie, and setting out for the cafe.

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mimipippin · 7 years ago

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mix n match ships ♥

#its just for fun please no angry messages #ship whoever u want tbh #just no alden x pris cus theyre cousins ok?#oc #original #alden #dior #cyrus #neale

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set-phasers-to-whump · 3 years ago

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shielding

prompt: human shield

whumpee: neal caffrey

fandom: white collar

here you go anon! sorry it took me a hot minute but i’m finally on break and free to write :) this fic is set around s2 or 3 probably. hope you enjoy!

Honestly, he doesn’t even think about it. Their suspect lunges at Peter with a knife in his hand and every molecule in Neal’s body jolts into action at once and he’s moving before he even reaches the conscious decision to move. He jumps in front of Peter, pushing him aside with enough force to send him to the floor, nearly falling over himself. There’s a piercing hot pain in his shoulder, but it really doesn’t hurt that much, he’s fine, which is a shock, to be honest, but -

Oh. There’s the pain.

He drops to his knees, reaching up to grab onto the knife still protruding from his body and pull it out, because that’ll help, right? He needs to make this stop hurting. It’s an overwhelming pain, red and hot and too much, and he needs to focus because Peter is still here and so is the suspect, surely, and that means Peter’s still in danger but he can’t do anything about any of that because of how much this hurts, so he has to make it stop. His fist closes around the handle of the knife and he shuts his eyes, preparing to pull it out.

And then another hand wraps around his and pries his fingers away from the handle, jostling the knife a bit in the process. He cries out and his body instinctively tries to curl up around his injury, but instead he finds himself being guided down to lie flat on the ground, which is nice and cool in contrast to the burning hot pain.

“Neal? Can you open your eyes, please?”

Peter - that’s Peter’s voice. He opens his eyes and his mouth, says, “where’s -” and then has to stop talking because that is taking up way too much energy.

Somehow Peter understands what he means anyway, because he replies, “he ran. I’ve notified the FBI. We’ll have him by the end of the day.”

“Chase…him?” Neal asks, feeling that his question is somewhat lacking in substance.

“I couldn’t,” Peter replies, removing his jacket and crumpling it up. “I had just been knocked to the ground and, much more importantly, he stabbed you.”

Neal can’t quite work out what Peter means by that particular statement - why should him getting stabbed mean that Peter can’t chase after the bad guy? - but he isn’t given any time to think about this. Peter presses his jacket carefully around the knife, pushing down firmly, and the pain spikes so intensely that Neal’s vision turns white. He screams - though it’s entirely possible he’s only screaming in his head, he really doesn’t know - but the pain doesn’t go away, it builds and builds and he knows he can’t make it stop but it needs to stop, it hurts and he thinks he might pass out and he knows that can’t be good but on the other hand if he passes out he won’t be in pain anymore but -

His hand. There’s something touching his hand - holding his hand, so tightly it’s almost painful, tightly enough to ground him to the Earth. The pain in his shoulder recedes by the smallest amount, the whiteness retreats to the edges of his vision, and he returns the grip that Peter has on his hand, fingers digging in so tightly that it must hurt. Sure enough, he hears Peter take in a sharp breath, but despite this he lets Neal keep holding on.

“Don’t you ever do this again,” Peter says, after a beat of silence, and it takes Neal a very long time to work out what he means. “I’m the FBI agent here, not you. I’m the one that’s supposed to protect you, not the other way around.”

Neal would ask if Peter’s jealous that he got to do Peter’s job this time, but he doubts he can actually form the sentence, and anyway, Peter’s tone suggests that joking is probably not the way to go at the moment. He settles for a nod, short and jerky against the hard concrete beneath him.

“Not that I don’t appreciate you risking your life for me, but that is not your job and I cannot ask for it to be.”

You don’t have to ask, Neal thinks, but since he can’t actually say anything, Peter continues talking. “So do not do anything like this again. I can’t - I’m not going to lose you because you took a hit that was meant for me, you understand?”

Neal manages another nod, which he hopes doesn’t look as fake as it feels. Because he’s not just going to sit back and let Peter - let alone anyone, for that matter, but Peter especially - get hurt while he is able to do something about it. He just can’t do that, not now, not anymore.

He’s about to try and say something to this effect when an especially bad spike of pain radiates through his shoulder, and he must black out for a second because when he opens his eyes he’s moving and there are other people around and he can’t see Peter, which freaks him out for a second, but then he stops moving - he’s pretty sure he’s in an ambulance now - and Peter’s right there. Their eyes meet and Peter smiles, stressed and anxious but genuine. “You’re going to be fine,” he says, and the statement is so simple but Peter sounds so certain that Neal believes him completely. “But don’t think we’re done talking about…this.”

Neal nods yet again, in response to both of Peter’s statements - he knows he’s going to be okay, and he also knows that there’s no way Peter will let him off easy for this. He can feel himself starting to drift off, courtesy of whatever drugs the EMTs have given him, and he uses his last bit of remaining energy to finally actually say something before he falls asleep. “I know you’re upset. But…for the record, I’m glad I did it.”

He’s asleep before he can hear Peter’s response.

thanks for reading! hope you have a great evening or whatever it is you’re having <3<3

#bad things happen bingo #human shield #white collar #neal caffrey #stabbed #cared for #my writing #i say things #shielding is like a fucken. chem concept but whatever it works lmao #this is not the best but also not the worst! win for me :)

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hekate1308 · 3 years ago

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Fictober 2021, #20

Prompt: That’s What I’m Known For

Fandom: White Collar

Pairings: Gen

Warnings: N/A

Deep down, Neal had known that this was dangerous. No, wrong word – if course he had known this was dangerous; any work like theirs was, with so much money involved.

Still, it had seemed easy enough in the beginning – just another arms dealer who had decided that it was much easier and seemingly legal to be paid in paintings, and there was that Turner had been rumoured to make the rounds…

Of course they had to check this out.

In this case, Peter had decided that he would play the part of Thomas Cushing, investment banker with a history of wrongdoings, while Neal was his “art guy” as he had put it, the one who could verify originals at a glance.

To be fair, it was far from incorrect, and so he had agreed.

And even so, he had had a bad feeling. There was something about the bad guy of the week – Tobias Kent – that had reminded him of Keller from the start, and if that wasn’t a sign that something might go wrong, he didn’t know what was.

But there was the anklet on his leg, and he had his duties, and furthermore, he was most definitely not allowing Peter to go there alone.

And so here they were. Kent was busy inspecting the hand grenade that the FBI had handed them, since the contraband they were stoking was still enough to make any conman want to weep.

“And you say you have about five hundred of these?”

“And all in best condition, of course” he said simply. “Now, what about your end of the bargain?”

“I assume this is your expert?” He studied Neal and raised an eyebrow. “Since I highly doubt he’s your body guard.”

“I can look after myself” Peter said smoothly.

“I don’t doubt it. Now, here it is…”

Neal immediately saw that it was real. This brush work… no one else could have done this, no one could have imitated it. Not even Neal himself. Not that he went in for forgery, these days. Too risky, especially since Peter would have suspected him immediately.

But he had to put on a show, so he did just that, tilting his hat to the side and leaning over the painting.

“Looks good” Peter supplied, playing ignorant even though Neal could tell he, too, had figured out that it was real. “Wat do you say, Nick?”

Kent threw them a glance and Neal resisted the urge to roll his eyes. With Peter having his back at all times, this latest crook was far from the first to assume that there was more between them. Well, let him speculate – it could only be good for them if he was distracted.

And so, he made a bit of a show of it, muttering nonsense to himself that sounded real enough and eventually stood up straight. “It’s real.”

“I do hope you didn’t suspect me of foul play.”

“Just making sure, Mr. Kent” Peter said simply.

“Oh. You mean like with your little friends listening in from the van outside?”

Neal’s blood ran cold.

“I don’t know what you –“

“Oh, I think you do, Agent Burke. Or should we remind him, Mr. Caffrey?” He grinned at them. “Rather strong of you to assume that you wouldn’t be known by now.”

Neal met Peter’s eyes as three guns were pointed at them. That was the problem – such criminals always had more than one goon with them while they were on their own. Yes, Diana and Jones were in the van, but they couldn’t risk doing anything if they didn’t want them to get hurt.

Well, it seemed like he would have to distract them.

And so, he blinked, once, twice, in rapid succession and snatched the painting. “In that case, you better catch me.”

And he darted out of the room.

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

Five minutes later, him having chased two of the goons around the building, he heard Peter, “Neal? You can come out now!”

He’d actually found refuge in an elevator shaft and quickly pried the doors back open.

“There you are”.

“Yep” he handed him the painting. “Careful with that –“

Peter shook his head. “Told them you hadn’t legged it.”

Until now, it hadn’t occurred to Neal that he actually would have tried to do so. But that would have meant leaving Peter behind. And that was unthinkable.

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

“Well, it could have gone better, but we got him alright” Peter summarized their day with his usual sang-froid that evening, turning off the lamp on his desk.

“Thanks for trusting me” Neal said, without really meaning to, but he couldn’t help it – it would have been so easy to assume that he was actually trying to get away with the painting. Most agents would have thought so, he was sure.

“Of course, Neal” Peter shrugged, getting up, “That’s what I’m know for around here, after all.”

#fictober21 #my writings #white collar #peter burke #neal caffrey

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dreamlandiasims · 2 years ago

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Part One - Frankie

story intro | next

Lori: You're awake.

Frankie: Hm.

Lori: I think we’re almost there, I can see a town up ahead.

Frankie: Hm.

Lori: Look, you’re mad at me, I get it. But can we please just—

[BANG]

Frankie: Did we hit something?

Lori: I’m not sure, but something doesn't feel right.

Lori: … Crap.

Frankie: So… what do we do now?

Lori: Um, I’m not sure. But we could probably walk to town from here.

Frankie: What, seriously?

Lori: Come on. It’s not that far.

…

Lori: What I was trying to say earlier is that I’m sorry. I know this feels unfair, and you don’t understand why we left—

Frankie: Can we please not talk about this right now?

Lori: Fine, I give up.

Frankie: Thank you!

…

Lori: Oh thank God, someone’s coming. Maybe they can help us.

Neal: Strange place to be out for a stroll.

Lori: We’re trying to get to Oasis Springs, but our car broke down. Any chance you could give us a ride?

Neal: Well, the bad news is that you're nowhere near Oasis Springs. Up there is a town called Strangerville. But the good news is that I happen to be their only mechanic.

Neal: Tell you what. I’ll give you a ride into town to get your bearings and whatnot, then I’ll come bring your car in later. How does that sound?

Frankie: Mom—

Lori: That would be great, thank you!

Lori: Come on, Frankie. Where’s your sense of adventure?

#hello first post is here #sorry it is SO long it took me forever to put together #i will not be doing that again #sims 4 #sims 4 story #ts4 #ts4 story #sims story #pla #frankie mitchell #lori mitchell #neal pries

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corydonw · 4 years ago

Photo

LES 3 COOPER

DERNIERS FEUX

Gary rentra enfin chez lui au printemps 1954. En juillet, Rocky et Maria prenaient le même chemin. Maria avait dix-sept ans. C’était une jeune fille à la beauté exceptionnelle qui avait pris à chacun de ses parents ce qu’ils avaient de mieux. Elle était vive, intelligente et déjà très raffinée dans son maintien mais sans affectation. On comprend que son père en ressente une immense fierté. Les Cooper firent construire une nouvelle maison dans un des plus beaux endroits de l’ouest résidentiel de Los Angeles, Holmby Hills. Après qu’ils y emménagèrent, Gary et Rocky redevinrent heureux, plus heureux encore qu’avant. Pour son entourage, il ne fait aucun doute que même aux heures les plus intenses de sa liaison avec Patricia Neal, Gary ne cessa jamais de considérer son épouse et sa fille comme les deux piliers rassurants et stables de son existence, les deux seules femmes réellement essentielles à sa vie.

C’est James Stewart incontestablement le meilleur ami de Gary, qui a souvent dit que ses dernières années avaient été ses meilleures : « Parce que c’est à ce moment-là qu’il s’est rendu compte combien il aimait Rocky. Tout au début de leur mariage, ils en arrivaient à se neutraliser mutuellement. Ce qui les a sauvés, c’est leur séparation qui leur a permis de se réorienter, de se remettre les idées en place. À partir du moment où ils sont revenus ensemble, Gary et Rocky ont pleinement apprécié tout ce qui les rapprochait. Gary avait toujours adoré Maria bien plus que Rocky. À la fin, il aimait Rocky autant, sinon davantage ».

#gary cooper #gloria stewart #james stewart #rocky cooper #maria cooper #anthony perkins #coop #gary #cooper #gary-cooper

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lilacmoon83 · 3 years ago

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Clarity

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 27: Murder in Storybrooke, Pt 1

Snow awoke to her alarm that morning and groaned, as she smacked the device to make it stop. She heard him chuckle and rolled over, finding him buttoning his shirt and getting ready for work.

"I slept hard...did last night really happen?" she asked. He smiled.

"Which part?" he teased, as he leaned down and kissed her tenderly.

"And yes...we made love again and slept really hard. And yes, Emma is sleeping upstairs," he said. She beamed a smile at that and tugged him down by the collar to kiss him again.

"Early patrol?" she asked.

"Yes…Emma wants no part of mornings. Good thing I'm a morning person," he replied.

"Mmm...yes you are. More than me, but I better get up and get ready for my shift at the hospital and a mind numbing day of filing," she said.

"Hey...you'll find something else soon that you'll love. I did," he replied.

"Thanks baby, but I love teaching and as long as Regina is in charge, I will not be teaching any classes," he said, as he put his arms around her.

"Then I guess we'll just have to oust her from power again and things are already changing. Pretty soon, people will stop being afraid of her and then she'll lose control. That's when you'll get to go back to doing what you love," he reasoned.

"I hope you're right," she said, as he kissed her again and watched him grab his holster and put it on. She bit her bottom lip.

"What? You like the holster?" he asked, as he clipped his badge onto his belt.

"I do...would you be opposed to wearing it tonight?" she asked playfully. He grinned.

"Sounds kinky," he teased.

"Oh, it's going to be," she replied, as he put his coat on and kissed her again.

"Have a good day," he said.

"You too," she replied, as Wilby came down the stairs after him and went with him. Snow sighed dreamily, before making her way to the shower.

~*~

Wilby trotted alongside David, as he did patrol. As they rounded the corner onto Main Street, he couldn't help but notice the crop of pink poppies in front of the dress shop, so when Wilby whined and then barked, he wondered what was wrong. But he soon found out, as a woman screamed and the owner came running out.

"Deputy...deputy!" she cried, as she surprised him by throwing her arms around him. He quickly pushed her back and held her at arm's length.

"Ms. Blake...what's going on?" he asked.

"There's so much blood!" she cried, as she clung to his arm.

"Blood?" David asked, as worry filled him. She nodded.

"My back room...oh it's so horrible, Deputy!" she cried, as she threw her arms around him again and cried. He sighed and gently pried her away again, before taking his gun out and slowly going into her shop. He approached the back room and peered in. That's when he saw the bloodied body of a young woman on the floor. He holstered his firearm and approached, recognizing her as Tamara, Neal's former fiancé. The knife in her chest was clear and the broken mirror glass alluded to a violent death. He immediately dialed a number and put his phone to his ear.

"Hello?" Emma answered in a groggy voice.

"Sorry to wake you...but we have a body," he said.

"Wha...a body?" she asked, trying to get her bearings.

"Yeah...definitely a homicide," he replied.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"The dress shop...backroom. Ms. Blake came running out of her shop this morning screaming," he explained.

"I'll be right there," she said.

"And Emma...the dead person is Tamara," he revealed. There was silence on the other end for a beat.

"Wow...okay, I'll be right there," she said, as he hung up and proceeded to call the Medical Examiner's office.

After, he did things as he had been trained to, by the book and put up the crime scene tape, which he ran and got from the police cruiser. He then began filling out the report, just as Emma and the Medical Examiner arrived.

"Holy hell…" she uttered.

"Yeah...that was pretty much my reaction," David said, as he recognized the Coroner as Doc.

"We need the knife to dust it for prints," Emma said. Doc nodded and with gloves, he extracted the knife from the body and they bagged it for evidence.

"Who would want to kill Tamara?" Emma asked.

"I don't know...as far as we know, Neal was the only one she really knew in town," David replied.

"Neal didn't do this," Emma insisted.

"I know...but you better tell him before it gets out," David said, as he gestured his head to Sidney Glass, who was at the door taking photos.

"Cover the body," Emma said, as he and Doc put a sheet over her. She glared at Sidney, while she called Neal.

"Hey…" he answered.

"Are you sitting down?" she asked.

"No...should I be?" he asked, with a chuckle.

"Probably," Emma replied.

"Emma...what's going on?" Neal asked.

"It's Tamara...she's dead," Emma revealed. There was dead silence on the other end of the line.

"What?" he asked.

"Yeah...we just found the body in the back room of the dress shop. No details yet...but she was murdered," Emma replied.

"That's insane...who would kill her?" he asked.

"We don't know...but there's a knife. Hopefully, we can pull some prints off it," Emma replied.

"Listen…I know you had nothing to do with it, but as her former fiance…" she said, trailing off.

"You need to question me...I get it. I'll meet you at the station," Neal said, as she hung up.

"Do you think you can question Neal? Due to our history, it's probably best if I don't do it," Emma said. David nodded.

"Meanwhile, I'll take this to the lab at the hospital and put a rush on it," Emma replied. He nodded, as the coroner's assistants loaded the body into his van and it left for the hospital.

"Ms. Blake...do you have cameras in the back room?" David asked.

"No…I'm afraid not. Just in the front of the store," she replied.

"Okay…I'll still need you to release that footage from yesterday through now so we can review it," David said.

"Of course...I can get that for you right away," she replied, as her hands shook and she pretended to stumble. David caught her, before she could fall and she looked at him.

"Oh...thank you deputy. I guess I'm just a little shaky from earlier," she replied.

"That's understandable. Here...why don't you sit down and see if you can get me that footage and I'll get you some water. Then I need to take your statement," David said, as he helped her sit down at her desk. She watched him, before she turned on her computer. She would give him what he needed and then pretend to faint, hoping he would ask if he could drive her home. She watched him and then opened her pocket book, eyeing the capped syringe in her purse. Then, one little prick of this needle and he would be at her mercy. But her mood was doused when she saw Snow come into the shop.

"We're closed…" she said sharply.

"Oh…I'm so sorry. I'm just looking for Deputy Nolan," Snow said.

"Well...he's helping me and working a case. This is a crime scene," Narcissa snapped.

"It's okay, Ms. Blake," David said, as he approached the raven haired beauty and both completely missed her murderous stare, as he gently pulled her aside.

"Hey...is everything okay?" he asked. She nodded.

"I just heard about the murder," she replied.

"Wow...news travels fast," he said.

"Sidney went straight to the television station after this and made the report on air," Snow replied.

"No doubt at Regina's insistence. It's just like her to fuel the fear with this," he said.

"You're right...Sidney already suggested we may have a murderer at large," she said, as she clung to him.

"Great...thanks for telling me," he said, as he pecked her on the lips.

"I could have called...but I decided to come in person. I guess I just needed to see you for myself," Snow said. He smiled and gave her another kiss, this one longer and tender.

"I'm fine...but I like that you worry about me," he said, smiling at her.

"You're my world...you and Emma. Where is she?" Snow asked curiously.

"She went to the hospital to take the knife to the lab. She wants it dusted for prints and a rush put on it," he replied.

"Do we have any idea who would want to kill Tamara?" Snow asked.

"No idea. Neal is the only one that really knew her...and we know he didn't do this. He seemed actually relieved that they were over," David replied. Snow smirked.

"That's because Neal still has feelings for our daughter," she said.

"Yeah…I'd rather not talk about that," he muttered. She smirked again.

"Mmm...but it's true," she said, as he hugged her against his side.

"Deputy...I have that footage you asked for," Narcissa interrupted. He nodded and took the flash drive from her and she made sure her hand brushed his. Her plan was not going to work with her meddlesome niece here though. Oh how she hated her. But her plan was still in motion and soon, Snow White's nightmare would begin when her daughter's fingerprints came back as the ones on that knife.

"Thank you, Ms. Blake. I can take your statement now, if you're ready," he said. She nodded.

"I'd rather not do so with an audience. You understand," she said shortly, as she looked at Snow. The other woman nodded and she glared at them, as they shared another kiss.

"I have to get to work anyway...I'll see you at home later," she said. He smiled.

"I love you," he said, making her smile.

"I love you too," she replied, as she left the shop and he turned his attention back to Narcissa, who's scowl was immediately replaced with a fake smile.

"You certainly seem smitten with that little pixie," she mentioned. David smiled.

"She's the love of my life," he said, as he proceeded to take her statement and Narcissa answered his questions, all while thinking about the moment her life was ruined by her perfect niece.

~*~

Many Years Ago

Narcissa screamed in horror, as she materialized in her new prison. It was a barren land, filled with thousands of mirrors. She walked around and learned that she could see any number of scenes through her mirror. She snarled, as she saw her sister, the woman that had put her here, and the reason in her arms.

"How could you, Eva? How could you do this to me!?" Narcissa screamed.

"It is not surprising...you tried to kill her child, after all," a familiar voice said.

"You…" she uttered, as she stared at the floating, gray faced entity that had appeared to her for years in her mirror.

"What are you? Why are you here?" she demanded to know.

"This is the mirror realm...my realm. A mirror to every world and realm, beyond your imagination. I see everything...and can do nothing but watch," he said.

"There must be a way out!" she insisted.

"Oh no...there is no way out, unless someone breaks your mirror," he said.

"Then I will make someone find it and break it!" she insisted. He chuckled.

"No...only I can speak to those I choose. You can only look upon the world now and watch it go by without you," he said.

"Fear not though, your niece is the fairest in all the lands and will grow into a beautiful, young woman. She will be a hero to many and a champion of all that is good and just," he continued.

"She is the reason I am here!" Narcissa hissed.

"She will find true love...you could have been a part of her great life, but you chose this instead. Pity," he said, clearly mocking her.

"Oh, I will find a way out of here and when I do...I will make her pay!" Narcissa promised.

#Snowing #SnowxCharming #Charming family #AU #Emma Swan #Neal Cassidy #Regina Mills #Henry Mills #Rumplestiltskin #OC villain #romance #adventure #drama #family #Clarity #A 7:15 AM AU

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lifeinahole27 · 5 years ago

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CS ff: “Walking the Tightrope” (Chapter 8/10) (au)

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

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

Content Warnings: Please be aware that this chapter discusses professor/student relations in the past, non-consensual pictures in the past, and some present, consensual, loving, and happy sexual relations. Gotta find a balance somehow. (This chapter also nicknamed "The One where Sarah calls out a shitty storyline from FRIENDS.)

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

Find it on Ao3 & FFN!

-x-

Chapter 8: Unearthed

It takes time, but they both manage to get out some of the difficult parts of their pasts. Emma tells Killian snippets of her former relationships, including why she ran from Henry the first time she saw him. Graham’s story is kept brief, Walsh is brushed off as a bad experience. Killian is patient about it, holding her hand and listening closely. She can see the questions forming behind his eyes, but he never pushes for more info than she’s willing to share.

He’s hiding bits of his own past, too. He’s very open about the accident that took his hand, how he grew up in Liam’s shadow but preferred it that way, and his strong passions for fiction and poetry. But when it comes to information about his time in university, she sees the way his shoulders tense. There’s a lack of enthusiasm when he speaks of his master’s studies. She’s seen the picture of him at graduation that sits in his office. She knows there’s more to the story.

They’re watching television one night, background noise as he works on some edits. With the money they got for upgrades, Emma purchased a shiny new laptop, one specifically loaded with the software to digitize the town’s records, and so they work on their own stuff together.

Something on the screen that neither of them are glued to must catch his attention, however. It’s a rerun, something that used to be popular but has now reached syndication and thus plays on every channel when there’s downtime. It’s something Emma’s seen enough times that she knows the general storyline without really even paying attention. It’s the one where a professor starts a relationship with a student.

While she’s mostly tuning it out, it seems Killian is finally tuning in, and she looks up as he lurches for her television remote and hits the power button. His breathing is visibly quicker than it should be. Even when the screen goes dark, there’s a tension around his eyes she has never seen before.

“You okay?” she asks, mostly because she’s not sure he remembers she’s there right now.

He shakes himself a little bit, brushing off the moment for all she can tell, before he turns to her. “Hate this show,” he responds.

“It’s been on for the last hour.”

As he focuses on her face, she can see the moment he sheds whatever was trying to creep up on him. “I was pretty deep in my work. I do apologize, love.” He’s lying, but she’s willing to let it go if it’s something from his past that he doesn’t want to talk about.

“Hey, no worries.” She reaches out, squeezing his bicep once for comfort. “You want coffee? Tea?”

“I’ll get it. What would you like?”

“Surprise me,” she says, knowing that he’ll bring back the hot chocolate he knows she loves.

By the time he returns, the tightness on his face has eased up a bit, but it’s replaced with something she would call contemplation. “Swan, I want to tell you a little piece of my past, but I hope you won’t judge me too hard or let it change the way you feel about me.”

“A little ominous, but okay. Go for it.”

“Back in university, I was involved with one of my professors.”

Emma takes a moment to let it absorb, trying not to flinch or let her facial expressions change at all. It’s his past, and she knows just as well that those moments shouldn’t define the current moment.

“Tell me about it?”

“As you know, Liam convinced me to enroll in university as a way to pull me out of my slump after I lost my hand. He helped find out if I could take my classes online since I wasn’t ready to go out into the world.”

Emma reaches over, closing her fingers over the hook attachment he has on today. It’s become second nature, but sometimes she wants to tell him without words that she accepts him for who he is and this is one of those moments.

“Eventually, I was comfortable going to classes on campus. I was engrossed in all things to do with writing and literature and editing, and knew that’s the direction I wanted to take. And then I met Milah, one of the professors for a professional writing class. And she was just that for a while, and then when I entered into my master’s studies, we sort of…crossed the boundaries when she was helping me with a project.”

“Milah was married, is married, though they are separated. Her husband, some wealthy bastard, agreed that if she was discreet that they could see other people. He wasn’t anticipating that she would take up with a student, former or otherwise.

“What did he do?”

“Threatened to expose the affair to the university. Milah would’ve been fired. I would’ve likely been expelled. He said he would divorce her and cut her off from his wealth. He only agreed to back off when Milah and I split and I filed to finish my master’s online, much as I began the whole journey.”

“Was the money that important to her?” It’s the question that hits; she can tell immediately.

He grimaces before answering. “She liked to pretend it wasn’t. Painted herself as a free spirit that didn’t need wealth. But it didn’t stop her from walking away from me like it meant nothing.”

Without even prodding, Emma can see that the story isn’t done. She adjusts her grip on him and waits for him to continue.

“I almost didn’t finish my degree after that. I started drinking heavily every chance I got. Took Liam a couple weeks to figure out what was going on, pried out what had happened, and then intervened. He’s the only reason I still completed my coursework.”

“He sounds like a good brother.”

“Right pain in the arse, but yes, he is.”

“You really loved her?”

“Aye. She’s the only person outside my own family that I ever professed my love for.” He’s quiet for a moment before meeting her eyes once more. “Have you ever been in love, Swan?”

“Maybe I thought I was, once,” she admits. Mostly, she realizes that the feelings she thought she had for Neal and the ones she told Walsh she had were nothing compared to the way Killian makes her feel. “Thanks for sharing all of this with me.”

“I figured you should know,” he tells her, simple as that.

When Friday rolls around, she’s all set to join her boyfriend and friends in public. Normally, Emma would be one of the first to ditch out on work and get to their usual spot in the bar, but tonight she’s working with Belle to relabel and organize their filing system. Previously, their idea of “orderly” bordered on chaos, and they had trouble keeping track of just about everything. Along with the digital system, they decided to reconfigure the physical records as well.

They’re in the process of fixing the system when Emma’s email account dings, and she glances at it briefly to make sure it’s nothing important before they get back to work.

What she finds, instead, is a message with a link to a website. Normally, she would write this off as a spam account, but there’s no fill-in-the-blank recipient. There’s no lead-up to the message at all. Just the words written below a link: You’ll have to trust me. Type in code 92574. Check Maine.

With a heavy amount of trepidation, Emma clicks the link and follows the instructions. Her brows furrow as she tries to process what she’s looking at, but it appears to be some kind of personal page, with links to the fifty states. Finding Maine in the list, she clicks it, and almost immediately drops her phone as if burned.

“Oh my fucking god,” she mutters, her vision blurring around the edges.

“Emma is - oh! Oh my goodness!” Belle immediately backs away from the glance she’s just stolen at Emma’s unlocked phone on her desk, looking back at Emma with horror and surprise in her eyes. “What…. What is all that?”

“Something I was told was destroyed a long time ago,” Emma says, her voice shaking and her body feeling heavy and weak all at once. “Can you drive stick?” Her phone finally goes dark and auto-locks, and she’s honestly not sure if she can feel her face right now.

“I’ll text Will and let him know we’re on our way.”

-x- December 13: Friday

The last few weeks since Thanksgiving have been some of the best in Killian’s life. While the project of Henry’s novella is speeding up in momentum and racing towards the end, he and Emma have been taking things at their own pace and enjoying every moment together that they can.

It’s getting easier for them to talk about their pasts. From their shared lack of parentage to finally breaking the barrier of previous relationships, he knows they’ve both made great strides. Being able to tell her about Milah and not have her go running for the hills was admittedly a huge relief, and he only hopes that she’ll trust him to open up about anything she’s still holding out.

Normally, when they go out on Fridays, Emma is right by his side when he enters the bar. While Emma is working with Belle, he and Will have gone to the bar early to have their own catch-up until everyone else arrives.

They each spend a fair amount of time grousing about work, about late nights and tired eyes and how much they love their jobs despite their words. And they also spend just as much time talking about the women in their lives. He’s happy to see Will as content as he is. He also knows that, despite the strange and often passive-aggressive friendship between the two of them, Will is happy to see Killian with Emma.

About an hour after they sit down, Will gets a text from Belle saying that the two women are on their way. They each share a look, automatically noticing that something feels off, but unable to tell what. That sensation is amplified by the look on Belle’s face when she arrives with Emma not far behind.

There’s a tightness around her eyes that Killian has never seen the soft-spoken woman have before. Emma is just behind her, with her arms crossed over her chest and a look that he would best describe as being a cross between solemn and murderous. Only his girlfriend could manage that combination of expressions.

“All right, Swan?”

“No. Not all right. Can uh, can we go back to my place?”

“Sure. Let me just -”

“I’ve got the tab. Go on,” Will says, his thick eyebrows drawn together.

The Bug is waiting for them when they get out, still running. Clearly, she hadn’t intended on spending long inside whether he was coming with her or not.

They’re silent on the drive back to her place, and even while they make the trek up to her loft. She’s quiet as she unwraps her scarf and kicks off her boots, all with deliberate and jerky movements.

“I have to kind of process through something,” she says, her voice thick with a myriad of emotions. “I don’t wanna talk. I don’t really want to do anything at all. But will you stay with me?”

“I’m here as long as you’ll have me. Whatever you need,” he tells her, making sure to catch her eyes so she knows he’s being honest.

Wordlessly, she locks the door before she leads him upstairs.

While Killian is normally the one with the carefully crafted routines - which, admittedly, have taken a backseat to finally relaxing and enjoying his time here in Storybrooke - there are certain things that Emma does every morning and every night as far as her own rituals command. He has never seen her go straight to her room without carefully scrubbing her face and teeth and removing her contacts.

Usually, she also takes that time to braid her hair to keep it from tangling too much while she sleeps, but tonight she leaves it hanging free, and he’s surprised when she only shucks off her clothes and pulls on a t-shirt before climbing into her bed.

Following suit, Killian removes his clothes and quickly folds them, leaving them on the cedar chest by the bottom of her bed as he usually does when he stays over before he climbs under the covers. Immediately, Emma is shifting until she’s pressed against him, her ear over his heart and her arm wrapped tightly around his midsection.

“You won’t leave?”

“Only if you tell me to,” he admits, hoping that it’s what she needs to hear. Her grip only tightens, and he decides to stay awake as long as he can to make sure she’s all right.

He must doze off because he wakes again to Emma’s lips pressed against his, her hand sliding into his boxers to stroke him awake. As soon as he’s aware of it, he’s kissing her back, helping her push down his boxers before she hastily rips off her own underwear and finds a condom. This is not how they usually have sex - he recognizes it immediately - but even as he hesitates, he hears her whispers.

“Please - I know, please, I just need…”

He responds by pulling her closer, kissing her as hard as she was kissing him to let her know he’s on board. She slides on top of him, gripping his hand like a lifeline and rocking against him as if it’s her one salvation. He can feel the panic and anger with each move of her hips above him and he just holds on, hopes she can feel the reassurance radiating from him, hopes she feels that he’s an anchor she can trust - that he’ll be with her no matter what this all means.

When they’re both sated, she collapses onto his chest, and to his surprise he feels the quiet sobs wracking through her body a few heartbeats later. She only really cries when she’s angry - she admitted as much to him some time ago when they were trying to decipher the use of pathos in commercials. He wraps his arms around her, running his hand soothingly over the small of her back and whispering anything he thinks may bring her back to him.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says, her voice hoarse. “I’m sorry that wasn’t… I basically just used you to fuck away my anger and that’s not…”

“Swan,” he says quietly, releasing his hold on her so he can coax her to look at him. “No apologies necessary, love.”

With hasty swipes, she dries her face. “I’m just so mad right now.”

“Will you tell me what about?”

“Just… give me a couple more minutes,” she says, sliding off of him and climbing off the bed. He hears her footsteps retreating down the stairs and the door to the lavatory close.

He takes a deep breath, pushing himself to sit up, turning on the light beside her bed and grabbing a couple tissues to clean himself up. He slips his boxers back up while he’s at it before sliding between the sheets again.

When she returns to her bedroom, her hair is tied up and her robe is wrapped around her like body armor. She must’ve used the time to scrub the last of her makeup off, as well, and his heart stutters a beat to see her looking so down but still so beautiful. She climbs up, sitting next to him at the head of the bed with her legs crossed at the ankles.

He’s watching her carefully, trying to not pressure her to talk but wishing she would say anything at this point, as the silence is slowly pressing in around them.

“My last ex was the absolute worst,” she finally starts, fingers fiddling with the ties on her robe. “Worse than Neal, obviously. And worse than I ever thought he was when I found him cheating on me the day that Ruth died.”

He’s quiet, understanding that now is not the time for empty condolences for either incident. Instead, he reaches out and places his hand on her knee.

“He was a shitty antiques dealer down in Boston, never wanted to come up here to visit, never wanted to be seen with me, it seemed like. And unfortunately, he kept a lot of mementos from our time together.”

“How so?”

“You know how I told you I burned my uniform a couple years ago?”

He nods in response, tilting his head and wondering just where this could be going. She’d told him the beige monster was uncomfortable and unflattering, saying that any photographic evidence of the uniform in question was destroyed along with it.

“Well, I left a tiny part out,” she admits, looking over at him briefly.

“Nothing you tell me is going to run me off, Swan. I promise.”

With a bracing breath, she nods, focusing back on her hands in her lap. “I used to wear a uniform. Took it down to Boston with me because I was supposed to go straight to work the day I left his place. And he wanted to see it on. We were joking around and having fun.” She stops, grimacing and visibly willing her face to relax a moment later. “I let him take pictures. He had this fancy photo printer so he had physical copies and deleted them after they were done. At least, that’s what he swore he did. Just like everything else, it turns out that was a lie.

“Emma?”

“He has a website. A fucking website with all of us.”

“All of who?”

“Every girl he fucked in the year that he and I were together, according to the site description. He proposed to me, you know, right before we ended things. I was going to say yes but told him to give me some time. Ruth passed away about a week after he asked me and I drove all the way to Boston because I wanted… needed the person that claimed to love me. And he was in the middle of fucking another woman when I walked in the door. I told him to give me the photos before I left while this redhead sat naked on his bed and watched me gather my stuff.”

“And you got the physical ones from him?”

“Yeah, no surprise he lied about those being the only copies. He kept them in the top drawer of his dresser, so now I have to wonder where the rest are kept. The day after Ruth’s funeral, I burned the uniform - with David’s permission and minimal questions asked - and the photos.”

She goes quiet after saying that, not really keen on making eye contact for the moment. Killian takes the opportunity to gather the words he wants to say, trying to find the best order of questions and statements.

“You know that none of this is your fault, right? Nor do I blame you or feel any differently towards you because of your past.”

Emma sniffs at that, a half-hearted attempt at acknowledgement, so Killian leans closer and turns her face to his so he can plant a kiss on her lips.

“I mean it, Emma. This is on that wanker, not you at all.”

Her lips thin out for a second, but ultimately she nods and leans forward to give him another kiss.

“Now, will you tell me about how you found this all out?”

“I got an email while Belle and I were working on our little project. I figured it was spam at first but it just had this link to a website called ‘Banging U.S.A.’ and some instructions for a passcode and a state. When I clicked, there was a whole lot more of me than I expected to see. He must’ve been taking pictures through the whole thing, since not all of them were ones he printed and showed me later.”

“So some taken without your knowledge or consent? How much worse can this guy get?”

“Oh, it still gets worse. I tried not to click on anything else, but I ended up on the newly launched world edition,” she says with quotes around the words. “Without really thinking, I clicked on this little British flag and there was the woman I found him with. She was clearly far more into the photography thing than I was.”

“Bad, but how is that worse?”

“In the first three pictures, you can see one of my t-shirts on the dresser. In the others, it’s gone. Which means he went right back to fucking her as soon as I left his place with my stuff.”

“Definitely worse,” Killain mutters, drawing his hand over his face in disbelief.

“And we all had subtitles. Hers was the Wicked Witch of the West… and my South Pole.”

“Ouch.”

“Mine was Officer Tie-Me-Down and Fuck-Me-Up.”

“Bloody hell, Swan, how much villainy can one man possess?”

“Apparently, his cup runneth over.”

“Clearly.” They fall silent for a moment, until Emma’s head tilts over to rest on his shoulder. “Any idea what you’ll do about it?” he asks after letting her mull for a moment.

“No fucking clue.”

He shifts in order to kiss the top of her head, pulling her closer when she pushes her way under his arm. It’s still hours more before either of them fall asleep again.

-x- December 14: Saturday

When Killian wakes up again, it’s to the sound of Emma’s voice floating up from down below.

“I know, and I’m sorry for bailing without letting you know,” she says. “I had something come up.”

With much effort, Killian hauls himself out of the bed, pulling on his undershirt before making his way downstairs.

“No, it’s kind of why I was calling, though. Do you still have that phone number for James?”

Whatever response David must have for that is lengthy and aggravating, judging by the look on Emma’s face when Killian makes it to the main floor. She looks up and gives him a wan smile, pulling the phone away from her ear long enough to lean up and give him a kiss on the cheek. Dave’s voice is, indeed, squawking out quite the storm from the earpiece, and Killian does nothing more than raise an eyebrow in question before giving her a kiss of his own and moving towards the coffee pot.

“Well, when you calm down about that, give me a call back. I need his number and you’ll agree with me when I tell you why.”

Her phone clatters to the table but she’s already moving towards where Killian is standing against the kitchen counter.

“Good morning,” she says, leaning up and pulling him down to give him a much warmer, much more thorough kiss.

“Same to you. Feeling a little better?”

“More like a fire’s been lit under my ass and I have a plan. I have to swing by my brother’s place to harass him about our other asshole brother. Want me to drop you at home?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I need to head to the office to finish up the last of the preparations and my notes for the party on Friday.”

“No trouble at all. Wanna get breakfast along the way?”

“Food and time with my girlfriend? Only a fool would refuse such blessings.”

When they part ways, he’s amazed at the clear change in mindset she’s gone through in less than twelve hours. Even as she kisses him goodbye, there’s determination burning in her eyes.

-x-

It takes roughly forty minutes of needling David before he finally caves and gives her the phone number James had called from once, on accident, a couple years ago. She’s plugging it into her phone and hitting ‘call’ before she’s even halfway out of David’s workshop, taking the steps two at a time to get to the first floor.

“Don’t hang up,” Emma says as soon as James answers.

“Emma?”

“You mean you actually have my number saved in your phone?”

“I’m sure that’s surprising but yeah, makes it easier to call you if I need to ask for money.”

“Ah, you haven’t changed a bit,” Emma responds, rolling her eyes at his words.

David reaches for the phone when he gets to the kitchen but Emma bats his hand away.

“I’m guessing you’re the one that needs something if you’re calling me.”

“You’re still in Boston, right?”

“And what if I am?”

“You still have that fancy talent at hacking computers and websites?”

“Listen, I haven’t done anything wrong. I stopped doing all that ages ago.”

“I don’t care if you’re a law-abiding citizen,” Emma snaps. “I need someone who doesn’t care about the law.”

“So the wonder twins need my help because I don’t follow the rules?”

“Pretty much. I have an ex that needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Fine. Come down here next Friday and I’ll see what I can do. If you’ll do something for me,” he adds at the very end.

“Like what?”

“We’ll discuss my terms on Friday.”

“I have a party…”

“Oh? You have a party?” His tone is mocking, and Emma swallows back the retort she wants to spit at him.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll be there. David is coming with me. You do the job, I’ll repay you however you want me to, and then I never have to see you again.”

“Sounds good to me,” James singsongs. “I’ll text you the address. See you Friday, little sis.”

“That guy’s the worst,” Emma snaps when the call ends. “How is he your fucking twin?”

David just shrugs. “And this is why I didn’t want you to call him. Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?”

“You have to promise you aren’t going to have a coronary or something, okay?”

“Go for it. I will… do my best.”

She takes a deep breath before she urges him to sit down while she starts to tell him what she’s just found out.

To give him some credit, he doesn’t completely lose it. But he does turn an interesting shade of purple at the news that there’s a website that has pornographic photographs of his sister. Trying to get around those words is possibly the most mortifying thing she’s ever been through, until David opens his mouth when she’s done speaking.

“Has Killian seen this site?”

“God, David. No. And he won’t if I have anything to do with it. I’m not going to show my boyfriend pictures of me fucking another guy,” she screeches, standing and stomping over to their coffeemaker to indulge in more caffeine.

She doesn’t really want to tell James the same news. She doesn’t want to tell him more than she absolutely has to, but she also needs the skillset he picked up from being a generally bad person in order to get this chapter of her life wiped from existence.

Unfortunately, it’s going to mean missing the one thing she was looking forward to since Killian first told her about it.

She stops by his office to see him next, admiring the way he looks when he’s deeply concentrating. She can also see just how much he’s put into decorating his office in the time they’ve been together. She remembers stark walls and an empty desk. Now, his degrees are hanging, along with a few artistic prints of book covers. His desk is similarly fuller, with picture frames and small knick knacks beyond the single one that used to be there.

With one more bracing breath, she prepares to go in. He’s going to understand, because he already knows what’s going on, but she hates to disappoint him.

“Swan?”

She’s knocked from her idle watching by him softly saying her name.

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” she says, walking in and shutting the door. She moves around to lean on the edge of his desk right in front of him. “But I have some bad news. I can’t come to the debut on Friday. That’s when my creep-o brother can help me out. I’ll have to be in Boston.”

His face falls, the disappointment clear, but his hand reaches out and brushes along hers. “As much as I’m sad you won’t be with me, I know it’s for a bigger purpose. Is this evil twin in law? Law enforcement?”

Emma’s face freezes, realizing that she never shared with him how she planned on having James help her.

“Okay, long story short? James is really good at being a bad guy.”

To his credit, Killian listens with full attention as she launches into her plan and doesn’t even call her crazy.

“Barring any legal repercussions from this Walsh, I find no fault in this plan.”

“I’m pretty sure with James’ help, I won’t have to worry about him trying to come back at us.” At her reassurances, Killian nods in what she hopes is approval. “Should I let you get back to work?”

Slowly, he eases her off the desk and into his lap. “Maybe in a moment or two?”

It’s a question, leaving the answer in her court.

“I’d be happy if it goes a little longer than a moment,” Emma responds, settling herself fully into his lap and chuckling at the look in his eyes. She pulls her shirt over her head, reaching behind her to unhook her bra.

“I like to think we’re making up for all those times we’ve been interrupted,” Killian says before sucking a nipple into his mouth.

Straight to the point. She’s glad she locked the door when she closed it.

-x-

Chapter 8

#cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan #captain swan ff #csrt #sarah writes ff

36 notes · View notes

mimipippin · 7 years ago

Photo

here’s a handy dandy chart please click to zoom!!! i had so much fun with this waaaaa

#oc #original #alden #dior #cyrus #xiel #neale #pris

125 notes · View notes

artistic-writer · 5 years ago

Text

Sparking the Pavement :: CS Moto GP AU :: E :: Ch 4

Title: Sparking the Pavement by @artistic-writer Rating: E (it’s time!) Summary: Killian Jones has everything he has ever dreamed of. He likes fast bikes and even faster women, that is until almost losing his brother makes him rethink his life choices. And then a chance encounter with a blonde bombshell on the race track gives him the chance to change and find love, but as usual, team politics get in the way and for the first time in his life, Killian can’t just get what he wants. Moto GP racing AU.

AO3 - FF - Ko-Fi

A/N: Ch 4! SMUT TIME! Ahem. Contain your thirst, ladies. Wait, no, don’t. This chapter is going to make you realise that you have a new fetish. Just saying ;) Many thanks to @hollyethecurious who agreed to beta this, and to @doodlelolly0910 who regularly listens to me ranting about wanting to write when my fingers don’t want to work. And @darkcolinodonorgasm who understands how relevant real-life race rules are :D

Taglist: @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @hookedonapirate @winterbaby89 @courtorderedcake @initiala @cocohook38 @branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan @sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says @wingedlioness @lenfaz @therooksshiningknight @ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr @blowmiakisscolin @deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld @chinawoodfan @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells @wordsmith-storyweaver @jennjenn615 @delightfully-difficult-pirate @doodlelolly0910 @tiganasummertree @hookedmom @thejollyroger-writer @rachie1940 @unworried-corsair @cs-forlife @notoriouscs @killian-whump @darkcolinodonorgasm @mariakov81 @strangestarlighttree @effulgentcolors @shardminds

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It was odd. When she had agreed to dinner, she was imagining something that had reflected his pay grade, maybe with a candle burning between them and a security guard at the door. She had known what it was like to date a racer and she was sure that they all thrived on the attention they got from fans. Killian Jones was not like Neal, she could tell that as soon as he had opened his mouth, but the picture the media had painted of him was flawed at best. There were women hanging off his arm in every photo, and she expected him to be a bit more confident.

What she didn’t expect was for Killian Jones to be a gentleman, in every sense of the word.

He had picked her up, just like he had promised too, on time and with a dashing smile that made her stomach flip into knots. All coherent thought had left her, and the only thing she could focus on was how blue Killian’s eyes were and how warm his hands were on the small of her back as he had led her to his car. He had opened the door for her, kept the conversation light and cheery, and totally ignored the look of confusion on her face when he had driven them to the race track where she has beat him not five hours earlier.

“May I show you to your table?” Killian offered her his hand after he had opened the passenger door of his car.

“You may,” Emma nodded, wrapping her fingers around his and allowing him to pull her out of the car. She frowned, looking around the deserted pit lane before turning to Killian once more. “Are we here for a reason? At the track. The track I beat you at.” She gave his hand a playful tug, stopping him from leading her down the pitlane anymore.

“Very funny,” Killian told her with a shake of his head. He turned, the tips of his ears that slight pink hue that Emma had noticed earlier and already enjoyed seeing.

“I can imagine it’s very painful,” Emma teased. “The memory of her, I mean.”

“Ah,” Killian rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on her hand. “Are you enjoying your new bike?”

“She’s not as fast, but she’s pretty to look at,” Emma stifled her laugh, letting him lead her further down the pit lane.

It was after dark and Emma felt the flutter of butterflies reappear in her stomach. Killian’s silence made her nervous, but when he turned to give her a quick, rakish grin, she relaxed a little. She was excited, more than she ever had been before, the smell of his aftershave wafting down wind and enticing her after him as he rounded the small corner that led out onto the track.

Killian stopped, turning to face her and blocking her view of the start line behind him. He let go of her hand, something Emma missed instantly, and dipped his head to catch her eye. He smiled, warm and inviting but laced with something Emma had never associated with the man stood before her. Killian Jones was nervous, all of his bravado gone, and she watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“Your table,” Killian announced, stepping aside and motioning to what was behind him.

It took Emma’s breath. Lit by the floodlights over the start line was a small table, draped with a pristine white tablecloth and with two chairs placed opposite each other. There were two huge glass vases each with a deep red candle inside, both lit and casting a soft shadow over the table with their gently flickering flame. Two wine glasses accompanied the cutlery set out beside each plate and a huge bottle of what looked like champagne was chilling in a bucket of ice.

“Killian Jones, this is-,” Emma began, dumbfounded by the effort he had gone to.

“It’s nothing,” Killian assured her with a gentle grip on her bare elbow.

“I-,” Emma stuttered as she advanced on the table before her. It was more than she had ever dreamed of, from anyone, so small and intimate yet with such a personal touch, she almost forgot they were both standing at the start line of the raceway.

“Why don’t you sit down,” Killian offered softly, darting around her to pull out the chair for her.

Emma took his offered hand once more, letting him guide her to the dining table with a smile. She sat, all of the hairs on her arm standing on end when Killian lightly brushed his fingers over her shoulders and brought her back to reality.

“Are you alright, lass?” Killian asked, noticing the way her body shivered under his touch. “Are you cold?” Without waiting for her answer he pulled out a blanket that was hanging over the back of her chair, holding it by the edge and letting it unfold under its own weight. He gave it a shake before wrapping it around her, making sure to tuck it in down her back.

“I never expected this,” Emma said suddenly as she smoothed out a small wrinkle in the table cloth. The material was silky smooth under her fingertips and her eyes darted around, taking in everything set out before her.

“What did you expect?” Killian took his place in the seat opposite her and leaned forward until his elbows rested on the table.

“I don’t know,” Emma laughed, blinking in disbelief. “I thought-”

“That I was exactly the man portrayed by the media?” Killian surmised, reaching for the bottle of champagne and giving her a smile. “That I couldn’t win the heart of a pretty lady?”

Emma blushed, her lips ticking up at the corners. “Well, not to bring it up again, but you couldn’t win a race, so you know.” Emma licked her lips, her waterproof lipstick staying exactly where it was when she pouted her lips and rolled her eyes sideways.

Killian narrowed his eyes at her playful remark, loving the way her nose wrinkled just a little when she was smiling. He wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle, ignoring the ice cold glass against his palm, before he pushed the cork with his thumb. It popped, making Emma jump. “I didn’t let you win, you know,” he assured her, leaning forward to pour her some champagne. “That really was all you.”

“I know,” Emma smirked, watching the bubbles in her glass dance up and down. “I’m a great rider.”

“And yet, I’ve never heard of you,” Killian teased, lifting his gaze away from his own glass momentarily as he poured.

“How do you know?” Emma shrugged, reaching for her glass and lifting it to her lips. Her blanket slipped from her shoulders and she saw Killian’s eyes dart to her exposed skin before she took a sip of the alcohol and the tiny bubbles fizzled on her tongue. “You’ve raced Moto2,” she shrugged. “Maybe we crossed paths once.”

“No,” Killian said vehemently, shaking his head and swallowing the champagne in his mouth. “I would have remembered.”

“Well, you don’t even know my name,” Emma suggested sweetly. “So maybe you’re wrong. Maybe I’m not worth the effort of all this.”

Killian smirked and rested his glass back onto the table in front of him before leaning back in his chair. Emma watched, the impossibly handsome man getting even more good looking as he changed position and nervously licked his bottom lip before tracing the pink flesh with a single fingertip.

“I would have remembered,” Killian reiterated after a moment's thought. “Because when you see something so beautiful, you’re changed forever.” He stared at her, his eyes the bluest shade of a thousand seas Emma had ever seen, and she felt her throat go dry and her stomach drop. “Your world is altered in an instant, and you can’t go back to before, when it was dull and grey, because the light is where you want to be, with whatever took you there.” He paused, holding her gaze so intently Emma thought he might burn a hole right through her. “So, despite not knowing your name, love, I feel like this,” he stopped again, motioning to his start line dining table, “is worth the effort. You are worth the effort.”

Emma coughed a little, covering her mouth as she cleared the dryness in her throat. “Good line,” she rasped through another coy smirk. “How many women have fallen for that Killian Jones charm?”

Undeterred by her bristled response, Killian grinned. “None so far, but there is a first time for everything.”

“Ah,” Emma nodded, not believing him.

“What, love?” Killian read her instantly. “You think between races, parties, sponsors, testing, and my family I have time for dating?”

“You don’t?” Emma pried innocently.

“Did you? When you raced I mean?” Killian pried back.

“Stop deflecting my questions back at me,” Emma told him sternly, unable to tear her eyes away from his when he simply stared at her and raised his eyebrow to accompany his playful grin.

“Why don’t you want to talk about your race days?” Killian asked, reaching for his glass once more. Condensation covered his fingertips and he gripped it harder so as not to drop it.

“It’s not a first date kind of story,” Emma said with a sigh. “Maybe after a few more,” she said, downing what was left in her glass. “Maybe after some actual food.” She looked around but there didn’t seem to be any food of any sort nearby. She couldn’t even smell anything but the stench of burnt rubber and oil, so she looked back to Killian with a questioning expression. “Is there going to be any food here tonight?”

Killian smiled, again humoured by her. “This is a race track, love, not a restaurant.”

“So, where’s the food?” Emma asked him, pulling the blanket around her arms a little tighter. The sun had gone down hours ago, and if she had known she would be sitting out on a track she might have worn something a little less revealing.

“Oh, that’s back at my place,” Killian smirked.

Emma tilted her head to the side and gave him a narrow eyed stare. “Presumptuous much?”

“I don’t know what you are expecting, lass,” Killian said innocently, pushing himself to his feet and tucking the chair back under the table. The wooden legs scraped on the asphalt underneath them, but they both ignored it. “But I am a world class motorbike racer who couldn’t just invite anyone back to his home. I mean, what if you were some kind of crazed fan.”

“I’m not.”

“Or someone who had broken into this track compound just to see if they could beat me in a race,” he continued as he approached her with a wry grin.

“I didn’t and you’re forgetting I did beat you,” Emma reminded him, pushing herself to her feet. She wobbled slightly when the chair snagged on a rough patch of the track, but Killian was there to right her when she threatened to topple sideways.

“I’m sure I will never forget it, what with how many times you mention it,” Killian smiled at her.

“Had I mentioned it?” Emma frowned, pursing her lips. “I don’t remember.”

“Alright,” Killian huffed in mock annoyance as he grabbed her hand. “Let’s go, miss?” He prompted with a genuinely honest smile that turned her stomach over again.

“Swan,” Emma said softly as she mirrored his smile. “But my friends call me Emma.”

“And am I a friend yet, miss Swan?” Killian looked up at her, his face a picture of childlike innocence as he gave her his best puppy dog eyes and lifted their joined hands to his lips. The feel of his lips on the back of her hand were like a brand, emblazoning the feel of themselves forever onto her skin.

“You’re getting there,” she smirked as a ripple of excitement passed through her. “When you are, I’ll let you know.”

It took less than two hours for Emma to realise that Killian Jones was nothing like what she had heard through the race circuit and media. He had gone out of his way to make her feel special, despite his own reservations. Clearly, something had happened to him before and she understood it completely. There wasn’t a rider out there who hadn’t come across an over zealous fan, and as a female rider, Emma had encountered her fair share of weirdos and stalkers, and as she polished off her last glass of wine, she was sure she was turning into one herself.

Sat across from her on his huge, L-shaped couch, slouched back against the cushions with a mellow grin on his face, Killian was more appealing than ever. Under the buzz of drunkenness, Emma had begun to appreciate him much more than she had before. Killian was something, a real specimen, highly athletic with muscles that bulged underneath the luxurious material of his clearly expensive shirt and drew her gaze every time he moved.

Two shirt buttons undone was not enough for Emma to fully appreciate it, but the chest hair that she could see was thick, and black, and cried out to be touched, it’s silky texture shimmering in the light of his lounge. More wine, food and some beers had taken their toll on him and he had almost succumbed to the pull of sleep, only snapping himself awake when Emma had moved and plopped herself down on the cushion beside him.

“Miss Swan,” Killian had squeaked in mock surprise, his hand finding her bare thigh almost immediately. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Can you see me though?” Emma cocked her head to one side before flopping it to the opposite. “You have glassy eyes.”

“That’s because you made me drink more than I normally do when entertaining a woman,” he laughed.

“Oh really?” She leaned into him, her breasts pushing against his shoulder and her hand resting on his chest. “And how often do you entertain women?” She teased, her finger slipping beneath where the two sides of his shirt were buttoned together to finally feel his chest hair.

“As a matter of fact,” Killian began, lifting his hand to point an accusatory finger at her humoured expression.

“Yes?” Emma prompted, knowing his words had probably been stolen because her fingertips had brushed over his nipple.

“I haven’t,” Killian admitted, blinking his eyes closed. “I mean, I don’t-”

“Right,” Emma droned out with a grin.

“No, really,” Killian nodded, his head a little floppier than usual. He sat himself up as he cleared his throat, his fingers tightening their grip around her thigh. “It’s been a while.”

“Hmmm,” Emma hummed, resting her chin on his shoulder. “You’re telling me that a guy as smokin’ hot as you, hasn’t had a woman in a while.”

“You think I’m hot?” Killian giggled.

“Shut up,” Emma scolded, pulling her hand from his shirt and giving him a playful slap on the chest. “Seriously,” she urged. “Why no women?”

Killian took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks as he contemplated her question. Why hadn’t he? Race rules, team duties, the loss of his brother? None of those could explain the gaps of time between race seasons when he still chose not to entertain a woman. He liked the attention in front of the cameras when he was Killian Jones, World Champion. But when he was home, and he was just Killian Jones the man, what mattered most to him was finding the right someone to share his time with. Someone who cared about Killian Jones the man more than his title or wealth.

“Come on, tell me,” Emma nudged him with her elbow, shaking him from his reverie.

Killian turned to look at her, really look at the woman beside him. He had known her for less time that a working day, and yet, he felt like he had known her his entire life. She was gorgeous, there was no denying that, and any man would have been lucky to spend time with her. She was intriguing but also funny, witty beyond comprehension and she made his skin come alive with her little touches here and there. His body’s reaction to her was obvious and he would be a fool to ignore it.

“How about a tour first?” Killian suggested with a nudge of his head. “Come on,” he urged, standing up on wobbly bare feet and offering her his hand for the second time that evening. “I have something I think you’re going to really like.”

Emma took his hand, letting him pull her from the couch, their bodies crashing together unexpectedly. She blushed and he gasped a breath at the contact, his fingers gripping tightly at hers by their side like he wasn’t sure what to do. Emma looked up at him through her lashes, lips gently parted to help feed her starving lungs since her heart had sped up in her chest, with eyes that had darkened instantly with the desire that Killian fuelled inside of her. Emma could feel his rapid heartbeat against the palm of her hand pressed to his chest and she didn’t mistake the darkness in his own eyes when she caught his gaze.

“Where is it?” She almost whispered, her eyes flicking to his lips.

Words failed him and all Killian could do with his last vestiges of will power was step back, blinking himself back to reality. Emma missed the contact immediately and was reluctant to release her hold on his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to her own reality. Killian gave her a friendly smile, squeezing her fingers and tugging her arm gently until she decided to walk with him.

“This way, love,” he told her softly. He licked his lips and turned around so he could see where he was going, a relieved sigh escaping his mouth silently as he exhaled a steadying breath. He wasn’t lying. It had been a while and he wasn’t about to risk his career with a woman who insisted on name formalities. Even drunk he wasn’t that much of an idiot.

“What is it?” Emma asked excitedly, her bare feet padding across the warmed flooring as she almost skipped after him.

“You’ll see,” Killian smirked, reaching a door at the end of a darkened hallway. There was a lock on the door and before she had time to ask him what he was doing, Killian had released her hand and was going to work unbuttoning his shirt.

“Here?” Emma raised an eyebrow, shifting her weight a little to watch him.

“Stop objectifying me, woman,” Killian said with a grin. “I know it’s hard, but please try,” he added as he finished undoing the line of buttons on his shirt and pulled the edges open.

“I’ll give it my best shot,” Emma promised weakly, unable to stop her eyes roaming the thatch of glorious, dark chest hair that adorned his torso. Her hands itched to feel it, to trace the shape of his nipple as it pebbled under her touch, but she refrained, instead spying the small, silver blunted key hanging around his neck and giving him a confused look. “You wanted to show me a key?”

“No, love,” Killian grinned boyishly as he lifted the thin chain over his head and held the key in his palm. “This key opens this door,” he motioned behind him. “Behind which is something I think you are going to really appreciate.”

“Is it a sex dungeon?” Emma laughed.

“I’m not that exciting I’m afraid,” Killian laughed with her, feeling like it was the most natural thing he had ever done. “But I do want to share it with you.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Emma mocked, swaying her hips a little as she circled him and leaned back against the white panelled door. The wood was cold against her body, the thin material of her skimpy red dress barely enough to keep her warm, but she didn't even notice as soon as Killian shortened the gap between them leaving barely an inch between their bodies.

“Turn around,” he rasped darkly with a coy smirk.

Emma complied without hesitation, rolling her body against the door until she was facing away from him. Her hands spread out beside her head and she pinched her eyes closed, the thrill of what was coming next causing the welcome flutter in her stomach once again. Her chest heaved up and down, the wooden door cold against her bosom, and when Killian stepped forward and pressed his body against hers, she couldn’t stop the moan that escaped her lips.

“Easy,” he whispered into the back of her ear, setting every hair on her neck on high alert as a prickle ran over her skin and they stood to attention. Killian slipped his hand between them, poking the key into the lock and twisting it slowly, enjoying the way Emma gasped when his bare chest pushed against the patches of skin her barely there dress revealed. “Ready?” Emma nodded, unable to form words. “Good.” Killian nuzzled his nose into the patch of skin behind her ear, inhaling her scent and letting the fog of his breath affect her even more. “Close your eyes.”

Emma couldn’t stop the giggle of excitement that tumbled from her mouth when she heard the door latch click open and then felt Killian’s hands covering her eyes. Her hands found his forearms, gripping on for dear life as he walked her into a room that she could tell was huge just by the way the sound of her laughter echoed off the walls. It smelled clean but not antiseptic, not a single chemical smell to be found but instead the familiar, metallic smell of engine cleaner and lubrication spray mechanics often used to clean parts with. Her enthusiasm heightened, Emma shuffled her feet forward on Killian’s tender instruction until he stopped her and she felt him smile against her neck.

“Alright,” he announced, pulling his hands away from her eyes and sliding them down her body until they rested on her hips. He let go of one briefly to flick a switch but it returned to the warmth of her body quickly. “Open your eyes.”

Emma peeled her eyes open, ignoring the blinding whiteness of the room and blinking to adjust her focus. It was nothing like what she had imagined would be behind such a mundane looking door and all she could do was gasp, her heart stopping dead in her chest.

“Wow,” she breathed, stepping from his embrace in shock.

The room was filled with motorcycles, each on its own dedicated display stand like they were in some sort of museum. The more Emma looked around, the more variety she saw, from some of the rarest antique classics to some of the most sleek looking modern constructions, her heart was a flutter with each and every one. But there was one, sitting alone in the middle of the collection like a giant black and yellow wasp, that caught her attention and well and truly held it.

Emma gave Killian a quick glance over her shoulder before stumbling forward on legs that were shaky from a combination of alcohol and disbelief. The centre piece to Killian’s collection was none other than one of the rarest motorcycles to ever exist, requiring even the most professional of riders to complete a two week course before even being able to own one. Killian followed her with a proud smile, simply watching her appreciate the bike like he knew she would.

“Is this?” Emma gasped in shock.

“Aye, love, it is,” Killian confirmed. He loved the way she reacted, a girlish giggle falling from her mouth as she reached out and hovered her hand over the cold, matt black and yellow finish of the bodywork.

“Killian,” she paused, wide eyed when she turned to look at him. “This is an Ecosse Spirit ES1.”

“Aye, I know,” Killian grinned in boyish glee.

“One of the best handling, lightest, most powerful F1 inspired motorcycles to ever exist.” Her rambling was cute and Killian took another step towards her with a nod.

“Aye,” he agreed with amusement.

“Don’t these cost like $3 Million?” Emma frowned, turning back to the bike one more time to make sure it was really there.

“$3.6 Million, actually,” Killian clarified, finally reaching her and grabbing her hand. Emma tried to resist but he pushed her, coaxing her that final step forward until her fingertips brushed over the yellow and black paintwork. Killian laid his hand over hers, flattening her palm to the machine’s huge fuel tank, watching her features turn from shock to satisfaction. “There are only ten in the world,” he told her, moving her hand over the curve of the tank and along the supple leather of the rider’s seat. “And only one in this colour.”

Emma was stunned to silence. The Ecosse ES1 was unattainable to most people, its huge price tag and strict purchase requirements putting most people off of anything more than photos. Emma had admired the concept since its inception, intrigued by the combination of a superbike and an F1 car in one package, something that would most likely never be affordable to many teams, let alone one person.

“Wow,” Emma repeated, moving around the bike deliberately, putting the machine between the two of them. “Can I see you on it?” She looked up to meet his gaze, the shock in her eyes evident but laced with something else Killian hadn’t noticed before.

“Is that a turn on for you?” Killian smirked, lifting his leg over the back of the bike and settling into the softness of the seat. His toes stretched out instinctively towards the floor, but the bike was firmly fixed in position on its stand and would not topple over.

Emma bit her bottom lip at the sight, her fingertips caressing the taught fabric over Killian’s thigh. “You know,” Emma began salaciously. “I’ve always wanted to fuck on a bike.”

“I don’t believe you haven’t,” Killian told her, patting his lap, unable to take his eyes off of her as she hitched up the skin tight dress she was wearing. When she was done, she set one foot on the peg of the footrest and lifted herself up and over the bike until she was sitting astride Killian’s lap, facing him.

Emma slid down the fuel tank, her open thighs on display to his hungry gaze as Killian smoothed his hands up them in an attempt to steady her. Her skin was soft under his roughened finger tips and he sucked in a steadying breath through his grin. When she was settled they were almost eye to eye, his breathing catching in his throat when she raked her nails over the definition of his chest and abs that were hidden under his chest hair.

“Never,” Emma rasped, her arms coming up and resting on his shoulders. She buried her fingers in his raven locks, cupping the back of his skull in her hands, her lips millimeters from his as she looked up at him through her eyelashes. “I’d like to,” she told him and felt his fingernails dig into the skin of her thighs in restraint.

“Love,” Killian said huskily, resting his forehead on hers. “I don’t even know if we are friends yet.” He let his lips skim over hers so softly they were almost not there, his attention focused more on searing the imprint of them into the beating pulse point of her neck. He wrapped his arms around her much smaller frame, hugging her to him as he ravaged her neck, following a path down the perfect column until he stopped, fogging the swell of her heaving breasts with his words. “Are we friends yet, Emma Swan?”

Emma felt her nipples harden at his words, her name on his breath laced with sweetness and a darkness that made her skin hum. She laughed, clutching his head harder so he couldn’t leave her skin alone for a second, torn between letting him continue his assault that was clearly heading south, or finally tasting his lips on hers. The latter won out and she pulled his head up, crashing her lips into his with a force that knocked him backwards for a second, his own feverish return delayed until he heard her moan down deep in her throat and his resolve snapped.

“Yes,” Emma panted between kisses, the feel of his lips on hers like a ray of sunshine in a rainstorm. They were soft and even though his kisses were forceful, they were like a caress on the exact right side of painful that made her flood her panties with a sudden wetness that she hadn’t felt for a long time. “Say my name,” she insisted through her haze, tearing her lips from his so that he could focus on her instruction.

“Emma,” Killian rasped in a gravelly voice, chasing her lips. “Gods, it’s Emma,” he sighed, almost wrenching his shoulders out of their sockets as he aided her in pushing his shirt from his back. “Such a beautiful name.”

His lips were back on hers in an instant, the hunger behind his kiss evidently taking its toll on his body. Emma smirked against his lips when she felt him harden, the already minute space between their bodies disappearing as his erection pressed up into the apex of her thighs and he rolled his hips, eager to feel her pressing down on him even more. Emma shifted forward, rolling her own hips forward and downward, letting his length press up into her folds even more, an action that had him growling out loud in frustration.

Without even asking, Emma knew exactly what he wanted. She reached down between their bodies, working on the button of his pants, fighting with the material that had been pulled taut by his erection. When the button finally popped open, Killian let out a sigh of relief, tearing his lips from hers and moving his mouth to her shoulder, nibbling at the flesh there as his hand tore the thin strap of her dress aside. He grazed his teeth over the joint, fingernails scraping down her upper arm in his attempt to get as close to her as possible, his lips finally finding the swell of a breast and peppering her chest with more aggressive kisses.

He held her as she involuntarily arched backwards, his hands splayed out over the expanse of her back as he rested her against the curve of the fuel tank. His lips never left her skin, hands tugging down the material of her dress to expose his prize and a satisfied groan escaping his throat when Emma’s nipples hardened even more as soon as the air hit them. She palmed them, grabbing the flesh roughly and sliding even further down the bike until she was sure Killian could feel the dampness between her thighs against his rock hard length.

“I don’t have-,” Killian began hoarsely, sliding his hands to his groin and finally freeing his hardness despite his mind’s protest. He pumped himself a few times to relieve the ache in his balls, the skin shifting over his sensitive head and making him hiss. “We should stop,” he ground out, his body fighting his own words.

“What? Why?” Emma asked in a daze, grabbing the sides of his scruffy face and lifting his chin so she could look in his eyes.

“We can’t be careful here,” Killian said, unable to stop himself from leaning forward and tasting her skin. He pushed out of her hold and latched onto one of her nipples, pulling the bud between his lips and humming against her flesh in content. He clawed down the side of her body, gently scraping his nails over her ribs and leaving her nipples for a second so he could kiss the sensitive skin underneath the swell, the faint lines of her bra still lingering on her skin.

“Where?” Emma barely managed, her eyes rolling back in her head.

Killian let her go with a growl, ignoring the mutter of protest as he lifted her off his lap and sat her back on the very top of the smooth, yellow fuel tank. She giggled as he grabbed her thighs, pawing the flesh in protest of his own idea, swinging his leg back and dismounting the bike all the while mindful of his raging erection rubbing against the fabric of his underwear as he moved. Emma watched him intently, worried for a second that he might leave her, before he moved to the side of the bike and hauled her up into his arms.

Her lips were on his before a second had passed, the urgency of her need for his return clear by the way she grabbed at his shoulders and her legs wrapped around his waist. His muscles rippled under her fingers as he moved in long, determined strides to somewhere else in the house that Emma had yet to see. Teeth clashed and tongues duelled, hot, sloppy kisses giving each of them a renewed sense of passion as they headed to Killian’s bedroom and he kicked open the door.

Emma giggled, squealing in joy as Killian reached his huge bed and as soon as his knees touched the frame, tossed her onto the mattress. Emma hit the comforter with a bounce, righting her half naked body just in time to brush her hair away from her face and feel Killian tugging on her ankle. She flopped back, hair fanning out around her head as Killian lifted her leg to his face and kissed her ankle, caressing her heel in both hands like it was a delicate egg. The scruff on his chin, with its small, ginger hairs glinting in his bedroom lamplight, tickled her skin and she yanked her foot from his grasp with a chuckle.

“I’m sorry,” Emma snorted a laugh, watching his dejected expression. “That tickles!”

“Oh,” Killian sang, kneeling between her legs as he climbed half way onto the bed and reached for her dress. The material was bunched up around her waist now, having been pulled down then upwards, but it was easily maneuvered back down over her hips with a forceful tug. “You shouldn’t have told me that,” he growled with glee, shedding the remains of his clothes at the bedside before diving naked onto the bed and rubbing his scruff over the silky smooth skin of her stomach.

“Killian!” Emma cried out, pulling her knees to her chest and trapping him against her body.

His name on her lips was enough for him to take pity on her, and as his teasing turned into kissing, he felt her body relax once more as she stretched out like a cat beneath him. Emma’s body felt heavy as she let all her limbs fall to the plush, cotton covered comforter and cast a quick glance down her body to where a very talented Mr. Jones was currently worshipping every inch of her naked body. Every kiss made her wetter, every brush of his fingers over the jut of her hip bone made her squirm and finally, as he dipped his tongue into her navel, Emma could take no more.

Hooking a crooked finger under his chin, she dragged his head upwards until he paused over her cleavage and their eyes met. His made her gasp, the previously bluebell spark almost totally gone and replaced by a stormy, lustful grey that made her nipples harden even more on each of her breasts. Emma pulled his head and he had no choice but to follow, climbing over her body like a tiger stalking prey and seizing her lips once more. Emma’s body reacted without a beat, her back arching up and off the bed until their bodies were pressed together, and her legs wrapped around his waist.

Killian broke the kiss to catch his breath, pushing himself up by his arms and looking down at the petite blonde beneath him. She was a marvel, curved in all of the right places and skin so soft to the touch it felt wrong to caress her with such race roughened hands. Not that Emma minded at all. She was loving the feel of him, any part of him, and he had come to realise, in this short extra curricular activity, that he would never be away from her for too long before she was changing things in her favour.

Emma, true to form, rolled them over in a move so smooth, it almost felt choreographed. Truth was, it wasn’t. They were just two people who fit well together, in any position they found themselves in, one always teasing the other, in the bedroom as well as the race track. Like right now, as Emma repositioned herself into a straddle and ground her wetness down onto Killian’s bare length in an attempt to really drive him insane.

“Emma, Gods,” Killian ground out through gritted teeth. He slammed his head into the mattress, the chorded muscles in his neck straining and his fingernails digging into her thighs spread eagled over his length.

Emma simply smirked at the pleading nature of her name on his lips, bracing her hands on his chest and sliding herself up and down, coating his cock with her essence. “This is what you did to me, Killian,” she rasped accusingly through a coy smile. She leaned forward until her lips were level with his ear, smirking against the shell of the pointed flesh. “You made me so wet,” she sang into his ear like a siren and Killian thought he was going to come there and then.

“You feel amazing,” he growled, kneading the flesh over her hip with a forceful grab.

Emma sat up a little, setting her weight down on his length, pinning it to his stomach. She could feel the throb of blood rushing to his erection and with a sly smirk, clenched her inner muscles knowing full well he would feel her. “Just wait until you feel the inside,” she added darkly.

Killian sat upright suddenly, hands holding her to him as he kissed her again. It was more ferocious than before, more needy, a silent plea for Emma to end his torment and fuck him until he saw stars. His hands buried themselves in her hair, cradling the curve of her skull and holding her mouth to his as his tongue explored. Emma moaned, the sound nothing more than a whimper that sent a fresh surge of blood to Killian’s erection and made it bob against the hardness of her clit between them.

It was too much, her grinding alone almost getting her off. Emma felt her arms tingle, her legs beginning to shake before she pushed her weight forward and Killian held her as they both fell back on the bed behind him. “Get it,” Emma commanded, sitting back upright and clawing lines into Killian’s chest. “Get it now.”

Killian didn’t need to be told again, half rolling himself sideways until he could reach the bedside table. There were three drawers but he went to the middle one, rummaging around behind his socks until he pulled out a small foil wrapper that Emma snatched from his grasp as soon as he rolled back into position underneath her. With a salacious grin she shuffled down over his thighs, trapping him in place and, for the first time, taking in the size of his member as it bobbed against his stomach.

“Don’t worry, love,” Killian smiled slyly, one eyebrow rising on his head. “It won’t hurt.”

“Pfft, please,” Emma dismissed, tearing open the wrapper and making sure the condom was fitted in the right way. She pinched the tip, seating it on the velvety smooth head of him before taking him in her grasp and rolling the latex slowly and deliberately down over his shaft. “You think this is the biggest thing I’ve ridden in my career?”

Killian couldn’t take her teasing any longer and grabbed her behind the knees, yanking her entire body up until she was seated back across his groin. She let out a small squeal of shock, before relaxing and letting him position his length at her entrance, just the tip of him enough to give her that burning stretch she hadn’t felt for so long. A gasp and a furrowed brow told Killian he had hit the right spot, inching into her a little further with a gentle pull down of her hips. When Emma was fully relaxed, his entire length inside of her, he bent his knees up behind her and let her recline against his thighs, content that her smug remark had been thoroughly seen to.

“No,” Killian ground out as Emma began to cant her hips, swiveling them forward and back, rocking on the hardness inside of her with a soft whimper. “But it’s going to be the best thing you’ve ever ridden, period.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Emma sighed with a nod of her head and a bite of her bottom lip. She changed her rhythm, rising up and then sinking back down onto him with a force that bumped her clit just right. She repeated it, only this time Killian met her half way, thrusting up into her and expelling all of the air from her lungs.

“Yeah, that’s it, Emma,” Killian grunted. “Ride me, there’s a good girl.”

She was so wet, slickness easing each of his thrusts, and Emma wasn’t sure she could even make any more lubrication until Killian had said those words. She felt the warmth pool in her stomach and the tingle inside of her walls that signalled her imminent orgasm. Normally she would have taken much longer to reach euphoria, but Killian was perfect, in all the right places, and she chased down her pleasure intending to firmly grasp a hold of it and never let go.

Again she switched it up, falling forward until her hair framed both of their faces and they were breathing in each others air. Emma clawed at his cheeks, the bristles of his beard soft under her fingertips as she began panting in a new rhythm of breaths that made Killian even harder inside of her. She was close. He could tell because of the muscles inside of her, contracting as she ground her clit against his pubic bone over and over, a thin sheen of sweat covering her entire body.

She let out a squeak, smashing her lips into his despite their need to breathe, and her movements became staggered, her hips moving erratically suddenly because she was about to come. The angle was right, the pressure on her clit was just perfect, and when Killian felt the muscles in her thighs tense up, her took it upon himself to extend Emma’s pleasure. She let out no protest when he wrapped his arms around her body and plowed himself into her core, the spongy walls there tightening with every thrust that prolonged her orgasm. She was numb, unable to do anything but cry out in ecstasy, her wails on the verge of crying because of the sensitivity following her release.

It wasn’t long after she had gone completely stiff on top of him and Killian slowed his movements to shorter, more forceful thrust, that he came, spilling his seed into the latex barrier between them. He kept thrusting, even as he began to soften, content to feel the pull of her inner muscles as ripples of euphoria still made her core flutter with activity. Finally, he let her go, softening his hold on her and brushing her hair aside so he could kiss her shoulder, his lips pecking tenderly at the sweaty flesh like a soothing balm on a burn.

“Oh yeah,” Emma panted, weakened but still able to lift herself to meet his gaze. Killian smiled expectantly, one hand drawing lazy circles over the base of her spine whilst the other divested himself of the spent condom, mindful not to let anything spill out as he discarded it on the nightstand.

“Yeah, what, love?” Killian pried, repositioning so that he had one arm behind his head and could take in the beauty of her straddled across his body.

Emma shook her hair away from her face, tucking some strands behind her ear before pressing her lips to Killian’s with a content hum. “Now we’re friends,” she chuckled, grabbing his face between her hands and pulling his smile to hers once more.

#stp #sparking the pavement #ch 4 #cs fic #cs au #cs ff #cs fanfic #moto gp au #Killian Jones #emma swan #smutty smut smut

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