#or a french dip sandwich and that doesn’t have any weird words

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

The Answer

Requested by: anonymous (“Congrats on reaching over 2.5k followers! I was wondering if I could request something with Joe trying to talk the reader out of doing something stupid, but in a funny way?”)

Summary: When Valentine’s Day turns unexpectedly stressful, your favorite coworker Joe Mazzello is there to offer moral support. I may have gotten a little carried away with this one, but it’s all in the spirit of the holiday! 😂 I hope you enjoy it. 💗

Warnings: Language. 

Word Count: 2.2k. 

You can find all my writing here!

Oh my god, this man is about to ask me to marry him.

You are suddenly aware of every immaterial detail, because this is the sort of night you’re supposed to remember forever. This is the sort of night, the sort of story, you’ll be retelling all your life: to parents, to friends, to overly-chatty hairstylists, to coworkers, to children, to grandchildren. The music is slow, sophisticated, French. The dress you’re wearing is lavender and just a stitch too tight in the ribs. The tablecloth is white, the flowers in the centerpiece ruby-red roses. The candlelight bathes Ryan’s face in hot, flickering gold. And he’s smiling, broadly, artfully, like he knows something you don’t. Like maybe he always will.

You’re trying to follow what he’s talking about, but you can’t. It’s some meandering summation of your last two years together: meeting at your mutual friend Sarah’s New Year’s Eve party, numbers tapped into each other’s iPhones, sushi and green tea, browsing through book stores, murky movie theaters and hands entwining on shared armrests, Fourth of July picnics where you socialized gamely with one another’s extended families, kisses that started out light and fleeting in the chilly lobbies of restaurants like this one and turned into hours spent in the rustling shadows of your bedroom. And although the details sometimes evade you, the arc of Ryan’s story is clear: that the journey was perfectly linear, every piece in place, every want and ritual accounted for. That the time has come for the inevitable conclusion.

He reaches across the table to take your hands in his. The last of your beef bourguignon lays unclaimed and forgotten in its bowl. Your appetite has vanished entirely.

“Pierre,” Ryan tells the moustached waiter, grinning triumphantly. “Could you bring out dessert now, please?”

You hear your chair squeal as you bolt to your feet. Your ankles wobble as you balance on your strappy, rather painful silver heels, the ones Ryan likes so much. “I’ll be right back,” you announce. You flash him a reassuring, innocent smile. You gesture apologetically to the wine and water glasses, like it’s all their fault. The perfect fall guys. How dare they interrupt this magical evening.

Ryan suspects nothing. Or—worse, far far worse—he doesn’t care. “Sure, baby. Take your time.”

You zigzag, rather unsteadily, around the restaurant tables—all those other nameless candle-lit couples reminiscing and giggling and feeding each other spoonfuls of quivering chocolate mousse—and crash through the restroom door. There are two college-aged girls touching up their makeup, stark and bone-white under the florescent lights, and they peer quizzically over at you. You take shelter in the nearest stall and lock the door.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” You stare at the wall, waiting for a sign. There’s an artsy black-and-white picture of the Eiffel Tower hanging there. Another trivial detail to one day tell your grandchildren about. “Oh my god,” you moan again.

You root through your purse, pull out your iPhone, and find Joe Mazzello in your contacts. You’ve never called him before; you have his number solely in case of work-related emergencies. But your fingers are moving swiftly, almost autonomically; and time is rolling irrevocably forward like a freight train.

“This is clearly a pocket dial,” Joe says as soon as he answers. “There’s no way you’re thinking about me and my subpar sandwich-making abilities on Valentine’s Day.” He’s right about his sandwich skills; they’re honestly abysmal. He’s the worst employee at Quiznos. He always spills the honey mustard everywhere. You, on the other hand, take great pride in your consistently neat, uniform application of condiments. But, nevertheless, Joe is your favorite coworker. Your favorite coworker by a margin that ships could sail through like a drawbridge.

“Help,” you croak.

“Uh...?” Joe’s voice changes. He’s not exactly serious yet—you’re not really sure what a serious Joe Mazzello would even sound like—but he’s definitely apprehensive. “Are you locked in a trunk somewhere...?”

“Wait, no, sorry. I’m not being kidnapped. I’m at L’amour Vrai.”

“Oh, nice!” But he doesn’t sound that thrilled about it. “With Ryan, I’m assuming.”

“Yeah, therein lies the problem.”

Joe is confounded. “...Did he forget to bring you a massive teddy bear and a heart-shaped box of Ferrero Rocher, or...?”

“I think he’s going to ask me to marry him,” you say in a rush, breathlessly. “He’s been rambling about our relationship and being weird and sentimental all through dinner and I think dessert is going to be, like, a giant bowl of chocolate mousse with a ring hidden in the bottom or something and now I’m hiding in the bathroom.”

“And you don’t even like chocolate mousse,” Joe notes.

“That’s not really the point, but yeah, true.”

“So what are you going to do?”

You don’t have an answer. You don’t even have threads of thoughts that could be woven into words. Because no matter how seamless and fated Ryan’s story of your relationship sounds, you feel that something is missing. You’ve always felt that way. And you’ve waited—patiently, undemandingly, faithfully—for that one last piece of surety to drop out of the sky and click into place for the past seven-hundred and forty-four days. You’ve waited for indelible magnetism, for that sensation of free-falling, for love; you’ve waited until you started to suspect those things didn’t exist at all except in fiction. But sometimes, just recently, you think you might be catching glimpses of them: in how Joe sends you a clandestine smirk when a customer is agonizing over whether they want cheddar or swiss, in how he invents new combinations of fountain drinks for you to taste and rank on a highly scientific ten-point scale (Cherry Coke-Dr. Pepper is the current champion at 8.5/10), in how he complains incessantly about having to close but will wipe down the same counter fifteen times while you count the money in the register so you don’t have to lock up alone. And those transitory glimpses are enough to show you exactly what a lifetime with Ryan would mean living without.

“You don’t want to say yes,” Joe realizes quietly. “You wouldn’t be freaking out and hyperventilating in the bathroom if you did.”

“I don’t think I can say no.”

Joe snorts. “Lady, this isn’t the sixteenth century. You’re not being traded to this guy for some cows or a military alliance or a duchy in Germany. You can always say no.”

“But we’re in the middle of this fancy restaurant and he’s got the staff in on it, and everyone is going to stare when he asks me, they’ll probably start clapping and making TikToks and I’m going to look like a total bitch if I don’t say yes.”

“Well, yeah,” Joe says, a little darkly. “That was probably the plan. To put you in a position where you felt like you didn’t have a choice.” And you recall that Joe doesn’t seem to like Ryan very much, hasn’t said a single nice thing about him in the six months that have passed since Joe joined the illustrious Quiznos team.

“Maybe I should say yes and then after tonight never speak to him again.”

“You’re...gonna ghost your fiancé? You legitimately think that’s a better plan?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s only going to get harder to back out as this thing picks up momentum. The families will get involved. There will be dress fittings, venue shopping, cake tasting...oh, wait, actually, don’t back out until after the cake tasting. And invite me.”

“I could fake my own death. Or enlist in the Peace Corps. I’ve always wanted to see Mongolia.”

“But then you’d have to give up your promising career in sandwich making.”

“They might have Quiznos in Mongolia.” You sigh, defeated. “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you with this. I’m definitely ruining your Valentine’s Day.”

“There’s not much to ruin, honestly. I’m re-watching Tiger King and eating my weight in Skittles.”

Oh, right; Joe and his girlfriend Julie broke up last week. And come to think of it, despite the fact that you don’t have any identifiable reason to feel this way, you’ve never really liked Julie either. “I’ll gladly trade you.”

“I mean, sure, I fucking love chocolate mousse. My apartment is only three blocks away. I can hurry over there and put on your dress and heels and earrings or whatever you’re wearing, but I feel like Ryan might catch on.”

You laugh, your first real, involuntary, jolting laugh of the day. “Genius. Let’s do it.”

“You can say no,” Joe tells you, seriously now. This, as it turns out, is what a serious Joe Mazzello sounds like: warm, concerned, measured, his typically frenetic energy temporarily wrangled. “If he asks you to marry him and you want to say no, you can say no.”

“Okay,” you reply, taking a deep breath, resolved.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll say no.”

“Cool.” Joe sounds pleased; proud, even.

“Alright. I’m gonna go. Thanks, Joe. Seriously. Thank you so much.”

“No problem. You can mop up my next honey mustard spill as a show of gratitude.”

“Deal,” you say with a smile, and then you hang up.

Waiting for you back at the table is the moustached waiter cheerfully playing a violin, Ryan’s luminous grin, and a glass chalice full of chocolate mousse. Jesus christ. Chocolate fucking mousse.

Ryan motions for you to take a bite. You obediently sit down, pick up your spoon with a quaking hand, dip it into the center of the chocolate mousse...and lift out a diamond ring. You unleash a gasp of horror that Ryan mistakes for—or, perhaps, is determined to believe is—elation.

Ryan plucks the ring off your spoon, wipes it clean with a red cloth napkin, and slips out of his chair to kneel at your feet. Blood is pounding frantically in your ears. Your courage has evaporated. Your legs feel numb, jellylike, boneless. How the hell are you going to walk out of here after you say no? How the hell are you going to say no at all?

Ryan is reciting some generic, Hallmark-card speech. The other restaurant patrons are beaming, clapping, already assuming your answer. Ryan asks you the question. Your trembling hand is now resting at the base of your flushed throat like a noose. Your words are ghosts.

“I...” you sputter. “I...um...”

“Go ahead,” Ryan says, nodding, smooth and undaunted. And suddenly you know that Joe was right; every single part of this was planned. Ryan turns to the crowd. “Aw, folks, give her a hand, she’s shy!”

And as they cheer and whistle encouragingly, as Ryan waits for your acquiescence, as your hope for those things you’ve only caught glimpses of begins to wither like autumn leaves, someone steps between you and Ryan and fills up the hollow, hungry space left by your silence. It’s Joe.

“No no no,” he tells Ryan. His voice is ostensibly matter-of-fact and yet formidable. “She’s not shy. She’s just trying to figure out her answer. And she doesn’t need some random strangers in a French restaurant to help her out with that.” Joe looks at you and raises his eyebrows. “Go ahead. Whenever you’re ready.”

“What the...?!” Ryan exclaims, his eyes shifting from you to Joe. The other patrons are extremely bewildered. The waiter’s violin playing screeches to a halt.

“No,” you say, your courage flooding back in, a slow smile igniting across your face.

Ryan doesn’t understand. “No...?”

“No. My answer is no. The past two years have been nice, but this is over now. I’m not right for you, Ryan. You’re not right for me either. And I think you know that. So goodbye.”

You stand, sling your purse over your shoulder, and follow Joe out of L’amour Vrai; but not before you yank off your silver high heels and leave them there on the restaurant floor. The other guests are in scandalized uproar now. Ryan is still kneeling, furious and in shock. Outside it is bitingly cold and your breath turns to fog in the night air; the chilly concrete sidewalk soothes the aching soles of your feet.

Joe is ecstatic, his eyes gleaming under the streetlights as you walk together. “That was incredible! Did you see his face?! He totally thought he was going to be able to bully you into saying yes and you were not having it, you are a beast my dear, I hope some of those people put you on TikTok, I hope you get TikTok famous for being freaking awesome, then you can get rich and buy a mansion and let me live in the pool house and I’ll never have to work or suffer another honey-mustard-related catastrophe again—”

“Joe.” You stop him abruptly, resting a palm against his chest, gazing up at him beneath the cold stars. And after a moment he understands, and he kisses you. You catch more than a glimpse of those beautiful things you’d feared might not exist. They light up like the goddamn Eiffel Tower.

“I’ve wanted that for six months,” Joe says as he pulls away, softly, shakily, smiling almost shyly.

“Yeah,” you reply. “I think I have too.”

Joe takes your face in his hands and kisses you again. He tastes like heat and harmony and laughter and Skittles; but more than all of that, he tastes like love.

#sleepover event! #joe mazzello imagine #joe mazzelo x reader

[kalypsichor]

ménage à trois [ paul mccartney x reader x john lennon ]

summary: There’s only one bed and none of you speak French.

prompt: k hear me out mclennon sandwich BUT ITS ON THE PARIS TRIP SO IS JUST YOU THREE IN THE TINIEST BEDROOM + a request for reader’s wet dreams waking paul up warnings: this is a threesome babey 🥪🥪🥪

masterlist

guess who’s never had a threesome? me. guess who accidentally drank a shit ton of coffee and didn’t go to bed till six am writing this?? also me. i’d appreciate any feedback y’all have bc @spaceyantique​ beta’d this for me like a darling but my illiteracy knows no bounds

There’s only one bed and none of you speak French.

Paul tries, but between his wild hand gestures and the receptionist’s increasingly confused looks, he’s getting nowhere. John more or less just flirts with her. You tolerate about five minutes of it before dragging them away from the front desk.

“Sorry,” you offer to the receptionist, and you’re pretty sure it’s the first word she’s understood in the whole exchange.

The three of you stand at the foot of the bed for a bit and just. Stare at it. The hotel room is long but narrow, with the bed at the very end of it literally touching three walls. Whoever designed it was obviously at the end of his wits. The bed would be roomy for one person, cozy for two, but three? That’s pushing it. Still, there’s not even a couch in the room, so when you all look at each other it’s with a wordless understanding.

“I sleep on the right,” John says. He claims his spot as such and immediately stretches out, not even taking off his shoes. You wrinkle your nose but choose not to say anything. Paul wrinkles his nose and does.

“Don’t be disgusting, John.” Paul toes off his boots and clambers onto the left side. “There’s a lady present.”

John grins and twists around, dangling his feet in Paul’s face. “Talking about yourself in the third person, eh?”

You’ve locked the bathroom door by the time they start fighting but the walls are thin. There’s a thump and a shrill screech. Laughter. More shouting. Your reflection frowns back at you, eyes tired and hair a mess, and you take your time showering. In true European fashion, it’s a tiny, miserable affair. Your elbows keep knocking into the walls. The water runs cold before you even finish shampooing. It’s a mad dash to put on your pajamas before you freeze your tits off—except even that goes awry when you realize you forgot to pack them. The only things you can find are a soft tee shirt and shorts, which are a bit shorter than you’d like to be wearing but will have to do.

To top it all off, when you step out of the bathroom, they’re still lobbing shoes and insults.

“Boys, please! It’s one in the morning!” Two pairs of eyes flicker to the clock on the wall, then back at you. “Can you at least pretend to be adults?”

Paul has the decency to look a little scolded. John, on the other hand, leers at you.

“I think someone cut a few centimeters off your shorts, love. Not that I’m complaining.” He winks and you decidedly push down the fluttering in your stomach.

All in all, it takes another hour for the three of you to get to bed. Paul insists on showering first, which leads to another argument that takes five matches of rock-paper-scissors to be resolved.

(Paul gets the first one. John calls a two out of three and wins that. Paul calls a three out of five and wins that. John accuses him of cheating and gets called a sore loser. You end up shoving Paul into the bathroom while John is looking for another shoe to throw.)

If your mother knew you were squeezing into a bed with two boys, she’d throw a fit. Especially if she knew that you couldn’t stop thinking about how rosy Paul’s cheeks looked when he stepped out of the shower, or the fact that John is bloody shirtless. No, it’s best that none of this gets back to your folks at home.

“Comfortable?” John asks. Both boys are facing outwards and you’re lying on your back, trying to ignore the warm bodies on either side of you.

Paul shifts his arm and nearly elbows you in the boobs. “I feel like a sardine,” he says.

“Try sleeping in the middle,” you retort. “It’s like being in a sandwich.”

That earns a laugh from John, which turns into a contagious yawn.

“We should go to bed,” someone says, but you’re already drifting off.

***

John’s a pretty heavy sleeper, so when he wakes up and it’s still dark out he’s very confused.

He’s also a lot warmer. Sometime in the night, John had turned and pulled you flush against his chest. His nose is pressed into your hair, one leg thrown over your hip. John rather likes the feeling of cuddling so close, but he knows it’s not the most appropriate position. He goes to move when he hears a quiet noise.

“John…”

… oh. So that’s what woke him up.

You’re moaning, soft little sighs and whimpers that go straight to John’s cock. You’re having a wet dream… about him. He wants to pull away, knows that this is wrong, but then you’re grinding against him and all thoughts fly out the window. John’s hips find yours and he has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. God, he’s rutting against you like a teenager but it feels so good he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed.

“John?”

John’s eyes snap open and he freezes. Your voice is different, clearer. You’re awake now. It’s like a cold bucket of water has been dumped over his head and he jolts away from you.

“Sorry, I didn’t—“

His apology cuts off because you’re suddenly moving, pushing back into him. The soft curve of your ass presses right against John’s cock. All the air in his lungs rushes out and he gasps out your name.

“Is—is this okay?” he asks. He wants to make sure, needs to.

“Yes,” you reply. It’s more of a plea, and it’s all John needs to start moving again.

The hand that’s on your stomach trails down and slips under the waistband of your panties. John groans when his fingers find your slick folds.

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” John rocks his hips into yours. Your hair is still damp from showering and when he breathes in, the scent—lavender—sends a rush of arousal through him. “Were you dreaming about me?”

You can only whine in response because John is slipping a finger into your cunt. His thumb finds your clit, rubs gentle circles that send flames of pleasure licking up your body. It’s already so much, too much, not enough.

“Didn’t know you were such a filthy girl,” John growls and you arch into his touch. “What was it about, hm? Were you dreaming about this? About getting fingered while Paul is sleeping right there?” His words tear a gasp from your lips. “You’re gonna have to be quiet or you’ll wake him up, birdie. Unless that’s what you want…”

“It’s a little too late for that.”

John can’t see very far, but he doesn’t need to in order to make out Paul’s face on the other side of you. His pupils are blown wide, eyes trained on John’s hand still moving under your clothes. And John… likes it. Being watched. It should be weird, should feel wrong because Paul’s his best mate, but then his eyes find John’s and the hungry look in them tears a hot blaze of arousal through him.

Somehow, his voice is steady when he speaks. “You want a taste?”

Paul’s mouth falls open and he nods. Without a second thought, John pulls his hand from your pussy and lifts it to Paul’s lips.

The sight of Paul licking your juices from John’s fingers is quite possibly the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

Second only to the look on Paul’s face when you hesitantly wrap your hand around his cock and start jerking him off.

“Fuck,” he groans. His eyes flutter closed, head tips back and bares the curve of his neck. John wants nothing more than to bite into it, to mark Paul, but you beat him to it. And John, who’s never liked feeling left out, lets his hand drift back down to you. This time, he curls two fingers into your cunt. You clench around him and your grip involuntarily tightens on Paul, whose hips jerk forward at the feeling.

God, how John wishes he could see your face. You’re sure to be so pretty, cheeks flushed, lips parted around gasps, eyes watching Paul’s cock in your hand. Still, he can hear the noises you’re making, and that’s almost just as good.

It’s not the most comfortable position, really. Your wrist feels awkward at this angle, with Paul being so close to you. And John keeps breathing in some of your hair. But the intimacy, the heat, the rush of adrenaline makes all that fade away. The filthy sound of John thrusting his fingers in and out of your cunt, Paul’s high, almost feminine sighs. John’s grunts as he rocks against your body, breathe hot on the nape of your neck.

Paul gasps something unintelligible but you know what he’s trying to say. You start pumping him even faster, letting the sound of his cries spur you on. You want to taste them, you think, and it doesn’t make sense but you lean forward anyway and capture Paul’s lips in yours.

The movement changes your angle. John’s fingers curl against something in you that burns white hot, electric in your veins. His thumb presses into your clit and then you’re cumming, moans falling from your lips to Paul’s as he follows you over the edge.

“Fucking hell,” Paul breathes.

You can only nod. Your mind is still floating somewhere in the stratosphere. You can’t remember the last time you felt like this, both high and irrevocably grounded, pressed tight between two bodies thrumming with warmth.

“I’m gonna… clean up a bit,” you mumble when you’ve caught your breath. While you stumble off towards the bathroom, Paul reaches and finds John’s face in the dark.

Despite the fact that he’s just had a threesome, John suddenly feels shy. It’s intimate in a different way, how Paul’s fingers trace the bridge of his nose, outline the curve of his lips. And when you come back, weight dipping the mattress slightly, the warmth of your body settling behind him is so gentle that John is scared he’s only imagining it.

Paul doesn’t say anything, just pulls John forward and kisses him. It’s a chaste brush of the lips, but combined with the feeling of you nipping at his bare shoulder sets John’s nerves ablaze.

“I—“

You shush him and run a hand down his spine, thumbing the waistband of his joggers. “Just relax, John. It’s okay.”

Whether it’s your words or the soothing touch, John’s body almost melts, curving into yours. At the same time, his lips seek out Paul, who pulls back with a glint in his eyes.

“You haven’t even come yet, have you?” Paul asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Does it fucking look like I have?” John grumbles. Your hand trails across his waist and cups his erection and suddenly John can’t come up with anything witty anymore. He keens and bucks into the touch.

“So this is what it takes to get you to shut up.” You giggle when John’s attempt at protesting is muffled by Paul’s mouth.

“Guess we should do this more often, then.”

#john lennon x reader smut #paul mccartney x reader smut #beatles fanfic #beatles x reader smut #mclennon x reader #kalwrites #the sandwich strikes again #more filth for y'all #🥪

[miracle-sham]

Hold Your Wake Softly, for the Dead Sleep Lightly.

| {MaribatMarch2020, Week 3, Day 17: Grave} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] |

| Triggers/Warnings: Major Character Death, Temporary Character Death, Graveyards/Cemeteries, Mentions of Death, Explicit Language/Swearing, Blood and Minor Injuries. |

| It's been six months since she died, so Jason goes to visit her grave. Only sometimes things aren't quite as they seem, and dreams are merely reflections of reality. |

| Word Count: 1794 |

-<◊>-

| A/N: So this is probably going to be my last Maribat March ficlet. I've been super busy and I got ill again (which is why I've not responded to comments yet, sorry!), so I've barely been able to get any writing done, and most of the fics are turning out not great. This fic is the only one that turned out well and I'm happy with it. I've not really got else much to say, so uhh enjoy! |

| If you want to be tagged in future oneshots/fics, or a specific Au, then comment or send me a DM/ask! |

| Also side note, Don't Like? Don't Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

-<◊>-

 Jason knows he's dreaming. But what strikes him as odd, is that he's dreaming. He's not dreamt since his dip in the Lazarus Pit. Weathered nightmares and night terrors, sure. But not the stuff of rainbows, sugar plums, and happiness, no. Although, this dream he's dreaming isn't exactly that either, so perhaps it shouldn't be that much of a surprise.

 He can't quite tell where he is. The surroundings are completely unfamiliar. He's on a roof, that much is clear. But it's not a roof in Gotham, no. Jason knows the roofs of Gotham like he knows the back of his hand. If he had to guess, the roof looked European in style, maybe Gothic French/Parisian if he had to guess specifically. There are poles and fairy lights strung up around the roof, and a picnic blanket is laid out with a basket overflowing with sandwiches, pastries, and fresh fruit.

 And as lovely as the scene is, the disconcerting part, is the phantasm sitting beside him. A phantasm in the guise of his lost love. Just sitting there, alive and breathing—with her eyes, so bright, twinkling in the low light—and her dazzling smile, the lovesick one he'd always catch her doing when she thought he wasn't looking.

 Jason can almost imagine the warmth of her. But this is a dream, and she's nothing more than a phantasm. So there's no real warmth. It's just his imagination. Not that that knowledge does anything to ease the aching of his wretched and bleeding heart.

 He's almost tempted to stay here. To indulge in this love-stricken reverie of a dream. But he can't. Not tonight. Not when tomorrow he'll wake with the dawn and trudge over to the cemetery and lay a bouquet of marigolds upon her grave.

 It almost sickens him, to need to leave this place. He'd love nothing more than to hold her in his arms one last time. But she's not real.

Jason feels a need to wake up, for the sliver of peace in the hopes that he'll forget this torturous dream upon waking. It hurts. It hurts so much to be close to her only for her to be a phantasm.

 No sooner does he think this, he feels the darkness of the dream ending pull at him. Tugging him away from the rooftop with her and tossing him into the swirling shadows of dreamless sleep.

-<◊>-

 Except, he doesn't wake up in his bed from a dreamless sleep like he expected to. No, he finds himself in a bleak observatory with a giant window that has a butterfly design in it. The edges of the room are shadowed, as only the window and a circle in the centre of the room are illuminated with faded blue light.

 There's a shimmer in the centre of the illuminated circle, and a young child kneeling on the floor flickers into view. No matter how much he tries to focus, Jason finds himself unable to tell what the child looks like. It's almost as though there's a magical glamour surrounding them that makes it impossible to see their true appearance.

 Jason walks to the edge of the circle and stares at the child. They're holding two pieces of jewellery, one in each hand. In their left hand, is a pair of red and black spotted earrings and in their right hand, is a black and green ring.

 Two strange small creatures float above the child's hands. The one floating over the ring, is a weird-looking purplish-black cat with green eyes. The one floating over the earrings, is an even weirder looking red and black spotted bug thing.

 Jason squints then furrows his brow, the child and the creatures appear to not have noticed him yet. Yet.

 “I want to make a wish.” The child says solemnly.

 The bug creature looks pained at that statement. “There'll be consequences.”

 “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” The cat creature pipes up.

 The child bites their lip. “I know and I don't care. I want to bring the previous Ladybug holder back to life.”

 The bug creature starts to tear up. “Mar—” it pauses. “The previous holder has been dead for six months.”

 A chill runs down Jason's back and his mouth becomes inexplicably dry. Fuck, he thinks weakly. They're talking about her. He drags a hand down his face and bitterly blinks back tears, feeling so fucking conflicted.

 The child tilts their head to the side and closes their eyes for a minute. “I know. I still want to bring them back. Again, I don't care about the price. The previous holder shouldn't have died.”

 The cat creature narrows its eyes at the child. “If you bring the previous holder back with the wish, it won't be an immediate revival. Whoever pays the price for the wish will spend the next six months slowly wasting away as the previous holder returns to life.”

 Jason feels sick because as much as he misses her like a lost limb, he doesn't want to subject her to the trauma of coming back to life and digging herself out of her own grave, like he did.

 The child hums. “Like a portable charger? Drain the power in one object to recharge the other object?”

 Huffing, the cat creature rolls in its eyes. “That's one way of putting it.”

 The child nods. “Do I get to choose who pays the price?”

 “No, the person who pays the price must be of equal value to the previous holder. For example, you couldn't pay the price because you're too young and don't use a power to achieve a goal.” The bug creature explains, shaking its head.

 The child frowns and puts the earrings and ring on. “Okay. Tikki Spots on. Tikki, Plagg, Unify.”

 The following flash of bright light temporarily blinds Jason.

 “Using the power of the Ladybug Miraculous of Creation and the Cat Miraculous of Destruction, I wish that...—”

 The world fades to darkness and silence before Jason can hear the rest of the wish.

-<◊>-

 It's the dawning of the wake, with its claggy skies above and claggier mud underfoot; rain splatters against the pavement in a constant solemn cadence. Rusted wrought iron railings are all that stands between him and his love.

 Jason treads slowly, shoulders hunched, gaze averted. He's walked this path before. Too many times, the others would claim. He bites his lip and blinks back tears. He follows the path to the marble gravestone, her gravestone.

 Falling to his knees upon the grave's soil, he lightly traces the stone's engravings with one finger, silently muttering along.

 When he runs out of words to trace, he closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the stone. Digging his hands into the grass and soil, he can't help but let out a hollow sob.

 The minutes ebb by as he slowly recomposes himself. The cold wet mud of the grave clings to him, both that and the rain chills him to the bone.

 He sighs, then swallows thickly. “Hey, Mari. I know missed visiting you last week, I'm sorry. I got caught in a bit of a scuffle in our—uh night job.” He quickly glances around incase anyone's nearby, but on such a dreary day like this, there's not another soul in sight. “I attempted to bake your signature macaroons last night. They turned out fairly well but they're shit in comparison to how you get them to turn out.” He chuckles hollowly.

 “Last night whilst out on the night job, I found a tiny blue kitten with the most piercing blue eyes ever. Kinda reminded me of you, so I kinda ended up adopting it. I think you both would get along like a house on fire if you met. I was going to bring her today, but well you can see what the weather's like. Don't really want to get the thing sick when it's like this.” Jason rambles idly, not really putting too much thought into what he's saying.

 He huffs and pauses for a second, “Actually speaking about last night, I had the fucking weirdest of dreams. And it wasn't just a weird pit nightmare like it usually is—”

 He's cut off as a swarm of black ladybirds converge around the cemetery. On autopilot, Jason stumbles to his feet and backs away from her grave, eyeing the swarm with calculative apprehension.

 As he does that, the swarm sweep over her grave before dissipating into the sky.

 Jason holds his breath, waiting to see what the ladybirds did.

 A minute passes in silence, and just as he's about to step closer, a muffled and sickening scream emanates from beneath the grave. Fragments of last night's dream rise to the forefront of Jason's mind. “Fuck!”

 He throws himself forwards and starts desperately digging into the mud with his hands. “Come on, come on, come on…” Each second passes as slow as molasses but eventually, the mud starts to gradually give way underneath him.

 A grasping hand breaches the surface and starts frantically clawing at the ground. A wave of nausea hits Jason like a brick wall. He hesitates for a split second before fixating on digging up the mud around the hand. With each scoop of mud dug away, the hole around the hand starts to widen and widen until a second hand breaches the surface. With increased desperation, Jason continues to dig and dig and dig.

 After another couple of minutes digging, the hole's big enough that Jason can see the coffin shards and ripped scraps of clothing among the mud. He grabs at the arms and pulls with everything he has but the resistance is nearly equal.

 Gritting his teeth, he continues to pull until the resistance against him suddenly weakens and he stumbles back, dragging the cor—body of Marinette out of the grave.

 Jason let's go of her after a second and drinks in the sight of her, alive and breathing. Under his breath, he whispers, “Mari…”

 Frankly, she looks awful. Skin pallid, eyes bloodshot and glassy, freckles faded, hair dull, hands bloody. Her clothes are ripped, muddied, and bloodied. Earthworms, as well as other underground creepy crawlies, fall off her.

 Her eyes manage to focus on him for a second but almost immediately after, her eyes roll back and she collapses, unconscious.

 Jason rushes forwards and grabs her, to stop her from hitting the ground. Dazed, he fumbles for his phone and calls Bruce. “Marinette's alive.” He immediately blurts out, “She fucking dug herself out the fucking grave and she's unconscious and injured.” It takes all his willpower not to choke on his words.

 “We'll ready the medbay. Tim will pick you, he'll be there in five.”

-<◊>-

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little oneshot! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

| @maribat-march2020 | | @vixen-uchiha |

#Miraculous Ladybug #Maribat #ML x DC #DC x MLB #Jasonette #JasMari #MariJay #MaribatMarch2020 #MaribatMarch Week 3 #MaribatMarch Day 17 #MaribatMarch Grave #Hold Your Wake Softly for the Dead Sleep Lightly #HYWSftDSL #Sham's Posts #Sham's Writing #Sham's Fics

[distant-rose-archive-blog]

I love your little pirates family!!! I feel like you skipped over Westley being born could we have a story about how wesley came to be :)

I felt like a shithead for having this sit so long in my askbox, so I decided to work on it while I was having some writer’s block with A Once and Future Thing. Anyway, not so much a Westley being born story so much as how we came to find out he exists and the process of his coming to be. Anyway, this is 5,200 words of Killian and Emma deciding to have another kid - our favorite troublemaking little pirate. I think I’m titling this one ‘Deliberate.’ As always, @welllpthisishappening is a goddess and will inherit the intellectual property of Little Pirates (if fanfiction qualifies as intellectual property that is) when I’m finally murdered by the Trump Administration. 

It had been a strange thing to Emma - the actual decision and act of deliberately trying to get pregnant. She had brought two sons into the world, but neither of them had been planned. Henry had been the result of teenage recklessness and a desperate need to feel connected to Neal while Harrison had been conceived in the aftermath of one of the most emotionally straining moments of her life. Emma didn’t regret giving birth to either of them, but it doesn’t change the fact that they were accidents; happy accidents but accidents nonetheless.

But this child…this one was planned.

When Harrison had been just born, a second child wasn’t even on the radar. It had been a traumatic birth and Emma regretted opting for natural birth over a caesarean; she had torn badly and Harrison had born with a broken collarbone. One baby and a teenager had been enough for the first few months.

Until Henry started asking questions.

“Are you and Hook going to have any more kids?” he asked one day over lunch.

Emma choked on her onion rings and had to thump her own chest to dislodge to clear her wind pipe. She reached for her napkin and wiped away the crumbs and excess saliva from her face, feeling a bit self-conscious.

“What?”

“You guys gonna have more kids?” Henry asked again, patiently.

Feeling uncomfortable, Emma looked down at her plate and tucked her hair behind her ear. No longer hungry, she inched her plate away from her and returned her attention to her son. Henry was leaned back against the vinyl booth and looking at her so intensely that she felt the need to shift in her seat under his gaze.

“What? Worried about having to deal with another screaming baby?” Emma tried to joke.

“More like worried that little Han Solo is gonna be lonely. Being an only child…it can be a little rough sometimes,” Henry replied, taking a bottle of ketchup and squeezing small pool on the edge of his plate. Henry was nearly as meticulous as Killian when it came to his food, making sure his condiments never touched his food without some deliberation.

“He’ll have Neal,” Emma reasoned.

“Neal is his uncle…it’s not the same…sure, they’re going to be roughly in the same age group, but there’s no guarantee that they’re even going to like each other. Look, Mom, I always wanted siblings and now I have one, but it feels weird…I’m just so much older than him and I feel like I’m going to be more of the uncle-figure than a big brother, you know?”

“Having another kid to make sure my other one isn’t lonely doesn’t sound like a good reason to have another kid, Henry…” Emma responded, feeling put on the spot.

“I know, I know,” Henry responded, taking a french fry and dipping it into the ketchup in such a tentative manner so that it didn’t break the perfect circle he created. “Just think about it.”

And she did think about it. It was hard to ignore. Wherever she looked, all she could see was little kids; a brother and a sister holding hands in the park, a young boy trying to help his little brother how to walk and even a little girl trying to share a sandwich with her infant sibling. She would go to the supermarket and all she could see was article headlines on children jumping out at her: “Thinking of Having a Second Child? Seven Reasons for Baby Number Two!”, “Nine Benefits to Siblings” and “The Best Time to Have Baby #2 (or #3!)”

She hated herself a bit for perusing through them while waiting in line to check out. They all said the same damn things; going on about how siblings tend to be less self-centered, better at socializing and problem-solving and had a built-in support system.

She was reading over an article entitled “The Benefits of Having More than One Child” when a high-pitched shriek sounded throughout the whole store. Emma looked up in time to see Aurora’s three-year old son Philip having a complete tantrum while sitting in his mother’s grocery cart. His face was scrunched and mottled red as he wailed and tossed boxes of food out of the cart.

“I WANT LOOPIES! I WANT LOOPIES! I WANT NOW!” he shrieked.

Emma cringed at the volume, suddenly grateful that Harrison was so easy-going. He grumbled a bit when he was hungry, but never he had gone into a full tantrum like that. The cashier, an elderly woman with hair pulled back into a severe bun, made a noise of disapproval.

“Okay, okay, okay!” Aurora responded, looking harassed as she picked up a box of Fruit Loops and placed them in the cart. “See? I got your Loopies? Happy?”

“She’s going to spoil that one,” the cashier commented. “Mark my words, that child is going to be the biggest brat Storybrooke has ever seen. It happens when you have an overindulgent mother and an only child. They grow up thinking the world is about them.”

Emma didn’t comment, just loaded her groceries onto the belt; her head was swimming with thousands of thoughts.

“Though you got a sweet one at home, don’t you?” the cashier asked. “A little boy, right? You usually come in with him. Your husband likes to bring him in too.”

“I have two,” Emma corrected. “I have a sixteen-year-old and a five-month-old baby.”

“That’s quite the age gap,” the woman responded.

Emma merely gave her a tight smile in reply.

It took her a week after the grocery store incident to approach her husband about it. They were laying in bed, both dressed in flannel pajamas to combat the chill of late September and watching “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown,” which was playing as a special on ABC. Emma personally thought it was too soon to be playing Halloween movies but Charlie Brown was too classic to pass up. Killian was tucked against her back, thumb rubbing patterns against her hip and more interested in nuzzling her hair than actually watching the cartoon.

“Hey, can we talk?” she asked, turning her head to look at him.

Killian’s entire body seemed to tense at her words.

“Love, almost every time those words are spoken, an unpleasant conversation follows…though you have surprised me a few times. Anyway, what’s on your mind?”

Emma took his hand in hers, running her fingers along the callouses that lined his palm. She played with his fingers for a moment, gathering her bearings. Killian, as per usual, waited for her to speak with unparalleled patience, but there was a noticeable furrow in his brow and a worried look in his eyes.

“Have you thought about having more kids?” she asked quietly.

“You know I have,” he answered in an equally hushed tone. He hesitated for a moment, studying her closely. “Swan, are you?”

“No,” she said firmly. “No. But I’ve just been thinking…Maybe?”

“Maybe,” he repeated. “What do you mean by maybe? You’ve actually been considering it?”

“You sounded surprised,” Emma commented, deflecting for a moment.

“Of course, I’m surprised. You weren’t necessarily happy about Harrison, love. I mean, I know you love him, but he didn’t have the most enthusiastic of beginnings…I just thought…I guess I just accepted that Harrison was going to be our one and only. I mean, aside from Henry.”

“Funny you mention Henry,” Emma replied, leaning back more against him and studying his hand still. “Because he was the one who kept harping on Harrison not being an only child.”

“He’s not an only child,” Killian asserted almost immediately. “He has Henry. He might be older, but they’re still brothers.”

“I know and Henry knows, but there is quite the age gap and Henry is going to be going away soon…They wouldn’t be raised together…I’ve just been thinking maybe a little brother or sister might be good…keep everyone grounded…”

Killian wrapped his blunted arm around Emma’s shoulders, pulling her closer to him, so that he could lean his head on top of hers. He joined her in studying their hands, his own breaking free from her hold so that he could intertwined their fingers.

“This is sounding like more than a maybe, Swan…”

“Well, it’s a hard maybe right now. I can’t be fully on board until I have your thoughts on the matter…”

Killian sighed heavily.

“Swan, I never imagined I would be someone’s father. I always thought Henry would be it and that was enough for me…and then Harrison came along and he was…well, he is perfect. And between you and me, I’ve wanted another since we brought him home, but I always felt the choice should always and firmly be yours…I am content with whatever you’ll give me, love. That’s my decision and that will always be my decision.”

“But you want another baby?” Emma asked, pushing for a definite answer.

“If that’s what you want, Swan.”

“No, Killian, don’t give me that. I want an honest to God answer. Do. You. Want. Another. Baby?”

Killian squeezed her hand hard and she briefly wondered if he was putting all of his strength between it. He brought their combined hands up to his lips and placed a delicate kiss on her knuckles.

“Aye,” he whispered against her skin. “I want another.”

Emma twisted in his arms, pulling her hand away from his so she could place it on his shoulders in order to press him further into the bed. In a movement that felt almost practiced, she slid her leg over his hip and pulled herself up so she could straddle him. Killian’s hand and bare wrist immediately went to her hips. She leaned over him, placing a delicate kiss first on his nose and then on his lips.

“That settles it then,” she murmured, one of her hands reaching up to frame his face. She rolled her hips against his and their faces were so close that she could feel his breath curl against her cheek as he groaned. “Let’s make another baby, babe.”

She scheduled an appointment with her doctor almost the next day to discuss this development. If her GP was surprised with her choice to have another child, she didn’t say anything. She did, however, recommend a variety of pre-natal vitamins and gave her some awkward pointers on things to do in order to bump up the chances of conceiving from diet tips to preferred sex positions for conception.

As if to further her commitment to having another child, she downloaded an app to track her fertility on her way to the pharmacy. Tom Clark gave her an inquisitive look when she bought three different types of prenatal supplements and a new thermometer, but said nothing when Emma met his stare with hard one of her own.

The doctor told her it might take them awhile to conceive again, but Emma was still disappointed when she wasn’t pregnant by December. Very little effort was put into her conceptions of her two boys that it felt reasonable to assume that it would be much easier now that they were actually trying.

If Killian was frustrated by their lack of progress as she was, he didn’t say. However, there was a near palpable desperation in their lovemaking. Sex between them had always been passionate and sometimes a little rough, but Killian’s level of intensity seemed to have amplified over the last of few months. He had always been a talker but since their decision to try for another, he had become less verbose and more…determined; as if he stared hard enough at where they were joined while they fucked, he could actually will conception to happen with his mind.

She didn’t have time to feel disappointed in January and February however. Storybrooke was hit with a series of snowstorms that put both Elsa and the Snow Queen to shame and it took forever to get the power to back on, only to have it knocked out again. Emma and Killian had to huddle poor Harrison between them at night in order to keep him warm. Even Henry had joined in occasionally, the four of them huddled on their king’s sized bed as a blizzard raged outside.

Early March came and with it, a sense of tiredness that seemed to sweep over her. She felt the need to sleep constantly and napped in the most bizarre of places. On top of that there was a sense of dizziness that came when she moved too quickly and a random but intense craving for Indian food and cucumber sandwiches. Emma was almost embarrassed how long it took her to realize the telling symptoms.

The plan was simple. She was going to take the test and if it was positive, she would tell her husband then they would hopefully have a round of celebratory sex before they booked an appointment for confirmation. They would keep it to themselves for more weeks to ensure no issues happened before informing her parents and then letting it be common knowledge. That was the plan and that seemed easy enough.

Except Emma should have known better.

Because plans never go as they’re supposed to.

It was seven in the morning on a Saturday that Emma was caught looking at pregnancy tests in Dark Star Pharmacy by her own mother, who apparently was shopping for children’s Tylenol. Emma’s kid brother had been brought down by a fever recently and Snow had been re-stocking their supply.

“Emma?” The sound of her mother’s voice made her freeze like a deer in headlights.

“Shit.”

Snow’s eyes jump between the Clearblue box in her daughter’s hands and her face, which was turning bright red. A wave of mortification and embarrassment washed over Emma, which made absolutely no sense because she was thirty-five years old, married, had kids already and had actually planned the possible bun in the oven. She just hadn’t told her parents about said planning.

“Emma,” Snow repeated again, this time there was a tone of urgency in her voice.

“Hi Mom,” she replied, attempting to plaster a convincing smile on her face.

“Emma…you are…?” Snow looked around the store for a moment before mouthing the word ‘pregnant.’

“Well, if I knew then I wouldn’t need one of these,” Emma remarked lightly, giving the box a rattle.

As if the situation couldn’t get more awkward, Leroy appeared almost out of nowhere and clapped a hand on Snow’s shoulder.

“Hey sister, if you have a moment, can I talk to you about…” Leroy trailed off when he saw Emma.

Emma closed her eyes and groaned audibly. She smacked her head against the display, causing a number of pregnancy tests to fall onto the floor. This was the exact opposite of what she had planned. When she pulled her head back, both her mother and Leroy were still looking at her, more particularly at the stupid box still in her hand.

“Are you”- “Stop talking,” Emma interrupted Leroy, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Don’t speak. You didn’t see anything. You didn’t hear anything. I will not have my husband find out from you of all people that I’m pregnant,” Emma hissed. “Do you understand me?”

Leroy paled, nodded quickly and turned right around. Emma merely placed her head and her hands, groaning again.

“That is a lost cause, isn’t?” Emma mumbled between her fingers.

“Afraid so,” Snow replied apologetically. “And I thought you didn’t know…”

“I don’t know, but I have a sneaking suspicion. All the regular suspects are rearing their ugly heads, you know?” Emma replied, rubbing at the growing bump on her forehead and wincing.

“And Killian doesn’t know?” Snow asked gently.

“Well, I didn’t mention it to him. I didn’t want to him getting his hopes up,” Emma sighed. “We’ve kinda been trying, actually.”

Snow nodded, looking a bit conflicted.

“I didn’t know you guys were even thinking about another child,” she said after a moment.

“We didn’t tell anyone…it’s not something you really share or something we felt comfortable sharing…We kinda just wanted to keep this to ourselves for a bit…”

Emma honestly didn’t know what else to say. She just shifted awkwardly, wishing the cheap orange carpet would just swallow her up.

“Do you want someone with you when to you take that?” Snow asked, gesturing to the box.

“Ummm…no…thank you, but no,” Emma replied, shaking her head. “I mean, I appreciate it, but I kinda wanted Killian to be the first person to know the news…though I’m pretty sure this cat is out of the bag.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m sure Leroy knows to be discreet about something like this,” Snow said, placing a comforting hand on her daughter’s arm.

Emma’s eyebrows rose almost comically at her mother’s statement and she fixed her with a look of disbelief.

“Yeah, I want to believe that, but I will when pigs sprout wings and start flying.”

It took only thirty minutes after leaving the pharmacy for people to come up and start offering their congratulations. Emma accepted them with a tight smile, mentally killing Leroy in her head. It wasn’t even official yet and the entire town probably knew. She was trying very hard not to be upset about it.

She stopped by Granny’s to pick up her daily hot chocolate…only to receive herbal tea instead. She didn’t even realize it until she brought the Styrofoam cup to her lips and tasted bitter instead of sweet. She placed down on the counter lot harder than she should have, causing some to splash over the lid.

“Granny, where’s my hot chocolate?” Emma demanded.

The older woman gave her a long look.

“Hot chocolate has caffeine in it,” she said pointedly. “Are you sure you should be drinking that in your condition?”

Emma’s eye twitched. She placed her hands on the counter and leaned forward a bit, staring her down. She was really not in the mood for this nonsense.

“I’m not sure what condition you’re referring to, but it would be much better if you gave me hot chocolate instead of this…nasty leaf juice,” Emma responded in a deadly calm voice.

“So, you don’t have a bun in the oven?” Granny asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What I’m saying is that Leroy’s guts are going to be garters when I find him,” Emma replied with a huff.

As soon as she convinced Granny to hand over her hot chocolate, Emma immediately headed home in hopes of doing some damage control; practically sprinting. She knew it was a long shot, but hopefully she could intercept Killian before he went to the grocery store. The last thing she needed was him finding out from someone else that she could possibly be pregnant. She suddenly wished that she hadn’t walked to the pharmacy; walking home from Granny’s is a thirty walk in comparison while driving only took ten minutes maximum. There was no telling what sort of damage the Storybrooke rumor mill could do in that period time.

However, all of her fear and anxiety was pushed aside when she arrived home and found two of the four most important men in her life playing in the living room. Bob the Builder was playing loudly in the background, but neither Killian nor Harrison were paying attention to it. Killian was holding up Harrison’s prized bear and shaking it gently while Harrison was watching it with rapt attention, cruising towards his father while holding onto the coffee table.

“Trying to get him to walk?” Emma asked, placing the plastic bag down on a nearby table as she regarded them.

“He’s going to do it soon, Swan,” Killian said, holding the teddy bear up higher. “I can feel it in my bones. He took a few little steps yesterday before he toppled over. He’s going to do it.”

“He’s only ten months, Killian,” Emma remarked, smiling nonetheless. “Neal was thirteen months when he starting walking so relax a bit.”

“That is exactly why our little lad is going to finally walk today,” Killian answered. “Gotta stick it to Uncle Neal, right, my boy?”

Harrison responded by putting his entire fist in his mouth and sucking on it.

“If you and Dad make Har and Neal hate each other with this stupid competition stuff, my mother will never forgive you,” Emma remarked.

“It’s all good fun,” Killian responded, giving her a small smirk. “Especially because we’re winning.”

Emma just smiled and shook her head, watching as Harrison inched his way towards his father and his special bear while still holding onto the coffee table for support. As he reached the edge of the table, he took one, two, three steps forward without assistance before toppling over. Harrison blinked in surprise and for a moment, Emma thought he was going to cry, but he only let out a small whimpering noise and held his arms up towards the bear.

Killian sighed and relented, giving the bear to their son. Harrison immediately trapped it in the circle of his arms, wiggled his entire body and made a pleased cooing noise before nibbling on the bear’s ear.

“So close, lad, so close…” Killian mumbled, raking his hand through his hair.

“Is that what you’ve been doing all morning? Walk training?” Emma asked, nodding her head towards Harrison.

“Actually no,” Killian replied, looking up at her. “We got grocery shopping done already, the little lad and me. We got back probably like ten minutes ago, so this is merely the beginning of training, as you say.”

Fuck. Emma’s smile wavered.

“Oh, how was shopping?” she asked, trying to keep nonchalant.

“Odd,” Killian frowned. “Swan, have we done something major recently because random strangers were offering some sort of congratulations. Did Henry get into some prestigious university and the two of you neglected to tell me?”

“No,” Emma sighed, cursing the entire town in her head for not minding their own business. “No, not that. I fucked up.”

Killian’s eyebrows rose at that. He picked up Harrison and shifted him so his head was cradled in Killian’s shoulder, prosthetic hand propping up his bottom. Harrison made a noise of displeasure and squirmed a bit. He didn’t like being held so much now that he was a bit more mobile, he constantly wanted to move.

“Oh? How did you ‘fuck up,’ Swan?” he asked lightly, bouncing their son a bit in his arms.

“I bought something that I should have bought across the town line and besides a few exits down the highway, but I’m a dumb ass and bought it from Dark Star’s and now something that I wanted to be between you and me is now the town’s entire business,” Emma replied, brushing her hair out of her face.

“And what exactly did you buy, Swan?” he asked gently, holding Harrison tightly as he got up and walked towards her.

Emma let out a heavy sigh before grabbing the plastic bag off the table and pulling out the sole item she had bought from the pharmacy. She held the box up and gave a small shake.

Killian’s eyes widened comically and his mouth opened briefly before he snapped it shut. Without saying a word, he turned and placed their son in his bounce chair. Harrison made a disgruntled noise, but his displeasure was quickly forgotten in favor of playing with the various buttons on the chair that lit up and made noises. Both Emma and Killian winced at the amount of noise it was making but it couldn’t be helped.

There was an almost wild look in Killian’s eyes when he returned to her side and he took the box out of her hands with trembling fingers. His eyes kept darting back and forth between the box, her face and her abdomen. He let out an almost disbelieving laugh.

“That was quicker than I expected,” he said breathlessly.

“What are you talking about? It’s been nearly six months since we said we would try,” Emma replied, feeling a bit defensive.

“Aye, it has, but did your practitioner say it might take a year before we might conceive again?” Killian asked.

He placed the box back down on the table and raked his hand through his hair.

“You think it’s too soon,” Emma frowned. A chill went down her spine. This conversation wasn’t going how she had expected it to.

“No, no, I’m just surprised, love,” Killian responded, placing a smoothing hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t even know why we’re getting so worked up about this, it’s not like we know if it’s actually true yet,” Emma mumbled.

“I’m assuming because you bought the test in the first place that your suspicions are rather high, love,” he replied, placing a kiss on her forehead.

He moved his hand from where it was placed on her forearm and slung it around her shoulder, pulling himself closer to her so that they were side-by-side. Emma shifted, leaning against him. Both turned their attention to their ten-month old toddler bouncing around in his toy chair, unaware of the profound discussion his parents were having.

“When do you want to do this?” Emma murmured, gesturing to the box.

“I believe that you’re captaining that particular ship, love,” Killian murmured, placing another kiss on her head.

Emma looked down at the box and bit her lip.

“Might as well as get it over with. The whole town is already buzzing about it,” she sighed.

“Hey…Don’t let that get to you,” Killian replied, squeezing her shoulders. “We can wait until whenever you feel comfortable with it.”

“No, no, no.” Emma shook her head. “Let’s just get this over with.”

She pushed him away briskly, picking the box up again. Her fingers curled so tightly around the box in her hands that the card box crumbled under them. Throwing her shoulders back, Emma began a brisk walk towards the bathroom but before she could get very far, Killian wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled her back.

“What’s going on, love?” Killian asked, thumb caressing her wrist.

“I just want to pee on the goddamn stick, Killian!” Emma snapped, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

“Aye and you can. After we talk. What’s going on? I thought you wanted another child. We have been trying for six months, love and you seemed so eager, and now you don’t seem happy at all. I just want to know what’s going on with you…Are you having second thoughts about the baby?”

“No! I’m not having second thoughts! I want this kid, Killian! I just wanted it to be between you and me! This is supposed be just ours and no one else’s. I just wanted it to be just ours for a while without anyone bugging us and bothering us and nosing around. And now everyone knows and I wasn’t ready for that, Killian. I wasn’t! It’s too early! What if something goes wrong? That would be horrible and everyone would know about it! It’s just too early and anything can happen and this is our personal business and no one else’s. I just feel robbed.”

Killian pulled her close, before releasing her wrist and wrapping his arms around her. His fingers drew mindless patterns into the small of her back. He rested his chin on top on top of her head.

“What happened isn’t ideal…but it’s going to be okay. The news is out sooner than we would like, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. Regardless of anyone is saying or thinking, this is ours. This is our family and the only people that matter are in this room, your parents and Henry. No else, just us, love.”

Emma opened her mouth to speak, but Harrison let out a loud squeal. Emma and Killian turned to watch their son bounce around in his chair, waving his little arms in the air. He looked so happy and carefree, completely unaware of the heavy emotions going on around him. They couldn’t help but laugh.

“We should really find out if he’s actually a big brother,” Emma mumbled, burying her head in the crook of Killian’s neck as he continued rub circles into her back.

“But we’re pretty certain, aren’t we Swan?”

“I’m about eighty-five percent positive I am, but we won’t know until I see a doctor but pee sticks are generally pretty accurate,” Emma said with a sigh.

“I’m pretty sure ‘pee stick’ is not the accurate term for it, love,” Killian chuckled.

“Whatever, that’s what they are,” Emma replied, good-naturedly rolling her eyes.

She pulled away from him gently, kissing his cheek.

“Okay, I’m going to do this,” she said, holding up the crumbled box and once more heading towards the bathroom.

Killian followed and he moved to enter the bathroom, Emma stopped him. She gave him an incredulous look.

“What are you doing?” she asked him, raising her eyebrows.

“I thought we were doing the test,” Killian replied.

“Killian, I love you. You’re wonderful. You’re a great husband and you’re the world’s best father, but babe, the world will end before I’m comfortable with having you watch me pee. Boundaries, babe, boundaries,” Emma replied, placing her hands on her hips.

“I’ve seen you give birth, love, during which you defecated yourself. I fail to see the difference between that and this,” Killian replied, raising his own eyebrows.

“The difference is that I was pushing a ten-pound human out of my vagina and I didn’t have time to feel embarrassed,” Emma replied in matter of fact tone. “Go play with our son and I will be done in three minutes, okay?”

Killian put his hands up in surrender.

“As you wish,” he said, backing away.

“Thanks Westley,” she called as she closed the door.

“You’re welcome, Buttercup.” Emma heard his muffled laugh through the door. She let out a chuckle herself, glad she had finally introduced her favorite film to him awhile back.

Three minutes.

All it took was three minutes for Emma Swan to be an emotional mess. She already knew, but she still gasped when she saw the word ‘pregnant’ on the digital monitor. She let out a shaky laugh, running her hands through her hair as she continued to stare it. She was going to have another kid.

Killian tentatively knocked on the door.

“Swan, everything okay in there?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was breathless. She felt a bit like an idiot for being so worked up over something they already certain was true.

Her husband gave her an expectant look when she finally emerged, bouncing Harrison in his arms.

“Well?” he asked.

Emma ignored him for the moment, reaching for their son and taking him into her arms and kissing his forehead.

“Hey baby,” she cooed. “You’re going to be a big brother.”

Killian left out a whooping noise before enveloping the two of them in his arms, sandwiching Harrison between them and placing kisses wherever he could.

“I love you,” he murmured. “All three of you.”

“We love you too.”

#captain swan #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #cs au #cs babies #little pirates #little pirates fic #my fic #my shit #deliberate #wes jones #harrison jones #asks #answered #anon #I somehow managed to make some fluffy somewhat angsty

[tigresjumeaux]

As per the request of @my-insanity-is-irrelevant​, here goes nothing. Not even gonna reblog the ask meme post bc I’m literally answering every question rip

1. What is you middle name? Marie. #basic 2. How old are you? 19. 3. When is your birthday? May 31.  4. What is your zodiac sign? Gemini. I’m actually two people and they’re both snakes.  5. What is your favorite color? I honestly don’t have one, they all have their perks. I do tend to favor cooler and darker colors tho 6. What’s your lucky number? 7 and 9, but odd numbers tend to treat me nicely in general.  7. Do you have any pets? Three! A Boxer named Buster, and two 14 y/o cats named Asheley and Nadia. Here’s hoping for many more in the future. :’) 8. Where are you from? Born in Seattle, raised in the greater St. Louis area, and going to school in Muncie, IN.  9. How tall are you? 5′6″ 10. What shoe size are you? 8 in American women’s size. 11. How many pairs of shoes do you own? Oh lord. Probably like 15 because I refuse to get rid of any, but I only wear like 4. 12. What was your last dream about? Roller coasters and an ex being nasty. DJ Khaled was there.  13. What talents do you have? I’m fairly good at reading people, and also drawing. I’m also a quick learner, if that counts as a talent? 14. Are you psychic in any way? I wish. I have a weird force of karma that seems to follow the people who have hurt me around, but that could be coincidence. I’ve helped check other people’s energies (as well as my own) before, but my knowledge is limited and I don’t think I have the sense of self to pursue that right now. 15. Favorite song? At no point in my life have I had just one, but “Fury” by Muse and “Love is Mystical” by the Cold War Kids are up there right now.  16. Favorite movie? Wonder Woman was so, so good, y’all. I also like  17. Who would be your ideal partner? daisy ridley right now, my standards are both really low and really high. Just...someone I get along with and who gives a rat’s ass?  18. Do you want children? I think I might, yeah. Depends on who I end up with, but I like the idea of making small humans and showing them how the world works. Teaching others has always helped me figure shit out, anyway.  19. Do you want a church wedding? nooooo thank you 20. Are you religious? Not in the sense that I participate in organized religion, but I do believe in aspects of many different religions. I’m particularly fond of reincarnation. 21. Have you ever been to the hospital? I had to have my chin stitched up when I was like, 3. And also I had my tonsils out at 10.  22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law? Nope, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.  23. Have you ever met any celebrities? I met Paramore the summer before my junior year, and I met Jensen, Jared, and Misha from SPN my senior year! 24. Baths or showers? Showers. 25. What color socks are you wearing? au naturale i’m barefoot bitches 26. Have you ever been famous? one time i did a drawing and it got 100 notes 27. Would you like to be a big celebrity? noooooo maybe C-list at most 28. What type of music do you like? I’ll listen to just about anything, but I lean towards alt rock, metal, punk, some indie if it isn’t too hippie-ish. 29. Have you ever been skinny dipping? nah 30. How many pillows do you sleep with? Like...7?  31. What position do you usually sleep in? On my stomach with my top half wrapped around a pillow or a blanket.  32. How big is your house? Two-story, four bedrooms. Parents raised three wild kiddos here 33. What do you typically have for breakfast? A smoothie or a sandwich when I’m actually up in time.  34. Have you ever fired a gun? No, but I’d like to at least try. 35. Have you ever tried archery? yes and i ain’t no katniss 36. Favorite clean word? Maverick (that’s one of many) 37. Favorite swear word? Fuck. it’s just so versatile 38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep? 60 hours or so 39. Do you have any scars? On my heels, chin, thighs, hips, and over my wristbones. I’m clumsy, have pets, and have self-harmed. 40. Have you ever had a secret admirer? An anon flirted w me on Tumblr but it was someone in my French class, lel. Wasn’t a secret for too long. 41. Are you a good liar? White lies, yes. Big lies, noooo. 42. Are you a good judge of character? Generally? 43. Can you do any other accents other than your own? Not a whole lot on my own, but I’ll pick up anything I hear regularly. 44. Do you have a strong accent? Not really? I just kinda talk and drop bits of different accents here and there. I don’t think I have that much of a St. Louis accent. 45. What is your favorite accent? I have a soft spot for slight Southern accents. Eastern European and Australian are also awesome.  46. What is your personality type? sad 47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing? A $120 jacket from Zumiez. It’s HUF brand but I bought it for the wolves on it tbh 48. Can you curl your tongue? Yes and it comes in handy w girlfriends 49. Are you an innie or an outie? Innie  50. Left or right handed? Right 51. Are you scared of spiders? I used to, but I’m getting better. They startle me but I’ve carried a wolf spider outside so 52. Favorite food? changes by the hour tbh tho chicken is always good 53. Favorite foreign food? Shepherd’s Pie.  54. Are you a clean or messy person? Clean, but disorganized. My room is cluttered but not like, dirty.  55. Most used phrase? "Oh my god.” 56. Most used word? like 57. How long does it take for you to get ready? depends. not usually over 45 minutes unless I’m getting Fancy.  58. Do you have much of an ego? Not really.  59. Do you suck or bite lollipops? Yes. 60. Do you talk to yourself? More than anyone else. 61. Do you sing to yourself? Yes, especially when I can’t hear my own voice. 62. Are you a good singer? N o 63. Biggest Fear? Forgetting and being forgotten. 64. Are you a gossip? drama that don’t involve me is the best drama 65. Best dramatic movie you’ve seen? Goodwill Hunting aaaaaa 66. Do you like long or short hair? On myself, defs long. I love pulling it back too much for short.  67. Can you name all 50 states of America? Yep! I 68. Favorite school subject? English. Also psychology.  69. Extrovert or Introvert? Extrovert with trust issues, abandonment issues, and that shuts down a lot. and also clinical depression 70. Have you ever been scuba diving? No, but I’ve been snorkeling! 71. What makes you nervous? Anything has the potential to make me nervous, tbh. But not knowing things is The Worst 72. Are you scared of the dark? Oh god yes 73. Do you correct people when they make mistakes? I do when it’s something small. Big mistakes are things you gotta figure out for yourself. 74. Are you ticklish? Less and less over time, tbh.  75. Have you ever started a rumor? Never on purpose. I’ve heard a few things I’ve said get distorted and spread but I try to Cut That Shit Out Quick 76. Have you ever been in a position of authority? I was a President of a few clubs in high school, captain of the swim team, and a manager for the track and cross country teams.  77. Have you ever drank underage? Whenever I can, tbh. Not even to get drunk, necessarily, it just tastes good 78. Have you ever done drugs? Only weed with a close friendo of mine. I also may have saved a few narcotics from my wisdom tooth removal for a rainy day 79. Who was your first real crush? My best friend in middle school. That was a doozy.  80. How many piercings do you have? I have doubles in my ears, so 4. I’d like triples and possibly a septum piercing.  81. Can you roll your Rs? Yep! Sometimes I do it by accident when speaking 82. How fast can you type? Not very tbh 83. How fast can you run? That depends on why I’m running. 84. What color is your hair? Dirty blonde. 85. What color are your eyes? Blue-gray. 86. What are you allergic to? Certain kinds of deodorant and also tumblr 87. Do you keep a journal? I mean I scribble down stream of consciousness shit when trying to Cope w things, but I don’t keep one regularly.  88. What do your parents do? Dad’s an engineer, mom’s the HR person for a whackass ad company w fun people 89. Do you like your age? I mean I’d rather be able to legally drink, but I’m a legal adult but it doesn’t feel Real yet so I guess it ain’t all bad 90. What makes you angry? When people are mean for literally no good reason. 91. Do you like your own name? it’s aiight. people trying to pronounce my last name is amusing 92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they? I like the name Oliver a lot for a guy? But really I guess it’d depend on my what my wife likes 93. Do you want a boy a girl for a child? dog 94. What are your strengths? I know people and can communicate pretty well, and I’m generally good at being pretty friendly. Also I can swim so if someone throws me in the water the joke is on them 95. What are your weaknesses? Can’t be left alone for long periods of time, relying on one person for everything, and ignoring myself and other friends, compulsive tendencies, and an overall obsessive personality. 96. How did you get your name? Named after my dad’s grandma, iirc. Except Claire instead of Clara.  97. Were your ancestors royalty? I’m sure someone was idk 98. Do you have any scars? didn’t I answer this already 99. Color of your bedspread? Black and white at home, orange and purple in my dorm. 100. Color of your room? Very dark forest green. I like it lots.

#tigres talks to people #shoosh claire #ask meme #my-insanity-is-irrelevant #long post

[briarofthebush]

I’m in my favourite place for a casual coffee and snack in my local area. I live in a pretty commercial corner of the town, which boasts about 5 Starbucks and one cosy café, one old-school diner, several other franchised café/eateries such as ‘Chipotle’, ‘Panda Express’, ‘Red Robin’ and ‘Subway’ just to name a few. When I can, I love an excuse to take me out of this highly commercial area so I can enjoy a good coffee, and a good vibe in an independent business. My local café is often too dark, the food is pretty ordinary, and the noise unworkable. There is no nice vibe, in fact it feels hostile at times.

Here, where I am this morning, up the road a bit, away from the shopping district, there is the smell of coffee and good, smoky bacon. There are always a lot of relaxed people around, many in my own demographic, as well as younger and older. Lots of dog owners (though they keep dogs outside). People play with their kids (or ignore them) on a big rug at the back. Many people have become familiar faces to me. There is light. The coffee is excellent. The food is usually delicious. They make coconut bread and a maple and bacon muffin which is awesome. I meet here to ‘write’ every Friday morning, though sometimes it’s purely a social gathering. Oh, and they know my name now, when I order stuff!

This place sits up on Roosevelt Rd, along with a few pubs and another couple of restaurants, amongst other small businesses in Mapleleaf. I love this part of town. It is a very steep 15 minute walk up through the suburb from my place, or it’s a short bus ride.

I can get a really good fresh croissant here, or a breakfast sandwich on an English muffin or a Bagel. There are lots of cakes and quiches to choose from. There is a range of great looking sandwiches that they will make fresh, including the BBQ pork, the Cuban, Turkey, cream cheese and cranberry, Tuna salad, Mediterranean roasted veges, (though I’ve yet to try one).  I often get a croissant with ham and cheddar, which is chockers with good ham, unlike in Australia, where the meat portion on a sandwich is distinctly light-on. (I really think there is no excuse for skimping on the meat in a sandwich, because they are incredibly expensive, for that tiny sliver of turkey or beef or pork they give you at home.) Let the Americans take credit for knowing how to put together a good sandwich.

Although don’t get me started on the bread. AS we speak, I am stocking up on par-baked and bakery reads in my freezer, because there is no such thing as a corner bakery for miles or a milk bar where can grab a loaf on my way home from places, and I live a good walk from the supermarket. I have tried several of the packaged brands of bread, the white, the whole-wheat, the grainy, and they all stick to the roof of our mouths. They have so much sugar in them. They feel wrong, they taste wrong. Only the Italian style or Sour dough breads are less sugary. The good bakery breads are excellent, but as I said, I have to get to a supermarket that is out of my way when I’m in transit, so I make special ‘bread shopping’ trips to stock up. If I had a bigger kitchen, I would make my own.

I love to buy a sandwich at QFC, an upmarket grocery where I can also get a hot sandwich from the deli counter on my way out, and savour it’s deliciousness on the way home as a reward for walking up to the supermarket along the noisy, smelly road. They give them names like ‘The Rainier’ or ‘The Snohomish’, and pack them full of really nice cheese, pestos, relishes, mustards and Boars Head Cured meats. I always feel like a bit of criminal for ordering one, but it is so worth it to get one. And always get it cut in half so it can be stretched to 2 meals, or shared.  One day Johnny and I greedily thought we could eat more than a ½ roll each, and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich as well to share on our way home. We were really hungry and it was a very cold and grey day. We walked past the old homeless guy on his wheelie-walker on our way in, and the minute we saw him again on our way out we knew we had to give the grilled cheese to him.  I will one day be greedy enough to order one for myself.

These are but a few memorable foody experiences I have had here in Seattle, in USA generally. I wish I could say I’ve had many more, but I really did know what I was in for, moving here. I knew it could be a challenge, to be able to eat what I was used to here. I knew the food would, at the very least, look different, and possibly taste differently. I have been really fortunate to fall in with foody types, who have travelled, and have shaken loose their need to have every little thing BBQed, covered in buffalo sauce and bleu cheese and other indiscriminate flavourings, or in a burger… people who ‘get’ food, and care where it comes from, and that it is different the world over.  We’ve been taken to a place that does oysters and raw food, which is possibly the best place in town, we’ve had amazingly cooked Central American food at a gaudy old garage painted up to be a festive cantina- served Mojitos with plantain chips and moles to die for. We’ve had beautifully cooked Bistec et frites in a French restaurant, crab dips, lobster rolls, Aussie style pies, authentic Mexican food, Indian food, Korean banquet, Yum Cha and Southern style food truck delights. We had Caribbean style jerk cooked food in beautiful sandwiches, in another converted garage. (This up-cycling of mechanic workshops into restaurants is to be commended).  We were fed a delicious crab and lobster filled ravioli- lasagne at Christmas. We have had fresh filled dumplings cooked for us, pork ribs and roasted chickens and lamb chops cooked for us by our friends in their homes. Beautiful, fresh and nutritious food.

We’ve have tried Southern fried chicken in a few places, and I can’t fault it anywhere. It is always delicious. All I know is, I should never really have it.

All the same, as much as Seattle is fast becoming a foody destination, (according to word on the ‘street’), the idea where a café is a more casual place where there is restaurant style great food available has not quite caught on. Not in the suburbs, at least. People still expect and receive the over-sized sandwiches, huge plates of diced potato and bacon with everything, hot or BBQ sauce with everything, and there seems to be an expectation for people’s plates to be loaded up with no space left. Loaded up to the roof in some cases. Lunch is often a 3 courses on an order affair, with soup, salad, chips to go with your sandwich, panini, burger or bagel. You feel weird just ordering a sandwich. But I quite like the ½ sandwich +soup options in some places. (You don’t have to be a pig). You are often expected to order at the counter and bus your own dishes. As nice as the staff are at the counter, they don’t often clean up after you. Everyone knows where to put their dirty dishes. Salads are often very much a chopped up bowl of everything in a bowl. I have seen maybe two carefully arranged salads on a plate in 20 months.

Breakfast, on the other hand, is a FULL plate of stuff, and often a pancake to go with it. The American breakfast is seemingly a tradition that will never budge, especially since people in the west will now eat biscuits and gravy, fried chicken and waffles, and even pulled meat on their eggs Bene, (which often is smothered in béchamel and not hollandaise). The Avocado Smash phenomenon and the Shakshuka are happening, but only in those very trendy cafes where people line up out the door, such as you see on Portlandia. The best option if you don’t want to walk out feeling like you’ve done something really dirty and need to go and take a long shower and hit the gym all afternoon, is to have a breakfast bagel or croissant. Which is what I do here quite often. They don’t actually do big plates of food here, just sandwiches, quiches and cakes. Beautiful cakes, wholesome and generously full of fruit or nuts. Their coconut bread is to die for.

Today I am going to do something different for me, and order pie (fruit, probably berry), only I didn’t see any pies in the display case at the counter. But I do know that, unlike at home where you feel very strange and humiliated to ask for things you cannot see, I know I can ask here and they will probably want to give me along and well explained story about the display case being broken or the pie oven being broken or the berry supplier being on strike. And then we’ll probably get talking about my accent and about someone’s sister who went to Adelaide or somewhere. It will be pleasant and not humiliating. And then I’ll order something else.

When I leave here I will probably hit QFC and grab some good bread and maybe even a sandwich for Johnny and I to share for lunch. If we go to the pub later it will mean a fairly naughty food option. Happy Hour Food is often quite calorie heavy. Cheese balls, Fried curds with a delicious raspberry sauce, Fries, pulled pork potato skins, pizettes, nachos, burgers, sliders, buffalo wings are some of the things you might find on the menu. One of our 2 locals has much more fresh fare, (woodfired pizzas and salads for example) and the other has much more traditionally prepared, aka fried food. Unfortunately the one with the cheap Mug Club beer is the one with all the greasy options. My favourite item on their menu is a raw tuna Poke ‘nachos’ on fried wonton skins, with mashed avocado, jalapeno slices, spring onion and a teriyaki dressing. It is really delicious, but doesn’t seem to line my stomach for the ensuing pints of beer well enough, unfortunately. It has taken months of experimentation to figure out the best ‘drink friendly’ foods to begin a night on, and to work out that a starter snack of something small but stodgy then another later on after a couple of drinks, then maybe a THIRD night cap (small) supper is possibly the best way for me to cope with 3-4 (or more) pints. It can get pretty washing machine-like in my tum at times.

(I’d better poke in a disclaimer here: while I am not on a strict calorie controlled diet, I am actively trying to NOT put on MORE weight before I return home to the land of salad days). A heavy meal when drinking is just stupid. Dessert is ridiculous. No-one needs that much food! Well I don’t. I don’t move enough.  And then, if brunch is on for the next day, well that is just really asking for more lard to deposit itself on my rear…

I’ve actually decided against the pie. The shared monster sandwich Johnny and I will have will be quite enough food for the rest of the day.

Until ‘happy hour’.

Take Me Home, Country Loaf I’m in my favourite place for a casual coffee and snack in my local area. I live in a pretty commercial corner of the town, which boasts about 5 Starbucks and one cosy café, one old-school diner, several other franchised café/eateries such as ‘Chipotle’, ‘Panda Express’, ‘Red Robin’ and ‘Subway’ just to name a few.