Just a little ficlet that came to me after this actually happened with my husband yesterday.
"Killian, not everything is an innuendo!"
"Whatever do you mean, love?" Killian asked, feigning innocence as he sipped his coffee, his eyebrows arching seductively at her over the rim of his cup.
"See!" Emma exclaimed. "That right there -that's what I'm talking about!"
Killian set the mug down and leaned back with a chuckle. He lounged in an appealing way, one arm draped over the back of the booth at Granny's. He tapped his hook against the table in a way that shouldn't have been sexy but somehow was. Her husband could be so infuriating!
"You'll need to be more specific," he teased.
Emma rolled her eyes. "Just this morning before we left the house! I was leaning over in the closet to get my shoes, and you . . ."
She trailed off, slightly distracted by the memory, her face burning. Killian grinned at her triumphantly.
"I what?"
Ugh, he was so smug! "You grabbed me from behind and pulled me down on your lap." She licked her dry lips before continuing. "And I said, 'Killian, I'm trying to get my shoes!' And you said, 'Oh, you'll get your shoes alright.'"
Killian chuckled again.
Emma threw up her hands. "What does that even mean?"
His laughter faded, but his smile remained as he leaned forward and told her earnestly as he took her hand, "It means that I find you beautiful and sexy no matter what you're doing, and I love you."
Emma couldn't help the smile that bloomed on her face as he kissed her hand. She gave a little shrug.
"Well, who can argue with that?"
Tagging @snowbellewells @jrob64 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jrob64 @teamhook @shippingtheswann @shipsxahoy Don't know who else is in this fandom anymore, lol! So please share with anyone else you know who may like this.
This is an oldie I pulled off my laptop. I didn’t want it to rot on my hard drive forever, so here it is. There’s no plot, just these two being idiots. Emma’s ridiculous in this, and Killian finds it funny.
*****
They really needed to have someone come out and look at the furnace, Emma thought as she slowly pulled the duvet around herself in the hopes of becoming a burrito. This had the effect of uncovering Killian, and she felt him shudder awake. Good. He could make himself useful. “Swan?” he asked groggily.
“‘m cold,” she whimpered. “Cuddle me?”
Her husband was better than any radiator. It was how they’d survived previous winters with a barely adequate heating system. Snuggling beneath a pile of fleece blankets with her husband was the best way to stay warm and save money.
This year was different. This year, she was eight months pregnant, and her body was being absolutely ridiculous with its demands. Fortunately, Killian was taking it all in his stride. A lesser man would have been driven insane by her hormones by now.
Killian raised himself onto his elbow and raised his eyebrow. “Swan, you told me you didn’t want me near you on pain of neutering.”
“Did not.” Killian didn’t have the excuse of hormones; he was always dramatic.
“Did,” he said solemnly. His eyes twinkled.
That was a whole hour ago. How long was he going to hold that against her? He wasn’t wrong, but still… “I was hot,” she muttered defensively.
“You pushed me off the bed.”
“You turned into molten lava.”
“I have bruises.”
“Killian… are you refusing your pregnant wife?” she asked plaintively. Ugh, she couldn’t wait until her hormones stopped making her so dramatic.
“NEVER, Love. I value my life.” She could hear him muffling his laughter, the bastard.
“I’m COLD now,” she insisted.
Killian huffed, again being oh so careful not to laugh, and wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her close. He pulled the blanket over them both, and Emma breathed a contented sigh.
It lasted for a good twenty minutes.
And then Emma started to feel like she was in a sauna. Then it moved on to a lava bath. Annoyed, Emma rolled over and started to shove Killian away.
“What is it now, Love?” he asked, bewildered.
“Killian, I’m HOT!” she whined. He burst out laughing, which she didn’t think was an appropriate response to her suffering, so she shoved him off the bed.
Dipping the toe into fic again just for a second, to fire up some tired synapses and also because I saw this earlier and if it isn’t a CS prompt then I don’t know what is:
Enjoy!
Words: 1.2k
Rating: G
Tags: couples goals, relationship goals, married CS, committed relationships can still be fun you guys
On AO3
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relationship goals:
It’s an offensively bright Monday morning and Ruby’s working her first shift of the summer at Granny’s new drive-thru when at just past eight a.m. a man pulls up to her window and blinds her with his smile.
“Good morning,” he says, accepting the cup of coffee she hands him. “How are you today, lass?”
“Um.” Ruby blinks. It’s far too early for her to be dealing with eyes that blue. And though she’s pretty much exclusively been into women these past few years, this guy’s face could probably convince her to give men another go. “Fine, I guess.”
“Listen, Ruby.” She’s startled for a moment when he calls her by her name, then recalls she’s wearing a name tag. Duh. Seriously, it’s way too freaking early for this. “Could you do me a favour?” he asks, with a smile she’s pretty sure no one who’s into dudes even a little bit has ever said no to.
“What kind of favour?” she asks warily.
He hands her a twenty. “I’d like to pay for the woman in the car behind me,” he says. “And tell her I think she’s hot.”
“Sir, I’m not sure that’s—”
“And keep the change.”
He gives her a wink—a terrible excuse for a wink, actually—and drives off.
Ruby hesitates. She’s not about to help some dude sexually harass another woman, no matter how blue his eyes, but he’s left her something like a twelve-dollar tip and he didn’t seem that creepy. She watches carefully as the next car pulls up. The woman behind the wheel is definitely hot—creepy-ish dude has good taste—with long, blonde hair curled in princess ringlets and an expression that looks just how Ruby feels—that it’s way too early in the morning for any species of bullshit.
“Hey,” she greets the woman, handing over another coffee. “Um, it’s already paid for.”
“What?”
“The guy in the car in front of you, he paid for your coffee.”
“Did he?” says the woman with a scowl.
“Yeah. And he, uh, he said to tell you you’re hot.”
Ruby figures this woman can take care of herself. She looks like she could flatten Mr Blue Eyes if she put her mind to it, and if he’s being a creep she deserves to know.
The woman heaves an annoyed huff and rolls her eyes. “Thanks,” she says. “I’ll handle it.”
Ruby gives her a nod and even manages a grin despite the early hour. She likes this woman.
—
The next day at about the same time, the same man with the same blue eyes and a face that Ruby decides could actually be classified as an offensive weapon pulls up to her window, the twenty already held out between two fingers.
Ruby glances at her list of orders. “She’s ordered a really expensive drink today,” she informs Blue Eyes. “Blended coffee with two shots of the specialty espresso and like four kinds of syrup, plus whipped cream and praline sprinkles.”
Blue Eyes laughs. “Well played, love,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and pulls another ten from his wallet. “Tell her she’s devastatingly beautiful and her clever tricks only serve to further inflame my passions.”
Ruby chokes. “I can’t tell her that!”
Blue Eyes widens his blue eyes and lets his lip quiver slightly, like the fucking cat from Shrek, Ruby thinks grumpily. It’s still too damned early to be dealing with this. “Fine,” she huffs. She snatches the thirty bucks from his hand and exchanges it for his drink.
He shoots her a lopsided grin that has her heart actually skipping a goddamn beat and another terrible wink, then drives away. A minute later Princess Curls pulls up, already looking resigned.
“Apparently you are devastatingly beautiful and your clever tricks only serve to further inflame his passions,” Ruby informs her as she hands over the monstrous coffee drink. The woman’s eyes narrow.
“So that’s how he wants to play it,” she says. “Thanks.”
Ruby grins. “No problem, hot stuff,” she smirks, with a far better wink than Blue Eyes could manage. Princess Curls laughs.
“Not you too,” she protests.
“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” says Ruby. “Have a nice day.”
“You too,” Princess Curls replies, and drives off.
—
The war of wills continues for the rest of the week, escalating to the point where Ruby begins to worry that the diner won’t have the wherewithal to handle the stakes of the warfare. On Wednesday, Princess Curls orders another massive coffee with a side of chocolate chip pancakes. On Thursday Blue Eyes gives Ruby a fifty and a slip of paper on which grilled cheese, onion rings, chocolate milkshake is written in such perfect handwriting Ruby is half convinced it’s a font.
“She’ll call in this order at about twelve-thirty,” he tells her. “Make sure she doesn’t lay down a dime.”
On Friday Princess Curls orders three coffees and enough breakfast food to feed an army. Granny chuckles to herself as she cracks eggs on the grill and Blue Eyes hands Ruby a crisp hundred-dollar bill with a flourish. “Tell her that her beauty puts the dawn to shame, and add a fruit salad to her order,” he says with a smirk. “Chocolate chip pancakes and extra-crispy bacon doth not a healthy breakfast make.”
“No,” mutters Ruby, “I don’t suppose they doth.”
—
On Saturday she’s off drive-thru duty and feeling a bit let down. She didn’t realise how much the romance of Blue Eyes and Princess Curls brightened her morning until she found herself facing a busy weekend without them. And she has Monday off. She gives herself a bracing pep-talk then swings through the doors from the kitchen with a pot of coffee in each hand, stopping short when she sees Blue Eyes grinning his weapons-grade grin as he leans against the counter.
“Regular for me,” he tells her, just as the door jangles and opens to admit Princess Curls. “She, on the other hand, has become addicted to those sugary monstrosities.” His grin softens as Princess Curls approaches and he slips an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“Hold up.” Ruby sets both pots down on the counter and puts her hands on her hips. “Hold the fuck up. Are you telling me that all that crap with the buying your coffee and the telling you you’re beautiful—that actually worked?”
“It did,” laughs Princess Curls. “About ten years ago.” She holds out her hand to Ruby. “I’m Emma Jones and this is my husband, Killian.”
“Husband,” repeats Ruby faintly, shaking the proffered hand.
“Afraid so,” says Emma, and Killian gives a long-suffering sigh.
“Can I help it if after ten years my wife is still the most beautiful woman in any room?” he asks. “No offence, Ruby.”
Ruby holds up her hands. “Absolutely none taken.”
Emma and Killian find seats in a booth and linger over their breakfast—more pancakes for her, toast and poached eggs for him—and when they come to the counter to pay, Ruby waves their money away.
“You’ve tipped me so much this past week, it’s my treat,” she says. “Just—never change, you guys, okay?”
Emma and Killian exchange a look, then wrap their arms around each other and turn back to Ruby. “We won’t,” Killian promises, with more solemnity than Ruby expected from him. Emma nods in agreement.
This is for my lovely @ohmightydevviepuu, the slayer of plot boa constrictors, intrepid wanderer of canon divergence paths, the haver of thoughts, empress of opinion, goddess of the canon phrase, vocal lover of S3 canon divergence, purveryor of no-curse renaissances, servant to Princess Peach and her minions---- and my incredible, wonderful friend.
Honey, this is for you, to brighten your day.
i love you. 💖💖💖
.
.
SUMMARY: One morning Emma gets ready to sneak off the Jolly, only to find that she cannot bring herself to leave.
Three cups of S3 canon divergence, one cup of introspection, one cup of softness, and a dash of frustration.
Hold all curses.
Simmer and stir until a decision is reached. 😁
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AO3
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i am using the regular tag list, i hope that’s OK.
She wakes up and it’s like trying to move concrete, getting her body to respond to any kind of signal. Dawn is barely breaking, a sliver of light through a tiny window, and her limbs are too heavy for daylight, too heavy to move, especially here, now, when she’s so warm and comfortable and---
She doesn’t finish the sentence, can’t finish it, not even in the vault of secrecy and denial that is the privacy of her own head. Not even here, in his bed, with its sheets that smell faintly of hard soap and salt, not with his arm heavy around her middle, and especially not with his warm body pressed against the length of hers, soft puffs of breath tickling the back of her neck.
But she has to get up.
It’s time.
Dawn waits for no one. If only she weren’t so tired.
She slowly slides out from underneath his arm, his body, his warmth, slides out from underneath the blankets and away from those soft tickling breaths, and while her feet find the floorboards and she slowly stands up she knows she has never ever been so cold. It’s a miracle she doesn’t freeze where she stands. She remembers a freeway overpass she once hid under, on one of the many, many times she tried to run, watching a clear November dawn come up so cold she thought she’d never be able to move again, and yet----
This is worse.
Today she feels cold because she’s standing here, in the gently rocking captain’s quarters of his ship, not three feet away from his sleeping body, and she already misses him.
She looks at him, dark hair sticking up, breaths deep and even. He looks peaceful.
Only a few hours ago he looked hungry, tongue running over his lips as he ran his hook up her side, cold metal across her warm skin and desire in his eyes, desire and longing and that sadness he never manages to hide, no matter how hard he tries.
No matter how wide, how honest his smiles.
Emma shudders.
She puts on her clothes with a minimum of noise and quietly climbs the ladder up onto the deck. Away from the man sleeping in that bed behind her.
Away.
She tiptoes across the polished wooden boards, always scrubbed clean, past neatly lined-up crates and perfectly tied-off rigging, but when she gets to the gangplank, she finds she--- can’t.
She can’t leave the ship.
On the other side of this slip and this gangplank and this pier is a town full of people who have Opinions on how she should live her life, and she is so. Tired.
So tired of her son’s father sweeping in like a Monday morning quarterback, like he never abandoned her to feel kicks inside while staring at 50 square feet of concrete and a toilet in the corner. Like he’s entitled to a piece of her life, like she owes him a share of her future.
So tired of her parents thinking blood is thicker than water, as if the idea of a family was built on logic, on sense . Emma knows for a fact that blood doesn’t mean a damn thing, that the only family that counts is the one you choose.
So tired of sneaking around, of hands brushing by carefully constructed accident, of longing, sad glances, late-night excursions, of tiptoeing through the streets of this town just to get to this ship, to this bed, to him , warm and comfortable and wonderful and---
No. She can’t leave this ship.
She walks up to the bow, sprit pointed at the open sea past the harbour, and listens to the seagulls, the wind, and the waves lapping gently against resin and paint, and thinks of his smile, the way his face shines every time she comes down the ladder, like he’s been waiting for her all of his life.
And maybe it’s true.
She certainly has, and she knows it.
Knows he is the answer to a question she has never yet dared to ask, knows that he is safe, safe for her , that he would be careful with her heart.
That he is careful with her heart.
Knows that she wants to give him more than these bits and pieces, these stolen moments, this stringing him along, and she suddenly feels it, anger and rage, rage , at these people beyond the gangplank who are making her choose---
choose what they would have chosen
choose what they think she should choose
she should want
how dare they
For a moment she can’t feel and can’t hear and can’t breathe because the rage burns so hot inside her it colors her world red, but then a pair of arms wraps around her.
“Love,” he says. “Are you still here?”
She nods, feels his lips, soft on the back of her neck, and says, “Can we sail away?”
His arms tighten around her. Warmth starts to seep back into her cold leaden bones.
“Where to?” His voice is gentle, unassuming.
It does not have an opinion on how she should live her life.
On what decisions she should make, or how she should live, just asks, where do you want to go? and waits for the answer.
“Anywhere,” she says. “Anywhere that is not here.”
Again his arms tighten, again she feels his lips, soft and so, so careful, against her neck, her pulse point, her collar, and then he says quietly, “Don’t you think it’s time to stop running?”
And her breath stops.
This is why she is tired. All she ever does is run.
She turns around.
Looks at his smile, soft and so fond, as he pulls her in, warm and comfortable and wonderful--
and safe.
And loved.
And loved.
She puts her head against his chest so he won’t see the tears spring to her eyes, because he asked are you still here? with that note of longing, of sadness, of hope, of hope ---
because he’s waiting for her, still, always, forever, waiting for her to be honest and brave and what fucking use is a savior who cannot muster the courage to do the one thing that matters?
No.
She closes her eyes and lets his warmth flood her limbs, takes a deep breath and looks up.
“I couldn’t leave your ship,” she says. “Earlier. I was trying to leave, get back to my place before anyone sees me, and I couldn’t leave.”
He looks at her, blue eyes full of question, but he doesn’t say a word.
“Because I don’t want to leave,” she says. “I don’t---”
She doesn’t know how to say it, bites her lip instead. His hand comes up, rubs his thumb across her chin.
“Stop it,” he says softly, and she relaxes her bite as he leans down to kiss her.
It’s so right, tears again flood her eyes.
“I’m so tired,” she whispers. “I’m so tired of everybody telling me what to do and how to feel, when all I want is to be here. With you.”
He looks at her like he cannot believe it, won’t let himself fall, and she tries to smile.
And then shakes her head.
What good is a savior.
“I want no part of their plan,” she says. “And I’m done listening to them. I’m done sneaking around. I want---” she swallows hard and he’s just looking at her, still as a statue, not even breathing.
She takes his hand, folds her fingers through his, pulls it up between them.
“This,” she says, kissing their intertwined fingers. “This is what I want. This.”
He’s still not breathing, not moving, not blinking.
And she brushes her lips past his and adds, “You.”
His smile when it comes is the most beautiful thing Emma has ever seen, and she leans up to kiss him because it’s time,
because after all is said and done she belongs here, with him.
Beyond the gangplank is Storybrooke, with monsters and magic and complications, there are conversations lying in wait, with Neal, with her parents, with those who want A Certain Kind of Savior; but she is still on this ship, now, and she looks up at him, still smiling and so, so happy.
“Take me downstairs,” she says.
Because dawn waits for no one, but neither does she.
AHHH!!! I'm so excited! They're all so good! Maybe number 8? Or 17? or 18???
Thanks so much! I like them! 😏 I’ve gone for 8. Basking in the warmth and flickering flames of a roaring fire & 18. Watching the snowfall from inside a cosy house
Also on AO3
Emma sits with a book, trying hard to keep reading it, but finding that she’s too cosy to move — even for something as simple as turning the page. Outside the ground is covered in snow, it’s a true winter wonderland and Emma has nowhere to be. So she’s buried under a pile of blankets, a fire crackling in the wood burning stove, and she has a very handsome man curled by her side. Her handsome man.
Killian.
The last time she sat by a fire with him, her insides were squirming as she fought against Feelings, not knowing how to handle falling for one of her best friends. And now? Now they’re together and honestly it seems so right that it’s hard to believe that she didn’t even like him like that three months ago.
Past Emma was such an idiot. At least Present Emma knows what’s what. She laughs at herself, cringing for that cheesy thought.
“Everything alright, love?” Killian murmurs against her hair.
“Mmmm,” she smiles, “just happy is all.”
Killian shifts slightly, a disgruntled noise comes from her unbidden as the movement dislodges her from her cosy spot. But then his lips are on hers. Soft and warm and lazy and somehow still able to ignite a spark in her chest, even though he pulls back before it erupts into a full flame.
His eyes sparkle when he looks at her. And his smile — that fans the fire and sends tingles running throughout her.
“I love you,” she says.
His eyes widen for just a moment — just a brief flash of the surprise he’s feeling because she hasn’t said it before, even though she knew she did and knew she should — then his smile grows wider still. His eyes soften and she feels herself melt at the love she feels shining out at her.
“I love you too,” he says, and kisses her again.
Part of her feels like this should be a Moment. The start of some torrid romance scene involving ripping panties and bare flesh. But she’s warm and cosy and moving feels too hard and this — this feels more like them. Killian settles beside her and curls her into his side once again.
“It’s snowing again,” Killian says, nodding to the world outside the window. Emma’s glad of the excuse to not return to pretending to care about her book, choosing to watch the snow fall instead, enjoying the bubble of warmth and happiness and love that she’s made with Killian.
summary: just an ode to Killian’s body hair, really. And Emma’s obsession with it.
word count: ~1,4k
rating: G and F for furrrrrrrr
also on ff.net and ao3
She loves to run her hands over his hair and play with it, the smooth feeling against her palms. She loves to card her fingers through it and feel its coarseness between them – and then squeeze them together and… tug. Just a little, but enough to make him feel it. He protests every time, especially when she does it to his body hair.
Emma has always been fond of his body hair… even if she refused to admit it at first. Of course there was the fact that she simply denied liking anything at all about Killian Jones; then she had never been attracted by hair on the male body anywhere else than on the head. But truth be told – with him, that just didn’t seem to matter anymore: the generous amount of chest hair he always showed off with his stupid, less-than-half buttoned pirate shirts has always tickled her fancy, against her will and better knowledge.
For a long time, the constantly exposed patch of skin of his chest was the only part of him she saw bare, the rest always being covered by ridiculous amounts of clothing. That fueled her curiosity, and even though she tried very much to focus her mind on more important things – getting Henry back in Neverland, defeating the Wicked Witch, finding a way back to the future – she couldn’t help but wonder how the rest of him might look without all that black leather, and if there would be fuzz on more parts of him.
Luckily, eventually she found out how he looks without clothes on… and she wasn’t disappointed. His body, lean and firm, is a sight to see, he’s fit in a healthy, down to earth way with muscles toned by centuries of hard labor and lightly tanned skin scarred by attackers’ blades and abusers’ whips (it took her a bit of time and effort to find out about the latter).
And he is covered in body hair, all over.
It’s on his forearms, both of them, even if it looks a bit thinner on the left one, where it’s covered and chafed by the leather brace of his hook for most hours of the day. It’s in full bloom on his right forearm and wrist, and even the back of his hand is dusted with it, which she particularly appreciates.
The chest hair, like she suspected, expands over his flat stomach where it eventually runs together and points towards the bellybutton and then lower, narrowing into a neat, velvety treasure trail.
His thighs and lower legs are covered down to the ankles, and his really nice ass cheeks are sprinkled with fuzzy goodness. Emma’s secret favorite though might be the small patch on his lower back, spreading right above his butt crack and stretching across the two symmetric dimples at the base of his spine. It’s also her favorite place to tug, because he complains the most when she does it there.
The first time it happens more or less accidentally, when he wraps his right arm around her chest from behind while she’s on the phone with her mother, and she absentmindedly caresses his forearm, finding his shirt sleeve rolled up to the elbow. The hair is smooth and silky under her fingertips, and she finds herself playing with it and tugging just a little here and there.
The second occasion is less innocent; they’re in the middle of heavily making out while gradually ridding each other of their clothes. His denims are already unbuttoned and unzipped, and as she runs her hands down his back and into his jeans she notices that this is apparently one of those days when he deems underwear as highly overrated. She cups and squeezes his bare cheeks firmly, and as the fuzz on them tickles her palms she pinches little tufts between her thumbs and forefingers and tugs at them, getting a low growl and a thrust of his hips in response, which really isn’t a bad outcome.
From then on, it happens under various circumstances – sometimes it’s teasing and just for fun, sometimes sensual and in the middle of passion, and sometimes just lazy and a very particular type of caress.
When she’s snuggling into Killian’s side, resting her head on his shoulder, her fingers paint lazy patterns onto his chest, slipping in the v of his t-shirt if he’s wearing one (which he does to sleep or relax on their couch) and traveling to wider extent when he isn’t wearing one (which is the case when they’re just calming down in the afterglow of lovemaking). She loves to run her hand down over his chest and his slightly curved stomach and feel the different texture of his hair… it’s wiry and curly on his chest, tickling her palm, whereas it’s smoother and silky on his stomach. She loves to twirl it around her fingers on that spot at the base of his sternum (where it also holds the most enticing smell), just because she can. And she loves to follow its swirls and curves around his navel and down his treasure trail, to stroke her fingertips along it, sometimes until she reaches the wiriest patch of hair on his body.
He has noticed her fondness, of course, and sometimes he’s downright smug about it, just like could be expected from him. Then she tugs just that little bit harder at his butt fuzz when he parades around without even a towel after his shower and she walks past him. Sometimes that ends in a little melee, and that usually ends with her losing her clothes as well… or at least partly.
It’s one of those occasions when they’re cuddled together in bed, breathing calming down again, and she’s running her left index finger in circles through the hair around his bellybutton while he’s just about to drift off to dreamland.
“Killian?”
“Hmmm?”
“You could probably wear a Grinch costume and look good,” she declares out of the blue.
He opens one eye despite his sleepiness. “Without question, love,” comes his answer with slight amusement in his voice.
“Your sense of style is impeccable, and I do love all your modern clothes,” she continues, and now she has his whole attention.
“While I appreciate the sentiment,” he replies slowly, “I do have the feeling there’s a but somewhere in there.”
Emma huffs a little laugh and lifts herself up to rest her chin on his chest to look at him. “You know, sometimes I really miss your old pirate garb,” she tells him.
His raises his eyebrows. “Are you saying I’m not dashing enough in this realm’s clothes?” he asks, feigning bewilderment.
“No, no, don’t worry,” she quickly reassures him, “you’ll always be the most dashing of them all.”
“And you had better not forget that.” His eyes narrow. “What is it then?”
“All that leather…” she begins and then sighs longingly. “It was so hot.” She licks her lips and rakes her fingers through his chest hair. “And those pirate shirts… always half unbuttoned.”
Killian chuckles. “I always knew you were partial to my handsome appearance even when you were pretending you didn’t care for me,” he says nonchalantly, “but finally hearing you concede it…”
“Ugh!” She tugs a little roughly on a tuft below his collarbone, making him hiss. “I should’ve known you were gonna be an ass about it!”
“It’s not your fault, Swan,” he tells her generously and, with a sudden move that has her gasp, rolls them around so that he’s on top of her. “I tend to have that effect on people.”
Two days later, when she walks over the gangplank to board the Jolly Roger, because she got a call from Killian to join him on the ship for a surprise lunch, she doesn’t see him on deck and frowns. A little churn in her stomach reminds her that this is Storybrooke, after all, and just because they didn’t have to deal with a villain in a bit, that doesn’t mean it’s out of the question for ever. Her eyes scan the ship, but it seems empty.
“Killian?” she calls tentatively and whirls around when she hears heavy footsteps behind her.
And there he is, stepping down the stairs from the bridge in those old, pointed boots she hasn’t seen on him in a long time. Her eyes wander up from his feet along his lean, leather-clad legs, the shiny vest with the ornate silver clasps, and the fuzzy goodness that was his exposed chest, only loosely framed by his carelessly buttoned black linen shirt. Subconsciously, she licks her lips.
He hooks his ringed thumb into his belt with the heavy silver buckle; the movement has the long folds of his long-missed leather coat swing around his legs. His mouth curves into a grin.
Might you consider a little follow up to the Lost in the Wilderness AU? I have to know if they make it out ok (and if they get to have sexy times under less dire circumstances)!
giving myself five minutes to write aaaaand go
“Killian?”
It was strange – being clean, being warm without a fire or a nest of leaves and some layer between herself and the cold-sucking earth, having something soft to lay on, only having the creaking sounds of the ranger’s station and her own breaths and heartbeat to keep herself company.
It was strange to be without him, separate rooms, back to being two people who hadn’t known each other before being separated and stranded in the woods so many days before.
They knew each other far too well now, so much of the good and far too much of the bad, talking until they were hoarse to stay awake in those first nights when it was too cold to do anything but huddle together to stay warm, frustration and fear mounting to a physical connection that she was scared meant something and even more terrified that it hadn’t meant anything at all.
“Emma, love–”
His voice was hoarse, the confusion of someone who was roused from sleep, and she felt the stab of guilt, but she saw him sit up and welcome her to his bed before she could let that guilt settle in her heart and take her back to her cold room, her comfortable sheets, the loneliness that she never knew she could experience after such a traumatizing event.
He was warm, his body and his breath grazing against her cheek and the press of his lips against her hair, and she settled immediately into his comfortable embrace, his heartbeat drumming in her ears to drown out the sound of her own lonely heart.
You know when you clean out an old hard drive and find random fic snippets?
You don’t?
I call liar.
Anyway, here have 600 odd words of Captain Swan playing pool in some dingy bar. I don’t know where this was going, but it looks like it would have been fun. ;)
++++
He’s pretty sure standing in the back by the pool table, cue in one hand as he watched a pair of green eyes flash up at him before their owner took her shot was not what Robin had in mind when he asked Killian to mind the bar for the night. But in Killian’s defense, except for Leroy, whose attention was glued to the replay of the Barca match on the telly, she had been his only customer for the past hour.
He probably should have closed-up early.
And he most certainly should be cleaning up behind the bar, and calling Leroy a taxi.
But there was the satisfied smirk she gave when he poured her a third whiskey, and the way she leant in as she told him the story behind the bruise on her shoulder. Never mind the fact that she still hadn’t told him her name.
He had always been a fool for a woman with a hint of challenge to her.
“Your turn,” she called, slipping past him, her hand brushing between his shoulder blades.
He eyed the table and bit back a huff. She may have missed, but she also managed to cut off any path that had been there for him to finish off this round in the process.
“What’s wrong, sailor?” she whispered into the space just beneath his ear, pressing herself into his side. “Did I make it too hard?”
He shifted, taking advantage of the way her breast was molded to him to brush the back of his arm over it. He turned his head towards her. “Sailor?”
She laughed and circled her hand around his wrist, dragging her fingers up to trace along the anchor he had tattooed on the underside of his forearm. “Took a guess.”
Killian hummed and gripped the cue in his other hand tighter as an unbidden image of her standing at the Jolly’s bow, hair whipping in the wind came to him. “Thought you wanted to play?”
“Who says I’m not?” she asked, letting go of his arm and hopping up to perch on the end of the table.
He raised a brow and rested his cue on the wall behind him before stepping in between her legs. He leant in, running his hand down her arm and stopping at her elbow. He teased at the delicate skin and filed the fact that she’d squirmed a bit under his touch for later. “Right here, darling?” he asked, wrapping his other hand around her thigh, stepping in closer as he encouraged her forward with a tug. “Is that what you want?” He ghosted his mouth down her jaw and back up along her neck. “For me to lay you back and strip you from these jeans?”
He pulled back to find her eyes closed, a smile playing at the corner of her lips, and the skin at the top of her chest having gone a pale red. Before he could step back further, she reached out, her hands grabbing at the hem of his t-shirt, one slipping beneath to circle and twine with the hair around his navel.
“Going somewhere?” she asked, opening her eyes.
Killian groaned as she slipped two of her fingers into the waist of his jeans and tugged. Letting go of where they were and the fact they weren’t alone for a moment, he shifted his hips to press his hardening erection into the heel of her hand.
“All in good time,” he whispered, scrapping his teeth along her earlobe. Then pulling her hand from his waist he stepped back and tugged her from the table. “But first, we have a game to finish.”
