- Do not forget Michael Brown
- Do not forget how the media dehumanized him and tried to justify his murder
- Do not forget how peaceful protests were painted as savage riots
- Do not forget police armed with military grade weapons terrorized and arrested black civilians
- Do not forget Darren Wilson being awarded over $200,000 in fundraiser donations for murdering an unarmed black child
- Do not forget that this system was not built to defend us, but to control us
- Do not forget Ferguson
Sorry this is late! Yesterday was super busy. Also, I’m just going to hazard a guess that you wanted me to do CS for this ;D Hope you like!
.::Knocking on the wrong door au::.
“There you are!” she says when she answers the door.
Before she sees that he was not who she was expecting.
Before his expression turns to confusion as she is not who he was expecting either.
“You’re not August.”
“And you’re not Mr. Todd Copper, I take it.”
The pair stared awkwardly at one another for several uncomfortable seconds, breaths puffing out in the November cold, before Emma started to close the door.
“Wait,” Killian said, rather quietly and uncertainly, when the door was almost completely back in the jamb.
To his surprise, it opened.
The blonde raised an eyebrow, silently inquiring, “Yes?”
He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I, um. Hi. I’m looking for 815 South Brooke Street. I have this delivery, and my boss told me not to come back until it was signed for. I’ve been pacing back up and down the block for ages. I finally noticed your door at the side here and thought maybe… well, you know. You don’t have any clue where I’m supposed to go, do you?”
“What’s your name?” she asked after a moment.
“Killian. Killian Jones,” he replied.
“I’m Emma,” she says as she stepped out onto the stoop, “and I take it you’re new to town?”
“Yes,” he looked down bashfully, toeing the dirt with his boot. “I stayed at home to study while my brother came out here and started his own business. Then I grew restless and wanted to see the world, so I moved out here to join him.”
“Right,” Emma said, nodding thoughtfully as she took in all Killian had said. “Your brother’s an asshole,” she told him bluntly.
“He’s hazing you. 815 was a dilapidated, abandoned, old whorehouse. It finally burned down about four years back, and the city decided to rezone the block. Now a couple of properties have bigger backyards.”
“Is there even anything in that box you’re supposed to deliver?”
“There’s something. The bloody thing’s certainly heavy enough.” He scowled at the parcel by his feet, already begrudging having to take it back to his truck.
“You don’t know what it is?”
Emma cast him a mischievous grin. “Don’t you want to find out?” He returned her smirk, and she replied with a nod of her head. “C’mon inside, and we’ll open ‘er up in the kitchen.” She noted that his eyebrows had relocated at least a full inch higher in surprise. “I trust you.” She said simply.
Not waiting for her to rescind the invitation, he picked up the box and carried it inside.
“Booze,” Emma announced when they opened the flaps.
“That wanker!” Killian growled in outrage. Emma looked up from the box, perplexed. “When I can’t deliver something, I have to turn it in to him. And it’s up to him to decide if we repossess or keep trying to deliver it.”
“So he wanted you to come back all dejected, give you scolding, send you away like a puppy who chewed his favorite shoes, and then have a big laugh and drink to your gullible nature?”
“Sounds like the git.”
“Well, I dare say the joke’s on him this fine day. Don’t you agree?” A bottle of whiskey was withdrawn from the cardboard, and immediately thereafter Emma had planted herself in one of the chairs. “Glasses are in the cabinet next to the sink,” Emma waved in the general direction before opening the bottle.
Once returned with two drinking vessels, Killian took the bottle and poured them each a drink. “To knocking on the wrong door,” he said with a smile as he handed Emma a glass.
“I’ll drink to that.”
Somewhere in between the second bottle of Jameson and the first bottle of Kraken, the pair had migrated to Emma’s couch.
“You seem like an honest drunk,” Emma said with an impressive amount of conviction for having consumed so much alcohol. “Like you’d just spill all your secrets; the deepest, darkest corners of your heart laid bare.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not drunk then,” he slurred.
“And why’s that?” Emma asked, leaning closer.
“Because then I’d have to tell you how you’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.”
Emma blinked furiously, completely taken-aback by his words. “You cannot possibly be so naïve and get away with saying things like that.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because you’re – have you seen you?”
A smirk drew itself across Killian’s face. Eyes alight, he drew his tongue along his teeth trying to contain the boy like giddiness bubbling up inside him.
“Oh, now that’s just not fair,” Emma pouted.
He let out a hearty laugh, threw his arm over the back of the sofa, and beamed at her. In return she cast him a “pretending to be annoyed at you” scowl.
“Seems to me you may be an honest drunk too.”
“Ask me something and we’ll find out”
A sea of questions swirled through his head, but one in particular sailed above the others.
“When you opened the door, you said ‘You’re not August’.”
“Oh. My friend Ruby likes playing matchmaker. She set up a date for us at the diner. But he bailed. So…”
“I’m glad he stood you up.” Then Killian realized what he said. “I’m sorry, that sounded awful. I meant otherwise I’d probably still be looking for Todd Copper’s Ramshackle Whorehouse.”
Emma laughed and nestled in a little closer. “And I wouldn’t have scored an impressive box of booze. Not to mention you’re far better company.”
“Am I now?” Liquid courage coursing through his veins, Killian relocated his arm from the back of the couch to around Emma’s shoulders.
They talked of everything and nothing. Their childhoods: how he had wanted to be a pirate captain, she a warrior princess. And then they ceased to even talk at all for they had fallen asleep.
That is until a beeping steadily increased in volume and raised them from their slumber.
“Shit!” Emma yelled as she tore herself off of Killian and jumped off the couch. “I’m going to be late. Late, late, late, late, late,” she chanted as she ran about, gathering things strewn about her apartment.
Killian rubbed his face for a moment before looking his watch. How the hell had it come to be seven o’clock? He reached for his phone only to be reminded he had left it in the truck. Liam was sure as hell going to chew him out for this.
Then he caught Emma hopping about as she tried to shuffle into her boots, and knew it would all be worth it.
They hurriedly bumbled outside. And turned to look at each other.
“So… Thanks for tonight,” Killian managed, though all he wanted to do was continue gazing at her under the starlight. “I, um… would you ever consider- I mean. Would you like to go out sometime?” he stammered.
Emma looked at him seriously, and Killian’s heart fell. Just because drinking next to him was better than being stood up-
“I get off work at two,” she said.
“The Enchanted Beanstalk Bar downtown. Here…” she withdrew a pen from her purse, narrowed the distance between them, grabbed his arm, rolled up the sleeve and wrote down the address.
“I’ll be there,” he said, slightly awed as she stepped back.
“Good,” she replied as she strode to her car.
With great effort, Killian turned at began down the driveway, walking back to his truck. Halfway down the block, he heard footsteps running towards him. A hand was in his elbow turning him around.
He had just long enough to see that it was Emma before she brought her lips to his. Not missing a beat he brought an arm around her waist to draw her in closer while he kissed her back. One of her hands tangled in his hair while the other clutched the lapel of his jacket as if it were the only thing holding her upright. The kiss was more heated, more passionate, held more promise, and was honestly just more than a first kiss had any right to be. Killian knew without a doubt it was the best goddamn kiss of his life. After far too long, and not nearly long enough, they parted for air.
“I’ll definitely be there.”
The Fault In Our Sombreros.
Nacho average love story.
it’s spelled olé not olay you illiterate fuck this ain’t the fault in our lotions
THAT IS THE BEST USE OF THAT PICTURE I HAVE SEEN IN A LONG TIME
Puffin Island, Ireland (by zig_rob)
cop: who the hell ordered all these pizzas
me: you said i got one phone call
HOW DOES POPCORN EVEN DO THAT THING
HERE I SHOW YOU THE THING
this is the most majestic thing i have ever seen in my entire life
it’s like a ballet
Not paying bills
"There must be more than this provincial life"