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The Wife [1/?]

The Wife || Ch 1 ~ 5.2 k || FF.NET&AO3 Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are? A/N: This story was born from this little idea. As you can tell from the summary, it has evolved a lot since then. I’m really excited about this and I want you to have a great experience with me so a couple of things: 1) this is a period piece of sorts in style but I want to be free to make my own rules so don’t expect any historical accuracy. 2) this is very much a CS story and will only become more so but it also has a dose of Knight Rook in it. The Killian Jones here is a nice mix of Hook and Wish!Hook so if that’s your thing - enjoy, if not - no hard feelings. 3) Neal, Regina and Gothel will be the assholes they are. 4) age difference between CS is at about 13 years in case that’s a deal breaker for anyone. This story will require some trigger warnings later on though nothing graphic - revealing them will be a bit spoilery but if you wish to be warned in advance, drop me a message and I’ll give you the gist of anything triggery coming. 5) Enjoy! :*

“This is unacceptable!”

Emma’s shoulders move up and down lightly – lace rustling for a second and then settling back into the serene stillness with which she entered and intends to depart the Nolan residence – not a very lady-like gesture but she supposes – now that she is safely engaged – she needn’t worry quite so much about her every small movement and expression.

“I shall go and talk to her first thing tomorrow.”

She looks up into Mary Margaret Nolan’s fierce eyes – narrowed and flashing like the tips of cocked arrows under her furrowed dark brows. Mary Margaret who never takes anything lying down. Mary Margaret who is the picture of grace and good breeding but the paint for said picture is all potent determination.

Emma slowly cocks her head to the side and marvels at the glow of Mary Margaret. It is not simply the glow of a woman early in her much wanted pregnancy, it is that of a woman who, despite everything she has had to face, seems miraculously, almost magically, protected from disaster. They have both had their fair share of troubles and tribulations but Mary has come out rightfully victorious every time.

Emma, on the other hand, feels like each storm has chipped away a little more of her – dousing her fire bit by painful bit until there is something embarrassingly grey and listless about her now.

“There is no need.”

“Emma—“

“You know what she will say. She knows best. She always knows best.”

“Regina may know a lot, it does not signify that she knows best.”

“Well, then let us hope that she knows well enough.”

She can literally see the anguish on Mary’s face. It pains her. It is not the situation that is causing her friend so much heartache but Emma’s acceptance of it. But while anguish sits prettily on a face as exquisite as Mrs Nolan’s, it is not made to sit there long.

“I believe my cook might know his, I will—“

“Mary, no.”

“But—“

“No. Please. I will not spy on my husband.”

“He is not your husband yet,” Mary declares almost haughtily with that same stubbornness that drew Emma to her years ago.

“He will be.”

Her friend huffs and glares and Emma’s lips tick up at having so quickly demolished Mary’s composure.

“Besides, it is not spying, it is investigating.”

The smile drops and Emma gives her a droll look. Mary waves her hands around as if she is already collecting gossip from the streets and houses of Storybrooke.

“Just because all the gossip is bad doesn’t mean much. I mean—“ she falters. “It is monstrous of Regina to put you in that position no matter— but, well, who knows how much of it is true.”

“Oh, I’m sure some isn’t and plenty is,” Emma waves her own hand in a dismissive gesture. “I will soon find out for myself and until then I do not intend to care for it. Frankly, I don’t intend to care much afterwards either.”

Mary knows her well enough to recognize the truth in her statement. She is not deterred in the least.

“I should put his name to Tink.”

Emma’s eyes widen and narrow in quick succession despite herself. Now, she does not know this Captain Killian Jones that she is to marry in a week. She certainly does not care for him. And yet, even she cannot deny the pinprick of irritation at the association of her future husband with Madame Superior and her “fairies”. Even though it is probably a justified one.

“Oh, I did not mean…” Mary’s porcelain skin is only more becoming with a light rose tinge to it. “I just meant as a source of information. You know her… her girls know all.”

“And I will tell you again that I do not wish you to spend time and effort and money acquiring information that I will soon be privy to myself.”

“But don’t you wish to be prepared, Emma?”

“I am. Life has made sure of it.”

There is little Killian Jones can do that will shock Emma.

“I must go, Mary.”

“Of course. But know that I still very much intend to speak to your grandmother tomorrow.”

“Please don’t. It will only sour her mood and make matters worse.”

Emma admires the way Mary Margaret can appear shocked each time she encounters Regina Mill’s wide known animosity for her.

*****

“This is all that evil old viper’s doing.”

“Well, she couldn’t have rightly forced him into it.”

“Like hell she couldn’t.”

Ruby observes her grandmother’s thunderous profile for a few seconds before she returns her attention to the stove, shaking her head. There is probably a person strong headed enough to change Mrs Lucas’s opinion after it has been formed. Ruby just doesn’t know them.

“Would it be quite so bad?” she wonders to herself.

Years she has worked the kitchen beside the old woman, years she has tried to sneak boys and girls past her and sometimes she still forgets how scarily good her hearing is. Marvelous for gossip, horrible for muttering to yourself.

Or sneaking around for that matter.

“Of course it would be! Christ, girl! You were not so young as to have forgotten the last one.”

“Who says she has to be like the last one?”

“She hasn’t even met him – what ya think she is marrying him for?”

“Perhaps—“

“It don’t matter what she is like anyway. The missus left a mark deep enough to last him for the next three, if he wished to have them. Which he doesn’t. Heaven knows why he decided to buckle under Regina Mills now.”

“She is quite pretty. A bit wan and cold but—”

“I’ve seen her pretty. Girl looks like she will be blown off by the first gust of autumn. Infirm. Fragile. Mark my words, Ruby, this Miss Emma is exactly the kind of wife that man doesn’t need. And, God help us, everyone will know it at the first sign of trouble.”

*****

Emma rubs her finger over the blue stone, marveling at the transparent smudges left behind. She lays the earring beside its twin in her modest jewelry box.

“You can leave these with Zelena.”

She turns around to see her grandmother enter her room without ceremony. Privacy is not a thing Emma is used to – especially not in the last ten years, but it doesn’t stop the tingle of annoyance that travels down to her fingertips at the intrusion.

“The jewels. A married woman should expect to receive those from her husband, not her overindulgent grandmother.”

Emma swallows the scoff that wants to bubble out and wills away any sentimental attachment she might have felt for the jewels in the box. She was told some were her mother’s but she feels no compulsion to fight Regina over the belongings of a woman she never knew.

“Of course,” she slams the lid of the wooden box and ignores the displeased look Regina sends her way. “Anything else you wish me to leave behind?”

“Why, I expect you to leave all.”

She whirls around – eyes wide and disbelieving despite her desire to remain cool and collected in her grandmother’s presence. The cruel twist to Regina’s mouth – all wrinkles and spite, shows that her slip has been noticed and greatly appreciated. Emma curses in her mind and curls her hands into fists before she opens her mouth.

“All? You expect me to depart with nothing but the clothes on my back?”

“Your wedding gown should be arriving any day now so you won’t be needing those either.”

“My skirts will be a tad short for Zelena,” Emma spits out, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“And a fair bit tight at the bosom but I’m sure she will alter them accordingly.”

She would laugh, if she wasn’t so keenly aware of the humiliation of it all. Regina settles herself on the lone chair in the room with the regality that Emma has hated as long as she can remember.

“I suppose I should thank you for providing me with what comforts you did, while you saw fit,” Emma says sarcastically as she looks around the small and bare room, trying to regain the higher ground.

“You should,” Regina replies as if scorn and sarcasm were none-existent unless they were coming from her own painted lips. “And you should thank me for arranging it so that you will continue on with a roof over your head now that I am unable to carry the burden of you any longer.”

Emma looks at the grey clouds gathering outside her window and rubs her hands over her arms. To the world beyond that pane of glass her marriage to Captain Killian Jones is mostly a simple case of “widower takes on a young bride”.

At 27, Emma isn’t all that young but she is sufficient for Captain Jones’s 40 years of age. His inferior birth is compensated for by his adequate fortune, his disability by his label of a war hero, his cold manner and abstinence from society by the liberties he allowed his late wife. It has all been presented to Emma very matter-of-factly and, on the whole, the deal is perceived in his favour rather than hers. Some – like Mary Margaret – might even frown and shake their heads at Regina’s sacrificing her to a little known man of reported ill-temper and little value and virtue.

Emma expects to find no peace or comfort in her new home and yet, she feels genuine pity for the way the world has dissected Killian Jones and laid him on the cold slab even for his own future wife to observe and judge, if she so pleases. She doesn’t have much to thank Regina for but how little the world truly knows about her is genuinely among the few favours her grandmother has granted her.

Of course, it has been a favour to Regina herself but Emma is all too willing to benefit as well. Society – and the man himself – doesn’t know what Killian Jones is buying. Emma does. She looks Regina in the eye and marvels at how alive the old woman’s face is – with a vicious energy to trample and ascend but with an energy none the less. She wonders how washed out her own complexion must look in comparison.

“Thank you,” she says without scorn or sarcasm.

Regina’s lips twitch again.

“Of course I cannot do everything for you,” she says smoothly and Emma stiffens.

Stripping her of all her worldly possessions was just a precursor – the groundwork for the true blow Regina has come to deliver, and, even though she can conceive of little she fears anymore, Emma feels her heart double its efforts anxiously.

“I wanted you to know that Captain Jones is not aware of certain… limitations of yours.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I imagine it would make a fine topic for your wedding night.”

“Regina, no. You cannot— He must know before. He—“

“He knows enough,” her grandmother grits out. “He knows what will immediately concern him and you.”

“Knows…,” Emma shakes her head helplessly. “I cannot just—“

“You can do as you please after you have said your vows.”

“You should have told him.”

“But of course! Because you are not a hard enough sell as it is.”

Emma’s mouth shuts audibly.

“He barely sees his own daughter,” Regina says dismissively as she gets to her feet. “You might have no trouble at all.”

*****

“Granny is happy,” Alice whispers sarcastically in her ear before she links her arm through Ruby’s and tugs her away from the dirty plates.

Another servant might have a token protest for her. Ruby does not. Ruby has missed the nervous energy and youthful glow of Alice Jones.

“When isn’t she? My grandmother, the resident termagant.”

She has missed her laugh as well – loud and addictive as always.

“I know I should be all questions and confusion but I’m just too happy to be back,” Alice almost yells out the last part and lets go of Ruby to turn in a circle with her arms spread wide.

Ruby shakes her head fondly. She is glad as well, though she knows it cannot last, knows that – much as she loves her father – it won’t be long before Alice starts feeling homesick and heartsick. She steers them back toward the abandoned picnic.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say he is getting married just to have you back for a bit.”

Alice’s smile turns a bit wistful and she shrugs, smoothing her hopelessly wrinkled skirts.

“I was here just this spring.”

“That was more than three months ago!”

“Well, I’m certain it would’ve cost papa less to take us all for a vacation in Europe than to marry some fabulous lady.”

“She is not all that. Her grandmother was – still likes to think she is, I hear – but this Miss Emma isn’t overly fond of society apparently. Granny says all the worse, she probably thinks herself too good for it but…”

“You think not?” the tentative hope in Alice’s voice mirrors the one in her own heart.

“I hope not.”

Alice drops on the picnic blanket and looks up for the source of the bird song above, her brows furrowed in thought. Ruby has learnt that one can never tell if she is pondering the mysteries of existence or daydreaming about the pudding this evening.

“Why wouldn’t he find someone who really—“

Ruby feels her heart crumble along with Alice’s face but tries to plaster a smile on her own.

“He has you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” the girl sighs dejectedly and Ruby hopelessly searches for a distraction, a way to—

“Miss Lucas, call for doctor Hopper, please!”

Both girls whirl around to see Killian Jones coming toward them with quick strides, the line between his brows as deep as when he pours over his papers. His hat and cravat are absent and the sun glints off the silver streaks in his hair and unkempt beard. They have to talk him into shaving that for the wedding.

“What’s the matter?” Ruby exclaims as Alice scrambles to her feet.

“My daughter,” Jones gestures at the girl in question with a concerned expression. “She has been here a full day now and has yet to get on the new horse I have procured for her.”

Ruby huffs and plants her hands on her hips while Alice unashamedly rolls her eyes at her father.

“I thought we were waiting for the lady of the house.”

Killian drops his faux concern and frowns with true feeling before levelling his girl with a firm look.

“You are the lady of the house and shall wait on no one.”

Alice’s blush is fierce and the way she fiddles with her long arms more befitting an eight-year-old than a young woman of nineteen. Ruby angles her head away so her grin isn’t terribly obvious.

“Come,” Killian extends his right hand to his daughter and she takes it eagerly. “Let us see if I have finally managed to find a beast that you can’t drive to exhaustion in an afternoon.”

*****

“Hmm, it’s quite nice.”

Emma smiles a little at her friend’s reluctant tone. The dress is beautiful, if a bit too ostentatious for Emma’s taste. Not that Emma has ever been given the chance to really find out what her own taste is like. She supposes she never will now. But if garments like this are what she has to content herself with, Emma thinks she hardly has a right to complain.

“So… would you like to hear it?”

“Hear what?” she looks at Mary over her shoulder as she carefully lays her wedding dress aside.

It’s not the dress that has made an impression on Emma but rather the note that accompanied it. She was expecting the former but the latter was a surprise. The fact that it made her smile even more so.

But it doesn’t feel quite right to show that to Mary Margaret. She knows most women – especially married women, especially when it concerns their husbands – have few secrets from their closest confidants but Emma has always been good at keeping secrets. Even from Mrs Nolan.

“What Tink had to say.”

“Mary, you didn’t! I explicitly told you—“

“I didn’t ask her about that. Well, I mean…”

Emma sighs, any impulse to confide in her friend now gone.

“Go on then,” she says tiredly as she sits on the edge of her bed across from Mary.

“Well… Tink said the late Mrs Jones used to come around to Madame Superior’s every month or so…”

Emma sighs again and looks at the white lace that awaits her. There is only one reason wives go to Madame Superior’s – to look for their husbands. What is more, they only do so when things are so bad that they do not care who knows they are there looking for their husbands.

“Yet she assured me she has never seen Captain Jones there.”

“What?”

“I know. I didn’t understand it either but Tink was adamant. She asked around. No one has.”

Why on earth would the wife be there, if the husband was not?

“Was she…” Emma purses her lips, unwilling to finish her thought in Mary Margaret’s presence.

“Hmmm? Oh!” her friend’s eyes widen almost comically. “Oh, no, no! Nothing like that. It seemed exactly like any other case – desperate wife looking for her wayward husband but… apparently she didn’t have any luck there.”

Emma frowns deeply, her thoughts starting to run away from her before she waves them off like pesky flies. This is exactly what she wished to avoid.

“Well, I hate to say it but with this information – I hardly think you got your money’s worth, Mary.”

“Tink wanted to avoid my thinking exactly that,” she replies with a glimmer in her eye that immediately makes Emma suspicious. “So she told me something else. Nothing terribly secret I’m sure just… ancient history as they say. That few people seem to know or remember today.”

Emma waits for a beat or two before she realizes that Mary desires to be prompted into revealing the intelligence she has bought. Frankly, she does not care for it, but the last thing she wants is to disappoint her friend.

“Go on then.”

“Well, it appears that Mrs Jones wasn’t supposed to be Mrs Jones at all.”

Emma frowns and feels herself lean slightly forward despite her best intensions. The silence stretches again.

“Are the dramatic pauses truly necessary?”

Mary has the decency to blush.

“Yes, I— Alright, sorry. Apparently, Captain Jones – coming back from the war a hero and all, got engaged to some famous beauty, a Milah something or other. But then, less than a month before the wedding, he called off the whole thing. And not a week later he was married to this Eloise Gardner. And— and a telling number of months later came the baby.”

“Oh,” Emma looks down at her hands in her lap. She hears Mary stand up and come to sit beside her but she doesn’t lift her eyes until her friend’s own delicate hands move to clasp her cold ones.

“Emma, don’t you see? This is wonderful!”

“Wonderful?”

“Of course. When we tell Regina, she will have no choice but to call off—“

“No.”

“I— I beg your pardon?”

“We’re not telling my grandmother or anyone else. She probably knows anyway. As you just said, this does not sound like a secret. Just gossip too old to matter.”

And like Killian Jones at least attempted to fix the mess he’d made.

“Too old to ma— Emma, this sounds like he was engaged to one woman and—“

“Yes, I can do the calculations, Mary.”

“And you do not care?”

“It does not matter, if I care or not.”

“How can—“

“Please, I— I need to prepare for tomorrow.”

Mary sits frozen for a long moment until Emma’s hard look seems to prompt her into action. She is at the door already before she looks back once more.

“When everyone is trying to do wrong by you, Emma, there is no need for you to join them.”

She sits for a few moments, staring at the door long after it has closed behind Mary Margaret’s back. Then her eyes flit over the white lace again and land on the note that had come with it. She leans to the side and reaches over, her fingers snagging the paper’s edge.

Dear Miss Emma,

Your grandmother has provided your measurements and insisted that you need not be consulted about the dress that you shall be married in. It seems a queer custom to me but I should not meddle in your affairs, nor fault you if you have no particular interest in either dress or ceremony.

Unfortunately, I am rather ignorant of the current fashions for young ladies and was thus forced to seek help. I believe my daughter’s tastes often run towards the unusual and somewhat extravagant but I did emphatically ask her to be as sensible as possible.

I sincerely hope the garment chosen is to your satisfaction. But were it not, please, do not hesitate to return it – I have been assured that the seamstress has many more to offer.

Sincerely,

Killian Jones

She taps her finger over the name. By tomorrow night she will be Emma Jones. The fact has brought her neither joy, nor pain since Regina presented it to her. It has hardly ignited her curiosity, even after Mary Margaret’s insistence on scrutinizing Captain Jones. This was always one of the possible outcomes for her – frankly, one of the better ones. She has been prepared.

But it is only now, with this note in her hand, that she feels almost calm.

It appears Killian Jones is simply human after all. She will do well to remember that most humans have shown her little kindness but she still feels better now that her future husband is not just some abstract and malignant force for her to face blindly.

*****

“I do not have any.”

Ruby frowns at the woman before her. She looks so out of place – her white dress and pale face making her appear like a snowflake among the sunshine and purple flowers around them.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. Should we expect your luggage after the ceremony?”

“No, I— I’m not bringing anything. I have nothing to bring.”

Ruby opens her mouth to rephrase her question yet again but then she notes the way Miss Emma draws a carefully measured breath and tries to keep her back straight, her green eyes everywhere but on Ruby, her posture stiff, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso.

She is embarrassed.

“That’s... I see. Do you need anything at present, ma’am?”

The bride shakes her head but still refuses to look at her and Ruby can’t help but take the opportunity to make her escape.

And now what?

She has to tell someone or the lady of the house will be coming down to breakfast tomorrow in her wedding dress like some crazy, gothic horror bride. Granny is out of the question – she already hates her, learning that the woman’s dowry is nothing but the good weather they’ve been blessed with will certainly only make matters worse. The other servants will be of no help. The grandmother is probably well aware of the situation, if she is not its very maker.

It’s either Killian or Alice. And fate has obviously decided that it shall be both when she spots them as soon as she walks through the French doors.

“Your bride must be a real treasure, Captain Jones, seeing as she comes with none,” Ruby starts brusquely and less kindly than she intended.

Killian blinks at her in confusion.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The mistress has come with literally nothing but the dress on her back.”

“I do not understand,” Killian huffs and pulls on the cuffs of his left sleeve, fidgeting the way he has been every time someone mentioned his future wife. “What is the issue? I assured Regina she will be provided with all that she needs.”

“Splendid,” Ruby claps her hands together. “Shall I take her shopping right now or in two hours after you are quite finished with the ceremony?”

“I am sure tomorrow will be agreeable, Ruby.”

“And should I take her shopping in her wedding dress?”

Killian blinks at her a couple of times before he seems to grasp the full extent of the situation. Something dark and thunderous passes over his face and Ruby almost regrets telling him. The woman seemed embarrassed enough as it was, Ruby did not wish to get her into even more trouble.

But the cloud passes as quickly as it appeared and now Killian’s expression is one she is much more familiar with – cool and businesslike.

“I can give her a few things,” Alice chimes in before her father can open his mouth.

“Sweetheart—“

“No, truly, it’s no bother. The measurements for the wedding dress were similar enough. Similar enough for a nightgown and a dress to wear for a day.”

Ruby is already rocking on her heels, ready to go, as Killian mulls the suggestion over. His sigh is resignation and fondness all at once.

“Very well. Put some sleeping garments and a couple of Alice’s dresses in her room and take her to the shops first thing tomorrow, understood?”

*****

She is going to tell him before they get to that alter. That’s the single thought that Emma repeated to herself like a mantra on the ride to her future home. And now that they are here her determination is cold and heavy as lead where it sits in her stomach and Regina’s fingers are like claws where they clamp onto her arm.

“Now you listen to me. If you walk out of this place an unmarried woman – you are walking out on the street.”

Her breath is nauseatingly sweet but her threat is thankfully sharp and short as usual. In the next second Regina is making her way across the garden as if she owns every blade of grass and flower bloom and Emma heads inside the house to put as much distance between them as possible.

The sun is shining brightly for “her special day” and it takes her eyes a few seconds to blink away the white spots and adjust to the dimness inside. She lets them take in the home that she will soon bind herself to because simply stepping in has made it painfully clear to Emma that she is a coward and will not be seeking out her betrothed for an audience before the ceremony. She knows Regina makes no idle threats.

It is a moderately sized house and she is glad for it – a little bigger and it would’ve felt daunting, a little smaller and she would’ve felt trapped. The Jones’s home is well-kept even if it doesn’t look particularly lived in. The light seems to enter muted and subdued and aside from the powder white curtains, most of the interior is dark and somehow severe. She encounters at least half a dozen moaning floorboards on her walk around the ground floor. With all the guests out in the garden, the only other sound is her soft gasp when she peaks into the library.

Now, Emma isn’t inordinately fond of books but she is completely enamored with libraries – with the quietness and safety of them. A library in a house is little less than the eye in the middle of the storm, far as she is concerned. Unfortunately, it looks like it is also the room that sees the most of the family, if all the scattered books, writing implements and glasses left to ring the wooden surfaces are anything to go buy. She hums when she spots all the nautical touches – Killian Jones is a naval man on more than just paper.

But Emma does not care about furniture or decorations, about how light or dark the house is, she does not even care that the library probably won’t become her sanctuary. All she cares about is that unlike Regina’s imposing residence, there is scarcely any stone or marble to be seen, most of everything is made of dark, polished wood, covered in thick carpets and filled with deep settees. All she cares about is that it’s not freezing cold.

The first rumor about Killian Jones that falls apart in front of her eyes is that he does not care much for his daughter. Emma stands just behind the door through which she is supposed to enter the garden and watches Alice Jones adjust her father’s cravat. She never knew her own parents but if she had, the way Captain Jones is looking at his daughter is the way she would’ve dreamt of them looking at her at least once.

Soon – too soon – admiral Liam Jones strides toward them like he is about to gather his fleet and send them into battle. She knows he is slightly older than his brother but one would never be able to tell by looking at them. Liam Jones’s greying strands are just a soft accent in his lighter hair, he is clean-shaven and filling out his jacket just right. He stands tall and confident and seemingly ready for anything.

As he ushers his brother and niece toward the plain arch where the small ceremony will take place, Emma knows someone will soon come to collect her as well so she takes a shaky breath and prays it’s not Regina.

She gets her first proper look at Killian Jones when she comes to stand across from him at the altar and Killian Jones looks every bit his age and then some. She finds him much more handsome than his brother and infinitely sadder. His own broad shoulders exude exhaustion and the lines on his face speak of more agitation than laughter. His eyes are the bluest she has ever seen and for a moment Emma is afraid they will chill her even more. But Killian’s eyes are warm, if tired, impossibly deep, if carefully guarded. His voice sounds like a smoking room and the grey in his dark hair stands out like a shock to the body after a stiff drink. She supposes a lady should not know how that feels. Killian looks like he knows how that feels. He looks like he would like to be reminded right this second, in the middle of their proclamations to “love and cherish”.

Despite the bright sun and the soft breeze, Emma feels cold the way she always does. It could be her imagination or it could be that her fingernails are really tinged blue. When they are pronounced husband and wife, Killian’s lips feel scorching hot at the corner of her mouth. It is the briefest of touches and she feels the seed of gratitude within her as he pulls away.

Then she thinks what a ridiculous pair they make – a frigid cold bride and an already exhausted groom. This will go marvelously.

Tagging a bunch of cuties who were interested in the idea: @bmbbcs4evr@laschatzi @darkcolinodonorgasm @shireness-says @profdanglaisstuff @courtorderedcake @passports-and-postagestamps @nikkiemms @winterbaby89 @wyntereyez @sherlockianwhovian @mayquita @cocohook38 @naiariddle @omgdgeorge @aloha-4-ever @idristardis @snotelek @mashipssm @yasbio2015 If you wanna be tagged in future updates (or if you want me to fuck off your mentions :D), just drop me a line ;)

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