#but maybe a belle esque one for duke | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cannibalmukbang · 3 years

Text

Initial Consultation

Wrote this to share with my fellow freaks in the Duke Simp Server. It serves as a real introduction to my self-insert, Colette.

Roughly 4k words. Completely safe for work but full (I hope) of sexual tension.

Enjoy.

Colette was alerted to the presence of a customer in the shop, not by the bell on the door but by the sudden and overpowering scent of cigar smoke coming from the shop floor when she returned from the back room.

The apprentice tailor had been left alone for the day when a family emergency had called Thea away from her work suddenly that morning. Normally Thea wouldn't have trusted Colette with the responsibility, but with no other choices and only one meeting scheduled for the day, she left her with full reign of the shop. There was always the chance of a walk-in, but those chances were slim. The town centre of Montfaucon was hardly the Paris high street, especially not on a Wednesday afternoon. There was the 2:30 meeting, and other than that and some light re-organising, that was all Colette was going to have to worry about for the day.

She recalled Thea's exact words regarding her 2:30 appointment- “He hasn't been in to see us for a long while, since before you worked here. He pays well. I think you'll like him, Colette- he's odd, like you.”

She still didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or not.

Thea had also said “Just try not to be too intimidated,” but that had been seconds before walking out the door to take a call from her sick aunt, so Colette hadn't had a chance to get clarification on what, exactly, would be potentially intimidating about him.

Seeing him in the shop, Colette got her answer.

“Ah, there you are. You must be Mademoiselle Colette. I hope you don't mind me smoking in here.”

Thea's 2:30 was immaculately dressed, though his dark grey three-piece suit looked about 120 years out of style. It had to have been custom, either designed by Thea or someone else, because there was no way any off-the rack clothing would have fit him. He was massive, his body taking up most of the pink couch that was there for customers to sit on while they waited to pick up their clothes. He already would've easily been the largest man Colette had ever laid eyes on, but then she realised- he had seemed to be average height at first, but that was only because he was sitting down.

Still, she was going to take Thea's advice to heart and remain firmly un-intimidated.

“I suppose you're my 2:30,” she responded dryly. Colette was a competent seamstress but her customer service definitely needed work. “So, are you picking up or dropping off, Monsieur-?”

“Duke.” He corrected.

Colette blinked. He spoke French like a native but she was fairly certain there were no Dukes left in the country.

“Of what?” she asked

He extinguished his cigar and pretended not to hear her.

“You come highly recommended, Colette,” he said. “So I'm going to give you a chance, as a courtesy to Thea. I need you to do two things for me.”

Colette couldn't help but scoff at the idea of Thea, or anyone, really, giving her a glowing recommendation. She had graduated from Paris Fashion Institute with middling grades, the collection she designed being called too much like costume by most of her professors, whose advice she had frequently ignored out of spite. This wasn't to say she was bad at her work, only that she wasn't the easiest person on earth to work with.

“Alright, Monsieur le Duc,” she said. “What would those two things be?”

The Duke smiled thinly in response to the slight sarcastic edge to her voice.

He had a face that would've looked at home on one of the paintings of angels that hung in the Musee D'Orsay, with bright eyes, full lips and rosy cheeks. He could've been 25, he could've been 50. It was impossible to tell.

“A suit for me, for starters. Then, well, I have an associate who, after seeing Thea's work, wants to commission a new evening dress.”

“Will your associate be joining us as well?” Colette asked.

“No, unfortunately she can't,” the Duke responded. “But you getting the dress commission will be totally contingent on if you do a good job on the suit. I've been told you're good at thinking outside the box when it comes to design, so I'm excited to see what you come up with.”

He gave her a pointed look. The dress she had on was definitely indicative of an outside-the-box thinker- it could best be described as 'Siouxsie and the Banshees meets Marie Antoinette'. Not something that was ever meant to be worn off the runway, but Colette stubbornly insisted.

“I've been told as much, many, many times.” She smiled and nodded, with a demure laugh.

She had started this interaction ready to dislike the Duke- he'd startled her when he came in, smoking a cigar when he really wasn't supposed to, barefoot despite being well-dressed from the ankles up. She was ready for him to be entitled, act like he owned the place, but he didn't give off that air at all. He was relaxed, soft-spoken, with a voice like crème caramel, a sharp contrast to how she imagined someone his size would sound.

She might even enjoy this consultation, she thought. But then Colette stopped, hit with a sudden realisation.

Oh, God, she was going to have to take this man's measurements. There was a knot forming in her stomach at the idea, but it wasn't out of dread. Not entirely, at least.

She swallowed the feeling and took a breath before crossing the shop floor to sit across from her customer.

“So- what kind of suit did you have in mind, Monsieur le Duc?”

Colette was leaning forward, eager to discuss things, her elbows resting on her knees. In contrast, the Duke was leaning back, casual as anything, like some decadent Roman emperor, his pose only serving to accentuate the belly that took up most of his lap. Colette caught herself staring and hoped he wouldn't notice.

“Oh, please, that was my father's name,” he chuckled. “Just 'the Duke' will do.”

“The Duke of what?” Colette asked again.

He seemed to think it over, fidgeting with one of the many rings on his fingers.

“I'm looking for something stylish, but comfortable. You know, suitable for day or evening. Not too ostentatious.” He flexed his fingers and looked at his nails “Like what I have on now, but lighter, for spring.”

“How do you feel about red as a colour?” Colette asked.

The Duke lowered his hand, resting it on his stomach.

Colette was staring again, and this time he definitely noticed. He tilted his head to the side and raised his brows, silently reminding her that his eyes were up here. Embarrassed, Colette cleared her throat and pushed her glasses up her nose.

“I don't actually think I have anything in red,” he mused. “Could be a nice change. But I realise the potential limitations- if you don't have enough of the red, I'll understand.”

“I can always order in more.” She laughed, a little uneasily. “But I'm sorry to inform you that if I have to do that, I will then have to charge you extra.”

“I can afford it.” The Duke didn't miss a beat.

“Good to know.” Colette smiled, tapping her fingers on her thigh. “I'll make a point to run up the price as high as I possibly can.”

“I didn't say you could do that,” the Duke said. “Not that you could. I'd simply talk the price back down. I'm an exceptionally good haggler.”

Colette stood up and cocked her head back, just so she could give him a smug smile and look down her nose at him.

“I'd like to see you try and outwit me, sir.”

Her confidence was entirely false, affected solely out of a desire to keep the back-and-forth going. Colette was famously terrible with numbers. She could do basic accounting, but when it came to actually conceptualising what numbers (be they costs or measurements) represented in real life, she was hopeless. She still thought 15 euro was a lot of money.

Regardless, her bravado got a laugh out of the Duke. In any other circumstances being laughed at would make Colette angry. Maybe it still did, but maybe the anger was just outweighed by the fact that the Duke had the most fantastically genuine and joyful laugh she'd ever heard.

She wanted more than anything to keep making him laugh.

Colette waltzed over to the desk, so she could grab her notebook, pencil and measuring tape from a drawer under the cash register. The whole time he was watching her with interest, almost as if she were the thing he'd come here to buy.

“Did you make those clothes?” He asked, tone completely innocent. “They're very nice.”

Colette looked down at her own outfit and shrugged. Her top was a puff-sleeved roccoco-esque number in cream white and royal purple, while her skirt was a pencil skirt made of shiny faux-leather. Her tights matched the top, her boots matched the skirt.

“The shirt, yes,” she answered. “The skirt, no. Vinyl is difficult to work with- you need a special needle for it.”

“I can't imagine it's comfortable.”

“You'd be surprised.” She dug around in the drawer, grunting in annoyance. “Give me just a moment, please- I'll get something from the back, then we can get on with this fitting.”

She ducked behind the privacy curtain, the one that kept the shop floor separate from the mess of fabric, mannequins and sewing machine thread. It took her seconds to find a measuring tape, but she couldn't help but wonder if it was going to be long enough.

When she came back out to the shop floor she had to suppress a very undignified yelp. She had heard no footsteps or movement of any kind, but the Duke was on the other side of the shop when she returned. She had to remind herself that he was barefoot, so, theoretically, capable of walking without making sound, but the time between when she last saw him and now seemed incongruously short. That and the fact that he was so tall. She knew he had to be, but there was a difference between seeing him sat on the couch and actually seeing him at full height. He was taller than any of the mirrors he was standing by, and if he'd stood too far to the left he'd run the risk of his head knocking the hanging chandelier.

Colette made a point to close her mouth- she was sure it had been hanging open. The Duke, for what it was worth, seemed amused more than offended at her reaction.

“Well, Colette?” He asked, only sounding slightly impatient.

“Oh, of course.” She shook her head and pushed up her glasses. “Sorry, sorry, I guess I'm just-”

“223 centimetres,” he said, interrupting her floundering.

Colette furrowed her brows, cocking her head to the side.

“That's how tall I am,” the Duke said, plainly. “I could just tell you were about to ask, so I felt I may as well get it out in the open.”

“Thanks,” Colette said. “Well, now that you've told me how tall you are vertically, let's get measuring all your other...various...directions.”

“What?”

“It sounded better in my head.”

“It could hardly have sounded worse.”

Colette gritted her teeth. Thea had told her not to be intimidated by him, and she wasn't, but she was definitely flustered.

“I'm going to start with your inseam,” she said, regaining some of her professionalism and composure.

“Very well, have at it.”

They looked at each other for a moment, but that was all it took. The smirk on his face was all the proof Colette needed that he was fully aware of his effect on her. Not only was he aware of it, but he thought it was hilarious.

Remaining stone-faced to spite him, Colette took a knee in front of the Duke and stretched the measuring tape from the inside of his ankle up to his inner thigh. Inevitably, her hands brushed against him, and she forced herself to not think about it.

She took his leg length down, then stood up, briefly adjusting her skirt where it had ridden up her legs slightly.

Wanting desperately to keep her mind on her work and not on the Duke himself, Colette cleared her throat.

“So, tell me about this mysterious associate of yours.” She made note of the length of his arm. “Where is she now that's so important she couldn't come with you? You could've made a day of it.”

“She's in Romania,” the Duke answered. Colette moved the measuring tape away and he lowered his arm.

“And there's nobody local who could have made the dress for her?” Colette smirked. “Not that I oppose the idea of taking her money, I'm just curious.”

“Well, there used to be a village seamstress,” he answered lightly. “...Until she was unceremoniously devoured.”

Colette, assuming it was a joke, laughed.

“By vampires, I presume?” she asked.

“Naturally,” The Duke said, silvery-blue eyes glinting. “The whole village is overrun. Why do you think the Lady couldn't join me today? The sun's still up, and she can't leave her homeland unless she's in a coffin. She's even taller than me, too, so that makes her a nightmare to transport.”

Colette started measuring the Duke's back. His shoulders were well above her eye level.

“If she's a vampire, what does that make you?”

The Duke was silent for a while while Colette noted the measurement. He shrugged.

“I prefer a good foie gras to human blood, let's just say that.”

Colette looked up from her notes and gave him a look.

“You're very cryptic,” she said.

He smirked.

“I'm so glad you noticed.”

She looked at her book, mentally ticking off all the measurements she'd just gone through. Of course, she still had to do the chest and waist measurements. She looked over the Duke's form, so large that the mirrors couldn't hold all of his reflection at once. Her brain was at risk of short-circuiting trying to logic out how she would be able to reach all the way around him. She thought about trying to reach around him, see how far she could get her arms, but maybe that was just because she thought he'd be nice to hug.

“Alright, raise your arms up.”

He did as instructed, and Colette clicked her tongue, looking him over.

“You're sold on red for the colour?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“And what about the dress for your lady friend?” She asked. “Not to get too ahead of myself here, I just need to know if you want to match.”

“No need to.” He waved his hand dismissively. “We're not showing up to places together. She is just my friend, if that.”

Colette smiled, because that implied he was single.

“She doesn't go for bigger guys, then?”

He shook his head.

“She doesn't go for guys, end of sentence.”

“Fair.” Colette held one side of the measuring tape under his arm. “Hold this here for me.”

He did what he asked, leaving both of Colette's hands free. She took the other end of the tape as far as it could go, which was just about to the other side of his chest. She looked up at him, over the rims of her glasses.

“What about you, what's your type?”

He narrowed his eyes, looking up at the ceiling, thinking about it.

“Well, I'd say it depends, but right now...” He looked at Colette and gave her a wry smile. “I find myself very interested in leggy brunettes who wear tight skirts and large glasses.”

“You have terrible taste.” Colette joked, noting down the measurement as well as a pre-emptive plus sign for when she'd have to add a second measurement onto the first.

“Clearly,” the Duke laughed. “What about you? Would you say you have a type?”

Colette took the tape and started circling around the Duke's back, humming thoughtfully.

“Gentlemanly. Fashionable.” She made some notes and did some quick addition. “Heavy-set. Approximately 223 centimetres tall.”

“I think your taste in men is impeccable.”

“You're biased,” she said flatly. “One more measurement, then you can go and I can start patterning.”

“It will be a shame to have to leave.”

“You will have to come back at some point,” Colette responded. “I mean, you know... once for the fitting, then another time to pick the suit up.”

The Duke nodded, like he was taking what she was saying very seriously.

“Naturally.”

Colette circled back around to the front of the Duke and raised her measuring tape again. She started chewing her bottom lip while she looked him over, eyes lingering again on his belly. It was truly unbelievable that the Duke was as big as he was and still able to stand. Yet here he was, standing. He must be really strong, Colette thought.

Just another one of many admirable traits that he apparently had.

Colette took his waist measurements in piecemeal, the same way she did his chest. Looking at the notebook in her hands as she added numbers together she noticed that her handwriting had been getting markedly worse the longer this appointment had gone on.

Her hands were getting jittery.

“I have to say, your restraint is admirable,” the Duke said. Colette felt her face go red.

“Sorry- I thought I was being covert, but I guess I'm not.” Colette gave a self-effacing laugh. “You're very eye-catching.”

“You don't need to apologise, pet,” he assured her. “I've been drawing stares for longer than you've been alive, I'm utterly numb to it at this point.”

Colette raised a brow.

“'Longer than you've been alive' sounds like something a vampire would say.” She narrowed her eyes and pointed the end of her pencil at her. “I thought you said you weren't a vampire, hm?”

The Duke gestured to the mirrors, which were reflecting as much of him as they possibly could. Colette shrugged.

“Alright, that's a compelling counter-argument.” She tapped her pencil on her notebook and scrunched her face up, mulling over the numbers. Predictably, they were very large. She flipped the page and started sketching a rough approximation of his body shape on which to build a design. “So, you can take a seat if you like. That was all I needed from you for now.”

“Of course.”

Colette looked up from the page, eyes wide. His voice sounded too far away when he'd spoken, and when she raised her eyes her suspicions were confirmed- somehow, impossibly, he was already sat on the couch again. Colette had been known to lose herself when she was focused on her work, but she couldn't have had her eyes off him that long, could she? She had half a mind to check the clock on the wall, just to make sure.

He smiled at her, eyebrows raising for a second. Oh, so he was messing with her now, the bastard.

“Alright, that's enough,” Colette said firmly. “Whatever that was, don't do it again.”

“Do what?” He asked, feigning innocence.

Colette raised two fingers towards her eyes, then jabbed them accusingly in his direction.

“How do you feel about a single vent, Italian style, four-by-two jacket in red twill with black lining?” She asked.

“Perfect,” he answered. “I'm more than willing to defer to your expertise on any further details, just so long as you don't go too le Roi Soleil with it. That era did not suit me.”

Colette smirked, because once again, she assumed it was a joke.

“Not everything I make looks like this shirt, you know,” she explained, slightly indignant. “I have range. And I'm surprised- I would think you suited the Louis the 14th look.”

“That's because you weren't there.” He held up a hand and motioned for her to come closer. “Show me what you've been drawing.”

“It's not finished.” She clutched the notebook to her chest defensively.

“Please?” He clutched his hands together, pleading. “Come on, Colette, don't be one of those people.”

“Those people?”

“Yes, the kind of people who make art but refuse to share their progress.”

“It's not art yet,” she argued. “Not until I copy it onto the good draughting paper and add colour and everything.”

“Da Vinci probably used to say the same thing,” the Duke said, “And his sketches still go for millions.”

“That's only because Da Vinci has been dead for a very long time.”

The Duke, unmoved by her argument, kept looking at her with an eager look on his face and his hands clasped under his chin. Colette groaned and slumped her head forward.

“Alright. I concede,” she grumbled as she approached him, her grip relaxing around the notebook.“Here.”

The Duke took the book out of her hands and she made a small noise in protest.

“It's a bad likeness, but-”

“The suit looks good,” he interrupted. “I'm excited to see it in colour.”

Colette smiled, nodding dumbly. It took her an embarrassingly long time to respond

“Yeah?”

He nodded and handed the book back. She closed it and slipped it under her arm.

“You know, it's funny,” he said. “Thea told me you were a little standoffish, but I think you're perfectly charming in person.”

“I can be, under the right circumstances.” Colette shrugged. “As long as you don't do anything to piss me off.”

“I'll try my best not to.”

“I'll hold you to it.”

After a brief silence, the Duke stood up, finally confirming to Colette that he was capable of moving by methods other than jump-cutting from place to place.

“So if there's nothing more you need from me,” He straightened his jacket lapels. “I've got other obligations this evening, and if you don't mind-”

“Oh, by all means.” Colette held one hand up, shaking her head. She left a pause, taking the time to consider what she was about to ask. She was starting to blush a little bit again. “Would it be totally weird if I asked for a hug before you leave?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone deadpan. “But I'll forgive you, considering you seem to just be weird in a general, holistic sense.”

Colette smirked.

“Thanks, so do you.”

The Duke put a hand on her back and pulled Colette into a hug, causing her notebook to drop to the floor when she instinctively opened her arms to hug him back. She let her head rest on his chest and took a deep breath in through her nose. Her nose wasn't good enough to identify the base components of his scent beyond the wool his suit was made of and the lingering scent of the cigar he'd been smoking earlier, but whatever else he smelled like, it was comforting. She was reminded of libraries, museum cafes, places she used to hide away to quietly get her work done when she was in college. It was nice.

“I should probably go write you a quote, shouldn't I?” She asked, finally letting go.

“Of course.”

Colette picked up her notebook and pencil off the floor and skittered over to the cash register desk, where she grabbed a calculator and receipt book.

“Alright- so, with the cost of the fabric and lining, plus the buttons, you are looking at...” She drew out the 'a' in 'at' while she punched numbers into the calculator. “Somewhere in the ball park of-”

Feeling a strange pit in her stomach, she looked up.

The Duke had vanished.

“Five hundred and sixty-four...for the materials.” She sighed, her eyes narrowing at the shop door. “Bastard.”

She was about to call Thea and complained that the Duke had stiffed them, but then she saw the stack of cash on the desk next to her. She picked it up and thumbed through.

Five hundred and sixty-four euros. Plus a tip.

Thea hadn't been lying about the man paying well.

#My writing

12 notes · View notes

ivanshatov · 3 years

Text

double date

wc: 3.1k

it’s 11pm post-superbowl sunday night and i finished writing this fun little oc oneshot so i’m gonna drop it here bc why not? anyways, what the hell gay vampires

The sun had just barely set, but Edel was busy working away at the theatre’s lobby; stringing up lights, watering the plants, lighting the candles, cleaning away the blood, the usual cleanup checklist. With all the ruckus coming from Edel’s radio of whistled showtunes and the sound of hurried housekeeping taking place, Mia appeared in the doorway. She was dressed modestly in a corset and skirt that dropped to her heels, her hair up and traces of blood beneath her lips. “What in the name of— are you doing?” she asked, rubbing her head with a yawn.

Edel beamed, fully dressed, with petticoat, makeup, and all. “Didn’t I remind you yesterday?” they asked, lifting the sides of their gown and prancing to Mia. “Sujani’s love is coming over today. She’s introducing him to me. Is that blood on your face? Make sure you clean it, you’ll scare the poor man.”

“Sujani’s love, huh?” Mia thumbed beneath her lip and raised an eyebrow. “Well, does he know?”

“Know what?” Edel looked up from their busywork, wide-eyed and oblivious.

“Does he know about the—“ Mia gesticulated and threw up her hands. “The vampirism?”

“Oh! Oh. I’m not sure. Best not bring it up. Just to be safe,” Edel replied, twirling the broom she held and resisting the urge to strike some Fosse-esque pose. “You can come out if you’d like to say hi. Maral and Libera know too, but they’re off doing lines in the mezzanine.”

Mia tilted her head. “And the rest of the cast?”

“Laundry, props, helping Igor with the set, cleaning the apron, the like...” Edel replied, tending to a spiderweb in the corner. “I don’t want anyone eating him, so I’m trying to have them all occupied. Sujani made it very clear she will be very upset if her beau gets devoured. And then who will manage our stage if she is upset with me? This has to run very smoothly. You see? So, my dear, if some lost-looking breather is wandering through the halls, please redirect him here. No blood-sucking involved, preferably.”

“And no hypnotism, right?”

Edel turned around, leaning the broom against the wall and wrapping their arms around Mia’s waist. “No hypnotism, promise.” The couple linked pinkies and Mia rested her head on Edel’s chest.

“Alright. Be safe, dear. Check for stakes, crucifixes, the like...” she sighed, pushing her hair behind her ear. “We don’t want any guest appearances.” Giving Edel a kiss on the cheek, she unlinked her hand and started down the hall. “I best get dressed, too. Perhaps I’ll show up when I’m prim and proper. Make it a double date, as they call it these days, hm?”

Flashing a fanged grin, Edel nodded with excitement. “Oh, please do! Double date,” they repeated, eyes sparkling. “Please, you’ll look radiant. Love you,” Edel called as Mia vanished down the hallway.

Alone and back in the grandiose lobby, Edel continued to tend to the dust bunnies around the lobby, humming some musical jingles underneath her breath. As she got stuck replaying the songs of Les Mis in her mind, her eyes flitted to the clock. Fifteen minutes until 8’o’clock! Oh goodness, darling Sujani would be arriving any moment. Gathering the cleaning supplies and taking one last look around the lobby, Edel hurried back to the stage to dispose of the swiped supplies. The door slammed behind them as they entered the backstage, and a few heads downstage were turned.

“Eeeeedel!” Pasha called out, bouncing upstage and meeting Edel’s side. “Can I take those off your hands?” he asked, batting his childlike eyes.

“Sure,” Edel muttered, smiling down at him. “Please remember. Don’t start wandering. Sujani is bringing a guest with her tonight.”

“Ooh, a guest!” Olga interjected, sticking her head up from the catwalk. “A guest of what sort? A prince? Duke, maybe? The President?”

“No, her boyfriend. And, and, please don’t drop those 2x4’s, Olga,” Edel shouted, waving their arms.

Olga signaled a salute and nearly dropped the wooden planks, managing to narrowly avoid an accident with the flyweights. “I didn’t know Miss Sujani had a boyfriend,” Pasha said, saccharine.

“No, you cannot eat him. No, you cannot play some childish prank on him. Whatever your next question is, the answer is no. Alright? I’ll give you a candy later, or something,” Edel mumbled, booping Pasha on the nose and ruffling his hair.

“I can’t eat candy,” he maintained.

Edel exhaled, exasperated. “A book, then.”

“Books are boring!”

“One with illustrations,” she said with a wave of her hand, disappearing back in the direction of the lobby.

As Edel reentered, briefly admiring their handiwork, a bell chimed at the box office and sent them peeling down the hallway.

“Sujani! Sujani, darling! I’m so glad you’ve come!” Edel announced, bursting in through the threshhold with a wide grin and open arms. Sujani, relaxed and smiling, was dressed in her usual fare— a simple green sweater, a long skirt, Oxfords. Her hair was nice and curled and Edel noted the use of false eyelashes, something Sujani seldom indulged in. Her eyeliner was nonetheless bold. As Edel’s eyes met her guest, however, the color (or lack thereof) drained from her face. “I know you,” Edel mumbled, enthusiasm dying. Her eyes trailed back to Sujani, and she glared. “Luca Betschen? The Luca Betschen, of all men in this city crawling with them?”

Luca Betschen, standing opposite Sujani, with her hand around his waist and his around hers, was a short and plucky little man. His hair was curly and brown, and he had the most lovely, enticing young eyes, and was ruggedly handsome despite his unfortunate smallness. And Edel knew his face very, very well.

The Theatre has a strange relationship with the Press. The Theatre can function just fine independent of the Press, but their relationship is reciprocal. The Press is a necessary predator in the ecosystem in the fine arts, regulating the bad and safeguarding the good. But as hundreds of years pass by, between the un-dead and the living, tastes tend to change, and perceptions of otherwise fine Theatre may appeared skewed. A six-hundred year disparity, as one could imagine, would intensify these critical differences. Luca Betschen, a fresh-faced journalist at some irrelevant, wretched, Winterthur newspaper, embodies it. One ruthless review two years ago on Edel’s production of The Seagull has left them burning ever since. “Contrary to the beliefs of archaic director Edelgard Veice,” Betschen wrote, “Chekov’s works are better left boring and lifeless, not thrown into a kitschy, unexplainably Tudor delirium of color and light.”

She spotted his face in the audience opening night a year ago, received another scathing review, and has been plotting her revenge over her production. And now, that wretched man stands in front of her, alongside her darling Sujani, of all people! Sujani has no time to respond before Edel, seething, retreats back into the lobby. “I am retracting my gracious invitation!”

“Miss Edel—”

“Get him out of here!” Edel roared, stomping down the hallway in her one-inch heels.

Two humans stand in the box office of a vampire nest, hands linked. It’s a hot summer evening in one of Europe’s most beautiful cities, tourists bustling on the streets and the stars shining above. “Shall we just... go?” Luca asked, clearing his throat. “I hope I haven’t upset her. That was certainly not my intention.”

Sujani shrugged her shoulders and peeked down the hall into the lobby, and then at the door marked Employees Only that led to the backstage. “Edel... tends to hold grudges for a long time. She’ll warm up to you eventually,” she insisted with another lukewarm shrug. “Hopefully.”

***

The sound of Edel’s heels clicking on the theatre floor echoed loud and clear disapproval through the walls of the theatre. She stormed past the auditorium, stomping with irate force, and up to the dressing rooms, up another flight of stairs, to where Mia should be. And, without a hint of hesitation, she slammed her fist down on the door, knocking the ancient oak with unrelenting fury. Mia swung the door open, doing up her corset, eyes wide as Edel stumbled back. “What’s wrong? Shouldn’t you be with Sujani? And her… human love-friend?”

Edel slammed the door behind them and dropped down in one of Mia’s empty seat, bristling with rage and chewing on her lip.

“Edel…?”

“Do you remember,” Edel began, heated, “when that pathetic little Winterthur paper smeared my good name? That 2.5 star review? You must remember.”

“Uh, was that The Seagull, or Romeo and Juliet, or Anything Goes?”

Edel was silent.

“No, Anything Goes was one star,” Mia murmured, returning to the ribbons on her corset. When she looked up, Edel’s face was hidden in their hands. “Oh, dear.”

“She’s dating that bloody critic! That wretched critic! And they will marry and reproduce and my darling Sujani will bear wretched little critic children. Oh, Mia, I don’t know what to do! My reputation as a host will turn more repugnant than my critical reviews if I turn him away, and I will break my darling Sujani’s heart, but I can’t stand the thought of inviting him into this sacred place! This sacred place he’s desecrated!” Edel burst back into tears, taking a bloody handkerchief from Mia’s desk and blotting her running makeup.

“Don’t use that hanky…” Mia scratched her head and placed her hands on Edel’s shoulders, then leaned forward and placed her head in the nape of their neck. “My dear dead thespian. You are a wonderful host, a wonderful director, a theatrical icon, with wonderful ideas, productions… Why are you letting some breather spit on you? He’s just a breather. And you are an immortal being capable of flight, shapeshifting, and hypnosis who could suck all of the blood out of him instantly. Just some critic. And nobody cares about Winterthur, anyways. Screw Winterthur.” Mia lifted her hands off of Edel’s shoulders, working her first layer of ballgown up the crinoline hoopskirt. “Show him who’s boss. Show him those lovely host skills of yours. You worked so hard on that setup. And I saw you baking those cookies last night. See, you’re thoughtful, clever, and much better than he could ever be. No review will ever determine that.”

“Mmm. I love you.” Edel said, rising to her feet and kissing Mia on the lips, cupping her hands around her face and touching their foreheads together. Stretching out a gloved hand, she smiled and pushed the door back open. “Come with me to the breather guests?”

“Certainly.”

***

The humans had, perhaps unwisely, let themselves into the theatre. Sujani kept glancing around the many hallways, praying to catch a possible vampire before it could catch blissfully unaware Luca. He was stuffing his face with a few of the store-bought human luxuries that Edel had purchased. “Are you alright? You seem uneasy.”

Sujani shook her head and smiled. “Not exactly your idea of a date night. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I feel underdressed, seeing Miss Veice in that ballgown. That’s gorgeous. Where did she get it?” he mused. “Anyhow, I didn't really notice how beautiful this theatre is. I don’t really have the time to sit around and enjoy it when I’m here, but the architecture’s lovely.” Sheepishly, he looked down one of the halls. “May I see the auditorium?”

Sujani briefly considered a future where a mob of hungry vampires sicked themselves on her helpless boyfriend, and shook her head. “Probably not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

It was a fair question. “Technical things…” she started.

“Without a director or a stage manager?” Luca asked, confused.

“Uh…”

Fortunately, the sound of four heels clicking on the ground interrupted the conversation, and Edel and Mia appeared in the doorway. Edel smoothed her ballgown and grinned weakly as Sujani got to her feet. “My darling Sujani,” Edel began, wrapping Sujani in a tight hug and then turning her attention to Luca. She looked him up and down, and stuck out a hand. He took it, smiling shyly. “Mr. Betschen,” she said, tilting her head. “I must love you, and suit to know you better.”

“King Lear,” he correctly identified. “I shall study deserving.”

Edel eyed Sujani with reluctant approval, and patted Luca on the shoulder. She waved Mia over, who stretched out her hand to Luca. “Mia Kleinmann, my producer and my lover.”

“Mr. Betschen,” Mia said, taking his hand. “Sujani,” she greeted with a nod.

“I apologize,” Edel said, “for the rough opening. I’m happy to have you in the Theatre with me, Mr. Betschen, and I’m happy to finally meet you.”

“Please, call me Luca,” he said, taking a seat back in his chair. “I adore your ballgown. It’s so classic! It looks like a true regency classic. Yours too, Miss Kleinnman! I feel a bit underdressed, I must admit. Oh, thank you for inviting us. Sujani was dying for me to meet you.”

“Really?” Edel asked, eyeing Sujani as she forked a burnt tea cake in her mouth.

“Mhm,” she confirmed, mouth full. “Thought I’d try and ease the waters a bit, no?”

“I suppose. Nonetheless,” Edel said, drawing the curtains shut. “Pleased to have you with us, Luca. You seem a proper young man for my darling Sujani. Well-read on theatre…” She sighed and took a seat beside Mia, linking their hands together. “You know your stuff. Now, did you know I’m a playwright myself?”

“Oh? Tell me more,” Luca said, popping another tea cake in his mouth and handing one to Edel. They politely declined with a wave.

“Well—” Sujani interjected. “You know, I wanted to bring this up to you earlier, Miss Edel, but did you know Luca and I actually met after The Seagull?” She linked her hand with Luca, who grinned.

Edel raised her eyebrows and shook her head and Sujani continued, twirling her hair. “Opening night cast party. Met him in this very lobby and he took me for a drink down the street. Couldn’t change his mind on the production, though,” she said, elbowing him.

“The wheel is come full circle… Also King Lear,” he noted.

“Sujani’s third production with me,” Edel mused. “And now her eighth! Stage managing, set construction, lighting design. A real wünderkind.”

“And a wonderful costumier,” Mia added.

“You’re one lucky gentleman,” said Edel.

“Treat her right!” Mia chirped.

Sujani grinned and rocked Luca back and forth. “Oh, he’s just a gentleman. So very polite. And I love a man who loves the Theatre.”

“I live for the Theatre. Oh, I’m just some lousy critic. I hope one day I can go on the stage again,” he said, taking Sujani’s hand.

“Again, you say?” Edel asked, fiddling with her necklace.

He smiled sheepishly. “I was in some productions in grade school, and college. Mostly Shakespeare-related. I suppose I’m more techie-inclined, though, like Sujani.”

Edel brightened. “Well, you simply must try out for one of our Shakespeare productions! After my original play is staged, though. I try to cast unknowns, and broaden the scope of my casting, and—”

“Maybe not, though,” Mia said quickly.

“Yeah, maybe not,” Sujani continued, tilting her head towards a confused Luca. “Just because Edel has been thinking of staging more original plays as of late!”

“But we’ll give you a call when the Bard shows his face around here again,” Mia said with a wave. “I love producing Shakespeare. So classic.”

“Yes, so classic.” Sujani said, popping two cookies in her mouth and letting out a relieved sigh.

“Right,” Luca commented. “I’d love to be in a show again. Get a taste of your direction style from the inside. Because it’s truly unique, and very interesting,” he said, shooting a nod at Edel.

Edel cleared their throat and nodded. “Well, it’s been great,”

“Um, what?”

“It’s been great, Luca. But, erm, I think Sujani and I have some blocking to look over!” Edel said, getting to her feet. “May I walk you out?”

“I’m his ride, Edel…” Sujani said, rubbing her forehead.

“Then l will go over the blocking and you’ll look over it tomorrow! Go! Get some sleep! You hu— busy people!” Edel waved her hands and started to the door, ballgown bouncing behind them.

“Alright? Well, thank you,” Luca said, a bit startled as he hurried out, hand linked with Sujani.

“Why don’t you two visit that bar you went to? After The Seagull. Take a quick trip down memory lane! Oh, my darling Sujani,” Edel said, taking Sujani’s free hand. “May I have a word?”

Sujani looked back at Luca who shifted his weight and gestured back to the box office. Edel pulled Sujani inside and Mia appeared in the door. Luca hid his hands behind his back and stared at the pavement.

“You haven’t told him?” Edel asked.

“No?” Sujani replied, sticking her hands in her pockets. “I’m not trying to scare him off with mad ravings of vampires and the undead. I’m not doing that with him.”

“You best tell him soon,” Mia commented. “Before he figures it out. Is he into the supernatural, by any chance?”

“Not that I know of,” Sujani said. “Look, I don’t know. I’ve kept it from him this long. Well, we only started dating recently. After Anything Goes.”

“Anything Goes? Jesus. That was one star, I thought,” Mia muttered.

“Yeah, couldn’t change his mind on it. Trust me, I tried.”

Edel crossed their arms and huffed indignantly. “Well, please do tell him. Sooner, rather than later. Or just let him find out on his own. Just make sure he doesn’t have any stakes lying around. Or homemade crucifixes.”

“He’s Jewish,” Sujani replied.

“Well, still.” Edel uncrossed her arms. “Take care of it. And see me about the blocking tomorrow. Okay? I’ll see you around, my darling Sujani.”

The vampires disappeared into the lobby and Sujani exited the theatre, taking Luca’s hand. He kissed her on the cheek and tilted his head to the marquee. “They’re kinda odd, aren’t they?”

“I never noticed it.”

He pointed at the lights on the marquee, dazzling and untouched since their installation in the 1970s. “You should tell Miss Edel to turn that off. That must be a sizable electricity bill.”

“Nothing we can’t handle, I’m sure,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder and kissing him on top of his head. “Thanks for putting up with me, Theatre Kid. Want a drink?”

“For sure,” he said, kissing her back on the cheek. Taking each others‘ hands, they started down the street, the lights of the theatre behind them.

#edel veice #mia kleinmann #sujani nandasiri #luca betschen #my ocs #my writes #hello lgbt community #i have another one i'm gonna drop it rq

2 notes · View notes

ducktracy · 4 years

Text

25. battling bosko (1932)

release date: february 6th, 1932

series: looney tunes

director: hugh harman

starring: johnny murray (bosko), rochelle hudson (honey)

next on our list: battling bosko! bosko takes on the menacing boxing champ, gas house harry, with unsavory results.

i love this shot! the cartoon opens with the silhouette of a big, beefy, mysterious boxer. the camera pans to reveal tiny little bosko, merrily punching away at his punching bag. this gag is a looney tunes staple—setting the audience up, only to let them down by providing the opposite of what’s expected. i love it!

honey reads that her sweetheart is going to fight the champion, and she’s absolutely ecstatic. she croons “what a man!”. i’m sure there are a few cartoons that parallel this one (it’s only likely out of a library of 1000+ shorts), but this setup really reminds me of porky and daffy. porky gets the news that a champion is willing to take on any challengers, and eagerly he signs daffy up. obviously there are differences—the newspaper doesn’t say that daffy is in the fight, and daffy is sleeping in a bathtub instead of training away like bosko, but you get the idea. just a neat little connection. it also reminds me of porky the wrestler.

sounds of the radio interrupt honey’s reading. she beams and claps when the announcer declares “bosko’s in great shape, folks!”. her celebration is cut short, however, when the announcer continues “...but what a shape that champ’s got!” honey ogles dubiously at the radio as the announcer drags bosko to shreds, predicting a bad night for him. honey turns the dial and sticks her tongue out. finally, some personality! she’s come a long way from her 1930 days of dialogue limited to obnoxious giggling.

finally, we get a glimpse at the competition. again, how very looney tunes! juxtaposition and contrast go hand in hand with humor. this device would be used often, a big brute versus a tiny cute character (again, see porky the wrestler and porky and daffy to name a select few. you also have a battle of the wimps, which is also just as funny, such as elmer vs daffy in to duck or not to duck).

back to bosko’s house, who’s training as hard as ever. the phone rings and he answers it. it’s honey, expressing her excitement at the fight and hoping he wins. bosko assures her he’ll do just fine.

launch the dance sequence! bosko begins to sing and does that great dance above, while honey plays piano on the other end. it’s very corny and comes out of nowhere, but i love it. it almost feels like a parody in itself.

elsewhere, everyone else shares honey and bosko’s excitement. newspapers are being distributed, bets are made, and trolleys of animals deflate as the passengers deflate (in the same manner as the movie theater deflating in the film fan).

back to honey who’s tinkering away at her piano. the announcer, who introduces himself as graham cracker (god i love that), indicates the start of the fight. honey listens eagerly as we get a shot of our fighters swaggering down the aisle amongst a sea of cheers.

our fighters are introduced as gas house harry (who receives a boo from honey listening to the radio) and battling bosko, who is received by cheers and applause. the desire for the underdog to win is strong as always!

the fight begins with the ring of a bell (pulled with a cat’s tail). predictably, one swing from gas house harry sends bosko ricocheting around all sides of the boxing ring, conveniently landing in a corner.

an assistant approaches him and sprays him with water, and, in crude looney tunes style, sprays beneath his pants, prompting bosko to slap him and giggle “stop it!” FINALLY putting the looniness in looney tunes! maybe that’s saying something about my maturity (or lack thereof), guffawing at a crotch joke, but i love it! the delivery of bosko’s squeaky voice is the icing on the cake. the crudeness of this gag leads me to suspect that it was the work of bob clampett somehow.

the bell sounds and bosko’s up and running again, putting up his dukes. we get a neat shot of gas house harry throwing some punches towards the camera, when BANG!

bosko decks him in the face. in all of its corny goodness, the tattoo of the sailboat on gas house harry’s chest sinks as he’s momentarily down for the count. clichéd? maybe so, but i certainly wasn’t expecting that! so comes the joy with watching all of these cartoons for the first time, you don’t know what to expect.

the hippo from ups ‘n downs yells “C’MON BOSKO!” (with better voice acting thank god). the referee momentarily attempts to step in to break up the fight, but they’re still going at it.

intervening once more, the fight ceases immediately as they stop to dance. again, i wasn’t expecting that at all! this is hilarious! VERY similar to porky, the referee, and porky’s opponent in porky the wrestler where they “play train” around the ring. this humor is very tex avery-esque, which i adore. tex will come into play in 1935’s gold diggers of ‘49... 3 more years!

immediately, the fight resumes like nothing happened. what a good transition! we get a glimpse at honey who’s anxiously listening to the radio, cringing as the announcer narrates the blows bosko is receiving.

in parallel fashion to porky and daffy, bosko is down for the count. honey and bosko’s dog, bruno, run to the ring as the camera occasionally pans to the unconscious bosko, referee counting the seconds. honey arrives and begs “bosko, speak to me!”

bleary eyed, bosko rises and says to the audience “aw, hot dang!” iris out as he pulls the boxing ring over him like a blanket and goes back to sleep.

wow! easily the funniest cartoon thus far! it actually felt like looney tunes, not a stale imitation of disney. the gags were spot on and unpredictable, the music was lush and beautiful, the animation and visuals were imaginative. i think there was only one bit of recycled animation, using the hippo from ups ‘n downs, but that’s it! bosko’s unbridled optimism and honey’s support make them very likable. personality at last!

overall, definitely worth a watch! it’s my new favorite cartoon out of all the ones i’ve reviewed. certain to put you in a good mood!

youtube

#lt #battling bosko #reviews #long post #racism tw

6 notes · View notes

secret-captain-swan-blog · 7 years

Text

Castle on the Hill

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

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

Rating: T

Word Count: 36061/ ?

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

Read on: Ao3

It’s Friday evening when Emma finds herself staring at the mirror trying to decide if her look is 1) nice enough for the opera and 2) nice enough for a night out with Killian.

Not that she likes him.

She definitely doesn’t like him.

She can’t like him. Because she put those feelings into a bottle and put the bottle into the wall. The nice safe wall where she can’t like him.

This isn’t going well.

She quickly pulls out her phone to Facetime Belle. It rings a few times before the screen fills with her friend’s smiling face. She can see in the background the living room of their old apartment. There’s the canvas of New York they bought at Ikea and the funky lamp they found at a yard sale. It’s like she’s home, curled up with a cup of tea and ready for a life chat with her best friend.

“Emma!” She exclaims, “It’s so good to see you.”

“Thanks,” Emma says, “It’s great to see you too, Belle.”

“You look amazing,” Belle ooes, “Is that is pink dress? And blush? Emma Swan, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you have a date.”

Emma sighs and runs a hand over her high ponytail.

“Is it too much? Do I look silly?” She asks.

“No, you look darling,” Belle says, “But what’s the occasion?”

Emma doesn’t know what to say. She isn’t sure if she is ready to tell Belle everything yet.

“I’m going to the opera,” Emma tells her, “Well, the ballet, actually. But it’s in an opera house.”

“Are you really?” Belle asks, “And whom are you going to this opera with? Some dark haired Misthavian History PhD? Or maybe an adorable junior professor with an exotic accent?”

Emma smiles. Belle, good old Belle. Her friend has a mind full of marriage, a product of specializing in 19th Century women’s writers. She is always search for love stories in Emma’s life.

Only, this time she might be on to something.

She sinks down into the corner of her bed, “I don’t know, Belle. It’s not a date, really.”

“Emma?” Belle asks, concern eeping into her voice.

“I’m going with this guy, Killian,” She says, softly.

“Hmmm, tell me more,” Belle says, “Is he Misthavian?”

“He was born here, but grew up in England,” Emma explains.

“English accent, Irish name,” Belle muses, “I’m intrigued. What does he study?”

Emma shakes her head, “He isn’t in academia.”

“A civilian?” Belle says, giggling in mock horror.

“He’s a bartender,” She admits.

She wonders if Belle will look down on him for it. At Duke, their lives were so tied to the department that the idea of dating outside of academia seemed preposterous. But here, things seem different.

“Sexy,” Belle tells her and Emma lets out her breath. She has her friend’s approval.

“Very sexy, actually,” Emma remarks.

“So he’s gorgeous, huh?” Belle asks.

“Very much so,” Emma nods.

“So how’d you meet him?”

“I’m not completely proud of the story,” Emma admits.

“Out with it,” Belle demands.

Emma weaves for her best friend the story of how she met Killian at Mamie’s. She tells her about the hooded man, the red jacket, Blanche Neige and cappuccinos the size of her head, and the sunset boat ride.

“So, you like him?” Belle asks, when she finishes.

“I tell you a story about how I am planning on scamming the Queen of Misthaven, and the first thing you ask is if I like the guy who I am scheming with?” Emma laughs, relief walking off her.

“Well, do you?”

“Yes, but I can’t do anything about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because my first priority has to be my thesis, that’s what all this work is for,” Emma explains, “And my second priority is funding my thesis, which right now, looks like convincing the queen that I’m her daughter, I guess. All of those things come before boys.”

“But when are you are going to care about you? About your heart?” Belle demands.

“My heart isn’t important,” Emma says, laughing. Seriously, who says sappy stuff like that? “My thesis is important. My Ph.D is important. I’ll worry about my heart or whatever when I have a career and no student loans.”

“But then you’ll have a mortgage. You’ll have classes to teach. You’ll have research and grant applications and publications. You will always have something, Em. When are you going to care about you?” She asks.

Emma wants to roll her eyes, but she can’t because it’s her best friend. And because there is a bit of her that feels more sad than annoyed. Belle is right. There will always be something. So, does that mean that she has no option? Does that mean she’ll just never fall in love because she’s too busy trying to survive?

She gulps and tries to find the words to respond.

“I’m not saying it has to be him,” Belle explains, “You can fall in love with whoever you wish. I just hope that you do. I hope that eventually you find it in yourself to be open to that.”

There is a knock at the door. Emma startles, dropping the phone.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Belle asks.

“I think so,” Emma says.

“Enjoy, Em,” Belle tells her, “And don’t be afraid to keep your heart open.”

“Okay,” Emma says, “I’ll talk to you later.”

“And you do look really cute,” Belle adds.

“Thanks,” Emma says, flicking off her phone.

She glances back at the mirror. The pink dress is out of character for her, but she likes it’s softness. She does a little twirl in it, admiring the way the skirt fans.

“Emma, love,” A voice calls. His voice. “Open up, it’s me.”

Her stomach does a little backflip, but she walks to door none-the-less.

The first thing Killian notices about Emma is that she’s beautiful. Her pink dress swirls around her knees. Her hair is pulled back. Her face has a light gloss of make up on it. He can tell she’s put in a lot of effort.

For a moment, he wonders if it is to impress him.

Then he remembers that’s silly. She’s trying impress the queen. They are trying to impress the queen.

That doesn’t mean he can’t compliment her.

“Swan, you look-“ He begins, walking in.

“I know,” She says, shrugging off the compliment.

He steps into her apartment. She’s flitting around, tossing things into her clutch.

“You know, you clean up pretty well yourself,” She comments.

He feels his ears turn red. He’s worn a suit- it’s the only one he owns. He bought it for Liam’s funeral, the product of many weeks of saving up.

“Thanks,” He says, “Shall we go to the opera, your highness? I’m afraid that I’ve left the carriage back at the palace. Will you oblige me to take the tram?”

She bursts into giggles, breaking the quiet moment.

“I suppose I can slum it today,” Emma says, as they head out of the apartment.

They walk through the hallways of the building and out onto the street below. The sun is just beginning to dip low in the sky, announcing the approach of evening.

“Tell me about your week as an illustrious academic,” Killian asks, as they start to walk the few blocks to the tram station.

“Far less exciting that it may seem,” Emma informs him, “I started teaching this week.”

“Hmm, Professor Swan, sounds brilliant. And how did that go?” He asks.

“Well, clearly I need to know more about the European education system,” She begins, “I kept asking the students questions and no one answered.”

“I’m not sure students here are as keen on participation,” He acknowledges.

“Right,” Emma says, “Safe to say, I’ve learned that.”

“And what are you teaching them? An entire course on Blanche Neige, I hope,” Killian teases.

“I wish,” Emma grumbles, “I’d be better at that. I’m teaching American literature, which isn’t close to my actual specialization.”

Killian frowns, “Tough luck, Swan.”

“Well,” She says, “Let’s hope we get luckier tonight.”

“Ah, Swan, you want to get lucky, do you?” He jests, “I can make that happen if you are interested.”

“Ugh,” She groans, “Are you always like this?”

His stomach plummets. He feels stupid. Emma doesn’t deserve his obnoxious innuendo habit.

“It’s a defense mechanism,” He mutters, remorse in his voice, “Or maybe a bad habit picked up from bar tending. Or maybe a survival instinct.”

The emotional sentiment is interrupted by the approach the tram. As usual, Emma swipes in and Killian skips the barrier.

They take seats together. Emma sits by the window. She’s silent for a moment, looking out the window in silence. He worries that he upset her. Or that he revealed too much.

Then she turns to him.

“I have survival instincts too,” She tells him.

“You do?” He asks.

“Yeah, mine look more like detailed lists and planners and routine. I’m not a naturally organized person, but I’ve forced myself to become that way,” She explains. Then in a whisper she adds, “Because I have to survive.”

He feels a wash of understanding between them. They both know about survival.

“Studying, reading novels, writing papers- that’s all I’m really good at. It’s all I have. That’s what surviving looks like to me. That’s why I’m so frantic about funding this thesis. If I don’t have my Ph.D, if I don’t have my dissertation- I don’t have anything,” She confesses.

He doesn’t say anything, but he takes her hand and squeezes it. She looks up at him with a smile.

“Emma, we are going to get you the funding,” Killian tells her, “The world needs your insights about Blanche Neige.”

She laughs, leaning into him, but somehow managing to drop his hand in the process. He wonders if it on purpose or an accidental causality.

The train announces their stop. Opèra, Opèra.

For the amount that Killian bragged about his knowledge of Misthaven, he’s never actually been in the opera. He hasn’t had much free time and he’s not opera-going man.

As they make their way into the building, he feels a flutter of nerves. Maybe this is too out of his league. Everything about the opera house is elegant from the outside: domed patina roof, gold guilding, and majestic stone statues. It’s not a place that a guy like him belongs.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Emma asks, as they pause outside the doors, gazing up at the building.

“Definitely something,” Killian replies.

As if she can read his fears, she adds, “I felt intimidated last time I was here. But it’s really beautiful if you give it a chance. And hopefully the show won’t suck this time.”

“I mean the queen herself did promise it to be good,” Killian teases.

They walk into the lobby and his jaw drops a little.

“I’ll leave you here to drool over the details,” Emma says, “I’ll just be at the Will-Call.”

He watches her walk away, the dress swishing around her knees again. He can hardly believe that he’s here, in this magnificent opera house with a woman as smart and gorgeous as Emma Swan.

“Ready?” She asks, when she returns with the tickets. “We have like crazy good seats too.”

They wander up to the top of an ornate staircase where an usher directs them towards a hall after passing them programs.

They find their seats, or rather their box, second to the end of the hallway.

“Killian, look,” Emma says, pointing to the door past them. It has the Royal Misthaven crest on it in gold.

“This is her box, isn’t it?” She says, softer now.

Killian nods.

“We’re in the box next to the queen,” She says again.

It’s hitting them both how real this is. This whole thing is about to begin.

“We’ll have to thank her for the tickets at intermission,” He says.

This time Emma nods silently.

Killian opens the door to their box and they head inside. He gasps again at the ornate decorations inside. The seats are lined in red velvet.

“Look at the ceiling,” He murmurs.

Emma laughs, her eyes following his. There are dreamy images painted across it, swirling designs, delicate flowers and angels.

“This whole place is bloody beautiful,” He remarks.

She smacks him with her program and settles into her seat. The orchestra begins to tune and audience slowly quiets down.

Killian never thought that he’d ever enjoy ballet. Yet here he is, watching the dancers prance across the stage and being totally entranced.

“Have you ever seen anything like this Swan?” He whispers. “They’re all moving together.”

“Shh,” She says, swatting at him again, “We’re going to get kicked out.”

He can tell from the amused smile on her face that she’s more endeared than annoyed.

By intermission, Emma’s a mix of nerves and adrenalin.

The ballet doesn’t help. It’s a show called Coppelia. It just so happens to be about a girl pretending to be a doll. It makes Emma think about Princess Emma. It’s the same kind of thing, pretending to be an echo of a real person.

“We should go thank the queen,” Killian whispers in her ear.

Emma nods, “These were really good tickets. She definitely deserves our thanks.”

They stand to leave the box. Before she can make it to the door, Killian captures her hand.

Her heart flutters for a moment. Not from her nerves about the queen, but from the feeling on his hand in hers.

He did that before, earlier, on the tram. Just a soft comforting squeeze to signal that she wasn’t alone. He does the same thing now. He lifts his hand in his, squeezes it, and gives her an encouraging smile. He must know how wound up she is. He must know how worried she is.

“Thanks,” She says, opening the door.

They walk into the hallway, his hand still in hers, and approach the queen’s door. She knocks once and the door is opened by someone who resembles a cartoon character version of a guard. Misthaven guards, she’s read, are known for dressing in funny uniforms.

“Who are you?” He asks in a strict voice.

“I’m Emma,” She says, politely, “Her Majesty Queen Mary Margaret gave me the tickets for tonights show. I wanted to thank her.”

The guard turns back to the box and Emma overhears a female voice answer saying, “Send her in!”

Emma walks in to the box, which is only slightly more ornate than her own. Killian’s hand drops from hers as he follows a few steps behind.

The woman stands to greet Emma. She’s dressed in a black dress with a glittery crystal necklace decorating her neck. There is something comforting about her, making the worry in Emma’s stomach disintegrate.

The queen and the guard seem to be the only people in the box. Emma wonders if the queen has friends. Royalty had to be popular, right? That’s how Emma always imagined it. Queens were like the ultimate queen bees from high school. Suddenly, Emma realizes that most of the queen’s friends were most killed in the revolution. For a moment, she is struck by how lonely the woman might be.

“Your Majesty,” Emma says, bobbing a curtsey. She’s looked up protocol for meeting a queen online earlier that day. She hadn’t wanted to seem rude. “I apologize for my casualness when we last met. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t know you were the queen at the time.”

The woman stands to greet her, “Oh please, call me Mary Margaret. I’m not too worried about the pomp and circumstance these days. You are Emma, right?”

There something soft about the way the queen says Emma. As if it is a treat for her to say the name. As if it is a familiar caress.

“Yes,” Emma says, “And this is my friend, Killian.”

Killian steps to stand next to Emma and gives a bow.

“Killian Jones? Is that you?” Mary Margaret says, surprise on her face as she looks between Emma and Killian.

“Indeed, your majesty,” He says, “It’s been a few years.”

“I’m sorry that we haven’t had an occasion to meet since your brother’s funeral,” The queen said, “How have you been?”

“Very well, your majesty,” He answers.

“And how did you and Emma meet?” She asks.

“Over our mutual love for literature,” Emma lies swiftly, “We were both reading our favorite books in a café.”

There is a gem of truth in that. They did bond over their love of literature, only it was after they bonded over their plan to scam the queen, but whatever.

“What a lovely way to start a relationship,” The queen says.

“Oh, we aren’t dating,” Emma says, “We’re just friends. I only arrived last week to Misthaven actually.”

“Welcome to Misthaven then,” Mary Margaret says cheerily.

“Thank you, your majesty- Mary Margaret,” She amends.

“You are quite lucky to have Killian as your tour guided,” Mary Margaret tells her, “He’s made out of the purest, loyalist Misthaven blood there is.”

“He has done a great job of showing me around so far,” Emma babbles, “He took me on river cruise at sunset and Misthaven was so gorgeous.”

“A cruise at sunset? How romantic,” The queen gushes.

“Oh, no,” Emma mutters, “It was just a tour around town.”

“Oh right, not romantic,” Mary Margaret giggles, “Well, I can still remember little Killian running down the hall of our castle. Though, unsurprising, he spent most of his time holed up in the library.”

Killian blushes at the queen’s details, “What can I say, I’ve always liked books.”

Emma gazes at Killian, charmed at the image of a little version of him lying on the library floor, pouring over a book.

“So, what brings you to our country then, Emma?” Mary Margaret asks, pulling her from her thoughts.

“I’m working on my dissertation in English literature,” Emma tells her.

“Delightful,” The queen ooes, “I adore the humanities. Arts, literatures, philosophy, music- they are my joy.”

Emma smiles at the queen.

“I don’t leave my house often,” She tells Emma, her voice growing wistful, “But I don’t ever miss what is going on in the opera house. Culture, art, music, stories- that’s what makes life worth living. Even a lonely life is worth it with art.”

Emma swallows, looking down. The queen, the freaking queen of this country, just revealed something insanely personal to her and she doesn’t know how react. She thinks it’s a good sign though. This has to mean that she at least feels comfortable around Emma.

“Sorry, that’s a lot I just threw at you,” Mary Margaret says, startled, babbling, “I don’t even really know you. But you’ve got a familiar quality, Emma.”

Emma laughs gently, trying to hide the bit of her inside that feels like bursting with happiness. This is SO easy. The queen is playing right into her hands so easily.

“I must have one of those faces, you know?” Emma says.

“Yes, you must,” Mary Margaret says, squinting at her.

Emma wonders if she’ll withstand her scrutiny. She watches as the queen absentmindedly strokes her chin, before blinking.

“I would love to talk to you about literature sometime,” Mary Margaret says suddenly.

Seriously, things couldn’t work out better.

“Yes, of course, I’d love that,” Emma says.

“Brilliant,” The queen says, “What do you say to tea this week at my home?”

Emma tries not to gap or squeal or do anything to reveal how shocked she is that this is all falling into place.

“That would be so sweet,” Emma says, letting her voice sound sincere. She really does love to talk about books.

“When is a good time for you? How does Wednesday afternoon suit?” The queen asks.

Emma nods, happy that she isn’t teaching or meeting with her advisor at that time.

“Give your address to my guard and I’ll send a driver to fetch you around then,” She says, the authority in her voice makes it clear that she is truly the queen, or at least once had the strength of one.

“Okay,” Emma says.

“I’m delighted to meet you properly, Emma,” The queen says. Her name still sounds like a caress coming off her tongue. “I’m sorry I won’t be around after the ballet, so you’ll have to save your thoughts on it for tea.”

“I look forward to it,” Emma says, trying to sound confident and casual, and not still shocked that The Queen of Misthaven wants to have tea to talk about literature with her.

The lights in theater flash, signaling the approaching end of intermission.

“It’s been wonderful to see you again, Killian,” Mary Margaret tells them, as they retreat towards the door of the box.

“Likewise, your majesty,” Killian says, bowing, “I hope to see you more often.”

“As do I,” Mary Margaret says, “See you Wednesday, Emma.”

The guard passes his phone to her and for a moment she is confused. Then she remembers the queen’s directions, and promptly types in her address.

“Thank you again for the tickets,” Emma says, bobbing another curtsey, “And see you, Wednesday.”

When the door closes behind them, Emma knows she can’t react. The walls are too thin. If she lets out the giant whoop that she wants to, she’s not sure it would get the right reaction.

Instead, she grabs Killian’s hand and squeezes it tightly, flashing him a huge smile. He squeezes back, his smile echoing hers.

They slip back into their box and the second act begins. The ballet ends with the girl marrying her lover and living happily ever after with her debts repaid. Emma hopes that the whole thing is a working metaphor for her life today.

The ballet ends with the usual applause and fanfare. Emma decides that she likes it much more than the opera. She’s not sure she’d be up for Opera: Round Two, but she would definitely sit through another ballet. You know, if the queen just wanted to give her tickets.

Killian is silent as they make their way out of the theater. She slips her program into her purse, as they burst out into the slight chill of the night.

“Emma,” Killian hushes, “Emma, you were brilliant.”

She turns to him and he’s grinning wide.

“I can’t believe it we did that,” She breathes.

Then Killian is lifting her up, spinning her in a Hollywood-esque romantic moment. At first she thinks that it’s him being saucy, but when she looks at his face, she knows that the gesture is in pure happiness. She lets herself giggle and grin as Misthaven swirls around her.

“That went so unbelievably well,” Emma sighs, when he put her back on the ground.

He scratches behind his ear, as they start to walk towards the river.

“She really thinks you’re her,” Killian says, “Really and truly. Did you hear the way she said Emma, all dreamy-like?”

“I know and the part where she was like ‘you look familiar or whatever,’” Emma babbles.

“She hardly said a word to me, mind,” Killian mutters, “But that doesn’t matter. All she needs to do is be dazzled by you.”

“No, that’s not true,” Emma says, her voice still giddy, “She said you were made out of the bravest or loyalist Misthaven blood. She trusts you, Killian.”

He chuckles, “Maybe she does. If she trust me enough, I may just be able to put in a good word for you when the time comes.”

“Of course, you’ll be putting in a good word for me,” Emma teases.

“How could I not?” Killian says, his voice joking, but there is a trace of something lacing his tone. Reverence? Affection? Emma pushes it from her mind.

They reach the river when Killian pauses.

“Swan, this calls for a celebration,” He says, “Just stay here a moment, love.”

He runs into a local Carrefour and runs back with a bottle of champagne. Emma giggles again as he unpops the cork and sprays sticky mist everywhere.

They cross the love-lock again bridge. He nods to the quay side and they walk towards it, taking their seat along the river and letting their legs hang over the edge of the low wall that runs along it. It’s dark now and a night tour boat is coasting by. It’s lit up, as is the opera house, the cathedral, and the castle. It’s dreamy.

They pass the bottle between them, taking sips of champagne. A comfortable silence settles between them. Emma likes that. They haven’t known each other too long, but they’ve already gotten to stage where they can be silent around each other. It must be part of the kindred spirits thing.

Emma eventually breaks the silence saying, “So, tell me what I should know about her. If I’m going to be Princess Emma, you’re going to have to give me all the help I can get.”

Killian frowns and takes a long gulp of champagne, “I can’t say I know tons about her. I’ve been dreaming about her more and more recently, the little games we’d play in the royal gardens, running across the castle grounds, other small things like that.”

Emma looks at him.

“I used to dream of castles too,” Emma says. “When I was very little. It was like a reoccurring dream.”

Killian looks up at her now.

“Maybe-“ He begins.

“I think it was a coping mechanism,” She admits, “Trying to imagine my way out of my sad story and into a fairy tale.”

“Emma,” Killian says softly.

She shakes her head, letting the thoughts leave her head. She can’t focus on the past. Dreams don’t mean anything. She was a little kid, of course she dreamt about castles, and probably unicorns and mermaids too. She can’t read into it. Not now.

“So tell me about her,” Emma prods.

“Hmm,” Killian says, looking pensive, “She drank tons of hot chocolate. It didn’t help that she was spoiled rotten by everyone in the kitchens who thought she was adorable. She’d always put cinnamon on top of her hot chocolate.”

Emma ponders this a moment. She can’t imagine a childhood like that. She can’t imagine anyone wanting to spoil her. She can hardly remember having hot chocolate as kid. With Ingrid, sure, but before that it was the biggest luxury.

“But she couldn’t really say cinnamon because she was a silly like kid, so she’d say something like synonym,” Killian chuckles.

“So she spoke English?” Emma asks, curious about the detail.

“They spoke French, Dutch, and English in the castle, but mostly English,” Killian explains, “They said it was the most important language for diplomacy.”

Emma nods.

“Most people in Misthaven speak pretty good English,” Killian continues, “We’re close to England and a lot of people watch loads of American telly.”

“So what else?” Emma prods, “Is there anything I need to know?”

Killian shrugs, “She liked little girl things. She loved ponies. Adored them. She had one, but I can’t remember his name. He was a spotted little pony and she was always riding around on him. I remember her begging her father for lessons time after time.”

It baffles Emma again. A childhood where someone buys you a real-life pony? She was lucky if she got some hand-me-downs and a library card. The fact that someone lived in a castle with stables where they had their own pony seemed unworldly to Emma.

“The rest is hard,” Killian admits, “It’s hard to tell what about a little girl transfers to adulthood.”

Things were quiet now. The boat had passed out into the channel. There was distance laughter and noise across the bridge from Old Town, but it seemed far away.

All of a sudden, Emma was struck by how close Killian was sitting. She felt his presence beside her, like an overwhelming aura reaching out to her. She can hear his breaths beside her, the thick gulp as he swallows more champagne

His hands brush hers as he passes her the champagne bottle. Emma shivers. She knows they’ve held hands for tiny moments during the night, but this feels different. There is an energy crackling between them now, a romantic tension that’s palpable.

“She had blond hair,” Killian says, as Emma takes large sip.

He reaches out and brushes his hand through her curls.

Emma takes another gulp of champagne.

“She had green eyes,” Killian says, leaning forward, brushing a strand of hair out of the way.

Emma puts the champagne bottle down beside her.

“And this adorable, dimpled chin,” Killian hushes.

He rubs his thumb over her chin. She wonders if he notices the tiny fleck of a scar that has formed there after the man pressed his blade to her chin last week. She wonders if Killian has noticed the way her bottom teeth are little crooked. Or the way her eyebrows are overdue for a pluck.

There is this part of her that really, really wants him to find her attractive. She wants him to fall for her. He’s so hot, with his stupid stubble and sexy accent.

He leans his head towards her. She can feel his breath close her. His finger is still on her chin, his hand coming to cup her cheek.

And she’s knows what comes next.

He’s going to kiss her.

But he can’t. She can’t let that happen. Emma has manufactured her world with priorities. School, her degree- that’s what matters. She can’t get distracted by men, even if they are beautiful. Even if she really, really wants to kiss them.

She thinks of the talk with Kennedy on her window-sill when she was nine. She remembers Kennedy telling her about the girl who got involved with a bad guy, ended up in jail. That can’t be Emma. She has a purpose and that is grad school and that is all she can have.

No prince charmings. No knights in shining armor. No stupidly attractive men distracting her with kisses and romance.

Not until she has her thesis turned in, at least.

“I’m sorry,” Emma says.

She draws back from Killian before his lips can meet hers.

“I should really be going,” She says, “I have to wake up early tomorrow and work on my dissertation. I’m really behind. Sorry. I’ll see you around Mamie’s soon.”

She scrambles to her feet and hitches her purse over her shoulder. She doesn’t want to wait to see the look on his face after his rejected advance. So, she takes off across the bridge to the tram stop.

“Wait, Emma,” Killian says, following her.

She turns back, mid-bridge. Mid-love lock bridge.

“At least, let me walk you back to your apartment,” He says, his voice only half-hopeful.

She squares her shoulders and brushes her hair back from her face.

“I’m fine, Killian, I can handle myself,” She says.

Tagging with love: @sambethe @lenfaz @pocket-anon @the-corsair-and-her-quill @kmomof4 @kiwistreetswan @princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story @katie-dub

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

77 notes · View notes

rorykillmore · 7 years

Note

tell me about badgerstripe but also the demon i mean heather c

badgerstripe

badgerstripe is an oc i’ve had literally from the time she was born to the time when she became leader, so i’m very fond of her. she was originally conceived as part of a group of characters my friends and i came up with -- a litter of riverclan kits who were orphaned during a flood plot we had going at the time. her siblings were called frostkit and rosekit.

she does eventually become leader in her timeline, succeeding a cat called morningstar. morningstar was her mentor and more or less raised her in place of her mother. she also... died fairly early into badgerstripe’s deputyship, which is a big driving force behind how anxious and uncertain badgerstripe tends to be.

a lot of her self-doubts and insecurities actually stem from an incident that happened during kithood that she never fully forgave herself for: she and her siblings were kidnapped at one point by rogues (drama) and she and frostkit ended up getting into a huge, vicious argument that ended with frostkit leaving and joining the rogues.

he renamed himself ‘frost’ and grew up to be pretty terrifying; at one point we had a disaster of a plot for him and badgerstar (as she was at that point) to reconnect that involved him infiltrating riverclan by injuring himself and faking amnesia. badgerstar was going to be driven by her guilt and self-blame for how he ended up to take him in even against the advice of her senior warriors and it was gonna be GREAT.

because i love to talk about her and her siblings, she’s extremely close to rosebloom and even sort of codependent on her. she made rosebloom her deputy, kind of evidently not for the healthiest of reasons, but they admittedly do work well together. she was eventually going to find out that rosebloom was having a relationship with a cat from another clan which.... would have shattered her. poor badgerstripe had so much suffering on her plate.

in hindsight, i am 500% sure badgerstripe isn’t straight because like. our old site culture featured a lot of heterosexual pairing characters up and i could just... never find anyone who felt right for badgerstripe. I Should Have Known.

a lot of bullshit magical powers existed in her verse and she was actually the victim of them at one point (this list is just slowly accumulating evidence of how cruel i used to be to my characters), so now she doesn’t trust that sort of thing as a rule. she’s going to frown a lot at denny.

speaking of denny, i’ve toyed with the thought of giving her a way to find out about the whole rosebloom thing and that may like... send her into a bluestar-esque spiral that keeps her clinging to tigerstar even once more of his true colors are revealed. i guess she’s not done suffering yet,

on a completely different note, my old rp partner (who used to play rosebloom) is now in los angeles getting into some screenwriting and - i’m not sure if she still has plans to do this - but at one point she was toying with the idea of writing something (humanized) based on rosebloom and badgerstar’s relationship. i’ll never forget that because i just found it so touching.

hm... oh her mom was never more than an npc that got killed off in the background but! her name was shadowflight and that’s always stuck in my mind ‘cause i thought it was a cool name.

heather

i’ve always liked/found it interesting that heather is not only prone to making a shitton of pop culture references, but also has shit like “the bell jar” just lying around in her room. therefore i’ve come to the conclusion that she’s secretly a nerd. real talk she actually does enjoy reading if she can do it, like... on her own terms. she detests being forced into anything and thus loudly complains about school-assigned stuff.

i’m 90% sure her daemon is going to be a bengal cat but i haven’t worked out too many details beyond that. get ready clairbourne,

things like “you were poisoned because someone literally hated you that much”, “literally everyone you ever went to school with almost died”, “those boys who probably coerced you into sexual situations but were also big part of your social circle are now dead”, and “your best friend almost died trying to stop her murderous boyfriend” are all bulletpoints on the list of Shit Heather Does Not Know How To Process. she generally suppresses and reverts to somewhat self-destructive behavior as an outlet, which is her go-to coping mechanism anyway, so.

she hasn’t told anyone what jd did (didn’t even take the opportunity to do so at the warrens’ dinner party). she tells herself it’s so she has something to hold over him, but in reality it has more to do with the fact that she really doesn’t want to talk about it, with anyone.

she misses heather mcnamara and heather duke. it’s revolting and achingly noticeable and she doesn’t know how to articulate it or how to feel about it.

is absolutely a confused angry bisexual, apologies to veronica bc that probably accounts for at least 40% of her behavior towards her

movies that feature parent death are just about the only things in the world that make her openly cry. she has no idea why. she fucking hates her parents. duke and mcnamara have been sworn to secrecy.

does, in fact, already own a red thneed on denny.

is lowkey itching to give ed some kind of wardrobe makeover, but is currently too leery of spending much time with him to pursue it. maybe ed is the one who starts the cult rumors to keep heather away from him,

her favorite place is the beach and she likes collecting seashells, but that’s a thing almost no one knows about her -- not because she’s particularly intense about hiding it, just because it’s not the sort of casual, personal thing she’d ever naturally bring up in idle conversation.

#slowly working through these in between episodes of sunburn dying #im gonna take a break now to get dinner tho #thanks spear!!!#larkspear

3 notes · View notes

dollsome-does-tumblr · 7 years

Text

so, my buddy littledivinity and i have been talking beauty & the beast a lot, because ‘tis the season, and we somehow stumbled upon the idea of the story being told about a middle aged belle and the beast instead of youngins, and how that would make the story even more resonant.

and then just now i randomly thought, “what if nicole kidman and ewan mcgregor starred in such a film?”, because my soul needs nicole kidman and ewan mcgregor to fall in love again on a movie screen like it needs few other things in this life. plus, you know, musical, bright colors, awesomeness, hurrah!

and then i thought, ‘but wait, actually, what i really want in this life, even more than brightly colored musicals, is more lowkey and lovely fairytale movies like exquisite and incomparable 1998 masterpiece ever after’

and just picture it!

nicole kidman is the longtime spinster school teacher who lives in a quaint vaguely magical 19th century-esque country village, but she’s a badass teacher who exposes her students to different philosophies of thought and probably takes them outside for nature studies and calisthenics. (so, basically, miss stacy from anne of green gables.) the school board hates her, probably, and is very suspicious of what kind of IDEAS she’s filling the local kids’ heads with (why does she keep saying it’s okay for girls not to want to be wives and mothers, or that it’s all right for boys to cry???? is it possible that she is A WITCH???), but her parents were very well regarded in the town when they were still alive and so that bought her some respect for awhile. but there’s a new fancy schmancy family with school aged kids in town, and they’re extremely disapproving of miss nicole, and trying to find a way to oust her as schoolteacher and replace her with a man who is probably very similar in temperament to mr. collins from pride & prejudice. a man who will put patriarchal gender roles back into childhood education!

meanwhile, ewan mcgregor is a grumpy old hermit duke or something who once had great wealth and privilege but has fallen into disrepair. maybe someone cursed (magically? complicated vengeance-ly, a la the count of monte cristo? who knows) his family long ago due to their shady rich people business dealings, and his father killed himself to escape the scandal and his mother died of heartbreak and his fiancee who he thought loved him steadfastly dumped him to marry another, and now ewan’s the last surviving member of his once-great family and he just lives alone this grand old manor house that has gone totally to seed. he isn’t an actual beast, because it seems like in this day and age that’s going to require levels of CGI that my quaint b&tb retelling movie just don’t need, but let’s say that he’s quite unshaven and dirty and generally off-putting and he sometimes ventures out into the forest that separates his estate from the village, but is never seen actually frequenting the village. there are abundant rumors that the forest and manor house are haunted by a beast/ghost/warlock/vampire (how does he SURVIVE if he doesn’t come to the weekly market for food???), and everyone knows you don’t go there. also, people like to gossip a ton about his family and the scandal even though it was decades ago and they all dead. because people suck.

so one night, some of nicole’s rowdy teen pupils maybe steal some wine from one of their parents’ liquor cabinets and venture into the woods and dare each other to go past the gate of his manor house, and he catches them at it and gets HELLA PISSED @ THESE UPPITY HOOLIGANS INVADING HIS PROPERTY. kids today!!!!!!!!! he probably locks them in the stables so he can deliver them a 5 hour lecture on why they suck, and also why all of humanity sucks. which isn’t the worst fate ever, but, like, he kind of looks like a straight up crazy ax murderer (crazy hair! crazy beard! tattered clothes! definitely hasn’t bathed this month!!!), so there’s some serious panic in the hearts of these kids.

one of the pupils escapes prior to the whole being-locked-in-the-stables thing and comes running to the village all, “YOU HAVE TO HELP US, MISS NICOLE! BUT ALSO WE’RE NOT GONNA TELL OUR PARENTS BECAUSE WE’D BE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE FOR GOING TO THE MANOR HOUSE WE’RE ALWAYS SUPPOSED TO AVOID NOT TO MENTION THAT WE ARE ALL KIND OF DRUNK.”

let’s say this was the night before a big scary meeting nicole’s got with the school board and she is likely facing dismissal, because they accused her of being a satanist for teaching the kids about germ theory or rejecting the gender binary or whatever

and she is so ready to just leave everything about this terrible village behind her (never mind that she doesn’t really have anywhere to go or much money because it’s hard out here for a spinster)

but she can’t exactly leave her pupils, even her most obnoxious ones, in the lurch

and so she rolls her eyes and rolls up her sleeves and goes to rescue her pupils from the town beast/ghost/warlock/vampire/hermit, because a schoolteacher’s work is never done. even when she’s going to be fired tomorrow.

she goes to the manor house and finds her pupils locked in the stables, and the kids are all, “he said he was going to leave us in here to starve because we’re no better than the rest of them and the village deserves to be taught a lesson and he’s going to do it by sacrificing us to the forest demons!!!”

so she STOOOOORMS on into the creepy manor house, never mind the general air of gothic rot about the place, and finds beastly hermit ewan and gives him the angry lecture of a lifetime about how you don’t lock teens in a stable until they starve, no matter how annoying they are; she is a teacher and she knows better than anyone the desire to lock teenagers in the stables until they starve, bUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN YOU DO IT!!!!!

and it’s the first time in like 25 years that someone hasn’t just, like, caught a glimpse of him from afar and run the other way

and he yells back, but is quietly crankily smitten at first sight, like a grizzly mr. darcy hooked on a pair of fine eyes

and it turns out that when the kids surprised him by trespassing, he fell and broke his ankle, which was part of why he was so damn mad. and so nicole becomes reluctantly concerned for his health, so she decides to stay and keep an eye on him for a couple days when he absolutely refuses to let her send for a doctor.

so she goes out and frees the teens from the stable, and just because honestly she feels like messing with them (friggin’ school board!), she tells the kids that she has exchanged her freedom for theirs and they may now go, but she must stay here as a prisoner FOR LIFE!

which you know is gonna start some hot goss in town

so she decides to stay and be ewan’s companion while he is incapacitated, especially because she could so use a break from the terrors of the school board and the general tedium of village life

and she discovers that he is very into, like, whittling and woodworking and he has a very nice garden and can probably play the fiddle. he is basically the ron swanson of disgraced dukes turned recluses. and all of this is actually pretty cool!

and anyway, thus begins a beautiful love story

i know that “loose beauty & the beast retelling about middle aged people” is the actual least marketable movie pitch this world could ever know, but i feel very strongly in my heart that this would be THE ACTUAL BEST movie ever. i shall get started on the novel version (that will then be oh-so-available for film adaptation, hint hint universe) posthaste.

#yikes this is a behemoth of a post #dollsome's deep thoughts #MOVIES THAT SHOULD EXIST #long post

683 notes · View notes

shervonfakhimi · 6 years

Text

The Pre-Summer League Summer League Observations

The Vegas Summer League kicks off tomorrow on July 6th, yet there were 6 total games that were played before then in Sacramento and Utah. Being the nerd I am, I watched these games and wanted to share some observations I had watching guys play relatively ugly basketball trying to either start their NBA careers or fight to make a career for themselves. Take a gander.

Marvin Bagley III PF/C & Harry Giles III PF/C SAC: 2 Sacramento Kings big men from Duke took different routes, but both have made their debuts in the California Classic. Marvin Bagley III, the second overall pick in the draft, shined in the first game against the Los Angeles Lakers, routinely running the floor, rebounding, finishing around the rim and baptized Moritz Wagner of the Lakers in the process. Harry Giles III, who triumphantly made his return in (pseudo) NBA Game after redshirting last season to rehab from two previous ACL tears, has flashed an intriguing pick and pop game to counter the loss of explosion in his athleticism due to the injuries. Both have struggled on the defensive side of the floor on the perimeter (watch here as Bagley loses sight of Wagner, leading to a Wagner 3 off a great halfcourt set), though Bagley has showcased a better ability to recover after getting beat and protecting the rim. Marvin Bagley’s jump shot has yet to translate, as he’s shooting 9-27 from the field (a question mark coming out of Duke) and neither he or Giles have racked an assist yet, sometimes forcing the issue and taking bad shots rather than use their feel and take what the defense has given them. Bagley did not benefit from De’Aaron Fox missing the last 2 games, as a more seasoned playmaker can help set Bagley up to finish around the rim on rolls or dumpoffs rather than methodically have him post up. Both he and Giles still have work to do, but have shown enough to gather some positivity heading into the season. On a sidenote, it is just great to see Giles on the floor at all after all he has gone through with his injuries. I’m hoping for nothing but a long fruitful career for him especially.

Trae Young PG ATL: Trae Young got Steph comparisons coming out of Oklahoma, prompting former Warrior staffer Travis Schlenk to trade down and pass on Luka Doncic to trade for him. The returns so far have been… less than stellar. Young’s shot selection, finishing in traffic, feel and defense still needs a lot of work. He has tended to chuck the same shots he chucked at Oklahoma that are deep and early in the clock. His defense has been undisciplined. He’s had a hard time finishing in traffic and beating defenders off the bounce due to his lack of premiere strength. However, he does push the pace in transition and finds teammates running the floor. The tantalizing skillset is there, but he needs to refine his craft and mold it into the offense Lloyd Pierce and the Hawks want to craft around him to improve on the 12.3 points, 3.7 rebounds and 4.3 assists per game statline that was accompanied by a ghastly 23% Field Goal percentage on over 17 shots a game. He hasn’t been all that great yet, but has made the right play when he has slowed down. The game should slow down more for him the more reps he gets, which help his decision making. Just give him some time, time he will get for years to come.

Jaren Jackson Jr. PF/C MEM: Let’s get positive! Jaren Jackson Jr. has been the most impressive rookie so far. He has shown a little bit of everything. He has flashed his funky yet effective 3 point stroke after hitting 8(!) 3s in the first game of the Utah Summer League, including this Steph-esque shot off the bounce. He has flashed rim protection, as evidenced by this LeBron-esque chasedown block. He can get lost a bit in pick and roll coverage, but has good instincts and good to guard anyone on the court and alter their shots. He has a faceup game offensively and can drive with either hand and finish or get to the free throw line. His spacing frees up driving lanes, and should give Mike Conley and Marc Gasol acres of space to maneuver on offense. He still needs work on his scoring ability on the post and be more disciplined with his defense to avoid fouling, but he has already shown some of his sky high upside that he has more to tap into, as he averaged 15.7 points and 5 rebounds per game. And here’s your reminder he doesn’t turn 19 until September. The dude can hoop with the best of them.

Moe Wagner C LAL & Svi Mykhailiuk SF LAL: As the Lakers have sought perimeter playmaking with the approval of LeBron James, it can get lost in the shuffle that the Lakers have already acquired some of the requisite shooting to pair alongside The King. Draft picks Moritz Wagner and Svi Mykhailiuk have already flashed the ability to stretch the floor, amongst a myriad of other skills. Wagner has a very good handle, as evidenced by putting 2nd overall pick Marvin Bagley III in the blender. He’s not the most physical defender or rebounder, but is frisky and positions himself well enough to on that end as well. Svi Mykailiuk fits the bill of a ‘3&D’ player. His shooting forces players out to guard him from deep, freeing up the lane for him to attack closeouts directed to him. Both can stand to get bigger physically, but so is the case with nearly every college prospect. Moe and Svi are not the greatest passers off the dribble (Moe has tended to dribble into traffic too often), but are good enough to find open teammates. Both are smart and tough players, and should be able to get on the floor immediately.

Jordan Bell C GS & Jacob Evans III SF GS: As if the Warriors needed any help. Not only has Jordan Bell reaffirmed his savvy playmaking and rim protection as a mini Draymond Green, he’s even busted out a couple jumpers from his bag. As long as he doesn’t throw it off the backboard and miss the putback dunk (Hello, Shaqtin’ a Fool!), he should be a key part of Golden State’s rotation. His ceiling becomes all the more interesting if that jump shot becomes consistent. Evans, on the other hand, has been stable

Grayson Allen SG UTAH & Lonnie Walker IV SG SA: Both swingmen struggled in their first game, but responded on the 3rd day of Utah Summer League. Grayson Allen should fit in very well as an athletic, slashing ‘3&D’ with a hint of playmaking gained from his experience running point at times at Duke. He made life not very fun for Trae Young while defending him & irking with his physicality. Allen has taken charges, played passing lanes and will make you pay in transition afterward. And of course you know Allen is down to bring the ruckus… Lonnie Walker IV is not starting scuffles, but flashed a similar game. He drained a couple of triples in his last game and brought energy on the perimeter. He has the athleticism and skillset to be ‘this year’s Donovan Mitchell

Derrick White PG/SG SA: Few have played as well as Derrick White has at the Utah Summer League. He has showcased a ton of skill that San Antonio sorely lacked out of their playmakers last season sans Kawhi Leonard. He has shown he can score from all areas of the floor. Not only can he get to the rim, as seen here as he fakes the snake off the pick and roll and uses the hesi move to get an easy dunk, he can also shoot from behind the arc, whether it be off the dribble or running off screens. He can facilitate, as seen here diming up Lonnie Walker IV for the triple. He and his 23 points, 6.7 rebounds and 7 assists per game averages on 45% shooting has been a very pleasant surprise amidst the continuous Kawhi Leonard fiasco for San Antonio.

Derrick Jones Jr. SF MIA: Perhaps no one has played in the prelude to Summer League better than Derrick Jones Jr. He has been everywhere. Defensively, he has gotten deflections and held his ground from the likes of Josh Hart to Marvin Bagley III. Offensively, he has shown to be much more comfortable with the ball in his hands as a slasher (Dear God that dunk!) and is an adept cutter. Watch here as he shuns the ball screen in the pick and roll, seeing that Marvin Bagley is out of position, then obliterates the rim again. And we know how much of a terror he can be in transition with his athleticism. The athleticism has always been there with Jones. Now, he is beginning to add more craft, playmaking and defense to go with it. Perhaps he’s making Justise Winslow and/or Josh Richardson more expendable for a certain disgruntled All Star in San Antonio? Maybe. But at the very least, he has shown he is a legit rotation player for Erik Spoelstra and Pat Riley after putting up roughly 21 points and 7 rebounds per game on 51% shooting these 3 games. Oh, here’s another monster dunk off a cut by Jones for shits and giggles because why the hell not.

Others Receiving Votes: Omari Johnson showcased a versatility that is all the rage from big men for the Warriors. He played well enough to get a look for teams…. Xavier Rathan-Mayes is a bit too iso-dependent for my liking, but is more than capable as both a passer and scorer with the ball in his hands. He faired well for the Lakers…. Justin Jackson flashed more juice off the dribble than he did last year in Sacramento to pair with his 3 point shooting. He’ll be a quality wing for the Kings and continues to be a great fit among their young core…. John Collins showed to be too good for Summer League in his 2 games…. Tony Bradley averaged a double double for Utah and should play more than the 9 games he played this last season.

Honorable Mentions: Stanton Kidd, Jaylen Adams, Jeffrey Carroll, Josh Magette, Daryl Macon, Duncan Robinson, Kelan Martin

0 notes

secret-captain-swan-blog · 7 years

Text

Castle on the Hill

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

Rating: T

Word Count: 30905/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4

Read on: Ao3

They wander out of Mamie’s just as the sun is beginning to set. Golden hour, Emma thinks it is called.

“So, how much have you seen of Misthaven?” Asks Killian.

Emma frowns, thinking of the Misthaven University library and the endless bowls of cappuccinos at Mamies.

“Hah,” Killian laughs, “That’s what I thought. Too much time with our darling friend Blanche Neige, and hardly any time spent exploring the thriving metropolis of Misthaven.”

Emma chuckles. She thinks of the past few hours she’s spent with Killian in Mamie’s. They’d exchanged favorite quotations, scenes, and characters from Blanche Neige. They discussed all of their other favorite reads. It seems that Killian is quite well read, his favorite books spanning from Dickens to Rushdie. She’s discovered that he’s not just ridiculously good looking, he’s also thoughtful and has a soft spot for literature.

“Hey,” Emma protests, “I have a lot riding on Blanche Neige right now.”

“Yeah, right, your whole future, I know,” Killian snorts, “But you can take one night off from books.”

Emma’s eyes narrow. What does he mean one night? They just agreed to be friends, not to-

“Emma, just an hour or two of sights in the city,” He offers, “Just that. I’m not planning on coming home with you after, if that’s what you thought I was on about. I mean, we could arrange that too, if you wish.”

Does this guy ever stop with the flirting?

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, but manages to let out a little smile, “Okay, fine, one evening off. And nothing more.”

Killian grins. He’s so open with his emotions. He wears his heart on his sleeve in a way that Emma has never done. She can tell how he genuinely feels about each of her responses, whereas she lives to be an enigma.

“Have you been on a river boat tour?” He asks, “They’re quite popular for tourists, but they really are good fun and a nice, proper tour of Misthaven.”

Emma shakes her head, realizing how little time she’s taken to enjoy Misthaven.

“Let’s do that shall we?” He suggests, “At sunset, the city will be very photogenic.”

She swears that the French bit of his trace-of-a-Misthaven-accent comes out a little more as he talks about sunset. And yeah, it’s kinda doing something to her. Stupid attractive voice.

“Yeah, sure,” She agrees.

They walk along the quay to where the tours leave from. Killian buys two tickets and they step onto the boat.

Emma hasn’t been on a lot of boats in her lifetime. One time a group home went on a boat tour of Boston Harbor. She doesn’t remember much of it, only that her hair was in a braid that day and one of the more annoying boys kept tugging on it as she tried to look out at the city. When she was in high school, on her trip to New York with Ingrid, she remembers taking a ferry to the Statue of Liberty. She remembers seeing the skyline of New York on the way back, stately and ruthlessly modern against the sky.

Both of those boat rides were rocky, lurching violently as they traveled, but this boat is smooth. She and Killian find spots upstairs, on the outdoor deck. They lean against the rail, watching the Misthaven flag that hangs off the back flap gently against the backdrop of the river and hills.

“So,” Emma says, turning to Killian, “Obviously, you know all about my life as a student and my thesis- but what about you?”

“What about me?” Killian says, crossing his arms over the rail with smirk.

“I don’t know,” Emma shrugs, “What do you do?”

“It’s going to sound a little dim, after our discussion about literature,” he says, scratching behind his ear nervously.

Why is that so attractive? Calm your loins, Emma Swan, he’s literally scratching his ear.

All the same, she feels weirdly hurt by his admission. She’s never been the kind of person who things herself above others. She’s spent most of her time at Duke feeling less than her peers who lived far more privileged lives than her.

“It’s okay,” Emma says, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Remember the bad childhood thing? It’s made me significantly less judgey than most people in academia. I got really lucky and that’s the only reason that I’m working on a PhD and not cleaning toilets.”

Killian nods, his face solemn and a little gentle, “I’m a bartender.”

“Nice,” Emma says, not waiting a beating, not wanting him to feel bad, “Does that mean that as your friend I get free drinks?”

“Hmm,” he says, his easy smile returning, “Not because we are friends, just because you’re hot.”

Emma dramatically huffs, because it’s her instinct to react that way, but there is a small bit of her that relishes that he thinks that she is hot. Okay, maybe more than a small bit.

She has to stop it. She can’t be swooning over this guy, even if he is charming and attractive and loves her favorite author. She doesn’t date at all. It’s self-preservation. And if she is going to survive finding funding and finishing her dissertation- she needs a much self-preservation as possible.

“What about before that?” Emma prods, trying to distract herself from becoming a love-sick puppy.

“I thought we weren’t getting into the dark childhoods today, love,” Killian said, his face becoming solemn again.

“Sorry,” Emma said, pulling an apologetic face, “I was just curious. Mostly about your accent. It’s more English than Misthaven.”

Killian nods, “I moved to the UK when I was twelve.”

That revelation helps her to connect the dots of confusion that have been mingling in her head about Killian’s backstory.

“Oh,” Emma blurts, “Is that why your name is funny? Killian isn’t a very Misthavian name.”

“It’s an Irish name,” Killian explains, “My mum was Irish. But that’s not why I lived in England.”

“Oh,” Emma says, softer. She notices the was, where she thought there would be an is. She realizes they are hedging along the topic of sad childhoods, a conversation that she definitely doesn’t want to unpack. She’s known Killian for two days, she definitely doesn’t want to be recounting the orphan story to him.

“She, uh, died,” Killian says, “Not long after I was born. My brother took care of me. He had an Irish name too- Liam.”

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me the sad story,” Emma says, noting another past tense where she expects a present one, “I’m sure you want to enjoy this boat ride without dredging up every horrible memory you have.”

He gives her a grateful smile.

It really is beautiful, the boat ride- though his smile is too (not that she’s thinking about it). The city drifts behind them. The opera house is glowing in the evening light. The adorable old town buildings jut out in angles as they creep up the hill, looking like a child’s town toy set. On the other side of the river, she sees the sunset reflected in the windows of more modern office buildings. She can see students lofting on the quadrangles of the campus. Misthaven is beautiful at sunset. Killian was really right about that.

“But, if you were wondering, before that,” Killian says, returning to her question, “I worked at a bookshop in London. I really miss that job.”

Emma looks up at him. The light brings out the flecks of red in his stubble and she marvels in this discovery.

“I think the best jobs are ones where you are surrounded by books all the time,” Emma says, dreamily, stretching.

“It was great,” Killian says, becoming animated once more, his hands suddenly moving as he talks. “I could recommend books, read behind the counter during lulls. There was a coffee shop in it too. I learned to make really nice cappuccinos.”

“The smell of coffee and books?” Emma says, “Sounds like the dream.”

“I really was,” Killian says.

“Why’d you leave?” Emma asks.

Killian shrugs and she assumes it’s part of the long sad story he isn’t ready to tell. Her heart breaks a bit at that. He seems graceful now, happy enough, with a lost look that lurks behind his eyes at moments when he isn’t paying attention. She knows he must have been through some hard things.

“I decided to move back to Misthaven after the Dark Time ended. I missed home. But, I’d love to have a bookshop of my own,” He confesses, “I’ll die happy if I can open my own bookshop.”

Her heart now melts a little bit for him. It’s such a gentle dream to come from man as disarmingly attractive and hopelessly charming.

“That’s what I was going to use the money for,” He tells her, “Why I wanted to go into that deal with the man in the pawn shop.”

“For your bookshop dream?” Emma asks. She had imagined that he’d want the money for personal use, maybe a nice house or an easier life, but not to open a book store.

He nods. She smiles at this idea. She thinks her motivation of wanting a PhD in literature was soft, but Killian’s dream also eeps a sort of gentleness as well.

“We are such nerds,” Emma laughs, “Wanting a large fortune to spend on our bookish dreams.”

Killian gives her a tight smile. In a flash, she feels as if they are kindered souls. They’ve both had really tough lives. They’ve probably spent a lot of time alone, without families, fighting for their own selves because there wasn’t anyone else to. But books are their solace, the bit of hope, the passion that kept them from giving up. She knows in a second that Killian understands her fierce love of literature in a way that her privileged university peers, or even Belle, could never truly understand. Killian knows what it was like to be saved by book. To have books as your only companion.

In this revelation, Emma feels something bubble up inside her that she can’t restrain. A whole glob of feelings for Killian. She doesn’t want them. She isn’t ready for boyfriends or dating or relationships. But yet the feelings explode into her world, unable to be quashed, unable to be brought back in.

So, she does the only thing she’s good at: bottles it up. The feelings go into a bottle, into the wall of bottles.

“Tell me about what the bookshop would be like,” She says, pressing further into the rail of the boat, watching the ripples that the wake makes as it coasts through the water.

“I don’t want anything huge,” he says. “Just a small shop would be lovely. Two floors, I think, with a coffee bar in the back.”

She nods, imagining it already. She pictures it in rich dark wood, like the belly of ship.

“I think I’d like to have reading groups there,” he continues. “Maybe workshops for aspiring writers, or readings from local authors.”

“I’ll be there the second you get Blanche Neige to read,” She says.

“Believe me, if I ever get her, or discover her identity, you’ll be the first to know,” He vows.

“Same,” She agrees, letting herself bump into him (in a purely chummy way).

He looks back at her with an expression of tenderness, of kinship- that she feels herself draw away again. She moves a fraction over, but just enough to feel the space form between them. It’s a game she constantly plays- don’t get too close, don’t let those feelings out.

They are silent for a moment and the boat leaves the river to move into the channel. The skyline of Misthaven turns to silhouette against the dusky rose sky. Emma can trace the top of the opera house, the university library, the cathedral tower. She can see in the distance the taller, modern buildings of the business district. But her eyes linger on the castle, perched on the hill, hovering over the city.

She thinks again of Emma, the other Emma. Princess Emma.

She thinks of the revolution, the story that Professor Hood told her of his time in hiding, his wife’s death.

“Were you here during the Dark Times?” She asks, turning to Killian, trying to fit his story into the history of the country.

His eyes are fixed on the castle as well, “A bit yes.”

He runs his hand through his hair, ruffling it adorably. There is pain in eyes as he looks at it.

Emma sees him open his mouth and she stops him, “Hey, we aren’t talking sad stories, remember? You don’t have to tell me about it.”

He shakes his head, shrugs, and reveals, “You should probably know, well, because I think this is how the whole thing the other night came to happen- I used to live in the castle.”

All of a sudden, Emma can picture Killian as a child- almost too well. She imagines him with a mop of dark hair and freckle smattered face. She pictures him dressed in finery, the kind of thing you’d wear at a castle.

“Were you royalty then?” She blinks, the reality of his confession hitting her. He must have been pretty important to live at the castle. She knows he is a bartender now, in the way that the revolution made paupers out of many greats from Misthaven, but she imagines he must have been very distinguished to have lived in the castle. Maybe a duke or lord…

He shakes his head, giving her a half grin, “No, Emma, I wasn’t anything like that. My brother was a guard at the castle and the royal family was kind enough to let me stay with him in the castle. We had a small room in the basement. It wasn’t much, but I took lessons from the royal tutor and we got better food than we would have on our own.”

“Your brother Liam was a guard?” Emma asks, her mind still caught up in his previous statement, tracing the words over and over in her head. They brought back an echo to her, of something. It’s like she’d spoken the words before.

“Yeah,” Killian says, “Why?’

Emma shakes her head, brushing off the sense of déjà vu, “Sorry, it just sounded familiar. Something about that.”

“It’s because he was with the princess when she disappeared,” Killian explains, before swallowing hard, “He fled with her to America, to take her into hiding. But something went wrong, his remains were found in the Hudson River.”

“Oh,” Emma says softly, reaching out to Killian, “I’m really sorry, Killian. Truly.”

“It was years ago,” He says, “I lost him when I six. But you’ve probably read it in an article somewhere. Everything about the lost princess seems to mention Liam in it somewhere.”

“So, you knew her then?” Emma asks, “Princess Emma?”

He smiles at her, “I knew a little girl who’d run down corridors and play silly games with me.”

“You were friends?” Emma asks.

“I suppose,” Killian says, “When you are the only two kids in the castle, you stick together. She was younger than me though, so we weren’t terribly close.”

Emma nods, silently, her eyes still looking up at the castle on the hill. The pieces start to come together for her.

She looks enough like the lost princess. She has the right name, the right accent. Damn, she even has that scar. She’s desperate enough to need the money, still despite everything.

Killian knew the princess. Killian has the connections to really sell their story. The queen might actually listen to him.

Maybe she was wrong before. Maybe this is the fairy godmother opportunity that’s fallen into her lap again. She’d been foolish not to try for it.

“What if we really did this?” Emma asks, turning from the rail to face Killian.

“Sorry?” He says, “Do what?”

“Convince the Queen I’m the princess,” Emma says, “We could do it. Between your history with the crown and my uncannily good looks, we might actually be able to pull this off.”

Killian pushes his lips together, a small frown forming, “We aren’t going back to that man. That awful, impish man. Let’s not return there.”

Emma shakes her head, “We don’t need him. We can do this just the two of us.”

“How would we even begin to do that?” Killian asks.

Emma smirks, as the boat loops around and heads back into the river, their horizon turning to nothing but sea before them.

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” She says, letting her smirk turn to a grin, “I’m like really good at research.”

“Ha,” Killian says, following Emma off of the tour boat, twenty minutes later. “You said you said you weren’t going to invite me home after our soirée, yet here we are Swan, heading back to your place.”

“Oh shut up,” Emma says, fake annoyance in her voice, “You told me that you don’t have Wi-Fi at your place, so we are going back to my apartment to research. Research, Killian.”

He chuckles, glad that Emma is sassy enough to match him. He’s only picked up the flirting and innuendos after bartending. He realized that his good looks coupled with a few compliments and an eyebrow wiggle are enough to garner a few extra tips and sometimes drinks from his female (and some male) clientele.

“Ah right, research,” He says, smacking his head, “Thanks for reminding me Professor Swan.”

She rolls her eyes, as she seems to adorably do frequently, and he follows her in the direction of the tram. It’s just across the river from where the boat docked. They cross a bridge towards it. It’s a cute bridge with ornate iron designs and one covered with love locks.

“I thought this was just a Paris thing,” Emma says, nodding to locks.

Killian shrugs, “No, apparently, they are littered all around Europe on bridges and benches.”

“Seems kinda anticlimactic,” Emma remarked, “Like oh hey, let’s put a love lock on a bridge- but not the bridge, not even in the City of Love, just another random bridge in another random city.”

He laughs at her rant, “Well, Swan, if I had thought about getting you a love lock before, I’m scratching that thought now.”

She hums a bit, surprising him with not rolling her eyes.

They finish crossing the bridge and head to the tram station. Emma swipes her metro card moving through the turnstile to the awaiting train. Killian pushes himself above the barrier.

“I could just swipe you in, you know,” Emma offers.

“Nonsense, Swan,” he says, flashing her a smile. “I’ve yet to get caught. Besides, we are about to convince someone that you are a lost princess as part of a money-making scheme- we’ve got other things to worry about.”

He thinks he sees her shiver and he regrets bringing up the devious nature of their scheming. He doesn’t want her to feel guilty for it or anything akin to that. She was crafty to think they could pull it off on their own. He thinks she’s right, with a little research it’s very possible. They have a right, he thinks, to pursue the possibility of this. There is too much lining up for them not to try.

He takes a seat beside Emma and the train moves. He doesn’t know where Emma lives, but he isn’t surprised when they get off at a stop in one of the young neighborhoods not too far from the university.

“You’ve got a place here?” He asks.

“I’ve swapped with a student who is in the states for the semester,” Emma says, “I was surprised by how nice it is.”

He’s surprised as well when she leads him up the apartment. Once she flicks on the lights, it reveals a bright, white space with a few house plants and vintage posters on the walls. There is a large bookshelf, where Emma’s books have neatly been added beside some that the previous apartment owner left behind. There is a funny contrast between her tome of Infinite Jest and an old biology textbook in Dutch. He admires her full row of Blanche Neige books, each and every one there on her shelf.

“Make yourself at home,” Emma says, “Would you like some tea?”

“Wouldn’t mind a cuppa,” Killian remarks, as he sinks into her sofa.

He watches her fuss over the kettle. A few strands have escaped from her bun, and trickle loosely around her face. She’s hung her red leather jacket by the door, so she wears only her romper now. The thin, dark straps create a contrast against her sharp collarbones. She’s lovely.

He’s thought that for a while now. As they chatted over coffees, as he watched her in the golden sunset, as they chatted on the boat, as they giggled on the bridge- she’s truly lovely. She has hard edges, shaped by a mysterious past, but underneath it all she’s full of passion and creativity and drive.

She returns to him with two mugs of milky black tea.

“Thanks, milady,” He says.

“It’s your royal highness, to you,” She corrects, laughing.

“That’s the spirit,” Killian says, taking a sip of the tea.

“So, where do we start?” Emma asks.

“I think we need to figure out a way for you to befriend the queen,” Killian says, “She’s quite approachable for a queen. I’ve met with her since she’s returned.”

“You have?” Emma asks.

Killian flinches, “At Liam’s funeral.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Emma says, putting a gentle hand on Killian’s arm.

“No, it happened a very, very long time ago,” Killian says.

“Well, I think we should start by researching the queen then. If we figure out where she goes in town, where we can find her- maybe then we can negotiate a way to make her acquaintance,” Emma says, her practical academic voice kicking in.

“Right on, Swan,” Killian agrees.

She pulls her laptop out of the bag and flicks it open. He’s surprised at just how fast she types, as she taps in, “queen of misthaven.” She instantly clicks on a wiki article that appears first in the search results.

Killian watches as a familiar picture of Queen Mary Margaret fills the corner of the screen, a description detailed beside it describing her life.

Emma makes a little choking noise as she looks at the screen.

“Swan, are you alright?” He asks, lifting a hand to stroke her back.

She puts the laptop down on the coffee table in front of her. She tucks the wisps that escapes from her bun behind her ear.

“Wait, that’s her?” She manages, “That’s the queen?”

“That would be correct,” Killian replies, “Our royal majesty, your mum, in the flesh.”

Emma purses her lips together, picks at her nail for a moment. He can tell that she’s thrown by the discovery.

He wonders for a moment if she really is the princess. Maybe she is the princess and she’s startled because she remembers. Maybe everything is coming back to her. Well, it would certainly make everything easier if Emma was actually the princess.

But then she says, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I know her.”

“You do?” Killian asks. His heart skips a beat.

Could she really be her? The Princess? He’d believe it.

“I met her at the opera,” She explains.

At the opera? Emma’s never struck him as the opera going type. He’s always written it off as a posh thing that was out of his league. But then again, Emma is a PhD student. She is out of his league. She’s the kind of intellectual type that doesn’t spend time with scum like Killian.

“I got a free ticket from the foreign student association,” Emma says, “It was actually pretty horrendous. But anyway, I ran into this woman in the bathroom and she was trying to convince me to come back to the opera even though this one sucked. She offered me free tickets to a ballet on Friday and I accepted them.”

“And this woman was the queen?” Killian asks.

Emma nods.

“Well, Emma, I think our plan just got a lot easier,” Killian says with a grin.

“I think so,” Emma says, and he can tell reality is hitting her. They really do have a chance at this.

“You said the opera was Friday?” Killian asks.

“I have two tickets,” Emma replies with a nod.

“Hmm, well, Emma Swan, fancy an opera date?” Killian suggests.

“Ugh, with you?” She jests, “I guess.”

“Oh sod off,” he tuts back.

“It’s sod off, your royal highness,” she corrects again.

“I really need to start working on that,” he laughs.

“Yeah, you do,” she says, her voice full of confidence.

His brain starts churning, thinking through the reality of this plan. They’ve nearly accounted for everything- expect for one thing.

“Emma, before we do this,” he says, hesitant, “There is one thing we should do.”

She cocks her head, “What is it?”

“Well, as much as I hate that man, he was right. You do need a scar to match the one the princess has,” He says.

He hates to think of marring her porceline skin with a knife. He hates to think of doing anything that the horrible man wanted them to do. But it would be a shame for the whole plan to fail just because of a small, but crucial detail.

Emma dips her head demurely. “Well, actually, we might not have to.”

She moves to reveal her opposite shoulder. His eyes drift from her lovely sharp collarbones that he noticed earlier, to where a small silver line begins at its base and travels over the curve of her shoulder.

“I’m not sure if it’s the right shoulder,” Emma begins.

“It is,” Killian says.

Her eyes widen.

“I remember the day she got the scar,” He says lightly, “She was on her pony and had a fall, cut her shoulder on a rock.”

“Oh,” Emma says.

He reaches out a hand, letting a finger trail along the slightly puckered skin. Emma shivers and he worries that’s gone too far. Maybe his touch is an unwelcome memory of the hooded man.

“Why? How did you get yours?” He asks her.

Emma shrugs, “I don’t know. I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

“Emma,” He says, smiling, “You realize we are hardly going to have to lie to pull this off. You are truly the perfect woman for this opportunity.”

There is a part of him that wants to say something more. He wants to tell her that she’s beautiful, that she’s clever, that’s she’s the perfect woman in general. But he holds it back. They are going to be business partners. She already has enough on her plate between this scheme and her academic work. She doesn’t need his unwanted affections. Maybe another time. Maybe in the future when she’s finished her thesis and he’s financially stable. Or maybe never. She’d likely be better off without him.

“Would you like another tea?” Emma asks, shaking him from his melancholy.

“Oh no, Swan, I should be off,” He says.

He stands to head to the door and she rises beside him.

“Well, I’ll see you Friday, then?” She asks.

“Yes, Friday indeed,” Killian says.

She goes to open the door for him, but then pauses, her hand lingering on the knob.

“I’m really glad we’ve become friends, Killian,” She says.

He lets himself smile a full grin, “I am too, Emma.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who cares about Blanche Neige as much as I do,” She says, a little blush gracing her cheek, “It’s nice to have someone to talk about this stuff with.”

“Likewise, Swan,” He says, “Truly, I’m very fortunate that you’ve come into my life.”

“Thanks for the boat ride,” She adds, “Maybe you could show me more of Misthaven sometime. You know, when we aren’t coming up with money making schemes.”

“I’d like that very much,” He says, “I’ll think up something.”

“Well, till Friday then,” Emma says, opening the door.

“Till Friday, Swan.”

Tagging: @sambethe @lenfaz @pocket-anon @the-corsair-and-her-quill @kiwistreetswan @princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story @katie-dub

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

72 notes · View notes

secret-captain-swan-blog · 7 years

Text

Castle on the Hill

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

Rating: T

Word Count: 20606/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2

Read on: Ao3

A million thanks to @katie-dub for beta-ing. Her wonderful advice helped push this chapter to be so much better than it was before. Much love chica :)

The worst part about this whole situation is that Emma now has to leave Mamie’s. She had just gotten comfy, started her morning - well, now afternoon - routine. But with Mr. Super-Hot-And-Wants-To-Offer-You-A-Lot-Of-Money lingering in the coffee shop, she needs her own space to process the offer.

So, she packs up her things and heads out of the café. Mamie’s is in a part of Misthaven called Old Town. Emma likes Old Town with its winding streets and ancient buildings. It’s got a smattering of high end stores that have opened up there after Misthaven’s economic revival. The weather is fair today, so there are a fair amount of people at outdoor cafes, drinking on terraces. She knows she could stay close to Mamie’s and grab a sunny seat at a different café. And yet, she’s restless and decides that she needs more space between her and Killian.

Emma crosses the bridge to the more modern part of the city. The university is here. Universities are soothing to her. Libraries, classrooms, students studying on the quad - all of these are familiar to Emma. There is the buzz of a new semester alive on campus that she loves. The campus sits on a hill overlooking the town.

She hasn’t spent that much time exploring the campus yet. She received her student ID and turned in her paperwork a few days before, but for the most part she’s spent her last few days working on her applying for visa, setting up her apartment, fighting jetlag, and guzzling Mamie’s cappuccinos.

She thinks about taking this time to explore the library and finding a book to take her mind off the situation for a couple hours, but she knows she doesn’t have that luxury. So instead, she collapses onto a bench that overlooks Old Town.

From here, she can trace the outline of the town. There are the towers of the main Cathedral, and smaller spires of a few others. The opera house rests along the river, with a distinctive domed roof. The most predominant feature of Old Town is the large castle perched on the opposite hill. It’s a mess of turrets and tall grey walls, with sprawling grounds extending backwards into the forest and hills beyond. There is something about the castle that makes Emma shiver. It’s austere. It’s dazzling.

Emma gazes up at it for a moment. She knows enough from her research to know that the Queen doesn’t live there anymore. The prime minister’s offices are there, as is parliament. It’s a government building, no longer a home. Emma thinks of the events that happened there - the first revolution, the slaughter of the Royal Family - or, well - at least part of it. Then another revolution and suicide of a dictator. Emma understands why no one would want to live there.

If she were the princess, she would have been born there. She thinks of the dreams that haunted her childhood - castle hallways, dresses that rustled when she walked, running across palace grounds at night. She knows that they were just her childish imaginings, but well, she’s never had a home. She’s never had a starting point to her story. Who is to say she isn’t the lost princess?

There is a lot of her that thinks that this plan is stupid. She’s not a princess. She’s the opposite. She’s the kind of kid who was constantly unwanted. She’s had to scrape her life together with her own bare hands.

But, she’s curious. What is there to lose? She could have a chance at money - enough to do more than just finish her degree and pay off her student loans. That’s the only reason she’s giving this offer the time of day.

There is more though. She could have a chance at a family. She had Ingrid at one point. She has Belle now. But she’s never a real family - no mothers or fathers or aunts or uncles. If this somehow works, if she somehow charms the queen into thinking she is her daughter, then she’d have a home. She’d have someone who care about her.

What is she thinking ?

Emma pinches herself, shaking the thought of family from her mind with vehemence. She’s only made it this far because she’s relied on herself. She’s only made it this far by not letting anyone in. She has her walls and fierce independence because it’s been the only way for her to survive. She doesn’t need a family. She doesn’t need this plan.

But, isn’t this plan the best solution to her problem?

She was literally just waiting for something to fall in her lap and it did. Duke fell in her lap. Blanche Neige fell into her lap. She’s taken advantage of each of those opportunities and used them to get ahead. So shouldn’t she, in her very plucky nature, take advantage of this opportunity to get ahead?

Yes, she should. She squares her shoulders. She is going to give it a shot. Not because of sentimental things, like family, like home. Not because the guy who offered her this opportunity is sex-on-a-stick. She’s doing this because she needs money. She needs to finish her PhD. That’s it.

He’s waiting outside the restaurant a half hour early. It’s nearly dusk and the streets are milling with activity. Young and old couples, families of tourists, small packs of teenagers making their ways to restaurants and bars to begin their evening. Their fluttering of moment sends a feeling of anticipation into the air. He wonders if she’ll show.

Emma.

He can’t believe she’s called Emma. What are the chances that this girl he randomly found would not only be blond and American, but also named Emma?

And her chin, she has the same dimpled chin that the princess did.

It’s just enough that he thinks they might be able to pull this off. He lived in the castle. He technically knew the lost princess. His brother was the last one to see her alive. If anyone could have found the real princess - it’s him.

And, well, if anyone is going to convince the queen that she is the princess - it might be this girl.

That is, if she shows up.

He waits a half hour till it’s the time she’s supposed to be here. Then his eyes are on his watch as he waits for five minutes to pass, then ten, then fifteen. Maybe she isn’t coming. She was really skeptical. It was a lot to throw on someone who was just minding their business.

It’s probably unrealistic anyway. She must have a family of her own. She must have friends she cares about. She’s probably just here on holiday - she said something about research right? She can’t just give it all up to pretend to be a princess. So what? So he can open a bookshop? His life is pretty good. He doesn’t need anything more and he doesn’t need to draw a random girl into this messy plan. It’s good that she hasn’t shown up. She’ll be better off without this plan.

“Hey,” a voice interrupt his thoughts, “Killian, right?”

It’s her. She’s changed from earlier. She wearing a sundress and a jean jacket. Her hair is up in a ponytail. Her glasses are gone too, revealing mossy green eyes.

She is still gorgeous.

“Emma.” He says, not trying to sound so surprised.

“Sorry, I’m a little late,” she says, “I just-“

“No need to apologize,” he replies, “let’s just get dinner, shall we, love?”

He ushers her into the restaurant. It’s a nice place. He used to go to school with the owner’s daughter, but she died in the revolution. He wishes he was he here for that. He should have died for the country instead of her. Those in the revolution were braver than him.

They are seated in the back, in a table he requested in advance because it’d be more private. He doesn’t want to risk someone overhearing his plan. He asks the waiter to bring over a nice bottle of red.

“So,” he says, beginning to ramble, his hesitations coming back. “Have you given it any thought? Because I was thinking about it and it was unfair for me to even put you up to this. It was selfish-“

“No.” She interrupts him this time. “It’s actually perfect. Granted, I’m not really the kind of girl who does this kind of thing. I’m not anything close to a princess. But I really, really need money.”

“Fair enough.” He says, “I understand that the fiscal reward makes it all worth it. So if you aren’t a princess- just who are you, Swan?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she says, raising her eyebrows.

Just then, the wine arrives. He nods at the waiter to let the lady taste it first. When she gives a small smile and nods, he beckons at the waiter to pour two glasses.

When the waiter is out of earshot, he raises his glass, “To our potential business arrangement.”

She lifts her glass back and then takes a few huge gulps. “We should talk about specifics.”

“Yes, precisely,” he replies. “But look, I see the waiter heading back over. So let’s order, shall we?”

“Shoot,” Emma says, flipping through the menu, “I haven’t had time to look yet. What’s good here?”

“Well, Misthaven cuisine is mostly a mix of French, Belgian and Dutch foods,” He explains quickly, “It’s the best of both worlds really. You’ve got the superb pastry and crepes of France. The excellent chocolate and chips from Belgium. Then there is amazing cheese from Holland. Honestly, you can’t go wrong with anything.”

Emma’s face is still baffled as the waiter approaches for the order.

“Ladies first,” he says, turning to Emma.

“Um, I’ll have the crepe,” she said, her forehead adorably wrinkled.

The waiter nods and turns to Killian.

“Pour moi, le steak-frite, s’il vous plait,” He replies.

The waiter jots their order down and is off again.

"See, love, you survived,” Killian says.

“I think I’ve had a crepe before at like iHop,” Emma tells him.

“What’s iHop?” he asks. It’s his turn to be perplexed.

“It’s like a really cheap pancake place,” Emma starts, “Nevermind. I didn’t eat a lot of global cuisine growing up.”

“Well it’s lucky you are getting to Misthaven now then,” Killian says, “You’ll have plenty of time to eat amazing food.”

Emma smiles and for moment he thinks they both forget the situation at hand. For a moment, they are just two friends out for dinner. For a moment, they aren’t about to undertake a preposterous plot to fool the Queen of Misthaven.

But well, that can only last for so long.

“Right, so, specifics,” He says, “Honestly, I can’t tell you too much because I don’t know that much.”

“What do you mean? You’re the one who approached me with this deal.”

“Right, but, well, like I said a man approached me to find the princess and I thought you’d be close enough,” He explains, shrugging apologetically with a nervous smile.

“You really know how to make a girl feel special,” she snorts.

“Well, I thought you were fake-princess material, so there’s probably a compliment in there if you search for it,” he smiles.

“So what would happen if I say yes?”

“Well, we’d call the chap who put me up for it and he’ll tell us the next step. It will probably involve telling the queen, convincing her it’s you, etcetera.”

“Wait. Can’t she just do a DNA test and figure it out?” Emma asks. It’s a good question.

“Well, from the research I’ve done, it seems that in the past she’s insisted that she would ‘know her daughter’ and refused DNA testing. The only time it’s been used was after each girl was revealed as an imposter.”

Emma nods, as if checking off a mental list of questions. “So, right, that’s question number two - what happens if they think I’m an imposter?”

“Well, in the past, two of the girls have ended up jail,” he begins -

“What? No way. I’m not going to jail. I have a career,” she erupts.

Panic is bright in her eyes. It seems to draw from him an unexpected reaction.

“I’ll take the fall,” he offers.

He blurts it out too quickly. It doesn’t make sense.Why would he risk jail for some lass he just met? He doesn’t need his dream to workout for him to live a decent life. He wants to open his bookshop, desperately. He wouldn’t have taken on this task if he didn’t want his dream to have a chance. All the same, he knows he could see a future where he is happy without this dream coming true.

But she won’t. She needs this money for whatever reason, a reason desperate enough to give this plan a chance. He doesn’t know much about her. He knows she’s pretty. He thinks she mentioned being in grad school, so he knows she’s probably smart. She has a fierce look in her eyes that he can’t ignore. He has this urge to protect her, to help her. Hell, he doesn’t even know what she needs the money for. It doesn’t matter. He feels something for her, something kindred that lingers in her eyes. It’s enough for him to suddenly want to risk everything.

And practically speaking, he has a record. It wouldn’t be a surprise for someone like him to end up in jail again. He can take that worry from her. He can protect her.

The waiter appears with their food, suddenly, shaking him from his thoughts. The man puts their warm plates down before walking off.

Emma takes a bite of her crepe, which from the looks of it is stuffed with mushroom, egg, tomato, and cheese.

“Wow. You were right, Killian. This is really good,” she remarks.

“Told you that you were lucky to be in Misthaven,” he tells her. He wonders if those words resonate on many levels.

“So, what’s next?” Emma asks.

“First, we need to talk about your specifics,” he says.

She takes another bite of crepe as he continues.

“How long are you here for?” he asks.

“A semester,” she says, “til December.”

That’s good , he decides, sufficient time to secure the money.

“And you’ll have to keep your family quiet,” he says.

“That’s easy,” she smiles, “I don’t have a family.”

Shit. This girl is really perfect for this job.

“No family at all?” he asks.

“Nope. Long sad story, but the important thing is that there isn’t anyone who will be offended that I’m claiming someone else is my mom.”

“Brilliant.” He nods. “What about friends?”

“Just one best friend and she’s too busy in grad school to care. But I’ll tell her to stay mum anyway.”

He pops a frite in his mouth.

“What about a boyfriend?” He asks. He knows this question is self-indulgent. What can he say? He’s curious.

“No boyfriend,” she says, “no exes. I’m not really a dating type.”

A curious fact he files in his brain for further thought.

“Well, then it looks like you truly are the perfect woman for the job,” he says.

“So what happens now?” She asks, eating more crepe.

“Well, we call the gentleman, and by gentleman, I mean the scariest man you’ve ever met,” he says, “And tell him we are interested in the deal. Then I assume he’ll arrange a chance to meet the queen and present our case.”

She looks nervous.

“So, I’m up to meet with the guy, it’s just that this whole plan, it makes me hesitant. But, well, like I said, I really need money.”

He wonders what she needs the money for, maybe a hasty bet or some sort of horrible debt. He wants to ask, but thinks better of it. Emma deserves some privacy.

“Listen, Emma, love, I’ll be with you the whole way. If anything seems off, if you feel unsafe - I’ll be right beside you.”

He can tell there is still hesitation in her face. There is still something holding her back. He can’t solve all her problems, but he maybe a little smolder will help.

He tries for his most charming face, a crooked smiled and some uneven eyebrows, and then tosses her a, “Try something new, darling, it’s called trust.”

She rolls her eyes, but her face finally erupts into a true smile and he thinks that everything might be alright.

After their meal, she watches as he calls the man.

All she can think is that she would much rather be in her apartment with her fuzzy socks and a good book. But she’s here. The evening air has gone cold and windy, her sundress floats around her and she feels her legs prickle with goosebumps. She doesn’t want to be here.

“Right,” he says, “he wants us to meet him in twenty minutes.”

“Meet him where?”

She imagines a dark alley somewhere and then her imagination turns it into something uncouth. Who is to say this isn’t going to lead to a trap? Maybe this was all a scheme to get her in a position to rob her, or worse.

“A shop nearby,” He says, “Look, I don’t know who this guy is, but I haven’t told you any lies. I’ll stick with you through this.”

Emma flashes him a doubtful look, because honestly, she’s not really sure she trusts him let alone this shady fellow they are about to meet. She’s starting to think this was a bad idea. She likes to think she could handle herself if she ended up in a bad situation, but she isn’t too sure - especially if she has to face two men. She took a women’s self-defense class in undergrad, but, in the end, she’s not sure if she remembers any of it.

But she plasters on a determined look and vows to give it a shot anyway.

“Right, let’s go,” she says.

They wind through curvy streets. It’s later now and the streets are milling with people having evenings out. There are groups of girls and boys, dressed up and floating out of bars. She wishes she were them, going out to meet new friends and not off to meet a potentially questionable fate.

Yet, she shuffles behind this guy anyway because she’s just a little bit curious.

And she really needs money.

They come to a stop outside a pawn shop on the edge of Old Town, just before it gives way to more residential roads.

It looks dingy on the outside, as if it’s only half used. Or you know, like it’s a front for more shady affairs. There is peeling paint, a boarded-up window. Most of Misthaven has been rebuilt and tidied since the revolution, but it seems like this little nook got passed over.

Emma starts trying to dredge up anything she can remember from that women’s self-defense class. She’s pretty sure if someone grabs her wrist, she can twist it to escape - but twist it which way? She can’t remember. Crap, she’s hopeless.

Killian cracks open the door and they enter the shop. Inside, the air is thick and musty. There are dusty cases containing trinkets and mementos. She looks over at one, full of memorabilia from during the time under the reign of the dictator. There is paraphernalia - pamphlets with Gold’s face on them, buttons with his leering smile. She feels sick and looks over at another cabinet. This one is full of jewels. In the center is a tiny, glittering tiara.

There is something startling about the crown. It’s familiar . She wonders if maybe she played dress up with one that looked like that an early foster home. But it looks too nice to be anything she’d find in a foster home. Everything she was given in her childhood was shit.

“Like what you see, Your Highness?” asks a voice with a chuckle.

She looks up to see a man, just as creepy as Killian described - dark hoodie that covers his face, vague smell of death.

She jumps at his words, not used to the title. She supposes she should get used to it if she is going to impersonate the princess for the next few months.

“Lovely jewels,” she murmurs.

“Lovely indeed,” the death-man hisses.

His voice is a mix of something snake-like and something impish. It makes her blood curdle.

“That crown belonged to the princess,” the man explains.

She looks up at him and he zeroes in on her face. He walks to other side of the case to take her in. He circles her, looking her up and down. Then he stops so they are face to face. He runs a dirty finger along her chin and she tries not to flinch. She can see Killian in her peripheral standing defensively, as if ready to jump in and help her.

“She’s not the princess, is she?” he asks Killian.

“What are you talking about?” Killian replies, “Of course, she is.”

“Yeah right, dearie, I gave you this challenge this morning.” He snarls, “There is no way you’ve found the princess in such short time.”

Killian grimaces.

So maybe the jig is up, but maybe that’s for the best. This guy is giving Emma major heeby jeebies.

“She’s the real thing,” Killian insists.

“Oh please,” Mr. Creepy says, “Don’t lie to me boy. Don’t try to pass off a fake on me. I’m a connoisseur of rare goods. I notice when the quality of my goods are - lacking or inauthentic.”

She exchanges a glance with Killian, as the man retracts his hand from her face and circles her again.

“I will say that she’s a good fake.” He squeaks, “While she’s not what I was looking for, she might be able to convince the queen. That woman is willing to believe anything just to think her daughter is alive again.”

He brushes a lock of her hair, before adding, “I think that you might be lucrative.”

Emma stomach curls again. She doesn’t like the implication that she’s a money making device. It seems just one step away from prostitution.

She tries to make eye contact again with Killian. She wonders if he is just as uncomfortable as she is.

“Hmm, yes,” the man says. “Well, if we are going to pull this off, it will be more difficult than I expect. Take a look at this.”

He shoves an article, fished out of his pocket, to Emma. Killian peeks over her shoulder at the article as Emma begins to read it.

In a press conference today, Queen Mary Margaret announced that she has closed the search for her missing daughter.

“The loss of my daughter and husband in 1995 was devastating. It was only by a stroke of pure luck that I was able to survive and escape the revolution. I spent twenty years in exile, comforted only in knowing that my daughter escaped safely. When I returned to find her untraceable, her guard murdered, I could only think of finding her. But the past few years have led to nothing but cruel disappointment. I love my daughter and I remain hopeful that she might still be alive somewhere. But I’ve come to the realization that a public search is no longer the most productive way to locate her. I am officially calling off the search. I will no longer accept submissions of tips or applications for consideration. If my daughter is out there, I know that she will find me. We always do.”

The announcement comes on the heels of the reveal of Zelena Marshall impersonating Princess Emma. Ms. Marshall’s was the third attempt so far, leaving behind a trail of disappointment after each woman’s attempt….

Princess Emma. She must have forgotten that, that the lost princess shared the same name as her. She’s studied the Misthaven Royal Family a bit for her dissertation, but her research primarily focused on the period that followed the revolution, rather than the revolution itself (Though now that she thinks of it, it might make a terrific argument to pull in - saying that use of fairy tale as a motif displays a nostalgia for the royal family and monarchical regime).

“What?” Killian shouts, “All this has been for nothing.”

“Oh, dearie, I don’t agree.” The hooded man says, “This situation may still allow us to make money. We’ll have to convince the queen differently. We can’t waltz right in there. We’ll have to build her trust. Well, you two will.”

“There isn’t anything I can do by means of convincing,” Killian protests.

“We both know that’s not true,” the man leers. “I didn’t pick just anyone to help me with this task.”

Killian grimaces. Emma wonders what his secret might be, why he might be so helpful.

She doesn’t like this, the secrets, the manipulation. This isn’t something she is ready for. It’s one thing to try to follow an opportunity that falls into her lap, but it’s another to get this deep in a scheme she doesn’t really believe in. And this feels wrong. Killian was okay - but this other guy is making her stomach churn. She doesn’t want anything to do with him. She doesn’t want to be an accomplice to anything he is dreaming up.

He turns to her, a devious glint in his eyes.

“Well, dearie,” he says to her, “first things first, take off that jean jacket.”

“What? Why?” She asks, her voice sounding distant to her.

He chuckles darkly as he pulls a large knife from his sweatshirt. Her stomach flips. She had worried that this place could be a front for drugs or maybe even trafficking, but now she is worried that this might be the place of her murder.

The man steps closer, putting the blade of the knife up to her chin, as he reaches to push her jacket off of her shoulders. She feels violated by this movement, an unwilling undressing.

“Because the princess has a scar on her shoulder and you need to match. A princess without a scar? Well,” He says, as her jacket hits the floor and she feels blood well at the dip in her chin, “the jig is up.”

Emma glances wildly at Killian. He looks pale and sick. She knows that he must feel uncomfortable about this too. How can he not?

“I’ve changed my mind,” she announces.

The hooded man doesn’t seem to hear her and he raises the knife. She swallows in fear. She hopes it is going to hit her shoulder and not like a vital organ.

Then Killian knocks a cabinet over. The glass shatters in a loud crash. Dust flies up into the air, clouding her eyes and nose.

“What have you done?” The man hisses.

“You heard the lass, she said she changed her mind,” Killian roars.

Emma runs. Through the commotion, she finds the door and pushes. She turns briefly to flash a grateful smile at Killian. Then she is outside, safe, running over the cobblestones to put as much space as she can between herself and the nightmare she just witnessed.

It’s cold out now, especially without her jacket, but she is full of adrenaline and fear. She can’t slow down. She doesn’t want the man to follow her. She just wants to put it behind her, to forget his snake-like voice, his dark hood, the feeling of his knife against her chin.

She hopes that Killian is okay. She knows that he had good intentions, even if he did lead her into the scariest situation she’s ever been in. She still has his number in her pocket, so she can call him later if she gets really worried. But part of her already knows that she won’t. She just wants this all behind her. She doesn’t want to think about it again. She’ll find another way to pay for her final year.

She gets to the river where the tram stop is. For the first lucky moment in her day, the tram is waiting when she gets there. She hurries on and grabs a seat by the window. The train begins to move, following along the river, then across it. It winds past the university, past the business district, until it reaches her neighborhood.

It’s a young area full of student residences and young professional apartments. There are plenty of trendy cafes, gyms, and bars. While Mamie’s still remains her favorite Misthaven café and study place, she appreciates the hip vibe of this neighborhood. Tonight, it’s soothing to her. There is the sound of parties - laughter and loud music - wafting out of some of the apartments. Gangs of students, chattering mostly in French or Dutch, linger outside the bars, smoking and drinking with friends. It feels safer here. If the city is so alive, she can’t feel alone.

She walks the two blocks to where her apartment is. She was fortunate that there was a biology PhD that was spending the semester at Duke and they could do an easy swap between the two of them. When she’d talked to him briefly, he had sound like a mess. He’d even been a little drunk during their skype chat. But the apartment itself had been neat as could be. It was a bright place, a one bedroom with white walls, a few potted plants, and a desk with a view of a cute park. She knows that she’s lucky to have scored a place like this for her semester in Misthaven.

As she soon as she gets in, she puts the kettle on, hoping that a cup of tea and a book will settle her mind. Books are always her go to comfort in times like this. She scans the shelf of her sparse book collection that she’d brought with her. She settles on Emma by Jane Austen. She isn’t much for stories of regency dresses and marriage plots, that is always Belle’s domain. Emma herself prefers something a little darker, with an interplay between past and present, a fusion of a culture or history into it. Yet, she can’t resist Emma ’s spirit and tenacity. It is a secret favorite. And maybe she likes that it was named after herself.

But as she settles on the sofa, with her tea and book and a worn grey blanket - she still won’t settle. As her eyes glance over the title, she can’t help but think of the lost princess. Emma .

“Your Highness,” the lecherous man had called her.

It was like an echo. It was like a dream.

She gets up from the couch, too restless to sit still. Instead, she heads for the shower. Maybe hot, steamy water will sooth her where books could not.

She takes off her dress, still mourning the loss of her favorite jean jacket, and tosses it into the laundry basket. She climbs into the shower, cranking the water way up until it burns. She remembers a foster home where she was limited to five minute showers with cold water only. Ever since then, she’s cherished hot showers.

She feels the tension leave her shoulders, as she reaches up rub them. There is a small part, which she pushes away immediately, that wonders what it would be like if Killian would be the one rubbing her shoulders in the shower. She knows that’s not possible.

As begins her rub on her aromatherapy lavender body wash, her eyes drift to her shoulders. She swallows as her eyes follow the thin silver line that begins at the edge of her collarbone and travels down the arc of her shoulder. It’s a scar that’s been there for as long as she can remember, since before she was found alone in the airport. She’s always been ashamed of it, thinking it was proof that her life was hard before she could remember it. But now, she wonders if it’s something else.

If it’s a key, an imprint, an echo of the life she never knew.

tagging some fans (people who i looked through their tags and found out they really liked it) // let me know if anyone wants to be added or subtracted:

@sambethe @kmomof4 @pocket-anon @hooked-mom @the-corsair-and-her-quill @kiwistreetswan @lenfazreads @princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story

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

42 notes · View notes