Hook’s Smooth
For @thesschesthair, duh.
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 be looking for me, lass?”