#cs crack

[db3at]

I love CS on crack 🥴🥴

[elizabeethan]

The Swan and her Handler

Emma Swan was cursed, and the only way to break it is with True Love's Kiss. Try breaking a curse with True Love's Kiss when you're a damn swan.

Yes, it's true, I've written a CS AU based on Walnut the Crane, a crane who fell in love with her handler. I'm ashamed at how idiotic this is. It’s by far the dumbest thing I've ever written in all my life. It’s nothing more than crack written in about an hour, un-betaed and barely edited. Sorry, and you’re welcome.

Rated T for language

~2000 words

Read my other stuff

Read on Ao3

These damn idiots can’t get anything right. It was bad enough when Emma showed up on their doorstep with perfectly clear care instructions that were completely ignored, but now they keep trying to get her to reproduce as if she’s some kind of zoo animal. 

  Of course, given her current living situation, it does make at least a tiny bit of sense. 

  Ever since the curse, Emma has been stuck in a wildlife refuge and has been unable to get any of her stupid caretakers to figure out how to help her. She knows exactly what she needs, but unfortunately, no one here speaks swan and she can’t exactly hold a pen. Her care instructions were translated upon her transformation, so the one thing that could have helped her now looks like chicken-- er, swan scratch. 

  “She needs a mate,” one of the jack asses points out. “She’ll probably want to mate for life.”

  True, she thinks, although, not with any of the stinky fluff balls you have sent my way.  

  First it was Neal. He tried to mate with her, so she killed him. Last week, they put Walsh in her enclosure, and she pecked at him violently until they took pity on him and sent him to the medical unit. 

  Although today seems different, because her newest caretaker has shown up, and she realizes that he just might be exactly what she’s been looking for. 

Emma Swan, unfortunately very appropriately named, requires a mate who can break her curse, True Loves Kiss the only thing that can bring her back to her truest form as a human adult woman. And when the new dark haired, stunning eyed veterinarian comes strutting into her enclosure, she hurries towards him to get a closer look at his name tag. 

  He jumps away, making some comment about her being fiery , and she blushes, squawking at him as she tries to get closer. Killian , it reads, and if she had lips and not a bill, she would smile. 

  “We think she’s depressed,” the stupid one with the big eyes says. “She’s killed every mate we’ve tried to pair her with.” 

  Good, she thinks. I must have done more damage on Walsh than I initially thought.  

  “You’re just misunderstood, aren’t you, love?” the angel-man asks, making her squawk in agreement. She thinks she could make this quick, this man obviously understanding her horrible twist of fate, so she lunges for him once more, trying hard to kiss his hand and hoping beyond hope that it will transform her back into the woman she's supposed to be. No more feathers, she prays. 

  He exclaims again, jumping and complaining of his hand hurting as she pecks him, so she rolls her eyes and squawks angrily. “Alright, darling,” he says with his hands up, his smooth, accented voice making her heart flutter inside her chest. Her breast? She knows very little about swan anatomy, despite having been turned into one. “Perhaps she’s stressed about her environment. Have you tried giving her a dark, quiet place to nest?” 

  “Not yet,” the dumbass admits. 

  The handsome one, Killian, a name she could get used to rolling off of her tongue, steps away from her, so she hurriedly follows. “Perhaps here in this corner will do.” 

  I would love to spend time in a dark corner with you, she thinks, giving the man what she hopes is a salacious smirk. She watches appreciatively as he sits down, crossing his legs as he starts to fiddle with some sticks as if she would be interested in them. Rather than helping him to make a nest out of the twigs and leaves, she plops herself right in his lap, nestling herself into his crossed legs and gazing up at his beautiful features, earning a smile from him. 

  “There we are, love,” he says happily, clearly surprised that she chose to plant herself upon him, although he shouldn't be. Just look at him, for god’s sake. “Comfortable?” 

  She squawks loudly, making him cringe, then fluffs her feathers in an attempt to gussy herself up for him. If she’s going to earn True Love’s Kiss from this perfect specimen, she’s going to have to work for it. The man chuckles as he looks down at her-- is he gazing? -- and lifts his hand slowly, placing a finger gently upon the top of her head and petting back down her neck, sending a chill down her spine, at least she thinks it’s her spine. She pushes her head towards him again, demanding more attention in an effort to get him to fall for her. It shouldn’t take long; she’s very enchanting. 

  “She’s never been this calm,” the dumb one says, making her snap her head towards him with a glare, shouting at him in disapproval. Killian shushes her soothingly, his finger softly stroking along her stupid feathers once more and making her shut her eyes. 

  “She just needed a bit of attention, it seems.” 

  “We’d best be careful,” someone else says, the bookworm who always thinks she knows everything about swan science. Of course, she probably knows more than Swan Emma. “We wouldn’t want her to imprint on you ,” she seems to joke. 

  “That’s quite alright, isn’t it love?” he asks her, essentially giving her permission to fall in love with this handsome bastard. 

  He comes by a few times a week for the next several months, each time sitting with her in her tiny, dirty nest and not seeming to care that his pants get soiled. She’s always careful to do her business elsewhere, making sure that her prince can sit in comfort when he arrives. She gets angry with him when he brings someone new, a sickly looking male named Graham who she assures is not welcome, so Killian gives up trying to get her to mate with someone. For some reason, they're concerned about her procreating, but she can assure everyone that she will not be giving birth to a damn swan baby while she’s under this curse. 

  One day, when Killian visits near the end of his shift, he’s finally alone, leaving behind the dumb one and the book worm and giving her all of the attention she desires as his strong hand softly pets along her soft feathers. She can’t wait to get rid of these stupid feathers. 

  “You’re quite funny,” he remarks as the sun starts to set. “Unlike any swan I’ve ever met.”

  She squawks at him-- I’m not a damn swan-- and he smiles. “Quire the personality. It always seems like you’re trying to communicate with me.” 

  Yes, you stupid handsome man, that’s exactly right! She tries to nod, lifting and dropping her head in quick succession and making the beauty laugh. She nudges her head against his hand in demand of more pets. 

  “What is it you want me to know, darling?” he asks gently, his voice soft and soothing and deep. 

  She groans, a sound that comes out like a pained cry, and his face shifts. “Are you alright, love?” 

  In pure frustration, Emma drops her head against the man’s chest, likely assaulting him with how badly she smells like bird shit, and he chuckles again, letting his hand run along her feathers some more. “There, there. I know life as a swan must be difficult. All you seem to want is for someone to listen.” 

  She looks up, hoping that her expression conveys her complete and utter irritation at the fact that he’s literally hitting the nail on the head and yet he has no idea. 

  “Such a personality,” he says again. “I’ve got to head home now, love. I’m looking forward to having Chinese for dinner. Perhaps I'll bring you an eggroll tomorrow, or is that insensitive?” 

  She squawks, half because she’s laughing, and half because she would quite literally kill another potential mate for an eggroll. Wanting to beg him not to go, she gives him her best sad face through her inability to emote, and nestles her head against his palm one more time. 

  “I’ll sneak you one, love,” he laughs, and as he does, he finally, finally , leans down towards her, and plants his stupid, dumb, lucious lips upon the top of her stinky bird head. 

  Cramps start to run through her whole stupid bird body, the same ones she felt when she was cursed on Halloween decades ago. He stands, not seeming to notice her pain and discomfort until he’s a few steps away, and he turns back around. “Swan, are you alright?” he asks, as if she could answer, and she shouts back at him wordlessly. 

  She praises whatever gods might be listening as she feels things start to change, her feathers shedding as her skin is exposed to the chilly fall air. The webbing between her toes retracts, her legs turning flesh colored rather than that horrifying orange. Her bill turns back into her nose and mouth, preparing her to smooch her savior rather than peck at him. Finally, she’s back!

  “Bloody fucking hell,” Killian breathes as he stares on, Emma transforming back into her old self, laying in a heap on the ground as she brushes off the dirt and twigs and leaves. 

  “You did it,” she praises before clearing her throat, raw from misuse after all these years. She grins at him as she’s been wanting to since they met, and is met with a horrified, shocked look on his face. His jaw is gaping, his eyes wide as they catch the light of the setting sun. “I knew you would.” 

  “What the fuck?” 

  “You broke the curse,” she says happily, standing up and exposing her nude form to him, cursing the lack of feathers although she vowed she never would. Immediately, he removes his jacket, despite his shock still clearly running through him, and hands it to her. 

  “I did what now?”

  “I was cursed. Why do you think I was such a miserable swan?” 

  He’s looking around, his mouth snapping shut and dropping open in succession as he tries to process the fact that there was a swan in the enclosure just a second ago, and now there’s a frankly beautiful, naked woman standing before him. “You were cursed,” he says doubtfully. 

  “Yes, I was. An evil witch cursed me on Halloween decades ago and I've been stuck in that infernal bird form ever since. All I needed was True Love’s Kiss to break it, but imaging trying to fall in love with someone as a damn bird.” 

  “So you… you fell in love… with me…?” 

  “Obviously,” she smiles, taking a step towards him on shaky legs, tripping and falling into his waiting arms as he catches her, careful not to grope her, although she isn’t sure she would mind. “And you broke the curse, so… Do I have to tell you what that means?”

  “I-- I’m having a lot of trouble processing the fact that I've evidently been in love with a swan for months.” 

  “Well, my name is Emma Swan, so you can be in love with a Swan for the rest of your life, if you’d like.” 

  “Emma,” he murmurs, staring into her eyes and smiling when he seems to recognize her. She’s never been able to see herself in the mirror, because the book worm was worried she would attack it, but based on the way he’s staring, she would guess that the evil witch let her keep her eyes. “Do you know it just happens to be Halloween tonight?”

  “Kismet,” she says softly, gazing up at him. He lifts his hand like he did while she was planted in his lap, and she’s finally able to feel his calloused finger along the skin of her cheek, then of her neck, just as he had done before. 

  “Aye,” he agrees. “The spirit of the holiday does make this whole thing a bit easier to accept.” 

  “Yeah,” she says dismissively. “Now take me home. I was promised an eggroll and I haven't eaten anything but grass and stale bread in almost thirty years.”

~~~~

Tagging (with apologies):

@courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64 @onceratheart18 @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @swampmedusa @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @ouatpost @daxx04 @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @therooksshiningknight @eeteeaytay @xsajx @itsfridaysomewhere @alexa-fangirl-forever @jonesfandomfanatic @wefoundloveunderthelight @qualitycoffeethings @rapunzelsghosts @spaceconveyor @badcats-andmice @batana54 @sailtoafarawayland @deckerstarblanche @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @pirateprincessofpizza @captainswan21 @hookedmom @lostintheskyfaraway @undercaffinatednightmare @strangestarlighttree

[initiala]

me, sitting up in a cold sweat while listening to the BFU Roswell episode again:

“One of the major players in the story is Colonel Blanchard, AU where Killian is a crazy UFO-ologist and tracks Emma down via her connection as his granddaughter to talk about the crash, Emma thinks he’s a lunatic”

[wistfulcynic]

The Parquet Man

Not long ago, on a Discord not far away, @thisonesatellite posed a simple question. “What is Captain Floor?” she asked. The answer... spiralled. And turned into crack fic ideas. One of which she wrote. And I DIED LAUGHING. 

When I came back to life it was as one inspired... to write the same story, from a different point of view. The result... well, Stephanie and I have always known we share a brain, but this may be the reason why the two halves were separated in the first place. 

@mariakov81 and @stahlop bear some responsibility as well. Particularly Maria, for EGGING THIS ON. 

I am going to tag @kmomof4 for REASONS and @darkcolinodonorgasm because I know you love Captain Floor. Also @snidgetsafan for helping me think of puns on perfect/parquet. And @teamhook and @thejollyroger-writer and @shireness-says and @resident-of-storybrooke JUST BECAUSE. 

AO3

Rating: T

Words: <3k

Part One, By @thisonesatellite

I am a gorgeous hardwood floor. People say that all the time. It’s the first thing I hear when people enter the apartment in which i make up the walking surface. Seriously. Everyone who comes in says, “Oh, what a gorgeous hardwood floor!” I’ve tried not to let it go to my head, especially since I technically do not have a head, but what’s a floor to do? When all you can do is lie there and be gorgeous. I mean, I’m not bad. I’m just laid that way. In intricate parquet inlays, thank you very much. I was a lot of work.

So anyway. The last family who occupied the apartment had two small children and a dog, and now some of my blocks are loose. It’s really no state for a decent floor to be in. I’m very happy they finally moved out. If the agent weren’t showing the apartment all day every day. And I really don’t mind hearing “Oh, what a gorgeous hardwood floor!” every hour on the hour, but seriously people, can you take your shoes off? It’s snowing outside! You are tracking slush across my beautiful finish, and I---

Oh. My. God. Wait a minute. Wait a goddamn minute. Who is this gorgeous specimen of a human male? AND WHY IS HE NOT COMMENTING ON MY BEAUTY?

I’m calm, I’m calm. I’m perfectly calm. But really, you would lose your varnish, too, if you had seen this dish of a man. Do people still say ‘dish’? I was laid 60 years ago, I don’t know from vernacular. Stop laughing.

That man is gorgeous. And not looking at me at all. He is flirting with the real estate agent in the loveliest accent, and now he’s all “Oh, lovely space, lots of light”-- yes, we have windows, it’s not the Eighth Wonder of the Ancient World! -- and admiring the wainscoting. Seriously? I’m right here in all my honey-colored hardwood glory! And now he’s walking around looking at the paneled ceiling and ---OOOF.

WOW. Hello there. He slipped in one of the puddles people have been tracking in here all day and has fallen face-first on top of me, and I think that counts as a genuine kiss. His lips touched my blocks.

I will never be the same.

Oh god - his eyes are so blue. He’s just so beautiful. And now he’s looking at me. I can hear the agent sputtering apologies in the background-- could you please shut it and give us a moment? “That’s a very nice floor.” Finally, he notices me. I just love his voice. Could you please stay--- oh, he’s getting up. Oh, the feeling of loss. I really hope he--- yes, that’s him saying he’ll take the apartment.

I’m in heaven.

-/-

His name is Killian and he’s been walking all over me for several months now. He takes his shoes off like a gentleman, although he did not put enough padding under the couch when he moved in, and I now have three scratches in the upper left hand corner. But that’s OK. They’re practically love bites. He wears nice soft socks, and sometimes he slides across me on his way to the couch, and let me tell you, that does things to a floor. Lovely things. I love him so much. Especially when he gets into the rum. Twice now he’s gotten drunk and slipped off the sofa and slept the night on top of me. I rearranged my blocks both times so he wouldn’t get edge imprints on his gorgeous face. I do have some mobility after all.

But recently a woman has been stopping by. Ugh. The first time seemed innocent enough - it seems she needed a screwdriver. Apparently she lives across the hall and had a loose cabinet. Or something. He went to help her - didn’t I tell you he was a gentleman? - and I thought that was the end of it.

But now she’s been coming over. And I don’t like the way he looks at her. I mean - he looks at her the way he looked at the stupid wainscoting. Anyone can be a panel! It’s a wall covering, people! It takes skill and intricacy and craftsmanship to be a parquet floor!

So anyway, this woman. Emma. The way he says her name makes my glossy finish go dull in places. It’s revolting. And he’s taken a break from the rum. He hasn’t slept on me in weeks. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t slept in his apartment in weeks. He must be spending his nights at her place, and from what I hear, she has carpet. CARPET! It’s a travesty. And a tragedy. He’s just leaving me here to dwell on my thoughts, all alone. While he goes somewhere with carpet. I’ve got two different kinds of wood! I guess men are not that familiar with wood. I miss him.

So next time she comes by, I take action. What’s a floor to do? I shift my inlay and make her stumble into the wall. With a lovely, loud thump. Immensely satisfying. And Peter lets me know that the impact was sizeable. (Peter’s the side wall. We have a good rapport. He gives me all the gossip. He borders the window, so I know everything that goes on outside.) And Killian gushes all over her. Asks if she’s all right, and can he get her anything, and will she please sit down, when I’m the one with the dislocated block! I SEE, IT’S ALL ABOUT THE BLONDE NOW!

I am fuming. That’s not a good look on hardwood, let me tell you. But then he comes up and shoves my block back into place and---- oh, honey! That was a little rough. I like it. OK - that almost makes up for the fact that he’s still fussing over her. I’m just going to have to--- OOOMPH. A kiss! He kissed me again! Now, that was not my fault. He just stumbled over the coffee table, but really, I’ll take him any way I can get him. His scruff scratched all along my varnish, and oh, baby. OH BABY.

OK, OK, I’m good now.

Wait. I just caught a snippet of their conversation and they are talking about moving in together. INTO HER PLACE. NOOOOOO!!!!! Apparently, Emma doesn’t feel safe here. I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY. Come over here, strumpet, and I’ll re-introduce you to Peter, the wall. You could be very happy, banging together on a regular basis. Do people still say ‘strumpet’? I told you I don’t know from vernacular. Oh god, my life is ending. He’s going to LEAVE ME. I am floorboardbroken. Be still my beating inlay! How will I survive? I’ll just warp and buckle, you’ll see. Not a day will go by when I won’t think of you……

-/-

It’s been two long, long months since Killian left. I miss him so much. I miss his socks, and the way he just slid over me. No one will ever be able to take his place--- WHOA.

The real estate agent just brought in the next prospective tenant, and hellooooooooooo gorgeous. WOW. Wait, wait - what’s your name, I didn’t quite catch… ah. Ruby.

Well, honey. You have curves in ALL the right places. And your stilettos - you know, I’m usually a stickler for people taking their shoes off, but your heels are doing amazing things to my pieces. Ooooh - they’re like pressure massages.

OK. I like you. Please take this apartment. We are going to have an epic time, I can already tell. You’ll just have to wax me on occasion.

_________________________________________

Part Two, by @profdanglaisstuff

Killian Jones considers himself pretty damn knowledgeable about floors.

Not in a professional capacity, of course —he’s a librarian, not a builder— but as someone who routinely finds himself face down on a variety of flooring surfaces he’s quite certain he counts as an amateur of Olympic standing.

He falls down a lot, okay?

His mind has always worked much faster than his body, specifically his feet, and the results… well, they haven’t always been pretty. There was that time in the woods for example, with the patch of poison ivy, and— yeah, he’s never gone hiking since.

So when he chooses flats he tends to go for ones with wall-to-wall carpeting. Or at least some area rugs. Which is a shame because he’s also a man who appreciates an older house with some good wainscoting and the carpeted places tend to be newer. They’ve got no style. And whatever Killian Jones does —even falling on his face— he does it with style.

He likes this flat immediately— it’s got great natural light and the wainscoting is fabulous— but he’s concerned about the parquet floor. It’s beautiful of course, but it looks like it might leave marks on his face and he’s pretty sure he spotted a few loose boards. That’s just asking for trouble. Regretfully, he decides not to take the flat but as he turns to ask the agent what else is available he slips in a puddle of slush and falls…

Onto the gentlest floor he’s ever encountered. He’d swear it caught him, cushioned him, and when his lips press against the varnished wood he’s not sure if the floor kisses him back or if he’s just losing his mind. It might not matter.

“This is a nice floor,” he says, staring at it.

“Yep,” the agent agrees. “It’s original.”

Killian stands, feeling a small pang of loss when the floor is merely under his feet again.

“I’ll take it,” he says.

-/-

The first few months in the new flat are rough. He’s drinking a lot, still trying to get over Milah. He moved to a new continent to forget her but she’s still in his dreams unless he drinks her out of them, and when he does the floor is there for him.

Literally. He wakes up sprawled out on it more times than he cares to count. But never, he notices, with parquet marks on his face.

He’s glad of that. His face is a damn good one, if he says so himself. And he does. Often.

The floor takes care of him and in return he tries to take care of it. He takes his shoes off at the door —he is a gentleman, after all— and sometimes he slides across it to get to the sofa, Risky Business-style. This is the first floor he’s been able to do that on without falling on his arse. He appreciates that.

He buys new socks to wear on it. Soft ones. Cashmere. It’s the least he can do. He may be a leetle bit in love with this floor.

But everything changes when he meets her. Emma. The goddess from across the hall. He’s been trying for weeks to work up the nerve to talk to her and then she just knocks on his door like it’s no thing, asking for a screwdriver.

He barely manages to stop himself from making a seriously offensive remark, something about if she needs a good screwing he’s happy to help.

Sometimes his mouth is as awkward as his feet.

Instead he fetches the screwdriver, watches in awe as she fixes her cabinet with a few deft twists of her wrist, and for the first time since Milah died thinks he might be able to move on.

Thank fuck he didn’t say the thing about the screwing.

Emma keeps stopping by; there are a remarkable number of things she’s ‘lost’ or ‘forgotten to buy’ and needs to borrow, and Killian’s been out of the game for a long time but he’s still able to recognise a thinly-veiled excuse when he hears one, and so after the third time she shows up asking for a cup of sugar he takes the plunge and kisses her.

And falls hopelessly in love.

He knows he’s got a stupidly besotted expression on his face when he looks at her and longing in his voice when he says her name but he doesn’t care. He’s completely gone for her and by some monumental stroke of luck she seems to feel the same.

Killian has never been happier. He stops drinking and spending nights passed out on the floor, spending them much more enjoyably in bed with Emma instead, and everything is just about perfect.

That is, until the day Emma trips over one of those damned loose boards in his floor and falls face first into the wall with a resounding thud, and though she tries to brush off his concern he makes her sit down and gets her a drink and when he pushes the loose board back into place he does so hard. That’ll show the bloody floor not to mess with his woman.

He stalks back to the sofa, determined to teach the floor a lesson, and so of course he trips over the coffee table and face-plants on it. Again.

And the floor is just as soft and gentle as it ever was. Damn. He just can’t stay mad at her.

It. He can’t stay mad at it.

He rubs his chin against the grain of the wood to say sorry and gives the boards a little pat as he stands up.  

He goes to sit on the sofa next to Emma who gives him a Look and tells him they need to talk.

Killian braces for the worst. He’s found that when a woman says that he’s rarely in for a pleasant conversation.

He hopes she hasn’t noticed about him and Floor…

But Emma surprises him. They’ve been spending more and more nights at her place of late, she says —she’s got the same nice wainscoting he does but her floors are carpeted. Soft, thick carpet, of which Killian strongly approves— and every time she comes over to his one or the other of them stumbles over something. She feels unsafe, she says, and also it’s getting annoying. So why doesn’t he just move in and they can live at her place together?

Killian can’t think of a single reason to object. In fact, he kisses her so hard to say ‘yes’ that she has to push him away before he makes her headache worse. By way of apology, he insists on carrying her home, over the threshold of her flat which is now theirs. He carries her all the way to the bed where he makes love to her until she forgets all about her headache. And he forgets all about his floor.

He moves in officially the next day. He doesn’t have many things, so it only takes a few hours. He doesn’t think about the floor, even once.

-/-

Living with Emma is a dream come true. Their lives mesh perfectly and they are deeply in love, incandescently happy. Their floor is softly carpeted but he falls down less, with her there to catch him. She doesn’t fall at all.

A few months after the move he gets a glimpse of his old floor when Ruby leaves the door open on her way out, running back to grab the purse she forgot, her sky-high stilettos clicking smartly across the parquet. The loose boards seem to have been fixed, he notices, and the surface is waxed to a high gloss.

“You settled in, then?” he asks Ruby. “Everything going all right?”

“Yeah,” Ruby replies. “Though I seem to be falling down a lot. It’s a bit weird. But the floor is really nice so I kinda don’t mind. You know what I mean?”

Killian smiles. “I know exactly what you mean,” he says.

[katie-dub]

Well, we figured out why they named the baby Neal.. @bleebug @initiala @distant-rose

Images from genrecaps.net

[iwonderwhenyousleep]

Killian: I never thought I’d say this but I think I know what’s going on inside your head.

Emma: Oh, then, welcome to the terror dome.

[thesschesthair]

Killian becomes addicted to buying wind chimes. He sticks them all over the porch area.

Emma hates them.

Once the summer begins to fade and the weather picks up, neither can sleep one night because it sounds like a kindergarten is playing music outside their window.

Killian disappears at 2am in a fit of rage and begins cutting them down wearing just a pair of tighty whiteys to cover his modesty.

Emma records it from the window, trying not to laugh too loud and get caught.

[blowmiakisscolin]

Typical conversation with @peggyyswan. Lbr Killian would totally drive a Pontiac. With a helm for a steering wheel and a rum bottle gearstick. Not sure how safe I'd feel knowing he was on the road driving a stick shift though. Let's make sure it's automatic, k Emma?