xerxesrises:

“What did he look like?”

“Who?”

“Zeus!”

“Oh.  Well, younger than you’d imagine.”  Killian smiles at the back of Emma’s head, reaching down to grab her foot where it sticks out from under the sheet.  She kicks back at him, tossing him an annoyed glance over her shoulder then goes back to lying on her stomach, chin resting on her templed hands, hair falling in tumbling waves over her back.

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georgianablythe16:

Here…have a drabble I wrote on a whim because I have too many feelings.

He smells like the sea. Like rich spices and cedar. He smells like warm leather and hot chocolate spiked with rum. He smells like home and she clings to him as if the absence of her touch will send him flying back down to that place. Flying away from her.

He’s never looked so happy out in the open, out where someone can see him. He always kept up that persona; the dreaded Captain Hook, fiercest pirate in all the realms, scourge of the seven seas. He’s the swashbuckling, devishly handsome Killian Jones, and he certainly does not giggle.

But when she presses a kiss on his cheek, followed by another, and another, it’s like he can’t hold it in any longer, and he laughs so freely, so joylessly, so thoughtlessly that it makes her laugh too, even though it comes out more like a squeak than an actual laugh.

She’d seen him like this before, of course. All those nights that they stayed on his ship, laying in the bed, perfectly tangled together as he told her stories of all his adventuring days. Of all the monsters he’s fought and all the places he’s seen, while his hand runs up and down her spine, tracing the curve of her back until his fingers tangle in her hair, rings catching in the golden strands. He’d giggle then, laugh a little breathlessly with a “Sorry, love. Can’t seem to help myself. It’s like gold, yeah?” She’d laugh then too, looking up into his eyes and smiling, no walls, no obstacles between them, just Emma and Killian.

He’d kiss her then, slowly, lazily, and they’d get on to much more pleasurable activities, spending what little quiet time they had together as closely entwined as possible.

She kisses him through his explanation, not really caring, not one bit. She’d only asked because it felt like the right thing to say when your true love comes back from the dead. 

He doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses her back with just as much fire, pulling her closer, and closer, leaning on each other because otherwise they’re not sure they could keep standing.

She knows that there’s still much to discuss. She knows that there’s much he doesn’t know, and that soon they’ll have to walk to Granny’s and tell her parents, and her son, and a woman mourning the loss of her own love, that Emma’s true love is back from the dead. That Zeus himself has rewarded him with a lifetime of love and happiness. 

She knows all of this, but right now all she wants to do is kiss him until they’re both breathless. Until they’re soaked through from the rain. Hair damp and feet cold. Right now all she wants to do is take him home, to their house. She want’s to take him out of every stitch of that clothing he wore during darker times and she wants to warm him up with every ounce of love that she has for him. 

She wants to live a life with him, one where she folds his clothes, and they share a sock drawer. One where they sleep until noon and eat pancakes every Sunday morning. One where they sail away on the Jolly until they’re far enough away from any sort of danger, onto the sea where only their love and the creaking of the masts and the gentle sway of the ocean can fill their senses. 

She wants all of this, but right now, she’ll settle for holding him tight, and breathing him in.

He smells like the sea after all. Like rich spices and cedar. Warm leather and hot chocolate spiked with rum.

He smells like Killian, and nothing has ever felt more like home.

illneverstopfightingforus:

A/N: I listened to Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph” on repeat this morning. Meep.

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loving can hurt, loving can heal

She finds him aboard the Jolly Roger at the end of the night, changed back into his modern clothes, seated by candlelight at the table in the center of the Captain’s quarters. His focus is something to be admired, his eyes steady on the open pages of Henry’s storybook, brow knit in concentration. Her footsteps are light on the ladder and he doesn’t glance up until her boots click against the floorboards.

“Swan,” he says, smile soft on his face.

“Hey,” she replies, her own smile equally as soft.

She crosses the room and he leans back just as she slips between him and the table, sliding into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. Her cheek rests against his temple and she sighs when his arm comes around her, the familiar press of his hook comforting on her hip and easing some of the ache lodged beneath her breastbone. His hand squeezes gently at her thigh and her eyes close at the gesture, savoring this quiet little moment between them.

It’s a funny sensation being here with him. She feels exceedingly overwhelmed by the whole thing, her emotions a jumbled mess, and she can only process a few at a time. Right now it’s relief winning out – relief, happiness, love. God, so much love it’s near suffocating.

Truthfully, she much prefers it to how she’d been feeling just hours before.

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