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deans-baby-momma · 4 years

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Rebel Without A Cause- Ch 16

A/N: For those of you who didn’t get to see the NSFW document that I can not post on Tumblr, here is the link for that.

Dean Winchester is a certified goddamn asshole! Plain and simple. He had been cognizant of how she had been treated growing up, yet he still used her for his own entertainment. What Maggie had thought was a connection and sweet intimacy had just been another way for him to have his fun. Maggie had felt loved, cherished, and treasured when what conspired between them was nothing but carnal coitus, pure fornication. Him allowing that man, the drummer of the band, to watch as they had sex was more than Maggie could handle.

She isn't a prude, although some might think she is from her style and behavior, but knowing that there had been an audience when she was at her most vulnerable is unsettling; him knowing that they were being watched, painful.

The tears flowed the whole way back to her motel and as soon as she gets into her room she stripped her clothing, planning to burn the offending garments and takes a shower with the water as hot as she could stand. Maggie scrubs until her skin is raw, all the while the tears keep streaming down her face. She swears that she’s going back to work, telling Mr. Singer that she isn't able to get the story he wants, and if she loses her job then so be it.

ONE MONTH LATER

Maggie’s cell rings again for the thousandth time in a week. She refuses to answer, knowing who’s on the other end.

Since her story had been published, her phone rang constantly. Publishers of other daily and weekly magazines offering jobs and positions at their facilities. She had been answering those and politely declining the proposals. But then this one number kept calling; it was one she had happily-at the time- added to her contact list. Now, she regretted ever exchanging that information with Dean fucking Winchester.

She silences her phone and goes back to typing up her article for the Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert she had attended just the night before. After he got her feature story on the Winchester Sex Bombs, Mr. Singer had begun giving her editorials and feature pieces for entertainment expositions that were more her preference. Each article had received high praise from the public and Mr. Singer decided to keep her on staff.

He claimed not to be upset with the review on the Connecticut concert that she had turned in, but Maggie could tell her boss was not too happy with the picture that she had painted with her harsh words.

Jessica, the receptionist for the Ft. Garrison News, knocks on the wall before entering Maggie’s cubicle. “Hey,” the blonde says, smiling.

“Hey, Jess,” Maggie acknowledges. “What’s up?” She takes a moment to look up from her tablet to see the blonde holding a stack of notes.

Jessica Moore was working while going to college to become a personal injury lawyer, which Maggie found out over coffee in the breakroom one day. She had spoken to Jessica when she went to refill her cup and was feeling out of place since Jo was no longer speaking to her.

After her story had been written up, Maggie had asked Jo to go out for drinks and in a drunken rage, had told her everything- even about catching the drummer getting off to them, causing Jo to get extremely jealous and had quit speaking to her.

“These are yours,” Jess tells her as she hands the stack of notes to Maggie. “Some guy keeps calling for you. He doesn't leave a message, just says you know who he is and to please call. He’s been calling every hour for days.”

Maggie takes the papers and places them on her desk. “Thanks, Jess. I’ll call as soon as I’m done here.”

Maggie glares at her phone as the ringtone fills the air. She knew he wasn’t going to give up until she answered so she took a sip of coffee and picked the device up, sliding the little green arrow across the screen.

“Margaret Fitzgerald speaking.”

“Mags, sweetheart,” Dean’s voice glides through the earpiece. “You are one hard woman to get ahold of.” She could hear the smile in his speech. She also knew that she was about to take that smile right off his face.

“What do you want, Dean?”

“A chance to talk, to apologize. I fucked up. I know I did. Just give me a chance to explain.”

“So explain. Tell me why you thought it’d be a good idea to let your drummer watch us while we had sex?”

“That isn’t a conversation for the phone, sweetheart.”

His voice echoed as Maggie looked up to see Dean standing in front of her, his phone still held to his ear. She lowered her phone, turning it off and stared at him. She couldn’t believe he had come all this way just to talk to her. Dean slides his phone into his pocket and sits down in the chair across from her and put his elbows on the table between them.

“What do you want, Dean?” Maggie asks, exasperated. She can’t believe he has actually traveled all this way to come to talk to her.

Before Dean answers though, a female voice rings out. “Oh. My. God. You’re Dean Winchester!”

Maggie looks over to the entryway of the break room to see Jo practically vibrating with excitement. She rolls her eyes as Jo makes her way to their table, adjusting her shirt to pull the top down a little lower. “Hi,” she says as she comes to a still next to Maggie.

“Hello,” Dean says, clearly annoyed that they had been interrupted. But then he straightens up and puts a fake smile on his face. Although he is wearing sunglasses Maggie is sure that his dark olive eyes are full of irritation. She hides her amusement at his discomfort behind her mug.

Jo’s apparent display of fangirlism thrills Maggie as she watches her co-worker try her damnedest to keep Dean’s attention but the lead singer only has eyes for Maggie. After getting an autograph and a one-armed hug, Jo retreats from the break room but not before throwing an envious look over her shoulder at Maggie.

“So, sweetheart,” Dean grabs her attention. “Can we talk about that rather unflattering piece you put out about my band?”

Maggie sits her coffee mug onto the table and leans forward. “First off, I ain’t your sweetheart. Secondly, everything I said in that article was the truth. I’m sorry that I’m not one of your groupies who just overlooks your blatant disregard for others and will just spout out praise and compliments. Yea your music is good, I said that in my piece but the actions afterward overshadow everything on stage.”

“Swee-Mags….what will it take to change your mind? What can I do?”

“There is absolutely nothing you can do, Dean,” Maggie says, leaning forward onto the table. “You let him watch us!” she angrily whispers. “You knew I had issues with my self-awareness. You know my mom and Lisa chipped away my dignity. You heard their condescending remarks, you saw how it affected me but you still let your friend witness what I thought was something private, something personal between us. So no, there is absolutely nothing you can do to make me retract my story. If that is the only reason you came all this way, then I’m sorry you wasted your time.”

Dean leans forward and whispers,”And what if I tell you Lisa is the reason that I no longer have sex with just one person?”

Maggie balks at that. Is he trying to get her pity? Using her contention with her sister as a way to weasel out an explanation? She shakes her head and sits back, crossing her arms.

“Dean, don’t,” she says, the tears she is so desperately trying to cover evident. “Don’t say that. Don’t use that as an excuse. You two were in love. I saw it every day. I saw how you looked at her. How can you say that she’s the reason for-”

“This is not a conversation for the workplace break room. Maggie, let me take you out tonight. I’ll buy whatever you want and I will explain to you exactly how Lisa Braeden manipulated me too.”

“Mags, she condemned everything,” Dean reveals as they are waiting for their orders. Maggie had agreed to go out with Dean because she was curious about how Lisa had played Dean; how she had used his inexperience and gullibility to cause him to become who he is today. Having sex with multiple partners at the same time, being allowed to be observed while doing it.

“Every time we….we had sex, she complained about it. I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t satisfy her needs. Hell, she told me that my dick wasn’t big enough. She made me feel inadequate, like I was unworthy. So after we broke up, I swore that I would always have back-up. I would have someone else there to pick up the slack. I know that sounds horrible and obnoxious but in my juvenile brain, I believed her. She was my first and she was telling me that I was disappointing. It sure is a blow to the ego. I thought we were making love but she just wanted a decent fuck,” he stammers, a hand running across the back of his neck. “16-year-old me didn’t know what making love was. Hell, 26-year-old me didn’t know until a month ago. Maggie, what you and I did in that room was making love. I’m sorry that I ruined it by letting Benny in. Old habits are hard to break, I guess.”

Maggie understood all too well the effect of Lisa’s mockery and satire better than anyone. Lisa had began making fun of Maggie when she was 9 and Maggie was 7 and it only got worse once Lisa found out that she wouldn’t be disciplined for it; hell, even her own mother had joined in on the ridiculing.

“Dean, I’m sorry you went through that,” Maggie sincerely admits. She can truly empathize with Dean because she had also been on the receiving end of Lisa's humiliation. “Let me be the first one to say though that you have no problems in that area. I was completely and utterly satisfied and fulfilled. You sure know what you’re doing in that department,” Maggie mutters as she feels a blush bloom on her cheeks.

@pink1031 @spnbaby-67 @winecatsandpizza @joseyrw @kricketc28 @tftumblin @markofdean79 @sandlee44 @michellethetvaddict @lyarr24

#dean winchester #SUPERNATURAL AU #dean winchester au #rockstar!dean #reporter!reader #rockstar!dean x reporter!reader #Dean x OFC #lil bit of angst #lil bit of fluff #whole lotta smut #smutapalooza #e'erybody be fucking #my second foray into AUs #deans-baby-momma #rebel without a cause #maggie fitzgerald #dean x maggie

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thedistantstorm · 4 years

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Project Compass 25

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This time: Thrawn tries to seek out Eli. Grysk poison claims lives aboard the Steadfast.

Next time: Un’hee tires of keeping secrets.

Thrawn prided himself on his commitment and duty, his ethos as a warrior. Being back in his preferred type of position, under a worthy leader no less, was the homecoming he’d been waiting for. He did not mind being planetside, but his home was among the stars, aboard a ship, facing the enemy, poised for battle.

The crew of the Steadfast was eager to prove themselves to him, and there were no hiccoughs or bumps with having a human aboard the bridge - Jedi or otherwise - under Ar’alani’s watchful gaze. They, having experience working together, had an easy adjustment period, and Thrawn’s time away from direct command left better equipped to suggest rather than command his CO when he felt deviations from her orders appropriate. She didn’t indulge him often, and they certainly debated - sometimes in raised voices or dragged away into a conference room - many things. It was a challenge. More than that, it was rewarding.

But something was missing.

Ezra’s words had stayed with Thrawn. Thrawn knew Ivant was still on this ship. So why hadn't he seen him?

Thrawn felt an almost compulsive need to see his now former commanding officer. Ar'alani had mentioned during their discussion that she had recommended him for commendations again and been obstinately denied. It surprised her, but it said something about the state of the Admiralty and Aristocra. The Aristocra had begrudgingly agreed to a promotion for him. The Admiralty had rejected it outright, believing that Ar'alani's human officer deserved punishment, not reward.

If not for the more sinister reasons behind their refusal, Thrawn would have been glad for it. Right now, for the first time in their careers, they were on even ground.

It wasn't long before he found an in.

The Steadfast, despite being a large ship, had very tightly knit groups of officers, though the majority of the bridge crew did find themselves on opposite ends of whatever Aristocra squabble was on the agenda that cycle. Thrawn had expected to hear from the Navigators, but neither Un'hee or Vah'nya - both of whom were reportedly also still aboard the ship - had been anywhere to be seen. Admiral Ar'alani would not speak of any of them, and her replies to Thrawn's admittedly mild inquiries were met with tight lips.

The officer wasn't anything special. In fact, he was rather ordinary. Gossiped with the rest of the officers, was typically in the officer's lounge after hours drinking with the rest of the staff. But, he’d traded stories about Captain Ivant’s early days in the CDF with the rest of the officers. With him back on the ship, it was a means of taking credit for his part in the making of the man, obviously. He was older and towards the end of his career. Respectful enough but hardly looking for an expansion in his duties.

And he’d spoken within earshot of Faro.

Junior Commander Faro, who just so happened to find herself in Ar’alani’s shadow when she wasn’t off gathering intel. “Senior Commander Cinsar,” She mentioned to Thrawn casually one evening when she’d been leaving the mess as he’d entered with Ezra one step behind him.

His eyebrows had gone up, but Faro hadn’t said anything else. She hadn’t needed to. The slightest warmth in her usually deadpan gaze, the smallest quirk of her lips said it for her. She knew what he was looking for. He was hardly transparent, that much he was sure of. Outside of his inquiry to Ar’alani, he hadn’t mentioned Ivant, Un’hee, or Vah’nya despite his curiosity.

However, regardless of his well-concealed emotions, Ezra was concerned, which meant the young Jedi would leave no possible lead or ally alone, rallying them to his cause. Thrawn had no idea what his former protege and current… ward (protege came to mind, but he dismissed it) managed to discuss while he was out of commission. Ezra hadn’t been forthcoming on most of it, citing it ‘boring Imperial-speak’ and he’d be damned if he asked Faro for her recount of events He didn’t care to know that badly, nor did he care to give any more information to any more third parties.

He didn’t begrudge the fact that he had these emotions. Emotions and motivations could be powerful tools if utilized correctly so long as one was cognizant of both the potential strengths and weaknesses that came with them. Presently, his desire to know if he’d been correct was a far safer topic when compared to what he’d do if that was the truth. If Vanto was being censured, as his… subconscious self had so helpfully informed Eli (and unknowingly, Ezra), what was the nature of such a thing? That was what Thrawn wanted to know.

So, as if it were an innocent coincidence, he chose to sit at the same table as the Senior Commander, one seat left between them, and Ezra blissfully unaware across the table. Ezra asked a question, and his verb conjugation - while improving - was just suboptimal enough to draw Cinsar’s attention.

Thrawn saw pathways in the conversation, but he was content to let Ezra carry them while he supplemented the precise dialogue necessary to lay his subtle trap.

Meticulously plotting a way for their paths to cross was, in the end, unnecessary. Three days after chatting up Commander Cinsar, Thrawn’s fellow captain made his way to the bridge midway through the second shift. He held a datapad in his hands, but made no effort to consult it. Instead, he carefully extracted Commander Velbb from his conversation with the Admiral about whatever complaint he’d had this hour and pulled Ar’alani aside for a quiet conversation.

Thrawn had been so preoccupied by the sight of russet skin and golden-brown hair in a sea of blue and black that he’d all but missed the appearance of Un’hee.

In an unorthodox move, she marched up to him wrapping her arms around his middle in a hug, her sharp chin digging in just south of his diaphragm. She tipped her head back to look up at him. The look in her eyes reminded him of that night, months ago, when she had sought both he and Ezra out for comfort. It was that alone that kept him from stepping back and out of her embrace. Instead, albeit awkwardly, he patted her back.

"You are back to normal?" She asked. "No lasting effects?"

He nodded, holding her gaze all the while. Still, one non-confirming eyebrow rose in increasing concern for her very affectionate outburst. Convinced, she released him, a dark flush lighting up her cheeks in the infrared. Her actions were impulse driven then, Thrawn supposed. "I hear you identified the poison. You have my thanks."

She smiled, her facial heat increasing even more. "It was nothing." She tilted her head, adding shyly, "And congratulations on your promotion, Captain."

"Thank you, Navigator Un'hee." He fixed her with an inquisitive look, more than ready to get back to business. "What brings you to the bridge?"

"I was accompanying Captain Eli," She said, looking back to Ivant and Ar'alani briefly. "Something has happened."

"What?"

She shook her head, and he escorted her to a vacant weapons station for privacy. "He would not tell me," Un'hee admitted. "We have not seen him recently. He has been hidden in his office for days, trying to find where and how things have been happening."

"Do you think he's found something?"

Fearful eyes looked up into Thrawn's, and the child Navigator nodded only once. "There are-"

"With me, Captain Mitth'raw'nuruodo," Admiral Ar'alani ordered. Her tone indicated there was no time to argue.

The Navigator very carefully skirted around Thrawn, rushing back to Vanto's side. The Captain, who Thrawn could tell was positively exhausted, met his gaze. His pink lips quirked the slightest bit upward, and despite the cool professionalism lingering there, something in Eli's expression softened, just for a second. The moment broke as quickly as it came with Un'hee tucking herself under his arm and against his side. Thrawn made a mental note to revisit this moment in his mind's eye later.

Surprisingly, Admiral Ar'alani didn't comment on Un'hee's inherent clinginess. While she certainly had a soft spot for her Navigators, indulging such behavior (on the bridge, no less) was peculiar. He said nothing, however, choosing to observe as the Admiral gave her orders and led them from the bridge.

They passed Bridger and Faro on the way to their destination, both of whom wore matching grim expressions. Un'hee was left in their care, rather unwillingly. Whatever she'd been about to say was silenced with a brief, sharp look from Eli.

When they arrived at their destination, Thrawn understood why the Navigator hadn't been allowed to accompany them. They entered the medical quarter, but instead of turning toward the treatment area, they went to the morgue.

Three male and one female Chiss, their modesty preserved with sheets pulled to their clavicles. Even in death, their faces still held the slightest tension.

"Do not touch them with your bare hands," Ar'alani warned, confirming his suspicions.

"Blue death?" He asked, already suspecting the poison to be to blame.

"You have not seen it," She said. "Our medical reports are-"

Vanto, who had been silent this entire time, already donned gloves and had begun to peel back the sheet on the first of them. Then, he went to each subsequent body and similarly drew their shrouds down to just above the waistline. He stood back. Now, he wouldn't meet Thrawn's gaze. His gaze held hidden anger, and he kept it pointed at the floor.

"There was no time to administer the antidote?" Thrawn asked Ar'alani.

Ar'alani looked to Eli. Tension thickened the air. Eli didn't look up. Thrawn slid his eyes between them, trying to discern the meaning without giving his curiosity away.

"No," Eli said. His voice was worn, subdued. His gaze flicked from Ar'alani, something wordless there, then to Thrawn. "When it's done right, the poison kills quickly. Under ten minutes. The wrong amount takes longer, and causes more pain, as you no-doubt recall."

Ar'alani gave Eli a strong glare about something he'd said. He didn't respond. Interesting, he thought.

"The black spots?" He indicated the mess of acid-formed wounds on one of their chests.

"Where the acid comes close to the surface, almost eating through. It destroys the lung, and eats the bone. Metabolized through skin, and only grows more acidic by the chemical process of breathing. The color is blood and acid, beneath the skin," Ar'alani said.

"Even without an immediately fatal dose, it works quickly," Thrawn said. "I was unable to breathe within two minutes of Commander Wes'lash'andi dosing me with the poison."

Ar'alani hummed. "We are trying to find the reason why they were poisoned." She looked up from one of the bodies to Vanto. "Captain Ivant has been trying to figure out which families are involved. Un'hee's recount of events mentioned Copero. Commander Wes'lash'andi mentioned it to her before you showed symptoms. Considering when it happened, we pulled all of the ship's logs and all data from the shipyard from a month prior to our docking until the day we left."

"He would not be so overt," Thrawn commented. He examined the wounds more closely. They were ugly and odiferous, even despite the harsh chemical-clean smell of the morgue. "It was meant to deceive."

"It was," Vanto agreed. "Which is why I did more than that." He gestured to the datapad tucked between his arm and torso. "There was nothing smuggled in Copero, though that was a hint. He narrowed down our location." The human looked between them. "Commander Slasha was considered neutral as far as politics was concerned. However, he was seeing someone aboard the Steadfast prior to his transfer to the Compass. He gestured to the female Chiss. "Lieutenant Dorn'ati'vano. He talked about her often, and fondly."

Ar'alani sighed. "Her family is loyal to House Inrokini."

"Her grandmother is of that house," Eli confirmed.

"Are you suggesting suicide?" Thrawn asked, frowning.

"Not exactly." Eli sighed, and gave Ar'alani a significant look.

"There are more infiltrators aboard. We believe one group eliminated the other as a means to prevent incrimination."

"And the rest of House Inrokini's representation in the crew?" Thrawn wondered aloud. "That should be where we begin."

"They are here, Mitth'raw'nuruodo,” Ar’alani indicated. “Dead."

Thrawn's expression darkened. "Were they found together?"

"Yes," Ar'alani said.

The Chiss captain very carefully examined the deceased woman's fingernails. "Her fingers are damaged, like she touched the poison directly," He commented mildly. "And yet you insist this is not suicide?"

Eli cleared his throat. “No. This was done intentionally by outside parties.”

“Your evidence, if you please, Captain.”

Ar’alani fixed Thrawn with a look, as if to remind him that he wasn’t Vanto’s commander anymore. Vanto didn’t seem to mind. “The bodies were discovered hours after their death. It’s a little hard to tell what with the poison doing what it does, but they were dead for at least eight hours before they were found, seeing as they didn’t show up for their shifts.”

Thrawn watched Eli intently, waiting for him to expand upon his point. “This would look like a suicide, if one wasn’t aware of what they were working with, or all the details.” The human stood at attention, and despite his obvious exhaustion, cut a very confident, convincing profile. Now was hardly the time for Thrawn to consider attraction, but he could not deny that his fellow Captain’s combination of cool confidence and warm eyes, the way his lips curled around his Cheunh would be devastatingly distracting if there weren’t larger matters at hand.

“And those details?” Thrawn asked, voice low, coiled. Ready to see the patterns in whatever data Vanto had no-doubt collected. From the corner of his eye, Thrawn could see Ar’alani roll her eyes and put her hands on her hips. He didn’t have time to figure out what was exasperating her so.

Eli smiled. It spoke of momentary victory. A benchmark met. “We should have received a transport vessel at the end of the overnight shift. The manifest said it was supposed to deliver back up fuel and shield generators for the next cycle. It was a precautionary shipment. Someone waved it off.”

“These four?” Thrawn indicated the deceased.

“No.” His expression turned grim. “They were informed that the shipment was cancelled by someone else. Their communications, from what we could recover, indicated they were furious about it.” Ivant looked to Ar’alani, who nodded. “And it wasn’t until after their time of death that the ship was deleted from our logs. Whomever was responsible expected us to be tripped up at a quadruple suicide.” Chiss were prideful. Suicide, to them, was not an honorable death, and thus would be treated as an extreme exception, the indicators important to the families of the deceased as it would be considered a blight on their reputation.

Thrawn hardly cared about social stigma. “How did you know a shipment had been deleted? You did not say you pulled future manifests,” He said instead.

“I didn’t,” Eli agreed, shrugging, “Didn’t think I had to. I keep tabs on those automatically.”

Ar’alani said, “Captain Eli’van’to is obsessive about cargo and supply inventory, despite his express wishes to hold a command position,” For the Admiral, such a statement was practically an affectionate jibe. “Who am I to deny him his love of supply analysis?”

#thranto #mitth'raw'nuruodo #eli vanto #un'hee #ar'alani #thrawn/eli vanto #my writing #sw fanfiction #thrawn

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whitneyrmcguireblog · 6 years

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On Black Breastfeeding Week

By Whitney McGuire

It’s Black Breastfeeding Week according to Instagram and I’m sad. I don’t want to waste time describing the sadness, and maybe that’s not even the right word to describe how I feel, but tears are welling up in my eyes and my heart aches a bit. I’m a black woman. I had a baby 4 months ago. I am not breastfeeding.

I don’t have time to entertain judgments, even those cloaked in support. And trust me, there are a lot. I’ve already lashed out on a woman for communicating the assumption that I stopped breastfeeding due to cosmetic reasons. Now that I think about it, I’m like, “so what if it was?” I only have time to be present - to see that my first child, who’s somewhat traumatic entry into this world (for me) revealed parts of myself of which I wholeheartedly am in awe.

Presently, I see flashbacks of endless pregnancy nausea (worse than morning sickness. I had that too.) and breastfeeding classes at my midwife’s office. The joyful expectation that I will be a great mother who breastfeeds her child for at least a year. A. Great. Mother. I learned latching techniques, different hold positions to make for a comfortable feed for me and baby, and an understanding that every woman can and should breastfeed her child. “Was my former co-worker actually hyperbolizing when she said she couldn’t produce breastmilk for both of her children as she broke down in the break room every other day?” I faded out of my inner questioning and listened to statistics being tossed at me from the breastfeeding counselor making it patently clear that the act by omission -- not breastfeeding your child -- is basically considered child abuse. It didn’t take long for my instagram explore page algorithm to catch up , depicting images of pregnant women, or women with young children, happy and glowing. I knew not to click on those images. I am pretty cognizant of strengthening my muscle not to compare. But sometimes I skipped my workouts. Sometimes those images brought me to profiles that inevitably revealed a woman with one or both breasts exposed and the back of a baby’s head cradled lovingly, happily sucking away. Images like this made me feel warm and proud. Like I was about to join a sisterhood of like-minded, revolutionary, strong women championing the normalization of breastfeeding. A few looked like me. Many didn’t.

After giving birth, a lactation consultant visited me the day before I was discharged from my 7-day stay. She sat on the foot of my hospital bed. I sat in a recliner nursing my new child. He was very small. He decided to come four weeks early. The consultant quizzed me. “Do you know why breastfeeding is so important?” I listed stats I’d memorized from my breastfeeding class and hours of prior research on the topic. I wanted to be a GREAT mom. I had already delivered via emergency c-section and was repeatedly reminded how dangerously high my blood pressure was due to preeclampsia. I already wasn’t starting this motherhood journey the way I’d hoped. So, I didn’t want to fuck this quiz up. She affirmed the correctness of my answers and gave me a warm smile and nod. I took that to mean that she agreed with me. I was going to be a great mom.

By the second week of my son’s life earthside, I had one nipple that was chaffed, sore, bleeding occasionally. Yes. I used the organic nipple balm. The other nipple was functioning but was unfortunately attached to the less milk abundant breast. My son began to fuss. Loudly. His entire body stiff, arms splayed open in frustration. Until this point, his latch had been great. Something changed, however. Now, he kicked aggressively and cried abundant tears when my nipple made contact with his mouth. He was not eating enough. I researched why this could be. I tried different holds, pumping even the sore nipple with tears of agony welling up in my eyes to try to produce more milk to freeze for future bottle feedings. I wanted to be prepared to give myself time to heal when/if this happened again. Pumping on a chaffed nipple was what I’d hoped was peak “this sucks,” for me. They tell you pumping more will help you produce more milk. I’ve heard many testimonials to this truth and a few to the contrary. For me, pumping only produced more tears. My nipple eventually healed after I began using a plastic nipple guard my friend, also a new mother, purchased for me. Feedings became easier. Finally, I felt like one of those moms I admired. Some I knew. Others I didn’t. Moms who look like they take time and energy to be patient loving attentive moms. My son enjoyed the nipple guard too.

One month after my baby’s birthday, I sat on the stoop of our brownstone Apartment cradling him prepared to finally breastfeed outside of my home or the pediatrician’s office/ ob/gyn clinic. It was a hot day. We didn't have air conditioning. I was proud to possibly perform what I considered an amazing phenomenon of the human body, in public. I wanted to look anyone in the eye who passed and glanced in my direction during this sacred, beautiful act. I was ready to make my activism seen...known. I wanted to challenge any glances contrary to approval. Proud. Stern. Stately. I am proudly a black woman. I was also proudly a breastfeeding woman -- just with a nipple guard. Eventually it was time to feed my baby. I realized I left the nipple guard upstairs, so I took out one of my breasts and attempted to put my bare nipple in my baby’s mouth. He hollered and protested. A foiled attempt however, not the final one.

Two weeks later the kicking and screaming started again, even with the nipple guard. I relied on the advice and support of my fellow new moms one of which paid for an in-home lactation consultant. This one was different than the hospital counselor. She was more thorough. She weighed my baby before and after feeding. She observed his latch and informed me that I probably didn’t need the nipple guard anymore. “He’s doing perfectly! Great latch!” I smiled in affirmation. But felt the sting of impending failure creep up from that nipple guard comment. I had been using it religiously for a little over a month. Maybe that was too much time. She watched me pump for 20 minutes. Observed that I was producing a “perfect” amount of milk and put me on a more strict pumping schedule so I could start to store milk. I hadn’t been able to store milk during the days leading up to her visit. His appetite had grown voracious. I was pumping and feeding around the clock. Days blurred together. I was so tired. I resented my husband for being able to leave the house to go to the laundromat or the corner deli. I cried more. My child’s appetite grew more insatiable.

I lamented a bit on instagram stories about my journey thus far. Many mothers expressed their similar journeys and frustrations with breastfeeding. They connected me to other moms and doulas. A few moms directed to lactation support groups. The thing was, I had anxiety about leaving the house. I was unsure that I would be able to perform the act of breastfeeding in front of other moms. I began to feel my goal of being a great mom slipping away. How was I only 1.5 months in and already fucking up?

A very good friend of mine, a mother of four young children, also a black woman, informed me that she too was unable to adequately breastfeed her first 3 children. She supplemented the little breast milk she was able to produce with formula and donor milk. She too pumped often, on the highest setting sometimes. Her first three children had been delivered via cesarean. All three had some amount of trauma attached the circumstances of their birth, from hospital staff to insurance, her first was the most traumatic of them all. Yet, all of her children are remarkable. My idea of a great mother was becoming more layered. As a result, I massaged the thought of formula feeding and tabled it.

I’ll never forget asking my husband, through tears, to run to the drug store to get formula one particularly rough night. I counted every ounce of formula I gave my baby. I tried to reserve his consumption of it for times when he wouldn’t latch at all, which became more and more frequent. Every time I prepared a bottle of formula for him I cried. I couldn’t watch my husband feed it to him. Each time he was fed from the bottle, his crying stopped. He was full, not of breast milk, but of a manufactured substance. He would burp and fall asleep just like he did when he was full of breast milk. He was full. He was at peace. Did he know the difference? Maybe I wasn’t a great mom at the moment, but I was starting to feel like a pretty ok one.

Feeding my baby formula two weeks into his third month still evoked intense sadness for me, but somehow it also allowed me to experience more freedom: longer naps, sporadic phone meetings for work, time out of the house with or without my baby. The sadness led me to once again seek out lactation support. A doula I met on Instagram told me how bad the formula advice was that my friend gave me. I disagreed but thought this doula’s perspective was worth exploring. Maybe my friend wasn’t as educated as this doula was on the subject. Maybe this doula wasn’t as educated about the validity of one’s inability to breastfeed.

I walked 2 miles (part of my personal recovery from my csection) to another lactation counselor’s office. I’d called the day before to make sure someone would be there. I showed up. She wasn’t there. My hopes of reclaiming my great mom title came crashing down. It didn’t help that I had also just had an argument with a close friend that morning. I was reeling with anger and frustration. “WHY HAS ALL OF THIS BEEN SO HARD?!” My pregnancy was mired in sickness. I developed a disease that came pretty close to taking me, my baby, or both of us out of here. And now breastfeeding wasn’t going well? I felt faint and dizzy from the thoughts of failure. I accepted defeat during the two mile walk back home and immediately made my son a bottle of formula.

I’m four months into being a mom and I’m learning more and more each day that I am not just an ok mom, I’m a good mom. I know this based on the fact that my child is happy and according to his pediatrician, quite healthy. He exudes joy. He is taken care of and loved with every fiber of his parents’ (and grandparents’) being. I’m still sad, however. When hashtags and my instagram algorithm remind me that other moms would look at what I feed my child in pure disgust, I get sad. When I see my friends effortlessly whip out a boob to soothe their fussy child forming an instant, animalistic, instinctual, necessary bond, I’m sad. My mother breastfed me for two months before switching to formula. She had to go back to work. She tells me she couldn’t produce enough milk to store. I too had a voracious appetite, apparently. I didn’t know this until after I gave birth. Why would I? I didn’t fit the description of the “formula fed baby” I pieced together from the statistics freely tossed at me during breastfeeding class.

Simply put, my baby preferred the bottle over my breast. Ultimately, he decided for himself and left me in the grey of a seemingly black and white issue: breastfeeding is best, formula is worst. Pick a side. What of those of us whose children picked a side for them? Are we cast out of the club? Do we form our own club? As a black woman, I’m pretty exhausted with aspects of my existence being defined in reaction to othering. And now, it seems like there’s no way for me to cross the isle into Breastfeeding Mom Land. Even if breastfeeding women empathize with my situation, I will still envy their ability to breastfeed because I cannot. I will still, somehow be othered and quite frankly, as a result, judged. Motherhood is not a monolith. Our experiences, while somewhat similar, are wholly our own. So are our children (archaic concepts of the ownership of people aside). The best lesson from motherhood so far is that my child is not a vessel for my insecurities or fears. He is not a projection of the aspirations I have for myself. He is his own person with his own karma, abilities, and abundant future (hopefully joyful) experiences.

The movement for public breastfeeding is in the lead for breastfeeding causes and this messaging exists in a variety of media. Black breastfeeding is a distant cousin. Still present. Not as amplified. Which is why I wholeheartedly support Black Breastfeeding Week and its mission. I want other black mothers to know of this movement. I want them to do their independent research on breastfeeding, take classes, form support networks early and often (or at least know where to go for breastfeeding support). Very few moms discuss how incredibly hard breastfeeding actually is. Even fewer discuss the inherent effects of racism on black mothers from the healthcare system to the availability of general education on the topic of breastfeeding. #Blackbreastfeedingweek will hopefully change that.

I am choosing to nurture my child holistically. I’m not sure whether this means stepping away from social media to eliminate the trigger of seeing a woman breastfeeding, especially since I’ve received so much helpful advice and support from complete strangers on social media. I am sure that it involves formula, albeit organic. I’m certainly not happy about my ejection from the breastfeeding club, especially when I tried so hard to get in. Expending more time and resources to be told what I’ve already tried, about which I’ve cried so so much about to this day, no longer interests me. I’m really only interested in being present for my baby’s beautiful growth which I’m overjoyed to witness, even behind occasional tears.

#blackbreastfeedingweek

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winterbaby89 · 7 years

Text

Dark Hook Comes to Storybrooke - Chapter Four

A Captain Swan, Season 1 Canon Divergence Collaboration by: @hollyethecurious, and @winterbaby89

Beta’d by: @ilovemesomekillianjones

Amazing Artwork by: @xhookswenchx

Rated M for language and dark themes (and maybe (probably) some sexy times… later ;o)

Summary: Moments before the Evil Queen’s Dark Curse whisks our beloved fairytale characters to Storybrooke, Captain Hook finally gets his revenge on the Crocodile. Twenty-eight years later, Killian Jones awakes in Storybrooke expecting just another ordinary day, that is until a number of abnormal occurrences disrupts his otherwise scheduled life. The greatest of which is a new face in town. A young woman by the name of Emma. Emma. What a lovely name…

Disclaimer: Canon dialogue and scenes from various episodes will appear within this fic. To Adam, Eddie, and the OUAT writers goes all the credit.

Line breaks indicate change in POV or Scene.

Also available on ao3, my fic page, and Hollye′s fic page And if you want to catch up on the last chapter.

This work is no longer available on FF.net. Unfortunately the site does not allow authors to co-publish collaborative works.

Chapter Four

Emma sat stewing in her bug as she scanned the rag of a newspaper for any possible vacancies. How can there not be a single, available room? She couldn’t bring herself to be upset with Granny, she didn’t want to invite trouble on innocent bystanders in her feud with Regina, but she really wished more people in town would show some backbone when it came to Madame-High-And-Mighty-Mayor-Mills. Not that she could really blame them, she wasn’t exactly looking forward to her next run in with the Evil Queen either.

Honestly, Emma was having a hard time believing that she’d actually agreed to stay. Not just that she’d agreed, but that she was sitting in her bug, after having been evicted from the town’s only overnight lodging, getting irate at the lack of options available to making her stay more permanent. If she truly allowed herself to think about the implications of exactly what her decision meant, she was liable to start her bug and head for the town line. But she couldn’t do that. She’d promised Henry… and herself.

For as much as she was staying for her son, she was staying for herself as well. For a chance to be a part of something. She just wasn’t sure what that something was going to include, or if she was ready for it.

“Hey. You okay?” Emma was startled to see Mary Margaret outside the driver’s side door, and attempted to shake off the vestiges of her self-doubt and irritation as she responded.

“Oh, in the world of tight spots I've been in, crashing in my car doesn't even rank in the top ten,” she explained.

“You're sleeping here?” Mary Margaret asked incredulously.

“Until I find a place.”

“You decided to stay. For Henry.”

“Yeah. I guess,” Emma replied as she stepped out of the car. No need to explain to this woman, who was little more than a stranger, that she had decided to stay for more than just Henry.

“This town doesn't seem to have many vacancies. None, actually. Is that normal?” Emma inquired as a way of steering the conversation away from her reasons for remaining in town.

“Must be the curse,” Mary Margaret answered cheekily, apparently having no other plausible explanation to offer. The answer diffused some of the tension Emma had been holding onto and allowed her to focus her attention on the woman before her.

“Why are you out so late?”

“Well, I'm a teacher, not a nun,” Mary Margaret quipped before answering sullenly, “I had a date.”

“From the looks of things, it went well.” The sarcasm was not lost on either of them.

“As well as they ever do.”

“Tell me he at least paid.”

“Mm,” Mary Margaret hedged, drawing out an eww from Emma. “Well I guess if true love was easy, we'd all have it,” Mary Margaret speculated. Her statement hung between the two women for a moment before she offered, “You know, if things get cramped, I do have a spare room.”

Suddenly, the tension and desire to run overtook Emma once more, causing her to reject the woman’s kind offer. “Thanks. I'm not really the roommate type. It's just not my thing. I do better on my own.” As she said the words a realization occurred to her. The words were absolutely true, but she no longer wanted them to be. Just like on her birthday, Emma wished she wouldn’t have to be alone, but the words had already been spoken, and she didn’t know how to take them back.

“Well, good night. Good luck with Henry,” Mary Margaret encouraged as she headed down the street towards her home.

Home.

Something Emma knew little about, but longed for with every fiber of her being. A home of her own. She tamped down the feelings of longing and loneliness and resettled herself in the front seat of her bug, tucking in for what was sure to be a long, cold night.

It had been a long, lonely night for Killian as he sat at The Rabbit Hole. Much of the night had been spent in thoughts of his confrontation with Regina, as well as the continued remorse he felt over his interaction with Henry. He awoke the next morning with fresh disappointment in not having run into Emma at The Hole the night before as he’d hoped, but also with a renewed resolve to make things right with her boy.

As he labored long, hard hours on the Jolly Roger, Killian tried to determine the best way to seek out the lad and apologize, never expecting that the boy would actually come to him. Hearing the thud of footsteps ascending the gangplank, Killian was heartened by Henry’s presence and hastened to the deck to meet him. Perhaps the lad would be able to find a way to forgive his thoughtlessness from the night before.

“Henry, I want to apolo-”

“I’m so sorry, Kil-”

Both began their apologies at same moment, Henry’s offer of remorse taking Killian by surprise.

“What do you have to be sorry about, lad?” Killian questioned incredulously. “I’m the one who exhibited bad form last night. I shouldn’t have dismissed you the way I did. I apologize.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Henry insisted. “I haven’t been around lately, and then I just show up all… upset. I’m sorry I haven’t been by to help you with the Jewel.”

“Well, I gather you’ve been rather busy with your mother. Your birth mother, that is. Emma?”

Henry’s head dipped in a chagrined manner before he met Killian’s gaze with more unnecessary apologies.

“Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I found her.”

“It’s alright, lad,” Killian comforted. “I’ll not hold the past few days against you, if you’ll not hold last night against me.”

“Deal!” Henry agreed enthusiastically.

Killian attempted to tamp down the shudder forcing its way up his spine at the lad’s use of the word that held no sense of pleasant meaning to him, and steered their course back to the matter of his mother. Emma. A word that gave him an altogether different kind of shudder, one that he was less inclined to tamp down.

“So, I take it all is well between you and Emma again?”

“Yeah! She was just trying to throw my mom, my other mom, off the trail. You know, about the curse.”

Off the trail? Does Emma truly believe in the curse, or is she humoring the lad as I did before I woke? Killian filed the question away for later pondering.

“We’re gonna find a way to break the curse, and bring back all the happy endings. That’s actually why I’m here.”

Panic gripped Killian as he began to wonder if the lad knew about his current cognizant state. Did he know his mother’s name had awoken him? How would he have figured it out? Not Regina, surely?

“I wanted to tell you that I can’t stay today either, because I found Emma’s dad and I need to go and tell her!”

His panic dissipated, only to be replaced by confusion.

“You what?”

“Found my mom’s father. Prince Charming! I’ve got to go tell her. If we can get her parents back together, it might just be the first step in breaking the curse!” Henry was halfway across the deck in his excitement to get back to Emma.

“Emma’s father is Prince Charming?” Killian called out after him.

“Yeah! So, I’ve gotta go and tell her the news. I promise to come and help out with the Jewel soon. Bye, Killian!”

Henry raced back down the gangplank leaving Killian dumbfounded, a thousand questions storming his mind: Swan was from their land? How did she end up here if she wasn’t brought over in the curse? Her father is Prince Charming? That had to be a moniker of some sort. There weren’t any prince’s actually named charming in the Enchanted Forest, though he knew from his cursed memories that this land applied that name to a few different prince’s in its retelling of their stories.

Prince Charming.

The designation tickled at something in the back of Killian’s mind, a pet name he’s sure he’d heard before. Suddenly the memory of the castle that The Dark One had been imprisoned in flashed in his mind and it’s then that he makes the connection. That castle was the home of Princess Snow White and her husband, Prince James, whom she lovingly referred to as Charming. Snow had been in labor that night. Was Emma the child that had been born on the cusp of the curse?

A fresh wave of intrigue about the mysterious woman stirred within him as he wondered again how it was that her name had awoken him from the curse. The Crocodile had put in the failsafe using the lass’ name, but how? Killian considered the probability that more answers might be found at the pawn shop, and he set off to the imp’s shop of horrors, once again on a hunt for answers.

“You want me to read to a coma patient?” Mary Margaret’s wary tone matching the one Emma gave Henry earlier when he claimed to have found her father. Prince Charming. As if.

“Henry thinks it will help him remember who he was,” Emma explained as she accepted the mug of hot chocolate, hedging her words as she felt out Mary Margaret’s willingness to help with this new plan. Her plan, not Henry’s.

“And who does he think he was?”

“Prince Charming,” Emma declared pointedly.

“And if I'm Snow White, he thinks he and I…” Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, a bit exasperated, as she caught on to Henry’s scheme. Emma smiled understandingly at her… friend?

“He has a very active imagination, which is the point. I can't talk him out of his beliefs, so we need to show him. Play along,” Emma explained as she laid out her plan. “Do what he says, and then maybe, just maybe-”

“He'll see that fairy tales are just that, that there's no such thing as love at first sight or first kiss. He'll see reality,” Mary Margaret finished, her tone and demeanor enforcing the logic of the plan, even if the underlying current of her words betrayed the hope and wistfulness she was trying to suppress.

Hope and wistfulness that Emma tried to combat even as flashes of meeting Killian Jones erupted in her treacherous mind. Not that it had been anything close to love at first sight that night. Lust, maybe. She could definitely get behind lust at first sight, but not love. Love at first sight was ridiculous. Right?

“Something like that,” Emma muttered in agreement, losing some of her conviction on the matter.

“Well sadly, this plan is rather genius,” Mary Margaret affirmed, bolstering Emma’s confidence that this was the right course of action. “We get him to the truth without hurting him.”

Relieved that Mary Margaret was in agreement, Emma smiled as she picked up Henry’s storybook and placed it on the counter.

“I told him that we will all meet tomorrow for breakfast at Granny's, and you will give a full report.”

“Well, I suppose I'll get ready for my date,” Mary Margaret quipped as she took a sip of her beverage before adding, “I guess I'll have to do all the talking.” Their conversation ended with Mary Margaret’s agreement, the brunette headed for her bathroom to get ready, and Emma took that as her cue to leave.

As she made her way out of the building, Emma contemplated what to do for the rest of her evening, given the still early hour. Without cognizant thought as to where her feet carried her Emma came out of her thoughts as she approached the entrance to The Rabbit Hole. Well, this is as good a place as any, maybe a certain blue eyed patron will be willing to keep me company. Dammit Emma, get ahold of yourself.

Emma nursed a few rounds of rum, and spent more time than she was willing to admit waiting for a certain person she wanted to see make an appearance. Wanting to avoid any more awkward conversations about her current sleeping situation, she decided she ought to get to the bug, and find a place more out of sight to park it for the night. Emma tabbed out and left the hope of another run in with Killian Jones for another night.

Killian’s search through the pawn shop had yielded no answers about the enigmatic Swan girl, though it had reunited Killian with a few more of his possessions. Frustration that he wasn’t even sure what it was he was looking for coursed through him and he ran a hand down his face as he reviewed the list of questions he sought answers for.

What made Emma Swan so special? Why did her name wake him up? Why did Regina want her gone so badly? Was it just some territorial or maternal urge to lay full claim over Henry?

The rumble of a motor and flash of yellow caught Killian’s attention as he peered out the pawn shop’s side window to the alleyway. Speak of the devil, Killian mused, the irony not lost on him that he was more closely associated with such an evil than she ever could be.

Fate was a fickle mistress, indeed. Just that previous evening Killian had longed to see her enter The Rabbit Hole, only to be disappointed at her absence; now he seemed to have summoned her with his barrage of questions and constant thoughts of her. Perhaps fate was at work. What better way to get the answers he sought than to go straight to the source?

Killian made his way to the back door, slipped out of the shop, and circled back to the side alley. Approaching Swan’s passenger side window, he greeted, “That’s quite a vessel you captain there, Swan.” His comment effectively caught her off guard. Smirking to himself, he rested his arms on the open window and leaned in to gain a better look at her.

“Jesus, Jones!” she startled, “A little warning next time.”

“Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to spook you, though in my defense I have been told my good looks are quite startling,” he winked, earning him an eye roll and a slight smile. “What are you doing out here at this time of night, Swan?”

“Where else should I be, Jones?”

“Aren’t you staying at Granny’s?”

“Well, seeing as Regina ensured I can no longer stay at Granny’s, and it’s not like this town is ripe with vacancies, even if I had the income to pay for one, this is my best option. This wasn’t exactly a planned stay if you’ll recall.”

“Regina had you evicted? How? Wait, nevermind, she’s Regina,” Killian grumbled as a shared look of understanding passed between them.

“What are you doing skulking around here at night?” Emma teased, clearly attempting to shift the conversation away from her current predicament.

“Skulking?” Killian feigned offense. “I don’t skulk, Swan. I’ll have you know I am conducting legitimate business here this evening.” The lie slipped easily off his tongue.

“Hmmm.” She considered him with a critical eye before leaning across the gear shift in an effort to trap his gaze. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, Jones,” she said, a slight seductive undertone playing at her knowing smirk, “I’m pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me. So… wanna try that again?”

Killian reached back to scratch behind his ear, trying to buy him time to come up with a response. She could parse out lies? That would certainly make things more difficult in his attempts to ferret out the truth about her. His usual tactics would be completely useless. And what about the curse? The fact that he was no longer under its effects? How would he keep the truth of his identity concealed if she could read him so easily? Read everyone so easily.

That last thought sparked an idea in his mind. He could use such a talent to his advantage in his dealings around town, and if Swan was preoccupied with parsing out the truth in others, perhaps, she wouldn’t be as focused on him. If she worked with him it would afford him the opportunity to be in her presence more often. Learn about her. Find the answers to his questions. Spend time with her. Hell, he could even provide her with lodging.

Prompted by his newly formulated plan, Killian opened the passenger side door and slid into the seat next to her.

“Um… what the hell do you think you’re doing?” she questioned as she moved back squarely into the driver’s seat, not quite plastered against her door.

“I have a business proposal for you, Swan. One that I think will be mutually beneficial to both our current needs.”

“Okay.” She eyed him warily

“This may come as a bit of a shock to you, lass,” he began cheekily, “but I sometimes have to deal with unsavory characters in the course of my business. Having someone with your particular talent to ferret out the truth could come in handy for me.”

“Uh, huh. And what’s in it for me?” Caution was still evident in her demeanor, but an interest flared behind her eyes.

“Well, it just so happens that I own a vacant property on the outskirts of town, the house next to my own, actually. Work for me and I’ll let you stay, rent free, as well as pay you a tidy sum for your services.”

“Where is your place, exactly?” Her eyes narrowed, and he could see the interest growing as the wheels turned in her mind.

“Out on the bluff, southwest of town. There’s a quaint little house on the property adjacent to mine.”

“Wait… that mansion that overlooks the bay?”

He wouldn’t classify it as such, but nodded all the same.

“You live in that big ol’ house by yourself?”

“Not really the roommate type, love. I do better on my own.”

Killian saw emotion pass over her face at his admission, like she was startled by his words, or related to them, maybe?

“No need to give me an answer tonight, Swan,” he assured. “Think on it a bit, yeah?”

“Sure,” she said with a nod. “Um, thanks, Jones.”

“Of course, love.”

Killian couldn’t help but notice the small shiver that ran through her. Now aware of the chill that had settled around them, and loathe to see her sleep in her drafty vehicle - It’s bloody October. She’s likely to freeze - he offered, “There is a cot in the back of the pawn shop, Swan. As long as you clear out by daylight, it can be our little secret. It’ll be a lot more comfortable and warmer than sleeping in here.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Bloody stubborn woman.

Killian removed his jacket and extended it toward her. “If you’re gonna be stubborn about the cot, at least be warm, Swan.”

“Thank you, really. But you don’t need to give me your jacket.”

“Nonsense, I’ll not have you freezing to death on my watch,” he insisted as he draped it across her before exiting the car. “You can return it to me when you have your answer to my proposal. Goodnight, Swan,” he bid as he headed back down the alley.

“Night, Jones,” she called out after him.

With a smile at his lips, Killian returned to the pawn shop to retrieve the box of his discovered possessions. Suddenly he was besieged by a flash of images in his mind.

The Dark One’s cell… The Prince and Princess… The threat of the curse… A deal struck for an infant’s name.

“....no more happy endings.”

“What can we do?”

“We can’t do anything.”

“Who can?”

“That little thing growing inside your belly… Get the child to safety, and on its twenty-eighth birthday the child will return. The child will find you.”

“We’re leaving.”

“Wait! We made a deal! I want her name! Give me the name! I need the name! Missy, you know I’m right… Tell me, what’s her name?”

“Emma. Her name is Emma.”

Killian braced himself against the counter in front of him, reeling from the vision. No, not a vision. A memory. But not his memory… the bloody Dark One’s memory. The memory of Rumplestiltskin’s prophecy and provision built into the curse. The provision of the child’s name. The Saviour’s name. The one who would break the curse.

“Emma,” Killian quietly exclaimed under his breath as he looked out once more at the yellow bug parked just outside the window. She’s The Saviour?

“Bloody hell.”

Chapter Five

Tagging some lovelies that have asked to be tagged, as well as some we believe might enjoy. Please let us know if you do, or don’t wish to be tagged.

@abeylin1982 @aprilqueen84 @artistic-writer @ashar663 @bschratter @captain-k-jones @captain-swan-coffee @downeystarkjr @flipperbrain @florenzu @freakassbuthunter @gingerchangeling @golfgirld @greenleaf777 @i-island-breeze @ilovemesomekillianjones @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @laschatzi @leiaswanjoneskid @like-waves-on-the-beach @mcbrideannemgt @rookiehookie @seriouslyhooked @teamhook @ultraluckycatnd @xhookswenchx @yayimallamaagain

#cs ff #cs canon divergent #cursed killian #dark hook #season 1 #cs fanfic #cs fan fic #Captain Swan #captain swan fic #captain swan fan fiction #captain swan fanfiction #captain swan fan fic #cs #Dark Hook Comes to Storybrooke #winterbaby89writes #words by hollye

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