Selina quietly observed him from behind the
window as he sat on the couch opposite the fireplace, his lanky frame somewhat
tense, shoulders sagged and head low. It had been a couple of days since Jerome
wrecked havoc on Gotham and tried to murder Bruce, and Selina couldn’t remember
a time when she had felt more terrified for him. The moment she’d learned about
what had happened, she’d gone straight to Wayne manor, not even caring that she
was supposed to be mad at Bruce—she just wanted, needed to make sure he was okay.
A small giggle left your mouth as Liam trailed kisses down your neck, making you shiver in anticipation. Your nails dug into his back, enjoying the sensation of his lips making contact with your skin. He pulled away, a sly grin his face as he bunched the edge of your t-shirt in his hands. This was his favorite part.
“Liam,” you warned, knowing what he was about to do. By now, he owed you ten shirts. His grin grew wider. “Liam Dunbar.”
Your plead fell on deaf ears. With a quick jerk, he tore your t-shirt straight up the middle, exposing your chest and lacy, black bra. A pleased growl rumbled through Liam’s chest, his eyes darkening as he took you in. He reached out, hooking a finger around the middle of your bra. You whimpered as he leaned forward, brushing his whole body along yours, certain parts grinding against others.
“You’re such a fucking tease,” you grumbled, gasping when his extended claw cut your bra in half. “You owe me a new one.”
A breathy laugh left Liam’s mouth. “Along with those ten shirts. I know.” He winked, pulling the tattered remains of your bra out from underneath you and throwing it at your bedroom door.
As soon as your bra smacked against the door, it swung open, revealing Stiles. Your older brother.
You let out a scream, fumbling for your blanket to hide yourself from Stiles. Liam scrambled off the bed, making a dive for his jeans that were draped over the back of your desk chair.
“What the fuck, Liam?” Stiles yelled, face growing red with anger as he watched Liam hastily pull up his jeans. “Y/N?”
“Stiles, it’s not what it looks like,” you tried, but all you got was a disbelieving look from your brother. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. “Stiles, please.”
Stiles spun around, eyes full of anger. “Y/N, what the hell were you thinking?” He shouted, glaring eyes switching between you and Liam. “And you! She’s my little sister!”
“I-I…” Liam fumbled for words, and so did you, neither of you knowing what to say to defend yourselves.
“Stiles? What’s going-” Scott appeared in the doorway, words falling to a halt when he took in the scene before him. Once the pieces clicked together, his eyes started glowing red. Your face blanched. The two of you were about to die. “Liam, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you fucking kidding me right now? There is no way in hell you are about to get out of this one alive.”
Scott stalked across your bedroom as he spoke his last sentence. Liam gave him his signature puppy dog look, in a last ditch attempt to maybe get out of this one alive. Scott grabbed Liam by the back of the neck, dragging him from your room, growling the whole way out.
Stiles looked back at you and you shrunk underneath his gaze as he pointed a finger. “Don’t think you’re getting away with this. We’ll be back for you once we’re done with him.”
She needs a second job and The Library needs a barista. Who knew she would end up with more than free coffee…
The first time Emma Swan tastes coffee, she is six. Her foster mom leaves a cup unattended as she goes to answer the phone (one of those old kinds with the long, twirling cords that is attached to the wall). It’s bitter. And hot. It burns her tongue and she hates it.
When she is 14 it becomes cool to hang out at the coffee shop, drinking beverages that are more milk than anything else. She has a crush on the barista with the blue streak in his hair. He kisses her behind the store. He tastes like cigarettes. He asks her out on a date but doesn’t turn up at the fair.
She hates coffee again.
At 16, she meets Neal. He takes her to an empty fairground and buys her coffee. (The irony is not lost on her.) She sips and listens as he talks of home and wanting; she falls for him a little after only knowing him for a few hours. He’s real and vital and understands what it’s like: being alone. Feeling lost.
(She should have known it wouldn’t last. Then she’s alone again.)
Years later and it’s become her drug of choice on those cold nights where she needs to stay awake. Bail bonds isn’t glamorous, but it can be lucrative. It’s just unpredictable. Coffee… well, it isn’t. Even the instant kind that clings to the back of your throat has a strange kind of comfort when it’s 4 am and you’ve stared at the same door for six hours.