#is this my 2100th post then?? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elizabeethan · 1 year

Text

I posted 2,099 times in 2022

164 posts created (8%)

1,935 posts reblogged (92%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@elizabeethan

@pirateherokillian

@onceratheart18

@initiala

@caught-in-the-filter

I tagged 861 of my posts in 2022

#ask - 102 posts

#anon - 67 posts

#captain swan - 33 posts

#cs fic rec - 31 posts

#captain swan fanfic - 29 posts

#cs ff - 28 posts

#my dreams lie with you - 25 posts

#for my wip - 21 posts

#icymi - 18 posts

#fic writer ask - 17 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#throw back to when i started secretly dating my bf and we went to the pool with our friends and one of them said he had a hickey and he said

My Top Posts in 2022:

Between the Morning and the Night

A Captain Swan Tale

After a workout one night, Killian’s close friend and colleague pokes fun as he points out the scratches along his back, sarcastically wondering who could have put them there and why. Killian refuses to answer for two reasons: 1) he will do everything in his power to ensure that no one ever finds out that he’s sleeping (read: in love) with his boss’s younger sister, and 2) while he happens not to mind the marks she gives him, he really isn’t sure why Emma Swan does that.

A/N: affectionately known as "scratchy emma fic" and "do swans have talons?" this fic features mild mentions of scratching during sex, plus some mild whump. My thanks, as always, to @the-darkdragonfly and @donteattheappleshook for just generally everything, but also specifically for their help on this fic and everything I write.

Rated E

~11,800 words

Read on Ao3

Read my other stuff

Get added to my tag list

~~~~

She likes him.

She likes it when he takes her from behind, when he lets her take control on top, when he drives into her with her knees cradling his hips. She likes it when they’re on their sides with him tucked behind her, she likes it when he’s standing at the foot of the bed with her at his mercy beneath him, flat on her back. She likes it when he takes her against the wall, quick and hasty and desperate with his need for her. She liked that last night, anyway.

In all that he’s learned about her, the one thing that sticks out the most is that she likes him. She likes the way he touches her, the way he talks to her, the way he treats her. At least, he assumes she does. Not because she tells him so, but because of the way she clings to him, digs the tips of her fingers into his skin and scratches him because she can’t come up with another way to ground herself through the pleasure he brings her. And even though it hurts, he doesn’t care. He encourages it, in fact, biting her earlobe and telling her what the feeling of her nails in his skin does to him before he marks her collarbone and thrusts harder.

She leaves his place later and later each time, delaying the inevitable need to return to her own for fear of the backlash she’ll receive if she spends the night out. She may be an adult, free to make her own choices, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’ll be on the receiving end of some questioning glances she’d rather avoid. But despite that fact, she’s stopped sneaking away when he dozes off. She’s even started to bid him farewell with a soft smile as she buttons her jeans.

He loves her.

He’s certain of it, although perhaps she would tell him that it’s too soon to be. And perhaps she’d be right. But he doesn’t care. And he’ll keep this fact to himself until the point at which he’s certain she can handle hearing the words passing his lips and pressing themselves against her tattered heart.

~~~~

“Good god, mate.”

He turns, surprise in his eyes when he faces his friend and colleague and is met with his shocked, horrified expression.

“What?”

He knows he’s red and sweaty after a workout, but it can’t be anything different from how he always looks when they return to the locker room.

“I mean, were you attacked?”

Bloody hell. The blush is unstoppable as it creeps up his neck and across his cheeks, burning him from the inside out as he realizes he’s removed his shirt and exposed himself as the apparent freak he’s become since he started fucking Emma Swan.

Perhaps fucking isn’t the right word. But that’s what she’d prefer to call it– for now.

“Sergeant, did you realize there were mountain lions in Boston?”

“What are you talking about now, Scarlet?” the sergeant asks, his head pointed down at his phone as he makes his way through the gym’s locker room towards his belongings.

“Jones’ got himself involved with a right nympho, that’s all,” he says with a smirk, and Killian's eyes widen almost painfully as he tugs his undershirt on as quickly as he can.

“What Jones does on his own time is his business,” David responds without lifting his head and without knowing that it’s not always on his own time. “Thanks for the workout, boys, but I’m late for dinner with my sister.”

Will hums happily, a smirk toying at his mouth. “And no man should keep her waiting. Although I’m quite sure she’d never allow a man to–”

He’s silenced immediately when Killian’s button down hits him square in the face. “Shut up,” he commands, rolling his eyes. “That’s… the sergeant’s sister. Bloody hell.”

See the full post

75 notes - Posted May 31, 2022

The Promises We Keep

At twelve-years-old (she thinks), a young, homeless Emma Swan meets a slightly older, homeless Killian Jones. From there, they continue to help each other until they can't any longer. All she can hope for is that they'll eventually find their way back to one another.

For @the-darkdragonfly and @donteattheappleshook who always let me yell at them about my ideas and then yell at me back when I finally write them down. I’d be lost without them

Rated M (mildly)

Read on Ao3

Read my other stuff

~~~~

By the age of twelve, Emma Swan felt like she had lived countless lifetimes.

At least, she assumes she was twelve. She kind of has to guess on her birthday so she also has to guess on her age.

At the ripe age of twelve, she had grown used to fending for herself, foraging for food whenever she could, learning the best spots to find the leftovers that closing restaurants throw away, avoiding the dangerous shelters. She had learned where it’s safest to sleep, avoiding the unsavory characters about the city and keeping herself as protected as she could.

And at the ripe age of twelve, she learned never to trust anyone.

Well, anyone but Killian Jones.

It started with her sharing with him, helping him, as if she had anything to spare. She saw the way he shivered violently on the ground near her that night and wondered for a long time if he was just like everyone else she had come across since she had found herself there, under a bridge with a gloating view of the Space Needle. But the more she looked at him, the longer she spent taking in the way he shook and whimpered and tried to steady his breathing, she just knew. That boy wasn’t high, he was sick. He was very sick.

She had walked over to him and noticed the way the paper covering his body rustled as his body quivered with fever. He was curled in the fetal position, and she could only assume that his back must have been hurting from how tense his body was. He was suffering so much more than anyone she’d ever met beneath that bridge. She had never seen anyone here curled so desperately close to the fire in the trashcan and still so obviously cold. Once, before she ran away, a foster mother had given her ibuprofen for a fever and she remembers wishing that she had some to give him in that moment.

All that she had that night was a ratty blanket and a stale chunk of bread. When she walked over to him and crouched by his side, she saw the way his blue eyes stared into hers, bloodshot and puffy, though his face was sallow. She noticed the way that his skin was pale white, his lips drained of any color. She noticed the way his cheekbones poked out dramatically and wondered when the last time he ate could have been.

“If I’m i-in your sp-spot, I’m sorry,” he started. “I-I ca-can move.”

“Stay,” she said. “You’re not in my spot.”

All she remembers is thinking about how that boy cowering too close to the fire with nothing to keep him warm as he wasted away with a fever would probably die that night. For a second, she had wondered if it was worth it to help him if he wouldn’t make it through the night anyway. But then she unfolded her tattered blanket and placed it over him, over the newspapers because she had heard that it makes for good insulation. She tucked the blanket around him tightly, and when she touched him, she swore she felt nothing but bone and heat. And then she took out the stale chunk of bread and ripped off a tiny piece, offering it directly to his pallor lips.

She won’t ever forget the look in his eyes when he parted his lips. He never once stopped staring at her, not for the first bite, not when he let out a sigh of relief as he started to feel a semblance of satisfaction, not when she took a few bites for herself.

“How long have you been sick?”

“A while,” he breathed, although he wasn’t stuttering as much now that the shivering had started to subside. “K-keeps getting worse.”

“You need medicine.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed, although perhaps the sound was more like another shiver. “You t-try getting so-some.”

It’s true, it wasn’t easy to come by. But he needed it if he planned on surviving the night with the way his fever seemed to be climbing and climbing. So she left, left him with her blanket and her bread and brought her crappy old backpack with her. She snuck through the streets and found a pharmacy that was open late. She found a bottle of water that cost a dollar and snuck the ibuprofen into her sleeve, paying for the water with the last of the loose change she had in her pocket. When she returned, he was still, dead asleep, and she wasn’t sure that was a good sign.

It was always a bad idea to fall asleep, or at least to do so as soundly as the boy was when she returned. It looked at first like he may have died while she was gone, but when she got close to him, she could see the way he was still breathing shortly, still shivering, although the blanket and food seemed to have helped.

“Wake up,” she had insisted, and while her words were short, the way she shook his shoulder was gentle. “Take this.”

“H-how– why are y-you doing-ng this?”

She didn’t know. She couldn’t answer. She handed him the pills and the water, but she took it back when he was done and finished it herself. Then she lied beside him, not too close because she had suddenly realized that she didn’t want to catch whatever he had. She watched him until he fell asleep again, the shivering finally stopping altogether, and then she fell asleep herself.

While she thought she was being safe, sleeping lightly so that she would wake with any movement near her, she woke the next morning with the blanket spread over her and the boy and the ibuprofen nowhere to be seen.

~~~~

See the full post

77 notes - Posted March 22, 2022

deeper than we ever knew

Emma realizes that she's lead the man she loves, Graham, to believe that she's well experienced despite her being a virgin. In a panic, she recruits her best friend, Killian, to teach her a thing or two.

Beta’ed by my bestie @donteattheappleshook

Rated E

~15k words

Read on Ao3

Read my Other Stuff

~~~~

Emma Swan has never been the type of girl to have an incurable crush on a boy. She survived middle and high school with only one memorable infatuation, Neal Cassidy eventually proving himself to be a giant asshole. She lived through her first year of college dating only one human man. At least, Walsh seemed human enough before they got together. By the time she got anywhere near ready to take the next step and sleep with him, he had proven himself to be yet another giant asshole. And now, as a junior in college, who has real friends and a somewhat real job, she’s realizing that the territory also comes with something she’s feared her whole life: she’s fallen in love.

Graham Humbert is a perfect man, she’s learned. He’s handsome, he’s kind, he respects her… his only flaw is that he doesn’t seem to be able to get it through his beautiful, curly head that she loves him. They work together in the campus security office, usually spending the Thursday through Saturday night shifts together since no one else is willing to work at such god awful times. Her unwillingness to tell him how she feels is likely impacting the fact that he stubbornly refuses to recognize it, but unwilling she is. She’s already decided that she needs to get him to fall for her, and everything will fall into place naturally after that without her having to lift a finger.

And, of course, there's the other dilemma that has plagued her throughout her life-- well, her teenage-through-adult life. Painfully and against her will, Emma Swan is a virgin.

She has needs and desires and thoughts and curiosities, but she also has fear and anxiety and a stark sensitivity to rejection, and for this, she’s decided that no man that she’s ever met has been worth her time or her body. Of course, she almost thought that Neal would be, but he proved himself otherwise when he left her to find her own ride home from the carnival after she refused to sleep with him in the port-a-potty. And then there was Walsh, who flirted with her for weeks and then became violently angry when she turned him down after their first date. So yes, Emma Swan is a virgin, but it’s because she has standards.

Of course, all was well and good until that fateful night in the office with Graham. It was well after midnight, the phones hadn’t rung in over an hour, and all they could do to entertain themselves was play truth or dare. She’ll admit to flirting with him, giggling at everything he said and blushing and biting her bottom lip, but part of her thinks that she led him on. When he leaned in and kissed her, she kissed him back enthusiastically and knew in that moment that she was leading him on. When his hands laced through her hair at the back of her head and pulled her closer to him, and when his tongue poked out and stroked against her own, and when he let out a groan from the back of his throat, she knew what she had done.

He told her that she was good at that-- at kissing him, at turning him on, if the bulge was anything to go by-- and she felt guilty. Because she isn’t very good at that. She’s kissed boys before, she’s had makeout sessions before, but she has no idea what she’s doing at any given moment. And when he broke away from her, panting and licking his lips and laughing breathily, he told her, I don’t want to rush things-- I feel like what we have is special-- but I can’t wait to see what else you have in store.

And he’s right, of course; it could be special. It could be good, if she knew what she was doing. Part of her was able to trick him into thinking that she’s remotely experienced in how to make things between them… work. But in reality, she knows nothing. She knows what to do for herself, by herself, but she has no idea what to do with another person.

So here she is, panicked and desperate.

Please. Please, Killian, pleeease? Please, i need you.

This is insane. I can’t even tell if you’re serious or not.

I’m completely serious! I need help!

No. I’m not going to lose my best friend over something this crazy.

Well i’m not going to have a good time with any other guys if i don't know what i’m doing!

…

So you’re really going to pass up this amazing opportunity to not only get laid but also make your best friend extremely happy?

Yes

Guess i’ll just have to recruit someone else then. Maybe a biker.

Jesus christ Swan. what the bloody hell is wrong with you?

A big one. Full of sperm.

Are you not going to let this go?

All you have to do is me. Just one time.

…

See the full post

84 notes - Posted March 30, 2022

You Make Loving Fun: Part I

A collection of little Chrissy and Eddie moments that might turn a little smutty

Part I: Pomp and Circumstance. Eddie finally graduates and Chrissy is really proud

Yeah I know, my self control still hasn't returned. We'll be fine!

This will probably have several parts, but my plan is to have them basically unrelated or at the very least make it so that they can be read as a stand alone.

This is my 50th work posted to Ao3. That seems like a pretty awesome milestone. Whether you're from the Eddissy fandom or the Captain Swan one, thank you for stopping by and thank you for supporting my writing ❤️

Rated E- It’s smut my friends

~1900 words

Read on Ao3

Get added to my eddissy tag list

~~~~

He never liked the whole Pomp and Circumstance thing, mostly because he never really got it. Sure, graduating is a big deal, especially for someone who stayed back not once, but twice, but is the whole excessive grandeur thing really necessary? He’s never thought so.

That is, until it was almost graduation day, and Chrissy fucking Cunningham started playing the song, all excited for him to walk across the stage. All four movements, baby, she had said. And ever since then, it’s been stuck in his head.

He didn’t even know what a movement was until he met Chrissy Cunningham. Scratch that– until he started to get to know Chrissy Cunningham. More specificallly, until he started to fuck Chrissy Cunningham.

And of course, they were never just fucking. They’ve always been making love to one another, the passion between them almost nauseating each time they come together, each time they so much as see one another. Honestly, it’s miraculous no one’s figured it out by now, although that’s probably more related to the fact that not a single person in this god forsaken town could imagine a girl like Chrissy Cunningham sleeping with a guy like Eddie Munson.

Never mind actually, maybe, in a way, falling for him.

Either way, though, here they are.

Chrissy, with shimmery green pigment on her eyelids, and Eddie, finally knowing what the hell a movement is.

Her lesson did help, of course. She was so excited to find out that he was actually, officially graduating, that she found her mother’s cassette of the damn song and brought it over, playing it on a loop as she rode him until she screamed in time with the fourth movement. Now, the fourth movement happens to be his favorite.

Plus, she helped him get here, anyway. She told him, If you don’t blow Ms. O’Donnell’s final, I'll blow you.

She was high at the time, which was why she was being so goofy, but she did end up keeping her promise when he squeaked by with a C+.

Her name is called first, C coming before M, which he knows because he’s technically a high school graduate at this point. When she walks across the stage and accepts the diploma from Mr. Higgins, he screams so loudly that he can see her round cheeks blushing from his seat, her eyes rolling and her smile beaming while everyone else in his row gives him a look of horror and confusion.

And when he walks across stage, he can hear the shouts from his uncle Wayne, the whistles from the Hellfire Club, and the soft, familiar tune of Pomp and Circumstance playing from her Walkman, volume turned all the way up and still barely audible over the chorus of cheers and boos, her face lit up like a Christmas tree. She was so proud of him that he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that this was all worth it.

It’s worth it again as he finds himself in the back of his van, Chrissy Cunningham fumbling with the buttons of his stupid shirt beneath the stupid robe, her breathing quick and panting and desperate as she presses her hips against his fingers. “Fuck,” she says. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Chrissy,” he scolds playfully. “You’re not one to curse. What’s gotten into you?”

“Hopefully you, if you wouldn’t mind hurrying up.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind, of course, but I’d want to ensure that that’s exactly what my sweet, innocent girlfriend truly wants.”

“Is sweet and innocent really what you want?” she asks, moving her hand from his last few buttons down to his crotch over the stupid dress pants she begged him to wear. They’ll look so nice, Eddie, she pleaded, and he couldn’t possibly say no to those big doe eyes. “Or would you prefer your desperate, needy, very proud girlfriend?”

He lets out a groan as she slides down the zipper of his slacks, her soft hand finding its way into his boxer briefs, the ones she got for him because she told him it would be best if whatever he was wearing under his slacks wasn’t baggy. Of course, the sensation of the tighter fabric is entirely new against the part of him that needs her the most, and she seems to know it, grasping onto him just right and smirking against his neck.

“Well?” she asks, and he realizes he never did answer her.

See the full post

90 notes - Posted July 9, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Witness

After the worst night of his life, Killian goes into the Witness Protection program and moves to Maine until he can testify against the man who took everything from him. He had resigned himself to living a life of misery, pain, and heartbreak, but that all changed when he met Lily Quinn.

A/N: I finally finished this one!! It's not perfect by any means, but I'm honestly just patting myself on the back for completing it, at this point. It's not beta'ed and I probably haven't proofread it enough, so if you see any typos or notice any continuity errors, no you didn't.

Also, this is the 50th, yes FIFTIETH, Captain Swan fic that I've posted on Ao3. There isn't much I can say about that other than thank you to everyone in this incredible fandom who has encouraged me to explore writing and discover how much I love it. Thank you especially to @the-darkdragonfly and @donteattheappleshook for always being there for me in every capacity and for supporting me through thick and thin.

Rated E

15,630 words (oops)

Read on Ao3

Read my Other Stuff

Get added to my Captain Swan taglist

~~~~

The pain is unlike anything he’s ever felt before and is likely to ever feel again, lest he lose another appendage. It burns and stings and throbs and stabs all at once, and it drives him mad as he looks down and remembers that there’s nothing there. There’s no hand to be hurting him as he bites into his bottom lip and doubles over, holding his empty wrist in his one remaining hand. There's no reason for him to be feeling this way, and yet he feels as though he’s lost the hand all over again.

He doesn’t remember what it felt like to lose it in the first place, but it must have been something like this. Leaning over his ledgers upon his pathetically small desk, he tries to remind himself that there’s nothing there anymore. He shouldn’t be hurting like this, not now that it’s gone. He tells himself to get over it, snap out of it, he’s being foolish. He lets out a pained gasp as he puts his stubbed arm on the surface of the desk and picks up a pen, staring down at the empty space where his hand should be before taking a breath and sending the pen forcefully through the air, into the grainy wood, missing the hand that he lost months ago.

The burning subsides when he does this, as if him telling his mind that it isn’t there, that it doesn’t matter anymore, isn’t enough; as if he has to see it for himself to believe his own thoughts. It happens frequently– frequently enough for him to consider himself crazy on a several-times-weekly basis. He’s just lucky that he doesn’t share this cramped office with anyone, that he’s usually left alone to do his work in peace, just the way he likes it. He’s lucky that he lives alone, that he has no one to watch him go through the lunacy of feeling pain in a hand that doesn’t exist. He’s lucky that he’s always alone. He’s lucky to have lost everything and everyone, because at least he doesn’t have to force someone he loves to live through this with him.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he pulls the pen from the shallow hole he punched into the wood and returns it to the cup where it belongs.

~~~~

He’s making an effort not to become the town drunk.

His father was the town drunk, and he’s always hated his father.

So when he goes to the Rabbit Hole, he likes to keep it to once a week, maybe less. He likes to keep it to two drinks, maybe three. He likes to keep control over himself so that no one in this tiny place starts to see him as the town drunk. They already see him as the strange, handless recluse, and he doesn’t feel the need to move into town drunk-territory.

But when he walks into the Rabbit Hole that night, just a few months after his arrival, he considers changing his ways if only in response to seeing the stunning, glowing blonde behind the bar for the first time.

She truly is glowing. She emanates beauty and exudes perfection as she stands behind the bar, somehow catching the perfect lighting, her bare arms toned as she pours a beer flawlessly, her hair gleaming under the dim light fixture, her smile shimmering despite the darkness in the bar. She laughs at her patron, Leroy telling her a joke that Killian can almost certainly bet was not funny. She throws her head back and he nearly salivates at the sight of her bare neck. She turns from the grumpy old man and adds the pour to his tab and then she turns again, locking eyes directly with Killian before giving him the most beautiful, sexy, friendly smile he’s ever received.

“Welcome in,” she says, her voice like bells as it rings through the bar, cutting against the loud music and the even louder laughter from the party at the pool table. “What can I get you?”

He’s almost stunned silent, stupidly standing there with his mouth hung open like a trout until he gets his bearings, tugging on the sleeves of his gray knit sweater and shuffling towards the bar. Get it together, you old fool, he tells himself, cursing as he trips over his own feet but praising himself as the sight draws a soft giggle from the angel of a woman.

“Rum,” he says idiotically, and she raises a brow.

“Just rum, neat? On the rocks? Or a shot?”

He clears his throat. What will she think of him ordering just rum, neat? Or a shot? “Might as well throw in some Coke and ice, I suppose,” he chokes out, fighting through the awkwardness that he hasn’t felt since high school.

She laughs. It seems genuine, but she must treat all of her customers like this, right? “A rum and Coke then, coming right up. Do you like lime?”

“Yes,” he says, although he can’t really remember if he does or not. He pulls on his left sleeve as he sits down, far from Leroy. His elbow rests on the bartop, and if he had a hand, it would drop between himself and the surface he leans against. “Sure. Please.”

She works quickly, and he tries and tries not to look at the way her black tank top hugs her waist. He tries not to notice the way that there aren’t any lines along her back and he tries not to wonder whether she’s wearing a bra beneath it. He tries not to notice the way her jeans hug her hips and flare out just slightly, elongating her legs impossibly. Really, he really tries not to stare. Seriously.

“There you go,” she says with a bright smile. “Want to open a tab?”

He says nothing, dropping his bum arm and using the other to fish his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling out the credit card David gave him and handing it to her without a second thought. Normally, he wouldn’t open a tab. Opening a tab is something the town drunk would do– or at least running up the tab is. But how can he say no to the siren standing before him?

See the full post

150 notes - Posted August 16, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #is this my 2100th post then??#nice #thank you everyone ❤️

0 notes