Inspired by that picture Raphael posted on IG of Colin and Andrew having a âGoodfellasâ moment together, I wrote a little CS/Captain Cobra Boston Mafia AU
also on ff.net as part of my Every Page series here
                         family business
Emma Swan knows her son.
Who he is.
What he is.
She knows the Gold family business is a front, a facade, for other, unsavoury things. She knows about the guns, about the drugs, about the underage girls (after all she was one of them herself, once upon a time) she knows about the stacks of cash hidden in the walls and where the bodies are buried.
I loved this scene, and the way Killian pinned Emma against the wall for a sexy kiss in the deserted corridor at Grannyâs.
Iâm going to try to do an OUAT sketch a day until the last episode of one of my all-time favorite shows in May (*sniffle*). If anyone has a fav screen cap, send it on over – just remember Iâm trying to do these in about 20-30 minutes so be kind, lol. I have a soft spot for Captain Swan obviously, but Iâm open to general ouat prompts, too.
Iâll be selling the originals at 20 bucks a pop if anyone is interested and I donât totally suck at this. đ
We are currently sitting at 82 pieces and we have until this Saturday to add 18 more! Have you been on the fence about it? Nowâs the time to commit!!
Summary: A chance encounter on the morning of her first day at work results in Emma meeting a mysterious, heavily tattooed, pretty-eyed Irish man. But there are some secrets heâs not yet willing to share with her.
As ever, all of my work can be found on both AO3 and FFN.
My endless thanks goes to @lisaz1972 and @jonirobinson64â who help make this piece both readable and pretty.
And big thanks to @hollyethecurious for making the beautiful banner for this story.
Emma shimmied out of the dress sheâd only just pulled on and tossed it onto the bed, on top of three others sheâd already tried on that evening. Killian had told her that heâd booked them a table at one of the fanciest restaurants in the city for the evening, and that if she felt up to it after they had eaten, there was somewhere else they could go to prolong their date. Â
But it was that uncertainty over a secondary venue that had her tearing through her wardrobe, trying desperately to find something to wear. If he was taking her to a classy restaurant, then she needed to wear something more sophisticated. Â But if he was planning on taking her to a club afterwards, then something shorter and easier to dance in would be the better option. Â
She was an inch away from picking up her phone to call off the whole damned thing when she pulled out the last dress she owned. Â It was one sheâd bought on a whim for her graduation ceremony, before deciding that it didnât look right underneath her gown. Emma hadnât even looked at the dress since then.
She slipped the garment from its hanger, before stepping into the fabric and shimmying it up her body. When she finally managed to wiggle the zip all the way up, she ran a hand down herself to smooth out the creases, before turning to take in her appearance in the mirror.
Killian Jones, former crime reporter, was not happy to be home. It hadnât been home in a very long time, after all. Home was an abstract construct that existed for people who didnât know as many adjectives for blood as he did. Home wasnât New York City, but it certainly wasnât Boston or New Orleans either and heâd always gone where the story was. And he was positive Emma Swan was one hell of a story.
Emma Swan, pro video game player, desperately wanted to find home. She thought she had, a million years ago in the back corner of a barn and a town and faces she trusted. But that had all blown up in her face and it didnât take long for her to decide she was going to control the pyrotechnics from here on out. So now she was in New York City and a different corner and she kind of wanted to trust Killian Jones.
Neither one of them expected a year of of video games and feature stories to dredge up old enemies and even older feelings, but, together, they made a pretty good team.
Emma didnât look up, didnât look away from the screen, just hit her thumb, exactly, six times and David scoffed when the door clicked back into the frame. She heard him take a few steps forward, the floorboards creaking under his weight and he must have had a bag or something because it sounded like an anvil when it dropped on the floor.
She hit the âAâ button again. And then nearly growled when she drove off the track.
âAre you honestly sitting here playing MarioKart by yourself?â David continued, still talking and asking questions when Emma was positive he knew she didnât want to do much of anything except play MarioKart by herself and, maybe, punch a hole in his Xbox controller.
He sighed when she didnât answer, dropping onto the arm of the couch and leveling her with a stare he hadnât used since he was nineteen. Emma didnât look away from the screen.
âAlright,â David mumbled, toeing out of his shoes and resting his feet on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. Emma bit back her immediate reprimand, something about Mâs is going to kill you when she finds out you did that because that would be talking and she didnât want to talk and she just wanted to win this goddamn race.
There was a metaphor in there somewhere.
She should probably practice some more of the game, just a week removed from the opening round of the tournament and it had gotten absurdly cold in New York already and that felt like a metaphor too.
God, sheâd driven off the road again. Track. It was called a track. She couldnât even come up with the right words.
It All Starts With a Dance 