Killian Jones or - how to look at Emma Swan as if she was the very sun
It staggers her still sometimes when she catches him looking at her, backs the very breath up into her lungs and makes her stomach clench and her heart ache just a bit. It’s unnerving the way his eyes hold hers, how soft and unbelievably happy they always seem to be.
She wonders what it is he actually sees when he looks at her, wonders what she ever did in her entire life to warrant such reverence, and then he’ll smile at her in that way she so adores — a gentle curving of lips that makes the dimples flanking his mouth crease ever so slightly and makes her fingers itch to stroke over them.
Her cheeks always flame pink at his attentions and he always reaches up to rub his thumb along the stain. He never teases her, or comments on it, just simply delights in her bashfulness and the rosy hue before leaning down to press a light kiss against her lips.
Sometimes he doesn’t let go. Sometimes he just slides right in, wraps his arms around her waist and coaxes her lips apart so that his tongue can dip inside and taste and savor and cherish until she’s clinging to him, wanting him, needing him. He chuckles as he pulls away, resting his forehead against hers and sighing contentedly when he feels her playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
It never takes them long to tumble into bed after that, the spark and the heat and the pure magic between them is too powerful to be denied. In those moments, he doesn’t rush, just peels away at her layers until she is bare and vulnerable before him and she can’t even breathe because he’s looking at her again — like she’s the Goddamn sun (and the moon and the stars and every brilliant thing in the universe) and she’ll never understand how she got so lucky.
“Killian,” she murmurs impatiently the longer he just stares, feasting on her with his too-blue, stormy eyes and sending little jolts of heat straight to her core.
He grins at her then, boyish and dashing. She would roll her eyes at him if she wasn’t so damn needy.
"You’re a bloody marvel, Swan," he says, and when his hand caresses from knee to hip and his fingertips dig in to anchor there, and he just slips home inch by glorious inch with his gaze unwavering on hers, she can almost believe him.
“Killian,” she exhales again, almost like a sigh. She’s trapped there with him, the heat and the pleasure building agonizingly slow while she meets him thrust for thrust, body craving that delicious friction and all but begging for release.
He shifts lower, brushes a kiss to her heart. “Let me, just let me.”
She gives herself over to him, she has no choice when he’s talking to her like that, when he’s looking at her like that — with such devotion, such honesty, such love. It makes tears spring into her eyes, makes the air expel from her lungs in harsh, ragged breaths, makes her feel overwhelmed by what he can pull from her, and it’s too much, everything is too much for her to bear.
She cries out when she falls, legs tightening around his hips and nails branding at his skin as a million tiny stars wash out her vision. He follows soon after, collapsing heavily atop her (she doesn’t mind) while her hands delve into his damp hair and tangle there as they attempt to regulate their hearts (she likes to think they end up beating in tandem).
He lifts his head, enough that he can see her face and she moves her hand around to cup his cheek in her palm, thumb smoothing over the scar there. He smiles once more and her stomach flips when he turns his head to press his lips against the pulse point on her wrist, eyes never leaving hers.
Like the Goddamn sun.
She definitely sighs this time, equal parts exasperated and ridiculously happy, as she tilts her chin up and kisses him softly on the lips.
Love you sheriffswan :))
A very, very, very happy birthday to Andi (hookskraken), who I adore more than words can express. I hope you like this little drabble, love, and I hope your day tomorrow is as amazing as you are <3
Emma isn’t sure when her heart began beating in time with Killian, each pulse that sends blood through her body mirroring his own. If she was her parents, running around talking about destiny and fate (she doesn’t tell them that she’s slowly starting to believe in all of that, too), she would say that their hearts have always beat to the same drum.
And maybe they have.
Emma has never heard Killian sing before, until he is comforting their sleepy newborn.
It’s only been two hours Emma thought as she rolled over in bed, turning down the baby monitor that sat blinking on her bedside table. She quickly wiped the sleep from her eyes and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her feet quietly hitting the floor as she forced herself up and out of the cozy mountain of pillows and blankets.
She jumped as she heard a sudden humming coming from the baby monitor. Emma’s head whipped around, expecting Killian to be lying on the other side of the bed asleep, but he wasn’t there.
A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as she realized what was going on. Killian had most likely slipped out of the room to comfort their infant son as soon as he heard him cry, not wanting to wake up Emma. He had been doing that lately, ever since they made the switch from the baby sleeping in a bassinet next to their bed to his own nursery down the hall. He was worried about him being on his own.
I tried to resist the pull of the snow-stranded trope, but I am weak, and my muse thinks tropes are the greatest thing since sliced bread.
(Title is from Simon and Garfunkel’s “A Hazy Shade of Winter”)
weaving time in a tapestry
The cabin is small, but it suits just fine, considering the blowing snow and the freezing temperature outside. It should concern her that she’s getting so used to this, but all she can really think about right now is the fact that she’s stuck in this cabin with gale force winds and snow piling up outside and even David isn’t dumb enough to drive out into the middle of the forest to rescue her. That and the fact that Killian is now stripping out of his brand new jacket, eyeing his freshly made fire as he pulls the scarf from around his neck, and they are perfectly, gloriously alone for the first time since they got back from the Enchanted Forest.
He quirks a brow when he sees her staring, and she shoots him a rueful grin in reply.
"You have got to stop following me into danger at every turn,” she tells him, very carefully not eyeing the pull of muscle beneath his dark green Henley as he folds the scarf and carefully sets it aside.
"I hardly think I’m likely to break pattern now, Swan," he says, eyes doing that thing where he’s saying so much more than the words coming out of his mouth. Her heart squeezes in her chest, a beautiful ache that has her stepping closer to him out of habit. “Besides, who would stoke your fires then, hm?”
(I got a line in my head and wanted to fic it. Not sure how good this one is, butttttt oh well)
Sometimes, Emma can’t help wondering if Killian wishes for the use of his left hand. There are moments when he kisses her, one hand threaded in her hair and his hook on her shoulder, where she questions if he would want to mirror his right hand’s actions and hold her even tighter. She hates herself for thinking it, because she doesn’t see him as disabled by any means.
She just can’t stop the curiosity that arises.
Part of her thinks maybe he wouldn’t get upset if she asked. They’ve shared so much more with each other than either is used to — what is a simple conversation about the past that he rarely speaks of?
It’s a long shot, and she knows it. Plus, they’re chasing an ice queen all over Storybrooke at the moment and everyone is a bit too preoccupied to ponder over such things.
So, she just lets it go.
For the time being.
A/N: Because these idiots have ruined my life and I need professional help. And because her hands are on the stupid collar of his coat. And because she has a great ass. Enjoy ;))
“Don’t you ever got hot in this thing?” she wonders, hand absentmindedly reaching up to finger at the edge of the collar of his coat.
He smiles (her heart skips a beat at his dimples, damn it) and she knows it’s because she’s inched closer, her body aligning perfectly with his.
“No, after three centuries, I’m just used to it I suppose.”
His eyes soften, his expression softens, and he tugs on her jacket, pulling her forward until their bodies bump. She gasps quietly at the abrupt contact, at the heated way his eyes fall to her lips before returning to hers.
“Besides, love, I think it comes in rather…handy during a snow storm.”
He rolls the word handy on his tongue, hand slipping boldly beneath the leather of her jacket and falling to her waist. She burns beneath the thin material of her shirt where his fingers grip, her body coils with heat and the sudden need to drag him in until no space exists between them. He must be a mind reader because all of a sudden his hand moves, sliding down into the back pocket of her jeans.
Her body jerks against his and he starts to knead gently at her ass, dashing grin absolutely wicked and causing her head to spin, then he’s pulling her forward so that her hips press into his. Her hands tighten on his collar (gripping for purchase, about to crush him against her — she’s not 100% sure) until her knuckles are white and she expels another shaky breath and tips her mouth up to his — offering, waiting, wanting.
He merely chuckles lightly at her before placing a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose and her mouth, abruptly releasing her and stepping out of her space so she can catch her breath. She’s not as steady as she would like, and his smug grin makes her shake her head at him. Jesus, he’ll be the death of her one day, she’s positive…but damn, what a way to go.
Because the BTS pictures are killing me!
She reaches for the collar of his coat to righten it, ignoring the tilt of his mouth she catches out of the corner of her eye, ignores that her heart leaps into her throat when she looks up at him, sighing softly as she tries to smooth his hair down.
But to no avail. He looks like he has just gone a round of scorching hot sex and the thing is he has. His hair is ruffled, his cheeks still flushed, a glow reverberating from him and there is no way they can hide what they have just been doing if she even looks remotely like he.
Not to mention the gleam in his eyes and that damn smirk on his face.
"Stop looking at me like that!" She growls, her fingers slipping down along his neck, coming to rest against his chest.
"As if you want to drag me back into bed." She hisses, letting out a frustrated sigh as he cocks his eyebrow at her and actually licks his freaking lips.
"Is that an offer, love?"
"You are incorrigible." She replies, smacking her hand against his chest, forcing herself to push away because if she keeps at such close proximity to him for one more second she will be the one dragging the pirate back to bed.
"Scoundrel?" He rasps and his lilting voice is not shooting a shiver down her spine. Absolutely not.
She just lets out a huff and turns around, walking briskly towards the corner but before they can round it and meet her parents she looks back at him over her shoulder, her mouth tilting up into a grin as she says. “Dashing rapscallion.”
New CS fic that’s only going to be two or three parts!! With all this CS snowed in stuff running around, I couldn’t resist!!
He was slowly going insane. He didn’t know how much longer he could stay cooped up like this. The four walls of his room at Granny’s seemed to be closing in on him the longer he stayed there.
The wind howled angrily against the window as snow flurries continued to angrily swirl through the air and showed no signs of stopping. The storm had hit so fast and so suddenly no one had been prepared for it. That had been two…three days ago? He wasn’t even sure…all he knew was that this had been the longest he’s gone without seeing Emma since he showed up at her door in New York.
He was about to go bark-raving mad.
He threw down the book he had been attempting to read, flung himself off the bed and began to do one of his favorite activities since he’s been stuck here. Pacing.
They were only suppose to be separated for a few minutes…they were all over at the loft, planning on heading to Granny’s to meet everyone and discuss how to handle the frosty queen and her army of evil snowmen….
“Why don’t you go on ahead,” Emma said as she walked down the steps to where he was waiting. “They’re still getting Neal ready and I’m going to check on Henry.”
“Is he still over at Regina’s?” he asked as he put on his new black wool coat Emma had picked out for him.
“Yes…I think it’s best for everyone if Henry stays with Regina as much as she can…he keeps her…”
“Grounded?” he finished with a smirk.
She smiled softly as she fished out her phone. “Something like that…now, go on…grab us a table and we’ll be right there.”
“Fine…but I’m not waiting to order…I’m half starved.”
“Order me the BLT,” she said and then leaned up and gave him a quick kiss. “Keep your phone on…don’t give me that look, you’re going to have to embrace it sooner or later.”
He let out a low annoying grumble as he finally left her and then just to be safe, he checked his phone to make sure the ringer was on…just like he taught her. Satisfied, he trotted down the steps and then made his way to Granny’s.
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Pairing: Captain Swan
Summary: The Northern Lights, a yellow bug, and a pirate who is so much more than just a pirate. There are times, Emma thinks, that her life is filled with the most ordinary of magic, and she’s so very glad. (PG)
Notes: Just a little something written for scribblecat27 to go with her latest Captain Swan artwork. She actually sat and watched me write this one (I even used her laptop, lol!) while we inhaled some Once episodes on Friday. It’s set early in S4, but the only spoilers are the inclusion of two new characters (mentioned by name only).
oh I desperately need the locked in a small space one like yesterday
"You have got to be kidding me.”
Emma groans, blinking against the numbing darkness and trying to turn in the close encounters her situation presents. In an attempt to gather some kind of knowledge of where she is by way of feeling around, she shoves her arms forwards. The answering grunt of pain as she hits leather tells her she’s not alone before Killian’s familiar voice hisses across the space - so close she can feel his warm breath on her face.
"Bloody hell, what was that for?" he asks, voice raspy with the lingering effects of her blow.
"I didn’t mean to, I was trying to figure out where her icy highness poofed us to,” she explains, focusing on stretching her arms either side of her. They extend about halfway before meeting the boundary of their enclosure that, running her palms along the smooth surface, stretches up to a ceiling just above their heads. It’s the size of a cupboard - minus the door (apparently).
Emma shakes her head, “No freaking clue.” Whipping her head in what she assumes is his general direction, she slaps him in the chest, voice rising a decibel when she reprimands him, “What the hell were you even doing there? I told you David and I could handle her -“
"Well, if she’s just a confused lass as you’ve claimed, she’ll have no trouble coming to find us -"
"And if she’s actually evil and I’m wrong?”
His tone is laced with subtle reassurances when he answers in a quiet voice, “That’s doubtful, love,” before continuing, his cadence landing haphazardly between mocking and irritated, “But if she is actually evil, you shouldn’t have been confronting her by yourself in the first place -“
"I can handle myself, Killian -"
"Yet, had I not tagged along, you’d be in this mess by yourself -“
"At least then I’d have more space to figure out how to escape,” she hisses, punctuating the claim by shuffling forward, trying to highlight just how little space separates them. Unfortunately, that plan backfires when she stumbles and lands squarely against his chest, nose-to-nose. He steadies her with an arm around her waist.
The air becomes suddenly thick and hard to swallow, her body humming appreciatively at the way her soft curves meld to his hard lines. They haven’t actually had the chance to discuss what they are - every opportunity interrupted by one disaster or another. Even if they did, she’s not sure they’d know what to say.
It’s been so long since Emma has had to verbalize her emotions, she thinks maybe her lack of practice has actually made it impossible for her to deliver the words at all. So, they’re still in this suspended sort of limbo - neither one completely certain of their relationship.
That, of course, doesn’t mean the air has stopped crackling with a mixture of unspoken words and unresolved tension. Which is precisely what happens as she stills against him, hands anchored in his shoulders, breaths mingling in the hair’s width that separates their lips, chests brushing with every cavernous inhale and exhale.
Emma swallows, shifts back on her heels, pulls back - now is not the time to get frisky with Killian. They don’t even know where they are.
"We should, ah, we should probably try to feel around, figure out where we might be," she suggests lamely, shuffling as far away as their close quarters will allow. With a gruff cough, he agrees (and she can imagine the way he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly). She turns around, placing both palms against the wall and smoothing them up and down, reaching around for something that might tell them where they are.
The deafening silence lasts a second, and then she can hear him leaning slowly across the cramped space to where she stands with her back to him. Warmth radiates from him, permeating her skin where he stands behind her. Hesitantly, his hand drifts down from her shoulder, her breath catching when it lands on her hip.
With a shuffling step, Emma slowly turns to face him. She doesn’t need any light to know he’s staring at her intensely - ice blue eyes probably glinting with the same stirrings she can feel reflected in her leafy green irises.
They’ve never been very graceful; every interaction edged by a desperation neither can truly erase (not when they’ve craved intimacy for so long). But what they lack in finesse, they more than make up for in fervor.
They move at the same time, both of his arms snaking around her waist as she cards her hands in his hair, tugging roughly when he captures her lips. She lands against the wall of their quarters with a muffled thump, the length of his body holding her steady against it. He’s relentless in his ministrations, leaving her breathless when he finally makes a path down to the juncture of her neck.
Really, she is just as frantic, yanking him back to her mouth when he takes too long to return.
"I bet you’re glad I follow you everywhere now," he whispers against her lips in between kisses. She’s poised to respond, a retort perched on the tip of her tongue, when they both hear footsteps. Stiffening, they listen - and promptly jump apart when they hear the sound of rusted locks being drawn back.
Double door open to Emma’s left, the light almost blinding when it hits her (as it turns out, they were in a cupboard of sorts - the sort that is used as a holding cell for dangerous individuals, Emma is later told, which is why the walls were seamless). Elsa and David are standing in front of them, the former of whom is sporting an apologetic expression.
"Sorry about that," she says quietly, eyes downcast as her voice breeches the air in wispy strand of words.
Emma smiles gently, opening her mouth to alleviate the delicate’s woman’s concern when Killian interrupts her, smirk plastered across his face.
"No need to be sorry, love. No harm done," he says, glancing once at Emma and swaggering out of the cupboard in his typical fashion.
She pretends to ignore the expression on David’s face when the pirate adds in a low voice as he passes Elsa, “If anything, I should say thank you.”
Killian arrives at the loft, boots having carried him quickly due to the urgency of the prince’s message. Knocking, he shifts foot-to-foot with agitation until the door swings open to reveal a most seriously looking David.
"Oh thank God," the prince mutters before hauling him inside the apartment.
"What is it? Is it Emma? Henry? The babe?"
"No, no, no, nothing like that. Well, it is Henry,” David answers in hushed tones.
Killian’s eyebrows drop and his shoulders brace as if to prepare for the news. He prays the lad is okay but given how Dave is…
"He asked me about…" the prince pauses, raising his eyebrows and staring intently at the pirate.
"About what, mate?"
"I haven’t a clue, spit it out."
"About…the, um, planting.”
It takes Killian a minute to catch the prince’s meaning, and a slow smile settles on his face. Glancing over David’s shoulder, he sees the young lad happily devouring his breakfast at the kitchen counter, oblivious to the conversation at hand.
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Talk to him."
"I’d soon as walk the plank into shark-infested waters, mate. You’re his grandfather. Go on, impart your wisdom."
"You’re his step-father."
"Not yet, I’m not!"
"Semantics," David grumbles back. "What the hell am I supposed to tell him? I never had a father for th—" he trails off, looking uncomfortable and a little sad.
"Neither did I, mate," Killian answers quietly, gently cuffing the prince on the shoulder as if to comfort. It always comes as a shock, the growing number of similarities they share.
Silence falls as the men stand there, working through possible solutions in their heads. Suddenly, both heads snap up, eyes locking with triumph.
(In the end, it’s the three of them— Prince Charming, Captain Hook, and Robin Hood— ranged shoulder-to-shoulder across the kitchen table from a very curious Henry, awkwardly imparting words of wisdom and praying that any children to come are girls so the women will have to handle this in the future.)
I read a fic the other day that made small mention of a stroll through town and I just could not get this damn fic out of my head. Enjoy!
A Family Affair
Nights like these are Snow’s favorite - cool and calm, leaves crunching under her feet, woodstoves burning and just chilly enough for a scarf and a fuzzy hat, her family murmuring around her as they stroll towards Emma’s new home. (She’s home, she’s staying, and Snow can’t begin to explain how happy - how terrified- the idea makes her.)
Neal is quiet in her arms, and David’s shoulder bumps hers occasionally as they walk, Emma and Henry just ahead with Killian beside them, regaling them with hand (and hook) gestures some no doubt disturbing pirate adventure.