thejollyroger-writer - Tumblr blog

thejollyroger-writer · 1 year

Text

These Are the Risks - Chapter 3

SUMMARY: Special Agent Emma Swan has been working with her partner, world-renowned forensic anthropologist Killian Jones, for just under five years. Together, they have solved hundreds of murders, brought criminals to justice, and found a family in their coworkers at the Hyperion Research Institute. Their newest case sends them to the small town of Storybrooke, Maine, where they must go undercover as newlyweds in hopes of solving the eerie, unexplainable recent deaths. When they find something that science cannot explain, they only put themselves in more danger, and a final situation that makes them face the feelings they’ve been hiding since day one.

A/N: Welcome back to my 2021 Captain Swan Supernatural Summer entry! It’s a combination of a BONES au (with Killian as Bones) and supernatural dark magic – I hope you enjoy it! Special thanks to @eastwesthomeisbest for her AMAZING art, the other mods at @cssns for making this event happen, David Boreanaz for being one of the nicest humans, and my faithful readers. (If you’re not on my tag list and you would like to be, please let me know!) Yes, okay, I know it’s taken me a whole year to get here. Life happened – and believe me, no one is more upset than I am about the time it took to get here. Anyway, here’s chapter 2!

Read/reread chapter one here / on AO3

Read chapter 2 on AO3 / tumblr

Read ch 3 on AO3

"Ruby," Graham breathes, then takes off through the forest. A silent beat passes, Emma and Killian sharing a glance.

Killian shrugs.

Emma takes a small breath, her shoulders rising and falling, and then she takes off, dipping between the trees. For a moment — but no longer than a moment — she wonders if leaving Killian with the body was a terrible idea. And then she half-trips over a branch and catches herself, losing the thought with her footing.

"Graham?" she calls, cresting the hill, but calling out isn't necessary. She sees him right away, the crisp white of his dress shirt standing out against the dark colors of the forest. And there with him, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, is Ruby, still sobbing. Beside them, an older woman with a head of white curly hair stands with her arms crossed, the shake of her head visible to Emma even from yards away.

"Goodness, Ruby, all of this crying is unnecessary. It's not like I'm dead."

"But you could have been! You've been missing for days, no word from you, nothing!"

"So why are you so upset?"

"I'm not upset, Granny. I'm thrilled."

Ruby slips out of Graham's arms to smother this woman — Granny — with a hug. Now that she is only a few steps away, Emma sees the roll of Granny's eyes — but also sees the smile that the woman allows to appear for only a moment.

Her glare when she notices Emma for the first time, though, is something that she does not even try to hide. "And who the hell are you?"

Emma is more than used to being talked to in this manner, but hearing the words come out of the older woman's mouth take her aback, if only for a moment. But that is long enough for Ruby to supply an answer.

"Granny, this is Emma! She and her husband are here on their honeymoon, they know Graham."

She hums, like she can see right through Ruby's lie, narrowing her eyes at Emma. "And where is your husband?"

Emma gestures towards the top of the hill, the direction she came from. "I left him up there, he was looking at the—" She stops herself from saying dead body. "View.'

Granny still doesn't believe her, she can sense it with her whole body, but she thankfully drops it.

"Well, let's get back to my restaurant. I'm sure you've taken very good care of it while I've been gone."

"Actually, Mrs. Lucas, if you don't mind, I would like to ask you some questions about where you've been." Emma is thankful for Graham at this moment, asking the question that she so desperately wants the answer to. But the daggers she shoots Graham through a half-lidded glare are sharp enough that Emma feels them in her chest.

"I'm not going to give you answers you're satisfied with, so you might as well just drop it."

Emma watches his mouth open, the words caught in his throat, but he says nothing. Instead, he nods at her.

"Yes, ma'am," he says.

Satisfied with his response, she turns away, taking off through the woods in the direction of the town.

"Would you like a ride, Mrs. Lucas?"

She grumbles something, not even turning around, and continues through the trees, Ruby half a step behind her.

For a moment, the only sound around them is broken sticks and fallen leaves under Ruby and Mrs. Lucas' feet. Once the sound subsides, the silence that sits between them is almost deafening.

Emma so desperately needs to break the silence, something about the silence of the forest seeping deeper into her bones with each passing moment. There is something eerie about these woods, something that Killian would try to explain with science and logic, but she somehow knows that no such explanation exists.

"So that's Mrs. Lucas." She remembers a little from the thorough packet of information Graham sent them, plus the bits and pieces she has picked up since then. Beverly Lucas, owner of Granny's diner, has certainly been around long enough to know the darkest secrets of Storybrooke. Whatever is going on here, Granny at least knows something, Emma is sure of it. But getting the old woman to tell what she knows is not going to be easy, especially given how she responded to Graham trying to question her.

Graham just laughs in response. "Yeah, that's Granny."

"She knows something."

"She knows everything."

"She's been missing for, what, six days? That doesn't just happen. Whatever is going on here, she's either in on it or knows about it."

"I have no doubt you're right, Agent Swan, but it's going to take more than a gut feeling to get Granny to talk."

"And you're okay with that?"

"You really don't know much about small towns, do you?" He chuckles softly but doesn't give her a chance to respond. “We should go find your husband — uh, partner, and my mortician before there's another murder on our hands."

She knows he is trying to be funny, but the idea of another death in this small town, a place already so affected by loss, sends a shiver down her spine that has nothing to do with the breeze coming through the trees.

Thankfully, Killian and Dr. Whale seem to have taken to silence over arguing, but she can tell from the look on Killian’s face, from his posture as he sits on a nearby rock, that he is none too happy about this development. When his eyes met Emma's, the incredulity on his face grows, dark eyebrows raising farther up his creased forehead,

Emma just smiles, moving to sit beside him on his chosen rock.

"Any news, Victor?" Graham asks, standing behind the man as he continues his examination of the body and the scene around it.

Victor doesn't even look up from the body. “I’m not going to call it for sure until we get a blood test done, but I am fairly certain this is Isaac Heller. Hard to tell with the exsanguination and mummification, but as far as I can remember, he’s the only one that’s missing that fits this body type.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, I mean, he’s frozen. And not even trying to thaw, which is, of course, incredibly odd.” Nothing in Dr. Whale’s voice makes it sound odd, though; his voice is a steady monotone, an accent that Emma cannot quite place.

She doesn’t like him. She can’t say what it is, but there is something about the doctor’s countenance that tips her off just a little.

With a small smile, she sits down beside Killian on his rock. Playing his part, he wraps his arm around her, moves his lips close to her ear, but instead of pressing a kiss against her cheek, he whispers, “There was a weapon, which seemed to throw the doctor off.”

Not sure what to do with this information, she turns her attention back to Dr. Whale, turning the body back onto its stomach as it was found.

“How are we getting him out of here, sheriff?”

“Do you not think a regular gurney will work?”

“Of course it’ll work, but how do we push it through the forest?”

“You carry it,” Killian says, needing to be a part of the conversation — plus, it's the obvious answer. “Not a gurney you can roll, but one you carry like a pall.”

Both Graham and Dr. Whale turn their eyes towards him, Graham already trying to figure out how he is going to explain this knowledge and Whale’s eyes burning with anger.

“You expect me to help carry a mummified, frozen body out of these woods?”

“Why wouldn’t you help? It’s part of your job as a coroner.”

“How do you know anything about my job here, Mr. Jones?”

Doctor. Emma can feel the words catch behind his teeth, begging to correct Dr. Whale, but with a flex of his jaw, he stays silent.

“There is nothing to argue about, gentlemen,” Graham says, trying his hardest to diffuse the situation.

Killian is absolutely right, of course: once the coroner’s van manages to get as close as it can via an access road, the only option left is for four of them to carry the gurney between them, moving slowly and together to avoid tripping on roots or otherwise harming the body. They only have to move it a few hundred feet, but it’s rough, rocky terrain.

Sweat drips from Killian’s brow and through Graham’s dress shirt by the time they reach the van, and the other two young men helping haul the gurney are just as exhausted.

It's easy enough to convince Dr. Whale to let Emma and Killian follow them to the small morgue: they came to the woods with Graham and would otherwise be stranded. Emma can tell he isn't thrilled by it, though; in fact, he barely tries to hide his displeasure with their presence.

"Why did you say you're in Storybrooke again?" he asks, pointing his camera at a wound on the body's left arm.

"We're here for our honeymoon!" Emma replies, trying to sound as upbeat as possible, but it just draws a raised eyebrow from Whale.

"Don't see many people attending autopsies when they're supposed to be celebrating their marriage."

She's sure they're a sight: Whale in his scrubs and apron, slowly photographing the body as it sits, still frozen, on the table in the middle of the room; Emma and Graham seated by the counter on the only two chairs in the room, each with their own notebook on their lap; and Killian, standing on the opposite side of the gurney as Whale, watching his actions like a hawk, all while pretending not to be engrossed. His hands are clasped behind his back, a too-small white apron tied over his torso, and Emma is certain that there is not an action done by Whale that Killian will not be able to describe in full later that evening.

His attention to detail has always been astounding to her, especially watching the specific way he combs through a crime scene or senses the smallest change in someone's countenance. She could spend hours watching him work, the sleeves of his sweaters pushed up to his elbows, bright eyes collecting every piece of what is happening around him. It is the same attention that she has seen him pay to numerous autopsies during their time together, but this is the first she can remember that he is paying just as much attention to the man performing it than to the body itself.

"I have always been a thanatologist," Killian replies, taking slow steps around the table that mirror Whale's, always keeping as much of the body as possible between them. "A passion like mine does not disappear just because I'm celebrating."

Whale looks up, narrowing his eyes at Killian through his glasses. "What the hell is a thanatologist?"

Killian chuckles, finally raising his eyes to meet the doctor's. "I study death in all forms. Historically, medically, forensically."

They're getting awfully close to revealing what Killian actually does, which Emma wants to avoid at all costs — but Whale just laughs.

"No wonder you think you know more than I do about all of this. I am so far out of my league here, it's not even funny. I was never trained for death, I went to school for pediatrics. But here I am, doctor, surgeon, and mortician in this town."

"Have you always lived in Storybrooke?" Emma asks, hoping to veer away from the subject, and Whale turns to face her.

For a moment, he seems angry about her question, but then his face softens. "No, I moved here as an intern in medical school. The hospital is small enough that they only take two or three, and I was one of the lucky ones. Then something kept drawing me further in and it was almost like I couldn't leave."

"Do you have family around here?" All basic questions, but all helping Emma get a better idea of who Whale really is.

His face darkens again. "I had a brother, but I lost him a few years ago."

"I'm sorry," Emma says. And she is. Even though she has never really had a family, she has grown close to some people that she cannot imagine living her life without: David and Mary and Belle — and Killian, though her feelings about him are much more complicated.

"Yes, well," he mumbles, then turns back to the body. For a few minutes, the room is silent, save the sounds of Whale working: the scraping of his shoes against the linoleum floor, a small metal crash every time he sets the camera down on the steel table. Graham begins to flip through the crime scene photos, newly printed from the computer behind them, and Emma glances over his shoulder at them, taking notes on the pad she keeps in her jacket.

Finally, Whale clears his throat, untying the apron around his waist. "I won't be able to perform an autopsy on the body in this state. It needs some time to thaw, so I'll just keep it here — locked up, of course — and come back this evening."

If he wasn't sure the body was frozen solid, Killian would have found this decision suspicious; but after watching Whale attempt multiple instruments and fail to break skin with any one of them, he agrees that he would have come to the same decision. As much as he would prefer to be present for this autopsy — especially after seeing the pictures from the others — there would be no feasible reason for them to return that evening without blowing their cover.

So, instead of pushing, Killian nods his head, grabbing his jacket off a hook by the rear door, then wrapping his hand around Emma's as they exit the basement morgue, all the while hoping that this man can prove useful enough to provide some helpful information for their investigation.

“You’re here late,” David says, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible. If he hadn’t known she was still here, he never would have noticed the single desk lamp in their workroom shining over the desk furthest from the corner. Despite his attempt to be quiet, Mary Margaret still jumps, the book in her hands almost falling on the floor. David can’t help but chuckle. “Sorry, I was trying not to scare you.”

The hand pressed to her chest just proves that he didn’t succeed. “There’s something eerie about being here once the sun goes down,” she replies, closing her book and setting it on the desk in front of her. “You’re one to talk, though, you don’t even work here. What brings you here past sundown?”

“I had a meeting with Rob, a short video chat with Emma and Jones, and then we just got caught talking about—” He literally has to bite his tongue to keep from telling the truth: they were talking about her, his plans to propose, ask her to move in with him. “Some things.”

“Have you eaten yet?” she asks, either missing his almost-trip-up or choosing to ignore it as he crosses the room to stand beside her desk.

He smiles. “Lucky for you, I was waiting for my overworked girlfriend to call me.”

“Great,” she mumbles, letting him help her to her feet before turning off the light above the desk, the only light in the room spilling in from the hallway.

They share a quiet moment, a soft kiss before Mary presses her cheek to David’s chest. And that’s when they hear it: shoes against the linoleum of the hallway floors, the very sound that Mary Margaret failed to hear as David approached.

And a voice.

“Yes, they said they’d be sending my resume to Dr. Jones today, but I have the position already.”

“Who do you think—” Mary Margaret starts, but David puts his finger to his lips, shushing her.

He needs to hear this.

“I signed the paperwork this afternoon then spent some time acclimating myself to the space, just like you suggested.”

David recognizes the voice vaguely but he can’t place it. Thankfully, between the lack of light in the workroom and the lights in the hallway, they can see perfectly through the window-wall without fear that the owner of the voice can see them.

“Yes, as long as it doesn’t happen for a few days, I can intercept the package when it arrives from Storybrooke.”

Mary Margaret gasps. She’s read the case files — the smaller, condensed version that Robin put together for the team.

David stares down at her, eyes wide. She pinches her lips shut, pressing her face into his shirt again.

He recognizes him through the window. Devin Skyler, the newest intern. He has to tell Robin, once they’re not hiding in the shadows. Devin Skyler is working with someone — they just have to learn who.

He's been here before, Killian realizes, looking around him. Recently. He can't wrap his head around what day it is, nonetheless how long it has been since he was last in these woods, but they have a sense of urgent familiarity that he cannot shake.

He puts his hand out ahead of him, as if something were going to stop him from entering the clearing just on the other side of the tree line. With his hand still ahead of him, he takes a step towards the clearing, then another — but stops in his tracks when he focuses on a movement beyond the trees.

His father. That's impossible, he knows. Because even if the man were still alive — which he doubts — there is no way he would ever come here.

Storybrooke. That's where he is.

Lowering his hand, he slowly moves his foot to take a step back, but freezes when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Where are you going?" the voice asks — a voice that he recognizes immediately. Another that he knows to be only a ghost. Seven impossible things, a small voice in the back of his mind mutters, remembering a line from a book his mother used to read them.

His mind is full of ghosts today.

“What is he doing here?” Killian asks, ignoring the fact that he knows the man he is speaking to is dead.

“I don’t have the answers, little brother,” Liam answers, his voice echoing in the forest in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

“Come here, boys,” his father calls, and he turns away from Liam to glance at his father. But when he turns back, Liam is a boy again, younger than when they left England. Killian somehow knows that he, too, is also a boy.

“We can’t.” Killian finally remembers his last experience in this forest, but Brennan smiles and holds out his hand.

“You can now,” he says, and Killian somehow knows he is right. He looks down at the ground as he steps through the tree line and notices a dark line on the ground, his whole body shuddering as he steps over it.

“What was that?” Killian breathes, simultaneously excited and terrified.

Liam is the one who answers: “Magic.”

Killian shakes his head. “There’s no such thing as magic.”

“What if you’re wrong?” a voice — a female voice that he knows he recognizes — whispers in the back of his mind.

“I’m not wrong,” he insists, and feels himself growing, feels the years pass as he crosses the clearing to Brennan, who holds out his hands to embrace his son, except they’re stained with blood.

No, they’re dripping blood.

“What if you’re wrong?” the female voice asks again, and he feels pulled away from Brennan, like he should turn and run.

“The rarest kind of magic.” This time, it’s his father who speaks, his words having the same eerie echo that Liam’s had before as he reaches out to take Killian’s hand. “You know this, son. Why are you running from it?”

“No!” he yells, pulling his arm out of his father’s grip, though he loses his footing and falls to the ground.

Keeps falling.

And jumps awake, sitting up in bed with a gasping breath, trying to pull himself together.

Storybrooke. Mummified bodies. Science. All things he can understand, all things with explanations that he and his interns will find through their inquisition.

“Jones?” Emma asks, looking up from her cell phone from where she is sitting in the corner of their room. “Are you okay?”

He nods, running his hand over his face. It was just a dream. Just the first dream he has had about his father for years, though every part of it felt so familiar. “Just a bloody weird dream,” he mutters — then shudders at his word choice, remembering the blood dripping from his father’s hands. “Just a dream,” he says again, this time only to himself, as he pulls himself out of bed.

#these are the risks #cssns #cssns 21 #captain swan #captain swan supernatural summer #bones au

25 notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

These Are the Risks - Chapter 2

A/N: Welcome back to my 2021 Captain Swan Supernatural Summer entry! It’s a combination of a BONES au (with Killian as Bones) and supernatural dark magic – I hope you enjoy it! Special thanks to @eastwesthomeisbest for her AMAZING art, the other mods at @cssns for making this event happen, David Boreanaz for being one of the nicest humans, and my faithful readers. (If you’re not on my tag list and you would like to be, please let me know!) Yes, okay, I know it’s taken me a whole year to get here. Life happened -- and believe me, no one is more upset than I am about the time it took to get here. Anyway, here’s chapter 2!

Read/reread part one here / on AO3

Read part 2 on AO3

-- -- -- --

“We have to tell Graham,” Emma mumbles, leaning across the table at the diner. It’s much less crowded than their last meal, so even with their half-whispered words, Emma fears someone overhearing them.

God, she hates small towns.

“We don’t have to tell anyone,” Killian replies as he reaches out to cover her hand with his own. “Not until we can explain what happened last night.”

“That’s exactly why we should share it with him.”

“You’re making less sense than usual, Swan.”

Shaking her head, she leans forward on her elbows, gripping her cup of coffee in her free hand. “No, that’s exactly it. He lives in this town. He knows it better than either of us, so he may have a… reasonable explanation for what happened to us.”

“If you just give me some more time, I’ll find your reasonable explanation.”

“Then what was it? Voodoo? Dark—”

“Voodoo is a historically accepted religion. It relies mostly on ancestor worship and though the darker parts of the practice could provide the beginnings of an explanation for us, we’re much too far away from where it is traditionally practiced for me to believe it has anything to do with what has been happening here.”

“Fine, tell me some of your ideas.”

“Well, we could have reached an electromagnetic barrier and been knocked out and taken back to our room at the bed and breakfast by a first responder or someone who happened across us in the forest.”

“Or?”

“A shared dream, perhaps. That’s not out of the question. We are both jetlagged from our quick journey here, though we remain in our home time zone. We stayed out late last night and were up this morning, it all could have been a dream.”

“Nope. I don’t believe that for a second. What else you got?”

Killian takes a deep breath, turning momentarily to the memories of time spent in a small town across the ocean, the whispers of darker, much more unreasonable things — things that he has spent his entire life, his career, his education, trying to forget, trying to replace with scientific fact, explainable fact. And though Emma is by far one of his closest friends, rivaled only by Robin, he doesn’t think that is a part of his history that he is ready to share with anyone.

Thankfully, Sheriff Humbert chooses exactly the right moment to enter the diner, allowing Killian to keep his secret, at least for a little longer. He will find an explanation for all of this, a reasonable, scientific explanation, no matter how difficult it proves to be.

This will not be another Sydling St. James.

“Hello, Graham,” Killian says, painting a smile on his face in hopes of hiding the chill that runs down his spine. “Would you like to join us?” Of course, Graham is there to meet them, the result of a distressed Emma before Killian could argue with her about it.

"It would be a pleasure," he replies, taking the seat next to Killian. They attempt small talk, a conversation about the impending rainstorm, the convenient lack of cell service around the lake, but Emma is barely able to hide her upset, adding a word or two to the conversation at a time but mostly sitting silently in the corner of her booth, hands wrapped around her coffee cup, staring into the contents of it, though her attention is far from the diner.

"Killian, please," she says finally, her eyes wide and brimming with fear when she raises them from her coffee cup.

"What?" Graham asks, then leans his elbows on the table, closing the space between them, his own eyes wide with suspense. "Did you find something by the lake?"

But the ringing of the bell over the door stops Emma's words before they escape her lips, a shiver running down her spine. She recognizes him right away from the picture in the file Sheriff Humbert sent them: Robert Gold, the man he claims runs the town — something you only see in the tiniest small town like Storybrooke, or the English town she knows Killian hails from.

He looks the part, too, his shaggy salt-and-pepper hair swept away from his face and dressed in slacks and a matching grey waistcoat with a crimson shirt. The restaurant is mostly empty, a few seated at the counter distracting Ruby, so the tapping of the man's cane against the linoleum as he makes his way over to the table echoes through Emma's head.

"Sheriff Humbert, these must be your honored guests," he says, and Killian is not as affected as she is, so he is able to respond without fearing his voice will fail him.

“Yes, sir,” he replies, and Emma knows if he were not stuck in the booth, he would be standing. “Killian Rogers.”

"So this must be your lovely wife." It’s not the first time she’s been called that, since their first undercover mission as a married couple a few years ago, but something about this man’s voice grates her nerves, sends a shiver down her back. “Welcome to Storybrooke, I hope you’re finding everything as welcoming as we hope to make it. It’s not often we get visitors.”

"Thank you, Mr. Gold," Killian replies, probably still sensing the lump in Emma's throat, keeping her from speaking. "Storybrooke has been lovely so far."

"Oh, how excellent to hear! How did the two of you find yourselves here again?'

His question is nothing but cordial, a valid question from anyone that finds them in this small town, but Emma has a sinking feeling that this Mr. Gold sees right through their fake identities, somehow knows that they are undercover and not just honeymooning. If she can do anything to alleviate this fear, she must — so she gathers the nerve to answer him.

“Sheriff Humbert is an old friend of my bo—” The word boss almost slips out, but she catches it at the last possible moment. “— brother, David Nolan, and offered us a trip up here for our honeymoon.”

The man turns to Graham, still standing beside them, who just nods, as if confirming the story. A beat passes, and Emma’s gut tells her that Mr. Gold is wondering whether he should believe their story or not. But, no matter what conclusion he comes to, he simply nods his head, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Enjoy your time in Storybrooke, Mr. and Mrs. Rogers. Congratulations on your marriage, and please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your stay better.”

An attempt at a smile spreads across his face, but Emma can’t help but feel it’s more of a smirk. There’s something non-human about him, a feeling under the surface of her skin that she can’t shake. Whatever is going on in Storybrooke, her gut feeling is that Mr. Gold has something to do with it. And her gut is very rarely wrong.

“What is it you wanted to tell me?” Graham asks, peering over his shoulder to where Mr. Gold has taken a seat at the counter.

“It’s nothing,” Emma snaps, wrapping her hands around her now-lukewarm cup of coffee. Even though all she has wanted to do since she found herself poofed back to her bed at Granny’s has been telling Sheriff Humbert, she suddenly fears speaking of it in the same room as Mr. Gold. “Killian and I were just wondering if you would like to give us a little tour of the town, now that we’ve rested from our journey.”

It takes a moment longer than usual for Graham to respond, thrown off by Emma’s sudden change of subject, but he finally nods. “Of course.” As Ruby approaches their table, his smile grows, winking at her. “But first, let’s eat.”

They have only just finished their meals, returning to their room for a moment, when Killian’s cell phone begins to ring, a video chat from Robin.

“I take it your travels went well?” his friend asks, and Killian just nods, watching Emma as she changes back into her hiking boots.

“Aye,” he replies. “We’ve been here for some time, but have yet to discover anything helpful.”

“It’s only been a few hours, Killian,” Emma calls from across the room. “Of course we haven’t learned anything yet.”

“We’re about to go tour the town,” he continues, his discontent with the idea in his voice.

“What would you prefer we do? We have to make everyone believe we’re a happily married couple, and spending our honeymoon cooped up in the hotel room is—”

“Completely valid, if you think about it,” Robin cuts in, laughing at his own joke, but the smile disappears from his face when they both glare in the direction of the cell phone. “Sorry.”

“What did you want, Rob?” He can’t help the snap in his voice — he’s not even sure where it comes from, really.

“Just a lab update, really. Our request for a new intern has been accepted, he should be here within a week. His resume is impeccable, and he’s from some small UK school, studying here on a visa.”

“What’s his name?”

“Devin Skyler.”

“Keep me updated, yeah? And can you email me his resume? Why have I heard nothing about him yet?”

Robin just shrugs, typing away at his keyboard. “Yeah, I’ll send them over now.”

A knock on their door makes Emma jump unwittingly, placing her hand over her heart.

“Thanks, Rob. Gotta go,” Killian says, ending the video call without another word from his friend as Emma crosses their small room to open the door.

But Graham isn’t the one standing on the other side. Instead, it’s Ruby, changed from her short skirt into a tight-fitting pair of jeans with a red button-down shirt tied at her navel. “I hope you don’t mind, Graham asked me to come get you two. And asked me to join you in your stroll around the town.”

Killian groans, completely failing to hide his upset, but Emma thankfully steps in front of him, smiling brightly at Ruby. “Aw, that would be lovely!”

The momentary flash of upset that crossed Ruby’s face after Killian’s groan is replaced with a bright smile, framed by her bright red lipstick. “Great! Are you almost ready? Graham should be out front any minute now.”

Emma turns over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows towards Killian, who extends his hand towards the door.

“We’re ready now!” she says, feigning the excitement one would have for a tour of a small town if they weren’t searching for clues regarding a collection of brutal murders.

“So, newlyweds, huh?” Ruby asks, though her eyes are obviously following the sheriff as he walks down the street towards them. “I never saw the excitement in marriage, to tell you the truth.”

“Only about five percent of all the species on the earth are found to be monogamous,” Killian comments. “It’s statistically more believable for humans to prefer polygamous relationships.”

“Well, you can include me in the majority there,” Ruby replies with a chuckle. “And the good sheriff there. Right, Graham?”

Nodding, he comes to a stop just a few feet from their group. “Right,” he says, then laughs. “What obscene thing did I just agree to?”

“Mr. Rogers here was just talking about how 95% of species prefer polygamous relationships, and I said that you and I should be counted among them.”

“Ruby!” he scolds, his cheeks growing bright red. “Why would you — you just met —” he stutters, but Emma places a reassuring hand on his arm.

“You learn to just accept that these conversations happen when Killian is around.”

“That may take some getting used to for me, lass.”

“It took me a while, too. Sometimes he still catches me off-guard.”

Anyone would have sworn that the look she gives Killian is a look of admiration shared between two newlyweds.

A beat of silence passes, no one exactly sure what to say, but Graham breaks it: “Shall we start our tour?”

There is very little of Storybrooke that they haven’t seen, but they fill the morning walking through the small, perfectly-paved streets. Graham leads them down to the docks, the smell of fish permeating from the cannery and the docks in a way Killian never thought he would miss, a smell that reminds him of the days spent on Sydling St. James’ docks with his father.

Ruby leads them away from the water, the most vocal about the smell, and towards a more residential part of town. They walk along the pristine sidewalk, Ruby and Graham pointing out houses of people they’re sure Emma and Killian will meet sooner or later, white picket fences and blossoming trees and dogs barking in lush green backyards.

“And that’s the mayor’s house,” Ruby says, pointing to a large white building that would seem more at home on a plantation in the south.

“The mayor’s house,” Emma repeats, almost a question — and then the woman herself appears, clad in a pristine black pantsuit and a royal purple button-down shirt.

“Good morning, Mayor Mills,” Graham calls out, waving to her from the sidewalk.

Emma remembers her from the file: daughter of the previous woman who ran the town, no doubt given her current position because of it. Emma has never been a fan of politics as a whole — too many untrustworthy people in the same location — but small town politics are by far the worst of them all.

Though the woman rocks a pantsuit. Emma can at least give her that.

“Good morning, sheriff,” she replies, heels clicking on the flagstones of her front walk as she moves towards them, her smile much brighter and more welcoming than Emma expected. Everything in the file regarding the mayor painted her as second-in-command of whatever business Robert Gold is running, obviously in the know of any of his shady dealings. “You must be the honeymooners, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Killian replies, releasing his grip on Emma’s hand to reach out and shake the mayor’s. “Killian Rogers, and this is my wife Emma.”

The chill left in her fingers when he releases her hand travels through her blood and down her spine, though she manages to smile at the mayor.

Killian is not one for superstitions — none of them have a grounding in logic or science. But the goosebumps that raise on his arms when the front door to the mayor’s house opens cannot be ignored. Emma is the one with the gut instincts, who can sense things just by her feelings, but the wide-eyed look they share after a second person emerges from the pristine white house is all he needs to know that he and Emma are currently sharing the same feeling.

“Oh, Regina,” the second woman says, hand pressed to her heart. “I thought you were still inside.” Where Regina is professional pleated pants and dark colors, this second woman dons an emerald green peacoat, her fiery red hair piled high on top of her head.

“No, Zelena, I said I was leaving,” Regina calls back towards the house after rolling her eyes.

“Well, I didn’t hear you,” she snaps back. Narrowing her eyes towards the group shows off the bright green of her eyeshadow, a perfect match to her coat. “Who are you?” she asks, her voice filled with poison, crossing her arms over her chest.

“God, Z, do you listen to anything? This is Killian and Emma Rogers, they’re here for their honeymoon.”

“More strangers. Great.” She does not even try to mumble her words, staring at them for a moment longer before turning back to the house with a huff.

A beat passes, after which Regina turns back to them, a smile spread across her features. “I apologize for my sister. She’s… what can I say? Not too keen towards new people.”

“Not too keen on anyone, I would say,” Ruby comments with a soft chuckle. “Granny calls her the Wicked Witch.”

“Ruby!” Graham scolds, but the smile on his face gives away that he does not necessarily disagree.

Regina lets out a small chuckle, shaking her head — it’s obvious to Emma that she’s heard about the nickname the town has given her sister. She peers back towards the house, perhaps to confirm that her sister actually went back inside, and opens her mouth to speak.

Just as she does so, however, the phone in her pocket begins to ring, and she offers a soft smile and an even softer apology before turning away from them.

At the same moment, Graham’s phone also begins to ring, and he offers the same polite movement before turning away from them.

Killian and Emma share a glance, both sporting raised eyebrows. “An exciting day in this small town, it seems,” Emma says, trying to hide her gut feeling from Ruby with a half-smile. But somehow she knows — not thinks, but knows, because her gut is never wrong — that another body has been found.

And the look on Graham’s face when he returns to the group is all she needs to know that her gut has been successful once again.

It’s Killian that puts their worries into words: “Someone found another body, right?”

“Wait, you know about the bodies?” Ruby asks, just as Emma says, “So you’re having gut feelings now, too, Jones?”

And the three of them realize their mistake, the shock on Graham’s face enough to be sure there’s no going back.

“Graham,” she whispers, eyes wide as she looks between all three of them. “What the hell is going on?”

“We can’t talk about it here,” he says quickly, turning to look over his shoulder to where Regina is still on the phone, all animated expressions and red cheeks as she berates whoever is on the other end of her call.

“Then we’ll sure as hell talk about it on the way.”

Graham and Regina share a look, far enough apart that no words can be shared, but with the small hand-raise and mouthed apology they both offer, it’s clear to Emma that both phone calls have shared the same information.

Even though Ruby takes the passenger seat of Graham’s truck, she turns around to face them as soon as they are on the road.

“Someone better start explaining.”

A beat passes, looks shared between Emma and Killian in the back seat and Graham through the rear view mirror. Emma, of course, is the one to respond.

“My name is Emma Swan and I’m with the FBI.”

Ruby’s mouth falls open, letting out a noise that falls somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“We were called to investigate a series of suspicious killings.”

“Called by who?”

“I called them, Ruby.” Graham answers before Emma can.

“What?”

“There have been three bodies found in the last month. Now four. I am a one-man police station, since Isaac fails to show up most of the time. When I took this position, I didn’t sign up for a killing spree. So, yes, I called the FBI.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone. I requested they come under cover, as well. This town would riot if it knew I brought FBI agents here.”

“So we would appreciate your confidentiality.”

It’s as if Killian’s words flipped a switch in her, turning her from angry to flirtatious. “This means you’re not really married, doesn’t it?” There’s a sparkle in her eyes that Emma finds herself angry about — even though she’s right. They’re not married; they’re not even together. There is no reason for Emma to find herself bristling at the idea of Killian enjoying himself while he’s here.

Killian coughs, perhaps recognizing a new tenseness in her body that even she doesn’t sense. “Technically, yes, but we are still undercover. And intend to keep that cover.”

Good answer, she thinks. Then, Pull yourself together, Swan.

With a humph, Ruby turns back to the front of the truck.

There is always something much different about seeing a crime scene in person as opposed to seeing the pictures. Even after all the years Killian has spent around dead bodies of all sorts — cadavers, mummies, decomposing murder victims — he always finds himself more affected at the actual crime scene than he is ready for, even compared to his reactions to bodies brought to his lab.

This body, though, is unlike anything he has seen before — something he thought was statistically impossible by this point in his career.

It’s obvious he’s been electrocuted — certainly not anything Killian hasn’t seen before. But it’s the color of the skin around the wounds, the icy, bloodless blue, that catches him off guard. Frozen. Electrocuted. Exsanguinated. And in that order, from what he can tell.

“Impossible.”

“What?” Emma asks, standing behind him as he squats in front of the body.

But he shakes his head. “I don’t… I don’t know. I need to talk to Robin.”

He stands, taking a few steps away from the group, and pulls out his phone.

“Who the fuck are you?” a voice calls, startling Emma as she leans down to try and see whatever it was that threw Killian off.

“Victor, please, these are my guests,” Graham replies.

“That does not give them permission to be anywhere near my crime scene.”

Emma is half-tempted to put this man in his place. She’s seen his credentials, and the only reason he was made the coroner in this small town was because there was no one else to do it.

(She knows Killian has a few things to say about his autopsy skills, as well.)

But before she can voice any of the angry comments she has for Dr. Whale, a scream pierces through the trees.

-- -- --

TAGS: @shireness-says @cssns @kmomof4 @thisonesatellite @spartanguard @teamhook @darkcolinodonorgasm @cocohook38 @ultraluckycatnd @facesiousbutton82 @hollyethecurious @stahlop @tiganasummertree @angellifedeath @pepperpottss @mariakov81 @scientificapricot @kday426 @xarandomdreamx @ohmightydevviepuu @xhookswenchx @nikkiemms @carpedzem @superchocovian @resident-of-storybrooke @snowbellewells @courtorderedcake @captain-emmajones @killian-whump @officerrogers @killianjonesownsmyheart1 @captainkillianswanjones @elizabeethan @jennjenn615 @zaharadessert – want to be added or removed? let me know!

#cssns 21 #captain swan #these are the risks #my writing #words by megan michael

34 notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

July round up for @cssns 2022 ❤️🔥

Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2022: July Round Up

Hello, everyone! With the beginning of September, we have reached the end of our 2022 CSSNS event – that’s right, another year in the books! As always we, the mods, have to thank all of YOU: authors, artists, betas, cheerleaders, readers, rebloggers, flailers. All of you. Without each and every one of you, this event would not be nearly as successful – or as fun.

So, finally, hold your applause until the end… I bring you the JULY 2022 CSSNS ROUNDUP!

We started July 1st with a bang: @sotangledupinit gave us the beautiful “just like a ghost whisperer”, a lovely ghost-filled story

July 3rd came with a real bang: “Orchid Island,” a hot Omegaverse fic by @grimmswan and art by @cocohook38

The first chapter of @motherkatereloyshipper ‘s “Second Second Chances” came next, with awesome art by @eastwesthomeisbest – and art for chapter 2 | chapter 3 | art

@svenjaliv blew us away with her elven-inspired art on July 7th!

@zaharadessert gave us the first chapter of “Canticum Sanguinis Lux”, which came with a beautiful banner by @clockadile

If you like mermaids, then @cocohook38 ‘s “What I’ve Become” was right up your alley – as was @tennant-the-tigger ‘s art

@mie779 brought us more elves with “The Dark Elven” and awesome art by @piinfeathers as the cover for the story | chapter one | chapter two

Megan is thrilled to share a birthday with @jrob64 ‘s incredible “Where Her Heart Belongs,” cover and other art provided by @winterbythesea

“To Kill a Kraken” by @o-wild-west-wind came next, with awesome art by @freechoicedreamer

@killianjones-twopointoh surprised us with the second chapter of their 2021 cssns story, “post-mortem”

First-time CS writer @whatevenisthisbloganymore gifted us with “Enjoy Moonlight (Shine Bright)” next, with awesome art by @eastwesthomeisbest

with art by @caught-in-the-filter, “The Devil Within” was an absolute gift from @justanother-unluckysoul

next came @sotangledupinit ‘s “free fallin’”

and finally, the month ended with a follow up to @grimmswan ‘s “Orchid Island,” “Domestic Bliss” with more art by @cocohook38

We’ll give you a week to catch up, and then next week, you’ll get the August round-up!

32 notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

No, kids should not have unsupervised acess to the internet. Yes, I got that and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Its a paradox.

260K notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

Once Upon a Time Screenshots as Textposts

303 notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

I am 100% convinced that “exit, pursued by a bear” is a reference to some popular 1590s meme that we’ll never be able to understand because that one play is the only surviving example of it.

136K notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

the 1 or gold rush? cardigan or champagne problems? the last great american dynasty or no body no crime? exile or tis the damn season? my tears ricochet or happiness? mirrorball or tolerate it? seven or dorothea? august or ivy? this is me trying or coney island? illicit affairs or cowboy like me? invisible string or long story short? mad woman or closure? epiphany or majorie? betty or willow? peace or evermore? hoax or right where you left me? the lakes or it's time to go?

#the 1 #champagne problems #the last great american dynasty #tis the damn season #((neither))#tolerate it #seven #ivy #coney island #illicit affairs #invisible string #mad woman #marjorie #((BOTH UGH))#evermore (until the key change)#right where you left me #THE LAKES

542 notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

writers’ month prompts

day 7: setting: castle

(a piece of something I’ve been contemplating for a while)

The flagstones under her feet fall in patterns she could repeat from memory. More than any other part of the palace grounds, this place feels like home, a place where she can truly be herself, where she can step away from the stresses and challenges of being the only princess and simply… be.

Her favorite part of it all is the flowers, planted in intricately-planned gardens throughout the maze. A symbol of the colors and the beauty that her mother brought to the life of her father when they met. Her favorite love story.

The sound of footsteps on the stones around the corner pulls her mind back to the present, followed by a laugh coming through the bushes. It’s a laugh she would recognize anywhere, the laugh she cherishes more than anything in the world, and she cannot stop the smile that spreads across her face as Koda comes around the corner.

“I knew I would find you out here,” they say, taking her hand as they walk up next to her.

For as long as she can remember, she has been close to the youngest MacAllistair child, children of her father’s best friend and closest confidant. Piers MacAllistair, Koda’s father, has been head of the Kingsguard since long before Vivienne was born, and the two of them, Koda and Vivienne, were destined to become close friends. Raised together on the grounds of the palace, educated together, as close as two childhood friends can get. Vivienne was always drawn to them in ways she could not explain; as they grew older, she found herself giddy at the thought of spending time with them, dreaming about the golden rings around their deep brown eyes, and feeling the butterflies in her stomach she read so often about in novels whenever they were together.

But her biggest fear was losing them, their friendship and constant companionship, so even as her feelings began growing deeper as they came to terms with who they really are, chopped off their blond curls and began rimming their eyes with kohl, she kept her feelings to herself.

She had to, of course. To protect herself. Plus, no matter how close their families were, she has always known of her royal duties to the crown, the expectation for her to marry for the betterment of the realm and not by what her heart pines for.

“Of course I’m out here,” she laughs. “Where else would I come to contemplate big life decisions?”

#my writing #writersmonth2022 #original fiction

2 notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

writers’ month prompts

day 8: heat

He wakes slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the brightness of the room. Given that his sleep as of late has been riddled with nightmares of the supernatural, of vampires and cults and sacrifices, waking from a dreamless sleep is refreshing.

Stretching his fingers, he begins to become aware of the room around him: the sun streaming through the sheer grey curtains, the tweeting of the family of birds in the tree outside their window, the dampness of his fingers where they are pressed against her exposed stomach where her t-shirt has ridden up through the night. Closing his eyes once more, he nuzzles into her golden hair, splayed out around her head. The scent of coconut and citrus surrounds him as he pulls her closer, gently pressing his lips against the back of her head.

He should let her sleep. The exhaustion of their current situation has gotten to her, he knows it. Right now, no one in the world needs them, a moment of peace in the middle of a hectic mission. He should let her sleep; and yet, all he wants to do is wake her, give into the temptation that has reared its head so fully over the last few weeks and have her.

Gently, he moves his lips down, around the shell of her ear and to the exposed curve of her neck. He could take her here, just like this, with zero repercussions, press into her neck as he holds her against him and make her his, fully, forever.

She moves with a groan, not waking but only stirring, covering his hand with hers against her warm skin, and his desire only grows. He can smell her, his senses working overtime: her shampoo, her body wash, her sweat, the sweet scent of her so close to him. He can feel her blood rushing through her veins under his hand and where she is pressed against him. He wants her, wants her more than he has ever wanted anything before, and with his lips so close to the curve of her neck, he can no longer fight it, pressing his fangs into her skin to make her like him.

Now he wakes with a start, the room around him exactly as it was in the dream, still holding Emma against him — but his heart is pounding in his chest, so fast and hard she can probably feel it, her back pressed against him.

As gently as he can, he removes his hand from her stomach, his palm cold from no longer making contact with her soft skin, and rubs his hand across his face.

Another nightmare. He doesn't know why he's surprised. They've been happening so often of late, almost every night, he's not sure why he's even surprised anymore. It means nothing, he tells himself, squeezing his eyes shut to try to get rid of the images he sees, moments from past nightmares: Emma, accused of witchcraft and being burned at the stake; his mother, a distant memory from his childhood, being chased by men who call themselves "vampire hunters"; Mr. Gold, the mysterious man who seems to run this small town, attacking animals in the middle of the night and bleeding them dry. This morning's nightmare fits right along with them, his attacking Emma as she slept.

Just as he pushes the thought of the dream from his head, she moves against him, leaning back into his body and pulling the top sheet up to cover them, not awake enough to realize the reality of their situation. He knows this because every morning since their present arrangement started, since she insisted they share the single bed in the small b&b room instead of his sleeping on the small couch, they have woken up like this, curled together in some capacity, and while Killian is less unbothered by the situation, used to hiding his feelings from the woman who has become his best friend over the last seven years, as soon as Emma realizes they have been drawn to one other over the course of the night, no longer on opposite ends of the queen bed, she wakes in a rush, changing into her workout clothes and leaving the room without a word for her morning run.

It's not that he doesn't know why; he has known Emma long enough to understand the depth of her pain, to know the stories of those who have abandoned her in the past, and to know that her greatest fear in the present is to be abandoned once more. He knows about her parents, who left her outside an orphanage with nothing but a baby blanket embroidered with her name. He knows about all the families that took her in, only to send her back to the orphanage after they learned how difficult it was to raise a broken child. He knows about Neal, her first love from when she was still too young to know better, who told her he would never leave her only to let her take the fall for some of his crimes. And he knows that he, Killian Jones, cares for this hurt, careful woman far too much to ever cause her pain, even if that means suppressing the fact that he is hopelessly in love with her, just to keep her from getting hurt again.

And being undercover as her husband, sharing a bed and a small bedroom as they investigate a string of unusual circumstances in the small town of Storybrooke, Maine is certainly not helping the situation.

@shireness-says @kmomof4 @ohmightydevviepuu @spartanguard @thisonesatellite

#captain swan #cs ff #there is no more to this story just so you're all aware #writersmonth2022

14 notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

i love how many ships there are featuring murders, cannibals, supervillians, w/e that nevertheless fail to hold a problematic candle to house/wilson. I mean like there are characters who have stabbed one another who have a healthier “thing” going on than those two. i don’t think about them often but I see a gifset and I’m like WOW remember the time when house——-

34K notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

@shireness-says

Is this the craziest collection on JSTOR? The University of Virginia documented graffiti before the renovation of their Alderman Library. The example you see here is one of the more literary ones--we can't show you the others here, but you can see them for yourself!

802 notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

writers’ month prompts

day 6: married life

ship: Karen Page/Frank Castle (Kastle)

on ao3

Thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump.

Karen Page-Castle rests her head on Frank’s chest, losing herself in the constant reminder that her husband — her husband — is real, is alive beneath her hands, continues to live and breathe and share a life with her.

Nothing about loving him has been easy, especially those first years when he was “The Punisher,” running from the laws and doing what he thought was best. He has always been the Punisher, just like he has always been Frank Castle. And she loves all of him — all of him, including the ghosts in his history and the skeletons in his closet.

The Punisher.

Her husband.

Nothing about being together has been easy, except choosing each other. That was the easiest decision she had ever made. She’s tried many times over the years to try and figure out exactly when she fell in love with him, when she his facade as the Punisher and found the passionate, dedicated man underneath. The man who was made to be a father, who had the chance once but it was taken from him too soon. Even then, he has confessed to her in the darkness that the night brings, he was never the father he should have been, always needing to leave, to be deployed.

This time, he swears it will be different.

This time.

She hasn’t told him yet, about the little life growing inside of her. She’s only known herself for three days, doesn’t know how to tell him. But she knows he’ll be beside himself.

His second chance.

Thu-thump thu-thump.

She needs to tell him now.

“Frank,” she whispers, chin sitting on his chest as she swipes her fingers against the stubble on his cheek. “Frank, sweetheart, wake up.”

He hums, refusing to open his eyes, and wraps both of his arms around her, turning them so they are both laying on their sides, facing each other. His arms tighten around her, pulling her closer to him. As always, she is amazed by the warmth that comes off of him, her lips pressed to his chest. She feels the thud of his heartbeat against her lips.

“Just go to sleep,” he mumbles, his face in her hair, and she feels him press a kiss to the top of her head.

“I have something I want to tell you,” she says, just as her brain tells her, Now is not the right time, Karen.

But she feels him move against her, him arms still tightening against her as they move lower down her back, allowing her to look at him.

He hums against her temple, a wordless question of Why the hell did you wake me up in the middle of the night?

“Frank, please look at me,” she whispers, her hand against his cheek again, and she watches him as he fights to open his eyes, lids heavy with sleepiness.

For a moment, she thinks of other times he has struggled to look at her, heavy and hurting after a fight. She is thankful that is not the case now, that his current struggle to open his eyes has nothing to do with the cuts and scrapes on his face she has gotten so used to.

“’S going on?” His voice is thick with sleep, even deeper than it usually is, and it causes a chill to run through her. These have become her favorite moments with her husband, simply getting to exist beside him in the quiet peace that only appears in the middle of the night. They talked about moving out of the city, away from the place that has caused so much hurt for both of them — but no matter how much they talked about it, it never happened, like some part of the city was always pulling them back in.

“I have something I want to tell you,” she says, then kisses his cheek. She can’t help herself, has had trouble keeping her hands off of him, keeping herself from kissing him; she loves him too much and has learned to savor every moment.

He hums again, pulling one of his hands from her waist to wipe his eyes. Finally, she can see him looking at her, the shadows of the room accentuating every scar on his beautiful face.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispers, the words heavy in her throat. She’s beyond happy, yes — but she’s also realistic, a tiny alarm in the back of her head that she hasn’t been able to silence since she was a little girl. The alarm always reminding her things could go wrong. The alarm that has only gotten louder since the first day she met Frank Castle, since the first time she realized she loved Frank Castle. “We’re having a baby.”

“Oh, Karen!” There’s something in his voice, a hardness that she has learned only comes when he is tamping down his emotions. “Are you sure?”

She nods, holding back tears of her own, which she knows he can see. He knows her that well. “It’s still early, but yes.”

“Karen, baby, that’s great, this is — this is so wonderful.” He’s not holding back his tears anymore, and she catches one on her thumb as it slides down his cheek. “I love you so much.” This time, she recognizes that something in his voice, having heard it too many times; it’s the unmistakable tremor of fear. It rattles right into the deepest parts of her, deep into her bones.

“It’s okay, Frank, we’re going to be okay,” she mumbles, pulling his face into her chest, wrapping her arms around him as best she can. She knows exactly the fears that must be rattling around his mind, beginning to overwhelm him. She knows better to say it out loud, but in this moment, she swears to herself that it won’t be like last time. Frank was already a father before — is still a father, of course — but she won’t let him go through the pain of losing another child.

Not again.

#writersmonth2022 #Kastle #kastle fic #my writing #wordsbymeganmichael #happily married kastle

18 notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

writers’ month prompts

Day 5 / word: heart

I’ve always wanted to write a Kastle (Karen Page/Frank Castle) fic; I even have one planned out in my WIPs that I just haven’t gotten to. But the day 5 prompt, plus two other days coming up, have led me right here, to the deepest spot in my heart.

Based on the elevator scene (yeah, that one) in 1x10, “Virtue of the Vicious”

Karen Page cannot say for certain when she fell in love with Frank. There doesn’t seem to be a specific moment, a specific time she can look back to; she just knows that here, right here, in this moment, that she loves him.

She loves him.

The idea of it makes the breath whoosh from her lungs — or, it would, could she manage to take a breath. Every inch of her body, every cell, seems to be pounding, moving much faster than she can keep up with.

She wishes this was a new feeling, being so incredibly close to danger. Of course, it’s not. Ever since that first day she walked into Nelson & Murdock, her life has changed into a whirlwind of being in danger, being rescued, and fearing the calm, knowing without a doubt that it will happen again.

Today was definitely the worst of it. She knew from that first moment that Lewis would have hurt her as a means to his own end — not that he wanted to, but that he would. She’s learned the difference a lot lately.

And then Frank pushed through the door, entered her life unannounced again. The fast-paced beat of her heart was adrenaline, of course — she was being held hostage by a boy with a bomb strapped to his chest, of course it was adrenaline. But when Frank burst through the doors, refusing to heed warning from Lewis Wilson, there was something else there, too. Something she didn’t quite know how to describe.

Ironic, how the words could escape her when she needed them the most.

If she hadn’t known she loved him before, she learned it the hard way that day, hearing how he trusted her as he tried to talk Lewis down. Everyone else before her — her father, her brother, even Matt — only viewed her as someone they could rescue, viewed her as weak and defenseless.

Frank knew better.

Instead of taking charge and putting her in more danger, he talked to her through Lewis, told her what she needed to do to save herself, not to be saved. Told her which wire to pull. Knew that she never went anywhere unarmed especially not anymore. Knew her.

Helped her save herself.

Maybe that was the moment she fell in love with him.

No, she reminds herself. It was definitely before that.

She can feel the pounding of his heart beneath her hands, can practically hear it over the elevator, their hearts pounding together. A few moments of silence, that is all they can afford — and not even real silence, with the elevator alarm echoing in the small metal chamber. She wishes it was much more, wishes she could tend to is wounds, wash the blood off his face, and save him the same way he saved her today.

The same way he has saved her so many times before, has saved her from the very beginning. Has helped unearth her heart from the depths she once buried it in, knowing she has done the same for him.

She would never expect him to forget about Maria and his children, to forget the anguish and hurt that comes from loss, that very same event that led him to become the Punisher, even though they both know that is what he has always been.

But perhaps together, the pounding of their hearts moving in tandem, they can help each other.

They can love each other.

posted on AO3

thanks to my pals @spartanguard @ohmightydevviepuu @justanotherwannabeclassic @shireness-says @kmomof4 @thisonesatellite... it’s not CS, but you’re still lovely friends.

#writersmonth2022 #writers month prompts #my writing #wordsbymeganmichael #kastle fic #the punisher #frank castle x karen page

12 notes · View notes

thejollyroger-writer · 2 years

Text

writers’ month - day 4

prompt: melody

Fitzwilliam Darcy is fairly certain he has never been this tired before in his life. Charlie kept him up late again, another night spent wasting time at the bar when he should be studying, refusing to drink more than two beers per hour, knowing how his friend can get when he drinks too much.

He has spent too many years supervising Charles Bingley.

The constant music in his head certainly doesn’t help.

The first time it happened, three weeks ago, he thought it was a radio playing over the silence in the library. Reminding himself that he didn’t own the space — in exactly the same tone that Charlie likes to remind him of such things — he grumbled, packed his books and laptop back into his bag, and moved to the quiet floor.

The music followed him.

It wasn’t until he left the library, realizing he was the sole person standing on the grassy quad, that he realized it was in his head.

That day, it was jazz. While he was angry about it in the moment, he found himself wishing multiple times over the next few days that it would please, dear God, go back to jazz. First, it was two hours of “Happy Birthday.”

Then it was a whole afternoon of Wham!’s “Last Christmas.” Which was bad enough on its own, except that it was April. And he was in his Ethics class.

(One day it was a tune that he vaguely recognized, what he believed to be a Red Hot Chili Peppers song. That was okay.)

But then, last week, right in the middle of an advanced chemistry lab, Twisted Sister’s “I Wanna Rock” came blaring so loudly and quickly that he almost dropped the glass beaker he was carrying

He thought that was the worst. Even with the three full days of hearing nothing but the alphabet song.

Today, though, with a pounding headache and a desperate struggle to keep his eyes open as he sits through another economics lecture, he wishes for something to wake him up like “I Wanna Rock” did. Even “Last Christmas” would have been fine.

But no. The one, single day he wants the weird, unexplainable music in his head to be something to keep him awake, he finds himself humming along with the soft piano of what he can only describe as a lullaby version of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.”

Even the Mamma Mia! Movie version would be better than this, he thinks. He has certainly never had that thought before.

Finally, finally, after what feels like actual hours, the professor closes the textbook on the desk in front of her, clapping her hands in front of her chest. “Well, folks. That’s it for today. Enjoy your weekends!”

He cannot get out of that classroom fast enough, cannot drag himself to the coffee shop down the block fast enough. He should have stopped on his way there, he knows it, but he was already running late, and Dr. de Bourgh did not take kindly to students being late to her class.

When he pushes through the door, though, he stops completely in his tracks. Because standing before him, wiping off the table closest to the door, is a barista he knows he has never seen before, despite visiting this establishment at least once a day.

He knows he has never seen her before because he would certainly remember her, remember the way just looking at her makes his heart feel like it is playing squash inside his chest, makes it just a little bit harder to breathe.

“I’ll be right with you,” she says, and he realizes she is the only one in the cafe.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, still trying to pull himself together as he closes the door behind him

A few moments of silence pass between them, and she leaves the cloth on the table she was wiping to make her way behind the counter. “Sorry about that,” she says, flashing him a small smile that makes his heart beat a little faster. “What can I get for you?”

He orders and pays for his usual London Fog and butter croissant, then leans against the counter as he watches her work.

“Sorry it’s so quiet in here today,” she says, but he certainly didn’t notice it, the chorus of the “Dancing Queen” lullaby still moving through the back of his mind. “Our stereo broke this morning, which would be totally fine, except I watched my niece last night and her current lullaby obsession is this stupid instrumental ABBA album, so my whole morning has just been “Dancing Queen” repeated in my head.”

He has to physically keep his jaw from falling to the floor.

“That’s weird,” he mumbles, fully focused on her hands as she froths his milk. “I’ve been hearing that all morning.”

He knows what it means; he’s heard the stories before. Soul mates, he thinks. And smiles.

Interested parties and wonderful friends: @profdanglaisstuff @ohmightydevviepuu @shireness-says @thisonesatellite @spartanguard

#writersmonth2022 #my writing #wordsbymeganmichael #ficlet #pride and prejudice au #lizzie bennet x fitzwilliam darcy #coffee shop au #soulmate au

3 notes · View notes